Armandian Cheese
02-01-2006, 05:16
A gigantic tree rolled up in front of him, its pine needles glistening in the hot Nigerian sun. Men raced furiously around it, clutching onto a stunning array of levers, ropes, and pulleys as they raised the massive green plant up with only the power of their taut muscles. With a massive heave the tremendous tree rose upright, the dark skinned workmen grinned as they looked upon it and wiped their brows. They paused for a moment to admire their handiwork, and then rushed to emplace an array of ladders around the tree. A swarm of women and children flooded out of the various alleyways, nooks, and crannies around the plaza. They carried with hundreds upon hundreds of dazzling multicolored lights, glittering baubles, and stunning ornaments. The ladders were soon crammed with bodies as the excited crowd began decorating the tree with an almost solemn frenzy. A grinning child dashed around wrapping the tree around with a black fuzzy decoration that looked like some otherworldly metallic caterpillar. Still dimmed small pointy bulbs dotted the branches. Grandmothers grinned toothless smiles as they carefully attached dazzling golden and silver baubles of every type, and a wizened old man carefully placed a dazzling red ornament at the very tip of the humongous pine.
Mubarrak smiled in a satisfied way, kissed his slender Asian companion on the cheek, and gave a big thumbs up towards the row of dirty overall wearing mechanics. They snapped a stunning array of switches, pressed an obscene amount of buttons, and finally pulled one extremely conspicuous and obvious lever. A series of crackles and fizzles filled the air, and then with a loud “BANG!” the Christmas tree lit up like…well, a Christmas tree! Flashes of gold and silver erupted all around the massive pine, and the crowd burst into cheering and applause. The former general’s bald head glistened with sweat as the various Christmas lights shone upon it, and his muscles bulged underneath his simple black shirt. Mubarrak had grown to appreciate the trappings of wealth, however, and he wore two thick lion mane pelts that lay upon his shoulders, and a long, slender cape made of panther hung loosely from his back. What had been a small patch of stubble on his chin caused by an inability to shave during the Battle Of Port Harcourt had now grown into a neatly trimmed goatee. All in all, Mubarrak now looked like the modern embodiment of an African tribal chief, a portent of what might have been if the scales of fortune had not tipped towards European scales.
The Imperial Governor of the Divine Russian Imperial Protectorate of Nigeria smiled broadly, and raised his arms, bringing the tremendous and ragged crowd to a nearly silent murmur.
“My brothers and sisters! May you all have a Merry Christmas or a joyous celebration of whatever gods you worship. I’m not going to keep on talkin’---this isn’t a political rally, this is a celebration! So let’s PARTY!!!”
Loud cheers flew across the battered streets of Port Harcourt, and the ragged and poverty stricken citizens of this economically battered nation came out to snatch what joy they could from the jaws of destitution. Christmas carols sung with Nigerian accents flowed through the streets, along with various Hausa, Yoruba, and Igbo tunes. There was an odd chord within the maelstrom of sound, however. What seemed like simply cries of joy and celebration were not full of the energy and life that one would expect; rather, they were tired, weary, and beaten down. The carols were sung not to celebrate but rather to express relief; not to party but to sit down at the couch after a hard day of work and sigh with contentment. The nation had gone through much hardship ever since its inception as a British protectorate, and only now had things started to look up for what was one of history’s unluckiest nations.
The General spun his giggling companion for the night with a flourish, softly grasped a spot on her flesh that caused another outburst of girlish laughter, and drifted off into the night with a few whispered promises of things to come.
Mubarrak may have settled comfortably back into a few of his old characteristics such as his taste for wealth, fine women, and good humor, but there were scars from that war that would never heal. But no---scars is not a good word. They were not only wounds that would disfigure him and cause him pain for years to come, but also fundamental changes, shifts made within the very bowels of his psyche. He was no longer the vengeance obsessed fool who drowned his sorrow with women and booze---now that he had made peace with his past his eyes could reach for the future. His vision was deeper and broader now; he genuinely cared for the people that he ruled and although his taste for fun had never been greater, he could see there was a deeper meaning to life than the simple pursuit of pleasure.
