NationStates Jolt Archive

Courtland, Upper Virginia (EBS) - UFOlogists around the world are buzzing about widespread reports of UFO activity in the northern districts of Upper Virginia. Several eyewitnesses have described an "aerial earthquake" - apparently a sensation of violent turbulence in the air - accompanying mysterious wedge-shaped lights moving at impossible speeds. "The northern regions are largerly used as military reservations," says Dr. DeForrest Nimoy of NSUFOcon, "and UFOs have long been interested in military technology and development. I clearly sense alien interest, and possibly alien involvement in Upper Virginia's growing military."

Professional skeptic Majel Shatner disagrees. "It's a military reservation," she says, "obviously the militarists are testing some new 'black budget' aircraft."

For its part, Government spokesman, Captain Jane Alsgard, denies that anything unusual has been seen in Upper Virginia's skys. "It didn't happen. Period. And we challenge you to find any citizen who will say otherwise."

***

In other news, Chairman Baxter Brandt of the Chamber of Industrials, a member of the Provisional Ruling Council, announced today that the Upper Virginia National Data Corporation has developed bio-neural micro-processor based on cloned primate neural matterial. "This is a major advance for us and justifies our research in cloning technology and computer science. We hope to market this processor immediately."

Citadel Excalbia, Holy Empire of Excalbia (ENS) - Unnamed sources in the Imperial Air Force today confirmed that the military observers did detect the mysterious "sky quakes" recently experienced in our northern neighbor. While sources said that the Imperial Air Force had been unable to determine the exact cause of the disturbance, they believed the most likely scenario was controled vehicle moving laterally through the upper atmosphere at over Mach 10 - or over 3000 m/s. Sources say that the Imperial Air Force does not believe the object was a rocket and that is motion rules out a meteor.

* * *

Landing, Holy Empire of Excalbia (EFNN) - In a surprise move, Deputy Minister of Technology, Rev. Dr. Elias Stoutmann, announced that the Holy Empire had authorized Exsoft and NADS to transfer their high speed networking architecture and Optixon data storage modules to Upper Virginia National Data Corporation as part of a deal to acquire access to the Dominion's new bio-neural processor technology. "I know this will controversial to some," said Rev. Stoutmann, "in view of our ethical concerns about human cloning and Upper Virginia's aggressive research in that area, but we cannot allow ourselves to ignore any important field of research. I also point out that the bio-neural processor does not use cloned human tissue. We are confident that we can continue research in this area safely and ethically."

The Dominion's Directorate of Security today released the following announcements:

1. The Dominion has approved Upper Virginia National Data Corporation's sale of bio-neural processor technology to Excalbia's Exsoft and NADS in exchange for high speed networking architecture, Optixon data storage modules and an undisclosed sum.

2. The Dominion hopes to market bio-neural processor technology - which greatly improves any computer processor's ability to deal with complex three dimensional problems involving uncertainty and its ability to interface with the human brain.

3. The Dominion soon plans to announce a major new military contract - the first to be offered to foreign sources.

4. The Dominion continues to deny the existence of any mysterious objects in the skies above the Dominion.

... And finally, on tonight's C.S.S. Evening Report, this truely puzzling video shot by a hiker in the Borodea Mountains near the Confederacy's border with the Dominion of Upper Virginia...

[image of the news anchor dissolves into a shakey image of high mountain peaks rising above a pine forrest]

[voice from off-screen]... There it is again. Look! Look! Over there!

[the images swings rapidly past the peaks and picks up a small delta-shaped object... within in a couple of seconds the object passes up and out of view over the horizon]

[the news anchor reappears] ... Experts at Jefferson State University who have studied the tape say it appears to be genuine without any editing....

[closing credits...]

Major General Becka Harrison shifted noisily in her seat. "This is the last thing we need," she said tapping soundly on the screen of her computer monitor.

The screen showed the homepage of a man known Warthog who had posted some pictures he had taken of an unusual contrail - a long stream with periodic donut shaped puffs. The UFO nuts called such contrails "donuts on a rope." He also had a telephoto image of a grainy delta shaped object. It wasn't much, but it was more than Harrison wanted to see - on the public Internet.

"I want that down yesterday," the Dominion's Chief of Procurement whispered hoarsely to her security chief.

"Yes, ma'am," Major Thorsen answered.

"And please keep a better watch out of these things. This is last thing I want to find out from my 12 year old son!"

"Yes, ma'am," Thorsen said again, as he backed out of the general's office.

Once outside her office, Thorsen picked up a secure phone.

"Auxiliary maintenance," a voice answered on the other end of the phone.

"We're secure," Thorsen said inserting his key into the phone and turning it, "Code 11. Some guy who goes by Warthog. Has a website by the same name. Clean it up before sunset."

"Understood. We're on it."

Thorsen removed his key and hung up.

Diana Silina carefully closed the red folder on her desk. The crash of several servers in the Holy Empire of Excalbia had brought down much of the Internet on the Excalbian Isles and through out the Atlantic area. It was officially unexplained. But the folder made it clear.

The Dominion had crashed those servers. And had used that to mask the elimination of a number of sites. One of those belonged to Chuck Thorelson, who had been found wandering in the country side. He had posted pictures of an unexplained delta shaped object. He now insisted the photos were fakes and was almost terrified of the prospect of going on the Internet or discussing UFOs, formerly his twin passions.

A forensic interview team from the Directorate of Justice's Criminal Investigations Bureau had concluded that Thorelson had been subject to intense conditioning - of the sort developed by the CIB.

Based on the information that the CIB had been able to draw out on Thorelson during reconditioning, he had seen something like the X-7, but faster and larger.

The conclusion the CIB had drawn angered Silina. The military had developed a new secret air craft without her knowledge and were trying to cover it up without the DoJ's involvement.

Silinia bit her lip in anger. Afterall, she wasn't some insignificant Secretary of the Social Services Directorate or Foreign Affairs. She was the Attorney General! Head of the CIB! In charge of domestic security and one third of the ruling council!

"General Altman has gone too far," she whispered icely to her assistant. "Get Brandt on the phone now!"

* * *

Baxter Brandt, Chairman of the Chamber of Industrials, CEO of National Combat Systems and third member of the ruling council, was meeting with several foreign delegates come to discuss trade and arms purchases when his secretary interrupted.

"Mr. Brandt," the young woman said shaking.

"I asked to be interrupted, Susan," he hissed.

"I know, sir, but it is the Attorney General on the phone," Susan paused for air, "and there are CIB shock troops coming in the elevator..."

Brandt smilled to his visitors. "Excuse me," he said rising and turning towards the door his secretary had come in from, "I'll be just a moment."

Christina Freedman, Chancellor of the Holy Empire of Excalbia, tapped her foot impatiently. Normally, she enjoyed the pomp and ceremony of her thrice-weekly meetings with the Emperor, but today were too many troubling developments to discuss.

She looked up as the doors of the throne room opened and the Imperial Chamberlain appeared with a bow. He gestured for her to enter with a bow and with her own silent nod she stepped past the heavy wooden doors. The Chamberlain and a single Imperial Guard, clad in bright blue and gold armor and carrying a ceremonial broadsword - the emblem of the monarchy for almost a millennium - led the way.

As they entered the inner chamber, the Chamberlain and the Chancellor bowed at the waist and the Guard lowered his sword in salute.

"Your Majesty," the Chamberlain said with unforced solemnity, "Lady Christina Freedman, Your Chancellor."

David IV gestured for the party to rise. He started to smile at his Chancellor; she was probably his favorite Chancellor - competent, loyal and trustworthy and telegenic face for the Government. But, today something in the Chancellor’s expression froze his smile.

Standing, the Emperor of Excalbia and Defender of the Faith turned slightly towards his Chamberlain. Lord Corman had served him since his coronation and had served his father before that. "Lord Corman, thank you. You may leave."

"Yes Your Majesty," Corman bowed and slipped away unobtrusively, followed by the Guard.

David stepped down from the throne and removed his formal robe. "Join me in my office, Lady Freedman?"

Christina bowed and followed the Emperor. After he sat behind his desk and had silently nodded for Christina set, she pulled an Imperial blue folder out of her case.

"Your Majesty, there are troubling events in Upper Virginia."

"Much in the Dominion troubles me. Anything in particular today?"

"Some foreign businessmen were in Courtland to meet Chairman Brandt of their ruling council. According to the briefing they gave our Embassy there, Criminal Investigation Bureau troops interrupted the meeting and arrested him."

"Really?" The Emperor leaned forward in surprise.

"We don't think Attorney General Silina kept him long, but it is the latest sign that the leadership is fracturing. There are rumors that both General Altman and Attorney General Silina are plotting to move against each other."

"And how far has this gone? What are implications for us if one or the other attempts a coup?"

"Unclear, Your Majesty. As you know, the ruling circles to the north are pretty closed." Freedman closed her folder and handed it to the Emperor. "And that's not the worst. Imperial Intelligence has confirmed that the recent Internet outage was caused by someone remotely accessing the university servers from the Dominion. They also have confirmed that the Dominion is developing some kind of highly advanced hypersonic offensive aircraft. The Imperial Army also reports increased troop movements along the borders. It seems II was right and that Altman is starting to harbor dreams of expansions."

The Emperor sank into his chair. "That is very bad news, Chancellor Freedman. Very bad. We need to call a meeting of the Security Council as soon as possible."

*thwaps scout pilot* how many times do I have to tell you, don't go flying low in primitive civilizations!!

j/k :)

John Graham rubbed his hands nervously as he waited for his boss to read the message.

"Are we sure, John," Lord James Reynolds, Director of Imperial Intelligence asked glancing up from the paper in his hand.

"Yes, Lord Reynolds. It was intercepted in the Varessan captial earlier today and was being transmitted to the Dominion captial."

Lord Reynolds read the partial intercept again.

***phenomenal speed at which the kinetic harpoons travel, there will probably be less of an error per unit than would be the case in a laser or energy based weapon***

"This could be very dangerous."

In a small outpost just to the west of the Varessa/Erukushi Border, an Erukushi Defence Force Corporal paced about, flapping his arms to keep warm in the altitude induced sub-zero temperatures. His greatcoat, a little worn though it was, was well insulated, but -11 Celsius, and a windchill to boot, made the night bitterly cold, and made him positively miserable.

He stamped his feet, and blew on his hands. He'd lost his gloves the week before, blown off the mountainside by a gust of wind when he removed them to operate the radio. Now he was afraid to put his hands on his rifle, lest the flesh stick to the frigid metal. He wasn't at all concerned about is functionality...the good old Avtomat Kalashnikov 47 was practically indestructible, and the standard rifle of the EDF was as good as its reputation indicated. And as cheap.

*Bloody penny-pinching dog-turds* muttered the Corporal, although his concern was not with his rifle, so much that his gloves STILL hadn't been replaced, and his hands were FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEZING. The fugging Q-store had run out of fugging gloves...again...and he'd forgotten to borrow Spooner's pair for guard tonight.....arrgghhh

He continued to pace, raging impotently at circumstance, then stopped, turned, and watched, as the eastern horizon lit up as if dawn had come eight hours early. Blue-white set off the hills on the Varessan side of the border in stark relief, while a distant rumble gave a hint of the tremendous power of the event that had just gone ahead.

Once the light died down again, the Corporal was struck by a terrible, terrible dilemma. What was he going to tell the Lieutenant?

***

"What do you mean 'birdstrike'?"
Major General Roberts asked of the Lieutenant Colonel that brought word of the disaster at the Pine Creek Weapons Facility.

"Just that sir. Preliminary reports into the finding, based upon reports from surviving personnel, are that, at the moment of firing, a large bird happened to stray across the firing range between one of the power conduits its receptor. The capacitor shorted out, and some of the electro-magnets were unpowered..."

"Thus driving the projectile into the barrel...I see... Very well, thank you Jeff. Not your fault. Casualties?"

"3 fatalities. 11 wounded, 2 seriously, but they'll all pull through. The media is going to have a field day..."

"No they wont...nothing newsworthy about a gas leak..."

***

Varessan National News:

"Yesterday, at around 2am local time, a major gas leak lead to a large explosion at a disused rail yard in Pine Creek, Northwest Varessa..Three Varessan Gas and Electricity Comission workers were killed, and several more wounded, although they are expected to make a full recovery. Authorities have announced their intention to conduct a full investigation into the incident.

In other news today, Varessa has entered into negotiations with Upper Virginia into the possibility of exchanging cutting edge research data in a number of specific fields. Reporting from outside Parliament house, Varetta, Special Correspondent Mark Wilkinson..."

“Is that all, Col. Peterson?” The Dominion’s Chief of Procurement tapped the tip of her pen on her desk blotter as she listened to the phone.

“Yes, General,” Mildred Peterson’s voice sounded tired but oddly enthused through the muffled connection.

“Very well. Keep me informed.” Major General Becka Harrison placed the phone back in its cradle and carefully removed her key, replacing it on the chain around her neck. She took a deep breath and turned to the two men standing in front of her desk.

Major Richard Thorsen, chief of security for the Bureau of Procurement, was a tall, hard-edged man. Sometimes, a person’s physical appearance does not match his job, but Thorsen wasn’t one of those people. He stood as if steel bar had sewn into his back, his face gave no expression, and his eyes were stone cold. Like a killer’s, someone might have said.

The other man, Senior Project Manager Brigadier General Morton Sykes, was a technocrat, like Major General Harrison. He stood, looking at ease even in “parade rest,” and while he wore a pro-forma frown, a smile hid behind his eyes.

“Well,” Harrison said rising to her full 5’4” height, “Col. Peterson has been to what’s left of the test facility and confirms the initial reports.” Harrison let her eyes drift over the two men. “While we regret the loss of life and the slight delay this will cost us, the accident certainly did demonstrate the destructive potential of the device.”

“Should we inform General Altman?” Sykes asked.

“Ummm. No, Mort. I’d prefer to keep this between us. There’s been no real harm done to our schedule and the Varessans seem to be handling the situation well. And… General Altman has been…” Harrison seemed to visually look for words somewhere above her head, “… a little preoccupied with matters of state recently. So, why disturb him further? Besides, Col. Peterson is too good a deputy project manager to risk losing to… General Altman’s penchant for displays of disappointment.”

Sykes nodded. Thorsen was nearly motionless.

“Dismissed,” Harrison said returning to her seat.

Chancellor Freedman sat clamly behind her desk. Behind her, french doors looked out over a lush garden and park and just beyond the park stood the Imperial Palace of Excalbia Castle.

Folding her hands on her desk and squinting her blue eyes, she said evenly, "So, when I walk across that park to see His Imperial Majesty, I'm supposed to tell him that we 'think' the Dominion is working this Varessa to develop some kind of new, powerful weapon that we 'think' they're going to put on their secret, hypersonic aircraft that we 'think' they have developed."

Christina Freedman laid her pefectly manicured hands on her desk. "Is that about it, Lord Reynolds?"

The Director of Imperial Intelligence rubbed his gray beard thoughtfully. "That's about all we can say for sure, Lady Chancellor. Intelligence is an art not a science. We fairly confident that the Dominion has developed a hypersonic, possibly orbital, military vehicle - hence all the UFO sightings in Upper Virginia. We also have the intercept from the Varessan capital talking about developing a weapons system in cooperation with the Dominion. And, finally we have satellite photos of the explosion in Pine Creek in Varessa and we don't think it was a gas leak as they claim. More likely a test gone awry."

Lord Reynolds crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair across from the Chancellor. "Varessa is new territory for us and we're trying to get organized on the ground. We've had some preliminary contacts with the Erukushi's," seeing the Chancellor's questioning eyes, he added parenthetically, "they're the Varessans' neighbors - but we have no solid agreements on cooperation. Yet."

Freedman narrowed her eyes again and turned to the Minister of State. P.R.N. Garrison - Pat to his few friends - sat silently in his blue suit and mumbled a quiet, "Nothing to add, Lady Chancellor."

Continuing on, Freedman's gaze fell on Admiral Lord Yornis Halton, Chief of Imperial Naval Operations and Chief of the General Staff. "Admiral Halton?"

"Well, Lady Chancellor, I do have some good news. The Mark V replacement program is well under way. The first half-dozen of the new Joshua-class stealth cruisers are undergoing sea trials now. We hope to enter them in service at the end of the month and begin retiring - or selling - our AEGIS cruisers. We are also ready to launch our first low-visibility, low-profile, stealth carrier. That leaves us far behind the Dominion, but it should help to start evening the odds."

Freedman smiled thinly. "Well, at least that gives me something."

Baxter Brandt pulled on the cuffs of his shirt, then straightened his silk tie. "Silina is a loose cannon, Craig," the Chairman said with tight smile.

Gen. Altman narrowed his eyes at Brandt's familiarity. Altman prefered to be called by his proper rank, title and name when addressed by subordinates. And, he definately considered the soft billionaire a subordinate - and an inferior. However, with the Attorney General on the warpath and growing labor unrest in the tenaments, he was useful and had to be humored.

"What do you propose we do?" Altman, in his tan, full-dress uniform, paced in front a portrait of the Dominion's founder - General Courtland - with his gloved hands clasped behind his back.

"Don't you think it is time for a new Attorney General?"

Altman turned and gave a Brandt a sour smile. "If it were only so easy. Unlike you, Silina is surrounded by heavily armored troops and stiff security. We would have to make a full military strike to take her out and I'm not prepared for that yet..."

A soft, but insistent chime interrupted the General. Turning towards the steel doors of his command center, Altman called out, "Yes?"

The doors opened and a breathless corporal ran in and saluted.

"Begging the General's pardon, sir! Comm reports major demonstration under way in the commercial district. Regular police are swamped and mobile CIB units are only now en route, sir! There are reports of looting and burning. The District Police Chief has requested Army support, sir!"

"Well, well," Altman's smile grew broad, as he said with a nod to Brandt, "this may just work to our advantage with Silina." Turning back to the corporal, Altman continued, "Send orders to Col. Yeats at the 34th Mech. Infantry, with my compliments, to proceed to the commercial district with all due haste." The general finally returned the corporal's salute as he spoke.

"Yes, sir." The corporal broke his, salute, turned and ran out of the office.

(the sound of distant gunfire and shouting fades in… a frantic looking man in torn jacket holds a CNN microphone…) “…never seen anything like it… just horrible…huh,” the reporter taps his ear, swallows and looks at the camera. “This is Steward Dorn reporting live from Courtland, capital of the Dominion of Upper Virginia. A demonstration by striking works in the commercial district turned violent today. When the municipal police began arresting demonstrators, the surprisingly large crowd of at least several tens of thousands started rioting and burning police cars. While the Directorate of Security dispatched mobile units of the armored Criminal Investigative Bureau, the local police were overwhelmed and called in military support.”

The reporter looked nervously over his shoulder and continued. “As the main body of the demonstrators concentrated in front of the Bank of Courtland building, threatening to burn it down, troops – believed to be from the 34th mechanized infantry division – tried to gain control, but began to be overwhelmed. In apparent panic, the troops opened fire on the crowd.” The reporter choked up. “I saw dozens, maybe hundreds cut down…”

“Turn that off,” an amplified voice roared from off camera. A metal-clad hand reached out over the camera. (…the image fades to black and a startled scream howls, then fades…)

The ornate carved wooden door of the Chancellor's office flew open. Christina Freedman's long time assistant, Jake Dilles, burst. "Your pardon, My Lady," he said without breaking stride, "State Minister Garrison is on the line for you, Lady Chancellor and is quite urgent."

Reaching her desk, Dilles picked up the phone and pushed the button for the correct line. After making sure the Minister himself was on the other end of the line, he passed the receiver to the Chancellor and withdrew.

"Minister Garrison?"

"My Lady Chancellor, we've received word of dire events in Upper Virginia."

The Chancellor bit her lip in anger and frustration. She was getting very tired of hearing those words - or words like them. "Go on," she sighed.

"The international press is reporting that a labor demonstration in Courtland developed into a riot and the Mechanized Infantry troops from the Directorate of Security have massacred hundreds of demonstrators. Our Embassy in Courtland is confirming all of this. Their sources put the death toll at over 250 - at minimum."

"Dear Lord!" The Chancellor sank back into her chair.

"The Dominion has taken all TV and radio off the air and broadcasting a repeated message declaring an immediate curfew until dawn tomorrow. The Embassy reports that almost all business and industry in the capital has shut down."

Freedman turned in her chair to look out into the peaceful park and across it to the Emperor's palace. "OK. I want to convene the Emperor's National Security Cabinet within the hour. In the palace."

"Yes, Chancellor," Garrison said, although the Chancellor was already hanging up. Standing, she started to call her assistant only to hear him opening the door already.

"Yes, Chancellor?" Dilles bowed his head.

"Jake, tell the Chief of Staff to summon the Security Cabinet to the palace within the hour. When he calls the Ministry of Defense, he should direct them, on my authority, to go ahead and proceed to full alert status, just in case." Freedman sighed again. "Then call the Imperial Chamberlain and tell him that the Security Cabinet is meeting within the hour at the palace and will brief the Emperor in an hour and half.”

Diana Silina looked intently at the folder, not that she really needed to read it. She already knew the facts. Troops of the 34th Mechanized Infantry fired on a group of rioters at the Bank of Courtland, killing 236 people. That incident had caused a panic, driving frightened demonstrators into almost every quarter of the city and drawing more angry rioters into the streets. It was the worst incident of violence since the failed revolution of 1932. It had taken almost every mobile armored CIB unit she had more than a day to restore order. But, in doing so, the CIB had caught some of the troops responsible, including their CO. She would prove it was the Army’s fault. And, that, she smiled thinly, could turn this disaster into a boon.

Silina looked up from the folder at the impossibly young captain in front of her. His Army fatigues were torn, his hands were cuffed and two fully armored CIB troopers flanked him, dwarfing him. Captain… she glanced at the notes... Baker had explained some things in his interrogation. The troops had been poorly equipped and trained for this kind of operation. They had been ordered to hold their position and wait for reinforcements. The record would clearly show that. Not bad orders, but when the crowd turned violent – throwing rocks and bottles – rocks and bottles but not guns! – Baker had ordered his troops to open fire.

That much was understandable. What Baker couldn’t explain was why his troops had pursued the crowd, chasing them into offices, stores and homes. Why they had shot people in the back. Why they had massacred whole clusters of demonstrators.

Baker couldn’t explain his actions, but Silina could. Altman – every organization models its leader – has feared a popular uprising for years. The idea that the civilians are enemies has been made a part of all the Army’s training and indoctrination. When the civilians turned on the troops that training, that mind-set took over and started fighting an enemy. That’s not the way – Silina has warned the General for years – to keep people under control.

“Baker,” the Attorney General said sinking back into her chair, “you’re going to be charged with 236 counts of murder. I’m going to make a spectacle out of. It’ll be a real show trial.” Silina’s smile grew. “I may even televise your execution. The working classes will love it! And when I’m fin…”

The doors to the AG’s office burst open and a phalanx of armored troops – in Army green, not the blue of the CIB – and in their midst was Gen. Craig Altman. In a dress green jacket – laden with medals and ribbons – and khaki pants, with riding boots and black gloves, no less, Altman was the picture of a two-bit tyrant in Silina’s eyes.

“You’re finished with this, Silina.” Altman spoke crisply with no expression. “This is Army jurisdiction.”

“General, you’ve gone too far,” Assistant Attorney General Ulufsen said from Silina’s right. As he spoke, half a dozen CIB troops raised their weapons. The Army troops responding in kind.

“We have the advantage of numbers in this room, Madame Attorney General,” Altman said, “though I know you have more troops in the building. But in any case, if we start this, we’ll both be dead. Your call, Silina.”

Silina smiled and took her seat. “Captain Baker isn’t worth it. He’s all yours.”

***

In the sub-basement of the Directorate of Justice’s massive complex, Captain Baker eyed his commander-in-chief nervously. “S…sir, I’m sorry. I… But, thank you, sir.”

Altman looked coldly at the Captain. “I didn’t do this for you, Captain. You’re a disgrace, letting yourself be captured. I just wanted to spare the Army Silina’s show trial.”

Baker felt metallic hands on his shoulder pushing him to the pavement. The general slowly drew his pistol, a pearl-handled revolver. The general fired one shot.

“Leave that for Silina,” Altman said, stepping into his limo.

Major-General Roberts watched the re-run of the "riot-control" methods utilised by the Upper Virginian authorities. They were...confronting. He had just returned from yet another Parliamentary Hearing into the Varessan research on Upper Virginia's behalf.

"No sir, the weapon is purely for military usage. No sir I have not had face to face discussions with any Upper Virginian authorities. No sir, yes sir, no sir, yes sir..." Roberts grumbled to himself. Things were going from bad to worse. He himself was beginning to have doubts about giving a weapon as potentially destructive as the "Crimson Star" (as his project leader had dubbed it) to a military controlled by General Altman.

But, he thought, the upcoming intelligence brief should tell him something...

***

Like most non-intelligence figures, Major-General Roberts had little appreciation for the difficulties that Varessan Military Intelligence (VMI) went through to get the information he used. Nevertheless, when a figure as senior as General Garcia began jumping up and down and screaming for information on something, that something was normally given close examination.

And Lieutenant-General Wallace was the person to give it. As CO of VMI's Special Projects Department, it was his resources that were employed when information -or anything else- was required at short notice. Varesa had had very little interest in Upper Virginian affairs, but, since the inception of some research deal Wallce wasn't privy to, interest had skyrocketed. And he now had orders, direct from Field-Marshal Harris himself, to get information pertaining to the internal politics of Upper Virginia, "immediately".

Those were not orders one chose to ignore. Specifically, the orders had gone on, he was to acertain the nature of the relationship between the ruling Triumvirate, Baxter Brandt, Dana Silina, and Craig Altman.

Wallace steepled his hands in front of his face. It was going to be a busy week. He allowed himself a moment of respite. Then he picked up the phone.

"Get me Colonel Armstrong"

“So,” David IV pushed the palms of his powerful hands against the heavy, ornately carved wooden table, “where do we stand?” The atmosphere in the Imperial Meeting Chamber was somber. The sight of the Emperor, who normally preferred to wear what would be called “casual dress” under his formal robes, clad in his gleaming white naval uniform, complete with saber, added to the mood.

Admiral Lord Yornis Halton, also dressed in a formal white uniform, cleared his throat. “Militarily,” the Chief of Imperial Naval Operations and Chief of the General Staff began, “we are in about as good a situation as we could expect. We have activated all the reserve units and placed paramilitary police units under Imperial Army command. We have most of our forces on the northern border. The Dominion still greatly outnumbers us, but all of our units are mechanized and mobile and, if it comes to it, should at least slow the Dominion down.”

Unrolling a map across the table, Admiral Lord Halton continued, “On the seas, the situation is even better. We’ve put everything we have to sea, except ships already committed to foreign military sales, even ships that are still undergoing sea trials. We have our two command cruisers, Excalbia and Citadel, here and here, with a screening force of AEGIS cruisers and destroyers. While our first carriers are still under constructions, we have our first two naval air wings flying cover from shore installations. The Dominion has taken note of these two forces and is monitoring them.”

Halton began to smile. “However, the best we can tell, they have only had intermittent contact with our cruiser squadrons, here and over there off the northern coast. The new Joshua cruisers are performing well and are fiendishly difficult to spot. Even better, our three flotillas of Wraiths, so far, have been able to stand at station in some out-of-the-way spots within Dominion waters completely undetected. If the Dominion tries anything, the Imperial Navy should be able to give them quite a bloody nose before they know what’s happened.”

Halton’s smile disappeared and he turned toward the intelligence chief. “Unfortunately, we still don’t know as much as I’d like about the Dominion’s new hypersonic warplane and this mysterious weapons system the Varessans are developing. Technology like that could cancel out our technological advantage on the seas.”

The Emperor sat back and considered the report. He was well aware of Imperial Intelligence’s efforts to penetrate Dominion security on their new weapon and saw no need to bring it up, so he moved on. “Minister Garrison, how go the diplomatic efforts?”

“Not too well, your Imperial Majesty, we’ve had great difficulty in convincing other nations in the region to take the situation seriously. Only the Confederation of Sovereign States, as another neighbor of the Dominion, has shown any interest. They have called up their state militias and are on alert. They are also willing to enter into discussions with the Dominion, but there little prospect for that at the moment.”

The Emperor did not hide his frustration with his Minister of State and made a mental note to discuss his portfolio with the Chancellor after the meeting.

“Lord Reynolds?”


Lord James Reynolds, Director of Imperial Intelligence, rubbed his gray beard while he composed his thoughts. “We have determined that the massacre in Courtland has further divided General Altman and the UV Attorney General. It is also beginning to drive a wedge between Chairman Brandt and other members of the Chamber of Industrials. Our best way forward might be to begin using our contacts to exploit these divisions and begin to isolate General Altman.”

“Won’t that risk provoking him and possibly lead to war?” Asked Minister Garrison.

“What would you prefer, Minister Garrison,” Chancellor Freedman began, tapping her manicured nails on the table, “that we led a madman like Altman consolidate power and then entrust him with this new airborne weapon?”

“Enough,” the Emperor said softly. “My Lady Chancellor, do you agree with Lord Reynolds?”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“Then,” said the Emperor rising, “let it be done.”

Major General Becka Harrison held her head in her hands. The Massacre of Courtland – it had already gained capital letters – left her sick to the stomach. If she were amoral and heartless like General Altman, or even her own chief of security, it wouldn’t bother her. But she wasn’t and it did. Sometimes she wished she’d been born in the Excalbian Holy Empire – and was able to wear a uniform that people looked on with pride and admiration, not fear and anger. But what could she do? She was only a technocrat. A “geek” in an army of predators.

Harrison looked up and saw her chief of security, Major Richard Thorsen, standing silently in the doorway. His face was as blank as ever, but there was something… tense about his stance, like a tiger waiting to pounce.

“General Harrison?”

“Yes, Major,” Harrison stood and motioned for the Major to enter. He did, then turned and locked the door then approached the desk.

“General, have you considered the future?” Becka dropped into her chair, suddenly feeling a bit frightened.

“How do you mean, Major?” She emphasized the word, hoping his relatively junior gave her power.

“May I speak freely?” Becka only nodded.

“You are one of the finest Generals that I’ve served under. You are a wonderful manager and organizer. And you deserve a better military than the one General Altman has created.” Becka gasped at his treason, but before she could react, Major Thorsen removed a small device from his pocket. “All anyone hears is white noise.” He replaced it in his pocket. “As I was saying, some of us have concluded that General Altman is leading us to ruin. We have had overtures from some members of the Chamber of Industrials and from contacts in the Directorate of Justice and some interested foreign embassies. The time may rapidly be coming for a new order in the Dominion. All of the senior staff is beholden to General Altman. Except for you.”

The Major turned and began to leave. At the door, he looked back. “Where do your loyalties lie, General? To the Butcher of Courtland – that is what the workers call him now – or to the Dominion? With you, and your X-9, fully armed and operational, we could change the Dominion forever.” Thorsen opened the door and stepped through, leaving it open.

A Soaring Peacock Airlines 747 touches down in Excalbia. Steps are brought up to the first-class exit, from which steps a group of a dozen men in splendid white naval uniforms. The uniforms have a golden crucifix across their front, with four smaller crucifixes in each quarter - the arms of the Holy Emperor of Pantocratoria. Their swords gleam in the sunlight on the runway as the men step down from the plane.

"So, I hear that one of the horsemen of the apocalypse was sighted nearby, causing some sort of sky quake!" says one of the younger men in the delegation. His insignia mark him as holding the rank of commander.

"A horseman of the apocalypse?!?!" booms the eldest man, leading the twelve of them down to the runway. "That's the damnest fool thing I've ever heard!"

"Of course, my Lord Admiral." answers the young commander, crossing himself fevrently.

"Now... hmmm.... where do you suppose the Excalbians are?" ponders the First Admiral of the Pantocratorian Imperial Navy, Lord Phocas.

"Maybe they weren't expecting us on this flight..." offers a captain standing nearer the old man.

"Rubbish! This is the only 747 Soaring Peacock Airlines has, and it only bloody comes here once a month! When else did they think we'd bloody well come?" shouts Lord Phocas back, gruffly.

"Wait, my Lord, is that them over there?" asks a lieutenant near the back of the delegation, pointing towards the terminal.

"Ahhh... yes, that looks like them. Good." says Lord Phocas.

"Gentlemen!" says a stewardess at the top of the staircase, still in the aircraft. "The other passengers are waiting to get off, kindly move along!"

Commander Jennifer Wells watched the Soaring Peacock 747 taxi to a halt in front of the passenger terminal at Imperial Citadel International Airport. Once the mobile stairway was in place and the doors opened, she turned and pushed open the door of the VIP terminal. “Commodore, the Pantocratorians are here,” she said and then moved to assemble the honor guard.

Commodore Harold Alsgood stood and straightened his white dress tunic. His saber caught in the legs of chair, as it often did – clumsy oaf, the Imperial Navy Assistant Chief of Engineering swore to himself as he untangled it. “My Lords,” he turned to his superiors, “it is time.”

Admiral Lord Yornis Halton, Chief of Imperial Naval Operations and Chief of the Imperial General Staff, stood with practiced elegance. His civilian counterpart, Lord John Thorne, Minister of Defense, recently released from the hospital following routine surgery, rose more delicately. Together, the two lords and a handful of other officers moved towards the doors.

On the tarmac, an honor guard of Imperial Marines had formed up. Once the senior officers were present, and salutes had been exchanged, the guard began marching towards the jumbo jet.

Commander Wells reached the bottom of the stairway as the party of a dozen Pantocratorian Imperial Navy officers reached the ground.

Spotting the senior officer from his file picture, Wells saluted. “My Lord, Admiral Phocas,” she began crisply, “on behalf of His Imperial Majesty, David IV, Lord of Excalbia and Defender of the Faith of the Church of Excalbia, and His Imperial Majesty’s Government, welcome to the Holy Empire of Excalbia and to Citadel Excalbia.”

After waiting for the First Admiral to return the salute, Wells turned and gestured to her superiors. “My Lord, may I present Lord John Thorne, Minister of Defense, Admiral Lord Yornis Halton, Chief of Imperial Naval Operations, and Commodore Harold Alsgood, Assistant Chief Engineer and Project Manager of the Mark V program.”

Admiral Lord Halton stepped forward, saluted and offered his hand. “My Lord Admiral,” he said, “welcome. You come at a risky, but auspicious time. If it pleases you, My Lord, we can go to General Staff HQ for a short briefing and then directly by helicopter to Lord Allston Naval Air Station, and from there directly to our flag ship, INV Excalbia. Again, welcome!”

Forrest Turley sat nervously in a dark corner of the bar looking very much out of place in his crisp blue suit. He nursed a drink and looked anxiously around. In the space between one look and the next sip, a quiet figure with hard, cold face drifted over to his table and sat.

When Turley saw him, he almost jumped, but those cold, steely eyes caught him and pinned him to his chair.

"Turley," Thorsen said softly, "you need to relax."

The CEO of National AeroDynamics took a long drink. "Easier said than done. You know I don't like this."

"Yes, but you like seeing things go on as they are even less."

"You're right about that. All of...this," even now he couldn't bring himself to say 'violence' or 'massacre' "is very bad for business."

"So, how many are with you?"

"We have a majority on the Chamber and almost enough proxies to remove him from NCS as well."

"Good. How soon?"

"In a few days. And you?"

"A lot of my contemporaries are with me. And I saw MAJGEN Harrison before she left for the Confederation and she may be with us. She will bring a lot of others and a lot of respect."

"I...," but before Turley could finish, Thorsen was gone.

Lord Phocas shakes Lord Halton's hand after returning the salute.

"My Lord Admiral, it pleases me well to go to General Staff HQ for a short briefing! I'd appreciate being brought up to speed. My Lords, Commodore, may I introduce to you the command staff pool of the Imperial Navy, the men who will be taking command positions on board Pantocratoria's new Wraith and AEGIS class cruisers upon delivery. They've come with me here to see how the Excalbian navy operates, as well as to get a chance to familiarise themselves with our new ships before delivery!" says Lord Phocas as the men behind him salute the Excalbians.

Phocas adjusts his tunic.

"Shall we get underway then, Lord Halton?" he asks.

Forrest Turley straightened his silk tie as he spoke. He was young for a CEO in the Chamber of Industrials, and - to those gathered around the table - that marked him as a real shark - a predator in the business world who was surely on his way to the top.

"So," Turley continued, "this may be our only chance. If we can come together and remove Brandt from the Chamber - and if we pool the proxies we hold in National Combat Systems - fire him as CEO of NCS, one pillar of the triumvirate will be knocked loose."

"And you expect Altman, or even Silina, to stand still for that? They know stability in the Provisional Council is important for their own survival!" Marcus Poole, another young CEO - of SysDim - practically sneered his point.

"Poppycock!" Heads turned as the usually reticent Vice Chairman of the Chamber, Graham Yultilde slammed a fist on the table. "You know that Altman is after power, council or no, and that Silina is nearly as power hungry, though less of a loose cannon. Silina will greet the removal of Brandt as a reason to rejoice - she will think she is a step closer to removing Altman, and to Altman it makes no difference who heads the Chamber! You are just a coward Poole!"

Poole blushed, but tried to regain the argument. "What of the military?"

Turley smiled thinly. "I have sources who believe, when the time is right, a new leadership will emerge and that Altman will be cut off."

A chorus of approvals was cut short by Yultilde. "About time! How much time have we all wasted? This country is going down the tubes and the leaders jockey for position on top of a burning house. I only pray that we are acting in time to head off a rev..."

Yultilde's words were cutoff as a secretary knocked on the door of the meeting room.

"Come in," Turley said.

The secretary stepped in and said, "Sirs, you might want to turn on the TV." When Turley nodded, the secretary stepped over and turned on the large screen monitor.

As the picture faded in, there was the sound of sirens and wails, then the image of smoke and people rushing about. "... in front of what is left of the Directorate of Education in Courtland. The car bomb exploded about 15 minutes ago. Rescue units are still..." The reporter at the scene was cut off and the image flashed back to the studio. A grim faced anchor sat behind a desk. "This just in. A group calling itself 'The Free Virginia Liberation Army' has claimed responsibility for the bombing, claiming that it is in retaliation for the Massacre of Courtland and, quote, The beginning of the struggled..."

Yultilde's head sank to his hands and he began to weep.

Admiral Lord Yornis Halton led the way into the secure conference room and invited his guests to take seats around the polished glass table. “My Lords, fellow officers and friends,” he began as the others took their seats, “welcome to the Imperial Armed Forces Command Center. Before we get to the technical briefing, I wanted to give you some background.”

Still standing at the head of the table, Lord Halton continued. “Since World War II, the Imperial Armed Forces have been on a peacetime footing. Our forces were kept small and were focused on homeland defense and coastal security. After the ascension of David IV in 1998 and the inauguration of the current Progressive Conservative government under Lady Freedman in 2000, the Imperial Government began to reassess its strategic position. We realized that there were an increasing number of threats in the world, including our neighbors – Upper Virginia – and that effective homeland defense required military capabilities beyond our territory and coast line.”

Lord Halton stepped to one side so that a series of bar graphs projected on the screen behind him were visible to the Pantocratorians. “We quickly realized that we could never match the size of the Upper Virginian military without either bankrupting the Government or raising taxes to an unacceptable level. So, we decided to focus on improved technology. Before things deteriorated, we even traded in technology with the Dominion, gaining some of their most advanced technologies while keeping our own ‘crown jewels’ to our selves. This new policy culminated in what we called the ‘Mark V Replacement Project,’ a program to replace our AEGIS ships and supporting vessels with truly the next generation of ships.”

The Chief of Imperial Naval Operations sat. “Now, Commodore Alsgood will give you some of the technical details.”

The Assistant Chief of Engineering cleared his throat. His stout frame was clearly uncomfortable in the dress white uniform. Normally, we preferred the regular duty and looser fitting khaki uniform. “Yes, as Admiral Lord Halton was saying, early on we decided that we couldn’t compete with the Uppies, er Upper Virginians, in numbers, so we would beat them on technology. One of our biggest advantages has been our Decentralized Artificial Intelligence Network – DAIN for short – that has helped our research along quite a bit and that has provided us some of the best, fasted and most secure electronics, sensors and command-and-control systems out there. We’ve also acquired one of the Dominion’s most advanced technologies to go along with ours.”

Alsgood hit a button and image of what looked to be a metallic sponge appeared on the screen. “Frothed alloy construction. This technology allows us to create metal alloy components out of hardened foam. These alloys are stronger, lighter and even more buoyant than anything else ever used in ship construction. Now that we’ve perfected this technology, it is even cheaper and faster to produce than traditional metal alloy sheets and beams. This,” Alsgood gestured with a smile of pride, “is one of the three breakthroughs that made the Mark V possible.”

As more images passed on the screen, Alsgood continued. “The other two breakthroughs were the Modular Integrated Electric Drive – MIED – which is quieter and more efficient than anything this side of nuclear propulsion. And cheaper and easier to work with than nuclear propulsion. With the frothed alloy hulls and MIED, our ships, up to cruiser class can maintain speeds of over 45 knots and pull flank speeds approaching 55 knots. The smaller Wraith class is even faster. Even our new Mark V carriers, which are due to be launched shortly, will reach 40 knots or more.”

“Finally,” schematics of the ships came into view, “new hull designs are at the heart of the Mark V. Our command cruiser, the Excalbia class, as well as the new Majestic class carriers, are trimarans, which give them greater stability at high speed. The Wraith is a catamaran, which emphasizes speed. Both the Joshua and Majestic classes have wave-piercing bows and keels and Joshua, Wraith and Majestic are all designed with extremely low visibility and stealth features.”

Lord Halton stood, “Now, after all that, I am sure you are ready to see the ships at sea. We will leave directly for Allston N.A.S. and then directly for the Excalbia.

Becka Harrison, looking nothing like a major general in the Army of the Dominion of Upper Virginia, strolled across the arrival hall of Jefferson International Airport. Harrison had long been looking forward to this symposium. Not so much because of the content, but because of the opportunity to visit the capital of the Confederation of Sovereign States. Jefferson was everything Courtland wasn't - open, lively, energetic and, most of all, pleasant. It was full of parks. And happy smiling people. Courtland wasn't. Especially not these days.

As Becka entered the airport club - run by a very good chain of BBQ joints known as 'King Street Blues' - she could sense her security guard trailing behind her without even looking. She still didn't know why she'd allowed Major Thorsen to talk her into taking a guard. She hadn't planned on it until someone blew up the Directorate of Education.

Becka looked around but didn't see her contact. She was nervous having a security type around when she met with Varessan Major General Shaun Roberts, but Thorsen had assured her that Captain Stokes was "reliable."

Becka took a seat, ordered a sweet iced tea and waited for Roberts.

She didn't notice the three men who had flown with her from Courtland drift into the restaurant and slide over to the bar. But Captain Stokes had. And, behind his menu he watched them, even as his hand settled around the plastic gun in his coat pocket.

The tiltwing aircraft seemed to skim across the waves of the North Atlantic. Admiral Lord Yornis Halton, now wearing a regular duty khaki uniform and a black leather flight jacket, tapped Lord Phocas, First Lord of the Pantocratorian Imperial Navy, on the shoulder.

"There she is," Lord Halton said through the headphones everyone wore, "INV Excalbia."

The command cruiser seemed to come suddenly into view. The distinctive hull, looking like a cruiser with two large outriggers on each side, did not appear to be so large, but sported a surprisingly spacious flight deck behind the superstructure and an impressive number of missile cells. In the distance, several AEGIS cruisers and destroyers were visible. Further in the distance, the passengers could barely make out a number of black-hulled ships with almost no visible superstructure. The black ships were obviously underway - and moving rather smartly, but were leaving almost no wake.

The Seahawk flew toward the cruiser, until its seemed to hover in place as its wings tilted back. The plane descended to the flight deck and gently touched down.

After the plane had been secured, the doors opened and Lord Halton gestured for Lord Phocas to take the deck first.

As the Pantocratorian Admiral stepped out of the plane, an officer in khaki with the four gold strips of a captain on his shoulder boards saluted. "My Lord, welcome aboard the Imperial Naval Vessel Excalbia."

Baxter Brandt straightened his silk tie and tugged his french cuffs. Then, with a quick brush of his hair, he flung open the doors of the Chamber meeting room. "What is the meaning of this," he bellowed, with well-planned fury.

Brandt hid a smile as he saw most the members of Chamber of Industrials recoiled in shock at his entry. He was especially pleased to see that twerpTurley jump. "How dare you call a meeting without my authorization!"

Vice Chairman Graham Yultilde leveled a steady gaze at Brandt. "You had better sit down, Baxter."

"What?" Brandt asked with surprise at Yultilde's resolve, even as he took his seat at the head of the table.

"Baxter," Yultilde continued in monotone, "your actions at Chairman of the Chamber have brought the business community into ill-repute and placed us in grave danger."

"What are you blabbering about, Graham!"

"Baxter, you have allowed your ambition to blind you to the chaos that Altman is rapidly bringing upon us and have allowed a social and political environment fundamentally hostile to good business to develop in the Dominion. So, we are voting you out."

"Don't be foolish you can't..."

"We can. And we are. I call a vote on the motion to remove Chairman Brandt and name Forrest Turley as the new Chairman. All those in favor?"

In unison, every one seated around the table, except Brandt, raised a hand.

"Baxter, you're finished."

Then, before Brandt could react, Forrest Turley stood. "Now, as a member of the board of National Combat Systems, and seeing a majority of the voting stockholders or voting proxy-holders of NCS present, call an emergency meeting of the Executive Board of NCS to consider a motion to remove Mr. Brandt as CEO of the corporation."

"You can't," Brandt stammered, "the by-laws..."

"Section 1, point 13, sub paragraph 6, authorizes extraordinary meetings of the Executive Board without notice in the event of national emergency. I think the current situation fits the definition. All those in favor of the motion?"

Again, every hand except one went up.

"The motion carries."

"Baxter," Yuletilde said pushing a button on the table, "you need to go."

The doors openned and a troop of corporate security officers entered, weapons drawn.

Lord Phocas' jaw dropped as he stepped onto the flight deck and looked around. These Excalbians really know how to build a boat! he thought to himself. I can't believe we're actually getting some of their Wraiths... hmmm those black ships in the distance, they must be the Wraiths...

"Captain," Phocas returns the salute. "Permission to come aboard?"

As the Captain nods, he and the other Pantocratorians wander a little way away from the Seahawk while they wait for everything to be unloaded, taking in the sight of this technical marvel.

"Gentlemen," says Phocas to his command staff, indicating the black hulls on the horizon. "Those are the ships of which one day many of you will be in command. We have much to learn from the Excalbia, her crew, and the Excalbian Imperial Navy as a whole, so keep your eyes and ears open!"

MAJGEN Roberts looked like anything but the distinguished and highly decorated commander of Varessa's world-renowned Military Research and Development Centre. He was wearing brown corduroy trousers, a white polo shirt, and a navy blue woolen jumper. His footwear consisted of a dark tan pair of boat shoes, both of which were starting to show their age. A shoulder holster carrying a Beretta M92 completed the ensemble, tucked away underneath the jumper and below the left arm pit, and flying by way of diplomatic immunity.

