NationStates Jolt Archive

A click, a quiet click but a click nonetheless, and Eamonn O’Reilly knew he was in business. He relaxed his hazel-green eyes and let a strip of rubber hug the skin around his eye. A matte black piece of fabric within which rested his long and slender finger, slid through a near circular strip of metal and came to rest upon a piece of plastic that refused to give under the slight pressure of the glove and finger. He lay prone amongst the tall grass and he wondered to himself about how things had gotten this far.

***

High above the dyed-brown hair of Nicole Shaw, a rattan ceiling fan turned slowly to stir the hot, heavy, and humid New Albion air trapped in the outer-office to the colony’s new royal governor, an office where the air-conditioner continually broke. Since the end of the summer, the crown colony had been overseen by a new appointee of Parliament, Sir Douglas Dalton, and Shaw had been forced to move from her posh Imperium apartment to the drab and dreary dust-ridden streets of Dawesport.

After a peaceful resolution of the row between the United Kingdom and the Ottomans, Governor Mason was recalled to the capital and summoned home to serve as an advisor in the Colonial Office—presumed by all New Albionese to mean the UK wanted a less-controversial figure heading the colony’s executive government. Nonetheless, referendums and elections promised by the Salisbury government had failed to materialise and instead of a feather-light touch the UK had responded with the heavy boots of Royal Marines and increasingly Royal Army soldiers.

In the midst of typing up a copy of the monthly casualty list for the Dawesport Constabulary for the governor’s perusal, she heard the latch on the door click and then the squeal of the oil-craving hinges. A blast of cool, dry air rushed into the outer-office to flow over her back and shuffle the papers that had laid flat upon her desk. The governor’s door quickly closed and the relief ceased.

“I think it safe to say, Nicole, that the time has come to close up shop for the evening.”

Shaw turned and smiled at her boss, “That,” she responded with thoughts of the air-conditioned bus ride home flowering in her head, “sounds like a splendid idea Sir Dalton.”

***

Henry Raji glared ahead, staring at nothing but the warm blue skies south of Dawesport where white puffs of moisture condensed around dust particulates drifted over the jungles and plains of New Albion.

“What in the bloody hell are you staring at, you damned cinni?”

Without flinching and without turning to face the blonde-haired sergeant quickly coming into his field of focus, Raji let his mind begin to grapple with the racist term, coined by the British implants to the island in the 18th century that referenced the darker skin of the native peoples and their dependence—long since lost—on cinnamon.

“Sir, nothing, sir,” Raji responded quickly.

“So you admit you are a cinni!”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Good,” the sergeant answered. The drill sergeant hailed from the city of Regal in the United Kingdom and was a regular in the Royal Army detached from duty to train the King’s Dawesport Foot, a newly-created infantry formation in the local Colonial Defence Force. The Oceanian sergeant had been tasked with raising the standards of the new regiment to those of the Royal Army in preparation for counter-insurgency operations in the jungle-covered border regions with the Ottomans to the south.

***

“Arrowhead Two, you are cleared for weapons release on target.” Lieutenant Trevor Jones let a broad smile creep upon his face and gave confirmation of the issued order and from behind his visor he let his eyes focus on the flat panel screens near the edge of the cockpit glass. At the moment, his aircraft was tied into the local battlenet and his radar remained switched off—though so far as the Royal Navy knew his targets had no access to sophisticated anti-aircraft systems. Nonetheless, his ride was a multi-billion pound investment that the United Kingdom had no interest in losing due to hubris and so Jones double-checked to ensure his plane was flying quietly.

His was a tailless delta-winged aircraft, with it canards increasing the lift at the low altitudes he found himself flying at. It was to be the first operational test of the Royal Navy’s newest aircraft, the FGR.1 Nimbostratus—the Nimby to pilots and technicians—and much had been placed on the inability of the unsophisticated insurgents of New London to counter the total dominance the government owned of the skies.

Jones flight consisted of four strike aircraft and two additional Nimbies as escort. They had launched from the HMS Pacific, a new strike carrier optimised for aerial operations in support of amphibious landings and ground operation on insular terrains. Several hours ago in the briefing room, Jones and his fellow pilots had been tasked with eliminating what the Office of Royal Navy Intelligence believed to be an arms depot for the New London insurgency in the jungles surrounding St. Claire.

As the tree-lined horizon approached at low super-sonic speeds, the sun finally began to fall to a reddening sky. If all worked well, Jones and his comrades would emerge from the bright disc of the sun to deliver their payloads and shred hundreds of malcontents into unrecognisable pieces of flesh and bone. The price for threatening the unity and integrity of the Oceanic Empire.

***

Swirling into blended oblivion, Benjamin Yorke watched mesmerised as the ice cubes clinked against the side of the glass as they melted and cracked on contact with his piping hot tea. “I tend not to agree, Rodney,” Yorke finally added when the ice dissolved, little bubbles the only visible reminder of their former existence. “As it stands, the Prime Minister is undefeatable according to the polls and to try and challenge him directly makes little sense. We need to focus our efforts on the small chinks in the DSP armour. We cannot win this January—but the following elections with his majority reduced I believe the Conservative Party can—and will—break the Democratic Socialist grip that had held this nation since the 1990s.”

Sitting across from Yorke was a grey-haired man, his eyes warm in colour but cold in calculation, his own slender fingers wrapped firmly around a piping hot cup of tea un-tempered with ice. “There in is the mistake, Benjamin. A real change lay within our grasp—conservative parties are on the ascendancy in Novikov to the demise of the Salisbury-Borovic alliance. If we were to ally with these parties perhaps—“

“And I shall stop you there, Rodney,” Yorke interrupted, pulling his back away from the supple leather to lean in closer to the shadow chancellor. “Those parties are nationalist parties in favour of socialism and are, as such, wholly unacceptable to the Conservative Party.”

“Yes, Benjamin, but they offer us a solid opportunity if we allow ourselves to compromise—“

“Compromise,” Yorke snapped, replacing his tea upon the small mahogany table between the leader of the opposition and his shadow chancellor. “What will remain of core conservative values if we compromise to reach what I see as a marginal electoral victory with socialists?”

***

Alistair Tetley let the smooth waxy surface of the jade run across the callused tips of his fingers. Standing in the gardens of the Citadel, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom had withdrawn himself from a meeting of his cabinet that had devolved into a mere shouting argument between the Home Secretary and the Colonial Secretary—leaving his trusted Foreign Secretary to mediate and reach an equitable solution while he attended more important matters.

For years a storm had been brewing within the top of the Democratic Socialist Party. Since the early 1990s people such as himself and his predecessor, Reginald Baker, had advocated dragging the party towards a centrist line in favour of market economics and a smaller social safety net. In large part, he had succeeded: economic growth continued at high—albeit unsustainable—numbers while unemployment shrank and general wealth increased. Much of this, however, had to do with the physical expansion of the United Kingdom that occurred on his watch.

The war with Novikov had brought into the fold of the UK a resource-rich country with a comparatively cheap labour market that brough foreign investment and the return of industry and manufacturing. However, the expansion had also brought with it questions of the moral and ethical legitimacy of annexing nations of hundreds of millions. Critics had derailed the annexation of New Albion as well—all the while unaware of the less-than-honourable means with which the territory had been acquired.

And now, as the Colonial Secretary and the Home Secretary shouted at each across a long oval table, matters were beginning to come to an ugly head.

***

Thomas Yborta twisted his nose as the stench of still sterile processed air flooded his wide, flaring nostrils darkly tanned by years of toil under the Pacific sun. His muscles rippled as his strong legs carried his body and two large trunks from a circulating carousel while men and women and children ran amok bickering and shouting over their luggages. He threw a quick, laughing glance towards the two men who followed to his right and left but a step behind, and with all three wearing white linen sports coats they pushed through a revolving door and into the bright and steamy sauna of Dawesport. “A little bit steamier than New London, eh chief?” one of the entourage offered amidst the blares of taxi horns and buses. Yborta smiled then nodded slowly. “More steam naturally requires more fire, Charles.”

***

Without betraying a hint of emotion save a warm smile, Trent Davidson let the warm breeze envelop his chilled body. For the entirety of the morning, the Port Admiral of HMNB Avinapolis had sat in a chilly air-conditioned briefing room listening to the complaints of the various squadron and fleet commanders who had returned from offshore stations in New Albion and demanded their ships be given priority to dock. Since the end of the New Albion crisis, the Royal Navy had slowly been ratcheting down its deployment of major capital warships to Dawesport, which although blessed with a deep harbour had none of the necessary infrastructure for any ships larger than patrol boats. Consequently, all such ships returned to Avinapolis. All such ships wanted to tie up. All at the same time.

From the balcony of Davidson’s private office in the twenty-storey Administration Building, the officer looked out upon dozens of grey warships lined up neatly in the strait between Jacksonton and Avinapolis, while small private sailboats and yachts queued up outside the secure perimeter to catch a glimpse of the Royal Navy’s largest warships. Somewhere above and behind him, on the opposite side of the white reinforced-concrete structure, another powerful jet-engined aircraft roared, likely en route to Dawesport—whose air fields had not yet been certified for large civilian passenger aircraft and so who received constant flights of short connectors from Avinapolis and Jacksonton.

After some time, the glass door slid open with a quiet hiss and Davidson turned to find his brown-haired secretary, her bun bundled underneath her white cover. “Admiral, Commodore Bentley would like to see you regarding the resupply of his flagship.”

He shook his head and swore under his breath before returning to the bitter cold of brass.

***

Iarapoco was a dusty colonial city, a developing outpost on the true frontiers of the Oceanic Empire. Alfred Canner knew as much and had made it a point to invest in his long-term security by investing what he saw as the future ‘jewel in the crown’ of the empire. But if that meant making deals with the devil, so be it.

The white-haired Canner, who was actually quite young in his forties despite the colouration, sat in a stucco-walled room where a ceiling fan whipped furiously trying to cool the stifling air created by a short-sighted architect who had plated the front of the room, which faced the sun, with glass. Yet, as perspiration collected along the furrows of his forehead, the dark-skinned man across from him, eyes hidden behind obsidian shades.

“Everything is accounted for, Mr. Canner,” the dark-skinned man asked in an English notably forced and unnatural to his tongue.

Canner nodded and threw a quick glance behind him to an assistant who turned away and began to press numbers into a mobile phone. “My assistant is, as I speak, directing the lorry to the pre-arranged location where the goods shall be loaded onto your transport.”

“Very good, Mr. Canner.” And just as Canner had done a moment ago, the mysterious man turned to a similarly well-(but identity concealed)-dressed man who dialed his own number into a mobile phone. “And as promised, the funds are being transferred to your accounts. On the behalf of my people, I should like to thank you for this brisk business and I hope we shall be in touch as I think your services shall once more be required.”

***

The port of Mustara had, in ancient history, been an important trading post for the native tribes along the western coast of New Albion. Since then, of course, the ancient harbours had silted up to the point of providing not much utility especially in comparison to the primary city of Dawesport. However, every so often rust-coated freighters limped into the brackish harbour with smoke-pouring tugs guiding them to the few remaining quays where longshoremen still remembered how to quickly and efficiently undertake their trade. And, if the price was right, so quick so as to offload some cargo before the one port inspector from Dawesport could even arrive on sight. And so as the inspector drove up to the gates, he shrugged watching the first set of boxes and crates roll away on flatbeds.

***

Nicole Shaw stepped gingerly up onto the uneven steps of the bus, packed with day-workers and other auto-less office persons like herself. The diesel engine rumbled and the brakes lifted off the wheels allowing the bus to move further down the palm-lined street, the sun setting between the radio-antennae of two UK infantry fighting vehicles parked alongside the road near the onramp to the motorway leading out of town.

