A Shift in Priorities - Sequel
- Thread starter rast
- Start date
Well there was a group of copycats who were caught. But it was hinted that the original trio had gone underground. And Nerdlinger's compilation thread helps
Fiffi and...cant remember the others. But I think they got cought, before the Times of Troubles started really. Was one of the first achievements of the American inteligence service.
Riri, Fifi, and Lou I think it was. Rast seemed to point to the captured terrorists being copycats though.
The right understanding of any matter and a misunderstanding of the same matter do not wholly exclude each other.
(Franz Kafka)
"Please, gentlemen, Huey, Dewey and Louie! This is London, not Duckburg!"
"Well, ma'am, you're certainly accustomed to the use of cover names. – In fact, there's no need that you know our real ones; Huey, Dewey and Louie must do."
"So, Messers Duck, what kind of cooperation do you have in mind?"
"Shouldn't we move upstairs first? We've prepared tea – and have bought fish 'n' chips."
"Sounds too good to resist. Let's go."
"All right," muttered Polly, while opening the newspaper wrapper, "what's up?"
"As I've already explained, we come from Canada..."
"You didn't say that. – You said 'from beyond the sea', which can mean a lot of countries..."
"Canada. Chief Controller Rowley sent us. We..."
"You killed Palme Dutt? – Um, delicious..." Polly was shoving fish and chips into her mouth.
"We've nothing to do with that. Our mission is to find Prime Minister Bevin..."
"I see! Instead, you stumbled into Camp 235 – and found me..."
"Kind of. – Truth is, we've no clue where Bevin might be. – We know that former PM Mosley and Field Marshal Fuller were arrested on the Scilly Isles. They've been moved to North Uist in the Outer Hebrides. That's definitely out of our reach. – However, we've been unable to identify the location where Bevin is held. But we've – by chance – discovered you. – More tea?"
"Yes, please. – But I've no clue where Bevin is..."
"Yes, we thought you wouldn't. – But you've a name in the military..."
Polly roared with laughter.
"Me? You're kidding!"
"It's true. You're the model of a proletarian soldier. – Some former aristocrats may scorn you, but for those loyal to socialism, you're a hero. – And you've been punished for objecting to your controller. – You perhaps can imagine how unpopular the controller plague is with the officer corps..."
"Yeah, the Field Marshal did protect us from this curse. But Palme Dutt knew better..."
"Anyway, ma'am, we'd like to use your influence to engage the military in our search for Ernest Bevin. Damn, somebody has to know where he is."
Polly shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't mind. – But what do you think Bevin will accomplish, once you've freed him?"
"He's the legitimate PM. Palme Dutt was an usurper; and Wintringham is his successor. – Triple C is ready to defer to the legitimate PM, but she will not comply with criminals..."
Polly whistled appreciatively.
"Yeah, that's a nice approach. – But... – If I was Palme Dutt, I'd seen that Bevin vanished forever and without a trace..."
Huey wagged his head.
"Palme Dutt was not the killer type, he was the re–educator and reframer. We think he just locked away Bevin; somewhere, well hidden and top secret... – Wintringham is a killer. We've got to find Bevin, before Wintringham develops nasty ideas..."
Polly had finished her meal.
"Have a fag?"
"Of course. – Want the pack? And matches..."
"Uh, good. – Okay, Messers Duck, let's get started. I need a new coiffure, some ordinary clothes, money, an ID, and so on..."
(Franz Kafka)
"Please, gentlemen, Huey, Dewey and Louie! This is London, not Duckburg!"
"Well, ma'am, you're certainly accustomed to the use of cover names. – In fact, there's no need that you know our real ones; Huey, Dewey and Louie must do."
"So, Messers Duck, what kind of cooperation do you have in mind?"
"Shouldn't we move upstairs first? We've prepared tea – and have bought fish 'n' chips."
"Sounds too good to resist. Let's go."
"All right," muttered Polly, while opening the newspaper wrapper, "what's up?"
"As I've already explained, we come from Canada..."
"You didn't say that. – You said 'from beyond the sea', which can mean a lot of countries..."
"Canada. Chief Controller Rowley sent us. We..."
"You killed Palme Dutt? – Um, delicious..." Polly was shoving fish and chips into her mouth.
"We've nothing to do with that. Our mission is to find Prime Minister Bevin..."
"I see! Instead, you stumbled into Camp 235 – and found me..."
"Kind of. – Truth is, we've no clue where Bevin might be. – We know that former PM Mosley and Field Marshal Fuller were arrested on the Scilly Isles. They've been moved to North Uist in the Outer Hebrides. That's definitely out of our reach. – However, we've been unable to identify the location where Bevin is held. But we've – by chance – discovered you. – More tea?"
