Got home yesterday and crashed (boarded the plane drunk... heh)
Rather contentious material this time, considering, and probably a few things which make absolutely no sense whatsoever given the lack of context. Sorry, on all counts... but remember children, it's just a story, one that I'll edit half to death at some point since I have constant continuity issues... *prays* (BTW that implies I despise retconning, which I put down to writer's stupidity, but I don't hold it against anyone since most things that require retconning are franchises... yeesh, oh X-Men how your timelines have suffered! Ha!)
Bubi
Commander
Captain Jareth Exelmann grumbled to himself as his crew finished loading supplies and ammunition onto his battleship: the Wrath. His mind started to wander as he watched the water lap the side of the great vessel. He had served on the Wrath for some ten years but he had only become the commanding officer just two years before. Jareth considered himself too old or it, being more than ninety years old, while the Wrath’s last captain, his cousin Renee Exelmann, was eighty-two years of age when she resigned the post to him. He was content merely with being the vessel’s Master of Ordnance. Even his days as the acting captain of the BQS Mancer when he was part of the state Nacy seemed rather overwhelming. He would never understand the Blademaster General’s decision to make him captain of arguably the most powerful gunship in existence. His career was a veritable gold list of the most decorated ships in the BQM. He was either Chief Gunnery Officer or First Officer on all four of the Navy’s dreadnoughts, two battlecruisers and one aircraft carrier, before he retired from the regular navy just before his sixtieth birthday, only to be recruited into the Privateer Fleet by the Arena as Executive Officer on board the heavy destroyer (sic) Baucis. He had resented his time in command of the Mancer, though not because he was commander of a lowly destroyer compared to his service on board the larger, heavier and more prestigious vessels, but instead because he considered himself far from ‘captain material’. He had held the effective rank of Commander (whether or not he was retired) for almost sixty-five years by the time he was bumped up to vessel command. And it had annoyed him immensely. Jareth never asked for the promotion and had refused it so long as he had remained within the BQM. Amongst the higher ranks, he was known as the ‘commander without command’, but it hardly bothered him. He was most at home administering the inner workings of a ship, leading maybe two hundred or so men and women. Always feeling that it was best that he was answerable to someone in some close proximity, for all his ability to make quick (and often well inspired) deicisions should they be required, he felt the pressures of command quite keenly. Being what he was, he was a most reluctant captain indeed. And yet here he was, about to taking the Wrath out for his seventh voyage as captain.
“And what weighs so heavily upon your mind that makes you give time to such contemplation, dear cousin?” it was Renee, who was now Executive Officer of the Privateer Fleet’s aircraft carrier, the Lucian. She had just addressed him in French.
“I’ve been the Wrath’s captain for nearly two years now, and yet I am still uncomfortable with it,” he replied in kind.
“Is that it?” she grinned.
“Yes, I suppose it is,” Jareth shrugged.
“Come, dear cousin, tell me truly if serving in such a position irks you.”
He shrugged again.
“Your crew likes you, your officers respect you, the ship responds to your commands and each man and woman that serves alongside you is willing to follow you until they die... some sooner than others, of course,” she said lightly, before adding, “but it all means the same as they, ship and crew, acknowledge you as their captain. So what causes you such discomfiture?”
Jareth smiled forlornly, “Yes, what does cause this in me? I have spent more than two thirds of my life as a man with three stripes. I never thought a fourth would ever suit me. And a great part of me still believes that, even after these past two years.”
“Well, consider this, would you rather someone inappropriate had command of the Wrath?”
“I don’t think the Arena are that foolish.”
“Ah, so by that logic, your installation was no act of folly then. Think on it, dear cousin, credit yourself a little more, you have earned it, have you not? And many time over.”
He gave a small smile, “Yes, thank you, Renee.”
She smiled kindly in reply and turned to leave, “I think I had better see how my own ship is for the coming exercises,” she had reverted to the national language (Brakaan).
