A Shift in Priorities - Sequel

[rast]

And now about the cauldron sing like elves and fairies in a ring, enchanting all that you put in.
(William Shakespeare)

Vizefeldwebel Heinz Drechsler peered through the ocular. Yeah, almost… He beckoned slowly with his right arm. The soldier with the ranging pole took a careful step in the direction indicated. Good! He made the okay sign – and the soldier rammed the pole into the ground. All right, next one…

Constructing a camp was not rocket science. But it took some time. This one here was designated to accommodate a field hospital. The basis was a huge existing parking lot, which, unfortunately, wasn’t huge enough to accept all facilities. One would have to remove two rotten houses and several trees. No big affair, only that the bulldozers hadn’t arrived yet…

The troops would bring their tents – and erect them themselves. Therefore, one had just to prepare the surfaces – and check drainage. In most cases, the old English drainage system was still functional and could be used – after clean-up. That was saving a lot of work.

Thank goodness, the use of houses and other buildings had been foreclosed. They were all rotten junk, full of dangerous debris and vermin. Hence, one was avoiding the city centre of Kingston. The port facilities were under the thumb of the Kaiserliche Marine. The road system was available – after a bulldozer had pushed aside all the wreckage.

The place here was called Cottingham, a small village halfway turned into a suburb already. There were, however, some large treeless meadows to the north, which could serve as landing pads for helis. They were needed for the hospital.

Drechsler was a seasoned engineer NCO. Setting up the facilities for an army corps in this way was a new challenge for him and his comrades. In Germany, during exercises, one was always using existing infrastructure. But here in England, this approach had been ruled out from the start. It would be tents – and some prefabricated huts for classified areas.

The combat troops – infantry, tanks and recce – were already here, living and sleeping in or on their vehicles, poor sods. The corps HQ was still afloat, but pushing hard for debarkation. – A hooting sound jolted Drechsler out of his musings. The bulldozers were coming! About time…

 

[rast]

The world has always been the same – an endless farce, an antic game, a universal masquerade!
(Johann Wolfgang von Goethe)

Middle African xenophobia had always been considered a stabilising factor in the African community of states. But now, with ongoing intervention in Somalia and occupation of the Kenyan lowlands, the continuity of this stabilising factor suddenly seemed highly questionable. Indisputably, Middle Africa was the strongest nation in Africa – economically and militarily. So, what did this new lust for intervention bode for the rest of sub-Saharan Africa?

Traditionally, the Middle Africans had simply ignored the existence of European nations’ colonial possessions. But today, only Portugal and Spain were still present. – The Spaniards had provided asylum for the defenders of Kamerun in the Great War, hence, Rio Muni and Fernando Po had been always deemed safe. In fact, they – as a notable exception from the rule – had not been disregarded, but had become popular holiday places for wealthy Middle Africans.

Portugal, on the other hand, had been a member of the hostile coalition in the Great War – and Bwana Obersti’s invasion of Mozambique was taught in all Middle African schools. So far, the rulers in Lisbon had shown remarkable elasticity in complying with Middle African wishes – and thus had managed to maintain the integrity of their colonies. Yet, it couldn’t be denied that Angola formed the land-link between the bulk of Middle Africa and Südwest.

Relations to the Union of South Africa always had been cordial. After all, the South Africans had liberated themselves – with some German help. Even the strange habit of relying heavily on the services of dubious aliens never had estranged the South Africans from the Middle Africans. South African coal was vital for Middle Africa – and as long as the coal trains kept coming, the Middle Africans could be expected to keep calm.

The power holders in the former English colonies, however, could no longer trust that xenophobia would keep the Middle Africans away. They truly were in Kenya – and did show no inclination to leave again soon. – The Central African Federation, as long as transit of the coal trains was warranted, could hope to be treated like before: generous disregard. But Kenya – the unoccupied rest, Uganda and the Nigerian Commonwealth obviously had to reconsider their attitudes.

