NationStates Jolt Archive

Corsingard
ISA Headquarters
Situation Room

“So, that’s what we’re dealing with, Director.” The analyst lowered her laser pointer. Behind her, on a plasma screen television was the glowing image of Roania, overlaid with the images of the four candidates. “A Nazi, an Imperial, a Commie, and a Democrat-“

Sub-Director David Phaellan leaned back. “Sounds like a bar joke.”

The analyst stammered for a moment, and then continued, “Analysis is giving a ninety percent chance of all out war between Roania and us if either of the first two takes power. This is based upon proximity, power projection, and the fact that we stopped their previous attempt to gain power.”

Director Kerrik spoke softly, his hands folded into a temple shape, “Are we funding the other two, then?”

Sub-Director Allens answered, “We’re trying, sir, but that damn country is on constant lock down. I’ve never seen an entire nation so xenophobic and paranoid.”

Phaellan offered another dark joke, “That’s why we had an entire Strategic Air Command: Roania Goes Psycho Division.”

Allens grinned predatorily and offered to Kerrik another situation, “We’ve considered an assassination attempt on the most dangerous of the foes, or perhaps a pity strike on the Communists, but we keep hitting one brick wall. Those people are so fu<king paranoid they don’t trust their own mothers. I don’t know how they achieved unity without blowing each other up.”

”Force.” Kerrik stated coolly. “Always force, in controlled doses. In that kind of a society, even a one way suicide mission might very well fail.”

Phaellan asked a serious question, “So, then, what options are left to us, besides outright force if worse comes to worse? What preventive measures can we take?”

Kerrik closed his eyes for a moment, and when they opened, they burned with a cold fire. “Have you ever studied Aikido? It’s a martial art that’s dedicated to the act of turning your opponent’s own strengths against him. If the Roanians are too distrustful and hateful to be penetrated from the exterior, then these pillars must become weights. We will turn them on upon themselves, and swallow their own tail.

“This is my plan. First, we will need two nations with relatively bad relations with Roania. Of these, one must be powerful enough to crush them flat, the other, close enough to exploit sea lanes without notice. From the powerful, a characteristic weapons system, but modified and stripped of identification, as well as some electronic funds tied by three levels of hidden banking. From the near nation, a boat, and several expendable human resources, to act as a delivery method. From us… nothing but a communiqué…” Kerrik smirked.

”So, we shall send a coded signal to our field agents in Roania, using protocol Theta Seven.”

Allens narrowed his eyes, “We don’t have active Field Agents in Roania, and we know that the Imperial Guard broke that code last week!”

“Have you tipped your hand yet that you know?”

”No, sir. I see what you’re doing.”

Kerrik nodded solemnly. “Very good, Allens. So, this message will contain a message relating to a possible terrorist action by agents of another, unknown party, directed at one of the Roanian candidates, we don’t know which.”

Allens tapped his PDA. “So, they’re searching for Agents from two nations, neither of which exist. In the process, they wastes resources and arrest their own innocent civilians. Even better, they’re trying to do this in a way not to notify us of their breaking our code.” Allens chuckled. “When do you want the transmission?”

“Wait for a bit. And keep that code holding reliable data. I want them trusting their taps. Also, other factors must come into place. This cannot happen in sequence. If this is two easy to assemble, they’ll doubt the truth of the matter. They must work to find this out. The boat will sink first, leaving an odd but not dramatic incident. Then the transmission will be intercepted, to make that accident more ominous. When they investigate further, they shall find the sunken weapons. When they backtrack, a tricky money trail shall lead them to the maker of the weapons’ base design. Roania will be confused, internally torn, and fearful of a foreign attack. Then, we drop data that points out one candidate as the target, and the Roanians rally around that candidate out of spite for the world.”

There was silence in the room. Allens whistled. “I think you managed to touch on every complex and disorder that nation has!”

Kerrik stated one last thing. “This does not leave the Inner Circle. No data leaves this room except for handpicked agents to start the ball rolling. Our fingerprints must not be anywhere near this series of events.”

The ball started to roll.

