This thread is for character background and story development, centered around the exploits of Coalition Task Force 81 (see here if you don't know what the hell I'm talking about).
With that, I'll start in with something of my own:
_____
Pentagon
Washington, D.C.
"Bill! What brings you back from the ivory tower?" A loud guffaw and a hearty slap on the back soon followed the bellowing call of Admiral J.T. Hundley.
"Oof! Wanted to grab a few things from my office before I checked in on Arcadia."
"Say, what's up with that anyway? There's a reason they call this a 'desk job', you know." Another guffaw.
Admiral Christy rolled his eyes as he rummaged through his desk. Where was that bloody... ah, there it is. "Not every day something like this is put together, J.T. I want to make sure this goes right."
"Yeah, yeah, peace in our time and all that jazz. Hey, gotta question for ya. We've been namin' carriers for presidents and other assorted personalities for the past few decades, and now see-tee-eff eighty-three comes around..."
"Eighty-one" came a muttered reply, as Christy looked through a few papers that had been left on his desk for him to sign, occasionally furrowing his brow.
"Eighty-one, whatever... your task force comes around and all of a sudden this brand new carrier gets named 'Arcadia'. Now, 'fficially, some congressman was behind the name, but rumor has it you had a hand in naming it. What gives?"
"I might have had a hand in it." Christy made a quick survey of the room, and seemed to nod to himself.
"Aw, hell, Bill... that's no answer. Hell... least they didn't name it after some Democrat..."
"I rather suspect, J.T., that you would want to discuss obscure literature even less than I would." Christy closed his briefcase and started to walk out, then paused and smirked. "By the way, my sources tell me that CVN-79 is slated to be named after President Clinton. Good day, Admiral."
The New World (Exploits of CTF-81) (CVBG)
Moderator: Thanas
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Uraniun235
- Emperor's Hand
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- Joined: 2002-09-12 12:47am
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[Here's what little I have. I'll simply edit this post with updated information later.]
Captain John "Surlethe" Bayh (yes, that's a fictitious name) has climbed his way up from a pissante midshipman in Annapolis to one of the most experienced commanders in the world. Although he was noted for his strategic brilliance, he's thus far declined all promotions above the rank of commander, preferring instead to command a small ship and utilize it as he sees fit within the larger scope of a strike group.
---
Johnathan Edwards Bayh was born in Muncie, IN, on March 28, 1959. The troubled son of a factory worker and a verbally abused (and abusive) housewife, he was a particularly bad student and rebellious, antisocial asshole until 1978, when he dropped out of high school and joined the US Navy. He served for four years as an ensign on the USS Long Beach, then was honorably discharged in 1982; utilizing the discipline the Navy had given him, he attended New York University; his genius blossomed and earned a bachelor's degree in mathematics and military science. He graduated at the top of his class, with the highest scores in the nation on the graduate entrance exams; however, instead of going on to graduate school, he chose to return to the Navy with the outbreak of World War III.
Desperate for competent officers, he was instated into the Navy as a lieutenant on the USS Hayler, DD-997. After serving for a year, in 1985 he was promoted to lieutenant commander, and transferred to the USS Vincennes, the third Ticonderoga commissioned. It was here, after a partially successful Soviet missile barrage on the task force the Vincennes had been assigned to, that lieutenant commander Bayh made a name for himself. A confidante of the commander of the Vincennes, Bayh had the distinct displeasure of seeing his commander die as the Ticonderoga-class cruiser was hit on her bow with a single Soviet Sunburn missile. Bayh took control of the ship, and, by extension, the remnants of the task force, and, without orders, organized the decimated task force around the strategic objective of diverting Soviet forces away from Iceland while the United States Marine Corps., under then-Colonel Reynold, launched the assault to retake the island. The task force, though it posed little actual threat, limped through the center of the Atlantic, pulling desperately-needed Soviet forces away from the defenses of Iceland.
For his bravery in combat and decisive strategic maneuver, Bayh was awarded the Navy Cross, promoted to Captain (at his own request), and given command of the USS Wisconsin, BB-64, for the remainder of the war. Afterward, as the Wisconsin was placed back into mothballs, Bayh transferred to command the USS Abraham Lincoln, CVN-72; refusing further promotions, he busied himself in commanding the nuclear carrier until 1995, when he requested transfer to the newly-completed CG-75 Irascible. The request was granted, of course, and Bayh has been with his ship for eleven years.
---
The Eastern Pacific Ocean
"Commander Bayh, sir? The pilot has cleared us." John Bayh snapped out of his reverie -- he'd been remembering The War, as he liked to call it -- and nodded.
"Thank you, Lt. Commander. See us out." He stood and, stretching, moved from his quarters through the cramped passages in his Ticonderoga's interior to the fore deck. Skirting the VLS, he walked up to the new 65-calibre gun, patted the warm metal housing it for a moment, then moved over to the bulwark. Ahead, the open sea, dark blue with brushed-up whitecaps tipping the rollers, stretched under a perfect sky. The sun was beating down fiercely; a sheen of sweat covered his forehead already. Underneath his feet, the deck's quiet hum changed pitch as the four diesel engines ratcheted up their power. The ship was, of course, quieter than when he'd brought it into dock; he'd instituted modifications for quiet running. A Tico at three-quarters power could outrun a quiet Seawolf, and at three-quarters power, no submarine would hear the Irascible until it was too late.
The stiff ocean breeze whipped across the deck as the low bow of his ship, labored down even more with the extra weaponry he'd installed, plowed into the first rollers. It broke the splash of water into mist, and dampened his back. Looking across the side -- the wide forward superstructure (the one aspect of his ship he didn't love with all his heart, on aesthetic grounds) blocked the view direct aft -- he could see the white Hawaiian shore stretching into the distance. Already, they'd receded nearly a mile; the Irascible was steaming away from Oahu at full power, pushing thirty-four knots. Far ahead, and somewhat off to the left, the Twenty-Eighth Expeditionary Strike Group, under Brigadier General Reynold, waited.
---
[EDIT: Goddamnit, Noble Ire. Why did you have to go change your name on me?
EDIT 2: Thank you for the correction, Ar-Adunakhor. It would not bode well for my reputation to have been hit by an AA missile.]
Captain John "Surlethe" Bayh (yes, that's a fictitious name) has climbed his way up from a pissante midshipman in Annapolis to one of the most experienced commanders in the world. Although he was noted for his strategic brilliance, he's thus far declined all promotions above the rank of commander, preferring instead to command a small ship and utilize it as he sees fit within the larger scope of a strike group.
---
Johnathan Edwards Bayh was born in Muncie, IN, on March 28, 1959. The troubled son of a factory worker and a verbally abused (and abusive) housewife, he was a particularly bad student and rebellious, antisocial asshole until 1978, when he dropped out of high school and joined the US Navy. He served for four years as an ensign on the USS Long Beach, then was honorably discharged in 1982; utilizing the discipline the Navy had given him, he attended New York University; his genius blossomed and earned a bachelor's degree in mathematics and military science. He graduated at the top of his class, with the highest scores in the nation on the graduate entrance exams; however, instead of going on to graduate school, he chose to return to the Navy with the outbreak of World War III.
Desperate for competent officers, he was instated into the Navy as a lieutenant on the USS Hayler, DD-997. After serving for a year, in 1985 he was promoted to lieutenant commander, and transferred to the USS Vincennes, the third Ticonderoga commissioned. It was here, after a partially successful Soviet missile barrage on the task force the Vincennes had been assigned to, that lieutenant commander Bayh made a name for himself. A confidante of the commander of the Vincennes, Bayh had the distinct displeasure of seeing his commander die as the Ticonderoga-class cruiser was hit on her bow with a single Soviet Sunburn missile. Bayh took control of the ship, and, by extension, the remnants of the task force, and, without orders, organized the decimated task force around the strategic objective of diverting Soviet forces away from Iceland while the United States Marine Corps., under then-Colonel Reynold, launched the assault to retake the island. The task force, though it posed little actual threat, limped through the center of the Atlantic, pulling desperately-needed Soviet forces away from the defenses of Iceland.
For his bravery in combat and decisive strategic maneuver, Bayh was awarded the Navy Cross, promoted to Captain (at his own request), and given command of the USS Wisconsin, BB-64, for the remainder of the war. Afterward, as the Wisconsin was placed back into mothballs, Bayh transferred to command the USS Abraham Lincoln, CVN-72; refusing further promotions, he busied himself in commanding the nuclear carrier until 1995, when he requested transfer to the newly-completed CG-75 Irascible. The request was granted, of course, and Bayh has been with his ship for eleven years.
---
The Eastern Pacific Ocean
"Commander Bayh, sir? The pilot has cleared us." John Bayh snapped out of his reverie -- he'd been remembering The War, as he liked to call it -- and nodded.
"Thank you, Lt. Commander. See us out." He stood and, stretching, moved from his quarters through the cramped passages in his Ticonderoga's interior to the fore deck. Skirting the VLS, he walked up to the new 65-calibre gun, patted the warm metal housing it for a moment, then moved over to the bulwark. Ahead, the open sea, dark blue with brushed-up whitecaps tipping the rollers, stretched under a perfect sky. The sun was beating down fiercely; a sheen of sweat covered his forehead already. Underneath his feet, the deck's quiet hum changed pitch as the four diesel engines ratcheted up their power. The ship was, of course, quieter than when he'd brought it into dock; he'd instituted modifications for quiet running. A Tico at three-quarters power could outrun a quiet Seawolf, and at three-quarters power, no submarine would hear the Irascible until it was too late.
The stiff ocean breeze whipped across the deck as the low bow of his ship, labored down even more with the extra weaponry he'd installed, plowed into the first rollers. It broke the splash of water into mist, and dampened his back. Looking across the side -- the wide forward superstructure (the one aspect of his ship he didn't love with all his heart, on aesthetic grounds) blocked the view direct aft -- he could see the white Hawaiian shore stretching into the distance. Already, they'd receded nearly a mile; the Irascible was steaming away from Oahu at full power, pushing thirty-four knots. Far ahead, and somewhat off to the left, the Twenty-Eighth Expeditionary Strike Group, under Brigadier General Reynold, waited.
---
[EDIT: Goddamnit, Noble Ire. Why did you have to go change your name on me?
EDIT 2: Thank you for the correction, Ar-Adunakhor. It would not bode well for my reputation to have been hit by an AA missile.]
Last edited by Surlethe on 2006-07-17 03:26pm, edited 4 times in total.
A Government founded upon justice, and recognizing the equal rights of all men; claiming higher authority for existence, or sanction for its laws, that nature, reason, and the regularly ascertained will of the people; steadily refusing to put its sword and purse in the service of any religious creed or family is a standing offense to most of the Governments of the world, and to some narrow and bigoted people among ourselves.
F. Douglass
-----------------------------------------------Hardcore Repost wrote:Brigadier General Isaac "Ire" Reynold
Steadfast and loyal, the CO of CTF 81's Expeditionary Strike Group is career soldier. Born in Nashua, New Hampshire (US) in 1948, he was first deployed to South Vietnam on his twentieth birthday, on the heels of the disasterous Tet Offensive. He saw comparitively little action, but nonetheless served with distinction, and bore the rank of Corporal by the time his unit was withdrawn in 1974. Over the next decade, he recieved a commision and served in several US naval task force operations, rising to the rank of Captain by the outbreak of World War Three. Reynold was WIA during a USN landing operation in the North Atlantic early in the war, and upon returning to duty, commanded a Marine Company during the occupation of Hamburg and the retaking of Iceland. His most notable action during the conflict involved the daring rescue of a group of British Marines trapped in enemy ground by a Soviet offensive, an action which won him an honorary Military Cross.
After the war, Reynold served in Europe for several more years before withdrawn to an administrative position in Washington, D.C. He was briefly a tactical advisor to the President of the United States, but was quitely removed after openly voicing support for the formation of the UN's GDI. Though officially supported by the US government, several generals in the Pentagon disliked what they viewed as the subversion of the nation's ability to exercise military power. Reynold would have likely have been pushed into early retirement, but the influential Admiral Christy, under whom he had served briefly during the opening of WWIII, offered him a command position in the newly-formed GDI Coalition Task Force 81. The appointment was supported by a British member of the UN Security Council, whose son had been among those Reynold had saved near Hamburg, and soon the Marine officer found himself in command of a segment of one of the most powerful multi-national task forces ever assembled, along with an entire Brigade of US Marines.
Though hardened by the carnage of war, Reynold was convinced by his time in Europe that mutli-national cooperation through the UN, militarily and politically, was the only way to prevent another major conflict, and as such places the utmost importance on his new role. However, though he has served aboard Navy ships before, he has never commanded them, and is somewhat nervous about his new role, even he if doesn't like to show it.
Though typically understanding and relatively lenient with those under his command, Reynold usually wears a stoic and even combative persona when on duty, which has earned him the nickname Ire amongst the non-comms of the 10th Marine; he rather likes it.
Somewhere over the Eastern US Seaboard
"Brigadier General?"
Isaac Reynold lowered the weathered book he had been scanning for the last hour. "Yes, Lieutenant?"
"Sir, we will be landing in a few minutes. Captain Cho recommends fastening your seat belt; there's a storm moving in over the base, and we might hit some turbulence on the way down."
Reynolds glanced out his small window, through which roiling clouds and the occasional flash of lightening could clearly be seen below, obscuring vast suburbs that streched out to the darkened horizon.
"So there is. Thank you, Lieutenant."
"Sir."
As the officer walked away down the narrow aisle of the Air Force transport, Reynolds put the book down and fastened the belt that lay around his waist. Before picking up the worn volume again, he paused to look at the title.
Some Principles on Maritime Strategy by Julian Corbett.
The Marine officer grimaced. "Well, I hope those Navy boys I understand this damn thing better than I do. I suppose it would have been too much to ask for Corbett to get H.G. Wells to transcribe for him. At least it'd be more interesting."
As Reynold descended the boarding ramp from the old Air Force Boeing T-43 that had shuttled him from Nashua air terminal, the pregnant clouds above that had been kind enough to make the descent into Andrews Air Force Base one of the bumpiest of his life, including more combat insertions and extractions than he could rightly remember, finally let loose. Fortunately, a car and a private with an umbrella awaited him at the bottom of the ramp, but the brief trip was still sufficent to soak through most his freshly pressed uniform.
Slumping into the empty rear compartment of the vehicle and ensuring that the driver knew where to take him (to a waiting helicopter, assuming it would still be flying in this weather, across the base; Norfolk was still a long way away), Isaac Reynold shook a few droplets of rain off his old naval text and began to review it again, making just as little progress as he had over the last three hours of travel time.
"Damned Victorian English. What the hell is a yardarm, anyway?"
Last edited by Noble Ire on 2006-07-17 01:08am, edited 1 time in total.
The Rift
Stanislav Petrov- The man who saved the world
Hugh Thompson Jr.- A True American Hero
"In the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope." - President Barack Obama
"May fortune favor you, for your goals are the goals of the world." - Ancient Chall valediction
Stanislav Petrov- The man who saved the world
Hugh Thompson Jr.- A True American Hero
"In the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope." - President Barack Obama
"May fortune favor you, for your goals are the goals of the world." - Ancient Chall valediction
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Civil War Man
- NERRRRRDS!!!
- Posts: 3790
- Joined: 2005-01-28 03:54am
[Don't mind his curmudgeony attitude, he'll warm up to you guys 
]
Captain Marcus Langarek
Marcus Langarek may not be the most well-known ship commander in the Arcadia task force, but he is by far the most infamous. The price on his head from interests in places like Caracas, Riyadh, and Tehran only confirm the fact that he is a thorn in a lot of sides. To members of the GDI, he is a modern-day Robin Hood. To opponents, he is a monster that is only restrained from killing those around him by the shadowy figures clutching his leash. Those who know Marcus know both perceptions are complete loads, but very little is done to try to correct them. After all, being alternatively a saint and a demon helps dissuade potential bounty hunters.
