DontPissUsOff
21-06-2007, 04:34
Parliament House, Sun City
Parliament house was abuzz with activity, unusual for such an early hour of the day. Buses and trams rumbled busily past outside, conveying the odd tourist to take a picture of the grand neo-Gothic structure’s slowly blackening exterior, but within the activity, though more subdued, was no less urgent and far more significant. The Cabinet had been assembled, awaiting the arrival of the Emperor, for half an hour. The MPs sat and talked and fidgeted, depending upon their knowledge (or lack of same) regarding the situation arising. Some knew not even why they had been summoned; they would find out soon enough. The Cabinet had had to convene once the Questerian announcement had been made. Such a momentous event, instigated by such a close enemy, was not ignorable; even less so at a time like this, when all around seemed to quake with the uncertainty of a vanishing world floating on cracking ice.
Without flourish or formality, Emperor Marcus the First entered through the worn, heavy doors at the far end of the long room, his expression one of weariness and pain. He nodded to the Foreign Minister, Jenny Farringham, who began to speak immediately he had sat down, unrolling a large blind as she did so. A small projector grumbled into action, displaying photographs, some publicly and some covertly obtained, from various places in the Questerian Commonwealth. Mostly they showed excitable crowds and braying, noisy orators atop what might as well have been soap-boxes; the content, though not elucidated, was not in doubt to the assembled Ministers. Farringham pointed simply to the pictures, letting them speak for themselves.
"Out there lies Questers and the serried ranks of their so-called Commonwealth. I'm not going to burden you with the usual rhetoric of rabble-rousers; that's the Press Officers' job." Nobody laughed, though a few cracked a wan smile. "All I can tell you is this: it looks like this time, it's going to be the big one. They're effectively throwing down a challenge to Automagfreek, and seemingly Gholgoth as well. We don't really know why." She sipped from a glass of coffee near her outstretched hand, swallowing the burning liquid unthinkingly as she watched the hazy, damp city outside. “However, the announcements we’ve seen, the intelligence we’re receiving and the pictures up there combine to form a very ugly picture.”
Mikhail Kazakov, the Minister of Defence, stepped in. "Whatever's going on in their heads, which we don't really know at present--" Kazakov was cut off by an angry snap from the Minister for Agriculture, Peter Burne.
"And why", he demanded with a thumping fist that set liquid dancing onto the polished oak surface, "do we not know what their motives are? Who is responsible for letting our intelligence network become so poor?"
"Nobody is responsible, Peter", Kazakov replied wearily. “At least nobody who’s been found. The fact is that, in the absence of a man at Imperial GHQ in Questers, we’re not going to find out much more than anyone else quite what they wish to kick this off for.”
“And why have we no man in Imperial GHQ?” challenged Burne, infuriated by Kazakov’s lack of an explanation and even more so by his dismissive tone. “How can it be that we have enough money to keep an eye on our own people but not enough to watch for foreigners threatening us? How?
“We have enough money to do both! Damnit man, I’m the soldier here, not you! If you--“
“That’s enough, Mikhail.” Marcus’ ice-coated voice cut across the room, silencing the conversation instantly as his weary, cold eyes glared along the table. “That means very little now that the pieces have been set in motion.” He slowly raised himself from his carved chair and strolled almost nonchalantly to the window, his suddenly deep and flat voice addressing Kazakov without bothering to turn and look at him. “What do we know regarding the enemy?” Kazakov sighed, shaking his head and studying his notes with a grim smile that twisted his ever more craggy, hardened face into something resembling a snarl.
“Quite a bit, actually.” There’s what our damned money has gone towards, Burne! “The Questerians seem to be spread, if our men are to be believed, quite thinly. They’re attempting to rouse their ‘commonwealth’ to action on their behalf; how successful that little trick will be remains to be seen. However, even if they can recruit a sizable force for their own ends, and retain it, they’re up against a formidably large force.” Kazakov paused, courteously letting the obviously eager Farringham interject.
“That’s something we’ve been seeing for some time,” she said, nodding slowly. “Not just Gholgoth, but NATO. The overall feeling seems to be that, since so many of our NATO allies are also Gholgoth members or allies of Gholgothians, the Alliance isn’t so much going to be dragged in as going to jump in, sooner or later.”
