NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: This thread is closed to all non-AMW players.

IC:

The pickup truck bounced over the rutted road, a dim shaft of light flickering from its one working headlight. Clouds of dust rose into the midnight air, joined by the whoops and cries of the seven Africans hanging out of it. Three of them had AK-47s in one hand and a bottle of cheap gin in the other, while the rest forsook the weapon altogether. The road wound around some low scrub hills and past a shallow creek before beginning to climb out of the jungle. One of the soldiers in the back of the pickup nearly dropped his drink when the truck hit a particularly large pothole, making him snort with laughter. He fired off a dozen rounds from his AK, followed by the other men with guns.

The truck crested the hill and bumped down the sloping path. More gunfire could be heard, mixed in with pounding music and whoops from somewhere off to the left. The driver grinned, a flash of white in the darkness. The dense jungle trees on either side of the road abruptly stopped, revealing a debauched scene. Bonfires lit the night as thousand of drunken men raced through the ramshackle streets of Zebala, some waving pistols and others firing assault rifles wildly into the air. A hut was burning on the edge of the clearing. It was perfect.

The truck skidded around a corner, past a pack of vomiting soldiers and over a dead cow. The man in the passenger seat hurled his half-empty bottle of whiskey at one of the nearby bonfires as they sped past, laughing uproariously when the area was engulfed in a ball of flame and glass. The driver suddenly slammed the brakes on, sending the men flying out of the vehicle. A pig, thin with hunger, squinted at the stopped truck before trundling across the road to forage in a heap of nameless filth. The soldiers sat up, spitting and cursing each other and grubbing for their dropped bottles. None were hurt, and all staggered drunkenly away. On one end of the camp a crowd began to form. The personal bodyguards of the President of the United Socialist African Republics were motioning for people’s attention, drawing men, women and children towards the parked flatbed that was behind them. Gradually the debauchery died down and order reinstated itself, the man of the hour appearing from behind the lanky forms of his men. Dressed in an ill-fitting uniform, Eric Bundu leapt up onto the truck, waving his hands over his head and grinning madly.

He was an interesting sight. Dark sweat stains ran down the collar and armpits of his suit, visible even at night. Short black hair clung to his blunt skull, the length of skin stretched across it so black as to be almost blue. His trademark aviator sunglasses and olive green boonie hat were held high in one of his thick, work-hardened fists, exposing his most noticeable feature. Even with only afterglow from distant fires to light them, his eyes shone, vivid and flat, all at the same time. They were slate gray, hiding under puffy, hooded lids and set well back in a face of fatty flesh. It was his eyes, some people said, who made him the man he was.

“My brothas, my fellow Republicahns, let me hear your voicez!” The crowd erupted in shouts, chants and gunfire, the sound of stamping feet mingling with raucous laughter. Bundu grinned even wider before motioning for quiet. “Neva before has such a powaful nation as ourselves bean on thees continent. Our ancestas came to thees land from many diffr’nt places. Some of us ah from Africa isself, othas from America. Some even fatha away. But we ah all one people! Othas, whites, wanna drive us apaht, but we will stan firm!” He rode the applause once more, continuing only when relative quiet returned. He stirred his audience’s emotions, expertly tweaking paranoia, fear, love and joy in exactly the same way that had gotten him elected a bare two years ago. Gradually it started to drizzle, then rain, thick drops pouring from the moonless sky. As his speech wound to a close and the last embers died in the bonfire’s hearts, he gestured towards the sky.

“Thees iz African rain, and thees iz African soil, and you ah African people! Togetha we ah strong! Unitahd we ah powaful! We will bring justice to thees lahnd, justice to tha people! Victory, victory, victory, Africa, Africa, Africa!” His voice carried over the chants of his people, reveling in their support. He waved again, donned his accents and leapt down into the mud and trudged off towards the covered jeep he had arrived in, flanked by his bodyguards. They scanned the heaving crowd with flinty eyes, AK-47s gripped tightly against their chests. Order was normal in the larger coastal cities, where it was easier for the outside world to see into Africa’s business, but here, near the border with Guinea, chaos was the order of the day. Frequent raids into the neighboring country were a normal part of life, and the only Western observer in the area, a British consulate that was a hollow remnant of Colonial days, was kept mostly blind by an incompetent staff and uninterested government. However, that mattered little to the mob that was gathering around it.

Riled up by the heady words of their president, the socialist citizens were massing in the streets around the embassy. It was normal for some kind of violence to break out in these border areas following a speech, or any other form of stimulation for that matter, but in most places there was no obvious place to direct anger. In Zebala there was.

The sort of scenes unfolding in the USAR were exact manifestations of the worst nightmares suffered in Libreville (the real Freetown).

Sud Djanvallaland was making the West African situation its business, in a manner of speaking. This sort of spectacle was exactly the reality that Governor General Tanneguy Letourneur, needed the world to see. It was the picture of black Africa left to its own devices, and it was what he was fighting to prevent in his Equatorial homeland. The colonial broadcasting agency would just have to get in there and film it, photograph it, document the depravity and the aggression as it spilled into Guinea.

Surprisingly, the agency had little difficulty recruiting a crew to attempt the assignment. Apparently Sud Djanvallaland was blessed with a berth of good white boys who, with a bit of compulsory military training behind them, felt that they personally had little to fear from a few million kiffirs, and only wanted to make sure that their wives and children didn't have to worry about them in the future.

So, a crew was put together, and, with help from the Djatini Scouts, prepared for insertion into the black socialist mire. Probably most TV journalism crews didn't carry automatic pistols, submachine-guns, or assault carbines, but that wouldn't dissuade the agency as its finest boarded a small twin-engine transport aircraft and prepared to hop uninvited across the Gulf and into harm's way.

Zabala, USAR

"Oh, shit." The words, uttered by Second Lieutenant Ethan Cates, summed up the situation rather well. Accustomed to the occasional outbreak of insanity or outright violence, events had not initially troubled the embassy guard overmuch. It was only when Bundu began going on about what the 'white man' had done to Africa, while waving his fist and gesturing towards the British embassy at certain points, that anyone had thought this riot might not end as pleasantly as some of the others had. Indeed, by the time Bundu had finished with his populist rant, the Royal Marine guard of ten had been turned out of their bunks and their commander woken. A few minutes later that commander, the Cates of aforementioned profanity, was sending one of the guards to inform the various diplomats and British nationals that they should probably hurry to the central embassy building within their compound.

The crowd, which by all standards should have by now dispersed to vent their anger on helpless animals, women and children, was gathering in a knot lit by the reflected light of a bonfire and accented by the occasional torch. Black metal gleamed in the night, and the voices of Africans carried on the still night air. It was hot, and Lieutenant Cates was sweating into his jacket. He watched through the wrought-iron fence as the crowd swelled and moved here and there, gaining a definite feeling of malevolence as it grew to full-on mob proportions.

The word 'mob' was derived from mobility, a term used in 17th century England to refer to a fast moving crowd of people. In those days, the mobility would flock to London on a hanging-day, leaving the thoroughfares of that city strewn with garbage, broken glass from bottles and street-facing windows, and generally causing a ruckus. This mob had the same air, and the same dread intent of one coming to witness a hanging. Cates put a hand to his belt, feeling for his personal Broomhandle pistol, and watched with a growing feeling of dread. The mob was moving closer, the men on its outskirts now clearly visible. They were holding a wide assortment of automatic rifles, frequently AK-47s and FN FALs. Some brandished what appeared to be bottles, but held in such a way that they didn't appear to contain drink.

Cates raised his binoculars and took a closer look, his suspicions confirmed. Those carrying bottles were drunk, to be sure, but not from the substance they carried. Those were Molotov cocktails, bottles filled with gasoline and stuffed with rags–the poor man's grenade. He swallowed uneasily and turned to his sergeant.

"Sergeant Quinley, if you would be so good as to turn on the PA system?" Quinley hopped to, making his way into the gatehouse and flipping a switch and beckoning his lieutenant to follow. Cates did so, unholstering his broomhandle in the process. Joining the sergeant in the gatehouse, he reached for the handset and pressed the button enabling it.

"Attention, this is Lieutenant Cates of Her Majesty's Marines. I require you to leave the Embassy's grounds immediately. Further approach will be treated as a hostile act. Repeat. Disperse immediately. Failure to do so will be treated as a hostile act." His voice, magnified by the tannoy, sounded shrill and not nearly so calm as he'd hoped for, but the crowd checked momentarily. He let out a breath of relief and was about to tell Quinley to send the lads to bed, but a shout made his words die unspoken. Somebody in the crowd was shouting, and it wasn't for calm. Cates couldn't make out the words, but the attitude was plain enough, and it was joined by many more voices.

Soon, the jeers drowned out all other sound, and Cates' hand began to shake. There were ten marines guarding the embassy, and although it was built to last, there was little that ten armed men and a gaggle of diplomats could do to hold off a determined siege by hundreds of armed, drunken Africans.

"Quinley, issue rounds to the men. Have Corporal Williams fetch the L7. By God, we might have a riot on our hands."

"Right, sir." Cates looked at his sergeant's retreating back. Thank God for Quinley. In his late forties, the sergeant was a veteran of the Egypt/Sudan Provinces, the last Irish revolt, and much else. He was tough and quick to anger, but his men respected him and he was a steadying influence on Cates, for whom the embassy guard was his first posting out of Sandhurst. The lieutenant breathed deeply of the night air, smelling the smoke and the crowd's anger mingling with his own fear. It was a heady smell, burning wood and sweat and blood. Primal, terrifying, invigorating.

* * *

"Ma'am, you really should take it, just in case." The marine was insistent, and so Alice Yarmouth did as she was told without further complaints and took the proffered handgun. She was just a secretary, and she didn't relish being caught outside of the main embassy in case of any violence. Violence! She'd joined the foreign service because she wanted to serve her country, but she knew that the army wasn't for her. Though not a pacifist, she didn't like the weight of the gun in her hand and so she tucked it gingerly into her waistband. The marine grimaced and yanked it out. "Don't do that," he said, handing it to her again.

"Why not?" She was frightened, and her fear was making her ornery.

"Because, luv, the safety isn't on, and if the trigger caught on something your right arse-cheek would cease to be. And that would be a shame, so it would, since it would spoil your lines." She resisted the urge to point out that as far as her 'lines' were concerned, the most that this marine would be able to do was appreciate them from afar, and instead took the pistol once again. "Now then. Don't put your finger into the trigger guard, lay it alongside like this. Just point and shoot, and keep your elbows bent. It kicks like a bitch, but that's nothing to what the other bugger'll feel. So remember. Point and shoot, and keep shooting until he don't move no more." Alice nodded. "Now then luv, into the main room with Mr. Ingraham and the others."

She hurried inside the main embassy building, which though faced with marble was really a block of re-enforced concrete with a big, metal door, and continued on through the anteroom to the interior offices. She shouldered her way through the oak door–real oak, since intruders weren't expected to get this far–and found David Ingraham, Her Majesty's ambassador to the United African Republics, and his staff in various stages of dress crowded around a meeting table.

"Alice, good. I think we're all here. Mr. Cates was just in to see me, he's setting up a perimeter around the embassy. We aren't to go through these doors," Ingraham gestured to the ones that she had just come through, "and he says that if things get bad, we're to throw this table against them and then head on back into the offices." He paused, his fear showing through the hearty mask. "Did you get a gun?" He hefted his own, an ancient Colt revolver that bore a serial number of a batch made in the Second World War. She nodded. "Good. Now, I'm going to have a spot of whiskey, would any of the rest of you like anything?"

OOC-I am just wondering if there would be a Quinntonian diplomatic mission within the city. It would make sense that we would have an embassy in pretty much every nation, unless you can think of a major reason why you would refuse to allow us. Just asking.

OOC: Sure, no problem at all. That would make sense, especially since America had a huge role in the formation of Sierra Leone and Liberia. If your embassy was out of sight from the square that would explain why it was not also targeted first, but still allow for the mob to reach it.

IC:

Kabala, four miles south of Zabala, was a slow city by world standards, but for the Republics was quite the jewel. It had recovered from the decades of civil war almost immediately, quickly becoming the capital of the Koinadagu District and, after the clerical reforms that followed the election of Eric Bundu, North Sierra Leone province. With nearly 15,000 people it was bound to receive some air traffic, so the arrival of another small aircraft didn’t alarm anyone. It quickly cleared what passed for air traffic control and made a textbook landing. However, when the first of the whites descended its stairs, significantly more attention was paid to it. Within moments an overloaded jeep trundled up alongside the disembarking passengers. A dozen men in baseball caps, t-shirts and sandals jabbed their rifles at the camera crew, shouting in a mix of heavily-accented English and guttural Krio. They were, to say the least, not pleased to see each other.

***

“Hey, come’on, man, we gotta get to da talk!”

“Shu’up, Damien.” Jerome Ubuntu jogged past his friend, mockingly thrusting the end of his AK out at him. Damien laughed, but as Jerome pulled ahead he realized the iron sight was tangled up in his jersey. He tugged it out with a loud rip, leaving his friend standing in shock. The middle three letters of “Jordan” were gone.

“Thees waz my fav’rite shirt!” He beat dirt after Jerome, his flipflops pounding over compacted earth. “Now it jus’ say number tweentie three!” He leapt onto the other boy’s back, flipping them both into a heap of filth. Jerome cackled again and grubbed for his blunt, smashing it to his lips and taking a crude hit.

“Iz not ma problem. Now com’on.” Grumbling Damien hopped to his feet and carried on down the road. Windows set low in the walls of the mudbrick houses on either side were shuttered with whatever could be found, from plywood and palm fronds to rags and rusted scrapiron. A few lean faces peered out, but most people in the town had already begun to gather around the truck in what passed for the town square. Jerome took another pull and handed it over to Damien, who finished it off and flicked it into the brush. They joined the back of the crowd, standing on tip-toes to see over the shoulders and in between heads. Adults looked down on them briefly before turning their attention back to the truck. A ripple of glee passed by. It was him, Eric Bundu.

“My brothas, my fellow Republicahns, let me hear your voicez!” The boys whooped along with the rest of the crowd, Damien firing his AK. The recoil nearly pushed him down, but the energy of the crowd made his heart light. When Bundu raised his voice, the crowd ate it up, and when he lowered they grew quiet. His wild gesticulations were copied by half the men and all of the children, and when he pointed furiously to the bit of the British embassy that was visible from the square, a blanket of loathing fell of them. When it was over, they didn’t disperse, instead hanging around the flatbed, hoping for a glimpse of their president. An electric charge still ran through them all, keeping the adrenaline pumping in five hundred chests. The crowd naturally swirled around to the other side of the square, gradually moving down the street. The two boys were caught up, soon carrying a chant on their lips and a gun in their hands. Before anyone knew what was going on, the mob had gathered around the gates of the embassy, flicking torchlight dancing over the chipped concrete of the imposing walls.

From somewhere overhead a loudspeaker crackled. Attention, this is Lieutenant Cates of Her Majesty's Marines. I require you to leave the Embassy's grounds immediately. Further approach will be treated as a hostile act. Repeat. Disperse immediately. Failure to do so will be treated as a hostile act. Taken aback, the shouts softened and a few people took a step back, but a moment later a Molotov cocktail appeared in someone’s hands and all hell broke loose. The crowd surged forward, beating each other to get a chance at hammering on the great metal gate before them. A flicker of light to his left caught Jerome’s eye, a lit Molotov. The rain had stopped some minutes before, and the ripped t-shirt wick burned brightly. Even before he knew what was happening, the weapon was thrust in his hands, someone screaming at him to throw it. He turned to Damien, a stupid smile plastered on his features.

Damien dropped him with a single punch to the bridge of the nose. He snatched the bottle from his friends limp hand and hurled it with all his strength. It arched over the wall, smashing against the far corner of a shed, which immediately burst into flames. The crowd erupted in animalistic hoots and barking shouts, calls for blood mixing with sporadic gunfire sparked by the rising column of fire.

Zabala, USAR

The Molotov cast tongues of fire against the side of the gardener's shed, licking at the damp wood and sending a pall of smoke high into the night sky. There was a moment of absolute silence both within and without the embassy compound, broken only by the hiss of steam and the crackle of wood as the fire began to catch. Then the cheers started from the crowd, and Lieutenant Cates clamped down on the urge to order suppression fire. A massacre would only feed the crowd's rage at this point, and so he gripped his pistol until his knuckles showed white.

