A Shift in Priorities - Sequel
- Thread starter rast
- Start date
It is always worthwhile to google the characters of this tale. Many are fictional, but some (including Ramsauer) aren't.
The circle of our understanding is a very restricted area.
(T. S. Eliot)
Ireland! The Nyemtsi were doing strange things in Ireland. Colonel Tamara Vasilevna Gorokhova’s staff had found evidence: it was not only in England, where the Nyemtsi were active, but also – on the stealth – on the Irish Isle. And while the operation in England, the evacuation of the Chernozhopy, was accompanied by the media, the operation in Ireland seemed to be… – well, top secret.
You got images of pregnant white women, ostensibly glad to find medical care, and of black men, evidently looking forward to be repatriated, but no picture and not a single word about the Irish dimension. Yet, her staff was positive that the Irish dimension existed. One had got hold of schedules showing that a substantial portion of the Kaiserliche Marine – and of civilian cargo shipping – was busy supporting an undisclosed activity in Ireland.
Khúly! The purpose of the English operation could well be explained: getting rid of any residual dwellers – and securing the English nukes. But what in heaven did the Nyemtsi want in Ireland? The island was positively depopulated – and English nukes had never been deployed to it. – Gorokhova had already asked for a spy satellite to scan the Emerald Isle. But almost two weeks were required to program and launch the bird – and another week until the photographs became available.
It was manifest that the German public knew nothing of those Irish activities. And the Reichstag deputies, whose secretaries were – part-time – working for Gorokhova, were ignorant as well. What might it be? It couldn’t be something small. Too many ships were involved. – She had asked the navy types. The mariners had no clue, couldn’t imagine what the Nyemtsi might want in Ireland. If they had gone for England, Ireland would be the logical extension. But they had spurned taking England and Scotland. So, why the hell Ireland?
It was an enigma. Yet, Gorokhova was determined to solve it. Unfortunately, NSÓ wasn’t traversing Ireland. She would have to wait for the satellite photos. Kak zhály…
(T. S. Eliot)
Ireland! The Nyemtsi were doing strange things in Ireland. Colonel Tamara Vasilevna Gorokhova’s staff had found evidence: it was not only in England, where the Nyemtsi were active, but also – on the stealth – on the Irish Isle. And while the operation in England, the evacuation of the Chernozhopy, was accompanied by the media, the operation in Ireland seemed to be… – well, top secret.
You got images of pregnant white women, ostensibly glad to find medical care, and of black men, evidently looking forward to be repatriated, but no picture and not a single word about the Irish dimension. Yet, her staff was positive that the Irish dimension existed. One had got hold of schedules showing that a substantial portion of the Kaiserliche Marine – and of civilian cargo shipping – was busy supporting an undisclosed activity in Ireland.
Khúly! The purpose of the English operation could well be explained: getting rid of any residual dwellers – and securing the English nukes. But what in heaven did the Nyemtsi want in Ireland? The island was positively depopulated – and English nukes had never been deployed to it. – Gorokhova had already asked for a spy satellite to scan the Emerald Isle. But almost two weeks were required to program and launch the bird – and another week until the photographs became available.
It was manifest that the German public knew nothing of those Irish activities. And the Reichstag deputies, whose secretaries were – part-time – working for Gorokhova, were ignorant as well. What might it be? It couldn’t be something small. Too many ships were involved. – She had asked the navy types. The mariners had no clue, couldn’t imagine what the Nyemtsi might want in Ireland. If they had gone for England, Ireland would be the logical extension. But they had spurned taking England and Scotland. So, why the hell Ireland?
It was an enigma. Yet, Gorokhova was determined to solve it. Unfortunately, NSÓ wasn’t traversing Ireland. She would have to wait for the satellite photos. Kak zhály…
The demagogue is one who preaches doctrines he knows to be untrue to men he knows to be idiots.
(H. L. Mencken)
Harry Mwaanga Nkumbula, president of the Central African Federation and chairman of the National Congress party, was jumpily pacing to and fro in his office. He was distressed. The spirits he had cited were now ignoring his commands. He had lost control. The situation was tense. – The CAF was wholly dependent on the goodwill of its big neighbours north and south. And that goodwill was closely tied to the passage of trains. But the strikes and riots were interrupting train traffic – for the second day now…
The ambassadors of MA and UnSA had just left. Their message had been unambiguous: get the trains rolling again, right now, or get ready to receive military assistance. – Now, Askaris and Zulu assault troopers shaking hands on the Zambezi bridges meant Nkumbula’s personal nightmare. It wouldn’t necessarily end the existence of the CAF, as neither MA nor UnSA were keen to run the show here in Lusaka, but it definitely would spell his end.
Yet, the workers wouldn’t stop their strikes. They were betraying him, were following the insinuations of radical elements in the NC, which Nkumbula had failed to silence in time. Yeah, he had been too careless, too self-assured. And now? Should he bolt? Or try to scrape by? – The UnSA rulers didn’t like him; they would have him removed from power – and maybe have him killed. The ruling socialists in Daressalam were more sympathetic to Nkumbula and his plight, normally. But coal trains failing to arrive might quickly change this…
He could escape to Mozambique. It was still possible. It would end his political career, most probably, but save his life. And everything he had done and achieved would be well and truly over… Bugger it!
