The Greater Love (AMW)

[The Crooked Beat]

Tukholm

Like most Gandvian children born into aristocratic surroundings, Smaland's governor enjoyed an active and wholesome upbringing that paired swimming, shooting, and riding in summer with a winter full of cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, and skating. Decades of rich meals and easy living took their toll, however, and in his sixty-fifth year Johannes Brofeldt von Walden little resembled the tall, lean young man who, for a time at least, held national records in the 200-meter backstroke and 100-meter butterfly. Founding members of the newly-minted Revolutionary Action Committee struggled for several irreplaceable minutes to free von Walden from his mammoth VAO limousine, and after they managed to remove the governor's unconscious body from that overturned vehicle, faced further difficulty in transferring him to a much smaller Fagerberg hatchback, where, concussed and peppered with small metal fragments, he soon died. Von Walden's kidnappers, all of them in an understandably excited state, did not realize this until soon after reaching their intended hideout, and by that point a set of radically-altered circumstances had presented itself.

Martin Ehrstrom's attempt at translating his own anger with Gandvik's autocratic and unequal social order, and that of several close friends, into concrete action proceeded rapidly. Two co-conspirators, Elias Schiefner and Tanja Lepojarvi, were known to Ehrstrom from his days at Ingermanburg's prestigious State University, and belonged as he did to a roving population of young intellectuals whose activities Riga had attempted, without much success, to curtail. Two others, Tuomo Kessler and Ossi Heinonen, were locals, Kessler an occasional cannery worker and Heinonen, just past his eighteenth birthday, a recent inmate of the Kronoberg reformatory. Each brought their own skills and qualities to Ehrstrom's kidnapping plot, Heinonen and Kessler combining their savvy and criminal connections with the university graduates' technical literacy and access to a nation-wide network of similarly-disposed individuals, many of whom, while perhaps not willing to partake in such a scheme themselves, were more than happy to provide guidance and support. Lepojarvi even managed to construct a number of explosively-formed penetrator charges, using scrounged materials, in order to punch through von Walden's armored limousine.

When put to use, those bombs proved to be more effective than would have been ideal, tipping von Walden's VAO 4104 onto its roof and destroying an escorting police cruiser outright. It remained only to walk up, finish off what bodyguards were left alive, and extract von Walden, though Ehrstrom, in his calculations, had inexplicably forgotten to account for the Governor's girth, or consider what might happen if the bomb blast itself caused von Walden major injury.

Municipal policemen soon had Ehrstrom, Lepojarvi, Heinonen and Schiefner surrounded, and called in reinforcements. Their intended hiding-place, a vacant apartment tucked inside one of southern Tukholm's many drab residential towers, offered a concrete balcony from which to take pot-shots at the police blockade, but after Schiefner caught a bullet doing just that, his comrades opted to stay out of sight. In all, what would become known as the Brandbergen Siege lasted just over seven hours from start to finish and claimed four lives, including von Walden's. Of his kidnappers, only Lepojarvi managed to emerge alive and improbably at that, her body filled with not less than ten rifle-caliber and eight pistol-caliber rounds. Special Agent Lindfors reached the devastated apartment just as a stretcher-borne Lepojarvi made her exit, prompting Lindfors, ever respectful, to remove his fur cap. Trailed by a quartet of plainclothes security policemen, Lindfors stooped low and, after briefly losing his balance, managed to half-step, half-fall through a jagged hole blasted through the apartment's plasterboard walls and subsequently enlarged with sledgehammers and crowbars. As suspected, the revolutionaries had installed both a trip-wire and pressure plate, rigged to detonate an additional home-made bomb, to cover their front door, and until a team of Gendarme-Sappers felt sufficiently certain that no further surprises existed, all movement would have to pass through alternative points of access.

Lindfors and his colleagues forced their way through a throng of policemen and gendarmes dressed in a colorful panoply of uniforms until they stood before Johannes Brofeldt von Walden, his chalky visage pointed skyward and wearing a serene expression. Ehrstrom, Heinonen and Schiefner, their corpses riddled with dozens of bullets, had been tastefully covered-up, but von Walden's own covering had been removed, and he lay on top of an old army-issue blanket, dressed still in an expensive dinner-jacket. Though officially closed to non-essential personnel, in a nation such as Gandvik, administered by dozens of complementary and overlapping agencies, that restriction still allowed nearly two dozen men into a crime-scene smaller than some closets, and any hope of extracting useful forensic information had long since disappeared. Still, quiet descended upon the crowded apartment's numerous occupants as the Sapo men advanced, and although not technically ranking officer, Lindfors immediately found himself an object of deference. "At ease, men" said Lindfors, giving a halfhearted salute, in an attempt to break the tension, and at this opening a black-clad Gendarme, ski mask pulled down around his neck, stepped forward, in a state of clear agitation.

