NationStates Jolt Archive

Di Dude's Palace, The Middle of New Kingston

Swoonie Woo sat in deep thought in the lavishely designed office that was his "throne" of sorts. He was a man of great stature and power in Jamaica, he had arisen from the slums of Kingston to get where he was today, he was a true testament of Jamaican might. He leaned forward slightly in his cushioned leather chair, and his shoulder length dreads moved with him, resting around his arms. He clasped his large hands together, going deeper into thought about the nation's concerns and aims. All of his fingers were decorated with large platinum rings, each larger than the other from the pinky to the thumb. Swoonie had worked hard for everything he had, nothing had been given to him, and has he arose from his chair and looked out the window onto the bustling metropolis of New Kingston, he knew that the time to fight would soon come again.

Jamaica's policies were all about helping better the living conditons of the black race worldwide, and those policies had been carried out with large success in western Africa and in parts of the Caribbean. With each day Jamaica's voice in Caribbean politics, and influence on Caribbean nations became stronger and stronger, and was largely met without any opposition.

Swoonie put his hands behind his back and looked over the city with dark brown eyes, he was glad to see his people doing well, much had changed since he had led a revolution against the corrupt regime 10 years ago. Jamaica had rapidly ubranized and modernized into the powerhouse that it was today, with several steady trading partners and a powerful alliance to boost it's military weight. But Swoonie and much of Jamaica felt that this wasn't enough, there was more to be done. If black lives could be saved in Africa and in Haiti, then why couldn't Jamaica bring its helping hand to South America? A place where Swoonie felt blacks were being oppressed and deprived of equal opportunity, and thanks to Swoonie's new ad campaign, much of Jamaica shared his views.

It seemed logical to help these people, and to give them better lives under the wing of the empire, but there was a problem. The Latin Union, a large dominant nation on the continent of South America, stood between Jamaica, and its goals.

There was no communication open between the two nations, but The Latin Union had to have somewhat of an idea of Jamaica's intentions to extend its grip into South America. Swoonie had made it a point to smuggle television ads into the mainly hispanic nation, aimed at the minority of blacks living there, telling them that their way of life was below normal standards, and that a safe haven was in Jamaica. Whether the ads had aired or not was unknown, but Swoonie knew people in 'high places', so he was confident that they had served their purpose.

A man by the name of Julio Verandez was payed $250,000 in cash by the Jamaican government to bring the ads into The Latin Union. Julio was an executive of a broadcasting company in The Latin Union, and owed Swoonie Woo a favor that reached back to both their dark pasts. Swoonie was well aware that Julio knew better than to jiff him out of his money, Julio's past experiences of "business" with Swoonie were more than enough to drive the thought of that far from his mind. The exchange had happened over a month ago, and the fate of Julio was not an issue, as long as the ads had been aired then the operation was viewed as a success. "The whole nation watches our news, trust me, this will be seen", Julio had assured Swoonie before he flew back to into The Latin Union. The overall purpose of the ads were to stir up the black community within The Latin Union, the best scenario being a rebellion backed secretly by Jamaican aide. But Swoonie never expected the best, and he knew that this particular outcome was a reach. But if the ads were enough to cause civil unrest, then it would give Jamaica all the more reason to move against The Latin Union, toppling them, and swallowing the rest of South America in a domino effect. Swoonie's lips curled up into a smile, "If it comes to war, my people will give them hell.", he said solemnly to himself.

Jamaica was also worried about The Latin Union's influence on the smaller hispanic nations in the Caribbean that Jamaica all but controlled economically. A cold war of sorts was brewing in the Caribbean, and things might turn hot soon with Jamaica's large military being put through strenuous invasion tactics on the beaches of uninhabited islands. Swoonie was determined, but the stance of The Latin Union's was unknown, only time would tell how things would unfold....

The Cabinet Room in the Red House, Cuiabá
One month ago

President Pedro Marquez strode into the room, immediately sending all within to their feet. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," he said perfunctorily, approaching his chair at the head of the table and adjusting his tie. "I hope everyone slept well. Have a seat. Is everyone accounted for?"

"Yes, Mr. President," announced Giulio Cagliano, the Minister of State, as he adjusted his glasses.

"Good," said Marquez. "What's first on the agenda for today?"

Vespasien Chenard, the Chairman of the Bureau of National Police, or BGC, immediately rose and crossed to the large flatscreen at the end of the table. "Mr. President, something has come to our attention that we believe you should see," he said. Marquez raised his eyebrows and indicated he go on. Chenard nodded to the aide with the remote control. A moment later, the flatscreen lit up with the image of a sorrowful African child. A voiceover started up in Latin.

"If your child looks at you this way, they are telling you something," it began. "They're telling you that they are sad. Why is your child sad? Did someone make fun of them at school because they are black? Did their mother and father not have enough money to buy them the toy they wanted? Did their government not see them as part of the equation?" The image switched to a bar graph showing blatantly inflated figures that indicated the average salary of a black man in the Union was far less than the global average. "Your children are telling the truth. The government of the Latin Union does not see you as part of the equation. They don't care about your interests, and have worked hard to make sure your voice is not heard in the General Assembly." Marquez stiffened in his chair. Of all the confounded nerve... The image switched to a flying flag of the Empire of Jamaica Reborn. His eyes widened. "The Empire of Jamaica Reborn is a nation ruled by Africans. Only here can you find true freedom. Our government listens to all of its citizens, and our corporations employ all who are able and willing to work, without any racial discrimination. Is it not the time for you to cast off those who would seek to oppress you?" The image changed back to that of the despondent child. "Is it not the time to let your children smile again?" The image went black. Chenard nodded to the aide, who turned off the flatscreen.

Marquez was thunderstruck for a moment. "How long has this been airing?" asked Cagliano.

"This first spot aired last night, Mr. President," replied Chenard. "But according to the station, it is slated to run for three months."

Marquez's face tightened. "Three months? Which station is airing this?"

"OTV, out of Setubal," replied Chenard.

"Do you know who bought the ads?"

"Mr. President, our questioning of network employees pointed towards the management. Possibly a VP or even the CEO. All of them claimed they didn't know who had bought the spot or ordered it to be played."

"Ursula, tell me you have something," Marquez asked the Director of the Department of Intelligence, Ursula Menendez.

"Mr. President, give me two weeks and I'll have a concise background report on all the higher-ups in OTV," she replied.

Marquez relaxed slightly. "Good. Any response to these ads from the African population?"

"Not currently, Mr. President," chimed in Cagliano. "But I'd bet money the papers are going to be plastered with this."

"Whoever made this thing has to be working for the Jamaicans," the President theorized. "Either that, or they're a front organization trying to pin the blame on the Jamaicans."

"Mr. President, until we learn more about OTV's connections, we have no idea."

-----

Article taken from that week's Latin National Daily Journal (LGQE):

ANTI-GOVERNMENT TELEVISION SPOT AIRS ON OTV
By Alejandro Sanchez

The Orilla Television Company began airing a highly inflammatory spot last night, targeted directly at the Latin Union's minority population of Africans. The 30-second clip attacked the government's attention to the ethnic group and claimed the Africans within the Union were being oppressed. It went on to suggest that the African minority "cast off" the government and show favor towards the Empire of Jamaica Reborn, a nation whose population is almost entirely of African descent.

Presidential Spokesman Agusto Trujillo appeared at a brief press conference today, denouncing the makers of the television spot for trying to create dissent, and criticizing the management of the Orilla Television Company for "relying on shock tactics to gain viewership." He went on to say that the African populace of the Union was in no way ignored by the government, and that their voice was heard just as equally in the General Assembly as any other citizen's. He then reiterated the President's promise in his inaugural address that his administration would take steps to eliminate discrimination by race, religion, gender, or sexual preference from the Union's corporations, and that anyone who has felt discriminated against by their employer is fully within their rights to lodge a legal complaint with their local law enforcement.

Juan Orilla, the CEO and owner of OTV, would not offer any comment concerning the television spot. His senior executives and aides were either unavailable for comment or would not speak with reporters.

-----

The Cabinet Room in the Red House, Cuiabá
Three weeks later

"Ladies and gentlemen, take your seats," the President ordered as he entered the room, hastily fiddling with his cuffs. As the members of his Cabinet sat, he immediately turned to Ursula Menendez. "I gave you two weeks, Ursula, and it wasn't enough. Now it's three. Make me proud."

Menendez rose with a dismayed frown. "Mr. President, we ran background checks on every senior executive in the Orilla Television Company, and requested records of all their financial transactions for the past three months, both personal and through the company. It's been tedious work, sir, and so far we can draw no financial connection between OTV and any radical factions inside or outside the Union, nor to any foreign governments."

"You're not making me proud, Ursula."

"Sir, we can draw a personal connection, however." Menendez turned to the aide at the flatscreen, who brought up an image of a middle-aged man in a business suit walking from his car to the front doors of the OTV building. "This man's name is Julio Verandez, sir. He's the Senior Vice President in charge of Marketing and Sales for the Orilla Television Company. He's 43 years of age, married, with three sons. Verandez was an expatriate Latin who emigrated back here shortly after the unification."

"That face..." mused Proconsul Maximiliano Sauceda, the commander of the Department of Military Intelligence, or Legio Militaris Intelligentiae (LMI). "That man looks familiar."

"He should, Proconsul," said Menendez. "Verandez once went by the name Julio Lopez."

"Lopez. I'll be damned," mused the aging proconsul.

"Something you'd like to share, Proconsul?" the President asked.

"Sir, ten years ago I was a major in the intelligence branch of the Ciudades Grandes militia, well before any news of unification." Marquez nodded. 'Ciudades Grandes' was a territory that had since become the province known as Vita within the Union. It was one of the strongest supporters of unification. "At the time, Ciudades Grandes was sympathetic to the efforts of a man named Swoonie Woo, who was leading a revolution in the Caribbean. We sent a man named Julio Lopez as an intermediary, so we could conduct secret relations with Woo, sell him weapons and the like. But Lopez turned out to be in it for his own gains. Pretty soon he started trading drugs for guns so he could fund his own little narcotics ring in Ciudades Grandes. When we found out and tried to track him down, he escaped. We never could find him again."

"Mr. President, Swoonie Woo is currently the most powerful man in the Empire of Jamaica Reborn," Menendez concluded. She let the President assimilate the new information for a moment.

"How can you be sure this man is Julio Lopez?" he asked.

"We have photographs of Lopez from the Vita Provincial Archives, and compared them with photographs of the man who calls himself Verandez. After some extensive analysis, my people are 90% confident that they are the same person."

"Ninety percent," the President repeated. "Aside from photographs, what have you got?"

"Sir, records of Mr. Lopez are nonexistent after the Ciudades Grandes government lost contact with him. When we were checking the background of Julio Verandez, we came upon something that led us to the photographs - his bank records. Verandez emigrated here from Overbonia, where he must have been living a long time, but his bank accounts had existed in the boundaries of the Union for 10 years before his return. The starting deposits for his savings and checking accounts were both very large sums of money, the kind of money one couldn't make in Vita ten years ago without it being illegitimate. Not only that, but the money had been directly transferred to those accounts from the liquidated account of a man named Julio Lopez. We searched everywhere for records of Lopez, and we found them in the photograph archives. Not only that sir, but the transferrence of the money was done entirely by mail. And the address the bank had sent the final receipts to was in what is now known as the Empire of Jamaica Reborn."

Eyebrows went up all around the table. Marquez whistled. "Sounds like he cut and run with his drug money, laid low in Jamaica Reborn for a while under an alias, then moved to Overbonia to make it rich legitimately," summarized Vice President Felipe Caraguez. "After that he came back home and got a job in the TV business."

"This evidence establishes his connections with the Jamaicans, especially their leader, Mr. Woo," said Vespasien Chenard. "And with this I could nab Verandez for bank fraud. Not drug trafficking, though. It's a pity our laws can't cover offenses that took place before the unification."

"I'd wait on arresting him," advised Cagliano. "We still need to connect him to the TV spot, then you could also get him for corporate corruption."

At that very moment, Menendez's cell phone rang. She pulled it off her belt and looked at it. "It's the Department. May I?"

"By all means," said Marquez.

"Yes?" Menendez said into the phone. There was a pause. "You're sure of this?" Another pause. "I'm with the President right now, but thank you." She hung up. "Mr. President, the team I tasked with examining Mr. Verandez's recent bank statements just found the link we needed."

-----

Article taken from yesterday's Latin National Daily Journal (LGQE):

OTV EXEC ARRESTED FOR CORRUPTION, BANK FRAUD
By Yolanda Beatriz Quiñonez

Senior Vice President Julio Verandez of OTV was arrested by BGC agents this morning as he was heading in to work. Investigation has revealed that Verandez had emigrated to the Union under a false name, and had been the head of a drug ring in what is now known as Vita province. Verandez had also had dealings with the current head of the government of Jamaica Reborn in the past, and evidence shows he recently accepted a large sum of money through a string of front organizations that eventually lead to the Jamaican government. The correlation between the payoff and the anti-government television spots that have been airing in recent weeks is clearly the basis for the corruption charge.

Verandez's lawyer has vowed that he will fight the government over the charges, which he calls "ludicrous and totally baseless." He has accused the government of tarnishing his clent's reputation, and accuses the judicial system of being too eager to issue an arrest warrant.

The government has remained silent about the arrest, and has yet to release a statement concerning the connection between the TV spots and the Jamaican government.

Article taken from the Latin National Daily Journal (LGQE), later that week:

OTV ADS FINALLY STOPPED
By Alejandro Sanchez

In the wake of the arrest of a prominent OTV official who was found to be taking payment from the Jamaican government, the Orilla Television Company has removed the anti-government, African-targeting TV spot that began airing a month ago. A spokeswoman for the company said it removed the spot not out of public concern, but because the money funding its continued airtime had been found by federal investigators to have been illegally obtained.

In recent weeks, the spot sparked unrest in the Union's African-descended minority. While some have claimed the spot is truthful and have been staging anti-government rallies, many consider the spot to be a blatant attempt to cause unrest, as it was linked to the Jamaican government.

Presidential Spokesman Agusto Trujillo said of the unrest, "The President continues to assure the people of the Union that all of them are equal, that prejudicial business practices are illegal, and that they have nothing to fear from the government concerning their personal freedoms." When asked about the Jamaican government's involvement, he declined to comment.

Andrea Rintza, the chairwoman of the National Movement for the Unity of Africans, a political lobbying group, said of the TV spot's removal that "it is a relief." She went on to say that the spot had created unnecessary disunity within her organization and the fact that it had gone on for a month had made her wonder why the government had not acted sooner to have it removed, but reasoned that free speech is a guarantee under the Constitution.

New Kingston, Jamaica

Thousands of demonstrators marched peacefully down Swoonie Boulevard, demanding that their brothers and sisters in South America be liberated from the oppressive government that held them down economically and socially. Whole families walked down the wide street, most wearing shirts that had a drawn black fist on the front and the statement "No man left behind!" on the backs. The shirts were available at almost every clothing store in Jamaica, and had been selling at a rapid pace in the past two weeks. People carried pickett signs that read, "We demand Black Justice" and "Jamaica will defend those who cannot defend themselves!". Silent Murphy, Swoonie Woo's right hand man and one of two who held the title of "Di Men" of Jamaica, had organized and now led the demonstration, which was recieving massive coverage from the national and international press. Silent Murphy, a man of few words, led the enormous crowd down Swoonie Boulevard, dressed in a black turtleneck, leather jacket, jeans, boots and to top it off a black beret slightly tipped to the left side. He bore a striking resemblance to a 1960's era American Black Panther, as he extended his right arm and closed his right gloved hand into a fist, while keeping his walking pace and looking directly ahead through black lensed sunglasses.

Thousands of Jamaicans walked behind him, rhythmically chanting "Long Live the Empire!" while bouncing pickett signs up and down over their shoulders, and holding up their right fists. The image was priceless, and was captured by dozens of reporters, and by hundreds more tourists and those who had stopped their normal commuting to witness the sight.

The 5 mile march led to Swoonie Square, where a massive stage had been assembled in front of the old capitol building. Silent Murphy was swallowed up by waiting security forces who escorted him behind the stage and out of site from the demonstrators who were gathering in increasing numbers in front of the stage. Shortly after Silent Murphy had vanished, he reappeared walking onto the stage and was met by a deafening cheer of approval from the masses.

He waved his hand in the air, motioning for silence, the crowd quickly complied. Silent Murphy looked over the thousands of faces in what was now an audience, and said nothing. He lifted his right hand and brought it out to his right side, in a "now presenting" type fashion. Marcus Tate, leader of the political group JAGABR(Jamaican Association for Globally Advancing the Black Race), strode out onto the stage wearing a traditional black three piece suit. Silent Murphy heartily shook his hand and then swiftly exited the stage. Marcus's political group had an astounding 9 million members throughout the empire, and held 35 of the 60 seats available in "Di People's" house. The crowd had went into a second uproar once Marcus Tate had stepped onto the stage, and now Marcus attempted to speak over the deafening cheers,

"Brothers.....", Marcus held his left hand in the air until the crowd quieted down and his voice, amplified by an unseen mic, was audible, "My brothers and sisters, I've come here today to speak with you all about a previously unseen horror that plagues the everyday lives of a certain group of people within the continent of South America. These people, though hardworking and determined, are treated as second-class citizens in a land that they should rightfully call home. But a man is not home when he does not have the ability to make a decent living. A man is not home when he cannot adequately support his family because of his social standing. A man is not home when he cannot work his way up the economic ladder like any other citizen, simply because of the color of his skin. This is not a home, this is a madhouse, and in the middle of this madhouse there is only one stable support that keeps it up, that continues to humiliate and dishonor the black race in South America. This support is The Latin Union, a corrupt nation, ran in a backwards fashion to keep the African minority from achieving more than what is popularly accepted.

This, my people, is nothing more than a sugarcoated form of slavery. A repulsive form of oppression that is placed on the backs of our brothers and sisters in South America. Even though they are the backbone of the working class, it is they who recieve the lowest wages, it is they who are shown the least amount of respect, it is they who are ridiculed in hispanic media. Enough is enough!"

Marcus paused to let the roused up crowd cheer him on, and then shortly after raised his hand again and began animately speaking once again,

"Now is the time! The time for Jamaica to stand up, the time for Jamaica to intervene in the travesty that is equality in The Latin Union! Action must be taken, we must show the world, that the Empire will not stand by and watch it's people be degraded, trodden upon and raped! Not in our land, and not in any land!"

Marcus stood on the stage with his arms outstretched, another classic image that was again captured by dozens of reporters. The crowd was crazy by now, and their incoherent cheers soon turned into one solid chant, "Down with the Union!".

The demonstration turned rally was translated into several different languages, including latin and was aired internationally where it's signal was accepted. Swoonie now had the public on his side, things were slowly slipping into place for Jamaica's plans of a liberation.

Increasingly exaggerated reports of the black standard of living in South America, and The Latin Union's negative response toward a 'mysterious' ad praising the Jamaican Empire had turned popular opinion radically in Swoonie's favor.

King Military Base, Montego Bay

A single UAV spy drone took off of a airstrip in the secluded base of King Military base 10 miles outside of Montego Bay. It skid off the pavement and slowly elevated until it was out of human eyesight to those few who were authorized to witness its take off. Capable of traveling thousands of miles, the spy drone's destination was high above the nation of The Latin Union. The objective was to observe military formations and targets, as well as the ability of the Union's airforce and anti-air programs. Every image the drone took was sent back to the base in Montego Bay heavily encrypted with codes making it difficult for any other radars to pick up. The first act of intrustion had been made...

(OOC: For info on how my government works, just look here http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=375361&highlight=Jamaica)

Article taken from the Latin National Daily Journal (LGQE):

CLEAR INTENTIONS
By Alejandro Sanchez

In a bold move not acted against by his native government, a man in the Empire of Jamaica Reborn has openly declared war against the Latin Union.

Marcus Tate, the head of the radical "Jamaican Association for Globally Advancing the Black Race," a movement that holds considerable power within the Empire, led a massive march in the capital city, and gave a demagogic speech afterwards, having been introduced by one of Swoonie Woo's closest advisors. Tate, in a brief but inflammatory speech, attacked the Union's attitude toward its minority of African-descended citizens, and called upon the government of his nation to "to intervene in the travesty that is equality in The Latin Union." The speech ended with the crowd chanting "Down with the Union!"

-----

In the Presidential Office, the Red House, Cuiabá:
2:42 PM

Marquez lowered the newpaper and gazed into the eyes of the three people he had summoned to the room. "You know why you're here," he told them, tension and anger coalescing just under the surface of his face. He turned the newspaper to face them. "I'm sure you've all seen this speech, heard of it, or read about it by now."

"Mr. President, you know as well as I that the blacks in the Union aren't being oppressed in any way," said Giulio Cagliano, pushing up his glasses. "Every black representative in the Assembly has been saying things have dramatically improved for them since the unification. Your administration has really given them the equality and freedom they deserve."

"Thank you, Giulio," said Marquez, "I do know that." He turned to Pcl. Siro Oliveira, his Chief of Staff. "I want a session of the General Staff and the Cabinet to be assembled in the War Room in 30 minutes, Proconsul," he ordered. "Make all the necessary arrangements immediately."

"Yes, sir," said Oliveira, turning and leaving the room.

"Sir, you aren't honestly thinking of going to war over this," said Mario Salazar.

"No, Mario, I'm not," said Marquez. "But I don't want our pants down if the Jamaicans are. Within 24 hours I want us to know everything about that country. We need to be prepared if anything happens."

Salazar nodded but replied, "It is possible that this is a political move to gain influence over our people, not a genuine call to arms the Jamaican government will heed."

"You would know better about any of that than I, Mario," said Marquez. "The reports you've given me over the past few days have told me that the Empire is heavily expansionist. They want to bring all the blacks of the world under one collective blanket. Given the TV spot they managed to air here, and now this, it's likely that they're seeking much more than influence."

"Oh, of course," replied Salazar. "I've thought that all along. I'm just being a good diplomat and trying to avoid conflict," he added with a wink.

Marquez smiled. "That's why I picked you," he replied. His face quickly became solemn again. He turned to Cagliano. "Get the camera crew and tell them I will be delivering a speech to the nation tonight at 8 PM. We need to let the people know what's really going on."

"Yes, Mr. President," said Cagliano, leaving grimly. Marquez turned back to Salazar.

"War, it seems, is what the Jamaicans want," he said. "Did I spend half my life working for the creation of this nation, only to see it become some gem to be thieved from its people?" Marquez's eyes showed Salazar the full truth of his words.

"Mr. President, war comes when aggression and expansion is present. Someone always has to get attacked. But that never means the attackers always win."

The President looked up at his Minister of Foreign Relations and his face grew stone-still.

-----

Gamma Radar Post, Alcántara Air Force Base, Pax Province:
3:08 PM

Sfr. Bruno Vasconcellos peeled back more of the wrapper to reveal another length of the chocolate bar. Quickly biting off the exposed hunk, he chewed slowly, letting the chocolate coat his mouth as his eyes lazily glided over the radar screen, watching the civilian jetliners blip-blip-blip on their merry way.

A hand was laid on his shoulder. "Fascinating, eh, Vasquez?" came the voice of the observation post commander, Mge. Estevão Seixas. Even as he smiled, Bruno hated how the master shortened his last name.

"Oh yes, sir, stimulating as can be," he said jovially. Get the hell away from me and go bother someone else, he didn't add. But Seixas stayed there, lingering for apparently no reason. After a moment, Bruno saw his hand arc down from above him, aiming for his candy bar.

"Clearly it's not as stimulating as that candy bar," Seixas started. "Let me just relieve you of that--"

"Whoa!" shouted Bruno, suddenly lunging forward in his chair (and deftly avoiding having his candy bar stolen). He plastered his finger to a random, unmarked dot on the screen. "What is THAT doing there?" Bruno pretended to be intensely interested.

"Whoa, hey," Seixas said, also leaning forward. "What IS that?" He smirked as the signifer turned to look at him, the feigned surprise all over his face. "I'll call Beta Post, see what they think." He strode casually over to the blue phone on the wall and dialed up Beta Post. "Hello, Beta Post? This is High Master Seixas, Gamma Post. We've got an unmarked contact at... hey, Vasquez, where's that contact at?"

Bruno fumed and checked the screen. "Grid 5A, about 7,600 meters up, traveling south-southwest."

"Grid 5A, 7.6 klicks up," Seixas said into the receiver. He smirked again at Bruno, waiting to hear it was a bird. That wasn't the answer he got. "What? You think it's an aircraft?" He lost his smirk. "But it's too small to be an airplane, it's got to be a bird or something." Pause. "Uh-huh." Pause. "Has anyone got word to Chilarch Brito?"

Alcántara Air Force Base, Pax Province:
3:11 PM

Clc. Americo Santiago Brito, the commander of the base, picked up the ringing telephone on his desk. "Brito here," he said.

"Sir, this is High Master Seixas, commanding Gamma Radar Post," the voice on the other end began. "We've got an unmarked contact in grid 5A travelling at 7.6 kilometers and heading south-southwest."

"What do you make of it?" asked the Chilarch.

"Well, sir, we don't know what to make of it, but it flying too high for a bird and is travelling on a straight course, though it's too small to be an aircraft."

"What do you think it is?" asked Brito.

"Sir, I honestly have no way of guessing. We could send up a fighter to check it out. It's not answering any of our attempts to contact it."

Brito thought for a moment. "Try contacting civilian traffic controllers," he ordered. "I'm not burning some jet fuel just to check out a bird."

-----
In the War Room, the Red House, Cuiabá:
3:57 PM

"... and as you see here, there have been high-profile exercises of amphibious landings on a number of Caribbean islands. Although we could assume these landings are simply routine, we don't really have a good sense of what is 'routine' for the Jamaicans." Proconsul Sauceda turned from the huge flatscreen to the assembled military and civilian staff.

"How soon could the Jamaicans launch naval operations within our sphere of influence?" asked President Marquez.

"Sir, judging solely by distance, we estimate a minimum of fifteen hours," replied Sauceda. "But that's assuming their navy is fully prepared for any operations and leaves immediately after any order is given. Realistically we could say anywhere between 2 to 5 days would pass from the time any assault is ordered until they reach our Navy's patrol zones."

"That's assuming, of course, that they're going to strike first," put in Jean LeMarc, the Minister of Defense. "To keep popular support for the war up at home, they might want to egg us into making the first offensive move."

"How would they do that?" asked Marquez.

"They might start violating our territorial waters, but not attacking us," said LeMarc. "Our standing policy on foriegn military vessels in our waters is to order them to leave. Failing that, a warning shot is fired over their heads, and if that still doesn't sway them, a disabling shot to their propellers is the final resort. Only if they start shooting back are our ships authorized to engage in full combat."

"Do you think they'd do that? Dance around in our waters and beg us to shoot them?"

"If they don't want to start the war, it is possible."

"And if they do?" Marquez turned to High Naval Proconsul João Belem, the Naval Forces Chief of Staff.

"I think it's clear they do," Belem said, glaring at LeMarc. "And they will most likely launch a naval campaign to eliminate our supremacy in our own home waters. They will want the Naval Forces reduced to pulp before attempting any assault on our coastline." Belem rose from his chair, pulling his uniform taut over his considerable girth. He took the pointer from Sauceda and called up a map of the Union's only coastline. "I'd predict several battle fleets and aircraft carriers coming in from the north, while several more press in from the east to draw us into a two-front defense. If the enemy's especially wily he'll circle all the way around and hit us from the south." Belem indicated those places on the map he could visualize Jamaican ships sailing in from.

"Proconsul Belem," Marquez suddenly said. "Are the Naval Forces on alert?"

Belem faltered. "No sir," he finally said. "We are still on a peacetime footing."

"How long would it take you to call up the reserves and get a wartime fleet on the seas?"

Belem swallowed. "Sir, a full mobilization could take up to four days."

"In that time, the Jamaicans could already have shunted aside our peacetime fleet and landed on our beaches," said LeMarc.

"Proconsul Colón, how long before you can organize a beach defense?" Marquez shot off, turning to the Army Chief of Staff in a small fury.

"Mr. President, our standing peacetime defenses are adequate to hold off a determined enemy assault for approximately three days. That would give us sufficient time to call up our local reserves and mobilize a counterattack. The contingencies have been plotted since the day of unification." Felipe Colón was a little, nervous man, but he was uncannily in command of his information. His balding head was almost always at work. Marquez relaxed slightly, but shot a glance at Pcl. Jean de Poitou, the Marines Attaché.

