The Locations of TBA - The Azores

I've thought about how to give you guys a more graphic impression of where the plot of Wolf Hunt takes place and came up with the idea of a short series which focusses on several of the locations that are featured in the story. I've redone this first installment and added scenes from the novel to actually give you something that's worth your time. I hope you enjoy it.

Note: If you haven't read Wolf Hunt yet, there will be spoilers in these posts. You've been warned. Either way, dive into the world of The Burning Ages!

The Locations of The Burning Ages

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01: The Azores

The Azores play a major role in Wolf Hunt, as they are the place in whose vicinity the NATO flotilla is caught by the strange tempest and transported back in time. There are nine major Azorean islands and an islet cluster, in three main groups. These are Flores and Corvo, to the west; Graciosa, Terceira, São Jorge, Pico and Faial in the centre; and São Miguel, Santa Maria and the Formigas Reef to the east. They extend for more than 600 km. All the islands have volcanic origins, although some, such as Santa Maria, have had no recorded activity since the islands were settled. Mount Pico, on the island of Pico, is the highest point in Portugal, at 2,351 m. The Azores are actually some of the tallest mountains on the planet, measured from their base at the bottom of the ocean to their peaks, which thrust high above the surface of the Atlantic.

The naval version of the NH-90 multipurpose helicopter.

The first peak we get at the Azores is when Scout One, a NHG-90 helicopter of the German Navy, takes off from the amphibious assault ship FMG Emden following a complete collapse of communications with NATO HQ and all satellites.

“Currents and temperatures are completely off for this time of the year, but sonar data correlates with what we have on file about the area,” Schroeter mumbled while shuffling some chewing gum from one cheek to another in his mouth. “These are definitely the waters off the Azores. We are just there to double-check that they are there.”
“Why? You think someone stole them and now only will give them back for,” he paused dramatically and placed his small finger against the edge of his mouth, “one million dollars?!”
“Could be the flying spaghetti monster for all I care. It's not as if we mere mortals would be told what's really going on,” his co-pilot snorted. [Wolf Hunt]

Piloted by Hendrik Kramer and Kevin Schroeter, the stealthy helicopter quickly makes its way to the archipelago to its south, noticing that naval traffic is not only surprisingly low in quantity, but also lacking every sign of digital radio chatter. While that may be a side-effect of the strange events they have gone through - they did mess up the electronics - it does not explain the lack of superfreighters - or any other large commerical vessels - on what should be one of the most frequented sea lanes in use.

But they have their task, and it is a simple one: to get a position fix on a point of which established data exists to let the ships correlate their own position accordingly, allowing them to safely navigate again.

“Aaaand there's land out there.” Kramer pointed to a rapidly growing green island in a literal ocean of blue. “There goes my Dr. Evil theory,” he sighed.
Schroeter put the PAD away and produced a folded map from a pocket of his flight suit. Unfolding it, he studied it intently then nodded at the pilot. “Given the course and assumed position of the task force, and the position of that volcanic cone on the island's eastern tip this must be Graciosa.”
“Gesundheit,” Kramer snorted without taking his eyes - or hands- off his instruments.  [Wolf Hunt]

The image the helicopter crew would have seen when they approached Sao Miguel, one of the larger islands, would have been rather similar to this one:

Mount Pic

The flight between the islands took them roughly half an hour. The fishing boats were much more numerous here, and further to the south Scout One also picked up a larger surface contact for the first time, something in the range of 250 ft and maybe one and a half thousand tons. But what irritated Schroeter was the size of the multitude of small boats. Having grown up on the island of Borkum in the Northern Sea he was more than familiar with fishing cutters, even the older ones, but these vessels down there looked nothing like the sort. In fact, most of them still seemed to be sails only! [Wolf Hunt]

It is here that they begin to notice irregularities: houses aren't where their map says they should be; what houses there are look old; there's barely any cars on the roads; and Ponta Delgada, the island's capital, is way smaller than their map would have suggested. People seeing them fetch their kids and hide them inside their houses, making the sign of the cross.

The final realization that something is very, very off there comes right before Kramer and Schroeter try to get their position fix: the harbor promenade with its hotels is gone, as is the international airport, as are the yachts in the harbor basin. Ponta Delgada is a small fishing town, and the only thing of interest in its harbor is the Blackburn Perth flying boat: something out of military service by 1937.

