NationStates Jolt Archive


Cargo From Hell

Kaukolastan
12-01-2007, 10:07
OOC: Well, I haven't been here in... months, maybe a year or more. Thought I'd poke my head up, since some RL friends want me to finish an old war. Heh, funny how NS reality pauses when school/work happen. Anywho, since I'm back in Zombie K-stan state, I thought I'd dump some of my slush pile on here. I'm running a real life campaign (woot for tabletops), and had to draw up some background data for the party to find. Well, I got it done and said, "Damn, that's a lot of writing for a freaking PROP!" So, I decided, since I'm back here, I might as well plop the prop onto NS. Hope ya'll enjoy, as this should be relatively standalone, and if any of my peeps are on the board... eh... don't read this yet. I'll drop sections up with some time between.

Let's get cracking! /OOC

Departure
March 13, 2009

Really pissed right now. No, that's a terrible way to open the journal, even one written on the back of navigation charts. I had an awesome line last time, something about “marking down the experience for the ages” or some other sentimental crap. Anyway, I've got to start this whole damn thing over now, since that rat bastard chucked my last journal into the engine. Fuck him, I'm starting over. Er... perhaps I should start from the beginning and explain.

My name is George Tulley, and this is my journal. It's my first trans-Atlantic haul, and I'm pretty darn nervous. Actually, nervous doesn't cut it, it's more like a combination of rage and terror with those creepy assed bastards and their dumbass names like “Zulu Six-One” and “Bravo Two-Seven”. I'm getting ahead of myself again. If they weren't so utterly terrifying, I'd let them have it. Anyway, back to what I'm recapping (as my old journal is currently ash, and I need to rewrite this whole thing).

I'm an Engineer's Mate, which means I get to do all the crappy jobs, like scrubbing the cowlings, and filling the hydraulics. On the other hand, I'll eventually get to be Boatswain, like Bull, and get to talk out my ass and have everyone nod to me as the wise old sea hand. He's my superior, and that man could run a boat on spit, chew, and duct tape. The Captain is Stolchen, an old hand himself. He's been running ships since the mid-eighties, and will probably retire when he falls over dead from lung cancer. Our Navigator is Kelly, the brain on ship. Now, a lot of us are smart stuff, but this guy is hardcore nerd, with his Star Trek figurines and shit. He is always picking fights with Gillings over the dual radar, mostly when Gillings tries to cook grilled cheese on the mast. Our First Mate is some new transfer, Curtis, and he's been real slow to open up, but hey, he knows his stuff. Some people just don't like other people, that's why they do these long hauls. That's what Bull says.

Our ship is the SS Minerva, a handysize bulk freighter, built a couple years back. Ships don't last long in the saltwater, not like lake freighters, but you don't want a new one either, or you won't know the kinks. We're hauling luxury goods for some company outta Egypt, rugs and lampshades and the like. At least, that's what they told us on the way in.

We pulled into the Tunisian port of La Goulette last night, and were told to sleep on ship. Now, we're in a foreign port, we wanted to hit the city, but no, we're bunking it up. Then it gets weird. Round two, maybe three am, Bull wakes us up. He doesn't yell (which was odd) and just shakes us up, one by one, hushes us, and says, “We're loading up. No lights, keep it quiet.” Like some damn spy movie.

I told Asher (good guy, another Engineer's Mate, mostly engine room) that this was absolutely retarded, and if he knew what kind of “rugs” these were. IE: Was there a “d” in the front of said “rugs”. He shrugged.

Bull's been doing this forever, and he said go. In this business, you listen to the bosun. You have too. So we came on deck to see the cargo hold open, and there're dock workers already stocking the ship through the main elevator. Forklifts were everywhere, and they had not only the shipboard crane, but three port cranes going, moving this stuff everywhere, putting stuff on, taking it off (why?!), putting it back. This wasn't screwing up, there was a pattern, like that ball-under-the-center-cup game you play at fairs, where the carnie spins it around and you gotta guess which cup has the ball.

And supervising it all are these suits. High corporate types, the kind you never see on the actual docks. They're all talking behind their hands and standing together in the Mediterranean night breeze, looking like something out of a twisted movie, and they've got at least a dozen armed guards, military, around them. These guys are decked out in all black camo, loaded with armor and grenades and automatic rifles, like they expect to get jumped on the dock.

The heavies are milling about the dock, directing the lifts and crew, and one of them walks right up next to me and says, “Hey, civvie, whatchoo starin' at?” I turn and see this guy scowling behind his goggles and microphone. He gives me a finger in the chest and repeats, “What're you starin' at?”

Dumb me, I answer, “Uh, the night loading, without lights.” These guys were even driving the forklifts with lights out, using some sort of night vision goggles to see.

