Just a introduction. First 1/2 of this chapter. Being the first one, I am keeping it under PG-12 for now In fact most of my CS stuff will be. CS is seen and read by a lot of juveniles, and I want to keep it moderately approriote
P.S. In a couple days this unit's stats will be posted Montana Raiders, along with most of the pilots histories.
STORY NOTE: I think I got the Auzzie accents decent....However they may just be a localized version of Australian (Sortof like Southern accents VS Northern in the US). The local custom cutter(Grain harvester) gets a fair bit of hired help from Australia, and there is a few guys who show up every year. Used their accent as wel as possible But in typing, accents get lost in translation.
"Quaint place ain't it?" Grant asked.
Raven raised an eyebrow and glanced around the street they were walking down, "If you want to call it that sir." she replied.
Rottnest Island, off of Perth Australia was unique. Although a pirate haven, in the unlikliest of spots, offshore of a national capitol, it nonetheless was one. And although the streets were admittedly not the safest, neither were they as dangerous as even those of Sky Haven, and decidedly safer than the various Indonesian ports they had been too.
Continuing their walk down the street, the two passed by a bar, a body flew out the front doors, quickly followed by a pair of uniformed Republican soldiers, who grabbed the man by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet.
"Evening boys," Grant commented, watching them handcuff the man and begin dragging him away, "Thought you guys stayed out of these places?"
The two soldiers looked at him somewhat cautiously, unsure of his position before the one replied, "Aye 'tis. Wouldn't norm'ly but this 'ere bloke's a d'serter. Gon get what's comin' to'im that's f'sure. Night folks," the lead soldier said before following the other man off.
"They talk queer here....even worse than the Brits," Raven commented, "I couldn't hardly understand him."
Nodding, he continued down the street towards their destination.
"Sir. Are you sure we should be here? Just because someone you heard of calls you here? Not exaclty a normal spot," she looked at the surroundings, "This seems too damned creepy. It's too crazy to be civilized, and too tame to be a haven."
Grant didn't comment for a moment, first looking up at a sign above a bar door.
"The Midnight Special." It read.
As they turned and walked in the doors he replied, "We weren't that far away, and we didn't have anything planned other than a normal combat raid. Besides. I know this guy. If he talks money, he means it."
"I thought you never been to Australia?" Raven asked.
"Never have been. Heard of him though, and his reputation exceeds him."
Walking into the atmosphere it was obvious this was one of the classier bars on the island. A quartet of musclebound gorillas at the front door accepted Grant and Raven's sidearms, not bothering to frisk them. The bullethole-free walls, clean tables, and modestly dressed servers all pointed to being a place where supposedly high-class pirates gathered, rather than two-bit a day bands.
Walking to a back table, Grant spotted the man he knew had to be him. Exceedingly neat, and wearing a flashy suit, he was flanked by a pair of easily spotted bodygaurds. Six feet tall, with muscles bulging their ten dollar suits, with massive bulges under their armpits, signalling firearms in shoulder-holsters...easily viewable inside a supposedly "Firearms free" bar, although those were rarely so. And the table, set into the wall, surrounded by walls on three sides with only the front open, all a sure sign of influence.
Ignoring the two bodygaurds, Grant seated himself at the table. Raven stood away from the table, several feet to the rear, watching. One of the bodygaurds glanced towards his boss, as if in question to scare off the un-invited guest. The man ignored him, intent on a manilla folder he was reading. Looking at the guest, the gorilla stepped forword, stopping only when his boss muttered, "I wouldn' Jimmy."
Halting, the thug glanced at the table, only now seeing what his boss had. When the bodygaurd had moved forword, the new arrival's hand had easily moved underneath the table, following his path, and the woman had casually placed her right hand resting on her left hip, easy reaching distance for a handgun concealed crossdraw.
The thug stepped back, glowering, while his boss closed the folder and looked up, "M'ster Olson I persume?" he asked.
