Central Prestonia
08-12-2007, 02:54
The Rusty Sword
Freeport, Liberia
2000 Hours Local Time
"We had a deal you fucking ****," Kwame Mbuto roared in his thick colonial accent. Around him, nobody seemed to notice. The Rusty Sword was just one of several dingy bars in the backstreets of Freeport, where colonial soldiers and terrorists alike drowned their boredom in drink. Police raids were nonexistent, because the police had stopped caring. For every bar, speakeasy and terrorist hangout they shut down, another ten sprung up. This bar, however, was not like the others. For as nondescript as it seemed on the outside, it held far greater importance than any of it's twins. This bar was the front and headquarters of the Liberian Peoples Front, one of the most feared organizations in the colony. The mere mention of the letters "LPF" was enough to send chills down the spine of any God-fearing Prestonian.
Mbuto paced around the well-lit back office, where a white man was sitting, scared out of his wits. Kwame was clad in traditional clothing, with the exception of an ammo belt slung over his shoulder. "As I was saying, we had a deal. One million dollars, and you deliver the goods. I want my Stinger by the end of the night, or I will find the highest tree in fucking Liberia and hang your family from it." Kwame had stopped pacing and now lit up a Chukranian cigar, taking a long drag before blowing the smoke in his accomplice's face. Emboldened by some unknown force to speak, the white man began without hesitation. "Times have changed. The Prestonian Continental African Police have been getting more anal about what you can bring in-country lately. I have to raise the price. I need another million or the deal's off." Without hesitating, Kwame produced a briefcase containing the money. "I want my missile out to the coordinates I gave you by eleven o'clock. If you are late, or my missile is a dud, I assure you that you will not live long enough to regret it. Now, get out of my sight." The white man fled, eager to be rid of the situation.
Meanwhile, half a world away, President Justin Gannon rushed to the terminal where Air Prestonia Flight 1471 was leaving bound for Freeport. Ordinarily he would have taken Air Force One, but as this trip was personal, he chose to leave her at Hudson AB where she was homeported. I already caught enough shit for personal trips, he thought to himself. Less than a year ago he had been impeached on charges of corruption stemming from how he had used Air Force One, and he was not eager to repeat the mistake. With the election fast approaching he knew his party would not, could not, with another term after the fiasco of last year. Boarding the plane and finding his seat in first-class, he settled in for what was to be a three-hour flight. All was well, for the time being.
50km outside of Freetown
2300 Hours
Three jeeps were parked around a campfire, their occupants standing, smoking, waiting. "Where the fuck is that snowman?," their leader said, using an insulting term for a white person. "Relax Kwame, Reynolds will be here. He probably got sidetracked picking up a hooker in town," one of the younger men said. "I don't give a fuck what he's doing. If I miss my chance to kill Gannon, I'll kill him instead." As he finished his sentence, a military humvee drove up, blinking it's lights in the prearranged code. Stepping out, the white man from earlier carried a case with him. "Your missile, sir," he aid with a cynical tone. "Thank you. Now, get out of here. I'm pretty sure you don't want to see the fireball." obeying, Reynolds got in his vehicle and sped off. "Fucking schmuck," one of the men said. "Why do you even deal with him boss?" Kwame answered nonchalantly as he fiddled with the radar he had set up on the hood of his jeep. "Because he's military, and he can get me what I need. Now, take your places. This piece of shit radar is showing a contact 10 miles out. Let's hope it's ours, eh?" The men drew their AK-47s and took up perimeter positions, guarding their encampment from any possible attack. Suddenly, a large airliner, probably an Airbus A380, appeared on the horizon. Kwame took aim, waiting for it to come into range. As it got closer, he whispered "deus rector meus manus," God guide my hand, and fired. The missile shot up like a firecracker, impacting dead-center in the belly, where the main fuel tank was. There was a concussion, followed by a blinding flash and deafening explosion. The plane broke into several pieces, scattering throughout the plain. Their job done, the men departed.
On board, President Gannon saw the report, but by that time it was too late. He never had a chance.
Without even knowing it, the LPF had set up a revolution that would leave no part of Prestonia untouched.
