Breaking Strain: Sequel to Proof Through the Night

[Vehrec]

...NO! There's no added alliterative appeal to that.

The might have been called the 'Little Green Men' for the color the survivors glowed at night for a couple of weeks before dying.

[That NOS Guy]

Gayner's Goons

KING KINNNNNNGGGG UEBERMENSCH KINNNNNGGGGGG GAYNNNNNEEEERRRRR

Sorry, couldn't resist.

[ChaserGrey]

"I'm invincible!"
"You're a loony"
"The Race's Will always triumphs!"
"Look, you stupid bastard, you've got no serfs left!"

[Saint_007]

LOL. Just no more serfs? At the end of the Eurasian conflict, they're lucky to have the farms of Syria to feed them. Hell, I'm guessing by the time the remaining hardliner Draka hauled ass to Syria, they had to cross over Europe, Western China, and Central Asia, all of which were full of vengeful natives and rebellious Janissaries. The only thing they'd have for their tanks is fuel from Mesopotamia and Arabia and whatever spare parts they scavenge from the ones that broke down on the way back.

Seriously, I'm thinking the final assault on Gayner's Last Stand was probably a three-pronged attack; an amphibious landing in Oman to sweep the Arabian peninsula, a British push through Iran (yes, lead by Montgomery himself) and a more direct assault on the Syrian/Palestinian west coast by American Marines. Except this raises a few questions:

1. It would be a bit of a stretch to assume that Louise Gayner was the last and only holdout of the Draka as the conflict died down. While a few would settle for being spoilsports and live out the rest of their lives as guerillas or pirates in the territories they reached and others glad to join Gayner as the last bastion of Draka order, I don't think many commanders would want to take orders from a junior officer, particularly any Strategos who was in China at the time. So we could see the Alliance doing several such assaults to clear those who weren't torn apart by their own serfs.
2. From what I heard, the Hond-1 tank was comparable to the modern US M-1 in terms of armor and firepower, if prone to breakdowns and rather expensive to field. US Sherman tanks and British Crusaders (or whatever the British had as their workhorse armored vehicle) would be hard pressed to fight them, even more so than against the Germans in our WW2. Of course, I might be mistaken and S&M Stirling was just blowing the Draka horn, but it would probably require the Americans to round up surviving Russian and German tank engineers and incorporate elements of the T-34 and the Tiger Tanks into whatever they throw against the Draka.
3. Speaking of teching up, how far ahead is this world's technology? The Draka use Pergerines, which are basically improved Luftwaffe jet fighters from what I read, but can the US, for instance, field the equivalent of the F-86 Sabre in the Syrian conflict? Whatever advantage the Draka have on the ground would be wasted with Allied aerial superiority.

I would like to say that it would be great to have Rommel fight alongside Montgomery and Patton to get revenge on the Draka, but let's be honest; whatever forces the Europeans can present in 1946 would be token at best, mostly vengeful men haunted by ghosts and a command structure about to fall apart by infighting due to grudges left over from Nazi domination. Not to mention that unless Rommel was damn lucky, he would have perished along with the German command structure when the Draka leveled Germany.

ChaserGrey can feel free not to respond, since I'm just throwing ideas for a possible "midquel" for Proof, and I don't want him restricting himself in the backstory. Others feel free to discuss.

EDIT: Forgot one *very* important thing. To take a real world example, the US was planning an all-out assault on the Japanese home islands in case the Japanese failed to capitulate - one that would involved intense nuclear bombardment and millions of soldiers from the US, Britain, Canada, Australia and others, none of whom would be wearing protective NBC gear. Needless to say, it would have been a damn mess, and we were lucky to dodge that bullet.

My question is; are people familiar with the affects of fallout in the Draka timelines by the time 1946 rolls around? Granted, it would be greatly helped by studying the survivors of the US and the Domination's various nuclear strikes, but would the Alliance willing expose its troops to radiation out of ignorance?

[Simon_Jester]

From what I heard, the Hond-1 tank was comparable to the modern US M-1 in terms of armor and firepower, if prone to breakdowns and rather expensive to field. US Sherman tanks and British Crusaders (or whatever the British had as their workhorse armored vehicle) would be hard pressed to fight them, even more so than against the Germans in our WW2. Of course, I might be mistaken and S&M Stirling was just blowing the Draka horn, but it would probably require the Americans to round up surviving Russian and German tank engineers and incorporate elements of the T-34 and the Tiger Tanks into whatever they throw against the Draka.

The US and British was already designing its own heavies; they just didn't get fielded during historical WWII for logistical reasons.

Given the premise that the increased pace of scientific progress in the Drakaverse should be general, like the possession of balls-of-granite (as we saw in Proof Through the Night)... I'd say that the Honds will be running into tanks broadly comparable in performance to the immediate post-WWII generation of armor. They're not fighting Shermans and Crusaders; they're going to be fighting upgraded Pershing variants comparable in performance to the M46 or M47, the Centurion (which was historically in production at about this point anyway).

Anyway. In anything remotely resembling a WWII-like technical paradigm, duplicating the Abrams would be impossible: the gas turbine engine, the composite armor, above all the electronics that allow extremely accurate gunnery, and so on. There's a reason why postwar tank design went through about three decades and three (four?) generations of design before reaching something like the Abrams.

So no, the Draka would not be turning out Chobham armor, which in turn means that their tanks would be vulnerable to late-WWII tank guns firing HEAT rounds, assuming competent design. Plus the logistics situation for the Draka armor will rapidly become impossible, since they're cut off from whatever industrial base survived the first round of nuclear attacks and will soon become targets for B-29 flights out of Europe.

Speaking of teching up, how far ahead is this world's technology? The Draka use Pergerines, which are basically improved Luftwaffe jet fighters from what I read, but can the US, for instance, field the equivalent of the F-86 Sabre in the Syrian conflict? Whatever advantage the Draka have on the ground would be wasted with Allied aerial superiority.

I'd expect to see large-scale formations of the P-80* Shooting Star, with a possible option on other fighters of the same generation (the P-84 Thunderjet might see use as a fighter-bomber as happened in Korea, for instance). The P-86 is unlikely to make an appearance; that was a second generation design** and Gaynor most likely won't last all that long.

*As to why "P" and not "F," well, I don't recall whether the Army Air Corps has become the Air Force and redesignated their 'pursuit' planes as 'fighters' in this universe yet. The aircraft in question were 'born' as P-series planes even if they matured as F-series.

**"Second generation" not in the sense people normally talk about generations of jet fighters, but in the sense that the craft matured after the first wave of jet fighters had already seen action, reflecting design lessons learned from tests of earlier models. Hence the swept wings and such.

My question is; are people familiar with the affects of fallout in the Draka timelines by the time 1946 rolls around? Granted, it would be greatly helped by studying the survivors of the US and the Domination's various nuclear strikes, but would the Alliance willing expose its troops to radiation out of ignorance?

It's very possible. On the other hand, just looking at the effects in Europe will teach people a lot, enough to know something dangerous is going on. And there's really not much hurry in crushing Gaynor's goons; they're only going to get weaker as conventional bombing pounds them into a pulp and their supplies run out. So yes, there might be a bit more restraint in the NUKEY NUKEY during that campaign.

[Vehrec]

Actually, Nuclear fallout was a serious concern from early in the design process of The Bomb-generals might not have know about it, but the people working on the bomb most assuredly did-Fermi went so far as to suggest artificial fallout by spreading Strontium 90 over Germany in 1943.

[Simon_Jester]

Yep.

Anyone read Solution Unsatisfactory? That is, in essence, a book in which the use of what we would now call "dirty bombing" or a variation on the concept ends up being used in much the same capacity as nuclear weapons in real life.

[ChaserGrey]

Yeah, Stirling says that in 1945-6 there were "mass casualties from fallout, little understood by both sides", but I'm going to handwave that away. The full extent of the health hazards wasn't understood at the time, of course, and a lot of these troops are probably going to die of cancer later on, but they did know enough to keep the troops from getting radiation or heavy metal poisoning. It became obvious pretty quickly that that was bad juju, even if it took a few more decades for the longer-term effects to become apparent.

