Gran Colombia, H1/1910

[The Rock Doctor]

3 January 1910:  La Prensa Nacional

The Armada has confirmed the worst regarding the fate of a coastal ferry that disappeared after departing Havana ten days ago.

"An Armada patrol vessel discovered the ferry west of Cabo de San Antonio two days ago", confirmed Capitan de Navio Miguel Nunez, the Armada's senior officer in Cuba.  "Unfortunately, all eighty-eight crew and passengers were found to have been murdered."  He did not disclose particulars of the murders, only adding after repeated questions, "The murders were not simple executions."

This is the fifth case of confirmed piracy around Cuban waters in the past year; fishing boats, tramp freighters, and even an Armada patrol boat have fallen victim to the murderous pirates skulking about the Caribbean.  An unnamed source within the Armada told this reporter, on condition of anonymity, "We're certainly that we're dealing with followers of the Eye, given the circumstances of some of the deaths aboard the vessels we have recovered to date.  There was entirely too much...creativity...involved in the murders to have been a mere matter of silencing potential witnesses."

When asked about this, the Mesoamerican consul to Gran Colombia angrily replied, "Always with the Eye!  Can the world not see that this is not the Anahuac Empire of old?  For close to a decade, we have labored to eradicate all traces of that savage cult from our land, and still as soon as some poor wretches aboard a ship die of foul play, the world looks accusingly at us.  Perhaps you would do better to look to the Confederated States of America and its out-of-control socialist problems before leaping to the conclusion that the cult of the Eye is rejuvenated."

"This is getting out of hand", President Alizandro growled, crumpling up the newspaper and flinging it into a corner of the room.  "Have you spoken to the Consul yourself?"

"I have", Eduard Torres confirmed.  "His message was much the same as that delivered to the press."

"Which is complete crap", Ricardo Alizandro spat.  "I've seen photographs from PB-22, and I've heard a summary of what they found aboard the ferry.  There's no question we're dealing with seagoing Anahuac here; none whatsoever."

"We all saw the photos", Rey said soberly, "And I agree with you - that or somebody is going to extreme lengths to accurate replicate Anahuac sacrificial practices.  The question is - can we stop the bastards without resorting to an invasion of eastern Mesoamerica?"

"I'm moving some of our patrol assets into Cuba from elsewhere in the Sea", Ricardo sighed.  "Also two of our new cruisers.  But there's a fair bit of sea to cover, and the bastards are obviously in disguise; we're not.  We may get them, but it's going to take time and luck."

"What've you got for assets in Mesoamerica?", the president demanded of Benicio Delgado.

The Minister for Miscellaneous Affairs replied, flatly, "A modest network, and it has not managed to generate any leads.  If they are indeed Anahuac, they are both careful and, likely, being protected by at least some individuals within the Mesoamerican government."

Rey sighed.  "International reactions?"

"The Mark and the Confederates have expressed concern over previous incidents, and we know for a fact that the Confederates have destroyed at least one pirate vessel a short while ago", Torres replied.  "I assume they will express similar concerns over this incident and continue their own operations."

"I want continued updates on this matter", Rey snarled.  "I will not have our sovereignty violated in such a way.  Find them, and kill them."

19 January 1910:  Amazonas del Sur

For months, he had regretted taking Padre Batista's advice and emigrating to Gran Colombia.

The voyage across the Pacific had been hellish; over three thousand people packed into a liner designed for half that number, rationing food and water, taking turns on deck and in bunks or hammocks.  Influenza had swept through the ship shortly after it left Hainan, claiming at least fifteen children and elders.  Tempers had flared, and people had been beaten; two men had disappeared, and were thought to have been murdered and thrown overboard in the night.  His family had spent nine days of the trip under a tarpaulin on the main deck, having been driven out of their small cabin by a group of selfish and unruly youths.  The crew of the ship had made little effort to keep law and order aboard, but he had to admit that they'd done a decent job of identifying the troublemakers - several had been removed from the ship at the Pago Pago port by large, expressionless men in strange pastel suits, and were not seen again.  The second leg of the voyage had been somewhat more lawful as a result.

Arrival in Esmeraldas had gotten them off the ship, but added new challenges.  For five months, they'd lived in a tent camp outside the city, not only in quarantine after the influenza outbreak but also while the local government attempted to figure out where to put them on a more permanent basis.  They couldn't all stay in Esmeraldas; there weren't enough jobs or places in which to live.  Just communicating was a challenge; he himself spoke some Norman as a result of his military service, but the rest of the family spoke only the mother tongue.  Finally, the government found an apartment for them, and explained that he would be given Spanish lessons and found a job as a basic laborer, probably in construction.  He knew a lot of the others in the camp would welcome such a break, but for a former farmer and part-time animal healer like himself, this sounded daunting and unpleasant.  He'd consoled himself with the knowledge that it would be better than whatever misery his friends and family back on Hainan might be confronted with.  At least he'd have a home.