Freeport, Liberia
2000 Hours Local Time
"We had a deal you fucking ****," Kwame Mbuto roared in his thick colonial accent. Around him, nobody seemed to notice. The Rusty Sword was just one of several dingy bars in the backstreets of Freeport, where colonial soldiers and terrorists alike drowned their boredom in drink. Police raids were nonexistent, because the police had stopped caring. For every bar, speakeasy and terrorist hangout they shut down, another ten sprung up. This bar, however, was not like the others. For as nondescript as it seemed on the outside, it held far greater importance than any of it's twins. This bar was the front and headquarters of the Liberian Peoples Front, one of the most feared organizations in the colony. The mere mention of the letters "LPF" was enough to send chills down the spine of any God-fearing Prestonian.
Mbuto paced around the well-lit back office, where a white man was sitting, scared out of his wits. Kwame was clad in traditional clothing, with the exception of an ammo belt slung over his shoulder. "As I was saying, we had a deal. One million dollars, and you deliver the goods. I want my Stinger by the end of the night, or I will find the highest tree in fucking Liberia and hang your family from it." Kwame had stopped pacing and now lit up a Chukranian cigar, taking a long drag before blowing the smoke in his accomplice's face. Emboldened by some unknown force to speak, the white man began without hesitation. "Times have changed. The Prestonian Continental African Police have been getting more anal about what you can bring in-country lately. I have to raise the price. I need another million or the deal's off." Without hesitating, Kwame produced a briefcase containing the money. "I want my missile out to the coordinates I gave you by eleven o'clock. If you are late, or my missile is a dud, I assure you that you will not live long enough to regret it. Now, get out of my sight." The white man fled, eager to be rid of the situation.
Meanwhile, half a world away, President Justin Gannon rushed to the terminal where Air Prestonia Flight 1471 was leaving bound for Freeport. Ordinarily he would have taken Air Force One, but as this trip was personal, he chose to leave her at Hudson AB where she was homeported. I already caught enough shit for personal trips, he thought to himself. Less than a year ago he had been impeached on charges of corruption stemming from how he had used Air Force One, and he was not eager to repeat the mistake. With the election fast approaching he knew his party would not, could not, with another term after the fiasco of last year. Boarding the plane and finding his seat in first-class, he settled in for what was to be a three-hour flight. All was well, for the time being.
50km outside of Freetown
2300 Hours
Three jeeps were parked around a campfire, their occupants standing, smoking, waiting. "Where the fuck is that snowman?," their leader said, using an insulting term for a white person. "Relax Kwame, Reynolds will be here. He probably got sidetracked picking up a hooker in town," one of the younger men said. "I don't give a fuck what he's doing. If I miss my chance to kill Gannon, I'll kill him instead." As he finished his sentence, a military humvee drove up, blinking it's lights in the prearranged code. Stepping out, the white man from earlier carried a case with him. "Your missile, sir," he aid with a cynical tone. "Thank you. Now, get out of here. I'm pretty sure you don't want to see the fireball." obeying, Reynolds got in his vehicle and sped off. "Fucking schmuck," one of the men said. "Why do you even deal with him boss?" Kwame answered nonchalantly as he fiddled with the radar he had set up on the hood of his jeep. "Because he's military, and he can get me what I need. Now, take your places. This piece of shit radar is showing a contact 10 miles out. Let's hope it's ours, eh?" The men drew their AK-47s and took up perimeter positions, guarding their encampment from any possible attack. Suddenly, a large airliner, probably an Airbus A380, appeared on the horizon. Kwame took aim, waiting for it to come into range. As it got closer, he whispered "deus rector meus manus," God guide my hand, and fired. The missile shot up like a firecracker, impacting dead-center in the belly, where the main fuel tank was. There was a concussion, followed by a blinding flash and deafening explosion. The plane broke into several pieces, scattering throughout the plain. Their job done, the men departed.
On board, President Gannon saw the report, but by that time it was too late. He never had a chance.
Without even knowing it, the LPF had set up a revolution that would leave no part of Prestonia untouched.