The Macabees
01-06-2005, 02:12
[Sanlucar de Barrameda, Spain]
The ebony shadow of the Cartagena's hull moved quickly through the calm waters underneath the much more violent surface of the Gulf of Cadiz, entrance to both the Strait of Gibraltar and, perhaps, Spain's largest naval port. The bridge was around five hundred meters underneath the waves, deep underneath the mixed layer, beyond the active SONAR of any patrolling Spanish ship. Indeed, it was extremely unlikely that any Spanish fast attack craft, or even something larger, would catch the Cartagena. Even with the world seemingly crumbling around them Spain had maintained her sovereignty relatively unscathed, as to her north France had been occupied by Whittier. Consequently, although Spanish awareness had grown, it had not grown to the point where Spain would expand her armada. If she wished to do so, the administration neither had the money for such a sudden expansion, nor the suppliers to do so, since the major supplies had already been occupied by alien powers.
Consequently, the nuclear powered attack submarine continued to plow through the currents of the Gulf, such as a knife through butter. It's teardrop styled hull, designed after the Virginia class Nuclear Attack Submarine, and older Soviet and Russian submarines, made the job look relatively easy. About twenty kilometers from a large town named Sanlucar de Barrameda, meaning around fifty kilometers from Cadiz, the Cartagena began to empty her ballast tanks, exponentionally decreasing submerged depth and rapidly making her way to the surface. Finally, the submarine shot through the waves and into the air, only to plop back on to the surface of the Gulf, and seconds later, settle. Other for the noise of the Sea Gulls, flying around the Gulf looking for some edible materials, and the sound of the water breaking against the composite hull of the submarine, there was a new found silence. It didn't last for long, as the small hatch at the top of the bridge suddenly smacked open, with a long creak and a quick thud.
The head of Captain Albrecht von Seelow popped out and he surveyed the skies before fully climbing out. Once he was standing on the bridge he spoke,"Creist, bring the boat! Grasham, are you ready?"
He received a slightly muffled response, which was impossible to decode, but then two more men scuffled out, one carrying a small rubber pouch underneath his armpit, and the other some sort of electrical engine. They stopped and crouched to set up the two different mechanisms they grasped and finally the one with the rubber pouch said,"Grasham, plug the line in here," pointing at an opening inside the now unfolded rubber pouch, which seemed to resemble the outline of a defalted rubber craft. The other man did as told and he pressed a red button on the machine he was carrying seconds ago, and rapidly the rubber boat began to inflate, taking on the form of an actual rubber boat faster and faster.
When it was completed Captain von Seelow gleefully stated,"Alright, it is completed! Grasham, are you ready?"
The other man retorted,"Of course Herr Hauptmann. I'm always ready."
The three men picked up the inflated rubber craft and threw it over the bridge. It free fell and dipped into the water, plopping back up seconds later, and then positioning itself in upright formation, ready for use. Grasham bend back down the hatchet on the bridge, reaching for something, and when he retracted his arm he uncovered a double sided row, constructed of cheap plastic - it would get the job done, nonetheless. Then, using a side ladder scaling down the side of the bridge, then beside the hull, Grasham made his way towards the water. When he had finally reachen as far as he could go he whistled to those above. They dropped a hooked line onto the rubber craft, pulling it or pushing it enough so that Grasham to jump on it, without falling into the ice cold waters of the Gulf of Cadiz.
Grasham seemed to scrape his arm against something and he let out a whispered,"Son of a bitch." There soon remained no disgruntled attitude in the man, and he began to row his way towards the coastline of Spain, which for now remained a bit far - not visible from the current position of the rubber craft. Nonetheless, the man did not slack, and within an hour of rowing had could finally see land. He grunted and said,"Fucking mission. They always have me do the fucking hard work."
He moaned for the remainder of the forty-five minutes it took him to make his way to the sandy beaches of the region around Sanlucar de Barrameda - specifically, a small beach about half a kilometer north of the town. Once his rubber craft hit the sandbar he took a rope tied around his waiste and tied a loop around a little hook on the rubber craft. He jumped into the ankle deep water and made his way to dry land where he took a loose piece of wood and dug into the sand, and then tied the rubber craft to the stick, muttering,"Bloody hell hope that the tides don't rise in the next two hours."
One could see his full armament now, and he looked much more intimidating on the beach, than he did on the bridge of the submarine. Around his right shoulder, on a strap, dangled his sole Hali-21 Part-Variant Assault Rifle, designed after the American XM8 assault rifle, with a bit of mix between AN-94, AK-74 and the M-16 - making it amongst the best assault rifle in the world. In a felt holster on the side of his waiste he carried a Hol-24 9mm pistol, which although not nearly advance, it would suffice for his mission. He also carried four cylindrical grenades, a knife and several other smaller weapons. Indeed, he looked more adapted for his job than he did on that bridge - he looked like a true mercenary.
