NationStates Jolt Archive

The non descript, white Gulfstream V bizjet just screamed intelligence agency. They always did, no paint job, no identifying decals, just a tail and wing number, and blacked out windows. The twin engined biz jet slid through the air with ease, holding a course towards Allanea. Inside sat a younger non descript looking man, wearing a non descript black and white suit and flipping through a folder that, if it could look non descript, probably would. Thats the way that Imitora Centeral Intelligence, or ICI worked. Non Descript. He looked over the folder, detailing the convorsations as of so far. The Allenean CIA had requested a meeting, and ICI had been more than happy to oblige. The man, Jerry Morelock, was the newly installed head of the Allanea desk.

It was newly installed becuase, as of to this point, Imitora had held a somewhat standoffish opinion on Allenea. Well, not Allenea in particular, but anyone associated with its former home, the Greater Prussian Empire. It wasn't even as much as standoffish as it was, well, difficult. The Imitoran people, and leadership had no problem with the region, just the leadership of Reichskampen. They felt that they had turned their back on Imitora, and Imitorans didn't like that. However, steps would always be made to further relations, and Allenea was not much different from Imitora.

Jerry looked up from teh file, and out the window. He could tell they were starting the initial descent. Jerry looked out the window, always wondering what it would be like to be up front. He had always wanted to be a fighter pilot, but fate had a different path for him. His math grades in highschool and college were marginal at best, but he showed excellent leadership skills. He joined the Imitora Colonial Marine Corp out of highschool. Assigned to a combat unit, he quickly showed his skills, and moved into the Special Operations community with the 22nd Special Operations Task Force, Imitora's elite light infantry unit. After serving with the unit for five years, he was accepted into the ICIs Field Operations Training Devision, and the rest, as they say, was history.

The co-pilot emerged from the cockpit, and nodded to Jerry. "Mr. Morelock, we've been cleared to land at Port Allanea International, and we should be on the ground." Jerry nodded, and put the file in the standard, ICI, non descript stainless steel breifcase. He buckled the seatbelt, and waited. The pilot was right, they landed 10 minutes later, and taxied to the assigned port. The door/staircase opened and extended, and Jerry, holding onto his breifcase, descended the stair case. He looked around breifly before spoting his contact.

He walked over, with a strong, confident stride, and extended his hand. "Jerry Morelock, Imitora Central Intelligence. Pleasure to meet ya," he finished casually.

Mayor Jonathan Grimes, CIA, stood next to a large H6 Sports-Utility Vehicle. He was dressed in an impeccable business suit – a complete ‘Man-in-Black’ kit, right up to the pair of black sunglasses – from Gucci, of course. The vehicle, too, was painted jet-black with tinted windows, and so was his suitcase. They were invisible for the outside world, but the pair of Teen Dream semi-automatic pistols he was wearing in shoulder rings beneath his jacket were black too – an unusual colour for this particular brand. He smiled as he shook the Imitoran’s hand. He began to speak. “Good day, Sir.” – the content of conversation was deliberately innocent. What was really being said was in his suitcase. “Follow me, please.” He sat down in the back seat of the vehicle. The driver was another Allanean dressed in the same fashion as Grimes himself. When Jerry Morelock sat down, the car started again, speeding out of the airport at 140 kilometers per hour.

The Mayor spoke: ‘Thank God for no daytime open road speed limit, ah, Mr. Morelock?” As he spoke that, he began writing in a small notepad. ’One can bug a car,’ thought Mayor Grimes, ’Or decipher even the most complex code in the world. Nobody can survey me giving Morelock a small note – and then he’ll burn it. Or I will.’ He showed the Morelock the note. It said: “What we are about to discuss is very secret.” After he was sure that Morelock has read the note, he set it on fire and lit a cigarette from it. Then he dropped it into the ashtray installed in the middle of the passenger cabin.

The internal electronic-controlled airfreshener devices of the H-6 were a total marvel. There seemed to be no smell neither from the burning of the note nor from the cigarette itself. He watched Morelock’s face intently as he wrote another note. “We are suggesting a common attack on a certain nation, spearheaded by your forces, specifically by your Special Operations .” As he handed Morelock the note, he spoke. “Gotta love those ashtrays, eh? You could burn a tobacco plantation in this car and nobody would ever notice.”

The monstrous car, extending into two lanes, continued speeding down the long, wide strip of the highway. Sometimes, they would encounter another vehicle of an equally extravagant design – a Tsunami Sportster with mounted machineguns, a Rolling Fortress truck with weapon turrets pointed off the road, a flock of Harley Davidsons, the hair of their riders blazing in various outrageous colours, and once, even a BTR-80 with the words “Led Zeppelin RULEZZ” written in gorgeous pink on the hull. In this kind of peculiar traffic, the H6 wouldn’t even stand out.

Jerry nodded after seeing the first note. Not an obvious, full neck nod, but more of the 'tip the head of acknowledgment' nod. "I know what you mean, the highways are the same way in Imitora. Speed limit is whatever you feel comfortable at." He sat back, pulling out the almost standard issue silver rimmed, dark black aviators, and put them on. He watched the traffic slide by, nodding at the second note. He removed his own pad and pen, nothing beats the old way of doing things. He jotted down a note, reading "I understand, I can wait till we get somewhere more secure." He showed it to teh Mayor, and used a lighter to burn the piece of paper after sitting it into the ash tray.

"Those are great," he said, pointitng ot the ashtray. "Better than the ones we have in our cars." HE pulled out his own cigarette, and a silver Zippo, and lit it. His hand unconsciously (SP?) rested on top of his own breifcase next to his leg.

The vehicle speeds up, entering a sort of underground tunnel. “Welcome,” says the Allanean, “We’re entering Minas Faerie – Tower of Freedom, the most secure location in all of Allanea. President Kazansky himself lives here. The underground levels are secure against anything up to a direct hit with a fifty-megaton nuclear weapon.” He smiles as the vehicle grinds to a stop in a large underground hall filled with dozens of vehicles. As the Allanean spy exits, he begins:

“This is safe. Nobody bugs parking lots as far as I know. Here is the deal.”, he gives his counterpart the suitcase. “We wish to attack and annex large swaths of California and Alaska. We need the help of Imitoran experts on the attack.”

Jerry nodded. "As was my general understanding based on the comuniques. I'm assuming your speaking about special operations. Shouldn't be to hard, Fratelli doesn't really like those Godless Red Commie bastards over there to much anyways. Screwed us outa a deal. Do you have any specific target ideas, or would you just like us to pick some high priorty marks?"