The wine on the Air Erukush flight from Varetta to Jefferson via Fort Tyler was good, and the flight itself wasn't exceptionally long, but Roberts disliked the smaller 777 aircraft. Particularly the Erukushi variant...which shaves a little leg space off so as to cram more people on board.

But, here he was, coming off the jetway of Jefferson International. And, King Street Blues was, if memory serves, around *here* somewhere...

"Over there, sir." pointed out MAJ Bolton. His fast-action gun (FAG) bag contained a loaded UZI, just in case.

And, sure enough, there was Becka Harrison.

Roberts began to move towards her, but was held up by another word from Bolton "They are being watched, sir"...

Bolton switched his gaze from the people watching Harrison, to the Major-General and her bodyguard. The guard was good. He knew they were being watched, and hadn’t panicked, nor given away that information.

The bodyguard looked up, and Bolton looked straight back at him, smiled slightly and nodded slowly…

(spelling edit)

Captain Stokes immediately spotted Major Bolton, not so much because of his file picture, but because he recognized another professional. He watched Bolton take a chair at an adjacent table. He knew they had both “made” the three men at the bar, who were watching the General. He didn’t know if the men had spotted him, but could tell that they hadn’t spotten Bolton. That would give them an edge if something happened.

Becka looked up and saw Major General Shaun Roberts, dressed as casually as she, approaching her table. She gestured for him to take seat. “Shaun,” she extended a hand, “nice to meet you face-to-face.” As Shaun took a seat, she began to make small talk. Even as they exchanged pleasantries, she noticed Captain Stokes, and someone who might be Roberts’ bodyguard, watching the bar. Placing a ten-sov note on the table, Becka said, “We should probably continue our conversation in town. There is a good place downtown that should be appropriately public, yet offer us privacy to speak.”

As Harrison and Roberts stood and began making their way towards the airport taxi stand, the three men moved to follow. A look in Stokes’ direction confirmed that he was made. He watched them walk past him, then stood to follow. One of the three men peeled off and waited for Stokes in an effort to get behind him. Stokes couldn’t see the Varessan security officer, but knew that he was close by. Looking through the class doors to the taxi stand, Stokes could see two more men waiting and taking notice of the two Major Generals.

Stokes pressed a button in his left palm to activate the throat mic hidden below his collar. Harrison had refused to be miced, but had agreed to wear an earpiece. “Two men to your right, two behind, one with me. You and Roberts need to be ready to go behind the skycap’s counter to your left.” He paused a beat and saw Harrison touch Roberts’ arm and look towards the skycap’s baggage check counter. “Now,” he said, just as the two men reached into the pockets of their coats.

After everyone had deplaned and the Pantocratorian party and formed a cluster around their First Admiral, with Admiral Lord Halton, Commodore Alsgood and Commander Wells standing to the right, Captain Trevor Ulmanis stepped forward and began the formal introductions. “My Lord, First Admiral Phocas, Admiral Lord Halton and distinguished guests, welcome aboard Excalbia. I am Captain Ulmanis, CO of Excalbia, and this,” the Captain gestured to his right, “is Captain Flint Baker, CO of Tactical Squadron 21 – that’s the Wraith squadron you see in the distance, Captain Joe Byers, CO of INV Joshua, lead ship of the Joshua-class task force – they’re the larger black ships mixed in with the Wraiths. Behind them are Commander Jeter Taliefero, my XO, and Lieutenant Commander Madelyn Hill, our Chief Engineer.”

After a brief round of handshakes, Captain Ulmanis began leading the way forward, “Please follow me to the bow and I’ll point out some of the Joshuas and Wraiths. Then, I’ll be happy to give you a quick tour. Later, we’ll take you over to Joshua by air. After a tour there, we thought some of your officers might like to get out on the Wraiths. But, we’ll have to bring them along side Joshua for boarding. My Lord Phocas, we have flag quarters for you aboard Excalbia for the night, but any of your officers who would like to are welcome to bunk down the Wraiths – the accommodations are spartan but modern. We’ll begin some training exercises tomorrow morning at 0530.”

The Pantocratorians follow Captain Ulmanis to the bow.

"We're happy to accept your offers of hospitality." says Lord Phocas as the group wanders towards the bow. "You Excalbians are magnificent navy men! I can't help but think that if my grandfather's reforms had been completed in our navy nearly a century ago, Pantocratoria could proudly boast of a navy as advanced as yours. But the bureaucrats disbanded our navy after my grandfather's death to save costs. They sold our ships for scrap. In many ways, I'm thankful for this whole Antipope Crisis. It brought home to the bureaucrats that the Empire needs a navy, and a damned good one at that. And so here I am, picking up the pieces, building a navy from scratch. But looking at your magnificent ships, some of which we will soon be getting ourselves... I'm filled with confidence. We're deeply appreciative for your assistance."

"Captain Ulmanis, sir, how fast can the Excalbia run?" asks a young commander.

Meanwhile, outside Courtland…

General Altman sank deeper into his red leather chair. A fire roared beside him, cutting the early chill in the air. Of course, Altman had a spacious office in the Directorate of Security in downtown Courtland, but he preferred his office here, at his personal headquarters just outside of town.

Altman swirled his brandy and took a deep sip. He gazed across the room at the portraits of General Peter Courtland, founder of the Dominion, and his great-great-grandson, General Roger Courtland, who put down the revolution of 1932 and established the ruling council. How he longed for the day that people would gaze at his portrait with the same awe and respect.

But first, Altman knew he would have to overcome his enemies. Naïve, power-hungry Silina - the self-righteous, pontificating Excalbians – incompetents, like that idiot Captain Baker – and now, the so-called Free Virginia Liberation Army.

Altman had known for years that rebellion was coming. And now the FVLA had detonated several bombs – the Directorate of Education was only the first, several businesses and lesser government offices had followed. They had also started attempting assassinations – several bankers, two judges, a colonel and a brigadier general had already been killed. It was obvious they were not the ragtag, working class rebels Altman had expected. They had training, planning and support. He suspected someone was behind them. Maybe Silina – she had wanted to use Baker to garner support among the mob. Or maybe the Excalbians. Either way, it was time to plan a counter-attack.

A knock interrupted the General’s thoughts. “Come,” Altman said.

A corporal entered and saluted. “Begging the General’s pardon, sir.”

Altman barely sketched a salute in return. “Yes, Corporal?”

“Chairman Brandt on the phone, sir.”

“Put him on speaker.”

“Yes, sir,” the Corporal said as he walked over to the desk, flipped on the intercom, then exited.

“Brandt?”

“General! Terrible news, Turley and Yultilde have led a revolt in the Chamber and the board has voted me out and installed Turley. They also voted me out of NCS, but I made it back to the offices before their guards did. I’m there now. What do we do?”

Altman took a big swallow of his brandy. “Don’t panic, you idiot. I will make a statement that I do not recognize Turley and that I consider you to still be a member of the ruling council. But, you will need to straighten up and start trying to regain support among the business community. I can’t fight the rebels, Silina and the business community at the same time!”

Altman rose from his seat and released the call. He finished his drink and threw the glass into the fireplace. It was time to take drastic measures.

As the group reached the bow of Excalbia, Lord Halton walked beside the Pantocratorian First Admiral. “Lord Phocas, we are pleased to be able to play a role in helping you rebuild your Navy. We hope to be friends for a long time to come.”

Then, Captain Ulmanis cleared his throat and answered the young commander’s question. “Excalbia can maintain about 43 – 45 knots. At flank speed, we can get her up to 53 – 54 knots. The Joshua runs just a little bit faster. The Wraiths, though, are the speedsters – they can maintain 50 knots and pull almost 60 knots at flank speed.”

Captain Ulmanis’ crew then passed around binoculars, while the Captain pointed out the different classes of ships beyond the AEGIS screen.

Then, Ulmanis led the party on a brief tour of the ship and finally to the officer’s wardroom. There, he and Captains Baker and Byers briefed the VIP visitors on the next day’s exercises. In the first part, Excalbia and her screening ships, along with planes from the naval air station, would simulate a hostile carrier battle group and the Joshuas and Wraiths would attempt to penetrate the defenses and take out the carrier. In the second, the Wraiths would simulate an attack on enemy coastal fortifications.

Following the briefing, everyone headed back to the flight deck and flew over to Joshua.

Even as the plane approached Joshua it was difficult to spot the low, black ship among the waves. As the plane tilted its wings and came in for a landing, they seemed to be headed all the way down into the waves.

After the plane was down and secured, the doors opened and a young commander in a khaki Excalbian uniform saluted. “Welcome aboard Joshua, sirs.”

The butt of a 9mm pistol came crashing down on the crown of the man trailing Captain Stokes with tremendous force, taking the man out with barely a sound. Major Bolton caught the man and bundled him into one of the "staff only" doors on his left.

*One* he thought

Captain Stokes, he saw, was very smooth. Bolton noticed his glance, but it was only a well-trained operative, looking at the person, that would have seen it. But it was enough, Bolton knew. They had the initiative.

The two men trailing Roberts and Harrison had now drawn their weapons, and had them poorly concealed behind long-ish coats. They weren't hiding them, just masking them from casual...

"Oh my god, they've got guns!!!" a panicked, high pitched civilian voice rang out across the airport foyer.

*Shit, here we go* was the last conscious thought to enter the Major's mind before training and reflex took over.

Roberts, in a credit to his training and experience, correctly guessed the situation. The Varessan Major General grabbed the Upper Virginian Major General by the waist and collar, and dived behind the baggage check counter, just as a hail of submachine gun bullets tore at the ground where the two of them had just been standing.

His response was swift. His M92 materialised in his hand, cycled from loaded through action, to instant and then fired in what seemed like a blink of an eye. Three reports forced two of the hostiles to take cover. It wasn't enough though, as the third and fourth, moving in from the two officers' right put down suppressing fire on the counter.

The screaming rose in pitch and volume, as civilians scrambled for the exits, tripping over themselves in their haste to get out.

Bolton swore as another civvy crashed into him, sending him flying over a table, and into a chair on the other side. He fired his pistol into the air twice, sending a fresh wave of panicked people running in every direction, before rolling onto his front and firing again.

The firing gave the hostiles pause. There were more targets than they'd accounted for. Still, they had a mission to accomplish. One of the four active hostiles was moving across the line of baggage handling counters, stooped low underneath the lip, headed for the two officers.

Bullets slammed into the counter on either side of him, as the man raced towards his targets. Four, five six shots, and Bolton was forced to roll behind the overturned table as one of the shooters turned an MP5K in his direction.

Two more rounds fired, and Bolton grinned as he saw Stokes' pistol eject two rounds, its target collapsing barely three feet away from the two generals.

The brief lull as the three remaining hostiles put fire back down on Stokes was just what Bolton needed. The FAG bag was finally coming into its own, as he drew the UZI, worked the action, leant around the overturned table, and opened fire.

Too many flights in one day, Admiral Lord Halton thought to himself as he stretched on Joshua’s flight deck. The Pantocratorian officers walked past Lord Halton and across the flight deck towards the middle of the deck. They seemed to absorb all the odd details of the strange ship. Even the Excalbian officers in the arriving party, apart from Captain Byers and Captain Baker, seemed impressed with the ship. Just forward of the flight deck stood dual harpoon missile launchers and beyond them, seemingly endless rows of vertical launch missile cells. Finally, forward of the missile cells – amidship - stood a low superstructure, barely rising above the deck.

“My Lords and fellow officers,” Captain Joe Byers began, “I would be honored to give you a tour of Joshua.” With obvious pride – almost beaming like a new father – Byers led the party through his ship.

After showing them the deck, the bridge, the CIC, the missile deck and the engines, Byers led everyone back to the flag briefing room. After some discussion of the ship, the topic turned to the upcoming rendezvous with the Wraith squadron and which Pantocratorian officers would observe which ship overnight and during the exercises.

In time, the meeting adjourned and the party traveled back to the deck, just time to see the first Wraith approaching.

The Wraith almost appeared to be gliding on two runners – like a sled. The small, angular ship, even at mid-range, was easy to lose among the waves. Although it was coming in almost impossibly fast, it left very little wake and almost no spray behind it. And even as it began to slow and draw alongside Joshua, its engines were barely a hum. It was almost like an apparition.

The smaller ship was almost featureless – only a few windows in the bow, some barely visible hatch seems and white lettering reading “CPC 103” tarnished its smooth surfaces. As the Wraith came to a stop, a hatch opened on its dorsal spine, almost like that of a submarine. Crewmen on Joshua quickly passed a boarding ramp over to the Wraith and the crewman began to secure it to both ships.

Once the ramp was secured, a tall, feminine figure emerged from the hatch on top of the Wraith and made her way across the ramp. Stopping just short of Joshua’s deck, the young lieutenant commander saluted. “INV Specter reporting as ordered.”

Captain Baker returned the salute and turned towards the Pantocratorian First Admiral. “My Lord Phocas, may I present Lieutenant Commander Robyn Torvalde, CO of Specter. LCDR Torvalde is one of our youngest CO’s. She helped develop the tactics for this new class of ship while on staff at HQ and seemed to have such a natural affinity for these ships, that we couldn’t help but give her one of her own.” Torvalde blushed slightly and the captain began looked around among the Pantocratorian officers. “Now, who was assigned to Specter?”

First Admiral Lord Phocas oogles over the young lieutenant commander eagerly. He salutes Torvalde, and then reaches for her hand as she lowers it, to kiss it in his best impression of a gentlemen.

"Dirty old man." whispers Commander Constantine Belisarius to another Pantocratorian commander next to him. Phocas' old ears pick up on the noise, and the First Admiral whirls around.

"What was that Belisarius?" barks Lord Phocas.

"I was saying that I believe I am assigned to INV Specter, my Lord Admiral." says Commander Belisarius innocently. He salutes Commander Torvalde.

"Yes..." mutters Phocas. "Very well then man, don't keep the lovely young commander waiting, get moving."

"Yes, my lord, thankyou, my lord." says Belisarius, saluting Lord Phocas and Captains Baker and Byers. "Captains, it was an honour meeting you both."

He turns to Torvalde.

"Commander, permission to come aboard ma'am?" he asks.

The Varessan security officer ‘s UZI caught one of the trailing hostiles before he reach the cover of skycap’s counter. Only two hostiles left, Stokes thought. One had darted through the now empty frame of a plate glass window and taken cover behind on of the baggage stands. That one was now blocked from the two senior officers by Major Bolton fire. The last hostile, though, was still uncomfortably close to Harrison and Roberts.

Stokes ejected his spent clip – these mostly plastic guns could get through security alright – especially when disassembled as his weapon had been half an hour ago – but they didn’t give you nearly enough shots – or enough firepower for his taste. He was pleased to see that diplomatic immunity allowed Varessans to bring real weapons into the Confederation. (But then, Varessa didn’t have the share the same history and mutual suspicion as did the Dominion and the Confederacy.)

With his weapon reloaded, Stokes carefully moved back towards Bolton and circled behind to the left. Under the cover of Bolton's UZI, the captain eased his way towards the ruined windows of the terminal and the tumbled baggage check stands beyond. He spared a quick look towards the Major Generals’ last location. Harrison seemed to be tucked under the counter while Roberts exchanged fire with the last assailant. Hmm, Stokes thought, Roberts is no technocrat like Harrison, he knows how to handle himself.

The scream of sirens rose in the distance. The Jefferson Sheriff's Department, he realized. Not exactly what we need.

Suddenly, the shooter closest to the Major Generals leaned a little far to the left of his cover, hoping for a better shot at Roberts. Stokes leveled his pistol and squeezed off two quick rounds. The shooter's left forearm exploded and he reeled. Another report sounded and Roberts hit him in the shoulder.

Now, there was one left.

The sirens seemed to come to a halt and were replaced by the sound of running feet. The Sheriff’s here, Stokes thought grimly.

His Crown Vic squad car screeched to a halt and Deputy Sheriff Franklin Todd flew out of the passenger door. With his sidearm drawn he approached the terminal. Additional men from the SWAT squad rushed passed him in flak jackets and helmets. The airport was a scene of chaos. Screaming civilians ran down the sidewalk and access road past the policemen. The glass façade of the terminal was almost completely shot out around the nearest exit. Baggage counters at the curb were splintered and overturned. He could make out at least two bodies, though one was possibly still alive.

Todd could still hear weapons fire inside the terminal. At least two parties, he suspected. Not a terrorist attack, but a shoot-out of some sort.

The Deputy reached behind him to take the bullhorn from Patrolman Johansson.

“This is the Sheriff’s Department. Throw down your weapons immediately, or we will be forced to open fire”

Forcing herself to ignore the Pantocratorian First Admiral’s leering eye, Lieutenant Commander Robyn Torvalde turned towards the Commander who requested permission to come aboard. “Permission granted,” she said, “welcome aboard, sir.”

Torvalde led Belisarius across the ramp to the dorsal hatch. Stepping down onto a small platform, Torvalde turned back towards Joshua. “With your permission, Captain,” she called out.
Captain Baker said something inaudible and nodded.

“Cast off,” LCDR Torvalde called to her crew. “Prepare to get underway!”

As the crewmen loosened the ramp and passed it back to Joshua’s crew, Torvalde extended the Pantocratorian Commander her hand and gave him a firm handshake. “Pleasure to meet you Commander Belisarius. I hope your First Admiral isn’t too scandalized to meet so many women officers.” She gave him a quick smile that told him that she, too, had heard his comment about his superior officer.

Once the mooring lines were cleared, Torvalde picked up the intercom. “Comm this is the Captain, take us out gently. Quarter speed.”

As the ship got underway, Specter’s crew climbed down the platform and then down into the ship. Once the ship was well clear of Joshua, Torvalde took a last look around and turned to her guest. “After you, Commander,” she said gesturing down the hatch.

Belisarius climbed down the ladder into the ship and Torvalde followed, sealing the hatch behind her.

Leading the way from the ladder, LCDR Torvalde stepped through a hatch into the ship’s Command Center. “Commander,” Torvalde said nodding towards a young officer seated in a raised chair in the center of small room, “this my XO, Lieutenant Doug Chiang. The helmsman,” she pointed towards a crewman seated in front of the ship’s only windows, “Chief Yorst Martins. Next to him is our Second Officer, Ensign Mike Brown, and Sonarman 1st class Patrick Knox. Over here,” the young CO turned to her left, “is the Tactical Control Supervisor, Senior Chief Violetta Yans, and our Tactical Operator, Specialist 2nd class Jamie Maxwell.” The crew nodded towards the visiting officer.

“Our other officers are Lieutenant Commander Matt Decker, our Chief Engineer, and our Tactical Officer, Lieutenant Vic Turner. They’re both below decks, but we’ll get a chance to see them later. So,” she turned and regarded the Commander, “you’re going to be commanding one our sister ships, eh?”

Roberts heard the sheriff’s voice over the din of Major Bolton’s UZI, , and realised that the situation had to be defused fast, lest the four of them be turned into targets for the Confederacy’s SWAT teams. But it seemed like there was only one hostile remaining…and that was in their favour. If they could neutralise the last hostile quickly, then diplomatic immunity and some fast talking would…

Three submachine guns fired upon the remaining hostile as he vaulted the desk in the direction of the two Major-Generals. Echoes made the exact type hard to make out, but the effect was clear. Red spots blossomed over the man’s chest, the impact of the bullets slamming him back in mid-air, and onto the counter he had just cleared, before he slid down the front of the counter, smearing blood along its face.
“Throw down your weapons” Roberts yelled out to Bolton and the Dominion security officer, while clearing his and putting the ¾ empty clip back in his pocket.

“Who’s in charge over there?” He called out again over towards the police, in his best irate General voice...

"It seems likely." answers Belisarius. He shakes Lt Chiang's hand. "I hope I get a chance to captain one of Specter's sister ships. Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant. Pleased to meet all of you."

Belisarius takes a moment to look around the room again.

"Magnificent ship." he says, turning on the spot. His ceremonial sword, hanging from his belt, clangs against a panel. "Damn. Would you believe that we only wear dress uniforms in the Pantocratorian Imperial Navy? I carry this sword around with me all the time, and I'm still hitting things with it. Is there somewhere I could put this useless thing?"

He pulls his scabbard off his belt and stows it out of the way.

"So, Captain," he says, turning to face Commander Torvalde. "I'm dying to know what exactly is going on. What is Specter's mission in the current operation, if I may be so bold?"

“Who’s in charge over there?” Someone called out from behind one of the ruined baggage stands. I’ll give him credit for audacity, he’s doing the shooting, but he’s the one who sounds irritated, Deputy Sheriff Franklin Todd thought to himself.

Turning to Patrolman Johansson, Todd said, “Pass the word to the boys to keep it calm.” Then, raising the bullhorn, he called towards the terminal. “This is Deputy Sheriff Franklin Todd of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office,” he began, “and you better throw down your weapons – where we can see them – right now and come out and explain who you are, or else – well, you might not get a chance to explain much of anything.”

Lowering the bullhorn, Todd leaned towards Johansson. “Make sure we have all the civilians cleared away and tell the SWAT boys to stand by on the gas and wait for my signal.”

LCDR Robyn Torvalde let a smile cross her face. “Well, Commander Belisarius, as for tomorrow’s exercise,” she began, “we’re going to attempt to be the kill-shot on the simulated carrier. The Joshuas are going to take on the AEGIS cruisers and the rest of screen. They'll use their stealth and superior firepower to overwhelm them – and hopefully evade the simulated carrier air wings. This should open holes for us and a few other Wraiths that are going to try to sprint into range to take out the carrier, support ships and a few key ships.”

Crossing her arms, Torvalde continued, “Hopefully, if it goes well, we will start tipping the balance of power between carriers and surface ships back in our favor. While we have some carriers under construction – using similar technology to what we have out here now – we know we’ll never deploy as many as some potential hostiles. So, we hope to even the balance.”

Leaning in closer to the Pantocratorian Commander, “As for our main mission, let’s say we’re here as a safety precaution in case the Uppies – Upper Virginians – get some funny ideas. Our second exercise, when we sneak in past coastal defenses and launch on simulated shore installations, will more closely approximate that mission.”

Glancing out the windows, the CO’s smile widened. “Well, we’re good and clear of [i]Joshua[/]. So, let’s show you what we can really do, Commander.” Torvalde turned towards her XO. “Signal the engine room to bring the MIED to full power. Take us to full speed, Mr. Chiang.”

The Lieutenant’s face echoed his captain’s smile. “Full speed, aye, Skipper!”

Peering out from the counter, Becka Harrison brushed off her jacket and whispered to the Varessan major general who just helped save her from likely assassination. “Shaun, if I might,” she reached out a hand and Roberts helped her up into a crouching position, “the Confederation doesn’t particularly like us, but at least they know us. Let me go out first. Then you can come and use your better diplomatic standing to explain away our weapons.”

With Roberts’ support – Becka was disappointed in how old she felt – Harrison rose to her feet with her hands raised high over her head.

“I’m unarmed,” she announced. Then, following the instructions from the other end of the megaphone, she stepped around the splintered skycap’s counter. “I am Major General Beck Harrison of the Dominion of Upper Virginia. My passport is in my front pocket and will prove that. I’m here for a scientific seminar. Professor James MacCandlish at Jefferson State University can confirm that. These other gentlemen with me are also traveling under diplomatic immunity and just saved me from an assassination attempt.”

“Alright, then,” the voice boomed from behind the police lines, “have the rest of these ‘diplomatic persons’ throw out their guns, step out and identify themselves.”

"Magnificent. Most of my service has been on board Pantocratoria's flagship, HIMS Imperator Andreus, which is an Invincible class carrier. I'm very much looking forward to learning how the other side of the navy operates!" Belisarius says. "Perhaps I might even be of some assistance. Tell me though, do you really think Specter can avoid air patrols from a carrier? I know these are stealth ships, but surely a competent reconnaissance pilot would still be able to find us? What types of aircraft will the simulation involve?"

Roberts threw his Beretta a couple of feet away from the counter, and stepped out with his hands in the air. A number of weapons followed his movements.

"I am Major-General Shaun Roberts of the Varessan Commonwealth. I am travelling under diplomatic immunity conferred to me under existing international agreements and secured by multi-lateral agreements to which the Confederation of Sovereign States and Varessan Commonwealth are both party. If you'll allow me to approach the barricade, I will show you my diplomatic credentials."

Todd gave the matter brief thought. The people remaining didn't appear overly hostile, and the story was vaguely credible. And the spectre of diplomatic immunity was still very valid. And there was still a full SWAT team around, with loaded weapons.

"Come forward, with your hands in the air."

The "Major General" began walking forward, and it didn't take long for Todd to realise that the story was probably true. The fellow positively reeked of military experience, in the way he carried himself, the way he looked around, and the fact that he seemed to be completely confident of his position. This was going to be interesting.

The Varessan reached the barricades, with his hands resting on his head.

"Can I reach for my passport?"

At the sheriff's nod, the Major General pulled out his Varessan Diplomatic Passport, the Varessan coat-of-arms prominently displayed on its front cover. Roberts opened it, and showed the photo, name and credentials displayed inside. They were legitimate, at least to any casual observation.

"Very well sir, what happened here?" the Deputy Sheriff asked, motioning for the SWAT unit to stand down.

LCDR Torvalde nodded her head thoughtfully at Belisarius’ question. “Here,” she said gesturing towards the hatch leading out of the Comm Center, “let’s step over to the wardroom.” Turning back towards her XO, she added, “Mr. Chiang, you have the comm..”

Torvalde led the Pantocratorian Commander through the access way they had originally descended and into another small compartment. This one equipped with a moderate-sized table and a half dozen chairs. The CO indicated a seat to her right for her guest, then opened a small safe, removed a file and took a seat at the head of the table.

“I don’t know how thorough your briefing was on Excalbia and Joshua, so if I’m repeating things, forgive me. Here,” she handed the Commander a sheet of paper, “this is the order of battle for the opposition force, designated Red Fleet, and for us, designated Blue Fleet…”

Order of Battle
Red Fleet
1 CVN (represented by INV Excalbia)
4 AEGIS CGs
3 AEGIS DDGs
2 SSNs
3 logistics ships
50 F/A-18 Hornets
10 A-8 Harriers (VTOL)
4 E-2C Hawkeyes
4 EA-6 Prowlers
10 ASW, both tilt-wing and rotary

Order of Battle
Blue Fleet
5 CGAs (Joshua class)
2 SSNs
8 CPs (Wraith class)
3 EA-25 Banshees (tilt-wing)
4 E-25 Seahawks (tilt-wing)
3 VA-25 Narwhals (tilt-wing)

“So,” Torvalde continued, “Red Fleet will simulate a standard carrier battle group with the usual air support – provided by our Naval Air Station. While our cruiser attack group lacks a carrier and its air wings, we do have airborne assets carried by the Joshuas. The E-25 is what you probably flew out on – a tilt-wing aircraft. We have three different flavors of that plane – an electronic-warfare plane, a radar patrol and an ASW plane.”

“Now, as for how we penetrate the CBG’s defenses – as you know, even airborne reconnaissance relies mostly on radar and EM detection. With our stealth capabilities and low-EM equipment, we’re already very difficult, if not impossible to find electronically. Add to that the fact that our EA-25s will be masking our EM and playing havoc with Red Fleet’s radar patrols, our chief worry will probably be visual detection or sub detection.”

“Now, although we are far from invisible, our relatively small size, low profile, minimal wake and high speed should make it hard for anyone to visual spot us unless they happen to look in the right spot at the right moment. So, our radar patrols will be looking for the CBG’s aircraft. And with our most recent electronics updates, our radar and processing systems slightly exceed AEGIS standards. That means,” Torvalde smiled, “we should spot their aircraft before they spot us and with each Joshua class ship carrying 400 missile cells, they should be able to clear the skies. Our ASW planes and subs will be looking to do the same to their subs.”

“Now, if all goes according to plan, that will allow the Joshuas to get in range to overwhelm the AEGIS ships with their superior number of missiles. And that,” she slammed a fist on the table, “should open holes for us to scoot through and open fire on the ‘carrier.’ Either that, or we’ll slam right into the teeth of the CBG’s defenses and get smashed pretty good.” Torvalde’s smile widened as she leaned back in her chair. “Either way, we’ll learn some valuable information.”

...
The "Major General" began walking forward, and it didn't take long for Todd to realise that the story was probably true. The fellow positively reeked of military experience, in the way he carried himself, the way he looked around, and the fact that he seemed to be completely confident of his position. This was going to be interesting.

The Varessan reached the barricades, with his hands resting on his head.

"Can I reach for my passport?"

At the sheriff's nod, the Major General pulled out his Varessan Diplomatic Passport, the Varessan coat-of-arms prominently displayed on its front cover. Roberts opened it, and showed the photo, name and credentials displayed inside. They were legitimate, at least to any casual observation.

"Very well sir, what happened here?" the Deputy Sheriff asked, motioning for the SWAT unit to stand down.

"Well," the Deputy Sheriff asked again, impatiently. "Do you have an explanation for why y'all just shot up our airport, Major General? Or do you need a minute with your Uppie colleague to get your stories straight? Well..." A tap on the shoulder interrupted the Deputy Sheriff and Patrolman Johannson leaned over and whispered something to Todd. "Of all the... what in tarnation..." Todd sighed and turned back to Roberts. "Well, now that the shooting is over, Sheriff Andersson is on his way. And that means he'll have half the TV cameras in the Confederation with him. So, unless you want to tell me story on national TV, you've got about 10 minutes to tell me a good story before he gets here."

Belisarius whistles thoughtfully.

"Impressive." he says, lost for words. "And, these Uppies you were talking about, I take it they make use of a lot of carriers?"

He ponders some more.

"I'm familiar with the capabilities of the F/A-18, we carried a wing of Super Hornets on board the Imperator Andreus. They've fairly advanced reconnaissance systems, but it sounds like the Wraith has us covered in that regard. But the fact that there's a second pilot in there means that there's two sets of eyes to visually locate a ship. What's more, they're hard to find themselves. Even if Blue fleet avoids detection, I'm not sure we'll pick up their F/A-18s, if that's what they're going to use for reconnaissance." observes Belisarius.

"Although, presuming we can manage that... a carrier is obviously most vulnerable in a confrontation with surface ships. Let's see how good Specter's detection systems are, eh? This should be fascinating. But anyway, tell me about the Uppies. What are their capabilities like?" concludes Belisarius.

Roberts took a deep breath, as Bolton, now emerging from concealment, openly a visibly cleared his weapon, before replacing it in his FAG bag.

"Major-General Harrison and I are in the Confederacy, as she has stated, to attend a scientific convention. The long and the short of it is that these men were spotted by my security officer, Major Bolton over there, tailing the Upper Virginian party, and then acted in an overtly hostile manner soon after I made contact with her. Major Bolton..."

"Yes, Sir. I was following the Upper Virginian officer's tail, and took him down when he produced a firearm. That first casualty should still be alive, if uncomfortable."

DS Todd looked at the Varessans. They hardly fit the bill of stereotypical terrorists, and they were carrying diplomatic papers. But something wasn't quite...

"Why are a pair of Major-Generals attending a scientific convention, armed and with security officers?"

Roberts whistled through his teeth. He'd been hoping that that wouldn't come up. But it had now...

"Some of our...mutual research, is of a sensitive nature. I'm afraid we can't discuss it. We do, however, have a scientific convention to get to. If you wish to detain us further, please do so now, so that we may inform Professor McCandlish of our non-attendance. And I also don't particularly wish the media to get hold of this information, so I'd prefer to leave now."

*editted out a double post*

(OOC: Sorry, real world stuff kept me off for a few days.)

Robyn Torvalde leaned back in her chair and crossed her feet on the corner of the table. “I’m glad to see that you’re experienced with carrier ops and a little skeptical of our ability to get through the CBG’s defenses, Commander Belisarius. That’ll make your observations all the more worthwhile.”

Dropping her feet back to the deck, the young lieutenant commander jumped up and began pacing the room. “Let’s see. The Uppies. First, you have to understand that the Dominion of Upper Virginia is about as large and as technically advanced as we are. However, they’ve been under a military dictatorship since 1932 and their military is massive. The officer corps is decent, though junior officers tend to get a lot of propaganda masquerading as training. The enlisted ranks are all draftees and no where near as good as our professional volunteers.”

Taking a cup of coffee from a pot nestled in a counter behind the table – and offering one to her guest – she returned to her seat. “Their navy is built around nine carrier battle groups. They’ve not had good relations with the USA, so they don’t have Nimitz carriers, but theirs are comparable. They each carry 50 to 60 strike aircraft and a smattering of recon, ASW and electronic warfare planes. Each group has a surface force of three battle cruisers – each a little bigger and better armed than an AEGIS cruiser and equipped with equivalent radar and fire control – and four heavy frigates – about equivalent to our DDGs.”

“The Uppies’ systems have a little great capability than AEGIS due to their use of neural processors. I’m no computer tech-head, but this is some kind of biological computer chip. Before things went sour, we traded them some of our secure data networking technology for their bio-thingies. We put them into our artificial intelligence networks – one of which we have here in our cruiser attack group to coordinate, process and analyze our radar and EM data. That, also, gives us some advantage.”

“Well,” Torvalde looks down at her watch, “it’s getting late, the next watch is due up and we start the exercises tomorrow at 0530 sharp.”

Before Deputy Sheriff Todd could answer, Patrolman Johansson tapped the senior officer on the shoulder and whispered into his ear. Todd nodded his head, then turned back to Roberts and Harrison. “Well, it seems two of the attackers are still alive, but unconscious. They weren’t carrying any ID, so whatever they may have used to enter the Confederation, it looks like they trashed it after arrival. Also, all of them were armed.”

Todd rocked back on his heals once. “Well, so far, your story sounds plausible. And I don’t fancy parading the details of this in front of the press any more than you. So, I’ll take you back to the office, get your statements, verify your IDs with your Embassies and check out the conference. If everything checks out, we’ll cut you loose.” Turning to Patrolman Johansson, Todd continued, “Have the SWAT team pack up and go home. Have some regular patrolmen and the K-9s give the place a good going over. When the Sheriff gets here, have them just say that this was a terrorist attack on some foreign officials and that our security people took the terrorists out. Oh, and bring the car around.”

As Johansson darted off, Todd secured his pistol in his holster and pushed back his butternut gray cap. “Well, I certainly hope the rest of your stay in the Confederation is a bit more peaceful than this.”

After giving a detailed statement to the sheriff’s department and waiting for them to call the Dominion’s and Varessa’s Embassies and waiting for them to track down Professor MacCandlish – an old friend – to vouch for them, Deputy Sheriff Todd finally told Becka Harrison that she and the others were free to go.

At Becka’s suggestion, they headed to their respective hotels to freshen up, then met again for dinner at a quiet restaurant not far from her hotel. When Becka arrived, the Varessan Major General and his security officer – Major Bolton – were already there. Shaun was at one table and Bolton at another nearby. Becka walked up to MAJGEN Roberts’ table. “Good evening, Shaun,” as he gestured to seat, she took it and eased into it, “thanks again. You and MAJ Bolton really came through for us in pinch. I regret dragging you into this.”

As she talked, CAPT Stokes quietly entered the restaurant, having taken a look around outside once he saw the Varessan Major already there. He took a table by himself. Not close enough to hear the conversation, but close enough to react if there was trouble. Again.

Looking down at her hands, then across to her colleague – and she hoped friend – Becka continued. “First, you have to know that the X-9 was always intended as a military project. And as a defensive, deterrent weapon. In my mind, anyway.” Taking a look around, she swallowed and called the waitress. After ordering a glass of tea, she resumed. “Things are going from bad to worse in the Dominion. General Altman is starting to get out of control. He is becoming more autocratic and unpredictable. He and the Attorney General are almost at each other’s throats vying for control.”

As her tea arrived, Becka paused and took a long drink. Waiting for the waitress to be well out of way Becka made sure that she had turned on the jamming device Thorsen had given her. Then, she spoke, softly – barely above a whisper. “Now, the Government is paralyzed by Silina and Altman’s feud. Troops have fired into peaceful demonstrators and someone has activated a trained and organized terrorist network. I’m sure it was this Free Virginia Liberation Army that was behind the airport attack. I’m also sure that they’re not genuine revolutionaries springing up from the working class. They’re professionals – of a sort – or at least have training and organization beyond the ability of ordinary workers and demonstrators.”

“Regardless of who’s behind the FVLA, they – along with Silina and Altman – are helping tear the country apart.” Becka swallowed hard. This was it. “Shaun, I hope you trust and respect me, because what I have to say is very sensitive and puts my safety and many other’s in your hands. A group in the Security Directorate wants to remove Altman and Silina. They’ve already taken steps to remove the third member of the Council – Chairman Brandt – and replace him with a reformer. This group wants to oust the current Council and begin serious reform. Maybe even begin the restoration of the old constitution. But they need two things - a leader with recognition and credibility who is relatively untainted by Altman and a way to take out Altman’s personal military base. They’ve asked me to fill the first need by agreeing to succeed Altman as Commander of the Armed Forces – and once the coup is finished to become Provisional President. And, I’m about to ask you to help fill the second. How quickly can the weapon be readied and mounted on an X-9 prototype?”

Commander Jennifer Wells had obviously been on the flag bridge for quite a while when Commodore Harold Alsgood arrived at 0510. The small briefing table held neatly arranged folders with color-coded sheets with each of fleet’s order of battle, specs and other data. Three large plasma screens on the far bulkhead had been arranged to reflect the tactical data from each of the two “fleets” and the actual tactical feeds coming in from elements in each fleet to the referees on Citadel. There was even coffee and donuts on a sideboard. Wells nodded good morning to Alsgood and gestured towards the coffee. “I had the yeoman brew strong just for you, sir.”

“Bless you, Jen,” Alsgood said as he took a cup of coffee. Within minutes, the rest of VIPs began arriving. Well before 0530 Admiral Lord Yornis Halton, the CINO, and his Pantocratorian counterpart, Lord Admiral Phocas, were chatting and studying the tactical feeds. Other admirals and members of the Pantocratorian delegation drifted about the room, checking tactical displays, radar displays and communications.

The exercise started at 0530 without any bang, drama or major developments. About an hour into the exercise, Commander Wells noticed Lord Admiral Phocas and Admiral Lord Halton watching the “clean” tactical feed with curiosity.

“My Lords,” she began, “I see you’ve noticed how Blue Fleet is deploying its SSNs and ASW planes. Rather than using the subs to penetrate Red Fleet, they are holding relative position with the ASW planes. So, once the planes detect Red Fleet’s subs, they can go in for the kill.”

Not much later, Blue Fleet’s tactical display showed that a Red sub had been spotted. The Blue subs closed, and with support from the ASW planes, engaged the sub. On the “clean” display, the red sub flashed yellow, then white. It had been ruled sunk and ordered from the area.

Shortly after that, each fleet’s patrol planes began to detect the other’s. Within minutes of contact, the electronic warfare planes began their work, trying to scramble the opposing fleet’s radar and tactical data. Here, one of Blue Fleet’s advantages quickly emerged, as its shipboard DAIN – a decentralized artificial intelligence network composed of linked computers on each ship – was able to better put together the data from each different ship and plane and fill-in the blanks and weed out the confusion from the electronic warfare planes.

As the first of Red Fleet’s combat air patrols neared Blue Fleet, Blue’s tactical display lit up with targets and two Joshua cruisers launched a strong barrage – multiple missiles for each Red F/A-18. Three planes “splashed” and were ordered back to base, while two managed to evade and veer away from the Joshuas. Unfortunately for Blue Fleet, they veered right into a Wraith squadron of four ships. Red Fleet’s tactical board lit up and additional planes moved into position to fire.

* * *

Spectre was already at general quarters when the alarm sounded at the tactical station. “We have hostile aircraft moving into firing range,” LT Vic Turner announced.

Leaning forward in her raised chair, LCDR Robyn Torvalde calmly barked orders. “Get a fix on those planes. Rig VLS cells with surface-to-air missiles and fire as soon as you have a reasonable fix. Deploy the CIWS and stand-by on all counter-measures.” Swiveling towards the helm, she continued, “Evasive maneuvers.”

“Aye, Captain,” answered Chief Martins.

The ship shuddered slightly. “Ten away,” announced Turner.

“Stand-by second volley,” Torvalde said.

“Standing-by, aye.”

“Multiple incoming,” announced crewman Knox from the sonar/radar station, “looks like three, no two, are tracking Spectre. The rest are tracking Phantom and Mirage.”

“Captain, we have four hits. Second volley away. Mirage is firing.”

“Here they come,” announced Knox.

Although the incoming missiles were dummies and the whole thing was an exercise, Robyn Torvalde felt her mouth go dry and a lump form in her throat.

"CIWS on-line," LT Vic Turner said with deceptive calm. "Both incoming targets destroyed!"

LCDR Torvalde let out a breath that she didn't know she was holding. "Anything on Phantom and Mirage? Our second volley?”

Turner's shoulders sank. "Phantom is indicating no damage. Looks like Mirage is recording a hit to the aft missile compartment." The Tac Officer glanced over his shoulder at his CO. "I'll bet the refs rule her sunk or disabled. It was a lucky shot, but a bullseye. The real thing would have blown at least a few of her missiles, since they were hot."

"Captain," crewman Knox said, "looks like we and Mirage have scored at least six hits. Two surviving enemy planes are breaking off."

* * *

When the comm sounded on Excalbia's flag bridge CDR Jen Wells picked it up, breaking off from a conversation with one of the Pantocratorians. Her sudden frown and urgent tone quickly silenced the room and brought Admiral Lord Halton's attention.

After she finished the call, Wells turned and faced the CINO straight on. "My Lord," she began with a tense edge to her voice, "comm center has received a message from DSS Intimidator - the Dominion's local flag ship - insisting that we break-off our air exercises," a slight smile briefly crossed her face - it seemed that the Dominion had picked up the air activity but not the Wraiths and Joshuas, "and leave Dominion waters."

The CINO's face flashed red - not the color of embarassment, but the color of fury. "We're in international waters, by the sword! I'm sick and tired the Uppies claiming the entire gulf!"

Yornis took a moment to calm himself, then spoke in a more moderate tone. "Commander, have the comm center send my compliments," despite his best effort some sarcasm leaked out, "to Intimidator's CO and their flag officer, then inform them that we are in international waters and that we advise them, for their own safety, to stay well clear of our exercise."

"Aye, sir," Wells said as she turned to the comm.

"Impressive shooting, Lieutenant." Belisarius whistles as the F/A-18s are reported as shot down. "I must admit, I thought they'd see us long before we'd be able to shoot them down. The question is... did they manage to let the rest of their fleet know where we are, and are there more F/A-18s out there after us?"

Belisarius sips on his coffee, watching the crew rush about the bridge in action. One day he would have the privilege of commanding such a ship.

****

"These Uppies of whom you speak... these are the Upper Virginians, eh?" asks Lord Phocas. He glances at the sea chart. He turns to Wells.

"Don't worry, my dear, we're in international waters, they wouldn't dare attack your magnificent fleet!" says Lord Phocas in as reassuring a voice as he can muster. One of the young Pantocratorian commanders rolls his eyes as he watches the old man patronise another female officer.

"Well my lord, do you suppose these Uppies will actually back-up their demands?" he asks Admiral Lord Halton when he thinks he is out of Wells' earshot.

“I think you’re right, Commander Belisarius,” LCDR Robyn Torvalde said pacing the comm center. “I’m sure the surviving F/A-18s have notified Red Fleet of our location or are well on their way out of our jamming area so that they can notify them.” She spun and turned towards the helm. “Chief Martins, get us to Rally Point Baker, but take an evasive route. Signal the engine room that we need flank speed. “

“Aye, aye, Captain,” the helmsman said, hitting the comm switch for engineering.

“Crewman Warren,” Torvalde said turning to a young female crewman to the right of the radarman, “send to Phantom and Gossamer – Proceed to Point Baker, flank speed, Spectre has the lead.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Torvalde turned back to the Pantocratorian commander. “Thank you for your compliments, Commander, but, to tell the truth, I’m disappointed that the fighters found as at all!” Turning back to the radarman, the CO continued. “Crewman Knox, anything on the scopes?”

“No, Captain.”

“Tac,” she said turning to the opposite side of the comm center, “how did they find us?”

“Looks they veered off from Samuel II and Cartwright when they came under fire and flew right over us, Skipper,” LT Vic Turner answered.

“What do we have on the boards now, Mr. Turner?”

“Hmm,” he peered at his display screens, “Mirage, 2 of our patrols and one our EW planes have been declared lost. Another Red squadron followed up the first attack on Samuel II and Cartwright. The squadron was splashed, but the refs have marked Cartwright damaged. The computers project another air attack along one of two possible trajectories. Fleet Comm has ordered Cartwright into position to respond to the attacks and then to go into full stealth mode. Overall, we’re in good shape…”

“Well let’s keep it that.” Torvalde looked around the comm. “Keep alert, we don’t want to end up like Mirage!”

****

Admiral Lord Yornis Halton rubbed his chin as he watches the tactical screen, which now shows a number of bright orange dots – representing Dominion ships – just outside the exercise area.

“My Lord Phocas, I have learned never to underestimate the Uppies’ willingness to pick a fight or overestimate their common sense. A rational commander certainly wouldn’t, but I’m not sure what the Uppie commander will do. Will he underestimate our capabilities? Will he want to bully us?” Halton shook his head slowly and motioned to Commander Wells. Once she had joined Halton and Lord Phocas, he turned and spoke slowly and deliberately.

“Commander, have the comm center signal Citadel and her escorts to go to alert status and arm live missiles. Also signal the NAS to have the 2nd Air Wing ready to scramble.”

Meanwhile, in Courtland…

Forrest Turley loosened his tie and took a quick gulp out of a short, heavy glass. He was amazed at how quickly something he had dreamed of and schemed to obtain for so long could become such a pain so quickly. Baxter Brandt, the former Chairman, was still hold up in the corporate offices of National Combat Systems. Of course, everyone else had been moved to temporary locations and Brandt was alone, with no one to command. But Altman had issued a statement recognizing him the “legitimate Chairman of the Chamber of Industrials.” At least, he hadn’t sent troops to support Brandt. Not yet, anyway. And Silina! They had expected the Attorney General’s support, but that support had been tepid at best. All she would do was make a statement that the Chamber had the right to elect any Chairman they desired. But she wouldn’t do anything about Brandt. So, Turley, who should have been enjoying his new position, had been left scrambling to court business leaders, bankers and foreign trade offices to shore up his position.

Turley took another drink and studied the rest of the day’s schedule.

* * *
Diana Silina closed the red file and rubbed her eyes. Two more bombings. Three more assassinations and now word that someone had just attempted to assassinate the Chief of Procurement on her way to scientific seminar in the Confederation. On top of that, demonstrations were becoming a common occurrence – not just in Courtland, but in other cities as well. And, just to finish it off, the whole mess with Brandt and Turley wouldn’t go away.

Silina turned and looked out her window. Part of her wanted to see radical change. And part of her just wanted to walk away. This system certainly wasn’t working any more and she was tired. But, radical change would only create chaos and she couldn’t walk away. Without her, she knew, there would be chaos, violence and dictatorship – worse than what existed now.