Marcus was born in East Berlin 20 years prior to the Third World War. His family were once minor nobles in the days of the Kaisers, but they diminished with the rise of Adolf Hitler, and were nearly driven extinct under the rule of the Soviet-allied government. Despite being German, Langarek does not consider Europe his home. When he was 17, he left Germany, traveling through the USSR to Iran, where he eventually got odd work in the docks of Bandar Abbas.
The particular circumstances of the young Langarek's transfer into piracy is unknown, but it began around the start of the Third World War. The oil was a necessary commodity, and neither side could have enough of it. Marcus, along with a band of accomplices he had formed, took to hijacking oil tankers, selling the contents into the black market. Much of this oil was bought up by the United States, desperate for oil both for the war effort and for maintaining morale at home, but at the time Marcus cared little about where it went, so long as he got his share of the profits. Eventually he made enough of a name for himself that the Kuwaitis paid him simply to leave their ships alone, which was the start of a profitable, if distrustful, partnership between the two.
As the tankers started to protect themselves from piracy, Marcus had to up the ante in order to maintain his reputation. Over several years, he commanded a number of old warships that had been content to be mothballed and ignored prior to their salvaging. Each time he was forced to upgrade further, as tankers began to be escorted by armed convoys, in order to keep up. Then, he was given an amazing gift.
The USS Dewey, an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer, was, along with other war material, given to the Kuwaiti government on extended loan for the purposes of protecting their national security. Through certain channels, command of this ship was offered to Marcus Langarek, as further payment for not hitting Kuwaiti shipping. Captain Langarek eagerly accepted the gift, desperate for a state-of-the-art warship, renaming the ship the Vengeance. Unfortunately for him, the ship was offered with a special condition. He was basically forced to join up with the Arcadia battle group, officially under the Kuwaiti banner, lest someone "accidentally" let slip to some of the more hawkish Americans in the Pentagon that a pirate had "commandeered" a ship on loan to Kuwait.
Persian Gulf
30 nautical miles outside Kuwaiti capital
"Captain?"
Captain Langarek didn't look up from the maps he was studying. "What is it, Mr. Peterson?"
"We've received a message from Zacharias."
That got Marcus's immediate undivided attention. "What? Why would he be contacting us?"
"Don't know what it says, seeing as how it's addressed to you. But at first glance it looks like some kind of orders."
"Orders?" Marcus Langarek snarled as he snatched the message out of Peterson's hands. "Have they gone fucking mad? If the Sauds start to suspect anything, they might as well paint a God-damned target on Sabah's forehead."
The newly appointed Captain of the Vengeance read the communique, growing increasingly irritated as he read. "Son of a bitch," he spat, crumpling up the paper and throwing it against the wall. He steamed for several moments, uninterrupted by the attending crew for fear of insighting his wrath. After a long, uncomfortable silence, Langarek began to bark out orders. "Get us ready to move, bearing 147, full ahead."
"Sir?"
"You heard me, get to it! Apparently we're scheduled to meet up with that fucking task force we heard about when we stopped over in Manama. I knew getting this boat seemed too good to be true."
"Wait...task force? You mean the UN one?"
"That's the one. Apparently our work prior to when they started putting the tankers in armed convoys caught someone's attention, so they thought it'd be a good idea to make us part of that international circle jerk."
"But we technically aren't part of any nation."
"Ma fish Kahraba," Marcus said. "The lunatics have been running the entire God-damned asylum for years now. The Americans and Russians haven't been doing anything rationally since the second War. You might as well try to teach a cow not to shit on the ground. Now get us moving!"
"Yes, sir."
"If anyone needs me, I'll be in my quarters," barked Captain Langarek as he stormed out of the room. "We don't get paid nearly enough to put up with this shit," he grumbled on the way out.
]Captain Marcus Langarek
Marcus Langarek may not be the most well-known ship commander in the Arcadia task force, but he is by far the most infamous. The price on his head from interests in places like Caracas, Riyadh, and Tehran only confirm the fact that he is a thorn in a lot of sides. To members of the GDI, he is a modern-day Robin Hood. To opponents, he is a monster that is only restrained from killing those around him by the shadowy figures clutching his leash. Those who know Marcus know both perceptions are complete loads, but very little is done to try to correct them. After all, being alternatively a saint and a demon helps dissuade potential bounty hunters.
Marcus was born in East Berlin 20 years prior to the Third World War. His family were once minor nobles in the days of the Kaisers, but they diminished with the rise of Adolf Hitler, and were nearly driven extinct under the rule of the Soviet-allied government. Despite being German, Langarek does not consider Europe his home. When he was 17, he left Germany, traveling through the USSR to Iran, where he eventually got odd work in the docks of Bandar Abbas.
The particular circumstances of the young Langarek's transfer into piracy is unknown, but it began around the start of the Third World War. The oil was a necessary commodity, and neither side could have enough of it. Marcus, along with a band of accomplices he had formed, took to hijacking oil tankers, selling the contents into the black market. Much of this oil was bought up by the United States, desperate for oil both for the war effort and for maintaining morale at home, but at the time Marcus cared little about where it went, so long as he got his share of the profits. Eventually he made enough of a name for himself that the Kuwaitis paid him simply to leave their ships alone, which was the start of a profitable, if distrustful, partnership between the two.
As the tankers started to protect themselves from piracy, Marcus had to up the ante in order to maintain his reputation. Over several years, he commanded a number of old warships that had been content to be mothballed and ignored prior to their salvaging. Each time he was forced to upgrade further, as tankers began to be escorted by armed convoys, in order to keep up. Then, he was given an amazing gift.
The USS Dewey, an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer, was, along with other war material, given to the Kuwaiti government on extended loan for the purposes of protecting their national security. Through certain channels, command of this ship was offered to Marcus Langarek, as further payment for not hitting Kuwaiti shipping. Captain Langarek eagerly accepted the gift, desperate for a state-of-the-art warship, renaming the ship the Vengeance. Unfortunately for him, the ship was offered with a special condition. He was basically forced to join up with the Arcadia battle group, officially under the Kuwaiti banner, lest someone "accidentally" let slip to some of the more hawkish Americans in the Pentagon that a pirate had "commandeered" a ship on loan to Kuwait.
Persian Gulf
30 nautical miles outside Kuwaiti capital
"Captain?"
Captain Langarek didn't look up from the maps he was studying. "What is it, Mr. Peterson?"
"We've received a message from Zacharias."
That got Marcus's immediate undivided attention. "What? Why would he be contacting us?"
"Don't know what it says, seeing as how it's addressed to you. But at first glance it looks like some kind of orders."
"Orders?" Marcus Langarek snarled as he snatched the message out of Peterson's hands. "Have they gone fucking mad? If the Sauds start to suspect anything, they might as well paint a God-damned target on Sabah's forehead."
The newly appointed Captain of the Vengeance read the communique, growing increasingly irritated as he read. "Son of a bitch," he spat, crumpling up the paper and throwing it against the wall. He steamed for several moments, uninterrupted by the attending crew for fear of insighting his wrath. After a long, uncomfortable silence, Langarek began to bark out orders. "Get us ready to move, bearing 147, full ahead."
"Sir?"
"You heard me, get to it! Apparently we're scheduled to meet up with that fucking task force we heard about when we stopped over in Manama. I knew getting this boat seemed too good to be true."
"Wait...task force? You mean the UN one?"
"That's the one. Apparently our work prior to when they started putting the tankers in armed convoys caught someone's attention, so they thought it'd be a good idea to make us part of that international circle jerk."
"But we technically aren't part of any nation."
"Ma fish Kahraba," Marcus said. "The lunatics have been running the entire God-damned asylum for years now. The Americans and Russians haven't been doing anything rationally since the second War. You might as well try to teach a cow not to shit on the ground. Now get us moving!"
"Yes, sir."
"If anyone needs me, I'll be in my quarters," barked Captain Langarek as he stormed out of the room. "We don't get paid nearly enough to put up with this shit," he grumbled on the way out.
Last edited by Civil War Man on 2006-07-17 01:37am, edited 2 times in total.
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Darth Raptor
- Red Mage
- Posts: 5448
- Joined: 2003-12-18 03:39am
Norfolk Naval Yard
Portsmouth, Virginia
Nickolai Rebikov stood just outside a security barricade, tapping his foot impatiently. Oblivious to the Russian's irritation, the Marines took their time verifying his papers.
"Everything seems to be in order... 'sir'." The soldier muttered, handing the authorization back to Rebikov in an unorganized wad.
The Soviet officer waited briefly for the guards to step aside and allow him to pass. They didn't. At last, Nickolai squeezed his way forcefully between the two. It was an odd sight, as both were larger and obviously stronger than he was. After the subtle struggle, he was free and proceeded to board his new home: The United States Navy's newest and most advanced supercarrier. CVN-78 Arcadia.
It wasn't his first time on board, but he had to deal with the same borscht every time he embarked. Such insubordination would have been unheard of back home, although Nickolai suspected that an American officer would have received similar treatment if the tables were turned. The Marines were the worst. Those who didn't know who he was hated him for his enemy uniform. Those that did know who he was hated him for being Raptor, Scourge of Iceland. CTF-81's Marines were under the command of Isaac Reynold, the same man who had retaken Iceland after Nickolai had inflicted irreparable damage there. Although Rebikov had later assisted in the Marines' landing during The Boss' coup, it did nothing to improve his standing with Reynold or his men. It was bad enough he was Russian, let alone a traitorous Russian.
Yes, the Americans would take some smoothing over. Might as well start from the top down. Rebikov's only superior, Admiral Christy, was an old friend. No issues there. Commodore Kurilov wouldn't be a problem either. Although their relationship was... ambivilent, there wasn't a hint of conflict. As The Boss put it, traitors need to stick together. That left Rear Admiral Bucher. Nickolai had actually met him once before in New York, but now they would be seeing each other on a daily basis. One more friend wouldn't hurt.
No, that was hoping for too much. If Bucher could be considered a non-enemy it would be enough. Yes, that would be ideal. For both of them.
As the counter admiral entered his stateroom, he decided to invite Bucher to dinner. Yes, that would be an intuitive place to start. And if this goes well, perhaps I can even persuade Reynold not to hate me. He reached for his phone.
Portsmouth, Virginia
Nickolai Rebikov stood just outside a security barricade, tapping his foot impatiently. Oblivious to the Russian's irritation, the Marines took their time verifying his papers.
"Everything seems to be in order... 'sir'." The soldier muttered, handing the authorization back to Rebikov in an unorganized wad.
The Soviet officer waited briefly for the guards to step aside and allow him to pass. They didn't. At last, Nickolai squeezed his way forcefully between the two. It was an odd sight, as both were larger and obviously stronger than he was. After the subtle struggle, he was free and proceeded to board his new home: The United States Navy's newest and most advanced supercarrier. CVN-78 Arcadia.
It wasn't his first time on board, but he had to deal with the same borscht every time he embarked. Such insubordination would have been unheard of back home, although Nickolai suspected that an American officer would have received similar treatment if the tables were turned. The Marines were the worst. Those who didn't know who he was hated him for his enemy uniform. Those that did know who he was hated him for being Raptor, Scourge of Iceland. CTF-81's Marines were under the command of Isaac Reynold, the same man who had retaken Iceland after Nickolai had inflicted irreparable damage there. Although Rebikov had later assisted in the Marines' landing during The Boss' coup, it did nothing to improve his standing with Reynold or his men. It was bad enough he was Russian, let alone a traitorous Russian.
Yes, the Americans would take some smoothing over. Might as well start from the top down. Rebikov's only superior, Admiral Christy, was an old friend. No issues there. Commodore Kurilov wouldn't be a problem either. Although their relationship was... ambivilent, there wasn't a hint of conflict. As The Boss put it, traitors need to stick together. That left Rear Admiral Bucher. Nickolai had actually met him once before in New York, but now they would be seeing each other on a daily basis. One more friend wouldn't hurt.
No, that was hoping for too much. If Bucher could be considered a non-enemy it would be enough. Yes, that would be ideal. For both of them.
As the counter admiral entered his stateroom, he decided to invite Bucher to dinner. Yes, that would be an intuitive place to start. And if this goes well, perhaps I can even persuade Reynold not to hate me. He reached for his phone.
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Agent Fisher
- Rabid Monkey
- Posts: 3671
- Joined: 2003-04-29 11:56pm
- Location: Sac-Town, CA, USA, Earth, Sol, Milky Way, Universe
Commander Mike 'Agent' Fisher set his Intruder down on the runway. His squadron was waiting for their new carrier to set sail. Right now, his planes where parked on the tarmac. He heard one of his old CO's was going to be on the Arc.Commander Mike Fisher
Callsign: Agent
During WWIII, he was a tender nugget assigned to one of the A-6 squadrons. He served under Admiral "Lonestar" Bucher in an A-6 squadron. After hte war, he continued flying Intruders. He was given command of an Intruder squadron. He served with that squadron for two years before his squadron was transferred to the Arcadia.
Fisher taxied the plane and opened the canopy. The ground crew put a ladder to the side of the plane and Fisher climbed down.
Last edited by Agent Fisher on 2006-07-21 12:18am, edited 2 times in total.
Here is a quick bio I wrote, may be a bit wank but I figured it would have to be, to be given command of the RAN's biggest ship.
Captain Alister "atg", Royal Australian Navy.
Vessel: HMAS Renown, Ocean-class Assault Carrier (formally HMS Ocean)
Bio:
Early in his career Alister served on HMAS Betano(heavy landing craft), HMAS Gladstone(patrol boat) & HMAS Adelaide(guided missile frigate). He eventually moved into the XO position on HMAS Sydney(guided missile frigate) before being granted captaincy of HMAS Darwin(guided missile frigate).
When WWIII broke, HMAS Darwin had been off the east coast of the United States for exercises, and was entered into convoy duty. During these convoys HMAS Darwin was awarded the kills of five Soviet submarines and accounted for many Soviet missiles aimed at the vital merchant ships.
Near the end of the war Alister and HMAS Darwin participated in the NATO attacks on Iceland, providing close-in escort for the landing craft. However the ships good luck ran out, and the Darwin was heavily damaged by a sub launched missile, which detonated near the bridge. Alister was injured during the attack.
Immediately following the war Alister was given command of HMAS Sydney, and was granted the temporary rank of Commodore and a task force of five vessels, for exercises involved in training the Royal Australian Navy in amphibious landing operations. Responsible for much of the expertise in landing operations in the RAN, he was then given command of HMAS Renown (formerly HMS Ocean, Assault Carrier) when that ship was bought from the Royal Navy.
Alister and Renown are now attached to Expeditionary Strike Group 28.
Last edited by atg on 2006-07-17 01:55am, edited 1 time in total.
Marcus Aurelius: ...the Swedish S-tank; the exception is made mostly because the Swedes insisted really hard that it is a tank rather than a tank destroyer or assault gun
Ilya Muromets: And now I have this image of a massive, stern-looking Swede staring down a bunch of military nerds. "It's a tank." "Uh, yes Sir. Please don't hurt us."
Ilya Muromets: And now I have this image of a massive, stern-looking Swede staring down a bunch of military nerds. "It's a tank." "Uh, yes Sir. Please don't hurt us."
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Ar-Adunakhor
- Jedi Knight
- Posts: 672
- Joined: 2005-09-05 03:06am
[quote="Vianor "Ar-Adunakhor" Kurilov"]Born July 27th, 1970, Vianor Kurilov's life did not begin happily. Shortly after his birth, both of Vianor's parents were killed en-route to the launch of a Soviet satellite. This tragic turn of events forced him into the People's custody, which in turn handed him off to the Soviet education system as soon as possible. Despite his lack of any outside influences or ties, (or perhaps because of it) Vianor excelled at his studies, particularly in regard to military theory. At the age of 14 he completed the entrance exam for and was accepted by the Frunze Naval Academy, where his tactical education began in earnest. Working steadily, Vianor excelled at the military aspects of his training, though it is said his political ideals were more that of personal glory than that of the Party. Vianor managed to complete roughly three years at Frunze before the onset of World War III, his temporary deployment to aid the People's Army in the war effort, and the fate that awaited him there.
