Prologue: The Believer
Georgios Papadopoulos was a man who dreamt dreams. Nightmares of a war he couldn't remember during the day. Over twenty years old, he had spent most of his life as a serf toiling under the Domination. It was, for all intents and purposes, the only world he knew. The Orthodox Priests of the Patriarch of Constantinople had long preached that it was every member's of the church's duty to work hard in this life for their reward in the next. So influencial were the Priests, that, dispite the depredations the snakes inflicted, the Greek-speaking serfs were surprisingly meek. Georgios had never seen anything wrong with it; it was his lot in life.
One day his Mistress moved from the plantation in Western Anatolia home to Johannesburg. The young female citizen could have been an Olympian Goddess herself, probably Aphrodite considering her insatiable appitites. Like most citizens, she got off on "dominating" lower lifeforms. Georgios was one of the favored serfs, and was taken with her.
He had never seen such a city. During his first years there, he was too scared to leave the suite she had moved into. The soaring skyscrapers, the automobiles, the Lorries, and the sheer number of people intimidated him beyond belief. The Mistress wasn't too worried; she hadn't brough him along to be an errand-boy.
But as the Global depression got worse, the Mistress found herself strapped for cash. She began to sell off her expendable assets, and Georgios was certainly expendable. He found himself in the employ of a Courier company that serviced the Buisnessmen and industrialists in the city. He rapidly learned how to drive and maintain a Lorry, something he thought he would never do. He was also surprised at how lax his new owners were. The Serf's quarter (really, a part of the city with a massive Wall wround it to keep them in) had multiple Taverens that catered to the serfs. Taverens in the sense that's where you could go to get blind-drunk.
There was one in particular, that catered to Greek Serfs. "The Golden Horn." It was there he met his first love (and only), a young woman named Cassandra. They carried on their romance for almost a year, before she was sold off for a plantation on the Cape.
It was about this time that he started to have his dreams. They progressively grew more and more common, lengthy, and realistic. He saw ancient cities and Greeks being massacred by the thousands. He saw Kilometeres of Men Crucified, along the highways of the Domination. He saw the Greeks struggling to rise up, something he knew was a false hope. When he couldn't take the dreams anymore, he confided into a drinking buddy. A man named Mark who worked in a garments factory.
"What you need to do," Mark said "Is see a Priest."
"I'm not sure if I can trust Priests. Once I might have, but now I know they dance to the tune the Domination plays."
"Not all Priests." was all Mark said.
The Next day Mark was in the bar, at a table in the corner. With him was a elderly man who had an air of regality about him. He seemed to be a Priest, this was sure, but like no Priest he had seen. Mark waved Georgios over. The old man murmered; "Sit sit, I want to listen to your dreams."
Georgios was a bit put out that this old man wouldn't so much as introduce himself, but for some reason he seemed exceedingly trustworthy. Georgios told him of all he saw and experienced. The old man listened silently.
"Forgive me young man, where are my manners? My name is Damianus. Would you care to join me at my room? Mark will bring you by tomorrow."
"Certainly, Sir." Georgios still knew intellectually that he shouldn't trust this man, but the old Priest seemed to emanate calm and peace.
Mark took Georgios to the old man's room the next night after working hours. It was, like all serf quarters, spartan and cramped. What was surprising was there were only two beds in the room, normally serf quarters this size would have six or seven people in it. Then Georgios saw it. On the wall, in plain sight, was an icon of Mary. One of the stricter laws the Domination had was the banning of all Religious imagery amoung the serfs except from houses of worship. Dispite the lax enforcement of the law, most serfs followed it to the letter.
Damianus gestured for Georgios to sit on the cushion on the floor. He himself was sitting on a floor cushion, dispite there being a chair againest the wall. Damianus began to speak.
"Georgios, God is speaking to you. He has seen the Mohemmedens fighting back, and he dispairs that members of the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church are not acting to remove the Anti-christ from the Holy Land. Even the Mohemmedens can see that. He is telling you...that something has to be done. I think it has to do with the war againest our brothers in the Moscow Patriarchate. I never thought that the communists would allow the True faith to return, even in time of danger. That they did is the reason, I am sure, of their continued resistance against the Armies of the Anti-christ."
Georgios was silent for a moment. "Who are you? You are no simple priest."
"No matter what titles I held, my first job was always to be a Priest. To look after God's children." Damianus took a drink of water.
"Georgios, at the creation of the Church, there were five ancient Patriarchs. Constantinople, Antioch, Jerusalem, Alexandria, and Rome. Today, the Pope of Rome is the only one not yet subverted and twisted by the Domination. An irony I appreciate, as we've had a schism with them for 900 years or so. Up until 1930, I was the Patriarch of Jerusalem. I am very old now, and the Domination thinks me long dead." Damianus took another drink of water. " Why now though? The war in Russia goes poorly for the forces of the Anti-christ. I believe all it would take is a little unrest at home, and our Brothers in Russia will turn them aside. It is no accident that He waited until you moved to Johannesburg to communicate with you. Think! When you think of a blow that can be dealt the Serpents, what is it?"
Georgios closed his eyes, and the image came in a flash.
"The Gems and Precious metals Exchange, in the financial district."
"Yessss!" Damianus hissed. " It would be a blow indeed to bring the war home to the financeers of this unholy adventure. How would you do this?"
Georgios closed his eyes again. He saw the lorry he drove everyday, just as often as not he was transporting industrial chemicals from one factory to another...he told the Priest.
"Good. Good! Let us pray."
And so, for the next few months Georgios carefully liberated needed components whenever he transported them. Incredibly, the citizens didn't seem to notice they were missing some blasting caps here, some fertilizer there. It took awhile, but finally, after four months, Georgios believed he had the bomb that would do the most damage.
During the four months he had spoken often with Damianus. The old man knew how to sooth, how to clear his mind. He often confessed to the Priest, and the Priest gave pentinence. On some days the Priest would tell of the Eastern Empire, and how Greek peoples were the most civilized of all. Even the Domination admired them, and in their frustration in never becoming as cultured as they, they had enslaved the Greek race. Then the day came.
"Young Man, are you sure today is the day?"
Georgios nodded, he had had a dream the night before that indicated now was the time.
"Then I absolve you of your sins. Go forth and give the Serpents their just reward. And now, as one man to another, I would like to say something." Damianus clasped Georgios' hands and said it. Georgios nodded. He thought he would be apprehensive, but he wasn't. He felt at peace.
He drove the Lorry out to the financial district. Situated in the District was the Domination's senior Naval War College. The option of attacking that never crossed his mind. The Exchange was key. As he came up on the Exchange, he saw two Naval officers talking, the female in her whoreish uniform. He gunned the engine and tore out of Traffic. The two officers looked up, then jumped out of the way. The lorry went crashing through the glass doors, and as he pushed down on the trigger he thought of what Damianus had said.
" It is Sweet and Honorable to die for one's people."
Drakafic: Sweet and Honorable
Moderator: LadyTevar
Drakafic: Sweet and Honorable
Last edited by Lonestar on 2004-12-05 11:12pm, edited 2 times in total.
"The rifle itself has no moral stature, since it has no will of its own. Naturally, it may be used by evil men for evil purposes, but there are more good men than evil, and while the latter cannot be persuaded to the path of righteousness by propaganda, they can certainly be corrected by good men with rifles."
Wow. That's a powerful story just as a stand-alone, but since it's the prologue, I wonder where the rest of this story is going.
DPDarkPrimus is my boyfriend!
SDNW4 Nation: The Refuge And, on Nova Terra, Al-Stan the Totally and Completely Honest and Legitimate Weapons Dealer and Used Starship Salesman slept on a bed made of money, with a blaster under his pillow and his sombrero pulled over his face. This is to say, he slept very well indeed.
SDNW4 Nation: The Refuge And, on Nova Terra, Al-Stan the Totally and Completely Honest and Legitimate Weapons Dealer and Used Starship Salesman slept on a bed made of money, with a blaster under his pillow and his sombrero pulled over his face. This is to say, he slept very well indeed.
Chapter 1: Coming to Terms
[ Constanta, Romania 30 July 1941 ]
Nicolae's young career had mostly been spent being a pain in the ass to the establishment. Arrested at age 15 for agitating a strike, arrested again the next year for getting signatures protesting the trial of two railroad workers, and finally imprisioned for 3 years at Doftana prision of for anti-fascist activities in 1939. He was there less than a year before he was released. The government understood that while he was a pain in the ass, he was a patriot, and they would need people like him in the event of a Draka invasion.
By early 1941 it was obvious to everyone and his brother than the Draka advance into had failed. Almost a year since the fall of Tbillsi and the Snakes had only marched up to Novorossiysk by June. By March of 41 a buld up had begun in Bulgaria, causing the Romanian government to announce a General Mobilization. The Fortifications they had spent so much money on along the Danube had to manned.
But it was too little, too late. On June 22 The Domination Balkan Armies swept around through Yugoslavia, while 200,000 men forced the Romanians to remain in their defenses along the Danube. The Romanian Navy was destroyed in the first 24 hrs, after a brief but valient fight. (The Bucharest managed to sink a Drakan light cruiser before it was destroyed). Much of the airforce destroyed on the ground. Within two weeks the Drakan Army had occupied all of Romania save the Translyvanian passes, and the line along the Danube. Knowing their fate, the men in the Danube fortifications waited until food and stores were expended, trying to kill as many Snakes as they could.
With Yugoslavia immobilized, and Greece distract by a landing at Thessaloniki, the Drakan army was prepared to launch their drive for Kiev. With a force left behind to defend the rear against a possible attack by Hungary, the Drakans pushed on.
But there was thing the Romanian war ministry had prepared for, and excelled at. Months prior to the Invasion, they had swallowed their pride and gone to the Soviets for help in preparing for partisan warfare. The Russians had been only too pleased, sending hundreds of "advisors." And so, Romania was now rife with partisan activity.
Nicolae had been the leader of the cell in Constanta, the city by the Black Sea. The port was now being used by the Domination's Navy as a major supply depot. Nicolae's cell had spent many hours reporting in to the Soviets what ships we're coming and what ships were leaving. He didn't know how much help his reports were. He wanted to fight!
On the 10th of July, he put a bomb in a trashcan down by the docks. All he wanted to do was just create a little chaos, delay for the Snakes. If people got killed, that was a bonus. The explosion killed two Stevedores who'd happen to be walking by, injuring a Naval officer. beyond that, it did nothing, except alert the new Administrator of resistence in his city.
The man was notorious for treating the city with a velvet glove. He had paid lip-service to the SOP of closing places of worship until such a time "politically appropriate" chaplains were provided. In a carefully worded General order, he made it clear to the town he had intention of closing down the local churches. His policy seemed to be more of a live-and-let live, as a result Constanta was much calmer than Bucharest.
But that didn't mean he didn't know know to get things done. Within a day of the bombing, Nicolae and most of his cell had been detained. To his surprise, he wasn't beaten or tortured, as he sat in his cell. It was an ordinary prision cell, muhc like the others he had been in his life. After two days a Jannisary Corporal came for him.
" The Junior Merarch will see you now." The door was opened, Nicolae was cuffed, and led out. They came to a oofice with an open door, and Nicolae was forced to sit in the chair in front of the desk. The room was drak, and there was a shadow across the Junior Merarch's (who, strangely, was wearing a Naval service uniform) face, he couldn't make out any details. It was a overdramtically gesture, Nicolae thought. But the Snakes did love their dramatic gestures.
"So tell me Mr. Ceausescu, why did you think it okay to disrupt the peace and tranquility we have here? We have such a nice, small town here, we should all know each other by now." Nicolae was silent. "This is not a interrogation, I'm geniuely curious." The man's Romanian was flawless, but it had a strange whine to it, not glutteral like most Drakans who spoke it. The tone, however, was entirely reasonable.
" I would have to say it was the invasion of our country, and rape and killing of our civilians. I would have to say it was the untold deaths infliced wherever you people go. The desecration of cultural icons. The pain you inflict."
"The pain I inflict? I suppose that's possible, I am serving in the military." The Merarch reached up and took off his left ear, then plopped it on the deck. It appeared to be prosthetic. "During time of war, there is always pain, always suffering." *plop* his nose "I personally try to avoid it, it's an unchristian thing to do, to harrass men of God." *plop* a glass eye. " But sometimes, in this line of work, it has to be done. To get everything over and done with. But that's okay," Two more objects, a skull cap with hair and what appeared to be a mask of the lower half of a face, plopped down on the desk. The Merarch leaned forward, into the light. "I know a few things about pain."
Nicolae gasped. The man almost appeared to be a skull, he was so horribly disfigured. "...My God.."
The Merarch chuckled. "I always laugh whenever the local communists say that. Of course, believing in the Christian God is sorely lacking among my people as well. A pity. You know, the Docters, and the Domination has the finest on Earth, were impressed greatly by my recuperation. I wasn't. It simply wasn't my time." The Merarch paused again, then spoke. " I said inflict harm was an unchristian thing to do, and I mean't it. Yet the serf who did this thought himself a Christian, a member of your Orthodoxy. I wonder what happened to 'turn the other cheek'..." The Merarch mused. "What to with you?"
"Turn the other cheek?" Nicolae said weakly. The skull was stareing depe at him now. His hair was standing on end.
"That was a rhetorical question. I have already decided you will be executed. Boiled alive, I think. It'll be a quiet affair, can't go making a martyr out of you. The water should have came to a boil by now." The Merarch looked at one of the soldiers, who nodded stiffly. "Good. See to it."
"Wait!" Nicolae was desperate now. " I thought you were a Christian??"
"I am. And as Jesus said, 'if thine eye offends thee, pluck it out'. And you, Mr. Ceausescu, offend me. Come to terms with your fate. I have."
Nicolae was dragged out. He screamed for many hours.
[ Constanta, Romania 30 July 1941 ]
Nicolae's young career had mostly been spent being a pain in the ass to the establishment. Arrested at age 15 for agitating a strike, arrested again the next year for getting signatures protesting the trial of two railroad workers, and finally imprisioned for 3 years at Doftana prision of for anti-fascist activities in 1939. He was there less than a year before he was released. The government understood that while he was a pain in the ass, he was a patriot, and they would need people like him in the event of a Draka invasion.
By early 1941 it was obvious to everyone and his brother than the Draka advance into had failed. Almost a year since the fall of Tbillsi and the Snakes had only marched up to Novorossiysk by June. By March of 41 a buld up had begun in Bulgaria, causing the Romanian government to announce a General Mobilization. The Fortifications they had spent so much money on along the Danube had to manned.