He scoffed the entire walk up the beach as Spanish onlookers, sitting in the sun - it was noon, afterall -, stared at him as a foreigner, for understandable reasons. He took no notice and walked up the beach, in his thick black boots, not even minding the beautiful Spanish women, topless, laying on their thin towels. He suddenly stopped midway and began to look around, his eyes settling on a man at the end of the beach, on the concrete strip walkway, wearing thick, black aviator glasses. Grasham smiled and continued walking towards the man.
Once he reached him he outstretched his arm and said,"Que tal, macho? Mucho tiempe sin ver te?"
The other man retorted,"Stop the crap. Get in the car. We have much to talk about."
Grasham nodded and opened the passenger door, pulling himself in, as the other man walked around the car and opened the driver's door and also pulled himself in. Within twenty seconds they had pulled out of the parking space and began their two hour trip, making circles around the streets of Sanlucar de Barrameda. Grasham didn't waste a second,"Vale Albarrez, tell me. Will Spain resist?"
The driver laughed,"Of course. The conventional military will. I can promise you, however, that the citizenry will not. They know your Emperor is a Spaniard, although he rules a German nation, and they respect that. A Spaniard rulling a Spanish nation is what we have now - there will really be no change - just another Spaniard."
Grasham nodded,"Of course. My superiors will be glad to hear that."
Albarrez responded,"Cadiz has half of Spain's armada. The rest is up in Bilbao, or in Las Palmas."
Grasham whipped his head,"Don't fuck with me Spic. I was told it was all at Cadiz, and that's why all of our fucking preperations are centered around there. Don't you fucking tell me we have to change our plans. The success of this mission depends on the destruction of the Spanish fleet."
Albarrez didn't seem to notice the raise in tone and merely said,"Look Aleman. I do not control the Spanish Armada. I thought the great and mighty Golden fleet could destroy any enemy which presented itself?"
Grasham smiled,"Yes. But we much rather destroy the Spanish fleet without a real shot fired, and then tear apart your conventional army. We like doing things the rough way."
The two men small talked for about one hundred more minutes before Albarrez pulled the car back onto the same beach. Grasham turned to see if his boat was still there, but he could see several coast guard personnel congregated around it. He turned back to Albarrez and said,"Thank you for your time. Now I must regain control of my escape craft. Adios."
He opened the door and unleashed his Hali-21 assault rifle. Not taking another look back, as the car whipped off, he began to run towards the group of coast guard. Within one hundred meters he opened fire, shooting short three-round bursts. Most attempted to run, but they were cut down, almost without effort. Twenty seconds later about six men fell dead, and as if nothing happened, Grasham pulled the wooden stick out of the sand, cut off the rope with his knife, jumped into the rubber craft, took his rows, and rowed off.
All the intelligence needed for the invasion had been completed, and now Spain was ripe for the taking.
The ebony shadow of the Cartagena's hull moved quickly through the calm waters underneath the much more violent surface of the Gulf of Cadiz, entrance to both the Strait of Gibraltar and, perhaps, Spain's largest naval port. The bridge was around five hundred meters underneath the waves, deep underneath the mixed layer, beyond the active SONAR of any patrolling Spanish ship. Indeed, it was extremely unlikely that any Spanish fast attack craft, or even something larger, would catch the Cartagena. Even with the world seemingly crumbling around them Spain had maintained her sovereignty relatively unscathed, as to her north France had been occupied by Whittier. Consequently, although Spanish awareness had grown, it had not grown to the point where Spain would expand her armada. If she wished to do so, the administration neither had the money for such a sudden expansion, nor the suppliers to do so, since the major supplies had already been occupied by alien powers.
Consequently, the nuclear powered attack submarine continued to plow through the currents of the Gulf, such as a knife through butter. It's teardrop styled hull, designed after the Virginia class Nuclear Attack Submarine, and older Soviet and Russian submarines, made the job look relatively easy. About twenty kilometers from a large town named Sanlucar de Barrameda, meaning around fifty kilometers from Cadiz, the Cartagena began to empty her ballast tanks, exponentionally decreasing submerged depth and rapidly making her way to the surface. Finally, the submarine shot through the waves and into the air, only to plop back on to the surface of the Gulf, and seconds later, settle. Other for the noise of the Sea Gulls, flying around the Gulf looking for some edible materials, and the sound of the water breaking against the composite hull of the submarine, there was a new found silence. It didn't last for long, as the small hatch at the top of the bridge suddenly smacked open, with a long creak and a quick thud.
The head of Captain Albrecht von Seelow popped out and he surveyed the skies before fully climbing out. Once he was standing on the bridge he spoke,"Creist, bring the boat! Grasham, are you ready?"
He received a slightly muffled response, which was impossible to decode, but then two more men scuffled out, one carrying a small rubber pouch underneath his armpit, and the other some sort of electrical engine. They stopped and crouched to set up the two different mechanisms they grasped and finally the one with the rubber pouch said,"Grasham, plug the line in here," pointing at an opening inside the now unfolded rubber pouch, which seemed to resemble the outline of a defalted rubber craft. The other man did as told and he pressed a red button on the machine he was carrying seconds ago, and rapidly the rubber boat began to inflate, taking on the form of an actual rubber boat faster and faster.
When it was completed Captain von Seelow gleefully stated,"Alright, it is completed! Grasham, are you ready?"