With the advent of war, Vianor's studies, much like those of many other students, were cut short. Unlike the other students, however, he was assigned as an aide to Admiral Semeon Lobov, commander of the Red Banner Northern Fleet. Given the ear of a powerful commander and his cunning strategic and tactical sense, he quickly gained the reputation of a rising star in the Soviet Navy. With this notoriety came both quick advancement and several supporters among the captains he frequently met with. After the fall of the Keflavik Air Base in Iceland and the subsequent splitting of forces to persue the NATO armada; Admiral Lobov, becoming a bit wary of the now Third Rank Captian Kurilov, appointed him to the position of Executive Officer aboard the Kirov. This move was accompanied by transferring several of Vianor's more fervent supporters to menial commands under the Kirov's captian, Ulday Raikovitch, and tasking him with harassing the french coast. After giving the orders, however, the Admiral himself pursued the fleeing NATO fleet with the Kiev and her flotilla. Seething over the insult, Vianor resigned himself to the task and spent a several uneventful days carrying out the commands of the politically appointed Captian Raikovitch. However, as they neared Ouessant expecting light resistance and convoy harassment duty, all was not as they had thought. Instead of the NATO forces retreating to the US/Canadian coastline as Admiral Lobov had predicted, they had instead made for Brest, France, and done so in force. Captain Raikovitch, upon seeing the fleet, ordered an immediate withdrawal, despite the massive damage many of the enemy ships had already incured in the battles near Iceland. Seeing this, and his chance, Vianor accused Raikovitch of High Treason and cowardice, called upon his supporters, and took command of the Kirov and her flotilla. After quickly assessing the situation, Vianor ordered the full fleet engagement that irreversably shattered NATO's naval forces, the Battle of Ouessant.
With such a stunning victory to his credit, his astonishing glorification in the Soviet state media, and the subsequent humiliation and demotion of Admiral Lobov due to the US's recapture of Iceland; Vianor was promoted to First Rank Captian and, at 19, became the youngest officer to command a fleet in the People's Navy. Elated as he was at first, his joy soon soured as he realized that the political connections of the now Counter Admiral Lobov were going to both make further advancement impossible and see to his ignomnity at the end of the war. Vianor continued with his command for the rest of the year, but as the land war ground to a halt and the Party fractured from within, he finally saw the chance he had hoped for. Using both his command position and his media-driven position as "The People's Admiral", he rallied public, political, and military support for General Alekseyev's coup, thus securing himself an inaliable place of authority in the party.
After the end of the war, Vianor returned to the splintering USSR and completed his tenure in the Frunze Academy, graduating at the top of his class and moving on to graduate from the Grechko Naval Academy. For the next several years, however, "Commodore" Kurilov receeded, seemingly content to command the Red Banner fleet. That changed, however, when several of his associates informed him of the Arcadia task force's formation under the UN flag. He began aggressively lobbying for the construction of a new ship of the Kirov class, Harbinger, and for it to be donated to the battle group. With himself as her captain, of course.
The rest, as they say, is history. The Harbinger was constructed, with no expense spared. Commodore Kurilov was placed in command of her, and the splintered USSR shipped their best, brightest, and most ambitious to the Arcadia task force. Now, only time will tell what the outcome shall be.[/quote]
The Kremlin, Moscow.
“Here is your tea Premier, and your morning correspondence has been screened and placed on your desk as always.” proclaimed his morning aide, a thin Captain who was more suited to writing memos than commanding troops.
“Ungh.” grunted Premier Alekseyev, in his usual fashion. The past few days of bitter cold had been taking its toll on both his sleep and his mood, he thought, and he was not much of a morning person anyway. “No,” he muttered to himself, “that’s just the entire damned Union trying to come apart, not the cold.”
“You said something, Premier?” chimed in the aide, which got him a scathing look and a brisque dismissal. Best not to say things of that nature aloud, Alekseyev thought, as true as they might be. Besides, of late Soviet authority was well on its way to prominence once more. The combination of a revitalized KGB and the new People’s Information Center had virtually stopped break-away factions, and was now beginning Phase I of its destabilization and conversion campaign in the Balkans and other areas. Before long, the analysts said, the Soviets would be re-forming and gladly joining the USSR, provided there was no interference in their efforts.
And there began the problems.
Heaving a sigh, Alekseyev began sifting through the letters in front of him and reviewing his schedule. “Intel briefing, intel briefing, meeting with the directors, appointment with…” he stopped and looked up, “Ah, Vianor, I see you are early.”
Standing framed in the doorway was tall, severe man. Roughly thirty-six years of age, his tawny hair, sharp green eyes, and cruel smirk all accented his impeccable dress uniform and hawk-like gaze. Raising one eyebrow a fraction of an inch, he responded, “Perhaps. Or perhaps I have waited long enough already.” With that, the Commodore strode across the room and stood in front of the heavy hardwood desk, presenting his hand, palm up, “My orders, Premier.”
Alekseyev leaned back in his chair and met the gaze of the brash Commodore, “You know of course, Comrade Commodore, that the People are counting on you? I have been assured that the KGB briefings you received showed you their needs in this endeavor.” The Premier gave a small smile and narrowed his eyes, “Surely you will not let them down?”
“Of course not, Comrade,” the Commodore answered, his gaze resting coldly upon the Premier, “my efforts are always for the greater good. Surely you know that?”
“Oh, I do indeed know of your efforts, Vianor,” Alekseyev said, leaning forward and picking up a folded sheet of paper, “And I am confident that all involved will be able to achieve the ends they are working toward. Here are your orders, Comrade Commodore, and the official statement acknowledging the indefinite loan of you, the Harbinger, and her crew to the U.N. Task Force Arcadia.”
As the orders decended into his hand, the Commodore smiled wickedly, “Excellent,” he said, “until we meet again, Premier.” With that, he saluted and quickly snapped around, striding out to the helipad.
As the door closed and Premier Alekseyev was once again left alone, he smiled to himself. Vianor would soon make himself both as indispensable to the group and as much a thorn in the side of its commander as he had here. Perhaps he would carry out his mission for the People, perhaps not... either way, the State won. Ah, the beauty of playing on both sides of the game, he thought. No matter the outcome, you always win.
Smiling and sipping his lukewarm tea, the Premier could already tell that he would be sleeping soundly tonight. Very soundly indeed.
With the advent of war, Vianor's studies, much like those of many other students, were cut short. Unlike the other students, however, he was assigned as an aide to Admiral Semeon Lobov, commander of the Red Banner Northern Fleet. Given the ear of a powerful commander and his cunning strategic and tactical sense, he quickly gained the reputation of a rising star in the Soviet Navy. With this notoriety came both quick advancement and several supporters among the captains he frequently met with. After the fall of the Keflavik Air Base in Iceland and the subsequent splitting of forces to persue the NATO armada; Admiral Lobov, becoming a bit wary of the now Third Rank Captian Kurilov, appointed him to the position of Executive Officer aboard the Kirov. This move was accompanied by transferring several of Vianor's more fervent supporters to menial commands under the Kirov's captian, Ulday Raikovitch, and tasking him with harassing the french coast. After giving the orders, however, the Admiral himself pursued the fleeing NATO fleet with the Kiev and her flotilla. Seething over the insult, Vianor resigned himself to the task and spent a several uneventful days carrying out the commands of the politically appointed Captian Raikovitch. However, as they neared Ouessant expecting light resistance and convoy harassment duty, all was not as they had thought. Instead of the NATO forces retreating to the US/Canadian coastline as Admiral Lobov had predicted, they had instead made for Brest, France, and done so in force. Captain Raikovitch, upon seeing the fleet, ordered an immediate withdrawal, despite the massive damage many of the enemy ships had already incured in the battles near Iceland. Seeing this, and his chance, Vianor accused Raikovitch of High Treason and cowardice, called upon his supporters, and took command of the Kirov and her flotilla. After quickly assessing the situation, Vianor ordered the full fleet engagement that irreversably shattered NATO's naval forces, the Battle of Ouessant.
With such a stunning victory to his credit, his astonishing glorification in the Soviet state media, and the subsequent humiliation and demotion of Admiral Lobov due to the US's recapture of Iceland; Vianor was promoted to First Rank Captian and, at 19, became the youngest officer to command a fleet in the People's Navy. Elated as he was at first, his joy soon soured as he realized that the political connections of the now Counter Admiral Lobov were going to both make further advancement impossible and see to his ignomnity at the end of the war. Vianor continued with his command for the rest of the year, but as the land war ground to a halt and the Party fractured from within, he finally saw the chance he had hoped for. Using both his command position and his media-driven position as "The People's Admiral", he rallied public, political, and military support for General Alekseyev's coup, thus securing himself an inaliable place of authority in the party.
After the end of the war, Vianor returned to the splintering USSR and completed his tenure in the Frunze Academy, graduating at the top of his class and moving on to graduate from the Grechko Naval Academy. For the next several years, however, "Commodore" Kurilov receeded, seemingly content to command the Red Banner fleet. That changed, however, when several of his associates informed him of the Arcadia task force's formation under the UN flag. He began aggressively lobbying for the construction of a new ship of the Kirov class, Harbinger, and for it to be donated to the battle group. With himself as her captain, of course.
The rest, as they say, is history. The Harbinger was constructed, with no expense spared. Commodore Kurilov was placed in command of her, and the splintered USSR shipped their best, brightest, and most ambitious to the Arcadia task force. Now, only time will tell what the outcome shall be.[/quote]
The Kremlin, Moscow.
“Here is your tea Premier, and your morning correspondence has been screened and placed on your desk as always.” proclaimed his morning aide, a thin Captain who was more suited to writing memos than commanding troops.
“Ungh.” grunted Premier Alekseyev, in his usual fashion. The past few days of bitter cold had been taking its toll on both his sleep and his mood, he thought, and he was not much of a morning person anyway. “No,” he muttered to himself, “that’s just the entire damned Union trying to come apart, not the cold.”
“You said something, Premier?” chimed in the aide, which got him a scathing look and a brisque dismissal. Best not to say things of that nature aloud, Alekseyev thought, as true as they might be. Besides, of late Soviet authority was well on its way to prominence once more. The combination of a revitalized KGB and the new People’s Information Center had virtually stopped break-away factions, and was now beginning Phase I of its destabilization and conversion campaign in the Balkans and other areas. Before long, the analysts said, the Soviets would be re-forming and gladly joining the USSR, provided there was no interference in their efforts.
And there began the problems.
Heaving a sigh, Alekseyev began sifting through the letters in front of him and reviewing his schedule. “Intel briefing, intel briefing, meeting with the directors, appointment with…” he stopped and looked up, “Ah, Vianor, I see you are early.”
Standing framed in the doorway was tall, severe man. Roughly thirty-six years of age, his tawny hair, sharp green eyes, and cruel smirk all accented his impeccable dress uniform and hawk-like gaze. Raising one eyebrow a fraction of an inch, he responded, “Perhaps. Or perhaps I have waited long enough already.” With that, the Commodore strode across the room and stood in front of the heavy hardwood desk, presenting his hand, palm up, “My orders, Premier.”
Alekseyev leaned back in his chair and met the gaze of the brash Commodore, “You know of course, Comrade Commodore, that the People are counting on you? I have been assured that the KGB briefings you received showed you their needs in this endeavor.” The Premier gave a small smile and narrowed his eyes, “Surely you will not let them down?”
“Of course not, Comrade,” the Commodore answered, his gaze resting coldly upon the Premier, “my efforts are always for the greater good. Surely you know that?”
“Oh, I do indeed know of your efforts, Vianor,” Alekseyev said, leaning forward and picking up a folded sheet of paper, “And I am confident that all involved will be able to achieve the ends they are working toward. Here are your orders, Comrade Commodore, and the official statement acknowledging the indefinite loan of you, the Harbinger, and her crew to the U.N. Task Force Arcadia.”
As the orders decended into his hand, the Commodore smiled wickedly, “Excellent,” he said, “until we meet again, Premier.” With that, he saluted and quickly snapped around, striding out to the helipad.
As the door closed and Premier Alekseyev was once again left alone, he smiled to himself. Vianor would soon make himself both as indispensable to the group and as much a thorn in the side of its commander as he had here. Perhaps he would carry out his mission for the People, perhaps not... either way, the State won. Ah, the beauty of playing on both sides of the game, he thought. No matter the outcome, you always win.
Smiling and sipping his lukewarm tea, the Premier could already tell that he would be sleeping soundly tonight. Very soundly indeed.
Last edited by Ar-Adunakhor on 2006-08-03 11:37pm, edited 11 times in total.
[I still have no fucking clue what I'm doing. Heeelp!I wrote:Commander Peter '979' Mitchell was a Lieutenant on board the HMS Norfolk during WWIII. While assigned on a still classified mission to prevent a Russian sub from extracting a high-level DOD defector, the ship suffered severe damage and lost almost all it's officers. Despite this, Mitchell took control as the ranking officer and completed his mission before leading the battered ship out of enemy waters and back to friendly territory.
]Commander Peter Mitchell strode along the deck quietly, enjoying the moment of peace while his presence was not required on deck. It'd be some time before the Agamemnon came within range of the Expeditionary Strike Group, and Pete was savouring every second.
Hmm. Being back on a Duke definately brough memories to the fore. Of course, the Aggie was a different beast from his previous 'command' on the Norfolk. HMS Agamemnon had a lot to live up to as the newest and most advanced Type 23 frigate in the world and the inheritor of over 300 years of history, the fifth Agamemnon in the Royal Navy and the bearer of over 300 years of proud naval tradition. From the late 17th century to the end of WWII the BRN had been the undisputed ruler of the seas.
Pete Mitchell fully intended to show the world that Great Britain still had what it took.
Hmm. Being back on a Duke definately brough memories to the fore. Of course, the Aggie was a different beast from his previous 'command' on the Norfolk. HMS Agamemnon had a lot to live up to as the newest and most advanced Type 23 frigate in the world and the inheritor of over 300 years of history, the fifth Agamemnon in the Royal Navy and the bearer of over 300 years of proud naval tradition. From the late 17th century to the end of WWII the BRN had been the undisputed ruler of the seas.
Pete Mitchell fully intended to show the world that Great Britain still had what it took.
Norfolk Navy Yard
Portsmouth, Virgina
Now
Bucher glanced around the Cabin that would be his stateroom for the Arcadia's first deployment, and sighed. Personally, he had never expected to make it out of WW3 alive, and after the war had ended expected to be RIF'd out. To his surprise he had had a pretty damn successful career, but hadn't really expected to make it past Captain. He had done a pretty good job of burning every bridge possible with the Senate Armed Forces committee during his Flag "Job" interviews. More than once he had broken out some personal insults, and at one point accused one of the more public backers of the GDI of selling the country out.
He had stormed out of that meeting, and his wife (a retired Lt. Colonel in the USAF) had cinched the impression during the charecter interviews. Apperently he must have tickled the Republicans on the commitee, because he got his first star. Maybe common sense and patriotism would prevail.
Then he got his marching orders. With much gnashing of teeth he said "Yes Sir" and took over as the CSG Commander for the recently comissioned Arcadia(So Named because Congressman Roger Hernandez of Arcadia, California, knew names and where the bodies were). It would be a dream for any Rear Admiral. The news of it being attached to GDI was a clear insult, however.
"Sir, just thought you'd like to know, Admiral Rebikov called, and said he'd be checking on board tonight instead of tomorrow, and was wondering if you'd like to join him in his stateroom for dinner?"
