ooc: this is an ooc post to defeat the ad. but what follows are to be a series of ic posts that begin to tell a story that shall be developing in Nova (http://www.nationstates.net/region=Nova) and how it affects Oceania (http://www.nswiki.net/index.php?title=Oceania_(country)) and other nations. i welcome posts from all, but above all hope to see some from those whose nations would be most directly impacted. cheers.
Birdsboro, Thames River, Sarnia
From just offshore Yalen Silia watched the flickering of lights from atop towers and cranes. In years past the flickers would have been but a string of pearls accentuating the distant columns of light from the city's central core. Now the city sat still, quiet and dim. Silia made careful note of the few bright lights, those of the pilots and guides shepherding freighters and tankers into the port facilities.
Despite the long neglect of the bulk of the city's infrastructure, the dockyards had been maintained as best as could be given limited resources. Once considered one of the largest ports in southern Sarnia, Birdsboro had shrunk considerably. But for men like Silia, Birdsboro's ports needed to be no larger.
Just off to his right, the sizzling of a struck match gained Silia's attention. "How are we, Yalen?"
The long-haired and bearded Silia turned to face a broad-shouldered, clean-shaven man standing tall besides a shorter, pudgier man whose face was lit by the recently struck match. "Very good, sir. We're next in the queue."
The taller man smiled in the flickering match light—abruptly extinguished by the shorter man, whose cigarette glowed red. "Brilliant, Yalen. And our new suppliers? I take it they were more than agreeable?"
Silia nodded slowly. "Very much indeed." He turned around to find the shoreline once more. And then suddenly, abruptly turned to face his two guests. "Would you like to see it?"
Georgetown, United Kingdom
"The initial report, sir, indicates that the haul exceeded our initial estimates."
Alexi Gerchinkov folded shut the newspaper in his hands and placed it down upon his desk. The Home Secretary frequently failed to ingratiate himself to his staff by reading the daily news during his morning briefings. "How much are we talking about?" he asked, his attention now gained.
"Approximately £250 million, Mr. Secretary. Initial intelligence by the RIS indicated a haul of perhaps £200 million."
"That's something the papers will like, Daniel. I take it we received little noteworthy intelligence from the apprehended?"
"That's correct, sir. Backgrounds are unsurprising—"
"Sarnians and New Londoners. What a lovely couple they make."
The two men smiled wryly. The 'unrest' in both Sarnia and New London were becoming intractable problems for Georgetown. And where a Sarnian was found, a New Londoner would soon follow. And vice versa. Both Gerchinkov and Daniel Levetev, however, were not native to the Home Islands. Originally from Novikov, they were intimately familiar with insurrections. A rebellion against Oceanian authority still simmered on mountainous islands in the Novikovian archipelago. Gerchinkov and Levetev both doubted that Georgetown would find a quick solution to the problems in Sarnia and New London.
Levetev placed a folder on the Home Secretary's desk. "Here are the brief bios on those apprehended. Nothing substantial."
Gerchinkov opened the folder, breezing through the men and women. All were young, all from Sarnia or New London. A few had attended university—Gerchinkov surmised they were the leaders of the import operation. "What's this all about," he asked, however, stumbling across something. He removed the paperclip and handed the page over to his secretary.
"Travel histories, sir."
"These university graduates appear more well-traveled than usual."
Levetev nodded. "Indeed, they appear to have traveled not just to Recedentia—the usual for weapons training—but also to New Albion and to Oceanian Atrea."
Gerchinkov nodded slowly while pulling up his mental map of the world. "What do they have in common, Daniel?"
Levetev shook his head. "Right now, we're unsure, sir. However, the colonial connection is relatively clear. All are territories where Georgetown has yet to establish effective control. Oceanian Atrea does not quite fit that bill, however."
"Well, get the RIS on that, if you would, Daniel."
"Very good, sir. Moving on, sir, we do have to prepare for the Cabinet meeting this afternoon…"
HMS Orion
"Rough seas up above, sir," a lieutenant offered towards two men, both with the rank of commander. "Meteorological Office in Hansa is tracking a frontal low pressure system approaching the coast."
The shorter of the two commanders turned to the taller, "Commander Levin, if you still want to go we can do so. Your call."
Commander Levin nodded rather soberly. "Yes, captain, I believe we shall continue."
"Very well," the shorter commander replied. He turned around to his executive officer. "Take us up, Commander Dawes."
Fifteen minutes later, Commander Levin found himself submerged beneath the surface of the Shesharlie Straits. Appropriately distanced from the Royal Navy patrol submarine, he closed his eyes and slipped back into his true persona, an RIS operative.
Alexander Remarah held onto the steering device of his vehicle, quietly propelling him towards his target. The digital clock indicated that he was a few minutes behind schedule—but that was to be expected with the turbulence above him. But the same weather could well benefit him, delaying the departure of his target.