***

Trevor Jones pulled ever so slightly on his stick, with it lifting the nose of his fighter-aircraft in relation to the waves just metres below the munitions stowed under the composite wings. Then, the seas of blue gave way to oceans of green as water became jungle. The Nimby roared over a hilltop, scattering a flock of some animal Jones failed to recognise though he laughed quietly all the same.

***

Alfred Canner rose from his wicker-backed chair and extended his sweaty palm to have it taken by the far more massive and rough-skinned example from his business partner. The two men smiled and then quickly exited the room, Canner taking a path that led down to a ground-level café where he had already placed an order for tea and biscuits.

***

Henry Raji gripped his new rifle carefully and took a moment to check down the length of the weapon and correctly set the scope. Having just been dismissed from the afternoon firing exercises, he emptied the weapon of any rounds and set the rifle to safe before heading out across the dry grass field. The base complex was large, the setting sun casting sharply angled-shadows from the silhouettes of parked tanks and IFVs.

***

Rodney Ingrahm shut the door softly behind his party leader as they parted ways for the evening. They had sat for hours and still accomplished nothing only to receive word that a leading potential ally for the Tories, Radovan Noskovic, had brought ten more members of his nationalist Novikovian political party into the House of Commons. And Yorke simply denounced them as ‘buggerly’ Novies. He searched through his pant pocket and dug out a tiny mobile phone to press two buttons and connect him to his friend and ally, Gavin Astley. “I am going to do it.”

***

Alistair Tetley slammed the door shut as he reentered the conference room where his cabinet sat, shouting and bickering at each other. It silenced two of his most senior secretaries with the remainder of the room. “What in the bloody hell is going on in here,” he shouted. “The lot of us are the government of over seven billion people and the two of you cannot stop shouting and bickering after half an hour? How in the bloody hell do you expect to manage a government and indeed an empire if you fail in compromising on the simplest of issues?”

***

Nicole Shaw stood listening to her iPod, her headphones blasting away the latest in pop from the Home Islands. She never heard the explosion that ripped off the sides of her bus and the flesh from her bones. She never saw the minivan that lumbered up beside her bus nor the man inside who pressed a cliché red button that detonated numerous explosive devices packed into the rear of the vehicle. In a mere instant, sixty-seven individuals died, a further thirteen would perish within 24 hours from the burns and shrapnel wounds suffered in the blast. Within 48 hours the investigators would learn the minivan had followed the bus from the spot at which it had picked up Shaw, who had taken the same route home everyday.

***

Trevor Jones laughed at the herd animals while below him a man laughed at the flight of aircraft approaching from the sun as they had done countless times before. He laughed as he dropped his right arm and then stopped laughing only to watch smoke trails from ignited rocket motors as thermal seekers near instantaneously acquired the six aircraft. Jones had his laughter interrupted by the shrill scream of the computer’s missile alert system. He ejected flares and chaff and tried to bank but all of it was for naught as the missile entered the tailpipe and detonated, shredding the aircraft with fragments of aluminium and other shards of metal. Within 24 hours all six pilots from the flight were rounded up and executed. Within 48 hours the bodies floated in with the tide to greet lunch crowds along the waterfront of New London.

***

Alfred Canner sat at a glass table, his knife gliding effortlessly across the surface of his biscuit coating it with a sweet jam made from a local fruit. He rested the edge of the knife along the edge of the plate and stirred a spoonful of sugar into a similarly sweet tea, naturally decaffeinated that grew in the colony. On the street beside him, another Royal Army lorry rumbled by with wounded soldiers and captured Veii prisoners of war—most of them without weapons. Within 24 hours another convoy of vehicles would drive through the same section of the city with crates filled with rifles bloodied by conflict and surface-to-air missiles taken from Oceanian and Veiian launchers. Within 48 hours those weapons would be loaded onto freighters heading out of Recedentian ports.

***

Henry Raji walked slowly across the parade grounds, watching a small number of native soldiers be thrown onto the back of a transport with their hands and feet bound. In the blink of an eye one of the men broke free from his restraints and grabbed hold of the sidearm of his guard, putting two rounds into the Oceanian’s chest before a torrent of rifle fire from sentries cut down the Indian. Within 24 hours, those sentries and Raji’s drill sergeant would be dead at the hands of their ‘cinnis’. Within 48 hours, the Royal Army in New Albion would be confronted with a massive uprising within the ranks of its nascent colonial defence force.

***

Rodney Ingrahm replaced the phone into his pocket only to find himself in his kitchen. He made his way to the gas-fired stove and filled a pot with tap water then opened a cabinet to dig out a strainer and an air-tight container of lapsang souchong tea. He opened his Nison laptop and a chess application while his tea water slowly reached a boil. Within 24 hours there would be an official challenge to the leadership of the Conservative Party. Within 48 hours, Radovan Noskovic would announce his intention to side with Ingrahm is the Conservatives won a plurality in the expected January elections.

***

Alistair Tetley settled into his seat, his brief tirade over. “There is no question,” he resumed in his characteristically quiet voice, “that the DSP and the UK have seen a tough few weeks. The losses in New London, New Albion and even in Recedentia have been drips from a leaky faucet. However, while we sit here bickering over what joint to use to fix the leak, the water is accumulating ever higher and threatens to wash us right out of the room.” Tetley leaned back into his chair before continuing, “and so we are at a crucial point in the history of not just the United Kingdom but our party as a whole and we need to begin to think about how to fix those leaks and repair our own relations and that starts with those of us in this room.” Within 24 hours the Home Secretary along with three other cabinet secretaries would resign from the government. Within 48 hours, the former Home Secretary would announce her intention to run as party leader and potentially the first female Prime Minister in the nation’s history.

Imperium, New Britain
United Kingdom

With a rapid increase in decibels, the incessant chirping of Rodney Ingrahm’s alarm finally forced him from his deep slumber if only to stretch out an arm and a hand to fumble with the buttons until the interruption ceased. And then he turned over once more until fifteen minutes later the noise resurfaced and he finally arose for the day.

His was a modest apartment in the Crohill district of the UK capital, Imperium, a name despised by Ingrahm for its importance as a modern symbol of the surrender of the British culture that had and still did dominate the United Kingdom and her Oceanic Empire. And so he smiled a bit everyday when he found the morning paper on the table, courtesy his wife, titled in a serifed typeface the Georgetown Gazette. His wife, of course, had left for the morning as the primary doctor on call for a small hospital in the Asbury district dedicated to providing low-cost medical services to lower-income families. It was a very useful position for her husband, who hoped to be the leader of the Conservative Party in two week’s time.

He began to read the daily while listening for the whistle of boiling water and caught several stories that he would comment upon in a mid-day press conference. Of critical importance, however, was the polling data on the second and third page double spread about the political crisis unfolding in the UK: problems of disunity within the country’s two largest political parties. Fortunately for Ingrahm, the current information—a week old but still useful—indicated he was at least as familiar to the public as the man he sought to unseat, Benjamin Yorke. Unfortunately, Lord Salisbury was still more familiar.

When the water finally reached a hissing state, the grey-haired man wrapped in a deeply vibrant blue robe rose from his chair to pour the water over a stainless steel ball that contained a spoonful of loose lapsang souchong, a strong and smoky-flavoured tea that was his personal favourite. As he returned to his seat he neatly folded the paper over until reaching the morning crosswords that he began to complete with a worn-down pencil also pre-placed atop the table by his wife.

Finally, after a quarter hour, Ingrahm turned around and stood up to switch on the television, finding KBC World to catch the main international headlines and then at the half-hour to KBC One for domestic news. He sipped his tea, taken without sugar or cream, listening to the political reporters debating the likelihood of his chances to succeed Yorke and then, perhaps, Lord Salisbury. By the end of the segment he had learned that many still thought Yorke stood a good chance to win in two weeks’ time and that Salisbury would undoubtedly prevail come January.

HMNB Avinapolis
Royal Crown Colony of Avinapolis

Admiral Davidson let his eyes run down the document once more. It had arrived from the Admiralty moments ago, likely as part of the inevitable fallout of the attacks in New London and New Albion. Unlike those restless colonies, however, Avinapolis was calm, quiet, and prosperous. Skyscrapers glistened in the tropical sun while pleasure boats sailed to and fro in the straits and harbours, their captains and crews and passengers enjoying the favourable weather and clime as well as the exchange rate with the Verdant Archipelago across the strait.

Yet for those men and women wearing the uniform, what Davidson held in his hands would be most unwelcome. Despite the large presence of soldiers and marines in Recedentia there would be increased deployments to New London and New Albion—all of whom would require provisioning from the supply depots under his command. And so he calmly pressed the intercom button to reach his secretary, “Lieutenant,” he said clearly into the box atop his desk, “please make the necessary arrangements to cease current replenishment operations of the Implacable and Inviolable and divert any other additional resources to readying the Addley and the Arthur for immediate departure.”

“Yes, Admiral, anything else, sir?”

“I am quite certain Commodore Benton would like to know why his flagship will not be having its stores replenished so if you could have him found and brought to my office please.”

“Right away, sir.”

The Citadel
Imperium, New Britain
United Kingdom

Howard Robertson let his fingers rub his smooth and bald head as he attempted to wrap his mind around what had transpired in the past two days. In weeks prior, the casualty count in the colonies had slowly been rising, admittedly more so in East Recedentia than anywhere else but the trend had still been a slow rise. But for the first time in months several significant attacks had occurred near simultaneously in two separate colonies—and that was something Robertson could not afford to ignore.

He had been forced to cut short one of the Prime Minister’s meetings with a labour union official to squeeze in a small meeting with the head of the Royal Intelligence Service after lunch, by which time Robertson hoped the RIS would have some useful intelligence given their apparent inability to foresee the most recent attacks. Similarly, the Office of Royal Navy Intelligence was gathering information on the attacks on the Royal Navy’s six aircraft, from a more technical perspective. That rebels portrayed as hunter-gatherers with pitchforks could down some of the most advanced multi-role fighters was an absolute PR disaster for the UK, whose armed services now looked woefully ill-prepared for dealing with insurgents. Robertson’s true fear, however, was not what the mass media cared about, rival empires stealing away Oceanian colonies, but newly emboldened separatists.

Electronic beeping interrupted his thoughts and his read over of a preliminary report from ORNI sent over in the daily security packet, and he lifted his head and his eyes to find his phone and one of its lights blinking red and then picked up the receiver. “Howard Robertson,” he answered.

“Mr. Robertson,” came a woman’s voice on the opposite end, “this is Commander Kathryn Elliot of ORNI. I am calling with regards to recently uncovered information that I, as lead investigator, feel you ought to be apprised of immediately.”

Robertson nearly laughed at the timing, but managed to respond in an even tone, “and what is said information, Commander?”

“Sir, all available data points to the weapons used in destroying the Nimbostratus aircraft as IR-guided short-range surface-to-air missiles—“

“I thought that had already been established, Commander,” Robertson interjected in a huff.

“Sir, if you would allow me to finish, the missiles were not of foreign origin as originally thought, but they are standard inventory missiles for the Royal Army. We have in fact recovered a fragment with a partial serial number that indicates that the one missile in question was from a batch used by a unit currently deployed in Oceanian East Recedentia.”

Robertson shot up in his seat. “Are you saying Royal Army units shot down our fighters?”

“I would not say as much, sir, only that currently it appears Royal Army surface-to-air missiles were involved in the downing of the Royal Navy’s six Nimbostratus fighters two days ago. There is not yet any data to indicate who was operating the weapons or how they reached New London given the batch in question is known to be used by a unit currently operating in Oceanian East Recedentia.”

He let his fingers rub his now tightly shut eyes. “Well, thank you for that information, Commander, however disturbing it may be. I trust you shall keep me informed as more information becomes available?”