The WAU, as love child of Middle Africa, had never had reason to fear its progenitor. But: it hardly could be abnegated that Daressalam was pretty much irritated by Deygbo’s affinity to the US. One had created the Protectorate – today’s WAU – during the struggle to repel US meddling in African affairs. And now the WAU was going to bed with the Americans. That was outright disgusting.

Ala Ka Kuma always had been submissive to Middle African wishes. They were profiting enormously from the rail links the Middle Africans had constructed through their territory. – And they had nothing that one day might tempt the Middle Africans… – The Emirate of Egypt was entertaining cordial relations with Middle Africa. However, they were ruling over predominantly Christian back Africans in southern Sudan. Should these people ever be wronged by the Muslim majority of the emirate, Middle African intervention was now more than probable.

 

[rast]

Amateurs discuss tactics; professionals discuss logistics.
(Napoleon Bonaparte)

The Germans had begun to deploy a new missile model. The implementation was happening on the sly, without any coverage in the media. All one had was a rather blurry photograph and two verbal accounts. The experts had analysed the information available – and had passed a startling verdict… These had to be anti-ChOB missiles!

The rockets were relatively small, lorry-mounted – and obviously propelled by solid fuel. One missile truck seemed to have allocated three fumeo vehicles, two command units and a plethora of communication assets. The experts thought the system was capable of tracking deploying ChOBs – and to destroy them pre-emptively.

Okay, that the Germans should detect the ChOBs – and eventually find a remedy, had been plain from the start. It was the way things were happening. – One could still position the ChOBs in a stable permanent target orbit. That would save the deployment manoeuvre, hence would not give away the intention to strike, but would negatively affect accuracy.

It wouldn’t, though, impede a German preemptive attack on the ChOBs. – Was a nuclear strike in outer space already an attack on Russia? It was a thrilling question. The legal scholars weren’t agreed. One school claimed any attack on Russian assets in space was an attack on Russia herself. The other school said it depended…

The Weizsäcker Sun had destroyed the Russian mirrors – and the first Russian space station. Russia had accepted this. The use of nuclear devices in space was not regulated – hence free for everyone. No such weapon would factually hit the target, but disable it from a distance.

Strictly speaking, the ChOBs didn’t exist. Their existence never had been announced. Exploding nuclear weapons in outer space was labelled as inoffensive – because of the Weizsäcker Sun. – An attack on NSÓ would be a clear case. But an attack that destroyed things that didn’t officially exist?

So, determining to be attacked was up the decision makers in Moscow – and Berlin… as always. – The scenario was now that the Germans, at a certain level of tensions, would destroy the ChOBs. And that the Kremlin then had to decide whether to tolerate it – or to strike back. Nothing new under the sun…

 

[rast]

It is with artillery that war is made.
(Napoleon Bonaparte)

The project had been christened Donars Hammer (Thor’s Hammer). Project supervisor was Professor Doktor Max Born, who, however, was almost seventy years old – and clearly above profane research in detail. The real big wheel was a certain Doktor Manfred Rüchel, who had been a senior assistant of the renowned boffin Klaus Fuchs. – Rüchel was a blithe spirit – and a sadistic slave driver, thought Peter Vogel, a lowly mechanical engineer in the section dealing with physical construction.

From the mechanical point of view, nuclear pulse propulsion was not really complicated. One needed a huge steel slab – and huge shock absorbers. That didn’t require witchcraft – only a lot of solid engineering. It was going to be a heavy packet though. And that was the problem. Hoisting all this stuff into orbit was going to cost several fortunes. Well, it could be done. The cradles and the Weizsäcker Suns had indeed been lifted up. But the cradles had been made of lightweight aluminium.

This time, aluminium wouldn’t do. It had to be steel, a massive bulk of steel. – In fact, assembling the whole gadget in space should cause complete mayhem, to say nothing of quality problems… or money… – No, it had to be assembled down here on earth. Shooting the whole thing up should in fact be a walk in the park; the nuclear explosions would easily lift it – the nuclear physicists were claiming. There would be a minor pollution problem, however…

And here Peter Vogel had hit upon an idea. Quite by chance, unpopulated real estate was available. Why not assemble Donars Hammer on the Irish Isle? It was far away from Central Europe – and the strong Atlantic winds were going to scatter the nuclear waste. – Rüchel had proposed it to Born. And Born was now lobbying for the idea in the Wilhelmstraße.

