NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC Introduction: Events leading up to this can be found here: http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=66633.

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.

***

Silina followed the two CIB troopers down an emergency lift to the sub basement and allowed herself to be hustled into a fully armored Chevy Suburban. Once inside and fully detachment of troopers grabbed the jump bars and stood on the runners as the vehicle accelerated towards the exit.

As the Suburban emerged from the ramp, two drab green Army vehicles pulled up and tried to block the way. The Suburban accelerated and rammed between the two vehicles even as the sound of gunfire echoed in the small plaza behind the Directorate of Justice. After it was passed the Army vehicles, the Suburban drove away from the Directorate.

Silina pulled a mobile phone out of the console in the middle of the back seat and dialed as the Suburban swerved between cars and trucks.

“Turley? This is Silina. Altman is trying to take me down. He’s attacked the Directorate of Justice. I don’t know how far he’ll go…”

“I understand,” Turley said over the phone. “The rest of the board and I will get out of sight for a while. We have our own private security and should be safe. Call if you can reach a secure location.” Turley broke the connection.

Silina shrugged. She didn’t know what else she was expecting.

Suddenly, the Suburban slammed to a stop with the sickening sound of ripping metal. The Suburban was now squarely wedged into the side of an armored truck. Behind them, another armored truck had come up behind them. Troops appeared from the second truck and opened fire on the CIB troopers. Soon, Silina could hear a ferocious firefight outside the vehicle.

The CIB troopers held their own and stood the ground despite the heavy fire. However, even with full body armor and heavy weapons, they could only hold on so long against the superior numbers of the Army troops. After a few minutes, one by one, the CIB troopers began to fall. Soon, the fight was over and Silina’s men were all dead.

After it had grown quiet, a single soldier stepped towards the Suburban. He slid up his black faceplate – revealing a young, grim face under the helmet. Silina noted that the helmet bore a lieutenant’s insignia. The lieutenant stood at the door.

“Diana Silina,” he shouted, making sure he was heard inside the vehicle, “by order of General Craig Altman, Commander in Chief, and the Judge Advocate General, you are under arrest on suspicion of treason. I have orders to make sure that you are unharmed. Please come out of the vehicle, Ms. Silina.”

Silina reached into the console and slowly opened the door. As soon as she could see the lieutenant, she raised her pistol and fired. The soldier’s face exploded and his body fell to the road. Half a dozen soldiers immediately returned fire.

***

Captain Johann Muller was sweating inside his battle armor and fatigues. General Altman didn’t tolerate failure and Muller knew what to expect, but he was determined not to flinch. After a few moments, the corporal stepped through the command center’s doors. “Please go in, Captain, General Altman is read for you.”

Muller stepped smartly into the command center, came to attention and saluted. Altman returned the salute and Muller settled into a parade-rest posture.

“General Altman, sir,” Muller spoke clearly and calmly despite his nerves, “our primary objective has been obtained – the Directorate of Justice is under our control and the CIB’s paramilitary troops have been disarmed through out the city.” Muller swallowed harder than he had expected. “Unfortunately, sir, we failed in our secondary objective. Attorney General Silina was contained and her escort eliminated. However, she refused to surrender and opened fire on the troops who had surrounded her. They returned fire and she did not survive. I take full responsibility for the actions of my men, sir. And I apologize for the error.”

Altman smiled despite himself. “I know my reputation, Captain Muller. But, relax. You are a good man. One of the few I have. I appreciate you taking responsibility and being prepared to face the consequences. Consider this a warning, Captain. Dismissed.”

Muller saluted. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He turned and walked out breathing a sigh of relief.

As the captain left, Altman turned to another officer beside him. “Well, Rollins, we will need to go to plan B.”

“Yes, sir,” MAJGEN Frank Rollins, the Chief of Military Information, answered too brightly. “I’ve already prepared a statement blaming FVLA terrorists and their collaborators within the CIB for the attack on the Directorate of Justice. We’ll simply expand it to say that they caught up with Silina and assassinated her before our troops could rescue her.”

“Good, good,” Altman nodded. “Be sure to include something about how personally distraught I am and how I vow to bring the terrorists to justice. Perlman,” Altman said turning to another officer, “be sure to send instructions to all the CIB units ordering them to stand down, then deploy our troops to replace them. Regular police should remain on duty.”

“Yessir,” LGEN Joseph Perlman nodded.

Altman looked over the beehive of activity and smiled contentedly for the first time in a long time.

Terrorism in Courtland. Upper Virginia Attorney General Assassinated.

Courtland (Upper Virginia), 27 April – Diana Silina, Attorney General of the Dominion of Upper Virginia, was assassinated earlier this morning. At about 8:20 a.m. there were reports of heavy weapons fire near the Directorate of Justice in downtown Courtland, the capital of Upper Virginia. According to statement released by Major-General Frank Rollins, Upper Virginia’s Military Chief of Information, renegades agents of the Directorate’s Criminal Investigative Bureau – known as the CIB – stormed the Directorate’s offices killing at least 25 people and injuring dozens more. Rollins states in his press release that Attorney General Silina managed to flee the Directorate of Justice, but was surrounded by rebels a few blocks away. “She was mercilessly gunned down the CIB agents – literally shot on her knees begging for her life - before regular Army troops could arrive to rescue her,” Rollins said. The military believes that the renegade CIB agents were working in league with the Free Virginia Liberation Army (FVLA), which has been waging a guerilla struggle against the Dominion Government for over two years. General Craig Altman, Commander of the Armed Forces and, together with Silina and Chamber of Industrials Chairman Forrest Turley, a member of the Provisional Ruling Council has declared a State of National Emergency and ordered all CIB agents to temporarily stand down. Army troops are being sent into all major cities in the Dominion to assist local police in maintaining order.

As with all reports from the Dominion, this report was cleared by the Dominion Office of Foreign Media.

MAJGEN Becka Harrison looked up from the TV and motioned for MAJ Richard Thorsen to enter.

“Have you heard…?” She asked, voice cracking.

“Yes, Ma’am. I was alerted as soon the first shots were heard.” Becka found Thorsen’s calm voice and icy manner seemed oddly comforting.

“Do you know anything about it, Major?”

“No, Ma’am.” Thorsen’s remained even and cool, but seemed to soften a little. “SSS had nothing to do with it. We also do not believe that it was renegade CIB troopers or the FVLA. An agent we had on the scene – simply observing the DOJ – reports that regular Army troops from Altman’s own security regiment led the attack.”

Becka felt what little color was left in her face drain away. “Do you think he suspects our project…?”

“Unfortunately,” Thorsen paused uncharacteristically, “I think we have to assume that Altman is aware that someone is plotting against him. Fortunately, for the moment, he doesn’t seem to know who it is. So, he simply struck preemptively at the most likely center of a coup plot – Silina and the CIB. For the moment, that leaves us in the clear, but if he discovers that she wasn’t plotting against him or uncovers something that leads him to the Chamber or Industrials, or to the SSS, or to you, Ma’am…”

“I understand, Major.” A heavy silence fell for a moment, then Becka continued. “For the moment, then, we should just lie low. Are you in contact with Turley or anyone on the Chamber’s board?”

“Yes, Ma’am. And I’ll pass word to them.”

“Very good. Thank you.”

Becka watched Thorsen leave and began thinking how long soon she could safely call Shaun at the Varessan Embassy – “to reassure our allies” she’d say – and sound him out about the morning’s incident.

Beside his desk in the former City Hall of Harrington, Chairman Ulsis Marko turned off the shortwave radio and shook his head. He looked out over the peaceful Liberated City of Harrington. Things were going too well for us. Something had to happen. So, Altman finally went insane. Marko had grown comfortable as Chairman of Harrington. But this was a situation he couldn’t navigate on his own. He needed to speak with the FVLA’s leader and military commander. He picked up the secure phone and dialed. After a few moments, a familiar voice answered.

“Marko here. I need to speak with the Commander.”

A few more moments passed and the voice of Commander Lazarus answered. “Lazarus. What is it, Marko?”

“Karl, have you been listening to the shortwave?”

“No,” the voice was mildly sarcastic, “I’m a little busy in field trying to make the Dominion think we’re still skirmishing with Brigadier Holmes and his troops...”

“There was attack this morning on the Directorate of Justice. Silina has been assassinated. Altman has declared another state of emergency – I guess he forgot we’ve had one for over seventy years – and disbanded the CIB. They’re blaming it on the CIB. And us, of course.”

Lazarus hurled a string of curses that made even Marko’s face flush.

“Karl, do you think it could have been the coup-plotters in the SSS?”

“If it was, then they’re stupider than I thought they were. My guess it was Altman himself.”

“I agree. What should we do?”

“I’ll send a message over to Holmes and see if he can disavow the coup-plotter’s involvement. It might just get him to tip his hand and reveal if he is part of that clique or not. You should call Gwyneth and have her reassure our friends in Urban Cool that we weren’t involved.”

“Understood. Marko out.”

Lady Christina Freedman gazed out the French doors of her office and across the plaza to the castle. The Imperial standard was not flying; the Emperor was not in residency because he was at his son’s wedding in Pantocratoria. Still, she knew she would have to explain to him. She slowly spun around in her chair and faced her national security cabinet. State Minister Albert Cummings looked more red-faced that usual as he nervously shifted his bulk in his chair. Defense Minister Lord John Thorne, a sick, elderly man, was paler than usual. Lord James Reynolds, the Director of Imperial Intelligence nervously flicked his beard and looked out of sorts. Only Admiral Lord Yornis Halton, the Chief of Staff, looked composed. The Imperial Chancellor suspected that part of him was actually anxious to see how Excalbia’s expanded and improved military would perform against Upper Virginia. The Imperial Navy, after all, had already sunk one of the Dominion’s carriers in a border skirmish in the gulf.

The Chancellor stood and straightened her TV-perfect blue suit and walked over to the doors to look at the plaza. “So, Silina has been killed, the CIB paramilitary has been disbanded, troops are on the streets and Altman is blaming the FVLA. Have I missed anything?”

“No, my Lady,” Lord John said weakly.

“And we, of course, don’t believe Altman.”

“Correct, Chancellor,” Lord James answered. “We believe there are two possibilities. Either Altman himself has done it to pre-empt a coup or it is the first step in the Varessan-backed coup.”

Freedman turned around, pushing a strand of blonde hair back into place. “Which do we find more likely, Lord James?”

“A pre-emptive strike, Chancellor.”

“Can we rule out a coup?”

“No.”

Freedman eyed her cabinet. “Very well. I will advise the Emperor. I suspect he will return directly to the Citadel. Lord Halton, please prepare a smaller plane for the Emperor – I suspect he will leave Excalbia One for the rest of the Imperial family in Pantocratoria – and a fighter escort.” She turns to her left. “Minister Cummings, please contact the Varessans and see what they have to say about this.” Freedman sighed. “OK, let’s get busy. I think it’ll be a busy day.”

Roberts had been awoken in what is perhaps the most jarring fashion possible for anyone, particularly an army officer and diplomat. He had been awoken by the unmistakable sound of automatic weapons fire. And his reaction, as could be expected, was text-book staff officer.

The major general bounced out of bed, rolled behind it, and stuck his head up above the window pane. The gunfire was loud. Less than four blocks away. He reached over to his right, to the bedside table, and grabbed his service pistol, working the action to chamber a round, before grabbing a robe and scuttling out the door in only that and his boxers.

Moving down the corridors, he couldn't help but hear the paninc of many of the embassy staffers, unaccustomed to fire, and fearful ever since the riots. A embassy security officer ran past him the other way, and Roberts grabbed him.

"You there, security..." he bellowed

The man paused in his headlong dash, and recognised Roberts immediately.

"Sir. I have to reach the ambassador, and ensure his safety in the event..."

"The ambassador is fine, son. That gunfire is four blocks away. Move around and stop the staff from having pink kittens."

"But, sir, procedure says..."

"Procedure says that if we are attacked, get the ambassador to safety. We haven't been attacked. Go make the civilians feel better."

A brief pause was followed by the man's acquiescence.

Roberts let a near-whistle escape his lips. This could well be a long day.

He got to the communications room a minute later, and wasn't surprised to see the VMI Chief of Station, Frank Castles, already there.

"Your transmission or mine?" Roberts asked the wiry, bespectacled "Press attache".

"I'll send it, but you can read it first, and I'll stick your name on it as well. Let the higher ups know we're earning our two crowns an hour..."

"Fair enough. Frank, could you also ask General Garcia and Alex Shaw to call me sometime later today?"

"Will do Shaun. Of, and, you might want to, you know..." as he indicated the more than slightly dishevelled attire of the officer in front of him.

"Ah, yeah, um... cheers Frank."

Roberts had been running aroud the embassy in boxers and a dressing gown, carrying a prominently displayed beretta pistol. No wonder he'd been getting funny looks...

***

The phone call had been extremely brief; Ubrecht called Greg to tell him the FVLA had not killed the attorney general, which hadn't really been much of a surprise to Greg since, in his line of work, there were usually several people out to kill any major political player at any given time. The propoganda, of course, was a pain, but only stressed the need to get the tv anchor on air quickly. And quietly.

The order had been sent out not soon after the assasination, a quick message to home to get a ship out to get Blaumena off the freighter and onto a vessel slightly more stealthy. Supposedly, she'd be picked up within the week, which was too long but the best case all things considered.

All in all, life moved on for the UC operatives, who were prepping for yet another cool hunt, this time a cable distributor a little farther outside the city. Two of the more artisitically inclined directors had been up all night doing drawings of 'Suburban Warrior,' the supposed line they were going to be researching, and just stupid enough to be legitimate.

MAJGEN Becka Harrison waited until the news channel began showing footage of DOJ building – smoke billowing from several windows, bodies lying in front of the main doors and Army troops all around – before she called the Varessan Embassy. At this point, she figured, it would only be natural that she should call the Embassy and try to reassure the Dominion’s sole ally that “everything was alright.” Perhaps, she reasoned, it would even be reasonable to meet with the their military attaché, who until recently had been directing their joint research project. At least, she hoped, that was how anyone eavesdropping would see it.

Becka picked up her phone and dialed her secretary. “Sergeant Borne? Please call the Varessan Embassy and get Major General Shaun Roberts for me.” She hung up and waited.

* * *

CAPT Terelson, dressed in green camouflage fatigues and the black beret of the Dominion Special Security Service, walked towards the cluster of VSF vehicles. SSGT Burke followed closely behind. Tereslon spotted LCOL Matthews, CO of the VSF contingent, and walked up to him. He saluted with a grim expression.

“Colonel, we’ve picked a message from our SSS contact in Courtland. The Attorney General has been assassinated. General Altman has blamed the FVLA, but SSS believes he is behind it. Our people in Courtland fear that Altman is suspecting a coup attempt from within the government but hasn’t yet determined where it come from…” Terelson looks briefly south, as if expecting to see what is happening Courtland. “They don’t think he is on to our plans yet, but we need to ready. At a minimum, we should move to a new location somewhat closer to Courtland and away from this spot, in case it has been compromised.” Terelson turns to SSGT Burke, who hands the captain a laminated map in a binder.

“We’ve previously identified this isolated ridge, here,” Terelson indicates a spot inside the Roger Courtland National Park, “as a secondary location. There are a limited number of routes in or out, it has good lines of sight, and – when the moment comes – is only 15 klicks from Altman’s HQ.”

* * *

Forest Turley, Chairman of the Board of the Chamber of Industrials and one of the two surviving members of the Provisional Ruling Council, kept moving his mobile phone from one hand to the other in a futile attempt to keep his palms from sweating. “So, how long should we keep low?”

“At least a few days until things settle down,” replied the voice of MAJ Richard Thorsen. “Are you in touch with the others?”

“Yes, Yultilde is close by and he is in contact with the rest of the Board.”

“Good. So far, there is no sign that anyone is targeting the Board. I’ll be in touch shortly.”

As the connection broke, Turley sat down his phone and looked out the window of his country cottage. The trees were in bloom. Spring had finally come to the North country. Now, if only he lived long enough to enjoy summer…

* * *

BRIG Alex Holmes looked up at FSGT Tolliver. “So, did Rheims admit to knowing anything about Silina’s assassination?”

“No sir,” Tolliver wiped his brow, “and I believe that he really didn’t know anything about it. Sir, meaning no disrespect, but are you certain you can trust the FVLA when they say they weren’t behind it?”

“Yes,” Holmes said forcefully. He had forged an unexpected bond with the sergeant recently, but he didn’t want that to extend to questioning his decisions.

“Yessir.” Tolliver waited a moment, feeling rebuked. “Any orders for dealing with Major Rheims?”

Holmes thought for a moment. “No. I’m afraid we can’t afford to keep him prisoner, Sergeant…”

“Should I take care of it, sir?”

“Yes, Sergeant. And, have you cracked his sat phone?”

“Yessir. No indication that he’s sent any transmissions since he arrived.”

“Good. Then report him as missing-in-action. Dismissed.”

“Yessir.”

Sir Gareth Vikis rubbed his hands nervously. He knew this would be a delicate, and possibly unpleasant call, but Minister Cummings had been explicit. The call had to be made straight away. Sir Gareth, Him Imperial Majesty's Ambassador to Varessa, picked up the phone and rang his secretary. "Could you please get me Foreign Minister Shaw? Thank you."

He hung up the phone and waited.

…come on down! You’re our next contestant on “Name That Price!”…

The screen suddenly cuts to black. A voice over begins, “We interrupt this broadcast for a special news bulletin. Here live from our studios in Jefferson is Mike Ulmanis…

A handsome, serious faced man in a dark suit appears in front of a world map.

“We understand that President Alderson is about to address reporters in the South Room of Confederation House on the crisis in Upper Virginia…”

The screen cuts to a podium in front of gold-draped window. A slender, gray haired woman steps in front of cameras.

“Ladies and Gentleman, the President of the Confederation…”

The members of the press stand briefly as a burly, balding man with a trim moustache enters the room. They quickly take their seats as he settles in behind the podium.

“Good afternoon. I have a brief statement, then I will take a few questions.

“This morning, the Attorney General of Upper Virginia was killed in a violent attack on the Directorate of Justice in the Upper Virginian capital. It is unclear who is responsible for this attack. What is clear is that Upper Virginia – our neighbor – is in trouble.

“For over 70 years, Upper Virginia has been under martial law. The authorities have squashed human rights, oppressed their people and repeatedly violated the basic standards of human decency. They have provoked military confrontations with our mutual neighbor – Excalbia – and have driven refugees across our borders. And all the while, we have looked away. We have ignored the problem. And we have applauded ourselves for adhering to our principles of sovereignty and non-interference. And all the while, we ignored the higher principles of justice and morality.

“Now, what we have politely referred to as ‘Upper Virginia’s troubles,’ have grown into full blown terrorism and civil violence. If the situation further degenerates into civil war, our own peace and tranquility will certainly be threatened.”

Alderson looked slowly about the room.

“Therefore, I have decided that now is the time to act. Let me emphasize that I continue to believe in the principles of nationality sovereignty and independence – they are the principles upon which our confederation was founded and the sovereignty and independence of the various states of confederation is enshrined in our Constitution. However, national sovereignty is not a license for misconduct.

“I am proposing the following steps to address this crisis. First, I am today asking that Congress call the militias of the various states, in accordance with the Constitution, into actual service with the armed forces of the Confederation. I intend to deploy units of the militias on the borders to reinforce Confederation Army troops and secure our borders with Upper Virginia.

“Second, I am issuing a call for all parties to the conflict in Upper Virginia – both foreign and domestic – and any interested third parties to attend a conference here in Jefferson to discuss the future of Upper Virginia and hopefully come to a peaceful resolution to the crisis. This invitation is open to the Upper Virginia government, but also to the FVLA and to Excalbia and to any other interested parties.”

The President smiled and nodded to the reporters.

“Now I will take a few questions…”

A few hours later, Ilmars Alderson sat behind his desk looking out the window into Confederation House’s formal gardens. The President heard someone enter and turned to see his Chief of Staff. “How does it look, Ryan?”

Ryan Edelmann shrugged. “Its hard to tell, Mr. President. Snap polls show that a large majority agrees with you about the seriousness of the situation and the need to attack. A smaller majority is initially supportive of your proposals. The Liberty Party leadership in the Senate is a little in shock, but they realize that they need to line up behind you. The Sovereignty Party has denounced you, as have the Democrats. But they carry so little weight, no one’s noticed yet. The New Liberal leadership in the House doesn’t seem to know how they want to react. I think they’re waiting for their own polls…”

“Anything from Courtland yet?”

“Surprisingly, they’ve been quiet so far. To be honest, Mr. President, I half expected General Altman to declare war…”

The President chuckled. “So did the Secretary of Foreign Affairs, Ryan. But you were both wrong. Yet again…”

Gwen Ubrecht flipped open the mobile phone Greg had given her. She knew he wasn’t expecting two calls in one day. He had readily accepted her assurances that the FVLA wasn’t behind Silina’s assassination and had told her that Blaumena was already on a freighter on her way to a rendezvous at sea. But, now the C.S.S. had thrown in another wild card. Frankly, it was so unexpected that Commander Lazarus had wanted Urban Cool’s opinion about their offer. He was also interested in knowing how much progress they were making in tapping into the Dominion’s cable TV system. She dialed Greg’s number.

Greg was happily typing a requisition for weapons (just in case, he assured everyone) when the phone range. The screen on the cover read 'U,' wo which he could only reply, 'Holy jesus.' Twice in one day couldn't be good news.

'Hello again,' he answered, 'what can I do for you this time?'

Meanwhile, two SUV's pulled up to a UV checkpoint on the outskirts of the city's urban center, their smiling drivers ready to present their identification.

Gwen ignored the sound of exasperation in Greg’s voice. “We have a new wildcard in the game. Have you seen the news in the last hour or so? The Confederacy of Sovereign States – our neighbors to the east – have offered to host a conference in the C.S.S. to discuss our ‘troubles.’ For some reason, it seems they’ve decided to cast off their laissez faire attitude and want to do something to keep our problems from ending up on their borders. They’ve publicly invited us to send a representative. What do you guys think? Would this be worthwhile?”

Meanwhile, two SUV's pulled up to a UV checkpoint on the outskirts of the city's urban center, their smiling drivers ready to present their identification.

First Sergeant Jacob Holland held up his right hand as the SUV approached the checkpoint. It had gold plates, but it was large, unexpected and the new orders said to challenge everyone. With the CIB turning on the Attorney General that way, no one was above suspicion. FSGT Holland nodded to his men and they brought their weapons up to the ready position. Holland approached the vehicle.

“Papers, please.” He took the permits and licenses and eyed the driver. “What brings you down this way and who’ve you got in there?”

GEN Craig Altman glared at the Director of Foreign Relations. Alfred Idlysis was an intellectual lightweight and wimp. But, he had been a safe and useful stooge. “Exactly what does Alderson think he’s doing? He has to know that we won’t tolerate the Confederation trying to intervene in our affairs.”

“I…I’m sure he is aware of that, General,” Idlysis stammered. “Our Ambassador thinks this has more to do with internal politics than with us…”

“But, he’s trying to make me look like an idiot!” Altman slammed a fist on the table. “No matter why he’s doing it, this conference, if it happens will make me to be a fool. And I won’t have it.”

“I… I’m not sure what you want me to do, General…”

“Convince the C.S.S. to call this off.” Altman inhaled sharply. “Or there will be consequences!”

* * *
Simon Ableman nervously clutched the large flat envelope as he stepped into the confessional. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he said as he crossed himself.

“How long has it been since your last confession, my son?” Father Jack Tours tried to project compassion, but the time for confessions had just about ended when this last person had entered the booth. No one had been in for 10 minutes before that and he had thought he was finished.

“Six years, Father…”

“Six! Years?” Father Jack stammered. “Why so long?”

“I was working as a paramilitary trooper in the CIB.”

Father Jack began to sweat and nervously peaked through the door to see if anyone else was around. Fortunately, the church was empty. “Why… why today?”

“Father, I have committed many sins and I fear there is no penance sufficient for them. But I am here because I have a burden to share.” The priest on the other side of the screen gulped audibly. “Father, are you OK?”

“Yes, go ahead…”

“Father, Attorney General Silina trusted me with certain information to be made public in the event of her… untimely death. Believe me, Father, the CIB did not kill her. But, because of that, I have no hope to get this information out of the Dominion. But I hope… no, pray, that the Church can…”

Father Jack saw an envelope being pushed through the grill between him and the penitent. He grabbed it as he heard the door open. He opened his door just in time to see a young man duck out the side door of the church.

With a trembling hand, the priest opened the envelope. He began to read it, then quickly sealed it and ran to his office to call the bishop.

* * *

Bishop Yanis Uvaras studied the contents of the envelope. He knew he had to get it out of the Dominion and quickly. General Altman and his men did not respect the sanctity of the Church. If he had any suspicion that this information had been given to the Church, he’d tear every church and shoot every priest, if he had to…

No, he needed to get it out of the Church’s hands and out of the country. But who? Someone immune from Altman… A diplomat… A catholic diplomat… Perhaps a Pantocratorian… several of them attended Mass on a regular basis. Bishop Uvaras picked up the phone and called the Pantocratorian Embassy.

“Papers, please.” He took the permits and licenses and eyed the driver. “What brings you down this way and who’ve you got in there?”

'Hi!' Colin put on his best happy-to-cooperate face as he handed the cop the car's documentation. 'We're cool hunters, work at Urban Cool - you'll see that's who the car's registered to, eh - and we're we're going to, you know, find some new looks. Trend setters, eh? Out in the burbs.'

They’ve publicly invited us to send a representative. What do you guys think? Would this be worthwhile?”

Greg scratched his nose and thought about it. 'If you can trust them, maybe. Your reps could just as easily be walking into a trap; if the CSS doesn't plan to capture your guys the UV government might just take it upon themselves to take some direct action of their own. And then there's the issue of whether you'll achieve anything by talking. Will you get your revolution from a peace conference? Somehow I doubt it.'

“Papers, please.” He took the permits and licenses and eyed the driver. “What brings you down this way and who’ve you got in there?”

'Hi!' Colin put on his best happy-to-cooperate face as he handed the cop the car's documentation. 'We're cool hunters, work at Urban Cool - you'll see that's who the car's registered to, eh - and we're we're going to, you know, find some new looks. Trend setters, eh? Out in the burbs.'

FSGT Holland frowned. He had prepared himself for a lot of things, but 'cool hunting'? What was that? Did it require a license? "Say," he said suddenly seized with his own cleverness, "don't you need a license for that... umm... whatever it is you say you're doing?" Holland looked over at his men and saw them chuckling. He was suddenly feeling not very happy...

Greg scratched his nose and thought about it. 'If you can trust them, maybe. Your reps could just as easily be walking into a trap; if the CSS doesn't plan to capture your guys the UV government might just take it upon themselves to take some direct action of their own. And then there's the issue of whether you'll achieve anything by talking. Will you get your revolution from a peace conference? Somehow I doubt it.'

Gwen chewed her bottom lip. "Well, you're right about that. Also, I suppose the CSS might be holding a grudge against us; we did shoot up one of their airports trying to take out the military's chief of procurement and research..." She paused and thought for a moment, playing with her chic purse. "Maybe we should just wait and see if anything comes of this conference idea before going any further. So, what's next on our agenda?"

FSGT Holland frowned. He had prepared himself for a lot of things, but 'cool hunting'? What was that? Did it require a license? "Say," he said suddenly seized with his own cleverness, "don't you need a license for that... umm... whatever it is you say you're doing?" Holland looked over at his men and saw them chuckling. He was suddenly feeling not very happy...

'Oh, cool hunting is, well, you know when you see someone on tv, or in a movie, and you're like, "man, that guy looks cool," so then you, you know, dress like that? Well that guy on tv has a designer who gives him clothes, but that designer doesn't just make it up, someone tells the designer what's gonna be cool, and that's us. Our job is to go around and find people that, you know, are ahead of the trend, take pictures of them and send those to the designers, who them put them on tv for the rest of the world to see.

'For instance, the look we're going for here in Upper Virginia is called Suburban Warfare. It's like, uh, tough, pads, with the flak jackets and big shoulders, like what you're wearing. Now of course we can't take pictures of the armed forces, but your look, it's, ah, very striking. The vest, and shoulders, big shoulders, you look good, that's the look, see, that we want to sell, to give designers to turn into fashion. The vest, the shoulders, it's very cool.'

Gwen chewed her bottom lip. "Well, you're right about that. Also, I suppose the CSS might be holding a grudge against us; we did shoot up one of their airports trying to take out the military's chief of procurement and research..." She paused and thought for a moment, playing with her chic purse. "Maybe we should just wait and see if anything comes of this conference idea before going any further. So, what's next on our agenda?"

'I have two teams out scouting another cable facility, and some guys here are going to try to get an uplink into the satellites, in case we want to just black everything out.'

'Oh, cool hunting is, well, you know when you see someone on tv, or in a movie, and you're like, "man, that guy looks cool," so then you, you know, dress like that? Well that guy on tv has a designer who gives him clothes, but that designer doesn't just make it up, someone tells the designer what's gonna be cool, and that's us. Our job is to go around and find people that, you know, are ahead of the trend, take pictures of them and send those to the designers, who them put them on tv for the rest of the world to see.

'For instance, the look we're going for here in Upper Virginia is called Suburban Warfare. It's like, uh, tough, pads, with the flak jackets and big shoulders, like what you're wearing. Now of course we can't take pictures of the armed forces, but your look, it's, ah, very striking. The vest, and shoulders, big shoulders, you look good, that's the look, see, that we want to sell, to give designers to turn into fashion. The vest, the shoulders, it's very cool.'

FSGT Holland's frown deepened. "You like our armor? What?" The sound of his men laughing took Holland's attention from the strange man in the SUV. "What do you morons think is so funny?" Holland screamed at his men, who took a step back and fell silent.

Holland returned his attention to funny guy in the vehicle. "So, you got pictures in there of this cool people in shoulder pads?" Holland raised his automatic weapon to the window to emphasize that his question wasn't an idle one.

'I have two teams out scouting another cable facility, and some guys here are going to try to get an uplink into the satellites, in case we want to just black everything out.'

"OK." Gwen nodded as she spoke on the mobile phone. "That sounds good, Greg. If you don't mind, I may give you a call tomorrow to catch. Meanwhile, I pass your advice on to my boss. Have a good day."

Holland returned his attention to funny guy in the vehicle. "So, you got pictures in there of this cool people in shoulder pads?" Holland raised his automatic weapon to the window to emphasize that his question wasn't an idle one.

'No, we're going to get those pictures, or some pictures, of people. We don't carry the sketches into the field.'

'No, we're going to get those pictures, or some pictures, of people. We don't carry the sketches into the field.'

"Ummm... well," FSGT Holland stammered. The papers were in order. His men were looking at him with riducle and the guys in the SUV seemed unflappable. This was heading for major embarassment. He could only think of one way to save face.

"I'm sorry, then," Holland said in a suddenly stern voice and he raised his weapon to the driver's face, "but we'll have to detain you for questioning. Take you back to HQ. Unless, that is, you can make it worth our while..." The sergeant could see out of the corner of his eye that is men were smiling. This time, though, with respect.

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.


VADM Sir Derek Kunle sat in his day cabin reading the latest dispatches on the deteriorating situation in Upper Virginia. Since Task Force Alpha had been assigned to relieve the Home Fleet in the Gulf, Upper Virginia had become Kunle’s obsession. At the sound of a knock, Kunle looked up.

“Come.”

The admiral’s steward entered and sat a small silver tray on the desk beside the admiral. The steward poured a cup of tea and handed it to the admiral.

“Thank you, Childers,” Kunle said in his deep baritone.

The steward picked up a small piece of paper and held it up for the admiral. “Message traffic for you from the CINO, sir.”

Kunle took the paper and quickly read it. So, First Admiral Phocas has brought his command to alert and is entering the Gulf. Kunle had fond memories of Lord Phocas from the Esperi Conflict and he looked forward, despite the circumstances, to seeing the Pantocratorian again.

“Thank you, Childers.”

The steward saluted and departed. VADM Kunle picked up the intercom. “Commander Tomlinson?”

“Yes, Admiral,” the staff aide answered.

“Commander, please have comm send the following message…”

To: FADM Phocas, HIMS Imperator Andreus

From: VADM Kunle, CO, Task Force Alpha

My compliments to Lord Phocas. TF Alpha welcomes the Pantocratorian fleet’s arrival in the Gulf. I would be honored to receive you aboard INV Glorious for consultations, planning and dinner.

Regards,
Kunle, Commanding, TF Alpha

The sound of hand slapping foreheads was audible in Colin's earpiece as the UC directors listened in to the soldier attempting to extort a bribe.

'Stall,' came the order. Colin obliged.

'Right, well, let me just see what I have here...' Meanwhile, the conversation hummed in his ear.

'Is it entrapment?'

'He said make it worth his while.'

'Oh sod that, it's a moot point here, you think the government gives a shit about law?'

'So?'

'So at the point where someone is being "questioned" they're already toast. Might as well pay them off.' Colin fiddled around in the compartment between the driver and passenger seat, removing various papers and maps as sweat rolled down his inner arm. The conversation at UC paused for a second, then began again.

'Fine, pay the bastard. Colin, go.'

'Ah, here it is,' said Colin with a flourish, producing a billfold with a flourish. 'So, how much is the checkpoint toll in this area? Five hundred a car?'

The office of the Varessan Foreign Minister was a fairly large one by Varessan standards. Traditionally a relatively minor cabinet position, the role of foreign minister had over the past two chancellorships become vastly more weighty.

But still, as its current incumbent, Alex Shaw, could attest, the office could use a slight space increase. Or, just a plain new... something. It was cramped. Far too cramped. It was barely half the size of any equivalent office of any ambassador for any Varessan embassy.

And he was the boss. The head ambassador-diplomat-thingy-guy. Why did he get the worst office? It stank. It was a painful situation. One made more so by the well meaning "conference" proposal just put forward by the Confederation of Sovereign States. And the assasination of the Upper Virginian Attorney General just added fuel to the fire.

The timing was terrible, it really was. As in, catastrophic. Couldn't get worse. The situation, all of it, was just soooooooo sensitive. On false step could leave all parties, Varessa not the least of them, in very touchy situation. Touchy as in... well... possibly at war. That would not be good. At all. Very bad, in fact. Especially with the weaponry available to all parties in the dispute... the Dominion, the C.S.S., Excalbia and, of course, Varessa. The casualty figures from a truly serious war would be astronomical. And, if things got really heated, all puns aside, then there could be shocking ramifications for the global ecology.

Given all this, it had been left to him, amongst others, to come up with a viable course or courses of action for Varessa to take to best avoid that calamitous outcome, firstly, and to negotiate the collective path through the miasma of difficult and dangerous conflicts that have arisen surrounding the Upper Virginian "Troubles". And it was a tough call. Cabinet was meeting in less than two hours as well... again. The cabinet had, so it seemed, been in constant session, and everyone in it was getting exceptionally tired. Nevertheless, there was work to be done.

His pondering of the matter at hand was interrupted by his phone ringing.

"Shaw"

"Sir, its Ambassador Vikis of Excalbia. It's supposedly urgent sir..."

Shaw sighed. This was just the start of what could be a very long day...

"Put him on... Ambassador Vikis, good morning. What can I do for you?"

"No, minister, it is not a good morning. Sorry to be blunt. But, to cut a rather long set of circumstances, two cabinet meetings and a direct order from my government, into two questions, was it you or those you support that assassinated the Upper Virginian Attorney General, and secondly and somewhat related, do you still vouch for the integrity of those who you are supporting in the Upper Virginian crisis?"

Shaw was stunned. Not that the question was asked, but that it had been asked in quite so blunt a fashion. Shaw was normally driven close to balmy by the insanely drawn out process of diplomacy, by Ambassador Vikis had just come to the crux of the matter with such blinding, breathtaking speed that Shaw was left rather flumoxxed. He couldn't help but think that, just this once, a little of the formal diplomatic pleasantries may have been pleasant, just to take the edge off... but still... there was a major power's ambassador on the phone and waiting...

"No, Ambassador, the attack was not our doing, nor the work of the Varessan-backed faction, nor any of their supporters, contractors or any group linked to them, or us, in any fashion, to the best of our knowledge. We were as surprised as you were."

Shaw sighed, and rubbed his eyes.

"As for your second question, yes, we still vouch for the faction we support. As you are no doubt aware, however, there are still other factions operating within the Dominion who seek to defeat the current government, notably the FVLA. While I, personally, do not think they are responsible, we are waiting on more information."

Shaw had a sudden brainwave, much like the stereo-typical light-bulb so often seen in cartoons.

"Ambassador, I have a question for you... do you have plenipotentiary authority?"

***

LTCOL Mathews nodded his agreement, impressed already at the SSS soldier's professionalism. "Good choice. If we approach along this valley here..." he tapped the map with the pointy end of a twig... "then we can harbour up in that depression, and put forward piquets on feature 432 and two along the opposite side of the rigeline."

Mathews paused.

"And 15 klicks... right in the belly of the beast... I like it..."

***

Roberts' phone rang seconds after he got back to his room. Castles had sent the telegram, and Roberts had decided that now was a very good time to get into uniform and be seen to be as calm and in control as possible. Military attache may not have been an exceptionally busy posting in most embassies, but it was a position that was fairly prominent, and people felt infinitely safer when the representative of their country's military looked and acted calm and in control.

To that end, Roberts had decided on dress blacks again. He was getting a good deal of wear out of them of late.

"Roberts"

"Shaun, Becka Harrison. Bad news. I'm afraid."

"If it's the gunfire, we heard it. Relatively close to where we are, as it happens. Who was involved?"

"They killed the Attorney General."

Roberts blanched. That was exceptionally bad. That was... bad. Really bad.

"Can we meet? Somewhere, anywhere? Here even?! But we need to talk about this. Bring Thorsen along as well. Where's good?"

***

Sir Pierre de Thrake, the Pantocratorian ambassador to Upper Virginia, ran his hand through his chestnut beard as he sat behind his desk at the embassy, staring at his television as he did so. As the phone on his desk rang, he pointed the remote control at the TV and turned it off.

No good news anyway... he thought to himself as he picked up the phone.

"Oui?" he asked.

"Monsieur, Vêque Uvaras vous téléphone." comes the voice over the phone.

"Merci, Jeanne." the ambassador replies, and clears his throat as his secretary puts the bishop through.

"Your Grace, to what do I owe the pleasure?" he asks.

(Just a tag to start watching the thread.)

The sound of hand slapping foreheads was audible in Colin's earpiece as the UC directors listened in to the soldier attempting to extort a bribe.

'Stall,' came the order. Colin obliged.

'Right, well, let me just see what I have here...' Meanwhile, the conversation hummed in his ear.

'Is it entrapment?'

'He said make it worth his while.'

'Oh sod that, it's a moot point here, you think the government gives a shit about law?'

'So?'

'So at the point where someone is being "questioned" they're already toast. Might as well pay them off.' Colin fiddled around in the compartment between the driver and passenger seat, removing various papers and maps as sweat rolled down his inner arm. The conversation at UC paused for a second, then began again.

'Fine, pay the bastard. Colin, go.'

'Ah, here it is,' said Colin with a flourish, producing a billfold with a flourish. 'So, how much is the checkpoint toll in this area? Five hundred a car?'

FSGT Holland’s eyes widened as he licked his lips. “Well, I suppose we could overlook this just this once…”

He held out his hands and took the crisp crown notes. Holland shouldered his weapon and quickly counted the money. He glanced over at his men to make sure they couldn’t see or hear just how much he’d been offered. He surreptitiously slid a couple of hundred crown notes into his right utility pocket and visibly stuffed the rest in his left pocket. He’d be happy to split the 300 crowns equally with his men. He looked around one last time to see if he saw an officer or someone from another unit, but no one was around.

“OK, move along, but don’t let me see you around here again. ‘Cool hunting’ indeed!” Holland gestured to his men and waived for the SUV to move along. He watched the vehicle drive away, then, with one more glance around for other observers, motioned for his men to come over to divide the spoils.

LTCOL Mathews nodded his agreement, impressed already at the SSS soldier's professionalism. "Good choice. If we approach along this valley here..." he tapped the map with the pointy end of a twig... "then we can harbour up in that depression, and put forward piquets on feature 432 and two along the opposite side of the rigeline."

Mathews paused.

"And 15 klicks... right in the belly of the beast... I like it..."

CAPT Terelson smiled. “I thought you might. So, shall we be about it, Colonel?” With an affirmative nod from LCOL Matthews, Terelson smiled and saluted. He turned, motioned to SSGT Burke, and headed back towards his own men. Quickly, but carefully, the SSS troops secured their equipment, erased every trace of their camp and prepared to move out. Before long, both the SSS and VSF vehicles were on the move.


Roberts' phone rang seconds after he got back to his room. Castles had sent the telegram, and Roberts had decided that now was a very good time to get into uniform and be seen to be as calm and in control as possible. Military attache may not have been an exceptionally busy posting in most embassies, but it was a position that was fairly prominent, and people felt infinitely safer when the representative of their country's military looked and acted calm and in control.

To that end, Roberts had decided on dress blacks again. He was getting a good deal of wear out of them of late.

"Roberts"

"Shaun, Becka Harrison. Bad news. I'm afraid."

"If it's the gunfire, we heard it. Relatively close to where we are, as it happens. Who was involved?"

"They killed the Attorney General."

Roberts blanched. That was exceptionally bad. That was... bad. Really bad.

"Can we meet? Somewhere, anywhere? Here even?! But we need to talk about this. Bring Thorsen along as well. Where's good?"

MAJGEN Becka Harrison felt relief just hearing Shaun Robert’s voice.

“I think that it would be a very good idea for us to meet. And I think your Embassy is probably the best venue. It would be completely appropriate and expected for us to go over and 'calm' our closest ally's 'fears.' Major Thorsen and I will leave for your Embassy within the next half-hour.”

Becka turned in her chair and looked out her window into the Procurement Bureau’s compound and into the street beyond the walls. “Depending on how snarled traffic is and how many check-points we have to cross, we should be there in about an hour or so. I’ll give you as complete a briefing as I can at that point.”

Becka turned back to her desk and the scenes of confusion playing out on the TV in the corner. “Meanwhile, Shaun, keep your people off the streets. You’re right in the thick of things down there and there are a lot of nervous, green soldiers milling about. We also can’t rule out some demonstrators turning up. It’d be best to keep everyone in your compound for now. See you soon.”

As soon as she finished with Shaun, she dialed Thorsen’s number.

“Thorsen,” the major said over the phone.

“Major, this is General Harrison. Major General Roberts at the Varessan Embassy has asked for a meeting. I told him we’d both be there in about an hour. Can you arrange for a car and meet me downstairs in 30 minutes?”

“Yes, General.”

“Thank you, Major.”

Becka hung up and set to work clearing her e-mail and wrapping up a few high priority items. About 25 minutes later, she looked down at her watch and signed off her terminal and locked her safes. Grabbing her green Army jacket, she stepped through the door into the outer office.

SGT Borne stood and saluted. “Major Thorsen called and said he is ready with the car, Ma’am.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

Becka stepped over to the door to another office and knocked.

“Come.”

“Morton,” Becka said as she entered BRIGEN Morton Sykes’ office.

Skyes, Senior Project Manager on Ozymandius, stood and straightened his rumpled blue air force uniform. “General.”

“Sit down, Morton. I just wanted to let you know that Thorsen and I are going to see the Varessans. We probably won’t be back until the afternoon, so you need to mind the shop.”

“OK, Becka. Good luck.”

Becka nodded and headed down to the main entrance, where MAJ Thorsen was waiting with a car. Normally, Thorsen would have driven himself in a nondescript staff car. He was very unimpressed by rank or position. Becka guessed that despite all their differences that was the one reason she and the SSS major had gotten along for so many years.

Today, however, Thorsen had called up an executive car. In a slot above the driver-side front tire was a small staff bearing the Dominion flag. On the other side, another staff bore a blue flag with two red stars – the emblem of a major general. A driver stood beside the car with the door open and a full security detail sat waiting in a marked security car ahead of the staff car.

Thorsen saluted. “Sorry, General, but under the circumstances, I thought this might help us a bit today.”

Becka returned the salute and nodded. “I can’t disagree, Major. Shall we go?”

Moments later, with the wail of sirens and the flapping of flags, MAJGEN Harrison was on her way downtown. Thirty-six minutes and four checkpoints later, the general’s car pulled up in front of the Varessan Embassy. Thorsen had proven right – the flags and sirens had gotten them through all but the last checkpoint without even stopping. And the last check, only blocks from the still smoldering DoJ building, had only slowed them down for a few minutes.

After coming to a stop, the driver came around and opened the door. Becka stepped out, returned the driver’s salute and walked towards the Embassy’s gate.

Sir Pierre de Thrake, the Pantocratorian ambassador to Upper Virginia, ran his hand through his chestnut beard as he sat behind his desk at the embassy, staring at his television as he did so. As the phone on his desk rang, he pointed the remote control at the TV and turned it off.

No good news anyway... he thought to himself as he picked up the phone.

"Oui?" he asked.

"Monsieur, Vêque Uvaras vous téléphone." comes the voice over the phone.

"Merci, Jeanne." the ambassador replies, and clears his throat as his secretary puts the bishop through.

"Your Grace, to what do I owe the pleasure?" he asks.

“Your Excellency, thanking you for taking my call,” Bishop Yanis Uvaras said softly, almost as if it would protect him from eavesdroppers. “I am sorry to call you at what I’m sure must be a very busy time – so many tragic events taking place…” Uvaras shook his head as he thought of the violence wracking his country. “But there is something urgent that I must discuss with you.” The Bishop took a breath and crossed himself. This wouldn’t be a lie. Exactly. “There is an urgent matter affecting the Church that has come up. As the one of the few devout Catholics among the diplomatic community here, I would appreciate your insight. May I come to your Embassy for a quick visit?”

The office of the Varessan Foreign Minister was a fairly large one by Varessan standards. Traditionally a relatively minor cabinet position, the role of foreign minister had over the past two chancellorships become vastly more weighty.

But still, as its current incumbent, Alex Shaw, could attest, the office could use a slight space increase. Or, just a plain new... something. It was cramped. Far too cramped. It was barely half the size of any equivalent office of any ambassador for any Varessan embassy.

And he was the boss. The head ambassador-diplomat-thingy-guy. Why did he get the worst office? It stank. It was a painful situation. One made more so by the well meaning "conference" proposal just put forward by the Confederation of Sovereign States. And the assasination of the Upper Virginian Attorney General just added fuel to the fire.

The timing was terrible, it really was. As in, catastrophic. Couldn't get worse. The situation, all of it, was just soooooooo sensitive. On false step could leave all parties, Varessa not the least of them, in very touchy situation. Touchy as in... well... possibly at war. That would not be good. At all. Very bad, in fact. Especially with the weaponry available to all parties in the dispute... the Dominion, the C.S.S., Excalbia and, of course, Varessa. The casualty figures from a truly serious war would be astronomical. And, if things got really heated, all puns aside, then there could be shocking ramifications for the global ecology.

Given all this, it had been left to him, amongst others, to come up with a viable course or courses of action for Varessa to take to best avoid that calamitous outcome, firstly, and to negotiate the collective path through the miasma of difficult and dangerous conflicts that have arisen surrounding the Upper Virginian "Troubles". And it was a tough call. Cabinet was meeting in less than two hours as well... again. The cabinet had, so it seemed, been in constant session, and everyone in it was getting exceptionally tired. Nevertheless, there was work to be done.

His pondering of the matter at hand was interrupted by his phone ringing.

"Shaw"

"Sir, its Ambassador Vikis of Excalbia. It's supposedly urgent sir..."

Shaw sighed. This was just the start of what could be a very long day...

"Put him on... Ambassador Vikis, good morning. What can I do for you?"

"No, minister, it is not a good morning. Sorry to be blunt. But, to cut a rather long set of circumstances, two cabinet meetings and a direct order from my government, into two questions, was it you or those you support that assassinated the Upper Virginian Attorney General, and secondly and somewhat related, do you still vouch for the integrity of those who you are supporting in the Upper Virginian crisis?"

Shaw was stunned. Not that the question was asked, but that it had been asked in quite so blunt a fashion. Shaw was normally driven close to balmy by the insanely drawn out process of diplomacy, by Ambassador Vikis had just come to the crux of the matter with such blinding, breathtaking speed that Shaw was left rather flumoxxed. He couldn't help but think that, just this once, a little of the formal diplomatic pleasantries may have been pleasant, just to take the edge off... but still... there was a major power's ambassador on the phone and waiting...

"No, Ambassador, the attack was not our doing, nor the work of the Varessan-backed faction, nor any of their supporters, contractors or any group linked to them, or us, in any fashion, to the best of our knowledge. We were as surprised as you were."

Shaw sighed, and rubbed his eyes.

"As for your second question, yes, we still vouch for the faction we support. As you are no doubt aware, however, there are still other factions operating within the Dominion who seek to defeat the current government, notably the FVLA. While I, personally, do not think they are responsible, we are waiting on more information."

Shaw had a sudden brainwave, much like the stereo-typical light-bulb so often seen in cartoons.

"Ambassador, I have a question for you... do you have plenipotentiary authority?"

Ambassador Sir Gareth Vikis let out a sigh. He hadn’t realized that he’d been holding his breath. “Thank you for your assurances, Minister Shaw.” He spun slightly in his chair and looked up at the intimidatingly large portrait of Emperor David IV. At times like this, Sir Gareth keenly felt the Emperor’s eyes upon him. “Chancellor Freedman and, indeed, His Imperial Majesty will be relieved to hear them.” Vikis turned back and opened the folder on his desk. “Now that that is over, I can tell you that, frankly, your assessment of the situation matches our own. Our suspicion is that Altman himself is behind. I hope you understand, however, that we needed to make sure.”

The Ambassador leaned back in his cushy leather chair. “As for your question, Minister, I am His Imperial Majesty’s Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary. Why do you ask?”

“As for your question, Minister, I am His Imperial Majesty’s Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary. Why do you ask?”

"Ambassador, although I'll have to get authorisation from the Chancellor, I'd like to have you come to this upcoming cabinet meeting... it may be a superb time to organise our collective aims to best effect"

Ambassador Vikis was literally stunned. He held the phone and felt his mouth open, but no sound came. This was extraordinary. Sir Gareth quickly regained his composure and squared his shoulders.

"Why Minister Shaw," he said without a hint of his shock, "this is quite a surprise. And highly unusual. If your Government, however, wishes to make this incredible offer, I cannot turn it down. Of course, after the fact, I shall have to report everything to His Imperial Majesty's Government. That said, I am at your disposal, Minister. Simply advise of the time you wish me to arrive and I shall be there."

“Your Excellency, thanking you for taking my call,” Bishop Yanis Uvaras said softly, almost as if it would protect him from eavesdroppers. “I am sorry to call you at what I’m sure must be a very busy time – so many tragic events taking place…” Uvaras shook his head as he thought of the violence wracking his country. “But there is something urgent that I must discuss with you.” The Bishop took a breath and crossed himself. This wouldn’t be a lie. Exactly. “There is an urgent matter affecting the Church that has come up. As the one of the few devout Catholics among the diplomatic community here, I would appreciate your insight. May I come to your Embassy for a quick visit?”

The ambassador arched an eyebrow. He sensed urgency in the Bishop's voice, and knew that this wasn't simply an ecclesial matter - if it was, the Bishop would've gone through ecclesial channels. No, something is wrong, and the Bishop thinks that his phone might be tapped by somebody.

"And it please Your Grace, I will arrange for a car to pick you up immediately. I shall do everything in my power to assist you in this matter." he replied. "I will arrange it presently."

The two exchanged goodbyes, before the ambassador hung up, and then picked up his phone straight away and started dialing again.

"Jeanne? Je voudrais une voiture aller..." he begins.

***

Shortly thereafter, a black, imported Peacock Motors car with diplomatic plates arrives at the Bishop's residence, with two men dressed in dark suits and wearing black sunglasses inside. One of them gets out of the passenger's side, and rushes up to the doorstep. To the trained eye, it is obvious that he's carrying a pistol on his left side underneath his jacket, which he straightens before pressing the door buzzer.

A matronly woman, her graying hair in a neat bun, answers the door. “May I help y..,” she takes one look at her imposing visitors and wipes her hands on her apron. “Oh, my, oh, my. Who are you?”

After the visitors identify themselves as being from the Pantocratorian Embassy, the housekeeper ushers them into a small, but tasteful, hallway. She gestures to a row of antique high-back chairs. “Please have a seat, someone will be right here…”

The housekeeper vanishes through a side door and moments later a nun, comfortably in her late middle ages, emerges in a white dress and black habit. “Hello, gentlemen,” she says in friendly, yet hard-edged voice, “I am Sister Marguerite, Bishop Uvaras’ assistant. His Grace will be here shortly…”

Before Sister Marguerite could say anything else, Bishop Yanis Uvaras stepped through the double doors at the end of the hall. The bishop appeared to be in sixties and rather short. He had the soft, rounded features of a man used to a quiet, easy life. And like many such men caught in difficult times, sweat seemed to continually appear unbidden on his brow. The bishop was dressed in a simple black suit and Roman collar with a large, yet simple cross hanging from a chain around his neck. The bishop carried a small, overstuffed portfolio that he held as if it were a treasure. “Thank you for coming so quickly, gentlemen. I know the Ambassador is busy man and I don’t wish to keep him waiting. Shall we go?” As the men depart, Uzvaras turns to Sister Marguerite. “Keep things quiet around here, Sister.”

The nun nodded.

The agents nodded. Once the bishop was in the car, it took off and headed back to the embassy as fast as safety (and the speed limit) allowed.

***

The ambassador stood up as the Bishop entered his office. The agents accompanying him excused themselves and closed the door behind them.

"Your Grace," says the ambassador solemnly, nodding his head, before looking up again. "My people have checked this office from the ceiling to the floor and have found no bugs. You may speak freely in here."

With a hand he gestured to a comfortable looking couch.

"Can I get you a drink of anything? Tea? Coffee?" the ambassador asked. He examined the Bishop's expression. "Something stronger, perhaps?"

Bishop Uvaras nodded to the Ambassador. “Thank you for seeing me, your Excellency.” The bishop took a seat on the couch indicated by the Ambassador. The bishop gave a nervous smile as the Ambassador offered him a drink. “Thank you, Excellency. Perhaps I might take a little Scotch and soda, if it would not be too inconvenient…”

The bishop waited for his drink, then took a generous sip. He placed the drink on a convenient table and opened the small, overstuffed portfolio resting on his lap.

“Your Excellency,” he said removing a large envelope from the portfolio, “someone left this in a confessional at one of our parishes. The person came at the end of regular hours for confession, identified himself as a member of the Directorate of Justice’s Criminal Investigative Bureau – you know they’ve been implicated in the Attorney General’s death – and left this for the priest. As soon as the priest opened it, he called me and I had him bring it to me.”

Despite the drink, the bishop looked pale and his hand shook as he handed the envelope to Ambassador de Thrake. “Your Excellency,” the bishop said, his pale face reddening with embarrassment, “I am not a coward and I do not run from my responsibility to proclaim Church teachings, even when they run counter to the Government. But the Government here does not consider the Church to be sacred. Churches have been raided and priests imprisoned for giving refuge to supposed ‘enemies of the state.’ And, if General Altman knew the Church had this envelope, he we would tear down every church in Upper Virginia to find it. And kill any priest – or bishop – who got in his way.”

Inside the envelope are a bundle of papers. On the top is a letter written on the letterhead of the Attorney General of the Dominion of Upper Virginia.