“Yes, Mr. Robertson.”

As he replaced the receiver into its cradle Robertson felt another headache growing, the pain pounding like hammers upon his cranium. He would now have to inform the Prime Minister that all evidence pointed to UK weapons being used against UK personnel in a low-intensity insurrection turned suddenly messy.

35km South of New London
Royal Crown Colony of New London

A tap on the shoulder told Private Robert Mahea all that he needed to know. Since the surprise downing of six Royal Navy fighters and the execution of the surviving pilots, elements of the 2nd Battalion, Carifax Fusiliers had been tasked with finding and exacting retribution upon the perpetrators. Of course their superiors had not used words such as ‘exacting retribution’ nor did anyone know who the perpetrators were; but it was the unadulterated intent of Mahea and his colleagues to enact revenge on any and all New London insurgents for the pilots many suspected they had killed. Even though they served in two different branches almost always at odds, in New London every soldier, sailor, and airman had the other’s back. The tap told him the small band of insurgents that they had been tracking via UAV and satellite was working their way into a river valley that had a road along which goods and heavy equipment could be easily transported.

Mahea’s weapon was an L75 ECR, an acronym designed by marketers to highlight its modern design as an ‘evolved combat rifle.’ It fired a 7x50mm round designed to optimize body armour penetration and then tissue destruction, which was a comforting thought to the fusiliers now waiting quietly in the jungles outside New London who wanted nothing more than to see the river run red with insurgent blood.

In a few moments, Mahea saw what the scouts had seen and passed on down the line, a thermal signature in his rifle scope as it rounded the bend and emerged from behind a hill. He counted nearly twenty persons, some lugging rather large pieces of equipment along with a pack animal towing a cart filled with other bulky pieces of equipment. Another moment and the signal was given into his earpiece and several round cracks echoed amongst the trees. Birds scattered and men screamed as rifle rounds tore into heads and guts and even a few groins. The few women in the group received rifle rounds to their breasts as well as their guts and groins. A few staggered and fired a few rounds into the jungle from their own assault rifles, but most keeled over in agonising pain.

Mahea and his comrades-in-arms quickly made their way down the path, rifles ready to engage any stragglers or other insurgents. Upon the ground they found individuals who clutched their wounds while Mahea smiled, for while he and his comrades could have all likely fired off headshots and killed their unsuspecting enemy, the hours of pain they would suffer as they bled to death in the jungle was far more satisfying.

Georgetown Doubletree Hotel
Imperium, New Britain, United Kingdom

Lord Salisbury raised his hand once more and waved before walking briskly to the small steps leading off the stage, all to the brilliance of dazzling flashbulbs and duller red-lights of live video feeds being broadcasted to millions of individuals across the world. When the last of his body disappeared behind a curtain he laid that hand upon the shoulder of his chief of staff, Howard Robertson. “How was that, Howard?”

“A splendid rendition, Your Lordship, I think it shall balance out the Home Secretary’s and the shadow chancellor’s remarks earlier today and I imagine will carry more weight than Mr. Yorke’s later this evening.” Robertson then swept his arm forward and along with numerous security agents, led the Prime Minister through the service entrance to the Georgetown Doubletree Hotel.

With the heels of their shoes clicking furiously on the well-polished floor, the two silently made their way until reaching an open door that led to a dark parking garage where the Prime Minister’s motorcade sat idling. As the door shut behind them, Robertson opened the mini-fridge to pull out two bottles of water imported from Avila.

The two men eased into the leather seats as the motorcade sped out of the hotel parking garage into the noon-hour sun drenching the UK capital, inside the limo, however, the world remained distant and afar from behind tinted and soundproofed windows that also offered protection from bullets. A self-contained world.

“Tell me the truth, Howard, where are we?” Salisbury finally asked, breaking the tense silence that had descended upon the interior. His voice markedly different than that with which he had addressed Oceanians and also the world—though how many of them cared about domestic anti-smoking policies made the latter audience of less concern.

Robertson nodded, noting the sudden drop of the façade as years of popular support seemed to be slipping away. And despite his and his staff’s best efforts to shield the un-elected peer from the polling numbers, it had become increasingly difficult. “Well, suffice to say, I would feel a lot better if we had a few more points separating us from the Tories. It seems that in large part, they have spent the past few months cleaning up the negative legacies of the Collins-Andrew era while emphasising the positive aspects, namely the burst in Oceanian investment in foreign markets.”

Salisbury dismissively waved his hand while taking a sip from the clear plastic bottle. “A mere political stunt, Howard. Daniel was a clever man, and I forever shall give him credit for that. We are a world leader and he knew it to be crucial to hold the favour of the global community—our partners in peace and security.”

“While that may very well be the case, the fact remains that both Mr. Yorke and Mr. Ingrahm are signaling those investment efforts to be squandered opportunities to broaden and diversify the nation’s investment portfolio—currently concentrated in developed first-rate powers. And unfortunately, yesterday’s news about the sudden rise in the inflation rate has provided the Tories an alert audience receptive to economic issues.”

The Prime Minister scoffed, “people are ignorant, Howard. There is little I can do about rising energy costs. It is not as if I have the power to single-handedly reform the Oceanian economy.”

“No, but the people think you do—and that is the crux of the issue. And more than anyone Mr. Ingrahm has been hammering home the point. And more than anyone else in the Conservative Party, the shadow chancellor has the authority to speak on such matters—“

“So then where is Stephen,” Salisbury interrupted.

“My office has been attempting to arrange more press briefings and such, but the fact remains he is still officially undeclared in his support of either yourself or the Home Secretary. But, if the polls continue to keep to the current trends, Mr. McKay will come to his senses soon and support your bid for party leadership. The Home Secretary will likely lose heavily in two weeks’ time. And that is where our good news starts,” Robertson added with a more upbeat step in his voice. “The Tories seem relatively evenly split between Mr. Yorke and Mr. Ingrahm, already we have seen the party’s other big heavyweights split down the middle. Mr. Livingstone and Lord Uxbridge have sided with Mr. Yorke while Mr. Astley and Mr. Kirkpatrick have sided with Mr. Ingrahm.”

“In short, Prime Minister, the Tories are a party divided and will be focusing long enough on their differences that come January they will be so weakened that our party should be able to mop up their remnants.” The two both paused to drink their water as the limousine made a hard turn to enter a roundabout, closed to other traffic as the motorcade passed.

“Domestic issues,” Robertson finally continued, “nonetheless, remain critical to what I think needs to be our broader electoral strategy. We need to introduce wedge issues to incubate and inculcate the issues within the minds of the Tories. We need to do all we can to make their party weak before we face them in January.”

“Hence the smoking issue,” Salisbury muttered.

Robertson nodded emphatically. “Absolutely correct, Prime Minister. Mr. Yorke is expected to, in broad respects, concur with your aim to ban smoking and tobacco in the next session of Parliament while Mr. Yorke earlier today refused to support the idea.”

“On what grounds?”

“He claimed that,” Robertson paused in order to dig through his messenger bag, eventually bringing out a crumpled transcript of the speech with several passages highlighted in bold. “Ah, yes, that such regulation is ‘beyond the scope and the purview of government committed to democratic principles.’ He added that he would instead institute a value-added tax on cigarettes and cigars and other tobacco products.”

Salisbury nodded with a wry grin, “a clever man he is. And let me guess, he noted his own personal objections but could not in due conscience restrict the liberty of fellow Oceanians to pursue those habits.”

“More or less,” Robertson replied, replacing the paper into his bag.

“Either way, at least the Tories are splitting apart at the seams. I think—“ The Prime Minister paused as Robertson’s mobile chirped from inside his coat pocket. He watched his chief of staff answer the call, his face dropping noticeably as the limousine pulled in through the main gates to the Citadel. “What is it, Howard?”

“There has been another blast in Dawesport, a big one, apparently numerous casualties including some high value persons.”

Dawesport, New Albion

"Thank you again for your hospitality, colonel." Miles Speigel bowed his head toward the Oceanian officer. The other members of the Royal Congress New Albion Fact-Finding Mission mimicked the display of respect. Colonel Lawrence James Blackwell was surprised by the Hamptonian's behavior but he politely returned the gesture. "It was our honor to accommodate you, Minister."

Mr. Speigel, the Minister of State for International Development, nodded to the eleven other members of the Mission. He came to New Albion with senior representatives from all the major parties in both elected houses of the Royal Congress. His group was joined at the last moment by the Assistant Deputy Minister of State for International Narcotics and Law Enforcement Affairs, Ellen May. The Foreign Secretary ordered her along for two reasons: the Mission's area of responsibility nominally fell under her portfolio and, more importantly, May was familiar with Oceanian customs and society. Born an Azazian citizen, Ellen was one of the most knowledgeable figures in the Federal Government in the area of Oceanian affairs.

Speigel, May and the ten MRCs accompanying them walked out of a small courtyard toward the unmarked, black SUVs that would take them through the city to the main airport. "A rather dusty little town to inspire so much hostility," Independent Progressives Senator Viscount Badensby whispered to his fellow Congressmembers, "I daresay they are fighting over table scraps."

"You do not get it, do you?" Sieuwerd Aaldenberg shot back. An aging but graceful man with shockingly white hair, he was one of only three Sandrin separatist leaders in the Senate. "People here are fighting over their homes. One side fights because their soul is in the soil, in the air. The other fights because their blood and tears are in the concrete and mortar of every building here. A land can only have one master, when two groups claim supremacy only war can follow."

As the congressmembers waited to get into the cars, they began arguing over political implications of the situation in New Albion. "We have to support the Oceanians now more than ever," the conservative senator Walter Bruce said as he pointed his finger at the two LDR politicians in the group, "to do anything less would be admitting defeat and deserting our allies."

Lana Namir, the LDR's Spokesperson for Foreign Affairs, immediately shot back, "Don't pull that bullshit with me. You know no one where advocates anything but the closest of relations with the United Kingdom. The difference between us is your knee jerk response to "stay the course" and our desire to actually understand what is going on. That's why we are here, Bruce. We're here so that we have a better picture of what is happening so that we can make better decisions. This is not a photo opportunity."

The bickering continued as the delegates went to their assigned automobiles. In the lead car, Proconsul Viscount Badensby and the two government ministers were joined by Ulrik Christanssen. As the Leader of the Opposition in the CoR, Christanssen wanted to give more support to the Oceanians than the Hayek Administration was offering. He did not like the careful posturing of the Independent Progressives, but right now he was much more comfortable being in a care filled with IPs that remaining with his fellow MRCs.

"I never though I would be so happy to be placed in a confined area with you for an hour." Christanssen teased the Viscount as both men put on their seat belts. With a slight jerking motion, the SUV started off on its journey through the city. The three black vehicles quickly wound their way through the tight streets of Dawesport. Those few members of the delegation that weren't engage in political debate, took time to savor the sights of the city. There wasn't much, but it did have a certain charm.

Speigel turned to May as convoy turned down one of the city's main avenues, "Coming here makes me want to visit the Home Islands."

"You should visit Philadelphia," she said while admiring the fine workmanship evident in the car's leather and wood interior, "it is very similar to Portshire."

"Miles, where did you get these exquisite vehicles from?" May asked while tracing the line of oak trim that lined her armrest.

"Governor Sir Douglas Dalton provided the vehicles. I told him we were fine with regular cars, but he insisted upon armored vehicles for the duration of our stay in Dawesport."

May looked out the window and admired the beauty of a grouping of trees in a small square. "That was rather considerate of him..." She trailed off mid-sentence. She somehow felt at home here. Maybe it is time for me to go back to Azazia she thought. Ideas of home and her future ran through her head. She turned to look through the window again and saw what looked like a large, black bird flying right at car.

She closed her eyes and quietly whispered to herself, I never want to leave.

She never would.

