NationStates Jolt Archive

Alexi Curcic strode confidently to the podium on the hastily erected stage, just outside the Belgrade Fortress, the residence of President of the State & General Secretary of the Secretariat Sean Matthews.

There was an immense crowd present, composed of people from all walks of life, with one thing in common; dissatisfaction and a growing resentment for the government, namely Matthews.

Camera's flashed sporadically as Curcic took his place, the din of the multitude of people present lulled over as everybody was eager to hear Curcic's speech. Curcic was the head of the Hrstrovokian Peace, Liberty and Solidarity Party, which was actually banned by the government for "stirring elements in our society who would attempt to wreck our work, to defile our values, to destroy Socialism in our nation." Those exact words being Matthews at a press conference the week before.

In fact, all political parties had been banned throughout the Soviet State of Hrstrovokia, because they posed "a threat to the continued political unity within the Secretariat, we do not wish to return to the days of multi-party parliamentary democracy, which was corrupt, ineffective and pointless." Again, this was the word of Matthews.

Before, there was a limited application of political parties, allowing only Socialist, Communist or Marxist-Leninist organizations, which were of course, approved by the government.

Despite the intimidating prescene of over 40,000 state security forces personnel, from the Hrstrovokian Armed Forces, Belgrade Metropolitan Police and Crimson Guard Land, Sea and Air Special Forces, no attempt to arrest Curcic was made, for it would be futile.

The crowd protected him, and if the henchmen of Matthews dared to lay a finger upon Curcic, they would erupt in a explosion of violent outrage. So they stood, waiting and listening, their transparent polycarbonate Riot Shields hanging low by their side, wielding menacing Shocksticks, but despite their numbers and weapons, they did not want to provoke an incident.

Curcic beamed an endearing smile as he stood before the people of Belgrade, united together in their opposition of Matthews blatant tyranny. "Friends!" he cried aloud, waving his hands high in the freezing December air. The crowd waved back entusastically, hats flew into the air, and roses were thrown onto the stage. They began to chant "Champion! Champion!"

Curcic gestured for the crowd to quiet again. "Friends, I thank you, for if it was not for you, then I surely would be lying face down in a pool of my own blood, recieving the worst beating imaginable from those nice people clad in the latest internal security fashions surrounding us!" he said, pointing at the ring of Soldiers and Policemen.

"Because, my friends, this is now a nation, where to express your dissent and anger with the way things are is forbidden! We are to be silent, we the impudent good-for-nothings, for if we rear our heads towards the sun for a second, we shall recieve a baton to the face. This is not freedom, this is oppression of the greatest magnitude!

"And it is not just at home, but abroad, that Matthews seeks to extend his evil. The islands of Crete and Corfu, innocent of any wrong-doing, have been invaded, as Matthews, like all dictators, seeks to dominate as much as he can."

The crowd was now in a state of frenzy. Curcic became worried. Bottles were thrown at the line of the Security forces, which were gradually encircling the demonstration. The atmopshere was rife with tension, and any moment, the peace could snap.

"My friends, if you would please calm down, we are gathered here today to express our disguist, but we will do it peacefully, unlike our so-called brothers, who would soon silence us if they had the oppurtunity. If we turn violent, then we are just like them!" Curcic said in a desperate effort to avoid a confrontation.

It appeared too late, the crowd was already jostling against the troops, slamming the barricades with bins ripped from pavements, hurling rocks, anything at hand. The wrath of the people was flowing to the surface ...

[OOC: This is open to anyone who would like to be involved, though preferably if you are located in Earth III. If not, no problem, go ahead if you want, but it would just make things a little easier :)]

Bump

.::TAG::.

"Let them fight, although intervention would be necessary for our lands to expand."

Official response from the Dimmimaran government

OOC:
I own Egypt and Sudan in Earth III....

#Tag#

I have no idea what Earth III is :(

Matthews stood on the fifth floor balcony of the Belgrade fortress, observing with detached interest the tumultuous masses of enraged denizens clashing with the forces of the state. Events were spiraling out of control, fast.

"Sir, you must return indoors, it's no longer safe here, your survival is paramount to the very existence of Hrstrovokia." said one of Matthews many steroid enhanced Bodyguards, motioning towards the luxurious confines of the Presidential office. Matthews coolly glanced back, with a faint look of annoyance and confusion. "And miss all this? You must be kidding!" he laughed. The bodyguards and personal assistants present laughed in unison with their master.

The crowd was brimming with anger and loathing, harassing the security forces with a constant barrage of degrading abuse, pelting them with stones, tearing sign-posts from their roots and launching them at the barricades. Curcic still continued to calm the demonstrators, but his voice was a hundred miles away to those at the front-line. To them, this was there moment, the years of pent up rage finally unleashed on those who instilled it in them, on those who deserved it most.

They were taking matters into their own hands.

Matthews leaned against the balcony, peering down with pride at the Crimson Guard Land, Sea and Air Special Forces inside the gates of the fortress, clad in their traditional Crimson uniforms with large leather boots and gloves and armed with M16 assault rifles.

They wore the new Juggernaut Helmets to top off their Kevlar body armour. The Juggernaut was the pinnacle achievement of Hrstrovokian military technology, which incorporated and combined the properties of scope, nightvision and thermal visual modes, NBC filter system, electrocardiogram monitor and the BattleNet data & Communication system, permitting squad communication and allowing real-time battlefield data to be distributed directly to the user from the GR0Z 1 satellite in orbit around Earth.

The silver visors on the Juggernauts were always down, to protect the user from shrapnel and flechette rounds, adding a curious mystic to the force, while overall, the soldiers heads were incased in 10mm of liquid armour, light enough for use, powerful enough for abuse from 5.56mm bullets at long-range.

They stood to attention, ready for the order, which would come directly from Matthews, for the Crimson Guard obeyed only him, waiting anxiously to march out and wipe out any threat to the Belgrade Fortress. However, as vocal and aggressive as the crowd was, they were still a considerable distance from the granite walls of the Presidential compound.

"Come on then! Here I am!" Matthews roared as loud as his lungs would allow, much to the consternation of his bodyguards and groveling assistants. Some of those on the ground craned their necks skywards, and began pointing. "Look! It's that maniacal bastard!" they retorted.

"If these pathetic scumbags cant provoke an incident, then I'll have to do it for them." said Matthews. "Get me the Commander on the ground." he ordered to his assistant. She darted forward and presented the President with a radio, crackling with transmissions between the HAF, Belgrade Metropolitan Police and Crimson Guard.

"Clear this mess up now, I don’t care what it takes, how many people die, just do It." said Matthews into the radio, without the slightest trace of remorse upon his face. Those around him recoiled in horror. "You can’t be serious! There must be 100,000 people down there, and you’re asking them to be silenced?"

