NationStates Jolt Archive

St. Andrews, Central Prestonia

The coastal city had been quite the place to live for Michelle Sprecker in her eight month posting to St Andrews. A quick background check would show you a copy of her passport from Cravan and that she was in Central Prestonia on a student visa, although that would be all that was available minus a person's normal, routine vital information, she had no other background to speak of in Prestonia. The young woman walked along the sidewalk in an older black peacoat and white scarf, her legs covered by knee-length leather boots with a low heel collected snow from the small amount that remained on the ground in the busy industrial city. Sprecker was on her way to one of the nation's many Jones Brothers Coffee establishments that were incredibly popular with the denizens of the city, "Worst that the people back home," She thought to herself as she entered through one of the glass doors and placed an order to be served at her table as she retrieved her laptop computer and began typing, waiting for the arrival of her "date" that busy morning.

The true nature of her purpose in Prestonia was known to a select few, while most would view her as an attractive brunette student hailing from the Northern Cravanian province of Extonshire almost none would know her as a newly-graduated field agent employed by the Aequatian Republic Intelligence Agency who hailed from Vanaheim, Aequatius Nord. The "Free Prestonia" movement within the nation had caught the attention of the Company back home and someone was needed to be the contact between the underground group and the Aequatians, Sprecker's age and training made her more than suitable for the operation, after spending nearly six months in discussions online with those in the resistance movement, she was finally to meet one of their numbers after finally gaining their confidence that she did no work for the Prestonian monarchy or worse, the Praetonians, who were viewed as mere puppet-masters by the group's members.

Jones Brothers Coffee House
Downtown St. Andrews
1000 Hours

"Good, she's here. The boss doesn't like to wait." Scott Renault was pleased; up until now everything had run like clockwork. It had been he who came up with the idea to contact the Aequatians, and now it was he who was sent to pick up the contact. The sun was shining bright, but with the recent freak snowstorm it was still cold. "Damn snow," Scott remarked to himself, stepping out of the car. He was wearing the typical clothes of a middle-class worker; polo-style shirt, khaki pants, Nike shoes. Over this was a trench coat which served two purposes: keeping it's owner warm and concealing the various knives and the pistol of it's owner. Though it was legal to carry all of these, Scott still took great caution, especially around the police. For Scott Renault was not in fact his real name; he was really Jacob Ellis, member of Free Prestonia and wanted on charges of terrorism by the CPIA. With the help of a false ID card, made by one of his group, Jacob Ellis had been allowed to die, and Scott Renault was born. Now, armed to the teeth but affecting the air of a casual date, he entered the cafe, where his contact was sitting.

"Hello, I'm Scott, the guy you talked to online. You must be Michelle. Pleased to meet you," Scott said. This was all part of the plan. Due to the high risk of bugging, he was to assume the role of a man meeting an online date for the first time. Only once they had returned to the headquarters of Free Prestonia were they to discuss anything more than small talk. "I hope you haven't been here long," he continued, sitting down. "So, tell me about yourself; what do you do for a living? I myself am a freelance defense contractor, or as some would say a mercenary." This tidbit served two purposes, both as small talk and to assure the woman sitting across from him that he was indeed the real deal. Having said everything he had to say, he sat back, waiting to see what his partner would do now. His orders were to get her back to headquarters as soon as possible, but for the time being he was content to sit and have coffee. Kind of nice to be able to act normal, for once. I'll definitely look forward to this when the war's over, he thought to himself with a slight smile.

The agent smiled as Ellis sat down and started to speak to her, there was no doubt in her mind that this was her contact for the FPM group, although his seemingly outward and rushed manner made her somewhat nervous. She felt that if he did not calm soon enough, she would have to scrub the meeting and contact him again in hopes of setting up another meeting with a more prepared and composed individual, "It's nice to meet you too, Scott," She said with a smile as she set her cup of tea beside her computer, "I am a first-year student here at the University of St. Andrews taking a political sciences and international relations major, I do work part time as a freelance journalist, although rarely, and keep to myself usually to study."

She allowed herself a pause as his order arrived before speaking again, glad to see that he ha calmed relatively well since his arrival, "I'm originally from Cravan, up from a small town in Extonshire and have been going to school here since I wanted to travel after graduating secondary school," She leaned forward in her seat, feigning interest in a bracelet around his wrist and reached out as she slid a folded paper into his palm from her own hand, "That's so beautiful, where did you buy this? My girlfriends would be so jealous if I could get one like it," Sprecker continued as she leaned back in her seat, content that the note would explain enough about her desire for a second meeting should the locale be bugged in any matter, audio or visual. Michelle knew that once she had confirmed her contact, she would be able to establish a more secure location for their next meeting and eventual transport to speak with the FPM leadership.

She checked her watch and smiled wide as she looked up at Ellis, "I'm sorry to cut our meeting today short, Scott, but I have an appointment I absolutely cannot miss, but I hope we can get together again sometime, I'll talk to you later online then," She said as she tucked her computer away in her bookbag and they comfortably exchanged a hug and peck of a kiss before she left the coffee house and started down the street to the metro station home.