Royal Governor's Office
Dawesport, Crown Colony of New Albion

Blackwell turned at the sickeningly familiar sound of explosives detonating against armour. He had seen duty in Novikov and remembered well how it sounded when his unit’s IFVs were shredded by enemy fire. Several more explosions ripped apart the stillness of the afternoon and before long a heavy column of thick black smoke could be seen billowing and then towering over the dusty low-rise buildings of the capital. He felt a presence emerge next to him and turned to face the governor, his face pale and lips half-open.

Thundering above the compound, compression waves from rotor blades of helicopters descending from their patrols to investigate the carnage on the streets of Dawesport. Blackwell rushed back into the main building and found his staff busily attending to radios and mobile phones and personnel from the governor’s office. “Richard,” Blackwell shouted out to his second officer, “get some Jaguars down there right quick.”

KBC World News
Live International Broadcast

“…they struck without warning and without mercy, laying to waste to the middle SUV in this convoy. As you can see, there is little left to distinguish this heap of smoking steel as even an automobile.”

Long before the IFVs and UK soldiers arrived at the scene, the KBC had descended upon the chaos with their high-definition video streaming live to billions across the world. On the screen, the tragedy of the afternoon would quickly become identified with the wind-swept blonde-haired reporter who had long ago been sent to cover stories out of New Albion.

“At the moment, the Governor’s Office will not comment, however, we are hearing that inside the vehicle were several members of the Hamptonian legislative assemblies. They had arrived just days ago to compile a report on the status of a public referendum promised by Lord Salisbury as to the future of the crown colony.”

Behind the reporter, whose linen suit was masked by a heavy, bulletproof jacket, the tracks and side skirt of an Oceanian infantry fighting vehicle rolled past, several soldiers running behind it with fearsome looking rifles ready to kill held gingerly in their hands. The reporter paused, the tracks and the wheels drowning out his voice as they rolled into the living rooms, kitchens, and offices of millions if not billions of people.

“Among the Hamptonian delegation, a junior minister in Chancellor Hayek’s government and several leading senators and congresspersons, including the Leader of the Opposition Ulrik Christanssen.” From the broadcast centre in Philadelphia, images of the confirmed members of the mission were splashed on screen with brief bios displayed underneath. Across the bottom of the screen ran a qualifier that for the moment nobody exactly knew who had been killed.

“The attack comes amid growing concerns in the United Kingdom regarding the safety and stability of the Empire’s most volatile colonies, especially New Albion with this latest surge of violence. Additionally, the terror attack comes during the lead up to elections for both the ruling Democratic Socialists and Conservative party leadership positions.”

“For Prime Minister Salisbury’s government, the leadership crisis comes with Home Secretary Thomason calling for harsh crackdowns on insurgents and their bases of operations. This compared to the Prime Minister, who continues to push for continued efforts at local government level to create stability and security from the bottom up.”

“On the other side, the Tories under current party leader Benjamin Yorke have long supported the call now echoed by the Home Secretary, that tougher acts must be taken against insurrection and instability. The shadow chancellor, Rodney Ingrahm, has instead sought out what many have criticised as a softer approach that includes more devolution for the colonies. This comes as—“

The reporter paused and pressed his free hand to his ear before returning his gaze to the camera.

“The KBC can now confirm that Miles Speigel, Minister of State for International Development, a junior minister in the Hamptonian government, is among the dead.”

Lord Salisbury raised his head and shifted his titanium frames, casting a worrying glance at the muted television anchored in one of his massive bookshelves, flanked by cloth-bound examples of Oceanian literature. It was only fitting of course that below the television were some English translations of Hamptonian literature as the screen shifted from images of smoldering wrecks of steel and flesh to photographs of the Hamptonian Minister of State Miles Speigel and one Ellen May, a person born in the Home Islands who had gone on to become a government official in Hayek’s government—and now just another corpse claimed by the insurgency in Dawesport and New Albion.

It took but a few hours until the governor’s office determined who amongst the Hamptonians were among the deceased; and shortly he would be talking with the Chancellor to personally convey not only the apologies of the United Kingdom but the disgust and disdain for the barbaric acts committed against Hamptonshire. For now, however, he was in the midst of reviewing official paperwork requiring his signature and stamps to release military and RIS investigators down to the colony to get to the bottom of the attacks.

Indeed, several kilometres away from the Citadel, a long convoy of armoured black SUVs began to work their way down the M7 to Thamesport, and more specifically RAF Kensington from which they would fly to RAF Whitford and from there on down to Dawesport on an RAF transport aircraft along with pallets of ammunition for the colony’s garrison.

Similarly far away, Benjamin Yorke found himself watching the same KBC coverage, half a soothing cup of brandy between his fingers—the other half already coursing through his blood stream. Before today, the contest for leadership of the Conservative Party had largely been constrained to domestic concerns—possible anti-tobacco legislation, reviewing gay marriage legislation, environmental issues, and of course education and health concerns. But, as news station after news station reported upon the terror attack in Dawesport, Yorke knew the discourse had shifted.

And so before taking his first sips of brandy, Yorke had called his chief of staff and communications director for a conference call. A new discourse demanded a new approach and new talking points. In the area of international relations, Yorke differed from his more internationalist contemporaries such as Ingrahm and Astley, even the late Daniel Collins had moved more towards the traditional liberal view—so far as Oceanian politics was concerned—of looking outwards rather than inwards. Perhaps it was the paternal influence of his father, once president of the Commonwealth of Azazia, who had resisted attempts to bring the Commonwealth out into the world in the middle of the 20th century. Regardless, the younger Yorke now knew that alliances and friendships with foreign powers would be the precursor to engaging the UK in a world war, which the UK neither wanted nor needed.

At the Home Office Ashley Thomason sat, like most other Oceanians, glued to the telly and watching the unfolding horror. She, unlike many politicians in the United Kingdom, had suffered from war and conflict. During the last days of the war, she received a messanger from the Royal Navy who brought her a letter informing her that her only son had been killed in action. In the last few days of the war, with his frigate patrolling the Gabriko Sound, a Novikovian submarine launched a single torpedo that broke the keel in two. The Admiralty several months later informed her that her son was actually one of the few survivors from the ship—only to be machine gunned to death by the crew of the submarine, in retaliation for merciless attacks by the Royal Navy on civilian Novikovian shipping.

While May and Speigel were far older than her son, they were people, had been living people nonetheless. They had families and relatives who would no longer hear their voices on a mobile call or read a pointless e-mail. An expected flight home just in time for Christmas would be brining back no smiles but rather tears and broken hearts. All of this because the Prime Minister refused to crack down on insurgents.

To Thomason, it had long been clear that the successful integration of Novikov into the United Kingdom could partly be owed to the ruthlessness with which rebellion was put down in the weeks and months after the war ended. Grozny had been isolated and besieged until the city’s own betrayed the rebels for want of food and medical supplies. And now Novikov was the fastest growing home country in the whole UK. Yet, concerns over the indiscretion of troops firing into civilian crowds and massacres of POWs tarnished, in Salisbury’s eyes, the war effort and fearing a repeat in much more publicised conflicts in New Albion and New London he had put a stop to letting the soldiers fight to win.

Rodney Ingrahm was like Thomason in that he too had a unique perspective on war and conflict. For four years he served as an officer eventually rising to the rank of Commander when he commanded the frigate HMS Cherry during the Commonwealth’s period of unrest with the native Azazians. His ship intercepted numerous arms smugglers and while he never fought a major engagement, he could empathise to a certain degree with at least the sailors in the Royal Navy more so than the leader of the Tories, as Yorke had never come anywhere close to serving in an armed capacity. Whereas at least the sitting Prime Minister had been forced into a small-scale guerilla war for his own survival.

Yet, for all his experience in low-intensity combat, Ingrahm knew that any conflict in any colony could not simply be solved by eradicating people, but rather the United Kingdom would have to eradicate the idea of independence and national sovereignty. In large part, the native Azazians had quieted down only after they received official representation in Parliament and after they were given a degree of regional autonomy to the effect of becoming a separate province on New Australia. Ingrahm wished to see similar devolution applied to the colonies and hoped that by allowing them more unfettered access to the national political process would satiate their appetite for independence—as even he knew that such small populations could not function as survivable states in the cruel and unforgiving world of ever-hungry empires.

“It is time, I suppose,” Lord Salisbury whispered aloud, only the furniture and adornments in his office present to listen. It was the first real challenge to his authority as leader of the Democratic Socialist Party; the Home Secretary, once a staunch supporter of the Prime Minister, had finally broken ranks after an appalling spate of bombings, kidnappings, and killings in the Empire’s crown colonies.

As the short-stature man pushed his slender arms though the silk lining of his suit coat, he could only hope that the MPs of the party realised that the past weeks in the Empire had been an aberration. There was, of course—and rightly so—anger and frustration over the senseless murder of Hamptonian officials in Dawesport. But the investigation into those tragic events were not yet near completion and so for Ms. Thomason to prance about the UK screaming bloody murder and crying foul and blaming the Prime Minister directly—incredibly bad form. And Salisbury hoped the DSP would recognise it as such.

Finally, the doors to his office opened, and the dapperly dressed Prime Minister emerged, an ivory black three-piece suit livened up by a bright red, silk tie. He tugged at his titanium frames and nodded slightly at his personal aide, “Geoffrey, I believe I have some business to attend to this afternoon.”

“Indeed, Prime Minister.”

A few kilometres away, but still within the heart of the UK capital, Benjamin Yorke poured himself another glass of brandy. His aides and friends and colleagues all knew it to be a favourite drink—but only Yorke knew it to steel his nerves for just such an occasion as this. Much like the Prime Minister, he found himself dealing with a malcontent within his own ranks, his shadow chancellor Rodney Ingrahm and his cohort of dissenters.

Despite his confidence in his ability to lead the Conservative Party into January’s elections, he nonetheless worried that any potential split or crack in the party could be exploited by the Prime Minister, a man who had proven himself quite adept at electoral politics—a position helped by his appointment to the House of Lords wherefore he stood in no general elections. Unfortunately for Yorke, that had not dulled Salisbury’s mastery in the incredibly simple but wholly complex art of calling for general elections. It was that mastery that Yorke feared and the impending elections for which Yorke drank.

Yorke finished his glass and then, like Salisbury, put on his finest suit and headed down to his private garage where his attendant stood outside his waiting sedan. The engine purred and the smooth suspension and slips into higher gears allowed Yorke to watch the city of Imperium without interruption. They reached a toll and the attendant quietly paid the congestion charge—a government tax on all downtown traffic in an attempt to alleviate congestion and fund mass transit initiatives—before continuing on towards Parliament House.

Parliament House was a massive construction, a thoroughly modern structure built to accommodate a House of Commons with upwards of 700 individuals. The absorption of Novikov into the UK now meant a House of Commons with an even 1,000 MPs—and even the issue of where to house the new MPs would likely become a political issue. As Yorke’s sedan pulled up to the secure front steps, he saw the various crowds of reporters and ordinary citizens gathered outside. The faces, no longer a sea of a few but now hundreds if not thousands represented the demographic sea change of the United Kingdom—once a small colony of a great empire that had now become a great empire to outstrip the glories of its founders. And yet, it was still evolving. Yorke knew as much; he knew the Prime Minister knew as much.

It was a short walk on ordinary days, from his automobile to his office as Leader of His Majesty’s Opposition. Today, however, the route was plagued with prying eyes and photographers and journalists—the worst of the lot. He smiled and waved, keeping his mouth tightly shut, before reaching his office. After shutting the door, blocking out the noise of the media, he found a simple wooden case of cigars laying on his desk, a note attached.

‘Not to be Opened Until Victory is Assured.’

A few spaces underneath another line followed.

‘What the hell, sir, have them now.’

