NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: First off I'm gonna make some posts setting up the story. In that time please dont make IC posts, I'll finish at a certain point and invite everyone else to respond.

After that, If you want to join go ahead and post. If I ask you to stop posting or leave the thread, then do so.

IC:
The darkness fully enveloped the assembled men with the final shut of the door. A large muscular hand reached upwards and wrapped itself around a familiar thin cord and pulled. A single hanging light-bulb cast an eerie glow on the large gathering. The hand lowered down to the side of ex-dinosaur Marcus Pompius. After receiving his dis-honorary discharge, for raping a Borman female, he quickly saw the patriotic feelings of native Cordensa citizens as his chance of revenge.

“I assume you all know why we’re here.” A chorus of grunts and nods assured him they knew. “The homeland of Borman has been a menace to us ever since the founding of this colony. They take our men off to fight foreign wars that we have no care for, and return them in caskets. They send our militias out to combat the wild of this great land and claim more of it for their imperialist desires. They appoint their own men to run our governments, and deny us assemblies of our own men to even advise their men. Our criminals and poor are round up and shipped off to fight and die in colosseums so that native Bormans may have a short laugh. Our economic agenda is trashed as they regulate what we can and can’t grow, sell, buy and more like the fascists they are! Our grievances grow as our anger does, and all they do is continue to shackle us to dirt. Well, I only see one solution. Now, you may not want to hear this, but it must be said. Revolution. Independence! We should stop all these so called “terrorist attacks” against them and halt the guerilla warfare, let peace reign. But in the stead of this fighting we group together, develop logistics and plans and order. Form an army, an army capable of revolution. Weapons for all of us will be hard to get, which is why I have formulated a plan. Borman has deployed military and naval forces to Warmaster, Jomaga, Kravania, and Vietnamexico. Like they always do, they’re going to ask for men to fight in these places. I say we volunteer, all of us, all the men under us too. Colonial soldiers are outfitted with guns, ammo, grenades, basic armor and more. The regulars will train us to be a fighting force; they’ll be building the army that will kill them. We’ll use what we learn under training to better organize our army. Then when we’re about to ship off, we make our move. There will be something that I can not tell you about for fear of it leaking to people not intended to know of it. When this thing happens, we will draw the wrath of the homeland. Then we shall send them a letter, a declaration, a declaration of independence. I and several others shall write it, basing it off the United States declaration. But after it is sent, we massacre the regulars. Kill everyone and everything loyal to the homeland, for loyalty to them is betraying us. Borman will not be able to spare the soldier to fight us, and so will have independence for at least a couple of years throughout the conflicts. But even if they do manage to get the soldiers, they will need to mobilize and send them, and that too will take time. With all this time we establish ourselves as a new democratic nation, a nation whose sovereignty is threatened by the imperialist war machine of Borman Empire. We call for help and aid from Borman’s enemies, the Lightning Star, Praetonia, Pacitalia, Sarzonia, etc. We shall hopefully receive financial and military aid and then when tired Borman soldiers come to our shores, we hold them back.”

“It can’t be done!” A small portly gentleman stood forward, resent and disapproval as evident on his face as his love for pastries on his thighs. “Borman has as many allies as the sky had stars, and more than twice the soldiers! Some army will come to crush us!”

“No! Now is the time, most of Borman’s allies are bound by dead or inactive alliances and treaties, which they would hardly find binding to fight and reclaim a Borman colony when Borman soldiers wouldn’t even be there. Borman’s main allies, CAD and the rest are entertained with wars of their own and a civil war in Warmaster. Doomingsland will likely show their selfish colors and send a handful of soldiers, which can be met by Sarzonian men. Count the cards my friend, they’re all stacked in our favor, there will never be another time as perfect as this.”

The previous voice of dissent could do nothing but find his head nodding in agreement as the disapproval melted off his face. Other, less vocal, dissenters saw their loudest, most loyal man nodding and followed him like sheep in their opinion. Marcus smiled as any voices of disagreement faded into things of the past. “Let us begin work on organizing our men and ceasing hostilities.”

Imperial Chambers, Jonaked

The man leaned back in his leather chair, placing his fingers on the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “If anything happens…I’ll-”

“Nothing will happen. If we don’t do this the colony may think we don’t trust them anymore. The violence has stopped, we have had massive number of volunteers to serve in the colonial army. The people love us again, and they need the governor to show that he trusts them. We need to show trust and unity so we can heal any wounds and get the colony back up above the rest.” The speaker sat back in his chair, his tanned hands parting as he let his point sink in. If the governor did not hold this public dinner, it could be disastrous for relations in the colony.

“He’s my only boy. Governing a Borman colony used to be one of the safest jobs available.”

“It still is; you know the security Borman puts up. The only guns getting through will be our own.”

The first man, General Jason Posner, opened his eyes and took a deep breath. His chest rose slowly and then sunk back as he exhaled. “I will have my army there, and there will be blood. They will kill every last thing they see, do you understand me?”

“That won’t happen.”

“Fine, open it to the public.”

“Excellent. You won’t regret this.”

“I hope not.”

The small group of men sat gathered around a card table in a concrete basement. A poker game was in progress, wine glasses resting in the holes and cigars in hands, burning dangerously close to the cards.

“My men won’t tolerate this much longer. They used to lay a car bomb a day; they haven’t done one in a month. I call.”

“I raise ten. Mine too; through extortion and blackmail we built up the funds to arm our small guerilla force. And then we took our fury out on local enemies.”

“Don’t worry, it will happen soon. The governor will announce in the papers and the press that due to the long chain of peace he has seen fit to role back any and all mandates given in the goal of maintaining order. Then he will go on to speak about a public dinner being held to honor the moment and that’s where we’ll get him. Raise fifty.” Throwing his chips into the center the man took a pull of the cigar and illuminated the outline of his unshaven face momentarily. Then his eyes, the only visible part of his face, narrowed to slits as he glanced around the table. “Any objections?”

“I fold. But we won’t be able to kill ‘im, the security ‘ill still be tight as virgin.”

“You just leave that to me.”

As he let out a deep laugh the other men around the table threw down their cards. Then the laughing stopped as he took his cigar to his cards and threw them, burning, onto the table. “These tyrannical bastards will burn like that!”

Within second the cheap felt caught fire and shot up in a blaze, swallowing the cards and inexpensive poker chips.

As in a trance the other 11 men stood up and locked eyes with the blaze, eerily delighted and drawn towards it, like bugs to a light. Suddenly one of them broke it “’ey, what’d you have?”

“Pockets threes.”

((Oh very nice RPing. What tech level is this? If only I had enough men to support it...))

OOC: Thanks. And its modern/post-modern

As he walked down the street he pulled his jacket tighter around himself, the cold was bitter tonight. His black gloved hand fondled the badge on his jacket as he exhaled on it. Gracus Adams, Imperial Collections officer, moved his hand across the badge leaving a streaky shine. Then he slid his gloved hand back into his pocket. As he came to the door of the town-hall he dropped the bag in his left hand. The large double oak doors seemed ominous and possessive of great evil. “The violence is over, there’s nothing there,” he reassured himself as he bent down to unzip the bag. Suddenly he heard the door creak and his head shot up, but it was too late.

Several buff men, moving too fast to count the exact number, covered in head to toe in black, grabbed a hold of him and dragged him in. Gracus fumbled for the Colt 1911 he kept in his belt as more of a souvenir than a means of defense, however the door shut sealing out the last semblance of light. His eyes shot open as an object, probably a fist, drove into his stomach, knocking out the wind. His hand wrapped around the gun and his arms shot out, pistol in hand. Another blow came to the left side of his face. In the darkness he struggled to aim where he though the blow came from, and pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot was met by a deep scream, confirming his shot had hit. Before Gracus could take another shot his shoulder exploded in pain. The pain shot through his arm and his hands opened, against his will, and dropped the pistol. A long slender object, much harder than flesh or bone, collided with his shoulder again and again. Gracus fell to the ground and feebly tried to find his discarded weapon. However his hands reacted when he felt pain shoot through his leg, something, most likely a blade, had been thrust into his shin. With all speed he could manage he swung out and took a wide shot with his fist, but it came crashing to the floor. Luckily for him, it landed upon his pistol which he instantly picked up. He aimed where he though his leg’s assailant was and squeezed the trigger. Gracus was horrified as he felt time slow to a crawl and the bullet rip through his shoe and toes. As he attempted to use the pistol again through the pain, a blunt object collided with his arm and sent the gun spinning away.

The darkness around him began to turn into a foggy gray as the blows continued to rain down. After what seemed like an eternity the assault stopped and Gracus clearly heard “Fuck you and your country.” A blast of heat abruptly hit him as he saw what he realized was his bag erupt in flames to his left. The ghostly light danced on the masked face of a man stepping away from the fire. A metal object clattered to the floor next to him and he looked to his right. Moon light flooded over him as the door opened and dark figures masked in shadow ran out.

“This shall be your tomb!” And with that the men slammed the door, leaving Gracus with only the light of the ever increasing fire.

