NationStates Jolt Archive

Hundreds of miles off the coast of Tersanctus, one of its elder colonies Old Tersanctus had been ruled by Viceroy Marcel Hollinshed for nearly forty years, in his elder years he had grown feeble and senile allowing his cabinet to use him as a puppet and grow corrupt, last night his death allowed his Right Hand Man Bryon Tillema, a ruthless, power humgry man, to seize power.



http://drs.yahoo.com/S=96062883/K=island+map/v=2/l=IVI/*-http://wrigley.usc.edu/images/island.gif
Map of Old Tersanctus

TNN News Broadcast
A beautiful brunette woman looks at the screen obviously woken up in the middle of the night to rush to the studio.

"Good Morning, it is 5:47 in the AM and we have breaking news regarding Viceroy Marcel Hollinshed, whom ruled this colony for nearly forty years, passed away in his sleep last night. It is unclear whom the new Viceroy shall be, but according to the constitution it can only be appointed by Executor Edmund Dantes of Tersanctus. Bryon Tillema whom acted as an aide to Viceroy Hollinshed on his cabinet, will be head until the appointment by Executor Dantes expected later this week. In other news,...."

The TV screen was immedeatley flipped off by Bryon Tillema. He sat on a overstuffed brown leather chair, He was in his mid-thirties and had brown hair cut short and simply let to hang forward almost like a monk's with a goatee.

"Pinche Puto Maricon!!" screamed Tillema in spanish ,one of Tersanctus's many bi-lingual natives. He knew who the new Viceroy would be. Executor Dantes had set it up months ago with the failing health of Marcel.

It was Armand Kagey, he was a good man, and one that would never be involved in the corrupt empire he had carefully crafted over the years.
He flipped open his cell-phone and called up one of the Federal Network Soldiers.

"Listen to me good. I want Armand Kagey dead within the hour, keep it quiet though! If I am too lose everything I have worked for, it wont be without a fight, and order the militia to be on standby. Tersanctus may send some of there military here, but most of their forces will be situated in Al Anbar right now, they are not in a position to put up much of a fight right now, and I dought that they will make public losing control of one of thier colonies."

Bryon's orders were sent through with implaccable timing. Armand was killed, found shot too death in his home as he prepared to leave for the Administration Building, within 6 hours there was a public backlash against Bryon Tillema, in all 20,000 demonstrators surrounded the building being held back by Federal Soldiers. The people were screaming for "Justice" and displaying signs.

TNN Breaking News
right in the middle of the protest of thousands of people a nervous reporter is holding his finger to his ear, dressed in a brown suit.

"This is Tad Lorenz in Bensing, the Capitol City, at the Administration Building, where it seems that Bryon Tillema has seized power by ordering the death of Armand Kagey, who was found shot dead in his home this morning....(the camera zooms in to a high window where Bryon overlooks the crowd with burning eyes, suddenly he makes a gesture seeming to scream, and walks away.) Apparently Tersanctus has said that they will take care of the situation but are unable to send any forces at the moment due too the Nuclear Holocaust in Drakonia, and involvement in two other wars..and....."

Suddenly, there is the sound of screams and gunfire erupting, and a large explosion from tanks that have begun to encircle the crowd sends dozens of bodies and body parts flying in all directions, which is the last image the Camera transmits as it suddenly goes dead.

le bump, I wish to Rp with someone on this!!

Better
Up
My
Post

{Tagged for future RPing}

OOC: I'm leaving at 1:30pm EST to go have thanksgiving turkey stuff so later maybe.

NP, Happy Turkey Day!!

*tag for reading, possible RPing*

(OOC: Sorry, Mr. Tersanctus, but right now I am quite busy:

a) Building something big in Mars orbit ,
b) Building two space fortresses in the middle of nowhere,
c) being an annoyance at a intermartian conference, and
d) being an annoyance at a battle in martian orbit. (ADK vs Bajon)

Additionally, I am without DSL at home, and my RPing is very very limited.

Otherwise, I'd be delighted to kick those baddies at Old Tersanctus. Or may be siding with them till the moment I retire my support, leaving them in a precarious situation. Or promising them support that will fail to materialize. )

If this does not sort itself out then airom will help. If the problem esculates then we will be forced to step in on a possibly nuclear scale.

If this does not sort itself out then airom will help. If the problem esculates then we will be forced to step in on a possibly nuclear scale.

A.) Please use proper RPing rules.

B.) who (What National Leader or spokesperson.) is responding?

C.)Not all nations know exaclty whats going on ICly, it would be more likely that they would send a spy or something to see whats going on, noone knows that Bryon is corrupt, they just know that he seems to have seized power.

D.) Noone likes "4h n00k j00 with mah 023782175 nookz" over something this small. After all nukes kill civilains too, thats what Bryon ordered, that would make you no better than he.

"Sir, there seems to be another insurrection in progress."

The Warlord gritted his teeth and silently wished he wasn't bound by Rule #32. "Does it directly affect the Dominion?" he demanded.

"No sir. It is one of our trading partners, though. Tersanctus"

The Warlord reviewed the file quickly. "Is the whole world going mad? First, those lackwits in the UN cause a global recession. Now it looks like every previously stable regime on the planet is intent of self-immolation. That's the tenth .... twelfth rebellion/insurrection/secession this year!"

"Should we intervene, sir?"

The Warlord shook his head. "That's the last thing we want to do- unless we get forced into it. What do we have in that area- just in case?"

"Task Force Blue is doing a Combined Forces Tactics exercise a little over 300 klicks from there, sir."

"Right. Put 'em on alert, but don't stop the exercise. Warn Admiral Jarnak that she may get sent to Tersanctus on short notice. She'll ask for more assets- she always does. Tell her that the 41st Maritime Support Squadron will rendezvous with her in 4 days, right about the time the exercise is due to end."

"Yes, sir. Anything else?"

"That's probably already too much, as it is. Get moving on it anyway."

"Yes, sir."

As the door closed behind the Communicationspeon, the Warlord sighed heavily and called up several reports from other Directorates within his Ministry. By every God and his mother! he groaned internally. I have two-thirds of my Action Teams working on stopping This Oughta Do from self-destructing, most of the rest making sure that the Dominion won't be too badly damaged in case the others fail, and everyone else is pulling double-duty to take up the slack. I ought to put SOMETHING on the ground in Tersanctus, but there's no one left ....

The internal monologue trailed off. The Warlord's expression brightened, and he called up a seldom-used number and loaded it into his computer. Shortly thereafter, he hit the "transmit" key and leaned back in his chair, executive, swivel, top-three graders, for the use of.

"That's all I can do, for now." He said aloud. "All that's left is the waiting."

Encrypted Transmission to Praetor Drake, Ruler of Drakonia

"......etor Drake, Aug. This is Edmund Dantes, I am sorry again that you were forced to leave the party, I have a small matter I need you to take care of old friend. Viceroy Hollinshed has passed away 16 hours ago, The new Viceroy was to be Armand Kagey, whom was put down by an assassin's bullet 12 hours ago. We suspect Bryon Tillema is making a move for power, there may also be something much larger behind this. Normally I would would be swift with response. But as is, we have three other theatres to worry about, and I am not about to send all of my military to overwhelm the Old Tersanctan Federal Militia and leave my country undefended. I think that the Praetorian Guard would be able to handle this situation with better results, than simply trying to take ack the nation by force, as is an estimated 15,000 civilians are dead in an attempt to put down a legal protest. I thank you old friend, I realize that your attention is in many places right now, and this is yet another annoyance, but Bryon Tillema must be held accountable.."

Executor Edmund Dantes
Dominion of Tersanctus

Top Secret Communiqué

[Channel: Open - Transmitting]
[Encryption: Active - Polymorphic]

TO: Edmund Dantes, Executor of Tersanctus
FROM: Augustus Drake, Praetor of the Imperium
SUBJECT: Annoyances

I am sorry this cannot be a longer message, but as you know the Imperium is swamped with International Incidents. I will have a Praetorian Guard team dispatched to the islands of Old Tersanctus to deal with Mr. Bryon Tillema.

Send my love to my wife.

Augustus Drake

[Encryption: Deactivated]
[Channel: Closed]

The man seemed completely innocuous, almost invisible. He was neither tall nor short, stocky or slender, or memorable in any way. He wore a slightly outdated suit of conservative cut, spoke with no trace of an accent, and paid for his purchases with local currency. The clerk at the hardware store only noticed him at all because it was slightly unusual for anyone to buy three hammers at the same time. Other customers intruded on the memory of the man's face almost immediately.

The man walked out of the store and crossed the street. Ahead, he saw his targets step out of a dark vehicle on the side street and head toward the cafe at the corner- just as they did every day at this time.

He smiled slightly and let his eyes focus blankly on a point in the middle distance, beyond his targets. One of the targets, the smarter of the two bodyguards, eyed the man briefly as he approached the trio. The man thought, "an important meeting, sales figures for next quarter, the prospect of a bonus, a good meal".

The bodyguard looked away from the man and waved his partner forward toward the door of the cafe. As he did, the man behind the trio slid a one-kilo hammer out of his left sleeve, took a short step, and hurled it into the back of the smarter bodyguard's head. His right arm drove the two-kilo hammer down on top of the drug-dealer's shoulder, then dropped it.

Both men dropped, the drug dealer howling in shock. The man hurled his remaining hammer at the other bodyguard, who was reaching into his coat for a weapon. The two-kilo steel tool hit the bodyguard in the throat. Choking and clawing at his ruined larynx, the bodyguard slid slowly down the wall by the cafe door.

The man knelt and slipped the first bodyguard's weapon out of the holster on his hip, followed by three additional magazines of ammunition. The drug dealer had slightly recovered and tried to reach his own weapon with his left hand, but stopped when the man pointed his confiscated weapon at the bridge of the dealer's nose.

The man muscled the drug dealer to his feet and marched him back around the corner to the car they had just left, keeping the barrel of the heavy pistol jammed into the drug dealer's right ear.

"Keys." demanded the man in a soft voice.

The dealer pulled the keys out of his jacket. "Man, everything's cool. I don't know you ... I don't want to know you, and there ain't anything I got that means as much as my skin, so I am extra-cool here."

The man pushed the dealer into the driver's side of the front seat, then shoved him across the seat and slid in beside him. He shut the door and slid down the passenger-side window. "No seat belt. Good hand on the edge of the window." Once the dealer's hand was in position, the man slid the window up until the dealer's hand was trapped between the armored glass and the roof of the car. Once the dealer was trapped, the man removed the dealer's weapon, a tiny pistol with more garish highlights than a strip club. The man transferred the little weapon to his coat pocket.

Ignoring the dealer's babblings, the man started the car and drove carefully but rapidly to an abandoned building several blocks away. Hhe left the engine running as he got out and roughly opened the passenger door, drawing fresh screams of pain from his prisoner. "OW! Man, you don't have to be like that. I told you, I'm cool with this."

The man freed the dealer's hand, then locked it behind him in an arm-bar hold. He shoved the dealer into the door of the building and held him there while he unlocked it. Just as the door opened, the dealer complained again. "Man, what is wrong with you? None of this is happening, see? Once you and me finish our business, my ass is gone and your ass is forgotten!" He was about to say more when he saw the chair in the middle of the empty office- surrounded by sheets of plastic dropcloth all over the floor.

The man shoved the dealer toward the chair and kept the heavy pistol aimed. "Strip. Down to the underwear. Everything goes in that bag to the left."

The dealer obeyed, sobbing, "Man. what I ever do to you? Why you gotta do me like this?" He went on in this manner as his captor watched him silently over the barrel of the pistol.

Once the dealer was wearing only his underwear, the man forced him into the chair and roughly lashed his legs and arms- even the broken one- to the heavy wooden chair. The dealer passed out from fear and pain during the process, but the man coldly and professionally finished the job. Then he drove his thumbnail into the unconscious dealer's earlobe. The dealer awoke with a scream.

"Man, what do you want from me?"

The man smiled for the first time since the dealer had met him. "The very question. This will take a while, after which I will know everything I want to know. Do we understand each other?"

The dealer nodded tearfully. The man continued. "Here's what Iwant to know ..."

"Boss, we got company."

Curtis looked up from the spreadsheets he'd been skimming. "What does Auburn say?"

"Just like you figured, Boss. It's the rep from the Council, here to persuade you to play nice."

Curtis closed down his handcomp and tucked it into his pocket as he rose from his desk. "Good job, Cyan. Make sure everybody has the word while I get presentable."

"Auburn already spread the word, Boss. I have 9 confirms on the monitor."

Curtis nodded acknowledgement as he left the room. The solid mahogany doors slid silently shut behind him. Only two people had access to this room, and they were both there now. Curtis went directly to the closet and began changing into his informal streetwear. "You have anything new for me?" he asked as he struggled out of his jacket.

The plain-looking man sitting at the master security console cleared the channels with a keystroke and stood. "You know the drill. I'll be online in case of any surprises." The man locked and loaded a large automatic pistol and slid it into its holster on his hip. He was neither young nor old, tall nor short, fat nor thin. His clothes were unremarkable and plain, and his features were too innocuous to be noteworthy. The only note that marred this appearance was the absolute confidence and precision with which he moved and spoke. "Don't forget the glasses."

Curtis slowly pulled on his ornate pimpsuit coat over his stiff right shoulder. He laughed sharply. "Not hardly!"

Finished with his dressing, Curtis eyed his reflection in the mirror with some distaste. "Bloody Hell!" he hissed. "I can't believe they'll buy this ridiculous outfit." A slender, tall figure stared back from the mirror. Curtis was slightly taller than his plain-looking companion, with harsh lines around his mouth and eyes that belied the softness of the rest of his face. His soft green jacket clashed nicely with his maroon pants and almost completely concealed the white silk shirt with high, starched collars.

He turned and donned the dark glasses on the table next to him. The plain man across the room tapped keys and said, "System check." Small letters repeating the words appeared in Curtis' view on the inside of the lenses.

"Works great" Curtis subvocalized. He laughed harshly, without humor and turned away from his reflection. "Let's get this show on the road, shall we?"

Down in the building's vestibule, Handeman- the Council representative- was making a good show of seething with fury. "I don't give a shrill soprano hoot in Hell what your damned orders are!" He snarled into the impassive face of Vermillion, the doorguard. "If that bastard Platt doesn't get down here now, we'll just go back to the Council and tell the Board he isn't interested."

"Looking for me?" Curtis asked as he strode through the door to Handeman's left rear, a trace of mockery to his voice. Handeman's bodyguards turned quickly to put themselves between the unexpected voice and their principal. Vermillion across the room and the plain man at Curtis' side had the team in a crossfire, if they'd wanted to pop the cork. Handeman's lips thinned to near-invisibility as he took in the tableau, then his face relaxed. The sudden release of tension in his features did not reach his eyes.

"We're going to be quite late, Mr. Platt." He said quietly. "The Council appreciates promptness, you know."

"I believe that should be, 'Mr. Bastard Platt', Handeman." Curtis sneered. "Go on ahead, then. We'll get there in plenty of time."

Handeman's face revealed a mix of outrage and sudden wariness for an instant before settling back into bland imperturbability. "I have a car waiting."

Vermillion nodded to Curtis, who grinned quickly before answering. "So do I. I'd offer you a lift, but I'm afraid there's no room for you and your ... entourage. We'll meet you there."

Handeman was openly astonished now. "You don't know where the meeting is!" he nearly shouted.

Curtis shook his head and made pushing motions with his hands toward the door. "Such a pity. Senile decay in one so young." He tsked softly as Vermillion and Chartreuse eased Handeman and his team out the doors. Out in the street, the Council limo was dwarfed by the large panel truck idling behind it.

Handeman gave the whole discussion up as a bad job and closed his mouth with an audible snap. He and his bodyguards slipped into the limo, which pulled immediately away from the curb and accelerated swiftly down the street.

The plain man nodded to Chartreuse, who spoke softly into his throat mike. Curtis shook his head in wonder as he climbed into the back of the truck. "I used to be in awe of those guys. I always thought that they were real hardcases."

The plain man joined him in the back of the truck and slid the door shut before sitting on one of the benches. "And now?"

Curtis ran his eyes over the silent ranks of armed and armored men who shared the truck with him and the plain man and laughed. "Now?" he laughed. "Now, I feel sorry for the poor bastards!"

The troops chuckled. The plain man nodded. "Change the point of view and the entire situation looks different." He looked around at the men on the benches. "Remember that. All Handeman could see was an uppity pimp and drug dealer. His troopies seemed to be pretty lost in that point of view, too, but they were pros. Some of them will be thinking about what they saw and heard. If they think about it long enough, they'll start to make the right mental connections."

He turned back to Curtis, who was listening intently- like the others. "That's where your performance comes in. Keep them locked into this faulty worldview until it's too late."

Curtis nodded. "That won't be a problem. If I hadn't been stupid as a kid, I could've been an actor." He grinned warmly at the troopers. "Instead, I'm a low-budget gangster wannabe who's making a move on the syndicate that runs the city. Ain't life a bitch?"

The chuckles that rumbled from the hardened killers in the truck echoed until it sounded more like the snarls of a hunting animal. The plain man leaned back in his seat and ran scenarios in his head, planning ...

The panel truck backed slowly up to the loading bay for TransWorld Freight. The driver climbed painfully down from the cab and stretched, ignoring the security guard who walked out to meet him. The security man waited patiently until the driver turned to face him.

“License and manifest, please.” The driver reached through the open door and grabbed the clipboard in the door panel, then handed it to the guard. The guard checked the picture on the license against the driver’s face, then took the top sheet of the manifest, handing the clipboard back to the driver.

“Need any help unloading?” he asked helpfully.

The driver shook his head. “Nah. Just four crates for this stop. Coulda used the help an hour ago, though.”

The guard nodded and walked back into the building. “Okay. I’ll be in the shack over to the left when you’re done.” He hit the door control as he spoke, rolling up the building’s main cargo door. The driver nodded as well and said, “Sure. Won’t take long.”

The guard checked the cameras inside the loading bay, then shut the guard shack door to cut down the irritating squeak of the driver’s handcart as the first crate rolled across the concrete floor. He was too distracted to notice that the door didn't quite shut all the way. He picked up the phone and said, “Delivery. One man, four boxes. Manifest checks out with my schedule.”

The bored voice at the other end of the line yawned acknowledgement and disconnected. The guard glanced at the monitors and saw that the driver was heading back for the second crate. The rest of the loading dock was empty, so he decided to take a leak before the driver got done. He slid the bathroom cubicle door open and stepped inside, still not noticing he’d left the guard shack door ajar. He never heard the driver push the door open and slip into the shack. The soft-nosed 10mm bullet went through the back of his skull just as he was starting to zip up his pants.

The driver checked the monitors, then pulled a small electronic device from his back pocket. He attached the device to the security console and waited. Ten minutes went by, after which the driver pushed two buttons on the device and attached a lead to the video input. He left the guard shack, walking casually back to his truck with the manifest in his hand. He nodded cheerfully at the 8 men in dark jumpsuits who climbed noiselessly into the building through the loading dock as he started the truck and drove away.

Curtis stood outside the guard shack as his Security chief double-checked the spoof module on the guard shack’s security panel. Curtis wore the traditional flamboyant garb of a minor drug dealer or pimp. He was tall, slightly nervous, and used to admire his own appearance. His companion was of average height and build, with a bland, unremarkable face and a conservative suit in forgettable colors. Only his confident, precise movements and the hard edge to his voice gave away the true nature of the man.

“Ocher, you handle the guard station here. Keep things peaceful until we pop the cork ourselves or you can’t avoid it. Keep in touch. Magenta, Amber, you two take the service stairs. Coral, Violet, Aqua, Crimson, Argent- you’re the primary. Keep it loose until I give the word. Any questions?”

“We’re all set, sir.” Coral’s voice was calm. ‘Still three minutes ahead of schedule, too.”

Curtis grinned tensely. “Let’s get started, then.” He and the plain-looking man walked out of the bay’s roll-up doors and followed the sidewalk around to the front of the building.

Three security guards were in the lobby- competent, hard-eyed men in grey suits with bulges under their left arms. Curtis allowed the plain man to enter first. The guards watched him enter and casually got coffee cups and newspapers out of their right hands. The guard behind the desk nodded at the mild tone that sounded as the plain man walked through the inner set of doors. The plain man stepped carefully to the side as Curtis walked in.

The guard at the desk watched the monitor, then said, “Mr. Platt? Use elevator 3, please.”

Curtis smiled at him, then strode briskly toward the elevator lobby past the desk. The plain man waited until Curtis passed the desk before following. Once the two visitors stepped into the elevator and the doors closed, the security guards relaxed visibly. The desk guard called ahead to let the upstairs guards know about the visitors, then hung up.

The desk guard answered the two side guards’ unspoken question. “Front of the left hip. Large-caliber automatic of some sort.”

The left side guard raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?” He whistled softly and shook his head. “I sure hope everything goes okay upstairs. He’s way too confident.”

The right side guard nodded agreement and drew a long-barreled pistol from under his left arm. He slid out the magazine and tested the spring, then replaced it and jacked a round into the chamber. He wasn’t surprised when he heard a series of clicks as his partners duplicated the procedure with their own weapons. “I wonder what a pro like him is doing with a kewpie like Platt?”

The desk guard voiced the unpleasant thought the others were unwilling to say out loud. “If Platt’s got enough money to pay for that kind of personal security, the Council may be biting off more than they can chew.”

The elevator doors opened into a hallway. The two guards outside the elevator were startled when Curtis walked right past them and started down the thick green carpet, but stepped quickly up beside him and each put a hand on his shoulders. “Mr. Platt, you and your security element can wa …” The guard’s voice faltered as he realized that no one else had left the elevator. The plain man was still standing just within the elevator, watching.

The two guards carefully dropped their hands and stood aside. The plain man looked them both in the eye, then stepped out of the elevator. Curtis startled both guards by asking, “Where did you say we were to wait?”

Keeping a wary eye on Curtis’ companion, the lead guard said, “I’ll take you both there, sir. Just this way.” He waved his left hand toward the end of the hallway. Curtis and the plain man were led into a room to the left of the door that closed off the far end of the hallway. Their escort paused at the doorway uncertainly, then said, “Sir, your security element will not be permitted to join you in the Board room. I hope that won’t be a problem.”

Curtis chuckled. “No problem. How long until I get called?”

The guard shrugged. “No telling ,sir. There are refreshments at the bar. Help yourselves.” He shut the door behind him.

Curtis made a pretense of checking out the beverages while he subvocalized, “They all seem to be worried about you.” Aloud, he said, “They have scotch. Want one?”

The plain man shook his head as his eyes scanned the room carefully. He stood with his back to a wall, a position from which he could see the door and the window. He replied, “Just what I thought. They haven’t faced a real threat for a long time. The guards are just good enough to realize that they aren’t good enough. This makes them concentrate on me. All other concerns are dropping off their mental radar screens.”

The door opened, and the Board’s spokesman stepped in. He was tall and distinguished-looking, and wore a suit with the unmistakable appearance of Saville Row. “Mr. Platt,” he said in a rich baritone. “I am Hector Ayala. How good of you to come. If you’ll follow me, please.”

Curtis grinned broadly and joined Ayala in the hallway. Ayala waved Curtis into the now-opened door to the Board room and followed him in. The door shut solidly behind them. Ayala strode toward the table in the center of the room and gestured toward a heavy wood-and-leather chair on the near side. Three men and a hard-faced Nipponese woman occupied four of the chairs on the other side.

“Please sit down. Mr. Platt. The Board has something we wish to discuss with you.” Ayala sat in his own chair opposite Curtis. Curtis walked carelessly up to the table and sat on the arm of the heavy chair. The plain man’s subvocalized words glowed across the inside of his dark glasses: Give it to ‘em straight..

Curtis grinned at the thinly-concealed annoyance on Ayala’s face. “My guess is, the Council is a little pissed at me for getting control of the Docks and Playa del Mar. Mind if I smoke?”

Michiko Kanemura, the female member of the Board, sniffed in derision. “Yes. I mind. And sit down like a civilized person!”

Curtis shrugged and replaced the cigar he’d drawn from his pocket. He pointedly did not sit in the chair. Ayala glared at him, then shrugged in turn. “Yes, well … several members of the Council had franchised Playa del Mar to the Durangos. This means that the area is Council territory. Your takeover is one of the things we wish to discuss.”

“What’s to discuss? The Durangos tangled with the local cools and got themselves dead or arrested for their troubles. Nature abhors a vacuum.”

The large man to Curtis’ far right turned his gaze on Curtis with the air of a gun turret being rotated on target. “Does this mean that you will pay the fee for the Playa del Mar franchise?”