[ChaserGrey]

A/N: Admit it. You missed me. I realize that this story's been a bit lacking in tension and action compared to "Proof Through the Night", but hope you're all enjoying the ride anyway. This is a long chapter and it was a tough one, but the story is nearing its close and the stage is set for what should hopefully be a pretty cool Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny.

And so, without further ado...the next chapter of "Breaking Strain"


0125 Hours
T- 5 Hours, 5 Minutes to Sunrise and Counting
N2 National Highway, Madagascar

“Sorry, Centurion.” The scar-faced Senior Decurion running the roadblock looked up at Pietr Ellis and utterly failed to show any regret. For all that Ellis nominally outranked him, the way he folded his arms across his barrel-broad chest and the pair of Buffalos pulled across the road behind him left no doubt as to who he thought was in charge of this situation. “Mah orders from Merarch Bohner’s headquarters are specific. No one’s to be allowed through the cordon into the Nova Archona area without his specific okay. Yo’ ain’t got that, so I have to ask yo’ to turn around and go back where you came.”

Ellis clenched his teeth together, and spoke only when he was sure he could control what would come out of his mouth. “Decurion…Miller, is it?” The man nodded. “Decurion, I got travel orders here from the Archon.” When the man’s face still didn’t move, Ellis’ eyes narrowed and his voice took on a biting edge. “Yo’ know, the Archon? Old man, bout yay high, lives in a big house up thataway where he guides the destiny of the State an’ Race? That Archon? I think his authority supersedes Merarch Bohner’s.”

“An’ there we may disagree.” The Decurion shifted his Holbars assault rifle forward on the patrol sling looped around his shoulder, and behind him the Draka troopers in the back of the Buffalos copied his gesture. “Accordin’ to Merarch Bohner, the Archon who signed yo’ orders is a traitor to that very State and Race. So I’ll give yo’ one more chance, Sir. Turn round, get away from my roadblock, or I will turn yo’ into a crater to discourage the next dumb sumbitch decides to argue with my orders. We can play it any way you want.”

Ellis stared into the man’s eyes. Then past his shoulder. Then he smiled widely.

“I think the situation’s changed somewhat, Decurion. Look behind yo’.”

The man snorted. “Please. That’s the oldest one in the bo-“

With a sharp CRACK-WHAAAAAM, one of the ancient trees by the side of the road exploded, showering flaming splinters for hundreds of yards around. Most of the Draka at the roadblock threw themselves flat instinctively, but one trooper who’d been a fraction of a second slower than the rest screamed and rolled on the floor of the Buffalo’s troop compartment, his skin perforated by a dozen smoking slivers of wood. The Decurion wheeled around, his eyes wide and his face going white around the scar as he took in the four Scorpion combat cars that had just crested the ridge behind the roadblock. One of them, its barrel smoking, turned to cover the Buffalos with its three companions. Behind them, more Buffalos were coming up with D Century of the First Reaction Cohort’s infantry, but their presence was more or less ceremonial. The Scorpions would need a single shot each, perhaps two, to turn the entire roadblock into smoking wreckage. The Buffalos shuddered into gear, their drivers pulling them out of the road before abandoning them with the infantry, rushing for the dubious cover of the trees. Just as the Senior Deucrion turned back towards him, face darkening in rage, Ellis landed a neat punch between his eyes.

Walking past the collapsed man, Ellis heard Jenny pulling the jeep up behind him. As he strode down the road. The lead Buffalo pulled up towards him, turning sideways. The familiar head of his Century 2IC appeared above the troop compartment’s side rail, sweeping off his helmet and grinning. Ellis grinned in response, snapping a parade-ground salute.

“Service to the State, yo’ old bastard. What kept yo’?”

Master Warrant Michael McWhirter laughed as he leaned casually against the rail. “Glory to the Race. And I think considerin’ we got a call not two hours back that yo’ were in some kind of unspecified trouble, in addition to all the weird shit comin’ over the radio tonight, we made damn good time. ‘Sides, we got here in time, didn’t we?”

“That yo’ did. Good thing too, jeep’s about busted.” As he spoke, Ellis headed for his command car, sensing rather than hearing Jenny fall in at his heels. “Let’s not hang around the crime scene, Warrant. But once we get five-six klicks up the road I want to pull off to the side someplace and have a laager. Y’all aren’t goin’ to believe what we gotta do next.”

0200 Hours
T- 4 Hours, 30 Minutes to Sunrise and Counting
Flag Bridge, USS Reprisal

“Boy, I hate being right all the time.” Julius Rosemont stared at the flag plot unhappily, watching the trace making its way in from the southeast. An airborne radar plane had picked up the trace half an hour before, and one of Reprisal’s A2H Vampire light attack planes had just confirmed the contact with parachute flares. The Akita Maru, a ten thousand ton freighter registered out of Yokohama, making for the Madagascar coast right where there should have been a break in the Quarantine. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that we can just sink the sonofabitch and have done with it?”

“Fraid so, Rosie.” Jaime Guitierrez threw the newly developed photos of the ship down on the chart table in disgust, splashing droplets of developing solution over the surface. “Blowing away Zanzie boats and chasing off trawlers is one thing. But when it comes to a major Japanese-flagged merchantman…”

“I know.” Treaty or no treaty, international mandate or not, with the U.S. and Japan already in a proxy war in Indonesia an American warship couldn’t just sink a large Japanese merchantman, even if she was busting the Quarantine. “So what do we do?” Guitierrez shrugged.

“Closest escort is the Yarrow.” Both men shared a glance at that. They both remembered Dan Yarrow, who had flown an AR Revenant off the first Reprisal and sacrificed himself so that one Julius Rosemont and his crew could survive and drop their bomb on Genoa. Talking about the ship that bore his name had always felt a bit too much like calling up a ghost. “She’s running full-out now, should be in position to board by sunrise. We’ve already got a full Sierra package standing by for the Zanzies, so if she runs into too much trouble we can divert a few planes and ruin the Japs’ whole day. But we have to at least try.”

“I know.” Rosemont flicked his eyes up the plot. “What’s the situation up north?” Guitierrez sighed.

“Well, appealing to the Sultan seems to have worked, at least partially. The Director’s message said that worthy appears to be running scared of something- we could probably figure out what, given the day or two that we don’t have. Problem is that the boats in his harbor are funded and crewed from all over Africa, so they’re not necessarily going to listen to him when he tells them to knock it off, and his own Navy is sympathetic enough to their viewpoint that he’s not sure which way they’d fall if ordered to stop the boats leaving harbor. Figure he can keep the lid on until sunrise, maybe an hour or two after, but sometime during the morning those boats are going to sail and we’re not going to be able to stop them.”

“And then Bohner makes his move-“

“And we all know what comes after that.” Guitierrez fixed Rosemont with a stare. “Rosie, I’m pulling your squadron off Sierra duty. I think you’d better go to your cabin and review the sealed documents there. I think you know which ones.”

“Aye aye, Sir.” Rosemont wouldn’t have wasted that on his friend, normally, but that hadn’t been an ordinary order. He left the Flag Bridge and descended three levels to his stateroom, where he locked the door to make sure he wouldn’t be disturbed. That done, he folded down the small writing desk from one of the stateroom’s bulkheads and reached behind it, dialing the combination into the small safe there by feel. Rosemont pulled a heavy manila envelope out of the safe and laid it on his desk. For a moment he stared at the heavy black seals across the flap, then carefully ran his finger along the seam and broke them. He began to page through the thick bound book inside, whose cover read,

SINGLE INTEGRATED OPERATIONS PLAN
OPTION D- DRAKA ARCHONATE, FULL ATTACK
USN VAH SQUADRON COMMANDER
TOP SECRET- SCI

Rosemont stayed awake for another hour, reading over the details of how his squadron would unleash Armageddon on the last vestiges of the Draka Race. When he finally collapsed from exhaustion, his sleep was uneasy, his dreams haunted by the specter of a mushroom cloud rising over Marseilles and by the face of a young gunner nearly twenty years dead.

