NationStates Jolt Archive

[Freeberth, the Aurelian Union]

“Come on, man, just one for the road!”

The bartender stared at the brash young man, his irritation and indignation plainly evident on his mustached visage, tiredly reiterating his previous request.

“You’ve had your fill tonight, sir; I’m not permitted to sell you anymore alcoholic beverages.”

The youth, still dressed in the formal attire of an Aurelian Ground Defense Force enlisted man, shook his head in defeat, walking with a slight impediment to the door of the establishment. As he passed the dining room, he shot a wolfish glance at a pair of young women being seated by the harried looking maître’de. Their response was similar to that of the bartender. With a frown on his face, the young corporal pushed open the door of the bar with perceptible hostility towards the owners of the object, cursing as the cold immediately begin to nip at his uncovered hands. He exhaled visibly, the cloud of condensing breath billowing out as he rubbed his hands together and searched for his car along the curb. He had to make it home tonight, and with the amount of alcohol he had consumed in the hours past, that directive might have just proven to be more of a challenge than he could handle, had it not been for the timely intervention of the Air Defense Force.

The biting stench of gasoline and the distinct thunder of a motorbike engine overwhelmed his rapidly numbing senses, and out of the corner of his eye he spotted movement. A friendly wave and an equally friendly (if a little mischievous) face caught his attention immediately, and, despite the cold, he mustered a wave back.

“Jackson, what the hell are you doin` out here?”

Despite the clear fact that it was eleven ‘o’ clock in the evening in the middle of the cloud front, the rider of the motorcycle wore the distinct outlines of aviator sunglasses, which, almost on their own, slid down to the bridge of his nose.

“I could ask you the same thing, Corporal Braun. Doesn’t your leave end at ten thirty?”

Despite the dreary weather, Jackson managed to “salute” his superior officer, who all too eagerly returned it as he walked his bike to the curb. After pausing a moment to bring the kickstand out from the bottom of the bike’s engine block, he slid his leg over the side, hopping with a bounce onto the pavement of the sidewalk.

“Yeah, it does, I lost track of time. You know me and the ladies.”

The man known as Jackson, evidently a pilot from the numerous patches and insignias adorning his jacket, quickly glanced at the inside of the bar, briefly returning the stares of the two women who had turned down his comrade’s “offer” a few moments before. By their mildly offended looks, he guessed that the result of the offer did not bode well for his subordinate. With a sarcastic smile, he returned his gaze to Braun.

“Sure, Corporal, you’re a pimp if I’ve ever seen one.”

Braun frowned.

“Thanks, asshole. It’s great to know you can pull rank when it suits you.”

Jackson threw his hands up in mock apology.

“Well, sorry, Mr. Braun, but it’s not my fault you didn’t come out to the ROTC with me.”

Shaking his head, Braun glanced at his watch.

“Look, man, I don’t want to have this discussion here, it’s going on eleven fifteen, I gotta get back to fort an- what the hell are you looking at?”

Jackson snapped his attention back to the annoyed soldier standing in front of him, momentarily ignoring the two girls, who by now wore amused looks on their faces, faces which immediately turned towards each other when they caught sight of Braun staring back at them. Jackson heartily laughed.

“Hey, maybe I was wrong about you, you should go back in there and talk to them.”

Braun further descended into irritancy.

“Look, bro, if I don’t get back the only action I’ll be getting will involve WD-40, a twenty mike-mike round, and my platoon commander, and I sure as hell won’t be the pitcher.”

Jackson’s playful attitude finally broke, and he threw his hands up once again, this time in surrender.

“Alright, I understand you’re liquored up, get in your ride, and follow me closely. We don’t want to ruin your night any further by getting blood and guts on your car, do we?”

After a moment of discussion, the two military men departed for their separate vehicles, avoiding two feminine pairs of eyes staring at a certain part of the rear anatomy as they walked past. Women could be treacherous little creatures, Braun reflected as he climbed into the driver’s seat and shut the door behind them.

