Azazia
15-10-2005, 06:02
Some Time Ago
Office of the Prime Minister, the Citadel
Imperium, Republic of New Britain
Howard Robertson threw his soaked umbrella into the small empty trashcan in the corner of his office. The rain had been falling in Imperium for three days straight as a low-pressure system dropped centimeter after centimeter after centimeter. Upon his desk sat his morning briefings and the daily paper, all laid out by his secretary per Robertson’s request. Throwing his heavy woolen peacoat on the high,free-standing coat rack, Robertson sat down behind his desk and ran his hands over his smooth, bald head. Opening the first folder, Robertson began to hum against the rhythmic pulsing of bands of rain against the bulletproof glass. He managed to peruse his copies of the reports from Treasury and Defence before he stirred upon the knock. Looking up, he found the face of Kent Tiran – Director of Communications.
Tobias wants us in his office.
Robertson cocked his head like a confused dog. Now? I just got in.
Yeah, he said he needs a few extra minutes – we have a bit of a situation. Tiran waited until Robertson rose and the two headed down the winding halls to the Chief of Staff’s office.
He say what it’s about?
No, but it’s probably related to Pacitalia – Tobias met with their ambassador late last night to discuss something or other.
Interesting. Robertson muttered. From relative obscurity within the nation’s business partners, the Pacitalians had been rapidly rising in stature amongst the Kingdom’s government – especially after the chance meeting between the two states’ prime ministers at the Bloodlust Feast in Automagfreek. The two men had sat for some time discussing affairs of state before agreeing to state visits of both countries – something that Prime Minister Tetley had made clear he definitely wanted to happen.
Tobias Heath was sitting in his office with the press secretary and the Deputy Director of Communications and Alice Heart, Chief of Staff to the Minister of Foreign Affairs. He nodded as Robertson and Tiran crammed themselves into the tiny office. Alright, everyone’s here, excellent. As some of you may know, I spoke at length with the Pacitalian ambassador last night and we’ve agreed to a tentative time table for a visit by Ell to the UK, with the Prime Minister returning the courtesy by visiting Pacitalia sometime thereafter. What we’re going to need is a team to work on the itinerary for the visit as well as point people to whom we can direct the Pacitalians before and during the trip.
Robertson rose his hand, I’ll do it since I met Ell during the Bloodlust, he should be able to brief his staff on me and so there should be some initial groundwork already laid – not too many new faces I would think.
Alright, Howard, you’ve got point. Kent, would you like to assist Howard?
Sure thing, Tobias.
Brilliant, then. Now, I want to familiarize all of you with the state of Pacitalia, the Pacitalians, and Prime Minister Ell, that’s why I’ve asked Ms. Heart to join us this rainy morning.
Thank you, Tobias. Now, the Pacitalians are a unique people…
The Present
Howard! Tiran shouted down the narrow hallway crowded with staffers. Tiran was in his mid-forties with dark brown hair and blue eyes, today in tan slacks and sportscoat while wearing a black shirt and tie.
Robertson’s slender frame appeared in his doorway at the end of the hall, Yeah, what is it?
You see this? Tiran headed down the hall waving a paper in his hand.
No, what is it?
A statement from the Sarzonians regarding the Pacitalians. Tiran reached Robertson’s office and handed over the paper. I thought for sure you would have seen it already.
Nah, I was tied up with Adamley.
Transportation Committee?
Yeah, he wants to increase funding for superhighways… Anyway, this is great stuff. Robertson smiled and sat in the short sofa in his office. The Sarzonians had Pacitalians had long been close allies, and with the Gholgoth War the two had been drifting with ever-increasing friction. The time was ripe to try and take some of the diplomatic relationship pie. Unfortunately, with Haffner making conciliatory offers, time was running short. Fortunately, Ell would be arriving shortly and hopefully in Pacitalian circles that would trump press of the Sarzonian statement. Robertson handed the paper back over to Tiran.
Ell’s arrival still on schedule? Robertson asked.
Yep, the aircraft shall be arriving at Emperor’s Field in a couple of hours. The Prime Minister and Prince Andrew will be standing at the opposite end of the red carpet and –
I know the outline, Kent. I drew it up. Anyway, when do we leave?
Not too long, I’d imagine. Tiran nodded and turned to leave Robertson’s office, bumping into Heath who stood at the door, without any trace of a smile.