Silina opened the folder again and resumed reading her report.

* * *
Captain Albrecht Tucker carefully studied the room around him. He had never met his contact, but Major Thorsen had shown him the Excalbian agent’s photo. And, there he was – in jeans jacket and t-shirt, with a backpack, looking just like the foreign exchange student he was supposed to be. The agent slowly made his way to Tucker’s table.

“Mind if I have a seat?”

Tucker nodded. “Where are your from, son?”

“Everywhere, friend.”

The young man took a book out of his bag and began to read. “We are ready to help,” he whispered.

Looking to the side and sipping his drink, Tucker’s voice was barely audible. “Someone respectable will make the move. When it happens, you’ll know.”

The young man quietly read a few minutes, then put his book away, carefully dropping a scrap of paper out of it onto the table. Then, with a nod, he stood and left.

As he left the building and turned a corner, the Excalbian agent spotted the Uppie agents almost immediately. All of his exits were blocked. His capture was certain, but he had to warn his contact – just in case he wasn’t in on it. Flinging his bag at the nearest agents, he turned and sprinted back towards the bar’s entrance. Another agent moved to block his way, but he slid under his legs and pounded the door once before he was nabbed.

Inside the bar, no one noticed the commotion except Tucker. Of course he didn’t hear the pounding of the door, but he saw it move and then noticed a scuffle through its smoked windows.

Realizing that he was probably made, he palmed the note and went to pay his bill. As he did, he passed it to the barman – a back up agent – with his 10-crown note. Then, he turned to leave, touching the capsule between his teeth, just in case.

* * *

General Craig Altman templed his fingers and studied the face of the intelligence Major in front of him. “So, both the Excalbian and the traitor killed themselves?”

“Yes, General,” the Major said stiffly.

“And still no idea to whom this Captain Tucker reports?”

“No, sir. He was from HQ Signals Command. We interrogated his CO, but to no avail.”

Altman snorted, but before he could speak, there was a knock. “Come,” he said.

A corporal entered and saluted. “Begging the General’s pardon, sir, but Vice Admiral James Hayes is on the comm for you, sir.”

“Dismissed,” Altman said to the corporal. Then, turning to the Major he gestured for him to follow. The Major stood, saluted and departed.

“Yes,” Altman said picking up the phone.

“General,” the voice of the Home Fleet commander said over the phone, “the Excalbians are conducting a large exercise in the gulf and refusing to cease and depart the area. They’ve warned off our task force.”

“Self-righteous Excalbians!” Altman slammed a fist on the table. “I’m sick and tired of them. They incite rebellion, violate our waters and then make themselves look pure and true.”

Altman leaned back and studied the portraits of the far wall. “Warn them to leave or else. Then, take a shot over their bow.” Altman took in a calming breath. “Now, Admiral, let me be clear: I do not want to start a war. Do not hit anything and neither pursue nor engage the Excalbians. But, I want them to know I’m tired of this. So give them a couple of missiles off their bow – well off their bow.”

"I'm sure they'll stand down, if they had seen what we've seen of your magnificent navy, they certainly would! But, my lord, is there anything with which my men and I may be of assistance?" asks Lord Phocas.

“Well, My Lord, if any of your men are expert in aircraft carrier battle group operations and air wing operations, they might be able to help Commander Wells plan our defensive strategy against the Uppies, just in case they do make a move…” Before he finished speaking, Admiral Lord Halton caught sight of Commander Wells picking up the comm. Something about her expression made him fall silent. Soon, the entire flag bridge was silent.

“Commander?” The CINO asked as she hung up the phone.

“My Lords,” she turned to face the admirals, “CIC reports that the Dominion battle group has turned and is moving to intercept Excalbia and our ‘red fleet.’”

“Well,” Halton whispered with an air of resignation, “that’s it. The maniacs really are in charge of the asylum over there.” Halton, looking old and stooped, took a deep breath and straightened his khaki uniform. “Commander,” he said with strength returning to his voice, “have the comm signal all ships that the exercises are terminated. Order all ships to load live missiles and go to stand-by alert. Order the 2nd air wing to launch and begin defensive patrols.”

Then, turning to look at the tactical display, Halton asked, “How are we positioned for intercepts and defense?”

“Sir,” Wells began, striding confidently towards the display, “Excalbia and Citadel are pretty well screened, except to our northern flank, where the blue fleet and managed to weaken us and get our screening ships out of position. However,” she gestured towards a spot on the display where a number of blue blips had gathered, “there is a Wraith squadron at point Baker. They are in an excellent position to move into firing range of the Uppies. And,” she smiled and paused for effect, “there’s no indication that the Uppies have spotted them.”

“Excellent, Commander, excellent,” Halton sounded refreshed, “order Captain Baker aboard Joshua to send those Wraiths to take an intercept position on the Uppies and to avoid detection at all costs. Get all of our EW planes up and make sure we mask that area.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Wells saluted, spun on her heels and returned to the comm.

* * *

“Captain!” Radiotech 3rd class Rachel Warren shouted excitedly, “we have two incoming action messages!”

LCDR Torvalde looked behind her to her XO. Without needing an order, LT Chiang stepped over to the comm station. He checked the screen then turned towards the CO. “The message is confirmed, Skipper.”

Robyn Torvalde nodded to the young crewman.

“Captain, CINO sends from Excalbia that the exercise is scrubbed. All ships are ordered to stand-by alert and to load live missiles. Captain Baker sends from Joshua that our squadron is to move into position to intercept an incoming Dominion carrier battle group. Coordinates are being feed directly into tactical…”

The comm center was silent for several seconds, then LT Turner spoke softly. “Do you think this is it, Captain?”

“I don’t know Vic, but we’d better be about it. Do you have the coordinates, Tac?”

“Yes, ma’am, we have the battle group coming from the north,” Turner responded slowly. “Coordinates transferred to helm.”

“Alright, sound General Quarters. Rearm with live birds and give me full speed to the intercept coordinates.”

"Well, a few of my officers have served on Imperator Andreus before, our flagship, an Invincible class carrier, although my most experienced carrier man is with the Specter. We'll be whatever assistance we can, my lord." says Lord Phocas, concerned. "And I'll get onto my government immediately... if this turns into a... situation... Pantocratoria will stand alongside its friends, my lord."

***

"Captain, is there anything I can help with?" asks Commander Belisarius, looking at Robyn Torvalde intently. "Do you need another officer anywhere?"

“My Lord Phocas, thank you for your offers of assistance. I’m sure that Commander Wells will appreciate the counsel of any of your men who served aboard Imperator Andreus. If things do escalate, I know that your support – diplomatic and otherwise - will be sincerely welcomed.” Admiral Lord Yornis looked at the tactical display and at the collection of blue blips heading for the orange blips of the Dominion battle group. “And, as for your man on Spectre, I believe he is well placed.” The CINO pointed at one of the blue blips. “Spectre is leading the squadron intercepting the Dominion battle group”

* * *

“Commander,” LCDR Robyn Torvalde said to the Pantocratorian officer, “your experience with carrier operations and tactics might be useful at tactical station.” The CO turned to the Lieutenant seated at the tactical console. “Mr. Turner, could you use another hand?”

“Yes, ma’am!” LT Turner turned to crewman seated beside him. “Mr. Maxwell, go below and take charge of the crew swapping out the missiles. Make sure you get me a good mix, Jamie.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the crewman said, checking off on his station, then rising and dashing out of the comm center.

“Please take a seat, Commander, and I’ll give you a quick rundown on everything and then we can start plotting how we’ll get in range to take on the Uppies’ carrier.”

Vice Admiral James Hayes chewed his lip nervously. The news from DSS Intimidator was not what he expected. Rather than fleeing in the face of his carrier battle group, the Excalbians were challenging – challenging! – the Dominion’s control of the gulf. They had almost two air wings up – from their shore stations – and their surface fleet was standing its ground. Worse, their improved electronic warfare birds were tearing holes in the battle group’s radar data. And, worst of all, they were still getting intermittent contacts from something – unidentifiable and fast moving – lending credence to reports that the Excalbians had developed some new classes of ships.

Hayes stared at the comm. He should call General Altman, but… But, the General was growing moodier and more unpredictable by the day. There were rumors that he rarely left his office at his personal headquarters and that he was drinking. Hayes didn’t want to be caught in a “shoot-the-messenger” situation. Maybe, he should try to do something first.

He picked up the comm. “LT Eriksson, send to RADM Burke on Intimidator: You are directed to continue with your previous orders. Close on the Excalbian task force and fire off their bow. Make sure they back down. That’s all.”

Hayes hung up and caught his drooping head in his hands.

Belisarius sits at the tactical station.

"So, we're leading the attack on the Uppies... well... what do we know about the Dominion battle group? Classes, capabilities, and so on?" he asks Torvalde.

LCDR Torvalde stepped behind the tactical station. “What to have on the Uppies, Tac?”

“Well, Skipper, Commander,” LT Turner began, “looks like this if BG 15 – led by Intimidator. The CVN carries a standard air wing, with 50 S-21 strike fighters – they’re roughly equivalent to F/A-18’s – 4 EW planes, 8 ASW planes, 8 patrols and 4 radar plays. The carrier’s screening force is made up of 4 battle cruisers – a little large than standard AEGIS cruisers, but with similar capabilities, 4 destroyers and 4 heavy frigates – about the equivalent or our AEGIS destroyers – in size, though they are a little smaller. They also usually have a sub or two lurking around.”

Turner keyed up an updated tactical display. “As for our forces, we have Excalbia and Citadel in position with their screening ships – although our war game drew Excalbia’s cruisers and destroyers out of position to the south and west. Three of our Joshuas are in position, here, the other two are out of position to the south. Our squadron of 3 Wraiths and another of 4 are moving to intercept here.”

Turner turned to face Commander Belisarius. “With our air wing, we have clear numerical superiority. However, two things – first, it seems that the Uppies can’t see our Wraiths and have only some idea about our Joshuas out here, so they think it is more even than it is. And second – except for our squadron, they do have a clear opening to our flagship. So, my guess is that they’re trying to exploit that opening and will be moving quickly, making it all the more important that we intercept them.”

"Indeed, but your flagship is no helpless maiden in a tower waiting for a white knight!" says Belisarius. "I suppose it will take a little while for it to get its aircraft back in the air, but once it does it would have bombs enough to account for the entire Uppie fleet. On paper at least. In practice of course..."

The Commander trails off.

"How long would it take the rest of the fleet to get back into position to close off that vulnerability? Because Spectre and its squadron, along with Excalbia and Citadel's air support, only have to buy the rest of the fleet that much time before the numerical superiority you aluded to would be a decisive factor in our favour. Judging by what I know about these Wraiths, that shouldn't be too much of a problem... well... to buy the time that is. Buying time whilst avoiding getting a mauling ourselves... that's what's tricky." observes Belisarius.

"Indeed, but your flagship is no helpless maiden in a tower waiting for a white knight!" says Belisarius. "I suppose it will take a little while for it to get its aircraft back in the air, but once it does it would have bombs enough to account for the entire Uppie fleet. On paper at least. In practice of course..."

The Commander trails off.

"How long would it take the rest of the fleet to get back into position to close off that vulnerability? Because Spectre and its squadron, along with Excalbia and Citadel's air support, only have to buy the rest of the fleet that much time before the numerical superiority you aluded to would be a decisive factor in our favour. Judging by what I know about these Wraiths, that shouldn't be too much of a problem... well... to buy the time that is. Buying time whilst avoiding getting a mauling ourselves... that's what's tricky." observes Belisarius.

LT Turner nods his head. "You're right. We basically need to buy time. According to the latest tactical readout, it looks like Uppies' fighter wing will be in attack range of Excalbia and Citadel in about 10 minutes. The AEGIS screening force will be in maximum range of the Uppies in about 20 to 25 minutes and in optimal position in about 45 minutes."

Turner doublechecks the blips on his screen and looks at twin rows of running numbers on the next screen over. "We have 18 F/A-18s in position to intercept their S-21s and we'll have a full wing in position in about 20 minutes. We are already in range of their aircraft, but they've made no sign that they are looking for us. They seem to be closing directly on Excalbia. Three Joshuas will be in range of the aircraft in about 5 minutes. And we will be in range of their surface ships in about 15 minutes."

Turners turns to the Pantocratorian. "So, in our position, would you support the Joshuas in screening our fleet or go for their carrier?"

"Well..." considers Belisarius. "...my experience tells me that we shouldn't try to go after a carrier ourselves... but..."

He looks around the ship, before settling his eyes back on LCDR Torvalde.

"...I want to see what she can do, Captain. You were telling me how a Wraith can avoid detection, close with a carrier, and blast it out of the water... let's see you do it!" he concludes, grinning with some satisfaction. He wants to see if what he has heard is true!

LCDR Torvalde smiled. “My feelings as well. I also think once we hit their carrier, even if we don’t ‘blow it out of the water,’ they’ll have to fall back into a defensive posture.” Taking her raised seat in the center of the compartment, Torvalde gestures forward. “Chief Martins, give me flank speed on a heading to intercept the carrier. Take evasive measures. Tac, Radar, keep a close eye for any sign that the Uppies are moving to intercept us.”

The next several minutes passed nervously. Time seemed to drag. There were a few tense moments when S-21s passed fairly close to the Wraith squadron, but they made no move to turn or target the ships. A few minutes before the aircraft entered range of Excalbian fleet, there was another action message instructing the Excalbian units to fire only if fired upon or specifically directed to fire.

As the Upper Virginian planes came into firing range of the Excalbia, the tension grew. Suddenly, LT Turner called out. “One, no, two birds inbound on Excalbia!”

Torvalde leapt to her feet. “How long to we can fire on their carrier?”

“Three more minutes to max range, six to optimal.”

“Track on the missiles? Any more?”

“Just two. Looks like they may be going wide. It may just be a shot across the bow, Skip… wait… Oh, no…” LT Turner turned somberly towards the CO. “Fleet-wide tac board shows we were painting their planes with targeting radar. Looks like one of their pilots got jumpy… They’ve fired on our aircraft. Looks like they have at least one hit…”

Torvalde sighed. She had hoped it wouldn’t really come to this. “Tac…”

LT Turner interrupted. “Captain, the board is lighting up like a Christmas tree! We have multiple missiles – looks like air-to-air and…” he swallowed, “anti-ship missiles. Multiple. Inbound on our surface ships. They are returning fire…”

“Action Message!” Crewman Warren practically shouted.

Moments later, LT Chiang added, “Message confirmed, Ma’am.”

Torvalde nodded.

“From: CINO, To: All Units, Open rules of engagement. Fire on any hostile units.”

Torvalde straightened. A new look of determination on her face. “Begin developing firing solutions on the Uppie carrier. Stand-by to fire.”

First Admiral Lord Phocas, on-board Excalbia starts signalling the Pantocratorian High Command.

Phocas to Imperial High Command.

Excalbian vessels have been fired upon and are returning in kind. Pantocratorian personnel, including myself, are on-board Excalbian vessels under fire. Request that Pantocratoria assist Excalbian friends by deploying the Imperial Navy.

Please advise.

***

Commander Belisarius looks over the tactical displays.

"What sort of counter-measures can their carrier employ against us, and what's our rate of fire like? Depending on their counter-measures... if we time our fire just right..." he narrows his eyes as he examines the screen.

Aboard Excalbia:

"I can't believe they did it!" Admiral Lord Yornis Halton bellowed. "They let some ill-trained and ill-mannered riff-raff that they dare call pilots start a war!"

The deck shuddered as Excalbia released a torrent of missiles. Two planes down. A logistics frigate hit and severly damaged. Halton couldn't believe that even the Dominion had been foolish enough to risk this by sending a squadron of conscripts to take a shot over his bow.

"My Lord," Commander Jen Wells said soothingly, "the comm center has the Chancery." Halton crossed the compartment and to the comm station, where the Pantocratorian First Admiral was already sending a message to his government.

Halton picked up the receiver. "Yes, Lady Chancellor, we have been fired upon and are returning fire. Yes, My Lady, but none of our surface combatants have been hit. Yes, My Lady, it may have been, but I cannot act on that presumption while I'm under fire! No, My Lady. Yes, My Lady. Yes. We will, My Lady. Yes. Thank you, My Lady."

Halton hung up the receiver and turned to his senior officers and guests. "The Chancellor agrees with me that this all may have been a monumental screw-up by a low ranking Dominion officer. Yet, she understands we are under fire and she, and His Imperial Majesty, support us fully. She still believes, however, that war may be avoided, so she is contacting the Dominion Government directly. If she can determine that this a mistake, we will stand down. And we will assume the Uppies will do likewise. In the meanwhile, we will continue to defend ourselves."

* * *

Aboard Spectre:

"The carrier itself is equipped with three CIWS mounts. They've probably moved their battlecruisers into a forward position, if they haven't detected us, but their heavy frigates will be in position to defend the carrier. Each frigate has two CIWS mounts and carry a dozen VLS missile mounts and two AAW missile mounts." LT Turner typed a couple of strokes and screen flashed in front of Commander Belisarius. "Here are the full technical specs on the system..."

"Wait a sec," Turner paused, "it looks like one of their patrols may have spotted the other Wraith squadron - they're diverting some of their fighters towards their position. No sign that they've spotted us yet..."

"If they've spotted the other Wraiths they can spot us too. We should be careful." says Belisarius.

The room was large enough, but was jammed full of racks holding paper, pens, paperclips and stacks of copier paper. That left precious little room for the dozen or so Upper Virginian officers that crowded into the room. The room was dimly lit and almost airless – too many lights or the sound of a ventilation fan might attract too much attention. Seeing that all the expected officers were present, Major Richard Thorsen stepped to the center of the room.

“Things are not going well. The FVLA is growing bolder by the hour. The City of Harrington is virtually in chaos; the civil administration has broken down and there are reports of conscripts defecting to the FVLA. We think that the terrorists may even attempt to seize the city and proclaim it ‘liberated.’ They’ve also attempted to assassinate MAJGEN Harrison. We know she survived, but we haven’t heard from her nor have we heard whether the Varessans will support us. And now,” Thorsen drew a deep breath, “and now it seems our Navy has fired on an Excalbian task force in the Gulf. We may be at war.”

All eyes in the room were locked coldly on the Major. “We may have to act sooner than we wanted. Move your people into position and be ready to act at a moments notice. Our friends in the Chamber of Industrials have arranged to have Dominion Radio, Dominion TV 1 and IDTV play a tape of the Old Army March as our signal to move. Monitor those stations. I don’t think we will have any other mechanism to alert all units quickly enough.”

* * *

“What!” GEN Craig Altman slammed his fist into his desk. “I told you to fire a shot across their bow, not start a war, Vice Admiral Hayes! If you were here,” Altman screamed into the phone, “I’d shoot you! Who is in charge out there?”

“Rear Admiral Doug Holmes,” VADM James Hayes answered nervously.

“Well, if the Excalbians don’t kill him, I want him – and those idiotic pilots of his – shot when they return. Do you understand?”

“Yes, General,” Hayes croaked from the other end of the line.

“Begging the General’s pardon,” a corporal said saluting.

“What?” Altman asked screaming.

“The Imperial Chancellor of Excalbia, Lady Christina Freedman, is on the phone for you, sir.”

“Put her through,” Altman said, unceremoniously hanging up on the Home Fleet Commander. When the light on the phone blinked again, Altman picked it up.

“Lady Freedman, this is General Craig Altman. What are your people doing in the Gulf?”

“Our people,” the Chancellor said icily, “your people are the ones who fired first. And we have independent international observers aboard our ships who can confirm that.”

“What?” Altman was momentarily stunned. This was getting worse by the moment. “Never mind who fired first, but I certainly hope the Holy Empire does not want an all-out war with the Dominion.”

“We want no war, General,” Freedman answered, “I hope the same can be said for you and your people.”

“We do not desire war with your Empire,” Altman answered. “But now that shots have been fired and lives lost, it will be difficult for either of us to back down.”

“I propose an immediate cease-fire and international mediation,” Freedman answered.

“Those are your only te…urm… requests?”

“Yes.”

“We agree. I will send orders now to stand down. You find your mediators.”

"If they've spotted the other Wraiths they can spot us too. We should be careful." says Belisarius.

"Agreed," said LCDR Torvalde. "Anything, Tac?"

"No, Skipper. No sign of movement towards us. We're now in max range to their carrier."

"Signal our sister ships to fire on the escorts. Tac, fire volley one on the carrier."

"Aye, aye, Captain. Once we fire, though, they'll spot us and turn for sure."

"Understood," the CO spoke as the whole ship seemed to vibrate as 20 anti-ship missiles were launched.

"Phantom and Gossamer have fired 20 each on the escorts. We have S-21s turning to intercept us. The Uppie escorts are firing counter-missiles."

"Fire a volley on the S-21s."

"Aye, Captain. Birds away," LT Turner spoke as the deck shook again.

On the tactical display, the Excalbian missiles were blue dots streaking towards the now-hostile red blips of the Dominion ships. A spray of red dots emerged as the Dominion ships fired their anti-missile missiles. A number of the blue dots winked out. More disappeared as they neared the hostile ships. They're engaging their CIWS, Turner noted silently.

Suddenly on the dots connected.

"We have a hit!" Turner exclaimed. "Looks like their carrier."

Before the celebrations could begin, Crewman Warren turned urgently towards the Captain. "Action Message, incoming!"

"XO?" Torvalde turned towards her first officer who rushed to the comm station.

"Message confirmed." LT Chiang swallowed hard. A pained look struck his face. "From: CINO, To: All Units - Stand down. Repeat. Stand down."

Torvalde swung back towards the tactical station.

"Tac?"

"Looks like a solid hit. No information yet on damage. One of our patrols has a drone that should be in visual in about 15 minutes."

"OK." The captain sighed. "Stand down. And just in case the Uppies didn't get the same message or have grudge for their carrier," she turned towards the helm, "get us out of here now. Flank speed. Most direct course out of their range." Turning back to the tactical station, she continued. "Keep an eye on their pilots. They screwed up once and might do it again. Deploy all countermeasures. Our orders were stand down, not let ourselves get blown up. Let get to it!"

OFFICIAL COMMUNIQUE FROM THE IMPERIAL PANTOCRATORIAN HIGH COMMAND

CC: First Admiral Lord Phocas, Commander Excalbian forces, Commander Upper Virginian forces

The Holy Empire of Pantocratoria offers to the Holy Empire of Excalbia and the Dominion of Upper Virginia the services of Lord Phocas, First Admiral of the Pantocratorian Imperial Navy, as an independent mediator to assist in the agreed upon ceasefire. First Admiral Lord Phocas will endeavour to bring the two sides to terms, if permission is granted by both the Excalbian and Upper Virginian high commands for him to do so.

OFFICIAL COMMUNIQUE FROM THE IMPERIAL PANTOCRATORIAN HIGH COMMAND

CC: First Admiral Lord Phocas, Commander Excalbian forces, Commander Upper Virginian forces

The Holy Empire of Pantocratoria offers to the Holy Empire of Excalbia and the Dominion of Upper Virginia the services of Lord Phocas, First Admiral of the Pantocratorian Imperial Navy, as an independent mediator to assist in the agreed upon ceasefire. First Admiral Lord Phocas will endeavour to bring the two sides to terms, if permission is granted by both the Excalbian and Upper Virginian high commands for him to do so.

His Imperial Majesty's Government accepts the Pantocratorian High Command's generous offer.

General Altman held his pounding head in his hands. The ibuprofen just wasn't cutting it anymore. He took a long drink, then looked up at the video monitor again. A patrol plane was broadcasting live pictures of Intimidator. The huge carrier was listing to port, her flight deck tilted at 25 degree angle. A gaping hole stared out blindly from her hull at the too-high waterline. The portion of the flight deck above the hole was a shredded wreck. At least she had fared better than two of her escorts - one sunk and one still ablaze.

So, the rumors are true. They do have a new ship. How did it get in range without being spotted? Were they the same class as the four "little ships" their planes had spotted?

Altman sighed. It was all wrong.

He looked down again at the official communique from Pantocratoria. He needed to answer, so he picked up his phone.

"This is General Altman. Send a reply to the Pantocratorians. Tell them that they are welcome to serve as one observer for the cease fire. However, since it widely known that they are allies of the Excalbians, we cannot accept them as the sole observer. So, we request additional international observers."

Lord Phocas approaches Lord Halton.

"My lord Halton!" he says in greeting. "The Uppies have agreed to have me assist in the mediation between the two of you. I'd like to meet with General Altman as soon as possible. I'll bring some of my team with me, and the others will be returning to Pantocratoria to assume their new commands, now that our new ships have arrived. A Pantocratorian Seahawk from Imperator Andreus is en route to pick me up and take me, so before I go, tell me, is there anything you'd like for me to present to Altman?"

General Altman's head pounded. He gulped another drink from his glass. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind he could see his father sitting and drinking, mumbling curses about the government and his mother chiding him as a drunk. Altman caught a glimpse of his reflection in the video screen. He was starting to look like his father. Altman picked up his glass and threw it across the room, cursing the Excalbians.

Time to get even! But this time, without risking a war over some stupid ships in the stupid gulf!

Altman picked up the phone. "Get me Intelligence!"

Lord Phocas approaches Lord Halton.

"My lord Halton!" he says in greeting. "The Uppies have agreed to have me assist in the mediation between the two of you. I'd like to meet with General Altman as soon as possible. I'll bring some of my team with me, and the others will be returning to Pantocratoria to assume their new commands, now that our new ships have arrived. A Pantocratorian Seahawk from Imperator Andreus is en route to pick me up and take me, so before I go, tell me, is there anything you'd like for me to present to Altman?"

"My Lord Phocas," Admiral Lord Halton says smiling, "I'm pleased that Altman had enough sense to take your government's generous offer to mediate. I know you are a man of your word, My Lord, and that you will serve a fair and just mediator. Nevertheless, it is a relief to know that we have friend dealing with this matter."

Halton takes the Pantocratorian by the shoulder and pulls him into a conspiratorial whisper. "As for Altman, let him know - without revealing too much of our capabilities - that he handled his carrier with less than a full-strength force and that we are capable of defending ourselves if necessary. But also let him know that we have no thirst for war."

A foreboding look passes across the CINO's eyes. "Be careful in Courtland, My Lord. The Uppies are volatile at the best of times, and now they are on the verge of revolution. There are rumors that Altman has taken to the bottle and has been known to shoot his officers without warning. He is a violent and dangerous man. Watch your back."

"I appreciate the warning, my lord." says Phocas as he salutes Halton. The noise of a helicopter landing on the carrier can be heard.

A Pantocratorian lieutenant enters the room.

"My Lord Admirals," he says, saluting. "my lord Phocas, the helicopter to take you to Courtland has arrived."

"You've got a fine ship here, and a fine navy, my lord." says Phocas to Halton as he picks up his hat and puts it underneath his arm. "I sincerely thankyou for showing it to my men and I. Until we meet again, sir."

He shakes Halton's hand, and then follows his lieutenant out of the room, onto the flight deck, and into the Seahawk. The chopper takes off again and heads for Courtland.

OOC: HIMS Imperator Andreus, the Pantocratorian flagship, an Invincible class carrier, has arrived in the gulf under a flag of truce to support Phocas' mediation efforts.

As Lord Phocas' Seahawk heads for HIMS Imperator Andreus, INV Excalbia and the rest of Excalbian fleet begin moving to the south - closer to Excalbian waters, but still within the international waters of the gulf.

Major Jake Cole stood stiffly at the head of company of honor guards as the Pantocratorian helicopter landed. Once the blades were still, Cole stepped forward and waited. A well-decorated officer in a white uniform stepped out followed by a few others. Approaching the man who was obviously the senior Pantocratorian officer, MAJ Coles saluted.

"First Admiral Phocas." the Dominion officer said, "welcome to the Dominion of Upper Virginia." The honor guard came to attention and presented arms. The officer turned and gestured towards a long, black sedan. "General Altman is expecting you at his personal headquarters, this way please."

***

After a 30-minute drive through suburbs and undeveloped areas - with the glass towers of downtown Courtland visible only in the distance - the motorcade passed through a heavily guarded steel gate into a military compound. Soldier lined the road as the motorcade drove down a road to fortress-like building. The motorcade stops in front of the building. Soldiers open the doors of the sedans and salute as Major Cole and the Pantocratorian party exit and climb the stairs into the fortress.

The Pantocratorians are led up three sets of wide staircases to a set of heavy, paneled wooden doors. Two saluting soldiers open the doors and an officer in a green uniform jacket with five stars, khaki pants and black riding boots salutes Lord Phocas and offers his gloved hand.

"First Admiral Phocas, I am General Craig Altman, Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces of the Dominion of Upper Virginia, Head of the Directorate of Security and Chairman of the Provisional Ruling Council. Welcome to the Dominion. Come in and have a seat and tell me how you propose to keep us and the Excalbians from each other's throats."

"General Altman," says Lord Phocas as he shakes the General's hand. "first let me compliment you on your fine facility here."

The old man takes the offered seat.

"Tell me General... why did your taskforce attack the Excalbians? If I hear your side of the story, it will help me in my endeavours to keep your throats free from each other's... intervention." explains Phocas.

"Thank you for your compliment, First Admiral. Or do you prefer, Lord?" Altman picks up a crystal bottle. "May I offer you a brandy, sir?"

Altman pours himself a glass and takes a seat next to the fire.

"Yes, yes, the gulf incident." Altman flashes the uncomfortable smile of a man not used to the expression. "I certainly wouldn't say that our fleet attacked the Excalbians. In fact, my express orders - recorded in our transcripts and in our communications log - was to fire a shot over their bow. It seems to me that we made their pilots nervous and they - they! - locked on targeting radar. That was a clearly aggressive move. While I regret that we fired on the Excalbian surface ships, of course, I think that under the circumstances our aircraft were certainly permitted to take defensive action."

Altman took a sip of his brandy. "As for why we challenged the Excalbians, they were violating our territorial waters and conducting wargames. Again, an obviously aggressive move. And don't let the Excalbians fool you with talk of three-mile and ten-mile limits - we and they are the only ones on the gulf and we have always considered the border to go right down the middle between our two nations. There never have been 'international waters' in the gulf."

"Now, the real question is why the Excalbians are being so aggressive, First Admiral, er, Lord Phocas. My theory is that they see unrest in the Dominion - terrorism really - terrorism sponsored no doubt by foreign interests - and see in that an opportunity to fulfill their ancient ambition of uniting all the Excalbian Isles under the Citadel's foot. You know, don't you, that both the Confederacy and the Dominion were formed by people fleeing the oppression of the Empire."

"So, what have the Excalbians told you?"

"As to the title of my address, it is Pantocratorian custom to call me 'my lord Admiral' or 'my lord Phocas'." says Lord Phocas as he takes the proffered brandy and takes a sip.

"Good brandy, General." says Phocas. "Anyway... even if you didn't intend to attack the Excalbians, General, you did order a shot fired across their bow. Now, if the Excalbians locking onto your aircraft was a hostile action, then it was predicated by the hostile action of that warning shot, wouldn't you say, General?"

"But you obviously have a point of contention about the issue of international waters in the gulf." says Phocas thoughtfully. "Have there been any treaties between your two nations on the topic? Perhaps I should review these?"

GEN Altman swirled his brandy in the glass and took a sip. "Well, my lord Phocas, ownership of the gulf has never been settled by treaty. Exactly." Altman cradled his brandy in his hands and looked at the older officer. "There was a treaty concerning fishing rights signed in 1883 between the Dominion and the Excalbians. However, it did not define territorial waters in terms of national sovereignty. And, in any case, General Roger Courtland," a look of awe appeared on Altman's face at the mention of Courtland's name, "annulled all treaties affecting national security in 1939."

Altman smiled. "The bottom line is that the Excalbians insist on a ten-mile limit for territorial waters, while we maintain that the gulf should be split down the middle. The have never been willing to budge from that point, so no treaty has ever been possible. However, you are welcome to review the old fisheries treaties covering the gulf; I will have a copy brought up shortly."

"I'd like that very much General," says Phocas. "Perhaps this crisis can be resolved without bloodshed through the creation of a new treaty? Perhaps I could mediate such a treaty..."

Roberts sat slumped forward in his quarters at the Varessan embassy in Jefferson. The consultation with the Confederacy's scientists had been fruitful, but unsatisfying. MAJGEN Harrison had put a proposal forward to him which he was woefully unprepared to answer, and so, like the good bureaucrat that he was, he delayed answering. Deferred to his superiors.
Chickened out and betrayed his principles.

So now he was drinking. Far more than he should. But it seemed to help. At least he could forget, for a while.

***

"No sir, there is no way in hell that we should let the Excalbians and Pantocratorians rip the Dominion, and themselves, to pieces. I cannot emphasise just how important it is that we maintain as close a semblance to peace in this region as we are capable of maintaining." Field Marshal Harris argued across the table.

Chancellor Drake rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to massage away the headache which was even now gnawing on the edge of his subconscious. There were three schools of thought on the matter at hand. The treasurer, John Hannaford, was arguing for preservation of Varessa's usual neutrality. Foreign Minister Alex Shaw was proposing Varessa support attempts to remove the existing Dominion government from power. Field Marshal Harris, VDF Commander, urged covert support for the insurrection, as brought to their attention by MAJGEN Roberts, but also supported maintaining peace in the region, if necessary by using Varessan troops.

"If we support any anti-government insurrection in Upper Virginia we will completely undermine any credibility we have in the region. We rely on our neutrality. We are the fair one. Forever just. We deal fairly with all comers. We do not alienate ourselves by being judgemental. It's what makes us who we are. To say nothing of the fact that we would be in very serious trouble if the Dominion got hold of any incriminating evidence." Hannaford countered.

"But we must act. If we stand by, then the region will descend into Chaos, one way or other. We must preserve our financial gains, and that means a Dominion government sympathetic to Varessa," argued Shaw.

"The Dominion government IS sympathetic to us." Hannaford almost yelled.

Drake had had enough.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. John, Alex, calm down. Jeez, we're on the same side here. The bad guys are out there, ladies and gents."

*Uncomfortable pause*

"Yeah, sorry about that Alex. Jus' a bit, wound up, about all this, I guess."

"Everyone take a break. I need to consider this. Go get some tea, or something. You gents are too worked up. Not good for the cholesterol levels."

The joke served its purpose. The room's atmosphere had lightened considerably. But, as the cabinet moved recessed, Drake was left with a splitting headache. The issue was complex. But he had only a few options. Regardless of all the advice in the world, it was still going to be his decision.

His job sucked.

***

The room looked like something out of Star Trek. That the panels were labelled in English was the only indication that they were not on the bridge of a Klingon ship. Flashing lights and audio cues vied for attention. The air was more than slightly thick with anticipation.

Colonel Will Blackman looked towards his Dominion counterpart, Colonel Mildred Peterson, and recieved a short nod. This, the second test firing of the Crimson Star, would signal the conclusion of the main phase of development into the weapon's system. 4 months. Just four months to completely revolutionise the face of military technology across the world. The biggest jump in technology since the advent of nuclear weaponry.

But only if this test worked.

As if in response to his worries, Mildred nudged his arm.

"How sure are you that this will work?"

"As sure as I was last time."

"The time where the result was so destructive that the fireball was seen on the Erukushi Border?"

"Yep"

"Swell"

The two Colonels walked into the control room. A gaggle of uniformeed soldiers, rather than military scientists, "secured" the facility, whispering among themselves in a section of the floor.
*Thank God they only send the smart ones here* thought Blackman. *The last thing we need would be clumsy dopes smashing into things now*.
Next he checked the clock...27 minutes until the test began. Technicians were cycling through the coffee and the restrooms. He felt the need for neither, personally. He preferred to spend the time re-checking certain crucial sub-systems. Finally, he was satisfied, and placed everything on standby.

***

The phone rang, jarring Roberts from his slumber. His head came up to fast, and his vision swam, aided in so doing by the mildly excessive amount of alcohol he'd consumed the previous night. He did, however, manage to catch himself before he balcked out, shaking his head a couple of times to clear it, while the ringing of the phone drove rusty nails into miscellaneous regions of his cerebral cortex. Grimacing, he picked up the handset.

"Roberts."

"Shaun, you sound like shit"

"Morning Ed. Nice to hear from you too."

"It's 1230, Shaun. It's not morning."

Roberts struggled to refocus his eyes on his desk-clock. Sure enough, 1232.

"Oh, well, there ya go. What's up sir?"

"Two things Shaun. Firstly, a pet project of yours is having a run today. Not that I can say anything more over an unsecure line, but I think you get the drift..."

"Will running it?"

"Yep. He's a good kid, Shaun, he'll go far."

"Ed, he's 42, the deputy commander of our little research lab, and a colonel. He HAS come far."

"Yah. Ok. But I knew his dad, so... and the second thing is that you have cabinet level approval for your latest request."

Roberts heard the statement, but it didn't quite sink in. There is no way in hell that approval would have come that fast. No way. No.

"Come again, Ed"

"You heard me."

The silence began to stretch. Roberts' mind whirred forward, analysing and discarding courses of action, contingencies, objectives and intentions with speed that would have been breathtaking had anyone else been able to fathom it. Solution after solution was examined and cast aside as...

"Shaun... you there?"

General Garcia's voice interrupted his musing's putting him back on standard thought-time.

"Yeah Ed, just thinking. Listen, about that, could you tell me how the pet project goes? It relates pretty strongly to that last proposal of mine?"

"No problem Shaun. Enjoy the rest of your vacation."

"Thanks. Regards to Chloe."

"Cheers. Bye"

Roberts heard the tone, replaced the handset on the cradle, and helped himself to a glass of water. His day was looking up alrea... arggghhhh.. but his head still hurt...

***

"The magnetic control breakthrough you've made is astounding" Colonel Peterson
"Yes, and the scientific process that goes on here is amazing. One scientist overhears a problem another has, mentions it to a third, who thinks of something, which then works its way back to the first. We have the greatest scientific minds in the country here, but sometimes the actual scientific process doesn't seem very..."

"Scientific?"

"That's the word I was looking for... this place will change the world. In record time, we have secured a breakthrough technology which will protect both our nations..."

Peterson thought this an overstatement, but the test would show just how much of an overstatement. Blackman struck her as being the perfect man for this job. Technically brilliant, but possessed of far more leadership talents than most technocrats, he managed to find just the right balance between pressure and encouragement.

The contol room was seperate from the catapult building itself, and was far too small to comfortably accomodate the men and equipment it held. There were over a hundred engineers, seventy doctorates in physics... and even the "technicians" could have taught at most universities around the world. Most smoked, and the air-conditioning unit, also tasked to keep the high-powered computers cool, struggled mightily to keep up. Digital readouts cluttered most surfaces.

The main viewscreen showed the target, a high altitude drone, flying on the very edge of space itself. The image was radar guided, although the system did not require such guidance to function. The drone had been launched from this very facility, 6 hours ago.

"Starting up main relays" the Chief Engineer called out. "Final systems check."

"Tracking and guidance cameras online." A technician vocalised. There was a brief pause. "Coolant flows nominal".

"Atmospheric targetting bloom normal. Automatics engaged." Another put in.

"Computer priority sequencing at standard" reported a third.

Peterson sipped her tea, and tried to remain calm. She had often wanted to be at a space launch, or some such, but had, for some reason or other, never quite gotten around to it. Around her, men and machines were harmonising to the task at hand, merging in perfect synchronisation, as one after the other anounced the readiness of themselves and their equipment.
Finally:

"All weapons systems powered and online"

"Ready to fire" the Chief Engineer reported, completing the recitation.

Attention turned to the right of the control room building, where another team had their instruments trained on a section of sky to the northwest...

"We have target acquisition"

Two seats down from COL. Peterson, to the left of COL. Blackman, a technician pushed his chair back from the desk to ensure that he didn't accidentally touch anything. The "automatic" light on his station were flashing on and off.

***

Three hundred metres away, a five meter high structure pivoted on its mount, while one ridge over, 5 mirrors of an imaging array tracked the drone across the sky. Alarm klaxons and hazard lights warned everyone in the open to turn away from the firing platform.

***

The mirrors of the imaging unit tracked slowly, but noticable to the six television screens which monitored them. A low powered laser reflected off them, making a high-resolution image of the target on the command console. The target was now confirmed. COL. Blackman and his Chief Engineer both turned a key, "engaging" the test system. The device was now wholly outside of human control.

"There's target lock" observed a technician to his superior.

"Target speed 20,000"

The image they had was a stylised, cross-shaped blob, glowing slightly against the cold background.

They didn't hear anything. The control room was insulated against sound. But, watching the view screens, a hundred men gave a hundred shouts of elation at the same instant.

The image of the drone aircraft suddenly went as white as the sun, then ceased to exist. Tiny, warmer than background debris turned the normally black thermal image of space into a dull russet.

Colonel Blackman waited for the cheering to die down, and then stood up, and paused until he had everyone's attention. When he did, e turned to Colonel Peterson.

"Colonel. We give you Crimson Star."

***

"Understood Will. Thanks for letting me know. And, as usual, exceptional work in my absence. Regards to the entire team. That and congratulations. Cheers."

Roberts placed the handset back in the reciever. Crimson Star was no longer a concept. Crimson Star was now a weapon.

He thought for a moment. Then picked up the phone again. His Secretary answered.

"Sir?"

"Sara, could you arrange a dinner with MAJGEN Harrison of the Upper Virginian Dominion? Say, 1930 tonight? Pick a nice restaurant."

"Certainly sir. Don' you want to see if the time suits her as..."

"No, I think she'll find that time most accomodating."

"Yes sir."

"Thanks Sara".

Roberts checked his watch. 8 hours to kill. But first, he had to get hold of Major Bolton.

BRIGEN Morton Sykes listened intently to the secure video feed. “So, any anomalies at all, Mildred?”

“No, sir,” COL Mildred Peterson answered from the other end of the feed. “CRIMSON STAR is a complete success. We should be ready for the next stage of trials, actually placing the weapon aboard an X-9 prototype as soon as one can be dispatched.”

“Excellent. We will be sending LCOL Peter Bransons with X-9 01 tomorrow, eh,” a tap on the shoulder interrupted the Brigadier. MAJ Richard Thorsen, Chief of Security, leaned over and said something to the general. “Er, it seems the LCOL Bransons has taken ill, so MAJ Janet Holmes will be flying the prototype. Keep us informed, Colonel.”

* * *

MAJGEN Becka Harrison sat curled up silently in her bed at the Jefferson Park Sheraton tapping on her Pocket PC. Secure communications through the Embassy were certainly monitored, so she and MAJ Thorsen were using a commercial encryption over an instant messenger. It wasn’t secure, but – hopefully – GEN Altman’s people weren’t monitoring it.

>>So, he stood you up?

>>Not really. I think I surprised him. How’s the family?

>>The situation is getting worse. The old man is drunk most of the time and doing stupid things – picking fights, making questionable friends. His sister isn’t doing anything about and his brother has his hands full. Meanwhile, the termites are getting worse.

>>Well, I had a message early this a.m. that he wants to see me again tonight. Maybe there’ll be a change of heart. Any word from cousin Mabel?

>>Uncle Murray said she called. She reported big success.

>>Good. More tonight.

Harrison broke the connection. She hoped Shaun would come through. If not… She didn’t want to think about what might happen if they couldn’t take Altman out cleanly.

* * *

Forrest Turley sat shrouded in the shadows, as if they could protect him. Goosebumps ran up and down his arms. He wasn’t cut out for this cloak-and-dagger nonsense. Between one thought and the next, Turley was startled by Thorsen’s sudden appearance.

“Mr. Chairman,” the civilian attired Major said as he took a seat in the diner. “How goes the Chamber?”

“Brandt is still hold up…”

“Brandt is irrelevant. Leave him there. How about the rest?”

“It’s a little late to ask that. We’re already hip deep in this, so we’ll see it through.”

“Good. Have the ‘Old Army March’ ready. Soon. I’ll send you an SMS saying ‘Meet me at 8.’ Understood? Good.” And as silently as he came, Thorsen left.

* * *

There was a knock at the door. “Come,” GEN Altman said. A corporal with an old book enters. He hands the book to the general, salutes and departs.

“Here you go, my lord,” Altman handing the book to Lord Phocas. “Our fishing treaty. If you can get the Excalbians to budge from the strict 10-mile limit, I’ll consider a new treaty over the gulf.”

"I should speak to the Excalbians about this." says Phocas. "I'll take this treaty and read it on the chopper. I'll go to Excalbia, speak to them... and we'll see if we can't hammer out a new treaty between you two."

Phocas stands up, and salutes Altman, an optimistic look in his eye.

"It has been a pleasure and an honour meeting you, General." says Lord Phocas.

As soon as the Seahawk's tilt wing turbo props can to a stop, Admiral Lord Halton and Commander Wells stepped out of the plane onto the tarmac. A young lieutenant saluted. "Welcome back, My Lord," he said, "Rear Admiral Lofton will meet you in the conference room. Lord Thorne and the Minister of State will be arriving shortly."

"Any word on Lord Phocas' ETA, Lieutenant?" The CINO asked as he and CDR Wells followed the lieutenant towards the Air Station's HQ building.

"We expect the Pantocratorians in half an hour, My Lord."

"Good. I'm anxious to hear what GEN Altman had to say."

MAJGEN Becka Harrison sat in the bar sipping on a sweet iced tea. She checked her watch again. Early. It was only 1915. She was nervous, almost like a girl on a first date. Except this wasn't a date. It was far more important. From what MAJ Thorsen had been able to tell her things were desperate back home. At least Altman had agreed to a cease-fire and to mediation by Pantocratoria - she'd seen that on the Net. She didn't know the Pantocratorians, but they sounded honorable. But then, the Excalbians were honorable, too. It was only GEN Altman's honor that she questioned.

She gazed into her glass. She felt ashamed. Ashamed that she had gone along with corrupt system for so long without questioning. I'm just a technocrat; I just make hardware, I don't make the policy about using it. Such a hollow excuse, she realized, yet one that had allowed her to marry, raise a family, see her husband die flying the X-6 and pin two stars on her shoulders without thinking about the impact she was having on the society around her. Some society. Ordinary people treated like cogs in a machine, driven to violence and revolution. A military corrupted to the point where it can turn its guns on its own people. Some society indeed.

* * *

GEN Altman finished the rest of his brandy in one gulp. Lord Phocas seemed honorable and trustworthy. Altman smiled darkly. He had little use for such people, except when they could be used.

There was a knock on the door. "Come," Altman said.

A corporal stepped in. "The Attorney General is on the phone for you, sir."

Altman stood up and staggered over to his desk. He picked up the phone. "Silina, what do you want?"

Is that anyway to speak to your equal partner on the Council, General?

"Don't start with me, woman, I'm busy!"

Busy starting wars you mean? Well, I don't want to keep you from that, General, so I'll be brief. The FVLA has just assassinated the mayor of Harrington and the garrison commander. They've seized the city government complex and are attempting to declare the city a 'liberated area.' I'm sending in two regiments of the CIB. We could use air support, if you can spare them from the 'Excalbian front.'