(OOC: Nothing has happened yet. Further posts will reveal that data as it happens.)

The Weapon

Victor Freed, Chief Small Arms Engineer for Sag Armaments Corporation, nearly dropped his coffee as ISA Operative Darius entered his office. “Jesus, Darius, don’t do sneak up on me like that.” The balding engineer wiped the coffee from his short-sleeve white shirt, wringing his “Gone Fishing” tie out.

Darius closed the door behind him and raised his eyebrows. He leaned back against the wall. “The Director already told you, correct? Then what’s the worry?”

The engineer dropped into his desk and began to play with a paperweight. “It’s not a matter of knowing you’re coming. It’s a matter of having some jackass jump out of the shadows not a foot away and states your name.”

Darius smiled openly. “Just staying on the ball. You have the product?”

Freed nodded. “Of course.” He opened his desk. “Security cameras are off, and this office is sealed and proofed.” Having ISA and military officers was not an uncommon sight at Sag, and so functional facilities were always on hand. Sag Arms, with their history of caseless weapons designs and tight-lipped professionalism, was the perfect companion for this mission.

Freed motioned to a crate in the corner, and activating the palm lock, removed the weapon inside. The first thing Darius noticed about the firearm was its immense size. Nearly a meter long and with a 20mm bore, the gun was less rifle and more cannon, but it was obviously a man portable anti-material rifle. A large box clip was clamped into the stock, behind the trigger assembly, and entire back was designed to compress upon firing. The front of the gun was a series of shrinking cylinders, eventually terminating into a reciprocating barrel, carrying rail, and tremendous muzzle brake. A powerful digital scope rested on the top, and there was no ejection port for casings, but rather, a series of exhaust vents that lined the gun’s lower sections. Darius stared for a moment. “What the hell is that thing?” he demanded in awe.

Freed exalted in his chance to be in control, and his smile stretched the limits of his gaunt face. “This is a highly modified New York and New Jersey twenty-millimeter caseless rifle.” Freed pointed to a picture of a man in powered armor carrying a small turret. “Obviously, a sniper weapon would not work for a man in huge, loud armor, so we had to be creative. We changed it to a bullpup configuration, and hacked off most of the clip and extended size, leaving a weapon similar to the M99 Special Purpose .50 BMG, but larger. However, this was not a fire-able gun, so we had to install heavy compensation systems.” He pointed to the reciprocating barrel and compressing stock. “Most work to divert gas, like the muzzle brake and reciprocating action, as well as the telescopic bolt we installed. This gun uses a conventional ignition, not electrical, so we could divert much more power. Others are more passive, like the stock. After all of this, the gun can be fired from a bipod without much danger of being pancaked by recoil.”

Darius glanced up from the weapon. “And what of accuracy? Won’t it be dropped by the loss of gasses? And the muzzle brake will increase the blast volume and flash. This thing will be Biblical to fire.”

”Nonsense. We’ve replaced the traditional slug design with an Armor Piercing, Fin Stabilized, Discarding Sabot dart with a tungsten carbide core. Much more stable, much more accurate, and ballistically superior. This gun can strike a man’s head from two miles.” Freed let the stat hit the agent.

Darius whistled. Shame to sink this thing. “I noticed that you replaced the powered armor interface with a conventional scope.”

”Ah, yes. This is supposed to be used by a normal person, you see.” Freed stroked the weapon lovingly. “Notice the care we put into this. The gasses from the blast are redirected into the chamber from the brake via that line there, and they purge the chamber of the molded explosive’s remaining dust and debris, before shoving the next round into the chamber.” He nodded in satisfaction. “A real piece of work.”

Darius asked, “And how close is it to the original? Nothing of ours was put in there, was it? How about the design and construction?”

“We built this thing in the Black Works. No one saw more than a rivet or bolt of their own. And the parts are almost all stock, except for the open market scope and recoil systems. Nothing distinctly Sag was put into it. We use a different compound putty, with an electric system. We’re all about precision and rapid volley fire… this beast is a more direct approach, like blowing right through a car.”

Darius snorted ironically. “No one knows you took it?”

