NationStates Jolt Archive

There's an old OOC thread that never really got off the ground, but still contains useful information and can be put back in to use if anyone takes an interest in this: http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=403419
It's probably best if you go there to ask any questions or make suggestions, figure out how they could become involved, or to ask for admission into the thread. I'll probably not turn anyone down unless someone gives me good reason to believe that they'll be terrible to RP with.


The Jipangunesian Archipelago, the Pacific

Tens of thousands of square kilometres of ancient, untouched jungle and unconquered vapor-wrapped peaks defined Powlomo for the objective audience. In the interest of human observers, though; one may cite the centuries-old stone titans, the sprawling religious compunds, innumerable and coated as often in well-polished gold and jewels as in creeping vines, and the rattle of gunfire as unmistakably spewed by AK-47s. Emperor Ban Xuande celebrated each victory with a bloody sacrifice and the restoration of another long-since fallen city to the great Ban Kingdom. On Powlomo the communists were having about as much fun as a Cuban-backed comrade in Bolivia. Elsewhere in the archipelago their supporters sung to a different, happier tempo.

Sencang, Sulawaka, and Immannanng were all now majority leftist islands, while Tingun degenerated into immovable stalemate, forces answering the orders of self-proclaimed President Syungma Santosoputra having been fought to a stand-still by revolutionaries from camps Maoist, Islamist, and the Green Book-weilding half-way house of Setiawan Dianputra's supporters.

Setiawan, based on the western isle of Sencang almost within spiting distance of Japan, was screaming to the whole world in support of his revolutionary cause, demanding true democracy free of capitalist bias and corruption and the divisions of party politics and often lacing it with soft Islamist messages to win greater following. He probably had the widest renown of any individual in the archipelago, but as most Jipangunesians were interested only with making a living -be that as hunters in the jungles or craftsmen in the townships- Setiawan's ideas didn't always have serious local support in a single location: he had a little support almost everywhere, and overwhelming or nil support almost nowhere. Native extremists promising, preaching, and threatening tended to do well for themselves on a local scale, but enjoyed little to no fame beyond their immediate location.

That was how things tended to work out in Jipangunesia. You couldn't have it both ways. Extreme local influence with no prospect for spreading your ideals or power, or widespread recognition with influence apt to be obliterated at any number of isolated places. Setiawan Dianputra had done better than most in balancing the two, but the fragility still applied to his cause.

Sulawaka

This vast island, one of the biggest in the archipelago, was one on which Setiawan's influence had taken root, and now it was well displaying the shallow nature of the soil in which those roots were planted. The Sula Rada represented one of those local forces that held sway in just a single region, but did so with more intensity than comrade Setiawan or President Syungma could honestly claim to inspire.

The Sula Rada called themselves many things and were called more by others, but the term most commonly applied in their naming was coined by a foreign journalist adapting their own terms for the palate of his audience.

Their militant wing now counted hundreds of fighters and a fantastic growth rate in those numbers, in territorial influence, in enemies defeated and others made and in atrocities credited to them. Sula Rada fighters were beginning to converge on the townships surrounding Bokonpa, the island's largest city and nominally its capital.

The authorities there really had little influence beyond the city, and were only there because nobody like the Sula Rada had opposed them previously. They called themselves part of President Syungma Santosoputra's government of the Jipangunesian Federation, but their claim to archipelago-wide government looked no more effective than Setiawan's teachings in the face of Sula Rada expansion as private security forces (by Setiawan derisively called mercenaries) fell apart outside the city much as Setiawan's backers had been driven into flight across the interior.

Bokonpa was now a scene of almost universal panic as what few foreigners found themselves in the God-forsaken backwater squabbled over transport out and tried to out-bid one another for passage aboard fishingboats and the like.

Imperium, New Britain

Far to the north of the forests of bark and leaves and sap stood forests of glass and concrete and stone. The United Kingdom of Azazia, unlike their long-time neighbours to the south, had developed a centralized political system – integrating the indigenous people and the European settlers. Most historians attributed the centralization to the isolation of the European factions from their mother countries, far from any resupply of troops or even more basic necessities of food, medicine, and other standards of European life. The capital city of Imperium stood at the head of a river running south, emptying into the Pacific, and it was here where the British founded their first colony, and where the Europeans gathered to enact treaties and agreements without the consent of their true capitals.

In time, the indigenous peoples, who had mastered metal working and rudimentary firearms, entered into the collective consciousness of the Europeans, and after several stunning defeats they grudgingly admitted the powerful native trading confederacy into their delicate balance of power. As the centuries passed, the parties became more entwined, the peoples interbred, the towering rain forests were replaced by towering cities and divided governments with their tacit understanding evolved into a representative democracy. However, as the British-descended population became apparent as the dominant force, the strong minority of the Russian-descendants rose up, and although they failed to create the autocratic Russian state they desired, the sitting government became compelled to give equal rights to all, including the natives. Even semantic issues became important, the English-descended monarchy was forced to “Russify” their name and the most important English-founded city was forced to “Russify” its name to present the air of true equality.

By the time of Dianputra and the chaos in the Jipangunesian archipelago, their nation to the north had reverted to a more British-sounding name, the United Kingdom of Azazia, and its influence could be felt in the reaches of the northern Pacific, the Indian Ocean, and even into the central and southern islands of remote indigenous people who joined the Kingdom for the economic benefits. Some entrepreneurs endeavoured to even lay claim to lands in Jipangunesia and in doing so brought small businesses into the lands to the south, where now they increasingly felt themselves in danger of losing all as the islands continued to falter and utterly fail to unify.

And in the grand halls of the Citadel, a long-time fort of the old British garrisons, sat the Prime Minister, Alistair Tetley, reviewing the most recent reports brought to him by his new Minister of Foreign Affairs, Emily Deveraux. With Tetley in his forties, and Deveraux in her early thirties, the two represented the new progressive face of the UKA, as the nation had started fancying itself. Although the UKA was an economically robust state, with burgeoning markets in its overseas colonies and developing relationships with foreign powers – growing economies required ever growing markets for the large trade surplus that the nation enjoyed. Two days past, one of the wealthier businessmen in the UKA had been visiting holdings in Jipangunesia, when he had been brutally murdered by a force yet unknown. However, the papers and a significant proportion of the populace had begun to demand direct intervention to the south.

Since Tetley had reorganized the state along the lines of a liberal empire, this country could provide, perhaps, the first real taste of empire-building for the new kingdom. The population resources were significant, and lately reports of fossil fuel wealth, and other potential mineral wealth had shown some promise, hence the redirection of Azazian capital to the underdeveloped islands. However, as Tetley was well aware, to make any returns on these investments, a proper and suitable business environment was required. And the islands certainly had none of the requirements for such development. Hence, after receiving reports from his financial ministers and defence ministers, he had summoned Deveraux, to prepare the initial phases of legitimizing an Azazian occupation and subsequent development of at least some of the Jipangunesian islands.

ooc: I'll come back and add their conversation later, just wanted to put some story down to show you I'm interested. Hope the little backstory I invented isn't too offensive or off-base. I just thought it seemed to fit with all the chaos and given some of the xenophobes I thought it a distinct possibility. If you want, I'll go back and change it.

The Warlord caught a glimpse of his reflection in the screen as he shut down the monitor. His temples had been grey for years, but the recent series of political and military alerts seem to have expanded the grey areas considerably. He was still two meters from the door when his desk alarm went off. He struggled with indecision for a moment, then sighed. "Death is lighter than a feather. Duty is heavier than a mountain", he muttered.

Keying the circuit live, the Warlord checked the call originator. As expected, it was Fleet Marshall King. "It's not her fault. I just happened to promote her just in time for a non-stop roller-coaster ride of military emergencies", he said out loud as the screen cleared.

Marika King's dark hair was starting to grey as well, which irrationally cheered the Warlord up a bit. "What seems to have fallen apart this time, Marshall?"

Correctly reading his mood, the Marshall replied, "Relax, sir. Nothing major. There are a bunch of civilian foreign nationals more-or-less caught up in the perpetual cycle of revolution and counter-revolution in Jipangunesia."

The Warlord grunted. He had long opposed the frequent suggestions that the Dominion just invade the archipelago and be done with the endless chaotic fighting once and for all. His expression hardened. "Marshall, if you're going to suggest that we invade Jipangunesia ..."

The Marshall's image in the screen was shaking her head. "Nothing of the sort, sir. We have Task Force Octavius heading home from the North Pacific only a couple of hundred klicks east of the city of Bokonpa- one of the provinicial capitals."

"Is that where these distressed foreigners are?"

"Yes, sir. Several hundred of them, at last estimate. The rebels- called Sula Rada- have gobbled up most of the island of Sulawaka and are approaching the city."

The Warlord nodded. "And- given the native talent for atrocities- these foreigners are desperately trying to get out of the city before they end up as collateral damage." He called up the latest External Security report on the balkanized archipelago and winced. "All right. Contact whatever passes for the local government there. Tell 'em that we're coming in to evacuate civilian foreign nationals from the port in Bokonpa. Unless there are a lot more than the ES estimate I'm looking at, this should take no more than two or three days."

"Admiral Ramirez sin't going to like pulling into the harbor, sir."

"Fair enough, because I don't like the idea much either." Scowling, the Warlord called up the satellite imagery of Bokonpa Harbor. "If the Ground Forces commander thinks it can be done, Ramirez is authorized to use helicopter evacuation from the port. I want Ramirez to put a squadron around the harbor- and that little island there- for security. He is specifically authorized to use whatever measures he sees fit to ensure the success of the mission."

He glared at the Marshall's image. "You just make damned sure he knows what the mission is. We're not there to occupy Sulawaka, we're not there to 'enforce justice', and we're not there to take sides. His job is the safe evacuation of civilian foreign nationals from Bokonpa. Understood?"

The Marshall nodded. "Understood, sir. I'll handle the situation myself."

"All right, Marshall. Keep me posted." The Warlord sighed again, then uncaged the special access circuit and keyed in a brief report on his actions. That done, he activated his hand-held unit and keyed it to the desk before leaving.

As he strode toward his private elevator, he fantasized briefly about just vaporizing the archipelago and its troublesome denizens, then shut the idea off.

The islands were under-developed and little travelled by outsiders, but the chain was not espeically remote, and to expect the people to have no contact with the outside wasn't terribly realistic. Outsiders were present, but traditionally had been kept at bay by frightening (often true) stories of piracy, cannibalism, lawlessness, extreme weather, and of course Jipangunesia's many ferocious tropical diseases. All of the old 'favourites' were ten a penny: malaria went around like the common cold (which, in the C18th and 19th had killed more than a few until then isolated islanders), and while the towns crawled with all the sickness of foreign slums in the industrial revolution, the jungles harboured unique strains and even more than the odd virus or plague that had long since been forgotten elsewhere.

Some Jipangunesians -especially amongst the savage and often 'virgin' tribes of the interiors- had fantastic physical resilience in the face of these dangers, and many were even seemingly proof to the politics and propaganda of various waxing and waning forces that tried to recruit or subdue them in passing. Some tribes managed to cling on to their mythic qualities even now, their warriors seeming to melt, impervious, into rainforest vapours at the merest click or clack in the workings of what was elsewhere in the islands the king of one and all: the AK-47.

The centre of the chain was the best place to look for people of this sort (unless you had the good sense to hope for failure in your half-suicidal search). Powlomo, Flatpan Island, and Sulawaka glinted with a tint that little bit greener than the rest. Big islands, their form was square enough that central regions were hundreds of kilometres from sea access whichever way you looked at it, and nobody penetrated to these heartlands.

Except for Jipangunesians like Powlomo's resurgent Ban Empire, or Sulawaka's Sula Rada: both driven by rose-tinted perceptions of their people's gloried past, dim memories of imperial strength illuminated anew by the flicker of islands aflame. Almost every Jipangunesian wanted to see his chaotic society recover, but not every one had an idea about to what such a recovery aspired.

The Sula Rada knew that the only way to deal with the archipelago's putrefaction was to cut-out all that was bad. Whatever remained was Jipangunesian, and would restore harmony. That was their abiding motivation as they set light to Sulawaka and stomped on everything that fled. On local, personal levels of the organisation's crusade, the atmosphere was one of deadly paradox akin to witchhunts of old. Anyone who ran was clearly seeking to escape from the purification of Jipangunesia and was, of course, part of the problem. Anyone who did not run, well, they had to live with people whose minds worked in this fashion.



Bokonpa, western Sulawaka

Much of the town's construction was raised around what survived of old colonial outposts. Probably the British had stopped here at times, on their way to Azazia. People were fairly sure that the Dutch had been around while dealing with Japan, and had possibly thought on the notion of a second east Indian colony before finding themselves too much over-stretched. Spanish architecture was certainly most evident across the channel at little Soleisola, which would have been an obvious destination for those fleeing the advancing Sula Rada fighters but that a massive storm had reportedly ruined the modest port facilities there, and that a really terrible outbreak of something nightmarish (it was variously reported to be, "the pox", "the plague" or, "both!") was reported to be ravishing the little isle.

Just in the last thirty-six hours, security forces on the pay of 'President' Syungma Santosoputra (based at Samepeng on Tingun, to the west) had issued a loud, "F%#K THIS!" and abandoned their posts in and around Bokonpa, having held them only for so long as rival fighters supporting Setiawan Dianputra's idealistic direct-democracy had stood firm against the Sula Rada in the fringes of the jungle that ended within sight of the city limits. Once Setiawan's inspired Greens had been broken-down by the Sula Rada's fanatical Reds, Syungma's under-paid Blues -actually nothing more than private security and soldiers of fortune- saw that two things remained for Bokonpa.

First was a battle where in they would be expected to resist the Sula Rada's advance into the town, and second was a city-wide dash for precious few small boats at the harbour. Well, not many of Syungma's men felt like fighting for some locals to whom they had not much attachment only to be beaten to the boats by those same people, and they dropped their arms and made their escapes.

Some locals began to take-up the abandoned weapons -mostly M1 Carbines and M3 'Grease Guns' or the like- which they had little idea how to use, and prepared to defend their homes, but they almost all did so on an individual basis, thinking to shoot anybody who came into their bicycle repair shop or fishmarket without intention of giving them so much custom as trouble, and giving no tactical or strategic thought to the reality of their collective situation.

Other weapons would simply be taken-up by advance elements of the Red forces that even now were filtering in small numbers almost unnoticed into the out-lying areas of Bokonpa, armed little better with everything from Japanese WWII vintage bolt-action rifles to AK-47s, and a remarkable talent for finding the right ammunition.

And that is how the situation stood, not that anybody could really have given an over-view with anything like certainty.

Town Hall

One of many names given to the crumbling building just off what once was probably a main street and now looked like any other relatively clear path through rubble and refuse. Some called it the mayoral office, though there wasn't really a mayor, others simply called it the mansion, for once it had been half way pretty in whitewashed colonial style. Now the breeze tickled the thousand flecks of paint that clung still to parts here and there and one half of the wooden double doors stood wedged forever open, the other jammed shut. People slept in the lobby, accustomed to being frequently moved on by security forces but having noticed their recent departure.

Upstairs, quite remarkably, somebody was trying to run an office, and for no other reason than that the office had been built to run, and he had been most recently assigned to run it. Edgar Hogarth was a small bespectacled man with curly hair shorn to little more than fuzz. He wore an ill-fitting and extremely crumpled suit and darted back and forth across the hard wooden floor of his chaotic office, dripping sweat on stacks of documentation already ruined by humidity. Edgar was of a tiny minority in Jipangunesia, in that while he was native to the archipelago, he was clearly not Asian. He was in fact the great, great... well, he didn't know how far removed -half the papers around him were gathered in a fruitless attempt to trace his roots- but certainly he was descended from African slaves brought here to work -presumably for the Dutch- or else shipwrecked on their way to somewhere else.

He was muttering under his breath, which came out in shallow pants as he hurried to find anything of value, any forms that could be filled in the event of city-wide massacre, you know the sort of thing. A great clang as he turned and stumbled leaving one little accessed desk for another prompted loud profanity as he kicked a long empty brass fire extinguisher hidden under so much literature. That was nothing compared to the shriek he let out in response to the first ringing of what he soon remembered to be the office telephone. Good heavens, it had been so long since he'd needed that! Now where was it?

"Hello! Hello?" He cried, the second time having turned the receiver around the right way to save shouting again into the earpiece, all the while knocking stacks of paper to the floor as he fumbled.

He was being told to get down to the port -which he could see through the grimey window of his office- to deal with a transmission on the radio. The harbourmaster wasn't a bit interested in dealing with what he called, "foreign shipping" since it never ended up coming in to Bokonpa, anyway. Edgar Hogarth was soon racing through the dirty, panic-stricken streets and shortly would be on the radio introducing himself to as what passed for the local government of Bokonpa...


(Sorry if this is a bit long-winded without much progress. I do expect that things will take-off at some speed, eventually.)

Imperium, New Britain

Tetley stifled a yawn, having pulled an all-nighter he was quite exhausted – though it was best not to show this to his cabinet not to mention his people. He reached over and slid a report prepared by Deveraux in his direction. “It’s simply a PR disaster, Em. A businessman, quite prominent no less, is murdered in a foreign country which for all intents and purposes, is incapable of running its own justice system. Who gets blamed? I do.”

The slender, dark-haired petite flashed her photogenic white smile. “Of course, we need to remember that the vast majority of people are not as aware of the intricacies of foreign relations, sir. While their anger is rightly justified, their direction of that anger is not. That is why myself, and Daniel over at Defence, have been running through some scenarios for you to review.”

The older gentlemen smiled and sipped from his glass of ice water. He skimmed through the abstract, occasionally licking his lips, which were unusually dry this day. “It does seem to provide a somewhat reasonable rationalization for taking action.” He pushed his glasses further down his nose and peered down to read from the tiny printed lines.

“In the interests of the people of the United Kingdom and the citizens of foreign powers blah blah blah intervene in the disorganized islands of Jipangunesia blah blah blah to install an effective centralized government to bring order, calm, and security to the native peoples of… yeah, this will likely work, Em.” Tetley replaced the wire-framed glasses and took another sip from the cool water. He already had Daniel on his way over with new data on deployments – at least to support the few ships and aircraft already operating in the general vicinity of the targeted islands.

