Tweet
This is adapted from an unfinished epic (The Kings of Sumer) but since I'll probably never get to finish it, I thought this should at least get some attention in case the story contests are still going on (nominate me, please! no really, just give me some feedback on whether you liked the story and I should do more like this). Anyway, I've changed some names and added a few more dramatic elements.
Enjoy,
Sam
Part 1
Forward to this story...
Think if you will about a post-WWII Europe where US and England never made the cross-channel invasion at Normandy, the Poles threw in their lot with the Soviets and USSR/Poland went all the way to France. The USSR is the dominant power in the world. The post-WWII Europe is united behind Leader Sikorsky from Poland. A free France still exists in Africa. The U.S. is again in isolation and Great Britian has dissolved into anarchy (this was actually based on one of the first SNESAs in this forum so thanks to all who participated).
Iraq has revived the dreams of the Babylonian empire, united with most of Turkey (save Istanbul which comes under USSR rule) and leads a Muslim alliance with the other middle east and N. Africa countries. The story begins on the eve of the Iraqi withdrawl from Greece after the Greeks attacked them for their holdings in Turkey.
THE SALINA GAMBIT
Europe, 1954
Thessalonica was the site of the Soviet Greece Protectorate Force Headquarters.
In the wake of the Babylonian announcement that the Iraqis would unilaterally withdraw from Greece, Admiral Vladimar Smirnov called a meeting in his HQ with the USSR's European Security Union (ESU) allies and liasions from the non-affiliated countries.
He opened by saying, “Gentlemen, at your seat is a folder containing all the information you need to support the Babylonian withdrawal. Defense Minister Hussein will take down the flag at 1000 hours and will leave with the final Babylonian security detail - unmolested - shortly thereafter.” The ESU representatives shifted in their seats.
“The next folder details the plan for the Soviet-ESU occupation of these territories.”
The ESU General Victor Nanova, a martinet from Bulgaria who fought against the Soviets in WWII, immediately became incensed after reading the first page.
“Admiral with all due respect, it was my understanding that Athens would be governed by European Security forces, not Soviets. In fact, my leadership cannot support this plan. We thought that this was understood by the Soviets.”
The Admiral smiled. “We will be in charge of Athens and the Aegean Islands. We give you Crete. Didn’t Leader Sirkorksy tell you this? He made the deal.” Although, he was a bit drunk at the time Smirnov added silently.
The General raged, “That is not true. Show me this in writing. Sikorsky has said no such thing. In fact, he told me he looked forward to eating at one of his favorite restaurants in Athens. No, Admiral, you need to redo this plan. Polish and Bulgarian forces will occupy Athens. We have a battalion waiting in Corinth and they are already on the move.”
The Admiral sneered, “Surely, General, you have heard of the Spetsnaz, yes?” They were the Soviet elite forces and you did not mess with them. “They are parachuting into Greece, even as I speak. I would suggest that you stay out of the Spetsnaz’s way, neh? Leader Sikorsky is invited to the city anytime. I will personally see to his security.”
Stony silence.
He continued. “The Spetsnaz will be followed by about 5000 of our infantry - they will be arriving on the transport Markarov tomorrow morning. Check your folders - it is all there. You should call your troops back now, General.”
Nanova glared at the Admiral, picked up the folder and tore it in half. He shouted, “This will not pass. I will see to it.” And he left the room in a storm of torn paper and a flurry of ESU staff officers.
After he was gone, the Admiral joked, “Check the hat room and see that they did not steal any of our covers and coats again.”
The Russians laughed - they had gotten use to Nanova’s bellicosity over the past year. He would do nothing; he always backed down. The liaisons looked at each other with a bit of concern in their eyes for they had rarely seen this side of the supposedly great Soviet-ESU partnership.
Somewhere off the Aeolian Islands, north of Sicily
In advance of the troop transport ships heading towards the Greek mainland and the Aegean Islands, Soviet Navy destroyers performed a thorough sweep of the route through the Messina straits, between Italy and Sicily. The Soviet sonar analyst noted where all the metal hulks lay from previous wars. Off Salina, it looked like just another one of the sunken boats. He matched it with the sunken British submarine GRAMPUS. Historical records said that Italian destroyers had torpedoed the poor bastard 10 years ago. May she rest in peace, thought the analyst.
