Issue 36 – Have Tanks, Will Travel
- Jacksonville, Florida, November 20, 2039
They had expected the trip to take three weeks, but in the end, it took a month before they first laid their eyes on the American shores.
Apart from encountering a single storm in the Mediterranean, the voyage was remarkably uneventful. With most of the world’s navies defunct and their ship no more than decrepit hulls rusting in abandoned military ports, the Altalena – for the name stuck – was never challenged, even when passing the previously closely guarded Gibraltar Strait. For the Seahawks, the last glimpse of the Old World would be the Spanish cliffs disappearing in the distance. Most of them would never see Europe again, although they were not aware of it at the time.
Ten days into the journey, they passed the Azores, abandoned and uninviting – they would find no shelter amongst the barren rocks and cliffs, no place to call their own – and so, they sailed on, towards the west and their destiny.
As Blackwood had predicted, the U.S. Navy was not present and their approach to the eastern coast of Florida was not met with any resistance. What they did not expect was the level of prosperity they encountered. The navy base was there, but it was not abandoned.
The Free City of Jacksonville, how its residents called it, was formally still a part of the state of Florida and the United States of America, but the federal hold on the entire area was tentative at best. An uneasy peace – or, more accurately, a ceasefire – between the separatists controlling much of the American southwest and the legitimate government of the United States of America was a result of a failed attempt of Washington to bring the south back into the fold earlier in 2039 using private military companies.
Jacksonville was lucky to have escaped the worst fighting, but the signs were still there – as the Seahawk ship approached the pier in the early morning mist, many of them gathered on Altalena’s deck, they could see a number of rusty, broken down vehicles littering the port area. The port was bustling with activity with fishermen and dockhands both raising their head in confusion, surprised by the arrival of the massive transport ship.
As the Altalena docked, the Seahawks could see increased activity with several workers running towards what looked like an office building. Before the first of docking cables were attached to the pier’s moorings by the now-disembarking Seahawks, the workers returned with a tired-looking middle-aged bald man in a cheap suit – the overseer. He nodded at them curtly, completely undisturbed by the sudden appearance of the transport in his port.
“Gentlemen. Welcome to Jacksonville.”
He looked around, appraising the ship, its cargo and its crew with a single glance of a seasoned professional.
“You’ll need help unloading.”
A statement, not a question.
“I’ll send over some of my boys. Drop by my office,” he pointed to the building behind him, “to sort out the fees.”
He nodded to himself as if he was going through a list in his mind.
“But first, please follow the fine gentlemen of port security, there’s the matter of your...”
He paused again, looking at the weapons the Seahawk guards gathered behind Blackwood carried.
“...equipment.”
An apologetic smile.
“We don’t want any incidents, right?”
Blackwood quickly nodded, noticing the port guards approaching the pier. They looked agitated and were carrying military-grade firearms, including one or two anti-tank launchers. He turned back towards the men gathered behind him.
“Seagrove, you’re with me. Kate, Fyodor, keep an eye on the ship and the unloading. We can stash our stuff...,” he looked back to the overseer, “where exactly?”
The overseer just pointed to what looked like a warehouse at the end of the pier.
“Right, there. Let’s get going, those gentlemen with guns look quite nervous to me.”
