Prelude to the War: Batavieju
-
- Posts: 1351
- Joined: Thu Oct 11, 2007 3:27 pm
- Contact:
Prelude to the War: Batavieju
Summary: The Jingdaoese evacuate a part of the civilian population in Tianhoucheng to Wuqi (Blackstone) and the isles of Diwangdao. In the meanwhile, the Batavian Leeuwenbrigade has received help of so-called Taoreta (soldiers who shamed the Emperor and need to do forced labour) to dig more trenches. In the meanwhile, the 27th, 28th, 29th and 30th Banner Brigade whom were sent from Itteria are missing. Ship wrecks in the Koningsbaai point to a potential enemy attack. The preparations to defend the old city of 's Koningenwaarde in case of an enemy attack are in full swing.
For the average Batavian and Jingdaoese living in the City of Tianhoucheng it was not an abnormal sight: the daily soldier's marches throughout the boulevards and larger streets had assured them of a feeling of safety ever since the Kingdom of Batavia had fallen into chaos. Tianhoucheng had, however, survived the decay of the failing empire and become the beating heart of the Jingdaoese possessions in the far west. That it annoyed the Shirerithian map makers to draw it as a non-Shirerithian possession was merely a welcome bonus to most of the locals, who had become mostly immune for their propaganda stunts and mostly annoyed by the amount of paper trash those actions left behind.
Now, however, the usual sight of mostly Batavian men and women marching towards the outskirts was replaced by a seemingly never ending convoy of Jingdaoese whom orderly marched towards the border. They had no weapons, no insignia and all looked like they had received the worst possible punishment they could get. Around their arms was a black band.
A whisper went to through the crowd: the Taoreta: Jingdaoese of pure blood who had shamed the Emperor in their duty. As punishment they had to do forced labour to free their souls from eternal damnation. A lifeless bunch whom marched towards the city's borders, most likely to dig new trenches, strengthen the bunkers and - in case of need - being used as canon fodder.
Shaojiang Hendrik Muisterd of the 1st Batavian Corps watched silently from up his horse at the column of men passing him by. Desperate times asked for desperate measures. The recent war scare had even frightened him. While the Motherland was far away, he was responsible for guarding a far-away city surrounded by enemies. The labour force was welcome, yes, but what he needed was soldiers who were allowed to take up a gun. Taoreta weren't allowed to do that and would prefer death over ignoring their sacred guidelines.
Hendrik shook his head almost unnoticeable. It had no use pondering about it. The 27th, 28th, 29th and 30th Banner Brigade were on their way to Tianhoucheng to muster defences. At least, he hoped so. The telegrams in his hand weren't all good news.
IMPORTANT
As by agreement: the 27th, 28th, 29th and 30th Banner Brigade shall strengthen defences of the City of Tianhoucheng. A group of Taoreta is also sent to help dig much-needed trenches.Twenty thousand men drowned to death, or having become prisoners of those Shiretits even before any real war had broken out. Muisterd wondered if he would survive the end of this week. He sighed, while he watched how the convoy of prisoners went on, while another convoy with men, women and children slowly walked into the other direction. At least those people would not see their own houses burn when time came.The fleet responsible for the 27th, 28th, 29th and 30th Banner Brigade has disappeared from our radar. Ship wrecks noticed near the entrance of Koningsbaai. Possible enemy activity. Rescue teams sent, but no contact made with survivors.
Honoured Servant of the Jingdaoese Heavenly Light and the Kaiseress of Shireroth
Re: Prelude to the War: Batavieju
Summary: A humanitarian aid shipment from Kalgachia, accompanied by a civilian delegation and destined for Tianhoucheng evacuees in the Diwangdao Isles, is put to sea from the shores of the Lywall-Batavian Gap.
For some years, the gentle lapping of waves and the cry of gulls had been the only sound audible on this beach, some two hundred kilometres south of the ruins of Kasterburg. Even under Minarborian rule the area saw little more than a few cattle ranchers, urging on their animals in a guttral Ashkenatzan tongue. Since then the only human presence had been that of smugglers, brigands, fugitives, and the Shirerithian military patrols who they continually prevented from establishing a more permanent control of the area; not that the Shirerithians lacked the capability, but the barren scrubland offered little in the way of incentive to do so beyond a shortcut between their Lywall and Batavian holdings - something achieved easily enough by armoured convoy without going to the trouble of forming a local administration. These infrequent swarms of land cruisers accompanied by the occasional gravtank were the exception to the rule, a rule of solitude and silence and weather and waves.
But now in the blackness of night, a new noise came booming over the soft roar of the sea. A penetrating hum with a slight snarl to it, becoming more intense as its source, somewhere out in the darkened sea, came closer.