Freed shook his head. “It’s easy to make a few guns fall from a truck. There’s so much graft in this business that no one notices or cares about five rifles here or there. Now that powered armor they use… that, they care about. Big difference between a thousand dollar rifle and a million dollar armored system.”

Darius sat upright. “Good work. I want three more of these, all stripped of identifying marks, no manufacture prints. Sterilize the weapons of prints, and seal them in armored cases.”

”Will do.”

The deal was settled in secret.

[/tag]

(Tag)

The Transportation
Cape Deliverance was a booming port in the industrial nation of Iansisle. It was booming because it’s easy location, large size, close proximity to industry, and its amazing ability to move anything illegal without care. The ISA maintained an entire Section in this port, just watching anything that could be dangerous, but the local smugglers were damn good. Fortunately, the Agents didn’t need to so much avoid the authority as keep palms greased, and as the Agency did no harm to Iansisle, the bribes were generally light, if highly regular.

But Friedrich Ghast was not from the local section, nor did he associate with them. He had to work independently, to maintain the utter secrecy this needed. The section didn’t notice him, because he paid more than they did by fifty percent, operating against his own government, at least in appearance. He had on his person, thousands of dollars in Iansisle credit, transferred to a temporary account from another bank, and another, leading back to a source of NYNJ credit some seven layers beneath the first transaction. Not enough to be completely obscured, but enough to be hard to find. To all but himself, Ghast was a rogue operator for an unknown but high-paying source, and that was all that was necessary in this hive of scum and villainy.

He glanced back at his yacht, purchased from a gambler down on his luck. Modified to spec by the dock workers, heavily bribed. Hidden from the dockmaster, bribed more. “Lost” in police paperwork with more money. Tucked away from the Navy with another drop of money. All of it was fine, every bit of cash, for it led to the account that Kerrik wanted found, one not bound in any way to Kaukolastan, but connected by an odd series of puppet companies, legitimate ones, and stock options, hundreds of levels deep.

But the boat, so painstakingly constructed to be a spy boat that appeared normal, with hidden scanners and tracking devices, was not even what it seemed. Smart dock workers pinned this as no ordinary fishing boat, and that information might leak. But the illusion was really within the illusion, and the boat was a deathtrap. Ghast had personally made sure the GPS locator had a faulty program, one that would lead it only a few degrees from course, straight into a ridge of stone just outside Roanian waters. Nothing overtly malicious, or even noticeable, and nothing that would survive seawater on the locator.

A crew had been purchased, told to deliver a case to a specific location, to sink the waterproof, armored case and then continue to waypoint two (the booby-trap). In the raging seas of the region, the small crew would die, dashed on the rocks. The vagrants had been carefully selected, and three out of luck and work former seamen were more than willing to take this journey for the sake of fifty thousand credits, both before and after the mission. They were pre-paid, so they did not fear a double cross. Who would kill a man they already paid? But the ISA had these resources, and the lives of three poor souls mattered not.

They had no family, and they had been cleaned of any ID with more bribes that brought the mission tab up to levels exceeding many new weapons systems. These three shipmates were no longer people, but unmarked beings, and soon, unknown corpses. Before the mission could begin, Ghast stashed a pack of Newports inside of the boat. The vagrants would surely smoke the pack, and if not, oh well. One more piece of minor, inconsequential evidence, the national cigarette brand of NYNJ, but when pieced into the entire set up, an incriminating piece of circumstantial almost proof.

The subtlety of this was astounding, even to Ghast. The package soon delivered, the couriers dead soon after that, the mission would be set in motion come dawn, and he was already leaving the port. With one more drop of cash, Ghast was no more than a ghost, and a memory that paid to forget.

tag

“Ah, smell that fresh sea air! Know what it smells like to me, John?”

“What?”

“Smells like generals. Gen-you-ine, golden generals.” Frank tossed his coin purse into the air and caught it with the reassuring clink of metal against metal.

“You know they don’t make general coins out of gold anymore, idiot. Too expensive. It’s some alloy now,” cut in the third member of the small crew.

“Aw, shut up, Edgar. You think you know every damn thing, just ‘cause you spent all them years in Lark’nah.”