And so he gazed upon the inky black depths of Port Harcourt’s harbor, and into the murky swirls of the past…
_________________________________________________________________
It had certainly been an incredible year in Nigeria. After a vicious (but thankfully short) civil war between Black Mamba democratic forces and Gadhafist Communist fanatics, the nation was in shambles. Admittedly, the country had been in a terrible state before, with an almost complete lack of modern infrastructure, constant ethnic battles, horrific disease and poverty levels, a basket case Bolshevik economy, a corrupt and inept government, tremendous amounts of foreign debt, and a whole slew of other problems that would take years to summarize, much less explain, but now the civil war had only accelerated these issues. Gadhafi’s regime had allowed Nigeria to slowly rot away; the civil war had crushed it. United Elian meddling had inflamed ethnic sentiments, sparking an orgy of ethnic rioting in the city of Warri, wiping out the Itsekiri, and costing hundreds of thousands of people their lives. These reinvigorated ethnic hatreds, combined with the collapse of a central government as Gadhafi abandoned his capital in pursuit of Mubarrak’s forces, had shattered the country into hundreds of independent states, which promptly went ahead with the task of attacking each other. The entire nation convulsed in a massive orgy of bloodletting, as hundreds of civil wars burst out simultaneously. Millennia of ethnic hatreds were unleashed in the span of days, with Igbo, Hausa-Fulani, Yoruba, Ijaw, Itsekiri, Kanuri, Ibibio, and Tiv tribes at each other’s throats.
After his victory at Port Harcourt and the destruction of the Mafiya, Mubarrak, despite his severely wounded state which left him unable to walk unsupported, threw himself into the fray. Seizing command of whatever Nigerian army elements he could find, and combining them with his elite Viper Unit and foreign peacekeepers, he immediately engaged a campaign of forced reunification. The General wielded this shaky coalition of conscripts, elite Vipers, and foreign peacekeepers like a club to bring the nation under his control. This makeshift force trudged from state to state, from principality to principality, from tribe to tribe. More often than not intimidation sufficed; ragged bands of tribesmen threw down their weapons when faced with a gleaming, modern army of tanks and armored troop carriers. However, there came times when tribal chiefs were too stupid, fanatical, or confident to give in, and the Nigerian general did not hesitate to make examples of their tribes. Towns and villages were leveled by Nigerian artillery and aerial assets, reducing humble shacks and proud skyscrapers alike into molten piles of slag. Resistance eventually began to subside and Nigeria gradually became a whole nation once more, especially after an especially brutal and drawn out struggle in the South during which a Christian fundamentalist warlord had managed to form a loose coalition of city states against Mubarrak, only to find himself and his forces incinerated by Russian air strikes.
The General had returned to the newly minted capital of Port Harcourt (Mubarrak had named it the new capital to distance himself and his government from Gadhafi’s Communist regime), with a nation under his belt. But before he could sit down and relax, he was smacked in the face with a stunning array of problems, from healthcare to corruption to economics, and he nearly felt like throwing up his arms in the air and retiring to be janitor. But the man regarded by many as a dumb soldier proved himself to have a voracious appetite when it came to politics, and he quickly not only educated himself fully on the issues of the time but devised a series of solutions (with the aid of various experts, of course.)
The scope and sheer ambition of his ambition was enough to make one gasp; he had laid out a plan that, if it worked, could very well be a blueprint for transforming third world hellholes into fully wealthy members of the first world. Of course, that was an event that lay in the far future, and hinged on countless variables, but the very possibility was intoxicating…
__________________________________________________________________
-Nigerian/West African Border-
“Mooove eet!” screamed a loud Austrian accented voice.
The bushes rustled in the night, as several dark bodies ran swiftly with nothing but thick bags and moonlight on their backs. A thickly muscled man in a dark, jade green trench coat gestured angrily at them to hurry up, and they sprinted across the border like mad little cockroaches, huffing and puffing loudly. They were puffing perhaps too loudly, for gunfire and West African curses shattered the night’s quiet. Border patrol jeeps revved into action and took chase, scattering the panicked smugglers. The green trenchcoated man rushed forward out of the thick jungle foliage and into the open battlefield. A dozen various spotlights immediately turned on him, and he smirked, remarking that he “could get used to dees”. Considering the fact that he was no master of irony, and that the West African border patrol guards were unlikely to speak any English, one must wonder why the man felt a constant need to spout random catchphrases and one liners.
The answer is quite simple.
The man was Arnold Schwarzenegger, former movie star and KGB director, now head of the Nigerian detachment of the KGB.
