NationStates Jolt Archive

They had been meeting for weeks, huddling in small groups in the recesses of the giant cities of the republic, among the decaying tower-blocks and the run-down factories that had once held textile factories and other such industrial centres. Groups of Christian fundamentalists, the hated Yesuschiki who had been the victims, with the Nazis, the Fascists and the racists, of more than eight months of state purges. Millions of human beings were even now languishing in camps across the nation, doing hard labour for blacks and Jews, and helping to power the killing machine of the Marxist state. The yesuschina was still going on, unabated in ferocity. The group that stood nervously in the dark, creaking, water-dripping ruins of the Northern Steam Company's Rail Goods Warehouse had themselves lost 19 of their number in a gun battle with police only three days before. The police had stormed them with BTR-80s, T-64s and Mi-17s, creating unspeakable carnage as a hammer was used to crack a small nut. The leader of the little group, no more than 60 people, stood in the centre of the circle of gun-toting men and a few women, allowed along for the ride.
"Brothers, we are still here despite the deaths of our bretheren. They are one with the Lord now, and we all pray for them, and for the death of their murderers. Tonight, we shall begin God's work, and make those prayers bear fruit!"
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His name was Andrew Smith. A mere 25, he had been a yesuschik since the age of 16, secretly helping his older cohorts to carry out God's work: killing Jews, blacks and Marxists, burning houses and meeting-places of the enemies of God, and all the while evading the blind eyes of the heathen State.
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"With our weapons, bestowed upon us by the Lord's grace, we shall begin his work! We will go to the meeting place of the hated Jewry, those who did murder our Lord, and we shall teach them a lesson in humility before the Lord, so that they may turn from their wicked ways and beg forgiveness. Save especially the women, for they must give birth to God's children."
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That meant rape, and lots of it. The penalty for rape was very simple: castration, without anaesthetic, by nitric acid. But they would at least implant God's babes into the heathen wombs of the unbelievers; their work would be done.
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"Let our arms be strong, brothers, our eyes bright and our wits shrp, for the enemy is all around. Those who work in alliance with the Beast will do all they can to stop us, but they cannot stop the Lord, and they cannot stop his people!"
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A cheer rose from the assembled group, starting the few people wandering that part of the city of North Besterham at 2 AM. They proceeded, as always, to take communion and to offer up prayers and thanksgiving; then they readied their weapons, loaded them into a few ancient ex=US army 5-ton trucks, and headed out across the city to one of the largest synagogues, where a large party was being held.

OOC: The state's going to crush Christian fundamentalism once and for all, since it's proved rather more resilient than the other religions' fundamentalist groups have. COvert aid by all means, but understand that the fundamentalists are going to get massacred.

OOC:Interesting, how would one get in contact with these folks?

Decidedly OOC:

Our nation once had a religious group known as the Fundamentally Flawed. Their basic tenet was that all humans were fundamentally flawed, therefore all human endeavour was also, therefore -- why bother? Eventually, they believed, the Tenant would come home and clean out the clutter (ie, humans). They died out or faded away or something.

OOC: Well, the nation's pretty open, and wankers like these always have an underground for communications, which can never be totally filtered out; have someone from your nation contact one of them after this operation would be my suggestion, or maybe meet overseas.

IC: The five heavy trucks halted after their drive across the near-deserted city, a block away from the synagogue and its 150 occupants, and the occupants leapt out. Donning their black masks, each emblazoned with a white cross, they armed their weapons. All of them carried rifles, an assortment of weapons gained illegally overseas. Some carried grenades, and some even had grenade launchers. They all received a final blessing from Smith, and then crept towards the two guards standing outside the building, door hung with the star of David, the symbol of sub-human Jewry.

Smith took aim, leading by example as a good leader should, upon the nearer guard. He tightened the M16 to his shoulder, aimed his sighs slightly below and to the left of his target's forehead, set the weapon's selector to "burst", and with a murmured "Christ is king" squeezed the trigger. The flame blinded him for a second, but the rounds hit true, and the heathen guardian of the Jews was slain by God's fighters. A second burst finished off the other guard. Inside, people nearer the doors were still wondering what happened when Smith and his people burst in through the main door and the four fire exits.
"STAND WHERE YOU ARE, UNTERMENSCHEN!" he bellowed, filled with righteous fury at the animals as they cowered before his weapon, God's weapon. "You have dared defile this land with your Jewish blood and money, you have brought shame upon our people; you are the enemies of Christ and of His word and His truth! You will pay for following your false god and for your murder of Christ's people, as you murdered Christ himself!" A roaring chant of "Christ is king!" echoed throughout the chamber as Smith began his work, the 5.56mm round from his rifle spraying a Jewess with her husband's blood and brains. Smith enjoyed what he did, calmly discharging rounds into the men as they tried to run and escape, unaware that they could not evade Christ's fighters.

You sure DA hasn't gotten into your account ; )

-TAG- Looks cool.

DPUO is DA 0.o

OOC: Relax gents, if I actually thought any of that crap they spew is even remotely sane or believeable I'd be worthy of death and death only. And also, these guys are going to lose, and lose dismally, when the time comes...

IC: Smith and his group vanished into the night. They boarded their trucks, loading on booty from the Jews' filthy bodies, and moved off out of the city. They couldn't stay in it now; the militia would be searching hard within a few days. It mattered not; they had a far more spectacular plan to come.

The militia arrived as fast as they could, called to the burning synagogue by the fire brigade. There were only three people alive. Three, out of one hundred and fifty! thought the Colonel of the militia who had come to take in what was there. Burned corpses were now littering the smoking ruin of what had once been a fine 19th-century building; the stench was abominable, and not a few people, especially some of the women, were vomiting. He couldn't blame them. He had seen battle in the War of Liberation, had ridden into battle on the juddering back of a BMP-1 IFV, and he had smelt that odour far too many times. He crushed a can of cola in his fist. I fought the fascists and the Nazis for the freedom of myself and my wife and children, and the bastards go and do this! They would pay, Colonel Ruskov thought. They would certainly pay.

OOC: Not a gravedig, OK? Just so that's clear.

The warehouse leaked. Droplets of water cascaded onto the floor and the heads of the assembled faithful, occasionally dousing a cigarette or hissing to steam on the side of a burning barrel. They huddled beneath umbrellas, coats, tarpaulins, or whatever other cover they could find, and read their bibles in muffled voices, reliant on the feeble light of torches and candles for illumination, cursing their eyes' inability to see the word of the Lord without His light. Smith stood at the head of the mass of people, occasionally looking up from his muttered reading of the Holy Word to observe his flock, and their sadly depleted number. The heathen had a new weapon, a new group, the hated, black-clad Enforcers, who had butchered so many of his brothers and sisters in Christ. As they read, and crossed themselves, and prayed, he wondered what would become of them. In hie heart, he had faith; but his mind, clear as it was on their purpose and the greatness of their cause, was troubled. On occasion, he would question: how can such a small group fight the omnipotent might of the heathen State? He doubted not that his death was imminent; that was of no concern to him, for he would be one with Christ, and with His ineffable glory, and there was nothing the heathen could do about that. But he was worried all the same. The heathen State could forestall the work of God, and he knew that they could forestall it for a long time. He put the worries to the back of his mind, and turned to address his congragation.