“Shut up and help, if you want a paycheck.” Shakes his head like I'm some retard for not going along with the James Bond shit.

We load the ship, and every six feet, we're getting, “Watch it, civvie.” “Move, tanker.” “Christ, you see me here?” (No, you're wearing camo, and I don't have night vision.) “Fucking moron.” and such. Every single one of these bastards had a big stick in his ass that said MACHO, I swear.

We loaded that boat far too heavy. We're a handysize freighter, and that load would have been rating a handymax. We were still seaworthy, but we were riding too deep for comfort, and the engines were going to take a beating. And the cargo... there was the expected luxury goods (mostly pottery and textiles, plus some freaking statues), but there was also a lot of heavy lifting gear and digging equipment. And the goods were old. Archeology-type old. I revised my “James Bond bullshit” to “Indiana Jones bullshit”.

Then there were the guns, and the men to use them. I wondered why we were so understaffed to begin with, but after the midnight loading, we got stuck with fourteen armed guards. You know, I didn't think piracy was THAT BAD in the Med. I asked Bull, but he looked away and said, “Captain's orders.”

And Cap Stolchen? Saw him dealing with the suits, and heard them say, “Don't ask questions, Captain. You're not paid to think. You're paid to do.” With the amount of firepower around, Stolchen was dead white scared and he just said his “yessir”s and “nossir”s.

Like I said, terror.

Oh, and those guys they put aboard our ship? I would have been better with the toughs from the docks. There's a lot of stupid machismo on the ship anyway, and I know how to deal with that (hide/avoid). But no, they didn't just give us those toughs, who took one whole bunk room for their gear and crap, but they put these faceless things onboard.

As we got ready to weigh anchor (still blacked out, piloting out by night vision so graciously loaned to us by the suits, we took on one last boarding team. Six men (I think), dressed in black gossamer armor, with plates over their faces. They said nothing, they emoted nothing. They just moved, silent, saluting the best dressed of the suits as they passed. They walked up the ramp, formed a line, and one approached Cap Stolchen.

When he spoke, his voice was processed, like a computer reading words, but I'd never been scared of a voice before, so flat and dead and lethal. “I am Bravo Two-Zero, and we are in charge of your cargo.” He placed a single packet in Stolchen's hands. “Those are your orders. Act accordingly.”

He turned, they all turned at the same time. Not like military precise, but like one object. Even one of the toughs shivered a little, and the dark men began to file into the ship's hold. Stolchen stammered a little, “Uh, Mr. Zero, um... where are you heading?”

And Zero turned to him, his heels clicking. “We are going to secure your hold and our gear. We will bunk there.”

“Wouldn't you rather have, uh, bunks?”

“No.” And Zero vanished into the hold.

Stolchen opened his envelope, scanned it. Five minutes later, the radio was placed under lockup, and the dark men swept out cabin. They burned my journal. I almost said something, but looking at that cold metal plate he had for a face, I couldn't move. They burned or sank every article that could record or transmit, except the radio, which one of their men stood by at all times.

I was able to secure one drafting pencil for my job, and I recorded this journal on the back of Kelly's charts. I'll try to keep this journal up, so I can remember this in the future. Burning my property. Fuck them and their masks. They've taken our ship from us, hauling whatever it is they need.

We can't go in the main hold. That's theirs. We can't use the radio. We can't use the head without filling out a sheet. Stolchen does what they say. We all do, even the toughs. This is going to be the trip from hell.
Kaukolastan
12-01-2007, 20:51
Rendezvous?
March 14, 2009

Finally got a moment away to write down the day's events. Yes, I'm camped out in the head. Even the dark men and toughs don't kick in the doors to the stalls yet. We've been heading Northwest, and I don't think we're heading to Sicily like we should be. We were supposed to trade cargo there, but we're not heading the right direction, says Kelly. He also said we've been in radio contact with a port, and we've fabricated a port call.

That's right. The logs will say we've been to Sicily, the port manifest will say we have, but we didn't. Why? I have no idea. Instead, we're looking to make way for New Orleans port without the touch off. But we are going to stop, at least according to Curtis.

Curtis says we're going to meet another vessel at sea, probably tonight, and swap cargoes via shipboard cranes. WHY?

Curtis, of course, told me to show that he knows best, and he told me, “Don't worry, this is all professional. We just do our jobs, get a lot of cash, and say nothing about it.” Like he's done this before.

