NationStates Jolt Archive

(This thread will be semi-open to character involvement and some involvement of foreign governmental bodies. Basically, a revolution has just started, and people are caught up in it. Examples would be a person from your country visiting Saint Vladimir that's caught up in the situation when it starts, or your government taking note of what's going on. I will continue to post the next phases of the revolution as it goes on. Hope you enjoy.)

---

"The central concept of my political thought is simple. The People are the State, the State is the Army, and the Army is the People. Such is the unity of this political, economic and social system."

~ General Thorpe outlining his own political philosophies to a meeting of senior officers, 2005.

"The revolution did not catch many by surprise who understood what was going on, but the speed of the revolution and the rate at which neutral military units sided with General Thorpe and his loyalists took the government by surprise. Even those in the highest echelons of the former administration did not expect Thorpe to act so boldly at the time. They were sorely mistaken."

~ 'Aggression without Measure: A History of the Armed Republic of Saint Vladimir' by Jonathon Raikovich.

Flash Traffic: Office of the President Only.
From: Commanding Officer, Ministry of Defence Security Forces

'Ten minutes ago at 2300, the Ministry of Defence Communication Headquarters lost all contact with the 1st Infantry Division and the 2nd Armoured Brigade. Runners sent to Alexander Army Base were unable to gain access and reported all entrances secured, with sentry towers under light attack discipline. Be advised that visual observation of Central Command building opposite the Ministry of Defence appears to be in full lockdown, with Central Command Security Guard in evidence within perimeter defence bunkers. Unable to contact General Thorpe at this time. Advise extreme caution and an escalation of Defence Condition.'

~ Last message recieved by the Presidental Palace from the Ministry of Defence, thirty minutes before the siege began.

---

The cold wind whipped around the narrow streets, chilling the darkened stone buildings and grating the wooden beams adorning the framework. Golden, warming light shone out across the snow lying along the cobbled paving, inviting windows into warm rooms and the comforts of family, friends and lovers.

Along the cold streets, a lone figure walked. Gripping his long stormcoat around him with one gloved hand, he lowered his face against the biting wind and the invading sleet that pressed its way under his neckline. Only a few more minutes, he reminded himself. ‘Only a few more minutes.’

Despite the snow falling overhead, the clouds were reasonably scattered, and shafts of brilliant black pierced the mottle grey of the tapestry, a canvas speckled with the harsh brightness of the stars looking down from the heavens, cold and unfeeling in their omnipresence. The figure risked a look up against the chilling cold, matching gaze with the brightest of all, the North Star, before bringing his eyes back to the temporal plane of his own existence, the crooked paving hazardous under a thick layer of malleable snow. He swore under his breath as he nearly lost his footing taking a turn around one corner, before allowing his annoyance to melt into familiarity and relief at the welcoming lights of his destination.

The Old General was sandwiched between a barber’s shop and a haberdashery, its sign creaking in the wind, the stern face of an old military officer staring down in disapproval at passersby. The light from its two windows shone out like welcoming beacons to the lost and the cold, the snow below lit with magical qualities of varying colour from the stained glass in the panes. With a welcome sigh, the figure reached a gloved hand to the door handle, felt the warmth from inside the room, and opened the door to welcoming banter and the raucous laughter of friendship.

The interior of the bar was warm and hazy with smoke, low-swung wooden beams across the centre of the room adorned with pictures of regulars, faded watercolours of countryside scenes and varying pieces of military paraphernalia. In one corner of the bar, a piano chimed quietly to itself as one of the patrons demonstrated their seemingly impressive talent, met with the cheers and claps of those nearby. The hustle of patrons was vibrant, comforting, and as the figure stooped under the low doorway and removed his faded peaked cap, he was met with several exclamations of welcome and recognition from those around.

The bartender was a large man with muscles evident under the white shirt he wore. Sporting a large, brushed up moustache, the bartender could not have been any more ex-military if he had tried. Behind him, adorning the oak-panelled walls and above the rows of rainbow-varied bottles of numerous colour, a picture of the man in younger days, a stern face above a pair of Sergeants stripes and the red star of the Army. He nodded courteously to the figure in the doorway and took a glass down from the shelves. “Cold out tonight, Harcourt,” the bartender shouted across the din of the customers as he took a bottle from underneath the bar and poured an amber shot of liquid into the glass.

Harcourt smiled, working his way to the bar and taking the empty seat in front of the bartender, his left foot fitting easily into the groove between the foot-rail and the floor that had taken years of wear to make comfortable. “Bitter,” he admitted, brushing flecks of snow from the top of his cap, and then brushed a few stray flakes of ice from the short, blonde hair smoothed down on his scalp. Harcourt leaned forward on his elbows and rubbed several day’s worth of stubble through a leather glove before taking the glass he had been proffered. “But much better now,” he said with a grin, tilting the glass in a minor salute before pouring back the shot into his throat.

“Hey, Sarge,” one of the other patrons along the bar called out, a man in a faded camouflage jacket far too thin for the current climate. The man gestured with his pint of beer to the television above the bar that hummed quietly to itself under the noise of the conversation. “Knock up the volume for a moment, will you?”

Sarge nodded, turning to adjust the set. Harcourt leant back on his stool, the warmth of the amber whisky filling his gut comfortably, and concentrated on the television. An attractive blonde woman in a sophisticated business suit was sitting behind a wooden desk with a theatrically serious expression. Behind her, a still shot of the Saint Vladimir Parliament in session was overlaid with the words ‘Parliament Acts on General’

“…the vote by a two-thirds majority to bring proceedings to the attention of the Supreme Court,” the woman was saying. “In a statement earlier today, President Mikhaliovitch said that the accusations against General Thorpe, including allegations of providing arms to anti-government protestors that have killed over twenty-three people this month, would be taken highly seriously by the court and was an important step forward to resolving the current political crisis.”

Sarge snorted, rubbing the glass now in his hands with a cloth. “Damn politicians,” he muttered. “Its their fault we’re in the hole with this economic crisis anyway. I say the Old Man is just saying the truth.”

Harcourt nodded to himself amid a chorus of agreeing voices. The ‘Old Man’, as General Thorpe was affectionately referred to, had a large amount of support amongst the population, particularly in the old military circles. Harcourt licked his lips absently, tasting for the last of the whisky before looking at the bartender. “I’ll have another of these.”

Sarge nodded, reaching for the bottle on the table. As he did, a shudder went through the frame of the bar, rattling the bottle of whisky and causing Sarge to pause amid cries of surprise. He looked up momentarily, glancing at Harcourt. “Traffic at this time?” he said with a frown. The main road was less than two streets away.

Harcourt glanced at his watch. “Eleven-thirty,” he said. Harcourt looked back at Sarge. “Not after curfew.” He looked around at the door, unable to see through the steamed glass. Then another shudder went through the bar, and a vibrating crump shook the doorframe.

“Traffic?” One of the other regulars asked with confusion. The clientele of the bar murmured uncertainly.

Harcourt looked around at the bar, and his eyes met Sarge’s knowingly. “Not traffic,” he said, pulling his coat back onto his shoulders and stepping off the stool. Harcourt strode towards the door, and with one gloved hand pulled the door open purposefully. The chilling wind blew in through the doorframe, flecks of snow catching Harcourt in the eye and forcing him to raise a hand to his face. He squinted up.

The sky was clearer now, the cloud cover almost gone say for a few rebellious areas of the horizon. The sky sparkled crystal clear with bright specks against the velvet darkness, as clear and peaceful as before. Then the ground shook again, and bright shape arced upwards through the skyline, reaching the top of its climb before falling down against the snow-covered buildings. A roar of power met Harcourt’s ears, and a bright light tore into the sky, billowing out in all directions with an incandescence of orange, yellow and white. Harcourt shielded his eyes against the sudden brightness, and he looked back into the bar at the astonished patrons. “Not traffic,” Harcourt said, and then grinned widely. “Artillery.” And with that, he was out of the door.

The snow covered streets were covered with footprints, and as Harcourt pounded along the street, his stormcoat flapping outwards behind him as he ran, people were stepping out into the street to investigate the noises. As he ran, Harcourt saw a few men in camouflage uniforms running in the other direction, assault rifles held tightly in their hands. He ran on, nearly slipped making the turn on the cobbled stones, and stepped out of the street and onto the pavement running along Shakespeare Boulevard.

The four-lane roadway stretched out in either direction, sloping upwards to Harcourt’s right. As he looked in either direction, Harcourt was momentarily blinded by headlights as a pair of trucks roared past, flanked by jeeps on either side. Harcourt could just make out the shapes of people over the rear of the guardrail, the silhouettes of rifle muzzles pointed upwards at the tarpaulin. Then a clanking of gears made Harcourt look left once again, and he stepped back instinctively as three tanks rolled past in an arrow formation, treads crunching up the tarmac and cracking the roadway, One of the soldiers briefly trained him with a machine gun before looking back along the roadway as the tanks rolled on along the road.

Harcourt watched them go, one hand over his forehead to protect from the snow. “What the hell is going on?” he breathed. And yet, to some degree, he already knew.

(OOC: Link to the political philosophy I intend to RP can be found HERE. (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=574794) Hope it helps.)

(OOC: Bump for interest)

In the dark dimly lit room stood were but three men clad in plain clothing but the room was filled with electronic gadgets and surveillance equipment of military quality.

(OOC: Minor tag, want to see how this unfolds.)

“All units, this is Central Command. Merry Christmas.”
~ Last transmission broadcast from the Central Command Headquarters at 22:45 on December 1st, now known to be the pre-arranged code-word for the initiation of the coup by Army elements.

“Allied units, this is Bunker Five. Cease fire, you are blue-on-blue, I repeat, for the love of God, cease fire!”
~ Transmission received by elements of the Thorpe-loyal 1st Armoured Brigade from unsuspecting troops upon beginning their attack on Fort Bukharin, Port Kalkostovich.

---

The first thing Dmitri Mikhailovich was aware of was a dim light in the corner of his eyes, and he rapidly realised someone was shaking him roughly by the shoulder. He raised a hand automatically in defence, muttering to himself incoherently as his body attempted to revert back to its previous state of peaceful sleep.

“…President!” a voice droned into cognition, a deep sense of urgency underlying its tone. “Mr President! Wake up, sir!”

Dimitri’s eyes snapped open, and he started up in bed. The young aide who had been shaking him stepped back, allowing the President to gain his bearings. Dmitri looked up through the darkness of the room and into the panicked eyes of the young man. “What in God’s name-” he began, and then stopped in mid-sentence as a rumble echoed through the room. It was then Dmitri noticed the uniformed officer in the corner of the room. “Colonel Thomas?” the President said in confusion, kicking back the bed covers. “What the hell is going on?”

The President’s military advisor hesitated for a moment, and then stepped forward into the light of the nearby window. The pale glow of the moon lit up his concerned features, a look in his eyes that made Dmitri physically wince. “Sir, we have to get out of here, it’s urgent.”

Dmitri looked between the two men, fear beginning to clench in his stomach. He climbed out of bed and stood looking at the Colonel. “I’m not going anywhere until someone tells me-” he began.