"Imperator Montoya has been working in conjunction with the Army's invasion contingency plans," said de Poitou hurriedly. Marquez's glance shot over to Pcl. Fabrizio Lionelli, the Air Forces Chief of Staff, who outlined that the full strength of the Latin Air Force could be brought to bear on the Jamaican threat within 2 days.

A moment later, an Air Force proconsul rushed into the room with a manila folder and handed it to Lionelli, whispering hastily in his ear. Lionelli rose, took the pointer from a sweating Belem, and threw a photograph from the folder onto the table, focusing the flatscreen's external camera on it. The photograph, still damp from the developing solution, was of a small wrecked aircraft in a field, being looked over by Air Force personnel.

"Mr. President," said Lionelli, running a hand through his short white hair, "I've just been informed that this aircraft, which we believe to be an unmanned spy drone, has been shot down over Alcántara. The drone was picked up by several military radar posts, and the local Air Force commander contacted civilian aircraft that could get a visual. When the nature of the drone was confirmed, a fighter was scrambled to intercept, and shot the drone down."

Minister LeMarc cursed. "The press is going to have a field day."

-----

In the Presidential Office, the Red House, Cuiabá:
7:59 PM

Marquez let Irina style his hair over and over as he looked over the final draft of the speech he had prepared. It was short, but straightforward and informative. He didn't want to cause panic, but at the same time, if things went as he hoped they wouldn't, he could soon be telling them their loved ones would be fighting in the first struggle for survival the nation had ever experienced. Though he tried not to think about that, he knew that after tonight, the whole nation would be thinking the exact same thing.

"Twenty seconds," said the chief of the camera crew. Irina finally put away her comb.

"That's as best as I'll get it, sir," she confessed. Marquez just nodded to her, and she scurried out of camera view. As the chief counted down the seconds until the camera before him would go live, Marquez took a deep breath and ran his hands over the surface of the Presidential Desk.

"Three, two, one..." the chief nodded to Marquez.

"Fellow citizens," Marquez began. "No doubt many of you have read, heard, or seen news of the growing anti-Union sentiment within the Empire of Jamaica Reborn. It has become clear to us through their emotional ramblings and clandestine attempts to sway our favor that they seek to inflame our African-descended minority population. They have called for the overthrow of our government.

Though these attacks can be shrugged off as those of vocal radicals, this is not so. The speech made earlier today in the capital city of Jamaica Reborn was by a group that holds considerable political power in that nation. One of their national leader's closest aides was present at that speech. Many of you also know by now of their government's effort to air an anti-Union advertisement on our televisions. The federal investigation into that effort continues to point at the Jamaican government as the source of that advertisement.

These pieces fall into place. The Jamaican government aims to gain popular support against our government within their nation, our nation, and internationally. Because their efforts to create anti-government sentiment within the Union have largely failed, their next tactic could be a show of force. The Cabinet and the General Staff have conferred with me on this, and they agree.

It is because of this that I must announce the full mobilization of our armed forces. We hope this show of strength could deter the Jamaican government from attempting any forceful action against our nation. I call upon the leadership of Jamaica Reborn to cease its hostile attitude toward us, and instead seek more genial relations. The General Assembly, and in particular its African-descended members, has voiced its unanimous support of my decision, and joins me in my call.

Fellow citizens, many of you may see your loved ones depart within the next 24 hours to take on their military duty. I join you in wishing them a safe and prompt return, and I assure you that they are not going to war. But any attack upon our nation will not go unpunished.

I thank you."

((OOC: Pcl = Proconsul, equivalent to General. Sfr = Signifer, equivalent to Sergeant. Mge = Magister Excellens [High Master], equivalent to 1st Lieutenant; Clc = Chilarchus [Chilarch], equivalent to Colonel; Pne = Proconsul Navalis Excellens [High Naval Proconsul], equivalent to Fleet Admiral. Give me a day before proper combat begins, I need to finish drafting my army up and I'll post it on NSWiki.))

((OOC: I should have a crappy map drawn up by the weekend.))

15 Miles outside New Kingston, Di Dude's Villa

The sun was beaming on the Jamaican countryside, far away from the never sleeping city of New Kingston. Swoonie Woo had decided to retire to his villa for the evening, he knew that today's events would result in tiring work and decision-making, he also knew that he did both these things best when inside his lush countryside villa, which he had purchased long before he came into power. There were guests accompanying Swoonie this particular evening, among them were the two second most powerful men in Jamaica, Slick C and Silent Murphy, respectfully titled 'Di Men' of Jamaica. Marcus Tate was also present, a prominent and well respected man in Jamaica, who founded, headed and represented the JAGABR, a large political group within the empire. Two less known men were present as well, Head of Foriegn Intelligence, Tonoko Brown, and the newly appointed Head of Jamaica's Armed Forces Adrian Lewis, born and raised in the Jamaican territory of Alabama.

Everyone present in the villa, excluding gardeners, butlers, and others who were paid to upkeep, sat at a long, oak table headed by Swoonie in the meeting quarters on the second floor. Swoonie wore a black suit, as did everyone else in the room except Slick C, who was always in casual dress. On either side of Swoonie were Di Men, to the left was Silent Murphy, who wore a beret which matched his black suit, and to the right was Slick C, who slouched slightly in his chair and had his hands intertwined on top of his stomach. Everyone else filed in where they felt best fit, and once everyone was seated, the meeting was in session.

"Well it looks as though the public is demanding action be taken against The Latin Union...but as always", Swoonie paused briefly, "I'm looking at war as a last resort. With that said, Tonoko, I need to know what kind of intelligence that the agency has managed to gather about The Latin Union, if they have a history of aggression we might have to prepare the nation for war."

"To be honest sir....", Swoonie stopped Tonoko before he could finish.

"Please, Tonoko, Swoonie is fine, now continue", Tonoko nodded at Swoonie and went on.

"To be honest...Swoonie, we haven't been able to find out much pertaining to the history of The Latin Union other than what is already widely known. They're a predominately hispanic nation, they economically dominate South America, and their population is around 800 million. They just recently appeared on the international scene so the way they conduct politics is currently unknown."

"What about military capabilities, what did the drone discover?", Swoonie leaned foward as he spoke.

Adrian Lewis cleared his throat and began to speak, "Well sir...er...Swoonie, the drone didn't make it very far into Latin territory before we lost contact with it, but fortunately it did send back enough information for us to make a few accurate assumptions about the Union's military."

"Accurate assumptions?", Swoonie inquired with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, a few educated guesses.", Adrian spat out.

"So you've made hypotheses?", Swoonie asked with growing skepticism.

"Uh...no sir...eh, Swoonie, we've just got enough information to make a few notable observations of what we would be up against in the event of an invasion or....liberation.", Adrian was getting noticeably flustered, it was his first week on the job and he was already getting chewed out.

"Tell me of these observations.", Swoonie rumbled.

"Well, the army appears to be fairly large, but judging from some of the tanks that were spotted at what appeared to be a military base, their equipment is a decade or more out of date."

"...And what of their navy and airforce?", Swoonie asked.

"Their navy seems to be more formidable, the drone picked up on quite a few fleet formations, and their airforce was capable enough to take the drone down before it got deep into Latin territory."

Swoonie nodded and was silent for a while, during his silence Marcus took the opportunity to begin speaking, "Swoonie, a liberation of The Latin Union really shouldn't be in question. The state of our people in that nation is beyond unacceptable. It's not just the Union who's degrading blacks this way, our people are being treated poorly on the entire continent, if we can take down the Union then the rest are bound to fall within months! The faster we move the less casualties will occur and we can give these people the lives they deserve! Our military is capable, we've all seen how quickly those Arab rebels fell in Chad, they didn't stand a chance!", Marcus banged his fist on the oak table, causing the glasses of water placed on it to ripple with the impact.

Swoonie remained silent and brought his elbows to the table with his fingers locked together, Adrian Lewis piped up, "Swoonie, the rebels in Chad were ragtag, they had no formal training, they were just angry men with guns. Although the Union's equipment is outdated we can assume that they are well trained judging from their response to the drone. If you go to Di People requesting to issue a declaration of war there's no question they'll vote it through. But this war won't be like Chad, we can expect some heavy casualties.", Adrian said almost hurriedly.

"It'll be worth it, nothing valuable comes without a price, and the freedom of our people worldwide is valuable in every Jamaican citizens heart!", said Marcus, once again slamming his fist on the table.

Swoonie remained in the same position for almost a minute not speaking a word, then he leaned back in his chair and spoke in a low voice, "I'll issue a 24 ultimatum to them, if they don't meet the ultimatum's requirements within the timeframe then I'll go to Di Men requesting to declare war.", Swoonie looked over at Slick C, who wore an expression that indicated he was pleased with Swoonie's decision.

"Call the media up and tell them about the ultimatum, I'm going to deliver it to the Union in 2 hours, I expect the press to be waiting.", Swoonie said lowly. Slick nodded and quickly got up and exited the room.

Marcus looked into Swoonie's eyes, "You've done the right thing Swoonie.", he said confidently.

"Many men will die, but hopefully more will be saved.", Swoonie said before standing up and dismissing everyone. He knew the Union wouldn't reach his ultimatum, war was on the horizon.

(OOC: I'll post the ultimatum in a little bit, oh yeah, and in case you need to know, my map is the RL Jamaica's map except much larger, around the size of Australia. This is NS so you know, you can extend things to your preference :cool: )

Jamaica, Di Dude's Villa

An hour and forty five minutes had passed since Swoonie had ordered for Slick to alert the press of his ultimatum, and dozens of reporters and cameramen were now at the gates of Swoonie's villa awaiting to be granted entry. The gates were opened and they flooded in, walking up to the villa's steps where they were ushered inside by two butlers on either side of the door. They were told to gather in a large room that had been filled with several rows of wooden chairs. In front of the room there was a metal podium with the Jamaican flag plastered on its frontside. Reporters went up to the podium one by one and placed their mics in the available holders before taking a seat. After a while everyone was seated and waiting for Swoonie's arrival.

Without warning or an introduction, Swoonie walked through a hidden door on the far left side of the room and strode over to the podium carrying a document which he placed on the slope of the podium. The camera crews immediately began filming and reporters readied themselves to take notes for their repspective news channels and media outlets.

Swoonie looked over the room and then began speaking,

"In the recent weeks there have been some growing tensions between the Jamaican Empire and The Latin Union. Tensions that cannot go unnoticed or come without consequences. The Union's leader recently addressed his people in a televised statement that dismissed the empire's credibility, and referred to Jamaican citizens as 'rambling radicals' in a cowardly effort to hide the truth. Because even he himself is too ashamed and filled with guilt to admit what cruelties go on within the boundaries of the country that his perverse government controls. To stand by, and do nothing while the black race is being cheated out of equal opportunities goes completely against the empire's purpose and its' policies.

That's why I've come here today before my people, to issue The Latin Union an ultimatum that must be met within a 24 hour period or war will be declared. The ultimatum's terms are as follows:

1. The Latin Union's government must step down from power and allow for Jamaican troops to secure the country in preparation for a Jamaican installed government.

2. The Latin Union's military must completely disband, and allow for Jamaican troops to take it's place.

3. Before its removal, The Latin Union's government must pay 300 million botos to the African minority ,for the pain, suffering and humiliation it has caused them.

If these demands are not met within 24 hours of this time then the state between The Latin Union and the Jamaican Empire will be one of war. Our troops are mobilizing as I speak with you all, and are prepared to head out within a moment's notice. We are proud, we are willing, and we are determined. We will do whatever it takes to free South America from the stranglehold of oppression, and we will stop at nothing until we achieve our goal. The Latin Union will be destroyed, whether through war, or through diplomacy, the existence of their nation is not acceptable.

The world has heard us, the Union has heard us.

That is all, goodnight."

Swoonie left the podium, ignoring the clammer of questions that followed after him, he open the secret door through witch he came and slipped through it.

After the issuing of the ultimatum, millions of men around the empire of all ages, shapes and sizes went to their local military posts in attempts to join the Armed Forces of Jamaica. Many were turned down, but many more were accepted, overwhelming the military's training capabilites. Most were hastily placed in reserves where they anxiously awaited to see action. The thought of war was both glorious and patriotic to them, over 70% of them coming from Jamaica's territories and only 30% made up those from the homeland itself.

They genuinely believed that if they were to go to war, they would be fighting to better the lives of others, such as theirs had been by the empire. Haitians, Nigerians, Chadanians, Cameroonians and Alabamians came together to fight under one banner.

(OOC: I'll post stats after your reply to ultimatum)

(OOC: I screwed up a few things with the titles of some of my government positions, so I'm gonna fix those up.)

((OOC: Cool, I'm in the middle of writing my response, so go ahead.))

(OOC: Ok, the numbers and titles of certain things have been changed. Everything's corrected)

((OOC: Just letting you know, I didn't just make this next bit up - this is how I've RPed my first family for a while now. I just don't want to seem like I'm trying to make you feel bad or nothing. One of the reasons I think a war RP would be really fun is because of what I describe in this next section. ... Oh, and a brief warning for this post, there'd going to be some profanity. If that bothers you, I'll go back and edit it out. :) ))

On the Presidential Terrace at the back of the Red House, Cuiabá:
7:04 PM

President Pedro Marquez's wife, First Lady Victoria Marquez, was a soldier - a centurion in command of an artillery company. And this was the night she was to leave public life. She stood at the top of the stairs on the Terrace, looking down at the waiting Army jeep, her duffel bag in one hand, her uniform hugging her slim figure. The sun was setting in the west over the skyline of the capital city, and the wind was cool and sweet. A private came up the stairs from the jeep and took her duffel. She handed it to him and looked back over her shoulder at her husband, the President of the Union, the man who had sent her away. His hair unkempt, his eyes downcast and his face sullen. His sleeves were rolled back and his tie was loose, his collar open. He'd been working on the Jamaican problem all day with military brass and diplomats, addressing issues over the mobilization and internal anxiety over possible war. The bags under his eyes made her doubt that he'd slept very much when he'd finally come to bed last night.

"Well," she said, trying to be light, "it's time to go."

"Mi amor," Pedro intoned. "I'm sorry."

Victoria went to her husband and embraced him. "Don't apologize to me," she said. "You are the President of the Union, Pedro. Your job is to make the best decisions for the country. I told you why I stayed in the Army when we got married. I believe in fighting for you, because I love you." She pulled back slightly. "You are a good man, Pedro." She looked up at the balcony outside the Presidential Bedroom, and could just barely make out the frightened little face of their son, Juan Emilio, peeking down at her from between two of the thick marble posts that held up the railing.

"Victoria," said Pedro, his face filled with anxiety, "you are a beautiful woman." He drew her very close. "You've been beside me since the beginning, and will be with me till the end. I'm just afraid about what might happen."

Victoria laid a hand on Pedro's cheek. "Don't be," she said. "I can take care of myself. And if we do end up at war, not a day will go by where I won't think of you."

Pedro saw in her eyes the same strength and courage that had drawn him to her when they met, which seemed so long ago now. Without paying attention to the waiting soldiers in the jeep or the Secret Servicemen on the Terrace, he clasped her face in both hands and kissed her for a long, long time. When she finally turned to head down the step, Juan rushed out from the door and grasped her leg, hugging her for all he was worth. Victoria smiled, rubbed his head, bent down to give him a kiss goodbye, and sent him to his father. Pedro grabbed up his son and plopped him on his shoulders. Both of them waved as Victoria got into the jeep and was taken off to her unit. Pedro did not know which unit she was in, nor where she might be stationed - he did not want that to influence his decisions as commander-in-chief.

As the jeep turned to pass out of sight on a forest road, Minister of State Cagliano rushed out onto the Terrace, his suit disheveled. "Mr. President! You need to come and see this."

In the Executive Lounge of the Red House, Cuiabá:
7:12 PM

Marquez followed Cagliano hastily into the room. "What's going on?" he asked.

Mario Salazar was sitting on the front edge of the light green sofa before the television. Vice President Caraguez sat on the arm of the sofa, and Jean LeMarc was pacing behind it. Though the light in the room was now very dim because of the setting sun, nobody had bothered to turn a light on. The television was tuned to a live broadcast from Jamaica Reborn. It showed an empty stage with a metal podium on it, bearing the flag of the Empire. The subtitle at the bottom of the screen said, "Di Dude's Villa, near New Kingston."

"It seems the Jamaicans already have a response to our mobilization," said LeMarc, pointing at the TV. As Cagliano sat down on the sofa next to Salazar, Marquez stood behind it and picked up a paperweight from the long, thin table that was situated there, toying with it in one hand. LeMarc continued to pace behind him.

After a moment, an imposing figure of a man was suddenly on the stage, entering through an unseen doorway. He was in a black suit, wore his hair in longish dreadlocks, and bore a silver-colored ring on each finger. Salazar immediately pointed at the screen.

"It's Swoonie Woo," he said simply. The murmur of the reporters on the television died down as the man came up to the podium and began to speak.

"In the recent weeks there have been some growing tensions between the Jamaican Empire and The Latin Union. Tensions that cannot go unnoticed or come without consequences. The Union's leader recently addressed his people in a televised statement that dismissed the empire's credibility, and referred to Jamaican citizens as 'rambling radicals' in a cowardly effort to hide the truth."

Marquez gripped the paperweight.

"Because even he himself is too ashamed and filled with guilt to admit what cruelties go on within the boundaries of the country that his perverse government controls. To stand by, and do nothing while the black race is being cheated out of equal opportunities goes completely against the empire's purpose and its' policies."

"These aren't the genial relations I asked this man to seek with us," Marquez spat.

Woo went on. "That's why I've come here today before my people, to issue The Latin Union an ultimatum that must be met within a 24 hour period or war will be declared."

LeMarc stopped pacing. Salazar and Caraguez leaned forward.

"The ultimatum's terms are as follows: 1. The Latin Union's government must step down from power and allow for Jamaican troops to secure the country in preparation for a Jamaican installed government."

"GODDAMN IT!!" President Marquez threw the paperweight through one of the windows and slammed both his hands on the table, bowing his head between his arms. All attention in the room immediately fell on him as the man on the television went on.

"2. The Latin Union's military must completely disband, and allow for Jamaican troops to take it's place. 3. Before its removal, The Latin Union's government must pay 300 million botos to the African minority, for the pain, suffering and humiliation it has caused them."

Marquez glared with irrepressible fury at the television.

"If these demands are not met within 24 hours of this time then the state between The Latin Union and the Jamaican Empire will be one of war. Our troops are mobilizing as I speak with you all, and are prepared to head out within a moment's notice. We are proud, we are willing, and we are determined. We will do whatever it takes to free South America from the stranglehold of oppression, and we will stop at nothing until we achieve our goal. The Latin Union will be destroyed, whether through war, or through diplomacy, the existence of their nation is not acceptable.

The world has heard us, the Union has heard us.

That is all, goodnight."

Salazar quietly leaned forward and switched the television off. Cagliano, who had stood abruptly when the President broke the window, said, "We have to reply in 24 hours, sir."

"I heard that, Giulio!" shouted Marquez, thrusting himself upright. He continued to direct his hatred at the darkened television. "They want war. They want to destroy this country. They're not going to succeed."

"Sir, an emotional response isn't advisable," warned Cagliano. Marquez shot him a vicious glance, but calmed himself slightly.

"You're right," he said. "We have 24 hours to try and keep this from happening, as slim a chance as that may be. Get the camera crew set up as soon as possible in the Presidential Office." As Cagliano rushed off to relay the orders, Marquez turned to LeMarc. "Put every branch of the armed forces on the highest possible alert status," he ordered. LeMarc nodded and left. Marquez turned to Salazar and Caraguez, who had both stood up, facing him. "No nation makes an ultimatum as ridiculous as that without expecting a refusal. I'm going to refuse, but the Jamaicans won't get the pleasure of seeing us scream for peace." He turned to Caraguez. "Felipe, think you can tour our coastal defenses tomorrow?"

"I'd be more than happy to," the Vice President replied, heading off to make the necessary arrangements. Marquez looked at Salazar.

"We're going to war," he said.

"Correction, sir," said Salazar, "the Jamaicans are going to war. We're going to throw them out of it." Marquez smiled.

In the Presidential Office, the Red House, Cuiabá:
8:30 PM

"My fellow citizens," the President began, speaking into the same camera he'd spoken into just over 24 hours before, "you have heard the Jamaican leader issue to us an ultimatum, calling for our willful surrender to their imperialist aims. No sane government on the face of the Earth could agree to such an ultimatum. Our nation has struggled too long to become what it is today. We have fought many bloodless battles to get the voice of all the people heard in our government. We have never showed any signs of weakness of despair, but have always persevered in the face of difficulty.

In less than 23 hours, we will be facing our most daunting task: the defense of our nation. Unless the government of Jamaica Reborn withdraws their ludicrous ultimatum and wishes to take my offer of opening formal diplomatic channels, we will be at war.

Tonight I say this to the people of Jamaica Reborn: your leader is sending your loved ones off to fight a people who do not wish to fight you. We have never sought any aggression against you, nor do we oppress our own citizens as your government continues to tell you. In less than a day you will see your family and friends dying in combat at the hands of those who would prefer to be trading with you and visiting your country as friends and tourists. But because of the expansionist aims of your government, the Latin Union may soon be defending itself against you, and we will not be held responsible for any of your soldiers that die at our hands. We will not declare war against your nation unless we are attacked.

And tonight I say to you, my fellow citizens: have courage and strength in the next hours. If by tomorrow evening we are at war, I ask you to support our fighting men and women as they do the duty they've been trained to do. I urge you not to despair, for we are strong. We will emerge victorious from this conflict, and the government of Jamaica Reborn will be held accountable for its crimes against peace."

Marquez paused a moment and tried to see the faces of the hundreds of millions of people he was speaking to in the lens of the camera. "Tomorrow evening I hope I can speak to you all again with better news. But until then, we must be vigilant. Thank you."

(OOC: You're ok man. But I kinda pulled something out of the hat on this post, I can take it out if you consider it a 'godmod', but I thought it would be interesting to add in and I think it can be RPed realistically. You'll see what I'm talking about.)

New Kingston, Jamaica, Di Dude's Palace

Swoonie sat at the desk of his study, his index and middle fingers rubbing his temples in a circular motion. Standing at either side of his desk were Slick C and Silent Murphy, his two top advisors known as Di Men of Jamaica. Swoonie had delivered his ultimatum to the public less than 45 minutes ago, and now he attempted to bring himself at ease with what he knew was to come. This was his form of meditation, and he thought deeply about the decisions he had made in the last 24 hours, and the lives he would affect all around the empire. Gathered intelligence of social activity on the South American continent had provided evidence of black oppression and unofficial segregration, but was this information accurate? All branches of the government, and most recently the military were heavily influenced with the preachings of Marcus Tate, and his political group JAGABR. Could some of the information Swoonie recieved been exaggerated by the Jamaican Intelligence Agency? Or worse, completely fabricated all together?

Swoonie refused to question himself or his nation's morals. He could not, he would not doubt the integrity of the nation that he had single handely carried on his back out of poverty and into prosperity. This was real, this war was a necessity, and if Jamaica backed down now it would never be taken seriously again by others who commit atrocities to black race.

Swoonie's thoughts were interrupted by the buzzing of Slick's cellphone, Slick looked down at Swoonie and looked up back at him, giving a nod. Slick hastily took the phone out of his pocket and answered it.

"Yea", Slick said into the phone,"Ok, I'll make sure he sees it."

Slick snapped the cellphone shut and looked down back at Swoonie, "The leader of the Union has just issued another statement concerning the ultimatum, it doesn't look like they're going to agree with the requirements. They've already aired it on news stations in Jamaica but Tonoko's sent a file of the statement to your laptop."

Swoonie grunted, "It's on the top shelf, pull it down and let's see what he's got to say."

Slick reached up to the left of him and pulled down a metallic colored laptop from the top of a bookshelf. He sat it directly in front of Swoonie and flipped it open. Swoonie turned the laptop on and located the newly recieved file, he turned the volume up on the lap top and opened the file. The clip covered the entire screen and after a quick load a sleep deprived looking man in a suit was sitting in front of Swoonie.

"My fellow citizens,", the tired leader began.

"Ha, non-black citizens", Slick C blurted out.

"Quiet.", Swoonie rumbled.

"you have heard the Jamaican leader issue to us an ultimatum, calling for our willful surrender to their imperialist aims. No sane government on the face of the Earth could agree to such an ultimatum. Our nation has struggled too long to become what it is today. We have fought many bloodless battles to get the voice of all the people heard in our government. We have never showed any signs of weakness of despair, but have always persevered in the face of difficulty."

"What in the hell could this man possibly know about struggle!", Slick blurted out again.

"Slick...", Swoonie said with a raised hand.

"In less than 23 hours, we will be facing our most daunting task: the defense of our nation. Unless the government of Jamaica Reborn withdraws their ludicrous ultimatum and wishes to take my offer of opening formal diplomatic channels, we will be at war."

Slick made a slight hissing noise at this, becoming increasingly agitated.

Tonight I say this to the people of Jamaica Reborn: your leader is sending your loved ones off to fight a people who do not wish to fight you. We have never sought any aggression against you, nor do we oppress our own citizens as your government continues to tell you. In less than a day you will see your family and friends dying in combat at the hands of those who would prefer to be trading with you and visiting your country as friends and tourists. But because of the expansionist aims of your government, the Latin Union may soon be defending itself against you, and we will not be held responsible for any of your soldiers that die at our hands. We will not declare war against your nation unless we are attacked

Swoonie put his elbows on his desk and clasped his hands together, continuing to listen.

"And tonight I say to you, my fellow citizens: have courage and strength in the next hours. If by tomorrow evening we are at war, I ask you to support our fighting men and women as they do the duty they've been trained to do. I urge you not to despair, for we are strong. We will emerge victorious from this conflict, and the government of Jamaica Reborn will be held accountable for its crimes against peace."

"Crimes against peace....", Swoonie quietly repeated.

"Tomorrow evening I hope I can speak to you all again with better news. But until then, we must be vigilant. Thank you."

The clip flickered off and turned to blackness. Swoonie was silent, after a while he brought his forearms down on the desk with his hands still clasped together and shook his head.

"So we're the bad guys now, huh? We're the villians, out to destroy a peaceful society who only wants to trade. Who only wants to come to our nation as tourists...have a good time with the family. Maybe get a few tap dances from any willing Jamaican citizens. Honestly, Swoonie, what is this bullshit?!?", Slick broke the silence with his third outburst.

"They mock me...", Swoonie replied quietly, he looked up at Slick who was swelling with anger, "I will not be looked upon by the International Communty as some imperialist dictator out to take over the world. That is not what the empire stands for, that is not what we are about. That...,", Swoonie stood up, "...is not what we fought for when we turned this nation around 10 years ago, I will not be mocked and my people will not be bamboozled by some coward hiding behind false innocence!", Swoonie's voice slightly raised with his last sentence.

"What will we do about this? We have to reply, if we don't the people may start to doubt our cause, we can't let this sink in.", Slick said turning to Swoonie.

"There's only one thing we can do", Swoonie replied, letting the question linger before presenting an answer, "Present the people, and the world with evidence.", Swoonie turned to Silent Murphy,"Do you remember those tapes that the Intelligence Agency acquired a few months ago?"

Silent Murphy nodded.

"Contact the Agency immediately and tell them I need those tapes within 30 minutes, and that's a direct order, I'm overriding Tonoko on this one.", Silent Murphy nodded and hustled out of the room.

Swoonie turned back to Slick C who wore a grin on his face, "But, Swoonie, I thought you said those tapes were too graphic for television? Didn't you have the Public Decency Committee ban them from being aired?", Slick asked with a fake puzzlement.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures Slick, if this is what it takes to get the message across then so be it. I...,", Swoonie put his finger to his chest, "...am far from the bad guy in this situation and within 30 minutes the rest of the world will feel the same."

Emergency Conference Room, Di Dude's Palace, 22 hours left

The media had been alerted once again that an important development was about to take place concerning the conflict with the Union and were allowed entry into Swoonie's Palace in the Emergency Conference Room. This time they didn't have to wait long for his arrival as he formally entered the room and made his way to a podium which was conviently placed in front of and to the side of a projector screen. The projector itself was behind the media on a small metal stand. Swoonie hastily got into his speech, wasting no time as he knew seconds were etching off of the ultimatum's clock.

"As many of you know, the leader of the Union has made a televised statement concerning Jamaica's ultimatum. He calls the ultimatum 'ludicrous', and claims that no sane nation would agree to its terms. He also claims that the conditions of the black minority within his nation are fine, and that everyone has an equal voice in the Union's society. But Jamaican intelligence proves otherwise, and I think this is the time to present the Jamaican people with evidence, hold no doubt in your heart that there is much wrong within the Union. What I have today, is something that I regret I have to show to the public. But it has come to this, and I will not allow the world to be fooled by this coward, this shell of man, into thinking that Jamaica is some sort of off the wall imperialist nation out to start conflicts and 'destroy peace'. What I'm about to show you, is truely ludicrous and should never happen within any sane nation.

