NationStates Jolt Archive

The 747-400 throttled back as it began its descent from cruising altitude, the silver contrails on either wing curving down like a quill sliding across blue parchment. On either side of the aircraft, a pair of F4G ‘Wild Weasel’ Fighter-Bombers held steady close to the forward-quarters of the gigantic airliner, the sun reflecting across their metallic silver bodies and glinting across the AIM-7 ‘Sparrow’ missiles poised upon their weapon mounts. They adjusted their pitch and power to maintain a close position to the larger aircraft, the War Flag of Azraelonia upon their wings contrasting with the different civilian flag of the Federation itself, yet both displaying the proud symbol of National Somersbyite Fascism.

The airliner itself had been modified to contain a conference room, several areas of standard seating for reporters and other officials, a small apartment for the national leader and the Crisis Centre at the rear of the aircraft. The Crisis Centre itself contained a large communications room, and a smaller conference room at the rear of the aircraft where military issues were dealt with. This was currently where The Leader sat.

There was no crisis at this time; the room was eerily silent within its soundproof walls. No one else sat around the table, and the large digital map was deactivated. Jacob preferred the seclusion and the quiet of the room; unlike his apartment at the middle of the aircraft, nobody could enter the Crisis Centre without a key card access. Aside from the Supreme Generalissimo, only the top Generals and Ministers in the Federation could enter the room, none of who were on this journey. In the dull light of the communications room outside, ‘The Leader’, as he had been dubbed by the State Media, basked in his seclusion.

Upon the table in front of him lay a pad of notepaper, open to a page yet unfilled. The Leader twirled a pen between his fingers, musing a concept within his head. After a few moments, he applied utensil to paper and wrote at the top of the page, ‘Regarding the Foreign Influence inside the Federation, and Applications to its Solution.’

A buzzer sounded upon the desk. The Generalissimo pushed the receive button. “Yes,” he said simply.

A deep voice responded. “Sir, this is Lieutenant-Colonel Johnson on the Flight Deck, we are approaching Oceanian airspace.”

Jacob nodded to himself. “Very well.” He released the receive switch and closed the notepad, placing the pen in his top pocket. Taking a moment to compose himself, he stood and exited the Crisis Centre, walking to his apartment for landing as the aircraft continued descending, already cleared in advance for entrance of the UK’s borders.

Several Days Prior
Philadelphia, Oceania Province, United Kingdom

Ewan McClellan’s thick and hairy fingers pushed a small and slightly greasy piece of grilled chicken into his open mouth taking care not to let the lemon-lime marinade drip onto his impeccable white uniform. Though in the isolated security room at Avin International Airport, the likelihood of anyone but a colleague of the Royal Intelligence Service seeing him with a stain on the white dress shirt remained remote. McClellan casually inspected the numerous arrivals from international flights, casually only because a sophisticated, and thus expensive, computer system monitored the faces of those walking through the customs lines – comparing their faces to a database of individuals wanted by Imperium or those nations that had treaties of extradition. Some faces, however, simply were those of individuals of questionable motives and backgrounds that warranted extra attention.

With a half-chewed remnant of the previous night’s dinner tucked within his cheek, McClellan leaned in closer to the screen as a small, but highly bright, red light went off – signaling that an individual had matched a known face in the database. Quickly putting the next piece of chicken back into its plastic container, he wiped his hands on a napkin and began rapidly typing commands into a keyboard, bringing up the information on the flight off of which the series of passengers had been arriving: an Oceania Airways flight out of Somersby City. Despite the recent start of relations between the United Kingdom and the Federation, Oceania Airways had already begun flights to and from the nation, and while small thus far, the traffic was expected to grow. Curious as to who the individual was, their status only registering as ‘Tagged’, i.e. a person of interest for reasons unspecified, McClellan could do little else but compress the relevant images and files and then send them through a dedicated and secure line, the arrival of the files at RIS headquarters coming not long after McClellan hit ‘Send.’

Present Day
Royal Airport at Emperor’s Field
Outside Imperium, New Britain Province, United Kingdom

A tad windy, the brunette muttered to nobody in particular, her long but thin petticoat covering a knee-length black skirt, complemented by a blue silk blouse and a matching black jacket.

Indeed, a shorter bespectacled man added, his voice quiet and contemplative, though I imagine we shall not have any problems. In a silver-grey three piece suit, the thin man looked skyward, anticipating the sight of a moderately-sized Boeing at any moment. In years past, the 747 models had been considered large, but recent development rendered them small – especially for a nation of some seven billion people that loved to travel. At long last the man heard a crack in the sky as the Royal Air Force escorts that had guided the Azraelonian aircraft in across the island of New Britain pulled off at supersonic speed, an attempt to rattle the nerves of the assembled UK diplomats. In theory, the flybys had long been prohibited; but in practice, they were part of the tradition of welcoming guests to the United Kingdom – at least guests who were being received by senior UK officials.

Finally in the distance, a silverish speck appeared, then two more smaller ones at the central speck’s sides. That must be them, the man spoke. Turning behind him to face the limousine that had carried him to the isolated airfield, itself private property of the Crown and thus making possible the exclusion of the press – a sore point of contention between the sitting government and the press. Nevertheless, he straightened his red tie, striped with blue and white in recognition and homage to the Oceanian flag, and ensured both his vest and white shirt were also prim and proper. He nodded to his woman compatriot, who promptly removed her coat and handed it to an aide waiting in a second automobile, a sedan to carry aides and staff personnel.

