NationStates Jolt Archive

The Black Sea

On a small leaky trawler, the band of men stood on the wet deck between rusty fishing equipment. It was cold, rain came down softly and irritated everybody equally. In the middle they lit a fire in an old oil drum, standing there like homeless.

'Okay men, you know the mission. The target of this black operation is the monastery at Etschmiadzin. You all know what's inside right?'
'Yeah, the spear of destiny of course...'
'Good. Now take a look at the map (http://weecheng.com/europe/caucasus/am/aragats/aragats-map.jpg). It's quite a walk, but we are fully prepared. Several other fishing ships of ours are faring under the flag of Momanguise. We have British passports and we are chosen because of our exceptional knowledge of their main language and the skills you all posess.'
'But that's just English...'
'I know, and that's why you all followed a course in Armenian and Georgian. A few of you shall be there for a good few weeks, so you have plenty of times to test yourself. Me and McIntosh will rush the spear back to Guffingford.'
'Now I must introduce someone new to our group. You all know who I am and this person is the new leader of the Paranormal Division, Fretch Cather.'
'Hello all. I am quite proud to be on this mission, my first mission to be exact. MacIntosh St. Kalba, you all know him - knows me for seventeen years. Nothing can be said about his dedication to the cause, which is outstanding.'
'Thanks, but let's get on with the briefing. Our mission is to replace the Spear with an exact replica. The goal of this mission and the future set of missions, is to retrieve all important Christian artefacts. Our armies will be, unmatched by anyone, anywhere.'
'Yes, the route we will follow is the following: [map (http://www.muskegon.cc.mi.us/~devriesd/carrie/Georgia%20Map.gif)] first we travel to Batumi to Tblisi, that takes roughly thirteen hours by bus. Local people use that form of transportation so we are doing the same. From Tblisi we will take the night train to Yerevan, which takes twenty four, almost exactly. Upon our arrival in Yerevan we shall acquire weapons from the local underground, which we shall only use in times of peril. From Yerevan we will walk to the monastery. It's less than fifty kilometers and we will return to Georgia, homefree.'
'Sounds good'
'Let's do it.'

Silently, the boats travelled to a place where repeated lapses where spotted in the Momanguise border security. It was only a mile from the Turkish border, no one was there except the cold wind of ice, and the sun glaring down on them. The great trek started in Georgia, going to the city of Batumi.

The coast of Georgia was dotted with small fishing hamlets, each a sustained community that lived off the sea and each other. There they sat, lambasted by the cruel sea and drenched in the bitter rain, but secure in the society they had created for themselves. It was such a day, when the heavens opened and the rain fell with a stubborn vengance and the howling wind paid a vigil to the coast. Thomis Amberman was not a Georgian by birth but a Momanguisian, a Muran. How he had come to end his days in a Georgian fishing villiage is a long tale that, time permitting, he would have told round a fire while his pipe puffed furiously away, but now he stood hugging his oilskin tight to his body as the rain mounted an angry assault against him. He slipped and fell hard against the sand, and as he lay there catching his breath, a quote that he couldn't quite place came to him. And the rain it raineth everyday... He gave a stout laugh as he forced himself back onto his feet, better afterall to fall onto sand than into the merciless sea. In the distance a trawler was materialising from the fog, and the faint lickers of a fire could be seen as Thomis thourght wistfully after his own fire and a tankard of mead to ease his passage to sleep. He raised his bell, and began to clang it so that the challange rang from every corner of the harbour, and though he did not know it this particular knell was to signify far more than the arrival of a ship. The trawler was coming nearer, and now he could pick out a great many men huddled round the drum, and when he swore he could make out individual details, he called "Holla! Wherefore do you come?" in his rich baritone, tempered with the degenerations of age.

'Hello old man. We're from Abchazia, the weather drifted us south. We are going to Batumi to buy some supplies, we were stuck on the sea and we're out of food... We can also visit some family there.' The man started walking, nothing was out of the ordinary for normal fishermen. Three ships in total landed near another village in the south, each with almost the same version of the story. One group travelled to Batumi, the other to Yerevan and another to another town in the south. A few months earlier three small groups went to the cities already, acting as "family" or "friends" in case the policy would get suspicious. But since travelling in groups as a family is quite normal in Armenia or Georgia, no one would raise their eyebrow when they saw a group of men laughing and singing.

Fretch and his men left the tiny village, on the way to Batumi. Rain fell from the skies, still. But there was no time to rest or dry their clothes. It wasn't a long walk but the rain made it annoying.