Over a month ago, an undercover Jamaican journalist traveled to The Latin Union to investigate within the poverty ridden black community, into the lives of average black, so-called 'citizens' of the Union. What you are about to view is graphic, disturbing, and goes against everything that this empire stands for. This, people of Jamaica, is what The Latin Union has so desperately attempted to hide."

Swoonie raised his arm to the projector screen and stepped to the side of the podium. The room lights dimmed and the screen turned blue for a few seconds before switching to a black screen with bold white letters reading, "The state of the black race, in a Latin Union."

The letters slowly began to fade and the black screen lightened up until the image of rows of rundown houses built from plywood were clearly visible. The image switched to a shirtless, older black man sitting on a box in front of one of the plywood houses, the man holding the camera began speaking to them man in latin which was translated into english at the bottom of the screen.

"How long have you lived here?", asked the man behind the camera.

"As long as I can remember", replied the man, "if you're born here, it's nearly impossible to get out, there are no jobs for a black man here. Nothing good enough to get you of this place.", the man waved behind him to the plywood house and the others around it.

"Does your house have running water?", asked the camera man.

"No, we get are water from the streams behind our houses. The city doesn't come out here, they never do, we've requested that they do something about it. But nothing ever gets done.", replied the man, scratching his bare chest.

"But that water's not clean is it? Don't you get sick from drinking it?", asked the camera man.

"No, not anymore, I suppose you get used to that too.", the man smiled slightly, most of his teeth were rotten, and many had fallen out.

The screen turned black, and white letters began to show over the black screen, they read, "The children suffer as well."

The screen lightened up once again to reveal three black children, two boys and one girl, between the ages of 4-6, all of them wore ragged clothes and had protruding bellies, suggesting malnourishment.

"How many meals do you eat a day?", asked the camera man.

"Not everday, sometimes we just drink water.", replied what appeared to be the youngest child, the others nodded in agreement.

"Do you see your mother very often?", asked the camera man

"No, she works all day, she cleans. When she returns at night we are sleeping, but she leaves food for us in the morning when she can.", said the girl.

"What about your father, do you see him?", asked the camera man. All of the children shook their heads no.

"Does he work as well?", asked the camera man.

"No.", replied the oldest child, "He was killed long ago, we don't remember him."

"What happened?", asked the camera man.

"He was beaten to death on his way back from town. They hung him from a tree.", the girl answered looking into the camera with large brown eyes. The image froze and white letters appeared, reading "There is no change."

The screen turned black and lightened up into the image of three young black women in their early twenties.

"What do you women do for a living.", the camera man asked.

"We clean, that's all we can do. We clean the houses of others.", replied one woman.

"How much are you payed?", asked the camera man.

"It depends, on who's house you clean. If they're rich then you might get around $3.00 a day, but if they're of the middle class then around $1.75 a day.", said one woman.

"Is that enough to support yourself?", asked the camera man.

"No. We've got children to feed, they're never full. The children are always crying from hunger", said the oldest woman.

"Do any of you have any other jobs to support your children?", asked the camera man.

"I'm a prostitute.", answered one woman, "Me as well.", answered another. "I have to do whatever I can to keep my children fed, to keep my children safe. I want them to grow up, and to do something. To get out of here. It is hell here, this is no place for a child.", The screen faded to black once again, and bold white letters came into focus, reading "Is there no way out?"

The screen lightened up to show to young black men standing in front of a run down house. One carried a large stick in his right hand.

"What's it like trying to get a job here?", asked the camera man

"There are no real jobs, it's always the same. They give us the worst jobs, the lowest paying, lower than the women are paid to clean. You can mine for 50 cent a day, but you will be hungry. When we come for a real job, at a store or restaurant, they say they're not hiring, but when a latino comes in and they give him a job. It's impossible for a black man to work and earn a decent pay in this country. If something is not able to be given to you then you must take it." said the man with the stick, pounding it into the ground angrily.

"So what do you do to earn money?", asked the camera man.

"We steal, what else? We steal from them, whenever they let their guard we steal. There is no other way.", said the other man.

"Have you tried talking to the authorities?", asked the camera man.

"There is no justice here, if you go into town and ask too many questions you will get beaten, possibly killed. You'll just cause trouble. They could come here and kill the children and women if they get too angry, it's not worth it."

"What's the stick for?", asked the camera man.

"For protection, they killed my brother a few weeks ago, and I wont let them kill me without a fight.", the screen froze again and bold white letters appeared, "They hate what they do not understand."

A collage of pictures were shown of black men and women hanging from trees, one showed a black man who had recieved a devastating blow to the head. A short clip of a black man being dragged and beaten down a street by latinos was shown. Another clip of a black woman mourning the death of what appeared to be her husband, who was badly mutilated was shown, other women attempted to comfort her. A dead black baby was shown next, flies covering its body, it had obviously died from starvation. During this entire a time a slow melody played in the background, adding to the feeling of devastation.

The screen faded to black once again and bold white letters appeared, reading "How long can this go on?"

The lights in the conference room brightened and the projector was turned off. Swoonie returned to the podium standing in front of a now shocked and disgusted media.

"Now you see, now the world sees what we are trying to prevent. What we can not allow to go on any longer. The starvation of a black child is not acceptable when the government of that child's nation refuses to give it food, when it refuses to give that child's parents proper wages and equal opportunities for jobs. There are no talks that can commence when these things are going on within your nation. When you aren't civilized enough to rule your country in an acceptable, modern fashion, then you aren't worth the breath.", Swoonie paused angrily.

"The ultimatum will continue, and now I ask you, black people of The Latin Union, to rise, rebel against those who oppress you. Your hell will soon come to an end, help is on the way. If the ultimatum requirements are not met within 22 hours then as stated before war will officially be declared, and The Latin Union will be no more. We will beat them in the air, we will beat them at sea, and we will beat them on land until every square inch of Union land is in possession of the empire.

But, it's not too late, you still have a chance to make a difference, you have the power to avoid war, President Marquez. Stand down, allow a Jamaican government to be installed, and peace can be maintained. You have 22 hours to make your decision."

Swoonie left the room without taking questions, he returned to his study and the media were dismissed. Jamaica was preparing itself for an all out war.

(OOC: I'll post military movement and stats if you're ready.)

((OOC: Is this closed? Because I love the way this RP is going.))

((OOC: Is this closed? Because I love the way this RP is going.))

(OOC: Naw, it's invite, if you want to join in then you have my permission. But I'd wait for Latin's as well.)

((OOC: Is this closed? Because I love the way this RP is going.))

((OOC: Go right ahead, man. The more the merrier, as long as you're Modern Tech and can give yourself a good stake in the conflict. ;) ))

((OOC: Well... I wouldn't call that video 'godmoding,' coz it technically isn't, but it was kinda cheeky ;). I mean, I think my government would be pretty aware of something like that going on in the Union. Though it's impossible in a nation of 800 million for such things to never happen, any isolated incidents would be highly publicized and federal law enforcement would come down like an anvil on anyone who perpetrated those heinous acts. Social Welfare is a major focus of the Latin spending budget, and nobody is denied its funds based on race, religion, sexual preference, etc.

But I'll RP with the video in, as follows...))

In the Executive Lounge of the Red House, Cuiabá
9:15 PM

The Jamaican leader had just ended his press conference. Marquez, Caraguez, LeMarc, Salazar, and Cagliano stood motionless around the television. After a moment, Marquez spoke.

"They keep having to justify themselves," he said. "They're struggling to keep public opinion on their side and they're using this to do it."

"Agreed, sir," replied Cagliano.

"That footage can't have been real," said LeMarc. "There's no way anything like that could be tolerated here. We have an endless number of laws on the books to fight against poverty and racial discrimination."

"Yes, and every African-descended representative in the Assembly continues to assert that point," put in Caraguez, whose duty as Vice President was to oversee the proceedings of the Latin General Assembly. "My secretaries have been flooded with calls from many of them," he went on. "They continue to say that African life in the Union has improved a thousand times over since the unification. Many of them have been flooded with calls from their constituents, demanding that the Jamaicans be told, frankly, to shut up and learn."

Marquez looked at Caraguez. "Then where did this video come from?" he asked.

"Sir, we can't possibly have any idea without asking the Jamaicans to give us a genuine copy," said Salazar. "But it clearly is a fabrication. Either made by their government or by a faction within the government pressing for war."

"Is it, Mario? Clearly a fabrication?" Marquez was earnest.

"Most likely, sir," said Salazar. "If there were mass hangings, starvation, and death anywhere in the Union, we'd have mobs banging at our door, pressing for change. We'd have a dozen special interest groups nationwide lobbying for government reform and campaigning against us. This hasn't been the case, and no matter how hard the Jamaicans have tried, it won't be the case. The blacks in the Union are not in any way oppressed."

"Then I don't need to respond to this," said Marquez, suddenly deciding. "The Africans of the Union can speak for themselves."

"You mean the GMUA?" asked Cagliano, referring to the National Movement for the Unity of Africans (initials GMUA in Latin).

"Yes," replied Marquez. "The GMUA can put the pieces together on its own. They've always been in support of our actions against racism and hate," he said. "They can--"

"Looks like they already are," said Caraguez suddenly, pointing at the television. The reporter for the station was in the middle of announcing an incoming statement from the GMUA.

"We've just received word, ladies and gentlemen, that the Chairwoman of the GMUA is on standby at her headquarters in Setubal, ready to deliver a speech to the international community concerning the recent developments in the standoff with Jamaica Reborn. We've been told this speech was originally scripted and planned to support the President's statement earlier this evening, but this most recent statement from the Jamaican leadership will now be the focus of this unscripted international address. We'll turn you over now to our live feed coming from the Chairwoman's office of the GMUA in Setubal."

The image of Andrea Rintza, an attractive African woman in her late forties, appeared on the screen as she sat behind a demure desk, looking into the camera. Flashbulb reflections off her face and hair indicated there were many newspaper reporters in the room as well. In her hands she held the pages of what must have been her speech, and she was in the process of putting her reading glasses on. After a moment, she nodded at someone out of view and began speaking.

"Good evening. I am here to speak to the people and government of the Latin Union, the people and government of Jamaica Reborn, and the international community as a whole." A subtitle appeard below her image listing her name and occupation. "The National Movement for the Unity of Africans was created after the unification of the Latin Union as a civilian lobbying group aimed at holding the government accountable for enforcing laws against discrimination. We have been constantly working to ensure that our voice is heard in the General Assembly as well as provincial and municipal governments the nation over. We have always viewed President Marquez's administration as friendly to our aims, and supportive of our goals.

"The statement the President issued earlier tonight is entirely true. Thanks to the efforts of the government, federal law enforcement, and the GMUA, blacks living within the Union's borders enjoy a quality of life on an equal standing to their Hispanic and Portuguese peers. Though not everyone can enjoy comfortable middle-class living, those of us who are poor are in no way in danger of racial crime or lack of basic amenities. The GMUA has successfully lobbied in all branches of government for continued improvement in the standard of living of even the poorest Africans."

At this point she put down the speech papers and took off her reading glasses, looking directly into the camera. "The video the Jamaican government released earlier today is a shocking and horrifying example of racial injustice. But it did not occur here. The violence and poverty depicted in that video have not been present in this region for a long, long time. Though poverty still exists here, as it undoubtedly does in parts of the Jamaican Empire, even poverty shows no racial bias. Africans and Latinos alike that do live in poverty are sharing it together. The government is doing all it can to help them. As an African I was appalled at the lengths the Jamaican government would go to simply to justify their call to arms.

"The Jamaican government is fabricating these lies to deceive its own people into supporting its warlike intentions. I speak for the whole of the GMUA when I say we stand by our government and its policies. Over the past month we have held countless opinion polls of the black people in our nation, asking them what they think of the Jamaican government's claims. The whole of the African community says the claims are false. We have also had many letters written in to us. Let me read you one of them."

Rintza picked up a slightly wrinkled piece of looseleaf paper from her desk, putting her reading glasses back on. "Dear Mrs. Rintza," she read. "My Mommy says we are poor, but it's not because people hate us. We visit our neighbors, the Mendozas, almost every week for dinner. They're not black like us, but they give us their food and I babysit their little girl, Juanita. I babysit her because both of her parents have to work, and Mommy says we need the money. Mommy says we are poor because she was too young to get a job when I was born, and now that she's older she can't afford to go back to school. She says before the country got together she wasn't making enough money to buy food, her boss was a bad man. Now her boss is in jail and Mommy is getting more money. She says the President made a law saying its bad to not give people all the money they've earned just because they're black. She says my Daddy went away a long time ago, and that if he had stayed we would have even more money, too.

Please make the Jamaicans stop worrying about us. It's making Mommy mad.

From Lolita Banas, 7 years old."

Rinzta took off her glasses and put the letter down. "Lolita's mother loves her very much," she said. "She's doing the best she can to make life easier, like any responsible parent should. Her situation comes from a variety of factors that were out of her control. The government is working very hard to make her life easier. The GMUA stands by their efforts.

"Of course, the Jamaican government could retort by saying I am a government puppet, that I fabricated this letter to keep public opinion on their side. But anyone in the Union that knows me or the GMUA knows that is not true. And anyone who knows Lolita herself can ask her if she really wrote that letter.

"Improving standards of living is a long and difficult task. Our government has taken on that task, and the GMUA supports them in their efforts. Change does not happen overnight, but significant advances have been made across the board since democracy came to power in this nation.

"I'll close by asking the nation and the world this: Jamaica Reborn's government claims it seeks to improve the lives of Africans everywhere. That is a noble goal. But will invading the Latin Union and ousting its government help Africans here? There are many Africans in the military, like my two nephews. They have volunteered because they know our government is protecting them from prejudice and wrong, and is looking out for their rights. They may die defending their beliefs.

"And if the government did step down and the Jamaican Empire took over the running of this nation, what would happen to the hundreds of millions of Latinos that live here? These are people who deserve rights just as equal as Africans. The way the Empire has been sounding recently, they would not preoccupy themselves with pleasing the Latinos here. Our government is based upon compromise and reason, equality and justice. The Empire clearly favors blacks above all others. Is that equality?

"The GMUA joins the President's call for the Jamaican government to withdraw their ultimatum. Should this nation be at war in 22 hours, the GMUA will stand solidly behind our armed forces. Goodnight."

Rintza's image was replaced by the reporter, who began recapping her speech. Everyone in the lounge looked at the President.

"I'd like to send that woman a letter of thanks," said Marquez. "But I'm afraid if I did the Jamaicans would say I paid her to say that." His melancholic smile reflected the feelings of all the men present.

(OOC: Ok, the next time something like that comes up I'll t-gram you about it beforehand)

Channel 19 Jamaican News

A tall, black reporter with an afro shuffled his note papers and looked into the camera, obviously just recieving his cue to speak.

"We interrupt your normal broadcasting of 'Sanford and Son' to bring you a few updates on the conflict with The Latin Union.", the anchorman paused and a short animation played out on the screen as fiery letters zoomed into place one by one reading, "The Union Standoff".

The anchorman took a breath and continued,"Swoonie Woo, Di Dude of Jamaica, has dismissed Union statements supposedly made by the Union's black community, calling them 'invalid and unreliable'. Swoonie Woo says the ultimatum will continue and that The Latin Union will be liberated. Di People have granted Swoonie Woo permission to declare war in a 40-20 vote."

The anchorman slipped one of his notes on the bottom of his stack and continued on.

"Leader of the JAGABR, Marcus Tate, has also spoken out against the most recent statements coming out of The Latin Union aimed a the Jamaican government, he had this to say."

A clip began playing of Marcus Tate being interviewed somewhere on a street in Kingston, wherever he was he had plenty of people behind him, clinging to his every word.

"The woman that supposedly spoke on the behalf of the black community in the Union was nothing more than a slave playing her part. That was the worst display of acting I've ever seen in my life, if I wanted to see bad acting with force-fed dialogue, I'd watch an Afghani movie from the Taliban era.", a hearty swarm of laughter from Tate's followers trailed after this comment, and the anchorman reappeared on the screen.

"The Head of The Jamaican Armed Forces, has stated that naval movements are already being made against The Latin Union, although he was not at liberty to give any specifics. He did say, however, that military action would be taken against The Latin Union shortly after the Ultimatum's time limit concluded.", the anchorman turned 45 degrees to another camera.

"That's all for now, and don't forget who brought it to you first. Channel 19, Jamaica's most dependable news station.", the anchorman winked and normal broadcasting resumed.

(OOC: I'll post about my navy in a bit)

In the Executive Lounge of the Red House, Cuiabá
11:23 PM

Pedro Marquez sat alone on the light green sofa, idly staring at the blank television screen. He had been sitting in the lounge for nearly an hour, not knowing what to do or say since the GMUA had made its statement. After his Cabinet had returned to their respective posts, Marquez had found himself with some free time, unable to bring himself to confront the issues of the day once more. He had spent the past hour thinking about his past.

"Omnis Latina Natio Consociatam Sunt:" All Latin People are United. For the first time in his life he found himself disliking the national motto. He had spent nearly half his life working to unite a region divided over petty political ambitions, unable to realize that they were all family, people that should not be fighting one another, but cooperating and living together. He had united the people of the Union by helping them be proud to be Latin, and it had worked. And through all this he wanted his core belief to come out - that all people should be proud to be who they are, no matter what race, religion, sexual preference, or background they may have. He took major steps to make his nation an example of total equality to the rest of the world.

And now here he was, about to lead that same nation into a war he had not asked for, but that had come to him because of what he believed. The Jamaicans had pointed out the one major mistake he had been making all this time: the name and motto of the nation. How could the Jamaicans really believe blacks were equal in a nation that called itself "the Latin Union?" How could he trust any other nation abroad to believe the same thing?

Nobody could honestly believe his true motives. Nobody thought anyone could be that naive and hopeful. By uniting people of the same race, his eventual hope was to unite people of all races. He wanted to set an example. He wanted to show the world that true coexistence could work. But now his nation was under attack by those who didn't see that message, who only saw the word "Latin" and were revolted, who did not believe any nation could practice total equality, and who wanted above all else to see his government toppled and his nation subjugated to their rule, their vision of equality, which placed themselves over all others.

It took him a moment to realize he had dozed off. He straightened and shook himself, rubbing his eyes. He checked his watch. It was late. He had not slept well the previous night, and now, with Victoria gone and the nation in crisis, he doubted he would sleep well again for a very long time.

Slowly, the President of the Latin Union rose from the couch and put his rumpled suit jacket back on. He ran a hand over his mustache and mouth, yawned, and resolved to head off to bed. As he approached the door, an aide walked in.

"Mr. President, here is the latest memo on the standoff with the Jamaicans, sir," the aide said, holding out a page. Marquez took the page and read it.

"Jamaican news agencies announce Swoonie Woo's denunciation of Andrea Rintza's address as 'invalid and unreliable.' Ultimatum continues to be in effect, Di People vote 40-20 to 'liberate' Union. Official declaration of war to go into effect tomorrow evening. Naval operations reported already in progress. Marcus Tate calls Rintza 'slave,' likens her to Taliban propagandists."

Marquez looked up at the aide and nodded to dismiss him. He reread the paper, then read it again, but the information did not need to be assimilated one more time. He crushed the page in his fist and leaned heavily against the doorframe. It was a weak response, a poor attempt to justify themselves, but the news it bore, the finality, was still there. A moment passed before another aide passed by, a young intern. She looked at the man in the doorway and asked, "Mr. President?"

"Please inform the Cabinet I am retiring for the night, and do not wish to be disturbed until morning," Marquez told her. The aide nodded and went to do her duty.

The President found his way to his empty bed sometime around midnight. He did not sleep for another five hours.

((OOC: You go ahead and post if you want. I'm using my NSWiki data and some math to lay out my army still. Oh, and the map will be ready in a few days.))

Jamaican Naval Base, Montego Bay, 10 hours left

The order had been given and now 3 Jamaican Naval Battle Groups headed out to sea. They lumbered slowly out of their respective anchoring places and sailed away from the mainland, off to a foriegn land where they believed they would be fighting, and possibly dying in the name of freedom. The sailors aboard were not allowed to contact their families, their departure was completely unknown to their loved ones. But the Jamaican government had given military families a warning that their fathers, mothers, sons or daughters could be leaving within a week's notice.

The Battle Groups' destination was thousands of miles away, they would come to rest almost directly on top of the line that seperated Union and international waters. Moving at a steady pace, they were expected arrive within an hour of the ultimatum's end. The Jamaican sailor's prayed to their god's and put their faith in their respective religions, but all of them placed a lesser faith in their nation, their homeland, The Empire of Jamaica.

Two more Battle Groups were to depart from the mainland once the first three had met a halfway mark, and another one would follow shortly after them. Their objective was to completely destroy the Union's naval defenses and to make way for a landing of troops onto the Union's mainland. Determined and well trained, the sailor's were confident in their equipment and in their fighting capabilities, that they would follow through with their objective well.

Most of them figured this would be a short war, their superior officers had drilled in their minds that the Union's military was weak and inferior to their own, and that they would have little, if any, will to fight. With this in mind, the overall morale was good, and many believed that after a few shortlived battles, Jamaica would turn up the victor.

Each Battle Group Contains:

1 Kitty Hawk Aircraft carrier
3 Ticonderoga cruisers
3 California Cruisers
2 Slava Cruisers
3 Fregat II Destroyers
2 Gepard Frigates
2 Gettysburg Class Guided Missile Battleships

New Kingston, Di Dude's Address to the Empire, 8 hours left

Swoonie Woo's setting for his national address was one of comfort, there was a burning fireplace in the background and a bookshelf to the left of it, and the room was slightly dimmed. Swoonie Woo's desk was directly in front of the bookshelf, giving the camera a good view of the fireplace, to add a warm feeling. The idea was for the Jamaican people to confide in their leader, as a sincere, and honest man, who wanted the best for the Empire. Swoonie Woo took a deep breath and leaned forward in his chair, the signal was given that the cameras were rolling.

"Citizens of Jamaica, within 8 hours we could very well be entering the largest military conflict that the Empire has ever known, but rest assured, it will be for a real cause. The strife of the black race in South America, most notably in The Latin Union, is very real. Even realer is the fact that no matter how many talks, negotiations, or deals the Empire could've opened up to The Latin Union, the state of the black race within the Union would've remained the same. There are no terms that can be reached with a people such as the Latins, what they live is what they know, and they would not have abandoned their ways through diplomacy alone. It was Theodore Roosevelt who immortalized the African saying 'Speak softly and carry a big stick, you will go far', the Jamaican people have spoken softly, and the time for force has come.

We will stop at nothing until the corrupt regime of the Union has been toppled, and all those who've been oppressed within it's borders are free. The Latins continue to throw out baseless propoganda, in an attempt to sway the world's view of their nation. There is nothing they can do to hide the exposed evils that have been hidden for years within their society, away from the world's eyes. No longer will black children starve on the South American continent, and no longer will black mothers insufficiently support their children. To the black populace of The Latin Union, your days of darkness will soon come to an end, the Jamaican Empire will take you into it's arms, where a better life is guaranteed. Look at your brothers in Chad, in Cameroon, in Nigeria, in Haiti, in Alabama and in Jamaica, you can see within their eyes the changes that have been made, the improvements that have come and the promises that have been kept. The Empire of Jamaica has a plan for you, and let no one else tell you differently.

The Latins try to say that we are hypocrites, and do not practice equality ourselves within our own land, they say we put blacks above all others, but this is not the case. The Empire does not preach that the black race is superior to any other race or more deserving of rights. The Empire is out to raise the par of the black race, in wealth, education, and political power worldwide. We do not intend to bring other races down in the process of elevating ourselves. So when the Union has been defeated, and a Jamaican government is installed, the Latin population will maintain the current rights it has and the rights of the black race will be brought up to the standards of the majority. We do not plan to oppress the Latin population or commit a genocide of any kind, or whatever it is the Union might be telling you we're up to. Our main objective is to free the black race from the rules of Latin society that hold them down, and to allow them to function as productive citizens in a predominately Latin nation.

Our objectives have been made clear, do not allow Latin propoganda to alter your opinions or thoughts concerning what is to be done in The Latin Union. To the families of those in The Jamaican Armed Forces, stay strong, and be proud that your loved ones are fighting for the freedom of those who cannot earn it themselves. Their cause is just, their training is excellent, and their victory is imminent.

Goodnight, and God Bless"

Swoonie nodded at the camera, and shortly after the camera's stopped rolling. He hoped he had made himself clear, he didn't want Latin propoganda making an impression on Jamaican popular opinion. The weight was heavy on his shoulders, he knew that he was sending men to die for a cause that he believed as much as he could was valid. But no matter how much he tried to hold it back, there was still a faint sense of doubt left in his heart.

In the Executive Lounge of the Red House, Cuiabá
Day of the ultimatum, 11:15 AM, simultaneously with Swoonie Woo's address

The President sat on the light green sofa, rubbing his eyes and taking a long swig from his coffee mug, watching the television. He had been awakened at 8 that morning by his personal aide after only three hours of hardly fitful sleep. His bed had been unnervingly cold, and at 4 in the morning his little boy had wandered into his room asking for a glass of water. He'd been up with Juan for about a half hour before he sent the child back to bed and finally managed to pass out in his clothes. A gentle shake, freezing cold shower, and three mugs of coffee later, he'd been in his office making the last preparations to go to war with the Empire of Jamaica Reborn.

The General Assembly was convening on the television. His speeches the previous night had spurred some growing apprehension about the war, and today the TV station that aired Assembly meetings had alerted its viewers to an official war statement. Rep. Ferdinand Chapelin from Unitas was moderating the proceedings. He stepped up to the podium and banged the gavel to draw things to order.

"Please be seated," he said in his French-accented Latin. After a moment things could be heard growing quiet. Chapelin waited another moment before speaking. "The Vice President is absent today as he is off to the coast to visit our soldiers, preparing for the defense of our nation. I, being the most senior lawmaker here, was selected to moderate today's proceedings. Let me take this time to bring to the floor a growing sentiment in Assembly." There was a brief murmur from the Assembly which quickly subsided. "At precisely 7:15 PM tonight, our time, the ultimatum the Empire of Jamaica Reborn has made to us will expire. Even as that stands, however, our soldiers will not be authorized to fire upon enemy targets, and such an authorization cannot be given until a state of war officially stands between our two nations. The President has asserted that no such state will exist until Jamaican forces attack our forces. But this endangers our fighting men and women and opens them to enemy fire.

"A large amount of my fellow representatives feel that if, after the time the ultimatum expires, our forces should detect Jamaican forces on their way to attack the Union, they should not have to wait to be attacked to fire back. As far as the Jamaicans are concerned, we will be at war after 7:15 PM. Today I bring a proposal to this Assembly to create an official, time-bound declaration of war against the Jamaican Empire. Its premise is simple: an official state of war will exist between our two nations starting at precisely 7:15 PM tonight. This will allow our forces to actively defend the country without having to wait for word of a Jamaican attack."

The Assembly started rumbling. Marquez couldn't tell if it was with approval or dissent as an aide came into the room. "Mr. President, Minister Cagliano asks that you join him in the Cabinet Room," said the young woman. Marquez nodded to her and rose, taking his coffee mug with him.

Salta Beach, on the coast of Vita province, 40 km NE of Santa Rosa
11:48 AM

"This way, Mr. Vice President," said the High Centurion who'd been assigned as his liaison. Caraguez had landed at Sumampa Military Base earlier that morning and had just had 20 minutes to review the base personnel before being carted off to the beach. He was still a little unfamiliar with the way the military worked, but it didn't take a proconsul to see the mobilization was going well. Trucks and tanks were trundling back and forth all along the coast, relaying personnel and arms to places where they were needed.

Right now he was at the entrance to a concrete beach installation, apparently some sort of command and control center for this area. The High Centurion, a young man named Marcos, was standing with the door open for him. He passed inside, his Secret Service detail following.

The inside of the bunker was warm, almost stifling, but rather spacious. Caraguez wondered who had even put the effort into building this, and if there was a whole string of these all along the coast. At the center of the room was a long map table covered in, of course, maps. Most of the maps were covered in grease pencil lines and symbols. Along the walls cables had been strung, some of them occasionally sprouting a phone or radio set at various stations around the room. At the far end a small stairway led up to daylight.

