CSA 1916 News

[Guinness]

The position of Confederate Ambassador to Paris was the most sought after in the entire Confederate Diplomatic Corps. Between the decadent parties, and the generally glamorous lifestyle it could be hard to get any actual diplomacy done. And when actual work was needed, very often the Ambassador would end up holding the hat of someone even more important, usually the Secretary of State or an envoy detailed from Richmond. So, in fact, the Ambassador did not actually get to play all that much in the high stake diplomatic game.

He arrived at the Premier's office right at the appointed time, but the Premier's appointments secretary could only say rather briskly "The Premier is behind schedule." He then left the Ambassador alone, without so much as offering him coffee.

It was eight-fifteen in the morning.

The Ambassador found a seat to wait. "Typical!" he thought.

Within a few minutes, the Ambassador thought he heard something coming through the heavy double doors which led to the Premiers office. Something... tawdry.

"Couldn't be!", the Ambassador thought.

After fifteen or twenty minutes (the Ambassador couldn't be sure, as strangely there were no clocks in the anteroom of the Premier's office), the faint noises seemed to die off, and after about another five minutes, the doors opened. A pretty, no beautiful woman beckoned the Ambassador in in French: "Veuillez entrer."

The Ambassador found the seat before the Premier's large desk. The Premier was already seated. He had a queer, far away look on his face.

Galpoux greeted him with: "So, what does the Confederacy choose to bother me with now?"

"Premier I've been asked to convey this message to you in person. The situation in Mesoamerica continues to deteriorate, and we are concerned that the violence and lawlessness will soon spill over our borders. Furthermore, we believe that an outside party, most likely the Colombians, has been fanning these flames of unrest, with an eye toward causing material harm to the Confederacy. Accordingly, we see no other course of action but to begin preparations to take action in Mesoamerica to install a new stronger, more stable regime there, and take other actions to assure that our interests are secured. These actions conceivably could include war with Gran Colombia."

Galpoux sat motionless behind his desk for a moment, before pushing his chair back a little and leaning back.

"I'm sure, much as the messy business in Kolkata was only a French problem, this is only a Confederate problem." Galpoux said with a snort.

"Premier, it is the position of my government, at least in private among friends, that the actions we believe the Colombians have taken in Mesoamerica constitute a concerted effort on their part to cause the Mesoamerican rebels eventually to fight the Confederacy. A war by proxy is how it's being referred to in Richmond. We believe strongly that such actions, while not an overt declaration of war by Cartagena, should be viewed that way for the purposes of the Nassau Agreement, and we... hope that France would recognize that and pledge aid to the Confederate cause publicly should that be necessary."

The Premier made a dismissive gesture with is hand. "The Colombians no doubt have been dabbling in Mesoamerica, as has the Confederacy, I'm sure. France has no interest in the petty squabbling of regional powers in the western hemisphere. And as I said, I'm quite sure that Richmond can take care of itself in this matter."

The Ambassador looked down in his lap for a moment, considering. He'd expected the French might be reluctant in this matter. He knew they'd stretched themselves a little bit uncomfortably defending Kolkata. But still, Golpoux reaction had surprised him.

"Premier Galpoux, let me ask you this question then. What if the circumstances become somewhat less ambiguous. What if war is declared between the Confederacy and Colombia?"

"War?" The Premier answered. "I see no need for the Confederacy to go war over such petty little problems. If the Confederacy feels the need to strike first, I see no circumstance that would allow France to join in such aggression against the Colombians. If the Colombians were to strike first, I suppose that might be different, but there would be great question here in Paris about whether or not they'd been goaded into it by our government. I imagine it would make for a long and heated debate here."

The Ambassador's face flushed, but he tried to maintain his calm. "Well then, your Excellency, I suppose that there's little point in my asking you about the next point, which was to be provisions for joint military planning." Galpoux just waved his hand in front of his face. "In that case, if you'll excuse me, I need to return to the embassy."

The Ambassador stood abruptly, and without a handshake, turned and left the Premier's office. On return to the Confederate Embassy, he scratched out a note and handed it to his secretary, saying: "Transmit this to Richmond immediately. And take precautions, use the new one-time pad."

