The Watch Crew report that we strode past Madagascar, albeit over the port horizon late last night without incident. Our plotted course drops us in the thermals and drives the U331 east away from Africa. Fuel no longer becomes an issue as we float along in the 2-knot current. Bdu reports that Churchill has finally persuaded some Portuguese merchants to act as his mule with transports headed for Indonesian ports. At the same time, the greedy Americans are siphoning all the Gulf fuel they can corral and driving it south. Both present profitable targets but Berlin has decided that the American Regatta in the Indian Ocean is to vanish.
A futile display by the wealthy, sending a rat to protect the cheese. The American convoy offered but little resistance. The Bdu will be pleased to learn of the oil slick which now covers the Indian, and the Americans will no doubt begin their pointing at Mr. Churchill’s exiled forced. It would be hard for either side to imagine that any IGN threat would be this far from home.
A Peruvian vessel – the ‘El Presidente” is causing a ruckus on the American short wave. Transmissions intercepted from listening posts suggest that it’s manifest is not accurately described. The crew is aware of the instruction to locate this vessel. They anticipate that a rogue vessel such as this might be carrying some contraband that the crew could use to drown their livers with.
League pilots seem to congregate in this area much like subtropical flies swept out to sea on the trade winds. But we did not find the amber liquids we had so hoped for, but rather, something more sinister. We dispatched the fiend with the same disgust that we have for its owners, who ever they may have been.
Bdu have transferred my services to surface command. Upon docking I was briefed on the importance of the future weeks. My personal effects will be shipped at a later timer, they cannot wait. The next ship is always more important than the photos and journals we leave behind.
Had I not been there I would refuse to believe that there was another submarine skulking about, but I heard the silent motors myself not long before my direction was needed. Wherever the combatant was, wherever he went and for whatever reason, he did not take the opportunity to fire when a solution was present. I do not know why any Kapitain would do such a thing, with the exception of course for the Kapitan that does not want to provoke an incident. Why?
Sound can carry quite a long distance, if you know where to listen. The El Presidente was definitely on it’s own, but the intelligence did not account for the presence of another – perhaps a minder for it’s illicit cargo. There is a small armada of surface vessels in the area circling behind the approaching storm front, and at least one noise that sounds decidedly like it is electrically driven. The weather is becoming unsettling in the region, it will make observation on the surface difficult for all.
The East Timor shoreline can be a hostile place even in friendly times. The information over the lost submarine has been relayed with priority to Berlin, who responded with such urgency that I believe a course correction is needed to find it. After dispatching the enemy, a search of the debris field reveals that though manufactured for RNE forces, there was enough evidence on board to suggest that they were in fact renegade from the Portuguese. Perhaps they are on Churchill’s payroll? Books and letters were translated on board by one of our more literate crew, and the crates of bottled Ginginja, a berry drink favored in Lisbon adds further evidence. The crew was more then happy to relieve the contents after our earlier encounters provided no refreshment.
Bdu reports observations from renegade observers that the mariners were in fact Portuguese, seeking only to raise more unanswerable questions. The crew is a little unsettled at this news, a clandestine force posing under whichever banner appears to be the highest bidder. An Australian by the name of Johnson appears to be a local deity, corroborating with the Far East element.
The crew are anxious as we await our own convey interdiction. The fleet is sending an armada of supplies, badly needed not only by my own vessel, but also those further down the line. And perhaps, badly wanted by the rogues for trade. I would prefer to have a stronger grasp of Southern Ocean tactics, but this is the world decided for us.
The joy of playing guardian is not without it’s benefits. The convoy has passed through safely , and has also passed on two very important and morale boosting items. The first relates to the identity of the American submariner, a rogue from northern ports operating for profit. The Captain reports that his influence stretches from the bordellos of Dilli through to the gardens just miles away from the Exiled Australian Palace.
The second item was some well-received fruit and eggs, which the crew immediately devoured. Their spirits have returned to a high along with the shading in their ruddy complexion.