“General Thorpe, sir.” Colonel Thomas interrupted him. The silence in the room was near-absolute, broken only by occasional rumbles outside the window.

Dmitri felt his legs weaken, but forced himself to stay standing. Walking to the dresser table, the President pulled a jacket over his dark grey pyjamas and pushed his feet into his shoes. “How bad is it looking?” he asked with a strained calm.

Colonel Thomas hesitated. “Bad sir,” he finally said. Thomas raised a hand to his forehead and rubbed it in an attempt to relieve his headache. “It looks like the entire 1st Infantry Division and elements of the 2nd Armoured Brigade have mobilised out of Alexander Army Base and are occupying the streets. We already have word of troops occupying several ministries and checkpoints being set up along the main roads into the city.”

Dmitri turned back to the Colonel having kicked on his shoes, and the three men stepped out into the brightly lit corridor. Their footsteps echoed down the hallway as the walls rattled from some cause outside, Dmitri was beginning more to suspect it was artillery. “What about the rest of the country?” he asked as they began descending a flight of stairs.

“Unable to tell as of yet,” Colonel Thomas called over his shoulder. “Communication lines are down with the Ministry of Defence, and the radio rooms here are just meeting static. As of twenty-three hundred tonight, we’ve lost all communication with the Central Command Headquarters, and observers from the Defence Ministry report the place totally locked down. It looks like Thorpe has got a more extensive support network than we originally thought.”

The three of them turned into a corridor, this one much busier. Palace troops were running back and forth, carrying ammunition boxes and setting up sandbags against the windows. Palace staff and civilians were hastily packing documents into boxes and moving them out of the rear of the palace. A sudden crash from outside caused the entire building to shake, and Dmitri caught a flare of bright, explosive light from a window as he passed. “Artillery?” he shouted above the din.

Colonel Thomas led them to an elevator, and pushed the button for the basement. The doors slid closed on the chaotic scene. “We’re unable to get an accurate report on what we still have on our side, sir,” the soldier said levelly. “Until we can break through the radio interference, we’re on our own.”

Dmitri looked at the Colonel, forcing himself to take a deep breath. “So,” he said with an air of finality, “Thorpe wants to start a civil war, does he?”

Colonel Thomas smiled briefly, grimly. “I’d say, Mr President,” he said calmly, “that he already has.”

---

“The heights of popularity and patriotism are still the beaten road to power and tyranny...”
~David Hume

“One day, the world will look back on my time on this world, and they will scorn me. It is the inevitable fate of one who works for the people’s interests, even when the people do not see it themselves.”
~ General Thorpe, writing shortly before his death.

---

Jennifer Manikarovich was rapidly coming to the conclusion that today was a bad day to be Minister of Defence.

The darkened basement level of the Ministry served as a reserve command centre for the Saint Vladimir military. The main centre, the Command, Control and Communications Centre, known colloquially as the C4, was housed several levels below the Central Command Headquarters opposite the Ministry of Defence building. Jennifer got the impression that it was probably quite busy at the moment.

Four large monitors inlaid on the far wall displayed various pieces of information. One showed an overall radar map of the country, with major cities listed for each province. At the moment, very little air traffic was in the skies at the moment; Jennifer was relieved about this. The Air Force was being unusually quiet at the moment, as was the Navy.

The other three screens were currently much busier. One screen showed the Republic’s Order of Battle for the Army, broken down to the Brigade level and with a commanding officer’s name above each. Communications staffers across the room were frantically working to locate each officer’s whereabouts and loyalties. At the moment, only three names were highlighted in red, the largest at the top being listed as the Chairman of the Central Command, General Thorpe. The other two screens displayed similar lists for the Navy and Air Force, although all of which was shaded in grey at this time.

'Thorpe', the Minister thought bitterly. She had fought against his appointment to Chairman for almost an entire year, had constantly highlighted the man’s record for voicing extreme political views, his links to the old royalty and the alarming levels of support he had in the military, but the Parliament had seen much of this as positive and the rest as ignorable. ‘Now look what the bastard’s done,’ she thought bitterly. “You morons,” she said aloud.

“Ma’am?” A young Captain looked at her quizzically from his own computer station.

Jennifer shook her head. “Forget it,” she said, looking back at the screens and studying the information. “Any luck contacting the Palace?” she asked, not taking her eyes from the monitors.

“No ma’am,” a Lieutenant shook his head, pausing in typing on the keyboard. “Much of our communications system is being jammed, so we can surmise that a sizeable section of electronic warfare units have defected.” The officer looked up at the screens. “The question of course is which ones,” he added with a note of frustration in his voice.

The Minister nodded. “What about outside, any chance of moving around?” she asked.

The lieutenant shook his head again. ““There are Thorpe-loyal troops running around all over the place, and it looks like a reasonable section of the city is locked down,” he said dejectedly. “What’s more, with Central Command across the road completely locked down, they’ve got their forward bunkers pointing machine guns directly at us.”

Manikarovich swore quietly to herself. The bastard was likely to be, quite literally, just across the road, and she could not even leave the front door without getting her head blown off by a Central Command Guardsman with something fully automatic. “Anyone else starting to think letting the Central Command have their own building security troops was a bad idea,” she said with deadpan humour as she watched the radar screen. Nobody replied. Then she said, “What about the other branches?”

“Nothing as of yet,” the Captain said from her side; Jennifer had forgotten he was there. “Last communication with Hooker Air Force Base had them locked down and looking to defend themselves, but there’s no word on whether they’re supporting Thorpe, supporting us or going neutral until they know whose going to win. So far, we’ve had no reports of air support helping Thorpe, but most of our communications are down.” The Captain shrugged. “As for the Navy, your guess is as good as mine. We have no idea what’s going on outside of the city right now, for all I know they could be shelling Port Kalkostovich right now or setting for sale for the Caribbean until this all blows over.”

Jennifer sighed in frustration. “We need something,” she said with an exasperated tone, hitting her palm against a computer monitor and causing the picture to flicker briefly. “We need to know what we’ve got to use here. Hell, we need orders!” She looked up at the monitors again, staring directly at Thorpe’s name. “Damn you, Alexi,” she whispered to herself.

---

The camera lens panned wildly around as explosions ripped through the sky, orange plumes of light billowing into the air like gigantic fireworks. Machinegun fire rattled everywhere, deafening in its intensity. The lens briefly dropped, swinging as it showed little more than the snow-covered pavement, and then swung back upwards as its operator crouched behind a stone pillar atop a set of steps, a panoramic view of the four-lane roadway in front of it covered with debris and charred vehicles. A young woman, dirt covering her face and hair tangled, gripped onto a microphone and looked directly into the camera with a panicked expression.

“This is Sonia Winters reporting for CNN, and this is possibly the last time we’ll get a clear signal. Twenty minutes ago there-” She was interrupted as a building exploded across the road, debris flying out across the tarmac and overloading the camera microphone briefly. The reporter shielded herself briefly, risked a glance over her shoulder at the damage and then looked back at the camera as soldiers ran past in the background. “Twenty minutes ago there was an attack on Fort Bukharin, the primary army base for Port Kalkostovich. Early reports indicated a terrorist attack but now it appears a full-scale battle is in progress in the city streets.” Sonia had to raise her voice halfway though the sentence as a trio of battle tanks clanked into view on the road below, pausing to track their turrets ahead as they were flanked by soldiers. One tank opened fire, the deafening roar causing the camera to drop as its operator crouched, and then panned back up at the scene. Sonia crouched lower, bellowing into the microphone. “We’re not sure what’s going on here,” she shouted, “but it appears that elements of the military here are turning on themselves. This is following weeks of tension between the government and the military that-”

Sonia was interrupted again by a high pitched whistling, and one of the tanks exploded suddenly, a grey plume of smoke indicating a rocket trail. “Oh god!” the reporter screamed as she crouched. The camera panned up briefly as a chunk of burning metal flew overhead and out of site behind the building they crouched against. Then the camera returned to the ground, and the reporter was barely controlling tears. “We’ve been having trouble maintaining a link with the outside world, and it seems the transmission links are being jammed. I’m not sure whether we can get out of this, but-”

The words were drowned out by an immense roar of noise. Sonia looked up as a pair of fighter jets blasted over at rooftop level, and looked back at the camera. “It’s unclear which branches of the military are supporting who at this moment,” she shouted again. “So far, the matter seems to be largely a ground combat affair, with Port Kalkostovich Naval Base a mile up the coast from the city unusually quiet right now. Those are the first Air Force jets we’ve seen so far tonight, so we’re-” A rattling of gunfire cut Sonia off, and the camera jerked sideways. “Oh God!” the mike caught Sonia screaming off camera. “Daniel!? Daniel, are you-”

The screen went blank.

-"My will is that of my people, and the army is their shield."
High Lord Thendir Erenthi I

The 45th Intelligence Battalion, as they monitored the dire situation in Saint Vladimir, relayed the information to Air Force Command. If anything had to be done, it was identifying the true enemy.

"Air Force Special Operations WILL be deployed. This is by the order of the High Lord! Understand!?"

"Yes, High Lord!"

0045 Hours, December 2nd
1 Hour and 45 Minutes since the Coup began

“Status report, please.”

General Alexi Thorpe was a tall, imposing figure with eyes that pierced the soul and made the recipient feel uneasy. At six feet three, dressed in full ceremonial uniform with snow-grey stormcoat, he dominated the C4 with an intensity that left a wake around him. He studied the overall displays in front of him with a calm expression, arms folded across his chest with an air of urgent importance. Radar screens depicted air movement, and maps of the country overlaid with military units constantly updated as they reported into the control staff sitting at three banks of computer stations.

Colonel Viktor Andrews, Officer of the Watch, consulted his printed readout and looked up at the screens. “So far, everything’s according to plan, sir,” the Colonel said with a smile. “The 2nd Armoured is reporting resistance from Fort Bukharin in the north, but so far the Navy are keeping with their agreement to stay neutral.”

Thorpe snorted. “The Navy are cowards,” he said contemptuously. “They’re too afraid to get their hands dirty, but they’ll come cowing to who-ever wins this in the end, and they’ll revel in my victory and the benefits it brings them. The Admiralty are spineless in the extreme.”

Colonel Andrews said nothing, studying his papers until such a time that he felt it safe to speak again. “Sir, the Air Force are still largely unresponsive. We’re having a hard time locating Air Marshall Jarrolds, and most of the air units seem to be bunkering down with no orders to act.” The Colonel looked up at the monitors overhead, eyes focusing on Port Kalkostovich. “However, we’re getting reports of units in the air over Fort Bukharin, mostly staying out of combat but with some units engaging on our side.”

Thorpe smiled. “Good man, Issi,” The General muttered to himself. Issovarich Petersarov was a childhood friend of his, and was Commandant for Air Defence in Barents Province. Louder, he said, “We should see more support building as we go. Until then, we stick with the plan.” Thorpe turned back to the computer banks. “How goes the other objectives?”

Andrews glanced at his computer. “So far, we are showing an overall success,” he said with relief. Thorpe did not blame him; failure would most certainly lead to the gallows for them all. “Port Kalkostovich is the most resistance we’ve seen so far. New Moscow is largely under our control, as are Port’s Stanley, Elizabeth and Jewel City. There’s some armed resistance at Port John Lee, but nothing our forces can’t apparently handle.”

