The Salina Gambit

[Samuel Johnson]

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

[Samuel Johnson]

THE SALINA GAMBIT

Part 2

Aboard the ESU Battleship GRANAT

“Tango Echo, this is Foxtrot 1. Repeat your call. Repeat. No, wait. Who is this? You were warned not to use these channels. Are you in trouble again, ESU-5? Please use standard protocol for Maydays. What are you doing down there anyway?”

The Captain of the GRANAT angrily tore the microphone out of the radioman’s hands before he could go any further and ordered the boy escorted to the brig. He then cursed the first of many curses he would lay on the Czech sub before the night was through. Best to act as if this had never happened.


USSR Sardinia listening post

Olga had just gotten back and her senses were tingling from the caffeine. The Italian men are handsome and the coffee is good. I could live here the rest of my life.

She noted that odd conversation about “wet sausages” that came from the GRANAT, thought it just one of those radio mistakes that occasionally happened in this part of the Med but coded the short transcript for immediate review at HQ. She snickered, probably the Germans in the ESU ordering takeout. The telegraph man encoded it and transmitted it via radio to the Russian Mediterranean Navy HQ in Rome. Similarly in Palermo, the process was repeated. In Moscow, an analyst fed the information into a computer and in seconds gave the resulting tickertape printout to a messenger who ran it into the intelligence operations center. The messenger was taken aback by the activity in the Moscow central ops center and figured something must be going down.


USSR Destroyer SEVEROMORSK

A few minutes later, the Captain dropped into his chair on the bridge. The political officer followed a minute later. He was a greasy unkempt man, unfit for the NVGD, and very out of place on the destroyer. He just sipped his whisky-laced coffee and kept quiet. There was going to be some excitement tonight, he thought.

“Sir, we have reports of a huge explosion from sonar in the vicinity of the Markarov. Should we continue to make haste to the Salina islands or break off and look for survivors?”

The Captain dismissed that. “Our orders from Admiral Smirnov are clear. Full speed. Let’s take care of this stinking Moo. Let’s give them the first counter-punch of this war.” Moo was short for Muhammad and the name the USSR Navy gave to all the Jihadi ships.

A radioman came onto the bridge.

“Yes?” asked the XO, who was standing by the Captain’s chair.

The radioman pointed at the political officer and handed him the eyes only message.

The seedy political officer smiled as he read. “Hmm…Captain, you might want to prepare a new course.”

“What are you talking about?” the Captain snapped.

“Well, Soviet intelligence says that the submarine that struck the Markarov is at these coordinates.” He handed them to the Captain who handed them to the navigators who plotted them on the light table.

“Sir,” said one of the sailors. “That’s in the general area that ASW says Czech submarine is at.”

The XO who was standing by silently throughout objected. “That can’t be, Captain. We should maintain course to Salina Island.”

The political officer only smiled and he shifted his beady eyes went towards the radio console which magically crackled.

“Wardog 3, this is Alpha Papa, come in.”

The Captain grabbed the microphone. “Alpha Papa, this is Wardog 3, we read you loud and clear.”

“Wardog 3, make way to the following coordinates and start your search there.” They were the same coordinates the political officer had just handed the crew a second ago.

The political officer’s smile got broader and he flashed an “I told you so” smile at the seething XO.

The Captain roared, “Get me the CO of the Granat on a secure channel. Why can’t we have competent allies?”

“When we get near ESU-5, go completely active. He’s obviously made a mistake - let’s get him to surface. If he ignores us,” the Destroyer Captain grimaced, “then launch depth charges. XO! Let’s see if we can get him to wet his pants.”


ABOARD THE CZHECH SUBMARINE

Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping!

“Evasive maneuvers.” The Captain, a minor political figure from the mountainous regions, didn’t know what those maneuvers would be but he trusted his Soviet-trained XO would figure it out.

“Sir, it can only be ESU or Russians pinging us. They would never let the Jihadis this far into the Med.”