(H. L. Mencken)
Harry Mwaanga Nkumbula, president of the Central African Federation and chairman of the National Congress party, was jumpily pacing to and fro in his office. He was distressed. The spirits he had cited were now ignoring his commands. He had lost control. The situation was tense. – The CAF was wholly dependent on the goodwill of its big neighbours north and south. And that goodwill was closely tied to the passage of trains. But the strikes and riots were interrupting train traffic – for the second day now…
The ambassadors of MA and UnSA had just left. Their message had been unambiguous: get the trains rolling again, right now, or get ready to receive military assistance. – Now, Askaris and Zulu assault troopers shaking hands on the Zambezi bridges meant Nkumbula’s personal nightmare. It wouldn’t necessarily end the existence of the CAF, as neither MA nor UnSA were keen to run the show here in Lusaka, but it definitely would spell his end.
Yet, the workers wouldn’t stop their strikes. They were betraying him, were following the insinuations of radical elements in the NC, which Nkumbula had failed to silence in time. Yeah, he had been too careless, too self-assured. And now? Should he bolt? Or try to scrape by? – The UnSA rulers didn’t like him; they would have him removed from power – and maybe have him killed. The ruling socialists in Daressalam were more sympathetic to Nkumbula and his plight, normally. But coal trains failing to arrive might quickly change this…
He could escape to Mozambique. It was still possible. It would end his political career, most probably, but save his life. And everything he had done and achieved would be well and truly over… Bugger it!
Either one lives for politics or one lives off politics.
(Max Weber)
Moaning, Imperial Chancellor Otto Schmidt was reaching for the glass his secretary had just filled with sparkling water. These Ukrainians were unearthly; they were drinking like fish. He was too old for such spree. A neat beer at the end of the work day, why not? But vodka! By the bottle! Yuck! – Brezhnev, his Ukrainian counterpart, the Kántsler, was the worst of all. What a tenacious toper! Abominable!
Yet, the meeting had been an outstanding success. The Ukrainians, once overawed protégés, incredulous to have escaped centuries-long Russian domination, had emerged as powerful players. Their economy was booming; the perdition of the countries in the west had produced an economic miracle in the east. The Ukrainians were full of piss and vinegar – and perceptibly proud to be treated as peers – or rather to treat their German partners as buddies.
Brezhnev had bestowed a motor car upon him, a brand spanking new Kolisnyka convertible, fucking expensive, a veritable infernal machine. Yeah, they were nowadays building automobiles like the Russians, huge widgets, full of bits and bobs. – The return gift had been a personal zusie, also fucking expensive, one of the first machines manufactured for the purpose. Schmidt had no clear idea what a private owner might do with such a gadget – and he doubted Brezhnev had, but he was sure the thing would be thoroughly scrutinised in Kiev.
Anyway, the Ukraine was a reliable ally and a potent business partner. And now, with Shepilov in Moscow prevailing with his stay-off approach, they were ready to pour more money into private consumption. Armaments were fine and dandy, but damn unproductive. When the production facilities hitherto set aside for turning out rifles, tanks, airplanes and ordnance were turned to manufacturing consumables, the Ukrainian economy could be trusted to make another leap forward.
Schmidt beckoned his secretary to pour him another glass of sparkling water. He still felt dizzy. Perhaps he should go for a walk. Fresh air ought to help…
(Max Weber)
Moaning, Imperial Chancellor Otto Schmidt was reaching for the glass his secretary had just filled with sparkling water. These Ukrainians were unearthly; they were drinking like fish. He was too old for such spree. A neat beer at the end of the work day, why not? But vodka! By the bottle! Yuck! – Brezhnev, his Ukrainian counterpart, the Kántsler, was the worst of all. What a tenacious toper! Abominable!
Yet, the meeting had been an outstanding success. The Ukrainians, once overawed protégés, incredulous to have escaped centuries-long Russian domination, had emerged as powerful players. Their economy was booming; the perdition of the countries in the west had produced an economic miracle in the east. The Ukrainians were full of piss and vinegar – and perceptibly proud to be treated as peers – or rather to treat their German partners as buddies.
Brezhnev had bestowed a motor car upon him, a brand spanking new Kolisnyka convertible, fucking expensive, a veritable infernal machine. Yeah, they were nowadays building automobiles like the Russians, huge widgets, full of bits and bobs. – The return gift had been a personal zusie, also fucking expensive, one of the first machines manufactured for the purpose. Schmidt had no clear idea what a private owner might do with such a gadget – and he doubted Brezhnev had, but he was sure the thing would be thoroughly scrutinised in Kiev.
Anyway, the Ukraine was a reliable ally and a potent business partner. And now, with Shepilov in Moscow prevailing with his stay-off approach, they were ready to pour more money into private consumption. Armaments were fine and dandy, but damn unproductive. When the production facilities hitherto set aside for turning out rifles, tanks, airplanes and ordnance were turned to manufacturing consumables, the Ukrainian economy could be trusted to make another leap forward.
Schmidt beckoned his secretary to pour him another glass of sparkling water. He still felt dizzy. Perhaps he should go for a walk. Fresh air ought to help…
Men are so simple of mind, and so much dominated by their immediate needs, that a deceitful man will always find plenty who are ready to be deceived.
(Niccolo Machiavelli)
Although a stock of potential voters had certainly always been there, the DVP had never scored high in Bavaria. In the Franconian lands and the Palatinate, one had regularly won some few mandates, but Bavaria proper had been the preserve of the BVP throughout. This was going to change now. Franz Josef Strauß was campaigning in the alpine uplands.
As former BVP official and native of Munich, Strauß knew exactly how to grip the Bavarians. His favoured audience were rural folks and small-town dwellers. They were receptive for xenophobic slogans and hatred against Jews. Xenophobia, for them, first of all meant to be anti-Prussian. Berlin was the national centre of depravity – and a stronghold of the Jewish financial villains.