Altman cursed under his breath. "Why haven't you been able to determine who's behind the FVLA, Silina? Is the CIB not up to the task? Should it become a purely military matter?" Hearing only silence, Altman continues. "OK, you'll have air support. Anything else?"

Nothing. Thank you, General. Good-bye.

Roberts walked throught the door of the restaurant at 1928. He had, despite Major Bolton's strong objections, come alone, but armed. And he had come in the fashion that would confer the least suspicion upon him and his partner of any attire that he possessed.

He had arrived in full dress uniform. Black trousers, razor edged creases along the front and back, with a red stripe running down the outside. Patent leather dress boots, their tops hidden under the bottom of the trousers. And a black military dress jacket, completed with silver trim, buttons, and tassled epaulets. The complete rig included a pistol holster, one which, this time, actually came with a loaded beretta. The black peaked hat, complete with silver staff officer's braiding, added to the effect.

But not half as much as the two stars which adorned his collar. That made most people take notice. Whatever their country. The American military tradition of ranking their generals by the number of stars to their name had become almost universal. And two-star generals in any country tended to get what they wanted.

They also didn't tend to carry out subterfuge while in full ceremonial attire. Roberts was banking on that to ensure his safety. To do so was bold to the point of stupidity. And that put him above suspicion.

The staff noticed him in seconds, as did the majority of the restaurant. The room hushed quite quickly, before the buzz of conversation resumed. The young lady who greeted new arrivals almost fell over herself to be courteous.

"C-can I h-help you sir?"

A slight smile wrinkled Roberts' face before he replied.

"Yes, you can. I'm here to join a friend for dinner. If you might be so kind as to show me where she is..."

"Sure, I'll just, go over here, and check the books" the girl replied sheepishly, before turning and scooting over to the counter to check the reservations book.

"Yes sir, she's already here. Right this way."

"Thank you" he replied, tucking his hat under his arm, and following the waitress to the table where his dinner companion was waiting.

Said dinner companion looked up as he approached, and her eyes almost popped out of her head. Roberts suppressed a laugh, before responding.

"Not quite what you expected, my dear?" he asked with a wry smile.

The Pantocratorian Seahawk sets down at Citadel Excalbia. First Admiral Lord Phocas steps out of the Seahawk, accompanied by his aides.

He salutes the Excalbians on the helipad as he steps onto the tarmac, carrying an old book under his arm.

"Not quite what you expected, my dear?" he asked with a wry smile.

Becka Harrison smiled in spite of herself. “Not at all, Shaun. Not at all. Please sit.”

Harrison suppressed a laugh. How good it feels to laugh! “If I had known, I would have worn my dress greens and braid!” A more serious look comes over her face. “Things are not going well back home, Shaun. Tell me, have you received an answer yet from your government?”

"I have indeed."

Roberts moved his left hand below the table, lifting the lower edge of his dress jacket to get at the pocket of his trousers.

"I think you'll find that the answer..." he pulled out a device, placed it on the table, and flicked a switch. "will be to our mutual satisfaction. I have been given authority to assist you in any way I can. And I will."

The Varessan smiled. A real smile. One that hadn't touched his lips in a good many years.

"It is always so satisfying when the system under which one serves does something right. I'm sorry that circumstances have placed you in one that doesn't always behave as such. But we will rectify that. One way or other."

Roberts gestured to the device on the table.

"White noise emitter. It'll render any listening or recording devices completely useless. We can speak freely. But first, I suspect, you'll want to know of Crimson Star's status."

He paused in his speech, and took a sip of red wine. *Not half bad, either*

"As you have no doubt been made aware, the test firing last night was a total success. What the first would have been, if not for awful luck. It works. All that remains is to load it onto the X-9 itself. Have the design teams had success re-modelling the airframe to take the weapon?"

While Harrison was considering her answer, Roberts spoke again.

"And, how else can we help? We're behind you. Our whole country. Or, those that know, anyway..."

The Pantocratorian Seahawk sets down at Citadel Excalbia. First Admiral Lord Phocas steps out of the Seahawk, accompanied by his aides.

He salutes the Excalbians on the helipad as he steps onto the tarmac, carrying an old book under his arm.

"Welcome back, My Lord Phocas," Admiral Lord Halton says, saluting, and then extending a hand for a warmer greeting. "You remember Commander Wells, of course, and our Defense Minister, Lord Thorne." He gestures to the two people beside him. "And I would like to introduce you to the commander of this base, Rear Admiral Lofton, and to our Minister of State, Albert Cummings."

Cummings, a well-dressed man with thinning hair and a bit of potbelly, extends his hand to the Pantocratorian. "A pleasure to meet you, My Lord. Tell me, did General Altman offer you any explanation for his actions or any hope for avoidance of war?"

Before Lord Phocas can answer, the sky itself seems to shake and that energy passes into the ground, causing the tarmac to briefly tremble.

"Sky quake!" CDR Wells exclaims looking into the sky towards the north - towards the Dominion.

"Another confounded test of their infernal 'secret weapon,'" RADM Lofton adds. "What I wouldn't give to get a good look at it!" Turning to Halton, he adds, "Permission to check with ground control to see if they obtained any additional data on the craft, My Lord?"

"Granted," Halton says crisply. "My Lord Phocas, please excuse the interruption. If you'll come this way, we can continue our meeting in the conference room. And then, His Imperial Majesty has invited you for dinner."

Becka smiled. A warm, uninhibited smile. “This is the best news we’ve had in a long time, Shaun.”

Becka took a deep breath to steady herself. “I went by the Embassy this afternoon and found out that one of the Ozymandius prototypes should be leaving for Varessa shortly. Colonel Peterson should have informed your people by now that it is coming for the next phase of testing. The pilot is a last-minute substitute, Major Janet Holmes. I know her and she is one of us.”

After taking a sip of her tea, she continued. “We hope to install the Crimson Star on Ozymandius and fly her back to the Dominion. With her speed, she’ll be back home before anyone in the Directorate of Security realizes she isn’t just up for a training exercise. Then,” Becka took a long, deep breath, “we hope to use it to destroy Altman’s personal HQ. At the same time, our people will move on the rest of the senior leadership. Hopefully, with the Chamber of Industrial already on our side and with Altman and the Attorney General removed, we’ll quickly be able to restore order and install a provisional government.”

Becka picked up her glass and took a long drink. “There are two other things Varessa could do for us. According to a message I have from my people, we lost our contact with the Excalbians, and we’re on the verge of war with them. We don’t want them to be… startled into action when we make our move. We can’t contact them overtly now and I doubt they’ll believe any official announcements after a new government comes to power, at least initially. Could Varessa contact them and try to reassure them that anything they see happening in the Dominion is not a move against them?”

“And, second, once we come to power, we could use your advice and assistance in remaking ourselves, especially when it comes to reforming and professionalizing the military.”

“And, before you answer, there is one other thing you need to know. I just learned at the Embassy that Altman has taken a theoretical plan we had for an X-10 – picture the Ozymandius, except bigger and armed with hypersonic missiles, and is trying to rush it into development through a parallel program. Ozymandius can be offensive or defensive. The X-10 would be solely an offensive weapon. I think this means he is starting to plan for war beyond Excalbia. All the more reason for us to move soon. How quickly can the Crimson Star be mounted on the X-9 and tested?”

MAJ Janet Holmes leaned back into the cushioned pilot seat. The ascent phase was over. Although Ozymandius Three was still traveling 12 times the speed of sound, it was no longer accelerating, so she had a little more freedom of movement. Her X-9 aircraft was skirting the boundary between the atmosphere and outer space. Janet had always dreamed of being an astronaut, but in the Dominion space was about military advantage or corporate profit, not exploration. Maybe when Altman was gone that would change. Janet looked out of the thick glass of her canopy and gasped. The earth was spread out before her - the terminator clearly visible as flew from day into night. It was so... beautiful. Janet glanced down at her instruments. Unfortunately, she didn't have much time to enjoy it - she'd be in Varessa in almost no time.

Roberts steepled his fingers in front of him, and pondered the matter. The development of an independently produced Dominion combat vehicle, of similar capability to the Ozymandias, was a grave discovery. As in, really, really, really bad, with emphasis on the "bad" bit. The only ace they had, was that they knew about the X-10, but the opposition didn't know that they knew. Indeed, they didn't know that there was any reason to fear the X-9 and its developers at all.

"COL. Peterson is really on the ball. Will Blackman spoke highly of her, as it happens. I'd be delighted to have more like her or Will on my staff. Crimson Star was developed in record time, and *under* budget. The under budget part is cause for celebration in itself."

Roberts paused again. What he was about to say may shatter the bubble.

"Becka, you know as well as I do that firing at Altman's HQ may not kill him. Crimson Star is predominantly designed as a strategic anti-materiel weapon. His HQ will be rendered completely inoperative, and will take months to repair, butt, as with any building destroyed, particularly a large one, there will be survivors."

Shaun reached over, and took another glass of red wine, lubricating his mouth for the next point.

"As it happens, we anticipated your problem with the Excalbians, and our foreign minister is trying to get hold of their ambassador to Varessa as we speak. We've never had any quarrel with the Excalbians, so they should listen. The only problem with tha may be a leak from Excalbia to the Dominion. Not openly, of couse, but all of our respective nations have intelligence services..."

The Varessan left that thought hanging. The spectre of a DoD or DoJ crackdown on the conspirators was very real. Not for at least the next week or so, but very real nonetheless. And, for Becka in particular, that would be...unpleasant.

" I propose that, and hear me out here, I propose that we have a team of VMI operatives track your movements while you are back in Courtland. They will not interfere directly with any attempt to arrest you, if, and I stress IF, one is made, but will be able to alert you of anyone else following you, and so on."

Roberts continued before the Upper Virginian's raised eyebrow could translate into interruption.

"And, my government, after being briefed by myself, Colonel Blackman, and General Garcia, have determined that, if you are arrested, we cannot afford for you to be interrogated, and our role in this situation revealed. You know better than I do the interrogation techniques used in the Dominion, but I'd wager they aren't especially benign. You will resist, if I know you at all. But they will break you. And that is unacceptable."

He took a deep breath, and began to say something which was the embodiment of one of the most fundamental changes in policy his government had ever, but EVER, undertaken.

"Becka, we will get you out, if you are arrested."

****

"Sir, we have an unidentified aircraft approaching our airspace. Flight profile is... holy shit... sir, get a look at this"

The Captain in charge of the Varessan air defense station stood up from his desk, and took three quick, long strides to where the SGT manning the display was located. He looked at the display, where the man was indicated, and swore to himself.

"Jesus Christ."

The display showed an altitude of nearly 112km, moving at...

"SGT, run a diagnostic on that panel, there is no way that that thing is travelling at Mach 12."

"Yes sir." the man responded, glad that the Captain had, as usual, come up with a reasonable explanation. If it were any other nation's radar, it wouldn't even have seen the blip in the first place.

The Captain, however, didn't stand still. Protocol was still protocol. He hit the alarm switch. Klaxons began to wail, while red strobe lights summoned personnel to their stations. The Captain was actually sorry to have to get everyone back from whatever they were doing, as there was no way that the machine was func...

"Diagnostic checks out sir, that thing's real..."

Or maybe it was working.

"Ok, gents, lets do what we've been training for... Northy, spin the birds, CPL Hodges, telemetry. Dicko, get on the phone to HQ, let them know we have a..."

He was interrupted, mid-order sequence, by the direct line from headquarters ringing.

"SGT Dickson, 105th Air Defense Regt, how can I help you?"

"SGT Dickson, this is Colonel Blackman, Pine Creek. Can I speak to your supervising officer?"

"Sure thing sir." -he held out the phone towards the Captain -

"For you, sir. Colonel Blackman."

"Colonel who?" the Captain asked as he picked up the phone "Captain Hayes."

"Captain, this is Colonel Blackman, Pine Creek. We expect that a high-altitude, high speed aircraft will transit your sector enroute to this facility. Do not, I say again, do not engage. Authentication x-ray zulu papa."

Captain Hayes checked the code book. It checked out.

"Yes sir."

"Also, Captain, do not report sighting to HQVAF. It is a classified project."

The Captain looked around him. His men were watching him intently. They understood, without being told, and without hearing the conversation.

"Yes sir."

"Thanks Captain. Enjoy the rest of your day."

The Captain hung up at the dial tone's inception. He paused, and looked at this men, before starting again.

"Situation's changed, gents. Stand down. Classified shit. That stuff never happened. Go back to bed, or whatever the hell you were doing."

Grumbles hid excitement. 112km. Mach 12. What the hell was that thing.

****

5 minutes and 640km later...

"That's it sir, we have Ozymandias on long-range radar. Transponder indicates Ozymandias 3."

"Thank you lieutenant. Open radio contact."

"Yes sir, signal in 3, 2, 1... engaged"

"Ozymandias 3, this is Pine Creek approach, you are cleared to land, runway 3. Wind is blowing east-nor-east, at 13 knots. Welcome to Varessa, Ozymandias 3."

***

"I need to speak to him. Now. So, get him up. Yes, it is important. And I express my apologies that it is this important, but I must speak with the ambassador."

Foreign Minister Alex Shaw argued down the phone to the Excalbian Embassy. The agreed communication to Excalbia was going ahead, but circumstances beyond his control had put it onto a tight schedule. And, in most countries, the ambassadors to that country put calls from their host government at the top of their priority lists. Excalbia had always operated a little differently to most however, and it made diplomacy with them... interesting.

Still, he knew that the Excalbians were an honourable people, by culture, and if they were busy, they were busy. But the situation was urgent, and he needed to speak to the ambassador. So, he did what ministers across the world universally hate.

He waited, on hold...

***

"Well, let's continue our meeting indoors away from the sky quakes, eh?" says Phocas. "As for Altman, well, he seems to have interpreted your war game as a hostile act. He claims that there is no treaty which you both recognise which divides the gulf in an acceptable fashion, and claims that based on the Upper Virginian understanding, you were in their waters. He also claims that he only ordered a warning shot to be fired to scare you off. It seems to me that this could've been averted by a mutually recognised treaty, and so I offered to act as mediator in the creation of one."

"But let's discuss it in your conference room..." Phocas concludes.

“Pine Creek, this is Ozymandius Three. Acknowledge landing instructions. Thanks for the welcome.” MAJ Janet Holmes smiled behind the silvered faceplate of her helmet as she disengaged the Pulse Detonation Wave engine and switched to the turbojets to begin her approach. Her speed dropped from hypersonic to merely supersonic. Soon, she was back in the stratosphere and dropping under the speed of sound. As the plane slowed and dropped, she could see the Varessan’s secret testing facility. She steered the X-9 to runway 3 and brought it down gently. After taxiing across the tarmac towards the hanger indicated by the ground crew, the plane eased to a stop. Janet went through her power-down checklist and made sure the plane was safe and that it was clear to open the canopy.

The black plane’s canopy eased back slightly, then raised slowly. Janet disconnected a few umbilicals and gently climbed over the side and down the waiting ladder. Once on the ground, she slid her faceplate up and then twisted her blue spacesuit’s helmet and lifted it off. She tucked the helmet under her left arm and snapped a crisp salute towards the Varessan officers who had come to greet her. “Major Janet Holmes, reporting as ordered.” Lowering her salute, she continued. “And may I present the X-9 Ozymandius.”

(OOC: To see what the X-9 looks like copy this into the address line of your browser (darn companies that don't allow linking...):
http://aurorapage.tripod.com/images/testors1.jpg)

***

MAJGEN Becka Harrison gazed slightly open-mouthed at Roberts. She was stunned – and touched – by his and his government’s willingness to take such risks for her and her country. Of course, she knew that part of Varessa’s willingness to save her from arrest was to avoid having their role in the coup-plot exposed. But she was still moved.

“Shaun, I…,” Becka swallowed, “thank you. I understand your position and I’d be happy to have the services of your operatives.” She smiled weakly. “I’ll just have to convince Major Thorsen not to be jealous.” She took a long drink of her iced tea. “As for the risks and limitations in our plan… Well, we’re aware of them. We know Altman might survive the X-9’s strike. But it is the best opportunity we have to deprive him of command and control.” She took another drink and left her hands cupped around the cool, damp glass. Good thing I ordered a large glass. “Now that we have your support, let me fill you in a bit more.”

Becka glanced at the white noise device, as if to make sure it was working. She also reached in her pocket and checked the electronic scrambler she carried and looked carefully around the room.

“Our biggest asset is that Bureau of Operations, which controls our ops center, strategic forces and national command communications, is the last cadre of professional soldiers in the Dominion. They will not support the coup, but neither will they act to prevent it. So, our challenge is to take Altman out of the equation and deprive him of the ability to order any counter moves against us.”

“Once we hit his personal HQ, one team of security forces from the Bureau of Procurement will move against the Attorney General. Fortunately, we also have some people inside the CIB – the Criminal Investigation Bureau, Silina’s own shock troops – and they will try to lead us to her. Her security is a lot looser than Altman’s, so we’ll try to take her alive for trial. Meanwhile, a second team will go to the ruins of Altman’s HQ. Altman and his personal troops will never surrender, so the second team’s orders will be to neutralize any resistance and make sure Altman is dead. And a third team, with the leadership of our little group, will move to establish our control at the Directorate of Security’s GHQ. Then, if everything goes to plan, the Chamber of Industrial will endorse the coup and a new government will be proclaimed.”

Becka’s mouth was dry and cottony, so she took another sip of tea and let it roll slowly down her throat. “Our hope is that in the absence of orders from Altman, the rest of the military will wait to see who emerges from the smoke and in power.”

Albert Cummings nodded and led the party towards the base’s low headquarters building and on to a small, but well-appointed conference room. He gestured for Lord Phocas to take one of the plush leather seats on the right hand-side of the table. Cummings took the middle seat on the left. To Cumming’s right, Lord Thorne, the frail-looking and sickly Minister of Defense took a seat. To Cumming’s left, Admiral Lord Halton and Commander Wells sat.

Cummings wore a serious, but not unpleasant expression and spoke with the even, practiced tones of a career parliamentarian. “So, My Lord Phocas, General Altman sought to place the blame on us by calling our exercises a hostile act? Certainly, since you yourself were present aboard Excalbia during the exercise, you can agree that his claim is merely face-saving on his part.” Cummings waived his hand dismissively. “Never-the-less, I would concede your point that a treaty – provided the Dominion is prepared to honor it – would prevent a repetition of today’s tragic events.” The Minister of State seemed to notice for the first time the book that the Pantocratorian First Admiral carried. “My Lord, tell me, what is that book you are carrying?”

***

“Why didn’t you interrupt me sooner?” Ambassador Sir Gareth Vikis asked, more with frustration than anger. “Put him through straight away.”

Vikis eased himself into his chair beneath a portrait of David IV in a gleaming white naval uniform and picked up his phone. “Mr. Minister,” the Ambassador said pleasantly, “I’m very sorry to keep you waiting. I was just receiving a briefing on some serious developments back in the Excalbian Isles. It seems that the Upper Virginians nearly triggered a war by attacking one of our naval units during exercises in international waters. Tragically, it seems there was considerable loss of life, with several of our ships damaged and one of their carriers reduced to scrap. Fortunately, it seems there is a truce in place and that it is holding.” The Ambassador had no certain idea why the Varessan Foreign Minister was calling, but he suspected that the events in the gulf and the call might not be coincidental. And he knew that the Varessans and the Upper Virginians had some kind of relationship. So, setting the stage now with a little exposition might help frame the conversation in the terms the Ambassador wanted.

“So, Minister Shaw, how may I be of assistance?”

"Well, minister..." Phocas says as he sets the book on the table. "Altman told me this was the fishing treaty settled between you and Upper Virginia. It seemed to be the only treaty which did exist, so I requested a copy. Presuming that the Upper Virginians will honour a treaty between the two of you about the gulf, what terms would be agreeable to you?"

"Well, minister..." Phocas says as he sets the book on the table. "Altman told me this was the fishing treaty settled between you and Upper Virginia. It seemed to be the only treaty which did exist, so I requested a copy. Presuming that the Upper Virginians will honour a treaty between the two of you about the gulf, what terms would be agreeable to you?"

"Fishing treaty?" Albert Cummings sputtered. "A fish..." The Minister of State recovered his composure and gestured for an aide standing along the wall. A young woman in a conservative suit approached. She leaned over and whispered something in Cumming's ear. The Minister nodded, then turned back to Lord Phocas.

"Forgive me, my Lord. I needed to confer with our director for Upper Virginian affairs." Cummings straightened his suit coat. "Yes, yes, the fishing treaty. It was concluded in the last century. Ever since the dictatorship came to power in Courtland over 70 years ago, the Dominion has generally ignored its treaty obligations. This one has been no different."

Cummings leaned forward. "Now, my Lord, we are both sensible men and represent friendly powers, so I see no reason to dance around the point. Here is the Holy Empire's bottom line: We will not accept a "down the middle split" of the gulf with the Dominion. Such a position is not supported by the weight of international law and would too greatly compromise our legitimate economic and military interests. However, we are prepared to surrender our traditional insistence on a three-mile territorial limit..."

"Minister!" Admiral Lord Halton exclaimed. "But..."

"Yornis, Yornis," Lord Thorne, the frail Minister of Defense reached out to the CINO, his voice barely above a whisper, "we've discussed this with Lady Freedman and she spoke with the Emperor's blessing..."

"Sorry, my Lord," Halton nodded to the Defense Minister, "Minister Cummings."

"No apologies, Lord Halton, you couldn't have known what we discussed while you were directing our forces under fire."

Cummings turned back to the Pantocratorian First Admiral. "We are prepared to accept a 12-mile territorial limits with an economic zone extending a further 12 miles. The remaining waters of the gulf would remain international waters. We would also demand the right of "innocent passage" in the economic zone and the right to enforce smuggling and contraband laws throughout the gulf. How do you think the Upper Virginians will react to that offer, my Lord?"

"Well, I think that..." Phocas begins, but stops when a pager in his pocket starts vibrating. "Pardon me gentlemen..."

He pulls out the pager and reads the message.

"Gentlemen, our allies in the Espario matter have declared war against the Empire of Espario. The Imperial Government has assigned the Imperator Andreus and her battlegroup to the conflict. I have to leave at once. I will return, God willing, to help conclude these negotiations with the Upper Virginians." Phocas says, concerned. He stands, salutes the Excalbians, and turns to leave, heading back to the helipad to fly back to his flagship.

"Ambassador Vikis, I am talking to you on behalf of both my government, and of the people of Upper Virginia. And yes, before you ask, you heard me right, Ambassador.

We are, as we speak, rendering support to domestic Upper Virginian insurgents. It is strongly expected that there will be heavy fighting in many parts of the Dominion, and that there may be some collateral damage. We urgently, on their behalf as well as our own, request that you exercise the utmost restraint in your response..."

***

Colonel Blackman, returned the salute, and walked over to the still-cooling X-9. The beyond-hypersonic transit through the upper edges of the atmosphere had generated incredible heat, but the heat sinks were shedding the excess rapidly. X-9s made excellent infra-red targets. Not that it mattered. At the speeds that they became excellent targets, there wasn't a missile anywhere in the world which would catch them.

He ran his hand over the mirror-smooth surfaces. The aircraft was big. You didn't appreciate that properly until you got right up to it. But it was more than big. It was downright intimidating. The aircraft positively pulsed with malevolence.

Yep, this was it. This, right here, was the future of war.

And, if Varessa wasn't careful, it would also be the catalyst FOR that future of war.

The Varessan Colonel turned to Major Holmes. The potential of the aircraft wasn't in doubt. The ability of the resistance to use it decisively, and/or without exposing Varessan involvement, was less certain.

"Major, I am Colonel Blackman. Welcome to Pine Creek. And Varessa. We have much to discuss. With me is Colonel Armstrong, VMI, Wing Commander Reed, VAF, and Lieutenant Colonel Mathews, VRA. If you'd like to join us in the conference room. CPL Aarons, drinks please."

"Sir."

"So, Major, tell us of the Ozymandias..."

***

Roberts completed the remainder of his meal with MAJGEN Harrison over the course of the next three hours. His hunch about the effectiveness of a full dress uniform as a disguise had been correct. The white noise emitter had defeated any confusion which may have existed concerning the security of their conversation.

It didn't, however, clear up his emotional confusion.

"Your losing it in your old age, Shaun..." Roberts mumbled to himself, as he threw his peaked cap onto his bedside table at the Varessan Embassy. The muted light from a table lamp was the only light in the room. And to say he felt tired was putting it mildly. The ramifications of the conversation he'd just had with the Upper Virginian officer were far more far-reaching than he'd intended them to have been. They'd covered everything from timing of assaults, fire-support plans, presence of Varessan forces, various sports teams...even future trade ties. But that was a double-edged sword.

Sure, they'd covered more ground than he'd been briefed on, but he'd been able to get a better look at the character of the person who'd, quite possibly, be the future leader of the Dominion. And he'd liked what he'd seen.

The catch was...maybe too much.

He took his dress watch off, and put it next to the light, before he slowly began his pre-slumber routine. First the pistol belt came off, with the beretta moving next to the watch. He opened the cupboard, and hung the holster up over a coat-hanger. Immaculately shiny black parade boots were eased off tired feet, and joined their less formal compatriots.

Dress blacks, jacket and trousers, were hung up also, and were substituted for his army-issue pyjamas. After all those years, nothing else felt right.

He'd give Ed Garcia a call in the morning... he looked across at the bedside table... later in the morning, and brief him on the night's events. But first, he had to catch some sleep. The wine was really starting to get to him...

He lay back in bed, and the ceiling above began to do 360 spins.

Yep... maybe a little too much of that wine...

***

"I am impressed, Major." Blackman continued. "You're implementation of the Pulse Detonation Wave Engine is nothing short of revolutionary"

"More than that, it's ground-breaking." WNGCDR Reed offered. "That technology will put Upper Virginia and Varessa so far ahead of military competition that it wont even be funny any more. And that's BEFORE we fit the Ozymandias with Crimson Star."

"Which is our next point of issue. We can't let the current government get its hands on Crimson Star. If and when they did, it'd neutralise the only thing that's holding General Altman in check, that being the Excalbian Navy. Sure, yours is bigger, but Altman knows that he'd be sacrificing the majority of his fleet-in-being to defeat the Excalbians outright."

The Colonel paused, and then came to the crux of his argument.

"The Ozymandias, when fitted with Crimson Star, would be more than capable of destroying any surface fleet in existence, anywhere on the planet. So, we can't let Altman have it. Given your political views and current situation, you, of course, feel the same way about Altman. And, rest assured, we are fitting the weapon to Ozymandias 3 as we speak. But you'll be taking people along for the ride."

Blackman indicated his compatriots, Colonel Armstrong and LTCOL Mathews.

"Colonel Armstrong will head an 8 person VMI team into the Dominion. They'll link up with your personnel within the Dominion. They are to report back to Varessan intelligence on a regular basis, and also to extract any of your key personnel that are apprehended by the DoS or DoJ."

The intercom beeped, and Reed pressed the ok.

"Sorry to interrupt, sirs and ma'am, but in order for your flight schedule to be in keeping with the training route you posted, you have to leave in the next 15 minutes ma'am. Fuel has been adjusted to the required levels..."

Blackman answered.

"Thanks CPL. Will be done in a couple of minutes."

He turned to address Homles again.

"Mathews here will lead a Varessan Army Special Forces platoon into the Dominion. They have been tasked to act as your combatant arm, whenever your movement may require them..."

"We're ready Major, and we're troops that you will sorely need." Mathews added.

"...and they'll be inserted, with equipment, by Hercules tomorrow. I think you'll find that a platoon of fully armed and equipped VASF should be able to put a crimp in the effectiveness of any DoJ or, more likely, DoS response" Colonel Blackman added. "Inform MAJGEN Harrison when she gets back from the Confederation, if you'd be so kind. Put a call through to myself or MAJGEN Roberts, if you need them. Other than that, they're going to be sitting tight, and keeping a low profile."

Major Holmes, for the first time in several years, didn't know what to say...

***

He dreamt of rabbits, flying arrows, Dominion generals and chocolate mudcake. But he managed to avoid the hangover, despite not having any water, and only 5 hours sleep.

Still in his pyjamas, he put a call over the secure phone through to Varetta.

"General Garcia please."

"May I ask who's speaking, sir." A slightly squeaky, overly perky for this hour, female secretary responded.

"Major General Roberts."

"Thank you"

And she put him on hold. He didn't like being put on hold. He liked being put on hold to the strains of "greensleeves" even less. In fact, he hated greenslee-

"Shaun..."

"Morning Sir, how's the family?"

"Not bad at all, mate, not bad at all. Missus has finally gotten past, erm, that time, so we can get back into it. Kind of perked my mood a little."

"No kidding" Roberts responded, thinking that he really, really did not want to know about his boss' sleeping habits

"So, how'd things go over there. You sound happy enough, so I take it that it went well..."

"You could say that, sir..."

Sir Gareth Vikis shifted in his seat. He was almost speechless. Of all the things he expected Foreign Minister Shaw to say, this wasn’t one of them. The Holy Empire’s ambassador to the Commonwealth of Varessa steadied himself and took a deep breath. “Well, Minister, this is certainly a surprise. I frankly don’t quite know what to say. We’ve never taken Varessa as a country to involve itself in other people’s internal business or at least not to do so lightly. So, I presume that your government has fully considered this and has strong reasons to pursue such a course of action.”

Vikis considered the situation quietly for a moment. “I don’t suppose you’d care to share the details of the insurgency with us? I trust, at least, that it is not linked to this awful FVLA – although many in the Dominion deserve their fate, we do not condone random terrorism by unknown persons.”

Vikis paused again. He had turned around in his chair and was gazing up the image of his emperor. “I will, of course, need to report this my capital. I will contact you as soon as I have further guidance from His Imperial Majesty’s government, Minister. Good day, sir.”

***

The table in the cabinet room of the Imperial Chancery reflected the changing falls leaves just outside the window and the stone bulk of the Citadel Palace beyond. Two sets of perfectly manicured red fingernails pushed against the table. “So, Minister Cummings, we have no treaty with the Upper Virginians and no mediator. Is that correct?” Lady Christina Freedman, the Imperial Chancellor, was an attractive woman and was regarded as warm and friendly by the people of the Empire. In the cabinet, though, she was known as professional, efficient and demanding. Cummings was well aware that his predecessor had been sacked not long ago despite his soothing appointment to head the Emperor’s new charity.

“My Lady,” Cummings leaned back in a show of calm, “Lord Phocas’ reasons for leaving were quite understandable given the hostilities with the fascists in Espario. In fact, as Lord Thorne will report, half our active naval force is with Lord Phocas to honor our alliance commitments. Fortunately, the Uppies have made no move violate the truce and have communicated their willingness to await Lord Phocas’ return. They have even indicated a willingness to continue talks along the lines of my last proposal to his lordship…”

“OK, Albert, you can relax.” The Chancellor smiled her made-for-TV smile. “But only a little. What is this about the Varessans and an insurgency?”

“Yes, my Lady.” Cummings drew a file out his rumpled brown leather case. “In fact that is why I requested this urgent meeting of the security cabinet. Sir Vikis, our Ambassador in Varessa, called on the secure line to report that their FoMin, an Alex Shaw, had called him to say that the Varessans are prepared to support a new insurgency – apparently not the FVLA – in Upper Virginia and wanted our commitment not to react to it as a hostile threat.”

Cummings sighed and glanced away from Lady Freedman’s piercing gaze. “We have no firm intelligence on this. We knew the Varessans were engaged in military research with the Dominion and that one of their Major Generals was nearly assassinated along with the Dominion’s head of procurement in Jefferson. We also recently lost our chief contact with a dissident group of officers. From this – well, Lord James?” Cummings asked looking at the Director of Imperial Intelligence.

Lord James Reynolds stroked his gray beard. “Lady Freedman, we have analyzed what little we know and conclude that the insurgents to whom Minister Shaw referred were coup-plotters. Possibly the same dissident officers with whom we were in contact. It is also possible that the Dominion head of procurement and the Varessan head of research are the principal contacts between the coup-plotters and the Varessan Government. If that is the case, we recommend tacitly supporting the coup. If Varessa is referring to something else, then…”

“Can we be certain, Lord Reynolds?” The Chancellor leans forward.

“No, my Lady.”

***

Having received his instructions, Ambassador Sir Vikis sat relieved at his desk. He had just hung up with the Minister of State and still held the phone in his hand. He pushed the button for an unsecure line and hit the intercom. “Marita, please put a call in to the Foreign Minister. Yes, I need to speak to Minister Shaw personally.”

Major Holmes, for the first time in several years, didn't know what to say. She studied the faces around her. Janet Holmes had grown so used to seeing cunning looks, deceit and anger in the faces of her commanders that she was taken aback by the obvious sincerity in the faces around her. Sincerity and something else. Seriousness. Professionalism. Everything that the Dominion’s military had once had and everything that she hoped it would have again.

“Colonel Blackman, thank you. We – all Upper Virginians – will long remember your support. You and your people have gone so far beyond what we could have expected. I know that with your help – and with Colonel Armstrong’s and Lieutenant Colonel Matthew’s men – and, of course, with the Crimson Star, we can give our country a new birth of freedom.”

Janet took a drink and then a deep breath. “So, shall we go through the training exercises one last time before we head back home?”

***
Becka Harrison sat on the edge of her bed in her flannel pajamas looking, she thought, like someone’s grandmother. She wasn’t. Not yet and not anytime soon. But she had been feeling old for years. But tonight, tonight she felt young again. Things were finally coming together. She finally had hope for her country. And, she had to admit, a big part of that was due to Shaun Roberts. He was a genuinely good man. And she enjoyed working with him, more than anyone since…

Becka cut herself off and walked across to her packed suitcases. There was no time to think like that. Her flight was leaving in the morning. A day early, but that wouldn’t be too unusual. She often had to leave seminars early because of her duties. She wanted to stay, but couldn’t. There was too much that she needed to get back and tell Thorsen.

Thorsen. Becka had known him for years, but still didn’t comprehend him. She completely trusted him up to a point. She knew he wanted to remove Altman and make a new Dominion. But whether he was committed to keeping her as a real leader or would brush her aside as soon as a figurehead was no longer needed and he could take power himself, she didn’t know. But in any case, she knew he would be the loyal ally that Varessa and Shaun deserved and would work to restore the Dominion to its former self. Next to that, Becka thought, her own role was trivial.

***

The next morning, MAJGEN Becka Harrison, dressed in her green uniform jacket and khaki dress slacks, wrestled her bags out of elevator. As soon as he spotted her, a corporal from the Embassy rushed over and took her bags. CAPT Stokes, she saw, had already checked out and loaded his bags in the Embassy’s white Suburban. He was sitting casually on a couch in the lobby, watching everything from behind his sunglasses.

Harrison check out and walked past CAPT Stokes to the waiting corporal. “I need to meet someone before we leave. I’ll be out in a minute.” She took a seat and looked at her watch. She was early. She took a deep breath and waited. Shaun was to meet her one last time before she left. They would confirm their timeline and their next contact.

OOC: Excalbia has a new flag and new website: http://www.geocities.com/ilclbt/history.htm. If you're interested, take a look and let me hear your suggestions.

Major Holmes' comments had struck a nerve. Of that there was no doubt. The sense of quiet pride felt by all servicemen -and women- in Varessa would be a little more pronounced at Pine Creek for a while. And, Blackman pondered, so would the boss when he gets back...

Ozymandias 3 punched through the upper edge of the atmosphere, on the first full test of the Crimson Star onboard an aircraft. Colonel Blackman watched the Upper Virginian's piloting efforts over the viewscreens of Pine Creek, and tried to subdue the butterflies. In many ways, this was the most important test. If Crimson Star didn't function now, it was next to useless. And that would be, in no small doubt, his responsibility.

Not that Blackman had any reason to expect that it wouldn't work, but worry cam naturally to most servicemen, although most, Blackman included, were experts at concealing that sentiment.

"Ozymandias 3, you are 250 miles out from target range, begin firing sequence when ready"

***
Varessa's foreign minister, Alex Shaw, was a 19 year veteran of politics. He'd begged, borrowed, "acquired" and bartered his way into his current position, and come out smelling so rosy that it was almost disgusting. He was sharp, knew it, and knew that Chancellor Drake did as well.

But he'd gotten into his current portfolio as part of a deal, and was very fresh to foreign affairs. He was feeling the stress of the Upper Virginian... difficulties. Foreign affairs used to be an easy posting in Varessa, historically not too far off the Swiss stereotype of neutrality. But not any more. It had been estimated for some time that Varessa would get pulled into foreign conflicts. After all, military technology was far more likely to raise eyebrows than private and secretive banking practices.

But, of course, it had to happen on his shift.

His musings were interrupted by his secretary.

"Sir, Ambassador Vikis on the line, he sounds like he wants to talk pretty urgently"

"Yes, put him through. It's good of him to reply so promptly... Ambassador Vikis good to hear from you again. Has your government reached a decision?"

***

Major Bolton held the door open while MAJGEN Roberts, this time in travel-comfortable civilian attire, threw a travel bag in the back. Roberts waved off the Major's formality, and jumped into the front seat. Events in Varessa demanded his attention, but he had another rendezvous with Becka -when had he started to think of her as Becka, rather than MAJGEN Harrison- before his departure.

The traffic was rather busy, to say the least, but Major Bolton took full advantage of diplomatic immunity to violate every road rule the Confederacy had. And then some.

But, he didn't want to keep his Upper Virginian friend waiting. Her government was less than sympathetic when it came to pushing limits, norms, and so on.

Their efforts would help to change that.

That's why he was meeting Becka Harrison today.

Yep, that was it.

No other reason...

None at all.

Major Bolton left him to his contemplations.

***

Varessa's foreign minister, Alex Shaw said, “Ambassador Vikis good to hear from you again. Has your government reached a decision?"

“Yes, Minister Shaw.” Sir Gareth Vikis answered, tapping a Waterman pen on his desk blotter as he spoke. “I’ve just gotten off the phone with our Minister of State, who has conferred with Chancellor Freedman and with His Imperial Majesty. It is the position of His Imperial Majesty’s Government that we will take no hostile action in response to any… domestic disturbances within the Dominion. Of course, we will respond to any armed violations of our sovereign territory. We will also, as we have in the past, open our borders to any refugees who may flee the violence in Upper Virginia. Such asylum, however, will not extend to any persons suspected of terrorism or … crimes against humanity.”

Vikis took a deep breath. He was about to go far beyond anything he would have dreamed of saying, but these were not his words, they were the Chancellors. And the Emperor’s. “In addition, Minister Shaw, I am authorized to inform the Varessan Government that His Imperial Majesty’s Government would not view unfavorably a change in government in Upper Virginia. Should a new government be proclaimed and offer to correct the past wrongs of the Dominion – in domestic and foreign affairs – my Government would be prepared to offer early recognition and other assistance to the new Upper Virginian Government. Provided, of course, that the Varessan Government will vouch for the new government.”

“Pine Creek, Ozymandius Three. Target acquired. Firing.” MAJ Janet Holmes felt the slightest shudder as Crimson Star’s catapult accelerated a stream of particles towards the first target. “Pine Creek, Ozymandius Three. I read target destroyed. Systems report nominal. Can you confirm target destroyed?”

***

MAJGEN Becka Harrison saw MAJGEN Shaun Roberts stride into the hotel lobby dressed in civvies. She smiled at the reversal. Last night he’d been in full-dress and she’d been the civilian. “Shaun,” she said, extending her hand. “Well, I guess this will be ‘farewell,’ for a little while at least. I hope to be able to welcome you to a new Dominion soon. You’ll never know how much you’ve done for me. For my whole country.” She lowered her voice even further and reached into her pocket to check her signal jammer. “So, will your ‘friends’ be in place and how can I contact them or you, if need be?”

Blackman watched the targetting screen as the fitst target series hung in the air. The drones, Varessan, of course, were easy targets, but this was only the first airbourne firing of the weapon. 16 modified UAVs , with a radar transponder to help them be more clearly seen by the firing platform.

The Ozymandias 3 had taken off a short time earlier, and the Colonel had no problems picking it from the multitude of aircraft over Varessan airspace. Even if it weren't highlighted in red, it was moving at least an order of magnitude faster than anything else over the country. Once again, Blackman couldn't help but suck in a fresh intake of breath. The Upper Virginians had come up with a beauty of an aircraft, that was for sure.

"Estimated firing time in 10, 9, 8..."

Here goes, the real test to see if the Crimson Star performed as designed...

“Pine Creek, Ozymandius Three. Target acquired. Firing.”

"3, 2, 1..."

The active radar and infra-red tracking displays lit up like christmas trees. 16 "hostiles" were presented to Crimson Star's targetting matrix, and in less than a second, sixteen kinetic harpoons had left the weapon's business end. The speeds they travelled at generated friction enough to vapourise most substances... but, not tungsten. Such a crucial design flaw that had been so easily solved, Blackman still could hardly believe it.

Less than a second after they fired, all 16 shots had hit.

As stated by Einstein in the law of conservation of energy, energy can neither be created nor destroyed, but only changed in form. Crimson Star made use of this principle in a very novel fashion.

As any given kinetic harpoon travelled through the air, even at high altitudes the thin air generated phenomenal amounts of heat, making the tungsten glow white hot. The projectile was solid enough, and travelling at such speeds, that it would, without a doubt, pass right through any target...

But, as designed, it didn't. When the kinetic harpoon struck its target, any target, it, by definition, slowed down, if only a fraction of its speed, but slowing down nonetheless... the kinetic energy had to become something else...

Heat energy.

When that kinetic energy became heat energy, it did something to the kinetic harpoon. Such was the velocity of the initial projectile that the loss of less than 3% of its speed, within the fraction of a millisecond between impacting the target and passing through it, generated enough heat energy to vaporise the tungsten core of the projectile. In a bare sliver of time greater than an instant, the solid metal of the harpoon passed from solid, through liquid and gas, and became a plasma.

That plasma superheated everything around it like a miniature sun.

The Crimson Star was not an explosive weapon. The effects of the kinetics used was far more powerful than any explosion that could be generated by similarly sized chemical explosives.

The drones, like the first test shot from earlier, were not debris.

They had ceased to exist as anything more than background heat radiation.

“Pine Creek, Ozymandius Three. I read target destroyed. Systems report nominal. Can you confirm target destroyed?”

Colonel Blackman pursed his lips again. He could. He most certainly could.

"Ozymandias 3, Pine Creek. Target series one has been destroyed. Nice shooting. Engage target series two when ready."

Colonel Blackman looked up at Colonel Peterson. She smiled back at him, beaming at the apparent success of their mutual efforts. He couldn't help but smile in return.

Yep, the X-9, complete with Crimson Star, was looking to make the vision behind the Ozymandias Project a reality.

***

MAJGEN Roberts couldn't help but chuckle in amusement at the reversal of position. Not that he minded. He actually thought that the Upper Virginian Army's uniform jacket was very complimentary to the... no. He stopped himself right there.
*I am not going down that road now. It is not professional. I am a Major General of the Varessan Army. I will act like it... now think, and answer the lady's question*

He shook her hand, try to not think about the effect that the physical contact was having on his still rather potent hormones. he really was getting to old to worry about hormones. Why was he thinking like a post-pubescent teenager.

"If we've helped, Becka, its for a lot of the wrong reasons, as much as for all the right ones. We like peace. And harmony, and all the good things that go with that. The current government isn't making continued peace look particularly likely."

He paused, before continuing.

"The whole wanton disregard for human rights thing just makes it easier to stomach..." he grinned "and a whole lot more satisfying."

He looked briefly at Major Bolton. He gave the all clear. No one seen watching them.

But, it seems the Major was slipping. Roberts caught CAPT Stokes peeking at them from over the top of a newspaper. The Captain was still very slick. But Roberts did recognise him nonetheless, and smiled slightly.

"And yes, those friends of mine should be in place soon. Probably by tonight, if I guess correctly. Your contact will be through me... at the Varessan Embassy in Courtland. I have been re-assigned there, military attache. The cabinet is very keen to follow this up. So, I'm it. Will Blackman is heading VMRDC, although he doesn't know it yet. He's doing a superb job, and will do just fine in my absence." he said, with a slight smile. He thought highly of Will Blackman, and had watched his career progression closely...

Roberts looked again at Major Bolton. Or would have, if he was there... which he wasn't. That was worrying. Nevertheless, he had information to relay...

"Becka, walk with me..."


***

Major Bolton moved through the building opposite the hotel. He wasn't sure if the person he'd seen was a CSS agent, or something else. If he were CSS, then that might be ugly. If he were something else, it'd be even worse.

He looked around himself, at the wooden floor boards of the semi-derelict warehouse block. Good, and sturdy, but definitely getting on. e couldn't rely on them not to creak and give away his position. He'd have to move fast...

Bolton dropped his bag,and pulled out a M4 .203. One of his personal favourites, he always carried it when the slightly greater length and bulk, compared to an Uzi, weren't an issue.

Next, he pulled out a silencer from one of the pockets of the bag, and began screwing it into the flash suppressor. Following that, he removed the carry handle, fiddling with the weapon as noiselessly as possible, and reattached a 3x optic sight. The last step of the process was fitting the bipod tp the barrel, just above the .203 launcher.

Assembly complete, he loaded a 30 round magazine into the M4, and set a 40mm HEDP round into the breech of the launcher.

He folded up the bag, and stashed it in a corner. He'd come back for it..

***

The three Hercules hugged the ground, skirting the northern border of the Confederation. So far, the pilot thought, so good. Confederation border stations were not really designed as a defensive measure. They were designed as clear indicators of where the Confederacy’s border was, and to let uninvited guests know that they were in hostile territory. The radar stations were on active, broadcasting at 80% power, for all the world like security guards at night carrying torches. Their presence was not to find someone creeping around, but to let anyone who might creep around know that there were people about.

So the pilot steered clear of the radars. It was as simple as that. The unclaimed territory to the Dominion’s east was a god send for Varessa’s purposes. That territory transformed the nigh on impossible task of sneaking three medium transport aircraft into the airspace of one of the most paranoid nations on earth into the substantially less difficult task of getting in the six vehicles of the Varessan Special Forces detachment that the planes were carrying.

That detachment, tasked, as it was, to meet with the resistance within the Dominion, was little more than a heavy platoon in numerical strength. They were, however, very high quality troops, and the equipment they carried was second to none. And they had enough supplies to last for a considerable length of time, unsupported. Not that any of them wanted to do that.

Two of the six vehicles were Rover 110, 6 x 6 trucks, configured as what the soldiers affectionately termed “trash-haulers”, but with a pintle mounted .50 cal. machine gun above the front passenger seat. The turbocharged diesel engines were modified for optimum fuel efficiency, and had the novelty of a selector switch on the turbocharger.

Three High-mobility, multi-purpose, wheeled vehicles, more commonly known as humvees or hummers, were also aboard, one of which was mounted with TOW missile launchers, the other two carrying heavy machine guns.

The last vehicle was an “Avenger” type Hummer, which mounted a launcher with 8 stinger missiles, exceedingly useful for close range air defence, and against light armour.

Each of the Rovers paired with a humvee, and the Avenger and remaining humvee were in the third aircraft.