“I guess that depends on the fee.”

The big man’s face looked like it had been craved inexpertly out of soft clay. His grey crewcut and suit accentuated the impression that he was an animated slab of granite. His knuckles still held the scars of the work that had bought him his position decades ago, but his nails were expertly manicured. “You are in a poor position to negotiate, Mr. Platt.”

Curtis grinned broadly and said, “You know, that brings up an interesting question: How much do members of the Council pay for their territories?”

Two of the Board members snorted in derision. Ayala shook his head and fielded the question. “All of the Council members have held their territories for a long time. They do not pay for their franchises, but instead contribute a small fraction of their profits to a fund- managed by this Board- for general use in common tasks. The Board acts as an impartial arbiter in exchange.”

“That sounds like a pretty good deal. I’ll take it.”

The big man stood and roared, “How dare you claim equality with the Council? You are little more than a pimp with delusions of grandeur!”

Curtis stood as well. “Yeah, I started out as a pimp. I ran drugs and guns, sold people like cattle, and all the rest of the crap you all used to do before you got rich. Now, I control the biggest, richest territory in town. I’ve got the money, connections, and power to keep that territory. If you idiots ever bothered getting out in the streets where the money is actually made, you’d already know that you’re obsolete.”

Kanemura stood and said quietly, “Such talk will force the Board to show you the extent of our power, Mr. Platt.”

Curtis shook his head as the words 3 steps left appeared on his lenses. “Don’t bother. I’ll show you folks what power really is.” He paced to the left.

The door behind Curtis burst open and one of the guards toppled through it. His right hand was still groping blindly for the weapon in its shoulder holster when a bullet splattered blood and brains in a vee across the floor in the doorway. The plain man calmly walked through the door, stepping around the body without taking his eyes off the people at the table.

Nash, the large, loudmouthed Board member, gasped and dropped back into his chair. Kanemura turned and ran for the door behind the table. Ayala cursed vilely in Spanish as his hand darted under his coat. The plain man swung his pistol until Ayala’s chest filled the sight picture and took up the last bit of slack in the trigger. The heavy auto bucked in his hand. A splash of red appeared on Ayala’s coat and he slumped back into his seat. Another red spot appeared next to the first one as the pistol fired again. Another shot crashed, and Ayala’s head shattered like an egg hitting an anvil.

Michiko Kanemura reached the exit just as the door crashed open. The dark forms of Magenta and Amber pushed into the room behind the muzzles of their rifles. Kanemura caught the butt of Magenta’s rifle across the side of her head and she dropped like a puppet with the strings cut. Amber stepped off to the right to cover the Board without endangering his partner. “All secure back here, sir.” He said. “Primary team had a little trouble going in the front way, but our end was pretty simple.”

The plain man nodded silently. He hit the magazine release and took the half-empty clip out of the weapon and replaced it with a full one. “Good work.” He said at last. “You stay here for now. Magenta, run down and give Primary team a hand with the rest of the Council.”

Magenta grinned and changed his rifle magazine. “Yes sir! Feathers or lead?”

“Use your best judgement.” Magenta laughed out loud and stalked out through the main door.

Curtis wiped at the specks of moisture on his face until he realized that he was simply smearing Ayala’s blood across his face. Spitting to get the taste out of his mouth, he stumbled over to Kanemura and hauled her unconscious body back to the table. The surviving Board members were even more thoroughly splattered, and seemed to be in shock.

The plain man nodded at Curtis. “How are you doing?”

Curtis shook his head rapidly to clear it, then managed a smile. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” He looked down at his outfit, now spattered with gore. “It’s a good thing I didn’t like this suit, otherwise I’d be a little upset at the condition it’s in.” His laugh was a little thin but was genuine enough.

He turned to the rest of the Board. “There appears to be a vacancy on the Board. I nominate myself. Any objections?”

Nash started to speak, then swallowed and glanced at the plain man. He straightened in his seat. “I second the motion.” He managed to finish the sentence on the third try. The other two Board members nodded dumbly.

Curtis raised an eyebrow. “The motion appears to carry. Three ‘Ayes’ to one abstention. Our first order of business will be improving security for the Board and the Council.” He swept an arm to indicate the table. “We appear to be in dire need of a security upgrade.”

Curtis looked at the manifest, then back at the ratty frieghter. "Are you sure there hasn't been a mistake?"

The man with him was deliberately ordinary. His face, clothing, and mannerisms were all completely forgetable. He was standing with his back to the wall of a warehouse, absolutely still. Only the eyes moved, relentlessly sweeping the dock, ship, and street for threats. He said, "No mistake. This is a new, untapped source of revenue."

Curtis looked at the manifest again, but still didn't find what his companion was talking about. "I guess I'm dense, but I don't see it. It's just a cargo of discarded computers, printers, and miscellaneous electronics."

"Once we've followed the cargo through the process I've set up, you'll understand it better. This will net you a small but steady profit, and its perfectly legal."

"Ah!" Curtis nodded. "That brings me to my other big question: what are you getting out of all this? You've overhauled my operations, hired a crew of really tough professionals to help keep me alive, and pushed me up to the top of the heap in the local syndicate. I'm richer than Croesus, and I control all the organized illegal activity in Two Harbors. Now you're setting things up so I can retire from the business with a legit income." Curtis turned to face his benefactor. "What are you getting out of all this effort?"

The plain man met Curtis' eyes. "I have a job to do, here. I'm using you to get the job done. Now that I've helped you build up a power base, I can use that power to finish my job."

Curtis turned away. "That's why you're setting it up so I can retire legit."

The plain man nodded. "Never bind the mouths of the kine that tread on the grain." he quoted. "You're a tool I'm using to accomplish my task. Like any good workman, I take good care of my tools."

Curtis looked back. "So you've done this before."

"Not exactly this, but several similar operations. Yes."

"So what usually happens to your tools after you're gone?"

The plain man shrugged. "Depends. If they're smart, they follow the advice I give them before I leave. If they're dumb, they try to hang on to the position I built for them. Sometimes they succeed. More often, they fail."

Curtis turned and started toward the car. The driver opened the doors and the security team moved in for better coverage. "When do you think you'll be needing my help?" he asked.

"Not sure yet." came the reply. "A lot depends on the next run-in with the local cools."

Alabaster cleared the comscreen and turned his head. "Boss, Crimson says the Yak delegation is here to see you."

Curtis rose from his desk and straightened his tie. "Very well. Put them in Conference One, please. Anything special I need to know?"

Alabaster shook his head. "Nope. Two of them have some pretty fancy electronics consoles in their briefcases, but they're being held in the lobby."

Curtis nodded thoughtfully. "Thanks. Make sure everyone knows what's going on."

Curtis walked into his private elevator and was not surprised to see his Chief of Security already there. "Worried?" he asked lightly.

The ordinary looking man with the forgettable face shook his head. "Not especially. I'm just tagging along to make sure there aren't any miscommunications. Bad for business."

The elevator doors opened, cutting off further talk. The plain man stepped carefully out into the passageway and motioned for Curtis to follow him. Curtis asked, "How do you think they'll play it?"

His companion shrugged. "Depends on who does most of the talking. Asano is the heavyset one with the short buzz-cut. He's an old-style infighter from the bad old days. The younger one with the 90's ponytail is Tonehara. He's their diplomat- more or less. The other three in the room will be muscle. You can ignore them.

Our Nipponese cousins are concerned about their contract with the previous Council. Make whatever deal you think is best. I'll just make sure they know we mean business."

The two men opened the door to the Conference room. A large rectangular table filled most of the space, with three chairs on each side. Curtis sat down. The plain man stood beside the door to Curtis' left.

A message broadcast to their earphones warned them before the Yakuza representatives opened the far door. Curtis waited for the door to open, then stood politely. A short, slender Nipponese man in a severely conservative black suit stepped carefully through the door first. His eyes scanned quickly around the room before settling on the plain looking man behind Curtis. His fluid grace was marred by a slight hesitation, but he recovered quickly. He bowed slightly, then stepped back against the wall next to the door as the next man entered.

The next man was only slightly taller than the first, but he was a massive block of dark grey silk suit with a scarred face under a grey crewcut. The first man in had moved with delicate precision, but this man- who could only be Asano- moved with the ponderous certainty of a bulldozer. He nodded slightly to Curtis and strode directly to the table.

Tonehara entered next. He had none of the mannerisms of the other two. He walked like a stereotypical New Yorker, his tall, thin frame wearing a dark blue double-breasted suit. His glasses and ponytail made it tough to take him seriously. He stopped next to Asano and nodded to Curtis. The remaining bodyguards took up positions behind their principals as the two senior men sat down.

Curtis dropped lightly into his own chair. "Welcome to Two Harbors, gentlemen. What can I do for you?"

Asano leaned forward. "We had a deal with the Council before you took over. We bought the rights to operate out of Harbor Point without interference. Ever since you showed up, we have been raided by the police every day."

Curtis allowed a puzzled look to show on his face. "What does that have to do with my organization? I have no control over the Police, and the deal you spoke of was not with me in any case. Why is this my problem?"

Asano snorted in disgust. Tonehara shook his head and gave it a try. "Our organizations are not in direct competition, and any conflicts of interests are discussed, and the appropriate honoraria paid. Wars are bad for business- everybody's business."

Curtis looked blank. "Who said anything about a war? I just want to know why the Yakuza seem to think that I am responsible for their problems."

Asano growled something in Nipponese. Tonehara jerked as if stung and said something to the older man in the same language. Asanao sat back in the chair and closed his eyes. The younger man turned back to Curtis. "Perhaps we can discuss an extension of the deal we had with the previous Board."

"How about this, instead?" asked Curtis. "You pick two people in your organization to sit in as observers on the Council. Both sides discuss any operations in the Harbor Point area in advance, and any potential disagreements get worked out before problems start. My organization can contract certain products or services from the Yakuza's sphere of influence across Asia, and the Yakuza can contract with me for goods and services in the southern Pacific areas where my influence is stronger. We both work to keep other organizations out of Two Harbors."

Asano sat bolt upright in his chair, a predatory gleam in his eye. Tonehara cocked his head slightly. "Those are very generous terms, Mr. Platt. Perhaps we have misjudged your organization."

Curtis laughed. "I doubt that. Let me clear up any possible confusion before it leads to problems. I hold the whip hand here in Two Harbors. If it came to war with the Yakuza, we would destroy your organization here in less than a week." He looked directly into Asano's eyes as he continued. "If you gentlemen would be so kind as to look into the monitor."

A soft hum heralded the entrance of a large flat-screen display on the left wall. The screen flickered once, then showed a slender Nipponese girl in traditional garb struggling against the ropes that bound her arms. Two of Curtis' security troops stood on either side of her, holding her up for the camera.

Asano started to rise to his feet, then he turned back to face Curtis. His face was completely blank. Curtis shook his head. "She has not been harmed. She put up too much resistance when we picked her up half an hour ago to leave her unrestrained. Your daughter will be delivered to you before you leave the building."

He turned back to Tonehara. "This demonstration of our abilities is not a threat, we simply have you completely outmanned, outgunned, and outclassed. I wanted to make sure you knew that to be no idle boast before we finished here today.

Since I do have the power to do what I wish, I do not need to prove it by trying to gouge you on territorial concessions when it isn't necessary."

Asano rose slowly to his feet and bowed slightly. "I will see my daughter now."

Curtis nodded and pushed a button on the table. The door opened and Turquoise walked in. "Take Asano-san to the lobby and return his daughter to him there." Turquoise nodded and waited outside the door.

Once Asano and one of the bodyguards left, Tonehara arched an eyebrow at Curtis. "That was a huge risk you took. Asano dotes on his daughter. What if I hadn't been impressed and overruled him?"

Curtis sat back and grinned coldly. "Then we would have finished this meeting by killing you and your men, followed by a massive strike at your operations all across Harbor Point. By the time the cops got involved, my troops would have been long gone, and the Yakuza in Tersanctus would be on its last legs."

Tonehara's eyes narrowed, and he nodded slowly. "Perhaps we did not misjudge your organization after all, Mr. Platt. I will discuss your proposal with my superiors. I will recommend that we accept your offer."

Curtis nodded. "As you said, war is bad for business." He pushed a button on the table. The door behind Tonehara opened immediately. Curtis said, "Please show Tonehara-san and his escort to the lobby."

Tonehara bowed, then turned to go. The Yakuza guard who stood near the door stepped forward and bowed deeply to the plain man against the opposite wall, then followed his principal out.

Curtis watched the little byplay in silence. Once the door was closed, he asked, "Do you two know each other?"

The plain man said, "Not the way you mean it. He's very good. A real professional. He knew right away that I was the real threat in the room. That bow at the end was something of a compliment."

"What's next on our agenda?"

The plain man smiled without humor. "I recommend that we make an offer to the new government here."

"How long are we gonna watch this place?"

Sergeant Montoya shook his head and smacked the whining policeman on the top of his head. "Until we get told different. You got somethin' better to do?"

Undeterred, Officer Wyse went on. "Stakeouts are bad enough, but this one is the worst ever. No lights, no heat. We can't even use the toilet in here in case the target detects the warm air going up the exhaust vent."

Montoya checked the monitor array and turned back to his partner. "What's the matter? Afraid of getting your manicure dirty?"

The other 6 members of the stakeout team laughed softly. Hauling out the bottles from their improvised toilet was one of the chores that Wyse routinely got stuck with.

Wyse laughed with the rest. "C'mon, Sarge. What's the big deal? We spend three days recconoitering this flop, sneak in from the back street, and only go out in back during daylight. There's two blocks of flats around here. The targets can't be watching all of 'em."

"Look, Wyse. The target building is supposed to be the headquarters of a big crime syndicate. They run everything dirty in Two Harbors. If we can break this case, everyone here will get promoted. Probably get a bonus, too."

Wyse's reply was cut short by the ringing of the doorbell. Everyone sat in shocked silence for a minute, then grabbed their weapons. Montoya checked the monitors. "What the hell? There's a pizza delivery truck out back!"

Jameson sneaked a look over Montoya's shoulder. "Nobody here ordered anything. Must be the wrong address."

Montoya nodded agreement. "That's gotta be it. Everyone stay real quiet. We'll wait until he goes away."

The doorbell rang again. Then again. The delivery driver gave up on the bell and began knocking on the door. The team watched for close to ten minutes, during which time the deliveryman continued to alternately knock on the door and ring the bell.

"Sarge, he ain't going away."

Montoya was both very angry and completely baffled. "Okay, Wyse- you go down and open the door. Tell him that you didn't order any pizza, and you ain't paying. We'll cover you from the stairs and the window to the landing."

Wyse nodded, then stuffed his pistol into the back of his belt. The rest of the team moved into position to watch the door as he walked noisily down the steps. He opened the door, and the delivery driver sighed in relief.

"Thank God. I was starting to wonder if you guys would ever come to the door."

Wyse was thoroughly confused, but remembered his orders. "We didn't order any pizza."

"Yeah, I know. The order got sent in from another address- prepaid, wait until delivered. Gimme a hand, will you?"

Dazed by the sequence of events, Wyse followed the driver to his car. "Who sent the order?"

The driver handed Wyse three large cardboard boxes, then carefully stacked three smaller ones on top. "There's a note attached to the top box." he said, climbing back into his car. "Enjoy." He put the car in gear and drove down the alley and turned right.

Wyse carried his load of pizza back to the dilapidated building the team was using for a stakeout. The team followed him back up to the monitor room, where he set the boxes down on the rickety table they used to play cards.

Montoya grabbed the top box and pulled off the note taped to the cardboard. He read the words aloud. "With my compliments. CP."

The smell of the pizzas started to work its way through the room. "What is going on? Nobody- nobody- knows we're here!" Montoya's voice was getting a little shrill.

Wyse asked, "Do you think it's safe?"

An unfamiliar voice entered the conversation. "Quite safe, I assure you."

The secret policemen turned rapidly, reaching for their guns, but there was no one visible in the room. A quick search by the team revealed nothing. They met back in the monitor room, just in time to hear the voice again- coming from the audio monitors. Montoya looked into the video feed and saw a man standing on the sidewalk in front of the target building. The man was of average height and build, with plain features and forgettable clothing. He waved at the stakeout room window.

"The Spinach and Anchovy small pizza is for Corporal Brendt, of course. The Pineapple and Ham is for Officer Stiles, and the plain cheese is for Sergeant Montoya. The rest of you will have to share the large pizzas- one each sausage, pepperoni, and combination.

You may rest assured that they are quite good, and have not been tampered with in any way. Papa Galinaro's has a deserved reputation for high quality."

Montoya swore bitterly. "Damn! We're blown!"

The man's voice continued, overriding the confused babble of the team. "Please convey Mr. Platt's respects to your superior, and tell him that we have a proposal to make to his superior. We can't go through ordinary channels, for obvious reasons. Enjoy the meal, gentlemen."

"Sarge, what'll we do?" Wyse's voice was still irritating.

Montoya sighed heavily. "First, we call this in. That'll be your job, Wyse. Even though our cover's blown, we'll still do it per procedure."

Brendt asked the obvious question. "Then what?"

"Once Wyse gets back, we eat the pizzas and break everything down to transport it back to the shop. Let's get started pulling the cables now."

OOC:Looks at Evil Overlord's Posts, and is very Impressed.

Bryon Tillema had finally managed to consolidate the last of his take-over. As the Colony--soon to be independent country-- was nearly as large as its Parent state, Tersanctus. He had little in the way to worry of any Military action.

But perhaps Bryon focused on that just a little too much.

He worked on the expansion of his corrupt empire, selling uranium, exporting drugs, and even black op organ selling, usually the homeless, unless a rich person was paying top dollar, in which case only the most prime specimen would be "Dissapeared."

Bryon was quite used to this lifestyle, and he had worked hard to preserve it. He often spoke with his lieutenant's of what his new title should be.

"Well, Executor Tillema just doesnt sound right, too many people dont know what that really means, it makes me sound like an executionist. President-for-life?..nah, too cliche.."said Tillema as he snorted another line of cocaine.

Drugs were legal in Tersanctus, solely with the supervision and prescribed by a doctor. But Marcel had never liked the harder ones, and put a ban on them. Heroin, Cocaine, Speed. It all made Bryon a very rich man, especially when he worked with the local syndacites (sp?) to distribute them, he was after all the right-hand man of an Aging, incompetent National Leader, which made him all too perfect to be manipulated.

As he finished up his latest session, he walked too the bathroom, turned on his lavish gold-plated faucet, and splashed some water on his face. He was wanted in some meeting at Harbor Landing with some of his "consorts". It would most likely be a meeting on his recent greab for power, and how he endangered them all. But he controlled the Police, and Military, and needlessly would remind them, he was the only one that could protect there interests.

After all how could they understand politics as well as he? After all it was politics with drugs that made them all rich and powerful, now he was in power and they would have to accept it, or else he could find new distributors, how quickly they forgot thier place.


He than put back his Grey Suit Jacket and pulled out his .45 Kimber and cocked it by pulling back the Spring. (Sorry couldnt resist! All those descriptions of yours! Sounds like this is going to end bloody, ALready I got Scarface going through my head!) He would be ready if anyone tried to take him down, he worked hard for this, and would see too it that it would be harder for anyone alse to take it from him.

Arvid Nash was nervous. His broad face was beaded with sweat, which he mopped at unsuccessfully with a handkerchief. His eyes kept darting around the small waiting room he'd been escorted to, although he was very careful not to stare at the two dark-suited men who watched him from their posts beside the room's two doors.

Bojemoi! he swore at himself under his breath. You are acting like a fool! If Platt wanted you dead, you would already be dead!

This silent inner dialogue did little to dispel the tension, so he nearly passed out when one of the guards tapped him on the shoulder.

"Sir? Mr. Platt will see you, now."

Nash stood and stretched, consciously loosening the muscles in his broad shoulders and back. He was surprised to find that he was no longer nervous. He tucked the damp handkerchief back into his coat pocket and smiled at the guard. "Thank you."

The guard opened the door to Platt's office. The new head of the Council and the Board was sitting at a computer console across the room. He nodded absently and said, "Arvid, thanks for coming so quickly. I'll be right with you. There are cigars and drinks at the bar. Feel free."

Nash furrowed his brow and turned to get a drink. The last time Platt had said anything to him, it had been to demand a place on the Council- with Platt's never-to-be-sufficiently-damned Security Chief standing next to Hector Ayala's cooling corpse. Nash was so wrapped up in this gloomy thought that it took him until he had a glass of excellent bourbon halfway to his mouth to realize that the man he'd been thinking of was standing right next to the bar.

Arvid choked on the bourbon for a moment in shock. By every God and his mother! he gasped mentally. How does he disappear in plain sight like that?.

The plain-looking man in the corner by the bar stood motionless as Nash clumsily grabbed a napkin and wiped the spill from his lapels. Arvid avoided meeting the man's eyes, but imagined he could feel those eyes staring at him over a gunsight. He nodded vaguely in the man's direction and turned back to face his new boss.

He is just a man! You have dealt with many such men in your life. There is no need for fear. This mental litany also failed to be convincing, and Nash was happy to collapse into the chair Platt waved him to.

Platt said, "Arvid, we've been in contact with the government. I have a potentially lucrative idea for dealing with the new President- or whatever he calls himself. I thought you might be a good person to get things started, and keep the ball rolling once a deal can be arranged."

Nash ran that idea around his head for a moment and liked it. This immediately made him suspicious. "Why?" he asked bluntly. "I know you don't trust me. Why choose me?"

Platt laughed. "There are several reasons, take 'em any way you like. There's going to be a meeting tonight with a man from the government- probably the Secret Police Director. Under the circumstances, it would be an insult to send someone with no rank or authority. You are a member of the Board, you are moderately well-known in some circles- and certainly to the Secret Police. You are a man with a reputation of taking marginal operations and making them successful. You are tough enough to deal with anything you run into at the meeting- and more importantly, you look tough enough."

Nash grunted. "And also, I am expendable."

Platt's smile was still in place. "That, too. But all the other reasons are still valid. Are you interested?"

Nash sipped his bourbon and nodded slowly. "Yes."

Platt slid a display screen over to Nash's side of the desk. "Good. Here's what I want to offer the government. What I'd like to get in return is ... "

Nash listened to his new boss with a growing sense of wonder. How did anyone mistake this man for a small-time pimp and dealer? he asked himself. If it works, this plan will make the Board the biggest player in the country's entire underground economy. We'll make billions!

"Mr. Nash, we've finished the sweep."

Nash stepped out of his limousine and nodded to the Council security tech. "Anything interesting?"

Azure, the Security tech, shook his head. "Nothing major, sir. Several older lines that could have been used for surveillance a long time ago, but I set up a multiwave RF projector to kill any potential signals."

Arvid glanced up at the modest facade of the Regina del Cielo hotel. "Good work. Let's get set up inside, then."

Flanked by the Council Security troops, Nash strolled into the hotel's restaurant. The receptionist smiled brilliantly at him. "Good evening, sir. The room you requested is ready. The staff is laying out the table now. Will there be anything else?"

"No, thank you. Please tell the staff to avoid disturbing me until I am ready to leave."

Nash surveyed the meeting room and nodded in satisfaction. A buffet table filled with appetizers and beverages was against the left wall. and the main table had an even dozen chairs around it. He turned to Azure and pointed at the fire exit door with his chin. "Any problems with using that?"

Azure shook his head. "None at all, sir. We've already disabled the alarm, and the alley is watched."

Nash filled a glass with ice water and sat easily at the main table. "Let me know when our guest arrives." he said as he lit a cigar.

Bryon Tillema got in his armored Limosine, accompanied by three bodyguards,in suits and dark Sunglasses. Inside Bryon lit up his cigar, and blew it out a ventilation shaft, so that he wouldnt need to roll down a window, custom-made, just the way I like it, thought Bryon, thouroughly enjoying his newfound power.

THe limo made its way to the Regina del Cielo hotel and The Bodyguards got out and began to check the area, one of them made his way to and adajacent building with a suitcase. When he arrived on the roof, he opened it and began to construct a sniper rifle. He radioed to the ground that he was read, though they didnt seem to acknowledge him for some reason.

The trio made there way inside. Bryon looking at the Receptionist, whom clearly recognized him, by the look on her face.

"Im here too meet with someone. This is a very secret meeting. I will leave Alfonso here to make sure nothing happens, are we in snyc?" Bryon asked, but more like told her.

She nervously shook her head yes, an Bryon said "Good" and smiled slighty touching her cheek, Maybe she and I will have some fiun after this Thought Bryon.

