Superiority Complex (CLOSED)
The island nation of Imitora had always been one where the best defense had been prescribed in offensive terms. However, not the entire large tropical nation held that notion. In southern Imitora, the coast went largely unprotected by soldiers, the coastline falling under the protection of the Navy’s homeland defense unit. The men and women of the Navy’s homeland defense units were trained to a lesser extent than the regulars of the ICMC, INCF, IAF, and ISF. But they were still, as most Imitoran’s described themselves, not to be fucked with.
ICDS 33509, or Linebacker station was one of the smaller defense outposts. Just under four hundred personnel, including cooks, medics, soldiers, drivers, and other personnel, manned the station, tasked with the simple operation of defending a fifty mile by fifty mile square on a map that was located in the basement of the Imitora National Defense Building in Northampton. And as the sun kissed the horizon, dipping into the sea, the naval soldiers prepared for another mundane night. The last time anyone had encroached far enough to wake the soldiers was over four years prior, and had been taken care of by a warning shot from an Imitoran Virginia class attack sub.
SPC. David Stanton reclined on his bed, looking up at the poster of a black Yamaha YZF-R1, sighing loudly as his bunkmate, SPC. Mark O’Brian flipped through a magazine that he read, of course, only for the articles. Both were dressed casually, the tight fitting OD T-Shirts and cammo fatigues that clad military men and women everywhere. They spoke little, tired from a long day of standing. In bunks around the complex, soldiers prepared for dinner, while the reservists took positions of guard around the outer edges of the complex.
Around the small 50x50 square, FAV patrolled the wetlands of the tropical forest area, moving slowly, watching for the presence of people who were not supposed to be there. And so another mundane night began, the soldiers not aware of what lay ahead for them.
Clouds creep across the darkening sky. Like a fleece carpet on the ceiling of the world, the dim darker blues and purples roll out along the firmament, the last pink and orange streaks of sunlight converging around the spot where the sun had disappeared. The inky clouds and the mists in the distance beyond them presage rain and wind—sometimes violent wind. It is not, in hindsight, a very good night for Coast Guard novice training, and if the Admiral hadn’t insisted, citing budget concerns—well, it might all have been averted. But it really isn’t any time now to regret what could have been.
The ship glides along almost silently, the words Czardaian Coast Guard Training Division emblazoned on the hull. Somewhere off in the distance, the shore with its lights winking on and off is a dark line against the reflecting sea, light blue near the land, blending to darker colors around the boat. The instructor inside has finished talking to his students, numbering eighteen in all, new recruits to the Navy. By far not the most feared branch of Czardas’s military—that one was a tie between the Air Force and the Special Operative Divisions—but one of the best-trained. That money had to go somewhere.
The trainees are from Czardas. What, after all, is Czardas? When most foreigners from the region say the name, it is accompanied by a disdainful glance that appears to say ‘that small, insignificant nation’. Yet Czardas is neither small nor insignificant. In size, perhaps it is not as massive as the surrounding nations; its population, a scant hundred million; but it can hardly be described as small in comparison to other nearby nations of an even smaller size. Insignificant, only on the surface; for Czardas is the center of one of the largest intelligence empires in the world, and home of some of its best-known universities.
The instructor looks at the recruits with an aura of compassion. They are entirely hopeless so far: they can’t seem to remember what to do, and when. Worse, none of them can speak English, and only a very few French; and not too many nearby nations will understand the native Czardaian tongue. They should really take language classes, he thinks. Well, it is time by now for them to return to Sufijan, that city in the south of Czardas where the academy is based.
Of course, he does not notice the sudden change in air pressure. Or if he does, he doesn’t tell the students. Perhaps he wants them to be able to figure out what it means by themselves. At any rate, the boat is entirely unprepared when the rain starts. Not gradually in drops, but with a sudden deluge, a flood poured down on them from the skies. The instructor calls out orders, and recruits begin to prepare belatedly for the downpour, bringing things inside and launching the motors.
He smiles approvingly. They are responding well and quickly, which is important. The motors start up as the boat turns towards shore.
Lightning splits the sky and there is a crack. The boat is plunged into darkness.
A recruit somehow manages to find the instructor and report, “Sir, I think the lightning hit the electrical system and caused a short-circuit. Everything’s out.”
“Turn on the hydromotors,” he commands.
“We can’t find the switches any more,” explains the recruit. “I think we’re at the mercy of the waves.”
As if on cue, the gale-force winds hit the ship full force, sending it spinning away to the southwest.
Lit by lanterns, the ship becomes a hive of activity. The recruits, dealing with their first real emergency, work on attempting to steer the boat towards the shore, but with their electrical equipment out they can’t scan. The clouds prevent the satellites from locating them, and the radio appears to be broken.
“We just have to wait until it dies down,” says the instructor, calming the recruits down as lightning flashes and thunder cracks around them.
But by ten o’clock, when it has died down, the ship is nowhere near land, and it seems to be following a current leading southwest. The motors have not started up, but the radios are working again. However, the instructor himself is nowhere to be found. The recruits try to search for him, but it is still too dark. They continue to try everything they can to propel it back towards Czardas, but they have no idea which way that is, or which way they’re going. They decide simply to follow the instructor’s orders and wait until morning to find out where they are.
Three hours later, almost by chance, the boat unknowingly drifts into Imitoran waters.
The alarm that rang through out the military base woke the Naval soldiers from thier rest. Many moved lazily, thinking that it was just another drill, nothing to be worried about. However, they still moved with efficiency, if not speed, and were soon spread out among the gaurd towers of the base, as well as the tropical forest area surrounding it, and were prepared for just about anything.
They waited for what seemed like hours, but were only moments, when the Czardian ship crested the half mile mark, drifting lazily towards the shore. The Marines checked their weapons, suprised at the audacity of the assault. The clicks and clacks of weapons arming filled the quiet air, and beads were drawn on the ship.
As it slowly rolled onto the shore, spotlights errupted, breaking the night darkness, and rifles and squad automatic weapons leveled on the ship. A random voice over a loud speaker ordered all occupants of the boat to the deck, with hands up, and all weapons stowed.
The ship had sighted land a few moments before, and recruits see lights come on as the message arrives from the shore. Of course, a slight problem is that none of the recruits can speak English, or even understand it. The instructor alone could, and he is nowhere to be found.
They seem to have gone too far south and ended up in a different country altogether. On the off-chance that they might speak Czardaian, one recruit picks up a loudspeaker and shouts in the direction of the land, attempting to explain their predicament and asking what country they have reached.
It doesn't seem to work.
In a flurry of activity the recruits attempt to ready the ship to hit the shore, just a few moments away: trying to find a place to dock the ship, or even to steer it. The lightning seems to have damaged the steering wheel badly, however. It scrapes the bottom and drifts to a stop in the shallows.
The recruits notice for the first time figures in the wake of the spotlights, figures carrying weapons. Once again, desperately, they try to explain, little knowing that their language sounds like gibberish to the Imitorans. They begin to look for weapons, but being a training boat, it has few if any.