Benguela, Portugal, 1979
A colonial port city, adventurers from around the world, and a briefing on an invasion interfering in a local conflict in a neighbouring country. It was something of fifty, a hundred years ago. But the blouses, bell-bottom jeans on the people outside and Pink Floyd blasting inside said otherwise. Two days ago, you were heading for this place from wherever you read in a shady pub or heard from a shady character that there was a pretty lucrative mercenary advertisement. Through all sorts of backchannels, they led you to a man who referred you to a sleepy African port. And now here you are, in a tab with the windows shut, the doors watched by a secret agent, and the only sign of life being the music.
Depending on your politics, Angola was either a Portuguese province or colony. A revolt broke out eighteen years ago for its independence, but the Portuguese quelled it. They also quelled it in Mozambique, but resistance remains in Guinea-Bissau. They came close to falling in April 1974, but loyalists in the army managed to quell the coup by some conscript captains. So the war went on for three years, ending in a Portuguese victory. The MPLA retreated to Zaire and Zambia, the FNLA to Zaire, UNITA seemed to have disappeared, and the colonial system stood nearly twenty years after the Year of Africa.
Angola and Mozambique, true overseas territories in the modern world, have a certain allure to them. But you're not there for the scenery and the sights, you're there for business. Business that some guy guzzling a cold one in the sweltering heat, the cunt, was about to explain.
All in all, it's just another brick in th--
The man sitting on the counter, looking at the last foreigners come in, shut the radio off. The most Portuguese character you could imagine. Black hair, black eyes, a giant moustache, and no lack of hair on his chest. Dressed in a white dress shirt with an a-shirt visible under it, black dress trousers with a slim black belt, and brown shoes, he walked back and sat on the counter again.
"Okay, so that's the last of the arrivals. Very glad to see the 100% turnout, we didn't believe so many of you would sign and that everyone would turn up.
So, introductions.", he said as he finished his beer. "My name's Uncle Pedro, and I'll be briefing you about those mercenary ads you saw back home. That lanky guy at the door is Freddy, and the fat guy holding the HK33 is Tony. He'd rather shoot you and say you died of some disease that made you bleed and shit purple than chase you, so don't get any ideas. If you snitch on us to somebody we don't like, for example the Soviets, the Zairians, or your mother, we'll have you disposed of neatly. We're part of an organisation that can do such things. Believe you me.
Don't worry, the abrasive part is over with. Now comes the part where you need to listen."
Uncle Pedro slid off the counter and walked to a bulletin board. On there, he mounted a large Map of Zaire and began to point things out on it.
"This is Zaire, as you can see by the big print here in the bottom left corner. It's a massive country, and it's also a massive shithole."
He then pointed at the South-East of the country.
"This is a province called Shaba, which is Swahili for 'Copper'. It used to be called Katanga, which is what most people there prefer to call it. And because I don't like it when megalomaniac dictators rename entire provinces after their principal source of wealth, I'll call it Katanga too. As some of you may or may not know, when Zaire became independent the Katangese didn't like Zaire much to begin with, especially when it died in a fucking fire. Thanks to a lot of money, a lot of guns, and the UN intervening, the Zairians managed to take it back. Which, as you may have guessed, didn't sit well with the Katangese. It still doesn't. Back when we were fighting the rebels here in Angola, half of our army consisted of Angolan Blacks, but they were not the only blacks. Disgruntled Katangese youth and former Katangan Gendarmes fought on our side, and as they see it, we owe them for that. And rightly so.
Problem is, we can't just invade Zaire. Because we owe the Americans, and the Americans like them. But this is, after all, Africa. Nothing to the north of Rhodesia works. So we can just pretend not to know anything about this. Which, I will remind you, is pretty fucking important. This is a black operation. As soon as you leave, Uncle Pedro, Freddy and Tony are a cleaning crew at the station. And you all slipped in under our noses because we don't check passenger aircraft. Anyway, where was I?
Oh yeah, revenge. So, we're going to help our Katangese buddies out by sending you characters with them when they're going to invade Katanga. We're not ordering them around, we're just in contact with them. And we've set up a bunch of sleeper cells. Bribing gets anything done here, ladies and gentlepeople."
Uncle Pedro walked to the counter and took his briefcase, and extracted a large amount of papers that were stapled together.
"I will call out those individuals leading groups first, and the information they get is for their entire group. These are like marching orders. Do not lose them. After that, individuals who came in alone are up. Long story short; you're going for a 1350 kilometre train ride in cattle carriages. No, that is not fun."....