 

[rast]

Enlightened statesmen will not always be at the helm.
(James Madison)

It wasn’t his fault! He had only done what the bosses had wanted him to do. But now, they were blaming him for the failure of their schemes. – He could see now what they had been trying to contrive. It hadn’t worked in the least, because the target group had scurried away just like that. Yet, even if the Indians hadn’t bunked, it wouldn’t have worked like the honchos had planned. You couldn’t create an indigene population from scratch.

That Panchist valkyrie, Vicky Keller, had found out what the Indians were really doing – and had told it to the world. It was quite a clever trick. – And the detour via Cuba had only been the beginning. A shuttle service between San Francisco and La Unión in the former RUM had recently been established, ferrying Indians in piles to their new hunting grounds. It was a glorious land grab indeed.

And the bosses in Houston and Austin were foaming with rage – most probably. But there was nothing they could do to stop it. San Francisco was far away from Texas – and pretty much out of their reach. The tribes had taken their money – and then had done what they wanted, not what the honchos had wanted them to do. – Malcolm Little liked it, even while the bosses were casting the blame on him.

So, what should he do now? Ride it out? – His reputation was marred. That was boding ill for his future. But he was still the pundit influencing the youth, and was leading a comfortable life – as long as the bosses didn’t send him on some crazy errand. Yet, there was his past about which the bosses knew. It made him vulnerable. They could make him a ridiculous figure in a jiffy. – No, it was about time to decamp. Hell, he was an expert in running away.

And so, with a heavy heart, Malcolm Little decided to file out – and to seek greener pastures on the other side of the Caribbean.

 

[rast]

A man always has two reasons for doing anything: a good reason and the real reason.
(J. P. Morgan)

These Americans were trying to buy him off, that was plainly jumping out at him. Well, their offer was quite attractive – ultramodern weaponry and equipment for the armed forces – and a lush consultancy contract for him. They were currying favour with him, or at least were having a go at it… Field Marshal Dang Gangjun was amused. These foreigners had no clue of Qing reality. They didn’t know that soldiers generally were not well-deemed in China. They thought he was an important man, was having a bearing on Prime Minister Deng’s policy.

That was nonsense, of course. He was a versatile military craftsman, and a good general – as far as he could tell, but the Little Man from Sichuan would never care for his advice. His role was that of an obedient recipient of orders. It was all right for him, as long as the natural order of things was unimpaired. – The aliens didn’t understand the Chinese way. They thought it was a democracy like theirs. But that was nonsense, of course. China had already been a thriving civilisation when in America the savages still had howled at the moon.

You couldn’t compare apples and oranges, it simply didn’t match. – Why had China recovered so quickly from Fēilóng? Because the old order had quickly been re-established. The Children of Zhúlóng, the aberration, had been doomed from the start. – It had been a mistake to accept American aid. Even Premier Deng had realised this lately. Unfortunately, the bloke had studied abroad and brought along some strange ideas, which he still hadn’t discarded altogether.

It was a mistake to believe that China required the US market. The empire had never required foreign markets. – But the Little Man from Sichuan was learning. – And the Americans were learning as well. For their taste, the empire was already too successful in swamping the US market. That was why they were trying to bait him with those shining new weapons. Selling off all this stuff to the goofy Chinese certainly would suit them well. Now, he was showing off an itch for it. Receiving samples for testing – and subsequent reverse engineering – ought to be all right.

Today, he was scheduled to dine with US Plenipotentiary Sinclair Weeks and his advisors. A heli would shuttle him from Huizhou, his HQ, to Hong Kong, where the Americans were residing in the palaces built by the Brits. Yeah, that ought to teach them a lesson. But they were too stupid to understand, too supercilious… They were having a kind of emergency at home – and had rigorously thinned out their forces. His units had already taken over most of the duties the Americans had previously performed. One really didn’t need them anymore…

 

[rast]

False hope is nicer than no hope at all.
(Edgar Allan Poe)

Three! The test incursion to the area of Kingston upon Hull had yielded three nukes. At least, the devices still could be identified – and removed safely. But compared to the forces deployed the result was… poor. And – there was no assurance that really all nukes in place had been rooted up. Generalleutnant Claus Schenk Graf von Stauffenberg was disenchanted.