The voice had a slight Bulgarian twang, unmistakably that of Nikita Oprenokov, Director of the Bureau of Intelligence and State Security, the man responsible for conducting the vast spying operation against the people of Hrstrovokia, a man not easily scared.

He stepped forth onto the balcony, obviously challenging Matthews, who now seemed to be degenerating second by second into the cold-blooded and ruthless monster Oprenokov always suspected him of being.

[OOC: Chimaea, Earth III was recently revived, but it doesnt matter if you dont know where it is or your not apart of it, your welcome to join in if you wish :)]

Bump !

OOC: Ok! I'm here! I'm most definitely here now. Sorry about my inactivity, been busy irl x_x

---------------------

Lady Bryce rubbed the back of her neck tiredly, a gesture she'd inherited from her father. She was sitting at her desk in the Governor's Office, listening to the briefing given by the Foriegn Minister.

"So it looks pretty bad there. Mathews is bloodthirsty and tyrannical warlord, using brute force to gain influence and power. Whilst the reformist movement is strong I don't believe he'll let it continue for much longer. I've had uncomfirmed reports of crackdowns already taking place."

Lady Bryce nodded and leaned back into her chair. "If he acts openly against the PLS, what then?"

"Well... a lot of civilians support the HPLSP, my Lady. I have fears for their safety. This could turn into an ugly and bloody incident if action isn't taken soon."

Lady Bryce tapped her pen on the wooden surface of the desk, deep in thought. "We do not want another war on our hands. We're already engaged in Colombia, Syskeyia and probably Pushka the way things are going. And Hrstrovokia is an ally... any outright conflict would be a PR victory for everyone against us."

The Foriegn Minister nodded. "However, if we do not act this situation could become a lot worse. We can't be seen to be standing by on this either. The press will have a field day, for once thing."

Lady Bryce managed a small smile. "Indeed. Well... I will have my response at your desk by tomorrow morning."

Looking dissappointed, the Foriegn Minister stood, bowed and left the Office.

Lady Bryce sat pondering over the matter for a while, wrote a note and pressed a button on her desk. After a brief interval a hidden panel opened in the Office and a non-descript man in a dark suit entered.

Lady Bryce smiled uneasily. "Ah. Could you please deliver this to your superiors..."

The man took it silently, nodded, and left via the way he came. Lady Bryce took one of the phone's on her desk off the hook, pressed the single button on it and waited.

"Ahh, General. I was wondering, what kind of military intelligence assets do you have in Hrstrovokia...?"

OOC: Excuse me for the confusion, but isn't Earth III in International Incidents?

OOC: Excuse me for the confusion, but isn't Earth III in International Incidents?


OOC: Any Earth RP can be in either NS or II. Doesn't really matter which. Yea, the multiple Earth ideas originated in II, but it doesn't always have to be in II. I guess it depends on the person.

OoC: My apologies for the length of this post, but there's a lot of background to be covered. The formal statement referred to towards the end will be issued separately and later.
Old friends will also notice certain spelling reforms (as well as the fact that our capital is now Ljubljana). I've done this in order to keep more consistent with the Sovereign People's territorial and ethnic position in Earth III.

Kijrl Istvadnijc tread gingerly into his new office in the Great Hall of the People in Ljubljana. The decades spent as the ‘Democratic’ Republic’s token opposition had left their mark on him, and he almost feared lest the corruption of power somehow soak up from the thin carpet through the soles of his shoes . . .
Premier . . . he wondered to himself. How the hell did that happen?
He shook himself lightly, than removed his trademark porkpie hat to run a weathered hand through his shock of shoulder-length, unruly white hair, then hung his hat on the nearby coatrack. Patting the lapels of his inevitable black frock coat (yet another gesture by which the Sovereign People had come to know him over the years), he suddenly lurched his storklike frame all the way from the door to the desk in three enormous steps and hurled himself into the chair behind it, saving himself from spilling onto the floor only by shooting out his spindly arms at the last possible moment and seizing the edge of the desk in his iron grip.
He spun around in the chair for a few minutes.
Finally he turned on the desk computer, picked up the phone and began making calls to his—his!—new Ministers, lowering taxes, deregulating enterprises, increasing the military budget, slashing welfare, legalizing real opposition parties, authorizing covert funding for Slavic and left-nationalist separatist groups in other countries, reforming the nation . . .
In the middle of a call to the new Minister of International Trade, he glanced up to see Deputy Premier Drakan Kstrelnijn’s dark and imposing form glowering at him from across the desk. Kstrelnijn had been an officer in the commandos during the last war, and the burly man still moved like a cat.
Istvadnijc felt uncomfortably like a bird.
Kstrelnijn was important—as the leader of the Liberal Democrats, the third-polling party of the last elections, Kstrelnijn had sided with Istvadnijc’s United Patriotic Front rather than with their traditional allies, former Premier Mnijrvitsa’s Left Unity Bloc. Kstrelnijn’s decision was the basis of Istvadnijc’s power—the man had to be listened to. Istvadnijc hurriedly told Minister Ptorvijc that he would have to call back.
‘There is a situation in Beograd,’ said Kstrelnijn, without bothering with the social niceties. ‘Mateusz [OoC: That’s how we pronounce Belgrade and Mathews up here] has apparently ordered the military to confront an angry mob of pro-democracy demonstrators outside the Fortress. InMNovst is covering it live.’
Kstrelnijn picked up a remote from the desktop and turned on a television that Istvadnijc hadn’t even noticed before.
"Come on then! Here I am!" Matthews roared as loud as his lungs would allow, much to the consternation of his bodyguards and groveling assistants. Some of those on the ground craned their necks skywards, and began pointing. "Look! It's that maniacal bastard!" they retorted.
‘That looks bad . . .’ mused Istvadnijc.
‘Some activist named Curcic is leading the mob. Wasn’t he a friend of yours?’
‘Alexi? Alexi Curcic?’
‘Yes.’
Istvadnijc leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. ‘Akh . . . Does the President know?’ he asked Kstrelnijn. Kstrelnijn chuckled.
‘President Krz knows everything. His official position is that this an internal affair for our Hrstrovokian comrades to handle on their own. Constitutionally, however, you make the decisions, now.’
Istvadnijc didn’t really like the way Kstrelnijn said that word, ‘now,’ but let it pass.
‘I have to answer to my constituency. If Mateusz starts massacring civilians, the Sovereign People will expect me to take a stand on that.’ He suddenly pounded the desktop with the palm of his hand. ‘We’ll call him before the SocAlComm Court of Justice!’
‘The Court of Justice headquartered in Beograd, you mean? The one that doesn’t even have any members, yet?’
‘Akh! If it’s a violation of the SocAlComm’s Charter on Human Rights, it’s legally actionable! Hrstrovokia can be ejected, even invaded!’
Kstrelnijn’s eyes finally widened in horror.
‘Calm yourself, Comrade Istvadnijc. Hrstrovokia is not only our closest ally, in both senses, but they have historically respected us for our wisdom, not our power. You know as well as I that if it came to a conflict they would crush us like ants.’
Istvadnijc stood, glaring at Kstrelnijn. He ground his teeth for a moment, then walked towards the great windows covering the eastern wall. He stared out for several minutes, and it struck him again how magical Ljubljana appeared when graced with winter’s snows, and how beautifully it had been rebuilt after the last war. A war in which Hrstrovokian assistance had been critical to victory. Mateusz, he had always thought, was basically a good man, but now it seemed the Hrstrovokian people themselves needed defending. Finally, he spoke without turning.
‘The basis of our Revolution, of all our wars against the Fascists, has always been that the quest for justice is ultimately irrepressible. That is the one thing that Kznijnskij and I have always agreed on.’ He turned his legendary thousand-yard stare on Kstrelnijn.
‘Mateusz will lose, Comrade. It may take a week, a year, a century, but he will not rule forever from a throne washed in blood. Mateusz must know, in no uncertain terms, that the Sovereign People support freedom, not murder. Prepare to stop the construction of the bombers we have sold them and to pull out our engineers if the situation degenerates, and issue a statement informing Mateusz that the use of undue force in this instance will be met with stern action by the Sovereign People. You are the People’s Minister of External Affairs, Comrade Kstrelnijn, as well as their Delegate to SocAlComm. It will be your duty to draft and communicate our position. I trust you to be diplomatic—but you must be firm. Justice may receive its setbacks, but it cannot, by its very nature, be compromised upon.’
He returned to his seat at the desk and resumed typing on the computer before pausing to look up at the still-shocked Kstrelnijn.
‘You are still here? Go! Be about the Sovereign People’s business!’
Kstrelnijn walked out of the office with furrowed brows. He wondered for the hundredth time that afternoon whether or not he had made a mistake in throwing his support behind Istvadnijc. No, he thought to himself, that’s not it. Now I am just wondering how bad a mistake . . .

