NationStates Jolt Archive

Port Arthur represented something unique and special to the Russian Empire. It was, essentially, the final realization of a two hundred year old dream, a dream first borne by Peter the Great. It was a dream that had driven Catherine The Great's forces into the Crimea. It was that dream that had driven the Tsars to look eastwards. And here, now, Russia had a warm water port. A port which never froze in the winter. A port that it's Pacific fleet could operate from free of ice, year round.

That didn't stop it from getting bloody cold.

Word had it that the Chinese were getting uppity about the Russian presence as well. And some within the Imperial government questioned the ability of the somewhat thin-spread Eastern Army to take on the entirety of the Chinese Imperial Army. It was rumored that, having been revitalized by the sudden vanishment of the European powers, the Chinese army was now a force which equipped more men with guns than swords. Further, despite having lost its densely populated southern provinces in the same event that took the British and French out, China still had well over two hundred million souls to its name, and could field an army of ten million men if it chose to.

This had encouraged the Tsar to approve the acquisition of the new 'modern' equipment coming from overseas for his soldiers. Light machine guns, automatic rifles, miniature rocket launchers, jet airplanes...and tanks. The Tsar seemed to particularly like tanks. He had gone so far as to reform the Guards Hussar Regiment, which his son was enrolled in and would, once he was of age, command, into the armies first tank division, operating the best vehicles which could be acquired.

Port Arthur was also host to the Empire's first official jet-capable military airfield. Vladivostok, to the north, had been the second.

In Europe things had been handled at a somewhat slower pace. With Austria and the remnants of Prussia under the Imperial thumb, and only the Ottomans left as an independent power in the region, the Tsar and his advisors had concluded that it would be best to deal with the largest threat first. Plans had been drawn up for an offensive push into China, through Mongolia, Manchuria and Sinkiang. Armored thrusts followed by fast-moving infantry strikes to mop up the shellshocked remnants of the Chinese army. The plans could be put into action by 1911.

The Chinese, though, were impatient.

December, 1905, Dalian Peninsular, Port Arthur

It was, as usual, a chilly December morning. Private Dimitry Sevetropov rubbed his hands together and peered at the frost-covered landscape past the first concrete trench line. Construction on the fortifications had started a week after the Russian 'acquisition' of the port, and was still ongoing. He could see the work gangs even now. Poor bastards. Apparently there had been a shortage of wool back home, which meant that they hadn't had enough greatcoats to go around. Half the 'workers', mostly political prisoners and Austrian dissidents, were working in little more than undershirts and whatever other rags they could find.

You had to work to keep alive, though. The guards had stopped trying to force the inmates to work. The ones that didn't simply froze to death. Or got frostbite. The sight of a man attempting to walk on the blackened remains of his legs, trying to feed himself with fingers that were rotting while still attached to his own body, with only an agonizing death by gangrene or some other terrible disease that preyed upon the weak...that was generally motivation enough.

Food was no longer a problem, fortunately. Apparently back home land reform had taken hold. The Tsar wasn't happy about it, the rumors said, but he couldn't complain, with crop yields up a staggering two hundred percent from last season alone, across the entire Empire, INCLUDING the newly aquired areas. Factoring those out the number must've been beyond all imagination.

Dimitry sighed happily. A mere year ago he'd been starving in the Petropavlovsk garrison. Now...now they had fresh bread every day.

Well, maybe not fresh EVERY day, and sure, it was generally cold by the time it got to the foot soldiers...but when you've lived five years of your life on expired, or nearly so, canned rations and whatever you could catch, even the prospect of stale bread was fine. There had even been beef last night. A luxury truly beyond any frontier soldiers wildest dream. A miracle made possible by 'freezer cars', which apparently kept things cold on the long journey through Siberia...a fact which the soldiers in the garrison never ceased to be amused by.

The chronic supply problems seemed to have vanished too. Somewhat. They were now allowed ten shots per year of practice ammunition...up from two. Of course, in Petropavlovsk he hadn't even had that...he still remembered, rather bitterly, patrolling the wall with an empty rifle. Bayonet fixed and entertaining ideas of a career as an Olympic javelin tosser and distance runner, should anybody attack.

A full belly and a full rifle...what more could any soldier want?

He coughed, watching his breath slowly dissipate in the morning air. How long 'till the watch was over?

“Ahh! Dimitry! So good of you to stand out here in my place. You know how hard it is to take a piss here, huh? You have to keep breaking the icicles off!”

Sergeant Akeli rolled to a stop, a few feet behind Dimitry.