“Compared to you, Frank, I’m a downright genius. Then again, so’s John and most of the chimps in the trees.”

“Shut up, both of you,” cut in John. “We’re coming up on the drop point. Edgar, you ready with that contraption?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“You too, Frank?”

“Sure thing.”

“Three...two...one...HEAVE!”

Edgar and Frank grunted, and the heavy waterproof package fell off into the water right on target.

“Well, that’s a job well done,” commented John, wiping the dust of his hands. “Ready for way point two, then, are we?”

“Edgar, you so smart; you go up and use that damn contraption.”

“What, the GPS? Sheesh, Frank, I expected even a simian like you could do that!”

“What’s a simian?” asked Frank with a suspicious expression. He was sure he had been insulted, but less sure precisely how.

-----

“Are you sure this is the right way, Edgar? It’s getting awful rough.” John sounded concerned.

“Of course this is the right way,” laughed Edgar, tapping the GPS. “Says so right here.”

“All I see are some flashin’ points.”

“That’s just because you don’t know how to use it.” The yacht rose up to the crest of another wave. “Look, here’s us, and here’s where we need to be. See the connection?”

“Well, if you’re sure...”

Crunch

“What the hell was that?” shouted John as the yacht lurched. Suddenly, Edgar was less sure of himself.

“I...I dunno!”

Below decks, Frank had just a second to consider the gaping hole torn in the yacht’s hull by a jagged rock. He opened his mouth to scream and was engulfed by a wall of water.

“Get to the life preservers!” John was calling. Already, the yacht had taken on a nasty list to her wounded port side. Charts slid off their tables and the lights went out. A dark, stormy sea threatened to swallow them whole.

“Where are they?” Edgar’s voice had a distinct note of panic as he dug through locker after locker.

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” replied John.

With a desperate shudder, the yacht was caught by a wave and dashed against the rocks again. Edgar flew to his side and careened off a post. He landed again, his head lolling at a strange angle. John had just enough time to take a deep breath before he was cast into the rolling seas.

((hope this is how you wanted it, K.))

The Motive
Allens grabbed the daily brief from the aide, his eyes scanning over the reports. The Section in Port Deliverance was reporting an unusual amount of action there, involving persons unknown, but with resources ample and plenty of will. This was creating a blizzard of chatter between the Section and its oversight. Good, this will only boost credibility.

Allens turned to his aide; handing over the PDA he had held for weeks. By now the boat should be wrecked for twelve hours, the package floating at the bottom, unnoticed. So far, there had been little action in Roania, just some normal Coast Guard activity for a group of morons who killed themselves in a boating wreck. But that would soon change. The aide took the PDA, with its morning update, and passed it off to the comms techs.

The PDA contained the normal day-to-day reports from ISA HQ to the field agents, and it was delivered in the normal way, by 2028-bit encryption from coded sources and satellites. But, with each section, there was a new code, and, the code delivered to the fake agents in Port Agua was the “unknown” broken Theta Seven protocol…

[code:1:cf58b4ec7c]…reports indicate increased activity in terrorist circles. Recommend upgrading security. State sponsored terrorist group, of unknown national origin, is acting up in locales surrounding Roania. Presumed target is someone in the upcoming Roanian elections. Stay on alert until further notice. Update with any information you attain…[/code:1:cf58b4ec7c]

Now, the ISA would just have to wait for the Roanians to put the pieces together.

OOC: K-Stan, strange that someone who admires Macchiavelli could be so god-damned politically stupid...

IC: The RICP monitoring station in Port Agua picked up the transmission from Kaukolastan, and recorded it, the code broken by the automated transmitting system. The commander pinpointed the place it had originally been transmitted towards, and pressed a button on his command chair. "This is Commander Louis. I want a SturmAbteilung division to visit the co-ordinates I'm transmitting to you, and kill all but one of the inhabitants of that building, including women and children. After you carry out those orders, I want you to destroy the building completely, and send teams into the undercity to make sure there were no survivors."