"Private Soams! Fire extinguisher!" The marine slung his rifle and lifted the red foam-fire extinguisher, giving the pin a jerk as if priming a grenade, and ran off towards the shed with the nozzle brandished before him. Cates took a deep breath before keying the microphone again. "Now hear this, now hear this. You have just committed a hostile act against Her Majesty's Government. Failure to disperse immediately will be met with deadly force. This is your only warning." He snapped the microphone back into its place on the tannoy box, wincing as a bit of feedback whined through the system. He could see Soams' silhouette against the burning shed, his fire extinguisher slowly reducing the flames to a manageable size. Cates glanced at Sergeant Quinley, wondering what was going on inside the grizzled marine's head. This was supposed to be his last posting before a generous pension and an early retirement to his home in the Herefordshire, and Cates knew that he was looking forward to doting on his young grandchildren. Soams, with the fire extinguisher, would be heading home after this tour to be married to his longtime girlfriend, and then could anticipate a posting within the Home Islands. Most of the other marines had similar stories or were looking forward to more exciting posts, and Cates himself was expecting a posting to one of the three marine regiments stationed outside of Portsmouth. His posting to Africa had been largely uneventful, up until tonight, and he didn't relish the thought of a firefight. Considering the size of the crowd, it was almost certain that some of his men would die.

With that thought, Cates turned to Corporal Williams, who carried the L7 light machine gun balanced over his shoulder.

"Corporal, set up a firing position outside the main doors. Try for a wide field of fire, I have a feeling that we'll need it." Williams nodded. The embassy's front steps were elegant enough, but a trained eye could see that the balustrade formed an effective cover, and provided good lines of sight towards the main gate and facing square. If worse came to worse, the marines could take cover behind the molded stonework and lay down a withering fire along the main approaches to the embassy. Still, the cover was hardly complete, and a determined enemy could easily force the entrance. Still and all, it wasn't the embassy guard's job to remain safe, but rather to protect those inside the building from attack. If they had to die to do it, that was a pity, but it was also their duty.

OOC: This post sucks, but I don't feel like spending any more time making it not suck. So, er, yeah.

The Quinntonian ambassador, roused from bed and more than a little drunk, was being briefed on the dramatic action going on down the street. His balding hair still had one shock of white, but it was standing wild in the darkness as he pulled his robe and slippers while the uniformed Marine stood outlined in the bright light in the hall to his bedroom. “Sho yoush shay dey are attacking da Britsh? *hic* well, we need ta get out and help!”

In a few moments, as the ambassador mainlined some coffee, his chief of staff tried a phone call to their neighbouring embassy while the contingent of Marines assigned to the embassy rushed to set up defensive positions around the embassy. Meanwhile, a satellite phone was being used to contact home and appraise them of the situation while asking for any assistance that they might be able to send.

With that, Foreign Affairs Office contacted their counterparts in London, and asked if there were any English assets inbound as the situation unfolded, while the Pentagon was contacted and asked if there were any Quinntonian assets that could be used.

WWJD
Amen.

The mass of black bodies surged against the gates, hammering shoulders and rifle butts against the metal bars. In places it bent inwards, small puffs of concrete powder falling onto the ground as the gate’s anchor bolts ground against the posts. The wall was designed to withstand impacts by full-size cars, but it had been built in the late fifties, meant for cars a third the size of modern ones. It was only a matter of time until it collapsed, and those inside knew it. "Now hear this, the speakers crackled again,“now hear this. You have just committed a hostile act against Her Majesty's Government. Failure to disperse immediately will be met with deadly force. This is your only warning." This time the crowd did not react. The pent up anger that had built up in them surged to the surface, the result of the hunger, fear and hate that festered in every town in the country. All it had taken to spark this tsunami of rage was a few choice words from an influential leader. And, of course, an easy target.

A man came running out of the central building as soon as the announcement was made, a fire extinguisher clutched in his hands. Only those who were pressed up against the gate could see him, but word spread through the crowd almost instantaneously, sending the Africans into an even greater froth. Dashing up to the burning shed he began to spray it down, the snow-white foam choking flames where ever it landed. Silhouetted against the dying flame, the British Marine waged a private battle, fire-extinguisher in hand. He made a perfect target. Unable to reach the gate, one of the frustrated rioters hefted his assault rifle over the heads of the seething crowd and let loose a blind burst. The shots passed through the bars and kicked up dirt around the compound. By sheer chance one of the bullets headed right for Lieutenant Cates, impacting just above the knee of his left leg. It tore apart the muscle and pulverized the femur, blasting through the other side of his thigh in a shower of blood and bone fragments. The man went down screaming, clutching at his demolished limb, the fire long forgotten.

Emboldened by the success, someone in the rear lofted another Molotov. His aim was just off, smashing the bottle against the outer wall and spilling flaming gasoline onto a dozen men. The living pyres shrieked and dashed into the crowd, arms flailing uselessly. A panic spread among the nearby Africans, starting a stampede away from the human torches. The people in the rear had no idea why the ones in the front were running and resisted, crushing those in the middle. It was chaos. The embassy had a little breathing room, if only for a moment.

OOC: I think I may have been unclear when I was writing. I meant that Cates ordered one of his men (Private Soams) to put out the fire, and while Soams was occupied with that Cates went about organizing the defense of the building. It doesn't matter, though, and I'll treat it like your African fellow shot at Cates, who would probably be pretty visible on the balcony of the embassy anyway.

IC:

"Jesus Christ," Sergeant Reg Quinley watched as Lieutenant Cates went down, screaming and clutching his thigh. He made his decision in about half a second as he was bending down to help his commander, a hand scrabbling for the medical kit that had been brought out with the rest of the military hardware gathered by the frightened marines. As Sergeant Quinley was rummaging for the familiar feeling of a morphine autoinjector his mouth was opening, and he shouted his orders while he jammed the syringe into Cates' right thigh. "Williams, open fire!" The words registered a moment later, when he realized that he'd just told a Royal Marine to shoot at a crowd of civilians, some armed and some only drunk. It would take even longer for the horror of that order to set in, and as it sunk into his brain he felt a feeling of satisfaction. He liked Cates, though the lieutenant was young and inexperienced, and like most veteran noncoms he thought of low ranking officers as children to be guided and shaped into competent leaders of men. A man like Quinley had hundreds of children whom he had parented for weeks or months at a time, young men who he'd watched and quietly mentored in the art of leadership.

So when his 'children' got shot, he took it rather personally.

Corporal Williams steadied the L7 on its bipod and pointed it at the crowd of Africans, not really bothering to try and find the man who'd shot Cates. It wouldn't be possible anyway, so why bother? He simply pointed at the gates and the crowd behind them, set his teeth, and squeezed the trigger.

An L7 packs quite the kick. It is one of the few weapons in the British arsenal that fires 7.62x51 NATO rounds rather than .265 British, and the larger bullets mean that the hammering it gives a soldier's shoulder is proportionately greater. As a weapon designed purely to fire large amounts of bullets in a general direction, it works perfectly. 182 rounds exited the barrel of Williams' gun and crossed the intervening hundred or so feet in well under a second, impacting steel bars, concrete supports and human flesh alike. Compared to the staccato tapping of the AK's brief burst of fire, the L7A2 was like a roar and a poorly played drum set at the same time, the rhythmic thudding of the weapon's firing and the impact of bullets on the bodies of its targets contrasting with the pinging and whistling of bullets striking metal and concrete.

Sergeant Quinley pressed a gauze pad to Cates' leg and murmured essentially meaningless things to him while the L7 spoke its harsh reply. He bound up the lieutenant's leg with more gauze and then unslung his rifle and thumbed the safety off.

* * *

Inside the embassy, Alice Yarmouth was doing her best to crush the pistol in her hands into dust. Her best was pretty poor, considering that at the best of times she wasn't particularly strong and the pistol itself was made of metal and hardened plastic. She, like the rest of the civilian staff of the embassy, crouched behind the table that had long since been stood on its side and pushed against the doors as per Private Decker's instructions to them. When the gunshots first rang out, Alice did her best not to scream like one of those generic female characters in a bad action movie, and instead settled for the silent destruction of her weapon by way of strangulation/crushing. When that didn't work, and the machine gun outside began its regular pounding fire, she left off trying to destroy her means of defense and settled on crying to herself.

She was scared, but also deeply sad. Certainly the people of the USAR were hostile to the British embassy there, but they'd never treated her or the marines with anything but respect. The African Republicans weren't stupid, they could normally differentiate the people staffing the British embassy from their government or their flag, about which they had some strange notions. Indeed, the last governmental duty that Alice had done was transcribe the shorthand notes of a meeting in which Ambassador Ingraham had done his best to remind community leaders that the British had been the first to abolish slavery and by far the least violent or backward of colonial masters in Africa. Indeed, British citizens of Africa were afforded most of the same rights that British citizens at home were, and there were proposals to grant them full voting rights and citizenship! What other European nation could boast that of their former colonies, that they had now given a say in the future of the home country? What indigenously African state could say that its politics were run transparently and openly in almost all cases? Certainly, these were not the policies of an expansionist power. At the time, the Republican leaders had seemed to accept this with some disagreement but little actual hostility. At the time, they'd seemed to be reasonable, if not amenable.

Now, they were shooting at her. She was confused and scared and sad and she wanted to go home to London and cry, not hide behind an oak table and clutch an unfamiliar handgun. Oh, God. Oh, God oh God ohgodohgodohgod.

OOC: Hey guys, sorry for the long delay in my posting. I’m afraid it’s not about to stop, though, not quite yet. My family and I are going on vacation until Thursday, so I won’t be able to be online at all until then. Feel free to carry on without me as well as you are able, though.

IC:

Kabala, North Sierra Leone

The doors of Governor Garyupleh McCabe’s office flew open, startling the snoozing man into an unpleasant state of consciousness. The excitement evident in the messenger’s eyes did little to sweep the bags from under his eyes, but he managed a yawn and sat up in his chair. A raised finger halted the babble that poured from his subordinate’s mouth, giving him a moment to collect his breath. Another yawn and McCabe was ready to talk. “Nao,” he drawled, “slowa. Waz goin’ on?”

“They’re rioting!” The messenger didn’t seem upset or disturbed, just eager.

“Who’s rioting? Where.” McCabe stretched and sat up further, but failed to show any more interest than was strictly demanded by his position. Riots weren’t an uncommon occurrence in this part of the republics, and as long as nothing governmental was in danger they were usually allowed to run their course.

“Ovah in Zabala. Rally turned ta a riot.”

“Whas been hit?”

“Uh, the British embassy.” McCabe froze, his eyes suddenly shooting wide open.

“Damnit!” he swore, “why didn’ you tell me that! What have we got in the area?” A pair of headlights passed by the building, casting beams of light through the dilapitated shutters of the office’s window. The governor’s question was not meant to be answered by the messenger, who was probably just some random civil servant that had had nothing better to do. Instead, McCabe dashed over to his rusted cabinet and wrenched open a drawer. He dug through the files, looking for what only he knew. Finally withdrawing an old folder stained with gin, he threw it down on the rickety desk and started flipping through it. The messenger hadn’t anything further to say, simply standing by the door with a stupid expression plastered on his thin face.

“He’a we go,” McCabe muttered, reaching for the phone. In his left hand he clasped an old slip of paper with a number scrawled on it, trying to dial it as quickly as possible. The phone rang once, twice, three times, four. Finally someone picked up.

“I need to talk to the defense minista. Yes, is urgent. No. No. Yes! Put me on with the minista!” More waiting. McCabe shooed the messenger out of his office and slammed the door with his foot. A puff of drywall rained down from the water-stained ceiling, landing straight in a bottle of year-old whisky. Cursing his luck, the governor paced back and forth, tethered to the desk by a short phone line. “Yes, hello. This is the governor of Kabala. They ah reports of riots in Zabala, attackin’ the British embassy. Can you move troops in to break it up? What? No, no, I haven’t spoken to the undersecretary. Call back? Damnit, no!” The line went dead. McCabe kicked the wall and sat heavily down. Sighing, he dialed the number for the next bureaucrat on the list.

Down in the streets other men had heard about the riots. Men with guns. A small band of them were gathering on the side of the north-bound road, grabbing what equipment they could. Rifles, cocktails and RPGs were heaped into a pile in the back of a truck, cushioned by the mass of Africans that piled in after them. The truck lurched ahead and made for Zabala.


Zabala, North Sierra Leone

The crowd melted in the face of the gunfire. Three men and a boy at the edge of the mob immediately dropped to the ground clutching their chests. Another man collapsed with a bullet in the brain, and the others needed no further impetus. By this time those in the back of the group had realized what was happening and began to run off, allowing the packed mass to break away. The gunfire stopped, having accomplished its purpose. The crowd was not vanquished entirely, however. Instead, the more organized members retreated to the buildings across the street and behind the embassy, effectively encircling the compound. The rest of the mob folded back into town, beating a hasty retreat. That is, until they realized they were sitting right on top of the Quinntonian embassy.

The USAR

Ceylon's diplomatic mission to the USAR tends, none too surprisingly, to be a rather low-key affair. The RoC and the Socialist African Republic have never maintained very close relations, owing in no small measure to the geographical separation between the two states, and due to the fact that Colombo has since found very little in the USAR's government that it can really take a strong liking to. The country is in something of a shambles, that the Ceylonese diplomats will readily admit, and though they tend to sympathize with the Republic's people and to some extent its government, the diplomats are not in a position to offer any worthwhile support or guidance to the troubled nation. Located on a tiny property in the USAR's capital, the embassy and its staff mostly concern themselves with the more mundane aspects of foreign service work, taking great care to remain inoffensive and unobtrusive.

The RoC's clandestine presence in the USAR, by contrast, is substantial and growing. West Africa has been a continuous source of interest for the Special Research Directorate, Ceylon's external intelligence agency, since the 1960s, when the Directorate's agents helped to arm and finance a number of anti-colonial organizations whose aims were considered consistent with Ceylon's national interest, and in modern times the SRD operates in essentially the same capacity. A relatively extensive intelligence-gathering network is maintained throughout the region, so that Colombo, even though it lacks the more advanced tools of espionage, can stay more or less up to date on important happenings.

Zabala, located as it is on the border with volatile and divided Guinea, is a town watched more closely than most by the SRD's field operatives. A number of Ceylonese are even present to witness the most recent spate of rioting first-hand, a decidedly unpleasant experience but one that must be reported nonetheless. That the British consulate became a main target of the rioters does not surprise Ceylonese agents, who note that dissatisfied Republicans are probably safer attacking a foreign establishment than one run by their own government and its presumably less well-disciplined security forces. Few expected that this particular riot would deviate greatly from the pattern set down by earlier disturbances, which typically burned themselves out after a charged night of vandalism and provocation. Certainly the sight of a British machine gunner firing directly into the crowd of rioters comes as a surprise, and the Ceylonese agents, intermingling with the rioters themselves, run for cover. That consulate, in their opinion, should have been evacuated some time ago, and they figure that the British were almost asking for a serious incident by leaving a sizable diplomatic mission out in the boondocks in spite of the extremely fragile security situation. As they watch the incident unfold, from places of reasonable safety, they can only expect a Quinntonian response as the armed portion of the rioters move perilously close to that country's consulate. As usual, there is little they can do except watch and report, and hope that the deaths in Zabala don't make things worse elsewhere.

A more proactive approach is, however, adopted in order to deal with the arrival of a television crew from Bungussi-Djanvallaland, a nation that Ceylon tends to disapprove of. One of the SRD's "best men," experienced field agent Octavio da Silva, or, according to his identification documents, Friday Nyumah, is sent up to Kabala right away with a substantial wad of cash, British pounds no less. Short of actually causing the deaths of anyone, da Silva is instructed to make the Djanvallalanders' little expedition go as badly as possible, and he intends to start at the airstrip.

After finding himself convicted by God to become a Mormon during his service in Utah, Ambassador Thomas N. Hull knew his career was essentially over. Outside of Utah, Mormons were viewed with some mixture of pity, consternation and suspicion by the Christian majority. Of course, he was never going to be fired, but what was once a shining career of a rising star was now a stagnant one in an African backwater where the USQ basically towed the line for the British. As his wild grey hair poked out on either side of his bald head, giving the air of a mad scientist, while he rushed to the outer walls of the compound as the crowd came up the hill to meet them.

