A Shift in Priorities - Sequel

sloreck

I expect the only folks going to Britain for quite some time will be those trying to salvage/loot, and of course the threat of plague is still there - although the question is what is the reservoir. Is it like anthrax that forms spores that last a very long time or has it jumped to some animal species as a reservoir (like bubonic plague in the American Southwest). For a plague like the one here, when it runs out of fresh victims it will burn out. Now it is possible immunes/survivors can harbor the bug (typhoid Marys) and be asymptomatic carriers, but given the action of the plague that is unlikely.
 

rast

Problems worthy of attack prove their worth by hitting back.
(Adam Smith)

It was raining. It was always raining in this country. Ohawadi Anuforo checked the fixture of the tarpaulin he had braced to protect the foxhole – and the machine gun – from precipitation. Tonigi, his buddy, was snoring in the rear. The drizzling of the rain and Tonigi’s burbling were impairing his ability to hear. That was not good. He pried into the darkness. Nothing… Well, you never knew. The sailors were guileless, had no clue of stalking and surprise attack, but these Royal Marines were said to be dangerous…

Ohawadi had never seen one of those. He only knew the sailors. They had been quite snappy as long as their ships had been working. But now, without them they were… wimpish – and kind of edgy. However, they were legion, that was the problem. There suddenly had been so many of them, since one ship after another had gone haywire. – Who had started the fighting? Ohawadi didn’t care. He was only reacting. They wanted to kill him; so, he had to kill them.

And the women… Yeah, the sailors had fought among themselves first. Somehow, the Nigerians must have been drawn in. There were no black women. One had only hired males – as workers. Ohawadi had had a four-year labour contract. He would have preferred to do his job and get rich. Instead, he was forced to fight the whites. – How could he ever return home? Some dudes were talking of staying here. This land was empty. If one captured enough women…

Was there something? Ohawadi was goggling ahead with wide eyes. No… nothing. Must have been the wind. There were no dogs. These animals were clever. He relaxed. Tonigi was still snoring. He checked his watch. One hour and a half to go, before it was Tonigi’s turn – and he could take a nap at last. – Was it really wise to stay here, in this god-forsaken country?
 

sloreck

Have to wonder how the imported workers will get home if ever - I doubt anyone is eager to offer refuge to the "British" in any case.
 

rast

Everyone can reach his goals, if he is able to think, if he is able to wait, if he is able to fast.
(Hermann Hesse)

Professor Sigbert Ramsauer was an unhappy man. First, that dratted Middle African quack had found the antidote. Secondly, he had been unable to prove that the English had developed NED at Porton Down. And in the third place, all his attempts to find a reliable vaccine had failed so far. – It was failure all over. His academic reputation – and even worse, his standing with the military – was draining away. He was the mad scientist, who could be trusted to kill hecatombs of sweet laboratory mice and cute puppies – for no sensible gain.

Well, in fact, NED should be petering out naturally. Some immunes might still be alive in England – active carriers of the pathogen – but there were no masses to be infected. Remains of humans – and horses – might also still contain the pathogen. But NED – he had named the germ after the disease – wasn’t resident; it wasn’t going to contaminate the soil. Once the remains had withered away and the last immunes too, England should become pathogen-free again.

Nevertheless, he was searching for a vaccine. The antidote was crude. In the recent Norwegian outbreaks, it had killed quite a lot of people. And, of course, it had been found by that charlatan Misuku, not by him. He had to outdo the black witch doctor. – As spin-off, he had already come upon three neat bugs, which he could add to the German arsenal. But that was top secret, nothing he could publish. – Generating the vaccine, by contrast, would secure him wide recognition in professional circles.

He had BLAM and NED at his disposal, as well as pseudomonas mallei, the pathogen of ordinary glanders, but nevertheless was unable to find an inoculant. It was frustrating. His assistants were joking behind his back. He should go to Duala and ask Misuku. How humiliating…
 

rast

‘Tis the times’ plague, when madmen lead the blind.
(William Shakespeare)

The Free and Hanseatic City of Hamburg was accommodating a prodigious concentration of media. This was rooted in history, as the independent city state had never belonged to Prussia – and hence had formed a safe haven for journalists trying to evade Prussian repression and censorship. But it also was the result of deliberate encouragement by the Hamburg Senate. The Great War had – more or less – ended the profitable North America business. As recompense, the city government had fostered the settlement of producers of new media.