0300 Hours
T- 3 Hours, 30 Minutes to Sunrise and Counting
Checkpoint Baker, Outside Regentropfen Airport, Madagascar

D Century rolled down the road towards the Regentropfen perimeter, gun barrels pointed in the air and with all the troops grasping the side rails of their Buffalos. Even that much had taken a crucial half-hour to arrange, and Pietr Ellis could barely keep from grinding his teeth together in frustration. He’d heard nothing about the larger situation since his hurried call with the Archon hours before, but it didn’t take a genius to figure that the situation was on a knife’s edge. If nothing else, the steady stream of transport aircraft leaving Regentropfen told him that. The Americans were evacuating their enclave.

On another level, he supposed he should be grateful. Regentropfen Airport was the Archonate’s only facility capable of handling fixed-wing airplanes, and ever since the Draka had founded Nova Archona the enclave around the it had been American territory by treaty and very jealously guarded. Ellis supposed that it counted as a minor miracle of diplomacy that he’d been allowed to bring a formed body of troops inside the perimeter at all…which in turn meant he didn’t have to look back every sixty seconds to make sure troops loyal to Bohner hadn’t started some kind of pursuit. That’s the problem with thishere setup, he thought, sweeping his commo helmet off for a moment and running a hand through his hair. I got entirely too many sides shootin’ at me. Least for Daddy and Granddaddy, they just had the one.

Just past the outer fence, a company of American tanks were drawn up, a baker’s dozen heavy Greenes with long gun barrels tracking the Century as the gate closed behind them. Ellis had no doubt there were plenty of other hidden guns registered on them- in a way, the display was reassuring. Displaying enough firepower to wipe out the Century was intended to intimidate him into not trying anything- which meant that as long as he didn’t, they probably weren’t planning to blow the Century away out of hand. Progress. A man in U.S. Army khakis waited out front of the formation. When the Century was perhaps a hundred yards away, he held up one hand in an unmistakeable signal. Ellis spoke into his mic and the Century ground to a halt, then clambered out of his Hyena and strode towards the American officer with McWhirter loping along in tow. The Master Warrant was entirely too Old Domination to like what they were about to do, but he was also entirely too much a soldier to let it affect how he performed his duties. The expression on his face was thunderous as he strode over behind his officer, but he kept his hands carefully in sight and away from his gunbelt.

Ellis drew up opposite the American and saluted, American style hand-to-forehead rather than the Draka fist-to-breast. The other man returned it, then spoke before Ellis could.

“Major Simon Hunter, U.S. Army. We let you come this far because you said you had something for us, Snake. This far, and no farther, so let me tell you the script for the rest of our conversation. You’re going to make whatever offer is currently passing through your brain, I’m going to tell you to go to Hell, and you’re going to disappear over the horizon before we use your tin cans there for target practice. If you don’t think you have something good enough to make me change that script, I suggest you stop wasting both our time and go help whichever side you favor in the little fracas you Snakes have going in the capital.”

Another loaded C-67 screamed overhead, saving Ellis from having to come up with a direct response. The backwash ruffled his uniform and almost sent his service cap flying, but he forced himself to hold the American’s gaze. This one looked like a wolf, which meant that at the first sign of weakness he could feel jaws around his throat.

“Centurion Pietr Ellis. Major, I do have something for you. I have the location of the nerve gas depot for Merarch Bohner’s little toy rockets.” Hunter raised an eyebrow, his face still carefully impassive.

“Who’s little what nows?” That was it. This might well mean death for the whole Race, but there was only so much a Draka could take. Ellis took a step forward, heedless of the heavy guns backing the man up.

“Almighty Nothing, Yankee, shoot me if yo’ will but please don’ treat me like I am some manner of idiot child. Yo’ and I both know about Merarch Bohner’s ballistic missiles, unless yo’ flyin’ all yo’ people home for that damned Thanksgiving Day of yours. Yo’ and I both know that if he pops one off, yo’ Nothing-damned carrier is goin’ make this whole island glow in the dark. If yo’ want another option, I know where the warheads for the damned things are, and I’ll show yo’.”

“In exchange for what? Security for your men?” Ellis rolled his eyes.

“In exchange fo’ nothing, Major Hunter. All I want is to pass on this information so that maybe, maybe everyone I care about don’t die in the next 24 hours. That convincin’ enough for yo’?” The man’s dark eyes bored into his for what seemed an eternity. Then he nodded.

“All right, Centurion. You can come ahead, but not your Century. We’re not letting them inside the perimeter.”

“Hell you say.” McWhirter spat the words out, his eyes narrow. “We’re not leaving our commandah to-“

“Yes yo’ are.” Ellis cut him off and turned to face him. “Take the Century off to one of the N2 dispersal sites, Warrant. Use this week’s comm schedule and the rendezvous places we talked about on the way up here. Find fuel and supplies, then hunker down and wait for my signal. Don’t hear from me by sundown today, then congratulations, you’re finally an officer.” McWhirter looked even less pleased at that prospect. “My job is to get this information through- and if it comes to that, the Race needs that to happen more than it needs one middlin’-good mechanized Century leader.” McWhirter nodded, grudgingly. “Now get gone.”

“Sir.” McWhirter gave Major Hunter one last harsh glare, then turned to trot back to the collection of vehicles waiting down the road. Ellis turned, once, and spotted Jenny’s head sticking out of the command car.

He waved, once.

Almost half an hour later, by his watch, Major Hunter threw open the door to the small interrogation room he’d been hustled into as soon as the Yankees had him. Ellis stood.

“Ready to listen now, Major?”

“No.” Hunter looked like he’d bitten into something sour. “I’m not, because it seems that people above my pay grade want to listen to you right away. Come on, Centurion. You’re going for a little ride.”

0430 Hours
T Minus Two Hours to Sunrise and Counting
Aboard USS Yarrow

“Big son of a bitch.” Rob Delacour swept his eyes over the superstructure of the Akita Maru, drinking in the sight of the big freighter. “How you want to play it, Cap’n?”

Ray Archer had been wondering the same thing since they got the order to intercept the Japanese blockade runner hours before, and he still wasn’t certain. Normally he’d never have considered boarding a target this big at night- besides all the hazards that maneuvering near an unknown ship in the dark usually brought with it, it would make it harder for his Marines to see any react to any threats. If there was one thing tonight sure as hell wasn’t, though, it was anything resembling normal. The all-commands messages he was copying out of Regentrofpen and Venta Bellagrium were looking more worrying by the hour, and the flagship’s message had made it utterly clear that there was no time to lose on this one.

All of which meant that, as Captain-under-God, Ray Archer was going to ask his people to do things he’d normally never ask of them. Well, they’d mentioned at the Academy the job could get this way sometimes.

“Easy way first, XO.” Archer grabbed the loud-hailer microphone off its clips and keyed it.

“Merchant vessel Akita Maru! This is a U.S. Navy Warship operating under the International Quarantine Enforcement Authority! You are in violation of the Restricted Zone and are ordered to stop and heave to immediately or you will be fired on and sunk! You will receive no further warnings!”

As the last echo died away, the heavy snort of marine diesels that had carried across the water to Yarrow’s open bridge died away. Akita Maru’s headway fell off as she went dead in the water. Archer looked over at Delacour, mouth open.

“No way it’s that easy.”

“Prob’ly not, Skipper.” Delacour gave the merchantman’s bridge a dubious glance. “We know what the next move has t’ be, though.”

“Yeah.” Aft, the whaleboat was already swinging out on its davits, the Marine boarders already sitting in it with their weapons slung and ready. As the two men watched, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, it drew up alongside the Akita Maru’s flank. The low cough of a grapple mortar carried across the water, and the dark web of a boarding net draped itself over the ship’s side. Dark shapes began to crawl up the net, and the first ones tumbled over and onto the deck.

The night exploded.

The first warning Archer had of something unusual was the long flame-tongue of a recoilless rifle shooting out from the Japanese freighter’s bridge and slamming into his ship’s deck just aft of the 5” turret. A mass of machine guns cut loose, some onto the Marines on deck and some spraying Yarrow down. The ship veered sharply away from the Akita Maru, the helmsman pushing his wheel over to get her out of danger without waiting for orders. Another recoilless round barked out, then hissed into the sea where her bow had been just seconds before.

“Jesus Christ!” Archer could still see tracers arcing back and forth over the Japanese ship’s deck, so at least some of the Marines were still alive and fighting back. How long that would last with the firepower that seemed to be on that ship was anyone’s guess, though. “Damage reports?”

