Our grand strategy had finally crystallized. By mining the coastlines, we would sever the enemy’s maritime approach, and as we throttled their naval lanes, we would simultaneously erect a network of fortresses to funnel their landward advances into a few predictable corridors. Hundreds of mines were already being funneled to coastal sectors for emergency deployment, while the strongholds along the frontier were undergoing military conversion and expansion. If every gear turned as intended, we would repel the invaders while keeping civilian casualties at an absolute minimum.

The real concern, however, was whether the war would actually end once they were repelled. In truth, I already knew the answer: it wouldn’t. While previous incursions had been minor attempts to check the ‘Protestant foothold’ in North America, the nature of this looming conflict was fundamentally different. Spain was preparing for total war. Their power in Europe had evaporated, leaving them with no choice but to stake their entire future on the New World—and our mere existence was now an existential threat to their hegemony across the Atlantic. We could no longer expect them to simply poke at us and retreat when met with resistance. They would come for us with the desperation of a dying beast.

To end this war, defense alone would not suffice. This was the starkest departure from the Covenant’s previous conflicts; we had to take the initiative. We had to break them—force them into total submission.

“We cannot launch a preemptive strike, nor can we utilize methods that appear dishonorable,” I cautioned, noting a visible flinch from Oitotan at the mention of ‘dishonorable methods.’ I didn’t dwell on it; as long as he took the warning to heart, any unsavory plans he might have been brewing would likely be scrapped. We were meeting in Oitotan’s third mansion, where he had sought my counsel on the final preparations. “We must make Spain abandon the war without sacrificing our moral high ground. We need to find a way to reconcile those two objectives.”

Oitotan fell into thought for a moment before snapping his fingers. “You said a preemptive strike is forbidden. Yes, that is correct.”

I felt a prickle of unease at his opening tone.

“War inflicts suffering upon everyone,” Oitotan continued, his voice taking on a weight that felt slightly performative. “Look at the scars the Seventeen Years’ War left on the German people. It was a tragedy.”

“Indeed,” I replied, nodding slowly.

“Therefore, the moment war breaks out, we should drop our mines near Cuba and other strategic hubs.”

I blinked. “In their waters?”

“To protect the local residents from being swept up in the conflict, of course,” Oitotan explained with sudden fervor. “Defense is not merely about keeping the enemy out of our territory; it is about ensuring the enemy cannot leave their own!”

Well, strictly speaking, he has a point.

“Why limit ourselves to our own shores?” he pressed. “The Spanish mainland is too distant and the lifespan of our mines too brief to blockade their home ports effectively, but stifling the coast of Nueva España is entirely within our reach.”

It was a possibility I had already considered, but the justification remained thin. “And our pretext?”

“We must activate our ‘Order’ branches across the Americas even more aggressively,” Oitotan said, leaning in. “We focus on the ports slated for blockade and facilitate the escape of exploited slaves and natives. In truth, we’ll be liberating those already in transit more often than those who have arrived. Just as we did in the Lesser Antilles.”

A realization dawned on me. He wasn’t just talking about the ‘Underground Railroad’ operations we’d run in Florida; he was suggesting we revive the privateering tactics of Admiral Drake—righteous piracy, sanctioned by a higher cause.

“Do you think they will sit idly by? They will be livid,” Oitotan noted, a predatory glint in his eyes. “And in the face of the slaveholders’ and exploiters’ ‘terrible wrath,’ our justification for blockading their coasts becomes ironclad.”

Is it truly that simple? I found myself listening more intently. It wasn’t as outlandish as I’d initially feared. Oitotan continued to pour out his ideas as if a dam had burst.

“Once we establish that precedent, we can expand our reach. By mining every major colonial port, control of the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico will naturally fall into our hands. The Spanish treasure fleets will be forced to abandon their safe harbors and traverse the ‘pirate-infested’ waters of the Bahamas—where anything could happen.”

“Wait a moment, Oitotan—”

“And whatever happens there,” he interrupted with a grin, “is none of our concern.”

I saw where this was going.

“The wealth stolen from the Americas will be returned to the Americas,” Oitotan declared. “Is that not the height of justice? We could even establish a joint-stock company funded by the public—a corporation dedicated to the ‘repatriation’ and ‘redistribution’ of Spanish colonial loot. A portion of the proceeds would go to those we’ve rescued from Nueva España. I imagine the Spanish would grow quite anxious once their American lifeblood begins to dry up.”

I couldn’t tell if Oitotan had always been this devious or if he had spent too much time around the English with their privateering bloodlines. The most irritating part was that I knew it would work. A mine only explodes upon contact; if the Spanish remained in their harbors, technically, we hadn’t attacked first. We would be championing abolition and native liberation while simultaneously enriching the Covenant’s citizens. Most importantly, it was a strategy that didn’t demand a high body count from our own people.