Howard, you got a minute?
Sure, Tobias, what’s up.
We have a situation.
Over the Pacific
As the Pacitalian aircraft carrying Prime Minister Ell crossed over into the airspace of the United Kingdom, a flight of fighters raced up from the deck of a deployed carrier to escort the flight the rest of the way into Imperium. In the proud Azazian style, the aircraft communicated their presence to the pilots of the Pacitalian aircraft and then proceeded to move up the length of the aircraft to visibly display to Ell and those traveling with him that his security was soundly in the hands of the Royal Navy, which had beat out offers by the Royal Air Force for the honour in a bitter contest at the Ministry of Defence.
Prime Minister’s Motorcade
Robertson thumbed through the photographs, quietly cursing the situation that would threaten the continuity of the state visit. Disgruntled Novikovian rebels had seized a captain of the Royal Army while off duty in Poldi’sk, and had smuggled him to Lesser Novikov before word had gotten out of the man’s disappearance. They had threatened to execute the man if Novikov were not granted its independence in forty-eight hours – knowing full well that international attention would be on the United Kingdom during Ell’s visit.
Reaching into his pocket, Robertson pulled out his mobile phone, entering numbers in their distinctive chirp pattern. Yeah, Annabel,
You’re calling me from the road, how sweet of you.
Yeah, whatever. Anyway, I need you to keep me informed of any developments with the hostage situation. Anything that could interrupt the visit or today’s functions. Call me straight away. Got that?
Yep.
Brilliant. Robertson snapped the phone shut as the limousine carrying Robertson and Tiran slowed at the gated entrance to Emperor’s Field. Unlike most airports of Royal Air Fields, Emperor’s Field was legally property of the Royal Crown and not under the control of Parliament, which gave the airfield the ability to block out the press, which were forbidden from intruding upon the property of the monarchy. As such, Emperor’s Field always allowed His Majesty’s Government unique media spin, as for this event, only cameras were allowed after news of the hostage situation broke. And Robertson knew that nobody had any legal grounds upon which to complain.
The airfield sat on a large piece of open field with trees and small ponds scattered amongst the land in an attempt to mask the utilitarian function of the property. The airway for Pacitalian use ran northeast to southwest along an air corridor specifically reserved for the use by His Majesty’s Government, and today heavily patrolled by RAF fighters. Along the tarmac sat a red carpet and the marching band of the Royal Guards, who had spent weeks practicing La Terra da Libertà in Eternum in addition to the United Kingdom’s God Save the King and the more popular, but not exactly an anthem, Azazian version of Rule Britannia, appropriately renamed Rule Azazia. Along the red carpet were the ornate Royal Guards in their traditional plumage, their rifles housed in their barracks replaced on the grounds by their highly polished sabers, dating from the days when the Royal Guards rode into battle on horses as an actual cavalry unit.
The weather, true to Azazian form, however, seemed less intent to cooperate, with a cold, stiff wind blowing down from the nearby mountains while thick grey clouds acted as a low ceiling while a light mist hung in the air. If nothing else, Robertson remarked in his heavy woolen overcoat, the rain had at least stopped for the time being – although another band of heavy rain was on its way. Just in case the Pacitalian staff were not prepared for the perpetually wet Azazian weather, Robertson had ordered several umbrellas brought along for Ell and the rest of his staff. A lieutenant of the Royal Air Force tapped Robertson on the shoulder as he stood next to the limo, waiting behind that of the Prime Ministers. Mister Robertson, the Pacitalian aircraft is beginning her final approach.
Thank you, Lieutenant. Robertson jogged forward to the Prime Minister’s limo and tapped on the window, taking his dark sunglasses off for a moment to find the Prime Minister and Prince Andrew in the middle of some discussion. Your Highness, Mr. Prime Minister, the Pacitalian plane is on final approach.
Tetley nodded as Robertson opened the door for the two men’s aides to climb out first and open the simple black umbrellas for the Prince and the Prime Minister. In the distance the low rumbling of the jet’s engines could be heard, though the plane could not be discerned through the thick clouds. Prince Andrew and Prime Minister Tetley walked slowly out to their end of the carpet, now thoroughly soaked, but still a vibrant red, and waited for the aircraft to land and their guests to make their first appearance on Azazian soil.