HMS Revenge
Operating in the central Pacific Ocean

The open bridge provided a view of the horizon to the sides of the ship. Unfortunately there was no outside decks to the front of the bridge; however Captain Oliver Brighton had become accustomed to the – what he considered a – flaw in the design. He tugged on his moustache, grey in colour, and fixed the cap atop his head and then shifted the sunglasses on his nose. The Pacific provided great, calm seas which would in time go wonders for the eyes – something he had picked up on long ago during his days on tours on frigates and destroyers.

Of course, the Revenge was one of the latest in the first batch of Type 72 battlecruisers. Essentially she was a convoy raider, or a convoy escort. She was fast, moderately armed, and decently armoured for a ship of her size. Her main principle advantage lay in her main guns and her supporting aerial vehicles, deployed now to provide extended coverage of her immediate operating area – in concert with the real-time satellite data provided from far far above the seas.

It had been several hours since Brighton had received his latest orders, and currently, he could see in tinted light the sharp clipper bows of his ship’s three hulls slicing into the sea with a few dolphins leaping ahead of his ship and his men. To the aft followed two frigates and a destroyer, standard operating procedure for roving patrols of the Pacific. He smiled to himself at the beauty of this day on the sea before stepping inside to the polished and pristine bridge. He found his executive officer reviewing the charts with his navigator, and wound his way over to the two men.

“Good day, gentlemen. As you were. I’m inquiring about the prospects of entering the Chowhaiil Strait.”

The young navigator of Asian descent smiled. “I expect no major problems, sir. While we could go the direct route between the islands of Sipoloc and Feyapuro, I’d advise we take the few extra hours and sail further eastward to the northern entrance of the Chowhaiil Strait. It’s a wider entrance and thus will be far better to defend against any sort of potential land-based attacks. The objective of Samepeng, sir, will prove slightly more problematic. You see here a number of islands outside the city’s harbour. Of course, our guns and missiles can reach the immediate area and we can bombard the hell out of the city; but landing troops later on will be problematic.”

The Spanish-descended executive officer piped in next. “Sir, this is where I believe the leniency in our orders will lend us the best opportunity to secure the area. Our orders stipulate securing the islands and ensuring stability and order. You remember the relative makeup of the different factions?”

Brighton nodded, impressed at the initiative of his two officers.

“Well, sir.” The XO flipped over to another chart, this one a photocopy with marks and lines drawn all over. “We know that the… quote un-quote President, is located here on this island, based in Samepeng, hence the initial targeting of that location. However, it may very well be that outside of this island he has little support. And being an archipelago nation, he would need a navy to effectively enforce his authority. In short, we need to be able to disrupt the sea routes used by the president and the remainder of the forces. This is why I propose we take the island of Sipoloc and use it as a base to cease communications between Tingun, Sencang, and Powlomo.”

Brighton merely nodded. “Except, Mister Ceraxes, each of those islands competes against each other – if we interfere with all of them we may provide a cause for them all to rally about, in which case we create the centralized government – however we earn the wrath of the Jipangunesians, and thus end any chance of favours and/or land grants. Instead, I suggest we take these three islands.” Brighton pointed to Sipoloc, Feyapuro, and Taytenu. “You see, by stopping at Sipoloc, you leave us with a half-hearted measure of securing the land for the Jipangunesians. If we are to convince them we are here for their benefit, we need to provide a centralized province or state or parish or republic… whatever they want to call it. If we stop at Sipoloc we stop at a military base. If we take these three… we take a province. Yes, they might be angry. But even collectively, their might cannot force us off three islands. We will effectively rule the seas and the air. They have the jungle, but without resupply, we can and will starve out those resisting civilization. The larger more dispersed our area, the more likely our success. And so, Lieutenant Yu, I want you to set a course for Taytenu. We’ll secure the southern edge of the strait and we’ll begin our convoy raids there while we await reinforcements.”

The two men nodded and set off to carry their orders. Brighton realized the entire operation was risky; however, the key would be to divide and conquer. A page out of Caesar’s own playbook, though adapted here to maritime operations. And the Revenge was certainly capable of defeating anything the Jipangunesians could muster. Short of a dreadnaught or a super-dreadnaught the fine battlecruiser would hold her own. And in one week’s time, the first elements of the Royal Marines would arrive along with engineers, at which point they could begin repairing the harbours on the three islands.

Colonization was not an easy process. And with that last thought Brighton set off to resume his luxurious post on the open-air bridge, where thoughts of the impending death and jungle warfare of the Royal Marines evaporated from his mind like the water from his cup of iced tea recently arrived from the mess hall.

ooc: don't worry about it, slower means more story and in depth details... which are good for stories... that and my final projects are starting to be assigned, and finals follow them... so the slower the better for me... hehe

<OOC>
Sorry for the delay, but I've been having ISP issues. The actual landing will be posted tomorrow.
</OOC>


Admiral Mateo Ramirez stalked into Tsushima’s Briefing Room like the gorilla he superficially resembled. He wore his usual profoundly displeased expression, which usually frightened junior officers who weren’t used to it. The senior staff of Task Force Octavius was long familiar with the Admiral and his perpetual grouch, so none of the officers present were particularly worried.

“All right, Morgans”, the Admiral snapped as he took his seat at the head of the table, ignoring the officers standing at attention all around the room. “Start your dancing bear act.” He waved vaguely in the direction of the table, and the standing officers immediately sat.

Lieutenant Commander Morgans, the Admiral’s Intelligence Officer, immediately began the briefing, calling up aerial imagery of the target city. “This was taken at 0930 local time by a BF-6R out of Midway. The buildings in the harbor area date back to the 18th century, for the most part, and seem to be mostly Spanish architecture. There are several large structures in the classical Nipponese style in the area as well, particularly this building”, a red caret strobed around a multi-storey building in the center of the wharf area. “which appears to be the Port Authority Building.”

A number of officers chuckled at the notion that any authority existed anywhere in Jipangunesia. Morgans buried a grin and continued. “These buildings here are fairly sturdy warehouses, which our Extra Special friends tell us are mostly empty.” The red highlighting lit a row of low structures running east-west along the water’s edge. The display switched to zoom in to the district just north of the warehouses. A maze of buildings built in a bewildering variety of styles using everything from stone-age implements to 20th Century power tools covered several square kilometers near the warehouses. Two main thoroughfares cut straight lines through the chaotic mess, one running due north to the city center (where the government offices were located), and the other running northeast toward the wealthier neighborhoods.

“This area will probably be our biggest concern at the start of the operation. Colonel Becket assures us that her troops can secure the port with little or no trouble, and we can use the warehouses to hold the evacuees between flights. But there are between four and eight thousand people living in this area- which I have dubbed ‘the Maze’- many of whom might object to our presence by one means or another.”

Captain N’Dobwe, the Admiral’s Chief of Staff, asked, “How many of them might be sympathetic to the Sula Rada?”

Morgans shook his head. “External Security has no idea, sir. Note that the population estimate runs from four thousand to eight thousand. ES reports scarcely mention the area, other than to note that government patrols rarely enter the Maze and always run into major trouble when they do.”

Colonel Becket asked, “What sort of trouble? Politics? Poverty? Religion?”

Morgans nodded at the astute question. “So far as ES knows, most likely all three- and maybe a few other issues invented by the locals specifically to add to the general aura of chaos.”

The Admiral leaned forward. “Colonel Becket, can you hold the Embarkation Area against a major attack by the Sula Rada?”

The Colonel replied, “Given sufficient support from the Fleet and the Air Detachment,” she nodded toward Wing Commander LeClerc, CO of the Task Force Air Wing. “I am confident the Battallion can secure the area long enough to get the civilians out. Despite the fact that there are several thousand Sula Rada, they’re essentially stone-age savages with AK-47s. I’m far more worried about an uprising among the general population- possibly abetted by the remnants of the local government troops.”

Scowling more deeply than usual, the Admiral demanded, “Let’s call that the worst-case scenario: general attacks by Sula Rada rebels, local government forces, and a significant fraction of the local civilian population. Could the 15th hold against all that?”

The Colonel smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. “Yes, sir! We’ll take casualties, but no one is gonna take that ground until we decide to leave.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Colonel.”

After the briefing, Colonel Becket reviewed the operations plan with her staff. “John, we’re taking the 231st MP in with us. Your primary responsibility is processing and loading the evacs. That operation goes on non-stop until the last one is in the air. Once the last civilian leaves the Embarkation Area, the 231st will hard-secure the LZ, so make sure your people are ready to set that up before you start the perimeter.”

Captain John Ahrendt, CO of the 231st Military Police Company, grunted acknowledgement as he keyed instructions into his hand-held. The Commanding Officer of the 44th Engineers, Captain Asarom, tapped the display console to highlight the Port Operations building. “Does anyone know what sort of equipment they have?” she asked.

The Colonel shook her head. “The building had a big Isotta diesel generator ten years ago, but its anyone’s guess whether or not it works- or if there’s any fuel if it does. Count on carrying in everything you’ll need.”

Asarom grinned without humor. “Oh, goody. I get to combat-loss all of my best gear. How truly good.”

“Keep that in mind when you decide what to take. We might have to leave behind everything that isn’t a trooper.” The Colonel turned to Major Vasileyev, her Battallion Executive Officer. “Pavel, everybody in the 15th goes on all-protein diets as of now. Everyone carries in a full combat loadout, with double ammo.”

“Colonel, would still prefer to take Heavy Weapons Platoon.”

Becket tapped a forefinger on the display. “You heard what I told Sheila. We might have to leave behind a lot of equipment, and I have less than no desire to make the wogs a gift of high-quality weapons.”

Vasileyev tried another tack. “Perhaps we take Hotel Company.”

The Colonel met her XO’s gaze and nodded thoughtfully. “Now that is a pretty good idea, Pavel. Do it.”

Captain Zhao asked, “What if we end up needing the big guns, Colonel? The Scimitars will help, but nothing beats heavy artillery.”

“Look, people. There’s no way around it. We’re going to have to rely on the Navy to be our heavy artillery.” The Staff looked unhappy in unison at the idea. The Colonel shook her head and continued. “I don’t like it much either, but the Admiral insists we get top priority on all naval or air assets.”

Turning back to her XO, Becket said, “Pavel, who’s that gunnery officer you were drinking with back on Nauru?”

Vasileyev thought briefly. “Leftenant Dmitri Cherkannin. Is aboard Kaligrad. Good man, for Georgian.”

“Draw up orders posting him as our Navy liaison. Let him pick two other swabbies to assist him. Pick three zoomies you think can handle being forward observers, and draft them, too.” She left her XO to work on the problem and continued. “I’ve been promised ‘round-the-clock’ air coverage by Wing Commander LeClerc, and he seems to be good for it. His plan calls for three Zulus on +15 for the duration, with three more in the air at any given time, with a full load of ordnance. Four Sunbirds will be on +5 for the duration, for emergency dust-offs.”

“What about fast-movers?” asked the XO.

“We’ll have a permanent CAP of two AS-12s, and a permanent strike patrol of four GS-9 Buccaneers. The waters outside the harbor will have a separate CAP, and the Task Force will have yet another. All three carriers will be on our liaison freq, and we get first call on everything. All of the helos and TT-11s from Malmouth are ours for the asking, as well.”

Vasileyev smiled and nodded. “Is good. Now we go over insertion plan.”

The Colonel smiled. “I’m particularly fond of this insertion plan, which we shall refer to as Operation RedEye.” As she explained, the rest of the staff grinned like demons. The small office looked like feeding time in the Lion House.

HMS Revenge

The small UKA naval force held its position to the north of the strait between Sipoloc and Sencang as the bright clear sky darkened from its pure cobalt blue to a speckled ultramarine of a clear midnight sky. From the outer bridge Brighton could see pinpricks of light dotting the horizon, lights from urbanized settlements and fires from Neolithic cultures gathered around rich coastal fishing grounds. The trimaran battlecruiser had gone dark with the setting sun; Brighton didn’t want anyone to catch a glimpse of his massive ships as they moved through the narrow waters.

High above the night skies, at an altitude out of reach of the AK-47s and the bow and arrows, flew three reconnaissance drones patrolling the seas to the southeast and –west of his force. Little accurate sounding data existed for the archipelago. The British founders of the colonies in Azazia had made several small outposts on the southern islands – though they were abandoned without much fanfare after diseases and rebellious natives ruined all hopes for profitable commerce. So there existed in centuries-old archives in Imperium copies of old nautical charts, showing the deeper channels and inlets of the archipelago. Of course, in the centuries hence, the geography was certain to have changed – but the important features were likely to be still be true if not accurate. While the depth could vary, deep channels would still be deep channels.

The objective for Brighton was to land a few special operations troops in the former British outpost of Port Elizabeth. It certainly had some new-fangled native name, but Brighton could care less. The territory rightfully belonged to the United Kingdom, and he was going to reclaim and reinstate the rightful name. The city, though it could hardly be called so, had once been home to several hundred British merchants and several thousand natives from the neighbouring isles. However, with the collapse of British rule, especially given the uprisings in the future UKA, the only people who knew how to maintain the city left, and in the years following, so did the majority of natives – who simply returned to their fishing.

Aerial reconnaissance had provided intelligence on the conditions of the docks. While some remained, most had collapsed and littered the coastline. The harbour, however, appeared to be unfettered by debris and would more than suffice for the insertion of the Special Forces team – flown in hours before from the mainland. That crew sat patiently in the helicopter hangar amidships, checking and stowing their gear in watertight packages. Tyler Colair closed his eyes softly and took a long deep breath of the sea-air. Although a member of the Royal Guards, a branch of the Royal Army, he had originally been a member of the Royal Marines – where he had been selected to lead a unit from the still nascent Royal Star Marines. However, after an extremely successful special ops mission in the nation of Lindim, Colair had been selected to join Epsilon Force. Epsilon Force was the Elite Special Forces unit of the Royal Guards, itself an elite unit functioning similar to the ancient Praetorian Guard. It recruited the best from all the branches, and so with the exception of the Royal Air Force, Colair had now served with all the branches.

Tonight, however, was a far more routine special ops mission. Far easier than orbital insertion. Far easier than rescuing government leaders held hostage. His was on-site reconnaissance. For this reason he breathed the cool moist air in long slow breaths; although he would be carrying his weapons, his mission was to stay out of site in Port Elizabeth and record, then report the movements of the locals – and if possible determine their likely attitude towards the arrival of Royal Marines.

With a slight tap on the shoulder he was woken from his mediation and turned to face the mustached captain and his warm brown eyes. “Evening, Captain Brighton, what can I do for you?” Colair rose and gave a salute out of habit.

The much older captain placed his hand on the shoulder of the diminutive man. “Son, I’m here to wish you Godspeed. I’ve been around as my grey hairs sadly tell the tale; and I’ve seen many such missions go off – both well and poorly. Of course, never one where we so seemingly have the advantage – but alas, over-confidence could be the doom of this entire operation.” Brighton laughed, “but I suppose I’m just blathering now. It’s time to get to business. Your chopper leaves in five, and I wanted to wish you well in person.”

Colair nodded slightly. “Thank you, sir. Every mission is different and unique, and always a challenge. Port Elizabeth will certainly be interesting. When we arrive, I’ll make sure to call home and let you know we got there alright.”

Brighton laughed at Colair’s attempt at levity. Then again, Brighton would laugh at most anything. The two shook hands and parted ways, Brighton back inside the ship towards the bridge and Colair over to the helicopter, which was being wheeled to the port flight deck. The medium sized helicopter looked ugly to Colair, it’s RCS reducing angles and flat black finish took the artistry out of the weapons of war. No longer were the chariots decorated to be unique carts of war, they were designed to not be seen. Which, Colair thought, is probably in his best interest of survival. But the art of warfare was gone, at least in the visual sense.

As the chopper lifted off into the dark star-lit night, the Revenge and her escorts sliced through the waves breaking between the islands at a steady but fast clip. Being so large, Brighton knew they could possibly be spotted should someone be looking and listening, however, there seemed to be such chaos on the islands that he doubted any sort of central naval command center was really watching for small groups such as his own – or any groups for that matter. The ships continued to head south while the helicopter sped off ahead of them.

A kilometer from the entrance to the harbour, which like most else had fallen into a state of decay as the former artifical breakwaters had begun to into an entrance more akin to Swiss Cheese than a defendable fortification, the helicopter hovered above the water, its acoustically dampened propellers creating a flat but windy surface for Colair’s men to dump their raft and equipment before following themselves. As Colair splashed in last, the helicopter turned about and sped northward for the Revenge. He whistled quickly and the men assembled the raft and loaded their supplies onboard, whereafter they climbed in and began their arduous paddle to the breakwater – their first checkpoint.

When they reached the breakwater, tired but not exhausted, they deflated their raft and stowed it to haul with them until they could find a secure location to stash unneeded gear. They crept along the deserted and dilapidated western breakwater, their carbines and shotguns held fast, ready to fire on the ghosts of their former imperial glory as not a soul could be seen on the breakwater. Of course come daylight, boys and fishermen would come out and cast their nets, their rods and anything else useful to catch the day’s haul. Consequently, Colair kept the men moving, making sure not to leave any trace of their presence.

At the end of their trek across the concrete and stone remnants they found themselves facing a cluster of brush and former homes of presumably longshoremen. The poorly built homes had all but collapsed in on themselves, the lack of roofs making them of little use to the natives in this tropical climate. They climbed up the rocky hill further west to a former British observation post, from which the garrison could see the western approaches to the archipelago – an important strategic point. However, the rocks and scrub vegetation made it of little use to natives concerned with subsistence. However, the fact they had found a small path indicated that somebody was aware of its importance, and so Colair nixed the idea of using it as an observation post. He dug into his pack and placed an audio recording device amongst the debris of some former buildings – hidden to the casual observer such that one would have to suspect the device would be found there, and even then it would be difficult to find.

The team headed off to the east, returning to the city, where they avoided the streets filled with homeless drunks and crazy old men. They turned to the south having identified the main targets they wished to observe, including the former market near the center of the harbour and the recessed governor’s headquarters, both of which seemed heavily occupied by individuals. It made sense to Colair of course. The natives would inhabit and cannibalize anything from the imperial period, and with the headquarters, and likely the mansion as well, built of the sturdiest materials, they would remain standing and home of the local leaders, chieftains, or possibly militia commanders. Of course, that would be data to be collected on later dates.

