Republic of the Imperial Eagle [Langenia Maintenance Thread]

[Langenia]

This thread is CLOSED. No one can post here except myself and those who I grant permission to do so.

Republic of the Imperial Eagle

The Catholic Republic of Langenia, a theocratic Catholic presidential republic stretching across the north of the South American subcontinent, bordering both the Atlantic and Pacific and including diverse terrain, from the Andes mountains to the jungles around the western Amazon River to the deserts in the southwest. Its people are of diverse ethnic and racial origins dating back to an era when European countries dominated the surroundings lands and Langenia stood, a citadel that mixed old and new influences, bonded together in firm conservative beliefs and affiliation with the Roman Catholic Church that continues to this day. The country prides itself on its military prestige, boasting experience gained in wars from its foundation to the modern day, and military power that has always given the Catholic Republic an edge over its neighbors.

After enduring a 20th century where the country navigated a cycle of wars and the ideological clash between the United States and Soviet Union that manifested as the Cold War, Langenia came out stronger than it had ever been before, becoming a regional military and economic power and an avid participant of world affairs, shunning the isolationism that stemmed from the days of the Caesars overthrown in the 1919 revolution and internal strife. Now, the Catholic Republic of Langenia is at a crossroads. A La Fuerza rightist president has come into power, tightening his iron fist over the country and permitting the armed forces and intelligence services to gain more and more political power. The new foreign policy is one of expansion and desire to turn Langenia into a world power, by allying with nations like Nifon, Lauzanne, and the Prussian-Polish Commonwealth, while destroying the Aureumterran colonial empire's grip on parts of Latin America.

On the other hand, there are those who wish to restore Langenian isolationism and institute policies focused on internal Langenian issues first, such as poverty, crime in the cities, and corruption. What path will the country take? Only time will tell.

[Langenia]

Inauguration Day

August 1, 2014
Aragon, Langenia

Nicolas Furia stood on the podium, in front of a crowd that stretched as far as the eye could see. It was a beautiful day, the sky was clear, the sun beamed down on them, it was neither too hot nor too cold. They were in front of the Assembly Building, the building in the center of the Langenian capital city where the Grand National Assembly, the national legislature of Langenia, met. In a few hours, Furia would be heading to the Presidential Palace nearby in the presidential helicopter. As he looked down at the crowd of his supporters who had turned out in en masse for this day, Furia felt a surge of emotions go through him as he realized this day had really come, the pinnacle of all his achievements, his highest dreams and endeavors. Everything he had endured, living up to the expectations of his family, being wounded in his days as a Langenian Army special forces officer and being first introduced to the brutal system of politics and all its power struggles, it all became worth it for this one day.

For on this day Furia became President of Langenia, the most powerful man in the country he had grown up and lived in. He approached the podium with an air of confidence around him. This was in part because his wife, Isabella, was walking hand in hand with him to the podium. Her face, and the smiles and waves of his children and parents nearby, gave him this confidence to step up and accept the position he was about to receive. Once at the dais, he stopped. Isabella was handed a bible by the Speaker of the Grand National Assembly. She held it up to Furia, who placed his hands over it. The Chief Justice of the Supreme Court approached, and he repeated the oath of office he had memorized.

That was it. Now, he was the Langenian President, bearing the sash worn by all his predecessors, placed onto him after reciting the oath by the previous president Joaquin Avila, his mentor of the last four years. He grinned, at his wife, his children, Avila, the crowd, a smile of joy, of pride, that he had finally reached this milestone in his life. After giving his inaugural address and flying away in the presidential helicopter to the Presidential Palace, it occurred to him how much work there was to be done now that he had the office of the Presidency. Gazing down on the streets of Aragon from the high distance the helicopter was flying, and looking at the clear skies above them, the flight brought back memories to him of days long past, when he marched across the jungles and deserts of Langenia as a young Army officer, seeing the world with the camaraderie of his comrades.

He grinned for the umpteenth time at Isabella, who was strapped in a seat nearby, and his children, who looked insistent on taste-testing all the candy that had been placed for their benefit. "Don't you feel like this day brings back a flood of memories?" he asked of her, playfully. She cracked a small smile.

"Yes, of a certain young hotshot who thought he owned the world simply because he knew how to crawl through a jungle with a rifle on his back." Furia winced in mock sadness.

"You didn't have to be so glaringly honest about my former ego," he said, shaking his head in fake disappointment.