Outside, Ruskov spoke softly into his helmet radio. His helmet, with its own respirator system, was despite design a damned hot and humid affair, and he struggled to avoid coughing within its confines, lest he alert the subhuman animals within the building, cowering like rats within their walls. His squad of Enforcers spread out around the entrances, and waited for his command, couching in the gloom to which they blended in exactly, their faceless black eyepieces and black armoured uniforms only faintly visible, caught by the light, like reflections of eyes in the night...

Ruskov checked his Kalashnikov for the final time and breathed into his microphone.

"Go."

Instantly, the doors were kicked open, and black-clothed Enforcers burst through them, hurling flashbangs into the expanse of the brick-walled warehouse. The detonations reverberated around the old walls, as did the snap and crackle of the AK-103s, shattering the senses of their foes. The Fnrocers, still half-seen in the dark confines of the building, fanned out and spat 7.62mm rounds into the group. Return fire issued forth in ragged, unco-ordinated spurts, chipping pointing and stone from the walls, sending sparks flying from old pieces of machinery left rusting in the vastness of the warehouse. Ruskov laughed in his helmet as he shot down a man trying to run for the last exit.

"Get 'em boys! The one who gets Smith gets a month's pay on me! Kill them all!"

The Enforcers gladly obeyed.

************************************************

The warehouse was already burning fiercely when the fire brigades finally reached it. They dutifully attempted to quench the flames, but the building was beyond hope. The great rotten timbers in the roof sagged and fell with a creaking groan, the metalwork telescoped and buckled and plummetted into the inferno below. Periodic explosions completed the scene of destruction. In the midst of the rolling smoke and dancing flames, nobody noticed a blackened, dishevelled, snivelling figure crawl slowly from the furnace, to lie, mewling and bleeding, in the undergrowth nearby.

Smith had escaped, barely. He did not worry over his wounds; God would heal them soon, and his brethren could always be relied upon to take the fight to the heathens. His pain would not go unavenged. Soon the League for Christian Freedom would strike again, strike at another unprotected target. Smith laughed softly as he thought of the massacre of Jewry that he would be a key part of, then dipped into unconsciousness.

The sailor appeared to be completely unremarkable. His features would cause no comment. He was neither tall nor short, stout or slender, old or young. He presented his papers to the Customs officials at the foot of the brow with the other sailors. Like them, he was wearing a light grey cap with the ship's name embroidered upon it, a thin blue jacket, battered but clean denim pants and shirt, and heavy boots.

The group of sailors headed straight to the nearest bar. After several drinks, the large group split up into smaller and smaller groups, each following the age-old calls of sailors in a foreign port: women, food, and drink- not necessarily in that order. Unnoticed among the others, the plain-looking man slipped away from the group into small shops along the group's route. He would re-emerge in short order and slowly catch up to the other sailors, carrying a small but growing bundle under one arm.

As night fell, the small groups eventually broke up to pursue individual activities, and the plain-looking man wandered away from the waterfront district. He ducked into a public water closet on a nearly lightless street, emerging a few minutes later wearing used but serviceable clothing purchased at various shops during his travels from the ship. The sailor's clothing was now in carried in a loose bundle. The man walked briskly across the city, dropping the clothing in the bundle into several rubbish bins at widely separated intervals.

Several brief visits to shops just before closing created another bundle, which was stuffed carelessly into a battered suitcase picked up at a pawn shop. Well before midnight, the man checked into a ratty hotel near the waterfront and slept.

Before dawn, the man rose and carefully bathed, taking the time afterwards to completely scour the tub and basin with the bleach powder he'd purchased the night before. The sheets and pillowcase were carefully folded and stuffed into the suitcase. Silently opening the window, the man slipped out of the room onto the fire stairs and disappeared silently into the early morning darkness. The sheets and pilowcase were randomly distributed in rubbish bins in alleys near the waterfront district, as were the clothing from second-hand stores and the suitcase.

Far from the waterfront, a normal-looking man who spoke with no discernible accent purchased several sets of clothing from different shops, each shop providing slightly better clothing. By noon, the man wore a grey suit of conservative cut, only slightly out of style. After lunch at a modest restaurant near the center of town, the man entered a taxi. Thirty minutes later, after changing taxis at the train station, shopping mall, and airport, the man stood outside an old two-story building near a quiet residential district.

The building's windows displayed several varieties of tobacco products, and the sounds of quiet conversation drifted down from the open upstairs windows, along with the odors of burning tobacco.

Inside, the man perused the shop's wide assortment of tobacco products, finally choosing a box of high-quality Cuban cigars. The proprietor, a middle-aged woman whose lustrous dark hair and chiseled features still showed the stunning beauty she must have once been, smiled and asked, "Will there be anything else, sir?"

Nodding briefly, the man said, "I would appreciate a quiet place to smoke for a bit. Perhaps have a drink or two."

The woman shook her head. "Few establishments will allow smokers, I'm afraid. However, we have a clubhouse upstairs for members of our Premier Club."

"How does one become a member?"

"Normally, one must be a regular customer." She smiled brightly at him. "But we have been known to make exceptions for special customers."

The man passed the woman enough currency to pay for his cigars twice over. "I've always thought of myself as being Extra Special."

Upstairs, the man lit a cigar and purchased a coffe from the kiosk near the stairs. He wandered around the room, stopping to observe a chess game in progress or to listen to several discussions and arguments among the two dozen men and women in the smoke-filled clubhouse. A short time later, the man was standing before a leaflet-studded bulletin board. After carefully reading several dozen advertisements, the man's eyes fell on the advertisement he'd been looking for. He casually removed the clipped bit of notebook paper and continued his aimless circuit of the room. After finishing his cigar and coffee, the man left.

He walked down the street to the intersection, then hailed a taxi. The taxi dropped him in front of a nightclub near the business district. Inside, he went to a corner table and ordered coffee. Fifteen minutes later, a tall man in a business suit walked into the club. He smiled brightly at the man and walked over to the table. "Ed Stuart! Good to see you again!"

The man smiled broadly, but the expression didn't reach his eyes. He stood and shook the newcomer's hand. "Hi, Norville. Good to see you, too."

The two men sat and talked of inconsequential matters for ten minutes, during which time they drank several cups of coffee. At length, Norville looked at his watch and said, "Damn! I was planning to have a few drinks and then have a late lunch, but I've missed out on my drinking time."

The plain looking man known as 'Edward Stuart' said, "In that case, you choose the place and I'll buy lunch for both of us." Twenty minutes later, both men were at a restaurant nearby, eating heartily. After finishing the meal, the two talked at length about the local market for electronic appliances before going their separate ways.

The plain-looking man took several trips by taxis to various crowded areas before stopping at a modest hotel and checking in for the night. The preliminaries were complete. In the morning, he would begin his job in earnest.

Several hours later, thousands of kilometers away, a message appeared on a particular display screen in a particular office in the city of Mikalgard.


ARGOSY reports Operation BOOTSTRAP underway. Recommend commencing DALRIADA soonest.

CHAMPION sends.

The Warlord reviewed the External Security report and frowned. The woman sitting on the opposite side of the desk raised an eyebrow. "Is there a problem with the report, sir?"

The Warlord shook his head. "Not the report, Miranda. Just the facts in the report." He sighed heavily. "What are the chances of these nutjobs actually succeeding at their stated goals?"

"Slim and none, sir." Miranda Velasquez consulted her hand-held for a moment. "My people in-country are fairly impressed with this Enforcer organization. Almost up to our Internal Security standards. Their NSB isn't that bad either, although hampered by their political leadership somewhat."

