NationStates Jolt Archive

Charles Frederick Braxton, Tank Commander
James G. Hoffman,

great eastern frontier of Simceit was stirred by sand and wind, the red dirt whirling about, cresting the high sand dunes. A tremendous roar and hiss of steam tore the otherwise ambiant whistle of wind, as an iron goliath of a machine trolled across the sand.

Such machines were well known throughout the territories of Seimceit, they were the Pride of the psuedo-british Kingdom. Officially known as "Mobile Ironclad Fortress, projector of Kingly Power amongst the sands," for the sake of neccesity, and perhaps for sanity, everyone called them, quite simply, "Steamers." The Citizens of Simceit looked upon their mighty stature and powerful naval guns with upmost fear and respect, but the crews simply knew the death they can bring on not only their intended targets, but those who operated the great leviathans.

Their boilers had a tendency to blow, scalding all of those inside, heat stroke, dehydration, hearing loss...all dangers of being a crew member aboard the tracked landships. But Charles Braxton, the Commander of the Tank, pushed all of those worries in the back of his mind. His Tank was the most successful, squashing many'a rebellious coup in the small frontier towns around Simceit. The Tank and Her crew had been crawling through the desert for going on a week, enroute to a small trading post near the border. Disturbences had been reported by the local Governer, warning of a fellow and his following, who preached about Civilization outside of Simceit. Which amounted to herecy in the eyes of the King. Despite his enlightened views.

After those many kilometers, through the searing heat of the sun, they finally saw their target in the heat-distorted distance.

"Hold! Target in range! Raise a shell to the firing Deck!" Cmdr. Charles yelled into the tube, the only true way to communicate with those below deck.

"Aye, aye!" replied the Weapons Officer, as a double-doored hatch reeled open, a single shell raised to the firing deck.

The two Loaders hoisted the round in their arms, sliding it into the breach, locking it into firing position.

"Round ready, Sir!" saluted the senior Loader.

"Good show!" Charles surveyed the target, a simple building, randomy chosen, it seemed abandoned enough. "Turn the gun around fourty-nine degrees! Nine degrees skyward!"

He turned to his second-in-charge, James Hoffman, with a self-assured smile, confident in his guestimate of the shot.

"Great day for a jolly good walloping, isn't it, old boy?" He said, enthusiastically.

"Quite right, quite right! We'll show these dopplegangers who is the true authority." Both spoke with quite thick British accents.

"...fire, chaps!"

With that order, the massive naval gun opened up, a black puff of smoke endured in the wind, from the great blast. A cloud of dust shot from the sands...James pulled his collapsable scope and looked over the damage.

"I say, it appears we missed," he hissed, thought he kept the tone of a gentlemen.

"Are you sure?!" Charles quiffed, "Have you whipped the dust from your lense? I rarely miss, it's quite improbable!" He turned his own spyglass to the damage...and indeed, found it was a miss. "...but not quite impossible, it seems. All right, chaps, let us not fret! Load another! Readjust...five degrees starboard, raise the gun two degrees, no more!"

The second shot sailed through the air, Charles watched as a few villigers ducked as they heard the large shell tear through the wind. It struck its target, the stone crumbling into a plume of dust.

"Aye! Direct hit to those wankas!" Charles congratulated himself.

That was truly the entire business of these ironclads, steam to a rebellious town, fire a shell into it at random. That was all that was needed in most cases, after realizing the devistation that could be wraught upon them with impunity, most rebellions simply disbanded.

Charles grabbed at the horn and commanded, "Full steam! Bring us to the village, we'll see how strong this band is!"

A few moments later, twin black plumes rose through the air like towering spires, and the ironclad rolled once more through the sands, at a lumbering 20 kmph.


Fortress Tank (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v612/Wubboux/BritishTank.jpg)

OOC: Kind of scant, but you get the jist. The rest is yours, Thaeo. I'll reply as soon as possible. :)

OOC: I'm going to presume this is some sort of Earth-related RP.

The tank team was preforming some 'field training', in desert terrain. As the three tanks moved out and engaged in occasional mock fights.

The lead tank, a command tank, had an additional crew member, as well as additional equipment.
"Hey, Jam, I'm picking up what appears to be a bombardment style attack."
"A bombard, this far out? Link me with the others."

"Hey Wolf, Cougar, someone's playing with heavy weapons out here, and it's not one of ours.
"Let's go see these people and tell them that they arn't the only ones playing out here."

The trio of tanks headed toward the source of the disturbance. Cresting the dune, they spotted a wildly impractically big, and highly inefficiant 'tank' thought that was like trying to compare a soft-ball to a basket-ball.

"Dang that thing is big, but from the look of it, even a Ugo could take it apart, it'd just take a while." The commander commented as he popped the hatch to get a better view of the behemoth, "Well, let's go meet our friend."

The great Tank was about halfway enroute to the village. The boilers slaving on, casting their tails into the eastward wind. The driver wrestled with the lever controls, worming the thick tracks so they didn't bog down into the lose sand. His arms pushing against, and pulling the two main levers, fighting the dirt grit. The boilermen prayed as they shoveled, that the boiler would hold steady for yet another tour. The rest of those unfortunate enough to serve in the bowels of the Tank, simply hoped they would live to retire.

The Royal Tank Corps was a very prideful branch, yet they knew all too well the dangers of serving. Charles himself had seen no less than five of the same type of Tank he commanded, ripped and shreded from Boiler or ordinance explosions. A couple had simply been abandoned, after running short of coal or supplies. Very dangerous indeed.