A tall, thin man in his fifties, wearing a prim uniform and bearing a closely-shaved haircut, came over to Caraguez, holding out a welcoming hand. "Mr. Vice President," he said, "welcome. I am Praetor Heitor Aguiã, second-in-command of the 14th Division."

"Praetor," said Caraguez. "Quite a place you have here."

"Eh, it works," said the Praetor jokingly. "Let me show you around." Aguiã took the Vice President around the whole room, explaining what each radio station was, and how the commander of the 14th Division could get his orders relayed to nearly every outpost along Salta Beach in seconds. Each radio and phone connected to a different commander of a different battalion, all of them making up the 14th Division.

Finally they came to the map table. "Here," said Aguiã, "is the overall plan of the defense of Salta Beach." He indicated some grease pencil lines that Caraguez couldn't hope to understand. "We have several battalions dug in along the coast, with a few held in a tactical reserve here to replace casualties or react to any breakthroughs. It's assumed when the Jamaicans attack they'll bombard the beach with artillery and air strikes before landing their troops ashore. We've taken steps to minimize any possible losses from air strikes and artillery. Our tanks are heavily camouflaged, and where we can we've used sandbags to augment our infantry defenses."

Caraguez nodded. "Tell me, Praetor," he said, "do all divisional commanders along the coast have these nice concrete bunkers?"

Aguiã chuckled. "Well, sir, we do what we can with our government funding. Salta Beach is actually slightly less fortified than the other beaches closer in to Santa Rosa. Those places have some concrete trenches and bunkers, but even then not nearly what we'd like, you know? The Army is so much bigger than the Naval Forces or Air Forces that we have to spread our funds around a lot more thinly. And since over 75% of our borders are on land, most of that money goes to defending our land borders, not our coast. But we've made do with millions of sandbags, hand-dug trenches, and camouflage. Follow me, please." He gestured for Caraguez to follow him as he led the way to the small staircase at the front of the bunker.

As Caraguez and Aguiã emerged from the stairs to a small observation deck with a thin vision slit running along three of its walls, the soldiers inside snapped to attention. Aguiã returned their salutes and murmured an "as you were." He took a pair of binoculars from a peg on the wall and handed them to Caraguez. "Feel free to take a look up and down the coastline, Mr. Vice President," he said.

Caraguez looked through the binoculars. The beach was bristling with activity. Soldiers milled about digging trenches, moving supplies, setting up machine gun nests, or directing tanks into position. He looked harder and saw several tanks already dug in at various points, very well camouflaged indeed. He lowered the binoculars and returned them to Aguiã.

"And that's just what we've managed to get done since last night," the Praetor remarked proudly. "By the time the ultimatum expires we will be even more fortified."

Caraguez hoped all their efforts wouldn't be necessary by the time the ultimatum expired.

In the War Room, the Red House, Cuiabá
1:08 PM

Today the room was bustling with activity. Almost the entire General Staff had been assembled, having been called in by Jean LeMarc. The War Room's big flatscreen had had a touchscreen fitted to it in the night, and the large table in the center of the room was now alight, the large digital strategic map within it being updated with incoming information from various military sources in realtime. Marquez couldn't help but be slightly astounded. Only 9% of the yearly budget went to the military, but they sure knew where to spend it.

Currently Pne. João Belem had the floor, outlining the Naval Forces' strategy for the defense of the nation. "After the mobilization last night, our ships were placed on high alert and our reserve vessels were brought active. We have 82 vessels in reserve, most of them small corvettes and missile boats. They will be ready for active duty soon," the portly proconsul finished.

"How soon, Proconsul?" asked Marquez.

"Our best estimate is late tonight," replied Belem.

"Yesterday you said it would take you four days to be fully mobilized," said the President.

"Yes sir, and that still stands," replied Belem, kneading the pointer in his hands. "We have a handful of larger vessels that have been in reserve for a long time, and it will take some time to bring them fully online. The aircraft carriers NLC Consociatio and NLC Unitas, in particular. We also have a pair of mothballed gun cruisers that will take extensive time to bring online, as well as a number of moderately-sized frigates, our entire minehunter fleet, and our handful of amphibious landing craft."

"Our fleet is frigate-heavy," said Proconsul Jean de Poitou, the Marine Corps Attaché. "Getting bigger ships online should be a priority so we can more adequately fend off a determined Jamaican offensive."

"Believe me, Proconsul, that is our highest priority," said Belem, "but doing such things takes time. May I remind you that we do have 17 fully operational destroyers on the seas as we speak, in addition to 2 helicopter cruisers and our three other carriers."

"Numbers are all well and good, Proconsul," said Marquez. "What is your estimate of our defensive capability?"

"Sir, our peacetime fleet consists of 294 vessels, 107 of which are frigates -"

"Words, Proconsul, not numbers, please," the President implored, rubbing his eyes.

"Sorry, Mr. President," replied Belem, scratching his fat nose. "Sir, our defensive strategy relies on the speed and size of our fleet for success. Because our fleet is mostly small vessels like frigates and corvettes, we've gone with a 'frigate flotilla' defensive strategy. Our frigates have organized into several dozen small flotillas, each consisting of several frigates and missile boats, occasionally with an accompanying destroyer. These flotillas will be acting in tandem with each other, each of them assigned to patrol a certain section of the sea and alert others to enemy fleet activity coming their way."

"What about our larger ships? Our carriers?"

"Sir, the Pax, Libertas, and Vita are operating closer in than the frigates," replied Belem. "They are smaller than most other carriers and will not be very effective at providing air cover for the frigates without risking their own safety."

"So if the Jamaicans send in more than 2 large carriers, they will have air superiority on the seas," said the President.

"Sir, that could very well be. But our frigates are equipped with air defense systems-"

"Proconsul," Marquez cut in, his temper short, "tell me we have something besides home-field advantage."

Belem stammered a moment before using the flatscreen to call up a close-up of the strategic map on the table. The image showed seven green-colored arrows trailing dotted lines near the northern edge of the map. "Mr. President, your allocation of funds has not gone to waste," said Belem with meek confidence. "The submarine is the king of the seas, and we have fifty-four, seven of which - these seven - are nuclear-powered attack subs. They've been moved to the northern edge of our patrol zones to serve as an early-warning system for incoming Jamaican ships, and, if necessary, as a first-strike option against the enemy."

In the command center of the NLC Electra, Pleiades-class nuclear attack submarine, 450 km NE of the Union coast
4:26 PM - 2 hrs, 49 mins left

Captain Javier Covas took another bite of the croissant in his hand as he sat poring over the ship's planned course over the next three hours. His XO, High Commander Elí Arroyo, was standing on the periscope deck, overseeing the general operations of the command center, waiting for any word from the central command, any sign at all.

"Conn, sonar," came a call on the intercom.

Arroyo took the microphone from the set above him and depressed the talk button. "Talk to me, Charlie," he said.

The chief sonarman, Signifer Carlos "Charlie" García, replied, "Sir, I'm getting a distant surface contact at bearing 032."

Covas raised an eyebrow and looked at his XO, who responded, "Can you identify, sonar?"

"Sir, it's difficult to tell from this range, but it sounds like a large assembly of surface contacts. They're too far out to distinguish from each other just yet, but there's a lot of ships in that direction. Pretty big ones, too, from all the noise they're making."

Arroyo looked at Covas, who said, "Could be the Jamaicans."

Arroyo nodded. "Sonar, designate contact Surface Group Alpha and keep us updated."

"Aye, sir," came the reply. No sooner had Arroyo hung up his microphone than another call came in.

"Conn, radio."

Arroyo was quick to reply. "Go, radio."

"Sir, we've just received an ELF transmission from Naval Forces Command."

Arroyo stuck out his lip and raised both eyebrows at Covas, who nodded. "Bring it to the command center."

"Aye sir." Moments later a sailor emerged into the room and handed Arroyo a small piece of printer paper. Arroyo read it more than once before blowing out a breath slowly.

"It's about to hit the fan," he said. Covas rose, took another bite of the croissant, and took the paper. It read:

From: Commander of Latin Naval Forces
General Assembly passed war resolution. At 1915 hours state of war with Jamaican Empire will be in effect. All vessels will be authorized to fire on enemy targets from that time forward.

Covas adjusted his glasses and nodded. It had indeed hit the fan. "General Quarters," he ordered quietly.

"Officer of the deck, sound General Quarters!" called Arroyo.

As a klaxon went off and the command center suddenly came to life, Covas started rattling off orders loudly. "Relay the location and nature of Surface Group Alpha to Naval Forces Command. Make your depth 300 meters. New course 032 degrees. Rig for silent running." He heard the ship's master relay his orders to the helmsmen, who repeated them back to avoid confusion, felt the nose of the sub pitch downward, heard the hull begin popping as the water pressure around them increased, and soon felt an eerie silence settle over the crew like a blanket.

And in the depths of the Atlantic Ocean, just after sending its encrypted ELF message to its higher-ups, the submarine glided below a thermal layer to avoid sonar detection, turned towards its future prey, and grew as silent as a hole in the water. All along the northern patrol routes, its six sister ships soon got word of the large incoming fleet and took similar action.

In the Presidential Office, the Red House, Cuiabá
6:44 PM - 31 minutes left

Marquez looked down at his desk, trying as best he could to muster enough energy to utter the upcoming speech. Irina stifled a frustrated noise as she lost a good view of his face - she was trying to minimize the appearance of the bags under his eyes. Marquez took a very deep breath and turned his face back up to let her finish.

That morning when Cagliano had called him to the Cabinet Room, he'd played back for him a speech the Jamaican leader had made while he was watching TV. Woo wasn't backing down. Marquez had watched the whole speech with almost emotionless regard. Swoonie Woo was starting this war, by his own choice or under Marcus Tate's influence, but Marquez could not let him have the last word. And Marquez wasn't going to give him the pleasure of begging for peace at all costs or screaming for international aid. This was Marquez the man speaking to the people who'd chosen him as their leader. Signing into law the war resolution the General Assembly had pressed on him just hours before was only the beginning of the end. This was the end of diplomacy, what little there had been of it, and the gateway to conflict - and Marquez was going to lead his nation into it as a grim but determined man.

The cameraman was counting off the seconds to going live. Irina scuttled out of view, clearly unsatisfied with her job, as usual. When the red light came on, Marquez stared into the camera to utter the last speech he'd ever dreamed of writing.

"My fellow citizens,

"In less than half an hour, the ultimatum the Jamaican government has issued to us will expire, and with it, all hope for peace between our two nations. Soon, young men and women from both our nations will be fighting each other, each for reasons they truly believe in. Ours will be fighting for the protection of their families and freedoms; theirs will be fighting for what they believe will be a liberation of our black population.

"You have heard the continued outpouring of allegations from the Jamaican government concerning our African-descended citizens. No less than one month ago they paid a high-ranking television executive to air an advertisement. That advertisement denounced the government's handling of minority rights, and promoted the Jamaican Empire as a place where blacks could find total equality. As the month progressed, they continued to press claims that the black population here was being actively oppressed by the government. They went so far as to air a video that showed blacks living in squalor and falling victim to mass acts of racial violence.

"This morning you heard the Jamaican leader say that he could never reach terms with us, that a people such as the Latins could not be negotiated with. He asserted that his nation will stop at nothing until our government is toppled. He accused us of spreading propaganda to maintain support for our cause, and assured us that Latins would not be oppressed by his government when they take control of our nation.

"Let me take you back to the beginning of this month, before the television ads started airing. I ask you, were African-descended citizens being oppressed? Was there racial strife and violence that ravaged whole neighborhoods and towns? Were black citizens living in squalor, forced to sell their bodies for profit, suffering from malnutrition and hate?

"Only we know the truth. By 'we' I mean all citizens of the Union, not just Latins. There is no way you can refute the horrific fabrications made by the Jamaican government without being accused of fabricating your own lies. You cannot argue with a government bent on war and conquest - they will make their own reasons for carrying out their desires, and they will stop at nothing to achieve them.

"There was never an attempt by the Jamaicans to negotiate with us. There was never a formal opening of diplomatic relations to bring the problems they take issue with to our attention. They never worked with the GMUA or any other organization within the Union to promote the freedom of Africans.

"Let me stress this above all else: the Jamaican government never sought a peaceful way to take issue with us. All of their attempts to sway public opinion have been clandestine or blatantly false. They have fabricated domestic strife in our nation to justify their own nation's intention to invade.

"I will not plead for the Jamaican government to reconsider, as it is obvious they will not. I will not speak to their citizens, because they will be told I am lying. And I will not use these last minutes to give in to the Empire's unacceptable ultimatum.

"My fellow citizens, war is at our doorstep. For the first time in the short history of our nation, we will be fighting to defend our freedoms, our way of life, and our beliefs in true equality for all - regardless of race, religion, sexual preference, or economic standing.

"I speak the truth when I say my very heart goes with our troops. Like most of you I have a family of my own to care for, and I do not wish to have them see dark days, when all they had struggled for had gone to nothing. I am certain you join me in my hope for a quick victory over our unsought enemy.

"Tonight I urge you to spend time with your families, as I will. For tonight is the beginning of the rest of our history."

In the War Room, the Red House, Cuiabá
7:11 PM - 4 minutes left

The President entered the War Room with slow, heavy steps. The various proconsuls and aides that were fluttering about, calculating strategies and relaying reports, halted and paid him a respectful pause, but he waved them back to work, finding his chair at the head of the table and sitting down in it bodily, resting his face in his palm. Lack of sleep and the whirlwind activity of the day had sucked all the energy from his mind. He was in dire need of rest and food, having put off his dinner to give his last peacetime speech to the nation.

Caraguez had called him after the speech, telling him of his experiences touring the coastal defenses so far. He was scheduled to come back later tonight, but he said the morale of the troops was high and what he described of the defenses seemed solid. It was soon to be out of the hands of the politicians and in the hands of the soldiers.

Someone was tugging his left sleeve. He looked over and saw Juan Emilio, and behind him Irina, holding a plate of spaghetti. "He wanted to see his papá," she said, holding out the plate, "and the cooking staff sends you their best wishes."

Marquez looked up at Irina and down at his son. After a moment he managed a weak smile. "Thank you, Irina," he said, taking the plate and laying it on the table, obscuring a few green arrows and land contours. He picked up his son and sat him on his knee, bouncing him up and down a little as he twisted some spaghetti onto his fork. Irina unobtrusively exited, looking like she was uncomfortable being surrounded by all those military personnel.

Juan was fascinated by the computerized table and the flatscreen, looking at all the lights and listening to all the commands being relayed through the room. He leaned on the table and gazed at all the little arrows and dots, trying to make sense of it all. Marquez kept a steadying hand on him as he took another bite.

Suddenly the room grew quiet. All attention was focused on a little countdown clock in the upper right-hand corner of the flatscreen. The numbers ticked off, one by one, until...

"Time's up."

-----
((OOC: High Centurion is equivalent to Major. Praetor is equivalent to Lt. General. NLC = Navis Latinae Consociationis / Latin Union Ship. A Pleiades-class submarine is a domestically-produced Latin SSN identical to the French Rubis Amethyste class. Map of the Latin Union is here (https://netfiles.uiuc.edu/michelas/www/LU%20Map.PNG).

OOC: Wow, good post man. You totally killed mine :p . I'll have something up by tonight that's nice and lengthy so you won't feel like you wasted your time.

((OOC: LOL, thanks, man. I'm glad you found it worth the wait ;) . Looking forward to yours.))

Channel 19, Jamaican News

Marcus Tate was conveniently the guest tonight on Channel 19's highly watched, weekend nightly program, 'Inside Jamaican Politics". The program featured one on one interviews with the top politcians in Jamaica, and the nationally known reporter, James Benford. Benford asked questions that the people wanted answers too, and the guests answered them to the best of their ability and to the boundaries of what they were authorizied to publicize. After being questioned about The Latin Union, Marcus was currently in the middle of hounding The Union for it's oppression of the black race, and it's inability to govern itself properly as a socially modern nation.

There was a timer at the far right corner of the screen, counting down the hours and minutes until the ultimatum was over.

"....and that's why the time for war has come. Di Dude explained clear as day what our intentions are within The Latin Union. We have objectives, James, and we won't stop until those objectives have been reached!", Marcus was very animate with his speaking as he waved one hand from side to side, while constantly bringing the other up to touch the top right brim of his frameless glasses. James Benford, the man on the other side of the camera, sporting a neatly trimmed afro and goatee, nodded his head in agreement.

"So now as the clock ticks," said James while rubbing his goatee, "and our empire edges ever so closer to all out war against what many have called 'a nation full of evils', is there anything that'd you'd like to say to the families of those in the military Mr. Tate?", the camera focused on Marcus Tate's face and he removed his glasses, revealing light brown eyes. His face became almost like stone and his whole demeanor was one of complete seriousness.

"If there's anything more that I'd like to say to the families of our soldiers, it's be strong, for your loved ones are fighting the fight of freedom, a fight that our ancestors fought against the British and one that we now fight against the Latins. Keep your heads up, and keep your spirits high, because we will prevail, we will stop at nothing, until victory is achieved and liberty is washed upon the black race of South America."

The camera changed back to James Benford, "Strong words indeed, Mr. Tate. Well that's our time and it was nice speaking with you, stay true brother.", Benford reached forward and gave Marcus a hearty handshake. The camera now focused on Benford as he handed his airtime over to Channel 19's coverage of Jamaica's conflict with The Latin Union.

"This is James Benford, and this has been 'Inside Jamaican Politics'. Elysia Hanes will take it from here, giving you more coverage on the conflict with The Latin Union, go ahead Elysia.", the screen fizzed for a little bit and then straightened out to show the image of a tall, lean black soldier in fatigues, and next to him was a small woman no taller than 5'4, who was further dwarfed by the soldier's size. The two were standing in a large field, behind them there were dozens of men running with impressive speed through various obstacles under the supervision of a handful of screaming drill sergeants.

"Thanks James", said the little woman, "I'm reporting live from Slick Base in Northern Jamaica with Lieutenant Colonel Obioko Monto, of the 411th Nigerian Division.", the tall soldier looked into the camera and gave a nod. The woman smiled briefly and continued, "What you see behind us is new recruits going through a basic training course which is designed to prepare them for combat situations which they will most likely be seeing within a months time.", Elysia looked up to at the Lieutenant, "So Lietuenant Monto, how do you feel so far about the combat ability of the average Jamaican soldier?", she attempted to put the microphone to his mouth with little success, until he bent down into it with compliance.

He spoke with a heavy tribal, Nigerian accent, "I am very confident in the combat ability of Jamaica's Army, I am sure they will be able to handle anything the Latin's throw at them, and dish out twice as much.", the Lieutenant nodded.

"What makes you so confident Lieutenant?", asked Elysia.

"Well, Elysia, as you can see behind us, our soldiers go through rigorous training and are molded into extremely effective, how should I say, 'killing machines', that work together as a unit and are capable of doing some damage to the enemy on the battlefield.", said the Lieutenant with a nod and a slight smile.

"Killing machines you say?", Elysia said with a raised brow, the Lieutenant nodded once more, and Elysia continued,"So do these soldiers have a good idea about what they will be fighting for and what's the cause of this conflict that they will soon be entering?", asked Elysia.

"Yes, they know exactly what they will be fighting for and they believe in it whole-heartedly, which gives us yet another edge against the Latins. These young men want to save people, they want to free those people in The Latin Union, and they will give their lives to insure that that goal has been grasped. And with the way these men are training, that goal is not too far off, Elysia.", said the Lieutenant with a stern face.

"Yes, yes. Any word on how long it'll be until a Jamaican soldier sets foot on Latin territory?", aksed Elysia.

"Well, Elysia, I don't want to put our operations in jeopardy so I cannot give you an exact date for a landing as of now. But I can tell you this, The Latin Union will fall into Jamaican hands within a year.", said the Lieutenant confidently.

"So in a year from now The Latin Union will be no more?", asked Elysia

"Exactly, give or take a week, it will be over with.", answered the Lieutenant

"Well how many casualties is the Jamaican Army expecting with this war?", asked Elysia.

"As of now the casualty estimates are very low, we don't expect that much of a fight out of the Latins. Anywhere from 500-1,500 wounded or killed, but the men are willing to pay the ultimate sacrifice for freedom.", said the Lieutenant.

"Those are pretty low casualty figures, Lieutenant, are those accurate?", asked Elysia.

The Lieutenant chuckled slightly, "If you don't take my word for it you can take that up with the Head of Jamaica's Armed Forces, I'm sure you'll hear the same though."

Elysia smiled, "Well Lieutenant I think that about wraps it up, thank you for taking the time to answer a few questions for the public."

"The pleasure was all mine.", said the Lieutenant with a small smile.

Military Operation Headquarters, Montego Bay

Swoonie Woo had just arrived with Di Men, to the MOH, and was now walking up the steep steps to the doors of the huge metallic building. Today was his briefing day, where the Head of The Jamaican Armed Forces, Adrian Lewis, would give him a breakdown of the offensive that would be happening shortly against The Latin Union. Swoonie Woo was admitted immediate entrance by the two heavily armed soldiers who stood at attention on either sides of the large, metal double doors as he trudged up the concrete steps wearing a black trenchcoat, sunglasses, and brimmed hat. Swoonie Woo stepped into the building, and was met with a cool draft of cold air. He looked around into the huge open space of the room, there was a wide desk in the middle of the room, and behind the desk were two sets of elevators in the far corners of either side of the rooom. The two secretaries who sat at a desk directly in front of the entrance stood up in attention as they recognized Swoonie. Swoonie rose his hand, and the soldiers went into an at ease stance.

"Do you know my business here?", asked Swoonie.

"Yes sir!", the two secretaries answered simutaneously.

"Where is the Head of Jamaica's Armed Forces located in this building?", asked Swoonie patiently.

"I'd be happy to show you the way to the Head of Jamaica's Armed Force's quarters, sir!", the first secretary yelped out.

"Be my guest, soldier.", said Swoonie. The secretary stepped out from behind the desk and to the front of Swoonie, he turned an about-face, and then requested that Swoonie Woo follow him. Swoonie was led to the elevator on the left where he was ushered inside and sent up 9 levels to the "Briefings Floor". The elevator doors opened and Swoonie was lead through a series of cubicles occupied by soldiers in formal military dress, each one of which stood up at attention as Swoonie passed. Slick C who walked to the side of Swoonie motioned at each one that stood up to continue doing his or her work with a swift gesture of his hand.

Swoonie Woo and co. were lead throught the maze of cubicles to a wooden door with a gold plated "Adrian Lewis, Head of The Jamaican Armed Forces", on the front. The secretary opened the door and Swoonie along with Di Men were lead inside of the large office which consisted of one long table lined with several high metal chairs on each side.

Behind the end of the table there was a large screen implanted into the wall, where Swoonie guessed animations of naval movements would be displayed. Swoonie Woo sat at the front of the table in the largest chair, while Di Men sat at his sides. Lewis and the naval commanders were nowhere to be found however.

After a couple of minutes of waiting, Lewis and an entourage of 4 Naval Commanders entered the room and filed into the remaining seats.

"Where the hell have you lot been?", Slick burst out. He noticed Lewis's neatly cut, pressed down, wavy hair, "So, Lewis, were you fixing up your hair? Are you some sort of beauty queen?", Slick asked harshly, his Jamaican street accent flaring.

"I apologize.", said Lewis without looking at Slick and keeping his eyes on Swoonie, "We ran into some difficulties on the way here, I hope you didn't have to wait too long.", Lewis said sincerely.

"Don't worry about it,", said Swoonie before Slick could chide in another smart remark, "Just don't let it happen again, let's get to business shall we?"

"Yes sir...I mean Swoonie,", Lewis caught himself, "Let me introduce the Naval Commanders that are present with me, this is Camron Dips, Commander of the 6th fleet, Joe Suge, Commander of the 8th fleet, Jeffery Jackson, Commander of the 9th fleet, and Henry Bustles, Commander of the 10th fleet.", each Commander had removed his hat as his name was called, placing it over their hearts and then back on their heads again.

"Nice to meet you gentlemen.", Swoonie said, Silent Murphy and Slick C nodded, giving their sentiments.

"Well as you said Swoonie, I guess we should be getting to business here.", said Lewis while removing a small remote from his pocket and clicking the largest button which turned the screen built into the wall on. As the black fuzz began to clear out and a picture formed, The Latin Union's national map came into view.

Lewis stood up and walked towards the front of the room, again digging in his pocket, this time removing a laser pointer. "As you can see Swoonie, we've got three fleets on the edges of Latin controlled waters, which will be advancing forward as soon as the ultimatum has come to its end.", Lewis put his pointer on three ship-like, blue shapes that were on top of a dotted line representing the split between International and Latin waters.

"Once the ultimatum has ended, the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd fleets will move 20 miles within Latin waters and commence a bomboardment of The Latin Union's coastal defences with long range, tomahawk, cruise missiles.", Lewis pressed a button on his remote and the animated ships inched forward, and small red lines grew from them reaching to several different parts of The Latin Union's coastline. Swoonie nodded in approval.

"The coastlines will be continually bomboarded, while the 4th and 5th fleets advance to the already existing fleets' rear providing air cover and assisting in battle against any Latin naval opposition.", Lewis pressed yet another button and two more animated ships appeared on the screen, siding to the left and to the right of the other three fleets.

"When we feel that the coastlines defences have been adequately weakened, and strong Latin naval resistance has been eliminated, the 1st, 2nd and 3rd fleets will advance paving the way for the 4th and 5th fleets, and later the 7th and 8th.", the screen moved as Lewis spoke, the 1st, 2nd and 3rd fleets moved steadily forward, while the 4th and 5th fleets soon followed, and the 7th and 8th appeared on the screen following the 4th and 5th.

"At this point, we will crank up the pressure on Batalha,", Lewis moved the laser pointer on top of the city, and pressed a button on his remote. Red lines grew from all the fleets and ended on Batalha in a blast like symbol.

"This is where are troops are going to make an amphibious invasion which will include 100,000 troops from two Nigerian divisions.", another red line grew from the fleets and landed on Batalha, this time forming the shape of a soldier.

"Once Batalha is taken, the two divisions will regroup and advance to Setubal and down to Abrantes from there, saving us the task and risk of making to landings. This will give us a triangle of influence and allow us to base further operations from these three cities. Are there any questions or objections?", asked Lewis

"I have a question.", replied Swoonie, Lewis nodded for him to go on, "What about the chance of Latin submarines, how will the fleets fair against them?"

Commander Joe Suge piped up, "Well, Swoonie, we're confident that our destroyers can handle the threat of any submarine warfare with counter-submarine measures and anti-submarine missiles."

"And these measures and missiles have been tested, and are proven effective?", asked Swoonie.

"Yes sir, they've been tested in numerous combat training simulations and we're sure that they're capable in the field of battle."

Swoonie nodded. He then lifted his arm and looked at his watch, "Well, it looks like these plans of yours will be shifting into movement pretty soon, there's only an hour left within the ultimatum. I'm trusting you with the lives of Jamaica's troops, Lewis, you'd best prove yourself worthy.", said Swoonie.

"I will sir, I will.", said Lewis undoubtingly.

OOC: I'll post military movements shortly.

Jamaican Fleets, International Waters

The ultimatum had ended and now it was time to move, Admiral Jones, who was over the 1st-3rd fleets, gave the order and the three fleets lumbered forward. As they crossed into Latin waters, their tomahawk cruise missiles were prepped and aimed at their respective targets, but they still had a point to reach before they would get the clearance to commence the bomboardment. A sheet of nervousness laid on top of all the sailors within the ships metal hulls, they knew that these next few hours could be their last, but they also knew that their cause was just. Admiral Jones, a native of the Jamaican territory of Haiti, spoke over the loud speakers that linked between all the three fleets.

"This is Admiral Jones speaking, I just want to let you boys know, this is it. This is Jamaica's hour. This is our time to show the world our true strength, to show the world we will not backdown when our people are abused and oppressed. Fight them with fury sailors, fight them with all your might. No longer regard them as human beings, but as the enemy, for that is all they are now and all they will be until this wars end. I wish you all the best of luck, your damn good men, with damn good training, God bless."

The fleets moved in a arrowhead formation, with the destroyers near the outsides of the group, scanning the waters ahead for movements of enemy ships or submarines.

Four F-15Es took off from their respective Kitty Hawk carriers to scout the seas ahead, and give warning to the fleets behind them of any ships that they might spot.

Back in Jamaica

New Kingston was hosting a military parade, and thousands of troops marched down the closed streets as spectators cheered them on. Tanks rolled through the city with gunners on top them waving at the crowds. Roses were thrown at the troops as they marched in perfect unison down the streets lined with thousands of cheering people. It was a blatant show of power, overseen by Marcus Tate who watched it all from the balcony of the old capital building. He knew the world was watching, and he knew that the time for war was nearing.