It was signed by his staff and his leading supporters. He smiled and patted the box gently, taking it and placing it within the top drawer of his desk. He would light up in a few hours with his staff—a staff he knew was hurriedly ensuring each MP had a ballot and knew the issues and for whom they should vote.

Finally, the giant bell in the clock tower across the street struck ten; the time had come. Yorke took a deep breath and exited his office through the other door, the door that led to his party’s offices in the building and the various conference rooms in which the ballots would be held. He walked through lines of Conservative MPs and smiled, nodding and thanking them for attending the vote. The entrance was simple, a simple door with frosted glass and black letters in stenciled Helvetica: Conference Room 3.

Inside, the party’s non political secretary—a former MP chosen to record official minutes and in the case of ballots to be an unbiased collector of MP ballots, as only MPs voted for the party leadership. He knew that on the other side of the building Salisbury was performing the exact same actions. Yorke was handed his ballot by the party secretary—the party leader traditionally the last to receive a ballot though the first to vote. And after taking a small pen from his pocket, he marked a giant ‘X’ in the box next to his name and handed it over to the secretary. The secretary opened the ballot ensured the mark was clear and distinct and then placed it in the box, all within sight of Yorke, who likewise made certain that his vote was not altered.

As Yorke left the room, another Conservative MP entered and the process was to be repeated. Hundreds of times throughout the day until the lines ended and the ballots were counted. At some point tonight, the United Kingdom and indeed the world would know the leaders of the Conservatives and the Democratic Socialists for the following election.

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Mandate for the Marquess

IMPERIUM—Lord Salisbury received broad backing by Democratic Socialist MPs in the party leadership vote held yesterday; officials from the party stating that the current Prime Minister received 63% of the votes cast as opposed to 34% for Home Secretary Ashley Thomason and a scattering of votes for write-in candidates. The results cement Lord Salisbury’s position as leader of the Government and leader of the Democratic Socialist Party headed into general elections in January.

The same, however, cannot be said for the Conservatives. Benjamin Yorke, leader of the Tories since the untimely death of Daniel Collins in 2005, was ousted by a majority vote of his fellow MPs in favour of shadow chancellor Rodney Ingrahm. Mr. Ingrahm, a veteran of the Conservative frontbench, received a vote of 56% according to the Conservative Party. After the vote, many of Mr. Ingrahm’s voters called the shadow chancellor’s intention to promote a ‘new vision’ for the United Kingdom as critical to unseating the long-serving Lord Salisbury.

With both parties’ leaders officially selected, it is expected that Lord Salisbury will formally ask the King to dissolve Parliament ahead of general elections within a matter of days. At that time both parties will have two weeks to campaign for seats in the House of Commons with the exception of election day and the day prior to elections when active campaigning is forbidden.

Sensing an opportunity to cause the Oceanian government some discomfort over the issue of New Albion, Gaspard de Prouville, the Vice Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs, sent a letter to François Joseph-Picot, Amestria’s Ambassador to the United Kingdom, ordering him to “prick Alistair Tetley with this thorn [New Albion], hard enough to draw blood.”

François Joseph-Picot was a member of North Amestria’s upper middle class, which, along with the nobility had produced many of Amestria’s diplomats and civil servants. A proud patriotic man, he admired Azazian resiliency and determination, but did not believe they deserved their empire. “The Oceanians,” he had said after visiting New Albion, “are incapable of commanding respect and do not have the least idea what they are doing. While they are most skillful when it comes to establishing profitable colonies, they lack the ability to relate to, govern, and properly assimilate Eastern Peoples.” He was also disgusted by what he perceived as their persistent dishonesty: “They refuse to admit the underlying reasons for their empire, preferring to babble on and on about all that democracy nonsense.”

The Ambassador as it turned out had a dubious reputation within certain quarters. His older brother was the treasurer of the Comité de Amestrian-Asiatique Intérêts, a lobbying organization whose clients were very much concerned with profiting off the Khailfah al Muslimeen’s vast markets. Picot himself was deep in debt and, as rumors back home in Amestria had it, utterly dependent upon his brother’s financial support.

However, the Foreign Ministries persistence was about more then the fate of some backwater territory, economic interests, and Picot’s unpaid bills. It was about the continuing prominence of the English language, the spread of liberalist free markets, Amestria’s conception of itself as a Great Power, and the competition for influence between Franco-Germanic and Anglo-Saxon civilization.

The day that the Ambassador received his orders from the Vice Deputy Minister was also the same day he received a letter from his brother. The next day Picot happily obliged both their wishes.


The Amestrian Embassies Press Room
Imperium, New Britain
United Kingdom

The press conference concerning New Albion began with a summery of past events; loss of life, loss of property, the rise in violence, and select quotations by members of the UK’s government (including the Prime Minister)…rather idealistic hopeful statements issued early on that now sounded fairly empty when compared to the present reality. Near the end of his statement Picot stopped to reflect on the situation.

“I wonder; has New Albion benefited in any way from Oceanian administration? Are its people better off, safer, more prosperous? Has the indigenous population even been consulted on its membership in the Empire, as was promised? The answer to all those questions is no, it is clearly, self-evidently, no.

It all almost rises to the level of comedy, an intervention and annexation justified by the principles of humanitarianism and self-determination. Before the seizure there were a few isolated murders by extremists. Since the beginning of the occupation of Northern New Albion, the European population on the southern half of the island has been uprooted, that is to say they have mostly fled, and the northern half has been placed under siege by a persistent and increasingly lethal resistance movement. The referendum meanwhile has been consistently put off and for the near future seems to have died with the members of the New Albion Fact-Finding Mission, if it was ever a serious promise to begin with…”

Picot paused. “If a majority had wanted your country to leave that would have put the government in a rather awkward position just before the General Election,” he said, as if thinking aloud.

The Ambassador ended the press conference with, “It is hard to see what has been accomplished or why Oceania is there…perhaps the United Kingdom should just admit its mistake and return North New Albion to the Khailfah al Muslimeen, which despite its various faults, administered the whole island quiet capably.”

The Ambassador did not take questions.

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Parliament to Dissolve Monday

IMPERIUM—After the recent party leadership conferences confirmed Lord Salisbury as the leader of the Democratic Socialists, the Prime Minister requested an audience with the King during which time the Prime Minister formally requested Parliament be dissolved ahead of general elections.

At a press conference outside the Royal Palace at Asbury, Lord Salisbury announced that the elections shall be held on 18 January. The news comes after weeks, if not months, of speculation about when the elections would be held given that Novikov’s last constituency submitted its representative to Parliament in December. With Novikov now finally integrated into the political structure of the United Kingdom and Parliament, most analysts saw the Prime Minister with little choice but to call an election upon issues that now confront a newly united nation.

The largest issue confronting the Government and the Conservative opposition is that of the continuing role and state of the Oceanic Empire, the overseas territories ruled by the United Kingdom. In recent months, escalating violence in several remote, but geographically and demographically large colonies has prompted debate in the House of Commons and of Lords regarding the issues of political representation in Parliament as well as general security—often times security being linked to issues regarding the reform of the Royal Armed Services.

Official business will be finished this Friday and in special sessions held over the weekend before the King travels to Parliament House to officially dissolve Parliament on Monday.

Breaking news from PNN.pc

http://medias.lemonde.fr/mmpub/edt/ill/2006/04/09/h_9_ill_759823_hongrie.jpg
Lord Salisbury, confirmed as Democratic Socialists
leader on the last day of 2006, has received the King's
assent to dissolve parliament and has called a general
election slated for 18th January.

Salisbury off to the races and onto the hustings
Oceanians head to the polls in general elections thirteen days from now


Imperium

United Kingdom prime minister Alistair Tetley, Lord Marquess of Salisbury, has called a general election for 18th January after receiving discretionary royal assent to dissolve the Oceanian parliament.

The prime minister, who has served in some form of that capacity since 1997, was confirmed as leader of the left-centre Democratic Socialists on 31st December, receiving 63 percent support from delegates. Meanwhile, members of the right-centre Conservatives in the country ousted Benjamin Yorke from a short tenure as leader, replacing him with their shadow Chancellor of the Exchequer, Rodney Ingrahm.

The short campaign period is intended to give the incumbent party an advantage over their Conservative opposition during the political offensives, and to try and prevent their new opposition leader from assembling a proper team to fight the DSP. However, sources inside the Conservative Party say the executive had "already been planning its attacks to be compatible and flexible enough that they could have been enacted with or without Rodney Ingrahm at the head of the ship".

Analysts say the major issue on this campaign will be the continued existence of the Oceanic Empire and the management of territorial assets following the crisis in New Albion last year and the absorption of Novikov and its citizens into a greater political entity. Reform of the RAS, Oceania's military arm, is also projected to become a key issue during this election cycle.

The UK parliament finishes with a final session on Friday. King George I will make the dissolution official by visiting the houses in Imperium on Monday.

“Quick thrills and cheap frills,” Howard Robertson snapped. The Prime Minister’s chief of staff was responding to his boss’ question about what exactly the Amestrian ambassador had wanted from his press statement. While the Prime Minister politely laughed, Robertson scowled. “I saw we throw Monsieur Picot to a pike… or better yet, let him get taken out by a suicide bomber in Dawesport.”

Salisbury waved his hand and stopped laughing, “Howard, let the ambassador to his prattling. The rest of us are more focused on these upcoming elections—and I especially need you concentrating on the next two weeks as it shall be quite intense, of that I am certain.” The Prime Minister poured himself a glass of ice water from the table between his office’s two sofas.

“While I do agree about the taste of His Excellency’s commentary, he nonetheless had valid points on which Mr. Ingrahm has already made good to comment.” As Salisbury drank the water he tossed to Robertson an excerpt he had been handed earlier in the day by his communications director. “Apparently he intends to hold immediate referendums in New Albion and to strictly abide by their results.”

“So we now run our foreign policy according to Amestrian announcements—he is a bloody fool, Your Lordship. If we fail to absolutely crush the Tories it shall be the end of Oceanian power and prestige not to mention the Empire. He will take to disassembling it island by island and selling it off colony by colony. We need to win. We must win.”

“We will win, Howard,” Salisbury added, his tone now much more quiet, his voice more distant. “We will win.”

Foreign Office Statement

His Majesty’s Government, having responded to the request by the democratically elected representative government of the people of northern New Albion, has been effecting a transition that has, regretfully, incurred more violence from radical extremists than originally anticipated—though planned for as a potential albeit unlikely contingency.

It is this transition from the former minority rule over the majority populace that has sparked the spasmodic outbursts of violence against the majority, as the barbaric attempts upon the Hamptonian people and their government so dreadfully demonstrated, and it is these outbursts that the United Kingdom is slowly bringing under control.

Despite the current disturbances in the crown colony, His Majesty’s Government has no intention of forfeiting its sovereign obligation to protect and defend Oceanian citizens living in New Albion and to provide them with a stable environment in which they can conduct their lives with minimal government interference. Discussions with Istanbul yielded a satisfactory partition of New Albion that will remain as the permanent division of the island, so long as the people of northern New Albion wish it to be so.

The Citadel
Imperium, New Britain, UK

Moving his fingers quickly and deftly, Lord Salisbury slathered a slice of butter upon his biscuit while his Atherian blend steeped releasing its strong aroma into his breakfast room, furnished gaily in yellow pastels and white accents; in truth, he preferred to focus on the daily papers such as the Daily Times that had a picture of Ingrahm plastered on the top half, the headlines proclaiming his first big salvo in the campaign—the paper the splash drowning Salisbury as in truth, the man had hit too close to home.

Salisbury took a small bite of the biscuit, dabbing with a napkin at a small bit of butter that escaped his mouth and had begun to run down his chin. His eyes quickly scanned through the article; while the speech would surely be presented in the morning staff briefing he preferred to at least know the main talking points before starting his business day.