The world of dream and illusion was at home in the Babelsberg studios, without a doubt, but when it came to documentary reports, animal films and reality reportages for cinema and TV, Hamburg had become the foremost place of production in Germany. At the same time, several new-fashioned high-quality illustrated magazines were at home in Hamburg. That was the prime reason why Sir Hamilton William Kerr, himself a journalist before going politician, had chosen the hanseatic city for his new home.

The influential doyen of the important Hamburg expatriate community was generally considered a Churchillian dyed in the grain. But he always had been critical of the current adventure, seeing no future in trying to resettle Britain with the personnel at hand. Unfortunately, Timothy Charles, his youngest son, had fallen prey to Churchill’s temptations. The lad had sailed for Britain together with a handful of juvenile friends, when the sottish old crock had flown in from Russia.

Now, the endeavour was obviously in the process of failing miserably. Should he try to save Timmy? His wife was urgently leaning on him to do it. One couldn’t leave the poor boy in the lurch; he was so young and innocent… Yeah, but he was receiving confidential information on what was really going on in Britain. They had a real war going on – between black and white. That idiot Churchill was residing in London, while Portsmouth was under siege from the Nigerians. And the King had been captured by the Negroes…

So, what should he do? Charter a boat and sail into Portsmouth Harbour, shouting for Timmy with a loudhailer? Well, there was no navy to stop him. The Royal Navy was beached – and the Germans didn’t care any longer. The Nigerians had no artillery worth of mention. It might work indeed. – If Timmy should be in Portsmouth – and not in London… He didn’t like the idea, but… His wife wouldn’t relent. He knew her. What a godawful mess…
 

rast

You can always tell a pig by its grunt.
(Nikolay Gogol)

Being Russia’s top decision maker was onerous. It wasn’t just so that you took a decision – and people were executing your will. No, the buggers would invariably come back and ask for more decisions. Dmitri Trofimovich Shepilov thought it was the heritage of centuries of tsaristic despotism. Folks didn’t dare to make follow-up decisions by themselves. They, obviously, were dreading to be sent to Siberia, when acting too self-reliant. That was complete rubbish, of course, but seemed to be deeply ingrained in the Russian soul.

The other side of the coin, however, was that nobody was challenging his decisions, at least not in the open. They might grumble and grouse in secrecy, but they were bowing in public and submitting to his word. He knew, needless to say, that they were waiting for him to err, misdo and fail. Yeah, they had believed he was a mere stopgap; but he wasn’t. So far, his decisions had been correct. Even the Venus adventure, fatal for the poor kosmonauts indeed, was a scientific and technical triumph for Russia.

The question now was how to carry on with this space business. It seemed that man was limited to Earth – and perhaps the Moon, until a way had been found to protect the kosmonauts from radiation and atrophy. Shepilov did not consider the alternative to cut NASA’s budget. Nay, one was leading in this field; why yield the floor to Chernozhopy and Smúglizhopy? It meant NSÓ had to be expanded. It ought to become something like Raumkolonie had been, before the stupid Nyemtsi had shut it down.

And one had to conquer the Moon. Whether permanent sojourn up there was possible at all, one was going to find out in the process. No, NASA’s budget had to be expanded. Landing on Moon would not be a walk in the park. This was a field where the Nyemtsi had been leading by many versts. NASA had little expertise here. Hence, they would need more funds to acquire the required knowhow. – Shepilov made a mental note – and turned his mind to the next issue…
 

Bmao

Frankie said:
How’s the Ottoman economy doing with all that oil? Also, who controls the Suez canal at this point?
Click to expand...

It would probably be Egypt at this point wouldn't it? Egypt is still technically a territory of the Ottoman Empire but if I understand correctly they are still independent in all but name.

In terms of oil, I would imagine that because of the vast depopulation in Europe, demand has been lowered for oil.
 

Nivek

Bmao said:
It would probably be Egypt at this point wouldn't it? Egypt is still technically a territory of the Ottoman Empire but if I understand correctly they are still independent in all but name.

In terms of oil, I would imagine that because of the vast depopulation in Europe, demand has been lowered for oil.
Click to expand...
The ottomans have four separated emirated are subnations alongside the empire, egypt is one of those and very rich thanks lybian oil and the suez
 

rast

I know what I can know, and am not troubled about what I cannot know.
(Johann Gottlieb Fichte)

Climbing out of the saloon car was a little bit taxing for Chancellor Otto Schmidt. He was sixty-nine and keeping as trim and fit as possible, but the joints were degenerating. A servant propped him up and handed him his walking stick. Schmidt thanked the man with a silent nod, stretched while leaning onto the stick, and took a deep breath. This was the Wilhelmstraße Number 77, the Reich Chancellery, totally rebuilt and modernised, but externally – and for the most part also internally – looking like in Bismarck’s time. Another servant was keeping open the door, as he stepped up the stairs and entered the building.