The door slammed shut and Gracus reached into this pocket to call for help. His cell phone came out in pieces in his hand. “Shit.” As he tried to think of what to do Gracus watched helplessly as a spark from the fire shot over to a desk near the door. Like the rest of the building, it was old dry wood and went up instantly in flames. Gracus attempted to move his legs, but all he got was excruciating pain. “I’ll never be able to walk!” As panic took over Gracus he began to breathe much deeper and faster, sucking in fumes from the fire. As he began to let out a mad rant the fumes mixed with his wound and his head finally buckled under the pressure. The last thing Gracus saw was the spinning of his burning bag, colonial currency still inside. Then he fell unconscious to the floor, spared fully feeling the agonizing pain of fire.

“Who was it?”

“A couple of rouge boys. Word is they got angered that we stopped taking action against the imperials and thus took responsibility into their own hands.”

“They killed an Imperial Tax Officer. A FUCKING IMPERIAL TAX OFFICER! IT MIGHT ALL BE RUINED!”

“It might not.”

Marcus’ face twisted into a mix of fury and confusion, “HOW SO?”

“Well, what if they decide to let it go. You know, find and punish the culprits but not the colony. Maybe the stretch of peace will work for us and they will over look that.”

“Maybe, maybe. Hmmm…damn. Give me a second to think. Wait, I know. Find who’s responsible, don’t let them know that we know who they are. Just shadow them and make sure it will be easy for Borman authorities to find, arrest, and charge them. Then we can continue with our plan.”

“Alright sir. And umm…might I suggest something?”

“What?”

“Shouldn’t we start seeking support? I mean, you know. Don’t we want foreign help here when we do rebel, cause if we ask for it when we declare independence, then they’ll get here at about the same time as Borman, if not later.”

“Hmm, you’re right. Get a message ready, send it to any of Borman’s enemies or allies of those enemies.”

“Yessir.”

Secret encrypted transmission:
To: Any and all who consider themselves enemies of Borman Empire
From: Marcus Pompius

I doubt you know me, but I ask you continue to read. I used to serve in the Borman Military, but when I stood up against the injustices that marching force of madmen committed, I was exiled to Cordensa. They must have not known that Cordensa shared my sentiments towards Borman. I have developed a fierce loyalty for the colony which has been my home for several years, and as such I am at the head of the revolution which will soon be coming. Borman has raped and defiled Cordensa for untold years, and it shall soon end. We know that there is no love lost between Borman and yourselves as well, and as such we come to you for help. We would appreciate secret aid which can be received at several ports we have not under direct watch of Borman authorities, and then outright public political and military aid after the break. However, whatever we get is well appreciated. Now is your chance to strike back at Borman and build a new ally.

Signed,
Marcus Pompius

Abercordensa, Royal Crown Colony of Abercordensa, United Kingdom

Did you read the latest from across the river?

I cannot say that I have, no. Lionel Carey put down his paper, and looked across the wood paneled study that served as the casual office of the royal governor. Carey, in his forties and a former MP from the currently ruling Democratic Socialist Party, had been appointed as governor of the UK colony after his seat was lost to redistricting, a most inglorious end to a career of loyalty to the party – hence his assignment to Abercordensa.

Much of the colony continued to be underdeveloped, the forests to the west providing pulp for the paper mills of the unimaginatively named Milltown. Abercordensa, the eponymous city, earned its living by serving as the gateway for UK goods into and out of the colony. Those goods mostly paper, timber, fish, and a few agricultural goods. Carey had seen fit to organise the agreement between the Borman Empire and the United Kingdom that allowed for a bridge to be built across the River Cordensa that linked the two colonies together, physically and economically. Later, the Royal Armed Services aided in constructing an island that now hosted elements of both nations’ militaries. Despite all this, Carey knew that the Borman colony dwarfed that of the UK – although recent instability had helped Oceanian investors choose UK stability over Borman instability.

Then suddenly, the violence had ended. Many at home, or at least many of those who paid attention to the wayward colony, saw the end to violence as the stability they had been looking for in the Borman colony. An opportunity to invest even more heavily, for although Abercordensa had never suffered bouts of violence it always remained a possibility to have it spread across the porous border.

Men like Carey, however, knew otherwise. Or, more correctly, suspected otherwise. While Imperium moved about, pulling its strings and stabbing its forks in areas like New Albion and New London, it remained quite content to let Abercordensa move at its own pace by its own means. Imperium likely knew little of what actually happened so far from the Citadel and Parliament; and that was what worried Carey.

Would you like me to contact the Commodore? Carey’s military liaison asked.

No, no. Carey replied quickly. He looked at his friend and saw the confusion written on his face. If we were to mobilise the troops, we would certainly arouse suspicion not just in Imperium but also in Jonaked. Imperium might do something rash and push for democratic reforms across the river, which would infuriate Jonaked and embolden the secessionists. Then we have the potential for a war between the two mothercountries – bad for our business. Or, the other outcome is that Jonaked takes notice and Imperium disregards the request. Jonaked can, without a UK threat of action either diplomatic or militarily, then send troops to places across the river and hunt down the secessionists. Who would in turn see us as the ones who ended their chance for independence. No, John, we have very few options. Carey picked up his paper, printed locally but fed by sources back home. He caught a title that read ‘Bashir Meets Bashir’, a reference to the Colonial Secretary meeting the Muslimeen Sultan. However, he added quietly, it may behoove us if we send the secessionists a signal that we are quite aware of what I suspect is going on. Could you arrange for me to get in touch with the Colonial Secretary?

I am not employed by the Colonial Office, Lionel, you know that.

Indeed, but as a member of the Royal Air Force, you have contacts that will be in charge of flying him back to Imperium. And quite frankly, I doubt anyone currently at the Colonial Office will be inclined to listen to me.

“Not a single response…how the fuck did we end up with not a single response? I’m beyond fury, I’ve just passed it so much I can’t even yell.”

“What should we do sir?”

“There are two things we can do. One, continue on our own and hope our muscle, training, and supplies will allow us to beat one of the most powerful nations in the world. That however, will not work. The other thing is continue to attempt to garner support, and create enemies of Borman where there are not.”

“What? I don’t…I don’t understand.”

“Terrorism, no one likes it. If we can frame Borman for acts of ‘untold and uncalled for cruetly’, we can bring in support for our war.”

“Should I start trying to get that together.”

“Yes, do so. Otherwise continue as normal, soon the time will come and we shall be able to have our freedom. I can’t stand having to train under these imperialist pigs.”

“SIR! GREAT NEWS!”

“What?”

“I have two folders in my hand, both of them are possibly the best news you could’ve hoped for.”

“Well what is it?”

“I’ll let you read.”

Marcus leaned forward and ripped the folders out of the man’s hands, half with frustration and half with excitement. He placed one on top of the other on the desk and opened them to see what miracle had been given him. The first contained a crisp new newspaper which he unfolded and looked at the front page. “Governor announces public banquet to celebrate colony’s peace and security.” A tear began to swell in his eye as Marcus finally got what he wanted, he was one step closer to independence.

Then he opened the second one to find a number of papers and other things detailing an event going on outside of Cordensa. Skimming through and then reading in disbelief Marcus found that Borman Empire was now at war with the nation of ‘Socal8’ and various other nations were rallying to Socal8’s cause.

“Do you know what this means?”

“I believe so sir.”

“Borman will need to gather troops for an invasion, and if someone attempts an invasion they might need troops for defense. And now, Borman has a whole new score of enemies we can seek aid from. I want messages sent to all nations who show some disagreement with what Borman is doing. Truly god smiles on our cause.”

Abercordensa, Royal Crown Colony of Abercordensa, United Kingdom

Along the riverfront streets of Abercordensa, the eight-wheeled armoured vehicle lumbered about between the automobiles of the civilian populace. Atop the green and brown camouflaged vehicle an electrically operated turret remained pointed towards the rear, still stowed for travel and signifying its non-combat role. As it neared the onramp for the bridge linking the United Kingdom to the Borman Empire, the rear doors swung open and into the humid, sweltering heat jumped a man of moderate height, but whose body appeared built underneath the slacks and shirt of civilian attire hiding his frame and his purpose.

The man proceeded to walk north, onto the bridge and across the river, the armoured vehicle’s electric motors silently turning the wheels and driving the vehicle back to the safety of the city centre. As the man walked across, he looked westward off the bridge and onto the surface of the wide, slow flowing river where barges carried the colony’s manufactured goods to the seaport at Abercordensa, where the goods were loaded onto the ocean-going merchant freighters that would sail the last few kilometers downriver and out into the open seas and on towards the United Kingdom. It was a small trade, but one necessary to the survival of the colony.

Halfway across the rail-road bridge, he passed a placard denoting the actual border between the two colonies and thus the two countries although the actual border checkpoints remained at either side of the bridge, the span between effectively a neutral zone. Having reached the highest point of the bridge, he now looked north, the bridge arcing down into the Borman colony that had recently become quieter than anticipated. He had read the message sent by this Pompius chap and was on his way to find one of Pompius’ agents with whom he could meet covertly.

OOC: The assassination was 80% stolen right out of ‘In the Line of Fire’ cause it’s a kick-ass movie and that’s what inspired the idea for assassination.
IC:

Today was the day, today was the public dinner held by the governor, thanking the colony for its security and safety.