The note read:

From: Ambassador to France, Paris
To: President Roosevelt

Met with Galpoux today. Was received most rudely. Galpoux was most non-receptive to any idea that France might become involved in prospective conflict related to Mesoamerica. Ruled out even question of joint military planning. Detailed report to follow.

EDIT: fixed the Freudian slip related to the CSA's capital.

[The Rock Doctor]

You'd have thought the Premier would've been in a better mood at that point...

[Guinness]

You'd have thought the Premier would've been in a better mood at that point...

Assuming he had, er, well, performed adequately I suppose.

[The Rock Doctor]

Fair enough...

[maddox]

Maybe Galpoux was performing too well, and had to cut short what he was doing because duty called.

[Guinness]

Late October 1916

"Yes, yes, I see what you mean." Commander Ignacio del Nuevo said as he pushed up on the shoulder braces of the twin one-inch machine gun mount which was bolted to the freshly laid concrete test bad looking out over Pensacola Bay. Buzzing in a slow circle overhead was a brand new Lougheed O2L floatplane.

"It is very difficult to train the mount and be able to stop it and lay aim when you need to, especially when also changing elevation. And I can't track the aeoroplane at all when it flies overhead."

"The mount only allows an elevation of 58 degrees, which is inadequate against aeroplanes." Lieutenant James Rhodes, who was giving the demonstration had noted. He'd been asked to the brief the Commander, who had travelled from the Bureau of Ordnance offices in Norfolk on his team's progress. Their assignment was to assess current "anti-aeroplane" measures aboard ships, and recommend improvements.

"Also, Commander, in my opinion the rate of fire of even the twin mount is inadequate. Our experiments indicate that an aeroplane travelling overhead at one-hundred miles per hour might only be hit two or three times by an accurately laid mount of this type. Given that aeroplanes are almost entirely fabric, the chance of inflicting damage such to shoot down the enemy aeroplane are remote."

"Not very good odds, are they Lieutenant?" The Commander noted.

"No sir. The news with the two-pounder is a little better." The Lieutenant pointed toward the standard Confederate two-pounder AA mount not far away on the test pad. "It's rate of fire is slightly worse than the twin one-inch mount, but as you know, the two pounder shells have a small bursting charge. If they hit something of sufficient hardness, the burster fires, and the body of the shell forms shrapnel that can shred the fabric covering of an aeroplane, and do damage to other essential systems."

"How about rate of train?" The Commander asked.

"Please, try it yourself." The Lieutenant answered while pointing toward the control position which trained the mount. The Lieutenant waved his cap at the circling aeroplane for a few moments, then climbed into the seat on the other side of the mount where the wheel which controlled elevation was located. The two officers practiced tracking the aeroplane for a few minutes, training and elevating the mount.

"So as you can see, the mount doesn't train or elevate as quickly as might be possible with the twin one-inch mount, but it takes a lot less work, and is easier to stop and lay on target accurately. Also this mount trains up to 85 degrees, which as you can see makes quite a difference." The Lieutenant noted.

"So your recommendation is to develop a new hand-trained machine gun mount then?" The Commander asked.

"We've also tried the singe and twin half-inch machine guns on an experimental high-angle mount." He gestured toward those test articles past the one-inch twin on the test pad. "These guns have a higher rate of fire than the one-inch, and are much easier to accurately train. One recommendation we have now is to equip all ships where possible with some number of these depending on ship size. We believe that in all cases these can be fitted with minimal impact on deck or magazine space. The single mounting is quite handy, and can be operated by a team of two easily, or one for short durations. With water cooling, as long as ammunition is supplied, it can be fired almost indefinitely. The projectile, is of course, much smaller, but we find that it does nearly equal damage to aeroplanes, so there's little lost fighting power there. The increased rate of fire more than makes up for any difference."

The Commander nodded. With a number of these guns already in inventory, this recommendation wasn't too hard to carry out.