We haven’t launched a preemptive strike… but we’ve used every other trick in the book. I sighed. Well, as long as it works.

***

Following his conversation with his student, Mansfeld spent several days in deep reflection. He realized this war could only end with the total victory of either Spain or the Covenant for Atlantic hegemony; it wasn’t a fight that would conclude simply by repelling an ‘unjust attack.’ Yet, the Covenant was bound to fight for a ‘Great Cause’ rather than mere dominance.

This created a series of moral dilemmas for the veteran mercenary. Is it right to attack because I was attacked? Is it acceptable if that process requires the blood of the innocent? Is using mines a cowardly act or a legitimate form of self-defense? For the first time in his long career of selling his sword, Mansfeld found himself engaged in genuine moral introspection. He was surprised to find that these weren’t just academic musings, but matters of profound practical importance. He scoured the works of Hewitt and other Covenant histories, contemplating the significance of their previous struggles—the protection of native lives, the liberation of slaves, and the rescue of the Jews.

He even delved into the plays and novels popular in the Covenant, spending hours analyzing the courtroom scenes in The Merchant of Venice, where Shylock decries the injustice of state violence. He needed to understand the values that ignited the hearts of the Covenant’s people.

The conclusion became increasingly clear: the war had to be conducted in a way that the citizens deemed righteous. Simultaneously, the Covenant had to seize Atlantic hegemony and hollow out Spain’s capacity for war.

The victory must be won at sea, rather than through the inherently messy business of land warfare.

By utilizing the passive nature of mines—which only become aggressive when a vessel approaches—and layering them with the privateering strategies of Drake, Mansfeld spent several sleepless nights drafting a masterpiece of a report. By the time he finished, he was so moved by his own work that he was nearly brought to tears. He was certain that the Nameless One would be impressed, securing his future in the New World.

He arrived at the next cabinet meeting, his hands trembling with excitement as he presented his proposal. He expected an explosion of acclaim, but instead…

“Remarkable,” the Nameless One noted.

“I am truly gratifi—”

“It is nearly identical to the proposal Oitotan submitted,” the man finished.

Mansfeld’s jaw tightened as he looked at the Chairman of the Continental Congress. Oitotan’s shoulders were practically brushing the ceiling as he shrugged with feigned humility.

***

Our strategy was set: as soon as the first shot was fired, we would use mines, our fleet, and coastal batteries to seal the enemy’s sea lanes while controlling their landward movement through our frontier fortresses. While we held the line, our navy would maneuver aggressively to disrupt the enemy and bleed Spain dry, following the combined logic of Oitotan and Mansfeld.

To facilitate this, we organized another critical event: the Great Naval Artillery Exhibition.

It was a vital undertaking. Currently, our ordnance was a chaotic hodgepodge of captured Spanish pieces and English imports, all varying in caliber and performance. We could never guarantee victory in a firepower exchange with such inconsistent equipment. Our shipbuilding had advanced to the point of creating ironclads, but our naval guns were still languishing in the late sixteenth century. If our naval engineering was nearing nineteenth-century standards, our cannons had to catch up. The winning design would become our standard naval gun, with hundreds of units ordered for the coming war.

Private ironworks, research institutes from Croatoan University, and naval laboratories all vied for the contract. Thousands of spectators flocked to the coast, maintaining a safe distance while watching the oddly shaped cannons undergo trials. Each thunderous discharge was met with a roar of approval from the crowd.

I walked alongside Oitotan, the Admiral, and Mansfeld, scrutinizing the entries. Since I possessed zero actual military knowledge, my perspective was no different from theirs, and I saw little need to speak.

“That one… is bronze,” the Admiral noted.

“Yes, Admiral,” a developer replied quickly. “If you look at the innovative rifling—”

“The design is certainly innovative,” the Admiral interrupted, “but can we truly procure hundreds of bronze pieces within a few years?”

“Let’s move on,” Mansfeld suggested.

We continued our tour, nodding as the experts offered brief critiques or asked pointed questions. I felt a sense of relief; for once, I was in an environment where my future knowledge wasn’t being called upon. Then…

Clack!

“Look here! You won’t find a cannon like this anywhere else!”

I paused. “Wait, Oitotan. Let’s look at this one.”

My curiosity had been piqued. Even with my limited military knowledge, I recognized the design. It was a breech-loading cannon.

