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THE BALTIT’S HARBOR
Things were not looking good for Dong Che. Despite his orders for limited sorties out of the safety of the Baltit harbor, a lot of men disobeyed his order and tried to make a name for themselves—but it was all vain. Their futileness accomplished virtually nothing that could work in Che’s favor—perhaps they were intending to break out for Lübeck and avoid a drawn-out siege. Che will never know. In the end, they were pointless sacrifices, unlike that of the brave old man at the Malabo. It resulted in useless lots of lives and material. And now they have suffered for it.
After the first few sorties out of the harbor, Che was faced with a reserve that numbered around one hundred and twenty ships left, including the likes of auxiliary vessels. With each passing hour, Che helped for news of a relief fleet. With each tick of the clock, Che hoped that either his father or Li would come. But it never does.
There is no hope, Che laments looking down the empty bottle of rum he just now finished, but I can’t tell that to the men. The men and women under his command are putting their lives on the line for a relief that will never come.
The harbor entrances leading outside became the battleground of close-quarters ship combat. Although in the Federation’s case, it was one-sided. The bottleneck helped to prolong the inevitable. Inevitably, though, Che’s force would not be able to maintain attrition. They had time, but not the resources to maintain the bottleneck for much longer. And who knows what the common pirate makes of this situation? Che can only preach lies of hope for so long. How many pirate warlords found themselves in this exact situation? Enemies in front and potentially enemies behind them, somewhere near the cusp of mutiny or death.
Already, dozens of ship debris—mostly Federation—litter the floor of the humongous entryway. Their armaments were not meant for inner-Side combat. According to Li, the Metropolitan naval doctrine is nuclear-missiles and that would spell disaster if even so much as one missed its target and detonated in the harbor. In her words, it would spell the deaths of millions of innocent civilians—civilians that they seek to ‘liberate’, and genocide would certainly not help in their champion of quashing pirate scum like them.
This Federation fleet in particular may have missiles with far less lethal yields, Che surmises, or at least warheads with no nuclear payloads. Che doesn’t need to look out of his makeshift tent to know that dozens of missiles missed their mark and exploded somewhere in the harbor. Che was originally in his Pattani, but after exiting it one time for an inspection of damage done to a nearby depot, a missile landed some yards away from the ship, and shrapnel shredded the rear end of the Pattani. Miraculously, the ship did not explode. But it spooked Che enough that he decided to make a temporary command post somewhere else—somewhere that was safe and less prone to getting annihilated compared to sitting in a big metal box that may as well be his coffin.
And that temporary command post was a tan linen tent. Simple, and not too big. Sure, Che thought, it offered virtually no protection whatsoever. But the harbor is big,and he chose a spot that wasn’t too far from the front-lines and wasn’t in the smack middle of the area where it was far more probable of a missile landing. It provided an exquisite view of the depressing situation. Che hated it, he wanted to be in his air-conditioned office. Or, even better, inside the safely of the block that the harbor leads into. Since the Federation can’t be willing to use nuclear warheads lest they desire collateral damage. Thankfully, this isn’t a Ruthenian force under that terrifying Dolz— the Mad Dog of Ruthenia.
But his subordinates said no. Che hates them so much. All they do is give him headaches that this alcohol is continuing to fail to drown out. We can’t afford a fraction of a second in communication delays, we need you here where we can reach you easier. Or so they said. And they had the gall to call him a coward… while the brave volunteers of the Year 217 Mafia are risking their very lives on the surface of the entranceway, Che wants to live a quiet life in the safety of the Side interior.
From what Che knows, much of the actual ship-to-ship fighting has subsided over the last couple hours. This has been followed by the Federation commencing several amphibious assaults onto the cluttered surface of the harbor entranceway. And so far, due to the varying degree of ship carcasses left around it has been hell for defenders and attackers alike.
Across from Che’s tent is a hastily-made hospital ward. It’s practically at over-capacity, and the transportation logistics needed to send them to actual hospitals inside the colony is completely overwhelmed. The brave pirates who need critical attention die left unattended due to a lack of medical supplies or available hands. The various volunteer nurses can only afford to cover them up with blankets and move on to other wounded. These men and women die with hope on their mind—that their brethren will live on to be relieved by the Madame. Regret that they couldn’t do more to stop the Federation juggernaut. They die, knowing they have been freed from this hellish nightmare. And for that, Che can’t help but envy them.
The honk of a vehicle horn brings back Che from the depths of his hazy monologue. His wonderful assistant, Darcy, pulls up just short of the entrance to the tent. She hops out of the passenger side, “captain, we have a bit of a problem upfront.” She says with a somber tone. When is it ever good news? The young Dong thought to himself as he struggles to get on his feet from the purple cushion he sat on. Several empty bottles clatter around like bowling ball pins because of his carelessness.
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“Go on, Darcy, entertain me. I could use some humor right about now.” Che replies sluggishly. It’s possible he may have had a bit too much to drink for his liver to handle. Darcy only scoffs at his degeneracy in the face of immediate danger. But being the good saint that she is, she says nothing, and Che is graceful that she is a good subordinate that knows what and what not to say.