Security was tight. The banquet was being held in a large converted warehouse on the waterfront. Only one face of the building allowed entry, and that one face had only one set of doors. Entering these doors was a large entrance hallway, loaded with metal detectors and armed guards. Every single person went through the metal detector, no matter how rich or important. But Marcus had a plan to get around all of this.

Dimitri Illyanovich looked into the mirror in his bedroom. Straightening his tie once more he gave a smile and made his way for the door. Halting in front of it he took a deep breath and opened a drawer in the table on the wall. Pulling out three pieces to a plastic composite gun he placed them in the small prepared pouch on the inside of his pants. Then he grabbed his key ring and a pen and slid them into pocket. Running his hand through his hair one last time he stepped back and began to have doubts.

Why should I do this for Cordensa? Why do I have to give my life away to almost certain torture just to start the fight for freedom? I mean…I don’t even really want freedom that badly. What’s wrong with being a colony?

Then his cell phone began to vibrate and he fumbled to open it and place it against his ear.

“Where are you, we’re waiting outside.”

“Yeah sorry, I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Whatever, hurry up.”

Closing the phone he gripped it tightly in his hand and wrapped his palm around the doorknob, slowly turning it open. Stepping into the hall he looked inside and shook his head in a silent goodbye. Then he was off, to the car, and to the banquet.

RAF Knot Hill, Royal Crown Colony of Abercordensa, United Kingdom

One hell of a flight, captain, Colonel Nikolai Sytsov exclaimed, a large toothy smile plastered on his face. The salt and pepper haired officer threw a casual glance back at the large turboprop transport craft whose propellers were slowly winding down, the whine of the engine dieing off to allow the assembled service personnel a brief bit of conversation.

Sytsov commanded a light mechanised infantry regiment, ostensibly being deployed to the Crown Colony in order to move eastward and occupy the lands along the shoreline. However, he knew full well the situation on the island through his many briefings before leaving Zvolen, where his unit had been forward deployed in case of just such an emergency. Looking above the tree line, he spotted the next aircraft lumbering towards the runway, onboard crates of ammunition for the rifles and armoured vehicles that would be used to lead the advance into the jungles and grasslands.

From the rear of his plane, Sytsov watched the men and women under his command slowly gathering, taking stock of their supplies – they had deployed with every intention of making an immediate move to the east – and as soon as the third aircraft landed, the aircraft containing the lightweight wheeled vehicles, his advance platoons would be marching off into the wilderness.

Oceanian-Borman Border

Good afternoon, dear sir, and how are we on this most pleasant day? Maxwell Smith smiled while the border guard frisked him and performed a perfunctory search for the weapons Smith did not have on his person. Despite the laconic nature of the guard, Smith’s idle banter at last drew a smile from the young man before he allowed Smith to pass into the Borman colony on a civilian tourist visa.

Of course, Smith was anything but a civilian. Rather, a low-rank field agent of the Royal Intelligence Service who had been tasked with making contact with this Marcus Pompius fellow – or at the very least his organisation – and discern just what their ultimate motives happened to be; and most importantly how those motives would affect the United Kingdom and His Majesty’s colony across the river.

He smiled and waved to those he passed on the streets, attempting as much as possible to stand out as an Oceanian on Borman soil. For he was. What many did not likely see was how he inconspicuously took note of the varying levels of display of loyalty for the Borman government. Those, of course, who showed no support were the wrong sorts to approach – they were likely already being watched. The crux to his small operation was to find within the middle-of-the-road supporters the few barely distinguishable signs that hinted at an agent working against the crown in Jonaked. After spending several hours shopping and dining, he decided to make a swing through one eating establishment that seemed to fit the description he had established for himself.

East of the Oceanian Colony

Corporal Arthur Colburn scratched the spot underneath his chin where the tight chin strap was rubbing against his stubble – having not shaved in near 24 hours. Before his eyes, a scope attached to his helmet that allowed him to detect heat signatures at a distance. During prior attempts to expand this colony, Colburn had read that natives had successfully ambushed mechanised infantry units – and he had no intention of repeating those failures. Spotting nothing, he snapped his arm forward and the men of his infantry section continued to move forward through the underbrush and trees.

Earlier in the move, they had dismounted from the wheeled reconnaissance vehicles, which had become stuck in the heavy forest and as he glanced down at his digital assistant, Colburn ensured that his unit was on the right heading. His platoon and his company were ordered to take a small bluff overlooking a sharp turn in the coastline, from which the colony could fire artillery upon land and shore advances from the east and south while providing aerial defence from the envisioned surface-to-air missile batteries that would be built into the bluff.

But first he had to get there. He shifted his grip on his rifle, easing the strain on his wrist, and again began to move carefully taking care to avoid having his steel-toed boots from unnecessarily cracking branches or other pieces of fallen timber. Slowly but surely, he began to notice the slope changing and the density of the woodlands decreasing. Overhead he heard the distant roar of a jet engine, likely the air support promised by the local colonial defence force – though he had often heard such colonial support was unreliable at best.

At long last, Colburn’s section came through the trees and found themselves before a rise in the local topography, covered in soft green grasses and the occasional rocky outcropping, the rise was large enough to provide temporary habitat for not just his own section but perhaps the company and even battalion. Using his assistant, Colburn checked the latest satellite and aerial reconnaissance photos of the real estate – fortunately there were no signs of real human habitation. Upon the other side of the bluff, however, along the coast, a small village remained.

HMS Truncheon

Heave to!

Off the coast of Oceanian Cordensa, a small warship sleek in appearance upon the calm waters, found itself easing up to a small wooden sailing vessel making its way along the coast her sails unfurled and catching the full force of the light winds and breezes. On the quarterdeck, Ensign Peter Davis tightened and then relaxed the fingers gripping the ergonomically designed pad underneath his L62 rifle while his eyes similarly danced from left to right at the suspicious, darker coloured men onboard the native boat.

Davis looked to his right and saw the man actually in charge of the operation, a Royal Marine who had three men and one woman under his command from the same service – the remainder of the twelve people being Royal Navy sailors drafted into an ad hoc boarding party. The HMS Truncheon, a Type 02 littoral frigate, was the flagship of the colony’s naval force – which meant that the Royal Navy had nothing else better to deploy to the colony than a light patrol boat, which was all the Axe class had been intended to function as.

Unfortunately, the deployment of three such vessels to the colony was proving too little to inspect vessels transiting Oceanian waters and even more inept at circumventing black market trading in illegal goods, such as locally-grown narcotics and increasingly cheap firearms. None of this mattered to Ensign Davis, however, for he had enough to worry about while staring down the men aboard the vessel slowly bringing itself to rest, allowing the Royal Navy frigate the chance to come alongside.

From the starboard wing of the outer bridge, Lieutenant Commander Herbert Reeves rubbed his nose, watching the native trading vessel slow to a stop while aft of the forward superstructure a boarding party was assembled to inspect the vessel. As the most senior line officer in the colony, Reeves fretted that his ship would be an easy target someday to smugglers armed with even moderately-capable anti-ship weapons. Unlike most of the sailors onboard, Reeves understood the changing business dynamic. Locals were increasingly becoming the middlemen for a growing trade in narcotics and small arms fueled by the wealth of the citizens of the colonies on the island. While the exact business relationships had yet to be uncovered, Reeves could only surmise that the large and wooded borders the native populations shared with the more developed colonies were evolving into porous gateways through which narcotics were financing the acquisition of guns and ammunition. His task as an officer in the Royal Navy was to put an end to such illicit activities.

Coastline East of Oceanian Cordensa

Colburn kicked a pebble off the bluff, watching the rock tumble and sail onto the coast below, where a small village had grown over the past decades – apparently called Golit Tralan by the indigenous peoples, whose livelihood largely depended upon the sea. Golit Tralan occupied a nice, deep harbour that would be far more useful to the Crown than the riverport that was Abercordensa. And while not a deep water port per se, in time engineers could rectify that slight defieciency.

Slowly, the NCO turned around to face the men under his command, [/i]alright lads, hoist the flag.[/i] He smiled when the section cheered and shouted God save the King! before tying the flag of the United Kingdom to a rope attached to a pole that had been placed into the only piece of relatively soft soil atop the bluff. In a moment, the flag of the UK was flying above this piece of land while ships moved hither and thither off on the seas, all now visible to the men of the Royal Army.

Except not everybody happened to like such a turn of events.

Amidst the cheering and celebratory conversations, Colburn heard a high-pitched whine that sounded out of place. Closing his eyes and forcing from his mind the chatter of his unit he distinguished the whine from everything else and then his eyes opened wide. Incoming!

While well-intentioned, the warning came too late just moments before the first mortar round landed, the explosion showering the grass-covered bluff in not just soil but the sharp shards of rock that allowed the bluff to remain despite centuries of erosion. With one shell, three of his eight men lay wounded upon the bluff.

Take cover, he shouted, knowing full well that for now there was no such cover as his body slammed into the soil. He fumbled into a pouch on his belt for digital assistant which he found with its screen shattered. A piece of jagged rock embedded into the electronic device. Radio!

Here, sir.

As another round slammed into the bluff top, Colburn pushed himself up, grabbed his rifle, and dashed over to the prone radioman who had by then already established a radio link with the platoon.