"Yes, please. – But I've no clue where Bevin is..."
"Yes, we thought you wouldn't. – But you've a name in the military..."
Polly roared with laughter.
"Me? You're kidding!"
"It's true. You're the model of a proletarian soldier. – Some former aristocrats may scorn you, but for those loyal to socialism, you're a hero. – And you've been punished for objecting to your controller. – You perhaps can imagine how unpopular the controller plague is with the officer corps..."
"Yeah, the Field Marshal did protect us from this curse. But Palme Dutt knew better..."
"Anyway, ma'am, we'd like to use your influence to engage the military in our search for Ernest Bevin. Damn, somebody has to know where he is."
Polly shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't mind. – But what do you think Bevin will accomplish, once you've freed him?"
"He's the legitimate PM. Palme Dutt was an usurper; and Wintringham is his successor. – Triple C is ready to defer to the legitimate PM, but she will not comply with criminals..."
Polly whistled appreciatively.
"Yeah, that's a nice approach. – But... – If I was Palme Dutt, I'd seen that Bevin vanished forever and without a trace..."
Huey wagged his head.
"Palme Dutt was not the killer type, he was the re–educator and reframer. We think he just locked away Bevin; somewhere, well hidden and top secret... – Wintringham is a killer. We've got to find Bevin, before Wintringham develops nasty ideas..."
Polly had finished her meal.
"Have a fag?"
"Of course. – Want the pack? And matches..."
"Uh, good. – Okay, Messers Duck, let's get started. I need a new coiffure, some ordinary clothes, money, an ID, and so on..."
The Moon was but a chin of gold a night or two ago, and now she turns her perfect face upon the world below.
(Emily Dickinson)
Having learnt quite a lot about launching and operating satellites, while they were re-engineering and improving their space craft design, NASA eventually returned to manned missions in early April 1950. On April 4th, a man, Aleksandr Smorchkov, and a woman, Yevgenia Rudneva, were shot into orbit. It basically was a repetition of the Pepelyaev mission: circle around the globe in low orbit – and keep blandishing things via radio. All went well and the mixed duo landed safely on Russian soil again – after seven hours and forty-four minutes flight time.
It was the subsequential press conference at Achinsk that would mesmerise the international audience. Generál-Leitenánt Mikhail K. Tikhonravov, the NASA director, first explained the recent mission. Thereafter, he indicated that a new launch vehicle, a much stronger three-stage rocket, had been tested successfully. This allowed the lifting of much larger space craft. In pursuit of the objective proclaimed by Prime Minister Vatutin, the Moon, NASA was going to establish a permanently manned space station until 1956.
Several of these larger space craft were to be combined into one space station. An initial mission of the new launch vehicle cum large space craft Tikhonravov announced for the second half of 1950. – Now, this was something for the space enthusiasts worldwide. A manned space station! Wild dreams seemed to be coming true. From this station, one could send missions to the Moon, or even to Mars and Venus...
(Emily Dickinson)
Having learnt quite a lot about launching and operating satellites, while they were re-engineering and improving their space craft design, NASA eventually returned to manned missions in early April 1950. On April 4th, a man, Aleksandr Smorchkov, and a woman, Yevgenia Rudneva, were shot into orbit. It basically was a repetition of the Pepelyaev mission: circle around the globe in low orbit – and keep blandishing things via radio. All went well and the mixed duo landed safely on Russian soil again – after seven hours and forty-four minutes flight time.
It was the subsequential press conference at Achinsk that would mesmerise the international audience. Generál-Leitenánt Mikhail K. Tikhonravov, the NASA director, first explained the recent mission. Thereafter, he indicated that a new launch vehicle, a much stronger three-stage rocket, had been tested successfully. This allowed the lifting of much larger space craft. In pursuit of the objective proclaimed by Prime Minister Vatutin, the Moon, NASA was going to establish a permanently manned space station until 1956.
Several of these larger space craft were to be combined into one space station. An initial mission of the new launch vehicle cum large space craft Tikhonravov announced for the second half of 1950. – Now, this was something for the space enthusiasts worldwide. A manned space station! Wild dreams seemed to be coming true. From this station, one could send missions to the Moon, or even to Mars and Venus...
Ah, how oft we read or hear of boys we almost stand in fear of!
(Wilhelm Busch – Max and Moritz)
It's true, politics are a dirty job indeed, thought Hans Georg von Mitzlaff. The good citizens of Offenburg, his constituency, had pelted him with bad eggs and rotten potatoes. They didn't seem to like him anymore. His dress was ruined, and he was funking abominably. They had shouted next time they'd throw stones. Very ungracious, these bourgeois... – Hansi was retreating to his flat. He had to get rid of the smelly garb, had to take a shower. One egg had hit the side and back of his head; the muck was clogging his ponytail. What an awful mess!
