NationStates Jolt Archive

Irkutsk, Siberia, 1900

Far removed from the bustle and crowding of the west, Irkutsk had rapidly earned a reputation as the 'Paris of Siberia' with the completion of the Trans-Siberian Railroad. Its population of fifty thousand and long history, dating back to the 17th century, had made it a popular destination for vacationers amoung the aristocracy. Its remoteness had also made it popular for another reason.

Section 7 (Of His Imperial Majesty's Own Chancellery) had set up shop there shortly after the first train had arrived. Its isolation from mainland Europe, and, thus, the spies and intrigues thereof, had made it ideal for the particular work of that department. The presence of the rail provided all of their needs and allowed a sufficient inflow of test subjects, when they were required.

Their building, number 22 Lermontova Street, was directly across from the university, giving them plenty of students to take care of mundane work. Mostly copying the works of Nikola Tesla over in the United States, pumping out the occasional 'breakthrough' for the Russian people to gawk at. They had been reasonably successful.

But the main project, the really ground-shaking one, was taking place in the sub-basement, which didn't exist on any floor plans and had been disguised by the building of a 'metro line' in the area, plans which were subsequently abandoned because of 'dangerous gas pockets'. It had all worked out rather well.

But now, Project T-4 the fruit of a decade of labor, was nearing completion. Affectionately known as 'slingshot' by those working on it, the device was mostly composed of a number of large electromagnets, hooked up to equipment that would make any mad scientist green with envy. This lab could easily have raised at least a dozen Frankenstein monsters in a day or two, had those inside been keen to try it.

But they were focused on something rather more complicated than stitching corpses together and running lightning through them.

...

The sharp crackle and acrid smell of electricity filled the air. Bolts of energy zipped overhead. Pools of acids and other chemicals of an even less pleasant nature stood in open vats all around. It was not a work environment OSHA would approve of. Two or three of the more trusted students, protoges of the scientists actually doing the work, were allowed in, on the strict prohibition that they would have their tongues pulled out with red hot pokers if they so much as thought to hard about their work in the lab.

Dr. Albert Messiker, a German by descent, but that was by no means unusual within the Russian Empire, clocked his own assistant on the back of the head.
"Come,Vassily! Hurry up! No not there, THERE! I said THERE!" Messiker pointed to a vat of something, which bubbled stickily. It gave off a smell of combined week-old apples and burning rubber.

Vassily, who had gotten used to this, moved quickly, dumping the contents of his bucket into the vat, which seemed to have little effect aside from causing him to be hit in the face with a cloud of foul-smelling fumes, which probably nearly instantly gave him cancer. He coughed and tried to wave the fumes away, which seemed to help a bit.

Messiker, meanwhile, had joined his comrades up on the viewing platform. The gaggle of scientists represented, perhaps, the greatest and most eccentric collection of geniuses in Russia. Most of them had a number of degrees in fields they had made up themselves, although whether this was a sign of genius or arrogance was not obvious at first. In most cases it was both.

The project, such as it was, was centered around a large track, which, in turn, surrounded a contraption of staggering complexity. Exactly what it was for, or the details of its operation, could probably only be divined by the person who built it. And even then, they would probably have to guess a few of the details.

Today, though, it would finally be put into operation for the first time. All the research and effort would see the realization of the millions of roubles poured into the project. All the years of effort. All for the charge laid upon them by the Tsar. It was a fairly simple directive, in form if not in execution.

"Win Russia's next war."

Easy enough. The first five years had been spent working on weapons, direct means of destroying the enemy. Gases, bombs, artillery, all manner of destructive devices.

Then one of the scientists, reading of Tesla's work, had come up with an idea.

Why not win the next war by winning the LAST war?

It was a common saying, even then, that nations are always training to fight the previous war. So, why not go back fifty years, to the last great war, supply the Russian army with the tools it needed, and have done with it? Surely the British, French and Turks would be crushed by the presence of Russian soldiers armed with modern weapons, training, and the fine ships of the great fleets of the Black and Baltic seas?

Of course, the main problem was getting them there.

But that was a problem they were about to solve...

...

Tsarskoye Selo, south of St. Petersburg. The Alexander Palace.

It was a rather muggy day here, just off the gulf of Finland. While stereotypically cold in the winter, it could get quite warm here during the summer months, and spring was even worse, when all the ground turned to ankle-deep, sucking, mud. But inside, it was pleasant, at least. A fairly recent invention, the 'air conditioner' had recently been added to the buildings heating system, which apparently produced marvelously cool air at the touch of a button. Something about mixing ammonia with something or other. Regardless, it worked. And it meant that you didn't spent all day fanning yourself when there was work to do.

Tsar Nicholas II, Emperor and Autocrat of All Russias, stared bleakly at the reports in front of him. The situation with Japan was getting out of hand. While, of course, as the God-appointed protector of Russia he could not possibly lose a war, the British might take it as a sign of weakness should Russia fail to respond adequately.

The office around him was crowded with documents, relating to the state of Russia, or her neighbors, but all requiring his attention. His dear Alexandra, meanwhile, was several months pregnant and taking it easy in the room next door. A sudden blast of Beethoven's 'Fifth', from a gramophone upstairs (on its highest volume setting, very nearly shaking the windows) announced that Olga was seeking to annoy her tutor again. Nicholas made a mental note to give the poor man a raise. His next child would, hopefully, be just as lively. Little Tatiana was probably in the nursery still, and Maria would be having her mid-day nap.

As for his next child, who he could only hope was a son...he was with his mother, wasn't he?

The Tsar glanced at the paper in his hands again. Apparently the Japanese prime minister, that Hirobumi fellow, was keen to start negotiations regarding Korea and Manchuria...something about a trade. As if the Tsar of All Russias would deign to negotiate with some upstart Asian country, barely out of the dark ages.

He tossed the letter aside, aware of a strange noise in the background now.

A sort of odd crackling, getting louder. A distinct rumbling noise as well...

Nicholas stepped over to the window, opening it to stick his head out into the heat of the day.

Now, he was fairly sure that was not normal.

A wall, glowing a rather menacing blue...at least a mile high, if one could grasp the scale of such an object, stretching from horizon to horizon, even now moving with great speed towards them. The only sound it made was the crackle, and the slight rumble which didn't seem to be growing louder as it came closer. It was moving so fast...the Tsar, in the manner of a man who can't comprehend what he is seeing, knowing only that it's probably not a good thing.

He stumbled back inside, fumbled with the knob of his study door, and almost fell into the hallway. Rebounding off the opposite wall, he made a grab for Alexandra's bedroom door, but missed.

This was due to the fact that the wall hit at that second. And Nicholas suddenly found himself looking at an infinite progression of doors, stretching out in all directions, through time and space. Most were in the process of opening or closing. He saw a few, further away, being kicked in by soldiers of some sort...which was odd. But right now there were other issues to be dealt with.

And then, the brief moment of...strangeness was over. The Tsar looked around, his head swimming, trying to focus. Apparently he had fallen forward and hit his head on the doorknob. Gingerly, feeling around his scalp, he detected the presence of a rather unpleasant lump on his forehead. At that point his brain decided that it had had enough of these shenanigans, and shut down for a breather.

...

The present day, an open stretch of ocean.

It has often been remarked that the death of continents is a dramatic event. Volcanos appear, spouting lava and ash. There are tornadoes, hurricanes, and various huge storms. Veritable fleets of old men in rafts flee for less civilized areas of the world, because they've heard that the women there really dig pyramids.

The creation of a continent, though, or, at least, the sudden displacement of one, was a bit less of a huge event. Initially, at least. Unless you were one of the fish who got in the way.

The sudden appearance of many millions of square miles of geography in the midst of an ocean would, probably, cause some remark on the manner of its arrival, and, indeed, its affect on trade, climate and weather patterns worldwide. A lot of the people were really startled as well. Especially the unfortuate ones who just happened to be exactly on the edge of the transport zone, and who ended up leaving half of themselves back in 1900.

Viewed from above, the vast oval of transported terrain would be seen to include all of Russia, the eastern portion of German and Austria-Hungary, a good portion of Turkey, the eastern Balkans, northern Persia and India, Afghanistan, most of China, and all of Japan north of Tokyo. The 'cut' was perfect, along the edges where land had been separated from land. In some places, huge vertical rock faces miles in height, perfectly smooth, showed an excellent cross section, displaying the stratification of the mountains. Other places, caught below the new sea level, found themselves underwater very quickly.

Many, especially in Japan, Germany, and Austria, found themselves cut off from their national leadership, being cut off from their capitals. Riots quickly ensued in those areas, consuming most of the remaining area in a few days as people panicked. British and German forces in China were less quick to catch on, communication being rather slower from that location, but ships sent south, to discover that almost a third of China (and most of India, as well as all of Southeast Asia and Indonesia) had vanished, returned with startled reports. This set off a panic amoung the Europeans in China as well.

The Chinese, Koreans, Turks and Afghanis took the turn of events better. Afghanistan didn't even have a truly centralized government, and had, in any case, been left mostly in-tact. China, being China, kept a stolid silence on the matter, mostly just glad that the Japanese weren't a threat anymore. Turkey, having retained its capital, at least, kept some semblance of order, even if the outlying villages and cities did get rather unsettled. The disappearance of the Holy Land made things rather difficult for everybody involved when it came to religious matters.

The world had changed, for better or worse. It seemed like it was planning on staying that way. For now, at least.


(OOC:
Map:
http://img379.imageshack.us/my.php?image=theworldchangedwv4.png

For the record, the time travel is just a plot device to get the Imperial Russia of 1900 into the modern day. And I found it rather amusing :P
There have been some other historical alternations, as students of history will no doubt have detected. But, time travel aside, I don't plan on having any more crazy steampunk technology that can't be reasonably developed as a result of early 20th century contact with 21st century technology ;) )

Ocean Patrol Aircraft


The Tu-95 was just doing routine air surveillance , as it did every day. No one expected to see something as bazaar as this..


"Nothing..as usual."


"Hey, whats up with the anomaly detector? It's acting up, but we aren't anywhere near the homeland.."


"Probably a.... whoa, did you guys just see that!?"

"What is it... holy shit., where'd that continent come from?"

"Radio back home about this, then fly over it."

"HQ, this is Air Patrol 13, come in, over.."




Once they complete the flyover, and see any signs of life, the Government would opt to send an expeditionary group to make contact with the people if possible.

St. Petersburg, the Mariinsky Palace

"Just what the HELL is going on?!" Field Marshal Milyutin bellowed above the jabbering which even now filled the State Council hall. A hundred other voices all striving to be heard above each other at the same time. Milyutin's voice, however, seemed to carry better, and the chatter died down. All eyes turned to him.

An aid approached, bearing a sheaf of telegraph notes, "Sir, reports from all over...w-well...it looks like everywhere else is...gone, sir. They're trying to work out a map right now, but its difficult. We cant get in contact with the Royal Geographic Society. The people in the Muscovy Company offices say they cant find anybody either. The Chinese haven't got a clue either...I don't think anybody knows, sir."