A colonial port city, adventurers from around the world, and a briefing on an invasion interfering in a local conflict in a neighbouring country. It was something of fifty, a hundred years ago. But the blouses, bell-bottom jeans on the people outside and Pink Floyd blasting inside said otherwise. Two days ago, you were heading for this place from wherever you read in a shady pub or heard from a shady character that there was a pretty lucrative mercenary advertisement. Through all sorts of backchannels, they led you to a man who referred you to a sleepy African port. And now here you are, in a tab with the windows shut, the doors watched by a secret agent, and the only sign of life being the music.
Depending on your politics, Angola was either a Portuguese province or colony. A revolt broke out eighteen years ago for its independence, but the Portuguese quelled it. They also quelled it in Mozambique, but resistance remains in Guinea-Bissau. They came close to falling in April 1974, but loyalists in the army managed to quell the coup by some conscript captains. So the war went on for three years, ending in a Portuguese victory. The MPLA retreated to Zaire and Zambia, the FNLA to Zaire, UNITA seemed to have disappeared, and the colonial system stood nearly twenty years after the Year of Africa.
Angola and Mozambique, true overseas territories in the modern world, have a certain allure to them. But you're not there for the scenery and the sights, you're there for business. Business that some guy guzzling a cold one in the sweltering heat, the cunt, was about to explain.
All in all, it's just another brick in th--
The man sitting on the counter, looking at the last foreigners come in, shut the radio off. The most Portuguese character you could imagine. Black hair, black eyes, a giant moustache, and no lack of hair on his chest. Dressed in a white dress shirt with an a-shirt visible under it, black dress trousers with a slim black belt, and brown shoes, he walked back and sat on the counter again.
"Okay, so that's the last of the arrivals. Very glad to see the 100% turnout, we didn't believe so many of you would sign and that everyone would turn up.
So, introductions.", he said as he finished his beer. "My name's Uncle Pedro, and I'll be briefing you about those mercenary ads you saw back home. That lanky guy at the door is Freddy, and the fat guy holding the HK33 is Tony. He'd rather shoot you and say you died of some disease that made you bleed and shit purple than chase you, so don't get any ideas. If you snitch on us to somebody we don't like, for example the Soviets, the Zairians, or your mother, we'll have you disposed of neatly. We're part of an organisation that can do such things. Believe you me.
Don't worry, the abrasive part is over with. Now comes the part where you need to listen."
Uncle Pedro slid off the counter and walked to a bulletin board. On there, he mounted a large Map of Zaire and began to point things out on it.
"This is Zaire, as you can see by the big print here in the bottom left corner. It's a massive country, and it's also a massive shithole."
He then pointed at the South-East of the country.
"This is a province called Shaba, which is Swahili for 'Copper'. It used to be called Katanga, which is what most people there prefer to call it. And because I don't like it when megalomaniac dictators rename entire provinces after their principal source of wealth, I'll call it Katanga too. As some of you may or may not know, when Zaire became independent the Katangese didn't like Zaire much to begin with, especially when it died in a fucking fire. Thanks to a lot of money, a lot of guns, and the UN intervening, the Zairians managed to take it back. Which, as you may have guessed, didn't sit well with the Katangese. It still doesn't. Back when we were fighting the rebels here in Angola, half of our army consisted of Angolan Blacks, but they were not the only blacks. Disgruntled Katangese youth and former Katangan Gendarmes fought on our side, and as they see it, we owe them for that. And rightly so.
Problem is, we can't just invade Zaire. Because we owe the Americans, and the Americans like them. But this is, after all, Africa. Nothing to the north of Rhodesia works. So we can just pretend not to know anything about this. Which, I will remind you, is pretty fucking important. This is a black operation. As soon as you leave, Uncle Pedro, Freddy and Tony are a cleaning crew at the station. And you all slipped in under our noses because we don't check passenger aircraft. Anyway, where was I?
Oh yeah, revenge. So, we're going to help our Katangese buddies out by sending you characters with them when they're going to invade Katanga. We're not ordering them around, we're just in contact with them. And we've set up a bunch of sleeper cells. Bribing gets anything done here, ladies and gentlepeople."
Uncle Pedro walked to the counter and took his briefcase, and extracted a large amount of papers that were stapled together.
"I will call out those individuals leading groups first, and the information they get is for their entire group. These are like marching orders. Do not lose them. After that, individuals who came in alone are up. Long story short; you're going for a 1350 kilometre train ride in cattle carriages. No, that is not fun."....
Rules and Guidelines:
1. Out of character, I will not tolerate hostile behaviour. Don't be a twat.
2. Godmodding is punishable by death.
3. Mary Sues/Gary Stus are punishable by a prolonged and horrible death
Any questions about the scenario can be asked in private messages.
