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Chapter 63: San Diego Naval Base
🕑 Added 2025-06-18 16:06:27 +0000 UTC
Filming inside the studio wrapped up quickly.
Now came the real heart of the movie—everything that took place on the warship.
But when the entire crew was relocated to the San Diego Naval Base, Henry couldn’t believe his eyes.
He had a pretty good idea what to expect. After all, Under Siege—the movie they were making—was a cult classic action flick in his past life. A must-watch for single dudes with nothing better to do on a Saturday night.
Henry had loved that film. Loved it enough to go digging through behind-the-scenes articles and production trivia. Back in the day, movie press tours flooded every media outlet, and you couldn’t avoid the promos even if you wanted to.
He remembered clearly: the movie’s main setting was a U.S. Navy battleship—the USS Missouri. But the interior scenes? Those were actually shot aboard a decommissioned museum ship: the USS Alabama.
And the villain’s submarine? That was portrayed by the USS Drum, another WWII-era Gato-class sub turned museum exhibit.
The real Missouri was used only for exterior shots—cruising through Pearl Harbor, the Pacific, and San Francisco Bay. As for the film’s explosive climax in the ship’s CIC (Combat Information Center), there was no way the Navy would let anyone go in there and start rigging pyrotechnics.
Even on a mothballed museum ship, you weren’t allowed to leave scorch marks or bullet holes. The military took their hardware very seriously.
And yeah, even if the tech inside was decades old, that didn’t mean it was okay to show off how it was laid out. Sometimes the configuration was more of a secret than the tech itself.
So naturally, any damage-heavy action scenes or classified-looking areas had been recreated on a soundstage. Henry assumed the same logic applied here—they’d probably haul the crew out to Alabama and shoot the necessary footage on the museum ship.
Dragging an entire decommissioned battleship across the country—or temporarily recommissioning it—would cost a fortune. Moving the crew and gear to Alabama was way cheaper than moving a ship to California.
That’s what he thought.
Until he saw it.
Painted with the number 63, a behemoth of steel stretching nearly 900 feet, with a standard displacement of 45,000 tons—there it was. One of the legendary Iowa-class battleships.
The USS Missouri.
Not a stand-in. Not a model. The real deal.
He spotted the telltale missile launchers installed on either side of the bridge—the same ones used in the movie’s finale to fire off Tomahawk cruise missiles. A result of post-WWII modernization, not part of the ship’s original design.
And it wasn’t just sitting there as a coincidence.
He watched as crew members and grips—familiar faces from the production—began hauling gear aboard.
There was no denying it.
They were actually going to film on a fully armed, active-duty U.S. Navy battleship.
Henry, the secretly-Kryptonian movie extra, stood there in stunned silence.
This world was insane.
What kind of reality was this, where a film shoot had access to a functioning weapon of mass destruction?
This wasn’t just a rusting heap with its guns disabled. This was the largest surface war machine the U.S. military had ever built. Aircraft carriers might be the pride of the fleet, but they were glorified launch platforms. A battleship like this? It killed things.
It felt less like they were filming an action movie and more like they were embedding a documentary crew with live fire support.
Henry swore to himself:
This isn’t a movie. This is a Michael Bay wet dream accidentally turned into reality.
He spotted a familiar assistant director walking past, lugging a crate of gear.
“Dude,” Henry called out, “are we seriously filming on that monster?”
The assistant director grinned. “You bet we are. And you’ve got one woman to thank for it.”
He was hauling more than he could carry, so Henry grabbed two of the crates and followed alongside.
Lowering his voice, he asked,
“I heard Seagal and the other producers had a thing for casting women they… y’know… already had arrangements with. Are you saying Erika wasn’t one of them?”
Henry wasn’t best buds with the guy, but gossip—especially the kind involving hot actresses—was universal social glue.
Plus, Henry asked in just the right tone: not accusatory, not sleazy—just curious enough to invite a little off-the-record chat.
The AD smirked and leaned in.
“Actually, Erika wasn’t the first choice. Seagal and the others had a few actresses in mind—ones who were… cooperative. But then we hit a wall.”
He nodded toward the towering Missouri.
“No Navy, no warship. That meant building everything from scratch or using models.
Not only would that look like crap, it’d cost a hell of a lot more.
So we needed someone to open the right doors. And she—Erika—knew someone. Someone who knew someone else.
Next thing we know, the Navy greenlights access to a fully armed, active-duty battleship.”
“In return…” Henry trailed off.
The AD gave a knowing look.
“Let’s just say the lead actress slot came with... a trade. She became untouchable.
Not just in the usual ‘don't harass the star’ way—I'm talking ‘backed by firepower’ kind of untouchable.”
In Hollywood, quid pro quo was the norm—favors traded under the table, dreams cashed in for casting slots. It chewed up countless talented women who were forced to play the game to survive.
But Erika?
Whoever she had in her corner had enough clout to get the U.S. Navy to loan them a battleship.
Trying anything with a woman like that? That was how accidents happened. And on a warship filled with heavy artillery, an "accident" could mean someone going missing at sea.
And all the studio would have to do was slap a memorial note in the credits—“In Loving Memory of So-and-So”—maybe even use it as PR to boost the film’s visibility.
Tragic, moving, headline-friendly. Great for ticket sales.
A funeral and a marketing campaign in one. Two birds, one very cinematic stone.
