Gran Colombia, H1/1910

[The Rock Doctor]

Just checkin'

[Ithekro]

Well he did say "heathens" so that rules out any islamic, jewish, or christian groups at least.

[Carthaginian]

The CSA considers Mohammedans 'heathens' because of their perversion of the Christian faith, and their clearly blasphemous belief that their 'Allah' is the 'one true god.'

Only Christians and Jews worship God, and the Jews could- in the opinion of the average Johnny on the Street- need to apologize to Jesus for that nasty crucifixion gaffe and join the ranks of the Faithful. Of course, then the Confederate Jews begin holding the nation's supply of unleavened bread hostage, and the soldiers then get hungry form lack of hardtack, and Johnny Q. Public relents for a while longer.

Though the Christian majority of the CSA can see in Rohan's 'Old Religion' and some Native religions many similarities to the Christian message, they view the direct conflicts in the messages of Muhammad as the worst blasphemy.

[Ithekro]

Ah, but that would classify as "infidels" to use the English word.  A "heathen" would be one that worships a number of gods rather than a single God (classifed as based on the same Judo-Christian creator of all things).  And the Catholics would classify the Protestant Confederates as "heretics".

Rohan has that fine line of being infidel or heathen, depending on how things are explained.  They cannot be heretics as they likely have no direct concept of Jesus as the Christians would understand it.  However unlike the Muslims or Christians, the Rohirrim have no desire to spread their word over others.  They generally believe that their old texted were misread or otherwise retold over the millenia, resulting in the Jews, Christians, and Muslims, having simmilar stories and ideals.

[Carthaginian]

Webster's Dictionary says:

Main Entry: heathen
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural heathens or heathen
Date: before 12th century
1  : an unconverted member of a people or nation that does not acknowledge the God of the Bible   
2  : an uncivilized or irreligious person 

That's the basis of the Confederate term. ;)

And the Confederacy probably takes a more 'laid back' attitude towards spreading the Gospel than might be becoming of a good Christian nation. Having so much interaction with faiths that are so similar in concept and commandment to Christianity, the Christians of the Confederacy often wonder if God did not present His Word to these peoples prior to the sending of his Son (indeed, some Nations among the Americans have similar legends) in order to prepare them for those bringing the Gospel from the Holy Land.

[Sachmle]

I thought I was on Navalism.com, not church.com.  :P

[Borys]

the Christians of the Confederacy often wonder if God did not present His Word to these peoples prior to the sending of his Son (indeed, some Nations among the Americans have similar legends) in order to prepare them for those bringing the Gospel from the Holy Land.

There must be a name for this brand of Heresy.
Ecumenism or something.
Borys

[The Rock Doctor]

I thought I was on Navalism.com, not church.com

Ah, but there's more to alternate history than just blowing shit up...

[The Rock Doctor]

12 March 1910:  Cartagena

"So, how's Auntie?", President Rey Alizandro asked as he and his uncle Ricardo awaited the arrival of Benicio Delgado in the president's office.

"Last I heard, she was fine", Ricardo muttered, slurping indelicately at his coffee.  Noting his nephew's puzzled expression, he elaborated, "She's discovered Norman romance novels - Jane Austen and the like.  When she's not yelling at the staff, she's in the sitting room reading these new books of hers.  I've hardly seen her in the past week."

"Are they good?", Rey asked.

"The books?"

"Yes."

Ricardo grimaced.  "God, no.  I opened up one of the them the other night to see what she was fussing about.  I couldn't read more than a paragraph or two before my eyes just seemed to slide off the page."

"You tried reading a Norman romance?", Rey smirked.

"With all due respect, Mister President, shut up", Ricardo grouched.  "I was expecting something raunchy and indecent, you know?  But instead, it's all prim and proper upper-class Normans seeking good marriages.  It's all she is of a most amiable nature rather than look at the rack on that one.  Makes you wonder how the Normans have managed to reproduce themselves."

"Not all Normans are prim and upper class", Rey noted.

"That must be it", Ricardo agreed as Benicio Delgado stepped inside.  "Ah, there he is.  So, has Senora Delgado discovered the works of Jane Austen?"

"Happily not.  Her Norman is marginal, and the translations are hard to come by", Delgado said.  "On the other hand, my organization has used it for steganography from time to time."

"For what?", Ricardo asked.

"Steganography...hiding messages in books and such.  A series of numerical codes would list pages, lines, and placement of words that get assembled in to a message for the user, such as Blow up the battleship on Friday", Delgado explained.  "Though, to be fair, Austen's works lend themselves more to honeypot operations than sabotage."