From a line of thorny bushes, a mere silhouette against the pale tideline of the beach itself, a small light pierced the darkness - four flashes in measured succession. In apparent response the source of the humming decreased in pitch to a low warble, before suddenly increasing again with a change of aspect that caused its snarling element to become louder. Now a cloud of white briny spray could be seen approaching in the darkness, at its head a turbid bow wave, and amid it the dark shape of some kind of vessel.
"Karavi plash enele!" a gravelly Laqi voice was only barely audible above the vessel's approach. The rumble of hooves throwing up grit and pebbles could be heard as an array of horsemen in two groups emerged from behind the bushes and radiated along the beach either side of the incoming craft - now visible in silhouette as a Takifugu-class submersible hovercraft of the type once operated by the Minarborian naval fleet, the Shrubmarine. It powered up the modest slope of the beach, throwing up no small amount of detritus itself and coming to a gentle halt before its deafening propellers were hurriedly powered down, causing it to settle gently on the beach as its skirt deflated. From its deck came abrupt, barking voices in Jingdaoese - these were no ghosts of the Minarborian past, rather the latest occupants of a craft whose original crew had fled their home port of Klymdown during Minarboria's collapse and decided to take their chances in the Diwangdao isles. While they had been absorbed into the enormous Jingdaoese Empire and subjected to fates unknown, their craft had been confiscated by the Imperial Jingdaoese Navy and its plankton propulsion unit removed for examination. The craft, being novel in design but surplus to requirements, had eventually been returned - sans propulsion unit - to the Diwangdao authorities who had hastily installed a standard marine diesel engine and pressed the craft into service as a ferry among other miscellaneous uses. Its use on this beach, at this hour, was about as miscellaneous as it had ever gotten in its long and colourful career.
By the time the clamshell doors on the hovercraft's bow were sliding open to reveal a dim red-lit interior, the reception party were already carrying forward the first wagons, laden with crates and drums. Surveying the whole scene from his horse at the head of the beach was one Colonel Vitaly Shumyanov, the ageing commander of the Special Purpose Regiment of the Kalgachi Defence Force. The very man who had lit the spark which became the Auspicious Occasion. His squadron of cossacks, unlike the standard Laqi goons who spent their days extracting protection money on the highways of Schlepogora, were of an altogether better disciplined and better equipped nature; level-headed types with rifles covered in specialist accessories, night vision goggles, chokha camouflaged with scrim to suit the local foliage and razor-sharp khanjalis painted matte grey to eliminate their reflection. They had been assisted by the Special Purpose Regiment's own squadron of Whirdlebirb helicopters, ferrying forward the heavier items of cargo as underslung loads and re-routing the ground elements around passing Shirerithian patrols, as well as the profusion of bandits and rogue fauna which prevailed on their journey across the post-Minarborian Green. It was the type of work which, to one objective or another, the regiment had been conducting since its inception.
This operation was being kept plausibly deniable by civilian oversight, a fact which irritated Shumyanov greatly although he entirely understood the reason; Kalgachi assistance to Jingdao was forbidden from taking on any military dimension by a treaty on which the ink was barely dry. Shumyanov had inspected the cargo himself and found it to correlate with the official story - to be announced whenever the affair went public - of humanitarian aid toward those displaced residents of Tianhoucheng which the Jingdaoese had seen fit to evacuate to the Diwangdao isles. The wagons and crates were full of salted mutton and other preserved foodstuffs, woolen clothing for the oncoming winter made from the durable wool of Kalgachi mountain sheep, water purification equipment, medical supplies, and no small amount of alcoholic beverages over which Shumyanov had ordered an armed guard lest they 'disappear' during the journey. If there were any untoward items smuggled in with this, Shumyanov had not found them - and he had drawn up most of Kalgachia's state sanctioned smuggling methods himself. As far as he knew this was a 'totes kosher' operation, as the locals around this beach would once have said. His role was merely to provide an armed guard as the goods were transported between the Kalgachi frontier and the coast. Now this role was ending - notwithstanding the annoying civilian command, it was a simple enough assignment for Shumyanov's weary aged self and he planned to retire when he returned home, although he had said the same about his previous five operations. This moment, at least, provided a more elegant end to his career than the others - once safely conveyed onto the hovercraft, the rest of the aid expedition was the job of the civilian participants and their Jingdaoese hosts. Perhaps this time he might actually resign his commission, Shumyanov mused to himself. Unless KDF command had another interesting assignment lined up for him, of course.
"I've spoken with the Jingdaoese captain, colonel." The breathless voice of Shumyanov's civilian superior, one Mr. Bitt Knotty from Kalgachia's Directorate of the Tumultuous Wastes, broke the colonel's reverie and returned him to the moment, the old soldier quietly cursing himself for an uncharacteristic lapse in tactical attention. He really was getting too old for this business.
Shumyanov looked over to the hovercraft. Already the last of the wagons were being hauled up the ramp. He looked down from his horse at Knotty, clearly out of breath from only a modest run up the beach, and decided not to flatter such a physically weak specimen with any small talk. "Any issues?" he said.