He had a whole nation behind him, and the entire nation's army behind him as well. They were just as much bent on the destruction of The Latin Union as he was.

In the command center of the NLC Electra, 5 km S of the divide of Latin and international waters
7:14 PM

A bead of sweat drizzled past Captain Covas' left eye down the side of his nose before settling on a pad of his glasses. He scratched it unconsciously. The Electra had been sitting still as a stone for the past hour or so as she watched the massive fleet up ahead just sit there, apparently awaiting a signal to move. Charlie García had identified all the ships up ahead individually. Three carriers surrounded by a multitude of cruisers, battleships, and destroyers. Some of them were ships the Union had never even thought about purchasing or constructing - who needed ships so big? Covas silently prayed that after this war, if there were any Naval Forces left, that they would build bigger ships than they had. Much bigger ones.

Forty-eight ships total. Forty-eight giants poised to leap into Latin waters and strike at Covas' home. What could he and his little, silent submarine do? He'd sent off the location of the fleet by ELF before diving deeper and heading off, but what could Command do with the location of a fleet they hadn't identified yet? And now that the whole fleet was sitting no less than 5,000 meters off the Electra's bow, Covas dared not do a thing unless he wanted to get his ship blown apart by all forty-eight ships at once.

He could only hope someone at Command had relayed the order to the rest of the fleet and the Air Forces, and that those people had decided to join him in heading off this threat. Otherwise...

"Conn, sonar!" Charlie called from his compartment, forsaking the intercom under the rules of silent running. "Contacts are cranking up their engines again, sir."

Covas checked his watch. The ultimatum had just expired. Commander Arroyo cursed. "Where's the damned cavalry?" he wondered aloud.

In the sonar compartment, Charlie García could only listen as all forty-eight vessels, which had just now become their enemies, began pushing forward through the water, slicing the surface waves without hesitation.

At 15,000 m altitude, 100 km WSW of the Jamaican fleet
7:15 PM

Coryphaean Pablo "Tricky" Trico checked his instruments and looked out the window of his Mirage 2000C, seeing the 40 aircraft of the 7th Fighter/Bomber wing arrayed around him in two great V-patterns or 20 aircraft each. It had taken some time for the word of the Jamaican fleet to make it to his wing, based at of the Sumampa Military Base, but once he'd received it, no matter how unidentified the fleet contact was, he wanted his wing to be out looking at it. The country was about to go to war, and he didn't want to be left out of it.

He'd assembled his wing in the briefing room and told them one of their subs had detected a very large fleet inbound for Union waters. He had told them their mission was to "investigate," but he'd received permission from his higher-ups to launch with a full war loadout on all his aircraft. Twenty of them bore 2 Exocet anti-ship missiles each and a drop tank. The other twenty, like Trico's plane, were carrying 2 Armat radar-seeking missiles and 2 Magic air-to-air missiles in case of enemy fighter cover. They had taken off from the base and headed off in the estimated direction of the fleet, given time. The Mirages were ready for anything, and they had their pulse radars on, scanning the surface ahead for signs of the Jamaican ships.

One of his point units radioed in. "Epsilon One-Five to Epsilon Iota Four, surface radar contacts detected."

Trico checked his scope. The edge of a large surface group was just coming into view to the ENE. This could be it. He keyed his radio. "Acknowledged. This is Epsilon Iota Four, all wing aircraft, turn for the surface contact." He looked over the sea at the last vestiges of daylight in the west, then the readout on his watch, showing the ultimatum expired. "We can't get a visual on these, but if we detect any incoming missiles or hostile radars, all aircraft are authorized to target the largest surface vessels and fire their missiles."

As one, the 7th Fighter/Bomber Wing turned for the surface contact, their radars illuminating the surface contact, revealing its increasingly large size as they approached. Those with radar-seeking and anti-ship missiles armed them and started picking targets, waiting for any hostile reactions from the enemy fleet.

In the command center of the NLC Electra, 5 km S of the divide of Latin and international waters
7:17 PM

"Conn, sonar, surface transients," called García. "They're very faint, sir, but it sounds like the carriers launched some aircraft. Can't tell how many or what type, but they're launching something."

Covas breathed heavily. The enemy fleet was barreling down on him, if he fired now he'd be a dead man. Even if all six other Pleiades-class subs were with him, they could cause some damage, maybe sink the carriers, but the other ships would slam down on them like an anvil. He decided to keep silent, wait for more developments.

-----
((OOC: Coryphaean is equivalent to Lt. Colonel.))

Over Latin Waters, Scout Squadron

The four F-15Es were grouped in a tight diamond formation, cruising at a low altitude and moving at minimal speeds to avoid being detected. They continued to lower their altitude, until they were only 500ft above the rocking waves of Latin waters. They were headed north, scanning the area within a 10 mile radius for any enemy fleet positions or aircraft.

"Alright, boys", said Fire 1, civilian name Harvey Daniels, leader of the Scout Squadron,"remember orders, if anything looks like a direct threat to the fleet, we hit and dash, hit and dash! Understood?"

"Roger that,", replied the other three pilots.

Just as the Scout Squadron had been reminded of their orders to fire on threats to the Jamaican fleet, a huge threat appeared.

"Fire 1, I just picked up several aircraft coming from the west, they're heading south towards our fleet positions, looks like an immediate threat, requesting permission to engage."

Daniels cracked a smile underneath his helmet and mask, "Looks like these Latin bastards came out to play after all, Scout Squadron elevate altitude and acquire targets, we're gonna take a few of these suckers out and soften them up for the fleet."

The Scout Squadron made a sharp veer to the west and then steadily elevated, locking onto numerous targets within the enemy aircraft formation. The weapon systems officers in each F-15E readied it's AIM-120 air-to-air missiles, commiting each missile to a seperate target with laser pod aiming.

"For The Empire!", Daniels screamed, drawing a ralley cry from his other three pilots. The four F-15Es fired their missiles, totaling 32 in all. The enemy aircraft were a little more than 2 miles away, which was a fairly close range for AIM-120s. The Scout Squadron made another sharp veer, this time to the south, back towards their fleet. They could only rely on their 20 mm guns and counter-measures now, so they went into Mach 2 speeds, flying back over their fleet and looping around in a half circle. The "hit and dash" attack had been executed and the first shots of what was to be a bloody war had been fired.

Daniels relayed a message back to the fleet command below.

"This is Fire 1 to Battlegroup, we've engaged a large number of aircraft headed in your direction. The aircraft appeared to be made up of bombers and fighters. We'll need more fighters in the air to take them out."

"Alright, Fire 1, the order has been given, we're sending up backup. Out."

Within minutes, 12 F-16s were in the air and heading towards the approaching enemy aircraft, each Jamaican jet was equipped with 6 conventional air-to-air missiles and controlled by well-trained, determined pilots.

The Jamaican Battlegroup

Each ship within the large battlegroup prepared their anti-air measures, although the sailors hoped that the air threat would be eliminated before they would have to use them. They were only 5 miles away from their designated point to begin bomboarding the Latin cost defenses, and defiantly continued trudging along even with the Latins coming towards them from the west. Admiral Jones would not be phased, he stood on the control deck of an unknown ship within the battlegroup observing the war unfold. He puffed silently on a cuban cigar, confident that his men would come out on top.

As he looked at the sonar screens, and at the backs of the men monitoring them, he saw something strange only 2,000 or so feet in front of the fleet. He took the cigar from his mouth.

"What in the blue hell is that?", he asked putting his finger to a green fuzz on the screen.

The sailor monitoring it turned around to face Admiral Jones, "I'm not sure sir, we just picked it up a few seconds ago, and it's damn sure not a whale. I think we've got submarines on our fronts."

Admiral Jones put the cigar back to his mouth, "Well, take the sneaky bastards out before they surprise us. That's an order."

"Yes sir.", replied the sailor as he contacted the carriers about the possible sub.

4 minutes later, 1,000 North of Jamaican Battlegroup

Three SH-60 Seahawk helicopters hummed over the ocean as they hunted for the suspect sub. They were fully loaded with MK-50 anti-sub torpedoes, all of them carrying six each with additional 7.62 mm machine guns mounted on the windows. The moonlight glistened off the guns creating an eery sparkle as the helicopters moved forward scoping the seas with sonar for traces of what could be a sub.

Back in Jamaica

Imbedded reporters were bringing first hand views of the war back home to millions of Jamaican citizens. Of course there were restrictions on what could be shown, but the people of Jamaica were proud none the less to see protectors of the empire fighting for freedom and a just cause. Interviews with sailors, and airforce crewmen could be viewed, as well as specials that went into the daily life of a Jamaican servicemen.

At 15,000 m altitude, 60 km WSW of the Jamaican fleet
7:17 PM

Trico checked his instruments again - the surface fleet was emitting air-search radar with an unfriendly signature. These were the Jamaicans, all right. Their fleet was huge - he counted 48 total blips on his pulse radar. It was time to do some damage. He keyed his radio.

"This is Epsilon Iota Four to all-" His headset suddenly screamed in his ear - his airplane had been locked onto by a missile! "SHIT!" he cursed, still on the air. He fired his Armat radar-seeking missiles at the surface contacts and pulled into a sharp turn, releasing some chaff to distract the incoming missile. At this range, it had to be a radar-guided missile, not a heat-seeker, and hopefully the chaff would do the trick.

Still pulling the high G-force turn, he cranked the throttle up to full, rocketing the Mirage to Mach 1.711 and screaming over the radio, "ALL PLANES, FIRE YOUR MISSILES, THEN TURN AND BOLT FOR HOME!"

The 7th Fighter/Bomber Wing didn't need to be told. Most of them had received the same warning signal in their headsets, and had also released their Armats and Exocets on the surface targets. They couldn't tell where the incoming missiles were from as they maneuvered to avoid them, but regardless they had to bolt. Many of them weren't very fortunate, however. Their training failing them, some released flares instead of chaff, which did nothing to deter a radar-seeking missile, and they learned that the hard way. Others released their chaff too early and couldn't outmaneuver the incoming missiles. Still others were hit by missiles that passed through their chaff clouds and reacquired them. In total, 24 aircraft were downed, only five of their pilots ejecting in time to avoid dying in the fireballs of their aircraft. The first blood of the war had been drawn. Trico was lucky - the missile coming after him had veered into the cloud of chaff he'd released and lost contact with him, detonating to his right and showering his plane with shrapnel. He was limping homeward with a leaking hydraulic line and a damaged right wing.

Now it was the Jamaicans' turn to evade. Forty Exocet anti-ship radar-guided missiles were streaking down from the sky at the surface group at Mach 1.93, directed to their targets by their own internal computers, picking the largest, closest targets and homing in on them, their 165 kg warheads armed and ready. Another forty Armat radar-seeking missiles had been released, traveling at Mach 1.84, each one targeting the radar emitter of a single ship in the fleet, most notably the carriers and cruisers, and homing in on the radar signals the ships were emitting, prepared to detonate their own 150 kg warheads.

In the command center of the NLC Electra
7:21 PM

"Conn, sonar!" Charlie García called. "Surface contacts are launching more aircraft - a lot of them... they sound like jets."

Covas furrowed his brow. Either they were launching an air strike or there were incoming Latin planes causing the carriers to scramble, he couldn't tell. At that very moment, the Electra shook with the noise of several high-intensity sonar pings.

"Oh dear God," one of the helmsmen whined fearfully.

"We've been had!" shouted Arroyo.

"Conn, sonar, incoming sonar pings, the surface fleet has gone active-"

Covas didn't need the report. "Do we have a firing solution on any enemy ship?" he called to his fire control men.

"Yes, sir, tubes one and two are targeting the center aircraft carrier, tubes three and four are targeting the port-side carrier."

"Fire all tubes!" Covas screamed. "Full reverse!" He'd just laid everything on the line.

"Conn, sonar, three helicopters inbound, they are approaching our position!" García kept rattling off reports as the ship shuddered with all four torpedo launches and started groaning into reverse. "I'm getting sonar returns from six other submarines in the area!" Covas was busy ordering the evasive maneuvers of his ship, but was grateful for the report. All the other Pleiades-class subs were backing him up. Now that the Jamaicans had gone active, they were just as vulnerable to the helicopters. "Conn, I'm getting multiple hydrophone effects from those other subs... torpedoes in the water! I count... sixteen... no, twenty... twenty-four torpedoes in the water, sir, besides ours, and all of them inbound on the Jamaican fleet!"

The six other subs had unloaded all their tubes, just like Covas. They'd probably heard him fire and run, and now that the Jamaicans undoubtedly knew they were there, they were doing the same. Now it was only a matter of time. Twenty-eight total torpedoes were inbound to the Jamaican ships at a speed of 35 knots. Because there was no communication between the submarines, they were all targeted for the aircraft carriers - currently they were inactive, just sailing in to the last known positions of their targets, but at 1 km out from the subs they'd go active, turning on their own active sonars and homing in on the largest echo ahead of them until impact. At that point, they would slam into the enemy hull and detonate their 150 kg warheads into ships loaded with enemy aircraft, fuel, and ammunition.

But Covas knew by that time he could just as easily be a dead man. As his ship and the other six bolted, trying to make for the more shallow water to the west so their sonar profiles could get lost in the echoes from the sea floor, he silently prayed that if he did die, he'd take some of the enemy with him.

((OOC: Sorry I edited this so much - no more edits, I promise :) .))
((OOC again: Sorry! Just added 3 words! Okay, last time this time, honest to goodness!!))

Seahawk Helicopter Pack

The three Seahawks continued to scan the open ocean using sonar pinging and had so far come up with nothing. The crew blasted an instrumental of the Game's "Westside Story" through the helicopters' music speakers, setting the tone for war. They were about to return to the fleet when a wave of activity rippled through their sonar systems from several different areas in the ocean. The closest to them being just 400 feet away. Sonar pinging was picking up what appeared to be 4-6 submarines firing off ordinance headed towards the Jamaican fleet. The heli pack was caught of guard briefly until the leader began issuing orders through his helmet headset.

"Hawk 1, head left, and locate and destroy whatever is giving off this feedback. Hawk 2 head right and do the same to the nearest target! I'll head south and take out this one closest to us! Move, move, move!"

The leader of the pack quickly performed a 180 and prepped his helicopter's MK-50's, homing in on the source of the sonar activity before it strayed away. As he gained on the blob of sonar readings he fired off 3 of his 6 MK-50 torpedoes that briefly lit up the night sky before splashing beneath the waves and trailing off into darkness.

Hawk 1 located a target and fired off two tracking torpedoes, while Hawk 2 located another and fired off another 3. The remaining targets were vastly spread apart and the helicopters dipped forward as they rushed to catch up with them.

Jamaican Fleet

Loud thumps and great vibrations engulfed the fleet's crew as Latin planes exploded overhead and crashed violently into the ocean sending shockwaves of sound rippling through the air. The commotion lasted for about 10 minutes and then there was an uneasy silence, which was broken swiftly as the outer ship's emergency alarms went off, signaling to the sailors that incoming missiles were approaching. The destroyers, which dotted the outsides of the fleet, readied their Phalanx guns as fast as possible. There wasn't much time left to defend themselves, over 80 missiles from the air had been detected, and another 24 from submarines that had until now, been cloaked in silence.

Four air missiles dove from the sky and smacked into the left side of the most outward destroyer, creating massive explosions and sending plumes of smoke high in the sky, clearly visible by the rest of the fleet. The impact killed 155 crew almost instantly and injured 75. The first Jamaican blood had been shed, as bloody charred bodies moved back and forth in Latin waters. What remained of the devastated ship was unsalvagable and the surviving crew members abandoned ship, dropping hastily into the ocean on the remaining life boats.

Another destroyer was sunk, taking two missiles to the side, and one in the radio tower, only 45 crew managed to escape alive. As the remaining missiles reached deeper within the fleet the ships were more prepared, firing off last minute Phalanx guns and activating jamming systems in attempt to confuse the computer controlled missiles. A California Cruiser was hit two times in the side, it didn't sink but would need considerable repair before it could be of any more use to the fleet, only 23 crew members were killed in that attack.

A Gepard Frigate was sunk positioned near the middle of the fleet, but not before taking out three fast approaching missiles with Phalanx guns, it unfortunately could not stop the rest, as five slammed into the ship from the top and side, completely destroying it a blaze of flames. The fate of the crew was so far unknown.

One Ticonderoga Cruiser was hit hard, killing over half of it's crew and sinking the big ship almost immediately, the fate of it's crew was also unknown, as no contact could be made with the ship's commander. A Slava Cruiser was hit, but didn't sink, managing to stop two of the four missiles locked onto it, the rudder was damaged and a hull was flooding, 28 crew members had been killed. Another destoyer was overwhelmed with missiles and was sunk, fire and screams were all around each ship in the Jamaican fleet, as the war was rapidly turning bloody.

Almost every ship was effected some way by the missile bomboardment from the skies, 9 ships had been sunk, and another 13 had been hit and considerably damaged. Just as the fleet was beginning to shake off the hits of the massive attack, a wave of what could only be torpedoes were detected coming from the several different positions.

Another Frigate was sunk as it attempted to manuever quickly out of the way of three torpedoes but was not fast enough as they split through the thick metallic hull of the ship causing it to go down shortly. The majority of the crew was able to make it to safety.

An already crippled Ticonderoga Cruiser was hit and completely destroyed, blasting away the men who attempted to escape the smoking ship in life boats, instantly hitting their bodies with intense heat and shredded metal. Four torpedoes hit a Kitty Hawk Carrier, creating a massive explosion that belched out a horrific noise as the churning of metal and the pounding of exploding ammunition ripped through the fleet. 521 men were killed, while the rest of the crew managed to escape. The fleet was temporarily crippled, and the reality of war was now in full spectrum of the sailors as they saw their comrades die horrible deaths before their very eyes.

The other two carriers were untouched as the ships around them took the hits that would've been there's, sacrificing their lifes for the safety of the carriers.

Within minutes the ships that were capable fired back at the fleeing enemy aircraft, bringing itself together with one heavy strike. 45 Standard 2 Missiles trailed after the Latin aicraft, starting off at a low descent and then steadily rising to meet their targets.

The 4 F-15Es and the 12 F-16s also raged after the Latin aircraft, the F-16s launching a total of 36 AIM 120s at the fleeing enemy. The F-15Es seeked a dogfight however, as the pilots closed in on their targets and opened up with 20 mm cannons.

Casualties:

4 Destroyers sunk 2 Damaged
2 Frigates sunk 2 Damaged
2 Cruisers sunk 2 Damaged
1 Carrier sunk
2 Cargo Ships Damaged
1 Refuel Ship Damaged

NLC Electra
7:22 PM

The submarine had righted its course and was now steaming full ahead for the coastline.

"Conn, sonar, multiple surface explosions-" Charlie García was dutifully reporting. "It sounds like some Jamaican ships are exploding... CONN, SONAR, SURFACE SPLASHES!"

Covas whirled to Arroyo. "Countermeasures!"

"Countermeasures, aye!" shouted Arroyo, leaping to a console and throwing a switch. The Electra shook slightly as a pair of countermeasures were fired out the port side, swirling in the water and creating a great cloud of bubbles to distort sonar reflections.

"Two torpedoes inbound, sir, they've gone active!" called García. Over the din of the ship's engine running at full power and the maneuvering orders, everyone in the command center could hear the high-pitched pings of the inbound torpedoes as they tried to acquire the Electra. "Torpedoes have acquired!"

Covas bit his lip. "Helm, get us behind the countermeasures!"

"Hard to port!" relayed Arroyo. The Electra bucked as its rudder slammed over, sending the submarine into a tight turn. Covas counted off the seconds as he heard the torpedoes' pinging get more and more rapid as they closed in. He wiped sweat from his face with a sleeve.

"Torpedoes are homing..." García reported. Suddenly, the pinging from one of the torpedoes became less audible and soon stopped. "One torpedo has reached the countermeasures." The Electra had turned behind the countermeasures, but had since sailed past them. If they were lucky, the torpedo would emerge from the other side of the countermeasures with no submarine in front of it. A very, very tense second passed in the command center. "First torpedo has lost contact," came the report. Covas didn't let out his breath - there was one more torpedo out there.

A sudden, wrenching explosion resounded somewhere outside the Electra. "Conn, sonar, submarine down," García said, confirming what Covas had feared. One of the Electra's sister ships had been struck by a torpedo, and was most likely destroyed. His attention snapped back to the high-pitched sonar pings of the other torpedo that was still tracking his ship. "Second torpedo has still acquired us!" García screamed. "Impact estimated in six seconds! Four! Three!"

"EMERGENCY BLOW!" shouted Covas. Arroyo reached over to a large red button and slammed it home. The crew of the Electra was nearly thrown off their feet as high-pressure air was forced into the ballast tanks, causing the whole submarine to rocket toward the surface. It wasn't a moment too soon - the torpedo could easily be heard as it whizzed past the submarine's propeller, missing it by a hair.

Anyone looking at the particular stretch of ocean the Electra was maneuvering in would have been very surprised to see a submarine suddenly breach the surface, nearly rising halfway out of the water before settling back on an even keel. Covas had saved his crew briefly, but now his ship was on the surface, and could probably be seen in the light of the burning Jamaican ships.

"Sonar, conn!" called Covas, nearly in a frenzy as he threw on a life preserver. "Report!"

"Conn, sonar, I'm getting a lot of explosions out there," came the reply. "One of our subs is sinking, another was struck by a torpedo and has surfaced approximately 2 klicks to the south."

Covas was throwing on his rain jacket and binoculars, and raising the periscope to have a look around. He took a quick scan of his immediate surroundings - a lot of Jamaican ships were on fire or sinking, including one of the carriers. Even though that was satisfying, his more immediate concern was over the three helicopters hunting his ship and the others. He spotted one, not too far off, and didn't want it coming after him again. He dashed to the weapons locker and pulled out an M-16, loading it and taking it off safety. "Keep making for the coast, flank speed," he ordered. "Get a message off to Command about our situation. I'll need some weapons backup. Commander, you have the conn." He started up the ladder to the conning tower.

Arroyo couldn't believe what he was seeing. What was Covas going to do, try to shoot down a helicopter? They had time to dive and hide still - the captain wasn't acting rationally. Regardless, he was still the captain. Arroyo sent two crewmen with M-16s and life jackets up to the conning tower to cover the captain.

As he emerged onto the deck of the conning tower, Covas ducked down behind the metal wall and peered over the top, bringing the M-16 up to his eye and aligning the sights with the helicopter. If the Electra dove and tried to hide again, those bastards could just reacquire her and launch a whole other spread of torpedoes her way. She couldn't dodge and launch countermeasures forever. This way, at least, Covas had a chance of taking one of the helicopters out. He heard two crewmen come up on deck with him and felt them kneel down next to him, also taking aim. Covas squeezed the trigger, emptying the whole clip at the helicopter as the two crewmen beside him followed suit.

At 15,000 m altitude, 110 km WSW of the Jamaican fleet
7:27 PM

Trico's headset was nearly deafening him with the news of multiple locked-on missiles. He'd barely managed to get off a situation report to Command when he heard the next barrage of alarms. The Jamaicans had been hit, he could tell that from the way the sky was lighting up with flashes and glows. Now they were angry, and taking out over half the 7th Fighter/Bomber Wing wasn't enough for them. Command had told him that SAM sites on the mainland were alerted to the presence of enemy aircraft, but no news on any immediate backup for him. Gears were turning up at Command, they just didn't know who to let hit the Jamaicans next - the Naval Forces or the Air Forces again.

He released more chaff and pushed the Mirage into an almost vertical dive to avoid the incoming missiles, losing altitude so fast he could feel the blood rushing into the back of his head. If he kept it this way much longer, he'd black out, but waited until the last possible moment before pulling back on the stick and leveling out. His headset wasn't screaming for the moment - maybe the chaff had distracted the incoming missiles. He brought the plane down to within 100 ft of the waves, well below the view of ship-based radar, and hopefully out of the sight of any fighters on his tail. He turned off his afterburners and lights, turning his plane into a black splotch over a black sea. He did a quick scan of his surroundings for any aircraft in pursuit and keyed his radio. "Epsilon Iota flight, report in." Silence. "Any Latin aircraft that can hear me, please respond." Dead air came in reply. He slammed his fist into his seat. Of the forty aircraft that had made up the 7th Fighter/Bomber Wing, only he was left. The rest had been destroyed by the Jamaicans' missiles or guns - none had been able to eject during the second barrage.

He gave another report to Command and was directed to land at Sumampa for debriefing. He aimed the damaged Mirage in the direction of the airfield and strained his eyes looking for signs of the coast.

NLC Celæno, Pleiades-class SSN
7:25 PM

The ship had been struck by a torpedo at the propeller, tearing a hole in the aft compartment and killing 22 of the crew. The ship was flooding with water, and the captain had used his emergency blow air to surface and unload the remaining crewmen into life rafts. He and the officers were still below, rigging the ship to be scuttled. The Jamaican ships were too near to hope for a rescue from Latin forces, and the captain didn't want his ship to fall into enemy hands. They were shutting the reactor down and wiring the torpedoes in the forward compartment to explode in three minutes. Even as they worked the sub was settling by the stern, taking on more and more water through its hull breach. The rafts that had been filled with crewmen were pushing off to sea, rowing to get away from the Celæno before she blew. As they rowed, they watched the Jamaican helicopters hunt down the other submarines in the area.

In the War Room of the Red House, Cuiabá
7:30 PM

President Marquez was absently twirling his fork on his empty plate, watching as the aides and commanders in the room interacted, gathering incoming data from their respective command centers and updating the overall picture of the war as the first fifteen minutes of it drew to a close. Everyone was in a bit of an anxious frenzy, snapping orders at each other and sometimes shouting to get their sentences heard. Marquez watched as his son sat on the floor at his feet, making little airplanes with his hands and crashing them into each other.

"Mr. President, we're getting official reports from Command now," announced Jean LeMarc, after being handed a manila folder by an aide. He took out a paper from it and read from it aloud. "Large fleet detected inbound towards Latin waters before expiration of ultimatum. Enemy fleet was reconnoitered by the 7th Fighter/Bomber Wing and the seven Pleiades-class nuclear submarines. Fleet was confirmed to be hostile and fired upon by both groups. The commander of the 7th Fighter/Bomber Wing reports 39 of 40 attacking Union aircraft have been destroyed, unknown number of survivors. NLC Electra reports one submarine sunk, one damaged and evacuating crewmen. No report from the damaged submarine yet. Electra herself has evaded two enemy torpedoes and is heading for the Union coast on the surface. Enemy casualties as yet unknown, but NLC Electra has sighted, quote, 'very many damaged or sinking enemy vessels,' enquote. Original enemy strength was reported to be forty-eight vessels, including three supercarriers." LeMarc put the paper back in the folder and looked expectantly at Marquez. The President only nodded, continuing to twirl his fork. LeMarc waited for more of a response, but received none, and instead returned to updating the digital maps on the flatscreen and the table.

Fabrizio Lionelli piped up. "Air Forces Command reports two fighter wings are being scrambled to hit the Jamaicans again." He stepped over to the table and drew a circle around the metropolis of Santa Rosa, listing off the names of the wings being launched from its airbase. "The 9th and 10th Fighter Wings out of Santa Rosa." He called up the statistics of the wings in question on the flatscreen:

9th Fighter Wing: 43 F-16 Fighting Falcons
10th Fighter Wing: 40 Rafales

Marquez regarded the information a moment, then nodded for Lionelli to go on. However, João Belem took the pen from Lionelli and highlighted a green surface group icon, labeled "Λ", about 130 km SE from the red-colored enemy surface group icon. "Sir, Naval Forces Command has directed the Lambda Flotilla to engage the enemy fleet with long-range missiles. They will be in range in half an hour, sir."

Lionelli looked at Belem. "Excellent. I estimate the fighters will have just begun to engage the enemy by then." Belem proudly called up the statistics on the Lambda Flotilla on the flatscreen for the President:

Lambda Flotilla:
2 Blanco Encalada-class helicopter destroyers
4 Baleares-class frigates
2 Mariscal Sucre-class light frigates
2 Casma-class large missile boats
2 D'Estienne D'Orves-class ASW Corvettes

Latin Territorial Waters, 18 km WNW of Jamaican fleet
7:32 PM

The five ejected Latin pilots, formerly of the 7th Fighter/Bomber Wing, had touched down in the frigid ocean waters not moments from each other, the wind having carried them here from the places they had ejected. Each of them broke out their survival gear per their training and inflated their tiny emergency life rafts, climbing into them quickly. They each sent up a distress flare, and on seeing each other's flares, paddled their rafts together to form a barge. Three of them had been badly injured during ejection and would need medical attention, and the other two tended to them as they awaited pickup.