He and his one Remaining Bodyguard made there way to the Elevator. The Body guard Pulled out his F&N RP90 and made some clicking noises checking it for everything, returning it to his jacket when he was done, Bryon too pulled out a Kimber .45 and tested the spring, and Pulled the hammer back, making a clicking noise.

When the elevator opened to the Appropriate floor, they got out Bryon saying, "We probably wont need these, but be on the look out just in case." And they made there way to the door for the Meeting.

Arvid Nash was shocked when he recognized his guest, but struggled mightily not to show it. He rose steadily from his seat and noted happily that his hands were not shaking from the profound mental shock he had to be suffering from. Oh, bloody HELL! he thought shakily. It WOULD be Tillema himself.

Aloud, he said, "Thank you for agreeing to this meeting. I hope that we can come to a suitable, mutually-profitable arrangement." He ignored the drawn weapons and waved at the sideboard. "There are refreshments of various sorts, and I have a small supply of the finest Cuban tobacco for our use during the discussions."

After sinking back into his chair, he continued, "With all due respect, sir, I recommend that we refrain from using names- for security purposes. My people have throroughly swept the area, and I assure you that it is clean, but what no one says aloud can't be overheard. We had arranged for you to enter via the fire door to preserve your anonymity. Had we known in advance who would be attending, we would have taken more precautions."

Byron Tillema waved away Nash's apologies and sat across the table from him. "I assume that your organization is upset over the restrictions the state of emergency has placed on your operations ..." he began.

Nash cut him off with a laugh. "No, sir. If anything, the state of emergency has increased our profit margin by roughly 6%. What we had in mind was to offer you something you seem to need rather badly."

Tillema was intrigued. "And what would that be? he asked.

Nash grinned. "Plausible deniability."

Seeing the surprised look on Tillema's face, Nash nodded and continued. "Yes, sir. My organization would like to offer you our services in accomplishing certain operations that were best kept out of public scrutiny. Enemies of the government can be watched, searched, detained, or even removed with no government involvement whatsoever. Certain cargoes the government wishes to keep secret can be brought in through docks my organization controls. Money laundering, intelligence gathering, infiltration of antigovernment groups- all of these can be handled very simply by organization personnel with no possibility of causing scandal to the government."

Tillema pulled a cigar from his own pocket and drew it alight as he thought about it. At length he asked, "And what does your organization get out of it?"

Nash smiled modestly. "We do not do this from patriotism, naturally. We would like to receive a modicum of latitude from the government in reference to some of our operations. Ships bearing secret government cargoes can also carry organization cargo. The new Chairman of the Board feels that this would be adequate recompense for the services we could provide your government."

Charlotte Villalobos ran gasping down the alley. Her hands were tightly clenched, twisting the blood-soaked rag around her waist in a vain attempt to staunch the bleeding. Her vision was starting to cloud over, and her panicky flight faltered as shock settled over her senses like a cold blanket. Only her impact with the wall across the end of the alley brought her out of the mental fog she’d been in ever since the anti-government demonstration had ended in blood.

A laugh brought her spinning around. Her panicky gasp was cut short by the blinding pain in her side. Two men in Security Service uniforms swaggered down the alley toward her. Her eyes darted from side to side, but she was well and truly trapped.

“Well, what do we have here, amigo?”

A rough hand grabbed her jaw and held her upright against the wall. Another hand tore the bloody rag away from her wound and a light shone on the bloody tatters of her blouse. “Looks like we got us a runaway revolutionary.”

“What do we do with her? Take her in?” The voice was mocking and cruel, and Charlotte closed her eyes at the reply.

“You heard the orders. Put two in her head and leave the body on the street.”

The soft rasp of metal on cloth forced Charlotte’s eyes open. One of the Security goons was pulling a pistol from its holster. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. She tried to speak, to say anything that would buy her some more time, but the three figures in her field of vision seemed to be moving through thick syrup. It was the third figure that held her attention. This figure was not wearing a uniform, only a grey suit. His hand closed over the pistol in the Security goon’s grip and twisted the weapon free. It fell to the ground, rotating slowly as it floated gently downward. When she lifted her eyes again to the third figure, he was pushing the Secret policeman's face into the wall next to her.

The other policeman was turning to face the third man, but the third man’s hand darted snake-like into the cop’s throat- the only fast movement in Charlotte’s shock-fogged vision. The Secret policeman staggered back into the wall, dropping his hand from Charlotte’s face. She slid slowly down the wall, her eyes still fixed on the third man as he checked both uniformed men. He leaned over near her face and his mouth moved. She shook her head- the noise was too slow to understand. His head cocked sideways for a moment that seemed like hours, then he reached for her. She fell forward into the darkness that had been overwhelming her as his hand touched her shoulder.

When she awoke, she was strapped into a hospital bed. Her side had a clean gauze bandage covering her wound, and her torn clothing had been replaced by a hospital gown. Her eyes roved around the room several times before her mind recognized the man sitting in the chair next to her bed.

“Good morning, Miss Alvarez.” His voice was calm und unaccented.

Charlotte shook her head. “That’s not my name.”

The man handed her a Driver’s license with he picture on it. The name on the card was Dorothea Alvarez, with an address in Barrionueva. “This isn’t me … there must be some mistake. My name is Charlotte Villalobos …” Her voice faltered as her rescuer shook his head.

“That is impossible, young lady. Charlotte Villalobos died in an alley in Puerto Real, last night. She killed two Security Services personnel with a hand grenade that also took her own life rather than be arrested. Her body has been positively identified.”

“How can that be? I’m here! I’m still alive!”

The man stood and laid a hand on her forearm. His movements were shockingly quick, yet unwaveringly controlled and graceful. “Miss Alvarez, you must calm yourself. The Doctor will be in soon to check on your condition. You must not mention the name Charlotte Villalobos or in any way disabuse him of the idea that you are Dorothea Alvarez- or you will be reported to the Security Services, arrested, and almost certainly shot. Do you understand?”

She sniffed a little, but fought back the confusion and fear and nodded. “I don’t entirely understand, but I understand enough.”

"Good. You must also tell them that you remember nothing of the accident."

Charlotte was puzzled. "Accident?"

"When you fell from the balconey window and landed in the Juniper bush. A branch stabbed you through the abdomen."

Charlotte nodded again. "Just lucky, I guess."

The man nodded in turn. “I will be waiting for you downstairs when you get discharged. If anyone asks, I am an old family friend named Gregor Focard.”

Charlotte nodded again, and essayed a small smile. “Dorothea Alvarez never forgets old friends, Gregor.”

The man she knew only as Gregor bowed slightly and turned to go. “We have much to discuss once we are free from this place.”

Three hours later, Charlotte- trying to concentrate on being Dorothea Alvarez- nearly walked past ‘Gregor’ in the lobby. He stood easily and walked beside her, holding the door for her. A non-descript dark blue sedan sat at the curb, and he slid into the driver’s seat after setting her in the passenger side. Charlotte started to speak several times, but ‘Gregor’ put a finger to his lips and shook his head. Only after the hospital was lost to view behind them did ‘Gregor’ speak.

“Quickly! Hand me your identification!”

Charlotte was taken by surprise, but immediately handed over the Driver’s license. ‘Gregor’ tucked the card into his suit pocket and drew forth a new card, this one identifying her as Wanda Sylvester, of Two Harbors. He also handed her a handcomp with a document running on the screen. “Read that while I drive.” He ordered. “You need to be familiar with Wanda Sylvester’s background and history.”

Realizing that she was in way over her head, Charlotte complied, glancing at her rescuer from time to time as the kilometers flew by.

Bryon inhaled the cigar slowly, enjoying its texture and bite, he slowly exhaled the smoke, it resting against his lips as it exited.

"I find the offer....intriguing...but you still seized power with these people that I do business with, that shows me two things..one...you have the drive and ambition that I want, taking a risk too stand out as it were....two, you have the drive and ambition that could eventually take me out of power....I need security..I need some sort of insurance policy that my position is protected."

Bryon motioned for his guard to put his gun away, and he pulled his own pistol out slowly, making no motion or intention that he was going to fire,he placed it gently on the table and slid it towards Nash.

"You want me gone...you kill me now...but everything you have worked toward will be gone in weeks, I AM the head of the snake, and if Im cut off...the body WILL die...otherwise, we both walk out of this room much better off men..."

Bryon gave a gaze to Nash that was truly without fear, and wery analytical of his reaction. This was how he sized peole up, his test. Even if he were killed he was right, his organization would fall into chaos, and Tersanctus or one of the other Nusquam Esse nation would arrive to clean house.

Nash was taken aback by what he could see in Tillema's eyes. He made no move toward the weapon on the table. He drew on his cigar and let the smoke trickle slowly out of his mouth as his mind raced furiously. He knew what he had to say, but Tillema's apparent instability made the wording as important as the meaning.

"I am a businessman. I- and the organization I represent- am in the business of making money. We happen to make money in a manner the rest of society has decided is somehow unpleasant- so we are called criminals.

If criminals ran the government, they couldn't make it pay. That's one of the axioms of modern life- similar to the well-known one about land wars in Asia. Politicians, on the other hand, do manage to make politics and governance pay."

Arvid puffed on his cigar and brushed the ashes from his lapels. "Trust me to know my limitations, sir. I, and the other members of the Organization, are specialists of a sort. Specialists should stick to their specialty. We have no interest in seizing the reins of power in this country. Even making the attempt would do little more than dragging the Organization down in ruin like the rest of the country. We aren't set up to rule.

Moreover, we don't really care much who is in charge. Certainly the previous administration was somewhat lax in administering the Law, and our coffers swelled with the extra money. But, we will make money regardless. We offer products and services that people are willing to pay for. In most cases, we are the only source for those goods or services. More ... let us say, energetic ... administrations would only limit our operations. We pass the increased costs of doing business on to our customers. This is the price of doing business, for us."

He carefully stubbed out the cigar as he continued. "With that long speech in mind, we initiated contact with the government for the purposes of establishing a modus vivendi- a mutually-acceptable arrangement wherein both sides could achieve their goals with a minimum of difficulty. We never dreamed that our proposal would reach quite so high in the administration, but that actually makes matters simpler. Our economic interests dictate that we come to terms with the government somehow. The Chairman felt that this was the most profitable course of action.

If this arrangement is acceptable, both you and the Organization will benefit greatly. You will get a 'clean' channel of information, products, and services. The organization will get a certain amount of latitude for conducting our business."

Tillema thought for a moment. "What happens if I say, no?"

Nash grimaced. "Very little would change, sir. The Organization would continue to operate at its current level. You would continue to consolidate your position. The only real change would be a personal one- I would become a liability. The Organization does not tolerate liabilities."

Nash leaned back in his chair and placed his hands flat on the table in fornt of him. "By all means, think it over at your leisure. There is nothing time-dependent in the offer we've made. I have arranged for a secure communications channel in the event a decision could not be reached immediately."

Jerome St. Thomas was getting worried. Maria and Carlos were very late. He watched the bodega where they’d agreed to meet for two hours after the appointed time with no sign of them. He sighed and began putting his notes into the three-ring binder and replaced the binder in the bookcase. He signaled for the check and left a modest tip.

Shaking his head as he walked to the bus stop, he wondered what had happened to his best friends- fellow revolutionaries. Probably picked up by the Security goons he thought. I thought our security procedures were immaculate. Perhaps I should examine the counterespionage protocols again.

He was somewhat startled to hear a voice from close behind him. “Good afternoon, Mr. St. Thomas.”

He turned slowly around and faced the man who’d apparently spoken. It was no one he recognized. A medium-sized man with a conservative haircut, nondescript suit, and utterly forgettable features. “I’m sorry,” he said carefully. “Have we met?” His mind was racing. How could this man know that name?

The man shook his head. “No, we have never met, but I know a great deal about you.” He touched Jerome’s elbow to guide him down a side street- away from the bus station. “I am in a position where I can be a great help to you- for my own purposes, of course.”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you.” Jerome said, shaken deeply by the implications of the man’s words. “Do you work for Mr. Jagget?”

The man shook his head again and opened the door to a small cantina, gesturing Jerome in ahead of him. “Straight through to the kitchen, if you please. No, Mr. St. Thomas, I do not work for your employer.” The man took Jerome by the elbow and guided him briskly through the busy kitchen and out a metal door into an alley. No one in the kitchen so much as looked at them as they passed.

“Perhaps- in the interest of saving time- we can dispense with the standard denials. I do not work for what passes for the authorities here. If I were a government representative, there would be no need to trick you into an admission of guilt- you would simply disappear into a nameless hole in the ground on the first hint of suspicious behavior.” They left the alley and Jerome’s escort waved him into a plain grey sedan parked at the curb. “Please get int. We have a great deal to discuss.”

Numbly, Jerome slid into the passenger seat. “What is going on?” he asked, irritated at the plaintive tone that crept into his voice.

The man slid the car into traffic and drove skillfully toward the waterfront district. “You are opposed to the usurper and his so-called independence movement. You’ve been trying to remain low-key as you sought out and recruited like-minded people to participate in a rebellion against the new government. These are not accusations, merely the facts. You need not respond.

You have impressed me as being the most skilled of the would-be revolutionaries. You have learned some modest counter-surveillance methods. Therefore, I have decided to help you establish an underground resistance movement.”

Jerome felt like he was a passenger on a train about to leave the tracks. His head buzzed with questions and random fears. He shook his head to clear it. “Why?”

“Let us just say that a successful underground movement would make my job easier. No, I won’t tell you what my job is. Here is what I am willing to do for you:

I will provide you with a new identity, and a job that will be of great use when the day comes to rid this country of the usurper. I will also provide you with secure communications between the different cells of the movement. All you have to do is keep a firm grasp on your desire to remove the usurper and build the organization.”

Jerome thought about it as the man drove into the garage of a large apartment building. The man gestured him out of the car and up the stairs into the building. “What if I get caught?”

The man shrugged and produced a key, which he used to open the door to a small, but clean, apartment. “I’d just have to find someone else to take your place. The only thing that matters to me is getting rid of our mutual problem. Your organization is for afterwards.”

Jerome mindlessly took the apartment key when the man handed it to him. Events had been happening at just under lightspeed, and he couldn’t quite grasp what the man was saying. He tried to voice his concerns and questions, but all that came out was, “Huh?”

The man looked sharply at Jerome as he responded. “Pull yourself together. There are papers on the table that you need to read. They contain your new identity and some personal background information for you to memorize. You start work Monday at Allied Chandlery and Warehouse.”

The man kept his eyes on Jerome. “Listen carefully. Removing the usurper is only part of the problem for this country. The big problems will occur afterwards, when you’ll have to create a government structure in a hurry. That’s why you need to build your resistance movement.”

Jerome felt some mental equilibrium returning. ‘Wait a minute! I know a lot of history. No underground resistance movement has ever succeeded in throwing off the yoke of an oppressor by itself. This sort of thing requires the assistance of a major power outside the country.”

“That is true enough,” the man replied. “But there is an outside entity that would appreciate a return to the status quo ante. This entity is unable to force the issue at this time, but your movement will be helpful if and when that changes.”

He turned and stepped toward the door. “By the way, there are a couple of restrictions to receiving this assistance:

One- Use the secure communications I have set up and written out for you to build your network. This will limit the damage from the inevitable betrayals and government arrests.

Two- If your partisans start taking direct action, make certain that they only target Security Service and military personnel on duty. Do not attack them after work, in the marketplace, at home in their beds, or any other time other than when they are at work. I have no personal qualms with just killing them, but the general public will quickly turn against you if you are perceived as terrorists.”

Jerome snorted. “Most people will applaud us for getting rid of those pigs. Only a tiny fraction of the population supports the usurper.”

“Do it my way, or not at all. As far as public support goes, only a tiny fraction of the people support your ideals, either. Count on it: most of the people in this country just want to be left alone. They don’t care who’s running the show so long as it doesn’t interfere with their comfortable existence. Ignore my suggestions at your peril.”

Nodding, Jerome asked, “What about this job you got for me? You said it would help the movement for me to be in this job.”

The man’s face shifted slightly in an expression that might develop into a smile after a couple of centuries. “I won’t tell you precisely why this job is necessary for the resistance, but you should be able to figure it out if you keep your eyes and ears open. Just make sure that you don’t make use of the knowledge- once you figure it out- until I tell you the time is right.”

“What if I don’t figure it out?”

“Then I will have done my job properly, and I will fill you in on the relevant details when the time comes.”

Jerome grudgingly agreed that this was the best course. “How will I know a given message is from you?”

The man opened the door and stepped through. “Read the papers on the table. It’s all in there. You won’t be seeing me again.” He closed the door behind him, cutting off any possible reply.

"Mohoc, this is Huron. Four baskets are being delivered."

"Glad to hear it, Huron. Are they going to my home or business address?"

"Your work address."

"I'd better turn the car around, then. Thanks for the tip."

"Anytime."

Major Boyce ran the conversation again. The PFC standing across the table shook his head. "That's all there was, sir. Less than 30 seconds of cell-phone traffic, two minutes before the ambush."

The Major listened to the brief recording again, then sighed and turned off the playback. "What makes you so sure this phone call is related to the ambush?"

The PFC grinned. "Not the conversation itself, sir. It's all some sort of code, with a nearly infinite variety of possible meanings. What led me to this one was the origin and destination points." She unrolled a relief map of the southern end of the island.

"If you'll take a look at the map, sir, you'll see what I mean. The call started at 1749, at which point the convoy was here. DF triangulation has the call originating in this general area on the hillside overlooking Avalon."

The Major nodded as he mentally reviewed his memory of the ambush site and the convoy route. "That follows," he said evenly. "Go on, then. What about the receiving end?"

"That was a bit trickier, sir. It was a mobile source, but the transmissions were all coming from this bearing." The PFC traced a line across the map with her finger.

The Major examined the map. "That fits, too. Those bearings would take a car across the intersection where the ambush took place less than a minute later."

"Yes, sir. There wasn't a radio signal for the ambush. Somebody in a car drove through the site and warned 'em verbally."

"Very well, soldier. Dismissed." The PFC saluted and left the office. The Major sighed and thanked every God and his mother that there were still a few outstanding troops left in the post-coup militia. The PFC had worked far into the night reading radio intercepts and reviewing DF records to have found the signal. He idly jotted a note to make sure she got a promotion.

He turned back to the computer records salvaged from the convoy's vehicles.

"Hey, Ranger. Wanna stop in at the Shed for a couple brews?"

"Oh, sure. Like the Lieutenant won't mind us all showing up at the Depot sloshed to the gills."

"Wimp!"

"All right, you idiots! Knock off the chatter!"

"Sorry, Sarge."

"Would you morons PLEASE try to maintain some sort of ra ... what the hell's THAT?"

"Chaco, this is Six. All stop."

"All stop, aye" *SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE*

"Ah, God! Shut the damned things off!"

"What's happening?"

"RF jamming- all bands. Goose it."

"We can't! There's shit in the road. Sarge said it might be mines!"

"Crap! All right, everybody lock and load, we got ..."

*FWOOSH! BOOM! popopopopopopopopop AAAAAIIII popopopopopop*

The Major's mind went back to the ambush scene as he listened to the weapons convoy die. His mind's eye saw the burned-out vehicles, the huddles and burned bodies of the crew and accompanying infantry squad. He shut the image and the recording off as his phone rang.

"Major Boyce. Yes, sir, we've finished the analysis of the attack. I've already sent the hard copy via courier, but I can give you a brief summary.

We got lucky, sir.

Yes, sir. That convoy was originally slated to carry heavy weapons and ammunition. There was a last-minute change at the Supply Center, and they were actually carrying only small arms and body armor.

Yes, sir. Ammunition as well. A few minor explosive devices.

Sir, I recommend that we announce that a couple of troop transport trucks collided in the dark, and the resulting fire caused a fuel tank to explode, killing 16 soldiers.

That's your decision, sir, but at least this cover story will account for the observable evidence and cover up the fact that the resistance now has two truckloads of weapons, ammo, and military grade body armor.

Yes, sir. Good morning, sir."

The Major hung up the phone and made some more coffee. It promised to be another very long week. Nearly daily demonstrations- especially by the University students- and now this. The first overt act by an organized resistance movement.

Very professionally executed, too he said to himself. VERY professional. I think we ought to start looking at some of the folks that left the Militia after Kagey died. Jotting a few notes, the Major went back to work.

“Hey, Manny! We got a problem with lot 336.”

Jerome St. Thomas (known to his coworkers as Manuel Jefferson) sighed and picked up the radio. “What kind of problem, Diego?”

“You gotta come down and see this, Manny. You won’t believe me if I told you.”

‘Manny’ clipped the radio onto his belt and ran the manifest for the Dawnlight- the freighter that had just unloaded lot #336. He locked the office door behind him and trotted over to Warehouse 9, where Diego Mendoza ran the fastest crew on the Docks.

Diego grinned in relief when he saw his Dock Supervisor. “Manny! I triple checked the manifest. Lot 336 is three containers from Hong Kong.”

‘Manny’ had just read that on his printout, but he checked it again. “That’s what I show, too. What’s the problem?”

Diego waved his arm at the warehouse floor. “See for yourself.”

‘Manny’ walked over to the four shipping containers. He carefully checked the lading numbers against the manifest, then whistled. “Diego, have I ever said how much I hate your guts?”

Diego laughed. “Hey, don’t blame me. This sort of shit is why you’re the supervisor and I’m only the team foreman.”

‘Manny’ laughed ruefully and slapped Diego on the shoulder. “Sadly, this is true.” He stood and eyed the containers for a moment as he ran over his options. “Diego, let’s put all four in the Secure Yard while I try to get this mess straightened out.” He picked up his radio and called the crew at the Secure Yard to give them the word. “If the receivers show up for them while we’re waiting, send ‘em on up to see me.”

Diego shouted profane orders to his crew. “Thanks, Manny.” He said in more reasonable tones as the crew started hooking up the slings. “Never seen a screw-up like this one.”

“It’s a new one for me, too. Good call, Diego.” ‘Manny shook Diego’s hand and returned to his office.

Half an hour later, the Dawnlight’s Loadmaster was across the desk, comparing the ship’s Bill of Lading with the Delivery Manifest. ‘Manny’ was doing the same thing with his own copies of the documents.

“Ah! I have found problem!” said the Dawnlight officer, a darkly bearded, stocky man named Brusilov. “You see here?”

‘Manny’ moved to look over Brusilov’s shoulder. A stubby finger with grimy nails was stabbing the paper like a blunt dagger. “Container 464A97-003G1 is part of different lot number.”

Manny checked his own sheet. “I see. That was supposed to be unloaded in Panama, according to the ship’s manufest. Someone must have read the number wrong and missed it. Our lot 336 is containers 464A97-004G1 through –006G1.”

Brusilov snarled in fury. “Da! I know who is bastard who did this! He jump ship in Cuba. Karachin!”

“Relax. This is an easy fix. I’ll just have the container craned back aboard and you can deliver it next time you hit Panama.”

Brusilov shook his head. “Dawnlight is not like bus. Ship goes where cargoes go. Next port is Pretoria.”

Manny sat down and cradled his head in his hands. “We’ll have to find out who the cargo was intended for and get it transshipped.” He looked up at Brusilov. “Dawnlight will have to cover the shipping cost.”

Brusilov nodded glumly. “Da. I must inform Captain. Call ship when you find recipient.”

Manny turned his chair around and called up his shipping files. His search took several hours, including several calls to the Customs office and a call to the Port Authority in Hong Kong. Standing up at the desk and stretching, Manny called Brusilov. “Brusilov? This is Manuel Jefferson, at the Dock Supervisor’s office. I have some good news for you.

Well, it turns out that the cargo in the container was intended for a jungle research station in Costa Rica. This station has since been shut down, so there is no recipient. That’s right. You don’t have to …. All right. I accept. Adios.”

Hanging up the phone, Manny picked up the radio. “Diego? Change of plans.”

“What’s up, Manny?”

“Remember lot#336?”

“How could I forget?”

“I found out what the problem was. Some idiot on the Dawnlight misread the numbers and forgot to offload one of the containers in Panama. Find container 464A97-003G1, and put it in the Salvage locker. The rest of the containers can go back to the warehouse. I know it’s after knock-off, but the OT is authorized. Once you get done, come up to the office.”

Two hours later, Diego arrived. “What’s up, Manny?”

Manny waved at a wooden box sitting just inside the door. “Dawnlight’s loading officer was so happy at my solution to his problem that he gave me a case of vodka. I took out one bottle. The rest is for you and the crew.”

“Hey, thanks. I’ll get it to the guys before they leave the dock. See you later, Manny.” Diego swung the heavy crate onto his shoulder and left with a cheerful wave.