The soldiers themselves, 2 Platoon, Delta Company, 4th (Special Forces) Battalion, were among the best Varessa had to offer. And they’d want to be. They were, quite possibly, going to end up in combat against forces of the Upper Virginian Dominion, and, while not quite as slick as they’d once been, had huge amounts of firepower, and a highly efficient command and control system. Even the police were heavily armed, and CIB Shock Troops were well trained to boot. The ability of the unit to avoid combat was just as important as its ability to fight well, if not more so.

But fight, for the resistance, was what they were heading into the Dominion to do.

The pilot turned to the loadmaster, and spoke into the headset he was wearing.
“20 minutes Harry. Get the sleeping beauties up.”

“Ok… 15 sleep-deprived commandoes, coming right up”

***
He moved quickly, both hands on the weapon, pressed as it was to his shoulder, selector switch set to single shot. He jogged passed the next corner, rifle sweeping across the room as his eyes scanned it. Bolton was edgy. This hadn’t been expected. They were meeting for a chat. It was spur of the moment. How the hell did someone have the drop on them? And why in God’s name did they have to have a chat anyway…

He dropped to one knee, paused, and listen carefully. Nothing. But he was sure that he’d heard something. 100% positive.

Then he heard it. A crackle. Or, more properly, a hiss. One that sounded just like a radio. One being used without words being spoken into it. That being, of course, what one does with a radio when one does not wish to be overheard. That, in and of itself, made it a threat.

Bolton slung his carbine over his shoulder. It was a little unwieldy for this situation, which required the weapon to be very light and nimble… fortunately, he carried a pistol, which he’d had the presence of mind to affix a silencer to. That weapon materialised in his hands almost without conscious thought, the long, matte black silencer more than doubling the length of the 9mm P228.

Bolton moved forward again, pistol thrust forward, turning the corner up the interior staircase.

Above him, just at the top of the stairs, facing out and towards the street, was the man that he had thought he’d seen from street level, looking out with a pair of binoculars. Bolton smiled to himself slightly.

And cocked his weapon, then pointed it at the man in front of him.

The binoculars descended slowly.

***

(OOC: Apologies, Excalbia... more coming, pertinent to you, shortly.)

“Pine Creek, Ozymandius Three. Roger. And thanks. Preparing to engage series two.” MAJ Holmes’ voice crackled over the speaker.

COL Mildred Peterson turned to COL Blackman and smiled. “Colonel, your people have outdone themselves. Crimson Star is everything you promised and more. A great leap forward in technology.” Her smile took on a wry look. “Too bad we’ll all probably be on pension before it goes public and you get the acclaim you deserve.” With that she turned back to her screens. “The X-9 is already is position…”

“Pine Creek, Ozymandius Three. Target series two acquired. Positive lock. Firing. Targets read destroyed. Can you confirm, Pine Creek?”

COL Peterson looked up from her screen at COL Blackman. “So, Will, should we move on something a little more challenging?”

***

“Shaun,” Becka smiled, then quickly forced the smile away, “I’m glad that you’ll be coming to Courtland. That should make things much easier. It will certainly make our contacts seem more… natural. Given our prior work on the X-9. And I’m sure things are well in hand back at the VMRDC. Colonel Peterson has told me good things about Colonel Blackman”

Becka comfortably fell in beside MAJGEN Roberts as they walked. “So, will be flying back to Courtland with me on today’s flight?”

***

Meanwhile, in Courtland…

Chamber of Industrials Chairman Forrest Turley shook his head. “No, it’s taking too long. Something must be wrong. We need to start exploring other options…”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, grow a spine, boy!” The normally soft-spoken Vice Chairman of the Chamber slammed his fist on the table. “We didn’t let ourselves get in this pickle in a day,” Graham Yultilde spoke with a twinge of regret in his voice, “and we’re not going to snap our fingers and get out of it.”

“I know, I know,” Turley said calming down. “Its just…”

“Yes, yes, we’re all impatient.” Yultilde seemed to stare off into the distance. “Maybe if we had acted sooner. Maybe if my generation had done something we wouldn’t be where we are now.” Yuletilde let out a sigh. “Well, crying over the past won’t change and wringing our hands in the present won’t bring change about any sooner. So, how are we doing in our efforts to smooth the way?”

“Well,” Turley finally sounded back in control, “it is fortunate that we have many friends.” Sarcasm dripped from the last word. “Some of our members have been bribing some of the para-military law enforcement units – Customs, the Border Guards, Anti-drug Police, Treasury Police, city police, Labor Police, even the Agricultural Inspection! – for so long that I don’t think any of the commanders of could survive without those bribes. We haven’t let any of them know what’s coming, but we can be fairly certain that when something happens we can keep them on a short leash and on the side-lines.”

“Good, good,” MAJ Richard Thorsen leaned forward, as stoic looking as ever.

“Now,” Yultilde said, “you’ll still have the CIB and the Army to worry about. Not to mention Altman in his fortress.”

Thorsen nodded. “We have a plan to deal with Altman. And Silina. When they are gone, I’m convinced that the Army and CIB will join the others on the sidelines.”

Corporal John Nilsen lowered his night vision binoculars and pointed towards the tree line on a distant ridge. “See, Sarge, I said there was something over there!”

First Sergeant Hal Sorenson lowered his own binoculars. “At least one low-flying aircraft. Maybe two.” He looked down at the map and tried to estimate the position of the aircraft. He picked up his radio.

“Station Twenty-three this is Rider Six. Station Twenty-three, Rider Six. Over.”

“Rider Six, Twenty-three. Go ahead.”

“We have one, maybe two low-flying aircraft in sector 12, grid 5. Just outside the border. Looks like they’re heading for Uppie territory. Over.”

“Any indication that they are Uppies returning home? Over.”

“Naw, I don’t think so. Unless they’re running exercises in no-man’s land. Besides, it doesn’t look like an Uppie craft. Over.”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it past them to be running exercises out there. But, it could just as well be smugglers. As long as they’re not over our borders, ignore it. Whether they’re Uppies playing in the wilderness or smugglers, don’t much matter to GHQ. Get back to your route and look for illegals coming across the border from Uppie-land. Twenty-three over and out.”

“In addition, Minister Shaw, I am authorized to inform the Varessan Government that His Imperial Majesty’s Government would not view unfavorably a change in government in Upper Virginia. Should a new government be proclaimed and offer to correct the past wrongs of the Dominion – in domestic and foreign affairs – my Government would be prepared to offer early recognition and other assistance to the new Upper Virginian Government. Provided, of course, that the Varessan Government will vouch for the new government.”

Shaw was speechless. The response was both the best, and worst, result which the Varessan Government could have hoped for. Best, in that the Excalbians were willing to recognise the new government, provided that it acted reasonably.

Worst in that there was a catch. And it was a doozy.

Excalbia was going to hold Varessa accountable for the actions of the new Upper Virginian Administration, at least into the recent future.

And that, Shaw knew, opened up a whole new can of worms.

"Your offer is generous, Ambassador, but not quite what we expected. I will have to consult with the cabinet."

***

Roberts tried very hard to listen to the woman walking at his side, and not just look. Successfully, as it happened. But only just.

"Assuming you leave in..." Roberts checked his watch "about 2 and a half hours, then yes, I will be flying out to Courtland with you. There are, unfortunately, not too many people who like visiting the Dominion these days. Something that, with luck, you'll change."

***

The man hand his binoculars down at waist height when Bolton spoke again.

"Keeping hold of those binoculars in your left hand, stretch both arms out, parallel to the gorund, keeping your right hand open."

The man to his front moved as instructed, spreading both arms as wide as they'd go.

"Turn around slowly."

When the fellow did so, Bolton saw that the fellow looked petrified. His eyes were saucer shaped, and his knees were more than a little unsteady under his biege trenchcoat. In addition to the pair of binoculars, he carried several cameras, what looked like a dictaphone was set up on the windowsill next to a radio handset, and an assortment of snacks were laid out in a pile next to a fold-up chair.

"Who are you" was Bolton's next question.

And the man began to babble.

As the babbling continued, interspersed as it was with threats, pleas, bluster and reward offers, it became clear that the fellow was a reporter, working out of the Confederacy, tasked to investigate the strange happenings over the mountainous regions of Upper Virginia. Somehow, he'd begun to penetrate the Upper Virgininan end of the Ozymandias Project.

That was not a good thing.

Bolton decided to let the man continue babbling, and hope for the arrival of CAPT Stokes. Let the two of them talk about Upper Virginia...

***

The Hercules aircraft banked hard right, and pitched up, pressing its passengers into their seats as the aircraft came around hard. The plane flew north for 2 minutes, before coming around hard right again.

Inside the aircraft, a light changed from red to green.

"Green light, go go go" the loadmaster yelled, and before he'd finished the phrase, half of the 15 Varessan Special Forces personnel had already left the aircraft.

The next stage of the evolution was simple, although far more dangerous for the aircraft involved. The loadmaster released first one, then the other vehicle, and flicked the switch to give them a push towards the loading ramp.

The concept was that both vehicles would fall out the rear loading ramp, and, cushioned as they were by pallets, land on the ground with an almighty thud, and be ready to go when the SF troops got to them. The catch here was that most aircraft have great troubles surviving rolling cargo... particularly when there are two units of rolling cargo. This problem is compounded when flying at low level. Nevertheless, it was a time-honoured, if dangerous, Varessan SF insertion technique, and one that they were performing today.

As it happened, without undue incident. The tricky manouever expedited by the well timed nose down, as per the manual. Hard to execute, but so seamless when done correctly.

And the planes were off again. Heading east, and to a rendezvous with the KC-135 that would meet them off the Confederacy's east coast.

The commandoes were down to, and stashed their parachutes with alacrity. They were in neutral territory, but had no illusions as to the safety that granted them, this close to the Dominion's border.

“So, it was less than an unqualified endorsement on the part of the Varessans, Minister Cummings?” Christina Freedman steepled her fingers in front of her as she looked down the polished conference table at the members of her government.

“No, Lady Chancellor, it was not an unqualified endorsement. Nor, was it an out-of-hand rejection of our request that they expressly endorsement any new government in the Dominion before we accept it.” Albert Cummings, Minister of State, leaned back in his chair. “It seems to me that Varessa is heavily invested in the dissident movement in Upper Virginia. I think they will make such an endorsement. At the right time.”

“Hmmm.” Chancellor Freedman flicks a strand of her blond hair and turned to her intelligence chief. “Lord Reynolds, do we have anything more on who my be involved in this dissident movement?”

Lord James Reynold, Director of Imperial Intelligence, stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Well, my Lady, it has been frustratingly difficult to nail down any specifics. All of our sources in the Dominion are coming up dry. Its as if they’ve all run to ground. While FVLA violence is continuing, especially around Grossepointe, Courtland is quiet. Like a tomb. One of Minister Cummings’ diplomats reported that it seems the whole city is holding its breath. We agree with that. It seems something is about to happen. So, if there is a coup, my guess is that it will be soon.”

Freedman nodded. “Lord Thorne? Lord Halton?”

“Well, my Lady,” the Defense Minister – Lord John Thorne, began softly, “our forces are prepared for any contingency. I’ll let Lord Halton continue.”

“Yes, my Lady,” Admiral Lord Yornis Halton spoke clearly and strongly, “Vice Admiral Kunle and Glorious have returned from Esperi waters with most of TF Alpha, so the Home Fleet is back to full strength. While I will not pretend that we could stop a coordinated, all-out invasion by the Dominion, especially if they use their new ‘secret’ aircraft, but we should be well positioned to stop any ‘accidental’ incursions and the like.”

MAJGEN Becka Harrison smiled. “Well, I hope to change many things, Shaun. With your help. And Varessa’s. We will be on the same flight. We’ll have to go our separate ways after arrival in Courtland. I’ll need to check in with ‘my people’ and catch up on what’s been going on. And bring them up to date on our arrangements. Then, I’ll contact you. In regards to Ozymandius, of course. We’ll probably move as soon as the pieces are in place.”

***

CAPT Stokes had noticed MAJ Bolton head out of the hotel and into the adjacent building. Stokes had figured the Varessan had spotted something. When he didn't come out after a short time, he decided it must have been something important. As MAJGEN Roberts and MAJGEN Harrison went for a walk, Stokes signaled for the Embassy driver and escort to take up protective positions. Then, with one more look around to make sure the situation was clear, Stokes entered the building. Quietly and carefully, he made his way along the path Bolton must have taken. Soon, he heard voice. Or a voice to be precise. A very nervous one.

Stokes rounded a corner, his gun in the down ready position. The man in the beige trenchcoat jumped when he spotted Stokes and began babbling louder and faster. Stokes was almost tempted to smile, but, of course, he didn’t. “What do we have here?”

The Varessan column moved quickly over the wilderness territory to the Dominion’s east, 65kph over uneven ground ensuring the alertness of everyone aboard. Two of the hummers probed for sign of hostile forces in the area ahead of the convoy, while the Avenger scanned the airspace with its passive sensors at maximum resolution. Things were quiet as the proverbial tomb. Although, LTCOL. Mathews pondered, comparing the current state of affairs to that present in a tomb would not be a positive thought to dwell on for any length of time, or to enunciate to the troops at all. But, like many in Varessa, he was delighted to be on this mission. People joined the VDF for a number of reasons, but no one disliked being ordered to carry out a task as morally just as this one appeared to be. The oft-maligned Upper Virginian Dominion was fair game for just about any nation that sought to quarrel with it, but it’s very potent military strength had, thus far, prevented much by the way of international condemnation.

Mathews checked the safety on his M4 .203 (again, by force of habit) then reached for the radio handset that sat on the dash of the hummer. He looked at his watch, 0359:40.

*Close enough*

“Red Sky”

The response was quick in coming

“2 dash 55”

“3 dash 55”

“4 dash 55”

“5 dash 55”

“6 dash 55”

“Dawn’s coming.”

And that was that, the bi-hourly radio-check completed with requisite speed. Mathews was an ex-infantry officer, and he’d transferred because he liked the freedom that Special Forces allowed him, that and the quality of the enlisted men he served with was superb. Varessa held its armed forces in very high regard, in no small part due to the high pay and consequent high status enjoyed within its ranks. That and the utilisation of military resources by the civilian sector on a regular basis, engendered a greater sense of solidarity and faith in the military in Varessa than in either Erukush or Fehnmar, its two closest neighbours, or indeed in most countries in the region.

And certainly, by a long shot, more than in the Upper Virginian Dominion. There, so their intelligence had informed them, the military was seen as boorish, incompetent, and as cronies of an increasingly despised regime.
Unfortunately for Mathews, as numerically very significant cronies of an increasingly despised regime.

“Wolfhound to Shepherd, shadows on the ridge, over”

The lead scout, a hummer, callsign “Wolfhound” had spotted something ahead, and was uncertain of its identity, classification or disposition. That was not positive. At less than 10 miles from the Dominion border, well, it was unlikely to be Erukushi…

“Shepherd to Wolfhound, sniff the wind, over”

“Wolfhound to Shepherd, acknowledged, will advise, out”

“Shepherd to flock, watch for wolves, out.”

Five Varessan vehicles stopped gently and noiselessly, then turned their engines off, and manned their weapons systems, while the lead began to move towards the contact. Mathews would leave the next step to the lead vehicle.


The VSF Platoon’s sergeant, SGT Roarke, was in that lead vehicle. A man that knew his stuff, Roarke was also a 12 year veteran of the VDF, 10 of them spent in Special Forces. Very, very cautious by inclination, and unabashedly brazen when given the chance, he was, in many ways, the embodiment of the stereotypical VSF sergeant.

He and three others made up “Team Wolfhound”. They were the men, and one woman, who would metaphorically “sniff out” threats to the Shepherd’s flock. Wolfhound itself was one of the VSF’s new recon hummers. Heavily muffled engines, radio scanners, EMF antennae, infra/thermal binoculars plugged in to the dashboard, and a MAD device held ahead of the lead lined bonnet on a boom, looking very much like the snout of the animal that helped give the vehicle, the second in its class, its name. The .50 Cal MG on top was helpful for removing the less troublesome of those things that the Wolfhound managed to locate.

And, this was the first time that the recon hummer had seen action. And it was just what the Wolfhound had been designed for.

Roarke had spotted two vehicles on the ridgeline ahead, silhouetted against the starlight as shapes when seen by Mk-1 eyeball, and clearly two B-vehicles* in infra-red. Exactly what type of B-vehicle was not certain.

*B-vehicles are “soft-skinned” vehicles, such as hummers, Ural trucks, light APCs, etc. This is opposed to A-vehicles, which are classified as medium armour and above, anything from an M-113 to an Abrams, or C-vehicles, such as civilian cars, motorbikes, and so on.


The Wolfhound crept forward, Roarke easing the vehicle forward while CPL Russ watched the target through the binoculars, keeping a running commentary.

“Definitely B-vehicles, no doubt at all. The one on the left looks a lot like a Ural… in fact, I’m almost… yeah, it’s a Ural. That makes it Dominion, one way or other.”

“Yeah, sarge, and the one on the left looks mighty similar to one of those new Smerch knock-offs the Dominion has been manufacturing, rigged for travel. In fact, I’m pretty sure it is a Smerch.”

Roarke nodded absently, pondering the course of actions available to him. He could engage, but he had no idea what was around those two vehicles, not at this distance. Plus he couldn’t be absolutely sure of destroying the Smerch (Whirlwind) Multiple-Launch Rocket System before it was ready to fire at him. And, to add insult to injury, that would not only blow Wolfhound into a hundred thousand itty-bitty pieces, but would mean that the vehicle could get off a radio signal reporting their presence. That would be, in effect, a death sentence. They’d have to talk to the boss.

“Shepherd, this is Wolfhound, bird-dog report, over.”

“Wolfhound, this is Shepherd, send, over.”

“Alpha stop. 0405 Delta 1. Bravo stop. Golf Romeo 09878675. More to follow, over.”

“Copy. Send, over.”

“Charlie Stop. 1 dash nil. 2 dash 1. 3 dash nil. 4 dash 1, Mike Lima Romeo Sierra. End bird-dog.”

“Acknowledged, Wolfhound. Wait, out.”

Mathews now had to consider his options. Wolfhound had reported that the contacts were a single B vehicle and a multiple launch rocket system. The latter was probably self-propelled, due to the difficulty identifying it earlier on. The platoon could either avoid the two vehicles entirely, a difficult and time expensive proposition, or they could attempt to destroy them, or they could sit tight and wait for them to move. Neither the first nor last of the three options allowed the platoon enough time to get in to position for the rendezvous with the Upper Virginian resistance. They’d have to neutralise them.

So, how was that to be achieved? The fastest method was probably the TOW missile launcher on the second of the three hummers. Two missiles loaded, flight time about 8 seconds if Wolfhound provided laser designation, and the whole thing over in less than 20 seconds. Although, admittedly, it’d make a hell of a bang, and, when those rockets went up, an explosion that’d be seen for miles. But, Mathews thought, that can’t really be helped. With luck, they’d only need one missile, and make the entire incident seem like a malfunction of one of the Upper Virginian’s own missiles… They’d be able to scarper before any investigating units arrived, particularly at night, and utilising the Wolfhound’s abilities to the full. Yes, that’d do it.

“Shepherd to Flock, big dog 4 dash 1 period 1, I say again, big dog 4 dash 1 period 1.”

“Huntsman, roger”

“Wolfhound, roger. Starting the music.”

Roarke gave his instructions quickly, and the crew of the Wolfhound had one of the four laser designators locked on the Upper Virginian MLRS in seconds. The vehicle could hardly have been clearer to the Varessan’s thermal and infra-vision detection equipment in broad daylight, still-warm engines contrasting against the cold sky.

“Music’s on.”

“Copy that. Huntsman’s pull.”

At the final fire authority, the TOW equipped hummer that was callsign “Huntsman” fired the first of two wired guided missiles, the projectile travelling the several mile distance under manual guidance, the laser-designated targets clearly showing on the firing platform’s targeting display.

7.28 seconds after the first missile had cleared the launch tube, the Upper Virginian Smerch-type multiple launch rocket system detonated in a rapidly expanding ball of crimson flame. All 16 rockets went up, their solid fuel propellant igniting upon contact with the explosive warhead that was the business end of the Varessan weapon. Seconds after the blast, Wolfhound came back on the net.

“Shepherd, this is Wolfhound, scorch two, over.”

“Roger Wolfhound, proceed as planned. Out.”

The reconnaissance vehicle moved out, followed minutes later by the rest of the platoon. The Dominion border was beckoning.

***

Major Bolton didn’t quite know how to best answer that question. The man was a reporter. So it seemed. But he wasn’t willing to place any money on that either. But Bolton didn’t have the foggiest idea what to do with him. Especially considering that they were in Confederation, rather than Varessan or Dominion, territory.

“He says he’s a reporter, conspiracy nut, working out of some press office here in Jefferson. Following either of our two charges. Barely making out a word he says. What do you reckon?”

***

Chancellor Drake was getting thoroughly sick of the whole situation. Why couldn't he have just told MAJGEN Roberts that, no, they couldn't develop anything new for the Dominion, or, no, they wouldn't support the rebel faction within the Dominion, or something like that.

Alex Shaw was trying forcefully to persuade him that endorsing the Upper Virginian resistance was a good thing, and a requirement to defuse some of the rapidly escalating tensions within the region.

Field Marshal Harris, perhaps surprisingly, was less certain.

“Sir…”

“Mike…”

“Sorry si… Mike. We can’t in good faith promise the Excalbians that the coming government will be all hunky dory. We have no control. How can we be asked to vouch for what we can’t control? It’s tantamount to flat lying.”

“No, it’s not.” Shaw put in. “They’re not asking us to ensure that nothing happens. They’re asking us to assure them of MAJGEN Harrison’s good intentions. I think that’s something we can do. Hell, YOU can do. Get on the phone to Major General Roberts. He’s the closest thing we have to an expert. And we already know what he’ll say. So… there’s your answer.”

The pause was a little uncomfortable, but not overly so. This particular cabinet was often fiery, but very capable. A credit to Varessa, they were, thought Drake, and how they were handling themselves was nothing short of professionally superb. The Field Marshal looked to be formulating an argument and, to their credits, no one interrupted.

The seconds dragged on to a minute and a half.

Two minutes.

Three.

Finally, the Field Marshal/Defence Minister responded.

“He’s got me boss. I’ll run with that. We know what our expert’d say, and I hadn’t quite thought of the Excalbian proposition in that light before.”

The relief throughout the room was palpable.

“Well, that’s what, twice I’ve ever seen you back down?” Treasurer Hannaford asked Harris around an as-yet unlit cigar.

“Three times. But yeah. Like I said, the man’s got me.”

“Ok, let’s let the Excalbians know then, Alex.”

***

.

“Captain,” Corporal Miller said with a salute.

“Yes, Corporal?” Captain Hausman looked up from his desk and sketched a quick salute in return.

“Sir, Epsilon Three-two is overdue for radio-check.”

“By how long?” Hausman asked wearily. He was getting tired of jumpy conscripts. Every little problem had them seeing the FVLA behind every tree. The terrorists weren’t even active in the northeast; they were in the more populated west. There was nothing out here but trees…

“Forty-five minutes, sir. They also fail to answer our calls.”

“Hmm…” There were also smugglers around. “Dispatch Epsilon Two and Delta Three to recon the area and see if they can make contact with Three-Two.”

“Yes, sir.” Miller saluted and left tent heading for the comm tent.

***

“Hmm,” Captain Stokes smiled icily, “perhaps I should put him in the diplomatic pouch and send him back to Courtland. I’m sure we get something intelligible from him there.” Seeing the reporter’s face lose the rest of his color, Stokes leveled an emotionless gaze at him. “Or perhaps he’d like to try again here.”

As the reporter composed himself for another try at an explanation, Stokes stepped over to Bolton and spoke in a barely audible whisper. “Depending on what he knows, I can call someone I know in the Confederacy’s Secret Service that can sit on him for a while, but not to long…”

“Your Excellency,” a voice said over the intercom, “Minister Shaw calling for you, sir.”

“Thank you,” Sir Gareth Vikis said as he picked up the phone. “Yes, Minister Shaw?”

General Craig Altman drained his glass and poured another. How dare he! Suggest that the Government open negotiations with the terrorists! Altman looked across the room at the portrait of Roger Courtland. He saved us from one communist revolution; I’m not about to roll over and permit a second to succeed. I’d rather nuke Harrington and their so-called Liberation Zone than hold peace talks with those… animals.

Altman looked down and MAJGEN Bernard Atwood’s body sprawled between a wingback chair and the coffee table. A gun lay next to Atwood’s hand. The coward! When I gave him that gun and told him he could shoot me and let my men go ahead and execute his family or he could turn the gun on himself and I’d spare his family, he should have shot me. A braver man would have. I would have.

Altman glanced down at his watch. Almost too late. He picked up a phone.

“Major Gutten? General Altman. I rescind my order. Authorization Altman Beta Tango Zulu Thirty-three. Understood.”

He could have let Atwood’s family die, but, after all, Altman did consider himself an honorable man. A man of his word.

* * *

*static, followed by an electronic hum*

“This is Radio Free Virginia. The Military Command of the Free Virginia Liberation Army announces that the entire city of Harrington has been liberated from Dominion forces. We hereby declare Harrington the first Liberation Zone in Upper Virginia. We call on all workers to join us. You need to….”

*the voice dissolves into static as Dominion jamming finds the frequency*

* * *

Harriet Yultilde sat nervously at a table in a quaint café in the elite suburb of Stonebridge. She glanced around uneasily until she spotted a young, stylishly dressed woman approaching her.

“Good morning, Mrs. Yultilde,” the woman said taking a seat.

“I told you that I’m finished with you,” the older woman snapped.

“Oh, come now, Mrs. Yultilde. After all, you were the one who sought us out. The one who wanted to support our cause.”

“I was grief stricken and heart broken. My only grandson had just died. Just because he wanted to help the poor.” Tears began to line the corners of the woman’s eyes. “He got mixed up with you and was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And…,” her voice cracked, “they killed him.”

“Yes, General Altman’s troops did kill him. Along with a dozen of my comrades. That’s why you wanted to help us. To overthrow the system that killed Geoff.”

“Yes. I thought you people were the only chance to do that. But I was wrong. You’re butchers. Almost as bad as Altman.”

“But, now it’s too late. How do you think General Altman would react if he knew that the wife of the Vice Chairman of the Chamber of Industrials was helping to fund the FVLA?”

Yultilde’s face was ashen. “You would, wouldn’t you, you b…”

“Now, now. So, what more have you learned about this coup?”

“Very little. Graham is tight lipped these days. But they have support in the military. And from some foreign country. I’m not sure who. But someone far away.”

“Hmm. And what else do you have?”

Yultilde pushes an envelope towards the young woman. “Take you bloody money and go.”

The woman casually takes the envelope. “Be seeing you, Ma’am.”

“Your Excellency,” a voice said over the intercom, “Minister Shaw calling for you, sir.”

“Thank you,” Sir Gareth Vikis said as he picked up the phone. “Yes, Minister Shaw?”

Bump for Varessa. :)

Gwenyth Ubrecht strolled out of the elegant café in Stonebridge, an envelope full of Dominion crowns tucked into her purse. She was not your stereotypical revolutionary. She was quite at ease walking along Stonebridge’s exclusive High Street shopping district. She glanced in a window and paused to admire her reflection. Though not really beautiful, she was young, fit and very well dressed. And, yes, attractive. She liked that. She was glad that she could support the revolution without trudging through muck and filth. She enjoyed the trappings of affluence. In fact, that was what had led her to the FVLA. She had grown up in a family of domestic servants. Close enough to see the Dominion’s wealth, but not close enough to enjoy it. After the revolution, things would be changed. Everyone would have access to the nation’s prosperity, not just those few who lived in Stonebridge.

Ubrecht hailed a taxi and headed back for downtown Courtland. As they left Stonebridge, they crossed the first checkpoint. Nervous conscripts dressed in full armor stopped the car and questioned the driver and searched the trunk. Fortunately, they accepted her falsified ID – indicating that she was a graduate student at the Courtland Institute of Technology, the Dominion’s wealthiest private university – and also accepted her as a child of the elite. She was asked no questions and the taxi passed into town.

Half a dozen checkpoints later, the taxi dropped her at DomionMart, a large, multi-level working class department store in the center of town. She paid her bill, but didn’t tip – the driver would get his just compensation when the revolution came and, besides, the money she carried was needed for the revolution.

She walked through the main doors of the store and headed for the 6th floor cafeteria and her meeting with the mysterious representative of the FVLA’s foreign benefactor.

* * *

Meanwhile, in Harrington, a cold, industrial city at the mouth of Dominion’s largest river – the Great Northern River, Commander Lazarus was trying to organize a government for Upper Virginia’s first Liberated City. Commander Lazarus – he was known exclusively by his Nome de Guerra now – looked up at his subordinates. “So, what can we salvage?”

“Comrade,” a short, stubby man in a dirty camouflage uniform answered, “the local CIB shredded all the criminal files, including the files on political prisoners. No CIB agents were captured alive – they fought to the bitter end. We did manage to take the police without too much of a fight and we did get at least some of the files from the city police. Chief Bremen has refused to cooperate, but Captain Stiles is working with us.”

A woman, taller than the man, but also dressed in dirty fatigues, joins in. “Commander, city services are under firm control. Most people in the housing, fire, health and other social service departments are only too willing to cooperate. We are getting resistance from the Education department. I think they fear we’ll blame them for spreading propaganda. We’ve also taken control of all radio, TV and newspaper outlets.”

“Good, good.” Commander Lazarus scanned the faces of his fellow revolutionaries and felt pride. They had wrested control of a major city away from the Dominion. No small accomplishment. “Sub-commander Ulman,” the Commander addressed the short man, “I’m naming you People’s Commissioner for Internal Security. If you trust him, take Captain Stiles on as a lieutenant. Execute Chief Bremen as an enemy of the people.” He turned to the woman. “Sub-commander Blaumena, you will be the new People’s Commissioner for Education, Social Services and Media. Name your deputies as you chose from our supporters. But don’t take field commanders!” Finally, the Commander turned to the slightly older man citing beside him. “Marko, my old friend, I want you to be Chairman of the Free City of Harrington, provisional capital of the Virginia.”

Marko smiled and nodded. “I am happy to serve Karl,” Marko was the only one who could use the Commander’s true name and get away with it, “I will coordinate a statement announcing our new government to the world. We will be an example for the whole Dominion.”

“Thank you, Marko.” Then, the Commander stood. “Friends, congratulations and may you have success. I will leave two regiments here to support you, but I must return to the field with the rest of our fighters. We have the Dominion on the run here and I must press the advantage. Let me know when you hear from Ulbrecht.”

Malls, he thought as he sipped iced tea from a thin plastic cup, are something I sure don't miss at home. The tea was made from a powder, oversweet with the tang of artificial lemon, and burned his throat ever so slightly as he swallowed. Voices muttered in his ear, the sound track of an argument elsewhere.

'Turn right, turn right, you missed the damn turn.'

'Shut up, I told you, it's coming up.'

'Nomad says you missed it.'

'What the fuck does that thing know? We just programmed it with the street plans; the guy said it was after the donut store, have you seen a donut store?'

'You're going to believe some dirty hippy over our hardware?'

'Shut it,' he hissed, subvocalized into the throatmic concealed beneath his turtleneck. The voices stopped, though he imagined they hit mute and the argument was ongoing. How perfectly intelligent, rational, sold operatives could turn into children when given directions to a rendevous baffled him.

He'd told the FVLA contact clearly that he would give no information about himself or his outfit, and they hadn't asked, just sent a photo of a woman named Ubrecht with the meeting place and time on it. He smiled at the humor, you break, break what? The chains of oppression? Ha, too easy.

She showed up on time, too well dressed for his comfort, and he thought for a moment of bailing, demanding another contact. No time, he thought, his minds voice edged with frustration. Beggars can't be choosers.

He ignored her, bought another cup of iced tea, and feigned looking for a table before sidling up to her. 'Ms. Ubrecht, is this seat taken?'

Gwenyth Ubrecht looked up and cautiously eyed the stranger before her. A little shabby, but not too scruffy. Fits in well with the working class crowd, she thought. She gestures to the empty seat. "Please, join me."

Ubrecht looks around carefully. "I understand you might be in position to offer assistance, Mr.... I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your name."

'Yes, I am, and no, you didn't. I have a car, we can talk there, if you want.' He pretends to sip the tea, but instead subvocalizes again:

'Are you two there yet?'

'Yeah, yeah, we're pulling into the lot now.'

He drains the cup, crumples it and tries to smile. 'Shall we?'

Ubrecht returned the stranger's smile, gracefully uncrossed her legs and stood up. "Shall we go?" She say's cheerfully. Despite her surface calm and good humor, she had a nervous feeling in her stomach. I know they've offered their assistance. And we need it. But, I've never been comfortable going off with a stranger in his car. At least I know that I have some comrades watching us from a discrete distance.

Gwenyth falls in beside the stranger and they begin making their way down the escalators to the ground floor. Out of the corner of her eye she spots one operative following them down behind a couple of clusters of shoppers. He drops off on the second floor and another operative picks them up as they approach the front door.

They exit to the street and make their way towards a car. Before they can get there, though, a city policeman - in riot helmet and vest, but otherwise unarmored, stops them. A few paces away other policemen are stopping other shoppers and workers.

"Papers, please," the officer says with boredom in his voice.

Gwenyth pulls out her national ID - a credit card sized document with a photo, fingerprint and optical stripe - and hands it to the officer. The officer pulls a card reader off his belt and looks at the stranger beside Gwenyth.

"Papers, please!" He says again, sounding a little less bored.

He blinks, not expecting to be held up so early, and shrugs. The hesitation is probably natural, he thinks, nobody expects to be hassled except the guilty. The passport he pulls from his pocket has the name of Jonathan Smith, with a gold visa purchased and validated by the UV immigrantion department. The policeman looks at the visa and looks up at him.

'My parent's didn't have an imagination,' he explains, assuming it's the name. Quite intentional. He clears his throat and taps his throat to cover any sound his subvocalization might make, 'Stand back and be prepared.'

'Righty-oh boss.'

The city policeman stares at the passport. He wasn't used to seeing foreigners, much less foreigners with gold visas. He hesitates a second too long and an armored trooper from the Directorate of Justice's Criminal Investigation Bureau - the CIB - walks over from another clump of city policemen and looks over his shoulder. The CIB trooper glances at the visa and at the mysterious stranger. He pulls out a hand scanner and runs it across the visa and checks the display.

"You're OK. Move along," he says sharply.

Gwyneth steals a glance at her 'contact.' Hmm. More than meets the eye. Then she spots the SUV that appears to be their destination. And he got a vehicle permit. They're hard to come by. Very impressive. As they move away from police checkpoint, Gwyneth follows the man to his vehicle.

F@*$!^ pigs, he thought as he walked away, Ubrecht in tow. Anothing I don't miss at home. The techboys were watching them through armored windows, smiling like children at the playground. No cars at home, he thought, this must be great for them.

'After you, Ms. Ubrectht,' he says as he opens the back door and follows her in. The doors are about four inches thick, the interior plush, with a dash full of flickering lights and back lit crystal displays with numbers scrolling across the screens. One of the tech boys wore an antique Rigan navy hat, the other's hair tended to droop into his eyes as he regarded his passenger. Rigan Hat passed back two headsets with coiled cords dangling from the left earpiece.

'Put these on,' the contact said as he closed the door behind him, handing an oversized headset to Ubrecht. As she complied he sat back and buckled his seatbelt. 'Go.'

The car lurched forward, inexperienced drivers, and as they merged onto the road the contact picked up a plastic box from the floor, its sides set with speakers, and flipped a small white switch ontop. The car filled with a low hiss, muting all other sound.

'Acoustic noise dampener,' he explained into his throatmic, 'just in case. Now, I have two questions. First, how can we help you. Second, what are you trying to acheive here.'

edit: for clarity, headphones should have been headsets.

Gwyneth Ubrecht adjusted the headset, in part to give herself time to think. Direct, isn’t he.

“Well,” she began with a pleasant smile, “to answer your second question first – we want to overthrow this regime. Since the worker’s revolution was put down by the military in 1932, the government has grown more tyrannical and crueler. General Altman is only the most insane and bloodthirsty of the tyrants. Do you realize that ordinary workers have no rights to even own a car? Not because they can’t afford them, but because the government thinks they’re easier to control if they have to rely on public transportation. Workers have no rights. No freedom. We want to end that and give the workers their fair share of society’s wealth.”

“As for how you can help,” Ubrecht looks around the vehicle as her smile widens, “if this is an example of the resources you have at your disposal, you can do a lot for us. We need technical resources. The Dominion is very technologically sophisticated and it is difficult for us to communicate and coordinate our activities.”

Ubrecht’s face grew serious. “We have just taken control of the city of Harrington, but it was lightly defended; we hadn’t revealed our presence there, so they weren’t expecting us to attack in force. But, we only have ground-based guerillas. As soon as the Dominion regroups and throws its armor and air power at us, it’ll be very hard for us to hold the city. We could desperately use armor and air support.”

Ubrecht’s smile slowly returned. “So, the question now is, what are you willing to do to help us?”

(OOC: Sorry for the delay; busy weekend.)

'I know what you want to do, I want to know what you're trying to achieve. We're not interested in sponsoring the next Chairman Mao, nor are we interested in funding a civil war. If we help you we want guarantees this ends quickly and not in a Soviet nightmare.

'We have a very strict policy, we don't get involved with internal political conflicts and we don't overthrow governments. If you accepted our aid you would have to accept our terms, which means you don't take power by force, you'd topple this government and let the people put a new one in place.' He paused, considering the assumptions he had to make about Harrington. 'It means no more seizing control of cities and startings wars of attrition. You'd be fighting a differant kind of war, a war only we know how to fight, and thus a war only we know how to win.

'Revolutionaries always have the advantage against the state because the state has more to protect. We'll give you the weapons and operators you'll need to knock out the supports, if you're willing to give up control of replacing those supports.'

'I know what you want to do, I want to know what you're trying to achieve. We're not interested in sponsoring the next Chairman Mao, nor are we interested in funding a civil war. If we help you we want guarantees this ends quickly and not in a Soviet nightmare.

'We have a very strict policy, we don't get involved with internal political conflicts and we don't overthrow governments. If you accepted our aid you would have to accept our terms, which means you don't take power by force, you'd topple this government and let the people put a new one in place.' He paused, considering the assumptions he had to make about Harrington. 'It means no more seizing control of cities and startings wars of attrition. You'd be fighting a differant kind of war, a war only we know how to fight, and thus a war only we know how to win.

'Revolutionaries always have the advantage against the state because the state has more to protect. We'll give you the weapons and operators you'll need to knock out the supports, if you're willing to give up control of replacing those supports.'

Gwyneth bit the inside of her cheek to hide her surprise. This isn’t what we expected. Having regained her composure, and with smile still in place, she said, “We certainly don’t want to recreate the failures of the USSR or of the Cultural Revolution.” She paused and weighed her words. “I will be honest and say that we weren’t quite thinking of such a… restrictive effort.”

Gwyneth looked out the darkened windows. They were passing through the edges of a working class area – apparently en route to an outlying business district. There was row after row of boxy high-rise apartments and, in the distance, the dim lights of a shantytown rising on the edges of the city dump. This was no way to live. What was it I told Yultilde? That we are the only chance to overthrow Altman? And she said we were as bloody as he. Maybe we were both right.

“I can live with your conditions, my nameless friend,” Ubrecht turned and gave the stranger a fresh smile. “But I’m not the final word. Our revolutionary command is in Harrington now. I will need to contact them. Can I meet you tomorrow with our answer?”

***

Meanwhile, in the Free City of Harrington…

Chairman Ulsis Marko looked over his papers. Revolution is truly easier than administration. Last week, my biggest concern was turning off the power and the water and inciting workers to rise up against their oppressors. Now, I have to make sure the lights work, that the water is on and the workers show up and do their jobs. He picked up a piece of paper. The same trash workers who used their trucks to break down police barricades and usher the guerillas into the city, where now refusing to return to their routes without a raise. How was he supposed to give them a raise? He hadn’t even implemented the new tax structure. He didn’t have any money to give them. Let alone a raise.

He picked up another paper. People’s Commissioner Ulman was reporting that the police were being pelted with stones and vegetables by workers when they tried to return to their posts. And he was having trouble recruiting new police and keeping the old ones in line.

Marko sighed deeply. Now he knew why Karl - Commander Lazarus – had left him in charge. Running a city just wouldn’t have helped his image as a revolutionary leader.

He picked up another paper. Reports from scouts that the Commander’s forces had detected an armored division – a whole division! – with mobile and mechanized infantry and artillery support approaching from the southeast.

The ringing of his phone interrupted the downward spiral of his thoughts. He picked it up and looked at the display. He quickly plugged it into a desktop descrambler and picked up the handset. “Marko.”

“This is Ubrecht. We may have problems. They will help, but it will take some modifications on our part. What mood is Lazarus in?”

“He’s in the field, but based on what I’ve seen he’s probably in a bad mood.”

“Well, this will make it worse. They want a major change in our strategy.”

“But will they help?”

“If we comply, yes.”

“Then we may not have any choice. Fill me in and I’ll pass it on to the Commander.”

'Stop the car.' The SUV pulled up to the curb, illiciting several angry honks from drives cut off by the massive vehicle, whose driver had forgotten to use a turn signal. He pulled a smooth white folded mobile and handed it to Ubrecht. 'Don't use this, leave it on. We'll be in touch.'

He turned off the noise dampener and took off his headphones. The shaggy haired driver turned around and grinned at Ubrecht. 'We can do dinner or something.'

The contact in the back shook his head. 'Go, we'll call you tomorrow.'

After Ubrecht exitted, left rather unceremoniously on the corner, the SUV pulled into traffic again with disregard for defensive driving instruction and drove through a checkpoint, heading back to the hotel. The contact was busy typing a message back to his controller, and stuck a satcom transmitter the size of a phone out the window then they stopped at a light. The message sent, he stashed the laptop and the encryption unit, took out a clove cigarette and tried to take his mind off of field work.

+++

Meanwhile, a freighter sets sail from Harbor Cluster, one of many from the busy port of SeOCC.

Chairman Ulsis Marko looked across the conference table – formerly the property of the late military commandant of Harrington – at tried to read the faces of his comrades. Commissioner Ulman looked worried, but resigned. The former field commander, now head of the free city’s police and internal security apparatus had been an early proponent of violent revolution. He had spearheaded the first wave of guerillas to enter the city. But he was also a realist.

“I don’t see that we have much choice, Chairman Marko,” the stocky man in wrinkled fatigues said glumly. If we don’t get foreign support – real concrete support, not just money, we’ll be finished once the Dominion Army gets here with front-line troops. Commander Lazarus can probably keep them bogged down in the swamps and hills for a couple of weeks at the most. Then, they’ll figure out just how limited our forces are and they’ll forget about the fighters in the field and head straight for Harrington. That is, if Altman doesn’t go totally insane first and start bombing us.”

By contrast, Commissioner Blaumena looked disheartened and angry. “But, this is our revolution. If we surrender our strategy and goals to foreigners, then aren’t we betraying our values? Our ideals?”

“I understand your feelings, Therese,” Ulman said as if ‘feelings’ was a dirty word, “but look at it realistically. We have no other alternatives.”

Marko sighed. They were just rehashing the conversation they had had minutes ago with Lazarus via a secure call. The Commander has listened and then hung up. That was his way. Listen. Absorb. Take in information. Then think. And, finally decide. And once it was decided, it would be final.

After several tense minutes, the phone rang. Marko picked it up and put it in the descrambler. Then, he hit the speaker button.

“Marko, this is Lazarus. Call Ubrecht. Tell her to agree to their terms.”

COL Alex Holmes looked over the tactical displays in the command truck. This is no good. We’re stuck in the muck hunting an enemy we can’t find. He again considered breaking off his pursuit of the cursed FVLA guerillas and driving straight for Harrington. But, he couldn’t be sure that FVLA didn’t have additional forces, perhaps even armor, waiting to catch him between two pincers. And, GEN Altman himself had ordered him to “kill their army in the field.” Worse, if there were additional enemy forces, he wouldn’t be able to engage them all and the defenders in the city without using air attacks and heavy weapons on the city. And, Attorney General Silina had been explicit in her threat to prosecute him if he did unnecessary damage to the city’s infrastructure.

Holmes sighed. Being caught between Altman and Silina was a nightmare. Compared to dealing with them, fighting the insurgents was almost relaxing.

* * *

Meanwhile, in Jefferson, Confederation of Sovereign States…

CAPT Stokes listened carefully to the babbling journalist’s story. Less a journalist, he thought than a conspiracy theorist writing for an Internet scandal sheet. He left the man babbling and pulled MAJ Bolton aside. “I think he’s mostly harmless. We can seize his recordings, papers and equipment then turn him over to the Confederation’s Secret Service. I’ll call my contact there and have him hold the guy on charges of threatening a foreign diplomat. That’ll keep him on ice until the story’s cold. Hopefully.”

Stokes nodded for Bolton to begin collecting the man’s things while he pulled out a mobile phone and began dialing.

* * *

Meanwhile, in Courtland, Dominion of Upper Virginia…

MAJ Richard Thorsen was uncharacteristically nervous as he drove to the airport to meet MAJGEN Harrison. Things needed to start happening. And soon.

Minister of State Albert Cummings was still skeptical about using a fishing treaty to make peace with the Dominion, but he needed friendly eyes in Courtland – his own diplomats were under constant surveillance and were making no headway in talking with anyone – and Lord Admiral Phocas was the only friendly set of eyes that Altman might just allow in to see something. He picked up the phone. “Rolland? Yes, please go ahead and send that message to Pantocratoria.” Then, Cummings sat back to wait for an answer.

For the past several days, Urban Cool LTD, incorporated in McCountry, had been on a spending spree. Offices downtown in a business park, vehicle permits for no less than 13 SUV's, gold visas for consultants and a media blitz to advertise the opening of their offices.

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Computer stores were cleaned out as Urban Cool outfitted their offices with the various work paraphenelia required to run a business, all the while moving in their own hardwar and personel. Lawyers were contacted, contracts drawn up, and in the busiest 168 hours of their lives, Urban Cool now had a branch office ready to go in Stonebridge, Upper Virginia.

+++

Meanwhile, far from the Aperin Ocean, two freigthers meet in the night, heavy lifting cranes and helicopters moving crates from one to the other. The operation takes a little over two hours, and as the floodlights were doused the ships set off again, each for ports unknown.

+++

Around four, the day after her meeting with the closed mouthed foreign contacts, the cellphone the gave to Ubrecht rings.

Gwyneth Ubrecht had been waiting for the phone to ring, but when it did, she was still startled by the suddenness of it. Well, here we go.

She picked it up and answered. She paused and heard a familiar, but still unknown voice greet her.

"We agree to your terms," she said evenly. "We will continue to hold Harrington and try to bring our vision of fairness for workers to life - as an example for the rest of the Dominion. But, we will not take any other territory by force and," she swallowed hard - this had been the hardest concession to take and the hardest to sell to her comrades, "once the government falls we will allow the people to vote for a new government."