But, several hours after the Soviet destroyer had made their sweep, the ghost ship suddenly shuddered. Silently, it rose up in the water. An antenna poked up and waited for a few minutes and the ghost slipped back into its resting place.
USSR Sardinia listening post
Just like clockwork, every eight hours, thought Olga as she listened to the UHF channels. It had started several years ago and apparently emanated from the Egyptian coast. No one had figured out what it was, just short blocks of indecipherable squealing. Some of the geeks back in Moscow and Leningrad said it was simply strategic deception and meant nothing. Others thought the Jihadis’ transmitters were improperly installed. The pencil necks assured the communications operators it was just some nonsense - the Jihadis showing off. But she was sure they were studying it like mad, regardless.
The Soviet spooks had even started a competing program featuring a droning female Russian speaker, day after day, hour after hour, reciting a stream of random numbers over various short-wave frequencies. I hope its bugging them, Olga thought, the damn terrorists.
She turned to her officemate.
“It’s a nice night. Things look quiet. I’m going out for a quick espresso. Can you watch my console? Nothing seems to be happening tonight.”
Her desk mate ignored the breach of duties; it happened all the time in these provincial listening posts. Besides, she was busy providing information on the annoying Egyptian air patrol to the ESU and took little notice of Olga’s departure.
USSR Transport THE MARKAROV
200 KM south of Salerno
It was a nice night. The seas were calm and his men were sleeping peacefully for once. The trip up the African coast was horrendous and Gregori abhorred this floating vomitorium they called a ship. He laughed thinking about his father, the sailor. There certainly wasn’t anything in our genes that was for sure. He looked at the sliver of the moon as he took deep breaths of the cool air and thought about the next few weeks.
It would be nice to get back to civilization after the three years in Africa, he thought. The young anti-aircraft artillery officer looked forward to this new assignment in Athens. He had been hearing so much about the nightlife in this city. He thought about that illicit copy of the American magazine Playboy that he had confiscated from his men. That photo spread on the lovely Greek girls. Mmmmm. He couldn’t wait for his taste.
Earlier in the cruise, Gregori had enthusiastically signed up his squadron to take part in the air watch patrols. One of his boys had been the first to spot the Egyptian air patrol. The little intrepid airplane had dogged them for the past few days and was relieved every eight hours or so by another. He turned to the South with his binoculars.
They had made a sport out of spotting their “seagull” and jeering at the Navy boys when the sailors lost track of the patrol craft. The Navy boys declared it to be a harmless nuisance and noted that the model did not have any anti-ship capabilities. But his squadron had spent many hours trying to guess what the Jihadis were up to. When they were finished jawboning about that and the Greek girls, they would make sport of the Navy again, never failing to point out how the squibs had chosen this cowardly route that hugged the Northern Coast of the Med. They could have been in Athens now drinking beer. Why should the greatest country in the world act like some sort of thief in the night?
He sighed heavily. Yep, there’s my faithful “seagull” - almost directly in front of the path of the ship now as they were heading south down the coast. He estimated about 20-25 miles away. He watched him for a while. The Egyptian was taking a chance flying so close to Sicilian airspace what with the recent ESU warning. But since most of the ESU was buzzing around Greece and Turkey, he suspected they might let this one slip through. Gregori’s squadron specialized in anti-aircraft gunnery and he looked forward to meeting this Egyptian pilot someday, perhaps under different circumstances.
Whoops! I spoke too soon, he thought. He adjusted the binoculars to watch as four ESU patrol aircraft quickly approached from the east to intercept the plane and he watched wistfully as the Egyptian patrol plane turned southwest towards Tunis. Well, at least someone is out there is thinking of us.
Air Force, he thought, now there’s a service that needs to be taken down a peg. He chuckled again and walked to the mess deck for a late night coffee.
North of the Aeolian Islands, approximately one hour later
The English-borne Captain showed off a little of his boarding school education to the crew. “Well, my boys. Once more into the breach.” Most of the crew had no idea what he was saying and the Babylonian Executive Officer didn’t bother to translate. He just signaled upward with his hands.