Manny poured a small shot of the light brown liquid into his coffee cup and took a sip. That’s damned good stuff. he thought as he typed in the orders for declaring the stray container “salvage”. He wondered idly who would buy the contents at the auction and reflected that this job and identity did have a few momentary satisfactions.

Two policemen confronted Wanda Sylvester. "Open up."

Charlotte Villalobos- now known as Wanda Sylvester- smiled politely and hit the door buzzer. "A little early tonight." She said cheerfully. "Anything I need to know about?"

One of the policemen shook his head and stomped down the passageway. His companion waved and said, "Nothing major. We're just putting in extra overtime so we don't get dragooned into the Militia."

Wanda nodded her understanding. "Tonight's been pretty quiet, so far. There's fresh coffee in the Squad room."

The policeman grinned. "God help us if the coffee supply ever runs out. The whole country would collapse. Who bought it?"

"The manager of the bodega at the end of the block brought it in. I guess he's thanking you for taking care of those Durangos for him." Wanda picked up her cup and drank deeply. "He brought in some good coffee."

"Damn! I'd better get some before those gluttons down the hall suck it all down. Later."

Wanda fielded several routine calls until her relief arrived. Carlos Jackson was portly, balding, and regularly reeked of cheap cigar smoke, but he had the rare ability to keep his head when all about him were losing theirs. He preferred working the night shift, and the officers he monitored on the radio appreciated his skill and dedication ... as long as they didn't have to share a room with him. "Evening, Wanda. Anything interesting?"

Wanda grinned at him. She was one of the few dispatchers that had no problems with Carlos and his omnipresent funk. "Had a few hotheads try to break into the Bonded Warehouse in Crescent a couple of hours ago, but bothing really exciting." She waved a hand toward the Squad room at the end of the hall. "There's some really good coffee, for a change."

Carlos brightened considerably. He stared down the passageway. "Do you think they'd mind ... ?"

"Go ahead." Wanda said as she resumed writing up the End Of Watch report. "It's early enough that the Squad will still be in the locker room."

Thus encouraged, Carlos grabbed his favorite mug- a slightly obscene ceramic monstrosity from his college days- and hurried into the Squad room. Wanda finished her report and kindly prepared the other workstation for the next shift.

Carlos returned soon thereafter, sipping contentedly on the excellent coffee. He finished the turnover with Wanda and sank gracelessly into the control chair. "Good night, Wanda. Need me to call a car?"

Wanda grabbed her bag from the locker near the door and slung it over her shoulder. "Thanks, anyway. Culver and Lozano should be pulling up out front right now. 'Night."

After being escorted to her apartment by the two Swing shift cops, Wanda locked the door behind her and started a pot for tea. Once the pot had brewed, she settled into the counch to sip and think.

She genuinely enjoyed working at the police station, and really liked most of the people there. It bothered her sometimes that she was forever lying to these people who were rapidly becoming her friends, but she steeled herself with the certainty that what she was doing was important for the eventual liberation of the island from the Tyrant, Byron Tillema.

Finishing her tea, Wanda picked through her mail. Mostly bills, but there was one envelope with a handwritten address. She opened it and read quickly through the three pages of script. She re-read the letter carefully again, keeping the deceptively simple key in mind as she mentally translated the coded message disguised as a promotional gimmick for a major department store. She carefully memorized her instructions and threw the letter away.

She put supper in the oven and bustled around the small kitchen preparing for the meal. As she worked, Wanda's mind replayed the last conversation with the deceptively nondescript man she knew only as 'Gregor'.

"Your role in this operation will not be exciting or interesting, but is of vital importance. Most of the time, you will perform your obvious duties as dispatcher for the Two Harbors main police station. You will receive coded messages from time to time- in a variety of forms. All of them will be in the code whose key you must memorize, and will appear quite legitimate to anyone else."

'Gregor' turned away from his driving and fixed his eyes on hers. "Under no circumstances will you make any attempt to contact me, any member of the resistance, or fail to act as a loyal and useful member of the Two Harbors Police Department- until I tell you otherwise." He turned back to his driving. "Follow all coded instructions exactly- even if they seem illogical, stupid, or dangerous. Trying to second-guess me will only end up getting a lot of people killed- including yourself, most likely."

"But what I'm doing will help the resistance?" she asked.

'Gregor' nodded. "More than you will realize until long afterwards."

"I'm honored."

'Gregor' flashed her a humorless smile. "Don't be. You're a tool I'm using to get my work accomplished. A valuable and exceptionally useful tool, but a tool nonetheless."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because the truth is always serviceable- even if it is unpleasant. Lies break under strain. I am a craftsman doing a difficult job, so I treat my tools with care."

"I understand. I won't let you down."

'Gregor' shook his head. "Probably not. You'll certainly do your best, and that ought to be good enough for my purposes."

Wanda's chain of memory was broken by the buzzer telling her that the food was done. She ate quietly and went to bed. She had another dull and unexciting day tomorrow, carrying out another mysterious and inexplicable task for 'Gregor'- or the Resistance. She was content. She fell asleep dreaming about the Liberation parade after the Tyrant was no more.

Bryon Tillema hadn’t had a problem with most of his consolidation, in fact, most of the forces and judiciaries had gone along with the new change, without much problem.

Then there was Federic Gonsales, Fed as he was known as, was Marcel Hollinshed's Minister of Security, now in an office less than Twenty Miles from Bryon Tillema's place, he was his.

Fed remembered a time thirty years earlier, when Tersanctus decided to colonize this place, some six hundred miles off the coast of the Nusquam Esse Continent, and Marcel chose him, a Police Academy Graduate, to serve on his Administration.

Idealism had always been the main course of direction in Marcel’s Administration, but then came Tillema, Fed knew about Bryon’s Indiscretions, and he had always looked the other way, but he never imagined that it would come to this, and he was genuinely fearful for his life.

Especially because he was the one to see that Tillema's orders were carried out, recently, during one of their Internet sweeps, they came across a website that they tracked to a local University, and three Students were put to death for putting up material that parodied Tillema.

The whole thing was a joke, but Tillema wasn’t laughing.

Fed also used his position to try and find a decent resistance group, that would be strong enough, to put Tillema's Coup to an end, but everything he came across; was a piddling nothing, a bunch of radicals that had no idea what they were doing and were usually killed off by his own men.


But still he searched, he had even heard of a recent attack on a weapons convoy, something that was very professional, and it raised his hopes some. But that was the problem with the real Resistance Groups, they were impossible to find, but he needed them if he were to bring any change to this regime.


And as he surmised in one of his reports, Executor Edmund Dantes wasn’t going to do anything soon about the Coup; there were reports of other happenings within and without Tersanctus that would prevent any outright military action. And since the Militia was at least as strong as the Homelands, and an Invasion would cost Tersanctan lives, something he would never do.

This was going to be harder than he thought. But he had too keep looking anyway, and he got on the Computer again to look for any leads on this latest group, and he would have too look at any evidence that might lead him too them, most likely at the site of the attack.

Tomorrow….

Right now he needed to get some sleep. So he could think through this clearly. He took off his suit, and took a leak before changing into his pajamas, as he crawled into his sheets, he went over the events of the Day in his mind, and considered carefully what his move would be…but it would have to be soon.

Well before curfew, a solitary figure walked confidently through the streets of Avalon. He was neither tall nor short, slender or stocky. His face was completley unremarkable, and his suit was well-made and slightly out of date. He moved through the streets without disturbing the rhythms of normal life there. Few people noticed him, and none of those would remember his face mere minutes after he left their sight.

He purchased a newspaper and read carefully through it at a corner cafe, sipping coffee. Leaving the paper on the table, the man walked across the street and made a call on the pay phone there. Hanging up, he hiked up a side street and turned back the way he'd come. He stopped at a small tobacco shop. Ignoring the sign that said, "Private. Members Only", he rang the buzzer. He held the buzzer down until a short man with too little hair and too much belly opened the door. A blast of aromatic smoke from the half-burned cigar in the man's lips washed over the plain man.

"Whatsamatter? Ya can't read?" snarled the man in the shop. He hooked a thumb at the sign next to the door. "Members only!"

The plain-looking man on the sidewalk looked at him. "I thought you might make an exception for me." he said calmly.

The fat man shook his head in disbelief. "What makes you so special?"

"I've always thought I was extra-special."

The little fat man looked at him silently for a moment. "Don't I know you from somewheres?"

The plain man shook his head. "I'm sure we've never met. I just have that kind of face."

The fat man thought for a moment, emitting small clouds of smoke. "Fine. Come on in. Just this once, mind!"

The plain man walked through the door the fat man held open. He walked directly through the small shop and into the lounge area behind it. Several older men were in the room, smoking pipes and cigars and playing chess, reading, or watching the wide-screen television.

The fat man appeared beside him. "Back this way, and we'll get your account set up." he waved toward the glass doors of the large humidor.

Once inside the closet-sized humidor, the two men talked quietly for several minutes, following which the plain-looking man handed a thick envelope to the chubby proprietor. The envelope quickly disappeared, and the plain man left the humidor with three boxes of expensive foreign cigars.

After walking several blocks, making several minor purchases along the way, the plain man stopped at a pay phone and made a phone call. Less than two minutes later, a relentlessly ordinary geen sedan pulled up next to the pay phone, and the plain-looking man stepped within the open door. The vehicle pulled quickly away from the curb. The driver, a large, stocky man with a crewcut and no visible neck, said, "Get everything accomplished, sir?"

The plain man set his purchases on the seat next to him and nodded. "Was anybody watching?"

The driver shook his head. "Besides us, you mean? Not a chance. We had three tails on you, plus two guys prepositioned along the street. We'd have spotted a watcher. Two of the cars are RF detectors and jammers, too. Nothing out of the ordinary."

The plain man leaned back in the seat. "Good. Back to the office, please. I have a great deal of work to do."

Many hours later, half a world away, a machine suddenly awoke. Several dozen pages of gibberish appeared on its monitor screen. To the men working in the office with the machine, this was nothing special. A hardcopy was produced, following which one of the men transcribed the entire message onto a seperate machine in another room. This second machine sent the message to a third machine in a different city. The man who had transcribed the message put the hardcopy into a secure envelope and dropped it into the courier bag.

The message was transcribed again, and sent to a fourth machine in the same city. Once the message was joined by the two hardcopy printouts, this fourth machine displayed the message, which was compared to the two hardcopy versions. The paper and electronic versions matched perfectly. A fourth transcription was done into a completely different machine- one with no connection to the rest of the world. This new machine was told to perform certain operations to the message. Once these operations were completed, the machine copied the message in its new form onto a compact disk, which was placed into a secure envelope along with the hardcopies and hand-carried to another office in the same building.

Several hours later, a diplomatic message was sent to the Executor of Tersanctus requesting an audience with the Executor at his earliest convenience with a representative of the Evil Overlord. Several extermely odd security precautions were suggested in the message.

In his office, in the middle of the night, with rain pouring in sleets against his window, Edmund lit a cigarette; he pulled out his keyboard and began typing up a series of complex codes, within minutes, three monitors surrounding him came up with three very tired Secretaries, and aides.


On the first monitor was Patrick Stewart, Tersanctus’s Secretary on Foreign Relations, and trusted advisor to Edmund.

On the Second, was Alyssa Drake, A High Ranking Official in the Kungshaoist Templar, and Edmund’s beloved.

On the Third, was Khas. A man over three thousand years old, an Immortal granted life eternal by Kungshao.

“I’m sorry to wake you all at this hour.” Started Edmund.

“But the situation in Old Tersanctus may have finally taken a turn for the better, I have received a request to meet with a Representative of the Evil Overlord, there are just a few things we need sort out, as you all know, every special operative we have attempted to send to OT has been found and Executed, the Militia there is simply to strong, and now seemingly loyal to Tillema and his men. We have received only bits and pieces of information from the inside, form Federic Gonslases”

“Well, Edmund, the best thing I think is to meet with his omni-ferocity a soon as is possible. We may finally have a foothold in this situation, not to mention end our status as the laughingstock of the international community, for losing control of a colony.”
Said Patrick.

“I agree, the writing is on the wall in this case I believe.” Said Alyssa, whom obviously only wished to return to her slumber.

“I will accompany you, I foresee no conflict in this situation…..save that of the corrupt one in our land.” Said the short-worded Khas, whose strangest trait was the fact the his eyes were pure white, no pupils whatsoever. Than again, how many Immortals did Edmund know?


Several hours later..

Edmund had made preparations, and as promised Khas was in his office standing ever by Edmunds side, Khas was one of the Original Templar, and as to why he still served rulers of Tersanctus, to this day, was as shrouded in mystery, as was his past.

“Well, we’ve replied and let’s hope his precautions meet with his satisfaction.” Said Edmund.

A slim, dark-haired woman walked briskly down the airliner's boarding ramp and into the terminal. Two men with briefcases met her and they spoke briefly. One of the men turned away and walked toward the baggage claim area, the other spoke curtly into a throat mike woven into his coat's lapel. Once the baggage- a single briefcase- had been retrieved, the trio walked up to the customs station.

The woman placed the briefcase she carried on the conveyor and watched silently as the inspector checked that the seals were intact and handed it back to her. He examined her passport more carefully. "What is the purpose of your visit to Tersanctus, Ms. Faber?"

She replied easily, "Business."

The inspector looked at the plethora of stamps on her passport, then back at her. She was easier to look at- nearly 2 meters tall, perhaps 60 kilos, dressed in a conservative dark suit which complemented her lithe figure. Her hair was tightly bound to her head in the latest Paris business fashion. "What business would that be, then?"

"I am an executive courier." She said, smiling slightly.

The inspector nodded. He placed her passport face down on the hidden scanner on his desk as he picked up his entry stamp. A few seconds later, he brought the stamp dowon on her passport and handed it back to her. "Welcome to Tersanctus."

Once outside the terminal, the woman handed the briefcase she'd been carrying to one of the men with her. She stepped into the back seat of the dark grey sedan that pulled up in front of the trio. Only after the vehicle had left the airport behind did she speak. "Are we secure?"

The driver spoke. He was a whipcord-slender man with dark hair and eyes in a pale face. "Yes, milady. I ran another EM sweep when Mr. Godot called from the terminal."

The dark-skinned man in the front seat with the driver turned around. He was much larger than the driver, and moved with the certainty of a man well aware of his power. "The package is in the trunk, as ordered."

She nodded curtly. "Very well. The Warlord's insistence on a low profile has put us behind schedule. Get me to the Executor's Palace as quickly as possible. Mr. Godot," she turned to one of the men with her in the back seat. "you will accompany and operate the package. Once that is done, you will return to the car. Any questions?"

The four iterations of, "No, milady" showed that there were none.

A short time later, the car pulled up to the gates of the Executor's Palace- exactly on time. The woman left the vehicle with a briefcase. Godot got out of the other side of the car and retrieved a large box from the trunk. She walked up to the gate security pickup and presented her credentials. "My name is Irina Faber. I am a Special Envoy from the Dominion of The Evil Overlord, and I have an appointment."

The Security personnel at the gate were- as requested- the Executor's personal security force. If anyone could be relied upon to keep quiet, Irina thought to herself. it will be these persons..

The security personnel impressed her with the speed and efficiency of their operations. With a bare minimum of delay, she was ushered into the presence of the executor. Her eyes took in the tableau quickly, noting the expected presence of Kas. External Security was right, for once.

Aloud, she said, "Thank you for agreeing to this meeting. With your permission, Mr. Godot will perform a sweep for electromagnetic observation. This is not an implied criticism of your security measures, merely a desire to be thorough."

After receiving a nod from theExecutor, Godot opened the boxand switched on the equipment within. Almost immediately, he said, "There seems to be at least one listening device in operation, which I assume is from your internal security office." After a moment, he continued, "It is using a very sophisticated multifrequency shift pattern designed to evade standard detection. Although it is unlikely to be of foreign or hostile origin, I will damp the signals it receives."

He manipulated a switch within the open box and bowed to Irina. "Milady. this meeting is now as secure as it can be. With your permission?"

She nodded, and Godot withdrew from the room. She turned back to face the Executor. "Your security personnel are doubtless watching to ensure that I am not a well-prepared assassin." She smiled slightly at the thought. Despite her military training and recent FTS protocol, either of the two men in the room with her could easily kill her before she harmed a hair on the Executor's head. "They will be able to see, but not hear the proceedings within this room until I close the lid of that box and so deactivate the security system within."

She removed a CD-Rom from her briefcase and set it on the table between them as she sat down opposite the Executor. "This is a message our External Security department received from an asset we deployed to Old Tersanctus after receiving your request for assistance. You may examine it at your leisure.

The executive summary of the message is this: An organized resistance group has taken shape in Old Tersanctus. Widespread public distrust of the usurper has been reinforced by the use of the Militia to crush public dissent. The scattered groups capable of successful resistance actions have been loosely gathered into a cohesive single entity- although none of the disparate groups have ever made direct contact with each other.

Military equipment has been stolen from Militia personnel, and more has been smuggled into the country. All of this equipment is in the hands of individual resistance members. More equipment for helping a group of irregulars cope with a modern military has been pre-positioned in country at scattered strategic locations. Active measures by resistance personnel against the usurper's forces have begun."

She paused and met Edmund Dantes' level gaze. "These actions were taken in lieu of a military asault on Old tersanctus. The Warlord has no doubt that EOE military assets could re-take the island for you. The probable result of such an action would leave nearly 10 million citizens dead, and the cities and other infrastructure would have to be completely rebuilt after the conquest.

With an active resistance group in place, the casualty figures drop significantly, but the aftermath would still leave Tersanctus bankrupt."

Irina leaned forward slightly and her voice dropped. "However, the prognosis is much better if the usurper is removed from the picture before the shooting starts. Our asset in-country can accomplish that."

She leaned back in her chair. "This puts the ball in your court. An insurrection from within will not topple the usurper alone. An invasion from without is too costly. Simply removing the usurper would cause enormous loss of life from the civil wars that are sure to erupt after his death.

On the other hand, if the usurper were to be killed on the eve of an invasion to reconquer the country, the Militia would be disorganized and heavily involved in the internal struggle for succession. The resistance groups could wreak havoc on the internal lines of communication and control, and the invasion forces would have a much easier time dealing with scattered Militia hold-outs than in trying to fight their way across a mountainous island filled with heavily-armed troops.

Tersanctus- as the aggrieved party- needs to assemble a group of friendly nations willing to provide forces for the reconquest. Some Tersanctus forces will need to be with the invasion forces for public-relations reasons. Tersanctus needs to set up a transmitter near Old Tersanctus to broadcast news and information- and the odd encoded message- to the population of the island so they know you haven't forsaken them."

Irina pushed her chair back from the table. "We can remove the usurper at any time. The problem- your problem- is what happens afterward."

“Boss, there’s something going on down at Monicker’s.”

Curtis Platt looked up sharply at the tone in Vermillion’s voice. He pushed the monitor away from his desk and leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about it.”

Vermillion checked his security board, then turned back to face Curtis. “Lots of people in and out at all hours. Women hanging around the corners. Two beefcakes outside the doorway who decide who goes in and who stays out. A lotta money moving on the street Downtown, and we ain’t getting any of it.”

Curtis nodded slowly. “Sounds like a familiar pattern. Who runs that area?”

Vermillion checked his board again before answering. “We leased it to a fella named Corrigan, used to run with the Durangos. Nobody’s heard from him in two weeks. He ain’t scheduled to give us our take ‘til today.”

Curtis thought for a few moments, then leaned forward in the chair. “Okay. Get men and money on the streets. I wanna know who’s out there and what they’re operating in our turf.”

Vermillion started punching the orders into his board. “Gotcha, Boss. Feathers or lead?”

“Keep it light, for now, but have a back-up team on hand- just in case. Let me know if this Corrigan shows up today.”

“Ocher’s on it, Boss.”

That evening, Ocher was called into the office. Platt’s anonymous Security Chief was present, which cheered the big man up considerably. The Boss was a pretty hard guy, sure, but the Chief was like a different species- a much tougher species. “Boss, I got news, and it ain’t good.”

Curtis waved in toward the desk and sat behind it. The Chief leaned against the wall to Platt’s left. His face had no expression at all, but his eyes moved constantly. “Tell it like it is, Ocher.” Platt encouraged. “The truth is the important thing.”

Ocher pulled out his handcomp and scanned the notes he’d organized before asking for this meeting. “Corrigan didn’t show to give us our cut, Boss. I asked around, and nobody’s seen the bastard for about 10 days. Right about that time, a bunch of folks started putting the word out that they were taking over Corrigan’s territory. Anyone who even looked like they might object got vaped.”

Curtis sipped from the glass of Bourbon in his hand. “What are these newcomers running?”

Ocher didn’t need to consult his notes for that one. “They got a bunch of new girls, operating around Monicker’s and the Clairmont around the corner. They’re moving pretty heavy weight in blow and Horse Downtown. Word I got from a couple folks who had to be persuaded is that these new guys are also cooking Hype in a basement lab on Strathspay.”

Curtis looked at his Security Chief significantly. “One wonders how they’re getting the product in, since we control the docks.”

The Chief nodded silently. Curtis looked back at Ocher with a slight smile on his face. “Do we have a name to go with these newcomers?”

Ocher looked at his comp to get the name exactly right. ‘Some guy named Burgoyev.”

Curtis shook his head at the name. The Chief’s face shifted in what might grow into a smile in a million years or so. Ocher began feeling much better about the situation. “Is that name important, Boss?”

Curtis smiled and shook his head. “Not by itself, Ocher. It just means that our Russian friends are trying to cut themselves a slice of our pie.”

Ocher was a bit confused by the cheerful tone in the Boss’ voice. “We gonna ice ‘em?”

Curtis considered the idea. “It might come to that. May not be necessary, though. I like dealing with self-starters.” He turned to the Security Chief. “Chief? Any suggestions?”

The Chief nodded. “Send a courier down to Monicker’s tomorrow morning and invite Gospodin Burgoyev up to the office tomorrow afternoon. Use the lower entrance through the garage. Tell him he can send one security man ahead of time to check out the route and our security arrangements. Walk this guy through the lower entrance the same way we’ll be bringing his boss in later. He can bring two vehicles with his security people to the meeting to hold his hand, if he wants.”

Ocher noted the details exactly as the Chief said them. He looked up. “Isn’t that kinda dangerous, sir?”

The Chief’s face relaxed into total immobility. “Not the way we’re going to play it. Here’s what else I want …”


Konstantin Burgoyev smiled happily as his car pulled into the garage next to the Council Headquarters. He was a tall, aristocratic Russian with high cheekbones and dark hair going grey. He gestured toward his cousin Oleg. “This is right way, da?”

Oleg nodded carefully. He did everything carefully, which is one of the reasons Burgoyev trusted him- to the extent that he did trust him. “Da. We pull cars up to doorway at far end of garage.” He reflexively glanced out the window to check the two sedans full of muscle that preceded and followed Burgoyev’s car.

Burgoyev grinned like a shark. “Good. Is going to be very good day, Oleg. Very good day.” He drained the glass of vodka he’d been sipping and leaned back in his seat.

Oleg was not so sure. “I am not so certain. This Platt is not such fool as to fall victim to own trick, I think.”

Burgoyev’s car pulled smoothly to a halt in front of the Council building’s doors. The two security vehicles that escorted it stopped professionally on either side, angled slightly away. Oleg pursed his lips and nodded approvingly. That was better than he had hoped for. His troops were tough, but they lacked finesse. The parking maneuver was smooth and professional.

Still musing over the skillful way the cars had been arranged, he opened the door and slid out. Opening the back door for Burgoyev. He heard the doors to the other cars open and turned slightly to congratulate the drivers for their skill. The four men who got out of the cars were not the men he had ordered into the cars before leaving Monicker’s.

Eye’s wide with sudden fear, he shoved Burgoyev back into the car and reached for the submachine gun under his coat. He heard a rapid crackle of popping noises, followed by breaking glass. His weapon was suddenly too heavy to lift as something threw him face first into the car on top of his boss. The popping noise slowed swiftly to a few individual pops as his vision suddenly went black. His mind was still trying to turn him around and raise his weapon when a last pop shut everything off.

Alabaster heaved Oleg’s limp and sodden body out of the car and checked Burgoyev. The Russian mob boss was silent with shock. He was also covered with blood, but none of it was his. A quick look into the front seat confirmed that the driver had taken several shots in the head and would no longer be a problem. Alabaster nodded absently and grabbed Burgoyev by his lower leg. He yanked the immobile man out of the car and onto his ass on the bloody concrete. “Come on, Ivan!” He said cheerfully. "You ain’t hurt. You’re gonna be late for the meeting.”

