NationStates Jolt Archive

Year 1

The United States was entering a new period. Not one of prosperity, but one of humiliation and poverty. The relocation of its citizens alone would cost trillions, not counting the associated costs. And then there were the the reparations. Nine trillion dollars were to be paid to various parties by the end of the next three years.

But there were other expenses, too. Allanea's famous cargo aircraft, the Ouroboros, were being turned over to foreign powers. Five given to Cotland, ten to Praetonia, others burned on the ground by their crews. In a similar emotion, many people in Roanoke and San-Nereiana would torch their homes while leaving, to avoid having them captured by Doomani.

In addition, many Allanean warships would be scuttled. The Roanoke and Cloyster Coast fleets would be scuttled at sea, excluding Kalmar class cruisers, that would be returned to Cotland with their original weapons.

500 B-22s were brought in and given over to the Questarians. Other weapons were either destroyed on the ground or scuttled. A new age was beginning.

Alexander Kazansky himself had pled guilty to a variety of war crimes and was imprisoned – nobody knew how this transpired – upon Liberty-Island, a tiny rock somewhere in the Haleigha sea. Some claimed that Jeremy Front, or some other entity, arranged for the harsh sentence. Others denied the reality of this.

In the meanwhile, several political candidates emerged upon the Allanean scene. Jeremy Front – seen by many as a continuation of Kazansky's policies, and Winston Bowes-Worthington, a man jointly endorsed by the Republican and Libertarian Parties of Allanea.. He called for maturity, for reconciliation, and for peace. What would be the choice of the Allanean people, nobody would tell.

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Official Memo from Kaiser Harlin Delvius III, Supreme Authority over the Divine Reich of Unkerlantum
To: Government of Allanea

While a fall from grace is never a pleasant experience, nor an easy one to handle. It is always a good thing to have loyal friends nearby to help us in our most desperate hour of need.

The Reich prizes loyalty above all else and it is because of this the Reich continues to remain your steadfast ally.

Under my direct authority and effective immediately a loan to the total of seven point four trillion dollars shall be granted to the government of Allanea in order to sustain herself and so as to not bring even greater suffering to her people.

For the duration of the rebuilding process convoys shall transport additional high demand goods from the reich to Allanea for eighty percent lower than their market price to be resold from Allanean markets for greater net returns.

The fall of Kazansky was met with nothing but sheer rage in the Dersconi lands. Of course, nothing could be done, as there was no longer any government in Derscon, but the friendship between the Dersconi and Allanean people remained.

Empty lands within the Greater Prussian Supercontinent were quickly bought up and homesteaded by former Dersconi noble families and current prominent businessmen, which were subsequently donated to the Allanean Glory Foundation.

This constituted a near 6 million uninhabited square miles given "to the Allanean people" for resettlement.

Official Anghele Government Letter

--

The Anghele Government will hand over to Allanea,the sum of $29.000.000.000.000 Universal Standard Dollars over a period of four (4) years,to help in the reconstruction of the once great Allanean nation.

We are also willing to send in building equipment,planes,cars,trucks,whatever your Government may need,just ask and we will ship them to your country.

1.950 Humanitarian aid airplanes comprised of AN-225´s,C-5 Galaxy´s,AN-129,Globemasters are already heading to Allanea with food,water and other supplies.Altogether they are carrying many thousands of tons of aid.Loaded ships with aid are also heading to your nation.

This is not a loan.We do not expect a single cent in return.

Our first transfer will be of, $7.250.000.000.000 Universal Standard Dollars.In the next four years,the same amount will be transfered.

Anghele is also prepared to receive any citizens you may need to find shelter for.Just state the numbers and our humanitarian aid planes will drop-off their aid in Allanea and bring your citizens back with them on onboard.The Government shall give them houses to live,jobs,and also a monthly salary with bonus as compensation and they shall pay no taxes during the stay.They may also apply for Anghele citizenship if they prefer to.

We wish to enquire if you need anykind of peacekeeping force.

And last,we wish you good luck.

Thank you,

Anghele Government Cabinet.

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Anarchist Confederacy International
Confederation of Democratic Enterprises

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From Cecily Lockhelm, to the people of Allanea and her interim government

It is saddening to see that one of the few capitalist nations of the world that offer freedom to their people have been struck with such disaster, while fascism and stalinism seem to grow stronger every day. To be placed in such conundrum is a burden to which we sympathize, for once in our history we were forced to choose between exile or slavery, when my fathers have departed from our Spain to establish the Confederacy, and although I was too young to understand it fully by then, the first days were of hardship and challenges every day for those who put their freedom ahead of stability, territory or security: those who deserve their freedom.

And not only these events relate to the very past history of the Confederacy, but the only thing that makes our civilizations different was a choice taken a long time ago. When Third Spanish States was built, as an example of what pure libertarianism should be, a referendum was made for the people to choose how they should build their economic order, between capitalism, mutualism and communism. Our people have chosen the second, and thus, our ideological differences came beyond the aspects of political freedom. I'd have been more cautious with comparisons, but the closest thing the Confederacy has to a right-wing counterpart are the United States of Allanea, and regardless of our different beliefs on what is economic freedom, I believe it is important for the few truly free nations of the world to stand together.

Furthermore, we did not forget the support that Allanea, and her former president Kazansky, have given to our efforts to defeat the totalitarian People's Republic of Spain, and although we understand fully that the late events could mean that our fighters must part ways, we have found this as the best moment for quid pro quo, and thus, with the sponsorship of many cooperatives, which may not be purely altruistic, I admit, I am hereby reporting that the Confederation of Democratic Enterprises of Third Spanish States wishes to invest thirty trillions of USD in the economy of Allanea, of which forty percent are planned for charity programs, education and healthcare, and the remaining to establish new cooperatives in the Software, Hardware, Biotechnology and Telecommunication sectors, among other high-technology and relatively clean industries. I hope this investment, as libertarianism dictates, is approved, and wish good luck for the people of Allanea to overcome these difficult times.

Attentiously
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Cecily Lockhelm
Head of State, freelance vigilante and military advisor

In Questers the feeling amongst the white population was jubilant. With Allanean strategic bombers transferred to Questers amongst much pomp and circumstance; with Questaria now controlling the canal, a formerly prized Allanean possession, and with Allanea humiliated and defeated, the defeat of the Four Day War had been avenged. Wild parties were held everywhere with servicemen returning from active duty, having been spared a war that could have killed millions and ended in nuclear atrocity. The Allanean terror bombing of London, which had killed ten million, had been avenged. It was with this feeling that Questarians, once they had finished celebrating their relatively bloodless victory, set about wondering what exactly to do with Allanea, which was at the mercy of the Anglospheric powers.

Prime Minister Benjamin Russell addressed the nation on the day following the celebrations of January 23rd, known now as Victory in Haven Day. His speech was as follows:

"Men and women of Questaria,

"I speak to you today to assure and confirm the news that Allanea has signed a conditional peace treaty with the Allied forces. Around the region our allies prepare to take the land ceded to them. We are preparing our occupation of the Axackal Canal Zone, our rightful war trophy. And we are glad that finally, after these years, our defeat in the Four Day War has finally been avenged. With the Communist Terrorists on the verge of defeat, our people look forwards to a new age of peace, prosperity, and liberty. But first, before I address you, I must say a few words to the Allaneans.

"Let the world never forget it was your belligerence and pigheadedness that has resulted in your defeat. But what is past is past now. In Questaria at least, we salute the bravery shown by the Allanean people in accepting the Treaty. Many millions could have died in an ensuing war which was a foregone conclusion by any measure. Yet rather than the path of war you chose the path of peace, and the courage in backing down shown by Allanea will not be forgotten. It is time that we forget history and work towards the future. It is therefore with great hope I propose a 100km deep demilitarised zone between our homeland border.

"To the rest of Haven I say with utter sincerity that I, my Government, and my Nation hope that war in Haven will be also now a part of history. Despite the fact we now have much work to do; in assisting the population of fallout-stricken Prestonia and their beleaguered people, and in securing the radiation zone in the Strait, the future is bright. We make an honest appeal to Heaven that the darkness of war shall be forgotten and all Havenic nations may join together in peace and harmony. I therefore call on the leaders of the World Soviet Party to withdraw their troops from the former Ezaltia and to emulate the bravery of Allanea's leadership in accepting peace.

"And to my own nation, I remind you, that although history may be past, to forget our blunders is one thing - to forget our heroes is another. It is possible now that war is behind us, but we should never forget those who laid down their lives for liberty. They gave their tomorrow for our today. So let's make the best of it; as Questarians, as Allaneans, as Praetonians, as Prestonians, as Havenites, as men.

"God Save the King and God Bless Haven."

OOC: What are the chances of a massive leveraged buyout of Allanean firms? Our investors would probably sweep in like vultures to buy out what's left of the country's devastated economy and rapidly attempt cornering any number of markets related to relocation and divestiture of government assets.

OOC: What are the chances of a massive leveraged buyout of Allanean firms? Our investors would probably sweep in like vultures to buy out what's left of the country's devastated economy and rapidly attempt cornering any number of markets related to relocation and divestiture of government assets.

OOC: Indeed. Dersconi corporations and rich nobles would be doing the same, not only for profit, but to keep Allanea out of the hands of dirty foreigners. ;)

Official Anghele Government Letter
--

The Anghele Government in conjunction with M.A.C Heavy Industries | Defense would like to buyout every Defense corporation existing in Allanea and also buy any and all kinds of defense equipment present in the country (communications equipment,aircraft,veihcles,ships,small arms,missiles,etc).

Thank you,

Anghele Government Cabinet.

OOC: So, 400 million people get relocated. Why is it in NS that each time someone posts an economic crisis of some kind people read into it OMG GREAT DEPRESSION I CAN BUY UP HIS COMPANIES ON PENNIES ON THE DOLLAR?

IC:

Year 2

Liberty-Island

The heavy vault door slide open with a clanging noise. The room was dark, as you would expect a prison cell situated a hundred meters underground to be. However, as the door opened, this cliché disproved itself – as multiple lights kicked alive, flooding the room with cold, bright light akin to that in hospital rooms.

The view that opened was surprisingly unpleasant. There were no chairs – only a small shelf-table made into the wall, and a spartan bed. Sprawled on the bed was a young man – tall, lanky, pale, with his hair long and disheveled. He wore a set of pale blue pants and shirt – unlike the ordinary prison orange of Allanea – and as he moved, the guard could hear the chains clank and tinkle around the Boy-President's belt.

“Ah, Martin, my good friend.” - the boy smiled, faintly. - “I am sorry, I did not hear you come in. The dweomerite is an awful substance, Martin. It weakens me.”

Dweomerite. Just as the President had once been almost a godlike figure with various powers, the mere contact with this substance would restrain these, causing the Founder pain in the process. In short, if you wanted to restrain a demigod, dweomerite was your thing.

Now it was present in the heavy blast door, the bed Kazansky slept on and the walls of his prison chamber. The chain he wore was made completely of the metal.

“Seriously, Martin. I know I asked to be dealt with under the law, but don't you think someone in the chain of command overdid it?”

“Quite likely.” - the guard shrugged guiltily - “You know I have no choice in what I-”

“Please. Once you chose to be a prison guard, you had to follow the rules. That said... did you bring my books?”

“Yes, Sir. Here's Time Enough For Love, and here is Of the Amestrians and Their Lies. Still can't get you a newspaper, though.”

“That's cool. What is out there, though?”

“Well, President Front has secured a loan from Unkerlantum...”

The boy sat up on his bed. “A loan? How big is it?”

“Almost eight trill. It's going to be enough to make the first payments on the reparations.”

“That's cool.” - Kazansky shook his head sadly - “Reparations... unbefuckinglievable.”

“Yeah. Also, a lot of foreigners are coming in with money. Some anarchists - from Spain, I think – donated twelve trillion bucks for charity.”

“Wow... what's the catch?”

“I don't think there's a catch – none that's in the newspapers, at least. They're also investing about sixteen trillion dollars in the economy – pharmaceuticals, mostly, but also some education ventures.”

Kazansky nodded. “What's my board of trustees doing?”