But it was too little, too late. On June 22 The Domination Balkan Armies swept around through Yugoslavia, while 200,000 men forced the Romanians to remain in their defenses along the Danube. The Romanian Navy was destroyed in the first 24 hrs, after a brief but valient fight. (The Bucharest managed to sink a Drakan light cruiser before it was destroyed). Much of the airforce destroyed on the ground. Within two weeks the Drakan Army had occupied all of Romania save the Translyvanian passes, and the line along the Danube. Knowing their fate, the men in the Danube fortifications waited until food and stores were expended, trying to kill as many Snakes as they could.
With Yugoslavia immobilized, and Greece distract by a landing at Thessaloniki, the Drakan army was prepared to launch their drive for Kiev. With a force left behind to defend the rear against a possible attack by Hungary, the Drakans pushed on.
But there was thing the Romanian war ministry had prepared for, and excelled at. Months prior to the Invasion, they had swallowed their pride and gone to the Soviets for help in preparing for partisan warfare. The Russians had been only too pleased, sending hundreds of "advisors." And so, Romania was now rife with partisan activity.
Nicolae had been the leader of the cell in Constanta, the city by the Black Sea. The port was now being used by the Domination's Navy as a major supply depot. Nicolae's cell had spent many hours reporting in to the Soviets what ships we're coming and what ships were leaving. He didn't know how much help his reports were. He wanted to fight!
On the 10th of July, he put a bomb in a trashcan down by the docks. All he wanted to do was just create a little chaos, delay for the Snakes. If people got killed, that was a bonus. The explosion killed two Stevedores who'd happen to be walking by, injuring a Naval officer. beyond that, it did nothing, except alert the new Administrator of resistence in his city.
The man was notorious for treating the city with a velvet glove. He had paid lip-service to the SOP of closing places of worship until such a time "politically appropriate" chaplains were provided. In a carefully worded General order, he made it clear to the town he had intention of closing down the local churches. His policy seemed to be more of a live-and-let live, as a result Constanta was much calmer than Bucharest.
But that didn't mean he didn't know know to get things done. Within a day of the bombing, Nicolae and most of his cell had been detained. To his surprise, he wasn't beaten or tortured, as he sat in his cell. It was an ordinary prision cell, muhc like the others he had been in his life. After two days a Jannisary Corporal came for him.
" The Junior Merarch will see you now." The door was opened, Nicolae was cuffed, and led out. They came to a oofice with an open door, and Nicolae was forced to sit in the chair in front of the desk. The room was drak, and there was a shadow across the Junior Merarch's (who, strangely, was wearing a Naval service uniform) face, he couldn't make out any details. It was a overdramtically gesture, Nicolae thought. But the Snakes did love their dramatic gestures.
"So tell me Mr. Ceausescu, why did you think it okay to disrupt the peace and tranquility we have here? We have such a nice, small town here, we should all know each other by now." Nicolae was silent. "This is not a interrogation, I'm geniuely curious." The man's Romanian was flawless, but it had a strange whine to it, not glutteral like most Drakans who spoke it. The tone, however, was entirely reasonable.
" I would have to say it was the invasion of our country, and rape and killing of our civilians. I would have to say it was the untold deaths infliced wherever you people go. The desecration of cultural icons. The pain you inflict."
"The pain I inflict? I suppose that's possible, I am serving in the military." The Merarch reached up and took off his left ear, then plopped it on the deck. It appeared to be prosthetic. "During time of war, there is always pain, always suffering." *plop* his nose "I personally try to avoid it, it's an unchristian thing to do, to harrass men of God." *plop* a glass eye. " But sometimes, in this line of work, it has to be done. To get everything over and done with. But that's okay," Two more objects, a skull cap with hair and what appeared to be a mask of the lower half of a face, plopped down on the desk. The Merarch leaned forward, into the light. "I know a few things about pain."
Nicolae gasped. The man almost appeared to be a skull, he was so horribly disfigured. "...My God.."
The Merarch chuckled. "I always laugh whenever the local communists say that. Of course, believing in the Christian God is sorely lacking among my people as well. A pity. You know, the Docters, and the Domination has the finest on Earth, were impressed greatly by my recuperation. I wasn't. It simply wasn't my time." The Merarch paused again, then spoke. " I said inflict harm was an unchristian thing to do, and I mean't it. Yet the serf who did this thought himself a Christian, a member of your Orthodoxy. I wonder what happened to 'turn the other cheek'..." The Merarch mused. "What to with you?"
"Turn the other cheek?" Nicolae said weakly. The skull was stareing depe at him now. His hair was standing on end.
"That was a rhetorical question. I have already decided you will be executed. Boiled alive, I think. It'll be a quiet affair, can't go making a martyr out of you. The water should have came to a boil by now." The Merarch looked at one of the soldiers, who nodded stiffly. "Good. See to it."
"Wait!" Nicolae was desperate now. " I thought you were a Christian??"
"I am. And as Jesus said, 'if thine eye offends thee, pluck it out'. And you, Mr. Ceausescu, offend me. Come to terms with your fate. I have."
Nicolae was dragged out. He screamed for many hours.
Last edited by Lonestar on 2004-12-06 11:05am, edited 1 time in total.
"The rifle itself has no moral stature, since it has no will of its own. Naturally, it may be used by evil men for evil purposes, but there are more good men than evil, and while the latter cannot be persuaded to the path of righteousness by propaganda, they can certainly be corrected by good men with rifles."
-
The Duchess of Zeon
- Gözde
- Posts: 14566
- Joined: 2002-09-18 01:06am
- Location: Exiled in the Pale of Settlement.
That was a very disturbing piece there, Lonestar, in the best of ways.
The threshold for inclusion in Wikipedia is verifiability, not truth. -- Wikipedia's No Original Research policy page.
In 1966 the Soviets find something on the dark side of the Moon. In 2104 they come back. -- Red Banner / White Star, a nBSG continuation story. Updated to Chapter 4.0 -- 14 January 2013.
In 1966 the Soviets find something on the dark side of the Moon. In 2104 they come back. -- Red Banner / White Star, a nBSG continuation story. Updated to Chapter 4.0 -- 14 January 2013.
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MKSheppard
- Ruthless Genocidal Warmonger
- Posts: 29842
- Joined: 2002-07-06 06:34pm
Disturbing and you're cranking them out like crazy
"If scientists and inventors who develop disease cures and useful technologies don't get lifetime royalties, I'd like to know what fucking rationale you have for some guy getting lifetime royalties for writing an episode of Full House." - Mike Wong
"The present air situation in the Pacific is entirely the result of fighting a fifth rate air power." - U.S. Navy Memo - 24 July 1944
"The present air situation in the Pacific is entirely the result of fighting a fifth rate air power." - U.S. Navy Memo - 24 July 1944
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Sea Skimmer
- Yankee Capitalist Air Pirate
- Posts: 37389
- Joined: 2002-07-03 11:49pm
- Location: Passchendaele City, HAB
Well he's only got, what, a couple more days before shipping out? And then while I'd assuming he can write he won't be able to post and anything he does write might not fit with the story he finds we've spun over the next six months or so.MKSheppard wrote:Disturbing and you're cranking them out like crazy
"This cult of special forces is as sensible as to form a Royal Corps of Tree Climbers and say that no soldier who does not wear its green hat with a bunch of oak leaves stuck in it should be expected to climb a tree"
— Field Marshal William Slim 1956
— Field Marshal William Slim 1956
Part 3: Pearl
[Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, 13 August 1941]
The tropical heat baked down on LTJG Michael Gillis’ head and, not for the first time, it occurred to him that Hawaii was highly overrated. The past few months had been one Hell of a transition for him, going from a Cruiser with several dozen officers to a Destroyer-minesweeper with thirteen (on a good day). The Southard was a 4-piper that had been converted some years ago for high-speed minesweeping. In it’s illustrious career so far, it had swept exactly three. All of them were Japanese mines that had broken loose near Canton, and drifted all the way downstream to Hong Kong. (The Southard had been visiting Hong Kong at the time.)
During his tour on the Pensacola he had only rarely stood OOD on the quarterdeck, and the duty sections had been six-sectioned. Now he was guaranteed a watch every duty day, and the duty was divided into 3 sections, much to his disappointment.
Of course, things could always be worse….
“Hey COMMO, how are things going?” He shouted out to the DMS the Southard was moored next to. LTJG Willie Keith angrily shook his fist and went back to welding. The skipper of the Moulton , “Iron Duke” Sammis, was notorious for making his officers do everything so they would be “well-rounded”. At least Willie was a Department head at O-2. Gillis was in the same position he was on the Pensacola , Asst. First Lieutenant. Not a bad job, odds were he’d be 1st Lieutenant within a year. The United States wasn’t even at war yet, and already the small boys were filling up with reservist Department Heads, XOs, and in one case, Commanding Officer.
Gillis sighed and checked his watch. “ Hey Morgan, I’m going to go check the lines.” The Gangplank Petty Officer gave a flip of a salute, and put down the comic book he’d been reading. Gillis started walking forward, and was gratified to see the forecastle sentry was not jerking around. Since the announcement of a treaty of alliance between the Domination and the Empire of Japan security had been tightened at all USN Pacific installations. Rumors flew of Japanese submarines “casing” the bases at Subic and Pearl, although Gillis didn’t know how true those were.
The Southard was tied up in one of the five destroyer nests in the Harbor. The bundles of ships only made the East Loch seem more cramped then it already was. Pearl was smaller than Galveston, Vera Cruz, even Guantamano, and had more vessels ported there than the last two. The result was the USN had long ago decided that it would be mostly “Small Boys” in Pearl, with only a handful of Battlewagons. At the moment only the West Virginia and the Oregon were in, although word was TPTB were in the process of transferring several capital ships to the Pacific Fleet, so as to provide an overwhelming superiority in the event of war with Japan.
Tied up along the “Bravo Pier” (the only pier that could accommodate a large ship) was the United States , the only carrier besides the Lake Gillis had ever seen in person. It was far larger, and could handle many more warplanes than the crappy little Lake . So large was it that it could be spotted clear across the Harbor, even with Ford Island in the way.
Look at me! I’m thinking like a Staff Officer. Which was more and more true these days. He had followed the Chilean-Argentinean conflict with great interest, and had been gratified to read about the Chilean Army sweeping the Argentineans out of the last bit of their territory last month. This was thanks to the massive aid the United States and France had provided, the increasing crunch on supplies the Domination was providing Argentina, and the civil unrest that was starting to sweep the country. Gillis suspected it would take only one more really good Snake atrocity to make enough of the Argentinean populace angry enough to overthrow their pro-Domination government.
Gillis rubbed his wedding band absentmindedly and headed aft. The fantail watch was shooting the shit with a buddy, but his eyes were on the harbor. Good enough for government work. He nearly slipped on some lube oil. “Hey Boats!” The sailor who was bullshitting with the watch turned. “Get some of your boys to clean this up!” Boats McBride gave a flip of a salute and took off looking form some unfortunate deck seaman. One thing Gillis did like over the Pensacola , at least here you knew everyone. Signalman 1/c Morgan came trotting up.
“Sir, Mr. Claudio is ready to relieve th’ watch.”
“Thanks Morgan. Did you get…?”
“Carlson relieved me Sir.”
“Alright, lay below.” Gillis walked over to the Quarterdeck, where Ensign Claudio was waiting, chatting it up with Yeoman 2/c Carlson. Claudio grinned and gave a formal salute.
“Anything to pass down Mike?”
“How about ‘we’re never going to get goddamn AC installed on this ship?’”
Claudio grinned again, and spoke in a whiny voice. “ Oh, It’s too hot! It’s too humid! My pussy hurts!”
“Not all of us can be born and raised in PI. I’m laying below.”
“You think it’ll be any cooler down there?”
“Blow me!” Gillis entered the ship and walked to his stateroom. A lot of ships had too many officers and not enough racks, but the Southard didn’t even have room in the wardroom to stick them. (The sole couch had been seized by the hapless Ensign whose rack Gillis had taken. RHIP. It felt gooooooood.) He came colliding into a RM 1/c. The Petty Officer looked harried.
“What’s up Grewal?”
“Sir, I’m looking for Mr. Espiritu. We just got a Flash from Pearl Ops circuit.“ Grewal waved the message at Gillis; except for the heading it was gobbledygook. “ He’s the clip shack Grewal, I’ll get him. Stand fast.”
The clip shack was a room adjacent to one of the stacks. It was hot, smelly, and thoroughly nasty. Ensign Espiritu, being one of two very Junior Ensigns (he and the other had checked onboard the same day as Gillis) whose living quarters consisted of the clip shack, was lying on his cot looking miserable.
“Bryce.“
“Yeah?”
“We just got a Flash from the Pearl Ops Circuit. Message from NavOps.“
Espiritu groaned and rolled out of his rack. He stomped down to the wardroom, with Gillis in tow. He accepted the message, and broke out the crypto.
“Well? What are you waiting for? It might be for a yard period in San Francisco!”
Espiritu started banging away on the machine, decoded the first sentence, cursed profusely, and then continued. After a few minutes he pulled out the decoded page.
“Well? San Francisco?”
“ I need to speak to the Captain.”
“C’mon!”
“Skipper should hear it first.”
And with that, Espiritu walked off. Gillis grumbled and changed into his Khakis, then went off to stake out the CO’s Cabin. Lt. Cmdr Croslin emerged looking unhappy, and told Gillis to muster all officers in the Wardroom. “Claudio too.” He added.
Uh-oh . Gillis went to the quarterdeck and before he could pass the word, Claudio stopped him, and handed him a set of binoculars. “ Check this out Mike, United States, Duluth, Madison, Sumner and Josephus Daniels just ran up their Papa flags. “
Uh-oh again . “ Hey, Skipper wants word passed, ‘ All officers muster in the wardroom’. He wants you down there too. Get Chief Munoz up here.”
“Must be important.”
“I suspect so.”
- - - -
Within five minutes all 12 officers on board (Lt. Spiegel was ashore at the moment) were crammed into the tiny wardroom. Croslin sat down at the head of the table.
“In two days time we’re heading up to San Francisco.”
“Hot Damn.” Claudio said. Gillis thought a silent yessss…
“We’re going to be part of a convoy forming up there for Manila.”
Silence.
“Manila is a Shithole ! “ Claudio exclaimed.
“I have to agree with the Junior Ensign,” Lt. Clavell, the XO said. “Even if he is quick to describe his own homeland as such.”
“ I grew up in Manila. I assure you, it is indeed a shithole Sirs. “
“Be that as it may, Ensign Claudio, it’s part of the United States and we are obligated to defend our shitholes. Convoy is going to have all kinds of goodies, M6 Tanks, ammo, ammo, ammo, and the United States and the Langley (they’ll meet us in SF) are going to be dumping planes off. “
“I know a guy in Subic.” Gillis suddenly announced. “Killed a Costa Rican in a Bar fight. Good Mormon.”