Frisking the British Isles altogether would either require all armies – and navies and air forces – of the world united – or five hundred and fifty years… Bottom line: mission impossible. It couldn’t be done with the forces and means available. Unsurprisingly, neither OKW nor Wilhelmstraße were amused.

There was one hope, however. The nukes found were currently examined by the experts. Perhaps a signature could be discovered that allowed detection from the air – or from space. Although the English, of course, had done everything to make the gadgets undetectable. But perhaps the eggheads would manage to unkennel something, you never knew…

 

[Nivek]

False hope is nicer than no hope at all.
(Edgar Allan Poe)

Three! The test incursion to the area of Kingston upon Hull had yielded three nukes. At least, the devices still could be identified – and removed safely. But compared to the forces deployed the result was… poor. And – there was no assurance that really all nukes in place had been rooted up. Generalleutnant Claus Schenk Graf von Stauffenberg was disenchanted.

Frisking the British Isles altogether would either require all armies – and navies and air forces – of the world united – or five hundred and fifty years… Bottom line: mission impossible. It couldn’t be done with the forces and means available. Unsurprisingly, neither OKW nor Wilhelmstraße were amused.

There was one hope, however. The nukes found were currently examined by the experts. Perhaps a signature could be discovered that allowed detection from the air – or from space. Although the English, of course, had done everything to make the gadgets undetectable. But perhaps the eggheads would manage to unkennel something, you never knew…

Why not recolonize the island and them look for every nuke?

 

[RakhaAthaya]

Why not recolonize the island and them look for every nuke?

Did the Germans have any people to do it? As in how many German citizens would be willing to live in what is practically a wasteland?

 

[Dain]

Demographically Germany is entering the post-industrial phase and has recently taken a pretty severe blow to its population. I think the only way to get any colonization going would be by paying people to move there. You will most definitely be able to get some immigration on the basis of towns springing up around whatever corporate operations or military bases get set up. It's not as if Great Britain is completely devoid of attractive agricultural/mining spots, or strategic value.

 

[sloreck]

Well Germany can impose some sort of official/accepted slicing up of the UK, with German teams allowed in parts that might fall to Norway or Denmark to do nuke searches, and the non-Germans reminded that if they find nukes they turn them over or else. Military bases at first, but there is still a lot of salvage to be done - obvious valuables as well as scrap steel, etc. Don't forget there is a lot of stuff still in British homes such as antique furniture, china etc and art not looted when more obvious stuff like jewelry and silver/gold went away. Give contracts out to civilian companies to do this with percentage to the government. You'll get some gradual settlement once areas get water/sewage/electric restored on some basis simply to make conditions adequate for contractors.

 

[rast]

There are some enterprises in which a careful disorderliness is the true method.
(Herman Melville)

It smelled… like wet dog… Strange, that an agglomeration of metals, synthetic materials and paints should smell like an animal. For sure, there never had been a dog on board of Raumkolonie. But all four spacemen were smelling it: definitely wet dog... Okay, one got used to it. Cat scat should be far worse. – Jochen Zeislitz had grown up with dogs; he didn’t mind. But it was strange nevertheless…

Restarting Raumkolonie hadn’t been hard; one had brought along the correct assortment of spare parts. Untypically, the original installation had been kept rather plain and straightforward. – And with only four men, one had ample space up here. It was a little bit smelly, but fairly comfortable. – Only the bombs hadn’t been reactivated yet. Rudi Langanke was the bomb fox. He had checked them. They were all right. But the orders said they should remain dormant.