“Still coming’in.” Delacour’s cheek was torn open in a long, jagged cut and blood was running down across his chin and neck, but his voice was perfectly level. “We got a fire near the five-inch magazine from that hit forward, though. DC team on the scene wants permission to flood.” Archer nodded. Flooding the magazine would take his ship’s biggest weapon out of action for the duration, but if the fire spread too far the first he’d know about it would be when he saw Saint Peter.

“Do it. Casualties?” Delacour leaned over to yell instructions into the bridge talker’s ear, and within seconds Archer could feel the deck shift under his feet as Yarrow’s bow ducked down towards the waves. The damage control team must have been waiting by the sea valves. Delacour leaned over again.

“Five dead, Skipper, ‘bout a dozen more hit. Nothin’ else major.” Yet was unspoken between them. Destroyer escorts weren’t built to stand up to very much punishment, and whatever was over there was definitely not a merchant vessel. “Radio says they got a contact report off t’ Flag, no reply yet.”

“Right.” The fire from the Akita Maru had slacked off as Yarrow pulled away, and now Archer took a long look over at her. “They won’t be able to do much until daybreak, though, and the Marines aren’t going to last that long. Japs can just run ‘em out of ammo. They sure as hell can’t call this off now.” Ever since the Armistice in 1944, the U.S. and Japan had glared at each other and fought proxy wars, but Archer could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times American and Japanese regular units had exchanged fire. When they opened fire on the Marines the Japanese had made it clear they were going to carry through whatever they had planned regardless of the cost.

The bridge phone rang, and Archer pulled it off its clips.

“Bridge, Captain here.”

“Radio, Skipper. Flag advises they have a Sierra package spooling up now, should become a factor in about thirty minutes. Your discretion on what to do until then, Sir.” Archer cursed under his breath. “Sorry, Captain?”

“I said thank you, Radio. Carry on.” Archer slammed the phone down. “Flyboys will be here in half an hour, Rob. Three guesses what happens then.” Delacour grunted humorless laughter from over by the chart table, where a pharmacist’s mate was stitching his cheek while a seaman striker held a flashlight. He waved the mate off for long enough to speak.

“After what happened there, Cap’n? They’ll blow it the hell out of the water.”

“Yeah.” In the military abstract, it was the right thing to do, Archer knew. Whatever was on that ship had to be important, which meant that if it got to Madagascar it would probably further destabilize an already critical situation. Therefore it couldn’t be allowed to get there…and therefore the lives of however many Marines were still on the ship’s decks couldn’t be allowed to matter. Admiral Wallis would
order Reprisal’s aircraft to sink the Akita Maru right away.

But those were his people over there, not the Admiral’s. And that meant he had about thirty minutes to get them out of there, give or take a few.

“Allright, Rob.” Archer kept his eyes fixed on the distant silhouette of the Japanese cargo ship, still lit with tracer fire as his Marines fought for their lives. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

0450 Hours
T Minus One Hour, Forty Minutes to Sunrise
Flag Bridge, USS Reprisal

Reprisal heeled into a hard turn, and a high, piercing shriek from the flight deck outside filled the flag bridge. Two flights of A2H Vampire light attack bombers were lining up on the catapults, their wings heavy with flare pods and glide bombs, with a pair of F12F Bobcats going along for fighter cover. The nightmare call of the jet engines rose to a deafening roar as the first catapult slammed and a Vampire raced down the deck, but no one on the bridge noticed. They were all fixated on the young, lean man who had just finished speaking, and was now eyeing them with the vibrating tension of a man who had let all his chips fall on the next roll of the dice.

“Well.” Admiral Wallis shook his head, and took a commander’s privilege to lean against the bulkhead for a moment. “Centurion Ellis, the information you’ve brought us is quite valuable, no doubt about that. I’m not sure what we can do with it, though.”

“What yo’ can do with it?” As he looked across the bridge at the American admiral, Pietr Ellis felt his gut clench with sudden, sick anger. “Yo’ son of a bitch, I found Bohner’s weak spot, the thing that makes him more than an overgrown six year old cooped up with his buddies in a little jungle tree fort. Put myself on the line to bring it to yo’, risked my people’s lives along the way. And yo’ not going to do anything with it?”

“I didn’t say that, Centurion!” Wallis rocked forward on his heels, eyes blazing. “Despite what you may think, I want a way out of this that doesn’t mean nuking the Draka into extinction! I want alternatives! But I don’t see that this gives us one! If the gas Bohner has is anything like the stuff we’ve been experimenting with, it’s going to be resilient. We’d have to rip open all the storage vessels and expose it to enough heat to inactivate the gas, and God help us if we missed even one. I don’t see how to do it without a nuke. Hell, I’d use a nuke if I could, better one than a dozen or two, but by the time I convince Washington to let me do it this whole damn thing will be over!” Wallis’ face was splotchy red, and he rested his hands on the plot table as he spoke his last words in a husky whisper. “I hate what I’m going to have to do in a few hours, son. I’m sorry. But I don’t see another way.”

“I might.” Both Ellis and Wallis turned to look at Julius Rosemont as he spoke carefully, arms folded over his chest. Neither looked happy- the Admiral at being challenged, the Draka because he would have preferred not to acknowledge Rosemont’s presence in the room. “We’ve got some of those new fuel-air bombs down in the magazines, Admiral. If we get close enough to the nerve gas store with those, they’ll give us enough heat and blast to do the job. Next best thing to a nuke.”

“But it’s not a nuke. You’d have to hit almost dead-on. How are you going to manage that? And won’t Bohner’s people have something to say about it?”

Rosemont shrugged. “Doubt they have more than one SAM site, Sir. Give me a -4 model with a couple Nails and we can kiss that problem goodbye.” The A4R-4 model of the Retaliator sacrificed the internal bomb bay for a sophisticated electronics package that let it sniff out enemy radars and guide Nail antiradiation missiles onto them. “As for accuracy…I’m thinking a couple Deadeye packages.”

“Deadeye?” Wallis snorted. “Let’s forget for a minute that they’ve never been tested on the fuel-air jobs-“

“Let’s. My ordnance troops will make it work. Stake my pension on it, Sir.”

“- how are you planning to mark the target? The area’s too heavily guarded for a special forces insertion.”

“’Scuse me.” Both men turned to look at Ellis, who was regarding them with a sardonic grin. “Just a poor dumb membah of the Master Race ovah here. Somebody want to let me know what this ‘Deadeye’ thing is all about? Seeing as how it may mean life or death for my people and all.” Wallis looked inclined to argue, but Rosemont cut him off.

“It’s an experimental system. Uses something we call a COIL projector, for Coherent Illumination- basically, light with only one frequency.”

“What, like some kind of zap gun?” Rosemont laughed, his eyes dancing.

“Been watching our decadent bourgeois Tele-V, Centurion? Something like that. Only we can’t give it enough power to fry something, but we can use it to mark a spot. Then the Deadeye seeker on the bomb sees the spot and parks the bomb right on top of it. Problem is, somebody’s got to be there to put the spot on the target.” Rosemont studied the young Draka for a moment, a grin starting to spread on his face. “Someone close. On the ground. Someone who could get inside the perimeter, maybe someone who commands an armored force that could punch the hole we need in Bohner’s defenses.”

“What?” It took a second. “Oh, Hell, no. We’d never make it past those emplacements at the mouth of the valley. Yo’ must have-“

“Marine commando teams, yes, but no heavy equipment and no time to get an assault ship into position. As for Bohner’s emplacements…they’re impressive, from your descriptions. But I think you can crack them, Centurion. Merarch Bohner’s forgotten about a little thing the Draka haven’t seen since 1945.”

“And that is?” Despite himself, Ellis was listening. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Admiral Wallis was too.

“Close air support.”

0510 Hours
T Minus 1 Hour, 20 Minutes to Sunrise and Counting
Archonal Residence, Nova Archona

Because he was a gentleman, Eric von Shrakenberg had designed the Archonal Residence to have a pleasant set of ground surrounding it, neatly terraced, planted with flowers and trees, and with a creek and hedges to amuse guests. Because he was a Draka, a paratrooper, and a ruthless pragmatist, the terraces had been carefully laid out to allow open fields of fire from above while obstructing ones from below. The foliage of the top levels had been planted so as to give defenders concealed firing positions, while at the bottom heavy vines sunk roots deep into the soil and made entrenching difficult. The creek bed was currently serving as a trench for a Tetrarchy of loyal Archonal Guards, while a few minutes with a power saw had turned the hedge maze into a concealed firing position for a Scorpion combat car.