"The captain is anxious that we depart as quickly as possible."
"That makes two of us," said Shumyanov. "Are your people boarded?"
"They will be when that last wagon gets in. After that, you're free to head for home."
"How kind of you." Shumyanov growled with the mildest hint of sarcasm. "Akhatanov!"
"Sir!" replied the silhouette of a nearby horseman.
"Recall the flank parties to RV point twenty-one."
"Sir," said Akhatanov, his horse thundering into the night.
"Already?" said Knotty. "But..."
"Better get moving, hadn't you?" said Shumyanov.
"Well, yes... well... goodbye then, colonel. Thank you for your assistance. It's been most..."
Knotty was interrupted by a piercing hiss from the hovercraft, followed by the growing whirr of its propellers as they spun into motion. The front doors were already closed. He looked back at Shumyanov only to see the tail of his horse, flicking round as the colonel turned and galloped off into the scrub. Knotty broke into a sprint down the beach, barely keeping his footing, and finally reached the rope ladder dropped from the hovercraft's upper casing by Jingdaoese sailors who giggled at their visitor's exertions. By the time Knotty had hauled himself up, the hovercraft had already risen on its skirt and swung around toward the yawning blackness of the sea. Another cloud of spray marked its meeting with the briny waters, surging away into the darkness with a booming hum. Within minutes the craft was out of sight or hearing, the beach left once more to the eternal churning of the waves.
Re: Prelude to the War: Batavieju
Summary: the Kalgachi aid mission to Diwangdao walks a diplomatic tightrope with the local military command but succeeds in distributing food and medical care to Tianhoucheng evacuees with more shipments inbound.
Several hours behind schedule, Bitt Knotty found himself bouncing along in the cab of a Jingdaoese army truck. On his left was a conscript driver, deftly jerking the steering wheel this way and that to avoid the succession of potholes assailing him from the road ahead. To the right was one Captain Ping of the Imperial Jingdaoese Army, Knotty's designated liaison. Unlike the local troops and the island's few native civilians who were generally of mixed Jingo-Batavian heritage, Ping was pureblood Jingdaoese and kept himself in immaculate trim, his razor sharp trouser creases and buffed leather belt standing in marked contrast to the slightly dishevelled rig of his enlisted men whom Knotty had encountered earlier.
The Diwangdao isles had, until recently, been of an overwhelmingly military character owing to the area's geographic isolation in the face of the Shirerithian juggernaut. For a brief period during the reign of the Kattei Emperor the islands had been militarised entirely, their civilian population transported away in favour of a signals intelligence station, a ballistic missile launch facility and all the troops required to defend and operate them. In the years since, limited numbers of civilians had been allowed to return and eke out a modest subsistence by fishing but aside from a few of their scattered hamlets, the deserted villages of the island interior had been left to decay and ruin while the military population were accomodated in their own barracks. These abandoned villages had remained on Jingdaoese maps despite being little more than foliage-filled shacks with caved-in roofs and no utilities, a detail unnoticed by those responsible for the hasty evacuation of Tianhoucheng on the Benacian mainland. As global tensions increased they had more pressing military matters to address and as far as they were concerned, the transport of hundreds of Tianhoucheng refugees to something depicted as a functioning settlement on a map was a job well done, and one less distraction from the coming war. After a fraught sea passage running the gauntlet of the SANE navies, those refugees assigned to the Diwangdao isles had been duly landed there and trucked inland to these 'villages' where they were dropped among the dilapidated, roofless cottages and left to their own fate. The local military garrisons, where many of these destitute civilians invariably ended up in search of food and shelter, had begun to consider them a nuisance and the more sensitive installations had been forced to liquidate their unwanted visitors lest they glean any military secrets.
Those who remained alive had accepted their fate with the usual Jingdaoese stoicism, being taught from birth that hardship was the true home ground of their people in lieu of any territorial stability or safety from domestic cataclysms. The more severe the circumstances, they said among themselves, the stronger the Heavenly Light shone among them. In Diwangdao, however, this enlightened state of redemptive suffering now threatened to prematurely shorten itself by tipping over into faminous mortality. For the salvation of the Batavian Jingdaoese to be assured, mused a part-time monk among the local fishermen, they must be kept alive in their state of crippling austerity. Over them, death had two faces; punishment for the impure or honour for warriors fallen in battle - the refugees arriving in Diwangdao fell into neither category, although the adolescents and older men would prove useful in the latter if the military required added manpower.