Maria's Italian Bistro
Uptown St. Andrews
2000 Hours

"Perfect, right on time as usual," Jacob remarked to himself as he pulled his Rolls-Royce into the line for valet parking. "Amazing what a few thousand dollars can get you when you know the right people," he mused, and indeed he was right. This black-market beauty had cost him only twenty thousand dollars, as the seller was in a jam for money and would take whatever he could get. After a few minutes, his car was next in line for the valet. Stepping out and handing over the keys, he strode off to meet his date, remembering what his boss had said. She was pleased at the overall conduct, but advised him to act more natural. With his mind racing, he walked up to the front, where the host was standing. It was a slow night, the dining room half empty. "I called in a reservation earlier. The name is 'Renault'," Jacob said as he straightened his tie. "Yes, right this way sir," the host remarked in a thick Pacitalian accent as he led Jacob to a rather large booth in the corner of the dining room. "My date should be here shortly," he remarked. "Ah yes, of course. In the meantime, is there anything sir would like?," the host asked. Immediately, Jacob responded. "Chianti please, the Westminster Vineyards 1993 bottle." He had always been a fan of fine food and wine, and hoped his contact would be pleased with his choice of venue. As was said in Prestonia, a good meal is the first step to a good night.

Michelle had watched as Jacob arrived at the restaurant chosen for their meeting from across the street, her long tan trenchcoat covered her evening wear. She crossed through the traffic and searched the alleyways behind the bistro once more before placing the compact AMI P9A3k suppressed pistol from her purse behind a stack of boxes from the kitchen, "Never walk into a place you don't know how to walk out of," Her instructor's voice reminded her in her head before she took off the coat and dropped it into a large trash bin against the brick wall.

She brushed off her evening jacket and slim black dress and checked her watch as she walked back out onto the sidewalk in her black, covered high-heeled shoes and approached the door a young man in a business suit held it open and let her pass, "Thank you," She said with a smile as Michelle entered the front room and was greeted by the maître d'hôtel, "I'm here with a Scott Renault."

The headwaiter nodded after checking his registry, "Of course, he is expecting you," He said raising his arm to direct her into the dining area, "If you will follow me, Miss," He said as they walked over the carpeted-floor to the table where Jacob rose to his feet and helped her remove her jacket to hang up as she sat down.

"Good evening, Scott," Michelle greeted him as her wavy oak hair fell over one eye as she glaned directly at her date, "You had a nice set of wheels outside when you arrived, it's nice to see your field of work pays you well."

"Pleased to see you tonight Michelle, and I must say you look stunning," Scott replied to his contact as she sat down. "The car is an interesting story actually. I got it discounted from a car dealer who I helped out of a, shall we say, tight spot. The man had no money to repay me, so he gave me the car instead. I'd say it was a pretty good deal." Scott then removed a small note from his pocket and passed it to Michelle. Written on it were the words "possible bugs, keep convo light." For the time being, the official business would have to wait.

"So Michelle, how have you found St. Andrews thus far?," Scott inquired. "Very violent history, this city. It's been burned to the ground seven times in fact. Damn Rosbani pigs." Having realized how that may have sounded, he quickly changed the topic. "Sorry about that. It's just that the Rosbanis harbor some pathological hatred of Prestonia stemming for hundreds of years, and the feeling's pretty mutual. On to another topic, I got you something." He pulled from behind his back a bouquet of thirteen roses, one of which was fake. Tied to the bouquet was a card saying "as long as one remains, freedom will never die," a slogan affirming his commitment to the movement and again assuring her that this was the real Scott Renault/Jacob Ellis and not a fake. He broke off here, reaching into his inner suit pocket to readjust the Baretta M9 he was carrying. He had taken every precaution possible, but there was still the chance of the CPIA or St. Andrews Police conducting a random raid as the restaurant was one frequented by the mafia. Tonight, as always, it would pay to be vigilant.

Smiling and feigning amazement, Michelle took the flowers, "Thank you, hon, they're beautiful," She said reading the card and plucking it from the bouquet. The roses replaced the flowers already in the table's vase as the two young adults continued their conversation, "The modern look and feel the city is nice, much different than back home where much is left to the traditional," The salads arrived and the waiter left as she leaned in closer to Jacob, "I hope you have a clean method to dispose of that sidearm, you're no good to our benefactors dead in a gunfight," She smiled suggestively as she drew back to her seat, as thought she had whispered something naughty in his ear.

The meal continued uneventfully, topics bounced back and forth as they would for any young couple on a date, discussions of local politics, daily weather and other inane nonsensicals kept the pair chatting lively straight through past the dessert as the bill was paid and before they rose to leave, Michelle excused herself, "Allow me to freshen up a moment before we leave," She said rising to her feet and making her way to the rear area of the restaurant, bypassing the washrooms and towards the back door where she examined it for a trigger to the fire alarm. With none present, she pushed the panic bar open and jammed a milk crate in the frame as she retrieved her small pistol from its hidden location and returned to the table as Jacob set money down for the bill, "Sorry for taking so long, I do hope to see that fine car of yours, Scott," She said taking his arm as they walked to the front entrance.

Jacob sat at the booth as Michelle got up, wondering what she had up her sleeve this time. That's the only problem with Spooks, they're unpredictable, he thought to himself as he waited. "Still, if it serves my purpose, I suppose it's worth it," he muttered to himself as he idly picked through the Caesar salad. Suddenly, Michelle returned, the alarm blaring in the background. "Right, I suppose it's time for us to be headed out," Jacob said as he laid a $100 bill on the table. "Keep the change," he said to the bewildered waiter as he and Michelle broke for the exit.