To Whom It May Concern:

I, Diana Silina, Attorney General and Member of the Provisional Ruling Council, have written this letter and included the attached documents as my final testament to be delivered to a suitable international entity in the event of my untimely death. If you are reading this, I presume that I have been assassinated; either by the Free Virginia Liberation Army, General Craig Altman or by military officers plotting the overthrow of the PRC. In any case, there is no doubt in my mind that General Altman will use this to further terrorize the people of Upper Virginia.

I know that history will deal harshly with me for collaborating with General Altman. My only defence is my belief that, without my influence, the situation would have been far worse. It was my actions that halted the massacre of Courtland a year ago and my actions again that prevented Altman from ordering an all-out assault on the rebel-held city of Harrington. I have stayed his hand on many other occasions. My chief failing, I confess, was not realizing soon enough that Altman, unlike his predecessors, was not a mere tyrant whose tyranny I could mitigate, but a sociopath bent on destruction. Once I discovered that, however, it was too late to turn against him, for that would have meant civil war. Whether civil war or Altman’s reign of terror would have been a lesser evil, I cannot say. However, it was my opinion that civil war would have been even worse and that is, finally, why I acted as I did and remained in the PRC up to my death.

The documents attached contain detailed evidence of General Altman’s – and some would say my own – crimes. I ask that this evidence be used wisely to help bring about the fall of General Altman without plunging my nation into civil war. In the end, no matter what others may think, I am a patriot and have always acted in what I believed to the best interests of my country. I do so now, as well.

Sincerely,
Diana V. Silina
Attorney General

Behind the letter is a large stack of papers, invoices, bank account records, transcripts and photos. A quick look reveals documents showing that Upper Virginian agents targeted Excalbian computer servers a couple of years ago, bringing down a large part of the Internet in the northern Atlantic. Others show that Dominion Military Intelligence attempt to work with Roania to kidnap and possibly murder Excalbian Prince Joseph while he was in Pantocratoria. Yet others prove that General Altman has ordered specific extra-judicial killings. Photos show Altman carrying out some killings, and other crimes, himself. The bank statements reveal large-scale embezzlement by Altman and several senior military officers. A diplomatic telegram shows that the Dominion attempted to bribe members of the Confederation of Sovereign States’ legislature. More documents lie below.

Bishop Uvaras watches the Ambassador scan the documents. When the Ambassador looks up, the bishop takes another drink and leans forward. “Can you do something with these, Excellency?”

somewhere off the coast of Tanah Burung

'Why do I have to wear this?'

'Because it's hard to sneak into a country with big white faces bobbing up and down along the shoreline.'

'I thought this was a friendly country, why don't we just go in via the port?'

'Because we don't have passports, its part of the secret agent thing.'

Blaumena pulled the ski mask over her face without further protest, though Neni recognized the now typical passive aggressive response that had smeared what should have been a relaxing boat ride to a tropical paradise. At least it was over, and with actual work to do, Neni expected her charge to be too busy to cop an attitude.

The dinghy buzzed ashore, where the two women were dropped unceremoniously into the water a hundred yards from shore, while the operatives returned to the yacht and drove off into obscurity. Meanwhile, the swim ashore in the warm waters of the Burungi coast, dragging several watertight bags a piece, left Neni and Blaumena breathing more heavily than either expected. Peeling the mask off, Blaumena propped herself up on her arms and dragged her bags out of the reach of the lapping ocean. Turned to monochrome in the moonlight, the prima donna was eclipsed by the revolutionary, hair matted against her face, mouth open, gulping in air.

'Let's go,' said Neni between breaths as she stood up and slung her bags over her shoulder. Blaumena followed, her bags gripped in her fists as she made her way up the beach to the thick palm groves where, supposedly, a car, hired with great expense in the name of the FVLA, waited.

meanwhile, by a strange trick of quantum time keeping...

The pair of SUV's pulled into a parking lot outside of a Chucky Cheese and disgorged their occupants into a surprisingly steady stream of children and parents exitting and entering the restaurant. The cable facility was across the highway, on the outside of a strip mall between cheap housing and a monthly storage unit business. The trick was getting from the mall to the target without looking like it was intentional, which was why they were at Chucky Cheese.

Cameras were handed out along with maps, binders and a packet of permits to confuse any cops who got in the way. The foreign operatives were paired with native Virginians and given specific missions; cameras, security, entry points and, of course, actual cool hunting. The meeting over, the meeting broke as the cars filled again and drove to the mall.

Most of the coast was dotted with fishing villages. Here, mangrove swamp marched right into the ocean: the tree roots above the waves making weird shapes, like somethign out of a ghost story. Somehow, the coast guard was elsewhere, and no sign was given that anyone spotted the dinghy creeping between the mangroves to a secluded beach.

A car awaited the two women as they came ashore, dripping. It was not a conventional car, such things being rare in Tanah Burung. But, althoyugh fuelled by coconut oil and built to accomodate the ample frame of a Hell Bovine, it was still a car. At the wheel, a man in a livery and peaked cap by the name of Osvaldo. "Welcome to Sunny Tanah Burung," he said, despite the fact that it was night, and altogether pitch dark. "Where can i take you ladies?"

The blue and gold Imperial Air Force transport taxied to a stop in front of the VIP terminal. A stairway was quickly moved into place and the door of the plane temporarily designated Excalbia One – the “real” Excalbia One was still in Pantocratoria – opened. Emperor David IV appeared at the top of the stairs and quickly climbed down to the tarmac. He had changed out of the formal white uniform he had worn to his son’s wedding, but he had foresworn his usual civilian outfit and instead wore the white short-sleeved duty uniform of the Imperial Navy. A set of flight wings, a row of ribbons and gold epaulets bearing the Imperial crest were the only ornamentation on the uniform.

The Emperor saluted the small detachment of soldiers that met him on the tarmac. The detachment presented arms and held at attention as their sovereign walked by them towards the waiting motorcade.

From the lead car, the Imperial Chancellor stepped forward and bowed. “Your Majesty,” Lady Christina Freedman said rising, “welcome home. I apologize for calling you away from the festivities in Pantocratoria…”

“No, you were right we call me, Lady Freedman; my place is here.” The Emperor continued towards the waiting limousine with the Chancellor falling in just behind him. Once they were both in the car and the motorcade was on its way towards the Citadel with a full police escort, the Emperor turned towards his Chancellor.

“Lady Freedman, I read the reports on the way home. Are there any updates?”

“No, your Majesty. We are still waiting to hear from our Ambassador in Varessa and from Lord Phocas. There have been no new developments in the Dominion.”

“What about this conference the Confederation proposed?”

“So far, there seem to be no takers…”

“Perhaps just as well. Have we asked them about military cooperation?”

“Their Ambassador has asked Minister Cummings about activating the protocol to the Treaty of Jefferson…”

“Very well. Have the Minister of State tell the Ambassador that we are in agreement to activate the protocol, provided that the Confederation will agree to place any of its units under our field commanders in the event of actual hostilities; we do have greater experience and that should be taken into account…”

“Yes, your Majesty. But activating the protocol recalls an Act of the Senate. It will also require a Joint Resolution from their Congress…”

“I know. Convene the Senate, Lady Freedman, in closed executive session. I want you to introduce the proposed Act personally…”

“Yes, your Majesty…”

Blaumena cast a skeptical eye at Neni. Is this what you had in mind, she seemed to say without speaking. Seeing Neni nod, Athene Blaumena – former top rated anchorwoman and current People’s Commissioner of the Free Virginia Liberation Army – tossed her bags into the floor of unusually large passenger compartment of the car. She stepped into the vehicle, her wet clothes clinging uncomfortably to her in the humid night.

Once in the car, and feeling marginally more comfortable, Blaumena turned on her famous high voltage smile and flashed it at the driver. “Thank you for your warm welcome, friend.” She glanced over at Neni. “As for our destination, I defer to my companion. Neni?”

***

Meanwhile in Courtland…

Gwyneth Ubrecht sat in a comfortable chair in a fashionable café far from the chaos that was still erupting in the city center. She sipped her mocha and looked over at her companion. Jane Teller was one the FVLA’s best agents; she had penetrated the CIB through one of their hangout bars and had provided the revolution with a great deal of information. Gwen often wished they’d been as successful penetrating the Army and the SSS.

Normally, Gwen would never have met Jane. Especially not following the AG’s assassination. But, Jane had been insistent. And, Gwen had to admit it was worth it.

“So, what happened to this envelope?” Gwen asked quietly as she sipped.

“They don’t know. It may only be a rumor, but they all seem to believe it exists,” Jane whispered in reply, “they even call it ‘S.’s Revenge.’”

“Hmmm,” Gwen smiled. “Very interesting. I should probably let Greg know about this. Perhaps once we know a little more…”

"Your Grace..." murmurs the Ambassador, quietly. "...this is... this is quite.... quite.... this..."

The Ambassador doesn't finish his sentence, but instead pours himself the same drink as he poured the bishop. He takes a few gulps, and then starts again.

"I will see that my government gets this, Your Grace." he finally says. "But if they act on it, and frankly, I do not see how they couldn't, you might be in danger. You're the most noteworthy Virginian to step foot in this office since the assassination - if anybody has been watching the embassy, they'll soon make the connection, I fear. I can arrange for the Imperator Andreus to send a helicopter to pick you up from the embassy grounds. From the Imperator Andreus you could be taken to Excalbia, and flown back to Pantocratoria or to anywhere else for that matter for your own protection. Shall I call her?"

***

Lord Phocas' helicopter hovered over the deck of the INV Glorious, preparing to set down. Inside, Phocas finished reading the latest intelligence dossier from Imperial High Command. He closed it and handed it back to his aide.

"We're still working in the dark." Phocas complained. "Let's hope that things are a little more illuminated after our dinner with Admiral Kunle."

"Yes, my Lord Admiral." says the aide.

Bishop Uvaras felt the word yes, please get out of here form on his tongue, but when his mouth opened, nothing came out. He worked his mouth wordlessly for a moment, then picked up his drink. He nearly finished it before he sat back down on the table.

"Thank you for your offer, your Excellency. I..." the bishop clutched the crucifix around his neck, "I am very tempted to take your offer. And not, I confess, for the right reasons. I am afraid, Excellency. But," he felt the raised figure of the Christ pressing into the soft flesh of his palms; "I have a commitment to the Church, to my priests, to the parishioners... to God."

The bishop set his hand on his lap and looked at the imprinted figure. "If I go, and if, as you suggest, I was observed coming here, then the Dominion will try to go after my staff... Sister Marguerite... They will try to find the priest who first received the information. It will be very bad for all of them..." The bishop, suddenly looking very old and tired, looked up at the ambassador. "But if I remain, these people will still be in danger..." He looked away. "Perhaps, I could go to our monastery. It is in the mountains. Relatively isolated. Very few monks. And they could be sent away easily if need be... Yes, I would not be running or endangering anyone; the Dominion could come for me easily enough if they wanted to, but I would not be quite so close at hand."

Uvaras looks back at the ambassador. "Tell me, Excellency, would you be willing to offer me transportation to the Monastery of St. Francis? It is some 600 km from here and, I'm afraid, I would have great trouble getting out of the city on my own."

Once in the car, and feeling marginally more comfortable, Blaumena turned on her famous high voltage smile and flashed it at the driver. “Thank you for your warm welcome, friend.” She glanced over at Neni. “As for our destination, I defer to my companion. Neni?”

'Tiga Burung, and don't spare the horses. I'll tell you where when we get there.' With a total lack of self consciousness Neni peeled off her shirt and rooted around in her bag for a replacement while a surprised driver tried to keep his eyes forward. A moment later, a water logged black shirt and bra were thrown out the window, and Neni turned to Blaumena. 'You should change and get some sleep, we have to meet some people today and get this little outfit on the road.'

Lord Phocas' helicopter hovered over the deck of the INV Glorious, preparing to set down. Inside, Phocas finished reading the latest intelligence dossier from Imperial High Command. He closed it and handed it back to his aide.

"We're still working in the dark." Phocas complained. "Let's hope that things are a little more illuminated after our dinner with Admiral Kunle."

"Yes, my Lord Admiral." says the aide.

VADM Sir Derek Kunle watched the Pantocratorian helicopter settle on the deck of the massive carrier. Once the roar of the rotors had subsided and the doors of the helicopter had opened, Kunle stepped forward. His white short-sleeved uniform gleamed in the sun and seemed to compliment his dark, West African features. As Lord Phocas stepped onto the deck followed by his aide, Kunle saluted.

“Welcome aboard INV Glorious, Lord Phocas.” After the Pantocratorian First Admiral returns the salute, Sir Kunle extends his hand. “It a pleasure to see you again, my Lord.” He turns and gestures to the young officer beside him. “Lord Phocas, may I present my staff aide, Commander Stefan Blume.”

The red-haired commander steps forward and salutes. “My Lord, flag quarters have been prepared for you if you wish to refresh yourself before dinner…”

“Please excuse me, my Lord,” Sir Kunle says in his deep voice, “Commander Blume will escort you and your aide to your quarters and to the flag dinning room; I must attend to few details and will meet you there. I have asked several members of my senior staff to join us so that we may discuss the situation in detail.”

'Tiga Burung, and don't spare the horses. I'll tell you where when we get there.' With a total lack of self consciousness Neni peeled off her shirt and rooted around in her bag for a replacement while a surprised driver tried to keep his eyes forward. A moment later, a water logged black shirt and bra were thrown out the window, and Neni turned to Blaumena. 'You should change and get some sleep, we have to meet some people today and get this little outfit on the road.'

Blaumena gave Neni an odd look as she realized that in some ways she was still as reserved as most Upper Virginians. Then, she shrugged and reached into her bag and quickly changed into dry clothes. “So,” she said while pulling on a long-sleeved tee shirt, “what can you tell me about Tiga Burung? And what exactly is our agenda for tomorrow?”

* * *

Meanwhile, in Courtland…

Sister Mary Allescort looked pensively into the darkening sky. She was torn, as she hadn’t been for many months. She tried to pray, but found it difficult; her faith had always been more practical than spiritual. In fact, that was the reason she had left the Evangelical Methodist Church, her parents’ nominal faith, and become a catholic. As a teen, she had wanted to help people. In another country, she might have been a social worker or activist. But, in the Dominion the government never bothered with social workers and activists were routinely shot. Yet, the Church, somehow, managed to keep its charitable works going and that had led Mary to the Church and eventually to the life of a religious.

However, her work with the poor had never quite satisfied her and Mary had quietly drifted into circles that had carried her into contact with the Free Virginia Liberation Army. Mary had, in the end, become a revolutionary any way. An undercover revolutionary, but a revolutionary nonetheless.

Now, Sister Mary had information that the revolution might be able to use; information that Sister Marguerite had let slip innocently while praying for Bishop Uvaras. Mary had never liked Uvaras; he was altogether too complacent and too quiet in the face of the Dominion’s evil. Yet. Yet, revealing this to the FVLA might put him, and even more worryingly Sister Marguerite, in danger.

Sister Mary took a deep breath and picked up her mobile phone, the one the Mother Superior didn’t know about, and dialed.

“Yes,” a stern, yet youthful feminine voice said.

“Gwen? This is Mary.”

“Yes, Mary?”

“I have something to tell you. About Bishop Uvaras. Meet me at the Peter and Paul Bookshop in 20 minutes.”

“OK.”

Osvlado was indeed shocked to see Neni remove her top. Such things were common enough here, but he had never expected the important foreign visitors to be so free with their attitudes towards nudity. Blaumena's reaction was more what he had expected. He shrugged and started the car in motion towards the city of Tiga Burung.

The capital of the offshore island province, this country's main gateway to the world outside the Emerald Heights region, Tiga Burung teemed. As they neared the city, they could see the outlying shanty towns, well-provided with the basic necessities of water and electricity, but still third-world in their quality of housing. Plywood shacks marched right up to the main roads into the city. There were few cars, but the new auto factory -- despite environmental retrofitting, the top polluter in Tanah Burung -- was clearly visible.

"Welcome to the city of three birds," Osvaldo said, giving the English translation of the city's name. "Welcome to the gaudiest city in the country. Welcome to what they're pleased to call uneven development." He spoke with distaste: there were plenty of jobs here, but Osvaldo was saving up to return to a farming co-op somewhere in his native Ukun Rasikan province, across the waters on the mainland. Seeing a neon billboard advertising "Stout Lout, official beer of the World Cup," he wrinkled his nose in distaste.

(ooc: i'm away for the next 2 weeks and may or may not be able to post. SeOCC, you can do almost anything you want in Tiga Burung. The government is willing to let Blaumena do anything she wants but won't be officially supporting her work. Local colour if desired is available at freewebs.com/tanah_burung)

(ooc: i'm away for the next 2 weeks and may or may not be able to post. SeOCC, you can do almost anything you want in Tiga Burung. The government is willing to let Blaumena do anything she wants but won't be officially supporting her work. Local colour if desired is available at freewebs.com/tanah_burung)

OOC: Nice website!

MAJGEN Becka Harrison and MAJ Richard Thorsen were quickly escorted through the gates of the Varessan Embassy. After passing through the usual screening procedures, a Varessan NCO from the Defense Attaché’s office escorted the two Dominion officers into the Embassy and to Shaun Robert’s office. The Varessan Defense Attaché stood as the Dominion officers entered and dismissed the NCO.

“Shaun,” Becka said relief in her voice, “its good to see you. Are all your people OK?”

“Yes,” MAJGEN Roberts answered, “we are fine. Some the civilians were a little dismayed, but no one was injured. And you and your people?”

“OK. But, I think we’re all a little on edge…”

Roberts nodded and gestured to a chair. “Please, have a seat.”

“I’ll let Major Thorsen brief you on the latest, Shaun,” Becka said as she took her seat.

Thorsen looked around the office as he settled into his own seat. “I’m sorry, General Roberts, but is this room secure?”

MAJGEN Roberts nodded.

“Very good, thank you, sir.” Thorsen seemed to relax into the chair a little bit. “Based on the all the information we’ve been able to put together, it seems the attack on the Directorate of Justice was led by regular army troops. We believe those troops were from the 45th mobile infantry division, based at General Altman’s personal HQ. He normally keeps one brigade at his HQ as a personal guard and the other four scattered around the major approaches to Courtland, but not in the city itself. Last night, however, the brigade at his HQ moved into the city and the brigade based to the east moved into his HQ. It certainly appears that Altman has grown suspicious that there is some kind of plot against him and that he was trying to preempt it…”

“Now, things aren’t as bad as they might seem.” Becka interjected with a glance towards Thorsen. “So far, Altman’s not made a move against either the SSS or the Bureau of Procurement, Research and Development – our power base – nor has he moved against the Chamber of Industrials…”

“However,” Thorsen resumed, “the Board of the Chamber has gone underground for the moment; Silina got a warning call off to Forrest Turley, the Chairman of the Board, and he alerted the others. Fortunately, they’ve long had contingency plans to get out of Courtland quickly.

“And,” Thorsen let the shadow of a thin smile touch his lips, “this may work to our advantage. With the 45th brigade assigned to the eastern approaches at Altman’s HQ and his own brigade bogged down in the city, our units and your VSF troops will have a clear approach to Altman’s HQ after we hit it. And, with Brigadier Holmes potentially coming down from the northeast with three full brigades and other attached units – essentially an undersized division – we’ll be in an excellent position to scatter the rest of the 45th. Also, we had always faced the question of how to deal with the CIB. No matter how… unpleasant… this is, Altman has unintentionally done us a favor by taking the CIB out of the equation.”

“So,” Becka leaned closer to Shaun Roberts, “what is the word from Varessa?”

* * *

COL Mildred Peterson knocked on the office door.

“Come,” a voice said from inside.

Peterson opened the door and stepped in. COL Will Blackman, Commander of the Varessan military research facility at Pinecreek, stood and gestured to a chair in front of his desk. “Come in, Mildred, have a seat.”

“Thank you, Will,” the Dominion’s Deputy Project Manager for the X-9 Ozymandius took the offered seat with a somber expression.

“I guess you’ve heard by now about the latest problems back home…”

“Yes, Mildred,” Blackman said.

“Well, I’ve just spoken with Brigadier General Sykes back home. We don’t know what this will do our schedule. The X-9 is ready, but we’re just waiting for all the other pieces to fall into place. And that wait is killing us. Almost literally. So, Will, any progress on adjusting the firing magnets on the Crimson Star? General Sykes was wondering; seems General Harrison is thinking that, if we are going to be delayed, we might as well put it to good use and tweak the X-9, if possible. After this, Altman may try to bury himself even deeper in his HQ. And, that might require a little more yield. And perhaps a little more precision…”

Bishop Uvaras felt the word yes, please get out of here form on his tongue, but when his mouth opened, nothing came out. He worked his mouth wordlessly for a moment, then picked up his drink. He nearly finished it before he sat back down on the table.

"Thank you for your offer, your Excellency. I..." the bishop clutched the crucifix around his neck, "I am very tempted to take your offer. And not, I confess, for the right reasons. I am afraid, Excellency. But," he felt the raised figure of the Christ pressing into the soft flesh of his palms; "I have a commitment to the Church, to my priests, to the parishioners... to God."

The bishop set his hand on his lap and looked at the imprinted figure. "If I go, and if, as you suggest, I was observed coming here, then the Dominion will try to go after my staff... Sister Marguerite... They will try to find the priest who first received the information. It will be very bad for all of them..." The bishop, suddenly looking very old and tired, looked up at the ambassador. "But if I remain, these people will still be in danger..." He looked away. "Perhaps, I could go to our monastery. It is in the mountains. Relatively isolated. Very few monks. And they could be sent away easily if need be... Yes, I would not be running or endangering anyone; the Dominion could come for me easily enough if they wanted to, but I would not be quite so close at hand."

Uvaras looks back at the ambassador. "Tell me, Excellency, would you be willing to offer me transportation to the Monastery of St. Francis? It is some 600 km from here and, I'm afraid, I would have great trouble getting out of the city on my own."

The ambassador looked a little disappointed. He didn't think that Uvaras would be safe in the monastery.

"Your Grace, we have the means. We could get a helicopter from the fleet to pick you up here and take you to the monastery or virtually anywhere else. What I'm worried about is whether the helicopter would need permission from the proper Upper Virginian authorities..." the ambassador explains. "We've the proper authorisation for aircraft to fly back and forth between the embassy and any Pantocratorian vessel or territory, but we've not pursued any other authorisation, nor am I aware as to whether or not it is required. I will call the Imperator Andreus immediately and ask her to send a helicopter to take you to whatever destination you desire, but if you choose to fly to anywhere but the Imperator Andreus, the helicopter's route might cause suspicion. I urge your Grace to reconsider, but I will help you in whatever course of action you choose."

The ambassador picked up the phone as he let the bishop think about what he just said.

"Jeanne, je veux pour toi pour téléphoner l'Imperator Andreus et démander pour un hélicoptère. C'est pressant!" he says, before hanging up. He looks back up at the bishop.

Gwyneth Ubrecht tried to be as inconspicuous as possible going into the Peter and Paul Bookshop, but 20 minutes hadn't been enough time to go home and change. So, there she was in her characteristically hip short skirt, fitted jacket and heels walking into a Catholic bookshop. She walked quickly but confidently to the back, where the store stocked a selection of Christian pop and traditional Church CDs. She pretended to browse until a young nun in a white dress and blue habit walked over to her.

The nun handed Gwen a CD. "You might this interesting," Sister Mary Allescort said handing the jewel case to her.

"Thanks," Gwen replied as she gently popped the case open and saw a note inside. Sister Mary nodded and walked away. Gwen took the CD to the counter and paid for it - almost 9 crowns.

Gwen took her new CD and casually walked down the corner to one of Courtland's ubiquitous coffee shops. Inside, she sat down with a latte and opened the CD.

Bishop Uvaras received some kind of package from a parish priest. It made him very nervous. Then he was picked up by a car from the Pantocratorian Embassy. The Embassy sent security men to pick him up. That's all I know. Sister M. told us this much at prayers, but wouldn't tell us, or didn't know, what it was all about. But it must have something to do with what's going on.

Hmmm. Gwen pulled the phone out of her purse and dialed Greg.

The ambassador looked a little disappointed. He didn't think that Uvaras would be safe in the monastery.

"Your Grace, we have the means. We could get a helicopter from the fleet to pick you up here and take you to the monastery or virtually anywhere else. What I'm worried about is whether the helicopter would need permission from the proper Upper Virginian authorities..." the ambassador explains. "We've the proper authorisation for aircraft to fly back and forth between the embassy and any Pantocratorian vessel or territory, but we've not pursued any other authorisation, nor am I aware as to whether or not it is required. I will call the Imperator Andreus immediately and ask her to send a helicopter to take you to whatever destination you desire, but if you choose to fly to anywhere but the Imperator Andreus, the helicopter's route might cause suspicion. I urge your Grace to reconsider, but I will help you in whatever course of action you choose."

The ambassador picked up the phone as he let the bishop think about what he just said.

"Jeanne, je veux pour toi pour téléphoner l'Imperator Andreus et démander pour un hélicoptère. C'est pressant!" he says, before hanging up. He looks back up at the bishop.

Bishop Uvaras felt weary. He clasped his cross and closed his eyes. He tried to pray. What is right? I want to run away, but I don't want to abandon my people. But if I stay, will I put them in greater danger? Will I put the ambassador and his people in danger? Uvaras had not considered that the Pantocratorians would need overflight permission from the Dominion and that the government would know that they had taken him to the monastery and exactly where he was...

The bishop crossed himself and swallowed. "Your Excellency," he said in a muffled voice, "I have reconsidered your offer and pondered your advice. I will accept your offer to fly out of the Dominion to Excalbia. Could I ask for one additional favor? Could I have Sister Marguerite, my assistant, come with me? I fear for her safety if she stays. Also, I would need someone to take a message, safely of course, to the auxiliary bishop to arrange for him to care for our priests and religious - especially the priest who first received the envelope."

Greg was listening to the feed coming in from the operation when the phone rang, an N rather than the obvious U; 'brecht' sounds like the German word for 'broken,' which was an excellent album by Nine Inch Nails. Greg felt very pleased with his convoluted logic that would no doubt baffle any police officers trying to put 2 and 2 together.

'Howdy ho,' he answered, turning down the volume on the feed as he did so.

meanwhile, on the other end of the mic...

There were two wandering beat cops walking on the other side of the street, and it was taking very definate effort for the pair of UC operatives not to put away their cameras. Taking pains not to raise them too high, not to point them at the cops, not to point them at their upcoming target, the pair snapped photos of the shoes of passersby, chatted blithely about fashion as they kept on walking.

and also, before, in Tanah Burung...

The car pulled into the old Imperial Hotel, which was now called the Beak and Feather, though all the tourists still called it the Old Imperial, a kind of throwback to the days of colonialism. Neni paid the driver in worn Loonies and followed Blaumena out of the car. Still rather damp in the humid Burungi summer, the two women entered the lobby without incident; bizarre foreigners were normal in Tanah Burung. Neni sent Blaumena to check in while she met their contact in the bar.

Casey was, as promised, sitting at the bar, sipping lemonade from what looked like a tall beer glass commandeered from its god given task of delivering alchohol to livers. His glasses, the standard issue goggles given to spooks, sat beside a damp coaster, and other than the faint glisten of sweat on his face he seemed unaffected by the weather.

'Case.'

'Nen.'

'How's business?'

'The same, see exotic places, wreak havoc. You and Blowmena-'

'Blaumena.'

'Blowmena have an appointment later today with a local investigative journalist. Given Rumbiak's recent death and the whole thing with Alkatiri he figures there will be a big market for learning about a bourgeoning forieng war of liberation against fascist oppressors. We'll then send his peice out to the world and wait for the offers to roll in.'

'Okay.' Neni waved to the bartender. 'Rye and water.'

'What about your charge?'

'She can take care of herself.'

'That's not the responsible attitude we've all come to know and love-'

'You cross the ocean with that monster. I deserve this drink. You watch her if you're so worried.'

'Can't,' Case replied as he pulled the goggles onto his eyes, 'I have work to do. Feeds to tap, you know the drill. Here's the address-' scribbled on a post-it '-and time you need to meet the guy. Don't be late.'

CDR Blume escorted the Pantocratorian First Admiral and his aide to the flag quarters that had set aside for them to use “freshen up” – a nice euphemism for using the facilities and straightening up your uniform after a bumpy ride on a chopper over the gulf’s rough spring seas. After a few minutes, Lord Phocas and his aide were ready and CDR Blume escorted them to the flag dinning room. As the party approached, the marine on duty at the hatch snapped to attention. He opened the hatch and turned to salute Lord Phocas and the others as they entered the compartment.

Inside, the compartment was carpeted and covered in rich, wooden panels. Brass accent and fine furniture made it appear more like the dinning room of a baron’s country home than a wardroom aboard an ultra-modern aircraft carrier. As Lord Phocas stepped into the room, a red-haired lieutenant commander was the first to stand. “Admiral on the deck,” he announced. The other officers, all dressed in formal white uniforms stood and turned towards Phocas.

VADM Sir Derek Kunle stood at the head of a large table smiling. “My Lord, welcome. Please,” Kunle said gesturing to an empty chair to his right, “join us.”

Once Lord Phocas, his aide and CDR Blume were in place, but before anyone had taken a seat, Kunle turned slightly to his left, towards a large portrait of David IV, a raised his glass. “My lord, ladies and gentlemen, I give you His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor.”

“God save him,” a chorus of Excalbian officers responded, then everyone drank.

Then, turning towards Phocas, Kunle raised his glass again. “I give you Pantocratoria and her Emperor, Andreus.”

“God save them,” the chorus replied.

After another drink, Kunle sat his glass down. “My Lord, allow me to introduce my officers.” Kunle gestured to the officer next to Phocas. “This is our host tonight, Captain Richard Turlais, CO of Glorious and next to him is Captain Hannah Zerbule,” a slender black-haired woman bowed slightly, “CO of our air group.” Kunle turned to his left. “And this is Rear Admiral Ephraim Allen, commander of our escorting strike group and with him Captain Jeter Taliaferro, CO of his flagship – Citadel. Then,” Kunle gestured to the other end of the table, “we have Captain Mike Graves, commander of Wraith squadron 33 and Captain Jennifer Wells, whom you may remember from your first trip as Commodore Alsgood’s deputy project manager, now commander of squadron 34. And, you’ve met my staff aide, Commander Blume, and beside him is my other aide, Lieutenant Commander John Tomlinson.” Kunle turned back to Phocas. “Unfortunately, the commander of our embarked marine division couldn’t make it. And now that the formality is over, please take a seat and let us begin with the soup.”

The officers take their seats and several crewmen emerge bearing silver trays laden with fine china soup bowls.

“So,” Kunle asks after taking a spoonful of chowder, “how much do you know about the situation in the Dominion, my Lord?”

Athene Blaumena looked around the somewhat worn but comfortable room. The hotel – the sign said Beak and Feather, but everyone seemed to call it the Old Imperial – looked like it had seen better days, but it still had an old-fashioned elegance. She stripped off her damp clothes and headed in for a shower.

After she had finished her cold shower, Blaumena felt cool and much more comfortable. She eased into the fresh cotton robe that had been left on a hook in the bathroom – a real sign of class, she thought. As she sauntered over to an overstuffed chair and picked up the room service menu, she felt a little embarrassed. She was a revolutionary – a champion of the working class. Yet, she still enjoyed little hints of luxury. Fortunately, she was mature enough to realize that was just who she was – a child of the elite, a journalist and a former celebrity. That was as much who she was as the revolution, and there was no point fighting against it.

So, she leaned back, picked up the phone and ordered a light snack and a glass of wine. At least, she thought, good service and quality survived the revolution in Tanah Burung and continues to thrive in a non-capitalist economy. Someday, she mused, it’ll be the same in Upper Virginia and the workers will enjoy this kind of same luxury.

* * *

“Howdy ho,” said the voice on the other end of the phone.

“Greg,” Gwen said softly, “you trust your encryption?”

Hearing Greg’s assurance, Gwen sighed lightly.

“Good,” she whispered. “I have an interesting bit of news. It seems our late, unlamented AG prepared a packet of incriminating documents, revealing all the dirty laundry, to be passed on in the event of her death. Interestingly, it seems the Catholic bishop of Courtland received a package today – a package that made him very, very nervous. And just after he received the package, a car from the Imperial Pantocratorian Embassy picked him up.”

Gwen took a breath and looked around to make sure no one was watching her. No one was.

“A little too coincidental, I think. Now, we have people scattered around that can dig up this kind of information, but our people who could do something about have all been transferred to UC – the clean ones – or scattered to keep them from drawing attention to our operations. And, we never operated in the diplomatic circles anyway. So, do think we can do anything to exploit this? This kind of information could give us a big PR boost.”

Harriet Yultilde sat a cup of hot tea in front of her husband and took a seat beside him at the window of their rustic cabin. Graham Yultilde, Vice Chairman of the Chamber of Industrials, smiled and nodded at his wife and then turned back to the window. He didn’t really expect to see Dominion tanks coming down his country lane, but he couldn’t shake his nervousness.

Harriet touched her husband’s arm. “Graham? Are we going to make it this time?”

He turned and tried to smile. “I hope so, Harriet. It is a good sign that Altman hasn’t moved against the Chamber’s offices yet. If he knew our true plans, even if he mistakenly believed Silina was involved, he certainly would have moved against the Chamber at the same time or shortly thereafter.”

“Will this – our running away – tip him off?”

“No,” his smile turned genuine, if a little bitter, “he’s used to seeing us go to ground when bad things happen in Courtland. No, this won’t tip anything. If anything, if we were too calm after what happened – that would be suspicious.” Graham took a sip of his tea and turned back to the window.

“Graham,” Harriet said nervously, “just in case, I need to tell you something.” Graham turned to his wife. “Graham, when Geoff died… I… well… I felt I had to do something. I found one of Geoff’s friends… I thought she was an idealistic girl… idealistic like Geoff… she had been his girlfriend once… but, oh Graham, she’s horrid, but… but, I gave her money. Money for the FVLA… and information about the chamber….” Harriet burst into tears and her husband took her into his arms.

“Shh… Harriet, I know. Darling, I know.” Harriet looked up at him in shock. “Yes, I knew all along. I let you help the FVLA. I want to see change, in my own way, as much as Geoff did. No, no, I’ve not gone communist; I don’t want the FVLA to take over. But then, I’m not sure I want the coup to take over. I don’t know, General Harrison very well, but she seems a nice enough woman, but she’s back by the SSS and Frank Turley, and they’re almost as ambitious as Silina and Altman, and I’m not sure I want them to take over. So, I decided to let you support the FVLA. For balance. Together, perhaps, they can oust Altman. And then, if they have to contend with each other, maybe we’ll actually get an election and free choice.”

“Graham, I didn’t know you felt this way…”

“I’ve kept a lot in. Perhaps to protect you. Perhaps because I didn’t know how to say.” Graham smiled. “But as you said, Dear, if this might be it, I want there to be no more secrets…”

'Ay...' mumbled Greg as he groped across his desk for a rolodex. Flipping through it, he stopped at seemingly random cards. 'Well, we can go for a seduction/kidnapping of whoever is the uppity up there, though that might have accessibility issues ... or blackmail ... or assassination, and then pin it on someone, I like that ...

'Or we can just break into the place. Do you know where the file is?

In Tanah Burung...

Neni was offended, on principle, that Blaumena had ordered room service, and chalked it up as yet another vindication of her plummetting opinion of her charge. 'Let's see her eat bugs off the jungle floor,' she thought to herself as she knocked on Blaumena's door to fetch her for the interview.

The Burungi was, typically, short, with a sort of Fu Manchu moustache and a gleam in his eye that confirmed the profit motive was alive and well in Tanah Burung. His name was Taco Taco, which both women managed not to smirk at, and he introduced himself with the gusto of someone clawing for the top.

'Madam, madam-' vigorous hand shaking '-please, sit.' The interview was being conducted in Neni's room, but Taco had already commandeered the room, physically and psychologically, and his cameras, lights and sound equipment created a two meter perimeter of cable in every direction. 'I am most pleased, so pleased, to have the honor of conducting this interview. I have written up a short list of questions that my people would be interested in having answered, and of course you are free to add your own if you feel your message would be best served with some inquisitive prodding.'

The list, hand written on recycled paper, read:

Who is the Free Virginia Liberation Army and why are they fighting the government of Upper Virginia?

What is their platform?

Why are they using violence rather than peaceful resistance?

Where are they getting their weapons from?

How will they take control of the country when they have no tanks? (or, If they have tanks, are there not ethical problems with using these weapons in a civil war?)

Is this a civil war or a revolution?

Why are you, Ms. Blaumena, here in Tanah Burung?

Taco smiled widely as Blaumena read the list while Neni rolled her eyes. Casey, wherever he was, was surely having a good chuckle over leaving them with this media jackal. And it only got worse from here.

Roberts intensely scrutinised the inside of his eyelids intently before answering.

"The situation is difficult. The cabinet will be meeting very shortly, but, as of yet, we have no word. There has, however, been some interesting developments as spin-offs from recently conducted research. And some interesting ramifications from that research. But I'll get to that later."

Roberts reached below his desk, and pulled out a bottle of scotch. The stuff was nearly as old as he was.

"Old ADM Jontulovich's elixir of life. He swore by this. In fact, he swore quite a bit when this stuff had anything to do with anything."

He poured himself out a shot, on the rocks, and placed the bottle down in front of his guests, swiftly followed by a pair of glasses.

"The gap left by the actions GEN Altman has taken against the CIB may be useful, I'll grant you, but although the gap exists, can you say with any certainty that we are in any position to exploit it? We can definitely get the VSF and SSS troops out there into Courtland, but that, in itself, will, at the present stage, serve no great purpose. We would have trouble hiding them in Courtland itself, and keeping them concealed may be far more problematic than sneaking them in during the chaotic aftermath of an Ozymandias strike."

The Varessan MAJGEN pulled his pistol out, and ejected the magazine, putting it down on the desk next to his scotch. He then worked the action, ejecting the round which had been in the chamber, and put the gun down, before pushing the ejected round back into the magazine, and sliding the magazine back into the weapon.

"The plan, as I see it, is to reduce Altman's HQ to rubble using an Ozymandias bomber, then use the SSS and VSF troops to secure crucial areas throughout the city. Transmitting stations, utilities, and so on. From there, Becka can, as the senior surviving military official in Courtland, announce the success of the military in removing the General Altman from power, and of your intentions to restore order in preparation for the holding of general elections. The Chamber of Industrials will, it is hoped, give a press release giving their support, while Upper Virginia's neighbours, ourselves crucially amongst them, recognise your new government."

Roberts paused again, and took a sip of his scotch. It really was good stuff.

"I would also strongly advise that you invite the FVLA to the table upon the successful assumption of power here in Courtland. The last thing we want is the FVLA deciding that the turmoil in the aftermath of the fall of GEN Altman is the perfect time to strike. "

Roberts turned to address MAJGEN Harrison directly.

"In the meantime, it may be prudent to inform GEN Altman that the Ozymandias Project is proceeding as expected. I know we don't want to get him to see it as a new super-weapon with which he can defeat the FVLA, but it will serve to make you look like the loyal and diligent functionary that Altman thinks you should be. I'm going to advise the Varessan Cabinet... right after this, actually, to put a division or six on 24 hour notice-to-move. We'll be ready to put them into action, if needed, to maintain order if order breaks down, or to fight off an FVLA push, or to counteract moves by Altman-loyalists to retake power by force. At least, in theory. It's still a cabinet call..."

***

'Ay...' mumbled Greg as he groped across his desk for a rolodex. Flipping through it, he stopped at seemingly random cards. 'Well, we can go for a seduction/kidnapping of whoever is the uppity up there, though that might have accessibility issues ... or blackmail ... or assassination, and then pin it on someone, I like that ...

'Or we can just break into the place. Do you know where the file is?

“Well,” Gwen shifted the phone to her left hand as she thought, “according to my information, the bishop – his name is Uvaras – took the file with him to the Pantocratorian Embassy. I presume it is still there. Other than the bishop, the only one who has likely seen the contents of the file is the priest who passed it to him. Neither I nor my source know the name of that priest.” Gwen paused and bit her lip. “However, based on what my source has told me, the bishop’s executive assistant – a Sister Marguerite – keeps a record of all his visitors and all of his calls. The priest’s name is probably recorded there somewhere.”
Gwen took a deep breath. “So, do you think you can penetrate the Pantocratorian’s embassy or do you want to try to zero in on the priest, who may have seen the contents of the file?”

In Tanah Burung...

...The Burungi was, typically, short, with a sort of Fu Manchu moustache and a gleam in his eye that confirmed the profit motive was alive and well in Tanah Burung. His name was Taco Taco, which both women managed not to smirk at, and he introduced himself with the gusto of someone clawing for the top.

...Taco smiled widely as Blaumena read the list while Neni rolled her eyes. Casey, wherever he was, was surely having a good chuckle over leaving them with this media jackal. And it only got worse from here.

Athene Blaumena read the questions and smiled. She appreciated the irony of a vicious ex-news reader being interviewed by shark like Mr. Taco. She had spent time living in tents and mud and muck, eating things she’d rather not think about and sleeping in places she never wanted to see, but this was her element. This is where she should be able to do the most to help the revolution.

“Alright, Mr. Taco. It looks like you’re ready. Shall we get started?”

“Yes, please. And please, call me Taco – it’s what my viewers expect,” the journalist smiled too politely. With a gesture from Taco, the camera operator turned on the video recorder, checked the sound levels and gave thumbs up.

Taco turned towards the camera. “Good evening. We’re here with Athene Blaumena, who is here in Tanah Burung as a representative of the Free Virginia Liberation Army.”

Taco turned back towards Blaumena. “So, Ms. Blaumena, should we start at the beginning? What is the Free Virginia Liberation Army and why are you here in Tanah Burung?”

“Thank you, Taco,” Blaumena’s smile made it clear why she had been so successful on TV in Upper Virginia – it was bright, cheery and sincere; everything she wasn’t. “Thank you for giving me this opportunity to tell your people and the world about what is going on in the Dominion and why we have risen up against it. And, please call me Athene.” Blaumena sat back, the picture of calm. She crossed her legs and casually gestured towards the reporter.

“I am here as a spokesperson for the revolution and I am in Tanah Burung because, to put it simply, your country has been an inspiration to us in our struggle and we are hoping that by coming here we can attract the moral support of the world to our cause.”

“That is very good, Athene,” Taco smiled with practiced sincerity, “but what exactly is your movement and why is it trying to overthrow the government of Upper Virginia?”

“We – the Free Virginia Liberation Army – are a cross-section of Upper Virginians – I myself was once a news reader and journalist for the Dominion’s largest TV network; the Chairman of the Liberated City of Harrington – Uldis Marko – was once a university professor and prominent author; and our leader – Commander Lazarus – was once a member of the business elite and the government. Many of our other leaders are workers, students and farmers. The peoples’ commissioner for public safety in Harrington is a former factory worker and his deputy was formerly a policeman under the Dominion.

“What we all have in common is that we’ve seen the through the propaganda that I once espoused on TV and have seen the corruption and tyranny of the government.” Athene leaned forward and touched Taco on the knee, her face a mask of sorrow and grief with tears welling up in her eyes. “Our country has been under martial law for almost a century. Workers are forbidden to have private automobiles – not to protect the environment, but to keep them from moving freely around the country; they have no rights, not even a 40-hour workweek or protection from arbitrary dismissal; attempting to form a trade union – or any kind of group not under government control – is a capital offense. Our country is wealthy, yet the majority of upper Virginians are denied any of the benefits of that wealth, in terms of education, health care and I could go on.

“That, in short, is why we’ve risen up against the government.”

Taco nodded gravely. “And, if you succeed in overthrowing the government, what is your agenda? What do you want to accomplish?”

Blaumena leaned back and once again appeared very professional, though still warm and friendly. “If we succeed, our only agenda is to give our people freedom. We are committed to full, free and fair elections that will give all upper Virginians the opportunity to express their wishes.” Blaumena smiled warmly. “Of course, our leadership – including myself – are mostly committed socialists. We dream of an Upper Virginia where the wealth of the nation serves the needs of the people, rather than where the people serve for the accumulation of wealth. We want to offer the nation what we have done in Harrington – guarantee the rights of workers to decent work, living wages, full healthcare and full education. We are willing to do this in cooperation with private entrepreneurs, provided that they are willing to accept that goal of the state and the economy is to serve the needs of all the people.

“Naturally, since we are committed to elections, the people will have a choice of whether to embrace our dream or pursue another. Once the nation is liberated, the FVLA will become a political movement, operating within a civil, peaceful political framework and will leave the decision about who will rule to the people.”

“That sounds very noble, Athene, but if the FVLA is so committed to a peaceful political framework, then why are you using violence rather than peaceful resistance?”

Blaumena nodded as Taco spoke. “You’re right – it does seem contradictory to see we are commitment to a peaceful political seem while waging a violent revolutionary struggle. The answer, however, is simple. Almost every legal and ethical system recognizes a right to use violence to defend oneself or other helpless individuals from violence. The Dominion government has been committing acts of unspeakable violence against the people of Upper Virginia for years. Everyone, I believe, remembers the shocking the video of Dominion troops turning their weapons on peaceful demonstrators in Courtland – our capital – last year. Not only did they gun down unarmed protestors, but they pursued fleeing men, women and children and massacred them as they sought refuge.”

“Hmm,” Taco watched Blaumena intently, “so, if you are comfortable employing violent means, does this mean you plan to overthrow the government by force? We’ve seen no evidence that the FVLA has heavy weapons, like tanks. If you don’t, how do you plan to overthrow the government without them?”

“You’re right again, Taco; we have no tanks, missiles or aircraft. We recognize that armed combat alone won’t bring down the government. Indeed, if we took the steps necessary to defeat the government military, then this would become a war rather than a revolution and would destroy much of what we are trying to save. So, no, the armed struggle is merely part of the plan. We will also rely on educating our people, encouraging them to stand up en masse against their oppressors, and we will rely on a combination of world opinion and domestic and international political pressure to topple the government.”

Taco frowned as Blaumena stole a bit of his thunder by anticipating his questions. iMaybe I shouldn’t have given her the questions./i “So, this is not a civil war?”

“No, it is a political struggle, a revolution, with an armed component.”

“Who is supplying your weapons, them, Athene?”

Blaumena smiled. “We have a number of financial backers, and weapons – though illegal in the Dominion – are all to easy to come by with enough money. We have also had a great deal of success in winning the support of rank-and-file police and army troops and have been able to use the Dominion’s own weapons against it.”

“Finally, then – I see our time is almost up – what is it that you hope people here and elsewhere will do?”

“Primarily, I hope people will let their representatives and governments know that they care about what is going on in Upper Virginia and that they want their governments to take appropriate steps to bring pressure against the Dominion – peaceful, political and economic pressure – to bring the Dominion down.”

“Well, we’ll have to leave it there. Thank you, Athene.”

“Thank you, Taco.”

MAJGEN Becka Harrison took the offered bottle and poured herself a glass. She passed it to MAJ Thorsen, who inconspicuously replaced it on the table without pouring any for himself. Becka a sip and sighed in appreciation. Normally, she wasn’t much for hard liquor, but today was a day that would – as her grandmother used to say – make a preacher drink.

“I’m interested in hearing about the spin-offs from our research – but you’re right, we can leave that for later.” Becka glanced at Thorsen. “You’ve pretty well summarized our situation, including both the perils and possibilities.”

Becka took a deep breath and another drink. “I’ll admit that I hadn’t really thought of reaching out the FVLA, but I think you’re right about that as well.” Becka turned at the sound of Thorsen taking a sharp breath. “Major, I know how your people and chamber feel about the FVLA, but can tell me that General Roberts in wrong in his analysis? Would you rather have the FVLA come peacefully to the table or would you rather have to turn to take up Altman’s fight against them as soon as we’ve defeated him?”

Thorsen wasn’t easily flustered and didn’t flinch at the hint of impatience in MAJGEN Harrison’s voice. Instead, he sat quietly for a moment and weighed his options. Finally, he said with a sigh, “You’re right, of course, General. As distasteful as they are, we can no longer ignore the FVLA and engaging them in the field so early in a new government would be… less than optimal.”

Becka nodded. She suspected that she was giving Thorsen more latitude than most generals would give a major, but then, Thorsen’s role in the coup was far more than that of a ‘normal’ major. Then, she turned back to MAJGEN Roberts, “Shaun, do you think it’s worth trying to reach out to them before the coup? We just might have an avenue through Brigadier Holmes.”

“And,” Becka continued, “I also agree about seeing Altman. I can give him a report that will be suitably positive without letting on that we have a nearly operational weapon. It’s also exactly what he would expect from an officer anxious to prove her loyalty; if I stayed away, it would be suspicious to him. I think I will try to see him tomorrow morning.”

Becka took another small drink. “So, when can you fill me in on your advances in our research project?”

Neni, who had ducked out of the room during the interview, returned as Taco was asking Blaumena about the civil war, and folder her work cell before returning it to her pocket. As Taco's crew were packing up Neni ushered Blaumena into the hallway.

'Nice, but we have another appointment. A newspaper here wants to interview you for tomorrow, get the scoop on Taco's news magazine. And they're a worker's newspaper, so try not to look so ... rich.'

Back in UV...

'Hold.' Greg snapped the order as he dropped the cellphone on his desk and pulled an eggshell colored laptop onto his lap. The connection it sported was dedicated, a tiny stream of data in a huge stream of garbage, beamed directly to a satellite, bounced around the world, and the home, the most secure transmission available. His fingers were imprecise, not nervous but energized.

+++INCOMING TRANSMISSION+++
+++CONNECTION CONFIRMED+++
+0392G+

>go ahead.

>FF have information on sourceo f damaging information on CR. considered highly valubale by FF leadershio. inside FE, hostile. advise.

>how valuable is information.

>high level CR leadership executed to keep silent.

>advise on entry possibilities.

>unknown. FFC suggests messenger that took the information to FE can be found, unknown if messenger knows message. location of information unknown, FFC suggests information at FE.

>how urgent is the situation?

>political situation between FP and CR unknown. if information is useful to FP information is likely to move.

>advise on desired support.

>military.

>you are suggesting we mobilize military forces and invade an FE in a hostile nation.

>yes.

>wait.

The line died, leaving the thump of Greg's heart to fill his ears; he thought about picking up the phone to talk to Ubrechut scrapped the idea as quickly as it appeared. He couldn't tell her anything, not the unknown level of commitment, not his devious little plans. He wasn't so old he hadn't grown up on the legends of the VA fighters, many of whom were not under his command, but he was old enough that he wasn't part of the new breed of spooks that never saw the field. His own longing for real action was clouding his judgment, but they'd given him a warzone assignment for a reason, and he'd gotten over his misgivings by the time the line reopened.

+++INCOMING TRANSMISSION+++
+++CONNECTION CONFIRMED+++
+9383H+

>HTC will be assigned to your position if requested. confirm equipment level.

>requested. covert insertion. place them in position outside of CR.

>command says good luck.

>thanks.


A sharp, long exhale calmed Greg sufficiently to let him pick up the phone with his normal cheery demeanor. 'Hi, sorry about that. We can do both; find the priest, see what he knows, and if that isn't enough, we'll take over their embassy. Looks like I'm in the shooting war now, huh?'

Neni, who had ducked out of the room during the interview, returned as Taco was asking Blaumena about the civil war, and folder her work cell before returning it to her pocket. As Taco's crew were packing up Neni ushered Blaumena into the hallway.

'Nice, but we have another appointment. A newspaper here wants to interview you for tomorrow, get the scoop on Taco's news magazine. And they're a worker's newspaper, so try not to look so ... rich.'

Blaumena chuckled. “Oh, poor, poor, Neni. You think this,” Blaumena pulled at her outfit, “makes me look rich? Dear, this is almost five seasons out of style. Why, I practically look as common as you.” Blaumena smiled coldly. “However, your point is taken. I will look a little more… proletarian tomorrow.”

Suddenly, Blaumena’s teasing was finished and she was all business again. “So, tell, me what angle will this paper be taking? Where will they be coming from? If they’re more on the ball than good old Taco, I doubt they’ll hand me a list of questions. So, any insight into their perspective will help me prepare.”

Back in UV...

'Hold.' Greg snapped the order as he dropped the cellphone on his desk and pulled an eggshell colored laptop onto his lap. The connection it sported was dedicated, a tiny stream of data in a huge stream of garbage, beamed directly to a satellite, bounced around the world, and the home, the most secure transmission available. His fingers were imprecise, not nervous but energized.

...

A sharp, long exhale calmed Greg sufficiently to let him pick up the phone with his normal cheery demeanor. 'Hi, sorry about that. We can do both; find the priest, see what he knows, and if that isn't enough, we'll take over their embassy. Looks like I'm in the shooting war now, huh?'

Gwen swallowed and looked around. This would mean taking things to a whole new level. “OK, Greg. If you have some operatives that can meet me at the Double Coffee at the corner of Holbrook and Church St. – it’s five blocks from the catholic cathedral and two blocks from the bishop’s residence – I can tell them where Sister Marguerite keeps her phone and appointment logs. With the bishop out, no one should be in the residence except the housekeeper and she should be in the kitchen or in the third floor living quarters. How soon can someone meet me?”

Suddenly, Blaumena’s teasing was finished and she was all business again. “So, tell, me what angle will this paper be taking? Where will they be coming from? If they’re more on the ball than good old Taco, I doubt they’ll hand me a list of questions. So, any insight into their perspective will help me prepare.”

'No, the interview is now. Get changed into something even more out of style. And no, I doubt there would be a list of questions.'

Gwen swallowed and looked around. This would mean taking things to a whole new level. “OK, Greg. If you have some operatives that can meet me at the Double Coffee at the corner of Holbrook and Church St. – it’s five blocks from the catholic cathedral and two blocks from the bishop’s residence – I can tell them where Sister Marguerite keeps her phone and appointment logs. With the bishop out, no one should be in the residence except the housekeeper and she should be in the kitchen or in the third floor living quarters. How soon can someone meet me?”

'Two or three days, probably. I have some people in mind, with experience in this kind of thing. I'll contact you when they're here.'

ooc: sorry for the short posts, just got back to the states, will create better posts once i'm settled in.

Bishop Uvaras felt weary. He clasped his cross and closed his eyes. He tried to pray. What is right? I want to run away, but I don't want to abandon my people. But if I stay, will I put them in greater danger? Will I put the ambassador and his people in danger? Uvaras had not considered that the Pantocratorians would need overflight permission from the Dominion and that the government would know that they had taken him to the monastery and exactly where he was...

The bishop crossed himself and swallowed. "Your Excellency," he said in a muffled voice, "I have reconsidered your offer and pondered your advice. I will accept your offer to fly out of the Dominion to Excalbia. Could I ask for one additional favor? Could I have Sister Marguerite, my assistant, come with me? I fear for her safety if she stays. Also, I would need someone to take a message, safely of course, to the auxiliary bishop to arrange for him to care for our priests and religious - especially the priest who first received the envelope."

"Bon." said the ambassador with some relief that the bishop was picking what he regarded to be the more prudent option. "I shall arrange for Sister Marguerite to be transferred with you at once."

The ambassador picked up the phone again and issued another order to his secretary.

"Jeanne, je veux pour les agents pour revenir à la maison d'évêque, pour chercher pour Soeur Margaritte, et puis, pour revenir ici avec elle." commanded the ambassador. The agents were soon on their way back to the bishop's home.

***

The ambassador returned to his office after a short absence. He held two small purple leather books in his hand, with the arms of the Pantocratorian Empire on the front in gold. He handed them both to the bishop.

"I've a Pantocratorian passport for both you and the good sister, along with all appropriate visas. It should get you into Excalbia and to virtually anywhere else you might wish to go from there without any problems. I've also arranged for a Peacock Airlines flight from Excalbia to Langeais and then to Pantocratoria to keep two seats free for you, should you wish to travel from Excalbia to Langeais or to Pantocratoria. Your tickets are inside the passports, should you wish to use them." says the ambassador.

