Drakafic:The Caribbean Beat
Posted: 2004-07-22 12:36am
Don’t do FanFic much, so please don’t bite. Thanks to Shep for letting me add a little.
Part One
[Western Caribbean Sea, bearing south, June 23rd]
Cmdr. Bryant Fox, USNR, walked out on to the bridge wing of the Cruiser Pensacola . Staring out into the early evening he, he sipped the rancid coffee that was required on all American naval warships. Not even the commanding officer was immune to such abuse. The P-cola ’s two escorts, elderly 4-piper destroyers, stayed seaward of the other large ship in the little flotilla.
Fox took another sip, and grimaced. It was an ugly ship that was suppose to revolutionize warfare, and the damn thing didn’t even have a name. Landing Ship, Tank-# 4. Jesus, all that useless driftwood at the Navy Department and they couldn’t even think up of a name? It didn’t even have any tanks on board at the moment. Tanks…weren’t exactly useful for where they were going. He checked his watch. Darkened ship. A Boatswain’s mate wearing those ridiculous red goggles used for adjusting the eyes to night vision walked out to relieve the watch on the big-eyes. Fox sighed and re-entered the bridge.
“Sir, Radio just called, Major Martinka reports the beach is clear. The rebel camp is 3 miles inland, and he has the coordinates.” The OOD rattled off some numbers. A quick glance at the chart of the (formerly) Costa Rican coast revealed it was in a particularly mountainous part of the rainforest. No wonder the Army-types were having difficulty. He hoped they’d do better against the Draka than a bunch of Indians who mysteriously acquired an assortment of 20-year old Russian weapons. Fox snorted, he wasn’t much for words, then turned to the OOD, a boot ensign.
“ Mister Holmes, please inform the…the LST-4 we read a clear beach by the spotter. GUNS! Where’s Cecil?”
Lt. Cmdr Cecil, a.k.a. “GUNS” suddenly appeared. It was an annoying habit.
“Here, Sir.”
“ GUNS, I don’t want to bring a single God-damned 8” shell back to Vera Cruz, comprende? Once the LST starts it’s beaching run, open the fuck up.
“Yes Sir.” Cecil seemed a little put out. Fox supposed he couldn’t blame him, he’d been made CO on extremely short notice after he was recalled to active duty. The former CO was navigating a desk somewhere, after being unceremoniously fired for hitting a buoy while he had the conn. He’d been a popular fellow, while Fox mostly kept to himself in his stateroom.
The Boatswain’s Mate of the Watch began to speak into the 1MC.
“Gun Quarters, Gun quarters, all hands man your gun quarters stations…”
[ Tortuguero Swamp, Costa Rica]
Martinka slapped what had to be the 30th mosquito to bite him since he’d landed on this Godforsaken Hellhole 16 hours ago. The Rainforest made entirely too much noise. Birds, insects, and what he could swear were animal roars flooded his ears. Nothing like Edmonton.
“ Gunny!” He whispered as loud as he could. As if anyone would hear them if he shouted. Somewhere behind the foliage Gunnery Sergeant Danny Tuascon shout-whispered back “Sir?”
“See anything?”
“I can’t see shit!” Martinka cursed. Tuascon was from the southern part of the Philippines, and grew up in this environment. Some set of pathfinders they were. The rest of the Marines would be landing soon…
The whistling of the Pensacola’s main guns began. At least the coordinates are correct, they’d gotten so close to the rebel base they could touch the bootleg Russian rifles. Right next to the crates of Domination army-issue mortars. They'd done a rather half-assed job of covering their tracks. I guess the Draka stupidity streak stretched all the way into their special operations department. Or whoever was in charge for this sort of thing over there…
The flash of the P-Cola’s guns gave them a landmark to orientate from. The rumble of the LST-4’s engines (what a stupid fucking name) seemed to explode into existence. A bullet zinged past his ear. Someone was firing a machine gun at them! Jesus! He glanced over at where Tuascon was. The stocky Gunny had been through several “Banana Wars” before, but this was Martinka’s first time in action. He made a mental note to stay close.
[USS Pensacola]
“Mag one is spent Sir. Beat mounts 2 and 3. Chief Gamble will be pleased…”
Fox nodded and kept his eyes on the beach. “GUNS, switch to secondary armament. Cease fire all 8” guns. Stand by for the spotter…he should be calling in any second now with a new set of targets….”
Cecil remained quiet. It might be stupid for the captain to give them a lull…
The MOOW spoke up from the sound-powered telephone. “Sir, Radio has Major Martinka again. He has a list of mortar and crew-served sites he’d like us to hit…”
Cecil nearly jumped. How the Hell did he…
“GUNS! Take the coordinates and shoot them up!”
[Puerto Limon, June 26th ]
The Operation had been a partial success. A success, in that the rebel encampment and over 400 rebels were destroyed. Partial, in that most of the direct evidence of Draka involvement had been destroyed as well. Fox didn’t know what the General was bitching about, you didn’t use a cruiser’s main guns for surgical work. The General behind this operation was a pompous SOB, and during the first few pre-briefs Fox had learned to tune him out when he went on a tirade.
