OOC: The OOC thread and information about the characters can all be found here (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=566581). Feel free to use my AIM/MSN/YIM (under my avatar) to contact me. Furthermore, do not post unless you've signed up.
Zinairian Yacht Club, 8:00 Saturday
Three black SUVs barreled down the street, the lights set into their front grilles flashing. The three ZMW Chariots came to a stop at the entrance of the yacht club. The doors swung open and the three ZNPD special response teams dismounted, followed by an elderly African woman in a bulletproof vest. However, this wasn't just any Afro-Caribbean grandmother– this was Margaret Jackson, ZNPD chief investigator.
"Alright everyone! Alfa team take the left bridge, Bravo take the right!" Margaret shouted, pointing to the two bridges leading down to the floating dock. "Charlie team, you stay up here with me."
The two teams hustled across the bridges and onto the walkway just in time to see a go-fast boat speed out of the marina and into the open water. Margaret watched through her coke-bottle glasses and cursed at length as the boat sped away.
"Get the coast guard on the phone! That sleaze must be heading to Puerto Rico."
"How do you know?" Asked the leader of Charlie team.
"Because it's where I would go. It's less than a 100 kilometers away and it has some of the biggest ports in the Caribbean. He'll be in and out of there in a matter of hours so we have to catch up with him before he moves on."
An officer that had been in a vehicle on the radio came over to Margaret. "The coast guard's on its way. I don't think they'll be able to catch him though."
Moments later, two coast guard RHIBs raced by the marina in pursuit.
Margaret shook her head. "He's got a head start and his boat's probably faster. Call ZNPD aerial command and tell them to get the Learjet fueled up at ZIA."
The officer that had spoken to the coast guard nodded and went back to the car to call aerial command.
En Route to Puerto Rico, 8:20
The small powerboat was speeding through the Caribbean Sea at almost 40 knots. They had been traveling only fifteen minutes, but they were already almost 20 kilometers off the Zinairian shore.
Max Baxter, an old friend of Luc Ricard and the pilot of the boat, looked over his shoulder nervously at the two coast guard boats trailing behind.
"I think we're good, Luc!" He shouted over the engine. "We're losing 'em and international waters are only a couple kilometers away!"
Several minutes later, the boat crossed out of Zinairian territorial waters. The coast guard boats slowed down and stopped, their jurisdiction exhausted.
Zinairian International Airport, 8:25
The black SUV raced onto the tarmac, its lights flashing. It came to a stop in front of a small, black business jet. A high-ranking ZNPD officer stood next to the stairs. Margaret, now without the body armor, got out of the SUV and approached the officer, who shook her hand.
"Good luck, stay in touch." The officer said, obviously not one for long briefings. Then he gave her a fat manilla envelope. "Open it on the plane."
Margaret nodded and boarded the Learjet 40. As soon as she had boarded, the copilot closed the doors and they prepared for takeoff.
OOC: More coming. Alfegos, since he'll be meeting up with you first, feel free to do an intro post, etc.
In the mists of the early morning, a craft slowly cut through the drifts of mist, slowing down as it passed over the crowd of riotous lights that was the city of San Juan. This was no craft the people would normally see: it was an Alfegan airship, twice the length of most container ships, yet small in the eyes of its maker. Four methane-fuelled props throbbed as they pushed the airship onwards, shake dew from the airship fabric with each pulse.
To the front of the airship came the only sign of life aboard the airship: a gondola seemed to melt from the gasbag, shining aluminium forming from folds of Aerofibre. Tinted glass windows cut out most light from escaping, save from that to the far rear of the gondola.
From the inside, as the Captain sat at the control station and navigated the airship into the local aerodrome, he left the other men to perform the tasks they were now accustomed to: the smuggler's compartment was shut and hidden over by the carpeting; the "special" cargo was moved to its correct position, inside one of the false gas cells; and their passports were checked over in case they were to disembark.