It was a Church.

Well, no, it wasn't exactly. It just felt like one. The domed cieling, decorated with frescoes of gargoyles and angels, fire and brimstone. The walls were hewn from the rock and earth itself. The air smelled of an alchemy of cordite, metal, incense and machinery. The hidden light sources sometimes flickered, giving the place an even more surreal look. The place was shaped in a rectangle, with two giant bronze double doors at one end. There was indeed an altar on the other end, but it was shrouded in gloom. Most of the main space was taken up not by pews but by human-shaped electronic sarcophagi, cables from which vanished into recesses in the stone walls. Some of these sarcophagi were occupied. Men in black suits occassionally walked around the sarcophagi, doing maintenance.

The non-descript man in the dark suit and sun glasses entered the non-Church from a side door. He reached inside his coat and produced a handgun, which he placed carefully in one of the ornately carved wooden boxes near the door. Then he walked up the middle aisle between the sarcophagi, not giving them a passing glance. He stepped past the sarcophagi and stood, waiting.

After a moment a figure emerged from the gloom of the altar. The male figure was also wearing a suit, but his had a more military cut about it. He nodded at waiting man, who held out Lady Bryce's message.

It was duly taken, read and destroyed. The man then melted back into the gloom. After a brief pause, the original man turned and walked back through the lines of sarcophagi, collected his weapon, then walked out of the place without a backward look.

***

The room was in darkness, apart from an amber glowing globe in the center of the oval table. Around the table were seated dimly-lit figures, as if they were just another part of the shadows.

The figure at the head of the table spoke. "We have... a problem."

"Well?"

"The Governor has also asked Military Intelligence for assistance. General Santuro--"

"De Santuro."

"Thank you. General de Santuro will no doubt send his own agents."

One of the figures snorted derisively. "Those fools can't find their asses if you drew them a map."

"None the less, this could be a problem for our operation in Hrstrovokia."

"Why did she ask both Military Intelligence and... us?"

"I believe she is testing us. She is a military person. She has no faith in us."

There was a pause. Then another figure ventured, "Well she is very inexperienced--"

"It does not matter. This is not a military problem."

"So what do you suggest we do?"

"Eliminate their agent."

There were several sharply indrawn breaths. The atmosphere felt tense.

"Eliminate a Military Intelligence Agent? Are you insane?"

"Not insane. It is for the best. It is in Chimaea's interest that our operation carries out unhindered."

"If it's traced back to us--"

"It will not be traced back to us. If we are to conduct this operation, then we will need to elimate their agents. If we do not, the operation becomes a security risk. Are we agreed?"

There were hesitant assents around the table.

"Good. We shall see that it is so."

-------------------

OOC: Umm... I need to know what exactly happens to that crowd and so forth.

Curcic remained desolately alone at the podium, a solitary figure on the desecrated frontier of hope. He rested his weary self against the wooden podium to prevent being overcome by the pangs of guilt and dread rippling throughout his body. The fierce winter's wind sliced through Curcic as he turned to descend from the stage, utterly defeated. “This is all my fault.”

The pandemonium continued behind him unabated. But it would be wrong to say that everyone present indulged themselves in the violence, for many had turned away, like Curcic, in disgust, or were too frightened to remain.

Those at the apex of the action were mostly the young idealists, the anarchists, those who had felt most robbed by Mateuz’s policies, which had come down like a hammer upon them. The regimentation of education to the tune of the President’s beat, the blatant attempt to fool them, the endless barrage of doctrine about the glory of Hrstrovokia, socialism and Mateuz. The Hrstrovokia they knew wouldn’t be cited for it’s triumphs of unity or the end of oppression, the common pursuit of utopia. It was the direct opposite.

Mateuz did everything in his power to prevent anything remotely resembling socialism from ever appearing, hellbent on it, all the while truppeting it’s victories. The organization of workers into unions to protect their interests was strictly prohibited. The right to form a political party denied. Even to speak out in dissent meant a cold, hard decade in the detention camps springing up across the state, which officially didn’t exist.

The rally had been hijacked by the abused and neglected of Hrstrovokia, the youth. Curcic knew this. He felt a tinge of pride spark as he embraced his wife Katherina, who waited anxiously for him to return. “There is still some hope left” he whispered to her ear.

But rocks and Molotov cocktails are no match for machine guns and tanks. However valiant their efforts, it was naive to think they overthrow the government or defeat the army, whose ranks were lined with their brothers and sisters. “Now Mateuz will have his excuse to wipe this out, to usher in a new era of total control for our own safety” Curcic realized suddenly with regret.