Before the bishop has a chance to react, the door opens, and two security agents ferry a somewhat confused looking Sister Marguerite into the room. Overhead, a helicopter can be heard landing on the embassy's helipad.

"Perfect timing, sister." says the ambassador. "Let's get both of you up to the helipad. The chopper will take you to the Imperator Andreus, where you'll change helicopters to travel to Excalbia...."

One of the agents leans in and whispers something in French to the ambassador, before ducking out of the room.

"Oh yes, before you go up to the helipad, you should both change into civilian clothing, just in case somebody is watching the embassy. No offence, but Your Grace doesn't exactly blend in dressed as a bishop." says the ambassador.

The agent returns holding two flight jackets with big hoods, and two pairs of slacks, which look like they'd almost fit properly.

"It isn't much of a disguise, but let's not take any chances, eh? Alors, I'll meet you up on the helipad. Agent Devallier, show the sister to the spare office down the hall, so that she can get changed. Your Grace can change here." the ambassador said, heading out of the room, followed by one of the agents (presumably leaving Devallier).

"Votre excellence," asked the agent accompanying the ambassador to the helipad. "Pourquoi est-ce que vous essayez tellement dur pour les protéger? Ils ne sont que..."

The ambassador interrupts him.

"Pour l'Empire et pour sa nouvelle alliance avec l'Excalbie! Les affaires des virginiens sont les affaires des excalbiens, et maintenant, les affaires des excalbiens sont les affaires de châque pantocratorien!" he snaps, angrily. "Alors, je les protége pour l'Empire Pantocratorien. La question vraie, ce n'est pas pourquoi est-ce que je les protége, c'est pourquoi est-ce que vous pensez pour vous-même, quand vous devriez obéir sans pensant!"

(OOC: All conversations in my extremely shoddy French are more for my own amusement than for anybody else's, you can safely ignore them. :wink: )

Chancellor Drake couldn't decide whether to hug or hang his foreign
minister. He really couldn't. Alex Shaw had taken the incredibly audacious maneuver of inviting the ambassador of a foreign power to a CABINET MEETING. Drake couldn't believe it. And his dilemma was brought about by the fact that, as usual, his foreign minister had found what was perhaps one of the most elegant solutions to dissolving any lingering doubts that the Excalbians may have had concerning the intentions and information possessed by the Varessans concerning the Upper Virginian "troubles".

Shaw was bright, that was certain. In fact, he was almost brilliant. But, as Field Marshal Harris would say, "that there kid is too goddamn smart for his own good". And yes, the foreign minister had quite definitely overstepped his authority. Immensely. Almost... but not quite... criminally. It was within a hair's breadth of being grounds for dismissal from his portfolio. But not quite.

And, yes, it was very clever. And right out of left field. But inviting
Ambassador Vikis could very well make the deal with Excalbia into
something more. An alliance, even. The military technology advances that both nations could gain from such an alliance were phenomenal, that was definitely true. But could global politics handle a long-term alliance between three powers as large as the Holy Empire, Upper Virginia and Varessan Commonwealth? Probably not. Even so, the gains from even a short-term close association, for both parties, could be immense.

To say nothing of the benefits of having a 100% candid conversation with the plenipotentiary of a very large and powerful neighbour concerning a situation in which both parties had a very sizeable stake.

Yes, it would be a very interesting meeting indeed.

He picked up his phone, and his secretary answered.

"Give Mr Bertrand a call, if you could. Cabinet is meeting in 45 minutes."

"Yes sir, I'll call right away."

"Thank you Miriam"

***

Field Marshal Harris was a couple of minutes late to the cabinet meeting. Traffic had been heavy, and the normally laid back Varessan Defence Minister was fretting. There isn't an officer anywhere in the world that liked being late, and Harris was no exception.

His apology for his late arrival, however, stuck in his throat as he saw the addition to the cabinet meeting.

"Ambassador Vikis... a surprise to see you here..."

The Chancellor chose that moment to walk in from his adjoining office, with Foreign Minister Alex Shaw in tow.

"Yes, Field Marshal, there were a number of us who were surprised by the proposition that Ambassador Vikis join us, although Alex has assured me that it would be helpful, and, truthfully, I am inclined to agree. Ambassador Vikis has been good enough to join us, and for that I am grateful. As the Ambassador is vested with plenipotentiary authority, we have a chance to make very significant progress in our combined approach to the Upper Virginian situation."

He paused, and Harris watched him scan the faces of the members of the
cabinet. He had a feeling that he knew what was coming next. When the
Chancellor's eyes stopped and held the Field Marshal's gaze, any remaining doubt was dispelled.

"Field Marshal Harris, before we discuss our plans for the future, we
should probably explain to the Excalbians exactly what began our
involvement in this issue, and the end of our non-interventionist stance in regional politics."

Harris looked back at the Chancellor, eyes boring into his in silent query. A barely perceptible nod from Drake answered the Field Marshal's question. He blew out a breath he hadn't realised that he'd been holding, and looked straight at the Excalbian ambassador.

"There's a lot to take in, Mr Ambassador, and it might take a while. I'll give you the abbreviated version, for the sake of everyone's sleep patterns and..."

"Hang on a tick, Field Marshal..." Drake interrupted. He turned to the
guard at the door, a tough-as-nails Warrant Officer Class One from the
Commonwealth Guards Division.

"Warrant Officer Riley, I want an electronic sweep of all sensory and
listening devices in this room, and I want them deactivated. All of them, including ours. Then, I want you to close and lock the doors, and post guards on them. Finally, seal the building. No one is to get in or out of this building without my express authority."

There was another pause, before the man continued…

"But first, could you bring in a fridge with some food and drink... we
might be a while."

"Sir."

"Keep going when the Warrant Officer has finished his preparations, Field Marshal."

***

"I'll detail the research advancements soon, Becka, and believe me, they will blow your mind, my dear. I had personally had no idea that additional experimentation in magnetic containment would yield such staggering results. Cor, the avenues of research we've neglected for so long..."

Roberts was a very intelligent man, and the research and development of
cutting edge technology, whatever the application, was his hobby and his passion in addition to being, until recently, his job. He had a grin on his face a mile wide that looked rather incongruous on the distinguished Varessan major general.

"General Garcia was raving about it, talking about it's ramifications for energy production and weapons development. He says it'll change the balance of power. When I said 'what, again?', he said that yes, like Crimson Star, this is a doozy... Will Blackman deserves a BIG pat on the back for this one." Roberts said, wringing his hands together with glee.

"Of course, chances are pretty good that they won't let me in on it, but hey... I still like the idea..." He sobered up quicky, his infectious grin not quite vanishing, as he brought his enthusiasm to heel. MAJ Thorsen wasn't 100% trusted by Roberts, and his role and position did not require him to be aware of the details.

“But first, lets call the boss, and see what he has to say…”

He picked up his telephone handset, and the embassy switchboard answered.

“Switchboard”

“Chancellor’s office, Varessa City, please.”

“One moment please…”

Greensleaves. Roberts hated greensleaves. The annoying tune that would not leave his head, nor leave society to return to the hellish pits from whence it had come. Oh, how that song drove him up the wall. Probably something to do with the associations it held with being put on hold… still, the pause gave him a chance to watch Becka. He could look at her and appear to be not looking at her… and, he had to admit to himself, he really did like looking at her. He wondered whether he’d have a chance to look at her more in the…

“Chancellor’s Office, this is Melinda speaking.”

“Could I speak to the chancellor, please?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“This is MAJGEN Roberts, calling from Courtland.”

“Ah, um, sorry sir, he’s at a cabinet meeting. He expected to finish at about…”

Roberts cut off the woman politely.

“That’s quite alright. Put me through to the phone in the cabinet room then.”

Melinda, in all her 23 years of infinite wisdom, was suddenly caught in the position that all civil servants dread being placed in. She was stuck between the extremely unpleasant thought of her boss’s wrath at something as unusual as interrupting a cabinet meeting with a phone call. It was almost unheard of.

But, on the other hand, she had the equally unenviable position of saying a flat no to a senior political, diplomatic and military figure all in one go… a very disquieting sentiment to be sure. She was, to put it mildly, freaked.

So, she did what civil servants all over the world did when confronted with daunting decisions. She asked her boss.

“Could you hold the line sir. I’ll see if I can put you through…”

She put the phone down, and got up, dashing over to her boss, a 30-something year old ordnance corps sergeant who had broken her leg badly while commanding a 155mm self-propelled gun.

“SGT Ireland, MAJGEN Roberts is on the phone, and he wants to talk to the chancellor.”

“So, why not?”

“He’s at that cabinet meeting…”

“Ah, yeah, of course, he is to… well, this is, ah…um… ok… um…”

SGT Ireland ran into a similar mental brick wall. She wasn’t used to pondering bureaucratic decisions… but, hey, what was he going to do. Chances were good that if the major general wanted to speak to the chancellor, it was probably important. So, yes, they’d put him through. And if it wasn’t, well, the chancellor would probably make the poor guy a brigadier instead.

“Put him through, Mel.”

Relieved of her burden of responsibility, Melinda got back to her desk, and pushed the buttons that put the call through to the cabinet room itself.

***

The phone began ringing in the cabinet room. Drake couldn’t believe it. All the steps he’d taken to ensure that the meeting was secure, and undisturbed, and they’d forgotten to disconnect the phone. Still… the only people that had this number were people that knew they were in a fairly important cabinet meeting… and they were still calling.

“Mike Drake”


“Sorry to bother you in the middle of a meeting, sir, but…”

“That’s ok, Mel, what is it?”

“There’s a Major General Roberts on the line, from Courtland. He says it’s important.”

“Ok Mel, put him through please.”

“Putting him through now.”

“Ta”

There was a slight pause, then the line clicked.

“Major General Roberts?”

“Sir, yes, Major General Roberts here, how are you?”

“Not to bad Shaun, yourself?”

“Getting there, sir, getting there. Request encryption.”

“Not a worry, encrypting now.”

Drake picked up the ETU 14 encryption device sitting next to the handset, and plugged it into the receiver. The encrypter worked by scrambling the incoming sounds on one end, and then decrypting them at the other. It also had the effect of filtering out a great deal of the background noise, which made for a clearer conversation. He waited for the beeps and burbles to stop, before starting to talk again.

“Shaun, I assume that you are either alone, or in the presence of people that you trust enough to allow to listen to our discussion…”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. I’m putting you on speaker phone, you are listening to, and talking to, the entirety of the cabinet, and Ambassador Vikis of Excalbia. What can we do for you?”

***

Roberts was, once more in an increasingly worrying trend, stunned. They were having a cabinet meeting, and allowing the ambassador of a foreign power in to it. It was absolutely un-paralleled in Varessan history. Absolutely unparalleled. But it also offered a superb opportunity. Roberts hazarded a guess, and spoke above his station.


“Ambassador Vikis? I must say I’m surprised to hear of your attendance. It wouldn’t, by any chance, have been an idea floated by our esteemed foreign minister that led us to this juncture, would it?”

The rumble of laughter that came back down the phone line from the many voices of the cabinet room answered his question for him.

“Sirs and Ma’ams, I have with me on this end Major Thorsen, of the Upper Virginian SSS and Major General Becka Harrison of the Upper Virginian Army. Do you want me to put this phone on speaker also?”

***

Drake was glad that Roberts couldn’t see his reaction. He was not glad that Harris could.

“Shaun, if you could see the look you just put on the boss’s face, you’d pee those doubtlessly well pressed an immaculately clean dress pants you’re wearing…”

***

Roberts chuckled again… he could well imagine what Drake’s face would have been like. He’d have seen the chances for progress…REAL progress. This could be a crucially important meeting… crucially…

“So, sir, shall I put you on speaker?”

“Yes, Shaun, please do.”

“You’re on sir.”

***

Drake had been caught more than a little off guard. But, here was the chance they’d waited for. All major protagonists that were backing their side of the troubles were present. A chance for all of them, Ambassador Vikis included, to get a little impression of what was good and bad about the person proposing to assume control of the most militarily powerful nation in the region. A chance to co-ordinate strategy like nothing else they’d encountered before. And he guessed that Roberts had guessed his answer long before the officer had asked the first question.

“Major General Harrison, a pleasure to finally get the chance to hear your voice.”

CDR Blume escorted the Pantocratorian First Admiral and his aide to the flag quarters that had set aside for them to use “freshen up” – a nice euphemism for using the facilities and straightening up your uniform after a bumpy ride on a chopper over the gulf’s rough spring seas. After a few minutes, Lord Phocas and his aide were ready and CDR Blume escorted them to the flag dinning room. As the party approached, the marine on duty at the hatch snapped to attention. He opened the hatch and turned to salute Lord Phocas and the others as they entered the compartment.

Inside, the compartment was carpeted and covered in rich, wooden panels. Brass accent and fine furniture made it appear more like the dinning room of a baron’s country home than a wardroom aboard an ultra-modern aircraft carrier. As Lord Phocas stepped into the room, a red-haired lieutenant commander was the first to stand. “Admiral on the deck,” he announced. The other officers, all dressed in formal white uniforms stood and turned towards Phocas.

VADM Sir Derek Kunle stood at the head of a large table smiling. “My Lord, welcome. Please,” Kunle said gesturing to an empty chair to his right, “join us.”

Once Lord Phocas, his aide and CDR Blume were in place, but before anyone had taken a seat, Kunle turned slightly to his left, towards a large portrait of David IV, a raised his glass. “My lord, ladies and gentlemen, I give you His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor.”

“God save him,” a chorus of Excalbian officers responded, then everyone drank.

Then, turning towards Phocas, Kunle raised his glass again. “I give you Pantocratoria and her Emperor, Andreus.”

“God save them,” the chorus replied.

After another drink, Kunle sat his glass down. “My Lord, allow me to introduce my officers.” Kunle gestured to the officer next to Phocas. “This is our host tonight, Captain Richard Turlais, CO of Glorious and next to him is Captain Hannah Zerbule,” a slender black-haired woman bowed slightly, “CO of our air group.” Kunle turned to his left. “And this is Rear Admiral Ephraim Allen, commander of our escorting strike group and with him Captain Jeter Taliaferro, CO of his flagship – Citadel. Then,” Kunle gestured to the other end of the table, “we have Captain Mike Graves, commander of Wraith squadron 33 and Captain Jennifer Wells, whom you may remember from your first trip as Commodore Alsgood’s deputy project manager, now commander of squadron 34. And, you’ve met my staff aide, Commander Blume, and beside him is my other aide, Lieutenant Commander John Tomlinson.” Kunle turned back to Phocas. “Unfortunately, the commander of our embarked marine division couldn’t make it. And now that the formality is over, please take a seat and let us begin with the soup.”

The officers take their seats and several crewmen emerge bearing silver trays laden with fine china soup bowls.

“So,” Kunle asks after taking a spoonful of chowder, “how much do you know about the situation in the Dominion, my Lord?”

"Not enough, sir, not enough." says Phocas, sampling the wine and finding it to his liking. "Pantocratorian intelligence has been focussed on the situation in New Rome (OOC: which I've neglected and will now ignore since it appears that the perpetrators are now idle), and everything I've received is out of date by the time it is deciphered on-board the Imperator Andreus. I do have one thing, sent to me just prior to my departure from the Pantocratorian embassy in Upper Virginia, but it seems to me more a matter for politicians than a military affair."

The Admiral has another spoonful of chowder before elaborating.

"I'm told that an Upper Virginian bishop came across a rather explosive confession. He asked the Pantocratorian ambassador, Sir Pierre de Thrake, to see that the information he obtained be passed on to the outside world." Phocas continues. "At this very moment, a helicopter from my ship is heading to our embassy in Upper Virginia to pick up this bishop, and bring him back to the Imperator Andreus. From there, I understand that he is to be conveyed to Excalbia, for his own safety. This has all just been arranged at the last minute, you understand, but he'll be coming into Excalbia on a Pantocratorian passport, so hopefully any administrative concerns your customs people have won't impede his entry."

"With him, His Grace will be bringing a large dossier of evidence about some sort of conspiracy. De Thrake scanned and sent me the dossier's cover letter." says Phocas. He gestures to his aide-de-camp, who produces the letter from his jacket pocket and begins to read.

"To Whom It May Concern:" he starts...

I, Diana Silina, Attorney General and Member of the Provisional Ruling Council, have written this letter and included the attached documents as my final testament to be delivered to a suitable international entity in the event of my untimely death. If you are reading this, I presume that I have been assassinated; either by the Free Virginia Liberation Army, General Craig Altman or by military officers plotting the overthrow of the PRC. In any case, there is no doubt in my mind that General Altman will use this to further terrorize the people of Upper Virginia.

I know that history will deal harshly with me for collaborating with General Altman. My only defence is my belief that, without my influence, the situation would have been far worse. It was my actions that halted the massacre of Courtland a year ago and my actions again that prevented Altman from ordering an all-out assault on the rebel-held city of Harrington. I have stayed his hand on many other occasions. My chief failing, I confess, was not realizing soon enough that Altman, unlike his predecessors, was not a mere tyrant whose tyranny I could mitigate, but a sociopath bent on destruction. Once I discovered that, however, it was too late to turn against him, for that would have meant civil war. Whether civil war or Altman’s reign of terror would have been a lesser evil, I cannot say. However, it was my opinion that civil war would have been even worse and that is, finally, why I acted as I did and remained in the PRC up to my death.

The documents attached contain detailed evidence of General Altman’s – and some would say my own – crimes. I ask that this evidence be used wisely to help bring about the fall of General Altman without plunging my nation into civil war. In the end, no matter what others may think, I am a patriot and have always acted in what I believed to the best interests of my country. I do so now, as well.

Sincerely,
Diana V. Silina
Attorney General

"If that dossier is everything that letter says it will be," observes Phocas, "The politicians will have all the material they could ever want to bring down Altman. But the point seems moot now. In any case, I'm afraid that's all I've to contribute. Perhaps you could fill me in on the rest, Admiral?"

In Tanah Burung...
'No, the interview is now. Get changed into something even more out of style. And no, I doubt there would be a list of questions.'

Blaumena smiled at Neni through a grimace. I must have struck a nerve. “OK, I’m on my way. Fill me in on this next reporter on the way back to my room, OK?”

Blaumena hurried to her room, listening to Neni’s background on the reporter (OCC: you can tgram it, if you want) as she went. Once at her room, she slipped open the door and ducked in. A few minutes later, she stepped back out, having traded her suit and fashionable heels for a pair of nice, but clunky boots, some faded jeans and a cotton shirt.

“Better?”

In Courtland...
'Two or three days, probably. I have some people in mind, with experience in this kind of thing. I'll contact you when they're here.'

“OK,” Gwen nodded as spoke into the phone. Then, she disconnected and dropped the phone back into her purse. Without missing a beat, she pulled another out and dialed.

“Mary? Gwen. I’m going to church tonight. Yeah, light a candle or something. See you there? 9:30? OK.”

The ambassador returned to his office after a short absence. He held two small purple leather books in his hand, with the arms of the Pantocratorian Empire on the front in gold. He handed them both to the bishop.

"I've a Pantocratorian passport for both you and the good sister, along with all appropriate visas. It should get you into Excalbia and to virtually anywhere else you might wish to go from there without any problems. I've also arranged for a Peacock Airlines flight from Excalbia to Langeais and then to Pantocratoria to keep two seats free for you, should you wish to travel from Excalbia to Langeais or to Pantocratoria. Your tickets are inside the passports, should you wish to use them." says the ambassador.

Before the bishop has a chance to react, the door opens, and two security agents ferry a somewhat confused looking Sister Marguerite into the room. Overhead, a helicopter can be heard landing on the embassy's helipad.

"Perfect timing, sister." says the ambassador. "Let's get both of you up to the helipad. The chopper will take you to the Imperator Andreus, where you'll change helicopters to travel to Excalbia...."

One of the agents leans in and whispers something in French to the ambassador, before ducking out of the room.

"Oh yes, before you go up to the helipad, you should both change into civilian clothing, just in case somebody is watching the embassy. No offence, but Your Grace doesn't exactly blend in dressed as a bishop." says the ambassador.

The agent returns holding two flight jackets with big hoods, and two pairs of slacks, which look like they'd almost fit properly.

"It isn't much of a disguise, but let's not take any chances, eh? Alors, I'll meet you up on the helipad. Agent Devallier, show the sister to the spare office down the hall, so that she can get changed. Your Grace can change here." the ambassador said, heading out of the room, followed by one of the agents (presumably leaving Devallier).

Bishop Uvaras took the passports and stuffed them into the outside of the pocket of the portfolio that had once carried the late attorney general’s bombshell confession. The bishop quickly changed into the slacks and donned the hooded jacket. A few moments later, there was a knock on the door. The bishop opened it and found a still confused Sister Marguerite wearing trousers and a jacket similar to his.

“Your Grace,” Marguerite began nervously, “what is this all about? These men insisted I come… for my own safety… for yours… what is it, Yanis?”

The bishop laid a calming hand on the sister’s shoulder. “I’m afraid we’ll have to leave Upper Virginia for a little while. That letter that Father Jack brought me was from Diana Silina…,” Sister Marguerite crossed herself, “it was…,” Bishop Uvaras sighed, “it was a confession. I have given it Ambassador de Thrake. But, he believes my life will be in danger once the Dominion learns of the letter’s existence and that I have seen it. And, he has persuaded me to leave. I have agreed, since I fear that if I remain, Altman may try to use force against our people to learn of whereabouts. That is why I am bringing you, Marguerite. Once I am safely outside the Dominion, I plan to make it known that I have left Upper Virginia. If you had remained, you would be too big of a target for Altman – he and his people would assume you knew more than you did. This way… this way, maybe I can spare our people some suffering.”

Marguerite nodded.

“Now, can you help me with a letter to the auxiliary bishop? The ambassador has promised to deliver it. And my handwriting is so bad…”

“Of course, your Grace,” the nun said as she looked around for pen and paper. Minutes later, she was finished with the letter and the bishop had signed it. The two then waited for the Ambassador and their helicopter ride.

Drake had been caught more than a little off guard. But, here was the chance they’d waited for. All major protagonists that were backing their side of the troubles were present. A chance for all of them, Ambassador Vikis included, to get a little impression of what was good and bad about the person proposing to assume control of the most militarily powerful nation in the region. A chance to co-ordinate strategy like nothing else they’d encountered before. And he guessed that Roberts had guessed his answer long before the officer had asked the first question.

“Major General Harrison, a pleasure to finally get the chance to hear your voice.”

MAJGEN Becka Harrison blinked and looked blankly at Shaun’s face for a few seconds. This is not what I expected. Not at all. This is it. The first critical moment. Chancellor Drake. The Excalbian Ambassador. This is my chance, maybe my only chance, to cement relations with Varessa once and for all and get the Excalbians behind us. The Excalbians! The only thing more stunning at this moment would be to learn that the Excalbian Emperor himself was listening in!

Becka turned towards the speakerphone. “Chancellor, it a pleasure to meet you, sir, if only by phone. I am here with my security chief, Major Richard Thorsen, who is also – in effect – coordinating our efforts to use the X-9 and its Crimson Star against General Altman with those of the SSS and Chamber of Industrials.

“May I assume from the presence of the Excalbian Ambassador that the Holy Empire has been informed of our intentions? Assuming so, Excellency, let me assure you, and through you your government, that we have absolutely no hostile intentions towards Excalbia or any other foreign state. Our hope is to keep this…, well, I guess there is no word for it other than revolution, to keep this revolution as bloodless and as quick as possible. If our plans succeed, General Altman and his immediate staff will be destroyed instantly. Forces loyal to us will move quickly to take control of the capital. The business community will just as quickly endorse the revolution. It is then my intention to proclaim the restoration of the old Constitution and cancellation of the State of Emergency. I plan to call for new elections and invite the FVLA for immediate peace talks and participation in the elections.”

Becka stared down an odd look from Thorsen and exchanged glances with Shaun.

“May I ask how much Excalbia has told about the X-9 and Crimson Star? And where we stand on being able to put Sh.. Major General Roberts’ creation to good work?”

Meanwhile, at GEN Altman's HQ...

GEN Craig Altman’s eyes surveyed the room. BRIG Youst, CO of his personal brigade, MAJGEN Rollins, the Chief of Military Information and newly named Acting Minister of Information, and LGEN Perlman, the Judge Advocate General and, now, Acting Attorney General and Member of the Provisional Ruling Council, all sat stiffly, their own eyes riveted on Altman. The Commander in Chief smiled. This was the way he liked things. If only Silina had been able to show the same loyalty these men had… But, she hadn’t. Altman sighed. It was no use crying over spilt milk.

“So, Brigadier, the city appears to be quiet…”

“Yessir, General,” Youst spoke as if he were at attention. “No disturbances. Everyone going about their business as usual. Just as you wished, sir.”

“Good. Good. And the foreign media, Rollins?”

“The usual babble, sir, but no one has any evidence to counter our story. So, it ends up being our word against the FVLA’s. Most media outlets are lining up according to their usual ideological persuasions. Unfortunately, there is much we can do about that, sir.”

“Not yet, anyway.” Altman smiled, with the gleam of something almost maniacal in his eyes. “So, Joseph, how are things at the Directorate of Justice?”

“Well, sir, there’s not much left. It seems Silina and her top people shredded everything before we got there. However, I can tell you, sir, that the CIB is under control – most have surrendered their positions without resistance. And we are making good progress with incorporating local police into the DOJ and into the Military Police structure.”

“Good. Any word on the Chamber Board? Turley or Yultilde? Or Brandt?”

“Well, sir, it seems that Chamber has a standing policy of sending the board into hiding anytime there is a security incident in Courtland. We cannot find any evidence of any link between their reaction to the move against DOJ and the DOJ itself or to Silina. It seems to have been automatic and independent. They should resurface soon. Meanwhile, we did go over to Brandt’s old offices. The Chamber’s security had abandoned their posts. It seems no one had been in or out since just after Turley voted Brandt off the board. Our people found Brandt inside. Looks like he drank himself to death…”

“Oh, well. OK, keep me informed.”

“Yes, sir.”

tagged!

"If that dossier is everything that letter says it will be," observes Phocas, "The politicians will have all the material they could ever want to bring down Altman. But the point seems moot now. In any case, I'm afraid that's all I've to contribute. Perhaps you could fill me in on the rest, Admiral?"

With practiced equanimity VADM Sir Derek Kunle finished his spoonful of chowder and dabbed the corners of his mouth with a white linen napkin. “This is extraordinary, Lord Phocas. May I have a copy of that dispatch your ADC read from, my Lord?” Then, Kunle turns to look down the table at his junior aide. “Commander Tomlinson,” the young lieutenant commander almost drops his spoon into his bowl, “please take this dispatch and go down to the comm room. Prepare a suitably classified message to the CINO reporting the text of this letter and the existence of this dossier. Also, advise the CINO that an upper virginian bishop carrying the dossier is expected to arrive shortly aboard Imperator Andreus and from there will at least transit Excalbia. You should also copy to the IIA marked for Lord James personally and to the MoS marked for Minister Cummings.”

“Yes, sir,” Tomlinson said a bit wide-eyed.

“And please be about it, Tomlinson,” Kunle said with a low rumble that might have been a chuckle.

“Aye, aye,” Tomlinson said as he practically jumped from his seat.

Kunle took another spoonful of chowder as Tomlinson made his way from the dining room. Then, Kunle turned to Phocas. “As you know, my Lord, the Dominion’s Attorney General has been assassinated. IIA and Naval Intelligence believe that General Altman himself ordered it to prevent a real or imagined coup. In either case, he has disestablished the Directorate of Justice’s paramilitary national police force and has named their Judge Advocate General the acting AG. The JAG is merging local police force into the DoJ as a new national police force under the leadership of the Military Police. Quite outlandish actually. In effect, my Lord, it seems that all the pretense of civilian rule is gone and the General Altman is preparing to rule as an out and out military dictator. As for the military situation in the gulf… Admiral Allen?”

VADM Kunle turned and gestured to the commander of Citadel Strike Group. RADM Ephraim Allen put down his glass and cleared his throat. “Yes, Sir Derek. My Lord, in addition to the Glorious and her carrier battle group, which includes a screening force of Joshua-class and AEGIS cruisers, we have a full-size strike group of Joshua-class cruisers and two squadrons of Wraith-class missile boats. The task force also carries a nearly complete embarked Marine amphibious division. Meanwhile, the uppies have two full-strength carrier battle groups in the gulf and are pulling at least four more back into their home waters along the Atlantic…”

“As usual,” Kunle said in a low, reverberating voice, “we do not have the firepower to defeat a Dominion assault, but we do have more than enough to make them think twice and to give them a solid bloody nose if they try.” A round of laughter broke across the table.

“Perhaps, my Lord, you can fill us in about your situation?”

(OOC: All conversations in my extremely shoddy French are more for my own amusement than for anybody else's, you can safely ignore them. :wink: )

OOC: Personnally, I enjoy trying to figure them out. I think they're a nice touch. :)

"Well, sir," starts Lord Phocas. "HIMS Imperator Andreus has been here for some time, as you well know. We have been joined by three of our Oliver Perry frigates, HIMS Louis XIV, Adrianopolis, and Constantine XX. We are due to be joined by a flotilla of three AEGIS class missile cruisers, HIMS Crusader, Despot, and Empress Theodora. Nominally, our committment in the region is to protect Her Imperial Highness the Princess Anna's new home in Langeais. However, by order of the Emperor, our ships stand ready, awaiting only your request that they be placed at your disposal."

Phocas finishes the last of his chowder, pauses for a few moments as he dabs at the corners of his mouth with his napkin, and then adds.

"Unofficially, I have been told that the Second Provincial Infantary Legion has been mobilised, and that Imperial High Command would be willing to commit them to assist Excalbian operations." Phocas says quietly. "Do you suppose, Admiral, that we should now be able to give Altman more than a bloody nose?"

Phocas' aide shakes his head disapprovingly as Phocas reveals that the Second Provincial Infantary Legion had been mobilised, but doesn't add anything.

Might-get-involved-with-Order-of-the-Invisible-Hand-on-UVs-request tag

"All clear!" shouts a security agent from the roof helipad, and the Ambassador, the Bishop, and Sister Margueritte quickly rush up the stairs onto the helipad, keeping their heads low and their hands over the hoods of their jackets.

"Your Grace," shouts the ambassador over the noise of the helicopter. "I wish you a safe journey. May God bless you for your courage! You should reach HIMS Imperator Andreus in three quarters of an hour."

The security agent pulls open the side door of the chopper, and the two pilots watch as the ambassador conveys the two passengers onto their flight.

***

"Do we still have the chopper?" asked Captain Jean-Pierre du Palais, on-board HIMS Constantine XX.

"Yes, Captain." replied the officer on the radar. "I have a positive ID on the chopper."

"The return leg is going to be the dangerous part." murmured the Captain. "Stand by with surface-to-air missiles, just in case somebody decides to try to shoot it down."

"Missile crew reports all systems functioning, ready to fire on your command, Captain." reports the gunnery officer.

"Get me the flagship, secure channel." ordered the Captain. "We have the sparrow in our sights."

"Unofficially, I have been told that the Second Provincial Infantary Legion has been mobilised, and that Imperial High Command would be willing to commit them to assist Excalbian operations." Phocas says quietly. "Do you suppose, Admiral, that we should now be able to give Altman more than a bloody nose?"

Phocas' aide shakes his head disapprovingly as Phocas reveals that the Second Provincial Infantary Legion had been mobilised, but doesn't add anything.

“I should say so, my Lord,” VADM Sir Derek Kunle said with a slight smile. “Much more than a bloody nose. If fortune favors us, Altman will remain within his own borders, but if he does not, it is good to know that you and your forces stand with us.” Kunle pauses as several crewmen enter bearing trays of salad. “Ah, the next course. Fresh Greek salad. I hope it is to your taste, Lord Phocas.”

***

“Admiral?”

Admiral Lord Yornis Halton looked up from his desk. “Yes, Burns?”

“Lord Reynolds is on the secure line for you, my Lord.”

“Ah, very good,” Halton said waving his hand dismissively. The yeoman saluted and left the office. Once the door closed, Halton picked up the secure phone on his desk.

“Yes, Lord James, what kind I do for you?”

“Are we secure, Admiral?”

“Just a moment.” Halton inserted his key and turned it. “We’re secure, Lord James.”

“Thank you. You’ve seen Sir Derek’s telegram from Glorious?”

“Yes. Ah, the Upper Virginian bishop.”

“Yes. I understand he’ll be transiting Excalbia…”

“I believe so. We’ve just received a clearance request from Imperator Andreus for one of her aircraft. We don’t yet have an exact eta, however.”

“Once you do, I’d like you to let us know so that our people can speak with the bishop…”

“Lord James, the Pantocratorians are our allies and the bishop will be traveling as their guest. I will not have you interrogating him…”

“I don’t plan to interrogate him; I want to debrief him – see if he’s willing – willing to tell us anything about this incriminating information Silina is supposed to have given him. If he doesn’t… Then, he’ll be free to go his own way. Surely you can’t object to that, Lord Yornis.”

“No, no. You’re quite correct, Lord James. We shall advise Imperial Intelligence as soon as we have an itinerary.”

“Thank you.”

Bishop Uvaras watched out the window as the helicopter streaked away from Courtland and over the waters of the gulf. He clutched the portfolio close to his chest and glanced over at Sister Marguerite. The normally unflappable nun looked nervous and still a bit confused. The bishop gave her weak smile, trying to cheer her. She nodded in appreciation of his effort, but didn’t look any less anxious.

* * *

BRIG Youst stepped up to the small platform overlooking the operations center and saluted. “General Altman.”

“Yes, Brigadier?” GEN Craig Altman turned from a TV monitor to study the face of guard commander.

“Sir, NMCC is reporting that a helicopter was dispatched from the Pantocratorian carrier in the gulf to their Embassy and is now on its way back to the carrier.”

“Some kind of diplomatic courier.” Altman shrugged. “I’ve given them a fair amount of latitude in such things in recognition of their Admiral Phocas’ assistance in calming that incident in the gulf…”

“Yes, sir, and I was thinking the same thing. But, then I noticed this intelligence report,” the brigadier handed Altman a sheet of paper, “MI was conducting routine surveillance of the Pantocratorian Embassy when they noticed some unusual activity – a car was dispatched with two security officers and returned with an unidentified male. The car was sent out again and returned with a nun…”

“A nun?” Altman almost chuckled. “They’re diehard Catholics. Perhaps someone is sick and needed last rights or something.”

“Erm…, yes,” Youst didn’t have the courage to remind his commander that nuns don’t give last rights, “but then this helicopter arrives. Our team reports seeing two people board…”

“Hmm…” Altman re-read the report. “It may be nothing, but I don’t want to risk it. Order the fleet to intercept the helicopter and force it to land on our carrier or to return to Upper Virginia.”

“Sir? But what about diplomatic privilege?”

“Someone aboard the helicopter may have diplomatic immunity – and if they do, I will apologize – but the helicopter certainly doesn’t and if this nun and mystery man are aboard, they certainly don’t. Order it forced down, but not harmed. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” Youst saluted and turned to leave.

* * *

“In coming action message, Captain!”

Senior Commander Jacob Hunt, CO of the DNS Sledgehammer, turned towards his XO. “Yes, Commander?”

Lieutenant Commander Harrison Karon checked a display then turned towards SCDR Hunt. “Message is confirmed, sir.” LCDR Karon looks down at a printout and begins to read. “From: NMCC, To: Sledgehammer, A Pantocratorian helicopter has violated Dominion air restrictions. Interceptors from Devestator are en route to force helicopter to return to the Dominion or land aboard ship. Until intercept flight arrives, you are directed to challenge the intruder and order it to land. Warning shots are authorized. The intruder is not, repeat not, to be harmed.”

SCDR Hunt sighed and sunk into his chair.

* * *

Pantocratorian helicopter, this is the DNS Sledgehammer. You are in violation of Dominion air regulations. You are ordered to return immediately to the Dominion mainland and the nearest military airfield. If you are unable to do so, advise of your situation and prepare to land aboard our ship.

"Merde!" swears the helicopter pilot. His co-pilot gets on the secure channel immediately.

"Sparrow to Nest, Sparrow to Nest, hawks have spotted us. Want us to land in their nest or on the ground, please advise!" he barked.

***

Captain du Palais listened to the transmission, and clenched a fist in anger.

"Dammit! Relay that transmission to the flagship!" he orders.

***

INV Glorious[/i] from HIMS Imperator Andreus]HELICOPTER CARRYING INFORMANTS FROM EMBASSY INTERCEPTED. DNS SLEDGEHAMMER DEMANDING HELICOPTER LAND EITHER AT A GROUND BASE OR ON-BOARD. MISSION CONTROL REQUESTS ADMIRAL PHOCAS' ORDER.

***

Phocas picks at his salad.

"Magnificent feta cheese, Admiral." he says. "Better I think than one could find in the most thoroughly Greek restaurants in Pantocratoria, although I suppose now having said that, you'll tell me it was imported from Pantocratoria!"

A young officer enters the cabin. (OOC: Pardon me for commandeering an Excalbian here just to move things along!)

"Begging your pardon, sirs." he offers. "Encoded transmission for Lord Phocas."

Phocas' aide takes the offered sheet of paper, and then carries it to Lord Phocas, who pours over it.

"Hmmm.... gentlemen, it appears we have a problem." he says. "The Upper Virginians have demanded that our helicopter land, either on-board the Sledgehammer or at one of their ground based military bases. Nobody knows how much they know. HIMS Constantine XX has the helicopter in her sights, and can fire on any aircraft sent to intercept it, although I doubt very much that they'll be able to shoot such an aircraft down before it shoots down the chopper. We have three options, to ignore their demands and be prepared to back up our defiance with force, to comply by landing at one of their bases, or to comply by landing on-board their carrier. What say you, gentlemen? How would you have us act?"

***

The helicopter pilot got onto the radio.

"Sledgehammer, this is Pantocratorian diplomatic flight 712. We are unaware of any such violations of your regulations, and any violations we may have committed were accidental. We are a diplomatic flight, and ask that you contact our embassy before ordering us down. Over." he said.

The co-pilot turned to the passengers.

"We need to hide that dossier!" he shouts, as he looks around.

"What about the fuel access panel? They could hide it underneath that." offers the pilot.

"No, they'll look there, they'll search every compartment... What about inside a seat cover? Split up the pages so that they don't make a bulge, unzip the seat covers, get them inside, zip them back up..." offers the co-pilot.

"Good thinking, can you do that Your Grace?" shouts the pilot without turning around.

The helicopter pilot got onto the radio.

"Sledgehammer, this is Pantocratorian diplomatic flight 712. We are unaware of any such violations of your regulations, and any violations we may have committed were accidental. We are a diplomatic flight, and ask that you contact our embassy before ordering us down. Over." he said.

The co-pilot turned to the passengers.

"We need to hide that dossier!" he shouts, as he looks around.

"What about the fuel access panel? They could hide it underneath that." offers the pilot.

"No, they'll look there, they'll search every compartment... What about inside a seat cover? Split up the pages so that they don't make a bulge, unzip the seat covers, get them inside, zip them back up..." offers the co-pilot.

"Good thinking, can you do that Your Grace?" shouts the pilot without turning around.

“Already on it!” Bishop Uvaras and Sister Marguerite twisted awkwardly in the back of the helicopter as they unbuckled their harnesses and struggled to maneuver the cushions out of position. Once the cushions were unzipped, Uvaras opened his portfolio and handed a sheath of papers to the middle-aged nun. They stuffed the papers into the cushions as neatly as possible, trying to keep them flat to keep the cushions from bulging.

The bishop and the nun zipped the cushions and forced them back into place. With a sigh and thud Uvaras slumped into his seat. “There,” he said through his headphones, “we’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”

* * *

Forrest Turley wore his confident smile like a mask as he strode into his office. Not his main office in Courtland, of course, he wasn’t that foolish. No, he as going into one National Combat System’s field offices Arland. Graham Yultilde and the rest of the board were still in hiding. But, Turley had decided it was important to put in an appearance. There was no sign that Altman was targeting the Chamber and no sign that Altman had connected them – and their coup-plot – to his imaginary plot involving the late-Diana Silina.

Turley smiled politely to his somewhat nervous staff and them ducked into the plush office set aside for his use. He settled into the comfortable chair behind the desk and typed his logon into the computer.

The coup, he thought, was going nowhere. Too many people were involved now; too many people who didn’t share his values. Originally, Yultilde had encouraged Turley’s own natural ambition and pushed him to unseat Brandt. Then, Yultilde had persuaded him that Altman and his capricious rule was bad for business. Turley had believed him. And he still did. Terrorized, oppressed workers weren’t as productive and didn’t consume as much as happy workers. And Altman’s dictatorship exercised too much control over business.

Once Altman was gone, the free market could take hold along with free elections. Society would heal, business would grow and everything would be better. That had been the dream, at least. It was still Turley’s dream, but he was starting to fear that Yultilde, not to mention General Harrison and her foreign allies had other visions. Visions of welfare states. It wouldn’t surprise Turley if Harrison and Yultilde didn’t reach out to the socialist FVLA soon.

(OOC: Events related to Mr. Turley can be found here: http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?p=3323625#3323625)

Phocas picks at his salad.

"Magnificent feta cheese, Admiral." he says. "Better I think than one could find in the most thoroughly Greek restaurants in Pantocratoria, although I suppose now having said that, you'll tell me it was imported from Pantocratoria!"

A young officer enters the cabin. (OOC: Pardon me for commandeering an Excalbian here just to move things along!)

"Begging your pardon, sirs." he offers. "Encoded transmission for Lord Phocas."

Phocas' aide takes the offered sheet of paper, and then carries it to Lord Phocas, who pours over it.

"Hmmm.... gentlemen, it appears we have a problem." he says. "The Upper Virginians have demanded that our helicopter land, either on-board the Sledgehammer or at one of their ground based military bases. Nobody knows how much they know. HIMS Constantine XX has the helicopter in her sights, and can fire on any aircraft sent to intercept it, although I doubt very much that they'll be able to shoot such an aircraft down before it shoots down the chopper. We have three options, to ignore their demands and be prepared to back up our defiance with force, to comply by landing at one of their bases, or to comply by landing on-board their carrier. What say you, gentlemen? How would you have us act?"

VADM Sir Derek Kunle set his salad fork down on his plate and leaned back into his chair. “The problem as I see it, my Lord, is that if your helicopter does not comply your crew, as well as your esteemed passengers, will be in danger. I doubt the Upper Virginians would be foolish enough to down the helicopter. That would be an act of war and given the alliance between Pantocratoria and Excalbia, it would almost certainly mean war with both your empire and mine. And not even Altman is insane enough to wish for that.”

Kunle stroked his chin. “However, the Dominion has already proven – in this very gulf – that its people are poor shots and often hit what they are not aiming at. So, we cannot discount the risk to the people aboard the helicopter.”

“On the other hand, my Lord,” CAPT Ricards Turlais interjected quietly, “if the helicopter does land, it risks revealing the identities of its passengers and the information they are carrying. That could also risk war.”

“If I may,” CAPT Jennifer Wells leaned over the table towards the senior officers, “whichever you decide, my Lord, my Wraith squadron has been deployed in close range of the Upper Virginian flotilla. They are operating in stealth mode and, as far as we know, are undetected. Perhaps they could run interference.”

“What do you mean, Captain?” Kunle steepled his fingers as he peered at CAPT Wells.

“Well, Admiral, if the helicopter refuses the Uppie demand, our ships could reveal their presence and state their intention to defend our allies. It would put our ships at some risk; especially once their aircraft are in range, but it may make Sledgehammer think twice about firing. I’m sure they still remember what our ‘ghosts’ did to their carrier…”

“Hmmm.” Kunle turned back to Phocas. “My Lord, if you wish to stand your ground against the Dominion, I am prepared to commit my ships to support you…”

Chancellor Drake had caught the brief twitch in MAJGEN Harrison’s reference to MAJGEN Roberts. Most people would avoid comment on the issue in that forum. Drake was no exception. Most people would also then wait for a private moment in which to politely and delicately tell their subordinate, Roberts in this case, to keep any reciprocal sentiments very firmly on the backburner. Most people would also then remind the person in question of their duty to their country, and of the terrible consequences that emotional attachment threatened.

In this regard, Drake was going to play his, that being Varessa’s, hand very unconventionally. By his calculation, Roberts was now in the position that every government in history had wanted every covert operative to reach, and many had invested phenomenal resources in chasing that position.

Here, well, here was a chance that so very, very rarely came up for democratic nations. Not since the time that kings had married off their sons and daughters to their competitors had an opportunity such as this manifested itself. Here was a Varessan Major General, and a very competent one at that, becoming extremely close to the potential future ruler of the most militarily powerful state in the region. He was, simultaneously, rendering that person much needed materiel and moral support, putting that particular Varessan in a place of immense influence. Further, potentially in a position to further Varessan objectives by proposing them directly as a viable course of action.

The Chancellor wasn’t going to sacrifice such a golden opportunity on the altar of something as trivial as Varessan Defence Force Regulations.

These thoughts passed through Drake’s head in less than a second, and his response to the Upper Virginian was prompt.

“Your stated goals, General Harrison, are, as they always have been, positive ones, which enjoy our full support. I’m fairly sure that General Roberts would have mentioned that. But that’s not the purpose of this call. And you’ve hit the nail on the head. We’re going to explain to Ambassador Vikis how the current circumstances came about. From go to whoa. All of it.”

He paused, and his eyes scanned the faces of his cabinet. His meaning had been clear, and he wanted to make sure that it had sunk in. Then he turned to the only Excalbian in the room.

“Ambassador Vikis, I think it’s time that you and you’re government was brought into the loop. Why you’re at a Varessan Cabinet meeting. Why Varessa is backing a military coup in Upper Virginia. Why Varessa is involved in international politics at all. And the person best able to tell you, I believe, is on the other line, right now. General Roberts, inform the ambassador as to the circumstances surrounding Crimson Star, its development, and its implications. Leave nothing out.”

***

To say Roberts disliked being corralled like that would have been one of the most notable understatements one could make. Here he was in the middle of a discussion with conspirators in what stood to be the most spectacular military coup in history, and a call to his government to request resources had become far, far more than that. Here he was, an army officer, about to give a speech to a foreign power about the most carefully guarded information that Varessa possessed.

It made him uncomfortable.

But, he had his orders. And, like officers all over the world, following orders was something he was more than capable of doing.

“It’s a long story, sirs and ma’ams. A long story indeed.”

He cleared his throat. This was going to take a while. A long while. And he’d more likely than not have to explain, repeat and justify as he went.

“A number of months ago, I, in my capacity as commanding officer of the Varessan Military Research and Development Commission, responded to a tender put out by the Upper Virginian Dominion Army’s Bureau of Procurement. That tender laid out a request for a very specific weapons system, the likes of which we had never seen, nor conceptualised.”

Roberts looked over at his Upper Virginian frien-… colleague. She nodded to him to go on. Not that he wasn’t going to. But the reassurance was nice. It made him feel less like he was betraying a confidence. He felt so much better. Now he wasn’t betraying a close companion’s trust. Now he was just giving away national secrets…

“The weapons tender, which you probably have in your own records, ambassador, called for a means to strike against targets, be they hard or soft, on the surface, while airbourne, or of an orbital nature. Further, the weapon was to be capable of employment from a firing platform travelling at speeds in excess of Mach 15, and from altitudes up to, and possibly exceeding, 80km.”

He allowed himself a small measure of pride as he thought back to the terms that had been put on VMRDC, all those –was it only months?- months ago.

“As is in our charter, we responded to the tender at our discretion. Specifically, I was curious. Very curious.”

Roberts took another drink, glad that his boss couldn’t see it. That was, he supposed, one of the perks of teleconferencing.

“I read, then re-read the tender, it left a very large number of very gaping holes in the required science. Parts simply did not add up. So, I contacted MAJGEN Harrison with a request for more information on the nature of the firing platform in particular. I asked a string of questions, relating to whether we are talking orbital or airbourne platforms, manned or un-manned, of what dimensions, with what range, generating how much power – and with how much to spare. Was the platform able to re-arm, or was it a disposable delivery vehicle.

To cut a long story short, I asked Be- General Harrison ‘what the hell have you got that we would, hypothetically, strap this hypothetical weapon to?’. The answer that she gave me was… impressive, to say the least.

We discovered then, as we collaborated with Dominion design teams, that the Dominion had developed an aircraft called the X-9. To say it was revolutionary would me a grotesque understatement, ambassador. The X-9 wasn’t even a jet in the traditional sense of the word. The list of completely new, or highly evolved technologies that had been incorporated into this design was a very long one. Super-reflective heat/friction resistant coatings on the metal, pulse-detonation wave engines, tri-vector thrust control, infra-red refraction surfaces, feathered oxy-intakes, direct real-time optical, radar and infra-thermal imagery… you name a military aviation science fiction concept for the past 30 years, and this thing had it.

But the clincher was from a field that we –and Excalbia, and Pantocratoria- haven’t spent much time investigating. That was integrated bio-neurological research and development. The Dominion has long been a leader in the field, and on the X-9, they applied the fruits of their labour with great effect. This aircraft became, in essence, an extension of the pilot’s mind, with direct neural connections enabling the controls to be executed with phenomenal precision.

The only catch, from the Dominion perspective, is that they just didn’t have a weapons system capable of doing a platform like that anything approaching justice. Hence the tender.

I don’t need to explain to you the reaction that this flood of information generated at VMRDC. The tech-heads went absolutely nuts. When the Dominion offered to pay VMRDC 5 billion crowns for the weapons RESEARCH alone, and then give the Varessan Air Force a quarter of all production of the weapon –and the aircraft carrying it-, well… to say we were cheering was a vast understatement. The scientific hurdles to be overcome, however, were still immense.

As the tender had said, we had to generate a weapon which could do what no other weapon had ever done. We had to design a weapon so revolutionary, so ground-breaking, as to be worthy of this aircraft’s time.

We explored a number of options. First on the line was a chemical laser. They’re well-tested for destructive potential, and can be aimed with great precision. Serious problems, however, were encountered when it came to reliability, and firing accuracy. Thermal blooming was a catastrophic discovery. As the laser punched a hole down through the atmosphere, a fraction of its energy was lost to the atmosphere in the form of heat, which caused the air to move, and disrupted the accuracy of the beam. Instead of being energy-impact kills, the targets were either turned into slag, or survived.

We tried a free-electron laser next, with slightly better results. The weapon is packeted, rather than continuous, and hit the target with a far higher degree of precision. The primary shortfall in this was the immense amount of power that was required to generate a kill. Free-electron lasers are most definitely not energy efficient.

The third idea was a device called a magnetic catapult. One of the senior scientists came up with it while riding a mag-lev train in Japan. The concept is that by using magnetic charge rotation, you can make another magnetically charged particle move. The mag-lev trains do so with very little by way of friction, move very quickly and with little by way of power output.

Being a projectile weapon, the magnetic catapult wouldn’t have to worry about thermal blooming, solely the old concept of air-resistance. It also required miniscule amounts of power to operate, with only enough to keep the magnetic coils charged. The idea for the weapon was that a, say, negatively charged projectile, termed a “kinetic harpoon”, was held in place by a negatively charged barrel. When the weapon was fired, a positive charge was rotated through the barrel, which the negatively charged kinetic harpoon tried to move towards. As the charge was moved down the barrel, the kinetic harpoon accelerated, essentially being dragged out the front-end of the weapon by the magnetic charge. And the muzzle velocity of this weapon was huge. Far, far faster than any projectile weapon seen before.

That turned out to be one of our longest running problems. The air friction on the projectiles was so great that they melted before they reached the target. The distortion made the now-liquid harpoons so inaccurate as to be worthless. We were on the brink of abandoning the concept, when someone came up with the incredibly simple, yet effective idea of making the harpoons out of tungsten-carbide. That solved the problem overnight.”

Roberts shook his head. That particular solution seemed so easy in retrospect.

“The weapon’s effects aren’t merely the devastating impact kill you’d expect. They’re more than that. Sure, you all can imagine what would happen if you dropped a 1 crown coin off the top of a skyscraper, but if you change that 1 crown coin into a 30cm long shard of tungsten, and then fire it at mind-blowing speeds from 80km up, it’s more than a bang.

Specifically, the projectile is fired so fast that the tungsten carbide glows white hot, hot enough that you can follow it with the naked eye, looking like a meteor due to the speed. When it hits a target, it loses a tiny fraction of its speed. But, as you all no doubt are aware, kinetic energy doesn’t just cease to exist. And in this case, it becomes heat energy. And as the speed the harpoon is fired at is so great, even the tiny fraction of speed lost generates enough heat energy to turn the entirety of the kinetic harpoon into a plasma. Which promptly explodes.

Due to the means by which the weapon is fired, it has a very high rate of fire also. There isn’t any recoil, and the only thing limiting the rate of fire is the magnetic rotation interfering with the firing sequence. As it is, the weapon can be fired at a rate of fire of several hundred thousand rounds per minute. Not that we fire it at that speed… but it can. Because of the light signature the weapon leaves, and its rateof fire, the platform can essentially use the device as a giant tracer, walking fire onto the target. It hasn’t been required so far, due to the accuracy of the targeting software, but the potential is there.

So, that, Ambassador Vikis, is the development of the Crimson Star. The X-9 and Crimson Star, together, have formed was has been codenamed the Ozymandias Project.”

Roberts paused to take another drink. He had to admit that, whatever the circumstances, it was rather pleasant to be able to get the whole tale off his chest. Before he could continue, however, Field Marshal Harris interjected.

***

“The idea for the employment of the Ozymandias, Mr Ambassador, would be a simple one. An Ozymandias would fly 80km above the approximate target area, take in the huge space within its line of sight below, using the bio-neurally enhanced imagery available to it. It would then, while travelling at speeds so great as to be impervious to retaliation, decide which targets to hit, and fire at them. Potentially any target within its line of sight could be hit. And, make no mistake Mr Ambassador, when it comes to Crimson Star, a hit is a kill. And, if by some miracle it isn’t, then the Ozymandias can fire at it again. And again. And again. And, believe you me, after the first, the target isn’t going anywhere, even if it isn’t a kill. The bio-neural targetting, essentially, means that the Ozymandias can, for all intents and purposes, fire at dozens of targets at the same time. In the fraction of a second it would take for the kinetic harpoons to impact, the Ozymandias would ascertain what’s going to hit, and what isn’t, and fire again where required. Damage assessment, obvious damage anyway, would be available from the Ozymandias, on the spot, and it can fire at any targets that still remain after the first salvo. This weapon will change the future of warfare, Mr Ambassador.”

There was a very pregnant pause on both sides of the telephone. That speech was new. No one, bar Field Marshal Harris and Air Chief Marshal Bourke had discussed it before. Especially not in those terms. Also, it brought home the impact of what they had all done. Ozymandias would, very quickly, give the Dominion complete superiority in all military affairs. The militaries surrounding the Dominion, in the Pantocratorian and Storn Archipelagoes as well as on the Excalbian Isles themselves, would be completely outmatched. The Free Virginia Liberation Army would evaporate overnight, as, in all likelihood, would a large portion of the city of Harrington. International resolve in the face of Upper Virginia would cease to exist, as the spectre of utter, selective destruction reared its very real head. The Confederacy would be cowed into submission

Drake looked around the table. John Hannaford didn’t blink. Alex Shaw sat with his jaw resting on his right hand, which covered his mouth. Admiral Callaghan looked ashen. As in, really, really sick. But then, Drake was unsurprised. The entirety of the Varessan Navy’s surface fleet… indeed all surface fleets over the entire world, had been rendered obsolete overnight, and Admiral Callaghan was the first naval officer to hear the –from their perspective- bad news.