"Now, what kind of support can we count on?"

'Oh.' The voice pauses for a second. 'I must have the wrong number. I was calling for an attractive young professional to ask her out to dinner, I certainly wasn't looking for someone who would talk about workers and territory over the phone

'If you happen to see the attractive young professional who I met yesterday, tell her to meet me at the Il Duce restaurant on 18th and Broadway at seven tonight.'

A shrill sequence of beeps and clicks forces Ubrecht to yank the phone from her ear, and a second later a puff of white smoke leaks from the seams of the mobile.

Elsewhere, in traffic, the speaker brushes hair from his eyes and puts his cap back on.

'What was that about?' asks the cars driver as he attempts to shift gears, poorly.

'She started talking about mission stuff. On a mobile.'

'Well it's their first revolution.'

'Yeah.'

'What did she say?' asks the field controller from the back, the smell of smoke still clinging to his coat.

'They agree, but they want to hold Harrington. Something about fairness to workers yadda yadda.'

'And control of the government?'

'They'll give it up.'

'Or so they say.'

'Yep.'

The controller controlled the impulse to smoke and ground his teeth instead. Military revolutions never ended well, look at the Rigans; a month after overthrowing a dictator and they're already marching off to war again. Bloody hell and lah dee dah.

'Hey boss?'

The contact snapped back, answered, 'What?'

'I'm getting combat pay for this, right?'

'Drive.'

tagged.

At a quarter to seven that evening, Gwyneth Ubrecht strolled into the upscale Il Duce Ristorante. She knew she was positively stunning in a scarlet beaded gown and fur wrap. And she walked with the confidence of one who knew she was among the elite and was comfortable with being among the elite.

The maître d', his eyes unprofessional fixed on Ubrecht, immediately showed her to a corner table. She elegantly crossed her legs and waited.

Seven o'clock came and went for a black luxury SUV parked a block from the restaurant.

'Radio check,' the voice spoke into his hear.

'Five by Five,' replied the previously shaggy haired operative, now sporting a five hundred dollar haircut (which had started at three hundred until the stylist saw his subject), a tuxedo in a quite aggresively stylish cut, and the flesh colored flat ear peice rolled back behind his ear. The controller had intended to do it himself, but the brush with Stonebridge's finest had left him feeling burnt. His hippy friend would suffice.

'Now listen,' the controller said, turning to the freshly outfitted operative sitting beside him in the back seat, 'stick to the script. I swear to god I'll leave you there if you screw this up.'

'Yes, boss.'

'Enough with the boss. Drive.'

The SUV pulled into traffic, the automatic transmission making the chore much easier, and deposited the operative in front of the restaurant before disappearing back into traffic.

'We'll be back when you're done.'

'Roger that,' he replied into his throatmic, tucked into the bowtie cutting into his neck. The maitre d' led him to a corner table, where Ubrecht was waiting, barely recognizeable.

'Sorry I'm late, when I saw what you were wearing I had to go home and change.'

'No silly shit,' came the immediate reprimand in his ear.

'My boss is in my ear,' he whispered across the table.

'Make sure they accept our terms,' came the controller's prompt.

'So, your bosses accepted our offer and our terms, yeah?'

"Ambassador Vikis, a pleasure as always. Please hold one while I secure the line..."

Shaw motioned to the Comms Technician on his right to start the encryption, then held the phone away from his ear while the line clicked, beeped, warbled and buzzed its way to security.

"Righto, as I was saying, Ambassador... the Varessan Cabinet has discussed your proposition, and your offer of support and recognition for the Varessan-sponsored opposition in Upper Virginia. To cut a very long, very drawn out and somewhat heated story a fair bit shorter than I probably should, Varessa has decided that it can vouch for the intentions of the Military Resistance in Upper Virginia. Now, before you object at the obvious loophole we've left ourselves there, hear me out."
Shaw said, cutting off Vikis' protest before it could be voiced.

"We vouch for their intentions, rather than their actions, based solely upon the difficulties in which they, individually and as a group, find themselves. They will, when the time comes, be in a very violent, very precarious position, and they may take extreme measures to preserve both their own integrity, and the integrity of the resistance which they embody. We, by definition, cannot vouch for the fact that their will be no Excalbian casualties or immediate harm to Excalbian national interests, as we, at present, have no foreknowledge of their planned actions. But, as stated, we can, to the very best of our knowledge, guarantee you that the new government would in no way have any intention to generate any form of conflict with you, as a Nation-state."

The Varessan foreign minister paused again, and sipped from the water glass next to the phone.

"What do you think?"

***

MAJGEN Roberts looked across at his security officer. Major Bolton had been quiet on the drive to Jefferson Airport. Exceptionally quiet. As in, not a word. Not one. And it was disconcerting. Not that Bolton was ever a verbose man, but he had never been completely silent on the way in. Roberts had been hoping that his subordinate would volunteer the information, but the VMI major hadn't volunteered a word.

He trusted him though, and if it were important, then the veteran field officer would doubtlessly inform him.

As it was, the coming flight with MAJGEN Harrison promised to be interesting, if a little unsettling. The coincidence of flight times was fortuitous, and would give Roberts plenty of time to quiz Becka on the best places to eat, see etc in Courtland, although, he thought to himself, the city was hardly renowned for its cultural and entertainment traditions.

The reassignment was both the best and worst thing that Roberts had hoped for. It put him in a position where his expertise and experience could be employed to best effect, of that there was no doubt. It allowed him to, without exaggeration, foster the growth of a new country, and, he was almost sure, help to secure a better future for millions. That he got on so well with the person he would be working most closely with was, however, both the best and worst part of the job, and simultaneously the most dreaded and most eagerly anticipated factor in play.

*Becka Harrison is definitely going to have her hands full, and my support will be just that... support. She can't afford to waste any time on anything else. Hell, Varessa can't afford for her, or me, to waste any time on anything but the upcoming revolution, and the scientific and technical expertise that goes along with that.*

The pretense of scientific interaction on behalf of their respective nations would be a very useful cover for their more secretive and more than slightly treasonous (at least in Becka's case... in his it was just subversive) activities. And it enabled them to discuss both forms of business in a pseudo-open fashion. It'd almost be a pleasant change, in that regard.

But that didn't stop the butterflies from bouncing around in his stomach.

***

"Shepherd, this is Huntsman, red warning, over."

"Huntsman, this is Shepherd, acknowledge, over."

The trailing vehicle reported daybreak. They'd have to lay up. And they were only 2 hours behind schedule. The situation was looking good for the rendezvous.

"Flock, this is Shepherd. Circle the wagons, over."

"2"

"3"

"4"

"5"

"6"

"Shepherd copies, out."

The six Varessan vehicles closed up on Shepherd's position, creeping forward with the VSF standard muffled engines making a sound far below what most people would recognise. The platoon piled out, and began hauling up the cam netting. Within 10 minutes, the vehicles were all concealed, and nigh on invisible to casual or non-specific searches.

*Tomorrow* Mathews thought. *Tomorrow we meet our newest allies*.

Seven o'clock came and went for a black luxury SUV parked a block from the restaurant.

'Radio check,' the voice spoke into his hear.

'Five by Five,' replied the previously shaggy haired operative, now sporting a five hundred dollar haircut (which had started at three hundred until the stylist saw his subject), a tuxedo in a quite aggresively stylish cut, and the flesh colored flat ear peice rolled back behind his ear. The controller had intended to do it himself, but the brush with Stonebridge's finest had left him feeling burnt. His hippy friend would suffice.

'Now listen,' the controller said, turning to the freshly outfitted operative sitting beside him in the back seat, 'stick to the script. I swear to god I'll leave you there if you screw this up.'

'Yes, boss.'

'Enough with the boss. Drive.'

The SUV pulled into traffic, the automatic transmission making the chore much easier, and deposited the operative in front of the restaurant before disappearing back into traffic.

'We'll be back when you're done.'

'Roger that,' he replied into his throatmic, tucked into the bowtie cutting into his neck. The maitre d' led him to a corner table, where Ubrecht was waiting, barely recognizeable.

'Sorry I'm late, when I saw what you were wearing I had to go home and change.'

'No silly shit,' came the immediate reprimand in his ear.

'My boss is in my ear,' he whispered across the table.

'Make sure they accept our terms,' came the controller's prompt.

'So, your bosses accepted our offer and our terms, yeah?'

Gwyneth smiled at the stranger. He certainly cleans up nicely.

She leans across and casually runs a glittering red fingernail down the arm of his tux. “The leadership has discussed your conditions and we” she emphasizes the word even as she whispers, “have decided to accept your terms. We will work to bring down the current government but will seek a popular mandate rather than imposing our own government. We will also restrain ourselves from seizing more territory. However, we will keep Harrington as a model of what we want to accomplish.”

Her smile widens. “Now, let’s talk about you can do for us. First and foremost, we need help to keep and stabilize Harrington. Then, we need to weaken the government’s grip on society. That means penetrating their control of the communications system, the business community and local security forces. The CIB and the Army are too tightly controlled, but the local police are barely treated better than workers. So, what can you do?”

Ubrecht leans back and sips her drink.

The controllers voice sighed in his ear as Ubrecht was speaking. 'I guess she believes we're not being watched. Steer her away from specifics.'

'I'm not really much interested in politics, you know? Too ... too confusing, this side and that side, whatever. I'm strictly a businessman, you know?'

'Good,' the controller said, 'now move on.'

'So Urban Cool, my boss, right? We're looking for smart people, young go getters who we can count on to be self motivated, problem solvers, you know, work alone. And we figured you, being a savvy native and all, could help us find some help, and could send some of your friends down to our office to interview.'

He takes out a business card with Urban Cool's logo and address, nothing else or it wouldn't be the slick minimalism that was currently stylish, and passed it to Ubrecht.

'So you know, some time next week, we'll be interviewing. Now we can't have anyone with a criminal record working for us, or anyone being investiaged, right, we're strictly above board. But just have your freinds tell us you sent them and we'll fast track them, as a favor to you.'

'Get to business,' the controller prompted, 'you're screwing around too much.'

'Now as for our partnership, we're quite happy to hear you accept. Let me tell you a little about what we can give you for your firm's operations. First, all your communications equipment, computers, mobiles, whatever, we can provide. Ship it in no problem. You need a private helicopter, we can get that too, though I'm not sure you can get by with our company cars. But whatever, you get the point, any hardware of investment you need, we can float you.

'Now, what we're really interested in, is the media. The hype, right? What we need from you guys is a mission statement, what you're all about, something we can send to the world and say, 'Hey! Pay attention to us!' We need to get some grass roots stuff going, you know? Word of mouth, have people create the buzz for us so they beg to get a piece of your action, you know? Right.

'So basically, we'll get you what you need, but we need something to show our backers, right, and something to advertise to get some momentum going for the enterprise. Then, when people are getting into your stuff, and we've got our office really set up here, we can start taking pieces out of the competition's marketshare, yes.'

'Good,' the controller said, 'now shut up.'

HIMS Imperator Andreus drops anchor, finally returning from its tour in Espario. Lord First Admiral Phocas had returned to his flagship from the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator after receiving the Excalbian message. He now stood on the bridge of the Invincible class carrier, staring across the disputed waters.

"Signal the Excalbian Minister of State. Send Mr Cummings my regards, and tell him that I have returned at his request. Ask him whether it would be possible to arrange a briefing, to get me up to date with the latest developments." instructs Phocas.

"Yes, my Lord First Admiral!" barks the communications officer as he starts signalling the Excalbians.

"Ambassador Vikis, a pleasure as always. Please hold one while I secure the line..."

Shaw motioned to the Comms Technician on his right to start the encryption, then held the phone away from his ear while the line clicked, beeped, warbled and buzzed its way to security.

"Righto, as I was saying, Ambassador... the Varessan Cabinet has discussed your proposition, and your offer of support and recognition for the Varessan-sponsored opposition in Upper Virginia. To cut a very long, very drawn out and somewhat heated story a fair bit shorter than I probably should, Varessa has decided that it can vouch for the intentions of the Military Resistance in Upper Virginia. Now, before you object at the obvious loophole we've left ourselves there, hear me out."
Shaw said, cutting off Vikis' protest before it could be voiced.

"We vouch for their intentions, rather than their actions, based solely upon the difficulties in which they, individually and as a group, find themselves. They will, when the time comes, be in a very violent, very precarious position, and they may take extreme measures to preserve both their own integrity, and the integrity of the resistance which they embody. We, by definition, cannot vouch for the fact that their will be no Excalbian casualties or immediate harm to Excalbian national interests, as we, at present, have no foreknowledge of their planned actions. But, as stated, we can, to the very best of our knowledge, guarantee you that the new government would in no way have any intention to generate any form of conflict with you, as a Nation-state."

The Varessan foreign minister paused again, and sipped from the water glass next to the phone.

"What do you think?"

On the other end of the line, Ambassador Sir Vikis paused and rubbed his chin. Hmm, this is putting a bit finer of a point on it that we hoped for. Finally, the Ambassador composed himself and spoke. “Well, Minister, you have certainly made your Government’s position clear and that is quite useful.” Vikis paused again and considered his instructions from Minister Cummings. “In principle, we accept your qualified guarantee and are prepared to withhold any interference in Upper Virginian affairs. However, I will, of course, have to confer with my Government in Citadel Excalbia. I will have a definitive answer for you tomorrow, Minister. And a belated Happy Christmas, sir.”

HIMS Imperator Andreus drops anchor, finally returning from its tour in Espario. Lord First Admiral Phocas had returned to his flagship from the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator after receiving the Excalbian message. He now stood on the bridge of the Invincible class carrier, staring across the disputed waters.

"Signal the Excalbian Minister of State. Send Mr Cummings my regards, and tell him that I have returned at his request. Ask him whether it would be possible to arrange a briefing, to get me up to date with the latest developments." instructs Phocas.

"Yes, my Lord First Admiral!" barks the communications officer as he starts signalling the Excalbians.

“Minister,” a young aide stepped through the door, “two urgent messages from the Ops Center.”

“Yes, yes,” Minister of State Albert Cummings looked up from his glass of hot spiced wine and looked over from his seat next to the pine-draped fireplace, “what is it?”

“Ambassador Vikis has sent a report of his conversation with Varessan Foreign Minister Shaw – they’ve given only a qualified guarantee…”

“Very well,” Cummings sighed, “leave the full report on my desk. And the second bit of news?”

“Yes, Minister, we have received a dispatch from HIMS Imperator Andreus. First Admiral Phocas has returned to Excalbian waters and is requesting a briefing prior to resuming his negotiations.”

Cummings sat up and placed his glass on the coffee table. “Very good. Reply immediately. Send my complements to the Admiral and arrange for a briefing tomorrow morning.”

The controllers voice sighed in his ear as Ubrecht was speaking. 'I guess she believes we're not being watched. Steer her away from specifics.'

'I'm not really much interested in politics, you know? Too ... too confusing, this side and that side, whatever. I'm strictly a businessman, you know?'

'Good,' the controller said, 'now move on.'

'So Urban Cool, my boss, right? We're looking for smart people, young go getters who we can count on to be self motivated, problem solvers, you know, work alone. And we figured you, being a savvy native and all, could help us find some help, and could send some of your friends down to our office to interview.'

He takes out a business card with Urban Cool's logo and address, nothing else or it wouldn't be the slick minimalism that was currently stylish, and passed it to Ubrecht.

'So you know, some time next week, we'll be interviewing. Now we can't have anyone with a criminal record working for us, or anyone being investiaged, right, we're strictly above board. But just have your freinds tell us you sent them and we'll fast track them, as a favor to you.'

'Get to business,' the controller prompted, 'you're screwing around too much.'

'Now as for our partnership, we're quite happy to hear you accept. Let me tell you a little about what we can give you for your firm's operations. First, all your communications equipment, computers, mobiles, whatever, we can provide. Ship it in no problem. You need a private helicopter, we can get that too, though I'm not sure you can get by with our company cars. But whatever, you get the point, any hardware of investment you need, we can float you.

'Now, what we're really interested in, is the media. The hype, right? What we need from you guys is a mission statement, what you're all about, something we can send to the world and say, 'Hey! Pay attention to us!' We need to get some grass roots stuff going, you know? Word of mouth, have people create the buzz for us so they beg to get a piece of your action, you know? Right.

'So basically, we'll get you what you need, but we need something to show our backers, right, and something to advertise to get some momentum going for the enterprise. Then, when people are getting into your stuff, and we've got our office really set up here, we can start taking pieces out of the competition's marketshare, yes.'

'Good,' the controller said, 'now shut up.'

Ubrecht leaned back and smiled. They assume we’re being watched. Not a bad assumption, but they don’t realize how readily I’m accepted as part of the elite here. And just how much the non-military elite is allowed to get away with.

“I think I understand what you’re interested in now,” she purred. “I’ll send just a couple of hip young people over tomorrow. Just what you’re looking for. They’ll also bring a list of the capital equipment we need for our enterprise.” She extends a hand to the stranger. “We look forward to a partnership between our two companies.”

After Confederated Air flight 006 to Courtland reached cruising altitude, MAJGEN Becka Harrison began to relax. How ironic that the person responsible for the Ozymandius is nervous about flying in a commercial airliner! She looked over at MAJGEN Shaun Roberts. He had been strangely quite ever they arrived at the airport. She didn’t know for sure, but she suspected he was feeling the same conflicting swirl of emotions that she felt. Mixed with anxiety about what was about to happen and excitement about finally seeing change in her country, with the gratitude she felt towards Shaun and to all of Varessa there was something else. Something more personal. But there was simply no time for such feelings. Not now anyway. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy a colleagues company.

“Shaun, I hope you won’t find Courtland too boring. We don’t have much in the way of cultural refinement – operas and ballets and fine art just aren’t utilitarian enough for the Dominion’s government. We do have some rather nice musical theaters and a thriving film industry. And one of the world’s largest museums of flight and aerial technology. I hope to have the chance to show you around.”

***

Meanwhile, in Courtland, MAJ Richard Thorsen waited in a staff car for MAJGEN Harrison’s flight. He picked up a hand-held computer and reviewed some notes. Their major contact in Varessa, MAJGEN Roberts, had just been reassigned as the new Military Attaché at the Varessan Embassy in Courtland. That would make coordination easier. He just hoped it wouldn’t attract undue attention.

***

Four drab green vehicles converged at the base of a short hill. On the crest of the hill stood the burned out wreck of a fifth Dominion army vehicle still hitched to the rubble of its mobile missile launcher. Inside one of the vehicles a young lieutenant picked up a radio. “Epsilon Two to Eagle.”

“Epsilon Two, Eagle. Go,” a voice answered through the static.

“We have Epsilon Three-two. It is a complete loss. No survivors. Over.”

“Roger. Any indications of the cause? Over.”

“There’s heavy fire damage and what looks like missile damage. Over.”

“Roger. Take a closer look and advise. Eagle out.” Back at Eagle base, the signalman looked up from his console with a frown. CAPT Hausman looked back and shrugged.

“Let me know when they report back, Corporal.” Hausman walked away quietly. Another misfire. Second one this month. The equipment should be top of the line. Must be human error. I keep telling GHQ that these men need more training. We’re scrapping the bottom of the barrel with our conscripts these days.

***

Meanwhile, 25 kilometers south-southeast of Eagle base, a column of six vehicles, identical to the nearby Dominion army vehicles except for their matte black color, sat under the cover of a clump of trees. Inside, CAPT John Terelson carefully watched his computer screen. As a member of the Army’s Special Security Service, he had fully encoded access to the Dominion’s satellites and he could easily track the patrols coming and going from Eagle base. However, he had only picked up a couple of intermittent signs of the Varessan Special Forces. And that was only because he knew where to look. There was no chance that regular monitoring would have picked anything up. A plume of dust here. A flash in the night there. These Varessans are good. If Major Holmes hadn’t returned from Varessa hadn’t returned in time to get word to them, they’d never have found the Varessans. As it was, the rendezvous should occur tomorrow as planned. Terelson knew the commander of the 425th mechanized infantry company over at Eagle base. CAPT Hausman was a competent officer – rare enough these days – but not particularly curious or imaginative. He’d probably never associate the loss of his vehicle with the possibility of a foreign incursion. Or at least I hope he won’t.

***

COL Alex Holmes put down his binoculars. They were useless in this dense swamp. At time like this I wish I’d gone into the air force like my cousin Janet. Without any way to force a decisive battle with the main enemy force, and with so many civilians who had fled the fighting turning back towards Harrington, he was stuck. Well, complaining won’t help. He turned back to his maps and started plotting a new series of movements to draw out the FVLA.

Phocas' Seahawk set down in Citadel Excalbia on schedule. Lord Phocas sat inside, smoking a stinking Esperi cigar, with a good deal more medals on his chest than the last time he had been in Excalbia. As the rotor above stops spinning, Phocas barks "Ashtray!" to his ADC, who holds out an ashtray in which Phocas extinguishes the cigar. The aide-de-camp then hands him his sword, and helps him remove his headphones. Finally, Lord Phocas steps out of the chopper onto the helipad, snapping a salute to the Excalbian welcoming committee. His aide-de-camp straps on his own sword before following the Admiral out of the Seahawk.

“I think I understand what you’re interested in now,” she purred. “I’ll send just a couple of hip young people over tomorrow. Just what you’re looking for. They’ll also bring a list of the capital equipment we need for our enterprise.” She extends a hand to the stranger. “We look forward to a partnership between our two companies.”

'Good, good, now, all we need to do is make it official. Can someone from your office drop by to meet UC corporate in the next few days?'

CDR Jennifer Wells crisply returns Lord Phocas’ salute. “My Lord, welcome back to Excalbia. Admiral Lord Halton sends his regrets. Lady Freedman, the Imperial Chancellor, has called a meeting of the National Security Cabinet. The meeting will conclude before we arrive in the city. The Admiral and Minister Cummings will meet you in the Minister’s office at the Old Ministry of State building.” The young commander turns and gestures to a waiting limousine. “A vehicle is at your disposal, my Lord.”

* * *

Lady Christina Freedman looked out the double French doors of her office, across Christ the Savior plaza at Sweyn Castle and the Citadel itself. The Imperial standard flew from neither building, a reminder that Emperor David was not in residence. He, and the entire Imperial family were in Pantocratoria for the wedding of Prince Joseph. The Emperor had left her in complete control of the Government. He had placed his complete confidence in her. And she wasn’t about to let her Emperor down.

Calmly, she turns and surveys the National Security Cabinet. To her right, Albert Cummings, the Minister of State, sat calmly chewing on an unlit pipe, one hand patting his rather ample belly. Beside him, Lord James Reynolds, Head of Imperial Intelligence, rubbed his beard thoughtfully. To her left, the Minister of Defense, Lord John Thorne, struggled to sit comfortably. A pity that such a noble man should face his final years in such pain. Next to him, Admiral Lord Yornis Halton checked his watch and looked up at the Chancellor with expectant eyes. At the far end of the table, Lady Gwyneth Hapsgaard, Minister of Justice, and Rev. James Luckett, Minister of Home Affairs, traded nervous glances.

“So,” Lady Freedman began quietly, “Albert you believe that we can put faith in Varessa’s rather limited assurances?”

Cummings took the pipe from his mouth and held it by the bowl. “Yes, I do, My Lady. We have had limited dealings with the Commonwealth of Varessa, but everything we know of them and everything that we’ve been able to learn of them tells me that they are an honorable people. If they were less so, they could have given us confident sounding but carefully worded assurances of the Uppie resistance’s noble intentions. But, they didn’t do that. They dealt with us honestly and said they believe in the resistance’s intentions and in those leaders they’ve met. I think that is all we can reasonable request.”

A cold look from the Chancellor cut off any further discussion. “I do not wish to debate this any longer. The time for debate is over; it is time to decide. Lord James, is there anything more that you can add about Varessa or about the situation in the Dominion?”

“Well, my Lady,” Lord James spoke without looking at the Chancellor and without taking his hand from his beard, “I concur with the Minister of State’s assessment of the Varessans. As for north of the border, it is now very clear that we have two different factions working against the Dominion. One is the FVLA, which we have labeled as terrorists. They have made assassination, bombings and rural uprisings their stock in trade. However, shortly after they seized Harrington, we noticed a change in their tactics. They seem to be trying to put a good face on their so-called Liberation Zone and it seems they have suspended their terror campaign. Our analysts believe they are about to embark on new ‘hearts-and-minds’ campaign. That could be a sign of confidence or a sign that new foreign backers are demanded changes.

“The second faction is a group of mid-level officers who are plotting a coup. It is this second group that seems to be in contact with Varessa. This group is playing it very close to the vest and we have no contact with them. However, before we lost contact, it seemed this group was based in the Army’s Special Security Service and in some of its headquarters elements. We do not think that this group has any belligerent ambitions with regard to the Holy Empire.”

The Chancellor nodded. “Very well, then, we will instruct His Imperial Majesty’s Ambassador in the Varessan capital to confirm our neutrality in the event of a coup. And our immediate recognition, if it is successful. Now, as for our Pantocratorian ally, Lord Phocas.”

“Yes, my Lady,” Admiral Lord Halton spoke up, “I believe we owe him and Pantocratoria no less than a full briefing.”

“But he is trying to act as an impartial arbitrator, would that even be fair to his mission,” Rev. Luckett asked.

“Yet, do we even wish for the mission to succeed if we expect a new government,” Lady Hapsgaard looked around the table, as if looking for an answer.

“I think a settlement would be useful, whether General Altman stays or goes. A new government would be expected to abide by diplomatic agreements,” Cummings said around his pipe, “and Lord Phocas’ observations from Courtland might be very insightful. Our diplomats are effectively prisoners in their compound at the moment.”

“Very well, then,” Lady Freedman looked firm in her resolve, “Albert, I want you and Lord Halton to give Lord Phocas a full briefing on the coup and the FVLA. If he is willing to make quiet inquiries, perhaps call on the Varessan Military Attaché, it should not interfere with his peace mission and should help us enormously.” The Chancellor smiled for the first time that morning. “That should do it. Thank you. I will send our minutes by secure transmission to His Imperial Majesty.”

* * *

As Lord Phocas, his ADC and CDR Wells enter the Minister’s outer offices, a secretary stands and bows. “Welcome, my Lord, please go straight in, the Minister and Lord Halton are waiting.” As the secretary finishes, two dark suited guards open a set of heavy wooden double doors, then gesture for Lord Phocas to enter.

The Minister’s office occupies a corner of the top floor of the Old Ministry of State Building. The large windows look out over some of the city’s historic churches and old town hall. Opposite the windows is a large fireplace, laden with greenery, with a roaring fire. To one side of the fireplace stands the rotund figure of Minister Cummings. Next to him is Admiral Lord Halton in a leather bomber jacket adorned with four gold stars.

“Lord Phocas, welcome, please come join us by the fire,” Minister Cummings gestures towards an empty chair.

“Commander Wells,” Lord Halton adds, “please show Lord Phocas’ aide to the lounge.”

“I think I understand what you’re interested in now,” she purred. “I’ll send just a couple of hip young people over tomorrow. Just what you’re looking for. They’ll also bring a list of the capital equipment we need for our enterprise.” She extends a hand to the stranger. “We look forward to a partnership between our two companies.”

'Good, good, now, all we need to do is make it official. Can someone from your office drop by to meet UC corporate in the next few days?'

Ubrecht smiled and stood. “A few good prospects for your needs will see you tomorrow with our supply needs. I will come by the day after tomorrow to sign the contracts and meet UC corporate. I am my company’s authorized dealer here in the greater Courtland area. Call me at the number you have if there is any problem. Ta ta.” Ubrecht smiles again, then turns to leave.

* * *

The next day, about mid-morning, a painfully hip looking young man and an attractive young woman walk into the offices of Urban Cool. The man, looking bored and impatient turns to the first person he sees, “Ms. Ubrecht said you could use some local talent. She sent us over to speak whoever is in charge. She also said something about no criminal record, etc., etc. So, we have copies of our clean police reports and our credentials. If you’re interested.”

Phocas salutes Halton, and then shakes each man's hand as he comes in and sits down.

"I am so glad I had an opportunity to see a bit more of your city on the way here, I didn't see nearly enough last time." Phocas observes as he pulls a small case out of his satchel, and sits down. He offers the case to Cummings and Halton.

"Esperi cigars." he explains. "Not bad, but not as good as they could be, admittedly. The occupation force left some time ago - the country is in stable hands now, although we've not got as much of a role in its governance as perhaps we would've liked. I want to thankyou again, my Lord, for the excellent and dedicated service of the Excalbian men and women you so graciously put at my disposal for that operation. They did an outstanding job, and I believe as part of the wedding celebrations, the Emperor is going to have some sort of award ceremony for Pantocratorian and Excalbian servicemen and women who served with distinction in Espario. He actually recalled me to New Rome to be a part of it, but when I received your communique, Minister, I couldn't remain there knowing I had left things unfinished here."

"So, what is the situation? What has occurred since last I was here?" asks Phocas.

Roberts looked at Becka Harrison on his right. Her attempt at conversation was a welcome diversion. The flight wouldn't be long, but could be drawn out and tiresome nonetheless. Conversation, however inane, or otherwise, would help pass the time nicely.

"Yes, my dear, and those self-same museums are to be graced with my presence at some time in the, business allowing, very near future... although the movies you have come up with, of late, have been a little, well, lacklustre. No offence intended, there, but, as I'm sure you'd agree, there is so much patriotic drivel in them that it'd make the Soviets sick... but, your theatre, well, thank goodness you can't read too much of contemporary politics into Shakespere. I hear that the Courtland Shakespere Company does a superb rendition of 'MacBeth', and, I must say, I do have a weakness for that particular play"

***

"Shepherd to Wolfhound, day break, over".

"Wolfhound to Shepherd, roger".

The VSF platoon was good to go. It was time to start contact with the Dominion Resistance. Wolfhound opened up another channel, and then broadcasted off VSF encrypted channels for the first time.

"Morning Dave, Vinnie here. What's the goss?"

***

The next day, about mid-morning, a painfully hip looking young man and an attractive young woman walk into the offices of Urban Cool. The man, looking bored and impatient turns to the first person he sees, “Ms. Ubrecht said you could use some local talent. She sent us over to speak whoever is in charge. She also said something about no criminal record, etc., etc. So, we have copies of our clean police reports and our credentials. If you’re interested.”

The office director, who had the unlucky distinction of being accosted by the Virginian hipsters, almost rolled his eyes. 'Oh good god, I suppose you want to interview.'

He pulled out two clipboards and plopped them on the counter of the front desk. 'Fill these out, and when you're done I'll need copies of your ID's to photocopy.'

As the two filled out their applications, joining a handful of other applicants waiting for interviews, the director slipped out and sent one of the joeboys to manage the front desk while he sent a report back to HQ. He typed quickly and sent it, encrypted and tight beamed to a satellite overhead for an very indirect route home. Message sent, he returned to the front office to watch the outrageously bored applicants grow more frustrated by the minute as the joeboy tried to clear a paper jam in the copier.

'Jesus christ,' the director sighed as he shooed the joeboy back to the frontdesk and finished the copying. He pulled the applications from the clipboards and beckoned the whole group tragically hip applicants to follow him. 'We do group orientation here,' he explained as he led them up a narrow winding staircase, 'give you an idea of what we're about, then we can talk to each person individually.'

The orientation was a ten minute video outlining Urban Cool's mission in Upper Virginia: hands on research for a new brand of clothing based on urban warfare outfits. Everyone thinks riot gear looks cool, the video explained, so now it has to be translated into something people can wear everyday comfortably and stylishly. After the video, the various applicants are pulled off one by one to meet with one of the office directors. The particularly impatient rebel applicant is pulled off third, leaving his companion in the orientation room, and is shown into the director he accosted's office down the hall on the second floor.

'So,' the director says as he motions for the applicant to sit, 'my name's Greg, and you want to wreck some havoc, yes? Why don't you tell me exactly what you're ready to do for this enterprise?'

Admiral Lord Halton takes three cigars from the case and passes one to Phocas and one to Cummings. Halton takes his seat and lights the cigar. “Thank you for your gracious words concerning our men and women in uniform. Vice Admiral Sir Kunle spoke very highly of your command, my Lord, and of Pantocratoria’s own soldiers and sailors. To tell the truth, given the current situation, we are quite grateful that some of our new forces were able to gain some valuable combat experience under an experienced hand and, no less important, in a noble cause.”

“Yes, yes,” Albert Cummings reached over and flicked an ash into the fireplace, “and speaking of the current situation, much has changed since your last visit.” Cummings took another puff on the cigar, “Hmm, not bad, by the way. But, as I was saying. Much has changed, but let me start with what has not changed. Excalbia and the Dominion remain in what might be best called an armed truce in the gulf. They have shown little time or interest in furthering negotiations in your absence. However, we remain committed to the last offer we placed on the table – a 12-mile territorial limit with a further 12-mile economic zone and the right of innocent passage and customs inspections for both sides anywhere outside the other’s territorial waters. The Government in Courtland has frozen our own diplomats out to the point that they are effectively prisoners in their own compound. So, we would like you to take our proposal to Courtland and present it to General Altman and the Government.”

Cummings looked down at the table. “I apologize, my Lord, I’ve been a poor host. Would you care for a brandy or a cognac to go with the cigars?” Cummings pours the appropriate drinks and picks up a glass. “Now, we want to be completely forthcoming with you, my Lord, not only as our mediator, but as our ally.” The Minister of State took another sip and tried to read the Pantocratorian’s face.

“Settling the dispute in the gulf is only part of the reason we are asking you to return to Courtland with our proposal. The other part goes directly to what has changed.” Cummings took in a breath and leaned forward. “As you know, the Government in Courtland is hardly popular with its own people. It is, in our opinion, barely civilized. As is to be expected, the Government’s oppression has invited revolution. In this case, in the form of the Free Virginia Liberation Army, which has managed to seize, and so far hold on to, the city of Harrington. The FVLA, we’ve learned, however, is not the only opposition to General Altman.”

“Are you familiar with the Commonwealth of Varessa? We’ve known for some time that they’ve been working with the Dominion on its secret ultrasonic aircraft – all those UFO reports and skyquakes. Not long ago, their Government officially informed us that a group of disgruntled Dominion officers were conspiring to mount a coup against General Altman and install a new, presumably more democratic, government. Varessa is backing the coup and asked for our, neutrality if not our goodwill towards the new government.”

“Now, we would not shed any tears to see General Altman out of office. Whether head first or feet first,” Cummings shot a look at Halton to quiet his unvoiced objection, “wouldn’t matter to us, as long as it doesn’t spread conflict across our borders, cause undue chaos or invite large scale foreign military interventions. And we’ve told the Varessans as much.”

“The problem, my Lord, is that we are blind in Courtland. We have no independent way of knowing how much the Varessans have told us – or since we tend to believe them, I’d say more accurately what the Varessans are being told by the coup-plotters, is true. We also have no feel for what is going on with this accursed FVLA, such as whether they are homegrown or foreign-backed themselves.”

“Now, my Lord, I am not trying to recruit you to spy for us. But, we would appreciate it if, while you are in Courtland, you could keep your eyes and ears open for anything that might help us better understand the situation. Of course, we have no right to expect this extraordinary help and I can assure, on behalf of His Majesty’s Imperial Government, that there will be no hard feelings if you decline. Even if you chose not to do this favor for us, we would still appreciate it if you would help us resolve the border issue before the Government, ummm, changes.”

MAJGEN Becka Harrison smiled. “Well, I’m partial to light, romantic musicals myself, but I do believe “MacBeth” is a regular part of the Company’s repertoire. I’m sure they do it several times each season. I’d be happy to get a couple of tickets for you in one of the official boxes.” Her smile widened, even as her eyes looked away. “If business and babysitters permit, and if you throw in a dinner, I might even be persuaded to join you, Shaun.”

* * *

CAPT John Terelson of the Special Security Service took another drink of his coffee, then sealed the thermos. He looked back over his shoulder at his comm expert. Unlike the regular Army, the “triple S’s” NCOs were career professionals. Yet another perk of special duty, Terelson mused. “How do you read them, Burke?”

“Right frequency. Right code.” SSGT Adam Burke glanced at his watch. “Right time, more or less. And they’ve kept their power low – they’re certainly not trying to call attention to themselves.”

Terelson nodded and Burke picked up the mike. “Morning Vinnie, this is Dave. We have breakfast for you. Look at your directions and take Prospero Lane to Merrimac Court. We’re at number 7-05. See you soon.”

“Good, Burke. Now, if MAJ Holmes gave them the right reference map, and if they notice that the grid only goes ‘L,’ they should find the rendezvous.”

“It sounded rather basic to me, sir.” Burke said with a slight smile.

“Better basic than leave them guessing. And the only one close enough to overhear is Hausman. And even if he gets suspicious, he won’t even have the right reference map to track us. Even if he could figure out that we weren’t talking about real streets.” Terelson turned to his left. “OK, Corporal Yanth, takes us to the rendezvous point.”

* * *

CAPT Hausman looked up at the corporal in his doorway. “Yes, Corporal?”

“Sir, Lieutenant Brookes sent me to inform you that we’ve picked up something.”

“What, exactly, Corporal?”

“A stray signal. Low power. Non-standard frequency. Something about a ‘Dave’ and a ‘Vinnie’ and breakfast.”

Hausman held his hands in his head. “Hunters. Guns may be illegal, but – especially in he country – and we are in the middle of no-where – and especially near the Confederation’s border – which is where we happen to be! – some people still persist in keeping rifles and hunting.”

“Umm,” the corporal swallowed hard, “Lieutenant Brookes considered that but felt the directions and addresses they were using were codes. He’d like your permission to send scouts, sir.”

“Very well. We have nothing better to do. Tell the lieutenant that he can send two – and only two – scouts.”

“Yessir,” the corporal saluted and ducked out.

* * *

COL Alex Holmes smiled as he saw solid ground some 200 meters ahead. We’ve swept through the swamps. At bloody last. He knew he’d left some FVLA stragglers behind and that have to leave a sizable rear guard behind, but he was equally sure that the main force of the rebels had been driven out of the swamp. He’d paid dearly for it, but he’d done it. Unfortunately, there was still more difficult terrain – hills, rocks and forests – between him and Harrington. But at least the cursed swamp was behind him.

* * *

MAJ Richard Thorsen looked at his watch. CA 006 should be on approach and, with a bit of luck, the Varessan Special Forces had made contact with CAPT Terelson. Things just might work, after all.

The young man casually drops into a chair and smiles. “Nice to meet you Greg. Gwenyth said you guys were professional. Nice operation you have here. Name’s Arturs. And I’ve been wrecking havoc. You may have read about it. Gwennie tells me you can help me step up our efforts, so I’m here as a sponge. As for what I’m willing to do, that’d be about anything. I’ve already sworn my life for the ‘enterprise’ as you put it. So, what do you have to teach me?”

Arturs fished around in his pocket and pulled out an envelope. “Oh, Gwen asked me to give this to you. Our technical requirements she said.”

As Greg reviews the list, he’d see communication equipment, medical supplies, commercial broadcast equipment, intelligence support, some positive press (planted with reliable media representatives in various countries) and more mundane items.

The list seemed incomplete on first glance; no guns, no bombs, nothing fun at all. Greg ignored Arturs for a moment while he scanned the list, then dropped it into a plastic bin beneath his desk marked, 'Recycling,' which was code for 'Leave No Trace.'

'So, Arturs, interesting name. Right. So your job here is going to be a gopher, essentially, for the field managers. We'll send you out in teams to places where you're supposed to find cool stuff. Take pictures, video and so on. What you'll actually be doing is casing targets, which I'm sure you're already good at, so no training necessary.

'You yourself will not take part in any operation from now on, and I want to make that perfectly clear. You work for Urban Cool, you'll appear on our W4's, or whatever they use here, you'll draw a paycheck from us and drive our cars. That means you cannot, for any reason, be investigated by the cops. Once you do that, we're toast, because our permits won't be worth shit if our employees are being looked at for blowing up federal buildings.

'So get that idea out of your head, no glory for us. But then, we won't be getting shot at so that's a bonus. Now, let me get you your equipment.' Greg spins his chair and pedals it across the floor to a filing cabinet, pulls out a tacklebox, and wheels himself over to Arturs 'This,' he says as he takes out a white mobile, 'is your company phone. Don't use it except for business, duh. This,' he pulls out a small hand radio of the same color, 'is your radio and it goes with,' he pulls out a long thin cord with a round patch at the end, 'this, which is a throatmic. You'll want to wear turtlenecks or zipups to cover it, but it's very handy. And you'll need this,' he pulls out a relatively thin digital camera, 'your camera, which isn't so impressive except we use it to move data securely.

'So your phone is totally scrambled and secure but the radio isn't, so be aware of that. Remember, at all times, that you work for Urban Cool, this is a business and so on blah blah blah. You'll pick up the lingo quick, I imagine. So now I've got to ask, can you drive?'

+++

Far out in the ocean, aboard a certain freighter, a dimly lit room chitters with keystrokes as certain hackers attempt to tap into a UV corporation's order database, to add one incoming shipment of electronic goods for consumer sale.

"No worries Dave, be there in a bit. I'll call if I miss you."

LTCOL. Mathews looked at the man next to him. The man shrugged.

"Beats me sir, no idea what they meant. Ask Roarke. He's the best at stuff like that."

"Is he? I'd never noticed. But, I'll take your word for it."

Mathews picked up the transceiver handset, and flicked the radio on to the VSF frequency,

"Wolfhound, this is Shepherd. 3 hook move to niner, over"

"Copy..."

Roarke was quick in getting to Mathews. His fitness was as good as ever, and the distance wasn't great. Wolfhound's commander was talking to the LTCOL within 3 minutes.

"SGT, here's the last recieved message from the Upper Virginian Resistance. We're stumped as to what it means. Jameson over here thought you might be able to work it out. Can you?"

The VSF sargeant read the message, then scratched his chin briefly.

"I think so... got a map sir?"

A map of the area was handed over to the man.

"No, this doesn't make any...wait, do you have the map that that Upper Virginian pilot gave us? The one with bits missing?"

"Not the original, although we were given a copy... why?"

"Just a hunch sir... and bingo. They want us here, sir. And probably the sooner the better. Our last transmission could have been picked up... it was a shade above the detection threshold."

"I would ask you to explain, but, for now, I'll take your word for it... I seem to be doing that a lot lately..."

"Sir."

"Good work sarge."

Mathews got back to the radio, and got on the comm-net again.

"Shepherd to flock. Muster."

***

CA 006 was running a trifle behind schedule. Just a trifle. Not that Shaun Roberts had noticed. The conversation, once flowing, had been fairly pleasant, and had eaten up the journey without much effort. Now the Varessan Major General couldn't help but smile slightly... he'd like nothing more than what his colleague was suggesting...

"Well, if you fancy a light romantic musical, so long as it's not 'Oklahoma', I'll happily concur with your sentiments."

He looked at her with a slightly raised eyebrow.

"Depending on the company, I can be rather partial to them myself, my dear... and as for dinner, pffft..." he scoffed "There are some perks to a Varessan general officer's salary after all... so long as you choose the restaurant. Just because I have said salary doesn't mean that I wish to be fleeced of it... "

***

Meanwhile, at the VMRDC HQ at Pine Creek, the final modifications were completed on the VDF's first operational example of the CRIMSON STAR Magnetic Catapult. The very same item that had shot down the first drone barely 5 weeks earlier was now the first piece of the most sophisticated air defence and ABM system in the world.

Phocas puffs on his cigar thoughtfully, and sips a glass of the offered brandy.

"Well sirs," he says after some time. "I previously agreed to act as a mediator in the border dispute, and I am of course happy to resume those responsibilities. I appreciate that you're not asking me to act as a spy. When I go to Courtland to continue negotiations, I shall, as a natural part of that process, notice any... shifts in the balance of power. If things are as far advanced as your sources would have you believe, it will be easy to confirm it without making any extra efforts. I wouldn't want to do anything which could be construed as espionage, you understand."

The list seemed incomplete on first glance; no guns, no bombs, nothing fun at all. Greg ignored Arturs for a moment while he scanned the list, then dropped it into a plastic bin beneath his desk marked, 'Recycling,' which was code for 'Leave No Trace.'

'So, Arturs, interesting name. Right. So your job here is going to be a gopher, essentially, for the field managers. We'll send you out in teams to places where you're supposed to find cool stuff. Take pictures, video and so on. What you'll actually be doing is casing targets, which I'm sure you're already good at, so no training necessary.

'You yourself will not take part in any operation from now on, and I want to make that perfectly clear. You work for Urban Cool, you'll appear on our W4's, or whatever they use here, you'll draw a paycheck from us and drive our cars. That means you cannot, for any reason, be investigated by the cops. Once you do that, we're toast, because our permits won't be worth shit if our employees are being looked at for blowing up federal buildings.

'So get that idea out of your head, no glory for us. But then, we won't be getting shot at so that's a bonus. Now, let me get you your equipment.' Greg spins his chair and pedals it across the floor to a filing cabinet, pulls out a tacklebox, and wheels himself over to Arturs 'This,' he says as he takes out a white mobile, 'is your company phone. Don't use it except for business, duh. This,' he pulls out a small hand radio of the same color, 'is your radio and it goes with,' he pulls out a long thin cord with a round patch at the end, 'this, which is a throatmic. You'll want to wear turtlenecks or zipups to cover it, but it's very handy. And you'll need this,' he pulls out a relatively thin digital camera, 'your camera, which isn't so impressive except we use it to move data securely.

'So your phone is totally scrambled and secure but the radio isn't, so be aware of that. Remember, at all times, that you work for Urban Cool, this is a business and so on blah blah blah. You'll pick up the lingo quick, I imagine. So now I've got to ask, can you drive?'

+++

Far out in the ocean, aboard a certain freighter, a dimly lit room chitters with keystrokes as certain hackers attempt to tap into a UV corporation's order database, to add one incoming shipment of electronic goods for consumer sale.

Arturs could read some puzzlement in Greg’s face as he reviewed the list. He suspected that their new benefactors had expected more armaments. But, he knew they already had sources for light arms – he didn’t know who those sources were, but he knew they were out there – and that Gwen had told him that Urban Cool was reluctant to give them heavy weapons. Well, maybe that will come in time.

Arturs gladly accepted the new goodies. “Ok, business phone, radio, throatmic, camera. Got it. And don’t worry about the police record, I’m clean. Like Gwennie, I’m what you might call a ‘class traitor’ – a child of the elite who’s trying to bit the hand that’s fed me. The ‘bosses’ – as you might say – like to keep us here in Courtland for jobs here; the ‘hard cases’ we recruit get sent to the field. Oh, and thanks to my background, I did get a driver’s license, though, I haven’t driven for more than a year.”

After Arturs finished stashing the new gear, he turned back to Greg. “So, if I’m just scouting, who’s going to do the actual work? Do you have pros coming in are you going to use some of the airheads out there as dupes?”