Marcus continued to stare from the window pane. “And what of our…” he paused, as though searching awkwardly for the words he needed. “Our situation in this great game of theirs?”
“Not exactly superb”, Kazakov replied, loathing the triumphant smirk that Burne shot at him, “to put it mildly.”
“How not superb are we talking?” the Minister for Transport fiddled unsurely with his shirt collar, loath to risk rousing the wrath of the Defence Minister; but he had not spent years building up the best public transport and freight movement system in the world to see it reduced to ruins by some lot of foreigners, and he was damned if he was going to go back to his office ignorant.
“Not as bad as it looks at first glance. On land, the Ground Forces have been gradually receiving new equipment. The UT-1 series tank, mainly, and various derivatives of it. A lot of the tackle is old but still serviceable - mainly the artillery arm, which is still mostly of Soviet origin. National Service gives us a large reserve pool, who won’t need too much training. The biggest problem, frankly, is fuel. Diesel oil’s precious to us, and it’s sure to be the first thing the enemy goes for.” He shuffled his papers, glancing to the still silent Emperor, and cleared his throat nervously.
“In the air, things are still not too good, but better than they were. We still have many Soviet types on the books, mostly strategic bombers and fighters. Our own interceptors and medium-range bombers have replaced the old Russian types. Training-wise things are worse, however, than on the ground.”
“And why is that?” asked the Interior Minister reasonably. Hiirako Tongato was seldom a man of commotion, and saw no reason to try to castigate his old friend; he knew only too well why the Air Forces’ pilots were getting barely the minimum amount of what they called “stick time” per year.
“Fuel”, Kazakov replied simply. “Jets are horrendous fuel-burners, far worse even than ground forces in large numbers. The latest maritime patrol airframe has been designed around a particularly efficient engine, but those engines cannot, or so I’m informed, be used in anything that we want to move rapidly. Our fighters, interceptors and most of our bombers and helicopters will still retain jet engines, including the new GN-4 class being put into production now.”
“So you’re telling me,” replied the Chancellor slowly, “that we’re facing a fuel shortage for our forces in action?”
“Not for our forces in action, no. We have enough reserves of fuel for around fifty days’ sustained action, by our own current estimates. That’s diesel oil only. Aviation fuel stocks are lower, around thirty days’. Heavy fuel oil is available in about the same supply, but that’s largely irrelevant to the Navy nowadays anyway. On the subject of the Navy, I can only say that things are probably best there. The Navy still receives the bulk of our funding, and has for a while had access to newer and improved vessels and weapons at a rate denied to the other forces.”
“Including Imperceptible,” Burne acidly pointed out, setting Kazakov’s teeth grating once more. “Are we likely to see a repeat of that, Minister?
Kazakov glowered witheringly at his most vocal opponent, but held his ground. “No, we are not. We have rectified the faults revealed by Imperceptible’s unfortunate voyage. We have small numbers of almost all the new classes I mentioned in service, and a base of trained men who know their ‘ins and outs’; our reservists have, wherever possible, been sent to train on these new ships during their ninety-day call-up period. Of course it’s not perfect, but the situation isn’t too horrendously bad. The big question is essentially one of whether or not we can mobilise - and train - our population fast enough, and whether we can produce enough machines to meet the demand.”
And, of course, whether we can survive the first blows.
*****
The decision, in the end, could not swing any way other than the direction it took. The country must honour its commitment to NATO and to its allies. Emperor Marcus stood and addressed the Cabinet, briefly and tersely, after having counted the votes.
“Ladies and gentlemen; my decision is not easy. However, I must concur with your vote. We must, as you have said, abide by those agreements into which we have entered. Ready or unready, willing or unwilling, we must prepare for war, and request the aid of our friends and allies.
It is likely, with or without the aid, that this will be the last march of the Land of the Sun. It is likely, my friends,that we are marching to our doom.”