A series of options flowed across the Warlord's screen as he scanned the ES recommendations. Switching off the display, he turned back to his subordinate. "I agree with your conclusions, and suggest we go with option 2. Someone from the Diplomatic Corps will be at your office by 2300 to get a thorough briefing, following which they will fly to Krasniy Novgorod and deliver His Omniferocity's message to the DPUO government, with our recommendation that it be passed on to the National Security Bureau. We'll try to arrange some sort of unofficial working relationship with NSB, so we can forward any intel we pick up- after it gets properly sanitized."

The Warlord returned to his chair. "That will be all, for now. Don't forget that I want those reports on the Bering Straits mess on my desk by 0630 ."

The head of the External Security Department immediately rose and turned to go. As she reached the door, the Warlord added, "Good work, Miranda. Pass my compliments along to your staff."


From: EOE Minister for Pre-Subjugation External Affairs

To: DPUO Foreign Minister

Subject: Counter-terrorism

His Omniferocity has authorized me to offer the services of my External Security Department to assist your government in isolating and destroying the Yesuschiki terrorist gropup currently causing problems for your nation.

The Evil Overlord Enterprises External Security Department has discovered that at least one foreign intelligence service is probably involved with the Yesuschiki, although I cannot identify that service without compromising an ongoing intelligence operation. Our source states that this foreign intelligence service is engaged in delivering weapons, sophisticated communications equipment, and explosives to the terrorists, and may be involved in planning and intelligence-gathering operations in support.

Our analysis indicates that this foreign service is not innately hostile to your government, but is taking advantage of the situation to forward its own ends.

I will forward relevant intelligence data to your National Security Bureau as it becomes available. Do not hesitate to contact my office if more assistance is required.

Eternal Arch-Villain Psychopompos
Minister for Pre-Subjugation External Affairs

Jones re-read the message from the third time, while the heads of the two services most intimately connected with the ongoing operations, MacDiarmid of the NSB and Tomsky of the Enforcers, looked on. MacDiarmid seemed to be thinking, betraying it on his face, but Tomsky's features were black, his eyes staring darkly into space, never changing position. Even his blinking seemed sluggish, like it was being watched through beer goggles.

"Mac," asked Jones, sitting back in his seat with a sigh," how reliable do you think this is?"

MacDiarmid stirred from his reverie, gazed with astute eyes into a different patch of thin air, and then "hmm'"ed.
"Hard to say. The Evil Overlord's government and services are, from what we can get on them, usually pretty to the point. If they were trying to screw us over, they'd be much easier served simply doing so, and it would fit their MO better." He rubbed his stubbly chin. "My people also reckon that this corroborates what our operatives have been telling us nicely. It makes sense for them to be receiving the equipment we've captured - I mean, er, the Enforcers have captured - from an outside source."

"What sort of equipment?"

Tomsky's voice cut through the conversation like a chisel, cold and machinelike. "We have located several caches of military-grade high explosives, sniper's rifles, rifles, grenades and launchers for them, and parts of a dismantled tank. Our units consider this to be but a small part of their total arsenal."

"A small part?" Jones did not sound pleased.

"Yes. There is a high probability that whoever is supplying this group has support of a state or similar group. They are most likely entering the country on the coast."

"Agreed," added Mac, eager to get his oar back in. "Getting in via the airports is too risky, with the security checks we have there, and--"

"My agents report the security checks to be too lax," replied Tomsky in a neutral tone. "We must take more stringent measures to search entering persons."

"We are not a police state," replied Mac coolly. "I think sometimes that is forgotten."

"To be a police state," commented Tomsky, still keeping his voice level, still looking at nothing much, "is not necessarily evil."

Before Mac could reply, Jones cut them both off.

"All right, all right, knock it off you two." He sighed. "Mac, get onto your evaluation people and have them triple-check this. Then get me the latest reports of enemy strength in West Africa, so I can not look quite such an arse in front of the Defence boys tomorrow. Tomsky; see what your lot have brought back thus far. Tell us if anything comes up of importance." By "us" he meant, of course, the Council.

"Yes, sir. What of the prisoners?"

"Oh, them." Jones mused. "Extract all that you wish from them, and then dispose of the leaders on the gates."

We can not sit idilely by and let such fannatics have their way, we must send military forces into the area, with or without the consent of the government.

Mobilize the 1st, 2nd 6th, and 7th Mobile Armor Divisions to eleminate this threat with the utmost predjedice.

Roger that Consul, activating Mobile Armor Divisions for urban combat.

Location: Federation Military Base 107924

*ALARMS*

*Loud Speakers* All pilots ready for combat, all Marines ready for combat, pilots to your mechines, (repeat) all piolts to your mechines. Ready for imediate transportation, (repeat) ready for imediate transportation.

*Marine Commander* Lock and load boys and Girls, time to put your trainin and equipment to the test.

*Double time marching*

*Transport Pilot* ETA 50 min and counting, every one strapin nice and tight back there.

ETA 40
ETA 30
ETA 20
ETA 10
ETA 5
ETA 4
ETA 3
ETA 2
ETA 1

*Landing sight*(Thousands of Dropships unload Marine filled APC's, drop Quadtanks and Wanzers)*Commander* Tell the Council we have landed and are ready to engage the enemy. *Radioman* Roger that sir.

OOC: 1) This is all not exactly secret but certainly not very open, to say the least;
2) Landing in a country with more than 32 armed persons without thue government or ruler's permission is an invasion;
3) You're Future tech and I am Modern tech.

Basically, no dice. This is a small-scale RP, and I'd appreciate it if you'd just ask if you wanted entry. Common courtesy.

OOC: 1) This is all not exactly secret but certainly not very open, to say the least;
2) Landing in a country with more than 32 armed persons without thue government or ruler's permission is an invasion;
3) You're Future tech and I am Modern tech.

Basically, no dice. This is a small-scale RP, and I'd appreciate it if you'd just ask if you wanted entry. Common courtesy.

OOC:
Common courtesy) In character I have enterd illegally but I formally request entrance here.
2) I plan to some time in the future talk with what ever millitary representive you have out on the field, and formalize we have enterd under the pretences to aid the country we entered, DPUO
3) Not really, we don't use plasma rifles, lasers, or the like, our weapons and armor are Modern Tech as you put it, and the Wanzers (From Front Mission) and Quadtanks (From Solid Gear), still it is far more technologically advanced then you are, but only by a century or less

In that case, you're still at least post-modern, which is just as useless. It also fails to alter the fact that this is still a small RP with no place for massive forces, and was originally intended to be played by myself, to tell the story of what happens, with small input from others. TEO and I have worked out what will be going on, so he's welcome. You, however, have wandered in without so much as a "hey, mind if I join in?" and deployed an invasion force. Not a good idea.

For anyone else reading, this is a CLOSED RP, and I shall be asking for a title-change shortly.

"Andrew, my brother. You are healing well, for God's face doth shine upon you."

"My thanks to you, brother," replied Smith in a cracked voice. "The Lord bless you and keep you."

"And the blessing of the Lord be upon you, this day and always." With that, the Bishop departed, leaving Smith to lie in his bed and stare at the metal ceiling overhead. His berth rocked gently from side to side as the ageing freighter Christus Rex plugged its way through the unusually peaceful sea. They were fleeing, albeit slowly, from retribution at the hands of the Marxist authorities. Smith cursed them all, every man, woman and child of them, prayed nightly that God would visit upon them a plague, and liberate his people, as He had liberated Saint Paul. But it was seemingly not to be, for the State was coming down upon them ever harder.