Thorpe smiled. So far everything was working. He had nowhere near full control of the military in any of its branches, but key officers in various Division- and Brigade-level formations had been quietly installed over the past two years to precipitate the plan. The General only regretted having to bring forward the timetable after Parliament voted unexpectedly to arrest him, but the gamble seemed to be working. The success of the coup centred on seizing key port cities along the coastline, along with key industrial centres and military stockpiles inland. So far, everything seemed successful, with military units not involved in the coup paralysed by a lack of communication from the upper hierarchy. With the Central Command firmly in his control, Thorpe had all the aces right now. “What about the Palace?” he asked.

It was a moment before Andrews responded. “According to latest reports, elements of the 1st Infantry and the 2nd Armoured are approaching as we speak.”

---

Central Boulevard ran straight up the centre of the city and directly to the Presidential Palace. A snow-capped gothic-styled building in shining white stone, the Palace was an awe-inspiring sight for tourists. Now however, its walls were scorched and damaged from gunfire and nearby artillery strikes. Bodies lay along the main road, charred remains of military jeeps dotted along the road.

The three tanks grinded up the road, concrete cracking under their immense bulk. M40 Patton-model vehicles, they were aged and worn from service since importation from the United States in the eighties. At this moment in time however, they were the most fearsome things the defending Palace Guard had ever seen, drab grey with snow camouflage and appearing slowly out of the hazy smoke of battle.

Private Ivan Peters trained his machinegun on the tank as it approached. Crouching underneath the window at the front of the Palace, Ivan was very aware of how exposed the front of the Palace was. He glanced nervously at his loader, another Private by the name of Jackson, and then back at the tank. “How the hell did we end up here?” he muttered aloud.

“Keep quiet, Private,” a voice hissed from behind him, and Peters glanced briefly over his shoulder to see his platoon commander Lieutenant Donaldson glancing over his shoulder as he made his way down the line. “They may have forward scouts; you want them to paint you for that fifty cal?” The Lieutenant glared at the soldier.

“No sir,” Peters answered quickly, keeping his voice low. Along the line of the front of the Palace, he saw a pair of soldiers loading a rocket launcher and readying to take aim. “Are we going to make it sir?” Peters heard himself ask.

The Lieutenant snorted. “You think I’m going to let myself die with the likes of you, Peters?” he said sarcastically, although the Private noticed an underlying tension in his tone of voice. “Now keep quiet and don’t open fire until I say.”

Peters nodded silently, and looked back down his weapon. The tanks were more visible now, hulking monstrosities with immense weapons pointed, seemingly to Peters, directly at him. He bit his lip anxiously, and forced himself to breathe.

He thought of his wife. Was she still asleep in their apartment, lying nearby the cot of their child? Or had she been awoken by the noise outside? Had the rebel soldiers broken in and attacked her? Fear gripped his stomach at the idea, and he tightened his grip on the trigger with anger surging in his brain. How dare these bastards interfere in his life? What gave them the right to screw everything up?

“Stand-by,” he heard the low voice of the Lieutenant. Thin shapes of scurrying infantry began to appear on either side of the tanks, approaching cautiously. Peters trained his sights on one such shape and ground his teeth in frustration.

An eternity later, the Lieutenant took a deep breath. “Open fire!” he shouted, and Peters depressed the trigger. The machinegun rattled, and the figure in his sights fell, as others nearby darted away. Peters quickly shifted his aim, forcing himself to release the trigger as he re-sighted, and let the weapon hammer away at the machinegun operator on the lead tank. From along the line, a cry of “ease!” and a brief roar accompanied a streak of exhaust across Peter’s eyesight, enveloping one of the flanking Pattons in a flare of fire and smoke as the rocket found its mark. Peters yelled in celebration and anger, accompanied by the whoops of his comrades, and re-sighted at the next tank.

This time, he realised the main gun was pointing in his direction. He briefly saw the muzzle flash before the world disappeared.

(OOC: minor prolouge, not so personal)

Sultenia International Operations Headquarters

In a secure room away from the main offices four high ranking Generals well aware of the situation developing wtihin the The Armed Republic of Saint Vladimir through the newscasts on international television and through "other channels of information" the situation had become quite clear.

Generals Fer, Bjeed and Jüt the mission was quite clear, two weeks ago Sultenian intelligence operatives, nine of them divided into three man teams had infiltrated the republic to gather inforamtion about this virtually unkown nation, thier goverment and their armed forces as Sultenias international protocols thought of small unkown nations as the most dangerous as they could easily be toppeld by radicals and extremists wishing to threaten Sultenia, "one man is enough to cause national sorrow".

They had to be evacuated along with the information they carry.

To the other three Generals one reason for action was none of their concern but to General Torwff Kaarjde the situation was quite more serious. The three teams of spies was not the real problem, the problem was that another group, rather sensitive to Sultenia, were in the republic. If word got out about them, even that their bodies were found with the instructions and documents they carried it would be a real crisis.
The "other group" in question was not an intelligence unit, but a military unit made for secret black-ops missions that had been sent to the republic in question to simply eliminate threats to Sultenias security. The intelligence people would identify the threat, whether it was a terrorist or high ranking goverment figure within the republic, the threat would be dealt with and it would be labeled as a simple murder or accident. The group in question was twelve soldiers.

Fer, Bjeed and Jüt was quite aware that officially they and Torwff were a team made to take care of the situation, but in real life, Torwff was calling the shots. The descision was quite clear as they agreed, use the state of turmoil, go in with three light infantry platoons, a chopper support group and a small naval group to secure an evacuation area and pick up the operatives. Torwff did of course not tell the tree other generals about the black-ops group, this little "evacutaion" would give them more than enough room to slip away as he expected the "evacuation" to draw some heat.

OOC: Hope I can still slip in here, even if it's in a small way. If there are any problems with my post; such as I took too many liberties, let me know and I'll fix it.

With the rumble of artillery, Galina Filotova awoke with a start and rolled to her right where she promptly fell to the floor with a loud thump, barely missing hitting her head on a nearby dresser before she remembered she was no longer in the infantry, nor stationed on the Khurzav border.

Sitting up slowly next to the bed in her hotel room, she cursed under her breath, "Son of a bitch."

A heavier sleeper, Semyon Filotov was unphased by the noice as a result of several years driving armoured personnel carrriers and sleeping within their laagers. Instead he was brought back to the realm of the conscious by the rather sudden and violent removal of the sheets from his side of the bed as his wife took many of them with her on her short trip to the floor of their hotel room.

Groggily he quietly grumbled before propping himself up on his elbows to look over at where his wife should have been, only to see the vague shape of her head in the darkness. A quizical look came upon his face, but before he could say anything, another rumble sent a light tremor through the room.

Both now alert enough to consciously recognize it for what is was, Semyon rolled to his left to flick on a bed side lamp while Galina pulled herself up and made for one of the windows. As the light flicked on and flooded the room with what felt like overly bright light to Semyon's tired eyes, he slid himself out of bed and moved slowly towards his wife.

Galina had already slipped up to the side of the window to carefully peer out past the curtain as he slowly came up behind her, paranoia telling them both to keep clear of the window. Neither of the two were particularly tall, but from their fourth story room, they expected some sort of a view.

Slipping in behind her and peering around her head, he asked quietly, "See anything?"

She shook her head slightly, instinctually whispering in turn, "No, nothing from here, whatever is going on, it can't be that close to us."

For a moment the pair stayed there as if they expected a sudden revelation to appear before the window and explain all before they slowly moved away, suddenly feeling a little exposed in nought but their underwear. Clear of the window, a flurry of activity followed as they tore through their suitcases for some appropriate clothing to wear and pulled them on, opting for some of their warmer options in case they needed to leave the hotel.

While some may have seen the situation coming, these two tourists were at a loss, though given the use of artillery, they could easily guess that some sort of civil war had just begun, as they could fathom no other reason for it's use in the city unless the entire country was being invaded. It was at about this point that the pair realised that they really didn't know what to do, stuck in a foreign country with no information, they quickly came to the conclussion that they needed to rectify that particular problem.

As Galina pulled free her laptop from its case and began booting it up, Semyon picked up the phone then paused, "Who the hell do I call about this?"

They looked at each other for a moment, unsure as to the answer, as there wasn't even so much as a consulate to call, let alone an embassy. After a moment he merely shook his head and spoke just as much to himself as to his wife, "I'll just start with the front desk.

As he tried to raise an employee at the front desk, Galina attempted to connect to the hotel's provided wireless network, hoping that it wasn't down so she could find some information online.

-----

A considerable distance away, within the Kilrany Empire, it was possible that a number of analysts and intelligence officers were noting the activity reported in Saint Vladimir and taking notes for later summary to their superiors, but little interest was initially shown. As a rule the Kilrany rarely involved themselves in the affairs of others outside the Socialist Federative Republics, especially when it involved internal matters, but their interest would soon be peaked when queries throughout goverment agencies confirmed the presence of citizens in Saint Vladimir.

Yusuf Saqr sighed as he eyed the two dead soldiers in the shadowed alley, then quickly checked his silenced Mauser C96 and swiftly replaced the gas cartridge on his WASP combat knife. Neither were standard issue for Ravean Authority agent-a fancy word for spy, some might say-but Yusuf was a man of outlandish taste. He once more at the soldiers he had been forced to kill; he had no knowledge of what side they affiliated themselves with and he didn't care. He just had to get out.

Rushing down the alley, he emerged into a scene of utter chaos. A column of APCs and Humvee rolled down the street, peppering any signs of apparent threats with automatic fire. Artillery was still raining down to the north, and as far as Yusuf knew, the president was already dead. Quickly concealing himself once more, he withdrew a small shortwave radio from his overcoat, attempting to get any broadcast or frequencies. As expected, just static.

Yusuf was a tall, lanky man with dark tan skin, obviously hailing from some sort of desert region; dressed in a long coat and matching fedora, he had been posing as a reporter under the absurd moniker of Muhammad Al-Muhammad Al-Muhammad Bin-Bazir, which he was sure had to have been a joke devised by his superiors. Code-named Nexlon, Yusuf was supposed to research the growing rift between politics and the military in Saint Vladimir, and advise on which side to support, if any. Obviously the overwhelming choice of military surrounded him, but nothing could be sure yet.

Keeping a hand on his pistol and carefully checking for any stray soldier-types in the vivacity, Yusuf waited until the last of the armored vehicles rolled by to dash quickly across the street. A single gunshot rang out far away from him-perhaps a sniper-but in a flash he was again under the cover of buildings, sweeping in and out of alleys. The road was far too dangerous, and it wasn't even a certainty that there was a way out of the city by ground. Hesitating for just a second, Yusuf unholstered his weapon and ran silently in the direction of the airport. Maybe, just maybe, he could fly his way out of his problem.

The carnage, ironically, was both what the AFSOP operators, who had been HALO parachuted outside the city by a B-2 flying at a subsonic speed, were trying to stop and also what allowed them to do this. Captain Rendir Horonan realised, however, that if they were caught up in a firefight they were screwed. In the worst case they could take their heavy weapons out of their satchels and create chaos amidst the enemy, but it was a tried and tested fact that tanks could defeat human beings.