The ghost ship off Salina rose again and this time a periscope poked tentatively out of the water. After a long agonizing period for the crew and not so comfortable period for the veteran Captain, he mumbled and scratched at his grizzled beard, “Hello, what? Our Egyptian friends did not lie.” And then a few more agonizing moments later: “She’s within range, boys.” The captain rattled off some coordinates. The Executive Officer looked over at the torpedo console operator who conversed with the torpedo room and ops and then nodded towards him.
The XO touched the captain on his shoulder.
“Jolly good. Fire away!” After some fumbling and voice commands down to the torpedo room, the new Mark 35 started its first and last journey. The XO whispered to the crew, “Allah is great” and they all did a silent prayer. Even the infidel Captain bowed his head. He was praying that the torp, a notoriously unreliable model, would complete its mission. And he thought about the consequences if it didn’t.
And so the ghost boat slipped back to its “resting place” hoping that it too wasn’t completing its last journey as well. In a few days, it would look around again and then try to float home with the current.
USSR Destroyer SEVEROMORSK
40 km Southwest of Salerno
The Executive Officer (XO) of the USSR destroyer Severomorsk was only down in ASW room for a few seconds before one of the sonarmen screamed.
“We have a duck in the water! Repeat, duck in the water!”
What? XO leaned forward and looked over the young sailor’s shoulder.
“Calm down, son. Range? Speed?”
“Don’t have that yet. I’ve got an initial bearing now.”
The XO pointed at the Med map greaseboard. The Senior Chief who maintained the greaseboards nodded.
The XO proclaimed. “It must have come from somewhere here pointing north of Sicily.”
The Senior Chief who maintained the greaseboards nodded. “Yes sir, assuming it isn’t a Mark 39, in which case it could have come from here” - His finger traced a wider area above Sicily and came to rest on the a submarine contact labeled ESU-5 near the Messina strait - “the Czech sub - ESU-5,” he noted.
The XO ignored the implication. “No, not with that range. It would have to be wire-guided as well. The Jihadis don’t have MK 39s. You should know that.”
“Yes, sir, I do. But the ESU has wire-guided. So do the Americans.” He left it hanging in the air. One of the younger, less occupied, Soviet sailors turned up towards the chief.
“ESU-5, Chief, she is Czech?” The Senior Chief gazed at the petty officer in annoyance.
The XO answered. “You didn’t know? Well, that is good - our operational security is finally working. Yes, ESU-5 is a Czech sub.”
The sailor now turned his questioning look to the XO.
The XO sighed, “Yes, I know. Czechoslovakia is a landlocked nation.”
He rolled his eyes and explained.
“In order to maintain good relations among the core Eastern European states, the great leader of the ESU has funded a small Czech Navy. Their subs are training in the Tyrrhenian Sea where they supposedly won’t cause any trouble. They have already misfired one torpedo.” He paused and considered. “They shouldn’t be down here.”
The other sonarman shouted, “Um, range is about 15 miles from us. I’ve got a possible trajectory and speed.”
“27 knots and heading…” -- the sailor turned towards the greaseboard - “here”, pointing at the general area above the Aeolian Islands. He turned to the left display. “And on the kilo diagram” - he turned to the greaseboard that displayed the locations of all the ships in surface escort group and traced a line to the direct center.
“Oh. My.”
“Ten minutes to impact, Sir.”
“Get the Captain and the political officer down here, immediately. Have the helmsman lay a course to Salina Island. We’ll get this Jihadi. Inform the Markarov to execute maneuvers if in fact that rustbucket can actually do so.”
The Northern Entrance to the Messina Straits
A French fishing ship had just finished a week or so of trolling the Italian coast and their manifest and papers had gained them permission to head towards the Ionian Sea. The fishermen sat on the deck enjoying the dark and cool night watching the well-lit coastline.
Unobserved, though, was the antenna rose that from the top of the mast.
“Foxtrot 1, this is Tango Echo. The sausage is wet. Repeat, the sausage is wet.”