One thing that had yet to be fixed was the rampant corruption. And it only got worse the further you got from St. Petersburg. And Vladivostok was about as far away from the capital as you could get and still be in Russia. Seniority among the enlisted was based on time served, not rank. Akeli had been in the army for nigh on twenty years, it seemed. Apparently he had gravitated instantly to the rank of sergeant and proved impossible to remove from the mold once he had set. He was lord and master of the enlisted barracks and had more than one officer in his pocket.

Irritating the man was a death sentence. Or close enough.

“Of course, sergeant.” Dimitry nodded, “It must be a pain to find your dick under all the fat.” He didn't add.

“Thanks for standing in for me, you can head back in, private. See you next watch! Haha!” There was a full five minutes left before Dimitry's watch came up. He cursed inwardly and shuffled back to the barracks, hoping he could at least get some hot tea and a bun or something.

...

The trick to midnight watches was not to stand still. If you did, your boots might freeze to the concrete.

Dimitry paced, trying to keep under the overhang as much as he could. It was raining now. A fine mist only visible in the compound lights. Just enough to stick to a man's face and freeze it right off.

His thoughts turned, once again, to politics. It was something to keep his mind off the fact that if he brushed a hand against his forehead he might well lose his eyebrows. Unlike a good many recruits, Dimitry was literate, he'd even gone to school. His parents, while not quite noble, were well enough off to ensure he got the basics. Unfortunately they had not been well enough off to bribe the recruiters, and on his 18th birthday he had promptly been carted off.

The current situation with China was an odd one. The Chinese had, shortly after finding out that their French, British and German occupiers' homelands were now non-existant, promptly informed the same occupiers that they were now Chinese citizens, and if they didn't like it all they needed to do was purchase an emigration license. A mere five hundred thousand silver Yuan at your local government seat. And, of course, they had promptly re-asserted all of the laws and regulations which the 'unequal treaties' had enforced on them...saving those pertaining to the opening of trade and allowing foreigners to own property in specific sections of specific cities.

Virtually every European in China lost everything they owned. And many were lucky not to have simply been lynched or flayed or whatever it was the Chinese did to people they really didn't like.

All of this happened in the non-Russian occupied areas, and Russians, or those representing Russian interests, were ignored and, in cases where harm befell them, compensated nicely.

And now, things had gone oddly quiet. It was almost unnerving. News out of China had vanished, and the government in Manchuria had simply started ignoring the Russian presence there, save when they were forced to deal with them for use of the railroads. There was news, and troop movements to back it up, of a bloody campaign in Korea, driving out or subduing the remaining Japanese presence and fully reasserting Chinese control. Apparently the situation was similar in Tibet, although one had to take all Tibetan news with a grain of salt, since the only means of contact with that mysterious highland nation was, quite simply, foot travel.

Dimitry sighed. Above him, as if on cue, the floodlight shattered with a loud pop, causing him to jump.

He should've been used to that, of course. Apparently it happened when they heated up too quickly in this weather. Of course, now there was broken glass on his patrol route...

All in all, not a good start to what was promising to be a long night.

January 1902, Beijing, The Forbidden City

“Ten thousand years to the Guangshu Emperor! Bow!”

The susseration of a thousand silk robes rustling at once filled the Hall of Supreme Harmony, the spiritual heart of the Qing Empire. A thousand courtiers, servants, and various other court officials prostrating themselves before the Emperor.

Of course, they weren't really bowing to the Emperor.

Anybody who knew anything of Chinese politics knew that every iota of power in the room was flowing directly to one side of the throne, where the Dowager Empress Cixi was stationed, giving the impression of combining the virtues of a mountain with those of a dragon. Totally immovable, yet deadly cunning. Europeans had, since she first took power, taken to calling her the 'Dragon Lady'. It had caught on in the court as well, although nobody would say it to her face. If they wanted to keep their tongue, anyway.

The page, satisfied that everybody was satisfactorily humble, went on.

“First order of business!” He withdrew a silk scroll from a container at his waist, “The Emperor's Divine Plan for Driving the Russian Occupiers from Manchuria! Bow!”

There was another ripple of movement.

“For far too long have we permitted the Russians to occupy our homeland.” The Emperor spoke now, probably from a script prepared by Cixi, “However, a gift from Heaven, truly confirming the Qing as favored by the Heavenly Bureaucracy, has been granted to me. I have put to paper the brilliant strategy of the mighty generals of the Qing army, and with this plan our divine forces, the Great Banner Armies, will drive into Manchuria and drive the Russians back across the Amur, where the belong! Let the barbarians eat snow and herd cattle, like proper barbarians!”

This speech was met with polite clapping. While not a charismatic marvel of eloquent argument, it did not do to not applaud the Emperor's speech. Those not sufficiently in awe of the divine presence often found themselves transferred to a Sinkiang border town.