Over the crest of the dune, the stacks broke the horizon, then the bow of the tank, with Charles and his second-in-charge looking through their spyglasses with keen eyes.

"Say, do you think we taught these blokes a lesson?" James spoke sternly and quite loud, to overcome the monstrous raor of the engine, and the rattles of iron.

"One they will never forget, I assure you!" Charles replied, not bothering to lower his spyglass.

Idly scanning by now, Charles swept his view across the sand. He was startled at what he saw. He couldn't qutie make it out what was causing it, there was quite blanket of red sand in the distance, and seemed to be closing in quite fast.

"Sir Hoffman! Take a look to your starboard flank..." Charles said, with James quickly sighting the mysterious things.

"Horsemen, you think?" He inquired, "This could be an organized revolt."

"No, no. I can clearly see only four silhouettes. They surely aren't horses...much too large...by God! Whatever the devil they are, their of iron as us!" Charles quickly grabbed the horn, "Driver, change course starboard, untill you see the dust clouds, move to intercept! Full pressure to the boiler! Full speed!"

More coal was shoveled into the hoppers, two hard pressed men were being pushed ever harder now. The driver not-so-silently cursed the order, as the finess and outright hard work it took to wrestle the beast up the high dune would go the spoil, as the new course sent them right down it again. Eventually, though, it all came together. The large cogs turned faster, as the treads too, found swifter footing. As the Tank found its new course, Charles peeled off his helmet and wiped clean his brow. He didn't know what the figures were, just beyond clear sight...but they were fast...really fast.


OOC: Green Sun, yeah, something like that. It surely isn't your normal MT thread. :P

Jam was watching the behemoth.

"Wolf, Cougar, it's bearing down on us, so load up."
"Roger."
"Right Jammer."

As the tanks prepared, in case the behemoth turned out to want to try and kill them. Jam, Wolf and Cougar began talking, "I wonder who built that tank, it's so large, unwieldly and a walking target."
"Whoever it was knows nothing of heat sinks. That thing shows up on the IR big time."
"It also looks like it has steam vents, if you can believe that."

The Tank set itself at the ridge of another dune, just downrange of the group. To their tactics, the high ground would be vital in the insident of battle. A shell was being prepared, and the starboard and port side guns reeled forward, ready to fire at notice.

Whatever they were, they had cannons, very puny ones. So the pressure in the boiler was bled off, letting out a sinful hiss of steam from the sides, kicking up sand. This would leave them imobile, but of course, they had never experianced tank-to-tank warfare...their tank wasn't even designed for it. It was more of a mobile gun, unfit for even attacking eachother.

The five non-essential crew members in the bowel of the tank opened the hatchway to the outside, and gasped for the fresh air that awaited. They were blackened with smoke, and sweat poured down them like rain. They werne't as clean and crip as those overhead, non of them wore shirts, and the only uniform they had, by a thin stretch, was their tan trousers. All of them had simple, five shot revolvers, which they took from their holsters, and waited.

As the cranks and intracate workings of the tank slowed to a stop, and the final hiss subsided, all was quiet, except for the infernal howl of the wind. And of course, the rumbling of the other groups' engines. Much quieter, smoother than their own. Much faster, as well. They couldn't quite except the fact that these were more than a very well-imagined mirage...perhaps all of them were going crazy with heat exhaustion...but the chance would not be taken. But, Cmdr. Charles would be diplomatic, as long as no fire was exchanged. As a representative of the Civilized Simceiti, he had to be calm, and unagressive. For these landships, surely were not crafted in Simceit. Charles knew the impact, and he even somewhat regreted dismissing the claims of the common folk, of wonders beyond the borderlands.

As the behemoth stopped steaming, and a number of people exited from various hatches, Jammer held a conference with his two fellow commanders, even thought they were his subordinates.

"What should we do about them."
"I say talk to then, but be prepared to send them to oblivion."
"Wolf?"
"Agreed."
"And I'll be in charge of talking with them, I'll be taken our tac man as well."

The tanks pulled to a stop around a hundred meters away, and Jammer, as well as the tac man exited, after strapping on thier regulation weapon. Walking toward the behemoth, Jammer called out, "So who are you and what is that thing?"

Cmdr. Charles held his hands behind his back, as he cast his hazel eyes downward at the fellow approaching his tank. His second in charge was leaned over the rail, looking on the four true (of course he, doesn't know that) tanks with astonishment.

"So who are you and what is that thing?"

Charles smiled some, his dusty whiskers tickling his own chin. Though he still presented quite an imposing figure, in his bright red, dusty uniform, pulled taught around his barrel chest.

"Why, it's a Mobile Ironclad Fortress, projector of Kingly Power amongst the sands. But we Corpsmen call it quite simply, a Steamer," he looked to the fellow, in fact, all of them that he could see, with challenging eyes, he took a serious note for an instant.

"Now, who are you to cross onto the borderlands of Simceit? Bringing your Mobile Cannon Pieces here could be considered an act of war...but I'll assume your transgression is for enterprising curiosity...no matter, you seem harmless enough. I am Charles Braxton, Commander of this Steamer. This chap here is my Second in Command, James Hoffman."

"Aye," James spoke finally, "the rest of these chaps are the finest crew in all of Simceit." James was always mindful of including the rest of the men in almost everything, he was much less elitist than his Commander.

"Mobile cannon pieces, no our artillery pieces are back where they're garrisoned." Jammer called out, "These," He gestured at the three tanks, "Are tanks."

"Could you come down here so we can talk without shouting?" He asked