Mission for the Grand Duchy!

Captain's complements to the Crew.

You may have noticed that we upped ship and our currently running race tracks in the Baltic Sea.

There is a point to this activity.

We have again received a contract from the Grand Duchy of Warsaw to assist them in their on-going border skirmishes along the Kaliningrad Oblast/Grand Duchy border.  For those who slept through the last mission to Warsaw, Kaliningrad remains under the control of the Tsar-Premier of Muscovy.  Grand Duchy intelligence is concerned about an apparent build up of Muscovite forces in Kaliningrad.  We've been asked to 'substantially reduce their by-sea throughput.'

Our mission: interdict and destroy Muscovite shipping moving material into the Port of Kaliningrad.  If we spot any air transport squawking Muscovy, force it down.

Captain XO's Cunning Scheme.  First, we need to deploy our HUMINT teams to collect intelligence on Muscovy shipping arrival times, manifest, and routes.  Our cyber teams will also assist in this.  Parasite fighters will run recon in assigned zones.

HUMINT teams will also establish safehouses for staging of Bold Air Hussar and Glider Zouave strike teams who will attack shipping and transportation targets as identified by our HUMINTers.  Minimal--preferably zero--civilian casualties.

We will use intelligence gathered by our teams to intercept Muscovite shipping, focusing on ships transporting military equipment and personnel.  Those we sink.  Commercial shipping, we seize and sell.

Questions?

Ruritania AAR

So, on occasion, Captain XO lets his love of adventure and swashbuckling lead him to accept missions which may be slightly beyond the Renegade's capabilities.

This was one such case.

Mission Profile: we had accepted a contract to exfiltrate a gentleman who had been involved in a potentially devastating political scandal in Ruritania, a small kingdom bordering both Germany and the Grand Duchy of Warsaw.  The gentleman was holed up in a very fancy hunting lodge in the countryside.  Our mission was to fly in, pick him up, fly out.  No muss, no fuss.

Well, Captain XO accepted the contract, but he failed the Renegade and its crew by not assembling senior staff to discuss whether we should take this on.  The Renegade was designed to be an area domination platform--a floating Anti-access/Area denial platform.  Stealth was not a mission for which the Renegade was designed.  Thankfully, after the Captain' blunder, the PAO was able to come up with a messaging plan to cast the Renegade's visit to Ruritania as a goodwill gesture by air pirates.

We need to develop a stealth capability--some type of low profile insertion and recovery method.

Captain XO is humble and open to suggestions from the crew, both air and ground.

(Captain XO Admin Note: Yes, I shamelessly stole this from The Prisoner of Zenda.  I love the 1950s Stewart Granger version.  Book is damned good, too.)

Escape from Donetsk!

Captain XO's note: This is the second narrative mission, transcribed by Derrick Perkins to appear. We hope you enjoy the continuing adventures of Colonel Thaddeus de Curieux, the Military Attaché of the Renegade.

Cold permeated the single room safe house. Under three layers of clothing, Joe Miller shivered. Outside the frosty glass of the window, snow fell on a nearly empty street. The vacant storefronts across the way seemed to sag under the weight of the light dusting. Donetsk was dying, if it wasn’t dead already.

“I get the impression we’re waiting,” he said, half-admiring the billow of fog his breath made.

Colonel Thaddeus de Curieux smiled thinly.

“There is fun in the waiting, my friend,” he said. “Anticipation is half the pleasure.”

Miller nodded sullenly. There was not much pleasure in freezing, that much he knew. When was the last time he had felt so cold? There were those ski trips in Vermont when he was a kid, nothing like taking a face full of snow after hitting a patch of New England ice. Maybe the night he forgot the T shut down before 1 a.m. while in college and had to trudge back to campus in February after an evening on the town.

“We couldn’t have waited in a hotel? One with a spa, maybe?”

“My friends abhor ostentatiousness,” de Curieux. “Hotels also have ledgers, records easily accessed, and far too many extra sets of eyes.”

He motioned at the window.

“Not that there are many five star accommodations left in this town anyway.”

Miller nodded.

“I hadn’t been keeping up on the news from here,” he said. “I hadn’t realized.”

“War is terrible enough, it does not keep well,” de Curieux said. “Reminds me of East Berlin in a way.”

“East Berlin?”

“And Ypres.”

Miller stopped asking questions. They never led anywhere satisfying with de Curieux anyway. Instead, he resumed his watch out the window.

Darkness was falling on the city, long forgotten by all but its inhabitants and the ideologues orchestrating its descent into purgatory. Unlike an American town, it did not burst into illumination as street lamps, porch lights, and neon signs greeting the coming of night. Donetsk just faded away.

Until a pair of automobile headlights flared in the distance, cutting through the gloom. Eventually, Miller could make out the sputter of a car engine. The tensioner was bad, he thought.

“These your friends?” he asked hopefully. “I can pull out the timing cover and take a look if it helps our cause.”

“I doubt they would have the parts to make a repair, though your offer of assistance is noted,” de Curieux replied, getting up. He stamped his boot-clad feet a few times. “You should prepare yourself. If all goes well, this will be a fairly rapid exchange of information.”

“Your dossier was strangely quiet on that part,” Miller said, standing. “Can we go somewhere warm afterward? A day in a building without heat or power is about long enough.”

“I have arranged for suitable accommodations until our extraction,” de Curieux said while the car came to a stuttering halt outside the building. Three men got out and quietly made their way to the door. In the darkness, they appeared only as wraiths.

“It should be them,” de Curieux said. “But wait for the correct knock sequence before making a noise.”

“Our security is based on code? Coded knocks?”

“Hush,” de Curieux said.

Miller bit his tongue and tucked his hands underneath his arms. In the cold quiet, he swore he could hear his teeth chatter.

A rap emanated from the door. After a brief pause it was followed by two more. Another pause; two more raps. Miller rolled his eyes.

De Curieux smiled in return, stepped forward and swung back the bolt on the door. Then he retreated until he was standing next to Miller.

“Now the fun truly begins,” he whispered in the younger man’s ear. Miller suddenly had an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The door creaked opened and the three figures stepped inside. All of them were bearded and bundled up for the cold. They glanced at one another apprehensively. The largest of them stepped forward and offered a hand. De Curieux took it warmly.

“Colonel?”

“At your service,” de Curieux replied. “And you would be? I was told to expect a man named Petro.”

“Unfortunately, no,” replied the big man. “I am Ivan, Ivan Honchar. Captain Ivan Honchar of the MGB, and you are under arrest by the People’s Republic for the incitement of treason and espionage.”

He smiled and pulled two pairs of handcuffs out of his burly coat. The two men behind him produced Kalashnikovs.

Miller was about to protest, but any sound he might have produced would have been drowned out by the roar of engines and the creaking of metal tracks. Bright light flooded the room as searchlights flickered on. Heavily armed figures began flashing by the window.

Instead, Miller looked at de Curieux.

“The MGB?”

“They are very similar to the Stasi,” de Curieux said. “Much less dapper, though.”

“Oh,” Miller said. “Good to know.”

Three days earlier

Miller had never been invited to the backroom of the Zeppel Inn before and was appropriately shocked when one of the junior bartenders hustled him off from his usual table with the rest of the motor pool. As soon as he stepped inside, the door locked shut behind him. For a second he just marveled at the array of banners, trophies and other spoils mounted on the walls; were those really the Black Prince’s heraldic achievements? They were supposed to be on display in Canterbury.

“Wanna take a seat and join us?” asked a voice. Miller tore his eyes away from Otto von Bismarck’s pickelhaube and focused on the trio sitting at the long oak table in the room’s center.

The question came from a wiry, roseate-haired woman in a grease-stained tank top and work pants. A cigarette dangled from her mouth. Beside her sat a large, muscle-bound man in the field shirt preferred by The Renegade’s fighting men and women. A simple, black tattoo on the underside of his wrist--a greek helmet framed by two outstretched eagle’s wings--gave him away as a Bold Air Hussar. He thumped a tin of chew listlessly as he gave Miller the once over.

The third member gazed out impassively. Tall and lean, he had his arms crossed over his pilot’s uniform.

“Well?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and a glass. “Whomever called us here at least left us a bottle of 18-year-old Laphroaig.”

Knowing not to question good fortune, Miller grabbed a chair and sat down as the pilot poured him a dram. The liquor flowed down smoothly.

The woman produced a deck of cards from one of the many pockets sewn into her pants.

“Anybody up for whist?” she asked. Any replies were choked off by the sound of the door opening again.

In strode de Curieux. Unlike the four seated, who wore varying stages of off hours clothing, the colonel entered in full uniform, although not exactly one of the ship’s official uniforms. Rather, he wore the blue, high-collared tunic of a Prussian field marshal. Everything about him was neat, from the pressed pants to the finely combed auburn hair. There was just a hint of a shadow on his face.

“Ah, you have all found the place and made yourselves comfortable. Excellent,” he said, motioning toward the bottle of scotch whiskey.

Miller glanced at his drink and decided he felt decidedly uncomfortable all of the sudden. From behind his back, de Curieux produced a pile of packets.

“By way of introduction, my name is Colonel Thaddeus de Curieux, military attache to the Renegade,” he said, passing them out. “As such, I handle various extraneous affairs for the Captain XO as well as most diplomatic matters. Occasionally, I have need of extra hands.”

When nobody said anything, de Curieux sighed.

“As it happens, I have need of all of you,” he said, handing the final packet to Miller.

“Who are you again?” asked the woman. “I can’t remember coming across you ever. And I know the crew pretty well. Officers and all.”

“Sergeant Siobhan O’Leary, American-born, second-year member of the crew, assigned to the public affairs office.”

“What’s it to you?”

“Raised in Savannah, not Brooklyn, despite outward appearances,” a droll de Curieux continued. “Expert with social media, but dabbles--quite well, I must say--in demolitions as a hobby. Also goes by Valkyrie.”

O’Leary eyed him.

“Corporal Logan Winters, New Zealand native and distinguished member of the Bold Air Hussars, a former officer in the Ngati Tumatauenga discharged after borrowing a combat vehicle to settle a bar tab. A fitness fanatic who spends most free time on the range--I’m sorry, ranges. Is there a heavy weapon you’re not qualified to use?”