All the more fun, he added, turning the key.

[The Titan, the Free State of Isengrad]

"As you can see, the situation is slowly but steadily deteriorating."

Seated around the sterile metallic conference table were various high ranking naval personalities, each sporting the distinct regalia of their respective national maritime defense forces, from the vast Aurelian Naval Defense Force to the small but still effective Sylvanian Federal Sea Corps. United by the star of the Velkyan Federation that was emblazoned in the center of the table, the sixteen military attaches and their aides congregated around a large rear projection display on the shorter side wall, where a strapping young Rezan commander stood with a laser pointer.

Directing to several points on the display (which depicted a blown up image of the seas around the large Southeastern Haven continent), the lad continued.

"Allied naval units on patrol along these patrol axises have reported several passive SONAR contacts over the past few weeks, consistent with the blade counts and audio signatures of Chukrainian diesel-electric attack submarines. After a thorough investigation of these reports by the Federation Naval Intelligence committee, it has been ruled that the past few weeks have seen a marked increase in the activity of Chukrainian subsurface assets in this sector of Haven."

Several of the men concealed looks of slight shock and surprise at the revelation. Ignoring this, the presenter continued.

"Given that the Northern Concordant's SOSUS reconnaissance system only extends coverage to the northeastern sector of Haven, and that similar APOC systems have been thrown into disarray by the Muncherian rebellion, we lack a definite means with which to track potentially hostile subsurface egress and ingress into Havenic waters."

One of the men raised his hand, with the young commander nodded in acceptance of the forthcoming inquiry.

"Admiral?"

The much older man nodded, his gray bear and weathered visage stereotypical of his professional. As he nodded, the stars of an Isengradi Grand Admiral shown brightly on his collar.

"What of the Zeppelin Manufacturers, and their extensive surveillance networks?"

The younger officer furrowed his brow, a small amount of frustration peering through his otherwise calm azure eyes.

"The ZMIDF's sensory network, to our knowledge, does not protect the far southeastern approaches to Haven, particularly around the Cravanian Home Islands, nearly as adequately as it does the approaches around its own homeland."

Another officer posed a question.

"You said diesel electric, correct? Those have short legs, particularly in long distance open ocean work. Could it be possible they've established a base somewhere in the region?"

Directing the attention of the group towards Muncheria, the man explained.

"Muncheria should be our likely candidate, both in my opinion and that of our intelligence resources. The current revolutionary government is gravitating towards a Stalinist regime, and it would fail to be very surprising if it sought allies within the ranks of the Arrutian Pact."

"The Chukrainian Revolutionary Navy also possesses a significant number of merchantmen it has converted to submarine tenders which could be acting as mother ships for the attack boats under the cover of darkness, transferring to normal transit lanes during daylight hours."

A third officer chimed in, "What are our options at the moment?"

The presenting officer sighed.

"At this very moment, not much. Our contacts, while overall consistent and concentrated, are individually fleeting. They do not roam far from the Muncherian continental shelf, and, with a few exceptions, have not behaved aggressively towards allied forces in the area."

"Exceptions?"

"One incident in particular, involving the Skyian Republican Navy destroyer Vodnik, stands out. A Chukrainian submarine began to close within anti-shipping missile range of the vessel, and was fired upon by an antisubmarine picket aircraft. No hits were scored, and the sub fled the area at flank speed, but it was a close call. The event in question occurred barely a week ago."

The inquiring officer's emergent response was suddenly cut short by the crash of a door that had been slammed into the wall it was bolted to. A harried looking aide, his uniform slightly dishelved and his glasses askew, burst into the room, a small brown folder in his grasp. The disapproving looks given to him by the occupants of the room were promptly ignored, and, between rushed pants, he slammed the article down on the table. He snapped a sloppy salute to the officers in the room, who responded with an inquiry.

"Sailor, what is the meaning of this?"

"Sir, the AUS Freemantle was just sunk off of Akimonad!"