The Lieutenant continued: "The great utility of the one-inch machine gun is that it is very effective against small crafts, such as motor torpedo boats. This was, after all, it's original use. So we've been concentrating our analysis on guns which fire close to the same size and weight of projectile, but with a higher rate of fire, and lower weight. Unfortunately, a survey of the world's weapons manufacturers haven't revealed anything we think is right for the job.* So our recommendation is to develop something new, possibly in the three-quarter inch range.** If authorized, my men have several ideas of how that might work. Most likely we'd recommend a single mount, to make for easier operation."

The Commander nodded his head. He'd read all this in the preliminary report anyway, but it was helpful to hear it from the report's author.

"And what of what you called barrage anti-aeroplane guns?" The commander asked.

"Right this way sir. First you'll see an experimental two and one-quarter inch six-pounder mounting." The Lieutenant rested his hand on the gun's breach. "This is the standard six-pounder which is being phased out of service now, as it has been concluded that it doesn't offer enough punch against the ever growing torpedo rams of other navies. What we've done is mounted it on this new mounting that allows up to sixty-five degrees of elevation. That's the first innovation. The second is the shell..." He reached down into a waiting crate and picked up a six-pounder shell. "We've been experimenting with timed fuzes. When it works right, we can set the fuze for the amount of time required to reach the expected range and altitude of the enemy. When the round is fired, the fuse is set, and then the bursting charge explodes when it is exhausted, resulting in a cloud of shrapnel. We expect that when fired in sufficient concentration, this might serve to prevent aeroplanes from approaching close enough to our ships to do damage. It'll also do quite a number on an airship, I might add.

"How reliable is the fused shell?" The Commander asked.

"We've adapted a design by the army for use in shelling prepared positions. They use it to cause an air-burst just above ground, which has a devastating anti-personnel effect. So it's a proven technology. In the six-pounder though, the fuse takes up a lot of space, so the bursting charge is pretty small. The six pounder doesn't work that well, but might be adequate on smaller ships. What is very reliable and very effective is this..." He gestured toward the last gun on the pad.

"This is, of course, the three and a half inch, twenty pounder, of the type that is becoming standard across the fleet. Here too, we've been experimenting with a new mounting, which also allows sixty-five degrees of elevation. The drawback here is that while it elevates to sixty-five degrees, the elevation is slow, and it only depresses to about two degrees, so it may be insufficient for use against surface targets. For anti-aeroplane and anti-aircraft work though, we have high hopes. The shell is also time fused, with a much bigger bursting charge, so it results in a shrapnel cloud much bigger than the six pounder. Rate of fire isn't much slower than the six-pounder though. Also, the muzzle blast from this is large enough, we believe from our experiments, as to be easily visible to an aeroplane pilot. We believe that seeing the muzzle flash from these has an important phsychological effect."

"Hmm, I see. So your recommendations are to continue to install the two-pounder, and to develop both the six pounder for smaller ships, and the twenty pounder for larger ships, specifically for anti-aeroplane use?"

"Yes Commander. That sums it up. That leaves only how to direct the fire. For the repeating weapons, we believe the eye, allied with tracer rounds, is sufficient. For the barrage weapons, coordination of the fire of multiple guns where available is necessary. This brings us to the need of some sort of fire control..." He walked to a prototype unit.

"As you can see, Commander, this is a simple siting system. The layer will first fix the center pointer of the site on the target, then estimate it's range by the size of the target in the reticule. Then by tracking the target briefly, the rate of change of bearing can be calculated, using these tables." He pointed to a notebook connected by a chain to the prototype. "With that data in hand, the assistant layer can then adjust from the settings in the tables, these knobs, which change pointers for train and elevation on each gun. The order to fire is then given when the guns are laid correctly."

"Much like techniques used against surface targets then." The Commander observed. "Yes sir. We have the advantage here that it doesn't have to be all that precise either. Corrections can be made from observation as well."

"So how far away do you think you might be from an operational system?" The Commander asked.

"If my request is approved, I think we could ship one experimentally early next year."

"Very good. And how long for the new automatic gun?"

"That will take longer. We have a lot of work to do there. Maybe as much as two years."

With that, the aeroplane buzzed both officers very low. "I think the pilot thinks we forgot about him." The Commander said wrily.

"Quite so sir!" The Lieutenant answered, and then turned to wave both arms to the pilot. This was the prearrange signal that they were done with him. He replied by wagging his wings twice, then banked in a turn toward the Air Station portion of the base to land.