Everyone in the wardroom turned and looked at Gillis. LTJG Sanders arched an eyebrow.
“Why do you tell us these things Mike? “
Croslin spoke.
“Mike, how about you go get the NavBrief ready?”
“Yessir.” Gillis got up and left.
[Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, 13 August 1941]
The tropical heat baked down on LTJG Michael Gillis’ head and, not for the first time, it occurred to him that Hawaii was highly overrated. The past few months had been one Hell of a transition for him, going from a Cruiser with several dozen officers to a Destroyer-minesweeper with thirteen (on a good day). The Southard was a 4-piper that had been converted some years ago for high-speed minesweeping. In it’s illustrious career so far, it had swept exactly three. All of them were Japanese mines that had broken loose near Canton, and drifted all the way downstream to Hong Kong. (The Southard had been visiting Hong Kong at the time.)
During his tour on the Pensacola he had only rarely stood OOD on the quarterdeck, and the duty sections had been six-sectioned. Now he was guaranteed a watch every duty day, and the duty was divided into 3 sections, much to his disappointment.
Of course, things could always be worse….
“Hey COMMO, how are things going?” He shouted out to the DMS the Southard was moored next to. LTJG Willie Keith angrily shook his fist and went back to welding. The skipper of the Moulton , “Iron Duke” Sammis, was notorious for making his officers do everything so they would be “well-rounded”. At least Willie was a Department head at O-2. Gillis was in the same position he was on the Pensacola , Asst. First Lieutenant. Not a bad job, odds were he’d be 1st Lieutenant within a year. The United States wasn’t even at war yet, and already the small boys were filling up with reservist Department Heads, XOs, and in one case, Commanding Officer.
Gillis sighed and checked his watch. “ Hey Morgan, I’m going to go check the lines.” The Gangplank Petty Officer gave a flip of a salute, and put down the comic book he’d been reading. Gillis started walking forward, and was gratified to see the forecastle sentry was not jerking around. Since the announcement of a treaty of alliance between the Domination and the Empire of Japan security had been tightened at all USN Pacific installations. Rumors flew of Japanese submarines “casing” the bases at Subic and Pearl, although Gillis didn’t know how true those were.
The Southard was tied up in one of the five destroyer nests in the Harbor. The bundles of ships only made the East Loch seem more cramped then it already was. Pearl was smaller than Galveston, Vera Cruz, even Guantamano, and had more vessels ported there than the last two. The result was the USN had long ago decided that it would be mostly “Small Boys” in Pearl, with only a handful of Battlewagons. At the moment only the West Virginia and the Oregon were in, although word was TPTB were in the process of transferring several capital ships to the Pacific Fleet, so as to provide an overwhelming superiority in the event of war with Japan.
Tied up along the “Bravo Pier” (the only pier that could accommodate a large ship) was the United States , the only carrier besides the Lake Gillis had ever seen in person. It was far larger, and could handle many more warplanes than the crappy little Lake . So large was it that it could be spotted clear across the Harbor, even with Ford Island in the way.
Look at me! I’m thinking like a Staff Officer. Which was more and more true these days. He had followed the Chilean-Argentinean conflict with great interest, and had been gratified to read about the Chilean Army sweeping the Argentineans out of the last bit of their territory last month. This was thanks to the massive aid the United States and France had provided, the increasing crunch on supplies the Domination was providing Argentina, and the civil unrest that was starting to sweep the country. Gillis suspected it would take only one more really good Snake atrocity to make enough of the Argentinean populace angry enough to overthrow their pro-Domination government.
Gillis rubbed his wedding band absentmindedly and headed aft. The fantail watch was shooting the shit with a buddy, but his eyes were on the harbor. Good enough for government work. He nearly slipped on some lube oil. “Hey Boats!” The sailor who was bullshitting with the watch turned. “Get some of your boys to clean this up!” Boats McBride gave a flip of a salute and took off looking form some unfortunate deck seaman. One thing Gillis did like over the Pensacola , at least here you knew everyone. Signalman 1/c Morgan came trotting up.
“Sir, Mr. Claudio is ready to relieve th’ watch.”
“Thanks Morgan. Did you get…?”
“Carlson relieved me Sir.”
“Alright, lay below.” Gillis walked over to the Quarterdeck, where Ensign Claudio was waiting, chatting it up with Yeoman 2/c Carlson. Claudio grinned and gave a formal salute.
“Anything to pass down Mike?”
“How about ‘we’re never going to get goddamn AC installed on this ship?’”
Claudio grinned again, and spoke in a whiny voice. “ Oh, It’s too hot! It’s too humid! My pussy hurts!”
“Not all of us can be born and raised in PI. I’m laying below.”
“You think it’ll be any cooler down there?”
“Blow me!” Gillis entered the ship and walked to his stateroom. A lot of ships had too many officers and not enough racks, but the Southard didn’t even have room in the wardroom to stick them. (The sole couch had been seized by the hapless Ensign whose rack Gillis had taken. RHIP. It felt gooooooood.) He came colliding into a RM 1/c. The Petty Officer looked harried.
“What’s up Grewal?”
“Sir, I’m looking for Mr. Espiritu. We just got a Flash from Pearl Ops circuit.“ Grewal waved the message at Gillis; except for the heading it was gobbledygook. “ He’s the clip shack Grewal, I’ll get him. Stand fast.”
The clip shack was a room adjacent to one of the stacks. It was hot, smelly, and thoroughly nasty. Ensign Espiritu, being one of two very Junior Ensigns (he and the other had checked onboard the same day as Gillis) whose living quarters consisted of the clip shack, was lying on his cot looking miserable.
“Bryce.“
“Yeah?”
“We just got a Flash from the Pearl Ops Circuit. Message from NavOps.“
Espiritu groaned and rolled out of his rack. He stomped down to the wardroom, with Gillis in tow. He accepted the message, and broke out the crypto.
“Well? What are you waiting for? It might be for a yard period in San Francisco!”
Espiritu started banging away on the machine, decoded the first sentence, cursed profusely, and then continued. After a few minutes he pulled out the decoded page.
“Well? San Francisco?”
“ I need to speak to the Captain.”
“C’mon!”
“Skipper should hear it first.”
And with that, Espiritu walked off. Gillis grumbled and changed into his Khakis, then went off to stake out the CO’s Cabin. Lt. Cmdr Croslin emerged looking unhappy, and told Gillis to muster all officers in the Wardroom. “Claudio too.” He added.
Uh-oh . Gillis went to the quarterdeck and before he could pass the word, Claudio stopped him, and handed him a set of binoculars. “ Check this out Mike, United States, Duluth, Madison, Sumner and Josephus Daniels just ran up their Papa flags. “
Uh-oh again . “ Hey, Skipper wants word passed, ‘ All officers muster in the wardroom’. He wants you down there too. Get Chief Munoz up here.”
“Must be important.”
“I suspect so.”
- - - -
Within five minutes all 12 officers on board (Lt. Spiegel was ashore at the moment) were crammed into the tiny wardroom. Croslin sat down at the head of the table.
“In two days time we’re heading up to San Francisco.”
“Hot Damn.” Claudio said. Gillis thought a silent yessss…
“We’re going to be part of a convoy forming up there for Manila.”
Silence.
“Manila is a Shithole ! “ Claudio exclaimed.
“I have to agree with the Junior Ensign,” Lt. Clavell, the XO said. “Even if he is quick to describe his own homeland as such.”
“ I grew up in Manila. I assure you, it is indeed a shithole Sirs. “
“Be that as it may, Ensign Claudio, it’s part of the United States and we are obligated to defend our shitholes. Convoy is going to have all kinds of goodies, M6 Tanks, ammo, ammo, ammo, and the United States and the Langley (they’ll meet us in SF) are going to be dumping planes off. “
“I know a guy in Subic.” Gillis suddenly announced. “Killed a Costa Rican in a Bar fight. Good Mormon.”
Everyone in the wardroom turned and looked at Gillis. LTJG Sanders arched an eyebrow.
“Why do you tell us these things Mike? “
Croslin spoke.
“Mike, how about you go get the NavBrief ready?”
“Yessir.” Gillis got up and left.
"The rifle itself has no moral stature, since it has no will of its own. Naturally, it may be used by evil men for evil purposes, but there are more good men than evil, and while the latter cannot be persuaded to the path of righteousness by propaganda, they can certainly be corrected by good men with rifles."
-
Sea Skimmer
- Yankee Capitalist Air Pirate
- Posts: 37389
- Joined: 2002-07-03 11:49pm
- Location: Passchendaele City, HAB
Nice stuff comrade.
Question for you though; is the convoy going right to Manila, or did you have any plans for it to stop at Guam or Wake? I'm asking because if you didn't then that I'd leave it to me to describe whatever build up over historical has taken place at them (when I write of Japans attacks on them)
Question for you though; is the convoy going right to Manila, or did you have any plans for it to stop at Guam or Wake? I'm asking because if you didn't then that I'd leave it to me to describe whatever build up over historical has taken place at them (when I write of Japans attacks on them)
"This cult of special forces is as sensible as to form a Royal Corps of Tree Climbers and say that no soldier who does not wear its green hat with a bunch of oak leaves stuck in it should be expected to climb a tree"
— Field Marshal William Slim 1956
— Field Marshal William Slim 1956
Weee! I'm back! 
On a minesweeper. Ah well. It's not bad. Good prospects for an early command...
On a minesweeper. Ah well. It's not bad. Good prospects for an early command...
This is the price of war,
We rise with noble intentions,
And we risk all that is pure..." - Angela & Jeff van Dyck, Forever (Rome: Total War)
"On and on, through the years,
The war continues on..." - Angela & Jeff van Dyck, We Are All One (Medieval 2: Total War)
"Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear." - Ambrose Redmoon
"You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain." - Harvey Dent, The Dark Knight
Historically Wake had, what, 4 USMC Wildcats? I think the Convoy would fly off a few more this time.Sea Skimmer wrote:Nice stuff comrade.
Question for you though; is the convoy going right to Manila, or did you have any plans for it to stop at Guam or Wake? I'm asking because if you didn't then that I'd leave it to me to describe whatever build up over historical has taken place at them (when I write of Japans attacks on them)
Granted, I'm working through the fog of memory on that number.
"The rifle itself has no moral stature, since it has no will of its own. Naturally, it may be used by evil men for evil purposes, but there are more good men than evil, and while the latter cannot be persuaded to the path of righteousness by propaganda, they can certainly be corrected by good men with rifles."
-
Sea Skimmer
- Yankee Capitalist Air Pirate
- Posts: 37389
- Joined: 2002-07-03 11:49pm
- Location: Passchendaele City, HAB
No, it started with a full squadron. Only four survived the initial bombing raid however as they got caught lined up on the ground. No more could be sent to any of the Pacific islands though (historically) because the USN and USMC simply did not have a single other squadron of modern fighters to send.Lonestar wrote:
Historically Wake had, what, 4 USMC Wildcats? I think the Convoy would fly off a few more this time.
Granted, I'm working through the fog of memory on that number.
"This cult of special forces is as sensible as to form a Royal Corps of Tree Climbers and say that no soldier who does not wear its green hat with a bunch of oak leaves stuck in it should be expected to climb a tree"
— Field Marshal William Slim 1956
— Field Marshal William Slim 1956
And an early death.RogueIce wrote:Weee! I'm back!
On a minesweeper. Ah well. It's not bad. Good prospects for an early command...
Damn, did I say that outloud?
"The rifle itself has no moral stature, since it has no will of its own. Naturally, it may be used by evil men for evil purposes, but there are more good men than evil, and while the latter cannot be persuaded to the path of righteousness by propaganda, they can certainly be corrected by good men with rifles."
Skimmer
Think you can email me (via Shep or RI) a loose TL of the Pacific War?
-Lonestar
Think you can email me (via Shep or RI) a loose TL of the Pacific War?
-Lonestar
"The rifle itself has no moral stature, since it has no will of its own. Naturally, it may be used by evil men for evil purposes, but there are more good men than evil, and while the latter cannot be persuaded to the path of righteousness by propaganda, they can certainly be corrected by good men with rifles."
Part 4: Drive to Victory
[Puerto Santa Cruz, Argentina, September 9 1941]
Major General Luis O’Brien of the Chilean Army could only grin as he felt the makeshift HQ shudder and rock with every Argentinean shell that landed nearby. The fact that he was there showed how far and how fast Chile had retaken stolen territory, and repaid it in kind. This was thanks in no small part to the massive military aid both the United States and France had provided, not to mention the liaisons from both countries. Men who had shown a fairly competent organizational skill. Both Colonels Eisenhauer and LeClerc were gone now, replaced by other, less useful men.
But the job was done, and the newly trained and equipped Chilean Army had came sweeping down onto the Patagonian plains, driving before them the increasingly resource-strapped Argentinean Army. By June, Chile had not only secured all former territory, but had taken the entirety of Tierra del Fuego. It was about this time that the War minister had had an unfortunate accident, and had been replaced by a General Officer.
A Peltast 1 rolled by outside. Dozens had been captured in the recent fighting, and were now being utilized in the rear as ambulances/utility vehicles. Their former operators, Argentinean soldiers who had grown disgusted by the Alliance with the Domination and readily defected, were driving many of them. In the past week, the numbers of defectors/deserters in the AA had increased dramatically, probably because of the recent Invasion of Italy and the imminent fall of Rome.
That’ll change, by God O’Brien thought. As soon as the Snakes entered Rome, fair treatment or not, it would be the trigger that would finally drive Gran Columbia and Argentina away from their arms. Already riots led by a young hotshot Politico named Peron were ripping Buenos Aires to shreds. Bogotá was following the time-honored tradition of shooting protesters, something the police in BA wouldn’t do.
The other good news was that Draka “advisors” were being fragged left and right by the rank and file.
The door to his office opened, and his Aide walked in.
“Sir,” The young Captain said crisply. “ Aerial reconnaissance confirms that the Argentinean 4th and 8th Armored are withdrawing north. At the moment they are using those cursed Snake -105’s to cover their retreat, with heavy flak from their Dragon I’s and II’s . It’s making it Hell for our Aircobras and Dauntlesses to take them out.”
“Not something I’m too worried about Augusto, if they want to flee north more power to them. I think we need to wait for our supply line to catch up with us anyhow.” Which was true. The “Alpaca Express” was now running 24/7 down from Rio Gallegos. “Didn’t think I’d be here again…”
“You’ve been to Puerto Santa Cruz before, Sir?” Augusto seemed surprised.