“The people with your money? Oh, they're investing in stuff like crazy. Apparently they outbid a Vetalian company that tried to buy out fifty percent of Hammond Motors. The Vetalians came in, thought they could buy everything up on pennies on the dollar. Didn't happen.”

“Ha! Typical Vetalian.”

“Well, they still ended up buying something like three trillion in some heavy industry stuff. “

“Foreign investment is a good thing. What's Front doing?”

“Well, he secured Confederate grants – something like six trillion over two years – to build up the new colony, build highways, power plants, shit like this. That helps, too. But I don't think that's going to be enough for him.”

“To be re-elected?”

“Yeah. He's running against...”

“Winston Bowes-Worthington. You told me before. I'm still not endorsing anybody. Remember, I'm out.”

Six Months Later, Winston Bowes-Worthington's inauguration speech


“Friends! Freemen! Allaneans!

It is an honor to me to take up this duty – the same as has been undertaken in previous years by men and women far greater than myself. I will not speak long – I am not a great orator. Yet it is paramount that I address the nature of this current crisis.

What is it that we lost two years ago, in the Clando-Prestonian war? We didn't lose Lebensraum – we got as much, if not more, than we lost, in Greater Prussia. We lost our status as a Havenic power. What is a status as a superpower? Can you eat it? Does it make you safer? Or freer? Sure, it's great.

But would you die for superpower status? Even if you would, would you sacrifice your children and the children of others for this status? We refused to die by the billions for this status. That doesn't make us cowardly. That makes us human.

Will Allanea ever achieve its status? I don't know. I know for certain it doesn't depend on me. It depends on you and the Almighty God. As for me, I intend to work for it – to work hard to restore Allanea's economy and its relations with its neighboring states.

I will work as hard as I can to restore to the Allaneans their pride, their future, and their present. That is all.

May God Bless Haven.

May God Continue to Bless Allanea.

Official Allanean Response to the Anghele Government

We will happily accept your aid.

Rohmburg, Brettonia
Kanzlei Castle

Well, Alex, you really did it this time, didn't you... Chancellor Donner frowned, regarding the news brief.

EX-PRESIDENT OF ALLANEA ALEXANDER KAZANSKY FOUND GUILTY OF ALL CHARGES

Donner stroked his chin in contemplation, unsure of how to proceed. Alex was a personal friend of his, and in spite of his eccentricities, had always been a compatriot through thick and thin. The Chancellor had first offered, and then nearly begged, for the Allanean President to seek refuge in his country as the Presto-Clandonian Conflict seemed to go from bad, to worse, to much worse, for the United States - Kazansky had never replied.

Donner stood up from his desk and strode across the office, boots sinking into the plush carpet. A fine mahogany cabinet, filled with bottles of fine spirits, attracted his gloved hands to the handles. One door opened, and Donner peered about, looking for a particular bottle with a wax seal - a gift from Kazansky years earlier, to commemorate the joint victory over the Kraven Corporation. A lifetime ago, it seems... he thought.

Returning to the desk, he poured himself a shot of the fine liquor. Donner had planned to share "a hit" with Kazansky after his arrival in Brettonia. Obviously, that point was moot now.

You damn, dirty, useless, multiculturalist bastard... he thought, downing the alcohol. Why didn't you let me help you? Was your ego that massive? The photo on the front page of the newspaper showed the ex-President with his typical self-confident expression. Now I don't even know where you are, much less how to affect a breakout... did you even want that, Alex? The empty shot glass slid across the table, coming to rest against a picture frame, holding a photograph of Donner and Kazansky during a hunt in Numonica some time ago. You might even be dead, for all I know. Stupid bastard... Some distance down the page, the first few lines of a much smaller article began reading through his mind.

Director Nicolae Carpathia of the Allanean Central Intelligence Agency has been declared officially missing today, after his burned-out AA-Sandstorm SUV has been found on a road in San Nereiana. Found dead in the vehicle was the body of Brigadier-General Alex Murphy, one of the commanders in the former San Nereiana military district...

Carpathia... Donner thought, recalling the signature attached to a fax asking him to go to war with Clandonia when the Conflict remained winnable. The gears in the Chancellor's head began turning again...

In the meanwhile, Carpathia wasn't sneezing. In fact, Carpathia didn't exist. The only man who existed was Colonel Erwin Rosenfeld, Allanean Army, retired, traveling to Bretton on a business visa. Of course, not even the ever-vigilant Brettonians would not that Erwin Rosenfeld had never existed, either. Rather, he was a suit and a set of document, a spare identity carefully nourished and grown by a man who – by now had long vanished from public view.

And a man who looked suspiciously like Nicolae Carpathia, too.

*

President Winston Bowes-Worthington was, in the meanwhile, formulating yet another of a series of executive orders that would serve to downsize government, cut the size of the military, and generally help Allanea cope with the crisis. He had already ordered that the new Allanean colony in Greater Prussia would be termed New Bavaria, and directed most of the donation from Anghele into untargeted tax cuts from the population.

But it seemed that there was just too much pork everywhere, too much expensive toys, too much money being raised and spent by taxation. Even though the foreign donations allowed him – temporarily – to have taxes lower than expenditures by twenty-three trillion dollars – he realized he could not do so next year, for foreign donations would not be so assured.

And as such, serious cuts would be made.

One of them would be the majority of the Department for Research, Evolution, And Development. And that bastard, Reijiro. He had to go, too.

And therefore he had signed EO-00435-WBW.

As the President of the United States of Allanea I hereby order the firing of 90% of DREAD personnel, starting with the director of the agency, and the cessation of all DREAD research pending the approval of the budget of the next fiscal year. The DREAD Headquarters, known as Dome Six, are to be shut down and privatized upon the reception of Congressional approval for said privatization.

Feldtstadt, Brettonia
Office of Military Intelligence, Main Branch

"Oh, my dear Chancellor... whatever is running through your mind these days," Director-General Kenneth R. Spencer said with a bit of bemusement, looking over the fax that had just been delivered to his office.

"New orders, sir?" the black-uniformed liaison inquired.

"Yes," Spencer remarked, removing a glass bottle of morphine from a drawer in his desk. "That's about what I'd describe it. We're doing an oh-three." Some people enjoyed smoking, others turned to alcohol for relaxation; Spencer's vice was progressively more addictive substances. How he maintained the level of professionalism expected from a head of an intelligence service was a mystery.

"Ah... an oh-three, sir," the liaison noted. "What did this poor bastard do, I wonder..."

"Nothing, actually," Spencer chuckled, sliding a background report across the desk. "This man here. I want a full oh-three classification and policy issued in three hours, with "work" begun in twelve or less. Dismissed," he said flatly, beginning to roll up his sleeve.

"Understood, Director-General," the younger officer nodded, saluting and then disappearing from the room, shutting the door behind him after collecting the report.

---

FAX
From: Office of the Chancellor
To: Office of Military Intelligence
Attn: Director-General K. Spencer

Spence,

Put down your crack pipe or whatever it is you're wasting your life on now and get to it - there's a man out there who needs to be found, immediately, and very quiet-like. I've enclosed a background report detailing what we already know. I expect it to be thicker when you're finished.

As an MI veteran, I feel it is safe to say that this "burning car" business has all the markings of a faked disappearance. The director of an intelligence service doesn't just "disappear" like that without motive. Mr. Carpathia is the closest thing we have to figuring out the whereabouts of Kazansky - I know you don't care too terribly much for politics, but this business in the Presto-Clandonian Conflict is a witch hunt by the other Haven potentates and that's all there is to it. We'll be next if they keep knocking over the states that don't fit their mold like dominoes.

To wit, finding Kazansky should become a top priority for us, and we will need this man to accomplish that. Maintain a low profile - no Civil Protection, no posters, all internal stuff. I don't want to let the rest of the world know we're looking for him.

Remember, we need this man to help us, not to beat his secrets out of him. Use tact.

Official Message of the United States Government

As of today, Xenia Reynes, formerly a reporter for Liberty Times, will be appointed as the White House Chief of Staff. This has nothing to do with her being the adopted daughter of Senator Reynes and everything to do with her individual merit and skill.

“Greetings, Mr. President.” - the youthful voice was virtually dripping with derision. With an effort, Kazansky shook himself awake.

Standing in the middle of the room, her hands at her waist, was Xenia Reynes. She was at her usual self –form-fitting jeans shorts of the kind worn in Old America under the name of 'Dixies', a simple pink shirt, and a pair of simple glasses.

“Greetings, Xenia. Have you come here to ask for a really, but really exclusive interview? War Criminal Speaks From His Cell, this type of garbage? Because really, I'd rather you left.”

“Nah. I have a new job now.” - the girl beamed.

“Oh, isn't that adorable. And what is that job that you came all the way out to here to boast to me?” - Kazansky was now truly curious.

“You see, I am the White House Chief of Staff under President President Bowes-Worthington.”

“Ah. Quite nice. But you're sorely mistaken if you think I'll have a problem with another man holding my office. That sort of comes with the territory when you resign.”

The young girl whistled. “Ha! You're more sensible than I thought you'd be.”

“I have always been far more sensible than you could possibly imagine, Missis Reynes. But you came here for a reason. If you're not here to mock me, then why are you here?”

The Chief of Staff shrugged. “You see, President Bowes Worthington is having some trouble with the Senate. He said you know some stuff... where bodies are buried, so to speak.”

“I see. Very well. But what's out there? They're not letting me have any newspapers. How many people have died from the fallout? How's the Pres-”

“Unfortunately, Mr. President, I am not allowed to discuss anything related to your crime. “ - once more, the girl's voice became arrogant - “Perhaps we should stick to other issues?”

“Why should I help you?” - Kazansky became visibly amused. - “You're not willing to help me...”

“Because the country is in a crisis, you childish jerk-off.” - Xenia's voice had the same inflection of utter contempt when she said this. - “We are still screwed by all the relocation expenses and everything else. Some allies have come up with money for us, but we're going to need spending cuts if we're to make the next fiscal year.”

“I see. And let me guess, you have problems putting up a coalition and you need my help.” - Kazansky hopped off the bed, pacing its length, the chain clanking behind him.

“Let me see... how big a cut do you need?”

“We're looking for at least a trillion. The President wants to cut the DREAD budgets, but there's been issues...”

“With Senator Pilkington. Most of the DREAD installations that still remain are in his state and he's going to feel a lot of the hurt from the loss of contracts. Am I right?”

“How did you...” - Xenia recoiled.

“Because I'm Alexander fucking Kazansky. Now. What you need to do is to spread the hurt around. Make sure he isn't the only one. Cut the naval budgets. We can scrap the entire naval base expenditure of Roanoke now. Close down all the divisions from San Nereiana... better yet, turn them into reserve status divisions so the generals keep their jobs. That'll save you about a trillion dollars a year more[/] than you need... and it'll show Pilkington that nobody is out for his soul. He doesn't mind the hurt, he just doesn't want to be the only one hit.”

“What if it doesn't work out?” - spoke Xenia doubtfully.

“In public? Call him a socialist. Talk about how oversized military expenditures are socialism under another name... why are you looking at me like this? You've written this stuff thousands of times in your columns! And it's all true, to boot!”

Xenia stared. - “You... read my columns?”

“Of course, Missis Reynes. They're quite good. I'm forced to say I agree with a lot of the stuff. They're very smart – it's just I didn't think – and don't think so at the time – that our spending as it was then was excessive, or the policy too aggressive.”

“Come on now, sitting here, in this cell-”

“Look, we were a Havenic power! Havenic powers need force projection! Carriers! Battleships!”

“Yeah, whatever. I don't care about your max-sized toys,” - spoke Xenia with disgust. - “Just tell me how to resolve this.”

“Ah yes. One last thing. If Pilkington threatens to hold your bills up even after that, have the President threaten – in private of course – to reveal his role in the disaster with Project X. He will shut up immediately. If [b]that fails, there are several envelopes in my files that will help you utterly destroy him.”

“Thank you.” - the Chief of Staff said, dryly. Minutes later, the heavy blast door slammed shut behind her.