The Field Marshal nodded, as if to himself, "Issue a notice to all military commanders to make ready. This might be a British trick of some sort...I wouldn't put it past those damn Japs to have come up with something like this either. Get Admiral Kolsyov to put the fleets on alert, too. I don't want them caught in the harbors if something happens."

The aid retreated, trailing a few nervous assistants of his own.

Milyutin cleared his throat, "Alright, I wan-"

Another aid burst in, this one sweating slightly and looking nervous, "Airplane! There's an airplane! Coming in over the Gulf! I-Its huge!"

Clearly irritated, Milyutin cleared his throat, waving a hand at the new aid, "Dispatch the fighters from St. Petersburg Air Force Base. Warn them down, if they wont land, blast them out of the sky."

...

It took about ten minutes to get the squadron of SPAD's into the air, burdened as they were with being virtual prototypes of combat aircraft, it was rather suprising they could fly at all.

It took them a further ten minutes to get within visual range of the TU-95, even at their maximum speed (about 130 miles an hour). It quickly became clear that they were not going to catch the bomber, though.

Despite their best efforts, the foreign aircraft quickly overpassed them. Despite the frantic gestures of the pilots, there wasn't much that they could do. Radios were huge, expensive, and not exactly aircraft-portable. The pilots had done their best with gestures and mirrors, but it seemed to have been to no avail.

(bump)

(OOC: Ah! Something original for once!)

Angenteria City
Imperial Palace

Emperor Marcus Riektal stormed into the meeting room, guards at his flanks, looking slightly unperturbed. Nothing like this had ever happened before. In all the history of the world. Ever. Being Emperor for only a year, and at such a young age, he didn't have enough experience as it was.

The Lord-Ministers and Military officers stood up upon Marcus' entrance, worry written upon their faces. They had absolutely no idea what the hell was going on either. Nobody did. Marcus approached the head chair, and sat down, all those present taking a seat as well. A large screen showing a live satellite feed sat on a wall, showing a gouging landmass appearing out of nowhere on the Earth's surface.

"Okay." Marcus began, a nervous smile across his face. "Who wants to tell me what the hell is going on?"

"W-Well, my Lord." Tiberius Reginus, Lord-Minister of Foreign Affairs, stammered. Being nervous was quite unlike him, but he had a good reason to be. "A....uhh...a continent seemed to have appeared out of nowhere."

"I know that!" Marcus snapped "But how, and why? This sort of thing doesn't happen like this. It just doesn't!" He was trying to keep a level head as Angenteria's Emperor, but it was certainly hard right now. He calmed down before speaking. "What's the situation at home?"

"My Lord." Liam Nelson, Lord-Minister of the Interior, said. "Amazing, nothing. It seems the people are as numb with surprise as we are, or just don't know yet."

"That's good. Inform me if that changes."

"By Your will."

"Zyvan, what do you think?"

Lord-General Militant Cornelius Zyvan stood up. "Well, My Lord. This situation has never happened before, but I'd advise a quick fly-over to confirm what we're seeing, followed by the immediate deployment of an expedition to the...uhh...continent."

"Make it happen."
------------------------------------------------------------
Minutes later...

Four Angenterian interceptor jets screamed through the sky, keeping a tight formation as they flew. They were coming up on the landmass, as they proceeded with the fly-by.

"Apollo 1 here." The lead pilot spoke. "Proceeding with the flyby. Confirm camera feed."

"Command here." A voice came though. "Camera feed confirmed. By the Emperor, it's huge!"

"Acknowledged."

The jets screamed through the air, as the fly-by continued.

While clearly of terrestrial origin, the land below was, to the least, odd. There was very little industrial development visible outside of a few hugely developed central cities. Even there, though, it was clear that something was a bit off.

The streets were virtually all cobbled roads, rather than paved. The dress was, much like the streets, distinctly 19th century. Coal-fired electrical plants and factories belched smoke, and telegraph cables snaked over the landscape.
Once over Siberia and Central Asia, most signs of population vanished. The Trans-Siberian Railroad drawing a clear line across the vast bulk of Russia's hinterland, cities clinging to it like grapes on a vine.

As with the other strange jet, a few biplanes took to the sky to intercept the Angenterian(?) aircraft, but were quickly left behind, their pilots rather lost in the wake. Below, peasants watched as the one-sided chase passed them over, gaping in awe or fleeing from the terrible noise that filled the air, so unlike the planes they knew.

Reports quickly circulated, throughout Russia and the remainder of Europe, as well as Asia, of alien invasions. Riots, already spreading throughout the remnants of the periphery states, quickly intensified at this new 'threat'.

...

St. Petersburg, the Mariinsky Palace

BULLETIN REPORT:
GERMAN GVT DISSOLVED, SEVER RIOTS IN GRMN PLND. EMP. JOSEPH AUST FLEES TO UKR. OTM SLTN MBLZ ARMY. NO CNCT W/ UK, FNC, JPN, SWD, DMK, NRW, ET AL.

The report was read off to the silent State Council, now with the Tsar present, nursing his head. Everybody, including the Tsar, looked worried.

"We must maintain order! Preserve Holy Russia above all, majesty. Let the Germans and Austrians riot. Russia is the rock!" Paul Vasilovich stood, palms firmly planted on the table, "God will protect us from these...whatever they are."

"Aliens? Psh." This voice was Milyutin, "We have to ACT. If we allow these...anarchists and socialists to take power in Germany and Austria the results will be terrible. We must move in and stabilize those countries."

"Invade, you mean? As if we have the resources to deal with something like that! Even the the Austrian Emperor knows that he has to cut his losses and run." Paul struck the table with a fist.

"We will deploy our soldiers." Nicholas spoke, suddenly, "My great-grandfather did not allow liberals to take power...and I will not either. Please arrange for housing for Emperor Joseph as well...ensure that his stay is comfortable as possible. Order a general mobilization of the army, and send troops to stabilize Germany and Austria...we can deal with the Turks when their time comes."
Nicholas smiled slightly, "On the bright side, gentlemen, I believe it is safe to say our debt to France and the British has been annulled."

"Patrol to HQ, we can confirm that there is life on the new land mass, course of action?"

"Did you make contact?"


"No radio contact, but several propeller planes did take flight, assuming to communicate. We were pretty far away from them, but they did use mirrors. The tail gunner said he understood it."

"Refuel, then return to drop leaflets in several languages."


The leaflets would speak of a contact force arriving shortly after, who've of which would like to make contact with the highest officials.

----
KGB Director's office

As the Director looked over the new reports, the discovery of a new continent caught her eyes.

"Tell the air force to drop leaflets, and announce that we're gonna make contact. I'll personally be going with my old unit. Since I'm in charge of things right now, I feel that it would be best if I went as well."



The unit in question was an elite special forces team, under direct subordination of the KGB, known as the Ocelot Unit (http://www.konami.jp/gs/game/mgs3_sub/japanese/mgs/pic/chara/pub_ene_spe_all_stand.jpg). They would attempt to start diplomatic talks, among other things. For the most part they just wanted to figure out how this even happened in the first place.

((OCC: First RP, hope you don't mind us joining in!))

The old Bell 205, better known as the UH-1 Iroquois in it's military role, was not living up to it's reputation as a sturdy machine. Only an hour into it's "maiden" voyage, it was not only leaking oil, but a rupture somewhere in the coolant system was threatening to cause it to overheat.

To make matters worse, the old helicopter was not only somewhere where it wasn't supposed to be, and lost in a eerily low cloud, but also somewhere where it had absolutely no chance of landing.


"We just had to fly over the ocean!" the chopper's co-pilot muttered to his comrade in the pilot's seat. "The paint on this thing hasn't even dried, and we're gonna trash it."

Despite being far from new, the Huey was quite "new" to the Apathetickan Air Forces, who had purchased it very cheaply from some backwater aircraft maintenance school in Canada, who had respectively purchased it very cheaply from the U.S. National Guard, who had pulled it out of a jungle someplace. After giving it a fresh coat of paint to replace the NY Guard insignias, and a once over to tighten all the nuts and bolts, the Apathetickans had gassed it up, and sent it out with orders to "transfer directly to Hazentown AFB".

With Apatheticka being a land-locked nation, and with their neibours having somewhat lax guards on their borders, the pilots had decided to get a look at the sea for the first time.

"Well, on the plus side, if they ever manage to find us out here, we'll be in too many pieces for them to.." the pilot's response was cut off by a form immerging from the fog directly in front of him. Swearing loudly, he pulled hard on the stick, banking hard to the right, and earning him a loud whine of protest from the helicopter's worn engine. The obstacle performed a similar manoeuvre, and the two objects passed each other by mere feet.

"What the hell was that?!" the pilot yelled over the klaxon of alarms that voiced the chopper's protests. Despite being very new to his job, he quickly regained control of his aircraft, and began addressing his quickly over-heating engine.

The co-pilot, at a loss for words, sat in stunned silence. Suddenly, the UH-1's engine coughed loudly, snapping him back to earth, and he replied. "It looked like an old bi-plane. Something straight out of a history book or something. It had some kinda markings, but nothing like I've seen before."

"That's either a hallucination, or some good news. Those things don't have half the range we do, and you'd have to be stupid to take one over water." Easing down the controls, the pilot pushed the quickly dying aircraft down through the clouds. "Let's hope he's smarter than us, and that we're a lot more lost than we figured."

With a pale face, a small nod, and one eye on the altimeter, the co-pilot reached for his radio, and began to call out a may-day, complete with co-ordinates.

(I'll assume those commando fellows come ashore via boat. If not, feel free to correct me and I can edit.)

His Majesties Own Preobrazhensky Guard, second company, were presently marching. In fact, it often seemed, their main occupation as of late was marching. Dealing with all sorts of problems, from riots to rebels. Guarding the life of the Tsar generally meant more than just hanging around the palace looking decorative.

Captain Stepenski, currently in command, was rather enjoying the little excursion. The Guard always had sufficient rations, ammunition and supplies to make its deployments comfortable. They were lucky. Most of the army was issued a loaf of bread per squad per day, if they were lucky. And three practice rounds per month. If they were lucky. And one of the newer Mosin-Nagant M91's for every two or three men, if they were lucky. 'Lucky' usually meant 'close to the local supply depot.' Usually the poor slobs in the Central Asia, far from the supply centers and railroads, got the worst of the deal, ending up with hand-me-downs. Reports were that there was an entire regiment still using Crimean-War era muzzle loaders.

Stepenski was glad he had got into the guard at a young age. For all the corruption and noble-centric politics, one institution of the Guard had been maintained, laid down by Peter the Great and revitalized by Alexander the Second. Advancement in the guard was strictly by merit. Nobles had a better chance of getting in, of course, but that didn't mean they would go anywhere. And all the men were selected from regular regiments for outstanding performance.

It was, in the middle of these reflections, that Stepenski noted movement in the brush to the side of the road. Quickly removing his revolver from its holster, he shouted an order in Russian to his men. The front two ranks of the line quickly brought their rifles to the ready, taking aim at the new arrivals, while the rest scattered to the roadside, finding cover and taking firing positions.