CORP Yanth eased the lead vehicle to a halt under the cover of a small grove of trees on the crest of a low hill. “Here we are sir. This rise gives us good observation of the rendezvous zone. And,” the corporal points toward two clearings below, “the most likely approaches are through those clearings.”

“Good work, Corporal Yanth,” CAPT Terelson smiled. Just goes to show that you get more with training and professional courtesy than you do with threats of the stockade. Terelson looked over his shoulder. “Anything Sergeant Burke?”

“Nothing from the VSF, sir, but we shouldn’t expect to hear from them until they arrive. On milcomm, I did just pick up Eagle Base dispatching two scout vehicles to check out our transmissions.”

“Are they headed anywhere near here?”

SSGT Burke tried almost successfully to suppress a chuckle. “No, they have a search grid that takes them almost everywhere in the sector, except here.”

“Sir,” CORP Yanth spoke up, “we have movement.”

Terelson picked up his field glasses and took a look. “Look’s like Vinnie is here.”

* * *

MAJ Thorsen looked up at the arrival board. Finally! Twenty minutes late, but they’re finally here. With a flash of his ID, Thorsen walked through security and made his way to the arrival gate. He looked through the windows and saw the Confederated Air Boeing 767 taxi up to the
jetway.

* * *

“Well, Shaun, it looks like we’re here,” MAJGEN Becka Harrison turned and watched the jetway attach to the body of the plane. “Too bad; I was really enjoying the company.” Becka smiled. “Major Thorsen will be here to meet me. Is anyone from your Embassy come to meet you, or may we offer you a ride?”

* * *

GEN Craig Altman studied the map. “Why is this taking so long?” He slammed a gloved fist on the map, causing the TFT display to briefly darken. The generals and other officers surrounding the map unconsciously took a step back. “My dimwitted grandfather could have been in Harrington by now!”

“Um,” LTGEN William Frakes, nominally in command of the 24th Army Corps, whose 721st Mobile Infantry division was advancing on Harrington, nervously mopped his brow, “sir, we, um, that is you, that is the Provisional Ruling Council, ordered Colonel Holmes, who is, um temporarily replacing, um Major General Atwood, to destroy the FVLA forces in the field and to take the city with minimum damage.

Altman’s face flashed red. “Yes destroy the rebels in the field, but not play around with them! And, if we have to pound the city to take it, then so be it! We can always rebuild it. And I don’t see the fair citizens,” sarcasm dripped off the word, “of Harrington doing much to overthrow the new commie government. So, in my book they’re all collaborators. And who cares if we kill a few thousand collaborators!”

There was faint sound, like metal on stone. Altman whirled and saw Attorney General Diana Silina step into the command center with two fully armored CIB troopers. Her troopers, of course, were tailed by three fully armored regular army troops.

“I would care,” the Attorney General announced calmly.

“What…”

“What am I doing here?” Silina smiled. A cold, frightening smile. “Do you forget that as a member of the PRC I have every right to be here? And every right to have my own security escort?”

Altman’s eyes smoldered. “But you do not have the right to interfere with a military operation.”

“But this isn’t a purely military operation, is it? Or are you prepared to recognize the FVLA and Liberated Harrington as independent and declare war on them? If not, then this is an insurrection, which makes it a domestic matter and a fitting matter for the Attorney General. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Altman crossed his arms and fumed silently.

“Now, I’m all in favor of recapturing Harrington, but do you have any idea the domestic, not to mention international, repercussions if we just flatten it? No, no, that would be too drastic a change in policy. And that would require a vote of the full PRC. Including Mr. Turley as Chairman of the Chamber of Industrials. But, oh,” Silina feigned shock, “you don’t want to convene the full council because that would force a resolution to the standoff between Brandt and Turley as to who represents the Chamber. And you know you’d lose that fight. So,” her cold smile returned, “I guess we’re left with enforcing the standing orders, aren’t we?”

“Yes.” Altman fought back everything he wanted to scream at the meddlesome snob.

“Good. Then, shouldn’t we convey to the Colonel that our orders still stand? And, shouldn’t we go ahead and promote him. Just to clear up the chain of command and all?”

“Yes. Comm, send the appropriate orders.” Altman’s face looked like a boiled lobster, but he managed to keep control.

* * *

“Sir, two very confusing incoming messages,” the sergeant handed two sheets of paper to COL Holmes.

Holmes read the first message. It seemed clear enough, if somewhat stilted. His previous orders stood and were reaffirmed by the Provisional Ruling Council. Further, he was ordered to continue as he was. And, finally, he was promoted to Brigadier and was given formal command of the division. COL – now BRIG - Holmes’ brow furrowed as he read the second set of orders. GEN Altman was personally countermanding the first set of instructions and ordering him to immediately attack Harrington.

“How many people have seen these orders, Sergeant?”

“The signalman on duty, Lieutenant Carter – the duty officer – and myself, sir.”

“Well, Sergeant, this second set of instructions never came in. Do you understand?”

The sergeant looked confused.

“I will not be responsible for massacring the people of Harrington. I am a soldier, not a butcher. What do you think of that, Sergeant?”

The sergeant saluted. “I’ve never been prouder to serve under you, sir.”

“Good. Can you erase our records of receiving this?”

“Yessir, General.”

“Very good. Do so. Then send an all station that our comm is on the fritz. Confirm that the last message we received was,” Holmes looked at the first communiqué, “NMCC 010104Z1012. Be sure to include the PRC and the Directorate of Justice on our all stations. And send the signalman on duty and Lieutenant Carter to me.”

“Yessir.” The sergeant saluted.

Holmes returned the salute. “Dismissed, Sergeant.” The choice he had feared his whole professional life had finally come. And despite his expectations, it made been surprisingly easy to make. His life versus that of tens of thousands of people in Harrington. No contest. Holmes swallowed. Once Altman figured out what he had done, he may well be dead. But, Holmes smiled glumly, at least I’ll die a general.

Phocas puffs on his cigar thoughtfully, and sips a glass of the offered brandy.

"Well sirs," he says after some time. "I previously agreed to act as a mediator in the border dispute, and I am of course happy to resume those responsibilities. I appreciate that you're not asking me to act as a spy. When I go to Courtland to continue negotiations, I shall, as a natural part of that process, notice any... shifts in the balance of power. If things are as far advanced as your sources would have you believe, it will be easy to confirm it without making any extra efforts. I wouldn't want to do anything which could be construed as espionage, you understand."

“Good, good,” Albert Cummings smiled broadly, “I understand you exactly, my Lord. Thank you. You have proven yet again that Pantocratoria is a true friend of Excalbia.” Cummings picked up his glass. “To Pantocratoria, our true friend!”

After the toast, Lord Halton lowers his glass. “One suggestion while in Courtland, my Lord Phocas. We’ve just learned that the former director of Varessa’s military research program – the one who initiated cooperation with the Dominion – has just been reassigned to Courtland as Varessa’s military attaché. If you can find a good excuse – possibly a meeting or reception with some of the military attaches in Courtland – it might be worthwhile to meet this fellow and size him up a bit. Just a suggestion, my Lord.”

Phocas nods.

"Well counselled, my Lord." he replies. "I shall make sure that I speak to him... one way or another."

He finishes with his cigar and stands.

"Well, my Lord, Monsieur Cummings," he says. "Thankyou very much for the brandy. I'll return to the Imperator Andreus and set sail for Courtland."

He salutes Halton, and then nods politely to Cummings before leaving the room. He meets his ADC outside.

"Contact the ship. Order the special ops team to prepare an... invitation for a certain military attaché. Just in case." he says quietly as the two men walk briskly back to their car.

"Yes, my Lord." says the aide-de-camp, waiting until the two are in the car before writing a message on his PDA, and transmitting it to the ship.

After Arturs finished stashing the new gear, he turned back to Greg. “So, if I’m just scouting, who’s going to do the actual work? Do you have pros coming in are you going to use some of the airheads out there as dupes?”

'Uh, option c. We're not bringing in any hit squads since we'd either have to smuggle them in, forcing us to forge documents, or bring them in on a corporate sponsorship, which ties us to them, which would be very stupid. And we're not going to be using any dupes. At this point, though, it's all theory since we haven't talked to your uppity ups, right? But suffice to say, we have no intention of asking anyone to throw their lives away.'

Greg leaned back and stretched his arms. 'So you've got your stuff, you'll want to find Eddie, who is a woman, she'll show you how to work the stuff. Be here at ten a.m. tomorrow morning, we'll start then. Oh, and practice driving, you're probably better than our guys are.'

The VSF Wolfhound crept into the clearing, sensors straining forward for the slightest hint of life.

"Contact on infra-red, sarge. 150 metres, axis 11, one humanoid shape, in cover in front of a large tree."

Roarke picked up the spare infra-red set, and looked in the direction that his 2IC had indicated. Sure enough, there was the faint outline of a...

"MAD contact, 140 metres, axis 10. Looks like a 4x4 of some kind."

"Stop the car."

"Sure sargeant."

The lead VSF vehicle came to a halt, with the column behind it still crawling forward. Roarke gestured to fire up the radio.

"Wolfhound to Shepherd, shadows on the ridge, over."

***

600 metres back, LTCOL Mathews was almost asleep. The report from Wolfhound brought him back to alertness with almost mind-numbing swiftness. He grabbed hold of the radio handset, and reesponded quickly.

"Shepherd to flock. Hold the sheep."

"2"

"3"

"4"

"5"

"6"

"Shepherd to flock. Acknowledged. Wolfhound, scent the wind, over."

"Wolfhound to Shepherd, roger that."

***

Roarke had a pretty good idea what the infra-red and MAD contacts ahead were. Not 100%, but pretty close.

"Fire up the UHF"

"Up"

"Dave, it's Vinnie. That you mate?"

***

"No, no, I'd kind of hoped to see a little of Courtland before arriving at the embassy. I'm not actually due at the embassy for another couple of days. If you and/or Major Thorsen could spare the time, I'd be much obliged. And it'd save me a taxi fare... which I'd be happy to make up to you over dinner... or at the Varessan Embassy Cafeteria, in the Major's case. No offence intended to him, but I don't particularly fancy him as a dinner companion.

***

Varessa was unique in its intelligence gathering efforts in the degree of centralisation of its resources. VMI, Varessan Military Intelligence, was the hub of this policy of centralisation, and its on-site intelligence gathering resources included one of the most sensitive electronic listening stations anywhere in the world. Feeds from hundreds of military and civil listening stations were routed through the facility, and, specifically, through through the "Communications and Encryption" Section.

Today, as for the past month or so, the duty section was actively listening to the feeds coming from the Excalbian Isles.

"Sir, there's FLASH traffic in the Gulf."

"Who's?"

"Excalbian, sir."

"Decryption?"

"Not a chance for us sir. I've set it to priority, but it'll be a least 6 hours. They've got 1056 bit encryption on that transmission. We're routing it through that monster out at VMRDC, but 6 hours is still the best we've got."

"Ok, well, if that's the best we can do, then that's the best we can do... well picked up."

"Sir, VWS Casior reports that the Imperator Andreus has altered course, die straight for Courtland, and has increased speed. VNC has ordered the Casior to follow."

"No worries, I'll bump that report up to the boss"

***

OOC: *winces at breaking 1056 bit encryption in 6 hours*... it would take modern computers hundreds of thousands of years to brute force that encryption... sigh. Not saying you can't do it, after all, it seems consistent with the level of decryption technology most people profess to have, and you've got to base what your capabilities are on what the capabilities of others are, but still... sigh! And the logical increment would be 1024 bit encryption too btw.*

IC:

Phocas lit up another Esperi cigar on the bridge of HIMS Imperator Andreus.

"Signal General Altman." he orders. "Send him my compliments, and inform him that I have returned to resume in my role as negotiator in the matter of the disputed waters. Ask him for an appointment in Courtland at his earliest possible convenience."

"Yes, my Lord!" answers the communications officer as he starts typing the communiqué.

"After that, signal the Varessan embassy in Courtland." Phocas continues. "Tell them I'm here to negotiate a treaty between the Excalbians and the Upper Virginians, and will soon be in Courtland to fulfil that duty. Ask them whether it would be possible to meet with a Varessan military attaché. I would like to be briefed on the situation by an impartial party, and that the Imperial Government and I would appreciate their assistance."

"Yes, my Lord..." replies the beleaguered communications officer as he types as quickly as he can.

A marine officer arrives on the bridge and salutes Phocas' back.

"My Lord First Admiral," he says. "My men are ready, sir."

"Very good, colonel." replies Phocas, without turning to face the man. "But I hope we shan't need them. Nevertheless, keep them on alert. Formulate a plan to kidnap the Varessan military attaché to Upper Virginia, just in case he can't find the time to talk to me willingly."

Lord Halton returns Phocas’ salute and he and Cummings watch the Pantocratorian First Admiral walk out of the Minister’s office.

“I believe that went very well, Lord Halton,” Cummings said returning to his seat and his cigar.

“You surprise me, Minister,” Halton spoke between puffs as he, too, returned to his comfortable chair.

“How so?”

“You were so direct and upfront. Not what I’ve come to expect from a Minister of State, sir.”

Cummings chuckled. “If you’re saying I’m different than Sir Garrison and his predecessors, I accept the compliment, my Lord. I’ve always believed honesty is the best approach, especially with allies.”

“A refreshing change, sir. So, what next? Other than report to Lady Freedman, of course.”

“Well, now we wait. Hopefully, Lord Phocas will return shortly with a first hand account of the mood in the corridors of power and on the streets of Courtland. That will go a long way in helping us know what to do next. And speaking of that, how are our forces?”

“Vice Admiral Sir Kunle and his flotilla – the INV Glorious carrier battle group, the INV Excalbia and the INV Citadel strike groups and two submarine squadrons – are in position in the gulf. Glorious is in strike range of Courtland and his Wraith squadrons are in position to take out their most threatening air and missile bases. Of course, the Uppies have their fleet observing ours. If it comes down to hostile action, I have no doubt that Sir Kunle will knock out much of their strike capability, but we’d probably lose most of our flotilla. We do have the rest of Home Fleet and some our Expeditionary Fleet in reserve, but I’d rather not contemplate the kinds of loses that would require us to bring them into play.”

“Nor I, my Lord, but contemplating such unpleasant thoughts is an unfortunate but necessary part of our duty to the Emperor.”

“Yes, of course.” Halton picks up his glass and stands. “The Emperor.”

Cummings stands and raises his glass. “May God bless him with long life and a peaceful reign.”

SSGT Burke lightly tapped CAPT Terelson on the shoulder. “We have Vinnie on the line, sir.”

“Good, good,” Terelson put his field glass down and smiled, “invite them over.”

“Vinnie, yes, this is Dave. Breakfast is ready, come on over.” Burke put down the transmitter and picked up his weapon. He turned and looked behind him. “Yodel, Yarlson and Miller with me.” Burke opened his door and stepped out. The others followed through the rear hatch. Burke took a look around, saw his men in position and nodded towards the CO.

Terelson returned the nod and stepped out to greet his new Varessan allies. He held up a hand in greeting. “Welcome to the Dominion, gentlemen. After we get our intros out of the way, we really do have some fresh food and then, back to your new home away from home.”

* * *

As she walked down the jetway beside MAJGEN Roberts, Becka nodded and smiled. “Of course, Shaun. I don’t need to be in the office until tomorrow morning. Thorsen can catch both of us and then I suppose he and Captain Stokes will need to get to their office, but I’d be happy to give you the quick tour.” The Dominion general looked over her shoulder, “Will your Major Bolton be joining us? I didn’t really see him on the plane…”

MAJGEN Harrison’s gaze tracks back to the front and she spots MAJ Thorsen at the end of the jetway. Suddenly, her smile fades a little – but not entirely – and her face takes on a cooler, professional appearance. “Major, good to see you again. May I introduce you to Major General Shaun Roberts, newly assigned at the Military Attaché at the Varessan Embassy.”

Thorsen forces a weak smile. His attempt seems to indicate that he is not a man given to many smiles. “General Harrison, welcome back. We’ve missed you. There is much to discuss. General Roberts,” Thorsen extends a hand, “a pleasure to meet you, sir. I haven’t seen anyone from your Embassy here, so may I offer you a ride with us?”

“Already offered and accepted, Major,” Harrison’s smile returns a little.

“Good, good,” Thorsen turns and begins leading the way. “Then, let’s collect your bags, ma’am, sir, and we’ll talk on the way back to the capital.”

* * *

BRIG Holmes smiled in spite of everything. So far so good. The signalman and LT Carter had gone along with him as willingly as FSGT Tolliver. NMCC, the PRC and the DOJ had acknowledged his last message of loss of communications and none of them had indicated any lost messages. So, for the time being either GEN Altman didn’t know or had decided for some reason to let go.

But, in either case, the calm might not last long. Altman could repeat his order at any time. Or simply order one of his subordinates to take command. Holmes rubbed his forehead. I need a plan. Colonel Drake and Lieutenant Colonel Helms are decent enough. I can probably persuade them. But, Major Wolingham – he’s different. Entirely too ingratiating and fawning. If Altman gets a hold of him directly, he’d gladly stab me in the back – literally – for a chance at command. And bomb Harrington back to the Stone Age without flinching. And, Holmes winced; he’s just the kind of social climber with no pedigree and no patrons than Altman could hang as a scapegoat without anyone caring.

Holmes looked up and nodded for his orderly. “Corporal, please have Major Wolingham come here. I know his is in the middle of skirmish – tell him to leave Major LeFleur in command.”

“Yessir,” the corporal saluted and then took off for the comm truck,

About 40 minutes later, MAJ Wolingham stepped through the tent and saluted. “Reporting at ordered, sir! And I’m pleased to report that I have the rebels in almost full retreat on our left, sir! Oh, and congratulations on the promotion, sir!”

Holmes smiled bitterly. Wolingham was a fawning sob, but he still didn’t like doing this. “Thank you, Major. And, I’ve heard the good reports from your sector.” Holmes leaned back and motioned to a chair. Wolingham sat and smiled. “And your success, Major, has invited opportunity. I want you to lead a small recon detail – you’ve proven that you’re a master of this terrain – and scout over to enemy’s right. Try to get as far to their rear as you can without engaging. Understood?”

“Yes, sir, um, Brigadier.” Wolingham swallowed hard. This was just the kind of hands-on duty that was best avoided, but he didn’t see anyway out. “Who shall I take with me, sir?”

“First Sergeant Tolliver has put together a crack team. You’ll depart in a few minutes. Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir, Brigadier!” Wolingham jumped to his feet and gave a crisp salute.

After he had left, FSGT Tolliver stepped in and saluted.

“Is everything ready, Sergeant?”

“Yessir. The men I’ve chosen are all reliable. With any luck, the Major will stumble right into FVLA lines and be caught in the, uh, crossfire, without us having to do anything more drastic.”

Holmes nodded, even as he stomach swirled. FSGT Tolliver noticed it and decided to try the general’s newfound confidence. “Are you alright, sir?”

“No, Sergeant, I’m not. I hate this kind of business. Its what I’ve always tried to avoid…”

“Begging your pardon, sir, I know, sir. But, you have no choice, if I might speak freely. Wolingham is a miserable excuse for man, begging your pardon, sir, and would turn on you without a thought.”

“I know, I know. Still, it doesn’t exactly make one feel proud to wear the uniform. Dismissed.”

“Yessir!”

* * *

Meanwhile, in Courtland…

GEN Craig Altman paced the comm center. So, Alex Holmes thinks his new star and Silina will protect him from me. How dare he! Unfortunately, Holmes was a good officer. The kind who inspired loyalty. And without a mistake, it’d be hard to recall him to Courtland without rousing Silina’s suspicion. And the other officers, they were too cowed to protest when he shot incompetents like Atwood, but they just might react to shooting Holmes. There was one officer he could use. Wolingham. Altman seeded creatures like him throughout the army. Disposable men willing to be used. Disposable men he could use. “Anything?” Altman stared at the back of signalman’s head.

“No, sir, uh, just a moment, sir.” The signalman listened intently and grew pale. “Sir, they report that Major Wolingham was KIA earlier today. Is there anyone else…”

Before Altman could erupt, another signalman spoke up. “General! We have an incoming message from HIMS Imperator Andreus. The Pantocratorian First Admiral, Lord Phocas, is requesting a meeting to resume negotiations over the gulf, sir!”

“Well, well,” Altman smiled. “Please invite the good Admiral at his earliest convenience. Let’s see where this leads. It might be interesting…”

After Arturs finished stashing the new gear, he turned back to Greg. “So, if I’m just scouting, who’s going to do the actual work? Do you have pros coming in are you going to use some of the airheads out there as dupes?”

'Uh, option c. We're not bringing in any hit squads since we'd either have to smuggle them in, forcing us to forge documents, or bring them in on a corporate sponsorship, which ties us to them, which would be very stupid. And we're not going to be using any dupes. At this point, though, it's all theory since we haven't talked to your uppity ups, right? But suffice to say, we have no intention of asking anyone to throw their lives away.'

Greg leaned back and stretched his arms. 'So you've got your stuff, you'll want to find Eddie, who is a woman, she'll show you how to work the stuff. Be here at ten a.m. tomorrow morning, we'll start then. Oh, and practice driving, you're probably better than our guys are.'

Arturs nods and stands up. “Well, then, I’m off to find Eddie. Do you want my companion or do I fill her in? And, as for the higher ups, Gwen will be by tomorrow morning. She’ll be able to give you the definitive word.”

Phocas and his ADC once again load up on a Seahawk on the deck of HIMS Imperator Andreus, and the two head for Courtland.


OOC: Erm... how did I manage to call my flagship Imperator Andreus instead of Andreus Imperator? How did I manage such a colossal Latin blunder? And how come I only just realised it? Sigh.

LT James Fletcher nervously awaited the arrival of First Admiral Phocas' Seahawk. He wasn't nervous about receiving the visiting dignitary, of course. Or even escorting him into the notoriously volatile presence of GEN Altman. No, he had family in Harrington and was hoping to get word from them. The press said that the FVLA had cut the phone lines into Harrington to isolate from the rest of the world. But, Fletcher knew the truth. It was the Army that had cut them. To isolate Harrington. Like a virus. To keep it from spreading. But how long would the General wait before he decided to destroy it, like a cancer? That's what worried Fletcher.

Thankfully, he heard the chopper and looked up. Once the Seahawk was down and secured, he walked over and saluted. "First Admiral Phocas, welcome to Upper Virginia. Please follow me and I will take you to General Altman's compound."

***

GEN Craig Altman sat quietly behind his desk studying the face of the intelligence officer in front of him. "So, Major, you understand your mission?"

MAJ Harold Rheims nodded slowly. "Yes" he said flatly, "officially, I am delivering highly classified briefing materials to Brigadier Holmes," the officer patted the briefcase cuffed to his wrist, "but once an opportunity arises, I am to assassinate Holmes and make it look like an FVLA action."

"Yes," Altman smiled coldly, "yes."

***

BRIG Holmes had long suspected his cousin Janet was involved in the long rumored conspiracy against GEN Altman. Now, he hoped he was right. He sealed the envelope and handed it to a private.

"Private Jenkins, you understand how important this is?"

"Yessir," the nervous young woman answered.

"Make sure that it gets to Major Holmes. And only her. If you succeed, she'll complete your transfer to the Air Force and to a rear position. That is what you want, isn't it?"

Natilda Jenkins swallowed hard. Of course that was what she wanted. But her background had been too poor and too suspect to get the Air Force, so she had been stuck in the infantry. Cannon fodder. "Yessir."

Holmes nodded. "Good. But hear this, Private, if you fail, I will report you AWOL and you will be shot. Understand?"

"Yessir."

"Very good. Dismissed." Of course, if someone else gets that letter, we'll both be shot.

After the private left, Holmes turned to LCOL Helms. "Jerry, do you have the message ready for the FVLA?"

"Yessir, Brigadier," Helms looked evenly at his CO, "and I've dispatched the truce offer to the FVLA. No one knows about except us, Colonel Drake and Lieutenant Carter, who sent it. Now, we just have to wait."

Four trucks, waiting for over an hour, waited for the shipment to be unloaded; the delay was created by customs, who had decided to go through one of the containers, and were busy poking their noses into boxes marked fragile with careless disregard.

'Excuse me, excuse me,' a skinny bald man, an operative posing as the UV corporations' representative, dashed over to a customs officer who was tilting a box upside down. He arrived too late, and a think matte white lap top tumbled too its doom. 'Damn it, do you know how much that cost?'

The officer ignored him and opened another box while the representative tried to scoop up the pieces of the laptop and put them back in the box.

'What exactly do you need all these electronics for?' asked another official, who had more bars on his uniform making it likely he was the boss. The representative sighed.

'Do you know how much computer power investment forcasting requires? Do you have any idea how many subroutines we have to run to browse global markets, everywhere, ever hour of the day, so nothing gets by? Do you?' The boss rolled his eyes and walked away, jotting something on his clipboard.

As night fell, the shipment was finally cleared, and after costing Urban Cool several thousand dollars to keep the drivers waiting, the electronics were moved to a warehouse, and were ferried to Urban Cool through the night.

ooc: posted here by request: the phone uses chaos encryption, which basically scrambles the actual message inside fractal generated noise. if you know what the noise is, that is if you have the exact fractal, you can tune out the noise and hear the message, but if not... well it's just noise. all the UC phones are coded with the same fractal and so only work to each other; you can't call normal phones, or you can but they'll only hear noise. the cellphone's location can be traced as normal, just not decoded, since the number of computations to randomly pick out which of the billions of bits of information are for saving, and in what order, and how they link together, is catastrophically huge.

the phone also has a small acid packet inside to dissolve the processor if the operative might be caught. this will be explained ic but included here for completeness.

the radio is ... a radio. it's used for being sneaky with the throatmic. there are earpieces but they're given out during missions, will go into that ic.

the digital camera is also ... a camera, but has four slots for memory cards, with 512 meg sticks for each one. nothing super special there.

will go into the cars when the recruits get introduced to the cars.

Chairman Ulsis Marko listened to the voice coming from speaker of the descrambler. This is a strange turn of events. We’ve had a few local police commanders defect with their entire detachments and we’ve had a few low ranking regular Army officers solicit bribes to let us pass or even “lose” supplies for us to find. But, this… this is odd. As the voice finishes, Marko looked around at the faces in the room. Ulman, the People’s Commissioner for Internal Security, rubbed his sweaty brow and looked vaguely nauseous. People’s Commissioner Blaumena, remade as the compassionate public face of the new Government, looked completely unlike a revolutionary. She now reminded Marko of one of DBC’s vacuous news anchors. But behind that façade, he could still see the cold fire of hate in her eyes.

“How can we trust anything the Army says?” Blaumena spit out the word army as if it were something disgusting.

“But it is not the Army making the offer,” Ulman said passionlessly, “it is one man. One general.”

“The most effective commander we’ve faced in the field, I might add,” the voice spoke from the speaker. “And that makes him a man not to be taken lightly.”

The fourth person in the room shuffled his papers nervously. Deputy Commissioner Jonathan Stiles, formerly Captain Stiles of the Harrington Police Department, still wasn’t comfortable around his new bosses. Except for Commissioner Ulman, who’d proven to be a much better boss than the late unlamented Chief Bremen. He knew he was there only as Ulman’s lieutenant and that the other’s didn’t trust him. Yet.

Marko watched the nervous ex-policeman for a moment. “If you have something to add, Deputy Commissioner, please go ahead. You’re one of us now, for better or worse, and will hang beside us if we fall. So, you have as much right to speak as anyone.”

“Th.. thank you, Mr. Chairman,” Stiles said, “it’s just that – I don’t know Brigadier Holmes – but I know of him and his family. They’re not like most of the Dominion’s military families. His reputation is that he takes care of his people and is a good military man. Not a butcher or a corrupt military bureaucrat. That’s why Police Chief… I mean former Police Chief Bremen, didn’t like him. He couldn’t corrupt him, couldn’t compromise him and couldn’t manipulate him.”

Blaumena snorted contemptuously and Marko gave her a sharp glance. Then, he looked at Stiles and nodded. “That goes along with the prisoners we’ve captured have told us. So,” he again looked at the speaker in the descrambler, “Karl, what do you think?”

“In the past,” the voice of their commander began, “I would have reject the offer outright. A secret ceasefire? Preposterous. Sounds like a weak excuse for a trick. But, as our new Deputy Commissioner said, Brigadier Holmes has a certain reputation. And, I’ll admit it, he’s earned a certain respect from me for the way he’s handled this fight.” The voice paused. “Have we learned anything new about the coup plot?”

“Not much,” another voice, this one very feminine, came from another phone line patched into the speaker, “just that the plot has the backing of the Chamber of Industrials and is located, mostly, in the Special Security Service and the Office of Procurement. And that it now has some kind of foreign backing.”

“Commander,” Ulman said, “do you think this Holmes’ offer of a truce is related to the coup?”

“I’m not sure, but we can’t rule it out. Gwyneth,” Commander Lazarus’ voice continued, “have you said anything to our new partners about the coup?”

“Not yet. I was waiting for your authorization, Commander.”

“Go ahead and tell them when you meet this morning. And tell them about the truce offer. I’m curious about how they might read this. I’ve told Holmes that I will reply by the end of the day. So, get back to me as soon you’ve finished your meeting.”

“Sorry, to interrupt,” Marko said looking at his watch, “but we’re low on time. The Dominion may be tracking us shortly.”

“Understood,” Lazarus said. “Keep up the good work Marko.”

***

An attractive young woman in a stylish business suit strolled into the offices of Urban Cool. She looks at the man at the counter and hands him a business card. The card is printed on heavy stock and reads simply: Gwyneth Ubrecht with a mobile number and an e-mail address. She smiles brightly. “I’m here to see your manager, Greg. I believe he’s expecting me.”

The slightly stubbly youth behind the counter, an ex-Volunteer now known as Jon, took the card and pretended to be impressed. 'They are expecting you,' he said, smirking. 'Go straight back, take the first left, go up the stairs, you'll see the conference room on the left.'

The UC offices were something of a honeycomb, small hallways and offices jammed into every corner of the building, forcing Ubrecht to literally rub shoulder with several odd smelling youths in dungarees. The conference room was on the left of the staircase as promised, a plate glass room where a thin man in his late thirties was speaking to a large group clustered around a long table. Ubrecht let herself in quiety and took a seat at the back of the room.

'Third and most important,' the man at the head of the table said, 'look like you own the god damned city. The first thing cops look for is someone who is uncomfortable, and confidence equals comfort. We will never send you anywhere you don't belong, you will always have the correct papers, and you are never doing anything wrong, right? If a cop asks for your papers, give them to him. You belong there. If he hassles you, call your field manager because our permits are legit, we paid out the nose for them.

'Fourth and finally, and I mean this, no monkey business ever. Ever. No drinking, no drugs, no going out, nothing. We are all on house arrest from now on because one slip up and UC gets exposed. Now I know we run this place like its fun and games but if anyone puts this operation in jeapordy we will hang you out to dry. We will cooperate with the authorities, we will have you put in jail and we will leave you there. Understand?' The room sat quietly, a little startled by the serious turn in the speaker's voice. 'Good, now everyone who's signed up to drive, go to the parking lot for orientation with the vehicles. Everyone else, see your field managers, today is your training day.'

The motley assortment of ad hoc operatives, some of whom Ubrecht recognized, filed out as the speaker sat down at a recently vacated seat. 'Ms. Ubrecht, it's good to see you here. Would you like a tour of our facilities or shall we just get straight to business?'

Ubrecht glanced at her watch. There should be time. She stood with a smile. "Thank you. I'd love a tour."

'Right,' Greg said as he hopped back to his feet, 'follow me.'

Greg left the conference room with Ubrecht in tow, a stack of papers tucked in one hand. 'This floor is mostly the director's offices, mine is over there-' he points at a smallish office already cluttered with file boxes and paper '-and of course the two conference rooms for official meetings, like the ones that shouldn't be overheard.

'Third floor,' Greg said as he pointed to another staircase, a metal spiral staircase set inside a sort of break room, 'is our equipment rooms, getting those loaded up after our ship came in, hehehe.' Ubrecht doesn't laugh at the joke and Greg moves on, knocks on the door of an office where a woman is typing on her computer with another hunched over her shoulder.

'Susan, Kim, this is Ms. Ubrecht,' Greg greeted them, his shoulder hanging inside the office, 'here for the tour.' The two women said their pleasantries and went back to work. 'Busy with some logistics stuff, we're trying to track down the frequencies of certain tv stations, evil plots. Some of your guys will be working with them later this week when we start to put some stuff in motion.

'Anyway, more on that later. Come down to the first floor, we'll meet the field managers.' Greg led Ubrecht down the narrow staircase she'd ascended, took a couple terms and let them into a room with several circular tables where a variety of fairly young men and women sat amidst a flurry of maps and highlighters. 'Guys, this is Ms. Ubrecht.'

A chorus of hellos came as expected, though they didn't immediately go back to work. 'The FM's will be in charge of the recon teams we send out,' Greg explained, 'all of them are vets of some kind of guerilla action. Once your guys learn the ropes we'll get them in on this. Mostly what they do is map out the exact routes we need to take, assign turfs to spot and so on.

'Any questions before we head into the basement to see the real guts of the operation?'

Ubrecht smiles very warmly at Greg. Hmmm. Impressive operation. This may just work out.

"No questions yet," she flashes her bright smile again, "you have a topnotch operation here, Greg. Please lead on."

She glances at her watch. "You've said you want to speak with our big boss. He's going to call me in about 10 minutes. Our phones aren't as sophisticated as yours, but we have found a way to scramble our calls and disguise the numbers. It isn't foolproof, and we can't talk for long, but it does do the job. He'll call and seal the deal on our partnership and then I'll address the specifics." She smiles. "But for now, lead on, friend."

The VSF Platoon fanned out in company of the Upper Virginian personnel they had just met, forming up in a cordon around the small party, and throwing up the chameleonic camouflage netting for which the VSF were so well known for in less than 4 minutes. LTCOL Mathews jumped down and sook CAPT Terelson's hand.

"Good to finally be here. I'm LTCOL Mathews, and these here are my boys. We've brought along what you can see here, and are pretty keen to put it into use. What's the situation around here like from your perspective, Captain?"

***

MAJGEN Roberts picked up his single suitcase and manhandled it into the back of the waiting vehicel, still chatting to MAJGEN Harrison as he did so. Becka's contact here didn't seem like the most sociable fellow he'd ever met, and he made a mental note to ask her that very question over dinner. Thinking of future arrangements...

"Excuse me, all, I'll have to make a brief call in to the Varessan Embassy, and will be right back with you." he said, as he was walking around the corner. Although the Varessan Major General trusted his Upper Virginian counterpart implicitly, he was far less certain of her assistant's loyalties.

The number took a little longer than he was used to to dial through. Probably the phone lines here in the Dominion. He gave a mental shrug. Something to get used to in this new posting of his.

Roberts was idly speculating about how COL. Blackman was handling his own role at VMRDC when the call finally connected.

"Good afternoon, Varessan Embassy, how can I help you."

"Request encryption."

"Certainly sir, please hold."

The phone made a series of clicking and buzzing noises that sounded very much like a dial-up modem, before the voice of his new superior, the Varessan Ambassador to the Dominion, came online.

"Ambassador Wilkinson speaking"

"Afternoon sir, MAJGEN Roberts here."

"Ah, Shaun, (Roberts winced. He hated being called by his first name by anyone he didn't know), good to have you with us. You're early.."

"Yes sir, I am, thought I'd spend the first couple of days acquainting myself with the territory."

"No worries at all, Shaun" -he winced again- "just be sure to put in any contact reports as appropriate. Never know what these Uppies will get up to..."

Roberts grimaced. That'd take some of the fun out of the evening with Becka. Still, it might, depending on their activities and the mood he was in after said activities, be an interesting contact report.

"Yes sir, will do."

"Have fun then, General, bye."

Roberts had now spoken to the Ambassador for exactly 1 minute and 34 seconds, and had already come to the conclusion that the man was a twit. Ah well, such was life. As it was, he was under orders not to divulge his actual mission to anyone else in the Embassy. He'd make do...

"I'm back. So, Becka, where do you fancy showing me in this fine city of yours?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

***

The twin screws of the VWS Casior drove the Watchkeeper class submarine through the water at 25 knots, producing barely a whisper as they did so. Trailing the Imperator Andreus was tough. Not just because the escorts were good, which they were, but because the Aircraft Carrier's Captain was sharp, and was moving erratically. Sprint, drift, change course, and the carrier was quick as well... just to make matters harder.

"Conn, sonar. Alpha Charlie 1 is making turns for 10 knots, speed 20 knots and falling."

"Engine room, make your speed one zero knots immediate."

"Speed one zero knots, aye sir."

The Casior slowed quickly, and, as designed, silently, and the captain breathed a sigh of relief. With less mass, the Varessan submarine had slowed earlier than the bigger ship it was following, and was able to stay, relative to it and its escorts, virtually silent.

"I hope this son of a bitch lets up, this is getting beyond the joke."

***

She glances at her watch. "You've said you want to speak with our big boss. He's going to call me in about 10 minutes. Our phones aren't as sophisticated as yours, but we have found a way to scramble our calls and disguise the numbers. It isn't foolproof, and we can't talk for long, but it does do the job. He'll call and seal the deal on our partnership and then I'll address the specifics." She smiles. "But for now, lead on, friend."

'Well let's move this to my office, I want to address something before your boss calls.' Greg closes the door and trots back upstairs into his office, closing the door behind him and motioning for Ubrecht to sit in a vacant swivel chair.

'So we mentioned, earlier, about a manifesto from you guys. Now you choose how you want to get the message out, but you're going to need formal representatives stationed in other nations to represent your group whenever something goes down. Once you bring the media into this, and believe me, the media will soon be very involved, if you don't convince the entire world you're the second coming of christ forget getting any support for the new government.

'So we're offering to smuggle a diplomatic team out of the country, to wherever you want, and bankroll a tour of the world to rally up support for your cause. So beyond the mechanics of creating an entirely new authority structure that you'll use to subvert the government, which is what I'm going to talk to your boss about, you also need other nations to throw their weight in behind this.

'I'm not allowed to suggest anyone specifically, you can figure out who you want to get on your side, but either way, we'd like to get your team out of country as soon as possible, before more fireworks happen.'

“Well,” Ubrecht says, taking the offered seat, “there are several people here in Courtland that we could send. However, the best person to be a chief spokesman, if you will, may be Sub-Commander Blaumena.” Ubrecht smiles slightly and shrugs. “Or, I should say, People’s Commissioner Athene Blaumena. She’s now in charge of social services and public relations in Harrington. She’s been with the movement from the beginning and knows everything inside and out. And despite some, umm, strident tendencies, she can come across very warm and personable. Both in person and on TV. Getting her out of Harrington might be difficult, but it would be doable and probably worthwhile. I can mention it to our, um, boss when he calls.”

Ubrecht glances at her watch and reaches into her purse to fish out the phone. “A couple other things before Commander Lazarus – that’s what he goes by now – calls. First, you should know that there is another player on the field. A group of military officers, heavily concentrated in the Special Security Service – the nastiest of the bunch – are plotting a coup against General Altman. They have the support of the business class and seem to intend to restore the pre-1932 bourgeoisie constitution. They also have some kind of foreign support, but we don’t know from whom or how much.”

Ubrecht bites her lower lip. “Second, and the reason we’re cluing you in about this coup, is that the general in command of the government troops advancing on Harrington has asked for a truce with Commander Lazarus’ force. A secret truce. We suspect this general – a Brigadier Holmes – has some connection to the coup and that this is in someway related.” Ubrecht pauses, looking uncharacteristically uneasy. “The truth is, no one on the other side has ever asked for a truce or negotiations or even talks. Frankly, we don’t know what to do with it. We would just dismiss it as a trick or an attempt at soliciting a bribe – we have seen that before on a smaller scale – but all the information we have points towards this Holmes being a straight arrow. Some kind of patriot, actually. So, I think Commander Lazarus will be asking for your, um, professional opinion.”

Suddenly the phone vibrates visibly in Ubrecht’s hand. She puts it up to her ear. “Ubrecht.”

“Yes, Commander. He’s here. Just a moment.” Ubrecht hands the phone to Greg.

On the phone, Greg can hear static and a slightly muffled voice. “This is Commander Lazarus. I understand you wanted to speak to me to finalize our partnership.”

Greg puts his hand over the phone's mouthpiece as he takes it from Ubrecth and throws her a pad of paper. 'Write down the names of every Special Security guy that might come over.'

Taking his hand off the reciever Greg puts on a huge smile and holds the phone to his ear. 'Hello, sir, it's good to finally talk to you in person. I'm Greg, Director down here at Urban Cool and we are very interested in working with you in the future. I've spoken with Ms. Ubrecht about our conditions and want to make sure we're all on the same page before we proceed.'

ooc: sorry for the ridiculous delay, jobby job. i was trying to write up something bigger but i'll finish that this weekend.

“Yes,” Commander Lazarus says over the phone, “Gwen has advised me of all your terms and conditions, Greg. And, we are prepared to accept them. Provided you can accept our sole requirement, that we retain our position in Harrington and receive your assistance in enhancing that position. Is that acceptable? And, has Gwen told you about the General up here who has asked for truce? What do you think of that?”

Meanwhile, Gwen takes Greg’s pad and writes, It is impossible to penetrate the SSS. We don’t know how many are involved. We think they are making their own play and are almost as hostile to us as GEN. Altman. I do know one low ranking SSS man – 2nd LT. Ben Harrelson. He’s only dropped hints. She finishes and tosses it to Greg.

“Pleased to meet you, Colonel. And I was serious about some fresh food. We’re in a good spot here and we have no immediate hurry. So, while we talk,” CAPT Terelson looks over his shoulder and gestures towards SSGT Burke, “Sergeant Burke here could get see it to that your men get a little something to supplement those rations they’ve probably been living on.” Terelson turns fully towards Burke. “Sergeant, set up a guard and see to the Colonel’s men.” Then, turning back to LCOL Mathews, he nods towards his vehicle. “If you’ll step over here, Colonel, I’ll lay out the situation for you.”

The two officers walk over to the open door of the vehicle. Terelson reaches inside and turns flat screen so that he and Mathews can see it through the door. Terelson calls us a map and points out a low hill. “Here’s our position.” His hand moves across the screen. “There’s a regular army encampment over here. I believe you ran into one of their units the other night – at least I assume that you had something to do with their ‘accidental misfire’ – they also seem to have picked up some of our transmissions.”

Seeing the Varessan’s reaction, Terelson quickly moves ahead. “However, they don’t seem to be particularly worried about it. They have sent out a couple of patrols, but they’ve sent them over here and here, near these small villages and this national forest. They probably think they have some hunters or poachers. And they haven’t reported anything to their division HQ.”

Terelson hits a few more keys and a satellite image of the same area appears. “As a member of the Special Security Service I have access to our satellite images. Unfortunately, these aren’t real-time images – those might be traced and give us away. I last downloaded something before we made contact. There’s no sign of any other units, so we should be secure here. Now, once these units give up their search we can load up and head back to base. Over here, just on the other side of the river and that cluster of villages, we have an SSS base. It’s an official base, but all the officers there are part of our, little group shall we say.”

Terelson turns off the screen and leans against the vehicle. “I don’t know how much you all know about our group, but most of us are SSS men – probably the most feared and reviled group in the military. But, we’re also among the most professional, if I do say so myself, and the most disgusted with General Altman and his murderous ways. Fortunately for us, General Altman thinks the people hate us as much as they hate him and that we have no choice but to back his rule. So, he pays us little mind. He worries more about the Attorney General and her civilian paramilitary units. As a result, we’ve been able to assemble a couple of battalions of SSS troops and station most of them up here.”

SSGT Burke, followed by two privates, steps up and salutes. “Captain, Colonel, we have some coffee and food for you, sirs.” Terelson returns the salute and takes a cup from a private. “Thank you, Sergeant. Private.”

As the enlisted men depart, Terelson looks back at Mathews. “So, Colonel, how many details do have on our plans?”

* * *

Becka returns Shaun’s look with a smile. “Well, I was thinking that Major Thorsen could drop me at home – I need to unpack and check on my son – and drop you at your new housing. Then, in a couple of hours, I could pick you up and take you downtown – to the historic quarter. I could show you what few historic buildings have survived and then maybe a quick look at the aviation museum. Then, I know a nice seafood restaurant near the museum…”

“Sorry, General,” MAJ Thorsen interrupts, “but everything is ready, shall we go?”

“Yes, thanks, Major.” Becka steps into the car followed by the Varessan Major General.

(ooc, more tomorrow, I hope.)

“Yes,” Commander Lazarus says over the phone, “Gwen has advised me of all your terms and conditions, Greg. And, we are prepared to accept them. Provided you can accept our sole requirement, that we retain our position in Harrington and receive your assistance in enhancing that position. Is that acceptable? And, has Gwen told you about the General up here who has asked for truce? What do you think of that?”

'Yes, Harrington. Well I haven't heard much about your plans for the city so I can't really say what our position on that would be. I'm not military by any stretch so I can't say this or that about defense, but I do not that holding territory tells your enemies where you are, which makes the job of those on the outside all the harder. We can't exactly drive a truck into Harrington to supply you, and any truck leaving would be tracked, wouldn't it? Either way, if you intend to hold it I'm sure I can't disuade you, but if you do you'll be fighting two differant wars: the one to hold your territory and the one to collapse the government. Usually I like to pick one thing and concentrate on it.

'As for logistics, we are more than capable of supplying you, though I haven't a clue how we'd get the equipment to you.'

Greg takes the notepad from Ubrecht as he's speaking and scribbles: do they need to be disappeared?

'Commander, about these generals, I've just been told and so cannot comment until I hear back from my boss on this.'

As MAJ Thorsen navigates the official car through traffic towards Courtland, he flips switch and checks readout on a small screen mounted above the center console. "OK, we should be effectively masked for electronic surveillance." He looks over his shoulder at the two major generals in the backseat. It is obvious to him that MAJGENs Harrison and Roberts have become close. Perhaps too close. Nothing I can do about that now. Better than having them be like oil and water.

"With your permission, General, I'd like to go ahead and start filling you in on developments here..."

"Go ahead, Major Thorsen," Becka nods.

"Yes, Ma'am. First, we have the Chamber of Industrials on board. Their new chairman and, more importantly, the vice chairman are strongly behind us. General Altman is still backing the claim of the ousted former chairman - Baxter Brandt - but he has been effectively cut out of the loop and is hold up in his otherwise empty former corporate HQ. However, many in the Chamber are nervous and pushing for quicker action.

"Second, the FVLA has taken control of Harrington. The commander up there leading the counter attack is Brigadier Holmes, the cousin of Major Janet Holmes - our pilot for Ozymandius. So far, he is advancing steadily but is resisting Altman's orders to directly attack the city of Harrington. We don't know yet if that just means he is a man of conscience and courage or whether he is willing to come over to our side or even jump to the FVLA. We're trying to find out more.

"Third, the Varessan Special Forces are here and should have linked up with our men by now. They'll briefly move to our SSS base in the north and then start moving into position closer to Courtland.