*

Lyran Embassy

Marshal Abdullah Ghassan Al-Ghazi walked into the Lyran Embassy in Port-Allanea, North-Western Haven, and spoke simply. “I am Marshal Al-Ghazi. I wish to defect to the Lyrans. Whom do I talk to about this?”

Bretton

In the meanwhile, the non-existent man rented a small house by the sea and started doing what he was best at. Waiting.

Official Anghele Government Letter

--

The Anghele Government wishes to donate to Allanea,the additional sum of $16.000.000.000.000 Universal Standard Dollars to help in the reconstruction of the once great Allanean nation.

This is not a loan.We do not expect a single cent in return.

Thank you,

Anghele Government Cabinet.

Official Anghele Government Letter

--

The Anghele Government wishes to enquire if you need anything else at all.

Thank you,

Anghele Government Cabinet.

Official Response of the President of the United States

Dear Friends!

We thank you for your wonderful donation. We will use it as follows:

1. 500 billion dollars will serve as compensation to Kriegzimmer Corporation for the loss of their assets in the move, for which they have not yet been fully repaid.

2. 10 trillion dollars will serve to compensate some of those people dispossesed in part or in whole by the loss of the colonies in Haven

3. 5.5 Trillion dollars will serve to cover deficits in our budget as we temporarily cut taxes to try and get the economy back on track.

Thank you for your kind gift. However, we also require as many pre-made homes of the 'mobile home' variety for the people dislocated in the recent crisis. Can you provide them to us?

Sincerely yours,

President Winston Bowes-Worthington

Year 3

“Oh Jesus Christ.” - Kazansky groaned. - “What the fuck, Miss Reynes? Do you enjoy this?”

Xenia Reyenes looked at him with a certain morbid curiosity. He looked different now – even more pale, weakened by the confinement, his cheeks sunken. Still, however, behind his glasses, the former President's glinted with the same fierce fire.

“Enjoy? You're getting ahead of yourself. Your company is detestable to me. That said, we have a problem. Over the last few months, over thirty generals have been assassinated. I'm sure you knew some of them – Brigadier-General Knightley, perhaps?”

Kazansky jerked upright. - “Knightley is dead?”

“Quite. Blown up in his car. Some others, too – Lieutenant-General Forbes had fought some intruders in his home and got shot. He got two of them, but he bled out.”

“Forbes? I don't know him... but you're driving at something.”

“Not really.” - for a second Xenia felt ashamed of herself. She expected – somewhere – for the former President to be upset at this – perhaps to chance upon a name of a former comrade among the rolls of the dead. She shuddered as she realized that yes, indeed, she did hate him that much. - “Perhaps, having read my columns, you know how I feel about that atrocity – the Four-Day War.”

“Oh. So you have come to argue with me this time!” - Kazansky rose - “Come, let us argue. It is better than this boredom I experience here all the time.”

“No. I wish to ask you something.”

“It is politics again? It's not urgent, then. I will answer you... but first, we argue. Tell me, what would have happened had we lost the war, back then? It wouldn't be like now, where they allowed us to evacuate people from the danger zones. Back then... far many more would have died had we let them through. Hundreds of thousands.”

“Are you sure they would have died? After all, the Questarians and Doomani wanted...”

“The Doomani. Now there's the root. The Doomani at the time wanted us all to die. To punish us for our supposed sins. And that's what they would have done. And you know it.”

Xenia recoiled in horror as she looked into the boy's eyes.

“Won't you ever listen! That's what they always do! In Africa! In Kahanistan! Everywhere! That's! What! They! Do! And their allies are just fucking like them! It's forever the same shit with them,” - Kazansky said, pacing the room, the chain clanking behind him.

“And?” - Xenia said. - “Was torching London really helpful for anything? Oh, I understand. You had to wage war. But does it not enter somewhere that thick skull of yours that you killed ten million completely innocent people? Even if you had to defend again aggression, couldn't you have done it without murdering babies?”

Kazansky shrugged, his shoulders suddenly sagging. “Maybe”.

“What?” - Xenia paused in shock.

“I said 'maybe'. What can I say? Maybe. Yes, today, when I sit here, with thousands of hours to rethink it – decades, centuries perhaps – I may come up with a better solution. But we had hours, minutes, and we had half of Haven coming through the Serendis Gap. We fought. Maybe you're right, but....”

“Oh do not give me that crap! You don't believe in this yourself. Nobody actually believes in that split-seconds-to-decide nonsense. And you were working in hours, not seconds.”

“I do believe in that. I was there.” - Kazansky said, calmly.

“What...”

“Let me tell...” - Alexander spoke, his glance fixing her to the spot. He spoke of the long night in the command center, charting the progress of the Questarian armies on the comm screens, the endless, driving worry, men collapsing upon the draftring tables from exhaustion. He spoke of men being killed meters outside the center by CSOW munitions, of the pounding sound of explosions that was te accompaniment to their work. Of their fear – not their fear that they would die, but that they would let the enemy through, and untold destruction would then be unleashed not just in front of them and around them, but behind them, where the cities stood.

“We didn't do it from bloodlust... oh sure, there was bloodlust. There's always bloodlust when you do these things... but that wasn't why. We did it because... then, at the time, we thought it'd work. It did work, even. The war was over.”

Xenia shuddered again. Maybe it was the cold of the dungeon. “Whatever. Now, to business.”

Official Response of the President of the United States

Dear Friends!

We thank you for your wonderful donation. We will use it as follows:

1. 500 billion dollars will serve as compensation to Kriegzimmer Corporation for the loss of their assets in the move, for which they have not yet been fully repaid.

2. 10 trillion dollars will serve to compensate some of those people dispossesed in part or in whole by the loss of the colonies in Haven

3. 5.5 Trillion dollars will serve to cover deficits in our budget as we temporarily cut taxes to try and get the economy back on track.

Thank you for your kind gift. However, we also require as many pre-made homes of the 'mobile home' variety for the people dislocated in the recent crisis. Can you provide them to us?

Sincerely yours,

President Winston Bowes-Worthington

Official Anghele Government Letter

--

The Anghele Government will establish during the period of five years,ninety five million homes of the following model;

Chico Model (http://www.azchampion.com/Chico_Gal.asp)

And an additional forty five million homes,for distinguished personalities in your nation,models;

Trimont (http://www.azchampion.com/Trimont_Gal.asp)

Royal Manor (http://www.azchampion.com/Royalmanor_Gal.asp)

Sedona (http://www.azchampion.com/sedonaescape_gal.asp)

Soccoro (http://www.azchampion.com/Soccoro_Gal.asp)

Woodland
(http://www.azchampion.com/Woodland_Gal.asp)

Each home will come with a car.The regular homes will receive a Renault Megane,Laguna or Scénic (colors vary) and the distinguished homes will receive,BMW 5-Series,6-Series or 7-Series (colors vary).All models will be full extras and equipped with turbodiesel engines.

If you require additional homes,even if from other models please check the catalog;

http://www.azchampion.com/housePhotos.asp

Also,we are wiring an additional $4.950.000.000.000 Universal Standard Dollars,to avoid your steep budget cuts.

Thank you,

Anghele Government Cabinet.

Coastal region somewhere outside Valis, Brettonia

"What in the name of fuck is he doing all the way out here, anyway?"

"Enjoying the scenery, what else? He's laying low, moron."

"This is hardly what I'd call 'laying low'... why not just get an apartment in the city? It'd be a lot less suspicious than this."

"Yep, and what with all the closed-circuit surveillance equipment, it'd probably have only taken us a week to find a match based on the facial recognition across a range of visa holders. This is Intelligence, buddy - start using it."

"Still seems dumb to me..."

"You have much to learn, that I assure you. Anyway, look smart. We're trying to bring this guy in willingly and in one piece."

"...and what if that doesn't work?"

"It will."

"...but what if it doesn't?"

"Then that's what the armored personnel carrier is for. Or did you think those guys were following us so we could sing Kumbaya at a campfire?" Major August Belmont frowned sarcastically, applying the Mercedes' brakes and bringing the sleek black sedan to a halt.

"I suppose not... Army bucketheads," Lieutenant Keith Stephenson muttered, checking his hat in the mirror. The snow was coming down in copious amounts; both officers had fully buttoned their long leather coats and folded up their collars, offering the most protection from the biting air as possible. Belmont popped the door and stepped out first, immediately frowning at the frigid conditions. The lieutenant, his junior by at least fifteen years, followed shortly. A lonely cottage sprouted from the top of a shallow hill, sticking out rather prominently. Decades ago, when the weather was warmer overall, this had been a popular destination for summer vacationing; now, it was essentially desolate - the dotted summer homes were by and large deserted. A few had been vandalized by soldiers from nearby coastal defenses, who used them to conduct various illicit activities during their furloughs from the camouflaged concrete bunker complexes and blockhouses. This one appeared to be in relatively good condition, though - perhaps the property owner was able to rent it out to naturalists or other people seeking the "wonderment" of nature.

"...son of a bitch, who builds something like this all the way out here..." Stephenson growled between chattering teeth.

"The weather wasn't always this bad," Belmont muttered, making a quick pace up the barely-visible path to the cottage. "Just keep moving, we'll be there in a minute or so."

"Yeah, sure..." the junior officer grumbled, cursing again. The pair arrived at the door on the small porch shortly thereafter. Belmont looked over his shoulder, verifying that the eight-wheeled APC had secured its position behind a wind-beaten grove of evergreens. The forest-green nose of the vehicle poked out from one side, barely visible unless you knew what to look for.

"Oh good," the Major said, turning to rap his leather-clad knuckles against the door. "This should be fairly smooth..."

DREAD Dome Six

As the Department for Research, Evolution And Development has been shut down, one facility, despite clear government orders, refused to close its doors. The government responded simply: with violence.

Matthew Clark, a guard at the Dome Six facility, was standing in the parking lot on top of the massive, multilayer bunker, when he heard footsteps behind him. He spun around, only to see six men, wearing black uniforms and carrying PR-91 assault rifles, burst into the facility. His own rifle sprung rapidly to his shoulder – but it was simply too late. He saw the front sight of his rifle come into focus and the face of one of the men fade away, and pulled the trigger. Seconds later, he was thrown on his back with the force of several dozen rounds – but he wasn't dying alone. He got two.

Now, there would be no mercy given on either side. The Army troops poured into every corridor of the enormous facility, prepared to fight for every turn and every crevice. The resistance they met was minimal – at least at first.

And then, the nightmare began.

First, he bulkhead on both ends of a narrow corridor slammed suddenly shut, isolating an entire platoon in a section that began to rapidly fill up with sarin. In other places, there were explosives, UGAVs, elevators that plunged suddenly underground. In yet others, more elaborate traps – molten plastic pouring from the ceiling, poison spikes emerging from the floor – appeared. DREAD has been rumored to be a true mad scientist's lair. Now the rumors were proven true.

There were combatants, yes – several dozen of them, armed with rifles and submachineguns, protecting key intersections in the underground labyrinth. Yet most of the DREAD operatives were not here, and most of the killing was not done directly by humans.

General Featherstone observed with glee as his troops swept floor after floor for the initiator – Reijiro Techno - and his wife. Reijiro was not found – but the General expected that he died himself in one of th explosions that had claimed the lives of several hundred of his men.

The radio sprung alive. “Sir, we found their sample room. There's several prototypes for bipedal war machines of some form. Should we encase them in bakelite to prevent activation?”

“Not interested. Attach explosives to them and blow them the fuck up. We still haven't found Reijiro. We need to find him, or at least his bones. I want to know why he pulled this shit.”

*

The door of the cottage opened.

“Greetings, officers,” - spoke the retired Allanean Colonel. - “How an I assist you?”

Coastal region somewhere outside Valis, Brettonia

"Mr. Carpathia, I presume," Belmont said flatly. "You're quite a hard man to find - we've been looking for you for almost a month." Stephenson checked his wristwatch, innocuously depressing a small button that reported back to the commander of the APC that all was well. "The Chancellor would like a few words with you, regarding the former President of your country. We have a car waiting..."

"Very well," - shrugs Carpathia. - "I will not deny I expected this. But wait. I need to take some documents with me."