Smith sighed painfully as he gazed at the blank steel above him. Why did God taunt him in this way? Why did the Lord allow so many faithful, so many believers, to die, when so many of the unbeliever were living? He wondered amout these things. His resolve had never weakened, not once, since the age of 16; but spending 15 years doing God's work, and seeing his friends and followers cut down by the mechanised hordes of the State, was telling on him. Sometimes, he wondered.

Am I doing the right thing? Is this the Lord's will? asked the small voice in his mind.

Of course I am! It is our duty to convert the unbeliever and to kill those who will not repent! retorted the other part of his mind.

But the Lord does not seem to approve, does he? taunted the small, rebellious voice.

Silence, heathen! Your lack of faith is sickening!

"Lord, why do you mock me?" he croaked. "Why do you give me naught but defeat, when I am doing thy work?"

The ceiling gazed levelly at him.

***************************************

Beneath him, the old freighter's rusty, leaking holds were packed with their most vital needs from their friends over the seas. Rifles, grenades, crates of munitions were packed tightly into the holds, creaking and groaning as rats scurried acorss them, all bound from an unknown sender in an unknown land.

"The heathen approaches," muttered a watch officer on the bridge. A small Navy patrol ship was passing them. It gave little indication of interest, which was just as well. With four Sunburn missiles and a pair of 76mm guns, it could have made life very interesting for the Christus Rex.

OOC: I thought this RP closed, no matter, perhaps this time you should explain the rules, such as maximum army size, exc. But beyond that point should you start a new RP you should change the title, and I am not likely to make the same mistake twice in the same day. So if there is a new RP I request to join, and request to know the maximum army size in conjunction with tech rating. ie 1 million modern .5 milion post modern, so on. Thank you for your time.

Christus Rex was vibrating steadily with the steady thrum of her twin diesel engines. Smith listened, a small part of his brain idly concentrating on it, while the rest gazed into the swirl of thoughts in his mind. He was still troubled by the lack off success that dogged them at every turn, still perturbed by the Lord's lack of favour to his works...

...and now, the engines had stopped. The steady drumbeat was dying away, accentuating the noise of the waves outside his cabin. He raised himself unsteadily to his feet, perched on shaking legs, and stumbled to the door to see what was going on, leaning heavily on its metal frame for support. His eyes, used by now the the curtained light of his bunk, squinted against the shafts of sunlight that pierced the grey clouds. White caps had begun to form atop the crests. The swell was rising, and the Rex rolled in it uncertainly, her ungainly hull lending her little in the way of ability to ride the tides. Smith swept the horizon once more, his ears noticing the worried, urging shouts of men around him, bidding one another do something, and then something else, though what it was exactly escaped him. He shook his head hard in an attempt to clear it, but failed, and got a headache that felt like a Nasmith steam hammer on his skull for his troubles. His eyes made their third sweep, and this time, they fixed upon a hazy object in the distance, sandwiched between the anvil clouds and the suddenly cold, grey, grave waters. A ship. He cursed, and picked up the pair of Kriegsmarine binoculars that he had found years before in his grandfather's wardrobe, and set to gazing at the ship again. Not just any ship.

A cruiser.

Smith's mouth fell open. A cruiser? How the fuck were they meant to fight a fucking cruiser!? He kept looking, taking in what even his amteurish eye could see: the thin, blunt barrels of the forward guns, tall superstructure, slim beam, graceful and fine hull. He racked his brains. This was one of the...Slava class, probably making her way home for a refit or just from being out on a long patrol. Her men probably tired and bored, taking little interest in what was going on...yes. It might yet work!

"Brother! Why are you standing here!" asked a nondescript brother, somewhat taken aback. Smith grabbed the man's shoulder.

"Take me to the Bishop, now! I must ask him for absolution!"

"Brother, I have been told to take you aft. We have stopped for you."

"What?" Smith knew what was aft, knew it was something important, but his hammering head still inhibited his thoughts...he screamed and urged himself to think! as the brother, joined by another, herded him aft like a blind old sheep. He made out the Bishop's hat and crook, wondering why he was here...there were more brothers, and a boat...

A BOAT!

"Bishop! Please!" Smith cried, a pleading note in his voice. "Do not make me leave my bretheren!" It was a fine performance, and he knew it. He had no intention of staying on this crate, while she attempted to outfight and outrun a cruiser.

"It is for your own good, Brother. You must not be kiled here. The heatherns must not capture you! Go, brother! I command thee, as God's messenger!" boomed the Bishop, procuring all his majesty and authority and plunging it into those few words, his outstretched hand shaking.

Smith looked at him.

"Bishop; I ask but the Lord's blessing." Smith knelt, mentally saying a prayer of thanks for his deliverance as the Bishop mouthed the meaningless blessings over his thinning hair, rose to his feet as it was completed, and then, shakily, headed into the boat. Two of his brothers followed him. The ship's plunging, rising, rolling hull filled his vision as he looked at her faded, rusting steel; then, the outboard motor fired up, and the little rubbed boat tore off into the waves, heading to the distant shoreline to the north.

***********************************************

The Rex began to chug up to her best speed as the boat peeled off, trailing a wake of foam, to the north of her. The distant form of the cruiser closed on them remorselessly, refusing to be absorbed by the haze around her. In the Rex's radio-room, the cruiser's third, terse order to give an identification and clearance code was already playing itself out over the loudspeakers. The Bishop was not a military man, nor a sailor, but he knew that this was one fight he could not win.

"Brothers, ready the anti-aircraft missiles," her ordered.

"But your grace, we cannot use them against that ship!"

"Fool! They will send a helicopter to investigate. If it tries to attack, we can buy ourselves time by killing it."

The Brothers doubted the logic, but they did not hesitate to run towards the armoury, where a number of SA-17 SAMs lay, snug in their launch tubes.

***********************************************

"Still no response, sir," noted the cruiser S-163's W/O.

"Hmm. Nothing?"

"Not a peep. It's like the Marie Celeste on a Sunday morning."

The captain considered this for a moment.

"Air, send out the helicopter to have a look. They might be in trouble."

"Aye, sir."

The plain-looking man entered the nightclub and was greeted by a blast of synthesized music that hit his body like the shockwave of an explosion. He shook his head slightly and stepped fully into the club, stepping off to the right to get out of the flow of traffic. Looking around, he noted that his clothing would attract little attention. The several hundred people filling the bar and dance floor affected every style of clothing known to man, and probably several new varieties invented just for the occasion. His own clothes were on the modest side of completely unusual: a dark blue suit of conservative cut, slightly behind the leading edge of the fashion curve.

Finishing the initial visual sweep of the room, he began a more careful examination of the clientele, watching for patterns. He mentally broke the interior up into sections, and examined the customers in each section in detail. Once the immediate section of the club nearest the doors had been carefully observed and categorized, the plain-looking man moved steadily around the room, stopping at regular intervals to survey each section in turn.

Returning to his original vantage point, the plain-looking man examined the prospects. There were five undercover policemen in the room, easily identified by the less reputable customers and therefore as easily avoided. The bouncers were also easy to spot: eight large, muscular men wearing weighted gloves and scanning the customers with almost the same intensity as the plain-looking man. Several of the bouncers had seen, categorized, and dismissed the plain-looking man as an out-of-towner looking for the edge of the wild life.

