Map Thread XV
- Thread starter rvbomally
- Start date
- Status
WIP update;
I just had a wee crash on the old computer and after 3hours of restoring the corrupted word-document that contains my Master thesis I though I would relax and do some mapmaking...
Untill I discovered that my map was corrupted too and that the upper 3 layers are just gone; making my very detailed, 4 months in the making, pride & joy of a map look like this. As deadlines for the before mentioned Master thesis and the exams are coming really close I have decided to let this project rest for a bit so it probably won't be finished late summer. Fans of the Map (if they even exist
)will be happy to know that I will be making a map for MotF 155 in the same style but less big and detailed.
Raging Bryan out!
I just had a wee crash on the old computer and after 3hours of restoring the corrupted word-document that contains my Master thesis I though I would relax and do some mapmaking...
Untill I discovered that my map was corrupted too and that the upper 3 layers are just gone; making my very detailed, 4 months in the making, pride & joy of a map look like this. As deadlines for the before mentioned Master thesis and the exams are coming really close I have decided to let this project rest for a bit so it probably won't be finished late summer. Fans of the Map (if they even exist
)will be happy to know that I will be making a map for MotF 155 in the same style but less big and detailed. Raging Bryan out!
Upvoteanthology
Donor
I really hope you find a way to restore it. D: I do forward to seeing your entry, though!
I tried a few times to restore it and closest thing to succes was the return of every river that was 1pixel wide, so I kinda gave up! And don't you worry, the entry will make it on this thread.... someday!I really hope you find a way to restore it. D: I do forward to seeing your entry, though!
Was involved in enough Fallout talk on sight to get me inspired to do another bit of this... well that and I keep getting bad news about my car (it's in the shop, and if it isn't one thing it is another) so it made me feel a bit better to do it so...
Part I.
Part II.
Part III.
Part IIIb.
Part IV.
EDIT: I may need to fix the times in Anderson's flight.
October 24th 2127.
Americana, state of Eisenhower (Kamchatka Peninsula), Enclave Capitol.
9:14 AM.
Robert Anderson poured a shot of Vodka into the glass and downed it. Sure it wasn’t even nine thirty in the morning, but in his humble opinion (which was all that mattered to him at the moment) if you hadn’t slept in three days what difference did it make if you were drinking? It had seemed so simple and reasonable when President Davis and the rest of the military brass had hashed it out. For the United States it would be easier to subdue the Empire of China if it was a collection of warlord states rather than a unified entity, and the easiest way to bring that about would be to drop atomic bombs on them. Oh arguments had been made to not do it by the Defense Secretary and some of his supporters. Anderson had argued that outside of a few cities the country was decidedly stuck in the nineteenth century and that it would be easier to convert them to good honest Americans had they simply invaded and occupied. The President and the bulk of the government had thought otherwise, and so the bombs were launched, and Anderson had been attempting to destroy his liver since.
“Was it so hard forty years ago,” He declared to the world, “When Richardson and his government did this!?” The world chose not to answer and the drunk was left with only silence and the desire of another shot. Slowly, with an almost physical air of resignation about him he filled back up the glass. In his mind he raced through his life. His childhood in the days before the war, his coming of age on the oil rig, the escape from the navy junta, his years of service in the armed forces and the government, and helping turn this piece of Asia into a slice of America. As he brought the glass to his lips his thoughts turned to his wife and kids and suddenly he froze. Was this really the type of country he wanted them living in? Did he want his kids celebrating the atomic destruction of a country far weaker them all because they were, possibly rightfully, anti-American? In an instant his world view collapsed and the once Enclave stalwart fell forward into his desk and cried. Everything the navy junta, no, the rightful American government had said over the years about the Enclave was true. They had hastened the demise of the old world, they had forgotten what it meant to be American, and their greed was going to cause them to make the same mistakes again and again until they were eventually killed. Slowly, almost without realizing it an idea began to take shape in the back of his mind. He’d get himself and his family out. He wasn’t sure yet where he would go, but he couldn’t do this and sleep at night anymore.
November 6th 2127.
Wellington, New Zealand.
3:08 PM.