“Drop two and fire fo’ effect!” From his position with his back to a sandbagged barricade, Eric watched his son’s face as he spoke intently into a radio microphone from his perch at the window. The mortars in the garden outside coughed, and a moment later the walls of the Residence echoed with the low, muffed thud-whaaaam of a distant explosion. John howled with glee, keying the mic one more time. “Out-damned standing, Black Nine. That oughta put the fear of God in those sons-of-bitches.”

Eric laughed softly to himself, shaking his head from side to side. From her perch at her son’s elbow, Sophie looked back at him and quirked an eyebrow in response, giving him a rueful shake of her head before leaning back towards him.

“Kids. One day yo’ changin’ they diapers and teaching them to talk, next thing yo’ know they callin’ fo’ they own artillery support. Where’s the time gone, hey?” Eric let out an honest chuckle at that, letting it break loose into the laughter he so desperately needed.

“Well, he’s had the trainin’ in school, Sophie. Might as well let his old man get some rest. Tell me true, were we ever that young?”

“Yep.” Sophie wagged her eyebrows at him. “Might even remind me of a young officer I used to know.”

“Used to? Thank yo’ so very much, Decurion-“

“Yo’ know, I can hear yo’.” Johnny turned back from the window with a mock-scowl, his voice impatient as only a teenager’s could be. “And if I can interrupt yo' second honeymoon fo’ a minute here, it looks like Bohner’s boneheads down there aren’t takin’ no fo’ an answer. Mother, can yo’ help me keep commo up to the mortars?”

“Sure thing, sweetlin’.” Sophie leaned forward and bent over the field radio they’d taken from the Guard’s stores, her fingers moving with the easy dexterity that seventeen years away from the field hadn’t been able to erase. After a moment, she looked up, frowning. “Eric, I got somebody breakin’ in on the channel. Sounds like young Ellis.”

“Ellis?” Eric reached over. Sophie was already holding up a headset just-so, and his fingers closed around it without thought as he pulled it on.

“Fist Actual. That yo’, Flashfire?”

“Affirm on that, Fist. Reportin’ in.” Eric laughed at that.

“’Bout damn time too, youngster. Where are yo’, what’s yo’ situation?” Next to him, he could see Sophie plugged into an earphone, listening just as intently.

Ellis’ voice was utterly dry. “Right now, I’m aboard the USS Reprisal, Fist, gettin’ ready to strap myself to a Yankee whirlybird and ride back to Madagascar. Yankees got a guided bomb they figure can do for Bohner’s gas, but somebody needs to spot it. Figure that’s me. I can bust in with my Century and maybe-so put paid to this whole deal.”

“Yo’ Century? Are they still around?”

“Should be, Excellence. Master Warrant McWhirter’s got ‘em, and I don’t think the man’s been born who can run the old bastard down.”

“McWhirter?” Eric’s eyebrows raised. “That Michael McWhirter?”

“Yessir. Ah, you know him?”

“My Senior Decurion a long time back. Yo’ right, Centurion. He’ll still be out there.” Next to him, Sophie was shaking her head, one hand over her mouth to stop the giggles. Eric shook his head to clear it. “Think the Yankees can come through with it?”

“Hope so, Excellence. Man who put the idea up seemed pretty sure.” Ellis paused again, his tone even drier. “They attack squadron CO. Might could be you’ve heard of him. Fella named Rosemont.”

“Mother Freya.” Eric leaned back against the barricade, shaking his head as he looked up at the sky. “Yo’ tellin’ me that Julius Rosemont and Attack Squadron One are the Draka’s last hope.”

“Just so, Excellence. Cheer up. Weren’t yo’ the one said in yo’ book that history had a sense of humor?”

“I did. But it’s usually not quite this low brow.” Eric laughed anyway, then keyed the mic again. “Good luck, Centurion.”

“And yo’, Excellence. Talk to yo’ in an hour or two, I hope.” Both men knew that if he didn’t, Ellis probably wouldn’t be in any condition to be making any calls at all, and Eric was even less likely to be able to receive them. As the transmission ended, Sophie spoke into the silence.

“So, lemme get this straight. A third of the Draka die, and old Ironbutt the death-fuckah lives. Would’ve figured him a shoo-in for Gayner’s crowd, but guess not. And now we dependin’ on him, that puppy, and the Yankee what nuked us all back in ’45 to pull our bacon out of the fire? Thor God of Thunder, we might as well slit our throats now.”

There was a choked sob from down the hall. As both older Draka turned, they saw Yolande there, her eyes big as she sagged against the wall. Sophie’s hand clamped down over her mouth as though she could call the words back, her eyes lowered as she bent over the set. Eric crawled over and looked at the young girl.

“Hey, punkin’. What’re yo’ doin here? S’posed to be with Anna and Marie down below.” Dammit, that had been working so well- the girls were close in age and had been friends all their lives. Why had she gone wandering?

“I…I’m sorry, Uncle Eric. Just…just couldn’t be underground no more. Too much like when the bushmen came. I got to thinkin’ about how Ma and Pa went away. They said they was gonna come back, but they never did. So I…” She trailed off. “Are we gonna die, Uncle Eric?”

“No.” Eric kept his voice firm, looking levelly into his niece’s eyes. “No, we not. I didn’t make it through all this to have Stonewall Jackson Bohner be the one to punch my ticket. This all gonna be over in an hour or two, sweetlin’. Then we’ll come fo yo’. Promise.” Yolande bit her lip.

“Can’t I stay up here, Uncle Eric? Down there, I keep thinkin’…thinkin’ that maybe…”
Eric stared at her for a second, running down options in his mind. Say no, and worry about Yolande running off again at a time when looking for her would be just plain impossible. Say yes…he sighed.

“Stay behind me. I tell yo’ to get down, yo’ get. Got it?” Yolande nodded, her eyes wide. “Go sit by your Aunt. She tells yo’ to hand her the spare battery, do it.” Yolande nodded again, pressing herself up against Sophie as she visibly fought not to shake. Eric met his wife’s eyes, and shrugged. She returned the gesture with an ironic grin.

Outside, the sky began to flush in the east with the first light of dawn. Not for the first time, Eric wondered what that light would bring.

[Saint_007]

Oh hell yeah, we missed you Great to see you back

And apparently, the shit has hit the fan. The Japanese tried to break the quarantine.

Dammit, why am I glad we only had the Russians and Nazis in our timeline? I mean, don't get me wrong, the Nazis and Stalin were horrible, horrible people, but geez...

Then again, that's the whole point of the Draka's existence. Their very existence is a bane to everyone and only through completely hammering to the ground were they even willing to reconsider. Hell, even now, they're still militant (as proven by Merarch Stonewall Jackson Bohner).

And the Japanese... well, unlike the Soviets - whose leadership had seen firsthand a war on their home soil and thus were unwilling to be gung-ho about military solutions - the Japanese leadership and people had remained mostly at a safe distance. Sort of like the Germans after WW1; their army was beaten but not broken, which is why they kept bellyaching about being "stabbed in the back by the November criminals".

The Japanese, OTOH, were not conclusively beaten, merely signed a truce, so their command structure is still a wee bit arrogant. Case in point; the captain and crew of the Akita Maru. I mean, what did they really think shooting at a Yankee ship in violation of an international quarantine wasn't going to bring the Wrath upon their floating scrapheap? Or were they thinking the Yankees would be too worried about the problems in Indonesia to shoot back?

Actually, why am I seeing an echo of the Draka philosophy that "white hats don't shoot first" that cost them their empire in less than two nights? Or is a theme of the Proof-verse is "Never underestimate the good guys, for they will blast your balls off with a shotgun before caving your skull in with a sledgehammer"? Cause we need to see more of that in fiction.