Damn, he hadn't done anything wrong. He hadn't rioted, hadn't been arrested. He'd only written some pamphlets exhorting others to riot... well, and had delivered some encouraging speeches... and had prompted folks to resist the police via radio, after the downtown station had been conquered... – But that had been his duty, as Reichstags deputy for the DFU. Others had done the same... So, why were people turning against him? What had changed?
Offenburg had played an important role as centre of the democratic movement in the revolutionary situation of 1848/49. There was a rich tradition of civil liberty and self-reliance. Hansi couldn't understand why he had become so unpopular – all of a sudden. The burghers had elected him with a comfortable majority, hadn't they? Okay, he was not a Badener, but a Prussian. But not a typical Prussian... Actually, he was a cool cat, wasn't he? Well, at least once he had cleaned himself up...
Might it be that the forces of reaction were gathering momentum? Were the old–fangled die–hards becoming fashionable again? – Hansi couldn't imagine that the Offenburgers would vote for the dopey Völkischen. They were Catholics, predominantly. Therefore, the Zentrum might profit most from his sudden unpopularity. The Zentrum contestant was a certain Karl Kraut, a pallid administrative official, not a patch on Hansi...
It was unfair. He was a good deputy, diligent, alert and progressive – and utterly dependent on the allowance... Grandpa, that evil old man, had stopped all money flow from the Mitzlaff estate, after Hansi had been elected for the DFU. – Jeez! What should he do in case he wasn't re–elected? – Well, for sure, he wouldn't stay in Offenburg but return to Berlin. Something or other he would find to earn a living – knitting socks, tinkering dream catchers, posing for the art students, or offering guided tours in the neighbourhood...
(Wilhelm Busch – Max and Moritz)
It's true, politics are a dirty job indeed, thought Hans Georg von Mitzlaff. The good citizens of Offenburg, his constituency, had pelted him with bad eggs and rotten potatoes. They didn't seem to like him anymore. His dress was ruined, and he was funking abominably. They had shouted next time they'd throw stones. Very ungracious, these bourgeois... – Hansi was retreating to his flat. He had to get rid of the smelly garb, had to take a shower. One egg had hit the side and back of his head; the muck was clogging his ponytail. What an awful mess!
Damn, he hadn't done anything wrong. He hadn't rioted, hadn't been arrested. He'd only written some pamphlets exhorting others to riot... well, and had delivered some encouraging speeches... and had prompted folks to resist the police via radio, after the downtown station had been conquered... – But that had been his duty, as Reichstags deputy for the DFU. Others had done the same... So, why were people turning against him? What had changed?
Offenburg had played an important role as centre of the democratic movement in the revolutionary situation of 1848/49. There was a rich tradition of civil liberty and self-reliance. Hansi couldn't understand why he had become so unpopular – all of a sudden. The burghers had elected him with a comfortable majority, hadn't they? Okay, he was not a Badener, but a Prussian. But not a typical Prussian... Actually, he was a cool cat, wasn't he? Well, at least once he had cleaned himself up...
Might it be that the forces of reaction were gathering momentum? Were the old–fangled die–hards becoming fashionable again? – Hansi couldn't imagine that the Offenburgers would vote for the dopey Völkischen. They were Catholics, predominantly. Therefore, the Zentrum might profit most from his sudden unpopularity. The Zentrum contestant was a certain Karl Kraut, a pallid administrative official, not a patch on Hansi...
It was unfair. He was a good deputy, diligent, alert and progressive – and utterly dependent on the allowance... Grandpa, that evil old man, had stopped all money flow from the Mitzlaff estate, after Hansi had been elected for the DFU. – Jeez! What should he do in case he wasn't re–elected? – Well, for sure, he wouldn't stay in Offenburg but return to Berlin. Something or other he would find to earn a living – knitting socks, tinkering dream catchers, posing for the art students, or offering guided tours in the neighbourhood...
Most people would argue that law enforcement still have not learned this. Look at the ongoing conflict over police brutality in the US.
Germany did this after the "revolution" in 18`. I guess they where not enough.
I know always that I am an outsider; a stranger in this century and among those who are still men.
(H. P. Lovecraft)
Colonel Fraser had been right: nobody had anticipated that a hostile landing would occur on the Labrador Coast. They had been able to shuttle all their supplies ashore and establish a hidden base camp. It had been hard work, extremely hard work, but – thanks to Colonel Fraser's circumspection – they hadn't lost a single man. Thereafter, the long march southwestwards had begun. The taiga was providing cover, but hardly any provisions. The colonel's solution had been to carry rations along – and to send those back whose packsacks had been depleted. They would then seize new rations and set up new dumps along the route – for the way back...