"Major Waldner, sir. I...I hope...you see, the medics, they checked him and they seemed to think he was already dead. I mean, that they got him with the bomb. Doctor, didn't..." A Gendarme medic shot Major Waldner a hostile glance.

"Don't worry, Waldner. I'm not looking for scapegoats. Your men did well under the circumstances. My commander led me to believe that you had discovered a camera?" Lindfors dipped to the floor, supporting himself with his cane, for a closer look at von Walden's body. Apart from a handful of large and small wounds that appeared to confirm Waldner's explanation, he could find nothing of interest and the painful creaking of damaged knee joints as he attempted to stand led him to regret making the effort to begin with. Still, as Lindfors well knew, any gesture that helped to reinforce the uniformed services' respect for the Security Police could rarely be described as misplaced.

After a brief commotion, Waldner returned with a small digital camera, a locally-produced knockoff of a Nibelung model, taped to a small tripod. "Here, sir. We found this in the master bedroom. There were some documents in there also. Looks like some sort of script to me." One of Lindfors' scowling subordinates, thinking it improper for a Gendarme to voice his opinions on investigative matters, quickly snatched the evidence from his hands.

"A script indeed, no doubt, Major. I think we can draw some conclusions about what these young people had in mind, at least. Looks like you left their jurisdiction, old boy," commented Lindfors under his breath. Speaking up, he addressed the room. "Gentlemen, the Interior Ministry has given orders, effective immediately, for the Security Police to take over all responsibility for the investigation into Governor von Walden's assassination. I must ask that anyone not performing a specific task assigned by a Security Policeman return to ground level at once, and that all evidence be turned-over to myself or one of my colleagues. You have done excellent work, but orders are orders, and these are Riga's wishes as represented to myself and my supervisor."

Lindfors waited for the apartment to clear before shuffling over to its pockmarked concrete balcony. The blinding illumination provided during the siege by a searchlight battery had given way to a subtle pre-dawn glow, mixed with flashes of blue and red from a still-numerous contingent of police cruisers. Placing a cigarette to his lips, Lindfors looked on while, five floors below, a group of patrolmen applied boot and truncheon to a wandering drunk caught inside the security cordon, all that remained of what started out as a large and volatile crowd, one whose scale and emotional pitch threatened to cause another crisis on top of that brought about by Ehrstrom and his colleagues.

"A light, sir?"

"Ah, yes, thank you." Lindfors turned about to accept the young Sapo agent's cigarette lighter and when he turned back, his gaze shifted to the highway that ran nearby, linking Tukholm proper with Brandbergen and points south. An empty tram rattled along an adjacent rail line, briefly throwing its shadow across street vendors setting-up their stalls in a nearby parking lot in readiness for the morning commuter trade. For a moment, Lindfors allowed himself to lose focus, and old memories, long dormant, began to surface. On the early morning air, Lindfors could almost detect the pungent agricultural aromas that enveloped his brief childhood. The furious buzzing of a field telephone receiver brought him back to his senses.

"Sir, head office for you."

"Alright, tell them I'm on my way."

NW of Rutters, Editraequan

Adversity, national tradition dictates, is a condition that calls for alcohol in heroic quantities, and for Sergeant Hugo Ostling, broken in retaliation for his role in a botched operation, commissioned to fix another botched operation, a posting with Lieutenant Colonel Lassmann's military-diplomatic mission in Editraequan was in many ways ideal. He wasted little time, at any rate, in acquainting himself with the full range of local peasant brews, cheap, abundant, and, most importantly, potent. In his capacity as special adviser to Editraequan's active Special Branch, a day's work often called for some moral stiffening.*