Lovers, would-be lovers, and packs of younger men or women looking for love occupied all the booths near the dance floor. Several tables near the booths were filled by individual men and women, grouped as either permanent wallflowers or hustlers peddling whatever the latest recreational chemical of choice happened to be- depending on whether their attention was riveted on the dance floor or the traffic to and from the bar and the bathrooms. The dance floor itself was a bacchanal of lust, crudely disguised as gyrations to the beat of the latest Tokyo pop music.

The tables near the bar were where the plain-looking man's quarry would be located, most likely near the back of the club. Three tables in particular caught his eye: the table in the corner was occupied by a hard-faced woman in her upper forties, dressed in a severely restrained black jumpsuit that did not complement her graying brown hair. The woman was usually alone, although men and women in casual attire sometimes stopped at her table for brief conversations, none of which lasted longer than ten minutes.

The two tables nearest hers- positioned to allow the occupants to intercept anyone from the rest of the club who tried to approach the woman- were each occupied by three men in dark suits, all of whom bore suspicious bulges under their armpits and scars on their knuckles. Back-tracking the woman's occasional visitors, he discovered the woman's #2 man, sitting alone near the dance floor. Whenever anyone approached the woman's table, the mastodons at the nearest tables looked to the lone man near the dance floor. He would give a signal, which determined whether or not the would-be supplicants were permitted to pass unmolested or were intercepted by the men in dark suits. No one who had failed to talk to the #2 man was ever permitted past the bodyguards.

Keeping his face neutral, the plain-looking man left his vantage point in the corner by the door and bought a drink at the bar, tipping the server heavily to be left alone. He sat at the bar for half an hour, watching the #2 man in the bar's mirror. Setting his untouched glass on the bar, he saw his target signal to one of the bodyguards. One of the bodyguards levered himself free of his seat and clove a path through the press of revelers to the #2 man's table. With his position thus secured, the #2 man strode off to the men's washroom. The plain-looking man watched a second bodyguard follow him, then casually followed the bodyguard.

Inside the washroom, the plain-looking man had little trouble finding his quarry. The urinals and sinks were on one side of the room, and the row of toilets were on the other side of a dividing wall behind the urinals. The elephantine bodyguard leaned casually against the wall next to the very last toilet stall. Most of the dozen or so people in the washroom were on the opposite side of the room at the urinals and sinks, making the #2 man's location all the more obvious. Adding a small hitch in his step as he walked, the plain-looking man opened the door to the first stall and sat down to wait. A toilet flushed, and a man staggered out of a stall and toward the door to the club. Another flush, and the plain-looking man heard the footsteps of the bodyguard moving down the row of stalls. He quickly lowered a small mirror to just below the level of the stall door, and saw that the bodyguard was a step or two ahead of the smaller man. The plain-looking man slid the mirror back into his pocket and braced himself against the back of the stall.

As the bodyguard passed the first stall, the plain-looking man kicked the stall door open as hard as he could. The opening door caught the smaller man full in the face, knocking him backwards with a muffled gasp of pain. Stepping quickly out of the stall, the plain-looking man stepped to his left and kicked the bodyguard in the side of the right knee while the larger man was still turning around. He could hear the joint snap from the vicious strike, and the bodyguard fell to his right, his hand still reaching into his coat. As the behemoth hit the floor with his hand still tangled inside his jacket, the plain-looking man kicked the man in the temple, then fished a large-caliber handgun out of the stunned man's nerveless hand.

He returned to the smaller man, only now making substantive attempts to stand up by holding onto a stall. The #2 man caught the plain-looking man's movement in the corner of his eye and started reaching into his coat, but immediately froze at the sound of a pistol hammer being cocked. Blood ran freely down the injured man's face from his smashed nose and lips onto his shirt and coat. His left eye was rapidly swelling shut, and stark fear was shining in his good eye as the plain-looking man stepped carefully up to him.

With practised ease, the injured man's pistol was removed from its holster on his belt. The plain-looking man slipped the weapon into a pocket and smiled. It was not a nice expression, and the wounded man's eye widened. The plain-looking man said, "My name is Grey Hartman. Consider this my calling card. I'm trying to get into the lucrative illegal firearms market, and I understand your employer is the person who can make it happen. Perhaps you could introduce me."

"Hokay, man. Pleased to meetcha. I unnerstand you got the goods." The plain-looking man looked up from his newspaper at the man standing next to his table. His visitor was tall and slender- doubtless using some of his own product, reputedly a cheap synthetic knock-off of the government-approved recreational pharmaceuticals. He tried to cultivate an aura of serious intent and financial well-being by wearing off-the-rack suits from a discount outlet. The pitiful attempt was terminally marred by the man's steadily twitching hands, the tic under his left eye, and the generally unhealthy pallor of his skin

The plain-looking man sighed mentally at the man's posturing. Keeping a straight face with the ease of long practice, the plain-looking man asked, “Do I know you?”

The visitor reflexively checked that no one was watching, a waste of time since his mannerism and dress made it a virtual certainty that several of the restaurant’s patrons were eyeing him covertly. He sat down. “No man. We ain’t never met. We got whatcha might call a mutual friend. Said you might help me with a problem I got.”

“I have lots of friends. Whom are you talking about?”

The man made another spasmodic turn of his head to make sure they couldn’t be overheard before whispering, “Max sent me.”

The plain-looking man sighed aloud. “Sorry, but I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” He laid aside his newspaper and shook his head. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend.”

He stood and dropped some cash on the table to cover the tab for his coffee. His visitor's eyes widened, then narrowed suddenly as he realized his mistake in making contact publicly. He covered his indiscretion by mumbling, "Sorry, man. No offense, y'know." He rose and quickly left.

The plain-looking man ignored him and waved to the restaurant's headwaiter. After spending a few moments to arrange a less public table for his future visits- accompanied by a modest honorarium- he walked out to the sidewalk and hailed a taxi. He changed cabs several times at crowded public areas, leaving the last taxi on a side street three blocks from his actual destination. A short walk led him to a modest storefront, the window of which advertised several varieties of imported home appliances.

Once inside, the plain-looking man flipped the switch to light up the shop's Open sign and walked through the displays of various appliances to the workshop at the rear of the structure. He pulled open a drawer and removed one of the dozen or so cheap cell phones. He punched a preset number and waited.

A woman's voice answered. "What?"

"I am displeased", the plain-looking man said quietly. "The customers you have referred to me are strictly low-rent. I would prefer to find a buyer for multiple units."

The voice sounded unimpressed. "Yeah? Well, maybe it's because your product hasn't got a reputation yet."

"Nor is it likely to attain a reputation from the type of customers you've referred." The plain-looking man's voice was calm and even.

"You might have a point. I have a suggestion that might help. There will be a gathering of distributors this weekend, all people in your business. Exclusive clientele. Sort of a trade show."

The plain-looking man smiled internally. "That sounds promising. Send someone around with the details." He disconnected the call, then dropped the cell phone into a trashcan.

The plain looking man made some mental notes and began closing the shop, starting with emptying the trashcans into the communal rubbish bin in the alley behind the shop. It sounded very promising indeed.

OOC: Apologies for absence, have been working on a couple of projects. *Posts*

IC:

Cruiser S-163

The Kamov's twin turbine engines spooled up, sending shrill shrieks out over the waves that pitched and rolled its mothership. Pilot and copilot checked dials and gauges with attentive boredom, wondering what this stupid civvie had done. The Kamov's engines reached take-off power, and the small, insect-like helicopter hoisted itself from the cruiser's landing pad, skittishly avoiding her masts and antennae as it pitched forward and to starboard, accelerating towards the distant, hazy form of the freighter.