Every farmer knew how Jewish bankers, lawyers and cattle dealers were cheating the peasantry. – And everyone knew how cheap merchandise from the Heymshtot was ruining fellow citizens. Exploiting all this was an easy job for Strauß. The nub of the matter was, however, to convince these folks to cast the ballot for the DVP. The DVP always had been perceived as a non-Bavarian party – and hence had suffered from indigenous xenophobia.
But he, Franz Josef Strauß, was a true-blooded Bavarian; nobody could doubt that. There was no reason to mistrust him; he had Bavaria’s best interests at heart. – The Jews – and other aliens – were working for Germany’s – and Bavaria’s – downfall. He was going to save the fatherland from these evil machinations.
(Niccolo Machiavelli)
Although a stock of potential voters had certainly always been there, the DVP had never scored high in Bavaria. In the Franconian lands and the Palatinate, one had regularly won some few mandates, but Bavaria proper had been the preserve of the BVP throughout. This was going to change now. Franz Josef Strauß was campaigning in the alpine uplands.
As former BVP official and native of Munich, Strauß knew exactly how to grip the Bavarians. His favoured audience were rural folks and small-town dwellers. They were receptive for xenophobic slogans and hatred against Jews. Xenophobia, for them, first of all meant to be anti-Prussian. Berlin was the national centre of depravity – and a stronghold of the Jewish financial villains.
Every farmer knew how Jewish bankers, lawyers and cattle dealers were cheating the peasantry. – And everyone knew how cheap merchandise from the Heymshtot was ruining fellow citizens. Exploiting all this was an easy job for Strauß. The nub of the matter was, however, to convince these folks to cast the ballot for the DVP. The DVP always had been perceived as a non-Bavarian party – and hence had suffered from indigenous xenophobia.
But he, Franz Josef Strauß, was a true-blooded Bavarian; nobody could doubt that. There was no reason to mistrust him; he had Bavaria’s best interests at heart. – The Jews – and other aliens – were working for Germany’s – and Bavaria’s – downfall. He was going to save the fatherland from these evil machinations.
I do not rule Russia. Ten thousand clerks do.
(Tsar Nikolay II)
Distrustfully, Generál-leitenánt Viktor Semyonovich Abakumov was ogling the photographs Moscow had requested. They were showing… complete topsyturvydom, obviously. What in heaven was this? He glared invitingly at the NASA chief photo interpreter. The man harrumphed and stepped forward to the screen, where an enlargement of one of the pictures was displayed.
“It’s a construction site, a fairly huge construction site, Sir. But the site is in a very early stage – and therefore it isn’t possible to tell what is being constructed. It’s a true jumble…”
“Yeah, I noticed that.”
“However, one must look at the pictures that show the wider setting…” The display switched to another picture. “These are shanties, a complete shanty settlement – for approximately five thousand workers. And that’s another one, and another one still. – In all, we’ve found accommodations for about thirty-five thousand people.”
Abakumov rubbed his nose. It was queer indeed. Thirty-five thousand Nyemtsi building something in Ireland.
“What else?”
“There’s an airport – of the standard field type for transport aircraft the Kaiserliche Luftwaffe often uses in excises. And they are building an additional runway. Here! And a tank farm. Here!”
“I see. What else?”
“Port facilities, Sir. And field railways connecting the ports to the construction site. There are five ports. Here! Here! Here! Here! And here!”
Abakumov could now understand why headquarters in Moscow wanted these photographs. This affair was fishy, eminently fishy. What were the Nyemtsi building there? – Who had ordered the pictures? Colonel Gorokhova. She was the head of the German section. He decided to give her a call her over the phone. Perhaps one could solve the riddle if one worked together. NASA could do more than employ ordinary optical cameras.
(Tsar Nikolay II)
Distrustfully, Generál-leitenánt Viktor Semyonovich Abakumov was ogling the photographs Moscow had requested. They were showing… complete topsyturvydom, obviously. What in heaven was this? He glared invitingly at the NASA chief photo interpreter. The man harrumphed and stepped forward to the screen, where an enlargement of one of the pictures was displayed.
“It’s a construction site, a fairly huge construction site, Sir. But the site is in a very early stage – and therefore it isn’t possible to tell what is being constructed. It’s a true jumble…”
“Yeah, I noticed that.”
“However, one must look at the pictures that show the wider setting…” The display switched to another picture. “These are shanties, a complete shanty settlement – for approximately five thousand workers. And that’s another one, and another one still. – In all, we’ve found accommodations for about thirty-five thousand people.”
Abakumov rubbed his nose. It was queer indeed. Thirty-five thousand Nyemtsi building something in Ireland.
“What else?”
“There’s an airport – of the standard field type for transport aircraft the Kaiserliche Luftwaffe often uses in excises. And they are building an additional runway. Here! And a tank farm. Here!”
“I see. What else?”
“Port facilities, Sir. And field railways connecting the ports to the construction site. There are five ports. Here! Here! Here! Here! And here!”
Abakumov could now understand why headquarters in Moscow wanted these photographs. This affair was fishy, eminently fishy. What were the Nyemtsi building there? – Who had ordered the pictures? Colonel Gorokhova. She was the head of the German section. He decided to give her a call her over the phone. Perhaps one could solve the riddle if one worked together. NASA could do more than employ ordinary optical cameras.
It is more important to outthink your enemy, than to outfight him.
(Sun Tzu)
Kumgangsang, the Diamond Mountain, had been chosen for the meeting, because it was hoped the natural beauty of the place was going to inspire the participants. One was convening in Myongwol Hall, the main structure of the ancient Phyohun temple complex. Thirteen hundred centuries of Korean history were looking down on the discussants. It was awe-inspiring indeed.