“I pick things up pretty quick,” Winters replied through the cigar.

“And Lieutenant Gustav Hanover, German-born pilot with two confirmed kills, a pre-med student before failing grades forced him from university. Quite a list of exploits in South and Central America before joining The Renegade a year ago.”

Hanover stood smartly and saluted.

“Herr Oberst,” he said, before sitting.

“Lastly, we have Miller, mechanic’s apprentice and duelist,” de Curieux said. “Now that introductions are over, you should take a moment to get to know one another. Enjoy the scotch and the evening. We leave tomorrow at nightfall. You will find orders relieving you of your regular duty in your packets. Please read them privately and pack appropriately for our excursion.”

He strode out without waiting for any responses. For a moment, they sat in silence. Miller examined his packet. It was smaller than the others. Hopefully, that bode well. He took the opportunity to refill his glass.

“So,” he said. “A PAO who goes by Valkyrie?”

“I know how to type and I like Instagram, so sue me,” O’Leary said. She turned to Winters and Hanover. “I get you, Winters, all brawn and no brain. I bet you’ve got some cute nickname like Brutus Maximus. But, flyboy, what did you do in South America? Kill someone important?”

“Several, actually. Most of them deserved it,” Hanover said.

“And now you’re a pilot?”

“I like flying better, and a repurposed raptor still allows me the opportunity to smite the unjust.”

“You got a nickname?”

“The Sword of Damocles.”

Miller burst out laughing. “I bet that caught on quick.”

“No, not really,” Hanover said quietly.

“And you, a duelist?” O’Leary asked.

Miller winced and ran a finger over the scar on his cheek.

“Don’t ask.”

O’Leary looked between each of them before slipping the deck of cards back into her pocket and pouring another round of drinks.

“This should be an interesting game of Never-Have-I-Ever,” she said.

Donetsk

Miller could not help but pace in the cell. There was nothing else to do and sitting on the cold, hard slab of metal serving as a bed proved too uncomfortable to bear. Hours had passed since their capture; he estimated the time as late afternoon, although the lack of windows and the solid steel door made it impossible to know.

“How can you just sit there?” he seethed, unable to contain himself.

De Curieux, legs crossed underneath him, brought a finger to his lips.

“I’m meditating.”

“How? Why?”

“To keep the head clear,” de Curieux said. “It also passes the time.”

Despite his serene attitude, the other man was bruised and bloodied. Guards in the hellscape of a prison had hauled him off for a “conversation” shortly after the pair arrived. The injuries, which de Curieux assured him were merely superficial, were on top of the routine beating the two received after Ivan slapped on the handcuffs.

“Even if the others alerted the Renegade, it’s going to be a day at least before they can organize a rescue operation or negotiate our release,” Miller said with the sinking realization that their captors were going to have plenty of time to have a “conversation” with him as well.

“You should,” de Curieux said, “assume that the cell is equipped with microphones. Loose lips and all that.”

“They already said they knew we were part of a team, and that they were rounding the rest of us up,” Miller said.

“Or they could have been bluffing and you have now confirmed their hunch, putting the lives of our three compatriots at risk,” de Curieux said. “Of course, maybe our accommodations aren’t bugged, either. You would think that being trained by NKVD veterans would help improve their counterespionage efforts, but they seem woefully overmatched for the task.”

Miller sank onto the hard bed.

“So what can we talk about?”

“I rather enjoy cricket,” de Curieux said.

“I don’t know anything about it. I grew up on baseball, remember?”

“Thankfully, it has a storied history stretching back nearly three centuries. Let me tell you about W.G. Grace and the Marylebone Cricket Club. The year was 1869...”



“Charges one, two and three are set,” O’Leary whispered, slipping behind the ruins of a brick wall to rejoin Winters. He grunted.

“Delayed timers--should give you a few minutes to get ready.”

Winters grunted again.

“One will take out the command post--I can’t believe I snuck past them so easily, must be the vodka--and the second will take a chunk of the mesh fencing on the northward side. The third is the decoy, it’ll go off a few minutes later on southern facing tower.”

“Copy that,” Winters said, searching through the array of pockets, ammunition and grenades tethered to his body.

“Which one do you want to take?”

“The gate. More action.”

“OK, I’ll keep the second hole clear. If it goes to hell, rendezvous at the third for a forlorn hope?”

“Yup,” Winters said, finally locating the tin of dip. He pulled out a wad and stuffed it into his cheek. After a few seconds, he spat at the snowy ground.

“You don’t talk much, huh, big guy?”

“Not much to say,” Winters replied.

“You must be a thrill on first dates. Got a weapon of choice?”

“M249 to start. M26 MASS for later. M1911 for much later. Mebbe shoulda brought my M203, though. She’s fun.”

The ground heaved and a momentous blast filled the air. For a second, night was day. Rocks and other debris rained down in a steady pitter-patter.

“Might have put a little too much P for Plenty in that one,” O’Leary said. “Oh well, I thought having a second glass of wine was a bad idea while putting on the finishing touches. Now I know.”

She patted Winters on the shoulder.

“Good luck, kiwi,” she said, preparing to scamper off to the far side of the gated concrete building.

“Go light that fire, missus O’Leary,” Winters said.

He straightened up from his crouch and hefted the big gun in his two arms. For a long while all he could see was smoke and dust. There were the usual sounds of men shouting in a foreign language and someone was screaming shrilly. The odor of cordite hung in the air. Almost as soon as the klaxons began to wail, the second blast went off. Winters smiled and stepped out from the cover of the ruined wall.

He started firing as soon as he could make out shapes in the fog of war.


O’Leary barely made it back to her section of fencing when the explosion ripped a jagged hole in the mesh fencing. She threw up her hands in time to shield her face from any of the jagged wire headed her way, but just barely. Already, she could hear rapid fire coming from the front entrance, competing with the sirens for attention.

Unlike Winters, who likely was walking into a firestorm, O’Leary figured she had a few seconds to sneak a peek at the damage she had caused before taking position. Nearly three meters of fencing was missing. She whistled approvingly.

Then she pulled out one of the molotov cocktails sashayed to her waist and flipped open her lighter.

“De Curieux said to make a scene.”



By the second thump, Miller was sure a rescue operation was underway. Either that, or the Ukrainians were risking Moscow’s wrath with an unexpected and unannounced early winter offensive. Though muted by the concrete walls, the steady thud of gunfire filled the cell. Ear-splitting sirens wailed to life.

“Excellent timing,” de Curieux said.

“What is going on?” Miller shouted over the alarms.

“Security breach,” de Curieux replied. “You should prepare yourself. I would imagine they will send someone to escort us to the interior of the building. How are you at hand to hand combat?”

“Not as good as fencing. Not nearly.”

“Then make sure you get good and in the way, please, old chap.”

Between the steadily escalating crescendo of gunshots outside, Miller could hear unseen hands working the latch to the metal door. It slid open and two men in dusty fatigues began shoving their way through screaming in a language wholly unfamiliar to Miller. Doing as he was told, he attempted to block their entry, hollering back nonsense in English and waving his hands maniacally. For his troubles, he took a fist to the gut.

Gasping for air, he doubled over and felt his hands pulled together. There was the metallic clang of handcuffs being swung about haphazardly. Hazily, he could see de Curieux move forward swiftly, precisely. There was the loud, almost wet smack of bone on skin somewhere behind him as de Curieux passed in a blur of motion.

Miller took a shot to his kidneys and felt his legs go completely soft. He fell to the ground, too out of breath to do much more than mewl in pain. Behind him he heard a curse cut short. A body flopped down next to him. Another series of body blows; another body on the ground. Then a hand in front of his face. Miller took it.

De Curieux helped him to his feet.

“Now do we escape?”

“Almost,” de Curieux said. “We need to bring Petro with us. He should be in the last cell on the corridor adjacent to ours.”

He patted down the two unconscious guards for a moment before pulling free a pair of sidearms.

“This is precisely what I mean,” he said with a sigh. “Never, ever, carry a loaded firearm inside of a prison. The opportunity for the inmates to get ahold of them are too many. This is standard operating procedure.”

He handed one to Miller.

“We move quickly. Do not use the firearm unless absolutely necessary,” he said. “Once we get to Petro’s cell, I will provide cover while you disengage the locking mechanism.”

Miller gawked until de Curieux patted him on the shoulder.

“You are an engineer; I have confidence in you.”



O’Leary tossed another molotov cocktail at the building, leaving her with just one. The bottle exploded, draping the two story concrete facade in brilliant fire. So far, only a few shadowy figures had ventured toward the breach and subsequent pyrotechnics. None proved to be de Curieux or Miller, so O’Leary scattered them with a few wild shots, running from position to position in the hopes of making them they were up against a handful of soldiers, not a lone arsonist.

Winters’ instructions had been the same, which she found out when they compared notes slightly before touchdown in Eastern Ukraine. Though the building blocked her view, the amount of noise coming from the front gate sounded like an entire battalion had closed with and engaged its target. As if to punctuate her comparison, a massive explosion rose up visible over the roof.

“I hope that was something he came up with,” she muttered, turning her attention back to the illuminated yard between the breached wiring and the prison. Still nothing.

But behind her, engines roared. O’Leary ducked and turned around. Black, armored vehicles rolled down the vacant street headed, she assumed, for the firefight at the main gate. That was the opposite of good. O’Leary remembered de Curieux had estimated a good ten minutes before any possible response--unless the separatists called in their Russian “volunteers.”

“Shit. Shit. Shit,” she said. At least the convoy--six vehicles strong now--was skipping over her position. They were going to the main show.

De Curieux left them with more than enough flexibility in their mission parameters, so she could always abandon the second gap to back Winters up. How she wished she had a radio. De Curieux had nixed them flatly when asked. Too much of an intelligence risk, he had said, to liable to interception. If they wanted to round up carrier pigeons, though that was fine with him. Might even add a little class to the venture, he had said.