"Wait." - paused Carpathia - "I need to take some documents with me."

Minutes later, carrying a pair of heavy cardboard folders, Carpathia entered Belmont's car.

Not deny he expected this? What the... Belmont thought as he lead the ex-Director back to the sedan. He thought to raise further inquiries, but decided against it - conversation would be better left until they were back inside the vehicle with the heaters running at maximum capacity.

Who does this asshole think he is, anyway? Stephenson was thinking simultaneously. His already sour opinion of things furthered when Belmont motioned for him to open the rear passenger door for Carpathia, and after the ex-Director stepped in along with his parcels, the senior officer wordlessly stepped in as well, leaving him to drive. Oh, you dirty bastard... Stephenson fumed, having been essentially demoted to the rank of chauffeur. The Mercedes was on its way soon enough.

"That was quite a feat you pulled, Mr. Carpathia," Belmont remarked once they were back on the unpaved road again. "We've kept non-diplomatic visas to a very low minimum, for good reasons. The fact that you were able to get one, let alone evade detection with a full Code 03 search underway, is nothing short of a miracle," Belmont noted, withdrawing a polished brass case from an inside pocket of his coat and perching a long, filtered cigarette on his lips. He offered Carpathia the case as he went for his lighter. "Then again... you are a "superspy", or so we've been told... maybe you're in the business of making miracles, no?"

“Any good miracle is a result of good research and preparation, my dear friend. That is the secret. I study, and I prepare.”

This guy's sharp, as expected from an Allanean "superspy"... Belmont thought, striking the flame on his lighter. Did he predict that the Chancellor would be looking for him?

"Yes... preparation really is the key to success in our... "line of work", isn't it," he stated, exhaling a puff of aromatic smoke. The gold leaf band around the filter suggested a high quality smokable. Stephenson quirked an eyebrow briefly as he saw the APC roll over a snowbank on the side of the road and quickly join up about eight car lengths' behind them through the rear-view mirror.

Hm, I wonder if Mr. Hot Stuff caught that too, he thought, still somewhat irritated at his position.

"Well, I wish I could offer more conversation," Belmont remarked, drawing on the cigarette again. "However, it's my understanding that the matters the Chancellor wishes to discuss with you are of a... "state secrets" nature," he said, blowing another lungfull of smoke. "At any rate, we have a private aircraft waiting at Valis, which is where we are headed presently. That will fly you directly to Rohmburg, where the Chancellor is waiting. After that... well, I really can't say. I suppose it's up to you, Mr. Carpathia."

Lyras had 'embassies' all over the world. They fell under the authority of Diplomatic Command, and Field Marshal George Wallins in particular. Wallins was often the man selected to travel to the various conferences and meetings that diplomacy entailed. Not because of disdain for the diplomatic procedures and process on the part of Warmarshal Krell (who had an oft-declared position of utmost respect for diplomacy as a concept and art), but simply because of the eighty-six year old Warmarshal's slightly fragile health. Officially. Unofficially, Warmarshal Leon Krell may have been brilliant, but he was either overly familiar or overly stand-offish, hot tempered, cantankerous and conversationally about as subtle as a Doomani soldier in a china shop. Part of Krell's being brilliant was recognising his own failings, and Krell had done that. His health, though truly not quite as robust as it used to be, and advancing age made for an excellent scape goat for the Warmarshal's non-attendance at functions to which heads of state were invited.
Due to this, the role fell, usually, to the good Field Marshal Wallins. He ran Diplomatic Command well, and ensured that the personnel attached to it broke the Lyran norms, by being unfailingly courteous, charming and charismatic, helpful to visitors (read: gawkers) to their embassies, and well-schooled in the latest developments put on the market by the Lyran Governmental Trade Department. Most people who had genuine business to conduct within a Lyran embassy were those seeking to purchase from the Governmental Trade Department, to the extent that many 'embassies' were more extensions of Lyran Arms than they were organs of direct Lyran foreign policy. As a consequence, Diplomatic Command personnel were well trained in how to make such a transaction as appealing as possible. Some took that – encouragement – a little too far, and more than one Lyran, bored with an otherwise routine posting, had been censured for offering their own – personal services – as an incentive to the conduct of business. While the practice was, admittedly, helpful in ensuring continued sales (to say nothing of often granting a disproportionate number of Diplomatic Command, notoriously fertile that Lyrans are, maternity leave), Wallins viewed the practice as dishonourable. There were some that disagreed (notably Colonel Natasha Krell, the Warmarshal's firebrand of a daughter, the youngest and only survivor of the Warmarshal's four children) with the position Wallins advanced, but it was his call to make, as Diplomatic Command was his unit, and no one else's.

Complaints from below were few. Most available postings within Diplomatic Command had far more luxuries available to the average person (cash notwithstanding) than were able to be acquired in Lyras, and any given Lyran had a very generous stipend made available to them, in lieu of credits, while overseas. Diplomatic Command was, often anyway, seen as one of the easier postings, and often attracted ambitious, talented (but not physically) individuals, who sought to advance Lyran interests while sampling some of the cultures that Lyras held itself aloof from on the grounds of their perceived endemic hedonism.

Most of the work was fairly routine, and handled by characteristic aplomb. Sometimes a curly question or situation would arise, and one of the three persons in the front office would disappear deeper into the embassy, in search of someone better able to resolve whatever issue had manifested. Within some states, Lyrans were mistrusted for their extremely unusual national culture and society, and more than one protester had enjoyed Lyran hospitality while awaiting the arrival of local police. Some of those protesters (there were always a few every year, but rarely more than one or two in any given embassy) would leave, genuinely surprised at the level of hospitality, and with many of their ideas about what Lyras is very much challenged. Only very occasionally did protesters offer any serious resistance, and if there was, embassies kept a detachment of personnel (generally of infantry bloodlines) on-hand to deal with more significant threats.

At Port-Allanea, however, something altogether new had just happened. Defections were less unheard-of after coups, revolutions and significant war losses. But never had Lyras had someone as senior as Marshal Abdullah Ghassan Al-Ghazi present themselves as a defector.

So, naturally, the first thing that Captain Thomas Powell (the unlucky fellow who'd had the extremely senior defector come over during his shift as orderly-officer) did was panic. Having completed that vitally important task within a few seconds, the next thing he did was order one of his two sergeant assistants to get the detachment commander, Major-General Tabitha Collins, and to do so promptly. The third thing Captain Powell did was to stand up, walk around the desk, and offer the Marshal his hand.

“Sir, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. If you would come this way, I will introduce you to the Ambassador, Major-General Collins. Would you like a tea or coffee, in the meantime, sir?”

a

OOC: Sorry, Lyras and Bretton , there's very little I can actually do or say in answer to your posts, so instead of this, I will write a post of my own and keep the answers to you short.
IC:

In Bretton:

“Oh, if you're taking me to the Chancellor, I have only to show him these documents. He will understand immediately.”

In the Lyran embassy

“A tea would be wonderful, thank you.”

Year Three

In the White House

The President sighed sadly. It was the fourth year of his job, and he frankly liked it less and less with every day. Bizarre disappearances. Assassinations – thirty-two generals which served in the Four-Day War, and ten others. Men quitting and disappearing at random – Reijiro Techno, Shinji Watanabe, Abdullah-Ghassan Al-Ghazi, Priscilla Conde. Nicolae Carpathia – missing, presumed dead.

And there were more disturbing things. The Presidential Assault Battalion was almost completely bereft of veterans after the old commander, Willhelm Stossel, had quit and returned to his family's tea business. Protests against his government were growing – though his approval rating was still in positive numbers, those who hated him, hated him more than ever. Even now, in fact, a group of protesters was assembled in front of the Federal Building in Port-Allanea, demanding a pardon for President Kazansky. A similar group – nearly 50,000 strong – was assembled in front of the very White House itself.

Regardless, he believed that he had it all under control. In the Allanean homeland in North-West Haven, the Allanean military contingent was being rebuilt almost from scratch, even though Allanean losses in the Two-Day War were minimal.

Even now, a force of five thousand F/A-16 Priest fighters was being unrolled on the runways that once used to house B-22 strategic bombers. Of the once-mighty force of bombers, two hundred B-22s remained on their runways, with their internal bomb bays ripped out and replaced with jamming and anti-radar equipment of all sorts. They were the B-22J Project – one of the few positive developments to come out of DREAD before its timely demise.

Along the Southern Allanean border, a defensive grid stretched out to the very borders of the Scandavian States. Though there were gaps in the grid for highways and rail, it remained otherwise a potent force multiplied for the remaining Allanean forces. Upon completion – which would still take years in some areas – there would be minefield ten furlongs wide, followed by an anti-tank ditch and series of infantry bunkers. Behind that – fourteen-inch cannon and artillery emplacements, defended with more minefields. Hundreds of Praetorian IV launchers were stretched out along th border, providing around-the-clock coverage, and several giant RADAR installations were under construction. On Atlantic Island itself, defenses were installed against naval and air assaults – within a few years, Winston hoped, they would be complete.

Liberty Island

“...this was the beauty. Today, we look back at Blavatskaya and her brand of crap and only laugh, but really, it was a very smart scam. If you look at her writings, it is really amazing that a person without any kind of formal education could have had this much of a deep knowledge of all the stuff she quotes - Swedenborgian religious teachings, Egyptian myth, Indian sacred texts – remember that these were just freshly translated then.... now, all her writings were not really scientific of course – remember it was all a giant scam... but regardless, she had to be one hell of an intelligent fraud to put it all together. So in some ways, it remains influential to this day.”

“What?” - Xenia paused.

“Ever read Lovecraft? A lot of concepts in his fiction are direct ripoffs from theosophy. The entire concept of races preceding humanity. Same with Howard – the Conan universe is jam-packed with concepts from theosophical books. And its the same with a lot of mid-Twentieth Century fantasy fiction – it rips off from Blavatskaya, even though the writers don't really believe it. And then there are the various cults that still rip off her crap. The Great White Brotherhood? They even took the name the theosophical myths.”

“Wow.” -the girl looked at the prostrate body before her, the same as had once been the President of the United States. - “So that's what dweomerite does... strange, even being in this room makes me queasy...”

“What?!” - Kazansky gasped, his long lecture interrupted suddenly - “Dweomerite affects you? That can't be! You're...”

“No, I am not human. As an actual fact, it's quite possible we may belong to the same... element, perhaps.”

“This is the strangest shit I've heard since my resignation. Aren't you Antalia's daughter...”

“Adopted daughter, to be quite pedantic.”

“Oh, I see. So where do you come from, really?”

“A very good question. I was originally a foundling. I grew up in a -”

“In a? Where did you grow up?”

“Why am I even telling you this? I didn't come here to talk about my life or about theosophical temples, I came here to talk about the new fiscal year!”

“Yes, and I believe I already gave you all the advice you wanted. And then we sort of changed topics...”

“Oh, you're unbelievable!” - Xenia shouted as she turned to leave.

Year 5

By now, the Presidency of Mr. Winston Bowes-Worthington could well be seen as successful in the economic field. The Liberty-City Stock Exchange had breached the level of 100,000 points for the first time since the Treaty of Jesselton was signed, and the United States was entering the field of military reform, purchasing new warships, planes, and other equipment necessary to restore its military prowess. Still, Allanea had still been bound by the Seagull Treaty, making its position precarious at best.

And as such, the approval rating of President Bowes-Worthington continued to dip, though it remained positive for now. More and more with every day, he needed Xenia Reynes' advice - and she well knew what that meant.

More and more frequent became her helicopter trips, more and more frequently did the blast door in the deep recesses of Liberty-Island swing open.

The Boy-President remained as he was – sickly, melancholic, pale, as if the chain around his waist was drawing every last drop of life from him, and yet failing at killing him completely. For more and more visits, he would remain sprawled on the prison bed, speaking in a quiet, assured voice in which physical weakness was only sustained by mental strength.

But it was not the shape in which Kazansky's health was that Xenia found disturbing. Rather, it was the fact that with every conversation, she found that she enjoyed his company more and more – his wit, his seemingly boundless self-confidence, and the fact that he seemed to care very little about losing everything he had.