One had to take stock – and to decide how to proceed. The Great Qing Empire was reemerging as core of the East Asian realm. That had been inevitable from the start; not even an event like Fēilóng could change the basic fact of Chinese domination. Yet, Korea did not belong to the Chinese realm; it was part of the Japanese empire. The Japanese overlords, however, were still hamstrung.
This was critical. One had opted for the Japanese, because they had been considered the lesser evil. But the Great Honshu Earthquake had not only rocked the country, it had also unsettled the faith of the ruling elite. Japanese workers and engineers were as good and hardworking as ever, but the leaders were still slumping. Would they eventually recover?
One couldn’t tell. That was the problem. Japanese culture was stand-alone, independent from the Chinese realm. But only if the Japanese were ready to hold their ground. Korea alone was too small to prevail, hence one had – very deliberately – gone for Nippon. – Could one bolster up the Japanese? Would they listen? Despite their misery, they were still convinced to be racially superior.
De facto, one was controlling their nuclear assets. They were receiving the finished product, the bombs, but production was in Korean hands. They didn’t even mind that one was exporting – or at least trying to export – nuclear technology. It was worrying. How to upend their spine? – But even the wonderful clear air of the Taebak mountain ridge didn’t help the Chaebŏl bosses to arrive at a clear way ahead.
(Sun Tzu)
Kumgangsang, the Diamond Mountain, had been chosen for the meeting, because it was hoped the natural beauty of the place was going to inspire the participants. One was convening in Myongwol Hall, the main structure of the ancient Phyohun temple complex. Thirteen hundred centuries of Korean history were looking down on the discussants. It was awe-inspiring indeed.
One had to take stock – and to decide how to proceed. The Great Qing Empire was reemerging as core of the East Asian realm. That had been inevitable from the start; not even an event like Fēilóng could change the basic fact of Chinese domination. Yet, Korea did not belong to the Chinese realm; it was part of the Japanese empire. The Japanese overlords, however, were still hamstrung.
This was critical. One had opted for the Japanese, because they had been considered the lesser evil. But the Great Honshu Earthquake had not only rocked the country, it had also unsettled the faith of the ruling elite. Japanese workers and engineers were as good and hardworking as ever, but the leaders were still slumping. Would they eventually recover?
One couldn’t tell. That was the problem. Japanese culture was stand-alone, independent from the Chinese realm. But only if the Japanese were ready to hold their ground. Korea alone was too small to prevail, hence one had – very deliberately – gone for Nippon. – Could one bolster up the Japanese? Would they listen? Despite their misery, they were still convinced to be racially superior.
De facto, one was controlling their nuclear assets. They were receiving the finished product, the bombs, but production was in Korean hands. They didn’t even mind that one was exporting – or at least trying to export – nuclear technology. It was worrying. How to upend their spine? – But even the wonderful clear air of the Taebak mountain ridge didn’t help the Chaebŏl bosses to arrive at a clear way ahead.
Since the Japanese occupation never reached the horrendous levels of OTL and with their current state ITTL the Koreans see them as the best overlords, distant and allowing an almost entire free hand in everything.
But China ITTL is not one that allows an independent country that is not their neo-vassal so close to their core territories. They may respect the Japanese navy and nuclear power but a defeated and subservient country like Korea (in their eyes) does not deserve the same consideration.
But China ITTL is not one that allows an independent country that is not their neo-vassal so close to their core territories. They may respect the Japanese navy and nuclear power but a defeated and subservient country like Korea (in their eyes) does not deserve the same consideration.
Hurry, n.: The dispatch of bunglers.
(Ambrose Bierce)
There were days when Mirliva Tantek Şengör Bey was thoroughly fed up with all the fuss. Of course, the start of Göktaşı-1 had not occurred on June 29th. There had been delays and retards. It was end of July now – and the launch was still pending. Well, the capsule had arrived at least – and was currently being checked. Wernher von Braun was only smugly shrugging his shoulders. GAÜ, the missile, was ready long-since; the capsule was not his responsibility.
The Grand Vizier thought it was the Mirliva’s responsibility. And he hadn’t failed to remind the Mirliva exhaustingly of his duties. It had been embarrassing. – RRA and NASA were drilling holes on the Moon. The Hintliler were happily flying around the Moon. And the Osmanlı Şirket Uzay was doing nothing. This was a disgrace. This had to end. Immediately. – The Mirliva had understood what hadn’t been said: get your act together, or you will next herd goats in Central Anatolia.
But you can’t order around sophisticated technology. It doesn’t work like this. You can only pray – and try to keep calm. Hozan Ba’Mansur, who knew about the critical mood in the capital, was doing his utmost, as was Levent Fırıncı. – But the damn capsule wouldn’t become good to go. – When the delegation led by Mirliva Çokbilmiş landed at Ras Fartak, Şengör Bey could see the writing on the wall. Within the hour he was relieved of his position and escorted to the airplane that would take him to Erzurum.
(Ambrose Bierce)
There were days when Mirliva Tantek Şengör Bey was thoroughly fed up with all the fuss. Of course, the start of Göktaşı-1 had not occurred on June 29th. There had been delays and retards. It was end of July now – and the launch was still pending. Well, the capsule had arrived at least – and was currently being checked. Wernher von Braun was only smugly shrugging his shoulders. GAÜ, the missile, was ready long-since; the capsule was not his responsibility.
