In future depictions of the event, one could always tell what the authors or writers thought about NATO or even European politics.
Those that proscribed to the Big Man Theory would depict the gathering of NATO that fateful day in the fall of 1974 as a meeting of giants. Presidents were meeting at a big table, discussing the world's fate as smoke wafted from cigarettes and cigars, alcohol in glasses clinking with ice, and an air of dignity and decisiveness as all were seated, discussing in perfect control of themselves and the situation.
Conspiracy Theorists would push a dark room, sometimes with electronic voice-changers warbling speech and accent to make one indistinguishable from another. As a result, nobody within the room would know who the other was beyond their country, and nobody would ever know the decisions that shaped the future of their dark designs.
Political Thriller Enthusiasts shared their love of screaming matches, dramatic proclamations, and ridiculous ascertains, interrupted by dramatic timings when the bottom of a secretary would grace the reader or viewer for several pages or half a minute as they walked to give that most important of papers to their superior.
On the other hand, historians would show it for what it was. A meeting of diplomats and leaders of the Free World discussing the Act of God and how to proceed. Nerves were twitchy and temper high but pushed down. There would be a discussion but no screaming. The men within the room, for there were few states that dared to think about having women in any high position, were, for the most part, incredulous and baffled.
At this conference, it would be here that Donald Rumsfeld, Ambassador to NATO, would speak a quote that would ring through time, both darkly and with light.
"Bad enough that a tsunami stranded our sailors on that commie island, but to treat it as littering? What is next? Giant Robots and Animal People?!"
People would laugh at this, bleeding off some stress and anxiety at hearing this off-hand joke.
All except the German Ambassador...
The White House had never been as busy within these last few weeks as it has ever been since it was proclaimed as the president's workplace. Everybody, from the cleaners, assistants, secret service, and even the guy mowing the lawn, was pulling double and then triple shifts.
Before the White House, protestors had gathered in droves, only held back by the fence and a cordon of riot police, armed and ready to disperse the crowds should it ever become necessary. Their demands and readiness for violence shifted by day and subject. From mothers and fathers, children and spouses demanding the return of the sailors to be done now to the anti-communists protesting against any concessions to the "Unholy Godless Communist Faggots Butchering our Boys!" If there was an interest group, there was a protest, and a crowd, riled up enough to warrant sharp weapons and twitchy fingers. Journalists flew like vultures around the people, milking anyone that would talk to them for any story, eager to stoke the bubbling red panic currently brewing within the nation. And at the center of it all sat one man, his table loaded with papers, cups of coffee, and a doctor within the building anxiously waiting for the hour he'd be called in to treat a collapsed President.
By any definition you'd care to talk about, Gerald Ford was not having a good time, nor did he have an easy one. But, as the Chinese said to curse another, "May you live in interesting times," so did Ford stand at the front, desperate to steer the ship from an incoming apocalypse to mere troubles.
It had been hell to convince the Republicans to vote for the "fines" of industrial goods to be given to Guangchou and more suffering to calm down the Democrats from the demands of sending American Citizenry to the communist nation as part of the deal.
Everybody knew that that part of the fines, alongside several others, had been created and deliberately written into the penalty to give the US just enough things to deny for the country to save some face.
Yet, even as everything was agreed upon, as the diplomats shook hands after signing symbolic papers already in effect for days, Gerald Ford still had to work and fight with every part of the nation to ensure that Guangchou would return their boys safe and unharmed, and the goods are delivered as agreed upon.
To do otherwise would sink any chance of retaining several nations within their sphere, giving the Communists a perfect example to point towards as to the trustworthiness of the US.
Despite the demand of the nation to cut off any deliveries once the sailors were returned.
Despite the screeches of politicians of him being a dirty communist intent on destroying and subverting the nation.
Even though, even with reparations paid in full, their deal with Guangchou would cost them less than decommissioning the carrier back at home, as it would have been once the year was up.
Because all he could think of was a single sentence said by the Guangchou Representative to that of the US, which stuck him in this uncertain time of possible nuclear annihilation.
"On behalf of the 150 Billion that came before us, let this be a semi-colon in history rather than a full stop."
Within Moscow, a Troika sat, deep within a meeting of "equals," steering the great ship of communism within all republics of Europe and Asia in equal measure.
Here were the three men within the room, shifting through presentations and reports from the KGB and Diplomats alike, getting a picture of what was happening within the world and how they could better benefit the Russian people by taking advantage of such troubles.