“Never. I was referring to being under fire. A bit different than mortar exchanges in the Andes, but the principle is the same. Isabella thought I was crazy to take this position.” “Crazy” was an understatement, she had been downright livid. Her argument was that fighting was for “young men”, and he was too old to go into the field. But how could he send the nation’s youth to battle, and not be willing to join them? She hadn’t understood.
“Order the fighters back, except for standard CAP. Let’s rest for a while. “
[September 11]
“Are you sure?” O’Brien said, with barely a whisper.
The young communications officer nodded. He reached over and turned up the radio. The Transmission was coming from Santiago, which was passing on a Transmission from Radio Madrid.
“… We can now confirm that the slaughter has reached the Tens of Thousands, including hundreds of clergymen. Nuns and Roman women have been ravished, the Vatican has been looted, and His Holiness Pope Pius XII has been killed…” You could hear the newscaster flipping papers. Several officers in the room crossed themselves “ Reports from the Domination seem contradictory, with both loud denials and statements that if the slaughter is taking place, it is because the Church is encouraging rioting Romans. No word yet on how many members of the Council of Cardinals escaped before the occupation, and what relics, if any, they managed to save from the looting. This is Radio Madrid.”
O’Brien rubbed his eyes, then pointed at the radio operator.
“What’s BBC saying?”
Eric Blair’s voice came on the air. “… Refugees report an orgy of rape and slaughter. The RCC has yet to make an official statement on the rumors of the death Pope Pius XII, although a spokesman for the Council of Cardinals has confirmed he did not leave Rome with them. Junior Chiliarch Olsen of the Domination Occupation Forces has loudly denied that chaos is a result of his troops, rather a plot by the Church to undermine the peaceful transfer of Rome’s government…”
O’Brien made a cutting motion to his neck, and the radio went silent. The sergeant put his headphones on.
“So, everyone ready to take this fight all the way? To be part of an expeditionary force in Europe, if necessary? We already know the Argentine government is toddling, this news will destroy them. I want it made clear to your men, if an enemy combatant surrenders, nothing unfortunate is to happen to them. I know we’ve been rather lenient in enforcing that rule, but starting now I will hang a man for such misconduct. “
The assembled General officers and Colonels nodded.
An orderly came walking in, bringing in tow…
“General Lopez!” O’Brien was surprised. His Argentinean opposite was supposed to be 50 kilometers north of here. The two had attended VMI together at the turn of the century. While their countries may have been enemies, he had always considered him a friend. “ George, am I to take it you are here because you saw reason.”
Lt. General Lopez kept his face carefully impassive.
“Have you heard the radio?”
“The news? Of course. That information would give any man reason for a flag of truce.”
“Forgive me Luis, I am not referring to the sacking of Rome. There is a complete news blackout in Buenos Aires. Army units there are backing a revolutionary council led by that Peron chap. As you know, Peron has long wanted to end our country’s association with the Domination. In anticipation of his orders, I am surrendering my men and equipment to you. If you desire so, ask for volunteers to fight pro-Domination army units. I suspect you will find many tens of thousands. “ Lopez took out his sidearm, and removed the clip. He handed it to O’Brien. “I ask for no conditions Luis. Even if this madness hadn’t enveloped the world elsewhere, I could see we have lost the war. “
There was a silence, then O’Brien said gravely; “You and your officers may keep their side arms, George. I think they’ll need them yet.”
[Puerto Santa Cruz, Argentina, September 9 1941]
Major General Luis O’Brien of the Chilean Army could only grin as he felt the makeshift HQ shudder and rock with every Argentinean shell that landed nearby. The fact that he was there showed how far and how fast Chile had retaken stolen territory, and repaid it in kind. This was thanks in no small part to the massive military aid both the United States and France had provided, not to mention the liaisons from both countries. Men who had shown a fairly competent organizational skill. Both Colonels Eisenhauer and LeClerc were gone now, replaced by other, less useful men.
But the job was done, and the newly trained and equipped Chilean Army had came sweeping down onto the Patagonian plains, driving before them the increasingly resource-strapped Argentinean Army. By June, Chile had not only secured all former territory, but had taken the entirety of Tierra del Fuego. It was about this time that the War minister had had an unfortunate accident, and had been replaced by a General Officer.
A Peltast 1 rolled by outside. Dozens had been captured in the recent fighting, and were now being utilized in the rear as ambulances/utility vehicles. Their former operators, Argentinean soldiers who had grown disgusted by the Alliance with the Domination and readily defected, were driving many of them. In the past week, the numbers of defectors/deserters in the AA had increased dramatically, probably because of the recent Invasion of Italy and the imminent fall of Rome.
That’ll change, by God O’Brien thought. As soon as the Snakes entered Rome, fair treatment or not, it would be the trigger that would finally drive Gran Columbia and Argentina away from their arms. Already riots led by a young hotshot Politico named Peron were ripping Buenos Aires to shreds. Bogotá was following the time-honored tradition of shooting protesters, something the police in BA wouldn’t do.
The other good news was that Draka “advisors” were being fragged left and right by the rank and file.
The door to his office opened, and his Aide walked in.
“Sir,” The young Captain said crisply. “ Aerial reconnaissance confirms that the Argentinean 4th and 8th Armored are withdrawing north. At the moment they are using those cursed Snake -105’s to cover their retreat, with heavy flak from their Dragon I’s and II’s . It’s making it Hell for our Aircobras and Dauntlesses to take them out.”
“Not something I’m too worried about Augusto, if they want to flee north more power to them. I think we need to wait for our supply line to catch up with us anyhow.” Which was true. The “Alpaca Express” was now running 24/7 down from Rio Gallegos. “Didn’t think I’d be here again…”
“You’ve been to Puerto Santa Cruz before, Sir?” Augusto seemed surprised.
“Never. I was referring to being under fire. A bit different than mortar exchanges in the Andes, but the principle is the same. Isabella thought I was crazy to take this position.” “Crazy” was an understatement, she had been downright livid. Her argument was that fighting was for “young men”, and he was too old to go into the field. But how could he send the nation’s youth to battle, and not be willing to join them? She hadn’t understood.
“Order the fighters back, except for standard CAP. Let’s rest for a while. “
[September 11]
“Are you sure?” O’Brien said, with barely a whisper.
The young communications officer nodded. He reached over and turned up the radio. The Transmission was coming from Santiago, which was passing on a Transmission from Radio Madrid.
“… We can now confirm that the slaughter has reached the Tens of Thousands, including hundreds of clergymen. Nuns and Roman women have been ravished, the Vatican has been looted, and His Holiness Pope Pius XII has been killed…” You could hear the newscaster flipping papers. Several officers in the room crossed themselves “ Reports from the Domination seem contradictory, with both loud denials and statements that if the slaughter is taking place, it is because the Church is encouraging rioting Romans. No word yet on how many members of the Council of Cardinals escaped before the occupation, and what relics, if any, they managed to save from the looting. This is Radio Madrid.”
O’Brien rubbed his eyes, then pointed at the radio operator.
“What’s BBC saying?”
Eric Blair’s voice came on the air. “… Refugees report an orgy of rape and slaughter. The RCC has yet to make an official statement on the rumors of the death Pope Pius XII, although a spokesman for the Council of Cardinals has confirmed he did not leave Rome with them. Junior Chiliarch Olsen of the Domination Occupation Forces has loudly denied that chaos is a result of his troops, rather a plot by the Church to undermine the peaceful transfer of Rome’s government…”
O’Brien made a cutting motion to his neck, and the radio went silent. The sergeant put his headphones on.
“So, everyone ready to take this fight all the way? To be part of an expeditionary force in Europe, if necessary? We already know the Argentine government is toddling, this news will destroy them. I want it made clear to your men, if an enemy combatant surrenders, nothing unfortunate is to happen to them. I know we’ve been rather lenient in enforcing that rule, but starting now I will hang a man for such misconduct. “
The assembled General officers and Colonels nodded.
An orderly came walking in, bringing in tow…
“General Lopez!” O’Brien was surprised. His Argentinean opposite was supposed to be 50 kilometers north of here. The two had attended VMI together at the turn of the century. While their countries may have been enemies, he had always considered him a friend. “ George, am I to take it you are here because you saw reason.”
Lt. General Lopez kept his face carefully impassive.
“Have you heard the radio?”
“The news? Of course. That information would give any man reason for a flag of truce.”
“Forgive me Luis, I am not referring to the sacking of Rome. There is a complete news blackout in Buenos Aires. Army units there are backing a revolutionary council led by that Peron chap. As you know, Peron has long wanted to end our country’s association with the Domination. In anticipation of his orders, I am surrendering my men and equipment to you. If you desire so, ask for volunteers to fight pro-Domination army units. I suspect you will find many tens of thousands. “ Lopez took out his sidearm, and removed the clip. He handed it to O’Brien. “I ask for no conditions Luis. Even if this madness hadn’t enveloped the world elsewhere, I could see we have lost the war. “
There was a silence, then O’Brien said gravely; “You and your officers may keep their side arms, George. I think they’ll need them yet.”
"The rifle itself has no moral stature, since it has no will of its own. Naturally, it may be used by evil men for evil purposes, but there are more good men than evil, and while the latter cannot be persuaded to the path of righteousness by propaganda, they can certainly be corrected by good men with rifles."
Part Five: Cold Blood
[Rabat, Morocco, 18 September 1941]
Major Claude Martinka was a big man by American standards. A life on the farm near Edmonton, followed by a career in the Marines had toned and honed him into a 6-foot 9, 270 lbs monster that loomed over everyone. His participation in the crushing of the rebels in Central America had shown he knew what he was doing when it came to irregular warfare. Finally, he had a personal ace in the hole, in the unfortunate event he got caught. These two things were why he had been chosen for this mission.
Well, that and he had been in the Naval Academy’s Drama club. He could affect a pretty damn good Draka accent, and that had been what made him stand out in the list of candidates for the OSS. A mission like this had been in the works for quite some time, but with the invasion of Italy and the number of American citizens in Domination hands now over a thousand it had to be accelerated. The Sack of Rome had led the two countries to all but cut off diplomatic relations, and now everyone and their brother knew that war was now imminent.
The International Red Cross had been banned from the Domination for some time now, and no one had had a clear idea where the prisoners were. All that had changed when the Russians captured one Centurion Graves. Centurion Graves turned out to be the younger brother of a Senior Merarch Graves, and the elder of the two had apparently let slip in a letter that he had been put in charge of a compound meant to hold foreign serfs in Rabat. It was unclear as to whether this was meant to temporarily hold them before being sent into the interior, or if they were to be used by the Combines in Rabat for work. They had to find out.
It wasn’t a rescue mission; or at least, it had better not be one. There were only 3 other OSS-types in the city besides him, and they would need a lot more to break in and then get the prisoners off this dammed continent.
In fact, one of the three was sitting across from him. The two were in a dive about 20 km from the compound in question. Captain Julius Furuoka was a stout son of a Japanese immigrant. Before being snagged by the OSS last April, he had spent the better part of his army career being a linguist. Since July, when the United States got wind of the impending Draka-Japanese Alliance, he had been the man on spot in Rabat. His cover was that of a Japanese engineer who was showing the local submariners how IJN subs were built. Thanks to the wonders of secret compartmented information and the Domination’s maniacal obsession of OPSEC, neither the local Navy base nor the Security Directorate talked to each other after one or the other questioned him in the streets.
“C’n I help youse Sirs?” The colored waiter asked.
“Mutton Kabob.” Martinka said with a growl.
“Fish. Whatever your catch is.” Furuoka said mildly.
The waiter scurried off. “Everyone here is either a fucking giant or an uptight Chihuahua.” Martinka muttered.
Furuoka gave a thin smile. “Two days in country and you are already the subject matter expert? I wish I was as bright as you are, major.“ Martinka gave him an evil look. Furuoka continued.
“We can begin the casing tonight. We’ll want to get close enough to keep track of shifts, how they’re bringing food in, fun stuff like that. Gomez and Rosengarten are going to be meeting us at the travel agency tonight ‘round 1930. Don’t bring a gun.”
“What?”
“Don’t bring a gun. If the Snakes see us snooping around it’s just as likely they’ll shoot us as not. If they see us snooping around with a gun, they’ll kill us where we stand. No damn guns. Meet us at Rabat Travel at 1930.” The food arrived and the two began to eat.
“I’m new at this secret squirrel stuff, why are we meeting at a travel agency?”
“We’re renting a car. I’m not up to walking 20 kilometers tonight.”
“20 kilometers? Well, aren’t we all metric.”
“Eat your mutton.”
[2030, South of Rabat]
Martinka sat in the back of the cramped steamer with 1st Lt. Ernesto Gomez, while Captain Furuoka drove with another Army captain named Rosengarten in the passenger seat. Being surrounded by all these soldiers, Martinka could swear he could fell his IQ dropping.
Gomez had shown up with a 9mm, the result of which Furuoka had nearly ripped Gomez a new asshole. As big as Martinka was, Gomez was short and stocky. He wouldn’t be mistaken for anything other than a perfect physical specimen, but he was short for a Draka. Martinka stared out the window of the steamer for almost 20 minutes, then spoke.
“Why don’t they revolt?”
Furuoka glanced in the rear-view mirror at Martinka.
“The Serfs? Well, some of them do. But those who chafe under the yoke mostly try to escape to non-Draka holdings, or even out into the wilds with the Bushmen. Unfortunately, the Snakes are real good at pacifying the populations, even to the point of shame if you aren’t a good little serf. You should see the versions of Bible and Koran they give ‘em. Only loosely based on the real things. “
“ You said some do…”
“Mostly serfs from recently conquered territories…Anatolia, Arabia, places like that. The Ay-rabs started blowing themselves up a few years back. Early in the year a Greek serf blew up the precious metals exchange in Johannesburg…that was actually useful for us, because it threw their markets for a loop. But full scale revolts? The Afghanis were the most successful, but you can probably count the number of living Afghans on one hand now. The Snakes don’t play any games, as they say.”
Furuoka took a deep breath.
“That Afghani thing was hyperbole; sorry. They ended up getting more than a few Janissaries out of that deal. Not enough to make up for their losses by a long shot, but Afghans are the toughest sumbitches on earth. Well, them and the Citizens. I suppose spending most of your life in conditions that would make a cadet at VMI cringe do that to you. Here we are.”
Furuoka pulled the steamer off the road and behind a large rock. The four hopped out of the car.
“Leave the fucking gun in the trunk, Lieutenant.” Gomez scowled but did as he was ordered. “Rosengarten, roll with Gomez. I’ll go with the Major. Real simple, we’ll be a few hundred yards away from the North side; you all take the South side. All we’re doing is observing the compound for the next 7 hrs, and writing down what we see. Meet us back here at 0400.” Rosengarten gave a salute, and he and Gomez hustled off. Martinka looked at Furuoka and gestured with his hand “ Lay on, Macduff.”