The Marquess scoffed as he came upon the mention of transparency, “…and the execution of the Government’s duty shall be wholly transparent,” he muttered to himself as he read the excerpt of the statement. “So naïve,” Salisbury muttered before taking another bite of his biscuit. “Does he honestly expect any real government to ever be fully transparent?” He smiled to himself, knowing full well the numerous deals and arrangements he had orchestrated over the years and that even if the upstart managed an upset he would himself become a “hypocrite,” as he dared describe the sitting Government.

As he continued to read, Salisbury suddenly pushed the paper away from him, his face twisting into a scowl. “Rubbish,” he practically spat. He stared at the offensive words for a long moment before taking a moment to remove his strainer from his cup. After pouring in some cream and stirring in some sugar, Salisbury took a small sip of his tea before returning to the paper—this time folding it over to find on the bottom half of the front page an article detailing the death of a soldier in New London.

He simply closed his eyes and, with his teacup between his hands, allowed the strong aroma to envelop him and carry him away for a moment of peace before his day was to truly begin.

In his Crohill flat, Rodney Ingrahm slowly extended his hand to silence the drone of static emanating from his radio alarm, tuned to obnoxious white noise through which no man could sleep. His wife was back home in Islington taking care of moving some furniture to Imperium for what Ingrahm was sure to be an intense two weeks. Additionally, she would do some campaigning for him despite his large lead over his DSP opponent as Ingrahm now had to travel across the United Kingdom to present his new vision for Oceania to the public.

He finally forced himself from his empty bed and took a moment to start his Nison laptop, moving into the bath to brush his teeth as microprocessors quietly whirred to life. He opened the Bluefox browser and while scrubbing his canines checked the RSS subscription for the KBC and then PNN and HBC. He shook his head as he caught the headline concerning another UK soldier dying in New London.

After a shower and a quick cup of Oceanian Breakfast Ingrahm grabbed his suit coat and made his way for the building’s elevators down to the lobby, where he would meet his aides for their walk to the local station for the Georgetown Underground, which would take him into the heart of the UK capital for another day of politics, likely to be just as bloody as the jungles of New London and New Albion.

Outside Trappersford
Royal Crown Colony of New Albion

Through the clear, cloudless blue skies largely unmolested by civilisation’s pollution a small light grey bird soared, her eyes peering through the ceiling of the jungle to the west of Mount Carpenter, keeping an eye out for prey. As she soared on thermals and then swooped to drop down on potential victims she finally found one, a herd of animals moving slowly but methodically along the banks of a small creek running down from the snowmelt of the mountain. And with prey now found, she decided to attack.

Luke Caldwell smiled as in his ear he received word from his platoon’s headquarters in the nearby village of Trappersford to engage a band of smugglers trying to move up through the local creek. The King’s Dawesport Foot were a new, locally raised reserve unit, but one tasked with attempting to seal the border between the Khailfah al Muslimeen and the United Kingdom as the increase in violence had the Colonial Office worried of arms shipments through the Khailfah. Caldwell was an excellent marksman and as he lay wedged between some boulders in a crevice atop a hill, he waited for his own prey to wander down into his sight.

The infantry unit had the support of the Royal Armed Services frontline units, and the UAV patrolling above Trappersford had identified a small body of persons that appeared to be carrying weapons north into the heart of New Albion. Caldwell, born in a village similar to Trappersford on the eastern side of the colony, was representative of the majority of the local population—at least as far as the UK was concerned. He had been oppressed by the local government established in the south, where the native Vaelirs had a majority despite their minority status in the north, and so when word came that Mason had appealed for assistance from the United Kingdom Caldwell had signed up to join the new local defence force.

Now, as the scout for the smugglers emerged from around the bend, Caldwell smiled with a piece of tall grass between his molars. The grass, native to the island, released a sweet-like flavour when chewed as well as a slight stimulant that added to Caldwell’s smile. He watched as a donkey then proceeded down the path, its back loaded with bags and satchels with rifles and RPGs hanging out every which way. “Damn cinnis,” he whispered to himself, taking careful steps to triple check his aim and the slight wind stirring through the jungle.

Then in his ear a slight and soft command; and with it Caldwell began to pull the trigger to slide back the bolt and then re-load. In less than a minute the smugglers lay incapacitated on the ground—not dead, but in severe pain. Although, regretfully, the donkey had to be shot in order to prevent the evidence from running into the jungle.

Some things are best not to be forgotten…

Somewhere in the Jungles of Al Malabaristan, near the frontier with Oceanian New Albion

The men of Company A of the 138th AMI Border Guards Regiment were out in patrol in these most unforgiving regions of the sub province…their mission was simple to crackdown on arm smuggling; yet this was no easy task for Border Guards since the terrain wasn’t so forgiving and they only had 2 out of 10 chance of catching these arm dealers at best…

“Bloody…fuckin hell…we missed them by an hour..fuck!” remark Captain Nadir Badr, has he look around his surroundings.

“Damn it…yet another bloody dealer gets by us..” remarked Lieutenant Raj Jabr

“We can’t stay here and bitch about the fact…that High Command only give us four regiments to area which needs eight regiments at least…oh well fuck it…Tell the men to move…we’re continuing this bloody patrol!” order the Captain

“Aye, Captain…. Company A MOVE OUT!” yelled the Lieutenant Jabr

With that the company move out and continue its patrol of hunting down arm smugglers..

Garrison HQ command

Flag Rank Commander Ghassan Sami was busy working away at his office desk, filling reports and just doing plain paperwork. He was the commander of the Sub province two-army reserve divisions, and number of lightly armed paramilitary forces. He tried to pass the time while doing his paperwork by listing to the radio all he got was that bloody station ran by New Albion Islamic Power lead by the moron Muhammand Sayyid Abul al-Sadr. The Commander was sick of listing to the daily triads of the party calling for the people of the North to rise up and overthrew the Oceanians in their lands. The Commander often wonder how the Imperial or even the bloody regional governments could up with this idiot and his lackeys who constantly go up to border and protest the Oceanian occupation. The Commander just rolled his eyes and remarked to himself

“Bloody good for nothing trouble makers….if I had it my way..I would have destroyed that station right away..”

Port of Jammu Naval Base

The Naval base was finally ready to take in a High Seas Fleet battle group, after months of upgrading and building the dry docks. The naval base was finally going to be occupied, by the 40th Battlegroup under the command of Commodore Yu Zaki of Muslim Chinese backgound, the battle group was compose of four Feyadeen class battlecruisers, two Kemel Aircraft Carrier cruisers, six destroyers, 10 frigates, 2 SSBNs, and 10 SSNs. The battlegroup was due to arrive in four days time. During this time at sea, the Commodore was busy conducting war dills for his crews and officers to see how fit were they for war.

No doubt, this deployment of war ships in New Albion may unnerve their Ocenaian counterparts, just the Imperial Government official stance on the deployment was that taskforce was send to protect key KLM shipping lanes to the south of New Albion.

To: United Kingdom

The United Commonwealth would like to hope and pray for the best of the Oceania and that the citizens elect another great leader, one who will lead the mighty United Kingdom to further success. And may our two nation continue the wonderful relationship between the two nations since late 1940s, even with another leader and governement.

Until next time;
*signed*
Prime Minister Lester Geddie
United Commonwealth of Delesa

Office of Royal Navy Intelligence
Imperium, New Britain, UK

“These, sir, are a collection of still photographs from observation satellites tasked with observing naval activity in and around the Khailfah al Muslimeen.” A square-jawed man with light brown hair and similarly brown eyes smiled nervously and after tapping the film on the tabletop, handed them over to the white-haired First Sea Lord.

Lord Richard Atkinson was the most senior ranking naval officer in the United Kingdom, outside of His Majesty, and headed the Royal Navy despite his advancing years marked with white hairs and canes with which to support his increasing weight and arthritic knees. Nevertheless, he still made the trip to ORNI headquarters for his daily intelligence briefing; today’s given more attention due to developments in the Khailfah.

Atkinson let his cane tap the leg of the table, “and where exactly are the ships headed, Captain?” the First Sea Lord asked after a good while of silence.

“As far as we can gather, sir, it appears to be the New Albion. Statements from Khailfah defence officials indicate that the fleet is to augment current forces in theatre with the specific aim of shoring up their southern defences and protecting their sea lanes in the south.” The captain had frequently briefed the First Sea Lord, but had never yet felt at ease around the old man, his glaring eyes focused not on anything on the room but something far more distant.

“Very well,” Atkinson replied. He knew that his KLM counterpart knew that at the moment the UK maintained a strong presence off the northeast coast of New Albion, a super-dreadnought battlegroup. He did not care for the addition of the surface ships and what appeared to be a handful of submarines—but there were neither dreadnoughts nor super-dreadnoughts being thrown into the mix.

Istanbul had such capital ships at its disposal, and Atkinson knew his counterpart knew that the Royal Navy knew just as much. Their decision not to standup a dreadnought for deployment to New Albion was a signal, a subtle one albeit, but a signal nonetheless that the deployment was not a prelude but rather a legitimate attempt to secure shipping lanes. Both sides of the fragile and tenuous border knew ports both in the north and the south were accepting illicit arms shipments from abroad. And both sides knew that the only way to stem the flow from the south was to increase maritime border security. And so Atkinson could report the detail to the Prime Minister without a warning of danger concerning imminent hostilities.

Open Letter to the United Commonwealth

On the behalf of His Majesty and His Government, I should like to thank the government of the United Commonwealth and Prime Minister Geddie for the unique bond shared between our two peoples and the friendship that has resulted between their respective governments.

Regardless the outcome of the general elections, the Delesian people shall have a continuing friend, partner, and ally in the United Kingdom.

Sincerely,

Alistair Tetley
Marquess of Salisbury
Prime Minister of the United Kingdom

first part a joint post between myself and KLM

Simon Richardson lifted his mug and smiled at the wide-eyed man sitting next to him. The man’s gaze, however, was unsteady and unfocused, his speech rapid. His lips unlocked, Richardson replaced the mug on the tabletop and leaned in towards the young man, whose shoulders bore the epaulets of a commander in the Al Muslimeen Imperial Fleet. “So as a naval officer, I take it you heard the latest news?”

Since the spat between the United Kingdom and the Khailfah over the comparatively impoverished island of New Albion, the two nations had been at odds—fortunately odds that had thus far had a peaceful outcome. Nonetheless, the two sides had kept forces in the theatre, and surrounding ones, at a high state of readiness for imminent action. The latest news in the two countries’ defence sectors were the release of information regarding the augmenting of the current Al Muslimeen forces with another surface action group.

The young Al Muslimeen officer smiled, a hint of smugness in his eyes. “Why yes. Just a minor deployment in the eyes of the Imperial High Seas Fleet Command.” He took a sip of his strong Turkish coffee, prepared without sugar, before continuing. “We have sent more,” he paused to flash a grin, “but we saw no value in it.”

Richardson nodded. “Well, the view from London, is that our children in the Pacific have been a little presumptive of late and within some circles, despite our shared culture, there is an undercurrent of frustration with high and mighty Oceania.” Now it was Richardson’s turn to pause, and to drink his own cup of Turkish coffee, his, however, prepared with a great deal of sugar. He licked the foam off his lips before continuing, “now, from what I understand, however, Oceania has a larger navy—how much more could you really have sent to check their growing strength in the Indian Ocean?”

The commander took a sip of his bitter tasting coffee and replied. “Oceanian power is based in the sea, our power base is on land. We know better than to start an arms race with them. But, our fleet is large enough to deal with them if anything should happen. Although,” the commander added, now his smug smile returning, “rumours are going around that Izmir, the headquarters of the Imperial Navy, is cooking up some new war games for the Indian Ocean. To show the flag, so to speak.”