The antenna lowered and no one but the Captain and the 1st mate, both recent immigrants from Free French Republic, were any the wiser. The ship continued its transit unmolested through the straits.
END OF PART 1
Enjoy,
Sam
Part 1
Forward to this story...
Think if you will about a post-WWII Europe where US and England never made the cross-channel invasion at Normandy, the Poles threw in their lot with the Soviets and USSR/Poland went all the way to France. The USSR is the dominant power in the world. The post-WWII Europe is united behind Leader Sikorsky from Poland. A free France still exists in Africa. The U.S. is again in isolation and Great Britian has dissolved into anarchy (this was actually based on one of the first SNESAs in this forum so thanks to all who participated).
Iraq has revived the dreams of the Babylonian empire, united with most of Turkey (save Istanbul which comes under USSR rule) and leads a Muslim alliance with the other middle east and N. Africa countries. The story begins on the eve of the Iraqi withdrawl from Greece after the Greeks attacked them for their holdings in Turkey.
THE SALINA GAMBIT
Europe, 1954
Thessalonica was the site of the Soviet Greece Protectorate Force Headquarters.
In the wake of the Babylonian announcement that the Iraqis would unilaterally withdraw from Greece, Admiral Vladimar Smirnov called a meeting in his HQ with the USSR's European Security Union (ESU) allies and liasions from the non-affiliated countries.
He opened by saying, “Gentlemen, at your seat is a folder containing all the information you need to support the Babylonian withdrawal. Defense Minister Hussein will take down the flag at 1000 hours and will leave with the final Babylonian security detail - unmolested - shortly thereafter.” The ESU representatives shifted in their seats.
“The next folder details the plan for the Soviet-ESU occupation of these territories.”
The ESU General Victor Nanova, a martinet from Bulgaria who fought against the Soviets in WWII, immediately became incensed after reading the first page.
“Admiral with all due respect, it was my understanding that Athens would be governed by European Security forces, not Soviets. In fact, my leadership cannot support this plan. We thought that this was understood by the Soviets.”
The Admiral smiled. “We will be in charge of Athens and the Aegean Islands. We give you Crete. Didn’t Leader Sirkorksy tell you this? He made the deal.” Although, he was a bit drunk at the time Smirnov added silently.
The General raged, “That is not true. Show me this in writing. Sikorsky has said no such thing. In fact, he told me he looked forward to eating at one of his favorite restaurants in Athens. No, Admiral, you need to redo this plan. Polish and Bulgarian forces will occupy Athens. We have a battalion waiting in Corinth and they are already on the move.”
The Admiral sneered, “Surely, General, you have heard of the Spetsnaz, yes?” They were the Soviet elite forces and you did not mess with them. “They are parachuting into Greece, even as I speak. I would suggest that you stay out of the Spetsnaz’s way, neh? Leader Sikorsky is invited to the city anytime. I will personally see to his security.”
Stony silence.
He continued. “The Spetsnaz will be followed by about 5000 of our infantry - they will be arriving on the transport Markarov tomorrow morning. Check your folders - it is all there. You should call your troops back now, General.”
Nanova glared at the Admiral, picked up the folder and tore it in half. He shouted, “This will not pass. I will see to it.” And he left the room in a storm of torn paper and a flurry of ESU staff officers.
After he was gone, the Admiral joked, “Check the hat room and see that they did not steal any of our covers and coats again.”
The Russians laughed - they had gotten use to Nanova’s bellicosity over the past year. He would do nothing; he always backed down. The liaisons looked at each other with a bit of concern in their eyes for they had rarely seen this side of the supposedly great Soviet-ESU partnership.
Somewhere off the Aeolian Islands, north of Sicily
In advance of the troop transport ships heading towards the Greek mainland and the Aegean Islands, Soviet Navy destroyers performed a thorough sweep of the route through the Messina straits, between Italy and Sicily. The Soviet sonar analyst noted where all the metal hulks lay from previous wars. Off Salina, it looked like just another one of the sunken boats. He matched it with the sunken British submarine GRAMPUS. Historical records said that Italian destroyers had torpedoed the poor bastard 10 years ago. May she rest in peace, thought the analyst.