Bucher sighed at his aide's question, and bit back a retort. 1st LT Chan was a good aide, and didn't deserve to be snapped at, no matter how much he wanted to snap at someone.
A Russki on an American CVN. Jesus H. Christ.
"Thanks Travis, tell him I'll be glad to join him for dinner." It wasn't that Nickolai was a bad guy, but he was Russian and had the Vague title of "Senior Intelligence Officer". If he was anything like his counterprts at ONI and DIA who knew what chicanery he was up to?
"Alright Sir. Commander Bean dropped the profiles you requested by." Chan handed over the thick stack of folders. On the top was DIA's file on Rebikov, followed by every other senior non-american officer in the task force.
"Thanks. Leave them on my desk. Anything else vital at the moment?"
"Uh, not at the moment sir..."
"Alright, mind if you leave me for a moment? I need to catch up on some paperwork."
"Yessir." Chan turned and left the stateroom. Bucher sighed and put the folders in the drawer safe. He turned on his computer and checked his email, cursing at the first message, from the Arcadia's Captain. He considered calling her and chewing her ass for not coming personally, but the odds were she was just as swamped as he was. Personally, he suspected Pick got the Arcadia for political reasons(as she hadn't had an interim command between CAG and this) but she was generally a good troop.
The email said NAVSUP was dragging it's ass on getting stores to the ship's in the CSG, both American and the other ships assembled up in Norfolk. Glancing at the forwarded email, he too got the feeling that they were getting the run-around. So now the USN was ignoring them because they were "GDI" (nevermind the paycheck came from the DoN). Perfect.
He noticed there were similiar e-mails from the other strike group captains.
Bucher growled and reached for his phone. He knew there had to be a God, because someone was mocking him.
Portsmouth, Virgina
Now
Bucher glanced around the Cabin that would be his stateroom for the Arcadia's first deployment, and sighed. Personally, he had never expected to make it out of WW3 alive, and after the war had ended expected to be RIF'd out. To his surprise he had had a pretty damn successful career, but hadn't really expected to make it past Captain. He had done a pretty good job of burning every bridge possible with the Senate Armed Forces committee during his Flag "Job" interviews. More than once he had broken out some personal insults, and at one point accused one of the more public backers of the GDI of selling the country out.
He had stormed out of that meeting, and his wife (a retired Lt. Colonel in the USAF) had cinched the impression during the charecter interviews. Apperently he must have tickled the Republicans on the commitee, because he got his first star. Maybe common sense and patriotism would prevail.
Then he got his marching orders. With much gnashing of teeth he said "Yes Sir" and took over as the CSG Commander for the recently comissioned Arcadia(So Named because Congressman Roger Hernandez of Arcadia, California, knew names and where the bodies were). It would be a dream for any Rear Admiral. The news of it being attached to GDI was a clear insult, however.
"Sir, just thought you'd like to know, Admiral Rebikov called, and said he'd be checking on board tonight instead of tomorrow, and was wondering if you'd like to join him in his stateroom for dinner?"
Bucher sighed at his aide's question, and bit back a retort. 1st LT Chan was a good aide, and didn't deserve to be snapped at, no matter how much he wanted to snap at someone.
A Russki on an American CVN. Jesus H. Christ.
"Thanks Travis, tell him I'll be glad to join him for dinner." It wasn't that Nickolai was a bad guy, but he was Russian and had the Vague title of "Senior Intelligence Officer". If he was anything like his counterprts at ONI and DIA who knew what chicanery he was up to?
"Alright Sir. Commander Bean dropped the profiles you requested by." Chan handed over the thick stack of folders. On the top was DIA's file on Rebikov, followed by every other senior non-american officer in the task force.
"Thanks. Leave them on my desk. Anything else vital at the moment?"
"Uh, not at the moment sir..."
"Alright, mind if you leave me for a moment? I need to catch up on some paperwork."
"Yessir." Chan turned and left the stateroom. Bucher sighed and put the folders in the drawer safe. He turned on his computer and checked his email, cursing at the first message, from the Arcadia's Captain. He considered calling her and chewing her ass for not coming personally, but the odds were she was just as swamped as he was. Personally, he suspected Pick got the Arcadia for political reasons(as she hadn't had an interim command between CAG and this) but she was generally a good troop.
The email said NAVSUP was dragging it's ass on getting stores to the ship's in the CSG, both American and the other ships assembled up in Norfolk. Glancing at the forwarded email, he too got the feeling that they were getting the run-around. So now the USN was ignoring them because they were "GDI" (nevermind the paycheck came from the DoN). Perfect.
He noticed there were similiar e-mails from the other strike group captains.
Bucher growled and reached for his phone. He knew there had to be a God, because someone was mocking him.
"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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Vanas
- Jedi Council Member
- Posts: 1808
- Joined: 2005-03-12 05:31pm
- Location: Surfing the Moho
- Contact:
[I have as much idea of what I'm doing as pcm and have brought along a few spare buckets of eccentricity, be advised.]
Somewhere in the Big Blue
Somewhere ahead, HMS Agamemnon had taken the lead and would be the first of the Navy ships to reach the taskforce. Commander Vanas was a little annoyed by this, as he had put a small bet on with Mitchell about who'd get there first, and this delay could cost him a beer.
The reason for the delay hovered over the back of the boat, waiting for the aircrew to clear off the deckchairs. When he'd agreed for marines to come aboard while a part of the Carrier Group, he'd at least assumed they'd be Royal Marines, but instead he was being laden with a bunch of Americans.
Perhaps it'd be wise to keep the ship dry until they'd started to get to know the crew. Oh well, no matter.
The Merlin (He'd heard the aircrew had named it the Pendragon, and had decided to not to question their judgement) touched down and disgorged a marine platoon from the 10th Marine Expeditionary Brigade onto his rather garishly painted ship. Lt. Cmdr. Singh, his first officer, would be welcoming the marines aboard in his stead, because 'The Commander is in his quarters, off duty, rather busy working through the backlog of messages from the rest of the carrier group'. In his defense, he'd actually brought the hard copies out with him but it was alot better, in his opinion, to savour the last hours of being 'independent'. With a wave up to the bridge, the helmsman saw what had to be done. James saw him lean back and flick a switch just before the ship seemed to shudder beneath his feet.
You spread the word around
Friday night they'll be dressed to kill
Down at Dino's bar and grill
The drink will flow and blood will spill
And if the boys want to fight, you'd better let them
That jukebox in the corner blasting out my favorite song
The nights are getting warmer, it won't be long
Won't be long till summer comes
Now that the boys are here again
The boys are back in town
The boys are back in town...
"It's a few hundred miles to the rendezvous, it's getting dark, we've got a full weapons load and loud music.
Hit it."
Behind him, there was a slight chuckle. He turned just in time to see the Marine lieutenant bearing down on him, apparently wanting to either shake his hand, salute him or throw him overboard for hiding.
...Blast.
Somewhere in the Big Blue
Somewhere ahead, HMS Agamemnon had taken the lead and would be the first of the Navy ships to reach the taskforce. Commander Vanas was a little annoyed by this, as he had put a small bet on with Mitchell about who'd get there first, and this delay could cost him a beer.
The reason for the delay hovered over the back of the boat, waiting for the aircrew to clear off the deckchairs. When he'd agreed for marines to come aboard while a part of the Carrier Group, he'd at least assumed they'd be Royal Marines, but instead he was being laden with a bunch of Americans.
Perhaps it'd be wise to keep the ship dry until they'd started to get to know the crew. Oh well, no matter.
The Merlin (He'd heard the aircrew had named it the Pendragon, and had decided to not to question their judgement) touched down and disgorged a marine platoon from the 10th Marine Expeditionary Brigade onto his rather garishly painted ship. Lt. Cmdr. Singh, his first officer, would be welcoming the marines aboard in his stead, because 'The Commander is in his quarters, off duty, rather busy working through the backlog of messages from the rest of the carrier group'. In his defense, he'd actually brought the hard copies out with him but it was alot better, in his opinion, to savour the last hours of being 'independent'. With a wave up to the bridge, the helmsman saw what had to be done. James saw him lean back and flick a switch just before the ship seemed to shudder beneath his feet.
You spread the word around
Friday night they'll be dressed to kill
Down at Dino's bar and grill
The drink will flow and blood will spill
And if the boys want to fight, you'd better let them
That jukebox in the corner blasting out my favorite song
The nights are getting warmer, it won't be long
Won't be long till summer comes
Now that the boys are here again
The boys are back in town
The boys are back in town...
"It's a few hundred miles to the rendezvous, it's getting dark, we've got a full weapons load and loud music.
Hit it."
Behind him, there was a slight chuckle. He turned just in time to see the Marine lieutenant bearing down on him, apparently wanting to either shake his hand, salute him or throw him overboard for hiding.
...Blast.
According to wikipedia, "the Mohorovičić discontinuity is the boundary between the Earth's crust and the mantle."
According to Starbound, it's a problem solvable with enough combat drugs to turn you into the Incredible Hulk.
According to Starbound, it's a problem solvable with enough combat drugs to turn you into the Incredible Hulk.
Guess who's coming to Dinner
Bucher slammed down the phone, cursing Read Admiral Castillo, USN Supply Corps. Before this was over he'd have to go over and kick his ass. Castillo was beign remarkably frugal with the requested stores, and thus far the amount aboard the Arcadia(and the escorts up at Norfolk) were well below deployment norm. He didn't want to bring this up with Admiral Christy, but the supply boys were doing a pretty good job of ignoring anything that had "GDI" in the message header. Noting that it was nearly 1800, He got up from his desk, then headed for the door.
He was halfway down to the quarterdeck when Chan caught up to him.
"Working late, Travis?"
"Sir, do you remember the dinner with Admiral Rebikov...?"
"Oh, Damnit. Did I miss him getting bonged on? I didn't even hear it."
"Well, I didn't either Sir. The Officer Quarterdeck didn't ding him on."
"Whaaaatttt??? They just waved aboard a Flag officer?"
"I think Ensign Cascade(she was OOD) doesn't care much for Russians..."
"Well, God...alright, fine, she still on watch?"
"She might be in one of the Wardrooms..."
By now he had changed directions and was heading back towards Flag country. "Fine, I'll tell Captain Pick about it. I don't want these people on an American ship any more than she does, but it's going to be a long deployment if the Officer of the Deck won't even extend honors and courtesies. If you could find her and rip her a new one before I tell Pick, that would be great. After that, go home. You look deader than a Texas Armadillo."
"Yes sir. Have a good one."
"You too." He stopped at Rebikov's door and knocked. After the third knock he realised he may be a bit underdressed, wearing simple working khakis. Rebikov's steward opened the door, and he heard Nickolai's voice. "Admiral Bucher, please come in."
"Lonestar is fine, Nick." Bucher said. Entering he could see luggage and a as-yet set table. There was a mountain of paperwork on Rebikov's desk that rivaled even his. He had clearly just got dressed, wearing a dress uniform. He looks like Grand Moff Tarkin Bucher thought. Making a show of glancing around the cabin, he said "Did it take longer to check on board than you thought?"
"Minor issues, here and there. Nothing to worry about. Please, sit."
The two sat at the table, with the steward bringing pouring hot tea for Rebikov and Iced Tea for Bucher. A jolt of paranois ran through Bucher's body, wondering how they knew how much he despised hot tea. Then he remembered the Mee-and-greet they had had in New York, and how he had mentioned it in passing there.
"My aide told me that you weren't bonged on. The officer in question is going to be disciplined and it won't happen again."
"There's no need..."
"Nick...this deployment is going to be rough enough with such a large Russian presence. I'm going to make sure that everyone knows to maintain a level of professionalism, no matter how much they hate the idea of Russkis on American vessels."
"And do you," Rebikov smiled "Hate the idea of Russkis on American vessels?"
"If you're really the 'senior intelligence officer' you already know the answer to that. Now...is there a particular agenda for this dinner, or is it social?"
"No, I was just hoping we could get to know each other more."
"Very well." Bucher smiled. "You first."
Bucher slammed down the phone, cursing Read Admiral Castillo, USN Supply Corps. Before this was over he'd have to go over and kick his ass. Castillo was beign remarkably frugal with the requested stores, and thus far the amount aboard the Arcadia(and the escorts up at Norfolk) were well below deployment norm. He didn't want to bring this up with Admiral Christy, but the supply boys were doing a pretty good job of ignoring anything that had "GDI" in the message header. Noting that it was nearly 1800, He got up from his desk, then headed for the door.
He was halfway down to the quarterdeck when Chan caught up to him.
"Working late, Travis?"
"Sir, do you remember the dinner with Admiral Rebikov...?"
"Oh, Damnit. Did I miss him getting bonged on? I didn't even hear it."
"Well, I didn't either Sir. The Officer Quarterdeck didn't ding him on."
"Whaaaatttt??? They just waved aboard a Flag officer?"
"I think Ensign Cascade(she was OOD) doesn't care much for Russians..."
"Well, God...alright, fine, she still on watch?"
"She might be in one of the Wardrooms..."
By now he had changed directions and was heading back towards Flag country. "Fine, I'll tell Captain Pick about it. I don't want these people on an American ship any more than she does, but it's going to be a long deployment if the Officer of the Deck won't even extend honors and courtesies. If you could find her and rip her a new one before I tell Pick, that would be great. After that, go home. You look deader than a Texas Armadillo."
"Yes sir. Have a good one."
"You too." He stopped at Rebikov's door and knocked. After the third knock he realised he may be a bit underdressed, wearing simple working khakis. Rebikov's steward opened the door, and he heard Nickolai's voice. "Admiral Bucher, please come in."
"Lonestar is fine, Nick." Bucher said. Entering he could see luggage and a as-yet set table. There was a mountain of paperwork on Rebikov's desk that rivaled even his. He had clearly just got dressed, wearing a dress uniform. He looks like Grand Moff Tarkin Bucher thought. Making a show of glancing around the cabin, he said "Did it take longer to check on board than you thought?"
"Minor issues, here and there. Nothing to worry about. Please, sit."
The two sat at the table, with the steward bringing pouring hot tea for Rebikov and Iced Tea for Bucher. A jolt of paranois ran through Bucher's body, wondering how they knew how much he despised hot tea. Then he remembered the Mee-and-greet they had had in New York, and how he had mentioned it in passing there.
"My aide told me that you weren't bonged on. The officer in question is going to be disciplined and it won't happen again."
"There's no need..."
"Nick...this deployment is going to be rough enough with such a large Russian presence. I'm going to make sure that everyone knows to maintain a level of professionalism, no matter how much they hate the idea of Russkis on American vessels."
"And do you," Rebikov smiled "Hate the idea of Russkis on American vessels?"
"If you're really the 'senior intelligence officer' you already know the answer to that. Now...is there a particular agenda for this dinner, or is it social?"
"No, I was just hoping we could get to know each other more."
"Very well." Bucher smiled. "You first."
Last edited by Lonestar on 2006-07-17 09:06pm, 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."
Norfolk Naval Shipyard
It was still raining when Isaac Reynold arrived at his ultimate destination. The storm system had evidently followed him all the way down from Andrews Air Force Base, but a quickly-requisition overcoat made the torrent somewhat more bearable as the brigadier general stepped from the rear entrance of the main administration building and onto the colossal dock yards. In the shadow of half a dozen docked warships, men and women of all service and rank bustled about in spite of the weather and late hour, ferrying crew and cargo to and from the vessels and preforming all varieties of minor maintenance.
The keel of each mighty ship was truly impressive in scale and sheer presence, but all paled in comparison to the monster in the centermost dock; the Arcadia. Reynold had seen aircraft carriers like her in port before, but he had never set foot on one, and could scarcely imagine ever doing so. He had never been particular intimidated by any naval vessel before, but he had only been stationed on them; commanding an entire strike group was a different matter entirely.