View of Quinntonian Embassy
http://lh4.ggpht.com/_sKMlntfApV4/Rx0L-EnGOzI/AAAAAAAAAxA/aCuk_9_5qz0/IMG_1755.JPG

Of course, Capt. Deacon Robin Martel had been securing the heavily fortified compound and arming the residents, all of the while thanking God on High for mandatory military service which meant that every member could at least properly aim and fire a weapon if necessary, and while drills were sometimes pretty lax out here, he had had enough time to get several fire teams, emergency humanitarian teams, prayer warriors, and guards onto the compound outer and inner walls. Meanwhile, two Marines had been assigned to guard the main executive diplomatic staff, and he had been preparing to lead a squad of the remaining Marines and some emergency medical staff wearing flak jackets. But as the ambassador neared the wall, the crowd began doing the same, coming up the small garden-like field build on the slight hill that the compound sat upon, and he swore, crossed himself like he good Catholic that he was, and radioed the Marines on the Ambassador, “Secure the principle, and don’t let him near that wall again, they are almost in range.” He could see flames lighting the night sky and hear the gunfire, and he just began to re-organize his Marines as the crowd began to notice that they were running away from the British embassy, but towards his.

Meanwhile inside the executive assistant to the ambassador was still trying to reach the British embassy to ask how they were faring, and to explain the situation to them. He was wearing Kevlar vest over his wonderfully tailored suit, and an M-16A2 was slung over his back, but he was sweating profusely. He had despised his military time, and had parlayed his university education and devout Lutheran upbringing into a military career at the supply depots, biding his time until he got out. He had never fired a shot in anger in his life; he even hated hunting, could he fire at a human being even to defend himself?

Meanwhile, the Foreign Ministry in Washington was going ape-shit trying to raise their counterparts in London and ask what they would prefer they do, the informed them that they had a civilian helicopter at the compound and had elements in the nieghbouring Guinea monitoring the situation were now desperately trying to hire some mercenaries to use as an emergency extraction team if that became necessary. Meanwhile, the Commander of the 2nd Fleet was trying to coordinate with a vessel off the coast of Africa, about 100kms south of Cape Verde. Of course, the almost 1500 kms that were separating that vessel from the place it was needed was more than a little problematic, but uncertain as to what extent this situation could develop into, the Oliver Hazard Perry Class Frigate USS St. Nicholas and it’s accompanying long-range supply ship changed course and laid into it’s new heading, hoping that this matter would dissipate long before they got there, or that everyone would be safe until they got there. But, at a the speed that their two General Electric LM2500-30 gas turbines could pump out and assuming fairly favourable seagoing conditions, they could be there within 48 hours for sure and as little as 30 if everything was ideal.

At this stage, even the Ceylonese were being contacted as queries were made as to their safety and whether they would shelter the fleeing executive from the Quinntonian and British embassies if they could be snuck to their location.

OOC-BTW, in RL Sierra Leonne exports about 25% total to Canada and USA combined, I am assuming this in AMW as well as the about 9% imports from USA. I am just looking for clarification as it pertains to our economic relationship, but as far as our diplomatic one, we let Britain take the lead.


WWJD
Amen.

Zebala, USAR

"Cease fire, cease fire!" Lieutenant Cates' voice was pained, but fairly coherent for a man on morphine. Sergeant Quinley nodded to confirm the order and then bent down to look his superior in the eyes. The young man's face was a grimace of pain, but his wound wasn't too bad and a packet of quick-clot had staunched the bleeding without requiring a tourniquet. An actual medical corpsman was attending to it, having shooed the sergeant away and clucked over the inexpert dressing.

"Sir, we're going to move you inside. I'll stay on the radio to inform you of any developments, but for now things seem quiet enough." Cates nodded, his eyes beginning to fog from the drug and the lines in his face growing softer as the pain melted away. Quinley beckoned over Privates Richards and Hussein. "Take the lieutenant inside, and ask the ambassador to get on the line with London. Tell him we're okay now, but that I don't want to be here any longer than I have to, all right?" With the corpsman's help, they broke out a stretcher and rolled Cates gingerly onto it before lifting him and carrying the stretcher towards the main doors.
* * *
"Open the doors! Fighting's over for now. We have wounded!" The words were followed by the pounding of a gloved fist, and surprisingly enough Alice was the first to respond. Dropping the pistol, she stood up and then looked at her own feet, surprised that they had been the first to take action of everybody in the room.

"Come on, let's get this table down." She shooed some staffers out of the way and took hold of the upturned table, wincing at the weight. After a few moments of shifting about, the rest of the civilian staff grabbed hold and she took the initiative again. "Right, one, two, three, heave!" With more grunting and scrabbling, the table was eventually shoved out of the way and the doors opened to admit a stretcher and a slightly delirious Cates. Alice covered her mouth as she saw his ripped and bloodstained pant leg, and the dressing that was covering his lower thigh.

"Mr. Ingraham, Sergeant Quinley wants me to ask you to contact London and apprise them of the situation. We've just been attacked by a mob, the commander of the embassy security staff is incapacitated, and elements of the mob have taken up positions in the surrounding neighborhood. Estimate four rioters dead, several possibly injured, situation stable but likely to escalate soon." Ingraham put down his glass of whiskey, which he'd been nursing but not really drinking, and picked up the phone without a word.

"Yes, Foreign Secretary, please. I need a direct line, we have an emergency situation. I'm sure she isn't at the office, I still need to speak with her. Fuck you, a man's been shot and the embassy is on fire! I need to speak with Ms. Lloyd, even if she's on the top of a fucking mountain!"

No. 10 Downing Street, London

Christina Lloyd was not, in fact, on the top of a mountain. Extracting herself from the sheets of her bed, she gave her mobile a dirty look before flipping it open. "Hello? This had better be good." The voice on the other end of the line was grainy and sounded frightened, and she regretted her outburst.

"Ambassador Ingraham, USAR, ma'am. The embassy has just been attacked by an irregular mob and the commander of our marine detachment seems to have been shot in the thigh. Uh, the sergeant says to tell you that the situation is stable, but likely to escalate. He says that the guard shot four rioters dead. If I may, I'd like to request an extraction. I don't think that we'll be having much of an effective diplomatic relationship. The spark of the riot was some kind of speech given by Eric Bundu, but that's all we know. Frankly, I just don't want to get shot at again, ma'am." There was a laugh in his voice, but it covered a very real and very understandable fear.

"Okay, ambassador. I'll do my best from this end. I'll call you back, but keep me apprised of the situation."

"Thanks, ma'am. I've got to go. Quinntonians on the line." Christina smiled thinly, imagining the chaos in her own office at the moment.

"Right. Good luck." He hung up, and Christina closed her mobile. She stood up and cast an apologetic look over her shoulder to Andrew, who had started reading a book. "Oh, you're coming too. Some Africans shot up our embassy in the USAR, we've got a long night ahead of us." He cursed and put his book aside.

"I suppose an evening to ourselves was too much to ask for, wasn't it?"

Whitehall, Forty Minutes Later

"We have Washington on the line, they want to talk to you." The staffer was waving a telephone and looking aggrieved. Christina stifled a groan and turned back to the force reports for HMNB Gibraltar.

"Fob them off on an undersecretary. Look," she said, addressing the rear admiral sent from the Admiralty down the street. "Can you send a frigate or not? This is a time-critical situation, they need an evac." The admiral chewed his lip for a moment before responding.

"We could detail Portland, she's on a training cruise, but better to interrupt that than the rest of the squadron's maneuvers."

"All right, do that, then." Christina put down the force list on a more-or-less level surface–it turned out to be the monitor of one of the staffer's computers–and went to attend to the press briefing. Dwayne Chalmers, the press secretary, displayed clear indices of having been woken at 11:47 on a Sunday evening, and smelled rather strongly of coffee. He was clutching a draft press release, which he handed to Christina.

"Evening. Can I get the Foreign Office's approval for this?" He yawned hugely and leaned against a wall so as not to impede traffic inside the Foreign Office. It was busy for a Sunday, or for any day, really, and he felt something of an intruder in a bustling world of diplomats, naval officers and even a few dour men who looked to be spies of some sort. A staffer hurried past with a stack of papers the size of a small wedding cake, and Christina joined Chalmers against the wall. She scanned the press release, striking out the number of guards in the embassy.

"Other than that, we should be all right. I assume you're going to run it on the morning news?" Chalmers nodded. "Okay, I want to be there to answer any questions for the FO. I'll let you do the talking, but if there's anything relating to the diplomatic situation with the USAR, I think I should answer. Is that acceptable to you?" The Press Secretary shrugged.

"It's your turf, not mine. I'm fine with that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to my offices. Good luck, Chris." He extended his hand and she took it, giving a quick shake.

"Thanks, Dwayne."
* * *
The Quinntonians had been very excited and quite willing, but not particularly clear on what was happening, let alone what they could do about it. Helicopter extraction from the British to the Quinntonian embassies was suggested, but in reality the benefit of having the British and Quinntonians in one compound was not really worth the risk of having the entire British delegation shot down by RPG. Her Majesty's Embassy was still in perfectly sound structural shape, and with a bit of emergency bracing the gates, according to follow-up emails sent by Ambassador Ingraham, should hold well enough.

Calls to Bundu's government in the USAR, demanded that the domestic police attempt to enforce some kind of security in the Embassy zone in Zebala. While nobody had so far commented on the fact that it was Bundu's own rabble-rousing that had sparked the situation, the USAR was informed that there was 'serious consideration of removing all British diplomatic teams from the United African Republics', and that 'the situation in Zebala has not been encouraging to British officials'.

(OOC: I've edited a bit of my prior post as I want to start my nation from a slightly different point in its history and play some things out. That'll all become clear in time. The changes aren't really significant from your point of view, I'm sure.)

Kabala

"Oi still don't git why we 'ad to come alls way up dis fokken place, freh. We only have to go south again, oy?" Berkveldt was still muttering as he hauled a crate of batteries down the little aircraft's steps, apparently not noticing that his partner, Cottee, was standing dead still behind him, face to face with what he deemed to be the leader, in some sense, of a dozen armed black fellows.

"Christ, freh, watch youself!" Cottee hissed as his younger mate backed into him, almost causing him to clash heads with the man facing him.

"Alright, mayts?" Said the older man after steadying himself. He spoke loudly, smiled, and took off his sunglasses with one hand as he extended the other towards the first local. "Name's Cottee. This clumsy fokker is Berkveldt, and that's M.Debeve with the camera. E can make yous a star, oy?"

Some mumbled, fairly high-toned French cursing could be heard from the cabin of the aircraft as Debeve discovered a scratched lense and handed his film camera down to Berkveldt while still searching about for spares amongst the crates on board.

"I hear them Scorpions win again, oy?" Cottee pointed up to the cockpit and an open window through which, faintly, the sounds of radio commentary could be heard. "Beat them Wellington People down in Freeo, two - nil" He said, referencing the local football team's alleged triumph.

Hardly waiting to learn if his ice-breaking efforts had cut through or sunk, Cottee pressed on. "We come across the Golf to film, you know? Make a documentary. Where'd the boss man? E should welcome us... Debeve! Get the... oh, you've got it is it? Film the big man!" He jammed the camera into Berkveldt's shoulder.

"What di you think? You go for the Scorpions, 'ere?"

Debeve was cursing away again as he came down the steps, apparently unhappy to see Berkveldt and Cottee manhandling his camera and comparatively unmoved by the presence of so many gunmen.

OOC: Well, those five days apparently turned into two weeks. I can’t make any excuses, so I guess I won’t try. Anyway, Quinn, in real life both Sierra Leone and Liberia are largely dependant on the US and Britain for their economy. In AMW I’m going to be gradually shifting trade preferences to other African states, although I won’t do any “official” change of economic policy. More like, I won’t discourage riots and anti-white lynch mobs…

IC:

In theory, The United Socialist African Republics is a nation united under the red banner of International Communism, held up by the Will of the People and guided by the shining light of Collective Thinking. In practice, however, it is little more than a series of mobs spoon-fed Marx and told to hate the white man. A bloated, heavily-bureaucratic and largely pointless government sits precariously atop the morass, straddled by the corpulent form of Eric Bundu. It was this government that was now beginning to slowly rouse itself to the emerging diplomatic crisis in Zabala.

Since the city was so close to the border with Guinea, not to mention the regional capital, the one resource the area had in abundance was soldiers. Relatively soon after the violence started, a division of soldiers was routed toward the city, although it was difficult to tell as they were all wearing baseball caps and t-shirts. Even given such attire, a division on the move in any other country would have attracted attention, but as the Republics happened to believe a “division” was roughly 200 men instead of the usual 20,000, the move was considerably less conspicuous. Until they could walk the few miles to Zabala, however, the embassies would have to manage on their own.


OOC: Couldn’t get past writer’s block to put down anything about the camera crew on the airport. I’ll get to it tomorrow.

It was hot. Blood surged through Jerome’s veins, keeping time with his beating heart. The narrow street blurred as he ran, fleeing from the sounds of gunfire. Screams resounded off of the shanties around him, both from those wounded by the English and those that were just caught up in the excitement. In the growing light of the early morning Jerome was having trouble focusing his eyes. Clotheslines and other rushing bodies flew past him. He fell, scrapping his knee, only to rise again and run onward. He had to get away, had to run. He tripped again, collapsing into a pile of human feces. When he tried to get up something restrained him. “Come een he’a, boy!” A thin hand latched onto his shirt and held him in place.

“No, no! Le’ me go!” Jerome hit the hand and made to run off again, but a fist caught the side of his head. Pain washed over him, making the boy forget about the early morning heat. Everything was loud and too bright, only fading after some moments. A face was staring down at him. “Idiot,” it spat. “Geet up. Whe’a you goin’? British be that way.” Two scrawny men crouched over him, while another sat cradling an RPG and smoking a blunt. He didn’t bother to look at Jerome, who was too frightened to say anything. The first man sighed and rocked back on his heels. “Fine, fine. ‘Ey, calm down, man. He’a, take thees.” Before he knew what was happening, someone jabbed a needle deep into Jerome’s left cheek. A sudden immense urge to shout, scream, to move overcame him and he bent double. Vomit streamed from his mouth as the others looked on and laughed. “See, I tol’ you, make you feel strong. Make you invinceeble. Now come on, we’a gonna shoot us sum whites.” With that, the little group hefted their weapons and trudged back the way Jerome had run, gradually gathering people to them as they walked back towards the Quintonnian and British embassies.

HMS Portland, off Canary Islands

Captain Arthur Rivers shaded his eyes from the early September sunrise and sipped his coffee meditatively. He liked spending the first few minutes of the morning watch standing on the open deck, arms braced against the wire rail and chin tucked into his turtleneck to shield it from the fresh breeze. The day promised to be warm, but dawn at sea was always a chilly affair and the hot coffee felt good clutched in his hands. He scanned the deck below, noted a few of the men going about their morning tasks, and then glanced at the nearby Canaries. The sun was painting them a pinkish-gold, a beautiful color that you could only get at these latitudes in the early morning. He yawned to himself and ran through the list of exercises that Portland would be running through for the day. They were tracking a submarine, HMS Assault, and practicing their ASW crews for the real thing. Assault wasn't visible at the moment, her captain had taken his boat to cruising depth twenty minutes ago in preparation for their first wargame.

Rivers' contemplation was interrupted by Lieutenant Upham, one of the younger officers that had been rotated in for the training cruise. His flyaway red hair was poorly disguised by the officers' cap on his head, which he had a habit of tugging when nervous. Upham was doing just that, rolling it around his pate and brandishing a printout.

"Captain," he said, his voice cracking with excitement. "We just got this in from Gibraltar. We're to send Assault the abandon exercise signal and then proceed at flank speed to the coast of the United Socialist African Republics for an emergency air evac of the embassy team there. The rest is in here, sir." He handed Rivers an envelope still warm with the radiated heat of papers hot off the printer.

"Thank you, lieutenant," Rivers said crisply, pocketing the envelope in his sweater's belly pocket. The captain took a gulp of coffee and hurried onto the bridge, followed by his lieutenant. He set the coffee down on the counter beside the navigational station, took a seat in his chair, and unclipped the handset from its dock by his right shoulder. "Now hear this," he said, his voice echoed fractionally later by the tannoy boxes located throughout the ship. "Now hear this. This training cruise has been suspended indefinitely by the order of the Lords Admiral. We are to proceed at best speed to the coast of the United African Socialist Republics for an emergency evacuation. Further information will be forthcoming." He clipped the handset back in place and turned to the senior lieutenant on duty, Peter St. John. "Lieutenant," he said finally. "You have the watch. I'll be in my wardroom. Please inform HMS Assault that the exercises are canceled."