Ambassador Vikis’ reaction was harder to gauge. And not just because Drake didn’t know him well. The man was an experienced diplomat. He would always have been tough to read.

Drake decided to continue on behalf of Roberts.

“I’ll get it from here, General Roberts.”

Drake coughed, then took a drink from his glass.

“There is worse than that, however. At the time when the decision was made to design the Crimson Star for use with the Ozymandias Project, Varessa, in keeping with our prior policy of strict neutrality, didn’t ask any questions of our customer. We never had before, and we’d simply stayed out of international politics. Not international trade, as you all know…”

That, perhaps surprisingly, generated some chuckles. Varessa had recently put out an offer to the IMF to move its global HQ to Varessa City.

“However, in the aftermath of that incident when a Dominion vessel fired upon an Excalbian vessel in international waters, the situation suddenly changed very rapidly. We decided to examine the situation in the Dominion more closely, and didn’t like what we saw. Further, we saw that the Dominion’s security apparatus was so shot full of holes it was horrendous. If word leaked to you in Excalbia that we were developing a weapon that would hand the Dominion not just the balance of power… but all of it, we would fully expect the Holy Empire to launch a pre-emptive strike on us. Further, the Dominion’s internal situation was so turbulent that human rights were essentially negligible. Our national creed, ‘forever just’, is not so much empty rhetoric. We felt that we had to do something about it.

We had a long, and fairly fiery cabinet meeting to decide upon a course of action. We had already accepted the Dominion’s money, and were unable to inform them of our fears, for obvious reasons. General Altman is not the most forgiving character. The meeting adjourned with no result.

But then a unique request came our way.

General Harrison requested our support in her attempt to overthrow General Altman by military coup. A proposition we accepted, and which we stand by. The primary issue now, then, is how to go about best supporting General Harrison’s efforts. We have, as we speak, a platoon of Varessan Special Forces on the ground in the Dominion, and submarines throughout Dominion territorial waters. General Roberts was reposted to Courtland with the express intention of allowing better communications between General Harrison’s faction and ourselves. As we can see… that brings us to where we are now.

Are there, at this stage, any questions from the floor?”

***

Roberts had been glad to hand over the floor. But he hadn’t been glad at what he heard. It made everything make so much more sense. But he didn’t like it. Not one bit. A quick glance at Becka showed her to be fairly deep in thought. He offered her a sympathetic, slightly rueful grimace when she glanced up. The next questions, if there were any, might be enlightening. Roberts was particularly curious as to Ambassador Vikis’ response. It had been a lot of information for the Excalbian to take in. But that was why Chancellor Drake had brought him into the cabinet meeting, surely…

***

The Casior cruised silently, right up in the baffles of the Imperator Andreus. The world-class Varessan sonar suite was positively lighting up with hits, and information. Most tellingly of all…

“Conn, sonar. Airbourne contact bearing 065. Rotary. Preliminary analysis is inconclusive.”

“Sonar, conn, aye. Designate contact Sierra 65.”

“Conn, comms. Captain to radio room.”

“On the way.”

Captain Stewart was one of the best of a very good crop of Varessan Submarine Officers, in what was widely regarded as one of the best submarine training institutions in the world. And he lived for this. Right up the guts of the big Excalbian Warship. And the Excalbians were good. Very good. One of very few navies in the world that had the faintest chance of detecting the Casior. The Watchkeeper class submarines were truly magnificent pieces of nautical engineering. Comparable in acoustic signature to a litre or two of stagnant water, they were, by anyone save the Excalbians, virtually undetectable. And for the Excalbians, they were still a real pain.

“Here you go sir. Open transmission from Sierra 14, now positively identified as the ‘Sledgehammer’ to the helicopter.”

Captain Stewart’s left eyebrow vanished behind his hairline. Things were, quite possibly, about to get exceedingly interesting.

"Hmmm..." said Phocas, rubbing his chin. "I had hoped to play my cards a little closer to the deck with the Virginians. The helicopter will remain on its present course. If the Upper Virginians dare destroy it, then we will be prepared to retaliate."

***

The comms officer on-board HIMS Imperator Andreus read Phocas' dispatch from the Glorious on his green and black monitor.

"Mon Dieu..." he murmured, before getting back on the line to HIMS Constantine XX. "Constantine XX, instruct the helicopter to remain on course. You are authorised to use any and all force you deem necessary to defend the helicopter and your own vessel. Authorisation code Phocas Seven, the sequence is Tango, Charlie, Seven, Foxtrot. Over!"

***

"Captain!" says the comms officer on HIMS Constantine XX, swinging around in his seat to face his commanding officer. "Helicopter to remain on course! We are authorised to use any and all force deemed necessary to defend the helicopter and ourselves. Authorisation from Lord Phocas himself, code seven, sequence TC7F."

The Captain pulls his sequence code book out of his uniform's top pocket.

"The sequence is confirmed. Those are Phocas' orders alright. Tell the helicopter to remain on course, and to ignore any further Uppie directions." orders du Palais.

***

The co-pilot shakes his head in disbelief as he receives the orders from the Constantine XX.

"They're ordering us to remain on course, and to ignore further Upper Virginian instructions." he says. "I'm worried that the next Uppie instruction will be a heat sinking missile!"

"Orders are orders, they wouldn't tell us to remain on course unless they were confident we'd be safe. But just to be sure, better tell our passengers where to find the parachutes..." replies the pilot.

Sir Gareth Vikis inhaled through clenched teeth. He forced his pounding heart to slow and collected his thoughts. All the while, his face was a mask of calm contemplation. Finally, the Excalbian ambassador nodded.

“Chancellor Drake, Field Marshall Harris,” then nodding towards the speakers on the table, “General Roberts and General Harrison, I thank you for your thorough briefing. I believe that your willingness to share this sensitive information so openly with the Holy Empire will go a long way to relieving His Imperial Majesty’s Government’s remaining qualms about the planned coup in Upper Virginia.” Vikis picked up a glass of water and took a brief drink.

“Since you have laid your cards on the table, as it were, allow me to reciprocate.” The ambassador swallowed and took another drink. “Imperial Intelligence has known for sometime that the Dominion has been developing some type of hypersonic aircraft. We also knew that Varessa was playing a role in developing the aircraft and its weapons systems. What we did not know – until Minister Shaw’s first call to me – was the extent of Varessa’s involvement in Upper Virginia and what we did not know until today was the potential power of your Crimson Star.

“Excalbia has lived for nearly a century under the military threat of the Dominion. When His Imperial Majesty, David IV, came to the throne and named Lady Freedman his Chancellor, it was decided that the time had come to even the military balance. That is when we embarked on the Mark V shipbuilding project. I am no naval expert, but I do know that we employed a number of technological innovations – frothed alloy construction, trimaran hulls, advanced engines, and stealth features. All of those advances, it seems could be rendered useless by Crimson Star. In fact, you are quite right, Chancellor, that had we known the true nature of the weapon you were developing for the Dominion before Minister Shaw first notified us of the coup plot, His Imperial Majesty may well have ordered preemptive action. Fortunately, that was bridge we never had to cross.”

Ambassador Vikis took another sip of his drink and looked at the faces around him. The Varessans had always struck him as a bit aloof, but decent enough. He figured they had proven that today.

“So, Chancellor, now that we have both divulged state secrets to each other, I must say that I have a clear feeling that you asked me here for more than a briefing, no matter how impressive. Now, let me anticipate them proverbial ‘other shoe’ and ask you, and General Harrison, is there some other… arrangement you wish to make with the Holy Empire? If there is any chance that Crimson Star may be on the table, I can assure you that His Imperial Majesty’s Government would be interested in hearing any deal you wished to propose.”

* * *

VADM Sir Derek Kunle rubbed his chin and nodded. “Very well, Lord Phocas,” Kunle shrugged his shoulders, “we will keep our Wraith squadron out of sight for now. I will order them to simply shadow Sledgehammer for now and be prepared to act if they take aggressive action.”

Kunle looked down the table at CAPT Wells. “Captain, please dispatch appropriate orders to your squadron.”

CAPT Jennifer Wells stood, placed her napkin in her seat and saluted in one fluid motion. “Yes, sir,” she said before heading through the hatch.

* * *

“Captain,” Radiotech 2nd class Rachel Warren said levelly, “incoming action message from Glorious.”

CDR Robyn Torvalde turned towards her XO and nodded. LT Vic Turner, executive officer of INV Spectre walked over to the comm station and took a printout from Warren. He studied it and entered a few commands into the terminal. Turner turned back towards his captain, “The message is authentic, Captain.”

Torvalde nodded. “Go ahead, XO.”

“From Captain Wells,” Turner began, “to Tactical Squadron 34. Pantocratorian diplomatic flight 712 is being challenged by DNS Sledgehammer. Pantocratorians are ordering flight 712 to ignore orders to surrender for inspection. You are ordered to assume position to intervene if necessary. However, you are take no repeat no action until instructed or until flight 712 is fired upon.” Turner returned the sheet of paper to Warren. “Orders, Ma’am?”

Torvalde eased into her command seat. “Sound general quarters. Bring the squadron to alert.”

“General quarters, aye.” A low, moaning siren began to wail.

Torvalde turned towards the tactical station. “Tac, put them up on the board.”

LT Brent Coles tapped a few keys. “Pantocratorian flight 712 designated Foxtrot 7; Sledgehammer now designated Tango 12. Targets on the board and tracking. Uploaded to the squadron.”

Torvalde nodded and turned back towards her XO. “Order group Beta to form on Phantom and fall behind Tango 12. They should avoid detection and prepare to cut target off from the rest of Dominion forces. Group Alpha should form on us. We’ll move towards the course being charted Foxtrot 7 and prepare to interpose ourselves between Foxtrot 7 and Tango 12, if necessary. Understood?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Orders relayed.” Turner glanced over a scrolling readout. “All stations, all ships on alert.”

“Thanks, Vic. And, please kill than siren.”

LCDR Harrison Karon winced in anticipation as he turned towards his CO. “Captain, we have a response from the Pantocratorian helicopter…”

“Yes,” SCDR Jacob Hunt gripped the arms of his command chair as he swiveled to look at his XO, “what did they say?”

“Well, sir,” Karon hesitated for just a second, “they identified themselves as a diplomatic flight, claimed to have all necessary clearances and requested that we contact their embassy. They’re continuing on their previous heading and are refusing to respond to further challenges.”

Hunt cursed and pounded a fist on the arm of his chair. “Commander Karon, instruct tactical to fire one missile across flight 712’s path. Well ahead, Commander. And make sure it isn’t a heat-seeker. The last thing I want is to repeat the Intimidator incident.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

“And, Commander, update NMCC.”

“Yes, sir.” Karon turned and barked out a series of orders. A few moments later, he turned back to his CO. “Sir, message sent and missile away.”

***

In Shaun Robert’s office in the Varessan Embassy, MAJGEN Becka Harrison listened nervously to the Excalbian ambassador. She had never heard of Sir Gareth Vikis and had no idea what kind of man he was, but he had taken Shaun’s revelations about Crimson Star very well. And, had revealed a fair amount about the Empire’s new mystery ships. She looked over at MAJGEN Roberts and studied his face. Of course she trusted him and his country, but she also suspected that Vikis was right and that there was another shoe waiting to drop. And she was anxious to hear the Varessan response to the ambassador.

The radar officer on-board the Constantine XX almost leapt out of his chair.

"Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed. "Captain, missile in the air, heading right for 712!"

"Dammit..." murmured du Palais. "Get word to the flagship, scramble an escort for that helicopter! At least give them something else to shoot at!"

***

"Missile in the air! Incoming!" shouted the co-pilot.

"They mean business!" muttered the pilot, ramming the stick forward. The helicopter's nose lowered, and the aircraft picked up speed.

***

An emergency klaxon sounded on the flight deck of HIMS Imperator Andreus, as the first of two F/A-18s took off.

***

"Control wants us to hold on." says the co-pilot, listening to the radio. "They say that an escort is on its way."

"They'll never get here in time. Hold on!" shouts the pilot.

"100 metres.... 50 metres......" announces the co-pilot. The helicopter lurches and the occupants can hear a defeaning roar as the missile flies past.

"Is it turning? Is it turning?" asks the pilot.

"No... no... my God, it isn't.... but..." the co-pilot murmurs.

"Defective. Or maybe, a warning shot, a non-heat seeking dumb missile sent to scare us down." the pilot speculates, regaining his composure.

"If that was a warning shot... I don't want to be around for the real thing. I'm going to ask control to re-evaluate and re-advise us on our situation." the co-pilot says.

"Missile away! Tango 12. Inbound on Foxtrot 7." LT Brent Coles' fingers flew over his console as he used the shipboard DAIN to combine radar feeds from across the Excalbian fleet and calculate the trajectory of the missile.

"Do we have any intercept solutions, Tac?" LCDR Robyn Torvalde griped the arms of her command chair and leaned towards the tactical officer.

"Negative, Captain. Still out of range."

"Anti-ship missiles to hot stand-by. I want targeting solutions for Tango 12. Prepare for rescue operations..."

"Captain," Coles interrupted, "looks like we have a wide shot. No additional launches from Tango 12. Looks like a warning shot, Ma'am."

Torvalde slammed a fist into the arm of chair and cursed the Uppies.

Meanwhile, Phantom and four of her sister ships sped along a course carrying them behind the Dominion warship...

LCDR Karon turned towards his CO. "Clean miss, sir."

SCDR Jacob Hunt nodded. "Good. Good. Karon, send another message to the Pantocratorians. Perhaps we'll find that they've had a change of heart."

"Aye, sir."

Pantocratorian diplomatic flight 712 this is DNS Sledgehammer. That was your only warning. You are instructed to prepare to land aboard ship immediately.

Just after the message was sent, a crewman stepped forward and spoke with LCDR Karon. Karon nodded several times and walked over to the radar station. After speaking with the radar techs for a few moments, Karon walked back to the captain's command chair. "Captain, deck watch caught a brief sight of fast-moving, dark objects near the horizon moving to our aft. Radar reports no sustained contacts."

"Ghost ships?"

"My best guess, sir."

A stream of curses slipped from Hunt's mouth. "I hate those Excalbians and their cursed ghost ships. I'd love to get one in my sights and blow it to pieces. Or better yet capture it and take the thing apart." Hunt sighed. "They're probably mixed up with flight 712. Notify NMCC."

"Yes, sir."

"Flight 712, that is a negative to your previous request, repeat, negative. Do not respond to Upper Virginian demands. Continue en route to HIMS Imperator Andreus at maximum speed. Over and out." came the voice over the helicopter's radio.

As the co-pilot shook his head in despair, the pilot spotted a grey dot on the horizon.

"Uppie interceptor?" he ventured.

"Or maybe it is our escort..." the co-pilot said hopefully.

A second dot appeared on the horizon as the first one roared past the helicopter and then assumed a position some way back.

"It had Pantocratorian markings on it!" the pilot exclaims.

"It IS our escort!" the co-pilot said. "Alright, I'm feeling a little better now. HIMS Imperator Andreus this is flight 712, our ETA is 17 minutes, over."

Radartech 2nd class Ken Overman turned excitedly towards the XO. "New contacts, sir! Two fast-moving aircraft. They're slowing and taking flanking positions behind Pantocratorian flight 712."

LCDR Harrison Karon clenched his fists and bit his tongue. "Why," Karon said through clenched teeth, "didn't we see them coming sooner, Overman?"

"Sorry, sir. They closed on the helicopter very quickly and..."

"Nevermind." Karon spun on his heels and hurried to the captain's side.

"Sir..."

"Yes, Karon?" SCDR Jacob Hunt looked at Karon's face and over his shoulder to tactical board beyond. "I see our friend has company..."

"Yes, sir. Looks like two Pantocratorian fighters. They've taken flanking positions. Still no answer to our last message."

"What's their ETA to their carrier?"

"About 15 minutes, sir."

Hunt bit his lip and seemed to stare into space. "ETA on our fighters, Karon?"

"About 12 minutes, sir."

"By the time they intercept, they'll be in range of the Pantocratorian escort ships, then?"

"Yes, sir."

"Advise NMCC of our situation and request further instructions."

"Aye, sir."

* * *

BRIG Youst stepped up beside GEN Altman. "General?"

"Yes, Brigadier?" GEN Craig Altman turned from his computer screen and studied the worried expression on his guard commander's face.

"Sir, our frigate intercepting the Pantocratorian helicopter reports that the Pantocratorians are ignoring their challenges. Our ship has fired a warning shot, which has also been ignored. Now, the Pantocratorian helicopter has been joined by a fighter escort. Also, the ship has detected some of the Excalbian 'ghost ships' approaching. They are asking for further instructions, sir."

Altman sighed. He didn't want to back down. He certainly didn't want to back down to the Excalbians and their infernal Pantocratorian allies. But, he didn't want a repeat of the Intimidator incident. And, he could see just such a sequence of events coming. Altman swallowed hard.

"Very well, Brigadier. Have NMCC inform our frigate to back off. No sense giving the Excalbians an excuse to attack more of our ships. We'll just have to pursue this another way. I want our Intel people to trace this thing backwards. I want to know who was on that helicopter and why. Understand?"

"Yes, sir, General!"

The tension in the air was palpable. It’s not often that one got the privilege of watching history about to unfold. Chancellor Drake was weighing the words of the Excalbian ambassador very carefully. The Excalbian had, wittingly or otherwise, just bumped up the stakes still higher. Drake very much believed wittingly. He strongly doubted that Vikis so much as exhaled unwittingly. No, his question about Crimson Star was very much a calculated one.

And, thought Drake, in all honesty, why shouldn’t Excalbia ask about whether or not it was on the table. Crimson Star was, after all, the cause for a great deal of the current difficulties. Drake would even have hazarded a guess that General Altman’s knowledge of the development, if not the full progress and ramifications, of Crimson Star could quite realistically have been the catalyst for his increasingly bombastic nature of late. The presence of a major ally, particularly one so traditionally non-aligned as Varessa, could well have gone a long way towards his combative mindset. Not that the Varessan Chancellor would care to hazard too much on any reference to the Upper Virginian Dictator’s mindset.

So… Crimson Star. The future of warfare. Excalbia wanted it. Of that there was no doubt in Drake’s mind. None at all. Who wouldn’t? Field Marshal Harris’ description of the most feasible employment for the fully-operational Ozymandias was nothing short of frightening. It shunted tactical and operational operations, once more, firmly onto the side of the attacker. No target was beyond the reach or capabilities of this most spectacular hybrid of Upper Virginian and Varessan military research. No armour could stop it, at least not for long. No camouflage was effective. No defence could bring the ultrasonic aircraft down. The only existing exception was the planned Varessan use of Crimson Star as a ground-based aerospace defence system. Anything from suspicious kite to ICBMs could be hit with near perfect accuracy, and utterly lethal force.

In years, no, months gone by, Drake wouldn’t even have been asked the question. Major General Roberts, or someone in his position, such as Colonel (Colonel!!!) Blackman, would have filed the paperwork as another military research triumph of marketing. And they would have gotten a good price for their work, of that he had no doubt. Varessan military technology was highly sought after, after all.

But circumstances were different now. It wasn’t so much that Varessa was no longer in the business of selling military research and/or development. That was definitely not the case. The field was far too crucial a foreign currency earner for the Varessan government.

No, what had changed was that, for the first time, Varessa actually saw what impact its creations could have on the geopolitics of the world. It’s not so much that they’d never known before. But the degree to which Varessa was currently involved in this crisis was based largely upon its lack of discretion in choosing its trading partners. It was a mistake that Drake had no desire to lead his country into again. As it was, when the minutes of the cabinet meetings of the past few months were made public in 50 years time, or so, people would wonder how Varessa could have been so blind to what was going on within the Dominion.

Drake didn’t want another black mark like that against his record, whether or not he was alive to reap the consequences. As a historian, how history would see him was certainly a consideration. And as such, the Excalbian pseudo-request required very careful thought indeed. In fact, the situation would, after the event, require a very thorough review of Varessan policy regarding international military-commerce.

But still… military-commerce was Varessa’s international bread and butter, and Crimson Star was potentially the greatest single earner in Varessa’s history. The price Varessa could charge for Crimson Star would buy some smaller countries outright.

“Ambassador Vikis, if we, hypothetically, said that it was, what would your, hypothetical, offer be. Hypothetically speaking.”

***

General Roberts, at first, couldn’t believe his ears. The weapons system that stood to hold every military in the world to ransom, and the Chancellor was going to give it to the Excalbians.

It took him less than a second, however, to see where he was coming from. There were a million ways in which Varessa could prevent the weapon from being used against them. Crimson Star was revolutionary. Crimson Star was exclusively Varessan. No one else in the world had anything even vaguely comparable. Varessa could set the price. And if even one nation made a bid, then the price would soar. Varessa was offering the holy grail of military hardware. Pick a target, anywhere in the world. Hit it in 30 minutes. Hell, pick any number of targets in the world. Hit all of them within 30 minutes. Any thing from a single 747 sitting on the tarmac to an entire corps of main battle tanks.

And, if Roberts guessed correctly, it would be child’s play to make usage of Crimson Star moderated by a Varessan installed and monitored self-destruct system. Varessa was, hypothetically, of course, offering a chance for any given country to obliterate its opponent. If, that is, they obtained Varessa’s permission.

Roberts’ look of shock was gradually replaced with a growing smile as he registered the concept.

His gradually building smile became a great deal wider when he realised that he’d beaten Becka to the realisation by about two seconds, as her look of abject horror became one of grudging respect, then subdued mirth as she caught his eye.

Then, as he looked at the Upper Virginian Major General, Roberts came to realise that “caught his eye” was a far more fitting turn of phrase than he’d first intended. He raised his glass to her in silent toast. Crimson Star was as much her achievement as it was his. And her country would be the first that it would set free.

***

“Conn, sonar, we have surface launch. I repeat, we have surface launch. Sierra 14 has fired on Sierra 16”
The sonarman’s voice, coming as it was from the sound-powered phone, had a distinctly metallic edge to it. But the tremble of disbelief was still there, loud and clear.

Captain Stewart understood the problem. They had followed the Imperator Andreus at very close range, and anything fired at it had a very real chance of impacting the Casior. Or, even failing that, there was a very good chance that the shockwave would give away their position by reverberating off their hull. But of course, that was, at the moment, not Captain Stewart’s primary worry. Of far greater worry was that there was a missile in the air.

“Sonar, conn, redesignate Sierra 14 to Tango 14. Helm, come right to course 110, 10 degrees down on the planes. Engine room, increase speed to one third. Do not cavitate.”

The groups responded, limbs answering to the collective brain, moving to common purpose in a manner known to combat sailors throughout the world. The ship was taking on an existence of its own, a life in and of itself, a living, breathing embodiment of its creator’s purpose.

Captain Stewart thought again. This was bigger than his orders and rules for engagement allowed. He had to get this to HQ. And, of course, there was the minor concern that was defending his ship from hostile action.

“Torpedo room, load tubes 1 through 8, VMPTs. Make ready in all respects, do not open the outer doors.”

Watchkeeper class submarines had a unique method of filling the torpedo tubes. Instead of simply filling them with seawater, they were filled with water from the ballast tanks, thus eliminating the noise the vast majority of the noise that the process generated in most other submarines. This was all well and good though. The entity that was the Casior still had no idea what it would shoot at.

“Comm, conn, float the buoy.”

“Conn, comm, float the buoy, aye.”

This was something that Naval Command had to hear about, and the sooner, the better.

“Comm, conn. Signaller to the bridge.”

The order was not acknowledged. Sonar, helm and communications, on this ship, weren’t obliged to respond to that order. They were close enough to just stick their heads around the corner.

“Signal VNC. Prepare to transcribe.”

“Sir…”

“Message reads…”



ACTION PREC: JACK KNIFE

INFO PREC: 3

FROM: VWS CASIOR

TO: VNC

MSG REF: SIC OPP DTG: 181432ZJUN2012

SUBJ: OUTBREAK OF HOSTILITIES – GULF OF EXCALBIA

1. 181428ZJUN04 DOMINION VESSEL SLEDGEHAMMER FIRED UPON HELICOPTER ON APPROACH COURSE TO IMPERATOR ANDREUS
2. HELICOPTER PRESUMED PANTOCRATORIAN
3. NIL – REPEAT – NIL CASUALTIES – NIL IMPACT
4. REQUEST INSTRUCTIONS
5. 181500ZJUN2012

SIC DISTRIBUTION:
SIC: OPP
ACTION: VNC VADM WILKIE



“Aye, sir. Message away.”

***

The encrypted burst transmission was fired up at a Varessan geo-synchronous satellite, which then fired it back down to the VNC Comms centre. The whole process took less than a second, before the signals clerk at VNC registered the incoming JACK KNIFE transmission.

***

“Conn, sonar. Two further contacts have linked up with Sierra 16. They have matched course and speed.”

“Acknowledged. Designate new contacts Sierras 17 and 18”.

Stewart turned to his XO, Commander Mike Townsend. He’d been aboard the ship for as long as Stewart had. And he’d been to more than a few of the Captain’s infamous BBQs, where the only topics ALLOWED were religion, sex and politics. They were renowned for being especially fiery, and particularly good at getting people cranky, as well as great fun. They also made for good practice at thinking on one’s feet. Stewart hoped that Townsend would be able to do so now.

“What do you think, Mike?”

Townsend was a quiet man. Usually. Quiet, but with a rod of steel for a spine and two big brass ones for when things got rough. A chess player, who listened to rock. And a very quick thinker.

“Uppies want whatever’s on that chopper. Haven’t the foggiest what it is, but they want it nonetheless. That was probably a warning sh…”

“Conn, sonar. Multiple surface contacts, closing on Tango 14. High speed, class… uncertain. Course… difficult to make out… tentative…”

The sonarman was cut off by the captain’s arrival in the sonar room.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know sir. I’ve never heard anything like it before. Whatever it is, it’s very fast, very quiet, and running on the surface. I make out at least 3, possibly more. They’re a bitch to track in on, sir.”

“Ok. Keep me posted.”

“Sir”

“So, Mike, a warning shot?”

“That’s what I think, sir. One that the chopper seems to have ignored.”

***

At VNC, the arrival of a JACK KNIFE prefixed transmission caused a ruckus. Third highest urgency setting available to a Varessan ship, it meant that something was going seriously awry.

Vice Admiral Wilkie saw it. Saw its implications. And knew that it was way over his head. This was a tactical decision that could well have geo-strategic ramifications.

He picked up his phone.

“Get this to the chancellor”.

***

“…would your, hypothetical, offer be? Hypothetically speaking.”

Before the Ambassador could respond, there was a very loud banging on the door. The Chancellor had made it very clear that nothing short of an emergency should disturb THIS cabinet meeting.

The knock came again, and there was no mistaking the urgency behind it.

“Field Marshal Harris, could you get the door, and it had better be important…”

The Varessan Chief of Defence Force got up, walked over to the door, unlocked it, and flung it open, scowl on his features signalling his displeasure at the interruption of this most crucial of cabinet meetings.

He found himself looking at a decidedly uncomfortable looking major, holding a piece of paper. Harris looked at the major, who proffered the signal.

“JACK KNIFE traffic in from the Excalbian Gulf, sir.”

Harris looked at the major. The poor fellow really didn’t want to be there. But Harris sympathised. Having to bring bad news to a cranky Field Marshal was not a good move for career progression. So Harris forced a smile onto his face, and thanked the major, before closing the door and locking it again.

***

For the rest of his life, Major Carmichael would wonder whether it would have been considered insubordinate to offer Field Marshal Harris a laxative for the presumed cause of that painful looking grimace he had given.

***

Harris read the signal. Then read it again. Then handed it to Drake.

“You need to read this, sir.”

Drake’s eyes roved over the transmission from the Casior. Then he checked his watch. This had come up the chain fast. As a JACK KNIFE coded message should. Another naval dispute. That could well get ugly. And here was another way to build trust…

“Ambassador, you may want to read this, before you answer….”

...

The tension in the air was palpable. It’s not often that one got the privilege of watching history about to unfold. Chancellor Drake was weighing the words of the Excalbian ambassador very carefully. The Excalbian had, wittingly or otherwise, just bumped up the stakes still higher. Drake very much believed wittingly. He strongly doubted that Vikis so much as exhaled unwittingly. No, his question about Crimson Star was very much a calculated one.

And, thought Drake, in all honesty, why shouldn’t Excalbia ask about whether or not it was on the table. Crimson Star was, after all, the cause for a great deal of the current difficulties. Drake would even have hazarded a guess that General Altman’s knowledge of the development, if not the full progress and ramifications, of Crimson Star could quite realistically have been the catalyst for his increasingly bombastic nature of late. The presence of a major ally, particularly one so traditionally non-aligned as Varessa, could well have gone a long way towards his combative mindset. Not that the Varessan Chancellor would care to hazard too much on any reference to the Upper Virginian Dictator’s mindset.

So… Crimson Star. The future of warfare. Excalbia wanted it. Of that there was no doubt in Drake’s mind. None at all. Who wouldn’t? Field Marshal Harris’ description of the most feasible employment for the fully-operational Ozymandias was nothing short of frightening. It shunted tactical and operational operations, once more, firmly onto the side of the attacker. No target was beyond the reach or capabilities of this most spectacular hybrid of Upper Virginian and Varessan military research. No armour could stop it, at least not for long. No camouflage was effective. No defence could bring the ultrasonic aircraft down. The only existing exception was the planned Varessan use of Crimson Star as a ground-based aerospace defence system. Anything from suspicious kite to ICBMs could be hit with near perfect accuracy, and utterly lethal force.

In years, no, months gone by, Drake wouldn’t even have been asked the question. Major General Roberts, or someone in his position, such as Colonel (Colonel!!!) Blackman, would have filed the paperwork as another military research triumph of marketing. And they would have gotten a good price for their work, of that he had no doubt. Varessan military technology was highly sought after, after all.

But circumstances were different now. It wasn’t so much that Varessa was no longer in the business of selling military research and/or development. That was definitely not the case. The field was far too crucial a foreign currency earner for the Varessan government.

No, what had changed was that, for the first time, Varessa actually saw what impact its creations could have on the geopolitics of the world. It’s not so much that they’d never known before. But the degree to which Varessa was currently involved in this crisis was based largely upon its lack of discretion in choosing its trading partners. It was a mistake that Drake had no desire to lead his country into again. As it was, when the minutes of the cabinet meetings of the past few months were made public in 50 years time, or so, people would wonder how Varessa could have been so blind to what was going on within the Dominion.

Drake didn’t want another black mark like that against his record, whether or not he was alive to reap the consequences. As a historian, how history would see him was certainly a consideration. And as such, the Excalbian pseudo-request required very careful thought indeed. In fact, the situation would, after the event, require a very thorough review of Varessan policy regarding international military-commerce.

But still… military-commerce was Varessa’s international bread and butter, and Crimson Star was potentially the greatest single earner in Varessa’s history. The price Varessa could charge for Crimson Star would buy some smaller countries outright.

“Ambassador Vikis, if we, hypothetically, said that it was, what would your, hypothetical, offer be. Hypothetically speaking.”

Before the Ambassador could respond, there was a very loud banging on the door. The Chancellor had made it very clear that nothing short of an emergency should disturb THIS cabinet meeting.

The knock came again, and there was no mistaking the urgency behind it.

“Field Marshal Harris, could you get the door, and it had better be important…”

The Varessan Chief of Defence Force got up, walked over to the door, unlocked it, and flung it open, scowl on his features signalling his displeasure at the interruption of this most crucial of cabinet meetings.

He found himself looking at a decidedly uncomfortable looking major, holding a piece of paper. Harris looked at the major, who proffered the signal.

“JACK KNIFE traffic in from the Excalbian Gulf, sir.”

Harris looked at the major. The poor fellow really didn’t want to be there. But Harris sympathised. Having to bring bad news to a cranky Field Marshal was not a good move for career progression. So Harris forced a smile onto his face, and thanked the major, before closing the door and locking it again.

Harris read the signal. Then read it again. Then handed it to Drake.

“You need to read this, sir.”

Drake’s eyes roved over the transmission from the Casior. Then he checked his watch. This had come up the chain fast. As a JACK KNIFE coded message should. Another naval dispute. That could well get ugly. And here was another way to build trust…

“Ambassador, you may want to read this, before you answer….”



ACTION PREC: JACK KNIFE

INFO PREC: 3

FROM: VWS CASIOR

TO: VNC

MSG REF: SIC OPP DTG: 181432ZJUN2012

SUBJ: OUTBREAK OF HOSTILITIES – GULF OF EXCALBIA

1. 181428ZJUN04 DOMINION VESSEL SLEDGEHAMMER FIRED UPON HELICOPTER ON APPROACH COURSE TO IMPERATOR ANDREUS
2. HELICOPTER PRESUMED PANTOCRATORIAN
3. NIL – REPEAT – NIL CASUALTIES – NIL IMPACT
4. REQUEST INSTRUCTIONS
5. 181500ZJUN2012

SIC DISTRIBUTION:
SIC: OPP
ACTION: VNC VADM WILKIE



Sir Gareth Vikis read the message and laid it on the table. He suddenly felt small and out of his depth. He wished more than anything that he was on his country estate in the Exalbian highlands; raising horses and managing his manor would be far doable than sorting out this situation. Vikis momentarily considered asking the Varessans to let him call the Citadel and speak with State Minister Cummings. Or perhaps the Chancellor, Lady Freedman, herself. Then, he almost chuckled at the idea of a three-way conference call between the Varessan cabinet, the Excalbian cabinet and the Upper Virginian coup-plotters. All they would have to do, then, would be to call Altman himself. And perhaps the FVLA while they were at it. They could all have a nice chat and sort things out before dinner.

Vikis saw Field Marshall Harris giving him a strange look and realized that chuckle had been a little too audible. However, the levity had given him a chance to clear his mind.

"Chancellor Drake, I'm afraid that I am unfamiliar with the specific situation unfolding in the gulf. I must confess that I do not know what a Pantocratorian helicopter was doing near Dominion air space, or why the Dominion is firing on it. Perhaps your people, or perhaps Major General Harrison, could fill me in. However, it seems from the message that the Dominion fired a warning shot. At least this time they actually managed to miss."

Vikis rubbed his chin for a moment and considered his next move very carefully. If he followed his instincts, he would either find himself in line for a promotion - perhaps even find himself in line to be Deputy Minister - or he would himself retired prematurely.

"Chancellor, whatever the specifics, I believe that incident surely illustrates that the Dominion under General Altman has become a rouge state. It also certainly makes the case that he cannot be allowed to have Crimson Star. And, in so doing, validates your decision to back General Harrison and her coup." Vikis swallowed hard and decided to dive in.

"Speaking hypothetically, as we were, if Crimson Star were on the table, it may be that His Imperial Majesty's Government would be willing to extend the coup-plotters more than prompt recognition of their new government and express its support and a more concrete fashion. It is also possible that in return for access to the Crimson Star technology, the Ministry of Defense might be willing to engage in joint research with Varessa, and with a post-coup Upper Virginia. The Dominion has developed a formidible aircraft and Varessa has developed a powerful weapon. A marriage between that weapon and our naval technology and between the aircraft and our advance artifical intelligence network might produce some interesting off-spring. And your military research people might find access to our artifical intelligence network productive for their research. Of course, hypothetically, all of this would require additional negotiations, guarantees protecting proprietary information and mutual some security guarantees, not to mention the Emperor's and the Senate's approval."

Vikis looked across at Drake and smiled. "Chancellor?"

Drake had been right. The Holy Empire wanted Crimson Star. And were offering putting forward fairly reasonable terms and conditions as an approximate starting point for the trade.

But Drake, in all good conscience, could not simply give Excalbia the Crimson Star system, without the go ahead from his Upper Virginian counterpart. Crimson Star had, after all, been developed for the Dominion and, however much it irked, it wasn’t entirely his to give… although there was a way around that problem. And that way around his problem was sitting on the other end of the phone, doubtlessly listening with great interest.

“What do you think, General Harrison? Should we put Crimson Star on the negotiating table?”

***

3 days. They’d only been in location for three days, and already the wait was starting to grind on people’s nerves. SGT Russ was on piquet, which was never designed to make people particularly stimulated with their existence, and was unable to doze off like most of the rest of the platoon seemed to be trying to do.

The VSF unit was barely a kilometre out of Courtland, and less than 100m from the primary eastward artery from the city. On the reverse slope of a fairly high rise, admittedly, but the audacity of the position never failed to catch the SGT’s breath in his throat. Less than 1km from the capital city of the nation with the largest defence force in the region.

‘They’ll write books about this when we’re done…’ Russ thought. Of course, what he wasn’t sure about was whether those books would applaud LTCOL Mathews for his ingenuity, daring and initiative, or denounce him as an overly ambitious and optimistic fool. Russ remembered one of the LTCOL’s favourite phrases, one which was, simultaneously, highly reassuring and utterly terrifying.

The man had said, just prior to moving to the new harbour up point, ‘you always get more from asking too much than you do from asking too little’.

Russ clutched his M-8 a little closer to his chest, and tried to remember why it was that he volunteered for Special Forces.

Then, he squinted carefully, and looked at the checkpoint he could see at the edge of the city. A convoy. At least 13 long-wheelbase Ural trucks, and three Hummer-type vehicles, departing Courtland, eastbound. He had to let the boss know. He began sub-vocalising, his throat mike picking up the vibrations and turning them into audible sounds on the other end.

“SHEPHERD, this is WOLFHOUND 1, wolf silhouettes, over”

The response was nearly immediate, with no sign of the fact that Mathews would, quite literally, have been asleep 3 seconds ago.

“WOLFHOUND 1, this is SHEPHERD, acknowledged. All units, stand to. I say again, stand to.”

The replies were again very quick, years of training snapping eyes open at the hint of the words ‘stand to’.

“2, acknowledge”

“3, acknowledge”

“4, acknowledge”

“5, acknowledge”

“6, acknowledge”

“WOLFHOUND 1, evaluate, over”

“WOLFHOUND 1, roger that. Out”

SGT Russ, who held the callsign “Wolfhound 1” by virtue of his being the senior soldier of the platoon’s sole Wolfhound-class HMMWV, also had the distinction of being the platoon’s sniper, a position he had held for many years and many units. His weapon, an M-8, was THE VSF weapon, and, like most pieces of hardware used by the VDF, a marvel of technological know-how. A Heckler and Koch masterpiece of interchangeability, the weapon was capable of fulfilling nigh-on any battlefield infantry role by simply changing the barrel, adjusting the stock, changing the sight, or adding bits and pieces on to it. The weapon’s integral sight, set by default at 1.5x, could be configured for standard, infra-red or thermal imaging.

The platoon, for example, used M-8s with underslung breach-loaded M320 grenade launchers as standard. They came with silencers, and 30 round magazines, as well… In addition, there were six M-8 LSWs, with longer barrels, bi-pods and belt-fed by 200 round box magazines. Russ’ weapon was the sniper variant, with a long barrel, silencer, bipod, 20-round magazine, and used the M-8’s adjustable sight in the higher-powered modes.

Those higher-powered modes were what he used now, roving his cross hairs over the vehicles as they moved singly past the check-point. As each one came to a halt, he switched the sight onto thermal mode to check inside. Each truck was practically identical. 2 sections (squads… the Dominion used squads…) in the back of each Ural, 20 men for each truck. 13 trucks. Russ did some maths in his head… the standing joke among the VDF was that combat soldiers couldn’t spell ‘cow’ although they could lift them… but VSF soldiers could do both. 13 trucks, 20 soldiers each, 260 men… two companies, with attachments, probably a support platoon, and HQ elements.

Considering that the entire VSF contingent was 30, this could be a problem.

***

The helicopter set down on the deck of HIMS Imperator Andreus. Flight deck personnel rushed forward to the chopper, to assist the bishop and Sister Margueritte off the helicopter. A lieutenant rushed forward to speak to the bishop.

"Your Grace," he shouted over the noise of the flight deck. "I'm Lieutenant Isaakios Gustav. It is my responsibility to authorise the next leg of your flight, and to make a copy of your dossier. Would you come with me to Flight Control?"

***

"Signal the Glorious - the dossier is securely in our hands." ordered the commander as the crew on the bridge applauded.

ooc: FINALLY!

ic:

The ship, a small freighter riding light in the water, slid into the bay as the fireworks were unfolding, though well away; the crew was kept informed as various machines decrypted the military frequencies and fed the results into the control room. Onboard, three helicopters were being made ready for launch, just in case; this freighter, though it could potentially pop up on any number of shipping companies records, was currently anonymous, and was intending to stay that way.

As the boat rolls in, Greg makes the call: 'Ubrecht, the guys are her. They're on their own schedule, though, given the broohaha in the bay. You want to meet them or what?'

OOC: Sorry, I couldn't find the thread until the search feature came back online!

OOC... I'm finally back and finally have access to the forums - for some reason it was very difficult to get back in. Once I regroup, I hope to have a post up by tomorrow.

Cheers.

Oh, and BTW, Excalbia still can't get back on. Hopefully that problem will be worked out shortly as well.

OOC: Hallelujah. Welcome back.

MAJGEN Becka Harrison looked uneasily from the phone to Shaun Roberts to MAJ Richard Thorsen. Not so long ago, Becka thought, she had been a simple technocrat – spending her days with engineers and budget analysts. Now, she was a coup-plotter. She had committed herself to assassinating her supreme commander and installing a new government, she had invited foreign troops onto Dominion soil and now she was considering trading the Dominion’s greatest weapon and most important strategic advantage away to its neighbor and long-time antagonist.

Becka chewed on the end of her index finger – a gesture that went back to the days when she used to chew the end of her pencil while figuring math problems. Fortunately, above the chaotic swirl of emotions – some of which, she had to admit, had attached themselves to Shaun – there was still a part of her that was cold and analytical. And that cold analysis led to her to one inescapable conclusion.

Becka gathered herself and leaned towards the open phone line. “Chancellor Drake, if I might first clarify what I understand to be Ambassador Vikis’ offer.” Becka cleared her throat. “Mr. Ambassador, as I understand it, you are prepared to commit Excalbia to supporting our new government – even in the face of armed resistance from Altman loyalists – and to demonstrate that support materially and to commit Excalbia to opening to us its naval research – the technologies behind your infamous ‘ghost ships’ – and its artificial intelligence network for further research. If, Mr. Chancellor, that is an accurate assessment of the Ambassador’s offer, then, yes, I am willing to put Crimson Star on the table. I would, of course, want the Excalbian government to convey its official acceptance of those terms to you and to have that acceptance relayed to me as quickly as may be practical.”

Becka sighed and leaned back. She caught sight of Thorsen’s expression and immediately turned towards Shaun’s more benevolent gaze.

* * *

MAJ Richard Thorsen listened to MAJGEN Harrison with a mix of shock, anger and admiration. He was, frankly, surprised that the mousey little technocrat he had recruited to be the benign face of the coup had become a strong leader so quickly. Of course, he had seen leadership potential and integrity in her; that is why he brought her in. And he admired her living up to that potential. However, he was also stunned and little angry – or maybe fearful – over her decision. Allowing in Varessan troops was one thing. Using the Excalbians as allies for intelligence – which he had tried to do – was one thing. But, giving them the ‘crown jewels’ of the Dominion’s military technology was something else entirely. It was a huge gamble.

When Harrison finished speaking and quickly looked away from him, he realized he had let his face show too much. He forced a neutral and relaxed expression into place and waited for the act.

* * *

LCOL Gunars Illers watched the lead trucks rumble down the highway past the cliffs that marked the boundary of the national park. Momentous events were underway. The death of the Attorney General was only the beginning. Something really big was about to happen and the army would be in the middle of it. Illers didn’t know what it was, but he was sure that, as always, GEN Altman would come out on top. That was why Illers was so grateful that his unit had been assigned to Altman’s personal brigade.

Illers looked around the empty forest so close to Courtland. Unfortunately, his particular command wouldn’t be in the middle of things. He had been sent with his understrength battalion to secure the eastern approach into the city. Nothing was going on out here and there was no suspicion that anything would. But, Altman was a little… cautious when it came to his own security.

Illers' command vehicle turned into the park - following the rest of the column. The line of trucks followed the park's main and only paved road through some recreational and camping areas. Finally, the road turned to loose dirt and the vehicles began their slow, twisting assent towards the cliffs.

* * *

LCDR Harrison Karon stepped to the side of his CO. “Captain, we confirm that the Pantocratorian helicopter has landed aboard their carrier. We have also detected traffic between Imperator Andreus and Glorious, but cannot decode it.” Karon watched SCDR Jacob Hunt shift uncomfortably in his seat. “We still have intermittent contacts with what we believe to be Excalbian ‘ghost ships’ and we have detected a small ship, believed to be a commercial freighter, on the periphery of the engagement zone.”

SCDR Hunt felt exhausted and angry. He nearly snarled at his XO, but managed to calm himself in time. “Ignore the stupid freighter. I want everyone to concentrate on locating those infernal ‘ghost ships’ and cracking that Pantocratorian code.” Hunts stood and stepped towards the hatch. “I’ll be in my quarters. Take over, XO.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

* * *

Aboard Imperator Andreus, Bishop Uvaras stood somewhat shakily as Sister Marguerite tried to stead him. The bishop studied LT Gustav for a minute, as if trying to understand what the man had said. Suddenly, the bishop seemed to gather himself. “Yes, yes, Lieutenant. Sister Marguerite and I will come with you. Anything to get off this deck. And here,” the bishop, feeling relived that the documents were securely aboard a Pantocratorian ship, shoved the dossier at the lieutenant, “make the copies you wish, young man.”

Gwen Ubrecht tried to crouch as low as possible in the pew of the Courtland’s catholic cathedral. “That sounds good,” she whispered into the phone. Fortunately, it was late and the church was empty except for her companion. “I’d love to meet the guys. I have a girlfriend with me who knows the layout of the whole place. Should I bring her along? Just name the time and place and I’ll be there.”

Greg winced a little. 'Don't bring anyone,' he said, quickly, 'they're not people people, let's just say. And what is going on out there? The radio traffic is ridiculous; I swear there's a small army out there.'

The lieutenant leads the Bishop and Sister Magueritte up to Flight Control, and then rushes off to make copies of the dossier. A man in his late middle age dressed in a splendid uniform approached the Bishop.

"Your Excellency, Sister, I am Captain Plussiers, commander of HIMS Imperator Andreus' flight operations. Welcome aboard. Not that we don't want your company, but this ship isn't exactly the safest place for you right now, and so I'd like to talk to you about your options for the next leg of your journey." said the officer. "Where would you like to seek refuge? Pantocratoria? Excalbia? Somewhere else? As soon as you make up your mind, we can talk about how we're going to get you there!"

Bishop Uvaras nodded. “Captain Plussiers, thank you – and your men – for all your assistance.” The bishop flushed as he spoke. “I regret placing so many lives in danger. I certainly don’t want to put your ship at risk as well.” The bishop looked briefly at Sister Marguerite.

“Yes, Captain,” the nun said in a steady voice, “thank you very much.”

“As for your question of where we should go,” the bishop spoke slowly, clearly thinking as he talked, “I had assumed that we would go to Pantocratoria. However, I do not want to be so far from my people.” The bishop looked passed Plussiers. “Excalbia would be a logical destination. Close, yet secure. However, so many of our people a dubious of the Excalbians. A shame really, since we share mostly the same ancestors. But, nothing can be done about that now. I fear if I go to Excalbia, it will be all too easy for Altman to discredit what I feel I must say. Hmmm. Tell me, Captain, isn’t it true that the Excalbian emperor gave a grant to his son and his Pantocratorian daughter-in-law to establish their own kingdom on the western peninsula? That might be an ideal location. Close enough for me to be speak to my people and try to guide them, yet secure. And with the Pantocratorian connection, it may shield me from charges of being ‘under Excalbian influence.’ What do you think, Sister?”

Sister Marguerite bit her lip and nodded.

“So, Captain,” the bishop turned back to the splendidly dressed Pantocratorian officer, “what do you think?”

* * *

Meanwhile, in Courtland…

BRIG Youst stood patiently in front of his strangely chipper Commander-in-Chief. “Umm, sir,” Youst said hesitantly, “as I said, NMCC reports that Pantocratorian diplomatic flight 712 is now aboard Imperator Andreus. Our task force is awaiting further orders…”

GEN Altman smiled – a strange, sickly smile. “Ah, yes. Tell them to stand down.”

“Stand down, sir?”

“Yes, completely. No further challenges to the Pantocratorians. Or the Excalbians. Unless, of course, they violate our waters.”

“Umm,” Youst seemed taken by surprise, “yes, sir.”

“How do we stand on tracking down the passengers on board that helicopter, Brigadier?”

“Well, sir, intelligence now believes that the other passenger aboard the flight may have been Bishop Uvaras.”

“Uvaras?”

“The catholic bishop of Courtland, sir. We’ve checked his phone records and he placed a call to the Pantocratorian Embassy shortly before the flight and he hasn’t been seen since it departed.”

“Hmm,” Altman stood and began pacing. “Did we have a tap?”

“No, sir. He kept a very low profile. Sort of an innocuous fellow; we never tapped him.”

“Well, Brigadier, any recommendations on how to proceed?”

“Ummm,” Youst reached into the pocket of his khaki jacket and removed a cloth that he used to dab at his forehead, “the Judge… er… Acting Attorney General has suggested that we raid the bishop’s residence here in Courtland…”

“Now, now,” Altman wagged a finger at Youst, “we don’t want to violate the church’s independence. Yet.” Altman looked out over his command center. “Send in a covert team - just a few men and have them look around and see what they find.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, have we secured the last few entrances to the city?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, good.” Altman smiled.

* * *

“Sir?”

“Is there a problem, Lieutenant?” LCOL Gunars Illers leveled a cold gaze at the young lieutenant.

“No, sir,” LT William Potts stammered as he watched his CO through the open door of parked vehicle, “its just that… umm… I hadn’t expected… I mean I thought this was just… well…”

“You’d better stop while you’re ahead, son,” Illers said, his frustration showing through his calm expression.

The lieutenant nodded silently. The lieutenant colonel paused to take a drink of water.

“Now, as I was saying, Lieutenant, take one squad and scout ahead over that ridge,” Illers gestured to his right, “and go all the way to the cliffs. Find a position with good sightlines to the road below and, then, come back.”

“Yes, sir,” LT Potts snapped a salute and walked away as quickly as he could without running.

Gwen Ubrecht smiled at the hint of anxiety and disapproval in Greg’s voice. He was always so “in-control;” she enjoyed rattling him once in while. “OK, your people, your play. Tell where to meet and when. I’ll come alone and bring a good description of the bishop’s house.” Gwen looked over at Sister Mary and shrugged. “As for radio traffic, the city is still crawling with Altman’s own brigade. We have scattered rumors of CIB troops on the run and trying to resist the army. Also, there’s some kind of rumor floating around about something in the gulf. Someone called in to say that the Dominion navy fired on a foreign aircraft. My instinct tells me it may have something to do with the bishop going to the Pantocratorian Embassy; I heard that the Pantos had a chopper come in earlier. The bishop may even have been on it. But nothing definite. I’ll let you know if I hear more.”

Greg hung up the phone and gave some thought to delegating responsibility down the chain a couple rungs. Didn't they have a PR officer wandering somewhere? Things to think about some other time. Dialing the number for the ship, he waited for whoever was manning the phone to pick up.

'Yes.'

'It's Greg.'

"Yes, sir, how can I help you?'

'Give me the Field Commander.'

The phone went quiet for a moment, then a new voice answered. 'Commander, how can I help you?'

'I have arranged for your team to meet with a member of the local resistance, tonight.'

'Is that necessary?' The tone was clear: I don't need amateurs helping me.

'Politically, yes, it's their field.'

'I understand. When are we to meet?'

'I left it open, given the situation in the bay right now.'

'Yes, we have been monitoring that with some concern. Is his number on file?'

'It's a her, and yes, Ubrectht, U B R E C H T.'

'I will contact her and arrange a meeting.'

'Thank you.'

The line went dead and Greg set to work; the embassy would have to be surveyed, and that would take some doing. And some money. Or sneakiness. He knocked on the window into the next office, beckoning a junior officer who had wandered in to drop off or pick up some information.

'You do maps, right?' asked Greg as the young man entered his office.

'Yeah.'

'Good, get me a list of all the buildings tall enough to see into the Pantoratorian embassy.'

later that night:

Ubrecht's phone rang, an unknown voice greeting her as she answered. 'You have thirty minutes to reach the harbor, dock 54. Do not be late, or early, and come alone.' The line went dead immediately afterwards.

Meanwhile, a splash and a wake of foamy sea water marks the sudden entry of a human body, followed by several others. They never surface, and begin a motor assisted swim towards the shore. One would certainly hope they'd brought underwater breathing devices.

Bishop Uvaras nodded. “Captain Plussiers, thank you – and your men – for all your assistance.” The bishop flushed as he spoke. “I regret placing so many lives in danger. I certainly don’t want to put your ship at risk as well.” The bishop looked briefly at Sister Marguerite.

“Yes, Captain,” the nun said in a steady voice, “thank you very much.”

“As for your question of where we should go,” the bishop spoke slowly, clearly thinking as he talked, “I had assumed that we would go to Pantocratoria. However, I do not want to be so far from my people.” The bishop looked passed Plussiers. “Excalbia would be a logical destination. Close, yet secure. However, so many of our people a dubious of the Excalbians. A shame really, since we share mostly the same ancestors. But, nothing can be done about that now. I fear if I go to Excalbia, it will be all too easy for Altman to discredit what I feel I must say. Hmmm. Tell me, Captain, isn’t it true that the Excalbian emperor gave a grant to his son and his Pantocratorian daughter-in-law to establish their own kingdom on the western peninsula? That might be an ideal location. Close enough for me to be speak to my people and try to guide them, yet secure. And with the Pantocratorian connection, it may shield me from charges of being ‘under Excalbian influence.’ What do you think, Sister?”

Sister Marguerite bit her lip and nodded.

“So, Captain,” the bishop turned back to the splendidly dressed Pantocratorian officer, “what do you think?”

"The decision isn't mine, Your Excellency." said the captain. "We can certainly get you to Langeais, and we can do it without entering Upper Virginian airspace. We will, of course, provide your flight with an escort - after your most recent experience, we'd be mad not to. As soon as we're done copying your dossier and fueling your helicopter, we'll get you to safety."

The Captain turned to his flight deck officer.

"I want three helicopters ready, one to take the Bishop and Sister Magueritte to Langeais, one to fly as a decoy to Excalbia, and another to fly as a decoy to the Glorious. As soon as they're ready, I want them in the air. NOW MOVE!"

Bishop Yanis Uvaras nodded. “Thank you, Captain.” The bishop looked around. His gaze fell on Sister Marguerite and he noticed that she was starting to look a little pale and wobbly. “Is there a place Sister Marguerite and I could rest, Captain? I’m afraid all the excitement is finally catching up with me…”

Gwen Ubrecht held the phone in her hand and looked at it for just a moment. It obviously wasn’t Greg, but then, he sort of said his people would be calling her. With a faint grunt, Gwen climbed off her comfortable futon and tossed her phone in a shoulder bag. She slipped on some shoes and a jacket and headed out the door.

In the elevator down to the street, she scrolled through the names – all codenames - on her FVLA phone. She hit one and dialed. “Hi,” she said sweetly, “he finally called. I’m on my way to meet him. Do you have anything for me to tell him about the Pantos?”

“Hmmm,” Gwen nodded as she listened and tried to remember what she heard.

The elevator dinged and the doors open. She could see through the lobby that it had started to rain. “OK, gotta go. Call Marko for me. Thanks.”

OCC: I finally have access again!