Colair moved south through back alleys and through open sewer entrances, across rooftops when acceptable until they reached the jungles towards the southern border of the town. There they found a cluster of high-reaching trees, the remnant of an old “factory” where men would cut down trees for wood to repair the older frigates and cargo vessels. With a hasty evacuation the trees were left, too large for any practical use by the natives and so they were left. In the highest branches, Colair and his four other men hid themselves like children from their friends and enemies in a game of hide and seek. Of course, in this world, Colair knew full well that the other side was not even aware of the game being played, and being sought could be disastrous. He made his men sleep in shifts to watch and listen for any possible approaches. Meanwhile, they made observations and recorded information on the evening and early morning activities of Port Elizabeth, however little and pathetic such activities were.

Ooc: sorry about the quality of the post, especially towards the end. I’m quite ill, but I can’t sleep… and I want to make sure I at least try to keep up with this. I’m going to try to get some sleep now since I work tomorrow, but later I’ll make an ooc post about the city itself. Basically take a former imperial colonial capital, more like a colonial capital wanna-be as it was still a mere outpost, and then add centuries if not decades of neglect and decay. Some important buildings still stand, like the mansion and offices, but most of the apartment buildings and homes are damaged if not utterly destroyed.

Operation RedEye began as the sun began peeking over the eastern horizon. The night before had been spent getting Task Force Octavius into position between Tingun, Flatpan Island, and Sulawaka- which was only slightly complicated by the movements of the Azazian Navy off toward Sencang. The potential intersection of aircraft patrol areas had been mitigated by the tacit decision by both units to avoid over flying Tingun as much as possible. Even so, the EOE Task Force took up a huge amount of ocean, and the aerial controllers were kept busy with active radar and threat warnings as the night progressed.

The 27th Interdiction Squadron, centered on the battleship Bucellari, carefully slipped into the waters around the tiny island of Soleisola. The destroyers and corvettes leading the way carefully sounded the waters with active sonars. The accurate bottom-contour map thus created revealed the existence of a hitherto-unknown deep-water channel leading into the bay near Bokonpa. Rear Admiral Ozaki, commanding the squadron, grinned fiercely and ordered the cruisers Marne and Gallipoli to move into the bay with the six destroyers assigned as their escorts.

By sunrise, the Squadron was in position, and Marne was following the destroyer Ahriman down the channel toward the city, with Kaligrad close astern. Gallipoli and the remaining destroyers would rotate in and out of the bay during the course of the evacuation to permit the inshore vessels to run out into the open waters outside the bay and replenish their fresh water and other supplies as needed.

Malmouth, the assault helicopter transport assigned primary responsibility for the evacuation, cruised slowly in the midst of her escorts, staying well within the safety of Bucellari's air-defense envelope. Three AH-30 Zulu attack helicopters constantly buzzed around Soleisola, and two RPVs soared over the tiny islet, sensors alert for any possible threat to the Squadron. Several fishing boats from various locations on all three islands had been intercepted by the Squadron's corvettes, and warned away. One boat- its pilot more stubborn or less intelligent than his fellows, refused to turn aside until Coldstream fired a burst from one of its 30mm Hephaestus chain guns across the little vessel's bow. Thereafter, all the little fishing craft stayed over a kilometer from the dark grey ships dotting the waters- enforced by constant aerial patrols.

The first warning in Bokonpa that major events were transpiring came in the form of three AS-12s from the carrier Tsushima, which roared over the city from the bay just after sunrise. Aircraft were constantly in the sky over the city thereafter, as were several RPVs launched by Marne. People near the water could now see the dark grey shapes of the three EOE ships in the bay- only a kilometer from the city. The ships were close enough that anyone with good eyesight could see Marne's two main-gun barbettes were both aimed at the city, and six smaller gun positions along the ship's port side. The city's fishermen unanimously elected not to leave port under the circumstances.

A crowd was beginning to gather on the waterfront when Operation RedEye kicked off in earnest. Six AH-30s roared in toward the port a few meters over the water, the pylon hardpoints bristling with ordnance. Still hidden behind the looming silhouettes of the Marne and her escorts, forty TH-19 assault helicopters were also flying toward the city, carrying the first wave of the 15th Battallion of the 9th Airmobile Regiment on their mission of mercy.

The Zulus spread out as they approached the docks and rose to ten meters altitude as they crossed the seawall. The copilot in each helo yanked back on a lever, and thirty 250 x 60 mm cylinders began dropping from the special ordnance pods attached to the hardpoints on the helicopters' bellies. The cylinders rained down over the people crowded around the water's edge to stare at the ships, eliciting yelps of pain but few real injuries. All of the cylinders- with few exceptions, which bounced into the water-, ended up on the paved ground of the waterfront, rolling underfoot as the crowd belatedly decided to depart. Then, with a hiss like several dozen small dragons getting angry in unison, the little cylinders began spitting out jets of acrid, whitish-grey smoke.

The crowd broke and ran as the mixed CS/Capsaicin clouds billowed around them. A slight breeze blew in from the bay, thinning the clouds near the water, but the meteorological conditions had been carefully tracked for days, and right after dawn was the one time of day when relatively calm winds could be expected at the waterfront. The clouds drifted inland under the influence of the mild breeze, chasing the crowd before it. By the time the cloud of tear gas had dissipated, the landings were well underway.

Four helicopters roared in over the docks and lifted their noses to come to a stop- hovering just above the concrete roadways of the port for thirty seconds, long enough for the 15 fully-equipped EOE troopers on board to leap out of the aircraft and move toward their assigned sectors. Thirty seconds later, the second four helicopters arrived, discharging another platoon onto the waterfront. In all, the initial airmobile assault took only 15 minutes, and two companies of veteran EOE troopers were busy securing the port area.

93rd Airmobile (Sword) Company's Alpha Platoon- essentially Lieutenant Shimura's headquarters element- immediately secured the old Port Operations building by the water, evicting several frightened civilians and a pair of unconscious drunks. Delta and George Platoons cleared out the warehouse buildings to the east of the port and began setting up gun positions for the Incursion heavy machine guns and Raider Squad Automatic Weapons near the roadway bordering the port area- threatening the approaches from the warren of densely-packed buildings called "the Maze" and the homes and markets of the fisher-folk to the right of it. Beta and Gamma Platoons swept through the cluster of dilapidated buildings to the west of the main port area, clearing out anyone within the structures and replacing them with strong points and weapons positions.

The 231st Military Police Company had landed immediately after the 93rd, and began setting up security positions for the Battallion's eventual departure. Captain Ahrendt immediately checked the stability of the paving near the docks by drilling through the concrete into the ground beneath with the large battery-powered drill he carried. The concrete resisted strongly for nearly a minute before allowing the drill bit to punch through. Satisfied, the Captain turned to his radioman. "Jennings, tell the Colonel we are clear for Phase Three."

Turning away as the Superior Private sent the message, Ahrendt shouted to his Top Sergeant. "Rosseau, set up the LZ. We're expecting company."

Master Sergeant April Rosseau grunted and hitched her shoulders to shift the weight of her pack, which was forcing the edge of her armor into the skin of her shoulders. "About damned time, sir", she grumbled. Switching her radio to the Platoon Leaders' push, she called, "All Mike units, Mike 6-3. Captain says to clear the LZ, and set up the flares. We got Cossacks coming in with the rest of the Battallion!"

Four clicks on the circuit answered her, and she checked the display unit attached to her rifle sling to make sure all four Lieutenants had got the word. LT Styneburn hadn't responded, but her Platoon Sergeant- Heinrichs- had. Cursing under her breath, Rosseau switched circuits and called, "Mike 3-6, Mike 6-3. Are you having radio problems, sir?"

A hash of static answered her. Switching circuits again, Rosseau called, "Mike 3-3, Mike 6-3. Mike 3-6 has a radio problem. Send her back to the CP."

Heinrichs' booming voice immediately replied. "Already on it, Top. She's heading your way now. Mike 3-3 out."

Rosseau switched circuits again and called her CO. "Mike 6 Actual, Mike 6-3. Mike 3-6 has radio trouble and is coming back to the CP."

"Roger that, Top. Tell everybody to relax CBR, the air's clear. Friendlies incoming in figures four mikes."

"Relax CBR, roger. Incoming friendlies in four mikes, roger." The Master Sergeant quickly sent the word to the rest of the Company, then walked over to meet LT Styneburn as she jogged over to the communications tech at the Command Post near the Port Operations building.

"What happened to your radio, sir?" Rosseau asked when she was within earshot.

Styneburn took off her helmet and shook her head. "Not sure, Top. It was working fine on the ship." She accepted a spare helmet from the technician and slipped it on. A few quick radio checks proved that the new helmet-mounted radio was functioning properly, and Styneburn jogged back to her platoon's AOR.

Watching her go, Rosseau leaned over and told the technician, "Blaine, you check that helmet over good when you get a chance. You find out, you tell me. Just me. I'll tell the Captain if I think he needs to know."

The Corporal's face was professionally blank as he answered. "Whatever you say, Top."

Any further conversation would have to be by radio, because the roar of the TT-11 engines as they arrived would have drowned out everything but thunder. Rosseau turned to watch the ungainly aircraft land. The huge propellers at the end of the Cossack's wings were already rotated to the vertical position when she first saw it. The pilot hovered for a few seconds, checking the wind and the clearance at the improvised landing pad (identified by six battery-powered red and green strobe lights planted for the purpose) before setting the heavy plane down on the concrete with a lowering whine of the engines. The rear ramp dropped immediately, and two Scimitar Air-Defense platforms rolled out onto the docks. A corporal from 3rd Platoon waved a hand-light to the right, and the Scimitar's driver obediently turned that way. Other 3rd Platoon personnel guided the vehicle to the designated gun position. It was unlikely that the wogs had any air support worth mentioning, but the twin 30mm guns on each vehicle would do equally well in dealing with human wave attacks- if it came to that.

Once the Scimitars were clear, the TT-11 pilot wound up his engines and lifted the lumbering aircraft off the concrete. The plane rose to twenty or thirty meters, then slowly rotated the propellers back toward horizontal. The Cossack roared off toward the mouth of the bay as another approached. The pilot rotated the engines to horizontal, then turned the plane around so the nose was pointing out to sea and settled slowly to the ground. The ramp lowered, and the 1st Platoon of the 44th Engineers jogged down with their gear on their shoulders. As planned, the Engineers immediately headed for the warehouses. Rosseau hit the unit push and suggested that some of the MPs lend the 44th a hand. A dozen or so troopers from 3rd Platoon ran aboard the rapidly emptying aircraft and re-appeared moments later with bundles of concertina wire. As the last of the supplies left the aircraft, the rear ramp lifted and the engines began to whine. The pilot lifted up and was flying toward the Malmouth a minute later, as another TT-11 roared in.

In less than an hour, 1600 troops were hard at work making the port secure. The entire Port facility was enclosed in triple coils of concertina wire, which had sensors attached at strategic points and connected with a master security console at the 231st CP near Port Ops. A gap in the wire was deliberately left open, leaving a two-meter-wide path between walls of concertina for the evacuees to pass through. A sandbagged machine-gun position was established on either side of the opening closest to the city. Security against people swimming into the harbor was assured by the ships offshore, each of which constantly operated their powerful active sonars. Anyone swimming in the harbor would be stunned or killed by the powerful sound waves.

Five Raschid LAVs configured as gun platforms- each with three multi-barreled Incursion machine guns- and the two Scimitar air-defense vehicles provided back up for eight sandbagged machine gun positions near the perimeter. Colonel Becket had set up the Battallion CP just inside the narrow opening through the wire the 44th's Engineers had left. A generator purred softly near the water, and electrical cables snaked across the concrete to the various buildings within the wire. Eight 120mm mortars had been set up in sandbagged positions around the compound. Heavily armed AH-30 helicopters patrolled the area around the port, and ground-attack aircraft from the Task Force made over flights every few minutes- always remaining at least 500 meters above the ground to reduce the chances of getting surprised by a shoulder-launched SAM.

Colonel Becket gave an order, and a loudspeaker placed on a pole near the port entrance blared out, "All foreign nationals with a passport wishing to depart Bokonpa will be evacuated by helicopter to EOE military vessels lying offshore. Each person may bring one small piece of luggage, but there is no guarantee the luggage will make it to the ships. Persons desiring evacuation should line up at the gate to the Port for inspection and processing as soon as possible."

The message was repeated in a variety of languages, and cycled every five minutes. A squad of nervous MPs guarded the narrow opening and waited for whatever would come.

Outside the Former City of Port Elizabeth

As the sun rose over the tree line to the east, Colair tapped Corporal Redman, signaling his turn to take over the watch. Little had transpired during the cool evening; and as the sun began to rise the heat would undoubtedly rise and the humidity would become insufferable. Colair had accordingly taken the easier time of day for his shift – officer’s prerogative. He stashed his weapon in a small nook behind his back, and made sure his knife was ready to go at the slightest disturbance. With everything set, Colair began to drift off to sleep while his men maintained their posts, using scopes and miniature parabolic dishes to record sounds.

The former town of Port Elizabeth would have been resplendent in terracotta and brick and mud and cool stones with flags flying proudly in the morning breeze. The birds would chirp and sing and guitars and drums would add their own notes and beats to the sound of shouts and whispers from the marketplace, to the sound of cargo wares being unloaded from ships at the wharves, to whistles and bells signaling the arrival of large galleons to load up on the native products from the islands.

Today, however, the air lay heavy and soupy – soaking shirts and pants with sweat and dirt. Instead of the sounds of commerce the air was silent, the sounds of whistles and bells replaced by the occasional burst of rifle fire from deep in the forest, signaling the approach of roving bands of rebels. Rebelling against what? No one quite knew. And often the rebels themselves did not know. They lashed out in understandable anger at the deplorable conditions in the archipelago.

But that’s why I’m here, Colair mused. He had been sent to gather intelligence on the city of Port Elizabeth, to assess the viability of it as a new colonial capital. Though not for the British, this time for their neighbouring Azazians. In due time the government would enact the legislation needed, reorder the necessary finances, restructure debts and loans, and in time the lands touched by the United Kingdom would once again become strong and proud. Yet some would resist. It was a fact of life.

And so with his eyes closed and his mind resting, Colair fell asleep.

Breningrad, New Britain

The United Kingdom’s largest military and commercial port lay far to the north of Port Elizabeth, and the outskirts of the city consisted of a forest of more glass and concrete and stone. The long estuary provided calm waters, the surface of which one single ship, quite large and massive, cut cleanly and crisply. The clear skies shone down on the city and its waters, and on the decks of the massive vessel. On the decks sat hundreds of Royal Marines, polishing their rifles, waving goodbyes, and choking back tears and hiding blown kisses.

The HMS Applebury carried thousands of souls onboard, the first group of men and women setting sail to reclaim long-lost territory of the nation. From the hills to the east of the city sat a large Neo-Classical structure, modeled after the villas of Leon Alberti during the Renaissance. On the large courtyard, looking west across the estuary to the hills where the distant sun would set in several hours, stood Alistair Tetley at one of the many retreats belonging to the Prime Minister. This, of course, was one of his own private estates scattered throughout the kingdom. Next to him stood a tall, lanky gentlemen, similarly dressed in a fine silk suit, though his freckled face denoted his youth and lesser stature.

Tetley turned to the man, “Geoffrey, are you familiar with Coleridge?”

“Slightly, sir. I did take some literature classes back in the universities.”

Tetley nodded, pulling out a chair from the glass table behind him. He snapped his fingers, signaling the maids to bring out a cart of refreshments. “Have a seat,” he told his aide. “You see, I’ve always loved this one poem. One of the verses in particular sticks out at me at this moment.” Tetley trailed off, fascinated by the sheer size of the assault vessel and the entire division of men onboard. With the clink of ice falling into his glass, he turned around to face his aide and took a small scrap of paper from his pocket and laid it flat on the table.

The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
Merrily we did drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse top.

“It’s nice, sir. However…”

Tetley smiled at the man, who had trailed off in nervousness of saying something to offend his employer, his boss, his elected leader. “What is it, Geoffrey?”

“Well, sir… isn’t the point of the poem that the ship never made it home? The crew, didn’t they all die?”

Tetley furrowed his brows. “I forgot about that part to be honest with you, I was more concerned with the imagery. I indeed hope nothing so unfortunate befalls the ship…”

“So long as no one shoots an albatross, sir.”

HMS Revenge

Brighton paced his wardroom, his mind unsettled. For one of the few times in his life he was most confused and unsure of how to act, the course to choose. The courses were indeed difficult to distinguish from one another. Swordfish or imported chicken. For in several hours a helicopter would arrive with an admiral. Protocol and common courtesy mandated a dinner for the man. Of course, the problem was the dish to serve. Both seemed so good, the swordfish cooked in lemon juice and herbs, the chicken in Caria, a native indigenous fruit to the United Kingdom, quite sweet and somewhat spicy. Brighton loved both.

A quick rap on the door startled Brighton. “Come in.”

The door opened to reveal a lieutenant whose name escaped Brighton at the moment. “What do you have for me, lieutenant?”

The woman saluted crisply. “Sir, word from the Admiralty. Admiral Jennings has departed and should be expected two hours hence. Also, the Applebury has departed from Breningrad. Furthermore, intel indicates that the Overlord fleet to our east, while likely having noticed our presence, is not making any significant efforts to impugn our progress.”

“Impede.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“You said impugn. Incorrect word choice. A better word would have been impede.”

The lieutenant simply nodded, stunned at Brighton’s criticism. Especially of something so utterly trivial. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Nothing big, lieutenant. Just, if you try to use big words, use them correctly. Now, I want to start a rear screen, dispatch a UAV to cover our extended rear lines, make sure the assault group arrives without a problem. Furthermore, I want a unit to monitor the Chowhaiil Strait. The Overlord fleet is not something I wish to tangle with – and currently we have no reason to do so. Mind you, I do like to be aware of what’s going on, so a simple non-threatening position at the entrance. It should be far enough away that they won’t read it as a threat, but far enough away that we’ll know if they decide to mosey on through the narrow pass. Make sure the pilots follow standard procedure. I don’t want active radar on, they’re stealth vehicles, I want them to act that way. I don’t care if there are no native fighters, let’s at least try to act professional.”

