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.
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.