Sir Gareth Vikis, His Imperial Majesty’s Ambassador to Varessa, rubbed his chin as he listened to the voice on the speakerphone. As MAJGEN Harrison - the apparent leader of the anti-Atlman cabal within the Dominion’s military - outlined her conditions, the ambassador tried to read the expressions of Chancellor Drake, Minister Shaw and Field Marshall Harris. They – the Varessan leadership – certainly knew Harrison and the coup-plotters better than he or any Excalbian.

After she finished, Vikis waited a beat to see if the Drake would speak. When he didn’t, Vikis cleared his throat.

“Chancellor Drake, General Harrison,” Vikis paused for just a second. Either the Emperor would personally decorate him or reinstate the death penalty just for him. “I believe the general’s summary of my hypothetical offer is correct. If all parties can come to an agreement on the terms, I will seek the Chancellor’s leave to return to my Embassy and confirm this agreement with His Imperial Majesty’s Government as quickly as possible.” Vikis let out a breath. “Naturally, I will pass that confirmation to Minister Shaw straight away and ask that he further relay it to General Harrison.”

Vikis relaxed just a little, took a quick drink and leaned back into his chair. “Chancellor?”

* * *

CAPT Jennifer Wells stepped through the hatch into the ornate admiral’s mess. “Admiral Kunle, Lord Phocas,” Wells said after she had closed the hatch.

VADM Sir Derek Kunle sat down his glass and looked up at the blonde-haired captain. “Yes, Captain?”

“Sir, my Lord,” Wells bowed slightly towards Phocas, “ Pantocratorian diplomatic flight 712 is aboard Imperator Andreus. Sledgehammer and the rest of the Dominion task force is standing down and returning to Dominion waters. I have taken the liberty of standing down my Wraith squadron. Imperator Andreus has also requested landing permission for one of their helicopters aboard Glorious and overflight permission for another helicopter for Excalbian airspace. A third helicopter has filed a flight plan to Langeais.”

“Very good, Captain.” Kunle smiled and gestured towards the empty seat at the table. “Please return to your dinner.” Kunle turned to Phocas. “So, my Lord, which helicopter do you think will be bearing the good bishop?”

A pair of wetsuit clad bodies flopped their way onto the dock, a ferry pier that stopped service at 10 pm, several hours before. Stripping the suits off, they emerged into the light as a pair of scruffy, slightly soggy pedestrians, scanned the street, then beckoned for the other three to follow. There was a lot less activity than they had expected; back home, the harbor was always crawling with people and business; longshoreman, bars for dock workers going onto or coming off their shifts, clubbers, shady folk and so on. In UV, which was increasingly obvious as a police state, there was little street traffic, and this wasn't actually looking like the best place to meet.

Oh well, the general unspoken thought said. They spread out; their watches told them Ubrecht was supposed to show up in seven minutes, though how accurate he watch was hadn't been established. Anything more than sixty seconds eithe way, though, and they were walking.

Bishop Yanis Uvaras nodded. “Thank you, Captain.” The bishop looked around. His gaze fell on Sister Marguerite and he noticed that she was starting to look a little pale and wobbly. “Is there a place Sister Marguerite and I could rest, Captain? I’m afraid all the excitement is finally catching up with me…”

The Captain fails to suppress his look of disdain. You didn't run an efficient operation by letting the main players take an afternoon nap.

"Of course, Excellency." says the Captain. "Our helicopters will be ready to launch in thirty minutes. If you wanted to compose yourself for the next twenty minutes or so, the officer's lounge is quite comfortable."

The Captain clicked over an aide.

"Show the Bishop and the Sister to the officer's lounge."

CAPT Jennifer Wells stepped through the hatch into the ornate admiral’s mess. “Admiral Kunle, Lord Phocas,” Wells said after she had closed the hatch.

VADM Sir Derek Kunle sat down his glass and looked up at the blonde-haired captain. “Yes, Captain?”

“Sir, my Lord,” Wells bowed slightly towards Phocas, “ Pantocratorian diplomatic flight 712 is aboard Imperator Andreus. Sledgehammer and the rest of the Dominion task force is standing down and returning to Dominion waters. I have taken the liberty of standing down my Wraith squadron. Imperator Andreus has also requested landing permission for one of their helicopters aboard Glorious and overflight permission for another helicopter for Excalbian airspace. A third helicopter has filed a flight plan to Langeais.”

“Very good, Captain.” Kunle smiled and gestured towards the empty seat at the table. “Please return to your dinner.” Kunle turned to Phocas. “So, my Lord, which helicopter do you think will be bearing the good bishop?”
"Hmm, I shouldn't like to guess sir." said Phocas, returning with glee to his food. "But I don't suppose that a bishop would want to swap one warship for another, so I should guess Excalbia or Langeais."

Phocas' aide stared at Lord Phocas disapprovingly. Things were hotting up! The Admiral should be back on his flagship!

"I say, Admiral," said Phocas to Kunle. "If my chef was half as good as yours I shouldn't think I'd ever go ashore when my ship was in port."

He held up his glass.

"May I propose a toast to the most magnificently catered command centre on water!" he toasted happily, and finished off his glass.

"I wonder what the Uppies are up to now, eh? They just blinked, firing that warning shot, mark my words. Altman doesn't strike me as the sort of man who enjoys being made to look a fool. Even if he doesn't know how important the helicopter's cargo was, I'd wager a thousand ducats that he won't let the matter rest, not now that he's failed to stop it." Phocas speculated.

Sir Derek Kunle, Vice Admiral of the Imperial Navy, held up his glass and drank to the toast.

Kunle was generally serious minded and known as something of a scholar. He was also a man who, like his noble guest, enjoyed the finer things in life. Somewhat ironic, he often thought to himself, for the child of immigrants from a poor African nation. He was also, however, a man who knew how to see the humor in any situation. As his eyes darted between Phocas and the Pantocratorian’s aide, Sir Derek’s mouth curled in the slightest of smiles. He could see the aide’s anxiety and disapproval. How could he not disapprove – his comrades had been harm’s way and were at the moment juggling the proverbial diplomatic hot potato, yet his lord and commander sat her enjoying fine wine and a gourmet meal with a foreign admiral who gave every appearance of matching his lord's own sense of grandeur and luxury. Yet, Kunle himself felt no regret for enjoying his meal. After all, the necessary orders had been given and the situation had been monitored. Until it escalated to combat, what more could he or Phocas do on the bridge?

“My Lord,” Kunle said in rich, deep voice, “thank you for your compliment. I shall certainly pass it on to the chefs and stewards. As for your assessment of the situation, I find it quite sensible. I suspect, myself, that, to the great disappointment of our Lord James and his intelligence staff, the good bishop will go to Langeais. There simply remains too much distrust between the people of Upper Virginia and the Empire, despite the fact that most of them are cousins.” The admiral chuckled. “As for Altman, I fear you are more correct than you may know. I suspect that he is already pursuing other means to determine the nature of flight 712. I might suggest, that if they have not already done so, that your Embassy in Courtland increase its security and warn its diplomats to be on guard; I do not think Altman will be too deterred by diplomatic immunity if he feels the need to search the Embassy or question your diplomats.”

A pair of wetsuit clad bodies flopped their way onto the dock, a ferry pier that stopped service at 10 pm, several hours before. Stripping the suits off, they emerged into the light as a pair of scruffy, slightly soggy pedestrians, scanned the street, then beckoned for the other three to follow. There was a lot less activity than they had expected; back home, the harbor was always crawling with people and business; longshoreman, bars for dock workers going onto or coming off their shifts, clubbers, shady folk and so on. In UV, which was increasingly obvious as a police state, there was little street traffic, and this wasn't actually looking like the best place to meet.

Oh well, the general unspoken thought said. They spread out; their watches told them Ubrecht was supposed to show up in seven minutes, though how accurate he watch was hadn't been established. Anything more than sixty seconds eithe way, though, and they were walking.

Six and a half minutes later, Gwen Ubrecht stepped out of a boarded-up door in an apparently abandoned building at the end of the pier. As the door opened, the distant sound of techno-beat music could be heard. Gwen casually flicked her hair back and smiled as she walked up to one of scruffy, slightly soggy strangers loitering about the pier.

“I think you’re looking for me,” she said softly. She looked around and spotted at least three others about. She thought she saw the movement of a fifth person in the shadows, but couldn’t be sure. “You might want to bring your friends into the club; there’re rooms upstairs that are quiet. The police will probably sweep through here in a few minutes. They were last by about 10 minutes ago.”

The Captain fails to suppress his look of disdain. You didn't run an efficient operation by letting the main players take an afternoon nap.

"Of course, Excellency." says the Captain. "Our helicopters will be ready to launch in thirty minutes. If you wanted to compose yourself for the next twenty minutes or so, the officer's lounge is quite comfortable."

The Captain clicked over an aide.

"Show the Bishop and the Sister to the officer's lounge."


Bishop Uvaras sighed at the captain’s expression. Ah, he thought, the arrogance of youth, fitness and good genes. Let’s see you after you’re retired and been off your exercise a few years, Uvaras thought, more bemused than angry.

“Thank you for your kind consideration, Captain,” the bishop smiled and turned to the aide. “Lead on, young man.”

* * *

SSGT Burke was good, even by SSS standards. CAPT Terelson had watched the veteran sergeant approach through the woods – he hadn’t been trying to sneak up on the captain, after all – but had only caught intermittent glimpses and heard nothing, not even the rustle of leaves. Burke stopped in front of his CO and sketched a quick salute. “Rear patrol reports spotting vehicles – regular army, no more than a squad – coming from the direction of the main trail.”

“Not good, Sergeant,” Terelson rubbed his chin.

“No sir. It looks like General Altman is trying to secure all approaches to the city, including this one and someone has identified our ridge as the place to do it from.”

“And, I’m sure he didn’t just send one squad to do it. We’re dealing with someone cautious and at least a little smart; he’s sending out a scout before sending his whole force to the ridge.” Terelson looked over the small encampment. The VSF had the forward observation spots – they had better gear for it – on the ridge. Most of his men sat in reserve, with a rear guard behind them. “Sergeant, send a few men forward to Colonel Matthews and let him know. And, send orders back to patrol to stay out of sight for now, but to keep the scouts in range and keep us informed of their movements.”

“Yessir,” Burke saluted and disappeared back into the woods.

'Fucking cops,' replied the man Ubrecht had addressed, indicating a general solidarity between people who are currently or have been pursued by police. Unjustly, for sure. The others detached themselves from their skulking positions and joined Ubrecht. 'Well, lead the way.'

"Well, lead the way," the man said in a light, but clearly foreign accent.

"OK," Gwen Ubrecht pivoted on her heels, "this way." Gwen walked back towards the forelorn, boarded up door in the old warehouse. She noted that the three other strangers, and a figure that emerged from the shadows, fell into a rough line and followed her in.

Once everyone was inside the darkened warehouse, Gwen turned and spoke - just loud enough to be heard over the distant sounds of heavy bass. "Be careful, this is a working warehouse by day and the clubbers keep the lights out to avoid attracting the cops. Someone's dad owns the warehouse and lets his kid run an underground club in the sub-basement."

Gwen led the strangers to a metal staircase and up at least two levels. Finally, she stopped on a catwalk and opened a door into a modest office. She walked over to a desk and turned on a dim desk lamp.

"They use this office for a chill-out room." Gwen gestured to a worn sofa and some chairs. "Have a seat and fill me in on the plan, Stan."

"One wonders Admiral," said Lord Phocas, addressing himself to Kunle. "whether by making such instructions to the embassy we wouldn't be putting it even more at risk. We must assume that the Uppies monitor our communications - warning our embassy that they might be raided by Altman's thugs might make Altman think there is something worth raiding there."

***

MOST SECRET

TO: HIMS Imperator Andreus, Excalbian Isles
FROM: Imperial High Command, New Rome

RE: Dossier

Message received. Standby.

'Carlos, actually.' Carlos sat, facing the door, along with two of the others who had come off the boat. The remaining pair stood, slouching against the wall. 'Not that it's important. The Commander said you had information that could help us, so I want to hear what you know before I spill the beans. If you can help us, good, if not, better for both of us you don't know what's going on.'

Gwen sat on the egde of the desk. "OK, Carlos." Gwen steadied herself with one hand and dangled the other across her knee. "I figure you have two possible targets - the Panto embassy or the bishop's residence. According to my people, the Panto embassy (OOC: appologies to Pantocratoria for taking liberties with his embassy) is located in the diplomatic quarter not far from the flaming wreck of the Directorate of Justice. Security is unobtrusive but pretty heavy. Their weakest point would be their consular department, which is open to the public, but that is the farthest from the Ambassador's office which is where any copies of the dossier - if it exists - would be kept.

"The bishop's residence is in downtown, not far from the cathedral off a monorail line. It should be empty and has almost no security. The problem is that I doubt the bishop made a copy. However, his admin assistant, Sister Marguerite, almost certainly recorded the name of the priest who brought it to the bishop. I know what time he came, so we probably backtrack to him and he probably remembers quite a bit of what's in the file. I think most people would remember reading something like that."

Gwen smiled and flicked her hair playfully. "So, which route do you want to take?"

Clearing his throat, Carlos grinned. Glancing at the man on his right, he motions towards Ubrecht. 'Show her.' The man materializes a digital tablet from his coat and turns it on, pointing to the screen with a stylus.

'Theesa' photos taken ba satellite, see? Thees 'ere-' he taps a network of buildings, white in the processed picture 'ees ta embassy. Thees-' he draws a circle on the pad and the photo zooms to show the roof of one of the central buildings '-ees a roof akses doh. We spossa get flo plans in ta mornin.'

'We're not going in via the ground, you see,' continues Carlos, 'on account of we'll be wearing, shall we say, conspicuous attire. What we need is the location of where these people keep their classified documents, what internal security is like, and how late the ambassador stays on the embassy grounds.'

Gwen smiles. "Nice pictures. I don't even want to know where you're getting floorplans from. As for inside info, we've never penetrated them; didn't see a reason until now. That said, I have heard that the bishop went to personally meet the Panto ambassador. I can't say whether he kept the copies or passed them down to a lower official. But, from what I've heard, the Pantos are pretty top-down, so it wouldn't surprise me if the ambassador kept any copies in his personal file. Your floorplan ought to show you where his office is."

Gwen paused and chewed her lip. "As for the hours he keeps, we might be able to help. I know people who work in the area they could keep an eye on the comings and goings at the embassy without attracting attention. Interested?"

"Oh," before Carlos could answer Gwen leaned forward, "one last thing about your plan - the embassy is like down the street from the Directorate of Foreign Affairs and other big government buildings. The police are thick enough to walk across them like a carpet. So, you'll need to keep an eye on them as your doing your Spiderman act on the rooftops."

'Yes, find out his schedule, and tell the Commander. There is a time consideration, though, so the sooner the better. But our floorplan won't tell us anything unless someone is kind enough to say 'I'm in the ambassador's office' when they walk in there; all we'll see if a bunch of rooms, and then we'll have to guess.'

Gwen yawned lightly. "OK, I'll get my people to work on it first thing and I'll report back tomorrow night of the following day. I'll also see if anyone has connections to any of the Pantos. Oh," Gwen paused as she stood, "by 'Commander' I assume you mean my regular contact at UC; if not, you'll have to give me a number."

Gwen stretched and yawned again. "Long day. If there's nothing else, I'll go and be in touch. Unless you have other plans you might want to crash here for a while. The police patrols thin about 3:30 am and the workers don't start showing up to 4:30 am - that'll give you a good window to slip away. No one from downstairs will bother you. They'll start drifting hime about the same time and you'll blend in just fine."

'Night will be too late; if the information isn't in by sundown we won't be able to
use it. And yes, the Commander is "Greg."

'And yes, we have other plans.' Carlos motioned and the others began filing out. 'Just a warning, expect some bad shit to go down tomorrow. You might want to go to ground for a while.'

What is that young fool Turley thinking? First he risks making himself a target for Altman by insisting on making an appearance at one his district offices, then he flies off at the drop of a hat with some foreigner. The last thing we need is more foreign intervention! Between the Varessans, the Excalbians, the Pantocratorians and whoever is backing the FVLA, we have enough to turn our little problems into a good size war already!

"Are you sure you have to go, Graham?" Harriet Yultilde asked, resting her hands on her husband's back.

"Yes, Harriet," Graham Yultilde was pulled back from his silent tirade by his wife's touch. "I don't want Frank is thinking about running off like this, but he was right about keeping the appearance of normalcy. His appearance has already calmed the markets and the business community. The community needs to see its leaders at work, working through the crisis and not hiding. I was wrong on that one and he was right."

"But, Graham..."

"Don't worry, my dear," Graham closed his briefcase and turned back to his wife, "I'll be fine. Even if Altman suspected something, he wouldn't suspect and old coot like me. Why, I've been on the board since before his predecessor." Graham forced a smile. "I'll be fine. I do want you to be careful. Keep off the landline and the internet and anything that might give away your location." He pressed a mobile phone into his wife's hands. "I'll call you on this when I can. Use it to call me only in an emergency. OK?"

"Alright, Graham."

* * *

Five black uniformed men silently crept into the residence of Courtland's Roman Catholic bishop. The building was dark and empty. And barely secured. The men quickly fanned out and scoured the building until they located the bishop's office. Thoroughly and carefully they searched his desk, cabinets and a small electronic safe. The store bought safe opened within a few seconds to the intruders, but revealed no secrets. They moved onto other offices until, in the office of the bishop's assistant, they found a ledger indicating that a Father Jack Tours had visited the bishop just before a car had been urgently dispatched from the Pantocratorian Embassy. A car that was now suspected of taking the bishop to the Embassy where he boarded a helicopter and left the country.

The team left everything as it had been and departed as quietly as they had come. In their control vehicle - a city water service van - their leader removed his mask and picked up a phone. "Major? Yes, we're finished. Nothing inside, except a note that a priest had visited the bishop just before he took off. Could be nothing or could be a link. Yes, we're pulling up his location now. Advise the general that we will report in as soon as we've located this priest."

CAPT Allan Marks hung up the phone and turned to the man beside him. "Anything?"

"Yes, sir. We've identified his parish church. Its in the burbs. We can be there in 20 minutes."

"Let's go."

'Night will be too late; if the information isn't in by sundown we won't be able to
use it. And yes, the Commander is "Greg."

'And yes, we have other plans.' Carlos motioned and the others began filing out. 'Just a warning, expect some bad shit to go down tomorrow. You might want to go to ground for a while.'

Gwen casts a suspicious eye at Carlos. "Gotcha. Sundown," she checked her watch, "today or not at all. I'll be in touch with Greg. And thanks for the warning." With than Gwen strolls out of the small office and into the dark warehouse.

The team waited for Ubrecht the leave, then follwed her path out, retracing their steps to the dock and slipped back into their wetsuits. By daybreak they were with the ship's commander, being debriefed and prepared for the operation the following night.

At the UC offices their day was just beginning, as a cheery faced woman who looked like she ought to be called a girl began disassembling a parabolic ear so it would fit into a variety of nondescript architect tubes. Below her, harddisks spun as hackers sought to fabricate appointments for a variety of UC employees in a short list of very tall buildings overlooking the Pantocratian embassy.

OOC: I am posting as Langeais here while I wait for Langeais to be resurrected.

IC:

On the outside, Chateau Langeais resembled a late medieval fortress. On the inside, it was a comfortable, if drafty, modern palace. Unlike the never-ending vastness that was that most pompous of palaces, the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator, Langeais was an intimate place, whose tiny court was relaxed and laid back.

Princess Anna was teaching chess to Prince Joseph when the messenger arrived.

"Your Highnesses, a message from the Imperator Andreus." said the messenger, holding a sheet of yellow paper in his hand.

"Thankyou, Williamson." said Anna, taking the Pantocratorian message from him. Williamson nodded politely before leaving the room.

"Your Imperial Highnesses," Anna read. "First Admiral Lord Phocas of the Bospherous sends his compliments from INV Glorious, and advises that a flight will soon depart from His Imperial Majesty's Ship Imperator Andreus bound for Langeais."

Anna stopped reading for a moment, and looked up at Joseph.

"Keep reading..." Joseph prompted, furrowing his brow.

"My Lord Phocas requests that Your Highnesses accept this flight and grant it permission to land upon request. My Lord Phocas advises that a guest of high rank may or may not be on-board this flight, and apologises for the ambiguity..." Anna pauses again, giving Joseph an incredulous look. "May or may not be on-board? Whatever is going on? Why can't they tell us for sure, and why don't they tell us who this person is?"

"They have their reasons, I'm sure." Joseph says, being more aware of the military circumstances than his young wife.

"Hmm..." Anna says, resuming. "My Lord Phocas requests that any passenger of the flight be accommodated at once at court, and that no questions be asked of the passenger, if there is one. By the time Your Highnesses receive this note, the flight may already be underway, and I regret that further correspondence will not be possible."

By this stage Anna was utterly bewildered, her voice becoming quiet in confusion as she read the signature.

"I have the privilege to be Your Highnesses' most humble servant, Captain Isaac Plussiers, HIMS Imperator Andreus." she concluded.

"Sounds like they're trying to hide whoever this passenger is." suggested Joseph. "We'd better make the appropriate arrangements."

Aboard Imperator Andreus in the Gulf...

Bishop Uvaras checked his watch and saw that it was nearly time to leave. In his experience, the Pantocratorians were a fairly punctual people and he expected the captain would want them ready to move as soon as he sent for them. The bishop looked over at Sister Marguerite, who had fallen asleep in a corner. "Sister," the bishop said softly, "Sister Marguerite," he said a little more firmly. "Marguerite," he repeated as he gently tapped her shoulder.

"Oh," the older lady jumped and looked around suddenly alert. "Yes, your Grace?"

"It is almost time to go."

"Oh, yes. Sorry, I must have nodded off..."

"Not a problem. Quite understandable, actually..."

Inside the National Park just outside of Courtland...

CAPT Terelson sat in his vehicle staring at the IR images from the various cameras set up on the perimeter. He looked calm on the surface, but inside, he had a bad feeling. He waited anxiously for a report on the regular army units that were stumbling blindly towards his men and the VSF.

In Courtland...

CAPT Allan Marks sat patiently in the back of the van. On an array of flat-screen monitor he watched as three of men approached the young priest, who knelt alone in the church. Suddenly, there was quick movement and before the priest could realize what was happening, he was subdued and being dragged to the van.

* * *

Several minutes later, Father Jack Tours slowly regained consciousness. He could feel that he was restrained. He looked up, but his vision blurred. He could just make out a masked figure in the dark, illuminated only by the glow of computer screens.

"Father," the man said, "we can make this as easy as possible. Simply tells us about the package you delivered to Bishop Uvaras."

"Pa..package... I don't..."

"Please, Father, don't lie. You'll find that I'm not nearly as forgiving as you."

Suddenly, Tours felt a sharp stab of pain in his head. He couldn't identify what it was or how it had been done, but it hurt.

"Now," the man said pleasantly, "let's try that again..."

Outside the 'Liberated City' of Harrington...

BRIG Alex Holmes looked over at his senior officers. "I have a bad feeling, but I can't explain it..."

"Any thought as to what it is you think might be going on, sir," LCOL Helms asked, watching his CO intently.

"No and that's the worst of it."

"Well, sir," COL Drake said rubbing his chin, "in my experience you gut feelings are better than most of the product that comes out of intel," the officers all chuckled, "so, instead of asking what you feel, why don't you ask what your gut feelings are telling you to do..."

"Start back towards Courtland."

Silence fell over the tent as all eyes locked on Holmes' face.

"I don't know why, but I think its time. Slowly, deliberately but towards Courtland none the less."

"Well, then, let's do it, sir," Drake said rising from his chair. Heads nodded around the tent.

"Very well." Holmes turned to the only person in the tent who wasn't a senior officer. "Sergeant?"

FSGT Tolliver stood to attention. "Yessir?"

"Send a message to the FVLA. Tell them we are withdrawing. Under the terms of our truce, ask them to begin shelling our old positions once we're on the move and to keep it up for a few days."

"Yessir!"

In Courtland...

Father Jack felt the pounding in his head beginning to subside. He tried to look up at the masked man, but his vision blurred. It made him feel nauseous. He looked back down and began to pray. Lord, give me the strength to do what is right...

"So," the masked man said calmly, "what did you deliver to the bishop?"

"Pa...pape," Father Jack felt blood on his lips and spit it on the floor, "papers."

"Good. What kind of papers?"

"Church papers." Another jolt of pain sent the priest crashing to the floor.

"Now, now, Father, I'm not foolish. Tell me what was in the papers."

Father Jack looked up. His vision blurred again, but this time, he stomach held steady. He looked at the man. He was a black smudge. But behind him... behind him was a light. Beautiful light. He felt serene and at peace looking at the light...

"Father," the man's voice now had a hard edge, "I grow impatient..."

"I will not lie to you," the priest said with a strength that shocked CAPT Marks, "but I cannot tell you. It is covered by the seal of confessional. I will not break the sacrament and I will not disobey the Lord."

"No god can help you now, Father." CAPT Marks nodded and another jolt was sent into the priest's brain. "I am the only one who save you, Father Jack Tours."

"Jesus said," the priest began, "I am the way, the truth and the life..."

Another jolt blinded the priest and sent him to the floor where he curled in a ball.

"Father..."

* * *

Several minutes later, CAPT Marks was on the phone. "No, Brigadier, I'm afraid the priest wouldn't talk. He died in interrogation. He did tell us that he delivered papers to the bishop that he had received in the course of hearing a confession." Marks listened. "No, after that he just start blathering about religious nonsense." Another pause. "Yes, sir. However, I do think we did learn something... Whatever the priest gave the bishop, he felt, was worth dieing for." A pause. "Yes, I think our only option is to try to infiltrate the Pantocratorian Embassy and, yes, we will dispose of the body."

Aboard Imperator Andreus in the Gulf...

Bishop Uvaras and Sister Marguerite followed the young Pantocratorian crewman to the carrier's flight deck. They saw CAPT Plussiers waiting for them not far from a helicopter.

"Captain," the bishop began, "thank you for everything..."

"One wonders Admiral," said Lord Phocas, addressing himself to Kunle. "whether by making such instructions to the embassy we wouldn't be putting it even more at risk. We must assume that the Uppies monitor our communications - warning our embassy that they might be raided by Altman's thugs might make Altman think there is something worth raiding there."


"Indeed, my Lord," VADM Sir Derek Kunle nodded his head towards Phocas. "Nevertheless, I do trust that they will take such precautions as they may without being too visible about it." As Kunle and Phocas continued to chat, the admiral appeared to scribble distractedly on sheet of paper that he pulled from a pocket. He passed the paper to his left down the table until his staff aide rose.

"Admiral, my Lord," the young lieutenant commander said with a bow before departing.

* * *

Lord James Reynolds picked up the phone and inserted his key to secure the line in one fluid motion. "Yes, Lord Admiral?"

"Lord James," ADM Lord Yornis Halton's voice sounded distant and flat over the secured line, "we have message traffic from Glorious."

"Yes, yes, don't keep me in suspense, Yornis!"

"Sir Derek believes that the bishop will fly to Langeais directly rather than through the Holy Empire."

"Confound it all!" The chief of intelligence pounded a fist on his desk, more in frustration than anger. "This is too great an opportunity to pass up. We must talk to the Emperor. Prince Joseph is in residence in that silly cottage of his wife's. Surely he can..."

"No, no, Lord James. You know the Emperor's policy as well as I. 'We will defend Langeais and support Langeais, but we will not interfere with Langeais!' And you know what the Emperor would do if you tried to do something there without his approval..."


"Yes, yes. But can't you see what a waste this is?"

"Yes, and that is why I will instruct our military attaché there, Brigadier Amanda Keene, to approach Prince Joseph and Princess Anna with a request that she be allowed to speak with the bishop. I don't think the Emperor will object to that. I will present it to Lady Freedman and she will present it to the Emperor."

"Very well. Do keep me informed, Lord Admiral."

"I shall, Lord James. Good day."

* * *

In the Varessan capital, Ambassador Sir Gareth Vikis sat nervously awaiting Chancellor Drakes response to the deal on the table...

Three identical helicopters sat on the flight deck of HIMS Imperator Andreus, standing ready to take off. Captain Plussiers stood with a heavy jacket over his splendid white uniform, next to the Bishop and Sister Magueritte.

"There is no need to thank me, Your Grace, I'm doing my duty as an Imperial officer." he said. "But I would like to thank you, Your Grace, for doing your duty as a true man of God. I wish you two the best of luck and godspeed to Langeais!"

The Captain saluted the Bishop, before ushering both into the helicopter closest to the control tower. He got away to a safe distance before all three helicopters took off simultaneously for their respective targets.

The Captain rushed over into the tower and started shouting at the flight control officers.

"EVERY BIRD IN THE AIR IS TO BE RUNNING INTERFERENCE FOR THOSE CHOPPERS! ANYTHING THAT LOOKS LIKE IT IS GOING TO FIRE ON ANY OF THEM SHOULD BE SHOT DOWN AT ONCE!" he bellowed.

Over the Gulf...

As the Pantocratorian helicopter made its way towards Langeais, an odd little kingdom born of the royal wedding between a prince of Excalbia and a princess of Pantocratoria, Bishop Yanis Uvaras slumped in his seat. He hadn't felt so tired and old in a very long time. He looked over at his assistant, Sister Marguerite. The older woman was obviously tired herself, but she seemed to be keeping a stiff upper lip about it all. Bishop Uvaras looked at the packet, which he once again carried like a ticking bomb. Not for the first time he felt inadequate to the task that had been given him. He looked up. Your ways are mysterious, Lord. But are you sure I'm the one you wanted to do this?

With a sigh the bishop lowered his head and strained to the distant coast of Langeais.

* * *

Aboard DNS Sledgehammer in the Gulf...

Senior Commander Jacob Hunt stood over the tactical plot watching red blips moving away from a large red icon. "Helicopters?"

"Yes, sir," the crewman answered.

"Headings?"

"Near as we make them, one is headed for the Excalbian fleet, another for the Excalbian mainland and the last towards the western peninsula..."

"Langeais?"

"Yes, sir."

Hunt snorted and walked back towards his command chair. On the way he passed LCDR Harrison Akron, his XO. "Any new orders from NMCC, Commander?"

"No, Captain. However,..."

"Yes?"

"We've just received orders from Fleetcom to track the helicopters and confirm destinations. Two battlecruisers and three frigates are being to support us..."

Hunt smiled. "That'll take us right between the Excalbian and Pantocratorian fleets. Are they..."

"Fleetcom has advised that they will respond to any provocation."

" Finally! Let's get underway, XO."

"Aye, sir."

"And our ROE?"

"Hold fire unless fired upon, Captain."

Hunt shrugged. "I guess we can't get everything we want..."

* * *

In Courtland...

CAPT Marks sat hunched over the IR monitor in the back of an innocuous van. Several teams were at the ready. At the right time, and once they had orders - order that he knew would have to come from GEN Altman himself - they would clandestinely enter the Pantocratorian embassy and try to discover the secret of the dead priest's 'church papers.'

Gwyneth Ubrecht say on the floor of apartment with little bits of paper spread around. Everyone she knew who was in a position to do it had spent the morning watching the Pantocratorian embassy and its employees. They had hung out in the coffee shops were embassy workers ate breakfast and bought coffee to take to the office. They had followed them on errands and to lunch. Some had struck up conversations and even asked some of the more junior Pantocratorians out for dates. And the results of all those observations were noted in code on little scraps of paper. Individually, they weren't much -the Consul likes to take a mid-morning stroll for a cup of tea - not coffee - at a little shop around the corner; a junior political officer envies the Ambassador's office overlooking the garden; a locally hired clerk isn't allowed in the room behind the Ambassador's office. Taken together, however, they are a schedule and pretty sense of where things are and who does what.

Gwen smiled and pulled her 'special' phone out of the purse on her bed. She dialed the number. "Hello, Greg?"

(OOC: Apologies to Pantocratoria for taking some guesses about your embassy and its employees.)

Ryan Edelmann, the President’s Chief of Staff, looked worried. “How bad is it?”

“Well,” Shannon Coles, the President’s campaign manager, looked only a little less worried than Edelmann, “nearly 85 % see the lack of response to the President’s initiative in Upper Virginia as a political defeat and an embarrassment to the Confederation. Almost 65 % believe the President made a mistake in trying to intervene…”

“Good Lord,” President Ilmars Alderson pounded a meaty fist on the table, “just days ago people saw the seriousness of the situation and agreed that we should act! What kind of fickle people are we! One day it’s - Act! Now! And the next it’s – Don’t do anything!”

“Mr. President,” Edelmann tried to sound cheery, “public opinion blows with the political winds. We’ve always known that. And Shannon does have some good news. Right, Shannon?”

“Umm,” Shannon tried to force a smile, “yes, Mr. President, the polls show that Congressman Tucker, the New Liberal nominee for president, has a less than 40 % favorable rating. The Sovereignty and Democratic nominees barely register. Your re-election prospects still look very good, sir.”

* * *

“President Alderson is doomed,” Shannon Coles said a few hours later in the corporate boardroom of Confederated Enterprises, Inc.

“His numbers are that weak?” John Hayes, a distinguished looking middle-aged man, asked from his seat at the head of the table.

“Yes, Mr. Chairman.”

“Then,” Thomas Caine, a younger man in a stylish suit, turned to the Chairman of CE, “isn’t it time for us to act?”

(OOC: This story line is continued here: http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=354264)

As the Bishop's helicopter came to rest on the helipad in the small police station in the village which surrounded Chateau Langeais, Princess Anna was escorted up onto the roof of the building wearing a heavy windbreaker over the sort of casual clothing she was never allowed to wear at the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator. She squinted through her sunglasses, trying to make out the figures in the helicopter.

"Passengers?" she shouted over the noise to one of the police officers.

"I don't know, ma'am." the cop shouted back, shrugging. "Looks like it."

The noise gradually subsided as the rotors stopped spinning and the chopper's passengers were helped out by the police officers standing on the roof. A Pantocratorian officer got off the chopper after them. He looked around briefly, and spotted Princess Anna. At first he looked taken aback by the jeans and windbreaker, but a lifetime of seeing portraits of the Imperial Family enabled him to recognise her nevertheless. He approached the Princess and bowed politely.

"Votre Altesse Impériale," he said respectfully in French, explaining that the chopper's passenger was Bishop Uvaras. "Monseigneur Phocas envoye ses compléments, et démande que vous logez sa Grandeur, Monseigneur Uvaras, évêque de Courtland."

"L'évêque de Courtland? Mais, Courtland, c'est la ville capitale de la Virginie Supérieure! Pourquoi est-ce que..." starts Princess Anna.

"Madame, je ne peux pas répondre. Je ne sais pas la raison. Je suis très désolée, Votre Altesse." concludes the officer, apologising that he can't explain why the Bishop must stay in Langeais. Anna sighs.

"Très bien, merci lieutenant. Envoyez-vous à Monseigneur Phocas mes compléments, et les compléments de Son Altesse Impériale." said Anna, dismissing the officer, who bowed before returning to the chopper.

Anna removed her sunglasses and approached the Bishop.

"Your Grandure," she said. "Welcome to Langeais. My name is Anna, and I govern this country alongside my husband, His Imperial Highness Prince Joseph of Excalbia. I hope that you find your stay here comfortable, my lord, please, follow me."

Sensing that the pair were exhausted, Anna pointed to the picturesque medieval-looking castle across the tiny village. It couldn't be more than ten minutes walk away.

"You've not got long to go, there's a car waiting downstairs, and before long you'll be able to rest. So if Your Grandure will follow me...." Anna said, and realised that she didn't know the title of the lady with the Bishop. She assumed (and hoped) that she was probably a nun. "...and you too, Sister. One flight of stairs down, then a lift down, then into the car, then a few moments, and your journey will be over..."

...or so I assume, since nobody has told me what is going on around here... Anna finishes silently.

TO: CICs Excalbian and Pantocratorian forces deployed in the Excalbian Isles, on-board INV Glorious
FROM: Flight Control, HIMS Imperator Andreus

The bird is in the nest.

If you could see microwaves they would have blotted out the sun above the UC building just be the sheer amount of data being moved in and out of the office. The office was receiving surveillance feed of the Pantocratorian embassy in real time, which was turned around and send to the freighter for processing, which was then relayed back to UC. Greg was about ready to teraflop down for a quick nap when the phone rang, because Murphy's Law applied to the need for rest as well. Hoping it was good news, he answered. 'What's up?'

Sir Pierre de Thrake sat in his office in the embassy contemplatively swirling the brandy in his glass around. The TV news blared on in the background, but he didn't hear it.

"Ambassador," came a young woman's voice over the intercom.

"Yes, Jeanne?" de Thrake replied.

"Priority message from the Imperator Andreus." she said.

"Put it through." said the Ambassador, switching his phone to a secure mode, and typing in an access code into the numeric keypad.

"FLIGHT CONTROL HIMS IMPERATOR ANDREUS CONFIRMS BIRD IS IN THE NEST" boomed an electronic voice over the phone line.

The Ambassador hung up, and breathed a sigh of relief. He then spun around in his swivel chair towards the book case behind his desk. He stood up, and pulled and then replaced a book entitled "The Fourth Pantocratorian Crusade" from the shelves. The bookcase slid a few metres left, revealing a hidden door.

The Ambassador opened the door and walked into a room consisting of six rows of filing cabinets. He opened one of the cabinets, and removed his copy of Bishop Uvaras' file. Taking a sip of his brandy, he turned and closed the door to the archive room behind him, the bookcase sliding back in front of the door. He took the file over to the small desk at the end of the room, next to a photocopier, a metal dustbin and a shredder. He set down the half glass of brandy on the table, and removed a sheet of paper from the file.

"The bird is in the nest...." he murmured to himself as he fed the sheet through the shredder.

In Chateau Langeais…

Bishop Uvaras nodded. “Thank you, your Highness. All me, please, to introduce ourselves,” the bishop smiled weakly, “I am Yanis Uvaras, Bishop of Courtland and this,” the bishop gestured towards the middle aged lady standing beside him, “is my assistant, Sister Marguerite. Thank you for opening your nation and your home to us, your Highness. “

Bishop Uvaras and Sister Marguerite fell into step behind the princess and her police escort and followed them down the steps to the car below. “Your offer of rest is most appreciated, your Highness. Perhaps, once we’ve had an hour or two to rest and compose ourselves, you would like to hear about the mission that has brought us to your land…”

* * *

Aboard DNS Sledgehammer in the Gulf...

“Captain,” LCDR Harrison Akron stepped up to his CO’s command chair, “Tac confirms that one chopper has entered Langeais’ air space and another is over Excalbia. The third is aboard Glorious.”

“Our position?” SCDR Jacob Hunt swiveled to look at the tactical plot in the distance.

“We’re coming up between the two enemy fleets now.”

“Any sign of resistance?”

“None yet, sir.”

“Keep me posted and let me know as soon as we confirm landing sites for the last two choppers.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

* * *

In Courtland…

“Yes, sir. Understood.” CAPT Marks hung up the phone. BRIG Youst had just given Marks’ team the authorization he needed, with a few major caveats. Nevertheless, it gave him his opportunity.

Marks turned to his team. “As soon as they’ve shut down for the night, we go in. First, we secure their trash and set aside for analysis. Then, we move into the compound. Power will fail in a four-block radius just as we go in, so our first priority on the compound is to secure and disable any generator. Then, we move into the building and up to the second floor.”

“Hello to you, too,” Gwen sighed – at least he could pretend to happy to hear from me. “I have some information for your friends - a partial schedule for the Pantos’ embassy, the location of their ambassador’s office and the location of a little secret room behind his office. How do you want to handle a drop?”

'Beauty.' Greg banged his fist on the glass window and held up a rapidly scribbled note: I need a car. 'I'll send a car to meet you. Where should they pick you up?'

"Corner of 137th and Inslemann." Gwen checked her watch. "In about 10 minutes; time is getting short."

As he continued shredding the contents of the file, the phone on the desk in the archive room rang.

"Yes, Jeanne?" the ambassador said, picking up the phone.

"Monsieur Ambassador, I don't want to bother you, but you promised me that I would be allowed to leave at 5:30pm today. I need to pick up my son from..." Jeanne started, worried that because the ambassador was still busy she would be required to stay.

"No need to worry Jeanne, I don't need you here tonight. Go pick up your son." said the ambassador as he fed a photograph through the shredder.

"Erm... thankyou, Sir Pierre..." said Jeanne, a little stunned that she was allowed to leave on time for a change.

The ambassador set down the phone and continued to feed the sheets of paper through the shredder as the office closed down for the evening outside.

In Courtland...

"Sir?" The junior agent turned towards CAPT Marks.

"Yes, Timmerman?"

"The ambassador's secretary has just left. That's everyone on the second floor except the ambassador himself."

"Anyone else still on the compound?"

"Some tradesmen are working on the far side of the garden and there are still two people in their consular office, but that is on the other side of the garden."

"Good. Send the first team in. Secure the dumpsters and the rear exit. As soon as the ambassador leaves, we'll cut the power and go to the chancery itself."

"Yes, sir."

Aboard DNS Vigilant Off the Western Coast...

"Commander?" Radar tech 2nd class Urbane studied his screen and typed without looking into the keyboard to his right.

"Yes, Urbane?" LCDR James Trent, the Officer of the Deck, stepped over to the radar station.

"Sir, I have a sporadic contact with something, but I can't pin it down..."

"Hmmm..." Trent leaned over the crewman and hit a few keystrokes. "Any ideas, Urbane?"

"Ummm... Could be stealth or radar jamming or a flock of birds or a glitch. Can't really say, sir, until I see more of it..."

"Keep an eye on it, Urbane."

"Yes, sir. Should we notify FleetCom?"

"No, no, not until we have something more to report than a flock of birds..."

"Aye, sir."

'Quite.' Greg hung up and scribbled the address on the same piece of paper, holding it up against the window again. He mouthed the word 'now' and watched with satisfaction as a junior officer in the next room copied the address and ran downstairs. A car, or rather an SUV, pulled out of the UC garage shortly after, while Greg was typing an update for the crew aboard the freighter.

A checkpoint and a little over ten minutes later, the vehicle pulled up to the corner of Inslemann and 137th while the driver glaned left and right, ostensibly checking street signs.

Gwyneth Ubrecht watched the SUV pull up to the corner and waited as the driver leaned forward and pretended to check the street signs. Satisfied that she recognized the vehicle and the driver, Gwen walked out of the little diner and opened the back door of the SUV.

"Urban Cool?"

The driver nodded and Gwen jumped in.

A young man sat in the backseat across from Ubrecht and handed her a set of headphones before turning on the noise cancellation device.

'Greg couldn't make it, he's got a war to plan. What have you got?'

The ambassador finishes feeding the last sheet of paper through the shredder. He then takes the half-empty glass of brandy he left on the desk up in his hand.

"What a waste of good brandy..." he murmurs, before pouring it over the shredded paper in the metal bin. He sets the glass back down, and walks over to the wall, where a fire extinguisher stands ready. He sets it ready to use, before producing a matchbook from the Hotel Courtland from his pocket. He strikes the match, and drops it into the bin. The alcohol drenched paper bursts into flames, and the ambassador quickly fumbles with the extinguisher, and puts it out. He looks into the bin, and, satisfied that the dossier has been obliterated, carries it outside the archive room where the cleaners will be able to access it, with the secret door once again closing behind him. He glanced at the paper work he had neglected for the past few days with all the excitement, and sits down at his desk to finish it, but then gets up again to turn on his stereo. Ravel's Bolero starts playing, a piece of music which starts quiet but gradually builds to a huge crashing climax over a period of 15 minutes or so. Happy with the music, the ambassador returns to his desk and gets on with his paperwork.

In Chateau Langeais…

Bishop Uvaras nodded. “Thank you, your Highness. All me, please, to introduce ourselves,” the bishop smiled weakly, “I am Yanis Uvaras, Bishop of Courtland and this,” the bishop gestured towards the middle aged lady standing beside him, “is my assistant, Sister Marguerite. Thank you for opening your nation and your home to us, your Highness. “

Bishop Uvaras and Sister Marguerite fell into step behind the princess and her police escort and followed them down the steps to the car below. “Your offer of rest is most appreciated, your Highness. Perhaps, once we’ve had an hour or two to rest and compose ourselves, you would like to hear about the mission that has brought us to your land…”

"Mission? Yes, Your Grandure, I would very much like to hear about that." says Princess Anna as the police lead the party back down through the station into the car waiting below. The car drove through the tiny village very quickly, and was soon beneath the mock porticullis of Chateau Langeais. The young princess could see that the Bishop and his companion were very tired, and didn't enquire after anything more involved than their comfort throughout the car trip.

When the car stopped, she personally lead the pair inside, and lead them to a spiraling staircase inside one of the towers. She started up the stairs before stopping and turning around.

"I'm afraid that in the quest for authenticity the architect neglected to pencil in a lift." she offers with a weak smile. "I don't mean to offend you, Your Grandure, but you both look very tired. There are proper guest rooms upstairs if you're up to it, but if the stairs are too much, you could rest in the lounge room just to your right."

Other solutions went through her head but she dismissed the amusing mental picture of conscripting her husband, Prince Joseph, to carry the nun and then the bishop up the stairs.

In Courtland...

CAPT Marks watched the still illuminated lights in the ambassador’s office with growing frustration. Until that man left, he couldn’t activate the rest of his plan. Marks chewed his lip and tried to think of options. He could cut the power, but he had no guarantee that the ambassador would actually leave. And, it might raise his suspicions. No, he concluded, there was nothing he could do but wait.

In Chateau Langeais...

“Thank you, your Majesty, but it will be no problem for us to climb the stairs.” Bishop Uvaras looked at Sister Marguerite, who was lagging a few steps behind. “Sister? Are you all right? Would you rather rest in the lounge?”

“No, your Grace, thank you. I’ll be fine.” Sister Marguerite managed a weak smile, then she nodded towards Princess Anna. “And thank you, your Majesty. You are being very, very gracious.” With that, the nun and the bishop resume their climb up the tower.

Aboard DNS Sledgehammer in the Gulf...

"Sir, we have confirmation that the chopper has landed in that little village that passes for a capital in Langeais," LCDR Harrison Karon barely hid the contempt in his voice.

"And the flight to Excalbia?" SCDR Jacob Hunt turned towards his XO.

"It's flown too far into Excalbian territory..."

"Very well." Hunt sighed. "Signal Fleetcom."

"Aye, Captain."

Gwen adjusted the headset. “Hopefully, I have information that'll help Greg plan ‘his’ war.”

Leaning back into the seat, Gwen reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out some tightly folded papers. “Here,” she said as she handed the papers to her contact, “is the typical daily schedule at the Pantocratorian embassy – most of the staff leaves a little after 5 pm. The tradesmen and some of the support staff leave by 7. The ambassador sometimes sits around his office and listens to music - and probably drinks – until a little later in the evening.”

Gwen smiles as the nameless contact begins to read her handwritten schedules and notes. “It sounds like after hours they have only two guards at the gate, one more at the main building and a fourth patrolling the grounds. Dominion Diplomatic Police patrol the street outside, but usually with only a couple of men.

“The ambassador’s office is on the second floor overlooking the gardens and he has a room, not accessible from any hallway, behind his office.” Gwen leans forward. “Hope Greg appreciates my efforts…”

'I'm sure we all do.' The young man rifles through the notes, nodding his approval. 'Something that's kind of an afterthought, on the topic of contingencies, what would the consequences be if our helicopters flew from the embassy to FLVA controlled territory?'

Gwen Ubrecht leaned further back in the seat and crossed her legs. "Hmm... We've pretty well secured the area around Harrington and our truce with the Dominion general up there seems to be holding well." She chewed her lip for a second. "So, once your people got into the vicinity of FVLA territory there should be little chance that you'd take any fire from Dominion forces."

Gwen turned her head to one side. "However, there would be obvious political ramifications... it would link us to the - hopefully - 'unknown' forces that assaulted the Panto's embassy... That would certainly spoil our chances, if we come to power, of starting off on the right foot with Pantocratoria. And, the Excalbians probably wouldn't be too happy with us either..."

Suddenly, Gwen smiled. "We could," the smile grew wider, "however, finese this... If your helios come down in FVLA territory - hopefully, they won't be detected - if they're as good as your people think they are - but if they are detected, we could issue a statment denouncing the attack, disavowing knowledge of it and pledging to hunt for those responsible." Gwen was positively grinning now. "If we work at, we might even be able to come up with reasonably convincing wreckage and a few convincing 'prisoners'..."

Gwen leaned over towards the man. "What d'ya think Greg will think of that?"

'Well, landing near Harrington isn't our first plan. What we're concerned about is needing to put down if we can't afford to lose the cargo onboard. If we do drop off the cargo we'll need a pick up and a way out of the warzone within a few hours. And if the helicopters do enter FLVA territory we need you to fire on them, but only after given an all clear from us. We've made preparations to make it look like Altman ordered the attack; flying into FVLA controlled territory would not support such a perception. It is a last resort, only to be used if we cannot afford to lose what is on board the helicopters.'

Gwen nodded. "Understood. Taking Carlos' advice, I've warned my people to submerge themselves in their 'normal' lives for a few days and to wait for me to contact them." Gwen looked around. "But, you people have my number; call me if your chopper needs to land in the vicinity of Harrington. I'll alert Commander Lazarus to the possibility." Gwen seemed to be looking out the windows for something. "So, when does the 'invasion' go down?"

The young man eyed Ubrecht for a moment before he answered. 'Soon. The window of opportunity has not yet opened, let's just say that. Can we drop you somewhere?'

(OOC: The Excalbian Isle's homepage has been updated - http://www.geocities.com/ilclbt/history.htm)

The young man eyed Ubrecht for a moment before he answered. 'Soon. The window of opportunity has not yet opened, let's just say that. Can we drop you somewhere?'

Gwen flicked her hair over her shoulder. "Anywhere along here will be fine. Good luck storming the embassy..."

As the SUV came to a stop, Gwen flashed a smile, pulled off the headphones and opened the door. She jumped out on the curve and closed the door.

OOC: Are you waiting for me to do something before you storm my embassy?

ooc: just confirmation that all other loose ends have been wrapped up.

ic:

http://cace.thegrimproject.net/scratch/courtland_centre.jpg

The helicopters took off just after midnight, acoustic cancellers on, leaving only a dull hum where the long whoops of dual rotors would have been. Flying against the night sky, the bulging devices on their noses spewed out electronic noise, focused in on any radar installation within range. They flew high, far from the streetlights below, then descended, straight down, descending onto the Pantrocratorian embassy.

A guard, turning to see where the sudden wind had come from, gasped as gray suited figures leapt from the loading ramp at the end of a helicopter, visible only as a dim silhouette hovering over the embassy. It seemed to stare at him, hull painted matte black, a dull, misshapen face looking down at the humans below. Raising his gun to shoot, the guard shouted for help, and was torn apart as gun pods on the helicopter’s wings opened fire. Two more then appeared, lit by the flare of their gun barrels, and as he dropped to the floor, the guard wondered why he hadn’t seen them too.

The roof access door exploded in a thump, barely audible over the gunfire above. Tearing the door away from its destroyed hinges, the soldiers ducked inside, guns held up against their shoulders, fingers on their triggers. Each wore dark gray armor, helmeted and covered in large plates on either their left or right arms and legs. Inside their visors, green letters scrolled across the top edge, counting down the time on their mission, sending messages from within the Scarecrows above. At the base of the stairwell the soldiers split into two groups of four, six men, two women, to take over an entire embassy. Or just the parts that mattered. Blue arrows showed each team their targets: ambassador and then his office.

The soldiers didn’t run, but walked, skulked, through the hallways, their gun barrels bobbing from doorway to doorway, awaiting the inevitable counterstrike.

In Courtland…

Agent Timmerman sat hunched in the shadows with his team. Several bags of trash had been placed in large, heavy-duty bags and set aside for later. He was anxious, yet managed to sit immobile. Waiting. Slowly, he realized that he thought he was hearing dull hum from above and to his right, coming from the embassy compound. He lowered his night vision goggles and looked up.

Several helicopters were descending upon the embassy…

* * *

“Yes, Timmerman?” CAPT Marks sounded frustrated and angry even through the throat mic.

“We have unknown choppers descending. I make it to be…” Timmerman’s report was cutoff by the sound of gunfire. On his monitors, Marks could see the flashes on the roof of the embassy main chancery.

“Holy…” Marks leaned forward, manipulating his camera as spoke, “Timmerman, get your people in there now! Don’t worry about niceties. Get in and secure the embassy!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Second team?”

“Hollings, here, sir.”

“Hollings, we’re going in. Subdue the guards at the main gate, breech it and go in now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Marks looked around the van. “Miller,” he said to the young man seated to his left, “take over here. Inform the brigadier and call in air support. Now!”

“Yes, Captain.”

“The rest of you,” he looked around at his four most experienced men – his emergency reserve, “with me.”

* * *

Timmerman and his team quickly blew open the rear service entrance to the Pantocratorian embassy. They moved quickly across the compound, guns at the ready, towards the chancery. As they crossed the garden, one tradesman walked out of a workroom and spotted them. Before he could do much more than yelp, one of the six men was on him and had rendered him unconscious with a blow across the neck. The team continued towards the chancery. They no longer heard gunfire, but they could make out people moving on roof.

Meanwhile, Hollings and six more agents had come upon the embassy’s main gate quietly and unexpectedly. The two guards at the gate had been distracted by the sounds of a firefight on the roof and were looking up. The team had quickly subdued them and forced open the vehicle gate. As the team moved onto the compound, they crouched and looked for more guards.

CAPT Marks and his four-man team circled behind the embassy and followed the first team through the rear gate.

* * *

“What?” BRIG Youst thundered, slamming a fist on his dinner table. A glass of expensive wine tipped over, spilling its contents on his linen tablecloth. Mrs. Youst shook her head and turned to call for a steward. “Who in the world?”

“We don’t who, yet, sir,” LT Miller said as calmly as he could. “Two teams have entered the compound and Captain Marks has taken his reserve in as well. He also requests air support…”

“Very well, he shall have air support. And more. I want another report in five minutes, understood, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Brigadier.”

* * *

Near the northern edge of the city, three attack helicopters that were kept on hot stand-by – just in case they were needed to quell insurrection – lifted off towards downtown Courtland.

“Base, Raven One. Over.”

“Roger, Raven One. You are clear for a direct flight. ROE Beta, repeat, ROE Beta. Engage on sight, try to disable and force down. Destroy if necessary.”

“Roger, Base. ETA, 10 minutes. Raven One out.”

Further out of town, two pilots ran towards a pair of S-10 fighters…

'Ground teams, we have ten plus hostiles entering the Embassy.' The gun pods of one of the SC's rotated and took aim at the new arrivals attempting to cross the garden.

'Engaging first group,' echoed the SC pilot as the gun pods opened fire on the soldiers below.

'No shot on the second group,' replied another pilot, attempting to circle the embassy to fire on the intruders entering via the back. 'Be advised, they have entered the embassy grounds.'

Aboard the SC2, still hovering over the rooftop it had depositing the operatives onto, the CPG officer marked three fairly fast moving contacts heading towards their position. 'Command, we register three new contacts.'

'Affirmative, lock and hold your fire.'

Aboard the freighter, intelleigence officers scurried from console to console. One of them shrugged and said, 'Plan b.'

The commander rolled his eyes and radioed the SC's. 'Go to plan b; destroy the helicopters, protect the ambassador.'

One of the ground operatives cussed and muttered, 'I hate escort missions.'

Above, the SC seeking the back door unit broke off and rose slightly. 'Missiles locked, fire in four minutes.'

In Courtland…

CAPT Marks watched the helicopters hovering over the chancery as he made his way past workshops towards the garden. The gardens were large – especially for the centre of Courtland - and were elaborately formal. Timmerman’s first team was skirting some hedges coming from the back. Hollings’ second team, apparently finding no resistance at the main gate, was coming across the more open flowerbeds from the front.