"It is very simple, Miss Reynes,"– he would say – "I committed a crime. I betrayed the very Prestonian people whom I promised to protect. The death of even a hundred million Clandonians is nothing to me – I came there to kill them, did I not? They started the war, did they not? But the death of Prestonian civilians is a stain on my own honor and conscience."

She could not argue – and what was more, the angry attacks that she often launched on his policies, his bearing, his behavior pre-war seemed to often hit home. All too often he would cut an attack off not by a retort – but by raising a hand and saying, calmly: "Yes, Miss Reynes, I agree. You are correct, yes. A lot of the things me and my associates did at the time were simply childish. I see that now, really. "

There was only one thing that seemed to annoy the prisoner – the news that Marshal Friedrich Dietstein was announced the new Secretary of Defense. Why, he did not say.

Rohmburg, Brettonia

It was a positively hideous fortification. Gently sloping curtain walls of hewn stone blocks with limestone exterior creating a relatively smooth surface. Ugly round towers disrupted them every so often, like pockmarks on skin. During warmer times the drill yard and bailey had hosted a fine garden; now the statuary was decaying precipitously and the grounds had given up the ability to grow all but the most stubborn plant life thanks to decades of months-long snow.

The castle itself was fairly unremarkable in shape or form, resembling many that had been through the medieval states of the past. The obviously electric lighting that emerged from the glass windows was the only immediately obvious feature of the modern world; antennas and relays, surveillance cameras and infrared scanners, these items from a more recent time were adeptly concealed amid the crumbling architectural features.

The Chancellor had chosen it as his chief residence when away from the capital for a variety of reasons. It was hardly unassailable - a single earth-penetrating bomb would likely collapse the antique masonry in on itself like a house of cards. It was, however, fairly innocuous - there were only a few rather poor roads in the area - and perhaps more importantly, a considerable distance from anything important. It took nearly four hours by car from Rohmburg proper, assuming one knew the way, as the route wasn't exactly marked. By helicopter or tilt-rotor the time was precipitously less, and a naturally-occurring clearing in the otherwise dense forestry a few hundred yards from the castle's grounds facilitated those as the usual forms of transit.

For all intents and purposes, it was in the abject middle of nowhere. Craggy mountains that ran all the way to the coast disrupted the vista from the old fortress. Presumably, the thing had belonged to some feudal lord of a centuries-bygone time when three-season farming was still possible, but if any such records existed, the Chancellor certainly wasn't aware of them.

The tilt-rotor took flight again as quickly as it landed, only allowing Belmont, Carpathia, and several other Intelligence officers who had joined them at Valis a few moments to get clear of the snow that would be blasted into the air by the downdraft from its massive three-bladed props and directional jet exhausts.

Why he couldn't be arsed to live somewhere more decent... Belmont mentally muttered - the warmth of the tilt-rotor's cabin was a distant memory within minutes. Further North, further inland, and further up in terms of surface altitude - the cold was even more biting. Wordlessly, he and his entourage led Carpathia up the slope towards the foreboding citadel. As an officer of the notoriously cutthroat Military Intelligence Service, he hadn't expected much in the way of pleasant conversation, and was not disappointed. Even still, he was happy this particular assignment was almost over. For someone as renowned enough of a creep to make it to O-5, Carpathia still gave him the shivers. Those were mostly supplanted by the blowing snow by this point, however.

After what seemed like hours, the small group stood before the barbican. There was no hiding the technologically-retrofitted nature of the place at this point - Belmont opened an access panel in a small metallic cabinet set in the wall, revealing the blue-green glow of an LCD monitor. The wiring of the thing likely ran through an arrow-slit behind the box. Swiftly removing his glove and placing his hand against the screen, the biometric reader beeped a pleasing confirmation of his identity and "buzzed" him through - the massive steel-reinforced wooden doors swung open. A keen eye would note that this, too, was primarily an illusion - the doors were hydraulically actuated.

The interior of the castle - the gates of which were a short sprint across the snowy, unremarkable grounds from the barbican - seemed infinitely more welcoming than the exterior, in spite of the seemingly glaring statuary and poorly-lit vaulted ceilings. Only those that had truly had ample time to "appreciate" the pleasant drafts of hot air that came forth from a central heating system, a Godsend after being out in the frigid local environs, began to take note of the rather unnerving atmosphere of the place. Thick carpets and plush tapestries offset the harsh stone floors and walls. Head-level lighting left the corridors and chambers illuminated well enough in the area persons occupied, showcasing fine furniture and patriotic paintings, but did little to reach up towards the ceilings where old, decaying art was barely visible and heavy supports cast long, deep shadows that always seemed to hide movement out of one's peripherals...

Belmont saw Carpathia off at the large foyer, returning with his subordinates to the antechamber immediately beyond the entrance hall to continue warming up; one of the Chancellery's civil servants led the ex-Director the rest of the way through a long series of quiet hallways and circular staircases. Opening a pair of double doors, a dining room appeared beyond the threshold, dominated by a long table able to seat perhaps twelve people. The room's ceiling stretched higher and higher - it was plainly visible that the story above the present one had something of an open-air walkway circumnavigating the walls from which the going-ons of the diners could be observed. The polished wooden railings, busts and paintings that lay beyond were visable enough with more than a cursory glance - the actively camouflaged Stahlkörper (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=447922) that peered over the edge were not.

Chancellor Donner noted Carpathia and the servant entering out of the corner of an eye, hands folded behind his back and body facing away from the door, quietly regarding a rather unpleasant painting depicting two knights running each other through. A crackling fireplace provided a nice ambiance that was immediately offset by the ticking pendulum of a grandfather clock that echoed throughout the cavernous chamber.

"Mr. Carpathia," he said, coming off nonchalant in spite of his great interest in this special guest. "Glad you could make it. I was about to sit down for a meal, and would be... flattered if you'd join me. We can discuss matters of a more important nature afterward."

“Ah, good sir,” - spoke Carpathia - “The honor is all mine.”

With that, the Allanean placed the heavy binders he carried under his chair and sat down. “Mmm, Brettonian cuisine. To be frank, I haven't quite acquainted itself with it yet – I haven't been eating out much lately – for technical reasons, you understand.”

And so the spy and the chancellor sat down to dinner.

Somewhere...

The room is dark, as usual.

Lit only by the dim phosphor glow of the screens within. There are windows, but they are shuttered. Curtains, drawn.

Three men sit in chairs, their faces hidden in shadow.


"You know why we've agreed to meet."

The second figure lifts a glass, and sips from it, then places it on the arm of his chair, then steeples his fingers, speaking in clipped, precise tones.

"Yes. The Allanea question. Kazansky has vanished. Simulations point to a 77% chance that he's still alive and being imprisoned somewhere, a 15% chance that he is dead, and an 8% chance that he's escaped and currently is at large under a new identity. The margin of error has been calculated to be within acceptable limits."

"This was checked?"

"Of course. The reason it can't be absolutely predicted is the disruption of records caused by the mass migration of the Allanean people, and the subsequent removal of many intelligence assets."

"And if Kazansky lives, and can be... persuaded... to our point of view?"

"The chances of our plans advancing increase by a slight, but measurable degree."

"It's decided then. The search will begin. Section 6 will be notified immediately."

The last man who speaks lifts a cigarette to his lips and lights it, showing his face... the face of a man in his mid-fifties, but in good physical condition otherwise.

Enough light is thrown across the room to show the faces of the other two men.

Their faces are the same as the face of the first man.


---

Elsewhere

And thus, the orders trickle on down from above. Find Kazansky. Find him, alive or dead.

Satellites scan vast tracts of terrain. Delicate inquiries head out through underworld contacts.

But most of all, massive data sifting operations commence. Vast banks of computers, uncountable amounts of computational power, begin to sift through the aether, the endless amount of electronic information circulating within the planet's communications systems. There is much of it, too much for even the tremendous banks of equipment available to Section 6 to sort through easily... but given time, useful information can be discovered.

And so hours stretch into days, and days into weeks...

Allanea

The results of the scanning show up a whole lot of interesting things. They show that the Allaneans have strengthened the defense on the Questarian border with ten more divisions of mobile artillery – an additional 5,000 cannon and MLRS systems, prepared to ward off a potential enemy advance.

They show the documents regarding Kazansky's trial – and they show that, surprisingly for Allanea, a discrepancy exists between what has been reported about the trial and what had been true. It appears, from the documents, that the former President had pled guilty not to ordering false flag attacks and causing the deaths of Clandonians, but to causing the deaths of dozens of millions of Prestonians and other citizens of allied nations – a huge difference between the reports and the actual confessions – even more glaring because Prestonian casualties had never ranged into the millions.

The Axis Novans also manage to unearth the facility rules for Liberty Island – detailing the dweomerite chains that bind the Boy-President, his feeding routine, the amount of guards and their weapons. Another document mentions that, despite public reports, the Island is not in North-Western Haven at all. In actual fact, it is located somewhere near the infamous 'starfish' that holds Allanea's capital.

The question now becomes: “Where?”

OOC: While I wait for Bretton to post... obviously the timeline doesn't affect our conversation. Somehow.

IC:

Year Six

While Allanea's economy was still clawing its way upwards from the edge of the abyss, the Allanean military was already reinforcing the Questarian border with more and more troops. Where there had once been a mere twenty-five divisions, there had now been fifty – with twenty divisions of towed artillery ready to deliver a hail of steel and fire upon those that crossed the border, and five new divisions of mechanized infantry ready to kill and destroy anybody who crossed it.

Another border defense system was being constructed on the Tyrandisian border. It comprised ten more mechanized divisions, two thousand fighter aircraft, and a system of trenches and minefields just like that on the Questarian border, except, of course, without roads and rail to link the two nations.

Several stockpiles of missiles were being built up in secure bases near the Scandavian border, where over 25,000 anti-ship and air-to-ground guided missiles have been stored. More interestingly, several private entities contacted the Vaultian government in a new civil defense initiative.

The plan was simple: construct multiple underground bunker complexes under the mountainous areas of Axackal, with the capacity of hiding dozens of thousands of people for several years in the event of a nuclear assault.

(OOC: Breaking the FT-MT boundary, authorized by Allanea)

It wasn't just the nations of that tiny rock interested in Kazansky's imprisonment.

For two years of Alexander Kazansky's imprisonment, the Galactic Hegemony had an agent in the prison. It was a relatively simple matter to slip the man in, give him a proper identity, and put him in position to arrange contact between a representative of the Hegemony and the former Boy-President.

Everything going into or out of the vault was noted. Food. Xenia. Nothing else. It would be entertaining to change that.

It was the day scheduled for contact that the guards of Liberty Island finally discovered that one among them didn't belong, it was a small group of guards who confronted the man...

... Who then promptly changed into a six meter tall rock-like monster, the sapphire eye in the center of its head snapping open and glowing with a near-blinding brightness. Those in the know could probably identify what the monster was. To those not in the know, it was a very big, very scary creature.

It grabbed the leader of the group, a snarling that sounded like two boulders grinding against one another issuing from the creature. As it pulled the Allanean close to its "face" the air around it vibrated, creating a deep, booming voice.

"LISTEN CLOSELY, ALLANEAN, THIS IS A VERY EXPENSIVE FACILITY, NO? HOW MUCH DO YOU THINK YOUR PAY WILL BE DOCKED IF YOU LEAVE ME NO OPTION BUT TO DESTROY IT? QUITE A BIT, I WOULD ASSUME. FURTHERMORE, WHO WERE THE ASSHOLES WHO TOOK TWO YEARS TO NOTICE THAT THERE WAS ONE AMONG THEM WHO SHOULDN'T BE THERE, LET ALONE THAT IT WAS A GODDAMN ZIRCON HIVEMASTER? NO, NO, I THINK WE WILL PRETEND THAT THIS NEVER HAPPENED, YES? THAT NOTHING IS WRONG AND WE CAN ALL GO PLAY CARDS, YES? GOOD..."

The monster shrunk back down to its human form, grinning. The looks on the Allaneans' faces told him things would continue as planned.


The day of contact was to be a day before Xenia's usual visits. As the blast door slid open to deliver Alex's lunch, everything seemed normal until the guard left... and didn't close the door.

