Word: port
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...Vietnamese had in fact been drifting westward and waiting cautiously to see what action the rightist military junta of Lon Nol-who had overthrown neutralist Prince Norodom Sihanouk the month before-would take against them. And a major ex post facto rationale for the invasion-that it closed the port of Sihanoukville-is an even greater fabrication: authoritative Administration sources now state that Sihanoukville was closed to the Communists by Sihanouk himself in late 1969 in an effort to force the North Vietnamese in Cambodia to recognize Sihanouk's territorial rights at the end of their war with the United...
...carrying off the mountain bit by bit is done by huge 450-ton power shovels that chew off 25-ton chunks of ore in a single bite and dump them into 75-ton trucks. The ore is then crushed and transported by 150-car, mile-long freight trains to Port Hedland, where it is loaded aboard freighters at the rate of 10,000 tons an hour. The boom has turned Port Hedland into the world's fifth busiest port...
...historic military presence from the Far East. The huge naval yard and three airbases in Singapore are being turned over to the local government; the Persian Gulf bases of Bahrain and Sharjah will be closed down well before the end of next year; and Aden has become a port of call for the Russian navy and a barracks for wayward Arab guerrillas...
...even an afterthought of empire, but rather, a byproduct of the empire's collapse. Its first military use was as a secret Royal Navy supply base (code-named Port T) during World War II. Abandoned after the war, it was resurrected in 1957 as a substitute for an R.A.F. staging base in Ceylon, which had come under political attack. It is a supposedly vital relay station in Britain's high-frequency military radio link, and is zeroed in on the Skynet military communications satellite. But Gan does not have attack capability. Its only missiles are small weather rockets...
...scene insinuates itself early in the reader's mind. The place is London, one of those comfortable, leathered clubs with high-back wing chairs and good port. Across the table, C. Aubrey Smith, his mustache drooping imperially, leans forward in his scarlet mess dress tunic to rearrange the saltcellars, silverware and apples on the table before him. There are proud mutterings of hussars, lancers, and Royal Scots Greys, tones of awe for the Panzergrenadiers. "There they were," he announces with grave mien. "And over here, a thin red line...