"Yeah," Grant's hand moved underneath the table, before appearing on top again.
The man smiled, "You du re'lize that we'pons are eh.....not allowed 'ere?"
"That include your two gorillas?" Grant asked, "Lets get to the point. I assume you are George Henderson, correct?"
"Yes. And I apprec'ate your forthrightness. One thing, What'ver you 'ere, you can' say any'tin about...got it?"
"That's a part of business ain't it?" Grant asked.
"Ah good. Carol," the man snapped his fingers, and a server appeared, "Another Scotch, and eh..what'll 'ou be havin?"
"Bourbon....Black Knight if you got it," Grant said. She nodded and waited a moment.
"Will your frien' be havin' any?" the man asked, motioning to Raven, who stood behind Grant. Speaking to her he continued, 'An' your welcome to 'ave a chair miss."
"I'll stand," came her short reply, to the server she replied somewhat more friendly, "Bring two glasses. I'll take Bourbon as well."
The woman moved off and Henderson shrugged, "Ah well. Now. Down t' bus'ness."
"What's the target?" Grant asked, "You're in with the Republic now I hear....The Great White Sharks band is working your personal business so.......What I'm guessing is that you're needing some work for the Republic.....un-officially of course."
The man smiled, "M'ster Olson, I b'lieve you're more inf'rmed th'n I give 'ou credit for. Yes."
Opening the folder he slid it across to Grant, "The Commonwelt' jus' got in a bran' spankin' new addition to their militree. The Crown sold em a Quenn 'Lizebeth class Battl'wagon. It's the onl'y coombat zep thet the C'monwelth 'as."
Looking over the folder, Grant skimmed the details. The Zeppelin, now renamed the HMAS Australia, was currently stationed at the main Adelaide Commonwealth aerodrome. It was a Queen Elizabeth class Battle Zeppelin, capable of 72 knots, she could hold three squadrons of fighters, and packed a total of 16, six inch deck cannons, split into two broadsides.
It was going through a refit, with Australians replacing the less important British crewman. Although technically "Neutral" the veteran RAF members were remaining aboard the zeppelin, among the crew remaining were the chief gunners, head engineers and navigators, all of which the Australians were lagging behind in.
The transformation was nearly complete, with the zeppelin being schedualed for combat operations in six days. All it was waiting for was the transfer of it's third based squadron to arrive from Sydney. Until then it was to remain at Adelaide....surrounded by massive firepower.
In addition to the zeppelins two squadrons currently on-board, there was a total of 3 squadrons stationed in Adelaide, along with a full squadron of British "Peacekeepers". A tough package.
"What's so important about this zep?" Grant asked, "Why not wait until it is on combat patrol, then you can use Republican forces, and dogpile it?"
The Australian paused as the waitress returned with the glasses and bottle, setting them on the table. As she turned to leave, he tossed a small gold soveriegn on the tray, which rewarded him with a massive smile.
Waiting until she was out of earshot he continued, "Ah Yes. I figur'd you't'ask that quiston. 'Ere's the answer. We Need that zep popped. If dah Comm'n'welt loses their priiiiiime coombat zep in their OOWN bahckyard.......What'll the crown think? Old Edward want's 'is puppet to win dis war....Boot 'e ain't gonna toss 'spensive toys to people who'll lose em at a mooments notice either."
George paused and took a sip of his drink. He watched as the pirate opposite him poured a shot glass of bourbon and then downed the contents, similarly followed by the female behind him. After that both shot glasses were placed on the table and un-touched. Obviously so as to not distract them.
"We neeed, that zep gon'. But right now the Coomonwelt's pushin' us 'ard. We ain't got no forces t'spare offa t'line. My Great White's 'r willin', but a doozen fahgters ain't a match against thet....But with yours.....," he trailed off, "It'd be a fair metch."
Grant was silent, processing the information, "You will excuse me if I seem cautious....It just seems odd that you are so up front about everything....considering that I haven't promised to take the job."