“Anything else, sir?”

Brighton thought for a moment. “Yes, make sure the pilots don’t mess around with the Overlord fleet or any air patrols they send towards our vehicles. No targeting radars, nothing of the kind. Treat them as friendlies, because they are. I don’t want some sort of pissing contest amongst these islands. It would just complicate things.” Brighton paused, then waved his hands. “That’s it. Dismissed.”

As the lieutenant walked out he realized that explaining his orders to a lieutenant wasn’t called for, or necessary. However, someday she was likely to be a commander or even a captain. Best be training the junior officers to start thinking like senior officers. The Royal Navy was well disciplined and had proven its efficiency in combat twice now in recent conflicts. There was no need for even more bloodshed if avoidable. And Brighton wanted to instill that idea in his officers. War was never a good thing. Sure, some blood-thirsty fools made it to the Admiralty and positions of leadership. That was simple statistics. It was a rule. But, the more he could train to think in ways to avert conflict, the more likely the United Kingdom could stay out of war. War was good to no one, not even the victors. It was expensive and messy.

Then it hit him. He laid down on his bed and pressed the communication switch.

“Swordfish. Tell the chef we’re having swordfish.”

(Sorry for being a bit slow, but just to make sure, the Azazians have landed where? Are they going with the idea to take Siploc as a base to control the western end of the chain?
Sorry, I'm still just a post behind... I was trying to get this posted last night, but the forums, you know.)

The Azazians had landed on a backwards island overgrown with jungle life, and settled down to observe its slight and primitive population without its knowledge. But Jipangunesia's population density was something becoming a great problem for the people, and now quite likely for the foreigners, too.

Coming up on to the island at night, the Azazians no doubt noticed the need to negotiate what seemed almost to be stone-age barbed wire hidden in the shallows. Countless strings ran along the sand from just above the high tide line to just below the extreme of low tide, and down their length each bore dozens of barbs made simply by running thorns and needles through the twists of the hand-made twine and impailing upon them a variety of grubs and insects. Many fishermen would rise only moments before low tide, coming out to draw in their lines, which -they hoped- would be squirming with caught flatfish and other sea life feeding on the bed or leaving and entering the surf over night. Some of the lines included more complicated traps for catching baby turtles, and though these were not usually prolific in their haul, it was only recently that bottom-feeding and other fish were also hard to come by. The Jipangunesian demand for food was outstripping the supply provided by the largely pre-industrial archipelago, and this did lead to an extra danger for the secrecy of the Azazian mission. People kept having more and more children so that they could make more and more hunters and fishers of them, but of course this policy was self-defeating whenever a generation went relatively unscathed by disease and promptly over-hunted its domain.

Through the night, some figures would stalk on to the beach and around the island, stealing others' catches and robbing from homes and small farms, and of course coming out to prevent exactly the same. Almost every night would see some sort of confrontation, perhaps as a fisherman came out chase off poachers, or as thieves disturbed farmers. Most on places like Sipoloc entered such confrontations armed with a machete, axe, hunting knife, or something else functional beyond the sphere of home defence, perhaps as a harpoon or bow, while also common was a sort of throwing aid in the simple form of a stick with a head fashioned to accept a well shaped stone or more often lead shot or scrap metal part of some sort, enabling Sipots (natives of the island) to throw small objects to a great distance and with significant force. Of course, many were experts as children played games based on the primitive weapon, and hunters were quite capable of knocking monkeys and birds out of trees at the first attempt.

Most poachers didn't care to be caught in the back of the head by a rusty iron washer or even to be pelted with rotten this or dead that, but such displays would probably not go far towards intimidating professional soldiers.

These little skirmishers soon noticed that there was something alien about tonight, however...


...As luck would have it, this was not because anyone spotted the foreigners, but because -just before sunrise, and due to land just after it- an aircraft spluttered over the island's coast and vanished inland towards a dirt airstrip, usually unused but cleared (in a rather half-arsed fashion) following an almost equally rare telegram from Samepeng. In a truly epic feat of Jipangunesian co-ordination, President Syungma Santosoputra had alerted his supporters on Sipoloc to expect a flight ordered in from Feyapuro partly becuase of events on Sulawaka.

The L2D transport crate sounded in agony as its three generations old hulk strained to make a safe landing with the aid of first light. Around a dozen of the government's best soldiers (some of the few hundred just marginally more likely to try fighting before running when somebody shot back, and probably able to remember the President's name on a good day) were carried aboard the pre-war Japanese licence-built DC3, along with documents and weapons (M1 carbines, M3 'Grease Guns', and hand grenades), and even some light machine tools for the construction of the odd .45 Liberator single shot pistol: known as possibly the only pistol in history that could be manufactured faster than it could be loaded. At least Jipangunesia's jungles offered plenty of twigs with which spent cases could be fished from the horrid weapon after each shot's firing.

Syungma wanted to consolidate his marginal power on many western islands as he saw that Sulawaka appeared to be slipping from his meek grasp, and was hoping that his agents would be able to set up a workshop to arm a militia of loyalists impressed by his authority and abilities, so that the likes of the Sula Rada would not find fertile grounds for expansion.

Ooc: actually they landed further south in Taytenu, it’s more isolated than Sipoloc, which is merely a hop, skip, and then a jump away from the major islands. Taytenu would require more work to reach.

But don't worry, the forums always suck. That and it's the weekend, hence the time to actually get more than one post in here.

ic:

HMS Revenge

“Captain, radar contact. Departing flight from Feyapuro. Appears civilian in origin.”

Brighton had just reported to the combat centre to check in with his crew before heading up to the bridge. He hadn’t expected any combat yet, and so had been avoiding the cramped room altogether. Although it was spacious and well-lit, there were no windows and he could not help but feeling the surrounding armoured bulkheads all around him. Suddenly, though, something routine back home had become extremely interesting here. An aircraft.

“Course?”

“It appears to be heading towards Sipoloc, sir. We’ll know more once it approaches. It’s still climbing.”

“Keep an eye on it, then. If it does anything to signal hostile intentions, I want to know the moment it happens. I’ll be on the bridge in the meantime.”

Outside the Former City of Port Elizabeth

Colair finally awoke as his leg started to shift off the branch he slept on. He caught himself before making a large amount of noise, but he would have still preferred a night in the barracks to a night in the trees. He decided that it was time to wake up and perhaps move into the town and camp out on a rooftop or something. He signaled his men to prepare to move out. He also wasn’t fond of sitting in one spot all too often.

The daily check of his messages, relayed via encrypted channels from a satellite, showed that the operation was on schedule. By tomorrow night the first elements of the Royal Marines would arrive by chopper to secure the harbour’s docks. From then on, the assault ship would begin to launch its boats and begin the fortification of the harbour, and the assimilation of the city into the United Kingdom.

The sun already sat high in the sky, more than likely it was already noon and several hours had passed since Colair had shut his eyes. He felt well rested, except for a small cut on his leg while passing the lines of the fishermen and from a sting from some sort of native jellyfish. He laughed to himself at the fact that for the first time he had been “injured” during an operation. But not from a sophisticated enemy, or a terrorist, or an elaborately laid booby-trap. No, he had been injured from a fishing line and a jelly-fish. The backwardness of the natives was sometimes entirely amusing, if not always pleasant.

His men had silently scoped out an unoccupied path that would lead to a taller stone building near the outskirts, from which they could navigate by rooftop until they arrived near the large outdoor market place, from which they could observe the locals.

"Kauffman! Gomez! You're up!"

"Roger that, Sergeant." Superior Private Kauffman groaned as she lifted the towel that covered her face. Staring glumly into the late afternoon torrential rain, she started pulling a poncho over her armor. She kicked the leg of the man curled up on a pair of sandbags next to her. "C'mon, Shorty. Our turn in the barrel."

'Shorty' Gomez cursed vilely in Spanish as he rose slowly and stretched. "This place stinks like This Oughta Do," he complained as he donned his own rain gear.

"And every other jungle hellhole we've ever been in," Kauffman snorted. "What's the matter, Shorty? Don't you like the jungle?"

"I'm a city boy. I hate the jungle!"

"Well, I've been told that this is actually a city, Shorty, so get your tiny little ass in gear and show me how a city boy like you handles all these civvies." Kauffman jerked an armored thumb over her shoulder to the line of drenched civilians outside the wire.

Grumbling under his breath, Gomez joined his squad leader as she trudged out to the opening in the wire to relieve the watch. Despite their rain gear, runnels of blood-warm rainwater ran under their armor within seconds of leaving the shelter of the squad's tent, soaking both troopers to the skin. The heat and humidity made them feel like they were trudging through thick soup.

Kauffman and Gomez checked in with the MP corporal running things at the gate. "What's the word, Corporal?" Kauffman asked.

Corporal Nilssen nodded toward the opening through the wire. "Take over on the street side," he said calmly. "Don't worry about anything except hostile wogs and civvies with obvious weapons. The two MPs just inside the wire will handle the civvies, you guys just deal with any obvious threats."

Kauffman glanced at the line of sodden civilians. "Feathers or lead?"

The MP checked his hand-held and nodded to someone to Kauffman's left. "Anyone in line with a weapon gets one chance to drop it. After that, treat 'em as hostile." He waved a hand to his right. "Gun Three is over there, Four on the other side. They're on Freq 6. Gate CP is Freq 4. Anything goes on inside the wire is our problem. You two pay attention to everything else. Questions?"

Kauffman keyed in the new presets for her radio and shook her head. "Nope. Thanks, Corporal." The two troopers brushed aside the civilians queuing through the gate and talked to the thoroughly drenched soldiers they were relieving. Tiranjanu, the senior trooper there, filled them in quickly.

"We had some movement in them factories and shit just before the rain hit, back a couple hundred meters. Battalion said they’d get a RPV up soon as the rain quits. There's a couple helos up already, but they ain't seeing much in this crap." He gestured at the line of civilians snaking into the city to their right. "The civvies been coming out of the Maze in small groups pretty steady- even after the downpour started. Guess they're more scared of getting left behind in this toilet than they are of gettin' wet."

Gomez spat into the street as he stared at the civilians. "How many, you figure?"

Tiranjanu shrugged. "Guy I relieved said he'd seen about a hundred. I figure we got about that in line now."

Kauffman shook her head in disbelief and sighed. "All right, Senior Private. I relieve you."

Tiranjanu grinned broadly. "Best news I've heard all afternoon. I stand relieved, Superior Private." Gomez and the other Private followed their superiors' example, and the two new troopers were left alone in the street as the relieved men scuttled through the downpour toward shelter.

Kauffman eyed the line of civilians warily. She gestured for Gomez to stand by, then stepped a meter or so into the street to look farther down the line. Sweeping both the line of people and the dilapidated buildings across the road with her eyes, Kauffman walked a few dozen meters along the line before returning. She stayed in the street in front of the gate and raised her voice. "Hey, Shorty! There's a guy back there with six suitcases."

Gomez grinned and glanced toward the gate command post. The MPs there were stacking excess luggage in a wire enclosure near the CP, and the pile was already over a meter and a half high. "I guess these civvies ain't much for following directions," he called back.

The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Everyone and everything began to give off tendrils of water vapor as the sun began appearing through the rapidly disappearing clouds. Swearing, both troopers shrugged out of their ponchos, which made them slightly less uncomfortable. As promised, one of the ships close ashore launched an RPV, which began orbiting the abandoned industrial area across from the gate at a hundred meters or so altitude.

Gomez and Kauffman spent most of their shift alternately watching the semi-ruined buildings across the street and the foreign civilians going through the gate. As the civilian stepped into the gate, an MP checked the civvies' passport. Excess baggage was disposed of next, and each civilian was searched, photographed, fingerprinted, and had a sample of DNA taken before being issued an ID bracelet, which was recorded on a computer. The one piece of baggage each civilian was permitted to keep was tagged with the ID bracelet number and set on a small cart near the warehouses, where it was searched by more MPs. People with passports- even old ones- were taken to the warehouses inside the wire. People without passports were herded into a large tent near the warehouses, which was surrounded by a separate wire enclosure.

Gomez shook his head. The MP Company had been divided into three shifts, and they did nothing but handle the civilians. A double click in his helmet earphones pulled his attention back to Kauffman. She was standing a few meters out in the street. When she saw Gomez was watching, she pointed with her left hand along the line of civilians. Gomez carefully moved the selector switch on his battle rifle from 'Safe' to 'Burst', and stepped away from the wire.

About thirty meters along the line, some sort of altercation was taking place. A woman- obviously a local- was screaming bloody murder and flailing away with her fists and feet at a large Nipponese-looking man in the line there. He had two kids with him, a boy and a girl, about ten years old or so. He pulled the kids in close with one arm and crouched a bit. Gomez saw him set his feet, then hit the screaming woman in the chest with his free hand. He must have had some moxie behind the blow, because the woman immediately fell backward into the road. She crawled away from the man, toward the opposite side of the street, where she slowly rose to her knees. Once she got her breath back, she started yelling again. But she stayed on the other side of the street while she did so. The kids with the big man were yelling, too.

Kauffman waved Gomez back toward the wire as she kept watch to make sure the woman didn't go back for more. The woman stayed out of the big man's reach, but followed along with him as the line moved toward the gate, and she never stopped shouting- and neither did the two kids.

Gomez gestured to one of the MPs as the man approached the gate, and a pair of MPs left the CP and walked up to him. "Got anybody that speaks the local gibberish?" he asked the lead MP. "We got some sort of domestic dispute going on here." He briefly outlined the situation.

The taller of the two MPs snorted in disgust. The short one said, "I'll talk to the woman, Sam. You pull the man out of line and get his story."

It took several minutes for the MP to get the woman to stop shouting and try to explain the problem, and she only quieted down when she saw the man and the kids weren't being allowed in the gate. After several minutes of obviously painful attempts to communicate, the MP nodded and patted the woman on the arm and left her with Kauffman. The MP jogged back to where her partner was talking with the man with the kids, and Gomez watched as she spoke to the tall MP, then took the two kids by the hand and led them aside a meter or so. The big man made some sort of protest, which quickly subsided when the tall MP pushed the muzzle of his rifle into the man's belly.

After a few minutes of more patient attempts to communicate with the kids, the short MP keyed her radio and spoke briefly. Gomez was surprised to see Captain Ahrendt, the CO of the Military Police Company, walk through the gate a few minutes later. The short MP spoke to the Captain for a few minutes, and the Captain nodded his head and gave an order. The short MP took the two kids across the street and let them run to the woman standing with Kauffman. The big man was pushed through the gate by the tall MP, followed by the Captain.

The short MP walked up to Gomez and filled him in. "The big guy claims to be some sort of businessman, has an expired Philippino passport. He also claims that the two kids are his- despite the fact they look nothing like him. The woman says the man grabbed her kids from the street and dragged them here." She nodded her head toward the woman and the two kids, who were walking back toward the Maze. "The kids say the big guy walked up to them outside their house and offered them cigarettes if they would show him how to get to the Port, then wouldn't let them go when their mother showed up."

Gomez scowled at the gate, where the man in question was no longer visible. "So what did your CO say about all this?"

The MP grinned. "He made the big guy give each of 'em a pack of cigarettes and gave 'em back to their mother. He also told the man that he'd be allowed to evacuate ... in the last load ... and we'd be happy to return him to the Philippines." She laughed harshly, a rough sound with no humor in it. " He was trying real hard to talk the Captain out of it as he was taken away."

"Figure he pulled the same sort of crap in PI before he came here?"

The MP smiled like a shark. "Probably. He's probably been hitting all of the garden spots, trolling for little kids."

Gomez grinned back. "Not anymore."

<OOC>
I'm taking the liberty of assuming that a few locals might want to get out of the line of fire as well as the foreigners- hence the description of the procedures for people with no passports (I'm assuming that Jipangunesia isn't organized enough on Sulawaka to issue passports). The way my people will handle that is to evacuate the foreign nationals first, then any locals who want to go (they'll be dropped off on one of the other islands), then the one item of luggage each person gets (assuming that there's time). Once the Sula Rada show up to interact with my troops, it will probably put an end to the line (unless the Sula Rada leaders are far more obliging than I expect them to be). At that point, the opening in the wire will be sealed off, and the troopers will hold the area until it's their turn to leave.


TEO

HMS Applebury

Rain pummeled the deck, the seas slammed the hull along its length, the lightening occasionally struck the tall superstructure. Commodore Toby Hall glared out the window of his luxurious cabin on the quarterdeck. Behind him stood a tall man with an angular face, a jagged scar running down his right cheek while his blue eyes bored holes through all he saw. “Major General,” Hall called back, “we are approaching the debarkation site. I trust your men are squared away and ready to go?”

“Indeed,” the disarmingly quiet voice responded. Major General Sir Scipio Whitmore came from a distinguished military family and had advanced through the ranks by both being extremely competent and being blessed with such a distinguished family. His father, a former general, had seen fit to name his son after the famous Roman general who had defeated Hannibal at Zama – a name that most colleagues and peers understood, but went for naught in the civilian sphere. Whitmore had served as a mere lieutenant during a brief insurrection on tribal islands, where he had taken shrapnel from an RPG blast along the right side of his body. The scars on his neck had disappeared, but the ones on his face and arm were permanent; and they juxtaposed quite strikingly with his usually cool, collected if not quiet sense of leadership.

“The men are currently loading their landing ships with necessary provisions. IFVs and tanks will follow later once the perimeter is secure. Within the coming days my men and myself will gladly return this little boat back to you.”

Hall laughed gently. “I see, General. You too, I suppose, follow that old adage.”

“What adage is that, sir?”

“Ah, but nothing. ‘Tis nothing of consequence at least. Anyways, my crew informs me that this afternoon storm shall be clear of us by the end of the half hour, at which point I will order the leveling of the ship at depth and from that point on the air-cushioned vehicles will depart and make their way to land.”