[MondoMage]

I think what we're seeing in the case of the Akita Maru is similar to what the Japanese military experienced during our own second world war... their plans tended to be exceedingly complex, with layers upon layers of things that had to go just right or the situation tended to go awry. And a superiority complex that led their entire nation to ruin.

I have to wondering if any of the Japanese planners involved in this ever sat back, just for a moment, and thought "You know, if the world at large learns that we're supplying the Draka with the means to fire missiles topped with some really nasty stuff, they're ALL going to turn against us." Yamamoto seems to grasp the risks, but lacks the political clout to do much about it.

[Satori]

I think what we're seeing in the case of the Akita Maru is similar to what the Japanese military experienced during our own second world war... their plans tended to be exceedingly complex, with layers upon layers of things that had to go just right or the situation tended to go awry.

Pretty much, yes. Meticulous planning let the Japanese pull of some truly impressive things, but their inability to properly appreciate the KISS principle made far too many of their plans read like bad jokes.

Yamamoto seems to grasp the risks, but lacks the political clout to do much about it.

So just like right before pearl harbor then.

Seriously, given their seeming love of indirectness and poetry over clarity and facts, it's a wonder the orders ever get from the top to the bottom of the command chain in any intelligible fashion. Assuming the lower ranks would even follow those orders when it got down there...

It's actually been argued that Yamamoto was constrained more by fear of mutiny and the need to keep the at least nominal loyalty of his junior officers (who were, like most young men of that age in a militaristic culture, very gung ho) than by any lack of political pull at (officially) higher levels. Political assassinations within the military services were common, and junior officers leading the charge with intimidated senior officers rubber-stamping things retroactively was apparently not uncommon - that's what started the whole mess in Manchuria to begin with.

[Kartr_Kana]

Satori you know it's bad form to post on a thread that's over 2 months old right? Especially on a story thread people are actually following and looking forward to an update on.

[Mayabird]

Satori you asshat I thought there was an update. You've been here long enough that you should damn well know better.

You're only getting a warning now because I can't find my Bragulan beating-stick.

[ChaserGrey]

Since this thing is near the top of the list anyway, might as well check in. Hi. Yes, I'm alive. No, I don't have an update, but I do have a semi-good excuse. I work for a software startup firm, and we're getting ready to go for funding in the next few weeks. So, time for other stuff like Breaking Strain or sleeping has been...minimal.

Good to see there's still interest, though. I've had nightmares of finishing the **** thing only to find nobody cared anymore. I'll try to get some pounding on it this weekend.

[Scottish Ninja]

Don't worry, you've still got a reader here. Especially since just yesterday I was wondering "Man, what happened to Breaking Strain? Is that guy ever going to come back to it?"

[Saint_007]

Not gonna make a fool of myself, not gonna make a fool of myself, not gonna make...

*BAWWWWWWW* ChaserGrey you're alive! Thank the heavens! I thought you moved on or something!!

[KlavoHunter]

If you write it, we will come...

[ChaserGrey]

0450 Hours
T Minus 1 Hour, 10 Minutes to Sunrise
Outside Hangar Deck Two, USS Reprisal

Captain Jaime Guitierrez waited with his arms folded as Rosemont came out of the life support shop, flight plan in one hand and crash helmet in the other. The expression on his face was like an Old Testament prophet about to call down hellfire and thunder on the unfaithful.

“God damn you, Rosemont. I told you to assign this mission to somebody.” Rosemont grinned in response, stopping just a few feet away from his senior.

“I did, Sir. I assigned it to me.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Dammit, your squadron is still on Alpha Alert for SIOP duty. You’re supposed to be getting them ready to hit their assigned targets.” Rosemont’s grin slipped, and though his tone stayed light for a moment there was no mistaking the seriousness in his eyes.

“I have every confidence in Commander Heatherly, Sir. And with all due respect, I’d much rather spend my time making sure my squadron doesn’t have to carry out that Alpha Strike. Think I’ve dropped enough nukes for one lifetime already.”

Guitierrez grunted and looked his old friend over. “Point taken. But-“

“But nothing, Jaime.” Rosemont took a step closer, lowering his voice against the chance of lower-ranking ears about. “I know the squadron skipper’s supposed to stay in the back, provide leadership, and let the studs with hot reflexes and young eyes take the tough missions. But dammit, I can still out-fly and out-bomb any man in my squadron. And since the Navy won’t promote me I’ve been on flying duty- which means a lot of time out at the China Lake weapons station, which means I’m the only man in my squadron who’s actually dropped a Deadeye. So who else am I going to send?”

Guitierrez made a sour phase. “If you get yourself killed stunting off up there, Rosie, so help me God I will piss on your grave.” Rosemont laughed.

“This close to Snake Central, Jaime? You’ll have to take a number and wait in line.” They slapped palms and walked together into the hangar bay, where they both stopped dead. Guitierrez was the first to break the silence.

“Looks like your crew agrees with you, Rosie.” Rosemont nodded, momentarily speechless. VAH-1’s ground crew had been run ragged over the past nightmare hours, the usual routine and hard work of a long cruise disintegrating as they prepped the squadron’s Retaliators for recon runs, then antishipping duty, then nuclear strike. Just as they’d finished the last of that job, Admiral Wallis had approved Rosemont’s hairbrained scheme- which meant that two of the A4Rs that they’d just finished prepping for nuke duty had to be rearmed and ready for launch in less than an hour. He’d known they could do it, though he’d been ready to do a closer than normal systems check before taking off. But hell, this-

It was VAH-1’s squadron commander bird, to start with, the one with his name under the canopy rail. That had been underlined with a stripe in the Myrmidons’ shade of deep blue that ran the whole way along the fuselage to a defiantly large “USS REPRISAL” stencil at the tail. The twin tails had been done in gloss-white, the better to show off the full-color squadron badges painted on them in the squadron colors of blue and gold. The plane gleamed with the sign of a very careful slicking-up job, the kind you only did for airshows- or for missions the crew knew were important enough to spend hours getting the pilot a few extra knots of speed when it mattered. Rosemont could see the last few pairs of legs working in her engine bays and under the nose, and knew that when he strapped into the cockpit his bird would be running better than the day the Navy accepted her from the Ryan factory. The only things on the plane that didn’t gleam were the heavy six-racks of olive-green low-drag bombs under each wing glove, combining with the Retaliator’s pointed silhouette to make her look positively lethal.

The real kicker, though, came when Rosemont saw Tech One Hereford, his plane captain, step away from the nose where he’d been working with a can of black paint. As he watched, Hereford put the last stroke on an “o”, finishing the name “Spirit of Rio” just below his name on the side of the plane. He turned around and braced to attention with a grin, setting down the paint can for a salute worthy of an Annapolis parade ground.

“Glad you made it, Sir. I hope the Commander approves?” Rosemont just stared for a moment, as the last of the ground crew lowered themselves away from the Retaliator and met his eyes with wide smiles. After a moment he returned the salute, and walked forward to pump Hereford’s hand.

“Approve? God, you know I could never ask-“

“Didn’t have to, Sir.” Hereford was still smiling as the ground crew gathered around, closing ranks behind him. “Just give ‘em hell when you’re out there. From all of us.” Rosemont nodded, clearing his throat around a lump that had grown up all of a sudden. Those were almost exactly the words his plane captain had sent him off with twenty years ago, launching in another Spirit of Rio off another Reprisal. Now, God willing, he’d make sure nobody had to repeat what he’d been called on to do all those decades before.

“Thanks, Chief. All of you. You can count on it.” They cleared out of his way, then, let him run his fingers carefully over the cool metal of her side, avoiding the places where the paint was still sticky on her name. He’d never let any of his other mounts bear the name since the terrifying nights of the Mediterranean campaign, but this felt right. It was right.

Julius Rosemont was old, but he jumped up on the plane’s boarding ladder and swung into the cockpit as though he were getting into a primary trainer back at Pensacola before the Eurasian War. He dropped his gear between the seats and started running over the prestart checklists, only peripherally aware of the plane crew as they started to push him towards the aircraft elevator or the old friend who stood watching them.

0500 Hours
T Minus One Hour to Sunrise
Bridge, USS Yarrow

“We ready, Rob?” Ray Archer craned his neck out the bridge wing as he looked over at the dark silhouette of the Akita Maru. The tracer fire had died down considerably over the past 20 minutes, as his Marines tried to save their ammo for bad patches. Considering that they were trapped on a hostile freighter and pinned down by an unknown but superior number of enemies who had position on them, Archer tried not to think about what a bad patch might entail for them.