This is Delta Section, we are receiving enemy mortar fire, request assistance. Colburn listened to the crackle and then the standard reply that his message had been received and was bring processed. Unseen to the men on the ground, an unmanned aerial vehicle shifted its course and slowly began to loop over the village, its high-resolution cameras and video-data recorders detailing the site from which the mortars were being loosed.

A minute later, a Viper roared in from the north, racing in just above the treetops before releasing ordnance and pulling up quickly. Underneath, the village of Golit Tralan shuddered as a fireball consumed the mortar team, ending the threat to Colburn and his mean. The fighter-turned-attack aircraft slowed to a cruising speed and rocked its wings as it flew past Colburn and his men, now once more atop the bluff and cheering, their rifles and helmets in the air. Although now only three of eight men were standing.

HMS Truncheon

From the quarterdeck, Davis watched a Royal Marine raise his rifle, his leg extend kicking something out of sight below the side of the vessel. Suddenly, two more Royal Marines came running from the bow with their weapons raised and pointed at the grouping of the crew. He heard shouting, but he could not discern what was being said.

Then a single loud blast. A UK Marine fell and muzzle flashes erupted, from the stern, a stowed container broke open revealing a small machine gun. The native crew dropped to the deck and the machine gun let loose, sending lead bullets into the Royal Marines still standing – each one fell to the deck blood pouring from numerous bullet wounds.

Open fire, came a shout from a familiar voice, that of the tactical officer of the Truncheon. Davis fumbled to find the selector, switching from single shot to three-round burst. He watched in half-fascination, half-terror as the machine gun swiveled, its barrel already blazing and spewing rounds at phenomenal rates of fire upon the Royal Navy frigate. The ensign pulled the trigger, then found himself all but knocked to the ground from the heavy recoil of the rifle. His arm felt as if it had been shorn off, and he dropped his rifle to feel the connection of his arm to his shoulder, smiling dumbly as he found his body still intact.

Then a rain of warm liquid fell upon Davis’ face, his tongue instinctively extending to wipe it from his lips – his mouth then opening to spew out the awful tasting, salty liquid. Davis stared at the red liquid before him, turning around to find the tactical officer standing against a hatchway, his body slowly slumping to the deck, leaving behind massive streaks of red upon the grey warship paint. Through the din of explosions he heard more and more bursts of gunfire and then screams of English swearwords. He gazed up at the blue sky as a darkened-skin man shouted something at him, pointing a long cylindrical object in his face. Davis simply smiled.

Ministry of Defence
Imperium, New Britain Province, United Kingdom

Wholly unacceptable, Toby. The Defence Secretary quietly pushed a single piece of paper back across his desk, the bottom decorated with a stamp denoting that it had crossed the desk and become known to the Defence Secretary. Forty-one individuals lost in one day, wholly unacceptable.

Borman colony:

This night however Smith would be dining very much by himself. Anybody who was anybody had made their way to the banquet with the governor, or sat home watching it televised. The only people out at restaurants and shops were those who worked there, and had the banquet playing on a television back in the kitchen.

-------------------------

Dimitri Illyanovich slammed the door shut, the loud sound symbolizing the sealing of his fate. From this point on, there was no way out; we was going in. The car rode in silence as Dimitri gazed out the windows, wordlessly saying good-bye to his homeland.

The car screeched to a slow near the blockade preventing cars from entering the warehouse block. Dimitri paused a second, feeling himself to make sure everything was there. Then without words he opened the door and exited the vehicle, nodding goodbye to those gentlemen forever.

His sounds were lost in that of the crowd he had joined and carried him to the building. Like a dream time and actions passed by him, without even being noticed. In what seemed like seconds Dimitri woke up to a man at the metal detector asking him to walk through. Hesitating a second he reached in his pocket and pulled the key ring and a pen out, placing them both in the bowl which was slid across for him. Stepping through he felt relived as no sound was made, but he expressed no actions outwards. As if practiced before he maintained his gaze ahead and grabbed his pen and key chain out of the bowl.

If the guards had not been so tired and busy they might have noticed his unusual behavior and stopped him, possibly saving the lives of millions; but they did not. And so he walked forward into the room, carrying on his person the death and destruction that would soon ravage the land.

Through nothing but pure luck Dimitri Illyanovich had managed to get a seat at a table two rows away from the stage and the podium where Governor Lúcfire Posner would address the colony. The first two rows of tables were reserved, full of the very wealthy Colonial inhabitants along with Colonial government and military figures. Dimitri paid them a passing notice as he sat down at his table and introduced himself to the people sitting there. As he spoke and pretended to be interested in how the lady in the blue dress recently received a promotion Dimitri’s hands fiddled in his pants. First he took out the two rightmost pieces of the plastic composite pistol. Sliding them into place he waited for the group to laugh at the blue lady’s rather immature joke before he fully connected them, resulting in a dull click. As stories circled around the table Dimitri exercised great skill in being able to prevent himself from sharing any real or fake stories which may later be used against him, whilst still speaking enough so as not to appear abnormally withdrawn. While the portly gentlemen across from him took the conversation to growing tensions between Generia and Doomingsland Dimitri placed the third piece of the pistol into its hinge location and then rested it in his lap. Pulling the pen out of his pocket he noiselessly opened it and pulled out the two springs within. Commenting on the sad state of affairs within CAD Dimitri slid the springs into their respective tubes in the gun, finishing by quietly jamming the pen into a support of the table; the less authorities are able to figure out how he pulled this off, the better.

The room erupted in applause as Lúcfire Posner entered the room, his entourage of men fanning out behind him. Lúcfire began to shake hands with various people at random tables as he made his way down a large path towards the stage. Dimitri realized with pleasure that Lúcfire would be walking right near his table, making his task even more simple. Then, to his horror, everyone began to stand and continue to applaud. The lady in the blue dress stood first at his table, then her husband, then the portly gentleman and his wife. Dimitri panicked inside, his weapon still had no bullets and if he stood up now, what would he do with the gun?

At that moment the woman to his left dropped her napkin as she stood up, the cloth material floating under the table. Without even realizing that he was still clutching the weapon in his lap and right hand Dimitri grabbed his still folded napkin with his left hand and offered it to the woman, years of manners kicking in. She accepted it as it sank into Dimitri that if she had not, and she’d gone for the napkin, she may have seen the weapon. With so many emotions now running through Dimitri he realized that all others at his table were standing, beaming smiles and hands rapidly smacking together. Suddenly Dimitri smiled too, he knew how to do it. While supporting the weapon with his right hand he dropped down and quickly stuck his head under the table. Doing so was dangerous, but it would allow him to move with enough speed to complete his task in time. He pulled his keys out in front of him, his hands flying as he unscrewed the rabbits foot from the tube it was concealing. Giving the keys to the floor he let the two bullets fall into his hand, and then as if in one motion dropped each into its tube. Moving the front piece of the gun up on its hinge he heard the click as it locked into place and then pulled the two cocking hammers back. Grabbing the woman’s napkin he placed it over the gun and grabbed it by the outside, so as to conceal the weapon underneath.

Standing up Dimitri was fortunate to find that based on Lúcfire’s progress, he’d only been down a couple seconds. Placing the napkin on the table, weapon ready to grab, Dimitri began clapping as well. His eyes quickly scanned the room, looking for any sign of the security’s awareness to him, but none existed. Lúcfire Posner came closer and closer towards his assassin as Dimitri continued a dull clap, ready to spring on his waiting weapon.

John Barker was a trigger-happy Imperial soldier, often used in guard duty, often resulting in many wounded people whenever anything went down. Hence today, with so much on the line, Barker was stuck guarding the waiters’ entrance to the kitchen, with only a club to ensure his will. Barker was at first angry over learning of his assignment for the dinner, then somewhat hopeful. He needed something big to go down so he could show himself the hero, prove his commanding officers wrong, and possibly even gain a couple ranks. Barker was the man to invent something out nothing, the kind who would walk through his house late at night with a shotgun in hand, convinced the sounds of the basement T.V. he left on earlier were intruders in his home.

When Dimitri went down Barker perked his ears and began to stare, he took a step forward when he counted to five and Dimitri remained there.

“Back soldier, you know our orders.”

Barker shot a look at the other soldier guarding the thin double doors. This man was dressed in a full tuxedo, hair slicked back, nails finely filed, and hands that continued to press against his chest, making sure his pistol was still there.

“Our orders now are superseded by our oath to protect the Governor. If I see a threat, then eliminating that threat it more important than protecting from children who want extra bread.”

“You know that the courts will not see it that way.”

“I know that I must do what is right.”

“Barker, back…that’s an order.”

Those who had assigned Barker to his position made sure to place him with a man of higher rank, therefore allowing someone who could command Barker to be there with him at all times; unfortunately for Fred Astair, he got served with this job. Barker turned his head to see Dimitri, standing and clapping, and had no choice but to resume his position at the door. As his muscular legs tensed up, ready to spring into action he began to formulate his course of action for when the danger erupted. Barker’s right arm, luckily hidden from Fred’s eyes, slowly worked its way up his side and onto the club hanging from his belt.

Lúcfire Posner grabbed the portly gentleman’s hand in a firm grasp, almost crushing it as he shook it and thanked the man for being here. “No, thank you sir for making sure this colony runs so smoothly.”