Suddenly, he saw movement from one of the ‘copter’s gun pods. “Cover!” Marks growled in whispered tones.

Picking up the captain’s order through their earpieces, everyone dove for cover. Hollings and his team, however, were caught out in the open with only a few flowers and ornamental cabbages for cover.

Marks could see Hollings and his men being cut to ribbons, but couldn’t do anything about it. “Sit tight,” he whispered. “Miller?”

“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant answered from the van. “We have three attack choppers in bound, ETA 6 minutes. We also have two strike aircraft in bound from the north, ETA 15 minutes…”

“Understood.” Marks looked up and saw the helicopter angling for a better shot on team one. He turned to MSGT Irons, who was just behind him to his left. “Irons, circle around behind these work shops. Try to get a shot with an RPG. Then keep to the perimeter and try to get off as many as you can.”

“Yes, sir.” Irons pulled the launcher from its place on his back and ducked behind the workshop.

“Timmerman.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get you men moving, under cover towards the chancery. It looks the shrubbery runs right up to a low wall. If you can make to the wall, you should be out of their firing arc, unless they move away from the chancery. Once you’re secure, head into the building and eliminate the hostiles.”

“Understood.”

Marks nodded to the other men with him and began moving along the ground towards some high hedges at the edge of the garden. By the time he reached them and risked a look at the chancery, he could see the IR signatures of team one crouching at the wall and starting to roll over it and head for a door. A heart beat later, he heard a small boom and turned to see the glow of an RPG rising towards one of the helicopters. Just a second after that another boom sent another RPG on its way. “Too quick for a reload,” Marks thought, “Irons must have double packed. Again.” A grim smile touched Marks’ lips as he looked up to check for damage.

* * *

Over Courtland…

“Raven one, Raven three, over.”

“Roger, go.”

“ETA 4 minutes. We’re having trouble making out the targets; we’re getting a lot of noise. Filtering it through the processors gives us probable locations. Looks like we have two hostiles sitting right on top of the embassy compound. Over.”

“Roger, Raven three keep cleaning up that noise and get us as good a target solution as possible. Out.”

“Black squirrel, Raven flight. Over.”

“Black squirrel,” LT Miller answered from the van, “our units are under fire. Say again, we are under fire. Team two has been lost. Over.”

“Roger, Black squirrel.”

“Raven flight, Raven one. We’ll take three different approach vectors. Raven three will transmit targeting data. Arm heat-seekers in pod one and AI birds in pod two. If we don’t have a good fix on the hostiles, go with heat-seekers for volley one. Our ground units are under fire, so take down the hostiles. ETA 3 and a half minutes. Fire on my mark. Over.”

“Raven one, Raven two acknowledged.”

“Raven one, Raven three acknowledged.”

* * *

At General Altman’s Command Center…

“We have three attack choppers in-bound, ETA about 3 minutes, and two strike planes coming for support, ETA about 12 minutes.” Air Force MAJGEN Max Repse stood nervously at parade rest. BRIG Youst nodded and turned to GEN Altman. “I’ve also ordered three companies into the area. They will secure the perimeter a few blocks away first and then will move into support our intel team on the ground. I didn’t order them to rush in because I didn’t want to spook whoever this is…”

“Good thinking, Youst.” Altman leaned forward and studied the tactical display of downtown Courtland with a worried expression and Youst slumped slightly with relief. “My first question is where did these helicopters come from?”

“My best guess, General,” Repse began, “is that they came off some ship in the gulf; skimmed the water towards the coast, broadcast noise to cover their tracks and came in via the harbor.”

“That’s a lot of guess work, General.” Altman said without looking up.

“It fits the scenario and it matches some anomalous data that some of our coastal tracking stations were picking up earlier.”

“Did we miss something, then, General?” There was a clear challenge in Altman’s voice.

“Um..no..no, sir.” Repse said, momentarily taken aback. “The anomalous signals were all accounted for at the time by ground clutter, storm clouds and equipment artifacts.” The air force man regained his composure. “If we had had some kind of intelligence that a covert infiltration might be coming, taken together these would have warranted further investigation. And, in fact, we did order a patrol to scout the area, but they didn’t see anything.”

“Hmm..” Altman turned towards Repse. “Do we still have units in the air over the coast?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Order them to begin searching for any indication of where those choppers launched from. Unless they came from Excalbia, and there’s no reason to think the Excalbians would attack one of their allies, they had to have launched from a ship. I want to find that ship. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Brigadier Youst.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Alert FleetCom to have all units in gulf commence and a search for the mystery ship and to be prepared to engage these intruders, if they attempt to return to their carrier.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Aboard DNS Devastator in the Gulf…

LCDR Sturman studied the message from NMCC. The directions were clear and he knew he should act quickly. Yet, part of him still wavered over whether he should summon the captain to the bridge. In the end, he decided he was officer of the watch and it was his duty.

“Mr. Popper,” Sturman said coming up behind the communicator.

“Yes, sir,” the crewman replied.

“Signal the fleet. By order of NMCC, all ships are to come to general quarters and begin a searching for an unidentified hostile vessel. They should use standard search protocols and activate air defenses. Also, order our interceptor squadrons to alert.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Klaxons began to sound and recorded messages began order the crew to stations. On the flight deck, crewmen were already preparing the first interceptors for launch and elevators were descending to bring up more aircraft. Sturman picked up the com and punched up the number for the captain’s cabin.

“Turgman,” the captain answered, “what’s going on up there?”

“Orders from NMCC, sir. Hostiles have attacked a foreign embassy in Courtland. Two hostile helicopters are exchanging fire with our forces and NMCC believes they originated from a foreign vessel in the gulf. We have orders to find it and to be prepared to shoot down the helicopters if they attempt to return to their point-of-departure.”

“Understood. Good work. Call the XO to the bridge. I’ll inform the admiral and join him on the flag bridge as soon as we can.”

“Aye, sir.”

'Fire, fire!' The shouts of the techs in the back of the SC trying to put out the fire were distant, tiny noises as the pilot struggled to keep the helicopter from spinning out of control. The first rocket had hit the undercarraige, damaging a battery casing and obliterating most of the ECM gear at the nose of the SC; the second rocket was worse. It had glanced off the undercarraige and hit the tail, blowing a hole the size of a melon in the armor and burning the power cables. One of the tail rotors had stopped, the other was moving steadily towards failure.

'Put us down!' The CPG leaned over the pilot's seat, screamed in his ear. The helicopter lurched upwards, then nosedived towards the roof of the embassy. Landing gear refused to open, forcing a belly landing, which is a messy affair when the landing vehicle does not have a flat belly. The SC's rotors released, flying outwards as the nose impacted, screeching metal in a torrent of sparks, before the helicopter groaned, teetered, and fell onto its side.

'Team one,' the SC2's pilot nearly bellowed into his radio, 'neutralize the ground forces in the embassy.'

The other two SC's quickly rose; the SC2 retreated slightly, moving away from the embassy, while the SC1 launched three salvos of two missiles at the incoming contacts. The FJA's beneath its nose whirred as they reset in place, then locked on the incoming contacts and emitted three steady cones of focused radiation over the incoming vessels.

'Command, we have been fired upon by ground forces, we have incoming contacts, we need Flight 2.'

'One Three, if Flight 2 launches we will have to abandon this position.'

'Command, this position is untenable. We will prepare for contingency.'

'One Three, understood.'

Aboard the freighter, in a recessed deck, two SC1's and another SC2 underwent final system checks and prepared for liftoff.

Aboard the bridge of the freighter the commander sent out the orders to the new flight of helicopters. 'Two one, two two, your mission is to divert forces away from the embassy. Engage for maximum damanage. Two three, assist the embassy forces in extraction.'

Even as the helicopters lifted off the freighter was moving, making the short but stressful out into international waters. Jockeys onboard were busy updating the ship's papers, giving it the appropriate registration to pass as an Excaliban vessel. Excaliba's merchant marine just increased by one.

Over Courtland…

“Raven one, Raven three. We have incoming. Six targets in-bound…”

“Raven flight, Raven one. Full countermeasures!”

“Raven one, Raven three. We’re getting a lot of interference… don’t know how effective ECM will be…”

“Release chaff. Flares. Evasive maneuvers…”

“Roger.”

“Roger.”

“Raven one, Raven three. We’ve gotten a lock on two choppers. One is firm but target appears to be going down. The other is being calculated by the AI from the in-bound…”

“Raven flight, Raven one. Fire AI volley.”

Three missiles streak away from each of the three Dominion helicopters. Each missile is guided by a limited AI processor. Not only is each processor shielded from EM, each on is comprised of bio-neural processors grown from cloned primate brain matter. Being essentially organic, they are less susceptible to ECM than most electronics.

As the missiles close on their targets, an explosion rocks the night sky.

“Raven one, Raven three. Missile detonation. Below. Trying to stabilize. Systems scrambled. Hold on. Hold on. Uh… OK… OK… Regaining control… Systems clearing. Looks like it blew below us. Uh… some systems still off-line…”

Suddenly, another explosion shakes the skies above Courtland.

“Raven one, Raven two. We’ve been hit. We’ve lost pod two. Losing flight control…”

“Raven two, Raven one. Can you make a controlled landing?”

“Affirmative. We’re going down…”

“Raven one, Raven three. I think we have a third target over the embassy. No lock.”

“Roger, Raven three. Stand by heat-seekers. Fire as soon we have detonation on first volley.”

“Roger.”

In Courtland…

After firing his RPGs, MSGT Irons abandoned the false shelter of the workshops and streaked towards a row of hedges hoping that the chaos he had caused would cover him. As he hit the ground at the base of the large bushes, he readied another RPG.

* * *

CAPT Marks saw the explosion as Irons’ RPG hit home. “Team one,” he whispered into his throat mic, “get into the embassy now.”

“Roger.” Marks could see the infrared glow of his men making their way into the embassy’s ground floor.

Marks turned to the men beside him and nodded. Together, the three men made their way to the same low wall where team one had sought refuge.

* * *

A few blocks away from the Pantocratorian embassy, Dominion troops finished erecting a barrier, blocking the street between the closed National Assembly and the Varessan embassy. Leaving a squad behind to man the barricade, the rest of the troops return to their vehicles and rumble towards the Pantocratorian embassy.

Aboard DNS Devastator in the Gulf…

CAPT Turgman picked up the phone. “Report, Commander.”

“Yes, sir,” LCDR Sturman voice was quiet and professional, “we’re starting to get reports in. All of the Excalbian and Pantrocratorian naval vessels have been accounted for and are being monitored. No surreptitious launches have been detected. We’re starting to run down merchant shipping. Excuse me, sir… yes… very good… Sir, we have identified three merchant ships that were not previously identified or tracked…”

“Very good, Sturman. Order over flights of all three and send a couple of frigates to investigate each.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Turgman turned towards the task force commander. “Admiral?”

“Yes, Captain?” RADM Milton Ekis looked up from the tabletop tactical plot that took up a large part of the flag bridge.

“Sir, we have three possible targets identified.” Turgman walked over and indicated three white blips that had just turned yellow.

“Good, good.”

In Courtland...

Harris Whipple had spent a long day at the office. The company's clients were nervous - coups, assaults on government directorates and the assassination of government ministers - tended to have that effect. And nervous clients needed hand-holding. Not to mention nervous stockholders! Whipple longed for the old days of order and stability.

He breathed a sigh of relief. His work was finally done and he could head home to his recliner, a stiff drink and sport television...

Whipple never saw the missile - its electronics fried and driven off course - that slammed into the 35th floor of the headquarters Dominion Mines. The explosion tore out the south side of several floors, including his.

As sirens began to cry in the night, more explosions rocked the city.

Above Courtland...

Raven one, Raven three. We're losing power! Must have taken more damage than we thought...

Raven three, can you hold it?

We're trying... we're trying...

The Ambassador finished the last of his paper work when the first shots were fired outside.

"Rebels again no doubt." he murmured to himself as he turned on the TV to try to find out what was happening. The TV flickered to life, but only static was visible.

I wonder what has happened to that antenna now... the Ambassador wondered to himself as he turned the TV off again.

The sound of gunfire could be heard again - this time it was loud. And close. The Ambassador started in his chair.

"What the...." he exclaimed, and rushed over to a window to look outside. He heard more noises from above him, and tried to look up, but saw nothing other than flashes of light.

Still more gunfire. And more. AND MORE!

"They're having a war on my roof!" the Ambassador exclaimed to nobody in particular. At that moment the door burst open. It was one of the embassy guards.

"Monsieur Ambassador, we're under attack!" he shouted.

The Ambassador grabbed a few particularly sensitive sheets of paper from his desk and whipped out his lighter. He starts burning the paper.

"Come on, come on!" urged the guard as he nervously glanced down the hall.

Another guard ran up the stairs and into the hall outside the Ambassador's office.

"They're on the ground too! We can't get out!" he warned.

"Merde! OK, into the office, we'll hold up in here!" said the first guard, ushering the other guard into the hall with his pistol. The Ambassador finished burning the sensitive papers and pulled the appropriate book on his bookshelf again. The bookcase shifted to the side, and the Ambassador opened up the door and stepped into the archive room along with one of the guards. The other guard overturned the Ambassador's desk, sending the remaining papers and the liquor flying onto the floor. He sheltered behind the desk as the archive room's secret entrance closed again, aiming his revolver at the closed door, his lips moving in silent prayer.

The soldiers filed alongside the door to the ambassador's office, one of them placing the charges along the hinges.

'One three, We are in positon, preparing to blow the door.'

'Confirmed. Team one, get down to the grounds and engage ground forces, we are under fire up here.'

'Confirmed.'

'Blowing the door.'

The hinges exploded and the door was knocked inwards by a quick punch. A gun was poked through the empty threshold, its camera transmitting its image into the headset of its user, the heat images of the room's occupants outlined behind the desk.

'We got one behind the desk, a couple behind him.'

'Remember, no fatalities.'

The soldier next to the door rolled his eyes and swtiched on the external speaker on his armor. 'Mr. Ambassador, the embassy has been attaced by General Altman's troops. We are here to protect you. We have a helicopter waiting to take you to safety.'

Above, the incoming missiles closed range on the SC's. With a minute until impact, the helicopters shut their vents, sprayed the exhaust with coolant and stopped the second rotor, erasing most of their heat signature. Hovering, nearly still, each SC shifted two of their three FJA's to the incoming missiles, transmitting false radar echoes, giving the missiles a host of new targets in the space between the two helicopters.

The second group of helicopters, flying silently over the empty ocean, could see the lights of the city, and followed the progress of their counterparts engaged over the embassy.

"Merde!" spat the guard in disdain from behind the table. "Vous n'allez pas enlever l'ambassadeur tellement facilement, vous couchons virginiens! Venez-vous l'obtenir!"

He took careful aim at the gun with his revolver, noticing the camera, and realising that whoever was outside could see him. With his left hand he made a beckoning motion.

'Frenchies,' spat the soldier next to the door. 'They're not coming peacefully.'

The commander shrugged. 'Flash bang them.'

The soldier poked his gun around the corner again, then lobbed a pair of grenades over the desk.

In Courtland...

MSGT Irons looked up from his spot among the bushes and saw one the enemy helicopters - he now realized there were three of them - moving away from the embassy, looking for a better shot at the team on the ground. Irons sighted the helicopter and fired his RPG. He instantly threw the launcher to the ground and lifted a second to his shoulder. A second rocket roared towards the chopper.

Realizing that he had exposed himself to fire from the third chopper and that any move for cover towards the embassy would put CAPT Marks' team at risk, Irons made his way towards a lower row of hedges on the far side of the gardens.

* * *

Seeing more RPGs rising towards the choppers, CAPT Marks nodded to his three men and, together, they went over the low wall and through the door into the first floor of the chancery.

Marks quickly made out the IR images of Timmerman and his team. Marks whispered into his throat mike, "Timmerman."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you all your men in?"

"Yes, sir."

Marks quickly surveyed the ground floor hallway. "Take four men and go up the front stairs. I'll take the other four and go up the back stairs."

"Roger."

Silently, the black armored troops made their way up the stairs.

* * *

LT Miller had been intently studying the monitors trying to decipher the action inside the embassy compound when there was a pounding on the door of the van. Miller's training kept him from jumping and he glanced at another monitor and saw Dominion troops at the door. He opened the lock.

An armored officer with major's insignia stepped into the van followed by three other men. "Are you in charge here?" The major barked.

"Yes, sir. Lieutenant Miller, Special Ops."

The major nodded. "Major Ulanis. My men are taking positions around the compound. What are we facing?"

"It looks like three choppers. One down on the roof. We lost six men coming in the main gate. We have ten or eleven men on the compound, at least some inside the chancery. Unknown number of hostiles inside. We had three attack choppers inbound. One is down, the other may be going down. We have two strike fighters on station in... um.. oh... 8 minutes."

Ulanis nodded and spoke into his mic. "Two twenty-five, Ulanis. We need you to bring up your RPGs and target the choppers."

"Yes, sir."

In the Gulf...

Two naval strike fighters streaked over the unidentified freighter and swung back for a second pass. Spotting no obvious armaments, they radioed the frigate closing on the merchantman. Receiving their report, the frigate transmits a message to the freighter.

Unidentified freighter. This is the Dominion Naval Ship Wolfhound. You are ordered to come about, cut engines and prepare to be boarded. Resistance will not be tolerated.

'Do they want us to cut engines or come around?' The pilot shrugged, leaving the commander to roll his eyes without input. 'Fine, bring us around, then cut engines.' Turning to the comm officer, he extends his hand. 'Give me the radio.

'Dominion frigate, this is the Excaliban freighter Considerate, we are correcting course and preparing to cut engines. What is the nature of this stop?'

Meanwhile above the emabassy:

'Incoming!'

'And I should do what about it?' The SC crew, hovering close to 200 meters above the city, watched the first RPG round fly by the cockpit, and then a second a little farther off mark. The pilot and CPG sat very still.

'Well that was too close for comfort.'

He'd heard a great deal by now. Varessa's position was, to utilise the cliche, precipitous. On one side, Varessa stood to gain from this deal absolutely phenomenal wealth, power, technology, and firm alliances for the first time in its isolationist history. On the other, Varessa stood at the awkward position of antagonising the military dictatorship that controlled the -nuclear capable- military heavyweight of the region.

Crimson Star would change that. But it would open a whole new can of worms. Worms which would, as worms do, multiply as time went on. Could the worms be controlled?

Drake chuckled to himself. If he knew that, he'd have been a fortune teller, not a statesman.

Cogniscent of the fact that the plenipotentiaries of the two nations that Varessa had the most dealings with were hanging on his every word, but hanging in the very literal sense, Drake didn't want to keep them waiting. But the cabinet was split. Again. His was to be the deciding voice. Again. For all the pretences of rule by the people, for all the socio-political rhetoric about government "of, by and for" the people, representative democracies were usually, in essence, oligarchies, or, as appeared in this case, a near-dictatorship, despite the presence of a viable electoral system.

And the Chancellor hated that that was so. He hated the inherent hypocrisy of a party-based political system. He hated the machinations that were inherent in politics. He hated the requirements of secrecy and borderline morality imposed by "national security". Particularly now. "National Security". The catch phrase that stymied every conspiracy theorist at every turn. "National Security", the justification for countless atrocities committed around the world.

And it was that last argument that ended it for Drake. The government of the Dominion was committing atrocities against its own people.

*So are the Lyrans* A rebellious voice in his head reminded him. He, firmly, told that voice to shut up.

Those atrocities could not, WOULD not, be allowed to continue. To stop the new government from falling by the wayside, it would need resources. Resources that Crimson Star would provide.

"Very well. Persuant to further negotiations, in principle Varessa consents to the conditional licensing for use of Crimson Star. You pitch a good case, Ambassador Vikis. But, before you go, the next step this meeting, long though it has now been, must now cover, is what we are going to do to further the..."

The speaker-phone mounted on the desk in the middle of the cabinet room, that connected the Varessan capital with its Embassy in the Dominion, rumbled and shook as it blasted out thunderous noise, trying to convey the mind-numbing volume of sound that had been received on the other end.

There was a moment’s silence in the cabinet room. All eyes watched the speaker-phone. General Roberts’ voice was the next to be heard.

***

Courtland

A series of flashes behind Roberts had announced the commencement of the attack on the Pantocratorian embassy. Not that he knew that.

“Chancellor, there’s just been an attack somewhere nearb…”

Another series of shots lit up the reinforced plate-glass embassy windows. Then another, and then the sound became continuous, as the two –no, three- helicopters did an elaborate dance macabre in front of the three shocked officers. Roberts got out of his chair, and bent down behind it as the gun-blasts continued, sound-pressure waves slamming against the glass of the windows, making them rumble and flex like a noise-less gong. The Varessan Major General yelled into the phone, trying to be heard above the din of the firefight.

“Chancellor, we have what sounds like a gunship attack somewhere in this area of the city. They’re not firing at us, but whoever they are firing at is very close. If you don’t mind sir, we’ll call you back.”

Without waiting for an answer, he switched off the speaker, and peered carefully around the corner of the –still intact- window. Yes, definitely three helicopters, and it looked like they were liberally hosing down the Excalbian or Pantocratorian embassy. The exact distance was difficult to tell. As was the helicopter type. No hope of working it out. Not in the dark.

He looked at his Dominion guests. MAJGEN Harrison was looking concerned. MAJ Thorson was looking angry. Roberts guessed that it was less at the current firefight and more at the revelations that had come out over the phone to Varessa.

Roberts decided to take control of the situation as best he could. First, he ran, hunched over to the door way to his office, and smacked the alarm buzzer with the base of his right fist. The red warning lights and alarm sirens started up almost instantly, the precise, emotionless directions of the automated voice in marked contrast to the palpable near-panic of the embassy staffers.

“The alarm has been raised. Security personnel, stand to. Security personnel, stand to. Non-combatants proceed to the nearest secure area. The alarm has been raised. Security…”

The Varessan government, as part of its long-standing policy of complete international neutrality, had often found its embassies overseas as the only bastion of the developed world. Consequently there had been a number of incidents where Varessan embassies had been attacked, sometimes with significant loss of life. As a result, Varessa had made a policy of making its embassies very difficult targets in recent years. The Varessan embassy in Courtland was one of the first to be upgraded. Chief amongst those upgrades was the reinforced structure. Second was the now-permanent presence of a platoon of Commonwealth Guards. While equipped as light infantry, the embassy did stock other medium weapons, including Javelin ATMs and Stinger BLOCK 2s.

It was to these that the Varessan guards now ran, with a section taking to the roof to watch the fireworks.

Roberts hit the intercom.

“This is General Roberts. It has been judged that we are not, I say again NOT the target of this attack. Do not fire unless we are fired upon. DO NOT FIRE unless we are fired upon. I am contactable in my office. Captain Gibbs, report to me if and when anything changes. And, before you ask, Ambassador, we will let you and your family out only when we’re sure the crisis has passed. No buts… Out”

He took a deep breath, and watch as one of the helicopters pirouetted downwards into a building just out of his line of sight, trailing incandescent flame from its aft-rotors. Whoever was returning fire knew their stuff.

Roberts turned back to the two Dominion officers. Barely 30 seconds had passed from when the Chancellor was interrupted mid-sentence.

“I think the safest place for the pair of you at the moment is right here. Out there *he beckoned with his left hand towards the door* it might be surprisingly easy for either of you, although especially you, Becka, to become ‘caught in the cross-fire’. Fortuitously for General Altman. Plus, I think the food’s better here…”

He paused, and looked outside. Then he realised that he had been running around the room like a madman, waving his pistol.

Roberts looked at his pistol then chuckled to himself as he put it back in its holster. If he had to use his pistol to defend the embassy, chances are that he, and his guests, were really pretty screwed anyway.

“Also, Major, if you could, please advise the SSS that General Harrison is safe, and at the Varessan Embassy, if things go south from here. They’ll probably rest easier knowing that, and probably accept it faster from you than they would from me. You can meet us at the mess hall afterwards, if you like, or, if you prefer privacy, we can get one of the stewards to bring the food here.”

Roberts pondered again while Thorsen began to prepare his response. His mind was racing forward, going nowhere, but coming to a conclusion he should have reached a while a go. He chastised himself before he started up again.

“Actually, upon consideration, it’s probably a good idea to stay here tonight. We don’t know what the hell is going on out there, save that someone is attacking someone else, and here is as safe as anywhere in Courtland. We have spare accommodation for guests, and they’re actually pretty comfortable. Unless there is something particularly pressing…”

The Major General refused to entertain the notion that he was just trying to look for any excuse to keep Becka around. And his actions were correct. The Varessan embassy was heavily reinforced against physical attack. It was defended. In fact, as it happened, Varessa was the ONLY country that was actually permitted to have armed personnel in its embassy. Not that, technically, the Dominion had any right to stop any nation doing whatever the hell it wanted within its embassy walls. But the Dominion had made it clear that it PREFERRED that embassies remain totally unarmed, and had made it clear that it took the presence of weapons as a sign of bad faith in the Dominion’s government. Varessa was the exception. As one of the few governments that actually got on well with the Dominion, it was seen as a tacit acknowledgment of favour. A subtle one, but a very real one, nonetheless.

So they were safer, by a fair margin, within the walls of the Varessan embassy. And the reasoning that Roberts had given to the two Upper Virginians was correct. But he couldn’t help but struggle to shake the thought that it may not have been his primary motivating factor for asking.

***

Outside Courtland

Russ watched as the infantry carriers drove on. He zoomed in on the lead vehicle, switching back to normal visual mode. They were conscripts. It was immediately apparent that they were conscripts. Young, pimply faced, and looking nervous as hell. New ones. Probably just out of recruit training.

The VSF soldier moved his rifle’s crosshairs along the line again, as the convoy slowed. They had moved into the national park proper. No doubt about it. In fact, Russ would have hazarded a guess and thought to himself that they would have exactly the same idea that the VSF/SSS unit had. Secure the approaches to Courtland. Only they did it with two-thirds of a battalion, whereas that was, realistically, not feasible for Varessa at the moment.

But a platoon and a bit? Ouch. This could get a little rough.

“SHEPHERD, this is WOLFHOUND 1. Wolf silhouettes are circling. I say, again, Wolf silhouettes are circling. Flock is green. Flock is green.”

“WOLFHOUND 1, acknowledge.”

Mathews breathed out gently. He hadn’t realised that he’d been holding his breath at all. The situation was getting worse. But it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Russ had said that he thought that the Dominion units didn’t actually know the VSF/SSS were there. Hell, if they WERE aware, they’d have air-support, especially this far from Courtland. No, Mathews guessed that they were securing the major access-points to Courtland. Altman may have been vindictive, oppressive and all that propagandist rubbish. But he wasn’t stupid. The next question was, how the hell were they going to scarper without their presence being broadcast loud and clear to Dominion High Command. Vehicles, of which they had a fair few, leave tracks. Tracks that would be a nightmare to cover. With the Dominion vehicles as close as they were, they were rapidly running out of options. They’d struggle to take on a force easily 7 times their size, of that there is no doubt. They had to fade.

“SHEPHERD to all units, wake the lambs. I say again, wake the lambs.”

“2”

“3”

“4”

“5”

“6”

They were going to bug out. Pronto. But first they had to disguise their exit. Mathews jogged over to the Wolfhound, and stuck his head inside. The soldiers inside were packing things away into their storage containers. The whole unit had been on 5 minutes notice to move, and it looked like the Wolfhound’s crew was running a tight ship.

Rorke glanced up at the movement, and jumped slightly as he saw the lieutenant colonel. Mathews waved him back to work, then started speaking.

“Sergeant, I want you and your team to make it look like someone has just run from this spot. Not us, of course, but make it look like it’s been abandoned in a hurry. We won’t be able to cover up all of our tracks, but maybe we can make the Dominion troops look elsewhere. Whatever you can cook up. But let me know what it is.”

Rorke looked at his team-mate, Corporal Valerie Schwesmann. Her eyes had lit up. She had a plan already. He looked back at his boss, with a grin. Schwesmann’s ideas were always a shade on the unconventional side.

“Yes sir. I reckon we can handle it.”

The officer left the vehicle, as the two non-comms finished the internal work, and moved to wrap up the active-camm netting.

“Ok, spill it Vash. What has you grinning like a clown on crack?”

“Sarge, lets take a step back out our box. A really, really big step. In fact, lets pretend this box that is the military mind-set doesn’t exist at all.”

Roarke was a tad puzzled, but figured it as part of Vash’s plan. She was… playful… at times. Unfortunately, time was a luxury they were short of.

“Ok… but we haven’t got much time, Vash… bedazzle me quickly…”

She laughed softly, and leaned forward conspiratorially.
“If you weren’t in the military, weren’t involved in any sort of covert-stuff, no police work or anything like that…”

She took a step forward, wrapped her arms around Roarke’s neck, and pulled him in close against her, before whispering seductively into his ear.

“…then what do you suppose we would be doing, here in this lovely national park, with such a wonderful view of the city lights, just off the main road, nicely secluded…? Or perhaps, more to the point….”

She stepped away again, moved to the front of the jeep, undid two of the upper buttons on her camouflage shirt, and leant forward over the bonnet looking towards him, and showing her ample cleavage.

“… more to the point, who would we be doing?”

SGT Roarke knew there was an answer there. But was finding himself a tad tongue-tied. Vash smiled.

“See. So, when a couple of hundred 18 year old conscripts come through to this clearing, find tyre tracks and a handful of used condoms… what are they going to think…”

Roarke grinned. He couldn’t help it. LTCOL Mathews would love it. And it would be a story the VSF soldiers here would be telling their grand-kids about… And he couldn’t wait to see the SSS’s reaction.

He wasn’t done yet though. So, he walked over to the still smirking Corporal Schwesmann, and stopped, about a foot away, then grabbed her, and kissed her… her stunned, wide-mouthed face provided a pleasant afterthought as he jogged off to find the Colonel… now… to convince the man that he had to get 5 condoms filled real quick…

Roarke laughed again… that’s a very amusing thought right there… 5 blokes required for special duties… a must to enable us to throw off the Dominion’s forces. Go above and beyond the call of duty… be all you can be… what a laugh…

His huge grin brought funny looks as he scuttled over to the boss… but didn’t care. He thought it was funny…

***

15 minutes later, in (to an outsider) surprisingly high spirits, the VSF/SSS unit slid out from the position, headed deeper into the national park. They’d be back, that night, to do what the VSF did best, and eliminate the unit under cover of darkness.

But, for the short term, Wolfhound was doing doughnuts around the clearing. Engine, auto-mufflers off, revving high and making an absolute racket, and gouging chunks in the dirt. Making it blindingly obvious that a four wheel drive vehicle had been here. In the process, destroying the fact that there were actually far more vehicles.
Vash slammed on the brakes again, a fountain of earth flying forward. Wolfhound was holding back as they waiting for SSGT Russ to get back. He’d be back fairly quickly, of that they were sure. But, in the meantime, Vash and Roarke were taking turns carrying out the last phase of the most entertaining withdrawal they’d executed.

“Reckon we’re done, sarge?”

Roarke was still smiling. They were making their presence so obvious that no one would believe that it was a military unit that had occupied the space barely 15 minutes ago. But there was another thing to do first. Vash got the fun part. He got the icky bit.

“Yeah, yeah, ok. Ok. I’ll do it…”

He reached into a pouch on his webbing, and pulled out a pair of surgical gloves, which he put on hurriedly. He looked up as he finished, and saw SSGT Russ running towards them from the treeline. Roarke reached to the back door, and pushed it open as the man came closer, eating up the ground at a brisk clip. Russ began to speak again as soon as he got in.

“The Uppies are coming in. They’ll be ten minutes. Fifteen at absolute max.”. His voice was forced, as he puffed and bellowed through lungs gasping for oxygen. The run he’d just made would have killed some men. But he was hard. Or, at least, he liked to think of himself that way.

Roarke responded with a wry grin as he stepped out of the car, carrying his box of goodies. This box was going to have to be washed, he thought, as he strategically deposited one of the now-used condoms near the treeline. He was really struggling to contain his mirth as he then scattered the other four nearby, nicely positioned where the incoming units would be sure to find them. He chuckled to himself as he got back to the hummer. This was definitely a new one…

Vash depressed the accelerator, and headed off after the rest of the unit.

stupid fourm ate my post!

In Varessa...

Ambassador Sir Gareth Vikis sat stunned as he looked vacantly at the speakerphone in the middle of the conference table. He slowly looked around and saw that everyone in the cabinet room was equally shocked. After just a few moments, however, he saw Field Marshall Harris up and on the phone, trying to get more information and conferring with Chancellor Drake. Soon, stunned silence was replaced with chatter.

"Chancellor," Vikis said a bit louder than he would have liked. "Chancellor, given the circumstances, I would suggest a recess on our discussions. We have an agreement; the details may be resolved later. I understand that you now have urgent business to attend and I would like to use the time to contact His Imperial Majesty's Government. I need to inform them and," Vikis' voice seemed to catch for a second, "the Emperor of our agreement. I shall also try to see if we have any information on what is occurring in Courtland. I will contact you... or Minister Shaw, if you prefer... once I have some information."

In Courtland, Dominion of Upper Virginia...

The ground seemed to shake with an explosion. Not the ground, thought GSGT Vince Miller as he heard another blast. That sounds like something airborne...

Miller began to pan his cameras for a better view as he hit the button to call the embassy's security officer.

"Doug Hansen."

"Mr. Hansen, this is Post One. We have explosions...," Miller found a camera with a clear view of two - or possibly three- helicopters across the street, "at the Pantocratorian embassy. It looks like two or three choppers... and, wait... looks like one of them just took ground fire..."

"Any sign of hostile intent towards us?"

"Not yet."

"Anyone else in the building?"

"No, sir. Just me and the local guards outside."

"OK. Call in the rest of the detachment. I'll call the Ambassador and be right over. I'll notify the Citadel. If there is any advance towards the Embassy, begin destroying our classified holdings."

"Yes, sir."

Aboard INVGlorious in the Gulf...

VADM Sir Derek Kunle swirled his brandy and puffed on an Esperi cigar. Everyone else had left the flag mess after dinner, except Lord Phocas, RADM Allen and Glorious' CO, CAPT Turlais. CDR Blume, Kunle's aide, sat off in a corner with Phocas' aide sharing coffee.

The hatch to the mess opened and CDR Blume walked over and spoke briefly with a young crewman. Then, Blume walked over to Kunle and handed him two pieces of paper.

"Hmmm," Kunle said as he exhaled. "It seems our evening of crises is not over. Several of our merchantmen are being stopped by the Uppie navy. And, more alarming, our embassy in Courtland is reporting than unknown parties are assaulting your embassy, my Lord." Kunle hands the second message to Phocas.

In Courtland...

Before MAJGEN Becka Harrison could answer the Varessan Military Attaché’s question, MAJ Richard Thorsen literally stepped between the two major generals.

"Thank you for your offer, General Roberts. I agree that, for the moment, this would be the safest place for General Harrison. I would appreciate the opportunity to call the SSS to advise them of the situation - and to try to learn a little bit about what is going on here - but after that, I think it would be best for me to remain with General Harrison... To ensure her security..."

"I'm sorry, Shaun," Becka gave Thorsen a sharp look, "but I'm afraid that when it comes to security, Major Thorsen tends to presume that he has the authority to speak for me." Another explosion rocked the embassy and Becka looked somewhat anxiously towards the window. "However, in this case, I'm afraid that I must concede to both you and Thorsen. I agree that we should stay." Also, Becka admitted to herself, even under the circumstances she didn't object to spending more time with Shaun Roberts.

Thorsen nodded to MAJGEN Harrison and stepped aside. He pulled out his mobile phone. "If you will excuse me for a moment." He walked to the interior corner of the office furthest away from the windows.

"Well," Becka said still eyeing the window, "I'm certain you're people have us well protected. So, as soon as Thorsen is off the phone, maybe we will take you up on your offer to go down to the mess..."

* * *

"Two-one, two-twenty-five."

"Go ahead," MAJ Ulanis said into his helmet mic.

"We're in position with six launchers."

"Fire on both choppers."

"Rockets away."

Above Courtland...

"Raven One, Raven Three. Not sure we can hold it. Losing power...

"Hold on, Raven Three. Any indication on our missiles?"

A new voice cuts in. "Raven flight, this is Reaper. ETA 6 minutes and closing."

"Roger, Reaper."

Outside Courtland...

SSGT Burke's normally stoic face showed the slightest hint of amusement as he watched the last VSF vehicle churn about the ground around their former camp. He appreciated their solid thinking and was impressed by some of their... unorthodox... details. As the vehicle prepared to depart, he ran forward to the lead SSS vehicle. He jumped in and turned towards CAPT Terelson. "They're all set, sir."

Terelson nodded. "Let's go."

In the Gulf, Aboard DNS Wolfhound...

"Captain?" LT Guthrie stepped towards his CO.

"Yes?" SCDR Thulesen turned to look at the second officer.

"The ship has identified itself as the EMV Considerate. We have nothing on it."

"Hmm... Is it complying?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," Thulesen nodded. "Have Major Johanis get his marines into the launches and ready to board her. Oh, and reply to their message."

"Aye, aye."

EMV Considerate, this is DNS Wolfhound. We are engaged in a search for terrorists who have attacked the Dominion. Your personnel are to stand down and prepare to be boarded. No resistance will be tolerated.

In Chateau Langeais...

Bishop Yanis Uvaras stirred from his nap and looked at his watch. It had been more than one hour he intended to rest. Quickly, he rose and straightened his clothes. He stepped into the washroom and washed his face. Then, he gathered the papers in his portfolio and carefully opened the door of his room and walked across the hall to Sister Marguerite's room. He heard nothing and saw no light coming from under the door. He tapped lightly on the door and hearing no answer decided to let her sleep. This shouldn't have involved her anyway, he thought.

Uvaras began looking for someone to ask directions and quickly found a maid. "Excuse me, Madame. Can you direct me to the Princess?"

‘Roger Wolfhound, you’ll have no problem with us.’ The commander looked at the crew on the bridge and made a face. ‘Douchebags. Cut the engines and give them what they want.’

As the missiles closed on the two helicopters over the Pantrocratorian embassy, the CPG’s prepared their countermeasures. A halo of flares burst from the helicopters, lighting the sky on fire, and a salvo of small fuel rockets, burning at almost 500ºC, launched from each helicopter, zipping a loopy trajectory towards the city street. The SC’s immediately return their engines to full operating power and pitch themselves forward, reaching the upper edge of the flare corona as the incoming missiles home in on the false radar signature the SC’s had sent it, a point a hundred feet below their current position.

‘Flight two, flight one, we are leaving this position. Begin attack immediately, we will rendezvous at rally point one and then return to the embassy.’

‘Incoming!’ the SC1’s CPG screamed, an instant before a salvo of rockets slammed into the chassis, blowing out the cockpit, the engine and separating the tail from the body. The rotors, still spinning, kept the flaming shell in the air for a moment before the self destruct, activated by the failure of command systems, detonated the remaining the warheads and obliterated the already shattered helicopter, showering the street below in burning metal as the wreck plummeted towards the ground.

‘Flight two, one one is down. Get your fucking asses in here NOW!’

‘Confirm, one three, we are commencing our attack run.’

One of the SC’s over the harbor broke off, descended towards the surface, and fired dumb rockets into a freighter moored off a pier. As the other two SC’s continued in land, to meet their already fleeing comrade inside the mess of sky scrapers to the east of the embassy, the attacking helicopter continued inland, firing another salvo into a harbor warehouse. The CPG smirked as he locked onto the coordinates of the UV National Assembly. ‘Optic SSM’s ready to fire.’

The pilot shared the CPG’s smirk. ‘Fire.’

‘Missiles away.’ Two missiles zipped away from the helicopter, one following the other, as the CPG guided them manually towards their target via the feed coming in from the lead missile. At the last second the second missile broke left, the lead missile broke right, and hit both ends of the building.

‘Miles,’ said the CPG, ‘it was good serving with you.’

‘Likewise. At least we’ll go out fighting.’

‘Damn right.’

ooc: for those observing, a quick reminder: these helicopters are basically silent, no rotor noise etc, just a low, moderately quiet hum. for reference.

Above Courtland…

“Raven one, Raven three! Enemy choppers are moving off… wait… Misses! Clean misses! Stand-by… they’re taking ground fire… Remote IR shows a hit! One of them is going down!”

“Roger. Stand by second salvo…”

“Raven one, we’ve lost power… we’re going down…”

“Black squirrel, Raven flight. We need someone to try to paint the remaining chopper…”

“Raven flight, this is black squirrel. Message relayed to Two-one, now in command here. Enemy chopper is moving away, we will try to have ground units paint it for you. Over.”

“Roger and out.”

“Reaper, Raven one. ETA?”

“Five minutes… holy…”

Large blasts rock the shaken city as a freighter and building near the harbour erupt in flame and debris. Suddenly, the skyline of the city seems to burn as missiles explode on the long-closed but National Assembly building.

“Raven flight, can you confirm explosions downtown and in the harbour?”

“Roger, Reaper. Looks like they got the National Assembly. At least one, maybe more choppers…”

“Raven flight, we’ll go after the new players. Rascal, Reaper. Stay on me, we’re going over targets near the National Assembly.”

“Reaper, Rascal, I have your tail.”

In Courtland…

“What was that?” MAJ Ulanis turned towards LT Miller as the junior officer panned his cameras. He caught a glimpse of the burning National Assembly building.

“Sir?” Miller asked stunned.

“Keep tracking your men in the building, Lieutenant.” Ulanis looked stoic despite the churning in his stomach. He continued over his helmet mic, “Two-thirty-three, two-one, move all your men into the business district. Try to get a visual on the fleeing chopper and paint it for our chopper. Two-twenty-six, move back towards the National Assembly and try to pick up the incoming chopper.”

* * *

LT Erglis acknowledged the CO’s orders over his helmet mic and turned to signal his men to move back towards the National Assembly. The easiest way to do that was to throw the vehicles into reverse and back up the two blocks to the Assembly, and that is just what the column did. As they neared the burning building, the road became choked with debris. The distant sound of fire engines sounded as the Erglis signaled for his men to get out of their vehicles.

Taking up positions under such cover as was available two troopers pulled lasers out guides and began scanning the skies for the chopper. One trooper thought he spotted something and keyed his helmet mic.

“I have something south, southeast of the Assembly, at two o’clock.”

“Roger,” said Erglis, “get both your lasers on that target.”

As the rest of the platoon waited nervously, two laser beams swept the sky looking for the body of the chopper.

* * *

Meanwhile, LT Yornis led his men into the thick of the skyscraping headquarters of some of the Dominion’s biggest corporations. Two of his men tried to train their lasers on the chopper as it bobbed and weaved through the buildings, but were meeting with little success.

* * *

Inside the Pantocratorian embassy, CAPT Marks heard the explosions outside, but silently signaled his men to continue their slow progress up to the second floor.

In the Gulf…

Two motorboats roared towards the freighter flying the Excalbian flag. Aboard each boat, marines in full armor trained high caliber machine guns and rocket launchers at the ship. As the boats cut their engines, a naval officer picked up a bullhorn. “Considerate, all hands are to fall out on deck with arms raised. We will be boarding and will fire on anyone who moves.”

With a nod, the officer signaled the two boats to secure their lines to the freighter. Quickly teams of marines from both boats boarded. They moved to secure the area, and guns still trained on the crew signaled their CO.

CAPT – his title of “major” was purely ceremonial – the old idea that you can’t have two captains on a ship – Johanis stepped aboard the ship and looked around. “Who is in command here?”

In Courtland…

Across the city people could hear explosions and the sounds of war overhead. As they turned on their radios and televisions, they heard calm voiced newsreaders telling them that there had been a “minor incident” in the city centre and that they should stay safe in their homes. When people looked for the international news channels, they found them all jammed. Soon, SMS messages and IMs were flying across the city, followed by neighbors talking with neighbors. Eyewitness accounts mixed with rumor.

The National Assembly is burning!
The harbour has been destroyed!
Naval vessels at port have been sunk!
The FVLA is in the city!
There’s an invasion!
General Altman is massacring people to destroy the resistance!

Ordinary people – factory workers, store clerks, accountants, shop owners, small businessmen – gathered in the city’s ubiquitous coffee shops and pubs began talking. Then, something very unexpected happened. A people that had endured so much collectively snapped. They just weren’t going to take it anymore.

Mobs began to form – at the Catholic cathedral, the Church of Excalbia cathedral, the stadium, near the docks – and starting moving towards the centre.

One mob approached the burning National Assembly just as twin lasers found their mark, painting dots on the side of a silent helicopter and just as the first fire brigades arrived.

Another mob approached the burned out hulk of the Directorate of Justice. A couple of squads of soldiers had been left behind to guard the building as the rest of their company moved towards the fighting in the diplomatic district. The soldiers’ heavy weapons and vehicles were gone, but their machine-guns proved effective in mowing down dozens of civilians as the mob surged forward. Those few in the mob who had illegal handguns and rifles found that their bullets simply bounced off the soldiers’ foamed alloy armor.

Despite the strength of the armor, it did not cushion the wearer against crushing blows. Soon, the mob surged again, literally climbing over the bodies of the dead. Lead pipes, steel rods and pieces of concrete rubble began to pummel the soldiers. More civilians died in a hail of bullets, but soon the soldiers, too, lay dieing of internal injuries delivered by primitive weapons.

Seeing their victory, the mob stripped the soldiers of the their armor and weapons and passed them out among those with military experience, including a few former agents of the recently-banned CIB than had joined the crowd. Quickly, these now armed leaders of the mob stood atop the rubble and began trying to organize the mob into a revolution.

* * *

MAJ Thorsen closed his mobile phone and approached MAJGEN Harrison and MAJGEN Roberts. The two were standing far close and being entirely too friendly for Thorsen’s taste, considering that one of them was – hopefully – soon to be the Dominion’s new head of state and the other was a foreign military officer acting in an intelligence capacity. Yet, he knew there was little he could do about that at the moment.

“Generals,” Thorsen said evenly, “I’ve informed our people that General Harrison is safe here at the Varesan embassy. I’ve also gotten some very troubling information.”

Becka Harrison looked from Thorsen to Shaun and back to Thorsen. She felt her stomach tighten. Something told her things were even worse than she had thought. “What is it, Thorsen?”

“First, unknown special forces have fired on the Pantocratorian embassy in an attempt to breech its security and gain access. It seems that some of our army intelligence people – unfortunately not SSS – were also attempting to gain access. It seems that some kind of damaging information about the regime may have fallen into Pantocratorian hands and been taken out of the country – this ties into the whole incident in the gulf. But, we’re not clear on the details. In any case, our forces are now engaged with an unknown, but possibly growing number of hostiles here in the city. The harbour and the National Assembly have been hit as well. But I believe those to be distractions.”

Thorsen seemed to slacken for just a second, as if he had grown suddenly tired, but he recovered in an instant. “Second, and possibly worse, mobs have taken to the streets. There is word that they’ve already overrun a checkpoint at the Directorate of Justice and are now armed. It seems an uprising may be starting without us.”

“But,” Becka said with a calmness betrayed by a slight tremble in her hands, “it is an uprising doomed to failure. Altman will destroy half the city if he has to…”

“No doubt, General,” Thorsen agreed.

“Then, we need to get in front of this thing. We’re running the risk here of being swept up in events out of our control.” Becka turned to MJAGEN Shaun Roberts. “Shaun, what do you think about moving up our move with Ozymandius? Say, trying to hit Altman’s HQ at dawn?”

Above Courtland…

“In-bound flight, two-twenty-six. Over.”

“Two-twenty-six, Reaper. Over.”

“We have acquired target and have lasers on it. Don’t know how long we can hold it…”

“Roger. Fox one, fox two. Rascal, Reaper.”

“Rascal. Fox one, fox two, roger.”

“Two-twenty-six, you have four incoming. Keep that laser guide on target. Over.”

“Roger. Out.”

* * *

“All units, Raven one. We are now above the Pantocratorian embassy. Say again, we are now in position above the target. We have visual on one downed enemy chopper on the roof. We see debris of a second chopper over the street. No visual or radar on the third. Over.”

“Raven one, Two-one. Hold your position. We are trying to get laser guidance on the third chopper. Stand-by to fire on any enemy forces emerging from the embassy. Over.”

“Roger.”

'We're being painted.' A bright red L was flashing in the upper right hand corner of the SC's crew's headset.

'Then shoot them, dumbass.' Another pair of missiles launched, guided this time by the helicopter's guidance systems, each homing in on one of the targetting lasers.

'Missiles incoming.'

'Empty the tubes.'

The CPG tapped a screen on his console, sending teach missile targetting data before launching the remaining four missiles at UV military units on the ground. 'Done.'

The helicopter swerved, intent on getting rid of the laser marks on its hull.


'Fucking hell,' hissed the pilot of 1-3 as he banked the helicopter around another building. 'Two two, two three, you guys better get here quick, we've got ground units on our ass.'

'We're getting there,' came the reply, 'you keep moving, we'll open fire when we're in range.'

'Affirmative.'


On the roof of Pantocratorian, two of the surviving crew were busy bandaging the third survivor, one of the jockey's in the back who'd broken an arm on impact. His partner hadn't been so lucky, he bled out after his humeral artery was opened by shrapnel and he was knocked unconcious by the impact. Overhead, the Upper Virginian helicopter slid into view.

'Oh fuck this,' sighed the pilot, as he and the CPG scrambled to the still steaming cockpit to grab their guns. Sighting up on the hovering gunship, they loaded their AP rounds and opened fire.

Inside the embassy, the second team waiting at the end of a hallay. One of the soldiers had a small digital periscope, peeking it around the corner. 'We've got movement.'

'Virginians?'

'Yeah.'

'Flash bang them, then go in shooting.'

The two soldiers at the corners each heaved a grenade down the corridor, and as the cylinders bounced into the group of UV troopers, the soldiers came out shooting. The first two dropped into firing positions, locking the armor plates on their arms and legs, while the rear troopers leaned around the corners and fired over their comrades.


Holding his hands over his head, the Commander repressed the urge to roll his eyes. 'I am, sir. Captain Josias Mendelson. Our papers are in my breast pocket there,' he said, motioning with his head towards his shirt's breast pocket.


Meanwhile, half the staff of Urban Cool were busy sending text messages to random numbers across Upper Virginia, ranging from the truth (Altman has attacked the Pantrocratorian embassy) to the wildly outrageous (foreign troops are invading the capital ... well maybe not that outrageous).

'Hey, Greg,' asked one of the staffers, 'should we be out helping?'

'Are you crazy? It's chaos out there.'

The staff exchanged glances. 'Isn't that the point?'

Greg balked. 'Hell no. Revolutions are highly organized affairs, you don't just go out there and take over at random. This is just another nail in the coffin. Once Altman is done with his mop up, you can bet we'll have another ten thousand potential recruits for the FVLA, and even more supporters for the take over. When the FVLA rolls into town, then we'll go help. Until the, keep texting those people. Chaos doesn't spreak itself.'

In Courtland…

“Incoming!” The trooper yelled into his helmet mic.

“Hold your positions!” LT Erglis shouted back from his position behind a large overturned SUV. He saw in the video feed from his abandoned and vulnerable command vehicle that one of the two men training laser guides on the enemy chopper was flinching. “Hold position or I’ll shoot you myself!”

The two troopers, separated by a dozen feet and crouching behind rubble from the National Assembly, braced themselves as twin missiles streaked towards them. The first one hit its mark, slamming into the upper edge of a large piece of rubble. The trooper that had been there was ripped to pieces by the blast and – more importantly to LT Erglis – his laser had been demolished.

The second trooper flinched at the last second. Just as he did, the missile targeting his laser slammed into pile of debris several feet away. The blast knocked the trooper down – possibly killed him – but his laser was thrown to safety.

“Get it! Get the beam back! Anyone have IR on the chopper?”

“Got it, Lieutenant,” FSGT Volker yelled as he slid into the ground beside the laser. He picked it up and sighted the faint IR signature he had been watching. In a few seconds, the laser was back on the hull. It was just in time as four missiles streaked into view headed towards the laser’s target.

* * *

Frustrated by the inability to paint the chopper dodging between buildings, some of LT Yornis’ men began taking pot shots at with high caliber machine guns mounted on the vehicles.

“Cut it out,” Yornis yelled into his helmet mic. Not all of his men listened and a few continued firing.

* * *

LT Timmerman realized what was happening as he saw the grenades tumbling towards his men. “Get down! Negative visors!” As he and his began dropping into firing positions, they tried to switch off the IR feed being displayed on the inside of their visors. Doing so would leave them momentarily looking through nearly opaque high-impact plastic, but it would spare them from being blinded by the grenades’ flash.

Timmerman and one other man to the rear of the group were completely successful. Another was just turning off his display as bright flashes exploded around the team. The two men blinded by the flash instinctively covered, counting on their armor and their teammates to protect them. A third man was momentarily stunned and tried to locate the enemy even as his eyes still flashed with afterimages.

Timmerman and SGT Mullins brought back their IR displays and began firing at the men advancing towards them.

In the other stairwell, CAPT Marks hired the firing and sent one man ahead to scout while keeping the rest of his men behind the stairwell’s fire door.

Above Courtland…

Reaper, Rascal. We’ve lost the guide!”

“Two-twenty-six, Reaper. What’s going on down there?”

“Under fire. Stand-by.”

“Reaper, Rascal. We have one guide back. Don’t know if all the missiles will stay on target…”

“We’ll know in a few seconds…”

* * *

“Two-one, Raven one. We’re getting ground fire from the roof. Can you get more troops into the building? Moving for a better angle…”

As bullets sailed around the attack chopper, the pilot moved it up and to the north. A few bullets had hit home and torn up the chopper’s radar and one of its weapons pods. The weapons controller behind the pilot rotated the chopper’s chain gun and began firing at the men on the roof of the embassy.

In the Gulf, aboard the Considerate…

“Captain Mendelson.” CAPT Johanis gave a mocking salute and reached into the man’s pocket retrieving a large collection of folder papers. “How convenient of you to have these with you. Do you always walk around with your ship’s papers in your pocket? I assume the manifest is here as well? What are you carrying? Mind if we have a look at it?”

A picture of Courtland under attack. Hope this works...

ooc: awesome; take that, Courtland!`

Gwen Ubrecht looked out the window of her apartment and saw the smoke rising from the city centre. Her various mobile phones had been flooded with SMS messages passing often-conflicting rumours. She picked up her encoded mobile - the one she used for communication with other FVLA operatives - and sent a blast message: Stay low. Keep out of sight.

No sooner had she sent the message than the phone rang. "Ubrecht."

"Gwyneth."

"Commander!" Gwen had been expecting the revolutionary command to call, but she had expected it would be Chairman Marko in Harrington, not Commander Lazarus calling from the field.

"Our coup-plotting brigadier has withdrawn his men towards Courtland. We've been keeping up appearances here, but with chaos engulfing the capital, I've decided to move towards Courtland myself."

"Sir?"

"I'll leave enough people here to keep up the noise, then cross behind our 'friends' and approach the city through the western rural districts. I hope to make camp in the forest north of Stonebridge. So, keep most of our people out of the mob, but seed it where you can and try to keep away from the western suburbs."

"Yes, Commander."

"And inform our UC friends. Bye."

The line went dead and Gwen immediately began sending an SMS to her three most trusted people.

New mob forming at Presidential Palace. Infiltrate and keep the mob moving east and south. Try to influence any others you can to do same. Avoid capture at all costs.

Then, she dialed Greg on his phone.

* * *

The Dominion Presidential Palace was very much a mixed symbol. General Altman had never used it as a residence, so it retained much of the aura of the "good old days" when Upper Virginians used to elect their leaders. However, many of the elected presidents who had lived there had been petty tyrants in their own way. Including the cowardly little man, who in the face of a worker's uprising in the streets, had cowered in the basement and suspended the constitution. He had eventually handed all power to General Roger Courtland, beginning the nation's nearly 80 years of military dictatorship.