Zabala

They were coming back. This was the thought foremost on Private Soams's mind as he crouched in a scratch foxhole, dug in the flower beds of the embassy. It was little more than a shallow trench, the earth mounded up on its forward side to form more of a wall and then packed by the repeated application of a shovel's flattened back so that it would stop bullets. Soams and Private Hussein crouched in its covering defilade, their rifles steadied against the parapet. The silhouettes of dozens of drunken Republicans were outlined against the intermittent lights of the city block and their faces lit by large floodlights that had been set up as illumination by the marines of the embassy guard. Attackers, for that was surely what these RPG-carrying men were, would have to advance and fire into the dazzle of bright industrial lights and the chatter of a light machine gun, not to mention the disciplined fire of four riflemen. So fortified, the embassy could hold out for hours, but it would have no hope of putting up a real fight against large numbers of drunken, determined and hate-filled Africans with heavy weapons.

Sergeant Quinley was on the PA system, its megaphones repositioned to face outward. Positioned behind hastily filled sandbags blocking the doors to the embassy proper, Quinley's position was excellent in terms of sight-lines. Lacking their lieutenant, the marines had rallied around the veteran NCO who now took the threefold position of ammunition supplier for the L7, mouthpiece of HM Marine Corps, and overall commander. It was in this second role that Quinley acted now.

"Attention. We have already seen off one attack and are heavily armed and fortified. This is your final warning. Any further approach will be treated as a hostile act. Anyone who comes near this embassy will be shot without warning."

OOC: Okay, that's done. Your move.

OOC-Is this still ongoing? It was so neat so far!

OOC: I’m back! My apologies for letting this die, entirely my fault. As per my statement in the AMW regional page, I’m going to try and restart the RP in an attempt to bring it to a conclusion. Since everyone involved is part of AMW and thus likely to be around, it probably shouldn’t be too difficult. Have fun, guys, and here’s to a good RP!

IC:

The Republican response to the British declaration of siege was a pair of RPG-7s. A neighboring building burst in a shower of bricks and splinters as one rocket spiraled madly off course, while the second one flew straight and flew through an upstairs window in the embassy. It embedded itself in the wall next to a wall mirror, undetonated. Fire began to spread slowly up the faded wallpaper, threatening to force an explosion from the fragmented warhead. Rifle rounds pattered off of the fence outside, accompanied by hoots and shouts from the early morning dawn. Crouched in a back alley with one of the RPG teams, Jerome found himself with a machete in his hand and a mission to find more rockets. Despite an abundance of weaponry in the region, individual ownership of munitions was “heavily policed.” In other words, only one in three fifteen year olds owned a fully automatic assault rifle.

Grumbling to himself as he went, Jerome picked his way through the alley and out onto a back street. The mob around the Quinntonian embassy had not taken shelter as their counterparts a few blocks over had. Significantly fewer Africans were gathered around the complex, though, as many run to the other embassy at the first sound of gunfire. Jerome found himself at the edge of the crowd now, darting among thin black bodies in search of a new rocket. “Hey man,” he said to a man next to him, “I need-” He was cut off as a rifle butt slammed into the side of his head.

“Shu’up, kid!” the man spat, turning his attention back to the embassy. Stumbling back to his feet, Jerome clasped a hand to his temple and spit out blood. As his vision cleared anger surged within him, and before he knew what was happening he grabbed at the machete hanging from the belt of a man next to him and laid into the first militant. His first swing bit into the man’s lower arm, cleaving flesh and imbedding the rusted blade in bone. He shrieked, dropping his AK to clutch at his ruined limb. The rifle butt, still splashed with blood from Jerome’s head, struck the ground and sent a shockwave up the weapon. Ill-maintained and over half a century old, it somehow managed to discharge a handful of rounds, which scythed off into the crowd.

It was chaos. Gunfire erupted as those shot and those that just thought they were scrambled to staunch wounds, while others tried to return fire. The crowd began to tear itself apart, but not before half a dozen men finally began to fire at the façade of the Quinntonian embassy.

***

Jamal Roselr was overworked. The phones- those that weren’t fried or otherwise out of order- were ringing off the hook, so to speak, and he was alone in the office. It seemed as though three phones at a time were jammed to his ears, keeping him in a dozen different conversations at a time. The man spluttered as yet another telephone jumped into motion. Jamal grabbed the handset with his left ring finger and pinky. “Office of African Unity, Department of Black Socialism and Center for Government Control,” he sighed.

“This is Christina Lloyd of the United Kingdom, Foreign Secretary. Please place me in direct contact with whomever is in charge.” There was a pause. “Hello? Hello?” There was no response. Jamal, already in other conversations, had set the receiver down on a pile of browned papers. He cycled through the phones several a time, and before she knew it Lloyd had been on the phone an hour without making any progress.

***

Cameras were not unknown in the United Socialist African Republics, but ones of the size and impressiveness as those carried by the Sud Djanvallalanders still set them apart. Caught in the crew’s eye, the Republicans were taken aback, smiling awkwardly as they were filmed. A few minutes of awkward “conversation” involving much gesturing and several bribes resulted in the guards leaving the crew to their business, but not before giving them a crude map and set of confusing directions to Zabala.

Zebala

"Right, weapons free!" Quinley drew his own pistol, a UMP .45 standard issue, but refrained from firing it into the haze. Lacking anything more sophisticated than an iron sight, it wouldn't much avail him in the smoke and fire of the city. As the rubble from the RPG miss tumbled to the street below, Quinley's four marine riflemen balanced their weapons on what cover was available, sighted along the red-dot scopes, and squeezed off careful shots upon the crowd. As the weapons began to discharge, Quinley glanced down and to his right at the corporal crouching behind his L7.

"Shoot to kill," he said calmly. "We don't have infinite rounds." He was gratified to see the young man nod and fire a short burst into what looked like a particularly large group of men outside the gates. Quinley sat back heavily behind the sandbags, grunting as he did so. The firelight's reflection off of smoke and the crazed shouting–screaming, really– from the crowd made it difficult to estimate the impact that his men were having, but there was little to do about it in any case. He looked at the two grenades hanging from equipment loops on his flak vest, but decided not to throw one yet. There would be time for it, he knew, and it would do no good to waste them now on a crowd that could still disperse. Wait until they'd breached the perimeter, then use the tight space in the courtyard against them.

OOC: I don't have much to write, but good to have you back!

The manner in which the three Djanvallalanders set out towards Zabala was straightforward enough. Hauling a few heavily laden trollies, on large rubber tyres, they started walking. Four miles wasn't much to Djanvallaland soldiers, even if they were hauling camera equipment and assault weapons in stupid little trollies. His capabilities in marching did little to diminish Debeve's cursing, however, which went on unabated.

By the time the trio approached Zabala it rather seemed that they may have missed something important. The camera started rolling again as people ran by in various states of injury, panic, and armament. The Francophone's profanity was soon matched by Berkveldt's as the frequency of machettes and RPGs increased. "What de fokk we white fellas want bring ou' selves here for, oy?" he asked, somewhat rhetorically. Cottee wouldn't admit it, but even he was starting to think that this was a bit ridiculous. "Better git indoors, moy boys."

Now very much afraid of being targetted themselves, the three white bodies decided to try taking a quieter and more round-about route to the embassy, and quickly realised that the maps they'd investigated en route were not exactly up to date with the latest renovations in Zabala. "Wi'll bloddy miss it all at this rate!"

Debeve was more worried about the possibility of his kit being stolen as they struggled to navigate side-streets with their trollies in tow, and Berkveldt was increasingly convinced that they were going to end up in pieces themselves. But Cottee wanted to set-up a live feed on what he was sure would be native atrocities, so they pushed on, hoping to film from some unoccupied room or other in sight of one embassy or other.

OOC: It’s good to be back! I was going to wait for Quinn to post before I replied, but I’ll do it now anyway. Forgive me, Quinn!

IC:

His forehead was caked in blood and his right arm was probably broken, but considering the fate of many others in the ongoing brawl around the Quinntonian embassy Jerome came off quite lightly. A rusted RPG grenade hung from his belt, secured at great cost from one of the fallen rioters. As he stumbled back to the ally where the rocket team was hiding, deeper, sharper shots began to make themselves heard over the mudbrick walls of the city, some quite close. Unconcerned, the boy walked on, nursing his bruised shoulder as he went. The alley lay just ahead.

He rounded the corner and stopped abruptly. The alley was painted red with blood from the gasping forms strewn amongst the trash and offal coating the dirt. High-powered rifle wounds were stitched across many of the bloody torsos, and as Jerome watched in horror, the man that only minutes ago had been firing the RPG feebly lifted his finger-less hand towards him. The man struggled to say something, but all that came out was shattered teeth. The blunt finally fell from his dark lips, and he lay still. Jerome hurled himself back around the corner, scrambling for cover from whatever killed his compatriots.

“Jerome!” someone called. “Over here, Jerome!” Turning, he was surprised to find Damien crouched behind a burning oil drum.

“The hell ah you doin’ he’a, man?”

“Lookin’ foah you!” The other boy still wore the Michael Jordan jersey, but now it was torn and bloodied. “Look wah I got.” Jerome’s eyes widened as his friend hefted the dead man’s RPG.

“Wha’ ah you going to do wih that, man?”

“Gonna fire it, duh. Gimme da rocket.” A flash of anger flew across Jerome’s face as his hand drifted to his bloody nose where Damien had punched him.

“No, you gimme tha’ tube.” The two leapt at each other, trying to get the other’s weapon. Damien managed to bite into Jerome’s injured arm, drawing shrieks from his friend as he tried to beat him off. A solid blow connected with Damien’s nose, rocking his head back and releasing his grip on the arm. Jerome fell on the other boy, beating him in the head and throat with his one good fist. When Damien stopped moving, he tore the RPG from his twitching hands and loaded up the rocket. With shaking hands he swiped the blood from his eyes and slouched back to the alley, hefting the tube to his shoulder. He aligned the bent iron sights in the general direction of the British embassy.

***

Several hours of intense negotiation managed to connect the British foreign secretary to Eric Bundu’s cell phone. As the president’s motorcade bounced over the rutted roads of North Sierra Leone province, he attempted to negotiate with Christina Lloyd. “You want what?” he shouted into the phone. “Permission to enter Republicahn watehs? Absolutelee not! Thees iz eh soverign nation, an’ you cannot deectate tings to me!” The M60 tank ahead of his limosine suddenly slowed significantly and a handful of the troops clinging to its turret jumped down. Enraged, Bundu stuck his head out of the door to see what the matter was, cell phone still clutched in his beefy hands. Up ahead a herd of cows were trotting slowly across the path.

“Fin’ out whos cattle thees ah!” Bundu ordered one of the soldiers, “and keel heem! Confiscate the cows foah the state!” He snarled and pushed the phone back to his ear.

***

The backstreets of Zabala were not known for their hospitable nature, and as the whites made their way through them this became abundantly clear. Gunfire sounded off of the corrugated aluminum roofs of the shacks they passed, occasionally punctuated by the sounds of a grenade bursting or a dying child’s wail. The group was forced to stop when a burning car blocked their path. They paused and began to discuss which fork of the alley to take when bullets began to impact the mud bricks around them. A band of gunmen, previously intent on the Quinntonian embassy a block over, had found themselves face to face with the camera crew in the confines of the back alleys.

Whitehall, London

At three in the morning, with little sleep and having spent the past two and a half hours waiting while some idiot tried to find Eric Bundu, Christina didn't feel like being patient. The fact of the matter was, the UAR's opinion of the British Empire mattered about as much as the relationship with the Federated States of Micronesia, and she wasn't about to let an entire embassy's staff die to assuage Bundu's monstrous ego. As soon as the African despot had finished yelling something about cattle and returned to the phone, Christina's composure broke:

"Frankly, Mr. Bundu, I do not give a damn about the sovereignty of the United African Republics. Our embassy staff is being attacked by a mob of your citizens, your law enforcement service is either a miserable failure or they have not been ordered to intervene, and a large number of people are probably dead by now. Absent your willingness to conduct the sovereign affairs of the UAR in a manner befitting a rational human being, the British Empire has no choice but to violate your territorial waters and initiate an extraction operation. Any interference will be met with immediate deadly force, and the captain of our warship is under orders to take any measures that he sees fit to secure the rescue of British and Quinntonian diplomatic staff.

Someday, perhaps, our nations will be able to negotiate peacefully. However, know that today the failure to do so has been entirely yours. You are unable to control your citizenry, you are a rabble-rouser and a dictator and, to be frank, I hope you die in the whirlwind that you have sown and are about to reap. Good day." She slammed the handset down into its cradle and buried her face in her hands. On balance, that could probably have been handled better. On the other hand, she doubted whether the British press would actually care–and frankly, what the state news service in the UAR said about her was anyone's guess.

"Someone get me a line to the admiralty." There was no immediate response, her voice lost in the general madness of the Foreign Office. She stood up and shut her office door, cutting down on the noise slightly, and then went back to her phone. Dragging the directory card out from under a coffee cup and some intelligence reports, she began keying in the admiralty's Atlantic Command department line. If you want anything done in the Foreign Office at three in the morning, you do it yourself...

HMS Portland, off the coast of the USAR

Lieutenant Maireid Thompson wasn't used to standing watch when there actually might be something to do. Pacing the bridge behind the helm/navigation stations, she watched the black ocean rise and fall gently. Even in the dead of night, twelve nautical miles from shore, it was hot here. The sweat, not all of it from stress, beaded on her forehead and the back of her neck, and she resisted the urge to swipe at it. Instead, she glanced at the navigational plot, noting speed, course and position. Cruising at the edge of Republican waters, the Portland waited for confirmation of her mission from the admiralty. Violation of sovereign waters wasn't something to be done lightly, even in Africa. This was a fact drilled into every officer candidate during his time at the academy, along with tactical problems, engineering specs and advanced navigation.

So when Chief Barratt handed her the orders specifically countermanding the standing directive to respect the territorial integrity of other nations, it took Maireid a moment to react. She reread the printout and the signature of Rear Admiral Parks, HMNB Gibraltar's commander, while gathering her wits.

"Action stations!" It was the first time Maireid had given that order outside of a drill, and her Irish accent was particularly thick when she did. So much so, that it took the other officers on watch about half a second to parse it before the call came back: "Action Stations aye," and the klaxons began to ring. Maireid, as procedure directed, spoke into the ship's tannoy. "This is no drill, this is no drill. Action stations, action stations. All hands, man your posts." Ignoring the alarms ringing in the background, she hung up the handset and stood, hands clasped behind her back, in the center of the bridge's open space. "Helm, make your course North-northeast fifteen degrees, ahead three-fourths. Boatswain, inform the helicopter crew that they will need to be prepped and ready for launch in fifteen." The orders were repeated back verbatim as the ship began to list gently to port, her screws biting the ocean to propel her landward.

Zebala

Jerome's RPG had suffered a fair bit of abuse over its long life. Made in one of dozens of eastern bloc countries in the late 1980s and sold around the western hemisphere, it had suffered innumerable scrapes, bumps and rustings that would put any Kievan inspector to shame. Even so, its tube was clear of obstruction, and the grenade itself still faithfully lit off as Jerome pulled the trigger. It leaped to the sky, cutting through the air with the characteristic whoosh-whistle that any British Army soldier who had served around the empire's hotspots would recognize. Corkscrewing slightly due to a bent guidance fin, the grenade spiralled almost directly towards Privates Hussein and Soams.

Hussein saw it first, and grabbed his comrade by the strap on his flak vest. He hauled the smaller Englishman out of the trench, and with a shout of "Incoming!" he began to run for the scant cover of three bags of gardener's fertilizer. It was a short run, and he was able to dive behind the bags just as the rocket hit.

Soams was not so lucky. Eye glued to his red-dot sight, he hadn't seen the rocket coming in and he'd ignored the sound. It was only when Hussein had grabbed him unceremoniously and started dragging him out of the foxhole that he'd seen the incoming round, and so he was slower to run than the other private. When the rocket hit, he was still in the open, and he could feel the heat of the explosion on his back, singing his neck hairs. For about a quarter of a second, he thought that he'd made it out unhurt despite his proximity, but Soams suddenly noticed that he wasn't running. He willed his legs to pump, his feet to grip the dirt, but his limbs did not obey. He felt no resistance on his feet. Indeed, he felt nothing at all below his neck. No heat, no weight of a flak vest. His view began to list sideways and he fell into the dust, feeling no impact. Instants later his vision began to dim, and he blinked uncomprehendingly. The world went out of focus, suddenly indistinct, and Private Eric Damien Soams died without knowing that a piece of Jerome's rusty grenade had embedded itself in his vertebrae, severing his spinal column.

At Sea
The Oliver Hazard Perry Class Frigate the USS St. Nicholas and its attached long-range supply ship was trying to contact HMS Portland in order coordinate their approaches, with the Portland apparently very close to the territorial waters and preparing an unauthorised entry, and the St. Nicholas still 36 hours out, though they were pouring it on as much as they could, unfortunately slowly leaving their partner long-range supplier behind. Of course, there was nothing they could do right now but to signal their approach to anyone who might be listening, reminding anyone that might be thinking of defending the territorial sovereignty of this backwater nation against an incursion by the British, that any such action will be met by Quinntonian retribution, and soon.