Over the next hour, they kidnapped various Thorpe-loyal troops from the streets, killing them and taking their uniforms. As Rendir donned a captain's uniform, jamming a helmet onto his head, he began to fold up his own one and then picked up the captain's weapon (what is your main battle rifle, Saint Vladimir?). "All right, men. Look... Thorpist-like." The operator behind him, a master sergeant, began to reply but Rendir cut him off, muttering "We might as well try it. Come on, stick to the alleys. And for god's sake, Corporal, put away your AR5! If they see that... Anyways, we have two objectives. Secure the president, and secure our representatives in the area."

In a small cafe near the central boulevard, it was an Anemonian consul and his bodyguard who sat, cowering behind a counter. The consul was a man of words, not action, and all he had was a pistol for self defence. He had done his compulsory military service, sure, but that was about forty years ago.

But his bodyguard. Well, his bodyguard... was an Inquisitor Class 1. He was amongst the best of the best, and as he fastened his sword onto his hip and donned his red cape, he turned to the consul. "Let us depart, sir. We might as well get out while we can. We'll go to the consulate, pick up any survivors, and bust our way out and hijack a plane. I'm sure somebody will be sympathetic. At least, after I pay him... or persuade him in other fashions."

(ooc: would have posted them separate for ic-time reasons but rl-time reasons interfeared)

Sultenia International Operations Headquarters

They sat in the briefing room, they were five. The team of generals in charge of this "situation" Fer, Bjeed, Jüt and Kaarjde, and in front of them sat the most important member of the goverment, Prime Minister Vogel Ravenholdt.

The Prime Minister had been briefed about the situation, a small contigent of diplomats were caught in the crossfire of a military coup d'état when they traversed this small nation to investigate new possible trade possibilities. According to protocol 21:955 §2 military class extraction was necessary, dimplomatic actions were out of the question, nations in this state of turmoil and treason are to be taken as "hostile" until "real leaders" are recognized.

What the puppets Fer, Bjeed and Jüt did not know was that the PM and General Kaarjde were on equal terms what was really going on. "Black" operatives were stranded in a rouge nation and had to be given some room to escape, fortunate, a couple of regular spies could be branded as simple diplomats, picked up by conventional means and draw enough heat for the "sensitive" operatives to slip away.

If everything failed, worst case scenario the blame would be put on the tree puppets, acting alone in illegal black-ops, lying to goverment and military officials they would face a firing squad, Kaarjde would resign out of contempt for the "corruption within", the PM would look bad on international standards and to make up for it the officer corps had to be re-educated on "international costum". That is what is expected but Sultenian officials could not clearly determine how severe the international response would be if they knew about Sultenias black-bag operations.

The generals laid foward the operation sheet to the PM for him to sign.

Operation: Clear Sky

Mission: Secure Sultenian officials stranded within a hostile zone.

Mandate: Clear a safe and neutral zone for evacuation. Use of force according to protocol, hostility is to be met with lethal force.

Contigent size
NSS Aangevalt (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:USS_Saipan_LHA-2_amphibious_assault_ship.jpg) (Amphibious Assault Ship) and her crew
750 soldiers from the 4th Recon Regiment
25 CH-46 transport choppers (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/CH-46_Sea_Knight)
1 JAS 39 Gripen (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/JAS_39_Gripen#Gripen_NG) to be used in extreme circumstances (officially)

Armnament
NSS Aangevalt: 1 anti-ship-missile system (RIM-116)
JAS 39: Mauser BK-27 cannon, 27mm AP-munitions
Soldiers: Group Support 2 (FN MAG) (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/FN_MAG), Battle Rifle 4 (FNC) (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/FN_FNC), Anti Tank Rifle 1 (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Gustav_recoilless_rifle), Glock 19 (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:GLOCK_19.JPG), Frag Genades.
Soldiers also carry Standard Personal Armour mk.II (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Personnel_Armor_System_for_Ground_Troops)

Ravenholdt signed the manifest.

International waters, sea route to The Armed Republic of Saint Vladimir one day after the authorization from the PM

The dusk came rolling in over the still sea, only one visible shape was moving across the ocean. NSS Aangevalt, one of the largest ships in th Sultenian Navy, always ready for any rapid response anywere in the world were The Emirate of Sultenias interests were under threat. NSS Aangevalt is an amphibious assault ship (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:USS_Saipan_LHA-2_amphibious_assault_ship.jpg) based on the Tarawa class it was a investment unlike any other in Sultenias history, now it was time to see if it would pay off.

NSS Aangevalt Lv.2, troop quarters

Inside the ship the soldiers did what they could to keep themselves preoccupied during transit, some were tending to their equipment others were playing cards and exchanging stories. The contigent were professional soldiers, well aware of their situation and thier mission (the official nature).

(OOC: Sorry, been busy RL-wise, but will get the next post up either tonight or tomorrow. Sorry for the delay.)

(OOC: Saint Vladimir, you're incredible at creative writing, for God's sake get off the internet and write a book! Well done, but I am a noob at RPing so I am going to stay out of this one.)

(OOC: Gonna have to agree with Vanerasia on this one. But I am going to slide in if that's ok. If not just say.)

Greg Zambinski, awoke with a start as artillery shattered his deep sleep. He jumped out of bed wild eyed looking around his cheap hotel room. The four bar heater glowing menacingly through the darkness. He immediately went for his Browning High-Power. In his holster on the old chair next to the bed. Standing stark naked, he advanced towards the grubby window with his pistol clutched tightly in his hand. As an OII agent he wasn't supposed to even be here. He was only there to bury his mother. He had emigrated to Whiskeasy seven years ago as part of an OII training initiative. He had vowed never to return to the place of his shattered childhood. Until his mother was run over by a panicked government official. Her funeral was yesterday, Greg was unemotional and solemn. His Aunt had lead the Funeral all he had to do was sit there and nod to age old acquaintances.

The wake was similar the few family getting slowly drunk and passing out Greg let himself out and walked the few miles to his hotel. The snow blessed his black overcoat in a random pattern of winter. Back at the Hotel he went to bed, and now this.

Outside the street was motionless with the occasional shell and burst of small arms fire going off in the distance. The swirling snow starting to clog up the roads, without maintenance pretty soon driving was going to be impossible. Greg pulled on some trousers and rang down to reception. It rang and rang and rang. He hung up and sitting on the bow shaped bed turned on the television. Something must be broadcasting.

(OOC: Sorry for the delay, but here’s the next post. Because Sultenia’s operation will be taking place a day after, I’m going to split the RP into two times so that the other posters can play on from their times as well. Hope you enjoy.)

(Oh, and here’s a Basic Map of Saint Vladimir (http://img213.imagevenue.com/img.php?image=44082_map-saintvladimirjpg_122_207lo.jpg) and a stolen-and-hastily-edited Map for Port John Lee (http://img125.imagevenue.com/img.php?image=44076_portjohnlee-fightingjpg_122_786lo.jpg) for Sultenia’s reference for the landing.)

---

Revolution + 1 Day

If Operation: Clear Sky was looking for chaos at this point, then the task force’s best bet would be landing in the south of the nation. Largely subdued by this point in the fight, the only stronghold of resistance by former government-loyal troops was Port John Lee in the south-west. The home city of the President Mikhailovich, it was proving to be symbolically hard to take control of by Thorpe-loyal troops, and the most intense fighting was concentrated around a stretch of the city’s coastline central to Saint Mark’s Pier. Aside from street-by-street fighting raging around the city, the heaviest battles were taking place around the nearby railway station, and a halting battle for control of High Street between Thorpist troops to the south side of the roadway and government-loyalist on the north of the street. Landing there, Sultenian troops would be able to take advantage of the fighting and distraction in order to secure a beach-head with greater ease, and if the Sultenian operative’s intelligence was any good, Port John Lee would be where they would have headed.

One ace that the Sultenian forces would have at this point was vital; the Navy was still sitting neutral politically, with ships of the Saint Vladimir armed forces still sitting at moor with their guns unloaded. Port John Lee Naval Base was a mile further up the coast from the area, but the lack of activity would come in useful. How long the Navy would remain inactive upon reports of foreign troops attacking Saint Vladimiran soil was another matter, so the window of surprise would be small.

----

24 hours before,
“Revolution Day”

“While some may have seen the situation coming, these two tourists were at a loss, though given the use of artillery, they could easily guess that some sort of civil war had just begun, as they could fathom no other reason for it's use in the city unless the entire country was being invaded. It was at about this point that the pair realised that they really didn't know what to do, stuck in a foreign country with no information, they quickly came to the conclusion that they needed to rectify that particular problem.

As Galina pulled free her laptop from its case and began booting it up, Semyon picked up the phone then paused, "Who the hell do I call about this?"

They looked at each other for a moment, unsure as to the answer, as there wasn't even so much as a consulate to call, let alone an embassy. After a moment he merely shook his head and spoke just as much to himself as to his wife, "I'll just start with the front desk.

As he tried to raise an employee at the front desk, Galina attempted to connect to the hotel's provided wireless network, hoping that it wasn't down so she could find some information online.”

From where he crouched behind the desk, Harry Englevich sorely wished he had not come into work today. A night-shift receptionist at the St. Catherine Hotel in Saint Vladimir City, the young man was not one to have experienced the noise of battle before, and so was doing much worse regarding the entire situation then the two foreigners upstairs. Glancing over the top of the oak-panelled desk, Harry half-expected a platoon of soldiers to come charging through the door at any moment, guns firing in the air, hollering and whooping like a group of cowboys from an old western. Harry did not know what was going on, but it did not seem good.

As he peered out across the reception hall through the glass doors to the street, the only thing he could think about was getting home and checking on his girlfriend fast asleep in his apartment. For a few moments he pondered the situation, weighing his employment against his life. It did not take him very long, and Harry grabbed his coat and made his way to the entrance.

Harry opened one of the doors gingerly, the cold wind from outside encircling him and causing him to shiver. He risked a glance out into the street from behind one of the entrance arch pillars, and breathed a sigh of relief; aside from the noise and dim flashes of light across the sky, nobody seemed to be anywhere near them. Gripping his coat around his neck tightly, Harry slipped through the door and into the street. As the door closed behind him, the telephone on the reception desk began ringing, illuminated in the dim light by the green flashes of the hotel’s internet hub still operating in the corner of the room. At least one of the tourist’s plans would work.

The night air was cold, and the snow on the roads was thickening as time passed. Harry shoved his hands into his pockets tightly and walked as quickly as he could, looking around wildly whenever he dared to make sure the area was clear. He did not get very far before he heard voices shouting, and quickened his pace, heart beating frantically. About two minutes later, he quite literally ran into someone turning a corner at a desperate pace, and fell on his back. He was about to look up and swear at the other man when a series of clicks made him freeze.

Looking up, Harry saw four men in camouflage pointing Kalashnikov 47s at him. One of the soldiers eyed him with a combination of suspicion and distaste, and sneered at the frightened man. “Who are you with?” he asked sharply, finger flexing on the trigger.