Ostling slept soundly in spite of the bitter cold and poor going as his convoy rolled to a stop on a darkened steppe, and awoke to the sound of clanging tailgates and stamping feet as Counter Terrorism Unit 5 debouched from its transport. More than a few of those fifty-odd men had been drinking, and several were drunk, but Ostling's art and experience placed him in a class of his own. He took one generous swig from a spirit-filled canteen prior to disembarking from the cab of an elderly Westerton Bull, one immediately after, another after stumbling through a small pine grove and watching CTU-5 fan-out to approach its target village, and yet another after he managed to cross several hundred meters of snow-covered wheat fields to reach the village itself. Ostling reached for his flask once again while he waited for the detachment commander to give his signal, but, with so many eyes on him as senior foreign representative, thought better of the idea and drew his automatic pistol instead, although he promptly managed to eject the magazine.

"Special Branch! Open Up!" shouted masked policemen into a dozen small cottages, moments before battering rams and kicking feet bashed through front doors and flares arced into the night sky. Ostling followed the detachment commander, into one of the larger homes and, putting on his most caricatured Shieldian accent, joined the Special Branch men in a noisy and none too careful search. He smashed one wooden chair and toppled a dresser for appearances' sake, all while waving his unloaded P35 and shouting threats at the bewildered occupants, but soon made his way out to an adjoining barn, ostensibly in search of weapons.

Ten minutes passed before Ostling turned up, looking unhappy, and by that time CTU-5's raid had started to wind down. As breakable items became more scarce, and clear evidence of weapons caches or known suspects failed to materialize, attempts were made to interrogate individual villagers, especially those found to possess firearms. Ostling surveyed the discoveries with a seasoned eye, and was examining a double-barreled shotgun when the Shieldian detachment commander called out. "Sergeant," he said, holding a diminutive farmer by his shirt collar, "maybe you'd like to take a crack at this one?"

Slowly, Ostling ambled over, shotgun slung across one arm. The detachment commander shook the farmer free, and Ostling, squaring up to the man, slapped him across his face. "Now listen, you damned hayseed!" he bellowed, half-jokingly, his breath smelling heavily of grain spirits, "We know you're storing weapons for the rebels, and you better fess up or we'll make an example of you!" Ostling drew his still-unloaded P35 and pressed its muzzle against the farmer's forehead. "Where's tater? You papist dog! Where's tater!" The farmer, babbling an excuse, broke into tears, and Ostling slapped him again. "That's it, you snake. You're coming with us!"

Ostling took hold of the man's collar and shoved him toward a group of male villagers under guard, illuminated by burning parachute flares. "Alright, men, let's wrap it up!" called the detachment commander, and, loading their captives onto a pair of empty Westerton Bulls, CTU-5 motored off, another security operation to its credit.

(OCC: This will definitely be subject to some pruning over the next couple of days, but seeing as I'm already a solid week behind on this, I felt it wouldn't be a terrible idea to post what I had written so far, so that all parties might at least have a sense of what is going on.

*Don't know if any of this information is in any way accurate, so subject to change!)

[Iansisle]

Editraequan

The girl blanched when she saw what lay on the desk. She held a hand up to her mouth as if to hold back vomit. The clock ticking in the wood-paneled study was as loud as a thunder clap.

The priest waited for the girl to compose herself. He was dessed informally, in just a collar. Even that was only possible here, in the safe-house. Todd Andrews and his regime were becoming increasingly intolerant of Catholics in their tiny republic; he no longer trusted the majority of his own people. And perhaps that was wise.

“Please, father --” she managed at last. The sentence ended in a choking sob.

“It is a grievous sin,” said the priest.

The room was cold. Officially, it was not being used. An abandoned apartment complex, dating to the days of the Great War, in an industrial sector on the east bank. Half of it had been collapsed by an artillery shell during the brief skirmishes around the city after the revolution.

“Are you familiar with the stories of the probiats, my child?” he asked, his voice gentler now.

“Y-yes.”

“Then you know what happened to the Princess Dalyie.”

This only renewed the sobbing. The priest ignored it.

“God loves you. It deeply saddens Him to see the mischief that His children may get up to. But there is always forgiveness. You know this.”

The girl had mostly run herself out of tears but she seemed unable to respond. The priest considered her for a moment. She was almost beautiful, and likely would be in a few years. So young, he thought. But she had been the perfect target – young, devout (but not too much so), and bored in an unhappy marriage. Sam was handsome, irreverent, with just a hint of danger, and he always seemed to know just how to bring her spirits up. She had told herself that it was all innocent, that they were just friends caught up in the whirlwind of Mover Editraequan. This delusion sustained her.