Jolted around in the truck, Knotty wondered if Captain Ping had taken personal offence to the robust argument they had shared earlier in the day, at the army camp just off the beach where the Kalgachi aid supplies had been landed. It transpired that the Diwangdao authorities anticipated the shipment being handed to the Jingdaoese Army for distribution, and had briefed Captain Ping accordingly. Knotty on the other hand was mindful that even a single stray dried runner bean, if it could be proved to have fallen into the hands of a Jingdaoese soldier and given him a few seconds of extra energy in some future battle against the Shirerithians, would constitute a violation of the Slavegate Treaty of Peace and Civility - giving the Shirerithians a pretext to void the treaty and releasing them from their own obligation to refrain from military aggression against Kalgachia. Once the extent of the Jingdaoese distribution plan had become horrifyingly clear to Knotty, he had been forced to declare that full custody of the supplies by the Jingdaoese military at any point was, in fact, out of the question. This inspired the natural response in Captain Ping, namely a barrage of screaming threats to the effect that Knotty and his entourage had no authority in Jingdao and indeed owed their very continued survival to Ping's patience, which was not especially resilient to his orders being questioned. At that point Knotty had asked his linguist, one Harriet Tallong, to try explaining the situation to the irate captain in his native tongue so that he could better appreciate the situation's subtler considerations. Whatever she had said, it appeared to give Ping enough pause that he had stormed off to the camp commandant's office to make a long telephone call. Upon his return he had calmly announced, with a peculiar absence of bitterness or humiliation on his inscrutable face, that Knotty and his delegation of aid workers now had permission to accompany and distribute the supplies to the local civilian population. It was Ping's apparently instant abrogation of his own irritable character which perplexed Knotty as he bounced alongside him in the truck - it was as if the man's very soul had been removed, cleansed and replaced by a few words from his superiors.
And just to get things a little weirder, he started engaging in small talk.
"So, you are under these... diplomatic constraints," he began, haltingly at first. "Then why assist us at all? You have moved past many starving people in the Green to get here, but you did not feed them. And so I ask you, why us? Why at such risk to yourselves?"
Knotty was taken aback by Ping's question, and decided to probe a little deeper into it. "Surely you consider the cause of the Heavenly Light to be above such questions, captain."
"Of course," said Ping. "The question is, why do you? Kalgachia flies its own flag. The Heavenly Light does not yet shine in those mountains. So what draws you here?"
Knotty pouted in thought, lifted briefly off his seat by the impact of a pothole which the truck driver had not managed to avoid. "Consider your sovereign emperor himself," he said. "I'm told he resides beneath the surface world, guarded from its distractions so he can come closer to his inner light, so he can better hear the particulars of the mission it has given him in this world. A mission to be carried out through the organs of his empire, through such loyal servants as yourself. In Kalgachia, our ruling Council of Perfecti go about their business in a very similar way. It could be that they believe your emperor to share their own inner light, the light of Garden Ketheric, and seek to make common cause with him. Not that I can be certain... I've never dealt with the Perfecti directly. I only know that it's somehow in their interests for me, their servant, to be sitting alongside you today."
"And you do not question this?" said Ping.
"No more than you question the Heavenly Light."
Ping nodded, the slightest traces of a smile creasing his lips at a fair rejoinder well made. "You know, in my unit we thought you Kalgachis had been lost to the Shiretits. When you signed the Slavegate Treaty. It spoke of pushing the non-native powers from Benacia, but now you tell me these other things. It seems some clarification is in order."
"Almost," said Knotty. "The treaty mentions the primacy of Benacia's native powers over their continent. This is already in evidence and we don't consider Jingdao to endanger such a thing with its small territories. Besides, a strict reading of the treaty would oblige the Shirerithians to pursue the surrender of Natopia's territories in the Konigsbaai Gulf. Of course that'll never happen and we don't press the matter, so Shireroth owes us a blind eye for our tolerance of Jingdao."
"And what about Gascony?"
"We don't care if Shireroth gets it or you do, as long as the Storish are driven out some day. Their atrocities there are especially cruel - they preserve the body but pollute the mind."
"Mmm," said Ping, his attention drifting to the scene ahead - an approaching town of ramshackle buildings whose archtitecture varied from oriental Jing to Batavian baroque and a few concrete military additions, only the latter of which were in any decent state of repair. "Diwangdao," said Ping. "Our destination. You will find many hungry people here."
Diwangdao's central square was indeed thronging with groups of shuffling Jingo-Batavian civilians. Some appeared to have been evacuated from their very beds in Tianhoucheng, still standing in their nightclothes which were partially covered by whatever other articles of clothing they had found, bartered or stolen along the way. Everyone bore the hollow cheeks and sluggish movement of the malnourished. The children, generally given the first of any scrounged food supplies by their starving parents, fared only a little better. A few people looked hopefully at the column of trucks as they pulled up along one side of the square. Others, suspecting some kind of mass liquidation was imminent, fled into surrounding alleys.
"Is there electricity here?" said Knotty as he slid out of the truck's cab behind Ping.
"For civilian areas? Four hours a day," said Ping, putting on his cap and surveying the locals with a steely eye. "Unless more of the grid is needed for military uses."
"Water supply?"
"Depends on the electricity."
"Gas?"
"Diwangdao has never had gas, Mister Knotty. We cook with wood or coal."
