Prequel-I've debated a lot between what my first AAR would be. And after glancing around the forums a bit I dont see many newer ones on the alternate timeline of Armageddon. After heavy consideration it fealt like I could get the most interesting story and results from The Abyss. In lue of inspiration from my own knowledge of the independance and patriotism displayed by the south in defense of their beliefs during the civil war, I decided to go with the Confederates. The difficulty is Normal-Normal. I will be refraining from cheats as much as possible, with the primary objectives being a total annexation of the rest of South America(Libertadores) before pushing North and bringing the Yanks back into my fold. The End-year is set to 1964, with the start in 1936. I don't know what ambitions the Dixie State's will have after that 
So we'll have to see how this rolls and go from there. It's a bit of a short post, though this is just an introductory before the game kicks off full force.
"I've told you this before, Admiral..This is not up for discussion, You have your orders. Now I suggest you adhere to them...-Now-."
"Mr. President, You are putting the stability of my fleet at risk, underminding its ability to do its job. And for the record the title is Grand Admiral."
There is some silence, the grey-uniformed man that stood at his burgundy oaked desk sneered in a manner that'd send the toughest of general's to a cold stare towards the ground, and then his reply comes.
"I could care less if you were Supreme Grand Admiral of the World itself, Your fleet flies the Confederate Naval Jack, Do you know what that means Admiral...?"
There is a silence, the Admiral offers no reply through his end of the phone line,
"I'll tell you, That means your fleet belongs to the Confederate States of America, who's Armed Forces, God Bless every one of their damned souls, answers to the Commander-in-Chief. Do I need remind you who the Commander-in-Chief is, Grand Admiral?.."
Yet another silent reply befalls the admirals side of the call,
"It is the President of the Confederate States of America. You have your orders, and unless you see to those orders to the fullest of your ability Admiral, I'll have you transfered to some brownwater squadron in Columbia and find someone who CAN fulfill those orders. Good Day.."
James Burr V. Allred..President of the Confederate States of America as of the year 1936. It is a brutally warm, humid, albeit clear January day in Mexico City, he calmly hangs up the phone on his desk, twisting the dark brown cigar lit between his lips as he considers the conversation that just took place.
"You know, Luis..Sometimes I wonder if allowing the former Republic's brass to transfer service under us was a good idea..I don't like this 'Grand Admirals' attitude, no matter how many Commies he fried ten years ago..We are under Martial Law, Supreme Military Authority. Why back when I was in Venezuela questioning your orders was a first class-one way ticket and front row seats to the firing line.."
Luis G. Quintana, Vice President and Head of Assembly for the Confederate States of America. For the past five years he has been the silent workhorse of the Dixie Republic from his office not too far away from the President's(an unfortunate detail, by his own thoughts).
"I know Mr. President. Trust me, I'm the last person you need to be telling this too-"
"Well I'm glad you got it, because it seems everytime one of these backwater brass-goons gets to the head of a few brigades, I end up repeating myself over and over again. And I Hate repeating myself Luis..."
"I know Mr. President.."
James made his way with cool and calculated paced steps towards a rather large victorian map bronzed at the edges from age plastered to the wall next to the door leading into his office. He inhales deeply, drawing the pristine columbian tobacco into his lungs while he eyes North America. A hand is lifted, and the cigar removed from his lips, smoke left to trickle in small streams from his mouth as the same hand moves forward and taps a finger on Washington D.C. several times,
"You know what else I hate Luis?..Liberal Beaurocratic bs.." He then shifts his attention towards South America, raising the cigar for another drag before continuing, "But not as much as I hate Marxist bs.."
And with that, he nimbly shifts the cigar in his hand, pushing its burning embers to the location of Rio De Janeiro, burning a hole clear through the aged, thin paper...
So we'll have to see how this rolls and go from there. It's a bit of a short post, though this is just an introductory before the game kicks off full force.The Rose of Alabamy
"Mr. President, You are putting the stability of my fleet at risk, underminding its ability to do its job. And for the record the title is Grand Admiral."
There is some silence, the grey-uniformed man that stood at his burgundy oaked desk sneered in a manner that'd send the toughest of general's to a cold stare towards the ground, and then his reply comes.
"I could care less if you were Supreme Grand Admiral of the World itself, Your fleet flies the Confederate Naval Jack, Do you know what that means Admiral...?"
There is a silence, the Admiral offers no reply through his end of the phone line,
"I'll tell you, That means your fleet belongs to the Confederate States of America, who's Armed Forces, God Bless every one of their damned souls, answers to the Commander-in-Chief. Do I need remind you who the Commander-in-Chief is, Grand Admiral?.."
Yet another silent reply befalls the admirals side of the call,
"It is the President of the Confederate States of America. You have your orders, and unless you see to those orders to the fullest of your ability Admiral, I'll have you transfered to some brownwater squadron in Columbia and find someone who CAN fulfill those orders. Good Day.."
James Burr V. Allred..President of the Confederate States of America as of the year 1936. It is a brutally warm, humid, albeit clear January day in Mexico City, he calmly hangs up the phone on his desk, twisting the dark brown cigar lit between his lips as he considers the conversation that just took place.
"You know, Luis..Sometimes I wonder if allowing the former Republic's brass to transfer service under us was a good idea..I don't like this 'Grand Admirals' attitude, no matter how many Commies he fried ten years ago..We are under Martial Law, Supreme Military Authority. Why back when I was in Venezuela questioning your orders was a first class-one way ticket and front row seats to the firing line.."
Luis G. Quintana, Vice President and Head of Assembly for the Confederate States of America. For the past five years he has been the silent workhorse of the Dixie Republic from his office not too far away from the President's(an unfortunate detail, by his own thoughts).
"I know Mr. President. Trust me, I'm the last person you need to be telling this too-"
"Well I'm glad you got it, because it seems everytime one of these backwater brass-goons gets to the head of a few brigades, I end up repeating myself over and over again. And I Hate repeating myself Luis..."
"I know Mr. President.."
James made his way with cool and calculated paced steps towards a rather large victorian map bronzed at the edges from age plastered to the wall next to the door leading into his office. He inhales deeply, drawing the pristine columbian tobacco into his lungs while he eyes North America. A hand is lifted, and the cigar removed from his lips, smoke left to trickle in small streams from his mouth as the same hand moves forward and taps a finger on Washington D.C. several times,
"You know what else I hate Luis?..Liberal Beaurocratic bs.." He then shifts his attention towards South America, raising the cigar for another drag before continuing, "But not as much as I hate Marxist bs.."
And with that, he nimbly shifts the cigar in his hand, pushing its burning embers to the location of Rio De Janeiro, burning a hole clear through the aged, thin paper...