"Honeypot?", Rey asked, then added, "Never mind.  What's going on in Havana?"

"An Armada wireless operator at Havana picked out a wireless operator elsewhere in the city whose transmissions coincided with warship sorties.  Since he recognized the thumb of the operator in question, we moved him to a few different places - ships offshore, public telegraph stations, and so forth - to attempt to pin down the location of the transmitter based on its relative signal strength at each listening station.  He gave my people an estimated position, and a foot team walked the area while some researchers went through civic and state records for the buildings in the area", Delgado explained.

"And...?"

"And yesterday we set up surveilance on a three-story building being leased by Sea Breeze Imports, which is a private firm supposedly based in Gondor - we think that's just a front.  Significantly, the building has a view of the outer marker of the Havana roadstead from its roof, and we think there's an antenna being concealed as a lightning rod there as well."

"That's a positive development", Ricardo noted.

"It is.  The next step is to tail some of the people exiting the building, to figure out who they are and, when the occasion is right, to discreetly search their residences", Delgado said.  "At the same time, the Armada is working with some of my other people to see if the content of the messages can be determined, and if another party is responding to them.  Given the restricted range of wireless, we're speculating that the pirates have one or more vessels at sea functioning as relays."

"This sounds like a very elaborate organization", Rey remarked.

"It is not a simple piracy operation", Delgado agreed, "But we're a long ways from ascertaining what involvement, if any, the Mesoamerican government has in this.  We will need days, if not weeks, to continue our surveilance, and in the meantime, there's every possibility further ships and people will be taken.  It's important we not let political or public pressure impair my operations on this."

"The Armada's patrols are highly visible - I can fend off the pressure by pointing at their work", Rey confirmed.  "You'll have the time you need - just don't take too much of it."

"Thank you", Delgado said wryly.

[The Rock Doctor]

21 March 1910:  Havana

The messenger from El Morro - thankfully, dressed in civvies - stepped into the Miscellaneous Affairs command post  and was directed to the Situation Manager in charge of the operation.

"The suspects sent a wireless message and three of our ships got good fixes on a response from about eighty miles north-northwest of here.  Two torpedo-boats and a sloop are within twenty-five miles and are making for the estimated location at best speed.  Another sloop and a cruiser are within fifty miles and on their way."

The Situation Manager nodded.  If the Armada caught the ship, he had instructions to take down the suspected transmitter down the block.  If the Armada didn't accomplish this - which had been the case on the sixteenth and nineteenth - then he'd maintain surveilance.

There was no doubt that some of the guys inside the target building - six of them, at the latest tally - were Mesoamericans.  All of their apartments had been quietly searched in the past week, and two Mesoamerican passports had been found, along with two well forged Rohirrim passports.  Whether the remaining suspects even had passports had yet to be determined; the Situation Manager expected they did not.

The messenger departed the command post, returning to the fortress, as the Situation Manager glanced at his pocket watch.  Sighing, he said, "Put the Tactical Team on alert and get updates from the observation posts."

"Yes, Sir", his senior agent replied. 

Twenty minutes later, the senior agent reported, "Posts agree that nobody's come or gone in the past hour.  We have three four-man teams in position, and two in reserve."

"Thank you.  Snipers?"

"One in position at each observation post."

"Very good.  Synchronize pocket watches and distribute to the teams and posts."

The Situation Manager lit a cigar and stood as patiently as he could, examining a map of the neighbourhood that was pinned to one  wall of the room.  There were a number of civilians in the buildings and on the streets around the suspect's location, and he really wasn't keen to have them in the line of fire, not so much for ethical reasons as practical ones.  Live civilians could get in the way of his men; dead civilians could generate mountains of paperwork.  But there was really no way to avoid them; any criminal group worth its salt would notice if the streets suddenly became empty.

One of the runners stumbled into the command post, and the SitMan turned to face him.  "Subject Green has exited the building and is travelling southbound.  A foot team is following him."

"Green's apartment is south of here", the Situation Manager noted.  "Let's have one of the reserve tactical teams redeploy to the coin laundry down the block from his place.  If we execute the main op, the team leader will execute a separate take-down.  If we sit, they sit and watch."