Harry blinked, the sight of the barrel making his thoughts jumble. “I – what?” he mumbled incoherently.

The soldier lowered his weapon, and just when Harry thought a reprieve was coming, sent a harsh kick into the receptionist’s gut. The wind left his body with a cry of pain, and Harry rolled onto his side instinctively. He was only dimly aware of the rifle butt that came crashing down onto his temple before the world went dark.

Private Issarovich looked in contempt at the unconscious man on the floor, and spat in his vague direction. “God-damn civilians,” he said acidly, and hoisted his rifle again.

One of the other soldiers looked at him with a scornful distaste. “Little over the top considering we’re not fighting on either side, don’t you think?” he said sarcastically. “I thought we were just going to go smash and grab some stuff.”

Issarovich looked at his companion with irritation. “What, it’s my fault he came charging around the corner at us?” he snapped back at the other man, who bristled with anger.

“Guys!” one of the other soldiers shouted. He was looking down the road at the lights of the hotel, a smile creeping across his face. “Give it a rest, will you?” The soldier hoisted his rifle and cocked the first round. “I think we just found the motherload.”

Issarovich looked down the road as well, and grinned when he saw the building. “Good man,” he said with delight. “Gregor, Marcus, head around to that sub-station we passed and kill the power for the area.”

Gregor, the soldier who had seen the hotel first, looked up in annoyance. “Who put you in charge again?” he said with protest, straightening his posture.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, just do it!” Issarovich said, looking at Gregor with exasperation. There was a moment of tension, and then Gregor and the soldier named Marcus took off down the street. Issarovich looked down the street again, and grinned. “Let’s go shopping, boys,” he declared, and the two set off down the street, boots crunching through the thickening snow.

---

“Keeping a hand on his pistol and carefully checking for any stray soldier-types in the vivacity, Yusuf waited until the last of the armored vehicles rolled by to dash quickly across the street. A single gunshot rang out far away from him-perhaps a sniper-but in a flash he was again under the cover of buildings, sweeping in and out of alleys. The road was far too dangerous, and it wasn't even a certainty that there was a way out of the city by ground. Hesitating for just a second, Yusuf unholstered his weapon and ran silently in the direction of the airport. Maybe, just maybe, he could fly his way out of his problem.”

Saint Vladimir City Airport was on the outskirts of the town, and served as the main hub for air traffic in and out of the country. With three main runways and a sizeable number of private aircraft as well as larger airlines serving the country, flying out would be possible.

What would be harder would be getting into the airport. It had been one of the main objectives of the Thorpist troops, and several platoons had quickly moved on the site to secure the area. Ringing the perimeter with machineguns and patrolling between them on-foot, the perimeter was far from secure, but entry would be difficult. Beyond there, some soldiers were patrolling the inner areas, but it would become easier from there. Immediate destinations for escape were Deutz to the south and Yewit Dynar to the east. If either of those countries were friendly or neutral with Ravea, then this would pose the most likely means of escape.

---

“The carnage, ironically, was both what the AFSOP operators, who had been HALO parachuted outside the city by a B-2 flying at a subsonic speed, were trying to stop and also what allowed them to do this. Captain Rendir Horonan realised, however, that if they were caught up in a firefight they were screwed. In the worst case they could take their heavy weapons out of their satchels and create chaos amidst the enemy, but it was a tried and tested fact that tanks could defeat human beings.

Over the next hour, they kidnapped various Thorpe-loyal troops from the streets, killing them and taking their uniforms. As Rendir donned a captain's uniform, jamming a helmet onto his head, he began to fold up his own one and then picked up the captain's weapon (what is your main battle rifle, Saint Vladimir?). "All right, men. Look... Thorpist-like." The operator behind him, a master sergeant, began to reply but Rendir cut him off, muttering "We might as well try it. Come on, stick to the alleys. And for god's sake, Corporal, put away your AR5! If they see that... Anyways, we have two objectives. Secure the president, and secure our representatives in the area."

In a small cafe near the central boulevard, it was an Anemonian consul and his bodyguard who sat, cowering behind a counter. The consul was a man of words, not action, and all he had was a pistol for self defence. He had done his compulsory military service, sure, but that was about forty years ago.

But his bodyguard. Well, his bodyguard... was an Inquisitor Class 1. He was amongst the best of the best, and as he fastened his sword onto his hip and donned his red cape, he turned to the consul. "Let us depart, sir. We might as well get out while we can. We'll go to the consulate, pick up any survivors, and bust our way out and hijack a plane. I'm sure somebody will be sympathetic. At least, after I pay him... or persuade him in other fashions."”

(OOC: Main rifle is the good ol’ AK-47 at this moment in time.)

IC:

Being stuck on the Central Boulevard of Saint Vladimir City was not a good place to be right now. The fight for the Palace was still raging, although it had mostly moved inside the Palace itself by this point. Outside, soldiers ran back and forth, beginning to check various buildings for hiding snipers, several of which had caused havoc on the Thorpist advance up the Boulevard. The surviving two battle tanks, engines idling and guns traversing the road in either direction, had been joined by a pair of APCs, and a sizeable proportion of lead was available to be fired. Getting out through the front would be suicidal.

The best bet for the two men would be to make their way out through the alleyways behind the café. The nature of Saint Vladimir’s winding streets and cobbled lanes away from the main roadways would provide some cover and short-cuts back to the Consul, and only a few soldiers were running these streets from either side, either searching for each-other or looting amidst the chaos of revolution. If the AFSOP operatives were planning to move in the direction of the consul as well, sticking to the backstreets and alleyways would also be their best bet at success.

---

“Greg Zambinski, awoke with a start as artillery shattered his deep sleep. He jumped out of bed wild eyed looking around his cheap hotel room. The four bar heater glowing menacingly through the darkness. He immediately went for his Browning High-Power. In his holster on the old chair next to the bed. Standing stark naked, he advanced towards the grubby window with his pistol clutched tightly in his hand. As an OII agent he wasn't supposed to even be here. He was only there to bury his mother. He had emigrated to Whiskeasy seven years ago as part of an OII training initiative. He had vowed never to return to the place of his shattered childhood. Until his mother was run over by a panicked government official. Her funeral was yesterday, Greg was unemotional and solemn. His Aunt had lead the Funeral all he had to do was sit there and nod to age old acquaintances.

The wake was similar the few family getting slowly drunk and passing out Greg let himself out and walked the few miles to his hotel. The snow blessed his black overcoat in a random pattern of winter. Back at the Hotel he went to bed, and now this.

Outside the street was motionless with the occasional shell and burst of small arms fire going off in the distance. The swirling snow starting to clog up the roads, without maintenance pretty soon driving was going to be impossible. Greg pulled on some trousers and rang down to reception. It rang and rang and rang. He hung up and sitting on the bow shaped bed turned on the television. Something must be broadcasting.”

Turning on the television would be met with static from the local Saint Vladimiran channels; the broadcasting building for the city had been stormed in the first hour in order to try and keep some control of the flow of information. However, the international transmitters had not been turned off in the confusion, and CNN was replaying the news clip of Sonia Winters on a near-constant basis as political analysts and news reporters debated the little information they had about the situation in the country. The hype would die down quickly, but for the next few hours, Saint Vladimir was directly in the spotlight of the news media. What the Saint Vladimiran ex-patriot did after that was up to him; being a former citizen and therefore more accustomed to his surroundings, local dialects and perhaps a vague knowledge of the surrounding area depending on history and birthplace would assist in any kind of local movement.

Meanwhile the battles raged on. In the next few days, Saint Vladimir would be a very different place.

Greg sat watching the television, most of the channels were down, typically. But CNN was broadcasting. From what he could pick up a coup had been staged by a General in the Army, Alexi Thorpe. His troops were attempting to take control, though some resistance had obviously been met. The artillery fire told him that much. He turned of the TV as the recording started over again. He rose from the bed searching for his shirt. He pulled on the plain gray t-shirt and then searched around for his jumper and black coat. He pulled on all his clothes sticking the pistol in the large pocket of his coat. He put the three spare magazines in the other pocket. He had a small rucksack which he packed his small box of ammunition into. He put in his medical kit and packed a spare change of clothes to rap it all up in. He then picked up his sat-phone. The OII were incredibly prepared when an operative had to go to a foreign and unstable country. Just as he was about to ring the Central Office it started vibrating in his hand. He pulled out the antennae and said.
"Greg."
A familiar voice on the other end of the line said.
"Good, your alive. That's a start. You need to get out of the country now. We are going to get a fishing boat to pick you up. About two miles off-shore of the capital. I will send you the co-ordinates. But first we need you to destroy some intelligence files and .."
He went quiet for a moment contemplating his choice of words.
".. tidy up some loose ends. One Jarek Rascolov, the man was a contact for one of agents on the ground. Killed him, stole the files. Hunt him down, he should be hiding at the St. Catherine Hotel, in the center of town. You do this and we will extract you. You got it?"
Greg was on compassionate leave, but he knew an order. This could not be ignored, especially when it was the Director of the OII on the phone.
"Yes, I will get right on it." He hung up the phone and stuck it in the Rucksack, he made his way to the door gingerly opened it and moved down the corridor towards the stairs. He descended to the lobby, it was empty and dark chairs were knocked over and someone had thrown a brick through the door, letting the wind howl through like a lover scorned. The flashing Vlad's Hotel ** sign illuminating the street outside and half of the lobby. He made his way to the door, the crunching of glass under foot revealing his movements. He pulled up the hood of his coat and put his hands in his pockets. His right firmly clasped around the butt of the pistol. He pushed the door and glanced outside. He needed directions. Or a sign.

(OOC:Any chance of a map for St Vlad city?)

(OOC:Any chance of a map for St Vlad city?)

(OOC: I'll see what I can come up with later today.)

(OOC: Due to the timevariations within the RP ill split mine up as well, the task force will get Revolution day + 1 and my spies who has to escape the terrors will get the day of the revolt itself like you put it up, just to make it clear.)

Revolution Day

Saint Vladimir City

"Come on, come on...." Roov Kne thought to himself as he was rapidly hammering his fingers into the table, there were three of them none of them could sit still, gunfire could still be heard from all over the city and the smell of burning gasoline was now seeping in through the windows.
Kne was the groups electronics specialist, it was ironic since none of the equipment used for this mission was in any way "special". A coding machine connected to a sattellite phone, the link between them and their superiors back in the Emirate, low-tech to say the least but HQ did not expect any form of advanced interception or decoding equipment in this country, "no need for the latest", maybe a flaw, a mistake in tactics but who cared, during a revolt? Who would care to even try to intercept these messages?

The message finally came through, a small beep on the coding machine signalled "incoming message". Kne turned on the phone and listened. A mechanic computervoice explained simply "Evacuation code 22.644", then a "busy" signal started to sound.
As Kne made a small nod to his two co-workers they knew what to do.
The two others had no real special abilities, they were simple intelligence operatives, Krüth Vhe and Hjad For made one note apiece both stated "Run, meet 24.S. D.P, 24H A.M.R", a code saying "Evacuation(Run), (meet)ing place (24) kilometers (S)outh of (D)rop (P)oint, (24H)ours (A)fter (R)eciving (M)essage".
The two operatives left the small room to go to the designated drop boxes, the secure locations were intelligence and information was traded between the three spy-groups operating within the city.
The base of operations for them and had been for some time, a small office area in an abanoned werehouse, windows closed off by corroded sheet metal and the few entrances barricaded with trash, secure from both soldiers, police and snooping civilians it would seem, especially with the red-yellow danger sign "Danger, high levels of asbestos!" covering several doors and outside walls. Of course that was something they themselves had put up there to keep nosey people out.