A few minutes later, Jacob and Michelle were in the car, speeding out onto the A16 freeway. Flipping a small switch, Jacob activated what appeared to be a television screen, with the face of a woman staring at him. "I got her boss. We're coming back home now," he said into a speaker near the screen.

"Good. You took a little longer than I expected, but at least you got out cleanly," came the reply.

Turning her attentions to Michelle, she said "By the way, I'm the leader of Free Prestonia, Meghan Logan. I'll bet you weren't expecting a woman to lead this little outfit, were you?" Turning to Jacob, she concluded "be back here ASAP. No detours, understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," came the reply from Jacob as he pulled off of the freeway and onto a smaller 4-lane road.

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

A few turns later the Rolls Royce had arrived at what appeared to be a large, Victorian-era manor. "Well, here we are. Headquarters. This is actually Meghan's ancestral home, but for the time being it's the HQ of the Free Prestonia Movement and our boardinghouse of sorts. Meghan has high-society ties all over St. Andrews, and half the police force in her back pocket, so we don't have to worry about raids here. In a few minutes, you'll get to meet the brains behind the operation," Jacob said as he stepped out of the car.

The house appeared as many that were still standing in many of the "Heritage Sectors" of the downtown cores in many of the English cities in Aequatius Prime. Michelle exited the car and was led to the door by Jacob, she waited in the front foyer as he entered the house to make sure that Logan was prepared for their meeting. The agent took the opportunity to examine the surrounding rooms and the few others that were about, including a pair of twentysomething males were watching a television set with a local program that she had been faintly aware of in her months in-country. The rest of the building was quiet aside from the usual noises of an old house, he adjusted the "garter-belt" holster for her P9A3k strapped to her thigh through her dress as Jacob returned.

As Jacob opened the large, ornate double doors, he was greeted by a beautiful blonde woman with an MP40 slung at her side. She was dressed in standard Prestonian Army camouflage, yet somehow still managed to look stunning. This was Meghan Logan, leader of the Free Prestonia Movement and mastermind behind the operation.

"Well Jacob, I see you made it back in one piece," Megan said in a playful voice as she unshouldered the MP40. "And you must be Michelle," she said, turning her attention to the well-dressed Aequatian accompanying him. "I'm Meghan Logan. Five years in the Prestonian Army, Order of The Republic for action in Cazelia, black belt in five martial arts. In short, I'm beautiful and deadly."

"Well, now you've finished bragging, why not explain us better to our guest?," Jacob replied. "I daresay I didn't do as well a job as you would have liked."

Taking the reins, Meghan began speaking. "Free Prestonia was founded two years ago with one goal in mind: get rid of the monarch and the Praetonian jackasses, by any means necessary. We're prepared for war, but we don't want a war. We'd prefer to force the King out without bloodshed, since bloodshed won't help our purposes much. We have support all over the nation, unfortunately the monarchy has made supporting us a capital offense. So, we remain underground, waiting for the moment to come when we can retake what is rightfully ours and bring freedom back to the Prestonian people." Leading the group through the house, Meghan stopped in front of what appeared to be a large bank vault. After punching in a code, it swung open, revealing an assorted mix of Kar98k's, AK-47s. RPG-29s, and the occasional E19A4 and G101. "This is our weapons dump. Most of this stuff was either purchased off the black market or raided from army dumps."

"Well, there you have it. You've seen our resources and our goals," Jacob said to the Aequatian agent standing next to him. "Now, how do you plan to help us?"

The arrogance of the Prestonian failed to impress Michelle one bit, she had encountered people just the same during her two years of service with the National Guard, the kind of people that always ended up injured or pregnant at the end of their first field exercise, and learned to just accept their own inflated self-worth and play along with them. She picked up one of the empty AK-47 rifles and pulled back on the charging handle to examine the chamber, letting it snap back in place as she looked down the sights and set it back down amongst the others, "First off," Michelle started, "I can have most of these replaced with a standard rifle for all of the movement's fighters, although all-out gunfighting should be the last of our concerns.

The company can offer you almost limitless financial backing to undertake a campaign that will not only discredit the monarchy, but force them to choose exile of their own accord with little prompting from this movement," She paused again as the agent picked up one of the Mauser rifles and racked the bolt open loudly, examined it quickly before snapping it closed and feeling its weight, "The campaign will start with subtlety, bribing those in positions of authority and begin the push towards democracy, we will extort those that support the sovereign for our benefit... then expose their corruption to the citizenry when they are of no use anymore.

If you remove the body from the head, it will fall of its own accord," Michelle explained as she walked over to Meghan calmly, placing her left hand on the leader's shoulder as she spoke, "But we cannot do anything until you start acting like fucking professionals!" Her voice rose as she crew her P9A3k and placed its muzzle on Meghan's forehead, "Why wasn't I checked when I came in.. where is your OPSEC? How could you be absolutely certain I wasn't with the Praetonians? Huh?" Michelle shoved the confused leader back and set the small pistol down on top of a crate, "You are strong in constitution, but you lack experience and direction..." She smiled as her hands fell on her hips, "Which is why I'm here, you can hate me all you want and talk dirty about me when I'm not around, but I want you to learn from my advice and the training from those to come, you're strong, but we'll make sure that not one ounce of that strength is wasted fruitlessly."