At the Embassy
The ambassador was simply trying to soberly assess the situation, he understood that there was British assets inbound, and Quinntonian assets to follow. But with the explosions occurring outside, he was unsure that he could wait the nearly two days that was required for Quinntonian help, and who knew what kind of help the Empire would send? Then, another large explosion occurred, followed by gunfire, and he just looked up, resolutely, “Inform the Marine detachment that they are defend the perimeter using deadly force, beginning now.”

Outside, the Marine detachment was hiding on the walls and in defensive battlements all around the embassy, showing remarkable discipline when the RPGs started to get fired and they were told not to fire back, but these were soldiers, and they were trained for one purpose, to kill. And as their commander listened to the radio call coming from within the house, his face lit in the night only by the fires that were now burning, he changed frequencies and radioed out the new orders. “Weapons free! Defend the perimeter and fire at will!” With that, and the chaos that was already occurring in the mob, the Quinntonian Marines moves their weapons smoothly to their shoulders and began laying down a stream of deadly lead into picked targets, from their rifles, with the placements at the gates opening up with their .50 cals indiscriminately into the crowd. Next to the commander a marine shouldered his grenade launcher and fired a rocket propelled grenade into a pile of debris that a group of gunmen were running behind for cover. In short, all hell was breaking loose.

North
A small group of white Afrikan mercs had just been hired by a Quinntonian, friendly agent in the area and were now streaking into the area, a group of maybe 25 on dirtbikes.

“Hello? Hello? God damneet!” Bundu hurled the cellphone with all of his strength against the seat in front of him and snarled. “Damn those Breeteesh!” The Patton up ahead had finally succeeded in shifting the herd out of its path, but now Bundu himself called for a halt. “Turn thees column around! Go back, back!” His driver turned around in his seat and gave him a questioning look.

“Go back? Whea, Zabala?”

“Yes, of couase! Now go, get thees cah turned ahround!” The driver shrugged and tried to signal the jeeps behind the car to turn. The narrow jungle road wasn’t wide enough to permit such long vehicles to turn unless they started from the back of the column and worked forward.

“Meestar President, why ah we goin’ back to Zabala?” the driver asked.

“Eef dose God damned Breeteesh tink dey can come in hea and jump all ovah our Afreecahn rights dey have got sometink comin’ to dem! We will get dose deeplomats ou’selves and geeve dem to da Breeteesh wit’ a nice beeg bow.” He smiled from ear to ear. “Now what do you tink of dat?”

***

As the firefight picked up and rockets continued to impact the twin embassies, the first of the Republican soldiers filtered into the outskirts of town. The division had spent the best part of the last month running through the Guinean bush fighting fierce battles with foreign troops and rebel groups alike, and all were tired. But everyone was tired, everywhere. This was Africa after all.

While Sud Djanvallaland was busy selling its militant services to the Quinntonians and others in the USAR, back at home were issues that the establishment would perhaps rather pretend away. But Djanvalla del Norte's problem was about to be shared.

Freetown

With all that was going on in the United Socialist African Republics, the arrival of a middle aged black African man at the end of a long and arduous journey over land from Djanvalla del Norte may well have gone unnoticed. But Colin Olongwe was none the less determined to secure a meeting with Eric Bundu.

"Oy am here on bihalf of DANLA" he would insist, "...and most speak to the President about an alliance against these imperialists."

This DANLA of which Olongwe spoke was none other than the Djanvalla African National Liberation Army, the militant wing of DANU, the Djanvalla African National Union, a banned pan-Djanval political party advocating majority rule and the unification of Spanish and French north and south Djanvallaland as a single, free Republic. Lead by a man known only as Papa Africa, believed to be a close friend of Olongwe's, DANU, or rather DANLA, had knocked off several Iberian colonial administrators in the last couple of years, and had recently extended its operations south into Gallic territory and launched a series of attacks against the booming oil industry.

Now Papa Africa had sent his right hand man to further widen the scope of his organisation's operation. Olongwe would express confidence that victory in Djanvallaland was imminent, as the Romans had lost interest in their little colonial outposts and the neglected colonial authorities seriously under-estimated the native population in terms of its capability to organise and its resolve to be free.

Zabala

The three Djanvos had been frozen for what seemed an eternity, eyes locked with those of several local gunmen encountered in a backstreet near the US embassy. Slowly letting go of the trolley he was hauling behind him and using the freed hand to gesture subtly behind his back, Cottee smeared his face in a huge smile and said simply, "How's it?.. you fellas look like you never see'd a couple of white boys!" And with that he flung his back against the wall, dropping to one knee as he went so as to move the target that he represented as far as possible in two directions at once, emptying at 850 rounds per minute the fifty-shot four-column magazine of the unusual double-action Spectre M-4 submachine-gun that he seemed to have pulled from thin air as he went.

Behind him, Berkveldt and Debeve acted similarly, the Francophone using his trolley, laden with camera equipment and related supplies for cover and pulling from it a Beretta SCS-70 carbine while Berkveldt drew his Manurhin MR73 revolver with all the pace of a veteran gunslinger and discharged six 9mm rounds.

Bridges effectively burned.

Eric Bundu was not pleased. He had not slept in over ten hours and had gone without food for four. The poor quality of the rodes outside Zabala did little to brighten his mood. When yet another obscure dignitary, this time a madman shouting in the middle of Freetown, managed to contact one of his various subordinates to arrange a meeting he nearly flew into another rage. “Tell heem to eitha geet to Zabala oh wai’ fo’ me!”

***

As the troops continued to filter into riotous Zabala, the sounds of gunfire that emanated from the backalley slaughter of the militiamen by the camera crew was chalked up to merely another background distraction. The rising column of smoke from the smoldering upper floor of the British embassy marked the horizon, easily showing over the mudbrick hovels of the city. Across the street from the building Jerome hauled himself up from the ground, trying to regain his balance that had been thrown off by the backblast of the RPG. Around him rounds continued to patter off of the walls of the embassy, perhaps sensing that help for the beleaguered defenders was only a few minutes away.

OOC: Hey, sorry the post sucks. I'm trying to wrap this RP up. I figure Bundu will show, link up with the soldiers and fight the rioters off, allowing the Quinntonians and British to board helicopters back to the fleet. Perhaps a sort of Blackhawk Down scenario, in a way?

Near Zebala

The sound of rotors was one of those things that a person never forgot. It was strange, a mix between percussive and droning, a sound felt deep in the bones. Chief Davidson new the sound well; he'd been piloting Sea Kings for most of his career in the navy. To be fair, this was one of his more exciting assignments, and one of the few in which there was a serious chance of taking hostile fire.

Davidson glanced over his shoulder, silently reassuring himself that the door gun was manned. He caught Elphinstone's eye at the gun, and quickly turned back to his instruments. As he did so, he saw a column of smoke spiralling lazily upward in the distance, roughly where Zebala ought to be. Damned if it looked like any city he'd ever seen before. Mud huts, lean-tos and improvised shelters were nearly as common as proper buildings, and what wasn't in some state of ruin appeared to be on fire. All in all, it was not a place that he'd ever take a vacation. Davidson banked the helicopter smoothly and vectored towards the city.

"Target in sight, moving to extraction point." Beside him, Petty Officer Rhodes keyed his headset mic.

"This is Gannet Flight to embassy," he said, abandoning his largely ceremonial copilot role. "ETA fifteen minutes. Please advise of situation." There was a crackling of radio-noise, a sort of TSSSHHH-cckkk familiar to anyone who dealt with military-grade radios on a regular basis, and which Chief Davidson inevitably associated with the radio clearing its throat before imparting wisdom of the millimetric-wave variety.

"Gannet Flight, this is Sergeant Quinley. Requesting immediate evac, have taken casualties. One KIA, two wounded, one wounded is civilian. Ammunition low, enemy irregulars are armed with RPGs. Exercise extreme caution, over." Overall, that wasn't excessively good news. While an RPG was unguided, helicopters tended to hover in place or move slowly. A halfway competent fellow with a functional RPG could expect to score a hit about half of the time, and HMS Portland operated only the one helicopter. Moreover, it was the helicopter in which Chief Davidson was sitting, so he had a deeply personal attachment to its safety. Rhodes, for his part, appeared to be having a similar reaction.

"Embassy, be advised: We will be unable to extract under RPG fire." He looked unhappy, as one might expect of a copilot explaining that no, in fact, he would not be evacuating a bunch of terrified civilians from a warzone because excuse me, someone might get shot. However, his reasons were legitimate and they followed protocol. If Quinley was disturbed by the news, which he surely was, he didn't allow it to show in his voice.

"Understood, Gannet Flight. Will attempt to clear you a path, over." There might have been just the slightest hint of "and-fuck-you-very-much" in his tone, but it could have been the screaming in the background that made everything sound a bit more desperate.

Freetown

Colin Olongwe said that he would wait. He was tired enough himself after traveling from the Djanval, and his struggle was already years old. It could get a little older.

Zabala

The Djanvo trio had no way of knowing whether they were about to be over-run, and Berkveldt could barely keep himself from suggesting they turn back in a hurry. Debeve was determined to get pictures of what was unfolding, though, and Cottee refused to be scared off by a lot of what he now called kiffos.

"Come on, kiddies, we can take some pictures an' then go in the embassy, oy?" He said with a smile, slapping Berkveldt on the arm and kicking a fallen gunman to the side of the street. "Ey, that AK is for my bru's kid, right!" He added as the Frenchman pilfered it from a body.

They moved on, and soon set themselves up in a small building from which the British embassy could just about be seen, and quite clearly with a decent zoom lense. Debeve started rolling his camera while the other two were still wiping off the knives with which they'd made certain the silence of those unfortunate enough to have been home at the time.

Litoral Province, Djanvalla del Norte

If Bundu had thought little of Olongwe when he first heard of the foreigner's arrival, he would have cause only moments later to consider taking him more seriously. Confused for now, reports were coming out of the Djanval... the northern government, that associated with Iberia, had been over-run while in conference at San Juan, and survivors had evacuated to Bioko Island, surrendering the mainland to the control of DANLA fighters who had converged without warning upon the government retreat in strength almost twice that estimated by the white authorities for the entire Liberation Army.

Over eighteen hundred gunmen had attacked against some sixty guards at a cabinet session, and it wasn't even clear which statesmen had escaped by helicopter and which were either dead or in rebel hands.

Papa Africa appeared at a television studio in a small town some miles north of the action, escorted by several technicals loaded with DANLA gunmen, dressed to the nines in what appeared to be a very formal, tailored military uniform, and declared that the ..."cruel Romano-Spanish colonial authority of the past has finally been purged from the Djanval, and a new, free republic is opening its eyes on the world, today!"

Even as he spoke, which he did at considerable length without revealing much in particular besides his jolly humour, which he expressed with repeated belly-laughs, rumours of preparations in the south for a military intervention by French-speaking Sud Djanval's minority government were being well supported by the activation of reserve forces there...

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v148/Chivtv/NS1/igomo.jpg
"Let me tell you, brothers and sisters in the islands, DANLA will continue to fight for you! Derek Igomo will continue to fight for you! Papa Africa does not forget his family just because he has a nice new house in San Juan!"

South Atlantic

Vice-Admiral Andrew Highfield was on the bridge of his flagship, the USS Kitty Hawk, when the encoded orders came into his possession. He was commanding the 2nd Fleet from sea, and personally leading the Battle Group, Matthew, in the South Atlantic. He took a long pull off of his stogie, blew the acrid smoke out into the wind on the balcony of the CIC, and walked back in, barking orders.

Since all three Carrier Battle Groups of the 2nd Fleet were out at sea in response to the tensions in Europe, he simply ordered them to change course.
The Moses was ordered to continue to stay vigilant in the North Atlantic, with a watchful eye towards both Moscow and Rome, parallel to the Western Coast of France.
The Mary Mother of God was ordered to make haste for the Western Coast of the continent of Africa, with all speed, towards the embattled portion of that coast, to make secure those waterways, and finally, he was to make north past the coast of Brazil towards the Gulf of Mexico. All of these things were done without any fanfare, without any explanation from him, and without notification of any international bodies or governments or persons.

http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=583427

Guinea-USAR border

As the sun climbed above the palm fronds of the morning jungle Mohammad Ibn Tutsi sat drinking warm vodka straight from the bottle. He wasn’t swallowing enough to get drunk, not yet anyway, just enough to keep the world from looking so God damn ugly, put a shade of rose paint over everything. The liquor was flat on his tongue but burned his throat, tasting of smoke and gasoline and things half remembered, and as beads of sweat ran down his toned, shirtless chest he couldn’t help but think he should be able to savor it. But it was six in the morning and already a hundred ten degrees outside, one hundred percent humidity and clouds of insects cast long shadows on the ground and he didn’t feel particularly like feeling good about anything, let alone some cheap, warm vodka. Briefly a cool breeze blew through the open windows of the thatched hut, drawing chilled fingers through his cornrows before blowing out through the open door. He took another drink from the bottle and closed his eyes, but in short order he was roused by the harsh buzzing of the airport intercom.

“Ibn Tutsi, repot fo’ dutee aht da main lahnding streep at once.” Sighing, Mohammad took another swig from his bottle and then set it down. He stood and stretched, muscles straining under the rich black skin, before making his way out of the woven-grass house and into the field. Cleared of trees by a crew of local workers a few months ago, the rough ground was serving as a forward air field for forces operating in the Guinean bush, although only one aircraft was present at the moment. Mohammad strode over the broken earth and placed a hand on the chill metal of his Hind, watching the sun glint off the top of the rounded canopies. It was a beast of a machine, even in the run-down state it was in, and Mohammad had learned its ins and outs in the years he’d flown. Behind him he could hear voices approaching, and when we turned he found himself face to face with his gunner and the air base commander.

“Ma’mmad,” the commander greeted him, “got new odahs.” His gunner, a lanky Liberian with a heavy beard and a curling tribal tattoo on his left breast named Jared, looked quit lively despite the early hour, so Mohammad knew these orders must be important.

“Oh ya?” he queried, leaning back against the flank of his machine.

“Paren’ly some bogee go’ pas’ tha sho’ based radah sum time lahst nigh’. Flew all tha way to Kabala, sittin’ tha now. We go’ ta intacept eet. Thas’ whea you two come een.” The two pilots nodded and accepted the flight vests the commander handed to them, shrugging them on over what they were wearing before performing a brief pre-flight check and climbing into the helicopter. As the engines spun up to speed, Mohammad ran down the situation of his helicopter. The interior had been stripped, nothing was mounted on the stub wings and only fifty rounds of cannon ammunition were in the drums- all to save fuel, and thus money- but it was still capable. The commander on the ground waved the craft onward and saluted before retreating back to the grass huts, giving the helo the go-ahead. Mohammad taxied the craft along the packed earth to the end of the runway before throttling up. It started forward and picked up speed before gradually clearing the runway, rusted landing struts just clipping the tops of the trees as they retracted into the hull. The helicopter banked and climbed to five thousand feet, making best speed to Kabala, about fifteen minutes away.

Zabala

The jungle gave way to low hills as the president’s convoy approached the city, guided by columns of smoke and fire spawned from Molotov cocktails and burning flesh. Crowds parted before the twin technicals that lead the convoy, moving out of the way lest they be struck by the speeding trucks. Behind them the limo bounced along, Eric Bundu watching his people through closed, tinted windows. He was still in his sweaty uniform that he had put on a few hours previously, dark stains under each arm and around his neck highlighting the many gold medals pinned to the lapels. His trademark aviator glasses and drab boonie hat were back on his head, helping to shield his sensitive eyes from the rays of the rising sun.

From the crowd a pair of gunmen approached, raising hands in greeting to the lead technical, which stopped to allow them to converse. Eric couldn’t hear what was being said over the sound of the M60A3 Patton tank that was stopped behind his car, but the guards in the truck seemed pleased and waved the gunmen back to the limo. As they approached Eric signalled for his driver to roll down the window.

“Meesta President, sah,” one of the gunmen saluted, shouldering his FN FAL, “eet ees a pleasha to see you. I‘m wit‘ da Tiga Killaz.” Bundu smiled and returned the salute but was impatient to hear what the soldier had to say.

“What info’mation do you have fo’ me, soldja?” he asked, adopting a friendly tone.

“Sah, we’ve managed ta se’ up a perimetah ahroond da two embassies, keepin’ da riotas back. Though’ you migh’ wana talk ta da ‘massadas.”