If what the Americans said was true New Zealand was the only known place on Earth where sheep hadn’t retained their pre-war size. Normally that hadn’t mattered much, and in a few cases a sheep about the size of a Highwayman (A few car nuts would tell you the size of a 1950’s Ford car called a Volkswagen Bus was a better comparison) had their advantages. Old George tried to keep those advantages in mind as one of the critters slept in front of the door to his restaurant and ensured that he would get no business until it woke up and decided to grace somewhere better, say Parliament, with its presence. Business hadn’t been great anyway, and nothing yet had compared to those heady days before the war when he had first opened the place’s doors and in his mind he had been making money hand over fist.
Still he had kept the doors open and food on the table though the Great War, the chaos that followed, and the government’s efforts to regain control of the country, and he was damn sure he was going to keep right on doing the same as his country got the fool idea to try to colonize Australia again. George snorted at the thought. Even before the war the joke had always been that everything in that country was trying to kill you, and after the United States, China, and everyone else decided to send the world up in flames things had somehow become worse! Didn’t matter to him though if a bunch of daft men and women who were mostly too young to remember the ways things really used to be wanted to waste his tax dollars on a fools errand. Someone was bound to do it anyway, and if not his fools it would be the Americans, or the Enclave, or Her Majesty’s Government in Britain, and between all of them it might as well be his fools. At least some of them came and bought food from him.
November 23rd 2127.
Washington D.C.
11:38 AM.
“Gentlemen I knew a month ago there was nothing we could do militarily about the Enclave’s bombing of China,” President Cartwright leaned forward over the cabinet room table. “But even after a month you are telling me there is almost nothing we can do covertly against them?”
“Mr. President,” General Bell replied. “You know as well as I and every other person in this room do that we cannot project power into the South China Sea of the Indian Ocean anymore. The Enclave have everything west of Luzon bottled up tight as an unopened Nuka Cola, and going East we can’t get past the Cape of Good Hope for anything more than a scouting mission.”
“Couldn’t we start some type of reconstruction of the Cape?” The Secretary of Education inquired?
“Not by ourselves unless we want to cut back on our efforts here in North America,” Interior Secretary Howard Ackerman responded. “And you know how much people howl when a state or commonwealth government talks about doing that or are forced to do it.”
“Wouldn’t be in our interests anyway, Britain has designs on South Africa.” Secretary of State Oscar Mullins intoned.
Ackerman raised an eyebrow, “I thought they had eyes on Patagonia?” He said.
“Our ally has global ambitions similar to where they were two hundred fifty years ago.” Mullins replied. “And with how under populated our world is I can’t blame them.”
Charles Fleming sighed. “It would be far better if they didn’t. The La Plata Confederacy is far from thrilled with London’s imperial plan.”
“Howard?” The President said.
“Yes Ben?” The Interior Secretary replied.
“Do you think it would put too much of a strain on our resources if we reclaimed the cape with the British in exchange for basing rights?”
“We might be able to make it work if we could get a few more matter replicators constructed Mr. President.”
Ben Cartwright nodded. “And Oscar, do you think the British would agree to something like that?”
“That,” The Secretary of State replied, “Would be the big unknown.”
September 5th 2128.
Americana, State of Ryukyus, twenty thousand feet up.
9:14 AM.
It may have only been the vodka talking at the time, but Anderson had never lost his resolve to escape once the idea had been planted in his head. Of course having an idea and being able to act upon it are two different things, and being able to convince your wife and two kids of the need to escape because you just figured out your country is only a few pegs above the root of all evil was no picnic either. Somehow though he had managed to convince them of this and put them in a position where it could be done. The key word of course was could as the small issue of the two secret service agents and the loyal to the Enclave air force men in the cockpit were preventing him from stealing the small jet they were all in and flying to Guam.
Soon to be ex-Defense Secretary fingered the trigger of the small poison dart gun in his pocket. Maybe small wasn’t the right word. Maybe a problem the size of Africa was a better comparison. No matter though, he had four shots, and the poison was quick acting enough that two Secret Service men should be temporarily paralyzed before they knew what hit them if he could get a clear shot at both of them. He twisted the small gun in his pocket so it was aimed at the first and waited for him to lean leftward so he wouldn’t fall into his partner.
September 5th 2128.
Americana, state of Eisenhower (Kamchatka Peninsula), Enclave Capitol.
10:16 AM.
Ronald Davis glared at the bookish little man who was director of the F.B.I. “And you’re boys are going to nab him the instant his plane touches down at Cloverleaf?”