The children did not look up. The candy had a hundred percent of their attention.

The arrival at the Presidential Palace was a blur. Furia and his family were given a tour of the building, introduced to the staff, shown to where they would live and where Furia would work, case in point all the things a head of state needed to live and work in a place like this. Once settled in their spacious and luxurious rooms, however, the children insisted on a small party to celebrate their father's new role. Nicolas and Isabella obliged. After that, everyone had to go to bed, a rule largely enforced by Isabella.

---

August 2, 2014
Presidential Palace, Aragon, Langenia

Furia woke early that day. He had a press conference with reporters downstairs scheduled in two hours and an intelligence briefing scheduled in an hour. Grabbing some breakfast, he entered the office that was his by the right of the office, the large room furnished with an office chair, a desk, basically everything you'd except in the office of a head of state. The desk was neat and organized. Obviously, his predecessor Avila had performed that service for him the previous day. The briefing might have some boring for some, but to Furia, who had always been interested in what was going on in the world and was an avid follower of the news, be it local, national, or international, the briefing was far from dull. After that, he took the time to check on his children and his wife and say good morning. He was a husband and a father, after all.

Going downstairs to the press room, Furia couldn't help but think of how far he had come. Just 10 years ago, he had been just another officer in the Langenian Army. He'd gone through the fastest rise to power of any Langenian politician since possibly Alejandro Herrera himself. The guards outside the door saluted, and Furia shook hands with Julio Sanchez, his pick for Foreign Minister, and Martin Gonzalez, his pick for Defense Minister. There was a crowd of journalists and cameramen waiting as he approached the podium and stood in front of the microphone.

"All of you know the topics: security, the economy, foreign relations, etc. That's what we'll be talking about today. Please ask your questions."

"Good day Mr. President, I'd like to ask what will you do to improve national security?"

"For security from state and non-state actors, I intend to expand the military and complete my predecessor's crackdown on militants in Peru and Colombia, as well as his withdrawal from Afghanistan. Furthermore, police forces will receive additional funding to complete their mission to reduce crime in Langenia. Finally, the security services need more support in their mission to fight threats to Langenia before they get to Langenia."

The voice of Furia's press secretary rang out, giving the floor to another news agency.

The other reporter spoke. "Good morning Mr. President. I'd like to know more about your foreign policy, as well as your plan to stabilize this country economically and abroad."

Furia smiled darkly. He was already feeling like a head of state, with all the power at his fingertips. "The economy will receive incentives and investment to bring it out of the recession. Corruption in Langenia is unacceptable. Penalties will become harsher and attempts to sow discord in our nation severely punished. Finally, the Aureumterran Lion and ALL opponents of Langenia shall understand what it's like to cross the Catholic Republic."

The world would soon understand just how much of a turn Langenia would take on its quest for power.

[Langenia]

Three Nights in Caracas: Part 1

This post and the story it kicks off is not to voice my political views on the issues mentioned. The story is not meant to have anything to do with political debates, it is just what it is: a story to be read for your entertainment (hopefully) and mine.

National Police Headquarters, Aragon, Langenia, July 2015

On a hot summer day, a crowd of journalists and cameramen stood in front of a podium in the National Police of Langenia's headquarters, yelling questions and taking pictures. Before them stood the police chief of the country along with several high-ranking police officials. Enrique Rosales, a journalist for the Langenian Central News Agency, was among them. He was from Caracas, notorious as the most crime-ridden and gang-infested city in Langenia. When he had been offered the assignment to participate in this press conference concerning police operations in Langenia, Rosales readily accepted, wanting to learn more about police efforts to contain the violence in his hometown. Unlike most of the other reporters, focused on asking questions to the chief, Rosales focused his inquiries to the police official responsible for commanding the Caracas Police District. However, the many questions of the crowd made this difficult.

"What are the police doing to combat drug trafficking and violent crime?"

"How do the police intend to crack down on gang strongholds in the country?"

"Is it true that the National Police will begin internal reforms?"

Finally, the commotion began to subside as the conference neared its end and the chief and the police officials systematically answered each question with their answers. Once the conference had reached its end, the journalists were leaving and the police officials turning around to leave, Rosales saw his chance. "Excuse me gentlemen," he said to the commander of the Caracas Police Department and the National Police chief, "I'd like to know more about police efforts to combat crime in my hometown of Caracas." Both men stopped and turned around to face Rosales. "What would you like to know more about?" said the Caracas District commander. Rosales thought, and then said, "How will the police bring down the crime rate in the city?" The chief nodded. "The crime problem in the city has spiraled out of country, I'll admit. But rest assured, new measures are being implemented. Anti-gang units, SWAT raids, increased patrols, and better coordination between law enforcement assets in the city, it all helps." Rosales promptly responded "What effect have these measures have?" The Caracas commander smiled darkly. "I suggest you see for yourself."