The Captain was a tall, dark man, who kept quiet as a lieutenant gave orders. Anyone near him could instantly tell this was a man unaccustomed to talking without reason, with those obviously being in extreme circumstances. The few occasions where he did not wear tinted goggles and his Captain's hat, it was instantly obvious that he had been in some form of scuffle many years ago. His left eye socket was hideously deformed, with no remnants of a natural eye left. An ultrasound unit, powered by kinetic batteries in his arm, lay in the bottom of the shrivelled area, acting as an aid to the depth of field in perfect images provided by his existing eye. More visible on the side of his head were the continuations of some form of projectile impact, trailing from the eye socket area across the skull towards his left ear, leaving a pallid white dead scar, white hair growing in a patch of black. Most people aboard the airship, save for any passengers they picked up, had got used to his strange looks and ways by now, but he still caught people unawares. Talking whilst he was landing often resulting in a fist aimed for the gut of the offender, and incorrect conduct in front of authorities resulted later in anything from a beating to "disappearing".
As he moved the airship towards the brightly-lit mooring mast in the centre of the large field, he could already see a a cluster of unloading vehicles preparing to take away the mix of goods aboard the craft, with even more on the area outskirts to load up with coffee and bananas. This airfield being one well used by the Alfegos Mafia, a contact would be along when the airship underwent a refuelling to exchange the "special goods". In this case, 150 AF-87 assault rifles with ammunition lay in three crates hidden in the gasbag network, waiting to be swapped for what was likely to be a few tens of kilograms of cocaine. Secret trapdoors on the refuelling trucks hid the compartments were the goods were stored, as part of the highly profitable network. Along with them were the numerous immigrants who would doubtlessly try to hitch a lift aboard to wherever the airship were to go. For the right price, after being directed on by word of mouth spread in the docks and the city main.
The airship touched down, sweeping over the ground as it came to a near halt, engines still roaring in reverse. Ground crew scuttled around like ants as the airship was secured, thick cables trailed from ground trucks to mooring rings and the mast itself, before being tightened to drag the airship down to the correct level for the trucks to unload the containers.
Van Luxemburg
27-09-2008, 12:34
Sitting in the Commanding Officer’s Vehicle (VCP, or Véhicule du Commandant de la Police) of Levallois, was Marcel Gaillard, Commandant of the Levallois local police department (Police Communale). He was in fact the highest ranking officer within the Levallois police force that was commonly seen on the streets: his CO was Commissaire Fourger, a person which had a rank that prescribed him to spend most of his day in his office. This meant that Gaillard always did the ‘field jobs’ for the main office.
As the VCP, an Alfa 166 V6, slowly passed by the gate of the police station, various officers saluted. The vehicle, painted in a light blue colour that could almost be seen as ‘grey’, was decorated with a simple bright red stripe across it’s flanks, as well as a low-profile LED lightbar and various identification marks. The words ‘Police Communale’ were placed prominently across the doors; it was finished off by the callsign of the vehicle and it’s origin: Levallois-Cité.
The Alfa 166 was not a particularly old car by todays’ means: it dated from 2005, and had done 170,000 kilometres in the 3 years it had been in operation. Only one year was to come, but most likely, only 30,000 kilometres: all Van Luxemburger police vehicles were written off and replaced after the two-hundred thousand mark. The 240 horsepower V6 however still made the enthusiastic Italian noises, and it’s age couldn’t be read from the looks of the car. it was particularly pretty to the fleet operator of the Police Communale, who bought 2 Alfa 166’s when the previous Peugeot 607’s had to be replaced after an already disastrous two years. This led to an outrage to the very pro-French police department, especially because the operator decided to replace the ‘reliable-but-apparently-faulty’ Peugeots by ‘Italian-Electronics-and-Quality’ Alfa Romeo’s. However, in the past few years, all officers had learned to appreciate the (apparently tremendously reliable) Alfas, and the fleet operator was now faced with the difficult task of choosing an equally successful vehicle: an Alfa Romeo again, sure.
Stepping out of his vehicle, Gaillard quickly glanced around: his car was parked on a designated space for the VCP, and was flanked by a Monteluci Duca 1.8 BMD in police livery, as well as a Citroën C1 that was used by the police officer that was responsible for the neighbourhood directly around the station. Locking his vehicle, he walked inside the office, which was erected under architecture in one of the more ‘trendy’ neighbourhoods of Levallois. It was situated just outside the old town, and was surrounded by expensive semi-detached and individual housing. Walking inside the station, he greeted the officer on duty behind the reception desk, and walked on to his own office, which was next to that of the commissaire. Sitting down in the ergonomically styled chair behind his desk, he was just about to begin typing the report of his last patrol, when his handheld transceiver began beeping. Soon, radio traffic sprawled to life, calling up 12-101, his vehicle.
