Zepplin Manufacturers
26-05-2007, 12:31
Across the gulf of space, minds that are to our minds as ours are to those of the beasts that perish, intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against us.
It begins not with a bang, nore the scream of countless turbines nore even the clink of metal upon metal as a rifles bolt is drawn home. It begins with silence, the total silence of the void.
Orbit
Earthlight streamed upwards illuminating the dull kevlar and titanium sheets of the whipple shield that protected the MAS Very High Resolution array Earth Resource Platform. This was no mere sattalite but an assembly made from multiple launches and hundreds of hours in EVA construction bolting the cooling array of the huge nuclear pile pod to the mass of radiator fins and ducts that fed the great radar. The single huge ground penetrating radar the platform carried like a demented metallic spider trying to move a giant D20 could penetrate almost 2 miles of rock to hungrily seek out the rich seams of ores and hydrocarbons that fuelled the Incorporated State. Upon one be strutted titanium boron outrigger lenses delicately reposition as data flows upward from the Mount Regal orbital command facility buried deep in the snow capped mountains above Aurilias steamy central jungles. Cold gas is spat from numerous thrusters and as it repositions and as delicately as a flower the whipple shield sections unfold to reveal the multi megawatt monstrous transmitter.
Analysing in total silence slowly but surely it begins to draw a picture, first only of interest to geologists but soon for those who in the darker places of the state understand. Decision is already made by the cold numbers arcing through the great mainframes that dominate the choices made by the factions that rule. Now voices begin. Decisions already made arent made in public and still at least for show must require human interaction, this is not the free state it once was and nore is that ever the way such skulduggery is arranged, oligarchs rule here and so quite talks over well made meals that cost more than a week long holiday for an ordinary family go on in discreet locations. These men and women who make up the effective ruling class are money but far from ostentatious in there dress or there views, and spuriously even now they still believe themselves to be the true rulers. Now even in there wizened sense of adventure something worms its way inwards as the reports continue to flow. Something that until now has been at least directly quite bloodless. Greed is beginning to take hold. A terrible black fluid fuelled greed that would be slaked only by blood.
To the outside world it starts simply enough if parties are watching the countless thousands of channels that lance down from the endless opiate like memes this nations networks spew to there relatively happy masses. Talk of tipping points, of resource imparity, and of long term national boundary security in a dozen documentaries. In its cruder form it goes down to intelligentsia cursed day time TV which in the modern age has in this state gained more power than the world shattering works of marx could have ever had in his worse nightmares envisioned. The will of mankind bent to a few words that did not even have the backing of a single degree behind them. Now must come the jingoism. The driving dark illogical heart of war.
Flick
And of course we trust our allies but in the long term is it security we want or free access?
Flick
Happy Fun Fun foods now offers you the chance to visit sunny
Flick
But of course dear how can we expect people who still have
Flick
A garden of peace for the working
Flick
Jimmy you know the Swansons mean well but there just not from around here
Flick
Sarge! its my leg Sarge they done shot it off!
Flick
Who wants fries with thaaat!
And finally on a slip of yellow paper spat out of hundreds of whining line printers.
Milicom Universal Transmission, all departments Northern Theatre
Strategic Action Order B39
Forced acquisition and securing of the Isle of Milton and surrounding waters.
To insure the long term security and organised exploitation of resources found in this location all units of the Northern Command are to take the following actions...
Pithead, North East Arctic territory, Industrial settlement
Snow and ice and more snow and ice, skree covered slopes occasionally dimpled by the wounds of strip mines and vast rolling icy walls of glaciers, the endless white broken by the ugly cubic primary coloured modular civilian buildings surrounded by embankments made out of skree to try to lower the eternal wind chill in the planets largest ice box. It may as well have been Mars and it was just about as sterile in parts. Pithead was a godless hole of a settlement officially constructed purely to support the copper mines. From the outside it looked like a crazed jumble of giant kids building blocks with the odd massive rebar built ice sheathed tower jutting into the sky like fingers put up against the face of god. Just under 18,000 miners and a smattering of support staff were based in its plastic covered corridors. Release was neccesary and a few neon covered buildings which outwardly looked like any other served that purpose for many while a few fled to the giant greenhouse of a leisure park at the towns concrete centre. Pithead was the only thing on the surface that would without close view give the base away though in its construction and even then it could have been mistaken for the half dozen other vast mines being build the decade before. It had been for a while quite visibile to all the peaking electronic eyes as the artic wind whipped the artificial and soon to be ice vapour clouds the site had been shrouded in. Linked by tunnels only large enough to take the endless conveyors of rubble out or pipe concrete into the half dozen other mines in the area equipment and extraction had gone on to create the airbase. Occasionally a large snow plough would carefully move a large dune of ice for a cargo convoy that "happened" to pass. Who needs concrete when you have ice. Now pretence was gone. It was time for action.