One of the pilots, Master Wilson Coya, was black.

-----
((OOC: Master is equivalent to 2nd Lieutenant.))

Seahawk Helicopter Pack

"Holy Shit!", screamed the pilot of the lead heli as he looked over his shoulder. Shortly after he and his pack had fired off their anti-sub missiles, a wide range of explosions began lighting up the night sky behind them as Jamaican ships were hit with incoming Latin missiles.

"Damn it!", said Shawn Barkley, co-pilot of the lead Seahawk, "They're hitting the fleet hard, we need to get back!"

He knew his brother Richard Barkley, a sailor, could be back there dying in any one of those burning ships.

"There's nothing we can do Barkley, we need to lay low until it calms down.", replied the pilot James Henns, "There might not be a carrier left for us to land on.", Henns said in a grave tone.

Barkley shook his head, "Those rotten sons of bitches!", he screamed, fighting back tears.

"Keep your head, private!", ordered Henns, as he pushed farther south from the fleet and veered right. The sonar contacts had been lost, and the other two helis in the pack reported that they had hit targets and were now stalling until the missile attack ceased. Just as Henns veered left, forming a circle back to the fleet, he saw a huge vessel emerge from the ocean as though it were about to enter flight before it slammed back down, revealing itself to be a surfaced submarine.

It was some 300 feet away and Henns immediately headed torwards it, flying straight over it before going another 100 feet and turning around with his guns and missiles prepped. Barkley aimed the .762 mm machine guns at the submarines top, ready to take anyone out who might open fire. Henns flew over the vessel a second time, this time around he had his voice speakers on and slowed his speed as he approached the sub.

"Surrender now and you will not be killed!", he said into the inbuilt mic, it was amplified through two outerspeakers on the helicopters front.

Just as Henns began closing in, dipping the nose of the heli and preparing to hover, 3 armed men opened fire from behind the sub's metal wall with automatic rifles. The bullets penetrated the heli's sides but failed to do any real damage, Barkley instinctively fired back at the Latin's with the two .762 mm guns, raking the top of the sub with bullets. As he angrily blasted the Latins, a bullet penetrated the thick glass window that shielded him and struck into his arm, making him grimace in pain as he continued to fire on the Latins.

Jamaican Fleet, 20 minutes after the attack

Admiral Jones walked through the Medical Ward of the Jamaica Prime Kitty Hawk Carrier. There were hundreds of beds filled with wounded soldiers, most suffering from severe burns to the body. The other carrier's Medical Ward was filled with the same, if not worse conditioned patients. The Admiral talked with the sailors who were able to speak, telling them to stay strong, and that their sacrifices would pay off in the end.

"These are damn fine men,", he said quietly to the Vice Admiral, Carlton Hammers, as they walked side by side throught he isles of beds holding wounded men.

"So what's the total count, Hammers.", asked Jones

"Well, our latest estimates have put us at 741 killed, 325 wounded and 125 unaccounted for.", Hammers said from memory having been handed the stats repeatedly since the attack.

"Good God....", the Admiral shook his head, "We've got to hit them Hammers, we've got to hit them now. I want their coasts being hit within 15 minutes."

Hammers looked surprised, "But sir, the original plan was to reach the 20 mile marker, are we scrapping that?"

"We can't risk approaching any further until we know that their defenses have been softened. If we hit them now, and approach later, we'll have to deal with less casualties and fewer men will lose their lives. I won't let these men die in vain Hammers, never.", said the Admiral as he patted the hand of a sailor who layed unconscious in his bed, his face appeared to be completely burned off from what the Admiral could tell.

"Yes sir,", replied Hammers slowly as he looked at the sailor sorrowfully, "all ships capable of firing their ordinance will be ordered to do so immediately."

10 minutes later

The tomahawk cruise missile launchers of the ships that were able to fire them moved upward or downard depending on their position as they prepared to begin bomboarding The Latin Union's coastline. Their targets were acquired through the images brought in by a spy drone that was launched three weeks ago, and included airfields, suspected radar sites, missile silos and infantry bunkers.

Once the ship's were prepped for firing they launched the missiles off in three waves of 120, each wave containing 40 missiles which were aimed at the largest targets all along The Latin Union's coastline. The missiles rocketed into the sky leaving a trail of smoke before they dissapeared into the skyline heading for frontline Union positions.

The 16 aircraft in the skies patrolling the area around the Jamaican fleets were joined gradually by 20 more F-14 Hornets, aiding to the air defense of the fleet.

Seahawk Helicopter Pack

The pilot of Hawk 1 saw a large, bright, orange light shoot up into the sky as he and his crew searched for more subs. It was a flare, it could possibly be friendly but he doubted it. He veered sharply to the left to go investigate, as he got closer to the targets in question, it became more and more evident that they were Latin. The Seahawk shined its lights brightly on the group of apparently downed pilots, and hovered over them.

"Surrender yourselves to the Empire and your lives will be spared!", the chopper blasted at the group of floating Latins, "Put your hands in the air!"

Two soldiers leaned out the side of the Seahawk armed with Carbines as it circled the downed pilots slowly.


(OOC: I'll have those casualty figures up soon)

((OOC: Sorry, I said it would be up this afternoon come hell or high water, but alas, high water came ;) .))

NLC Electra
7:26 PM

Covas and the others ducked behind the wall again as the helicopter returned fire. A bullet ricocheted off the interior of the conning tower and caught a crewman in the leg, who fell with a scream to the deck. Covas yelled down the hatch for someone to come get him as he took the man's M-16. He thought about the helicopter's warning with burning fury. Surrender and we won't be harmed? he thought. Oh, you'd love that, wouldn't you? It'd be plastered all over your headlines: "Latin Vessel Surrenders to Superior Jamaican Might! Liberation of Oppressed Blacks Proceeding!" I'll die before I give you any chance to support your lies.

He turned to the other crewman and called over the din, "Willing to go again?" As bullets continued to ping off the outside of the conning tower, the crewman looked at his captain. Covas was not a man one could see as being such a maverick. He was a middle-aged, short man with a balding head and thick glasses. The fact that such a man could have such courage heartened the crewman. He nodded at his captain. Covas nodded back, saying, "Aim for the engines." The crewman nodded again. Covas laid one M-16 on the deck and waited for a break in the enemies' firing. When it came, he and the other crewman popped back up, just barely above the top of the metal wall, and opened fire again, emptying their weapons at their target. When his was empty, Covas didn't hesitate a moment and swiped the other M-16 from the deck and emptied that one as well.

NLC Celæno
7:28 PM

Her crew safely away in life rafts, the damaged submarine sat alone on the seas for a moment, devoid of life. Then the torpedoes in the forward hull detonated, lighting up the sky with a massive explosion as the forward half of the submarine rose out of the water, splitting at the seams and showering the sea with huge chunks of metal and debris. The forty-four remaining crew took off their caps and held them to their hearts for a moment in mourning of their scuttled ship and the men who had died in the attack that crippled her. Then they turned their business back to rowing.

The captain wasn't sure where to go. He had swiped the portable radio set from the Celæno and could radio in to Command for help, but the transmission wouldn't be encrypted. The Jamaicans were too close to risk that, and he couldn't hope for rescue from Latin forces for the same reason. If he knew Command, though, they'd be on the way with another attack soon. If he was lucky he could just row away from the battle zone until the Naval Forces showed up. During the evacuation of the Celæno he'd ordered the weapons locker to be emptied and its contents divided up among the living crewmembers. Being taken prisoner by the enemy wasn't an option to him - he'd made that very clear. He ordered his men to row for all they were worth towards the coastline.

NLC Abrantes, Blanco Encalada-class destroyer, 130 km SE of Jamaican fleet
7:34 PM

The lead ship of the Lambda Flotilla, the Abrantes, was the command center of the group of 12 ships. Her captain, a man named Mendes Maolo, had recently been promoted to Fleet Captain so he could take on the double duty of commanding both his vessel and the flotilla. He'd been getting updates from Command about the action going on to his NW for the past 15 minutes, and since the order came through to engage the enemy fleet, he'd deployed his ships into a double line abreast formation, with the bulk of the flotilla's long-range firepower, the Baleares- and Mariscal Sucre-class frigates, in the rearmost line, guarded to the front by the missile boats and corvettes, with the Abrantes and the other destroyer, the Batalha, taking up forward guarding positions on either end of the front line.

Latin Territorial Waters, 18 km WNW of Jamaican fleet
7:47 PM

Those pilots that could raise their hands above their heads did so. Two of the wounded had damaged their arms during ejection and just raised one arm. The third wounded man had been suffering from head trauma and had succumbed to a coma after uniting with his fellow pilots, and simply laid there.

Wilson Coya regarded the helicopter, squinting into its blazing spotlight, trying to make out the figures leaning out the sides. He was still in a bit of a daze from the air battle and his ejection, but he knew full well he was about to be captured. Despite the glare from the spotlight, the silhouettes of carbines in the hands of the Jamaican soldiers were quite visible. He kept his hands above his head, conscious of the wet flight suit on him. It was very, very cold out here, and Jamaicans or no he wasn't about to die of hypothermia.

One thing did worry him, though: where were the Jamaicans going to take him and his fellow pilots? Their fleet was in Latin waters - they were thousands of miles from their own home ports. Where could the Jamaicans take him, except aboard their ships? And once he was there, he would be just as vulnerable to attack as they were... from Union forces. With only himself and one other able-bodied man he couldn't hope to try and take over the helicopter, but once they were aboard the Jamaican ships it was only a matter of time before they would be dead anyway. Wilson bit his lip as he knew he was about to go out from the frying-pan and straight into Hell.

-----
((OOC: Fleet Captain is equivalent to Commodore.

I went through the posts and laid out the events so far in a timeline. I won't RP the second attack yet, since it's supposed to arrive at 8 PM. I'll wait until the battle between the Electra and the helo is over, and until the interaction between the downed Latin pilots and the other Jamaican helicopter is over. Then I'll RP both the second attack and the impacts of the Tomahawks. Here's the timeline:

7:15 PM - Ultimatum expires
| Jamaican vessels begin pushing into Latin waters
| Latin 7th F/B Wing detects Jamaican vessels
7:17 PM - Jamaican scout aircraft fire on incoming Latin aircraft
| Latin 7th F/B Wing launches its missiles on Jamaican ships, scatters to evade incoming missiles
7:21 PM - Jamaican vessels launch helos and activate sonars, suspecting presence of Latin submarines
| Latin submarines fire on Jamaican ships and bolt for home
| Jamaican vessels hit by Latin missiles
7:22 PM - NLC Electra evades 2 torpedoes, emergency blows to surface
| NLC Celæno damaged by torpedo
| Another Latin sub destroyed
7:25 PM - NLC Celæno evacuates crewmen into life rafts
| Jamaican fleet hit by Latin torpedoes
| NLC Electra's captain and 2 crewmen fire on Jamaican helicopter
7:26 PM - Jamaican helicopter returns fire at NLC Electra, wounds one Latin crewman
| NLC Electra's captain and remaining crewman fire again
7:27 PM - Latin 7th F/B Wing decimated by Jamaican air cover, sole survivor heads for home
7:28 PM - NLC Celæno is scuttled, crew rows for the coast
7:30 PM - President Marquez is briefed on war's progress
| Latin 9th & 10th Fighter Wings and Lambda Flotilla scrambled to hit Jamaican fleet
7:32 PM - Five downed Latin pilots fire flares and unite with each other
7:37 PM - Jamaican fleet commander decides to launch Tomahawks ahead of schedule
7:47 PM - Jamaican fleet fires its Tomahawks on Latin coastal targets
| Jamaican helicopter Hawk 1 approaches downed Latin pilots

Again, sorry for the short post that too so long to come. I promise I'll do better next time! :) ))

OOC: Don't worry about it man, good post. I'm gonna leave times out of my post unless you want me to start adding them in, because I think if we both put times on our posts then things would start to get confusing or jumbled up.

IC:

Seahawk battle with Latin Sub

The helicopter was coming back around for a second time, closing in on the Latin sailors. Barkley could make out that one of the sailors had fallen atop the vessel, most likely from a bullet wound. Barkley aimed his the .762 mm gun at the fallen sailor and raked the area he lay in with bullets, he continued to scour the sub with bullets, aiming for the peeping heads of the Latins firing back at him. He screamed in anger as he unloaded the big guns on the Latin enemy, thinking of his brother who could be dead from the Latin attack on the Jamaican fleet.

Barkley was so intent on killing the Latins that he didn't even notice the pain from the bullet in his arm. As they got closer the gunfire increased, the Latin bullets were starting to penetrate the helicopters heavy armor, and damage the interior mechanisms.

Henns had already alerted the fleet of the sub's position and reported that they were being fired on by sailors atop the vessel. Now he screamed with fury too as they swooped down on the Latins through a hail of gunfire and fired back with equal ferocity. Above the nearly deafening noise of weapons being fired, Barkley could make out three sharp cracks inside the cockpit. He turned to Henns and gasped in horror, Henns was bleeding rapidly from a bullet to the neck, and two more had hit him in his right lung and stomach. Henns wheezed and then slumped forward, gushing blood onto the helicopter controls and pushing the steering stick far to the left with the momentum of his body.

Barkley screamed in terror now as they flew over the sub and began to spin rapidly until crashed into the ocean with violent force. They both were killed instantly by the impact.

Two more Seahawks were sent out to the sub's position and ordered to take it out with MK-50 torpedoes. The pair of helis would be on the sub within 5 minutes.

Downed Latin Pilots

Hawk 1 slowly descended down towards the drifting pilots in small circles until they were only a few feet above them. The Hawk hovered closely to the downed pilots and the two Jamaican soldiers began roughly hoisting them into the helicopter. Three was all that could fit and the other two were left to be picked up by another Hawk that had been alerted of the situation.

Another Hawk arrived and the two remaining downed pilots were roughly pulled aboard it as well before they both headed back towards the Swoonie carrier of the fleet.

The soldiers on Hawk 1 sat in a pair of seats in the heli's rear that were facing the front, while the new Latin prisoners were propped up against the cold metal wall that seperated cockpit from the backside.

The two soldiers kept there attention on the black one, speculating what kind of duties he was made to do within the Latin military.

"So they've got our people on the front lines I see.", said the first soldier while gesturing toward the black man with his carbine.

"He's probably been brainwashed, the poor man might think he's meant to be a servant. That's how they breed us to think in places like this.", said the second soldier still keeping his eyes on the black sailor.

"We'll find out soon enough.", replied the first with suspicion.

The two Hawks soon arrived at the Swoonie and landed, the Latins were forced out of the Hawks and into the ship, where they would be interrogated. The sailors awaiting the helis arrival gawked at the black captured sailor, as he was led with the rest of his comrades deep into the ship's hulls into a small isolated room filled with only a metal table and four metal chairs.

The Latins were filed into the seats, and one was told to sit against the wall opposite the door. Their wounds were not dressed and those who were injured would remain that way until the interrogation was over.

Two soldiers stood at attention at either side of the wall as a Captain entered the room in formal dress and circled the table. He slapped his hands down on the metal table after surveying everyone sitting at it and asked in the Latin's native language, "What are your names?"

Jamaican Homeland

Jamaican citizens were recieving pictures and videos of the war at a high pace, and news stations nationwide were constantly covering the conflict. Although Jamaican government was involved very little with Jamaican media, the Jamaican navy was always made out to be on top of the situation in every report delivered. The Latins were made out to be the aggressors, taking the Jamaican navy by surprise in a cowardly sneak attack, from which the Jamaican's recovered and valiantly struck back. Now the Jamaican navy was in control and pushing further into Latin waters. Anti-Latin propaganda was widespread throughout Jamaica, and Latin's were constantly portrayed as almost barbaric-like in Jamaican posters and ads. The Jamaican people were still completely behind the cause of the war and the soldiers fighting in it.

A favorite poster of the Jamaican Propaganda Board was one featuring an oversized Latin soldier placing the heel of his boot on a huddled black family. Flames were in the background and the Latin's eyes were crazed, fire relfected off of his pupils. He held a Latin flag with his left hand and an assault rifle with his right. He had the flag raised high and the gun pointed downward as he moved to crush the black family. Large white print at the bottom of the poster read "How long could we have sat idle? Support Jamaican Troops against the Latin oppression!"

This poster along with many others could be seen at almost any place of recreation or public facility, reminding Jamaican's of why they were fighting where ever they went.

NLC Electra
7:27 PM

Machine gun fire whizzing past his head and neck, Captain Covas sneered at the oncoming Jamaican helicopter as he emptied the M-16s at it. Suddenly his head kicked painfully backward and he fell to the deck, the impact knocking him into a daze.

Sounds were suddenly very muffled and everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, but Covas could pick out every detail of the scene around him. The sailor on the floor of the bridge was writhing in agony, the little rivulets of sweat on his forehead glistening in the glow of the M-16 fire. As the helicopter made another pass Covas saw the floor of the bridge erupt with bullet impacts, each impact creating a spark that bathed Covas' face in an eerie lightshow. He saw the wounded crewman shudder as dozens of gaping red holes opened explosively in his back and legs, showering Covas' uniform and face with little founts of blood. He raised his hands to his face to shield it, but the bullet impacts spread from the crewman across the floor towards him. He barely had lifted his hands from his legs before numbness seized his lower body with the impacts of three bullets - two in his lower left leg and one in his upper right thigh.

The other crewman was still standing, firing away at the helicopter with his face set in a toothy scowl. Covas watched him, a fine young man in his early twenties, his uniform flapping in the wind. The crewman suddenly bucked backward, his forehead atomized by an incoming round. The M-16 began to drop from his now lifeless hands as his whole upper torso was wracked with shot after shot, sending him bending backwards over the wall of the bridge and falling from view to the waiting sea below. Covas, his daze unabated by the wounds in his legs, shut his eyes and felt a tear of blood drizzle across the side of his forehead to the deck.

In the command center below, Arroyo had barely heard the captain's order for someone to come on deck and retrieve a wounded crewman when bullets began pinging off the hull again. Moments later the submarine shook with a distant explosion.

"Conn, sonar, surface explosion," called Charlie García. "I'm not hearing the helicopter anymore."

The gunfire seemed to have stopped. Arroyo took the chance to launch himself up the ladder to the bridge, taking two rungs at a time. A droplet of something splashed on his forehead from the rim of the deck above and he stopped to wipe it away, sucking in a breath when his hand came away with blood on it. That tore it. He rocketed the rest of the way up the ladder, pausing halfway out the hatch to take in the scene on the bridge.

Captain Covas was flat on his back on the deck, a nasty scar drawn across the right side of his head, most likely from a bullet graze. The deck itself was smattered with blood, a large pool of it coagulating under the face-down, bullet-riddled corpse of one of the crewmen. The other was mysteriously gone. Arroyo clamored out onto the deck and knelt over Covas, checking for signs of life. He found a moderate pulse and took the captain's face in his hands, shaking him awake. "Captain Covas!"

The captain stirred a moment and opened his eyes, focusing with some apparent difficulty on Arroyo. "Arroyo...?" came his weak voice. Arroyo removed the captain's blood-speckled glasses and nodded. "Arroyo... I..." Not a word more came as the captain's eyes glazed slightly, then closed again. Arroyo screamed down the tube for someone to get the captain to sickbay.

There were three M-16s on the deck, but only two men. Arroyo scrambled to the edge of the bridge and looked over it, straining for signs of the missing crewman. What he found was a burning wreck on the surface of the water not 150 meters from the Electra. Judging by the broken rotors atop the flaming, sinking mass, the captain had bagged his helicopter. But that helicopter had friends, and they were sure to be not far off. With Covas unconscious, Arroyo was now in command of the Electra. And he had to act quickly.

Turning for the hatch, he saw Covas' head disappear below it as he was lowered down the ladder by a crewman feet-first. Someone at the foot of the ladder took hold then, and Covas dropped from sight into the submarine. The crewman began to reach for the dead crewman on deck, but Arroyo stopped him.

"We have to dive. Now."

The crewman looked back at him a moment, then replied. "Aren't we going to bury him-"

"Listen. If we stay here much longer, we're all going to need a burial," Arroyo shot back. The crewman nodded. "Go. I'll get his dog tags." As the crewman slid down the ladder, Arroyo pulled the dog tags from around the dead crewman's blood-soaked neck and jammed them into his pocket. The other crewman wasn't in sight, nor could he be heard calling for help, so his life was forfeit, even if he was still alive. Arroyo had 64 other lives to protect now. He lowered himself down the ladder and screamed for an emergency dive as he shut and sealed the hatch to the bridge, then slid down the rest of the ladder to the command center.

The conning tower of the Electra slid below the surface of the water, her bridge filling with brine as she descended. It washed the blood from her deck and swept up the body of the dead crewman, floating him above his former shipmates as they sunk into the icy abyss to evade death once more. Soon, the undertow from the diving vessel brought him below the surface as well, where he went to his final grave.

Arroyo looked around at the men in the command center with him. Those who weren't executing their duties as the ship dove were looking at him warily, remembering the image of their wounded, unconscious captain being carted off to sickbay. They were waiting for him to act.

Arroyo glanced at the clock and began the necessary formalities. "Captain Covas is unconscious and therefore unable to execute his duties as captain of this vessel. Acting under the authority of General Order 19 of the Latin Naval Forces, I am assuming command of the NLC Electra as of 1931 hours today. Officer of the deck, note the command change in the ship's log-"

"CONN, SONAR!" Charlie García interrupted. "TWO HELICOPTERS INBOUND! ESTIMATE ONE MINUTE UNTIL INTERCEPT!"

Arroyo didn't miss a beat, though his heart did. "How deep is the sea floor here?"

"Three hundred and fifty meters, sir," came the reply.

"Put us on the bottom." Arroyo saw the wide-eyed glances some of the men gave him after that order, but ignored them. He knew the risk he was taking. Three hundred and fifty meters was as deep as the Pleiades-class subs had been tested to go. If the sea bed was even remotely deeper, he ran the risk of getting the Electra crushed by sheer water pressure. But he had to weigh that against the threat of two helicopters bearing down on them, fully loaded with torpedoes, and thirsting for the blood of the submarine that killed their fellow helicopter and several of their ships. He watched the depth gauge as it ticked off the meters to the bottom, saw the numbers approach 330 and saw the helmsmen ease off their steep dive angle, preparing to set the submarine gently on the sea floor. The hull around him began groaning and creaking, complaining of the sudden increase in pressure, warning him of what he was taking his men into. The numbers counted off... 340... 345... 350... Arroyo took in a breath... 352...

The Electra shuddered as she came to rest on the sea floor. Three hundred and fifty-two meters. The hull groaned and creaked once more, then fell silent, as did the whole vessel when the propellers stopped turning and everyone held their breath, waiting. With the Electra on the bottom, any sonar waves coming her way would bounce off not only her but all of the ground around her, and she'd simply sound like part of the sea floor, as innocuous as ever. Because she was nuclear-powered, her crew would never have to worry about running out of air as long as the reactor was running. The only thing that could force her to the surface was starvation, and that was unlikely given that they still had over half a tour's food and water ration left on board.

So the little sub sat and waited. The Jamaicans didn't have all the time in the world to find her, they would have to move away soon. When they did, the Electra would quietly rise from the sea bed and sail for home.

Aboard the Jamaican carrier Swoonie
7:58 PM

Wilson looked around at his fellows, waiting for them to reply, for a ranking officer to speak up for all of them. But they were all looking around at each other in confusion. Wilson quizzically looked them over, trying to assess who was the ranking officer among them. To his dismay, all of them were only Masters, except for the comatose man the Jamaicans had sat against the wall - his uniform bore the rank insignia of a Centurion.

With him incapacitated, Wilson was the ranking officer, his uniform bore more flight experience pips than any of the others'. He steeled himself, thinking back to his training in the Military Aviation Academy. His instructor in Procedures for Downed Pilots was particularly hard on his students, for what reason Wilson never learned. But he had drilled the standing order for Latin POWs into their heads well enough: "You are required to give only your name, rank, and outfit to your captors. The safety and well-being of yourself and your fellow prisoners is paramount; the more your captors violate these basic human rights, the less you are required to cooperate with them."

Wilson looked at his fellows. With one comatose from head trauma and two suffering from mangled arms, and the Jamaicans making no move to aid them, Wilson saw no reason to cooperate just yet. He thought of just how to answer. Wilson's family spoke English - they had emigrated to the Union to be with family, but he had grown up in an English-speaking household. He decided it was best to reply in the language he was addressed, though, so he said to the Jamaican officer in Latin, "My fellow pilots require medical attention. We will answer your questions after they have been seen to."

Seahawk Pack, Sub Hunt

Two Seahawk helicopters rapidly converged on the last Latin sub position given to them by Henns and Burkley, with whom they had just recently lost contact. The pilots had been attempting to re-establish communications with the silent Seahawk, but were only met with static. They all knew that they had been downed by Latin gunfire, and the chances of them surviving a crash were slim to none. Even if they had survived there were search crews available to look for them, every aid helicopter in the fleet was occupied, still searching for sailors stranded by the Latin attack. With this in mind they desperately wanted to take as many Latin lives as possible to 'even' out the score. When they were unable to spot the sub at the given position, the Seahawks began to drop active sonobuoys, in an effort to smoke the sub out.

"The yellow cowards had to have dove, they've got to be directly under us!", snarled one of the Seahawk pilots as two sonobuoys were pushed off of seperate helicopters and deep into the murky water below.

The sonobuoys aggressively searched for the sub as they released acoustic energy into the ocean water and amplified the returned echoes back to the pilots of the Seahawks. The pilots waited impatiently for any sign of the sub, for what seemed an eternity. As they hovered over the site of where the sub was last out of water, traces of activity near the bottom of the sea floor were detected by the sonbuoys.

That was all the pilots needed, they homed in on the location of the activity, and released 4 MK-50 torpedoes towards it's position. Whether it be a sub, whale or whatever else, the avengeful pilots wanted to see it in pieces. The torpedoes left their tubes and splashed into the water heading for their specified target.

Interrogation Aboard the Swoonie

The Captain nodded his head at the Latin sailor's request, "Of course.", he said in his best Latin. He looked over to the two soldiers on the wall, "Take the wounded out. He says he wants them to recieve medical attention before he gives any information, so place them in the supply deck. If they die there then throw them overboard.", he ordered, speaking in Potois. The soldiers complied quickly, and roughly escorted first the two Latins with wounded arms, and then the unconcious one against the wall. They dragged them deeper into the ships hulls until they reached a large area filled with metal crates. The soldiers tossed the Latins into the crates and held them at gunpoint.

"Now, your friends will be helped. Are you ready to talk?", the Captain asked. Captain Biggums wasn't surprised that there were blacks fighting for the Union, his superiors had already alerted him that many were either forced into military service or brainwashed that they were inferior and must do what they're told. He reasoned that this black sailor before him fit in one of the two cases.

NLC Electra
7:34 PM

Arroyo sniffed at the stifling air of the command center. The odor was new to him - sweat with a tinge of something sinister. This was the smell of fear.

"Conn, sonar," whispered García in the quiet, "four surface splashes... torpedoes inbound."

Arroyo swallowed and crossed the command center, proceeding to the sonar compartment down the hall. "Have the torpedoes gone active?" he whispered back to García.

García turned from his sonar screen to Arroyo, holding his thick headphones to his ears with both hands. "Negative, sir, they're just heading in our direction."

Arroyo stifled the urge to scream. Being surrounded by death this early in the war only said to him that, should he survive this battle, it would not get any better for him and his shipmates as the war went on. He suppressed his pessimism for the moment, however, and prayed to God that the four torpedoes headed for his ship would not acquire him.

The Electra remained silent and motionless on the floor of the sea, listening anxiously to the oncoming torpedoes, every single man aboard hoping and praying that they would miss. On the torpedoes came, aimed in the Electra's direction by their owners, their little active sonars blasting away at the sea floor ahead of them, hearing only one big echo instead of the definitive echo of a submarine hull. Unable to home in on a target this way, they simply plunged onward in the directions they had been pointed. Two sailed over the Electra, having been aimed slightly too high, where they slammed into the sea floor a few dozen meters away from the submarine. The other two hit closer, within a few meters of the Electra, sending shards of rock and clouds of sand everywhere and filling the water with sound-distorting bubbles.