Glacing around, George spoke, "Trute is, we ent got a choice. We need 't gone now. Yoor 't only cloose un around thet is relible...from what we 'eard....."
At this the pirate perked up, "Then I assume we get....premium...payment?"
The Australian gave a small smirk, "Jimmy," he spoke to the man behind him. With a growl the thug reached behind George's chair and removed a small chest, setting it on the table with a grunt.
"T'is shoold be s'fficant for a doown payment...c'rect?" he asked, opening the lid,"Rem'nder on S'CESSFUL compl'tion of t' mishin."
Looking into the case, Grant's heart paused a moment before continuing beating. The glitter of gold always did that to him. The box was not large, but packed bottom to brim full of British soveriegns. A more than adequate down payment.
"That will be enough," Grant said. He stood from the chair, "Tommorrow have the Great White's leader come to the south Aerodrome. We're the black zeppelin with the Falcon on the bow."
The man smiled, "I'm sure 'e'll find 't.....Th're ain't thet many coombat zepps on t'is islend."
Having served with ANZUS forces in Iraq a fair bit, I hereby certify your interpretation of the average Australian accent as VERY GOOD. It's bloody hard to spell things the way they sound when you say them yourself, much less someone else. I bow to your accent-fu!
Story sounds very interesting... sort of a 'Sink the Tirpitz' plotline.
I wonder if the Aussies will even be able to they her off the field.
Sorta a Tirpitz plotline.
On a side-note: I will be posting the Queen Elizabeth Class zeppelins soon. They are the equivalent of Texas's Republic class zeppelins. They are Britains primary battlezeppelins. Basically they are the equivelant of the "King George" class battleships of WW2. Newer, but somewhat outdated by brand new developments.
Good job - enjoyable - where did you ever find the principal character's name?
You mean Grant Olson?
That is the main character in my unit "Montana Raiders". I used my real first name (Grant) and then picked the last name of a relatives(Olson).
Plus it fits, although my background is pretty mongrelized, my largest chunk is 1/4 Swedish and I associate with it
If you mean the Australian (George Henderson), I just picked a name that sounded like a Aussie one
If you're wondering, I visualize him as being much like Badger from the TV series Firefly (Just image google search, "Firefly Badger", and you'll get responses), although a bit neater and cleaned up.
A person there would be alot of in Australia (Both sides), although firmly rooted with one side, he still does a fair bit of "Questionable" work, and is a small-time arms dealer.
Probably be a scenario in my upcoming Australian Campaign, using his "Personal" band the Great White Sharks.
REALLY slow on the updates....
Not a real great combat scene writer but here it is.
"King, we are 5 minutes out. Take your flight ahead and engage the patrolling flight. We'll back you up by the time reinforcements are launched," Grant clicked the throat mike.
"Got that Gunny," replied "King" James Knoel. His Fury led the way, with a Defender, King Cobra and a Brigand following him, dipping below the clouds and streaking for Adelaide. They would draw off the patrolling flight of Commonwealth fighters, leaving Eagle Wing, consisting of 8 over-loaded fighter bombers, open to take out the grounded fighters of Adelaides main aerodrome.
Hammer wing, consisting of 8 heavy fighters would then attack the zeppelin, protected hopefully by the previous fighters.
"Big Hugh, you wing all set?" Grant asked again.
"All good boss. You just make sure to keep any fighters off our backs. These birds are flying bricks," The agitation in "Big" Hugh Gerry's voice was obvious. He had not liked the plan when it had been put forward, with his wing being loaded with nearly twice their original specifications of ordnance. It made them even more slow and unwieldy, something which was tough to do to Warhawks and other heavy fighters.
Tell the truth, Grant "Gunny" Olson didn't like it much either. Neither overloading his heavies to the point of un-managable, nor the inclusion of his zeppelin the Helena in the plan, which was too light for the role it hopefully wouldn't have to do.
