NationStates Jolt Archive

Wingardian airspace, 0830 hours.

Chairman of the Department of State Andrew Marks was roused into wakefulness by an announcement from across the intercom system of Mauvasia Three. It was an announcement he had learned to dread and love simultaneously over his years acting as an envoy to foreign nations, and today was no different. But this time, he was coming to negotiate diplomacy and trade, a mutually beneficient agreement rather than a peace negotiation, desperately trying to mediate between warring sides.

Marks brought his seat to a fully erect position as an announcer distantly said, "We are approaching our final destination. The aircraft will be landing in Stromburg within fifteen minutes." and went on to rattle off something involving the ground temperature and local time. Marks glanced out the window of the commercial jet, glancing down through the sparse clouds towards the miniscule buildings, roads, and trees far below, then back at the dossier contained in his briefcase.

Today's mission was a happier one than his last assignment, at the Czardaian Peace Conference, at the very least. There would be no diplomats wearing battle armour or listening to insanely loud rock music during this meeting. The small, spare, steel-haired, and whip-sharp man listened with half an ear as the plane began to circle, a message reaching the control tower below.

"Stromburg Airport, this is Mauvasia Three, repeat Mauvasia Three, requesting clearance for landing..."

Marks and the security and diplomatic personnel accompanying him waited for the aircraft to begin its inevitable descent into history.

Stromburg International Airport

The Mauvasian envoys were finally here. One of the operators in the airport's control tower replied to the landing request at once. Yet another foreign diplomatic mission; these things were slowly becoming common.

"Mauvasia Three, roger that, you're cleared to land. Welcome to Wingarde. Over." The operator stated over the comms.

Meanwhile, two WF-27 Firebolts on patrol were notified of the presence of the Mauvasian aircraft, and averted their course. The small yet powerful fighters darted towards it. Once they were relatively close, the wing leader radioed the diplomatic jet.

"Mauvasia Three, this is Senior Lieutenant Engels from Federal Air Force Lynx Flight. We'll be escorting you to the airport, if you don't mind. Over." Engels notified as the Firebolts adopted a delta formation with the foreign aircraft.

Mauvasia Three, 0835 hours.

With the formal welcome, a burden seemed to be lifted from Mauvasian shoulders as the jet began to descend out of the clouds towards Stromburg. The pilot, a young aviator named Scoyle, glanced at his instruments as he nosed the plane downwards. His radar was picking up two incoming blips, IFF Wingardian; even as Scoyle's co-pilot opened a link to the newcomers, they hailed the jet themselves.

"Mauvasia Three, this is Senior Lieutenant Engels from Federal Air Force Lynx Flight. We'll be escorting you to the airport, if you don't mind. Over."

Scoyle flipped on the radio. "Lynx Flight, this is Airman First Class Malcolm Scoyle, that's fine. Over." Then, switching to the intercom, he announced, "You may have noticed the planes approaching our current position. A flight of Wingardian fighters is coming in to escort us to the airport; there is no reason for alarm."

The diplomatic jet continued to descend, slicing the blue sky apart and leaving behind a trail of white. Andrew Marks watched as the buildings of Stromburg grew ever closer; the Chairman of the Department of State stretched and yawned as pressure built in his ears, inertia seizing his lower stomach and exerting a noticeable G-force upon him. Then the ground came up to meet the aircraft, and the jet touched down, rolling to a stop along the tarmac. As one the various personnel within rise to their feet, Marks labouring a little; he had forgotten how long the plane rides really were. Nonetheless, he adjusted his jacket, shook hands with the pilot and co-pilot, and descended onto the tarmac, the sun gleaming off a blue lapel pin. Behind him were a few diplomatic personnel and five Imperial Dragoons, in red uniforms that appeared to come straight out of the eighteenth century, dress swords and all: despite appearances, they were in fact the élite of Mauvasia's security force.

Stromburg International Airport, off Runway 11B

The Firebolts fanned out once the diplomatic jet was close enough to landing, in order to clear the busy airspace surrounding the massive airport complex, the largest one in Wingarde.

Barely seconds after Mauvasia Three came to a stop, three black vehicles appeared in sight: a limousine preceeded and succeeded by SUVs. The long limo sported small Wingardian flags just over each frontal light. The three government vehicles cruised along the tarmac and came to a stop close the Mauvasian diplomats. One of the rear doors of the limousine opened shortly after, and out came a well-dressed man in his late fifties. Federal Secret Service agents appeared from the SUVs nearby, and escorted the Wingardian official to the guests.

"You must be Herr Marks. I am Wilhelm Vanholme, Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Democratic States of Wingarde. I am pleased to welcome you to my nation, Chairman. We have much to discuss, please follow me." Wilhelm greeted, shook hands with the foreign delegates and gestured towards his black limousine.

"You must be Herr Marks. I am Wilhelm Vanholme, Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Democratic States of Wingarde. I am pleased to welcome you to my nation, Chairman. We have much to discuss, please follow me."

Marks smiled politely and took the hand offered, shaking it firmly. He responded in perfect German, "Herr Vanholme, I am quite pleased to meet you; thank you for your welcome." Motioning imperceptibly to his staff, who also murmured greetings towards Vanholme, Marks pushed back a strand of silvering hair and followed Vanholme towards the limousine.