NationStates Jolt Archive

Somewhere in the Ocean (We'd be a little more precise if actually had navigational equipment...)
H-Hour minus 15 Minutes


Only General Nthato Motlana Mbutu Kamiri Je Nubo Koro III himself could have devised such an ingenious and effective plot such as this, thought Brigadier General Nbele as he surveyed the vast map in front of him. He traced his fingers along the route at which they had so far undertaken and to the point of their destination. He smiled and picked up his glass of water, taking a gentle sip while he transported himself to an imaginary battlefield in his mind. He stood alone in front of his vast Khemeti army, his traditional commander’s spear with the National Army’s colors pointed valiantly forwards. Gunfire rang from near and far and artillery boomed, each explosion translating to more and more enemies crumpled and dead where they had fallen. Then, as if Nthato himself was speaking from the sky, his deep voice reverberating the soil beneath his feet: “Another ship has sunken!” Nbele swiftly opened his eyes and was transported back to the real world. In his face stood the slender frame of Ensign Jmeninigul repeating the same words, “Another ship has sunk, sir! The PRKKNS Nthato’s Left Leg has sunk with all hands!”

Nbele jolted forward, “Enemy fire?! Have we been found! Call for retreat!” He began furiously reaching for the operation’s documents, preparing to hide them in his coat so he could sell them to the enemy for exaggerated prices.

“No, no, no! The bow broke off after the bridge fell forward!” The ensign sighed, “We tried to rescue the survivors but they tried outswimming our rescue boats, apparently, they thought we were the enemy!”

“Great Nthato! How many ships have we lost?”

“Seventeen of our initial twenty-five escorts.”

Nbele surveyed his options as he slowly pulled the documents from his jacket and trousers, placing them back on the desk. “Well, General Nthato’s orders were precise, we must continue at all costs, for the element of surprise is our’s. We shall continue our mission. Notify me when we are near the enemy’s shores.” With that, Nbele began to recline in his chair.

Ensign Jmeninigul adjusted his composure, “Sir, we are near the enemy’s shores. We arrived fifteen minutes ago and tried to call you on your phone.” He nodded towards the relatively modern phone sitting on the desk.

Nbele narrowed his eyes at the phone before glaring at the ensign, “I was watching my soap opera, you should know not to contact me during that time period. You fools.” He glanced at his watch, “Surprising, we are ahead of schedule. Do not call for the attack to proceed just yet, I want to play my scheduled game of shuffle board.” Nbele stood up and straightened his disheveled uniform before returning the ensign’s salute and making way towards the deck. Brigadier General Nbele was quite enamored with this new found sport known as shuffle board. No one on board had heard of the sport until the strange markings were found on the ship’s deck. After some courteous tips and information from the former crew, the Khemeti officers found shuffle board to be an enthralling game and spent countless hours playing it. The enthusiasm for the sport soon found its way to the enlisted men on board and they began holding competitive and sometimes ruthless shuffle board tournaments using whatever tools they could find. All in all it was a worthy way of passing the time en route to their destination.

Beyond the confines of the newly commissioned PRKKNNS General Nthato, a one-of-its-kind amphibious assault ship in the National Navy, sat the shores of the Cottish territory that was their target. Only miles away, yet their defense forces were completely oblivious to the fact a mighty Khemeti armada sat just off their shores. One could conjecture that the Khemeti’s were using some secret stealth or cloaking system. Another possibility would be the vast and unrivaled Khemeti intelligence network, planning this invasion perfectly and paying off the proper Cottish officials to turn a blind eye with promises of fame, fortune, and wild women in the homeland of Kak Khemet. Or it could just be that the Khemeti National Navy was composed entirely of civilian ships including the recently and illegally acquired Cottish cruise ship.

The plan itself began when General Nthato himself called a large cruise line in Cotland and chartered one of their finest ships for use as an “officer’s retreat” to honor the braveness of the Khemeti military’s officers during the recent, victorious war with Crimmond. When the ship arrived at Khemeti ports to pick up her passengers, she was swiftly overtaken by the somewhat elite Khemeti National Navy Special Cruise Ship Service (similar to the Special Boat Service although entirely trained to operate on cruise ships). A several day-long, extensive refit occurred as the ship was reconfigured into an advanced (by Khemeti standards) amphibious assault ship. Her decks now teemed with various artillery and mortar pieces. Machine guns festooned from windows and deck railings. A surface-to-surface missile launcher sat poised in what had once been her large swimming pool. Sandbags and wooden barricades provided protection from expected gunfire. Another surface-to-surface missile launcher poked out of an improvised hull in the ship’s forward deck. This would be the launch point for the Khemeti military’s elite semi-airborne shock troops. Her rear deck was now occupied by three, aging Mi-8s. Jury-rigged Higgins boats dangled from her sides in festive colors. Everything was camouflaged as best as possible to prevent detection although, in retrospect, camouflage netting was probably not the best choice for disguising an artillery piece on the deck of a mostly white cruise ship.