Office of the Prime Minister, the Citadel
Imperium, Republic of New Britain
Howard Robertson threw his soaked umbrella into the small empty trashcan in the corner of his office. The rain had been falling in Imperium for three days straight as a low-pressure system dropped centimeter after centimeter after centimeter. Upon his desk sat his morning briefings and the daily paper, all laid out by his secretary per Robertson’s request. Throwing his heavy woolen peacoat on the high,free-standing coat rack, Robertson sat down behind his desk and ran his hands over his smooth, bald head. Opening the first folder, Robertson began to hum against the rhythmic pulsing of bands of rain against the bulletproof glass. He managed to peruse his copies of the reports from Treasury and Defence before he stirred upon the knock. Looking up, he found the face of Kent Tiran – Director of Communications.
Tobias wants us in his office.
Robertson cocked his head like a confused dog. Now? I just got in.
Yeah, he said he needs a few extra minutes – we have a bit of a situation. Tiran waited until Robertson rose and the two headed down the winding halls to the Chief of Staff’s office.
He say what it’s about?
No, but it’s probably related to Pacitalia – Tobias met with their ambassador late last night to discuss something or other.
Interesting. Robertson muttered. From relative obscurity within the nation’s business partners, the Pacitalians had been rapidly rising in stature amongst the Kingdom’s government – especially after the chance meeting between the two states’ prime ministers at the Bloodlust Feast in Automagfreek. The two men had sat for some time discussing affairs of state before agreeing to state visits of both countries – something that Prime Minister Tetley had made clear he definitely wanted to happen.
Tobias Heath was sitting in his office with the press secretary and the Deputy Director of Communications and Alice Heart, Chief of Staff to the Minister of Foreign Affairs. He nodded as Robertson and Tiran crammed themselves into the tiny office. Alright, everyone’s here, excellent. As some of you may know, I spoke at length with the Pacitalian ambassador last night and we’ve agreed to a tentative time table for a visit by Ell to the UK, with the Prime Minister returning the courtesy by visiting Pacitalia sometime thereafter. What we’re going to need is a team to work on the itinerary for the visit as well as point people to whom we can direct the Pacitalians before and during the trip.
Robertson rose his hand, I’ll do it since I met Ell during the Bloodlust, he should be able to brief his staff on me and so there should be some initial groundwork already laid – not too many new faces I would think.
Alright, Howard, you’ve got point. Kent, would you like to assist Howard?
Sure thing, Tobias.
Brilliant, then. Now, I want to familiarize all of you with the state of Pacitalia, the Pacitalians, and Prime Minister Ell, that’s why I’ve asked Ms. Heart to join us this rainy morning.
Thank you, Tobias. Now, the Pacitalians are a unique people…
The Present
Howard! Tiran shouted down the narrow hallway crowded with staffers. Tiran was in his mid-forties with dark brown hair and blue eyes, today in tan slacks and sportscoat while wearing a black shirt and tie.
Robertson’s slender frame appeared in his doorway at the end of the hall, Yeah, what is it?
You see this? Tiran headed down the hall waving a paper in his hand.
No, what is it?
A statement from the Sarzonians regarding the Pacitalians. Tiran reached Robertson’s office and handed over the paper. I thought for sure you would have seen it already.
Nah, I was tied up with Adamley.
Transportation Committee?
Yeah, he wants to increase funding for superhighways… Anyway, this is great stuff. Robertson smiled and sat in the short sofa in his office. The Sarzonians had Pacitalians had long been close allies, and with the Gholgoth War the two had been drifting with ever-increasing friction. The time was ripe to try and take some of the diplomatic relationship pie. Unfortunately, with Haffner making conciliatory offers, time was running short. Fortunately, Ell would be arriving shortly and hopefully in Pacitalian circles that would trump press of the Sarzonian statement. Robertson handed the paper back over to Tiran.
Ell’s arrival still on schedule? Robertson asked.
Yep, the aircraft shall be arriving at Emperor’s Field in a couple of hours. The Prime Minister and Prince Andrew will be standing at the opposite end of the red carpet and –
I know the outline, Kent. I drew it up. Anyway, when do we leave?
Not too long, I’d imagine. Tiran nodded and turned to leave Robertson’s office, bumping into Heath who stood at the door, without any trace of a smile.
