Schweinstein
02-02-2005, 01:18
Alex Wesselsky, Minister of Defense, reclined gently in his office chair, waiting for the usual draft of military reports regarding "his" present standing status. As he relaxed his fingers, a sharp knock came at the door and he sat upright.
"Come in."
Günter Schulz, a deskworker in the Complex (a large, dreary concrete structure standing like a pyramid, the military HQ of Schweinstein, which proudly displayed their unofficial moto: "Excessive Force") entered the room. He held out the dossier in his hands to Alex. Alex pushed himself in his upright position and grabbed the document for further study. Mr. Schulz left the room.
Page after page of dull statistics dragged on in a strangely familiar tediousness. Charts, graphs, text, maps. And as he came to the overview of the northern regions, he stopped, and inhaled deeply. His eyes traced over the paper, from the first point on the map to the second, and his blood ran cold. He rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.
Five miles. Easily covered in not even an hour with vehicles. And how old was the report? Six minutes. Nothing of his had been mobilized. Alex's hand darted to his phone.
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Camouflaged faces peered through the heavy forest covered in snow at their target. One of them raised a rifle, a civilian Remington 700 with an attatched scope, a poor excuse for a sniper rifle, but it would do.
As if on cue, a makeshift firing squad of men, frustrated at their state and their self-named Gods called politicians, raised their weapons and took aim at several far off guard posts. Off in the distance, two men were talking and enjoying a cigarette on their guard break, with their run-down AK-47's slung over their shoulders.
One of them must have said something funny. He was smiling as he talked to the other. The irony was that no one would remember it. Blood leaked on the snow, staining it red, as he fell, with a grin written on his face. His friend dropped to the ground and brought his AK to his face, peering off in the distance, trying to identify the source of the shot. Another crack, and a sharp blast from a .308 rifle brought his head exploding, as little bits of flesh, skull, and brain spattered down the back of his uniform and onto the quickly darkening snow.
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Out his window, Alex Wesselsky watched. On the other end of the phone line, a familiar voice spoke up.
"Robert Steinhauser speaking."
"Robert, it's Alex."
"Wesselsky, is it? Why the phone call?"
Alex paced across his office. To think, the Complex, calling for assistance against a force they couldn't even estimate. What a humiliation to his office.
"The Complex is under attack."
"What? How?"
"Reports this morning, from not more than a few minutes ago. You're aware of the Schliessen movement. It's your job to deal with terrorists and their like. They've been rabble rousing. Civilian weapons shops were raided last night and used to arm rabble, it says here. Reconnaisance reported that as of six minutes ago, they weren't even 5 miles within the Complex. By now, they could have easily reached the outside borders."
"Why are you so concerned about an army of rabble, Alex?" came the collected voice from the other end.
"I'm so concerned because I don't know the number I'm up against, and it's all too possible that the number could be overwhelming." Alex sighed, utterly embarassed at his failure and embarassed at the general fact of being embarassed.
"Well, good job, Alex. What do you expect me to do about this? Bail your fat out of the fire again like the Freiheit Square incident?" The reference to the execution of military soldiers via hanging conducted by the public was still all to clear in his mind, the last time Wesselsky had needed to use force to suppress the masses.
Alex stood still and quiet for a minute, holding the phone in his hand. Robert was inquiring if he was still there, and Alex brought the phone to his ear again. By now, his embarassment had brought his face to the color of a fresh apple, while his knuckles were white from the fear of the unknown onslaught against him and the jeering of his colleagues.
"Yes, that would accurately sum up what this phone call is about."
"...and you realize that my men aren't fit for forest combat, correct? Nor are they properly equipped or trained. I run special operations, Alex, not total war. And, might I add, I'm in no position to soil my name again for your utter screwup, Alex. You're going to have to pull your fat out of the frying pan this time."
"Listen, you f*cking pompous asshole ---"
The line went dead as Robert Steinhauser hung up his phone. Alex slammed it back on the receiver, picked it up again, and dialed 9, and waited. Soon, his voice was heard over the complex PA.