"You there! Come out with your hands up! No fast movements!" He shouted in German. Most everybody in the Baltic States spoke German, despite almost two hundred years of Russian occupation. There was, however, a good chance that the anarchists or socialists or whoever had advanced this far. Of course, there was an off chance...he switched to Russian, "Hands up! Come out onto the road."

...

Gregori Petrov glanced over his shoulder again. He had heard reports of the aliens, but he didn't think he'd see one himself. The strange craft behind him, though, clearly confirmed what he'd heard from Pavel, the telegraph operator. Apparently he'd relayed some traffic from Sevastopol to Petersburg about some sort of mysterious airplane that flew at insane heights, so fast that even the best French planes couldn't catch it. It even left some sort of trail in the sky behind it.

This one, though, seemed to be in a bit of trouble. It looked like there was smoke coming out of the engine, and it was making a terrible noise, like somebody had thrown a bag of bolts into its propeller...which looked like it was on top, for whatever reason.

Despite all that, it was keeping pace with him easily. Gregori wondered if he could capture it. He pulled back on the throttle a bit, aiming to bring himself even with the things cockpit. Even if capturing it was out of the question, it sounded like it was about to fall out of the sky. Once within visual range, he reached a hand out of his cockpit and gave a wave to the occupants of the things cabin.

Skies over unknown landmass

"Apollo 1, here." The pilot (http://www.avjobs.com/careers/Career_images/Fed_Gov_Military.jpg) said into his communicator. "We're picking up something. Looks like...looks like...a city."

"Confirmed. Proceed with urban fly-by."

"Roger."

The planes descended over the city, and began to fly low, above the buildings. The city itself seemed devoid of modern technology, and horse-drawn vehicles clattered along the streets. In the middle, a major city square stood proud, and a Neoclassical-type palace stood proud over the city.

"Captain!" The pilot of Apollo 2 reported. "Incoming contacts, 3 o'clock!"

"What? Pull up!"

The four jets pulled up into the sky, right over the palace, as the biplanes flew harmlessly by.

------------------------------------------------------------
Imperial Guard Base
Jabim
A few hours later

"Roger, Apollo squadron, you're cleared for landing."

The jets touched down over the military base, with practiced precision. As ground teams ran out to bring in and refuel the planes, the pilots reported to debriefing. However, instead of the usual operations officer, they were greeted by none other then Lord-General Militant Zyvan himself.

"Sir!" The pilots said, saluting with parade ground precision. The venerable Lord-General returned the salute, and motioned to the seats in the conference room. The pilots sat.

"I've taken the liberty of reviewing your camera-feeds." Zyvan began. "And I have to say, it's unlike anything seen before. We've discovered your mysterious 'contact.'" He pressed a button on the table, revealing the footage of the camera feed. The pilots struggled to hold back their laughter.

"It's okay."

The pilots burst out into laughter. Their 'attackers' had been nothing more then biplanes.

"The Emperor's waiting for an update, gentlemen..."

Shortly after news had reached home, the team had been sent out in an An-12.

Upon arriving at the new found landmass, it landed roughly on an abandoned looking dirt road. The flight crew would stay with the plane, while the expedition team of 20 proceeded to follow the road signs.

It was a three vehicle group, a BMD-2 and a pair of GAZ-66 trucks, one of which was in the radio truck configuration.

They proceeded down a road, following the signs.

After what seemed like a long time, they were in visual range of a large number of people. Ulya, the director, who'd decided to personally check the place out began to issue orders.

"Halt, cut the engine. Any one know what they're sayi..."

She then heard the Russian, and fully understood.

"Everyone, leave your rifles in your vehicles. Crew, stay in here and open fire if things go bad. You three are with me."

They left the BMD and approached the group of people in the road with their hands visible.

One of the commandos thought privately "What are they wearing.. those people look like they're straight out of a children's book."


Korshanenko spoke to the people

"We are not hostiles. No need to point guns.."

Hazentown Air Force Base
Enfield Province, Apatheticka

The day had been a usual one, slow, cold, and boring to the point that the sole occupant of the base's radio room was in a very bad mood. Usual cup of coffee, usual chat with Joe-The-Maintenence-Guy, usual reading of a nudie mag while almost subconciously monitering the Airborne Emergency Channel. Today was just life for Lt. Tom Marcellus, the base's assistant radio operator, and life was unexciting. He'd never heard a single noise coming through the static of the station's new, top of the line communications set-up. Though he'd only had the job for a few months, he held high hopes that by the time a situation arose where a call might come in, the nation's airforce would have aquired enough planes that he would be flying far, far away and above the small, cramped radio facility.

Lost in thoughts of girls, planes, and girls with the hots for planes, Tom was nearly knocked out of his chair when the always silent channel suddenly sprung to life.

"Mayday, mayday, mayday! Can you hear us Hazentown? This is *static*, and we *static*"

The message fuzzed into static. With a curse, Tom aptly refined the radio's tuning, and the distant, border-line panicked voice returned.

"... I repeat, we can't stay up any longer. We are going down for a landing, and are requesting immediate dust-off."

The pilot gave his co-ordinates, and said something about air contacts in the area, but Lt. Marcellus was too busy dialing in the number of his senior operations officer. Not only was an aircraft miles away from where it should have been a serious matter, Tom had done his homework in geography class, and knew that at the location he'd been giving, there should have been nothing but water below the tumbling helicopter.

-----------------------

Cold Crescent Command Post
Haleytown Province, Apatheticka
About three hours later

"This better not be some kind of goddamned "Google Earth" practical joke bullshit." As General Marshal of the Combined Apathetickan Forces, and one who'd just been woken up, Corbett Winston was not in the mood for anything but a return to bed. The tired, "surprise me" look he gave the two other men in the large briefing room did nothing to hide this desire.

Throwing the satellite photos of a huge landmass that had seemingly showed up overnight into a loose pile on the command room's huge rosewood table, Field Marshal Ian Dostov, head of the newly-formed Apathetickan Air Forces, shook his head.

"It's not a joke, it's a continent. Northern Eurasia, to be specific." Dostov had known Winston for long enough to already know what his next question would be, and knew himself well enough to know that he had no real answer.

"When did Eurasia become an island, and more importantly, how can it be both there and attached to Southern Eurasia at the same time?" The idea of a quick return to bed was quickly becoming a fading memory for the General.

Dostov shook his head again. "We don't know at the moment." he said somewhat quietly, as if searching the farthest corners of his brain for some forgotten answer. Ian was known throughout the Forces as the man with all the solutions, one of the main reasons he'd been appointed to form the new airborne branch of the military. Relatively young, but very experienced and adaptable, he was not only liked by his fellow officers, but by most people who met him, and this, along with his strategic decisiveness, had made him the idea choice.

Winston ran his hand through his somewhat graying hair, in a stereotypical sign of command frustration. "Well, beyond these photos, and a general idea of the shape of this hunk of land, what can you tell me about it?"

A non-com entered the room, and handed each of the three men at the table a very thin folder. As Winston and Dostov flicked through theirs, the third man at the table, both the oldest present and the most junior officer, dropped his on top of the previously discarded pictures.

"We have an airplane somewhere down there, and it's inhabited land." His voice was surprisingly musical, in contrast with his Eisenhower-like build, and his weathered looks. "It's different from our Russia, less populated, less dense." Lt. General Augustin Des Moray was the officer in charge of the final branch of the Combined Apathetickan Forces, that of the Ground Forces. He was not the first Des Moray to hold a rank, though he'd certainly outlived any of his ancestors, despite having seen some heavy combat in the Apathetickan Civil war, and having been at the front of the whole Cold-War unpleasantness. "No major cities near the chopper's last transmission. Should make it easy to go in and clean up, long as we don't take our time."

"Rescue operations aren't quick things, Aug." Dostov said, "The pilots might be in bad condition, and it might take a while to get that bird flying again, if it's even possible. Not to mention the report of another aircraft around."

"Men are probably dead, it's been almost four hours, and the radio's been quiet for all four. Best just to get rid of the plane and meet these new people on our own terms, untill we know more."

Despite discomfort at the older man's lack of concern, both Dostov and Winston knew he was likely correct. Still, the final word rested with Winston. "We'll send in an Air-Cav group, just some volunteers and a corpsman detachment. Augustin, I want your best guys on this. It should be a good chance to test out our new equipment. Ian, get something that can carry these guys in, and your guys out. The chopper's gonna have to be counted as expendable on this one."

Both of his sub-ordinates flashed him a salute, and filed quickly towards the door. Corbett Winston waited till his Marshal of the Air Forces was well out of earshot before adding: "And make sure this one can fly straight."

------------

Somewhere over the New Continent
Several hours earlier

"I can't get any response from Hazentown!" the UH-1's co-pilot yelled over the increasing whine of the dying machine's engine.

"The piece of shit's radio might have kicked it." The pilot replied. The Huey's electric systems had be flickering on and off since it's wild maneuver to avoid the other plane. The ground was clearly in view now, and it was only a matter of minutes, or seconds, till the helicopter became acquainted with it.

'Damn it!" the co-pilot yelled, pounding on the aircraft's instrument panel. He repeated this euphemism when he looked out his window, and was surprised to find the bi-plane he'd so nearly been killed by, flying parallel to them. The plane's pilot looked like something out of a Peanuts comic, decked out in early 20th century flight gear, and he was waving to the chopper's passengers. Looking over, the heli's pilot smirked to himself at the strange attire of his fellow knight of the air. A large thump, followed by the slow, grinding halt of the chopper's engine quickly erased that smirk, and his white-knuckle grip on the aircraft's controls tightened.

"Let our new friend know we're going to get out and go for a walk." He said, gently lowering the helicopter to the ground, his masked panic dissipating somewhat as the bird's autorotation commenced, allowing him a much easier landing. Terrified, his co-pilot could only stare at the approaching ground.

----

His fear turned out to be unjustified, however, as the old Bell set down in what could only be described as a perfect emergency landing. Greatly calmed, the two men in the now-grounded helicopter efficiently loaded their side arms, and, taking cover inside the cargo area of the aircraft, waited to see if their new comrade would come down to join them.

The troop movments of the Russian Empire were quickly noticed by the various revolutionary groups in what was now Western Europe. It merely took the sight of Russian flags on the horizon to conjure up images in the minds of the towns grandfathers of Nicholas I and his brutal methods of putting down the liberal movements of mid-19th century Europe.

Although unable to mount a serious, coordinated, resistance, fights quickly broke out in the cities. In most cases, this was ragtag and easily put down, with minimal casualties. But, as always, a few cities were less 'lucky'. Budapest itself ended up burned to the ground. Exactly who set the fire was a mystery, but rumors of Hungarian nationalists setting the fire to keep the Russians from taking Budapest, and of Russians soldiers setting the fire to keep Hungarian nationalists from taking the city, persisted for years.

Europe's bloody civil war raged on.