“I know, father,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye.

“Then you are ready?”

She nodded.

“It is not a light task you set yourself to.”

On their third night of passion, Sam had contrived to be caught by her husband. That had been a little closer run than they had wanted. The man was smaller than Sam, but he reached the shotgun hidden in the closet in half a second. He had blasted both barrels down the alleyway just before Sam could turn the corner. Sam had laughed with adrenaline even as they were digging buckshot out of his backside in a warehouse.

“May I get you some tea?”

The girl shook her head. She would not meet his eyes. “No, father – thank you. You've been so good to me. Far better than I deserve.”

Breaking down the ego of a recruit was the first step. The priest had gotten lucky here; that had been done for him already. He could still see bruises and cuts, some of them infected, all over the girl's head and arms. Her husband had not been happy with the affair. No wonder she had fled to the shelter of the Church. It was just her misfortune that Sam had been able to subtly direct her to this particular father.


“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Please, father. The words. Just one more time.”

“Of course.” He began in Latin.

“No, please, father.” The girl was trembling. “In Shieldian. I – I did not pay sufficient attention in Sunday School. Will the lord also forgive me for that?”

The priest nodded. It was actually a stalling tactic while he desperately racked his memory for the correct words. It had been years since he had been kicked out of seminary. At last they came: “Greater love hath no man,” he said, “that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

The girl was crying again.

Field outside of Spearsbury, Editraequan

The nicotine felt good. Harmon Benson had been abstaining lately, part of his cover. On this cloudless night, however, the smoke was as much a signal as a guilty pleasure. The GB-2 came in at treetop level, almost directly above his head, circled once, and then landed on its big bush tires in the field. Benson took one last, desperate pull and then stomped out his cigarette butt.

As he crossed the field, Benson could see dark forms carrying RG65s jump from the airplane, whose propeller was only just starting to cycle down. One leveled his rifle at Benson and barked out a challenge in a Shadoran-accented voice.

“Blue lights along the parade route,” Benson called back. The rifle moved on in search of other targets as the paratrooper rushed past him to establish a perimeter in the tree-line. The next figure out of the GB-2 was unfamiliar; a young Shieldian with high cheekbones and a hooked nose looming over a thin mustache. In contrast to the insignia-less camo of the paratroopers, the officer wore a black turtleneck with a ski mask pulled down around his neck – some Ianapalis bureaucrat's idea of proper field garb, probably.

Benson stopped and narrowed his eyes. “Where's Searchlight?”

“Searchlight won't be coming, old boy.” said the new officer. “Caught a goose to the temple last week, you follow? My name's Enamel. You must be Follicle, eh?”

“Enamel?” Benson repeated.

“I know, where do they come up with these, makes you wonder.”

Benson's hand was crawling towards his jacket. The pilot, who had come out to investigate the landing gear, noticed it. His hand crept back towards his toolbox.

“I've just had the most quixotic dream,” said Benson.

“I went sailing on a crystal-clear lake,” said Enamel. His dark eyes darted from Benson's face to his hand. “Come now, old boy, you don't doubt my bona fides?”

“I don't like unannounced changes,” said Benson. His hand relaxed by his side. Two of the paratroopers returned, signaling the all-clear. Enamel nodded and two men started unloading crates from the GB-2.

“No, I don't doubt that,” Enamel said. “But look here, how were we to have told you? Called up old man Andrews and ask him to put notice in the local paper? Be reasonable, won't you – Searchlight is still stretched out cold on an examining table.”

Benson pulled an encrypted page out of his pocket. “Here. My latest report. There's a lot more Ganders in country than there used to be. Makes me nervous.” His head cocked at the crates. “At least you brought presents. What do we get this time?”

“Ammunition, both P35 and R63. Some field rations. Explosives – if you could get those to Cloth, we'd be much obliged – and, my personal favorite, an R42 with two boxes of ammunition.”

“That's not what I asked Searchlight for.”

Enamel shrugged broadly. “Getting these supplies isn't a child's game, old boy. You'll just have to make do, I'm afraid.”