As the two men continued their final impromptu review of the landing tactics, the storm passed by overhead, leaving in its wake clear skies and a sticky soup that drenched those who dared leave the air-conditioned interior of the ship. On the flight deck, small jump fighters were wheeled out with large ammunition vehicles that began to secure the weaponry on the underside weapon pods. The intelligence provided did not anticipate any significant aerial resistance, and so only two fighters were equipped with dedicated air combat weapon profiles; the remainder found themselves with rockets and dumb bombs should rebels decide to attack the Royal Marines during their landing operations – as intelligence suggested that President Santosoputra had begun to fortify his positions on the western islands.

Underneath the large flight decks, within the over three hundred meters of titanium, aluminum, and steel sat and stood and kneeled over three thousand Royal Marines. Only a few hundred were working their way onto the air-cushioned landing craft. The rear-echelon units would bring in crates of ammunition and clean water. The second wave of landing craft would bring in further troops and two infantry fighting vehicles. As the hours would wear on, the remainder of the assault force would disembark until the docks were secured and the Applebury could pull alongside and begin properly unloading her stores.

Outside the Former City of Port Elizabeth

Colair glanced down at his watch through the rain pouring off his hood. The small waterproof device, designed to reduce glare and resist water told him that the landings were not far off. Accordingly, he had moved his men – who had unobtrusively conducted their intelligence gathering – to the main market, where they occupied the rooftops to secure the “highground” for the landing of the Royal Marines.

The cobble street below sat with large puddles of water, as the original drainage pipes had either been wrecked or were simply clogged from years of neglect. Nevertheless, as the rain subsided, men and women and children all flocked to the open spaces to collect the buckets and open vessel pottery that was scattered about – all placed near the noon hour in order to catch the extremely reliable afternoon rain showers. The necessities of survival had arisen in this backwards place – the natives had realized the importance of clean water, and accordingly collected the daily rainfall for just that purpose. In some ways Colair admired the local peoples. They were slightly more advanced than typical Neolithic peoples – they utilized the remnants of modern technology of course – but they still lived through subsistence fishing, and although little had been scoped of the jungle, perhaps even farming.

However, little time was afforded to Colair for such academic thoughts. In the distance, as the low storm clouds moved off, a large hull could be seen near the horizon. Regular waves of compressed air carried sound vibrations from heavy engines as small black specks appeared in the clearing skies. The specks grew larger, until Colair could make out the distinctive shapes of helicopters, inside of which were the advance elements of the landing team – the majority of which would arrive in the likely soon to be dispatched landing craft. As the choppers neared Colair waved to his second-in-command; Colair had to be down there to greet the Marines. Although it was doubtful that the locals had any support of electronic intercept technology on hand, he didn’t want to risk giving the locals any information – that included even mere encrypted radio transmissions. He doubted that they could crack the codes, but the mere fact of radio transmission could give rebels on the far side of the island the knowledge that the United Kingdom had arrived, and he didn’t want that. Not yet at least.

The first helicopter hovered above the ground, and off jumped a colonel of medium height. Although the British Royal Marines rarely if ever used colonels in the field, the rank had been adopted from an American-descended military officer, who instated the rank as a field commission. Colair and the colonel of course did not care. Instead, when they saw each other, they saluted, then embraced each other.

“Niles, good to see you.” Colair exclaimed.

Colonel Niles Crick waved his hands and the rest of his unit began jumping from the chopper, running to secure the various street entrances to the exposed market square. “How are you… I haven’t seen you… well since you left for that whole affair in Datria. How’d that turn out by the by?”

“You know how it is… classified. I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you…”

The two men laughed heartily, a brief moment of levity in a situation that they knew was possibly precarious. Crick motioned for the second wave of his men to begin sweeping through the large buildings fronting the square. Colair pointed to the rooftops of the same buildings. “Already there, sort of. I have the square secure from altitude. Of course I doubt they told you that I’d be here or that we’d have secured the perimeter as best as my team can.”

“Of course they didn’t. We can’t have cooperation between those bastards in the Army and us Marines.” Crick chided his long-time friend, well knowing he had switched from the Royal Marines all the way to the Royal Army’s own Royal Guards unit.

“You best be watching it out here, Niles. I’m now part of those bastards in the Army.” Colair paused, then smiled. “Of course I don’t disagree with you.”

“Right, right. So, best be telling you then. The landing craft should be here shortly, but my men and I are to secure the perimeter. The assault ship should be docked by the end of the coming night. After that, the engineers will roll on out and we’ll begin rebuilding this hellhole. Any signs of hostile contacts?”

Colair shook his head. “Not a one. Primarily what we have here is a stone-age culture. Mostly indigenous weapons, bows, arrows, spears and such. Here and there one sports an AK or some even cheaper knock-off. No discernible chain of command or formal units, however. The shoreline is, quote unquote “defended”, by a barbed wire. Though it’s more for fishing purposes than for defence. Outside of that, watch out for the city itself, it’s in a rather shoddy state. I doubt we’ll have any problems unless the rebels, or even the national government attempts to move in.”

“The nationals shouldn’t be a problem,” Crick chimed in. “The Applebury has two Azrael fighters on patrol. Furthermore we’ve got several bloody ships out there that can blast to pieces anything they’re likely to even consider throwing at us. No, I think our concern will be the rebels.”

“In which case, make sure your men don’t do anything stupid. They’re less-advanced than us; but that doesn’t mean their less-human than us. We’re going to need friends on these islands.”

“Oh, I understand. Believe you me, I got that speech dozens of times, as did my men from me. I’m hoping we don’t have any problems.” Crick finished his sentence then turned to his left as one of his noncoms approached.

“Colonel, perimeter is secure.”

“Very good.” Crick and Colair shook hands and parted without words, just glad that they at least knew someone outside of their units on these godforsaken-tropical-paradises-turned-hellholes.

(Ah! The forum works, tonight? Fantastic! Must catch-up. I'm afraid that these frequent down-times have rather thrown me off my stride, actually. The first bit, in italics, is just me continuing to talk about Jipangunesia in general. Then I'll go on to deal with things specific to this thread)


At either end of the Jipangunesian chain, the words of Setiawan Dianputra could be heard in rural market places and urban soap boxes, while everywhere in between his admirers and allies were -systematically or arbitrarily- eliminated by the Sula Rada, the Islamists, and the Syungma Republicans. At Karlokarang, Setiawan was trying honestly now to distance his movement from the extreme Islamists with whom he'd initially allied against the Blues of the Republican Syungma government. He realised -perhaps too late- that it wouldn't work. Once success met them and Setiawan's message carried throughout the chain like none before, the Islamists saw that Jipangunesia could be regarded as a potentially united state, and as such a Muslim home country, and subject to their harsh interpretation of Islamic Law. Equally, failure on some islands lead Setiawan to the realisation that it really didn't matter whether he had support in other factions: he was losing, anyway!

The Green faction was splitting, and already some relatively well informed persons in Jipangunesia were calling Setiawan's direct-democrat socialists the Yellows, while the Islamists of course retained the green tag. By being the first to come close to unifying Jipangunesia, Setiawan had caused the extreme Islamists -once isolated here and there- to consider their holy war one for Jipangunesia, not just [insert name of minor island]. He'd shot himself in the foot, and quite likely taught others about the pitfalls of Jipangunesian empire building.

Sencang was developed in the degree enjoyed (or suffered) on Tingun and western Sulawaka; that is to say, in the highest Jipangunesian manner. Karlokarang was the city closest to Japan and to mainland Asia, and had seen more foreign input than had most parts of the chain. Immannanng -at the far end of the chain- was just the opposite. Jipangunesia was good for simplication and solid manifestation of ideas. Sometimes the archipelago resembled a Star Trek adventure in which a stream of technobabble finds an illustrative partner in a practical every day context. One could look at the complicated quagmire of Jipangunesian religious, political, social, cultural, and developmental conflict and then speak simply of its cities and jungles; its natives and foreign residents; its west and east.

Immannanng was a jungle cape hanging from the spinal rack of its central mountain range. Less developed than even the Sulawakan interior from which sprang the Sula Rada, it actually suffered less of the conflicts than did other islands. It was a land of absolutely breathtaking biodiversity and of that romantic sort of aboriginal humanity that lived actually and honestly in tune with its environment. Elsewhere, native peoples fought to the death and took plunder of the forest, but looked to be respectful of it simply because their greed lacked industrial muscle and their abilities fell short of total destruction. On Immannang, people took what they needed and stopped short of their full potential for plunder. They took disputes to still respected elders. They settled conflicts in ritual and almost sporting competition, and thought more of impressions and honour than bloodshed and glory. Battles there saw bands of young men pushing one another back and forth across fields until boundary disputes were solved with no more than tired legs and maybe a few cases of muscle cramp. The AK-47 was nowhere to be seen as witch doctors emplored their neighbours to adorn themselves in enough colour to blind the sun gods and to dance harder than the breaking waves for the relief of plague or famine. If primitive harmony could not be found on Immannanng, then surely it did not exist.



Bokonpa, Sulawaka

Though a good number of natives -mostly around the coastal reaches that had seen TEO forces- were shifting and chattering about the possibility of getting out, through much of the city nobody was really thinking about it. Conflict was a pretty ordinary thing, and without very serious media -radio broadcasts were largely low-power pirate efforts, and newspapers were 99% opinion and precious little news- most people didn't fully appreciate that the Sula Rada was part of the new wind swirling through the archipelago.

But the Sula Rada were different, and the outside world perhaps knew it better than did most Jipangunesians. A well known reporter -more usually a war correspondant out of wars that weren't already covered from top to bottom- had quite famously spent several weeks in the Sulawakan interior with a small camera crew. More truthfully, he'd spent several unnoticed weeks there, filming jungle villages and the rise of radical political movements before one day -after stopping his motorcycle at an improvised checkpoint, as he had a dozen times before- he was quite infamously gunned down, apparently without ever suspecting that he was in any special danger.

The Sula Rada had, as a result, gained a reputation for brutality and for fantastic racism. Actually, they weren't so much racist as territorial, having no desire to wipe-out other races, only to protect Sualawaka against, 'infiltration' from outside.

By now, dozens of Sula Rada fighters -many as yet just those dressed in traditional peasant attire and being basically untrained as the uniformed soldiers assembled in the jungle fringes- were in the city's outskirts, hollaring and searching for outsiders. Here and there a gunshot rang out as a shopkeeper or homeowner took exception to some country folk bursting in and yammering in a barely familiar dialect, and making such an error inevitibly brought large numbers of Sula Rada recruits to burn-down the offender's property. Smoke was beginning to drift down the coast in the sea breeze, seeming to lie lower and heavy with all the water vapour about.

Neither was this very unfamiliar to most locals, though. It wasn't as if fire safety standards stood proud in the city's organisation.

"Kingfisher, this is Hammer. I got some shanties burning at 146,312."

"Roger that, Hammer. Do you have video?"

"Kingfisher, Hammer. Stand by." Alanna Duemmel- call sign Hammer- keyed the intercom. "Dusty, hit the camera. Kingfisher wants RT feed."

The AH-30's electronics officer, Marco Dusty Tierno, flipped a couple of switches before replying. "Go ahead, Hammer. Gun-camera imagery is hooked up to SSIN."

Hammer swung the dark grey attack helicopter gracefully to the right to bring the nose of the helo in line with the target area and climbed a dozen meters. "Kingfisher, this is Hammer. RT feed on the way."

The scattered fires at the edge of the city grew rapidly in the gun-camera display as the AH-30 Zulu flew toward the jungle at 250 kilometers per hour. Several small structures in a three-block area were burning to one degree or another, and at least one more was starting to give off smoke. Dusty saw scattered individuals in the area carrying rifles of various sorts, but nobody seemed to be paying much attention to the burning buildings. As the helicopter roared over the area, Dusty looked down into the streets, then hit the intercom and said, "Hammer, we got wogs in the street, shooting at each other."

A series of dull thuds echoed in the tiny cockpit, barely audible over the roar of the engines. "That ain't all they're shooting at, Dusty." Hammer twisted the collective and increased the helicopter's speed and altitude as she turned the stick to the left. "Kingfisher, Hammer. We are taking small-arms fire from the target area and the jungle."

"Hammer, Kingfisher. Anything serious?"

"Negative, Kingfisher. Scattered small arms fire only. No apparent damage."

"Your call, Hammer. Feathers or lead?"

"Kingfisher, Hammer. We'll handle it for now."

"Roger that, Hammer. Fast movers available in 2 mikes, if you want 'em."

"Thanks anyway, Kingfisher." Hammer pulled the AH-30 out over the center of the city, then turned her nose toward the area where they'd been shot at. Keying the intercom, she asked, "Ready, Dusty?"

Dusty replied, "Let's smoke 'em," as he finished arming the Zulu's weapons pods.

Hammer increased speed to 300 KPH, and the helicopter roared toward the target area at 150 meters over the rooftops. She thumbed her target designator until the dot in the HUD rested on the cluster of people in the street by the burning buildings. Still a kilometer away, she hit the trigger switch, and the 30mm Hephaestus chain gun fired a two-second burst with a sound like God farting. A storm of high-velocity tungsten-osmium projectiles tore into the street, the people in the street, and the buildings on either side.

Hammer immediately switched her weapon selector over to the two pods of ten 5-kilo bombardment rockets attached to the Zulu's pylons and lifted the helicopter's nose slightly. A large green dot appeared to overlay the HUD. When the edge of the green touched the image of the jungle at the edge of town, she mashed the trigger switch down and held it. All twenty rockets hissed out of the pods in pairs a fraction of a second apart. The first pair hit among the trees just as the last two were launched. Each rocket carried a five-kilogram warhead, and the explosions ripped through the trees and bushes at the edge of the jungle. As the AH-30 flew over the targeted area, Dusty pulled a lever and released the thirty bomblets in the cluster bay attached to the helicopter's belly armor. The forty-millimeter canisters each held a 2-kilo fragmentation charge, and they rained down over the same section of jungle targeted by the rockets moments before. A series of crackling explosions amid the underbrush could be heard over the roar of the Zulu's engines.

"Kingfisher, this is Hammer. We gave 'em one pass. I figure that oughta teach 'em not to take shots at us."

"Roger that, Hammer. We are vectoring Boytoy out to cover your patrol area. Head back to the barn."

"Back to the barn, aye, Kingfisher." Hammer increased the helicopter's altitude and turned her nose toward the bay. Behind her, the columns of smoke from the edge of town grew larger.

Bokonpa

Needless to say, the helicopter's assault on the city outskirts and the near-by treeline was like nothing that most Jipangunesians had seen before. Those involved -who weren't killed outright- soon scattered, except for some who were unprepared to leave their homes and businesses near by. Some of these hid indoors, while just a few others capped off a couple of hopeful rounds from pistols and a few rifles, wanting to chase the helicopter away, as was the style with most Jipangunesian fighting: usually, Jipangunesians -even those in organised fighting units- didn't train for a fight meant to kill, but tried to get the upper hand in a show of nerves, and would fire to make noise and appear threatening so that opponents would run away or submit to the cat with bigger teeth.

In this case, the helicopter's teeth were obviously largest, but it was not ordinary for fights to happen where a loser would be driven from his home, rather they would occur in neutral ground. With the locals already driven back inside their homes, there wasn't really much question of them running any further.

The helicopter's impact was somewhat confined by the loose nature of the Sula Rada forward units' association. The panic caused as new recruits and thugs simply associating themselves with the movement in order to gain status would not spread to other units approaching from a few miles away, as there was a real break in communication between them. In the very short term, though, it meant that nobody was going looking for a fight with the Overlord's forces.

Near the harbour area, Edgar Hogarth, the scrawny little black fellow with his western-styled but horribly crumpled and now sweaty and dusty suit was trying to figure out -on behalf of the Syungma republican government that presumed itself administrator of Jipangunesia- who these foreigners were, exactly, and whether they'd come to save the day, driving back the Sula Rada, or to take advantage of a bad situation for their own ends. As yet, introducing himself in a meek and ignorable fashion to anybody in unfamiliar uniform as Town Hall Clerk and member of the 'official' Jipangunesian government on Sulawaka, he hadn't really considered the mission's true purpose as a possibility, as even that much humanitarianism wasn't familiar in the archipelago... nobody heard of evacuations, usually you were on an island that was okay or else you were screwed and that was that.

They ease and ill care with which the Bokonpans pushed aside their government official as they squabled over who was first in line or who saw that lootable item first probably confirmed suspicions about just how much influence Syungma's government really did have during an every-man-for-himself crisis

A Dominion trooper hooked the cargo net to the cable beneath the hovering transport helicopter and attached the remote disconnect to all but one of the net's hook-rings. Stepping back, she gestured to the Ground-Safety Officer several meters off to the side, who repeated the gesture to the pilots. The Aerospace Force ground controller keyed his mic, "Alpha-Mike-Three-Niner, green deck."

The copilot gave a thumb's up to the GSO as the pilot responded on the SSIN link, "Green deck, roger. Alpha-Mike-Three-Niner, out." Twisting the collective to get more lift, he shifted the rotor angle-of-attack for maximum lift and the heavily laden helicopter groaned skyward, the cargo net beneath it swaying from side to side as it left the concrete. Although the net was full nearly to bursting, thankfully none of the containers within fell out as it moved slowly overhead.

Sergeant Anya Kovalis watched the helo depart with its burden and spat sourly. "I wish these damned wogs would figure out that we mean business when we tell 'em they only get one piece of luggage." She hooked a thumb at the helicopter as it slowed to a hover over the center of the Maze in the near distance. "That's the third load of extra luggage today. How long d'ye figure it'll be before some wog with more than two working brain cells takes a shot at that helo?"

Private Trooper Mikel Donnuanis shrugged as he kept a wary eye on the crowd outside the wire. "MPs was runnin' outta room, Sergeant. Gotta get rid of that crap somehow. Wouldja rather we let the wogs in through the wire to get rid of it?"

The helicopter hovered 30 meters above the warren of alleys that the EOE troops all called 'The Maze' and waited for the cargo net to stop swinging. Once the crew chief in the rear of the helo signaled it was safe, the pilot gave permission to release the hook. Beneath the hovering aircraft, the magnet holding the hook closed abruptly opened, allowing five of the six net rings to fall free. Three tonnes of luggage fell fifteen meters over a twenty-meter square area of the maze, mostly creating a lot of noise and few injuries. One or two of the sturdier bits of luggage damaged a few of the less-sturdy shanties, and several locals whose eagerness to be the first to get to the goodies brought them directly under the cascade were battered and bruised for their trouble. On the whole, however, the denizens of the Maze were delighted at the infrequent deliveries of goodies.