“He just goes on and on, doesn’t he?” The Marine Colonel from the LST-4 murmured. Fox gave the barest of nods. The General (who was wearing stupid .45s with the ivory handles on his hips, that wouldn't make him a sniper target in wartime) had moved on to griping about the “general incompetence” of the marine spotter team. Off standing by the bulkhead, Gunnery Sergeant Tuascon gave an almost imperceptible twitch. After about 15 minutes, the General finally started to wind down.
“Well, we have a brand new assignment. Washington wants to gather as much evidence as possible of Draka interference, in the event we have to justify a war with them. Now, apparently there has been a lot of unusual submarine activity in the Gulf and Caribbean lately, and I think it’s the Draka.”
Fox tried to suppress the instinct to interrupt. He did a poor job.
“Sir, Grand Columbia has the largest sub fleet in South America. And we know they’ve been doing more exercises lately. Hell, everyone has…”
“Commander, how about you let me finish talking?”
“Yessir.”
“ Now, I as I was saying, I’m thinking it’s the Draka, and the War Department agrees. They must be supplying the local idiots on the sly, with those big supply subs they have…”
“Milch Cows Sir?”
“Shut up Commander.”
“Yessir.”
Colonel Rudder, USMC was shaking from restrained laughter.
“And starting immediately we’re going to try to intercept them. The illustrious Marine Corps spotters are going to stake out some of the last remaining rebel encampments, especially the ones that are still close to the ocean. If it looks like they’re meeting anyone who might be speaking a bastardized version of Dutch, the Marines call in the neutrality patrol to meet them.”
The General paused expectantly. Maybe he wanted them to jump up and give him congrats for a bully idea. When no one spoke, he scowled and looked at Fox.
“Room! Atten-hut!”
Fox popped to like a midshipmen, wondering what now? . The General walked up to Fox and pulled out a little box. Opening it up, there was a set of silver eagle collar tabs.
“By the power invested in me by the Secretary of the Navy,” (The General’s mouth quirked, he was army) “You are hereby promoted to the pay grade of O-6 and the Rank of Captain. Etc, etc…Congratulations Captain Fox. Colonel Rudder told me he’d never seen such fine gunfire support in all his years. Figured you’d be the best person to the operational Commodore for this little endeavor. Course, we can’t have a O-5 be in charge of half the exercise…”
The General stopped rambling and patted fox on the soldier. “ The Pensacola is expected to take on ammo at Guantamano starting the 30th, and back on neutrality patrol shortly thereafter. Think she’ll be ready?”
Fox grinned. “Yes Sir!”
Part One
[Western Caribbean Sea, bearing south, June 23rd]
Cmdr. Bryant Fox, USNR, walked out on to the bridge wing of the Cruiser Pensacola . Staring out into the early evening he, he sipped the rancid coffee that was required on all American naval warships. Not even the commanding officer was immune to such abuse. The P-cola ’s two escorts, elderly 4-piper destroyers, stayed seaward of the other large ship in the little flotilla.
Fox took another sip, and grimaced. It was an ugly ship that was suppose to revolutionize warfare, and the damn thing didn’t even have a name. Landing Ship, Tank-# 4. Jesus, all that useless driftwood at the Navy Department and they couldn’t even think up of a name? It didn’t even have any tanks on board at the moment. Tanks…weren’t exactly useful for where they were going. He checked his watch. Darkened ship. A Boatswain’s mate wearing those ridiculous red goggles used for adjusting the eyes to night vision walked out to relieve the watch on the big-eyes. Fox sighed and re-entered the bridge.
“Sir, Radio just called, Major Martinka reports the beach is clear. The rebel camp is 3 miles inland, and he has the coordinates.” The OOD rattled off some numbers. A quick glance at the chart of the (formerly) Costa Rican coast revealed it was in a particularly mountainous part of the rainforest. No wonder the Army-types were having difficulty. He hoped they’d do better against the Draka than a bunch of Indians who mysteriously acquired an assortment of 20-year old Russian weapons. Fox snorted, he wasn’t much for words, then turned to the OOD, a boot ensign.
“ Mister Holmes, please inform the…the LST-4 we read a clear beach by the spotter. GUNS! Where’s Cecil?”
Lt. Cmdr Cecil, a.k.a. “GUNS” suddenly appeared. It was an annoying habit.
“Here, Sir.”
“ GUNS, I don’t want to bring a single God-damned 8” shell back to Vera Cruz, comprende? Once the LST starts it’s beaching run, open the fuck up.
“Yes Sir.” Cecil seemed a little put out. Fox supposed he couldn’t blame him, he’d been made CO on extremely short notice after he was recalled to active duty. The former CO was navigating a desk somewhere, after being unceremoniously fired for hitting a buoy while he had the conn. He’d been a popular fellow, while Fox mostly kept to himself in his stateroom.
The Boatswain’s Mate of the Watch began to speak into the 1MC.