Meanwhile, it had only taken a matter of a week or so for Russian troops in former Northern Persia to seize power. Without the British to object, the Persian Shah had little room to object, seeing as the area was already occupied. Regardless, the man was already too busy watching his 'moving pictures'

...
(Just on a side note, they're probably wearing fairly drab, grey, uniforms, like so:
http://images.suite101.com/192836_guardsfileduniforms_page_1_image_0001.jpg
So, obviously quite primitive, but not the nice peacock colors of the previous era :P)

Meanwhile, Stepenski eyed the trucks and the strange, armored vehicles. He'd seen cars before, of course. The army even had a few, although they were typically reserved for the specialized 'motorized rifle' regiments. These, though, were clearly more advanced. Everything about them seemed to say that they could go a lot faster than anything Stepenski had ever seen. Maybe even an airplane. The fact that their engines didn't knock every ten seconds spoke volumes.

Their leader spoke Russian, too. Curious indeed. AND she appeared to be female.

On seeing this he quickly holstered his pistol and gestured for the men to stand down. Although no longer pointing their rifles directly at the strangers, they kept the impression that it was certainly an option they would contemplate in the future.

After a moments contemplation, he quickly reached the logical conclusion. The woman was obviously royalty, attached to the unit by whoever had sent them as a medic. Perhaps aliens weren't so different! They even looked somewhat human. He quickly adopted his 'speaking-to-royals' tone.

"Deepest apologies, milady." He spoke in Russian again, "But you must understand we are rather on edge. Reports of revolution in Germany, with the Kaiser gone and Austria in chaos...these are bad times, it seems. If you will pardon me, may I ask for the name if the regiment you are attached to? We are a detachment of His Majesties Own Preobrazhensky Guard." The soldier gestured to their unit banner, which would have been instantly recognized by any early 20th century military commander in Europe.

...

Gregori glanced back, just in time to see the helicopters death throes. He was, initially worried, but it looked like the craft made a proper emergency landing. Far better than he would've done in the same circumstances, most likely. He briefly considered landing, but with the fields currently soggy from a recent storm he didn't want to risk not being able to take off again.

He thought for a moment, then it upon an idea. Withdrawing a grease pen and his navigation map, he quickly sketched a few simple instructions using arrows, showing the quickest path to the Moscow Aerodrome. Hopefully the aliens would understand arrows. He added a quick note, in Russian, that they should tear the map up and bury it once within sight of the base, otherwise he'd probably get in trouble.

Having accomplished this task, he felt around the cockpits floor for the brick he carried, which had the dual purpose of carrying messages and being a useful thing to throw into enemies propellers if they got too close for comfort. Removing his scarf, he bundled the map into it, secured it to the brick, and chucked it overboard, far enough from the downed craft that it hopefully wouldn't brain either of them, but close enough that it could be seen.

Then he sped off to the airbase, having circled a few times to let them know he hadn't missed them.

[OOC: Tagged. Very, very good for someone comparatively new - I'm impressed]

Angenteria City
Imperial Palace
Emperor Riektal's Chamber

"So that's it?"

"Yes, My Lord."

"So let me get this straight." Emperor Riektal began, speaking to General Zyvan via video conference. He was reporting out of the Guard base in Jabim, where the scouts had successfully completed their fly-by. "Out of nowhere, an ENTIRE CONTINENT appears in the middle of the ocean." The idea still sounded too incredible to be true. "Upon dispatching planes, we discovered that it appears to be home to human civilization. Am I correct so far?"

"Yes, My Lord. Our pilots were able to confirm signs of human life. Or, at least, what we think is human life."

Emperor Riektal's eyebrow perked. Were they, perhaps, aliens?

"Very well." Marcus was quite interested now. The thoughts of undiscovered continents and explorers were racing through his head "Send an expeditionary force to make contact. Who knows, maybe they're friendly."

"As you will, My Lord." Zyvan saluted sharply, and the screen switched off.

"Well then..." Emperor Riektal thought to himself Let us see what we can find...

----------------
A few hours later

The Aircraft Carrier, designated the AIS Endeavour, floated just off the shore of the new continent, accompanied by a small carrier fleet. They had only reached the shore an hour ago, and were making preparations to land an expedition on the shore. It was a small force only, a few hundred soldiers, plus vehicles. The main idea of the expedition was to explore peacefully, not to capture and destroy. Helicopters and landing craft were seen unloading vehicles and guardsmen and women.

"Captain." A bridge officer reported. "The landing operation is nearly complete. Our orders are to hold here until further notice."

"Very well." The captain replied. "Drop anchor, and sit tight for the moment."

"Yes, sir."

She looked at the banner, and recognized by looks, but couldn't get the name out of her head, so she replied:

"We are members of Komityet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosty, 13th OSNAZ detachment. Our aircraft was the one that flew over hours ago. Please excuse my ignorance, but where exactly are we?"


Meanwhile, one of the BMD crew, who was a history major while in university, saw the banner after sticking his head out of the hatch. He recognized it as a 20th century Russian Militant unit, how could that be? They'd just flew over parts of Eurasia to get here.

While Korshanenko was talking to the strange people, her radio receiver came to life when the BMD crew told her where she was.

"Commander, you probably aren't going to believe this, but we're in early 20th century Russia."


She then added

"If he is right, how did this happen? Is there a leader?"

[OOC: Can anyone think of any scientific consequences? EMP? Like a pond ripple effect. It'd make the RP more interesting. Your thoughts?]

Commander Beckelund stormed into the Kungliga Rikssäkerhet Befall, Royal State Security Command, grid, followed closely by the Fleet Admiral, the Prime Minister, a Generallöjtnant and several men in suits who would remain anonymous. The tension in the room was too high for anyone to stop what they were doing and stand up as was their habit, but rather their eyes were intently focused on the large LCD computer screens that dominated the wall. Few things could bring the KRB to its knees, and an incident such as this was one of them. Prime Minister Halvar Bengtsson sat in the corner, keeping a wide eye on the screens displaying the sattelite readings and images.
"Let me get this straight, Brigadier"
Bengtsson spoke in Antigran to the on-site commander, Henge.
"A whole continent has appeared"
"A whole continent has appeared"
He gave a sheet giving coordinates.
"We can pretty much control the state from here, can't we?"
"You helped design the place, Prime Minister"
They both retreated to a large wooden table in the centre of the room, showing off its somewhat out-of-place grandeur with flair.
"Gentlemen"
The General and Fleet Admiral sat down next to them, where two suited attaches joined them.
"Fleet Admiral. I expect you think you're here because you are the chairman of the Royal Defensive Command Board. if you think you are, you'd be right. This is something certainly out of the ordinary, to make an understatement, and so I shall make this brief. We need to raise the National Defensive Alert status"
"That'll have consequences, Prime Minister. Many, many consequences, as you well know"
"But we must. I'm not having that 'think of the shareholders' shit, not since the last civil war"
The General sighed.
"What do you propose?"
"Red implies that the nation is under attack from a force with the potential to easily destroy the country or implies that something with dire consequence for the nation has changed for the worse. The forces behind this imply the latter, except for...every nation"
"We haven't gone to Status Red. Ever. Not in any of the civil wars, Prime Minister"
"I know. Furthermore, men, I want to emphasise on the point I last made. This has consequences not just for us, and just as severe. I shall not hide it"
He gave another long, deep sigh that seemed to make his lungs rumble.
"Status Ultimate Red"
The men, even the quiet attaches, leant forward in their chairs, bearing the same word.
"WHAT?"
"Any better ideas, Henge?"
"No. None. I suppose we have no choice. Status Ultimate Red"
"Get me the briefcase"

'The briefcase' contained a modified, integrated laptop computer that would confirm the decision under the two-man rule. As soon as the status was confirmed, Antigr would reel from massive military mobilisation of military forces to defensive positions all along the coast. Entire Air Wings would be mobilised and almost all naval forces, down to the reserves, put to sea over time. The effect of the continent appearing was sending shockwaves around the globe, and, like a pebble in a pond, the effects were rippling out from the centre. Physical repurcussions as well as military and political ones were on the horizon, and the likelihood is that the world would change, for the worse.

(OOC:
Tsunamis, sudden changes in weather patterns, maybe an EMP, sure. Why not? :P)

The Baltic Sea, (Ex)Finnish Coastline

The Borodino, the new flagship of the Baltic Fleet, and one of the four largest ships in the world (at least, as far as the Russians knew), and easily the most powerfully armed. With twelve fourteen inch guns in four turrets, it was designed along the new idea of 'all-big-gun' ships, with more emphasis on a few large guns rather than many smaller ones. It, and its three sister ships, and the new Sevastopol class battleships had truly put the Imperial Russian Navy on the map.

Admiral Mikhail Ushakov was, however, rather suprised when a fleet of ships was spotted off to port. Naturally, as the greatest fleet in the world, he felt nothing to fear from these intruders.

Still, the Tsar had apparently ordered that unknown vessels be treated with respect, as there were some rather strange events taking place. He still, however, quickly ordered the ships into combat formation, forming a line and preparing to engage.

This acomplished, the Borodino began flashing morse-code at the strange fleet. A standard international greeting was sent via signal light, followed by a 'stand down and cease operations' message which was rather terse.

...

Steppenski looked at Ulya curiously. Then shrugged, "Courland, in the Russian Empire. I'm afraid we have no idea what's going on either. Apparently most of the West vanished and the Tsar mobilized the army to stabilize what was left. We're on our way to Germany, actually."

The soldiers had re-assembled on the road, until Steppenski gave a signal, "At ease. Take rest until further notice. Change your socks and have a drink. We'll have lunch here."

This brought a small cheer from the soldiers, who broke formation and began hauling logs into a small roadside clearing to build a fire, while a few more began extracting tins from packs and pouring drinks.

"Do feel free to join us, Miss...?" Steppenski trailed off, leaving the question hanging.

"I don't see why not. I'll head to the camp in a second, I first have to send a radio transmission."


Ulya went to the radio truck, while the rest of the expedition crew set up a rest camp.

"Gull, this is Ocelot, do you copy, over"

"We copy Ocelot, what's going on?"


"From the looks of it, I'd say we've stumbled upon the largest history reenactment ever, or they're telling the truth and we are in the early 20th century. Still, that doesn't explain where this continent came from."


"See if you can get in contact with their leaders... I overheard that they call him the Czar. If it turns out to be true... Well, we know then."


"Copy. In the meantime, bring in those paratroopers and a few tanks, just in case. Have them set up a post near where you landed, out."


She then knocked on the cab of the truck, who then drove a few meters into the clearing, in a similar way the BMD's and other trucks had done.

"Okay everyone, 30 minute break. Vacate the carriages, and refuel them. The rest of you, feel free to interact with those soldiers."

After grabbing a notepad and her rifle, she returned to the man who had identified himself as Steppenski.

"Suppose we help you out with your little problem in Germany, would it be a fair trade to speak to a Government official?"