The only technological advantage they were allowed was a small GPS chip embedded in on the bodies of the two men inside. Hanover, waiting by an escape vehicle in a hidden location, would shoot up a flare to guide any stragglers as soon as he saw the the dot clear the prison compound. .

Right now, though, surveying her options, O’Leary needed a radio. She wished they had taken de Curieux up on his offer of pigeons.


“Not to rush you, of course,” de Curieux said “but how is our progress?”

He pulled the trigger on his handgun and another deafening blast filled the corridor. Prisoners locked away in their cells pounded against the metal doors and screamed muted curses audible over the din. The guard at the opposite end of the hall pulled his head back around the corner.

“I’ve told you, I’m a mechanic, not a locksmith,” Miller shouted.

“Granted, but the question still stands.”

Miller shook his head as he looked down at his bleeding hands. He only had a scant few tools that de Curieux had dug out of a maintenance locker en route from their cell. None were particularly suited for dismantling a remotely controlled door with a hydraulic mechanism.

“I have most of it taken apart. I’m going to need a hand taking the door off of its hinges.”

“I can give you precisely one hand and roughly half of my attention,” de Curieux said, backing up slightly so that he was closer to the door. “Will that be enough.”

“If it means I don’t get shot, then I’ll take it,” Miller said. “I managed to get it slightly ajar. Let me get the crowbar wedged in there and we can give it a go.”

“Quickly now,” de Curieux said, and he fired off another round. This time the head at the opposite end jerked back. There was a thud and a single outstretched hand flopped out into sight.

“How I hate it when that happens,” de Curieux said. He sighed. “Ready when you are.”

“Give it a budge,” Miller said.

The two men threw their strength and weight into it. Slowly, painfully slowly, the door began to give. They felt it first. Then the metal began to screech as it pulled against the frame. Miller, very much exhausted, pressed until the veins in his arms bulged.

Mercifully, the door gave way after a final effort. He let the heavy crowbar slip from his fingers. It clammored on the floor as he stood in amazement of what he saw. Inside, cowering against the far corner, was a diminutive-looking man. Bespectacled and with his hands in his wild, uncombed hair, he looked like the type of man you found working in a university library.

“Petro Vedmid?” de Curieux asked.

“Tak,” the man said weakly.

“English, if you don’t mind,” de Curieux said. “Petro Vedmid, formerly of the Almaz Central Design Bureau?”

“Tak, I mean, yes.”

De Curieux smiled and held out a hand.

“We would very much like to discuss the S-400 Triumf with you, preferably over drinks. How does that sound to you?”

Vedmid glanced around nervously. Outside, the gunfire had ratched up severely.

“I suppose that would be enjoyable,” he said.

“Wonderful,” de Curieux said. “I know this lovely tavern in Scotland.”


“Forlorn hope, Winters, forlorn hope,” O’Leary shouted over the rattle of automatic weapons fire. From where she stood at the corner of the building, he looked like he was being born again as a phoenix.

The caravan of armored cars had managed to avoid enough of the detritus in the road to form a semicircle around the blown out minibus the New Zealander had been using for cover when they arrived en masse. Despite being outnumbered, Winters was holding his own with his SAW. He was, she saw, painfully exposed by any guards responding to the gate from inside the complex.

“Forlorn hope,” she screamed. Whether it was a break in the exchange of fire or something else, he heard. Turning, he flashed her a thumbs up.

But how to get him out? O’Leary had a final molotov cocktail, a grenade, her M4, and a sidearm nearly empty of rounds. He should have brought the damn grenade launcher, she thought.

She glanced back to make sure no one was emerging from the second breach. Even at a good distance, it looked clear. O’Leary hoped it stayed that way.

Cursing under her breath, she sprinted from her hiding spot to the far side of the street. Slipping underneath a doorway, O’Leary peered out. No one had spotted her thus far. So far so good. Moving slow and carefully--harder to do under gunfire than she had thought--she approached the rearmost vehicle. The soldiers’ attention was firmly focused on Winters. None of them were covering their rear.

O’Leary took cover behind an empty, wall-mounted cigarette machine and brought out her remaining grenade and molotov cocktail. She leaned her carbine against the wall. Here goes nothing, she thought, hoping that Winters would take the hint.

With one strike her lighter sprung to life. Working quickly, she lit the soaked rag. Then she pulled the pin from her grenade and rolled it toward the second vehicle from the middle. It seemed to hop, skip and jump over the debris in the road as she watched. Then she turned away and grabbed the burning molotov.

As the bottle left her fingers, going end-to-end toward the group of black-shirted soldiers bunched up against their armored car, the grenade went off. They turned just a second too late; the bottle struck and painted the world scarlet.

O’Leary grabbed the carbine and fired a wild burst. She ran a few yards back toward the edge of the compound and did it again and again, praying silently the entire time. Her focus was fixed so singularly she nearly bumped into Winters, who was equally busy making an escape.

“You are insane,” he said as they cleared the firing zone.

“Not really,” she gasped. “Just easily bored.”

Winters tossed the empty SAW aside.

“Forlorn hope?” he asked.

“Forlorn hope.” O’Leary said. “I hope that’s where they expect to get out. I have no way to contact de Curieux.”

“Only one way to find out,” Winters said. He unslung his M26 and started walking.



Miller counted his blessings as they headed down the final corridor. The alarms were still blaring, the prisoners still howling in their cages, but there had been no more sightings of armed guards. Despite de Curieux’s encouragement, he really felt uncomfortable with a gun in his hand. He wasn’t even rated to keep one in his bunk.

“Which escape route are we taking?” he asked.

“The third one,” de Curieux replied.

“Any particular reason?”

“There’s no shooting coming from the front entrance,” de Curieux said. “Not anymore.”

Miller shook his head; he had not thought of that. He had barely noticed the cease in explosions.

The three of them hustled toward what looked like a final door. A guard booth sat empty off to one side.

“When we exit, I will go first. Miller, will you please accompany our guest?”

“Got it,” Miller said.

“What … what is out there?” squeaked Vedmid.

“A cold, snowy and dangerous Donetsk night,” de Curieux replied. “Hopefully a few friends with which to make merry mischief.”

“That does not inspire confidence,” Vedmid said.

“It’s the best you’re gonna get, pal,” replied Miller. He fingered his sidearm. If the team wasn’t waiting, this was going to be a very short prison break. In front of him, de Curieux fiddled with the controls to the door. An electronic bell shrieked after he hit a large green button and the entryway lock clicked open. The door creaked as it swung wide under its own steam.

They all stood there as the heat--such as it was--fled the hallway. Outside, there was nothing but the rushing sound of wind and the external alarms. De Curieux strode forward, gun raised high, and leapt into the night. Miller followed, pushing the weapons designer ahead of him.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. What light they had came from a blaze on the other side of the building. De Curieux was well ahead of them, motioning for them to follow him toward a massive gap in the fencing.

Miller was happy to see two figures in the shadows, one built like a barn, the other much more slender and wraith-like. Energized, he gently prodded Vedmid forward.

“Colonel,” Winters said with a nod while O’Leary favored them with a cavalier salute. Behind them a red flare rocketed into the sky.

“I hope we did not dally too much,” de Curieux said, returning the salute. “Any problems?”

“Little green men responded to the firefight,” O’Leary said. “We took care of them and boogied. Did we get what we came for?”

“There will be more of them, unfortunately,” de Curieux said. “Corporal Winters, Lieutenant O’Leary, I present Mr. Vedmid.”

“Pleased to meet cha,” O’Leary said, extending a hand and a curious gaze.

“All that for this fella?” she asked.

“Well worth the cost in explosives, I assure you,” de Curieux said.

O’Leary laughed, an unnervingly delicate sound.

“I’ll blow anything up for a friend.”

“Quiet,” Winters said, the stillness in his voice cutting through the merth. They all looked at him as he fished out his tin.

“Listen,” he said.

And in the distance, they heard it. Soft at first, but unmistakable. It was not--could not be--the wind.

Winters put another slug of dip into his cheek.

“Engines,” he said.

O’Leary and de Curieux looked at Miller. So did Vedmid a moment later.

“I mean, he’s right,” Miller said. “Big ones, I think, but I’m not a scout, just a mechanic.”

“BMPs,” said Winters.

“Right, formalities then are at an end, time to take our leave,” de Curieux said. He pointed in the direction of the long since faded flare. “Follow me.”

The quintet began at a slow jog that quickly turned into a dash as the growl of motors turned to a roar. Miller saw that de Curieux and O’Leary moved nimbly as they danced between the wreckage on the streets. Winters, more a groundpounder, thundered on through like an annoyed elephant. Vedmid seemed to trip over everything he could possibly find, with Miller shoving him along.

After crossing the main road along the prison, de Curieux led them up a narrow side street. Miller hoped it would be tight enough to stop or at least slow down the armored infantry. The slowing of engines behind him seemed to indicate that. He sure hoped de Curieux had a good getaway plan.

“Winters,” de Curieux called out from up ahead. “Tie them up, please.”

The big man grunted, spun and kneeled. He brought up his M26 as Miller and Vedmid stumbled on by him. For a second, Miller could only hear his heart beating in his head, his feet slapping against the uneven pavement, the gasps of the man beside him. Then the rip of automatic fire tore into the night.

De Curieux ducked into another side street, then an alley and another passage that ultimately exited into a small green hemmed in by Soviet-style housing units. In its center sat a rusted and bullet-ridden helicopter that looked as though it had landed hard some time ago. The German pilot stood beside it, rubbing greasy hands on a mechanic’s rag.

“Trouble?” he asked.

“A party that got out of hand,” de Curieux said. “Will she fly?”

“That she will, sir,” Hanover said, tossing the rag aside. He pulled himself into the vehicle and began flipping switches.

“This thing will fly?” Miller said, staring at it.

“This thing is a Hind,” de Curieux said. “Although shot down by the separatists a few years ago, my reconnaissance indicated that all she needed was a few repairs.”

“And a little tender loving care,” shouted Hanover as the rotors began moving. “Landing might be a bit daring, though.”

“Repairing the Mi-24 here meant not having to sneak in another transport,” de Curieux said. “I am very keen on creative resource allocation.”