As per the plan, the ship was loaded with hundreds of Khemeti crew and National Army soldiers. Sent to escort her to Cottish shores was the entirety of the Khemeti National Navy, some twenty-five ships. Unfortunately, due to structural and seaworthiness issues, only eight would arrive unscathed. The rest sank en route. There was no doubt, whatsoever, that this task force could easily resist the paltry defense of these new Cottish lands. By official proclamation, these lands were officially claimed by the People’s Republic of Kak Khemet as one of the ancient realms of Kak Khemet. This force would ensure its reintegration back into the Khemeti empire.

But, as the nine ships sat idly off the quiet shores of this Cottish colony, the invasion would have to wait. An intense game of shuffle board was awaiting the overall task force commander.



OOC- Cot, I forgot what territory I was supposed to be invading, hence the generic "target".

"What do you think dad?" The boy asked.

"I don't know son, but I don't think they're here for the annual coffee festival." The father said dryly as he looked at the cruise ship turned... something. "I think we should go back to the farm and call the town hall." The father said from the cliff overlooking the natural harbor to the only real settlement that existed on the small 890 square kilometer island that constituted the Cottish colony of Makrell, looking down on the cruise ship that had apparently been in the hands of someone with a unhealthy liking to military camo nets.

Markrell was a very small and insignificant part of the Cottish Realm, home to only some 673 settlers and 22 imported Prestonoid negros who were employed to herd the 900 sheep that were located on the island at next to no wage, and a small airport which apart from two CotAir flights a week - one on Monday and one on Thursday - to the Cottish colony of Sunnmore some 2000 nautical miles distant, was the home of two MH-28E Black Falcon search and rescue helicopters and a total of thirty service members of the Royal Cottish Air Force, of which six were pilots and the rest logistics personell. Apart from this, Makrell was the home to three coffee plantations and a sheep farm in addition to the fisheries, providing a small but steady source of income that was enough to keep the colony profitable. In an attempt to promote tourism, the Colony Council had launched what they called the Annual Coffee Festival two years prior, which was basically an excuse for everyone to drink coffee and eat good food at day and get blasted at night for a whole week straight, and that - not surprisingly - had proven a great success with bored people from many different places in the world. The next Coffee Festival was scheduled to start next week, and already the first tourists were starting to arrive at the island, already starting to crowd the only hotel in the village.

"What about the fishing? You promised!" The boy began, only to be silenced by the stern look on his father.

"We'll do it another day son. When there isn't a big boat full of tourists scaring the fish in the harbor." The father said in a gentler tone as the two wandered back to the pickup truck. "As for today, I think we're going to go shooting instead."

"Can I try that gun you borrowed with home from the militia training? Can I? Can I? Please?"

"The ADEC? Yes, if you behave and do as I tell you to."

*********

Down at the harbor, a small crowd was starting to gather near the waterfront, curious about the new and strange-looking ships that had entered the harbor. Among them were the colony's administrator, Fillip Robertsønn, a mildly obese man in his late fifties with rich grey hair and classy clothes, courtesy of his vacation last year to Questeria where he had bought a new wardrobe, and the only police officer on the island, Police Sergeant Didrik Mehamn of Rikspolitiet (http://wikistates.outwardhosting.com/wiki/Law_enforcement_in_Cotland), who had signed a five-year contract to serve on this godforsaken island four years ago when he graduated from the police academy.

"Sergeant Mehamn," Robertsønn asked formally. "Do you know anything about this?"

"No sir. As usual, no one's told me anything." Mehamn said as he took off the pith helmet and scratched his short-cut hair. Originally from Sunnmore, Mehamn still suffered from the tropical climate of Makrell.

"Have anyone tried to raise them on the radio and asked what they want? Are they tourists coming for the Coffee Festival perhaps?" Robertsønn asked ignorantly, having dodged military service forty years prior on medical grounds.

"Somehow sir," Mehamn replied dryly, "I doubt tourists intended to get silly drunk bring their own army, helicopters and artillery pieces. No sir, I think that what we have here is an invasion force."

"An... invasion force? As in, enemy invasion?"

"Yes sir."

"But... why?"

"I don't know... Maybe they want the extra booze we got from the last resupply ship." Mehamn said, referring to the roughly 50 000 litres of alcohol that lay in various basements and waited to be consumed next week by the expected 1000 participants of the Coffee Festival.