’12-101, attention, s’il vous plait.’
’12-101, Écoute.’ Gaillard spoke into the walkie-talkie as he held it to his mouth.
’12-101, This is CP. Emergency on A202, exit 4. Car accident, we have reports of one or several aggressive drivers, possible injuries. 12-126 and Autobahnpolizei A18-91 are also en route, Pompiers and Ambulances Levallois have been warned. Your vehicle should have the details at this moment. CP Out.’
‘CP, Bon. 12-101 en route.’ He said, while already walking in the direction of the door, speeding up as he walked towards the door, and in the direction of his car. Meanwhile, he contacted the other police vehicle, which should be close to the scene.
‘126, 101.’ He only used the local callsigns, as there was no need to use the regional codes now.
‘101, 126.’ The police officers quickly answered, with the sounds of a diesel engine and a two-tone siren on the background: They had also received the message and were indeed underway.
‘126, Location?’ Gaillard asked, as he got into his car and also switched on his two-tone sirens and lightbar, before starting the engine and rolling out of the parking lot. The Duca that had been parked next to him was gone: 12-126 was indeed on it’s way. Exit 4 was not too far off the police station, so it was logical their patrol had just started when they were called up.
‘ Rue de Savornin Lohman, J’arrive dans la scène á 3 minutes. 126.’
‘126, ici 101. j’arrive á 5 minutes. 101.’
‘Bon. 126.’
By the time he had finished his radio conversation, he had already rolled out the gate and was en route towards the motorway. The Rue de Savornin Lohman was long and sprawling with activity, but indeed was the most direct route towards the motorway entrance/exit. Gaillard mostly utilised the reserved bus lanes to make sure he would not run into too much traffic, shooting past all kinds of cars and commercial vehicles via the completely empty lane, that had been constructed for the public transport system of the city.
Therefore, it only took him only some four minutes to reach the scene, with it’s sirens blaring and a car that would most likely resemble a Christmas tree, looking at the blue light it produced. As he put his vehicle on the exit, effectively blocking it, he also switched on the amber lights in the lightbar and the arrowstick that had been mounted behind the rear window, before getting out. The 126, a Monteluci Duca, had already arrived on the scene, and another Monteluci Duca, a V8 SFS of the Police Autoroutière was slowing down on the motorway to stop their car next to Gaillard’s Alfa.
On the exit, three cars had probably tried to leave the motorway, driving closely behind eachother. As the first one braked, the other two had collided with it, sparking the rage of the first driver. It had degraded into a fight with one of the other drivers: the third driver was wounded, a result of not wearing his seatbelt.
By the time the first officers arrived, civilians had already managed to separate the two fighting men, while others were busy performing first aid on the wounded driver, obeying a Van Luxemburger law that required civilians to always assist emergency services wherever possible. As the 126 arrived, they immediately restrained the two drivers, while calling up two recovery vehicles to recover the three cars; they judged the first car driveable, meaning it could be towed on two wheels by one of the recovery vehicles.
A minute later, the command was taken over by Gaillard, and the two drivers were transported back to the station by the officers of vehicle 126. Van Luxemburger officers always tried to resolve these situations quickly: this meant that Gaillard was aiming for a complete lockdown of the exit for only half an hour, not more. The ambulance would have to arrive within 15 minutes, which was apparently no problem for the local ambulance: three minutes after Gaillard’s arrival, it’s crew was already busy treating the third driver and took him away to hospital. The cars were swiftly removed from the exit by the civilian towing service that had been called up, and Gaillard and the Autobahnpolizei were assisted by the Levallois fire brigade to clean up the asphalt of the exit. Thirty-five minutes after the call came in, the situation had been resolved and the exit re-opened. This made the emergency services a very respected branch by civilians, and feared by criminals all across the nation. Police officers, firemen and ambulance personnel remained esteemed people in Van Luxemburg, meaning they could count on cooperation and assistance from most citizens. Levallois was, in fact, one of the cities that had the lowest crime rate in the nation, with Commissaire Fourger keeping his police service at the top of the list in terms of best-performing unit.
The only downside was the communication between the various police services, as well as the foreign communications: they were the missing link between the successful cooperation of all Van Luxemburger police forces.