S.R.F Vastervalto
280 Nautical Miles off the New Imperial Russian Continent



Antigr, while by no means the largest country in the vast, vast world, was one of the most prominent naval powers and was like pre-world-war-two Britain in many ways, with many foreign colonies and territories from which the Kungliga Marinen, the Royal Navy of Antigr, roamed the international waters of the world's many oceans on patrol, helping regulate the seas of the globe along with the more local navies. This meant that Antigr could deploy a capable warship to almost anywhere in the world, an expanse of water of which to sail on a given, in times that many navies could only dream of. Almost every country knew the Antigran Navy and cooperated with their international 'policing', the policies of which allowed a fleet carrier on it's way to Colstream to be comparatively close. Sketchy details were coming in of what one of the carrier's AWACS aircraft had picked up on radar was. The news was disturbing. Every man that went through military service had been taught the definition of the National Defensive Alert status, and that it had jumped suddenly to a level that was first invented in case the earth as a whole was under attack in some kind of science-fictional episode was sending many, many shockwaves across the globe. The DD45 AWACS aircraft, approximating to a slightly larger E-2C Hawkeye, that was recording them had an atmosphere inside of growing alarm.
"Anomaly detector is off the scale! Two weak EMP pulses coming through, may cause some slight damage, low priority but it may precede something larger. Oh, fuck. Bjorn?"
What made the Captain look instantly was unknown, but probably by the fact that the flight sergeant had used his given name rather than 'sir'.
"This is not good. Fuck! Marten, get us the hell back to the carrier, quick!"
He yelled to the co-pilot. He grabbed a seat and held on for dear life to avoid falling heavily against the consoles to the left of the plane as the two turboprop engines whined louder as they were throttled to full output, which would get the aircraft to about 400mph at this altitude, and the aircraft banked hard to port. In the ten seconds it took to turn round completely, the Captain managed to defy the G-forces and haul himself into the seat, where the Flight Sergeant and two airmen. A freak tidal wave, about twenty metres high, was surging towards the carrier and its escort group of two destroyers and two hunter-killer submarines at a recorded speed of 120 or so miles per hour. An alarm started beeping as another change in weather patterns was recorded. The flight sergeant was already on the radio, alerting the carrier and its escorts, a hundred nautical miles away, to turn northwards, into the wave, and get as many aircraft off the ship as possible, as was procedure.

It appeared the waves were losing momentum at such a pace that they would hit the battle group at about 50mph, due to their small-ish size. However, the radar was picking up another wave behind it, very slightly smaller but just as fast. The crew of the plane mused amongst themselves.
"Wider sattelite pictures, according to the admiralty, show tidal waves going out from the shoreline, but only in certain places, seems we were unlucky. Just in on the radio"
"A whole continent landing would have created a tidal wave hundreds, possibly thousands of miles high, if that could be sustained, the meteor that they say killed the dinosaurs was only six miles across and created a three-mile-high wave. Where did the water go?"
"No idea. It just seems to have...gone"
"Sir, I'm actually kind of terrified at this point. The adrenaline really isn't doing it for me. I'm going to get a drink"
The Captain watched the flight sergeant get up an walk over to a locker at the back of the plane, which contained six shot-glasses and a small bottle of whisky, not enough to get drunk on, divided by six. A lot of Antigran air crews apparently carried this as standard-issue. They returned to talking.
"Can anyone tell me what the fuck is going on?"
"I can't"
"This is really, really wierd"
"We know"

OOC note: Kraisana was a NPC nation created solely for this RP.

Is it okay that we have a border? My nation is a Russian-type and your nation is... well, the historical Russia.

IC:
1-2 weeks ago...

The nation of Kraisana was, or more accurately had been, a breakaway nation from that had broken away from the rest of the Totalitarian State just after the collapse of the Communist regime that once inhabited kept it under tight control. Even though the nation was temperate, flat, and only had ten million people in it, for some reason or another, the TSRT had never bothered to reintroduce it into the fold. Instead they had erected 'temporary' border outposts along important routes and let it be. The geography of Kraisana was that of a peninsula that jutted off by itself off of Northern Red Tide. The peninsula was, interestingly enough, the width of the Persian land that had now replaced it.

Your probably wondering: What the hell did you just say? Yes, apparently, the nation of Kraisana had dissappeared to be replaced by the modest mountain range of central Persia.

It was quite a shock for the Intelligence Commissariat Border Guards manning the outposts too. Railroad tracks which once crossed the border now simply ceased to be a little ways past the outposts. The information was quickly passed upwards through first the Border Guard arm of the Intelligence Commissariat, and then the central body of the Commissariat also. Extra info came from the Sattelite Divisions, which were jointlu controlled by the Intelligence Commissariat and the Armed Forces of the State Intelligence Apparatus.

The info was undeniable and unbelievable, where there had once been just Kraisana and a vast, empty ocean there was now an entire continental landmass, connected to the landmass Red Tide was on by the area that was formerly the nation of Kraisana. Of course, the unbelievability of the info paralysed the ones who decided Red Tidean policy for several days as they tried to refuse to believe what they were undeniably seeing.

When they finally did believe what had happened had, in fact, happened, they began to issue orders.

Present Time, Red Tidean border outpost, former Red Tidean/Kraisanan border

Captain-Commissar Kapolov Sergeiovich Sikorsky wished, not for the first time, that he had been assigned to a real border outpost. Unlike those concrete fortifications, the outposts along the former Kraisana border were made of wood and earth. That made them no only more uncomfortable, but also more bare if an attack came.

Yet it was not in Sikorsky's blood to question orders from higher up the chain of command. Lifting the binoculars to his eyes, he peered out a slit in the wooden bunker towards the North, towards the arid mountains that had appeared. He had heard that other border posts had apprehended men speaking Farsi, he did not know what to make of those rumors.

Next to him lay the big M-500 15.5mm heavy machine gun deployed on the tripod and its gun crew. Another disadvantage of being assigned to the former Kraisanan border, he mused, the permenant border bunkers had miniguns.

Then he saw movement, coming down the mountains... he rubbed the binocular lenses and zoomed in. There were... people, coming towards the border outpost. Then he realized those people were wearing some sort of uniforms... and had some sort of rifles!

"Shit..." Sikorsky said scrambling for his megaphone, flipping it on and bringing it to his mouth. The gun crew came alert, they knew their Captain was acting weird and had better be prepared.

Before he began talking into the loudspeaker, he looked backwards. He commanded a company of Border Guard Commissars, 100 men armed with weapons that were usually standard issue to men of the State Guard (the Red Tidean Army) but rarer amongst the regular Intelligence Commissariat (who mostly used just submachine guns).

His border post was, had been, guarding a concrete road that ran into Kraisana, but now ended about 50 meters beyond the post.

Sikorsky depressed the 'talk' trigger to his megaphone and began too, well... talk to the individuals. He was talking in Russian and did not know that the individuals coming towards him were actually soldiers from the Russian Empire.

"ATTENTION! ATTENTION! YOU ARE APPROACHING THE BORDER! PLEASE HALT!"

Sikorsky depressed the talk button and wondered if they would recognise the Red Tidean flag that stuck out of the border outpost.

OOC2: Check my main page to see my flag.

AIS Endeavor

Captain Tobias stood upon the bridge of the Endeavor, watching the the helicopters and landing craft unload the last of the Imperial Guard's equipment and troops on the landmass. It was a curious thing, this place. Well, mind-boggling was a more appropriate term. Just two days ago, this area had been a massive expanse of ocean water. Now, it was home to an inhabited continent.

"Captain, incoming ships!"

Tobias turned, raising a single eyebrow. Perhaps he shouldn't be so surprised. The appearance of this continent had probably attracted the navies of the world to it's shores, all wondering just what the hell is going on.

"From what country?"

"Unknown, sir. They seem...that's not right." The officer trailed off, looking in the direction of the ships.

"What's not right?"

"The lead ship. It's...it's a dreadnought." The officer blurted out, a hint of surprise on his voice.

Tobias looked in the direction of the ships, this time both eyebrows raised in surprise. The ship certainly matched the description of a dreadnought class battleship he had studied at the Academy. It had two large smokestacks jutting out of it's hull, and was armed with guns that would only be seen in a museum. Escorting it was several ships, also of antiquated design, which had assumed some sort of combat formation. On the bow, a signal light flashed Morse code in their direction.

"They seem to be contacting us." Tobias remarked idly.

"Already on it, sir." Another officer reported, who was busy writing the translation on a piece of paper. While Morse code was no longer the official form of communication used by modern navies, what with radio and video communications, it's familiarity was required knowledge by all Imperial Navy personnel. The officer looked up from his paper. "They seem to be sending us a formal greeting, followed by a curt order to 'cease all operations immediately.'"

Tobias nodded, deep in thought over how exactly to respond. The ships were definitely nothing the his ships couldn't handle in a fight. A few Exocet missiles, torpedoes, and aircraft would see them off. However, their guns, while old, seemed to be in prime condition, and would definitely be able to do some damage. They were also in what seemed to be in a ready combat formation, and Tobias' ships were not.

No, that wasn't the answer. He had been ordered by Naval Command not to engage anyone unless attacked. It would be a waste of lives.

"Send them a response." Tobias finally ordered. "In a similar fashion, of course." The ships probably didn't have radio to receive a verbal transmission.

A Morse code response was sent to the unknown fleet, sending them a formal greeting in response, identifying themselves as ships from the Holy Imperium of Angenteria, and assuring that they do not have any hostile intentions.

bumpzor

(OOC:
Got a map, Red Tide? I'd like to try to work out how they link up. It would probably make for some interesting terrain, given the direct transfer of geography.

Antigr, I suggest a rendezvous with the ships in the Baltic, should make things simpler :P

Further, for now, I'm going to declare this closed. I think there's enough people involved.)

Steppenski, who was currently fiddling with his horses saddlebags, glanced at the Ulya, eying her rather unusual rifle, "If you would like, I can assign a few men to escort you to the trainyard. You can take the next express to St. Petersburg. The Tsar has ordered that anybody from, ah, 'outside' be sent to him. Germany, I'm sure, won't be a big problem." Steppenski gestured to his men, "This is the finest regiment in the Tsar's army! Right?"

This garnered a hearty 'Uuurah!' from the men, or at least a series of grunts from those currently partaking of canned salt-pork, borscht and various other items of preserved food.

"We could, however, use any food or medical supplies you could part with." The captain looked rather embarrassed, "I'm afraid our supply situation is not...ideal."

...
Poruchik (roughly, lieutenant) Mendezhev, in charge of a platoon formerly occupying the Persian town of Arak, just on the edge of Russian control. Now, of course, it was just on the edge of a cliff. The huge wave that had brought them here, apparently, had vanished and left them...where? Oddly, everything to the north appeared normal...south, though...

There was a British botanist in town, who reported, after a day, that it was obvious that the strange line of slightly-misaligned terrain (or, in the case of the area around Arak, a hundred foot cliff) was not the only thing that marked a difference between the two zones. Plant life to the south was also different.

Managing to organize something out of the initial confusion and disorder, Medezhev got a squad together and headed off to scout the new area. In the back of his mind, he felt sure the British were responsible for this. The damned red's couldn't keep their noses out of anything, always sending 'patrols' and 'cartographic expeditions' to march around the Russian occupation zone.