“Well,” the Captain said, “maybe its impromptu training exercises.”

“There is no such training scheduled, Captain. I have no idea why we are even down here - it is way out of our maneuvering area.”

“I don’t care what you think and I hate being second-guessed by my XO. Continue the evasive maneuvers.”

One half hour later of incessant pinging. And then the depth charges. The Captain at one point whined that they had never done this before in training. The XO continued to encourage him to surface.

One of the communications officers had taken over the console. “We’re getting a low frequency message in Morse code. Hard to make it out with all the clutter.”

A long pause. “Captain, it says `surface or die’ and its USSR in origin.”

The Captain started screaming, “It’s a trick. Somehow the Iraqis have made it through our defenses. Fire at them, make it stop!”

XO: “Captain, I respectfully suggest that we surface and sort this out.” The Captain screeched, “Are you disobeying a direct order. Do you want to be replaced? We are not to surface!”

The XO was speechless - even though he had been trained never to disobey a direct order, his fingers instinctively went to his sidearm. Instead he turned to the chief. “Prepare torpedo in bay 2.” He whispered to the chief to make it a training torpedo. Perhaps the Soviets would see that they were mistaken if an inert torpedo was launched. The Chief winked and went to work.


USSR Destroyer Severomorsk

The XO was now incensed as well. “Captain, we have another duck in the water. It’s going to go off-range but the Czechs are now firing at us,” not without a little bit of prideful outrage.

The Soviet Captain was livid and it wasn’t helping that the Granat Captain had turned down his request for a secure conversation. They kept saying that their secure antenna was down. “Get me the Granat on a non-secure line. We need to get to the bottom of this. I don’t care if we breach operational security. This is insane.”

A minute later, the Granat replied that the Captain was indisposed. The political officer shook his head knowingly. “Captain, did you know that several days ago, the ESU stormed out of a meeting with Admiral Smirnov and said that USSR will never occupy Athens. Those soldiers on the Markarov were heading for Athens, you know.”

“Oh, Mother of Russia, save us from these Eastern Europeans! Do you think this is just a case of insubordination by General Nanova?” The Captain didn’t expect a reply and thought of all those soldiers who were now lost or freezing off the coast of Italy.

He took a deep breath. “Very well. That submarine is a menace - I don’t care if she is confused or what. She is now declared a rogue submarine. Tell the Granat that we are going to fire torpedoes.”

“Sir, they’re still not responding.”

“Very well. I have been given no choice. Make ESU-5 go away.” And he waved his hands.

CZECH SUB

The pinging just got faster and louder.

The submarine Captain, who had never seen the sea until he was 25 years old, started screaming when he realized it might become his final resting place. “What do we do now, what do we do now? Surface, surface, surface!” The XO instead shrugged and said, “Too late. Prepare for impact, Sir.”

As the pinging got faster and faster, the XO noticed a dark stain spreading across the Captain’s crotch. He wondered what he had done to God to deserve such a final moment in life - watching a goat herder’s son wet his pants. And then everything went white and then everything went dark.

ATHENS

Smirnov read the report several times that morning. Athens would be held and the great Soviet Army would no doubt eventually bring in replacement troops through the Black Sea but now Nanova was insisting that peace be maintained by his own Corinth contingent. The Greeks were rioting already and the Spetz were in a defensive crouch all around the city. Back in Moscow there were rumblings of discontent about the whole affair among the Politburo. Of course, they were the ones who approved supporting the whole insane notion of a Czech submarine - against Smirnov’s strident objections. Oh, Vlad, if its good for our allies, it is good for the Soviets, they said.

Nanova was claiming the sinking of the Markarov it was all an accident and hinting darkly that the Iraqis were somehow behind it. But how could that be - the only Jihadi in the area was a stinking Egyptian plane and they were gone long before anything happened. And all the wailing and moaning didn’t bring back all those Soviet troops.

