Goddammit, you made me do this... there may be a story.
---
Commander’s Log.
04/12/2024
It took me twelve years to get used to the smell. And months aboard Macha to lose it.
Diesel. Bodies. Smoke. Polish. Paint.
Ciara always had her own unique scents. This tin can takes them to a new level. We are trapped in her together with them. With hatches that trap my tail
Fifteen bodies. One World War Two sub.
One working head.
The donk shop is open for business again. Our engines are running up the new batteries. Sean tells me it’ll be another 10 hours before we can depart. It's been a while since I've seen him this happy, covered in grease and oil once more. I must admit there is something comfortable about a running diesel engine. It feels secure again, like coming home. Macha is so pristine, so perfect, so smooth, she doesn’t feel like a home – just somewhere we ride in. The Soviet yards may have done their job a little too well.
Roin has grown on me.
She has completed three short cruises around the island, and a test-dive to confirm her systems are functional and patch any leaks. And confirm they work according to the manual
The paint has finally dried on the inner hull. Her full strength will be tested in orbit once her overhaul is to complete.
Which will have to wait. Our cruise to Yokohama to meet the heavy-lift has been put on hold pending our first commercial charter.
Who wants to pay to charter an 80 year old submarine. Before it’s been fully waved?
Ray tells me it’s up to me as Captain of the boat to make the final choice. The fact that anyone is offering enough money to buy and build this boat for one mission prickles the fur on the tips of my ears.
But a background check came back clean. Suspiciously.
I have asked an old friend to find out just who this Emily Lake might be.
---
________________________________
--m(^0^)m-- Wot, no sig?
---
Commander’s Log.
04/12/2024
It took me twelve years to get used to the smell. And months aboard Macha to lose it.
Diesel. Bodies. Smoke. Polish. Paint.
Ciara always had her own unique scents. This tin can takes them to a new level. We are trapped in her together with them. With hatches that trap my tail
Fifteen bodies. One World War Two sub.
One working head.
The donk shop is open for business again. Our engines are running up the new batteries. Sean tells me it’ll be another 10 hours before we can depart. It's been a while since I've seen him this happy, covered in grease and oil once more. I must admit there is something comfortable about a running diesel engine. It feels secure again, like coming home. Macha is so pristine, so perfect, so smooth, she doesn’t feel like a home – just somewhere we ride in. The Soviet yards may have done their job a little too well.
Roin has grown on me.
She has completed three short cruises around the island, and a test-dive to confirm her systems are functional and patch any leaks. And confirm they work according to the manual
The paint has finally dried on the inner hull. Her full strength will be tested in orbit once her overhaul is to complete.
Which will have to wait. Our cruise to Yokohama to meet the heavy-lift has been put on hold pending our first commercial charter.
Who wants to pay to charter an 80 year old submarine. Before it’s been fully waved?
Ray tells me it’s up to me as Captain of the boat to make the final choice. The fact that anyone is offering enough money to buy and build this boat for one mission prickles the fur on the tips of my ears.
But a background check came back clean. Suspiciously.
I have asked an old friend to find out just who this Emily Lake might be.
---
________________________________
--m(^0^)m-- Wot, no sig?