Now, of course, they'd apparently run into some kind of border patrol outpost. His own binoculars showed that they appeared to have some form of machine gun, despite the fort being fairly primitive. They didn't appear to be British designs, though, and their flag was a bit odd.

The Russian announcement via megaphone confirmed that they were, indeed, not the British.

"Vassily, hand me your handkerchief." Mendezhev held out a hand, while the private fiddled with his webbing, quickly seeing what the Poruchik intended.

White handkerchief secured, Mendezhev held the little cloth square up above his head, waving it back and forth, hoping that whoever was in command would have the good sense to recognize a wish to negotiate and not just order his men to mow them down with those machineguns.

...

Ushakov glowered as the reply was read off. Clearly these people, despite their fancy ships, did not know their place.

"Send a reply. Inform them that they are in the territorial waters of the Russian Empire and that their...landing constitutes an act of war if they do not cease immediately. If that doesn't work, fire a shot across their bows. It doesn't look like any of those ships have anything above a mid-sized gun. They must've just sent landing and torpedo ships instead of a *real* fleet." Ushakov brought his binoculars back to his eyes, inspecting the carrier, "Although that one is rather interesting...a sort of floating airport." He coughed, "And add that if they want to talk, I would be happy to conduct negotiations."

The message was sent

"Fair enough" Ulya said, as she continued to write notes down.

"As for supplies.. Well, since we already did what we came here for, we can offload lots of stuff." She then turned to where a group of her troopers were chatting.


"Mishka! Report here!"


The trooper quickly arrived, fixing his red beret.

"Reporting for duty comrade Captain!."


"You and some others unload several pallets of rations, medical supplies and 7.62 Rimmed ammunition."

"Yes."

The trooper and the others he was chatting with moved to the trucks and unloaded equipment. She then turned back to Stippensky.


"The medical supplies mostly consist of bandages with coagulative properties, Anti-Bacterial fluids, field kits and bottles of Iodine. The rations are assorted meals, but they don't require any heating, all you have to do is pull the top off, using the little "key" that's attached to it... hold on a second"


She ran to the BMD's and grabbed the SVD rifles that were usually stored inside, and returned.


"Those ammunition spam cans have the same type of bullets your current rifles use, but are much more accurate and the like. And these.."

She presented the SVD rifles

"Will work the best with that ammo [7N14]. You could use it in your rifles too, which wouldn't be that bad of an idea. As for these, I would give them to your units best shooters. They're semi automatic, like a pistol. And as for the train to St. Petersburg," she continued

"It'll work out. I'll have to bring those diplomats, however."

She pointed to a group of people, who's under normal circumstances be working in an office.

-----
Meanwhile...



The VDV company had landed in the strange land, along with a reserve tank platoon, who were using [compared to the stuff regular units get] old T-62 tanks. Under orders from the company commander, they'd been digging into the field for several hours now. To avoid arising suspicion from the occasion horse drawn cart, They had covered the vehicles with camo netting, with grass attached to blend in perfectly, at least if you weren't looking for a tank that is."

The radio truck they had with them attempted to reach the expedition team.

"Typhoon to Ocelot, do you copy, over."

"We copy, what's the situation?"

"We're dug in, and the birds have left. Whats going on on your end, over"

"The Captain, the pencil pushers and two of ours are going to St. Petersburg to meet with their leader. By any chance you giving them modern medical supplies cause a time paradox?"

The radio team in the "fortress" laughed

"Not unless you accidentally kill your ancestors, if that's possible. Either way, they did something weird, so we'll have to see. Typhoon out."

OOC: No, unfortunantly, I don't. I have neither the skill nor the time to make one. I have considered commissioning one, but never really gotten around to it.

I can give general descriptions of the terrain, but beyond that...

IC:
Sikorsky did not know what really to do as he looked through his binoculars to the... platoon-sized unit leader. He shook his head, having no idea what to do. They understood Russian, that much was clear. He raised the megaphone to his mouth:
"HOLD FOR A MOMENT!"

Then he turned to one of the lieutenants under his command.

"Lieutenant Petrov... Get on the radio, contact the garrison-" Individual Border Guard units were normally under the control of the nearest Commissariat Garrison except in times of crisis, "-and tell them the situation and request instructions."

Then Sikorsky turned to another Lieutenant, "Lieutenant Alekseev, pick a squad and come with me, we are going to talk too our guests."

Captain Sikorsky, plus the lieutenant and a squad for a total of twelve men, trooped out of the bunkers back. Besides the bunker itself, there was a well camouflaged trench line which would not be apparent to the Imperial Russians until the twelve men emerged from it.

The State Intelligence Commissariat Border Guards uniform was very much like that of the SIC's Tactical Units(nicknamed 'Tactical Commissars'), they wore a green combat uniform, with camouflaged flak vests worn over it. Non-coms and enlisted Border Guardsmen wore helmets while officers wore either helmets or simple caps (with their insignia sown onto it), depending on whether they were in combat or not.

Sikorsky was gambling that he was not about to enter a combat situation, so he wore the cap. In addition too the lieutenant with him (who had an assault rifle), the squad that was with Sikorsky consisted of one squad leader (with an assault rifle), four riflemen(same), three grenadiers(Assault Rifle plus a underslung grenade launcher), two light machine gunners (patently obvious weapon), and a anti-tank soldier (submachine gun and a anti-tank rocket launcher).

As he got closer to the individuals, he realised that these men wore uniforms dating back to the beginning of the previous century. From his studying long ago, he remembered the insignia and uniform of a platoon leader and quickly identified Mendezhev as in charge. Approaching, he began to speak.

"Good afternoon, I am Captain Kapolov Sikorsky, 365th Company, Border Guards Detachment, State Intelligence Commissariat, Totalitarian State of Red Tide. You are...?"

AIS Endeavor

"Captain, they're responding."

"Decode it, immediately."

"Yes, sir."

It took a few minutes for the Angenterian bridge officer to translate the code from a series of dots and dashes to an understandable sentence. When it was done, the officer ran up to the bridge, and handed the captain a piece of paper, with an unsettled look written across his face.

"Thank you." Captain Tobias (http://dukeleto.deviantart.com/art/Colonel-Commissar-Ibram-Gaunt-90908739) (OOC: so you know what Angenterian officer uniforms look like) nodded curtly, dismissing the crewman. He turned his eyes to read the paper, expecting to hear something totally mind-boggling and utterly insane. What he got wasn't too far off.

"Is this some form of a joke?" He said aloud. If it was, it wasn't very funny. It seems that these ships have identified themselves as part of the Russian Empire, and were still ordering them to cease and desist, as landing in their territory is an act of war.

"No, sir. That's what they said." The officer reported from his station on the bridge. Well, if it was a joke, it would have cost a lot of money just to poke fun at the Angenterian Imperial Navy. Either way, it seemed that this continent was, in fact, inhabited. By the Russians, no less.

Tobias was dumbfounded, and stared blankly into the paper, trying to grasp the magnitude of all this. He supposed it made sense. The ships were of antique design, they communicated in Morse code, and they ID themselves as part of the Russian Empire. This certainly was no joke. At least they were open to discussion.

"Send them a reply. Tell them that we respectfully request to discuss the situation with them on our vessel." It sounded better if they appeared weaker then they actually were, playing into the Russian's feelings of superiority. However, Angenterian diplomacy was not known for playing nice with other nations. In his mind, Tobias was already thinking about how to dazzle or intimidate the Russian party with modern technology. Meeting them here was already the start. No doubt they've never seen an aircraft carrier before, and are curious as to what it holds.

"Yes sir. Anything else?"

"Make sure the fleet is ready to engage at a moment's notice. If the situation calls for it, we can't let those guns fire first. They may be old, but can still hurt. And lieutenant?"

"Prep a helicopter to pick them up."

"Yes, sir."

(OOC:
To be fair, Angenteria, most modern ships carry signal lights with operators trained in Morse code signaling. It never hurts to have a manual backup in case the radios aren't working :P )

Steppenski simply nodded, not understanding, or, more accurately, fully understanding but failing to comprehend, most of what was said. Semi-automatic rifles he could understand. He'd heard of such things, mostly as civilian weapons used by the Americans and British, who seemed to fancy such things. The rest, though...well...

"Ah..." He accepted the rifle, holding it cautiously, as if it might break, "Very good. I shall have Frederick and Sergeant Molotov escort you to the yard once we break camp...for the rest of your men, I suggest bivouacking in Birzal, about five miles east. Its a bit further than the train yard, but larger, and its got a paved road." Steppenski said this as though it were possibly a feature unique to that town, "I'm sure your men will be comfortable there. I might advise, though, to avoid bringing weapons into the town. People are unsettled enough, and the gendarme might not appreciate a lot of armed foreigners." A junior officer appeared, taking the rifle from Steppenski at this point and returning to the group of soldiers.

The soldiers, meanwhile, were finishing up the remains of their lunch, tossing the burnable garbage onto the fire and leaving the cans where they had fallen. The concept of littering was slightly foreign to most of them.

The Dragunov was passed around the campfire, the scope generally being admired more than the rifle. A sharpshooter had materialized within the group, and most of the soldiers were admiringly comparing the tiny, but powerful, lens to the massive device perched atop the sharpshooters weapon.

...

Mendezhev adjusted his uniform slightly under the gaze of the Red Tidean officer, before throwing a salute, "Poruchik Alecksi Mendezhev, Imperial Russian Army. I command the garrison of the border town north of here...or it was north of here. The compasses have all gone a bit crazy." He held up his own compass, which was currently gently spinning within its glass case, "Ever since the wave..." He started, "Red Tide?" Mendezhev seemed somewhat amused by the name, "I, ah, haven't heard of such a place, I am afraid. You don't loo British or Persian, though."

He adjusted the strap on his Krnka model of 1867 rifle. It was the best one they had been able to get, as far from the supply lines as they were. It worked, but it had an appearance not entirely dissimilar from that of an old-fashioned muzzle loader. Of course, it had been 'modernized' into a breech loader that accepted cartridges...more or less. Sometimes you had to dig the spent ammunition out of the chamber with a knife.

Still, he considered himself lucky. The motly assortment of weapons present did, indeed, include, among other things, a Persian shortbow (taken from a farmer), two muzzle loading Model 1855 rifled muskets and a shoulder-mounted bamboo tube which a merchant had assured Private Khrechev was an authentic Chinese rocket launcher. Mendezhev strongly suspected that it was a modified fireworks tube with a dragon head stuck on one end.

Their uniforms were hardly better. Few retained their original insignia, although Mendezhev, as an officer, had been entitled to conscript a local peasant woman to sew new insignia for himself, most of the other soldiers had been left to make do with chalk. Most still had their greatcoats, however, for all the good it did at this time. It had been a blazing summer, but they all knew well enough that the coats would save their lives come winter. Most of them had taken the advice of the locals, modifying the coats with a series of straps to form a handy cloak of sorts, which, while hot, at least kept the sun off and provided some protection from the ever present dust.