*****************************************

The Christus Rex

The ship's well deck was alive with groups of men swarming towards her raised forecastle and stern. It took two men to operate each SA-17; at least, if they wanted to reload the tubes it did. They hid themselves behind and between deck fittings and cargo crates. A team perches itself on the wheelhouse, and another crouched in the shadow of a companionway. All eyes fixed, when they could find it, on the little speck approaching them.

Below them, in the engine rooms, the sweating engineers kept fearful watch on their over-stressed charges. The engineers were pragmatists for the most part, and saw little point in murmuring praises to God when they had machinery to tend to. Nonetheless, they fingered their crosses anxiously, awaiting the failure they all felt had to come. Maybe it would be one of the two giant, straining diesel engines, or maybe a fuel pump or the generators. Whatever it would be, it would be their task to repair it quickly. They knew little of what approached above them; instead, they had to be content with hearing second-hand reports or the noises around them. Imagination created worse dangers than existed in reality, however, and soon they all felt that they had no hope.

*****************************************

The helicopter could now begin to pick out details of the ship before her. An old three-island freighter, fo the kind that had once been so common upon the oceans or the world. Looked to be painted in black, with a red-and-black funnel. The copilot checked her mike.

"He's really running for it, isn't he?" she asked over the noise of the Kamov's chattering rotors, pointing to the dense clouds of oily smoke emerging from the funnel. She watched it roll out in a noisome fashion over the sea, wondering if the crew give a damned about what it was like to breathe in that smoke. Already she disliked them.

"Y'can say that again. Look at that wave!" replied the pilot, gesturing to the ship's bows. They were riding relatively high in the water, throwing up a curling snarl of white foam as the ship's vertical stem ploughed forwards. "What'd you say he was doing?"

The copilot mused.
"Say, eighteen?"

"Looks about right. What the hell's he doing running at that kinda speed?" asked the pilot, feeling that he ought to have scratched his chin.

"Well he'll blow a gasket if he keeps this up!" she replied cheerfully. "Then we can find out." She noted that the freighter was changing course. It seemed to be -- yes, it was turning towards them. That was strange. She watched as the great wall of steel, llittle more than a small rectangle at this range, began to pierce the waves with her bows, sending spume flying over her decks. The pilot took the helicopter down by 50 feet and accelerated, wanting to do a quick fly-past, sensing danger in the air.

*****************************************

Two Brothers stood on the forecastle. They crouched behind the 8in breakwater, their SAM lying low down beside them, watching the little buzzing heathen insect approach, caution gone, at speed. The SAm carrier propped himself on one knee and switched on the missile's tracker, as he had been taught to do in the camp on one of the empty islands.

*****************************************

The pilot frowned as he saw the movement. The copilot did likewise, squinting to make out what the fellow down on the deck was doing. She tapped onto the frequency for the ship and spoke.

"Control, there's some activity down there. Ship is not abandoned, I repeat not abandoned. Investigating. Out." Even as she said this, her eyes noticed movement. She strained still further to see it, cursing the dull paint of the ship's deck.

Then there was a flash...

*****************************************

The Brother's ear had listened to the seeker's insitend, complaining bleeping for 20 seconds. He was certain the SA-17 had found its mark, and with a smile, he pressed the trigger home.

The SA-17 blasted from its launch tube and screamed out into the cool air, heading straight at the little Ka-27 as it approached them. The helicopter changed direction, but it was nowhere near enough. A bundle of flares and chaff were spat from the side, but the missile's seeker was dominated by the large, inviting target of the helicopter's twin turbine engines, and it smashed into them with all its force, detonating its warhead on impact. Behind it, the man who had commanded it to begin that short flight to oblivion leapt up, a great yell of "God is great" escaping his lips.

The Kamov's port engine was smashed instantly, both turbines being utterly ruined, their shafts bent and then broken in an instant. The incoming fuel for the engine was ignited by a combination of intentional heat and the explosion of the missile's warhead, which had released hundreds of tiny shards of metal into the helicopter, wrecking the transmission and the rotor hydraulic lines. The fuel burned, lit the hydraulic fluid as if gurgled from the ruptured lines, set off the gearbox oil as it likewise emerged from the holes in the transmission casing. The Ka-27's rotors instantaneously halted their rotation as the starboard engine was consumed by the flashing blast and the transmission tore and was torn to pieces. Finally, hot fragments entered the fuel lines. A tongue of flame reached back down into the main fuel tank, and the dying, falling machine exploded, leaving only pieces of itself and its crew and a cloud of black smoke drifting languidly on the wind.

*****************************************

The cruiser's bridge crew looked in silence at the small patch of black that had appeared above their quarry. Her captain could scarcely believe it, but he was an officer, and he now had to make a decision. He made it quickly and without hesitation.

"Starboard ten, all ahead flank!"

6 kilometers southwest of Uturoa, a large party was in progress on a small atoll. The atoll was unnamed and normally uninhabited, although there were remnants of long-abandoned anti-aircraft positions on the largest of the 6 tiny islets. It's current occupants weren't interested in the relics of long-ago wars. They had come to this nameless collection of tiny bits of land for two purposes: to have a massive party, and to do some business. The party was in full swing across 3 of the islets and in the miniature lagoon. The business was getting done in a larger, more substantial relic of a long-ago war beneath the revellers' feet.

A huge, reinforced concrete bunker had been constructed long ago, as a local command center for a war few remembered. After the tides of war had swept over and beyond the unnamed little atoll, the bunker had been gradually filled with sand, seawater, and the detritus of decades of Pacific island life- which is mostly palm fronds and bird shit.

More recently, several enterprising persons discovered the bunker, and immediately saw the potential as a clandestine meeting site. The tunnel entrance to the bunker was concealed within one of the few permanent surface facilities on the unnamed islet- a concrete lined structure that had started out as a gun position covering the beach and had been converted into a restroom and shower. The back of one toilet stall opened to reveal stairs leading down. A series of small platforms were built on the surface above, to hold temporary structures for parties of various sorts. A few of those parties were the cover for dark business deals, and not a little skulduggery.

Both business and skulduggery were in the bunker's smoky air as the plain-looking man entered. Several dozen men were clustered around the improvised firing range set up in a partly-collapsed tunnel at the opposite end of the bunker. Heavy tables were placed against the walls, holding an astonishing variety of weaponry- mostly small arms.

A burst of automatic fire shredded the air within the bunker. The plain-looking man winced at the pain. Looking around, he saw several boxes of foam earplugs and a few pairs of earmuffs. Donning one of each, he walked over to a table filled with his wares. Several men were looking at the modest assortment of chinese-made copies of the AK-47 and cheap-looking RPG launchers. The plain-looking man pulled a box from beneath the table and began assembling the device he referred to as his eye-opener.

Completely ignoring the obvious curiousity of the men watching, he first removed the receivers from the eight AK-47s on the table. These were attached through already-drilled holes to a half-meter diameter circular metal plate at equally separated points near the edge. Holes through the plate permitted the rifle barrels to be attached, and several smaller plates kept the barrles fixed rigidly in place. A boxy assemblage of parts, including a small electric motor, was bolted onto the metal plate- covering the multiple receiver assemblies. The entire apparatus was lifted onto a tripod, and three boxes of 7.62 x 39mm ammunition were loaded into a large hopper on top of the assembly.