Having received a basic strategic overview, which in no way reflected the actual plan, the courtiers were herded out of the hall and the Emperor was retired to his chambers.

The dowager empress, and a few select generals, remained.

“Now, gentlemen,” The true ruler of China smiled, “Let us commence...”

...

November, 1905, South of the Russian Occupation Zone

Colonel (OOC note: I have no idea about Qing dynasty military ranks, so I'll be using standard western ones. Assume they're actually the Chinese equivalent of the period.) Ch'ien Mu, leading a division of 10,000 men of the Yellow Banner Army, the finest soldiers of the Emperor, and the best equipped combat force in China, had finally arrived at his position.

Three years of preparation. Absolute secrecy, easily maintained by the simple expedient of not allowing any news out of the country, the movement of supplies by the new infrastructure, built solely by the Chinese, with a minimal amount of outside assistance, and with a good number of outsiders simply having 'accidents'. All quite convincing, of course. A few had even been real accidents. Working conditions in China were not exactly the best in the world, even the Chinese admitted that.

China had not been idle in the five years since the world outside of Asia had vanished. It had been a shock, certainly, and the loss of the South had hurt, but not killed, what economy the Chinese had. But the modern equipment and devices brought in from overseas, in exchange for silver, had proved most useful.

St. Petersburg, Garde Du Corps Regimental Barracks

The rumble and screech of armored vehicles in action, combined with the constant roar of engines, the crowd, and the general noise of a military installation made the scene at the Imperial Proving Grounds quite deafening. From the Imperial box in the stands, however, it was at least warm. The Tsar, still flush with pride after the birth of his son (although, according to rumor, it was more worry than pride), sat upright in his chair, apparently very interested in the scene below.

Nicholas leaned forward now, taking a special interest in a particular piece of hardware.

“You like it, Nicky?” Vladimir Sukhomlinov, the Minister of War, nodded at the T-90 tanks which rolled across the scenery, “The best we could get our hands on on short notice. It's really quite amazing. They're a sort of armored artillery, a combined cavalry and artillery force...Nicky, with enough of these we can just roll over the rebels, the Ottomans AND the Chinese. I've put in an order for a hundred for the 7th cavalry with personal money. I'm hoping for your approval for enough money to bring all the cavalry up to this kind of level.”

Nicholas nodded, a little distantly, “Bring me the bill and I'll sign it, Vladimir.” The Tsar wore a look not entirely dissimilar to a small child who had just seen a very large, very fancy, toy.

The war minister nodded, “I'll get on that, then. Do enjoy yourself, Nicky.”

Nicholas smiled. Sukhomlinov, and most of his closest advisors, as well as virtually everybody in the palaces, called him by the diminutive. His father had impressed upon him that, while in his official capacity as the Tsar it was important to maintain appearances, one had to avoid letting power go to ones head. The informal 'at home' environment was just the trick for that.

“Of course, Vladimir. I shall have to buy one for Alexei when he's old enough as well! Of course, his mother will disapprove, but a boy must have his toys!”

“Hah! His mother, if you will forgive me, would have the poor boy carried about on an airtight palanquin and not allow him to eat anything that hadn't been thoroughly cooked if she could help it.” Sukhomlinov sighed, “Nicky, you've got to make sure he gets a good upbringing. He's going to be the Tsar, you know. And a boy cannot get everything from his mother and grow up to be a man.”

“I know, Vladimir. I know.” The Tsar nodded. This was an old debate, “But he is only a year old now...I'm sure his mother will eventually stop doting on him...”

OOC: There are some assumptions in here. I hope their okay.

IC:
The port city of Tianjin, China...

Antonov Egorov was a native of the Red Tidean Southern Mountain Provinces, which was an oddity. Most members of the Red Tide Mafia were escapee's of the vast prison camp complexes that existed in the region, but Egorov was a native to the region who distinguished himself in the eyes of a RTM Capo.

Even today, Egorov missed his late mentor, Bogdan Mihailov, who taught Egorov most of what he knew. The Southern Mountain Provinces were the most lawless parts of Red Tide, unlike everywhere else in the country, the central government extended to the mining and prison camps and the railway links to them... and that was it.

The last time the Red Tidean Government had tried to exert total control, it had been a disaster. So the TSRT had an unofficial deal with the Red Tide Mafia: you leave the camps and transport links alone, we'll leave you alone. So far the deal had held... and the Southern Mountain Provinces became a bastion of smuggling.

Now Egorov had wound up here, in charge of the smuggling operations into and out of the place called China. The Red Tide Mafia had been more then glad in selling the Chinese advanced (well, advanced for the Chinese, everywhere else in the world it was junk) weaponry in exchange for silver. Egorov had even met their Emperor (well... Empress would be a more accurate name) once. That woman was dangerous, but had seen the sense in dealing with the RTM... for now.