Meghan spoke smoothly and calmly with the gun pointed at her head. Five years in the Army had taught her one thing: never show fear. "Hmph. What you say is true, however I can absorb your point just as well without a gun in my face, thanks." Turning to one of the others standing nearby, she commanded "restrain her. I want her examined for bugs as well. If you are a Praetonian, we have ways of dealing with you. If not, we can proceed." She took out a small metal-detecting wand of the variety commonly used at airports, and began to scan Michelle over. There was no sound, indicating that she was free of bugs or other surveillance devices. "Now, since we've ascertained that you're clean, we can continue," Meghan said with a tone of satisfaction.

"I rather like the idea of a uniform armaments list. I've been looking at a few weapons suppliers myself, and I have a few favorites already." She led Michelle back into the living room, where she turned her laptop on and brought up the website to Aequatian Military Industries. "I rather like the bullpup models, though whether or not your government will traffic to a rebel organization is another matter. If you can set us up with G125s, I can front the money. I have quite a few contacts around the world that can advance me a few million from my bank accounts without any questions asked."

"Fanatics," Michelle grumbled in her head as the Prestonian showed her the AMI website, "The government would never supply the movement with Aequatian-produced weapons off the bat, there's no plausible deniability in such an endeavour," The agent explained, "We will provide you with the weapons that are available to us and which won't trace any link back to the company or Aequatio.

The Praetonians are edgy enough about the Republic's presence in Continentia, they feel we are here to take their land and gold and to rape their women," She said, "You have no idea what kind of hellish fury they would bring upon your nation if they discovered any evidence linking you to us."

"Fucking imperial bastards," Meghan agreed. "Well, I suppose beggars can't be choosers in this sort of situation. Anything you can get us would be better than our present armament."

"What I'm more concerned about however is my troops. Most of these guys are either mercs I recruited with the promise of better pay, or old army buddies. There's a bit of a training gap there, and I would be greatful if you could help fix this," Meghan explained. "And no," she added, "none of them are working for the Praetonians. I cross-checked everyone I brought in."

"There's one other thing I must request. As I stated earlier, we have a rather spread-out following. Naturally, this makes communication tough. Currently we use CB radios and change frequencies to keep them off our tracks. As you might expect, this isn't the most secure method. If you could secure some military-grade radios for my cells, it would make my situation much easier."

Michelle scowled at the thought of working with mercenaries, "Just as likely to stab you in the back for the right price than fight at your side," She thought before speaking, "Instructors will arrive at a later date, all of them former Aequatian Republic Special Forces and some of the most capable soldiers available.

As for communication equipment, I can secure a privately-owned satellite communications network and phones to use for intra-organizational connections," The agent explained, "The phones themselves are well-encrypted and are all MILSPEC standardized."

The Aequatian agent paused to think as she inspected a number of papers available, personnel lists, secure locations and inventories, "We need to start gaining more support from the general populace first, you must have the citizenry behind your moves, otherwise you endanger yourselves to being compromised quickly. Whom, in positions of authority, do you have on your payroll?" Michelle asked, looking up at Meghan from the collection of papers.

Meghan liked what she heard. Well, this seems to be going well, especially the communications stuff, she thought as she put down the MP40 that she had been carrying the whole time. "My payroll is quite varied and extensive. I have half the St. Andrews Police working for me, hence how I can run Free Prestonia in nearly-open sight. I also own the land on which the St. Andrews Yacht Club resides. On several occasions when the Royal Yacht has come in, my people have searched it for intel under the guise of 'inspections'. Last, but not least, I've got a few sleeper cells active in the army. I don't have an exact number of these since I don't get to keep in touch much, but I'd estimate about a thousand. Overall, there's about five thousand members of Free Prestonia who serve the cause in one way or another."

"One thing I'm working on as a future goal is a political wing. A few of my people have been working on a platform for a Prestonian National Party, which will be our connection to politics. The more we can get our voice out, the more people we can win to our cause. For now, our goal is to win some Senate seats in the election next month."

"Your group will need a popular front, convince the citizenry that you will benefit them much more than simply maintaining the monarch in power," Michelle said as she set the clipboard down on one of the tables and checked her watch, "Time is short for now, I will see to having those satellite phones arrive for your people along with the network information. The same goes for the weapons."

She replaced her jacket and shrugged her shoulder into one of the sleeves, "Numbers within the movement will have to be dramatically increased, five thousand is nice, but much... much more will be needed to simply support the political aspect. I will go now and contact you man here again once I know more about our aid."

St. Andrews Yacht Club
2100 Hours
Election Day

The Yacht Club bustled with action as limos and other high-class cars pulled up to the front, letting their passengers out. Tonight, this was the headquarters of the Prestonian National Party. Unbeknownst to most Prestonians, the PNP was tied the to right-wing revolutionary group Free Prestonia, which sought the dissolution of the monarchy by any means necessary.

The convention tonight was larger than expected, and indeed PNP membership numbers had swollen lately. From a mere five thousand a month ago, the party now boasted nearly one million registered members, and several more undeclared voters. This had not been coincidence. In the weeks leading up to the election, PNP had launched one of the largest media campaigns ever seen in Prestonia, buying up as much airtime on major networks as they could and milking the internet for all the votes they could get. PNP rallies, once mere sideshows performed on Speaker's Corner in St. Andrews, became standing room only.

Tonight, the PNP celebrated. Tomorrow, they would get down to the business of restoring the Republic, little by little.

OOC: ran out of steam towards the end. You can RP Michelle showing up if you'd like, or just have her already be there and initiate conversation.