There would be no announcement or formal proclamation of mobilisation; deception was at the heart of the war-fighting strategy rapidly evolving in the High Command’s headquarters. Call-up notices would, as always, be sent by registered post; industry would be mobilised as covertly as possible. More unusually, a proportion of the available resources were to be spent simply on an actual deception force; four dozen ancient warships were already sitting, quietly being modified, under concrete camouflage pens at Star Point. Marcus knew of the various preparations that would be undertaken as soon as the Ministers returned to their respective departments; he knew also that the deceptive measures and bluffs they had so long rehearsed in a desperate bid to hide the weakness of the country’s armed forces might soon be all that stood between them and destruction.
Yes; we are marching to our doom. Marcus sighed, tired and forlorn, and gazed out over the bustling City.
*****
It took Farringham around an hour to send out a mass, high-encryption message to various other NATO member states, requesting information on Questerian intentions and on how much, if any, military force they could spare in the aid of her country. She held out but little hope; Questers’ commonwealth and the Sovereign League would likely absorb almost all the attention of NATO’s more potent members. Her country would have to fend for itself, and hope, even as all hope seemed slowly to be fading away. But she had to try; and so she sent the message to everyone, from AMF to Tyrandis.
From: J. Farringham (MFA, DPUO)
To: NATO Nations
Subject: The gathering storm
To our allies in NATO:
It is becoming increasingly clear to all that Questers means to attack Gholgoth. The number of Gholgoth nations also members of NATO, and the proximity of NATO member nations who are almost certain to aid Automagfreek, makes the likelihood of an additional attack against Havenic NATO very high; of this you are all doubtless aware, and we will not dishonour our pledges to NATO and its members by attempting to back our of any military action that might be necessary.
We are, however, a nation in little state to take on an opponent so strong and close as the Questerians and their cohorts. We therefore request that, if at all possible, you provide us with something, anything, that might aid our defence. Manpower, equipment, money, intelligence; we are in our time of need, and we ask that NATO aid us, for without NATO’s help we cannot help NATO.
We stand with you, doomed as we may be. We shall not think ill if you can spare us nothing to relieve a plight of our own making. In any case, may the Light go with us all in this hour of Darkness.
Yours,
J. Farringham (Minister for Foreign Affairs)
Parliament house was abuzz with activity, unusual for such an early hour of the day. Buses and trams rumbled busily past outside, conveying the odd tourist to take a picture of the grand neo-Gothic structure’s slowly blackening exterior, but within the activity, though more subdued, was no less urgent and far more significant. The Cabinet had been assembled, awaiting the arrival of the Emperor, for half an hour. The MPs sat and talked and fidgeted, depending upon their knowledge (or lack of same) regarding the situation arising. Some knew not even why they had been summoned; they would find out soon enough. The Cabinet had had to convene once the Questerian announcement had been made. Such a momentous event, instigated by such a close enemy, was not ignorable; even less so at a time like this, when all around seemed to quake with the uncertainty of a vanishing world floating on cracking ice.
Without flourish or formality, Emperor Marcus the First entered through the worn, heavy doors at the far end of the long room, his expression one of weariness and pain. He nodded to the Foreign Minister, Jenny Farringham, who began to speak immediately he had sat down, unrolling a large blind as she did so. A small projector grumbled into action, displaying photographs, some publicly and some covertly obtained, from various places in the Questerian Commonwealth. Mostly they showed excitable crowds and braying, noisy orators atop what might as well have been soap-boxes; the content, though not elucidated, was not in doubt to the assembled Ministers. Farringham pointed simply to the pictures, letting them speak for themselves.
"Out there lies Questers and the serried ranks of their so-called Commonwealth. I'm not going to burden you with the usual rhetoric of rabble-rousers; that's the Press Officers' job." Nobody laughed, though a few cracked a wan smile. "All I can tell you is this: it looks like this time, it's going to be the big one. They're effectively throwing down a challenge to Automagfreek, and seemingly Gholgoth as well. We don't really know why." She sipped from a glass of coffee near her outstretched hand, swallowing the burning liquid unthinkingly as she watched the hazy, damp city outside. “However, the announcements we’ve seen, the intelligence we’re receiving and the pictures up there combine to form a very ugly picture.”