The Electra shook painfully from the impact of the two torpedoes, sending most of her crew to the deck, some of them smacking their faces and heads into it. The hull groaned and creaked, the pressure waves of the torpedo explosions straining it very near to its breaking point, causing leaks to erupt in the forward torpedo compartment and in the aft propulsion compartment. Those crewmen that were still conscious in those areas flew into action plugging the leaks as quickly as possible. Where there was a small leak at this depth, there could very easily be a massive, hull-rending leak only moments later if it wasn't tended to.

Arroyo had been sent to his back in the corridor to the sonar compartment when the torpedoes hit. The lights in the command center had blinked out for just a moment from the shock of the pressure waves and some pipes had shaken loose from their wall brackets, causing water to stream into the room as they ruptured. Crewmen leapt into action patching the leaks and shutting off the water flow. Arroyo rose to his feet, cradling his aching head as he turned to see Charlie García clutching his ears in agony, his headphones resting by his feet. When he had heard the torpedoes about to impact, he'd gone to take off his headphones to avoid being deafened by their explosions, but hadn't been quick enough. Arroyo bent down to him.

"Charlie! Charlie!" García wasn't responding, his eyes were clamped shut and his teeth were gritting audibly as he rolled his head about in his hands, trying to stave off the pain. Arroyo took him by the shoulders and shook him, and García pried his eyes open to glare at his Commander, as if he'd broken some oath with him. Arroyo frowned at him and said, "Can you hear me?" García, tears welling in his eyes, shut them again and shook his head, sobs beginning to rise from his chest. Arroyo called down the corridor for a medic to come get García, and turned to the assistant sonarman, a man named Quipello, to take over. He ran back into the command center and, just as the leaks were finally being tamped down, called for a report.

Ship's Master Yuri Quinta, the chief of the boat, came up to him. "We have some flooding in the fore torpedo room and aft propulsion room, that's being taken care of. The reactor shut down automatically from all the shaking, but it'll be back up soon. We have some casualties, mostly concussions and minor cuts and bruises."

Not as bad as he thought. Arroyo nodded at Quinta, who added, "Sir, the hull's under a lot of stress. It buckled when the torpedoes went off around us. I wouldn't advise we stay down here much longer."

"I don't want to either, Chief," replied Arroyo. "But we can't leave just now. Not just now," he asserted as the noise of shifting rock around the submarine finally subsided.

The sand settled, the bubbles lifted, and the Electra remained, battered and shaken, but still intact. Its crew had avoided death for the moment yet again. How long their luck would last was anybody's guess.

Sumampa Military Base, Vita province
7:39 PM

Pablo Trico clamored out of the cockpit of his Mirage and onto the tarmac by his hangar, collapsing into a heap of exhaustion and sorrow just next to the aircraft. The chief of his repair crew rushed over to him, along with someone from the command center of the base.

"Tricky, you all right?" asked his concerned repair chief, a short pudgy man with a stubbly beard and mustache.

"Yeah," said Trico, rising from the tarmac and removing his flight helmet, revealing a young face and a shock of black hair, both soaked in sweat. He gestured at his plane. "She took some in the right wing and I lost a lot of hydraulic fluid. She what you can do for her."

As the repair chief nodded and went back into the hangar to get the crew, the man from the command center approached Trico. "Debriefing is this way," was all he said. Trico silently followed the man in the direction of the airfield's command center.

Salta Beach
7:57 PM

Praetor Heitor Aguiã smirked as he saw the fortification effort along the Vita coastline proceeding through his night-vision binoculars. His division was making the most of what they had, but they certainly knew how to do that. The beach was getting tougher and tougher with every passing hour. If the Naval Forces buckled under the Jamaican assault and they made it to the beach, Aguiã was confident they could go no further.

He lowered the binoculars and saw the commanding proconsul of his division, who was standing by his side on the observation deck of the headquarters bunker, turn to him. "Damn excellent work they're doing out there," the elder man remarked to his second-in-command. "Millions of sandbags, tanks dug in almost right on the beach's edge. Those Jamaican bastards won't have a chance."

"Let's hope it won't come to that," Aguiã reminded him as they descended the narrow staircase into the main room of the bunker. "The Naval Forces have had enough money put into them that they shouldn't let them get anywhere near us."

"Oh, sure, they have better equipment than we do," replied the proconsul, "but equipment isn't everything. Don't forget, Heitor, it's not the bigger gun that wins the war, it's the spirit of the soldier."

"Of course," said Aguiã. "But it always helps to have the bigger gun."

The proconsul chuckled. "Of course."

And suddenly the room was gone. In the last milliseconds of his life, Praetor Aguiã watched the ceiling of the room shatter, unleashing great chunks of concrete that fell inward, crushing tables, radios, and command staff under their weight. A Jamaican Tomahawk missile had slammed directly into the bunker, a ripe target easily picked out by the Jamaican drone's cameras before it was shot down. Aguiã and the proconsul were both killed instantly as a massive slab of fractured concrete crushed them, smearing their brains on itself before it settled into the slightly burning pile of rubble that once controlled the whole of the 14th Division.

When the bunker erupted in a fireball, every soldier in the open dove for cover: some in foxholes, some behind bushes, some under tanks. After a few dozen seconds it became apparent that the bunker had been the only target of this attack, that this wasn't the start of a massive artillery barrage to soften the beach up for invasion, but rather a surgical strike to chop off the head of the 14th Division. Within minutes of the explosion, soldiers began picking themselves up from the ground in bewilderment. A group of fifty or so rushed to the wreck of the command bunker, hoping to save anyone left alive in it. A few called or ran for water to douse the spreading flames as the rest shoved aside shattered desks and tables in hopes of finding someone to rescue. Within a few more minutes, an Army tractor arrived on the scene to shove aside larger chunks of concrete and debris.

The first bodies that eventually were found were not good signs of what was to come: three command staff clerks lay crushed to death, their bodies distorted beyond recognition. Their dog tags were collected and they were set aside under a tarp as the rescue effort went on.

Sumampa Military Base, Vita province
7:58 PM

Trico yawned as the man across the desk from him read off the little details. Since his debriefing, Trico had been reassigned to the 6th Fighter/Bomber Wing, based at Las Abras, pending the reconstitution of his own unit. Given that nobody remained of his unit but him, Trico doubted he'd ever get out of the 6th F/B Wing until well after the war. But at least he had a unit to belong to again. The man across from him, a proconsul, was the commander of the air contingent stationed here in Sumampa, and as he finished the last minute detail, he set some files on his desk for Trico to take with him to Las Abras. Then he looked at the younger man sympathetically. "I realize you've just come out of some hell," he said.

Trico just nodded, his face stony.

"Why not head over to the barracks and have something to eat. You're not scheduled to transfer over to the 6th until morning. We've still got to coordinate the move of your plane and repair crew."

Trico nodded again, took the files, rose, and saluted the proconsul before leaving. He left the room as quickly as was polite and found a door, stepping out onto the grass of the airfield, gleaming coldly up at him in the light from the base's halogen lamps. Food wasn't appealing to him right now. He sought his cot in his quarters, he sought a long rest - an escape from the dead faces flitting about in the back of his mind.

He'd barely made it to the entrance of the officers' quarters complex when a deafening explosion accompanied by shattering glass threw him into the door. Sliding to the ground in a daze, he turned to look around him and saw the command center of the base, the building he'd just come from, suddenly flattened and burning furiously. He squeezed his eyes shut a moment, then looked again, but the wreckage was still there. The command center had been struck by a cruise missile. His wing had not killed all of the Jamaican ships. He squeezed his eyes shut again and tried to will away the dead faces.

Aboard the Jamaican carrier Swoonie
7:59 PM

Wilson watched his fellows get shuffled out of the room, but doubted the man in front of him would be so eager to give them aid. They were enemies now, and the Jamaicans seemed more eager than ever to kill Latins rather than save them. Removing them from the room worried Wilson. The other unharmed Latin soldier sat next to Wilson, watching also, then looking back at Wilson for a reaction. Wilson turned to him and did his best to give him a confident look before he turned back to the Jamaican officer on the other side of the table.

"I will answer once I see that my comrades have received sufficient aid," Wilson said evenly in Latin, barely disguising his worry. The soldier next to him relaxed slightly, as if he wanted to be assured of the same thing.

-----

((OOC: This was a lot longer, but when I went back and calculated times for things, they were too far in the future to be included here, so I've saved them for future posts. Just FYI, judging by the approximate location of the Jamaican fleet [a bit over 20 miles out from the northern coast of the Union] the Tomahawks won't hit Batalha until around 9 PM coz the ships are so far away [refer to the map (https://netfiles.uiuc.edu/michelas/www/LU%20Map.PNG)]. Updated timeline below:

7:27 PM - Latin 7th F/B Wing decimated by Jamaican air cover, single survivor bolts for home
| Electra: Jamaican helo destroyed, both Latin sub crewmen killed, captain severely wounded
7:28 PM - NLC Celæno is scuttled
7:30 PM - President Marquez briefed on war's progress
Latin 9th & 10th Fighter Wings and Lambda Flotilla scrambled to hit Jamaican fleet
NLC Electra dives to the sea floor
7:34 PM - Five downed Latin pilots fire flares and unite with each other
| Two Jamaican helos fire 4 torpedoes at suspected position of NLC Electra, Electra survives relatively with minor damage
7:37 PM - Jamaican fleet commander decides to launch Tomahawks ahead of schedule
7:47 PM - Jamaican fleet fires its Tomahawks on Latin coastal targets
| Jamaican helicopter Hawk 1 approaches downed Latin pilots
7:57 PM - Jamaican Tomahawk destroys command bunker of the 14th Division at Salta Beach, Vita
8:00 PM - Jamaican Tomahawk destroys command center of Sumampa Air Force Base, Vita))

Seahawk Pack

A sharp flash of light arose from the sea and a splurge of bubbles swelled the water beneath the Seahawks into a dome for a few brief seconds. The sea eventually calmed and the light twinkled out.

"Got em.", said the head pilot into his headset,"Head back to the carrier, over.", he commanded. They weren't about to sit around and wait for the sub to surface, they didn't have that kind of time on their hands, the two choppers about-faced and headed back to base to await further orders. Besides, with four torpedo hits from that depth, there wasn't much chance for the crew anyhow.

Interrogation Aboard the Swoonie

Captain Biggums was beginning to lose his patience, "Listen", he said with gritted teeth,"Your friends are recieving medical care and cannot attend us at the moment, you'll have to speak without their presence.", said Biggums, circling the table and stopping his stride directly behind Wilson.

"Tell us what you know about Latin naval positions, and remember, there is no hope for you, Jamaica will win this war.", Captain Biggums said coldly in Wilson's ear.

Aboard the Jamaican carrier Swoonie
7:59 PM

Wilson swallowed. He knew he was pushing it with this man. The Jamaicans wanted blood, and wouldn't mind spilling his to get what they wanted. But he was trained for that. He could not betray his friends and family to their new enemy.

Steeling himself, Wilson replied, "I will wait until my comrades return to answer you."

---

((OOC: Woo! My 200th post!))

Interrogation Aboard the Swoonie

"Fool.....", muttered Biggums under his breath, he turned to one of the soldiers at attention on the wall, "Help me convince this bastard, will you?", he told the soldier in Potois. The soldier nodded and stepped to the side of Wilson, smacking the butt of his Carbine into the side of his head with a moderate force.

"You will speak!", screamed Captain Biggums in Latin.

Aboard the Jamaican carrier Swoonie
8:00 PM

Wilson's head bucked sideways from the blow and his vision clouded with sparkling patterns as pain spread across his body, its epicenter at his temple. So this was what it was like being a prisoner. The Jamaicans had opened the door to torture, how much further they would go in depended solely on them now. All he could do was follow his creed as a soldier, and refuse to give in.

Nonetheless, he released the only information he was required to release. "My name is Wilson Coya. I am a Master in the Latin Air Forces. My parent unit is the 7th Fighter/Bomber Wing." He could feel blood trickling down the side of his head as the soldier beside him started sweating.

"Master.....", the Captain repeated, he was unfamiliar with the Latin ranking system, but anyone titled "Master" should certainly be of some importance to the military, "...Master Coya, what can you tell us of Latin fleet and air positions, the lives of your comrades are on the line here.", said Captain Biggums, while motioning for a second soldier to stand behind the other captured Latin.

The soldier reached into a flap on the lower half of his shirt, pulling out a combat knife and reached around the Latin's head, placing the blade underneath his chin. Captain Biggums moved around the table so that he was facing both the Latins while standing.

"Well, nows the time to tell us what you know.", said Biggums calmly.

Aboard the Jamaican carrier Swoonie
8:00 PM

Wilson looked over at the Jamaican blade held under his comrade's throat, feeling both fear and anger swelling up inside him. He glared at the officer across the table, wiping the stinging side of his head with a hand.

"What I know," he said, still in Latin, "is that a minute ago you said you would help my comrades, and then you hit me in the head and put a knife to his throat. That's all I know right now." Wilson was surprised at how he could keep his voice low while his heart raced away in his chest. His fellow beside him cast a frightened look at him, but said nothing.

Interrogation Aboard the Swoonie

Captain Biggums shook his head and looked down at the ground, "You're being very selfish Master Wilson, acting tough will cause your comrades great pain.", Biggums said in a low voice.

Biggums turned his back to the two sailors, taking two steps forward before turning around with a scowl on his face.

"Put that knife in his leg!", Captain Biggums ordered to the soldier who had the Latin at knife point, the soldier obeyed, removing the knife from the Latin's neck and lodging it with full force into the Latin's left leg. He pierced the man's leg flesh until the blade was completely hidden, then in one swift movement, he yanked the 9 inch knife out, sending blood splattering across the clean, metallic table.

"Now, Wilson, what do you know? We are not for playing games!", said Biggums, slapping his hands on the table.

Aboard the Jamaican carrier Swoonie
8:01 PM

The pilot beside Wilson screamed as the blade plunged into his leg, his head rolling back in agony. As the blade was removed and blood spattered across the table, the pilot clamped his hands to his leg to staunch the bleeding and lowered his cries to whimpers, tears streaming down his face as pain consumed his mind. Wilson swallowed and wiped some of his fellow's blood from his cheek, worry creasing his brow as he struggled with what had just happened. The Jamaicans had probably killed the men he'd asked them to take care of, and now they were going to slowly kill the man beside him, and then him if it didn't work. They were ruthless.

He remembered his training, remembered more of what his instructor had told him: "In war, people are bastards. They'll do anything - that means anything - to get information out of you. Their only intent is winning the war and killing more of us. That's when you've got to weigh which is more valuable: your life, or the thousands of other lives that would be put in jeopardy if you talked. If it's too hard to cope, just focus on those three things - name, rank, outfit, and repeat them over and over. Make them your mantra."

So in English, Wilson began to repeat quietly, "Wilson Coya, Master, 7th Fighter/Bomber Wing, Wilson Coya, Master, 7th Fighter/Bomber Wing, Wilson Coya, Master, 7th Fighter/Bomber Wing..."

The bleeding man at his side looked at him through his tear-clouded eyes, and in his whimpering voice began repeating those same facts in Latin to himself, using the repetition to take his mind off the cold wound in his leg.

Interrogation Aboard the Swoonie

Captain Biggums laughed to himself, and shook his head once again as he listened to the black Latin murmer his name and rank repeatedly. He took his hands off the table and took a step back. He wore a smirk on his face, his low brimmed Captain's hat made him look even more sinister as it shadowed his brow.

"Master Wilson Coya, before you are killed I want to tell you something....I want to enlighten you on your situation.", Captain Biggums began in slightly broken Latin, folding his arms and losing the smirk on his face.

"You are a pawn Mr. Coya, you are but a chess piece on a board of lies spun up by your oppressive government. You will die for nothing today Mr. Coya, you fight for a false cause. You've been brainwashed, used, manipulated, and now you will be killed by your fellow brethern. You see, Mr. Coya, you are now of no use to the black race, or the mission of the Empire, your will has been taken from you, and without a will, a man is not a man. He is but a shell. I'm sure there are many like you, out there fighting.", Biggums motioned with his finger behind him, pointing in the direction of the Union, before bringing it back into a folded position.

"They will die too Mr. Coya, just as you will today. There will be no prisoners, no mercy, no forgiveness. Any man who submits to evil and fights for it's side purely because he is too weak, is a man who does not deserve to live. You, Mr. Coya, fit that description. The Latin Union will fall, and when it does, it will be a great triumph for the black race, you are not worthy to see that day.", said Biggums grimly, feeling satisfied with himself.

He motioned to the soldier who had stabbed Coya's comrade in the leg, "Kill him.", Biggums ordered in Potois. The soldier nodded and pulled the Latin's head back, running the rigid blade of his knife sharply across the base of the Latin's neck, before shoving his head back foward onto the metallic table. The soldier showed know emotion as he saw the blood spill crazily from the Latin's neck, this was only payback for the deaths of his friends in the Latin air attack.

"Kill him.", Biggums ordered again, this time referring to Coya. The second soldier nodded and raised his carbine, aiming it at the back of Coya's skull, his finger on the trigger and preparing to fire, anticipating taking this traitor off the face of the earth.

Aboard the Jamaican carrier Swoonie
8:03 PM

His comrade's murmuring died out into a choking gurgle as the Jamaican soldier slit his throat and threw him forward onto the table. The man jerked his hands to his neck, an almost endles fount of gurgles and splutters erupting from the new leak in his throat and mouth until he collapsed to the floor of the room and lay still.

Wilson felt the metal of the carbine's barrel pressing coldly against the back of his head. He stopped his mantra and snapped his head up to look at the gloating officer across the room.

"What kind of race is it that kills its own people?" he spat in English, having known he was dead from the moment the Jamaican helicopter had spotted him. "I am the son of immigrants. We came to the Union to be near our family. I joined the Air Forces to pay for college. If you're supposed to be what my race stands for then I want no part of it. I'd betray a race of hate-filled murderers like you before I'd betray my family." Tears welled in his eyes and his throat choked his last sentences into a squeak, as he cast his eyes in the direction of the soldier behind him, his head shuddering but immobile. "Go on and kill me, you son of a bitch... At least I took some of you with me..."

Interrogation Aboard the Swoonie

The Captain's face swelled with anger at the Latin's last few words, "What kind of race is this?", the Biggums shot back at the Latin, looking him up and down with disgust, "A superior one!", the Captain screamed raising his fist in the air.

"Shoot this weak bastard!", Captain Biggums commanded to the soldier aiming the carbine at the Latin's head. The soldier pulled the trigger, without hesitation, releasing a bullet from the carbine's chamber and plunging it into the back of Coye's skull.

(OOC: I think this'll be my last post for tonight, I might be able to sneak another one in, but just in case, I thought I'd let you know.)

((OOC: Okay, I'm off to bed. That was a fun little bit of RPing. Jeez, and the war's just getting started! Well, be back tomorrow.))
-----

Aboard the Jamaican carrier Swoonie
8:04 PM

Coya's forehead exploded outward as the bullet smashed his brains to jelly and splintered his skull open. His thoughts and words ended, the late Master Wilson Coya of the Latin Union slumped forward onto the floor, carried there by the momentum of the shot fired into his head.

In the cargo hold of the Swoonie, the two conscious Latin pilots heard a distant, muffled gunshot, but didn't know where it came from or what to make of it. They each cradled their wounded arms and glared at their captors, still unsure of their futures.

At 20 m altitude, 60 km out from Jamaican fleet
8:05 PM

Tearing along at speeds just over Mach 1.7, just 20 meters above the waves of the sea, the 9th and 10th Fighter Wings approached the reported position of their targets. The two wings were arrayed in eight waves of ten aircraft each, save for three waves, which contained eleven aircraft each. Each wave formed a gigantic V-shape, and they were grouped by twos, one wave of Rafales paired with a wave of F-16s, the Rafales leading. Each double-wave was coming at the Jamaican vessels from four different angles: north-west, west, south-west, and due south. The eighty-three aircraft had descended to their extremely low altitude the moment they flew out over the sea, descending from the view of any ship-borne radar. They had also disabled their active radars and aircraft lights, so as to be totally undetectable until they reached their firing range. Each Rafale carried on its hardpoints 2 R.550 Magic 2 air-to-air missiles, a single Mica air-to-air missile, and four Exocets. Each F-16 bore on its hardpoints 2 AGM-65A Maverick air-to-surface missiles, 2 AIM-9 air-to-air missiles, and 2 AIM-120 air-to-air missiles.

At this distance, the Jamaican vessels were to fall within the range of the Rafales' Exocets. Now was the time to go active. The Latin aircraft switched on their active radars, illuminating the Jamaican vessels up ahead, only slightly off from where they were expected to be. However, they also detected 36 enemy aircraft flying patrol over the Jamaican ships. The Rafales each picked a different target and fired off their single Mica, the enemy aircraft falling just within the range of those missiles now. The Rafales then instantly switched to their Exocets, knowing that the Micas would keep the enemy aircraft busy long enough for them to hit the ships. Within seconds, each aircraft had fired two of its Exocet missiles at the surface targets, one to a target, prioritizing targets depending on which ones were largest and closest to the attacking plane. They then peeled off their attack course and rose slightly to provide cover for the F-16s, arming their Magics and keeping their two other Exocets in reserve, closing on the Jamaican aircraft. Their commander radioed a quick, single-word signal to the Lambda Flotilla.

The F-16s came onward, arming their AIM-120s and keeping a wary eye on the Jamaican aircraft in case some of them survived the Micas. They wouldn't be close enough to fire their AGM-65s for another 56 seconds. So the 80 Exocets barreled towards their targets, cruising just above the waves at Mach 2.63, due to hit their targets within 55 seconds, as the Micas streaked up at their targets in the sky. The largest action undertaken by the Latin Air Forces to date had begun.

Lambda Flotilla, 110 km SE of Jamaican fleet
8:06 PM

"Sir, incoming radio transmission: wolf," came the call from the radio room. The fighters and the ships had been coordinated by Command to strike as simultaneously as possible during the time since they'd been deployed. The code word "wolf" was the Lambda Flotilla's signal to fire their missiles.

Fleet Captain Maolo instantly began issuing a preorganized set of orders that sent the Lambda Flotilla into a sharp turn away from the reported location of the Jamaican vessels and prepared them to launch their attack. A short while earlier he had deployed the Flotilla's only two AB-212 search radar helicopters to a midway point between his ships and the estimated location of the enemy fleet. The helicopters had cruised at full speed just above the waves until they reached their destinations. Now, as the ships turned away and brought their missiles to bear, the helicopters rose higher and turned on their search radars, locating the Jamaican targets and feeding the data back to the Latin ships. The two Mariscal Sucre-class light frigates of the Flotilla input the data into the targeting computers for their Otomat II anti-ship missiles and fired them off, the 16 total missiles rising into the air briefly before descending to a sea-skimming level and heading in towards the targets at Mach 0.9, data being fed to them by the helicopters in real time to correct their courses and divide up targets. The missiles would travel for just under six minutes before striking their targets and detonating their 210 kg warheads.

Maolo froze where he stood on the bridge of the Abrantes, every fiber in his body tensed as he waited for a report from the helicopters about the success of the attack. He would not move from that spot until he got one. Meanwhile, Lambda Flotilla was now heading away from their targets in an easterly direction, different from the one they'd approached the Jamaican fleet from, in case they needed to come about and attack again.

Above the Jamaican Fleet

Head Pilot Harvey Daniels, and his element of 6 aircraft (4 F-15Es, 2 F-16s), made yet another curve around their area of patrol, swinging around in full motion to begin their route yet again.They, as well as the the other 5 elements, were covering all of the fleets sides continously in a circular pattern. Daniels, as well as the rest of the pilots, knew that their numbers were small and worried about a second Latin air offensive. As much pride as they had in their nation and cause, a lingering thought of defeat wandered in the back of their minds. Things weren't going so well for the Jamaican fleet, its progress had been stagnated from the last Latin attack and Jamaican military leaders still seemed stunned by the effectiveness of an airforce which had been deemed as a "minimal threat" by Jamaican standards.

HP Daniels still head faith out in his skills as a fighter pilot and the proven ability of his equipment. The radio frequencies were silent, save for the occasional reporting of an element's position, they followed out there orders without conversation, their minds too occupied with thoughts of death and destruction.

Daniel's Fire Element were coming up on a halfway point for their route when their radar dectectors unexpectedly alarmed.

"Shit!", muttered Daniels, he spoke to his element as quickly as possible, "Activate countermeasures, they've got us targeted, assemble in formation breakout!"

His voice was calm, but commanding, he knew now that he would have to reinforce that faith of his. The other five elements were following the same procedure, rapidly breaking away from each other in 6 different directions, swirving and curving as much as possible.

Daniels and the rest of the elements prepared their ECMs and chaff. Daniel's radar dectected an approaching missile, locked onto his aircraft. There was 20 seconds left before it would reach Daniels, he took in a breath and waited another 5 to release his chaff. Strips of metal, foil and glass fiber were released from a compartment beneath his plane, hurling in the air behind him.

He looked at his radar, the chaff hadn't worked, the missile was still on course, 5 seconds until impact. He veered hard to the left, turning the right wing of the F-15E upwards in one last attempt to evade the missile. He heard a huge sonic boom and closed his eyes waiting for death. In that one millisecond his life went past him, he thought of his friends at home, his family, his wife, his nieces and nephews, god, and with all these thoughts racing through his mind, he still concluded that he was proud to die for his country. The boom began to trail off and he opened his eyes, letting out a sigh of disbelief and relief as he saw the missile streak past him, leaving behind a cloud of exhaust, he had narrowly escaped death. There couldn't have been but a few feet spanning the distance between his fighter and the incoming missile.

Shaking off his moment of near death, he attempted to open up communication with his element, he only recieved static. He tried again and recieved the same response. His element had been wiped out, and his radar only picked up 6 other friendly radar pulses above the fleet. Five others had managed to evade the missiles, either through countermeasures or sheer luck. Daniels turned his radio frequency to all friendly aircraft, telling them to assemble behind the fleet into another element before they were locked onto again.

The other pilots complied soaring away from the fleet and meeting Daniels in a diamond formation, with Daniels leading the element. They looped around and returned towards the fleet, which was now under heavy attack from Latin aircraft, flames and more sinking vessels were clearly visible to Daniel's element.

"God damn it!", screamed one of the pilots over radio frequency as he looked at the carnage below. The fleet was in bad shape from the attack, it looked like another carrier had been hit.

"Let's get these sons of bitches back, acquire targets and take these motherfuckers out!", yelled Daniels as they closed in on the attacking Latins.

The five F-16s and Daniels F-15E began locking on multiple targets, dedicating each of their four AIM-120As to seperate targets. Once in range they unloaded on the Latins, firing off a total of 20 missiles to 20 seperate targets. After their ordinance had been fired the element continued towards the Latins at Mach speeds, opening up with M61 A-1 Vulcan cannons, determinded to take out as many Latins as they could in anyway possible. They knew they would die, but if it had to be this way then they'd rather go with guns blazing.

The Jamaican Fleet

The fleet was taking a pounding, another Kitty Hawk Carrier had been hit, once from an attacking aircraft and then again by an incoming missile from an unknown source, most likely a Latin naval group. The big carrier had been hit once in the side by the aircraft missile and again in its radio tower by the other. It was slowly sinking, 235 of its operators had been killed and it was now being evacuated as surviving crew members hastily left the unsalvagable ship in dozens of life boats.

An already damaged Ticonderoga was finally laid to rest by the incoming missiles, a quarter of its crew managed to escape in life boats. The waters of the Latin Union were filling up with Jamaican sailors forced to abandon their ships as they were blown to pieces from another Latin attack.

Another 8 ships were sunk, including a carrier, and another 12 were damaged. It was severe blow to the Jamaican fleet, crippling it in a swift hit. Surviving ships fired back at the Latin aircraft with AEGIS guns and 14 Phalanx missiles, fighting for life as the Jamaican war effort seemed to be losing its grip.

Admiral Jackson aboard the Swoonie shook his head as he watched his once beautiful fleet fall before him from a control tower. The last remaining carrier of the fleet had managed to escape the missiles confusing one with ECM and the other with chaff, both of which fell to either side of the massive ship, causing a stir for the crew but no real damage to it's structure.

Jackson put one hand to his face rubbing it down his mouth as he stared at the ships ablaze and sinking, "What in the hell is happening?", he asked to himself. Explosions still rocked all around him as some ships continued to be hit from missiles in all different directions. Twisted steel and burning bodies littered the ocean, the screams of suffering sailors brought an even grimmer tone to the already horrific sight. Jackson took his hat off and placed it over his heart, saluting all those who had fallen in the attack, knowing that they would total a great many.

"Sir, we've been ordered to pull back to the 5th and 6th fleet positions, out of Union waters.", said Second Admiral Hammers behind him, who had just recieved word of this after the attack had been reported to High Command.