“Logistics must love you,” O’Leary said. A tungsten round, likely originating from one of the BMPs, screech overhead, cutting her banter short.

As de Curieux motioned for Vedmid to climb aboard, Winters came hurling through the passage, with just the 1911 in his hands. Miller gave the escapee a hard push and the man awkwardly fell through the hatch onto the hard metal floor. A hand shot out in front of Miller and he took it, hauling himself up and throwing himself into one of the chairs. Valkyrie followed soon after amid another round of shells hurling through the residential neighborhood. Winters pulled himself on as the helicopter left the ground, his feet dangling in the air as they banked first north and then west out of the city.

A few shells followed them, but it was not long before there was only the roar of the engine and the shutter of turbulence to fill the silence. Miller allowed himself to breath and reflect. No scars this time.

He glanced over at Vedmid. The man was shivering despite sweating profusely.

“I hope this guy was worth almost all of our necks,” Miller shouted over the thumping of the blades.

“More than our necks, as you so eloquently put it,” de Curieux replied. “He worked on the Russian S-400 weapon system, specifically their radar capabilities. When we patrol the border in the next few weeks as part of a contract for the Duchy of Warsaw, he will be the reason The Renegade isn’t shot out of the sky.”

That was the first Miller had heard of a contract. He sat back in his seat and thought for a moment.

“Wouldn’t the terms of the agreement keep us safe? I mean, it would be an international incident.”

“The Russians don’t consider anything less than the capture of a foreign capital to be an international incident,” de Curieux said. He glanced at the rest of the team.

“Any other constructive criticism? This is your after action report.”

“Hell no,” O’Leary shouted. “Any day I get away from the computer is a good day. I haven’t had that much fun since we played Georgia Southern in college. And I didn’t get arrested this time.”

“Corporal Winters?”

“More ammunition next time,” he said. “Bigger guns.”

“Duly noted,” de Curieux said. “Now, as an early celebration, I absconded with a bit of Ukrainian Medova z Pertsem. You will all find canteens under your seats. I am told this is quite fun to enjoy on a cold night.”

He broke open the bottle.

“To the crew of the good ship Renegade, and to the confusion of her enemies.”

Mission to Ruritania

Crew:

Our short term contract with the Grand Duchy ends this week, but not to worry!  Captain XO has ensured that our coffers will remain full and bars fully stocked with a new mission.

Ruritania is a small Balkans country; it's maintained its independence for an astonishingly long time, despite being where Bismarck identified as ground zero for the next European war.  It's been remarkably stable...until recently.

Ruritania recently had a succession crisis; a dynastic rivalry led to the kidnapping of the Crown Prince and his imprisonment.  However, senior statesmen and military officials intervened, and in cunning scheme worth of Captain XO himself, they found a doppelganger to stand in for the Crown Prince until the actual Crown Prince could be rescued.

The doppelganger served his role admirably, and was personally involved in rescuing the future King.  The coronation took place, the rightful King on his throne.  Happy ending...with one tiny wrinkle.

What is our role?  The doppelganger is still in hiding.  He and his compatriots are worried that it could be severely destabilizing to the monarchy if any hint of his involvement got out.  We've been contracted to smuggle him out.  Our own dubious reputation camouflages his movement.  OF COURSE THE RENEGADE IS RAIDING SOMETHING.

The plan...well, we raid something.  He's currently being put up at a royal hunting lodge (by hunting lodge, I mean a small estate).  We assault and loot.  Ground force brings a spare uniform with them, he changes into it, and we leave with a +1.

None are the wiser.  Ruritania stays stable, we make some allies, and we get paid.

Tesla Cannon Settings

Tesla Gunners:

After the incidents recently with misapplied Tesla gun settings (we're not blaming you entirely, forward belly turret), we have instituted a new, pictorial settings system to help you.  Settings go from light bulb to Godzilla.  There is a toggle from air to ground to air to air.  Please update training protocols as required.

US Thanksgiving on the Renegade

Crew! Does not Captain XO love each and everyone of you?  Even the ones who are fascinated with eating the interns (for the love of Odin-Jesus, WHY?)

Right now, the Ground Crew is loading up the Kommandant's Zeppelin (remember?  We seized in a vicious boarding action) at Wick.  They will rendezvous with us over the plains of the Grand Duchy, where we will extend the air gangplanks so that they may join us for a Thanksgiving meal.  We'll have to eat in shifts, as we are still on patrol duties.

After our meal, the Ground Crew will return to Wick.  They are under strict orders to put up no Christmas/Yule decorations until AFTER the 1st.

We are on station through 1 December.

Tomorrow, we will raise a glass of wine together and toast our good fortune, our good comrades, and our good ship, the Airship Renegade.

Border Mission in the Grand Duchy of Warsaw!

We have accepted a two week contract to patrol along the border between the Grand Duchy of Warsaw and Konigsberg/Kaliningrad.  The Muscovites, still pretending that they are a Serious European Power, keep moving troops in and out of the port, trying to apply pressure to the Grand Duchy of Warsaw.

Our role is to provide persistent surveillance and deterrence.  The Muscovites have initiated some minor border 'misunderstandings;' the Grand Duke intends that our presence will convince the Muscovites that they really don't want to raise the tensions anymore.

Some concerns: the Muscovites do have a pretty decent legacy air defense system in Kaliningrad, with an integrated radar network with significant coverage into the Grand Duchy.  We'll be in range of multiple S-300SP SAM sites throughout most of our time.

There are unconfirmed rumors that the Muscovites are working on a War Zeppelin, in direct response to our success as a commerce raider.

Weekend Safety Brief

Crew!  Brave Air Pirates!

Crew, it's been a long Halloween trip, several parties in a row, culminating in Halloween night in Romania.

Then we robbed a casino.

So it's been a hectic few weeks.  We need a break.  So everyone is on liberty until Tuesday, when we begin a training/refit series before we travel to the Grand Duchy of Warsaw for contract.

But before we break, a few words:

Captain XO loves each and every one of you.  That means each and every one of you needs to survive until Tuesday.  No dueling.  No brawling.  No catching the clap.  No drinking absinthe until the green fairies cart you off and leave you naked in a ring of standing stones.  No practicing your fast draw with your buddies.  If you go to town, do not get in a fight with the locals.  If you do, you had best win.

Legal Mates...you know the drill.  One on standby with bail money.  Set up a rotation amongst yourselves.

Chief, anything to add?

To caveat of the Sir, it would behoof you to listen to the Captain.  He's been doing this for a while and gets it.  NCO call immediately after this formation.

New Crew Orientation

(Captain XO gathers the newest crew members on the mess deck)

Please take your seats.  Allow me to congratulate you on joining the crew of the Renegade and the beginning of your career of air piracy.  Air piracy is a growth industry, with plenty of opportunities for growth and promotion.  HR should have already informed you about our health, dental, vision, and retirement plans, and I am pleased to say that your average crew member does live until retirement.

Some of you have been recruited for special skills, for which you will be paid a recruitment bonus.  Others...well, we'll rotate you through a few positions to see where you best fit.

Your first line supervisors will meet you here when I am done with you; they will provide you a copy of the Ship's Articles, which are a combination of a compact amongst the crew and a series of regulations under which we operate.  First and foremost is article 1: Crew is family.  Your Supervisor will be responsible for ensuring you are educated on and understand the Articles.  Once you feel that you understand the Articles and agree to abide by them, you'll sign them.  That's the contract between you and your crew-family.

Punishments for failure to abide by the Ship's Articles are outlined in the Articles.  Air keelhauling is particularly unpleasant.

Listen to your leadership, abide by the Ship's Articles, train hard, fight hard, and look good and have fun doing it.

My door is always open.  Supervisors, take charge of your new crew.

The Damsel in Distress

by Derrick Perkins 

“Any minute now,” Thaddeus de Curieux said, glancing at his watch as the sun lazily slipped beneath the bay of Xlendi.

Across the hightop table, Joe Miller sighed as his Kinnie grew warm.

“Any minute until what?”

“Until contact, of course,” de Curieux said. “It was in the informational packet I gave you before we arrived. Don’t tell me you haven’t read it?”

Miller sighed again, louder this time. The two men had been sitting in the seaside bar of one of Xlendi’s seedier hotels for more than an hour now. They had been awake and moving or much of the previous twenty four. The sole entertainment consisted of watching a tourist couple from the States get slowly drunk a few tables away. They had reached the stage of noisily arguing about whether to tour a local winery tomorrow or go diving in the Mediterranean.

“Don’t make that sound again, friend,” de Curieux said, sipping on a gin and tonic. “It is unbefitting our present circumstances.”

“I thought you said we shouldn’t drink,” Miller said.

“I said you shouldn’t drink; now enjoy that Kinnie. This is your first excursion and it’s important to remain clear headed. You will have time to sample the local wine at tonight’s soiree.”

Miller straightened up in surprise. He was clad only in the faded trousers and black work shirt he had been wearing when de Curieux handed him a bulging manila envelope and hustled him off the ship the night before. The other man was dressed a bit more dapper--pressed pants, a breast-pocketed shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a Brooks Brothers tie--but neither of them were wearing the formal attire issued to the ship’s crew for such occasions.

“A soiree?”

“Certainly. We wouldn’t want to miss out on the local festival of Our Lady of Mount Caramel, would we,” de Curieux said. “It is vital to our mission. And quite fun, I am made to understand.”

“But I’m not, you’re not dressed for it…”

“Details. Details already accounted for.”

“I didn’t have time to pack--”

“--Ah, yes, right on time,” de Curieux said, getting up from his seat. Miller followed his gaze across the dimly lit bar to the entrance leading back into the hotel lobby. The door cracked open and in slipped a small, slender woman. Bathed in the sepia light of sunset, she flitted across the floor toward the pair, her feet seemingly never touching the ground.

“Demoiselle,” de Curieux said, taking her hand. “I would bow, but it would be…

“Noticeable,” she replied with a thin smile. “I thank you for your discretion and will let my lady know of your gentlemanly intent.”

“Assure her it would be a deep bow.”

“I would expect no less. She would expect no less.”

“My reputation precedes me?” de Curieux asked.