"Is there much wood or coal?"
"Outside the military bases? No."
"I see. Would it be acceptable to set up our broth kitchen over there in the corner?"
Ping shook his head. "The middle of the square would be preferable. My men need a clear killing ground at all angles if order breaks down. If you have difficulty with these people, you will report the offenders to me."
"Do you anticipate trouble?"
"People act unpredictably when they are hungry, mister Knotty. It is unwise to take chances."
Knotty detected personal experience in Ping's words, but refrained from asking him about it. Instead he approached his own workers, a mixture of welfare specialists and contractually-obliged Froyalanish labourers, and set them about organising three large stalls in the middle of the square - a field kitchen serving mutton broth, a clothing distribution stall and a medical dispensary with private consultation tent. To Knotty's worry there appeared to be more people crowding toward these stalls than his shipment would be able to serve. Arrangements were being made for another shipment, but when it would make it here was anyone's guess. In the meantime, at Knotty's polite suggestion to Captain Ping, troops marshalled the crowd into a semi-orderly line - never a habit natural to the Jingdaoese although the more Batavian among them were compliant - and sent the first hobbling refugees forward to receive their broth.
As the day wore on, the helpings of broth became smaller and smaller as Knotty attempted to make up for the unexpectedly large throngs of visitors; word had spread among the evacuees and within hours they were filing into Diwangdao from outlying areas. The doctors working in the medical tent found themselves performing everything from infant deliveries to amputations of gangrenous limbs, the sight and feel of blood-spattered hacksaws inducing wistul nostalgia in the older medical staff who had worked in similar conditions during Kalgachia's arduous first years. Between the screams of his patients, bereft of anaesthetic, the duty surgeon's contented whistling could be heard amid the soft rasp of sawblade on bone.
Back at the broth line, Knotty noticed one of Captain Ping's subordinates, a stocky young lieutenant with a noticeable scar across his left jawline, moving back and forth along the columns of shuffling evacuees. His eyes, only just visible beneath the polished peak of his cap, were glaring at each man, woman and child in cold scrutiny. Toward the front of the line he suddenly stopped and retraced his steps, returning to a young man in a tattered long overcoat he had passed a few seconds previously. That the man was young was unusual in itself - men of military age had either long since been conscripted, or else were left in Tianhoucheng for the purpose. The lieutenant leaned in and inspected the man's haircut, an immaculate close-shorn affair of the kind approved by the Jingdaoese state, the razor sharp edges around the ears indicating it had been cut recently. The lieutenant, now locked in a menacing frown, took in all these details and more as the man gazed straight ahead, not daring to meet his eye. The lieutenant's inevitable hand closed around his collar and he was wrenched out of the line, led through the cordon of soldiers and spun around only ten metres from where Knotty was standing with his equally-bemused linguist Ms. Tallong. The pair watched as the lieutenant clasped the lapels of the man's battered coat and tore it open - underneath, only slightly less battered than the overlying coat, was an enlisted man's uniform of the Imperial Jingdaoese Army.
"The sneaky little rat," muttered Tallong. "Doesn't he get his own rations already?"
Knotty's reply was drowned out by an explosion of screaming from the lieutenant as he paced around the soldier, bellowing obscenities in his native language loud enough to echo off nearby buildings before dropping to words of a more menacing growl.
"What's he saying, Harriet?" said Knotty.
"I can't get all of it," said Tallong. "He's talking in Jingtavian creole, it's hard to translate two languages at once. Something about faith... your faith is pathetic... why do you question... the army's generosity... you dare to think that the Heavenly Light... cannot provide for his own soldiers... greed is a Storish vice... perhaps you follow the Natopian vice too... your corruption is irredeemable... and it ends here."
"Oh my," said Knotty. "Looks like this isn't going to end very w-"
Knotty paused and watched as the lieutenant flipped open his leather holster and produced a service pistol, which in one fluid motion he aligned with the soldier's torso and fired twice, the sharp resounding pap of the discharges causing Knotty's ears to ring as the soldier gasped and crumpled to the ground. The lieutenant stood over the man's writhing body and fired two more shots into him, cursing in Jingdaoese before cooly replacing his pistol in its holster and stepping over the now-motionless corpse. Then he marched smartly up to Knotty and Tallong, bowing his head.
"I apologise deeply for the abuse of your charity by one of my soldiers," he said. "It will not happen again."
Knotty was speechless until prompted by a jab from Harriet's elbow. "Uh... your apology is accepted," he said. "Go with honour."
The lieutenant bowed his head again, turned sharply about and marched off, his scrutinous eyes passing over the line of evacuees one more time as he departed. During all of this short incident they, unlike the astonished Kalgachis serving them broth, had shown no reaction at all.