The weeks leading up to the election day itself was spent by Michelle meeting the newly-activated ARIA cells as a number of technicians and specialist personnel which would be important for the massive task ahead in securing sentiment throughout the province headed by the capital St. Andrews. The most important aspect of the agent's work, save for the importing of equipment for the FPM, was to make sure that the infrastructure of propaganda was established and maintained in order to provide the Prestonian citizens with the information that would push public opinion behind the National Party in the coming election.

An aggressive multimedia campaign using print and installation advertisements, television broadcasting and the internet was initiated with funding fed to Sprecker for her management that painted both the ruling Royalist Party in the senate and hoped to breed anti-Praetonian sentiment throughout the nation. The online websites established, which were advertised thanks to the rest of the media campaign, reminded the population of the violent coup led by King Steven I and his gross abuse of the democratic system in the unlawful confinement of the Senate until they served his immediate means shortly after seizing power. The websites also showcased amateur videos produced by FPM and PNP members, never revealing their identities, where they explained to the viewers how their nation was being consumed by the neocolonialism that was the foreign policy of King George IV and the Praetonian Commonwealth.

One video in particular, starring Michelle herself wearing a scarf around her head and revealing just her eyes, accused the Prestonian leadership of being puppets beneath the Praetonian king and that the nation was being used as a tax farm for the empire,

"Citizens of Prestonia, your King Steven cares not for you or your situation!

The imperialist dictators and their dogs of Praetonia pull the strings and lord over you through the mind and body of King Steven as they bleed you dry of financial and economic strength. They undermine your sovereignty and national identity for their own gains and extort you under the constant threat of coercive action and punitive occupation with the combined might of their armed forces.

The expansion of the Praetonian Empire around the world due to superior power and accumulated wealth, before this expansion, the exploitation was internal, with the major economic centres dominating the rest of the country. The wealthy Praetonians have become more isolated from those in Prestonia, because they gained disproportionately from these imperialistic practices. This outward expansion minimizes the dangers of domestic revolts and rebellions by the poor at home.

Rather than turn on their oppressor Praetonians, the Prestonian citizenry can no longer reach those in control and thus the less developed nations become engulfed in regular internecine conflict. Once the imperialist Praetonians established formal control, it could not be easily removed. This control ensures that all profits in Prestonia are remitted to the developed nations, preventing domestic reinvestment, causing capital flight and thus hindering growth.

Your nation provides a destination for obsolete technology, and markets to the wealthy Praetonians, without which the latter could not have the standard of living they enjoy at your expense. Praetonians actively and consciously perpetuate a state of dependence through various policies and initiatives. This is multifaceted, involving economics, media control, politics, banking and finance, education, culture, sport, and all aspects of human resource development. And finally any attempts by the dependent nations to resist the influences of dependency often result in economic sanctions and/or military invasion and control.

The time has come now for Prestonia to stand up and defend itself and allow the citizenry to decide its own fate, without the abuse from the Praetonians that lord over your nation, voting for the Prestonian National Party as your representation in the Senate is a step in the right direction to restoring your identity and strengthen the resolve of the country.

The P.N.P. will see to dismantling the corrupt morass that is the Royalist Party and the regime of King Steven the First and a new future for yourselves and the generations to come!"

The more passive online campaign was also supplemented with a very active series of public rallies by the PNP leadership spreading the message developed by the Free Prestonia Movement. Representing the citizenry as a whole, the rallies served to demonstrate the might of the Prestonian people. The rallies would be filmed and supporters would speak positively of the party and its cause, providing testimonials that would be published online for the viewing of the public.

Phase One:

"Head belowdecks, Ruslan. Dry off and then get on bridge watch."

Ruslan, bedraggled and half-drowned from standing on the fore of the vessel, grinned thanks and disappeared down the gangway, dripping seawater from his waterproofed watch clothes. Aleksei Vissarionovich Batichev, the Captain of the Chornaya Voda IV, fastened his jacket about the bulk of his midsection and slapped the watch cap from his pocket to his head in one practiced movement. The hatch opened under his calloused hand and the sea's wind roared in his ears as he slammed it shut behind him. He clipped onto the weather rail with the carabiner carried expressly for this purpose and made his way forward.

Dmitry stood on the starboard bow and Kiril on the portside equivalent. He made his way to Dmitry first. "Go below! This is too shit!" Like Ruslan, Dmitry grinned his thanks as a huge grey wave rose over the prow. His expression changed into grim determination to match that of his Captain as they gripped the weather rail, slammed into with a half ton of seawater a movement later. The only reason they weren't dashed against the deck and swept overboard was their iron grip on the railing, their tethers and carabiners, and the wave had been broken up by the securely racked containers on his vessel's prow. As Dmitry went back to the superstructure to make his way below, Batichev tethered himself to a cross-line and ran across the deck, water cascading around his ankles as it drained over the sides.

"Kiril!"
"What?!"
"Go below!"
"Thank Christ, finally!"

Batichev could imagine his crewman crossing himself in the torrential downpour just as another wave rose above the prow.

"Brace!"