“As always, within some circles. There has been much talk about Aachen affair.”

“The prince-abbot is a bit more severe than I had been led to believe.”

“And yet you …”

“I did,” de Curieux said. “I assure you, it was mutually agreeable.”

“Of course. But he threatened to …

“He did not succeed,” de Curieux said with a smile.

“Well,” the woman said. “I know there are at least two hearts in Malta that will grow happy to hear that news. But to business.”

“Your words flatter me, but, yes, to business,” de Curieux said. “Our arrangements?”

“You will go to the cafe on Triq Il Qsajjem. Order two tonics--no gin. The bartender will know. A car then will be waiting to take you to the old chapel.”

“The guest list?”

“Your name has been provided. Your real name, as you requested. I do hope you know what you are doing.”

“Simple honesty can be more useful than the sharpest deceit, my dear,” de Curieux said.

“And your associate?”

“Col. de Curieux of The Renegade, Professor Emeritus of Classics of Miskatonic University, Honorary Knight of St. George, Chevalier of the Order of St. John … and guest,” he replied.

“As you please. The rest will be in your hands. My lady wishes to know nothing else about this matter until it is concluded.”

“And I wish to tell her no lies,” de Curieux said.

Miller stared at them as they released hands and the woman slid out of the room, his drink forgotten.

“What just happened?” he asked, finally.

“Not now, Mr. Miller. The game is begun and, like gentleman, by putting our names on that list we have conceded the first move to our adversaries.”

Miller tugged at the neck of the blue form-fitting and heavily tasseled uniform in the backseat of the Mercedes. Although official dress issued aboard The Renegade, it was most certainly not given to anyone outside of the Bold Hussars. If a photograph of him in it appeared online, buying the entire company a round of drinks would be the least awful punishment he could think of.

By contrast, de Curieux now sported a three-piece suit complete with a waistcoat. There was only a single piece of martial flair added, a small pin featuring a dagger-like cross emblazoned with the midday sun on the right breast. Miller could not offhandedly recall it coming from any of the world’s standing militaries.

The two of them had changed in the restrooms of the cafe just minutes before, their tonics left untouched on the counter of the bar. Inside the cramped lavatory, Miller had found two neatly wrapped packages, one labelled for de Curieux and the other hastily scrawled with “And Guest.” Not for the first time, Miller had wondered what he was doing on this trip.

Less than a day ago he had been wrapping up his shift in the bowels of The Renegade. Although he had pictured himself piloting one of the parasite fighters or leaping down with the hussars when he joined the crew, Miller found himself training on the engine. It didn’t take long to fall in love inside the belly of the beast. When she shuddered to life, his heart skipped a beat, and when a mission ended it was he and his mates who patched her back up.

Their devotion to the inner workings meant they elicited respect from even the pilots, who--if inebriated enough--begrudgingly admitted that they would be out of a job without the mechanics. All the same, it was more than a little strange to find the military attache waiting impatiently by his door when he arrived back at his cabin.

De Curieux was an odd duck even on The Renegade. The man seemingly answered to no one beside Captain XO and even then it was rare to see the two of them together. Unlike the rest of the crew, de Curieux came and went with impunity. Miller spotted him more often in blurry photographs that filled the back pages of British tabloids than in any of the ship’s after action reports.

He spoke with a practiced authority and overran even the most pragmatic of oppositions with an icy stare. When a flabbergasted Miller tried to explain he was just a mechanic’s apprentice and on duty the next day and definitely out of leave after the Iceland trip, de Curieux produced new orders--signed by Captain XO. Stunned into silence, Miller did as he was told, cramming a few things into an overnight bag and falling in with the mysterious military attache.

Now he had a chance to ask a few questions, although admittedly it was difficult to divert attention away from the festivities going on all around them. Throngs of people wandered through the narrow streets as fireworks boomed overhead. It truly was quite fun, the Feast of Our Lady of Mount Caramel.

“Why you, I imagine.”

“What?” asked Miller, snapping away from the rolling party carrying on beyond the tinted windows.

“A simple mechanic’s apprentice, part of the crew only a few weeks now, barely got your air legs beneath you,” de Curieux said. “Now you’re in Malta, wearing a rather ill-fitting hussar uniform--I’ll have to speak to the tailor about that shipboard--and about to waltz into a soiree being thrown by one of the richest magnates in Bulgaria. Why you? It’s a question I would ask myself.”

“Well, why me?” Miller stammered.

“You tell me,” de Curieux replied with an eye roll. “It’s clear you did not read the packet I supplied you with so you have no idea of our cover story. Undoubtedly, you will be asked why you are attending the evening’s festivities. The Renegade, after all, is well away from this place.”

Miller sat, mouth agape.

“Wrong answer,” de Curieux said. “Try again.”

“I … um … am completing a regular rotation as a member of the hussars’ protective service unit and am providing that. Security, that is. For you. To you? No, for you.”

De Curieux regarded him for a moment.

“Passable. Pedestrian, but passable,” he said.

Miller let out the breath he forgot he had been holding.

“Not nearly as … interesting as the one I had written for you, but no matter. There’s no time to memorize the entire thing.”

“Right,” Miller said.

“You will also, though, want to include that you arranged this rotation in the hopes of wooing the magnate’s daughter--her name is Analyia Zlatkov and her father is Toma Zlatkov, you want to remember that--as you fell madly in love with her upon seeing her at a function in Moscow last winter.”

“You’re kidding,” Miller said.

“I am not. It’s very important. I may have let that tidbit slip to a few friends who will be in attendance. To spice things up.”

“Then you’re insane.”

“Possibly, but not likely,” de Curieux said. “What is her name?”

“Analyia,” Miller said. “But, seriously, why in the hell--”

“--And her father’s name?” de Curieux asked. “To stir a bit of gossip and create a scene if necessary. She is already engaged to a man she does not love--this is widely known--the third-born son of a Russian arms dealer.”

“Her father’s name is Toma,” Miller said. “How does any of this help us? And I don’t even know what we’re doing here anyway.”

“Obviously, it’s a case of a damsel in distress,” de Curieux said. “If you cause a scene, I can slip away. That saber by your side is not merely ornamental.”

“Not ornamental, but what would I use it for? Opening a champagne bottle?” Miller asked.

De Curieux waited until his eyes widened with understanding.

“What is their nationality?” he asked. “You can always challenge him to a duel, for which he will be ill-prepared, comparatively. I read in your file that you participated in the fencing club at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. You distinguished yourself. Might explain a few grades.”

“Bulgarian, and the fiance is Russian, and you read my file? I have a file? What does all this even accomplish?”

“Yes, I’ve read everyone’s file,” de Curieux said. “A distraction may be needed in order for me to accomplish my end of the mission.”

“Which is? I’d like to know what I’m getting cut up for.”

“To rescue the demoiselle en detresse and bring her safely back to The Renegade. The Captain XO has a vested interest in securing her,” de Curieux said. “Even if he doesn’t know it yet.”

“I don’t see how any of this works.”

“And I don’t tell you how to repair a catalytic converter,” de Curieux said.

Silence reigned over them for a moment.

“Does Captain XO even know about this?” Miller asked.

De Curieux gave him an odd smile.



The cathedral the car pulled up alongside looked unlike any church Miller had ever seen. It didn’t look like a holy site in any way. It didn’t look like much at all, even. Just a barren, windswept cliffside. Probably a very pretty view in the daylight, Miller thought.

“St. Domenica Chapel,” de Curieux said as the car came to a halt. “Built in the cliffs and profaned several hundred years ago. No doubt the challenge facing parishioners seeking absolution played some role in its closing.”

“No doubt,” Miller muttered. He was busy looking at the array of luxury vehicles parked seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Music wafted up from the honeycombed limestone.

Dutifully, Miller followed de Curieux out of the car and then down a long path that descended ever deeply into the cliffside. Torches illuminated the way haphazardly and Miller felt the saber at his side clatter more than once against the rock. De Curieux navigated the centuries old walkway effortlessly as if he had spent his childhood playing there. Finally, they arrived at an ornately decorated stone archway where a steward waited to announce their arrival.

“Col. Thaddeus de Curieux …” the man began after accepting de Curieux’s engraved invitation.

“... And guest,” he concluded after finishing rattling off de Curieux’s honorifics. Miller bit back a resigned sigh.

As his eyes adjusted to the vastly better illuminated interior, Miller noticed more than a few heads turn. But they were immediately swallowed up by the swirling array of wealth and power.

Miller did his best to stand stiffly at attention, as he had seen hussars do on formal occasions, as pairs in immaculate attire waltzed breezily around him. Several hundred people filled the former parish, including the orchestra. A banquet table overflowing with finger foods of all varieties lined one wall, plush seats intended for resting courtiers lined the far side. Those not dancing made small talk, clinking glasses and laughing uproariously. It reminded Miller very much of the events he had attended when he worked for a Cambridge-based catering company in college. Just on overdrive. How he wished he was back in the ship, working on a camshaft instead.

De Curieux fit in seamlessly. He seemed to vanish and then reappear, clasping arms with one man, kissing the hand of a woman. He knew them all by name or reputation, Miller realized. He took a sip of his champagne. And then another. Oh well, he thought, and drained it. A steward appeared to hand him another and then disappeared.

“Lieutenant Miller,” de Curieux called. Miller turned and saw the other man waving him over. Here we go, he thought.

De Curieux was flanked by a young hawkish-looking man, pale and stern in features as well as an older, even more severe appearing gentleman. He tried his best to act the part of a hussar and puffed out his chest.

“Toma Zlatkov and Iosif Blok, please meet my traveling companion, Lieutenant Miller of the Bold Air Hussars.”

The men bowed and Miller did his best to follow suit. At least the movement hid his nerves. A Bulgarian magnate and Russian arms dealer. De Curieux acted as if they were old friends and not tonight’s targets. The two men seemed to watch him intently. He swore the old man’s eyes narrowed. He felt very much exposed.

“So nice of you to attend, colonel,” Toma said with just a touch of an eastern accent. “Very bold as well. I understand several major powers consider you persona non grata, particularly after The Renegade’s recent successes.”