All I know is, this trip just keeps getting weirder and weirder. I'll write more after we meet up with whoever it is we're supposed to meet. The only thing that makes me happy is that it really can't get much worse than this high-seas dictatorship of lunacy.
Kaukolastan
15-01-2007, 08:53
The Algos and Crew
March 15, 2009

Remember how I mentioned things getting weird? Well, this morning, it crossed into freaky. Maybe one or two in the morning, we pull up alongside the SS Algos Deide, a handymax freighter which looks like it was running south (my guess is our SUPPOSED stop in Sicily). We were instructed to pull alongside by Zero, in order to swap cargoes.

Yeah, they want us to swap cargo at sea. Lucky for us, we were in calm waters, and we prepared to exchange. We were all on deck, ready to transfer loads, when the Algos radios in, and says no-go, their main hatch is busted, and they won't be able to offload anything from below decks until port.

Zero gets really quiet, and after a moment (I thought someone was going to die), says he's sending an inspection team over. Guess who gets tapped to fix the damn pump? Me. So I take a boat over, with my mate Asher, Captain Stolchen, Zero, and two of his guys.

When we get onto the Algos, I knew things weren't right. Everyone was on deck, just standing there, staring at us. You ever seen one of those Romero movies? Everyone was gray and staring, I thought they were statues for a moment, until one greeted us.

“Hello, I'm Captain Vitalli of the SS Algos Deide, welcome aboard.” He didn't say it, he just seemed to leak the words out, like a deflating balloon. A gray balloon.

I glanced to Asher, who looked back to me. He looked worried, with them all just staring at us like that. I've never been scared of strangers, much less fellow sailors, but these were like wax figures that moved. Cap Stolchen stepped up and shook Vitalli's hand. “I'm Captain Stolchen of the SS Minerva. This is Bravo Two-Zero and his men, and Misters Asher and Tulley. It's a pleasure to be aboard.”

He was lying.

Stolchen glanced back at Zero, who had his hand awfully near his gun, and the old Captain said, “We're here to inspect your pumps, if you don't mind. I'm really sorry, Captain, but we need to veri-”

“No problem, Captain.” Vitalli cut him off and smiled. The smile didn't reach his eyes. “My men will see your men below decks, and they can look all they wish. If they think they can help, they are more than welcome. It's a shame this had to happen right now.”

“Thank you, Captain. Asher, Tulley?”

Vitalli motioned his man, Gordy, forward. “Take them below decks.” Zero just tipped his head, and his escorts went with us.

As we went towards the hatch, I heard Vitalli continue. “And Captain, Mr. Zero? If you would come with me, I can explain our troubles.”

“Of course.”

The hatch slammed closed over our heads, and I nearly jumped. I'm not claustrophobic or anything, you couldn't work on a freighter and be, but down there, it was almost too tight to breathe. The air was thick, stale, and kind of ashy. The walls seemed to press on your peripheral vision, trying to squeeze you when you weren't looking. I closed my eyes for a moment, took a breath-

“Tulley?”

I opened my eyes. Asher was staring at me. “What?”

“You gonna stand there, or you wanna see the pumps?”

“Oh, sorry, just a little seasick.”

“Yah, no problem.”

It was only a moment, but Asher gave me a look like I'd been there for a moment too long. The two dark men looked at each other.

When we got to the pump, it was obvious what was wrong. The whole damn assembly had blown clean out, ruptured from the inside. The piston, the reservoir, everything Asher was the first to speak. “Oh, sweet Jesus, what did you do, throw a grenade in there?”

Bravo Two-Seven answered. “It wouldn't fit. Plastique would.”

I remember thinking, ever so clearly, Oh, shit. Someone is going to die, right here.

Mr. Gordy turned, not even anxious about the armed killer next to him. “Take samples if you wish. It blew from pressure overrun. The pump went out of control, just blew itself and took the piston with it.”

The two soldiers stared at him for a moment. He didn't sound like he was lying.

There was silence until Two-Seven turned to me. “Can you fix it?”

“Yeah, if I had the parts. The machine shop doesn't carry the stuff I need for this.” I really hoped he would kill Gordy, not me or Asher. It wasn't anything personal, and I felt bad for thinking it, but I didn't know the man, I really don't want to die or lose a friend.

God, that's dark. I need to stop thinking like that.

Asher and I checked the pump. Sure enough, just like Gordy said, the damn thing had locked in. How it had over-revved that high, I had no idea, but it definitely had, looking at the internal damage. “What were you running this on? Jet fuel?”

Asher had a mouth to him, I hoped it wouldn't get him killed.

“Diesel.”

Asher and I conferred, and decided. “This wasn't sabotage, sir, since there's no way this should have happened! These machines aren't even supposed to run this high. Manufacturer's fault, they put the wrong engine on this thing.” I pointed to the blown machinery. “Dumb thing was pushing twice it's recommended tac, but the stupid gage was set to the new engine, not the system tolerances. Unless someone could somehow get this thing revving more than twice its own capabilities, this is flat out impossible, sir.”