Information:
Sultenian operatives use another form of organization apart from the "cell" structure used by far too many espionage-groups. The "head group" transfers intelligence back to HQ and two sub-groups gather intelligence and place themat a certain drop point in exchange for new orders or information.

Revolution Day +1 0500 hours morning


NSS Aangevalt, Closing in on The Armed Republic of Saint Vladimirs national waters

NSS Aangevalt and her cargo was about to break every international rule concerning military intervention and Lt. General Erich Komm was about to make sure they all were broken in order and on his command. At least that was his agenda. They were one hour from their designated "launch point", the mission seemed simple enough, go in, secure a stable pick up zone and get those diplomats back to this ship. If all went well the diplomats would signal the contigent by a radio channel to overflying helicopters at 0200 tonight, the helicopters would signal a safe pickup point. For this to work the harbour town called "Port John Lee" had to be secured for pickup operations, they had 21 hours to get the town secure, in 24 hours they would have to leave, with or without the diplomats.

Outside the runways were filled with activity as the first 500 troopers would move into the town by 20 choppers in a massive airborne landing, for safety reasons the Aangevalt would stay out on open waters giving support when needed. Through internetmaps Erich Komm and his tactical advisors had made up a simple tactical plan and make use of the town natural structure to form the most logical "secure zone".
500 troops would land along Beach Street and secure the area on foot building by building. Four key buildings were to be secured and held during the course of the operation, "Royal Hotel" at the beach, Town Hall on High Street, a night club and the cinema on Queen Street and the library on Broad Street. This would form a natural perimiter while the rest of the forces would secure, sweep and wait within the "secure" zone.

(OOC: Next post up tonight)

After about seven rings, Semyon returned the phone to its receiver, barely resisting the urge to slam it down in his frustration, he did however have no problem expressing his frustration verbally, "Dammit, no answer."

Glancing over at his wife, he could see she was having slightly better luck as her laptop readily made a connection with the hotel's wireless network. Her first instinct was to go to the Kilrany News Network's website, but when she found nothing there on Saint Vladimir, she opted to send off a quick e-mail to her brother back home to let him know something was up, but they were thus far ok.

Still somewhat on edge from the distant sounds of combat; especially since they were unarmed, they both nearly jumped at the sudden knock at the door, though fortunately they recognized the voice that called out to them from the other side, "Apologies for the interruption you two, but can I have a word?"

Setting aside her laptop, Galina followed her husband to the door where he quickly unlocked and opened it to the familiar face standing in the hallway, "Alexei, I don't suppose you have any idea what's going on?"

Slightly taller then the pair, Alexei merely shook his head slightly, "Afraid not, so at this point your guess is as good as mine."

Semyon grumbled, "What a time for this to happen, but you knocked for a reason, what can I do?"

An almost sheepish grin came across Alexei's face, "To be honest I was first going to ask if you knew anything, but since we've already covered that, we," here Semyon knew he was referring to himself and his wife, "thought it might be best to talk with everyone and pool our resources as it were for the time being. No idea how long this could last so we should see what we can be ready for, heh."

Grunting slightly in amusement, Semyon nodded his head in understanding, "Good idea, but I'm not sure what all good it will do. I do have a couple little flashlights and Galina here managed to connect to the hotel's wireless with her laptop, so we can let the others who don't have one send off a message home to let the loved ones know we're all ok."

Alexei seemed relieved, "Oh good, I never thought to bring one of those bloody things, so if that's not a problem, I think a couple of us would appreciate that. Oh, and I had a brief word with Dimitry in the hallway a moment ago, he suggested a few of us make for the lobby to check things out, would one of you be willing to come along? I'd rather send at least four."

From just behind Semyon, Galina spoke up, "I'd be willing to go along to take a look."

Nodding his head slightly, Alexei gestured towards their room, "That'd be great, grab those flashlights and meet us out here in the hallway, we'll use it as an impromptu staging area, heh, and we'll go from there."

-----

While several Kilrany citizens were forming in a hotel hallway to discuss the situation not long past midnight in Saint Vladimir, unaware of the approaching danger, a considerable distance away the sun had already risen in Kilrany, and an informal meeting was just beginning in kind. Using a mid-sized conference room somewhere within the Kilrany Imperial Palace, several staff members belonging to the various ranking military representatives took whatever seat was available before one of two standing 5th Division intelligence officers addressed them.

Reasonably tall, the 5th Division IO made for a fairly imposing sight due to the all black clothing and light armour that made up his somewhat ceremonial uniform, "Alright gentlemen, who here can tell me about Saint Vladimir?"

The tone in his voice had indicated he really didn't expect an answer, and thus he was far from surprised when those in the room mostly spoke in hushed tones to each other or glanced about at one another with a look of apologetic ignorance, "Thus we reach problem number one. We know shit all about Saint Vladimir except that recently; as in less then two hours ago, a civil war broke out. Now normally you all know the Emperor prefers to stay out of the internal matters of others outside the SFR, but we've received confirmation that there are twelve of our citizens in the country. Seems six couples were part of a vacation package set up by the Royal Choices travel agency that had them visiting Saint Vladimir for a week before moving on to England. On the plus side they're all at the same hotel, and we know which one it is."

After a momentary pause, the IO continued, "We have some people doing background research on this country, and I want your branches to devote some of their manpower to this as well, but for now, what we need from you are possible recommendations for Emperor Sviatov should we need to retrieve our people; seeing as how we don't have an embassy anywhere near this country to talk things over with them through."

From his right, the soldier saw one of the air force staffers speak up simply, "Isn't this a little premature? I mean do we even know who's fighting who at this point? What if this all blows over by tomorrow and everything is back to normal?"

The IO nodded his head slightly, "Valid point, but how many here think we'd be that lucky?"

From under the cover of his balaclava the IO smiled slightly in amusement as no one raised their hands, "Good to see the pessimism is strong in this room. But back on point, this is merely to give the Emperor options, see where we stand so to speak," he looked then at the staffer who had spoken, "Where 'do' we stand Nikolai?"

Lieutenant Nikolai Chagall shrugged slightly as he glanced at the electronic device he held in his hand, currently displaying a map of Kilrany in relation to Saint Vladimir, "Well as you all should know, we're not exactly tied up in any operations, most of the strategic strike and lift arms are at our disposal, but I don't see them being a feasible option here, it's just too far with no places to land and refuel in between. Sure the strike wing could get out that far, but I don't think anyone would appreciate us sending out the White Swans, and I'd not want to do with without some escort."

Most everyone in the room nodded their heads in understanding, they all knew it was a direct result of Kilrany foreign policy that their country held no overseas holdings or even and military bases in foreign countries.

As he expected, the IO nodded his head before turning to address Nikolai's naval equivalent, "How about with the navy Lidiya?"

Consulting her own electronic device, Lieutenant Commander Lidiya Koltsova replied slowly, "The closest assets we have available of any use are a trio of Sovremenny class Destroyers about three days away, maybe a little less if they really push it. What are the military capabilities of Saint Vladimir?"

"We're not sure yet, but assume comparable for the moment."

The naval officer frowned slightly, "Then I'm not sure what good they'll be. They do have their normal contingents of naval infantry for interdiction purposes and their Kamovs, but I can't see them accomplishing anything useful unless they have the go ahead from one side or the other in this civil war, and if that were the case, then I doubt they're in that much danger. I suppose the big question would be whether or not Emperor Sviatov is willing to go to war over our people stuck there."

Somewhat superfluous to the conversation as the 3rd Division of the Kilrany Imperial Guard was an armoured formation and unable to act in this situation without naval transport, Lieutenant Ilya Meller spoke up with a suggestion, "What if we deployed them nearby, say a respectable distance from their national waters so they're not overtly threatening, but lets them know we expect our citizens back in one piece. Perhaps follow them up with a larger force if it becomes necessary."

The 5th Division intelligence officer nodded slightly and looked back to Lidiya expectantly, taking the hint, she spoke again, "It's feasible, they're not long out to sea, so they'll have the stores to stay out their for a while if necessary, but as for backup, we're again limited in what will be useful. Ninth fleet is still under half strength from the Novajev incident, but Fifth fleet could be underway in two days and take about four to get there if they received the order to sail now. Problem is though they don't have any amphibious assets ... unless of course the Emperor is willing to cancel Grey Legacy and divert Second or Third fleet, then we could have amphibious assets sailing immediately."

The IO shook his head slightly, "I doubt it. Alright, any other thoughts?"

Several long seconds passed before Meller chose to speak up once more, "Without more information, this looks to be the best we have."

"Very well then, we'll have satellite time over Saint Vladimir in about a half hour, we'll see what we can then, as for now we'll run this past the Emperor and see what he says."

-----

Roughly a half hour after the short meeting was wrapped up in Kilrany, Captain Fazil Herzen received a flash message within his cabin aboard the KIN Kirin, giving him and the other two Destroyers under his command new orders. He was to immediately make for the nation of Saint Vladimir and take up station no closer then sixty kilometers from their national waters.

As he read on through the included brief on the situation as it was known thus far, he raised an eyebrow in curiousity at a strange addition, namely one explicitly ordering his ships not to take any hostile action except in self-defense. It struck him as odd that the admiralty felt the need to add that, but at the same time it served to tell him just how seriously they were taking the situation.

Shrugging slightly as he set aside the missive to send word to the helm that they had a new course, he spoke quietly to no one in particular, “Bah, likely going to be long over before we even get close anyway.”

Aside from these three warships three full days away, no other Kilrany naval activity could be noted in regards to Saint Vladimir at the moment.

(OOC: Only got the part for Revolution Day up at the moment. Sultenia, I will get the part for RD+1 up tomorrow - sorry about the delay. Hope you enjoy.)

“We have war when at least one of the parties to a conflict wants something more than it wants peace.”
~ Jeane J. Kirkpatrick

“Organized slaughter, we realize, does not settle a dispute; it merely silences an argument.”
~James Frederick Green

---

Revolution Day
Coup +2 Hours 45 Minutes

The grenade arced through the air, a graceful path taking its spinning form across the corridor before it impacted against the far wall and bounced. Private Davidson saw it clearly, watched its oval form catch the marble work below a framed painting of an angelic sunset, viewed it as if through the eyes of a stranger as it came off the wall and down the corridor towards him. He barely perceived the noise around him, hardly heard the shouts and screams of his comrades and was completely oblivious to the hand of his platoon Sergeant grabbing his shoulder and yanking him backwards. It was as if the world had dropped into slow-motion, a silent movie devoid of form and substance say for the bouncing green object as it hit the ground and skittered a few feet. Then a crack of light, no noise, and Davison was on his back.