He was coming back from Wünsdorf, where the military had briefed him. The soldiers wanted him to resume spaceflight. They were warning of the Russian orbital bombs. One had started the game by deploying nuclear weapons to Raumkolonie. They were still up there, deactivated and mothballed. The Russians had chosen another approach: their bombs, called ChOB – chastichno–orbitalnovo bombometaniya, were automated satellites. While the German bombs had been disabled, the Russians had never stopped to deploy their systems. OKW were counting fifty-seven of them currently.

Schmidt could see the consequence: it meant Russian superiority. Their missile submarines were balanced by the German ones. The same applied to land-based missiles, strategic bombers, and other nuclear weapon systems. But the ChOB satellites were not balanced out. – The military had developed plans to counter the threat. This required RRA to resume their activities. – Schmidt hadn’t made up his mind yet. He wasn’t impressed by spaceflight. It was a huge waste of money. Building the Weizsäcker Sun had been necessary, most probably. But all the rest… Landing on the Moon had been a nice show. Its practical avail was about zero.

Oh well, the Russian Venus spectacle hadn’t convinced him either. – However, military requirements were something he couldn’t easily ignore. After all, he had been an officer himself, had fought in the Great War. National security was at stake. Falling behind in the armament contest was dangerous. It might lead to kneejerk reactions, once an unforeseen crisis was evolving. – All right, then, he would have to discuss the issue with his colleagues…
 

rast

Many people are busy trying to find better ways of doing things that should not have to be done at all. There is no progress in merely finding a better way to do a useless thing.
(Henry Ford)

The ship was the Baiyun Luózé; she came from Kanton the tallyman had said. However, the writing on her stern announced Guangzhou as port of registry. Joe Bellino didn’t mind. The berth was correct; the name was correct; hence, it was the ship his gang had been told to unload. The crew were a bunch of Gooks, just like the folks prowling the streets in Chinatown. Nobody spoke English, but one dude seemed to understand it a bit at least. He was showing Joe around, while the boys were smoking a quick ciggy. It was a large ship with four load bays in the forebody and four more in the rear. All bays were jam-packed with wooden boxes.

Tools, the tallyman had said, destined for Sears, Roebuck & Company. Heavy stuff, thought Joe, and quite a lot of it. Okay, one was going to employ two cranes, one for the foreship, one for the stern, and simultaneously empty two load bays at a time. He briefed the boys and divided them into work teams. This job was due to take the whole day. – He watched the boys occupy their positions. When the crane operators had signalled they were ready and the first batch of trucks were standing below, he blew the whistle. All right then, let’s empty out the Chinaman…

One didn’t have Chinamen here in the port of New York, ordinarily. Joe thought San Francisco, Seattle and Portland should handle trade with Asia. In the olden days, Joe had heard, NY had served the European trade almost exclusively. Well, that must have been before his time. These days, one had a lot of ships from South America, West Africa and – until recently – the Caribbean. Yes, it was true, Central America and the Caribbean had dropped out of business the other day; no bananas, no fruit, no nothing. Perhaps this was the reason why the Chinaman had been directed to NY…

The US had a very potent industry, as far as Joe could tell. Why then was Sears, Roebuck & Co. buying frigging tools in China? These were bog-standard bits and pieces, nothing special. – Normally, you had resources and foodstuffs coming in and finished products – or at least intermediate goods – moving out. Okay, Canada, the RUM and the Caribbean had to be scratched off the list. But that didn’t explain why a major American trading company was buying tools in China. – No use to cudgel his brain… Joe shrugged his shoulders. It was good work, after all, and good money…
 

rast

Do not waste your time looking for an obstacle – maybe there is none.
(Franz Kafka)

Erhard Milch, the DELAG director general, was in good mood. The trust was thriving. And the enormous investment into Eugen Sänger’s ideas, initiated already under his precursor, the renowned Hugo Eckener, was eventually paying back. The question was now: what should one do with the money? The possibilities of air traffic were exhausted. In fact, a general shrinkage was expected. The disappearance – or radical diminution – of so many nations in the western hemisphere did not promise many sales in the near future.