The director nodded. “He doesn’t even know what’s about to happen to him Mr. President.”
“Good,” Davis said with a Grinch like smile. “The S.O.B. will get a nice treason trial. No one is going to screw us over.”
September 5th 2128.
Americana, State of Ryukyus, twenty thousand feet up.
9:19 AM.
Anderson all but threw the inert body of the pilot out of his seat and switched the plane from auto pilot to manual control. It had been thirty years since he’d flown a plane, but with how slow technology had been moving since the Great War things hadn’t changed much. He took a deep breath and checked the gauges. Fusion cells stood at about sixty five percent, cabin pressure was good, elevation was falling ever so slightly but nothing pulling back on the stick a little would fix. He took another deep breath and shifted the plane out of its due southern course to a south eastern one. A few more hours and he would be in the United States. A few more hours and he’d be in his new… no, the home he should have never left.
September 5th 2128.
Americana, state of Eisenhower (Kamchatka Peninsula), Enclave Capitol.
10:45 AM.
Davis slammed his fists so hard on his desk that the little picture of George Washington he kept on it seemed to commit suicide by jumping off the edge. “What do you mean we lost the rat bastard!?” He thundered.
The F.B.I. director remained cool as the proverbial cucumber. “Mr. President we can not anticipate everything.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?” The President snarled.
“What I mean Mister President,” the last two words seemed loaded somehow, “Is that we expected him to attempt anything on his return trip with the documents Cloverleaf Air Base was to provided to him. We expected he’d want something more to offer-“
“That’s not a fucking excuse.”
“It is simply what we expected,” The director interlaced his fingers and leaned forward in his seat enough to place his elbows on his knees. “Besides, what happened to the secret service men you had assigned to him to prevent anything?”
Ronald Davis simply glared at the little man in front of him before fingering the intercom on his desk. “Charlene!” He bellowed into it when a hiss of static said his secretary was on the other end, “Get me deputy Defense Secretary Matthews on the line.”
“Right away sir,” A tinny voice responded through the speaker.
“We’re going to find that son of a bitch and have him shot out of the sky.”
September 5th 2128.
Territory of Guam (Formerly North Mariana Islands Territory).
11:30 AM.
Air force radio operator Harold Bride’s felt his heart racing. “Sir,” He said without taking his eyes off his set. “You may want to take a listen to this.”
Colonel John Phillips walked over and picked up the handset. “You say you are who?” He said, “You do realize what will happen if you are lying to us…. You know I can’t make any guarantees we will send an escort…. I’ll pass it up the chain of command, but it is up to them in the end…. I’ll do what I can.”
“Sir?” Bride asked.
“This may history Harry,” Phillips said. “All you need to know for now.
September 5th 2128.
Somewhere over the Pacific.
12:48 PM.
The plane board radar showed six dots. Three were behind him closing fast, and three were in front of him closing slightly faster, and it was obvious in Anderson’s mind that the former could only be Enclave planes coming to kill him, whilst the latter had to be American planes coming to do something. The ex-Enclave Defense Secretary had never been much of a praying man but he now found himself praying to every deity he could think of plus the atomic bomb that the American planes were coming to help, and that the Enclave would back off once they saw them. He didn’t stop to think that he wasn’t including himself in these prayers, but was only begging any higher power that might be that his family be saved. As the second hand on his wrist watch continued its circle the dots moved closer together, time would soon tell what would happen.
September 19th 2128.
Washington D.C. (F.B.I Headquarters).
11:15 AM.
President Cartwright stood up and shook the hand of the man who walked into the room. “I’ve read the reports and been briefed on what happened. I did want to meet you after all of that.”
The man said nothing and simply marveled at the cowboy turned politician standing before him. Finally he stammered out “It’s a pleasure to meet a- a man of your caliber Mr. President.” He shook a little. In the past two weeks what the President simply called what had happened and everything that came after had become a blur in his mind. He was here, he knew that much. Prior to that he remembered flying the plane to Guam, spending a few days there, something about a new President coming to power in Americana, and being questioned by men in suits. It seemed like Cartwright was the first thing in days to drag him back into the real world. Of course he couldn’t be too much in the real world yet as he hadn’t realized that Cartwright was speaking. “Umm… can you repeat that?” He asked more sheepishly than he had intended.