Dimitri knew it was time. He coughed a bit and then brought his hand to his mouth to cover the coughing. With a skill mastered long ago tears began to well in his eyes as he continued to cough, his sleeve now going to wipe the tears. Bending over slightly he grabbed the napkin and in one moment wrapped his hands around the pistol and brought it up several inches from Lúcfire’s face. Pulling the trigger once the shot rang out throughout the building as Lúcfire’s body slumped backwards, caught by one of the men behind him. Dimitri turned the gun on himself and prepared to pull the trigger, but instead felt an explosion of pain in his hand. A bullet had gone right through his wrist, and the gun now fell to the ground, sending its bullet harmlessly into a table leg. One of Lúcfire’s guards holstered his gun as he ran forward to tackle and take control of Dimitri.

John Barker didn’t know what came over him, his legs started carrying him towards Dimitri as the man began couching, his club coming flying out of the strap securing it at his side. As Barker saw Dimitri bring the gun out he swung his club down with a good deal of force, straight into the neck of a guard still standing idly by. As if to catch the man Barker quickly took hold of his loose form, only long enough to withdraw the pistol on his belt. Continuing his motion towards Dimitri, Barker pushed himself back, leaving the unconscious guard to slump to the ground. In an effort to control his direction Barker spun backwards, going a full 360° before planting his feet and taking aim with his pistol. One gunshot rang out as Barker brought his own weapon up, a second as Dimitri’s hand began to flow with blood. Barker, still in hunter mode, his imagination, adrenaline, and blood running then aimed straight at Dimitri’s head and pulled his trigger, sending a third shot out.

Almost immediately after that a fourth shot rang out from Fred’s pistol. He was still caught up in the words of his commanding officer, “Barker is a loose cannon, he may do something real dangerous and if he does, and you need to do so, you’re authorized to fire on him.” All he could think of was that Barker was going to ruin everything, and so he took chase when Barker began to run. Following the clubbing of the Imperial guard Fred drew his own pistol, still ignorant to the events erupting only feet in front of him. The first three shots were separated by mere seconds, the fourth was no different. Fred fatally shot Barker before realizing what had happened in front of Barker and what was about to erupt.

Lúcfire’s guard had lunged forward to grab Dmitri, but when the third shot rang out the guard drew his weapon again and turned to fire on Barker. The fourth shot came and Barker’s head had just slipped out of Lúcfire’s guard’s line of sight as he pulled his trigger again, sending the bullet into Fred’s face. As Fred’d body joined the others on the floor sirens began to wail as alarm lights bathed the room in red. Automatic gunshots rang out as one of the Imperial soldiers guarding the door ran through firing up in the air and commanding everyone to get down. Following Fred’s death it took only ten seconds for the entire building to lock down and all soldiers and police within the building to draw their weapons.

The warm air blew lightly, pushing the mass of hair further backward on the head of one George Cilrine. He was a lieutenant in the Imperial Army, one of those tasked with the logistical challenge of training and maintaining the mass of new troops. He currently stood atop the uppermost guard tower of a small military base that kept watch over the intersection of the two main roads running East to West and North to South in the colony. Shrouded in darkness to his left was Andrei Covurus, unbeknownst to George, a lieutenant in Marcus’ rebel army. Cilrine gazed out towards the sea, the vast nothingness a decent distance from their location, yet seemingly larger by the recent lack of ships.

“It’s shit Andrei, that’s what it is.” George turned around and replaced his cigarette to take a long drag from it. As he blew the smoke out the corner of his mouth he began to speak again, “This cold war seems to be developing between CAD members; it’s like a cold civil war.” Turning back around George replaced his arms on the wall and continued to puff away on his cigarette.

Andrei took a step forward, lips slightly agape as his thoughts began to form words, but then he stopped as his watch flashed a quick red light. Andrei’s body came to a pause as he looked at his watch; he mentally counted to three and then saw three quick pulses of red light. Checking to see that George was still turned around Andrei replaced his hand in his pocket and stepped forward again, this time releasing different words. “So, where did the colonial navy go?”

“Well, the Imperial Navy is being completely refitted. We’ve finally assembled designs for a completely Borman designed navy with ships far superior to those we currently have, therefore all ships that can are being upgraded. Our colonial defense forces put out so that their ships could be upgraded; however, we should have another fleet here in about a week.”

“What if we’re attacked? What if the rebels attack?”

“No one is dumb enough to attack us, and if they do, we have ground defenses to repel them. Our bombers, fighters, and missile batteries are still as advanced as they could be. And if the rebels came up, we’d put them down.”

“Well, what if we needed to escape from superior rebel forces, like off the continent?”

“Why this sudden splurge of questions? Few things usually tempt you to speak, and nothing I’ve seen as of yet has brought this inquisitive nature out in you.” George spun around just in time to see a faint red flash in Andrei’s pocket, “What the hell was that?”

As George took a step forward Andrei’s hands moved quickly through the motion he’d practiced countless times before, waiting for the time when he would finally unleash hell. His left hand shot up, peeling his thin jacket back as his right hand withdrew the small silenced pistol. His arm extended itself, the silencer only several feet from George’s head.

“What the –”

Andrei’s muzzle flashed before George could ever finish his question. Without hesitation he replaced his pistol in the holster and then began to frisk George’s lifeless corpse.

Down below on the ground an Imperial soldier had cast his eyes up to admire the stars at the same moment that Andrei’s muzzle signaled the second startling event of the night. He stepped back in amazement for a second and then regained his composure. As his hands moved to firmly grab hold of the BEWD assault rifle hanging at his side a cold pair of hands wrapped around his head, sealing his mouth and preventing him from sounding the alarm. He instantly began to flail, trying to grab something on his assailant, but as his neck was forced into a quick spin any hope of surviving was dashed away.

Unfortunately for Andrei and his men another Imperial soldier had just witnessed the scene unfold as one of the colonial regulars had murdered an Imperial soldier. Quickly flicking his head to the sides he saw all alarms were already covered by colonial regulars, none of them as of yet joining the murderer in his sights. Without hesitation he decided his gunfire would be enough of an alarm and he planted his feet as his assault rifle was whipped around into his hands. The safety clicked off as he squeezed the trigger, sending hot lead flying towards the colonial regular. The first man fell to the ground and collapsed as his body began to twist and spasm as blood erupted from his mouth. The Imperial soldier looked right to see several other Colonial regulars now drawing their weapons Fucking bureaucrats at home, I knew this would happen! His front foot rotated as he once more planted and set his sights on the mass of Colonial regulars near an alarm. Without taking aim he squeezed the trigger, dropping many regulars before his back exploded in pain as enemy rounds sank into his skin. As the man fell to his knees he angled his body so that while he fell he span around. Following two more rounds entering his body, this time from the front, he opened fire on this group of Colonial regulars, felling several of them before another regular ended his valiant stand.

Otto Horrowitz had just finished polishing his Imperial equipment, still excited at his role in the army, a full three years following his enlistment. Otto decided to enjoy the warm air before retiring to bed, and so he took a stroll along some of the upper ramparts. Quietly speaking to himself he was shocked when the sound of gunfire split into his peaceful stroll. As if he was an automaton he turned towards the sound of gunfire and drew his pistol, aiming it below. His finger would not pull the trigger as he aimed at his own men, he just couldn’t do it. Confusion crept into his mind as he turned and leapt down he ramparts towards the nearest security center. Holstering his weapon he jumped around hallway corner and strode into the security center, ready to sound the alarm and inform the occupants of what he saw. Instead, he entered to find two men standing over the bleeding corpses of five Imperial soldiers, fresh bullet wounds in their chests and heads.

“Holy shit!” Otto’s hand instinctively felt behind him to draw his pistol, but not fast enough. The nearest man turned around at the sound of Otto’s footsteps, and he had the advantage of a warm gun resting in his hand. In a swift motion he brought his arm up and shot Otto in the chest. Assuming Otto dead he turned back to mutter something to his colonial companion in some broken colonial dialect. Otto, however, was not yet dead. The bullet sent shockwaves of pain through his body, pain he had never felt before. Yet, through it all he fumbled with his pistol and then finally brought it out, releasing two shots into the two men. Otto felt his mouth open and saw his shirt began to stain red, as his eyes started sagging he slowly moved his arm up and took aim at a video monitor. Knowing full well how the alarm system worked, having served security duty himself, he sent one round into the monitor while the blowback to his weak arm sent the gun flying away from his hand. As his eyes slowly closed the red alarms began to wail, awakening the sleeping soldiers to the battle erupting inside.

"A tad deserted I suppose," Smith chuckled, using his fingers to tear a ragged chunk off one of his many chicken legs. The little birds ran amok across the island and had become a staple of Oceanian diets--and he was quite pleased that at one little establishment he could at least eat as if he were at home.

Throughout the course of his meal, ended of course by a cup of the finest black tea--though not as good as teas from Sarnia, Smith chided himself for forgetting that this land was a land not wholly suitable for local tea cultivation. As he stirred in the sugar his eyes came across the banquet where the announcers prattled on about the successful and magnanimous reign of Governor Posner.