*By which I mean a survey of navweaps.com of course.
** Ie a 20mm gun. But the metric system is for losers, so we stick with the imprecise imperial approximation.

[Guinness]

Late September, 1916

Chihuahua

The Percy LeVille that Smith watch step off the train in Chihuahua was a markedly different one than the man Smith first met at this very same place in 1914. LeVille strode toward Smith and his battered Hanson saloon with an easy stride, encumbered only by a light satchel over his shoulder. LeVille looked fit, tanned, and relaxed.

"Nice hat." Was Smith's only greeting, but was accompanied by a broad smile. LeVille slid easily into the passenger seat and propped back the broad leather hat Smith had given him in New Orleans earlier that year.

"So, do we have good news for Colonel Villa? He's been in an especially strange mood lately I understand." Smith asked.

LeVille nodded. "We'll have to start calling him Generalissimo Villa soon I'm guessing."

Smith let loose a hearty deep chortle. "Generalissimo Villa! He'll like that!", and with that he ground the Hanson into gear and they were off, bound south.

Two hours later, and in the middle of the pure nowhere on the Confederate-Mesoamerican border, they got the inevitable puncture. LeVille stood and held the various tools, nuts, and other equipment while Smith went to work on the repair.

LeVille fiddled with the dufflebag atop the pile on the boot. A baseball glove fell out. He picked it up.

"Taking up baseball in your spare time?" He asked Smith.

Another chortle erupted. "Baseball? No. That's for Villa. He's got a new hobby."

More to come.

[Guinness]

October 1916

In the stands at Grant Field, on the campus of the Georgia Institute of Technology, in Atlanta:



Jacob O'Leary had been coming to Georgia Tech home football games since his days as an undergraduate in '05-'08. Of course, back then, there was no grandstand, so one just had to find a comfortable place to stand. Today, the new grandstand on the east side of the gridiron provided all the comforts one could ask for, including an indoor latrine with running water.

O'Leary had always been fascinated by gridiron football. He'd even briefly considered going out for the team back in '06, but he was small of stature, barely topping five feet-five inches, and weighing in not much more than 120 pounds. When he'd told his mother of the idea while sitting at the kitchen table in their modest home in Decatur, she'd made him promise that he'd not try out. She had a point, he thought now, since in just 1905 three young men in Georgia alone had been killed by injuries they'd incurred playing the game.

Still, he thought, there were few ways better to spend a sunny fall Saturday than this. The temperature was in the low sixties. The sky was perfectly clear, and there was a smooth breeze coming out of the west. The smell of fall, with it's falling leaves, was almost palpable. A day like this was a welcome distraction from his detail oriented work as a designer of locks and safes with a small specialized firm in Midtown Atlanta.

So, Jacob O'Leary was annoyed when he was rudely bumped into from behind in the stands by an older man. When he turned to face the aggressor, the man merely tipped his hat, and muttered what sounded like "excuse me" in something that might have been a French accent. O'Leary turned away to see the play, before looking back over his shoulder again, the man was gone.

The game itself had been remarkable for it's lopsidedness, as the Georgia Tech side had run up the score on poor little shorthanded Cumberland College by a mark of 0-222. He'd almost have been ashamed of Coach Heisman's squad's conduct, O'Leary thought as he walked up the hill along North Avenue, if he weren't an alumnus.

It wasn't until he was waiting up on Ponce De Leon Avenue for the street car after the game that he noticed the card in his jacket pocket. Pulling it out, he looked at it. In perfectly crisp handwriting, it read:

The Cricket Tavern on Highland Avenue.
Tomorrow at 7:30 in the evening.
Your time will not be wasted.

To be continued...

[Guinness]

Back on the Confederate/Mesoamerican frontier...

After several hours of driving over smooth gravel paved roads, reasonably smooth dirt roads, well rutted not so smooth dirt roads, and finally decidedly not smooth, well rutted trails, and two more punctures, Smith and LeVille came across the outer perimeter of Villa's security, which comprised of to Banderos in varying states of lounging across the trail. Smith wheeled the Hanson to a stop and waited, as Villa's men slowly walked around it once, looked both men squarely in the eye, and with a nod, stood aside and let them pass.