"All able soldiers, report to the armory for gear."
OOC: More will come tomorrow. I need to go for now.
"Come in."
Günter Schulz, a deskworker in the Complex (a large, dreary concrete structure standing like a pyramid, the military HQ of Schweinstein, which proudly displayed their unofficial moto: "Excessive Force") entered the room. He held out the dossier in his hands to Alex. Alex pushed himself in his upright position and grabbed the document for further study. Mr. Schulz left the room.
Page after page of dull statistics dragged on in a strangely familiar tediousness. Charts, graphs, text, maps. And as he came to the overview of the northern regions, he stopped, and inhaled deeply. His eyes traced over the paper, from the first point on the map to the second, and his blood ran cold. He rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.
Five miles. Easily covered in not even an hour with vehicles. And how old was the report? Six minutes. Nothing of his had been mobilized. Alex's hand darted to his phone.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Camouflaged faces peered through the heavy forest covered in snow at their target. One of them raised a rifle, a civilian Remington 700 with an attatched scope, a poor excuse for a sniper rifle, but it would do.
As if on cue, a makeshift firing squad of men, frustrated at their state and their self-named Gods called politicians, raised their weapons and took aim at several far off guard posts. Off in the distance, two men were talking and enjoying a cigarette on their guard break, with their run-down AK-47's slung over their shoulders.
One of them must have said something funny. He was smiling as he talked to the other. The irony was that no one would remember it. Blood leaked on the snow, staining it red, as he fell, with a grin written on his face. His friend dropped to the ground and brought his AK to his face, peering off in the distance, trying to identify the source of the shot. Another crack, and a sharp blast from a .308 rifle brought his head exploding, as little bits of flesh, skull, and brain spattered down the back of his uniform and onto the quickly darkening snow.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Out his window, Alex Wesselsky watched. On the other end of the phone line, a familiar voice spoke up.
"Robert Steinhauser speaking."
"Robert, it's Alex."
"Wesselsky, is it? Why the phone call?"
Alex paced across his office. To think, the Complex, calling for assistance against a force they couldn't even estimate. What a humiliation to his office.
"The Complex is under attack."
"What? How?"
"Reports this morning, from not more than a few minutes ago. You're aware of the Schliessen movement. It's your job to deal with terrorists and their like. They've been rabble rousing. Civilian weapons shops were raided last night and used to arm rabble, it says here. Reconnaisance reported that as of six minutes ago, they weren't even 5 miles within the Complex. By now, they could have easily reached the outside borders."
"Why are you so concerned about an army of rabble, Alex?" came the collected voice from the other end.
"I'm so concerned because I don't know the number I'm up against, and it's all too possible that the number could be overwhelming." Alex sighed, utterly embarassed at his failure and embarassed at the general fact of being embarassed.
"Well, good job, Alex. What do you expect me to do about this? Bail your fat out of the fire again like the Freiheit Square incident?" The reference to the execution of military soldiers via hanging conducted by the public was still all to clear in his mind, the last time Wesselsky had needed to use force to suppress the masses.
Alex stood still and quiet for a minute, holding the phone in his hand. Robert was inquiring if he was still there, and Alex brought the phone to his ear again. By now, his embarassment had brought his face to the color of a fresh apple, while his knuckles were white from the fear of the unknown onslaught against him and the jeering of his colleagues.
"Yes, that would accurately sum up what this phone call is about."
"...and you realize that my men aren't fit for forest combat, correct? Nor are they properly equipped or trained. I run special operations, Alex, not total war. And, might I add, I'm in no position to soil my name again for your utter screwup, Alex. You're going to have to pull your fat out of the frying pan this time."
"Listen, you f*cking pompous asshole ---"
The line went dead as Robert Steinhauser hung up his phone. Alex slammed it back on the receiver, picked it up again, and dialed 9, and waited. Soon, his voice was heard over the complex PA.
"All able soldiers, report to the armory for gear."
OOC: More will come tomorrow. I need to go for now.