Looking down on Earth again felt great. They were scheduled for a sojourn of five more days. Then, the next crew, numbering six, with two girls, would take over. – Jochen was earmarked for piloting the Raumkobold on the return voyage. Hence, he was spending a lot of time attending the widget. – The decisions concerning the Moon landings were still pending. But Jochen thought Director Kammler would hardly give the Russians the advantage. No, it was going to happen this year. NASA was gearing up for Luna – and RRA was going to beat them…

 

[rast]

Do let’s pretend that I’m a hungry hyaena, and you’re a bone!
(Lewis Carroll)

The Germans had left again, leaving behind nothing useable. Monitoring their activities hadn’t been without risk. They had scrutinised everything, scooting around like fury. – And they had motor vehicles, helicopters and airplanes… Ohawadi Anuforo only had a bicycle. – What had they been searching for? Ohawadi couldn’t tell. From the distance it had been impossible to judge.

Now, that they were gone, he could at least calmly examine their remains. The rubbish heaps were quite impressive. Rich people, those Germans… What might such prosperous folks want here – on this island of junk? Treasures? Or perhaps mighty weapons? – Ohawadi had no exact notion of nuclear bombs, but his thoughts were instinctively wandering in the right direction.

He would have to discuss it with his buddies. Some of them were more knowledgeable than he was. – Whatever it was, it had to be pretty valuable. They wouldn’t take all the special trouble for nothing. – He memorised the scenery, because he would have to describe everything to the pals, and left for home. – He was aware that they might detect him from the air, but being photographed from afar was something else than being seized.

It was no secret that they, Ohawadi and his people, were here. Yet, the elders said contact should be avoided, until the first settlements had grown resilient – and new ones were spreading out. One had to be careful. The whites couldn’t be trusted to tolerate a free society of Negroes here in England. They would come, sooner or later, and take possession of the land – and would, en passant, try to enslave the black people.

Well, black people… All the women were white. It was a mixed population, only that there were many more guys than girls. The next generation was going to be small – and of brown skin. One needed more women, preferably Nigerian ones. A lot of dudes, those who had got no women, had already left for the old home. But their arrival down there would hardly encourage any girls to come to England.

Ohawadi was sharing one woman, Elli, with five other guys. That was awkward indeed. – In Portsmouth, blokes were working hard to cobble together another vessel, which then would be sent to Lagos. There were nubile girls galore in Nigeria. One just had to fetch them. Ohawadi and his buddies were collecting gemstones, gold and silver for paying off the families. With a little bit of luck, it could work…

 

[rast]

We cannot abdicate our conscience to an organisation, nor to a government.
(Albert Schweitzer)

In addition to everything else, the hot phase of the national election campaign had started. So, you had party rallies in the midst of troop movements, info booths impeding the work of checkpoints, and party banners obscuring military signs. And this political stuff couldn’t just be forbidden – or removed. It was but another pain in the butt. Hauptmann Eduard K’wapelo was copping the needle.

Well, he had to admit that he had been naïve. This was not regular garrison duty – and not an exercise, it was real life. You had theft, heist, rape, manslaughter, desertion, the full range – committed by Middle African soldiers – or suffered by them. It was hard work indeed. Being a Feldjäger, a military policeman, was no fun during a war, even if this war was officially called a peace support operation.

His civilian colleagues here in Tanga were fiddling about with art theft – and other petty crimes, while he had to deal with grimy capital cases. The occupied Kenyan lowlands belonged to his bailiwick – together with Tanga District, quite a huge precinct. He had already asked for reinforcement, but there was nobody left – at least no one with his qualification.

Oh, ordinary Feldjäger, who were escorting military convoys, doing traffic regulation and performing other hurtless rag, were not in short supply. But military specialists for crime investigation were scarce. Two of his peers were in Somalia; he was here – and number four was serving at the supreme military court in Daressalam. That was the full monty. Okay, the authorities had registered the gap – and more investigators were going to be trained. They should be ready for the next war to come.

The PSO was rapidly declining in popularity. People had anticipated a quick decision. Now, they were bugged by the long-drawn-out proceedings. – The leftists were openly denouncing it. Even the religious parties weren’t happy with it any more. In the ongoing election campaign this was significant, in particular for the morale of the ordinary soldiers. Desertion cases were mounting up. – At least, the culprits had realised that trying to go home – or hide in Middle Africa – was a very bad idea.