And then, some unexpected news had reached him.  "Not all of us are moving to these cities", another man mentioned to him while in the food line, two days before he was due to move out of the camp.  "There is a place far inland, where the Colombians want people to go.  They gained it after destroying some local warlords, and are now seeking to populate it."

"I have nothing", he had said, "So how would I travel all that distance?  How would I buy land?"

"That's the amazing thing", the other man had said.  "They give you land - and money to buy equipment, and the tickets to get you there on a train."

"This sounds tempting", he had replied.  "Have others done this?"

"Some people that arrived on the first ship learned of this place after their relocation to the city.  A group of friends and family pooled resources for one man to travel there and investigate; he returned two months ago and confirmed that the stories were true.  As I understand it, almost four thousand of our kin have followed him there."

Now he, his wife, and his two surviving children watched as the train passed by a increasing number of tents, shacks, and cabins.  Distant shrieking of metal on metal reached them as the train began to brake, and they stood, the entirety of their possessions contained in the bags they held with clenched hands.  The train man babbled in Spanish, then added, in barely comprehensible Cantonese, "This stop is Second Chance.  Second Chance."

The train came to a stop in a clearing surrounded by several rudimentary buildings.  He, his family, and several families climbed down the steps to the damp red earth.  Insects buzzed around him, the train belched steam, and his eyes were drawn to a group of ox-carts, in front of which stood two Colombians and several Taiwanese. 

One of the latter called out, "Please, gather around!", and after they'd done so, he continued, "Welcome to your new home.  As the first of us found our arrival to be rather confusing, the elders amongst us recommended that we set up a welcoming committee of sorts to help you out as you arrive.  I'm Lo, and I will be helping you put down your roots.  In a few minutes, we'll have a look at the contents of a cart - each is essentially identical, and each family will get one.  After that, we will head out along a trail to your parcels of land..."

19 January 1910:  The Steppes of Boratistan

Padre Batista paused in his mass as the seemingly random phrase of "thank you" - in Cantonese - popped into his mind.  "You're welcome", he murmured.

[The Rock Doctor]

15 February 1910:  West of Cuba

"Damn it...", Capitan de Corbeta Jeronimo Palmiero snarled, as the torpedo-boat Cumana drew up alongside the ruined fishing trawler.  "How many crew should there be?"

"Sixteen, Sir", the XO replied. 

"Sixteen more", Palmiero grumbled.  "Prepare your boarding party, Senor Ascusubi.  I don't think either of us is under any illusion about what you're going to find, but it has to be done."

"Aye, Sir", the XO replied grimly.  No doubt the lad would've preferred to switch places with him on this one, but it was the captain's duty to remain on his command, leaving the XO or another junior officer to conduct boarding operations.

"How does this happen?", Palmiero muttered to himself.  Every seaman in Cuba knew of the piracy problem and the seas were crawling with Armada patrol and warships, yet the bastards had found and exploited a gap in the patrol routes.  It was...uncanny.

Or was it?

"Hmm", Palmiero murmured thoughtfully.

22 February 1910:  The Steppes of Boratistan

Padre Batista saw them coming from a half mile away between gusts of wind and blowing snow: a quintet of dark specks that could only be horsemen, riding through the knee-deep drifts towards him.  They must be Secret Police, he thought.  Who else would be out riding in weather such as this?

As expected, the riders were indeed Secret Police, as evidenced by their heavy blue wool coats and unusually tall bearskin hats.  Sabres and carbines rested in scabbards on either side of their saddles, and the horses were tall and powerful.  The five riders came to a stop in a circle around him, prompting his pony to shuffle eye them nervously.

The officer of the group, recognizeable by the gold braid on his bearskin hat, said, "Demonstrate your identification!"

Batista had his passport and entry visa already in hand.  He stepped forward and placed them in the officer's open mitten.  The officer took his mittens off and flipped through his entry visa.  "Ah!  Foreign infidel are you!"

"Not quite", Batista replied.

"So it says, right here", the officer countered, pointing to a checked box on the visa.

"That says I am a Roman Catholic", Batista noted.

"Exact", the officer said with a sniff.  "Could be worse.  Could be a-"

"I know, I know", Batista sighed.  The anti-semitism here was astonishing.

"What purpose you am here?", the officer asked.