Now, a mob was forming outside the gates of the Palace. The mob wasn't sure what it wanted to do, but it was angry. An unfortunate squad of soldiers arrived to control the mob, but they were overwhelmed and quickly met the fate their comrades at the Directorate of Justice had already suffered.

Now armed and feeling victorious, the mob tried to decide what to do. Shouts began to go up of marching to the National Assembly to save it from Altman. But, continued explosions from the direction dampened their enthusiasm.

Soon, a new shout arose. "To Stonebridge! Down with the Rich!"

Mingling within the group were two men and a women. They did not talk to each other or even look at other. Yet, they began to raise a different call. "To the Chamber of Industrials! They are the oppressors! To the Chamber of Industrials!" Soon, their chant won out. In minutes, the mob was moving to the east.

General Altman's Command Centre, Outside Courtland...

GEN Craig Altman paced the upper balcony of the command centre like a caged animal. Reports were coming in from all over the city and they weren't good. There at least six enemy helicopters over the city, two were down, the rest were up or in unknown condition. Enemy special forces were in the Pantocratorian embassy and had taken out some of his best men. He had lost two choppers and the National Assembly was burning. To make things worse, civilian buildings had been hit and mobs were forming. Three squads - possibly more - had already been lost to the mob.

BRIG Youst nervously watched the pacing. The general was becoming angry and Youst was worried that the general would blame him. Officers incurring the general's anger and blame often ended up dead.

Suddenly, Altman turned to face Youst and began to smile. "We don't know who these people are, but they came from the Gulf?"

"Ye...yes, sir."

"Must be Excalbians."

"Sir," Youst said hesitantly, "the Excalbians wouldn't attack the Pantocratorians, they're the Empire's closest ally. And these aren't the kinds of tactics they use..."

"Maybe so," Altman's smile grew, "but we certainly could put together a case for them being the culprit, couldn't we? And, if we find out who is really behind it, we can always say they are in league with the Excalbians. Even with the Pantocratorians. Maybe the attack on the embassy is an elaborate hoax to clear themselves and hide their true objectives..."

"Sir?"

Altman ignored the commander of his personal brigade and turned to the air force officer to his left. "General Repse, where do we stand on the X-10 bomber?"

"Well, sir," MAJGEN Max Repse began, "we have begun flight testing, but there are still a few problems with the engines. If we had access to Procurement's R&D staff..."

Altman nodded and turned to Youst. "What is the latest word from Major General Harrison?"

"The X-9 is nearly ready. It is beginning to field test the Crimson Star. In fact, she was meeting with the Varessans to discuss that when the attack began. She and her security officer are sitting out the fight there..."

"Crimson Star?" Repse looked confused. "I heard the X-9 was a failure..."

Altman smiled. "I don't like to keep my eggs in one basket, General. Perhaps, though it is time to combine efforts. With the X-9 and X-10 ready deployed, even the test-bed versions, we could make kindling of the Excalbian Navy and be rid of their interference for ever."

"Youst!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Order all remaining troops into the city to quell the rioters. I will impose a 24-hour curfew. I will also announce that Excalbia may have committed an act of war. Summon the Excalbian ambassador; I will personally declare him persona non grata and, if he survives, summon the Pantocratorian ambassador; I will expel him as well."

"Yes, sir."

"And, Repse..."

"Sir?"

"I want two full squadron airborne immediately. They are take down the enemy and, if necessary, take out the mobs."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Several minutes later, televisions across the nation fade to black. The black is replaced by the Upper Virginian eagle and, then, the emblem of the Army. General Altman, in his green jacket over khaki pants with black ridding boots, appears on the screen.

My fellow Upper Virginians. Tonight, we are under attack. Forces believed to be operating from the Holy Empire of Excalbia have attacked our capital. The National Assembly is in ruins; the docks have been destroyed and several commercial buildings hit. Meanwhile, their terrorist allies have raised up mobs from among the criminal element, who are burning, looting and murdering the innocent.

In order to control this violence, and to protect innocent citizens from the on-going battle, I am declaring a twenty-four curfew in and around Courtland. All citizens are to remain where they are for the next twenty-four hours. Those on the streets will be assumed to be terrorists and criminals and will be shot.

Further, I am summoning the Excalbian ambassador and his Pantocratorian ally and will expel them from our country. I will send them home with the message that the Dominion is not to be trifled with, and that, should early indications prove true, this will mean war.

Good night. God bless the Dominion and pray for peace.

Greg's face showed his surprise when he saw it was Ubrecht calling. He quickly ducked into his office and shut the door before answering. 'Well I'm sure glad I stayed in tonight. How's it going with you?'

"It is a good night to stay home and curl up with a book isn't it?" Gwen sounded as nonchalant as she could. "Most of my friends are home, too. But, you should know that my boss is on the move. He's coming down and will set up shop to the west, above Stonebridge. I have a couple of my best people out with crowd trying to keep them from turning west to loot the rich in the 'burbs. How're things going on your end?"

Before Greg could answer, Gwen sees that Altman was about to speak on TV. "Hold on Greg; Altman's on the tube..."



My fellow Upper Virginians. Tonight, we are under attack. Forces believed to be operating from the Holy Empire of Excalbia have attacked our capital. The National Assembly is in ruins; the docks have been destroyed and several commercial buildings hit. Meanwhile, their terrorist allies have raised up mobs from among the criminal element, who are burning, looting and murdering the innocent.

In order to control this violence, and to protect innocent citizens from the on-going battle, I am declaring a twenty-four curfew in and around Courtland. All citizens are to remain where they are for the next twenty-four hours. Those on the streets will be assumed to be terrorists and criminals and will be shot.

Further, I am summoning the Excalbian ambassador and his Pantocratorian ally and will expel them from our country. I will send them home with the message that the Dominion is not to be trifled with, and that, should early indications prove true, this will mean war.

Good night. God bless the Dominion and pray for peace.

"Greg, did you hear that? What do you think Altman is up to? Surely he doesn't think the Excalbians and the Pantos are behind this. Is he really trying to start a war? Now..."

'Yeah,' replied Greg, slowly, 'I don't think we did that. He must be looking for an excuse to shoot some Excalibans. Either way, your boss' move is good news for us, I'll advise our guys to withdraw west. We've kind of hit a couple hiccups there.'

OOC: Apologies that I've been away for the past week, I will be back on the otherside of the weekend. Sorry again!

In Varessa…

Taking his leave from Chancellor Drake and Minister Shaw, Ambassador Sir Gareth Vikis hurried out of the cabinet room and back to the Imperial Embassy. As he walked into his office and headed for the secure phone he felt giddy – the kind of giddiness that he couldn’t decide whether it was fear or excitement. He picked up the phone, inserted his key and dialed.

In Citadel Excalbia…

Minister of State Albert Cummings sat in his library, a fire roaring in the fireplace, wearing his robe and slippers and watching his favorite ball team give away the game against a lesser opponent. Cummings muttered under his breath as yet another turnover led to a score. Then he took a drink and sat back further into his leather recliner.

The phone beside him rang and he picked it up. “Cummings.”

“Sorry to disturb you, Minister,” a voice said on the other end, “this is the Operations Center. We have Ambassador Vikis on the line wanting to speak with you securely, sir.”

Cummings muttered something, sat down his drink and fumbled with his robe until he retrieved a key from a chain around his neck and inserted it into the phone. He turned it.

“I’m now secure.”

“Very well, sir. Stand by.”

There was a pause and then, a new voice spoke. “Minister?”

“Yes, Sir Vikis. What is it?!”

“Umm… Sorry to bother you at home, sir. “I’ve just come from an extraordinary meeting of the Varessan cabinet.”

“You? In their cabinet meeting?”

“Yes, Minister. As I was saying…”

After Vikis finished going over all the details of the meeting and agreement he had made with the Varessans and MAJGEN Harrison, Cummings sat red-faced. He pounded a fist on the arm of his chair. “Damnation, Vikis! Did you offer them the Imperial throne as well? I’m sure the Emperor won’t mind stepping aside for some commoner Uppie!”

Cummings was a man who spoke his mind and spoke it with passion. His appointment to the position of Minister of State was taken as a direct comment on the ineffectiveness of his soft-spoken and diplomatic predecessor. However, his tendency to speak first was also a liability that caused him to be dropped from three previous cabinets before receiving this appointment. It had also probably kept him from receiving the peerage or knighthood that so many of colleagues held. His temper and passion were on full display as verbally lashed Vikis for a full minute.

However, Cummings was not without reason and even as he questioned the ambassador’s sanity another part of his mind was coming to the conclusion the ambassador had probably done the right thing after all.

“Well,” Cummings concluded, “under the circumstances I suppose there wasn’t much else you could do, Vikis. I’ll need to tell the Chancellor and the Emperor. Hold the line. I’ll call the Chancellor now. She may want to have a piece of your hide before pinning a medal on you, as well.”

“Yes, Minister,” Vikis said sheepishly.

In the Chancery, Citadel Mount…

Unlike her Minister of State, Lady Christina Freedman rarely took time to relax. Even her so-called social engagements were mostly work. She had, in fact, just returned from a formal reception. She hadn’t wanted to attend, but it was part of the job. She had just dropped off another handsome, eligible and ultimately disposable escort and returned to her office. She was still wearing the red gown had worn to the reception, knowing that she could change in the small bedroom adjacent to her office.

She didn’t know what her predecessors had used it for, but Lady Freedman lived in that tiny bedroom, rarely spending a night – especially since the Upper Virginian crisis began – in her official residence below Citadel Mount.

Before going to change, she stopped at her desk to check messages. While there her phone rang. “Yes,” she said removing a dangling earring from one ear.

“My Lady,” the secretary on duty said, “Minister Cummings is on the line. He wishes to go secure on the line.”

“Very well.” The chancellor quickly produced her key, inserted it and turned it. “Secure.”

“My Lady,” Minister Cumming’s voice said.

“Yes, Minister.”

“My Lady, I have Sir Vikis, our ambassador to Varessa on the line. He has just returned from a classified meeting of the Varessan cabinet. The meeting also included a secure conference call with the leader of the Upper Virginia military coup-plot – one Major General Becka Harrison. Before calling you, I had my staff pull up her bio. It is a bit sketchy, but from what we know she is an engineer and technocrat, in charge of their procurement and research, not a line officer. She is either widowed or divorced and has a pre-teen son. No previously known political activity.”

“Go ahead, Albert.”

“Yes, my Lady. In this meeting, it was confirmed that the Dominion has developed a hypersonic aircraft. It was also revealed that the Varessans have developed a weapon – some kind of kinetic beam – for the aircraft…”

“This is bad news…”

“Yes, my Lady… So bad, in fact, that when offered the opportunity, Ambassador Vikis negotiated an agreement to trade access to our naval technology, use of the DAIN and direct support for the coup in exchange for access to the technology behind the hypersonic plane and this weapon…”

“Well,” Lady Freedman leaned back in her chair and played the a strand of curled blonde hair, “I certainly didn’t see that coming.” Unlike Cummings, the chancellor kept her immediate reactions to herself and pondered the implications. After a few moments of silence, she spoke. “Not necessarily what I would have done, but Vikis was the man on the scene and I agree that it probably had to be done in some form or another. Very well, unless the Emperor objects – and I don’t believe he will – tell Ambassador Vikis that he can confirm our consent to the agreement. Ask him to get details on how we can contact this General Harrison and then we need to begin coordinating with her and the Varessans our ‘more direct’ support for the coup.”

The chancellor stood and looked at her reflection in the dark windows of the French doors behind her desk. Maybe she wouldn’t change after all. “I suspect that Admiral Lord Halton is over giving his nightly briefing to the Emperor. I was going to join them later, but I think I’ll go now and brief them on the agreement.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“Good night, Albert.”

“Good night, my Lady.”

The chancellor hung up. Replaced her earring and strode confidently out of her office, down the steps and towards the Castle.

Sweyn Castle, Citadel Excalbia...

The doors to the small war room in the basement of Sweyn Castle opened and a soldier in the blue dress uniform of the Imperial Guard entered and bowed. “Your Majesty, Her Excellency the Lady Chancellor…”

Emperor David IV, dressed in white naval uniform shirt topped by a black sweater with star encrusted epaulets, looked up from the display table. “Please send her in.”

The guard stood, bowed quickly and stepped out of the door. Lady Christina Freedman, in an elegant and stylishly cut red dress entered the room and bowed. “Your Majesty.”

“Lady Chancellor,” the emperor said with a nod, “join us.”

As she walked towards the table, the chancellor noted that Admiral Lord Yornis Halton and Lord James Reynolds, the empire’s intelligence chief, were both in attendance along with several aides.

“Lady Chancellor,” Halton said, “I take it that you have heard the news that the Pantocratorian embassy in Courtland is under attack...”

“Yes, Lord Admiral, I received word at the reception from my staff. Do we know yet who is responsible or what response the Pantocratorians wish to make?”

“Not yet, my Lady.”

The chancellor gave Halton a stern glare, then turned to the emperor. “Your Majesty, I bring more news…”

“Yes?” The emperor looked up and all ties turned towards the chancellor.

“Your ambassador to Varessa, your Majesty, just attended a classified meeting of their cabinet.” Halton and Lord James immediately turned towards each other and began to murmur. “We learned a number of things from that meeting. First, we learned that the nominal leader of the military coup-plotters in the Dominion is a Major General Becka Harrison, their chief of procurement and research.”

As soon as the chancellor spoke Harrison’s name, Lord James turned to one of his aides, who began scrolling through pages on his handheld PC. Before the chancellor could continue, the intelligence chief interjected. “Your Majesty,” Lord James said, still looking at the PC’s screen, “Major General Harrison is a single mother with a pre-teen child and no political track record. Those who have met her at international conferences report that she is quiet, competent and ‘much more pleasant’ than most Uppie military officers…”

The chancellor nodded towards Lord James and looked back at the emperor, “Your Majesty, the ambassador also was able to confirm the existence of the Dominion’s hypersonic warplane and obtain details on the weapon that the Varessans have developed for the plane. We should receive the technical information shortly. He, I must say, found the details quite disturbing…”

David leveled his gaze at his chancellor and leaned both his hand on the table. “Why do I hear a ‘but’ coming, Lady Christina?”

The chancellor gave the emperor a slight smile. He had learned to read her very well. “In the course of the meeting, it seems that both the Varessans and General Harrison – speaking by phone from Courtland – opened negotiations with Sir Vikis…”

“Opened negotiations?” Lord Halton murmured, not aware that the chancellor could hear him. She did and shot him another look that would have sent her political opponents scurrying for cover.

“He reached a tentative deal with the Varessans.” The chancellor saw the look in the emperor’s eye and held up a hand. “Minister Cummings has already spoken with him about better coordinating with the Citadel, but under the circumstances, given what he learned and the danger of this weapon falling into Altman’s hands, Cummings and I both agree that he did the right thing.”

“Please continue,” David said evenly.

“The agreement calls for Varessa to share the technology behind their weapon and for the Dominion, post-coup, to share the technology behind their hypersonic plane. In return, we provide access to our naval technology, limited use of D.A.I.N. and agree to more actively intervene on behalf of the coup-plotters at the right moment…”

Lord Halton tried to say something, but simply sputtered. Lord James rubbed his beard and chewed his lip as he pondered the new situation.

Emperor David IV stepped back from the table and sat down. He crossed his legs and seemed to stare at a spot a few feet in front of him. The Imperial Chancellor stepped towards the emperor and stood beside him. “A tricky situation for us, your Majesty,” she half-whispered, “but one filled with potential…”

The emperor sat for a few more seconds, then smiled. “Tricky indeed.” He turned towards the red-faced Halton and towards Lord James, who seemed to reaching the same conclusion the emperor had. “If this goes badly, our ambassador’s deal could lead to war. However, in it lie the seeds for a new relationship between the Holy Empire and the Dominion; one that might end more than a century of mistrust and suspicion. It also may hold the beginnings of a new alliance.” The emperor paused. “Imagine, Lord Halton, the security that would come of from alliances with a new Dominion, Varessa and Pantocratoria?”

The emperor stood and walked back to the display table. “Lord Halton, I want you to start planning contingencies for our forces to enter the Dominion.” The emperor turned towards the chancellor and smiled. “Your confirmation of the agreement stands. Have Ambassador Vikis work out military-to-military contacts so that Lord Halton can begin coordinating with the Varessans on our intervention in the Dominion.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

Altman's Headquarters, Outside Courtland...

General Altman sat behind the desk he rarely used on a tiered balcony overlooking the main command centre. Below him, at the display table, BRIG Youst and MAJGEN Repse anxiously awaiting reports from the fighters streaking over Courtland. He knew they were also awaiting word from the Pantocratorian embassy about the combat there.

But Altman was waiting for something else. He was waiting for this skirmish to be over so that the Excalbian ambassador could be dragged in to hear the charges against his so-called Empire. Altman couldn't wait to see the coward's face once he realized that, no matter what might happen over the next few days, the Dominion meant to go to war with Excalbia and settle everything once and for all...

The flashbang went off, and the guard behind the desk squeezed the trigger of his revolver, blindly firing as he growled in rage.

In the archive room behind the bodyguard's futile last stand, the Ambassador ran for his emergency line.

***

"Sir, emergency communication from the Imperial High Command!" shouted a communications officer on the bridge of HIMS Imperator Andreus.

The ship's permanent commanding officer (Lord Phocas having command only on those rare occassions when he could find an excuse to escape from the depressing greyness of the Imperial High Command) and his first officer, both holding the rank of captain, rushed over to the communications station.

"Proceed." they both ordered.

"This is the Imperial High Command." said a cold, vaguely female voice. It was Mater, the computer which served as the interface between the faceless members of the Imperial High Command and the huge military complex over which they had absolute control. "His Majesty's embassy in Courtland has been attacked by hostile forces. The identity of the attackers is unknown at this time, but intelligence sources in Courtland suggest the possibility of the involvement of both Upper Virginian and one other power. Assets deployed in the Excalbian Isles are hereby placed on wartime alert. Orders are being sent to flight control."

The two captains looked at each other, their faces pale.

"Your message has been acknowledged." one of them replied.

"First Admiral Lord Phocas is hereby commanded to return to HIMS Imperator Andreus." Mater added, recognising that the voice answering her was not that of Lord Phocas.

"Acknowledged."

"God Save the Emperor!" Mater concluded.

"The transmission has ended sirs." said the communication officer.

A second later, red lights began flashing and klaxons sounded urgently on-board every ship in the fleet.

"HIMS Imperator Andreus to INV Glorious. Request that Lord Phocas return immediately!" started the communication officer.

***

Simultaneously, in flight control, Captain Plussiers was having a conversation with Mater.

"Acknowledged, all scheduled flights cancelled." he said into his headset as he pushed his way through the crowded control room.

"Interceptors to be dispatched to eliminate potential aerial assault on His Majesty's embassy in Courtland." said Mater. "Fighter/bomber mission to be prepared to strike at key targets in Courtland. All Upper Virginian aircraft encountered to be considered targets of opportunity. All Upper Virginian military bases and command posts to be considered targets of opportunity to be engaged. Targets of opportunity should only be engaged when there is little or no chance of Pantocratorian losses, to be determined by you, Captain Plussiers."

"Yes, Mater." Plussiers acknowledged.

"God Save the Emperor!"

A few seconds later, the klaxons sounded, and the control room was soaked in soft red light. Officers cursed and swore as they ran to their consoles, and Plussiers began barking orders.

The soldiers ran into the ambassador's office, ducking as the guard fired wildly. One dropped to the ground, clutching his breast, while another leapt over the desk and clubbed the guard in the face, smashing the hand he had used to cover his eyes into his skull. The guard's gun skitters across the floor as the remaining intruders circled around him.

'I'm fine, I'm fine,' shouted the soldier who'd been bit as he picked himself up and picked the bullet out of his armor. 'Fucker.'

The soldiers paused, and then realized what was missing. 'Where the hell is the ambassador?' The team leader stepped over the guard, who was moaning and bleeding from his nose, and grabbed his collar. 'Where is the ambassador? Où est le ambassador?'

'Sir, look at this.' The view from the soldier's camera popped onto the team leader's goggles, showing the IR signatures of two people behind one of the walls.

'Fucking hell.' The team leader turned back to the guard and grabbed his collar again. 'We're here to help you, the Upper Virginians are attacking. We have a helicopter waiting to evacuate the ambassador. Now how do we get into that room? Comment est-ce que j'entre dans cette salle?'

In a hallway on the second floor, bullets flew past the two squads. The soldiers fired into the Virginians, picking off three of them, and left another writhing on the ground as the bullets impacted the alloy armor. In return, one of their own dropped, clutching his arm but waving away aid. 'I'm fine,' he said, as he picked up his gun and began firing again.

On top of the embassy, the UV chaingun dismembered one of the SC crew members firing at the helicopter overhead as the second dove behind the cockpit, huddling against the composite steel as bullets ricocheted off the armored cabin. Summon the last of his bravery, he crawled along the chassis, popped up and shot four grenade rounds into the helicopter's belly.

+++

'Oh sir,' said the freighter's captain as the Virginian soldiers piled onto his ship, 'of course I endeavor to cooperate with law enforcement in every way possible. You will find the manifest with those papers; we are carrying a variety of electronic goods. My Bosun can show you wherever you wish to go.'

+++

'We're still being painted!'

'Countermeasures!' Gas jets from vents around the helicopter, surrounding it in a cloud, as flares zipped their way around the shimmering cloud. The pilot and CPG watched the missile approach, bank to the right, and explode as it passed the laser in the gas cloud. The concussion warped the helicopter's frame, impacting like a giant fist into the metal side, and destroyed the rotors overhead. The helicopter dropped, twisted, and then exploded as the CPG hit the self destruct and detonated the rocketpods, gutting what was left of the helicopter and leaving a burning frame to slam into the street below.

From high above the fighting, the remaining members of Flight 2 watched their comrades disappear from their sensors. Their chests tightened, worried about whether this was foreshadowing.

'One three, flight two, we are overhead and acquiring ground targets.'

'Flight two, one three, please, get these assholes off our ass.'

One two launched a pair of missiles, targetting a string of light military vehicles attempting to follow the SC2 that had been chased away from the embassy. The CPG, watching the feed from the lead missiles optics, guided the missiles until the vehicles were in site, at which point he hit a button and sent them straight towards the convoy.

Aboard INV Glorious, in the Gulf...

VADM Sir Derek Kunle looked up, having just passed the message to Lord Phocas, to see another crewman dash into the flag mess. The crewman saluted. "I am sorry, Admiral, but I have an urgent message from Imperator Andreus..."

Kunle held out his hand. "Let me see it, crewman."

"Aye, sir." The crewman handed it to Kunle, who read it and handed it to Phocas.

"It seems your ship is urgently awaiting, my Lord. We will clear your helicopter for immediate departure. Also, please be assured that we will provide whatever assistance you may require..."

In Chateau Langeais...

Bishop Yanis Uvaras stirred from his nap and looked at his watch. It had been more than one hour he intended to rest. Quickly, he rose and straightened his clothes. He stepped into the washroom and washed his face. Then, he gathered the papers in his portfolio and carefully opened the door of his room and walked across the hall to Sister Marguerite's room. He heard nothing and saw no light coming from under the door. He tapped lightly on the door and hearing no answer decided to let her sleep. This shouldn't have involved her anyway, he thought.

Uvaras began looking for someone to ask directions and quickly found a maid. "Excuse me, Madame. Can you direct me to the Princess?"

The maid bowed to the Bishop and led him downstairs and along the castle's corridors, arriving finally in a study. A young man sat behind the desk, pouring over a dispatch which had just been handed to him by the young woman the Bishop recognised as Princess Anna. Both were dressed fairly casually - this wasn't a stuffy formal Pantocratorian court.

"This is getting really serious..." said Prince Joseph of Excalbia in concern. "With the sheer number of military assets committed, this is could turn into a full scale conflict quite easily..."

Anna bit her lower lip. She didn't want to be caught up in the middle of an actual war. She wanted to argue with Joseph, but knew that he knew what he was talking about. In truth, she could see it too, she just didn't want to admit it to herself. She turned around and noticed the Bishop, and started a little, before gracefully curtseying.

"Your Grandure," she says in welcome. "I hope you're well rested."

In Courtland...

As the target fell, some of the men stood and cheered. FSGT Volker simply stood and rested the laser guide against his arm. LT Erglis gave his men a moment to celebrate and then spoke into his mic. “OK, saddle up. We’ve got more hostiles to peg. We’ll head up towards NDS tower.” Erglis looked over at the wounded man beside the rubble. “Corporal Gints, I want you and the medic to stay with the wounded. Call for an ambulance.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Everyone else, let’s go.”

With silent nods, Erglis’ men climbed into their vehicles and headed towards the looming glass and steel NDS tower.

* * *

LT Yornis saw the incoming missiles and tried to motion for his men to get to cover, but he was too late. The column was hit and hit hard. A few survivors managed to crawl out of the last few vehicles. One of them even had the presence to radio the CO.

* * *

“Two-one, two-thirty-three.”

“Two-one,” MAJ Ulanis acknowledged the unfamiliar voice.

“Sir, the lieutenant is dead. We took enemy fire. I think at least two choppers…”

Ulanis cursed and banged on the back of LT Miller’s chair.

“Two-twenty-six, two-one.”

“Two-twenty-six,” the voice of LT Erglis reassuring answered.

“Status?”

“Target down. We’re moving towards two-thirty-three’s position to get a fix on two additional targets…”

“Roger. Exercise caution.”

“Roger. Out.”

“Two-twenty-five, two-one.”

“Two-twenty-five.”

“I want every man equipped with RPGs and on alert around the embassy. We have more incoming.”

“Roger.”

“Two-one, Reaper.”

“Go ahead.”

“We now have visual on the embassy and your position. Want us to go after the remaining choppers? Over.”

“Whoever this is, they’re brining in reinforcements to get something out of that embassy. Can you fly a protective pattern over the embassy? Wait for them to come in? Over.”

“Kind of a waste, two-one.”

“Securing whatever it is that they want is priority one. Two-twenty-six is moving to get a line on the other targets. If they paint anything, fire at will.”

“Roger. Over and out.”

* * *

The pilot of Raven one saw the surviving crewman pop up from the burning wreckage. At the last second, he realized what the man was firing and he pulled up, trying to move the helicopter up and away. The first grenade just missed the chopper. The weapon’s officer had also spotted the man and immediately turned the chaingun on him. As he fired the first burst, the other three grenades slammed into the chopper’s belly one after another. The explosions tore through the chopper, rupturing the fuel tank. The helicopter turned into a ball of flame and fell into the front yard of the embassy.

* * *

Even as he got into a low firing position and continued firing into the advancing squad, part of LT Timmerman’s mind began assessing the situation. Four of his men were down. Three of them had been caught in such a fierce hail of bullets that enough had found weaknesses in the armor to bring them to bloody ends. The fourth was alive, but barely, and likely suffering from fatal internal injuries despite the protection of his armor. That left him as the only survivor. Not a viable situation. Nevertheless, Timmerman continued firing and reached for one of the dead men’s weapons.

Timmerman, however, had somewhat underestimated SGT Mullins. The impact of the bullets had battered him inside his armor; he knew he was dead. But, he wasn’t finished. As the lieutenant poured on as much fire as he could, using the bodies of his comrades for cover, Mullins fumbled about, as if writhing mindlessly, until he found the high explosive grenade, armed it and flipped it towards the enemy.

Timmerman saw the grenade fly out of Mullin’s and buried and tried to hurl himself back towards the stairway. He had just about covered the short distance – no more than a wide step – when the grenade exploded, tearing out the walls on either side of the hallway and shredding the fallen men with shrapnel.

Still tucked away in the back stairs, CAPT Marks motioned for his men to stay down and quiet, despite the demise of their comrades. Marks watched through a wire fed under the stairway’s fire door as his men were cut down. He saw the grenade just before it blew and motioned for his men to get down on the stairs even as he dove away from heavy door.

In the Gulf...

“Very good, Captain Mendelson,” CAPT Johanis said, “your bosun will show my men every hold and every compartment, while you and your crew stay above decks under the motor boat’s guns and under the guns of aircraft overhead…”

The maid bowed to the Bishop and led him downstairs and along the castle's corridors, arriving finally in a study. A young man sat behind the desk, pouring over a dispatch which had just been handed to him by the young woman the Bishop recognised as Princess Anna. Both were dressed fairly casually - this wasn't a stuffy formal Pantocratorian court.

"This is getting really serious..." said Prince Joseph of Excalbia in concern. "With the sheer number of military assets committed, this is could turn into a full scale conflict quite easily..."

Anna bit her lower lip. She didn't want to be caught up in the middle of an actual war. She wanted to argue with Joseph, but knew that he knew what he was talking about. In truth, she could see it too, she just didn't want to admit it to herself. She turned around and noticed the Bishop, and started a little, before gracefully curtseying.

"Your Grandure," she says in welcome. "I hope you're well rested."

In Chateau Langeais...

“Yes, your Highness.” Bishop Uvaras bowed, clutching his portfolio tightly to his chest. He hoped that he was getting the protocol right; after all, he had grown up in a society without nobility.

“Sister Marguerite is still resting and I feel much better. Thank you so much for your hospitality.” The bishop looked at the young man behind the desk. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure…” He stepped towards the man. “I am the Rev. Yanis Uvaras, bishop of Courtland.” Then, turning towards Princess Anna, he added, “I was hoping to fill you in about the reason for my journey here…”

(OOC: Sorry for so many posts, but there was a lot to keep track of...)

Outside Courtland...

SSGT Burke's normally stoic face showed the slightest hint of amusement as he watched the last VSF vehicle churn about the ground around their former camp. He appreciated their solid thinking and was impressed by some of their... unorthodox... details. As the vehicle prepared to depart, he ran forward to the lead SSS vehicle. He jumped in and turned towards CAPT Terelson. "They're all set, sir."

Terelson nodded. "Let's go."

* * *

Not long after the VSF and SSS contingent had departed their now despoiled camp, LT Potts and a squad of men rolled into the camp.

On his signal, men jumped from each of the vehicles and began scouting the perimeter. Once they had established control over the area, LT Potts jumped out and looked at the tracks and debris. “Looks like we just chased someone off,” he said kicking at the fresh tracks.

“Should we pursue or radio for back-up, Lieutenant?” SSGT Harold Ozols stood just behind Potts.

Bending over, Potts picked up one of the used condoms. “I don’t think so, Sergeant. Looks like it was just kids. This must be the local make-out spot.”

Just then, a corporal ran up with the handheld radio. “Lieutenant Colonel Illers on the line, sir.”

Potts held out his hand and snatched the radio from the corporal. “This is four-oh-six, go ahead.”

“This is four-oh,” Illers’ voice said, “report.”

“It looks like we ran off some kids. Looks like they had some SUVs and were up here partying…”

“I don’t buy it.”

“Sir?”

“Not enough rich kids on this end of town. They need at least silver permits for SUVs. You may be right, but I want you to check it out. Find and detain them. Four-one-one is right behind you and will take position there.”

“Uh,” Potts stammered, “yes, sir.”

His face flush with embarrassment, Potts turned towards Ozols. “I want this playing around stopped, Ozols. Get the men back in their vehicles. We’re moving out after whoever was here.”

“Yes, sir.”

The soldiers didn't even have time to swear before they went diving away from the grenade's explosion. The grenade rolled past them, exploding a couple meters past the intersection. The initial blast knocked them off their feet, while the gas expansion launched their bodies down the hallways. Inside their helmets, they heard the screams of one of their comrades.

'My arm! Fuckfuckfuckfuck.' The soldier attmepted to stand, stumbling against the wall for support as he clutched his broken arm to his body. The explosion had carved away the walls behind their position, shredding office equipment and leaving a mangled web of wiring hanging from the ceiling. The other members of the team were putting out a fire on the back of another soldier as the fourth stumbled into the adjoining hallway where his comrades were, slumping against the wall away from the Virginians.

'Move it,' said the team's leader as he pulled the smouldering soldier to his feet. 'I'll set the trip wire.'

The team leader pulled a shaped charge from his backpack, inserted the primer into the explosive and attached it to a wall facing the hallway the Virginians were stationed. He strung the wire across the hallway, tacking it into the opposite wall, then dropped a wad of ashy paper over the charge. He hurried away, regrouping with his team at the end of the next hallway, where the wounded soldier's arm was being hastily set. His helmet's faceplate was off, exposing his sweat drenched face to the smoky air. His armor was rolled away from his neck, exposing the fistfull of pain derms slapped across his jugular and carotid.

'How are you?'

'Been better, sir.'

'Get his armor and plate back on, they won't be long. Take up positions. Can you fight?'

The wounded soldier held up an empty hand. 'Just got my sidearm. Dropped my gun back there.'

'Fine, stay back, and pass out your grenades.' The soldier detached his three remaining flash bangs from the back of his belt, handed them to his comrades. 'Take positions.'

Above them, the explosion shook the amabassador's office, spurring the soldier gripping the guard's short to shake even harder. 'Do you hear that? That's Altman's deathsquad. Now let us help you god damn it!'

On the roof, the flaming wreck of the Virginian helicopter created a glowing rim around the roof's edge. The CPG scurried under the tail of the SC, gun in hand, and checked on the wounded jockey, who had managed to avoid getting torn to pieces.

'You okay there?'

'Fucking a.'

'Yeah.' The CPG lookedover the remains of the pilot, which was a long splatter across the roof. Turning away, he slung the gun over his shoulder and bent over to pick up the wounded man. 'Let's go, we need to get off the roof.'

+++

'One three, two one, we have good hits on ground forces, prepare to take up formation behind us.'

'Two one, one three, we're right behind you.'

One three dropped in behind the remaining members of Flight 2, forming a reversed wedge as they banked north, heading towards the open area just outside the city center.

+++

'Of course, sir. Bosun, show the Captain whatever it is he wants to see.'

'Yes, sir,' replied the Bosun, a wiry man in his forties with a spot of gray along his ears. 'Captain, where would you like to begin?'

Inside the archive room, the last bodyguard and the ambassador looked to the door, from the other side of which they heard the troopers trying to lure them out.

The Ambassador looked to his bodyguard.

"We don't stand any chance of holding them off." he said to the bodyguard.

"We can try!" protested the guard.

"There isn't any point."

"Monsieur Ambassador, they're lying! They're not here to help us! If you surrender you will be playing right into their hands and falling for their lies!"

"Of course they're lying, but that's hardly relevant. Either we surrender, or they come in and take us."

"After your message, surely the fleet is preparing to strike back!" protests the guard.

The Ambassador shook his head and turned to the door. He shouted to the soldiers in the next room, in English.

"You have invaded sovereign Pantocratorian territory, and there will be consequences! We will surrender to you now, but if you were wise, you would surrender to us instead - I'd be surprised if the Imperial Navy gives you the opportunity!" the Ambassador shouted.

The bodyguard sighed, and the Ambassador opened the door.

In Chateau Langeais...

“Yes, your Highness.” Bishop Uvaras bowed, clutching his portfolio tightly to his chest. He hoped that he was getting the protocol right; after all, he had grown up in a society without nobility.

“Sister Marguerite is still resting and I feel much better. Thank you so much for your hospitality.” The bishop looked at the young man behind the desk. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure…” He stepped towards the man. “I am the Rev. Yanis Uvaras, bishop of Courtland.” Then, turning towards Princess Anna, he added, “I was hoping to fill you in about the reason for my journey here…”

"Your Grandure, may I present my husband, His Imperial Highness Prince Joseph, Crown Prince of Excalbia." Anna says by way of introduction.

"Your Grace," says Joseph, acknowledging the Bishop. "Please do fill us in."

Anna eyed the folder the Bishop clutched to his chest as she waited for him to start his explanation.

The door opened, and the four soldiers were almost stunned that it had. The team leader walked to the ambassador and slid the face plate of his helmet up, revealing a sharp, burnished skinnned face.

'Mr. Ambassador, I am Lieutenant Zjad, I am a military officer, I am not from Upper Virginia, and myself and my troops are here to escort you out of Upper Virginia. I don't have time to appraise you of the situation but right now our troops have engaged Virginians inside the embassy, and our transport is under fire from troops in the city. We need to leave, and now. I can brief you fully once we are in the air.'

In Courtland...

SGT Mullins was disappointed to be alive – his grenade had rolled passed the enemy and exploded to their rear. He’d hoped to get it right in the middle of them and figured he’d be taken out in the blast. His armor had protected him from most the shrapnel that had come his way, but he knew he was just about finished. Nevertheless, he started to feel around for another grenade as he rolled on his side.

LT Timmerman looked up from the open stairway and crawled back into firing position. He couldn’t make out much, even in IR, and figured they must have ducked around a corner. He cautiously began to move forward, spotting Mullins.

“Sergeant,” Timmerman whispered into his mic.

Mullins made a gurgling sound through the mic and shook his head. He had a grenade in his hand and was slowly crawling towards the junction of the hallways. Timmerman figured out what the other man had in mind and rolled over the body of one his men for cover. He took a position to cover Mullins as the sergeant made his way down the hall.

CAPT Marks slid the camera wire back under the door and took a quick look. He turned to the men beside him. “Can’t see much; they must have gone down the other corridor. Tillis, booby-trap the door. The rest of you, with me. We’re continuing up to the ambassador’s office.”

* * *

LT Erglis and his men roared up Industrial Ave., passing between the glass and steel NDS tower and older brick tower of the Chamber of Industrials. As they crossed Corporate Blvd., Erglis saw the burning wrecks of Yornis’ column. Puttz, Erglis thought to himself, Yornis was always a stupid puttz.

“Lieutenant,” a voice said from behind him, “I have something.”

“Yes, corporal?”

“IR cameras picked up some movement up and ahead. If it’s our birds, it looks like they’re moving away to the north…”

Erglis pulled out a binder with hard plastic maps. He flipped through and stopped. “Not away. They’ll circle around passed Dominion Tower and come back down over the Old Fortress.” Erglis tossed the binder on the console beside him. “Take us left down Chamber; we’ll try to get a line on them as they come back down.”

The lead vehicle made a sharp – as sharp as such a vehicle could – left turn and went roaring down Chamber St. The rest of the column followed.

“Two-one, two-twenty-six,” Erglis said, “hostiles approaching your position from the north. Say again, from the north. May pass over or near the Old Fortress. Over.”

“Two-one, Roger. Two-twenty-five, two-one.”

“Two-twenty-five.”

“Hostiles in-bound from the north. Position your men. Be ready with RPGs and try to get some IR sensors and lasers repositioned to give air support a shot.”

“Roger.”

Above Courtland...

“Reaper, Rascal. Raven one is down! Ground IR shows movement on the roof…”

“Fire one. Take them out.”

“Fox one.” A missile streaked away from the jet and dived towards the roof of the Pantocratorian embassy, guided by IR sensors set up around the embassy compound.

“Reaper, two-one. What’s going on up there?”

“Two-one, Raven one is down. We’ve fired on hostiles on the roof…”

“Roger. Be advised: hostiles now believed to be inbound from the north…”

“Roger.”

In Chateau Langeais...

“Your Highness,” Bishop Uvaras bowed towards Joseph.

Then, he dropped the portfolio on Joseph’s desk. “These papers are why I am here, your Highnesses. Someone left them at the confession booth in one of my parishes. Once the priest looked inside, he brought it to me. And once I looked at it, I called the only source of help I could think of – the Pantocratorian ambassador. As a good Catholic and a foreign dignitary, I thought he would know what to do. And he insisted that I leave the country.”

The bishop opened the portfolio and passed Attorney General Silina’s letter to Anna. “I’m sure you heard about he assassination of our attorney general. Well, this seems to be her written confession, and perhaps her final revenge, prepared well in advance of her death and intended to be made public after her death.

“As you can see,” the bishop gestures to the letter Anna is reading, “she admits to a host of crimes and provides considerable documentary evidence of crimes committed by General Altman and the Dominion government.” The bishop’s face grows pale as he finally makes a connection. He turns to Joseph. “One piece of evidence, your Highness, is that General Altman attempted to conspire with Roania to assassinate you before your wedding…”

(OOC, just because I felt like it, I wrote the background of General Altman here: http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=7200390#post7200390)

The door opened, and the four soldiers were almost stunned that it had. The team leader walked to the ambassador and slid the face plate of his helmet up, revealing a sharp, burnished skinnned face.

'Mr. Ambassador, I am Lieutenant Zjad, I am a military officer, I am not from Upper Virginia, and myself and my troops are here to escort you out of Upper Virginia. I don't have time to appraise you of the situation but right now our troops have engaged Virginians inside the embassy, and our transport is under fire from troops in the city. We need to leave, and now. I can brief you fully once we are in the air.'

The Ambassador was conscious that even though he might be a prisoner, while he stayed in the embassy the Imperial Navy knew where he was. If he got into an aircraft and was whisked away, he figured his chances of rescue were greatly reduced.

"If your transports are under fire, Lieutenant, it doesn't sound like getting out of here is a particularly viable option." said de Thrake. "I don't give a damn whether you're Virginian, Excalbian, Swahili, or a Turk, I am His Majesty's ambassador to Upper Virginia and I thoroughly intend to remain here, in His Majesty's embassy, until I am removed by the Government which placed me here. Feel free to leave if it pleases you, but my man and I are remaining here."

The bodyguard glanced back and forth between the ambassador and the troopers.

"If you're not Virginian," asked the bodyguard. "Then who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?"

Lt. Zjad looked the bodyguard in the eye, furrowing his brow. 'We are here to save the ambassador from being tortured and executed by Altman, that's all you need to know.'

Zjad turned to his team and spoke into his throat mic, inaudible to the ambassador and his bodyguards, 'Start securing the route to the roof, this might take a minute. And get the second team up here, we'er getting out of here.'

Turning back to the ambassador, Zjad sighed as his team hurried out of the room. 'Mr. Ambassador, do you hear the explosions outside? Altman's troops have encircled your embassy and they don't intend to ask nicely. I'm not asking, I'm telling you, you are getting on this helicopter.'

As Zjad paused an explosion, the largest yet, shook the embassy, knocking books off bookcases and rattling doors. 'What the hell was that?' Zjad shouted into his mic, unconcerned about who heard him.

'Someone just bombed the roof in,' came his reply. 'And Flight 2 says they're coming in hot, we need to clear a new landing.'

'Blow a hole onto the roof, we're not fighting our way back to the ground level.'

'Yes sir.'

'Mr. Ambassador,' Zjad says, turning back to the ambassador, 'Upper Virginia just bombed your roof, probably trying to kill my men stationed there. You are coming with me now before your hesitation kills any more of my men.'

In the hallways, the second team ascended the stairs, hastening to the ambassador's office.

+++

Flight 2, newly reinforced, made a lazy 270 turn, and as they banked over the thin forest land beneath. Following the mass of units on their sensors, it was getting hard to find the UV forces in the growing chaos.

'Two three, you wanna lighten your load?'

'Confirm, two two, I'll clear us a path.'

'One three, two two, are you reading the incoming aircraft?'

'Two two, one three, we see them. We tracked a missile from them that impacted the embassy.'

'One three, two two, move to 250 meters and launch against the incoming aircraft.'

'Confirm two two.'

'One three, two two, stay at that altitude, Flight Two will clear your path.'

'Confirm, two two, good luck.'

As 1-3 knifed its angle of attack into the air, Flight Two dropped slighty, and 2-3 launched two salvoes of two missiles, the first locked onto the signature of UV troops still stationed around the embassy, the second optically guided down towards the street level, streaking towards whatever ground unit happened to come into view. As the missiles launched away, 1-3 launched four AAM's against the rapidly closing aircraft.

'Ground units, Flight Two, we are coming in hot, you guys better be up there when we get there.'

Inside the Pantocratorian Embassy in Courtland...

Sweating inside his armor, SGT Mullins crawled along the floor until he came to a tripwire stretched low to the floor. He fumbled with his grenades and heaved a gas canister towards the intersection of the two hallways. Seeing no immediate reaction, he activated his throat mic and spoke as best as he could. “G…got a wire here. De..gassed them. Th..think they’re gone. A…am…ambassador’s…”

“Got you, Mullins,” Timmerman said rising, “wait there; I’ll try to get help into the building.” Timmerman turned and ran up the steps towards the ambassador’s office.

Meanwhile, as Tillis finished wiring the backstairs' fire door with explosives, Marks and the rest of his team reached the upper floor where the ambassador’s office was located. As his men took position above and below, Marks slid a wire camera under the door and played the image inside his faceplate. “Looks like a second team in the ambassador’s office. Looks like a lot of damage.”

Marks rolled over and studied the stairway. There was obvious damage above heading towards the roof. “Is there an attic, Karlsons?”

“Yes, sir,” the trooper answered pulling a laminated sheet out of the large pocket on the front of his pants leg. “Roof access is from inside the attic…”

“Uvans,” Marks said as he pulled out his camera, “wire this door.” Then, hitting his mic, he continued, “Tillis, we’re going to the attic.”

As Marks and his team made their way to the attic, he tried the mic again. “Timmerman, still with us?”

“Yes, sir,” can the reply, “just me and Mullins. He’s in bad shape and is holding on downstairs. I’m on my way up.”

“Ok. Wire the door to upper floor with the ambassador’s office and head up to the attic. The roof is their way out and we’ll try to get them there…”

In Courtland...

“We have enemy choppers!”

CAPT Roulis heard the shout in his ear and spoke into his mic. “Where, trooper?”

“We have them on IR north of the embassy, coming low down the street…”

“RPGs now! They’ll be coming for us! Don’t waste time with the lasers…”

Three troopers in position to the north of the embassy sighted the incoming choppers with the help of the remote IR sensors and fired off a volley RPGs just moments before the first of the missiles dove into their position.

* * *

To the south of the embassy, MAJ Ulanis was watching the monitors when the IR sensors read the incoming missiles. “Two-twenty-five,” he yelled into his helmet mic, “take cover! You’ve got incoming!” Then, he turned to LT Miller. “What’s our situation?”

“We’re armored and have cooling vanes in the panels to cut IR.”

“Still, you’d better move us back a bit…”

“Yes, sir,” Miller said as he jumped into the driver’s seat.

“Two-four, two-one. Where are you?”

“Two-one, two-four. We’re here. We’re setting up half-a-block to the west…”

“Get your rockets on-line. Punch into our remote sensors. We have IR and visual…”

“Roger. Getting your feed now. Launchers are up. We’ll be ready to fire in half a minute.”

“Good. Two-twenty-five, two-one.”

Silence.

“Two-twenty-five! Roulis!”

* * *

Meanwhile, LT Erglis’ column was approaching the intersection from the east just as the choppers moved down the cross street from the north. Erglis smiled as the vehicles slammed to a halt on his sign. He and a half-dozen of his men jumped out and ran towards the north corner. He and three of the men took up positions and the other three shouldered their RPGs and fired.

Above Courtland...

Inside his cockpit alarms began to go off. “Reaper, Rascal. Incoming!”

“Got them. Four birds.”

“Evasive?”

“No. Stay on station. Countermeasures. Do you have hostile?”

“We have data from ground sensors. Oh, just lost a few, but still see it.”

“Fire two.”

“Roger, fox one, fox two.”

Four missiles streak towards the climbing chopper that had just fired on the fighters.

In Chateau Langeais...

“Your Highness,” Bishop Uvaras bowed towards Joseph.

Then, he dropped the portfolio on Joseph’s desk. “These papers are why I am here, your Highnesses. Someone left them at the confession booth in one of my parishes. Once the priest looked inside, he brought it to me. And once I looked at it, I called the only source of help I could think of – the Pantocratorian ambassador. As a good Catholic and a foreign dignitary, I thought he would know what to do. And he insisted that I leave the country.”

The bishop opened the portfolio and passed Attorney General Silina’s letter to Anna. “I’m sure you heard about he assassination of our attorney general. Well, this seems to be her written confession, and perhaps her final revenge, prepared well in advance of her death and intended to be made public after her death.

“As you can see,” the bishop gestures to the letter Anna is reading, “she admits to a host of crimes and provides considerable documentary evidence of crimes committed by General Altman and the Dominion government.” The bishop’s face grows pale as he finally makes a connection. He turns to Joseph. “One piece of evidence, your Highness, is that General Altman attempted to conspire with Roania to assassinate you before your wedding…”

"Roania?" exclaims Anna, turning from the bishop to her husband and back again.

Joseph considers the portfolio carefully.

"Am I to understand, Your Grace, that the Excalbian and Pantocratorian governments have already received a copy of this portfolio?" he asks.

"They must have, otherwise Phocas' message wouldn't have been so urgent." Anna suggests.

"Surely this spells the end of Altman... the international community won't turn a blind eye to him anymore, not once this becomes public knowledge." Joseph says.

"But is it authentic?" Anna says. "I can't believe anybody would admit to these things on paper! You say one of your priests was handed this by somebody in a confession both? How do we know it is legitimate?"

Bishop Uvaras looks from Prince Joseph to Princess Anna and back to the young prince. “Well, your Highnesses, I do know that the Pantocratorian ambassador in Courtland made a copy of the file and that the crew of their aircraft carrier also copied some pages. So, I suppose the Pantocratorian government has a copy of the entire portfolio by now, but I do not know about the Excalbian government.

“As for its authenticity,” the bishop rifles through the portfolio, pulling out a few sheets, “it does include a few original documents and photographs. Other information, such as off-shore bank account information could probably be verified by a foreign government.”

The bishop shifts his position and looks at Anna. “And, yes, your Highness, it was left for one of my priests outside a confessional. The person who left it claimed to be a member of the Directorate of Justice’s Criminal Investigative Bureau, a paramilitary force that was answerable only to the Attorney General. When Silina was murdered, General Altman blamed the CIB for it and began arresting them.” The bishop shook his head. “Even without the dossier, no one believes the CIB killed Silina…”

Lt. Zjad looked the bodyguard in the eye, furrowing his brow. 'We are here to save the ambassador from being tortured and executed by Altman, that's all you need to know.'

Zjad turned to his team and spoke into his throat mic, inaudible to the ambassador and his bodyguards, 'Start securing the route to the roof, this might take a minute. And get the second team up here, we'er getting out of here.'

Turning back to the ambassador, Zjad sighed as his team hurried out of the room. 'Mr. Ambassador, do you hear the explosions outside? Altman's troops have encircled your embassy and they don't intend to ask nicely. I'm not asking, I'm telling you, you are getting on this helicopter.'

As Zjad paused an explosion, the largest yet, shook the embassy, knocking books off bookcases and rattling doors. 'What the hell was that?' Zjad shouted into his mic, unconcerned about who heard him.

'Someone just bombed the roof in,' came his reply. 'And Flight 2 says they're coming in hot, we need to clear a new landing.'

'Blow a hole onto the roof, we're not fighting our way back to the ground level.'

'Yes sir.'

'Mr. Ambassador,' Zjad says, turning back to the ambassador, 'Upper Virginia just bombed your roof, probably trying to kill my men stationed there. You are coming with me now before your hesitation kills any more of my men.'

In the hallways, the second team ascended the stairs, hastening to the ambassador's office.


"I'll take my chances with the Virginians, Lieutenant." said the Ambassador. He wasn't going to leave the embassy, where his location was known to potential-rescuers, to go with an unknown third party. He was the ambassador to Upper Virginia after all, he had a prior relationship with them, and the devil you know is better than the devil you don't. "Now, get out, or shoot me, but from the sounds of things, whatever you do, you had better do it fast, for your sake."

Sliding his faceplate back, Zjad locked it in place and sighed. 'God damn frogs,' he muttered to himself, and then slammed the but of his gun into the face of the guard, and with the same motion, slapped the gun across the ambassador's face, knocking both Pantocratorians to the ground.

'Mill, get in here.' A soldier materialized in the doorway as Zjad flipped the ambassor onto his belly and bound his hands with a plastic ziptie. 'Make sure the guards don't do anything stupid.'

Lifting the ambassador to his feet, Zjad pushed him towards the door. 'Blow the ceiling, we're getting out of here.' Down the hallway another explosion sounded as shaped charges carved the unit's escape route out of the embassy through the building's ceiling.

'One more sir, and unit two's got wounded, and Virginians on their ass.'

'Blow it quick,' Zjad replied, tossing the ambassador to one of the newly arrived soldiers from the second unit. 'You're responsibe for him, get him into the 'Crow as soon as they're here.'

Inside the Pantocratorian Embassy in Courtland...

CAPT Marks and his men had gathered at the door to what remained of the Pantocratorian Embassy's attic. Marks was feeding his video wire under the door when another explosion shook the building. "That was inside," Marks murmured, "they're coming through the ceiling."

Marks quickly pulled the wire out as Karlsons placed small charges on the hinges and and door lock. Everyone braced as he blew the door. Marks climbed back to his feet and gave the door a little kick, which sent it falling into the ruined attic. With men taking flanking positions on either side of the door, Marks and two other men dove through the door, guns ready.

Meanwhile, LT Timmerman reached the floor with the ambassador's office and discovered that there was no door to cover his ascent. He spotted the enemy forces in the hallway just as they spotted him...

In Courtland...

"Two-one, two-four!"

"Are you ready to fire, yet?" MAJ Ulanis yelled into his mic as the van backed away from the embassy at an alarming speed.

"We've got civilians. Followed us from the DoJ. Looks like a mob."

"We don't have time to waste on civilians! I need those rockets!"

"Yes, si... uh..Damn! The civilians are armed! We're taking fire!"

"Return fire! Get rid of them! We don't have time to waste on this!"

From his position in the van, Ulanis could hear the sound of heavy machine gun and light automatic weapons fire mixed with screams.

Above Courtland...

"Reaper, Rascal. Missiles closing on hostile. Looks like he has RPGs closing on him as well..."

"Roger. I have a missile on my tail. Can't shake it..."

"Roger..."

"Countermeasures ineff...."

Another explosion tore the night sky as the attack jet blew to pieces in a bloom of brilliant yellows and reds...

In the Gulf, aboard the Considerate…

CAPT Johanis heard a buzzing in his ear indicating an incoming message. He listened intently for a moment and frowned. The situation in Courtland was deteriorating and NMCC was certain that the agressors had come from this area of gulf, so they were ordering all ships in the area to be impounded.

Johanis touched his throat mic to activate it and gave a few quick orders under his breath. Then, the Marine officer pulled his side arm and levelled at the CO of the the Considerate.

"This vessel is hereby siezed under suspicion of harboring the enemy, Captain Mendelson," a heavy dose of sarcasm was evident as he spoke the title, "and you are ordered to pilot this ship, under air cover, to the nearest port in the Dominion. You, your engineer and a skelton crew will be kept at your stations under the supervision of my men. The rest of your crew will be confined below decks." Johanis smiled. "Any resistence will result in your immediate execution and in the sinking of your ship..."

Stonebridge, West of Courtland…

Frank Turley, having just recently returned from Europe and the C.S.S., sat in the living room of his spacious and little used mansion in the upscale suburb of Stonebridge. As a businessman and national leader, Turley usually found it more convenient to stay in his penthouse apartment in the centre of Courtland. However, tonight he was glad he had chosen to recover from his travels well away from the city centre.

He sat comfortably, torn between different channels on his satellite TV system. On one channel, a news channel not available to ordinary citizens of the Dominion, he was watching reports of the escalating chaos in the centre of the capital. It seemed as if an invasion or a civil war were taking place. And in the distance, he could hear muffled explosions.

On the other channel, however, he was watching the mounting political drama of the Liberty Party convention in the C.S.S. Flipping between the two, Turley caught Tom Caine’s acceptance at the convention.