An icy plane 65 miles from Pithead. A line of what where reported to be polar watch aerospace radar domes sat supposedly linked to the state SDI network. Usually silent, now blasting across the ice with inhuman loudness came a woman's slightly distraught voice
"Commence battlestations procedure! Battlestations Battlestations! Sound launch stages! This is a full scale emergency!"
First came the pylons, unfolding up through the ice covered in LADAR emmiters and microwave links and the crazed rainbow covered globes of air defence laser optics at there heights. A veritable antennae farm growing out of the icy rock.
Ice fountained upwards as hydraulics screamed and a set of huge elevators rose in succession with briefly viewed blast doors ripping open the surface and the iris covered mouths of ducts blasted the ice away with nuclear heated steam from the facilities huge reactors. Tracked dumpy vehicles then roared off these elevators and dozens of ramps in a preplanned diesel powered ballet. Along what shortly would be the runways half tracks slammed down linked metal matting before nozzles mounted on there cabs blasted out hundreds of tons of quick setting durable plastic gunk from tanks buried deep below and rollers mounted on the fronts of half a dozen massive air defence modified TR29s tanks which were rolling of the now constantly operating elevators begin insuring the ice around this plastic is formed into taxi ways. Finally the elevators rose with the payload they had been intended for, the massive brutish forms of Type 1000 bombers making there appearance there under wing pods festooned with aerolance AAMs, launch assist solid rocket boosters, ARADs, and the dull forms of half a dozen types of cruise missile. It took minutes for the final checks before the huge aircraft screeched into the sky on there conventional jets, there nuclear thermal RAMs intakes clawing in air desperate to reach self supporting ignition. The procedure would be repeated again and again until over 40 of the huge aircraft were blundering through the air on there way to a point some 600 miles from Miltons coast line.
Defence Tor White Anvil
The screaming of alarms and turbines filled the air of hanger bay 14 and engineer Gary Pool slid the data stick out of the avionics pod below the compressor for the last time before the cruise missile slid away on its belt to join its fellows on the massed munitions carousel as the fortress prepared to unleash its long range might upon every port in Milton. It and its twelve brethren whoms angular reinforced concrete blast door covered countenances stared out into the waters around the Arctic territories would within minutes salvo just over 2000 massive stealthy Scythe ICCMs at the infrastructure, possible airstrips, actual airstrips, piers and identified fuel depots of Milton. Some would be nothing but huge electronic screamers, there payload bay packed with chaff and counter munitions, others were loaded with the dull masses of short range hypersonic penetrators and the final spread with a horrible mix of landmines.
South West shore, Milton
Some people arrive before others. Almost a full day before the action order four of the exotic stealthy and rather expensive Corona stealth bombers had dumped a load of rather odd devices into the icy sea nearly 200 miles from the Isle of Miltons shores. Drag chutes, the dull thud of a ribbon chute and the whine and final clink as the servos which for moments controlled the cables slipped away into the brine had filled there occupants prayer filled moments as the things dropped. The lobsters were conversions of the rhapsody drone minisub. Carrying at most three men they could in theory at least with drop tanks in place of the torpedoes they usually carried cross an ocean. In this case and to the eternal thanks of there inhabitants whos cramped and even with the most expensive equipment available very smelly occupiancy was wished to be short they were carrying supplies instead.
Major Deveroux almost smiled as the cold air outside the lobster hit his grim unshaven blackened face before he slid down the combat information and command visor over his aquiline nose, a feature seemingly out of place on his robust stocky frame. A rocky shore surmounted by cliffs filled his now considerably enhanced view as it borrowed from his troopers gunsights and the small flotilla of lobsters telescopic cameras. Deveroux's lobsters tiny conning towers ring of screens lifted far upwards as the upper hull opened out to reveal the three individual helmeted heads in the twilight and the propulsors ever so silently whined the unit of 25 tech ninja shoreward, and moving almost by instinct there was the dull metallics clicks as the suppressed compact caseless weapons were unsafed.