The GB-2's engine gunned. The paratroopers reembarked. Enamel climbed back on board. “Any other requests you can send through me, of course.”

“Yes, one thing,” said Benson. “Some flowers for Searchlight's old lady.”

[The Crooked Beat]

Riga

Civil servants assigned to Riga Castle could usually count upon that structure's thick walls and network of cramped, dark passages to shield them from Mikalous Andres-Kletsk's frequent rages, but since news of Johannes Brofeldt von Walden's assassination broke over Gandvik's seat of government, this protection had started to seem, to many of those concerned, unacceptably thin. No one faced greater exposure to the Chancellor* and his foul moods than his private secretary of nearly thirty years, gaunt, graying Folke Snellmann. Equipped with famously sharp powers of observation, Snellmann possessed a knowledge of Andres-Kletsk that no living person could match, not the grim, puritanical Mrs. Andres-Kletsk, not his despised children, certainly not any of his State Council colleagues. Snellmann's uncanny ability to predict, interpret, and even, to a definite extent, channel the Chancellor's thoughts and reactions was a power in itself, and not without reason did many well-connected individuals joke that Snellmann, rather than his ostensible master, really ran Gandvik.

Recent events had certainly demanded of Snellmann every ounce of political acumen that he could summon. Under normal circumstances, Snellmann's imperturbability and faultless tact provided a perfect foil to Andres-Kletsk's tempestuousness, but the burden of a crisis-laden two weeks was beginning to tell on a man who, while relatively young for such a senior office, had long since lost all youthful qualities. Undoubtedly, Andres-Kletsk realized that his life, and his grip on authority, was fading at a rapid rate, and like many powerful men he lashed-out against the gathering darkness, the impotence of old age, with a spiteful violence, terrorizing his subordinates with an endless stream of hectoring telephone calls and a string of hostile personal interviews.

Rudolf Fagerholm, Sapo director-general, arrived early for his own appointment at Riga Castle as requested by Snellmann, but found the secretary in an uncharacteristic pose. Snellmann sat at his heavy oak desk, face buried in bony hands, staring abjectly at a pair of aspirin tablets as they dissolved in a glass of water on his desk-top. He didn't seem to notice, at first, as Fagerholm stepped into the small but expensively-furnished office, and after standing for an awkward moment, the Sapo director, pretending to look for some nondescript item, ruffled his suit jacket. This seemed to break Snellmann out of his daydream and with a start he looked up, quickly exchanging his bewildered expression for one of calm authority.

"Ah, good afternoon, Fagerholm. Please, sit down." Snellmann motioned to a leather armchair positioned to face his own station. "The old man expects you at 3:30, but I hoped that I would be able to speak with you first. Smoke?"

"Yes, thank you." Fagerholm plucked a cigarette from a gleaming silver case held in Snellmann's outstretched hands, and fished for his own lighter. "Tell me, now, I'm sure you know what he talked about in our conversation yesterday. Does he mean to go through with it all? What should I expect to hear?"

"Well, only the Chancellor knows his own mind," Snellmann began, unconvincing in his sincerity, "but as you well know, von Walden's assassination is without precedent, and I'm sure you can imagine how this particular crisis has been received by head office. Bearing that in mind, though, I wouldn't take his bluster too literally. After all, who could he possibly replace you with?" he added with a slight chuckle. "No, he needs you. I dare say he even trusts you. Sure, you're in for a bashing, but feed the man some statistics, show him that political arrests are up, and that the investigation is making progress, and you'll stay afloat." Snellmann paused momentarily to sip from his glass of water. "On to other business. What are we going to do about Kniephof?"

"My sources inform me that he isn't a real contender for the leadership. Have you heard otherwise?"

"Not exactly, but he is popular with the nationalists, since all of this Thortraian nonsense. You've seen what they wrote in Paivan, and how that got past the censors I do not know. Not only that, but he's got the army on his side, no small consideration."

"Maybe so, but the military hasn't sought out the top job since Strandmann's day, and why should it? Government is a dirty business. Kniephof wouldn't only be risking his own image, but that of the armed forces as a whole. The way things stand, he has a hand on the throttle and a finger in the pot, but when things go south, he can still make himself out to be the innocent party. There'd be no scope for that in the Chancellor's seat."

"True, true, an ideal situation if ever there was one. Still, Kniephof's been making noises, and I half expect he'll be eager to throw around his newly-acquired political capital when the time comes."