“Gun Quarters, Gun quarters, all hands man your gun quarters stations…”
[ Tortuguero Swamp, Costa Rica]
Martinka slapped what had to be the 30th mosquito to bite him since he’d landed on this Godforsaken Hellhole 16 hours ago. The Rainforest made entirely too much noise. Birds, insects, and what he could swear were animal roars flooded his ears. Nothing like Edmonton.
“ Gunny!” He whispered as loud as he could. As if anyone would hear them if he shouted. Somewhere behind the foliage Gunnery Sergeant Danny Tuascon shout-whispered back “Sir?”
“See anything?”
“I can’t see shit!” Martinka cursed. Tuascon was from the southern part of the Philippines, and grew up in this environment. Some set of pathfinders they were. The rest of the Marines would be landing soon…
The whistling of the Pensacola’s main guns began. At least the coordinates are correct, they’d gotten so close to the rebel base they could touch the bootleg Russian rifles. Right next to the crates of Domination army-issue mortars. They'd done a rather half-assed job of covering their tracks. I guess the Draka stupidity streak stretched all the way into their special operations department. Or whoever was in charge for this sort of thing over there…
The flash of the P-Cola’s guns gave them a landmark to orientate from. The rumble of the LST-4’s engines (what a stupid fucking name) seemed to explode into existence. A bullet zinged past his ear. Someone was firing a machine gun at them! Jesus! He glanced over at where Tuascon was. The stocky Gunny had been through several “Banana Wars” before, but this was Martinka’s first time in action. He made a mental note to stay close.
[USS Pensacola]
“Mag one is spent Sir. Beat mounts 2 and 3. Chief Gamble will be pleased…”
Fox nodded and kept his eyes on the beach. “GUNS, switch to secondary armament. Cease fire all 8” guns. Stand by for the spotter…he should be calling in any second now with a new set of targets….”
Cecil remained quiet. It might be stupid for the captain to give them a lull…
The MOOW spoke up from the sound-powered telephone. “Sir, Radio has Major Martinka again. He has a list of mortar and crew-served sites he’d like us to hit…”
Cecil nearly jumped. How the Hell did he…
“GUNS! Take the coordinates and shoot them up!”
[Puerto Limon, June 26th ]
The Operation had been a partial success. A success, in that the rebel encampment and over 400 rebels were destroyed. Partial, in that most of the direct evidence of Draka involvement had been destroyed as well. Fox didn’t know what the General was bitching about, you didn’t use a cruiser’s main guns for surgical work. The General behind this operation was a pompous SOB, and during the first few pre-briefs Fox had learned to tune him out when he went on a tirade.
“He just goes on and on, doesn’t he?” The Marine Colonel from the LST-4 murmured. Fox gave the barest of nods. The General (who was wearing stupid .45s with the ivory handles on his hips, that wouldn't make him a sniper target in wartime) had moved on to griping about the “general incompetence” of the marine spotter team. Off standing by the bulkhead, Gunnery Sergeant Tuascon gave an almost imperceptible twitch. After about 15 minutes, the General finally started to wind down.
“Well, we have a brand new assignment. Washington wants to gather as much evidence as possible of Draka interference, in the event we have to justify a war with them. Now, apparently there has been a lot of unusual submarine activity in the Gulf and Caribbean lately, and I think it’s the Draka.”
Fox tried to suppress the instinct to interrupt. He did a poor job.
“Sir, Grand Columbia has the largest sub fleet in South America. And we know they’ve been doing more exercises lately. Hell, everyone has…”
“Commander, how about you let me finish talking?”
“Yessir.”
“ Now, I as I was saying, I’m thinking it’s the Draka, and the War Department agrees. They must be supplying the local idiots on the sly, with those big supply subs they have…”
“Milch Cows Sir?”
“Shut up Commander.”
“Yessir.”
Colonel Rudder, USMC was shaking from restrained laughter.
“And starting immediately we’re going to try to intercept them. The illustrious Marine Corps spotters are going to stake out some of the last remaining rebel encampments, especially the ones that are still close to the ocean. If it looks like they’re meeting anyone who might be speaking a bastardized version of Dutch, the Marines call in the neutrality patrol to meet them.”
The General paused expectantly. Maybe he wanted them to jump up and give him congrats for a bully idea. When no one spoke, he scowled and looked at Fox.
“Room! Atten-hut!”
Fox popped to like a midshipmen, wondering what now? . The General walked up to Fox and pulled out a little box. Opening it up, there was a set of silver eagle collar tabs.
“By the power invested in me by the Secretary of the Navy,” (The General’s mouth quirked, he was army) “You are hereby promoted to the pay grade of O-6 and the Rank of Captain. Etc, etc…Congratulations Captain Fox. Colonel Rudder told me he’d never seen such fine gunfire support in all his years. Figured you’d be the best person to the operational Commodore for this little endeavor. Course, we can’t have a O-5 be in charge of half the exercise…”
The General stopped rambling and patted fox on the soldier. “ The Pensacola is expected to take on ammo at Guantamano starting the 30th, and back on neutrality patrol shortly thereafter. Think she’ll be ready?”
Fox grinned. “Yes Sir!”
) acceptable personality in it!