Indeed, nearly forty minutes later, dark shapes became visible in the distance. Remarah checked his instrument panel, and found his location to be correct. All the dark shapes coming into view appeared the same. But so long as he followed the coordinates, he hoped to find the right shape. He manoeuvred around obstacles on the shallowing bottom as he approached one of the smaller shapes. Finally, his instrument panel indicated that he had arrived. Directly underneath a massive shape.
From the storage compartment of his vehicle, he removed a small box. He hurriedly applied the adhesives and attached the box to the shape, gave it a quick few tugs to make sure it was fit. Satisfied, he ditched the vehicle and swam to where the flat shape curved upwards. He swam upward a few metres and finally broached the surface. He clasped his hand on the black, steel hull of the freighter and then turned around to ensure that the cloud cover was still holding.
Remarah smiled, and then removed glorified suction cups from his waterproof backpack. After finding his pistol, he placed the suction cups on his hands and began the arduous task of climbing up until reaching the railing somewhere above his head. The hull was cold and increasingly slick from the cold, light rain falling. The climb was not impossible, but less than ideal. Hence the hazard pay.
At long last he reached the railing and his entrance to the freighter. He turned his head to both sides; he doubted that anybody would bother to be outside on such a raw, rainy night. But Remarah could not risk otherwise. Having secured his entrance, he climbed up and over the railing and landed squarely on the deck. Situated astern, he quickly pulled out his mobile data display to check the plans on the ship. The hatchways he needed were but a few metres forward.
He moved quickly and quietly, ducking underneath those windows from which light was emanating. He heard voices, some in foreign tongues—but importantly, some in English. As best he could tell, an Atrean accent. He set his device to record the voices—not so much the conversation. While knowing that some woman named Angela gave great head could well be important—solely of course for blackmail purposes—Remarah had a wholly separate mission to accomplish. And so he moved on.
The hatch was shut—not wholly surprising given the weather. And so Remarah pushed it open slowly, just enough to gain a peak as to what was in the corridor behind. Nothing. Just as he suspected. As he had hoped. He stole himself inside and shut the hatch. The plans had him move a few metres and then down a stairwell. He quickly made his way to the lower decks of the ship. To the cargo hold. To his mission.
Unlike the other parts of the ship, the hatch separating the hold from the crew compartments was locked shut. "Interesting," Remarah muttered to himself. He glanced at the schematics for the ship, the only other easy way in meant backtracking quite a bit. And so he shrugged his shoulders and then knocked on the hatch.
Silence prevailed for a few moments. And then came familiar sounds of the latches being undone and the hatch swung open. A man with a sub-machine gun strapped to his chest exited the hold. Seeing nothing, he walked forward a few feet until reaching the junction. He found nothing in the corridor, either. And then he felt nothing.
Behind the guard, Remarah smiled. The guard's head would be sore when he awoke. But in the meantime he would not give Remarah any real trouble. And so Remarah dragged the man's limp body into the hold. Inside, he immediately found a small table. And an open bottle of vodka. "Thank you for the means, sir," Remarah remarked. He dropped the guard clumsily on the deck. Then he took a quick swig of the alcohol. "Surprisingly good," he noted. He paused to look at the label. "Good brand," he added. Then he dropped the bottle on the deck next to the man. Remarach crouched next to the man. "Next time, try not to drink on duty."
Rising, he walked a bit further into the hold. And it took little time to find what he sought. Crates and palettes. Those were, of course, to be expected in the hold of a freighter. However, that several palettes carried boxes with visible markings of 'explosives' were not to be expected. Unless one worked for the Royal Intelligence Service.
Remarah walked over to the nearest stack of crates. He pried the lid off of the most accessible. Inside were well packed batteries and what appeared to be spares. He began to take photographs. He opened another crate. Launch tubes for anti-tank missiles. Another crate. Assault rifles. Another crate. Artillery shells. Another crate. Grenades. Arms and ammunition enough for a small army. "These chaps are getting serious," he mused aloud. Further down, he found more toys. Disassembled artillery units. Surface-to-air missiles. Ground-launched cruise missiles.
"Now from where have you come," he asked rather rhetorically. For the calibre of the munitions left him with little doubt. Near the end of the hold he came across two utility vehicles. After poking around for a few minutes, he found the necessary identifying marks. With the appropriate documentary evidence taken, Remarah quickly exited the hold and retraced his steps.
His egress was as quiet as his ingress. Except for the guard. Indeed, within half an hour, the guard awoke to find himself on the floor next to a shattered bottle of vodka. He remembered leaving the cargo hold but nothing else. However, knowing that drinking was not permitted, he opted to instead hurriedly clean the evidence of his transgressions.
The freighter would sail from Nova the following morning with Shesharlian military equipment aboard. By then the Royal Intelligence Service would be tracking the location of the freighter. Keeping tabs on who was interested in acquiring such military hardware. Although in truth, neither the RIS nor the Government doubted the ultimate recipient. What Remarah and the RIS did not have, however, was the final link necessary to make the connection. And so the transmitter attached to the hull of the freighter continued to transmit its location.