"I am spreading the word of God", Batista said.  "Bringing salvation to the people of this land."

The officer's eyes narrowed.  "Customs declaration includes no citation of salvation.  You bring illegal?"  Turning to the rider on his right, he snapped, "Investigate pony for illegal salvation!"

The rider clambered down to the ground and past Batista to the pony.  He began rifling through Batista's saddlebags, holding up a book of poetry. 

"Seizure", the officer said.

"Come now", Batista said.

The searcher held up a small Gran Colombian tricolor flag.

"The burning", the officer announced.

"That would be desecration of my property as a Gran Colombian citizen", Batista responded.  The officer shrugged.

The searcher held up a Bible, then a second and a third.

"Seizure", the officer proclaimed.

"Now see here", Batista exclaimed.  "I am a man of God, and that is the Word of God!"

"All your Word of God are belong to us", the officer said flatly.

"You are interfering in the duties of a servant of the Lord", Batista said more harshly.

"All your Word of God are belong to us", the officer repeated emphatically.

Cold air blasted from Batista's nostrils like steam from a dragon's snout.

The searcher held up a curved metal flask.  "Alcohols", he added unnecessarily.

"Seizure", the officer quickly decided.

The howling north winds died away abruptly, yet the winter air suddenly seemed even colder than it had been.  In the sudden icy silence, Batista's pony whinnied and backed as far away from its owner as its lead would allow.  Eyes narrowed, Batista growled, "And now...now you're messing with a son of a bitch."

[Carthaginian]

"All your Word of God are belong to us"

On every forum...
everywhere...
it is only a matter of time.

This should be established as a Law of Nature:
"The chance that a post containing an 'All your _____ are belong to us' joke will be posted is proportional to the square of the cube of the number of members."

[Tanthalas]

"All your Word of God are belong to us"

On every forum...
everywhere...
it is only a matter of time.

This should be established as a Law of Nature:
"The chance that a post containing an 'All your _____ are belong to us' joke will be posted is proportional to the square of the cube of the number of members."

However it is usualy followed by the inevitable I see Dead People.  Which is what I predict we are about to see

[Carthaginian]

Nah... we won't see any dead people.
I believe Senior Batista will at least bury them.

[The Rock Doctor]

On every forum...
everywhere...
it is only a matter of time.

Well, the mods did decide to call the place "Boratistan"; that kind of made things inevitable.

Let's just hope it never becomes a player-nation.

[The Rock Doctor]

The Colombian passage crew had arrived on the Santander, packed in with the old cruiser's own complement for a somewhat uncomfortable trip from San Miguelito up the coast to San Fransisco.  Having arrived a couple days early, they had the opportunity to fraternize with their more numerous NUS compatriots, and to a less degree with the Swiss sailors who'd come in to pick up their ships.  The locals, other than those working the bars and the brothels (what few there were since the Rohirrim had taken over) seemed inclined to avoid all three groups to the extent possible. 

The exchange ceremony was brief but solemn; the Rohirrim commanding officer recited the ship's service history:  her work in disaster relief after the great earthquake and her participation in the war with the Anahuac foremost amongst these.  He advised the Gran Colombian capitan de fregata to uphold her record with honor and dignity; the Colombian, knowing how brief his command would be, was comfortable in saying that he would.  Durin and Santander steamed out of San Fransisco on the 17th of December, passing by the impressive new battleships the Rohirrim had dispatched to keep an eye on the Swiss. 

Upon reaching San Miguelito, they partook of shore leave for three days, then transited the Darien Canal.  The crew was amused at the sight of chain gangs planting trees on a bare slope of the Culebra Cut, prompting the captain to point out that the planting was taking place on a recent area of mass-wasting, and was intended to bind the soil up in roots and prevent further slumps.  Still, the crew took some pleasure in knowing that the convicts were undoubtedly being assailed by a mass of mosquitos the entire time.

At Colon, the two ships parted ways, Santander heading down to Cartagena, Durin staying where she was.  A technical team came aboard, and spent much of January examining the dwarven battleship in detail.  They photographed the ship's Harvey-nickel armored belts, turrets, and conning tower, cutting small samples of each set of armor for metallurgical testing.  They drafted blueprints of the ship in her current condition.  As an afterthought, a sub-set of the team scoured the ship for any interesting equipment or information the Rohirrim might've left behind, but found only a set of risque pictographs carefully concealed in the enlisted men's berthing.