"So... you're saying we should give it to them?"

"Hell no!" Mehamn replied instinctivly - the boozing was the only good thing about this godforsaken island he had been foolish enough to sign on for serving at in the hope of easy duty and good money. "We should reply as good Cots, in the spirit of His Majesty, and tell them to fuck off, while we call for help from the Navy and or Air Force in Sunnmore."

"Oh yes, I see, good. You do that." Robertssønn stuttered as he took a few steps back.

"Oh no you don't! I'm just a cop here. You're the administrator, so you're going to be the one telling them."

"The Navy and Air Force?" The administrator said with hope in his voice.

"No, them boyos there." Mehamn said using the most common racial slur Cots could use about negros, several of which had been spotted by binoculars on the cruise ship holding sticks and making excited gestures at one another, pointing to the cruise ship in the harbor. "I'm going to tell the Navy and Air Force."

With that, Mehamn resolutely marched off to his standard issue LY83 Fox utility vehicle and drove off to the police station slash house to make the call, leaving behind a most disheartened fat man who stared at the waiting dinghy with desperation in his eyes.

A few minutes later, the dinghy was some 100 meters from the port side of the cruise ship, with Robertsønn aboard holding a megaphone.

"Ahem, hello, ahoy there! You lot in the boat. Yes you! This island is the property of and under the protection of His Majesty King Haakon the Eigth of Cotland. As His Majesty's representative to this island, I order you to leave in the name of the King, or else we shall... we shall..." Robertsønn said, not remembering the next part. "We shall do very naughty things against you. Yes, we shall do very naughty things against you and your boat if you don't leave immediately. You have one hour to leave."

Ahh, yes, here we are, the colony of Makrell
H-Hour plus 15 Minutes

Brigadier General Nbele, fresh from a challenging game of shuffleboard, surveyed the beaches of the colony of Makrell, noting the gathering of people. Specifically, he eyed the fat, elderly man. Since men in Kak Khemet rarely lived past forty-two and only General Nthato could be considered obese, the concept of an elderly fat man particularly intrigued him. He studied the man’s gestures and general composure before deciding that the creature he was studying had to be some sort of advanced puppet, perhaps an idol these crude islanders worshipped. He determined that within the man there was a much smaller man actuating the arms and head. Nbele lifted the binoculars from his target and again scanned the beach head noting the lack of firearms and any uniformed personnel except for what he construed to be a policeman who shortly thereafter left the beach. ‘Good,’ Nbele thought, ‘our only roadblock has left, now we must invade!’ He turned to his cadre of officers and gave a stern nod, “We attack now!”

The officers quickly parted, making way towards their assigned jurisdictions and galvanizing the soldiers they encountered. Soon, the ship was humming with activity. Nbele stood on the deck of the ship and, through the only method of communication available, shouted to the other ships of the Khemeti task force: “Proceed with our operations! May General Nthato guide us through battle!” He pumped his fists in the air, accidentally tossing the loudspeaker overboard. As Nbele returned his gaze to the sea, something caught his gaze. It was the fat elderly man! Surely, he intends to surrender! Within a quarter mile radius of the approaching dinghy, Khemeti ships were already fleeing. The PRKKNNS General Nthato’s Ring Finger threw its commander overboard before promptly turning around and heading towards the open ocean. The PRKKNNS General Nthato’s Bodily Function attempted to turn starboard to flee but instead struck and split the PRKKNNS General Nthato’s Immune System in half, sending both ships to the bottom of the sea. The remainder of the escorts simply acted in confusion, fearing the dinghy, the island they intended to attack, and the open ocean for the potential threats it contained, they simply motored around in circles, occasionally bouncing off each other. A few shots of gunfire erupted as ships confused each other for enemy combatants.

Now the fat man was yelling at him with the loud speaker. Unfortunately, Nbele couldn’t understand English or whatever strange dialect this man was speaking. However, when he said “His Majesty King Haakon the Eighth of Cotland” it vaguely sounded like “shoot me and feed me to your men” in Nbele’s native Khemeti tongue. The rest of his spiel, Nbele conjectured, was the best way to serve him, especially since ‘naughty’ sounded similar to liver. Recognizing this courteous gesture on behalf of the fat man and realizing the ship’s stocks of food were low, Nbele provided a friendly wave and broad grin before directing the nearest machine gun to open fire. “Sergeant! Shoot that man but try to preserve as much meat as possible and then go down there and retrieve his body, we’ll have it for our victory dinner!” The sergeant complied and promptly trained his aging Doomingslandi machine gun at the man and opened fire with a short burst.