The Grand Vizier thought it was the Mirliva’s responsibility. And he hadn’t failed to remind the Mirliva exhaustingly of his duties. It had been embarrassing. – RRA and NASA were drilling holes on the Moon. The Hintliler were happily flying around the Moon. And the Osmanlı Şirket Uzay was doing nothing. This was a disgrace. This had to end. Immediately. – The Mirliva had understood what hadn’t been said: get your act together, or you will next herd goats in Central Anatolia.
But you can’t order around sophisticated technology. It doesn’t work like this. You can only pray – and try to keep calm. Hozan Ba’Mansur, who knew about the critical mood in the capital, was doing his utmost, as was Levent Fırıncı. – But the damn capsule wouldn’t become good to go. – When the delegation led by Mirliva Çokbilmiş landed at Ras Fartak, Şengör Bey could see the writing on the wall. Within the hour he was relieved of his position and escorted to the airplane that would take him to Erzurum.
There are some enterprises in which a careful disorderliness is the true method.
(Herman Melville)
He had been lucky. Zhăngjìn JSC of Guangzhou had hired him and his Kame Kiiro. He was now transporting stuff for the Chinese expatriate communities in the Banda States, sensitive stuff, no ordinary commodities. The microcosm of statelets that the Dutch had left behind in 1925 could be quite a dangerous place for travelling salesmen. There were many pirates out and about, trying to make a living from ransacking trespassers. The Kame Kiiro had been attacked twice on the first voyage, but the Zhăngjìn security folks, four grim veterans, had each time swiftly dissuaded the assailants by demonstrating their special tools.
The current tour led to the Duchy of North Celebes and the Kingdom of East Sunda. These Christian statelets had proven economically successful – and had hence attracted Chinese expatriates in great numbers. The Muslim entities had also pursued enlistment of Chinese, but their weak economies hadn’t allured many. As far as Captain Haikā Nobutoshi knew, his ship’s freight consisted of advanced machine tools. Lean production wasn’t something the indigenes were favouring, therefore Haikā had been hired to get the stuff to the recipients without startling up customs and the local public.
The Chinese expatriates were an important minority in most Banda States. Although counting seldom more than one or two percent of the total population, they were responsible for half of – or even two thirds of – the economic output. This could be dangerous. In the failed Republic of Java, they had been persecuted and expelled just for that reason. On Bali the Indian big brother had been keen to have the Chinese replaced by business folks from the Ganges Plain and the Punjab. And on Borneo, Vietnamese and Siamese newcomers had dislodged the traditional Chinese.
However, as the European expatriates – mainly extant Dutch, but also the inevitable stray Englishman – had slowly withdrawn from the Banda States, more Chinese had moved in. Their financial contribution to the recovery of the Great Qing Empire was said to have been considerable. Local rulers were generally striving to attract more of them, even if the bulk of their population was begrudging the fact. Haikā was intrigued by this Chinese diaspora. It was so different from Japanese behaviour. And it seemed to strengthen the Chinese position instead of weakening it.
(Herman Melville)
He had been lucky. Zhăngjìn JSC of Guangzhou had hired him and his Kame Kiiro. He was now transporting stuff for the Chinese expatriate communities in the Banda States, sensitive stuff, no ordinary commodities. The microcosm of statelets that the Dutch had left behind in 1925 could be quite a dangerous place for travelling salesmen. There were many pirates out and about, trying to make a living from ransacking trespassers. The Kame Kiiro had been attacked twice on the first voyage, but the Zhăngjìn security folks, four grim veterans, had each time swiftly dissuaded the assailants by demonstrating their special tools.
The current tour led to the Duchy of North Celebes and the Kingdom of East Sunda. These Christian statelets had proven economically successful – and had hence attracted Chinese expatriates in great numbers. The Muslim entities had also pursued enlistment of Chinese, but their weak economies hadn’t allured many. As far as Captain Haikā Nobutoshi knew, his ship’s freight consisted of advanced machine tools. Lean production wasn’t something the indigenes were favouring, therefore Haikā had been hired to get the stuff to the recipients without startling up customs and the local public.
The Chinese expatriates were an important minority in most Banda States. Although counting seldom more than one or two percent of the total population, they were responsible for half of – or even two thirds of – the economic output. This could be dangerous. In the failed Republic of Java, they had been persecuted and expelled just for that reason. On Bali the Indian big brother had been keen to have the Chinese replaced by business folks from the Ganges Plain and the Punjab. And on Borneo, Vietnamese and Siamese newcomers had dislodged the traditional Chinese.
However, as the European expatriates – mainly extant Dutch, but also the inevitable stray Englishman – had slowly withdrawn from the Banda States, more Chinese had moved in. Their financial contribution to the recovery of the Great Qing Empire was said to have been considerable. Local rulers were generally striving to attract more of them, even if the bulk of their population was begrudging the fact. Haikā was intrigued by this Chinese diaspora. It was so different from Japanese behaviour. And it seemed to strengthen the Chinese position instead of weakening it.
A hunter of shadows, himself a shade.
(Homer)
Yes, this was it: the famous Cuban naval base of the Amis, Guantanamo Bay. – Not much going on over there, though. S-13 ‘Bonito’ was sitting on the sea floor, while the hydrophone operators were exploring the vicinity. Nothing, they eventually reported, no ships in harbour. Teniente de Navío Alfred Nkotenga was disappointed. He had expected more. Where were the blasted American men-of-war? Didn’t these people hold back an operational reserve? Were all their ships committed? Really?