“Better be, Cap’n.” Delacour’s soft-toned voice was casual behind him, but his eyes were bright, scanning from side to side as he mentally ticked off reports coming in off his sound-powered headset. “Strike says they’re holding, but they’ve got to go in the next ten minutes. Liable to get a bit exciting once they do.” Archer grunted agreement.

“Allright, then, let’s do it. Helm, hard a starboard, all ahead emergency!” Yarrow’s diesels rose to a deep, rumbling thunder as the helmsman threw his wheel over, heeling the ship into a steep turn from where she’d been pacing the Japanese ship just off her port quarter. The Akita Maru’s quarterdeck lit with weapons fire again as she opened up on Yarrow with guns and rockets, streaks of light and hellishly loud noise that sizzled the sea around her as she drew closer to her prey. The three-inchers replied with slow, even barks that were nothing like their usual quick stammer, each round carefully aimed to make sure it didn’t wipe out the Marine boarding party. Archer watched as the Japanese freighter cut in front of the bridge, leaning forward over the helmsman’s shoulder.

“Steady.” No time to take sightings or ranges, had to do this by eye. “Ease her up a bit now, let’s not get too far…” The nineteen year old seaman first on the wheel nodded, and started pushing his ship back over. An antitank rocket exploded just off their bow as Akita Maru pulled ahead, the big freighter’s engines surging as Yarrow cut across her wake. “Ease her up a bit more, let’s get on an even keel.” The helmsman nodded again, his eyes fixed on binnacle and inclinometer as the Japanese fire dropped off. They were coming up on Akita Maru’s stern now, too close for the guns to depress.

“Ready to port! Safeties zero!” Archer heard the mechanical whine of his ship’s torpedo tubes snapping out to their firing position, imagined the torpedomen swearing as they deactivated the safety locks that normally kept the fish from exploding too close to their parent ship. “Fire as you bear!”

A long pause, almost too long, and then Yarrow shook with a heavy, dull series of thumps as her torpedoes launched out of their tubes and into the Indian Ocean. Archer had just enough time to shut his eyes before a blue-white explosion rocked the night and his ship dropped, as though the ocean had suddenly fallen away a few feet beneath her keel. He opened them again to see Akita Maru’s headway falling off, and howled with glee. Yarrow’s suicidally close shot had blown out her propellers. Archer leaned forward, shouting to let himself be heard over the ringing in his ears.

“Reverse hard to port! Rob, blue flares!” Delacour nodded and sprinted out to the bridge wing, raising the flare gun he’d kept at his side and pumping a blue starshell straight up into the air. Another burst, and another, and Archer could see the big Santo Domingan pumping them out as quickly as his hands could work the breech. Blue, the emergency recall signal for the borders, as Yarrow came about in another tight turn up Akita Maru’s starboard side and Archer yanked her throttles back. Briefly, he blessed their diesel-electric plant, letting them match speeds much more quickly than a steam powered ship could have. Then they were alongside the bow, and there was nothing to do but pray-

-And scream triumph as he saw the first rope come over Akita Maru’s side, the second, a broad cargo net and dark shapes tumbling down from the Japanese merchantman’s blood-swept decks and down to sprawl around the forward deck and the five-inch mount. Gunfire started again from the Japanese merchant ship’s stern again, wicking across the deck, and still the Marines came. Finally a last form tumbled down to Yarrow’s deck and raised his hands over his head, the traditional signal for “all back”, and Archer watched them start forward for the lines. A few more shapes tried to slide down the net, but the Marines had their breaths now and formed into a line, raking the would-be boarders with automatic weapons fire. Then the ropes were gone, chopped away by eager Ka-Bar knives, and Yarrow shot away from the Japanese ship as Archer bent her throttles forward to the stops. Behind her, Akita Maru slammed out a few last shots before the American destroyer pulled out of range.

“Hot damn! Did it, Cap’n!” Archer grinned over at Delacour as he walked in from the bridge wing, his dark faced streaked even blacker with powder burns from the flare gun.

“That we did, Mister Delacour. That we did. Would you do the honors, please?” Delacour’s grin turned just as savage as his captain’s as he clicked over to a radio circuit.

“Nightrider 303, this is Sidecar. All boarding party members recovered. She’s all yours, gents.” There was a pause, and then a scream as Vampire attack jets began dropping from the sky, bright parachute flares blooming over the ocean as they began their attack runs. Archer watched with bare teeth as they began to work Akita Maru over, then gestured with one hand.

“Helm, take us back in there, please. We’re going to want survivors.”

0520 Hours
T Minus 40 Minutes to Sunrise
Hide Point Dragon-Three, 10 km west of Ragnarok Project Primary Site
Madagascar

Centurion Pietr Ellis carefully swept his snooper scope across the valley three klicks in front of their position, taking a final note of the infared signatures clustered on the twin hilltops guarding the entrance. He eased down into the back of his Hyena, where Jenny and Warrant McWhirter waited with the trained stillness of the Draka. He nodded, fractionally.

“Looks like they-all still have it just like we reconned it, Jenny. Two big emplacements on the hilltops, probably still smaller fallbacks just inside. Put the Scorpions out front, they can deal with anythin’ inside the valley no problem. Fo’ the rest, well-“ Ellis shrugged, “-fo’ that we’ll just have to trust the Yankees.”

McWhirter grunted, and Ellis looked over at him sharply. “Problem, Master Warrant?”

“No, suh.” McWhirter didn’t sound that pissed off, or at least not any more pissed off than normal, but it didn’t take a genius to tell he wasn’t happy with the setup. “Just meditatin’ on the fact that if the same Yankees who blew us back here to Madagascar don’t come through fo’ us, it goin’ to get awful lonely chargin’ across the plain until we get far enough in that the guns can’t depress on us.”

“Needs must.” Ellis’ voice was soft, but firm, and the words were an unanswerable argument among the Draka. “Unless yo’d prefer knockin’ them out with our own fire support?” McWhirter spat off the Hyena’s side, but didn’t comment further. The emplacements weren’t that heavily dug in, but unless Bohner’s people had completely taken leave of their senses they’d have enough overhead protection to make suppressing them with a pair of SP automortars a tough and time-consuming task. And time was the one thing they didn’t have if this whole damn thing was going to work.

“Thought not. One more thing, Master Warrant.” McWhirter looked over sharply, and Ellis smiled tightly. “Turn yo’ car over to your 2IC. Want yo’ in with the infantry fo’ this one.” McWhirter thought for a moment, then nodded.

“Can do, suh. Show these mama’s boys and daddy’s girls how to handle a good old-fashioned fist fight.” The Draka were still born and bred to war, but with the demands of running an entire society without slave labor they couldn’t spare the hundreds of hours every Old Domination child had spent studying pankration and close-combat techniques. As it was damn few of his picked and trained Reaction Cohort troopers could touch McWhirter, for all that the Master Warrant was on the wrong side of sixty and had a body that looked like it had been used as a chopping board. Of course, most of the point of modern warfare was to make sure that you didn’t get yourself into a close-quarters fight where things depended on your ability to kill somebody else with an entrenching tool, but if the situation did come up Ellis was going to make damn sure his Century won.

McWhirter nodded to his commander and headed off for one of the Buffalo troop carriers, stripping off his heavy flak jacket and taking a moment to rearrange his gear. As Ellis watched, he drew a steel machete in an old, cracked leather holster from his pack and carefully strapped it to the front of his left thigh, then carefully drew the blade to strop it against a whetstone as he hummed tunelessly to himself. Jenny Smith looked over from beside him.

“Damned if the old jackal don’t scare me sometimes, Centurion.” Ellis grunted.

“Join the club, Jenny. Join the club. But we goin’ to need a jackal or two on our side, does we want to live to see the sun go down tonight.”

0525 Hours
T Minus 35 Minutes to Sunrise
Flight Deck, USS Reprisal

“Good morning, Lieutenant Brown.” Julie Rosemont looked over and favored his bombardier with a broad smile as the younger man hoisted himself over the canopy rail and started strapping in to his ejection seat. “Ready for our morning flight to exotic, beautiful Madagascar?”