A thousand miles meant thirty days of marching, at a minimum. The core group had consisted of eight men. By repacking the packsacks every evening, they had been kept fully supplied, while the fringe had been melting away. Very soon, it had become evident that marching thirty miles a day wasn't possible – one could be glad if twenty were achieved, despite the snow shoes. After a week, one had been down to ten miles. The colonel had grown dissatisfied. – A vehicle was required, had been his conclusion, on foot one would never make it.
That had been a fatal decision. The dogs, the dogs of the lumberjack camp, had betrayed them. And the woodcutting blokes indeed had had a radio... – Thereafter, the hunt had been on. The damn Canadians had parachuted forces in, frigging elite infantry. The colonel had been killed in a firefight on the second day. That had broken the camel's back. – Major Hewitt had done his best, but he wasn't the colonel. The group had been dispersed.
Sergeant Roger Buchanan was alone – since at least three days. He had no clue where he was. He had a compass, but no map. – He had belonged to the core group, had been the engineer responsible for explosives and fuses. Major Hewitt had died in his arms. – How many days would it take to attain the Labrador Coast? Might he be able to find the base camp? He had rations left for one week, a fortnight at maximum, if he sacrificed his fuses for fishing.
Blasted Canadian planes were active all day long, forcing him to march at night – if there wasn't a snowstorm... Buchanan was a tough guy, yet he was utterly worn. At least, the lakes and rivers were frozen still, enabling him to run a – fairly – straight course, wherever it might lead him. He hadn't known that Canada was so empty, uninhabited, untouched, huge...
What was that? Buchanan strained his ears. – Yes, dogs, undoubtedly. That was it... Should he fight or surrender? Blimey! He wasn't a bloody surrender monkey. He checked his submachine gun. Four and a half magazines left, that should suffice for a nice display of fireworks. Should he use his explosives to boobytrap the hounds? The stupid beasts couldn't detect trip wires...
(H. P. Lovecraft)
Colonel Fraser had been right: nobody had anticipated that a hostile landing would occur on the Labrador Coast. They had been able to shuttle all their supplies ashore and establish a hidden base camp. It had been hard work, extremely hard work, but – thanks to Colonel Fraser's circumspection – they hadn't lost a single man. Thereafter, the long march southwestwards had begun. The taiga was providing cover, but hardly any provisions. The colonel's solution had been to carry rations along – and to send those back whose packsacks had been depleted. They would then seize new rations and set up new dumps along the route – for the way back...
A thousand miles meant thirty days of marching, at a minimum. The core group had consisted of eight men. By repacking the packsacks every evening, they had been kept fully supplied, while the fringe had been melting away. Very soon, it had become evident that marching thirty miles a day wasn't possible – one could be glad if twenty were achieved, despite the snow shoes. After a week, one had been down to ten miles. The colonel had grown dissatisfied. – A vehicle was required, had been his conclusion, on foot one would never make it.
That had been a fatal decision. The dogs, the dogs of the lumberjack camp, had betrayed them. And the woodcutting blokes indeed had had a radio... – Thereafter, the hunt had been on. The damn Canadians had parachuted forces in, frigging elite infantry. The colonel had been killed in a firefight on the second day. That had broken the camel's back. – Major Hewitt had done his best, but he wasn't the colonel. The group had been dispersed.
Sergeant Roger Buchanan was alone – since at least three days. He had no clue where he was. He had a compass, but no map. – He had belonged to the core group, had been the engineer responsible for explosives and fuses. Major Hewitt had died in his arms. – How many days would it take to attain the Labrador Coast? Might he be able to find the base camp? He had rations left for one week, a fortnight at maximum, if he sacrificed his fuses for fishing.
Blasted Canadian planes were active all day long, forcing him to march at night – if there wasn't a snowstorm... Buchanan was a tough guy, yet he was utterly worn. At least, the lakes and rivers were frozen still, enabling him to run a – fairly – straight course, wherever it might lead him. He hadn't known that Canada was so empty, uninhabited, untouched, huge...
What was that? Buchanan strained his ears. – Yes, dogs, undoubtedly. That was it... Should he fight or surrender? Blimey! He wasn't a bloody surrender monkey. He checked his submachine gun. Four and a half magazines left, that should suffice for a nice display of fireworks. Should he use his explosives to boobytrap the hounds? The stupid beasts couldn't detect trip wires...
not a very bright bloke if sacrificing some of his kit for food is even a question.
more brawn and loyalty than common sense