Okay, wherever the Ami vessels might hide; they were not here. Guantanamo was empty. – Now, this circumstance was begging for exploitation. After another glance on his map, he started issuing orders. ‘Bonito’ was going to intrude. The crew seemed to be pleasantly surprised: a challenge, at last! – The naval base didn’t occupy the whole bay. The northern part of the bay had belonged to the Cubans, who were extinct now. Was it all American now? Or ownerless?
Navigating through the naval base proved fairly easy. Nkotenga put in two stops to take pictures of the installations through the periscope. Nobody to be seen… Strange… This was an ordinary workday, a Tuesday. Someone should be sweeping the roads, at least… Had the Amis abandoned the place? – He decided to surface at the former Cuban village of Boquerón – and to send out a small recon party on foot. – But the men were back within the hour. The fence was intact, had been extensively repaired obviously, and there were mines and cameras…
Well then, one would wait – and see… Nkotenga had the submarine camouflaged with debris. Sooner or later an Ami ship was going to arrive. – And if not? How long should he hang on?
(Homer)
Yes, this was it: the famous Cuban naval base of the Amis, Guantanamo Bay. – Not much going on over there, though. S-13 ‘Bonito’ was sitting on the sea floor, while the hydrophone operators were exploring the vicinity. Nothing, they eventually reported, no ships in harbour. Teniente de Navío Alfred Nkotenga was disappointed. He had expected more. Where were the blasted American men-of-war? Didn’t these people hold back an operational reserve? Were all their ships committed? Really?
Okay, wherever the Ami vessels might hide; they were not here. Guantanamo was empty. – Now, this circumstance was begging for exploitation. After another glance on his map, he started issuing orders. ‘Bonito’ was going to intrude. The crew seemed to be pleasantly surprised: a challenge, at last! – The naval base didn’t occupy the whole bay. The northern part of the bay had belonged to the Cubans, who were extinct now. Was it all American now? Or ownerless?
Navigating through the naval base proved fairly easy. Nkotenga put in two stops to take pictures of the installations through the periscope. Nobody to be seen… Strange… This was an ordinary workday, a Tuesday. Someone should be sweeping the roads, at least… Had the Amis abandoned the place? – He decided to surface at the former Cuban village of Boquerón – and to send out a small recon party on foot. – But the men were back within the hour. The fence was intact, had been extensively repaired obviously, and there were mines and cameras…
Well then, one would wait – and see… Nkotenga had the submarine camouflaged with debris. Sooner or later an Ami ship was going to arrive. – And if not? How long should he hang on?
Silence is a profound melody, for those who can hear it above all the noise.
(Socrates)
The island of Schiermonnikoog was a destitute place. It had been depopulated by the pest, and was now serving as quarantine facility. But at least there were physicians and nurses. The doctors were coming over from the mainland twice a week – and were diagnosing through a glass window; the nurses, Benthe and Lina, were permanently on site. For better or worse, Anne Robbins felt reassured.
Learning Dutch wasn’t too difficult; there were countless similitudes with English. Nevertheless, pronouncing the gibberish was a true challenge; they didn’t call it double Dutch without reason. But Anne was managing – and improving, said her teacher, who was living on site too. Three hundred and forty women from England were living here, more than half of them pregnant. The others were either with kids – or without, having lost them for various reasons.
It was quite a desolate congregation, but nevertheless one full of hope – or hopes. The Netherlands, Anne had learnt, were not a cosy place to live. The nation had almost perished – and was only just surviving at present. It was not going to be an easy feat to raise her child under these circumstances. She still had five months until delivery, if everything went well. In two weeks, quarantine would be over and she could move to the mainland.
Finding a job wouldn’t be difficult at all, she had been told. Hands and heads were missing everywhere. The child would receive all-day care. This had been introduced to set free as many women as possible for working. – Queen Vera, by the way, had also run away. But, being the scion of a fabulously rich and influential Russian noble family, she had been whisked away to Russia in no time.
(Socrates)
The island of Schiermonnikoog was a destitute place. It had been depopulated by the pest, and was now serving as quarantine facility. But at least there were physicians and nurses. The doctors were coming over from the mainland twice a week – and were diagnosing through a glass window; the nurses, Benthe and Lina, were permanently on site. For better or worse, Anne Robbins felt reassured.
Learning Dutch wasn’t too difficult; there were countless similitudes with English. Nevertheless, pronouncing the gibberish was a true challenge; they didn’t call it double Dutch without reason. But Anne was managing – and improving, said her teacher, who was living on site too. Three hundred and forty women from England were living here, more than half of them pregnant. The others were either with kids – or without, having lost them for various reasons.
It was quite a desolate congregation, but nevertheless one full of hope – or hopes. The Netherlands, Anne had learnt, were not a cosy place to live. The nation had almost perished – and was only just surviving at present. It was not going to be an easy feat to raise her child under these circumstances. She still had five months until delivery, if everything went well. In two weeks, quarantine would be over and she could move to the mainland.
Finding a job wouldn’t be difficult at all, she had been told. Hands and heads were missing everywhere. The child would receive all-day care. This had been introduced to set free as many women as possible for working. – Queen Vera, by the way, had also run away. But, being the scion of a fabulously rich and influential Russian noble family, she had been whisked away to Russia in no time.
When bankers get into business they usually destroy it.
(Henry Ford)
‘Rechenknecht’ – numbers cruncher – that was the designation eventually chosen. Gudrun had registered the company as ‘Rechenknecht Limited – Advanced Business Machines’. Willy Thüren was still struggling to get production going – and, most probably, was going to struggle on for several months, but the company name had been verified and was protected now.