Admiral Jackson sighed, "Very well then, I'll order for the stranded to be picked up and we'll begin our retreat.", he said with frustration still looking out of the window into the fiery seas.

"We will fight again sir, this war is not over.", said Hammers, "These men today died for a cause that we will fulfill when the time is right."

Jackson turned around to face Hammers, placing his hat back atop his head. He took in a breath and nodded, the wrinkles around his mouth tensing, "You're right Hammers, this war is far from over.", he walked past Hammers and out of the room to deliver his orders.

The Jamaican military had underestimated Latin fighting capabilities, and had payed the price with over 2,000 lives, now as they retreated out of Latin waters, they took with them a thrist for revenge and the experience of war.

Casualties:

4 Destroyers sunk 4 Damaged
2 Frigates sunk 4 Damaged
3 Cruisers sunk 4 Damaged
1 Carrier sunk

Above and around the Jamaican fleet, varying altitudes
8:06 PM

The night sky once again lit up with the impacts of the Exocet missiles, illuminating the undersides of the clouds high above as the detonations tore apart Jamaican ships and sailors. Added to the glow was the lightshow of the exploding Jamaican aircraft as they were homed in on and picked off by the Micas.

The Rafales pitched upward, careful to remain below the radar of the ships, closing on the location of the Jamaican aircraft. After a few seconds, their radars illuminated six remaining targets, who had regrouped into a diamond formation. The Rafales, being of the same Wing, formed into attack flights and broke direction, sweeping around the Jamaican fleet to draw their fire. The six planes went for them, releasing 20 missiles their way, and the Rafales swept as low as possible to the sea, hoping to get lost in the radar clutter from the surface. As the missiles came on, the Rafales swerved and dodged, launching chaff and activating their ECM generators. These were some of the best pilots in the Union, flying the best aircraft the Union had in its possession, and also being the most experienced. Still, even the best can suffer from death. Eight aircraft exploded into fireballs, being unable to avoid the AIM-120s. The remainder had surrounded the Jamaican planes, however, and as the enemy closed, their cannons blazing, the closest Rafales fired their Magic 2 air-to-air missiles. Ten of the missiles flashed away at their targets, two missiles to a target, some of them coming in from opposite directions, as the Union planes had formed a circular pattern around the Jamaican fleet. After firing, the Rafales broke direction again and swerved away from the oncoming Jamaican planes, trying to avoid their cannon fire. The ones that had maneuvered behind them, however, kept their remaining Magics armed and waited for the missiles to impact. Unfortunately, they had left themselves exposed to Jamaican surface-to-air missiles, and as 14 Phalanxes streaked up at them, their lock-on alarms began screaming and they, too, broke course from pursuing the Jamaican aircraft, rolling over onto their backs and diving away for the sea again, trying to avoid the missiles. This time, ECM was slightly more effective, and five aircraft were hit, some not fatally, but as their planes were inverted they could not eject and plummeted to the sea below, killed instantly upon impact. One other aircraft flew into a stream of Jamaican AA cannon fire and exploded. Twenty-six Rafales remained in the air as they again swept to just above sea level.

Meanwhile, the F-16s had closed to the firing range of their AGM-65A Maverick air-to-ground missiles. Each aircraft of the 43-strong 10th Fighter Wing now armed their missiles and chose a target, each aircraft aiming its two missiles at a different Jamaican ship that wasn't already sinking from the impacts of the Exocets. These missiles were television-guided, being aimed manually at their targets by the pilots of the F-16s, who aligned the crosshairs on their monitors with the targets they had chosen. As they fired off their volley of 86 missiles, multiple missiles to every surviving Jamaican vessel, the F-16s activated their own ECM generators to forestall any attempt by the Jamaican ships to lock onto them. Once the missiles were fired off, they made broad turns away from the fleet to avoid anti-aircraft cannon fire and kept their missiles trained on their targets, the most notable of which was the final Jamaican carrier, their prime target.

Tag

((OOC:

JR's been busy of late, but he's TGed me that he's still around and able, just can't get to posting. I've asked him to TG me when he can. So this ain't a dead thread, folks! It's just taking a nap.

I just realized I keep assuming JR's a he. If I'm wrong, someone please correct me!))

OOC: You assumed right, I am a he and I should be back in action pretty soon here, please excuse my abscence, I hope I can make up for it through RP.

((OOC: Tag.))

Above the Jamaican Fleet

The small element that Daniels had lead with notable bravery was obliberated by it's Latin counterparts. Enemy missiles ripped into their aircraft, shredding the once powerful jets to pieces and killing the pilots in a blazing inferno which brought instant death. As the remains of their aircraft, and the ashes of their bodies pummeled towards the sea, one could only hope that their lives were not lost in vain.

The Jamaican Fleet

A second Jamaican carrier was hit, fatally, 3/4 of its crew killed and the remaining 1/4 stranded in the vast Latin oceans. The smoking, blazing carrier tilted upright and sunk slowly, and noisly as sailors bailed off its sides and fronts at a desperate attempt to escape death. The foriegn waters quickly began to fill with Jamaican blood and bodies as explosions ripped through the fleet, pounding it into oblivion.

The missiles continued to rain down on the Jamaican fleet, fireballs of death burst through the hulls of targeted ships, devouring the bodies of those Jamaican sailors inside. The carnage was devastating, and the defeat was now more clear than ever, as lifeboats upon lifeboats of Jamaican sailors feverishly paddled away from their burning and sinking ships, they numbered in the thousands.

Miraculously, the head carrier, The Swoonie, escaped the mass attack with only minor damage to its hull. It's anti-missile capabilities, and a good bit of luck had assured it's survival, atleast for now. Seven remaining ships trailed after the sole carrier, back peddling out of Latin waters and back to the safety of International waters. Three of the seven were damaged, but not enough to impair movement.

The Jamaicans had come with superior technology and numbers, but had lacked the experience to utilize their advantages. But now that they had tasted blood, and seen war for what it was, Admiral Jackson, as well as other Jamaican military superiors, were determined to return to this very spot, and beat the Latin's back to their own land, until nothing was left to take and not a soldier was left to kill.

(OOC: I'll have a follow up post soon, sorry if that wasn't too specific, I'm a little bit out of wack. In the meantime you can post a reply if you'd like.)

On the set of "The Medeiros Report" in the Latin News Channel (Canalis Latinus Nuntiorum) building, downtown Ovar, Consociatio province
8:11 PM

"The Medeiros Report" was the Union's leading cable and satellite evening news program, far outdistancing the ratings of local news programs and most of its direct competitors nationwide. The sole anchor was Gustavo Medeiros, a handsome Portuguese man in his early fifties. He had just come on the air, as the previous program, "Latin Evening," had run long with extra coverage of the war. It would've run longer if Medeiros hadn't pulled some clout with the executives and obtained some unbeatable footage for tonight's report. Eleven minutes was a lot of time to lose for tonight's show, but Medeiros was going to make the loss count.

The set lights dimmed, indicating 10 seconds to air. Medeiros adjusted his tie and checked his hair in the monitor before focusing on the nearest camera and its teleprompter. A man beside it counted the seconds off on his hand. The lights came up.

"Good evening, everyone. I am Gustavo Medeiros," Medeiros said evenly to the camera. "Our coverage on the opening moves of the war with the Jamaican Empire continues now on this special wartime edition of the Medeiros Report."

The title sequence of the show played briefly on the screen before Medeiros could again speak.

"Now, just about one hour after the Jamaican ultimatum expired, CLN correspondents have obtained footage of the first shots fired in what may prove to be the hardest trial of our nation."

The monitor switched to a grainy image, obviously from someone's home video camera, of far-distant explosions on the ocean, shot from out someone's window in a house not 300 meters from the coast. "This is home video footage taken by Gabriel Nicada from the back patio of his family's home in Sarto, an upper-class suburb of Santa Rosa. He says he began shooting it mere minutes after the ultimatum expired."

A thirties-ish, dark-skinned man with a thin mustache and goatee appeared onscreen, surrounded by a slightly overweight woman holding a baby, and two toddlers clinging to the woman's leg. "We were watching the news, when suddenly we heard these distant booms, like thunder. We all went to the window to see what it was, and we saw these orange lights off in the distance, so I got the video camera and zoomed all the way in on it to see what it was. It looked like explosions to me."

The monitor went back to the video of the explosions, and Medeiros began narrating. "The footage is indeed of explosions, though whose ships are exploding is still unknown, as our correspondents in Cuiabá have not yet been briefed by either governmental or military officials. The ten-minute videotape shows some very prominent explosions, as well as a variety of bright lights, identified to be helicopter searchlights." The monitor returned to showing Medeiros behind his desk on the set. "Mr. Nicada contacted the CLN field office in Santa Rosa about his findings, but the time it took to obtain the tape as well as the footage of Mr. Nicada and his family kept us from releasing the video until just now. However, CLN correspondents and camera crews are now stationed behind Mr. Nicada's house, let's go to those cameras live now..."

The image switched to a near-black view of the ocean from a rocky, elevated coastline. "Okay, apparently the cameras are still setting up, they don't have their night-vision sights on yet, but we can see from this image that the explosions have now stopped. We do not know what this means, of course - we are still waiting on any official report from Cuiabá, but until then we can only guess. We do know, however, as was reported during the last program, that cruise missiles have been striking various high-profile targets along the coastline..."

A map faded into view on the monitor, showing a computerized graphic of the Union's coast, along with several icons shaped like missiles superimposed over small explosions. Some icons were larger than others depending on their location, and they roughly stretched along the coast from its northernmost edge down to about 200 km north of Ciudad del Fuente. The largest icons were around the metropolis of Santa Rosa.

"...mostly within Vita province still, but these explosions are steadily spreading downward towards the border with Pax province. We now have a CLN correspondent from our headquarters in Santa Rosa..." Here Medeiros paused, listening to something in his earpiece. "Angelica Ruiz, live from Santa Rosa."

The monitor clicked abruptly over to an image of a short, tan woman with long, wavy black hair standing in the middle of a totally chaotic city street scene. The white suit she wore was rumpled as if she'd been jostled around a lot on the way to making her report. Behind her, sirens blared to almost deafening volume as a seemingly endless supply of police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances wormed their way through alternating clots of hysterical citizens and rubble.

"Gustavo, Santa Rosa has been hit the hardest by the Jamaican missile attacks so far," Ruiz began. "The missiles destroyed much of the Santa Rosa military airfield as well as damaging several runways in the three civilian airports serving Santa Rosa. Fortifications along the coast and the harbor have been hit as well, but these are not mass-bombing attacks, Gustavo, they have only targeted very important command bunkers and supply depots up to this point. Now, behind me-"

Ruiz was cut off as a car bearing the words "Santa Rosa CUSTODIS" on its side and "Polícias | Policía | Polizia | Police" on its fender raced past almost right behind her, its siren blaring and its lights strobing. The police cruiser turned onto the street in camera view and switched its siren off as it approached a group of citizens. Ruiz continued.

"Far behind me, Gustavo, is what remains of the Civil Armory of Santa Rosa, which was a large military building that contained stores of weapons and ammunition for civilian use in case of an invasion. We can't see much of what's left from here because we can't get too close, the building is still on fire. Ammunition continues to explode within the building. Several buildings in the area were damaged by both the blast and flying debris. We have seen numerous injured people being evacuated to area hospitals, but so far no civilian deaths have been reported."

Medeiros piped up and the monitor switched to viewing both his desk and the view from Santa Rosa a moment later. "Have the missiles stopped for now, Angelica?"

"It seems like they have, Gustavo," Ruiz replied. "We haven't heard any further explosions, though we have started learning of newer impacts far to the south, approaching Ciudad del Fuente. There have been hits around Sumampa and even as far inland as Quebrachos, but no new impacts in Santa Rosa. As we get more information we continue to be convinced that these are indeed cruise missile strikes. Witnesses say they hear a loud 'whoosh,' like a jet engine, just before the missiles explode, and the explosions have totally destroyed everything they hit, indicating a large amount of explosive power."

"Angelica Ruiz in Santa Rosa, keep us informed of any new developments," Medeiros said as the monitor switched back to showing just him. "These cruise missile strikes, combined with the explosions off the coast, have thrown most of the nation into shock. So much is happening in so short a time that people are having difficulty understanding it all. We have CLN's top military analyst, Praetor Marta Sangue-Valdez, here with us in the studio to discuss these latest developments." Medeiros turned to a middle-aged woman in an army uniform who had just been seated beside him not seconds before. The camera panned back to cover both of them. "Praetor, can you decipher what the Jamaicans are planning from these recent events?"

"As far as a general plan of attack, Gustavo, no, I can't," replied the woman in a husky voice. "The only clear signal I see from this is that the Jamaicans want to land troops on our beaches within the next few days. These first missile attacks are surgical, calculated strikes at key targets within our defensive network. The Jamaicans aren't aiming for widespread destruction with these strikes. Rather, they seem to want to cause chaos and commotion behind the lines so they weaken our troops on the beaches by hindering communications and resupply efforts. The only problem is the strikes are all along the coast; that signals to me that the Jamaicans are either unsure of where to land first and are just hitting everywhere, or they intend to disguise where they are going to land by making it seem that way."

"What about these explosions that we were showing just a moment ago? These orange blooms on the sea?"

"Clearly those are the product of some sort of naval confrontation, but we won't know exactly what happened with those until Command releases a statement, if they ever do."


Above the Jamaican fleet
8:13 PM

The fighter wings, their arms expended, dodged some final shots of the Jamaican air defenses, and turned for home. Their intense maneuvering on full burner had spent a lot of their fuel and they'd incurred quite enough damage in exchange for their losses. What remained of the retreating Jamaican fleet could be mopped up by the Naval Forces.

The wing commanders of the 9th and 10th Fighter Wings called in their reports to the base at Santa Rosa, and were met with news of that base's damage and landing capabilities. The wings were ordered to patrol immediately above the base until enough runways were cleared, then landings would go in the order of least fuel to most. The two commanders met up alongside each other at 200 km out from the battle zone, exchanging salutes. They had done well. Very, very well. The destruction of the 7th Fighter/Bomber Wing had been avenged, and those pilots from the 9th & 10th who'd died in the most recent action had not died in vain. Within the first hour of the war, the Latin Air Forces had successfully defended their country. Both commanders allowed themselves a smile in self-congratulation, but this was only the beginning. The Jamaicans would be back, this they both knew.


Aboard the NLC Abrantes, 112 km SE of the Jamaican fleet
8:13 PM

Fleet Captain Maolo felt his hands relax as the radio officer relayed the report of their forward helicopters to him. He'd been unconsciously clenching his fists while the missiles his flotilla had fired reached for and struck their targets. And now the Jamaicans were retreating from Latin waters. The missiles had blown all but seven of their ships from the water.

"Sir, the helicopters are requesting orders," the radio officer informed him.

Maolo thought a moment. "How far are they out from where the Jamaicans got hit?"

"About 50 klicks."

"Tell them to wait until the Jamaicans are a safe distance away, then to fly over the battle zone and look for survivors. Radio Command that we have repelled the Jamaican attack and request a search and rescue fleet to be deployed as soon as possible to that area. We might have some downed pilots floating out there, not to mention a couple thousand Jamaicans waiting to be captured."

The officer smirked and nodded. "Aye aye, sir."


In the War Room of the Red House, Cuiabá
8:30 PM

The President had sent Juan to bed early just moments ago, unable to keep him entertained with the weight of a nation on his back. Instead of protesting, his son had complied - silently, solemnly. Although he was too young yet to understand what it was that had taken away his mother and driven his father into an exhausted fervor, he knew it was bigger than anything he could keep them away from, somehow. Irina had carried him on her shoulders to bed with a nervous glaze over her eyes.

Around the lonely man at the head of the electronic table, the organized chaos of managing a war continued. A few very prominent members of the General Assembly had met with Marquez out in the hallway about fifteen minutes ago to assure him of their support for him in this crisis. He'd taken their pledges with a grain of salt, but also with a smile and some gratitude. In a couple years, he would be up for reelection - should the Union still exist - and any one of them could just as easily denounce him then to see a candidate more favorable to their interests get elected. But they were in this with him. Not much of the Assembly had any choice - this war was over the existence of their homeland, their jobs, and their way of life. How could they NOT support defending those things?

Marquez realized he was turning cynical. Within a month, the first major trial of his country had sucked the optimism and faith in humanity from his soul. He rose abruptly from the table and left, drawing questioning stares from those in the room not engrossed in their work.

Out in the hallway, he leaned against an ornate pillar built into the wall and sighed. This war could not defeat him. Even if the Union won, he could not let this whole ordeal destroy his confidence in the ultimate human good. He thought of how he would feel at the end of all of this, one way or another, and he did not like what he came up with. Stiffening and pounding his fist into the pillar he resolved to snap out of his disconsolate mood and do what he was elected to do: make the speeches, give the orders, defend the freedoms, and obey the people.

On his heel he whirled, through the door he returned, and on the back he was patted by the applauding staff littered around the room. Slightly shocked, Marquez asked LeMarc what was going on. The grinning Frenchman handed him a brief report on flimsy paper. "Icebox" was the codename for the High Command, and "Wolfsbane" was the ironic code-moniker for the Red House.

From: Icebox | To: Wolfsbane
9th & 10th Fighter Wings, Lambda Flotilla report Jamaican attack fleet retreating from Latin waters. Fighters returning to base, flotilla shadowing enemy fleet with helos. Survivors reported afloat in battle area, search & rescue fleet being assembled for recovery.

Marquez felt the exhaustion peel off of him like cellophane. He looked up at LeMarc, who said smugly, "We've bloodied their nose. They'll think twice about picking a fight with us."

"Let's hope so," Marquez replied, but felt a smile appear on his own face. Whether the retreating force was the vanguard of a larger force or the whole invasion fleet itself, its destruction meant a respite from war for the moment. He folded the paper in his hand and pocketed it.

"Minister LeMarc!" called an aide across the room who was holding a phone. "The press corps both here and outside Command are asking what's going on. Should we release a formal statement?"

"Yes!" called LeMarc. "Have someone tell them we kicked Jamaicans out of the sea!"

"No, wait!" Marquez countermanded. The thought of the media had quickly triggered an idea in his newly-revived mind.

LeMarc turned to look at him, his grin fading slowly. "What's wrong?"

"What have the Jamaicans been putting on their TVs?" Marquez asked back. "If they've been keeping press releases to a minimum, they probably will do their best to keep news of this setback out of the hands of any reporter. If we start putting out statements saying we blew them out of the water, they'll call it propaganda or something."

"Oh, let them!" LeMarc said, his grin returning. "They've put out enough false news to make the Nazis proud. Let the Latin people have this one victory!"

The man had a point. "All right," Marquez acquiesced, "but let the report come from a source in Command, not any political representative." The aide nodded and turned back to the phone. LeMarc nodded at Marquez in approval.

"We can celebrate our victories with dignity," he said. "The Jamaicans have to be sent the signal that we're not afraid of what they say. We know they're liars, that's what matters."

Right again. Marquez clapped him on the shoulder and nodded before turning to head for his office to make a conference call. He was inspired by what LeMarc had said, and he had to act now on that inspiration before the idea was absorbed by a new development.


"The Medeiros Report" set
8:42 PM

Gustavo Medeiros interrupted his coverage of the most recent missile impacts with a sudden, blurted announcement, causing the monitor to return to the view of his desk in Ovar.

"We have a breaking news bulletin from Cuiabá, ladies and gentlemen. We're going to send you straight over to our CLN correspondents outside the National Military Command Center, who have been informed that a spokesperson will be meeting with them shortly for a briefing."

The monitor switched to a camera view encompassing a small podium with the seal of the National Military Command Center emblazoned on its front face in enamel. The podium stood on a raised stage in a room lined with dark green curtains. The currently empty stage was lit from above, and a low murmur filled the room, emanating from the dozens of reporters, cameras, and other equipment stationed out of the current view. After a few moments, three men emerged from the left side of the stage through a door hidden in the curtains. First a Latin Army private in combat fatigues, then a man in his late thirties in a gray suit and purple tie, then another private. The man in the suit immediately moved to stand at the podium as flashbulbs began firing off in a frenzy around the room.

"The National Military Command Center has the following information to release concerning the first military operations in the war with the Jamaican Empire. Latin naval and air forces have encountered, attacked, and repelled a determined Jamaican naval incursion into our sovereign waters. The Jamaican fleet was comprised of approximately 50 vessels. Combined naval and air attacks have destroyed 85% of that force. The remainder have been seen retreating from Latin territorial waters. It is known that this fleet was responsible for the cruise missile attacks on our coastline. Our staff wish to congratulate our fighting men and women on a job well done, but we stress this is but the first action in what could be a prolonged conflict. Thank you for your time."

The man abruptly turned and left the stage without answering a single question from the hundreds that were shouted at him from across the room. The two soldiers followed him out. The monitor switched back to viewing Medeiros at his desk.

"There you have it, ladies and gentlemen, now an official confirmation that military action has begun in this war with the Jamaicans, the Command Center issuing a brief statement saying that a large Jamaican naval force has been almost totally destroyed by Latin defensive efforts. Though this is clearly good news, the Command Center stressed that this is only the beginning." Medeiros turned to Praetor Sangue-Valdez, who was still seated nearby. "Praetor, what else can we divine from this briefing?"

The woman shifted a bit in her uniform before speaking. "Well, Gustavo, it did mention that the explosions that have been spreading southward along our coastline are indeed cruise missile attacks. Up to now, we hadn't received any military confirmation of that, we were simply going on witness reports and analyses. Now we know for sure that those explosions are indeed cruise missiles, and that the Jamaicans fired them from the fleet our forces attacked and almost totally destroyed."

"What I noticed is that we didn't get any information on if any Latin forces were destroyed in that battle," Medeiros said. "Do you think Command is actively withholding that information, or simply has no information on that yet?"

"I would think they would have information on that, Gustavo," the woman replied. "It's standard military procedure to report all your losses upon completion of a mission. I wouldn't put it past Command to withhold that information, at least for the moment. The mentality is that during a war, you shouldn't make people concentrate on the defeats, but on the victories. And as long as you can keep the victories coming, the defeats will not be in vain."

"But this wasn't a defeat, Praetor, this was, by all interpretations, an astounding victory," began Medeiros. "It's almost certain that some Latin fighters lost their lives defending their homeland during that battle, but certainly not in vain. Isn't it the military's responsibility to let the people know of those who have given their lives for them?"

"Certainly it is, certainly," Sangue-Valdez asserted. "But there's a different time and place for doing that, Gustavo. Those families who have lost loved ones in the recent actions will be informed privately by telephone or face-to-face. But it's not good military strategy to let the enemy know just how much damage they've caused us by airing our losses in an internationally-televised press briefing. You may have noticed they didn't even give us very precise numbers in how many Jamaican ships there were, and how many we destroyed."

"You know, you're right," Medeiros mused, glancing down at a note he'd written. "They said there were 'approximately 50' Jamaican vessels and we destroyed '85%' of them. Those numbers are pretty good ballpark sizes, but certainly not exact."

"No, not at all," Sangue-Valdez agreed. "The reason for that is they've only had reports from those units who have been to the battle area, and those reports are taken from observations under fire. So the information can't be 100% accurate, but if Command was willing to release these figures to the public, then they have pretty solid evidence supporting them. The mild vagueness is just their way of covering their butts in case the numbers turn out to be slightly less or slightly more." The woman smirked at her own frankness.

"Sorry, Praetor, I'll have to interrupt you, we're just now getting more news out of the most recent cruise missile strikes on our coastline..."


Above and in the entirety of the Latin Union
9:00 PM

The initial shock of the war's beginning had just started to fade, and the past few days of mobilization were just now starting to show. Air forces were now regularly patrolling the Latin skies, especially along the coast as word of the cruise missiles spread. Those planes that detected any inbound unidentified contacts were given permission to close with and destroy them. In this way, a few Jamaican missiles never made it to their targets. A handful more were targeted by ground-based AA gun batteries and SAM sites.

It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. Tomahawks continued to streak downward upon their targets; the impacts were few and far between but the commotion they caused was immense. Latin forces were gearing into full effectiveness, and within a few hours every plane that could fly was patrolling the night, on watch for the slightest enemy activity over land or sea.


Uma Beach, just 1 km north of Batalha's beachfront and ports, Pax province
9:02 PM

Here lay an all-concrete section of beach defenses originally laid during the 1970's. Batalha was one of two massive ports along the coast of Pax, the other one being the immense city of Abrantes to the southwest. Together with Santa Rosa in Vita, the cities were the "Big Three" major ports of the whole Union. Batalha housed close to 14 million residents, bringing in almost 3% of the whole Union's profit from trade and commerce in itself. The 32nd Division, under Proconsul Ernesto Favia, was in charge of immediate defenses just to the north of the city, and that included Uma Beach. "Uma" literally meant "One" in the area's native Portuguese, and had been so named by the military years ago, as it was likely to be the first beach hit by enemy landing troops if Pax was ever to be invaded by sea. The beach provided access to the city's major highways running to Setubal, likely a prime target for invaders, and also wasn't bordered by cliffs or hills that could impede an armored advance. Therefore, the paranoid government that ran Pax when it was still its own nation spent considerable funds fortifying this area, as well as the beaches near Abrantes.

Tonight Batalha sat warily under a blanket of darkness. The mayor, at the advice of local military commanders, had issued a blackout order for the whole city, following the lead of the other major cities on the Union's coast. Windows were shaded and shuttered, all street lamps were turned off, and any travel by vehicle was prohibited after nightfall unless the drivers had special blackout lights fitted to their cars. The bus companies, which ruled transportation in the downtown areas, were scrambling to get blackout lights attached to all their buses so their businesses wouldn't suffer. Subways and elevated trains were still running, but with their lights turned off and only one train allowed on a specific track at any time to avoid collisions. Practically nobody was riding the trains tonight, though, as they ran so slow to avoid hitting someone crossing the tracks that walking was actually faster. Airports serving Batalha were shut down at night and all flights in were redirected to nearby airports in the city's suburbs, some even having to go as far as Vitória before a long enough runway was available.

This was all a throwback to the days when bombers and ships guided themselves to their targets using maps and landmarks. Making a city turn black would throw the enemy off in those days, confuse them and make them doubt their maps, perhaps even make them turn the wrong way, deeper into friendly territory, where they could be captured or destroyed. In this modern age of GPS systems and hyper-accurate maps, the blackouts wouldn't be nearly as effective, but every little bit helped as far as the mayors of coastal cities were concerned. Given the streak of cruise missile attacks approaching from the north, nobody was taking any chances. If anything, the blackout orders reinforced the knowledge in the minds of the citizens that war was here.

The darkness lent an eerie silence to Batalha. Only the occasional police siren broke the stillness. Those criminals that did try to take advantage of the darkness were quickly caught by over-sensitive civilians and beaten - the whole city was on edge tonight. With war crashing down upon the nation and their enemies not as far off as they'd have liked, the cities of the coast, including Batalha, were turning into ghost towns one by one as the blackout orders were issued. The emotion of the evening made the still night air thick with apprehension; those who dared go outside for a walk after hours quickly turned back when they could taste it.

The 32nd Division had fully manned the concrete shore defenses all along Uma Beach and in the northern half of Batalha's port and beachfront. The soldiers were so tense, you could tap one and get a bullet in your skull in response. Unlike the fighters at Salta Beach, who had work to preoccupy their senses, these soldiers could only sit and wait, all the work having been done for them over thirty years ago. And sitting and waiting in Batalha was not conducive to being calm, not tonight.

Headquarters for the 32nd Division were at the Batalha Military Base some 30 km from the city's downtown area, from there Proconsul Favia directed the deployment of his forces from an underground command center. At the beaches, at regular intervals, small bunkers sprouted from the concrete trenches, where lower-level commanders had set up their own headquarters. The port defenses were headed by commanders that had taken up residence in the city itself, commandeering abandoned buildings.

With little warning, a series of huge explosions lit up the city skyline, as Jamaican Tomahawks that had made it through the protective air screen found their marks in and around the city, knocking out power substations, coastal bunkers, factories, and many other high-priority targets. The "surgical strikes" the other northward cities had experienced was nothing in the face of this onslaught. As one, the city began to scream.


((OOC: The Latin coast is roughly 1550 km long. There were 120 Tomahawks launched at it, meaning on average one Tomahawk would strike every 13 km. Hence why damage seems to be few and far between. I assumed that the highest-priority targets were selected for each missile.))

tag

tag

It's still invite only right?

Yeah. JR's been having some time issues recently, but go ahead and TG both him and me for confirmation.