“The Federation assaults are getting more and more aggressive. The first few defensive lines have collapsed, in no time our local officers regret that we will need to fall back into the harbor itself. I’ve already ordered some squads to cover the withdrawal, they just need time.” Che groans, and steps outside of the tent past Darcy. Indeed, there has been a lot of progress in setting up improvised barricades. Several lines of defense consisting of rundown vehicles, slabs of metal taken from nonoperational ships, small organized piles of sandbags, and blocks of pavements on small wagons.
The dockyards have basically been turned into a fortress. But if the Federation so much as gets even a small cruiser in here, then it’s all over. “Darcy… do we have any artillery pieces or the like in the colony somewhere?” Che asks but does not look back at her, “even just uninstalling guns on some of the ships that have been put out of action can be useful for anti-ship batteries. If we add them to the defenses, we can give the Federation a hell of a time if they dare send any ships into the entrance.”
“I will see what I can do, captain, if that is all, I will be on my way.” And with that, Darcy walks past Che, but with one leg on the vehicle’s footstool, she looks back at Che. “…By the way, I almost forgot to mention. The most forward unit reports an interesting discovery; a good number of the Federation fleet has moved on to the direction of Lübeck. Should we attempt a breakout?”
Che should not find it surprising that they would split the fleet. In fact, he is moresurprised they stuck around for so long rather than secure Lübeck—which is more or less ripe for the taking. If Simon sees an enormous fleet then he would have no choice but to surrender—and then the Don and Li would be even more backed into a corner than they likely are now. Not even Li’s majestic tactile could get them out of that situation. The Year 217 Mafia would be dismantled.
But even if they attempted a breakout now… it would only end up in vain. They might be able to successfully break out through the siege, but they would not be able to break through the fleet heading for Lübeck. It would be tantamount to slaughter once the sailing fleet turns around and finishes them off with ease,since they won’t be holding civilians essentially hostage. And there’s no use in fooling the Federation twice—they have total dominance of the entrance now, it would not justify the enormous losses if they attempted it in the first first-place.
Darcy looks at him questionably, awaiting an answer. But before long Che deflates with an annoyed sigh, “no, we will not. It is too risky. We will keep the fight here—I still have hope that Li or the Don will come for us. They have to. I am fully confident the messenger accomplished his mission. It’s not worth the risk of sacrificing more and more lives for a pointless endeavor.” Darcy sighs in resignation, then hops on the passenger cart and orders the driver full speed in the direction of the crumbling battle-lines, leaving Che alone at the tent with empty bottles of rum rolling past his feet.
If Li was here… what would she do? Stand her ground and fight in the harbor, or retreat into the colony to fight a guerrilla war? No… Che ponders, by that point the civilians would rise in support of the Federation. Che’s migraine only pounds harder, it’s getting way too out of control for him to handle.
Rather than sulk around in a tent devoid of things to ease the pain, Che walks over to the bustling hospital ward devoid of life and full of misery. Rows upon rows of makeshift beds or bedrolls, each with bandaged patients—some with poorly amputated limbs. Cries of their mothers and deathbed confessions fill the lingering air, and Che can’t help but feel sorry for them. It is because of his actions—or lack thereof—that they suffer… and yet they fight on. They fight on because he instilled into them hope that help will arrive. He gave them suffering and he gave them hope. Hope that theMadame Scarface or the Don will come any moment now—that there will be much rejoice and celebration when the time comes—if it comes. But it doesn’t.
Someone grabs Che’s leg. A little startled, he recoils slightly but relaxes when it was the grab of a scrawny fellow heavily bandaged, except for one of his eyes and stomach. A nurse that was attending to him tries to pry the arm off, but the bandaged man resists him.
“Tell me, captain… Dong Che.” The man croaks, staring with such tension with his beady eye that makes Che uncomfortable, “will we… will the Madame ever come? Will our efforts be in vain? I don’t want to… I don’t… I don’t want to…” He trails off with tears forming in his eyes. Sweat soaks his bandaged head. “I don’t want to die… I don’t want my friends to die…I want to…want to live for the Madame…” The man’s grip tightens as he chokes on words—or blood. Che knees next to him, and after exchanging glances with the nurse, Che turns his attention back to the patient.
“Li—the Madame will come. I’m sure of it. I am absolutely sure of it. So don’t go dying on us now, you hear me? Live for our sake—live for her sake.” Che utters trying to avoid being moved to tears. Che clasps the man’s bandaged hand, “I won’t forgive you if you die so easily… you have to survive, whatever it takes!” Che can just barely see it, but through the lining of the bandages he can make out the injured men forming a subtle smile.
“You’re a… bad liar, Che… but… it’s that kind of thinking… that… gives us hope.” The man’s clasped hand goes limp, and his eye gently closes, his head rolls to the other side.
Che gets up and steps back to let the nurse revive the man, but it seems to be in vain. There’s nothing to do now for him. There’s nothing to do for any of them now. Che has gotten them into this mess, and he is unable to get them out of it without needless sacrifices. Che looks up at the various barricades being assembled—and the ever-shrinking front-lines in the dock’s vast entranceway.
It’s all up to Li now.