Nodding, Jareth watched her go as two of his officers approached from the catwalk that lead to the Wrath’s forward loading bay.
“I take it we’re ready to get underway?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr Exelmann,” his First Officer, Commander Kavaerna Villenbrock, grinned.
“Ms Galleon is still recovering from her lung infection, so we’ll be without our Chief Engineer,” his Second Officer, Commander Eric Heldersten, added.
“I’m sure we need not worry on that count, Eric, Mr deKalenord will substitute admirably,” the captain responded.
He nodded and the officers preceded him onto his ship. He stepped on to the external upper deck, behind the shield that covered the starboard forward turret. He made his way towards the rear where much of the crew had assembled. The Wrath was a strange looking ship, now that he thought on it, with the entire of the front half of the ship resembling a cross between of a sailfish and an elongated puffin’s beak. As it was, the Wrath was a very streamlined ship, capable of speeds of more than one hundred and twenty knots. The Wrath was also ‘obscenely’ (as most human commanders saw it) heavily armed. The main batteries, consisting of thirteen twin-mounts of triple-linked TPS cannons, totalled more firepower than any other ship available to the Brakaan military. Therefore, from a technical perspective, since most dreadnoughts were typically armed with either ten or twelve twin-mounts of these powerful cannons, the Wrath was more accurately described as a fast dreadnought, as opposed to just plain battleship. As for the destructive capabilities of such weaponry, a salvo from a single turret, well generated by its gun-crew held the same explosive yield as an ICBM. Wars in which the navy had to turn to the Privateer Fleet for help (small though it was with only four combat vessels) had to be in a dire position indeed. And all this was without mention of the Wrath’s secondary armaments, a payload of twenty Diogenes Mk XIX nuclear missiles and numerous batteries of anti-aircraft guns.
“Maybe she is right, such power should not be in the hands of just any man or woman,” he muttered to himself softly in French.
“What was that sir?” Heldersten asked, looking at him quizzically.
“Hmm? Oh, nothing, just the muttering of an old man.”
“Heh, be careful in whose company you say such things, sir,” the Second Officer grinned, referring to Tereijsa Galleon, who was nearing her sixteenth decade.
Jareth grinned as well, before turning to the three hundred and seventy-four men and woman of the Wrath, the majority of whom had managed to pack themselves onto the crowded deck towards the rear of the ship. The remainder were still on the dock, ready to board once the deck cleared.
“We’re about to conduct exercises in the North Atlantic, with the purpose of infiltrating the Baltic Sea by way of the North Sea between Iceland and the British Isles. As you know, relations have been strained between the Brakaan State and the Second Hansa, so there is no need for me to explain the true purpose of the manoeuvres that we will be carrying out. Be prepared for a long one this time. We may be out for up to four months so I’m sure that you know to keep your discipline. Prepare to cast off.”