Burgoyev’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly several times before he recovered his wits and stood up. The two chase cars were still occupied by his security troops, but they were heaped unceremoniously in the back seats of both cars and leaking blood all over the leather upholstery. Oleg lay in a twisted heap at Burgoyev’s feet. There were five holes in his jacket and his head had shattered. Burgoyev was so wrapped up in the sight that he barely noticed when Alabaster tugged the pistol out of its holster under the Russian’s arm. He stirred back to life and turned to face the man.

“Oleg was my cousin, karachin!” He snarled, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was alone and unarmed in enemy territory. “You will pay for this! Better to kill me now, before I take revenge!”

Alabaster was unimpressed. He grabbed Burgoyev’s arm and marched him toward the doors. “Not my call, Ivan.” He said calmly. “I got orders to bring you to the Boss in one piece and wax the rest. After the Boss is done with you, you can look me up someday, maybe.” He seemed to be looking forward to the prospect, which started to calm Burgoyev down.

The Council troops shoved Burgoyev into a Men’s room and made him strip off his blood-soaked clothes. They tossed him a set of coveralls that were exactly the right size, a fact which made him think carefully about his options. By the time he was pushed into Platt’s office, he had his rage sufficiently under control to start using his brain again.

“You promised safe conduct!” He snarled at the Crimelord sitting in a huge leather chair behind a large wooden desk. “I know, now. Your word is no good!”

Curtis smiled broadly and waved the Russian into chair in front of the desk. “My word is always good, Burgoyev. If you have any future at all, you would be well advised to keep that fact in mind.”

Burgoyev looked around, but saw no one else in the room. He pointed back toward the mess he’d left outside the building in the garage. “So what happened out there is just horrible dream, nyet?”

Still smiling, Platt steepled his hands in front of his face. “Oh, well … the garage is a separate building, you know. The Council doesn’t even own it. I only promised that you would be safe here in the building.” Platt arched an eyebrow at Burgoyev. “And here you are- safe in the Council building.” He paused to let that sink in. “Everybody else in your little comedy troupe- including all the folks at Monicker’s- are taking a little trip to the landfill tonight.”

Burgoyev grunted as though he’d been kicked in the stomach. Shaking his head, he asked, “So why am I here?”

Platt grinned like a shark at his guest. “There’s a couple of reasons, actually. I wanted you to learn what it means to cross the Council. I take it that the lesson has begun to sink in?”

Not trusting himself to reply, Burgoyev only nodded. Platt nodde in reply and went on. “But the real reason is, I was under the impression that you were interested in leasing the Downtown territory.”

Burgoyev was stunned speechless. “You are still willing to do business after tonight?” he gasped.

“Why not? I probably would have leased the territory to you if you’d just asked for it.” Platt poured himself a glass of water and took a sip. Leaning back, he continued. “As it is, there’ll be a penalty for trying to do it the hard way- a couple of penalties, really. You saw part of the penalty out there in the garage.”

“What is rest of price I must pay?”

Platt called up a document on the computer monitor on the desk. “Corrigan was paying us 2 million credits a month for Downtown. You will pay us 20 million C’s up front- for the aggravation and expenses. Thereafter, you will pay 3 million C’s a month.”

Burgoyev started to shake his head, then stopped. “What do I tell Boss back in Vladivostok?”

Curtis waved the concern aside. “Completely unnecessary. We’re taking care of that for you. I don’t care what arrangement you have with the rest of your ‘organization’. You will pay us in full and on time or we’ll be forced to exact penalties for non-compliance.”

Wincing, Burgoyev tried another gambit. “Boss in Vladivostok is not only problem.” He began. “You should know …”

Curtis cut him off in mid-sentence. “We already know about the Yakuza’s involvement in this stupid stunt of yours. My Chief of Security is discussing the matter with them even as we speak.”

Completely stunned, Burgoyev surrendered. Bojemoi! He cursed to himself. Platt is not even toughest man in organization. He felt a moment’s pity for the Yakuza in Harbor Point before he told Platt formally that he accepted the Council’s terms.


In Harbor Point, large men in pattern-disruptive uniforms moved silently through the darkness of a quiet residential neighborhood. Heavily armed Nipponese men keeping watch in the dark suddenly slumped to the ground as silenced small-caliber weapons whispered their deadly songs in the night. Two dogs in one particular walled yard stirred the gravel in the yard slightly as they, too, heard the night’s lethal music.

With no audible signal, patches of the night suddenly grew form as several dark figures slipped over the walls of the courtyard. They paused for moments that seemed to last an eternity outside the doors and windows of the house. As one, the dark figures burst through the windows and doorways with a brief crashing of shattered armorglass and steelcore doors. Moments later, a truck drove rapidly down the street and stopped in front of the courtyard entrance. Three figures leaped out of the back of the truck carrying large boxes.

Inside the courtyard, the dark figures were moving quickly out of the house. The last four men dragged the household occupants. These people- an old man, a younger man and woman, and one little girl were thrown against the courtyard wall near the gate. The old man’s silk robe was torn and soiled with blood. The others wore only their silk pajamas, but appeared to be unharmed.

One of the silent men in dark uniforms made a few quick gestures to the others. The men from the truck appeared, and dropped their burdens in front of the old man. All of the figures save one immediately left the courtyard and leaped into the back of the truck. The last invader pointed a finger at the old man and spoke in perfect Nipponese. “This is a warning.” The man said as his other hand hit a switch in the communication module he carried. The house behind him suddenly erupted into flames- almost instantly involving the entire structure.

Stepping toward the gate, the man pointed at the boxes at the old man’s feet. “That is a message for your masters back in Honshu.” The man spun put through the gate and climbed into the back of the truck, which immediately sped off.

The younger man and woman clutched the little girl and stumbled out through the gate, staring fearfully at the blaze which was consuming their home and starting to spread to the trees nearby. The old man paused long enough to kick over one of the boxes. Several slightly out-of-round objects rolled out of the box. The old man recognized the objects as the firelight shone on the glazed eyes and frozen expressions on the heads of the primary Yakuza bosses in Harbor Point.

Shocked, the old man stood staring for a moment until the approaching sirens brought him back to the immediate danger. His fringe of hair curling from the intense heat, he scuttled out of the courtyard to join his son and daughter-in-law in trying to comfort a 12 year old girl whose comfortable world had just disappeared in flame and darkness. While his mouth shaped soothing words, his mind dwelled on the fact that the Yakuza’s entire power structure had been wiped out in a single night- and the price he would have to pay to bear the bad news to the Grand Oyabun back in Nippon.

Marika King strode into the Warlord's office and stopped in front of the control console that served as a desk. She Came to attention, then relaxed into the 'rest' postition at his nod.

"Sir! Battle Commander King reporting as ordered."

The Warlord waved his computer to 'standby' and looked the woman over, searching for any weaknesses that her file may not have contained. She was nearly two meters tall, muscular, and stood straight as a laser. Her dark hair had been cropped to a uniform 4 centimeters to fit better under a combat helmet. Her steel-grey uniform was clean and well-fitting, but lacked the razor-sharp creases typical of parade-ground 'soldiers'. The utility uniform had seen field use. He nodded.

"Welcome to Headquarters, King. I've been informed that you've refused your orders transferring you out of the top slot in I Corps." His face held no expression whatsoever.

King waited a beat to see if there was more, then nodded agreement. "That's true, sir. I was told that I had to speak to you if I wished to challenge the transfer."

His eyes bored into hers. "You do understand the possible consequences of challenging your orders?"

She didn't flinch from his gaze, but it took an effort. "Sir, I have exhausted the other options at Assignments. The Assignments Officer said that the last chance to avoid transfer was to appeal directly to you. He also said that I had better be damned convincing, because if you weren't impressed with my reasons, you'd fire me on the spot."

A slight smile made a brief appearance on the Warlord's lips. "And yet, here you are. I've reviewed your file, and the orders. They're generated by computer, and assign personnel according to the needs of the Service. You've been CG at I Corps for five years. You're due to rotate out ..."

Desperation overrode her apprehension, and she interrupted her Commander in Chief. "Sir, I've worked, fought, and bled with my troops for five years! I worked my way up from Basic to Commanding General in I Corps. I'm a combat officer, not a desk jockey! I am totally unsuited to Staff duty." She realized that her voice was rising, and calmed herself with an effort. "I know that if I'm assigned to HQ for more than a few weeks, I'll screw the pooch in a truly severe fashion and my career is over anyway. I might as well take a shot at staying where I belong. Sir."

She was shaking internally, genuinely frightened at what she'd just done. The Warlord arched an eyebrow, and she braced herself. He asked, "What makes you think you were being assigned to a Staff billet here at HQ?"

The question left her at a loss for several seconds. "Sir? I ... uh ... the orders said I was to detach from CG of I Corps and report for duty here."

"Quite so. I tasked the Assignments computer to find me a General Officer for a new project. The computer picked you. According to all the data in your Service Record, you're the perfect officer for the job." He glared at her for a moment. "Do you know how often I overrule the Assignment's computer?"

King squared her shoulders and thought, This is it. I'm history!. Aloud, she said, "The Assignments Officer said it's only happened twice before, sir."

He stared at her for a moment in silence, letting her sweat. "Everything you said is absolutely true. You'd be an absolute nightmare as a Staff officer. However, under the circumstances, I will not overrule the Assignments computer. I think you will be perfect for the job I have in mind."

King's shoulders slumped slightly before her self-discipline regained control. "Sir, I ... I can't work here. You said so yourself. I ..." Her voice trailed off as the reality of her failure took root in her mind.

The Warlord waited for a moment. "Not even if you get a promotion out of it?"

King was really confused now. "Promotion? Sir, I'm already at the highest pay grade."

The Warlord laughed out loud. "Relax, King. I won't apologize for putting you through the wringer like this- I had to see how you held up under pressure."

King's curiousity overcame her caution. "Sir? Does this mean I can remain as Commanding General of I Corps?"

"Not a chance. Your replacement has already taken charge of I Corps while we've been speaking." He slid a small box across the desk toward her. "Take it."

King reached out and picked up the small velvet box. At the Warlord's nod, she opened the box. A pair of black epaulets with a single large gold star surrounded by five smaller ones met her eyes. The Warlord's voice broke through her shock as she recognized the insignia. "As of this moment, you are the Fleet Marshall for Evil Overlord Enterprises."

Still in shock, King asked, "So it's not a Staff billet after all?"

The Warlord rose from his chair and walked around the desk. He took the epaulets out of the box and attached them to King's shoulders. "Not hardly, Marshall King. There's a major operation on the way, and I need a combat officer to take charge. The computer picked you. I concur." He finished attaching the rank tabs and stepped back. "You might want to thank me at some point."

King snapped to attention. "Thank you, sir."

"At ease, King." The Warlord walked back to his chair and sat down. "You are now the first Fleet Marshall in twenty-nine years. This position is so rare that there's only one set of rank tabs for it."

King's eyes widened. She reached up and touched an epaulet. "You mean ...?"

"That's right. I was the last one to wear those." He smiled at her expression. "There's a stain on the left one. Don't try to remove it. That stain came from Fleet Marshall Donovan when she stopped the Revalen advance at Three Mountains- nearly 90 years ago."

Standing straighter than ever, King tore her eyes away from the tabs and met her Commander in Chief's eyes. "I'll try to be worthy of it, sir."

"You'll do fine, Marshall." He waved her into the chair opposite him. "Lock your hand unit into the desk console, and I'll download the background to an operation I call Riposte."

"Mister Harmon, I have the Conn."

Lieutenant Annika Harmon was startled, but managed not to show it. She announced the change and stepped away from the command console. "The Captain has the Conn."

She waited until Captain Tracy locked his command key into the console, then unlocked her key and stepped back. "I stand relieved, sir."

Danielo Tracy quickly scanned the board to verify Chieftain's current status, then waved LT Harmon closer. "Relax, Mister Harmon. You haven't done anything wrong. Stand by to fill in while I'm involved with the tactical situation."

"Stand by, aye, Captain." Harmon didn't know what the hell was going on, but she'd served onboard Chieftain for two years, and got out of the Captain's way. She watched carefully as he gave a series of orders changing the boat's course and speed. Stepping to an open console, she pulled up the relevant data and nodded. The Captain's voice startled her.

"That's right, Mister Harmon. We're heading out to Phase Line Magus to make a pickup. We'll get the mating detail on station in three hours. In the meantime, get the kettle ticking again. I want the system fully charged before we make the drop-off run."

"Collar detail at 0241, aye, Captain." Harmon relayed the orders through the Self-Synchronous Internal Comm net to the affected Chief Petty Officers and notifed the Senior Watch Officer that the watchbill was getting revised ... again.

She reported her task to the Captain, then asked, "Captain, how much space will the passengers need? Chief Velazquez says Forward Two is still jammed with stores."

The CO nodded. "Good call, Mister Harmon. Seal Forward Two's aft watertight door and our passengers can stuff their gear on top of the stores. Tell Suppo that he will get everything he needs out of Two before our guests arrive, because he will not have access to that space until after they leave. Our guests will fit comfortably in One, and the usual security precautions apply."

"Roger that, Captain." Harmon replied crisply as she sent the follow-up data out on the SSIC.


Three hours later, Harmon watched the Captain skillfully maneuver Chieftain into position beneath the EOE Agammemnon. Aggie's divers were already in the water, and swiftly attached the flexible mating collar to the submarine's forward access trunk. Other divers attached cables to the hardpoints on Chieftain's hull and kept careful watch as the powerful winches drew the sub carefully into the open underwater bay of the converted former helicopter carrier. Once Chieftain was held rigidly in position by the cables and the extended hydraulic rams, the divers guided the transfer pod out of Agammemnon's well deck and attached it to the mating collar. A communication cable was attached to the sub's low sail.

Chieftain, this is Agammemnon. Stand by for personnel transfer.

Roger, Agammemnon. Send 'em over.

Chieftain, Agammemnon. 12 personnel in the trunk.

Agammemnon, Chieftain. I confirm 12- that is, one-two- personnel received.

Twelve personnel received, aye, Chieftain. Stand by for stores transfer.

Agammemnon, Chieftain. Send 'em through.

Chieftain, Agammemnon. Five tube containers in the trunk.

Roger that, Agammemnon. I confirm five tube containers received.

Five containers received, aye, Chieftain. Stand by to disengage.

Chieftain is standing by to disengage. Thank you, Captain. My compliments to your Docking Officer.

Our pleasure, Chieftain. Good hunting.

Chieftain's Dive Officer gradually reduced the amount of air in the ballast tanks, slowly lowering the submarine out of Agammemnon's docking bay. Once the sub was completely out of the bay and the position confirmed by Aggie's divers, the cables were disengaged and Chieftain slipped silently into the ocean depths.

The Captain rubbed the bridge of his nose and leaned back at the command console. "Mister Harmon. Who has the next OOD watch?"

Harmon checked the SSIC and noted that the SWO had updated the watchbill. "Captain, LCDR Wang Sho has the next watch, but that's not until 0600."

The Captain grunted, then shook his head. "Wake him up and get him up here soonest, Mister Harmon. A couple of extra hours on watch didn't kill you, so he'll probably survive as well." He stood and stretched as she relayed the order to Lieutenant Commander Wang Sho. One she was done, he motioned her to the command console. "Mister Harmon, I am ready to be relieved."

Harmon locked her key into the console and said, "I relieve you, sir."

The Captain, unlocked his key and stepped away from the console. "Mister Harmon, I stand relieved." He swept Conn with a weary eye. "Well done, everybody." He fixed the equally weary LT Harmon with his gaze. "Make sure these folks get relived early as well, Mister."

"I've already relayed the orders to the SWO, Captain."

He nodded in reply, then walked forward. "I'll be up in Forward One with our guests. Carry on."

Chieftain crept silently in toward the target coast. Her primary engines had run for two days at near-capacity to bring the secondary drive to full charge. The submarine was now almost entirely silent- even in the shallow waters chosen as the landing site.

Following detailed sea-floor mapping relayed to the boat by External Security, Chieftain was finally able to get within 300 meters of the shore- but there were only two meters of water over the top of the sail and three beneath the keel. Specially-designed thrusters along the sub's keel kept her from drifting in the fierce tide.

Hydraulic motors within the hull purred quietly and a section of Chieftain's hull opened slowly. Several small bubbles escaped, but the compartment now open to the sea had been carefully flooded well in advance, so the surface waters were undisturbed by more than the midnight onshore winds.

A surreal ballet was taking place 4 meters below. A dozen figures in scuba gear emerged from the opened compartment. They rapidly and professionally constructed a framework of light metals, to which a small electric motor was attached. Several tube-shaped objects were attached to the frame. One of the divers made a series of hand signals, and the others all spaced themselves along the frame and held on tightly. After pausing to signal Chieftain to close the hatch, the last diver grabbed the frame near the electric motor and switched it on.

The motor was effectively silent in the turbulent waters this near the beach. The divers move slowly but surely into shore, the slowly closing hatch on Chieftain's Forward Insertion Bay their last glimpse of the sub that had brough them here.

Once the water grew too shallow to move further forward without breaking the surface, the motor was switched off. The diver at the forward end of the frame pulled a small device from the frame and raised it above the surface. The device was clipped to the diver's mask and began scanning the shoreline with passive IR. Only after the diver covered the entire beach twice was a gestured signal given to the others. A switch was thrown, and the beach was scanned again with active IR, followed by light amplification.

Satisfied that the beach was clear, the divers disassembled the frame, attaching the metal poles to the five 2-meter by 1-meter tubes. The drive motor was carefully buried next to a large rock. The diver with the night vision periscope maintained a careful observation of the shore as the others worked. Once the equipment was ready, the divers slid carefully closer to shore- two divers pulling each tube.

The first two divers- who were not encumbered by heavy tubes- reached the beach well ahead of the others. They stripped off their masks and slipped into the dark undergrowth surrounding the beach.

After several tense minutes of waiting at the 1 meter water level, the remaining divers began rushing onto the beach after a barely-visible red light glowed from either end of the sand.

Once well into the concealing undergrowth, the divers stripped off their scuba gear. Two immediately donned night-vision goggles from one of the tubes, then grabbed shoulder weapons from another. They gestured silently to each other, then faded into the underbrush in opposite directions.

The other divers donned their own NVGs and pulled weapons and equipment out of the tubes. They were still at it when the first divers on the beach emerged from the bushes and began doffing their scuba gear. Seventy-four minutes after their departure from Chieftain, the team was burying the tubes- now full of diving gear and metal poles- in the soft ground in the bushes.

A few gestures sent the ten figures out of the underbrush and up the slight ridge overlooking the beach. Once they were in a secure position just below the crest of the ridge, the leader hit the 'transmit' key of his throat mike twice without speaking. No radio message responded, but the two divers who had been covering the team from the beach soon joined the team at the military crest.

The team leader checked his watch and made several gestures to the others. A brief but thorough examination of the far side of the ridge revealed that they were at the right spot. Another set of gestures, and the team slipped carefully over the ridge and disappeared into the thick growth on the far side that ran all the way down to the road.

Two hours later, a large van drove slowly along the road. The back door was open, and the team slipped easily into the vehicle one by one as it cruised sedately by. Once the team leader was in, he pulled the roll-up door down and latched it. The van immediately picked up speed. Looking around, the leader made two swift gestures, then stepped toward the front of the vehicle. He slid the door open and looked into the cab. A single man sat behind the wheel. His face seemed slightly familiar, but the leader decided this was not the case- the man's features were so ordinary that he looked familiar. He caught the driver's eye.

"How are we doing?" He asked quietly.

The driver thumbed a button on the steering column. A tiny display rotated out of the dashboard. The leader recognized the all-bands RF detector, and was relieved that there was no signal showing. "We look pretty good right now, Lieutenant." The driver said easily. "We're due to hit town in about ten mikes.

He hooked a thumb toward the back of the van. "There's a concealed hatch in the floor back there where you can store your long weapons and other gear. You'll find coats and hats of local make in the overhead."

Lieutenant Pericles M'Zangwe nodded and turned to relay the information to the rest of the team. They immediately started stowing their unconcealable gear and donning coats and hats. Long before they started passing signs of civilization, the team no longer resembled a special forces unit.

The driver slid the door open and called into the back. "Lieutenant? If you'll slide up into the passenger seat, I'll start briefing you on the operation."

M'Zangwe squeezed past the central console and settled into the shotgun seat. "First things first." He said as he got comfortable. "Where the hell are we?"

The nondescript man driving turned his head and smiled. "This is an island nation called Old Tersanctus, Lieutenant. It used to be a colony of a larger country called Tersanctus. A strongman has recently wrested control of the island from its parent country, and we're going to take it away from him."

"Who's we?"

The driver returned his attention to the road and said, "Your team, several thousand outraged citizens ... and me." The man's smile had no humor in it whatsoever, and Lieutenant M'Zangwe- an eleven year Strike Force veteran- was chilled by the lethal certainty he could see in the driver's eyes.

The rest of the trip was spent in silence.

"Tell me again what this rock is called."

Tyrone Orichalco, Commanding Officer of the Prometheus sighed heavily. He was a proud man, accustomed to running the ship his own way, and having one of the corporate Directors aboard for this assignment grated on his nerves. "It's called Isla del Veracruz, Director."

Horace Mathurin grunted irritably and leaned over the computer display to examine the satellite and aircraft imagery. "These pics from the recon bird are a godsend. See this? You can see that the pier is still intact after 40 years of storms."

Captain Orichalco was already familiar with the imagery, so he kept silent. Horace didn't seem to notice. "Why hasn't anyone tried to do anything with these facilities since WeberCorp went tits up?"

He raised his eyes and looked out the bridge windows into the darkness. "Captain, I'll want the helo ready to go at 0800. Take Prometheus around the southern end of the island and approach the village from the west. Find a safe anchorage just outside the bay."

The Captain frowned. "Director Mathurin, I would like to put my objection on record ..." he began. Horace cut him off.

"Captain, you are a very good sea captain. Despite the fact that my staff and I have completely disrupted the ship's normal routine, you have kept things running smoothly and professionally." He lowered his voice slightly, forcing the Captain to lean closer. "Nonethless, I will relieve you of your command on the instant if you disagree with my decisions in front of the crew again."

The Captain straightened and nodded, only the hard glint in his eyes betraying the anger he felt. Horace stared into Orichalco's eyes for a moment to make sure the message sank in before continuing.

"There's a method to my madness, Captain. Something killed the people at that WeberCorp facility 30 years ago. Whatever did those people in managed to leave the buildings intact. For some unknown reason, no one has successfully reoccupied the facility since it was abandoned."

Horace tapped a finger on the satellite map of the island. "This village has been on the island for nearly a hundred years. The people there managed to avoid getting killed off by whatever happened to WeberCorp. I plan on talking to those people before we make any attempt to approach the abandoned facility at the far end of the island. Understand?"

The Captain thought it over for a few moments, then nodded agreement. "I beg your pardon, Director. I hadn't thought that part of it through."

Horace smiled briefly. The Captain was finally coming around. "No problem, Captain. Just see to it that the helo is ready to launch at 0800. I'll take one of the engineers with me."

"I'll see to it, Director."

Horace Mathurin watched the island grow through the helicopter's windscreen and checked the geography against his mental image from the satellite data. Isla del Veracruz was small, as volcanic islands went. The island was roughly the shape of a crescent moon, about 12 kilometers long by 5 wide. The cone of the long-dormant Vulcan Capital loomed over the scintillating blue waters of the bay within the arms of the crescent. Four or five smaller islets described a rough circle corresponding with the arc of the main island's crescent shape.

Horace nodded to himself as the aerial view confirmed his earlier suspicions. The big island and the little islets nearby were the remnants of a much larger volcano that had apparently exploded a very long time ago. He pointed toward the much newer cone of Vulcan Capital and ordered the pilot to make a swing around it.

Up close, the volcano's dormancy seemed to be in doubt. No vegetation grew anywhere near the crater at the top- even though the mountain was far from reaching the 3 kilometer treeline- and the little vegetation that grew on the cone itself was stunted in many places and completely absent in long streaks down the sides of the mountain. Dialing up the magnification in his binoculars, Horace examined the land between the volcano and the abandoned WeberCorp facility 3 kilometers away. After a few minutes of careful examination, he ordered the pilot to head to the village at the far end of the island.

"Circle the village at around 400 meters, Mike. A couple of circuits ought to be enough to let 'em know we're coming." He turned to the engineer in the cockpit's back seat. "Keep a close eye on the terrain as we get close to the village. I'm pretty sure I know what happened to those WeberCorp folks 30 years ago- and the PanGlobal people 8 years ago."