The American President smiled. “I said have they told you yet what your new life will be now that you’ll be going into the witness protection program?”
“No,” he said.
Cartwright’s smile broadened, “I think you and the kids will like it.”
June 2nd 2129.
Boston, New England Commonwealth, United States of America (Nuka World).
10:45 PM.
Assistant park manager Fredrick J. Rubble (Formerly Enclave Defense Secretary Robert Anderson) put his arm around his wife’s waist and pulled her in close as they watch the fireworks go off during the nightly show. Life was different now, but on the whole he could only scrounge up two complaints. First, the fact he had ever thrown in his lot with the Enclave; and second the Nuka World Song got stuck in his head far, far too easily. Oh well, they were small complaints in the grand scheme of things.
June 30th 2133.
New Toronto, Canada.
2:01 PM.
Prime Minister George Macgregor had purposely built his house on a hill so that when he could find a spare moment he could watch the city of New Toronto bustle below from his rocking chair on the Veranda. Now was one of those sparse moments, and as people scurried about their days he felt pride in the fact that he, in part, had helped to make this all possible. From that first thousand that had bravely crossed the Atlantic a decade ago the country had grown and, by the standards the harsh European waste used, prospered. Several thousand Canadians had followed, and were augmented by Scotsman and Icelandics disillusioned with London, and people from the wastes. In what the Prime Minister considered a real coup his government had even convinced a cadet member of the house of Windsor to become their Monarch. Some had called foul, but more had never gotten over the feeble protests London had given in 2076 when the United States had annexed old Canada, and it had been then that the seeds were planted that would eventually grow into the idea of Canada needing a monarch of her own. Sure Martin I would never be an Elizabeth II, or a Richard the Lion Heart, but he was theirs and theirs alone, and one day the Canadians believed his branch of the Windsor family would rule over a mighty nation, even if no one alive today lived to see it.
August 1st 2135.
False Bay, British South Africa.
11:49 AM.
Captain Albert Cunningham stood on the bridge of the USS Norman S. Thompson and watched as the joint US-UK naval base drew ever closer. His ship would not be the first American aircraft carried stationed here since the reclamation efforts began, but it would be the first to be assigned to this post as part of prolonged operations in the South Atlantic. Prior to this everything had been haphazard as things were set up and the United States Navy refound its footing projecting power this far south, but now things had changed. Now the country was confident as a great power again, even if she still paled in comparison to her pre-war self.
Cunningham dug around in his coat pocket for his cigarettes and a lighter. The lights may be coming back on around the world, but sometimes finding a personal light could be the most difficult of all.
October 22nd 2138.
Americana, Central China Territory/Occupied China.
3:12 PM.
As General Koba Steele saw it the problem was not so much beating the armies of the warlords or the Empire of China, that could be done easy enough, but it was trying to do so at the end of a horribly long overland supply line and then having to deal with an insurgency that made the one in Vietnam he’d read about in the history books a cake walk. However if the country could beat down that over a hundred and fifty years ago he was sure as hell going to help crush this one. After all these fools were only armed with pre-great war equipment or crude AK-47’s or other guns made by blacksmiths, they’d never be able to stand up to the American army for long. Besides, in a few years when they started getting the benefits of real American society they’d fall in line. His Soviet parents had after all.
A bullet of some type ricocheted off of a power armor clad soldier and tore a hole in Koba’s jacket. Fortunately for him that was all it did, but as the General stared at what could have been a nasty wound in another world he couldn’t help but think that they better become accepting of those benefits soon.
Unknown.
Irken Empire.
Does it really matter?
“So what do you think of the idea of Operation Impending Doom Two?”
Part I.
Part II.
Part III.
Part IIIb.
Part IV.
EDIT: I may need to fix the times in Anderson's flight.
October 24th 2127.
Americana, state of Eisenhower (Kamchatka Peninsula), Enclave Capitol.
9:14 AM.
Robert Anderson poured a shot of Vodka into the glass and downed it. Sure it wasn’t even nine thirty in the morning, but in his humble opinion (which was all that mattered to him at the moment) if you hadn’t slept in three days what difference did it make if you were drinking? It had seemed so simple and reasonable when President Davis and the rest of the military brass had hashed it out. For the United States it would be easier to subdue the Empire of China if it was a collection of warlord states rather than a unified entity, and the easiest way to bring that about would be to drop atomic bombs on them. Oh arguments had been made to not do it by the Defense Secretary and some of his supporters. Anderson had argued that outside of a few cities the country was decidedly stuck in the nineteenth century and that it would be easier to convert them to good honest Americans had they simply invaded and occupied. The President and the bulk of the government had thought otherwise, and so the bombs were launched, and Anderson had been attempting to destroy his liver since.