"Yes, Sir."  It left him with just one reserve team, unfortunately, but it would work - provided nobody else left the building.  In the worst case , some of the command post team could function as a reserve.  On that note, he checked his revolver for the fourth or fifth time today; whereas the tactical teams had special Hermanos Estrada twenty-two caliber revolvers - complete with suppressors, for use with that sidearm's unique design* - he and the rest of the unit had more conventional thirty-eights.  As expected, his weapon was loaded and apparently free of obstructions. It had been every other time he'd looked, too.

Another runner now entered.  This one was Armada - the SitMan recognized him from earlier in the day.  "El Morro reports heavy but unintelligible wireless use in the vicinity of the suspected pirate.  This is being interpreted as one or more Armada vessels using their own wireless to block effective use of the pirate's set."

"Then they've got him in their sights, and aren't likely to lose him", the SitMan concluded.  Turning back to his personnel, he said, "Runners out - confirm Tac Team and Ob Post readiness for execution of operation at-", and he checked his own pocket watch - "fifteen thirty-five hours.  Go!"

The runners scattered, using back alleys to reach their respective teams or observation posts and confirm their readiness.  Within five minutes, all were back and reporting that every team was prepared.  "We are confirmed.  Runners, execute operation at fifteen thirty-five hours.  Go!"  The young agents dispersed again; they'd remain up at their staging areas to provide updates.

"Send word that Subject Green is to be taken down ", he added.  One of his other runners - he had a small army of them - bolted out the back door of the building.

Then...it was just a matter of waiting six minutes for the pocket watch to strike 3:35.  When it did, he knew the teams were moving - twelve for the building, with three sniper/spotter teams watching from the observation posts.   One tactical team and a field medic team was standing by, as were several policemen who'd establish a cordon once the building was secure.  He paced over to the front window, leaned forward to look just as Team Two's last man slipped inside the front door of the subject building.  A couple of civilians - older women - were standing still, watching the proceedings, but thankfully avoiding making a commotion in the process.

After about sixty seconds, he heard one muted gunshot - somebody inside resisting arrest.  Now there was screaming, first from inside the building, and then from bystanders outside.   A few more pops - two, then two more - were followed by the crack of a rifle.  More screaming, over muted shouting.  The Situation Manager's pulse raced and he started tapping his foot unconsciously.

The first runner appeared at 3:41, reporting, "Sniper Team Two has terminated one subject on the second floor, east side.  Subject was seen to be armed and apparently barricading a door.  No sightings of friendly personnel."

A second runner returned two minutes later.  "Tac Team Three has one man down, and one subject down.   First floor has been secured."

"Let's get the cordon established!", the Situation Manager barked.  "Medics on stand-by - equal priority for friendlies and subjects."

Two more muffled shots, then a third.  The shouting continued, but began to sound like a dialogue rather than random outbursts and commands.

At 3:46, a third runner arrived.  "Tac Team One reports the building is secure.  Three friendlies down, four subjects down and one subject apprehended."

The SitMan snapped, "Medics, go!  Reserve Team, report to Tac-Lead for assignment. Any word on Green?"

"Negative", the senior agent replied.

"Take charge here - I'm going over there now", the Situation Manager declared.  "I want to see what we've got."

"Yes, Sir", the senior agent confirmed.


*A mechanism that moves the cylinder against the barrel as the trigger is pulled - look up the Nagant M1895 for the idea.

[The Rock Doctor]

21 March 1910:  Tehran

"Thank you for joining me at dinner", said Ali Reza Khan-e Qajar Quyunlu.

"The pleasure is mine", Padre Batista replied, setting aside the fact that a good ten or twelve security personnel had met him at the border and transported him directly here without his consent.

"I do apologize for the reception you received at the border, but your reputation preceded you and I really have no desire to see you corrupting the hearts and minds of the Persian people", the Shananshah's regent noted.  "That said, your reputation as the discoverer of El Dorado also preceded you, and I could not resist the temptation to dine with you before I deport you."

"You are not concerned that I will corrupt your heart and mind?", Batista inquired.

"I am no blade of grass in the wind", Quyunlu replied.  "Come, have a seat.  We will be served momentarily."

"The Shananshah is indisposed?", Batista asked as he took a place at the table.

"The Shananshah is travelling abroad for an extended period.  The world is turbulent, and requires the diligent work and travel of kings", Quyunlu commented.  Servants entered soon after, and the table was shortly covered in dishes bearing seasoned rice, a stew, goat cheese, and pickled onions, along with a pot of chai.  "Please, indulge yourself; I can't imagine you ate very well in Boratistan."