Mikhail Kazakov, the Minister of Defence, stepped in. "Whatever's going on in their heads, which we don't really know at present--" Kazakov was cut off by an angry snap from the Minister for Agriculture, Peter Burne.
"And why", he demanded with a thumping fist that set liquid dancing onto the polished oak surface, "do we not know what their motives are? Who is responsible for letting our intelligence network become so poor?"
"Nobody is responsible, Peter", Kazakov replied wearily. “At least nobody who’s been found. The fact is that, in the absence of a man at Imperial GHQ in Questers, we’re not going to find out much more than anyone else quite what they wish to kick this off for.”
“And why have we no man in Imperial GHQ?” challenged Burne, infuriated by Kazakov’s lack of an explanation and even more so by his dismissive tone. “How can it be that we have enough money to keep an eye on our own people but not enough to watch for foreigners threatening us? How?
“We have enough money to do both! Damnit man, I’m the soldier here, not you! If you--“
“That’s enough, Mikhail.” Marcus’ ice-coated voice cut across the room, silencing the conversation instantly as his weary, cold eyes glared along the table. “That means very little now that the pieces have been set in motion.” He slowly raised himself from his carved chair and strolled almost nonchalantly to the window, his suddenly deep and flat voice addressing Kazakov without bothering to turn and look at him. “What do we know regarding the enemy?” Kazakov sighed, shaking his head and studying his notes with a grim smile that twisted his ever more craggy, hardened face into something resembling a snarl.
“Quite a bit, actually.” There’s what our damned money has gone towards, Burne! “The Questerians seem to be spread, if our men are to be believed, quite thinly. They’re attempting to rouse their ‘commonwealth’ to action on their behalf; how successful that little trick will be remains to be seen. However, even if they can recruit a sizable force for their own ends, and retain it, they’re up against a formidably large force.” Kazakov paused, courteously letting the obviously eager Farringham interject.
“That’s something we’ve been seeing for some time,” she said, nodding slowly. “Not just Gholgoth, but NATO. The overall feeling seems to be that, since so many of our NATO allies are also Gholgoth members or allies of Gholgothians, the Alliance isn’t so much going to be dragged in as going to jump in, sooner or later.”
Marcus continued to stare from the window pane. “And what of our…” he paused, as though searching awkwardly for the words he needed. “Our situation in this great game of theirs?”
“Not exactly superb”, Kazakov replied, loathing the triumphant smirk that Burne shot at him, “to put it mildly.”
“How not superb are we talking?” the Minister for Transport fiddled unsurely with his shirt collar, loath to risk rousing the wrath of the Defence Minister; but he had not spent years building up the best public transport and freight movement system in the world to see it reduced to ruins by some lot of foreigners, and he was damned if he was going to go back to his office ignorant.
“Not as bad as it looks at first glance. On land, the Ground Forces have been gradually receiving new equipment. The UT-1 series tank, mainly, and various derivatives of it. A lot of the tackle is old but still serviceable - mainly the artillery arm, which is still mostly of Soviet origin. National Service gives us a large reserve pool, who won’t need too much training. The biggest problem, frankly, is fuel. Diesel oil’s precious to us, and it’s sure to be the first thing the enemy goes for.” He shuffled his papers, glancing to the still silent Emperor, and cleared his throat nervously.
“In the air, things are still not too good, but better than they were. We still have many Soviet types on the books, mostly strategic bombers and fighters. Our own interceptors and medium-range bombers have replaced the old Russian types. Training-wise things are worse, however, than on the ground.”
“And why is that?” asked the Interior Minister reasonably. Hiirako Tongato was seldom a man of commotion, and saw no reason to try to castigate his old friend; he knew only too well why the Air Forces’ pilots were getting barely the minimum amount of what they called “stick time” per year.
“Fuel”, Kazakov replied simply. “Jets are horrendous fuel-burners, far worse even than ground forces in large numbers. The latest maritime patrol airframe has been designed around a particularly efficient engine, but those engines cannot, or so I’m informed, be used in anything that we want to move rapidly. Our fighters, interceptors and most of our bombers and helicopters will still retain jet engines, including the new GN-4 class being put into production now.”