For a few minutes, the hallway was clear, until footsteps echoed down the hall. It was when the footsteps were just outside the door to the cell, that a woman's voice was heard.

"So this is the fate of Alexander Kazansky..." As the woman stepped into view, her ebony robes and ankle-length crimson hair shifted and flowed as if blown by some wind felt only by them. The fact that this entity was standing on Earth represented an impossible threat to the planet, yet here she was. "... It is very nice to finally meet you face to face, Alex. Surely you aren't too unwell to recognize me from reports?" She smiled, her emerald eyes flashing a moment. A large gift basket, filled with fruit and cheeses appearing seemingly out of nowhere and floating beside her. "Jeh'za'ta Rehnaematothraak... I am Minagoroshi, and I brought you a gift."

“Minagoroshi... the Eater of Worlds... I'm flattered. I'm sorry I can't offer you my soul – still using it, you see... mind, the dweomerite is quite the annoying substance... sorry, where was I? Oh yes. Greetings. Sorry I can't entertain you in my own palace. So how's everything?” - the Boy-President says with a charming smile. - “Oh, and pardon me my selfishness – thank you for these wonderful fruit... I am sort of becoming annoyed by the food here... mind, that could also be the dweomerite. A highly annoying substance, once more.”

Rohmburg, Brettonia

The food was brought out by a single attendant on a cleanly-polished metal cart - small but numerous portions of a variety of items. There was a clear preponderance of vegetables: potatoes, carrots, onions, and other roots grown locally, but also leafy and vine-growing varieties imported from Numonica. Hot rolls and miniature loaves of bread were served, mostly of a dark, whole grain variety - though the Chancellor apparently had a personal bakery in the castle, he eschewed adding butter to any of them. The meat servings were the smallest, though to some extent mitigated by the excellent preparation. Fillets of saltwater fish, grilled and seasoned with the skin intact, breaded and baked oysters, spiced shrimp impaled on dowels... Donner personally consumed a bacon-wrapped steak, still sizzling on the plate. The beef was perhaps only a few inches across, yet produced a positively delightful scent, and the Chancellor was very tidy in making small cuts to fully appreciate the flavor.

"I hope you don't find the meat to be too sparse for your tastes," he remarked, not diverting his eyes from the plate before him as he reached for another loaf of brown bread. "The old days when meat was hard to come by are long over, thanks to Numonica's ability to support great quantities of livestock, but... well, you simply cannot get tender cuts of beef from something the size of an armored personnel carrier." He tended to a small amount of grease that had formed at the edge of his mouth, returning the napkin to the table. "Fine hunting, though..."

The meal was concluded when Donner produced a bottle of liquor - the same one he had broken the seal of weeks earlier when issuing his directive to find Carpathia. The Chancellor produced a pair of ornate lowball glasses, offering one to his guest, and proceeded to let the fine alcohol flow. Donner recalled to the dead man the bottle's history as a gift from Kazansky, which segued into discussions of a more personal nature on the relationship between two heads of state.

"I suppose that's why I've been on the lookout for you, Mr. Carpathia," he stated, regarding the bottle somewhat forlornly. "Kazansky was more than simply an ally, a... compatriot, if you will, amidst a sea of raving Bolsheviks. He was my friend. You should know perfectly well that those of us who cut our teeth on espionage don't make those very often, and when we do, long-lasting ones are few and far between." He folded his hands together at the table, still not meeting the spymaster's gaze, absentmindedly fiddling the glass with his thumbs. Donner continued, recanting the back-and-forth communiques between himself and Kazansky, his growing anxiety over the deteriorating Allanean war effort and his own waffling as to whether or not to begin hostilities with the neighboring Clandonians - especially detailed were the hours, then days of mounting concern over Kazansky's personal well-being, the offer of asylum, and then nothing, followed only by news agonizing weeks later that Kazansky had been deposed, whereabouts unknown.

"The simple fact of the matter is, though I may be the commander-in-chief of the largest state in Haven, when you get right down to things," he paused, withdrawing the RMI Breyr (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12767489&postcount=27) handgun from his holster and regarding it sullenly, finger clear of the trigger, "I'm simply one man with a gun. My own Intelligence Service has had their ear to the ground for any mention of the location of Allanea's President for weeks now, with absolutely no gains whatsoever. Alex and I never discussed any matters of secret prisons, either, so that was an immediate non-starter. You, however..." he placed the Breyr on the table, neatly aligning it as though it were just another piece of his silverware. "...you must have some knowledge pertinent to this debacle." Gathering his wits again, he folded his gloved hands, elbows on the table, and leaned forward inquisitively, finally showing more of his usual, previous colors as an investigative, prying, calculating strategist.

"Figuring out where Alex is would be the most pertinent activity, but there are other factors that must be considered. Firstly, we assume he's actually still alive - that thought has crossed my mind before, with considerable grievances attached. Secondly, we assume he actually wants to be rescued. Giving Alex's flair for... well, everything, this might be his way of announcing his retirement," a slight change in inflection indicated a veiled bitterness at this last line of logic. "Thirdly, it befalls to us to formulate a way to liberate him from his current engagements, preferably in as low-key a fashion as possible. The filthy non-persons who "bandwagoned" him out of Haven on blatantly falsified reports of massive environmental and civil destruction would be well placated to think he was still in whatever cage they're keeping him in for as long as possible. Dropping an earth-penetrating bomb on the place would be simple enough, but I believe you'd agree with me that the last thing we should do is alert our mutual enemies of our intentions." The grandfather clock began chiming, and the Chancellor waited for it to finish.

"If you wanted to... 'cut the bullshit', I suppose, let me phrase it to you like this. What happened as a result of the Presto-Clandonian Conflict was a travesty. Kazansky is Allanea's rightful head of state. Presently, he languishes in a prison somewhere," Donner said, furrowing his brows.

"This inequity must be corrected."

“You see, Your Honor,” - spoke Carpathia as he laid his binders out before him, like a pack of quality playing cards - “this here is the assessment of damage from the Allanean strike on Clandonian South Haven. The real one - five hundred thousand Prestonians dead, Clandonian South Haven itself uninhabitable. This – here – is the Military Intelligence Report that was presented to the Senate and President Kazansky himself. It estimates possible damages as twenty million Prestonians dead, millions of casualties throughout Haven.”

“It was upon this second report that the President based his decision to resign, leaving the handling of the treaty of Jesselton to the bureaucrats and diplomats. The Senate confirmed the treaty, ceding lands throughout Haven to our former allies, and using the power of eminent domain to evacuate those that didn't wish to be evacuated.”

“You know, of course, that the Allaneans are known for their dislike of the very notion of surrender – even at the most insane odds. However, in this incident, a new weapon was used – guilt. Many at the leadership, including the President himself, believed that we had just released deadly, radioactive poisons throughout the region... and that we owed Haven something for such a crime. That feeling of guilt was a more powerful weapon for our foes than thermonuclear warheads. Not only did our very allies turn on us, but also our own leadership had its legs cut out from under it.”

Carpathia paused. “How was this report composed by the Military Intelligence? Why? Why would they file such a patently false estimate?”

“The answer is simple: Cotland.”

“Through the years in which San Nereiana and Cotland neighbored each other, the officer staff there became corrupt – not expecting a real war, they allowed themselves to become infiltrated by Cottish spies. Eventually, the poison spread further. By wartime, over five hundred generals and three thousand staff officers throughout the Army were on the Cottish payroll directly. Which was why Alex appointed me head of ACIA – to deal with them.”

“By the time of the Two-Day War, I had a list of suspects as long as my hand – but I couldn't quite nail them all at once under peacetime laws. Under wartime rules, they could have been eliminated with ease. Rapid trials. Firing squads. Two, three days... but they got there first. They used the reactor story to eliminate Alex. It worked.”

“Then new President doesn't know... or maybe doesn't believe – that these people are traitors. He trusts them... I could do very little. One of them tried to persuade me to join their... plan. I... dealt with him. Then I had my own plan. I spoke to Alex's most loyal comrades and apprentices – and they went their separate ways, to Derscon, to Lyras, to a couple of other nations, to tell their leadership this sordid story – and, by the way, the location of Alex's prison, which I have here with me.”

“So yes. It is an inequity. It must be corrected. However, the issue is: how do we do that, and how do we prevent Haven's potentates from converging upon Allanea again, when its rightful leadership is restored?”

“That, as Alex would have said, is all.”

Allanean Security Force Formed

Press Release JLK News

Following the defeat of Allanean forces in the Havenic theatre the Kaiser has authorized the formation of an Allanean security force while the nation continues the rebuilding process.

The Allanean Security Force or ASF will bolster Allanean domestic units along the border between Allanea and the Questarian Empire. The ASF is expected to remain in this deployed status for twelve years. At which time the necessity for the ASF will be reviewed along with the development of Allanean forces.

The ASF is to consist of three mechanized divisions and one armored corps numbering eight-hundred fifty tanks combining together for a total of five hundred and fifty thousand ground forces with an undisclosed number of air defense attachments.

The Kaiser as well as the war ministry, and ministry of foreign affairs have all issued separate statements advocating that the ASF is in no way an offensive force and is merely established to deter further aggression both from and against the United States of Allanea.

The redistribution of forces is scheduled for completion in the next six months.

Vault-Tec Corporation

Allanea, Axackal

Since the day of the Victoria Power Plant Disaster in Clandonian South Haven, Vault-Tec's Relations Department has been overloaded with mail and calls requesting for construction of its facilities from all countries of Haven (except for certain barbaric cultures).

However, construction of such facilities would not be possible without a nonrestrictive legal system or certain assistance from the government. Since both of these were the case in Allanea, proceeding was without question.

Soon after the matters were cleared, Vault-Tec equipment was shipped to the mainland Allanea, and construction started in the mountainous region of Axackal, found suitable due to having low surface population.

The specific size of the project was not disclosed, but it was known that it would include regular bunkers for at least 25 million people and at least 200 permanent Vault-type facilities.


Each Vault-type facility includes individual and family apartments for 5,000-15,000 people, galley, exercise, and medical facilities, all with a fully independent power, water and air supply system. Located hundreds to thousands of meters below the surface, in reinforced shells, with heavy-duty shock absorbers, equipped with internal bulkheads, automated and crewed defensive systems, and centralized control, these facilities are the ultimate in security technologies.

Life in a Vault doesn't amount to idle wait; each Vault is able to expand, renovate and support itself, all while producing export goods of sufficient value for indefinite self-support. Industrial zones are equipped with high-versatility machinery, while the local computer network with gateways to the worldwide net allow for production and export of intellectual products and services.

While the prices for permanent housing in the Axackal facilities still start at $1.12 million for the most basic accommodations, the company is cooperating with customers in less favorable situations as well, offering partial payment by new stock purchase, and discount plans such as pre-emergency space renting.

As usual, construction is being conducted in secrecy, without anyone being informed of the specific locations of the underground facilities. However, the locations of many of the numerous entrances will be transferred to the customers and, in encrypted form, to evacuation departments in cities.

That the Allanean Presidency maintained resources well beyond those given to it by the Allanean taxpayer was an open secret. One of those resources was the Emergency Confederate Fund, that remained so far unused – only the Confederate Budget proper was used to this day to provide aid to Allanea itself. However, as the Vault construction became a key Allanean interest, it was now good and proper – or so the new President decided – to direct twenty-five billion dollars to the ALC personnel to fund the construction of additional Vaults in Atlantic-Island and Eastern Axackal.

In the meanwhile, the military potential of the Allanean homeland continued to grow. West of the Canal, twenty-five additional armored divisions were being moved in from other colonies, and twenty-five more had been put in positions just east of the Allanean Canal. Two hundred missile-armed frigates had been deployed to patrol the Canal itself, and the Allanean forts on both sides of the canal were also being rebuilt.

As the President's second term began its second year, it seemed that things were getting back on track.

"A very interesting question, Mr. Carpathia," Donner said, eyes narrowing a bit. "In three words, 'bullets in heads.' Based on this revelation of sorts, we can safely identify that Kazansky's Allanea has enemies from within and from without all at once. This is understandably a bad thing. I assume a man of your... connections... has something of a roster of these filthy Cottish traitors? It would be good for our mutual interest if they were to start disappearing."