Two-Seven wasn't happy, I could tell by the way his head tipped. Problem was, there was no way someone could sabotage their own system by making it run more than it was capable of. Those gears just couldn't move fast enough to do what they obviously did. I wish I could make more sense of it, but the evidence said that machine did something impossible. You can't count on the impossible for sabotage. At least I don't think you can.

The dark men began to talk among each other, I could tell by how they moved, even though I heard nothing from their masks. After a bit, Two-Seven said to me, “We're going to try to rope the cargo out. We want pulleys on the surface, so we don't tip it.”

Gordy interrupted, “Sir, are you sure that's wise?”

“When we want your opinion, we will ask. Until then, perform your functions in silence, crewman.”

“But, si-”

Two-Seven whirled to face Gordy, head tipped slightly. Gordy shut up right then. If he'd kept talking, he would have lost his head. Two-Seven was holding his sword.

And then Two-Seven stopped. “We've been recalled to the surface.”

Gordy straightened his jacket, and we headed back up. Let me say, I have never been so glad to breath fresh air as when we opened that hatch. I nearly jumped clean onto the deck.

Stolchen was waiting with Zero. “Time to head back, men.”

Two-Seven and Two-Ten looked to Zero, who nodded.

I didn't say anything, but I wanted to. Didn't they want us to check the rest of the ship? Or what about Two-Seven's winch plan. It wasn't that hard to do. If they wanted this cargo so bad, why not winch it? But on the trip back, no one said anything about it.

Of course, we couldn't tell the rest of the crew anything. “Operational Security” they called it. That also means we couldn't ask any questions. And that is really starting to worry me.

The only good thing to come out of today was that after the trip, Zero sent all the Zulu team over to the Algos to guard it, with the toughs. All that left us was Bravo team, and the less of them, the better. Creepy enough already.

Thank God for good weather, at least.
Kaukolastan
15-01-2007, 09:05
More Sailing, More Creepy
March 16, 2009

Today, thankfully, was relatively normal. We're in open water now, and the weather is great for this time of year. The swells are low, the sun is out, the skies are blue. Too bad the people on this ship suck so much. Yet again, I'm writing in the head, and we still can't go in the radio room, and the only company we've got is the Algos ahead of us. Zero won't let us leave visual range, and I know he's on the horn with his people constantly.

We aren't even halfway, and people are already edgy. I mean, I can understand how you're stressed, with the armed guards, the bizarre tailing of the Algos, and being under lockdown, I'm stressed, too, but there's such a thing as too far. We've already had three fights aboard the ship, including when Gillings decked Kelly.

All Kelly said was, “Hey, at least I'm not on the Algos.” He's the one with the radio, so I guess he'd know, but I couldn't ask him, because one of the creeps was watching me very directly. Kelly turned white and ducked into quarters, and the creep just shrugged.

Point made, jackass.

Even Asher's under stress, and he's cool as can be. I made a dumb joke about, “In Soviet Russia, freighter haul you!” and the guy falls over laughing. It was a terrible joke, but he laughs for about three minutes straight. Let me tell you, I didn't think that laughing was creepy, but that laugh was, the way it hung on too long and was just a little too loud, and it never touched the eyes.

At least laughing is better than fighting. Right?
Kaukolastan
15-01-2007, 09:16
Laughing
March 17, 2009

WRONG!!!!!!! I can not believe how wrong I was. I'm locked in the head, and if I hear one more laugh, I'm going to jump off the ship. Ferguson already did, and he was laughing as he did it.

It's like the whole ship's been flooded with laughing gas. Every few moments, someone just doubles over and started yowling hysterically. But it's not funny, it's not happy. It's terrifying. It got me today, too. It's like when your a kid, and someone holds you down and tickles you until you can't breathe, you can't see. You just jerk and laugh and laugh and cry as you laugh because your lungs are burning and you hurt so badly and you want to stop but you just can't.

When the laughs get you, they can go on for minutes. You laugh so hard you puke blood. The only ones not laughing are the dark men. They point guns at us and chain us to bulkheads so we can't kill ourselves, at least after Ferg threw himself into the prop wash, laughing the whole time.

Two-Seven says they need everyone to run the ship. I laughed. Everyone laughed, even after Two-Nine put a bullet into Cory. Cory kept laughing till he died, about how they shot him so he wouldn't hurt himself.

I'm taking too long in here. If I don't make it quick, they might strip search me. Then they'll find this, and I'll be dead. I don't want to die. I want to be home. But we aren't halfway, and Zero won't let us turn around, and Stolchen won't say anything. Besides laughter.

God help us.