Howard, you got a minute?
Sure, Tobias, what’s up.
We have a situation.
Over the Pacific
As the Pacitalian aircraft carrying Prime Minister Ell crossed over into the airspace of the United Kingdom, a flight of fighters raced up from the deck of a deployed carrier to escort the flight the rest of the way into Imperium. In the proud Azazian style, the aircraft communicated their presence to the pilots of the Pacitalian aircraft and then proceeded to move up the length of the aircraft to visibly display to Ell and those traveling with him that his security was soundly in the hands of the Royal Navy, which had beat out offers by the Royal Air Force for the honour in a bitter contest at the Ministry of Defence.
Prime Minister’s Motorcade
Robertson thumbed through the photographs, quietly cursing the situation that would threaten the continuity of the state visit. Disgruntled Novikovian rebels had seized a captain of the Royal Army while off duty in Poldi’sk, and had smuggled him to Lesser Novikov before word had gotten out of the man’s disappearance. They had threatened to execute the man if Novikov were not granted its independence in forty-eight hours – knowing full well that international attention would be on the United Kingdom during Ell’s visit.
Reaching into his pocket, Robertson pulled out his mobile phone, entering numbers in their distinctive chirp pattern. Yeah, Annabel,
You’re calling me from the road, how sweet of you.
Yeah, whatever. Anyway, I need you to keep me informed of any developments with the hostage situation. Anything that could interrupt the visit or today’s functions. Call me straight away. Got that?
Yep.
Brilliant. Robertson snapped the phone shut as the limousine carrying Robertson and Tiran slowed at the gated entrance to Emperor’s Field. Unlike most airports of Royal Air Fields, Emperor’s Field was legally property of the Royal Crown and not under the control of Parliament, which gave the airfield the ability to block out the press, which were forbidden from intruding upon the property of the monarchy. As such, Emperor’s Field always allowed His Majesty’s Government unique media spin, as for this event, only cameras were allowed after news of the hostage situation broke. And Robertson knew that nobody had any legal grounds upon which to complain.
The airfield sat on a large piece of open field with trees and small ponds scattered amongst the land in an attempt to mask the utilitarian function of the property. The airway for Pacitalian use ran northeast to southwest along an air corridor specifically reserved for the use by His Majesty’s Government, and today heavily patrolled by RAF fighters. Along the tarmac sat a red carpet and the marching band of the Royal Guards, who had spent weeks practicing La Terra da Libertà in Eternum in addition to the United Kingdom’s God Save the King and the more popular, but not exactly an anthem, Azazian version of Rule Britannia, appropriately renamed Rule Azazia. Along the red carpet were the ornate Royal Guards in their traditional plumage, their rifles housed in their barracks replaced on the grounds by their highly polished sabers, dating from the days when the Royal Guards rode into battle on horses as an actual cavalry unit.
The weather, true to Azazian form, however, seemed less intent to cooperate, with a cold, stiff wind blowing down from the nearby mountains while thick grey clouds acted as a low ceiling while a light mist hung in the air. If nothing else, Robertson remarked in his heavy woolen overcoat, the rain had at least stopped for the time being – although another band of heavy rain was on its way. Just in case the Pacitalian staff were not prepared for the perpetually wet Azazian weather, Robertson had ordered several umbrellas brought along for Ell and the rest of his staff. A lieutenant of the Royal Air Force tapped Robertson on the shoulder as he stood next to the limo, waiting behind that of the Prime Ministers. Mister Robertson, the Pacitalian aircraft is beginning her final approach.
Thank you, Lieutenant. Robertson jogged forward to the Prime Minister’s limo and tapped on the window, taking his dark sunglasses off for a moment to find the Prime Minister and Prince Andrew in the middle of some discussion. Your Highness, Mr. Prime Minister, the Pacitalian plane is on final approach.
Tetley nodded as Robertson opened the door for the two men’s aides to climb out first and open the simple black umbrellas for the Prince and the Prime Minister. In the distance the low rumbling of the jet’s engines could be heard, though the plane could not be discerned through the thick clouds. Prince Andrew and Prime Minister Tetley walked slowly out to their end of the carpet, now thoroughly soaked, but still a vibrant red, and waited for the aircraft to land and their guests to make their first appearance on Azazian soil.