“We cant do anything now Alexi, let’s just go home” said Katherina, caressing her husband’s cold cheeks, her soft voice melting his stubborn resolve. But mostly it was the feeling of guilt that made Alexi turn away, too hurt to take part anymore.

As they moved away with their entourage of supporters, fellow party members and friends, the firm grip of a Bureau of Intelligence and State Security officer found Curcic’s shoulder and spun him around.

“Arrest this man” he ordered without a hint of emotion to a tall, broad shouldered soldier of the Ministry of the Interior who accompanied him. They didn’t even give a reason. They didn’t need to. As the cold steel handcuffs clasped around Curcic’s wrists and chained him, he heard the first shots, the hysterical screams. The crackdown had begun.

[OOC: Sorry I havent been active lately, there's more to come anyway! Just felt I had to get something up here. ]

Presidential Directive No.1 - Thursday, 15/12/04

President Mateuz hereby declares that the nation to be in a state of emergency, and in order to save it and it's people from great peril, enacts the 2003 Act of Emergency. The provisions of this law allow martial law to be instituted throughout the nation. The Secretariat will be dissolved and the Government dismissed. The Constitution is also suspended for the duration of the emergency. President Mateuz will act as the supreme power from this moment onwards.

President Mateuz order's all protests and demonstrations to disband immediately, or face reprecussions. All media in the nation, domestic or foreign, will halt broadcasting, transmissions and other work until the emergency has ended.

Mr. Alexi Curcic has been placed under arrested and charged with incitement to riot, he will remain under house arrest at a unnamed location until his trial. The violence witnessed in Beograd due to Curcic's blatantly false rhetoric has ended, with 4,000 detentions and 2,367 deaths. Much of the city centre is in ruins. These scenes will not be repeated. Any attempt to disrupt the political, social and economic activities of the state will be met with brutal retaliation.

Given the chaotic atmosphere in Beograd, President Mateuz believes it prudent to cancel the planned conference of SocAlComm delegates on the ratification of the Treaty of Sava, which would bring the Socialist Alliance Community into existence.

Kstrelnijn leaned back from the glowing screen and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He had just dispatched a hastily-prepared Charter for the Court of Justice (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=373053&page=6&pp=15) to his staff at SocAlComm's provisional headquarters in Sarajevo.

Istvadnijc will have to be happy with that, for now. Can't try him without a court . . . Though with fortune in our favor it won't come to that.

His staff was the only representation of the Sovereign People to the international organization in his absence. The previous Delegate, Gzvod Mstslav, had already departed for his new post in the Caribbean--a left-handed reward for an old professional whose services had been distinguished but were no longer required. Looking out his window into what had become the howling darkness of winter in the Julian Alps, Kstrelnijn found he rather envied the old man. There are worse fates, he thought to himself.

But his developing reverie was interrupted by the blare of his desk phone. Glancing at the incoming number, he saw that it was the Embassy in Beograd. He flirted briefly with the idea of not picking it up. It can't be good . . .

He was right.

It was Ambassador Ljena Khrvadka, sounding very agitated.

'The demonstration turned into a riot, Comrade Minister, and the security forces started shooting. I've had an unconfirmed report that Curcic has been taken into custody.'

'Unconfirmed?'

'Not everyone in the Interior Ministry agrees with Mateuz's decision.'

'I see. I trust this line is also secure on your end?'

'Yes. But there's more. They've also shut down InMNovst's [OoC: For those who don't already know, InMNovst is our news agency] feed, and confiscated our tapes . . .'

'What?!'

'It was all I could do to keep them from taking our reporters in for "questioning."'

Kstrelnijn paused. In the midst of that pause, Khrvadka suddenly continued.

'Mateuz's office has just released an official statement--it's bad. Listen:

Presidential Directive No.1 - Thursday, 15/12/04

President Mateuz hereby declares that the nation to be in a state of emergency, and in order to save it and it's people from great peril, enacts the 2003 Act of Emergency. The provisions of this law allow martial law to be instituted throughout the nation. The Secretariat will be dissolved and the Government dismissed. The Constitution is also suspended for the duration of the emergency. President Mateuz will act as the supreme power from this moment onwards.

President Mateuz order's all protests and demonstrations to disband immediately, or face reprecussions. All media in the nation, domestic or foreign, will halt broadcasting, transmissions and other work until the emergency has ended.

Mr. Alexi Curcic has been placed under arrested and charged with incitement to riot, he will remain under house arrest at a unnamed location until his trial. The violence witnessed in Beograd due to Curcic's blatantly false rhetoric has ended, with 4,000 detentions and 2,367 deaths. Much of the city centre is in ruins. These scenes will not be repeated. Any attempt to disrupt the political, social and economic activities of the state will be met with brutal retaliation.

Given the chaotic atmosphere in Beograd, President Mateuz believes it prudent to cancel the planned conference of SocAlComm delegates on the ratification of the Treaty of Sava, which would bring the Socialist Alliance Community into existence.

'Cracking down, over two thousand dead that they admit, suspending the constitution, and cancelling the ratification?' Kstrelnijn boggled. 'The ratification can proceed without him. We'll invite the Delegates to Ljubljana, instead. Stop construction of the bombers we're building for them, and destroy all our designs. And issue the following statement.'

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

To President and General Secretary Jan Mateuz,

Comrade President, the Sovereign People deplore the outbreaks of violence which has recently blighted the otherwise graceful city of Beograd. While we recognize that security and order are paramount needs of the state, and furthermore concede that the demonstrators in question were clearly out of hand, nevertheless we feel that the response of your government has not been formulated in such a way as to be conducive to the welfare and prosperity of the Hrstrovokian People. Violence begets violence, Comrade--our states were born in Revolution for a reason, and it seems the time has come when some of us may need to be reminded of that fact.

The Supreme Leader and Guardian of the Revolution, Vlad Kznijnskij, has often said that no civilization founded upon injustice can long endure. We try to live by Comrade Kznijnskij's words as best we can.

Therefore, under the circumstances, we feel we cannot contribute to the arming of a government that uses violence so freely against its own wards and dependents, the People. This is our prerogative, as you will find clearly stated in our contract (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=376698).

As for the Treaty of the Sava, we propose that it be ratified upon the Sava, at Ljubljana--but know that a violation of the SocAlComm Charter on Human Rights is legally actionable, even if not committed by a Signatory. Of course, the Sovereign People earnestly hope that such a rift may not appear between our nations--we owe you much, and our gratitude is deep.

But know that our first loyalty is to Truth, and our second, to Justice.

Anyone else is a distant third.