Truth be told, Smith cared little for Posner or Posner's predecessor. Even more truth be told, Smith did not even know who Posner's predecessor was. All he knew was that it was his mission to make contact with the secessionist movement and that sipping a cup of tea in an empty restaurant was not the way to go about it. He laid several denarii flat upon the table, including a generous tip as the cute little waitress was likely unhappy about being given a shift with no customers. Perhaps in the distant future she would remember something about generous Oceanians. As he stood to leave, however, somebody switched the television channel to some station playing patriotic music and marches. Turning to see the new station, he instead found a backsplash with "Technical Difficulties" displayed across the screen.

Smith simply smiled. The most likely technical difficulty at an indoor function with a massive live audience would be an assassination attempt or a kidnapping. Either would likely play well for the secessionists and so once more, he had the chance to play. He quietly walked up to his waitress and by chance much of the front staff all watching the television. "Excuse me, miss, I am quite curious, do these sorts of broadcast interruptions happen often? It is just that across the river, well, shall we just say this would never do. That broadcasting company would lose much of its business from such abysmal performance. I mean, of all events to have difficulties with... Governor Posner's? I daresay I think that he shall not be all too happy about this tomorrow morning."

Conference Room C-11
Parliament House
Imperium, United Kingdom

"It is quite obvious that the sudden downturn is a direct response to our increased tempo of operations against the smugglers." Howard Winchester nodded to a staffer who quietly handed out neatly bound colour-print reports containing pages of pie charts and bar graphs and maps and statistics. "As the Colonial Office will also say, our operations against arms dealers and drug dealers alike have made people in Abercordensa unhappy and they have decided to fight back. And as Minister of State for International Relations, the Foreign Secretary has decided I should chair this Committee for Abercordensa Security. And as chairman the first order of business, as far as I am concerned is strengthening the presence of the Royal Armed Services in the colony. Annabeth," the brown-haired MP motioned towards a smartly dressed woman to his right, "you may have the floor."

The ash-blonde woman, in her mid-forties and face framed by black plastic rim glasses, smiled and nodded. "Thank you, Howard. Ladies and gentleman, as you all may be aware, I am Deputy Minister of State for the Royal Armed Services and so represent the Ministry of Defence and thus all branches of the service save the Royal Navy, represented here today by the Deputy First Lord of the Admiralty Thomas Crenshaw, MP for Torresdale." She paused and let Crenshaw smile and nod for his own introduction.

Winchester listened half-intently as Annabeth prattled on about the need for security. He secretly bemoaned the archaic tradition of maintaining two separate ministries for defence: the eponymous Ministry of Defence for the army and air force and the Admiralty for the navy, who had in the past experienced preferential treatment that somehow continued through to the present and so bungled up all-party working groups like this. Finally, a pause indicated that Annabeth had arrived at the substantive part of her briefing.

"As said by Lord Salisbury earlier yesterday afternoon, the loss of forty-one service personnel is unacceptable. This is not Recedentia, nor New London, nor New Albion--all places where armed opposition to the Crown is well-known and I daresay, well expected. Abercordensa is a quiet and increasingly autarkic crown colony--such instability as we saw yesterday will undermine all attempts by the Government to continue a pro-growth economic plan for the colonies. Consequently, the Ministry of Defence is planning to deploy an additional infantry regiment to the colony to assist in raising what will be the colony's first own infantry regiment that will, in time, be called upon to secure the colony from home-grown and local threats. Ancillary forces to support the regiment, likely to come from New Albion where an end to the conflict between Imperium and Istanbul appears imminent, will include aviation forces to track and prosecute those engaged in illicit activities. This has all, of course, been coordinated with the Admiralty and my friend Mr. Crenshaw will continue with the naval component of this buildup."

"Thank you, Annabeth, and thank you, Howard, for convening this committee." Crenshaw leaned in and took a moment to gather his thoughts, though his initial comments were, of course, almost entirely pre-prepared. "Yesterday, on the high seas, the HMS Truncheon was attacked by pirates and her entire command crew, save the engineer, was killed. Only a courageous counter-attack by ratings and young ensigns save the ship from falling to the pirates and handing them a fully-capable combat ship." A few members of the committee exhaled and issued subdued mutterings--mostly, Crenshaw noted, members of the Conservative Party and those not ministers. "I might remind all present that these briefings are deemed classified, we all heard yesterday of a failed attack upon a Royal Navy warship, though the exact details you have just heard will not be made known for some time to come in the interest of national security."

"Or rather the security of the Democratic Socialist Party," a Tory sneered to a round of quiet laughter met by a harsh silence from the government's ministers. "My apologies, Mr. Crenshaw," the interrupter added a moment later, "please, do continue."

"Thank you, sir," Crenshaw replied cooly. "Given the newfound gravity of the threats facing not just the Royal Navy but by implication that maritime traffic dependent upon the Royal Navy for its security, the Admiralty has authorised the immediate deployment of a frigate and flotilla of destroyers to be permanently stationed at the naval base in Cordensa. Additionally, for the next six months, a gun cruiser will be seconded to the colony for purposes of intimidation. After reviewing the usual contingency plan of deployment of a dreadnought or super-dreadnought for intimidation the delicacy of the diplomatic situation led us to believe that a smaller force would be more appropriate--but for that I shall return the floor to Howard."

Winchester thanked Crenshaw and turned to face the committee. "It is true that no nation is an island." He paused, and then added, "except of course those nations geographically comprised of islands." He achieved the polite laughs intended to defray the rising tension and so continued. "But, as we all know, Abercordensa is not an island colony such as New London. It maintains a land border with not just a powerful state but a colony that is powerful in its own right. The Borman Empire belongs, of course, to CAD and so would normally constitute a threat to the United Kingdom, a muted threat nonetheless. However, over the past few years, the Foreign Office has pursued a policy of engagement with nations with whom we would not normally entertain diplomatic relations let alone working relationships and so we do, to this day, have a fruitful relationship with Jonaked."

"In recent months, our two governments--albeit at the highest levels--have worked together to create a bridge for inter-colonial trade as well as a military base offshore that serves both nations. Trade has increased, though it does, admittedly remain at a paltry figure in the single digit percentile of our total foreign trade. Nonetheless, with the Borman Empire, the United Kingdom has shown through experience that democracies and dictatorships can not just coexist peacefully but also cooperate for the greater good of both societies. This is not, of course, to say that we do not have our differences--we would of course prefer to deal with a democratic government and they of course know this. But we recognise that all societies and civilisations are fundamentally different and so proceed at varying paces of democratisation. When the Bormans are ready to become a full democratic nation, the United Kingdom will be ready to help them make the transition."

Winchester smiled because everybody in the room knew much of what he had just said was partisan blabbering. Certainly elements of truth did exist in the statement, the two nations were apparently not as ideologically driven as many in the world and so cooperation was a welcome outcome--but nobody dared really think that the Borman government would anytime soon welcome democratic reforms.

"Nevertheless," Winchester continued, "it remains in the interest of the Borman-Oceanian friendship to keep our friends and allies informed of our plans and intentions. As such I will be traveling to Abercordensa with a small group from the Colonial Office and then make my way to the Borman colony and then Jonaked to keep all parties informed of the Government's plans to combat the increasing threat posed to the colony by drug runners and arms smugglers.

RAF Adderton
Silcaster, Royal Crown Colony of New Albion
United Kingdom

"Where the bloody hell is this place again?" Adam Donnelly wiped the barrel of his rifle clean, and slowly began to reassemble the pieces. "I mean, seriously, they are asking us to go from one forgotten land to another all for what? So that our humble MPs can make more profit off some moronic natives?"

"Abercordensa is a settler colony, for Christ's sake, read a book some time, Adam." Lindsay Grahm was a lance-corporal and so second-in-command of her rifle section, of which Rifleman Donnelly was infamous for his inane and uninformed commentary. Her regiment, the Royal Cerishire RIfles, or more informally as the Blues and Greys, was an old light infantry regiment originally founded as frontier sharpshooters and riflemen who fought in the rocky Brittany mountains and who wore blue and grey outfits for camouflage instead of the traditional greens and browns of the units fighting in the forests and jungles. They had been deployed to New Albion and had taken up the role of garrisoning the town of Silcaster, a mining town in the highlands of the new colony, an area with vast and rich mineral reserves.

Now, however, after five months in-theatre, Grahm's unit was moving to the colony of Abercordensa where the Oceanian Royal Army was having difficulty pinning down insurgents--a specialty her regiment excelled at after five months of engaging and capturing arms smugglers crossing the al Muslimeen-Oceanian border south of Silcaster.

"Around Grahm, RAF Adderton was full of crates and parcels waiting to be loaded onto Atlas transports that would fly the bulk of their materiel to Abercordensa with the heavier equipment already en route to the harbour at Dawesport, which would then be loaded onto transports and shipped to the colony over the coming weeks. For whatever reason, they were deploying without armoured vehicles and their light utility vehicles--they would be requisitioned in situ from the garrison in place. It would be a thirteen-hour flight and so Grahm fished out a pocket sized atlas she kept with her and threw it at Donnelly. "Here, read this, learn something for a change."

HMS Dauntless
At Sea

Several hundred kilometres from Abercordensa, Captain Thomas Stockton let the warm sea breeze blow across his freshly shaven face. By 0900 he had already lapped the deck twice, showered, shaved, and now was waiting for the chef to prepare his morning scone and cup of Oceanian Breakfast, a strong black tea blend from leaves cultivated in Sarnia. This was, he hoped, his last tour of duty as commander of a frigate. He had served on the earlier Type 05s and was given the chance to command the new Dauntless, lead ship of a new general-purpose frigate designed to deal with the situation he had been ordered to rectify.