-
- Posts: 1351
- Joined: Thu Oct 11, 2007 3:27 pm
- Contact:
Re: Prelude to the War: Batavieju
OOC: Great follow-up stories. I look forward reading more in the future. While not really a fan of depicting Jingdaoese dying of hunger (as there is really no reason to have insufficient food at this point: we're not North Korea: we have sufficient fertile Kildarian land, trade with other nations,...), I assume its a result of the sudden strain on supplies with the increase in military personnel and refugees in the region. And it showcases the less glorious parts of such a large empire, so I like it (pretending to have the perfect nation in propaganda is fun, but if (simulated) reality is the same, it would make things simply boring).
Probably will write something myself concerning the food scandal: I imagine that the Diet will investigate the matter, execute some people who are responsible for the failed (non-Kalgachian) food relief, and pretend nothing happened or its all the fault of the Shirerithians.
Also great to see the inner thinkings of the Kalgachians and their actions explained. And the ending with the soldier... thumbs up for my approval.
"So, you are under these... diplomatic constraints" has probably become my favourite Jingdaoese sentence.
Probably will write something myself concerning the food scandal: I imagine that the Diet will investigate the matter, execute some people who are responsible for the failed (non-Kalgachian) food relief, and pretend nothing happened or its all the fault of the Shirerithians.
Also great to see the inner thinkings of the Kalgachians and their actions explained. And the ending with the soldier... thumbs up for my approval.
"So, you are under these... diplomatic constraints" has probably become my favourite Jingdaoese sentence.
Honoured Servant of the Jingdaoese Heavenly Light and the Kaiseress of Shireroth
Re: Prelude to the War: Batavieju
OOC: You assume correctly; since the Kattei-era bases were built I assumed the isles were essentially a Sovietesque "closed zone" with most civilian infrastructure falling out of use and unprepared for the emergency measure of relocating half Tianhoucheng's population there, combined with unreliable supply lines due to Shirerithian naval harrassment and creating a North Korean situation in an otherwise well-supplied empire. Also as you observe, moderating other people's utopias with gritty social realism is kinda my thing (ask Rossheim) and besides, I needed a pretext for Mr. Knotty and his jolly band of do-gooders to strut their stuff
Captain Ping and his... dependable lieutenant may appear again. They have a certain charm about them.
Captain Ping and his... dependable lieutenant may appear again. They have a certain charm about them.
-
- Posts: 458
- Joined: Wed Apr 27, 2016 8:06 pm
Re: Prelude to the War: Batavieju
OOC: Two-toed Ping is a captain now? Things must be desperate. Very amusing and insightful. We must pay this island a visit.
All this has happened before, and all this will happen again.
Re: Prelude to the War: Batavieju
It's bloody ridiculous to retcon Blackstone to some Jing stronghold. There has no development since the island was wrongfully occupied and it is absolutely senseless to continue a narrative which would provide Jingdao with much needed cultural input if these kinds of nonsensical parameters are being promulgated.
Porque las estirpes condenadas a cien años de soledad no tenían una segunda oportunidad sobre la tierra.
Re: Prelude to the War: Batavieju
The irony being that my focus on Diwangdao put Blackstone's awkward situation safely in the shadows of obscurity until you dredged it up again
If you really can't let the matter go (and I don't necessarily blame you for it), offering a contribution to the story concerning Verionite resistance to the Jing migrant horde would seem to be a more productive option. This venue allows you a prime oppurtunity to defend your creative authority over that island in narrative form.
If you really can't let the matter go (and I don't necessarily blame you for it), offering a contribution to the story concerning Verionite resistance to the Jing migrant horde would seem to be a more productive option. This venue allows you a prime oppurtunity to defend your creative authority over that island in narrative form.
-
- Posts: 1351
- Joined: Thu Oct 11, 2007 3:27 pm
- Contact:
Re: Prelude to the War: Batavieju
And we will gladly shoot those who resist.Yastreb wrote: ↑Mon Nov 13, 2017 5:08 amThe irony being that my focus on Diwangdao put Blackstone's awkward situation safely in the shadows of obscurity until you dredged it up again
If you really can't let the matter go (and I don't necessarily blame you for it), offering a contribution to the story concerning Verionite resistance to the Jing migrant horde would seem to be a more productive option. This venue allows you a prime oppurtunity to defend your creative authority over that island in narrative form.
Honoured Servant of the Jingdaoese Heavenly Light and the Kaiseress of Shireroth
Re: Prelude to the War: Batavieju
Meanwhile...
Summary: one of Kalgachia's new Jan van Gents is assigned to assist the Diwangdao aid effort, closely tracked through Green airspace by the Imperial Shirerithian Air Forces.
As his ECM operator called out the fifth airborne X-band contact in an hour, Timur Guldzherkov finally deduced that the KDF resettlement officer had sold him something of an untruth.