Clearly, the border guards failed to be impressed by this fact, especially considering that his distraction had allowed the would-be smugglers to flee back into the jungle. Lt. Abilio stepped out of a rusty pick up truck, slammed the door, lit a cigarette, and approached the towering brown haired Austrian. With an expression of nigh boredom, the Lieutenant began to pull out his handgun.
That was the last mistake he would ever make.
With a speed that belied his bulky appearance, Schwarzenegger drew two .45 caliber Roycelandian from their holsters, and in the same motion, shot Abilio several times in the chest. The man dropped dead almost instantly, and the massive ex-KGB director sprinted in a zigzag pattern towards the now dead Abilio’s truck. Bullets tore through the ground near him, and one even managed to knock off his prized fedora hat.
“I veel keel you for dat.” he swore as he leaped into the rusty pickup. The car was already started, as Abilio had only left it on park. Arnold pulled back the brake, slammed the gas, and whooped loudly as the car dashed forward. The sound of engines filled the night as the border patrol gave chase. Arnold sped wildly through the jungle, dashing in between trees and swerving like a madman. The Austrian suddenly charged towards a stone wall as if he had completely lost his mind and gone suicidal. Two jeeps followed him, so consumed by their pursuit that they failed to consider the situation rationally. In a maneuver so insane that it could only be portrayed in slow motion, Arnold spun the wheel to the right, dodging the stone wall and sure death by a hair. His pursuers were not so lucky (or rather, they were not Hollywood Action Heroes but merely Generic Henchmen) and slammed directly into the tremendous stone, dying instantly in a brilliant flash. The other four border patrol jeeps simply continued their wild chase. The hunt had now moved to a grassy savannah plain, and the wide open plains allowed the border patrol to slowly gain on Arnold’s lead. The two closest to him reached out of their windows and began peppering his car with machine gun rounds. He realized that the road ahead was clear, and thus whirled around with his revolver drawn. He blasted off several rounds towards the border patrol, but then cursed as he realized that this wasn’t one of his movies and he was a damned fool for trying to hit a car with a revolver at 100+ mph. He released his foot from the pedal so gently it was as if he was making love with a porcupine, and the car’s speed decreased to such a degree that it was now even with one of Arnold’s pursuers. The wind pounding on his head, he glanced quickly to make sure the distance was right, and with a deep bellow, leaped out of his car’s window. The last thing the horrified border guard ever saw was the unpleasant image of a gigantic Austrian man with his mouth wide open and shouting. The last thing the border guard ever heard was even more disturbing, and it can only be described as the tortured death throes of a cat being electrocuted and beaten to death with a fish.
“YEAAARRRGHH!”
The force of Arnold’s body smashed the driver out of his seat and sent him careening out into the savannah at 150 mph. Arnold quickly gained control of the jeep, and noticed that the late border guard had left a stash of grenades on the passenger seat. Grinning madly, Schwarzenegger snatched one of them, pulled the pin out with his teeth, and tossed them with the skill of a major league baseball pitcher. The border patrol jeep behind him dodged the first two grenades, but a third exploded directly under his engine and threw the small vehicle several feet into the air, where it fell apart in a gigantic fireball. With all his grenades spent and two jeeps still in hot pursuit, Arnold slammed the gas pedal. He had pushed the poor vehicle beyond its limit, and it was doubtful that the sputtering little jeep could make it much farther. Then his eyes flashed to the horizon, and an almost demonic twinkle entered his eyes.
“By the Gods! He won’t do it!” muttered one of his pursuers.
As a gigantic canyon loomed larger and larger on the horizon, and Arnold sped towards it with wild abandon.
“He won’t do it! He won’t! No one’s that crazy!”
The engine squealed in agony. The car sped faster and faster, and one of the border patrol guards slammed his brakes, spinning out of control and slamming into what appeared to be the only tree within a hundred miles. His teeth gnashing and his eyes bulging with madness, the other guard continued to madly pursue Arnold. The former bodybuilder quickly performed the sign of the cross before flying off the edge of the cliff. Time slowed to a crawl at that moment, as the two cars soared through the air. In agonizing slow motion, Arnold’s car just barely landed on the other side of the canyon.
The pursuer wasn’t so lucky.
His eyes widened incredibly as the wall of sheer stone loomed in front of him. He spat and cursed all American action films before meeting a fiery and unpleasant end.
Arnold stepped out of the car, wiped his brow, and barked into his handheld radio.
“How eez dee plan vorking?”