The situation was, to be as circumspect as possible Stockton had thought, an unmitigated disaster and an embarrassment to the Royal Navy. The Truncheon was a small destroyer--the Royal Navy using an archaic classification system that, more or less, reversed the role of frigate and destroyer. On station alone without real support, pirates knew of her and knew how to cripple her and they did so with great success. Their operation was brilliantly conducted but for the miscalculation that Royal Navy ratings would be glad to be rid of their officers--instead, they had fought in the compartments and the corridors to repel the pirates and retake their ship. But the cost was high and left the colony, in effect, without a guard ship. The engineer was not trained to take command and that left an ensign to command a destroyer--with an unceremonious promotion to lieutenant-commander owing, of course, to his courage during the action and his unblemished record of service for Crown and Country. It was all, of course, a smoke screen designed to cover the fact that the Royal Navy had erred and erred grievously and now Stockton was tasked with righting that mistake.

His ship was now sailing at full speed towards Abercordensa and would within two days rendezvous with a flotilla of destroyers on sea lane patrol that were to be seconded to his command. Upon arriving, he would take charge of naval forces for the colony and begin to strangle the maritime trade in drugs and guns that were themselves beginning to strangle the colony. But, as he saw a rating walking in his direction with a tray, he would do so after his morning cup of tea.

Encrypted Communication
To: Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Borman Empire
From: Emily Deveraux, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs

As the Borman Government may well be aware, yesterday, the United Kingdom suffered a tragic day in the usually tranquil crown colony of Abercordensa, which borders your own colony in Cordensa. The loss of forty-one service personnel is deemed by His Majesty's Government as unacceptable and is viewed to be a result of a failure to clamp down on illicit smuggling of both guns and drugs in the colony. There is also ancillary evidence that these contraband materials may well be entering your colony, and at a later date HM Ambassador will personally deliver said evidence to your office.

For the time being, however, the United Kingdom intends to increase the numbers of forces deployed to Abercordensa, including sending an additional infantry regiment, a squadron of attack aircraft, and a small taskforce of small displacement warships plus one gun cruiser to secure our borders and eliminate this illicit trade. HM Government wishes to communicate this deployment with your office to alleviate any concerns your government may harbour as to the rationale for the increased numbers of Oceanian soldiers, sailors, and airmen across your borders.

It is my personal hope and the hope of HM Government that these forces will quickly reverse the heretofore growing trend and will soon make their own necessity no longer extant and we will be able to return to a period of small-scale deployments to the colony.

Sincerely,

Emily Deveraux
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs

Smiling at Smith’s attention to her, something she did not often receive, the waitress fondled the dishtowel on her shoulder as she cast her eyes back at the television. Stumbling for her words she locked eyes with Smith and nervously picked at the corner of her dishtowel. “Well, not too frequently, but not too rarely. We got a new television network setup recently, for the whole colony and all. Lots of colonial improvements, ya know? We’ve had a couple of these things come up on different channels in the last couple months, different version of the same thing. But here, it’s probably just this network screwing up.”
Taking a step away from Smith she reached up towards the television and pushed the channel down button as the screen turned into a blue gray background with the flag of Borman Empire fading in and out, as well as “Please hold: Technical Difficulties” super-imposed over everything. Stepping back a second a puzzled look came over her face as she glanced back at Smith for reassurance that it wasn’t just her seeing the channel messed up. Deciphering his nod as acknowledgment of the lack of coverage she flicked through several more channels before stopping and stepping back towards Smith again.

“I don’t get it. Every single one is having technical difficulties, this is really weird. Maybe the government confiscated cameras or…or…the power lines got destroyed by something, or, well, I’m not sure. This is real weird…”
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Official Imperial Communique:
To: Emily Deveraux, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs
From: Chancellor Licinius

We are extremely disheartened to hear of your loss. The death of even one royal man is a tragedy, more than one is not to be tolerated. We fully support your deployment of increased forces to counter the insurgents in your colony. It is unfortunate that the only language some ruffians speak is violence, we are therefore forced to communicate with them in that violence. If there are specific tasks we can assist you with, don’t hesitate to ask us.

As to the guns flowing into your colony, they may or may not be from our colony. The right to bear arms is something that the government of Borman Empire favors, almost above all else, and is very hesitant to restrict from anyone, even if a colony. Hence, we gladly reinstated the right to bear arms in the colony when peace and stability reinserted themselves; albeit, we did maintain some restrictions on attaining firearms, but not too many so as to water down the right. If these guns did come from our colony, they most likely were attained legally by dastardly people engaging in unsanctioned piracy. As a result, we will be happy to give you access to our firearms registration database in the event of firearm incidents in your nation. Further, we shall do all we can to ascertain whether or not legal firearms are being used for illegal piracy, and if so, punish the perpetrators with death. As to contraband in the form of firearms, the Empire holds a very tight border in all reaches of its Empire, contraband is veritably impossible. Unless somehow there is some port somewhere manned by traitorous scum, or just blatant hostiles, who are importing and distributing this contraband, I doubt it came from our colony.
In regards to the drugs, these are illegal and the likelihood of them coming from our colony is the same as illegal firearms and would be brought about by the highly unlikely scenario expressed in the previous paragraph.

In order to not take offense to these accusations we would need to see this evidence of the contraband allegedly coming through our borders. We eagerly await your delegation.

Onward, for the security and prosperity of our colonies!

From,
Chancellor Licinius

Ending Transmission

Reserved to remind myself to post

The screeching of alarms roused the Imperial soldiers from their sleep. In a well practiced routine they rolled out of bed, hastily yet neatly dressing for combat. Room after room saw columns of Imperial soldiers marching out and into the hallways, grabbing rifles from resting perches near the door.

However, not all rooms were lucky enough to be able to cleanly run through the motions. Many Imperial soldiers awoke to both alarms and gunfire as Colonial Regulars mowed down sleeping soldiers in their beds. Without mercy they spewed hot lead into the sleeping figures, and extra rounds to those who managed to get out of bed before meeting an early death. By the very nature of the fact that these victims were Imperial soldiers they managed to take out several Regulars. Hidden pistols were drawn and small firefights would erupt, but the Regulars just started with far too advantageous a position. The sleeping Imperial soldiers were next to naked, and those unfortunate enough to have their room raided had no chance.

The columns of soldiers who awoke to only the shrill sounds of sirens would march up to Colonial Regulars (who for some strange reasons were all already up, awake, and congregated together) and inquire as to what was going on, only to be greeted with rounds screaming forth from Imperial guns.

Sergeant John Duval had been marching at the back of his column of roommates when he saw a friend lying bleeding around a corner. Wordlessly breaking off from his men he jogged over to see what had happened to his friend. Innocently resting his hand on his blade he was about to ask what happened when he caught sight of the back of a Colonial Regular jumping at his bleeding comrade.

“You fucking pig! Fuck your country!”

The Regular brought his hands in the air, now it was obvious to John that they were wrapped around the hilt of a dagger. Without hesitation he lunged forward, drawing his blade and slashing at the Regular’s abdomen. As the teeth of the blade dug in his left hand flew off the blade and forward, then it came up at an angle and hit the regular square in Adam’s apple. With a twist of his hands John slammed the man’s own blade into his skull and withdrew his own blade and the limp body fell to the floor.

“What the hell happened? Why is he trying to kill you?”

With blood leaking from his mouth the dying comrade brought his arms forward, revealing the bloody bullet holes decorating his stomach. “It’s the Colonials. They’ve betrayed us man…they’ve betrayed us….” In a movie like death scene the man’s hands fell back down as his neck leaned backwards, his eyes rolling up into his head and signaling his death.

John allowed himself one tear, which he promptly wiped away, before he stood up and swung his assault rifle into his hand. Time to rape some fucking A-holes! Clicking the safety off and swinging to full auto John began to noiselessly run down the corridor, towards the stairs and up to the nearest security center. Chances were the doors were sealed and Regulars inside, but, he had to hope they weren’t. Launching himself off the top stair he spun right to see the familiar strips of the Colonial Regulars. Three men gawked at John’s raised weapon before reaching for their own, but first they found themselves cut to shreds.

Nearing the finish Duval rounded a corner to find a cluster of Regular standing in the open door of the Security Center, an Imperial corpse decorating the center of the cluster. Dropping to his knees John let his weapon fire, sending rounds and rounds into the heads of what seemed to be endless waves of the Colonial bastards. The shrill clicking of his gun signaled the release of his first clip as the weapon automatically chambered the second one. Pausing a second to ensure the falling magazine would not hit him John then gunned down the last few Regulars, including the one attempting to seal the door. Flinging the door open John was greeted with one Regular lunging at him with a small native dagger clutched in hand, a quick and fierce blow from John’s weapon sent the man into a bloody fit on the floor. “You fucking killed my friend!” he said as he shot the man multiple times in the knees.

Shouldering his weapon he closed the door and activated the locks, John too had been fortunate enough o serve security detail and he knew most of the tricks this tiny office held. Sitting at the seat John grabbed hold of the microphone and flipped several switches so that he would boom out over the entire complex.