“Was it so hard forty years ago,” He declared to the world, “When Richardson and his government did this!?” The world chose not to answer and the drunk was left with only silence and the desire of another shot. Slowly, with an almost physical air of resignation about him he filled back up the glass. In his mind he raced through his life. His childhood in the days before the war, his coming of age on the oil rig, the escape from the navy junta, his years of service in the armed forces and the government, and helping turn this piece of Asia into a slice of America. As he brought the glass to his lips his thoughts turned to his wife and kids and suddenly he froze. Was this really the type of country he wanted them living in? Did he want his kids celebrating the atomic destruction of a country far weaker them all because they were, possibly rightfully, anti-American? In an instant his world view collapsed and the once Enclave stalwart fell forward into his desk and cried. Everything the navy junta, no, the rightful American government had said over the years about the Enclave was true. They had hastened the demise of the old world, they had forgotten what it meant to be American, and their greed was going to cause them to make the same mistakes again and again until they were eventually killed. Slowly, almost without realizing it an idea began to take shape in the back of his mind. He’d get himself and his family out. He wasn’t sure yet where he would go, but he couldn’t do this and sleep at night anymore.
November 6th 2127.
Wellington, New Zealand.
3:08 PM.
If what the Americans said was true New Zealand was the only known place on Earth where sheep hadn’t retained their pre-war size. Normally that hadn’t mattered much, and in a few cases a sheep about the size of a Highwayman (A few car nuts would tell you the size of a 1950’s Ford car called a Volkswagen Bus was a better comparison) had their advantages. Old George tried to keep those advantages in mind as one of the critters slept in front of the door to his restaurant and ensured that he would get no business until it woke up and decided to grace somewhere better, say Parliament, with its presence. Business hadn’t been great anyway, and nothing yet had compared to those heady days before the war when he had first opened the place’s doors and in his mind he had been making money hand over fist.
Still he had kept the doors open and food on the table though the Great War, the chaos that followed, and the government’s efforts to regain control of the country, and he was damn sure he was going to keep right on doing the same as his country got the fool idea to try to colonize Australia again. George snorted at the thought. Even before the war the joke had always been that everything in that country was trying to kill you, and after the United States, China, and everyone else decided to send the world up in flames things had somehow become worse! Didn’t matter to him though if a bunch of daft men and women who were mostly too young to remember the ways things really used to be wanted to waste his tax dollars on a fools errand. Someone was bound to do it anyway, and if not his fools it would be the Americans, or the Enclave, or Her Majesty’s Government in Britain, and between all of them it might as well be his fools. At least some of them came and bought food from him.
November 23rd 2127.
Washington D.C.
11:38 AM.
“Gentlemen I knew a month ago there was nothing we could do militarily about the Enclave’s bombing of China,” President Cartwright leaned forward over the cabinet room table. “But even after a month you are telling me there is almost nothing we can do covertly against them?”
“Mr. President,” General Bell replied. “You know as well as I and every other person in this room do that we cannot project power into the South China Sea of the Indian Ocean anymore. The Enclave have everything west of Luzon bottled up tight as an unopened Nuka Cola, and going East we can’t get past the Cape of Good Hope for anything more than a scouting mission.”
“Couldn’t we start some type of reconstruction of the Cape?” The Secretary of Education inquired?
“Not by ourselves unless we want to cut back on our efforts here in North America,” Interior Secretary Howard Ackerman responded. “And you know how much people howl when a state or commonwealth government talks about doing that or are forced to do it.”
“Wouldn’t be in our interests anyway, Britain has designs on South Africa.” Secretary of State Oscar Mullins intoned.
Ackerman raised an eyebrow, “I thought they had eyes on Patagonia?” He said.
“Our ally has global ambitions similar to where they were two hundred fifty years ago.” Mullins replied. “And with how under populated our world is I can’t blame them.”