So, Turley thought to himself, Hayes pulled it off and stole the nomination for his man. Hopefully, his people will be able to help me pull off a similar feat here. He pulled out a card with the number of the Confederation’s trade attaché printed on it. Turley smiled. As soon as the shooting is over, I’ll have to give him a call. Turley slipped the card back into his wallet and pulled out a book he had just been given on his trip…

(OOC: For more on these parallel developments that may affect the Dominion’s future, look here: http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=7243973&posted=1#post7243973)

Feel free to vote in the C.S.S. elections here: http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=365657

EMERGENCY COMMUNIQUE TO THE DOMINION OF UPPER VIRGINIA
Directly transmitted from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, New Rome, to the corresponding agency in Courtland

The following communication has been issued with the direct authorisation of the Minister for Foreign Affairs, The Right Honourable Sir Jacques Antoniou, Knight of the Order of the Pantocrator, under the authority of His Most Catholic and Imperial Majesty Emperor Andreus, By the Grace of God, Emperor of Pantocratoria, Autocrator of the Romans, King of France and Navarre, Equal of the Apostles et al.

The Imperial Government demands to know why His Majesty's embassy in Courtland has been attacked, and if Dominion forces are not behind the attack on the embassy, the Imperial Government demands to know why Dominion forces have not been deployed to protect the embassy and His Majesty's ambassador to the Dominion of Upper Virginia.

If adequate explanations to our questions are not offered immediately, then Pantocratorian forces in the region will be forced to act in the defence of His Majesty's embassy, in the absence of any such action on the part of the Dominion. Our forces will be authorised to take such action after one hour in the absence of any Dominion reply.

Sir Jacques Antoniou
Minister for Foreign Affairs
New Rome

Emerency Communique

To: Sir Jacques Antoniou, Minister for Foreign Affairs,New Rome, Pantocratoria
From: National Military Command Centre, Courtland, Dominion of Upper Virginia

Sir,

The Dominion of Upper Virginia is currently under attack by forces unknown. In addition to the apparent attack on your embassy, the harbor and docks of Courtland, the National Assembly and several private office buildings have been struck. The damage is extensive. Both ground and air forces are responding to the attack. Our forces have already suffered numerous casualties and we have lost several aircraft.

The attackers, while unknown, did enter Dominion air space from the Gulf in the direction of Excalbia. At this point, we cannot exclude the possibility that the attackers originated from Excalbian territory or from the Excalbian or Pantocratorian fleets currently harrassing our forces in the Gulf.

While you have our assurance that we will do everything possible to protect your embassy and your ambassador, at this time we cannot dismiss the possibility that the apparent attack on your embassy is merely a diversion from genuine attacks on other locations. Should it be determined that Excalbian and/or Pantocratorian forces were involved in this attack, the Dominion shall retaliate to the fullest extent.

Any Pantocratorian forces entering Dominion air space at this time shall be regarded as hostile.

On behalf of the NMCC and the Provisional Ruling Council,
Joseph Perlman,
Lieutenant General,
Acting Attorney General

Ministry of Foreign Affairs, New Rome, Pantocratoria

Ambassador Rev. Jacob Donnelly walked into the lobby of the Foreign Ministry in his white naval uniform. “Ambassador Donnelly of Excalbia to see Sir Antoniou,” he said to the receptionist. “I called early and I believe his Excellency is expecting me.”

Rev. Donnelly waited patiently, feeling anything but patient as he held tightly to his briefcase. The communiqué that he had received from Citadel Excalbia was nothing short of stunning. Courtland was under attack. The Pantocratorian Embassy appeared to be a particular target. And, to complicate matters further, the Holy Empire had just concluded a surprising new alliance. Certainly, Donnelly assumed, this information was being passed directly to Lord Phocas, who was in the Excalbian Isles. However, protocol demanded that the Pantocratorian capital be informed directly.

(OOC: For convenience, let’s assume that the gist of Rev. Donnelly’s brief is being transmitted by secure cable to Imperator Andreus simultaneously…)

Sir Jacques Antoniou looked awful. He was pale and exhausted. The Government was falling apart - a vote of no confidence in Sir Jacques personally was about to take place in the Imperial Parliament, where at this moment the Government's fillibusters were desperately trying to buy the Government time. On top of that, Pantocratoria now looked like it would be involved with two foreign wars simultaneously. The motion in the Imperial Parliament couldn't possibly happen at a worse time!

"Reverend Donnelly, please sit down." he said, weakly indicating to a chair on the other side of his desk. "Let us talk about the situation in Upper Virginia. Our embassy is under attack by unknown forces. Apparently several other places in Courtland are under attack too. We have no idea what is going on in our embassy, but the ambassador was still in the building when the attack began. The reply to my recent demand for an explanation suggests to me that Upper Virginia will do absolutely nothing to assist our ambassador. We need to talk about what the next move must be, Reverend."

Ministry of Foreign Affairs, New Rome, Pantocratoria

“Indeed, Sir Antoniou. And there is much to discuss. I realize that all of this is happening at a… rather inconvenient moment, but events in Upper Virginia are moving very quickly.”

Rev. Donnelly removed a number of photographs and laid them on the Minister’s desk. “Our latest satellite images show large troop movements all around the Upper Virginian capital of Courtland. Not only has General Altman moved his forces into the city, it appears that another, nearly division-size force is moving towards Courtland from the north. Another force, possibly the FVLA, also appears to be on the move.

“As for the forces attacking your embassy, we cannot identify them, but do not believe they are Upper Virginian. As for attacking other areas of Courtland, that is true, but their focus seems to be on your embassy. Imperial Intelligence speculates that they have become aware of the so-called Silina Dossier – of which I know very little, except that an Upper Virginian bishop carried from your embassy to Langeais – and is trying to retrieve a copy of it from your ambassador.”

Donnelly shifted uneasily in his seat. “And, Sir Antoniou, there is one additional development of which I learned only a few minutes ago – one of which our Emperor himself has known but for a few minutes longer.” Donnelly took a deep breath. “Our ambassador in Varessa – a country known to be involved in military cooperation with the Dominion – was summoned today to a meeting of the Varessan cabinet, where he learned that Varessa is offering military support to a coup against General Altman. A coup being led by a Major General Harrison of the Dominion Air Force. In the confines of that meeting, our ambassador negotiated an agreement with the Varessans and Major General Harrison to support her coup.

“We are certain, I should point out, that neither Major General Harrison nor the Varessans are involved in the attack on your embassy. We are trying to establish direct military-to-military coordination with the Varessans in order to intervene at the soonest in Upper Virginia. His Imperial Majesty would very much like to include Pantocratorian forces in the region in this joint planning in order to avoid any confusion and, if possible, to render such assistance as we can to your embassy…”

Imperial Chancery, Citadel Excalbia

Lady Christina Freedman stood in the cabinet room just off from her suite of offices and her small apartment. Still dressed in her evening dress, she was starting to look a little wilted and desperately wished she had enough time to change into something else.

Albert Cummings had joined her and looked as if he had thrown on the first reasonably clean clothes he could lay his hands on. Which, of course, he had.

Both the Chancellor and her Minister of State stood at the edge of the great wooden table and looked expectantly towards the speaker/video phone in the center of the table.

“Are you sure you’re putting the call through correctly?” The Chancellor asked impatiently.

“Yes, my Lady,” the technician answered, “we are dialing through directly to the Varessan chancellor’s office. Wait, someone is answering.” The technician picked up his headset and spoke in a clear, authoritative manner. “This is the office of the Imperial Chancellor of the Holy Empire of Excalbia calling for the Chancellor of Varessa. The Chancellor is standing by…”

(OOC: At Varessa's request, I'll be RPing his characters for a while. I'll do my best to keep them in character. Hopefully, Varessa will be back shortly.)

In Varessa City, Commonwealth of Varessa…

Chancellor Drake looked skeptically at the ringing phone in the center of the cabinet meeting table.

“Should we answer it, Chancellor,” Foreign Minister Alex Shaw asked with a grim chuckle or let it ring?”

The Chancellor smiled. “Every call has tended to bring bad news, hasn’t it, Alex. Nevertheless, we should answer it, I suppose. Go ahead.”

Alex Shaw picked up the phone. “Cabinet room. We are in session, you know. Is it urgent?” Shaw listened and nodded while his expression grew steadily more serious. He put his hand over the mouthpiece of the receiver and turned to the Chancellor. “The Excalbian Chancellor is on the phone for you.”

Drake looked around the room trying to read the faces of his cabinet. Well, this is it, isn’t it, he thought to himself. “Put the call through on speaker, Alex. By the way, their Chancellor, what is his name, Alex?”

“Her name,” Shaw said after telling the secretary to transfer the call, “is Lady Christina Freedman…” Then, Shaw hit button to activate the speakerphone and nodded to the Chancellor.

“This is Mike Drake. Nice to speak with you, Lady Freedman. I suppose that by now you and your government have had a chance to review the agreement that we reached with Ambassador Vikis. So, do we have a deal, Madame Chancellor?”

Outside Courtland…

“Look sir,” SSGT Ozols pointed forward and towards the left, “tracks lead that way…”

“OK,” LT Potts said impatiently putting his infrared field glasses up to his eyes, “let’s close on them and get this…” Potts fell silent as he looked at the signatures. Not a few joyriders. A bunch of… He looked again. They didn’t look like SUVs. They looked more like their own vehicle…

“Ozols…”

“Yes, sir?”

“Radio Illers and tell him that we have a problem here…”

* * *

“Captain,” SSGT Burke said quietly, leaning over towards his CO in the front of the vehicle, “you’d better hear what I’ve intercepted…”

Terelson nodded and flipped the switch over the channel Burke had been monitoring…

“…say again, four-oh-six.”

“Four-oh, we have multiple military vehicles. I make at least four. Maybe more…”

Terelson banged his hand on the dash. For all their planning and caution…

“Burke, you’d better warn the VSF. Maybe they can set an ambush ahead of us. We’ll try to lead them…,” Terelson pulled out a laminated map and flipped through it, “down the next path to the right. There is a parallel path a couple of hundred meters ahead and crosses back towards the path we’ll be on…”

“Yes, sir,” Burke said as he switched channels, “Shepherd, this is Collie, over…”

* * *

“This is Shepherd, go ahead, Collie.”

“Roger. It seems our ruse didn’t work. Hostile units have identified us and called for back-up. We will take the next path to the right to lead them away. There is a parallel path a few hundred meters down that will cross back ahead of us.”

“Roger, Collie. Acknowledged. Shepherd out.”

LCOL Matthews sighed. This wasn’t working out at all…

In Courtland…

MAJGEN Shaun Roberts rubbed his chin as he considered Becka’s proposal. “Becka,” he said at last, “isn’t that a bit risky? Moving the schedule like that? Do you even have a test scheduled for tomorrow?”

MAJGEN Becka Harrison nodded at her Varessan… um… friend, she supposed was as good a description as any. “Well, Shaun, we do have a test scheduled. Not with one of our people,” she looked over at MAJ Thorsen, “but I’m sure we can fix that.” Thorsen nodded. “We can get MAJ Holmes in the cockpit. Can you get word to your people?”

Roberts considered Becka’s words. “I will. So, are you certain, Becka?”

Harrison nodded.

“Then, we need to be about it…”

The explosion overhead shook the ceiling, jarring loose dust from the hole into the attic. Zjad rolled his eyes. 'It never fucking ends.'

Gunfire erupted down the hall as a Virginian stumbled into a pair of soldiers guarding one of the hallways leading to the ambassador's office. Bullets sliced the walls as the Virginian dove for cover. 'We've got one coming up the stairs.'

'Just one?'

'Yeah.'

Turning to the pair of soldiers holding the ambassador, Zjad motioned upwards. 'Sight whoever is up there, you two are point.' Speaking into his throatmic, he continued. 'Pull back to our immediate positions.'

The four soldiers guarding the hallways fell back, the pair that had spotted the Virginian tossing a flashbang towards him as they abandoned their position. Zjad had taken the explosives off of the two soldiers he assigned point and was in an adjoining office, fastening the charges roughly beneath whoever was in the attic.

'We're back, sir, securing this hallway.'

Zjad returned to the hallway, checking the ambassador, who was pressed face first into the wall by the wounded soldier. Raising his gun, Zjad sighted the figures overhead, following their heat signatures in his sights. Zjad thumbed the detonator. 'Ready?'

'Ready.'

'Ready.'

'Ready.'

Zjad hit the button, setting off both charges simultaenously, blowing holes in the ceiling, sending shards of concrete flying upwards, as four flash bangs were lobbed through the existing hole further down the hall.

++++

'Hit!' The lead SC sommersaulted over itself, its engines destroyed by the RPG hit, crashing into the street below, detonating in a huge explosion as it hit the ground. 2-3 flew through the smoke, firing dumb rockets into the ground forces on the street as it came within sight of the embassy.

Behind, 1-3 dove towards the street, hovering next to a tall brick building, hoping to put a building between itself and the incoming missiles. As the missiles closed it fired countermeasures, launching the tiny fuel rockets high into the air as its own heat signature was lost in a halo of flares.

++++

'Yes, sir,' replied the captain as the Virginians took his crew into custody. The command crew accompanied him to the bridge as the remaining twelve crew members were led below decks to the only room big enough to hold them, the general quarters. Inside the bridge, the communcations officer sat down and began typing, ostensibly reactivating the ships GPS systems while sending a text stream to the ground units informing them that the ship was occupied. The captain smiled at the Virginians, thinking of his training: die before capture. The ship's self defense systems were a button away, provided he was crazy enough to use them.

Sir Jacques rubbed his chin as he looked over the photos.

"A coup..." he murmured. "Reverend, I am going to be honest with you. In a matter of hours I am not likely to be His Majesty's Minister for Foreign Affairs any longer. I'm not even sure whether the Government will still be... the Government. Reverend, may I suggest that you deal with His Majesty personally in the matter of this coup? I doubt very much that the Chancellor will be able to leave the Parliament any time soon. His Majesty has flown in from Chantouillet (OOC: sigh) at the request of the Chancellor. He will almost certainly be awaiting her in whichever drawing room is serving as his office this evening. I'll send my receptionist with you to take you right to him. In the meantime, I will continue to correspond with the Dominion about our embassy."

***

To: National Military Command Centre, Courtland, Dominion of Upper Virginia

From: Sir Jacques Antoniou, Minister for Foreign Affairs, New Rome, Pantocratoria

I accept your Acting Attorney General's explanation that unknown forces (not Dominion forces) are behind the assault on His Majesty's embassy in Courtland. It is absolutely essential to the stability of the region and to the relationship between our two nations (which I am sure you value as highly as does His Majesty) that the Imperial Ambassador Sir Pierre de Thrake not come to any harm. Given the recent problems in the Dominion, I am worried that the murder or kidnapping of the Pantocratorian ambassador under the noses of his Upper Virginian hosts will prove to be an humiliation for an already embattled government.

I urge you to seek the assistance of Lord Phocas on board HIMS Imperator Andreus in Sir Pierre's rescue if your forces are too occupied elsewhere in Courtland.

Sincerely,

Sir Jacques Antoniou
Minister for Foreign Affairs
New Rome

***

The Emperor sat reading a newspaper in the Sun King room in the early evening. The newspaper's headlines concerned the imminent collapse of the Imperial Government's parliamentary support. The situations in Syskeyia and the Excalbian Isles weren't even on the frontpage.

So this is democracy... the Emperor thought to himself. I wonder what all the bloody fuss was about.

Emergency Communiqué

To: Sir Jacques Antoniou, Minister for Foreign Affairs, New Rome, Pantocratoria
From: National Military Command Centre, Courtland, Dominion of Upper Virginia

Our forces are fully capable of managing the situation in Courtland. There is no need to seek assistance from your Lord Phocas nor from HIMS Imperator Andreus. Any attempt by your forces to enter the Dominion will be treated as a hostile act.

Joseph Perlman,
Lieutenant General,
Acting Attorney General

Inside the Pantocratorian Embassy in Courtland…

LT Timmerman dove for cover as bullets sailed overhead. He scampered, half tumbling, down the steps as he heard the grenades bouncing on the landing above him. The blast threw him to the floor in front of the door leading back to SGT Mullins. Timmerman keyed his mic. “This is Timmerman. Can’t get through…”

* * *

CAPT Marks didn’t have time to respond to Timmerman’s message before the floor shook beneath him. “Down!” Marks tried to yell to his team above the roar as blocks of concrete and tile flew up from the floor. As Marks reached the floor he caught a glimpse of Karlsons head flying up and away from the team even as the man’s body fell to floor beside him. Marks could feel blood pouring from a wound in his chest where he felt a hunk of the floor embedded in him.

Before Marks could recover and try to assess the team’s situation, four grenades exploded in a blinding flashes and a deafening roar just a few meters further into the attic. His eyes blinded by the flashbangs, Marks pawed in vain for his own grenades as he succumbed to his own wounds.

Arriving at the blown door, SGT Uvans surveyed the horror in the attic. CAPT Marks, LT Karlsons and the rest of the team were dead. Or as good as dead. Uvans resisted the urge to run and tried to find a place among the debris and human wreckage. Wedging himself into a space, he checked his assault weapon and waited for the invaders.

In Courtland…

Through the IR feed playing inside his visor, LT Erglis saw one of the enemy choppers – he couldn’t tell if his men or CAPT Roulis’ had hit it – did a grotesque somersault into the pavement. He suppressed his urge to celebrate the small victory and immediately tried to sight the second chopper. Unfortunately, he lost the feed from Roulis’ position – he feared the worst that Roulis’ men had been wiped out by the choppers – and the IR feed from his own unit revealed only a confusing mass of fire and mayhem.

* * *

MAJ Ulanis was sweating in the suddenly cramped confines of the van as it sped backwards away from the embassy.

“Anything from two-twenty-five?”

“No, sir,” LT Miller answered. “Sounds like they got hit by the choppers…”

“Two-four, two-one! Status!”

In reply, Ulanis heard the sound of gunfire and screaming over the audio feed. Then, a fragile, frightened voice spoke: “We’ve been over run! The CO’s dead. Civilians everywhere… Oh, my…” The signal died in a final burst of gunfire.

Ulanis stared into space for a moment, then switched his frequency.

“Two-one to GHQ.”

“GHQ.”

“We need back-up urgently. Civilians are rioting and we’re losing units. We can’t continue the fight against the intruders until the civilians are under control…”

“Stand-by.”

Ulanis waited several seconds that seemed like hours.

“Ulanis,” the voice of BRIG Youst spoke through his earpiece.

“Ulanis here, sir.”

“Ulanis, this is Brigadier Youst. We have an entire squadron en route. They’ll be over your position in twelve minutes. They will engage or pursue the enemy, if they are withdrawing. They will also bomb any and all clusters of civilian rioters. You have until then to evacuate your positions.”

“Roger, Ulanis out.”

In Courtland…

Having decided to launch their attack in the morning, MAJGEN Becka Harrison and MAJ Richard Thorsen followed MAJGEN Shaun Roberts to the Varessan Embassy’s canteen, hoping to find something to hold them over until the battle outside subsided.

Becka was just settling into a chair to enjoy a cup of soup and sandwich with Shaun Roberts when her phone rang. She pulled it out of a pocket inside her air force tunic. She looked at the number on the display and her heart sank. “The prefix is Altman’s HQ,” she said softly. Shaun shot her a look of concern and Thorsen – always eavesdropping – walked over from the neighboring table.

Becka opened the phone. “Harrison.”

“Ah, Major General. This is General Altman.”

Becka’s face turned a deathly white. “Yes, sir, General. How may I help you?”

“I understand that you were trapped at the Varessan Embassy by the attack on the Pantocratorians. I trust you are safe and that are Varessan allies are not too nervous.”

“No, sir, they’re handling this well. And I am fine, sir.”

“Good. I need you here urgently for a briefing. I am sending an armored vehicle to pick you up and bring you here immediately. Oh, and you might want to warn the Varessans that we will be attacking some insurgents in the area. They should sit tight in their compound. Any of your people who are with you should stay there as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Several minutes later, Becka, Shaun and MAJ Thorsen were waiting just inside the embassy’s main entrance as a fully armored vehicle pulled up and four armored troopers emerged and ran towards the embassy.

“Becka,” Shaun wasn’t sure what to say, but he was afraid he might not see Becka again. They all feared, he knew, that Altman was on to their plans. There was so much he wanted to say and didn’t know if he should. So, all he managed to come out with was, “Please be careful. Altman is notoriously volatile…”

“I know,” Becka forced a smile, “I served under him for far too long.” She paused, wanting to say more, but didn’t know how to say it. So, she turned to Thorsen. “Major, if you don’t hear from me in three hours, go ahead as planned.”

“General,” Thorsen protested.

“No, no,” Becka insisted, “if you hear from me, then things have gone badly and you’ll need to act quickly.”

Thorsen nodded. “Yes, Ma’am.”

Becka returned the nod and walked towards the gate. At the gate, the soldiers quickly grabbed Becka, placing an armored vest over her tunic and replacing her cap with a helmet. The hustled her into the vehicle and lumbered off.

At General Altman's Command Centre...

Half an hour later, Becka – having disposed of the armored vest and straightened her hair – walked up the metal grate stairs to the command alcove above large situation room deep within Altman’s headquarters.

General Altman stood and smiled. Beside him Becka recognized BRIG Youst, commander of Altman’s personal brigade, MAJGEN Max Repse, the Courtland District air force commander and LGEN Joseph Perlman, the Judge Advocate General and Acting Attorney General.

“Ah, Major General Harrison. I believe you know these men. It is good to see you again.”

“Thank you, General.”

“So, with our capital under attack by forces believed to be aligned with Excalbia,” Altman paused and watched Becka for a reaction, which she managed to stifle, “I’ve decided it is time for you and Major General Repse to compare notes. Can you fill us in on the status of Ozymandius?”

Becka looked at the faces around her. Repse’s and Perlman’s mirrored her own, she supposed – a mix of surprise and professional stoicism. Youst was harder to read; his years being at Altman’s right hand and rendered him almost expressionless.

Becka took a deep breath. “The X-9 is a hypersonic aircraft constructed of foamed alloys that are extremely light weight, yet incredibly durable and possessing a high temperature endurance, and powered by pulse-detonation wave engines capable of over Mach 15. Its control systems are bioneural and are connected directly to the pilot. It carries the Crimson Star kinetic harpoon weapons system developed by Varessa. It is undergoing its final acceptance trials.” Becka swallowed and dived in. “In fact, we’ll be conducting a live-fire test tomorrow morning…”

Altman nodded and turned to Repse. “General, can you fill us in on Monolith?”

Repse nodded slowly. “The X-10 is a hypersonic bomber, also constructed of foamed alloys and employing bioneural controls, although they’re not plugged directly into the pilot’s brain. The X-10 uses SCRAM jet technology that gets it up to Mach 10 and delivers a hypersonic missile. Actually, a multiple warhead hypersonic missile – the first warhead, a simple kinetic warhead, hits the target at hypersonic speed, penetrating the most hardened bunkers – and the second, a high explosive or nuclear warhead, follows, destroying the target. We are testing the aircraft and have ground tested the missile. We have not yet married the two.”

Altman smiled. “These weapons will be perfect. I want both ready for operations by the end of the week.” Altman started slowly walking towards the stairs. “Unless something dramatic happens, I expect us to blame the Excalbians for this attack and declare war by the end of the week. At the moment we announce our declaration, the X-10 will hit their command center, believed to be in Citadel Mount, and move on to Pantocratoria, where it will hit their High Command. At Mach 10, they should hit the Pantocratorians before they realize we’ve hit Excalbia. At the same time, the X-9 will destroy the Excalbian and Pantocratorian fleets in the Gulf and move on to hit all other major military targets. The Excalbian and Pantocratorian Empires will fall in a matter of days.”

Altman walked down the stairs, his boots echoing on the metal steps.

The Imperial Chancery, Citadel Excalbia

Lady Christina Freedman glanced at her Minister of State and took a short breath. “Well, Chancellor Drake, in all honesty this is not how we would have chosen to negotiate this agreement, but both the Emperor and I feel that, given the circumstances, the agreement is… logical and proper.

“With that in mind, Chancellor, we would like to initiate immediate military-to-military contact between our General Staff and yours. With the embassy of our allies, the Pantocratorians, under attack, we would like to do whatever possible to bring the situation under control as quickly as possible. We have Admiral Lord Yornis Halton, our Chief of the General Staff, standing by in the situation room. I’d like to bring him into this call.”

New Rome, Pantocratoria

“Sir Antoniou,” Rev. Donnelly bowed his head slightly, “I defer to your wisdom. If you believe I should see His Imperial Majesty, then I am at your disposal.”

With that, Donnelly follows Antoniou out to his outer office and then follows the Minister’s receptionist to the Imperial Palace of Christ Pantocrator. Not long afterwards, clutching his photos, Donnelly finds himself in an anteroom of the Sun King room awaiting an audience with Emperor Andreus.

Boosted by his comrade, a soldier popped out of the hole in the floor and dropped into a crouch, scanning the bodies and rubble. One of the bodies shifted, slightly, and then began firing. Bullets impacted his armor, shaking him as he grit his teeth and fired into the vague sihlouttee trying to kill him. His head snapped back, a bullet connecting with the side of his helmet, and the soldier dropped to the ground, head. Across the room, the Virginian shared his enemy's fate, blood gushing from his neck.

By the time the second soldier was boosted into in the attic the fire fight was over, but after checking his comrade, he began kicking the remaining bodies, firing into them out of spite and caution. The remainder of the squad followed in and the ambassador was dragged through the hole.

'Secure that door,' ordered Zjad, motioning for two soldiers to take positions on either side of the open threshold. Kneeling beside the ambassador, Zjad sneered beneath his mask. 'That's seventeen of my comrades that have died to keep you away from the Virginians, Mr. Ambassador, I want you to think on that.

'Open up our exit,' he ordered, turning from the ambassador. Zjad tossed his explosives to a soldier, who placed the last of the squad's explosives on the roof.

'Fire in the hole,' he shouted as the squad dragged the ambassador away from the explosives. The charges did their job, releasing a deafening, gut wrenching boom as the attic was showered with concrete for the second time in a handful of minutes.

+++

Overhead, 2-3 caught sight of the Pantocratorian embassy. 'Ground units, two three, you better be there because we are coming in hot.'

A flare shot up in reply, illuminating several figures gathered next to a smoking hole in the ceiling. The SC2 flew over the people on the roof, making a sharp 270 turn, then landed on the roof, it's landing gear screeching as the helicopter skid to a stop.

In Courtland...

“Lieutenant!”

LT Erglis looked over at the private to his left. “Jenkins?”

“Sir, I think I spotted something. Looks like one of the choppers got through to the embassy. If we move up, we might be able to acquire the target…”

“Good work!” Erglis keyed his mic to transmit to all of his men. “Let’s go. We’ll move up and get that…”

“Two-one to all units,” MAJ Ulanis’ voice overrode Erglis in the unit’s helmet speakers, “fall back. Evacuate the center immediately.”

“Two-one, two-twenty-six,” Erglis shouted, “we think we have one of the enemy choppers. If we move up…”

“Negative, two-twenty-six. Evacuate now!”

“Roger.” Erglis turned the switch to broadcast to his men. “You heard the man. Let’s get out of here…”

Outside Courtland…

“Sir,” SSGT Ozols yelled, “I think I have them on IR. Looks like they’re going down the trail to the right.”

LT Potts didn’t like following unknowns down blind paths without back-up, but LCOL Illers’ orders had been explicit. He was to pursue and challenge. The rest of the battalion would follow as soon as they could.

Potts swallowed hard. “OK. Let’s go after them…”

In Varessa City, Commonwealth of Varessa…

Chancellor Drake looked over at Field Marshall Harris. Harris did not look particularly happy, but then Drake had grown used to the Field Marshall’s expressions of concern over the last few days.

Drake turned back to the speakerphone in the middle of the cabinet table. “Chancellor Freedman, Field Marshall Harris is here with me, as is Alex Shaw – our Foreign Minister. I think it would be a good idea to patch your Admiral into the conversation.”

After the necessary arrangements have been made and the expected courtesies addressed, Drake once again turns towards Harris. “Field Marshall, would you mind bringing Admiral Halton up to date on the situation?”

“Of course, Chancellor,” Harris said somewhat stiffly. “Admiral Halton, we currently have a small detachment of our Varessan Special Forces on the ground under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Matthews. They are operating in conjunction with a troop of the Upper Virginian SSS. Their mission is to ensure General Altman’s demise after the Upper Virginians deploy Ozymandius against him.

“Unfortunately, we are not able to contact them without risking their location, so I fear we are not really in a position to do much about the current attack on the Pantocratorian embassy. Even if we could raise them, they are too small a force to mount a frontal assault in the center of Courtland.

“We do have additional VSF units standing ready to deploy to Upper Virginia to help secure the situation after the coup.” Harris’s expression changed slightly. “That is one area where you may be able to assist us, Admiral. Getting into Courtland was looking to be the tricky part, but if we can transit your airspace, that would make it much easier.”

Citadel Mount, Citadel Excalbia

With the Emperor having retired for the evening, Admiral Lord Yornis had relocated from the Map Room to the larger and more secure situation room beneath the Citadel. When he received the Chancellor’s call and was patched through to the Varessan military commander, Halton had quickly introduced himself and settled in to hear the Varessan’s briefing.

When Field Marshall Harris concluded, Admiral Halton spoke, “Thank you for the information, Field Marshall. You have certainly anticipated many of my questions. It is unfortunate that your forces are not in a position to be of assistance with the present situation at the Pantocratorian embassy.”

Halton paused, as if considering his options.

“Admiral?” The Imperial Chancellor prodded over the speaker.

“Yes, Lady Chancellor. Pardon. Allow me to fill you in with regard to the disposition of our forces. We currently have a carrier battlegroup and a surface strike group in the Gulf, south of Courtland, with an embarked marine division. We have dispatched a second carrier battlegroup and two more strike groups along with a second marine division. The strike groups will begin arriving tonight. The carrier group should be on station in less than 24 hours and the marine division on station and ready to deploy in about 36 hours. Of course, our marine division on station is deployable within a few hours.

“That said, our marines have not had much experience in… urban warfare, insurgency or…” Halton searched for a polite term, but couldn’t find one, “coup-making. They are available in our joint cause to maintain order and engage resisting Dominion military units in the field, but I believe that it would be very good to have more of your VSF – a very well regarded force, I might add, Field Marshall – on the ground. However, it is not my decision to grant overflight…”

“Well,” Lady Christina Freedman said from the cabinet room in the Chancery, “with Admiral Halton’s endorsement, I think we can approve your overflight.” Lady Christina looked at Minister Cummings and chewed her lip for a few seconds. “In fact, Field Marshall – and with the Admiral’s consent – if you are willing, we would allow you to move your forces to our bases in advance of the coup. This will certainly allow you to move in quicker once the coup is launched.” And, she added to herself, reduce the need for us to use our forces. “Of course, we’ll need numbers and such and will ask that the forces remain on our bases until deployed.”

Admiral Halton was a bit stunned as the Chancellor’s offer, but as he thought about, he felt he could intuit what she was thinking. If he were right in his assumptions, it wasn’t a bad idea. “And, Field Marshall, another question, if I might,” Halton added, “without active communications with your men, how will they know and you know that the coup has begun?”

"Enter." came the Emperor's voice from the drawing room. The Varangians opened the doors, admitting the Excalbian Ambassador. Inside, the huge portrait of Louis XIV of France looks down on the Emperor Andreus, who had put his newspaper aside and now stared, glassy-eyed, into the darkness of the early evening in the gardens outside. A young couple, children of some of the lesser nobles at court, walked through the formal gardens below, oblivious of the Imperial eyes on their backs.

Those eyes now turned up to Donnelly.

"Reverend, I am glad to see you. Sir Jacques has told me that as a result of the present situation in the Parliament, he feels incapable of providing a response to the situation developing in Courtland. So, tell me everything." said the Emperor.

...'Secure that door,' ordered Zjad, motioning for two soldiers to take positions on either side of the open threshold. Kneeling beside the ambassador, Zjad sneered beneath his mask. 'That's seventeen of my comrades that have died to keep you away from the Virginians, Mr. Ambassador, I want you to think on that....

OOC: I thought the ambassador was unconscious!

"Enter." came the Emperor's voice from the drawing room. The Varangians opened the doors, admitting the Excalbian Ambassador. Inside, the huge portrait of Louis XIV of France looks down on the Emperor Andreus, who had put his newspaper aside and now stared, glassy-eyed, into the darkness of the early evening in the gardens outside. A young couple, children of some of the lesser nobles at court, walked through the formal gardens below, oblivious of the Imperial eyes on their backs.

Those eyes now turned up to Donnelly.

"Reverend, I am glad to see you. Sir Jacques has told me that as a result of the present situation in the Parliament, he feels incapable of providing a response to the situation developing in Courtland. So, tell me everything." said the Emperor.

Ambassador Rev. Jacob Donnelly bowed as he entered the room. “Your Majesty,” he said gravely, “it is always a pleasure to see you. Unfortunately, I fear that I am bearing ill tidings.”

Donnelly opened his portfolio and began laying the contents on the Emperor’s desk. “As I am sure you have informed, your Majesty, your embassy in Courtland is under attack by unknown assailants.” The ambassador pointed at images on a large photograph. “Our latest satellite images – we constantly monitor Courtland – show a large number of Dominion and unknown forces battling in and around your embassy. We fear your embassy has suffered extensive damage.”

Donnelly placed another photo over the first. “In this wider view, you can a large number of military units moving through out Courtland and its vicinity. You can see that their National Assembly is burning, as are the docks and the harbor facilities. And, over here and here, large mobs of civilian rioters.”

Donnelly stood and folded his arms behind his back. “Making the situation more complicated – General Altman, the dictator of Upper Virginia – just appeared on television blaming the Holy Empire for the attack. This accusation, of course, is preposterous. However, we believe that he may use it as a pretext to declare war on the Holy Empire. And, we suspect, also on Pantocratoria.”

The ambassador swallowed hard, as if choking down bile. “Finally, I must inform you of developments of which His Imperial Majesty, David IV, himself only just learned.” Donnelly swallowed again. “For some time, we have been aware that Upper Virginia was developing a hypersonic aircraft as a secret weapon and they were being assisted by the Commonwealth of Varessa. Earlier today, my counterpart in Varessa City was invited to one of their cabinet meetings, where the Varessans revealed that this secret weapon is far more destructive than we supposed. It is, in effect, a first strike weapon and is operational. It is also one against which we have no defense.

“The Varessans also revealed that they are in league with a group of Dominion military officers who are seeking to overthrow General Altman in a coup. They, in fact, already have troops in Upper Virginia assisting with the coup-plot.”

Donnelly shifted uncomfortably under Andreus’ gaze. “In that meeting, the Varessans launched negotiations during which our ambassador agreed to exchange our moral and material support for the coup for access to the technology behind this weapon. To that end, we are now working to establish direct military-to-military coordination with the Varessans. We hope to move the coup up to head off a war and possibly to render assistance to your embassy.

“Finally, your Majesty, our Emperor personally asks that Lord Phocas and the Pantocratorian forces in the region be included in this coordination. Further, the Emperor pledges, in any event and under any circumstance, we shall honor our friendship with Pantocratoria.”

bump?

This act of terrorism is a disgusting insult to the freedoms of the individual. There will be recompense in full for those who would do such a thing.
My special forces are a small group but trained to infiltrate such nations. They will root out this endemic corruption and burn it out. :sniper:

The Emperor's unflinching stare continued for what must have seemed to Donnelly like an eternity after the Ambassador had finished speaking. Finally, he replied.

"This is all very alarming. This coup business in particular. The Varessans have, as you say, worked with Altman on this horrific weapon... why are they now so eager to do away with him as to become militarily involved? And how can we trust them? They now come to us as potential allies, when they have assisted Upper Virginia in devising a weapon which presumably was developed to use against us? I am not convinced that these are people we can rely on." said the Emperor. "Perhaps they intend to betray us, after involving us in a coup which they intend to fail, publicly exposing us, and thereby supporting Altman's cassus belli? I would sooner not deal with them at all..."

The Emperor reclined back in his chair.

"...but of course, we may not have much time, and they do have people in Courtland.... ready to go, as it were." the Emperor concluded. "Reverend, I consider Pantocratoria to be inextricably bound to Excalbia in this matter. If it is the judgment of my imperial brother that this is the best course of action to take, I will abide thereby. His Majesty may consider Lord Phocas to be at his disposal - let our forces be as tightly joined as possible. And although I do not generally approve of coups, this Altman is no annointed sovereign. He's a common thug, and thus disposing of him is infinitely more palatable than it would be were it otherwise. Let it be done at once."

The Emperor paused.

"And once the immediate threat is over, let us consider the establishment of responsible government in Upper Virginia... by which I mean a government which lives up to the high standards set in Citadel Excalbia and New Rome." said the Emperor, believing his meaning to be made clear.

Family illness keeping us busy. Will post this weekend.

Citadel Mount, Citadel Excalbia

With the Emperor having retired for the evening, Admiral Lord Yornis had relocated from the Map Room to the larger and more secure situation room beneath the Citadel. When he received the Chancellor’s call and was patched through to the Varessan military commander, Halton had quickly introduced himself and settled in to hear the Varessan’s briefing.

When Field Marshall Harris concluded, Admiral Halton spoke, “Thank you for the information, Field Marshall. You have certainly anticipated many of my questions. It is unfortunate that your forces are not in a position to be of assistance with the present situation at the Pantocratorian embassy.”

Halton paused, as if considering his options.

“Admiral?” The Imperial Chancellor prodded over the speaker.

“Yes, Lady Chancellor. Pardon. Allow me to fill you in with regard to the disposition of our forces. We currently have a carrier battlegroup and a surface strike group in the Gulf, south of Courtland, with an embarked marine division. We have dispatched a second carrier battlegroup and two more strike groups along with a second marine division. The strike groups will begin arriving tonight. The carrier group should be on station in less than 24 hours and the marine division on station and ready to deploy in about 36 hours. Of course, our marine division on station is deployable within a few hours.

“That said, our marines have not had much experience in… urban warfare, insurgency or…” Halton searched for a polite term, but couldn’t find one, “coup-making. They are available in our joint cause to maintain order and engage resisting Dominion military units in the field, but I believe that it would be very good to have more of your VSF – a very well regarded force, I might add, Field Marshall – on the ground. However, it is not my decision to grant overflight…”

“Well,” Lady Christina Freedman said from the cabinet room in the Chancery, “with Admiral Halton’s endorsement, I think we can approve your overflight.” Lady Christina looked at Minister Cummings and chewed her lip for a few seconds. “In fact, Field Marshall – and with the Admiral’s consent – if you are willing, we would allow you to move your forces to our bases in advance of the coup. This will certainly allow you to move in quicker once the coup is launched.” And, she added to herself, reduce the need for us to use our forces. “Of course, we’ll need numbers and such and will ask that the forces remain on our bases until deployed.”

Admiral Halton was a bit stunned as the Chancellor’s offer, but as he thought about, he felt he could intuit what she was thinking. If he were right in his assumptions, it wasn’t a bad idea. “And, Field Marshall, another question, if I might,” Halton added, “without active communications with your men, how will they know and you know that the coup has begun?”

In Varessa City, Commonwealth of Varessa…

Field Marshall Harris felt his jaw drop open and forced it shut. Had the Excalbian chancellor just offered to accept foreign troops on their soil without so much as a by-your-leave to the parliament? He could only assume she had their Emperor’s leave. Meaning that he must be far more than a paper monarch. Harris glanced at Chancellor Drake and Alex Shaw. He could see some of the same thoughts playing across their faces. Harris nodded for the Chancellor to take the lead.

“Well, Chancellor Freedman, that is certainly an interesting and much appreciated offer. I shall have to bring it up to the cabinet, but I think we can try to make it happen and forward deploy some of our VSF to your bases.” Drake wanted to press Freedman on the domestic political ramifications of her offer, but this wasn’t the time. Drake turned and looked at the Field Marshall, giving him the signal to proceed.

“Ah, and your question, Admiral Halton. We have been told by the Upper Virginians that when they are ready, they have arranged to play an army march on their radio and televisions stations. Our men in the Dominion will hear that and know that the attack on Altman’s headquarters is underway. Their job is to observe the attack and move in afterwards to confirm the kill.” Harris paused for a moment. “I assume, Admiral, that you regularly monitor those frequencies? How quickly could you advise us once you hear the broadcast and how quickly can your own forces respond?”

ooc: sorry!

ic:

The loading ramp dropped against the roof with a concrete chipping bang and the soldier's rushed in, the body of their comrade laid out on the floor between the standing restraints on either side of the cabin. The amabassador was herded to the very back, where he was strapped in and had a helmet jammed on his head.

'Hang on, Mr. Ambassador,' sneered the soldier who strapped him in as the helicopter took off, heading straight for the FVLA held territory.

"My Lord First Admiral!" saluted Commander Thrakos of the Imperial Foreign Intelligence Service as Lord Phocas stepped back onto the bridge of HIMS Imperator Andreus. Phocas snorted.

"We don't salute indoors in the Imperial Navy, Commander." he said, stepping past the IFIS operative.

"I apologise, my lord." said Thrakos, before turning to follow him.

"I take it by your presence on my bridge that you have something to report about the attack on our embassy, Thrakos?" asked Phocas. He found the spy's presence intensely unsettling - normally he wouldn't be anywhere near the bridge, and that was a good thing in Phocas' book.

"Yes, my lord." said Thrakos, clicking the heels of his leather boots. "I have made contact with the IFIS operatives embedded in the embassy. Although none of them were on duty at the time, their monitoring equipment suggests that two separate groups attacked the embassy - one from the air and one from the ground. The aerial assault was mounted in some sort of stealth helicopters."

Thrakos produced some grainy green and black photographs taken from an apartment belonging to an IFIS operative a few blocks away from the embassy. The outline of helicopters in the night sky could clearly be seen.

"A few moments ago, the operative who took those photographs advised that the helicopters were leaving our embassy." said Thrakos, laying down more photographs. "Based on that operative's report, my personnel have calculated that the helicopter is vaguely headed into territory believed to be under rebel control. Given that we have been unable to detect these aircraft electronically, I'm afraid nothing more than a vague impression of the aircraft's direction is possible."

"And is our ambassador aboard?" Phocas demanded.

"Unknown." said Thrakos. "However, as of yet, our operative has not observed him being removed by the ground forces. I have directed our operative to attempt to identify the ground forces - however, since the aircraft seem to be heading towards rebel territory, it is likely that the ground troops are government soldiers."

"Very good, Commander. Have you reported this to the Imperial High Command yet?"

"Not yet, sir. The most recent report arrived just as your helicopter landed on the deck." offered Thrakos.

"Good. I will report these developments to Mater personally." said Phocas. He didn't want the Imperial High Command to think that he was too busy stuffing his face with Excalbian chowder on-board the Glorious to find the Emperor's ambassador. Besides, the thought of Thrakos getting the credit made his stomach turn.

"But, my lord, I am th...." Thrakos started.

"That will be all, Commander. Return to your office. And report all progress to me personally." snapped Phocas.

"Yes... my lord." said Thrakos, clicking his heels before turning and leaving the bridge.

***

A pretty young brunette in a beret and black trenchcoat nervously made her way towards the wreck of the Pantocratorian embassy. Nominally, she was Sir Pierre de Thrake's personal secretary, although she was no mere receptionist. What the Ambassador didn't know, and what all but two other embassy employees didn't know, was that she was in reality an IFIS agent. On top of all her responsibilities as the Ambassador's secretary, she also reported on the loyalty of embassy staff, performed counter-intelligence operations, and monitored the sort of people the Ambassador received.

But right now she felt like she was only Sir Pierre's overworked and underpaid secretary, with too many demands placed upon her by her employer for too little reward. She was happy to monitor the fighting in the embassy from afar, but she was less than enthusiastic when her commanding officer, whose name or location she didn't know, ordered her to identify the origin of the ground forces attacking the embassy. She couldn't risk carrying surveillance equipment on her person, so close to an area in which she would be in extreme danger of capture. Unfortunately, in the darkness of night, this meant she had to get far closer to the action than she had ever had any intention of being in order to succeed in her mission.

As she came within a block of the embassy, she started cursing her decision to leave her sidearm back in the apartment. She had reasoned that she wouldn't get very far armed with her Sig-Sauer P220's 8 rounds against troops armed with submachine guns, and left it behind in case it made her look suspicious if she was searched. But the cold barrel provided some reassurance that she wasn't so horribly vulnerable. As the embassy was now in sight, she was doubly careful to stick to the shadows as she desperately tried to make out a marking or any other indication as to the origins of the troops who had attacked the embassy.

In Courtland…

CPL Grasis spotted the young brunette in a trench coat and beret making her way towards the now-burning Pantocratorian embassy and started towards her.

“Grasis!” The lieutenant’s voice screamed inside the corporal’s helmet. “Where are you going?”

“Civilian approaching the embassy, sir. I was going to check her…um… out, sir.”

“Negative. We have orders from the major to clear the area.”

“But, sir…”

“No buts get going.”

“Yes, sir…” Grasis turned away from the woman and jogged towards the vehicle where the rest of his unit were already gathering.

* * *

LT Erglis tuned and looked out the back window of his vehicle. So many men lost. So many unanswered questions and now, they’d probably never be answered. Erglis shook his head. He didn’t like leaving a job undone and he didn’t like being ordered out of a fight.

Erglis turned back around and watched as his unit rolled away from the skyscrapers of the city center.

* * *

“Major,” LT Miller said as he steadied himself within the speeding van, “at least one enemy chopper got through. It looks like it make a pick-up at the embassy and moving away to the northwest…”

“FVLA territory,” MAJ Ulanis mumbled.

“Sir?”

“Nevermind.”

“Yes, sir. Orders sir?”

“Just get us out of here.”

“Yes, sir.” Miller paused and looked up. “Remaining forces around the embassy have now been overrun by rioters, sir. Air squadron reports it is closing… and will target… the civilians, sir…” Miller turned and looked at Ulanis. “They won’t leave any evidence of our involvement here, will they sir…”

“No, lieutenant. And they won’t leave any rioters either…”

Ulanis and Miller rode in the van in silence for a few moments. Ulanis pulled off his helmet and mopped his forehead. He turned his helmet over and looked at the emblem of the Dominion Army. Cursing softly he threw the helmet across the van.

Above Courtland...

“Hammer one, Hammer five.”

“Hammer five, go.”

“Ground units report enemy unit departing the embassy and moving west, northwest. Over.”

“Roger. Hammer three, Hammer one.”

“Hammer three, over.”

“Take the data feed from ground units and pursue fleeing units. Report if you detect anything.”

“Roger.”

One fighter peeled away from the rest of the squadron and began a fruitless and frustrating pursuit for the virtually invisible unknown chopper.

“Hammer flight, Hammer one. Here’ your ROE. Fire on any, repeat any ground units or large gatherings unless they ID themselves as friendly. And, I want some ordnance on that embassy.”

Outside Courtland...

CAPT Terelson tensed as he waited for the sound. The forest was quiet, unnaturally quiet. He had to strain to hear the shallow breathing of SSGT Burke beside him.

Time passed slowly. Then, suddenly, he heard it. Vehicles on the road. The regular army unit approached and not particularly carefully. Terelson felt his respect for his opponent fade a bit. He had given them credit for not falling for the VSF’s clever ruse and for sending scouts in the first place. Perhaps, he thought, that was the CO and this was just a platoon commander being impatient.

The vehicles came closer and closer. Just moments before Terelson estimated they’d spot his hastily hidden vehicles he gave a nod and his men opened fire.

* * *

LT Potts stared intently into his IR display and thought he spotted something. Just then, the quiet night erupted into fire. He could see his lead vehicle being torn with fire.

“Get us cover!” Potts turned towards SSGT Ozols. “Sergeant!”

“Yes, sir!” Ozols leaned over to the driver and the vehicle lurched into reverse, wheels throwing mud and dirt.

* * *

Some distance away, up an intersecting trail, Rorke fine tuned his IR and turned to Corporal Schwesmann. “Looks like they caught them being careless, Vash.”

“I’d say so. But I wonder how many more are out there?”

“That’s the question of the moment, isn’t it?” Rorke asked as he prepared his weapon to fire.

* * *

Further away, LCOL Illers was reviewing an elevation map of the park when a corporal approached and saluted. “Colonel?”

“Yes, corporal?”

“Sir, garbled transmission from Potts’ unit then static.”

“Hmm.” Illers stood. “Get me LT Rinde. We’ll send him in as back up…”

Gwen Ubrecht felt her phone vibrate in her hand and flipped it up to read the SMS.

Got our mob moving. Met up with another. Ended up by Panto embassy. Caught a missile battery unaware. Saw your friend’s chopper take off towards NW. The army is running away.

Ubrecht quickly keyed in her response.

OK. You should get out of there. Heard more fighters are coming.

The response came quickly.

Two of us will go. People here want to take a shot at fighters. I’m one of two who can operate.

Ubrecht wrote back.

Get out. Now.

Again, the response came.

Can’t make me. Don’t worry; won’t get captured.

Ubrecht chewed her lip. She hated losing someone, but she also knew how attractive the opportunity to shot down a Dominion jet would seem to many of her people.

Ubrecht picked up another phone and dialed.

“Yes.” The Commander’s hard, yet melodious voice answered.

“This is Gwen.”

“Yes, Gwyneth. What is it?”

“Sir, our friends have gotten one of their choppers off and its headed your way. They should contact you directly; they should have your frequency.”

“OK. We’ll be ready for them.”

Gwen closed the phone and picked up a third. She dialed Greg.

New Rome, Pantocratoria

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Ambassador Rev. Donnelly said with a bow. “I shall inform the Citadel of your decision immediately.”

Donnelly also noted Emperor Andreus’ reference to setting up a responsible government in Courtland. He was sure that the Citadel would have great interest in that comment.

Citadel Mount, Citadel Excalbia

Admiral Lord Halton nodded as he listened to Field Marshall Harris. “Yes, Field Marshall, we do regularly monitor Upper Virginian frequencies. We should be able to notify you almost immediately once they being playing the march.”

Halton looked over at the banks of communications equipment deep beneath the medieval castle and imperial palace. “To speed that notice, Field Marshall, I would propose that we establish an open direct link between your command center and ours.”

Halton turned back to the large tactical display board in front of him. “As for our response, our naval forces and marines should be able to respond within a few minutes of receiving the alert.”


Incoming Transmission
Most Secret – Eyes Only
0135Z011120xx

FM: Excalbian General Staff
TO: INV Glorious; HIMS Imperator Andreus

For the Eyes Only of Lord Admiral Phocas and VADM Sir Kunle From Admiral Lord Halton

1. As of this evening the Empire has concluded a provisional alliance with Varessa in regard to the unrest in Upper Virginia. New Rome has been advised.

2. General Staff is coordinating with Varessans for military intervention following a planned coup against General Altman. New Rome advises the Empire that Pantocratorian forces may be included in planning.

3. The coup may happen at any time. The signal for commencement of the coup is the playing of the Army March. You are instructed to monitor all Upper Virginian commercial frequencies for the signal.

4. The coup will begin with a strike against Altman. Varessan Special Forces and Upper Virginian SSS are standing by to confirm success after the strike. Marine air assault units should be prepared for rapid insertion to support the VSF and SSS. Additional Marine forces should be ready to deploy to Courtland to protect the Imperial Embassy and Imperial and Pantocratorian interests and personnel.

5. Detailed orders follow…

The IFIS agent's heart practically jumped into her throat when she saw the soldier start heading towards her. In the hellish, flickering orange light of the embassy's fires, she could only just make out a design on the helmet. She couldn't make out the details of the design, but she could tell there was something there. And she was sure that the colours she could make out, distorted by the embassy's orange glow, were Upper Virginian. She thanked God for her eyesight, and tried to act natural, even suppressing a sigh of relief when he had turned away and headed towards a van. She stood silently at a distance as she watched troops pour into their transport and took off.

She could hear the noise of a small crowd coming from the other direction. She wasn't going to wait for them to show up - she had got the best look she was going to get at the soldiers, and now it was time to get to safety. She turned on her heel and ran down the road in the direction of her apartment. A few minutes later...

BOOM

She was knocked flat by the impact of a massive explosion. She pulled herself off the road, the sleeves of her trenchcoat ripped up by the gravel, her hands and her cheek grazed almost raw, and staggered a few more feet before turning around and stumbling over. Three blocks away she saw the aftermath of whatever had just caused the Pantocratorian embassy to explode. She would've heard the roar of the engines of the aircraft responsible, but her ears were ringing with the noise of the explosion itself. She got up again and staggered the few more steps into her apartment block, whose windows had been blown out by the explosion even at this distance. Several of the other building residents were in the lobby, steadying themselves against walls and counters.

"Jeanne, are you OK?" asked a middle-aged woman the spy recognised as her neighbour. The operative shook her head and then nodded in reply, before staggering into the lift.

"What's going on out there?" her neighbour continued, as a young man in his pyjamas walked out onto the street. He swore loudly.

"THE EMBASSY!" he exclaimed. "There's nothing there! Not a God damn thing!"

"Bloody rebel terrorists!" said another resident.

"Yeah, it was them what did it!" exclaimed another resident as the IFIS agent pressed the close door button and headed up to her room.

"Here, that girl works in the embassy doesn't she?" the young man in his pyjamas asked the middle-aged neighbour.

"Yes, she's a secretary there." she replied.

"Lucky for her this happened at night, while she wasn't working there..."

"Yeah. But did you say you could hear gunfire before that big explosion?"

***

Lord Phocas sat in the security booth on the bridge where he could receive transmissions for his eyes and ears only without fear of a lowly lieutenant eaves dropping. He had just received Mater's briefing on the coup when the Excalbian General Staff's communiqué had arrived. He started writing orders for his own personnel to carry out in-line with the General Staff's detailed orders when there was a knock on his booth door. Phocas turned off his terminal's screen, hit the door release button, and spun around in his chair to see Commander Thrakos standing there.

"My lord, my field operative has just returned from where our embassy used to be. She believes she saw a Dominion armed forces device on the helmets of one of the ground troops. She also advises that just minutes after those forces withdrew, the remains of the embassy were destroyed. Another operative advises that unidentified aircraft seem to be responsible for the explosion in our embassy, as they were flying overhead at just the appropriate time to have bombed it." Thrakos reported.

"So both the Upper Virginian government and rebels were involved in this attack on our embassy. I imagine they were both keen to get their hands on the dossier which recently came into our hands through our ambassador." said Phocas.

"My thoughts exactly, my lord."

"Presuming that one or both sides didn't get what they wanted out of their attack on our embassy, it is logical to assume they will follow the dossier's journey in their attempts to obtain it. After the embassy is this ship. I can't imagine that they honestly believe their intelligence personnel to be up to task of penetrating the Imperator Andreus' security." Phocas scoffed arrogantly. "After it reached us, we sent three separate helicopters which the Virginians would regard as potential targets. One to Citadel Excalbia, one to the Glorious, and the other to Langeais."

"Of those targets, my lord, Langeais would be the easiest to penetrate." said Thrakos. "If the Upper Virginians, the rebels or the government, were to pick one of those three targets to make another attempt like the one on our embassy, it would certainly be Langeais."

"Of course, they could assume that whereever that dossier was transferred from the Imperator Andreus, it would by now have been transmitted to New Rome. They might make an attempt there..." started Phocas.

"For the government to mount an attempt on the scale of that which was mounted against our embassy in Courtland at such a great distance would be improbable, my lord. For the rebels, it would be impossible." Thrakos said dismissively. Too dismissively for Phocas' tastes.

"Very well, Commander. I take it you are suggesting that we tighten security in Langeais?" Phocas sneered.

"Yes, my lord."

"Do it. I will inform the High Command about the findings of our operatives in Courtland." Phocas said, pressing the button to close the booth's door before the IFIS operative could protest. He switched his terminal screen back on and continued typing orders.