"Sir!" A young-looking man in an overcoat similar to Reynold's approached him and saluted. "Captain John Frakes of the 10th Marine Brigade. I've been assigned to show you to the temporary quarters we have prepared for you."
Reynolds returned the salute, glad to be speaking to one of his own calling again. "At ease, Captain. So, the Harbinger hasn't arrived yet?"
"No, sir. Captain Kurilov is still enroute. He should arrive in five days."
"What about Colonel Tasoth? I'd like to review our complement before the task force is deployed."
"Unfortuantely, sir, the Colonel is presently off-base, working out a few last-minute transfers with 2nd Marine Division, but he is scheduled to be back by 08:00 tomorrow. He's already started distributing detachments to the ships that are in port, though. We'll have the last of the heavy equipment loaded onto the Omaha by 20:00 tomorrow, at the latest."
Reynold nodded thoughtfully. "Sounds like he's taken the right amount initiative. What about Admiral Christy?"
"Flying back from Washington as we speak, sir. ETA, 23:30."
"Hum... what about Rear Admiral Bucher? I haven't seen him for years."
"I believe he and Rear Admiral Rebikov are conducting a meeting onboard the Arcadia, or at least they were an hour ago."
Reynold's eyes narrowed. "Rebikov."
"Yes, sir. He arrived this afternoon. Shall I inform Rear Admiral Bucher that you would like to met with him?"
The brigadier general stared sternly at the Arcadia's ominous bulk in the distance, but at length shook his head. "No, it can wait until tomorrow. I think I'd rather just head to quarters."
"Of course, sir. This way."
The young officer pointed out a building in the foggy distance and the two began to walk, weaving between cargo lifters and preoccupied crewmen. As they walked, Reynold took another look at his guide. "Where are you assigned, Captain?"
"The Alamo, sir."
"I'll remember that," Reynold replied, smiling imperceptibly.
It was still raining when Isaac Reynold arrived at his ultimate destination. The storm system had evidently followed him all the way down from Andrews Air Force Base, but a quickly-requisition overcoat made the torrent somewhat more bearable as the brigadier general stepped from the rear entrance of the main administration building and onto the colossal dock yards. In the shadow of half a dozen docked warships, men and women of all service and rank bustled about in spite of the weather and late hour, ferrying crew and cargo to and from the vessels and preforming all varieties of minor maintenance.
The keel of each mighty ship was truly impressive in scale and sheer presence, but all paled in comparison to the monster in the centermost dock; the Arcadia. Reynold had seen aircraft carriers like her in port before, but he had never set foot on one, and could scarcely imagine ever doing so. He had never been particular intimidated by any naval vessel before, but he had only been stationed on them; commanding an entire strike group was a different matter entirely.
"Sir!" A young-looking man in an overcoat similar to Reynold's approached him and saluted. "Captain John Frakes of the 10th Marine Brigade. I've been assigned to show you to the temporary quarters we have prepared for you."
Reynolds returned the salute, glad to be speaking to one of his own calling again. "At ease, Captain. So, the Harbinger hasn't arrived yet?"
"No, sir. Captain Kurilov is still enroute. He should arrive in five days."
"What about Colonel Tasoth? I'd like to review our complement before the task force is deployed."
"Unfortuantely, sir, the Colonel is presently off-base, working out a few last-minute transfers with 2nd Marine Division, but he is scheduled to be back by 08:00 tomorrow. He's already started distributing detachments to the ships that are in port, though. We'll have the last of the heavy equipment loaded onto the Omaha by 20:00 tomorrow, at the latest."
Reynold nodded thoughtfully. "Sounds like he's taken the right amount initiative. What about Admiral Christy?"
"Flying back from Washington as we speak, sir. ETA, 23:30."
"Hum... what about Rear Admiral Bucher? I haven't seen him for years."
"I believe he and Rear Admiral Rebikov are conducting a meeting onboard the Arcadia, or at least they were an hour ago."
Reynold's eyes narrowed. "Rebikov."
"Yes, sir. He arrived this afternoon. Shall I inform Rear Admiral Bucher that you would like to met with him?"
The brigadier general stared sternly at the Arcadia's ominous bulk in the distance, but at length shook his head. "No, it can wait until tomorrow. I think I'd rather just head to quarters."
"Of course, sir. This way."
The young officer pointed out a building in the foggy distance and the two began to walk, weaving between cargo lifters and preoccupied crewmen. As they walked, Reynold took another look at his guide. "Where are you assigned, Captain?"
"The Alamo, sir."
"I'll remember that," Reynold replied, smiling imperceptibly.
The Rift
Stanislav Petrov- The man who saved the world
Hugh Thompson Jr.- A True American Hero
"In the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope." - President Barack Obama
"May fortune favor you, for your goals are the goals of the world." - Ancient Chall valediction
Stanislav Petrov- The man who saved the world
Hugh Thompson Jr.- A True American Hero
"In the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope." - President Barack Obama
"May fortune favor you, for your goals are the goals of the world." - Ancient Chall valediction
-
Darth Raptor
- Red Mage
- Posts: 5448
- Joined: 2003-12-18 03:39am
Raptor surpressed a shudder as the boarding of Brigadier General Reynold was announced. He capitalized on the interruption by getting up and crossing the room. Opening his liquor cabinet, he produced a bottle of vodka and two glasses.
"Care for a drink, Admiral?"
Bucher cleared his throat. "Ah, no thanks. I'm going to be working late."
Nickolai put one of the glasses away. Then, pausing briefly, put the other away and proceeded to drink straight from the bottle.
"So you graduated from Grechko at twenty six?"
"With no small amount of help from the Politburo, mind."
Bucher made a face like he tasted sour milk. "Oh, right."
"It was early in the war. They needed real talent at the front to facilitate the Navy's entrance into the North Atlantic."
"Keflavik..." Lonestar growled, "A lot of good men died because of you."
Rebikov took another swig of hard liquor. "The same is true for you, Comrade Admiral. That is the reality of war. You know this as well, surely. Wars are pointless and barbarous. They don't need to be faught; but when they break out they do need to be won. Quickly and efficiently."
"Is that why you turned traitor? To end the war before it really got out of hand?"
Nickolai laughed. "What do you think?"
"I think you spied a long shot at a chance to go straight to the top." Bucher sipped his tea. "And you took it."
Rebikov laughed again. "I'm hardly at "the top", Admiral."
"You're on first name basis with the Premier of the Russian SSR. That's got to count for something. Speaking of which, why would someone with prospects like that retire right after the coup?"
"I didn't retire. I left the People's Navy. These last fifteen years have been almost comically busy for me. In Russia, if someone tells you to do something, you do it. Likewise, if you tell someone to do something, they do it. You can imagine what a shock it was for me to work at the United Nations." He sat down again. "Of course, it's been an enlightening experience as well. If nothing else, I'm now convinced that the decision I made was the right one."
"Well, we're eternally indebted to you. Whatever your motivations." The American admiral finished his tea. "Wait, does that mean you've taken a shine to the way we do things?"
Rebikov nearly choked. "What? No, of course not. I hate New York and I hate America. Granted, I was raised to, but seeing them with my own eyes only confirmed my prejudices."
"Well," Lonestar laughed, "at least you're being honest."
"Your politics are mind-numbing, your economic policies are fascist, and the extent to which religion pervades your government is personally sickening."
Bucher's eyes narrowed. "I'm not interested in debating politics or religion."
Nickolai threw his hands up defensively. "I assure you, Admiral, neither am I. Especially if I must coexist with Christian capitalists on an indefinate basis. There is a saying in your language. Don't throw stones from a glass house? Twentieth Century Russia has hardly been a utopia either."
"So why now? Why the GDI?"
"Simple questions don't always have simple answers, Admiral. But, to put it succinctly, I do what is best for the Union."
"Bullshit. If that were the case you wouldn't have helped it to fragment or allowed its power projection capabilities to erode like they have. I know everything you do is directed toward your own personal interests, I just have no idea what those are."
Rebikov laughed. "Oh my, the DIA file on myself must not be very flattering."
"Is my KGB file?"
"No, but if you spend any significant amount of time in my business you learn that such information isn't always reliable. You're hardly a monster."
"Thanks, but I fail to see what you could possibly have in mind for this task force. It has to be big, because you played a large part in its creation. Even if I were to take your word for it, this looks like nothing but bad news for Russia's chances at becoming a superpower again."
"You're assuming that a country's best interests are directly related to its military power. With the Union's demilitarization thousands of people are alive today that would have starved otherwise. Russia's economy is finally starting to turn around, but we're now more vulnerable than ever before."
"So you think the GDI'll make it so you don't need an army? I don't buy that, even if I did buy that you were some kind of humanitarian. You're not a bad guy, really, but you're still Russian."
Rebikov finally removed his service cap and loosened his collar. He looked less like Tarkin and more like one of those long-haired hippies who wore Soviet garb to 'make a statement'. "I won't ask you to trust me, Comrade Admiral. That would be an unreasonable request. The Premier doesn't even trust me, and rightly so. Once a traitor, always a traitor and all that. I am allowed to live merely because of my talents. No other reason. But, for what it's worth, you have nothing to fear from me."
Bucher examined his empty teacup. "Why doesn't that make me feel better?"
Raptor shrugged. "Your turn."
"Care for a drink, Admiral?"
Bucher cleared his throat. "Ah, no thanks. I'm going to be working late."
Nickolai put one of the glasses away. Then, pausing briefly, put the other away and proceeded to drink straight from the bottle.
"So you graduated from Grechko at twenty six?"
"With no small amount of help from the Politburo, mind."
Bucher made a face like he tasted sour milk. "Oh, right."
"It was early in the war. They needed real talent at the front to facilitate the Navy's entrance into the North Atlantic."
"Keflavik..." Lonestar growled, "A lot of good men died because of you."
Rebikov took another swig of hard liquor. "The same is true for you, Comrade Admiral. That is the reality of war. You know this as well, surely. Wars are pointless and barbarous. They don't need to be faught; but when they break out they do need to be won. Quickly and efficiently."
"Is that why you turned traitor? To end the war before it really got out of hand?"
Nickolai laughed. "What do you think?"
"I think you spied a long shot at a chance to go straight to the top." Bucher sipped his tea. "And you took it."
Rebikov laughed again. "I'm hardly at "the top", Admiral."
"You're on first name basis with the Premier of the Russian SSR. That's got to count for something. Speaking of which, why would someone with prospects like that retire right after the coup?"
"I didn't retire. I left the People's Navy. These last fifteen years have been almost comically busy for me. In Russia, if someone tells you to do something, you do it. Likewise, if you tell someone to do something, they do it. You can imagine what a shock it was for me to work at the United Nations." He sat down again. "Of course, it's been an enlightening experience as well. If nothing else, I'm now convinced that the decision I made was the right one."
"Well, we're eternally indebted to you. Whatever your motivations." The American admiral finished his tea. "Wait, does that mean you've taken a shine to the way we do things?"
Rebikov nearly choked. "What? No, of course not. I hate New York and I hate America. Granted, I was raised to, but seeing them with my own eyes only confirmed my prejudices."
"Well," Lonestar laughed, "at least you're being honest."
"Your politics are mind-numbing, your economic policies are fascist, and the extent to which religion pervades your government is personally sickening."
Bucher's eyes narrowed. "I'm not interested in debating politics or religion."
Nickolai threw his hands up defensively. "I assure you, Admiral, neither am I. Especially if I must coexist with Christian capitalists on an indefinate basis. There is a saying in your language. Don't throw stones from a glass house? Twentieth Century Russia has hardly been a utopia either."
"So why now? Why the GDI?"
"Simple questions don't always have simple answers, Admiral. But, to put it succinctly, I do what is best for the Union."
"Bullshit. If that were the case you wouldn't have helped it to fragment or allowed its power projection capabilities to erode like they have. I know everything you do is directed toward your own personal interests, I just have no idea what those are."
Rebikov laughed. "Oh my, the DIA file on myself must not be very flattering."
"Is my KGB file?"
"No, but if you spend any significant amount of time in my business you learn that such information isn't always reliable. You're hardly a monster."
"Thanks, but I fail to see what you could possibly have in mind for this task force. It has to be big, because you played a large part in its creation. Even if I were to take your word for it, this looks like nothing but bad news for Russia's chances at becoming a superpower again."
"You're assuming that a country's best interests are directly related to its military power. With the Union's demilitarization thousands of people are alive today that would have starved otherwise. Russia's economy is finally starting to turn around, but we're now more vulnerable than ever before."
"So you think the GDI'll make it so you don't need an army? I don't buy that, even if I did buy that you were some kind of humanitarian. You're not a bad guy, really, but you're still Russian."
Rebikov finally removed his service cap and loosened his collar. He looked less like Tarkin and more like one of those long-haired hippies who wore Soviet garb to 'make a statement'. "I won't ask you to trust me, Comrade Admiral. That would be an unreasonable request. The Premier doesn't even trust me, and rightly so. Once a traitor, always a traitor and all that. I am allowed to live merely because of my talents. No other reason. But, for what it's worth, you have nothing to fear from me."
Bucher examined his empty teacup. "Why doesn't that make me feel better?"
Raptor shrugged. "Your turn."
Bucher spread his arms out, as if to show he was holding anything dangerous.
"Not much to tell. Went to Texas A&M 'cause everyone else in my family did, was lucky enough to make the aviator course, even luckier to make the Intruders. I'm just a jumped up asshole from Fort Worth with no important friends."
Rebikov grinned. "Wasn't the Governor of Texas your College roommate?"
"They put the wierdest shit in personnel files. Anywho, you know the rest. You could have sold the Flag Interview to pay-per-view, I'm still amazed I got it."
"I'm sure the Navy cross had something to do with it."
"All I did was carry my flight officer 50 damn miles to our lines, and he would not stop whining that the piece of shrapnel that nearly killed him wrecked the Bible he had in his chest pocket."
Rebikov chuckled.
"I got him all the way back....he died a few years back." Bucher shook his head He died because of those wounds, asshole "And here I am, talking to a Russian, a traitor Russian, on the newest CVN in the American fleet. So new they're still running cables. Jesus H. Christ. Every dead shipmate is probably getting ready to beat the tar outta me because of this."
"I hardly think..."
Bucher raised his hand for silence.
"Like I said Nick, this is going to be a long enough deployment without people intentionally making it difficult...but don't expect me to not keep an eye on you. I know you're in tight with Admiral Christy, but between me and Reynolds we're going to make sure you don't step out of line. If any of my Shipmates needlessly die because of you or any advice you may give the Admiral...you're done."
"I think you're overestimating my power with the CTF."
Bucher's smile was so thin as to be a line. "I think you're full of shit. I think that if you aren't up to something, your bosses are. I think that with a title like 'senior intelligence officer'(and way to senior for that title) you're setting yourself to have an undue influence on the way the CTF will operate. But, rest assured, I will make sure all courtesies are extended, and you are treated with the respect your rank entails. I'm not going to snub you, because information sharing is a two-way street, and I don't want to be 'that guy' that hindered the warfighting capability of this task force." He glanced at the clock. Only 30 minutes had gone by but it felt much longer. "You have a place out in town?"
"No, my family is in Moscow."
"Ah, bummer. Well, I see that I have ruined the dinner with my bluntness." Bucher stood up. "If you don't mind, we will be starting work-ups soon, and I'd like to spend as much time with the Old Lady as possible before that."
"Of course, understandable. Good night Lonestar."
Bucher walked towards the door, Rebikov's steward rushing forward to open it first. He glanced back, and realised that Raptor was so utterly alone here. I must be out of my Goddamn mind. "Nick, I'm having a BBQ over at my place Sunday. Wanna come?"
"Certainly."
Bucher stepped out and headed for the brow. Reynolds and various other war buddies were going to be there as well. Should make for interesting headlines. 2 Flag officers, 3 Captains jailed for assault during drunken brawl at BBQ He shook his head. He really needed to considered what he said before he said it in the future.