---

Caracas, Langenia, August 2015

Sunset had begun over the city of Caracas. Inside a police station in one of the city's many neighborhoods, LCNA journalist Enrique Rosales rummaged through the bag containing his supplies: camera, pen and paper, water, snacks, flashlight, etc. He had put on a bulletproof vest and ballistic helmet with the help of officers at the station. After the Caracas Police District commander had told him to see firsthand for himself the effects of police measures in Caracas, Rosales had instantly been interested in the idea. After forms, paperwork, and the usual administrative yada yada Rosales had obtained permission to ride along with the Caracas police for three nights, representing his news agency. Tonight was that night, when he got to ride shotgun in a police car as it patrolled the streets of his hometown. Going out into the station's parking lot, Rosales shook hands with Juan Marquez, the police officer who was his ride for the night. Marquez was a middle-aged, tough, and burly police sergeant, a veteran of the police force for several years.

The two men walked to Marquez's Ford Police Interceptor Utility SUV and got into the car. Marquez explained what they would be doing that night. "We'll driving around the neighborhood, patrolling the beat. Any emergency calls come up, we respond to them. We'll go through side streets, main streets, residential areas, all of that." Rosales nodded. "I understand." It came to his mind how he had requested a ride along in this particular area because of the fact that it was one of the areas of Caracas that showed the contrast between the upper and middle classes, who lived in affluent suburbs, compared to the lower classes who lived in slums sometimes right next to the affluent suburbs. Thus, riding along with the cops here should make for an interesting night.

As they drove through the neighborhood, sometimes driving through main streets, other times driving through side streets, and passing through residential areas, Rosales took in the sights, and thought of what it was like to be a cop in places like these. He conversed with Marquez, who told him of his job. "You're going from call to call, waiting for that one important event that's gonna make you nervous as you go in," the lawman chuckled. After an initially quiet drive and the usual radio chatter, a call came through. A shooting had taken place and a young man was wounded. The victim warned that the assailants may be coming back to finish the job. In one fluid movement, Marquez turned on the siren and lights of the police cruiser, and they were speeding off to the scene, the darkened streets a blur as they drove past.

"Right now we're going to one of the rougher places in the neighborhood. You gotta watch your back as you go in and keep your guard up, as it sometimes can be a death trap in there. Slacking often leads to bad results," mused the grizzled sergeant.

The scene was blocked off by police cruisers with lights flashing, Dodge Charger Pursuits blocking one end and Toro patrol cars blocking the other. Marquez ran out of his car and drew his sidearm, while Rosales got out more slowly and cautiously, his camera held in one hand as he took pictures of the scene. Marquez and a couple of other cops were interrogating the victim as to what had happened.

"What happened dude?" asked the sergeant, initiating the questioning.

"Were some people chasing ya, was there a crime in progress, or what?"

The victim murmured something Rosales couldn't hear, but that the cops understood.

"Did you hear anything, see anything, guns, weapons, and so on? Or did you care at the time?"

"I didn't care," muttered the victim.

"I didn't think you did."

One of the cops jogged past Rosales, an AR-15 in his hand, directing an ambulance into the street. He smiled amusedly at the reporter's bewilderment. As the ranking sergeant on the scene, Marquez was directing the operation, giving orders and supervising. Rosales fired question after question at those officers who were available to talk, jotting down notes and taking even more pictures.

"Do you think this was gang-related?"

"With how much frequency do crimes like this happen on Caracas streets?"

"May I take a picture of this?"

An hour passed as the officers inspected the crime scene and detectives were brought in, picking up casings and inspecting evidence. Rosales noticed Marquez talking with a young man. Finally, once all the evidence at the scene had been collected and the detectives were satisfied, the cops left the street, Marquez and Rosales getting back into their patrol car. "How frequently do you see things like this happen?" he asked Marquez. Marquez thought for a moment, then said, "Too often. These gangsters and the like try to dominate these areas," he gestured at the homes around them, "but the gangster wall of silence means nothing to us. People are tired of the violence. The only viable force to control criminal gangs in these areas is the police, which means they are willing to cooperate with us, so long as we keep them anonymous, like that young man who was a witness to the shooting. Shame on them gang members, good for nothing. They don't care if you're rich or poor, everyone is targeted." No sooner had they left and were back on patrol then they were called away again.

