34. 34 potential nukes, unguarded but for a few fighter wings and scattershot cybersubs, drift toward the tired western Australian provinces. There is no formation here, no grand plan, just endless drifting hulks. Crewed by the walking dead, swirled by an uncaring current towards unwitting targets, through the fog of war they come.
The Kimberly see, and step aside. They could easily form a neutral unit chain south to the ice and keep peace for their ancestral home, but race memories of dead-eyed diggers linger, etched anew in each successive generation through grade school textbooks and chilling bedtime tales, and so they simply watch the dread raft fleet pass.