In appropriate fashion, a unit of the Royal Marines marshaled in straight lines, readying their instruments as others quickly hoisted the red field and white circle of the Azraelonian flag onto a pole next to that of the United Kingdom’s. Slowly, the noise of the large jet aircraft deafened all, its tires screeching as they hit the runway. A few moments later, the aircraft having taxied to the predesignated tarmac, the mobile ladder was thrust up against the side of the aircraft, its red carpet extending down onto the ground, the man and woman standing ready to receive their guests.

They watched quietly and remained still as the first man moved off the aircraft and down the steps, the Royal Marines launching into an obviously well-rehearsed rendition of the Azraelonian anthem. When completed, the man stepped forward and offered his hand, Supreme Generalissimo, let me introduce to you Emily Deveraux, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, he said quietly, waving his arms slowly in the direction of the woman. And I am Lord Salisbury, Prime Minister. On the behalf of His Majesty King George, welcome to the United Kingdom.

The Supreme Generalissimo took Lord Salisbury's hand firmly in his own, clasping his other across the back of the man's hand before shaking it. "Prime Minister, on behalf of the People and the State of Azraelonia, it is an honour to be here in the august United Kingdom of Oceania," the Supreme Generalissimo said politely. Then, relaxing his stance slightly, the most powerful man in the Federation of Azraelonia allowed himself a slight smile. "And I gratefully accept the welcome of His Highness King George given by your behalf."

The Supreme Generalissimo was a tall man, almost six feet tall, with darkened hair and thin, aluminium-frame glasses. Forgoing the traditional military uniform used to represent the highest military and political office in the Federation, the 30-year-old had instead chosen a formal, three-peice black suit with white shirt, his lapel displaying a pin of the Somersbyite Fascist symbol of a sharp, black 'S' known as the Gothic S due to its design. His small entourage comprised two bodyguards in similar suits, and two aides carrying briefcases. A Lieutenant in the Federation Marine Corps was seen standing at the top of the ladder, his M4 slung casually, suggesting the presence of the Section of 10 Marines onboard. Nearby, the crew of the F4s were leaving their aircraft and removing their flight gear.

Somersby continued talking, a distinct English accent in his tone. "I trust my Air Force escort will be allowed to recouperate somewhere within the Airfield?" he enquired to the Prime Minister. "They have flown a reasonable distance to get here, in line with their duty to the Federation." The Generalissimo spoke the last part proudly, he himself holding great pride for the Federation's military forces.

Present Day
Royal Airport at Emperor’s Field
Outside Imperium, New Britain Province, United Kingdom

The comparatively diminutive Prime Minister, who stood nearly half a foot shorter than the Generalissimo, allowed himself a small smile, his peripheral vision taking notice of the Federation Marine standing atop the aircraft. Salisbury took a small notice of the lapel pin and then to the F4s beyond the Boeing. I do not doubt the dedication of your pilots and as this is a Royal Air Field, your pilots will be shown to the underground bunker and storage facilities.

Salisbury waved his arm in the direction of the waiting limousine that then quietly started its hybrid engine. As the three individuals walked to the waiting automobile, the Prime Minister took the lead to open the door for the company of leaders. According to the plans our staffs discussed earlier, we shall be riding in this until we reach the main gate, at which time we shall transfer to an open Royal Carriage which will carry us to Asbury Palace in the heart of Imperium. He paused as he entered the automobile himself, pulling the door shut behind him.

Again, I should like to thank you for making this trip Generalissimo as we have much to discuss in both formal and informal matters. After having made himself comfortable, the Marquess opened a small hidden panel behind which lay a micro-fridge stocked with sparkling waters and carbonated beverages as well as standard, but expensive and imported, bottled water. From the selection, Salisbury pulled two bottles of Aqua Avila. This, the Prime Minister said, I highly recommend. It comes from an artesian well in our colony of Port Elizabeth, outside the city of Havre Avila, hence the brand’s name. Would you care for anything to drink?

Several Days Prior
Royal Intelligence Service Headquarters
Imperium, New Britain Province, United Kingdom

A man of interest, eh?

The director of domestic surveillance at the Royal Intelligence Service simply picked up the printed photograph that had been sent from Philadelphia. What have we got on this lad? he asked quietly.

A briefing officer leaned into the dim lights that shone down upon the faux-granite tabletop. Not much, sir. From the short list of individuals provided us by the Azraelonian government, it seems as if they classify him as a dissident linked to several pro-democracy groups.

But I thought that the government came to power in democratic elections? The Director interjected inquisitively.

Indeed, sir. However, the Somersby government is beginning to institute so-called reforms that intend to remove the more democratic elements of the government, including making officials they term as statesmen less accountable to the public. This, lad, the officer said, making careful use of the Director’s words, belongs to one group that opposes the Somersby plan. As of yet, they have not committed any violent activities, but the Azraelonians fear they are capable of doing so especially as today they just announced their intention to put the former government on trial.

The Director shook his head. Bloody marvelous. The Prime Minister agrees to hold a meeting with a person shutting down democracy while trying to show the world democracy is the keystone of civilisation. The older man, who had actually voted for the opposition Conservative Party in the last election, realised from the silence he had begun to rant once more. Well, I shall pass along this information to the top and at that point everything is out of our hands.