This time they were responding to a report of a burglary in progress. This time they, along with another cop in a Crown Victoria Interceptor, were first on the scene. Guns drawn, the police sergeant and the other cop entered while Rosales waited in the car, watching as additional units showed up. Rosales finally got out of the squad car to join the cops. He followed one into the house that had been burglarized. Things were strewn all over the place, and the house was a mess. The family, who had been out at the time, had returned and were talking with one of the policemen outside. Officers inspected the damage to the home with their flashlights, guns out as a precaution as they searched for the suspects. The hairs on Rosales's neck stood up, nervous that something might happen. But nothing did, fortunately for him. A pair of suspects were escorted out in handcuffs and led outside.

"On your ass," barked Marquez at one of the perpetrators. The perpetrator complied, but his partner in crime was hesitant. "ON YOUR ASS!" the police sergeant roared. This time, he complied. One of them reached to get something from his shirt, but was promptly tackled by the sergeant and another officer, who hoisted to him to his feet and frisked him. "Never, ever stick your hand in your shirt and try to pull out something!" reprimanded the officer who had helped Marquez tackle the burglar. "It looks like you're pulling a gun out to me. Do you know that you almost got shot because you wanted a fricking snack, you jerk?!" sternly lectured Marquez. The pair of burglars were then shoved into squad cars and driven away to the station to be booked.

"It disgusts me, it really does," Marquez told Rosales as they drove away. "Why?" asked the journalist. "The fact that these people like that pair of robbers are on the streets, breaking into homes, mugging, armed and dangerous, threatening the livelihoods people have worked hard to achieve and the community as a whole for their selfish desires, frankly, it's infuriating." Rosales nodded. "I can see why. What do you think is necessary to combat this issue?" he enquired to the sergeant.

"I believe that we need a mix of community policing and heavy-handed responses, not too much of either, but together and used correctly, they can be highly effective tools. We need to form partnerships and alliances with the people of the neighborhoods we police, so they can speak out and cooperate so we the cops can get to the bottom of the issue. At the same time, we need heavy handed responses to utterly destroy the gangs. We can't treat it like just another crime surge, we need to treat it as an insurgency, except instead of the jungles of Colombia, on the streets of the city of Caracas."

Rosales stayed silent. They turned onto a dark side street, and Rosales felt on edge again. Marquez slowed his car, shining a light on the graffiti of the walls and studying it, analyzing and thinking, softly muttering some gang names Rosales couldn't comprehend. Turning back onto a larger thoroughfare, the police sergeant suddenly stopped the car and yelled at a group of men in a corner. "Hey! Put your hand behind you like that and see what happens, I dare you!" Marquez got out of the car and approached the group of men. "Turn around, 1, 2, 3, hands on your head. Now kiss the wall." The men turned around and approached the brick wall in front of them, their hands on their hand. The burly police sergeant came closer to frisk them. This upset one of the men and he started to protest. His buddies were about to follow suit, but Marquez dramatically touched his holstered sidearm, and they shut up.

After searching them one-by-one with Rosales watching, the policeman came back and placed a few items on the hood of his car. "Illegal dope," he announced. He went back and handcuffed one of them, shoving him into the back of the police cruiser. And that was how Enrique Rosales became acquainted with the stop-and-frisk policing strategy. By now, midnight, the streets were almost empty, the police car's headlights penetrating the gloom. After dropping off the suspect at the station to be booked, they went back out onto the streets, going from call to call, car thefts, robberies, assaults, etc. It was the wee hours of the morning when the journalist-and-police-sergeant pair returned to the station, and Rosales took his leave of Marquez to return home.

The drive was one of reflection for the LCNA journalist on all he had witnessed that night. He needed to know more. He needed to understand. What was driving the issue? He knew what was needed to contain it, but what about stopping the issue by its roots and going back to how it started? He had two interviews in the afternoon, one with the Caracas Police commander and another with a gang leader, the latter which he had carefully planned days in advance. Hopefully they would enlighten him, and prepare him for what he would witness riding along with the police in the next two nights. For now, he was tired.

To be continued...

Not to be continued, sadly.