The two took a wide circle around the compound, before arriving at the North side. It seemed to be one big rectangle, with high concrete walls and eight guard towers. “They wouldn’t have that there for a normal serf compound.” Furuoka commented.
“The wall or the towers?”
“Both would be considered overkill.”
-- --- -- -
“Man, I can’t see a thing.” Gomez upended the pen he was using (it was of Draka design) and turned on the penlight.
“What are you doing? Turn that off! Jesus! How did you live this long?”
--
“You see tha’ ?” The Janissary pointed South towards the light on the hill. It had been there all for ten seconds.
“Better tell a Masta ‘o a Mistis. “ His watch standing partner said.
--
[0204]
“ Something’s wrong.”
Furuoka nodded in agreement. “Haven’t seen a single guard end his watch and start another.”
“Bug out?”
Furuoka was silent for a moment, and then nodded again. “You’re right Major. I’m scratching this. Let’s find Mutt and Jeff and beat feet.”
- --
“Who goes thar?”
The voice was a guttural Citizen accent. Rosengarten swore motioned for Gomez to be quiet. Gomez shook his head panicky and cleared his throat.
You Goddamn Puerto Rican Shut UP!
“Glory to the Race!”
“I’m going to cut off your balls and feed them to the sea turtles, Gomez.”
The biggest man Rosengarten had ever seen stepped forward. Behind him were two other man, even in the dim light he could make out distinctive markings that had to be tattoos.
shitshitshitshit .
“Run!”
--
“BWWWWWRAAP!”
Furuoka and Martinka looked at each other horror in their faces. That was the distinctive sound of a Drakan SMG-5, used mostly for Police work. The two picked up their pace. Within minutes they were walking up on three figures whose backs were facing them. The middle one, the biggest man Martinka had ever seen, was speaking.
“…. Gods curse it Ali they look like Yankees. We could ‘ave caught them alive easy enough. Damn, they don’ look like escapees. Spies mebbe. Alright, frisk the bodies.”
Martinka pulled out his K-bar and looked at Furuoka. He had his Bowie out already. The two men nodded and edged towards the backs of the Janissaries. Within ten seconds both men had their knives in the base of a Janissary’s skull. The two serf-warriors gave a cry and fell to the dirt. The Citizen turned his head and growled.
“ Under th’ authority of the Domination I am making a Citizen’s arr- OW!“ Furuoka leapt forward and slashed the Snake with his Bowie. Unfortunately, the Snake’s reflexes were honed by a lifetime of close combat, and he had moved just fast enough to avoid major damage. The Snake’s fist went out and Furuoka was sent flying.
“Why, yer a Nip! Yer suppose to be our Allies!”
Jesus this guy talks a lot. Martinka advanced and slashed with his K-Bar. The Snake pulled out a Drakan combat knife. After about 5 seconds the Drakan’s Free hand grabbed Martinka’s knife-wrist and twisted hard, forcing him to drop the K-bar. The combat knife was centimeters away from Martinka’s nose. The Snake grinned.
“I figure ah only need one alive anyhow. What do you think?”
Martinka eyed, briefly, Furuoka standing up and moving towards the Snake. Either Furuoka was too loud or the Snake had noticed Martinka’s eyes. Furuoka went flying again and this time there was a “crack!” as his skull hit a rock.
Oh God, I’m going to have to tell his family. If I get out of this. His free hand was down near the Snake’s thigh. Momma didn’t raise no fools. Time to give him the Claude Martinka nut-twist.
“YYYYYYYEEEEEEOOOOOWWW!!!!!!“
The Draka let go of Martinka, and took off running. After a second’s orientation, he changed course for the car. I should have picked up the SMG. Better get the 9mm out of the Trunk. Then….I don’t know.
He came to the car. Looking back, he could see the Draka nearly on him. Jesus! Two steel balls and a platinum rod! He reached for the trunk, and realized he didn’t have the Goddamn keys. Using all the strength he could muster, he kicked the lock as hard as he could. There was a satisfying *crunch* and he forced the trunk open. He reached in and grabbed the first thing he could feel. Then he was lifted into the air, a single hand clasped around his neck.
This isn’t real, this isn’t happening. He’s only a little bigger than me. his right hand was behind his back, feeling what he had grabbed. Damn! It’s a fucking road flare! .
“So, I didn’t catch your name…” He said in a conversationally tone (or at least the best he could muster in the current situation). There were flashing lights and sirens heading towards them.
“Mah name, Yankee, is Senior Tetrarch Finn. And you’re going to remember mah face all the way to the Security Directorate’s chambers. “ The steamers had stopped and Janissaries and citizens were piling out.
“ You’re probably right.” Martinka agreed.
Then he activated the flare, and stabbed Finn in the eye with it as hard as he could.
“Aiiiieeeee!!!!!!!! You Yankee son of a Whore!!!” Finn started screaming mindlessly, as he ripped out the still-lit flare. Martinka found his ass on the ground, the great hand off his neck.
“ Shake it off big guy, at least the wound is cauterized.”
There were three men advancing, Two Janissaries and a Citizen. In the Citizen’s eyes seemed to be… respect?
“Al’ight Yankee Soljer. Nice and easy…” The two Janissaries were advancing with restraints.
“Soldier!” Martinka rasped out. “Soldier! I am a United States Marine Corps Spotter! Do you know what they call us?” He ignored the searing pain that was flowing through his body as he marched forward and kicked the nearest Janissary in the balls as hard as he could. “We’re the Snake-eaters!” Finn was still on the ground screaming.
The others were on him in a flash. The were pummeling him good, and Martinka realized that this was it. He had to pull the card now.
“If you…” * punch * “Kill me…you’ll piss off Arch-Strategos Von Shrakenburg mightily…”
“Stop…STOP!” Came a command-voice. “What do yo mean, Yankee?”
“I’m the son of Dr. Andre Martinka, very well known in some circles….”
“No times fo’ games if you want to live, Yankee.”
“ My father’s services was purchased by Karl Von Shrakenburg, during his wife’s trouble pregnancy. He saved the life of both his wife and his son, Eric.”
There was a silence, and the man muttered, “Gods curse it.” Louder, he said to Martinka. “You are exceedingly lucky he is my wife’s Uncle. “
“My Family,“ Martinka croaked, “Has always been lucky. “
[Rabat, Morocco, 18 September 1941]
Major Claude Martinka was a big man by American standards. A life on the farm near Edmonton, followed by a career in the Marines had toned and honed him into a 6-foot 9, 270 lbs monster that loomed over everyone. His participation in the crushing of the rebels in Central America had shown he knew what he was doing when it came to irregular warfare. Finally, he had a personal ace in the hole, in the unfortunate event he got caught. These two things were why he had been chosen for this mission.
Well, that and he had been in the Naval Academy’s Drama club. He could affect a pretty damn good Draka accent, and that had been what made him stand out in the list of candidates for the OSS. A mission like this had been in the works for quite some time, but with the invasion of Italy and the number of American citizens in Domination hands now over a thousand it had to be accelerated. The Sack of Rome had led the two countries to all but cut off diplomatic relations, and now everyone and their brother knew that war was now imminent.
The International Red Cross had been banned from the Domination for some time now, and no one had had a clear idea where the prisoners were. All that had changed when the Russians captured one Centurion Graves. Centurion Graves turned out to be the younger brother of a Senior Merarch Graves, and the elder of the two had apparently let slip in a letter that he had been put in charge of a compound meant to hold foreign serfs in Rabat. It was unclear as to whether this was meant to temporarily hold them before being sent into the interior, or if they were to be used by the Combines in Rabat for work. They had to find out.
It wasn’t a rescue mission; or at least, it had better not be one. There were only 3 other OSS-types in the city besides him, and they would need a lot more to break in and then get the prisoners off this dammed continent.
In fact, one of the three was sitting across from him. The two were in a dive about 20 km from the compound in question. Captain Julius Furuoka was a stout son of a Japanese immigrant. Before being snagged by the OSS last April, he had spent the better part of his army career being a linguist. Since July, when the United States got wind of the impending Draka-Japanese Alliance, he had been the man on spot in Rabat. His cover was that of a Japanese engineer who was showing the local submariners how IJN subs were built. Thanks to the wonders of secret compartmented information and the Domination’s maniacal obsession of OPSEC, neither the local Navy base nor the Security Directorate talked to each other after one or the other questioned him in the streets.
“C’n I help youse Sirs?” The colored waiter asked.
“Mutton Kabob.” Martinka said with a growl.
“Fish. Whatever your catch is.” Furuoka said mildly.
The waiter scurried off. “Everyone here is either a fucking giant or an uptight Chihuahua.” Martinka muttered.
Furuoka gave a thin smile. “Two days in country and you are already the subject matter expert? I wish I was as bright as you are, major.“ Martinka gave him an evil look. Furuoka continued.
“We can begin the casing tonight. We’ll want to get close enough to keep track of shifts, how they’re bringing food in, fun stuff like that. Gomez and Rosengarten are going to be meeting us at the travel agency tonight ‘round 1930. Don’t bring a gun.”
“What?”
“Don’t bring a gun. If the Snakes see us snooping around it’s just as likely they’ll shoot us as not. If they see us snooping around with a gun, they’ll kill us where we stand. No damn guns. Meet us at Rabat Travel at 1930.” The food arrived and the two began to eat.
“I’m new at this secret squirrel stuff, why are we meeting at a travel agency?”
“We’re renting a car. I’m not up to walking 20 kilometers tonight.”
“20 kilometers? Well, aren’t we all metric.”
“Eat your mutton.”
[2030, South of Rabat]
Martinka sat in the back of the cramped steamer with 1st Lt. Ernesto Gomez, while Captain Furuoka drove with another Army captain named Rosengarten in the passenger seat. Being surrounded by all these soldiers, Martinka could swear he could fell his IQ dropping.
Gomez had shown up with a 9mm, the result of which Furuoka had nearly ripped Gomez a new asshole. As big as Martinka was, Gomez was short and stocky. He wouldn’t be mistaken for anything other than a perfect physical specimen, but he was short for a Draka. Martinka stared out the window of the steamer for almost 20 minutes, then spoke.
“Why don’t they revolt?”
Furuoka glanced in the rear-view mirror at Martinka.
“The Serfs? Well, some of them do. But those who chafe under the yoke mostly try to escape to non-Draka holdings, or even out into the wilds with the Bushmen. Unfortunately, the Snakes are real good at pacifying the populations, even to the point of shame if you aren’t a good little serf. You should see the versions of Bible and Koran they give ‘em. Only loosely based on the real things. “
“ You said some do…”
“Mostly serfs from recently conquered territories…Anatolia, Arabia, places like that. The Ay-rabs started blowing themselves up a few years back. Early in the year a Greek serf blew up the precious metals exchange in Johannesburg…that was actually useful for us, because it threw their markets for a loop. But full scale revolts? The Afghanis were the most successful, but you can probably count the number of living Afghans on one hand now. The Snakes don’t play any games, as they say.”
Furuoka took a deep breath.
“That Afghani thing was hyperbole; sorry. They ended up getting more than a few Janissaries out of that deal. Not enough to make up for their losses by a long shot, but Afghans are the toughest sumbitches on earth. Well, them and the Citizens. I suppose spending most of your life in conditions that would make a cadet at VMI cringe do that to you. Here we are.”
Furuoka pulled the steamer off the road and behind a large rock. The four hopped out of the car.
“Leave the fucking gun in the trunk, Lieutenant.” Gomez scowled but did as he was ordered. “Rosengarten, roll with Gomez. I’ll go with the Major. Real simple, we’ll be a few hundred yards away from the North side; you all take the South side. All we’re doing is observing the compound for the next 7 hrs, and writing down what we see. Meet us back here at 0400.” Rosengarten gave a salute, and he and Gomez hustled off. Martinka looked at Furuoka and gestured with his hand “ Lay on, Macduff.”
The two took a wide circle around the compound, before arriving at the North side. It seemed to be one big rectangle, with high concrete walls and eight guard towers. “They wouldn’t have that there for a normal serf compound.” Furuoka commented.
“The wall or the towers?”
“Both would be considered overkill.”
-- --- -- -
“Man, I can’t see a thing.” Gomez upended the pen he was using (it was of Draka design) and turned on the penlight.
“What are you doing? Turn that off! Jesus! How did you live this long?”
--
“You see tha’ ?” The Janissary pointed South towards the light on the hill. It had been there all for ten seconds.
“Better tell a Masta ‘o a Mistis. “ His watch standing partner said.
--
[0204]
“ Something’s wrong.”
Furuoka nodded in agreement. “Haven’t seen a single guard end his watch and start another.”
“Bug out?”
Furuoka was silent for a moment, and then nodded again. “You’re right Major. I’m scratching this. Let’s find Mutt and Jeff and beat feet.”
- --
“Who goes thar?”
The voice was a guttural Citizen accent. Rosengarten swore motioned for Gomez to be quiet. Gomez shook his head panicky and cleared his throat.
You Goddamn Puerto Rican Shut UP!
“Glory to the Race!”
“I’m going to cut off your balls and feed them to the sea turtles, Gomez.”
The biggest man Rosengarten had ever seen stepped forward. Behind him were two other man, even in the dim light he could make out distinctive markings that had to be tattoos.
shitshitshitshit .
“Run!”
--
“BWWWWWRAAP!”
Furuoka and Martinka looked at each other horror in their faces. That was the distinctive sound of a Drakan SMG-5, used mostly for Police work. The two picked up their pace. Within minutes they were walking up on three figures whose backs were facing them. The middle one, the biggest man Martinka had ever seen, was speaking.
“…. Gods curse it Ali they look like Yankees. We could ‘ave caught them alive easy enough. Damn, they don’ look like escapees. Spies mebbe. Alright, frisk the bodies.”
Martinka pulled out his K-bar and looked at Furuoka. He had his Bowie out already. The two men nodded and edged towards the backs of the Janissaries. Within ten seconds both men had their knives in the base of a Janissary’s skull. The two serf-warriors gave a cry and fell to the dirt. The Citizen turned his head and growled.
“ Under th’ authority of the Domination I am making a Citizen’s arr- OW!“ Furuoka leapt forward and slashed the Snake with his Bowie. Unfortunately, the Snake’s reflexes were honed by a lifetime of close combat, and he had moved just fast enough to avoid major damage. The Snake’s fist went out and Furuoka was sent flying.
“Why, yer a Nip! Yer suppose to be our Allies!”