"Also, the Excalbians are continuing their efforts to resolve the gulf crisis through Pantocratorian intermediaries. We don't know how much, if anything, the Excalbians and Pantocratorians know, but feel it is too dangerous for us to contact them.

"Finally, there has been a strange lull in FVLA activities here. It almost seems if they are regrouping and preparing for something new."

Thorsen glances into the rearview mirror at the generals. "So, our next step is figure out a time line and start things in motion..."

'Yes, Harrington. Well I haven't heard much about your plans for the city so I can't really say what our position on that would be. I'm not military by any stretch so I can't say this or that about defense, but I do not that holding territory tells your enemies where you are, which makes the job of those on the outside all the harder. We can't exactly drive a truck into Harrington to supply you, and any truck leaving would be tracked, wouldn't it? Either way, if you intend to hold it I'm sure I can't disuade you, but if you do you'll be fighting two differant wars: the one to hold your territory and the one to collapse the government. Usually I like to pick one thing and concentrate on it.

'As for logistics, we are more than capable of supplying you, though I haven't a clue how we'd get the equipment to you.'

Greg takes the notepad from Ubrecht as he's speaking and scribbles: do they need to be disappeared?

'Commander, about these generals, I've just been told and so cannot comment until I hear back from my boss on this.'

"Well," Lazarus says over the phone, "your points are well taken and make my decision easier. If we can meet with this general who is offering a truce and if he works, then we can worry less about Harrington and open a way to bring in supplies across his lines. So, I think it is worth the risk to try for a truce. Once we have a way to receive your supplies here, I will be touch. Meanwhile, Gwen is fully authorized to speak on our behalf there. Is there anything else before I go?"

Meanwhile, Gwyneth writes on the notepad: I wouldn't know exactly who in the SSS to go after to disrupt their plans. They are difficult to get at. If you can get this 2nd Lt., however, you might be able to learn more about their plans.

'Yes, there is. I mentioned to Ms. Ubrecht that we are able, and would like to, create an international media presence for your movement. We can smuggle a group out and set them up wherever you like, but it would work best if whoever you send has the authority to speak without checking back with the home office, so to speak. Regular, or even periodic contact between the media group and those still here will expose your for sure, and give the government something to aim an air strike at.

'So if you can spare a couple of your uppity ups, they could be put to very good use stomping up support for the fighters here at home.'

.

After a pause that seemed to stretch for days, Lazarus answered through the phone. “If you have discussed it with Gwen, then I suppose she has already mentioned the name of Athene Blaumena. She was once a journalist and quite well regarded in Upper Virginian society – for her looks if not her talent. Then, she was radicalized – indeed, she is one of the most strident of our leaders.” Lazarus paused. “But she is also one of the most personable and eloquent. I will send her to you. It seems, more than ever, that it is worth the risk for me to take the Brigadier up on his offer of a truce. If it proves genuine, it may give me the chance to send Blaumena to you. Along with a few of our other senior members. And may give you the chance to send supplies to us. I will contact Gwen with the details and she will come to you with the information. Farewell.”

"So," Gwen said, "what did my boss have to say?"

BRIG Holmes looked up from his table. LT Carter and LCOL Helms stood side-by-side in the doorway. As soon as the general looked up, they both saluted. “Brigadier, sir,” Helms, as the senior of the two, spoke first, “Lieutenant Carter here has received a reply from the FVLA…”

Holmes looked nervously, first at Helms, then at the young lieutenant. He didn’t know which he feared more – that the FVLA would reject the truce – or accept it. “Yes, yes, Carter, spit it out, man!”

“Sir,” Carter shifted uneasily; without knowing it, he shared his CO’s feelings on the matter, “the FVLA has accepted the truce. They’ve agreed to meet with us, er, you actually, sir. In a small grove a few klicks from here. They’ve pledged to send their commander – Lazarus himself, sir – and one armed guard, provided you come with just one armed man.”

Holmes tilted back in his chair. Lazarus. The man’s true identity was unknown in the Dominion, but his name was known to provoke fear in many generals and the wrath of Altman for anyone who dared speak it in his presence. Holmes had meant to send emissaries. But, it seemed Lazarus wanted to do it person. Perhaps to size him up and take his measure. Perhaps, then it wasn’t a bad idea, Holmes thought; it might give him the chance to size up Lazarus as well. Provided it wasn’t a trick. But, then, Holmes had little choice. He suspected Altman was already planning for ways to remove him.

At last, BRIG Holmes nodded. “Very well. Signal the FVLA that I will meet Commander Lazarus. Tomorrow. At dawn.”

“Yessir!” Carter snapped a salute and departed. Helms looked after him, then stepped into his CO’s tent to plan a strategy.

"So," Gwen said, "what did my boss have to say?"

'Oh, you know, the usual, evil plots.' Greg picked up his office phone and dialed. 'Suze, come here for a second.'

Susan appeared a moment later. 'What?'

'I want you to track down a certain someone.' Greg handed Susan the pad Ubrecht had written Harrelson's name on. 'This guy's in the SSS, tap his phone, his cell, read his mail, the whole thing.'

'Right.' Susan took the pad and left. Greg turned back to Ubrecht and shrugged.

'We'll put him under surveilannce, see what we can do. Anyway, you'll have to tell us how to get supplies to Harrington, your boss wasn't too specific and said you'd call us when you knew. Until then, our goals are to case the media outlets in the area, disable them. No tv means there's no news, which will leave people confused, prone to believe wild rumors which we will, of course, be spreading.

'Which reminds me, do you guys get satellite tv?'

Ubrecht smiled and crossed her legs. “Yes, we have satellite TV. MTV, VH1, the Cartoon Network, ESPN, Eurosport…,” Gwen looked Greg in the eye. “All the junk you can stand, but no news – no CNN, no BBC. Not even Sky or Fox. At least, not on the standard service. If someone is interested and has a few crowns to spare, access can be arranged. If you’re thinking about getting our message out that way, it’ll get out to the elites and commercial class. But not to the average worker. Unless, you find a way to get us on the sports, movie channels or MTV…”

Gwen glanced at the door Susan had just left through. “If you’d like me to try to lure Harrelson somewhere where you can pick up a trail on him, just let me know.” Then, turning back to Greg, she continues, “As for getting supplies through to Harrington, my guess is that the Commander is going to make a truce with that general. And, if it turns out to be genuine, he’ll make safe passage for our trucks a condition. Can you access legitimate commercial trucks and divert them that direction with supplies? My guess is that is what the boss has in mind. But, I’ll let you know for sure when I hear from him.”

***

Meanwhile, in a small clearing east-southeast of Harrington Commander Lazarus stood calmly beside a single fighter. Bundt was one of Lazarus’ most reliable men. Strong. A sure shot. Brave. And committed. He would be a commander, except Bundt didn’t want the responsibility. So, he remained simple grunt in the revolution, who was now Lazarus’ personal bodyguard. The revolutionary commander glanced at his watch. The Dominion brigadier was late. He was just about to give up, when suddenly he heard footsteps coming through the woods.

Suddenly, an officer in the khaki field uniform of the Dominion with a single star on his shoulder stepped into the open. Just behind him followed a shortly, slightly stoop-shouldered sergeant.

The brigadier walked straight up to Lazarus and peered into his eyes. It had been a long time since anyone – other than one of his close comrades – had dared look at him that way, with that look of inspection. It was as if the Dominion officer was analyzing him and trying to look for some sign of weakness. Lazarus gave him none. He endured the gaze and waited until the general blinked. It wasn’t a blink of weakness, and the officer didn’t look away, but it gave Lazarus his moment.

Levelly, and without any emotion he said, “Welcome, Brigadier Holmes. I am Lazarus. So, tell me why you want this truce and what do you have to offer?”

Holmes smiled and Lazarus thought, not for the first time, that this was an unusual Dominion general.

'Define access. If we want we can just hire trucks to transport stuff, though I think the question is going to be where we say we're going to the checkpoint guards.

'Anyway, how common is satellite tv, like how many people have it? Because if we want to we can do the obvious thing and just take over the satellites, hijack the signal and send our message through it. Not right away, of course, but it's a useful way to get the message out when the time comes.' Greg broke eye contact with Ubrecht and stared up into the ceiling for a moment, mumbling to himself, 'That would be tricky, we'd have to find the satellite provider, get into their country, or just send our own feed...'

He snapped back abruptly with a smile on his face. 'Yes, well, we'll figure it out. And no need for you to expose yourself with Harrelson, we'll get him just fine, though if you had like his address or phone number that would make it a lot quicker.

'Yar, I love this shit. Makes me feel all tingly. Would you like to see our motor pool or do you have to go?'

Ubrecht flicked a stray strand of hair out of her face. "Hmm... We'll work on a convincing story to get your trucks on the road to Harrington. There are a few towns out that way that are probably still getting routine deliveries. Once we get closer to the front, we'll have to see how reliable our truce is with their field commander.

"As for TVs, most people have somekind of cable TV - with the feed coming off the sattellite services. The white collar types may have satellite decoders, but they'd be from Dominion Telecom and Cable and would be hardwired to prevent reception of "questionable" feeds like CNN, etc. But if you cut in on ESPN or Eurosports, half the country will see it."

Gwen slipped a paper out of her small purse and handed it to Greg. "Here's Harrelson's address. He gave it to me at a party. And, I'd love to see your motorpool."

(OOC: Sorry, I spent most of February on the road and am just getting back into the swing of things. Hopefully, things will pick up and get back to normal now.)

Greg dropped Harrelson's address on his desk and nodded. 'I'll get a squad of spooks out to his place tonight. In the mean time, I'll show you the magnificent seven.'

Greg led Ubrecht out of the office and down to an underground parking garage that was completely deserted except for seven SUV's of varying colors and makes, speaking on the way down about the various 'high tech toys' installed in them. 'The guys who made these usually make tanks so our get around are nasty sons of bitches. They're bullet proof, rocket proof too, but there's a little asterix next to that one. They said by 'rocket proof' they mean 'rocket resistant,' so supposedly if the car's hit you'll be find but the vehicle will be toast. Not that I'm looking to test it out in the near future.

'Anyway, the cars aren't armed or anything, mostly they're like mobile HQ's. You were picked up in one, if you remember, though I don't know how many of the toys the boss showed you. We've got the standards, GPS, foam filled tires, reinforced bumpers and grills, radio jamming devices, and then some inhouse stuff too. Our ECM suite is sweet, if you'll forgive the pun. We can get a satellite uplink from any one of our cars, keep it while moving, and hack on the run. Good clean fun.

'You probably recognize zero over there,' Greg continued, pointing to the SUV Ubrecht has originally been picked up in, 'the other six are for more field centered work, not as ritzy. The little one there is for off road stuff, we'll probably be using it if we have to make any runs to the territory you hold. The big one's for moving a lot of people, 's got extra armor and stuff, supposedly can take two rocket hits, or so they claim. Last resort kind of thing. The other four are for our operatives when they go out to do their thing. They're replicas of popular SUV's from around the world, we even copied the tags so no one should be the wiser.

'Eventually we'll bring more over if we have to, but right now we're focused on just getting our people around, and though we don't mind buying the car licenses, it's just such a pain in the but to grease all the wheels, especially when you're explaining why you need a tank like Suburban clone for city driving.'

Gwen smiles at Greg with a gleam in her eye. "Very impressive. Very impressive. And not just the motorpool. Your entire operation is very professional and very well done. I'm glad we made contact."

"So," she says looking over the cars again, "you plan to bring more in? I used to have a boyfriend at the Customs, so if you need some help in that department, let me know; I could look him up."

Gwen looks at Greg. "So, I guess that's it for now. Let me know what happens with Harrelson and what we're doing about the TV broadcasts. Meanwhile, we'll work on getting Blaumena here and working out a way for you to get supplies up to us in Harrington. So, is there anything else?"

Greg motioned for Ubrecht to follow him out of the garage. 'We won't be bringing any others unless we need to, and we won't need to unless things here get out of hand.' Greg digs around in his pocket and then hands Ubrecht a pale gray cell phone. 'This is one of our work phones, so don't use it for long distance, they won't be able to understand you because only we have the decryption key. If you are compromised for any reason, or think you might be compromised, hit this button here.' Greg flips the mouthpiece down and points to a green triangle under the zero key marked 'redial.' 'It'll melt the inside circuits, like that first one you got. Better safe than sorry is the rule; we can always give you another one, but losing the key would be a major pain.

'So keep the battery charged, we'll be in touch.' And with that, Greg left Ubrecht on the street and re-entered Urban cool.

MAJ Richard Thorsen sat alone in his office thinking. MAJGENs Harrison and Roberts were seeing the sites. They had obviously grown close. Not too close, Thorsen hoped. Roberts was in place, as were the VSF and MAJ Holmes. Things would be happening quickly. But still, Thorsen was anxious to get started.

***

MAJ Janet Holmes was relaxing in the living room of her quarters, reading the latest Excalbian novel – UV novels were so heavily censored, they were boring – when she heard a faint knock. She wasn’t sure what she was hearing at first, but soon realized someone was at the door, but trying to be quiet.

Holmes stood up and quickly found her side arm on the table and approached the door. Paranoia and caution were the hallmarks of a coup plotter, she figured.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Major Janet Holmes?” A timid young woman’s voice answered. “I have a message for you from your cousin, Brigadier Holmes.”

Janet opened the door and saw a young, frightened private in dirty fatigues. The private saluted. “Private Jenkins, Ma’am. Are you Major Holmes?”

“Yes, Private.”

The young woman handed Janet. It was addressed to her in her cousin’s hand. She opened it and began to read.

***

BRIG Alex Holmes stepped towards the infamous guerilla and extended his hand. “Commander Lazarus, I certainly never expected to meet you face-to-face under these circumstances.”

The revolutionary stared for a moment at the Dominion general, then took his hand and shook it.

“Now, as for your first question, I’m afraid I can’t go into the details of why I want this truce.” Holmes noted the skeptical look on Lazarus’ face and quickly added, “However, I can tell you that I am no longer operating under orders from Courtland. I have come to believe that General Altman is no longer acting in the best interests of Upper Virginia and I need to… take time to assess my options and decide on a course of action that will be in my own best interests and those of our,” Holmes emphasized that word, “country.”

“As for what I can do for you, Commander Lazarus,” Holmes looked over his should and FSGT Tolliver carefully took a map from a pocket in his khaki fatigues and handed it to the brigadier. Holmes opened up the map and held it towards Lazarus inviting him to look at it with him. “If we can keep our forces maneuvering along this front and stage some movements here and here, we can make it look, even to most of our own men, that we are still engaged in pursuit and avoidance. If we both advance trusted units here and here and over there, to fire into the woods and swamps, it will even seem that we are engaged in sporadic fire fights.”

Holmes looked at Lazarus’ hard face and tried to read his expression. “Now, this will benefit me by keeping Altman and GHQ in Courtland from realizing that I’ve stopped my advance on Harrington. And, it will benefit you my keeping me from advancing on Harrington and preventing, or at least delaying, the arrival of other forces that would advance on your Liberated city. So, do we have a deal, Commander?”

Lazarus pondered the offer for a minute. As he did, the realization grew that the strategic situation had fundamentally changed. He felt a slight smile starting to emerge and forced it away.

“Brigadier, I am tempted to accept your offer, but I have one last condition. We will require that you grant us safe passage for a limited number of vehicles along the highway to Harrington.” Seeing the general’s face, Lazarus felt satisfaction and putting the Dominion officer off balance. He waited for a moment, then continued. “In return, not only will agree to help you maintain your charade of chasing us, we’ll use our scouts – and yes, we have some behind your lines – to help protect your back from Altman’s reach. Now, do we have a deal?”

The Dominion brigadier nodded and extended his hand. Lazarus took it and smiled openly for the first time. “Congratulations on your betrayal of the Dominion, Brigadier. May your act of patriotism to our nation, as you put it, help bring liberation and freedom to her people!”
***

Chairman Ulsis Marko picked up the phone and placed it in the descrambler. “Marko.”

“Marko, Lazarus. I have agreed to a truce with Brigadier Holmes. And he has agreed to grant us limited safe passage. I’ve also spoken with our friends at Urban Cool and promised to send them Commissioner Blaumena as our public face abroad. Can you give Athene the word and put her on her way to Courtland? I’ll see to it that Holmes’ troops allow her to pass and work out a way to get her into Courtland. She’ll rendezvous there with Ubrecht. And be sure to remind her to be nice.”

“Yes, Karl. How do you think this will play out? Do you think this Holmes can help us penetrate the coup plotters and get control of that? And, how do you read Urban Cool?”

“As for Urban Cool, I’m prepared to go along with them for as long as they can produce. As for the coup, I’m not sure Holmes is contact with them. Yet. I think once Holmes does make contact with them – and I’m sure he is trying – we’ll see if the truce holds. That’ll tell us a lot about the plotters. That’s all for now.”

The line disconnected and Marko hung up. He picked up his regular phone. “Bridget? Can you have Commissioner Blaumena come here as quickly as possible?”

Athene Blaumena sulked in the back of the compact SUV. She was angry and hurt that after all this time Lazarus and Marko still believed they could order her about like a soldier and send her away without consulting her. However, she was introspective enough to also be a bit relieved. After all, she had never been very good at administrative details. That, combined with poor math grades, a good voice and a pleasing face, was what had landed her on TV as one of the Dominion’s prime propagandists. To be completely honest, she was happy to leave Commissioner Blaumena behind and go back in front of the camera as Athene, the smiling propagandist.

As the vehicle slowed before the checkpoint, Athene felt her stomach tighten. She still couldn’t believe that Dominion troops that had been shooting at the FVLA a few days ago where just going to let them pass.

Her anxiety climbed when the vehicle stopped and an angry looking soldier exchanged words in the clipped, harsh northern dialect with her driver. The soldier pulled out the window and walked over to his sergeant. They talked and the sergeant vigorously nodded his head sending the underling scurrying back to the car.

“You may pass,” the soldier said. “There is another checkpoint, manned by another unit, just north of the A-5 exit. So, be sure to get off the highway before the then and take back roads. You can get back on south of the A-5 with no problems.”

“Thanks, mate,” said the driver with a smile.

“Ummm, yeah,” mumbled the surprised soldier.

Athene sighed and went back to her thoughts as the car headed south.

***

Gwen Ubrecht sat in the café watching the first of Urban Cool’s recruits going about their training exercises down the block. Greg and his staff didn’t know she was watching their recruits, but these young people had been “hers” before they’d become “Greg’s” and she wanted to keep an eye on them. Besides, she wasn’t in the way.

She heard her phone ring and took it out of her stylish handbag. She flipped it open. “Ubrecht. Yes. OK. I will.” She hung up and fished around for UC’s pale grey phone. She knew they hadn’t planned on her calling them much, but this was worth it. She opened it and dialed.

“Greg?”

Not long after the rebels had driven out of sight, an official Army staff car approached from the south. PFC Ligants held up his hand and the car slowed to a stop. The front seat held a driver and an armed soldier in a special forces uniform. In the back sat a grim faced major with a briefcase cuffed to his arm.

Ligants saluted. “This is a quarantined area, sir. Do you have your papers?”

“Yes, private,” MAJ Rheims said dismissively as he passed a document through the window.

Ligants looked at the order signed by GEN Altman and swallowed hard. “Go right ahead, sir!”

***

BRIG Holmes looked up as FSGT Tolliver entered and came to attention. Holmes had developed a profound respect and trust for Tolliver, but his arrival always seemed to herald doom. “Yes, First Sergeant?”

“Begging the Brigadier’s pardon, sir, but our highway check-point has called in. A Major Rheims, with orders from General Altman, is on his way to see you, sir.”

Holmes leaned back in his chair. “Interesting. Anything else?”

“Well, sir, I took the liberty of trying to see what I could find out about Major Rheims. It seems he’s special forces trained and has been on Altman’s GHQ staff for some time.”

“Hmmm. You suspect trouble, don’t you?”

“Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Granted.”

“Sir, I don’t know how a good man made it to brigadier in this army, but you are a good man. And I can tell how much this wearies you, sir. But, yes, General Altman suspects something and sent this major to come up here and either find out what it is, look for a way to relieve you of command, or just out-and-out assassinate you, sir. In any case, I’d prefer it if you let me handle this and make sure this major never gets here. Without adding any more burden to your conscience, sir. “

Holmes smiled. He’d never seen such a display of boldness, directness and loyalty in his whole career. “Thanks for the offer, Tolliver, but my conscience can bear what I’ve had to do. Let’s give Rheims a chance to get here and see what he says. There may be something we can learn from him. But, keep him under 24/7 watch and make sure he is never alone with anything or anyone. And the first time he does something suspicious,” the smile faded and Holmes eyes seem to grow dark and sunken, “take him out.”

“Yessir!”

***

MAJGEN Becka Harrison sat her desk reminiscing over the previous night’s dinner with Varessan MAJGEN Shaun Roberts. She tried to shake herself out of it, but couldn’t. At least not until there was a knock at her door.

“Come.”

“General,” MAJ Janet Holmes through the door and closed it, “I received a message from my cousin on the front near Harrington last night.”

“Please have a seat, Janet,” Becka said indicating a chair beside her desk.

“Thank you, General.”

“So, what is this about?”

“Well, Ma’am, my cousin is commanding the forces advancing on Harrington. He was just promoted to Brigadier, replacing his former CO, who was removed in the usual Altman fashion,” Janet and Becka both winced at the thought, “he sent a private with a sealed letter for me…”

“And?”

“He was ordered to level Harrington, but has decided to ignore the order. Pretend it was never sent. Fortunately, he also has orders from the Attorney General, speaking for the provisional ruling council, telling him not to attack Harrington. But it is only a matter of time before Altman comes after him…”

“Hmmm. And, what does he want from you, Janet?”

“Well, Ma’am, it seems he’s figured out that I have ties to the resistance within the military.” Janet saw the general’s eyes widen. “No, I didn’t say anything, but Alex is bright. He must have figured it out. Anyway, now he’s looking for support…”

“Well, I’m not sure what I can do, but we’ll have to talk about it. Tell me, do you believe your cousin? Could this be a trap on his part to turn us over to Altman?”

“No, Ma’am! Alex is a good man. Decent. He’s never liked Altman. I can’t believe his message is anything other than the truth.”

“Then, tell me, are you sure it was from him?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“OK. Thanks. We’ll discuss this more later.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Janet said rising.

As Holmes closed the door, Becka picked up her phone. “Yes, corporal, get me Major Thorsen and Major General Roberts at the Varessan Embassy as soon as you can.”

bump for SeOCC or Varessa

Greg walked out of the bathroom, feeling much better after an Indian lunch that had sat particularly poorly, and sidled idly back to his office, intending to take it easy before the first operatives were sent out. Instead, Andy nearly ran into him, holding his hand over one of the standard issue cells.

'Greg, it's Ubrecht, she's been on hold for like forever. Where the hell have you been?'

'In the shitter.' Greg moves to take the cell from Andy, who doesn't let go.

'Greg, the point of cells is so people can reach you wherever you are; if you leave it behind, it kinds of defeats the purpose.'

Greg smacks Andy upside the head and grabs the cell. 'Into the bathroom, right.' He shoos Andy away and puts the cell to his ear. 'Sorry to make you wait, had something that just couldn't wait. What can I do for you?'

Meanwhile, in the parking garage, the first official operation was being organized as veterans mixed with tyros in small groups around the vehicles. Maps were being uploaded into the digital cameras the supposed cool hunters carried with them, showing in astonishing detail the street and sewage plans in and around an otherwise pointless warehouse. The only reason anyone here cared was because, below the storage facility, a tunnel network ran into a cable network satellite facility, piping in feed from the main headquarters. The real targets were the two dozen T boxes within the building, which provided television to thousands of homes on the east side. It was a test, really, both of whether they could get in and whether they could tap into the feed, but tests are still important.

The FM's circulated, reassuring the new guys and taking feedback from the vets, and started handing out specific assignments. Take this corner, take this door, spot this cop. Their intent was to get to the area during rush hour, to hide within the crowds, which of course they would be photographing as their cover. Joe, a burly guy with nipple rings, which he loved to show off, checked his watch: 12:11, three hours to burn. Then, showtime.

"No problem, Greg, nature calls all of us," Gwen smiles into her phone as she spoke. She knew UC's point man hadn't meant for her to hear his comments before taking the phone, but she didn't care. Made him seem a little more human after all. "I just wanted to let you know that Athene Blaumena will be here later tonight. I thought you should get a chance to meet her and decide on the right media strategy to take full advantage of her experience in the field. She was, afterall, once upon a time Upper Virginia's highest rated network news anchor. What do you think?"

'Ri-ight.' Greg sat down in his office and pulled up a list of ships leaving UV that night. 'Well, unless she can come up with a really good reason to give the cops for being here, I'd prefer if we shipped her out first and discussed strategy second. High rated news anchors are the kind of people who get recognized, and we're kind of trying to fly under the radar here.'

"I agree. I expect to meet her at a safe location about half past 10. I can bring her to wherever you want her shortly after that. Do you have a way to get her out that late?"

Greg pauses while he runs his finger down the computer screen. 'No, but we can keep her until the morning, when we can stick her on a freighter heading out to friendlier ports. Will you be needing a ride?'

"Yes," Gwen says softly into the mobile phone, "we have to send her car back tonight. Have one of your vehicles pick us up at the 24-hour Double Coffee at the corner of Industry and 53rd. We can walk there from our drop without a problem and its always full of hip, self-involved people; we'll make sure they don't spot Blaumena. And the police generally leave it alone. Buzz me on the phone when the vehicle is close and we'll meet it out front. It'll look like an everyday kind of thing to anyone who notices. See you then."

Greg dropped the cell and jotted a quick note before heading into the next office. He barely stopped as his head ducked into the door, 'Schedule 6 for a pick up tonight, Industry and 53rd,' before he was taking two steps at a time into the attic storage area. Most of the equipment was still in its packaging, forcing Greg to settle for several false positives before he found what he wanted, a fairly inconspicuous laptop with some fairly inconspicuos attachments, except for the folded up satellite, which was, actually, kind of suspcious if you were forced to take it out. Leaving a mess behind in the storeroom, Greg carried the laptop back to his office and and stuck it in the big plastic outbox by his door. A second later he re-emerged to tape a note to it: 'For Blaumena, put in 6.'

Humming a tune, Greg went back to work.

It was just after 10 at night when a dusty compact SUV rumbled around the corner and pulled into the driveway of the closed dry cleaning shop. Gwyneth Ubrecht dusted off her hip, black dress and stepped out of the shadows signaling that the area was clear. Once she was in the light, the back door opened and Athene Blaumena stepped out. The older woman seemed to size up Ubrecht with a sneer. She flicked her head and leaned into the vehicle to dismiss the driver.

As Blaumena and Ubrecht stepped out of the way, the SUV turned around and headed back the way it had come.

"So, now that you've got me here, what do you want me to do?" Blaumena said impatiently.

Ubrecht smiled soothingly. "Our friends will be taking you on a trip tomorrow, but right now we need to go meet them. And we're late." Ubrecht turned on her heels and started up the street. Blaumena followed.

A few minutes later, with a hat and dark glasses - common accessories among Upper Virginia's hipsters, Athene Blaumena settled into a corner seat at Double Coffee. Gwen Ubrecht came a minute later and sat a tall glass of coffee, cream and ice in front of her and took her own seat. After a few sips, Blaumena felt relaxed and much more civilized.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you, Gwen."

"Don't worry, once a prima dona always a prima dona. I don't hold it against you." Gwen smiled into the teeth of Blaumena's withering stare, which soon broke into a smile as well.

"So, are our friends punctual?"

"Usually. They should be here soon," Gwen said as she checked her watch.

Becka held the letter uneasily in her hand. MAJ Holmes’ message from her cousin had been unexpected, and had required urgent action. Becka had spent the better part of the day discussing it with MAJ Thorsen and Shaun – MAJGEN Roberts – and all of them had shared the same concerns. They had great reservations about bringing a new player into the conspiracy at such a late date. Their plans had been so careful and precise up to this point that none of them had wanted to upset them.

Yet, none of them had been able to deny the advantage that BRIG Holmes’ mobile infantry would give them, if it were to come down the Harrington highway at just the right moment. It would certainly draw any units loyal to Altman to the northwest, giving Shaun’s – MAJGEN Robert’s – Varessan Special Forces and Thorsen’s Special Security Service troops a clean short at Altman’s HQ. Which would, hopefully, be rubble by then.

Becka looked up at the freshly minted Air Force corporal in front of her. “Corporal…?”

“Jenkins, Ma’am,” Natilda Jenkins said. Standing there in Air Force blue rather than Army khaki and green, Jenkins already felt more at ease. And standing in an office rather than a muddy field was so much the better.

“Yes, Corporal Jenkins. Are you sure you can get back to Brigadier Holmes undetected?”

“Yes, Ma’am. I can go back the same way. And just a little ways up the highway I can link up with my… umm… old unit and get a ride back to the Brigadier. It’s the least I can do since you and he made it possible for me to switch over to the Air Force, Ma’am.”

MAJGEN Becka Harrison handed the letter to CORP Jenkins. “You realize what this means if you’re caught?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good girl. Dismissed and Godspeed.”

CORP Jenkins snapped a smart salute and turned and walked out of the general’s office.

“That’s what you came all this way for, Major Rheims?” BRIG Alex Holmes stepped around his desk and glowered at the major. “This so-called briefing would hardly warrant a classified courier, much less an Intel major!”

“Brigadier, I’m sorry if you feel I wasted your time,” Rheims said with practiced obsequiousness. The major starts to rise and Holmes pushes him back in his chair.

“I haven’t dismissed you yet, Major.” Holmes clenches his fists. “Before you go out and snoop around for the internal security boys – are you working for General Altman himself? – I want you to know that I know you’re a snoop and that I don’t care. If they have nothing better to do than second guess officers in the field, then I suggest they get out from behind their desks or their thumbscrews and shoulder a weapon and get into the muck themselves! Now, go snoop around to your heart’s content! Dismissed!”

Rheims stood and stared into the brigadier’s eyes. Then, with a quick salute, he turned and left.

After Rheims was gone, LCOL Helms stepped out of the corner to Holmes’ side. “Sir, are you sure it was best to let on that we’re onto him?”

Holmes sighed. “I think so. I know I have a reputation of impatience with the GHQ-types and, really, that briefing was pathetic. This way, I figure I look like an indignant, but loyal, field officer. Beside First Sergeant Tolliver and some of his men have him under surveillance.”

***

MAJ Harold Rheims smiled thinly. That pompous brigadier had just made doing his job a pleasure. Rheims spent some time walking around the HQ camp, examining various things, then silently drifted into the dense, swampy woods. He quickly spotted the soldier who was following. He wasn’t doing a bad job, but Rheims was better. He knew he’d have to dispatch the soldier and then quickly arrange the attack on Holmes. He had spotted what he needed and had already palmed the first pieces. Rheims found a good spot to stash the gear he had and then disappeared into the trees. He backtracked to his tail and dropped on him unexpectedly. One twist and a quick slash and it was over.

***

“What is this, Sergeant Tolliver?” BRIG Holmes came to his feet as FSGT Tolliver tossed the bruised and bloodied body of MAJ Rheims on the floor.

“I’m sorry, Brigadier, sir. But, this piece of garbage killed Corporal Blount. I’d assigned the boy to be Rheims’ first tail. He spotted him, as I thought he might, but I didn’t expect him to kill the boy. He took to the trees in the swamp and doubled back. He slit the boy’s throat before I could stop him. I take the responsibility for that, sir. But I got this beast and found this,” Tolliver opened his hand revealing the items Rheims had taken from the camp, “and the rest of his special ops gear in a bag he’d hidden in a hollow tree. Looks like he’d planned to construct an improvised explosive device. To kill you, Brigadier, and blame it on the FVLA would be my guess, sir.”

Holmes nodded gravely. “You did the right thing to move against then, Sergeant. Is he dead?”

“No, sir. But I guess he wishes he was. I thought you might want to question him, sir.”

“Indeed I do, Sergeant. Indeed I do. Summon the medics and have them wake him up. Come for me when he’s ready.”

GEN Craig Altman sat on the edge of his bed shaking. The room felt cold and he needed a drink. He looked over at the quaking young lieutenant beside him. “Get out of here,” the General growled, “and send my aide in with a brandy!” The young woman gathered her things and ran out the door.

A few minutes later, a corporal returned with a full brandy decanter and a glass. He set them on the edge of the nightstand, saluted and turned to leave.

Altman took a drink and calmed down. He looked at his watch. He had wanted Rheims to have reported by now. Now, he thought, I need to send assassins after my assassins.

He took another drink. Something was wrong and he knew it. Someone was plotting against him and it wasn’t the FVLA. But who? Certainly not the General Staff, they were all cowed. SSS? Couldn’t be. They were as hated as he was. And they were too small in number. Silina? Maybe. Altman stood up. He had finally decided on a course of action and he was already feeling better. Stronger. He put his glass down. He couldn’t afford any more brandy. He had plans to make. “Corporal,” Altman bellowed, “summon Brigadier Youst immediately! And the Judge Advocate General!”

Lord James Reynolds stroked his beard thoughtfully. He looked up again at his Chief of Signals Intelligence. “Are you sure about this, Bruce?”

“Yes, Lord James,” Bruce Covington nodded, “General Altman has placed his personal command, and his personnel command only, on what they call ThreatCon Four – highest alert. Something is about to happen. Something very bad.”

The Director of Imperial Intelligence turned and looked across the table at the Minister of State and Chief of the Imperial General Staff. Minister Cummings patted his rather round stomach and looked whiter than Lord James had ever seen him. Admiral Lord Halton looked pale as well. “What is it?” Lord James asked.

“It is just that we haven’t heard from Lord Phocas, the Pantocratorian First Admiral,” Lord Halton said finally, “we are concerned that he may be caught up in all this…”

“Well,” a cool, resonate voice said, “that can’t be helped.” Imperial Chancellor Lady Christina Freedman looked down the table. “What I care about now is what, if anything we can do. Lord James?”

“There is nothing we can do on our end, my Lady.”

“Lord Halton?”

“We could bring our forces to alert, but that might tip the Uppies that we’ve cracked Altman’s own codes….”

“I agree,” Lord James interjected, “besides, I don’t think he is planning anything directed against us.”

“Very well.” The Chancellor sighed. “Beef up border patrols and air patrols as much as possible without being suspicious.”

“Minister Cummings?”

“I suggest we alert the Pantocratorians in some way so that Lord Phocas can be prepared.”

“I agree. Take care of it, Albert. Meanwhile, I will have to intrude upon the Prince’s wedding festivities in Pantocratoria to alert the Emperor. Thank you.” The Chancellor stood and walked off, her heels clicking loudly in the silent room.

Number 6, the reddish suburban clone that played big brother to the rest of the UC vehicles, rolled down 53rd towards the only scheduled checkpoint on the street. The armored chassis shook with music played several times what any health professional would have recommended while three heads bobbed to the beats within. A quick flash of the gold pass got the car through the checkpoint, and though the vibrating door panels got number 6 some looks, they were let throught without delay. It was the look; terrorists didn't listen to loud music, it drew attention to themselves. Kids with smiles on their faces and a pleasant demeanor didn't rub guards the wrong way either.

'Turn it down,' said the young woman in the backseat, who had been reading a report idly on her laptop before taking out her cell. After a moment of non-compliance, or more likely, partial deafness from the driver or the navigator, she leaned forward and shouted in the navigator's ear. 'TURN IT DOWN.'

'Yeah, yeah,' he mumbled as he dropped the volume back down to normal levels. The young woman dialed Ubrecht's number and waited for her to pick up.

'We'll meet you on Industry and 55th,' and she hung up. No sense in risking if anyone overheard Ubrecht's earpiece. The car turned onto Industry and parked on the corner of 55th, where the driver turned the music back up to the ear shattering volumes used on the road. The young woman opened the door and lit a cigarette, looking for Ubrecht and the tv host.

Gwen Ubrecht closed the mobile phone and slid it back into her small purse. She drained the last of her blended mocha and looked over at Athene Blaumena.

"We have to go. Our ride is meeting us on 55th."

Blaumena took one more sip of her drink and set it back on the table. She reached into her own purse and pulled out a two-crown coin and tossed it on the table for the wait staff. A poor substitute for a decent wage and health insurance, but every little bit helps. She quickly caught up with Ubrecht and followed the younger woman out the door and onto the street.

Blaumena and Ubrecht walked quietly down Industry, dodging the occasional drunk, until they came to 55th. Ubrecht spotted the reddish suburban and nudged Blaumena.

"Our ride," she said as she walked up to the door and opened it.

Ubrecht looked in and nodded at the young woman inside. Then she turned to Blaumena. "Hop in, Athene."

Blaumena gave Ubrecht a dry look and climbed into the SUV. She looked over the young woman as Ubrecht climbed in behind her.

"Would you put that thing out? What a nasty smell," Blaumena said, pointing to the cigarette.

Ubrecht smiled and winked at the woman. "And of course," she said, "this is Athene Blaumena, former top rated anchor for the National Broadcasting Service and current member of the Central Committee of the FVLA. Charming, isn't she?"

'Neni,' the young woman says as she extends her hand to Blaumena and flicks the stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray in the doorhandle. The car rumbled back onto the street, the music subdued to allow normal conversation. 'I'll be your handler from here on out, and let's be clear about something. You are now under military command, which means when it comes to security you do what I say, without hesitation, period. Yes?'

Meanwhile, as Blaumena was being introduced to the equally caustic personality of Neni, Greg was sitting with Emily, an FM, going over the surveillance shots of the cable building.

'It's pretty tight,' Emily was saying as she traced her finger across the oversized screen, pointing at cameras. 'The question is what level of fallout we're willing to deal with.'

'Because we can't keep it quiet.'

'Probably not. We'd have to cut something since the system is internal, or cut into something, either way, there will be a footprint.'

'Bummer.'

'Yeah.' Greg and Emily stared at the photos for a while longer, then the former checked his wristwatch. 'I wonder how number 6 is doing.'

'Worried?'

'Not really, just ... I'd rather have had more time. I feel like our buddies in the rebellion are underestimating the opposition.'

'You're paranoid.'

'Only according to the last psych exam I took.'

Emily patted Greg on the shoulder and got up. 'I'll start looking for a new cable house to case.'

Blaumena shakes Neni's hand, eyeing the young woman cautiously.

"I understand all about 'military command,' Neni," Blaumena says coolly. "While I used to be a journalist, I've spent the last three years in the field with Commander Lazarus building the FVLA and seizing power in Harrington. I don't need you to lecture me. However, I do recognize your position. On security matters, you're the boss. I can live with that."

Gwen smiled despite the tension. "Well, now that we're all cozy and happy, I'll leave the two of you alone." She turns to Neni. "Could you have them drop me off on Commerce in the Club district? It should be on your way back to UC and I get a taxi home from there."

Lord Phocas growled as his aged eyes poured over the communiqué his aide just handed him.

"I should've had this days ago!" he barks at nobody in particular.

"I'm sorry, my lord, High Command says that all intelligence resources have been focussed on the crisis in New Rome." explains the aide.

"Bah!" says Phocas skeptically, his back turned to the aide. "No doubt my enemies in the Parliament are trying to make me look like a fool to offset the damage done to their cause by my glorious victory in Espario before the election tomorrow!"

The aide rolls his eyes.

"Yes, sir."

"Have all primary air crews on stand-by. Signal the fleet: the Turk has crossed the Dardenelles. Highest alert."

"Yes, sir."

The aide leaves the cabin in a hurry. Phocas drops the despatch on his desk, walks over to his mirror, and starts readjusting his jacket. After a few minutes, the room is filled with flashing red light and a constant beeping. The sound of boots hitting the steel floors of the corridors of the Pantocratorian flagship can be heard echoing throughout the ship.

BRIG Alex Holmes felt sick to his stomach. Not because of the blood. He was a soldier and had seen too much blood already. Rather, it was the idea of using torture to extract information. In so many ways, it was just what had turned him against Altman and the Dominion's government. But, this - he told himself - couldn't be helped.

"Is he ready to talk, Sergeant Tolliver?" Holmes asked.

The sergeant, dressed in a plastic gown with gloves and a mask, and standing behind the battered body of MAJ Rheims, nodded his head.

Holmes looked down at Rheims. "What were your orders, Major?"

Rheims coughed. "Kill... a... traitor..."

Holmes' eyes narrowed. "Altman is the traitor. And you, Major. You're a traitor to the nation..." Holmes sighed. "How were you to communicate with Altman?"

"Se... se... secure s... s... sat ph... phone in my v..ve... car..."

"Do you have the key?"

Rheims laughed a wet, foul laugh. "In... in here..."

"I'll get it for you, sir," FSGT Tolliver said matter of factly.

Holmes nodded and Tolliver picked up an electrical device...

* * *

On the outskirts of Courtland, a column of Army transports, armored vehicles and tanks made its way towards the city center. The streets were dark and deserted in most of the city this late at night and the column carefully avoided streets, like Commerce Ave., where the daring carried on what passed for a night life in the spartan capital. Very few saw the troops on the move. And those who did had no one to tell about it.

Roberts chafed at the menial tasks of his posting. He was at the centre of what could be, quite realistically, seen as his country's most bold, indeed almost spectacular, move on the international scene in 50 years, and yet he had, on his desk, some of the most trivial jobs imaginable. Since when do major generals edit formats for air force cadet ceremonial parades? It was almost laughable. Almost. It was, however, phenomenally frustrating.

As was the timing. The VSF was in place. The SSS was ready. An Ozymandias was ready. They were so close, so close, when another player, and a sizable one at that, made itself known. Sizeable enough that the Dominion was having issues combatting it to begin with, and any government or provisional government installed by the Varessan/Dominion Military alliance would have its work cut out simply trying to survive.

Roberts didn't deny the advantage that a full brigade of some of Upper Virginia's best equipped and most experienced combat troops would confer. He was, first and foremost, a major general of the Varessan Army. He knew that an extra brigade was *always* a good thing.

No. What bothered him infinitely more was the price at which the services of that brigade were to be purchased.

He sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. This issue needed to be addressed.

He lifted the phone, and dialled 9, for the embassy switch. It was quick -as usual- to answer.

"Sir?"

"Could I have Chancellor Drake, Varessa City, please?"

"And who may I say is calling?"

"Major General Roberts, Military Attache."

"Certainly sir, putting you through to his office now."

There was a 10 second pause while the switchboard transferred him to the Varessan capital. The answer on the other end was stock-standard government department bureaucracy. Polite, neutral, but flat, emotionless and devoid of any sincerity.

"Chancellor's office"

"Could I speak to Chancellor Drake, please."

"Who's calling please?"

"Military Attache to Upper Virginia."

"Yes sir, I'll patch you through now."

There was another pause, slightly longer this time. Roberts guessed that not having to rush when the phone rang was one of the perks of being Chancellor.

"Mike Drake"

"Chancellor Drake, Major General Roberts, how are you sir?"

"Shaun, how're the Uppies treating you?"

Roberts couldn't help but chuckle inwardly at his boss' wry humour. He was so unflappable in all but the direst of circumstances. Part of the reason for his nearly 12 years as the most senior figure of Varessa's government. That and a moral authority that generated a massive and immobile popularity amongst the population of Varessa.

"They've been remarkably solicitous, sir. A little cool to begin with, but once they work out that you're Varessan, they're very decent."

"That's positive. Lets hope we can give them further reason to like us. What've you got for me?"

"Developments, sir."

"The fact that you're calling me implies that they are unforeseen..."

"They are sir. Very unforeseen. Do you have 20 minutes?"

***

LTCOL Matthews didn't like waiting. At all. He commanded a platoon of Varessa's most elite combat personnel. He shouldn't be sitting 20 klicks from Courtland, doing nothing. And by nothing, he meant *nothing*. Not reconnaissance patrols. Not surveillance of units. Not even cleaning their immaculately maintained weapons. Nothing.

Only one of the platoon's six vehicles, the solitary Wolfhound-type recon platform, had even been turned on in the past 3 days. It's ELINT and SIGINT capabilities were the only observation method that the carefully camouflaged VSF and SSS unit had. And it was effective, but grating on the nerves.

As was the chameleonic camouflage netting. Extremely effective. Almost eerily so. But very restrictive of the unit's freedom of movement.

It'd have to be soon. Command couldn't leave them on hold indefinitely.

Could it?

***

Pine Creek had become, over the past couple of weeks, something of a boom town. Hundreds of workers, and a great deal of construction equipment, had been brought to the still-top-secret VMRDC headquarters.

Colonel Blackman, acting CO of VMRDC, was also tremendously excited at the prospects that VMRDC had for the immediate future. CRIMSON STAR wasn't simply a weapons contract design success of staggering magnitude. Although, as it happens, it was indeed a commercial success to rival anything since Dassault Breugeot sold the Mirage III internationally.

No, CRIMSON STAR was a weapon like none other before it, with the possible exception of the atomic bomb. It would, quite literally, change the course of history.

Will Blackman honestly believed that. Here was a weapons system that, properly implemented, stood to make Varessa far and away the most powerful force in the region. And the principle mechanics had been known for decades. Decades wasted.

No longer. CRIMSON STAR would change the world.

'Good.' Neni tapped the driver on the shoulder before climbing into the last row of seats. 'Commerce.'

Number 6 pulled back into the street, its dash capable of inducing an epileptic fit as various ECM devices came online and beeped their functionin status. Neni leaned forward and spoke into Blaumena's ear, 'Nice, huh?'

'Good.' Neni tapped the driver on the shoulder before climbing into the last row of seats. 'Commerce.'

Number 6 pulled back into the street, its dash capable of inducing an epileptic fit as various ECM devices came online and beeped their functionin status. Neni leaned forward and spoke into Blaumena's ear, 'Nice, huh?'

Attorney General Diana Silina looked at the morning intelligence brief. There were several disturbing reports indicating that something – maybe more than one “something” – was afoot. More disturbingly, it seemed there was some unusual military activity at Altman’s personal headquarters. Silina was always uncomfortable when Altman started freelancing.

“I’m sorry, Madame Attorney General,” Beth Hubbard said as she burst into Silina’s office, “but all the phone lines are out. All of them!”

Silina eyebrows shot up her forehead. She understood exactly what her secretary meant and she reacted with steady, practiced precision. She reached under her desk and flipped back a small plastic cover and pressed a button. Then she stood and quickly opened her safe. She removed two small portfolios and snatched two sheets from her desk. Then she turned towards her secretary.

“Beth,” she said with surprising calm, “please call the other office staff and shred everything on my desk and in this drawer. Then shred as much of the rest of the safe as you can in about six minutes.” Silina tossed an envelop to Hubbard. “Then, shred your ID. All of your ID. There’s a new ID, licenses and passport in the envelop for you. Take the emergency exit and, if you don’t hear anything positive in 24 hours, try to get out of the country.”

By then a small door had opened behind the Attorney General and two fully armored Criminal Investigative Bureau troops appeared. Silina turned and stepped towards the door. Just before closing it behind her, she looked over her shoulder. “Bye, Beth and thanks for everything. Take care of yourself.”

As the door closed, Beth Hubbard was already grabbing armfuls of paper and calling for the rest of the office staff.

The story continues here: http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=142094.