The Emirate of Egypt seemed to be the promised land of the deserters – or rather Southern Sudan, where the Egyptian authorities were hardly present at all. – The Somali terrorists were fleeing to Southern Abyssinia – and the Middle African deserters to Southern Sudan. A crime zone was forming up there. K’wapelo was wondering when operations were going to tackle this new problem…

 

[rast]

There are no foreign lands. It is the traveller only who is foreign.
(Robert Louis Stevenson)

USS Dorsey was on patrol off Hispaniola, when the sailing boat was sighted. In these void waters, it was a very rare occurrence to encounter a vessel not belonging to the US Navy. In fact, for Dorsey it was the very first time, since she had been transferred from Pacific Command. Commander Elmo R. Zumwalt Jr., the destroyer’s captain, immediately decided to be inquisitive. A civilian craft here? Where did it come from? Where was it heading to? Who was on board?

Challenging the sailing boat to heave to and stop was swiftly done. But what flag was this? Black-white-red-white-black? – Middle Africa! Golly! What was a Middle African ship doing here? Mind you, this was forty-five feet yacht, well capable of full-scale deep-sea navigation. – Anyway, the bastard wasn’t heaving to and stopping, but sailing on at full speed. The crew, all blacks, were waving cheerfully though.

“International waters!” was their message, transmitted by flags, meaning “Sod you!” – Now, that was not an answer Commander Zumwalt would accept. After a warning shot, the yacht was brought about and stopped. – Carefully, USS Dorsey manoeuvred alongside. The yacht was named “Annemarie” – and her port of registry was given as Willemstad. – Ugh! Willemstad was on Curaçao, an island occupied by the Venezuelans. Zumwalt ordered the vessel to be searched.

The Middle Africans didn’t speak English, they were claiming, and they weren’t cooperative. The search party reported the yacht evidently was equipped for an extended holiday trip. Five men were on board, all Middle Africans, it seemed. There were a flare gun and a speargun, but no other weapons. – What was their destination? No answer, shrugging. – Okay, take a map, let them point. Willemstad! They were coming from there. Did they want to go back to Curaçao? Really?

With a bad feeling, Zumwalt ordered the Annemarie to be released. – Had they been trying to infiltrate on Hispaniola? Were they spies? Should he have detained them? – He required direction. While he was composing a message to HQ, he ordered his ship to pursue the yacht – well out of sight, of course. Middle Africans! That spelled trouble. He had read the accounts… and the Battle of Cape Palmas was taught at Annapolis…

 

[rast]

One cannot quite trust the word of potted flowers, thought the butterfly, they have too much to do with men.
(Hans Christian Andersen)

On board the Annemarie, the encounter with USS Dorsey had caused doubtful amazement. Looking into the business ends of a destroyer’s weaponry wasn’t uplifting, not a bit. And being stopped and searched by Amis incarnate was not something an honest Middle African would ever appreciate. – What on earth had that been? One had gone for a relaxed weekend sailing trip – and had been waylaid by… well, rascals in uniform…

“My uncle Emil came to face them in the Protectorate War. He was a simple trooper back then, doing his basic military service. He wasn’t in the real fighting. His unit was detailed to guard prisoners of war – and to escort them to the ports of embarkation. He said the Amis were arrogant past belief, peacocky racists.” said Otto Falabeke, the senior of the five men. He was a department head in the Willemstad refinery, responsible for petrochemical feed stock operations.

“Now, these here weren’t that bad.” replied Franz Hariri, a logistics manager. “No racist puns. They were a sullen lot, granted, but fairly correct in their dealings. Even the search party behaved. – Yes, I know, they had no right to stop and search us. But apart from that, they didn’t insult us, did they? – And wouldn’t our navy – under such circumstances – act alike?”