Charles Fleming sighed. “It would be far better if they didn’t. The La Plata Confederacy is far from thrilled with London’s imperial plan.”
“Howard?” The President said.
“Yes Ben?” The Interior Secretary replied.
“Do you think it would put too much of a strain on our resources if we reclaimed the cape with the British in exchange for basing rights?”
“We might be able to make it work if we could get a few more matter replicators constructed Mr. President.”
Ben Cartwright nodded. “And Oscar, do you think the British would agree to something like that?”
“That,” The Secretary of State replied, “Would be the big unknown.”
September 5th 2128.
Americana, State of Ryukyus, twenty thousand feet up.
9:14 AM.
It may have only been the vodka talking at the time, but Anderson had never lost his resolve to escape once the idea had been planted in his head. Of course having an idea and being able to act upon it are two different things, and being able to convince your wife and two kids of the need to escape because you just figured out your country is only a few pegs above the root of all evil was no picnic either. Somehow though he had managed to convince them of this and put them in a position where it could be done. The key word of course was could as the small issue of the two secret service agents and the loyal to the Enclave air force men in the cockpit were preventing him from stealing the small jet they were all in and flying to Guam.
Soon to be ex-Defense Secretary fingered the trigger of the small poison dart gun in his pocket. Maybe small wasn’t the right word. Maybe a problem the size of Africa was a better comparison. No matter though, he had four shots, and the poison was quick acting enough that two Secret Service men should be temporarily paralyzed before they knew what hit them if he could get a clear shot at both of them. He twisted the small gun in his pocket so it was aimed at the first and waited for him to lean leftward so he wouldn’t fall into his partner.
September 5th 2128.
Americana, state of Eisenhower (Kamchatka Peninsula), Enclave Capitol.
10:16 AM.
Ronald Davis glared at the bookish little man who was director of the F.B.I. “And you’re boys are going to nab him the instant his plane touches down at Cloverleaf?”
The director nodded. “He doesn’t even know what’s about to happen to him Mr. President.”
“Good,” Davis said with a Grinch like smile. “The S.O.B. will get a nice treason trial. No one is going to screw us over.”
September 5th 2128.
Americana, State of Ryukyus, twenty thousand feet up.
9:19 AM.
Anderson all but threw the inert body of the pilot out of his seat and switched the plane from auto pilot to manual control. It had been thirty years since he’d flown a plane, but with how slow technology had been moving since the Great War things hadn’t changed much. He took a deep breath and checked the gauges. Fusion cells stood at about sixty five percent, cabin pressure was good, elevation was falling ever so slightly but nothing pulling back on the stick a little would fix. He took another deep breath and shifted the plane out of its due southern course to a south eastern one. A few more hours and he would be in the United States. A few more hours and he’d be in his new… no, the home he should have never left.
September 5th 2128.
Americana, state of Eisenhower (Kamchatka Peninsula), Enclave Capitol.
10:45 AM.
Davis slammed his fists so hard on his desk that the little picture of George Washington he kept on it seemed to commit suicide by jumping off the edge. “What do you mean we lost the rat bastard!?” He thundered.
The F.B.I. director remained cool as the proverbial cucumber. “Mr. President we can not anticipate everything.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?” The President snarled.
“What I mean Mister President,” the last two words seemed loaded somehow, “Is that we expected him to attempt anything on his return trip with the documents Cloverleaf Air Base was to provided to him. We expected he’d want something more to offer-“
“That’s not a fucking excuse.”
“It is simply what we expected,” The director interlaced his fingers and leaned forward in his seat enough to place his elbows on his knees. “Besides, what happened to the secret service men you had assigned to him to prevent anything?”
Ronald Davis simply glared at the little man in front of him before fingering the intercom on his desk. “Charlene!” He bellowed into it when a hiss of static said his secretary was on the other end, “Get me deputy Defense Secretary Matthews on the line.”
“Right away sir,” A tinny voice responded through the speaker.
“We’re going to find that son of a bitch and have him shot out of the sky.”
September 5th 2128.
Territory of Guam (Formerly North Mariana Islands Territory).
11:30 AM.
Air force radio operator Harold Bride’s felt his heart racing. “Sir,” He said without taking his eyes off his set. “You may want to take a listen to this.”