...

Nodding to himself as the message was read, Ushakov seemed pleased this time, "At least they've learned some manners. Inform them that I will be coming over. Have the Fyodor come alongside." The Fyodor was a torpedo boat, essentially a yacht converted to hold a number of torpedo tubes and a couple of gun turrets, about 50 meters in length and powered by a steam engine.

Ushakov retired to his quarters, quickly donning his fanciest dress uniform, complete with enough medals that he jangled and jingled like St. Nicholas sliding down an especially bumpy chimney with every step. He had long ago adopted the ancient generals trick of purchasing a separate uniform and simply leaving all the medals on it. You had to get a special hanger to support the weight, but it impressed a certain type of person.

He and a gaggle of assistants managed to board the Fyodor just as the helicopter came roaring over, no doubt searching for a space on the crowded deck where it could safely land. Ushakov himself spared it a glane, determined to show himself to not be the sort of person who was impressed by a metaphorical chestful of shiny medals. Still, he self-consciously adjusted his Order of St. John so that it would better catch the light as he stepped onto whatever deck he would soon be boarding. At the same time, the Fyodor's engine kicked into life with a roar, belching a thick cloud of steam before rapidly accelerating to meet up with the carrier.

[OOC: Sorry for the lack of posting. Imperskaya Rossiya - do the people on this new continent actually know what's happened?]


S.R.F Vastervalto
231 Nautical Miles off the New Imperial Russian Continent



The wave hadn't done much damage, fortunately, for it had lost it's momentum fairly quickly with little wind behind it. Proper drill had been carried out - every aircraft that could be partially armed and fuelled on-time had been catapulted away from the ship and the remainder taken off the aircraft lifts and secured inside the fore and aft hangars where possible. Nonetheless, five aircraft had remained on deck and two DD80M multirole fighters had been mauled, one had it's cockpit smashed and the other more serious damage, in that the port engine had been broken up into it's major components and the fuselage over it somewhat disintegrated. Further waves had followed of further decreasing strength, and afterwards the hangars were unsealed and aircraft began to land again, save for the four-plane alert flight and four more fighters that had been fully armed and fuelled to carry out reconnaisance.
Inside the central command and control rooms, vertically directly underneath the conning tower and one of the few parts of the ship that had any real armour, further details were coming in from command of what was happening and what they were meant to be doing.

ANGENTERIAN EXPEDITIONARY FLEET EAST-SOUTH-EAST BEARING 334 RELATIVE AS OF 14:39. PEACEFUL RENDEZVOUS SUGGESTED TO INCREASE COLLECTIVE STRENGTH UNTIL ELEMENTS OF THE 3RD OCEANIC FLEET CAN ARRIVE IN APPROXIMATELY 37 HOURS. STATUS STILL ULTIMATE RED AS SUCH RAF AIR COVER WILL BE ON CALL. LOAD WEAPON SYSTEMS FOR SURFACE-TO-SURFACE COMBAT IN THE EVENT OF A NO-RED. FLY THE ENSIGN. GOOD LUCK

The communication officer turned to the Commodore commanding the ship.
"Sir?"
"Right. Angenterians...we have fairly good relations with them, what with all that oil we give them, I see no major problems. Officer of the watch, increase speed, both turbines, all ahead together, turn to port, come to 334 degrees relative"
"Communications, signal the Angenterians, tell them they may expect some visitors, ask them of weather conditions and a status update"
"Sir!"

"Captain, they're ignoring our helicopter. They're boarding another ship to bring themselves over."

"Oh well. Tell the pilots to escort the ship to ours, if only so it looks like it's doing something."

"Yes, sir." The door closed shut.

Captain Tobias placed his officer's cap upon his head, and straightened the olive drab cloak that came with his uniform (OOC: See previous post for picture.) He unfastened the cloak's features, and placed it upon his chair in his ready room, letting the full features of his uniform come out. It was quite impressive, really. His black uniform, inlaid with gold thread complimented his face and blond hair perfectly. A ceremonial saber hung at his side, and a pistol was neatly holstered at the other.

"No..." He thought to himself. "Cloak's better." He picked up the cloak, and fastened it around his neck again. He had to look the most presentable to the newcomers.

There was a knock on his door.

"Enter." He said simply. The door opened a deck officer came through.

"Sir." He saluted. "We've received another message."

"From the Russians again?"

"No, sir. This one is from the Antigran Navy."

"The Antigrans?" The captain raised an eyebrow. Antigr was one of the better naval powers in the world, and Tobias wasn't that surprised when he heard their name being mentioned to him. He'd be surprised if they didn't. "What do they want?"

"It seems they are heading toward our position. They're requesting local weather conditions, and our status."

"Well, what are you waiting for? Give them what they want."

"Yes, sir." The officer saluted again, turned, and left the room.

The message was sent to the Antigran fleet, informing them of the weather conditions (wind speed 3.5 meters per second, direction to the east, partially cloudy, 18 degrees Celsius, wave height at 1 meter) and explaining that they are making contact with the...indigenous inhabitants of the new landmass. They also asked the Antigrans of their ETA.

"Sounds good. My men were planning on returning to the radio outpost we set up when we got here, however."


As the commandos packed up and loaded into their vehicles, Ulya and 5 others waited to be escorted to the train yard. They had left their rifles in the BMD, but the commandos and diplomats still had their PYa handguns. Ulya preferred to carry an old Makarov handgun instead, as she'd say that "it was a classic; well established by military officers and the KGB alike".


-----

Another Tu-95 recon plane was ordered to make more photographs of cities and other targets of interest. While it was returning to base, they had noticed the foreign naval fleets. The radio officer picked up the radio set and reported it.

"Control, this is Patrol-1375, we've sighted foreign naval fleets, and have completed photo mission"


Copy patrol, return to base. Look's like we aren't the only ones to find out about this.

S.R.F Vastervalto
203 Nautical Miles from the Angenterian Fleet



A monotone intermittent beep that somewhat hurt the ears was shut off by the communications Löjtnant called for the Commodore.
"Well? Give them an answer! Navigational, how far to the Angenterian fleet?"
"Sir...approximately seven hours at our current speed, 28 knots. We should be on top of them half an hour later"
"Sir?"
"What is it, Löjtnant?"
"You'll want to see this"
The Commodore took the other part of the message and his eyebrows rose to an unnatural level.
"Imperial Russian Navy? What the hell? A Dreadnought? Thirty-five-point-five-centimetre guns! This is...somewhat worrying"
"More worrying than a continent appearing, sir?"
"No. Just that they add up to make more problems"
They were somewhat rudely interrupted by another sharp beep, this time from radar.
"Bogey unidentified, Green 3-0, green 3-0, mid-to-large-sized aircraft bearing two-four-six. Weak contact, speed approximately 500mph. IFF and databases scanning"
The Commodore and two seamen crowded round the screen, which beeped again.
"Identity confirmed, appears to be a Tupolev Tu-95, reporting name Bear, heading straight for us, cruising speed"
"Try to make contact, ask them what they're doing. How many planes do we have in the air?"
"Ten. One DD45, One Su-33, two flights of DD80s, one en-route to carry out recon"
"Divert the nearest flight to intercept. Try not to shoot it down"
"Sir!"

"Incoming aircraft at 8'oclock, radar cross section matches an Su-27 variant."


"From the continent?"

"Negative, it must have come from that fleet"

"Try to make contact, I don't want to get shot down over here."

"Copy." The RTO switched the open communication channel on, and tried to reach the fighter or the fleet, which ever was closest. He hoped they understood Russian.

"Patrol 1375 to inbound aircraft, do not fire, we are taking aerial photographs of the new land, over"

Near the S.R.F. Vastervalto
190 Nautical Miles from the Angenterian Fleet


Flight Sergeant Larssen, flying towards the Tupolev's left side, was somewhat puzzled by the burst of Russian over the radio, mostly because he did not speak the language. Instead of attempting to reply, he contacted the Vastervalto.
"VT, VT, VT, comms coming through, request SYS and reply by same centre, over"
In the carrier's island, the communications officer yelled for a friend to come.
"Kartusev! Get me Kartusev"
The leading seamen was sent for and jogged in through the metal bulkhead door. The Lieutenant spoke to the Russian and gave him some simple instructions.
"There is a reconnaissance plane out there, IFF identifies it as one of Chernobyl-Pripyat nationality. Tell them they are closer to the fleet than we'd like them to be at a time like this and we request that they could move to another area"
With a flick of a few switches, the island was connected, through the Su-33 Flanker, to the Tupolev. Kartusev began to speak to them in his slightly rusty Russian.
"Uh...Patrol 1375, this is the Antigran fleet. Due to our alert status, we feel you are too close to us at this time for comfort and so we request you move to another area. Over"
Meanwhile, the Naval Flanker pilot had flown fairly closely parallel to the Tu-95. Larssen thought of buzzing them with a missile lock, but decided it was unnecessary, and so accelerated slightly to bring his comparatively small aircraft up to the front of the plane, from which position he could see the pilot. He gave a small wave with his right hand.

After receiving the reply, the RTO relayed it to the pilot.


"They said that they're not comfortable with us flying this close, and would like us to move"

"Tell them we'll adjust course"


"Aircraft, this is Patrol 1375, we will adjust course, over"



The aircraft veered to the left, to fly around the fleet, and return to base.

----------------

Murska AB


From the data the last several flyovers had provided, they could confirm that the new land mass was indeed Eurasia. They had a satellite take photographs along side the aircraft, since the latter couldn't map out the entire place. Several maps were faxed to the expedition team as a result.

(Looks like Red Tide died .-.
Antigr, not a clue. The ones that do know...welllll...)

Sergeant Molotov was roughly forty, by appearance, and, while he did posses the standard Mosin-Nagant M1891, it was slung over his shoulder in favor of what appeared to be a shotgun of some description. His battle dress also featured a distinctly non-standard bandoleer of shotgun shells and a number of grenades.

He spoke with a friendly tone, and a distinct Polish accent, clearly (at least) descended from Polish parents. His uniform was also somewhat dingy in comparison to his fellow soldiers, showing signs of wear, having apparently been in use for some time. A faint odor of cabbages seemed to constantly hover around him, although the exact reason for this was unclear, even to the sergeant.

Frederick, a lance corporal, was clearly of Germanic origin. Something which could be easily determined simply by looking at his height, and his amazingly blonde hair. And his thick accent.

The Sergeant advanced on the group, smiling broadly.

"So good to meet you all! I am Nikolai Andrei Molotov, and I will be your friendly tourguide for your trek through the Baltic Govornates. Please keep your hands and heads within the tour at all times, or a crazy anarchist might shoot them off. Imperial Tour Company accepts no responsibility for injury, physical or psychological, inflicted upon you during this tour." He stopped, "How are you, by the way?"

...

Ushakov, assistants in tow, most of them bedecked with a number of medals as well, managed to board the carrier with minimal difficulty and were, presumably, escorted to some sort of meeting room. Several of the aids seemed to constantly be taking notes. A few faces in the crowd of Russians looked around curiously, but Ushakov never gave anything more than a passing glance.