26 March 1910:  Central Cuba

The senior agent for Miscellaneous Affairs, suppressed a shudder as Subjects Green, Orange, Blue, and Red were led out of the two motor lorries in shackles.  The four Anahuac looked equal parts confused and defiant, perhaps wondering why they'd been transported to a small farm out in the middle of nowhere.  Or, perhaps, they wondered why the farm was surrounded by twenty-foot wire fences.

The farm's own senior officer marched out of the gatehouse to meet the senior agent.  "I'm Agent Velez, Internal Security", he said.

"Dominguez, Miscellaneous Affairs.  I have four transferees you'll need to sign for."

"I was advised they'd be remaining in your custody and supervision", Velez replied. 

"Oh", Dominguez said.  "Well, fair enough, we can do that."

"This the whole bunch you bagged in Havana?"

"The ones that can travel.  One died at the scene.  Another's still in hospital with an iffy prognosis."

"Those two look like they might belong there too", Velez noted.

"Single twenty-two caliber gunshots only; they were judged fit to travel."

"What about the others?"

"Subject Yellow was shot three times and is in intensive care.  Subject Violet took a sniper round to the back and bled out at the scene."

"Lucky him", Velez said.  "Well, let's bring them inside.  You been here before?"

"Twice", Dominguez replied.

"Good.  So you know what to expect", Velez replied. 

The laneway to the house passed a large garden that had recently been tilled and re-planted.  Out past the house, near a small barn, a brown goat chewed cud while its two offspring took turns running up and down a pile of manure and straw.  The Mesoamericans took in the idyllic scene as they shuffled behind Velez and Dominguez.

The group continued past the house, towards a large out-building of sorts.  Velez knocked on the front door.  "Come in, Senor Velez", a muffled voice replied.

Dominguez and Velez stepped inside as faint chemical scents reached their nostrils.  The front room of the workshop contained several small holding cells, with another door leading to the back half of the building.  An older man in a plaid shirt, cotton pants, and a leather apron stood by the door with his hands in the apron's pockets.  "So, what have you brought me today?", the man asked.

"Suspected Anahuac spies assisting in the commission of piracy", Dominguez replied.

"Really?  Actual Anahuac?", the man replied.  "Marvellous.  I do love a challenge."

"Mmm", Dominguez muttered.  He turned to face the Mesoamericans and spoke to them in their own language.  "Before I turn you over to this man, I'm giving you one last chance to cooperate.  Once you go into those cells, or through that door, your fate is sealed."

"F**k you, man", Subject Red growled.  "I'm not saying a thing to you or Farmer Juan there."

"I guess we'll find out how serious you are about that", Dominguez sighed.  "That man there is a sub-contractor for the Ministry of Internal Security.  He's a carpenter, rather than a farmer."

Subject Red shrugged.  "No matter."

"He's also the worst serial murderer in Gran Colombian history, with a penchant for extensive torture sessions with his victims", Dominguez added. 

"Looks like he's not doing so bad here in prison", Red replied.

"After his trial, the State offered to commute his death sentence in return for his cooperation in particularly difficult interrogations", Dominguez explained.  "He was only too happy to agree."

Smiling, the Carpenter interjected in Mesoamerican, "Very few jobs pay you to do something you really enjoy.  I really couldn't resist."  He turned to face Dominguez.  "We can save this one for later, but I'll take one of the wounded in my workshop now."

[Carthaginian]

Who says torture isn't an effective interrogation device?
:D

[The Rock Doctor]

"It's all fun and games until somebody loses an eye.  Then it's only fun and games for some."

[The Rock Doctor]

1 April 1910:  West of Cuba

Craig Hitchins, master of the SS Morning Glory, shouted, "More coal!", into the voice pipe, as a shell splashed off the port stern of the tramp freighter.

"We're stoking as fast as we can, Captain", the chief engineer's terse voice echoed back.

Hitchins scowled and looked back at the fishing trawler chasing them. Obviously the Anahuac had expected he'd just obey their ultimatum and stop engines, but given what had happened to those who'd done so, he'd instead rang for all-head full.  The Anahuac had exposed themselves too soon, though, and had been laboriously closing the range over the past twenty minutes, their single gun forward sending out ranging shots at consistent intervals.

"Anything from the wireless?", the Jamaican demanded.

"I got the message out, but the bastards are transmitting a constant stream of garbage now - I can't hear anything else", the wireless operator reported.

"Keep at it", Hitchins replied, wishing he had a big, shiny gun on his quarterdeck. 