But those two things were his insurance policies. His "Employer" had been quite clear that it was all or nothing. If the Australia wasn't completely hashed, there would be no payment of any kind. Which meant nearly empty magazines, low fuel, and likely heavily damaged aircraft.
"No problem Hugh. We'll hit the aerodromes and the White Sharks will hit the British and provide cover for you," he replied, somewhat anxiously as he thought of that last sentance.
"Where the hell are the Sharks?" asked Cindy "Raven" Daniels, his wingman, "We're about over top of Adelaide, and they should be here."
Before he could reply, a new voice chimed in.
"Aircraft at six o'clock," cried out a turrent gunner on one of the Brigands.
"There's your answer," Grant replied, then switched frequencies, "Hey Jack. Glad you could make it."
"Wha'? An' miss out on all thu fun?" Jack Boone's thick Texas drawl a welcome sound and a good break from the usual thick Aussie accent.
Sixteen fighters edged in behind the Raider's aircraft, all painted a light blue, with white bellys, a stark contrast to his own black fighters, with dark red trimmings.
"Okay. Plan all set up?" Grant asked.
"All up. Two flights will cover your heavies and do a little damage of their own, two flights will hit the Peacekeepers north aerodrome and intercept any Brit flights coming in. Yer backup ready if we need it?", reffering to the Helena. The Great White Sharks had their own zeppelin, but was not even as heavily armed as his, and had stayed far behind the combat.
"All set," Grant replied. Looking at the holes in the clouds below him, he spoke into general frequency, "Okay. Boys, we're here. Let's give em a little hello."
The formation of fighters broke, eight of the Shark planes redlining it and peeling northward, while eight stayed with his own eight heavy fighters directly towards the main target.
His flight of eight broke into two groups, one for each of the aerodromes to be hit. They just dropped through the clouds when a burst of transmissions came over the radio.
"HOLY CRAP. BREAK FORMATION, BREAK FORMATION."
"I'M BAILIN' COVER ME DOWN."
"SOMEBODY GET THIS GHOST OFF MY TAIL."
As his flight cleared the clouds, it was obvious what was happening. Instead of the normal four-plane patrol flight he had expected, his four fighters he had sent ahead, and now the eight forward Great White Shark fighters, were tangled in a furball with almost two dozen aircraft, a massive ball of fighters, vapor trails and tracers flying in the misty air.
"SHIT," Grant slammed the dash of his fighter. Thinking quickly he slapped the throat mike, "Hammer Wing. Be careful. You might have a helluva lot of trouble. Looks like someome tipped off those Commonwealth bastards."
"Got it boss." Came Hugh's short reply.
"Eagle Lead two follow me, three and four go with Hammer. There ain't gonna be nothing at the aerodromes now," He slammed forward the throttle on his M210 Raven, the aircraft sluggishly pulled ahead, laboring under the strain of double rocket loads.
As his group closed on the dogfight, he watched as a British Phantasm got a Shark Hornet under it's guns and literally disintegrate it, only to fall under a savage rocket attack by a Shark Warhawk.
Getting to the outside range of his rockets, he targeted a DH-9 Hornet that was pulling out of a high-G turn, attempting to edge back into the fight.
He fired off a pair of flak rockets, the two warheads streaking ahead of the light fighter. They bracketed it, detonating and showering it with hot metal. However, although hit, the fighter wobbled off and re-entered the fight.
His group now entered range, and tore into the Commonwealth fighters, bringing a fresh loadout of rockets, which the earlier two groups had depleted in initial salvoes.
Three Commonwealth fighters shattered under the initial attack, their previous damage allowing quick destruction. But that edge was only there a split second as the proffesional British pilots, and combat-hardened Commonwealth pilots regained composure and shifted their still-superior numbers to the attackers.
Not all of the pilots retained their composure however, a North American-F-5 wobbled a moment, as if dazed, on the edge of the fight. It was an invitation, one which he couldn't pass up.