It was clear that DELAG would not undertake space operations on its own. If RRA should be reactivated, one would duly participate – as a contractor. After all, one was selling space craft to Middle Africa and the Indian Federation – and hopefully to still more nations in future. There was no use in competing with customers. – So what to do? Refining the Dornier Projekt SR aircraft, the Brüderchen, was an ongoing process anyway. Jet-powered long-haul passenger aircraft wouldn’t sell. The military, as a rule, did not react positively to new models developed independently by the industry.

Milch, then an air force general, had been an important man in the evolution of German rocketry. But DELAG possessed no expertise in building large missiles – and he had no intention to change that. Space rockets were too special to be good business. One better left them to agencies operating with inexhaustible supply of taxpayer money. – It was strange. No promising new project came to mind. Well, one would have to look out for crackpots and their weird ideas. Sänger had been considered a crackpot – until Hugo Eckener had picked up the proposal. Yeah, that might do the trick. He was too old to scintillate as inventor of new technology.

Would RRA resume their activities? Milch had heard that the military was putting pressure on the chancellor. But Schmidt was a hard-ass. National elections were due in spring of next year. In the end, the opinion surveys were going to decide – thought Milch. If the voters wanted spaceflight, Schmidt would oblige. If they didn’t want spaceflight, Schmidt would continue dragging his feet. Did the German voters want spaceflight? Milch wasn’t sure. Well, one could commit some money for additional public relations campaigns to promote spaceflight. That was a nice gimmick, wasn’t it?
 

rast

Democracy is the art and science of running the circus from the monkey cage.
(H. L. Mencken)

After running away from politics, Herbert Weller had found hideout in a circus. This was the world he knew, where he had grown to adulthood. Because the circus manager was a Hungarian, one had moved to Hungary for winter camp. That was positively cheaper – and much easier – than spending the cold months in Germany. Right now, it was late March, one was packing up and preparing the move back to Germany. – Herbert was amused. Sojourning in Hungary over the winter was okay, but performing was rather done in Germany. One was hoping to earn much more, of course. Oh, showing in Budapest would, of course, pay off, but the rest of the country was considered a poorhouse.

One was in a village south of Raab, which the Hungarians called Györ. The boss had explained the first part of the planned route: crossing the border at Bruck an der Leitha, which was to be the first stop, then Schwechat near Vienna, followed by Klosterneuburg and Wolkersdorf. At Wolkersdorf, one would put on the train and ride to Saxony, driving past Czechoslovakia without stop. – Herbert liked it. Saxony was fine. The Saxons were very fond of circuses. This had potential to become a very pleasant summer.

And one would ride on the Intercontinental Railway – if only from Wolkersdorf to Leitmeritz in Saxony. It was one of the curiosities of the ICR: the main line from Vienna to Berlin ran through Czechoslovakia. It said a lot about the true sovereignty of Czechs and Slovaks. They had been allowed a state of their own, but they were inextricably pegged into the German economic sphere. Well, they had been part of the Austrian Empire for many centuries – and they had been lucky that the Austrian authorities had been pretty paralysed at that time…

Yeah, times were changing. In 1918, SDP and Zentrum had granted independence to Czechs and Slovaks. Today, nobody in Germany would do that. The Reich urgently needed people. – In the same vein, he had to rethink his space buzz. Venergost had demonstrated that men were not made for space. The space hype had been a hoax. He knew that now. – It was daunting and gloomy. Mankind was trapped on this planet. And mankind had the means to utterly destroy this planet…
 

rast

The tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living.
(Karl Marx)

Damage done by the Great Honshu Earthquake had been overcome at length, but Japanese economy wouldn’t gain momentum. It was as if the home islands were jinxed. Not only had redressing the wreckage taken longer than anticipated, it also hadn’t done the trick to kick off general growth. Aichi Kiichi, the Japanese minister of economy, had the figures on his desk. One was afflicted by a full-fledged slump. Why was that so? The population was well educated and industrious. Natural resources were available without limit.

The economy always had been driven by domestic demand. Export was a matter of prestige, of course, but never had called the tune. Growth, modernisation and the requirements of the armed forces had been the main drivers. Today, these drivers were on hand likewise. Yet, they didn’t work. The navy had lost most of their capital ships, but building a new fleet was proving extremely complicated. The admirals were divided over what was needed. The main threat obviously was Russia, but how should one counter that threat?

Opposite Russia, the home islands were serving as unsinkable aircraft carrier, hence carrier vessels could only have low priority. And big gun ships were totally outdated. That was clear. But: would the Russians try to stage a blockade? Or would they invade? Or just scorch the home islands to cinder? How to deal with their submarines? One still remembered the costly attacks on their sub bases during the FEW. There was no clear line, prevarication was prevailing. – For the army, several times defeated by the Russians in the past, it was even worse.