“Thank you, soldja. Please retaun ta ya uneet.” Bundu stuck his hand out of the window to signal the trucks forward before rolling it back up and settling deeper into the leather seats. The convoy picked up speed again and made their way through the streets to the edge of the town square, stopping just short of visual range of the British embassy. The chauffer got out of the limo and walked back to get the president’s door for him, but Bundu was already out of the war and halfway across the square. Soldiers jumped out of the technicals and off of the tank to fall in behind him as he approached the gates of the embassy. One of them handed him a bull horn which he pressed to his lips.

“Attension Breeteesh ‘massadas! Thees ees Eric Bundu, presden’t a da you ess aye ah. Gov’ment foces have quaranteend da area fo’ you safety. I would like ta come een an’ speek wih’ you about da situacion.” He lowered the amplifier and waited for a response. He could only wait so long, since there was the Quinntonian embassy to get to as well, and unbeknownst to him, the whole event was being recorded by the white camera crew.

OOC-I like it, but you probably want to check out the other thread that I linked you to as well. Things are getting heated.

Zebala

When he heard the sounds of the megaphone blaring, David Ingraham took a moment to process the information. He was well on his way to being drunk, and the abominable heat had soaked his shirt rather embarrassingly with sweat. All things considered, he reasoned, the job of an ambassador really ought to have nothing to do with bullets, yelling or explosions. When such things impinged upon his largely political world, the only thing to do was drink until they stopped seeming like such a problem. Sitting now on the couch with a bottle of Johnny Walker in his right hand, he'd long ago surrendered his revolver to an alarmed Alice Yarmouth. Taken together, he was not really in a position to negotiate with any world leader, even the faintly psychotic strongman who ran the USAR. Or perhaps especially not, but either way.

Nevertheless, his hand found the megaphone that had been at one point abandoned by Lieutenant Cates, who was experiencing the tender ministrations of a medical corpsman with a lot of morphine and very little training. He brought it to his mouth after an aborted try that made contact more with his shoulder and depressed the control.

"Mister Bundu," he said thickly, provoking alarmed looks from the staff. Oh, he was still inside. He made his way over to a window–which moved on him–and opened it, sticking the megaphone through the resulting opening. "Mister Bundu!" There was some unpleasant crackle to the megaphone, but it was as good as Ingraham was likely to get. "Can you please tell us who is responsible for all the shooting?" There, that seemed like a good place to start. Get things going smoothly, have a chat, maybe ask about the kids. No, that could wait. Hell, did Bundu have kids? Ingraham looked over his shoulder, which involved banging his head on the windowpane. Alice Yarmouth was there, looking worried. Looking worried made her look pretty. Hmm... There was Sergeant Quinley, looking stressed. Looking stressed did not make him look pretty, but then Ingraham was less interested in that.

"Better give that here, Mister Ambassador," the sergeant said soothingly. "Best not to speak for Her Majesty after six glasses of scotch, don't you think?" Ingraham shook his head.

"Look sergeant. I know I'm drunk," he placed the scotch on the ground, reasoning that holding it while negotiating wouldn't really help his case, "but I've got more experience doing this than everyone here. I should really do the talking." Small sentences, that was the key. Take it slow. This could be okay.

"Right you are, Mr. Ingraham. Just, be careful, will you? This whole thing's a mess." Ingraham nodded unsteadily and turned back to the window, avoiding the sill this time. Take it slow. Think before you speak. Be calm.

Sierra Leone flew by in a sea of deep green rainforest far below the Hind as it sped southwest from Guinea. At the very least, this far up the temperature was not nearly so hot and the air not so heavy and oppressive. Mohammad shrugged mentally and banked the helicopter farther into the wind. “Any idea wha’ thees bogey migh’ be?” he asked Jared.

“No, dey only say it go’ up ‘ea las’ night, flew een unda da radah.”

“So ees a airplane fo’ sho?”

“Naw, dunno wha’ eet ees. Prolly, though. We’ll see een a few.”

Mohammed nodded and concentrated on flying the helicopter, squinting in the rays of the rising sun. It might have been a trick of the dawn, but he could almost have sworn he saw a glint of light on the horizon.

Zabala

“No, I dun’ know why dis riot stahted,” Bundu replied, looking around at the crowd of people gathering beyond the ring of soldiers. “But ah see tha’ you’ mbassee es on fiyah. Please, let me een so we can talk dees ovah an’ put out tha’ fiyah. Thees situation ees bad fo’ both of ou’ countrees. Tha’ longa thees continues, tha worse tings gonna be!” A glass bottle shattered against the pockmarked embassy walls, spilling sickly green soda on the faded whitewash, an indication that someone in the crowd was obviously unhappy with this diplomatic turn of events. Bundu turned to see his guards subduing a group of young women near the fringe of the square, subduing them with strikes from their rifle butts before kicking them in the direction of the convoy.

“Please,” Eric requested again after turning back to the British, “thees situation ees only going ta get worse!”

Zabala

"Right, yes." Ingraham, though still rather unsteady, was sobering up as quickly as he could manage. It was impressive how much a little pressure could act to counter the effects of scotch, and the aging ambassador did his best to lean on the windowsill in a more-or-less upright fashion.

"Yes, come in then." He motioned to Sergeant Quinley, who looked a little uncertain. "Let the man in, won't you?" Quinley gave him a look that was one part uncertain and two parts disapproving. "Listen, sergeant," Ingraham said sharply. "On the other side of that wall is the better part of a company of soldiers. With them is the local strongman. They have a tank. He's right, too, the embassy is on fire. We don't have a goddamn choice here, open the goddamn door." Quinley shrugged and shouldered his rifle.

"Biggs, Hussein. Open the gate, slowly. And don't point your rifles or anything." He turned back to Ingraham, pursing his lips. "Best let the man know that we're opening the gates." The ambassador nodded and raised the megaphone again.

"Mister President, we are about to open the gates of the embassy. Our guards have agreed to lay down our arms for the moment provided you can guarantee safety."

The glint got brighter the closer the Hind came, until it became plain that it was the intended target. Slowly circling above the jungle, the form of the matte-gray Sea King was plainly visible against the still dark sky. Sun sparkled off of the laminate windows, betraying its shifting position to Mohammad and his gunner. It would be an extremely difficult task to find the correct channel the other helicopter was operating on, so the only other means of communication left was nonverbal. Mohammad banked again, bringing the heavy Kievan-built machine alongside the fat British chopper and dipped his wing in salute. One of the pilots of the Sea King was watching their every move, while the other split his attention between actually flying and sneaking looks when he thought he was unobserved. Behind his flight mask, Mohammad smiled and waved. Less than thirty meters separated the two crews flying thousands of feet above the ground, and it was certainly a surreal feeling to have the wave returned.

In the gunner’s position Jared was careful to keep the barrel of the chin gun pointed dead ahead lest the wrong impression be made. As Mohammad waved, he used hand gestures to signal that the other helicopter should head in the direction of the coast- presumably where it had come from. The other pilot shook his head vigorously, prompting the gunner to repeat the gesture.

“Metinks we need ta show dem we serious, eh Ma’mmed?” Jared laughed over the intercom, rotating the turret just slightly towards the British. His pilot laughed and banked again, bringing the two choppers far closer together. Danger close. If that didn’t show them they were serious, he wasn’t sure what would.

Zabala

As the gates were unbarred and slowly opened, more bottles were thrown, but Bundu signaled for the soldiers to keep the crowds at bay. The M60 turned in place to face the Africans, swinging the barrel of its cannon in an arc in front of it. The threat was more than enough to cause the crowds to back off. Another nod of the president’s head and a troupe of soldiers fell in behind him, shouldering their rifles as they made for the door. As Bundu approached, the gates opened just wide enough to permit a single-file column to pass through, with the president leading of course. On the other side were two British men in fatigues, which tended to give away their position. As soon as he was through, Eric extended his hand to the nearest of the two and introduced himself.

“Ereec Bundoo, preseedent of da eu ess ahy ahr. Do you have any wounded?”

News of the rioting at the embassies in Zebala had soon gone worldwide; although many of the facts were ambiguous. In the Baltic Federation many were left uncertain by the news. During a meeting between the president and the Capitol Council a heated debate was rising over what should be done.

“It simply doesn't concern us, the Quinntonians and Brits don't need our involvement” stated the experienced home conservative Hashi Patenko.

“But we need to show our support; how else are we going to prove our worth as allies” Forven Oltecson, an International Conservative argued, proving the gap that existed between the two branches of the old Conservative Party.

“We don't need them! We gained independence ourselves!” Patenko exclaimed as he enthusiastically gesticulated, which caused barely hidden laughter from several of the other council members.

“We all know things were different then! We need allies, and besides, our troops need real-war training” Facro Bishni, the Balakarassian independent stated.

“You Balakarassians are always looking for war!” Ov Tichano, the only left wing council member exclaimed, feeding off the Balakarassian stereotype.

“Order!” Intruded the Liberal Council leader, Sperius Melduver “We need to discuss this rationally, alliances with the USQ and Britain can only be beneficial. Obviously jumping into a conflict is not necessary or wise; however a show of our support could help us strengthen our alliance. So what should we do about this? We need options, what can we offer the americans?”

“Well, diplomatic support is of course important, and guaranteed unless something awful happens.” Oltenson concluded.

Up to now, the president had stayed silent, waiting for a chance to introduce his idea. “Well,” he paused, gaining the attention of everyone in the room, who eagerly awaited his ideas; which typically were vary adaptable. “We need to try to avoid war in Africa, we need to make this clear to the Quinntonians. At the same time, we need to appear to be strong and our forces could always use some experience so we could offer to send some troops to support any 'peacekeeping' measure in West Africa. Lets have say 3 or 4 Battalions put on standby. What do you think to that?”

“Lets put it to a vote. On principle.” Said the council leader, seeing this as a way to get round the continuing arguments. The motion was passed, 8-4.

“Right,” said the gleaming President Volterov, after another of his motions passed successfully “I'll get in touch with Britain and the USQ to give our support, can we send someone to Germany and Cassanos and find out what they are preparing to do, and also whether they could give our marines a lift.” having previously noted the fact that the Baltic Federation had no way of transporting large numbers of troops over long distances.

Warsaw, Republic of Cassanos

Minister of Defence Jaruszelski was up to his ears in preparations for his departure to the founding conference of NATO, a probable milestone in his country's (and the world's) history. When an aide put the Baltic liason through, he reacted more curtly than he would have otherwise, telling the Balt on to submit his request to the prime minister and then to Potsdam.

Some time later.

The Baltic request was debated in both the Cassanotian and the German cabinet. After some lengthy discussions it was decided that the following offer would be made: Three LPDs and escort ships would be loaded with one German and one Cassanotian battalion of marines, leaving enough space for another reinforced Baltic battalion. The ships would leave port for the Baltic Federation soon, ostensibly for joint excercises in the western North Sea. From there, they could deploy rather quickly to reinforce the allied forces in the area, should the situation in the USAR become worse.
The Germans stated that every military operation abroad would have to pass through the Bundestag, though this would probably work. Until the need for this arose, the "excercises" could bring the allied task force close to the conflict zone anyway.

USAR Airspace

The MiG gunship banked closer, the distant fires and the slowly rising sun painting the already ugly helicopter a garish shade of red. Davidson split his attention between the other helicopter–now much closer than he'd really like–and the growing town of Zebala. Still, it was Rhodes who reacted first, with a display of some agitation. He'd been the one that the Republican pilot was conversing with, and so the CPO's attention was fixed on the other aircraft in a way that Davidson's wasn't.

"Blimey!" Rhodes was staring at his pilot now, eyes huge. "They've pointed the chin gun at us, the bastards." Davidson's head whipped around, eyes locking on the Hind's squat, cylindrical chin turret. He waved, wide eyed, at Elphinstone at the door gun, who swiftly brought it up to bear on the other helicopter. Davidson settled his nerves, looked the other pilot dead in the face, and shook his head again. Damned if he was leaving those embassy men alone, and if this tin-pot idiot in his ugly gunship wanted to play chicken, he'd have to fire the first goddamn shot.

Really, there wasn't much of a chance that the Sea King could survive the encounter, and Davidson knew it. Sea Kings were transport and utility helicopters through and through, with optional door guns used mainly to scare infantry off during under-fire rescues. At sea, a Sea King equipped for ASW carried two torpedoes more than capable of sinking a submarine, but a torpedo was about as useful against a helicopter as a mace against a battleship. Davidson's confidence, such as it was, depended entirely upon his belief that nobody would be so stupid as to shoot down an aircraft with the RAF roundel on it. Britain might not be the United States, but in Africa it was kingmaker and kingbreaker. A division of troops equipped with some of the best arms in the world were in Egypt, another regiment defended Gibraltar. The second largest fleet and the third largest air force patrolled the seas and the skies, and should the USAR decide to pick a fight Davidson knew well enough that the armed forces of his country could reduce every city in this little nation to rubble.

Or more accurately, they could reduce the rubble to more, smaller rubble. Very, very quickly.

Zebala

Eric Bundu's column effectively filled the courtyard, his guards spreading out and securing the area much more efficiently than the four marine guards. Privates Hussein and Biggs, shorn of their rifles, stepped forward in their best approximation of a parade-ground posture and saluted sharply enough to remind these African men what a real military looked like. Under soot, blood, sweat, and stained fatigues the two privates were still Royal Marines, and their sergeant had impressed upon them the importance of their visitor. Clean them up and put them in new dress blacks and they could have made a credible greeting committee for the president.

"Sir," Hussein said, stepping forward crisply. "Greetings on behalf of Her Majesty the Queen. We have one dead, six wounded, sir. One is severe. Have you medics, sir?" His tone was stiff and formal, the accent rural Yorkshire despite his Egyptian ancestry. Still, he failed to hide his exhaustion and his relief. Better to be in the custody of the local strongman than facing a mob, even if Bundu's exact intentions weren't clear.

At the Embassy

Ambassador Thomas N. Hull was watching his marines unleash a living hell onto the occupants of the city, and while the .50 cals had not been interrupted from their fearsome work, most of the marines were now shouldering their rifles to fire intermittently as targets became available.

The entire region in front of the walls had become a killing field. Men, women, and children were twisted and contorted, leering with unseeing eyes up at their killers, basking in the warm glow of the fires that had been started by a combination of Molotov cocktails and rocket propelled grenades. The fresh, wet corpses, whose black skin gaudily reflected the violent lights of midnight, gave silent testimony to the seething group of humanity that had deigned attack the embassy of a superpower, and ran into a Mormon representing a Christian theocracy with the steely resolve to show the mob the only thing that it understood, even ore violence than it was capable of.

Unfortunately, the mob seemed only to be regrouping for another, more concerted strike, fortunately, the Djanvallalander mercenaries were storming towards the area heavily armed and well paid.

WWJD
Amen.

Berlin/Warsaw

As more onformation about the situation in the USAR began to flow, chancellor Ahler and prime minister Edelman knew that they had to take a stand.

Joint communiqué from the Cassanotian and German governments (excerpts):

[...] The Cassanotian and German people and governments are appalled by the assaults on diplomatic personnel in the British and Quinntonian embassies in the United Socialist African Republics. They urge the USAR's government to intervene immediately to prevent the unnecessary loss of even more lifes and to persecute the instigators of these riots most vehemently.
President Bundu is also urged to take measures to protect all other Cassanotian, German and allied citizens [...].
Should the government of the USAR prove unwilling or unable to reinstate and maintain public order, the governments of Germany and Cassanos will consider taking measures to ensure the safety of all their and their allies' citizens.
[...]
The thoughts of the people of Cassanos and Germany are with those who lost their life or health in these violent acts.
[...]

(End of communiqué.)

Meanwhile, Cassanotian and German citizens in the USAR (who are mostly businessmen, diplomats and some personnel working for humanitarian organisations) are gathered in the German/Cassanotian consulate in Freetown, waiting to be flown out via chartered aircraft from Freetown airport..
Simultaneously, requests are sent to Her Majesty's Government and the White House in the USQ asking for permission to fly a small force of German GSG-9-personnel and some German and Cassanotian special operations forces and their equipment to the conflict area via Alexandria or Gibraltar, which would then be stationed with two helicopters on either a Quinntonian aircraft carrier or the German LPD Friedrich Ebert nearing Gibraltar.

Any help that the Cassanotion people could provide to the embattled diplomats would be greatly appreciated. Details to follow.
WWJD
Amen.

Mohammad swore as the door gun was brought to bear, considering his options as quickly as he could. Deciding that the situation was escalating faster than was authorized to handle, he engaged his radio.