It left Gudrun ample time to compose the marketing department – or rather: to find someone to do the work. She was currently considering two candidates: Toni Schmücker and Gerhard Prinz. Both were junior, yet experienced managers in the emerging zusie sector. Schmücker was working for Siemens-Schuckert, Prinz for Bosch. She had already interviewed them, but was yet undecided.
Thüren originally had wanted to set up the factory in Berlin, because most producers of zusies were based here. However, Gudrun had convinced him to go for Crimmitschau in Saxony. The town had been a centre of textile production. Textile production in Germany was in decline, because developing countries were offering cheap labour in this field. Hence, one was able to tap a pool of industrial workers looking for a new job.
Moreover, quite a good portion of said workers was female. She hadn’t yet let that aspect on to Willy, because it would only unsettle him, but it was central to Gudrun’s plans. Electronics were composed of an unending sequence of tiny knick-knacks, and women were very good at assembling tiny knick-knacks. So, why rely on ham-fisted males, when adroit women were available galore?
And, of course, Crimmitschau was located ideally near the express train arteries north-south and east-west. The north-south line was connecting Berlin and Munich, while the east-west line was linking Breslau and Cologne via Dresden, Erfurt and Cassel. Was there any better place in Germany to set up a new business? Gudrun was dead certain to have found the optimal location.
Incidentally, there had been numerous vacant production sites at Crimmitschau. These had been available for small money. Gudrun had bought them all; it provided room for enhancement. And it enabled her to manage without approaching the banks. She had accompanied many clients who had been victims of bankers. These scoundrels couldn’t be trusted. They were voracious scrooges, but no businessmen.
So, everything was primed for success. Willy and his team of engineers were deliberating how to construct the genuine Rechenknecht. Gudrun was about to appoint a marketing director. If everything went as it should, production ought to commence in twelve to fifteen months. – What was needed now was a rousing advertising campaign – and an artist to design it. Now, for finding such a character Berlin certainly was the ideal place…
(Henry Ford)
‘Rechenknecht’ – numbers cruncher – that was the designation eventually chosen. Gudrun had registered the company as ‘Rechenknecht Limited – Advanced Business Machines’. Willy Thüren was still struggling to get production going – and, most probably, was going to struggle on for several months, but the company name had been verified and was protected now.
It left Gudrun ample time to compose the marketing department – or rather: to find someone to do the work. She was currently considering two candidates: Toni Schmücker and Gerhard Prinz. Both were junior, yet experienced managers in the emerging zusie sector. Schmücker was working for Siemens-Schuckert, Prinz for Bosch. She had already interviewed them, but was yet undecided.
Thüren originally had wanted to set up the factory in Berlin, because most producers of zusies were based here. However, Gudrun had convinced him to go for Crimmitschau in Saxony. The town had been a centre of textile production. Textile production in Germany was in decline, because developing countries were offering cheap labour in this field. Hence, one was able to tap a pool of industrial workers looking for a new job.
Moreover, quite a good portion of said workers was female. She hadn’t yet let that aspect on to Willy, because it would only unsettle him, but it was central to Gudrun’s plans. Electronics were composed of an unending sequence of tiny knick-knacks, and women were very good at assembling tiny knick-knacks. So, why rely on ham-fisted males, when adroit women were available galore?
And, of course, Crimmitschau was located ideally near the express train arteries north-south and east-west. The north-south line was connecting Berlin and Munich, while the east-west line was linking Breslau and Cologne via Dresden, Erfurt and Cassel. Was there any better place in Germany to set up a new business? Gudrun was dead certain to have found the optimal location.
Incidentally, there had been numerous vacant production sites at Crimmitschau. These had been available for small money. Gudrun had bought them all; it provided room for enhancement. And it enabled her to manage without approaching the banks. She had accompanied many clients who had been victims of bankers. These scoundrels couldn’t be trusted. They were voracious scrooges, but no businessmen.
So, everything was primed for success. Willy and his team of engineers were deliberating how to construct the genuine Rechenknecht. Gudrun was about to appoint a marketing director. If everything went as it should, production ought to commence in twelve to fifteen months. – What was needed now was a rousing advertising campaign – and an artist to design it. Now, for finding such a character Berlin certainly was the ideal place…
It is not wisdom but authority that makes a law.
(Thomas Hobbes)
Yep, new brooms, but no progress… Wernher von Braun was vexed. Tantek, Hozan and Levent had been… well, removed. Tantek had been appointed commander of a missile brigade in north-eastern Anatolia. Hozan and Levent had been recalled to İstanbul University, to atone in inferior positions, the story went. The new brooms were Liva Amiral Çelik Demirci, Doctor Hüseyin Yünbaş and Doctor Idris Sarımsak. The latter, at least, had been Levent Fırıncı’s first assistant – and was hence intimately familiar with the GAÜ missile and the Göktaşı capsule.
Demirci, his friend and sailing pal Miralay Keskin Yargıç, the Ras Fartak security chief, had told him, was a protégé of the Grand Vizier, a remote relative of the great man’s wife. That was interesting, because it showed the Grand Vizier was still believing in the Ottoman space effort. Or would he otherwise confide OŞU to a kinsman? However, having the Grand Vizier’s mouthpiece – and private source of information – around all the time could hardly make life enjoyable. – Although, the Turks were perhaps seeing this differently. They were pretty much trusting in authority.
Yünbaş, Keskin had tipped him off, was a renowned rationaliser. He was a physicist, but had mainly worked for the industry – streamlining production and optimising operating cycles. That wasn’t altogether bad, but in von Braun’s mind a rocket scientist or a propulsion specialist would have made a far better rationaliser. People from outside the space flight area tended to underestimate the difficulties in quality assurance. There were real people sitting on top of the rocket, who would be killed if only a simple element failed.