“We do tend to make a splash,” de Curieux offered with a smile.

“But Malta is safe for you?”

“The entire world is open to a gentleman of learning and in possession of the proper credentials,” de Curieux said.

“I believe there are a few high-ranking ministers in Moscow who would disagree,” Toma replied with a chuckle. “This isn’t 18th century Europe, after all. But regardless, it is good to have a few pirates in attendance. My apologies, privateers. And I am not well educated on international zeppelin policy nor the vagaries of air piracy.”

“It’s an acquired taste,” de Curieux said.

Everyone laughed except for Miller, who could feel the hand resting on his saber’s hilt growing clammy with sweat. Please, please, please, do not require a scene, he prayed.

He barely listened as the men continued to prattle. It was mostly pleasantries about the locale, which Miller had to admit was stunning. Through slits expertly carved into the rockwall, they could look out onto the wine dark Mediterranean, empty but for a few massive pleasure yachts. A stunning view to die in front of, Miller thought.

“Lieutenant,” the Russian said suddenly breaking Miller from his morbid train of thought. “What brings you to tonight’s festivities? An old rake like the colonel, we expect, but he usually travels alone.”

“Security detail,” Miller said automatically. He had been repeating the answer in his mind for a while now. “As an air hussar, it is my honorbound duty to protect The Renegade’s senior staff.”

Iosif chuckled darkly. He offered Miller a cruel smile.

“Even so, I am quite confident an expert blade like Colonel de Curieux can take care of himself--”

His sentence trailed off as a lithe, dark-haired beauty wrapped an arm around his waist. A smile as radiant as the setting sun just a few hours ago lit up her face.

“My darling Iosef,” she said. “You did not tell me the colonel was in attendance this evening.”

“My lady,” de Curieux said.

“It’s been too long,” she said. “And who might this be?”

De Curieux shot Miller a look. He tried not to break character.

“Lieutenant Miller of the Bold Air Hussars,” he said, bending a knee and dipping his head. He had had just about enough bowing for one night.

“A dashing young air officer, how nice,” she purred. “Yet you look so familiar, have we been introduced before?”

“I … uh,” Miller stammered, his collar feeling suddenly very tight around his neck. Her looks did not help matters. This was the damsel in distress?

“He joined me at a little matter in Moscow last year you may have attended,” de Curieux interrupted. “It’s hard to recall exactly. My schedule has become quite cluttered.”

“Ah, yes,” she said and nodded. “Something to do with a coal-powered aircraft carrier. Did we dance, Lieutenant?”

“I do not think so--”

“--Then we must at once,” she said, still smiling. It took Miller’s breath away. “I cannot pass up the opportunity with such a handsome specimen.”

“Analyia, perhaps this is not…”

She pouted, somehow an act as beautiful as her smile. Even with the playful frown her dark eyes danced. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all, Miller thought.

“Iosef, it is only a dance. You can watch me the entire time,” she huffed.

“Appearances, my darling daughter,” Toma began, but Analyia waved him away.

“I am not a child, father,” she said. “I have sworn my life to Iosef, but that does not mean I like dancing any less. Is this party not thrown partially in my honor? To celebrate my engagement? This may well be my last waltz as an unmarried woman. I would like to spend it in the arms of a knight of the sky.”

Iosef frowned, but said nothing. Toma, after a moment, nodded.

“Daughters,” Miller heard him say as Analyia quickly pulled him away. “There is no denying them of their baubles.”

It suddenly occurred to him that they were on the dance floor. Around them other couples stepped in perfect synchronicity. When was the last time he had danced? Oh no, he thought.

“Relax,” Analyia whispered. “Just follow me and listen to what I say. You have danced before, no?”

He winced. “Yes. Not well, though.”

She giggled. “It will be fun.”

“Since it might be my last dance, too, I sure hope so,” he muttered and let her take the lead. It was taking most of his concentration not to step on her toes.

“Everyone is watching us,” she whispered, smiling again. “We have given them all so much to talk about.”

“Uh-huh,” Miller said. Although not particularly interested in anything other than making a fool of himself and surviving the evening, he glanced up and saw that she was correct. More and more eyes were on the pair. Did wealthy people really have so little to talk about?

“Iosef is such a jealous man,” she said. “A fool, too. Perhaps this will give your friend the colonel a chance to get up to his mischief.”

“What?” Miller asked.

“Yes,” she said, not listening to him. “He is already slipping away. He always was good at that.”

“Look, I’ll be honest with you,” Miller said, fighting the urge to look over his shoulder and try and find de Curieux. “I have just a very vague notion of what is going on here. I’m a mechanic, an engineer if I want to sound fancy, not an expert in intrigue. Can someone tell me what we’re doing?”

“Dancing, of course, silly,” she whispered and leaned into him, nuzzling him slightly on the neck. They turned and Miller found himself facing the opposite direction. Sure enough, Iosef was glowering at them from the edge of the dance floor. Toma had faded into conversation with a man wearing a fez near the buffet table and de Curieux was nowhere to be found.

“Now you see,” she said. “Iosef, for all his faults, is quite good at knowing when something is amiss. He learned quickly of your affection for me.”

“I just met you,” Miller said.

“Well, that is not the rumour I heard the wives chattering about yesterday. I am told one look from me stole your breath and turned your heart to fire. I am told you have not spent another moment thinking of anyone else since that day in Moscow. Most of all, I am told the world has grown dim in your eyes in my absence, that even the sun shines less brilliantly.”

Miller shook his head. De Curieux was good at his work.

“Now spin me once and we are finished,” Analyia whispered, still pressed up against his chest. “Hopefully, your accomplice will have returned by then. He is taking his time.”

Miller did as he was told and suddenly, blessedly, the music came to an end. The dance floor erupted into applause as couples split apart. Miller realized his hands were shaking.

“You did your part,” Analyia said. “And quite well. Although, I recommend taking a class or two before your next escapade.”

“Sure. Top of my to-do list,” Miller mumbled as she dragged him off of the dance floor. They had made it only a few steps when Toma appeared.

“Did you enjoy waltzing with my daughter?” he asked wickedly. “You must have. You have completely misplaced your charge.”

“My charge? Oh, I am sure …” Miller looked around desperately. Where was de Curieux?

“A slippery one, that colonel,” said Iosef. “I did not know that his skills included pickpocketing. I truly hope that he was not foolish enough to be behind the very coincidental disappearance of mine and Mr. Zlatkov’s mobile devices.”

“Very coincidental,” Toma echoed.

He made a snapping gesture with his right hand and a very well-dressed, very-heavily armed man appeared. Guards? There were guards? Miller thought. Of course, there were. Why hadn’t he noticed them before? Because he wasn’t an international spy or a thief or a saboteur, that’s why. He was a damn motorhead.

“Put out the word that Colonel de Curieux has gone missing and is feared dead. A bit much to drink, perhaps. Leaned too far out one of the openings for a glimpse of the moon. It is a long ways down,” Toma said.

The guard grunted and spoke into a small microphone. He turned on his heels and began working his way through the crowd. Around the room other similarly built and armed men, their sides bulging with half-hidden handguns, sprung into motion.

“As for you,” Toma said, fixing his gaze again on Miller.

“A duel,” Miller interrupted, weakly.

Toma squinted. “What did you say?”

“A duel,” Miller said, drawing a deep breath and this time shouting it. The background chatter cut off as sharply as if someone had pulled the plug on a stereo system. The guards froze in place as all attention focused on the quartet.

He pointed directly at Iosef. “A duel for Analyia’s favor. You know of my love for her. I would die before losing her to you. A duel for her hand in marriage. I challenge you to a duel.”

Silence hung between them. Miller realized he felt very sick. He hadn’t just said all of that, had he? He had. He shouted it, even. Oh no.

Then Toma and Iosef burst out laughing. What was left of Miller’s quick flash of bravado dissipated. This wasn’t going to end well. If he lived, de Curieux owed him a rather large favor.

“A duel, a duel,” Iosef said, wiping his brow. “Of all things, a duel. Yes, yes, this will be most fun. I have never defeated a hussar in armed combat. It sounds so Edwardian London or Hapsburg Vienna.”

Oh no, oh no, oh no, Miller thought.

“A saber,” Iosef called out. “Any blade will do, but can someone loan a saber?”

An elderly man dressed in a khaki uniform stepped forward and bowed. He unsheathed the saber at his side and presented it hilt forward to Iosef.

“May you regain your woman’s honor,” he said.

Miller uttered a few curse words. Of course, a party like this would include a foreign legionnaire. His hand went to his saber and he pulled the oiled blade free without fanfare. As the crowd formed a semi-circle around the men, he adopted a fighting stance with his feet spread about a meter apart.

“The good thing about killing a pirate,” Iosef said, examining the weight of his blade, “is that no one much cares.”

Then he struck with the swiftness of a tornado, his saber slashing inches from Miller’s face. The mechanic-turned-hussar-turned-duelist parried, and then parried again. The force of Iosef’s blows stunned him. The gaunt man was apparently full of strength.

Carefully, Miller retreated, moving with his back foot first. The attack--more vicious than anything in a fencing tournament--continued ceaselessly. Parry, parry, block, Miller looked for any chance at a riposte, but none appeared.

Iosef bore in and finally drove home. The blade stuck Miller shallowly just beneath the shoulder. He howled in pain and frustration, but kept the grip on his saber and spun sideways. Rather than return the flurry of blows, he swung for Iosef’s legs. Though he missed, it forced the other man back and gave Miller a chance to catch his breath. And notice he was bleeding quite profusely.

He awkwardly attempted to stop the flow of blood with his free hand until Iosef started in again. This time, the Russian attacked at Miller’s torso before flicking his blade up and carving a red line across his face. Miller yelped again and tried to sidestep, but Iosef gracefully anticipated the move and stuck him in the thigh.

The wound brought Miller to his knees. Placing a hand on the ground for support, he could only look up as Iosef loomed overhead.

“Don’t fret,” he said, switching the saber back from hand to hand. “I’ll make it quick.”

Miller sighed and lowered his head. There was no way out.