“Kabala Command, thees ees Mohammad Ibn Tutsi, Baby Killaz squad’on. Have eentercepted tha bogey. Be advised tha’ eet ees a Breeteesh transpot heleecopta. Refuses ta back off. Odahs?” White noise flickered in the headset, matching strokes with the heavy titanium rotors overhead. After a short pause- during which Jared exchanged the universal symbol of the middle finger to his esteemed Western counterparts- the radio crackled again.

“Undastood, Ibn Tutsi. Advised ta climb ta commandeeng poseetion an’ fiah a wah’ning shot. Let dem know we serious. Confirm.”

“Rogah, climbing two hundred meetas.” He pulled back on the stick, bringing the heavy machine away from the line of sight of the door gunners. It only took a moment to achieve the desired altitude, and once in position Mohammad signaled his gunner, who took aim. Safety went off, gun engaged, three rounds. The airframe shook slightly as they left, streaking off towards the Imperial chopper. But instead of passing to the right of the tail like had been intended, the shells impacted directly at the base of the tail rotor, shredding the outer skin and exposing the drive shaft inside. Thick smoke billowed from the wound as the shaft seized up, and as the helicopter started to spin towards the jungle below, both Mohammed and Jared had only one word on their tongue.

“Sheet.”

British embassy, Zabala

Bundu released his grip of the private and returned the salute, the crispness of the gesture suggesting some prior military training. But in an instant it was gone, and the slate-eyed, heavy-set African returned. Two flicks of his fingers and a pair of guards stepped forward, standing at the ready.

“Thees two men ah trained doctas. Please, show dem to da wounded. You two,” he addressed his men directly, “take good care a’ da Breeteesh.”

“Ah, good, thank you sir,” Private Hussein nodded, “the wounded are just back there.” The Africans slouched off to the embassy proper, looking slightly concerned at the smoke billowing from the upstairs windows. Turning back to the private, Bundu took charge of the situation as best he could.

“Now, we need ta get tha’ fiyah put out. Do you have a watah main nearby?” It was almost a rhetorical question, since working plumbing outside of any major city was virtually unheard of, but still Hussein tried to be polite.

“No, Sir, but we have a well. It would provide the water necessary, but we lack the manpower-“ Bundu cut him off, and in a snap of his fingers half a dozen soldiers were on their way to the well, while another few set out to find extra buckets, jugs, milk cartons or whatever would hold water, some even pulling off their battered k-pots. Bundu motioned for Hussein and more of his soldiers to follow him as he made his way indoors, behind the water-ladden “firefighters.”

Inside, a group of light-skinned men were clustered together on the far side of the foyer, not speaking, only watching the big African warlord as he walked in. “I need ta speak with the ‘massada, please” he told them, watching to see who would respond. It was of course the president’s duty to know each ambassador to his country, but considering how little anyone interacted with this part of the world his confusion was certainly understandable.

“That would be me, Mr. President.” David Ingram stepped from the knot, crossing the room to extend his hand in greeting. “It has been a long time since I’ve gotten a chance to speak with you.” His grip was firm, if brief, and Bundu returned it with a smile on his face.

“Indeed. My only weesh ees tha’ eet was unda betta circumstances.” Another gang of buckets trudged through the room, heading for the stairs, careful to skirt a lumpy clothe in the corner. Eric broke the handshake and walked over to it, concern written on his face. Sure enough, upon closer inspection it was the tablecloth-covered body of private Eric Soams. “Oh no, I am so sorry!” He got no sympathetic looks from the British staff. “Eef only I had been soonah. When deed thees happen?”

“I’m afraid it was well before you saved us, Mr. President.” Ingram was careful to keep any hint of sarcasm out of his voice, but it wasn’t easy with all the liquor on his breath. “I doubt you would have been able to help him.”

“Even steel, I mourn hees loss.” Eric looked contemplative as he replaced the sheet over the face of the corpse, staring down at the body with an intensity even his dark sunglasses and boony hat couldn’t mask. “Mista ‘mbassada, I’m afraid tha’ eef you remain on thees premises much longa you may join thees young boy. Tha crowd is steel unruly, and I only have so many vehicles.” Ingram looked hesitant, but nodded his agreement.

“What do you propose we do, then?”

“Please, round up your staff an’ go out ta da front yahd. I will have thees men,” he gestured to some of his nearby attendants, “fetch da cah. You will have ta climb in quickly, if tha crowd is ta be left in de dahk about you. Your soldjas will have ta remain heah, with me unteel more transpot can be arranged.” The ambassador again was unsuccessful in masking his concerns, but faced with the alternatives he did as he was asked. As he shepherded his group towards the front door, he noticed Bundu talking with the attendants in a low whisper, nodding occasionally. Then he was out the door and Bundu was gone from sight.

The limo pulled up as promised, one of the four men in the driver’s seat, another in the passenger’s and two more holding the doors open, helping the embassy staff climb in. Ingram noted with displeasure that special attention was paid to the female staffer, and not of the best kind, but he let it pass. There wasn’t exactly anything he could do. The doors were shut, soldiers stepped onto the rails outside the car and the whole vehicle lurched into motion and out the gates. Bundu, who had stepped outside, watched impassively as it turned the corner and headed slowly down the street, the technicals falling in in front of it to give the parting crowd the impression that the president was inside. As the limo began to fade into the mob, he watched as it turned south-east, away from the city, towards the deep jungle and he remembered the instructions he had given the driver. Impassive, he went back inside where the marines were waiting.

“You know,” he sighed, “I was a meeleetary man once. I know how hahd eet can be.” He took a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket’s breast pocket, offering one to each of the soldiers, who gladly accepted. Bundu passed a lighter around, the reflection of the flame glimmering in his glasses as the British lit up. They were good quality, those cigarettes, imported from Germany at a hefty cost, and the soldiers could tell. Smiling joylessly, Bundu nodded once and took a step back. Around him, his bodyguards, who had previously been silent and at what passed for attention in Africa, sprang forward, unholstering their FN FALs. Before more than a look of shock could pass over the Imperial men’s faces, the guards opened fire, riddling the chests of the men with a dozen rounds each. They dropped like bags full of rocks, collapsing into pools of blood on the hard tile floor.

Bundu took a step forward, watching disinterestedly as the men died. Private Hussein was on the far left, a sucking chest wound betraying a punctured lung. But the young man was hardy, and his body refused to give up. Bundu shook his head and pulled his pistol out from the back of his shirt and placed three bullets into Hussein's face. When the body lay still, Eric reached down and plucked the lit cigarette from the lips of the warm, staring corpse. The fine white of the paper was discolored with blood, but he didn’t really care. This was Africa, there was blood everywhere. Some people said that the currency of the continent was diamonds, or slaves, or iron or gold, but Eric knew what it was really. It was blood, pure and simple. The whole mess ran on it, kept moving by a constant infusion from millions of innocents. What could the blood of a handful of marines do? Other than discolor leather, Bundu noted, looking disapprovingly at the puddle forming about his shoes. He turned, flanked by his guards and made for the doorway.

"Let eet burn," he waved dismissively. "Eet weel covah up da evidence." There he stood, surveying the situation, unaware that he had just made history. For down the street, the white camera crew, secluded in their hide, was watching. Unbeknownst to them, they had just taken what would become one of the most iconic images of the 21st century, Bundu standing impassive in the door, ugly but charismatic, bloody cigarette hanging loosely from his lips and the bright morning sun reflecting from his aviators. In most places where it appeared, the picture would simply be labeled “T.I.A.” This is Africa.

Quinntonian embassy, Zabala

The heavy weapons fire from the embassy had blunted the oncoming waves of Africans, but only now did the attacks truly begin to dwindle. The defenders were unable to see through the smoke and rubble to find what was causing the slackening of fire, but they needn’t have tried, for but a moment later a voice pierced the smoke.

“Please, stop fiyaeeng. I come from de govament. We ah heah to put a stop ta thees situation. Please, we have moa troops coming. If we show ourselves, will you let us een?”

USAR Airspace

The impact of the bullets was felt immediately, manifesting itself as an initial shudder followed almost immediately by the tearing of metal. The slugs did not in themselves shear the tail rotor assembly off of the rest of the Sea King, but having seized up the drive shaft the tail rotor itself ceased to spin. Deprived of its stabilizing secondary rotor, the helicopter went into a rapid and uncontrollable counterclockwise spin, the stress of which finally forced the injured tail rotor to separate from the body of the craft. This series of disturbances was felt as a rapidly increasing vibration, and to Davidson it seemed as though the entire universe had begun to rattle. He glanced at his telltales in alarm and noted the many, many red lights signifying catastrophic failure of one system or another. Fighting back nausea from the spin, he fought uselessly to control the helicopter as it spiralled down towards the treetops.

It took him only a moment to realize two things: One, the helicopter was crashing and there was nothing he could do about it. Two, his best chance of survival lay in telling someone that the helicopter was down, and that someone was probably on the bridge of HMS Portland. Davidson keyed his microphone.

HMS Portland

"Mayday, mayday. Gannet flight taken fire and is going down. Repeat, we are going–" Rivers's face was set in stone. A tall, elegant young man, he looked somewhat out of place in undress whites on the cramped bridge of a frigate. To Maireid's eyes, the captain seemed entirely too aristocratic and effete to be responsible for a ship of war, especially not one responsible for policing the outer fringes of the empire. But then, Portland's crew was hardly the norm; most of them were on training rotations and the few that weren't were, like her, on their first cruise. Maireid's habit of researching her next posting had told her that Rivers, at any rate, didn't lack for experience. Though relatively youthful for ship command, the ship's captain had served as an exec aboard one of the Channel Fleet's destroyers and had spent his lieutenancy on the carrier Queen Elizabeth. If there was anyone well suited to handling an inexperienced crew in a deteriorating situation, it was certainly him.

"Tactical, are you getting anything from their emergency transponder?" Rivers leaned back in his chair, feet propped on his footrest in his usual thinking posture. The tactical officer, much absorbed by his readouts, shook his head.

"Nothing, sir. I had them for a moment, but it cut off with the radio signal. It's likely that the helicopter was destroyed in the crash." The captain nodded, his face increasingly grim. "Communications, inform the Admiralty that we've lost contact with Gannet Flight under circumstances that strongly suggest hostile action on the part of the USAR and request instructions." Maireid grimaced. She knew, in all likelihood, what those instructions would be: target anything of military importance along the coast with the eight inch deck gun and start firing. Don't stop until all of the targets are craters, and then remain on station to provide support for the ever more likely invasion.

Oliver Hazard Perry Class Frigate, USS St. Nicholas
Monitoring radio activity, it was becoming apparent that the situation inland was becoming more unstable for rescue operations, and the commander of the St. Nicholas began to radio the HMS Portland in an effort to coordinate their efforts.
Portland, we are 18 hours behind you, coming in fast. We are willing to concede command to your actual. Can you give Sit-Rep?

At the Embassy

The ambassador was finally sober enough to handle the situation, and was listening to the Captain of his guard give his latest report while wearing Kevlar and staring down at his service pistol.

“Two dead, one burned by a Molotov cocktail and fell over the side of the wall...he was torn apart by the crowd, there was nothing we could do, the other received a fatal wound to the face. Four more are injured, two critically, and one of the outer buildings is a loss to fire. We have maintained the perimeter, and look able to do so effectively, but it is not if they break our perimeter, but when. Our current hope is only that we hit them hard enough that they lose steam and just go away, if they keep attacking at this rate, we might not make morning. Listen, sir, if they make it past the walls, we are going to have to fall back and defend the main building. I know you have had your staff start to fortify it, but you need to start letting them know that they may be called upon to fight.”

He looked up at that, almost smiled at the absurdity of it all. He turned his thick, foggy, head back and forth and looked at his staffers, clerks, secretaries, etc., all in Kevlar, all carrying weapons. This is his army?

Suddenly, the loud voice from outside broke his thoughts, “Please, stop fiyaeeng. I come from de govament. We ah heah to put a stop ta thees situation. Please, we have moa troops coming. If we show ourselves, will you let us een?”

A ray of hope shone in his eyes. Maybe it is the government? Maybe they were all saved? He stood up unsteadily, maybe not as sober as he thought, and pushed the service pistol back into its holster saying, “Go and verify that they are who they say they are, if so, let them into the courtyard. Thanks be to God!”

North of Zabala

Mik, the Djanvallalander merc leader pulled his dirtbike to a stop as they came to a place where they could see Zabala. “Forchryssakes, wouldya look ovah there? Looks like the whole fecking place is on fyre.” His men, all heavily armed, all merciless killers, all white, just waited for his order. He pushed back on his blond hair and pulled his goggles down again. “Well, lettsgo boyz, we dunna get paid for fecking setting here!” With that he jumped up and let his weight kick over his high performance machine, and tore off towards the Quinntonian embassy, skirting the town and coming in near there. They would provide relief for the Quinntonians, bloody relief.

WWJD
Amen.

OOc-Tap, tap. Is this thing on?

OOC: Yeah, sorry, got caught up with real life. Finals week, I'm afraid.

IC:
As the Imperial helicopter began to disintegrate it fell towards the canopy below, spiraling madly out of control before it impacted the treeline. Rotor blades shredded the upper canopy before cracking on the rugged bark of the thick jungle trees. Suddenly without the gyroscopic effect of either rotor, the helicopter found itself twisting and falling through dense undergrowth until it disappeared from the sight of the Repbulican gunship, which was still hovering over the target area. A series of furious orders and counter orders were exchanged over the radio, and as a column of smoke began to rise from the trees the Mil Mi-24D sank lower, slowly circling the crash site as a rescue party was dispatched from Kabala. Given the rough terrain, lack of roads or any kind of clearings, it would be a very, very long time before any help came for the trapped crewman below, if they were even still alive.

Quinntonian embassy, Zabala
Out of the smoke and groans of the dying a column of soldiers stepped up to the gates. Their leader, a tall, skinny man in a loose gray wife-beater and dirty brown shorts came forward, pressing the red star on his olive-drab cap into the metal bars and dropping the magaphone to his side. Behind him, soldiers fanned out to secure the perimeter, looking dumbly down at the wounded and the dying around their feet. As a Quinntonian man approached, the leader focused turned to face him and gave a sloppy salute.

“I am Commanda John Wayne, Tiga Killaz deeveeseeon. Tha preseedent has sent me ta make sure you ah safe unteel he can arrive.” There was no proffering of proof of identity, nor would any be made, as such things were not issued to such minor officers. The closest thing to a marker of his rank was the hat he wore. The diplomat beyond the gates looked hesitant for a moment, his eyes drifting to a lanky man in sunshades to Wayne’s right, who was busy blowing long streams of cigarette smoke from his nostrils.

Near Zabala
The limousine jumped along the rutted road as it made its way deeper into the jungle. Before he had rolled up the privacy screen, the driver had assured the British staffers that they were being taken to the district capital, where they would be put on a plane and extracted. It occurred to them, however, that seldom did the roads get worse the closer to a developed city one got. On the other side of the tinted screen, a cellphone could be seen pressed to the ear of the armed guard in the passenger’s seat. None of them could hear what was being said, which unnerved them all the more. They continued on in silence for some minutes, accompanied only by the cacophonous sounds of the jungle around them until at last the vehicle pulled into a clearing that appeard to have been hewn out of the brush only recently. None of them were trained in any real military passion, but it was fairly obvious that it was an air field from the large fuel tanks and packed earth runways that littered the area. A heavy truck sat square ahead of their path, and as they approached and came to a stop a hoard of militiamen shambled out of the back, most clearly intoxicated but kept in line by the ominous figure of their commander. As the British were escorted from the limo they watched his approach.

Naked but for a heavy gold medallion, a red bandanna on his shaven skull, loose black shorts and a belt hung with paint-daubed human skulls, the man was quite the sight, and when he finally reached them he just grinned. Behind the group the limo turned and made back for Zabala, content to follow orders and let the soldiers take the captives into hiding deeper in the bush while they returned to retrieve the Quinntonian staff.

Kabala
Garyupleh’s office had calmed down in the hours since the riots began, but the still had not had time to find sleep and his eyes were as red as the morning horizon. But when messages from Bundu’s assistants started to come in, he had no choice but to force himself to keep making calls. As he scribbled down the notes he would pass on to the Associated Press and their respective governments, he briefly paused, shocked at what he was hearing. The rioters had apparently managed to storm both the Quinntonian and British embassies in the small town of Zabala, kidnapping the staffs and disappearing into the bush. Every effort was being made by the government to recover them, he was told to report, and Bundu himself was leading the search effort.