Colonel John Phillips walked over and picked up the handset. “You say you are who?” He said, “You do realize what will happen if you are lying to us…. You know I can’t make any guarantees we will send an escort…. I’ll pass it up the chain of command, but it is up to them in the end…. I’ll do what I can.”
“Sir?” Bride asked.
“This may history Harry,” Phillips said. “All you need to know for now.
September 5th 2128.
Somewhere over the Pacific.
12:48 PM.
The plane board radar showed six dots. Three were behind him closing fast, and three were in front of him closing slightly faster, and it was obvious in Anderson’s mind that the former could only be Enclave planes coming to kill him, whilst the latter had to be American planes coming to do something. The ex-Enclave Defense Secretary had never been much of a praying man but he now found himself praying to every deity he could think of plus the atomic bomb that the American planes were coming to help, and that the Enclave would back off once they saw them. He didn’t stop to think that he wasn’t including himself in these prayers, but was only begging any higher power that might be that his family be saved. As the second hand on his wrist watch continued its circle the dots moved closer together, time would soon tell what would happen.
September 19th 2128.
Washington D.C. (F.B.I Headquarters).
11:15 AM.
President Cartwright stood up and shook the hand of the man who walked into the room. “I’ve read the reports and been briefed on what happened. I did want to meet you after all of that.”
The man said nothing and simply marveled at the cowboy turned politician standing before him. Finally he stammered out “It’s a pleasure to meet a- a man of your caliber Mr. President.” He shook a little. In the past two weeks what the President simply called what had happened and everything that came after had become a blur in his mind. He was here, he knew that much. Prior to that he remembered flying the plane to Guam, spending a few days there, something about a new President coming to power in Americana, and being questioned by men in suits. It seemed like Cartwright was the first thing in days to drag him back into the real world. Of course he couldn’t be too much in the real world yet as he hadn’t realized that Cartwright was speaking. “Umm… can you repeat that?” He asked more sheepishly than he had intended.
The American President smiled. “I said have they told you yet what your new life will be now that you’ll be going into the witness protection program?”
“No,” he said.
Cartwright’s smile broadened, “I think you and the kids will like it.”
June 2nd 2129.
Boston, New England Commonwealth, United States of America (Nuka World).
10:45 PM.
Assistant park manager Fredrick J. Rubble (Formerly Enclave Defense Secretary Robert Anderson) put his arm around his wife’s waist and pulled her in close as they watch the fireworks go off during the nightly show. Life was different now, but on the whole he could only scrounge up two complaints. First, the fact he had ever thrown in his lot with the Enclave; and second the Nuka World Song got stuck in his head far, far too easily. Oh well, they were small complaints in the grand scheme of things.
June 30th 2133.
New Toronto, Canada.
2:01 PM.
Prime Minister George Macgregor had purposely built his house on a hill so that when he could find a spare moment he could watch the city of New Toronto bustle below from his rocking chair on the Veranda. Now was one of those sparse moments, and as people scurried about their days he felt pride in the fact that he, in part, had helped to make this all possible. From that first thousand that had bravely crossed the Atlantic a decade ago the country had grown and, by the standards the harsh European waste used, prospered. Several thousand Canadians had followed, and were augmented by Scotsman and Icelandics disillusioned with London, and people from the wastes. In what the Prime Minister considered a real coup his government had even convinced a cadet member of the house of Windsor to become their Monarch. Some had called foul, but more had never gotten over the feeble protests London had given in 2076 when the United States had annexed old Canada, and it had been then that the seeds were planted that would eventually grow into the idea of Canada needing a monarch of her own. Sure Martin I would never be an Elizabeth II, or a Richard the Lion Heart, but he was theirs and theirs alone, and one day the Canadians believed his branch of the Windsor family would rule over a mighty nation, even if no one alive today lived to see it.
August 1st 2135.
False Bay, British South Africa.
11:49 AM.
Captain Albert Cunningham stood on the bridge of the USS Norman S. Thompson and watched as the joint US-UK naval base drew ever closer. His ship would not be the first American aircraft carried stationed here since the reclamation efforts began, but it would be the first to be assigned to this post as part of prolonged operations in the South Atlantic. Prior to this everything had been haphazard as things were set up and the United States Navy refound its footing projecting power this far south, but now things had changed. Now the country was confident as a great power again, even if she still paled in comparison to her pre-war self.