It took a few moments for him to focus through the after-image of the explosion and recognise the face of Sergeant Tylerovich shaking him roughly, his mouth wide but with seemingly no sound. Davidson gradually became aware of a constant ringing in his ears, and his head lolled back into darkness before jerking movement brought him back to reality, and he felt arms under either shoulder dragging him along the corridor. Faint shapes at the end of the passageway swam into view, and the muffled sound of gunfire, as if heard through a veil of water, confused the young soldier even more. As his hearing began to return, he was perched against the back of a pillar, and someone slapped him in the face. He blinked a few times.

Sergeant Tylerovich was shouting in his face again, his voice swimming into perception. “…gor! Gregor, get the hell up, soldier!” Tylerovich looked out across Davidson’s right shoulder – he could swear he saw fear in the Sergeant’s eyes – and then looked back at the soldier. “Gregor, wake the hell up and get back on the line!” Gregor Davidson took a moment to realise he was still clutching his rifle. Blinking, he forced himself to shake his head and take stock of his surroundings.

He was still in the corridor they had been defending, except now further back. He was perched up against a marble pillar on one side of the passageway, soldiers from his unit of the Palace Guard spread out across the other side of the wall and behind various statues lining the corridor, firing at full rate back the way he had been dragged. Davidson took a moment to breathe, and then nodded to the Sergeant. Tylerovich nodded back, slapped the stunned soldier on his shoulder, and dived across the corridor to another piece of cover.

Gregor turned around in his position, pressing himself against the pillar, and took a peek around the side. He made out several soldiers at the other end of the corridor, attempting to make their way up the corridor metre by metre by using similar cover to themselves. Gregor saw a trio of bullets chip the marble statue of King Ivan II and narrowly miss one of the attacking soldiers by inches. Then he ducked his head back undercover and checked his rifle.

His Kalashnikov had jammed. Gregor cursed, working the cocking lever to try and clear the breach. It refused to budge. Gregor dropped to his knee, hands sweating underneath his thin leather gloves, pulled the magazine from the loader and slammed it home with his palm. This time, the lever moved smoothly, and the satisfying click of the first bullet chambering behind the barrel was the most relieving sound the young soldier had ever heard. Turning again, he poked the barrel of his rifle around the corner of the pillar and squeezed the trigger.

The Kalashnikov rattled, the hammering of bullets from the barrel adding to the faint sounds of battle rapidly coming back to Gregor’s hearing through the high pitched buzz. He let the weapon fire off a dozen or so rounds, and pulled the weapon back under cover to risk a glance.

One Thorpist was on the ground, two of his comrades attempting to pull him away along the corridor as Sergeant Tylerovich and another soldier had done for him a few moments earlier. Davidson took aim down the barrel, and hesitated.

A trio of bullets ripped into the wounded soldier, closely followed by other rounds hitting the two soldiers attempting to assist him. Gregor glanced around, and Tylerovich lowered his smoking weapon momentarily to move up a few feet to the next area of cover. On his way past Gregor’s pillar, he grabbed the Private by the shoulder and slammed him roughly against the marble. Gregor was momentarily winded by the impact, and then his senses were shocked by a resounding slap across the face.

Sergeant Tylerovich was an inch from his face. “If I catch you hesitating like that again, I’ll shoot you myself,” he bellowed, fury dripping from his voice like acid. Gregor could only think to nod, tasting blood in his mouth from the impact. Then the Sergeant was gone, and the other members of his unit were moving up the corridor after the retreating Thorpists, leaving Gregor momentarily alone amidst spent casings and his own thoughts.

---

“So what’re the options at this point?”

President Mikhailovich’s voice echoed a little in the wide, dimly lit corridor as they walked swiftly down the passageway and deeper underground. Surrounded by bodyguards from the Palace Guard, Colonel Thomas at his left, they were moving along an underground escape passage built to protect the President’s exit in the event of war. In the four years of his Presidency, Dimitri had never imagined he would be using it to escape his own army. Even in the last few months, when economic problems brought the country to its knees and General Thorpe became more outwardly outspoken against government policies, Dimitri never thought things would get this far, never perceived his legacy would be a hasty retreat down a dimly lit concrete passage heading for an underground rail line running towards the coast.

Colonel Thomas was silent for a few moments before responding, his eyes probing the darkness ahead, one hand gripping an un-holstered sidearm. Top secret to most, the escape route was nevertheless known by the Central Command, and the notion that forward units of Thorpist rebels had managed to find their way down first from the other end was not out of the question. Then the Colonel licked his lips delicately, as if judging his words, and spoke. “We run, Mr. President.”

Dimitri snorted in humour despite the situation, nearly tripping on the uneven concrete ground. One bodyguard momentarily caught his arm, and Dimitri snatched it away in irritation. “I’d got that bit, Colonel,” he said with an air of calm sarcasm that even surprised him. “What I want to know is what I do to get my country back.”

Colonel Thomas hesitated again. The exit onto the station was ahead, the lights illuminating the end of the tunnel like a halo. “Sir, the actual abilities to organise retaliation at this moment are pretty much non-existent, our best option-”

“Damnit, Colonel!” Dimitri roared, stopping so quickly he nearly knocked over the bodyguard behind him. All of the anger, all of the fear and desperation, the fatigue and bewilderment since being shook out of bed less than two hours beforehand, all of it was boiling over into an outburst of fury that Dimitri could not control by this point. “I am the President of this country!” he roared, surprising the Colonel. “I was elected by the people, and I do not wish to run away from the god-damn country!”

Colonel Thomas sighed, letting the President take a deep breath. “Sir,” he said quietly. “We have no control over our military forces. Half of them are fighting for the other side, and the other half seems to be split between not knowing what’s going on and not having clear orders to mount a defence” The sound in the corridor echoed with the dull thuds of artillery a mile above them. The Colonel glanced upwards. “General Thorpe has something we don’t at this point; a centralised, disciplined order structure over at the Central Command. We don’t know whether its counterpart at the MoD is functioning, whether it’s in our hands or how far it can operate due to the level of communication jamming that Thorpe has going on. Our only effective plan at this point is to make good an escape and regroup in an area of the country where our communication abilities will be less impaired.”

Dimitri was silent for a moment, irritated at the Colonel’s reaction and irritated at knowing his advisor was right. After a few moments he sighed with exasperation and nodded. The Colonel nodded back, and the group began walking along the corridor towards the underground station.

---

“War is nothing less than a temporary repeal of the principles of virtue. It is a system out of which almost all the virtues are excluded, and in which nearly all the vices are included.”
~ Robert Hall

---

Issarovich and Gregor watched the front of the St. Catherine Hotel from across the road as the two of them crouched behind a pair of parked cars, eyes intent for any sign of movement. There was no-one else on the streets, and the piling snow was beginning to make movement difficult, now nearly a foot thick around their feet. Gregor shivered. The only sounds in the night were the faint sounds of battle further into the centre of the city. So far as they could tell, no-one else with a weapon was within several blocks.

Gregor glanced at Issarovich nervously. “I’m not so sure about this,” he began in a low hushed tone.

“Gregor, shut up!” Issarovich snapped, glancing at him. “You signed up for this, you don’t get to chicken out now.” He checked his rifle was chambered, and after a moment looked at the other soldier. “You want to keep earning chicken feed for the rest of your life?” he said with exasperation. “You want to stay poor? This whole thing is one big sale at the mall,” he spread his arms wide to indicate his surroundings. “We’re in, we’re out, and we’ve got some presents.”

Gregor was silent for a moment, and then nodded. Issarovich grinned, and looked back at the hotel.

Twenty-four years old, thin and lean, Issarovich had spent his life at the bottom of the pile. Career Army, he had joined two years earlier as the government began to lose grip on the economy and all other jobs began to go down the metaphorical toilet. A survivalist, Issarovich had reckoned that the army was probably the most stable place to be, and as a man formerly of illegal tastes with a brief stint of prison in his history, the authority given to him allowed him to develop some of his formerly lucrative gambling activities. It was those activities that had landed him in a serious debt, and partially the reason they were out in the cold at this point. Issarovich cared nothing for politics, but he was a strict capitalist when it came to opportunity.

The lights in the hotel went out. Issarovich grinned; the other two had cut the power. “Okay,” he said, moving to step forward.

“Wait!” Gregor hissed. “Shouldn’t we wait for the others?” He glanced nervously at the hotel.

Issarovich snorted. “Who’s going to be in there?” he scoffed. “I’m not sharing with those morons, now step into line.”

After a moment of hesitation, Gregor followed. The two soldiers made their way through the thickening snow, and stepped up the entrance steps to the building. With a swift kick, Issarovich was in first, rifle waving across the foyer. Seeing nothing but darkness, Issarovich looked at Gregor. “Small items only,” he snapped. “Floor by floor, room by room.” He re-chambered his rifle and grinned. “Let’s go take a look around.”

St Catherine Hotel

Jarek Rascolov was a desperate man, he had killed his boss. The man which paid him large amounts of money for trivial information. All for a briefcase. When Jarek had seen that he thought money. A great big suitcase of money. It was not. It was a grey metallic briefcase and within the briefcase lay paper. Not paper money, not gold sovereigns, but paper with useless bits of information like GT talking out... unstable.... Mike says City is restless. Now what was he supposed to do with that? Not only had he killed him, but someone had seen him. Not just someone but another of the man's contacts. Jarek was in trouble, serious trouble. He had been sat in the hotel not daring to step outside. Living of room service and internet pornography, this was no way to live he felt trapped. He had a flight for tomorrow morning but his chances of escaping looked slim now that a world war had broken out. He could see the tinkle of small arms tracer and explosion of artillery shells from his window. He lay on his bed, his knife held in his hand waiting and thinking. There was nothing he could do but wait it out. Wait it out and maybe sell the briefcase, it looked pretty after all.

(ooc: This is the part with the "black ops", the regular spies and the pickup contigent are seperate because they will interlap with eachother, these are seperate)

Emerald Province 10 kilometers south of Jewel City, Revolution Day

The snowfall was getting heavy, strong wind were sweeping across the landscape but they could not stop, not yet. Moving in white clothing with giant backpacks on their shoulders they moved slowly through the landscape they were ever vigilant, 10 men in a straight line with a three meter gap between them, weapons were ready to be used, wrapped in white cloth pieces so they would not stand out, all equipment they carried was actually Sultenian, but aged out. Not in use any more by the regular armed forces it served a better purpose for these irregulars and would not be so easy to track back to their fatherland itself. They were on their own now, if they were caught, their goverment would deny that they even exist.
They had lost two comrades while getting away from the city, wounded by stray gunfire, dead in the cold.

The team leader ordered a halt on his group, they all went down in a kneeling position in the middle of the snow. The map was useless now, the snowfall blinded out all visible landmarks, they could be walking on a frozen river now for all they knew, they were moving south to the border just hoping they would not run into any patrols, the compass was giving an ok, they were lost but they were moving in the right direction atleast.

(OOC: Post coming later tonight. Until then, bump and a brief history of Saint Vladimir, along with the basic principles of Armed National Republicanism (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=14291925#post14291925) for those wanting more information.)

(OOC: Sorry for the delay, hectic RL at the moment. Going to be on a train for a few hours today though, so get another post written then.)