Iosef raised the saber above his head at an angle befitting a cavalry officer charging into a platoon of riflemen. There it hung for a second before the Russian started his downward swing, which came to an arresting halt as de Curieux’s hand shot out of the crowd.

Miller stared in disbelief as the military attache appeared out of thin air behind Iosef.

“You have defeated your opponent in the field of honor and won your woman’s hand in marriage,” de Curieux tutted. “Is not an offer of clemency fitting? Mercy is the trait of the truly refined gentleman.”

He looked down at Miller.

“Do get up,” he said. “I believe we may have overstayed our welcome. It is time for us to show ourselves out.”

Shaking off disbelief--de Curieux’s opportune arrival surprised all of them equally--Toma waved over one of the bullheaded and muscle-bound guards.

“No, no, not at all,” he said. “An extended stay is in order.”

“A most generous offer, but we really must be back aboard The Renegade,” de Curieux insisted. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small hypodermic needle. He tapped it against Iosef’s neck.

“And I am sorry, but I must insist you escort us to the window,” he said.

“A needle? You threaten me with a needle?” Iosef asked.

“No, well, yes, but not truly,” de Curieux said. “Batrachotixin is a very simple, very elegant killer. I always keep a bit on me in the event of unpleasantness. More lethal than a gun and less likely to go off half-cocked.”

Miller reached his feet, groaning in pain and wobbled a bit. His hussar uniform was soaked a deep shade of scarlet on the front from his shoulder wound. Gingerly, he tested his leg. It would bear weight, not much, but it worked.

“Come, Lieutenant, time is short,” de Curieux called, slowly backing away with Iosef in tow. The needle gleamed threateningly in the artificial light of the dance hall.

Miller struggled to keep up as partygoers parted to make way for the trio. Pain shot up his leg with every step.

“What are we doing?” he whispered hoarsely as they approached one of the windows carved through the limestone walls.

“You know how to swim, correct?” de Curieux replied.

“Yes, but what does that matter … oh no,” Miller said.

“Exactly.”

“This is insane, you know that right,” Miller squeaked as they gathered around the edge of the wall. “This is like out of an action movie. A bad action movie.”

They were close enough now to windows to hear the ocean rolling against the cliffs framing Xlendi Bay below. The guards, once immobile, had begun to close in against them.

“You won’t survive the jump,” Iosef said. “Even if you, do this whole adventure will have been for naught. I do not have to know what mischief you were up to, de Curieux, to know that you are leaving empty handed. And your young friend succeeded in only making a fool of himself in front of my soon to be wife.”

“He’s right,” Miller whispered. “How are we supposed to help Analyia escape now?”

De Curieux shushed him, his eyes flicking back and forth between the ever closer guards. With each step they took, the pushed the needle a little closer to Iosef’s neck.

“You first,” he said.

“I don’t like heights,” Miller said, glancing out the window.

“You’re an air hussar,” de Curieux replied. “You first.”

“I really, really don’t like heights,” Miller said easing himself onto the sill. Salt-tinged wind whipped by him, sending a small avalanche of pebbles down the long drop into the water below. How far was it? More than a hundred feet, at least.

“Hurry, please,” de Curieux called. “Toes first, pointed down; knees locked, arms straight and keep your head up. I need you to be able to swim afterward.”

“How do you know that?”

De Curieux answered with a hard shove. For a second of pure terror, Miller tumbled into nothingness. The wind tore at his uniform as he spun uncontrollably toward the blackness. Only a millisecond before did he remember to try and get into position and then the water swallowed him.

He emerged a few seconds later, coughing and retching, kicking his legs furiously despite the pain. De Curieux popped up beside him, considerably more calm. Above, a few guns roared, but the wind snatched away the echo of the blasts.

“What … what now,” Miller asked.

“Oh good, I knew you would make the fall,” de Curieux said. “Now we swim.”

Miller stared at the imposing cliff faces.

“Where to?”

“That cluster of yachts, of course,” de Curieux said. “The large one in the middle. You can make it with that bad leg, I trust?”

“I think so,” Miller said.

He let de Curieux take the lead and struggled along after him. A long few minutes later, the other man was helping him aboard the largest of the dark yachts. He flopped onto the main deck and laid still for a moment, just staring at wonder at the night sky. De Curieux disappeared and a little while later Miller felt the engines vibrating with life beneath him. That the military attache knew how to start the yacht was a surprise that no longer shocked him.

Slowly, he picked himself up. Using a torn swatch of hussar uniform, he bandaged what he could of his leg. The wound below his shoulder had seemingly stopped bleeding. As the yacht slipped into motion, Miller limped up to the bridge deck where he found de Curieux humming Bach while scanning the radar.

“All patched up?”

“Sure,” Miller said, shaking his head. “They’re not going to chase us?”

“Maybe,” de Curieux said. “I doubt it. I expect they thought the fall would kill us and if not we would drown in the Mediterranean. Even if we survived all that, Zlatkov and Blok won’t waste much effort in trying to kill us. They won after all.”

“What a waste,” Miller sighed, glancing at his wounded leg and thinking about Analyia. The poor woman undoubtedly was cursed to a wretched life now.

“Not at all, my friend,” de Curieux said.

“You just said it, though. They won.”

“They won their game,” he replied. “They welcomed two crew of the notorious pirate dirigible The Renegade, foiled their plot--saving Analyia and other various high crimes--and potentially killed two pirates. A wonderful diversion.”

“Their game? What the hell were we doing?”

“Chess to their checkers,” de Curieux said.

Miller just stared at him.

“We won a much bigger prize,” de Curieux said.

“All we have is this yacht and probably more than a few stitches. Maybe a scar,” Miller said as the ship passed out of the bay and into the Mediterranean. Behind them, Gozo and the Maltese archipelago gleamed with lights and fireworks.

“Yes, the Demoiselle is a fine catch,” de Curieux said. “Captain XO has had her eye on her for a long time. He was fairly upset when Toma outbid him for her all those years ago. He’s considered her his damsel in distress ever since.”

“The ship, the Demoiselle,” Miller said. “This ship is the damsel in distress.”

“Fitting,” de Curieux said. “I take it you failed to catch her name as we boarded.”

“But Analyia?”

“I took care of that while you were stealing the show on the dance floor. Analyia, while technically a very wealthy heiress, has almost no access to her family money. Her father has most of it hidden away in bank accounts or tied up in various estates and trusts,” de Curieux said. “It’s not hard to track these things down if you know what you’re looking for, but getting around the security protocols can be vexing.”

Miller glanced back at the islands. He thought he could still spot the lights from the party up in the cliffs.

“After perusing Zlatkov and Blok’s mobile devices, I had enough information to liquidate the majority of their hard assets and transfer them to a new, very much secure account in Switzerland. When banks open tomorrow, Analyia will have more than enough to make her own way in the world.”

“She wasn’t the damsel in distress.”

“Not at all, Miller,” de Curieux said. “She is quite capable of handling herself. I doubt she has ever known distress.”

Miller collapsed into one of the captain’s chairs and leaned back. He realized it was the first time he had sat since the car ride to the soiree. It would have felt nice if his body did not ache so much. As he silently pondered, de Curieux flipped on the radio.

“Malta party, here. We are ready to rendezvous with The Renegade. We have the Demoiselle. She is in safe hands.”

“Copy. Bravo Zulu.”

De Curieux flipped off the radio and resumed humming.

“All we had to do was get off with the ship?” Miller asked. “That was it?”

“Technically, those were my orders,” de Curieux said. “Doing a favor for an old friend was a pleasant addition. You will find I regularly exceed my orders.”

“But why? And why did it have to be so painful?”

De Curieux smiled as the illuminated outline of The Renegade rose over the dark horizon.

“It wouldn’t have been fun otherwise.”

Airship Canon

As I have noted before, the world of the Airship Renegade is a steampunk/dieselpunk world of the near future and the classic pulp era.

The Renegade is a state of the art dirigible, capable of 300 km/hour at flank speed. It’s lighter than air, but manages that feat through the use of an experimental lighter than air composite material—the very structure of the Renegade is the lift material. This helps explain why the Renegade is so large—more structure actually yields more lifting capacity. ,

The Renegade was envisioned by its designers as a concept similar to a Star Destroyer in Star Wars—a platform capable of providing sustained dominance over an area. Its Tesla cannons—9 turrets total—are capable of both air to air and air to ground fire and are scalable. They can deliver everything from a taser like jolt to a lightning blast that will melt steel. The harpoon and grapple guns were modifications installed after Captain XO ‘borrowed’ the airship. The Renegade was built for multi-domain dominance, not optimized for piracy. That came later.

The Renegade other major systems include the four parasite fighters—small jet fighters optimized for air to air combat, but more than capable of serving as light couriers as well. We’re still looking at stealing a couple of old F-4 Phantoms. The Renegade can carry up to a company of infantry—currently organized into two platoons (the Bold Air Hussars and the Glider Zouaves). The Renegade has a pretty sizable cargo hold, capable of carrying well over 100 tons of cargo and equipped to manage airdrops. When the Renegade is hitting the max for its lighter than air lift, it can generate additional lift via thrust vectoring and deployment of canards. Not even Captain XO is sure of its maximum capacity, but she did wallow a bit on the beer run to Reykjavik.

Where did the Renegade come from? Captain XO keeps quiet on that one. He freely admits it wasn’t his to begin with and has been known to say that he may return it when he’s done. Maybe. Probably not. Best guess was that it was built by some high tech, Tesla/Space-X like company. How Captain XO got a hold of it is a mystery. All the labeling is in American Standard English, though. Spare parts are generally not too hard to come by, and there is a composite replacement manufacturing 3D printer at the base in Wick. Captain XO says it came with the Airship.

Who is Captain XO? Clearly, XO is a nom de guerre. He’s a retired US Army Reserve officer and former federal agent who looks more like a high school English teacher rather than the leader of a band of air pirates. Dab hand with a 9mm 1911 pistol and a boarding saber, though.