Cunningham dug around in his coat pocket for his cigarettes and a lighter. The lights may be coming back on around the world, but sometimes finding a personal light could be the most difficult of all.
October 22nd 2138.
Americana, Central China Territory/Occupied China.
3:12 PM.
As General Koba Steele saw it the problem was not so much beating the armies of the warlords or the Empire of China, that could be done easy enough, but it was trying to do so at the end of a horribly long overland supply line and then having to deal with an insurgency that made the one in Vietnam he’d read about in the history books a cake walk. However if the country could beat down that over a hundred and fifty years ago he was sure as hell going to help crush this one. After all these fools were only armed with pre-great war equipment or crude AK-47’s or other guns made by blacksmiths, they’d never be able to stand up to the American army for long. Besides, in a few years when they started getting the benefits of real American society they’d fall in line. His Soviet parents had after all.
A bullet of some type ricocheted off of a power armor clad soldier and tore a hole in Koba’s jacket. Fortunately for him that was all it did, but as the General stared at what could have been a nasty wound in another world he couldn’t help but think that they better become accepting of those benefits soon.
Unknown.
Irken Empire.
Does it really matter?
“So what do you think of the idea of Operation Impending Doom Two?”
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Yes, Faeelin, but you must realize during that period of history the US still lived in the house made of straw, and any overseas power could huff and puff and blow the whole thing in.
(Although I'd like to know myself when and how France got Canada back, and how and why the heck they created a native reservation/puppet state - if that's what the big pale blue dick violating Pennsylvania is - bigger than France. )
Presumably after th French sunk the British fleet and invaded the island for the first time in nigh on 759 years.Yes, Faeelin, but you must realize during that period of history the US still lived in the house made of straw, and any overseas power could huff and puff and blow the whole thing in.
(Although I'd like to know myself when and how France got Canada back, and how and why the heck they created a native reservation/puppet state - if that's what the big pale blue dick violating Pennsylvania is - bigger than France. )
Ephraim Ben Raphael
Banned
This is great stuff, but I'm confused about the Canadians- where are they on the map?
They refounded Canada in Brittany France. I'll admit they aren't easy to see,* but they are there. Anywho, glad you like it.
*Maybe I should consider using the Canadian territory color for them. Regardless if I do part five I'll try and make them pop more.
I made it when I was high x: Im making a fixed version now
What about Morroco though? It was more of a white peace than crushing victory.My dad, who taught English in Spain for some years, always liked him. I've read a few collections of his short stories (and his "book of imaginary beasts") and even given the vagaries of translation, there's some remarkable stuff there.
Yes its preposterous that the UK could ever be invaded! Even with the vast possibilities of the multiverse.
The US actually hardly lost any territory. Look up a map of the Unites States in 1800- and then keep in mind that Napoleon sold Louisiana in 1803 because he a) had no way to get troops or people there and b) he needed money for the war, which ITTL neither of those applied. He ended up losing most of it anyway, just not to the US.
France got Canada back after the Royal Navy turned into the Royal shipwreck. OTL, Napoleon's naval strategy was mediocre at best, and while French ships could surpass the British in numbers and guns, the training and experience of British captains and officers gave them the upper hand. Here, there is no decisive outcome at Trafalgar, and with the aid of the Danish fleet (and a naval buildup for the French) the Royal Navy is handily defeated in a series of battles. First, now Britain is helpless. Second, France has free reign over the rest of the world now... so, a-conquering we go. As for the pale-blue American state, well, it's complicated. Original it was the Mormons in Ohio that sort of just up and left the Union. Then, thanks to their anti-slavery policies, abolitionists and freed slaves flooded the country. As it expanded West, it also became a sort of native state as well, but by now the natives have mostly been assimilated. It's still dominated by the Mormons who started it, but now it's fairly similar culturally and structurally to OTL USA at the time. They're actually not even connected to France, the power they're most closely aligned with is probably Prussia or Denmark.Yes, Faeelin, but you must realize during that period of history the US still lived in the house made of straw, and any overseas power could huff and puff and blow the whole thing in.
(Although I'd like to know myself when and how France got Canada back, and how and why the heck they created a native reservation/puppet state - if that's what the big pale blue dick violating Pennsylvania is - bigger than France. )
Both were sparsely populated territories, and as I mentioned, Ohio and everything West of it seceded with the Mormons and abolitionists
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