And with that, the deck cleared within thirty seconds, with all the ‘enlisted’ crew (none of them was younger than fifty and all were Immortals recruited when they left the regular navy). The watch commanders and junior officers followed their respective commands into the ship. As his command crew waited for him, the dock crews disconnected the cables from the ship and quickly scurried down into the safety of the battleship, shutting the hatches behind them. Of the five entrances into the hull, four were now shut, leaving the main hatch that was overlooked by the 5A and 5B main turrets. He strolled over to it and watched as the dock slowly passed by as the Wrath eased out of its moorings, slowly picking up a leisurely pace, making five knots towards the entrance of the Arena’s naval base. With a quick nod to the remaining officers, they descended the steps, followed by their captain and the hatch closed behind him. Seconds later, the Wrath was fully submerged, making its way along the waterways that lead to one of the many tributaries of the Hahraisian River. Jareth did a slow tour of his ship, reviewing the gun turrets at the rear before descending to the galley and living quarters. For the start of this, the Wrath’s three hundred and fifty-ninth voyage, the whole crew was at their stations, Project Evolutions connected, and a low chatter pervading the Engine and Shield shifts reached the captain’s ears. The gunners were going over rotation drills and monitoring their status, checking their charge potentials and making sure everything was still in good working order. The Wrath was an old ship, having been in service for more than a hundred years, and very little from the original ship was still present. In fact, apart from the absentee Chief Engineer, very few of the crew were alive when the Wrath was launched in 3008. Most of the ship itself was like its crew: old, but renewed, with virtually all its installations and hardware replaced or upgraded at least once at some point in its history. Probably the most distinct feature that had remained with the Wrath in all its long service was its pilot’s chamber, which had received no upgrading, only refurbishing (or replacing the occasional part here and there), since it used (at the time of launch) experimental technology which had not evolved that much. Due to wear and tear, beams, watertight doors, guns, computers and all the armour plating had been replaced at one time or another. The ship as a whole may not have been that old, but the entity (or even being, from the point of view of the crew) that was Wrath was very old, so much so that somewhere in each of the battleship’s twenty-three watertight compartments was a picture, however crude or however elegant, of a wizened old man with beard and all, sitting on a rock, leaning on a staff and scowling at the viewer. Fifteen minutes of slow sailing later and the Wrath was now surfacing in the Hahraisian River and Jareth had reached the command centre.
“Surface traffic?” he asked.
“Baucis and Philemon are effecting final ‘repairs’ at the Hahrais Naval Base, a few luxury boats in our way at the mouth of the river, but nothing worth worrying about,” the Communications Officer, Tiraius Verenkaahn, reported, making a sound of contempt as he finished.
“Bloody foreigners,” Villenbrock muttered disdainfully.
“Yes quite, who are they?” Jareth asked, admonishing his First Officer with a glare.
“Russian dignitaries, sir.”
He growled under his breath, “Have the coastguard make a naval announcement or they’ll be ordering some bags!” he snapped.
Everyone knew the law: military vessels have permanent right of way in all waterways in Brakaan sovereign territories, without question. True, it may have been open to abuse, but the way that the Arena and Ghost Temples ruled the country, few (if any) military figures would have the guts to abuse any privilege. Foreign entourages were always briefed about such maritime practises, but these Russians (like the Spaniards, Mexicans, Americans, and everyone else before them) probably thought themselves above Brakaan law (diplomatic immunity was an alien concept to them). More than a few wars had been started because one ambassador or high commissioner’s boat had been rammed or completely scythed down by an outgoing or returning Brakaan naval vessel (since military law stated that during peacetime all ships had to be surfaced while in Port Hahrais, including a five kilometre radius of the mouth of the river). This time, however, the Russian boat hurriedly motored out of the way as the Wrath glided past.
“Alright, make a heading for Iceland, we’ll be rendezvousing with Task Force 4. No supercruising, I want to do some deep sea tests, check everyone’s up to scratch.”
“Very good, sir,” Villenbrock acknowledged, “Helmsman, make for bearing 125. Engines, remain steady at thirty knots. Shields, prepare for deep sea submergence.”
For the next few hours, the Wrath sailed east-south-east, rounded the Florida peninsular and headed northwards towards Greenland. The watch officers had pre-empted Jareth and relieved the current Engine and Shield shifts as he rose to address the crew.
“All hands, we are scheduled to assemble with elements from the regular navy two hundred kilometres north of Iceland in two weeks time. In the meantime, we will be doing the usual, just to check you haven’t lost your touch with a month’s leave. Alright, let’s get this show on the road.” – turned to his command – “Mr deKalenord, set depth to two hundred metres if you would please.”
“Very good, Mr Exelmann,” he replied, before turning to the helmsmen, “Ten degrees lateral dive, two and a half degrees down bubble. Engines, decrease speed to twenty-knots. Shields, set resistance to two hundred and fifty kPa.”
“Twenty-five knots, Chief,” the helm reported.