"Not much to tell. Went to Texas A&M 'cause everyone else in my family did, was lucky enough to make the aviator course, even luckier to make the Intruders. I'm just a jumped up asshole from Fort Worth with no important friends."
Rebikov grinned. "Wasn't the Governor of Texas your College roommate?"
"They put the wierdest shit in personnel files. Anywho, you know the rest. You could have sold the Flag Interview to pay-per-view, I'm still amazed I got it."
"I'm sure the Navy cross had something to do with it."
"All I did was carry my flight officer 50 damn miles to our lines, and he would not stop whining that the piece of shrapnel that nearly killed him wrecked the Bible he had in his chest pocket."
Rebikov chuckled.
"I got him all the way back....he died a few years back." Bucher shook his head He died because of those wounds, asshole "And here I am, talking to a Russian, a traitor Russian, on the newest CVN in the American fleet. So new they're still running cables. Jesus H. Christ. Every dead shipmate is probably getting ready to beat the tar outta me because of this."
"I hardly think..."
Bucher raised his hand for silence.
"Like I said Nick, this is going to be a long enough deployment without people intentionally making it difficult...but don't expect me to not keep an eye on you. I know you're in tight with Admiral Christy, but between me and Reynolds we're going to make sure you don't step out of line. If any of my Shipmates needlessly die because of you or any advice you may give the Admiral...you're done."
"I think you're overestimating my power with the CTF."
Bucher's smile was so thin as to be a line. "I think you're full of shit. I think that if you aren't up to something, your bosses are. I think that with a title like 'senior intelligence officer'(and way to senior for that title) you're setting yourself to have an undue influence on the way the CTF will operate. But, rest assured, I will make sure all courtesies are extended, and you are treated with the respect your rank entails. I'm not going to snub you, because information sharing is a two-way street, and I don't want to be 'that guy' that hindered the warfighting capability of this task force." He glanced at the clock. Only 30 minutes had gone by but it felt much longer. "You have a place out in town?"
"No, my family is in Moscow."
"Ah, bummer. Well, I see that I have ruined the dinner with my bluntness." Bucher stood up. "If you don't mind, we will be starting work-ups soon, and I'd like to spend as much time with the Old Lady as possible before that."
"Of course, understandable. Good night Lonestar."
Bucher walked towards the door, Rebikov's steward rushing forward to open it first. He glanced back, and realised that Raptor was so utterly alone here. I must be out of my Goddamn mind. "Nick, I'm having a BBQ over at my place Sunday. Wanna come?"
"Certainly."
Bucher stepped out and headed for the brow. Reynolds and various other war buddies were going to be there as well. Should make for interesting headlines. 2 Flag officers, 3 Captains jailed for assault during drunken brawl at BBQ He shook his head. He really needed to considered what he said before he said it in the future.
"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."
A pair of Sea Knights landed on the top deck of the Alamo late in the afternoon. Out of one hopped a hefty 30-something gent in a plain deep blue coat. He grabbed his briefcase as a crewman grabbed his meager luggage. The sailors coming off the choppers stopped to salute him as he stopped to introduce himself to an officer directing the new arrivals to their quarters. He politely returned the salutes as said officer took him in hand and brought him to his office. When he was alone, Captain Christopher Diehl opened his safe and pulled out the information left for him about the newly-formed CTF-81.
Removing his coat and cap, he had on a slightly lived-in officer's uniform, adorned with just a few campaign ribbons and medals. He sat down with the files left for him and learned what he could about the unit he'd just joined. He quickly found that he knew many of the names of the leading officers, though mostly by reputation. Diehl himself had spent almost his whole career away from heavy combat, serving on and later commanding a number of support ships. His only combat experience was during the retreat from Iceland, serving on one of the transports that helped evacuate NATO troops.
Since the war, he'd spent years on all manner of the less impressive types of vessels, doing the unglamorous but necessary jobs that kept the fleet going. When the chance to command the Alamo was offered, he took the position in hopes of silencing those few of the brass who took the time to consider him, and found him a slacker. He owed his rank mainly to his having remained in the Navy after the war, when a number of officers retired, and partly because he'd once held the rank temporarily during the war.
After looking over the information he'd been given, Captain Diehl called in some of the officers and received reports on the ship's current status. The Alamo now had its complement of helicopters and still awaited her Ospreys, which would arrive the next day. They would receive their complement of Marines as soon as the Omaha receives hers, and in the interim, the last few crew members they were expecting would arrive. After getting up to speed, Captain Diehl called for his assistant to send a message to Admiral Christy, Admiral Rebikov and General Reynold, informing them of his arrival aboard ship and keeping them abreast of the current situation. This done, he went to his quarters to get out of the formal uniform and go grab a meal before calling it an early night.
Removing his coat and cap, he had on a slightly lived-in officer's uniform, adorned with just a few campaign ribbons and medals. He sat down with the files left for him and learned what he could about the unit he'd just joined. He quickly found that he knew many of the names of the leading officers, though mostly by reputation. Diehl himself had spent almost his whole career away from heavy combat, serving on and later commanding a number of support ships. His only combat experience was during the retreat from Iceland, serving on one of the transports that helped evacuate NATO troops.
Since the war, he'd spent years on all manner of the less impressive types of vessels, doing the unglamorous but necessary jobs that kept the fleet going. When the chance to command the Alamo was offered, he took the position in hopes of silencing those few of the brass who took the time to consider him, and found him a slacker. He owed his rank mainly to his having remained in the Navy after the war, when a number of officers retired, and partly because he'd once held the rank temporarily during the war.
After looking over the information he'd been given, Captain Diehl called in some of the officers and received reports on the ship's current status. The Alamo now had its complement of helicopters and still awaited her Ospreys, which would arrive the next day. They would receive their complement of Marines as soon as the Omaha receives hers, and in the interim, the last few crew members they were expecting would arrive. After getting up to speed, Captain Diehl called for his assistant to send a message to Admiral Christy, Admiral Rebikov and General Reynold, informing them of his arrival aboard ship and keeping them abreast of the current situation. This done, he went to his quarters to get out of the formal uniform and go grab a meal before calling it an early night.
Last edited by CDiehl on 2006-07-18 02:17am, edited 1 time in total.
For the glory of Gondor, I sack this here concession stand!
Not really sure what I'm doing,
HMAS Renown - Just off Norfolk.
2315 Hours Zulu Time
With a smirk on his face, atg turned to his bridge air-ops officer.
"Tell the choppers to return and well done!"
"Yes captain!"
He always felt like this after an exercise, well a successful exercise anyway.
Two of his apache helicopters had just bagged themselves an American destroyer. Comming in low the experimental seaborne varients of the famous attack helicopter had come in low, and from another direction than the American commander had expected.
Their simulated missiles would have torn through the desoyers unarmoured side, crippling or sinking the vessel.
That had come at the "cost" of one of his other Apaches, acting as a diversion.
His pilots would have to improve though, atg wanted to do the same to a Tico some day, but the aegis system they carried would be much harder to defeat.
Walking over to a radio console, he flicked a switch and set a timer for 10 minutes. Immediately massive amount of radio wave signals were sent out in the direction of the "dead" destroyer, with enough power to override any other incoming transmissions the bridge crew would hear nothing but Wagner's "Ride of the Valkries" from their radio systems for the next 10 minutes.
"Incoming messge from the yank, sir. They sound right pissed."
"Excellent, I 'spose I'll get a bollocking for this, but its worth it."
Especially worth it to see the looks of mirth on the faces on his bridge crew. Over the following hours, the news of what happened during the exercise and what their captain did with the yank radios would filter throughout his crew, morale as always would be high following this.
The next "target" he was thinking of was the Arcadia, but the Admiral probably wouldn't appreciate having some marines staging a helicopter "assault" on the Arcadia while she was in port. Pity.
"Helm, bring us about, we're heading back in. Air-ops, make sure those Apaches get on board alright. I want 'em refueled and rearmed asap."
"Sir."
This GDI stuff was becoming interesting.......
HMAS Renown - Just off Norfolk.
2315 Hours Zulu Time
With a smirk on his face, atg turned to his bridge air-ops officer.
"Tell the choppers to return and well done!"
"Yes captain!"
He always felt like this after an exercise, well a successful exercise anyway.
Two of his apache helicopters had just bagged themselves an American destroyer. Comming in low the experimental seaborne varients of the famous attack helicopter had come in low, and from another direction than the American commander had expected.
Their simulated missiles would have torn through the desoyers unarmoured side, crippling or sinking the vessel.
That had come at the "cost" of one of his other Apaches, acting as a diversion.
His pilots would have to improve though, atg wanted to do the same to a Tico some day, but the aegis system they carried would be much harder to defeat.
Walking over to a radio console, he flicked a switch and set a timer for 10 minutes. Immediately massive amount of radio wave signals were sent out in the direction of the "dead" destroyer, with enough power to override any other incoming transmissions the bridge crew would hear nothing but Wagner's "Ride of the Valkries" from their radio systems for the next 10 minutes.
"Incoming messge from the yank, sir. They sound right pissed."
"Excellent, I 'spose I'll get a bollocking for this, but its worth it."
Especially worth it to see the looks of mirth on the faces on his bridge crew. Over the following hours, the news of what happened during the exercise and what their captain did with the yank radios would filter throughout his crew, morale as always would be high following this.
The next "target" he was thinking of was the Arcadia, but the Admiral probably wouldn't appreciate having some marines staging a helicopter "assault" on the Arcadia while she was in port. Pity.
"Helm, bring us about, we're heading back in. Air-ops, make sure those Apaches get on board alright. I want 'em refueled and rearmed asap."
"Sir."
This GDI stuff was becoming interesting.......
Marcus Aurelius: ...the Swedish S-tank; the exception is made mostly because the Swedes insisted really hard that it is a tank rather than a tank destroyer or assault gun
Ilya Muromets: And now I have this image of a massive, stern-looking Swede staring down a bunch of military nerds. "It's a tank." "Uh, yes Sir. Please don't hurt us."
Ilya Muromets: And now I have this image of a massive, stern-looking Swede staring down a bunch of military nerds. "It's a tank." "Uh, yes Sir. Please don't hurt us."
-
Civil War Man
- NERRRRRDS!!!
- Posts: 3790
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In the North Pacific
"We're coming up on the task force now, Captain."
"Thank you, Mr. Devereaux."
"Captain?"
"Yes?"
"Here," said Devereaux, as he handed a bottle of whiskey to Captain Langarek.
"Where did you get this?" Marcus asked.
"Picked it up at the American base when we stopped in Pusan. Got enough for the whole crew. That's your share of it."
"Mr. Devereaux," said Marcus with a large grin on his face. "You are the best quartermaster a man could ask for." He unscrewed the lid, but paused right before he was able to take a drink. "Wait...you got enough for the entire crew?"
"Yes."
"And this is my share."
"That's what I said."
"You do remember that provisions are in equal share, and do not follow the rules for dividing up profits, right?"
"Of course."
"Devereaux...there are 400 people on this ship. We are fully stocked with ammunition and supplies. Where the Hell are you keeping this?"
"I can't tell you, sir. Now that we're apparently going legit, you could preside over my court martial."
"I see," Marcus replied, chuckling to himself. "I just hope you didn't have to kill anyone I liked."
"I kept casualties to an acceptable minimum, Captain."
"Good. Now...when you say you got enough for the entire crew. Did you mean everyone?"
"Yep."
"You do realize that half the crew doesn't drink, being Muslim and all."
"I know. Just means more for us."
"Now that's something I can drink to." Captain Langarek raised his bottle up in the air. "To the New World Order. Proving once and for all that evolution is not all it's cracked up to be."
The bottle clinked as the quartermaster rapped his own drink against it. "Cheers."
"We're coming up on the task force now, Captain."
"Thank you, Mr. Devereaux."
"Captain?"
"Yes?"
"Here," said Devereaux, as he handed a bottle of whiskey to Captain Langarek.
"Where did you get this?" Marcus asked.
"Picked it up at the American base when we stopped in Pusan. Got enough for the whole crew. That's your share of it."
"Mr. Devereaux," said Marcus with a large grin on his face. "You are the best quartermaster a man could ask for." He unscrewed the lid, but paused right before he was able to take a drink. "Wait...you got enough for the entire crew?"
"Yes."
"And this is my share."
"That's what I said."
"You do remember that provisions are in equal share, and do not follow the rules for dividing up profits, right?"
"Of course."
"Devereaux...there are 400 people on this ship. We are fully stocked with ammunition and supplies. Where the Hell are you keeping this?"
"I can't tell you, sir. Now that we're apparently going legit, you could preside over my court martial."
"I see," Marcus replied, chuckling to himself. "I just hope you didn't have to kill anyone I liked."
"I kept casualties to an acceptable minimum, Captain."
"Good. Now...when you say you got enough for the entire crew. Did you mean everyone?"
"Yep."
"You do realize that half the crew doesn't drink, being Muslim and all."
"I know. Just means more for us."
"Now that's something I can drink to." Captain Langarek raised his bottle up in the air. "To the New World Order. Proving once and for all that evolution is not all it's cracked up to be."
The bottle clinked as the quartermaster rapped his own drink against it. "Cheers."
USS Arcadia
Norfolk Naval Yard, Portsmouth, VA
I'm too old for this shit Lonestar thought, running down the P-way towards the officer brow. He hadn't expected Admiral Christy to check on until late in the afternoon, but the Bells had bong, and "Commander, Coalition TaskForce 81, arriving" had been announced over the 1MC. He came tearing into the hanger, no doubt making more than a few blueshirts laugh at the idea of a One-star in one hell of a hurry. He could see Rebikov already there, though Captain Pick was approaching at a brisk pace herself. I bet Christy called ahead to that Bastard
Lonestar skidded to a halt and, started to bring up a salute but remembered he was uncovered, and instead extended his hand. "Welcome aboard, Sir." He looked around at the gaggle of j.o.'s that 4-stars always seemed to attract as staff. Most were directing the hapless messenger of the watch to go down to the pier and bring up thier luggage. Christy had his Seabag on his back, however. At least he wasn't as stuck up as his staff, apperently.
"Admiral Bucher, good to see you. Nick," Christy shook Rebikov's hand next, "Captain Harrison..." Pick was covered, and she saluted smartly. Christy frowned. "Is General Reynolds aboard? Or on the Omaha?"
Pick looked at Lonestar, clearly intent on passing the buck. "General Reynolds flew out to pay the captain of the Renown a visit. He should have touched down at the airstation by now, do you want me to call him...?"
"Please, I'd like all my Flag officers onboard for a meer-and-greet."
"Yessir" Lonestar said. With a glance at Lt. Chan, his aide wandered off to make the call. Pick cleared her throat.
"If I may show you to your quarters, sir?"
"Yes, please."
MCCS Claudio, the Chief in charge of the Flag Mess moved forward to take Christy's Seabag, but he was waved off. "Don't worry about it. I do have a few suitcases on the pier tho..." Claudio nodded and directed some FSAs to run down and help the poor MOOW.
The gaggle of Khaki made their way up the ladders to Christy's quarters, which were not materially better or larger than Rebikov's or Bucher's. With a loud thump he dropped the seabag on the deck.
Lt. Chan appeared by Lonestar's side and said "Sirs, I just spoke to General Reynolds' aide, he should be here shortly."
Christy smiled. "Thank you El Tee, can you go down to the quarterdeck and make sure he makes his way up here?." Chan nodded and left. Turning to Captain Pick he said "Captain, you mind if I have some words with my Flag officers?"
Slightly put out at the "Get the Hell out of here" in Navyese, Pick said "Yes Sir." and left. Christy gestured at some chairs and spoke.
"Sit."