“All soldiers, open fire on Colonial Regulars immediately! I repeat, kill any and ALL Colonial Regulars in sight! This is not a joke! The Regulars have betrayed us and slaughtered our men, let’s get our revenge!” John twirled several knobs and flicked a number of buttons and switches as he set the message to replay the first three sentences every ten minutes. Feeling secure in the belief that now, whether it was too late or not, at least the Imperials knew what was going on, John turned around to find the Regular still twitching on the floor in pain. In a mad leap John withdrew his blade as he fell towards the Regular and sliced both his legs off from the knee down. “How does that help the pain?”

Sheathing his blade John pocketed the over-ride key to allow him entry into the booth later and set the door to automatically lock next time it closed. Then as he opened the door he dragged the regular by the jacket into the hallway and left him there to bleed to death. Closing the door and activating the auto lock John took his BEWD out once more and started cautiously walking around corners, seeking other Imperials still alive.

--

Since John’s announcements battles were raging in all hallways and the courtyard, the same scene of Colonials vs. Imperials. Due to the element of surprise, now since lost, the Colonials were undoubtedly winning, sweeping out hall after hall and pushing the Imperials back within the base.

John’s roommates had fortified themselves behind a corner, taking well-aimed shots at the Colonials amassing at the end of the only hallway leading to their position. The men who weren’t actively shooting around the corner were opening all the doors in the hallway they could, pulling out anything and everything that could be used to build a barricade. Empty ammo trunks, clothing cases, machine parts boxes, and more started to form into a wall occupying three-fourths of the passage, set back a couple feet from the corner.

The men were hoping to build a barricade and hold themselves in the hallway long enough to wait for reinforcements, but their chances were not great and it showed in the dull moods of the men. Quick hands were operated by long faces, many replaying the images of dying friends. Suddenly, one pair of hands wrapped around something long, hard, and cold. The man realized his hands had drifted into a box and he quickly opened it, hoping that whatever the contents were would be able to help them in their struggle. To his absolute joy he saw an old fifty caliber machine gun lying entrenched in the box. Shouting to several of his comrades they wrapped their hands around it and brought it into the hall, sending spasms of hope through all the men.

“Those Colonials round the corner and we can give ‘em what they deserve!”

A young lieutenant stepped forward and placed his hands on the barrel of the weapon. “You’ve done a great job and found our saving grace. Forget the rest of the barricade, let’s put a notch in what we have and erect a bulkhead behind it with which we can rest the gun on!”

Instantly the men jumped about, pulling enough material out of the wall to leave a generous hole for the gun to stick through, and then piling more stuff behind the hole to rest the gun on. The mound quickly grew until the lieutenant shouted to stop and level off the pile of equipment. With a wry smile on his face he helped the men hoist up the weapon and set it up atop the makeshift barricade.

“We’ve got it men, now we can do it! They’re going to round that corner and we’re going to mow ‘em down and let the bodies collect there. Any ‘nades that come at us must be immediately tossed backward, and we should probably shower them with enough to prevent them from throwing their own in. When we’ve shot down and blow up enough of those bastards we can launch an excursion around the corner and see if we’re clear. Everyone understand!?”

“Sir, Yes Sir!”

As Duval’s message began to play once more than men heard the distinct crash of boots as the Colonials came charging down the hallway. Those manning the corner stopped their single shots and let automatic blasts flow before falling back and retreating behind the barricade. As they came in lines of ready soldiers closed behind them, sealing the small gap between the barricade and the wall with several lines of ready guns. Several men grabbed positions around the fifty caliber, ready to rain down hell and if necessary, replace a wounded gunner. As they all took positions, readying themselves for the coming flood, a grenade crashed off the wall and rolled up to the barricade. One of the front men, kneeling on the floor with his weapon in hand, rolled forward and grabbed the tiny ball, sending it bouncing off the walls back to where it had came from. An explosion followed by agonizing groans and screams confirmed that the grenade had done well.

As the man fell back into his position the first angry faces of Colonial Regulars came peaking around the corner, guns blazing and blood splattered on their uniforms. The man at the fifty caliber looked down at his chain of ammo which rested neatly in the gun before looking at the Colonials once more. Squeezing down on the trigger he could do nothing but help smile as he went to sow hell on the enemy. His joy was early though, two dull whispy clicks and then the gun went silent, still lying their cold.

“Why aren’t you shooting!?” shouted the men who were sealing the gaps, their guns already firing at full force at the mass of Colonials who seemed to have chosen to just charge.

“It’s…it’s not-” KABOOM! An extremely well placed grenade shot out of a grenade launcher and soared through the hole cleared out for the gun. Smacking the gunner in the stomach it exploded, sending blood everywhere and turning little pieces of bone into flying shrapnel. The barricade collapsed forward as several hand tossed grenades landed amongst those who were defending what used to be a small gap. Rather than use the remnants of the barricade as cover some of the Imperials simply got up and ran off, seeking shelter in one of the rooms branching off from the hall. Some, however, did their job and threw the grenades back.

As explosions ripped through the Colonials the few grenades which were not tossed away from the Imperials exploded as well. Ripped torsos and bleeding bodies flew outward from the small gap which was now completely cleared out. Like a train of rhinos the burly Colonials came charging through striking down all in their path and sending waves of hot lead into those who still tried to defend the hallway.

To many of the Imperials it seemed the lead Colonials were merely absorbing their bullets in thick layers of skin. Panic started to set in as they set off in mad rushes to barricade themselves in the assembly of rooms dotting the hallway.

One group of men slammed themselves inside a dark room and managed to find a deadbolt lock on the door. At the moment they flicked the lock the doorknob turned and twisted and then the door shuddered as something crashed into it on the other side.

“Does anyone have a flashlight? There’s no light in here!”

Several of the men fumbled to withdraw their lights and began to pull them out just as a flood of light fell over them. Their guns were brought up, trained on the figure of John Duval, silhouette gleaming brilliantly in the doorway.

“Where the hell have you been man!?”

“Long story, I killed a bunch of Colonials and broadcasted that message. What’re you guys doing?”

“Angry Colonials on the other side of this door, our defenses were wiped out and most of our roommates are dead. We never got a chance to group in battalions or anything, we’re just mostly going about in groups or as roommates. When did they say reinforcements would arrive?”

“When did who say that?”

“The Imperials garrisons, the commanders, the general, anyone!”

“Oh…shit. I didn’t call them.”

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME! WE’RE GETTING SLAUGHTERED AND YOU DIDN’T CALL FOR REINFORCEMENTS!?”

“Fuck, no, my bad. Follow me, we’ll head back to the booth.”

“Wait, aren’t we trapped in this part of the building? Isn’t that hallway the only way out?”

“No, pretty much everything has a back route.”

“Fuck…”

As the men filed out of the room behind John’s lead they realized that there were only five of them, including John. As they ran in line formation, jumping around corners and moving down the occasional Regular most of them began to wonder if this small group could make it to a Security Center. Then, fortunately, the big doors of one loomed into sight.

John slowed down and crouched further with his BEWD raised in hand. Inching forward he stopped and stared at the clean floor in front of the door.

“This is the wrong one. I was at the other center.”

“Well, maybe this one’s unlocked!”

“It’s worth a try…”

Again creeping forward John reached out slowly and wrapped his hand around the doorknob. Glancing left and right he pulled the door open and rolled in, gun at the ready. No enemies greeted him, just several Imperial corpses. Moving quickly he leapt forward and placed his weapon down next to him, grabbing a hold of a headset and a medley of controls with his now free hands. John looked at the monitor in front of him and started punching in the codes and sequences necessary to send an outside message. As the numbers started appearing on screen he stopped a second and pulled his hands back. Tilting his head up and squeezing his eyes shut he replayed the scene of him leading the men out of the dark room in his mind. 1…2…3…4…Yeah, there were four of them. Glancing down again he began to type random sequences on the keyboard as he started intently into the monitor. 1…2…3…4…5…There are five people silhouetted in this screen…one of them further back than the others. Again pausing he picked his hands up and shouted out “What were those other numbers?” He brought his head into his hands and then dropped them down, fondling the bottom of his pistol.

Like lightning he jumped up, gun in hand and ready to fire. Turning around he identified the Colonial standing furtively behind his men and then sent a round into the man’s chest. It was a mistake, and John knew it. Bullets should always go to the head, where the presence of body armor is much more evident. The Colonial stepped back a bit before he sent a three round burst across John’s chest.

As pain erupted and shot through his body, seemingly pumped and carried throughout by the blood flowing in his veins, he dropped his pistol and gripped his chest as he fell to the floor. For the few second he could open his eyes he saw the man mow down his comrades and watched as their bodies too went limp and fell to the floor.

John’s eyes closed shut, streaky white mingling with the smooth red he could now feel all over his body. His head felt pain on the left side as it crunched with the floor, his shoulder getting beaten back by the crash to the ground. Consciousness slowly slipped away as he heard several men speaking rapidly in some native dialect. John tried to push himself up, tried to grab his weapon, but his body wouldn’t move. Everything he did played out as a dream in his head, but his body lay motionless as his mind too started too close its eyes.