As he finished, the plain-looking man looked up and noticed that everyone in the room was crowded around him, watching the assembly. With no expression, he picked up the contraption and carried it over to the firing lane. He turned around and removed his earmuffs and plugs.

"As you have just seen, I have converted 8 cheap AK-47s into an 8-barrel Gatling gun." He reached down and swiveled the weapon so the men watching could see the side of the assembly. "There is an electric motor which spins the barrels, incidentally feeding a fresh round into the just-emptied firing chamber. The spent brass leaves the weapon to the left. The hopper on top holds 3000 rounds of ammo. This weapon will require a crew of 2 or 3- one to fire, and the others to feed it ammo."

The plain-looking man re-donned his hearing protection and sat down behind the gun. He pointed the weapon down the tunnel and hit the butterfly trigger built into the handle at the rear. A steady roar of gunfire echoed throughout the bunker for 30 seconds as a meter-long flame wavered in front of the spinning barrels. Releasing the trigger, the plain-looking man rose and waved at the weapon. Another man sat down to try it, his left leg scattering the pile of brass near the leg of the tripod.

Once all of the ammunition had been exhausted- requiring several refills of the top-mounted hopper, the plain-looking man disassembled the weapon and began storing the parts in the two boxes in which he'd originally brought them. There was a buzz of conversation around him, which he ignored until he was finished. "If anyone is interested in this system, you can reach me through our mutual friend, Max. I sell them for 2500000 Japanese Yen per unit. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to re-join the party."

Half an hour later, in a small boat halfway to Uturoa, the plain-looking man dropped the boxes over the side into deep water. Once he was on land, and the boat was returning to the atoll, he pulled on a pair of gloves and walked to a public telephone near a raucous nightclub. He covered the earpiece with a handkerchief and dialed a number. "Police? There is a large gathering of criminals and gun-runners on a small atoll SW of Uturoa. It's disguised as a party. The guns are in an old underground bunker. No, I won't leave my name."

Leaving the phone receiver hanging, the plain-looking man walked off into the night. He was confident that the Police and NSB would quickly snap up most of his rival gun dealers. The terrorists would be forced to come to him for weapons.

<OOC>
For those playing at home, my posts are all taking place over several days' time. I think the implied internal timeline has DPUO's posts about the Christus Rex taking place before my post about the nightclub- or at least, that's the way I'm organizing it as I save everything to a document file on my computer.


TEO

The little island was still ringing gently to the sounds of swaying, pulsing, heaving partygoers. Hundreds of human beings were crammed into the small space of the old bunker complex, a giant, writhing, sweating mass of flesh, eager with collective zeal to forget individual problems for a while. Alcohol served only to enhance every emotion and give a sharper edge to the night, as did the drugs being passed around by those who were inclined to such pursuits. The steady thump-thump-thump of perennially irritating dance music escaped the old, torn, pocked concrete walls and drifted lazily out towards the stars. The stars, uninterested in such frivolous and unnecessary pursuits, smiled wanly at the speck below them.

Across the black waters that broke with such lazy, inviting ripples of white against the rolling sands can the sounds of engines. Quiet engines, having been surrounded with as much soundproofing materials as possible and given the best silencers available, but engines nonetheless. Like an angry hornet's nest, they grew in volume, buzzsawing their way towards the island, the rubber launches they powered throwing up small, frothy spurts of water as they barrelled into waves, riding the crests and then dropping into the troughs.

Aboard the black dinghies, thirty-two heavily-armed police checked their weapons, radios, torches, flashbangs and stun grenades. They plodded through the dull routine of final checks, inattentive and uncaring, yet simultaenously alert for any sudden defect. Apart from one man whose side-straps obstinately refused to loosen, who cursed his body armour's determination to suffocate him, no problems manifested themselves.

In the lead dinghy, the Lieutenant in charge of the raid averted his eyes from the strangely soothing movement of the island, turning his head back towards the long-low shap that lay behind them. He squinted to spot the ship's morse lamp, found it, and began to read rustily the signal. The destroyer's crew weren't bothering to slow down for him and his poor morse, and he cursed them for it, blessing their four 5.1 inch guns that would, if necessary, provide fire-support. The government never took chances - a legacy of the war - and especially not with the chance that this lot could be supplying the enemy.

He turned to his radio and breathed into the microphone. "All right. Two minutes. Keep it tight and get ready for a quick jump-off when we hit the shore." No reply. Just in case these guys happened to have radio intercept gear.

The final two minutes of the journey were the most tense. For some idiotic reason, he felt as if he was landing in Normandy. His every sense half-expected a barrage of machine-gun and artillery fire to come down around them. Of course, it did not. The little rubber vessel nudged herself onto the sand with a slight, hollow grinding noise, and her eight-man crew disembarked, jumping out and immediately taking up positions to cover the advancing members of the second squad, huddling behing tussocks of grass and small dunes.

The two teams were each split into two squads, one supporting the other in a miniature version of an echelon advance. The police cautiously made their way up to the bunker, taking in the noise, the smells, the burning, shielded lights with disdain.

A single man stood guard outside the door, casually smoking what turned out, upon the lieutenant's nasal inspection, to be a joint. He grinned at his comrade lying next to him and took aim at the man's leg, suqeezing the trigger of his AK-103 only when satisfied that the sight was in the right place. The guard's face went from shock, through to fear, and then onto extreme pain as the bullet found his right shin. He dropped to the floor, rolling in agony, as the police dashed forward to the heavy steel door. The leitenant stood over the man rolling beneath him.

"Key?" he spat. The man nodded, face still contorted with the agony of his smashed bone and rent flesh, and managed to pull a large, almost anqitue-looking key from his belt, which the lieutenant duly fitted into the lock. It turned with a squeak of protest, and allowed the great bulk of metal to swing open before him. The lieutenant turned and raised his arm, motioning them into positon before the descending ramp. Then, feeling for some reason inanely self-conscious, he dropped it.

"Go, go, go!"

The partying people down the ramp heard little at first, and few paid any heed to the shouts, the noise of approaching feet, or the sudden sense of prescience seizing some of the more nervous revellers. They did, however, pay attention to the first gunshots as they rang through the concrete walls.

In the recessed back area, the gun-runners suddenyl froze in the middle of conversations, drinks, gams of cards, or shooting exercises, and ran frantically for weapons. Before many of them could grab any firearm, a small grey canister bounced inoccuously through the doorway. Only one man had the sense to realise what it was, and turn away from the flashbang before it detonated.

---------------------------------------------------------

All in all, the operation was unremarkable, the lieutenant reflected as they powered back to the waiting destroyer. They had managed to get all but one of the gunners, who had spun round and fired an old TT-33 9mm into the face of an approaching officer. That man had instantly been torn apart by fusillades of 7.62mm rounds, but not before the officer's face had been demolished by the impact of the 9mm slug. He reflected sadly that it was a great shame. She had been, most of the men agreed, a pretty woman before the bullet had smashed flesh and bone in its merciless progress.

Of the rest of the prisoners, 3 were drug runners, and two more had simply been drunk and disorderly. One had indeed attempted to throw a punch at the lieutenant, who had reacted simply by returning the favour. Little had the drunk known that the police were issued with knuckle-dusters.

The reports would doubtless be on the TV in the morning. By then, however, the lieutenant planned on being sound asleep.