But, several hours after the Soviet destroyer had made their sweep, the ghost ship suddenly shuddered. Silently, it rose up in the water. An antenna poked up and waited for a few minutes and the ghost slipped back into its resting place.
USSR Sardinia listening post
Just like clockwork, every eight hours, thought Olga as she listened to the UHF channels. It had started several years ago and apparently emanated from the Egyptian coast. No one had figured out what it was, just short blocks of indecipherable squealing. Some of the geeks back in Moscow and Leningrad said it was simply strategic deception and meant nothing. Others thought the Jihadis’ transmitters were improperly installed. The pencil necks assured the communications operators it was just some nonsense - the Jihadis showing off. But she was sure they were studying it like mad, regardless.
The Soviet spooks had even started a competing program featuring a droning female Russian speaker, day after day, hour after hour, reciting a stream of random numbers over various short-wave frequencies. I hope its bugging them, Olga thought, the damn terrorists.
She turned to her officemate.
“It’s a nice night. Things look quiet. I’m going out for a quick espresso. Can you watch my console? Nothing seems to be happening tonight.”
Her desk mate ignored the breach of duties; it happened all the time in these provincial listening posts. Besides, she was busy providing information on the annoying Egyptian air patrol to the ESU and took little notice of Olga’s departure.
USSR Transport THE MARKAROV
200 KM south of Salerno
It was a nice night. The seas were calm and his men were sleeping peacefully for once. The trip up the African coast was horrendous and Gregori abhorred this floating vomitorium they called a ship. He laughed thinking about his father, the sailor. There certainly wasn’t anything in our genes that was for sure. He looked at the sliver of the moon as he took deep breaths of the cool air and thought about the next few weeks.
It would be nice to get back to civilization after the three years in Africa, he thought. The young anti-aircraft artillery officer looked forward to this new assignment in Athens. He had been hearing so much about the nightlife in this city. He thought about that illicit copy of the American magazine Playboy that he had confiscated from his men. That photo spread on the lovely Greek girls. Mmmmm. He couldn’t wait for his taste.
Earlier in the cruise, Gregori had enthusiastically signed up his squadron to take part in the air watch patrols. One of his boys had been the first to spot the Egyptian air patrol. The little intrepid airplane had dogged them for the past few days and was relieved every eight hours or so by another. He turned to the South with his binoculars.
They had made a sport out of spotting their “seagull” and jeering at the Navy boys when the sailors lost track of the patrol craft. The Navy boys declared it to be a harmless nuisance and noted that the model did not have any anti-ship capabilities. But his squadron had spent many hours trying to guess what the Jihadis were up to. When they were finished jawboning about that and the Greek girls, they would make sport of the Navy again, never failing to point out how the squibs had chosen this cowardly route that hugged the Northern Coast of the Med. They could have been in Athens now drinking beer. Why should the greatest country in the world act like some sort of thief in the night?
He sighed heavily. Yep, there’s my faithful “seagull” - almost directly in front of the path of the ship now as they were heading south down the coast. He estimated about 20-25 miles away. He watched him for a while. The Egyptian was taking a chance flying so close to Sicilian airspace what with the recent ESU warning. But since most of the ESU was buzzing around Greece and Turkey, he suspected they might let this one slip through. Gregori’s squadron specialized in anti-aircraft gunnery and he looked forward to meeting this Egyptian pilot someday, perhaps under different circumstances.
Whoops! I spoke too soon, he thought. He adjusted the binoculars to watch as four ESU patrol aircraft quickly approached from the east to intercept the plane and he watched wistfully as the Egyptian patrol plane turned southwest towards Tunis. Well, at least someone is out there is thinking of us.
Air Force, he thought, now there’s a service that needs to be taken down a peg. He chuckled again and walked to the mess deck for a late night coffee.
North of the Aeolian Islands, approximately one hour later
The English-borne Captain showed off a little of his boarding school education to the crew. “Well, my boys. Once more into the breach.” Most of the crew had no idea what he was saying and the Babylonian Executive Officer didn’t bother to translate. He just signaled upward with his hands.