LeVille marveled at the casual nature of the security before the Hanson crested a short rise. On the other side he saw a well tended machine gun position.

About two miles beyond the machine gun, they came upon another checkpoint. This time Villa's men waved them through, and motioned off to the left toward a makeshift corral where a number of horses were confined. Both men understood the intention was for the Hanson to be parked there, with the other methods of conveyance.

Beyond the corral, LeVille came to understand that Smith wasn't kidding about Villa's new hobby. Marked out in a cleared space in the scrub was a baseball diamond, and at home plate was the man himself, holding a baseball bat, and gesturing wildly toward the outfield.

Smith and LeVille both climbed out the Hanson, and were greeted by four more of Villa's men, who briskly but not gruffly proceeded to search both Confederates. Smith raised an eyebrow at LeVille when one of the men pulled back his jacket to reveal a smart looking brand new Norman Colt 45-caliber automatic pistol. After the search, they were pointed toward Villa's baseball diamond. Smith shouldered the duffel full of baseball equipment.

"Nice weapon you've got there LeVille. How's it shoot?" Smith asked.

"I haven't the faintest idea. In my haste I neglected to buy any ammunition for it!"

Smith canted his head back with a mighty cackle. "I like you more and more every day Percy!"

Still twenty yards short of Villa, who thus far seemed to have taken no notice, both Confederates were stopped again, this time so the duffel could be inspected. Villa's men dumped the duffel out on the ground, then yelled something to Villa in Nahuatl. Villa spun around and grinned widely. He waved enthusiastically for Smith and LeVille to come over.

LeVille realized that of the 20 odd other men in various positions on and around Villa's baseball diamond, only a few had gloves, and Villa had the only bat. So the equipment seemed to have arrived at a good time. Villa concerned himself with distributing the proceeds of his haul, before turning to one of his men and giving a quiet order in Nahuatl. The man sprinted away and returned  a couple of minutes later with a box. Villa took it from him and walked toward LeVille and Smith. Drawing close, he opened the box.

In it was a well worn severed human head. Smith just stared at it blankly. LeVille did his best to maintain his composure. Villa reached in and pulled the trophy out, holding it up. In Nahuatl, he said "I believe you both know my former associate."

The man who had brought the box began to repeat Nahuatl's words in Norman, but LeVille raised his hand to stop him. Replying in the Anahuac dialect, he replied "My apologies, Colonel Villa, but I find it difficult to identify this man. I hope I am correct in guessing that he is the man who was responsible for my kidnapping in Cancun."

Villa smiled and nodded as he stuffed the head back in the box. Then he pointed toward a tent past the outfield. "Come, let us take some refreshment."

On the way, Smith leaned over to LeVille and said quietly in Norman: "Well, I guess that answers one question." LeVille answered only with a slightly bemused shrug.

In the tent, Villa showed both men to seats around a small folding table. Tequila appeared with glasses. And a round was served. Villa opened the conversation in Nahuatl, which everyone present was at least conversational in. "So, beside your most gracious delivery of necessary supplies, what brings you to our humble encampment?'

LeVille wasted no time: "Colonel Villa, the situation in your country has almost completely deteriorated. We understand Mesoamerica to be in a state of civil war. My government is interested in bringing a swift and purposeful end to the lawlessness and bloodshed. You, Colonel Villa, we believe could be integral to the installation of a truly free and democratic society in Mesoamerica."

Villa looked LeVille straight in the eye. His expression was stony. LeVille feared that his carefully chosen words my have triggered another of Villa's outbursts. Instead he was surprised when Villa smiled wryly. "So, then, does your government have something concrete to offer?" the Colonel asked.

LeVille leaned forward in his seat and put one elbow on the table. "Quite simply, Colonel, the Confederacy believes that you are the right man to put Mesoamerica on the right course. We believe you are a true patriot who has your nation's best interests at heart, and are prepared to offer you what material assistance is necessary."

Villa leaned back slight. "Material assistance?" he asked.