It crashed down and the religious sailor of his crew was thrown to the deck and dragged along by the grey water until his tether cracked taut. He stood shakily, looking at his Captain. Over the weather, the latter roared: "Belowdecks! Go!" Aleksei Vissarionovich made his way aft, bringing those lookouts below and making his way to the halyard that snapped in the wind. Catching it, he pulled down his nation's colours, and the Russkyan flag disappeared into a pocket. He pulled Germanian colours from his waterproof's interior pocket and clipped them to the line, raising them without ceremony. A wave crashed against the superstructure, channelled through the weatherproofed containers to slap against the steel face that rose from the deck, as ominous as a cliff when one stood at its base and looked up.

Beard dripping seawater and eyes screwed half-shut against the wind and spray, Batichev then made his way into the superstructure, boots clanking along the metal decking up a set of steep stairs, almost a ladder, to the bridge. He posted additional lookouts on all sides, peering through the portholes as huge wiper-blades tried to keep them clear. The navigation and surface-scan radars were nearly useless in this weather, effective ranges reduced hugely. Tense, the helmsman held his wheel - a proper wheel, Batichev had insisted on that - steady, eyes fixed on the bearing indicator. His "Number One" turned to him and nodded deferentially. Moving to the navigation tables, he checked courses with the 1O and traced his finger along the route, tapping it where it bisected a particular blue line.

"If the storm doesn't clear by the time we enter the mouth of the Zuiderzee Strait, we'll have to turn the engines down to half. Fuel?"
"Forty-seven percent remaining in primary tank. Secondary tanks empty."
A grunt. "Quite a voyage."

And it was, to drain the huge fuel tanks of the Chornaya Voda IV and leave her with only 47% fuel as she made her way into the last stretch before her destination. The huge diesel engines had held up admirably though, one not yet earning her nickname. The black gang crew in the engine spaces were quite pleased with that, though the fuel lines were showing increased wear for whatever reason. It was likely that the fuel they had taken aboard in Karain was substandard, as the engines did not seem to be burning it as cleanly. The engineering officer swung around the diesels on the access catwalks and service platforms, growling as he examined the working parts of each engine in turn.

The weather front did eventually lift. At 02.17 hours, nothing was darker than the sea as the last quarter moon was covered with dense cloud. As the Chornaya Voda IV began sliding her way through calming seas, she bisected that blue line. Below her keel, the seabed rose by twenty meters, to a depth accessible by standard SCUBA-equipped divers. At 02.30, the watches changed. Batichev kept them inside the bridge and had them lock the hatches. He stood watch with two others on the observation platform that watched the stern end of his massive cargo vessel. A long-time RVMF man, Batichev seemed indefatigable to his crew.

Phase Two:

RNV-453 and RNV-468 cut through the gently rolling grey seas of the Zuiderzee Strait without difficulties. Detached from Group Rome, the RVMF unit under the command of Captain (Class I) Nikoleva, both vessels were Glaines-class destroyers. Their decks carried a number of Salamander and 130-series RHIBs, and the Ship's Company were wary of the "Ship's Guests," unnaturally calm men dressed in nondescript black combats, holding AK-105 carbines and wearing Soviet "Lifchik" chest-rigs hooked to belts carrying additional grenade pouches, knives and their scabbards, pistol holsters, and other such items.

Kliment M. Vorbeyev walked across the bridge to the communications station, directing the Petty Officer on watch there to activate the intercom system. Leaning in close to the microphone, his voice came through speakers throughout the ship a moment later, calmly announcing; "All hands, all hands. Clear deck for action. Paint detail, muster at the forward locker. All Watch hands, interior stations. That is all."

Vorbeyev's command was carried out to the letter, the RVMF sailors mustering at their assigned stations. Before being allowed to exit the forward paint locker, two of the black-clad guests stopped the sailors at a hatchway and handed them khaki coveralls to go over their duty uniforms. One of the men in black, equipment left in the hands of his partner, went and struck the Russkyan Naval Ensign, replacing it with that of Isselmere-Nieland. This task complete in the darkness, the paint detail was permitted to leave the locker and went over the sides to paint over the RNV-453. The same scene was played out on Mikhailovna's command, the RNV-468.

At 03.12 hours, Vorobeyev's surface-search radar staff confirmed that the steady contact was in the rendezvous location. Vorobeyev's signalmen sent a curt signal via signal-lamp to RNV-468, who acknowledged in the same manner. All lights were extinguished and the decks remained cleared of personnel. Vorobeyev turned to his bridge crew.

"Ahead full. New course, bearing One-Nine-Three. Messenger!"

The rating marched across the bridge from his station and slammed to attention. "Sir!"
"Message to the ship's guests and RPO. Prepare to launch boats."
"Sir!"

The Ship's Messenger departed rapidly, carrying the missive to the commander of the SpN RVMF aboard and the Regulating Petty Officer. On Mikhailovna's vessel, a similar message was delivered. Mustering on the deck, a small crew of RVMF sailors in khaki coveralls prepared to launch the Salamander and 130-series Rigid Hull Inflatable Boats. Splitting into elements of five and boatscrew's of three, the black-clad men had darkened their faces and hands and now appeared as shadows in the darkness of the ocean night. The radar staffs on both the -453 and -468 reported four small contacts moving at high speed towards the location, in addition to a single contact approaching from the aft quarter, portside. Operation: Honest Mackerel was about to initiate.

Phase Three:

With the watch crew inside, Batichev knew they'd be safe from the men who'd come from the sea. He couldn't see them, but he knew they were there - both radars were registering the presence of the large Glaines-class destroyers just beyond visual range, as they were running dark and thus not advertising their position. He left the two men standing watch over the rear of his ship and went forward to the bridge.