The helicopter rose immediately as the load was released, and the crew chief reeled in the cargo line and net. Once the line and net were safely aboard, the pilot lifted the helo to two hundred meters and turned toward the distant shape of Soleisola. The copilot glanced out the side window at the melee at the drop point and shook her head in disgust.

Captain Ahrendt swore softly as his SSIN link buzzed for attention. Keying the receive switch, he noted that the call came from Corporal Meyers at the gate. "Mike Six-Actual. Go ahead Mike 2-5."

"Captain, we got some wog here claims to represent the local government."

Mentally regretting the day he'd accepted the Overlord's commission, the captain shook his head. "What does he want, 2-5?"

"Captain, he's speakin' English, but I still can't make out what he wants."

Still cursing silently, the captain sent a brief message to his top sergeant and the Battalion CP, then slung his battle rifle and trudged over to the gate. Weaving past the squad of MPs dealing with the evacuees, Ahrendt saw Meyers standing in the street outside the gate with a wiry little dark-skinned man wearing what looked like a badly rumpled business suit. Walking out to the street, the captain said, "Okay, Meyers. This the guy?"

Corporal Esther Meyers relaxed visibly when she saw Ahrendt. She wasn't particularly diplomatic at the best of times, and the present situation had her frayed nerves at the snapping point. "Yes, sir. Didn't catch his name, but he says something that sounds like he's with the local government. Figured you oughta handle it, sir."

"Relax, Meyers. You aren't in trouble." The captain looked the man over carefully. The suit had probably been fairly expensive, once, and had obviously been laboriously cared for over a fairly long time. It was a poor fit to the current owner, and dust, sweat, and what looked suspiciously like ink stains all conspired to ruin whatever vestiges of dignity remained to the outfit.

The man himself was a different story. Not physically imposing, he stood a little over a meter and a half tall and probably weighed 70 kilos soaking wet. He was thin to the point of being gaunt, but his hair had recently been neatly groomed, and his face held an air of desperate dignity.

Ahrendt held out his hand. "I am Captain Ahrendt, commanding officer of the 291st Military Police Company. What can I do for you, sir?"

Port Elizabeth

Lionel Mothelby brushed back the sweat beading on his forehead with the back of his palm. Already the temperature had soared into the high eighties, the meteorological team had predicted the relative humidity in the same upper eighties, and so as Mothelby moved his forklift towards the water’s edge his thin white t-shirt soaked up the perspiration as if it were nothing more than one of the sponges living off the coast of what Mothelby considered a god-forsaken shit-hole. He cursed the sweltering heat, the daily thunderstorms, the squalid poverty of the locals, the dilapidated condition of nearly every building in the town. Mothelby cursed the admiral who had ordered his engineer unit to this island.

Yet even Mothelby had to admit progress had been begrudgingly made by himself and his fellow engineers. The past few days had seen no significant threats from the populace – they seemed either wholly apathetic to the Azazian troops, or willingly gave a hand in whatever tasks they could. Mothelby thought little of the efforts of the native, other than that those opposed to his posting would likely have run out of town to bring in reinforcements. In the meanwhile, the initial framework for a floating dock had been laid, and several fortifications had been constructed from which the frontline troops could secure the town.

Most notable amongst the success was the reinforced guard tower on what had been affectionately named ‘Dump Hill’ after the resemblance of the stones to deposited feces and the rampant loathing of such an ‘uncivilized’ island. Regardless, the hill boasted fortified machine gun nests as well as several mortars and a single piece of artillery – brought in the day before via a low-flying cargo chopper. At the main entrance to the town, near some remnants of what had likely been a guard tower, the Marines had established a defensible positions as some of Mothelby’s friends rebuilt the post, though it wasn’t slated to be finished until the end of the week.

The main project, however, was rebuilding the dock facilities for the sleepy town. In due time re-supply ships were to dock in the harbour instead of dropping anchor offshore and ferrying crates in on landing craft or via helicopter. Later this afternoon would mark the first real test of the dock facilities as a chopper would drop the first crate of food stuffs for the locals on the concrete surface. From there Mothelby was slated to drive up, lift the crate and maneuver it into the city-square where nourishing meals would be distributed to those who showed up. With another wipe of his forehead, Mothelby stopped his forklift and glanced down at his watch, its fabric band similarly soaked in sweat.

A sharply dressed Marine, which could only mean an officer – no enlisted soldiers were foolish enough to dress appropriately in this weather – slowly walked towards Mothelby, who half-smiled and nodded. Full salutes had been replaced by head nods in case of rebel sniper fire. “Ensign Mothelby.”

“Yessir?”

“Chopper is inbound, are you ready to receive the cargo.”

“Ready as I’ll ever be LT.”

“Excellent. Just a few more minutes, then we’ll get you inside and a glass of water. Remember, we all need to stay hydrated here.”

Mothelby simply nodded and watched the man leave as a black speck appeared off on the horizon, undoubtedly the chopper. It would not, of course, fly straight in due to lingering concerns about rebel SAMs or anti-aircraft artillery fire. Intelligence didn’t indicate any such weaponry placed on the island, but the Royal Marines weren’t going to risk losing one of their multi-million credit choppers to a hundred credits worth of less-advanced weaponry.

As the speck grew larger, Mothelby moved his lift out of idle and set it up to handle the crowds, which were being assembled by some troops out in the square. As the chopper dropped the first load, he waited with breath held as the first of many docks appeared ready to handle the load. With another breath held, Mothelby nudged the lift from the square to the dock, where he gently lifted the crate onto his metal forks. He then backed out the way he drove in and proceeded to move the lift to the small queue line assembled in the square. With a smile, he dropped the package and let the Marines take care of dispensing of the foods.

He smiled not for the nourishment of the natives, but for the water which was to be his reward back at base.

Bokonpa

The city at large was moving to the same beat as it had for the past few days, and the Sula Rada hadn't made any serious attempts at incursion since the gunship incident. Still some militiamen associated with the organisation clashed with armed residents in the outskirts, but the organised Sula Rada forces were notably absent. Proper inspection might reveal their gradual assembly by the hundred in near by forest.

Edgar Hogarth probably wasn't going to be much use of his own initiative. He did what he was supposed to do, even if the rest of the government on the island had vanished and it didn't matter what he did. He introduced himself, said that he represented the government of President Syungma Santosoputra, which was based to the west at Samepeng on Tingun...
...and asked whether Ahrendt and his comrades had their travel passes.

Taytenu

Many of the natives here had too much to do in simply keeping life rolling along for them to be much bothered about the Azazians. They were living largely with stone age technology and organisation with population density heading for industrialised levels. Nobody was sure exactly why that was. A lot of the Jipangunesian populace had achieved an immunity balance between their archipelago's many native diseases and the foreign ailments brought over the centuries, so really destructive plagues were less common than they had been in antiquity and when inter-island travel first became really common a couple of generations ago. The idea of urbanisation had arrived, too, and people heard that cities were great and soon began to think of the jungle as somewhat unpleasant though they'd been happy there for centuries, it was just that when people came together along the coast they didn't quite know what to do next and shanty towns grew up.

A lot were happy to work with the new arrivals if given the chance, and would work hard for any compensation sufficient to keep them and their families alive while they took time out from gathering food, sometimes hopeful of seeing these great cities finally arrive to improve their needlessly hard lives.

A few others, though, had begun to dare robbery and extorsion, making it increasingly dangerous for the foreigners or anyone who was thought to be receiving pay from them to be out alone. Self-made warlords -they were few and quite laughably weak on Taytenu- began to tender demands for protection money from the Azazians as if their knife-wielding street gangs posed a major tactical threat. Nothing more than isolated instances of trouble had come yet, but there was perhaps trouble striving for life.

Port Elizabeth

The helicopter landed with a slight jolt, leaving the men inside wishing they had not just eaten their meals. But as the doors slid open, an elderly man with a clean-shaven face and angular jaw emerged, cap held firm on his unseen bald head by a strong-looking hand. Admiral Keith Jennings smiled and swung his head from left to right, taking in a panoramic of the public square in Port Elizabeth. A bit too sticky for his personal preferences – but for that the gods had invented air-conditioning.

He stepped off the stepping platform and onto the cobbled ground, saluting several officers and then shaking their hands. His briefing had given him the names of the men – but he had forgotten. Over the roar of the chopper’s engines the men pointed towards the building that had been appropriated for colonial administration. Outside the stucco building, with the roof partially collapsed in the northeast corner, were sandbags and machine guns and men with their battle rifles. Although the city had experienced little hostile reaction to their landing, the Admiralty wanted no chances taken with such potentially profitable territories. Jennings saluted the Royal Marines standing guard and proceeded through the open doors, made of a heavy native wood.

Finally inside, the noise had diminished sufficiently for conversation. Jennings turned to his right towards the captain escorting him, “Captain, what’s our status?”

“Captain Humphreys, sir. In charge of dockyard reconstruction. Currently, the city is mostly secure; the few exceptions being some local warlords that have surfaced, attempting to extort our command for the protection of our soldiers. Outside of that, the natives appear to be willing to work for us given ample and appropriate compensation.”

“Are we doing just that, Captain?”

“Yes, sir.” Humphreys opened the door to Jennings office, sitting on the ground floor at the end of a long hallway. He waited and followed Jennings in, “although I should point out that our compensation consists mostly of food stuffs for now. Our main problem is word of relatively easy access to food has spread and the city is experiencing an influx of people from the jungles. Some scouts sent by the Royal Marine force have encountered shantytowns spread along the coast. We really are looking at a Paleolithic civilization here, sir.”

Jennings nodded, running his hands over the new leather chair that had been shipped in from the home islands, little reminders of the civilized home he had left behind. Jennings was unmarried, and so his appointment as first Governor of the Royal Crown Colony of Port Elizabeth suited his lifestyle well – there was no one back home to return to visit, except for his superiors in Breningrad. Of course, the title would not be official for a few more days until the actual document arrived from Imperium, signed by Prime Minister Tetley, however, that was immaterial for the time being. He was the governor.

Jennings finally looked up at Humphreys, truly acknowledging his presence for the first time. “Captain, can we organize some sort of educational programme to teach these people about using modern construction equipment? Right now these people live as subsistence farmers, or hunters. That won’t suit us well for developing an actual economy on this island. Now while the civilian advisers aren’t due for another few weeks, I believe I understand the basic goal for this island. The offshore oil reserves are crucial to the Kingdom – and while more than likely Azazian citizens will be the ones working on the rigs, we’ll need a native population fully capable of catering to the needs of foreigners. This means tourism industries and hospitality industries. But to have that, we’ll need to rebuild this city, and link some of the more major shantytowns up and down the coastline.”

“Indeed, sir. We’ve already ear-marked two more shantytowns for prime development. They sit on harbours that look promising, not as deep as Port Elizabeth, but with a little dredging and breakwater construction medium tonnage shift with acceptable drafts should be able to dock there. Our first lines of communication with these people will more than likely be direct word of mouth, most easily established with maritime contacts – the jungle is still too thick for easy access by chopper.”

Jennings nodded once more. Building a prosperous colony out of a Paleolithic jungle would be a difficult challenge to say the least. His first order of business, however, was to show the locals that the United Kingdom was here to stay, and here to help. The first order of business was thus easing the rampant poverty and squalor. The main problem would be stemming the influx of people from the shantytowns to Port Elizabeth, he had to decentralize the prosperity that would be arriving from the Kingdom – or else Port Elizabeth would become a Calcutta with a prosperous center and slums for miles on end at the edges.

“Long term goals for you, Captain, are as follows: 1.) Continued development of Port Elizabeth into a high traffic deepwater port. 2.) Development of those shanty town sites into acceptable moderate traffic ports. 3.) Training of locals in basic ship operations, start easy with general sailing techniques and Kingdom policies and such. 4.) Development of an indigenous and local patrol force. I realize the last one will be complicated by the reassignment of Home Guard vessels, I’ll start taking care of that, but for now, just get moving on the first two.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?”

“Yes, actually. Send in the commander of the Royal Marine force, and whoever is in charge of the city improvement.”

Jennings paced his office, somewhat large. And as he dusted off a few broken picture frames and old texts, he understood why. The room belonged to the last governor of the territory – he had pulled out haphazardly and quickly, obviously leaving a great number of objects behind. Of course the English texts would be useless to the natives, so they had likely just left them behind while taking everything else of value from the office. Little did they know there were some valuable first editions, obviously his predecessor had enjoyed the written word. Something Jennings doubted he would have much time for here. With that thought running around in his mind, a little bit on the remorseful side, a sharp clicking of heels on the tiled floor could be heard echoing down the hall. Without a doubt it had to be the Marine commander.

The tall man, with a similarly angular face, except for the jagged scar stopped at the doorway. “Major General Sir Scipio Whitmore, permission to enter?”

“Come in, General, come in. We need not stand on the eggshells of formality here, at least in this office. We are far from home, General, and while it will be important for our men serving under us, we both know that we can relax here.”

Whitmore smiled and fell into an easier stance.

“I’d offer you a seat, but I only have my own.” Jennings glanced out the hall and saw a lieutenant passing by. “Lieutenant,”

The dark-skinned officer poked his head in answering Jennings’ call.

“A chair for the General if you please.”

The men waited as the lieutenant pulled in a chair from the hall, small and not as comfortable as Jennings would have liked, but it would make due for the time being. “Now, General, I wanted to discuss with you the security situation here in the city. I understand that we have some troublemakers laying around.”

“Yes, sir. A few individuals have amassed some local power and have knighted themselves warlords, and they demand payment to keep my Marines safe. They are no real threat to us, at least not yet. Primarily armed with knives and such, they often run when confronted with a Mk.32 rifle.”

“Sensible fools, aren’t they.” The two enjoyed a quiet laugh in the increasingly sweltering room. The air-conditioning units had yet to arrive on the island, and as the sun neared its zenith, the heat would only increase throughout the capital. “Either way, I want these warlords seized and I want them put on trial, military tribunal for now until we can get establish some sort of civilian judiciary. But capture them first. The longer they’re around, the more power they could gain and the more instability they’ll cause within the local population. Prosecute them harshly, but fairly. Above all we need to show the utmost due respect to the natives. We need to earn their trust if this whole enterprise is ever going to work.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Now, Captain Humphreys was informing me of your patrol missions out into the jungle.”

“Indeed. We’ve made contact with a few of the shantytowns to the east and west, identified a few trails and primitive roads. We can use those to send our forces to the towns should problems arise. My concern would be ambushes, it would be much like the Roman legions through the Teutoburg Forest; I’d prefer that we start clearing sections of the jungle for make-shift airfields. I don’t anticipate the natives having many surface-to-air weapon platforms, and I’d feel far better if my men went from town to town through the air.”

“I agree. Not only that, but we can begin servicing at least military flights from stations across the Kingdom, making re-supply far more efficient, not to mention faster. Our goals are to increase communication between settlements for easier trade, development, and security. Now, Humphreys was telling me about two shantytowns that would serve as our next centers of development, what can you tell me about them from a tactical point of view?”

“One is defensible, the other not as much. Site Delta is defensible. Sitting atop a hill overlooking a semi-deep harbour, a fortified settlement would allow for nice fields of fire through all of its approaches, the only problem would be that we’d need to build a defensive perimeter from the settlement down to the oceanfront. The other site, Epsilon, sits at the edge of a forest, similar to here except with out the small hills on its sides. It has the better harbour of the two, but would be far more difficult to defend is push came to shove. The advantage is it’s closer to Port Elizabeth than Delta is, so we could reinforce it easier. In essence, it’s a tradeoff either way.”

“For now then, concentrate on Delta. It’s further away, but we’re moving everything by boat for now, and if need be we can keep them re-supplied by airdrops should they fall under siege.”

And for the next several hours Jennings received several similar reports, identifying the strengths and weaknesses of the colony so far; and Jennings issued orders accordingly. The city of Port Elizabeth would soon become the focus of a large deal of construction contracts that would then filter our to Delta and Epsilon, which would be named later by Jennings if proved to be viable settlements. In the following days, helicopters continued to bring in supplies of food for those natives willing to work in rebuilding the docks and warehouses, and repaving the streets.

The Royal Marines began to crack down on criminals as best they could. In time true military police would arrive and takeover, but for now heavily armed riflemen patrolled the streets as policemen, using heavy battle rifles in the place of little pistols.

Streets of Port Elizabeth

With the setting of the sun had come markedly cooler temperatures, and the chirping and squawking of strange animals entirely alien to Privates Jim Miklev and Yuri Andropov. The two men patrolled the empty street, lit by starlight and the occasional garbage fire for the homeless to cook their day’s catches. With their battle rifles safetied, the sleek designs pointing down towards the ground, they moved carefully through the street, greeting each person they passed with a smile and a nod. Their night-vision lenses, attached to the thin plastic computer screen laying in front of their eyes, gave them an alert to four gentlemen approaching them in a line from the far end of the dead-end street. Each wielding giant knives of different sorts.

Miklev looked over at his friend and simply nodded before pressing the transmit button on his mic. “Sergeant, we’re nearing CP Four, and are about to encounter four knife-wielding gentlemen. Requesting permission to take prisoners.”

He waited for a moment before his earpiece gave him his response, “Roger that, Private.”

The four men, not yet able to identify the two dark bodies as Royal Marines, moved towards a sleeping man, and the two men watched as they put their knives to the man’s throat while eyeing the woman sleeping next to him. He handed over a small object, the two privates could not tell from at this distance, before the four men knocked him to the ground, from where he did not get up. They then moved over to the woman, who began to scream.

“Shit, Jim. Time to move.” Andropov flicked the lever turning his rifle from dormant plastic and metal body to a lethal lead firing weapon. Miklev did the same and the two hastened down the street. “You four, freeze! Royal Marines!”

Although the two doubted they could understand English, they understood they were being shouted at, and a second later they understood the report of a single shot being fired into the air over their heads. The men finally froze, and began to turn to run.

“I said FREEZE, you motherfuckers!” Andropov fired another shot, this time to the ground next to them. Miklev looked over at his buddy and smiled.