Norfolk Naval Yard, Portsmouth, VA
I'm too old for this shit Lonestar thought, running down the P-way towards the officer brow. He hadn't expected Admiral Christy to check on until late in the afternoon, but the Bells had bong, and "Commander, Coalition TaskForce 81, arriving" had been announced over the 1MC. He came tearing into the hanger, no doubt making more than a few blueshirts laugh at the idea of a One-star in one hell of a hurry. He could see Rebikov already there, though Captain Pick was approaching at a brisk pace herself. I bet Christy called ahead to that Bastard
Lonestar skidded to a halt and, started to bring up a salute but remembered he was uncovered, and instead extended his hand. "Welcome aboard, Sir." He looked around at the gaggle of j.o.'s that 4-stars always seemed to attract as staff. Most were directing the hapless messenger of the watch to go down to the pier and bring up thier luggage. Christy had his Seabag on his back, however. At least he wasn't as stuck up as his staff, apperently.
"Admiral Bucher, good to see you. Nick," Christy shook Rebikov's hand next, "Captain Harrison..." Pick was covered, and she saluted smartly. Christy frowned. "Is General Reynolds aboard? Or on the Omaha?"
Pick looked at Lonestar, clearly intent on passing the buck. "General Reynolds flew out to pay the captain of the Renown a visit. He should have touched down at the airstation by now, do you want me to call him...?"
"Please, I'd like all my Flag officers onboard for a meer-and-greet."
"Yessir" Lonestar said. With a glance at Lt. Chan, his aide wandered off to make the call. Pick cleared her throat.
"If I may show you to your quarters, sir?"
"Yes, please."
MCCS Claudio, the Chief in charge of the Flag Mess moved forward to take Christy's Seabag, but he was waved off. "Don't worry about it. I do have a few suitcases on the pier tho..." Claudio nodded and directed some FSAs to run down and help the poor MOOW.
The gaggle of Khaki made their way up the ladders to Christy's quarters, which were not materially better or larger than Rebikov's or Bucher's. With a loud thump he dropped the seabag on the deck.
Lt. Chan appeared by Lonestar's side and said "Sirs, I just spoke to General Reynolds' aide, he should be here shortly."
Christy smiled. "Thank you El Tee, can you go down to the quarterdeck and make sure he makes his way up here?." Chan nodded and left. Turning to Captain Pick he said "Captain, you mind if I have some words with my Flag officers?"
Slightly put out at the "Get the Hell out of here" in Navyese, Pick said "Yes Sir." and left. Christy gestured at some chairs and spoke.
"Sit."
"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."
USS Arcadia
With Captain Frakes in tow, Brigadier General Reynold carefully stepped from an access causeway into the Arcadia's titanic bulk. The vessel was massive enough to nearly provide the illusion of being on solid land, but the Marine still was breaking in his sea legs, and somehow the deck below his feet still seemed to be trying to run away from him. After a monetary, steadying pause, Reynold straightened his uniform and set off through the ship's network of decks and passages, intent on locating Admiral Christy's quarters, or at least someone how could take him there.
So far, his new assignment had proved relatively free of adversity, save for the foul weather that had followed him down the coast the previous night. After a rather fitful night in his quarters, which were both cramped compared to the civilian accommodations he had enjoyed for the past decade, and comforting at the same time. It was nice to be back on duty, even if that duty was onboard floating mechanical monster.
He had spent his first morning inspecting the ships in his ESG that had already arrived, and meeting with their captains, a brief tour that culminated with a somewhat uneasy conversation with the captain of the Australian assault carrier Renown. Though the man, one Commander Alister Bey, was both an eminently competent officer and a lucid conversationalist, Reynold developed the distinct impression that Bey was rather ambivalent towards him, or perhaps Americans in general (snippets of conversation he had picked up on the Arcadia's mess about a rather unorthodox and unnecessary maneuver the ship had pulled during a recent exercise seemed to lend credence to the idea). Nevertheless, both had served in the effort to retake Iceland from the Soviets, so they had something to talk about before Reynold managed to make an exit.
"Brigadier General."
A brown-haired woman, perhaps in her late thirties caught Reynold's attention as began to mount a flight of stairs. Doubling back, he saw that she was wearing a smart naval officer's uniform, and by the bars on her cuffs, that of a captain.
"You must be Captain Harrison," the marine said, shaking her hand. "I've heard good things about you. Top of your class at the Naval Academy, they say, and the newest CO in the fleet."
"Yes, sir, thank you," she replied. "Even so, I'm still surprised that I've been able to rise this far. It must be a testament to abilities I didn't know I had. The Brass doesn't usually make it easy for commissioned women." The captain paused. "Off the record, of course."
Reynold nodded. "Of course. Still, I know what you're talking about. Some of my colleagues still get sour when someone mentions the full gender integration of the military. I'm still surprised the measure ever made it through Congress. Then again, the war did open a lot of eyes, in a lot of ways."
The Captain smiled. Reynold was more sociable than she had expected, considering his reputation. Some of the Arcadia's detachment of marines even taken to calling him "Ire" off-duty. Perhaps it was just a Marine thing. "Well, Brigadier General, the Admiral is waiting for you in his quarters. I can escort you the rest of the way."
"Lead on, Captain Harrison."
With Captain Frakes in tow, Brigadier General Reynold carefully stepped from an access causeway into the Arcadia's titanic bulk. The vessel was massive enough to nearly provide the illusion of being on solid land, but the Marine still was breaking in his sea legs, and somehow the deck below his feet still seemed to be trying to run away from him. After a monetary, steadying pause, Reynold straightened his uniform and set off through the ship's network of decks and passages, intent on locating Admiral Christy's quarters, or at least someone how could take him there.
So far, his new assignment had proved relatively free of adversity, save for the foul weather that had followed him down the coast the previous night. After a rather fitful night in his quarters, which were both cramped compared to the civilian accommodations he had enjoyed for the past decade, and comforting at the same time. It was nice to be back on duty, even if that duty was onboard floating mechanical monster.
He had spent his first morning inspecting the ships in his ESG that had already arrived, and meeting with their captains, a brief tour that culminated with a somewhat uneasy conversation with the captain of the Australian assault carrier Renown. Though the man, one Commander Alister Bey, was both an eminently competent officer and a lucid conversationalist, Reynold developed the distinct impression that Bey was rather ambivalent towards him, or perhaps Americans in general (snippets of conversation he had picked up on the Arcadia's mess about a rather unorthodox and unnecessary maneuver the ship had pulled during a recent exercise seemed to lend credence to the idea). Nevertheless, both had served in the effort to retake Iceland from the Soviets, so they had something to talk about before Reynold managed to make an exit.
"Brigadier General."
A brown-haired woman, perhaps in her late thirties caught Reynold's attention as began to mount a flight of stairs. Doubling back, he saw that she was wearing a smart naval officer's uniform, and by the bars on her cuffs, that of a captain.
"You must be Captain Harrison," the marine said, shaking her hand. "I've heard good things about you. Top of your class at the Naval Academy, they say, and the newest CO in the fleet."
"Yes, sir, thank you," she replied. "Even so, I'm still surprised that I've been able to rise this far. It must be a testament to abilities I didn't know I had. The Brass doesn't usually make it easy for commissioned women." The captain paused. "Off the record, of course."
Reynold nodded. "Of course. Still, I know what you're talking about. Some of my colleagues still get sour when someone mentions the full gender integration of the military. I'm still surprised the measure ever made it through Congress. Then again, the war did open a lot of eyes, in a lot of ways."
The Captain smiled. Reynold was more sociable than she had expected, considering his reputation. Some of the Arcadia's detachment of marines even taken to calling him "Ire" off-duty. Perhaps it was just a Marine thing. "Well, Brigadier General, the Admiral is waiting for you in his quarters. I can escort you the rest of the way."
"Lead on, Captain Harrison."
The Rift
Stanislav Petrov- The man who saved the world
Hugh Thompson Jr.- A True American Hero
"In the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope." - President Barack Obama
"May fortune favor you, for your goals are the goals of the world." - Ancient Chall valediction
Stanislav Petrov- The man who saved the world
Hugh Thompson Jr.- A True American Hero
"In the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope." - President Barack Obama
"May fortune favor you, for your goals are the goals of the world." - Ancient Chall valediction
-
Uraniun235
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 13772
- Joined: 2002-09-12 12:47am
- Location: OREGON
- Contact:
USS Arcadia
The admirals were all laughing as Reynold entered Christy's cabin.
"Ah, General Reynold. Excellent. We were just having a laugh over my time at the Pentagon. Have a seat."
Reynold smiled as he sat down. "Nothing too outrageous, I expect?"
"Just the usual needling I give Hundley whenever I see him."
"Hundley..." Comprehension dawned on the general's face. "You told him about the Clinton, didn't you?"
A huge grin broke out on Admiral Christy's face. "Left him speechless."
Another laugh. Christy then started speaking.
"Alright. First, I need to make sure we're all clear on the task force's purpose. We're not out to 'preserve the peace' or 'make peace' or 'peace out'. We're here to ensure security."
Rebikov piped up. "And what is the difference, Admiral?"
"With peace, everyone throws away their guns and lives happily ever. With security, we keep our guns, but someone watches us and makes sure we don't start shooting each other. Clear enough?" A pause. No one spoke. "Good. Any questions?"
Reynold spoke up. "Nothing against you, Admiral... but why a four-star admiral for this little endeavor?"
"Officially, it's because a post this important requires an officer of the utmost qualification and experience. Unofficially, it's to present the appearance that I can't be outranked by anyone... except of course, the civilian authorities."
Rebikov spoke again. "And what about your President?"
"He backs me completely. We have nothing to worry about there. At least, that's what he told me." The Admiral shrugged. "I'm inclined to believe him, for what it's worth. What's on your mind, Lonestar?"
"What's Harrison's story? She seems decent enough, but isn't she a bit green to be handed the newest supercarrier?"
"As I'm sure you already suspected, hers was a slightly political choice. A key member in one of the House committees pertaining to the Task Force insisted, quite adamantly, that there be a woman in an important command position. Pick was the most qualified officer we could find. I'm not worried; she seems like a good officer and I think she'll work out."
"Yeah, you're probably right. But why not one of the other ships?"
"We were barely able to placate the honorable congressman with giving Pick the Arcadia as-is." Christy winced and rubbed his face. That had been a hellish meeting. "Anything else?"
The admirals were all laughing as Reynold entered Christy's cabin.
"Ah, General Reynold. Excellent. We were just having a laugh over my time at the Pentagon. Have a seat."
Reynold smiled as he sat down. "Nothing too outrageous, I expect?"
"Just the usual needling I give Hundley whenever I see him."
"Hundley..." Comprehension dawned on the general's face. "You told him about the Clinton, didn't you?"
A huge grin broke out on Admiral Christy's face. "Left him speechless."
Another laugh. Christy then started speaking.
"Alright. First, I need to make sure we're all clear on the task force's purpose. We're not out to 'preserve the peace' or 'make peace' or 'peace out'. We're here to ensure security."
Rebikov piped up. "And what is the difference, Admiral?"
"With peace, everyone throws away their guns and lives happily ever. With security, we keep our guns, but someone watches us and makes sure we don't start shooting each other. Clear enough?" A pause. No one spoke. "Good. Any questions?"
Reynold spoke up. "Nothing against you, Admiral... but why a four-star admiral for this little endeavor?"
"Officially, it's because a post this important requires an officer of the utmost qualification and experience. Unofficially, it's to present the appearance that I can't be outranked by anyone... except of course, the civilian authorities."
Rebikov spoke again. "And what about your President?"
"He backs me completely. We have nothing to worry about there. At least, that's what he told me." The Admiral shrugged. "I'm inclined to believe him, for what it's worth. What's on your mind, Lonestar?"
"What's Harrison's story? She seems decent enough, but isn't she a bit green to be handed the newest supercarrier?"
"As I'm sure you already suspected, hers was a slightly political choice. A key member in one of the House committees pertaining to the Task Force insisted, quite adamantly, that there be a woman in an important command position. Pick was the most qualified officer we could find. I'm not worried; she seems like a good officer and I think she'll work out."
"Yeah, you're probably right. But why not one of the other ships?"
"We were barely able to placate the honorable congressman with giving Pick the Arcadia as-is." Christy winced and rubbed his face. That had been a hellish meeting. "Anything else?"
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Darth Raptor
- Red Mage
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None of the three junior officers said anything.
"Oh-Kay." Christy scratched at his thick beard. "The next thing, I guess, would be to outline some of our more specific functions. As you're all undoubtedly aware, this is shaping up to be quite an interesting century, and we're not even seven years into it."
"Hmph!" Reynold snorted at the deliberate understatement. 'Interesting' wasn't the half of it. Hell, it wasn't even a quarter of it. The United States had been struck by the most devastating attack on its sovereign soil since the Second World War. The GDI cut its teeth in Afghanistan, correcting mistakes made by the major powers during the Cold War. The US-led occupation was struggling to install a stable secular government that five years later wasn't even on its feet yet. And then, in 2003, there was Iraq. The combined NATO/WARPAC offensive easily obliterated President Hussein's Ba'athist regime, which was weakened by over a decade of economic sanctions. While freedom had been ostensibly restored to the country, Iraq was now in the throes of a full scale insurgency that became a massive political and economic strain on the UN in recent years. In the background, brushfire wars throughout the Middle East, South America and sub-Saharan Africa. Terror attacks across Europe and East Asia. The entire world was at war in everything but name.
The four star admiral continued. "The Global Defense Initiative answers to the UN security council. Because of that, there's going to be an inevitable bias toward safeguarding the common interests of the United States, Soviet Union and China. Currently, these are the three main permanent members of the Security Council who are having the biggest problems with terrorism." His eyes narrowed. "Namely, terrorism of the Islamofascist variety. America is, of course, the Great Satan. There's Afghanistan, Iraq and our oh-so-popular alliance with Israel. The Soviet Union is dealing with Kazakh, Azerbaijani and Chechen rebels. In China, Hui nationalists are getting uppity. Although nominally friendly to the West, Indonesia is on the brink of anarchy."
"In other words," Bucher growled. "There'll be plenty of activities to keep us occupied. That right?"
Christy nodded. "Exactly. Never a dull moment once we leave port." He fidgeted impatiently. "IF we ever leave port!"
"So where first?" Reynold's face contorted into an inscrutable mask of ambient hostility.
"The Pacific, obviously, to reunite with the other half of our fleet. Once we link up with Kurilov it's anyone's guess. We await orders from Steiner, Mkembe or the Security Council. As it stands, the UN is running around like decapitated poultry." He nodded to Rebikov. "You just got back from New York, didn't you? Anything to report?"
"Your analogy is quite accurate, Admiral. When I left the General Assembly was in a row over that train bombing in Beijing. Now that all out war has erupted between Israel and Lebanon, I suspect it may be days or even weeks before we are issued any official orders."
Bucher tilted his head. "Speaking of Israel, that seems to be the big thing nowadays. There's talk of sending a multi-national peacekeeping force to southern Lebanon. Maybe we should wait for Kurilov here and set out for the Mediterranean?"
Christy shook his head. "That's another trial for the GDI to be sure, but it's going to mainly be a land-based operation. They could have used us a while ago to get refugees out of there but that's pretty much over with now. No offense, General, but armored and mechanized infantry units are needed for what they're planning."
Reynold nodded knowingly. "More Americans in the area would probably just exacerbate the problem anyway."
"There's nothing we can do from the air that the IDF isn't doing already." Bucher added.
"That's what I'm saying," Christy affirmed. "They won't send us to the Mediterranean. If they do, they're either a bunch of damned fools or they're expecting something major with Syria or Iran."
"This isn't exactly my department," Reynold admitted, "but if that were the case, wouldn't we be better off in the Gulf?"