“Interesting,” Richardson responded, taking great care to keep his face straight. “But is the use of the war games really prudent, given the tensions between Istanbul and Imperium? I would think that war games would be seen in Oceania as a provocative action and that they could therefore exacerbate the problems between you two?”

The commander remarked, “I am a simple officer of the Imperium. I tend not to question the policies of High Command. However, I can say that the war games are to show Oceania that it isn’t the sole sea power in the Indian Ocean.”

“Wouldn’t that require an extensive number of ships, though? While I am no expert, if I recall, the Oceanian Royal Navy is—even by your admission—larger than Istanbul’s.”

“More than likely, maybe a sizeable number of ships from the Indian and Mediterranean Fleet Commands. Details are vague at the moment since High Command hasn’t released anything on the matter yet.”

Richardson shook his head. “It still seems pretty serious.” Richardon finished his cup of coffee and signaled for a member of the wait staff to prepare another. “But what do you think of the whole affair?”

“Something for the navy to do, to break the mundane routines. After all, the army and air force are getting all the action they need fighting the bloody RALM terrorists and their puppet states.” The commander paused as Richardson’s second cup was courteously brought over in silence. “While we the navy,” he continued, “sit around and conduct patrols and drills. A break from the mundane. It’s not that we hate Oceania; we tend to respect them in some aspects. Yet, they are more or less our rivals in the Indian and the Pacific Ocean.”

Taking a long sip from his coffee, Richardson allowed the information to soak in for a moment. “So, if you two are rivals and you’re conducting war games, is Istanbul secretly planning for anything against Oceania. As it sounds to me that Istanbul is starting to prepare for war,”

“We have no interest in fighting a war against Oceania; they have nothing that interests us. We are only conducting these war games to test our defences for a worst case sort of thing. Most of the General Staff sees that offensive war against Oceania as too costly and not worth it. We only plan defensive wars just in case.”

Now half finished with his second cup, Richardson scratched his forehead. “You seem to know a lot about the inner workings of the Imperial Navy, my friend. I see you’re a commander,” he said, nodding at the markings on his jacket, “do work at the High Command or such?”

The commander smiled, “you could say that. I am assigned to Indian Ocean Headquarters, a desk job so to speak. The name is Sinbad.”

Richardson put down his coffee, now empty, and extended his hand, shaking his new acquaintance’s firmly. “I’m Simon, by the way. I work as a mid-level manager for HSBC here in Bombay. Although,” Richardson added looking at his heavy, chrome-plated watch, “I am afraid I shall have to cut this conversation short.” A frown crept onto the banker’s face. “I was supposed to meet my girlfriend at Razor, some new club downtown.” He reached into his suit coat pocket and pulled out a small business card. “Here,” he said, handing it over to Sinbad. “It was a pleasure talking to you, if you’re ever free give me a call and perhaps we can do lunch or coffee.”

“Sure, until then,” replied the commander.

Office of Royal Navy Intelligence
Imperium, New Britain, United Kingdom

Jonathan Kincaid peered down through his bifocals, his pale blue eyes scanning the titles of the various memos sitting upon his neatly arranged—though still entirely too full—desk, made from wooden timbers from a French frigate sunk during the colonial history of the United Kingdom. Kincaid, at fifty-five years old, was a vice-admiral and director of ORNI and before him lay what his staff deemed the most critical pieces of information for review and potential immediate transfer to the eyes of the First Sea Lord.

Atop one single cover sheet was marked in red ‘Urgent,’ and accordingly Kincaid’s hands pushed aside the papers atop it to let his fingers peel back the cover. He read through the memo and shook his head, pulling out two sets of stamps from his desk drawer. After coating the ends in ink he signaled that the document was to be passed on to the First Sea Lord while simultaneously classifying the document.

Office of the Prime Minister
The Citadel, Imperium, UK

After receiving the phone call from his secretary, Lord Salisbury neatly shuffled the papers in his hand—all detailing with the scant details of his electoral opponent’s green tax plan—and switched lines. “Afternoon, Admiral,” Salisbury spoke.

On the opposite end, Lord Richard Atkinson coughed despite all attempts to suppress the urge. “Good afternoon, Prime Minister. I am sending over an electronic document on the secure network that contains some worrying new information coming out of Istanbul with regards to the Al Muslimeen Imperial High Seas Fleet.”

Salisbury turned to face his laptop and opened the appropriate program and found the document to which the First Sea Lord was referring. “I have it,” he responded after a moment. He stayed on the line while reading it briefly, then forwarding a copy to his chief of staff.

“Where does this leave us, Admiral?”

“Not in an enviable position, sir. As you are well aware, despite informal and cordial ties with members of APOC and the Sovereign League, neither has made any overtures towards cementing non-aggression pacts. And so as tensions between APOC and the Gholgoth allies increase it is conceivable the United Kingdom and our allies in Timiocato and Hamptonshire could be dragged into a larger war.”

“As it stands, we currently keep a super-dreadnought fleet stationed off New Albion to deter Istanbul from making any attempt at snatching back Dawesport. For the moment, the fleet enjoys numerical superiority as does the Royal Navy over the Al Muslimeen Imperial Navy. However, if the report you are reading is correct and in parallel to the latest reports of plans to expand the Imperial Navy, we are looking at the potential reversals of those material advantages in the Indian Ocean—placing the Empire in jeopardy.”

Salisbury let out an audible sigh. “I see,” he said after a momentary pause. “This source,” Salisbury looked at the screen trying to find the information he wanted, “Corsair, how reliable is he?”

“Of an indeterminate nature, Prime Minister,” Atkinson responded. “According to Vice-Admiral Kincaid, the source is new but potentially well-placed within the Imperial Navy—“

“I ask,” Salisbury interrupted, “because he indicates that Istanbul is not inclined towards offensive operations launched against the United Kingdom. And if that is the case, would it necessarily be appropriate to counter movements in the theatre?”

“I would argue in the affirmative, sir. From the reports I have been given regarding the meetings in Istanbul, it appears as if the Sultan’s hold on power is tenuous. All we would need is the toppling of the Sultan’s moderating hand and the ascendance of radical hardliners and if we maintain no numerical superiority, a hastily launched action against New Albion would be deemed likely by the Royal Navy.”

The conservation then quieted. Not only did the danger of a change of government lay in Istanbul, but the unmentioned threat in the conversation lay also in Imperium. There was, as of yet, no true idea of Ingrahm’s likely policy on Muslimeen-Oceanian relations.

New Albion- Al Malabaristan borderline

At one of the border checkpoints which led into New Albion, which was simply know as AMI Border Guards Post #22, which was only there to conduct customs and check any cars going out or coming into Al Malabaristan from New Albion. Yet this normally quiet border post was not quiet, at 12:00 like clockwork a group of NAIP supporters would show up and with their protest banners with slogans such as “ Death to Oceania” and other anti Oceania statements, which normally lasted 45 minutes at the most.

The Border guards just sit in their stations and just watch the daily annoyance, at point the Border guards put up their own sign that said in Arabic “ Go back to work, you lazy bums!”

Yet their superior officer, told them to take it down, citing it break a number of building codes and few code of conduct for the Borders guards, so in no time the sign was taken down.

The overall feeling in Al Malabaristan that the NAIP was a fringe group that tends to talk too much and do little for the community. Which in KLM culture was look down upon for spending one times just talking and little of anything else… Also the NIAR was looked down upon by the regional government in New Dehli, they were view as nothing but troublemakers.

http://i14.photobucket.com/albums/a338/Singaporean_Liberal/cna_logo.jpg

From Channel NewsAsia Online

http://www.bbc.co.uk/liverpool/content/images/2005/05/05/ballot_box_home_203x152.jpg

Seven days to Oceanian general elections

Kuala Lumpur, Southeast Asia, with Kingdom Broadcasting Corporation correspondents - Five days ago, Prime Minister Alistair Tetley with approval from King George I called for a general election as a result of the Royal Crown Colony of Novikov being nearly completely incorporated as a Home Country of the United Kingdom and the Parliament of Oceania, political commentators of Oceanian origin and of non-Oceanian origin have observed this latest general election as the result (alongside other recent political developments in New Albion and other crown colonies of Oceania). With seven days left to Oceanian general elections, political analysts and sources close to the Emerald Executive Recluse have noted that the head of state and Prime Minister of Southeast Asia along with the rest of the Executive Cabinet have kept tight lips on the issue of the Oceanian ballot box.

“This is not the first time the cabinet has chosen to state little to nothing on the subject of elections in foreign countries.” Professor Soukkongseng Mangnomek of the Vientiane University stated. “They normally reach out warmly to whoever emerges victorious regardless of their political affiliation, though there have been hints that in spite of that, countries with political administrations with policies similar to the current political party in power have likelier [chance of] improved relations.”

The Southeast Asian general public for a large percentage (as done in a recent CNA poll survey) approve of the domestic policies of the Marquess of Salisbury, but when it comes to international relations policy, seem to be more so divided between the incumbent Oceanian prime minister and Conservative Party front-man Rodney Ingrahm, who is also the United Kingdom’s Shadow Chancellor of the Exchequer. Overall approval for Lord Salisbury was at a good 63% for “yes”, 31% for “no” and 6% for “undecided.”

Important issues inevitably to be discussed of in the general elections of the United Kingdom, aside from the political structure of Oceania, include possible reformations to the Royal Armed Services (RAS) addressed by both sides of the political debate in the UK. The executive cabinet is likely to try and gain Oceanian support regardless of whichever political faction prevails, given the Kravenite-Southeast Asian crisis and the large conflict looming, if not expanding relations with the Big Three and with the Incorporated States of Sarzonia (the latter of the two being recently emerged from isolation).

Oceanian administration policy may be changed with the power of the ballot box within seven days’ time, and as the Southeast Asian people observe as well, may be influenced as well even if the Democratic Socialist Party does not lose Parliament. The UK general elections doubtlessly will affect Southeast Asia as it does to the international community, like other recent events as Sarzonian return and the rise of the APOC [Alliance for the Preservation of Civilization]. In spite of Oceanian foreign policy being antagonistic to the Incorporated States, as many have observed, rapprochement may be possible given the bloc’s rise. However, only time can tell what shall happen next for not only the survival of the United Kingdom as known today and what is in store for Southeast Asia, but the world at large as well.

[OOC: There, my latest CNA article. Hope I didn't do anything wrong...heh. *mewaits for reaction*]

HBC Online
HBC.hts

http://img176.imageshack.us/img176/4717/3853vy2.jpg
In a file photo from early November 2006,
Oceanian Prime Minister Lord Salisbury meets with
Chief Cabinet Secretary Marcelo Parades.
Their meeting failed to produce a firm agreement
for the establishment of diplomatic relations
between the United Realms and the
United Kingdom.

Salisbury and Ingrahm are neck and neck heading into final week

Jennifer Pearson Imperium Bureau Chief

The Oceanian legislative election has developed into a close race between the incumbent Democratic Socialists and a newly revitalized Conservative Party. Recent domestic security failures, most notably in New Albion, have seriously cut into Lord Salisbury's public support. The threat of colonial instability is leading many middle class Oceanians to look for a new approach to their nation's security needs. The Leader of the Opposition, and Prime Minister hopeful, Rodney Ingrahm is providing them with that new vision.

The Solstice Massacre, the assassination of a half-dozen Hamptonian Members of Royal Congress, the increasing violence in New Albion, the future of the Oceanian Empire, military reform and Novikovian integration have risen to be the main issues of this campaign season. In each area the Conservatives have managed to present viable alternatives to the current policies of the Salisbury Government. Lord Salisbury and the Democratic Socialists have successfully countered some proposals but it is clear that there is wide spread fatigue in the general populace. Howard Lindstrom, Director of the Center for Oceanian Studies at the University of Portshire, said that, "These problems arose under the DSP. They have to fight two battles. First they have to deny that these problems are really that paramount. Second, they must paint the Conservatives as radicals that will only make things worse. Unfortunately for Lord Salisbury neither strategy is actually working that well."