The village was almost a small town. Several score buildings were clustered together around what was obviously a well in the main square of the town. A large and ornate cathedral- adequate for twice the town's population- of Spanish design occupied one side of the square. Several dozen other structures were visible scattered throughout the small fields that surrounded the town. The cultivation ended abruptly at a three-meter rift wall that neatly cut across from water to water and isolated the village from the bulk of the island. Several sturdy-looking piers poked out into the waters of the ocean, protected by a truly impressive artificial breakwater that created a small harbor. Only one fishing boat was present, but Horace could just glimpse several others far out to sea.

"All right, Mike. Put us down in that beach area between the town and the docks, if you can."

The pilot hovered over the indicated spot for a few minutes, testing the wind and observing the area for loose debris. At length he said, "Yes, sir. That'll do."

The helicopter settled to the ground near the docks, and Horace climbed out with Carl Dumarest, the engineer, right on his heels. The pilot checked to make sure they were clear before he increased power to the rotors and climbed into the sky.

Several children peered at the two men from a shack nearby. A slender man with more grey than black in his hair and beard walked out of the shack a moment later. He was a little under two meters tall, and probably around 80 kilos. His coveralls were grimy, grease-stained, and had been repaired many times, but Horace still recognized it as an antique Battle Dress Uniform. The man also carried a long bolt-action rifle in his hands. The rifle looked to be as old as the tattered uniform, but was in perfect condition. That and the casually familiar way in which the man held the weapon convinced Horace that he had seen the elephant a time or two.

He grinned at the armed man and stepped forward slowly. He stopped a few meters from the man and said, "Good morning, friend. My name is Horace Mathurin. I am Director of Overseas Development for Megalaff Industries." he turned slightly and introduced the engineer behind him. "This is Carl Dumarest, one of MMI's engineers."

He turned back to the armed man, who still held the rifle at the ready. It wasn't pointed at him, but Horace could tell by the man's obvious familiarity with the weapon that it could very quickly do so. The man's eyes examined him carefully, then performed the same inspection of Dumarest. The hard eyes softened minutely. "I am called Emilio Velazquez y Cordoba." He didn't offer to shake hands. "What does your company want with Isla del Veracruz?"

Horace nodded at the straightforward question. "We're interested in the abandoned shipping facility at the other end of the island."

Emilio laughed briefly, then spat. "Ha! Another pack of fools ready to die for the almighty dollar."

Horace smiled. "That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you folks here in town about. Is there someplace where we can get a drink?"

Emilio rested the barrel of the rifle on his left arm. It was a fairly non-threatening position, but Horace noted that Emilio's right hand never left the butt of the weapon and his finger still lay alongside the trigger guard. Emilio said, "To be sure. I will take you to the Alcalde."

As they walked, Horace asked several pertinent questions about the fishing, the farms, and the low-lying jungle on the other side of the great rift across the island. Emilio confirmed that the village suffered lightly from the rare earthquakes, and that the village's elevation above the rest of the island was repsonsible for the people's survival.

A square building with wide windows open on the square opposite the cathedral was the apparent destination. Emilio gestured Horace and Carl to precede him within. The interior was cool and comfortable. Several tables and chairs occupied one side of the room, and a highly-polished bar covered the other. A skeletally thin man with only a fringe of grey hair around his head above the ears was wiping the bar top with a rag.

Emilio called, "Tomas! I have two men from far away who wish to talk about the hacienda grande." He sat at the end of the bar and rested his rifle on the bar top. "Senor Mathurin, Senor Dumarest. This is Tomas Altacama y Rodriguez, Alcalde of Pueblo Veracruz."

Tomas shook his head. "Every few years, another group of businessmen arrive with plans for the hacienda. The lucky ones give up and go away. The fools remain and die. Are you foolish or lucky, senores?"

Horace grinned broadly. "I've been called a lot worse than fool, but I suppose it applies." He gestured behind the bar. "Is the bar open? I would enjoy a beer."

Tomas passed two chilled beers across the bar, then a third down the bar to Emilio. He sipped on what looked like a lemonade. "With what money do you pay?"

"I have Tersanctan credits, Mexican pesos, Nipponese Yen, and Chinese Yuan. Which do you prefer?"

Tomas thought briefly. "Three credits."

Horace passed the notes across the bar. He opened the beer and took a sip, finding it surprisingly good. He finished the bottle quickly, and asked for another. As he paid for the drink, he said, "I have many questions about the 'hacienda', el vulcan, and the rift. Could you please tell me ..."

George Rivera, the new CG of I Corps, waited impatiently for the Marshall's aide to finish her secure message, then cleared his throat. When the young Lieutenant looked up, he leaned over the desk and asked, "Is there some reason why a Battle Commander is cooling his heels in your lobby?" He hooked his thumb at his chest to ensure that the young officer knew who he referred to.

Rivera was a little short of two meters tall, and massed a good 110 kilos- every gram of it muscle. His face seemed to have been used as a punching bag for a very long time before being left out in the weather for several decades. Arms that seemed slightly too long ended in hands with scarred knuckles and large callouses on the right index finger. A single huge, bushy eyebrow and dense black hair completed the neanderthal appearance. This look was useful, in that many people overlooked the fine intellect inside the heavy skull. It was also useful for frightening people who stood in his way.

The Marshall's aide was made of sterner stuff. She checked her computer link with a glance, then shook her head. "I'm sorry, General." She said sympathetically. "The Marshall's been held up at the Warlord's office. She's aware that you're here, and that she's running behind. I'm sure she'll be able to explain everything to your satisfaction when she arrives."

Rivera's scowl deepened. He stopped his unsuccessful attempt to browbeat the woman and stepped away from the desk. "Do you have a secure commline?" He asked in a reasonable tone. "I have to tell my XO that I'm running behind."

"Certainly, General. Would you like some coffee?" The aide showed Rivera the comm-booth, which was concealed behind her desk. He shook his head to refuse the coffee and stepped into the booth to talk to his Assistant Corps Commander.

When he stepped out, Fleet Marshal King was waiting for him. "General Rivera, I owe you an apology for keeping you waiting like this." She waved aside the beginnings of his salute. "Save that for the parade ground, George, and come into my office."

The aide opened the door for King to enter, and repeated her question about refreshments. The Marshall raised an eyebrow to Rivera, who shook his head. She turned to the aide, still standing in the doorway. "That will be all, Lieutenant. Hold my calls until the General leaves, please."

Waving Rivera into a chair, the Marshall walked around the desk console and sat in her own. "What can I do for you today, George?"

Knowing that his usual intimidating behavior wouldn't work, Rivera just went right to the point. "Why isn't I Corps included in this operation near Tersanctus?" he asked.

Marika King did not like George Rivera much. Their individual command styles were very different, and this had caused friction when he'd been her XO at I Corps. She did respect him, however, and they both shared a common outlook on getting things done. She nodded. "Part of it is, George. I'm pulling the 16th and 24th ADA for the operation, and the 11th and 9th Cavalry."

"I know that." Rivera didn't quite snarl. "That's how I found out about the operation in the first palce. Why not take the whole Corps?"

The Marshall shook her head. "Tersanctus is just a sideshow, George. I'm cobbling together a three-division unit from I, III, and IX Corps. Besides, putting an entire Corps on Old Tersanctus would leave the island a smoking ruin. You know that as well as I do."

Rivera nodded. He didn't have to like it, but he agreed with King's assessment. He changed tack. "You said it'sjust a sideshow. That implies that there's something larger coming up."

King nodded, and gestured for Rivera to lock his handcomp into the desk console port. "I'll give you a few of the preliminary details, George, but you don't talk about them." She gave him a hard stare. "That means no one hears about this until I tell you different. Am I making that clear?"

Rivera nodded. "Yes, sir."

King's eyes softened minutely. She continued. "Some things that you can talk about are loading in your hand unit now. Briefly, I'm moving I, III, and V Corps east. You will be the senior officer, but I will be in command. I want you to take command of Fort Ahriman. Use that as your headquarters. Put V Corps to your north, and III Corps north of Acheron."

Rivera reviewed the data quickly. "Expecting trouble with our tree-hugger neighbors?"

King nodded soberly. "The latest prog says we'll be at war with them by the end of the year."

"How certain are you?"

The Marshall leaned forward. "That's part of what took so long at HQ this morning. The Warlord ran the prog three times. We went from 90% probability to 96%."

Rivera sat back and thought for a minute. "That's why you took my Skyrippers for this Tersanctus thing."

King smiled. "Good to see you haven't lost your taste for strategy, George. That's right. The 16th will be protecting a forward logistics base on Isla del Veracruz. Everything else will be going in with the Expeditionary unit."

She called up the map of the eastern reaches. "That's the reason I want you at Fort Ahriman. You'll be light on Air Defense, and the Fort has lots of AD batteries."

Rivera stood and saluted. "This was worth being kept waiting, sir. Is there anything else?"

King stood and offered her hand. As Rivera shook it, she said, "That oughta do it for now, George."

Rivera was completely out of the building and the command car he rode halfway back to I Corps when he got the Marshall's joke. His laughter was pitched slighltly lower than an earthquake, and it continued all the way back.

"Sarge, why can't we go visit the village at the other end of the island?'

A chorus of agreement followed the peevish question. Sergeant Dozier slid the receiver assembly back into his Intruder battle rifle and looked up at the questioner. It was Vanderberg. As usual.

Dozier glanced around the room at the rest of the platoon. The veterans were all sleeping or tending their weapons. Three or four of the FNG's were standing behind Vanderberg. His fingers kept up the work of re-assembling the Intruder as he spoke. "Well, people, I could go into the long and involved tale about why the brass wants us to stay clear of the locals. I could tell you that it's for security reasons- which is true. But the reason you're not going to visit the village is simple- Lieutenant Carter said the village was off-limits. End of discussion."

Dozier's hands twisted the last pin into position. He picked up the bottle of oil and capped it before tossing it to PFC Jitaro. She grabbed the bottle out of the air and set it next to her Intruder as she started stripping and function-checking the weapon. The Sergeant looked up and saw Vanderberg and his cronies still standing next to his bunk.

"Vanderberg, don't you have something useful to do?"

The young Private was still too new in the Service to understand the real meaning of that question. He answered, "No, Sarge. That's why I was asking ..." His voice trailed off as the veterans who were awake all started chuckling.

With a wide smile on his face, Sergeant Dozier hopped nimbly off his bunk and took the startled Private by the arm. "I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that, Vanderberg." He said as he led the private down the squad bay. He stopped at the door to the barracks head and swung the door open with a flourish. "Take a look at that."

Vanderberg looked in, but all he could see were the sinks and toilets, and the locker room doorway beyond. "Look at what Sarge?"

Pushing Vanderberg into the room, Dozier said in a loud voice. "You can't see it? My God, man. That's gonna make this job tough."

Vanderberg was beginning to regret opening his mouth. "What job? See what? I don't understand."

As soon as the door closed behind them, Sergeant Dozier spun the younger man around to face him. "Listen close, you little snot!" he snarled into Vanderberg's face. "Me boss. You not. I say. You do. Understand?"

Vanderberg was only now realizing how hard he'd stepped on his dick. "Jeez, Sarge, I'm ..."

Dozier shut him up with the back of his left hand. The blow would have knocked Vanderberg down if Dozier's right hand hadn't prevented it. Effortlessly holding the Private up as his eyes rolled, Dozier snarled, "There's something that's going to leave your vocabulary right now! My name is Sergeant Dozier. If I hear the word sarge come out of you one more time, you'll be a 'training casualty'. Understand?"

When Vanderberg regained control of his limbs, Dozier released him and stepped back. "This head is filthy, Private. Until I am happy with the cleanliness of this head, you don't eat, sleep, or take breaks. Any questions?"

Private Vanderberg nodded, the mark of Dozier's hand flaming on his cheek. "Sergeant? Where do I get cleaning gear?"

"Draw them from Corporal Tomasino at the other end of the squad bay. Anything else?"

Vanderberg was certain that the answer to that question had better be no, so that's what he said. Dozier nodded curtly. "Get started, then. I'll send in your little cheering section to help you out. You all had better hurry, 'cause the chow line secures at 1700."

After leaving the head and informing Vanderberg's cronies of their task, Sergeant Dozier returned to his bunk. The veterans knew what had happened, but no one said a word. There were several grins, though.


Several hours later, Sergeant Dozier's helmet buzzed. He woke up and slipped it over his head, dropping the boom mike down to speak. "Four-three. Go ahead."

The voice at the other end of the channel was familiar despite the sideband distortion. Lieutenant Carter said, "Off and on, Sarge. A new load of troops just arrived. Get your boys saddled up and out to the pad. You're responsible for showing them the drill on the barracks and the duty roster."

"Roger that, sir. Slasher Four-Three, out." Dozier rolled out of his bunk and hit the 'alert' button. The barracks lights all came on, and the PA system relayed his words. "Everybody out of the barracks in utility gear in five minutes. Last squad to assemble gets to field day the barracks. Anyone straggling out after five minutes is on my shit list for a month. Move it!"

The veterans were already moving, not toward the airlock at the end of the barracks, but helping out the FNG's as they struggled to get their gear on. Dozier walked to the end of the squad bay and strapped on his air mask, letting the face piece dangle as he checked the airlock monitors. No alarms were lit, so he opened the inner door and stepped through, closing it behind him. The PFC on duty grinned at him. "No toxic gases today, Sergeant."

Dozier grinned back, noticing that the guard's canister readout was still green. Once the inner door was shut, he opened the outer on and stepped out onto the street. Sounds to the south proved that the Engineers were hard at work building another airtight barracks complex. Dozier's eyes were drawn to the smoking cone of the volcano that overlooked this end of the island, then to the automatic displays that would warn of toxic fumes from the many vents that riddled the island.

He turned around and was pleased to see that the entire platoon was formed up on the street behind him. He checked the time display on his helmet visor and noted that it had only taken them 4 minutes and fifteen seconds.

"Good work, people!" he roared. "There's another ship pulling in with an entire battalion aboard. We're going to get them to their billets and make sure they understand the dangers here. Each squad has their assignments on their hand units. Make sure you get a good count and don't forget to warn 'em about the volcano. Any questions?"

There were none. Dozier nodded to Corporal ibn Faqar. "All right, Corporal. Move 'em out!"

Following the platoon toward the waterfront, Dozier was surprised to see Lieutenant Carter join him. She nodded at the back of the column and said. "Those are good troops, Sergeant."

Dozier considered carefully before he replied. "Too many of 'em are green. We won't really know what they're like until they come under fire."

Carter nodded. "True enough, Sergeant. Speaking of which ... " She let her voice trail off and stopped. Dozier stopped as well and faced her. She lowered her voice. "Latest data from HQ has us getting underway day after tomorrow. You won't believe the orders when you get 'em, so I'm warning you now."

With a puzzled frown, the Sergeant said, "What kind of orders, sir?"

Gesturing the Sergeant to resume walking, his Platoon Leader said, "We're not going to make our usual insertion, Sergeant. We'll be traveling in style on this one."

As the two followed their troops down to the waterfront, the work at Camp Alpha continued unabated all around them. The huge berm and wall on the landward side was finished, and dozens of airtight barracks buildings were already in place- with more being constructed. Air-Defense batteries watched for potential air threats, and ships by the score floated in the harbor.

At the far end of the island, eyes watched the general bustle of the old WeberCorp facility through antique binoculars. Emilio sighed as he remembered his own military service, decades past. He turned back to the village Alcalde and said, "There are nearly one hundred ships in the harbor, and they have opened and extended the old airfield. Each of those buildings holds close to one hundred men, and they are building more of them. This is not a marine construction company."

Tomas shook his head and pushed a beer across the bar to his friend. "I think that they will be gone soon, amigo."

Emilio took a sip. "What will make them go if they want to stay? Me with my rifle?"

Tomas grinned. "Of course not. But why would they want to stay? We have nothing that is worth the effort to take us. They are going to leave soon, I think. Most of them."

Another ship showed itself around the headland, and two more headed out to sea, riding high after off-loading their cargo.

"I hope you are right, Tomas." Emilio said as he finished his beer. "They have many men and supplies to move. I think that they will remain for longer than you think."

Silently, the two men watched the EOE military machine establish a forward logistics base on Isla del Veracruz.

The Island Futbol League championship was the most-watched television program on Old Tersanctus. Practically everyone watched it. Television executives drooled visibly at the thought of the multimillion credit advertisements that would broadcast on that day. Advertisers wet themselves at the thought of getting their message out to 90% of the population at once. The regular people looked forward to the excellent futbol, and counted on being amused by the clever commercials. Perhaps the game and the commercials would help them forget the cruel dictator who had murdered the designated Viceroy and wrested the island away from the home country of Tersanctus.

But others were also aware of the splendid opportunity. For weeks before the game, fishing boats laden with concealed electronics were conveniently floating in the ocean near the broadcast tower for Totalmundo television network on the outskirts of Empire Landing. The frequencies and coding of the broadcasts were carefully plotted.

On the day of the game, a battered green van drove up to the gate in the fence surrounding the tower. The driver got slowly out of the van and hammered on the gate with his fist. Getting no response, he returned to the van and began honking his horn. After several minutes of this, he was rewarded by the guard poking his head out of the front door of the small building at the base of the tower. The driver stopped honking and walked up to the gate, holding several papers in his hand.

The guard swore loudly, then walked out to meet the man. "What do you want? The game is starting."

The driver spat into the grass alongside the gate. "Try telling me something I don't know. I got a party all set up. I got the food, some sangria, a box of cigars, and my pindejo boss calls me up and says to check out the generator here."

The guard looked back at the small shack near the tower that held the generator. "There's nothing wrong with the generator."

The driver snarled. "There's never anything wrong with the damned generator! I think my boss is pissed 'cause I'm dating his cousin. He says it's because of the power problems we've been having in town."

"I can't let you in without a work order."

Several papers on a clipboard were slipped through the fence. "Here. Call 'em up and check. Make them miss some of the game!"

The guard skimmed through the papers quickly, mindful that the game was already starting. "I don't know." he said doubtfully. "Maybe you should come back tomorrow."

A smile lit up the driver's face. "Suits me just fine, amigo! Just sign on the bottom of the Work Stoppage form, and I can get back to the party before my stupid brother drinks all the sangria."

The guard thought about it for a minute, then remembered the Security manager telling him that the big bosses would skin whoever was found responsible if anything interrupted their most lucrative show. "How long will it take?"

"Aw, come on!" the driver cried. "Just sign the damned paper and I can go home."

Shaking his head, the guard said, "I don't like missing the game any more than you do. But I'm not going to risk the big bosses ripping me a new asshole if something does go wrong." He unlocked the gate and handed the clipboard back to the driver. "Go on in and get started."

Muttering under his breath, the driver stalked back to his van and ground the gears for a minute before finally driving through the gate. He parked next to the generator shack and started unloading tools as the guard relocked the gate and started walking back to the tower.

The first period was about half gone when the guard heard a knock on the door. He jumped to his feet and cursed. "Damn! I forgot about the guy working on the generator!" His partner pulled his feet out of the way as the first guard rushed to the door, anxious not to miss any more of the excitement that was absolutely necessary. He pulled the door open and started to say, "Just give me a minute to open the gate."

Three large caliber bullets threw him back from the door in a spray of blood and brains. One of the four shooters leaped immediately through the doorway and fired at the remaining guard, who was reaching for the alarm button. The first shot shattered the television screen. The second and third hit the guard in the shoulder and neck. He fell to the floor in front of the smoking television, his hand still reaching for the alarm. The gunman stepped forward and aimed carefully. A final bullet tore through the young man's temple and sprayed gore across the floor and the TV console.

The four men quickly searched the tower control room for any other occupants. Discovering that they had the building to themselves, they immediately set to work. Complex electronic equipment was brought in from the van and attached to the control console. Once the equipment was in place, the gate was opened using the guards' keys, and the van was driven outside and hidden in an alley nearby. Three men remained in the tower building, counting down the seconds until the signal from the first set of commercials arrived.

All over the island, people watching the game were surprised to see the commercials interrupted. A tall man in a Tersanctus military uniform stood in the picture. A mask covered his face. He spoke briefly.

"People of Old Tersanctus. For too long, the usurper has held a gun at your heads. Anyone who dares speak out against his tyranny is ruthlessly killed. The Palace has become a haven of illicit lust and drugs.

No more.

As of this moment, the People's Resistance will no longer hide in the shadows as the usurper grinds his heel in the faces of the people. From this moment forth, we will strike back at the tyrant and his mutinous minions. Secret Policemen who carry out orders to murder, rape, and torture the people they are supposed to protect will be killed.

To the people of Old Tersanctus, we say, 'Be of good cheer, for we are here to help and protect you. If you are victimized by the usurper or his underlings, speak of it. You will not know who among the people you meet might be a member of the Resistance. Someone will get the word to us. Speak of the outrage and injustice, and the People's Resistance will act to correct it. Have faith. Have courage. We are everywhere.'

To the usurper and his minions we say, 'Your days are numbered. We will strike, and then disappear. Your vengeance will threaten only empty air. Our vengeance will come as a whirlwind. From this moment forth, none of you are safe.'"

The man's face vanished, replaced by the flag of Old Tersanctus until it was time for the next commercial.

All over the island, people stared at their TVs in shock. The clever commercial advertisements capered unnoticed on the screens. Almost as one, the people picked up their phones and called up their friends and relatives and co-workers to talk about what had just happened.

“Hey, Sarge! Why we going back into town?”

Corporal Hagen keyed his helmet mic and snarled, “Jingo, shut the Hell up and drive!”

Private Jingo Delarossi didn’t respond, but the lurch when George Five started moving told Hagen that Jingo got the message. Sergeant Coyle hit the intercom switch. “Hagen, load HE.” A rapid slide-click accompanied the sergeant’s voice, telling Hagen that the tank commander had locked and loaded the cupola machine gun. “The Avalon Cops called in that there’s some sort of weird demonstration going on. Us and George Three” the sergeant continued, referring to the other tank in the detached unit. “are gonna back up the troopies of Delta Niner while they check it out.”

Hagen tripped the foot switch to open the ammo bay and drew out a fat cartridge of High Explosives. He turned toward the main gun’s breech and loaded the round, his foot leaving the switch and allowing the bay doors to close. “HE loaded!” he called up to the TC. Coyle grunted acknowledgement.

Coyle always rode with his head and shoulders out of the cupola hatch. The roar of the diesel and the clatter of the tracks came through the opening, threatening the tankers’ ears had they not been wearing their helmets. Jingo kept the tank’s speed at around 35 kph to spare the crew from the bumpy ride that always resulted from driving the tank at speed- even over smooth roads like those the treads were destroying.

Jingo swore as he was forced to swerve George Five around the APC Delta Niner had left in an intersection. Quick maneuvers risked throwing a tread, which would have been mildly destructive to the buildings lining the streets as George Five. Jingo managed to save the tread and miss the APC entirely, at the cost of shattering the bricks on the corner of the building beside the APC. Cursing the infantry drivers bitterly, Jingo moved George Five off the sidewalk and onto the street as Sergeant Coyle breathed, “What the hell?” into the intercom.

Hagen looked up at the surprised note in Coyle’s voice, then looked through the main gun’s sight. Several thousand people lined the streets ahead of the tank. None of them were doing anything. They were all just standing on the sidewalks, practically elbow to elbow.

Puling away from the sights, Hagen looked up as he heard the tank commander talking on the radio. Coyle shook his head, then said, “Break. Jingo, pull us off to the right, here. George Three will move across the intersection. Delta Niner says that there’s almost ten thousand people on the sidewalks, just standing there.”

Jingo chimed in with, “Ain’t none of ‘em have guns, though, from what I can see..”

Coyle nodded. “Keep your head inside the hull, Jingo. Looks like we get to wait until somebody figures out what they want us to do.”

Jingo brought the tank to a halt and dropped down inside the hull, closing the hatch above him. He asked, “Sarge? Ain’t there some law against public demonstrations?”

Hagen heard Coyle talking on the push to Delta Niner’s Platoon Leader and answered for him. “Yeah, there is, Only thing is, these folks aren’t exactly demonstrating. They aren’t blocking streets or anything.”

Jingo’s voice was troubled. “Still gives me the creeps.”

Hagen’s reply was drowned out by the roar of George Three driving by on the way across the street to the next intersection. Coyle was scanning the rooftops through binoculars. As the other tank approached the intersection ahead, the sergeant stiffened in shock. Hagen caught the movement and shoved his face back into the gunsight. He heard Coyle\s voice saying, “George Three! There’s movement on the roof at your eight oclock!”