Jesus this guy talks a lot. Martinka advanced and slashed with his K-Bar. The Snake pulled out a Drakan combat knife. After about 5 seconds the Drakan’s Free hand grabbed Martinka’s knife-wrist and twisted hard, forcing him to drop the K-bar. The combat knife was centimeters away from Martinka’s nose. The Snake grinned.
“I figure ah only need one alive anyhow. What do you think?”
Martinka eyed, briefly, Furuoka standing up and moving towards the Snake. Either Furuoka was too loud or the Snake had noticed Martinka’s eyes. Furuoka went flying again and this time there was a “crack!” as his skull hit a rock.
Oh God, I’m going to have to tell his family. If I get out of this. His free hand was down near the Snake’s thigh. Momma didn’t raise no fools. Time to give him the Claude Martinka nut-twist.
“YYYYYYYEEEEEEOOOOOWWW!!!!!!“
The Draka let go of Martinka, and took off running. After a second’s orientation, he changed course for the car. I should have picked up the SMG. Better get the 9mm out of the Trunk. Then….I don’t know.
He came to the car. Looking back, he could see the Draka nearly on him. Jesus! Two steel balls and a platinum rod! He reached for the trunk, and realized he didn’t have the Goddamn keys. Using all the strength he could muster, he kicked the lock as hard as he could. There was a satisfying *crunch* and he forced the trunk open. He reached in and grabbed the first thing he could feel. Then he was lifted into the air, a single hand clasped around his neck.
This isn’t real, this isn’t happening. He’s only a little bigger than me. his right hand was behind his back, feeling what he had grabbed. Damn! It’s a fucking road flare! .
“So, I didn’t catch your name…” He said in a conversationally tone (or at least the best he could muster in the current situation). There were flashing lights and sirens heading towards them.
“Mah name, Yankee, is Senior Tetrarch Finn. And you’re going to remember mah face all the way to the Security Directorate’s chambers. “ The steamers had stopped and Janissaries and citizens were piling out.
“ You’re probably right.” Martinka agreed.
Then he activated the flare, and stabbed Finn in the eye with it as hard as he could.
“Aiiiieeeee!!!!!!!! You Yankee son of a Whore!!!” Finn started screaming mindlessly, as he ripped out the still-lit flare. Martinka found his ass on the ground, the great hand off his neck.
“ Shake it off big guy, at least the wound is cauterized.”
There were three men advancing, Two Janissaries and a Citizen. In the Citizen’s eyes seemed to be… respect?
“Al’ight Yankee Soljer. Nice and easy…” The two Janissaries were advancing with restraints.
“Soldier!” Martinka rasped out. “Soldier! I am a United States Marine Corps Spotter! Do you know what they call us?” He ignored the searing pain that was flowing through his body as he marched forward and kicked the nearest Janissary in the balls as hard as he could. “We’re the Snake-eaters!” Finn was still on the ground screaming.
The others were on him in a flash. The were pummeling him good, and Martinka realized that this was it. He had to pull the card now.
“If you…” * punch * “Kill me…you’ll piss off Arch-Strategos Von Shrakenburg mightily…”
“Stop…STOP!” Came a command-voice. “What do yo mean, Yankee?”
“I’m the son of Dr. Andre Martinka, very well known in some circles….”
“No times fo’ games if you want to live, Yankee.”
“ My father’s services was purchased by Karl Von Shrakenburg, during his wife’s trouble pregnancy. He saved the life of both his wife and his son, Eric.”
There was a silence, and the man muttered, “Gods curse it.” Louder, he said to Martinka. “You are exceedingly lucky he is my wife’s Uncle. “
“My Family,“ Martinka croaked, “Has always been lucky. “
"The rifle itself has no moral stature, since it has no will of its own. Naturally, it may be used by evil men for evil purposes, but there are more good men than evil, and while the latter cannot be persuaded to the path of righteousness by propaganda, they can certainly be corrected by good men with rifles."
-
MKSheppard
- Ruthless Genocidal Warmonger
- Posts: 29842
- Joined: 2002-07-06 06:34pm
This is a damned good story
Very interesting too, especially the bit about the
penlight, lol!
I loved the bit with them in the steamer, talking
about the serfs, it had a very realistic feel to it.
Very interesting too, especially the bit about the
penlight, lol!
I loved the bit with them in the steamer, talking
about the serfs, it had a very realistic feel to it.
"If scientists and inventors who develop disease cures and useful technologies don't get lifetime royalties, I'd like to know what fucking rationale you have for some guy getting lifetime royalties for writing an episode of Full House." - Mike Wong
"The present air situation in the Pacific is entirely the result of fighting a fifth rate air power." - U.S. Navy Memo - 24 July 1944
"The present air situation in the Pacific is entirely the result of fighting a fifth rate air power." - U.S. Navy Memo - 24 July 1944
Part six: Family
[Archona, 24 September 1941]
“Git up Yankee soljer.” The Janissary’s harsh accent grated on Martinka’s ears. He rolled over on his cot, the prison cell was meant for a citizen, not a serf, and ignored the Janissary out of spite. Three swift kicks to the kidneys later, Martinka found himself standing. The Janissary punched across the jaw with a set of brass knuckles. Compared to the beatings he had received lately, that was relatively light.
“How are you doing today, Fred?” Martinka said conversationally. The Janissary gestured for him to turn around and show his hands. Martinka sighed as the shackles were clamped on his wrists. He had no clear idea as to where he was, what with a sack over his head most of the trip, but he did know he came by airship, then on a long-ass bus ride to this prison compound. Fred the Janissary shoved Martinka forward, and he found himself being led out into the prison yard. Fortunately, the gallows he had been half expecting weren’t there. Instead, a small Military-style truck was.
“Git in.” Fred said. Martinka did his best to climb into the back of the truck. Fred and another Janissary hopped in, SMG’s at the ready. A third started the steamer. The ratty truck lurched forward, made a few stops at what had to be checkpoints, and then moved on into town. Archona Martinka thought. The cityscape was almost as famous as New York’s or Paris, even half concealed from the canvas covering the bed of the truck.
“Sooo…am I going to my death?” The two Janissaries just glared at Martinka. He probably wasn’t going to get any information out of them anyhow. After a silence that stretched on forever, Fred spoke.
“You Yankees went and declared war on us.”
About time, by God. didn’t seem to be a safe answer, so Martinka settled with “Huh.” Then another thought occurred to him, “Wait, does this mean I’m being transferred to a POW camp?”
The other Janissary chuckled. He could have been a Pashtun, but Martinka wasn’t sure. “ Th’ Domination doesn’t have no POW camps. You either work or you die, simple as that. Course, wit your fighting spirit you’d make Color Sergeant in no time.“
“That’s what, E6?” The man nodded. “No thanks, a bit of a step down from Major, don’t you think?”
The Pashtun shrugged. “Better ‘n working th’ canals.” The Truck came to a stop; from the talking outside it was probably another checkpoint. “We’re here.” Fred announced, and hopped out. He gestured for Martinka to follow. Martinka made a show of stumbling to his knees, and the two Janissaries helped him up.
Helped me up? Martinka thought. In front of him was a large structure that was as recognizable as the Statue of Liberty: Castle Tarleton. The Stature of Thor in the courtyard was particularly noticeable. It had to have been 50ft tall. Panic shot through Martinka. This is either very good or very bad. he was nudged forward towards what appeared to be a personnel entrance. A smartly dressed female Cohortarch was standing next to the security guard. The Security guard, surprisingly, looked just like the thousands of guards at banks across the United States. The Cohortarch stepped forward.
“Major Martinka?”
Martinka affected an upper crust Hispanic accent. “For you, Señorita , I will be anyone you please.”
The Cohortarch glanced at Fred, who slammed the butt of his rifle into Martinka’s shoulder.
“Are you Major Martinka?”
“ That will be me.”
The Cohortarch looked Martinka up and down. “ Come with me. The Arch-Strategos is expecting you.” Martinka shuffled after her.
“I didn’t catch your name.”
There was a look of puzzlement on her face. “I didn’t throw it…”
Martinka shuffled forward in silence some more, and followed her into the elevator. He noticed Fred and the Pashtun had not entered the building. Perhaps the Cohortarch thought she could deal with him on her own. With his arms and legs shackled, it was a reasonable assumption. The elevator was playing “Don’t Fence me In.”, which, considering that they were in the military HQ of the Domination, Martinka found very funny.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing Cohortarch, I just wouldn’t have expected ‘Don’t Fence me In’ to be in Castle Tarleton.”
The Cohortarch looked at Martinka suspiciously. “This isn’t Castle Tarleton.”
“The Hell you say. I’d recognize that statue of Thor anywhere.”
“This is the old Administration Building. Mostly for offices and tourists. The real Castle Tarleton is a group of buildings elsewhere on the grounds. “
“Oh.” Martinka said brilliantly. He wondered how many damn floors this place had. As if to answer him, the elevator came to a stop and opened. “Smartass.” He muttered.
“Who’s a smartass?”
“God.”
“You believe in God, then?”
“Lapsed Catholic.”
“You may be interested to know, that your Pope declared a Crusade against us.”
“And me without my Crusading fatigues.”
“You,” The Cohortarch said sharply “Are entirely too mouthy for a captive. If you were on my family’s plantation, you’d have been horsewhipped along time ago.”
“Why, you get off on that?”
The Cohortarch looked as if she was going to murder him.
Martinka shrugged. “ The worst you can do is enslave me for life and put me to work in a mine. I highly doubt anything I say to some O-4 is going to change my status.”
The Cohortarch scowled and stopped in front of a large oak door. She knocked.
“Come in!” Came a voice from within. The Cohortarch opened the door slightly and stuck her head in. Martinka strained to hear what she was saying. The door swung open widely, and the Cohortarch pointed into the office. Martinka shuffled in and heard the door close behind him. There was an older, distinguished gentleman in an Arch-strategos uniform sitting behind a large oak desk.
“Damn. You look just like your father.” Arch-strategos Shrakenburg seemed vaguely disappointed. “Stearns, you may relax his irons. Major Martinka, please sit.” He gestured at a stuffed chair in front of a small coffee table. Rubbing his wrists (his feet were still shackled) Martinka sat down. Up on the wall was a massive map of the world, with the Red of the Domination covering virtually all of Africa, and spreading deep into the Middle East and Central Asia. Martinka wondered how they were going to get the resources necessary to defeat the Domination. Driving them from Europe and Asia was one thing, but occupying Africa? That was a horse of a different color. Shrakenburg handed him a glass of wine.
“From my own Vineyard.” Shrakenburg took a sip. “You are a very lucky young man. I was almost unable to secure your release. Fortunately, oaths and honor still matter to some in the Security Directorate. How is your Father? I know he retired from his medical duties several years ago…”
“Papa died 3 years ago. Mother has been running the farm since then, as my brother Jean is doing his tour in the Army.”
Shrakenburg was silent for a moment. “I didn’t know. Andre saved the life of my Mary and Eric…I wish word had reached me, but…3 years ago? That would been after the severing of most travel between our nations.” Shrakenburg huffed. “I am sorry for your loss.”
Martinka was having an uncomfortable feeling. He was starting to sympathize with the Old Bastard. Better put the kibosh on that.
“Sir…you know you’re going to lose this war. You can’t beat sheer numbers. Between us, the Soviet Union, and Western Europe we outnumber in manpower and in numbers of mechanized forces.”
“Our citizens are the finest warriors in the world. Although,” There was a slight change in Shrakenburg’s eyes. Respect? “I understand you reminded at least one that there are some pretty outstanding fighters outside of the Domination. Much hinges on the next few months…” Shrakenburg’s voice trailed off.
Martinka shifted in his seat. Was Shrakenburg trying the throw him? He had the air his father did, at the early stages of the Dementia.
“How’s your Family?”
“My daughter is a captive of the Russians. Eric has lost the use of his leg.”
Too bad, so sad . “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I was too. Well, Major Martinka, I am glad to have met you. Perhaps one day I will visit you in America.“
“I think it more likely I’ll be visiting you here in Archona.”
Shrakenburg’s eyes narrowed. “I have used the last shred of my influence with the Security Directorate to secure repay my debt to Andre. Do not think I will save you again if you are captured.”
“I wasn’t playing on me being captured, Arch-strategos.” The heavy Oak doors opened up. There stood the Cohortarch, and, incredibly, a man in a Danish Naval Uniform.
“Commander Christensen is the Naval Attaché from the Danish Embassy. He will see to your trip outside of Domination control. Denmark, as you can see, has not declared war on us.”
“That will change.” Martinka said.
“Undoubtedly.” Christensen agreed.
[Archona, 24 September 1941]
“Git up Yankee soljer.” The Janissary’s harsh accent grated on Martinka’s ears. He rolled over on his cot, the prison cell was meant for a citizen, not a serf, and ignored the Janissary out of spite. Three swift kicks to the kidneys later, Martinka found himself standing. The Janissary punched across the jaw with a set of brass knuckles. Compared to the beatings he had received lately, that was relatively light.
“How are you doing today, Fred?” Martinka said conversationally. The Janissary gestured for him to turn around and show his hands. Martinka sighed as the shackles were clamped on his wrists. He had no clear idea as to where he was, what with a sack over his head most of the trip, but he did know he came by airship, then on a long-ass bus ride to this prison compound. Fred the Janissary shoved Martinka forward, and he found himself being led out into the prison yard. Fortunately, the gallows he had been half expecting weren’t there. Instead, a small Military-style truck was.
“Git in.” Fred said. Martinka did his best to climb into the back of the truck. Fred and another Janissary hopped in, SMG’s at the ready. A third started the steamer. The ratty truck lurched forward, made a few stops at what had to be checkpoints, and then moved on into town. Archona Martinka thought. The cityscape was almost as famous as New York’s or Paris, even half concealed from the canvas covering the bed of the truck.
“Sooo…am I going to my death?” The two Janissaries just glared at Martinka. He probably wasn’t going to get any information out of them anyhow. After a silence that stretched on forever, Fred spoke.
“You Yankees went and declared war on us.”
About time, by God. didn’t seem to be a safe answer, so Martinka settled with “Huh.” Then another thought occurred to him, “Wait, does this mean I’m being transferred to a POW camp?”
The other Janissary chuckled. He could have been a Pashtun, but Martinka wasn’t sure. “ Th’ Domination doesn’t have no POW camps. You either work or you die, simple as that. Course, wit your fighting spirit you’d make Color Sergeant in no time.“
“That’s what, E6?” The man nodded. “No thanks, a bit of a step down from Major, don’t you think?”
The Pashtun shrugged. “Better ‘n working th’ canals.” The Truck came to a stop; from the talking outside it was probably another checkpoint. “We’re here.” Fred announced, and hopped out. He gestured for Martinka to follow. Martinka made a show of stumbling to his knees, and the two Janissaries helped him up.