Ah, down to the brass tacks already, LeVille thought. "Colonel Villa, we are prepared to offer you enough military equipment to equip a full corps of Cavalry, including horses, and the necessary supplies and ammunition to allow for extended operations. That is if you can raise that many men, of course." Smith couldn't restrain snapping his head around to look at LeVille.

Villa just smiled again. "I have today well in excess of 20,000 men who have pledged their allegiance to me in our cause. We have only lacked thus far the necessary equipment. So your corps worth of equipment will be quite helpful, but I think we could use even more."

It was LeVille's turn to smile. "Colonel Villa, if we deliver all that gear, and you still need more, I'm sure something can be worked out."

Villa leaned back in his chair and put a boot up on the table. "Of course, men, horses and equipment are important, but not even that number of men will be much use if the Army remains loyal."

"What of the Army. Our information is mixed. Is it true that whole formations have ignored orders and remained in their camps?" LeVille asked.

Villa made a dismissive gesture. "Certain Generals are simply waiting to see who will give them the best offer."

"How much gold will be needed?" LeVille asked plainly.

"Oh, not much. Something on the order of 2 million Confederate Dollars* would be a good start." Villa answered.

LeVille chose not to bother negotiating that point. He fully expected Villa to ask for more later, but that sum was well less than what he'd been authorized to offer. "I'm sure that won't be a problem, Colonel", LeVille answered.

Villa clapped his hands once loudly. "Well then, it seems we have a deal. But first, I must know what Confederate plans are."

LeVille replied: "Colonel Villa, I'm sure you understand that operational security is important. The Army will send officers to coordinate with you as required, but for now specific war plans haven't been shared with me. I can only assure you that my government plans only to take what measures are necessary to assure the security of the Confederacy and it's holdings."

"Of course, Mr. LeVille, I understand. I imagine your government will want to expand it's holding on the Yucatan to assure Cancun's security, no?"

LeVille only nodded slightly. "That seems a good assumption, Colonel."

Villa stood up. "Well, then the only thing left is to decide where the exchange of equipment will take place. How soon can that begin?"

"We're prepared to begin transport immediately." LeVille answered.

One of Villa's men unrolled a map on the table. Villa pointed at it. "Do you know this place?" he asked, addressing Smith. Smith nodded. "Then there? In a week?"

*Ie $2 in game terms

[Guinness]

Back in Atlanta...

O'Leary stepped out of the waxing darkness and into the small vestibule of the Cricket, located in Atlanta's Virginia-Highland neighborhood. Even though it was hardly bright outside, he had to wait a moment before he could see inside, which was very dark. He checked his pocketwatch, which he'd built for himself over the span of more than a year in his spare time. Five minutes early.

Not sure exactly what to do, he navigated to an open booth opposite the long bar, near the back. It was lit by a single small gas lamp, which was a bit old-fashioned for Atlanta in this day in age. The bartender got his attention from behind the bar and O'Leary ordered a beer.

At precisely 7:30, a man entered the tavern. He navigated first to the bar, ordering his own drink, but not waiting, then made straight for O'Leary. He made a motion as if to ask if it were OK if he sat down. O'Leary nodded, and just then a fear struck him that this bizarre liaison might be sexual in nature. The man hung his hat and long trenchcoat on the hook on the booth and sat down.

One of the staff brought the man's drink, a Gin Martini, filled to the rim. The man sipped it carefully and put it down. "The Martini. Possibly the greatest single invention ever offered by your country to the world. It's too bad the Baptists keep trying to ban hard alcohol." The man spoke with just a hint of an accent. O'Leary couldn't place it. Some sort of German maybe.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I should introduce myself. Well, at least as much as I can. You may call me Rot, which I realize might be somewhat humorous in Norman. This is, of course, not my real name, but that matters little to you."

O'Leary took a pull from his beer. St. Louis lager. The stuff had recently driven almost all the local brands out of business.

Rot continued. "I know a bit about you. Noted during University as the best of your classmates in mechanical engineering. Turned down jobs from noted industrial firms on graduation. In fact, you didn't take employment for almost 4 years after leaving the Institute. Most people don't know what your were doing during that time, do they? At any rate, when you went in search of gainful employment, it took little time until you were employed designing locks and safes. Of late, you've also branched out into the new electric alarm systems."