The snarl of a rocket igniting and the explosion immediately afterward was the only reply. Hagen rotated the turret left and palmed the main gun up without taking his eyes from the sight picture. Coyle’s 7.62mm machine gun spat at the figures running across the rooftop above the burning remains of George Three. Visible only as scurrying shadows in Hagen’s peripheral vision, the crowds on the sidewalks were running from the sudden eruption of violence in their peaceful demonstration. Hagen ignored everything except the reticle of his sights as they slid across the buildings down the block and finally stopped on the wall of the target. His right hand grabbed the trigger, and the main gun leaped backward with the sound of thunder.

As he turned away from the sight to load another round, Hagen saw the wall burst from the high-velocity impact. The explosion a moment later was almost lost in the renewed roar of the diesel as Jingo obeyed Coyle’s commands to get the tank moving.

Hagen slammed a fresh HE round into the breach and planted his face in the sigh. He rotated the turret farther left, keeping the target building in view as the tank crawled forward. The entire outer wall had been blown across the street by the explosion of the first round. Hagen slid the reticle to the left of his first shot and yanked the trigger again. The gun’s breech slammed back with the recoil, shooting the expended shell across the cramped gun compartment. Hagen spun and reloaded with another round of High Explosive.

The target building had two enormous holes in the lower floors on two sides. The explosions had shattered concrete and steel supports, and fires were sputtering in anything even vaguely flammable. Hagen continued his dance of reloading and shooting until all 8 rounds of High Explosive had been fired into the building’s lower floors.

Coyle was shouting, “Cease fire! Cease fire!” as George Five moved down the street toward the target building. The TC’s machine gun had long since stopped firing for lack of targets. The building shivered once, then slowly cascaded into the streets. Panic-stricken noncombatants screamed and ran or threw themselves flat in vain attempts to escape the rain of concrete and steel that engulfed them. A plume of concrete and drywall dust rose over the streets as the last of the debris stopped moving.

Coyle was on the radio, speaking tersely as he called for ambulances. Jingo opened his hatch and stuck his head out to survey the destruction. “ Day-yum! You knocked down the whole building!”

Hagen sagged back against the ammo bay doors. He’d been operating at maximum for too long to keep his feet once the adrenaline drained out of him. His mind replayed the images from his sight picture over and over. He coughed to clear his throat from the sickly-sweet taste of gunpowder. “They deserved it.” He croaked. “They deserved it.”

The TV screen shows the face of stereotypical foreign correspondent Jay Montoya, standing on a street in front of a demolished building. Behind him, several dozen people are digging vigorously into the rubble that has covered most of an intersection, including several cars. Barely visible to Jay's left is a burned-out tank hull.

"I am speaking to you live from the intersection of Metcalf and Villacamba streets in the city of Avalon, Old Tersanctus. Only two hours ago, a peaceful demonstration took place along the streets here, in defiance of Strongman Byron Tillema's ban on public gatherings."

The screen cuts to footage of several thousand people standing on the sidewalks of the city as Montoya's voice continues

"People here won't discuss how it was organized, but at 9:30 this morning, people began gathering on the sidewalks of the business district here. They were careful to avoid blocking streets, they did not chant slogans or even carry signs. It was supposed to last an hour."

The screen flashes back to Montoya in the street. He gestures to his left. The camera follows the gesture and zooms in on the burned-out tank.

"Less than ten minutes into the demonstration, the police discovered the activity. Several police attempts to interview members of the demonstration were met with silence. The police withdrew from the district and called for military support. Two tanks and several armored personnel carriers arrived twenty minutes later. The government has yet to release a statement, but several people in the city- who refuse to be identified- claim that the tanks opened fire on the crowds."

The screen cuts away to file footage of the initial demonstrations against Tillema's usurpation of viceregal power. Tanks fire into the crowd of several thousand demonstrators, the explosions scattering bodies- and body parts- around the streets. The screen cuts back to Montoya, who walks over to rest his hand on the still-smoking hull of the tank.

"At some point, members of the People's Resistance put in an appearance, destroying this tank with what was described as a military anti-tank rocket. The surviving tank fired into the apartment building across the intersection, supposedly to kill the People's Resistance fighters on the roof."

Montoya loosens the belt on his trenchcoat as he walks back across the intersection to stand in front of the debris and the frantic rescue workers.

According to all witness accounts, the infantrymen on the scene did not fire- either at the fleeing crowd or the People's Resistance fighters. The second tank fired perhaps a dozen rounds from its main gun into the apartment building, which collapsed into the intersection. The four-story building was occupied by an estimated 100 people- mostly women and children. There is little hope that many of those people survived the explosions, the fires that followed, and the collapse of the building. Several dozen people on the streets were also killed when the building collapsed across the intersection. Local residents are desperately digging into the rubble in search of possible survivors. Oddly, there has been no sign of emergency vehicles or government personnel to assist in the rescue efforts for people who were in fact innocent bystanders in the first armed confrontation between the People's Resistance and the Old Tersanctus Militia."

The camera sudenly pans right to show a column of armored personnel carriers approaching the area. It swings again to show another column already stopped at a nearby intersection. Armed troops are disembarking the vehicles.

"What the hell? Ladies and gentlemen, there appear to be several hundred troops approaching the scene. We're going to change locations so we don't get ca ..."

The screen goes blank after a brief flash of light. The International Network News logo comes on the screen briefly, then the regular anchorpersons return, staring wide-eyed into the cameras in the studio.

All over the island nation of Old Tersanctus, every television broadcast was interrupted when the screens all went blank, only to return to life seconds later showing a man in the uniform of a Colonel in the Militia. He nodded once at the camera, then began speaking.

"Due to the unstable security situation, all foreign nationals- including journalists- are ordered to leave Old Tersanctus within 24 hours.

All media outlets will be under direct government control until further notice. To avoid a repetition of the terrorist attack on a broadcast station during the futbol championship, military units will be stationed at all media organizations to increase security.

All broadcasts of any kind must be approved in advance by government authorities, or the broadcasting party will be assumed to be acting in concert with the radical elements who are trying to destabilize the government.

A dusk-to-dawn curfew is in effect in Avalon, Empire Landing, and Ben Weston Beach. Police will have radio contact with military units stationed nearby to deal with any potential problems.

Effective immediately, all cell-phone use is prohibited. Cell-phone transmitter towers are being dismantled. Any attempt to use a cell-phone will be considered an act of treason.

To contain the scattered radical elements, all travel between cities must be approved by military personnel. Unauthorized travel will be considered grounds for arrest. Fuel will be rationed for military use. Any excess fuel wil lbe distributed by military personnel.

Possession of weapons of any sort is subject to government control. All weapons must be taken to the nearest police station to be registered. All weapons must be registered within three days. Anyone in possession of unregistered weapons after the three-day grace period will be considered an enemy of the state.

Public gatherings are being used by radical elements to foment discontent. All gatherings of more than 10 persons will henceforth be grounds for arrest.

All citizens are encouraged to report any suspicious activity to the nearest police station. Citizens whose reports lead to the capture of radical elements will receive a reward of 1,000 credits.

Since the radical elements are intent on destroying our civilization, we must respond in kind by destroying them. To this end, certain civil rights will be held in abeyance until the security situation is resolved.

Stay calm, trust the authorities, and obey the laws and regualtions. With your help, we can grasp terror by the throat and end this radical subversion once and for all.

Good night."

The screens of every TV in the country flickered briefly, after which they resumed normal programming.

Byron Tillema was furious.

"How dare they rise up against me? Me!" He turned away from the monitor showing mobs attacking Militia troops with rocks, handguns, and anything else they had available. Every city and town on the island was up in arms, except the capitol and Two Harbors. Cursing blasphemously, Tillema hit the intercom button and snarled orders to the Militia commander.

"I want the Militia out in force, General! I want tanks and soldiers in every city, village, hamlet, and wide spot in the road! Now!"

"Sir, the Militia is stretched thin as it is. We'll have to p..." The general's reply was cut off in mid-word.

Tillema screamed, "I don't give a damn about excuses, General! I want Militia troops available to stamp out every riot or demonstration the moment one appears." With a visible effort, the usurper mastered his temper. He drained a glass of bourbon and hurled the crystal into the fireplace.

In tones that were reasonable only in comparison, Tillema went on. "Two Harbors is dead quiet, General. Pull out half the garrison there. I have other assets in place to help keep the lid on. Take a third of the Capitol Guard, too."

The general swallowed what he was going to say and tried another approach. "Sir, dispersing the Militia to the cities will leave us vulnerable to outside attack."

Tillema's rage- already at a rolling boil from the riots- erupted. "Outside attack? From where? Dear Edmund is too busy imagining himself as a god to try to intervene. No one else cares. Do as I say with no more of your drivel, General, or I'll have you removed from command and turned loose on the streets of Avalon- unarmed and in uniform. Is that clear?"

Ignoring the general's salute, Tillema switched off the intercom and poured a drink into a fresh glass. As the aged bourbon in the glass got lower, the usurper's mind thought about the general's fears. It would not do to be complacent. He slipped back into his desk chair and took a shoebox out of the lower left drawer. Opening the box, he removed a cell-phone and pressed the power button. He carefully hit eleven keys in the proper order and hit Transmit. The line rang through, and Tillema shut the phone off.

Precisely ten minutes later, the cell phone buzzed in Tillema's hand. Nash's cultured voice said, "What do you need?"

Slurred by the alcohol, Tillema's voice was harsh. "You said you could get things for me. In secret."

There was silence for a moment. Nash replied, "Yes. We still have control of the docks in Two Harbors. What did you wish us to acquire for you?"

There was a long silence after the usurper told the criminal what he needed. After several minutes, Nash said, "Very well. We do not have what you wish ourselves, but we know people who do. We will put you in touch with their representative." The line went dead.

Following procedure, Tillema threw the cell phone into the wastebasket. He put the box of unused cell phones back into the lower left drawer and poured himself another drink.

The man in the Security vestibule was well-dressed, confident, and calm- despite the rigorous searches he'd been through. Byron Tillema stared into the monitor screen and asked, "He's clean, then?"

Honorio Guerrera nodded. "Yes, sir. Full sweep. He doesn't even have any fillings." He flipped open a PDA and cheked his notes. "His passport is from Panama, with all the correct stamps and visas. He's a stone spook from somewhere, for certain."

Tillema came to a decision. "All right. We'll use the secure interview room." He turned a hard gaze on the head of his personal security team. "No listening in- by anyone. Your people can be in the room, watching, but no cameras or bugs."

Guerrero nodded slowly. "You're the boss." he agreed reluctantly.

Johann Schmidt remained seated when Byron Tillema entered the room. The usurper went directly to the only other chair in the room and sat down. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Schmidt. Who do you work for?"

Johann smiled broadly. "Does it matter, sir? My principals have the goods you desire, and we can deliver them within a week."

Tillema cocked his head to one side. "For how much?"

Johann spread his hands wide. "We believe in the free market, sir. The price is dependent on the difficulty of delivery, the quantity involved, and whether or not the buyer requires a ... distribution system."

A harsh laugh twisted Tillema's features. "What I had in mind will be delivered by 200mm artillery guns. I'll need ten devices. Our mutual acquaintances can arrange delivery."

After a brief silence, Johann nodded. "This can be accomplished, sir. The cost will be 35 million Tersanctan Credits per item, for a total of 350 million credits."

"That's preposterous!" Tillema leaped to his feet. "What makes you think I have that kind of money available?"

"Calm yourself, sir." Johann's voice had the calm certainty of a man with the upper hand in a business deal. "My government charges all that the market will bear. The items you desire are highly sought after, all over the world. This scarcity raises the price- supply and demand, you know."

"It's still insane!"

"Then you need not purchase any. We sell to anyone- even terrorists. We will never have any trouble finding buyers for our products."

Tillema reined in his temper. "How do I know you'll actually deliver the goods?" He sank back into the chair as he spoke.

Johann smiled again. "There is a standard procedure for this, sir. You deposit the money in a neutral escrow account offshore- there are several we do business with regularly. Once the bank tells us that the money is available, we bring in the items for your inspection. When you're satisfied with the products, you tell the bank to release the money, and our delivery personnel release the items to you."

"What's to stop me from just taking them from you?"

The smile vanished. "That would be unwise. My government could simply provide similar items to your internal enemies. Alternatively, we could level your island with our national assets. The government of Garrison II is not a power to be taken lightly."

Tillema thought about it. He could always just draw the amount from the treasury. The education budget would cover it easily. A bitter laugh escaped him, causing Schmidt's eyebrows to raise slightly. There's not likely to be a lot of schooling going on until I restore control anyway. he thought savagely.

"Okay." He said at last. "Give me a list of overseas banks you're comfortable with. I'll transfer the money tonight. When can I get the weapons?"

A smile flashed on Schmidt's face. "The list is in my briefcase in the Security holding area. I will give it to the guards on the way out. Once confirmation of the account is made, the weapons can be delivered within 24 hours." He rose and extended his hand. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, sir."

Tillema shook the proffered hand. "I'll arrange the delivery with our mutual friends."

Several hours later, with the salesman from Garrison II already departed from the island on a chartered jet, Tillema called in his Chief of Staff. "General," he said to the rigid figure standing next to his desk. "About twenty hours from now, a cargo plane will be landing at the military airfield here in Bensing. I want this aircraft guarded with the most reliable men you have. Some Security people and I will arrive shortly after you tell me everything is secure. I want you and the other High Command officers present as well."

The general was curious, and didn't bother to hide it. "What is going to happen, sir?" He asked with a bit of concern coloring his voice. "What's going to be on the plane?"

Tillema smiled at the general's confusion. "You'll just have to wait and see, general. Just make sure everyone is there, and the most reliable troops are on hand for security."

The general saluted and said, "Yes, sir!" Tillema watched him go and poured himself a drink. This definitely calls for a celebration! he thought. I'm about to become a nuclear power.

Curtis Platt felt eyes on him. He looked up sharply to see his Chief of Security standing in the doorway. He was wearing a dark outfit that looked more like a uniform than anything else. The black and dark blue checkered pattern tended to blend into the shadows behind him. "What is it, Chief?" he asked.

The Chief stalked over to stand by Curtis' side. He said, "Do a search for a file named Zanshin. It'll be in the Programs folder."

Puzzled, Curtis called up the search program and typed in the name. As he hit the 'Enter' key to start the search, he said, "Chief? I don't remember ever seeing that file before."

The Chief's finger pointed at the screen in answer. The file was highlighted, but a 'Locked' symbol appeared next to the file. "I will be gone for a few hours. If I am not back by 0330, this file will be open for you. Follow the directions inside, and you have a fair chance of surviving what is coming."

Curtis was getting worried. He'd known the Chief for months, and this was out of character for him. "What if you do come back, Chief?" he heard himself ask.

A hard smile played across the Chief's features and then vanished. "If I'm still around, then you won't need the file. Tell the troops to keep the lid on here in town. I'll be back ... probably." The Chief strode to his own desk across the room and picked up and odd-looking military-style helmet. Tucking the helmet under his arm, he left the room.

Curtis let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Shaking his head, he called up the link to the main security console. He hit the 'Alert' button and saw Ivory's square face fill the screen. "Ivory, the Chief just left. He told me that he'd probably be back before 0330."

Ivory let that sink in for a moment, then his eyes widened. "Probably be back? The Chief said that?"

Curtis nodded. "Exactly. Whatever he's up to, I want everyone to be on their toes in case he needs any help."

Ivory's eyes swept the console as Curtis spoke. He nodded. "Right, Boss. I got twelve acknowledge signals on my screen. Everybody's up." He hit a few keys out the camera's range, then asked, "Should we go after him?"

Curtis shook his head. "We don't know where he's going or what he's up to. If we tried to find out, we might create more problems than he's already got. Once the extra guards are posted, I'll tell everyone all I know."

Ivory checked his console again. "Okay, Boss. Want I should pull in the City teams, too?"

"No. Chief said he wanted us to keep a lid on the town until he gets back. If he gets back. Make sure everyone out there is extra alert, though."

"You got it, Boss." Ivory cleared the circuit.

Five kilometers southeast of town, several Militia troops manned a roadblock. Since Two Harbors had been one of the only peaceful cities on the island, they were mostly playing cards- leaving one man on watch for snooping officers and similar threats. Several hundred meters away, Curtis Platt's Security Chief slid his electric scooter to a halt. He climbed off the little bike and lifted the heavy battle rifle free from the handlebars before tucking the tiny vehicle under the edge of some bushes near the road. Pulling on his combat helmet, he slung the stubby weapon across his back and slipped noiselessly into the underbrush. His dark pattern-disruptive clothing completely concealed him in the early evening darkness. The guards at the roadblock neither saw nor heard his stealthy passage through the low hills north of the road. He had several klicks to travel before his rendezvous with the rest of his team, and more ground to cover before they reached their destination outside Bensing.

After that, life would begin to get interesting.

"All right, general. Impress me."

General Velazquez looked confused, but had no desire to screw up when talking to his ultimate boss. He said, "Sir? What do you mean?"

Byron Tillema grinned into the camera of the real-time videoconferencing unit installed in his limousine. "Describe the security arrangements, general." He released a long streamer of smoke from the thin panatella burning in his hand.

The general visibly struggled to switch gears in mid-conversation, finally responding with. "Yes, sir. I have three batallions covering all the approaches for a kilometer around the airfield. All of the helicopters are patrolling the ground within this zone with light-enhancement and infrared detectors. The 12th Brigade is securing the base itself."

Tillema turned his head and checked the clock. "Good, good." He said. "Are the General Staff all present?"

"Sir, General Mendoza is arriving now. They will all meet you in our staff meeting room in Flight Ops." Velazquez was sweating. He had no idea what was going on. That, and the presence of essentially the entire Militia command structure and the arrival of Tillema himself, was making his pulse visible in the veins of his throat.

"Excellent! My car will be arriving in fifteen minutes." Tillema dropped the remains of his cigar into the ashtray. "Have you been briefed on the procedures for the aircraft?"

The General nodded vigorously. "Yes, sir! They're already on radar, and should be landing in just over an hour."

"Good work." Tillema cut the circuit and poured himself a drink.

Forty minutes later, his General Staff were staring at him in shock. General Grandville was the first to speak. "Sir, are you sure this is the best course?"

Tillema smiled. "You gentlemen were complaining that dispersing the Militia made us vulnerable to invasion. I listened to you and arranged to deal with that objection." He rose from his chair and paced in front of the table. "With these tactical nuclear devices in hand, we can threaten any potential invaders with annihilation."

The generals exchanged uneasy looks, but all of them slowly agreed. Tillema gestured for General Velazquez to check on the progress of the delivery aircraft. He picked up the phone and spoke briefly. Setting the receiver back in its cradle, he said, "They're landing now, sir."

General Grandville took charge. He was one of the few professional military officers in the room. He stood up and said. "Sir, we have technicians on site to check the cargo. Security concerns dictate that you leave immediately. If anything should happen, the country would be without the entire command structure."

Tillema waved aside the General's concerns. "I have to authorize the money transfer when I am satisfied with the weapons. I will remain here until you tell me that we have them. General Velazquez has impressed me with the details of his security arrangements. I am told that the 12th Brigade is the best unit in the Militia."

Seeing that the President would not be swayed, Grandville nodded reluctantly. "Very well, sir. But at least let us get you into the bunker near the gate. It's the safest spot on the base."

Allowing himself to be persuaded, Tillema followed the General to the massive bunker. Several young women from the base comfort detachment were placed in the bunker with him, and a platoon of the toughest soldiers on base- armed to the teeth- were stationed around the bunker.

Once the President was secure, Grandville ordered the Navy and Air Force Commanders off the base. After seeing them to their vehicles and watching them drive through the gate, he gathered the rest of the Staff and returned to the Ops building. A short, fat man in grease-stained coveralls was sitting at the table, smoking a cigar.

"It's about time y'all got yer act together. Who's in charge?"

Grandville didn't quite snarl. "I am. When do we get to examine the weapons?"

The fat man stood up and pitched the still-burning cigar into a trashcan. "I'll take you and three techs onboard." He said as he walked out. "No guns."

Almost an hour later, the techs told the General that the devices did, in fact, appear to be functional nuclear weapons. All of them had stainless steel bars in place to prevent the subcritical masses from combining in case the weapons were fired too soon.

The fat man watched the techs make their report and belched onion fumes into the cargo bay of the old C-130. "Happy, cunnel?"

Ignoring the man, Grandville called Tillema on his radio. "Sir. There are ten functional devices on board. The technicians are satisfied." He listened carefully, then switched the radio off. "We'll authorize the transfer once the weapons are on the tarmac."

The fat man grinned at him. "That so? All right." He waddled over to one of the weapons and pushed a stubby key into a slot near the base. When he turned it, there was a small click. Standing up, he pulled out the safety bar and showed Grandville the radio transmitter in his other hand. "Y'all can get started unloading, now. This'n goes last. Once they're all on the ground, y'all will authorize the money. All goes well, I get a message from the cockpit, and I'll hand over the transmitter and the key.

Anything goes wrong- anything at all- and I let go of this here button. Y'all don't want that to happen."

Nodding soberly, Grandville waved the technicians out of the plane and followed them. He watched as the flight line crew off-loaded all ten warheads, then he called the President again. The fat man grinned at him and set the safety bar down so he could pick his teeth.

Less than five minutes later, another figure in grimy coveralls walked into the cargo bay from the cockpit. He waved to the fat man, who nodded back. He tossed the key to the General, and kicked the safety bar out of the plane. Carefully sliding the catch over the transmit button on his radio unit, he walked down the ramp and handed it to Grandville. "Pleasure doing bizness with ya."

Handing the transmitter off to the techs, Grandville watched as the C-130's ramp rose, even as the pilot started to taxi onto the runway. He shouted, "Get that damned thing on 'Safe' at once! Start loading the others onto the trucks. Someone get the President out of the bunker and get him off the base! Move it, people!"

A technician approached the weapon with an RF detector. He swept the air nearby, then called something into his throat mike. A Captain ran up to the General. "We've got the frequency, sir. Even if something happens to the original transmitter, we're broadcasting the same signal from the Base transmitter."

Grandville was impressed and said so. "Good work, Captain. Take charge out here." He walked past the crew loading the weapons into the trucks and stepped into the Flight Ops building.

Holding the key to the most powerful weapons in the world in one hand, Tillema dragged one of the comfort detachment girls into the limo with him. He was already thinking of some additional uses for the weapons, now that he had them. "My dear Edmund." he thought with a savage grin. "Here's a surprise for you. Boom."

"The target will be in a large sedan, accompanied by at least two security vehicles. The target is hardened against conventional small arms."

"What about the wheels?"

"They're state-of-the-art solid core tires with armored hubs. Don't bother wasting rifle shots at 'em. Use the RPGs."

"The security vehicles- what are they like?"

"Standard humvees, with the armored panels and hard covers. I expect between 6 and 8 bad guys- including the driver of the sedan."

"Question." The leader of the group looked silently at the new speaker through the darkness. He asked, "How do you know so much about the target's security vehicles?"

The leader shook his head slightly. "I personally checked the vehicles out when the target ordered 'em. I have contacts in the target's motor pool, and I know he hasn't made any changes. These vehicles are state-of-the-art corporate security models."

He looked around at the remaining team members. "Fast, hard, and dirty. We get in, get it over with, and get out. Get it?"

The team members all nodded, more or less in unison. They all said, "Got it."

"Good. Everybody in position in fifteen minutes." The leader stood up and set out up the ridge overlooking the road to Bensing.

The road ran from the Airfield to Bensing between two low ridges, lightly covered with stately elm trees. Well short of the top of the ridge, the team scattered into a loose line and crawled over the crest, making no sound despite the weight of equipment each man carried. Well before the deadline, the team was in position overlooking the road near where a small culvert carried water under a slight bend to the left.

The unmistakable whupwhupwhup of helicopter rotors warned the team the target was enroute. They all froze in place, trusting their high-tech battle-dress uniforms to disperse their heat signature and the pattern-disruptive design to avoid visual detection in the early morning darkness. The helo swept slowly overhead without pausing.

Less than two minutes later, the headlights of the lead car swept over the hill to the southeast, followed quickly by the remaining cars of the convoy. The leader crouched fifty meters uphill and just north of the culvert. He held the pistol grip of a stubby battle rifle in his right hand- his index finger lying alongside the trigger guard. His left hand held a small radio transmitter. When the nose of the limousine was almost over the culvert, he pressed the Transmit switch.

Sixty-five kilograms of high explosive detonated in a white flash under the center of the target vehicle. Sheets of flame roared out of both ends of the culvert, setting underbrush afire. The shockwave snapped thirty-centimeter trees off at ground level twenty meters from the epicenter.