With Respect,
Deputy Premier Drakan Kstrelnijn, People's Minister of External Affairs, DRVP Delegate to SocAlComm

Lady Bryce through the chewed up rubber ball as far as she can over the snow-covered grounds and watched Roger, her favourite Great Dane, look after it quizzically. Then he turned his large head and gave her a puzzled and aloof look.

Lady Bryce sighed and shook her head. "Throw a ball and he thinks he's King. Throw a stick and he's grovelling at your feet for more."

General Garrison laughed shortly, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Bit like the Chimaean Armed Forces in that respect."

"Hah! Do you regret retirement now?"

The old General shook his head. "No. I've done too many things that I'd rather forget."

There was an awkward silence for a second as they gazed out at the frozen wonderland that was the grounds of the Governor's official residence.

"I wish it didn't have to be this way," Lady Bryce said, "That we don't have to do bad things to make a good future."

General Garrison forced a smile. "People like you. Chimaeans like you. You don't lie as much and you tend to be realistic."

"People like me because they think I'm a hero."

"Aren't you?"

"No."

They stared at each other for a moment, before Lady Bryce looked away. "I need you to do something for me. Dad."

General Garrison stretched out his legs, reached out a hand and gently ruffled the course hair on the Great Dane's back. "Does this have something to do with Hrstrovokia? And you never call me Dad apart from when you need something."

"I want you to be the new military attache to Hrstrovokia."

The General sighed. "To what end?"

"You know military people. You know those inner military circles. I want to know who in the Hrstrovokian military is with President Mateuz and who isn't. Especially who isn't."

"I might have guessed. Why me? I'm retired. I left all the intrigue and danger behind me, remember."

Lady Bryce ran a finger alon the armrest of her wrought-iron chair. It was cold to the touch. "We can never retire. You know that."

General Garrison looked away, and his eyes were bitter. "Yes. Yes, I know that."

***

Dear President Mateuz,

It is with growing concern that I note the alarming circumstances that have arisen in Hrstrovokia in recent days. The shocking death toll from the protests in Belgrade have caused shock and grief from Chimaean citizens, who have close, personal ties with the people of Hrstovokia.

I understand the need for security in these troubled times but I implore you to reconsider the suspension of the Constitution as it opens up possibilities of human rights abuse by those under your command.

Chimaea cannot endorse your actions as a nation committed to democracy and civil rights. However, we hope to work closely with you during this emergency and look forward to the resumption of the due processes of government and democracy after it has passed.

On a better note, it is with pleasure that I inform you that the post of Chimaean military attache to Hrstrovokia will be filled by General Garrison, the former Commander in Chief of the Chimaean Armed Forces. He will be replacing Brigadier Bengt, who has served this position with skill and honour but has urgent family matters to attend in Chimaea.

Warmest regards,
~Lady Tanya Bryce,
Governor of Chimaea


[OOC: For some reason I'm enjoying this immensely. Probably because no-one arguying and everyone's writing well. Good stuff :)]

Mateuz sighed deeply, threw his glasses carelessly down across stacks of foreign comminque and reports piled along his table and slumped back into his leather chair. Sweeping condemnations from the new administration of Vas Pokhoronim and criticism from Lady Bryce of Chimaea threatened to propel what Mateuz considered Hrstrovokia's internal affairs into the international arena. "Knzysnky would have let me away with this." reflected Mateuz, loosening his focus on the red shag carpet.

However, it was not so much Istvadnijc's displeasure with the recent events which had transpired in the capitol, but his stance of not co-operating with supplying Hrstrovokia with aircraft, which despite the size and scale of indigenous industry, failed to adequately meet the nation's defense needs, which really pissed off Mateuz.

There was a dire deficiency in strategic bombers, simply not enough to win any war of attrition. As conflict seemed likely with Presgreif over the annexation of Crete and Corfu, Mateuz desperately sought the weapons he would need to rain death upon his northern neighbour.

"Ungrateful is not the word I'm looking for." Mateuz thought. Hrstrovokian intervention against the imperialist Empire of Fate and Honour had pretty much saved Vas Pokhoronim from subjugation. Still, putting pressure on Hrstrovokia's only immediate ally in the region would only isolate the two nations. For now, Mateuz would simply have to grit his teeth and face the facts.

The appointment of General Garrison as the new Chimaean military attache to Hrstrovokia seemed to indicate a desire, despite the outright slaughter in Beograd just days ago, that Chimaea wished to strengthen ties with the Soviet State. Mateuz noted with glowing optimisim that Lady Bryce's denunciation sounded less severe than Kstrelnijn's. It was now, more than ever, that Hrstrovokia needed allies.

Beyond Mateuz's presidential palace, Beograd lay as a smouldering ruin. Shots still rang out as the last pockets of resistance were eliminated. The true casualties will never be know, but it is more like 22,000 than 2,000. Leopard MBTs had rumbled through the city streets, pounding buildings with decimating HE shells, which reduced whole blocks to cascading showers of masonry and steel. 105mm guns had been wheeled in and fired, at point-blank range. Fire's raged out of control. Apache attack Helicopters stalked low over the city-scape, raking anything that moved with thousands of 30mm rounds, the barrels piping hot from so much use. The bodies of the dead and dying lined the pavement, the smell of rotten flesh was overpowering.

Some units of the HAF had refused to obey order's to fire on unarmed civilians. These units were immediately labelled 'renegade units', defectors to the side of the resistance, and soon old comrade's were fighting hand-to-hand battles in the sewers, cellar's and houses of Beograd. Mateuz had been very alarmed by the willingness of HAF units to resist his orders, and felt the only way to ensure future loyalty was to purge any suspicious officers or generals.

The survivors of the massacre were rounded up, loaded onto trucks and transported to the many detention camps around Beograd, which were rapidly deteriorating into the Gulag's and Belsen's of the past.

The decision to shutdown the media in Hrstrovokia had been made on the assumption that if the rest of the nation were aware of the hideous acts in Beograd, they too would rise in rebellion. It also had the effect of shutting out the prying eyes of the world. It was, of course, a decision made by Oprenokov. But it was widely know that Beograd had been destroyed, only rumours of course. But these rumours were more effective than a beating, for they instilled a cold fear. And fear was how Mateuz would govern Hrstrovokia from now on. Nothing would stand in his way.

The old man sat in his wheelchair by the roaring fire, watching his younger granddaughter on the sofa brushing the big, madly purring black tomcat while talking nonsense to him, in the way of young children with animals. He smiled faintly, but a little lopsidedly, and returned to reading the book he gripped in his right hand, turning the pages occasionally with his thumb while his left hand lay uselessly on the armrest. It was a theoretical work by an American named DuFour, interesting but a little too market-oriented for the old man’s taste.

