This may be the last time I'll enter a "Twilight 2000 Campaign" mainly because the storyline isn't something I care to pursue and write anymore (a bit too depressing to end each and every year writing something like this
).I always wanted to make a gun turret. The build is a simple modification of AMT's Star Trek "Runabout" shuttle, which I bought with the sole intention of converting it to a gun turret after looking at the box art and thinking to myself, "You know, that shape might just work."
The gamble worked; anyone can build this gun turret by just using that AMT kit. The resin base and pedestal are two separate Armorcast resin products I found in a hobby shop.
Sorry for the poor photos...
Painting...
Here is the background story:
======Trisaw's Twilight 2006: "Secret and Monsters========
Coastal Gun Turret Shore Battery "C" on the White Cliffs of Dover
How ironic…built to defend against a country that isn’t even our enemy. In fact, that country isn’t even in this bloody war! Our Maginot Line…and like theirs, useless, utterly useless.
From the White Cliffs of Dover, Sir Captain Walter Reed stared across the English Channel at France. He couldn’t see France of course (roughly 21 miles separating the two nations), nor could he feel the joys the French must be having right now. Ever since withdrawing from NATO, France and Belgium enjoyed peace and calm from the ravages of war that sacked most of the world, Britain included. France still looked just like the picture-perfect postcards he saw before the Soviet nuclear First Strike in 1997. The Eiffel Tower, resplendent in its brown paint, still stood in Paris; Notre Dame’s flying buttresses still buttressed the walls after all these centuries; the Mona Lisa with her impish smile still hung in the Louvre; and The Ritz still had all its gleaming expensive bathroom tiles on the wall. Over here, he stood under the twin barrels of Coastal Gun Turret “C,” its muzzles facing France, waiting for a Channel crossing that never came. The gun was fully automated, firing 16-inch shells to a distance of 31 miles at a rate of six shells per barrel, per minute or a reload time of five seconds when both barrels were alternating and firing—the British considered the reloading speed “Average” for a gun of this size. In theory, “C” turret could shell the shores of France. All the English Coasties had to do was give the order to fire to the buried fire control building stationed five miles inland.
The cold wind whipped at his buttoned black naval long coat and pulled gently at his eyelids. Yes, if only he was a Frenchman instead of an Englishman, then he wouldn’t be in this crazy war, half-starving, half-depressed, always cold and alert. He raised his binoculars to survey the choppy seas roiling with whitecaps. If there were enemy submarines down there, well, that wasn’t his problem. All he looked for were enemy ships, those inelegant amphibious transports that meant the arrival of gloom and doom onto English soil, not that England hasn’t been invaded since 1997. Weekly, small bands of marauders, bandits, rebels, and mercenaries came ashore in one or two boats, or stowed away in cargo ships, (the British couldn’t inspect them all), and laid waste to London and all the major towns on the coast of the English Channel. Many invaders didn’t fight. Instead, they set up their satchel charges and detonated buildings at random. Then they would shoot at anyone who arrived on the scene. Others would go on killing, robbing, and raping sprees, blending in with the civilians and locals since these marauders didn’t wear uniforms. No place was safe. Street advice was to take no more than ten quick steps forward before looking over your shoulder, five steps if you were a woman. Almost everyone on the street was armed with something: a knife, shank, gun, chain, mace, cigarette lighter, knitting needles, cane, anything to buy the victim some time and distance.
“Here to relieve you.” A thin pale man walked up, his voice sharp in the cold air. He too wore a black naval long coat and held the rank of Captain, so he didn’t salute or say, “Sir.” “Anything new to report?”
“All’s quiet.”
“That’s good, aye?”
Sir Walter scoffed. “Yay… Any word from behind our backs?”
“Good news?” snickered Arthur. “Or the usual heap of rubbish?”
“What’s being served?”
“Bombings, raping, pillaging…the usual torrid affairs. Nothing we Coasties have to worry about. Leave it to the Landlubbers.”
The newcomer raised his binoculars and added another pair of eyes to scan the English Channel. He half-hoped he could see the shores of France from here…wishful thinking. “I wonder what those French are doing.”
“Anything except this.”
Now Arthur scoffed. “Party, party.” He looked up at the twin barrels. “Load me in and shoot me over there, mate.”
Sir Walter huffed with a grin. “Aye…make that two, chap.”
“A barrel each…”
Sir Walter snapped to a new mood. No more small talk. The wind and an empty stomach made him now think of himself, not the French, or the gun, or the English Channel, or the nearly a decade-old war. “I’m retiring,” he said simply.
“I got it from here, chap,” stated Arthur. He lowered his binoculars, but didn’t look at Walter. A few seconds later, Arthur stood alone.
Just you and me, “Big C,” Arthur thought. Just you and me…