“Commander, our drug smugglers are pouring through the border as we speak. We predict high success rates.”
“We’re not just sending out groups of men out at once, right? Different groups go in at different times, some go through regular border checkpoints, some sneak in, some mix in with gangs, etc.?”
“Yes sir. Our production facilities are in full swing and highly camouflaged as well.”
“Dat is excellent. Good vork my friend.”
Operation: Tai-Pan was fully underway.
(OOC: I'm going to outline the details of Mubarrak's policies soon, I just wanted to lay out what had been going in Nigeria since we last left her and kick start Operation: Tai-Pan)
Mubarrak smiled in a satisfied way, kissed his slender Asian companion on the cheek, and gave a big thumbs up towards the row of dirty overall wearing mechanics. They snapped a stunning array of switches, pressed an obscene amount of buttons, and finally pulled one extremely conspicuous and obvious lever. A series of crackles and fizzles filled the air, and then with a loud “BANG!” the Christmas tree lit up like…well, a Christmas tree! Flashes of gold and silver erupted all around the massive pine, and the crowd burst into cheering and applause. The former general’s bald head glistened with sweat as the various Christmas lights shone upon it, and his muscles bulged underneath his simple black shirt. Mubarrak had grown to appreciate the trappings of wealth, however, and he wore two thick lion mane pelts that lay upon his shoulders, and a long, slender cape made of panther hung loosely from his back. What had been a small patch of stubble on his chin caused by an inability to shave during the Battle Of Port Harcourt had now grown into a neatly trimmed goatee. All in all, Mubarrak now looked like the modern embodiment of an African tribal chief, a portent of what might have been if the scales of fortune had not tipped towards European scales.
The Imperial Governor of the Divine Russian Imperial Protectorate of Nigeria smiled broadly, and raised his arms, bringing the tremendous and ragged crowd to a nearly silent murmur.
“My brothers and sisters! May you all have a Merry Christmas or a joyous celebration of whatever gods you worship. I’m not going to keep on talkin’---this isn’t a political rally, this is a celebration! So let’s PARTY!!!”
Loud cheers flew across the battered streets of Port Harcourt, and the ragged and poverty stricken citizens of this economically battered nation came out to snatch what joy they could from the jaws of destitution. Christmas carols sung with Nigerian accents flowed through the streets, along with various Hausa, Yoruba, and Igbo tunes. There was an odd chord within the maelstrom of sound, however. What seemed like simply cries of joy and celebration were not full of the energy and life that one would expect; rather, they were tired, weary, and beaten down. The carols were sung not to celebrate but rather to express relief; not to party but to sit down at the couch after a hard day of work and sigh with contentment. The nation had gone through much hardship ever since its inception as a British protectorate, and only now had things started to look up for what was one of history’s unluckiest nations.
The General spun his giggling companion for the night with a flourish, softly grasped a spot on her flesh that caused another outburst of girlish laughter, and drifted off into the night with a few whispered promises of things to come.
Mubarrak may have settled comfortably back into a few of his old characteristics such as his taste for wealth, fine women, and good humor, but there were scars from that war that would never heal. But no---scars is not a good word. They were not only wounds that would disfigure him and cause him pain for years to come, but also fundamental changes, shifts made within the very bowels of his psyche. He was no longer the vengeance obsessed fool who drowned his sorrow with women and booze---now that he had made peace with his past his eyes could reach for the future. His vision was deeper and broader now; he genuinely cared for the people that he ruled and although his taste for fun had never been greater, he could see there was a deeper meaning to life than the simple pursuit of pleasure.
And so he gazed upon the inky black depths of Port Harcourt’s harbor, and into the murky swirls of the past…
_________________________________________________________________
It had certainly been an incredible year in Nigeria. After a vicious (but thankfully short) civil war between Black Mamba democratic forces and Gadhafist Communist fanatics, the nation was in shambles. Admittedly, the country had been in a terrible state before, with an almost complete lack of modern infrastructure, constant ethnic battles, horrific disease and poverty levels, a basket case Bolshevik economy, a corrupt and inept government, tremendous amounts of foreign debt, and a whole slew of other problems that would take years to summarize, much less explain, but now the civil war had only accelerated these issues. Gadhafi’s regime had allowed Nigeria to slowly rot away; the civil war had crushed it. United Elian meddling had inflamed ethnic sentiments, sparking an orgy of ethnic rioting in the city of Warri, wiping out the Itsekiri, and costing hundreds of thousands of people their lives. These reinvigorated ethnic hatreds, combined with the collapse of a central government as Gadhafi abandoned his capital in pursuit of Mubarrak’s forces, had shattered the country into hundreds of independent states, which promptly went ahead with the task of attacking each other. The entire nation convulsed in a massive orgy of bloodletting, as hundreds of civil wars burst out simultaneously. Millennia of ethnic hatreds were unleashed in the span of days, with Igbo, Hausa-Fulani, Yoruba, Ijaw, Itsekiri, Kanuri, Ibibio, and Tiv tribes at each other’s throats.