The plain-looking man in the grey suit looked around the building's drab interior without expression. He tuned out the property manager's faltering excuses with the ease of long practice and made several notes. At length, he turned to the dithering woman and cut off her stammering with a curt gesture. "My firm is not interested in external- or even internal- appearance, madam. We only require function." He handed her a page from his notebook. "Here is a list of requirements. Have these taken care of by Monday morning."

The young woman was completely taken aback. She finally managed to blurt out, "You'll take it?"

"Providing the repairs and upgrades on that list are expedited, I will. My firm prefers operating on a 6-month lease basis. Have the paperwork completed and awaiting me here Monday morning. I will arrive at 8AM sharp for a final inspection. If I am satisfied, we can finalize the transaction on the spot. Do you have any questions?"

Still a little stunned, the young woman had the presence of mind to say, "Mr. Brandt, I need your business permits and bank account number. For the paperwork." Her voice trailed off as the man she knew as Matthew Brandt handed her a folder filled with the appropriate documents.

"I believe you'll find that all of these are in order, Miss Korsinova. My telephone number is on my business card, clipped to the folder. Don't hesitate to call me if there are any problems."

"Mr. Brandt ... er ... we really should go to my office and complete the paperwork."

The plain-looking man shook his head. "I really haven't the time, Miss Korsinova. I've taken too long here as it is. I have an appointment in Krasniy Novgorod this afternoon, and I shall have to bustle to get there in time." He escorted the confused young woman out of the warehouse to the cab waiting outside. "I will see you on Monday, then. Good day."

He stepped to the driver's window and passed the man some cash. "Take Miss Korsinova to her office, please." The plain-looking man stood on the building's loading dock and made several mental notes as the cab drove away. Once the vehicle had turned the corner, he walked down the street in the opposite direction. At the intersection, he looked carefully at the buildings nearby, then let his eyes follow the street to the left into the downtown area. Turning around, he visually checked the road down to the Port of New Manchester and the remaining road leading into a warren of streets and warehouses servicing the Port. Nodding in satisfaction, the man walked two blocks and hailed a cab.

As the taxi carried him to the New Manchester Mall, the plain-looking man reviewed his work so far. Getting the warehouse had put him slightly behind schedule, but he had built several such delays into his timetable for just such an occurrence. Once the lease paperwork was finalized, he would eliminate the realtor- the only person at her firm to have seen his face. Then it would be back to the old waiting game. Patience was a virtue for hunters- even those whose prey carried a cross and a rifle.

<OOC>
For those playing at home, my posts are all taking place over several days' time. I think the implied internal timeline has DPUO's posts about the Christus Rex taking place before my post about the nightclub- or at least, that's the way I'm organizing it as I save everything to a document file on my computer.


TEO

Yep, pretty much. The Rex's destruction has happened that day, and is as yet unknown to "Brandt". What is going to happen, however, is going to be unexpected. The cruiser will find a man alive in the water and interrogate him. From there, the NSB will eventually send Navy divers to the remains of the Rex. Aboard her there will be a book detailing agents to distribute the weapons to and where to find them. It won't affect TEO's man "Brandt" very much, I should think, but it'll worry Smith a lot.

S-163

The cruiser's churning bow-wave rose in harmony with the pitch of the ship's whining gas turbines as she accelerated towards the unknown enemy. The captain's seething rage was not heled by the knowledge that it was universally acknowledged that ships such as these had to be brough in intact. Had that not been the case, he would have happily loosed one of his P-500 anti-ship missiles at the lumbering freighter before him, blown her to knigdom come, and watched in joy as the sailors on board drowned. He revised that thought a few seconds later. He had never seen war, but he knew what it was like to have to swim from a dying ship, and he could never wish that on anyone.

****************************************

The Rex had no mpore speed. Her diesels were giving all they could, and she was making no less than 17 knots, but it was never going to be enough. The Bishop knew full well that the cruiser had double that speed, and that did nothing to help his foul mood. His anger was, he knew, the result of fear. His time had come, and he knew it. He had already ordered the crew to set demolition charges around the ammunition in the holds. If he was going to die, he would not let the heathens find anything to use against his bretheren. He kept his watch on the approaching cruiser, as though he could somehow dissuade her wrath with his eyes, and waited.

****************************************

Smith had observed the whole sequence of events of the last ten minutes from his bucking boat. He had screamed his curses at the Bishop's stupidity, cursing him for condemning the ship to death. He cared not about the men. They needed those weapons! He now sat, defeated, and watched as the distant, blurry shape of the cruiser caught up with his brothers aboard the old, hulking freighter.

****************************************

"Range?" called out the cruiser's captain for the fifth time in two minutes.

"Seventeen thousand five hundred," reported the CGO after a second to check his rangerfinder. "Well within best range, sir."

"I know that!" snapped the captain. The microphone clicked off as the CGO, high in the ship's superstructure, blew out his cheeks and whistled. Skipper's goin' bonkers down there.

He considered for a moment more, and then decided that yes, now was the time. Keeping his face forward, his eyes on the fleeing enemy, he gave his order.

"Load high explosive."

"Load high explosive aye!"

****************************************

The Bishop flinched as he heard the distinct double crack! of the cruiser's 5.1in guns opening fire. Longe before the sound had reached him, however, the shells were already approaching the ship. A pair of tall, angry waterspouts rose from just ahead of her wide bows, while both the ship's morse lamp and the radio blared out a demand for her to heave to and prepare to be boarded. As if in defiance, the Rex plunged herself into a new wave with renewed vigour, determined to show that she could still give the heathen a run for his money.

****************************************

Andrew watched the chase develop. The cruiser closed her fire onto the Rex quickly, and her hits registered with appalling effect on the old ship. First a pair of shells smashed the forecastle, annihiliating anyone unfortunate enough to be standing there; then another pair smashed into the wheelhouse. Another shell whizzed past and crashed into the sea to the Rex's port side, but the first caught the tall, slim funnel. With a sad groan of metal it toppled to one side, dragging with it a mass of stays, and sending black smoke rolling over the ship's stern. The smoke did little to help her. Within anothet hree minutes the Rex was flaming in several places. Smith trained his binoculars and watched men jumping from her into the cold sea.

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Aboard the cruiser, the CGO cursed as his latest salvo fell short of the heaving freighter. As the ready light blinked green again, he keyed in the range manually and fired. The twin turret spat smoke and flame, shredded on the clipping wind generated by the cruiser's speed through the water. This pair of shells was particularly effective. The deckhouse was reduced even further, now a mere shambles of twisted and contorted metal. The great hole where the funnel had been belched black smog, gouts of it oin which occasional flickers of orange emerged, like a small candle floating in misty bath. He fired again, his rangefinding laser and fire-control computer now having an easier taslk as the freighter's speed fell away. A spark appeared amidships, near a hole punched in the tired steel plates by an earlier shell, and he thought, hit her...

...blinded, he threw himself back from the rangefinder's telescope, bright lights dancing before his stinging eyes. He blinked, trying to clear them away, and swore uncontrollably with the pain in his eyes, which now streamed blurring tears. Gasping, he pulled himself back to the rangefinder, forcing his reluctant eyes to focus on the image greeting them. A pall of thick, black smoke rose high into the air as the freighter's ponderous bow and rounded stern tilted upwards at the edges its base. The column of smoke kept rising as the freighter's brass screw hovered, reluctant to submarge for the final time. Her bows went down first, releasing a sad cloud of bubbles as the great dull explosion rolled out across the waves, making them lap all the more angrily at the cruiser's grey hull.

"Good lord," he muttered. "She's blown up."

The Rex sank.