“That's correct,” Uranium confirmed. “My best guess: The Indian Ocean will probably be the closest to every conceivable hot spot they're liable to send us to. I would suggest we head in that general direction once we rendezvous with the Harbinger and the others.” He turned back to the state room's resident Russian. “Wouldn't you agree?”
“Yes, sir. I would.”
The admiral turned back to Bucher. “Not to rib on you or anything, Lonestar, but I want to dispense with any misconceptions about our tactical role here and now. We're ill-suited for handling the Lebanese thing. We're neither trained nor equipped for a full-scale occupation. That's what Steiner's armored units are for. To put our role in relatively simplistic terms, we're going to use the enemy's tactics against him. This doesn't mean we'll be targeting civilians mind, but rather that we'll be a highly mobile hit-and-run force. Extremely high-tech and almost comically well-equipped guerrillas, if you will.”
Everyone laughed.
“That's not to say there wouldn't be a role for us in that theater, but as you pointed out, there's nothing we can do that the IDF isn't already doing... excessively.” He looked up at the ceiling's fluorescent lights. “Anything else? I don't want to horn in on your territory, so I'll leave the details in your very capable hands. Just keep in mind I want this expensive collection of flotsam ready to mobilize in seventy-two hours. That is all. You're welcome to stay, but that concludes our official business.”
“Comrades.” Raptor bowed slightly and showed himself out.
"Oh-Kay." Christy scratched at his thick beard. "The next thing, I guess, would be to outline some of our more specific functions. As you're all undoubtedly aware, this is shaping up to be quite an interesting century, and we're not even seven years into it."
"Hmph!" Reynold snorted at the deliberate understatement. 'Interesting' wasn't the half of it. Hell, it wasn't even a quarter of it. The United States had been struck by the most devastating attack on its sovereign soil since the Second World War. The GDI cut its teeth in Afghanistan, correcting mistakes made by the major powers during the Cold War. The US-led occupation was struggling to install a stable secular government that five years later wasn't even on its feet yet. And then, in 2003, there was Iraq. The combined NATO/WARPAC offensive easily obliterated President Hussein's Ba'athist regime, which was weakened by over a decade of economic sanctions. While freedom had been ostensibly restored to the country, Iraq was now in the throes of a full scale insurgency that became a massive political and economic strain on the UN in recent years. In the background, brushfire wars throughout the Middle East, South America and sub-Saharan Africa. Terror attacks across Europe and East Asia. The entire world was at war in everything but name.
The four star admiral continued. "The Global Defense Initiative answers to the UN security council. Because of that, there's going to be an inevitable bias toward safeguarding the common interests of the United States, Soviet Union and China. Currently, these are the three main permanent members of the Security Council who are having the biggest problems with terrorism." His eyes narrowed. "Namely, terrorism of the Islamofascist variety. America is, of course, the Great Satan. There's Afghanistan, Iraq and our oh-so-popular alliance with Israel. The Soviet Union is dealing with Kazakh, Azerbaijani and Chechen rebels. In China, Hui nationalists are getting uppity. Although nominally friendly to the West, Indonesia is on the brink of anarchy."
"In other words," Bucher growled. "There'll be plenty of activities to keep us occupied. That right?"
Christy nodded. "Exactly. Never a dull moment once we leave port." He fidgeted impatiently. "IF we ever leave port!"
"So where first?" Reynold's face contorted into an inscrutable mask of ambient hostility.
"The Pacific, obviously, to reunite with the other half of our fleet. Once we link up with Kurilov it's anyone's guess. We await orders from Steiner, Mkembe or the Security Council. As it stands, the UN is running around like decapitated poultry." He nodded to Rebikov. "You just got back from New York, didn't you? Anything to report?"
"Your analogy is quite accurate, Admiral. When I left the General Assembly was in a row over that train bombing in Beijing. Now that all out war has erupted between Israel and Lebanon, I suspect it may be days or even weeks before we are issued any official orders."
Bucher tilted his head. "Speaking of Israel, that seems to be the big thing nowadays. There's talk of sending a multi-national peacekeeping force to southern Lebanon. Maybe we should wait for Kurilov here and set out for the Mediterranean?"
Christy shook his head. "That's another trial for the GDI to be sure, but it's going to mainly be a land-based operation. They could have used us a while ago to get refugees out of there but that's pretty much over with now. No offense, General, but armored and mechanized infantry units are needed for what they're planning."
Reynold nodded knowingly. "More Americans in the area would probably just exacerbate the problem anyway."
"There's nothing we can do from the air that the IDF isn't doing already." Bucher added.
"That's what I'm saying," Christy affirmed. "They won't send us to the Mediterranean. If they do, they're either a bunch of damned fools or they're expecting something major with Syria or Iran."
"This isn't exactly my department," Reynold admitted, "but if that were the case, wouldn't we be better off in the Gulf?"
“That's correct,” Uranium confirmed. “My best guess: The Indian Ocean will probably be the closest to every conceivable hot spot they're liable to send us to. I would suggest we head in that general direction once we rendezvous with the Harbinger and the others.” He turned back to the state room's resident Russian. “Wouldn't you agree?”
“Yes, sir. I would.”
The admiral turned back to Bucher. “Not to rib on you or anything, Lonestar, but I want to dispense with any misconceptions about our tactical role here and now. We're ill-suited for handling the Lebanese thing. We're neither trained nor equipped for a full-scale occupation. That's what Steiner's armored units are for. To put our role in relatively simplistic terms, we're going to use the enemy's tactics against him. This doesn't mean we'll be targeting civilians mind, but rather that we'll be a highly mobile hit-and-run force. Extremely high-tech and almost comically well-equipped guerrillas, if you will.”
Everyone laughed.
“That's not to say there wouldn't be a role for us in that theater, but as you pointed out, there's nothing we can do that the IDF isn't already doing... excessively.” He looked up at the ceiling's fluorescent lights. “Anything else? I don't want to horn in on your territory, so I'll leave the details in your very capable hands. Just keep in mind I want this expensive collection of flotsam ready to mobilize in seventy-two hours. That is all. You're welcome to stay, but that concludes our official business.”
“Comrades.” Raptor bowed slightly and showed himself out.
As the hatch closed behind Rebikov, Isaac Reynold let the grimace that has been fighting to intrude upon his tight expression since he had entered the Admiral's quarters finally broke free. He had only met with the man once before, in passing before the operation to retake Iceland from the Soviet loyalists, but he disliked all the same. Indeed, if he was a few years younger and a few ranks lower, Reynolds might have laid the smiling Russian out flat. The devastation of the island, destruction the Marine and his command had witnessed first hand, was forever burned into his memory. When he had learned that Rebikov would be one of Admiral Christy's direct subordinates on the CTF, he had given serious thought to decline his current posting.
However, reason had prevailed in the end. There was too much riding on the success of the task force and GDI, and Reynold wanted to ensure that he did everything in his power to make them succeed. Russians or no Russians.
"Something wrong, General?" Admiral Christy asked.
Reynold shook his head and suppressed the frown once more. "No." He paused, remembering something that had been said. "Well, actually, Admiral, there was one thing. You mentioned that Commodore Kurilov would be meeting up with us in the Pacific. I was under the impression that the Harbinger was putting in here before we embarked."
"Apparently, there was a change of plans," Bucher put in. "I'm not surprised you didn't know; I didn't get word until around 6:00 this morning. According to the message, they had to divert course because of a big storm brewing north of the British Isles, but you don't go around the other side of the planet to avoid bad weather. No, they'd always planned it this way, and are just getting around to telling us now. Secrecy. You know how the Soviets are, especially to us capitalist dogs."
"I certainly do," Reynold replied simply.
After staring at nothing in particular for a moment, Reynold rose to his feet. "Well, I suppose you won't mind keeping me onboard until I can transfer over to the Harbinger."
Christy nodded. "Unless you'd like to make the trip to the rendezvous aboard one of the ships of the ESG. The Omaha, perhaps?"
Reynold shook his head. "No, that's all right. I think I could benefit from seeing how things work on a command ship before I take charge of my group. Besides, I don't think my marines need babysitting, and I doubt their officers would appreciate it much. And if they get out of hand without a Brigadier General within shooting distance... well, its better to find out now than in the middle of an operation."
"Now, I think I'll go finish my inspection tour." He nodded to the two other men. "Admirals."
"Ah, Isaac, before you go," Bucher put in as Reynold opened the hatch onto the hallway. "I had hoped you might want to share a drink later. We haven't talked in a long time."
"Of course. I'll look forward to it."
With another nod, Reynold stepped out of sight.
However, reason had prevailed in the end. There was too much riding on the success of the task force and GDI, and Reynold wanted to ensure that he did everything in his power to make them succeed. Russians or no Russians.
"Something wrong, General?" Admiral Christy asked.
Reynold shook his head and suppressed the frown once more. "No." He paused, remembering something that had been said. "Well, actually, Admiral, there was one thing. You mentioned that Commodore Kurilov would be meeting up with us in the Pacific. I was under the impression that the Harbinger was putting in here before we embarked."
"Apparently, there was a change of plans," Bucher put in. "I'm not surprised you didn't know; I didn't get word until around 6:00 this morning. According to the message, they had to divert course because of a big storm brewing north of the British Isles, but you don't go around the other side of the planet to avoid bad weather. No, they'd always planned it this way, and are just getting around to telling us now. Secrecy. You know how the Soviets are, especially to us capitalist dogs."
"I certainly do," Reynold replied simply.
After staring at nothing in particular for a moment, Reynold rose to his feet. "Well, I suppose you won't mind keeping me onboard until I can transfer over to the Harbinger."
Christy nodded. "Unless you'd like to make the trip to the rendezvous aboard one of the ships of the ESG. The Omaha, perhaps?"
Reynold shook his head. "No, that's all right. I think I could benefit from seeing how things work on a command ship before I take charge of my group. Besides, I don't think my marines need babysitting, and I doubt their officers would appreciate it much. And if they get out of hand without a Brigadier General within shooting distance... well, its better to find out now than in the middle of an operation."
"Now, I think I'll go finish my inspection tour." He nodded to the two other men. "Admirals."
"Ah, Isaac, before you go," Bucher put in as Reynold opened the hatch onto the hallway. "I had hoped you might want to share a drink later. We haven't talked in a long time."
"Of course. I'll look forward to it."
With another nod, Reynold stepped out of sight.
The Rift
Stanislav Petrov- The man who saved the world
Hugh Thompson Jr.- A True American Hero
"In the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope." - President Barack Obama
"May fortune favor you, for your goals are the goals of the world." - Ancient Chall valediction
Stanislav Petrov- The man who saved the world
Hugh Thompson Jr.- A True American Hero
"In the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope." - President Barack Obama
"May fortune favor you, for your goals are the goals of the world." - Ancient Chall valediction
-
Ar-Adunakhor
- Jedi Knight
- Posts: 672
- Joined: 2005-09-05 03:06am
BCGN-5 Harbinger
20 kilometers off the Virginia coast
Entering the bridge, Commodore Kurilov was met by the sharp salute of his second-in-command. "We will be twenty kilometers from shore in twelve seconds, Commodore. Your orders?"
"Slow to half and inform the Americans we have arrived," said the Commodore, turning toward the forward observation window, "and remember to deny any knowledge of reports that we were delayed."
"At once, Comrade Commodore." responded the impeccably dressed Captain-Lieutenant Pavalovich, immediately moving toward the communications array. The move had been planned mere hours after they had left port, and was in keeping with the Commodore's favored strategy of lightning strikes and total suprise. Indeed, what better way to meet the fleet commanders than on the offensive, with their guard down? Besides, with the Americans outnumbering the Soviet contingent so heavily, Vianor knew he needed to instill a sense of suprise and wariness early. After all, it is far easier to avoid being stabbed in the back when your foe's hand is hesitant and unsteady.
"Oh, and Alexi..." the Commodore added, almost as an afterthought, "remain civil. Open hostility would not be to our advantage. Yet." He was quite likely going to be under the command of one of those Americans he had just suprised, after all. Barring the almost exclusively American command appointing his old acquaintance Rebikov to command of the ESG, he would be under either Bucher or Reynold... though he fervently hoped it would be the former. According to the dossiers he was given by the KGB, Reynold was among the few NATO forces that survived in the Atlantic. It was highly doubtful he would see eye-to-eye with Vianor, the man responsible for both the scorched-earth assault bombardment of Iceland and later wiping out the entire NATO fleet.
Christy and Bucher, on the other hand, were rated as far more accepting. The unprecedented nature of simply giving both the Harbinger and the finest of the Soviet Navy's corps to the effort was sure to win Christy, at least, over. Bucher would be a bit more difficult to impress, but thanks to the KGB's masterful appropriation of his Admiralty Review Psych Report, the Commodore knew that he was (thankfully) not a rabid anti-Soviet.
And then there was Rebikov. Try as he might, the only picture Vianor could manage was that of the intelligence officer presenting yet another day of possible missile targets to the commanders. Only natural, he supposed, given that was the only personal contact he had ever had with the man. Had he known they would be serving together again, he would have made at least some effort to contact Rebikov and get a feel for him beyond the GRU files. Despite all that, he was still the closest thing to an ally they had in the fleet, and there would be plenty of time to discuss things with him before splitting off from the CSG.
Clearing his mind, Vianor listened in on the radio transmissions and smiled. Regardless of how much they liked or hated him, he was going to enjoy the meeting ten minutes from now. Oh yes, indeed.
20 kilometers off the Virginia coast
Entering the bridge, Commodore Kurilov was met by the sharp salute of his second-in-command. "We will be twenty kilometers from shore in twelve seconds, Commodore. Your orders?"
"Slow to half and inform the Americans we have arrived," said the Commodore, turning toward the forward observation window, "and remember to deny any knowledge of reports that we were delayed."
"At once, Comrade Commodore." responded the impeccably dressed Captain-Lieutenant Pavalovich, immediately moving toward the communications array. The move had been planned mere hours after they had left port, and was in keeping with the Commodore's favored strategy of lightning strikes and total suprise. Indeed, what better way to meet the fleet commanders than on the offensive, with their guard down? Besides, with the Americans outnumbering the Soviet contingent so heavily, Vianor knew he needed to instill a sense of suprise and wariness early. After all, it is far easier to avoid being stabbed in the back when your foe's hand is hesitant and unsteady.
"Oh, and Alexi..." the Commodore added, almost as an afterthought, "remain civil. Open hostility would not be to our advantage. Yet." He was quite likely going to be under the command of one of those Americans he had just suprised, after all. Barring the almost exclusively American command appointing his old acquaintance Rebikov to command of the ESG, he would be under either Bucher or Reynold... though he fervently hoped it would be the former. According to the dossiers he was given by the KGB, Reynold was among the few NATO forces that survived in the Atlantic. It was highly doubtful he would see eye-to-eye with Vianor, the man responsible for both the scorched-earth assault bombardment of Iceland and later wiping out the entire NATO fleet.
Christy and Bucher, on the other hand, were rated as far more accepting. The unprecedented nature of simply giving both the Harbinger and the finest of the Soviet Navy's corps to the effort was sure to win Christy, at least, over. Bucher would be a bit more difficult to impress, but thanks to the KGB's masterful appropriation of his Admiralty Review Psych Report, the Commodore knew that he was (thankfully) not a rabid anti-Soviet.
And then there was Rebikov. Try as he might, the only picture Vianor could manage was that of the intelligence officer presenting yet another day of possible missile targets to the commanders. Only natural, he supposed, given that was the only personal contact he had ever had with the man. Had he known they would be serving together again, he would have made at least some effort to contact Rebikov and get a feel for him beyond the GRU files. Despite all that, he was still the closest thing to an ally they had in the fleet, and there would be plenty of time to discuss things with him before splitting off from the CSG.
Clearing his mind, Vianor listened in on the radio transmissions and smiled. Regardless of how much they liked or hated him, he was going to enjoy the meeting ten minutes from now. Oh yes, indeed.