Anyway, despite the great-nephew of the Grand Vizier’s spouse and the super-duper rationaliser, Göktaşı-1 was still sitting on the test rig and was being tested. The first test cycle had been completed at long last; the quirks had been fixed. Two days ago, the second test cycle had begun. – Realistically, a launch date in early September was now possible – provided no major new botch-up was discovered. The kosmonauts were ready to go; the missile was ready for use; one was waiting for the capsule…
(Thomas Hobbes)
Yep, new brooms, but no progress… Wernher von Braun was vexed. Tantek, Hozan and Levent had been… well, removed. Tantek had been appointed commander of a missile brigade in north-eastern Anatolia. Hozan and Levent had been recalled to İstanbul University, to atone in inferior positions, the story went. The new brooms were Liva Amiral Çelik Demirci, Doctor Hüseyin Yünbaş and Doctor Idris Sarımsak. The latter, at least, had been Levent Fırıncı’s first assistant – and was hence intimately familiar with the GAÜ missile and the Göktaşı capsule.
Demirci, his friend and sailing pal Miralay Keskin Yargıç, the Ras Fartak security chief, had told him, was a protégé of the Grand Vizier, a remote relative of the great man’s wife. That was interesting, because it showed the Grand Vizier was still believing in the Ottoman space effort. Or would he otherwise confide OŞU to a kinsman? However, having the Grand Vizier’s mouthpiece – and private source of information – around all the time could hardly make life enjoyable. – Although, the Turks were perhaps seeing this differently. They were pretty much trusting in authority.
Yünbaş, Keskin had tipped him off, was a renowned rationaliser. He was a physicist, but had mainly worked for the industry – streamlining production and optimising operating cycles. That wasn’t altogether bad, but in von Braun’s mind a rocket scientist or a propulsion specialist would have made a far better rationaliser. People from outside the space flight area tended to underestimate the difficulties in quality assurance. There were real people sitting on top of the rocket, who would be killed if only a simple element failed.
Anyway, despite the great-nephew of the Grand Vizier’s spouse and the super-duper rationaliser, Göktaşı-1 was still sitting on the test rig and was being tested. The first test cycle had been completed at long last; the quirks had been fixed. Two days ago, the second test cycle had begun. – Realistically, a launch date in early September was now possible – provided no major new botch-up was discovered. The kosmonauts were ready to go; the missile was ready for use; one was waiting for the capsule…
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No battle is ever won… victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.
(William Faulkner)
Maritime traffic today was far better controlled than before. Hermann Kizwete’s investigative results on Pemba had triggered quite a lot of security provisions. One hadn’t apprehended the Ilaah Ilmaha, but it was supposed that the wet lane of infiltration had been closed. That might be so, thought Hermann; however, the terrorists had already used the wet lane with success; why should they repeat a manoeuvre their enemy now knew about? No, clever villains would try something else.
And Tanga, an important border crossing point, might well be in the game again. There truly was no reason to relax. Yet, routine activities were keeping everybody busy, including Hermann. Who could spare the time – and the energy – to do extra work? Karl O’Saghli, Hermann’s boss, had only shrugged his shoulders. Policemen were in demand all over the country. There were no reserves. One had to be focused on the normal job; that was what the taxpayers were looking for. Failing to arrest your ordinary shoplifter for searching cryptic terrorists wasn’t acceptable.
Yes, of course. But said taxpayers were going to raise havoc – if a bomb exploded in their middle – and the police was perceived to have wasted their time pursuing petty criminals. And the hornets’ nest in Somalia certainly was going to send out more cutthroats. – What were the secret services doing? Why wasn’t one getting updates on the terrorist situation? – It had been a severe mistake to abandon Somalia. One evidently had no clue what was going on there right now. And the ratty terrorists, having returned home from their hidy-holes in Sudan and Abyssinia, wouldn’t advertise their plans.
Well, one was going to see. Kenya was a bear garden, an anything-you-like for baddies. Border towns like Tanga were the first places to be hit. It was only a matter of time…
(William Faulkner)
Maritime traffic today was far better controlled than before. Hermann Kizwete’s investigative results on Pemba had triggered quite a lot of security provisions. One hadn’t apprehended the Ilaah Ilmaha, but it was supposed that the wet lane of infiltration had been closed. That might be so, thought Hermann; however, the terrorists had already used the wet lane with success; why should they repeat a manoeuvre their enemy now knew about? No, clever villains would try something else.
And Tanga, an important border crossing point, might well be in the game again. There truly was no reason to relax. Yet, routine activities were keeping everybody busy, including Hermann. Who could spare the time – and the energy – to do extra work? Karl O’Saghli, Hermann’s boss, had only shrugged his shoulders. Policemen were in demand all over the country. There were no reserves. One had to be focused on the normal job; that was what the taxpayers were looking for. Failing to arrest your ordinary shoplifter for searching cryptic terrorists wasn’t acceptable.
Yes, of course. But said taxpayers were going to raise havoc – if a bomb exploded in their middle – and the police was perceived to have wasted their time pursuing petty criminals. And the hornets’ nest in Somalia certainly was going to send out more cutthroats. – What were the secret services doing? Why wasn’t one getting updates on the terrorist situation? – It had been a severe mistake to abandon Somalia. One evidently had no clue what was going on there right now. And the ratty terrorists, having returned home from their hidy-holes in Sudan and Abyssinia, wouldn’t advertise their plans.
Well, one was going to see. Kenya was a bear garden, an anything-you-like for baddies. Border towns like Tanga were the first places to be hit. It was only a matter of time…