To give him his due, that jolly old Lywaller - his own role being a pre-retirement sinecure comfortable enough that he was not even pulled up for letting his tin rank insignia go dull for lack of polish - had talked a good talk when he promised that Guldzherkov's time in danger was done. He had characterised Guldzherkov's service for the KDF's 6th Whirdlebirb Squadron in glowing terms as an epic saga of honour and bravery, doing unending battle with the Tee-al population in southern Schlepogora. That Guldzherko had progressed into middle age and suffered the inevitable slowing of his reflexes below those expected of a combat pilot was neither a stain upon his character nor the end of his flying career. The old man had set him up with a post-demob job in civil aviation - something of a surprise to Guldzherkov who was unaware such a sector existed in Kalgachia, a country whose air defences had standing orders to destroy all aircraft flying above three thousand metres in peacetime, let alone when a more pressing threat existed. But certain developments had been made within these restrictions, the resettlement officer explained - chief among which was the purchase of thirty-two Jingdaoese cargo planes and the construction of a small airport in western Lithead to accomodate them. The model of plane concerned, a Jan van Gent VII model, had a decently short takeoff/landing capability; an important feature in a mountain nation where the land rarely stayed flat enough for long enough to build a landing strip for heavy lift aircraft.
The downside, as Guldzherkov had mentioned to the old man, was the not-inconsiderable risk of flying an aircraft with an identical radar cross-section to those operated by the Jingdaoese Air Force - particularly as most of Kalgachia was surrounded by Shireroth, and Shireroth happened to be engaged in a state of war with Jingdao which, by all indications, was an eternal arrangement and would still be in effect when Atos entered its end stage and swelled to consume Micras in some five billion years' time. This scrap of astronomical hyperbole had failed to sway the resettlement officer, who assured Guldzherkov that certain diplomatic protocols and a distinctive paint job would prevent any unfortunate misunderstandings. Guldzherkov, to his later self-disgust, had taken the old fellow at his word. Only later did it occur to him that neither visual livery or diplomatic nicety were prominent in the head-up display of a distant Shirerithian fighter jet, of the kind which was steadily closing on his aircraft at this very moment.
"How many?" he called through the intercom to the ECM operator, nestled in a sensor booth in the rear of the aircraft with a thousand lights, dials, cathode ray monitors and nixie displays for company.
"Either one large or two small, captain," came the reply through Guldzherkov's earpiece. "Probably two as usual. I'm getting two-second bursts of N-1 search mode, then a shutoff or a frequency hop. They're flicking between long and medium range settings right now. Moving up to our four o' clock, I'd say about 150 kilometres... maybe two thousand metres above our altitude. Looks like they're descending slowly to meet us."
"Combat formation?" said Guldzherkov.
"Negative captain, the contacts are staying tight."
"Okay, let me know if they start dancing around." Guldzherkov felt that familiar pang of simmering nerves restrained by professional cool, as he'd often had when rolling a Whirdlebirb around the back of a Tee-al herd. He shook his head, exchanged eye rolls with the co-pilot beside him and thought about that duplicitous old resettlement officer again, uttering a quiet curse in his native Laqi. Some retirement this was.
Still, at least he had his man in the back this time. This flight was preferable to the one he had endured after his type training in Jingdao, bringing the aircraft back to Kalgachia in a series of sleep-deprived hops across Jingdaoese colonies with a cargo hold full of fuel to give the plane enough range. The Kalgachi-made ECM suite had not yet been fitted and the first indication the plane had company was over an unassuming patch of ocean somewhere south of Ganduchuan, when the nose cone of a Shirerithian N-1 had slid into the periphery of Guldzherkov's vision as it gently overtook his starboard wing at a distance of fifty metres. To this day he thanked the autopilot for being on when he jolted out of his seat in fright, lest any erratic control movement be seen as evasive action and tickle the Shirerithian pilot's trigger finger. Since then such encounters had been commonplace but these days, thanks to his ECM man and the patchy EMCON discipline of the Shirerithians for whom this theatre of operations was currently something of a backwater in which to dump inexperienced pilots, Guldzherkov generally got some prior warning of their presence.
Today, all being well, his flight would take him to Diwangdao with forty tonnes of aid for the local population; the old Minarborian hovercraft-submarine previously used for the task had been struck by a series of leaks and breakdowns due to constant use and a scarcity of parts, quite aside from the trouble of hauling the shipments across fifteen hundred kilometres of ungoverened Green beforehand. The flight duration was short enough - certainly better than the long haul endured by other pilots tasked with delivering a hundred tons of Kalgarrand to Jingdaoese Feanoria, in several small payloads mixed with fuel for added range, totalling over 3.2 million little gold coins as payment for Kalgachia's Jan van Gents and the first year's maintenance contract. The identities of those pilots and their flight schedules was a matter of the highest secrecy, but Guldzherkov imagined they were not enjoying the task.
His earpiece crackled again. "Captain, I just got a burst in short range mode. Very strong, five o'clock level. They're close. Wait... another at seven o'clock. Looks like they're flanking us. You may be able to see them."