OOC: Until further notice request entry by TG please.
It begins not with a bang, nore the scream of countless turbines nore even the clink of metal upon metal as a rifles bolt is drawn home. It begins with silence, the total silence of the void.
Orbit
Earthlight streamed upwards illuminating the dull kevlar and titanium sheets of the whipple shield that protected the MAS Very High Resolution array Earth Resource Platform. This was no mere sattalite but an assembly made from multiple launches and hundreds of hours in EVA construction bolting the cooling array of the huge nuclear pile pod to the mass of radiator fins and ducts that fed the great radar. The single huge ground penetrating radar the platform carried like a demented metallic spider trying to move a giant D20 could penetrate almost 2 miles of rock to hungrily seek out the rich seams of ores and hydrocarbons that fuelled the Incorporated State. Upon one be strutted titanium boron outrigger lenses delicately reposition as data flows upward from the Mount Regal orbital command facility buried deep in the snow capped mountains above Aurilias steamy central jungles. Cold gas is spat from numerous thrusters and as it repositions and as delicately as a flower the whipple shield sections unfold to reveal the multi megawatt monstrous transmitter.
Analysing in total silence slowly but surely it begins to draw a picture, first only of interest to geologists but soon for those who in the darker places of the state understand. Decision is already made by the cold numbers arcing through the great mainframes that dominate the choices made by the factions that rule. Now voices begin. Decisions already made arent made in public and still at least for show must require human interaction, this is not the free state it once was and nore is that ever the way such skulduggery is arranged, oligarchs rule here and so quite talks over well made meals that cost more than a week long holiday for an ordinary family go on in discreet locations. These men and women who make up the effective ruling class are money but far from ostentatious in there dress or there views, and spuriously even now they still believe themselves to be the true rulers. Now even in there wizened sense of adventure something worms its way inwards as the reports continue to flow. Something that until now has been at least directly quite bloodless. Greed is beginning to take hold. A terrible black fluid fuelled greed that would be slaked only by blood.
To the outside world it starts simply enough if parties are watching the countless thousands of channels that lance down from the endless opiate like memes this nations networks spew to there relatively happy masses. Talk of tipping points, of resource imparity, and of long term national boundary security in a dozen documentaries. In its cruder form it goes down to intelligentsia cursed day time TV which in the modern age has in this state gained more power than the world shattering works of marx could have ever had in his worse nightmares envisioned. The will of mankind bent to a few words that did not even have the backing of a single degree behind them. Now must come the jingoism. The driving dark illogical heart of war.
Flick
And of course we trust our allies but in the long term is it security we want or free access?
Flick
Happy Fun Fun foods now offers you the chance to visit sunny
Flick
But of course dear how can we expect people who still have
Flick
A garden of peace for the working
Flick
Jimmy you know the Swansons mean well but there just not from around here
Flick
Sarge! its my leg Sarge they done shot it off!
Flick
Who wants fries with thaaat!
And finally on a slip of yellow paper spat out of hundreds of whining line printers.
Milicom Universal Transmission, all departments Northern Theatre
Strategic Action Order B39
Forced acquisition and securing of the Isle of Milton and surrounding waters.
To insure the long term security and organised exploitation of resources found in this location all units of the Northern Command are to take the following actions...
Pithead, North East Arctic territory, Industrial settlement
Snow and ice and more snow and ice, skree covered slopes occasionally dimpled by the wounds of strip mines and vast rolling icy walls of glaciers, the endless white broken by the ugly cubic primary coloured modular civilian buildings surrounded by embankments made out of skree to try to lower the eternal wind chill in the planets largest ice box. It may as well have been Mars and it was just about as sterile in parts. Pithead was a godless hole of a settlement officially constructed purely to support the copper mines. From the outside it looked like a crazed jumble of giant kids building blocks with the odd massive rebar built ice sheathed tower jutting into the sky like fingers put up against the face of god. Just under 18,000 miners and a smattering of support staff were based in its plastic covered corridors. Release was neccesary and a few neon covered buildings which outwardly looked like any other served that purpose for many while a few fled to the giant greenhouse of a leisure park at the towns concrete centre. Pithead was the only thing on the surface that would without close view give the base away though in its construction and even then it could have been mistaken for the half dozen other vast mines being build the decade before. It had been for a while quite visibile to all the peaking electronic eyes as the artic wind whipped the artificial and soon to be ice vapour clouds the site had been shrouded in. Linked by tunnels only large enough to take the endless conveyors of rubble out or pipe concrete into the half dozen other mines in the area equipment and extraction had gone on to create the airbase. Occasionally a large snow plough would carefully move a large dune of ice for a cargo convoy that "happened" to pass. Who needs concrete when you have ice. Now pretence was gone. It was time for action.