Just as Nbele finished speaking, the invasion began in full force. The thunderous booms of the ship’s forward rocket launchers shook the ship and the nearby escorts. Normally, rockets would be streaking through the sky, however, the elite Semi-Airborne Brigade was now in flight. Seated in Kak Khemet’s world renowned ejection seats, they arced towards their targets. The men were dressed in all black gear, their assault rifles strapped to their chests, and wide, gleaming grins covering their faces. The high arcs abruptly stopped as parachutes deployed and the ejection seats, with soldiers in tow, gently landed across the beach. The sixteen members of the admittedly small brigade quickly unbuckled their harnesses and jumped to their feet. One promptly fell backwards, dead from a heart attack induced by the exhilarating ride and the rather strong sexual excitement he experienced in the flight. When the remaining fifteen saw the soldier fall backwards, they instinctively began fleeing. Three dove into the water, furiously swimming back towards the cruise ship. Two buried themselves in the sand behind their ejection seats while the remainder ran towards the water before realizing they hate water. With their backs literally against the wall, and the crowd on the beach confused at what was happening, the Semi-Airborne Brigade felt it had no choice but to fight. Firing from the hip, their rifles opened up and sprayed the air, beach, and local plant life with as much fire as their magazines permitted. One picked a grenade from his vest and, forgetting to pull the pin, lobbed it towards the crowd of people, now running for cover.

From the confines of the cruise ship, General Nbele watched the events unfold on the beach. He shook his head in dire contemplation, “Captain! It appears our advance has stalled, prepare our artillery and our next wave, we must take this beach!” The captain quickly ran from the bridge and onto the deck, where he rallied his artillerymen to action. The camouflage nets were pulled away and the guns were loaded. Artillery ranging from 88mm to 155mm began opening fire, raining death and destruction on the ocean a kilometer away from the island. The mistake was realized, and the guns were crudely trained on the island. However, the soldiers knew little to nothing about properly aiming the guns so very few shells struck the island.

Higgins boats loaded with National Army soldiers were lowered to the surface of the sea. A handful carried Nyala jeeps loaded with machine guns, the rest carried full groups of soldiers. Rubber boats were also lowered, each carrying a handful of soldiers wearing a prohibitive amount of lifejackets sometimes three or four per man due to Khemeti’s natural fear of water. Since very few outboard motors existed in Kak Khemet, the Higgins boats and rubber boats were propelled entirely by sail or oar. They made their slow progress towards shore.

Soon, the rhythmic thumping of rotor blades, the screeching howl of long-neglected bearings, and a loud bang filled the air as two of the three Mi-8s lifted into the sky. The third rolled overboard after one of its turbines blew up. The Mi-8s soon headed inland where they would drop their load of sixty soldiers.

The smaller escorts, regaining their composure, began moving closer to the island. Recoilless rifles and machine guns were lashed to her railings and their supporting fire began raining down. The crews fired at anything that moved or remotely resembled a person. As the gunfire continued, Nbele instructed the cruise ship’s crew to begin playing the motivational music he had hand-picked to help galvanize his forces to victory. Soon, blaring over every speaker on the cruise ship, and undoubtedly heard on the island, was Kak Khemet’s National Anthem, also known as “Entry of the Gladiators” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_B0CyOAO8y0&feature=related). When it concluded, the nation’s most popular song, “Achy of Breaky Heart,” adapted by a native Khemeti began its turn and would repeat until the invasion fully ceased…

YOU cannot say peace you my little girl
Were you my clothing can never burn when I'm gone
Or you can say your friends exactly who foolish of I've,
They its which and laughter and joke concerning me on the telephone.

You can say that my handles send to the telephone.
You can say that my feet beat slaughtered
Or you can that say my of lips they my finger tops
They won' said; t reached for you outside no longer

But none don't speaks my heart, my achy of breaky the heart
Exactly of I of don't thinks it'd understands
I if you speak you my heart, then, my achy of breaky heart
It close-up and this of the man were possible deads

"Oh dear..." Robertsønn said before he jumped into the sea as bullets started hitting the water around the dinghy, which promptly began making for the shore at as much speed as the teenager operating the dinghy could get out of the 6 hp outboard motor. The teenager was scared enough to ignore the screams of horror from Robertsønn, who had forgotten he couldn't swim. Unfortunately for the administrator, he had also forgotten that he had remembered this when he first boarded the dinghy and strapped a rope around his waste and tied it to the dinghy, so he got a rather sudden shock when the rope ran out of slack and started dragging the fat administrator through the water towards the shore, giving the Kak Khemeti sergeant a moving target.

