Chapter 1

The Northern Venice, and Europa-1

My journey to Allied command was surprisingly smooth. The already, mainly flat terrain of my Dutch homeland was even flatter than I remembered from childhood. Most of that terrain was just so much stinking, polluted floodwater now, anyway. We in the Low Countries have always been wary of floods. Of course we tried to warn Allied high command of the dangers of screwing around with the weather systems, but in the end stalling the Soviet advance across Northern Europe had overridden any objectors like a juggernaut. The result? Floods stretching from here to Germany and France, but of course Belgium and the Netherlands had taken it on the chin the worst. I was heavily reminded of this passing Rotterdam, the ‘Northern Venice’ as the locals - or what is left of them - call it sardonically. Several Destroyers and two cruisers from various Allied Navies were in anchor around the city as my transport hovercraft sped past the strangely tranquil sunset scene, leaving a disgustingly foamy wake in the filthy, stagnant water. It’s raining again. Typical.

Still the journey from Low Countries unified command to Allied HQ was short. It took longer to dock our hovercraft, and then to get through the security checking-in point. The reason for the extra security? Several Belgian, Dutch, French and German officers had recently been exposed planning an armistice with Soviet forces. I won’t call these men traitors, because they were only planning to avoid a disaster - like the floods - devastating our small countries. I was one of them. Those men, my friends, were court-marshaled, then led and thrown in the brig. No one has heard of them since.

I am here still, on active duty. I don’t know exactly why. I assumed I was travelling to Allied HQ Europe to get my come-uppance too. 

Command had other ideas.
By this stage, after both the Soviet initial advance, the European counter-attack, the ‘Yuri’ incidents, another Soviet push and now the flooding, nuclear fallout and chem. Warfare - not to mention Chrono shock and rogue ‘Iron Curtain Effects’, Allied HQ Europe had wisely decided a fixed HQ building was a short road to a funeral. From now on all operations would be conducted from the ‘Floating Fortress’ ‘Europa-1’.

This vast structure, if you can imagine it - appeared on the outside to be just a motley collection of large semi-decommissioned Battleship hulls riveted together with an Eiffel Tower look-alike plunked on top. In reality it was the engineering marvel of Europe, maybe even the world. Within the vast structure nestled Naval docks, sub pens, Runways capable of taking STOL aircraft, enough heliports to accommodate a regiment of Longbows, full satellite up linking and yet another Chronosphere, which was mainly held as an emergency measure to move the fortress quickly in case of emergency. Of course the whole thing bristled with AAA, SAM and Gap Generators too. Just in case.

This thing slowly sludged around flooded Europe and the North Sea, ready to marshal forces to blunt any further Soviet or Yuri attacks - or God knows, who will attack next? The African Empire? The Latin Alliance? The mind boggles.

I marched up the boarding ramp with my friend, Swedish Navy Lieutenant Dr. Pelle Frederikksen, rather a chubby little man going bald on top who wore a strange little ‘shoelace moustache. The men at the security checkpoint - letting their Steyr AUG rifles rest casually in our direction - let us through only after retinal scanning.

“Thank god they don’t do the cavity searches anymore.”
“Shut up, Frederikksen.”

Our appointment was two thirds of the way up the ‘Eiffel Tower’, which, interestingly, no one knew if it had been turned into a giant Tesla Coil yet. No one with my security clearance, anyway. A pretty secretary in French Navy Uniform made us sit down while we waited, kindly getting us both a glass of wine, which we both drank.

“Mmm, amazing what they can do down at urine resyk, eh, Reen?
“Shut UP, Frederikksen!” I snarled, trying to ignore what he had just reminded me. But it was true - the fortress was almost entirely self contained - it grew it’s own food in hydroponic farms, manufactured it’s own ammunition…recycled it’s own urine…

I eventually steered my mind back toward the task in hand - trying to figure out if command were going to screw me and lock me up, and if so, how to get out of it, and then, how were we going to win the war - and just who the hell were we fighting against now, anyway? All this and to ignore Frederikksen’s witterings. Did I say he was my friend? It was an operative term.

When we let in by the cute secretary, it was blessed relief, because now Frederikksen had to be quiet. Discipline, you see. Also I could ignore the aftertaste of the ‘wine’.

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