Before long, however, noises from the front-room indicated the arrival of a visitor—a heavy one, with a great rumbling voice. Soon the owner of that voice, divested of his greatcoat, came lumbering into the sitting-room—a huge mountain of a man in black military dress, above two full meters in height, and stout, with an unruly mane of iron-gray hair and a beard so massive that it concealed entirely the rows of decorations and medals that the elder man knew were covering his chest.

‘Aija!’ screamed the girl, ‘It is a bear! Run, Luzifr, run!’ she cried, chasing the cat out of the room.

‘KHKhkhrrrrraaAAA!!!’ Bellowed the big man good-naturedly, scraping his knuckles against the ceiling as he waved his arms above his head. He watched as the laughing girl fled, then turned to the old man with a smile on his face and a happy twinkle in his eyes.

The smile was not reciprocated.

‘A good friend may bring ill tidings,’ said the man in the wheelchair, gazing impassively at his guest.

The big man’s face fell.

‘So it said, Patriot,’ he replied, taking a seat in a creaking easy chair—or perhaps it was a scratching-post—across from his host.

‘Do not bring such formality into my home, Jozif. It lets the chill in.’

‘Alright. Vlad. How are you doing?’

‘My physical therapist is a Fascist agent. I want her arrested and shot immediately.’

‘I’ll take care of it as soon as I leave,’ replied the man called Jozif, making a mental note to have her temporarily reassigned, so as to let the old man wonder how seriously he may have been taken. ‘I am sorry to have scared off Ljuzifr. I know he has been a great comfort to you.’

‘Akh. He is getting old like the rest of us.’ The man called Vlad flicked his finger against his blanket-covered knee. ‘It is good to know that at least one of us can still run. And how is that great bitch of yours, Vjijsna?’

‘She drools on everything, and is growing fat and lazy. Gone are the days when she tore out the throats of the Fascists and sucked the marrow from their bones . . .’

‘Peace is better than war. Dying in bed has its merits,’ replied Vlad. He turned towards the doorway. ‘Lzvjeta!’ He called.

A pair of great dark eyes, floating in a pool of milk and freckles, framed by coppery braids, peeped around the corner.

‘Yes, grandpapa?’

‘Please bring Jozif and me some tea, if you would be so kind.’

‘Yes, grandpapa,’ his elder granddaughter replied, and promptly vanished.

‘She has grown,’ observed Jozif.

‘She will be sixteen in June. Nadja is already ten.’ Vlad paused. ‘Lzvjeta is smarter than me, you know. You know she is taking courses at University already?’

‘That is impressive,’ rumbled Jozif.

‘I just hope she doesn’t go to pieces as soon as she discovers boys, like her mother did.’

‘I heard that!’ came a woman’s voice from somewhere in the house.

‘You were meant to!’ the old man shouted back. ‘And quit eavesdropping! Jozif and I have big state secrets to bandy about!’

The teenage girl reappeared, bearing a tea service for two, and silently departed, closing the door after her.

‘You have heard about the situation in Beograd?’ asked Jozif when the two were left alone.

‘Ktrijna tries to keep eveything from me. She doesn’t want me to worry. Fortunately her daughter has more sense than that.’

‘It is worse than Lzvjeta has told you,’ said Jozif as he drew out a file of satellite photographs and passed them to Vlad, who gazed at them in growing horror.

‘How could this have happened?’

‘I don’t know. Mateuz has always been iron-fisted, but none of us saw this coming. It gets worse.’

‘How?’

‘Well, Istvadnijc has authorized funding for the Karantanjin Liberazi Milizia in Phoenixius, and will probably be doing the same for the Alpenslawisches Vreiheit Wehrmacht in Witzgall shortly . . .’

‘The terrorist groups? You blocked it, of course.’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘War with the Fascists in Phoenixius and Witzgall is inevitable, and it will be advantageous to have men on the inside, as it were.’

‘That is a recklessness I’ve never seen in you before.’

Jozif sipped his tea and pondered. ‘I do not think it is reckless. But you may be right. Perhaps power has gone to my head. Perhaps, even, I am nostalgic for the clarity of war.’

‘How long before they discover our involvement?’

‘My best estimates, based on my experience with their intelligence services, maybe six months. Just long enough to complete our military overhaul.’

‘I see. Where are you going with this?’

‘Curcic has been arrested. Istvadnijc, as you know, was a longtime supporter of his reform movement, and Kstrelnijn is still young and judgmental. They’ve suspended our military construction contracts with Hrstrovokia and issued a strong statement condemning Mateuz’s actions.’

‘So there is a terrible strain with our closest ally at exactly the time when we need them most.’

‘It gets worse.’

‘I am growing weary of hearing that.’

‘Mnijrvitsa has already been overheard discussing a possible putsch with General Zdrov.’

‘The new government isn’t even a day old and they already want to overthrow it?’

‘Precisely.’

The old man settled back into his wheelchair and regarded his friend thoughtfully for a moment.

‘And how do you feel about that?’ he asked, absently tapping the book in his lap with his index finger.

The big man snorted.

‘My job is secure. Even if Zdrov were gunning for me—which he isn’t—I doubt his gang of pierced youth could hold the country together for even a week.’

There was a moment of silence before the old man spoke again.

‘Do you not remember when we were young, strutting around in our leather jackets with our French cigarettes? The Freedom Socialists may have an . . . unorthodox interpretation of our ideals, but those “pierced youth” you so easily dismiss may well be the future of Socialism.’

A bizarre expression took hold of Jozif’s face, as if a small bird had suddenly landed on his nose and shat.

‘Something wrong, Jozif?’ the old man inquired mildly.

‘I am just imagining Lzvjeta with blue hair and a ring in her nose.’

‘You may not have to imagine it much longer. She’s already joined the New Freedom Socialist Youth. She’s very political, as I’m sure I’ve mentioned.’

Jozif internally cursed his thick-headedness. When Vlad had had his stroke, the Freedom Socialists had been the first to organize candlelight vigils across the nation, and they had done so spontaneously, with no prompting from the government. The contempt with which they regarded so many of their elders had never even brushed upon the man now sitting quietly across from him. I am not worthy to wear this man’s shoes, Jozif thought, his eyes dropping to the floor.

‘What is it, Jozif?’

‘I hope I’ve not given offense,’ the big man growled into his beard.

Vlad waved his right hand sharply. ‘Akh,’ he said, ‘don’t be an oaf.’ He reached for his tea and began sipping at it. ‘Does it get worse?’

‘Not today.’

The old man poured more tea to warm his cup and sighed.

‘But bad enough.’ He turned his chair towards the fire and fell silent for some time, drinking his tea. When he finally spoke, a tone of bitterness that Jozif had never heard before had entered his speech.