It banked hard back into the fight, exposing itself in an overhead profile. He gave a wolfish grin and smashed down on the firing stud. The six gun barrels erupted, pouring a hailstorm of .40, .50 and .60 caliber shells into the tough fighter, chunks of armor ripping free from it's wings.
It shuddered, but weathered the damage as it completed it's turn and dived for the water. The F-5's powerful engine straining to pull out of range of his fighter. Closing behind it, Grant edged his throttle forward, just bringing the fighter into his range. He opened up with his guns, holding down as an extra long burst poured out of his barrels. The tail of the fighter evaporated in a stream of fire, the rudder blowing off in a large chunk. First one, then two, three guns clicked as their actions jammed.
Grant let up on the firing stud as a fourth jammed, the now tailless aircraft spinning downward. By now he was well below the fight as he had followed the fighter down. He pulled up the nose, then threw his fighter into a series of slow rolls, attempting to unjam the guns as he climbed.
His .40's remained jammed as his airframe shuddered from impacts. Intent on unjamming his weapons, he had allowed a pair of Phantasm fighters to close to their firing range, riddling his trailing wings with .50 caliber bullets.
'Shit,' he thought, slamming the fighter into a hard right bank. His still bulky aircraft responded sluggishly at first, until finally the Raven's natural agility pulled out of the high-G maneuver.
The Phantasms split, one sticking to his tail while the other cut throttle and moved on a intercepting course.
The two fighters were faster and more agile than his Raven, a fact he was well aware of, and having two of them made him a little uneasy. Grant slammed down the throttle, the heavy fighter jerking forward, G' forces slamming him back into his seat.
The Phantasms formed up and put their speed at meax, easily keeping up with him. Intent on their easy kill, they ignored the same thing that Grant had noticed.
Another Raven dove towards the British fighters, firing a quartet of flak and flash rockets in front of the pair. The pilots were caught by surprise, one, blinded by the flash of light veered left, to avoid hitting his wingman and while the other managed to avoid the blast of the rockets and stuck to Grant's fighter.
"Thank's Raven. I owe you one," Grant chuckled into the radio as he watched the Phantasm begin slaloming right and left to avoid the expected fire while still following him.
Raven however ignored that fighter and banked onto the shocked pilot's tail, leaving him to deal with it himself, "No problem boss," was her only reply, concentrating on her target.
The attack had done enough, breaking the British pilot's concentration. Grant raised his flaps, and pulled his fighter's nose straight up, cutting his speed.
The Phantasm got a split shot as it sped by, peppering his fighter with .50's before speeding past him.
Dropping the flaps, he dropped his fighters nose and onto the tail of the British fighter. The 210 Raven was reknowned for being slow to accelerate, something the British pilot was obviously counting on.
What he didn't count on was the pair of sonics that buffeted his fighter. The Phantasm tossed as the pilot jerked, the aircraft banking hard up to avoid the rapidly approaching ocean, losing it's speed in the process of climbing.
Taking advantage of the easy target, Grant unleashed his overloaded rockets, firing off four armor-piercing rockets. The warheads lacked much explosive, but ripped deep into the fighter, a pair hitting the engine cowling, while another hit the wing and the fourth missed.
The fighter belched smoke as the engine was hit, and allowed Grant's fighter to approach closer. Lining up on the shocked pilot, he unleashed his guns on the easy target.
Rounds of mixed caliber smashed into the already damaged tail of the aircraft. Somewhere in the damage a .40 caliber magnesium round are into the Phantasm's fuel tank.
It exploded only feet in front of Grant, pieces of RAF fighter pounding into his fighter as hard as flak.
He fought the Raven's nose upward and looked at the battle around him. Among his worse habits was getting absorbed in a fight and forgetting about the battle around him. A pair of his fighters were down, while three of the Great White planes were down. And while there were only eight Commonwealth fighters still flying, almost all of the remaining Raider aircraft were trailing smoke and showing obvious damage.