The Korean underlings were mainly exporting workers. That seemed to work for them. But Korea had taken severe damage by radiation. So, emptying out certain stretches of land couldn’t be called an unwise strategy. Apart from that, stagnation was ruling there as well. – The Chinese ally was slowly recovering. But Nippon wasn’t profiting, because the US had virtually seized the Chinese markets. – It was a leaden time indeed. At least nobody was starving. And well, there were improvements. And perhaps slow growth wasn’t so bad…
 

rast

The greatest enemy will hide in the last place you would ever look.
(Julius Caesar)

One had to get weaving, or one was going to miss the hop. It was the spoof of the age-old army phrase: hurry up and wait! One had waited too long, now one had to scoot like a bat out of hell. Sergeant Roger Moore was cursing under his breath. Footslogging wasn’t his favourite anyway, and the weather was godawful. Scampering in the rain…

One had zero information, that was the crux of the matter. After waiting several weeks – in vain – for someone to arrive and pick up the frigging Arrow, Moore, Smith, McMurdoc and Beller had decided it was enough. Screw the goddam nuke. They had camouflaged the gadget with debris and started the long march south.

There was nobody in all places. That made rambling quite easy. Except for the rain… Everything was wet, and it wouldn’t dry up over night. – And, of course, you had to search for food, that was eating away much time. Even after one year, there still was edible stuff to be found: bottling jars, canned goods, dehydrated food – you only had to find the gubbins…

And all the while, you had these outrageous pictures in your head: of the totties, who were being humped by bloody sailors and big shots down in the south, while you are galumphing all wet through the wilderness. The good thing was that fatigue ensured you weren’t getting a boner. But the popsies wouldn’t leave your mind…

The bullets came flying out of the blue. Joe McMurdoc copped the lot of them. He fell down and lay still, while the other three scrambled for cover. Who was shooting? And from where? Moore tried to find the foe, but crouching in a flooded ditch didn’t give you a fair field of vision. Joe? No answer. Eddy Smith and Fred Beller were over there, on the other side of the carriageway.

It was a fucking machine gun, firing from a position three hundred yards down the road, shouted Fred after a while. – Okay! Let’s get out of here! Joe? Not a chance… Fuck! Moore crawled backwards in slow motion. The machine gun was silent now.

They rallied out of sight of the ambush site. What now? – It had been a pillbox, said Fred. Eddy had seen nothing. Who? No idea… How many? No idea… One was going to wait until dusk. Then one would move on, cross country, away from the roads. Bugger!
 

rast

You don’t reason with intellectuals. You shoot them.
(Napoleon Bonaparte)

It was half an hour before noontime – and Colonel Konstanty Rokossowski was already drunk. He was sitting in his desk chair and staring vacantly into space. The job was dull, incredibly dull; life was dull; everything was dull. Supply of asswipes, soap, floor wax and other rubbish for the Polish Army, that was his assignment – the apogee of a long career in the military.

In his youth, he had volunteered for the Russian Army, and had fought as a cavalryman for Tsar and Mother Russia in the Great War. Then, after the October Revolution, he had joined the Red Army of the Bolsheviks, but that gest hadn’t ended any better than the previous maladventure. Frustrated and disenchanted, he had eventually returned to Warsaw, his place of birth, and had enlisted in the fledgling Polish Army.

But that had been – in hindsight – a stupidity. His new comrades had – furtively – sneezed at him and his provenance: Tsarist Army and – particularly – Red Army, that was contemptible – in their narrow minds. Well, these Polish nationalists were a breed apart. Most of the buggers had fought for the Prussians or the Austrians; they were an arrogant lot, just like victors used to be.

The Polish Army hadn’t seen much combat, except for the disaster when Russians and Germans had clubbed together, had mugged Poland and had cut off the Heymshtot. That hardly had been an opportunity to commit heroic deeds. In fact, retreat had been the only wise thing to do. Rokossowski’s cavalry battalion had done just that. He had known the guy – Georgy Zhukov – who had been leading the Russian forces. No need to have his riders and horses shreddered for no gain…

Thereafter, he had been relegated to desk jobs. Well, he was too intelligent to not advance, but… Supreme supply staff officer for quartermaster material wasn’t exactly a dream assignment. But he still could be promoted to general – on retirement… The bottle was empty. Rokossowski burped. There must be another one in the sideboard. But then he dropped off – and dreamt of colossal tank battles…
 
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