Guldzherkov and his co-pilot peered out of their respective windows. Sure enough, on the port side Guldzherkov beheld an N-1 fighter with Shirerithian roundels, wobbling and surging in the air as it drew forward and settled level with the wingtip of his own aircraft. The head of the pilot, inscrutable behind an oxygen mask and black visor, turned to look at Guldzherkov who offered a friendly wave. The Shirerithian pilot did not respond, only looked between his cockpit instruments and Guldzherkov's aircraft with periodic swivels of his head.
Guldzherkov turned to his co-pilot. "Is our transponder code valid?" he said.
The co-pilot picked up a notebook and flicked through it, comparing it to the glowing nixie tubes on the transponder panel between the pilots' seats. The question came irritably often, but the presence of the fighters gave it renewed legitimacy. "Yes sir, we're still on forty four eighteen. It's valid for the next... twenty four minutes and fifteen seconds, then we switch to forty four thirty two. If those fellows out there have the same book of numbers as I do, we're all good."
"What do you think the implications are if they shoot us down?" said Guldzherkov. "Out of boredom, say."
"Well the N-1's a complicated piece of kit, sir. Expensive to train the pilots. I'd say there might be disciplinary action, but nothing to stop them from flying again. Too much has been invested in them. There might not be disciplinary action at all... they'd probably get away with calling it an honest misidentification. If our diplomats are on good form they might pry a compensation package out of Shirekeep, for our families. Maybe some Community Service Workers or something."
"I don't know if I'd call it compensation to be replaced in my wife's bedchamber by a Froyalanish house boy."
"Heads I win, tails you lose," said the co-pilot with a shrug. "It's the Shirerithian way."
Both pilots suddenly jolted at a loud bang on the cockpit door, followed by muffled shouting. Frozen for only a second, Guldzherkov groaned in frustration.
"Urgh, it's Mister Dai. He's panicking again."
"I'm on it," said the co-pilot. He removed his headset and climbed out of his seat, pausing in preparation before unlocking the cockpit door. Behind it stood Mr. Dai, the Jingdaoese quality assurance engineer from Sukoku Industries tasked with evaluating the plane's performance during its first few flights. Now, as in previous incidents, his leisurely look out of the plane's astrodome had been rudely disturbed by the sight of Shirerithian fighters which triggered all manner of internalised Jingdaoese propaganda and threw him into a blind panic. Depending on the last piece of hyperbole he had absorbed from the media organs of Daocheng, he tended to alternate between cowering in fear or pounding on the fuselage, screaming a torrent of obscenities at the fighters. Now he was trying to break into the truck-cab-shaped cockpit for a better view; the door had been kept locked after the first incident, but now the co-pilot unlocked it and set about restraining Mr. Dai, a thin man of late middle age in black overalls whose wispy comb-over flopped freely across his face as he screamed a string of threats in Jingdaoese.
"Now now, Mister Dai, everything's going to be alright," said the copilot in a reassuring Lywall chirp, one brawny arm locking Mr. Dai's struggling wrists together while the other produced a cable tie to bind them up. "Do you remember the little talk we had? About keeping away from the windows and finding your quiet happy place where the Shiretits can't get you? There there..." Mr Dai's frantic spitting, biting and head-butting, although unpleasant, was made bearable by his profuse apologies and polite penance once he calmed down from his panic attacks. More than anything the pilots felt pity toward the man who was obviously helpless in the face of his own nerves. They refrained from reporting such incidents to his superiors, a fear which rivalled Shirerithian attack in his mind - his first intelligible words after returning to his senses, after the customary deep apologies, were generally a request not to tell anyone.
Beyond an observation that the copilot had left the cockpit, the incident appeared not to attract the attention of the Shirerithian pilots. Finally the one drifting off Guldzherkov's side pointed two fingers at his own eyes, followed by one directed at Guldzherkov - the universal gesture of I'm watching you. Then he and his wingman piled on the engine power, their aircraft accelerating into the distance and out of sight within mere seconds. Their final gift was a plume of wake turbulence severe enough that it tripped the autopilot off and forced Guldzherkov to take manual control.
The co-pilot, feeling the turbulence, rushed back into the cockpit and pulled his headset on. "Everything alright in here, captain?"
"Fine," said Guldzherkov. "Our mango friends have just departed."
The co-pilot looked out of the window. "So they have," he said.
"You'd better tell Mister Dai. He'll be pleased."
"With all due respect, captain, I think I've had enough conversation with him for now." Only now did Guldzherkov glance aside at the co-pilot and notice the trickle of blood running from his nose, courtesy of a well-aimed headbutt.
"Oh, sorry... I'll go and tell him myself if you want. Are you okay to have control?"
"I have control," said the co-pilot, wiping the blood off his lips and taking the control column in his hands.
Guldzherkov unbuckled his belt and rose from his seat, looking down through the windows and noting with satisfaction that they were now flying over the sea; the signal for their descent toward Diwangdao.