Inside the target vehicle, the blast was a brief foretaste of Hell. Armored panels from the vehicle's sides took flight, sailing off in high parabolas. The explosives had been built into a crude shaped charge, focusing the blast into a rough cone thirty degrees from vertical- against the path of the vehicle's travel. Diffused as it was by the intervening roadbed, the jet of explosive gases still sliced the car open like a fisherman gutting his catch.

Byron Tillema was still daydreaming about the power he now controlled as he lit another Cuban cigar when the blast went off. The jet of white-hot gases and molten metal was only a momentary glare he hadn't had time to register before the stream hit him full in the chest. His body splashed upward. The young woman in the car with him barely had time to recognize what was happening before the shockwave tore through the gap in the flooring.

The car shuddered, then took flight momentarily. It flipped completely over, the rear of the vehicle somersaulting the front and landing the car on what was left of the roof. The car's speed was just sufficient to drop the remnants into the trench the bomb had converted the culvert into.

The leader dropped the transmitter into a pouch in his shirt and slid down into the roadway. To his left and right, he heard the snarling ignition of buzz bombs- rocket propelled grenades- launched at the two security vehicles. The explosions when the RPGs hit seemed tiny in comparison to the enormous blast which had devoured the target vehicle. The steady pop-pop-pop of aimed fire reached his ears as he stepped carefully into the roadway. The muzzle of his weapon was trained on the ruins of the limousine, which was only now beginning to burn sluggishly.

He swept the surroundings with his eyes, then jogged forward and followed the barrel of his rifle into the vehicle through the missing rear passenger door. Nothing was left of Tillema above the waist, although one of his arms could be seen beneath the still-twitching corpse of the young woman who'd been in the cabin with him. The driver was slumped over in the front seat. The leader carefully knocked out some remaining shards of the armored glass panel with his rifle and put two rounds into the young man's head- just in case.

Stepping away from the vehicle, the leader pulled a grey cylinder free from his web harness and tugged the safety pin out. He let the spoon handle shoot into the night and tossed the grenade into the vehicle. There was still shooting going on to his right, so he headed that direction. The white phosphorous grenade bloomed into sudden light behind him as he keyed his helmet microphone to warn the right-hand team he was coming.

Less than ten minutes after the mine in the roadway had started the ambush, the team had returned to their starting position over the ridge from the roadway. All three vehicles burned brightly, lighting the night sky behind the ridge.

The leader gathered the team together under a short tree several hundred meters west of the road, under the shelter of another ridge. The ambush site was the focus of attention for three military helicopters. Several team members started to climb the ridge, but the leader called them back.

"What the hell are we waiting for?" demanded the team's usual leader. "Those birds aren't much, but we can't angle with all three and remain healthy. Let's get the Hell out of here!"

The leader pulled the radio transmitter out and smiled. "You were asking why I chose the ambush site I did. I knew the target would be returning to the city from the airbase."

"So freakin' what?" snapped the other man. The rest of the team stayed silent, keeping watch on the darkness and the helicopters that would soon be hunting them. "If you wanna gloat, let's do it somewhere else!"

The leader went on in a distant voice as he reset the frequency of the transmitter and uncaged the transmit button. "He had just accepted delivery of ten 5-kiloton tactical nuclear warheads at the airbase."

The other man was confused by the words for a moment. The rest of his team was not quite as slow on the uptake. One of them grabbed the young man and threw him flat on the ground. Just as the leader joined him taking cover from the airbase 30 kilometers on the other side of the ridge they were on, he understood what was happening. He had time to scream, "Oh, shi ..." when the sky exploded.

Hurtling through space at the edge of the atmospheric envelope, one of countless artificial satellites trained its delicate antennae on the planet below. Infrared, ultraviolet, and visible light detectors received input exceeding the tolerance parameters. Dormant circuits cycled silently to life, broadcasting the data to a communications satellite in a much higher orbit.

Several other satellites in orbital paths that took them over the island of Old Tersanctus also recorded and communicated the event. Telemetry receivers all over the planet began signaling for attention, causing technicians and politicians to grow suddenly pale with fear.

In a particular communications center at the Overlord Kosmosdrome in the Dominion of the Evil Overlord, a technician who had always made a point of loudly declaring his lack of belief in any deity suddenly prayed as the FLASH message from the recon bird came in. His training took over, sending FLASH ALERT messages to every Evil Overlord Enterprises office on the Call List. Twelve seconds later, the CommCenter door flew open to admit the first of a great many frightened men and women over the next few hours.

"We have thermal, high-energy, and visible-light quanta on the island of Old Tersanctus." The technician was reading the screen data aloud in a voice on the edge of panic, but still enunciating each word perfectly as he was trained to do. "We have multiple point-sources within a one-kilometer radius located 36 kilometers southwest of the capital city of Bensing." The technician's words were being relayed directly to the office of the Warlord himself.

"Visual imagery will be available within 57 minutes from bird seven-one-zed-alpha-niner. Bird four-two-fiver-tango-eight now reporting second-order effects at initial site. Thermal signatures consistent with secondary sources are reported in a ten-kilometer radius from initial site." The technician's voice continued reporting the data for nineteen minutes, when a new technician was rotated in to take his place.

The Warlord shut down the data feed, knowing that the analysis was already underway. He activated two circuits on his console, then switched on a videoconferencing circuit. "Marshall King. You are GO for Operation Swiftsure."

Fleet Marshall King acknowledged the order and activated her own digital responder. Signing off from Headquarters, she called Admiral Flores at Isla del Veracruz. "Admiral, you are GO as of four minutes and twenty seconds ago. I want the preliminaries out of the way within the hour, and I want every tub in the harbor underway an hour after that."

Admiral Flores already had the orders called up in anticipation. She hit Transmit and followed the digital signal with an alert to all of her subordinate commanders. She cursed bitterly as she watched the dark grey shapes in the harbor suddenly come to life. Forty-one minutes after the order was transmitted, the warships had all left the harbor. The transports followed shortly thereafter. Less than two hours after the dawning of ten artificial suns broke the night over Old Tersanctus, only the harbor defense vessels remained.

Admiral Flores was at her station in the Fleet Operations Center beneath the Headquarters building. She highlighted an icon on the main screen and asked, "How accurate is that?"

One of the specialists turned and said, "Sir, that data is six hours old. New plot coming up now."

The highlighted icon suddenly moved across a significant portion of the map. The specialist told the Admiral, "Less than 3 hours to insertion, sir."

A hard light showed in the Admiral's eyes. She highlighted several more icons grouped together in a narrow arc. "Send 'em in. Now"

Two Harbors Commercial Port, 0240 local time

The RO/RO ship Sun Goddess had been sitting in port for several hours. Due to the uncertain political and security situation, no attempts had been made to permit the huge vessel to offload her cargo. The ship's Captain had been unusually silent about the delays. When the port officials thought about it at all, they mainly thanked several deities in a row that at least someone was being reasonable.

With the whine of hydraulics, the Roll-Off ramp was lowered to the pier. Few people were on hand to notice, but none of them mentioned the activity. Several score armed and uniformed troops poured down the ramp and took up positions to control acces to the pier. The soft purr of multiple diesel engines issued out of the ship's hull, followed shortly by large vehicles.

The first of these were 8-wheeled armored vehicles, each mounting a cupola with a multi-barrel weapon and crammed with more troops. These were followed by other vehicles mounting large missile racks. Both groups of vehicles moved sedately along the pier and took up positions covering the road leading off the waterfront. The infantrymen accompanying them took no notice of several flashes of light that had momentarily lighted the windows of the Port Operations office.

Men in the drab clothing of longshoremen appeared out of the night and spoke to the uniformed men. Soon afterward, more equipment- five tonne trucks hauling large missile launchers and more armored vehicles- drove down the ramp and onto the streets. Longshoremen clambered onto the vehicles, after which they disappeared into the city.

An hour before dawn, the last vehicles left the ship- massive boxes of armor crawling on huge tracks, with turrets nearly as large as the hull. The tanks grouped into platoons of four or five vehicles each, then drove off into the city. Each tank unit was accompanied by several of the 8-wheeled vehicles and many, many troops.

Far inland, radar stations watching the sea suddenly erupted into flame as shadowy figures launched missiles at the buildings. Fierce firefights broke out near some of the stations, with semi-professional Militia forces engaging lightly-armed People's Resistance partisans. By dawn, all but three radar stations had been eliminated. The remaining stations worked desperately to repair the search array.

Three hundred kilometers to the southwest, an aircraft orbited a group of dark grey warships. When the last readout for active radar stations blinked out on the ESM board, the pilot relayed the information to the largest of the ships below. Minutes later, the first fighter aircraft roared into the sky, slowed only slightly by the ordnance on the external hardpoints. The launches continued at a rate of two aircraft every three minutes for an hour. The aircraft flew due east to rendezvous with the large tankers launched from the new airfield on Isla del Veracruz- two hundred kilometers further east. All forty aircraft were tanked up quickly by the six converted transport planes, after which they formed into four groups and headed north.

The tanker planes climbed several hundred meters and met up with four large strategic bombers. Once fully fueled, the bombers climbed into the stratosphere and roared off to the north at nearly mach 2.

Far to the north of the island, another group of ships surged southward. The ship leading the assault was a massive grey shape, bristling with weaponry. Several lighter ships screened the dreadnought and the bulky ships behind, and naval aircraft orbited the formation as it raced toward the northern beaches of Old Tersanctus.

At the edge of the water on the northernmost point of Old Tersanctus, several dark shapes suddenly appeared. Their outlines were blurred and indistinct, like puddles of shadow come to life, but the hard lines of modern weapons could have been seen within the blurred figures- had there been anyone there to see.

Moving very quickly, several of the figures crossed the narrow sand strip and vanished into the scrub brush on the low ridge that overlooked the beach. More figures appeared at the edge of the water. One of the figures made several gestures with his left arm, and the large group of fifty or so figures split into several smaller groups and quickly but silently crossed the sand to melt into the early-morning shadows of the underbrush near the beach.

Several kilometers inland, six sweating, swearing technicians were straining to raise a new emitter array for the radar station which was now the only reparable station in the north. Ignored in their desperate haste were the crumpled bodies on the ground beneath them- some of them their comrades until the night had come alive with automatic weapons fire strobing from the bushes and the horrible sounds of men coming apart under the rain of high-velocity projectiles. Eight more men- walking wounded, if they didn't have to walk far- guarded the technicians from the darkness around the bullet-pocked and smoldering station buildings.

With a groan, the techs finally managed to slide the emitter array into position. Several men fell to their knees at the sudden relief from their exertion. All of them bent over with their hands on their knees and panted heavily. At length, one of the men- a short, slender, bespectacled man with thinning hair and a nasal voice- said softly, "Right. Good show. Let's get the leads connected and dog her down, shall we?" He paused several times for air during the short speech, but his tone was confident despite the recent effort.

Groaning again, the techs staggered to their feet and began to lock the emitter array into place. The slender man who had spoken busied himself attaching the power lines and communications cables to the array. One of the guards limped into view. "Hey, Benny!" he called up to the roof of the emitter building. "It looks like the clouds're breaking up. We ought to get some moonlight soon."

Benny waved a hand in acknowledgement without pausing in his work. The other techs finished locking down the emitter and shoved their tools into the leather sacks that served as tool bags. One of them stepped over to help Benny at the cable hookups. "Benny, I'll finish up here. Get down to Control and start testing the systems."

Benny looked up with opaque eyes for a moment, and then nodded slowly. "Oh. Yes. Quite right." He stood slowly, wobbling slightly despite the steadying hand the other man reached out for him. He dropped his tools onto the roof and shuffled off toward the ladder at the roof's edge, avoiding the bodies underfoot without really seeing them.

At the roof's edge, he looked down at the station grounds in dismay. The Land Rover still burned near the gatehouse, sending sluggish smoke into the night sky. Dozens of bodies littered the ground, most of them clustered near the bottom of the ladder. Benny closed his eyes and shook as the memory of the night's attack claimed him.

Flickers of light caught the edge of his eyes as he glared toward the main emitter building over the recovered rifle he held. He had fired the entire magazine twice already, but wasn't sure he had actually hit anyone. He turned his head slightly to check the flickers with his peripheral vision. One of the rebels was manning the machine gun on top of the Land Rover by the gate, sending ropes of tracers into the Admin building windows. He heard screaming from across the compound.

Carefully aiming the rifle, Benny took his time and lined up the post at the muzzle in the center of the notch at the breech end- with the rebel machine gunner visible beyond. He squeezed the trigger. The recoil surprised him, nearly making him drop the weapon. Benny gripped the rifle tighter and pulled the stock into his shoulder- already sore from the unaccustomed activity of shooting.

Looking back at the Land Rover, Benny was surprised to see the rebel slumping over the heavy weapon. Another rebel was climbing up toward the man Benny had just shot, carrying a shoulder-fired rocket of some kind. Benny lined up the sights again and squeezed the trigger. The rebel jerked backward against the machine gun, hitting the firing lever of the rocket as he did. The rocket snarled into life and exploded almost at the man's feet ...

Benny shook himself back into the present and climbed carefully down the ladder. Stepping over the pile of bodies at the bottom, he walked straight toward the Control room doorway, still partly blocked by Sergeant Hernandez' body, his mind slipping back to the fire-shot Hell when the sergeant had died.

Benny screamed aloud as the earth bucked beneath him and threw him to his knees. The sergeant grabbed Benny's shirt with his left hand and practically threw him into the Control room. "See if you can get through to Bensing and tell 'em we're under attack by rebels!" Hernandez shouted, his voice muffled in Benny's ears by the recent explosion. "I'll cover the door!"

Benny scrambled across the room and tried the phones. They were all dead- like the technician Benny had to step across to reach the instrument. He hit the key to release the emergency radio, just as Hernandez fired a burst out the doorway. Benny jumped, dropping the transmitter microphone. "What's happening, sergeant?" he asked as Hernandez fired again.

"Just keeping their heads down, Benny." The sergeant's voice was calm and cool- in direct contrast to the ludicrous squeak Benny had heard as his own voice. "How are the comms?"

The sergeant's calm demeanor steadied Benny's nerves like a splash of cold water. He said, "Phone are out. Checking the radio now."

Hernandez grunted in reply and fired again. This time his shots were answered by the impact of bullets against the walls around the doorway. Hernandez swapped out his magazine and fired again. "Get on with it, Benny. Get us some help here, soonest."

Benny turned on the radio's emergency power and keyed the microphone as the sergeant's weapon snarled again. This time the answering fire was almost instant, and the impact of the bullets sounded soggy, somehow. Benny turned to see sergeant Hernandez rise to his feet, firing his rifle into the ground at his feet. He was still pulling the trigger on the empty magazine as he fell onto his rifle in the doorway ...

Benny calmly stepped over the body into the Control room. He walked over to the auxiliary console and started to power the system up.

As the moon came out from behind the clouds over the station, several dark figures moved rapidly but silently through the underbrush. One of the figures raised a small antenna and swept the air to the south. The gauge stayed unlit. The antenna was folded and tucked away into the figure's pack. The figure touched the throat mic with his left hand and said on the platoon push, "Starlight-Six, this is Four-Three. Negative EM."

A single click as his Platoon leader broke squelch by keying his mic was his only reply. He slipped closer to the radar station that was the platoon's objective, sweeping the darkness ahead with passive IR. Several hundred meters from the objective, he carefully stuck his head over a fallen tree and looked down into the station compound. The moonlight was bright enough to see by, so the he tapped his display control- attached to the harness for his Invader battle rifle- to change the display to Light Enhancement.

A vehicle burned smoldered near the torn-down chain link gate. Several bodies lay scattered across the compound, and all of the buildings looked damaged to one degree or another. Several live figures were working on the radar emitter atop one building, and several more were hunched over weapons at points around the station. None of the guards or the workers appeared to have NVGs.

The soldier slipped his head below the edge of the tree and keyed his mic again. "Starlight-Six, this is Four-Three. I count eight bandits guarding the compound with small arms. Looks like they got hit recently. Bodies in the compound."

The 2nd Squad's scout keyed in as well. "Starlight Six, Two-Two. I confirm. Six personnel working on radar emitter. Eight bandits."

Starlight Six- Lieutenant Gillespie- was a woman just promoted from Ensign after graduating from the EOE Specwar Academy at Sheol. She'd done six years in Ground Forces before getting picked for Sheol, and she seemed to know her ass from a hole in the ground. Four-Three nodded approval as she replied, "Roger. Intel said some partisans were gonna clear the way for us. Looks like they tried real hard. 4-3, 2-2. Hold in place. Break. All Starlight units. 3rd and 4th Squads move up along the brush line to cover the eastern end of the compound. 1st Squad will cover the gate area to the west. 2nd Squad keeps any stragglers off our ass. Take out the guards in ten- that is figures ten- minutes. 3rd and 4th squads move in once the guards are down. Any questions?"

Silence greeted the question. Starlight Six keyed up again. "Do it."

The roar of the generator returning to life startled Benny briefly into thinking another attack was in progress. When the lights flickered on in the Control room, he relaxed. He called up the computer menu and ran a diagnostic on his equipment. He quickly checked the many red lights and discovered that they were not crucial to the operation of the radar. Ignoring them, he balanced the electrical load and began to energize the radar.

"At least the rebels didn't manage to put us completely out of action. He thought to himself. "We only lost coverage for a couple of hours."

He heard the other techs enter the room behind him and swiveled the chair around to smile at them. The smile froze on his face as the grey-and-black armor of a foreign soldier met his eyes. The soldier was watching him over the barrel of a stubby rifle. The muzzle was only a meter from Benny's face, and gaped wider than the gates of Hell.

"Take it easy, turtle." the soldier said with a strange accent. "Unless you wanna join your buddy back there in the doorway."

EDITED SEVERAL TIMES FOR SPELLING

Curtis Platt stared out the window into the darkness. The rain carried streaks of ash across the glass, making the view seem even worse than it was. Platt didn't notice. His eyes were open, but the thoughts were turned inward. He didn't even hear Maroon when the bodyguard entered the room.

"Boss? It's almost dawn."

Like a sleeper waking from a bad dream, Curtis started, then shook his head as if to clear it. He turned around. "Everything ready?" he asked in a cracked voice.

Maroon nodded somberly. "Yeah, Boss. Just like the Chief set it up. I already sent the word to the Union guys at the docks."

Curtis shook his head slowly. "Strange that a man could be so careful ..."

Maroon's voice was sharp, cutting across Platt's words like a knife. "Boss! He's gone! All we got left is his plan, and the plan don't leave no time for missing him."

Platt's grin was ragged, but genuine. "You're right, of course. After we get settled in, we'll have a wake. Right now, we've got work to do."

"That's the spirit, Boss." Maroon held the door open for Curtis to leave. He paused before following and snapped off the lights.

Several hours later, Curtis surveyed the lobby of the Plaza Hotel. The staff was all staring at him like a conquering hero. "All right, folks. Listen up."

Platt's crew ignored the speechmaking and concentrated on their task of making the hotel secure. Curtis ignored their bustling and continued. "I am the new owner of the Plaza. These men," he waved generally at the dark-suited bodyguards around the lobby. "are my personal staff. Any order from one of them will be treated as though I gave it myself.

First order of business is to secure the building, which is being done now. While that is being done, technicians will be inspecting the emergency equipment I had the previous owner install two weeks ago. We should be able to remain operational despite the troubles taking place across the country."

The hotel staff buzzed a bit among themselves. The buzz stopped as Curtis spoke again. "Two Harbors has so far been spared most of the fighting, aside from a few skirmishes on the outskirts of town. However, if any of you would feel safer, the entire third and fourth floors are being cleared for your use until order is restored. Once the building is secure, my personal security team will escort any staff member who wishes to go back to their homes. Anyone who wishes to bring their families to the hotel until the troubles are over is also welcome to do so. Vans are available for this purpose."

This got a lot of excited chatter from the staff. Curtis let the idea sink in for a minute or two, then held up his hand. "That's it folks. Stand by until we get everything organized here, then we'll get started on the other items. In the meantime, we are still open for business. It won't be business as usual, of course, but we'll try to make things as normal as possible. That's all."

Curtis was surprised to hear the cheers and applause from the hotel staff as he turned to speak to Vermillion. He waved back at them, then got down to work himself. "How bad is it?"

Vermillion was widely known to be able to find a dark cloud in every silver lining, but he was almost cheerful. "It's really not that bad, Boss. The Chief really knew how to pick 'em." He sobered a bit at the memory the words invoked, then gamely went on. "The building's solid- sitting on granite, with meter-thick outer walls. All the internal electronics are good, and the exits are easy to seal. We even have a steam line access to the tienda on the block behind the building. Chartreuse is securing that now."

Curtis grinned at the stocky bodyguard and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good work. Let me know when the newcomers arrive. It shouldn't be too much longer."

"You got it, Boss."

Down at the waterfront. another container ship unloaded several thousand troops and scores of vehicles. Oddly shaped aircraft circled the city, and helicopters droned overhead constantly, all heading for the Two Harbors West Airport. Armored vehicles patrolled the streets, and soldiers in black and grey pattern disruptive uniforms manned checkpoints across the city.

The city's power had been restored after abruptly going out shortly before dawn in a huge explosion. Sporadic gunfire had been heard near the northeastern edge of the city as disciplined EOE soldiers met frightened and disorganized Militia troops in short-lived firefights.

The city's Mayor had broadcast an appeal on television and radio for all citizens to remain in their homes until the crisis was over, and stressed that the city was under martial law. No foreign troops were visible in the picture, and the Mayor appeared worried but not afraid. Most people obeyed the order. Those that chose to ignore it were quickly and ruthlessly rounded up by humorless men and women in ceramic body armor over black and grey battle dress.

The city's hospitals were open, guarded by several armored vehicles, nearly a hundred troops, and two tanks. The police stations were all occupied by a platoon of soldiers each, but the police were cooperating with the foreigners and accompanying the soldiers on patrol.

Outside the city, several dozen tanks, a thousand infantry, and scores of Raschid LAVs stood guard against a possible Militia counterattack. Strategic hilltops around the city were occupied by advanced radar stations and bristled with SAM batteries. Helicopters roared over the hills nearby, occasionally firing at small groups of Militia fleeing the city.

The wind from the west carried rain and clouds of ash from the holocaust at Bensing's military airbase. The city dripped sooty mud from every roof, and the streets were black with more mud. Soldiers and teams of civilian technicians in isolation suits were seen all over the city, testing the mud and water and sweeping the streets clear with high-pressure hoses. The mildly radioactive mud was washed into the South Harbor, which darkened visibly from the influx.

At the stern of the container ship Sun Goddess leaving the South Harbor to make room for military transports, a man watched the rain over the city and the harbors from under a hooded poncho. As the city was hidden behind a fresh squall of ash-laden rain, the man returned to the shelter of the ship's superstructure. When he removed the poncho and hung it inside the watertight door, his unremarkable features were calm. He was neither tall nor short, stocky or slender, old or young.

He walked calmly down the passageway and entered a stateroom, locking the door behind him. He sat at the room's desk and started a small computer. Moments later, he was looking at several job offers from his agent in Panama City.

A man in his business was never out of work for long.

With the Militia's radars destroyed and the command structure mostly vaporized, the EOE squadrons north of the island surged forward. Helicopter-borne assault troops dashed into shore ahead of the main landing group, accompanied by scores of carrier aircraft. The first warning the people of Parson's Landing had of the impending invasion came with the explosions that ripped through the small Militia Coast Guard squadron.

Thousands of meters overhead, huge aircraft with negligible radar signatures opened their bay doors, deploying four large Wotan missiles each. The missiles opened their wings and lit the afterburners to scream down onto the scattered Coast Guard vessels at mach 5.

At the southern end of the island, more large aircraft volley-launched missiles at airfields and Coast Guard stations. Flights of smaller bombers moved quickly over the island to land at Two Harbors airfield- after paying each radar station in the southern island a high-explosive visit, completing the work done by the People's Resistance.

The air assault on the Militia at Parson's Landing arrived less than five minutes after the last Coast Guard ship shattered under the rain of Wotan missiles. Fast bombers from the aircraft carriers north of the island completely destroyed the Militia planes at the airfield south of the city, then went hunting for targets of opportunity. The airmobile troops captured the airfield with a little more than a half hour of light combat.

The amphibious landings went flawlessly. Six thousand EOE troopers scrambled out of the LC-30H landing carft and established a beachhead unopposed before sending mechanized units southeast toward the city.

The battleship Bucellari steamed into the harbor at Parson's Landing, accompanied by the cruisers Marne and Gallipoli. Their massive 330mm main guns and 170mm secondaries threatened the city but did not fire.

It was enough. Parson's Landing surrendered without a shot being fired.

Bump
(Solely to bring the thread out of the archives as a reference)