In any case, that was not an experience Egorov really wanted to repeat, especially due to the utterly bizarre amount of respect he had to show the lady. But it had been profitable, over the three years he had been operating in this region, Egorov had sold three million Ak-47s, 1/4 that in RPGs, and around one hundred thousand SA-7 handheld SAM launchers. Due to China's proximity to Red Tide, this had become one of the most profitable parts of the Red Tide Mafia's 'off-the-books' trading.

But now, now Egorov was about to give his 'hosts' a pleasent gift. He always had a knack for foreign languages and had learned the local dialect pretty quickly.

"Gentlemen..." Egorov announced in Chinese, standing in front of a shipping container that had just been offloaded, "Today, I have something special for you."

The front of the cargo container fell off, and there was a couple of moments silence during which the three Han-Chinese officials he was standing in front of glanced at each other... then there was a roar of engine and the squeeling of tracks.

Emerging from the container it came, it's armored hull shaped especially to deflect projectiles and a 73mm gun poking out from a squat turret. The BMP-1 rolled out of it's ontainer and turned to front face towards the Chinese officials.

"This, gentlemen, is the BMP-1 Infantry Fighting Vehicle... a troop transport designed to carry personnel into combat and support them with a decent amount of firepower. What do you think?"

Swallow Bank House, Walmington on Sea

"...on the other hand, I can see how it may be good for Frazer's current accounts." Finished Treasurer Lowe, making reference to his perception that lately China's antisocial behaviour might create in the market a gap that Ceyloban tea could fill.

"Oh, really." The Prime Minister contributed. "No, it won't do at all. Actually, Ceyloba's at the heart of this. These Chinese, their new ideas, it's a terrible precedent they're setting. And it's not good for normal relations in the long term."

Mainwaring's idea of normal relations, of course, was based on the obedience of lesser nations to imperial powers such as Walmington, which controlled large territories in Africa and, the precious jewel, Ceyloba, which lay in the Gallagan Ocean somewhere generally south of Asia. If the Chinese were allowed to break rank and upset the traditional order of things, there was no telling where it could lead.

In want of any more sophisticated alternative and already upset about disruptions to the imperial way in Waynesia and the Cape Colonies, Great Walmington threw caution to the wind and fell back on its most old-fashioned and time-honoured diplomatic tool.

Vollumbo, Walmingtonian Viceroyalty of Ceyloba

Admiral Eric Longworth had only been in the country for a matter of hours when he received his confirmation orders and put out to sea with the Gallagan Fleet. Swallow Bank had finally decided to give Admiral Governor Sir James Frazer a break and send someone who wouldn't be expected to lead the fleet while also managing an imperial dominion of ten million souls.

Longworth had commanded ANCAT during the war, and was certainly not greatly impressed by this so-called fleet. After having modern Iansislian and other warships in his charge, making do with the Royal Oak as a flagship was something of a struggle. In the Denmark Strait, Royal Oak's sister, Iansisle had not fared well and had been sent to the bottom in a duel with Bismarck and her (or his) squadron, including Prinz Eugen and Graf Heydrech. There was nothing to indicate that a few more years under the Gallagan sun had done anything to improve this ship's capabilities, and, as Longworth found shortly after leaving port, the wartime armour refit made for abysmal seakeeping. The pair of Iansisle Class battleships had been built in the nation for which they were named, originally as coal-fired vessels with mixed armament, and refitted a number of times in both Iansislian and Walmingtonian service, first with a Westerton Mk.X oil-fired plant and an all heavy gun battery, and then with an anti-aircraft battery and armour designed to meet aerial and long-range threats.

Now, eight 12" rifles hardly qualified as the heavy armament of a genuine battleship, but with a 24 knot sprint and only one hull remaining it didn't seem right or worthwhile to reclassify the design.

With the Royal Oak were the Chaspot Class heavy cruisers Deepdale and Marwood, the Kentonshire Class light cruiser Kenilworth, and the III or Falcon Class destroyers Dolly, Longevity, Infamous, Constant and Ajax. At least the last destroyer was new, having been sent to replace her wartime namesake who was torpedoed in the South China Seas in '39 (by the Walmingtonian calendar).

And in this order the fleet made for Chinese waters, intending to put the fear of God -or naval artillery- into the Chinese. Maybe Longworth could even wrangle some new concessions for Walmington.

((OOC: Walmington is actually stuck in the 1940s, but we rarely let that dissuade us in meddling in the affairs of nations that no longer propel their warplanes with piston engines. Sorry for the clumsy nature of the post, I'm pretty hungover =) ))