About a minute and half passed before the Anahuac fired again.  The shell kicked up a small column of water on the starboard beam.  "Shit", Hitchins grunted.  "What is it, a two-incher or so?", he asked aloud.

"Sure", a lookout replied.

Hitchins scowled at the younger man.  "If you don't know, just say so."

The next Anahuac shot was a near-miss, and things started going downhill after that.  The follow-up crashed into the stern, probably making a tremendous mess out of his cabin in particular.  "Damage control to the stern!", he barked into the voice pipes.

"On the way", the purser's voice called back.  Another shell spashed just wide, and the purser's voice came again.  "Heavy damage to the master's cabin, but nothing else.  We're pulling back."

Hitchins seethed, but did not countermand him. 

"We've got smoke at red fifty-five!", the starboard lookout called out. 

A few moments later, the wireless operator added, "I'm hearing bits of a tranmission through the Anahuac noise - might be something close by."

Hitchins growled, "Helm - come round and steer for that smoke.  We might get lucky."

Over the next fifteen minutes, the Anahuac hit the Morning Glory nine times, chewing up the stern and starting two small fires.  The purser and two other members of the ad-hoc damage control team were cut down by splinters.

"It's a patrol boat coming at us!", the lookout exclaimed.

"Thank God", Hitchins said.  Another shell slammed into the freighter, then the Anahuac ship began turning away.  "That's right, bastards, run away!"

Hitchins' elation was short-lived, however.  The Anahuac maintained their new heading for perhaps two minutes - send a pair of shells from their aft gun at Morning Glory - before coming back around again.  "Maybe they think they can take out the patrol boat", the navigator opined.

"I suppose they might be right", Hitchins conceded.  The patrol boats did, after all, only mount one 47mm gun.  The Anahuac had at least two guns of that size, and was several times larger.  "Well, it'll slow them down long enough for us to get away."

The patrol boat drew closer, and as it passed down Morning Glory's port beam, her main gun banged out a shell at the pirate.  The Anahuac replied in kind, though their shot hit Morning Glory's aft hold.  Hitchins swore; the main cargo there consisted of porcelain from the Middle Kingdom - it was probably powder now.

The patrol boat came around neatly, matching the pirate's heading and speed about four hundred yards away from the trawler.  A blinker light on the little Armada vessel flashed, "MAKE BEST SPEED ONE NINE FIVE" as her machine guns began to rattle.

"Should I come to one-nine-five, Sir?", the helmsman asked.

Hitchins started to reply, but his voice trailed off.  He watched the tiny patrol boat and the pirate exchanging fire for almost a half minute.  "Sir?", the helmsman added.

"Nah...", Hitchins answered.  "I'll take the wheel.  Move aside." 

"What are you-"

"Just move", Hitchins growled.  He stepped over and swung the wheel to port, bringing the freighter across the paths of the oncoming duellists.  The Anahuac continued to pound away on the patrol boat, which for its part did not question the freighter's course change.  The Jamaican counted under his breath, then swung the wheel hard to starboard.

"Um, Captain...", the look out started.

"I know, I know", Hitchins said, "But the fuckers trashed my ship.  Brace for collision."

The Anahuac did notice the oncoming tramp freighter, but not really in time to do anything about it.  Focused on the destruction of the Colombian patrol boat, they only started to turn into the Morning Glory when the freighter was three hundred yards distant.  A couple of the Anahuac crew were quick to jump overboard, but the remainder were either too distracted or too startled to do anything.  Hitchins winced as the trawler's deck disappeared under the freighter's bow, and a second later, Morning Glory's bow crashed into the trawler's port side with a jarring shriek of metal on metal. 

The guns on the Anahuac trawler stopped firing as the collision sent most of the men sprawling.  The trawler's displacement was perhaps three hundred tonnes, Morning Glory's almost ten times as much.  The collision didn't immediately cut the Anahuac in two, but the damage was massive and fatal; water began flooding into the trawler as she drifted away from the freighter.  The patrol boat's main gun and remaining machine gun maintained a careful barrage of the sinking trawler's stern section.  Her blinker light flashed, "THAT WAS NOT ONE NINE FIVE DEGREES", prompting nervous laughter on the Morning Glory's bridge.  A follow up message - "WATCH FOR BOARDERS" - killed the laughter.

"Right", Hitchins said.  "Watch for boarders.  And let's see how badly damaged we are."

[Tanthalas]

now thats a good Capitan ^.^ smash my cargo i smash your boat