Heading into the final week of campaigning most polls place the Conservatives and DSP within the margin of error. In the Capital Cities, however, the mood is much more clear cut. While no one questions the status of Hampto-Oceanian relations and all of the major Federal-level parties favor the normalization of relations with the United Kingdom, personal support for Salisbury in the Capitals is hard to find. Despite several requests from different Departments, the Prime Minister has only met with one member of the Hayek Administration: Chief Cabinet Secretary Marcelo Parades. Salisbury had met with Luis Santiago but that was before he was appointed Vice Chancellor and a Secretary of State.

A senior member of the powerful Royal Senate Foreign Relations Committee interviewed for this article said under condition of anonymity, that "Salisbury is widely perceived by all of us in the Foreign Policy arena to be the stumbling block. For some reason or another he has dragged his feat and resisted every time Chancellor Hayek and others have reached out in friendship." Other members of the Royal Congress and Foreign Office bureaucrats share that position. "I honestly think that current relations will stagnate under a DSP government. I have hope for the Conservatives, though," one diplomat said.

Sources in the Federal Chancellery say that Chancellor Hayek has no preference in the upcoming election. The Chancellor has said in the past that he admires the political acumen of the Prime Minister. When Rodney Ingrahm was elected the Conservatives' leader Dr. Hayek told reporters that he was, "Happy to see someone who had lived and worked in Portshire at the helm of a great party. It will be nice to have a Conservative leader who has practical and not just theoretical knowledge of Hamptonian culture and politics."

Asquith, Torvey, United Kingdom

“…thusly, it is imperative that the United Kingdom remain not just willing, but also capable of defending the Empire.” Ingrahm paused, and lifted his head to look over the large audience, a gathering of university-age supporters in the northern city of Asquith. After several days of ignominious deaths for UK service personnel in the colonies, it had become evident not just to Ingrahm, but increasingly the Oceanian public at large, that Salisbury’s plans for stability in the Empire were fast failing.

“Critical to this defence is not only the continued support of the Royal Armed Services—underfunded and overstretched—but the creation and implementation of a political policy to preserve the fundamental institution of democracy throughout the empire. In short, much of the ongoing problems throughout the Empire require a political solution that, heretofore, has not been forthcoming let alone desired by the Marquess’ administration.”

Another outburst of applause and cheers echoed throughout the commons outside the university’s main hall, from which hung a large Conservative Party banner. Ingrahm knew full well that much of his recent success in catching up to the Prime Minister lay in the string of bad news from rising inflation to deaths overseas to quiet concerns from the allies—particularly from Hamptonshire.

“Should the people choose the Conservative Party to form the next government of the United Kingdom, it will be the aim of the government to better include the Empire in the democratic process. There will be public referendums in New Albion and New London where the voices of the majority will be held—and the government will act in accordance to the wishes of the people.”

Kingston, Arista, United Kingdom

On the outskirts of Kingston, Lord Salisbury stood before a magnificently clean glass façade, the new headquarters of AKR Mining, the UK’s largest mining company. Salisbury knew, looking out at a collection of centre-minded businesspersons that there were legitimate concerns. Rising energy costs had begun to force up inflation and the Commonwealth Bank was likely to continue to advocate for increases in the national interest rate—something that would be tantamount to an admission of failure. For now, with the bank still partially under government control, he and the chancellor had kept a lid on the situation. But he knew that at some point, it would leak and he would have yet another mini-crisis to handle.

“The security of the colonies is paramount to the Empire.” Salisbury spoke quietly, as was his style, but his voice nonetheless carried great sway not just because of the large speakers well placed around the outdoor forum. “And the security and integrity of the Empire is paramount to the United Kingdom. As I stand before you today, Mr. Ingrahm is speaking in Asquith, a city even by name well associated with imperialism. He, however, intends not to propose a strengthening of the Empire; but, instead, proposes a piecemeal dismemberment that shall surely dismember all peace within the United Kingdom.”

Before Salisbury, the crowd cheered and applauded and he acknowledged them with a faint smile. “For we live in a world hostile to democracy, a fact that Mr. Ingrahm has himself even admitted, but a fact for which he has no contingency plans. Our Empire provides us with the resources necessary to defend democracies abroad as well as persevere ourselves from the threat of tyrannies and dictatorships. And yet all of this,” Salisbury simply waved his hands, “Mr. Ingrahm seeks to dissolve. There is no doubt in my mind, and let there be no doubt in yours, that the gravest threat to the United Kingdom and the Oceanic Empire is not some foreign government but a simple pencil mark in that little box next to the Conservative Party.”

Slowly and methodically, Rodney Ingrahm let his hand drift across the checkered pattern of black and white marble, a small piece of ivory clutched delicately between his fingers. “And neither Defence nor the Admiralty have said anything,” he asked plaintively, his eyes still fixed on the intricate patterns of strategy.

“Nothing, perhaps because they are steaming out so far from the electorates.”

“No,” Ingrahm replied calmly to his chief of staff’s response, “they do it because they are fearful of our response. They are fearful of the politicisation of the issue. Imagine, Peter,” Ingrahm finally looked up, placing the ivory on a deliberately chosen square. “What would the Oceanian people do if they knew that, at this very moment, Istanbul was engaged in maneuvers designed entirely to simulate war against the Royal Navy? For years now, Salisbury has moved his fleets and armies and pounds across the world without one thought to ultimate strategy or, dare I say, potential reversals in the field.”

Ingrahm slowly leaned back into his chair and picked up his cup from the saucer, steam swirling upwards and momentarily garnering the Leader of the Opposition’s attention. ‘He throws around the Royal Navy like some Ascalon to slay the Empire’s problems. There are limits, Peter, and we are fast approaching them. Of that I am quite certain.”

“Then what shall we do about it?”

“Well, when we win, we shall increase the size of the Royal Navy—but right now, I would rather us focus on the fragile state of al Muslimeen-Oceanian relations.” Ingrahm stoically watched as his chief of staff guided a piece of white ivory. “There is no doubt, Peter, that the hardliners in Istanbul want New Albion back in Istanbul’s grips—and that is not something I am prepared to accept at any cost.”

“Even if that is the democratic wish of the people,” the chief of staff quipped dryly.

“There are,” Ingrahm responded in his own even tone, “always greater concerns than the democratic rights of a few. Dawesport provides the United Kingdom with a superb forward operating base for operations in the Indian Ocean and specifically those aimed at the heart of Istanbul’s empire. As long as we remain in Dawesport we remain as much a thorn in their side as their Pacific colonies are in ours.”

Carefully, Ingrahm picked up one of his pieces. “Indeed, the most equitable solution to both parties would be the relinquishing of their Pacific colonies and ours in the Indian; but that will never happen. Instead, we must ultimately seek détente in the most favourable conditions for the United Kingdom. Neither party can afford a full-blown war, Peter.” Finally, Ingrahm let his fingers slip off the rounded top of the ivory.

“The problem, Rodney,” the chief of staff replied, his own fingers picking up a crown-topped piece, “ is that as it stands, they have hundreds of ships in the Indian Ocean and we have perhaps an even hundred on deployment, split between Avinapolis, Dawesport, and Port Blair. The Indian Ocean is only so big—and if both sides keep throwing matches into the pit something will set off one hell of a conflagration neither party will be able to easily extinguish.”

Ingrahm nodded, his eyes shifting slowly from piece to piece, the game moving inexorably towards its inevitable conclusion. “Indeed. Nonetheless, for the time being, it is unacceptable for Istanbul to be maintaining such a large presence in the Indian. Thankfully, it means that their forces are thin elsewhere. Ordinarily I would be tempted to call for mobilisation of naval forces into those theatres—but I tend to agree with you, Peter. That would be just another set of matches waiting for a single unintentional spark. No, for now we will simply push for an increase in defence spending and a reorganisation of the Royal Armed Services, especially the Royal Navy. Allowing Istanbul to posture so close to Dawesport is a threat—but one that I think it best we truly do little about.”

The Citadel
Imperium, New Britain, UK

“This is the latest,” Lord Salisbury asked, pushing the black bridge further up his nose.

“Yes, Your Lordship.” Sitting down across from the Prime Minister, a large and rotund man with thin wisps of white hair atop a balding head, a wooden cane topped with a golden orb carefully balanced across the man’s legs. He was the First Sea Lord, Admiral Lord Richard Atkinson, author of the United Kingdom’s two largest naval victories in recent memory. He was also on his final tour of duty—his failing health had already sealed the fact that these were his last days as First Sea Lord.

“As you can see,” Atkinson continued, “the al Muslimeen fleet has deployed primarily to test their ASW capabilities. Nonetheless, we still have Commodore Wakefield’s group situated here, roughly 600 kilometres away from the main body of the Imperial High Seas Fleet. He has, however, reported that his screening forces have made visual contact with elements of his counterparts in the al Muslimeen force.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that our forces are very close, Prime Minister. Well within engagement range, missiles or guns it matters not. If one on either side loses their cool, we could be facing the largest naval battle since the end of the Novikovian War; and, with due respect, we would be slaughtered. Two old battlecruisers are insufficient to even delay a force comprising of over a dozen super-dreadnoughts.”

Salisbury nodded. “But we are gaining intelligence, no?”

“We are, Prime Minister. The Office of Royal Navy Intelligence, along with the Royal Intelligence Service, have begun to crack the less secure frequencies being reported by the destroyers and frigates. The more secure command frequencies have been identified and we have also been learning the potential vulnerabilities in their strategies as well as technologies. It is paying massive dividends thus far.”

For a moment, Salisbury let his hands run back through his hair while his weary eyes poured over the satellite data and the printouts from Commodore Wakefield’s own secure transmissions to the Admiralty. “What is the likelihood of either force firing a shot, Admiral?”

“Moderately high, Prime Minister. Tensions between the respective navies of our two states are high—though my contacts in Istanbul indicate that there remains a high degree of respect for the Royal Navy in Istanbul. Nevertheless, I cannot say that armed hostilities are neither impossible nor improbable.”

“So what sort of contingency plans are available?”

“Several, Prime Minister, depending upon what course of action you wish to take if such a situation arises. We have plans for escalation and de-escalation, from the outright invasion of al Muslimeen India and Istanbul’s Pacific colonies to more modest plans entailing the capture of the whole of New Albion.”

“Too risky,” Salisbury responded quietly, almost to nobody. “Iain has been doing us a great service in his shuttle diplomacy between Imperium and Istanbul—he is perhaps my second Foreign Secretary. Regardless, his reports indicate that Istanbul is slowly warming, at least to an extent, to a continuing Oceanian presence in New Albion. However, he also notes that the radical hardliners are diametrically opposed to any Oceanian flag flying from Dawesport and that their allies in the al Muslimeen intelligence services are advocating low-intensity insurgency operations throughout New Albion.”

“If we come to blows in the Indian Ocean that will only play into the hands of the hardliners and make it more difficult to hold Dawesport. And regardless of any peace sought between our two governments I have no intention of sacrificing Dawesport. No, if there is shooting in the Indian we cannot allow it to escalate to full-blown war.”

“Very astute, Prime Minister, if I may be so bold.”

Salisbury smiled warmly. It had only been through Atkinson’s help that he had survived all these years in office. “Of course, Dick, of course. And so we need to make clear that the war games in the Indian Ocean are not a threat to the United Kingdom. I take it the Admiralty can take care of such announcements in the morning?”

“Very well, Prime Minister.”