‘It was supposed to get better,’ he said. ‘We fought, and we fought, and we fought. And it was supposed to get better. Eventually there would be peace. There would be prosperity, and there would be justice. Men would help their fellow men. The strong would protect the weak, not threaten them—not hurt them. The rich would give to the poor, not exploit them, not steal from them. There were failures before, I know. The Bolsheviks thought they could force paradise upon the world at gunpoint. But their ambition brought them corruption, and we passed off their final failure as a historical accident. We reassured ourselves that, in the end, justice had to prevail, for otherwise war would be endless.
‘But maybe war is endless. Men forget, or never learn, the lessons of their forebears’ mistakes. History shows little sign of progress, save in the ever-increasing capacites of our instruments of destruction. Perhaps we are unworthy of anything more.’

Jozif sat in shock.

‘I came for faith,’ he said, ‘and I leave with doubt.’

The old man chuckled ruefully.

‘That is the story of my time in the world, old friend.’

He one-handedly wheeled his chair back to face his guest.

‘Do not worry. There are the false hopes we give ourselves to protect us from the cruelties of this fallen world, and it is no tragedy when they are lost.’ His gaze caught fire, and seemd to suddenly bore into the very soul of the larger man. ‘For the loss of hope does not absolve us of our duty to do what we can. Justice and compassion are worthy on their own account, and even if all our striving can never enthrone them as the ruling principles of mankind, nevertheless we must still strive.’

The old man turned his face to the fire and sighed again.

‘We have six months, by your best estimate, to patch up relations with Beograd. In that time, I would recommend we do whatever we can for the Hrstrovokian people. I’ll say something to Kstrelnijn about it—I doubt Istvadnijc would listen to me. And send Mnijrvitsa by for tea sometime. I know a thing or two about revolutions, and I will try to educate her on the value of giving her rivals enough rope to hang themselves by.’

He fixed Jozif with his steel gaze again.

‘Don’t let them destroy my country, Jozif. I’ve worked too damn hard.’

Jozif stood, a lump in his throat. Instinctively, he raised his left fist to his temple in salute.

‘My life for the Republic, Patriot Leader!’ he cried.

Then he noticed again Kznijnskij’s lifeless left hand, and cursed his thoughtlessness.

But the hand began to tremble, then flopped off the armrest into the Leader’s lap. Slowly, centimeter by centimeter, the spasming hand began to rise. With a seemingly infinite effort, the fingers slowly closed themselves into a fist. After what seemed like an eternity, Kznijnskij successfully returned Krz’s salute.

‘Live the Republic, Comrade President,’ uttered Kznijnskij through gritted teeth.

[OoC: Holy crap, that was long. Sorry. I get carried away. I'll try to keep things a bit more--er, concise, in the future.]

OOC: Just setting up the pieces. John Hayes was in the Marines with Lady Bryce (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=311229) (when she was going under the name of "Tanya Welles"); they fell in love but she ultimately chose to lead Chimaea (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=314191) instead of pursuing her heart (Under those circumstances she considered it too much of a risk to have a partner).

Blood Sun Dawning Part 2 was never written because I had writer's block; however I'll write it in this thread as a kind of flashback :) Thereby tying those threads together.

----------------------

**Confidential**

TO: 33rd Marine, Street Island
FROM: CAFHC

Captain John Hayes, 33rd Chimaean Marine Intelligence and Recon Unit, you are hereby requested to attend Fort Wyman for immediate deployment.

~Brigadier Steven Burchard
CAFHC

Captain Hayes read the message on the now rather battered piece of paper for what seemed like the hundredth time. It refused to give up any more of its secrets, so he looked out of the window of the staff car as it wound its way along the narrow cliff roads. The Clock Hill Strait lay glimmering far below them, a deep and intoxicating blue under the ripples of reflected light from the bright sky. He watched as a flock of birds flew lazily in the distance, their graceful flight reminding him of the way--

No. No, this was neither the time nor the place. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, trying to shut out the mental images that flashed across his mind.

The driver glanced back at him. "Are you all right, sir?"

Captain Hayes opened his eyes and forced a smile. "Fine, fine. It's a lovely day, isn't it?"

"It is that, sir."

"What's your name?"

"Private Olszewki, sir. Karl Olszewki, 42nd Rifle."

"Olszewki... what is that, Polish?"

Olszewki grinned. "Yes sir, well spotted. My family moved here during the war. Been here ever since."

Captain Hayes nodded. "How old are you?"

"Twenty, sir."

He suddenly felt old. "How are you finding the Armed Forces?"

"Different from what I expected, sir. In a good way. You've come from Street Island, sir?"

Captain Hayes tensed. "Yes... how did you know?"

"Your suitcase had a CAF Street Island tag on it, sir."

Captain Hayes relaxed and mentally berrated himself for being so suspicious. "Of course."

"Seen any action, sir?"

the machine guns stuttered in the cloying, hot darkness, flashes of dark green and brown rushing towards him

"Some."

"What was it like, sir? If I can ask? It's just that I'm due for deployment to Syskeyia in a few days..."

Captain Hayes considered for a moment. "Just keep your head down, your gun up and follow orders. Remember your training."

the knife jerked slickly out of the man's throat, the serrated blade sucking the soft red tissues back out

Captain Hayes looked back out of the window and muttered something. Private Olszewki left him alone for the rest of the journey.

***

Fort Wyman was a fort in every sense of the word. Perched solidly on the top of the highest cliff for miles, the barbed wire and sandbagged defences were hardly necessary. Huge gun implacements at either side of the base loomed over the area, looking out to sea for a Clock Hill enemy that would never come.

It used to be an active coastal defence base until the end of the Chimaea-Clock Hill war, when it had been converted into an intra-regional listening and intelligence post. Inside the base, modern buildings contrasted oddly with older stone buildings which had been kept and renovated, dating from the old monastary that predated the coastal defence base. Fort Wyman was rife with rumours of ghosts and things that went bump in the night, though CAF had once enlisted several researches into supernatural phenomena who had found nothing in the base. That didn't stop the personnel from distracting themselves with ghosts though.

Captain Hayes walked along the paved path, between imposing buildings. Uniformed men and women scurried around busily from building to building and only the 42nd Rifle guards payed any notice to him.

He made his way into the Administration building of the base, the foyer of which was lined with counters behind which sat more uniformed personnel, this time with bored expressions etched on their faces. He picked a random one, a pretty blonde Corporal who looked interestedly at him as he approached. Feeling almost self conscious, he handed her his papers and waited as she processed them on her computer terminal.

"You're from Street Island?"

Captain Hayes nodded and waited for the usual question.

"So what's it really like?"

He shrugged. "Nice place. Lovely beaches, beautiful sunsets."

"But what about the--"

He smiled a brilliant smile at her, looking straight into her eyes. "If you don't mind, Corporal, I need to report in."