After his victory at Port Harcourt and the destruction of the Mafiya, Mubarrak, despite his severely wounded state which left him unable to walk unsupported, threw himself into the fray. Seizing command of whatever Nigerian army elements he could find, and combining them with his elite Viper Unit and foreign peacekeepers, he immediately engaged a campaign of forced reunification. The General wielded this shaky coalition of conscripts, elite Vipers, and foreign peacekeepers like a club to bring the nation under his control. This makeshift force trudged from state to state, from principality to principality, from tribe to tribe. More often than not intimidation sufficed; ragged bands of tribesmen threw down their weapons when faced with a gleaming, modern army of tanks and armored troop carriers. However, there came times when tribal chiefs were too stupid, fanatical, or confident to give in, and the Nigerian general did not hesitate to make examples of their tribes. Towns and villages were leveled by Nigerian artillery and aerial assets, reducing humble shacks and proud skyscrapers alike into molten piles of slag. Resistance eventually began to subside and Nigeria gradually became a whole nation once more, especially after an especially brutal and drawn out struggle in the South during which a Christian fundamentalist warlord had managed to form a loose coalition of city states against Mubarrak, only to find himself and his forces incinerated by Russian air strikes.
The General had returned to the newly minted capital of Port Harcourt (Mubarrak had named it the new capital to distance himself and his government from Gadhafi’s Communist regime), with a nation under his belt. But before he could sit down and relax, he was smacked in the face with a stunning array of problems, from healthcare to corruption to economics, and he nearly felt like throwing up his arms in the air and retiring to be janitor. But the man regarded by many as a dumb soldier proved himself to have a voracious appetite when it came to politics, and he quickly not only educated himself fully on the issues of the time but devised a series of solutions (with the aid of various experts, of course.)
The scope and sheer ambition of his ambition was enough to make one gasp; he had laid out a plan that, if it worked, could very well be a blueprint for transforming third world hellholes into fully wealthy members of the first world. Of course, that was an event that lay in the far future, and hinged on countless variables, but the very possibility was intoxicating…
__________________________________________________________________
-Nigerian/West African Border-
“Mooove eet!” screamed a loud Austrian accented voice.
The bushes rustled in the night, as several dark bodies ran swiftly with nothing but thick bags and moonlight on their backs. A thickly muscled man in a dark, jade green trench coat gestured angrily at them to hurry up, and they sprinted across the border like mad little cockroaches, huffing and puffing loudly. They were puffing perhaps too loudly, for gunfire and West African curses shattered the night’s quiet. Border patrol jeeps revved into action and took chase, scattering the panicked smugglers. The green trenchcoated man rushed forward out of the thick jungle foliage and into the open battlefield. A dozen various spotlights immediately turned on him, and he smirked, remarking that he “could get used to dees”. Considering the fact that he was no master of irony, and that the West African border patrol guards were unlikely to speak any English, one must wonder why the man felt a constant need to spout random catchphrases and one liners.
The answer is quite simple.
The man was Arnold Schwarzenegger, former movie star and KGB director, now head of the Nigerian detachment of the KGB.
Clearly, the border guards failed to be impressed by this fact, especially considering that his distraction had allowed the would-be smugglers to flee back into the jungle. Lt. Abilio stepped out of a rusty pick up truck, slammed the door, lit a cigarette, and approached the towering brown haired Austrian. With an expression of nigh boredom, the Lieutenant began to pull out his handgun.
That was the last mistake he would ever make.
With a speed that belied his bulky appearance, Schwarzenegger drew two .45 caliber Roycelandian from their holsters, and in the same motion, shot Abilio several times in the chest. The man dropped dead almost instantly, and the massive ex-KGB director sprinted in a zigzag pattern towards the now dead Abilio’s truck. Bullets tore through the ground near him, and one even managed to knock off his prized fedora hat.