“None of this was my idea, Sir. Like, not even a little bit.” Brown’s face was drawn and pale as he finished strapping in and let his fingers dance over the Retaliator’s- the Spirit’s cockpit keyboard, inputting the navigation and bombing program he’d just brought up from Reprisal’s computer center. “All they said about this job was that I’d have to drop nukes. Nothin’ about stooging over some island at Mach One waiting for the Snakes to shoot us down.”

“Well, you were a bit busy I admit. But I knew you’d hate to miss this one, Mad Dog, so I volunteered for you.”

“Fuck you very much, Sir.”

“What was that, mister?”

“I said, thank you very much, Sir!” Rosemont chuckled over the intercom as the start cart operator gave him the thumbs-up, hands moving almost absently over the Spirit’s control panel as the twin General Electric turbojets began the slow, rumbling whine of their startup sequence. The canopy clicked shut as Brown finished loading his program and checking the radar and nav systems, indicator lights winking a lethal green as the taxi director drew them forward across the flight deck. They had a clear shot from where they’d been parked aft of the island to the bow of the ship, where the alert fighters had been drawn aside to allow the Spirit and Warhammer 504, the A4R-4 SEAD airframe that would be riding shotgun on them, onto the #1 and 2 catapults. Aft at the ship’s angled decks, a pair of A2H Vampires waited, their crescent wings heavy with buddy store refueling pods and extra gas tanks.

Rosemont toed the Spirit- strange how easily that name slid into his mind after twenty years!- to a stop at the catapult, hands running automatically through the control and engine checks as the deck crew finished fastening him onto the catapult. The horizon swerved, and Rosemont could see Reprisal’s massive bulk turning into the wind. Half-jokingly he keyed the intercom and said,

“Last chance to back out, Mad Dog.” The bombardier still looked a little white around the gills, but he just snorted.

“Like I’d ever live that down. Take the shot, Captain Sir, or I will get out and we’ll see how you handle this mission solo.” Rosemont laughed. The kid would be all right. And then there was no more time, as first one, then the other Vampire tanker flashed by to his left and climbed up into the sky that was just starting to tinge with the first hint of dawn. Then Warhammer 504 was gone in a rush of steam and hot exhaust, and the taxi directors hands were making the old log-rolling motion of run-‘em-up. Rosemont pushed his throttles forward and past the detents, feeling the Spirit strain against her tie-downs as the afterburners cut in. He turned his head and snapped a quick salute to the catapult officer, then sucked in a breath.

SLAM, and the Ryan A4R Retaliator hurtled off the carrier deck like a toy airplane attached to a rubber band. The usual eternity, and then Rosemont felt the wings catch and carefully banked off to the left, turning towards the still unseen coast of Madagascar.

0530 Hours
T Minus 30 Minutes to Sunrise
Ragnarok Project Primary Site, Madagascar

“It’s confirmed.” Major Ito’s face was drawn and pale as he looked across the command table at Stonewall Jackson Bohner. Not even the Imperial Japanese Army’s legendary discipline could keep the man’s voice steady. “The Akita Maru and her troops are lost. We have lost.”

“Hell we have.” Bohner leaned forward. “We proceed as planned.”

“But, Merarch-“ Bohner chopped a hand down, abruptly.

“But, nothing. Listen. We’ve still got our missiles, we’ve still got troops in Archona, and we’ve still got thousands of bushmen waiting to swoop down and burn, kill, and rape everything Draka they can get their hands on. Nothing’s changed, Major, and I’m not any more willing to let members of the Race die than I was before yo’ little plan failed. Yo’ just get on the horn and tell yo’ people to be ready to tell the President that my people are under yo’ nuclear umbrella after we launch.” Ito shifted uncomfortably, moistening his lips.

“That may be true, Merarch. But without our forces in firm control of the island, it may be more difficult for the Imperial government to recognize you as the legitimate Draka government, and thus more difficult to protect you with our special arsenal. Perhaps we should consider-“

“Consider what, precisely?” Bohner’s eyes narrowed. “Replanning? Retrenchment? Another decade of buildups, perhaps, until yo’re convinced that everything is ready fo’ another master stroke? Major, let me explain yo’ a little something.” Bohner leaned forward, his eyes bright and intently focused. “Yo’ people started this little crisis. Yo’ may have thought that means yo’ control it. Well, yo’ don’t. This is my time, this is my hour, and yo’ve got one choice. Either get behind or get out of my way, because so help me Almighty Thor if you try to get in my way I will stake yo’ out and leave yo’ fo’ the fuckin’ ants. Do we understand one another?”

Ito nodded, a bead of sweat trickling between his shoulderblades. Merarch Bohner had always seemed a useful tool before. A fanatic, to be sure, but a fanatic with understandable goals and simple desires- power and security. Dangerous, to be sure, but no more so than a tiger in a wild beast show that did tricks when the trainer required it. Now, for the first time, he got a glimpse of what lay beneath for the old Draka, and of just how very wrong they’d all been.

“I understand perfectly, Merarch. With your permission, I shall communicate with Tokyo and make the necessary arrangements.” Bohner nodded, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. Before Ito could leave, a young officer stuck his head in the tent.

“Excuse me, Merarch? Warhead loading is complete. We can launch in half an hour.”

Stonewall Jackson Bohner looked outside the command bunker, to where the first of the missiles was starting to lift slowly into the upright position against the lightening sky. The look on his face turned Shoichi Ito’s guts to ice.

“Very good. Inform Doctor Nesmith that he may begin fueling when ready.”

[Saint_007]

YAY! New story post! And things are beginning to heat up!

To be honest, ChaserGrey, you kind of gave away the ending when you wrote "A Different Spirit". How? Gee, let me see, does Humanity survive this mess or do they degenerate into a Mad Max world? :p So yeah.

Still, we're getting to the meat of the plot now, which is awesome. And it's always worthwhile for Bohner to wipe the smile off that smug bastard Ito's face once and for all. Seriously, we're talking about a nation that damn near took over the globe until the USA got its priorities in order and smacked the hell out of its infrastructure and supply lines. And this idiot was going to use them as pawns? I think that if Major Ito manages to avoid having to commit seppukku (sp?), he'll be a lot more careful around the Draka.

[Simon_Jester]

YAY! New story post! And things are beginning to heat up!

To be honest, ChaserGrey, you kind of gave away the ending when you wrote "A Different Spirit". How? Gee, let me see, does Humanity survive this mess or do they degenerate into a Mad Max world? :p So yeah.

I disagree. I mean, "A Different Spirit" isn't really connected to the earlier stories plotwise (as opposed to themewise). Handwaving it as a "this is a possible ending" story wouldn't really hurt anything.

And you can say this of a lot of stories: few authors write 'Armageddon hangs in the balance' stories and then actually bring about Armageddon.

[MondoMage]

Still, we're getting to the meat of the plot now, which is awesome. And it's always worthwhile for Bohner to wipe the smile off that smug bastard Ito's face once and for all.

I wholeheartedly agree. There's always a visceral thrill in seeing the reaction of the smug bastard who has it all figured out upon his/her realizing that things haven't gone nearly as well as planned.

[Vehrec]

On the other hand, the Japanese government is long schooled in double-think when it comes to backpedaling away from it's failed military expeditions. Someone may suddenly find himself very much without that umbrella he wants.

[Mayabird]

Sometimes it's not the destination but the journey, especially when the journey is freaking awesome.

And so, great job, and whenever your time and so forth allow it, I'll be waiting to see what happens here and also how it happens.

[Chris OFarrell]

ITS ALIVE!

Balzy move to get the Marines off I must say.

And I have to admit I'm seeing a shot of the missiles slowly tilting back to point into the sky...then that scene dropping back to a corner of the screen and a shot of a pilot inside his bomber in flight calmly arming his weapons materializing next to that, a weapons crew on the Reprisal loading up the bombs with very Hollywood nuclear radiation symbols on them onto other aircraft under THAT, and a final shot of Ellis and his people fixing their bayonets under the first last of all.
With a clock in the middle of the screen counting forward 05:20:03...05:20:04...05:20:05... of course