The ghost ship off Salina rose again and this time a periscope poked tentatively out of the water. After a long agonizing period for the crew and not so comfortable period for the veteran Captain, he mumbled and scratched at his grizzled beard, “Hello, what? Our Egyptian friends did not lie.” And then a few more agonizing moments later: “She’s within range, boys.” The captain rattled off some coordinates. The Executive Officer looked over at the torpedo console operator who conversed with the torpedo room and ops and then nodded towards him.
The XO touched the captain on his shoulder.
“Jolly good. Fire away!” After some fumbling and voice commands down to the torpedo room, the new Mark 35 started its first and last journey. The XO whispered to the crew, “Allah is great” and they all did a silent prayer. Even the infidel Captain bowed his head. He was praying that the torp, a notoriously unreliable model, would complete its mission. And he thought about the consequences if it didn’t.
And so the ghost boat slipped back to its “resting place” hoping that it too wasn’t completing its last journey as well. In a few days, it would look around again and then try to float home with the current.
USSR Destroyer SEVEROMORSK
40 km Southwest of Salerno
The Executive Officer (XO) of the USSR destroyer Severomorsk was only down in ASW room for a few seconds before one of the sonarmen screamed.
“We have a duck in the water! Repeat, duck in the water!”
What? XO leaned forward and looked over the young sailor’s shoulder.
“Calm down, son. Range? Speed?”
“Don’t have that yet. I’ve got an initial bearing now.”
The XO pointed at the Med map greaseboard. The Senior Chief who maintained the greaseboards nodded.
The XO proclaimed. “It must have come from somewhere here pointing north of Sicily.”
The Senior Chief who maintained the greaseboards nodded. “Yes sir, assuming it isn’t a Mark 39, in which case it could have come from here” - His finger traced a wider area above Sicily and came to rest on the a submarine contact labeled ESU-5 near the Messina strait - “the Czech sub - ESU-5,” he noted.
The XO ignored the implication. “No, not with that range. It would have to be wire-guided as well. The Jihadis don’t have MK 39s. You should know that.”
“Yes, sir, I do. But the ESU has wire-guided. So do the Americans.” He left it hanging in the air. One of the younger, less occupied, Soviet sailors turned up towards the chief.
“ESU-5, Chief, she is Czech?” The Senior Chief gazed at the petty officer in annoyance.
The XO answered. “You didn’t know? Well, that is good - our operational security is finally working. Yes, ESU-5 is a Czech sub.”
The sailor now turned his questioning look to the XO.
The XO sighed, “Yes, I know. Czechoslovakia is a landlocked nation.”
He rolled his eyes and explained.
“In order to maintain good relations among the core Eastern European states, the great leader of the ESU has funded a small Czech Navy. Their subs are training in the Tyrrhenian Sea where they supposedly won’t cause any trouble. They have already misfired one torpedo.” He paused and considered. “They shouldn’t be down here.”
The other sonarman shouted, “Um, range is about 15 miles from us. I’ve got a possible trajectory and speed.”
“27 knots and heading…” -- the sailor turned towards the greaseboard - “here”, pointing at the general area above the Aeolian Islands. He turned to the left display. “And on the kilo diagram” - he turned to the greaseboard that displayed the locations of all the ships in surface escort group and traced a line to the direct center.
“Oh. My.”
“Ten minutes to impact, Sir.”
“Get the Captain and the political officer down here, immediately. Have the helmsman lay a course to Salina Island. We’ll get this Jihadi. Inform the Markarov to execute maneuvers if in fact that rustbucket can actually do so.”
The Northern Entrance to the Messina Straits
A French fishing ship had just finished a week or so of trolling the Italian coast and their manifest and papers had gained them permission to head towards the Ionian Sea. The fishermen sat on the deck enjoying the dark and cool night watching the well-lit coastline.
Unobserved, though, was the antenna rose that from the top of the mast.
“Foxtrot 1, this is Tango Echo. The sausage is wet. Repeat, the sausage is wet.”
The antenna lowered and no one but the Captain and the 1st mate, both recent immigrants from Free French Republic, were any the wiser. The ship continued its transit unmolested through the straits.
END OF PART 1
Comment