"Reduce speed to ahead one third."
"Aye, Captain. Engine room signals one third propulsion."

Batichev nodded, turning to the radar station. "Anything?"
"Two contacts, close by, and large. Paraell to us. Something strange - the filter keeps kicking in and out, there are these contacts that sometimes appear and sometimes don't. They're headed towards us at high speed. Glitch?"
"Most likely. Try and work through it, I'll get one of the electricians to check it."

Fixated on his display, the radar operator nodded. The intermittent contact was one of the 130-series RHIBs racing towards the ship - as it crested one of the slight waves it was lifted enough for the Chornaya Voda's radar to get a brief picture of it. The stealthier Salamander-class RHIBs were invisible on the screen, as they were to the watch crew. The watch on duty on the Chornaya Voda IV had no real hope of spotting the dark blue and black painted boats carrying their loads of camouflaged men laying prone along the gunwhales, even as those self-same boats pulled up alongside the hull and the skilled Boatsman in charge of each kept his boat in position despite the wake of the huge cargo vessel.

A pair of grappling lines went up on the starboard and port sides of the area aft of the bridge. Not spotted by lookouts, the first indication that something was wrong was the twinkle of a pair of AK-105 muzzles as they fired at the lights mounted on the aft of the superstructure. M74 ammunition cracked into the thick porthole glass, spalling it off the inside edge, and the watch crew fell to the deck screaming but unharmed. The lights were quickly extinguished on the aft portion of the ship.

Racing aft, Batichev pulled his crewmen away from the portholes and checked them for wounds. One of them scrambled to his feet and lurched into the bridge, adrenaline making his feet unsteady. "Boarders!"
Batichev pushed past him, activating the intercom. "Dark Water Four, all hands standby to repel boarders. Secure all hatches. Engines all ahead flank." His First Officer shouted across the bridge at him a moment later. "Captain! Communications array is out!"

Batichev, playing his role to the hilt, swore as only an RVMF sailor could.

Belowdecks in the engine spaces, the telegraph signalled Ahead Flank and the diesels were bellowing against the steel bulkheads. A fuel line let go, spraying diesel over the compartment. The engine officer, simply "in the zone," reached over and twisted the appropriate handle around fully. Instantly, the fuel flow stopped and Engine No. 3 was doused in fire-suppressant foam. Dripping diesel, two crewmen were evacuated forwards as the engine room hatches were dogged down and a crewer stood guard on it with a shotgun.

Swinging his way through the maze of pipes and lines along the gangway, the EO activated the direct line to the bridge.
"Batichev! Number Three let go her primary fuel line. Repairing now. Shifting full power to One and Two, bringing Four to standby status. Engine spaces are secure, comrade Captain!"

On the bridge, Aleksei Vissarionovich knew his Engineering Officer was holding the engine room crew together if he had time to make inside jokes like that. The bridge hatches were dogged and crewmen stood guard on them, incredibly tense. On their vessel, the dark shapes didn't care, simply moving efficiently throughout the upper decks, firing precise shots into lights, suppressing the bridge crew with repetition fire against the portholes. Dropping flat to the deck, those men prayed that they'd not try breaching the portholes or hatches and taking control of the ship.

Alongside his vessel and unseen by anyone under Batichev's command, a Boatsman signalled a pleasure yacht with a small infrared signal lamp. It arched in towards the ship gracefully, water peeling back from its prow and with great finesse, the vessel took up station just outside the wake of the Chornaya Voda IV. A Salamander RHIB deftly maintained position between a 130-series, and a line was passed from the yacht to the Salamander and on to the "One-Thirty." Boatscrew manhandled the large black rubberized bags across these lines, where they were taken control of by a Spetsnaz RVMF operator. Hooking a lifting rig to the bags, he signalled his compatriot above him. The bags swiftly rose up the cliff-like steel wall that was the hull of the Dark Water IV.

Snapping his fingers twice, one of the dark shapes pointed at the bags and then at the quartet of operators under his command. Slinging their weapons across their backs, they opened the bags as the yacht and RHIBs recovered the transfer lines and the yacht moved ahead of the large cargo vessel and the swarm of RHIBs that surrounded it. A Salamander went with it, the Boatsman at the helm revelling in the power produced by the engines opened to full throttle as it surged through the slight chop of the Zuiderzee Strait's surface.

Under the staccato lighting of muzzle flashes and the sharp cracks of rifle reports, the bags were gathered together and the decks were blooded. Splashing it liberally on the planking while the cargo crane whirred overhead, bodies were dumped onto the deck. Careful to avoid the blood as much as possible, the bags were run back down to a "One-Thirty." A pair of SpN RVMF attached lines to the crates as one of the four craft in tight formation broke off to come up alongside the Chornaya Voda's portside. RHIBs got out of the way quickly.

The crane lifted two marked containers onto the deck of the high-speed coastal cargo transport, referred to colloquially as a "Skipper." It moved away, and more crates were transferred onto the others. Remaining in tight formation, they disappeared beyond visual range once the operation was complete. Four RHIBs moved back alongside the massive cargo vessel on her portside.

Transfers complete, the SpN RVMF looked towards their element leaders. Fifteen men, three teams, were aboard the vessel. Each swept his left hand across his throat, palm inwards, and pointed towards the dark ocean below. Disappearing over the sides in the darkness, they left behind them a half dozen Me'ei bodies perforated with .30 calibre holes. 5.45x39mm brass rolled on the deck as the RHIBs moved off at high speed towards their parent vessels.