Donner began to study the documentation that Carpathia had produced.

"There'd be no point in liberating Alex if the same foul conspirators were in place to depose him again at the nearest opportunity. As for the actual act of liberation itself, well... with your permission, I will have a three-dimensional model of this... "Liberty Island"..." he paused, "the irony is simply palpable... drawn up. We can thus begin work on the nuts and bolts of rescuing your President. With regards to overall strategy, our key asset would be stealth. To be perfectly honest, I'd rather that the cowardly states that contributed to Kazansky's downfall did not know about this for a very long time." The Chancellor shuffled to another set of reports.

"Your current head-of-state is manipulated by those around him, you say? That gives us an advantage right off the bat. Once we've secured Kazansky, and disposed of the backstabbers who undermined him, we can get back to serious work in restructuring your country. I believe this Worthington fellow should be kept on as the figurehead of the United States... Alex will have to deal with being a puppet master for the time being. After we've smoothed our everything, and your country is returned to its rightful position of power and authority, then he can emerge back on to the stage again. I'd argue he simply runs for election at some convenient point - this would be the first acknowledgment to the rest of the world that he's no longer locked up like a dog at this Godforsaken hole."

Donner finished sifting through the documentation, meeting the ex-spy's gaze once more.

"As to our cover for this entire matter, well... tell me, Mr. Carpathia, would you say Allanea has made a lot of enemies during Alex's tenure as President? Perhaps those of the more anarchic variety...?"

"Mmm, enemies. Certainly lots of enemies. Mostly socialist, though. We've not really messed with anarchist nations - Allaneans tend to view anarchism in the same way that socialists view Communism, if you will - a humane, noble idea, though impractical."

"As for drawing up a plan of Liberty-Island - yes, this seems quite the idea. In essence, the island is a regular prison - sort of like Alcatraz, although the design is completely different. Buried under the regular prison chambers - designed to hold deserters, war criminals, and terrorists - lie the Interrogation Chambers, long disused. Finally, deep underground, proofed against direct bombings of the facility... basically, it's a vault. Blast door and everything. However, the vault door can be quite easily opened from the outside. Once a - completely hypothethical - rescue team has dealt with the guards, opening the door will be quite easy."

Minagoroshi giggled, setting the fruit basket down next to Alex's bed. "Please, Alexander. Everyone knows you humans lack souls."

She looked to the chains and frowned. "This... dweomerite... It causes you to suffer like this? For such a thing as killing fifty million insignificant humans, and not even through intentional effort, your people torture you so..." Her eyes darted back to the Boy-President. "... And yet your people call the Mekantans depraved... I did not expect to find you so... weak..." The look in the goddess's eyes suggested it wasn't the dweomerite she was talking about."

Rohmburg, Brettonia
Chancellery

The ominous ticking of the grandfather clock continued throughout the spies' discourse.

"Bolsheviks, eh? Even better, Mr. Carpathia," Donner said, cracking a malicious grin. "Right now, the United States of Allanea is at a critical precipice. Doesn't it seem logical that those that feel they have been wronged by your country would start exacting their revenge?" The Chancellor began aimlessly stroking the slide of his Breyr with two fingertips, though the pistol remained flatly against the table. "It's the same reason why Questaria and Doomingsland "piled on" after it was apparent that your Prestonian allies were deserting you. Strike while the enemy is weak, you know. So, it wouldn't be unreasonable that the Bolsheviks would start striking back against you during your time of weakness, would it?" Leaving the polished handgun as it was, he removed the lid on an ornate ceramic pot full of fresh ice cubes and began slowly dropping them, one at a time, into his empty glass in preparation of filling it with the fine liquor. "And certainly, what better way to arouse the public ire than to have a wave of assassinations... perhaps terrorist bombings, even... befall these important figures in the Worthington administration? These traitors would be the only people who realized someone was gunning for them..." ice clubs clinked into the glass one by one, "...and even if they did put two and two together and realize that that cute girl passing by on the sidewalk might have a suppressed pistol, or that that briefcase sitting unattended in a waiting room might be a bomb waiting to go off, what would they do about it? Beg Worthington for protection because somebody was hunting down the members of the clique that betrayed Kazansky, and indeed, the whole of the Allanean people? I think not." The dark alcohol poured over them, causing the cubes to float up to the top of the glass. "They'll be as neatly bound together in their extermination as they were in their betrayal of Alex. Giving that we have you in our employment for this business, I imagine we should have little trouble in circumnavigating whatever security they'll be under - you probably know all that inside and out." The cubes tumbled together as the Chancellor began draining the glass.

"As for liberating Kazansky himself, well... that's somewhat more complicated. There are all kinds of Bolshevik scum locked up there, no? It would make an inviting target for said acts of terrorism, especially if it involved the possible escape of that trash. To facilitate this, it would be a simple task for me to provide the "terrorists"; what inmate in a re-education facility or private sector labor camp wouldn't lunge at the opportunity to be completely pardoned, and blow things up while doing it? We'll omit the part where it's mostly a suicide mission, of course. I presume this facility is well defended, to say the least. At any rate, it's a distraction more than anything else - we'll send in a small group of Stahlkorper via submarine to grab Kazansky during the madness and make off with him as quickly as possible. The "terrorists" and their landing craft will be left to be dealt with by whatever's left of the facility's security forces. Maybe we could fit them with some kind of remotely detonated bomb, just to make sure they don't spill any unnecessary information... better for a proper Soldier of the Red Banner to die than be taken prisoner by the bourgeoisie, right?" Donner took another swig.

"At any rate, we can go over the finer details and assemble a proper tactical plan once I've had that model fabricated. For the time being, let us focus on the immediate goal of liquidating the traitors that have provided us with this quandary."

Alex sighs. “Mina, Mina. Yeah, someone overdid it with the dweomerite. I'm sorry that it has to be this way... but the point rests, we were supposed to protect these people, not to kill them. By right of alliance, they were looking up to us as their saviors, not as the people to harvest their lives.”

*

“Ah, your plan seems workable to me... perhaps neck bracelets. You see, in Allanea, during heavy wars, we allow our prisoners a choice – continue their life in prison, safely and for the remaining of their sentence – or be given a rifle and sent to the front. To assure that they do not escape during the fighting, we fit them out with neck bracelets – a few grams of high explosive near the jugular will solve practically all your problems with life. In fact, even the presence of life itself.”

“As for the traitors... would you like me to detail my plans or shall it suffice to say they are already in operation to some extent?” - suddenly, the spy smiles.

*

General Friedrich Naworski stepped out on his balcony. It was a beautiful day and the sun was rising, illuminating the Greater Prussian Sea with a glorious, dazzling shade of pink. He raised his cup of tea to his lips and drank it, enjoying the hot, sweet liquid as it poured down his throat. It had all been worth it – working for Cottish Intelligence, then joining the Plan and participating in the destruction of San Nereiana – now the very government has given him a house and a bit of land in an area that wasn't a horrible, dry desert, and the Anghele government had even donated him a home and a car.

Beautiful – just...

Naworski's kneecap exploded. He screamed in unbearable pain, dropping to the ground. And then he saw his killer.

It was Martha, the servant-girl he hired a month ago – only now, she was standing over him, PA-89 submachinegun in hand. Naworski struggled for his own gun – only to discover he wasn't wearing it. Nobody actually wears a gun under their morning pajamas. Not even Allanean Army generals.

There was a barely audible 'click' as Martha flipped the selector switch through 'safe' and then another one as she went right on to 'Auto'.

“Goodbye, Mr. Naworski. I hope you liked your tea.”

*

Colonel Peter Grayes struggled away from the picnic cloth. “Oh wow. Sandy, that was the best dinner I had in a while. I think you should keep making these pancakes.”

One thousand yards away, a young man in a home-made ghillie suit flipped his rifle scope open.

“Yeah, honey, I think they turned out pretty well, Cinthia taught me how to-”

The bolt slammed forward. By the time the sound of the gunshot reached Sandy's ears, the bullet had already done its work. By that time, the witnesses – if there were any – would be too concerned about the woman and two children, screaming in crazed horror as the blood, brains, and bone of their husband and father splattered over their faces.

Minagoroshi was silent a moment, the avatar of the goddess simply turning away.

"... I can destroy the dweomerite. You know what I'm capable of, Alexander. Obliterating these chains, the door, the cell, this entire island, it can all be done in an instant..."

Minagoroshi turned back, grinning wickedly.

"More of an instant than when you killed those mere five hundred thousand, people. More of an instant it took for you to be replaced by traitors who fed you false information to trick you into this cell. Certainly more of an instant then the years you've spent suffering in this cell under the kind of conditions the Mekantans would approve of for their dinner, so those you thought you could trust could take your little government."

"Wait a second... I have received reports that most of Eastern Haven was poisoned and lower PRestonia completely depopulated... how could casualties possibly be that low?" The Boy-President's question made Minagoroshi laugh.

"Pay attention, Kazansky." She held her hand toward one of the blank walls, a map of the region materializing and adhering to the wall. Cleanly marked was the radiation zone. "You were lied to, and you stupidly believed what you were told."

As the Goddess All-Consuming turned to leave, she held out her hand again, a small handheld device materializing above Alex's bed and falling on his lap.

"... I know how boredom digs at the human mind. Perhaps something to distract yourself from your foolishness might help."

With that, her avatar dispersed into a black mist, and the vault door slammed shut.

Rohmburg, Brettonia

The Chancellor began chuckling, raising his glass in something of a toast to Carpathia's malicious comment.

"Well, it seems you've exceeded even my expectations. Quite a nasty piece of work you are, Mr. Carpathia," he remarked, finishing the drink. "As long as we can leave fingers pointed at filthy foreign scum, preferably of the leftist variety, I believe whatever intrigue you've worked up ought to be more than sufficient. At all costs, we simply must prevent any indicative to the outside world that Kazansky's enemies are being culled. With that accomplished, we can concentrate on liberating Alex and setting things right again."

It was now the Chancellor's turn for show-and-tell - he passed a somewhat dated intelligence report down to Carpathia, with the letterhead indicating it came from Area 3, the former Chechen Republic.

"It's called the 'Proletariat Unity League' - quaint, isn't it?" Donner stated. "We stomped them out for good almost a decade ago, but the group's manifesto and methodology were just so perfect that I felt it would be intelligent to keep them around. On paper, anyway. This is the perfect opportunity to stage a... revival, if you will? Nothing especially grandiose, of course - just a broadcast statement of how the Allanean imperialists' time is over. Then, when my "Bolsheviks" start blowing up Liberty Island with red banners in hand... well, you do the math." Donner stood up, placing his hands on the table and leaning in some. "It would be even more fortuitous for us if the prisoners were to somehow receive word that a sympathetic liberation force is going to sack the place - start an internal revolt at the same time. More or less the worst nightmare for any warden worth his salt, wouldn't you say?"

"Almost perfect - of course, the inmates on Liberty-Island are war prisoners, and as such are prohibited outside communications. They are held in separate solitary confinement cells, and completely outnumbered by the guards... so I don't think a revolt would work, or be useful to us. I imagine, however, a two-wave assault... Bolsheviks with red banners in hand, perhaps extracted from some of your work camps... and then - oh, it would be so unfortunate if they were to get a hold of some Stahlkorper suits, if you get my drift. Of course, in real life the suits would be piloted by some loyal men. Of course, your nation does have some form of classified unit, manned by personnel of... exceptional loyalty and unwavering obedience?"

"Oh my, yes, Mr. Carpathia," Donner nodded. "That will be a simple enough matter. I'm thinking perhaps a shipment of Stahlkorper going to Rolatia would be... hijacked... at a very inappropriate time, under the pretext of the League of course. That would fill in that niche right now." He stepped back from the table, collecting his Breyr and re-holstering it.

"At any rate, until I have the gears moving, as it were, and that model constructed, I believe we've no further business. Unless you'd rather appreciate the fine architecture of my humble abode, of course," the Chancellor grinned. "I've had a room prepared for you - there's not much in the way of local lodging, I'm afraid. Why don't we continue this discussion in the morning, Mr. Carpathia?"