OCC hopefully I can squeeze in amongst others who enjoy a good storyline

The Royal Ducal Navy (RDN) Destroyer "LEO was returning from a goodwill visit to Britain. The mission to enhance relations between the two nations was a complete success.

Captain John Foy was enjoying this trip, it was to be his last before he took over as senior Lecturer at the Rechburg Naval College, he loved the sea, but he knew it was time to give it up. His family had grown up, it hurt him more than he could ever say, how he had missed so much of his children's growing up. Now they were young adults and his lovely wife Marianne had died two years ago.
That was the worse time in his life, she had died while he was involved in the
hunt for Rammsteinburg's renegade submarine "Red Dawn". He had asked to be relieved to go the hospital but as Rechburg and Rammsteinburg were close to war, Naval Command had refused, so she had passed away with out him being able to tell her how much he loved her.

As he stood on the bridge, the surging of the heavy seas, began to toss the destroyer around, he shivered as if a cold hand had been resting on his shoulder; it brought him back to reality.
Beside him Commander Lawson was yelling into his ear,

"Sir, the starboard turbine is burning out, we have to shut it down"

Captain Foy was puzzled for a moment, so deep had he been in his memories, then the reality of what his chief engineer was telling him hit him.

"Jeff, we cant shut it down in this sea, with one turbine we wont have the power to ride out the storm"

" I know sir, I was just telling you what we must do, but it will burn out with the hour sir"

He looked over to the navigation screen, then the weather radar, it was clear this storm was not going to stop anytime soon.

He turned to the navigating officer,
"Ok we have to put into port somewhere, make for Saint Vladmir, radio Naval Command and tell them we are putting into Saint Vladmir for emergency repairs, then get the Saint Vladmir Government or naval command on the air and ask permission for us to come in. Don'T forget to tell them its an emergency"

As the power suddenly died around him, leaving the only remaining source of light in his hotel room his wife’s laptop, Semyon looked up at the ceiling and released a frustrated sigh. Almost simultaneously through the open door, he heard a chorus of similarly frustrated groans and growls as a half dozen of his countrymen expressed their own displeasure at the latest turn of events.

Preferring a few more syllables to the rest, Anya; Alexei’s wife, cursed slowly under her breath as the icon on the taskbar of Galina’s laptop representing an active wireless connection dropped out just before she could send her e-mail, “God dammit.”

Glancing over towards Anya, who was somewhat more slender then the average Kilrany woman with a less defined muscle tone, Semyon’s frustration quickly turned to concern as he realized that his wife and three others would already be halfway down the stairwell. Paranoia told him something was wrong about this power failure given the distance the fighting seemed to be from them, but at the same time he knew nothing about Saint Vladimir’s public works arrangement, thus for a moment he considered it likely damage caused nearer the combat zones could have had wider effects.

With this in mind, he made his way over towards the window and he pushed aside the curtain slightly to peer out to see how extensive the power failure was, but with the ever-growing storm, he could see nothing through the blanket of white.

-----

For a few seconds Galina slowly peered about through the darkness around her, wondering if perhaps the hotel had either emergency lighting or a backup generator that would automatically activate in a power failure, but not seeing any for the moment, she reached in to pull out a flashlight from her pocket. Behind her on the stairs, one of the other three with her had already reached that point, and flicked it on a moment later.

While not particularly powerful flashlights, they served their purpose and lit up the stairwell, highlighting their position somewhere between the third and second floor. With enough light to see again, they cautiously continued down the stairs.

Being mindful of her footing in the limited light, concern grew in the back of Galina’s mind as she knew not what was happening in the lobby, which was only compounded by the fact that no one had answered the phone only minutes before.

Mindful of her footing in the limited light, concern grew in Galina’s mind over the fact that they knew not what was going on in the lobby, and that no one had answered the phone. While she knew little about managing a hotel, she couldn’t imagine there being only one employee, even on the night shift given the quality she’d found in this one thus far.

Reaching the ground floor, she waited until they were all off the steps before gesturing towards one of the others to kill the flashlight he had before she did with her own. Waiting a few moments in the hope that her natural night vision would pick up a little, she slowly turned the knob on the heavy looking door and cracked it open to peer out.

OCC Saint Vladimir is there anything happening in regard to the coup in Port Kalkostovich.

IC
The storm of the coast of Saint Vladmir had grown in intensity, with gale force 3 winds, snow and sleet limiting visibility. The RDN Destroyer "LEO" was struggling to make way in the face of the storm, the starboard turbine was malfunctioning and therefore the possible loss of power in the storm was a serious possibility.

The Navigator had laid a course for Port Kalkostovich, the nearest harbour to them.
They had been making radio calls to Saint Vladmir informing them that the "LEO" needed to put into harbour for emergency repairs. Sadly there had been no replies, in fact the EW officer was reporting severe jamming on some frequencies.

The only bright spot for captain was that as he closed on the coast of Saint Vladmir, the mainland was starting to shelter them from the worst of the winds.

Captain Foy ordered the Navigator to keep on the heading for Port Kalkostovich, he had said they would be going in regardless of the diplomatic issues.

He called the Warfare officer Commander Len Fouche

"Len I want the ship on full alert when we put in, I am heading for the outer roads and if there is enough shelter there we will see what we can do regarding the turbines from there.
I want the helo on deck and armed parties up as well. I dont like the lack of contact we are experiencing, there has to be something wrong. Especially when combined with the jamming we detected".

The communications entered the bridge, saluting he said

"Captain we have a message from Rechburg Naval headquaters

To :Captain RDB LEO
From : Naval Operations Headquarters
Malmaison
Rechburg

If you require assistance we have the 1st Escort Fleet 3 days steaming distance from you. You are authorised to make whatever arrangements with the Saint Vladimir authorities that will enable to get your ship sea worthy.
We have noted your concerns regarding the situation in Saint Vladimir, you are hereby ordered to ensure the safety of your ship and to defend it if attacked, you are not authorised to initiate aggresive action withou our approval Furthmore you are authorised to determine the situation there.

Chief of Staff naval Operations
Rear Admiral Don Patterson

"Inquisitor, I do not understand! The Armed Forces... they're going mad? Why are they attacking..." The Inquisitor cut him off, muttering "It's called a coup, sir. It is the fear of something like this happening that spawned the Inquisition in our nation, that caused us to invade The Inquisitorius when their left-wing extremists tried to take power by killing the High Lord and here, today, it has happened to this country." There was a long, awkward silence, and eventually the Consul quietly asked "What about rescue? Or am I going to die here?" The Inquisitor looked outside, gazing at the ruined courtyard as he quietly answered "Our nation won't take action until they gauge the international response to it. In other words, Consul..."

"We're on our own in a hostile country. Now, I strongly suggest leaving for the consulate. There may be someone there, and if they're Thorpists... well, we're dead anyways, so..."

The AFSOP operators stood against a wall, motionless as a Thorpist soldier walked slowly down the main hall of what had once been the Anemonian Consulate. The once-shining windows now were shattered, with fragments of glass all over the scratched, cracked marble floor, and the sun shined on the ruins of the consulate, as if illuminating the ruins and death of that fateful day.

But that was war, was it not? And the AFSOP operators knew that although war was painful, and sometimes unexpected, it was their job. It was their job to cause pain, and although they didn't like to admit it, their lives up to now owed a lot to war.

The Captain looked out of a bullet hole in the wall watching the Thorpist carefully. His cautiousness suggested that he was alone. Did the Thorpists underestimate the Anemonians to that extent? Did they doubt the glory of the High Lord and his nation?

He motioned to a corporal, ordering him to capture the soldier. This was war. A little more pain would not be noticed. The corporal edged over the the side of the wall, drew his short sword from under his Vladimirian uniform (courtesy of a quite ignorant and dreamy sentry) and hiding it behind his back, he stepped out. The Thorpist gave a start and turned, aiming his rifle but seeing a 'comrade', he lowered it and gave a sigh of relief. However, he then seemed to realise something and raised his rifle again, cautiously asking "Thorpist or loyalist?"

The corporal smiled and replied "Thorpist, you idiot. The Loyalists are all stuck in holes, right?" The Thorpist relaxed and, swining his rifle over his shoulder, nodded. "Tell me about it. We lost a lot of men trying to storm those bloody buildings, but we'll force those Loyalists out." Sensing a change in tone, the corporal smiled, both as part of his acting but also because in a few seconds, the Thorpist would be on the ground. He slowly walked towards the man, asking "So why did you join this side instead of the Loyalists?"

"I didn't like the President. That's all." Moving the stand beside the Thorpist, the corporal nodded thoughtfully, then turned and stabbed his sword through the soldier's leg and knocked him off his feet with a roundhouse kick. The soldier opened his mouth, about to scream, and his expression showed pure shock and agony. The AFSOP corporal placed his right hand over the Thorpist's mouth, put his left one behind the soldier's back to stop his fall and then gave a cold smile. "Well, apparently our leadership does, so I regret to inform you that the next few hours are going to be akin to something between hell and Tartarus for you."

"Put down the man and put your hands behind your head." Another Thorpist stepped out from a doorway, rifle aimed, and the corporal grimaced. "Damn..." he muttered as he stood. Sure, they could try and take the man down, but the moment armed men appeared the Thorpist would subconsciously pull the trigger. He was a dead man.

The Anemonian Inquisition was not particularly famous for its respect of human rights, and although the Anemonian government genuinely cared for its people, the Inquisition... was part of the package, and if someone decided that he did not like the goverment any more, he wouldn't exist by the next day. This brutality was precisely why Inquisitor First Class Tharei raised his sword and hacked through the Thorpist's elbow and stabbed him in the neck in two quick strikes. Pulling his long, bloodied blade out of the man's neck, he kicked the falling corpse to the ground and turned to the Thorpist on the ground. "Your friends outside weren't all that bright, were they? If a man in a red cape wielding a sword appears, I would suggest shooting on sight but apparently... they were lacking in those areas, and so I took the liberty of educating them. If it weren't for the inconvenient fact that they are strewn across the stairs, bleeding like hell, they would now kill anyone in a red cape on sight, believe me. Especially the second one. I never tried the garrote-sword technique, but that man will definitely not be breathing for a long time." The Thorpist stared in horror at the Inquisitor, who smiled. "Oh, have I not introduced myself?" he asked. "I'm an Inquisitor of the High Lord, you see. That's why your day has now changed from wht the corporal so nicely described as 'something between hell and Tartarus..."

"... to something beyond both of them combined. The hacked off arm is just the beginning." The Inquisitor strode forwards as he spoke, coninuing "By the end of this, you won't have any arms, any legs, a tongue and, if you annoy me sufficiently, a head. You will be less than a worm, bleeding to your inevitable death in silent agony. In fact, I'll be sure to keep you alive just to watch the pain. You will be begging to die as the life seeps out of you, drawing a scream out of you for every drop of blood lost." As the Inquisitor strode forwards, sword drawn, the Thorpist on the ground tried to crawl backwards but the Inquisitor stamped down on one of his legs, shattering it and the Thorpist screamed. "That's why I strongly suggest you talk." muttered the Inquisitor.