Phase Four:

"Right, enough of this shit. You fellows, stay down. I'm fucking tired of getting shot at." Batichev went to his quarters, returning with a well oiled AKMS rifle. Locking the stock back, he pulled back hard on the charging handle and smashed out a damaged porthole. Lifting the weapon to his shoulder, he fired long bursts on automatic, dropping below the porthole's lower edge to switch out magazines. The bullets pockmarked his deck, a few slammed into the Me'ei bodies. The actual boarders were long, long gone, and he knew it. Bringing up spotlights from below, he had them played over the fore and aft abovedecks cargo spaces on his vessel.

Then there was an erruption of fire and a thunderous crash illuminating the sea to the starboard fore. And again, and it continued until the smashed remnants of the yacht caught fire and burned sadly on the surface. Then something louder than the voice of God hailed the Chornaya Voda IV.

"Dark Water Four, this is RNV-453 Argun Gorge. Your pirate problem has been dealt with. Please advise via signal lamp if you require assistance. We will escort you to port facilities at Kuchni-Rizhgorod. Acknowledge immediately."

Laying his rifle down on the navigation table, Batichev ran a hand over his beard and nodded at his officers.

"Well then. Acknowledge it. Then secure from counterboarder stations and tell them we'll be okay and appreciate the escort. Then take an inventory."

Phase Five:

Flying a Diggledom flag, Tradewinds 18 met with the "Skippers" at 04.23 hours local time. False dawn was approximately twenty minutes away when the first skip pulled alongside. Efficiently, the RVMF-manned crew attached the hoist lines and watched as the Tradewinds' crane lifted the crates aboard and into the empty space on her forward deck station. Holding steady at five knots, the skips cycled in and out of the loading station at a spritely twenty knots, half of their top speed of forty.

With the crates loaded, they were inspected quickly by a pair of men clad in precisely tailored suits. One held a flashlight so the other could use both his hands. As one of the sailors in their "false fatigues" of khaki coveralls levered open the inspection hatchway on the containers, the pair went inside and examined the contents.

Holding an RAR-4C up to his superior with the precisely trimmed goatee, Stas Fyodrovich locked the folding stock open, then closed. Opening it again he pulled back on the charging handle, inspecting the working parts. He put the weapon back in its storage box after decocking it. There was never any question of these being the correct containers, it was quite obvious that they were. However, spot checks had to be conducted of the goods. To that extent, Stas Fyodrovich broke down a RAR-4LMG and inspected the bolt group, reassembling the weapon with practiced ease and laying it back in its storage crate. He checked boxes of magazines, bought from Spazjenia, and flexed gloved hands as he entered another crate. He shook his head.

"I don't know mortars. We can get someone else to check."

Examining an MG3 and then a G3SG1 rifle, he confirmed that both were in working order. The final inspection was of the Sa-61 machinepistols. They too were in fully functioning condition. These spot checks complete, the containers were re-sealed and the Tradewinds 18 made her way out of the mouth of the Zuiderzee Strait as the sun crested the horizon.

A week and a half later, the vessel made its rendezvous with a Questerian-flagged ship. The at sea transfer took place well beyond the southern coast of Continentia, under the watchful gaze of the two intelligence officers aboard. With the transfer complete, the operation was concluded and things were left to the capable hands of their agency counterparts.

Somewhere in International Waters, Southern Continentia Ocean

The AMS Stuart Coburn, originally constructed for the Aequatian Merchant Marine Service as a bulk freighter and serving to haul dry goods between the mainland and the island of Valais for ten years, was in the employ of the Aequatian Republic Intelligence Service and crewed with Navy personnel taken from the Naval Commando Force to man the ship while it was under operations. At the current time, they flew a Questerian flag in order to "hide in the open" given the high amount of maritime traffic in the region from the Questerian Empire, before leaving port for their rendezvous, the agency had visually-modified the vessel to resemble a similar vessel within the merchant marine registry of the intended nation and all steps were taken to produce forged papers for the crew, should they be boarded.

Checking the ship's inventory list would reveal them to be carrying agricultural fertilizer, an unsavoury cargo to search should the boarding party wish to inspect, and as such, one of the ship's compartments was filled with the necessary evidence of their half-truthfulness. Sean Grady, an agency field agent, stood on the bridge of the cargo ship as it pushed through the water towards their rendezvous. The trip had been uneventful since they left port, despite the danger that was inherent in the mission becoming compromised, the ship's company remained professionals through and through right up to where the Coburn came up alongside the Tradewinds 18 and the vessels began the process of transferring the containers from the Diggledom-flagged vessel to the bulk holds of the Aequatian ship. Once they were aboard and secured, the ships parted and continued on their respective courses as the Naval Commando personnel quickly set about concealing the holds with a layer of steel plating lowered with the ship's cranes just above the height of the crates filled with weapons as the sealed netting was released and the containers were filled with the fertilizer to make it appear as though all of the holds carried the same materials.

The ship would travel for another two weeks before they approached the home stretch for Prestonia, the crew relaxed as they normally would, watching television of the upcoming election coverage in their arrival nation having been able to receive the transmissions since their arrival in Continentia. Another few days and they would arrive in the port of St. Andrews and greeted by those who would be gratefully accepting their cargo.