"The one you leave alive is to be taken back here and 'shaped'. Purge his mind and make him suffer. I then want a direct report made to the Interior Minister and the High Council on these Kaukolastanis. I've been pressuring them to initiate a cleansing for months, but they've refused. Now they should have no choice."

=============

The Roanian Guard Commander clicked his teeth together as he scanned the transmission, "I see...I want the three candidates put under twenty-four hour guard. Anyone who tries to get near them without written approval from *me* is to be taken into custody and handed over to the tender mercies of the Polizei. I'm trusting that Hohenzollern is safe in his castle in Derricks, so we'll leave him be. Contact the Lord Captain Commander of the Capital Legion division as well."

"Yes, sir." The Roanian Guardsman, resplendent in his red power-armour, clasped his hand over his heart and went off to contact the Imperial Legion.

============

The Aguan Marines took their craft out of the launching bay, salvage equipment at the ready. They had heard from the Aguan Naval Coastal WatchTeam that there had been a boat crashing into the rocks. Their orders were to collect any equipment, and to take any survivors in for questioning/execution.

The Naval High Command had already ordered the Sunset Islands BattleFleet to return to patrolling, with direct orders to halt and search any ships which entered Imperial Waters. A transmission was en-route to the Micronesian BattleFleet to put out into the waters and check for refugees from any of the island nations to the south of the Imperial Micronesian Protectorates.

"So, they jump when you speak?" Allens asked Kerrik, pointing to the report on the table before him.

"And as they jump, they are unable to orient. It matters not what they do, so long as it is on our motion." Kerrik leaned back in his chair.

"They've started acting. We've got naval movement, search teams, plus lots of interior movement in Roania. Purges, looks like." Allens shrugged. "You predicted that easy enough."

"They are brutal people, and simplistic in approach. Surely they understand that we would not send our transmissions to a safe house. If they are purging everyone in the vicintity, as the monitorred reports show, then they are even more single track than I gave them credit for. But, force is only so far. They will start to act less predictably from here on out."

"And the rest of the situation?"

"React as normal, move as though we are concerned about his actions. Fire off requests, monitor at a hightened level." Kerrik turned to his next report, "They will look deeper, and they will find the evidence."

"Sir, they are sweeping the islands in the Pacific. If they come onto one of our listening stations?"

"We do not fire first. Try to talk them down, and let them be the agressor. Follow standard erasure procedures to keep our tech out of the their hands. Oh, and have all those stations set to real time broadcast back to home, and record it." Kerrik raised and an eyebrow. "They would be wise to remain calm."

OOC: All in all, twenty people know what happened in reality. They are all ISA agents, except for Freed, the Black Works chief (and an ISA ally).

"Sir, we're getting election reports from Roania. It looks like the winner is going to be... Clarissa, that's the Commie." The tech turned away from the Argus screen.

Allens stood behind the bank of computers and nodded. "Send our congradulations." So, the election continued anyway. They are stubborn people, but I give them credit on cojones. He thought for a moment. Well, without the Imperials or Nazis in power, we need not worry so much. We won't follow up on the frame jobs. Just let Roania stew in the confusion of finding agents that don't exist.

A thought nagged at him. And if they do something rash?

But he had already answered himself. Then we resume the plans.

But for now, Allens turned and watched the screens.

OOC: Unfortunately, Roania has decided that since he is in a bad position, he wishes to "IGNORE" this RP. I guess that he will only RP when it will pampers his ego. So, the man who made this comment:

OOC: K-Stan, strange that someone who admires Macchiavelli could be so god-damned politically stupid...

Must have seen that I was not as "god-damned stupid" as he thought. Unfortunately, that means that he will not be continuing this thread any further, and has blanket IGNORED anything to do with it or me. While highly immature, this is effective as a cop-out. I would advise anyone who enjoys solid RP to note this action he has taken.

Sorry for wasting everyone's time, as this had promise.
-K-stan
You know what this is, kids? This is throwing the chess board away when the checkmate is about to happen.

(OOC: Um, Kaukolastan, you can continue the RP, considering we all know how much of a prick Roania sometimes is... Don't listen to him...)