O'Leary blanched. How much does this man know?

"Your current exploits as a great designer of things used to protect much more valuable things is of great interest to me. As is your experience during those lost years, which of course I know all about. I imagine you believe you've gone straight, as they say in your country. How is life designing locks? Ever miss the work of unlocking them?"

O'Leary took another drag on his lager. He still couldn't get over the fact that this man, this stranger, apparently knew his secret. Not even Mother knew what he'd really been doing in that time. She'd told her friends that he'd joined the Navy, and for all he knew, she really believed it was true.

"At any rate, I'm not here to recite to you your employment history." Rot continued. "I represent a small group of professionals who currently are planning a very special job. We would like very much if you might join us. Of course, I can't give you any more information than that, and this."

Rot pulled out a pen and a notecard, and wrote something on it before he slid the card across the table. O'Leary looked down at it.

"We'll pre-pay you for all your expenses, and that..." Rot pointed to the card, "is how much we expect your portion of the proceeds to be. I believe that is more money than you might expect to earn in your current profession in your entire life."

Rot took a long sip of his Martini. "Think it over Jacob. You need not do anything now. Some time soon, I'll make contact again with you for your answer."

With that, he got up from the booth, threw a crisp new five-dollar bill down on the table, put his hat and coat on again, and left.

O'Leary downed the remains of his lager, then raised a hand to signal the bartender. "Sir, might I have a double rye? Straight up?"

[Guinness]

Somewhere in Durango, DRM...

The place Villa had chosen as the rallying point for his forces and the distribution point for Confederate equipment was dry and remote. It was remarkable only for three things, the nearly 200 m tall stark hills which overlooked it, the (usually) dry riverbed which bisected the broad plain, and hundred or so unmarked graves nearby, the last resting places of those who had fought with Villa against the Eye over the years. Among those buried there were several of Smith's one-time comrades from the darkest days of the campaigns against the Anahuac a decade previously.

Of course, the Confederate troops riding in the material convoys, regulars detached from the Confederate 2nd Cavalry Division, and reservists and militia detached from the 4th Cavalry Division, knew nothing of the notable local history. They only knew that this place was as empty as any they'd see in Texas, New Mexico, California, or Chihuahua.

After the various equipment and horses had been unloaded from the trains at the railhead in Chihuahua City, the remaining trip south had been strange, if uneventful. The regulars at the head of the columns all took note of the Mesoamerican border troops, on horseback, who looked on in interest as the Confederates crossed the border, but took no action. The trail itself, which departed from the road near Matamoros hadn't been smooth, but wasn't too difficult for these Cavalry men. The pace had been slow, but regular. All told it had taken the better part of three days to make the last leg of the trip. The Confederates when they arrived were both curious to meet the recipients of all this gear, and eager to turn around and get back to the States. Most felt, despite the fact that the scenery really wasn't all that different from much of the Confederate Southwest, that there was something different, even sinister about Durango, and the sooner they could leave, the better.

A few riding with the leading column wouldn't be leaving though. Most of the members of the 3rd Cav knew nothing of this small group, which was led by a man wearing the uniform and insignia of an Army Major. Smith knew that man well though, and strode forward to greet him as he dismounted.

"Smith! Isn't that what we're supposed to call you now?" the Major asked.

"Yes sir. That will work fine." Smith smiled broadly and greeted the Major with a stiff one-armed embrace. "Never thought I'd see you in this place again."

"No, I imagine not. Me either." The Major replied, smiling. "All the same, it's good to see you again. You aren't the skinny little 2nd Lieutenant I remember!

"No sir, and you are the strapping young Captain. What happened, shouldn't you be a General somewhere by now?'

The Major laughed heartily. "You know I never had a talent for politics. Actually, I spent most of the last several years in the reserves, while doing, shall we say, important and sensitive work for Richmond in a less than official capacity. I think you are familiar with such arrangements."

Neither man expanded further on their activities of the last several years. Professional decorum demanded a certain digression. Both also realized that to a great extent the details of where or what didn't matter to men like them.