Why Wick? Well, Captain XO always wanted to be a Scottish Laird, and when the opportunity to buy a Scottish castle with his ill-gotten gains, he seized it. Apparently the Scots are very ok with a pirate airship homeported in their country (literally the only good thing that Captain XO can attribute to Brexit). The taxes we pay probably help. The base at Wick sports a castle that was converted to a hotel, so there is plenty of room for all, as well as maintenance facilities, weapons training facilities, and everything else a mid sized band of air pirates would need. The Zeppil Inn, our Ground Pub, is located there. Try the Stairway to Heaven. The bartenders won’t tell us what’s in it, but it’s good.

The world of the Renegade is a little less stable than the one we live in now (clearly...a pirate airship freely transits national borders). It’s a post Brexit, post-EU world. The United States is still there. The countries that we know are still there, just not as capable of enforcing their airspace sovereignty as much as they would like—that could be a factor of the Renegade being able to stomp on most countries’ air defense capabilities. Many localities actually welcome a visit from the Renegade as a boost to the local economy. The Renegade does bear a Letter of Marque from rising power Luxembourg, which gives us a thin veneer of respectability—as did our recent mission of mercy to Reykjavik—the good people of Iceland will never forget our emergency beer delivery.

The unnatural aspects? Well, the world is a mysterious place. So we have an airship ghost, and we give out warnings about werewolves of Paris. When we stop in Romania, no locals with pale skin and unnaturally sharp teeth will be invited aboard the airship. Captain XO is still curious as to who was the tall fellow with the scars at the Castle Frankenstein party.

How do you get involved? Crew is everybody who interacts with the official Airship twitter feed, run by the Ship’s Public Affairs Officer (yes, the Renegade has a PAO). There is very little gatekeeping involved, and I have only had to block a couple of people. If you want to write stories set in the world of the Airship Renegade, feel free, using this canon as a guide. I am the ultimate arbiter of what is canon or not, and will edit submissions as required. I'll publish them here on the Ship's Blog.

So, welcome to the Renegade. Keep your cutlass sharp, your boarding axe scoured, and your needle pistol at the ready.

UP AIRSHIP!

Help for Junior Mate Jake!

ATTENTION ALL CREW.

Captain XO here.  Junior Mate Jake, the son and heir apparent of Art Appraisal Mate (and mummy fanatic) Cindy, has been very ill and in hospital from an infection caused by a burst appendix.

I ask for a couple of things:

1) Jake likes cat videos (and I assume puppy videos as well).  Share them with Cindy, or with the Renegade account.

2) If you feel the urge to send a little of your hard earned prize money to help Jake and his family out, DM the Renegade account, or me directly.  I'll vector you towards Art Appraisal Mate Cindy's PayPal.

3) Please keep Junior Mate Jake in your thoughts and make him feel like a welcome part of the Renegade crew.

OFFICAL

CAPTAIN XO

Relief Visit to Reykjavik

Crew!  I know that this entire week was set aside for Halloween activities, but the good people of Reykjavik need our help.  A port call by the US Navy drained the town dry of beer.  I have ordered that palletized beer kegs from local German breweries are to be loaded immediately onto both the Renegade and the Kommandant's Zeppelin.  I want these rigged for airdrop.  Each pallet will be marked with the Ship's Logo, 'Courtesy of the Airship Renegade', and the user names of our social media accounts.  Marking and rigging to be done enroute, all hands not directly involved in flight activities turn to to assist.

Plan: We will fly at flank speed to Reykjavik.  We will airdrop the pallets in parks and fields of Reykjavik.  Comms, we need you to broadcast to Icelandic government that assistance is on its way, and that we are on a mission of mercy.  PAO, develop some themes.

We're going to get some headwinds on the way to Iceland, but those same headwinds will be tailwinds on our way back to central Europe. Nav assures me that we can make it back to Romania with time to spare.

After our Halloween trips, we will return to Reykjavik for an extended visit.  AS HEROS.

Turn to!  We up ship in 30 minutes.

Halloween Trip

After our blowout at Whitby Abbey on Saturday, our agenda for the next 10 days is as follows:

1) Tour of the Paris Catacombs and then catch a show at the Grand Guignol.  The tour will be conducted by a gentleman named Erik, who will also provide an organ recital.

2) After the stop in Paris, we will take the two dirigible flotilla to Castle Frankenstein.  Castle Frankenstein was the birthplace of Johann Conrad Dippel, the likely inspiration behind 'Frankenstein' by Mary Shelley.  We'll spend a couple of days there exploring the area--all crew will get liberty.

3) From there, we travel on to Poenari Citadel in Romania for Halloween.  We'll have a our blow out annual Halloween party.  All survivors will then up ship on the first of November.

We'll head home over the Med.  Might be some nice yachts that need raiding.

Admin note from the Captain

Folks, the Twitter feed hit 500 followers today.  I am amazed and humbled that many people want to hear the fictional adventures of a crotchety former executive officer and his imaginary pirate airship.  Next month we get our 'new' logo, and then I am going to look at coffee mugs.

I am still planning an 'Airship Adventures' podcast, which I intend to be a radio play, something along the lines of a weekly 15 minute episode, dramatizing our illustrious pirate activities.

If anyone out there has an unfulfilled yen to do some voice acting...opportunities await!

In the meanwhile, keep your Tesla cannon charged, your boarding cutlass sharp, and send your drink orders to the Plunder and Lightning.

Captain XO's Cunning Plan

Crew:

So the Captain has been doing some thinking about additional ways that we can shake down the world for the cash we so richly deserve.

His latest idea: we board cargo ships--the high tech types with heavy computerization--and seize control over the bridge computers.  We load malware onto the ship's systems to allow us to take remote control.

Send it on a trip around the world until we get a fat ransom payment from the insurer.

PROFIT.

Restraining Order on the Dirigible?

Crew:

Apparently, our destruction via Tesla cannon of a certain tire company's blimp hanger gave some corporate weenies the sads, so they FILED A RESTRAINING ORDER AGAINST THE RENEGADE.

How do you file a restraining order on a pirate dirigible?  Are they going to send a Sheriff in a helicopter to serve it?

CAPTAIN XO THINKS NOT.  We have a Letter of Marque from HRH Henri the Grand Duke.

In fact, I think we should hang out in the States all this week to play bumper blimps and parasite fighter buzz bys.

What say you, crew?

Return to Wick

Crew:

We've arrived safely back in Wick.  Ground and aircrew, secure the Renegade, offload loot (and booze), and prepare for liberty.

The smoking lamp is lit.

We'll be announcing the grand reopening of the Ground Pub with its new name this week...not that it is actually closed.  We will be taking recommendations on House specialty drinks.

By close of business Monday, I would like a maintenance update on the engines and weapons systems.  We put a lot of strain on the grapple guns towing those yachts out to international waters.

Tonight, join the Captain in the Ground Pub for dinner and drinks celebrating our triumphant trip to the States.

The Goodyear folks continue to scatter every time they hear we're in the area.  We'll catch them one of these days.

yrs,

Captain XO

Trip to the United States

The Captain is glad that everyone seems to be having a good time here on our trip to the States.

Negotiations with Lloyds of London, as well as several other yacht insurers are going well.  We can confidently say that this will be a very profitable trip.

Plus we got to see the hurricane from the Renegade as well as build up our list of good deeds with some rescue operations.  That being said,the Captain would like the Marines we rescued from Camp Lejeune off the Renegade as soon as possible.  The Plunder and Lightning is OFF LIMITS to them.

We still have some other things to do here in the States, including playing Bumper Blimps with those Goodyear losers.

Well done all.

Captain will be holding a roll call soon so we can get our crew list sorted.

Hurricane Guidance

Captain to Crew:

Since PSG Kim of the Hussars has intimated he is going to steal my bloody dirigible to go joy riding unless I take him to see the hurricane, we're going on an air trip.

1) Everybody will be sober for this jaunt.  The bars are closed.
2) NO PUKING IN MY DIRIGIBLE.
3) This is dangerous.  As soon as the hurricane eyeballing is done, I want parasite fighters out and scouting for targets.  We risk the dirigible, we are sure as hell making some profit on this trip.
4) I'll authorize shore leave in the States.  Looking for recommendations where we can set down.
5) I want to mess with the Goodyear folks while we're there, so let's find a game they're at and blimp block them.

We'll up ship and head east at noon tomorrow.  Ground crew, you'll need to get up early and fuel the dirigible.  Ordnance, full weapons load out.

Resume, no specified position

Captain XO:

We received this resume--no cover letter, so we're forwarding it for your consideration against available openings.  Perhaps that ground crew turret repair position?  I mean anyone who makes a gauss cannon out of spare parts has got to be willing to learn to turn a bolt on a Tesla cannon, right?

Thanks,

HR

Experience

Ground Team Co-Leader/Split Team Leader B, RES-Ingress, Boston MA, “Operation Cassandra Prime”, August 28^th, 2018. This position required me to assist in coordinating a group of ten agents, to frequently lead 3-5 of them in a separate attack on enemy ENL-Ingress targets, and to liase with our team’s assigned overwatch.

Intel/Planning/Dispatch, United Chicagoland RES-Ingress, Evanston IL, July 2017 to present. This position requires me to keep a sharp eye on ENL-Ingress activity in my area, and to plan and coordinate counterstrikes in the Chicagoland North Shore sector.

Military History Nerd, 2013 to present. I am an amateur student of military history, with particular focus on battles/campaigns where the victorious force outsmarted or outmaneuvered their enemy. I am also an avid reader of “alternate history” military fiction, giving me a strong grasp of “what-if” scenarios that help me to plan for unexpected developments.

Amateur Gauss Cannon Engineer, 2007. I was firmly disciplined by my parents for building a jury-rigged gauss rail from magnets, duct tape, and a yardstick, when the test round went both long and wide and narrowly missed the kitchen window. I remain firmly of the opinion that an improved design would have granted me more accuracy, and the anemic muzzle velocity likely posed no serious threat to the pane in question, but my tools and materials were nonetheless confiscated by said authorities.

References

            Tom Rodgers, my mentor and frequent CO in United Chicagoland RES-Ingress. 

            The Half Price Books in Highland Park, which probably remembers me as the guy with curly hair and glasses, who always buys giant stacks of military history and military fiction. 

            My brother, who probably remembers the gauss rail incident.