Helped me up? Martinka thought. In front of him was a large structure that was as recognizable as the Statue of Liberty: Castle Tarleton. The Stature of Thor in the courtyard was particularly noticeable. It had to have been 50ft tall. Panic shot through Martinka. This is either very good or very bad. he was nudged forward towards what appeared to be a personnel entrance. A smartly dressed female Cohortarch was standing next to the security guard. The Security guard, surprisingly, looked just like the thousands of guards at banks across the United States. The Cohortarch stepped forward.
“Major Martinka?”
Martinka affected an upper crust Hispanic accent. “For you, Señorita , I will be anyone you please.”
The Cohortarch glanced at Fred, who slammed the butt of his rifle into Martinka’s shoulder.
“Are you Major Martinka?”
“ That will be me.”
The Cohortarch looked Martinka up and down. “ Come with me. The Arch-Strategos is expecting you.” Martinka shuffled after her.
“I didn’t catch your name.”
There was a look of puzzlement on her face. “I didn’t throw it…”
Martinka shuffled forward in silence some more, and followed her into the elevator. He noticed Fred and the Pashtun had not entered the building. Perhaps the Cohortarch thought she could deal with him on her own. With his arms and legs shackled, it was a reasonable assumption. The elevator was playing “Don’t Fence me In.”, which, considering that they were in the military HQ of the Domination, Martinka found very funny.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing Cohortarch, I just wouldn’t have expected ‘Don’t Fence me In’ to be in Castle Tarleton.”
The Cohortarch looked at Martinka suspiciously. “This isn’t Castle Tarleton.”
“The Hell you say. I’d recognize that statue of Thor anywhere.”
“This is the old Administration Building. Mostly for offices and tourists. The real Castle Tarleton is a group of buildings elsewhere on the grounds. “
“Oh.” Martinka said brilliantly. He wondered how many damn floors this place had. As if to answer him, the elevator came to a stop and opened. “Smartass.” He muttered.
“Who’s a smartass?”
“God.”
“You believe in God, then?”
“Lapsed Catholic.”
“You may be interested to know, that your Pope declared a Crusade against us.”
“And me without my Crusading fatigues.”
“You,” The Cohortarch said sharply “Are entirely too mouthy for a captive. If you were on my family’s plantation, you’d have been horsewhipped along time ago.”
“Why, you get off on that?”
The Cohortarch looked as if she was going to murder him.
Martinka shrugged. “ The worst you can do is enslave me for life and put me to work in a mine. I highly doubt anything I say to some O-4 is going to change my status.”
The Cohortarch scowled and stopped in front of a large oak door. She knocked.
“Come in!” Came a voice from within. The Cohortarch opened the door slightly and stuck her head in. Martinka strained to hear what she was saying. The door swung open widely, and the Cohortarch pointed into the office. Martinka shuffled in and heard the door close behind him. There was an older, distinguished gentleman in an Arch-strategos uniform sitting behind a large oak desk.
“Damn. You look just like your father.” Arch-strategos Shrakenburg seemed vaguely disappointed. “Stearns, you may relax his irons. Major Martinka, please sit.” He gestured at a stuffed chair in front of a small coffee table. Rubbing his wrists (his feet were still shackled) Martinka sat down. Up on the wall was a massive map of the world, with the Red of the Domination covering virtually all of Africa, and spreading deep into the Middle East and Central Asia. Martinka wondered how they were going to get the resources necessary to defeat the Domination. Driving them from Europe and Asia was one thing, but occupying Africa? That was a horse of a different color. Shrakenburg handed him a glass of wine.
“From my own Vineyard.” Shrakenburg took a sip. “You are a very lucky young man. I was almost unable to secure your release. Fortunately, oaths and honor still matter to some in the Security Directorate. How is your Father? I know he retired from his medical duties several years ago…”
“Papa died 3 years ago. Mother has been running the farm since then, as my brother Jean is doing his tour in the Army.”
Shrakenburg was silent for a moment. “I didn’t know. Andre saved the life of my Mary and Eric…I wish word had reached me, but…3 years ago? That would been after the severing of most travel between our nations.” Shrakenburg huffed. “I am sorry for your loss.”
Martinka was having an uncomfortable feeling. He was starting to sympathize with the Old Bastard. Better put the kibosh on that.
“Sir…you know you’re going to lose this war. You can’t beat sheer numbers. Between us, the Soviet Union, and Western Europe we outnumber in manpower and in numbers of mechanized forces.”
“Our citizens are the finest warriors in the world. Although,” There was a slight change in Shrakenburg’s eyes. Respect? “I understand you reminded at least one that there are some pretty outstanding fighters outside of the Domination. Much hinges on the next few months…” Shrakenburg’s voice trailed off.
Martinka shifted in his seat. Was Shrakenburg trying the throw him? He had the air his father did, at the early stages of the Dementia.
“How’s your Family?”
“My daughter is a captive of the Russians. Eric has lost the use of his leg.”
Too bad, so sad . “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I was too. Well, Major Martinka, I am glad to have met you. Perhaps one day I will visit you in America.“
“I think it more likely I’ll be visiting you here in Archona.”
Shrakenburg’s eyes narrowed. “I have used the last shred of my influence with the Security Directorate to secure repay my debt to Andre. Do not think I will save you again if you are captured.”
“I wasn’t playing on me being captured, Arch-strategos.” The heavy Oak doors opened up. There stood the Cohortarch, and, incredibly, a man in a Danish Naval Uniform.
“Commander Christensen is the Naval Attaché from the Danish Embassy. He will see to your trip outside of Domination control. Denmark, as you can see, has not declared war on us.”
“That will change.” Martinka said.
“Undoubtedly.” Christensen agreed.
"The rifle itself has no moral stature, since it has no will of its own. Naturally, it may be used by evil men for evil purposes, but there are more good men than evil, and while the latter cannot be persuaded to the path of righteousness by propaganda, they can certainly be corrected by good men with rifles."
-
CaptainChewbacca
- Browncoat Wookiee
- Posts: 15746
- Joined: 2003-05-06 02:36am
- Location: Deep beneath Boatmurdered.
ROFLMAO!“You may be interested to know, that your Pope declared a Crusade against us.”
“And me without my Crusading fatigues.”
Stuart: The only problem is, I'm losing track of which universe I'm in.
You kinda look like Jesus. With a lightsaber.- Peregrin Toker
You kinda look like Jesus. With a lightsaber.- Peregrin Toker
Part 7: An Oxymoron
[Central Atlantic, early morning, 28 September 1941]
The flight deck crews moved quickly and efficiently, if the pilots hadn’t trained for a night mission, the airmen had moved planes around and loaded ordnance for so long that they could do it in the dark. And, in fact, they did.
The Hornet’s Wildcat and Dauntless squadrons went roaring off the flight deck, while the Lake put up her own fighters for CAP duty over the Task Force. What was happening was part first strike, part experiment in new military doctrine.
The Wildcats (barely 60 of them) flew to their target, the Domination submarine pens at Rabat. Incredibly, the Drakians didn’t challenge the raiding force until the bombes began to fall. Of course, the pens were made of reinforced concrete, and were some of the most indestructible buildings in the world.
But the support buildings weren’t.
The USN fighter-bombers dropped their ordnance, did two strafing runs on the base, and hightailed it back. There weren’t even a hundred Snake fatalities.
But it did do one thing; it got the local commander to send his second-rate local aviation forces South to defend Rabat. It was a waste of time, the Task Force was already sailing out to sea, away from the nearest Snake.
[Navy Wing, Pentagon, 29 September 1941]
The construction site of the new HQ of the War Department was a mad house. Capt. Fox knew the Pentagon was barely half finished, and the Army was raising Holy Hell about the fact the Navy got to move in first. As it happened, Fox couldn’t bring himself to give a flying fuck what the army wanted. After spending several months in a “holding” pattern overseeing the construction of the new base in Corpus Christi, Fox had been surprised to find he was ordered to Pensacola to become certified as a Naval Aviator. As Fox was far too old and experienced for him to become a fighter pilot, he had had a sneaking suspicion that someone was going to tap him to run a CV. As it was, his next set of orders had sent him to ONI, and here he was.
After some careful consideration, he had driven his station wagon all the way to DC from Ft. Worth, leaving his girls with his sister-in-law. Fox had been to DC many times before, and didn’t have much faith in the Metro. Of course, it was a nightmare driving through the South, where a good portion of the “highways” weren’t even paved. Someone should do something about that, he thought. Fox sat in his car another few minutes, sighed, and hopped out. An Intel weenie? They put him on active duty for this? Not that having a command at sea wasn’t bad, but still…
Fox began walking towards the building, carrying his check-in package in the Naval tradition of a dangerously overstuffed manila envelope. It was still very early in the morning, with the sun barely peeping over the horizon. A group of J.O.s left the building, shuffling out like a bunch of zombies. The poor bastards must have been the night officers. The one closest to him saluted, and Fox began to return the salute, only to start when he realized the line-officer ensign was a Negro. After more of a delay then he should have, he completed the salute, feeling embarrassed at being thrown like that. Negroes had been allowed in all rates in the navy for some years now, but as far as he knew the only officers were warrants that stood mess officer billets. He shook his head, the Texan in him still mildly disturbed. The times, they are a-changin’…
“Can I help you sir?” The Marine sentry inside the lobby was looking at him with a bland face. Not too far away was another Marine with a Thompson checking I.D.s. Fox wordlessly handed over his orders. The Marine studied them and gave a set of confusing directions. Seeing Fox’s bewildered look, he gestured at a Private and told him to take Fox up to ONI’s office.
“Thank you, Sergeant” Fox said, feeling especially stupid.
Fox was led through a maze of halfway completed corridors, with cables, wood, and furniture lying here and there. The loud curses of construction workers could be heard everywhere. Finally, he came to a hallway that looked somewhat “finished”, and there was a door that said simply “ONI” on it. Fox looked up and down, expecting to see the doors to dozens of offices, like in the other hallways, but there was just the one. The Private stopped and said, “Here you go, Sir” and scurried off.
“Huh.”
Fox knocked on the door, and a muffled “Come in!” rang out. He walked into what had to be a security checkpoint, although all there was was a solitary ISC wearing his blues, looking as if he’d been hit by a truck and smelled of alcohol.
“ Can I help you, Sir?” The Chief’s nameplate read RICHARDS. On his desk was a pile of Captain America comics, and what appeared to be an angry letter to Timely Comics, regarding the lack of “Big un’s” in the Invaders .
“Yes Chief, I was ordered to report to ONI for staff work for Admiral Appliton.”
Richards scrutinized the I.D. and set of orders. “Sir, I think we were expecting you to work with Captain Terry.” Richards pulled open a file. “Yep…you’re working with Captain Terry over at operations liaison…huh, Targeteer? Yep…”
Fox’s face fell. Jesus, was he going to have to wander this fucking labyrinth again?
“Where…”
“Through this door, sir.” Richards opened the door and shouted something into the room behind it. There was a shout back, and Fox, who was used to a rather quieter work environment, had a sinking feeling in his stomach. The door clicked behind him, and someone else walked into the tiny room. Richards was still shouting into the next room.
The new person was a Captain.
“You Fox?”
“That’ll be me.”
“Howdy, I’m Edward Terry.” Terry extended his hand, Fox took it. “Chief Richards getting you settled?” Richards finally stopped yelling at whoever it was and returned his attention to Fox and Terry.
“Romano says he’s on the cleared list, sir.” Richards sat back down at his disk and began reading his comic again, as if the two captains weren’t in the room. Fox was appalled. Before he could say anything, Terry laid a hand on his shoulder. “Lemme show you around.” Terry led him into the next room.
“Richards is always like that, until, oh, 7 or so. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was a fucking mind-reader, he’d have been kicked out a long time ago. Don’t worry…” Terry chuckled “ his briefs are always bloody insightful, and tend to include astonishingly accurate sports predictions at the end of them. Oh, this is YN1 Romano, he’s our security assistant. You’ll be seeing-a lot-of him.”
“Morning sir. I’m going to have to give you your inbrief and get your pass set up. We can start by going over your SF-“
“Later, Romano. I want to speak to him before Admiral Appliton gets here. The office we’re going to sharing is right over there.” The office was protruding into the general work area, with the top of the walls windows. Inside were two desks, one of them clearly being used, the other empty. Terry shut the door and sighed.
“Richards told you that you got shunted over to targeteer duty, right?”
“Yes…but I fail to see why the Hell ONI has a targeteer section. I thought strategic bombing was the Army’s playground?”
“It is.” Terry reached into his desk and pulled out a file. “It won’t be in today’s papers, but it’ll be in tomorrow’s. The Hornet and Lake raided the Snake sub pens at Rabat yesterday. Early reports indicated that we didn’t do a whole lot of damage(those pens are damn tough), but that’s okay, that wasn’t the intent. Intent was for the snakes to pull planes south and try to find the Task Force…left the Mediterranean coast of Morocco uncovered, and let French and Spanish warplanes sink the Skadi.”
Fox whistled. The Skadi had been the newest Battleship in the Domination’s navy, and had made headlines by running past Gibraltar to engage and destroy two Italian battleships in the Western Mediterranean.
“Did they?”
“Yep, we can state with high confidence that the Skadi is done. So’s the cruiser that was escorting her. Don’t know about the other ships yet, no one has been able to do more than one over flight, and we have to use our ground assets sparingly. The navy was the first to bring the war to Africa, and our plan is to continue to do so.”
Fox knew he was exaggerating…Spanish, French, and German strategic bombers had bombed North Africa before, but he wanted to see where he was going with this.
“Bryant…can I call you Bryant?” Fox nodded. “ You know as well as I do that, while the Domination navy is large, it’s an order of magnitude smaller than needed to protect their shorelines. That’s why they’re into U-boats, they see ‘em as a force multiplier. But even then, they have enough to wreck our merchant shipping, or patrol their coasts. Not both. Maybe not even one. The Navy’s game plan for the Atlantic is to (1) get the goods across, and (2) apply pressure away from the fighting in Europe and Central Asia. The Rabat Raid was a trial run. In a few weeks we’re going to raid the Domination’s airfields and port at Dakar. Right now we’re working out the basing rights with Brasil to prepare for raids farther south. Shouldn’t be too difficult, from what I hear. Big concern is that Peron’s government in Argentina is going to fall, and the pro-Domination generals will restart the war with Chile, but I find that unlikely.”
Fox put the file down.
“There’s no way the Atlantic fleet can put enough pressure on Africa to cause the Snakes to make any meaningful withdrawals from the front. It would have been damn near impossible before we began stripping the fleet and sending it to the Pacific, much less now.”