The Corporal blushed, produced an ID chip from the small machine attached to the computer and slipped it into the plastic ID. He took the ID and clipped it to his pocket.

"The Brigadier's building is M3, just walk two buildings on from here and turn right. Is that all, Captain Hayes?"

"Thank you for your help, Corporal. Have a good day."

As he left, he felt the Corporal's dissappointed eyes on his back. But he wasn't interested in that sort of thing anymore. He hoped.

***

M3 was a rather ugly three story building, painted a rough green and white. The door opened for his ID and he walked into a small foyer with a pair of lifts on one side. One of the lifts finally came down and an officious man carrying a fat folder under his arm pushed passed him. Captain Hayed ignored it and selected the third level.

The slow lift came to a stop, finally, and the door opened to an open-space office with workstations in neat rows. Uniformed personnel were busy here, too, and Captain Hayes felt a bit lost until he saw a small, glass-partitioned office to one side, the door of which had a small sign reading "Brigadier Burchard". He made his way through the office and rapped smartly on the door.

There was a muffled but affirmative sound, so he opened the door and stepped in. The tiny office was dominated by a wooden desk on which was piled heavy stacks of paper, amongst which was a computer. Behind the desk sat a balding, middle-aged man with a serious face and wearing a Brigadier's uniform. He looked up at Captain Hayes and smiled.

"Ah, you must be Hayes. Come in, please, and shut the door behind you."

Captain Hayes did so, smartly saluting and standing at attention before the Brigadier's desk. The older man gestured him to a chair, which he sat in stiffly.

For a moment there was silence, then the Brigadier nodded to him. "I'm sure you must be wondering why you're here. Well I don't believe in beating around the bushes, Captain. You're here because you're the best field officer that the 33rd has. We have a mission for you."

"Yes, sir?"

"We want you to go to Belgrade, Captain. To Hrstrovokia. You will be in charge of the undercover covert operations the Chimaean Military Intelligence will be conducting there." he looked hard at Hayes. "Our last field commander was raped and murdered during the recent government crackdown."

He let that sink in, then continued, "Luckily they didn't suspect who she actually was. The main task at hand in Belgrade is to supply and aid the resistance movement there. Do you think you can handle this, Captain?"

Captain Hayes felt the familiar gut-wrenching feeling of nervousness, anticipation and pain he'd come to befriend in Street Island. "Yes, sir," he told the Brigadier. "Ready and more than willing."

Lt. General Marcus Titov
Acquisitions Department
Research and Development Kommand
Hrstrovokian Armed Forces,
We are recommencing the fulfillment of our contract to produce five hundred Tu-160 Strategic Bombers for the Hrstrovokian Armed Forces. The delay has been unfortunate, but old friends such as we cannot long remain angry, eh?
Lvavk Ptorvijc,
Minister of International Trade, Federation of Vas Pokhoronim

OoC: An explanation will be posted shortly, but I wanted to get this going quickly.

"Belgrade (Beograd) is the capital of Serbia, having about 1,6 million inhabitants. It is located in the south-east of Europe, in the Balkan Peninsula, at the confluence of the Sava and Danube rivers. It is one of the oldest cities in Europe and since ancient times it has been an important traffic focal point, an intersection of the roads of Eastern and Western Europe..."*

General Garrison thumbed the switch on his armrest, and the little screen in front of him folded up into the wall. He shook his head and turned to the man sitting beside him on the private jet, Ambassador Jeffrey Hughs. Hughs had been Ambassador to Hrstrovokia for fifteen years, through almost three changes of Administration in Chimaea. His lined face was etched with laughter lines but his eyes were serious.

"Rubbish, isn't it?" Hughs asked.

The General nodded. "What's the place really like?"

"At the moment? Dying. It reminds me of wartime France, all rubble and ruins and desperate people. Soldiers on the streets, killing squads in APCs, helicopters like vultures hovering above every street. I was so guarded on my way to the airport that I expected a tank to roll up behind us."

"Good heavens. I haven't been here for a long time..."

"President Mateuz is a nutcase, General. To be blunt. The man's so insane that I'm surprised he isn't frothing at the mouth."

General Garrison looked at Hughs curiously. "You really like the place, don't you?"

Hughs forced a smile. "I love Belgrade, General. I've played this game for too long, I suppose... Everytime I ride around the City in a limo while people are getting killed a few streets away..."

The General nodded understandingly. "Tell me about the military," he said, changing the subject.

Hughs rubbed his chin. "Well you'll get to see the top brass soon enough, I suppose. All the profiles are in your briefing papers... if you want a honest, no bullshit assessment, then... Well, a fair bit of the military is from the old government. Professional soldiers. I've heard unconfirmed reports that a lot of HAF units are refusing to obey Mateuz's 'kill and destroy' orders... Some of those lads are from Belgrade, after all. It's a mess down there, in some parts military units are fighting other military units. Some parts of the military are just armed thugs; I've no idea where Mateuz dug them up from. Some aren't well trained, I guess they're conscripts who happened to be in the area. There's a lot of fear in the military, soldiers don't like getting spied on, or facing the prospect of suddenly dissappearing."

General Garrison sighed. "Gods. And he's banned the media?"

"I'll guess there'll be a few media reps when we land. President Mateuz now controls exactly where, when, how and who they report. Your posting will be seen as strengthening of ties between Chimaea and Hrstrovokia, so it's a bit of a international coup for Mateuz."

The plane banked on its final run into the Belgrade airport. Very briefly, General Garrison saw a pall of smoke over the part of the City he could see from the small window. There seemed to be something burning but he couldn't get a good look at it as the plane touched down with a gentle bump.

Oddly, there seemed to be two APCs on either side of the runaway, keeping up with the plane.

***

The plane, a Chimaean Armed Forces 747 painted a dark camouflage green with the seal of the Commander in Chief on the side, taxied to a halt. The door opened and the mobile stairs were moved into position by Hrstrovokian ground personnel--in military uniform.

First out were the two Chimaean Marine Corp honour guards, who took up position on either side of the bottom of the mobile stars. It was an immediate departure from normal protocal: the Marines were armed with stripped-down CR60s which they held in a ready position. It was clear that the Chimaeans expected some sort of possible danger. Then came two bodyguards in dark suits with sunglasses, scanning the tiny crowd of press and officials gathered with the professional look of bodyguards everywhere.

Then the General came, followed by the Ambassador, and cameras flashed and clicked. Both men gave the reporters smiles as they walked down the stairs, the General's eyes on the officials who waited to welcome them.



OOC: I need to know, briefly, about the top brass of the Hrstrovokian military and so forth.
*Taken from the City of Belgrade (http://www.beograd.org.yu/cms/view.php?id=220) website.