“Set bearing 90, Tore,” Jareth said.
“Sir?” deKalenord turned.
“Speed tests.”
“Sir,” he nodded and relayed it to the helmsmen.
“Twenty knots, Chief,” the other helm confirmed.
“Very good, we are at one hundred and ten metres... one hundred and twenty-five... one hundred and forty... one hundred and sixty... one hundred and eighty... one hundred and ninety-five, level off, zero lateral dive. We have reached two hundred metres, sir.”
“Progress to five hundred metres depth, let’s test Shields.”
“Aye, sir. Shields, set resistance to seven hundred k-Pa.”
deKalenord did the count as the Wrath made the descent to five hundred metres. At four hundred and twenty, there was a slight creak from the hull just below them. Jareth snatched the tannoy and cleared his throat.
“Keep going, Tore.” – before he barked – “Vaeker, what the hell? We’re not even at four-fifty and the hull’s squeaking. Care to explain?”
“Orders for three quarter crew.”
“Again... care to explain?”
“Incomplete transfer, sir.”
“See me afterwards.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get the rest of your crew settled, we’re continuing with this exercise.”
The entire ship was subdued for the next hour and a half as the ship descended to first five hundred, and then one thousand metres. By then, the ship had slowed to just five knots. Several of the Engine crews had shifted to aid their colleagues and probably their watch officer was unwilling to risk anything considering the fiasco that had just occurred, an attitude adopted by pretty much everyone by then. Afterwards, there was not much incident as the Wrath made its way towards Iceland. Once there, nothing of note happened except the Task Force’s commanding officer making a few remarks about needing repairs to his aircraft carrier. Other than that, nothing happened and Jareth’s ship continued to pass Iceland and head towards the North Sea, rounding Scotland.
Four weeks in and the Wrath was silently running at about two hundred metres (or as deep as the seas allowed) going back and forth a few times between the Frisian Islands and Kiel. By the sixth week, boredom was starting to set in, but then it came, ten o’clock in the morning on day thirty-nine. Jareth convened all his officers.
“Well, it’s official, the Second Hansa and the British Empire have declared war on us. It took longer than expected, but here we are. The Lucian will be launching attacks against targets in Denmark and Sweden, Baucis and Philemon will be blockading London and Portsmouth respectively, while we’ve been tasked with the complete and total destruction of Kiel, or at least its port and shipbuilding facilities.”
He finished wearily, drawing frowns from the others.
“And yes, the Blademaster General’s orders were quite specific. As few civilian casualties as possible. How far are we from Zealand?”
“We’ll be there within the hour,” Heldersten spoke, evidently reluctant about what they had to do, as was everyone else.
“Very good, we’ll try to infiltrate Kiel in thirty-six hours time. That’ll leave enough room for us to prep the missiles. Yes, the Arena sent us the codes just after the declaration occurred. Make sure everyone gets a good night’s sleep tonight, it’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”
Sure enough, just before midnight, the Wrath ascended to twenty metres in the middle of Kiel’s main harbour, much of its merchant fleet in port, having containers loaded or unloaded. The military facilities were further east, which were the targets for the Wrath’s missile payload. The port was going to be shelled by the more discriminate (sic) TPS cannons. For the next few minutes, the gun crews charged their shells.
“Open turret shields,” Jareth commanded, “Surface and stand by.”
Codes were put in and OK’d and half of the missiles were programmed to launch. There was a series of loud clanks as the outer shield that covered six of the thirteen turrets shifted to expose the guns and the turrets moved into firing position. Moments later, and the Wrath burst onto the surface. This is why I never wanted to command, he thought to himself regretfully. He nodded to his first officer.
“All guns commence firing,” she barked over the intercom.
There was silence except for a few sounds of metallic skidding as the recoil of the guns gently jolted the ship. Seconds later, the noise from explosions reached the ears of the crew. So started yet another war...
Approx. 3100
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