“So you’re telling me,” replied the Chancellor slowly, “that we’re facing a fuel shortage for our forces in action?”
“Not for our forces in action, no. We have enough reserves of fuel for around fifty days’ sustained action, by our own current estimates. That’s diesel oil only. Aviation fuel stocks are lower, around thirty days’. Heavy fuel oil is available in about the same supply, but that’s largely irrelevant to the Navy nowadays anyway. On the subject of the Navy, I can only say that things are probably best there. The Navy still receives the bulk of our funding, and has for a while had access to newer and improved vessels and weapons at a rate denied to the other forces.”
“Including Imperceptible,” Burne acidly pointed out, setting Kazakov’s teeth grating once more. “Are we likely to see a repeat of that, Minister?
Kazakov glowered witheringly at his most vocal opponent, but held his ground. “No, we are not. We have rectified the faults revealed by Imperceptible’s unfortunate voyage. We have small numbers of almost all the new classes I mentioned in service, and a base of trained men who know their ‘ins and outs’; our reservists have, wherever possible, been sent to train on these new ships during their ninety-day call-up period. Of course it’s not perfect, but the situation isn’t too horrendously bad. The big question is essentially one of whether or not we can mobilise - and train - our population fast enough, and whether we can produce enough machines to meet the demand.”
And, of course, whether we can survive the first blows.
*****
The decision, in the end, could not swing any way other than the direction it took. The country must honour its commitment to NATO and to its allies. Emperor Marcus stood and addressed the Cabinet, briefly and tersely, after having counted the votes.
“Ladies and gentlemen; my decision is not easy. However, I must concur with your vote. We must, as you have said, abide by those agreements into which we have entered. Ready or unready, willing or unwilling, we must prepare for war, and request the aid of our friends and allies.
It is likely, with or without the aid, that this will be the last march of the Land of the Sun. It is likely, my friends,that we are marching to our doom.”
There would be no announcement or formal proclamation of mobilisation; deception was at the heart of the war-fighting strategy rapidly evolving in the High Command’s headquarters. Call-up notices would, as always, be sent by registered post; industry would be mobilised as covertly as possible. More unusually, a proportion of the available resources were to be spent simply on an actual deception force; four dozen ancient warships were already sitting, quietly being modified, under concrete camouflage pens at Star Point. Marcus knew of the various preparations that would be undertaken as soon as the Ministers returned to their respective departments; he knew also that the deceptive measures and bluffs they had so long rehearsed in a desperate bid to hide the weakness of the country’s armed forces might soon be all that stood between them and destruction.
Yes; we are marching to our doom. Marcus sighed, tired and forlorn, and gazed out over the bustling City.
*****
It took Farringham around an hour to send out a mass, high-encryption message to various other NATO member states, requesting information on Questerian intentions and on how much, if any, military force they could spare in the aid of her country. She held out but little hope; Questers’ commonwealth and the Sovereign League would likely absorb almost all the attention of NATO’s more potent members. Her country would have to fend for itself, and hope, even as all hope seemed slowly to be fading away. But she had to try; and so she sent the message to everyone, from AMF to Tyrandis.
From: J. Farringham (MFA, DPUO)
To: NATO Nations
Subject: The gathering storm
To our allies in NATO:
It is becoming increasingly clear to all that Questers means to attack Gholgoth. The number of Gholgoth nations also members of NATO, and the proximity of NATO member nations who are almost certain to aid Automagfreek, makes the likelihood of an additional attack against Havenic NATO very high; of this you are all doubtless aware, and we will not dishonour our pledges to NATO and its members by attempting to back our of any military action that might be necessary.
We are, however, a nation in little state to take on an opponent so strong and close as the Questerians and their cohorts. We therefore request that, if at all possible, you provide us with something, anything, that might aid our defence. Manpower, equipment, money, intelligence; we are in our time of need, and we ask that NATO aid us, for without NATO’s help we cannot help NATO.
We stand with you, doomed as we may be. We shall not think ill if you can spare us nothing to relieve a plight of our own making. In any case, may the Light go with us all in this hour of Darkness.
Yours,
J. Farringham (Minister for Foreign Affairs)