"Eagle Leader get your ass up here," barked a voice over the radio.
"What is it John Paul?" Grant asked into the radio. "John Paul" Jones was the helmsman of their zeppelin, the Helena.
"That damned Commonwealth airbag just dropped outta the clouds a couple thousand feet above us. They'll be in firing range in a coupla minutes. Looks like they brought their escort with them."
'Damnit,' he thought. He gripped the throat-mike, "Big Hugh, you get that?"
"I got it. Get some fighters up here to cover us. The Great Whites are a little busy and we're going up alone," reffering to the eight slow-moving heavy fighters.
"Okay got it," Grant glanced at the fight around him.
"No worries Gunny," Jack Boone called over the radio, "Take your birds up. Me'n the Sharks can handle these guys."
Grant didn't bother to ask, instead barking at his fighters to form up, with 7 other birds forming up on his as they fought for altitude. It left the Great White's with tough odds, but apparently the mercenary figured it was close enough.
I can't wait for the next chapter in our fun little civil war.
In answer to your previous comments about Aussie accents, yes there is a distinct difference between North and South, it is the opposite to the US, the north is very "Ocker" [think paul hogan, crocodile dundee], the south is more cosmopolitan [think British but without the heavy accent and better pronouciation].
Ontop of that the West is different from the South.
Places like Perth were settled by the Dutch, places like Melbourne & Sydney were settled by the British.
Pretty much anything above Sydney was designated as one penal colony or another due to the harsh arid nature of the land.
When the penal institutes were disbanded they became prime locations for Irish, German and Chinesse immigrants.
Whilst the west is not as ocker as the north, they do pride themselves on their pronounciation and can be a little uppity about it in the city areas.
[I have my distant Aunt to thank for that]
A few words/phrases that you might like to know:
"Scrub", "Beat about the bush", "outback" refers to rough country areas.
"Yanks" anyone from the US, no distinction is given to those from north or south. During the war a popular saying among Australians both in the war and at home was, "Yanks are over paid , over sexed and over here!"
"Poms" Anybody from Britian, no distinction given about which Isle they are from though there is an immediate appology given if they identify themselves as anything other than English.
"Flat out like a lizard drinking" busy, hard working.
"As useless as t**s on a bull!" [I'll let you work out the meaning on that one out.]
"He couldn't fight his way out of a wet paper bag" weakling
"Better than a poke in the eye with a burnt stick" Be thankful for what you have got.
"Seven sandwiches short of a picnic" a bit clueless
"Clear as mud" unclear
"spat the dummy" major tantrum
"I'll have your guts for garters mate!" I'm going to get you for that.
"What do you think it is, Bushweek?" you can't put one over me
"Stone the (flaming) crows! what the hell is that
"Well, bugger me dead!" general exclamation
"Ya Wally!" you're not too bright!
"big smoke" the city
"Hard yakker" hard work
"Thongs" I believe you yankes call them flip flops
"Top end" northern teritory
"stubby" our word for beer
"yobbo" clownish behaviour
"G'day" Hows it going mate!
Oh and on a side note, we have trouble understanding what an average person from Britian or America is saying.
Usually I find it helps to have a Canadian on standby to help translate, eh.
Though I've gotta say that my favouite line from the Simpsons was the Australian eppisode and Marge is in an Aussie pub and asks for coffee,
[Barkeep]"and wha'tll you have miss?"
[Marge] "I'll have a coffee."
[Barkeep] "Beer it is!"
[Marge] "No I said Coffee"
I recognize the one phrase.
Except around here it's "As useless as T**s on a boar(Pig)".
Good to see a few.
And...wow..I knew there was differances on the accents but... I just usually have a hard time understanding ANY of them.
Lol...Sorta funny...I don't understand the speaking of your words, and we use so much slang it's un-readable
Maybe I should go visit a few weeks
Anyway. Hoping to have the 3rd up soon but...I get sidetracked.