Where normally expensive personal pleasure boats would have been anchored, fishing cutters and sailing boats that had the clear appearance of utility vessels harbored, huddled closely together at long stone quays. And beneath them, maybe the strangest sight of all of it, a large biplane flying boat was slowly mastering the waves on its way to its anchorage. Its sheet metal hull gleamed in the sun, but the men operating it were almost hanging out of their cockpit, pointing up towards Scout One. The vintage design was greatly contrasted by the way it and its pilots looked, which was decidedly normal. The people on the quay also were paying much more attention to Scout One than to the comparably alien machine below it.

“That also settles the question why we’ve gotten nothing from the international airport.” Schroeter pointed to a strip along the coast to their relative north-west and held the folded map for Kramer to see. “It’s not there. And neither are the seaside resorts.” Instead, Ponta Delgada presented itself to them as a small town that could just as well have stood on the shores of the Mediterranean, with a core of nicely restored historic buildings. [Wolf Hunt]

They quickly use the highest point of Ponta Delgada - the Ermida da mae de Deus Church seen on the left - to transmit their position back to the fleet before they hurry back to the carrier Emden, not noticing the smoldering fire in a cable compartment...

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The Azores and Ponta Delgada return to the focus after the American sailors of the NATO flotilla are stranded there. While the civilian population and the police are more than helpful and treat them with respect, look after their wounded and make certain they are all well-supplied, the Americans soon find themselves in conflict with the paramilitaries of the greenshirted Portuguese Legion. Tensions soon escalate when some of the legionaries assault and try to rape a group of female crewmembers.

On the one side there were American sailors, balling their fists and cracking their knuckles, some holding pieces of firewood or combat knifes they had rescued from their ships. They had protectively positioned themselves around a pair of people in their midst. On the other side stood twenty-five or so men in the uniforms of the Legião Portuguesa. Some of them were armed with rifles. Five or six of them were bruised and sported bloody smears on their faces, with one having to be held upright by the others. With quick steps, Flynn made his way to 'his' side of the camp.

The SS Maid of Zanzibar.

Commander Pattinson met him halfway. “We've got problems, skipper.” [Wolf Hunt]

With the situation deteriorating on the ground and suspicions running high, the appearance of the steamer Maid of Zanzibar running under the star sprangled banner is a welcome relief to both, the shipwrecked Americans and the island's police chief. But nothing is ever as it seems.

Lisbon, United States Consulate (Portugal)

21 July 1940, Afternoon

“What do you think, Mike?” Consul Reginald Stanton Myers put out his cigarette and leaned back in his high leather office chair, the rings under his eyes making him look a lot older than his fifty-two years as he waited for a response. Myers had vigorously worked himself up the career ladder during his more than thirty years of service for the United States, first as a lieutenant with the USMC, then, after gaining a degree in history and law, with the State Department. He sat on the position he now held since 1933. It wasn't the be all and end all of any diplomatic career, but he thought he made the best of it. That he was fluent in the language certainly did help with that aspect, too. While the same could not be said for Lt. Commander Michael 'Mike' Wellers, the young Navy officer who served as his naval attachée, a good working relationship between the two had developed over the past two years, the old rivalry and mutual dislike of their two service branches not withstanding. Wellers was tall and slim with auburn hair and green-brown eyes whereas Myers was on the stocky side with a belly widened with consecutive years as a civilian and hair that had receded to the very back of his head. The officer knew his job and had been of invaluable aid to Myers on several occasions. That, and his easy way with the ladies as well as his natural conversational abilities had helped the consulate to at least return a bit into the focus of the Portuguese government officials. The soirees in their premises seemed to reverberate the desire for stylish happenings that lingered beneath the only superficially strictly conservative Portuguese 'good society'.

“I think we should check out that 'Captain Flynn' and his merry band of shipwrecked sailors,” he answered after a while. “ONI sent word back this morning. They've got no ships of that name on the register. Strat is... intrigued, I'd say.” Vice Admiral Walter Stratton Anderson was the head of the Office of Naval Intelligence, the Navy's intelligence agency.

“Do you have someone in mind who could do that for us?” Myers wanted to know, and Wellers looked up from the piece of paper in his hand with a toothy grin.

“Strat suggested one. And as a matter of fact, he's already on the job.” [Wolf Hunt, last scene, Chapter 7]

The Maid's captain is a freelancer for the ONI, the American Office of Naval Intelligence, and he's been sent to have a closer look on those strange "Americans". Who knows, they could also be Nazi spies...

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I hope you enjoyed this small glimpse into Wolf Hunt. Be there the next time when we jump right into The Locations of The Burning Ages again!

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