"Well, Mr. Smith, I should introduce you to my team I think." The Major turned crisply and waved toward a motley crew standing about ten yards away. The group fell in loosely, anchored in a loose line, anchored by a grizzled looking veteran wearing cowboy boots and a broad cowboy hat, joined by blue jeans, and a Confederate Army jacket hanging open, and adorned by sergeant major's stripes.

Smith made his own motion toward LeVille, who had tossed the baseball in his hand back to one of Villa's men, and stowed his mitt under is left arm while walking toward the erstwhile formation.

The Major spoke first. "First, I believe you might remember Sergeant Prado. He's the senior enlisted man in our little organization. He is well versed in most of the arts of war." Prado tipped his hat to Smith and LeVille.

The Major moved next to a small man with bright blue eyes and close cropped blond hair. "Corporal Bowman. Foraging and survival techniques.

Next a very large black man, easily six feet and six inches tall, and exceedingly broad. LeVille was immediately curious about this man, as the Confederate Army was still segregated. "Sergeant Washington, tell these men what your peculiar talents are." the Major ordered. In a deep baritone, the reply was "Sir I blow shit up.". The Major smiled before expanding: "Sergeant Washington is possibly the foremost expert I've meat in my entire career on explosives and demolition. We also try not to hold his background against him.

LeVille asked rather incredulously: "You mean because he's a negro?"

The entire group laughed riotously, except the major, who simply deadpanned: "No, because he's a Marine."

Next he introduced "Corporal Ayar. Anahuac descent. Local languages."

And three more "Private Miller, Corporal Hernandez, Sergeant Holway, small arms and infantry tactics."

And three more after that "Sergeants Hicks and Penobscott, and Corporal Reynolds, artillery."

And finally, a very crisply dressed young officer. "Finally our newest member, Lieutenant Simms, recently graduated near the top of his class at the Virginia Military Institute, who's expertise is also in artillery." The major then turned his back on Simms and faced Smith before whispering "the men call him 'Taint' behind his back. I'm sure there's a colorful story there." Smith stiffled a giggle.

The major turned to face the men and spoke loudly. "So there you have it, with the exception of some Cavalry fellows who haven't been informed of their new temporary assignment, this is the entirety of the Confederate Advisory Mission to Generalissimo Pancho Villa." He was answered by a semi-serious "hooah! from the men".

Smith took a moment to whip the shit-eating grin form his face before introducing his own compatriot. "Well, then I believe we'll be joining you. I'm Smith, and this," he turned to LeVille, "is Percy LeVille of the State Department. It sounds as if you men have been well briefed, so I'll only add that as you might expect, things in Generalissimo Villa's Army run a little differently, but I expect he will find all of your special knowledge and experience valuable.

[Guinness]

Meanwhile back in the CSA...

November 10, 1916

The Atlanta Constitution

Wilson Defeats Roosevelt

Atlanta -- After several days of suspense, including recounts in Georgia and California, President Roosevelt conceded that he had lost Tuesday's election, and that Secretary Wilson should now be considered the Presumptive President-Elect, pending ratification of the result in the House of Representatives.

In a gracious speech given on the steps leading to Virginia's state Capitol, the President said "It has been a hard-fought and a well won election, and I offer Mr. Wilson my hearty congratulations. He is both a God-fearing and patriotic man who's record of public service should be celebrated."

Wilson, speaking later in the day before 4,000 supports from the stage of the Loew's Grand theater in Atlanta also spoke warmly of his opponent. "While this campaign has been long and hard fought, and not as congenial as I believe either of us really wanted, I believe the President is both a fair and honorable man, and I solute him for his efforts on behalf our Country, as well as the warm words he telegraphed me earlier today."

Wilson did not neglect the opportunity to rail against the challenge which many believe may have tipped the election in his favor: the continued unrest in Mesoamerica. "My first goal, upon taking office, will be to take decisive measures to end the bloodshed and unrest south of our borders, and to ensure that a fairly elected democratic republic comes to power in Tenochtitlan. Our current policy of antagonism toward the Colombians must end, and be replaced by a policy of constructive engagement."

Now begins the long season between the election and the inauguration in March.