"Word in army circles is that the Field Marshal has made himself mightily unpopular among upper management. All this saber-rattling with the Teutons, rumor has it, has put the field commanders on edge. Not to mention, he's got as many secrets as anyone. I'm sure he could be persuaded, if necessary, to back the right horse."

"My goodness, director, sometimes I wonder if you wouldn't do for executive office yourself. But there your talents would be squandered!"

Both men allowed themselves a brief moment of levity, but this evaporated as Snellmann cast a glance at his wall clock.

"Time. I'll show you in."

Solemnly, Fagerholm and Snellmann rose from their chairs and made for the heavy, wide-set double doors that led into Andres-Kletsk's cavernous office. After a sharp knock to announce his presence, Snellmann opened with some difficulty the creaking portal and peered inside, announcing, "Your excellency, Director-General Fagerholm has arrived."

Andres-Kletsk habitually kept his personal offices dark, and his figure was almost difficult to discern across the broad, ornately-carpeted gulf that separated the Chancellor's mountain of a desk from the doorway. His small frame was dwarfed by a high-backed, finely-carved wooden chair that held more than a coincidential resemblance to a royal throne, but Snellmann could see enough to determine that something was not right. The Chancellor was slouched forward in an abnormal posture, with one outstretched arm flopping irregularly across the desk-top. Snellmann took several strides forward, before the realization struck him. "My God!" he shouted inadvertently, and turned to face Fagerholm, who was searching without much success for words to express his profound shock. "Quick, get doctor Fincher," Snellmann ordered. "My God, my God, it really is happening."

Gandvian Embassy, Editraequan City

For some time after his return from what remained of Vasserson Memorial Church, Colonel Evald Lassmann, normally a responsible and hard-working man, struggled to focus on a large stack of reports and dispatches that awaited his perusal and comment, and instead gazed out of his upper-floor office window on Editraequan's evening cityscape. As someone who had witnessed violent death up close, during his time with Lieutenant-General Bjorgstrom's force almost a year earlier, and remained unaffected by his experience, Lassmann was not bothered by the gutted building and its spectacle of human suffering, most of which had already been cleared-up before he arrived to survey matters first-hand, but a problem occupied Lassmann's formidable intellect whose character promised to unleash at least as much bloodshed, quite likely a great deal more, and which threatened to touch-off another armed clash between two of Europe's most mutually-unfriendly nations.

Lassmann's concern, in his capacity as chief Gandvian representative in a state that, one might argue, would not exist except for Riga's determination to see a divided Shieldian polity, was to guide Editraequan's affairs in a direction consistent with Gandvian interests. While without doubt a terrible tragedy, the Vasserson bombing more importantly represented an unplanned complication, another variable that Lassmann would have to take into consideration when calculating Gandvik's next move in a game whose stakes were higher than most.

The Gandvian ambassador had made no secret of his views on the current Mover regime's increasingly repressive attitude toward Catholics, and in a stream of diplomatic communiques and missives Lassmann attempted to sell Todd Andrews on a more moderate and inclusive line, without much apparent success. Lately, official communications had taken a warning tone, and some indication of Riga's growing frustration with Editraequan's present government had even found its way into the public arena, through an editorial published in Paivan, but Lassmann could only hope that Andrews remained ignorant as to how far Gandvian plans had actually progressed. Some in Riga, Lassmann did not doubt, saw a war with the Gull Flag Republic over Editraequan as an end in itself, as an opportunity to reassert Gandvik's military superiority after its embarrassment in Thortraia, but Lassmann preferred to think that he was playing at something far more intricate and meaningful. Paul von Nesselrode-Dellingshausen, at least, had spotted what he took for an opportunity to exchange a regime whose fundamental unpopularity and instability would be virtually assured, with one built on firmer foundations, and responsibility for putting this program into action fell, in large part, to Evald Lassmann.