In recent days we have taken to conducting “inspections” of the trade ships plying routes through the region. Most of the merchants are former American freighters that now seem to be crewed by very old Portuguese mariners. No doubt recruited out of retirement in the back streets of the regional ports. This has not prevented the Americans from amassing sizeable convoys to transit the Straits. To take down an entire convoy, you need a pack of hungry wolves. The boys are coming to dine.
The crew has broken out the wine and the cook has prepared a feast for us to celebrate our recent success. Bdu confirm that the convoy is in tatters and more importantly, the enemy forces awaiting for their supplies - will continue to wait. We celebrate but know that the fight goes on.
I have held the last communiqué back from the crew. Our success has past the point where the opposition can no longer turn a blind eye to our presence. The League has dispatched a team to hunt us down, and the Americans have reassigned one of their best surface ships to make amends. For my part though, their hunt will be short lived with reassignment in the territorial waters of Djakarta.
The stray League merchantmen were trying to regroup and the Americans token effort - well – like all good token, was wasted. These regional skirmishes though have in our eyes, shifted the aggression away form Europe and made it very real here in the Indian Ocean.
The insertion of the Portuguese in maritime matters is apparently no fluke. This far from Berlin there is no special command force that can go and recapture one of our MIA. The crew has heard of my recent success and the local trade winds have begun to blow. The superstitious call this a good sign; I prefer to think of it as a good wind blowing ill – ill for them.
Kapitan Meyer, a fellow graduate form the homeland albeit a year ahead of me, was most gracious about his “liberation”. His information has been relayed back, but it was more important to hear of his observations in the region, and his notations of maritime movements. I have transcribed some personal notes while the formal debriefing from Berlin is undoubtedly some weeks away.
The Australian, Johnson, is a wanted man – apparently by all sides. I have been unable to map out his allegiance no matter whether the information has been sterilized. It would appear that my non-combatant opposite number is somewhat secretive in his motivation. It is clearly not with honor to anyone but himself, it makes me suspect that Johnson is a businessman wearing naval fatigues. He has no business on the oceans.
As elusive as his ship may have been, Johnson himself is becoming even more elusive. His penance for evading detection is drawing some fury from Berlin. Despite recent accomplishments, one can never satisfy the distant office of the Navy when the chase extends beyond what they consider an adequate time frame. Still, when the rabbit runs, a scent is left behind. And I have his bait.
The prisoner, or revered guest – Mister Bandon, is not what he appears to be. There are claims he is in the service of the Abwehr but his movements on board suggest that he may nothing more then a corrupted official. Still, the powers in Berlin dictate that at this time he is to be treated as thought High Command. His presence amongst the crew is distracting to our mission in this part of the world. But our mission does not include the transport of precious metals – in particular, gold. I smell a water rat amongst us, but I am unsure which of the local deities it may be.
Our paying guest is finally out of our hair, having left for dryer bunks. The crew was clearing out his quarters when they found a small object – a diamond. Without suggestion that our Abwehr was carrying contraband, it does bring conjecture to the real reason why all these profitable merchants are of such importance to the IGN? I have addressed the crew and informed that our recent duties have been done for intelligence missions. They appear to be satisfied with the explanation and the knowledge that they can never talk about it.
My suspicions were correct. Our recent tie to the profitable merchants appears to have been tied to clandestine smuggling operations. It is unclear to me whether it be diamonds or gold – or the relevance of the Portuguese merchants. Clearly the thought at Bdu is that these “Patriots” have a clear effect on local happenings, and yet again, I have been instructed to hunt them down with my own local armada.
The opposition is in disarray – at least in this part of the world. Their remains litter the seabed, but I suspect that this is not the end of this Charade of Dilli. I have done my duty to Country but it appears that even the bandits with no country have the leading edge. An unmarked plane was tracked out of the region of conflict, but there is little intelligence to suggest that our opposition was on board. I remain suspicious, and wish dearly to walk across his path again. In a few weeks I will be relaxing about Istanbul – and what I wouldn’t do to have one more shot at this germ.
Doncaster1972