Here sat Leonid Brezhnev, first of equals, his mind stirring with possibilities and potential paths.
Alexei Kosygin was reading through the 'Great Shaming' of the United States with a smirk and schadenfreude upon his lips and mind.
And last, maybe even without any "But not least," Nikolai Podgorny sat, pondering over the deal that the Pink Shield of China had struck with the western nations, walking over a distracted China with ease and irreverence not seen in that traitor's puppet nations. Ever.
"Food," Brezhnev spoke, leaning back with the creaking of leather sounding out in the quiet room. "Food and machines, those are the things they demanded?"
"Do not forget the equipment for making films, as well as for instructions on how to use them to the American standards," Podgorny said, still reading through a report on the first batch of equipment being delivered, overseen by the "Neutral Nations" and overseers from both sides of the curtain.
"I would call it genius if I were not concerned how such could sway them. We all know how little in mind they are, especially that breed that celebrates depravity." Kosygin murmured before speaking up.
"Still," Brezhnev replied, brow scrunched in thought, tapping on the papers with one finger. "It will help them industrialize, massively so, since they no longer need to worry about famine for some time and be able to modernize important heavy industry to a degree. But what is this item," he said, pointing at a bill adding about fifteen-hundred tons of machinery and food alone, dated after the beaching. "This... 'collective summarization of third stage luxury goods use?'"
"Ah," said the nervous KGB Agent, "you see, that summarizes the list of-"
"-brothel visits?" Jordan O'Driscoll, the Irish Official overseeing the treatment and dealings of the US Sailors and their government and that of Guangchou. "That... tha-what?" He stammered, looking down at the itemized bill staring at him, with hundreds of acts staring back without shame or restraint.
"You heard correctly," the woman in men's clothing said back to him; Wu, if he remembered correctly, a sultry smile upon her lips as she looked as pleased as a cat in the sun. "Those boys sure knew how to react once they were told Uncle Sam would pay for all their bills and that we would not disclose any names."
Jordan looked up at her, then down once more, before looking up again, his mouth opening and closing again and again. "Tha-that... how the fuck did they rack up so many visits? How could they rack up so many visits? And why are they so expensive?"
"Ah," his Guangchou handler said, never losing the pleased smile as she turned her head with false innocence and frightful cheer. "You see, unlike most nations, sex work is legalized and recognized as work within Guangchou. Therefore, those engaging in such work are entitled, and if they do so over extended periods exceeding a week, required to form a Union."
"But what has that to do with-with this?" Jordan said, tapping the papers a few times in disbelief.
"Oh, well, you see," Wu said, standing up to walk around the desk. "When those men, who had been on the ocean for those long, tense, harsh months, realized they could relax," she said, smiling at him as she sat on the table next to him, still wearing that unnervingly pleased smile. "Without having to foot the bill, they decided to visit the world's second-oldest profession and seek relief from both stress and hardship in the arms of carnal pleasure. The problem was that they created an imbalance due to the services they sought!"
Leaning back from the woman leaning forward, Jordan gulped, not knowing if he wanted to know what service-"What kind?" Dammit!
Grinning as she leaned back, she continued, much to Jordan's relief. "You see, the providers of one side of pleasure were getting... peeved at how they were being overlooked. And so, they decided to lower their price." Wu spoke, leaning back, doing things to her general chest area Jordan was studiously avoiding looking at. "The Unions didn't like that and forced them to raise their prices once more, citing both the need for fair competition and the failure of the tactic. In response, due to them getting increasingly sore, the other side then decided to raise their prices, unreasonably so."
At that, Jordan perked up, his mind ringing the bell with what blood it still had at even this tiny whiff of cheating. "Was that said to the sailors?"
Wu laughed in response, a clear, pleasing bell, as her eyes once more focused on him. "Oh, they were; each time they visited, and the price was raised. But, for some reason, that did the opposite as they received news after news that their senate was stalling getting them back home again. Wonder why?" She spoke, standing up. Then, with confident steps, she walked past Jordan, a hand lightly brushing over his shoulder. "Oh!" She said as she stood before the door, perking up as if she had remembered something tremendous and exciting. "You should probably know, the US agreed to pay all the bills of the Officials. All... the... bills..."
And with that, she left, leaving behind a man in desperate need of either a cold shower or some time alone.
Until he noticed the small card on the table.
One where directions to and prices of the local brothels were listed.
When you try to see how much debt the sailors add to the US by visiting brothels and you roll a Nat100.
Congratulations, Guangchou is genuinely fueled by THE GAY.