Privately, Lassmann allowed himself to hope that, when the time came, Andrews would make a graceful departure to a life in exile somewhere in the Protestant world, but such a solution did not appear very likely. At minimum, any coup would have to take place quickly enough, and with sufficient visible support, preferably on both sides of Editraequan's religious divide, to overwhelm Andrews and his core supporters morally and, if necessary, physically as well. While STO personnel in Gandvik proper canvassed expatriate nobles, and military intelligence agents operating in Editraequan attempted to make contact with members of the Catholic underground, Lassmann set his sights on Mover figures in and around government who might, under certain circumstances, be persuaded to abandon their current leader in favor of a more broadly-based coalition. Elaine Cahill's spectacular and, as far as Lassmann could recall, unprecedented attack on Vasserson Memorial Church had thrown that particular part of Lassmann's plan out of alignment. Under an atmosphere of rising inter-communal tension, efforts aimed at separating moderates and waverers from Andrews' camp, he reasoned, could well face greater opposition.

At the same time, Lassmann could almost perceive a way in which the bombing might be turned to Gandvik's advantage. At a stretch, it might even be cited as a pretext for a Gandvian military intervention, albeit a thin one. But Riga certainly saw the attack as evidence of Andrews' failure to maintain control, and Lassmann was entirely prepared to argue that, unless a change of direction could be brought about, such incidents would only become more common, and the specter of a Gull Flag invasion more real.

Whatever he did, Lassmann would have to act with caution and scrupulous discretion, lest Andrews catch wind of what was afoot before all pieces were in place and, horror of horrors, make a deal with Ianapalis. For Gandvik to maintain its influence in Editraequan after such a reverse would require some creative diplomacy indeed.

As night finally descended upon Editraequan's sprawling metropolis, Lassmann turned his attention to more proximate concerns. Taking up a ball-point pen, he scrawled a clutch of barely-legible notes on embassy stationary, and, that task accomplished, called to his secretary over the office intercom. "The drafts are ready, Mr. Harvola."

(OCC: I'm sorry that this has taken so long again. I meant for the second part of this post to serve as sort of a statement of Gandvik's position, from which I will, with luck, be able to focus more finely on concrete actions and initiatives. Also, expect a telegram soon! And my apologies for any irksome grammatical slip-ups. Editing has been rushed, and there are still some outstanding issues with my first post to cope with on that front. Anyway, hope this proves workable, and feel free, as always, to suggest any improvements or alterations that spring to mind.)

[Iansisle]

Rural Weshield, south-west of Balliat

Three dark shapes moved down the rough dirt path in the fading hours of daylight. This far from the city, it was easy to forget the choking coal soot and incessant noise. And there were stars here – stars that stretched from the edges of the roaring red sunset off into the faint line between the neat lines of buckwheat and the navy blue sky above it. The figures were almost insignificant below it, stumbling always another step onwards. One of them in particular, the largest, kept pulling up lame.

“Come on, your Majesty,” said Weathers, supporting James by the arm. “Almost there. I swear. Just a few more miles.”

The former High King of the Shield bent over double, trying to catch his breath as he blinked back tears. “It's this damned foot of mine,” he muttered. “I'll be fine in a minute, Weathers.”

“This long of a walk was a bad idea,” said the Baroness of Balliat, her eyes sweeping back and forth on the road. “With his gout, we'll never make good enough time.”

“I do not have gout. My foot is just in pain. Some damned sympathy would go a long way.”

“Of course, your Majesty.”

“Shut up, Weathers.” James took another tentative step, greatly favoring his right foot.. “That's good enough for now. Come along.”

He had only hobbled another few steps when he felt Weathers' strong hand on his shoulder again. “Damn it, man, I told you --”

“Quiet.”

The three stood in silence for several long seconds.

“I hear it too,” said Lucy.

“What?” asked James, who was breathing too heavily to hear much of anything.

“Prop plane, bearing south-east or south. Into the ditch.”

James grumbled a bit at this, but heaved himself into the wide, shallow culvert. He let Weathers decorate him with some vegitation and composed himself to wait. After a time, even he could hear the low, monotonous drone coming from down the road.

The GB-2 passed low over their position, less than a mile away. It was too dark to see more than a silhouette. It was soon lost in the blazing sunset to the north-west.

“Almost certainly Gulls,” said Lucy, brushing herself off. “A crop duster wouldn't be wandering that far afield. If they're here this late in the day, I'd wager they have no idea where we are.”

“They may not even have been looking for us,” said James.

“After how your man handled the guards at Dun Adien? I shouldn't think we're that lucky, your Majesty. And remember, under its thin crust of western sensibilities, this Republic is just as violent and vindictive as a Depkazi khan. You're a threat to their very underpinnings – they will sooner kill you than lose control.”