Finally, in mid-February, the ship's bunkers were refilled and steam raised in the boilers once more.  She steamed across the Caribbean, around Trinidad, and southeast towards the naval gunnery range at Punta Waini.  Two tugboats joined up with her and, with high tiding approaching, began the nudging the little battleship shoreward.  Finally, her stern began to catch on the bottom, and the tugboats eased off.  Durin's anchors were dropped, and the crew closed up the bulkheads and hatches and hauled down the naval ensign before disembarking to a coastal ferry chartered for the purpose. 

As the tide went out, the ship's stern became firmly grounded, leaving her slightly down by the bow.  After consultations, the technical team leader asked the tugboats to move her forward several dozen metres, which was they did the next day.  Satisfied with the result, the team took more photographs and sent word back to Cartagena that they were ready.

On 25 February, the battleship Invencible arrived in the company of the Santander and a chartered fireboat.  Dropping anchor six thousand yards offshore, off Durin's port bow, the battleship trained her main battery on the stranded Dwarven battleship.  The technical team boarded Invencible, note Durin's orientation relative to Invencible, and the team leader advised Invencible's captain that he could proceed.

Invencible's captain called out, "Gunnery Officer, execute firing plan zero one."

"Turret Antonio, load high explosive, ten salvoes on the target.  Fire when ready."

On the chartered ferry, Durin's passage crew watched with interest as Invencible began shelling their former ship.

[Borys]

OOC
Firing while anchored?
Risque photos - LOL - how very much lifelike!
Borys

[The Rock Doctor]

Stopped, then, if not anchored.  The idea being to control the angle of impact Invencible's shells have against Durin's belt.  Shoot some rounds at 45 degrees away, then 30, then 15, then perpendicular, pausing for photos and inspections after each.  Then repeat the process with semi-AP and AP, so long as the hulk's not totally smashed at that point.

[P3D]

On every forum...
everywhere...
it is only a matter of time.

Well, the mods did decide to call the place "Boratistan"; that kind of made things inevitable.

Let's just hope it never becomes a player-nation.

At last someone noticed ;)

[The Rock Doctor]

I noticed some time ago; just didn't have much to do with it until now.

[The Rock Doctor]

28 February 1910:  Havana

"There it is", the wireless operator at El Morro muttered, listening to the series of dots and dashes in his headset.

"And one of the sloops has just turned past the outer marker of the harbour roadstead", an officer commented from behind him. 

"And you say you hear this every time a ship leaves?", asked the man from Miscellaneous Affairs.

"Well, I've noted when I hear this particular user, and there are a lot of close matches with log entries from our observers outside", the wireless operator replied.

"How do you know it's the same user?"

"Hard to describe it, but I just recognize his cadence", the operator said.

The officer added, "More to the point, we're seeing a match between this guy and our ships' sorties.  Always a few minutes after one of our ships passes the outer marker and comes round to its course."

The spook nodded with understanding.  "Capitan de Corbeta Palmiero was right, then - this guy's telling somebody when our warships are leaving the harbour and what their headings are."

"Exactly", the officer said.  "Which means that the pirates can avoid them."

"That won't do", the spook said.  "So he's close by?"

"The sender?", the operator asked.  "Yup.  Within a mile, I'd say.  It's a strong signal."

"Any way we can narrow the location down?", the spook asked.

"Well, we know now when he's going to send, so if I were to listen for him from different parts of the city, I could gauge relative signal strength and make a guess from there", the operator suggested.

"One of the cruisers is due out in three hours", the officer said. 

"Then we'd better find somewhere else to listen from", the spook said.

5 March 1910:  Cartagena

"Thank you for seeing me", Cardinal Juan Rodriguez said as he sat down opposite President Alizandro.

"You're welcome", Rey said coolly.  "As a matter of fact, I needed to see you as well."

"Oh?  Why is this?", the Cardinal asked.

"Well, our ambassador in Moscow has received a note from the Boratistani ambassador there.  They're filing an official complaint regarding the conduct of one of your people."

"That would be Batista", the Cardinal sighed.

"Yes, it would", Rey agreed.  "Apparently, he was involved in an incident with five policemen."

"And...he beat them up?", the Cardinal asked.

"Worse", Rey said.  "He beat them up, then converted them."

The Cardinal looked up to the heavens for a few seconds, as if uttering a silent prayer.  "Can I send a message to Batista and tell him to leave?"

"No need.  They've already booted him out.  He's in northern Persia now", Rey said.

The Cardinal frowned.  "That doesn't sound like an improvement."

[Carthaginian]

God bless the Heathens... for they will soon have the fear of God put in them.

[The Rock Doctor]

Do you mean the Anahuac, the Persians, or both?

[Tanthalas]

Why the Godless Mohomadites of course.