The other man retorted,"Of course Herr Hauptmann. I'm always ready."
The three men picked up the inflated rubber craft and threw it over the bridge. It free fell and dipped into the water, plopping back up seconds later, and then positioning itself in upright formation, ready for use. Grasham bend back down the hatchet on the bridge, reaching for something, and when he retracted his arm he uncovered a double sided row, constructed of cheap plastic - it would get the job done, nonetheless. Then, using a side ladder scaling down the side of the bridge, then beside the hull, Grasham made his way towards the water. When he had finally reachen as far as he could go he whistled to those above. They dropped a hooked line onto the rubber craft, pulling it or pushing it enough so that Grasham to jump on it, without falling into the ice cold waters of the Gulf of Cadiz.
Grasham seemed to scrape his arm against something and he let out a whispered,"Son of a bitch." There soon remained no disgruntled attitude in the man, and he began to row his way towards the coastline of Spain, which for now remained a bit far - not visible from the current position of the rubber craft. Nonetheless, the man did not slack, and within an hour of rowing had could finally see land. He grunted and said,"Fucking mission. They always have me do the fucking hard work."
He moaned for the remainder of the forty-five minutes it took him to make his way to the sandy beaches of the region around Sanlucar de Barrameda - specifically, a small beach about half a kilometer north of the town. Once his rubber craft hit the sandbar he took a rope tied around his waiste and tied a loop around a little hook on the rubber craft. He jumped into the ankle deep water and made his way to dry land where he took a loose piece of wood and dug into the sand, and then tied the rubber craft to the stick, muttering,"Bloody hell hope that the tides don't rise in the next two hours."
One could see his full armament now, and he looked much more intimidating on the beach, than he did on the bridge of the submarine. Around his right shoulder, on a strap, dangled his sole Hali-21 Part-Variant Assault Rifle, designed after the American XM8 assault rifle, with a bit of mix between AN-94, AK-74 and the M-16 - making it amongst the best assault rifle in the world. In a felt holster on the side of his waiste he carried a Hol-24 9mm pistol, which although not nearly advance, it would suffice for his mission. He also carried four cylindrical grenades, a knife and several other smaller weapons. Indeed, he looked more adapted for his job than he did on that bridge - he looked like a true mercenary.
He scoffed the entire walk up the beach as Spanish onlookers, sitting in the sun - it was noon, afterall -, stared at him as a foreigner, for understandable reasons. He took no notice and walked up the beach, in his thick black boots, not even minding the beautiful Spanish women, topless, laying on their thin towels. He suddenly stopped midway and began to look around, his eyes settling on a man at the end of the beach, on the concrete strip walkway, wearing thick, black aviator glasses. Grasham smiled and continued walking towards the man.
Once he reached him he outstretched his arm and said,"Que tal, macho? Mucho tiempe sin ver te?"
The other man retorted,"Stop the crap. Get in the car. We have much to talk about."
Grasham nodded and opened the passenger door, pulling himself in, as the other man walked around the car and opened the driver's door and also pulled himself in. Within twenty seconds they had pulled out of the parking space and began their two hour trip, making circles around the streets of Sanlucar de Barrameda. Grasham didn't waste a second,"Vale Albarrez, tell me. Will Spain resist?"
The driver laughed,"Of course. The conventional military will. I can promise you, however, that the citizenry will not. They know your Emperor is a Spaniard, although he rules a German nation, and they respect that. A Spaniard rulling a Spanish nation is what we have now - there will really be no change - just another Spaniard."
Grasham nodded,"Of course. My superiors will be glad to hear that."
Albarrez responded,"Cadiz has half of Spain's armada. The rest is up in Bilbao, or in Las Palmas."
Grasham whipped his head,"Don't fuck with me Spic. I was told it was all at Cadiz, and that's why all of our fucking preperations are centered around there. Don't you fucking tell me we have to change our plans. The success of this mission depends on the destruction of the Spanish fleet."
Albarrez didn't seem to notice the raise in tone and merely said,"Look Aleman. I do not control the Spanish Armada. I thought the great and mighty Golden fleet could destroy any enemy which presented itself?"
Grasham smiled,"Yes. But we much rather destroy the Spanish fleet without a real shot fired, and then tear apart your conventional army. We like doing things the rough way."
The two men small talked for about one hundred more minutes before Albarrez pulled the car back onto the same beach. Grasham turned to see if his boat was still there, but he could see several coast guard personnel congregated around it. He turned back to Albarrez and said,"Thank you for your time. Now I must regain control of my escape craft. Adios."
He opened the door and unleashed his Hali-21 assault rifle. Not taking another look back, as the car whipped off, he began to run towards the group of coast guard. Within one hundred meters he opened fire, shooting short three-round bursts. Most attempted to run, but they were cut down, almost without effort. Twenty seconds later about six men fell dead, and as if nothing happened, Grasham pulled the wooden stick out of the sand, cut off the rope with his knife, jumped into the rubber craft, took his rows, and rowed off.
All the intelligence needed for the invasion had been completed, and now Spain was ripe for the taking.