“Your momma raise you with that kinda mouth?”

“Don’t you know it.” Andropov turned serious finally and pointed with his rifle, “if they make a run for it, one shot in the leg for each of them.”

The two approached and watched two of the men drop their knives, the others attempting to conceal them in their baggy clothes. All four unaware that despite the darkness the privates could see their actions. Finally, the two broke for it, making a mad dash for the building across the street. Without thinking Andropov and Miklev dropped to their knees, each putting a single round through the leg of the offenders, dropping them to the ground in a howl of pain.

As the two privates approached the men with knives leaped forward, drawing their sharp steel blades out to thrust at the necks of the soldiers. The two men swung their rifles around slamming the butt into their opponents faces – dropping the two men to the ground, knives falling harmlessly at the privates’ feet. The attackers looked up only to find two barrels staring down into their eyes, the barrels warm from the rounds that had downed their two friends – still screaming in pain.

Five minutes later, the four men were in handcuffs and a wheeled APC lumbered down the street, passing the natives who had gathered to witness the cause for the gunshots. The four men walked into the rear hatch of the vehicle before the door was slammed shut, Miklev and Andropov climbing on top and catching a ride back to HQ where they would spend the next few hours writing up reports just like policemen back at home.

Captain Ahrendt resisted the temptation to laugh out loud, but his mouth quirked into a crooked smile. I'll be damned! he thought to himself in wonder. At least some of the wogs are trying to run the country in a civilized manner.

He issued a terse command into his microphone and used the action to compose his features. "We're neither tourists nor merchants, Mr. Hogarth, so we don't have travel permits of the sort you're requesting. What we do have is a hard-copy of the communications between the Dominion and your government, informing them that Evil Overlord Enterprises would be evacuating foreign nationals from Bokonpa. I just ordered one of my troopers to bring copies of the communiques out here for you."

A burly soldier in the same mottled-grey armor as the captain jogged through the gate and offered some papers to Ahrendt. The captain gestured for the soldier to give the documents to Hogarth. "That should be sufficient for your purposes." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the hundreds of disciplined troopers behind the triple-row concertina, armored vehicles, and sandbagged machine gun positions. "If it isn't sufficient, I guess we'll just have to fall back on good old-fashioned force majeure."

A bulky-looking aircraft thundered overhead as if to punctuate the captain's statement. The hardpoints under the wings bristled with weaponry. Several hundred meters higher, a pair of RPVs hummed quietly through the as they continued the continuous reconnaissance orbits of the city. Out in the harbor, one of the ships was making its way out to sea as another moved inshore to replace it. The overall effect was a deliberate show of overwhelming force- psychological warfare carried out against the entire island. Here be dragons. Beware.

Port Elizabeth

From the top of Dump Hill’s guard tower the panoramic vista laid before Admiral Jennings was truly breathtaking. To the north lay shimmering turquoise seas underneath rich royal blue skies flecked by the puffy clouds, whose actual terminology Jennings could not recall. Either way, the distant horizon sported the light grey hulls of the Royal Navy patrol frigates, securing the waters from pirates and smugglers, their naval ensigns flying proudly – and visible through the binoculars around his thick sweat covered neck.

“Very good, Lieutenant.” Jennings turned to find the smaller man who commanded the Royal Marines on guard duty. He stood six inches below the admiral his heavier armour replaced by a thin tank top with his long sleek battle rifle hanging down across his chest. Sweat beaded on the officer’s forehead while he wiped it away with the back of his hand, smearing the salt and water across his skin.

As the men proceeded down the corrugated metal spiral stairs the two men chatted without much interest in the other’s words about the situation in Port Elizabeth, including the ever insufferable weather. The past few days had seen nothing particularly surprising or out of the ordinary occur in the developing city. He had been briefed on a little upswing in armed violence in the outer sections of the swelling city. Consequently the time had come where the Royal Marines had begun to dispatch squads into the city’s worst locales to provide heavy police presence.

As Jennings thanked the Royal Marines at Dump Hill for their tour he glanced down the hill to the bustling harbour of Port Elizabeth, filled with brightly coloured boats with lines into the fertile waters for the evening meals. To the east a swath of trees had been cut down and a rudimentary road established, wide enough for one vehicle with occasional pull-offs to accommodate the increasing load of cargo trucks bringing men and material to site Epsilon, which seemed quite promising for future development.

The four-wheeled vehicle swung out of the base, dirt and dust kicking out behind the rear wheels as it slid onto the main road leading down into Port Elizabeth. The armoured vehicle sped away with its windows down, bringing a breeze into the interior, giving Jennings some relief as the air carried the water away from his skin. The transport sped into town on what had been officially named Main Street, feeding the western island contact with Port Elizabeth, and at the edge of the city secured by a pair of sandbagged machine gun posts – patrolled now by a rather lackadaisical unit, who had expected heavy combat but now enjoyed the company of inquisitive children and adults who assisted the men in patrols and light maintenance and construction work in exchange for guaranteed food and supplies.

Main Street fed into the city center, now the main buildings looking cleaned and polished up, appropriate for a colonial administration. The building adjacent to the government offices had been converted into a school building where Royal Marine and Royal Navy specialists taught locals about various technologies including rudimentary lessons on various construction tools and vehicles, allowing the natives to take a substantial lead in developing their city and their homes. Some of the more intelligent and quicker learning men had even learned how to operate more primitive diesel-powered boats allowing for the natives to begin going further from home for fishing, bringing in rarer varieties for barter at the local markets. In due time Jennings hoped to truly infuse money into the city, but for now the payments made by his administration in actual currency found itself circulating only infrequently since the UK had not begun to truly export goods to the city since they had no income to buy refrigerators, televisions, radios, and all the other modern conveniences.

However, progress had been made. The road to Epsilon and the creation of a fortified outpost at Delta signified the expansion of the UK’s presence on the island while Port Elizabeth had begun to become the center of the island’s happenings. In a week’s time the first civilian freighter, a small one albeit, would arrive at Port Elizabeth to deliver supplies to be sold to the native population, mainly foodstuffs and electrical generators. Also onboard would be the requisite parts for a rudimentary power station to be built near Dump Hill in a secure location. Soon afterwards Port Elizabeth would be given the gift of electricity to be used to clean water and power basic refrigeration units.

By the time Jennings arrived back in his office the flecks of white puffy clouds had become significantly heavier and more importantly greyer. On his desk sat a small piece of paper outlining the official ceremonies to establish Azazian colonial rule on the islands. In the distance the sky rumbled, warning those outdoors to cover anything valuable as the daily afternoon thunderstorms was quickly approaching. They served as a daily reminder of the true tropical nature of the post, the taming of the environment that would be required in order to bring Port Elizabeth and her new territories fully into the United Kingdom.

Taytenu

Nothing much had happened to stop the Azazians in their work. Taytenu wasn't the most exciting part of the Jipangunesian archipelago. It hadn't been seriously caught up in the political conflict of other islands, being shielded from the Sula Rada by the heart of the so-called Republic based on Tingun, lacking a serious Islamist tradition, and having been too occupied with the hunter-gatherer life and crime syndicates impressively formed around it to ever really take on-board the ideas of radical socialist Setiawan Dianputra.

Some problems were presenting themselves by the lack of opposition, however. The closest thing Tingun previously had to bigshots were the little self-styled warlords who more or less controlled the key food gathering concerns and as such the little economy. Of course, these fellows were usually the first to stake a place in line for new employment opportunities. This meant their old industries -organised food gathering- initially going quiet as people hesistated to step into their shoes without permission, and later meant that the process was gradually taken-over by inexperienced persons, which all contributed to a significant decline in native food production, made worse by the sudden migrations.

Apart from that, people moving from the interior brought with them diseases to which most Jipangunesians had long since developed immunity. Most of the Jipangunesian islands had long since been swept with foreign disease as pirates stopped in and slaves -like Edgar Hogarth's ancestors- fled to start new lives, but few people had left and made it back to mainstream society for generations until the Azazians and TEO forces turned up out of the vast blue. The worst was probably a flu-like complaint suffered by some of the slight-orangutans kept essentially as pets by some of the villagers migrating out to the coast. Most Jipangunesians were by now immune, or at worst suffered something like a headcold when shaking it off, but none of them had given it a second thought in regard to the foreigners.


Bokonpa

Hogarth looked slightly confused as he listened to the Captain, but was clearly pleased -releaved, perhaps- by the presentation of something written. Usually, committing something to paper in Jipangunesia was a considerable statement in itself, as literate natives were a minority. Sometimes this meant that the most highly ordaned communiqué in the world wouldn't impress an illiterate Jipangunesian enough for him to take it to the outhouse with him, and otherwise a note scribbled on a cigarette packet might pass as official documentation. Edgar was firmly in the latter camp, his absence of professional human interaction while stuck out so far from Samepeng meant that he was glad to see anything given a professional air by appearing written. Most of those who made his job especially difficult -what he considered the city's criminal elements- were not big readers or writers, and he generally felt that information was safe to trust once it stopped dancing about on the crime-driven wind and settled on paper.

Fortunately, the little man was so busy looking at the paper and nodding away against the city's chaotic backdrop that he didn't really take-in Ahrdent's threatening addendum, though he did regard the passing aircraft with marginal awe. Edgar, after expressing his desire to keep a copy of the documentation, said that it would be sufficient. Surely a great relief to all who had dodged the iceberg of Edgar's opposition.


(Next time, perhaps I shall say something more about the Sula Rada and the other, yet basically unmentioned political force in the archipelago.)

Port Elizabeth

“Bloody little bugger, I’ve got you now.” With a quick snap of the wrist, Admiral Keith Jennings snuffed out one more mosquito on the island, actively trying not to think about how many had hatched in still waters that same second. He placed the rolled up papers on his desk before realizing and ruing his poor choice, the morning’s daily briefings now covered in mosquito juice.

A quick rap on the door brought his mind to more important matters.

“Sir, the Archwave has just arrived outside the harbour.”

“Excellent, lieutenant. Thank you.” Jennings shoved the papers into the small drawer to his right and then took his key to lock the drawer and secure the papers – although he doubted many of the locals had a keen interest in reading summaries of ammunition expenditures, ration expenditures, fuel expenditures, and expected expenditures in coming days. He doubted most of them understood anything about modern military equipment – outside of Kalashnikov rifles, or their cheaper Chinese variants. He strolled out to the large hallways, now adorned with a marble floor and native flowers that didn’t contain toxins or poisons – learned the hard way by one Royal Marine who had been sent home in serious condition after roughing around with the native flora. The tall hallway fed out into the cobbled harbour’s market place where in the distance a light grey hull could be seen slowly lowering itself into the deep offshore waters.

The HMS Archwave carried a cargo of four littoral patrol boats directly from their former homeport in Portsmouth. Two would be tasked to Port Elizabeth, and in due time one each would be moved to Delta and Epsilon. The large Archwave acted as a mother ship, ferrying the coastal patrol ships across larger, deeper ocean voyages since the town of Port Elizabeth was still many months away from even beginning to dream of such ship construction – let alone the repairs. Of course, it would take an hour for the ship to fully submerge and allow the patrol boats to float out of the open hold and from there into the harbour, but it was good to see progress in action.

Jennings took in the morning sun, which increasingly he found more and more bearable as the days went on. Today Minister of the Interior Ashley Thomason would be arriving via helicopter at the recently cleared Port Elizabeth Heliport; and although it sounded civilians she would be greeted at what would remain for a long time a de facto Royal Marine airfield. However, it would serve the civilian population for the time being since many of the natives had no true reason to leave the islands. A lanky kid, barely the requisite age to join the Royal Navy, poked his head out of the air-conditioned colonial headquarters and shouted to get Jennings’ attention.

“What is it?”

“Your breakfast, sir. It’s ready in your office.”

He nodded as the foghorn of the Archwave warned off a native catamaran out fishing for the captain’s daily meal. Turning around he caught one last glimpse of the harbour for the morning and headed back into his office to the cold world of paperwork and statistics. As he returned to his room, slowly beginning to feel more like an admiral’s office with a model of his old cruiser command decorating his otherwise Spartan mantelpiece, a few collections of naval identification books on the bookshelves, and pictures of nephews and nieces on the desk. As well as a breakfast on a silver platter, toast with butter and jelly, an orange, and a cup of Earl Grey tea with two scoops of sugar and a bit of milk. All imported of course.

As he stirred an additional lump of sugar into his tea, brewed a wee bit strong for his particular liking – only natural when one changes personal chefs for new postings – he pulled out the mosquito covered briefings for his morning review. First on the list happened to be the new patrol boats and the requisite fuel and ammunition supplies, not extraordinarily large, but certainly taxing on such a small colony, especially one without any significant exports. Indeed, establishing a refueling center somewhere in the colony would later become of prime importance, but for now a basic infrastructure took precedence over such comparatively minor concerns. On that note, of course, the colony was doing as well as could be expected with actual hard-surface roads ready to be built on the stretch between Epsilon and Port Elizabeth. The heliport allowed for light cargos to be transported from ship to shore, and the road would allow that cargo to be moved from Port Elizabeth to Epsilon. And all of these would provide potential jobs for the natives, in due time with the required training.

But as the report also specified, robbery could be foreseen as a potential problem, especially without training a local police force. But therein lay the problem of teaching the natives they were now the subjects of the United Kingdom, and not their local village chieftains. Would they understand that democracy would allow them to voice their frustrations over in Imperium? Would they understand the concept of a government ruling over nearly three billion people, most of who lived in cities with millions upon millions of inhabitants? The problems of bringing a Neolithic civilization into the post-modern era.

Jennings took a long sip of his tea and swiveled in his chair to look out the window over into the small park across the street. He reached behind him and felt for a piece of toast which he nibbled on slowly, enjoying the strong but delicious taste of the Earl Grey. Moments like these made the mission worthwhile, the fact that modern civilization had all but neglected the island of Taytenu made its innocence and near-like virginity marvelous to those tainted by advanced civilization. And yet he realized in due time the very same natives could feel the same way if they happened to visit a culture similar to theirs as it currently existed.

Royal Navy Field Hospital
Port Elizabeth

Doctor Lieutenant Commander Clyde Ambrose scratched his balding head as he slowly read over the preliminary interview. Lying before him on the table was a private in the Royal Marines, complaining of generalized aches and pains in addition to chest pains and the gamut of cold symptoms – headache, stuffy/runny nose, sore throat, painful coughs. However, the private seemed unaware of the aggregate of the symptoms prescribing a version of influenza. “It’s alright, private.” Ambrose began, still reading through the triage nurse’s documents. “We’re just going to take a few samples and once we know what we’re dealing with, we can begin treatment.” Ambrose finished and looked down at the private, uncharacteristically visibly scared. “It’s alright, son. Nothing to worry about.”

He patted the young man on the shoulder and left the isolation room, rightly chosen by the triage nurse if this was indeed a case of influenza. He found Nurse Ensign Rhonda Stephens, very young and attractive – though his wife would castrate him if she discovered he had such thoughts – would likely suit the private, especially in taking his mind off the tests the other nurses would be conducting. He pointed to the room and smiled, Stephens knowing exactly what the situation was. Ambrose moved off to the wardroom for the doctors on call and sat himself deep in the faux-suede chair he had come to appreciate since arriving a few days ago. The wardroom was one of the few in the city adequately cooled by an air-conditioning system, the least that Admiral Jennings could do for the city’s medical staff. A medical staff quickly being overburdened, as evidenced as Ambrose having been on duty for twenty hours straight so far. A reasonable explanation for him to quietly shut his eyes.

A moment later he was awakened from his brief doze by Stephens. “Sir, it’s been half an hour. The tests are complete.”

“Shite,” he muttered, rubbing the ‘sand’ from his heavy eyes. “Alright, send the samples out to Fleet Headquarters and they can run the tests since we don’t yet have the proper facilities.”

Port Elizabeth Heliport

The dirt and dust flew up in a cloud around the transport helicopter, the exterior emblazoned with the seal of the Royal Navy despite its official government transport role. Admiral Jennings shielded his eyes as he stood in the shade of the tent that housed the informal reception area for all passengers. With a loud thud the chopper stopped its descent and the particulates began to settle as the large rotors stopped spinning as the engines were shut off for the day. The ground crew ran out and attached the taxi-device and began to tow the helicopter into a small prefabricated hangar that housed one helicopter belonging to Jennings’ own administration and space for a visitor’s vehicle.

Through the dark tint of his sunglasses a woman in her late forties, still somewhat attractive in being slender and well made-up, walked towards the tent flanked by two armed diplomatic security personnel. Jennings saluted and offered his hand, “Ms. Thomason, welcome to the City of Port Elizabeth.”

The woman looked around, her shoulder length blonde hair flecked with brown mud and dirt. “Why thank you kindly, Admiral.”

Turning behind himself he found the cooler with bottles of iced water for the Minister of the Interior in addition to himself and her security forces, armed conspicuously with submachine guns. “Here you go, ma’am. The temperature’s already in the high eighties and we’re expecting it to go much higher by late afternoon.”

“Again, thank you for the hospitality.”

“And the security, ma’am. In all deference to your security personnel, the city of Port Elizabeth has been largely secured, we are in fact registering little organized resistance to our reoccupation of the city.”

“Consolidation.” Thomason quickly added, without even looking at Jennings.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

“We’re not ‘colonizing’, or ‘reoccupying’, or what have you, Admiral. The United Kingdom is merely consolidating its historical holdings into a more efficient grouping of territories for the purposes of administration.”

“Of course, ma’am.” The two stood silent for a moment before Jennings continued, “If you’ll follow me to the transports we’ll be arriving at my office in a few minutes.” The two walked to the idling transport utility vehicles, specially equipped with air-conditioners for just such special occasions. Jennings held the door open for Thomason as her guards entered the car behind hers; Jennings shut the door and moved to the other side, slipping in quietly and tapping the Royal Marine captain on the shoulder – the signal to step on it.

A good way to the east of Taytenu and even further west of Sulawaka, the giant book of matches called Powlomo seemed to hang on black strings from a dark ceiling of central Jipangunesia's new sooty firmament. The Sula Rada had infected another of the Big Five islands, and, this time, some native force was trying quite earnestly to heal the wound.