“You bet.” answered Rudi L’kameku, a testing engineer, who had served his term with the Middle African navy and was a naval reserve officer. “But we need to report the incident nevertheless. I’ll write down the facts, if that’s okay for you. – This was a modified Wheeler class destroyer, this USS Dorsey. Have you noticed the two missile launchers at the stern? – Did someone catch the captain’s name?” – “Sumvalt – or Samwald – or similar.” interposed Falabeke. “The leader of the search party mentioned his captain’s name. And the rank; he is a commander.”

L’kameku continued to gather and note down all available information, while the rest of the men were handling the yacht. It was a Venezuelan vessel, which had been provided as piece of sports equipment for the Middle African staff of the Willemstad refinery. The Middle Africans had named her “Annemarie” – and were operating her under the Middle African flag, a behaviour the Venezuelans were tolerating tongue-in-cheek. That the US authorities might misinterpret this flat-out, nobody in Willemstad did figure – not yet…

 

[rast]

It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you place the blame.
(Oscar Wilde)

The basic problem was that only manual labourers had been recruited, pawns thus, no pieces. Some of them were quite decent headmen, but none had got what it took to be a great leader. Her Makambo was no exception. The buggers had elected him chief by common consent. He had led them valiantly in combat – and he certainly was up to directing the tribe’s everyday operations. But he was lacking vision and drive – and he was lacking education. He had no clue of England – or Europe – or the world at large. His mission school in Nigeria had taught im reading and writing in English, the Bible, the anthem book – and not much more.

Some of the younger lads had attended the party school, which had replaced the mission school, but their knowledge wasn’t any better, only that the Bible had been supplanted by some SUP fiddle-faddle and the anthem book by selected theses of Karl Marx. – Makambo had told her that many privileged folks had even studied in England, yet none of these gentry types happened to be here. – It was a pretty hopeless case. However, Anne Robbins was determined to make the best of her situation.

The Troubles had derailed her orderly life – and had pushed her to the bad. In the offer made by Churchill’s government she had seen a chance to return to a reputable existence. But that hadn’t worked… Her newly found British husband, an admiral though, had been killed by the blacks – and she had ended up as Makambo’s wife. The good thing was that Makambo’s position was noble enough to save her from being shared by several dudes, which was the fate of most women hereabouts.

But she was not going to end her life as the spouse of a petty chief. Big Chief Amagasfano in London, who was bedding Queen Vera, was not a bit cleverer – or more educated – than her Makambo. And Vera was a drunken Russian bitch. – No, Big Chief Makambo and Queen Anne would make a far better ruling house, because she was cleverer and more ambitious than Amagasfano, Makambo and Vera together. Makambo had come to listen to her advice. She was set to guide him to glory.

Britain had been a nuclear power. Some devices had been secured together with the stranded fleet. Many more had to be scattered all over the country. That was something to put other powers in their place. One could build a new nation from the bits and pieces available. This had been a highly industrialized country. The blacks had no sound idea how to do that. But she had. And she was resolved to take matters in hand herself…

 

[altamiro]

It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you place the blame.
(Oscar Wilde)

The basic problem was that only manual labourers had been recruited, pawns thus, no pieces. Some of them were quite decent headmen, but none had got what it took to be a great leader. Her Makambo was no exception. The buggers had elected him chief by common consent. He had led them valiantly in combat – and he certainly was up to directing the tribe’s everyday operations. But he was lacking vision and drive – and he was lacking education. He had no clue of England – or Europe – or the world at large. His mission school in Nigeria had taught im reading and writing in English, the Bible, the anthem book – and not much more.

Some of the younger lads had attended the party school, which had replaced the mission school, but their knowledge wasn’t any better, only that the Bible had been supplanted by some SUP fiddle-faddle and the anthem book by selected theses of Karl Marx. – Makambo had told her that many privileged folks had even studied in England, yet none of these gentry types happened to be here. – It was a pretty hopeless case. However, Anne Robbins was determined to make the best of her situation.

The Troubles had derailed her orderly life – and had pushed her to the bad. In the offer made by Churchill’s government she had seen a chance to return to a reputable existence. But that hadn’t worked… Her newly found British husband, an admiral though, had been killed by the blacks – and she had ended up as Makambo’s wife. The good thing was that Makambo’s position was noble enough to save her from being shared by several dudes, which was the fate of most women hereabouts.