“I know…but until the first Gettysburg’s start being commissioned in '43, all the Atlantic Fleet can bring to the table are the Hornet , Essex, and Lake, anymore and leave the Pacific exposed more than it already is.”
Terry took a deep breath. “Truth of the matter is…FDR wants to show the American people we’re doing something. It isn’t much, but it is something. And the aviation arm isn’t the only part of the navy doing the fighting.”
No doubt Terry was referring to the chicanery the Minnesota was up to in the South Atlantic.
“Terry, small planes are not effective for destroying fleets, even anchored ones. No matter what that idiot Mitchell said…”
There was a knock on the door, and a CTA3 walked in, handed Terry a folder and said “ Sir, update on the damage estimates from the Rabat raid.”
Terry mumbled a thanks and spread the report on the table. Fox looked over his shoulder, read the first paragraph, and smirked. An on-the-ground asset called “Wheel lock” asserted that the low initial damage estimates would have to be drawn even further downwards. The sub pens had apparently protected the subs better than originally thought. Fox couldn’t resist…
“See Terry? small airplanes can’t sink fleets!” Fox said, not knowing how horribly wrong he was.
[Central Atlantic, early morning, 28 September 1941]
The flight deck crews moved quickly and efficiently, if the pilots hadn’t trained for a night mission, the airmen had moved planes around and loaded ordnance for so long that they could do it in the dark. And, in fact, they did.
The Hornet’s Wildcat and Dauntless squadrons went roaring off the flight deck, while the Lake put up her own fighters for CAP duty over the Task Force. What was happening was part first strike, part experiment in new military doctrine.
The Wildcats (barely 60 of them) flew to their target, the Domination submarine pens at Rabat. Incredibly, the Drakians didn’t challenge the raiding force until the bombes began to fall. Of course, the pens were made of reinforced concrete, and were some of the most indestructible buildings in the world.
But the support buildings weren’t.
The USN fighter-bombers dropped their ordnance, did two strafing runs on the base, and hightailed it back. There weren’t even a hundred Snake fatalities.
But it did do one thing; it got the local commander to send his second-rate local aviation forces South to defend Rabat. It was a waste of time, the Task Force was already sailing out to sea, away from the nearest Snake.
[Navy Wing, Pentagon, 29 September 1941]
The construction site of the new HQ of the War Department was a mad house. Capt. Fox knew the Pentagon was barely half finished, and the Army was raising Holy Hell about the fact the Navy got to move in first. As it happened, Fox couldn’t bring himself to give a flying fuck what the army wanted. After spending several months in a “holding” pattern overseeing the construction of the new base in Corpus Christi, Fox had been surprised to find he was ordered to Pensacola to become certified as a Naval Aviator. As Fox was far too old and experienced for him to become a fighter pilot, he had had a sneaking suspicion that someone was going to tap him to run a CV. As it was, his next set of orders had sent him to ONI, and here he was.
After some careful consideration, he had driven his station wagon all the way to DC from Ft. Worth, leaving his girls with his sister-in-law. Fox had been to DC many times before, and didn’t have much faith in the Metro. Of course, it was a nightmare driving through the South, where a good portion of the “highways” weren’t even paved. Someone should do something about that, he thought. Fox sat in his car another few minutes, sighed, and hopped out. An Intel weenie? They put him on active duty for this? Not that having a command at sea wasn’t bad, but still…
Fox began walking towards the building, carrying his check-in package in the Naval tradition of a dangerously overstuffed manila envelope. It was still very early in the morning, with the sun barely peeping over the horizon. A group of J.O.s left the building, shuffling out like a bunch of zombies. The poor bastards must have been the night officers. The one closest to him saluted, and Fox began to return the salute, only to start when he realized the line-officer ensign was a Negro. After more of a delay then he should have, he completed the salute, feeling embarrassed at being thrown like that. Negroes had been allowed in all rates in the navy for some years now, but as far as he knew the only officers were warrants that stood mess officer billets. He shook his head, the Texan in him still mildly disturbed. The times, they are a-changin’…
“Can I help you sir?” The Marine sentry inside the lobby was looking at him with a bland face. Not too far away was another Marine with a Thompson checking I.D.s. Fox wordlessly handed over his orders. The Marine studied them and gave a set of confusing directions. Seeing Fox’s bewildered look, he gestured at a Private and told him to take Fox up to ONI’s office.
“Thank you, Sergeant” Fox said, feeling especially stupid.
Fox was led through a maze of halfway completed corridors, with cables, wood, and furniture lying here and there. The loud curses of construction workers could be heard everywhere. Finally, he came to a hallway that looked somewhat “finished”, and there was a door that said simply “ONI” on it. Fox looked up and down, expecting to see the doors to dozens of offices, like in the other hallways, but there was just the one. The Private stopped and said, “Here you go, Sir” and scurried off.
“Huh.”
Fox knocked on the door, and a muffled “Come in!” rang out. He walked into what had to be a security checkpoint, although all there was was a solitary ISC wearing his blues, looking as if he’d been hit by a truck and smelled of alcohol.
“ Can I help you, Sir?” The Chief’s nameplate read RICHARDS. On his desk was a pile of Captain America comics, and what appeared to be an angry letter to Timely Comics, regarding the lack of “Big un’s” in the Invaders .
“Yes Chief, I was ordered to report to ONI for staff work for Admiral Appliton.”
Richards scrutinized the I.D. and set of orders. “Sir, I think we were expecting you to work with Captain Terry.” Richards pulled open a file. “Yep…you’re working with Captain Terry over at operations liaison…huh, Targeteer? Yep…”
Fox’s face fell. Jesus, was he going to have to wander this fucking labyrinth again?
“Where…”
“Through this door, sir.” Richards opened the door and shouted something into the room behind it. There was a shout back, and Fox, who was used to a rather quieter work environment, had a sinking feeling in his stomach. The door clicked behind him, and someone else walked into the tiny room. Richards was still shouting into the next room.
The new person was a Captain.
“You Fox?”
“That’ll be me.”
“Howdy, I’m Edward Terry.” Terry extended his hand, Fox took it. “Chief Richards getting you settled?” Richards finally stopped yelling at whoever it was and returned his attention to Fox and Terry.
“Romano says he’s on the cleared list, sir.” Richards sat back down at his disk and began reading his comic again, as if the two captains weren’t in the room. Fox was appalled. Before he could say anything, Terry laid a hand on his shoulder. “Lemme show you around.” Terry led him into the next room.
“Richards is always like that, until, oh, 7 or so. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was a fucking mind-reader, he’d have been kicked out a long time ago. Don’t worry…” Terry chuckled “ his briefs are always bloody insightful, and tend to include astonishingly accurate sports predictions at the end of them. Oh, this is YN1 Romano, he’s our security assistant. You’ll be seeing-a lot-of him.”
“Morning sir. I’m going to have to give you your inbrief and get your pass set up. We can start by going over your SF-“
“Later, Romano. I want to speak to him before Admiral Appliton gets here. The office we’re going to sharing is right over there.” The office was protruding into the general work area, with the top of the walls windows. Inside were two desks, one of them clearly being used, the other empty. Terry shut the door and sighed.
“Richards told you that you got shunted over to targeteer duty, right?”
“Yes…but I fail to see why the Hell ONI has a targeteer section. I thought strategic bombing was the Army’s playground?”
“It is.” Terry reached into his desk and pulled out a file. “It won’t be in today’s papers, but it’ll be in tomorrow’s. The Hornet and Lake raided the Snake sub pens at Rabat yesterday. Early reports indicated that we didn’t do a whole lot of damage(those pens are damn tough), but that’s okay, that wasn’t the intent. Intent was for the snakes to pull planes south and try to find the Task Force…left the Mediterranean coast of Morocco uncovered, and let French and Spanish warplanes sink the Skadi.”
Fox whistled. The Skadi had been the newest Battleship in the Domination’s navy, and had made headlines by running past Gibraltar to engage and destroy two Italian battleships in the Western Mediterranean.
“Did they?”
“Yep, we can state with high confidence that the Skadi is done. So’s the cruiser that was escorting her. Don’t know about the other ships yet, no one has been able to do more than one over flight, and we have to use our ground assets sparingly. The navy was the first to bring the war to Africa, and our plan is to continue to do so.”
Fox knew he was exaggerating…Spanish, French, and German strategic bombers had bombed North Africa before, but he wanted to see where he was going with this.
“Bryant…can I call you Bryant?” Fox nodded. “ You know as well as I do that, while the Domination navy is large, it’s an order of magnitude smaller than needed to protect their shorelines. That’s why they’re into U-boats, they see ‘em as a force multiplier. But even then, they have enough to wreck our merchant shipping, or patrol their coasts. Not both. Maybe not even one. The Navy’s game plan for the Atlantic is to (1) get the goods across, and (2) apply pressure away from the fighting in Europe and Central Asia. The Rabat Raid was a trial run. In a few weeks we’re going to raid the Domination’s airfields and port at Dakar. Right now we’re working out the basing rights with Brasil to prepare for raids farther south. Shouldn’t be too difficult, from what I hear. Big concern is that Peron’s government in Argentina is going to fall, and the pro-Domination generals will restart the war with Chile, but I find that unlikely.”
Fox put the file down.
“There’s no way the Atlantic fleet can put enough pressure on Africa to cause the Snakes to make any meaningful withdrawals from the front. It would have been damn near impossible before we began stripping the fleet and sending it to the Pacific, much less now.”
“I know…but until the first Gettysburg’s start being commissioned in '43, all the Atlantic Fleet can bring to the table are the Hornet , Essex, and Lake, anymore and leave the Pacific exposed more than it already is.”
Terry took a deep breath. “Truth of the matter is…FDR wants to show the American people we’re doing something. It isn’t much, but it is something. And the aviation arm isn’t the only part of the navy doing the fighting.”
No doubt Terry was referring to the chicanery the Minnesota was up to in the South Atlantic.
“Terry, small planes are not effective for destroying fleets, even anchored ones. No matter what that idiot Mitchell said…”
There was a knock on the door, and a CTA3 walked in, handed Terry a folder and said “ Sir, update on the damage estimates from the Rabat raid.”
Terry mumbled a thanks and spread the report on the table. Fox looked over his shoulder, read the first paragraph, and smirked. An on-the-ground asset called “Wheel lock” asserted that the low initial damage estimates would have to be drawn even further downwards. The sub pens had apparently protected the subs better than originally thought. Fox couldn’t resist…
“See Terry? small airplanes can’t sink fleets!” Fox said, not knowing how horribly wrong he was.
Last edited by Lonestar on 2005-05-09 10:47am, edited 1 time in total.
"The rifle itself has no moral stature, since it has no will of its own. Naturally, it may be used by evil men for evil purposes, but there are more good men than evil, and while the latter cannot be persuaded to the path of righteousness by propaganda, they can certainly be corrected by good men with rifles."
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MKSheppard
- Ruthless Genocidal Warmonger
- Posts: 29842
- Joined: 2002-07-06 06:34pm
Pretty damned good
But a few minor errors:
1.) CVL-25 Liberty, commisioned September 3, 1943; (may I suggest changing it to CV-2 Lake, one of the pre-war CVs?
She can carry 45 aircraft)
2.) Washington DC doesn't get the Metro until the 1970s
and
3.) The Gettysburgs don't get commissioned until 1943.
But a few minor errors:
1.) CVL-25 Liberty, commisioned September 3, 1943; (may I suggest changing it to CV-2 Lake, one of the pre-war CVs?
She can carry 45 aircraft)
2.) Washington DC doesn't get the Metro until the 1970s
and
3.) The Gettysburgs don't get commissioned until 1943.
"If scientists and inventors who develop disease cures and useful technologies don't get lifetime royalties, I'd like to know what fucking rationale you have for some guy getting lifetime royalties for writing an episode of Full House." - Mike Wong
"The present air situation in the Pacific is entirely the result of fighting a fifth rate air power." - U.S. Navy Memo - 24 July 1944
"The present air situation in the Pacific is entirely the result of fighting a fifth rate air power." - U.S. Navy Memo - 24 July 1944
MKSheppard wrote:Pretty damned good
But a few minor errors:
1.) CVL-25 Liberty, commisioned September 3, 1943; (may I suggest changing it to CV-2 Lake, one of the pre-war CVs?
She can carry 45 aircraft)
2.) Washington DC doesn't get the Metro until the 1970s
and
3.) The Gettysburgs don't get commissioned until 1943.
DIE, DIE YOU MARYLAND BASTARD!!!! I'VE BEEN OUT HERE, LO THESE MANY MONTHS INTERDICTING HASHISH, HARRASRING "SIMPLE FISHERMEN", SCARING HELL OUT OF SOMALI PIRATES, AND NOW TOPPING IT OFF WITH A PORT VISIT AT THE CRAPPIEST PLACE IN WESTERN CIVILIZATION, AND YOU'RE HITTING ME UP BECAUSE THE CV OOB I'M USING IS DATED BECAUSE, YOU KNOW, UNDERWAY BANDWITH KINDA SUCKS AND MAKES IT NEARLY IMPOSSIBLE TO VIEW THE DRAKAFIC'S OOBS WITH YOUR 1 MILLION BAJILLION PICS???????? GO BACK TO PRINCE GEORGE'S COUNTY!!!!!
Yeah, I'll make the changes. Thanks for the heads up. And I'm keeping the Goddamned Metro.
"The rifle itself has no moral stature, since it has no will of its own. Naturally, it may be used by evil men for evil purposes, but there are more good men than evil, and while the latter cannot be persuaded to the path of righteousness by propaganda, they can certainly be corrected by good men with rifles."
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MKSheppard
- Ruthless Genocidal Warmonger
- Posts: 29842
- Joined: 2002-07-06 06:34pm
I've been to PG County before, and never want to visit there. And lay offLonestar wrote:GO BACK TO PRINCE GEORGE'S COUNTY!!!!![/b]
the hashish, Lonestar. I guess we can just say "metro" is really the DC
Capital Transit trolley car lines
"If scientists and inventors who develop disease cures and useful technologies don't get lifetime royalties, I'd like to know what fucking rationale you have for some guy getting lifetime royalties for writing an episode of Full House." - Mike Wong
"The present air situation in the Pacific is entirely the result of fighting a fifth rate air power." - U.S. Navy Memo - 24 July 1944
"The present air situation in the Pacific is entirely the result of fighting a fifth rate air power." - U.S. Navy Memo - 24 July 1944
You know, this is an alternate universe after all. And one where technological progress was supposed to go faster to boot. So I think it's fairly safe to just write stuff like this up to minor timeline divergences.MKSheppard wrote:I've been to PG County before, and never want to visit there. And lay off
the hashish, Lonestar. I guess we can just say "metro" is really the DC
Capital Transit trolley car lines