“I veel keel you for dat.” he swore as he leaped into the rusty pickup. The car was already started, as Abilio had only left it on park. Arnold pulled back the brake, slammed the gas, and whooped loudly as the car dashed forward. The sound of engines filled the night as the border patrol gave chase. Arnold sped wildly through the jungle, dashing in between trees and swerving like a madman. The Austrian suddenly charged towards a stone wall as if he had completely lost his mind and gone suicidal. Two jeeps followed him, so consumed by their pursuit that they failed to consider the situation rationally. In a maneuver so insane that it could only be portrayed in slow motion, Arnold spun the wheel to the right, dodging the stone wall and sure death by a hair. His pursuers were not so lucky (or rather, they were not Hollywood Action Heroes but merely Generic Henchmen) and slammed directly into the tremendous stone, dying instantly in a brilliant flash. The other four border patrol jeeps simply continued their wild chase. The hunt had now moved to a grassy savannah plain, and the wide open plains allowed the border patrol to slowly gain on Arnold’s lead. The two closest to him reached out of their windows and began peppering his car with machine gun rounds. He realized that the road ahead was clear, and thus whirled around with his revolver drawn. He blasted off several rounds towards the border patrol, but then cursed as he realized that this wasn’t one of his movies and he was a damned fool for trying to hit a car with a revolver at 100+ mph. He released his foot from the pedal so gently it was as if he was making love with a porcupine, and the car’s speed decreased to such a degree that it was now even with one of Arnold’s pursuers. The wind pounding on his head, he glanced quickly to make sure the distance was right, and with a deep bellow, leaped out of his car’s window. The last thing the horrified border guard ever saw was the unpleasant image of a gigantic Austrian man with his mouth wide open and shouting. The last thing the border guard ever heard was even more disturbing, and it can only be described as the tortured death throes of a cat being electrocuted and beaten to death with a fish.
“YEAAARRRGHH!”
The force of Arnold’s body smashed the driver out of his seat and sent him careening out into the savannah at 150 mph. Arnold quickly gained control of the jeep, and noticed that the late border guard had left a stash of grenades on the passenger seat. Grinning madly, Schwarzenegger snatched one of them, pulled the pin out with his teeth, and tossed them with the skill of a major league baseball pitcher. The border patrol jeep behind him dodged the first two grenades, but a third exploded directly under his engine and threw the small vehicle several feet into the air, where it fell apart in a gigantic fireball. With all his grenades spent and two jeeps still in hot pursuit, Arnold slammed the gas pedal. He had pushed the poor vehicle beyond its limit, and it was doubtful that the sputtering little jeep could make it much farther. Then his eyes flashed to the horizon, and an almost demonic twinkle entered his eyes.
“By the Gods! He won’t do it!” muttered one of his pursuers.
As a gigantic canyon loomed larger and larger on the horizon, and Arnold sped towards it with wild abandon.
“He won’t do it! He won’t! No one’s that crazy!”
The engine squealed in agony. The car sped faster and faster, and one of the border patrol guards slammed his brakes, spinning out of control and slamming into what appeared to be the only tree within a hundred miles. His teeth gnashing and his eyes bulging with madness, the other guard continued to madly pursue Arnold. The former bodybuilder quickly performed the sign of the cross before flying off the edge of the cliff. Time slowed to a crawl at that moment, as the two cars soared through the air. In agonizing slow motion, Arnold’s car just barely landed on the other side of the canyon.
The pursuer wasn’t so lucky.
His eyes widened incredibly as the wall of sheer stone loomed in front of him. He spat and cursed all American action films before meeting a fiery and unpleasant end.
Arnold stepped out of the car, wiped his brow, and barked into his handheld radio.
“How eez dee plan vorking?”
“Commander, our drug smugglers are pouring through the border as we speak. We predict high success rates.”
“We’re not just sending out groups of men out at once, right? Different groups go in at different times, some go through regular border checkpoints, some sneak in, some mix in with gangs, etc.?”
“Yes sir. Our production facilities are in full swing and highly camouflaged as well.”
“Dat is excellent. Good vork my friend.”
Operation: Tai-Pan was fully underway.
(OOC: I'm going to outline the details of Mubarrak's policies soon, I just wanted to lay out what had been going in Nigeria since we last left her and kick start Operation: Tai-Pan)