Outside the British embassy, Zabala
Eric Bundu walked out through the open gates and flagged down the Patton idling at the other side of the courtyard. It rolled over to him as he took a long drag of his cigarette and pulled up beside him, offering him grips to climb up to the turret. Without a word, he reloaded his pistol and directed the machine to turn in place and make for the Quinntonian embassy just around the corner.

OOC: Just an idea, but one of the downed helicopter crew could survive and trek around the jungle; avoiding all other people for fear of being attacked and could later serve as a witness after getting out. It would add a lot more depth to the RP.

Spyrtel-Afri Base Station, Zabala

http://i476.photobucket.com/albums/rr123/jsstrn/NationStates/spyrtel-station-zabala.jpg

To say that Paisho Sianshin was concerned would be a serious understatement. Zabala was not the safest place for foreigners, even at the best of times, and news of mobs at the foreign consulates in the town meant a turn for the worse.

The Lyongese engineer had been in Zabala for over a year now, overseeing wireless communications infrastructure. The local cellular market was small, but the presence of foreign consul staff as well as their families and the foreign journalists covering them had presented a lucrative opportunity for the Spyran Telecommunications Collective. An opportunity for Pasiho as well, or so he had thought, a chance to demonstrate his administrative skills so he might seek election into management back home.

Whatever the opportunities he had once seen, Paisho had long since decided they weren't worth it. Zabala was dusty and hot, plagued by underdeveloped amenities and badly maintained infrastructure. The telecom tower he oversaw topped the three-storey concrete building which also housed his living space, repair shop, and sales counter, electricity supplied from a diesel generator in the back yard next to the well (at least when it was working properly). The closest place to get a decent meal was the Lyongese restaurant in Freetown, over 350 kilometers away. Truly a hateful place.

As the sounds of gunfire subsided, Paisho looked out the window towards the consulates, marked out easily enough by trails of smoke rising into the sky. Not a good sign. He'd closed up the building at the first news of rioting, but this was not a fortified mission, and if the mob could not vent its rage against Caucasian diplomats they might seek out an easier target in an Asian technician.

Turning from the window, Paisho glanced over his work desk. He had a pistol, meant for self defense, but not likely to do much good in his inexpert hands against assault rifles and Molotov cocktails. More helpful would be his phone... time to call the base station in Kabala and have them update head office. They might even send a truck to pick him up, provided the roads weren't jammed with livestock once again...

Quinntonian Embassy, Zabala

The Marines that were manning the walls let up their fire as they radioed back and explained the situation. Each one of them hoped that this was the salvation that they were praying for, especially with increasingly worried glances at their ammunition stockpiles. As sweat beaded off of their foreheads and off of their noses, they waited for their orders.

-------

The ambassador, feeling much better now, was peering out over the balcony and the machinegun nest there, seeing this happening near the outside the gates. He adjusted his Kevlar vest, and stepped out onto the balcony, holding a megaphone of his own. (screeeech) “Is this thing working? Do I just press this? Oh, wait, I think it’s on.” (cough, cough) “Ahem. Thank you very much for your help, we have a couple dead, and several wounded, fighting has been hard. Our diplomatic staff is OK, however. We are going to open the gates and let your commander and two guards in, so that you can provide proper identification. I need the rest of your men to stay back, as this has been a very hard night. Do you have any medical staff with you?”

Behind him, an increasingly alarmed radio operator was hearing an update on the British situation about the helicopter and trying furiously to decide whether it was an accident that they had lost their helicopter, or whether it was a truly hostile act, and if it was hostile, then what did that portent for the situation here. It never seemed to occur to him to share this with his commander.

Northern Zabala, Outskirts

The Djanvallalander ‘s were tearing into the town, attempting as well as they could to not run too many people down in the process of making it through the chaotic streets of Zabala during this time. They tok sniper fire at one point, but responded heavily with Uzis and other sub-machineguns before firong a rocket propelled grenade into the restaurant that the shots came from. No one was hurt and they just kept moving towards the Quinntonian Embassy, not knowing how the situation had changed.

WWJD
Amen.

OOC: Sorry this post sucks. I'm busy with school and such.
No.10 Downing Street

Sir Andrew blinked in the lights, dazzled. He forced himself to look squarely into the teleprompter screen, set beside the camera lens, and composed himself. Leaning back in his chair, the prime minister fussed momentarily with his tie before straightening his jacket and leaning forward again. His preparations, meticulous as always, hid an unusual anxiety. This news conference, though certainly intended for the benefit of the British people, was really being addressed to Eric Bundu, and the consequences of the next few hours would be decisive. A tech caught Strathairn's eye, flashing three fingers, then two, then one. With a downward chop of his hand, the camera's recording light came on and the teleprompter began to scroll.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Strathairn said heavily. "Last night, a British rescue helicopter was shot down over the United African Socialist Republics while on a rescue mission to recover the staff of our embassy in Zebala. From what we are able to discern, it was destroyed by another aircraft over the jungle, and we have had no contact with the crew up to this time. As such, Chief Petty Officer Samuel Davidson, Petty Officer Thomas Rhodes, and Specialists Michael Elphinstone and Harry Archer have been declared missing in action. My thoughts go out to their families in this time of trouble, and it is my sincere hope that they will be found alive and unharmed.

However, the destruction of a rescue helicopter on a mission of mercy cannot go unanswered. In the interests of decency and peace, I demand that President Bundu of the United Socialist African Republics issue a statement of apology and allow a British peacekeeping force to enter the territory of the USAR. This situation has underscored the volatile nature of West African politics, and it is clear that Mr. Bundu's government is a destabilizing factor in the region. While Her Majesty's Government fully supports indigenous African movements for independence, it cannot do so at the peril of its own citizens. We have had no contact with our embassy, and our airmen on a mission of mercy were deliberately attacked.

"This is not the behavior of a responsible government, this is the behavior of a thug. The USAR deserves the right to chart its own course in world affairs, but it does not deserve the right to attack foreign nationals within its territory. Our intent is not to add the USAR to the British Empire–we have had done with that era in our history–our intent is to secure the safety of our people within the USAR, and to bring a measure of stability to the region. This is neither imperialism, nor posturing. We will act only to keep the peace and locate our citizens, allowing the government of the USAR to function normally. We will leave as soon as we are reasonably able, lacking any desire to become a governing authority in the region.

"If Eric Bundu assents to these demands, I see no reason why he might not continue to lead the USAR. However, if he refuses to allow our armed forces to protect the safety of British persons abroad, there can be no question as to the eventual results of a conflict between our two states. I speak for my government when I say that in the interests of all, such refusal would be deeply unwise and would signal a flagrant disregard for the people of the USAR.

"We do not seek regime change, nor a continued presence. We want only to find our people, ensure their safety and well being, and then to leave. Hopefully, this search will take a matter of weeks, if that. It is my sincere hope that Mr. Bundu proves co-operative in this matter, and I trust that he will. Thank you."

OOC-Is Talost still involved?

OOC: Yeah, I’m here. Dealing with some forum issues and a lack of motivation, I’m afraid. As an aside, if anyone has any OOC comments to make, please include an IC statement in the post or use our OOC thread (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=582191).

IC: John Wayne snorted and waved his consent to the diplomat on the loud speaker. “Sha, sha, me’an’da boys come on een, ya? Breeng some medeecs.” He gestured to the smoking man, who in turn pointed to a group of scrawny men with rifles and backpacks slung over their shoulders. As they stepped forward, Wayne dug out a roll of browning gauze to prove they were medics, nodding impatiently at the Quinntonian staff. Down the street, tank tracks could be heard grinding down the road, quite easily signifying Bundu’s arrival.

“See? Open de gate now, or I get een trouble wit’ da president.”

***

Everything was so bright, stabbing into Jerome’s eyes as he stumbled along the dirt road. The cocaine was pumping through him, nearly shooting his heart into palpitations with the simple act of walking. Flecks of anger, confusion and directionless energy danced in his mind, sending his body tripping into a heap of refuse piled up outside of a corrugated tin hut. Beams of light brutalized his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to shrink into a ball and sink into the filth. Emotions fled from his grasp, flickering between elation and rage, depression and complete apathy, and a ringing so pervaded his ears that he couldn’t think straight. So loud! Finding himself in a moment of weakness and unable to summon the strength to right himself, he wretched onto his chest, but nothing more than liquid dropped from his chin. The ringing in his head was brutal now, getting louder by the minute.

And then the shafts of light flickered. Confused, he shifted his view upwards from the ground, trying desperately to focus on the shapes darting in front of him. Men on motorcycles flew past, their engines howling furiously. Realizing what was causing the sound and becoming seized by the hand of anger, Jerome embraced a sudden surge of energy and hurled himself upright, brandishing his rifle at the cause of his pain. A clutch of bullets slammed out of the barrel, missing wildly, but only serving to encourage Jerome to fire again. Attracted by the sound of firing and racing engines, faces leered from behind mudbrick walls to see what was attacking them now.

***

Northern jungle
He has yet to speak, the savage, David Ingram brooded. His face still plastered with a wide grin, the subject of the ambassador’s ire scratched at his belly where the rope belt chafed, careful not to let the hefty machete in his lap slip as he did so. The British hostages were all sitting unbound on one side of the truck, clinging to whatever they could to keep seated while the truck bounced along the twisting path. Across from them two dozen painted blacks lounged in their seats, easily moving with the gait of the vehicle. There were far too few seats for all the soldiers, so some slung their rifles onto their backs and climbed onto the roof of the cap. Others sat directly on the hood, officially working as a scout but really just trying not to stand.

Oppressive jungle heat bore down on the whites despite the shade provided by the overhanging boughs, and without the comfort of the air conditioner at the embassy their discomfort was quite evident. Every now and then, one of the men would look up and glare at an African, only to look quickly away when the skulled man grinned in their direction.

Kabala
Even as the British statement went to air, in the next timezone over Garyupleh’s message was emailed to a newspaper in Cassanos, shortly to be accompanied by a second note hastily written to portray the loss of the British helicopter as likely caused by the humidity seizing up a poorly-maintained component, sending the craft into the dense jungle. The fact remained that until a rescue- or recovery- team made it to the crash site, neither side could be proven correct. However, the not-so-subtle accusations that the West were making a move to recolonialze Africa did not escape those who read the stories.

Zabala

Across the road from the British embassy, the three 'journalists' were trying to set-up a satellite link in order to share with the right people news and footage. They supposed that they may be the only people besides his enthusiastic supports who knew -and could perhaps prove- what Bundu had really been up to.

With things having gone this far, none of them felt sure of getting out alive. At some point they would have to emerge from this building, and they're prrrrobably still be white when they did. Looking over the Frenchman's shoulder as he worked away at his laptop, Cottee muttered, "Oi, thee blick man's Aifrika, eh my freh?"

Within the hour, the Sud Djanval government of Lumboldt Kircher was breaking news of what a spokesman called, 'the execution, by a death-squad headed by Eric Bundu, of the entire staff of the British embassy in Zabala'. Kircherstadt indicated that 'video evidence' would shortly be forwarded to the British government, and stated that it had already been verified by Djanvalese special intelligence.

Sud Djanval, of course, had other things on its plate, General Buster Acland's invasion of Djanvalla del Norte foremost amongst them.

Credenhill, Herefordshire

With nightfall came the sound of helicopters. Residents of Credenhill were certainly used to it, living as they did nearest Britain's major special forces base. Few nights passed without the telltale drone of passing aircraft, going places that few were cleared to know about. For the most part, they were simple training missions, and they would return by morning. This time, though, there would be no early morning flight back to the SAS complex. The helicopters departed without fanfare, black shapes in the deep blue night sky. Few even looked up, uninterested because used to the sound and the passage. The helicopters, meanwhile, flew in a loose vee across the English countryside. As missions went, this one was time sensitive, and there could be no delay to ship men and arms by road. The air was faster, and less conspicuous.

The Special Air Service helicopters were black AW101 Merlins, fast and relatively spacious. Six helicopters made up the formation, flying low over the countryside. They crossed the Cornish fields and towns in little more than an hour before winging swiftly over Portsmouth Harbour. Their destination quickly became clear, a long, low bulk against the waves lit by floodlights. HMS Ocean was the only dedicated Amphibious Assault Ship in the Royal Navy, though to a casual observer she looked very like the Invincible-class light carriers from which she took many design cues. In fitting with her importance for Britain's amphibious capability, she was guarded by a Type-42 destroyer and a Type-23 frigate.

The SAS helicopters formed en echelon, the first gliding in to make a gentle landing on Ocean's deck before its compatriots did the same. The operation was performed quickly, bringing over a hundred SAS men aboard in less than a half hour. They unloaded their gear as quickly as possible, and as each helicopter emptied it was towed to an elevator for storage below. The SAS troopers were herded inside to clear the flight deck, and were shown to quarters by irritated looking seamen who clearly resented the hour of day.

Ocean was a large ship by most standards, outclassed only by the heavy carriers of the Royal Navy and the vast, island-like Quinntonian Nimitz-class. Even so, with the addition of nearly a hundred and fifty SAS men and her standard complement of eight hundred Royal Marines, there was very little space to be had. The SAS men were bunked according to overflow protocol, meaning that most of them slept on the cargo deck using their packs as pillows. It was inglorious and the men grumbled, but not seriously. They had slept in dungarees in the rain before, and this was only a minor annoyance. Not so for the sailors who worked on the cargo deck, and a few minor incidents were recorded when sailors overcame their fear of the SAS to start minor brawls. The marines were brought out to break things up, and in most occasions things were settled with nothing more than harsh words and a stoppage of rum rations all around.

The small task group departed later that morning at Ocean's top cruising speed of ten knots. A commercial build, the Ocean was slow and prone to mechanical failure, limiting her effective speed and range significantly. As such, the ship's transit time to West Africa was projected almost half again the speed that a carrier could have made, but there was no other that could do the job. In any case, her departure had been carefully kept quiet, so it was hoped that her arrival off the coast of the USAR would be a surprise even given the extended travel time. If not, there was very little that Bundu's government could do about it.

Cassanos and Germany

News agencies and broadcasters in Bonn, Mainz, Berlin and Warsaw almost simultaneously received the Djanvallan broadcasts about the incident in the USAR. Though normally they would take any information about black africans from that source well salted, but the video footage was unambiguous.
A short while later, the camera team's recordings were shown in newscasts and on many online platforms, both private blogs and commercial news websites.

ARD Tagesschau, German afternoon news

The speaker straightened his tie once again, shuffled through his notes and put on his " "appalled yet composed"TV-face.

Good evening ladies and gentlemen.
West Africa. The crisis in the United African republics has escalated even further. Shocking new imagery has appeared, showing troops under command of autocratic ruler Eric Bundu murdering personnel from the besieged British embassy in Zebala in cold blood. The self-appointed president's militia has apparently entered the embassy's compound apparently claiming to relieve the British citizens beleaguered by a raging mob. A short while later, shots were heard. The following uncut footage shows scenes of violence and may not be appropiate for younger viewers.
-----Cut-----...-----
-----Back to the speaker-----
It is not yet clear how many people were killed, footage shows that at least some civilian personnel were transported away in a government limousine. No information has been released about their whereabouts.
This shocking revelation is sure to further exacerbate the already critical situation in the west african country, which has develpoed after the embassies of Great Britain and the USQ had been attacked by armed mobs and militia.
We do not have further information about neither the situation at the Quinntonian embassy in Zebala nor the circumstances of a British Royal Navy helicopter's downing over the USAR.
In a recent press release, chancellor Ahler's chief of staff Frank Diercke has condemned the killings and stated that this, quote 'brutal slaughter of innocent civilians is intolerable and will have dire consequences for Mr. Bundu', end quote. Foreign minister Alfred Fischer is expected to hold a press conference on the issue on Bermuda this evening, where he is currently attending the founding conference for a transatlantic military alliance along with chancellor Ahler and defence minister Dietrich Schmied.
So far, the ministry of defence has not released information about the deployment of a joint German-Cassanotian naval task force to the area.

The Baltic. Tensions between Kieven Rus and the west over a shot-down Kieven fighter jet appear to loosen...

German frigate Hessen, western Atlantic Ocean

The boats dispatched from the task force's supply ship was mooraged and several bulky metal boxes were winched aboard the frigate. Crewmen lifted several lids on the frigate's 48 vertical launching cells and winched out boxes containing long range SAMs, replacing them with the ones which had just been delivered.
Circuits were checked and closed while the weapons officer in the frigate's CIC loaded seldom used firing algorithms. What the hell do we need cruise missiles for now?, he wondered silently.
In the meantime, the convoy increased speed and German and Cassanotian marines aboard the FGS Friedrich Ebert prepared to conduct yet another land-attack excercise.
The task force was preparing for war.