(OOC: Um, Kaukolastan, you can continue the RP, considering we all know how much of a prick Roania sometimes is... Don't listen to him...)
Problem is, it falls on him to make the connections, and he swore he won't do anything via TG.

(OOC: You could always change the setting...)

(OOC: You could always change the setting...)
Probem is, this was custom tailored for Roania. He has repeatedly stated that his people are xenophobic and paranoid, so much so that they kill everything they think is foreign. While this makes him invincible to outright frontal attack, it is a virtual playground for mind games. I could make him attack his own people based upon illusions that some of them could be "foreign agents". Unfortunately, when he realized that his own words had pinned him, he tapped out.

OOC:
What an ass, he posts, and then decides not to. Is this a common theme on II? First Communist Louisana does it and now Roania...how does any RPing take place on these boards?

(OOC: They don't really occur... International Incident RPs usually all peter out, except for some wars and such...)

((huh. Well, too bad. Maybe another time?))

OOC:
What an ass, he posts, and then decides not to. Is this a common theme on II? First Communist Louisana does it and now Roania...how does any RPing take place on these boards?

OOC: No...now Kau is making things up. I said, quite clearly, that you don't do *anything* to my nation without my OOC permission prior to the event.

I didn't give it. Kau presumed I would, and presented me witha fait accompli. I played along, but since the reason for this thread originally is finished, so is my participation.

OOC: No...now Kau is making things up. I said, quite clearly, that you don't do *anything* to my nation without my OOC permission prior to the event.

I didn't give it. Kau presumed I would, and presented me witha fait accompli. I played along, but since the reason for this thread originally is finished, so is my participation.

((Ah, I see. I was under the impression that K-stan had approached you to begin with. Oh well; I suppose this can be a good lesson in the importance of TG communication in NationStates. And speaking of communication, I'd better stop talking before my case of foot-in-mouth disease gets any worse. ;)))

I did talk to him in regards to actions inside of his nation, but he said no. (Accordingly, I did not have ANYONE inside of his nation, in response to his request. The boat even wrecked OUTSIDE his waters. I'm a firm believer in fair play, hence why I asked what leader he wanted in power in IRC, so I wouldn't disrupt his nation's story.) I did not put agents in, did not attack, nor did I interact in any intrusive way. I merely did things in my own nation, and set them in front of Roania. He did not have to reply, or simply reply that he didn't notice, or otherwise not find proof. There was no binding demand.

(The other two parties can attest that I did contact them when I needed to go inside of their nations. If I had to get permission just to use the word "Roania" in an RP, that would really bog things down around here.)

However, to start the RP, insult me, and then back out when things didn't go right? (And I posted about the condtions changing, virtually showing you the door out.) Don't try to shift this.

OOC:
What an ass, he posts, and then decides not to. Is this a common theme on II? First Communist Louisana does it and now Roania...how does any RPing take place on these boards?

OOC: No...now Kau is making things up.Like your post? I hacked your nation and posted for you? Now, I'm sorry if I wasn't clear in my intentions or actions, I thought I had explained thoroughly enough. But how about, instead of insulting me and firing off "I IGNORE J00" telegrams, you could have asked what I was doing, and explained your reasons why you halted. The way you backed out, after proceeding confidently forward, reeks.

Well, I went and took a shower, blasted some thrash metal, and I think I've cleared my head a little. This is only a game, and there's no reason we can't all just play nice. This was a promising RP that was killed by miscommunication, misplay, and OOC/IC blending... at least, that's my opinion. There's no potential in this thread anymore, except for all of us to look bad by bickering. As such, I sadly request a lock on this thread.

PS: If you have comments, TG me. If you're REALLY pissed for some reason, AIM me at "Joseph the Grea7", but please ID yourself.

PPS: NYNJ, I can still build you that rifle. Talk to me about it.

PPPS: Roania, I wont' interfere in your nation ever again if you promise not to threaten my "destruction" every time your gov't changes. It's hard for me to sit back while you build a war machine. :)

PPPPS: This is a lot of post-scripts.

-Sorry about the trouble, mods
K-stan

Locked on the request of the author.

*does the lockomotion*