It wasn't an invasion by soldiers, but one carried in the heads, high-spirits, and brutality of a few officers. Brothers Number Eight and Fourteen were arrived, and rumour had it that perhaps even Brother Number Two had visited to spread the word, and in any event, the Sula Rada were established in force and had marched on Benging.

Scores of fighters had received AK rifles and the like, and a little brutal training, then crashed into thousands of musketeers defending the ancient city. The most recently recruited units had allowed themselves to be cut-down by the army of Emperor Ban Xuande, where upon many of the others lost there nerve and retreated into the jungle.

For the last few days, the Ban Kingdom had been scouring Powlomo's mountainous jungle interior in search of this upstart challenge to the Emperor, and his tens of thousands of professional soldiers had turned the jungle and its towns and villages aflame. Now, cannonades could be heard thundering out across the Chowhaiil Strait and over the Pacific as wood and flesh burned in almost equal weight and musket balls and bone fragments bounced off stone walls or skipped into tree trunks.

Apparently angred by the spoilage of his ancient domain's political purity and worried about wider infection, Xuande the Incredible (as the closest translation of the gold-fanged man went, yes, he really had gold vampiric fangs, and delighted in possibly untrue tales about what he did with them) was building up his forces and had commissioned the construction of a warfleet to search out pollutants and stem their flow into Powlomo. Already, a few sails could be seen venturing out around into waters around the vast and mysterious island as junk-like vessels took on troops and often cannon and set out to look for any obvious signs of invasion of their coast.



Meanwhile, having been in the region for some time now, the foreign powers involved in Jipangunesia might be getting a slightly improved idea of the chain's population distribution, which if they could somehow know in such detail was structured as such:

Islands [and rough share of total population]
Tingun [26%]
Powlomo [20%]
Sulawaka [17%]
Sencang [15%]
Amulkarta [13%]
Immannanng [1.5%]
Taytenu [1.2%]
Sipoloc [1%]
Feyapuro [0.8%]
Nempin [0.4%]
Three Toes Chain [0.3%]
Engunoo [0.25%]
Flatpan Island [0.2%]
Soleisola [0.15%]
Powming and Gem [0.12%]
Identity Island and the Hogg Archipelago [0.01%]

96.93% on the sixteen main groups, or twenty-two islands (TTC=3, P&G=2, II&Hogg=4), of which 91% on the Big Five.
3.07% on the remaining 590 inhabited islands, all of which are below 1,000sq.km. and usually so by a large margin.
Many more of the chain's 1,807 islands are inhabited on a seasonal basis, mainly by primitive semi-nomadic tribes, or frequented by fisherman, hunters, traders, and the like, who may have temporary structures erected. It is also widely believed that some of the, "uninhabited" islands and islets are actually home to all sorts of shady characters, from criminals on the run to eccentric shut-ins fancying themselves a latter day Colonel Kurtz or such.

(More to come... some day. I thought that I would just start throwing in more problems than solutions, as that is meant to be the infuriating nature of the archipelago ;) )

ooc: the nature of dealing with the problems is the most interesting part... dealing with outbreaks of disease, a complete lack of infrastructure, and yet aiming for these territories to be important cities someday in the future... a lot of problems to overcome... anyway, on with my contribution to the story.

Port Elizabeth

The utility vehicles screeched to a halting stop in front of the colonial office. Unfazed by the routine driving, Jennings could only smile as Thomason straightened her formerly pristine business attire. Of course, the jerking halt did seem a bit jerkier than prior trips, and as he moved out of and around the car he nodded to the smiling Marine driver. On Thomason’s side, he opened the door, “if you’ll follow me inside, ma’am.”

She glared up Jennings from inside the cramped vehicle before placing her arms on the metal frames and pulling herself up and out. She nodded and followed Jennings into the marble-floored interior as her slender fingers reached out to run over the soft waxy surfaces of the potted plants lining the halls. “It’s quite amazing what you’ve done with this place, Admiral.”

“Thank you, ma’am. My aim is to have the entire city looking in a similar fashion by year’s end. Port Elizabeth will be true tropical port city, eventually these buildings being replaced by towering skyscrapers of steel and glass – all lining an expanded white sand beach. She’ll be quite attractive to the tourism industries back home, and abroad I believe.” Jennings paused as he opened the door to his office, showing Thomason in with a sweep of his muscular arm.

Thomason for her part proceeded to the seat across from Jennings’ desk and began to pull out a multi-tabbed folder. “There’s quite a lot we need to discuss, Admiral.”

“Indeed, is there anything I can provide in terms of food or drink?”

“No, I’m quite alright, thank you.”

Jennings nodded to the guards standing outside his office and shut the door, securing it against unnecessary interruptions. He meandered over to his desk, taking his time as Thomason covered his desk with papers and other leather-bound folders. “Quite a lot of trees I see.”

Thomason smiled, “I’m sure we could transplant them from here and nobody would be the wiser.” She shifted one last paper into its proper place before Jennings. “Now, as you are well aware, Mr. Tetley is keen to develop Port Elizabeth and her outlying areas quickly, for the benefit of all parties. At home we recognize the importance of securing funds and materials for this transformation – all of which will be a lot easier done by transferring command from the Royal Navy to Parliament via an official declaration declaring Port Elizabeth and her outlying areas as sovereign territory of the United Kingdom.”

Jennings nodded, the unspoken words ringing far louder in his head than Thomason’s quiet, paced vocal delivery. “So I’m to relinquish command to a civilian?”

Thomason nodded once. “In the interests of democracy, and the continuing development of the city of Port Elizabeth, the United Kingdom – specifically Prime Minister Tetley – will appoint an official to be the direct representative of His Majesty’s government. Mind you, we must also make preparations for a local council to be elected from the natives here.”


“Who is this new civilian governor?”

“The Prime Minister has yet to nominate anyone in particular I’m afraid, so I cannot be of much help in that regard. In fact, your city will be shifted to the newly created Ministry of Colonial Affairs who also remains without a minister for the time being.”

“All the fun politics I miss in Imperium…” Jennings muttered. Thomason simply smiled.

“Your cynicism will not earn you points with us politicians from the capital, Admiral. However, I think I can forego that brief miscalculation on your part. Now, there are some official affairs to which we need to divert our attention. Firstly, this official ceremony for later this afternoon, you will become the first governor of Port Elizabeth until a civilian representative can be produced from Imperium. Now, here’s how I’d like the ceremony to begin…”

Portsmouth, Republic of West Oceania

“Where in the bloody ‘ell is this… Port Elizabeth?”

Ensign Clarke Daniels stood over a small white box, decorated only with a shipping label and a bright red cross while his cap contained his slightly-longer-than-regulation red hair. He pointed his thumb in the direction of his friend and colleague, Ensign Charles Davis, who grabbed hold of the box with his two large, muscular hands and placed it on a pallet headed towards the medical freight center at the Naval Air Station’s cargo facility. Daniels scratched his head, not able to remember any naval station listed in a Port Elizabeth. The city in New Britain had its base closed after the last civil war, and a package would certainly not have come from a closed base. Shrugging, he walked up to the cockpit where he overheard the pilots commenting on the weather and the bearable humidity in Portsmouth.

“I was wondering if you mates would be good enough to tell me… just where in the ‘ell is this Port Elizabeth?”

They looked at each other and laughed as they prepared to climb out the pilots’ exits in the nose of the carrier-borne cargo plane. “The world’s shithole, ensign. The shittiest place on this entire planet.” They left laughing hysterically leaving Daniels to shrug once more and return to sorting out the freight from the carrier.

HMS Tyndale

In some respects, the islands were truly beautiful, thought Lieutenant Commander Jim Brower. In his forties, Brower had served as navigation officer on the battlecruiser Renown before finally given an opportunity to command one of the Royal Navy’s newest patrol ships, the Tyndale. As Brower stood in the enclosed bridge, his wide beaming smile on display for all as he took in the view of Teytenu. His ship had been designed for coastal patrol duties, and its scantly over one-hundred meters in length gave him one real weapon of power – a thirty-millimeter gun, more than sufficient to deal with the various boats presented by natives.

“Navigator, swing us around to the east, take us to the end of the island.”

“Aye, captain.” Brower smiled at the small title, although only a lieutenant commander in official rank, all sailors seemed to call their commanding officer their captain – and so it was with Brower’s men and women. Being such a small ship, the angular vessel, designed as such to keep RCS in mind in order to surprise civilian vessels engaging in illicit activities, she turned quickly about and revved her gas turbines up so the sleek, sharp bow sliced the turquoise waters at speeds over twenty knots.

Turning his head once more out the windows to the waters off Port Elizabeth, Brower watched the new port city drop away around a rocky peninsular outcropping and small islands popped into view over the horizon. Ordinarily such high speeds in the cramped and shallow waters of the archipelago would place a boat quickly on a sandbar, but in previous days an oceanographic research ship had plotted accurate depth charts of the immediate waters around Taytenu for Brower and his fellow patrol boat commanders to use while engaging criminal activities. For now though, he saw little else than small canoes, catamarans, rafts, and even some more ambitious sailboats of native designs. Of course, Brower realized that the natives would have excellent watercraft for these shallow waters, having likely travailed and traversed them for millennia before Europeans ever dared cross the Atlantic and then the Pacific to find these sheltered and isolated islands. His hope, of course, would be that in time, the natives would begin to build bigger and better ships as they grew into a modern-era civilization. And as Brower turned back to find his command seat, he smiled knowing that he and his shipmates would play a role in that development.

Port Elizabeth

“…and as the sun prepares to set behind us, into the ocean horizon to the west, the United Kingdom and the native people of Taytenu can together close a chapter in the history of these islands, islands of chaos amongst the calm, a more serene and beautiful calm that I sincerely hope becomes the symbol of the new era we embark upon today.”

“And so, with the blessings of His Majesty King Michael I, and by order of Prime Minister Alistair Tetley and the Parliament of the United Kingdom, the city of Port Elizabeth, her outlying districts, and the whole of the island of Taytenu shall formerly become the sovereign territory of the United Kingdom as a Royal Colony and will be thus granted all benefits of such status. By this order, Admiral Keith Jennings is hereby instructed to take charge of the Royal Colony of Taytenu until an elected official is designated by Parliament. Congratulations, Admiral. And congratulations to all of us here today.”

The gathered crowd erupted in boisterous applause as Minister of the Interior Ashley Thomason handed to Admiral Keith Jennings, RN a single certificate declaring him Governor of the Royal Colony of Taytenu. Of course, the assembled crowd consisted mostly of sailors and Royal Marines happening to be stationed on-island and off-duty. Natives had come of course, the large fanfare, the musical celebration all drawing people. Above all that, however, the main attraction was the large and free banquet open for all, which drew quite a crowd. As Jennings smiled and took the order from Thomason, he looked to the back of the audience and saw the gathering of natives, some with beaming smiles; others with looks of hopelessness and desperation – for them, life would go on as it had for centuries before as the changing colours of the flags had no bearing on their daily routine of harvesting crops or hunting wild animals or laying traps for fish and crustaceans. In time, Jennings hoped that would change, if not for them, then for their children and grandchildren. Of course, that was the most crucial part. Time.

Samepeng, Tingun

The Syungma Republic hadn't been very effective in response to the arrival of determined foreign governments in the archipelago it claimed to administer, and for that matter it had seriously lacked the obvious manifestations of any real plan of action before they arrived, twiddling its thumbs and wondering how to reconcile its pan-Jipangunesian claim with the very real fact of the Ban Kingdom on massive Powlomo.

Perhaps, though, the slow rise of the Sula Rada and other forces had been so gradual as to lack the bite needed to goad Syungma into decisive action. The President was perhaps akin to a frog that would leap out of boiling water if dropped into it, but sit and stew in previously tepid water brought gradually to the boil. These fast-paced foreigners though were a different matter to Jipangunesia's native slow-burning troublemakers, and Syungma Santosoputra had finally smelled smoke... and it was, to put it bluntly, his arse that was on fire.



Port Elizabeth, Teytenu

Locals on this island's coastline were equally used to change coming upon them gradually and in such a way that nobody saw or fully understood it until it turned out to be fixed by old and solid roots. That was rather the way they'd been stuck with their shanty-like villages and ruffian gangs, really. The new city excited them in the same way that the incursions jolted the Republican administration.

Market stalls still popped up in seeming disarray and without consideration for licences or other formalities, especially around the outskirts, though a few chancers would pop-up over-night on the best streets in the middle of town, without care for or obvious understanding of urban planning and transit. The main difference now was that the traders were back to standing and shouting about their goods rather than sitting around stoned and clutching a rock to hurl at anyone who tried to make off with a mango.

Amongst this typically Jipangunesian talent for chaos were wooden poles hung with hand-made jewelry and shoes, bananas from the forest, fifteen-pound rats, and there were tables spread with more of the same and with spices and potions to bring flavour at dinner or luck in the new business world. Sometimes there'd be an attempt to sell an unfortunate baby slight-orangutan -a primate native to several Jipangunesian islands- as a pet for a newly made city worker, or to get a good price for a small humanoid skull with dried-out skin and hair still dressed-up.

In the climate of migration and congregation, few would point to the very latest newcomers as alien in any special way. Selling cocoa, tobacco, and various other leaves and plants smoked, eaten, or just chewed for the taste of it, out of traditional habit, or other compulsion. Anyone passing close enough, though, would also begin to notice a distinct whiff of cannabis, and anyone buying certain of the innocent-looking shoots, roots, and leaves on display might well be on the way to enlightenment or else heart-failure or brain-damage. That was without mentioning the pots and bottles marked with Jipangunesian characters indicative of frogs, snakes, and other sources of venom and toxins. Or of course the firearms tucked under the tables or the shirts of the vendors.

Speedboats and ocean-going trawlers were appearing in numbers and with frequency spiked so suddenly that one might be forgiven for thinking them thorougly un-Jipangunesian but for the fact that most of them called Tingun-ports home as they travelled between that island and Taytenu, Sencang, and off towards Japan and elsewhere, as Syungma realised the easiest way into profitable international trade from a starting point decades behind the developed world's electronics, arms, construction, and power-generation sectors.

While Sulawaka tore itself down, Tingun was growing more quickly than Ban's Powlomo and almost in time with Taytenu.

<OOC>
Major RL crisis in progress. I'll post when I can. Sorry.


TEO

ooc: TEO, don't worry about it, take your time... hope everything works out for you... as for this post, it's not really complete, but being that i have to go to work now, it'll do for the time being, i.e. more to come later.[/ooc]

Port Elizabeth

Whitmore took his time meandering through Market Street where numerous vendors had established kiosks and carts from which they could peddle their wares. Of course, the problems of petty theft had accompanied the boom in the local economy, and so in a rare sight a general carried his own battle rifle across his chest through the streets, scaring off petty thugs who dared to even think of causing trouble on Market this unusually cool afternoon. With his eyes alternately scanning wooden poles and the people around him, he spotted a block down the road a cart full of brightly coloured fruits (and likely vegetables.) Finally having a clear destination he headed down the increasingly congested street, passing a few Marines who saluted their commanding officer, and a few who failed to notice his presence. Sailors did their sailor salute, despite their inferiority to his own Royal Marines the squids at least kept up the pretenses of a formal military posting. Something to point out to his subordinates at the next staff meeting.

He arrived in front of the cart, and smiled at the native vendor, who in his own language attempted to sell his fruits to the general – either unaware or unconcerned over the language barrier. Whitmore did little else but smile as he selected a moderately sized mango. He pulled out a Commonwealth Credit and handed it over to the man, who took it, initially confused over its value – intrinsically nil. With a furrowed brow he looked up at the general, pointing to the paper bill in his hand.

Whitmore pointed down Market to the more official Azazian marketplace, which had begun to establish itself as selling goods from the United Kingdom; pots, pans, knives of different types, ovens, et cetera. And for all this, in the renovated glass plate stores, they were taking only Commonwealth credits. And so with a look of partial understanding, and a quick glance at the rifle slung across Whitmore’s chest, the man nodded and crumpled the paper into his fist, and into his pockets and turned away.

And as Whitmore walked away, he pulled his utility knife from his belt and began peeling the skin to get at the delicious mango underneath.

Governor’s Office, Port Elizabeth

“Similar to a strain of influenza, sir. Not like anything we’ve seen in the UK, that’s for sure. A wild strain almost. But it is a disease, viral, and untreated it is most certainly fatal.” Ambrose grimaced while presenting the news to Admiral Jennings. Tests had shown the new disease would likely end up killing his patients without proper anti-viral drugs, but those were expensive and would needed to be shipped in directly from the United Kingdom.

OOC- Hm. I'm no longer sure what I'm doing with this. I think it's inarguable that the Azazians have established their presence on Taytenu (though of course it will continue to be beset with problems).

Meanwhile there's three other clear authorities in the chain, with the Ban Kingdom on Powlomo, the Sula Rada controling almost all of Sulawaka bar Bokonpa, and President Syungma's Republic claiming the rest of the chain and administering it with various degrees of success. Also there's the many small primitive tribes largely beyond contact and the not insignificant force of Islam that is largely without official representation. Setiawan's idealistic ambitions aren't playing terribly well with his primitive audience, and his is a movement in decline.

Perhaps we should move on with Azazia making use, in the wider-world, of its new holding as Setiawan, the Sula Rada, and Emperor Ban Xuande struggle to make ways for their nations in the world. We need something to work-out whether Setiawan's Republic and the United Kingdom will become friends or enemies, I suppose, too.

ooc: That sounds alright to me, unfortunately, I'm not going to be around all that frequently for the next couple of weeks. I did have a post further detailing developments in Port Elizabeth - but I'll leave this be until we decide where this will be going. What I would say would happen with the UK is further consolidation of Port Elizabeth, then begin expansion to the neighboring islands. Unfortunately I no longer have a map, so I can't say where this would be... but I figure that the UK would begin negotiations to outright purchase some of these islands in exchange for either cash or trade considerations, perhaps even later security considerations. As for being friends or such, the UK sees the islands as being no significant threat as is, so more than likely they'd be friend-LY. That will in turn depend on how much more land Setiawan is willing to cede, given his seemingly faltering control over the islands. However, until he actively opposes the consolidation, the UK will likely be friendly and turn the other cheek to any sort of rhetoric he spouts about retaining lands that he "controls".