He sighed and eyed a picture of his son, Gregori, so young and proud in his Army uniform. They hadn’t spoken in three years and now he lay somewhere on the bottom of the sea. His wife’s sobbing still echoed in his ears.

But if anything, he knew that a confrontation was now looming between the Soviet and their incompetent greedy ally. How had it come to this in only a few days? He sighed again. It was only a matter of time. Sirkorsky is a drunk and Nanova is an ambitious dunce.

He considered Hussein’s offer to facilitate talks between the USSR and the Babylonians and his trembling hand moved towards the telephone.


Epilogue: Baghdad (several days later)

“Tariq, do the voice again.”

Tariq did his imitation of Nanova, the bombastic Bulgarian General holding a phone to his ear: “Captain, you are to proceed directly to the Messina Straits. This is a training mission and if you pass, we will have some exciting missions for your new Czech Navy. I see a star in your future. Now it is most important to remember that unless ordered by the ESU commander on the scene, you are not to surface except for air and to recharge your batteries. You must not tell the Soviet handler about your special orders and there will be no further messages from me on this. Do you understand, Captain?”

Saddam snickered, then laughed, and then bellowed. “Oh, Tariq. Do it again.”

THE END

[vovan]

That is a cool story. Good job, Sam. And by all means, keep writing. No stories go unnoticed on these forums

[Centauri18]

Well, well. One of the old greats back at last. I am very glad that I bumped up Zulu Rules.

[gooberboob]

What about BEER and the antics of Metaliturtle??!!! This could be great

[Lycurgus]

Marvellous, just marvellous! Good to see a bit of the old style political thriller coming to the fore once more. Huzzah!

[Samuel Johnson]

Thanks for all your supportive remarks. I am currently playing the Japanese on the big-a** map in Play the World scenario list. Even though I have a pretty good computer, it looks like it will take forever but on the other hand it might make for a kick-ass Naval story once the 20th century rolls around (assuming I survive!).

Sam

[unscratchedfoot]

I just wanna say this is a true hooby-doober of a story.

[ChrisiusMaximus]

I like it too

[unscratchedfoot]

Love the story.

[ChrisiusMaximus]

Will somebody callo a doctor for our Scratch hes been puking up all over the forum.

Hey Scratch do you ever have pavement pizza contests down there in Japan ?

[Sparkle]

Muhahah... I love the story :-) Well, I could argue about some things in the plot but... I´ll rather be quiet :-)

[Samuel Johnson]

Oh, that's okay - go ahead and argue away. There's no offense meant to the Czech Republic or the Czech or Slovak people - I just needed a landlocked country in Eastern Europe for the plot purposes. In point of fact, I think the Czechs are great and Prague is one of my favorite cities in Europe.

I think the biggest problem with the story is that one could never replicate the action with the Civ III game such as it is - for instance: submarines can't hide (although they aren't readily seen).

Anyway, it was fun writing and there's no intention to state that any of the characters represents a particular trait, good or bad, about a particular people.

[Samuel Johnson]

I've made a link to this story and the contest (and the Civ III Apolyton site) at my weblog - The Art of War - shameless plugging - but don't worry - no one reads my weblog anyway or would do anything I ask them to at any rate.

[Sparkle]

Samuel Johnson

the submarine thing is OK, I find it cool, there is just one thing that I was not particularly happy at and that is "goat herder’s son" - it gives the feel of our country to be agricultural or something like that, it´s definitely not true, we are too small and urbanized for that, Poland is very agricultural but Czech Rep not.

But it doesn´t change the fact that I like the story :-)

[Samuel Johnson]

My bad - you are right - I was thinking more of the Slovak Hungarian border area of the old Czechoslovakia ca. 1937. Just as the Poles had thrown in with the Soviets, so had the Czechs in my fantasy world - ergo they get a bunch of booty (including a chunk of Germany) at the end.

[Sparkle]

Samuel Johnson

Yeah, Slovak-Hungarian border is big lowland (river-basin of Danube), much black earth, very fertile ground for agriculture, but a little bit far from us :-))