At my gesture, the others gathered around. The developer, visibly nervous, began his pitch. “This gun, as you can see, is loaded from the rear. There is no need to haul the barrel back or tilt it for every shot; you simply load and fire! Furthermore—”

I nodded along as the developer’s excitement grew. I found myself drawn to it simply because it looked the most like the twenty-first-century artillery I remembered. Its theoretical superiority in rate of fire was already proven. Just as I was about to ask the others for their opinions, Mansfeld spoke up.

“And how,” Mansfeld asked, running a hand over the breech, “did you solve the issue of the gas leak and the stench after discharge?”

The developer faltered. Mansfeld continued his scrutiny of the loading mechanism. “A hole in the rear means the combustion gases can leak backward. If soldiers are stationed near a gun of this size for an extended period, the fouled air will poison them.”

I moved to ask for clarification, but Oitotan caught my eye and subtly shook his head.

“We’ve installed a sealer, but it hasn’t entirely solved the…” the developer trailed off.

“I see more than just a safety issue,” Mansfeld added. “A breech opening inevitably compromises the integrity of the chamber. Does the explosive force actually focus on the projectile? Breech-loading pieces of this scale are rare for a reason. What is the effective range?”

“Fire it,” Mansfeld commanded.

The team scrambled to prepare the piece. It roared, sending a plume of water into the air, but even to my untrained eye, the range was underwhelming compared to the other behemoths present.

“It’s innovative, and with refinement, it could be something great,” Mansfeld summarized. “But it is not ready for the field. Not yet.”

“I see,” I replied.

“Achieving the necessary seal requires precision engineering and high-quality cast iron that we simply cannot mass-produce yet,” Mansfeld explained. “We are looking for a weapon we can build by the hundreds, right now.”

We moved on, though I promised the developer individual funding for his research to soften the blow. We bypassed a mediocre entry and a few shoddy imitations of Thirty Years’ War ordnance before reaching the final candidate.

“This one looks… interesting,” I noted. “It’s shaped like a Fiasco bottle.”

I had initially thought of a Coca-Cola bottle, but it did indeed resemble the traditional Italian wine vessels used for Chianti. The developer stepped forward, tapping his chest with pride.

“Our design prioritizes stability above all else, My Lord!” he exclaimed. “To prevent the barrel from warping under the heat, we’ve concentrated the weight at the breech where the pressure is greatest. The curved design distributes the shock throughout the entire barrel…”

I rested a hand on the cool metal. “So, reliability was your primary focus?”

“Yes, My Lord! Exactly.”

It was a design philosophy I appreciated. I watched as the technicians performed a loading drill under a barrage of questions from the board.

“The cast iron doesn’t appear to be of the highest grade,” the Admiral noted.

“Correct, sir. If this is adopted as our standard, it can be manufactured in almost any ironworks across the Covenant.”

Structural stability meant they didn’t need premium materials—a perfect trait for mass production.

“She doesn’t look as heavy as her performance suggests,” Oitotan observed.

“She’s a 300mm caliber, four meters long, and weighs roughly 7.5 tons,” the developer replied.

“Not bad,” I mused. It was light enough to be mounted on our upcoming warships while serving double duty as a fortress gun.

Boom!

The “Fiasco Gun” roared, its recoil absorbed by its massive rear. I tracked the shell as it splashed far into the distance. By my estimation, it had traveled well over three kilometers.

“Are you… are you satisfied, My Lord?”

At that range, we could harass the enemy with total impunity. They wouldn’t even be able to initiate a proper naval engagement. We exchanged looks and nodded in unison.

“Does this gun have a name?” I asked.

“No formal name yet, My Lord. We’ve just been using its serial initials.”

“Then we shall call it the Fiasco Gun,” the Admiral declared. “I will include it as such in my report.”

The developer’s face lit up with a blinding joy as he realized his design had been selected. A few days later, we mounted the Fiasco Gun onto one of our steel-hulled workboats. Since the vessel had already been equipped with a crane, removing the machinery and installing the gun was a simple engineering task.

Naming the ship was equally easy.

“Is the Monitor ready?” I asked as I stepped onto the pier.

“Yes, My Lord! She’s preparing for a test fire now!”

Anno 1800… the game that truly kept on giving. It had provided the idea for the workboats, and now the Monitor. In my original history, these ships had been mobile coastal batteries that eventually became obsolete because their low freeboard limited them to rivers and coastal waters, making them easy targets for long-range fire. But with our current technology, no one could match our range anyway. They were perfect for defending the Mississippi.

Thud!

A massive geyser of water erupted in the distance. Measuring against the pre-positioned buoys, the distance was confirmed: 3.3 kilometers.

That number gave me a profound sense of certainty. We were not going to lose this war.