"Thank you, Sir. I believe the Russians have a proverb - the morning is wiser than the evening, they say. Good night, Chancellor."

Frigg House
Eeobroht, Cotland

Frigg House in downtown Eeobroht, the capital city of Cotland, was a large neoclassical building made of the finest granite, a spectacular building in and by itself, but easily outclassed by the countless other even more spectacularly beautiful neoclassical buildings that dominated Cottish architecture. As such, Frigg House didn't stand out in the crowd, something which was part of the reason why it was the home of the Foreign Intelligence Service (FIS), a sub-division of the Armed Forces Intelligence Branch (AFIB). Of course, these organizations names and abbreviations were different in the original Cottish.

FIS was responsible for all foreign HUMINT, SIGINT, ELINT and COMINT sources that the Cottish intelligence community possessed, and up until recently one of these had been the Allanean Section which had been responsible for all intelligence information from Allanea, and in particular the information that had come from the very profitable network of sources that the Cottish had enjoyed in former San Nereiana. Thanks to these sources, Cotland had known the exact strength and disposition of the Allanean armed forces in San Nereiana, the location of fuel and ammunition depots, air defence sectors, patrol rosters, how the Allanean troops liked their gear and weaponry, and even that there had been a shortage of toilet paper in the Haigsville Garrison when the Allanean empire collapsed. Thanks to all this information, gathered by a willing network of sources that was originally established to provide Cotland with a early warning system in the event of an Allanean invasion (the worst-case scenario and source of many sleepless nights for Cottish war planners and analysts for many years), the Cottish had been able to meticulously plan a war that would have ensured Cottish dominance over the numerically superior Allanean forces. That was, if the Allaneans hadn't surrendered fifty minutes after the Cottish declared war. The Cottish Air Force had exploited the information on the Allanean air defences and fighter patrol routines and completely avoided the otherwise murderous air defence network and started to strike a crippling blow towards the Allanean war machine when the war ended. In the resulting Treaty of Jesselton, the Allaneans ceeded the western segments of San Nereiana to Cotland, thus allowing the Cottish to have acheived their war goals without a single casualty in a conflict where the Cottish war planners had expected casualties in the range of hundreds of thousands dead.

The FIS was still unsure what exactly had caused the Allaneans to believe the claims they had siphoned down through their sources inside the Allanean military, claims that were taken directly from live commentators predicting absolutely-worst-case scenarios on the news channels during the height of the Queen Victoria NPP incident and that thus had to be taken with more than one pinch of salt, but regardless of their uncertainty, the result remained the same: the Cottish war goals had been reached without a single Cottish soldier dead, and that was more than enough for the higher-ups to applaud the FIS and the AFIB in general. However, the Allanean exodus from San Nereiana meant that FIS had lost contact with their sources, and the meager Cottish intelligence assets in Axackal were scrambling to reinitiate contact with the sources without arousing suspicion, something which was harder to do now after Cotland had proven that it had been willing to wage war on Allanea, thus shattering the ideas that many of the sources had dreamed about and that the Cottish spymasters had expoited ("Of course Cotland would never wage war on Allanea, regardless of what the politicians might say. We're a peaceful people that wish only for our children to live in peace and prosper, just like you want for your children!").

Still, the spymasters hoped that they could persuade the sources to reinitiate contact with FIS through appealing to their desire for peace and through skillful propaganda ("Listen, yes we went to war with you, but only after your political leadership attacked a nuclear power plant and threatened to spread lethal radiation over half of Haven! We had to react in some form to ensure that similar actions wouldn't be taken against Cotland. Surely you can see that. Now that you have a sensible leader again, Cotland has no other desire than to return to the status quo ante bellum with Allanea when it comes to diplomacy and commerce."). If enough sources could be convinced to return to the fold, as it were, the Cottish could rebuild their early warning network and maybe even provide their Questerian allies with early warning information on potential Allanean attacks, if given sufficient compensation for the trouble of course.

OOC: I hope you don't mind this Allanea. It might be interesting to see what the fate of the spy network is.

As with all such things, Marshal Friedrich Dietstein was quite aware of the Cotlandi espionage push. He did, of course take measures to deal with it – rotate units rapidly to avoid infiltration, replace some officers – but it was never a full-hearted effort. That was only a means to cut down on competition. Instead, a simple child's toy was left one day in the Cotlandi embassy – an MP3 player. Saved on the device was a recording of a classified meeting of the Allanean government.

It appeared that the Allaneans were not phased by the loss of territory in Haven per se – the Allanean Navy and Air Force were always only marginally competent compared to those of Clandonia and Doomingsland, and the land in Greater Prussia would be more fertile and easier to defend. The money raised from foreign sources helped rebuild the economy – but there were other things lost more important than money. The loss of face and the loss of national security – so spoke the members of the Cabinet – were catastrophic.

As such, the policy goals outlined were triple – on one hand, ensure, through diplomacy and a military buildup, the security of the ancestral Allanean homeland in Western Haven, and on the other, slowly and gradually restore the status of Allanea a full-fledged sovereign state vis-a-vis removal of the restrictions on her defense forces. The rebuilding of Allanea's set of colonies in Haven, or the achievement of some form of 'Havenic power status' was rejected as a goal.

Obviously, offensive operations against Questers, Cotland, and other Seagull Pact signatories were not being considered as viable options.

Rohmburg, Brettonia

Some further weeks had passed while the proper and redundantly-titled "gears of machination" were turning in the preparation for Kazansky's liberation. As promised, the Chancellor had a three-dimensional model of Liberty Island and the surrounding environs constructed - the facsimile was produced on a large drafting table, which was placed in the center of a room that normally housed something of a museum of medieval weapons and armor in the castle's second floor. Donner and Carpathia stood at either end of the table, the former using a laser designator to indicate the finer points of the operation.

"The "hijacked" freighter, actually under the control of a handful of very dedicated MIS operatives, will continue to steam ahead on a near-collision course with the island. During this time, our "Bolsheviks" - in reality, a regiment of the nastiest, meanest, most brutal and psychotic criminals excised from re-education centers and private sector labor camps - will be equipped for the assault," the Chancellor pointed at a model of a nondescript cargo vessel, which he moved via the aid of a collapsible metal rod. "The Navy hydrofoils that were sent to reclaim the "hijacked" freighter will have brought them on board, along with the relevant equipment - rifles, body armor, explosives, Bolshevik imagery, and so forth. I believe give or take thirty-two hundred ultra-violent lunatics, supplemented by two dozen looted Stahlkorper, should be able to handle the men stationed on Liberty Island, at least temporarily. While I'm sure you find it displeasing to consider your countrymen in such a callous fashion, they are loyal to the forces that deposed your President in the first place, are they not?" the Chancellor said smugly, placing another piece on the map.

"Meanwhile, our Borchardt-class submarine, U-441, will have quietly entered the theater of operations over here, which will act as a covert command installation, as well as facilitate the actual rescue itself. The hydrofoils that were sent to "recover" the freighter will proceed to launch an amphibious invasion of the island, under the PUL banner. They're reasonably armed themselves, but careful maneuvering will disguise a great deal of support by missile attack from the U-441 to be the product of the hydrofoils themselves. This missile fusillade will hopefully knock out the UAV facilities here and here," the Chancellor pointed at a pair of helipads on the compound, "while likewise dealing with any that have gotten airborne already. The bulk of their direction will be against the beaches at these landing zones, with the intent of clearing out mines and other obstacles as well as creating openings in the fortifications. I have no doubts that Liberty Island would be able to easily repel an unsupported attack by infantry, but combined with the artillery and the looted Stahlkorper units... that should even the score quite nicely, yes?" Donner advanced the freighter further towards the island as the hydrofoils closed in on several beaches he indicated.

"The "hijacked" freighter will continue to steam towards the facility at flank speed, with the simple intent of causing a distraction. Depending on how quickly your Navy can send a response flotilla, and what, if any, heavy ordnance the Liberty Island staff may be in possession of, the freighter may well be able to beach itself or ram the cliffs directly, which ought to get their attention real quickly. The MIS agents on board will quietly ditch beforehand and be picked up by the U-441 at the end of the operation. And speaking of which..." he said, placing a third model on the map next to the submarine.

"As the hydrofoils land and disgorge our Bolsheviks, the U-441 will launch a covert parasite submersible, aiming for the other side of the island. This carries with it the actual rescuers, which will use the chaos of the PUL invasion and the imminent collision of the freighter to deposit six Stahlkorper amid the cliffs here. Maintaining a low profile, they will scale the cliff and launch a quiet invasion of the compound - the garrison crew will be busy holding off the PUL force, and the freighter's noisy engines should be more than enough to mask the parasite submersible's approach. By the time anyone realizes that a half-dozen powered assault suits have breached the compound and are already inside, I fail to see any actual resistance being able to thwart the raid," Donner nodded, having placed all the pieces accordingly.

"At this time, the PUL "leadership" will announce that Liberty Island is now theirs, and that if they are not allowed to remove Ibn al-Fadl from the compound, they'll detonate a "nonconventional device" and annihilate the entire compound, rather than allowing their fellow anti-Allaneans to continue to rot. This is, of course, an extremely optimistic assessment of the ground operation, but with the facility's communications knocked out by the missile attack, hopefully they will be unable to refute the veracity of those statements to the rest of your people. By this time, our actual incursion team should have located Kazansky. Evidence will be left behind to suggest he was killed, rather than rescued - or kidnapped, depending on your perspective - which will hopefully discredit the very correct reality that he will be safely in our hands, and ready to begin plotting to return to the executive office. The raiding force will depart via the parasite submersible and be picked up along with the MIS operatives by the U-441," the Chancellor finished, moving the small piece representing the cover sub back towards the much larger Borchardt.

"Now, you may be wondering about tying up the rather notable loose end of our "Bolsheviks", the stolen Stahlkorper and hydrofoils, and the freighter itself. This is the purpose behind the statement of liberation for that Islamic fuckhead. Though it will appear to be the action of the PUL "terrorists", in truth, an Arbiter will have arrived by this point and dropped a hardened earth-penetrating bomb on the complex. Poof - the evidence of our involvement goes up in smoke. Once the place is safe enough to land, the Navy will find Kazansky and the rest of the prisoners to be quite dead, or at least evidence pointing in that direction. Quite the nefarious scheme, wouldn't you agree?" Donner grinned.

"News reports of the hijacking are ready to be circulated just as soon as we've finished assembling our "Bolshevik" strike force. I would be more than flattered if you'd carry on in an advisory position through all of this - great minds think alike, as they say."

Carpathia shrugged as he rubbed his chin. “No, I am sorry, this seems to be perfect. Of course... no plan survives contact with the enemy and all that. Obviously, I am not fully aware of the defenses of the island – nor is anybody – but this should work. Perhaps it should be better, however, for me to be deployed with the forward team? For one, I want Alex to recognize me when we get in. And then there's Ikeson. I want to make sure the bearded asshole is dead.”

"Personally lead the rescue, eh? That's... rather noble of you, Mr. Carpathia. Also, quite archaic in these times we live in, if you'll permit my frankness," Donner said with a bit of bemusement. Internally, he growled somewhat at the proposition. Who does he think he is, trying to get a one-up on me like that... I'll show him what for!

"Well then, I suppose all that remains is to... get the ball rolling, as it were. One terrorist insurgency, courtesy of Brettonian spin doctors, coming right up..."

In the meanwhile, the defenses of Allanea were undergoing various upgrades. Fifteen more divisions of mechanized infantry were brought in, and troops from various allied nations invited to build their bases in North-Western Haven. The stockpile of guided missiles was boosted by 10,000 more, and the construction of additional Vaults was still being sponsored.

And the traitor-general continued to die.

In the meanwhile, as the Allanean ground forces in North-West Haven grew, so did the naval forces. Fifteen cruiser escort squadrons had been rotated in to replace the carrier-based forces on Atlantic Island, and ten cruiser strike squadrons had been parked on bases on the southern shore.