Back on shore, the crowd dispersed when the cruise ship tried to imitate a gunpowder barrel exploding, most of them getting to their pickups or homes where they had their rifles and/or shotguns. Since the negro Prestonoids were imported, the people of Makrell had taken to having their weapons readily available just in case one of the boyos decided to try something silly with any of the women on the island. This naturally ignored completely the fact that Cottish women were more than capable of defending themselves against any unwanted attention, but it was done never the less.

One of the men who had gone to fetch his personal DR-83M assault rifle in his pickup had just reached the truck and taken out the rifle and a couple of magazines when he noticed movement on the other side of the car, down by the beach. After slapping the magazine into the rifle and cocking it, just like he had learned to twelve years prior in the Army, he slammed shut the door and ran to the other side of the vehicle, where he discovered a group of uniformed negroes near what looked like ejection seats carrying out a series of bizzare manouvers. A few of them swam back out towards the sea, a few tried digging themselves into the sand, and the rest were sprayin' and prayin'. Blinking twice in confusion, the man wondered what the hell had happened to the world before a crack of a bullet flying by his head got him back to reality. Dropping to the kneeling position, the man aligned the DR-83 with one of the uniformed negroes and opened fire.

Back at the police station, Sergeant Mehamn had just entered the building when the tell-tale sound of artillery broke the relative silence. Cursing slightly, Mehamn ran into the equipment room and donned a tactical vest, a DR-89 rifle and six pre-loaded magazines before he ran into the office where he picked up the phone and pressed speed dial 4, which connected him to the airport's military section. The phone was picked up immediately.

"Makrell Air Station."

"This is Sergeant Mehamn. I think we're under attack from someone."

"So you guys haven't started the festival fireworks early." The voice said before it shouted to someone in the distance, "Tom, you owe me a bottle of vodka!" Before speaking to Mehamn again. "OK, so this is a real deal attack? What are we up against?"

"A cruise ship, probably filled with troops. Mostly boyos probably, but still. I formally request military assistance for maintaining the King's Peace in this colony."

"OK, you've got it. We're going to get the choppers fired up and ready to go, and I'll detach a few of my lads to harrass the enemy. Are you activating the militia?"

"You bet. I'm sure a lot of them are already on their way to the rally points, but I'm going to fire up the emergency broadcasting system regardless. How soon can you guys be ready for action?"

"The choppers will be airborne in half an hour, and I'll send a squad of my security chaps to your position immediately."

"Got it. Will you also inform Sunnmore and ask for reinforcements?" Mehamn asked.

"Yep. We can't expect anything for at least twelve hours though."

"We should be able to hold out for twelve hours, shouldn't we?"

The Air Force Captain didn't reply.

"Shouldn't we?"

"Maybe. I've got stuff to do right now. Contact me on alternative frequency three in thirty minutes."

"Got it. Good luck."

"Same same."

By now, more men had retreived their weapons, ranging from DR-83s to FN FALs to CAR-15s to even a few ADEC light machine guns from the Makrell Militia's arsenal, and taken up positions in the buildings overlooking the beach and pier. When the invasion force began closing to the shore, the Makrell Militia opened up.

Meanwhile, the emergency broadcasting system was activated, which started a number of air raid sirens and an automated message calling on the Militia to be activated. This message was also sent to the outlying farms via telephone, with the message being played automatically whenever someone picked up. Within ten minutes, the entire ninety man strong Makrell Militia had been alerted and activated.

Back in the main colony of Sunnmore, the flash message was received and, being a flash message, bypassed most of the red tape and reached the operations centre within minutes, where it was analyzed and, after a while, deemed credible. This in turn triggered a series of flash orders to a number of units (two infantry companies of the Army's 257. Rifle Division; the Air Force's 96. Bomb Regiment (Strategic), 248. Fighter Regiment and 7855th Tanker Regiment; and the Navy's Carrier Squadron 35 with its six fleet aircraft carriers and escorts, and the 355. Ekranoplan Squadron, Royal Cottish Naval Aviation) with instructions to prepare to deploy to Makrell.

Given the distances and time factor, the first responders would be a flight of two COT.50A Ragnarok supersonic strategic bombers loaded with LBM.70B Miðgarðsorm anti-shipping missiles escorted by three FA-77A Kovas fighters armed with air to air missiles and a few bombs for close air support, which would be at the island in three hours. The next responders would be two Type 106 Verdande ekranoplans carrying one hundred sixty troops and a number of vehicles each, which were expected to arrive in ten hours, of which almost seven would be transit time. The carriers would be within range to send aircraft in 40 hours.