But she was not going to end her life as the spouse of a petty chief. Big Chief Amagasfano in London, who was bedding Queen Vera, was not a bit cleverer – or more educated – than her Makambo. And Vera was a drunken Russian bitch. – No, Big Chief Makambo and Queen Anne would make a far better ruling house, because she was cleverer and more ambitious than Amagasfano, Makambo and Vera together. Makambo had come to listen to her advice. She was set to guide him to glory.

Britain had been a nuclear power. Some devices had been secured together with the stranded fleet. Many more had to be scattered all over the country. That was something to put other powers in their place. One could build a new nation from the bits and pieces available. This had been a highly industrialized country. The blacks had no sound idea how to do that. But she had. And she was resolved to take matters in hand herself…

...someone is going to have a serious disagreement with the German army soon...

 

[rast]

Prometheus heretofore went up to Heaven, and stole fire from thence. Have not I as much boldness as he?
(Cyrano de Bergerac)

Fusion drive, yeah, splendid idea… Klaus Fuchs was psyched – or almost. The theorizers had generated a lofty conception – and handed it to Fuchs and his peers in order to make sense of it. Yes, one could generate forcible fusion processes. One had even created miniature suns, twice – no, thrice… Doing it on Earth did not seem a clever move, though. Beyond Earth, however, it might serve to propel a spacecraft to the stars.

Fuchs was aware that RRA had begun working on nuclear pulse propulsion. That meant fission drive – and, if it should work out, a sound method to fly about in the solar system. – Fusion drive, albeit, meant the ability to travel to Alpha Centauri – or Sirius – or Tau Ceti… If one succeeded in ironing out all the bugs. And these bugs appeared to be exceptionally huge and numerous.

The fusion process had to be fed with hydrogen. The grand idea was to collect said hydrogen during the voyage. There was hydrogen in space, an atom here, another one near Mars. No, not quite, there were about fifteen of them contained in each cubic metre of vacuum. In fact, it was the most numerous element in the whole universe. If one managed to concentrate these dispersed atoms, one could entertain the fusion process – and at the same time fix the fusion core to the feeder.

But how should one do it? How to attract the volatile hydrogen atoms? Weizsäcker thought an electromagnetic field would do the trick. Yes, perhaps… Generating an electromagnetic field was no sorcery. But how strong must it be? Well, one would have to find out – by experiment – in space… It was going to take time. Fuchs heaved a sigh. Always the same story… The geniuses had a sparking fancy – and he had to carry the can for it…

 

[rast]

Now, Voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find.
(Walt Whitman)

In mid-October 1958, the global public got the opportunity to witness two lunar circumnavigation missions proceeding in parallel. On Thursday, October 16th, Lunobegún-8 was shot up – and on Friday, October 17th, Raumkobold-31 followed suit. Both modules were fully manned and equipped; notionally, a landing manoeuvre might thus occur out of the blue – the gutter press was quick to point out. Would the sensation really happen?

The Germans certainly had an advantage, because they had done it before – and because they had acquired an incredible amount of experience while building the Weizsäcker Suns. But the Russians had the newer – and better – equipment. The Lunobegún had a crew of five – compared to the Raumkobold’s four. And the Kikimora, the NASA lander, did accommodate a crew of three, while the RRA Hüpfer could only accept two.

Sensationalism was making massive waves – with experts being interviewed and scenarios being developed – and a lot of the usual yackety-yak. Yet all ramblings and prophesies came to nothing. NASA and RRA were fanciless reeling their schedules – after they had made sure that no haphazard collision in space was due to happen. No, a landing was not planned. – But the crews could at least communicate with each other, while travelling to the Moon – and circling her.

This event, however, demonstrated that a limited interoperability existed. Radio equipment was compatible – and the kosmonauts were managing to chat in a weird mixture of German and Russian. – Neither Prerow nor Achinsk were trying to obstruct this. The Venergost incident had amply demonstrated that mutual aid could be vital in space. And the next accident might be lurking just beyond the horizon.