OOC: I am here, just been a bit busy... expect more when I have more time.

bump

"We are fine" Ulya said, speaking for her group. "This new continent is very interesting so far."


One of the note takers asked a question.

"What year is it?"


They would continue with the tour, hoping to get the chance to speak with their leader, possibly opening up an embassy afterwords. However, this all depended on the situation at home; on the way to the train station, they'd overheard radio chatter about parliament being arrested..

Mendezhev adjusted his uniform slightly under the gaze of the Red Tidean officer, before throwing a salute, "Poruchik Alecksi Mendezhev, Imperial Russian Army. I command the garrison of the border town north of here...or it was north of here. The compasses have all gone a bit crazy." He held up his own compass, which was currently gently spinning within its glass case, "Ever since the wave..." He started, "Red Tide?" Mendezhev seemed somewhat amused by the name, "I, ah, haven't heard of such a place, I am afraid. You don't look British or Persian, though."

He adjusted the strap on his Krnka model of 1867 rifle. It was the best one they had been able to get, as far from the supply lines as they were. It worked, but it had an appearance not entirely dissimilar from that of an old-fashioned muzzle loader. Of course, it had been 'modernized' into a breech loader that accepted cartridges...more or less. Sometimes you had to dig the spent ammunition out of the chamber with a knife.

Still, he considered himself lucky. The motly assortment of weapons present did, indeed, include, among other things, a Persian shortbow (taken from a farmer), two muzzle loading Model 1855 rifled muskets and a shoulder-mounted bamboo tube which a merchant had assured Private Khrechev was an authentic Chinese rocket launcher. Mendezhev strongly suspected that it was a modified fireworks tube with a dragon head stuck on one end.

Their uniforms were hardly better. Few retained their original insignia, although Mendezhev, as an officer, had been entitled to conscript a local peasant woman to sew new insignia for himself, most of the other soldiers had been left to make do with chalk. Most still had their greatcoats, however, for all the good it did at this time. It had been a blazing summer, but they all knew well enough that the coats would save their lives come winter. Most of them had taken the advice of the locals, modifying the coats with a series of straps to form a handy cloak of sorts, which, while hot, at least kept the sun off and provided some protection from the ever present dust.

IC: Captain-Commissar Sikorsky returned the mans salute after a moments hesitation in which he had to remember that Poruchik was a 100-year old term for (roughly) a lieutenant. He took a moment listening to the Poruchik explain too check over the rest of his Platoon. They all seemed to be wearing 100-year old uniforms in varying conditions, although he was not interested in that. He was more interested in their weapons. The most advanced weapon he saw was the (obviously modified) breechloader the man who was talking was carrying. He surpressed laughing-out-loud when he saw the bamboo tube that had to be a rocket launcher. He doubted its capacity too penetrate even the LATV's*.

The comment Imperial Russian Army raised his eyebrows a little, but he kept quiet. It was obvious that these men were the same ethnicity but came from a completely different country. One that seemed a bit... backwards too say the least. Sikorsky mentally shrugged it off, Red Tide itself had not been run by a royal family since the mid-1890's. The Communists had executed every last one of them, there were no survivors, even today. Red Tide had only realised the folly of Communism in the 1970's. There had been a short reversal under Premier Katerina, but she had been deposed rather quickly.

The part about the compass got Sikorsky curious enough to check his own (after taking a quick glance at the Lieutenant infront of him), sure enough it was spinning like crazy, although that certainly had not been the case when he was on the other side of the former border. He wondered what had caused that briefly as the Lieutenant finished up.

"British? Persian?" Sikorsky wondered aloud, "I have heard those names before, they are very general terms though. For instance, a Britishman could be from Questers, or Prestonia, or Praetonia... or any number of other places. From what I gather, you are from a nation named Russia and are Russian-" Possibly excepting his lieutenants, Sikorsky was probably the only one in the Company who had gone too a college (a military college, granted, but still a college) before being run through basic and officers training. "-but... there is no nation named Russia, and here Russian is also a general term referring to an ethnicity that makes up several different nations. There is the Russkyans, who probaby fall closest to what you are referring too, us here in Red Tide, the Pushkans, and he Russkyans, among others."**

'How interesting...' Siorsky considered as he waited for the mans reply.

OOC: *Lightly Armored Transport Vehicle, Red Tidean equivalent of the Humvee

**I RP as there being no central Russian nation, as you can tell.

(OOC:
On a rather amusing note, the 'sub-poruchik' rank is still in use for warrant officers.)

Molotov raised an eyebrow, then shrugged, "Nineteen hundred of our lord. July by the old calender." He thought for a moment, "So...August by the Gregorian. I think that's right."

"I have a newspaper here, somewhere." Frederick was rummaging in one of his pockets, withdrawing a number of varied items, including photographs, a couple of tins of meat and a collection of bottlecaps. Eventually the newspaper was produced, "It's in German, though. Can you read German?"

...

Mendezhev blinked at the nation names flowing into his head. And at the fact that these men had apparently not heard of Russia.

"I can assure you that Britain, Persia and Russia are all quite real, sir. Unless the map in my office is gravely mistaken. I am afraid, though, that much like yourself I have not heard of any of the nations of which you speak."

(OOC:
On a rather amusing note, the 'sub-poruchik' rank is still in use for warrant officers.)

Molotov raised an eyebrow, then shrugged, "Nineteen hundred of our lord. July by the old calender." He thought for a moment, "So...August by the Gregorian. I think that's right."

"I have a newspaper here, somewhere." Frederick was rummaging in one of his pockets, withdrawing a number of varied items, including photographs, a couple of tins of meat and a collection of bottlecaps. Eventually the newspaper was produced, "It's in German, though. Can you read German?"



"Unfortunately, I cannot speak German, however Davidenko can."

Ulya then passed to newspaper one of the agents. He read it over, and commented;

"It adds up.. It speaks of events that happened around that time period."

Ulya then added:

"Hmm.. very strange indeed. It's mid January where we're from, year twenty-fifteen. We're looking at a well over a century jump in time, but how could that happened? In our day and age, we can't even tell what the weather will be like for sure."

Ushakov, assistants in tow, most of them bedecked with a number of medals as well, managed to board the carrier with minimal difficulty and were, presumably, escorted to some sort of meeting room. Several of the aids seemed to constantly be taking notes. A few faces in the crowd of Russians looked around curiously, but Ushakov never gave anything more than a passing glance.

The greeting the Admiral and his assistants received was nothing less then one that befitted his rank. Imperial Navy crewmen and women, clad in their black uniforms (http://fc64.deviantart.com/fs31/i/2008/209/8/3/Imperium_Marines_by_sauronmrc.png), caps obscuring their eyes, stood in straight, ordered rows at perfect attention on the carrier deck, forming a perfect pathway straight to Captain Tobias himself, who wore his uniform proudly. As the Russian party approached, he bowed formally.

"Greetings. I am Captain Gerard Tobias, and welcome to the Endeavour. I do hope you are satisfied with our noble vessel, she has seen much in her years of service." Sometimes he was glad the Holy Imperium issued it's personnel with black uniforms. It absorbed the sun, but it damn sure looked good.

Molotov eyed the foreigners. He had read a little science fiction, but he never figured that he would hear adults discussing such things seriously. Still, to judge by their strange vehicles and dress, they were definitely a bit ahead of the times.

He shrugged to himself. If this was some kind of joke, well, it was obviously a very expensive and elaborate one, so he might as well play along.

"2015? That's quite amazing. I imagine things are quite advanced, yes? Flying cars and all that sort of thing. I saw a movie about it once." His son, apparently was fascinated by the things. He was going to attend a 'film school' in Minsk, according to his wife. As far as Molotov knew, it wasn't that complicated. You just pointed the camera and turned the lever.

"Flying cars and robots and that sort of thing." The sergeant elaborated.

...

Ushakov, in traditional white, returned the bow with a precision born of years spent in the Imperial court at St. Petersburg. He ensured that his bow was not a fraction of a degree lower than Tobias'.

"I am Admiral Alexander Rheskhov Mikhailovich Ushakov, Count of Tbilisi, commander of the second division of the Baltic Fleet of the Imperial Russian Navy, currently commanding the flagship Borodino. We are, of course, honored that you have brought us aboard your fine vessel. Your hospitality is much appreciated."

Molotov eyed the foreigners. He had read a little science fiction, but he never figured that he would hear adults discussing such things seriously. Still, to judge by their strange vehicles and dress, they were definitely a bit ahead of the times.

He shrugged to himself. If this was some kind of joke, well, it was obviously a very expensive and elaborate one, so he might as well play along.

"2015? That's quite amazing. I imagine things are quite advanced, yes? Flying cars and all that sort of thing. I saw a movie about it once." His son, apparently was fascinated by the things. He was going to attend a 'film school' in Minsk, according to his wife. As far as Molotov knew, it wasn't that complicated. You just pointed the camera and turned the lever.

"Flying cars and robots and that sort of thing." The sergeant elaborated.



"Well I don't know about those things, I'm sure some other countries have looked into it." Ulya jokingly added. She then produced a small digital camera from her rucksack, and switched it to the viewer mode. Most of the pictures were just random shots of her office and the street below, another of the old Chernobyl power station, and several other photos from the last Victory Day parade, which usually happened every may. There was also a short video clip from said parade, featuring a number of soldiers dressed in WWII uniforms and several T-80UD tanks

"Here, just press that button to view the next picture."

[OOC: Gah...expect a reply soon-ish]

Near the S.R.F. Vastervalto
82 Nautical Miles from the Angenterian Fleet


"How much further?"
"82 Nautical Miles, it says here"
"Damn!"
"It's only three or so hours, sir. With the good weather we're having, they'll be able to see us soon"
"Weather...how are those erratic weather patterns going?"
"Even more erratic. We're getting small swarms of quite minor EMPs as well. Their frequency and time scale are, frankly, never seen before. The water that's simply disappeared is still unaccounted for"
"You know how ridiculous that sounds?"
"Yes, sir. Oh, by the way, communications picked up a transmission. Forward elements of the 3rd Oceanic Fleet should be with us a couple of hours early, and we'll have support from international patrols continously from within five thousand miles, which adds up to a lot. Back in Antigr, things are totally, utterly crazy. I expect your wife will call in a few hours, it'll be around that time soon"
"Thank you, Löjtnant"

"I am Admiral Alexander Rheskhov Mikhailovich Ushakov, Count of Tbilisi, commander of the second division of the Baltic Fleet of the Imperial Russian Navy, currently commanding the flagship Borodino. We are, of course, honored that you have brought us aboard your fine vessel. Your hospitality is much appreciated."

"The Borodino seems like a fine vessel." Captain Tobias replied "She is truly a symbol of Russian might." Captain Tobias handled the initial surprise from meeting a Russian Admiral quite well, despite the circumstances. "If you would be so kind as to follow me; there is much I wish to discuss."

[OOC: Bump]

[OOC: I hate having to poke the dead mule]