An icy plane 65 miles from Pithead. A line of what where reported to be polar watch aerospace radar domes sat supposedly linked to the state SDI network. Usually silent, now blasting across the ice with inhuman loudness came a woman's slightly distraught voice
"Commence battlestations procedure! Battlestations Battlestations! Sound launch stages! This is a full scale emergency!"
First came the pylons, unfolding up through the ice covered in LADAR emmiters and microwave links and the crazed rainbow covered globes of air defence laser optics at there heights. A veritable antennae farm growing out of the icy rock.
Ice fountained upwards as hydraulics screamed and a set of huge elevators rose in succession with briefly viewed blast doors ripping open the surface and the iris covered mouths of ducts blasted the ice away with nuclear heated steam from the facilities huge reactors. Tracked dumpy vehicles then roared off these elevators and dozens of ramps in a preplanned diesel powered ballet. Along what shortly would be the runways half tracks slammed down linked metal matting before nozzles mounted on there cabs blasted out hundreds of tons of quick setting durable plastic gunk from tanks buried deep below and rollers mounted on the fronts of half a dozen massive air defence modified TR29s tanks which were rolling of the now constantly operating elevators begin insuring the ice around this plastic is formed into taxi ways. Finally the elevators rose with the payload they had been intended for, the massive brutish forms of Type 1000 bombers making there appearance there under wing pods festooned with aerolance AAMs, launch assist solid rocket boosters, ARADs, and the dull forms of half a dozen types of cruise missile. It took minutes for the final checks before the huge aircraft screeched into the sky on there conventional jets, there nuclear thermal RAMs intakes clawing in air desperate to reach self supporting ignition. The procedure would be repeated again and again until over 40 of the huge aircraft were blundering through the air on there way to a point some 600 miles from Miltons coast line.
Defence Tor White Anvil
The screaming of alarms and turbines filled the air of hanger bay 14 and engineer Gary Pool slid the data stick out of the avionics pod below the compressor for the last time before the cruise missile slid away on its belt to join its fellows on the massed munitions carousel as the fortress prepared to unleash its long range might upon every port in Milton. It and its twelve brethren whoms angular reinforced concrete blast door covered countenances stared out into the waters around the Arctic territories would within minutes salvo just over 2000 massive stealthy Scythe ICCMs at the infrastructure, possible airstrips, actual airstrips, piers and identified fuel depots of Milton. Some would be nothing but huge electronic screamers, there payload bay packed with chaff and counter munitions, others were loaded with the dull masses of short range hypersonic penetrators and the final spread with a horrible mix of landmines.
South West shore, Milton
Some people arrive before others. Almost a full day before the action order four of the exotic stealthy and rather expensive Corona stealth bombers had dumped a load of rather odd devices into the icy sea nearly 200 miles from the Isle of Miltons shores. Drag chutes, the dull thud of a ribbon chute and the whine and final clink as the servos which for moments controlled the cables slipped away into the brine had filled there occupants prayer filled moments as the things dropped. The lobsters were conversions of the rhapsody drone minisub. Carrying at most three men they could in theory at least with drop tanks in place of the torpedoes they usually carried cross an ocean. In this case and to the eternal thanks of there inhabitants whos cramped and even with the most expensive equipment available very smelly occupiancy was wished to be short they were carrying supplies instead.
Major Deveroux almost smiled as the cold air outside the lobster hit his grim unshaven blackened face before he slid down the combat information and command visor over his aquiline nose, a feature seemingly out of place on his robust stocky frame. A rocky shore surmounted by cliffs filled his now considerably enhanced view as it borrowed from his troopers gunsights and the small flotilla of lobsters telescopic cameras. Deveroux's lobsters tiny conning towers ring of screens lifted far upwards as the upper hull opened out to reveal the three individual helmeted heads in the twilight and the propulsors ever so silently whined the unit of 25 tech ninja shoreward, and moving almost by instinct there was the dull metallics clicks as the suppressed compact caseless weapons were unsafed.
OOC: Until further notice request entry by TG please.