A: Lieutenant! Report!
F: By the looks of it, a Pássaro class twenty-fiver under Spanish flag, captain. Crept up on us from behind.
A: How the hell did they manage to creep up on us!? We’re above open water for God’s sake.
F: Dunno, captain. None of our crows manage to spot her.
A: Damages?
F: They’ve only fired one salvo, captain. Some light breaches in the hull, two mariners injured by flying shrapnel. Nothing serious, sir.
A: Where are the Schorpione and the Kortena?
F: Dunno, sir. They were ordered to leave for Rotterdam two hours ago. We are attempting to contact them, or any other ships in the area, but we nobody’s responding.
A: Any contact with the Spanish vessel?
F: None, sir. We’ve tried, but no such luck.
A: … Let me get this wrong, Lieutenant. An enemy vessel, carrying four times as many guns as ours, has had their starboard broadside fixed upon us for the last four minutes, only having fired a single warning salvo?
F: That’s right, captain.
A: And she is motionless. She merely hovers between us and the shore, making no attempts to contact or taunt us?
F: Sure seems that way, sir.
A: Those men are no Spaniards…