Weathers, silent in the conversation between his social betters, had been looking out to the west, squinting against the setting sun. “Another ten miles, I should think,” he said. “We will be able to make it before midnight.”

Undisclosed Location, Free Citizens Republic of Arabia

The burlap sack took more than a little of his hair with it. The man grimaced, shying away from the harsh white light in his face. The stark contrasts highlighted the dried blood covering his face and the two throbbing black eyes. Had his nose not been broken, he would have been considered quite handsome.

“Rough flight?” asked a voice hidden in the darkness behind the glare.

“Not the worst I've ever had to Arabia,” said Lord Evanpass, his voice cracking somewhat after having gone unused for several days. “Although your thugs could use a bit of an education on manners – it's far more polite to lead with the right foot when kicking a helpless man.”

“What makes you think you are in Arabia?” said the voice.

“What makes you think I'm an idiot? Leaving me in a metal tube while it's a hundred and twenty out might be a great intimidation technique, but it doesn't exactly hark of the Walmingtonian wilderness.”

“Where is John Callahan, the so-called Boy King?”

“So it is the Gulls, eh? Direct, aren't youooph.” Evanpass hardly had time to crack wise before a heavy blow took him in the gut. He hadn't even seen the man standing next to him.

“I will not play games. Where is John Callahan, the so-called Boy King?”

Evanpass had to pant a few times before he could put breath to words. “I don't know.”

The next blow took him in the mouth. Bright, fresh blood flowed from a large cut on his lip.

“We have other sources. Your compatriots have already betrayed you. Tell us. Where is John Callahan, the so-called Boy King?”

“New at this, are you?” A heavy blow landed on his face again. “Christ! If I knew, I would tell you. If you knew, you wouldn't be asking me.”

“Where is John Callahan, the so-called Boy King?”

“In Nibelunc, or in Gandvik, or in hell. I don't know. We were separated after the fall of Tharia. They were moving him – an ambulance. I don't know where they went. I was too busy trying to get out.”

The voice behind the light must have made some gesture because Evanpass had no sooner finished that sentence than the burlap sack was forced roughly back over his head. Strong arms grabbed him and dragged him out of the chair and towards the door.

Rural Weshield

Weathers knocked just as he had been told. Two short raps, a fist pound, and three rat-tat-tats.

They stood before the farmhouse for what seemed an eternity in the blackness of a Shieldian night. The family who lived here seemed to have been fairly well-to-do before the Revolution. Most likely a local squire and his family, James speculated. They were lucky to have made it through the burning of Weshield – although obscene graffiti sprayed on the barn indicated that perhaps they hadn't gone completely unnoticed.

At long last, the front door whispered open and an old woman poked her head out. “What brings you ruffians to my door at this hour?”

Impatiently, James shoved past Weathers and held a light up to his face. “Do you recognize me?” When she hesitated, he demanded again. “Do you?”

“Ye-ssss,” she said, drawing the syllable out for several long seconds. “Yes, I do. Your Majesty. Of course, please come in.”

The passage turned out to be hidden behind a secret panel in the closet under the staircase. The bunker was not much to look at – perhaps two hundred square feet of bare concrete with poor lighting and water damage – but James was not there to critique the decoration. He rushed to the figure stretched out on a cot in the middle of the room, hooked up to an oxygen tank.

“My son.” He cradled John's head in his arms for a few seconds before terror struck him like an icicle to the chest. “He's – he's not moving. Oh God. Am I too late?”

“He's stable,” said Christine, pushing her way past a nurse. “Let him go. Stable but heavily medicated.”

“Still? It's been months.” James carefully laid his son's head back on the thin pillow. One of the medical attendants coughed discreetly into her hand.

“He was shot.” Christine glared at him. “Dear God, if only it had been you.”

There was a certain amount of polite coughing and shuffling by the various commoners in the room, all of them keen to make an exit lest they get between the quarreling royal couple.

Half the world away, Lord Evanpass heard a new question.

“Where is James Callahan?”

[The Crooked Beat]

Outside Riga

"Next slide, please. No...yes, you see it? That button there. No?"

A smartly-attired Lieutenant Ali Eloranta, Sam Browne blacked and polished to gleaming, stood over a whirring projector and fiddled ineffectively with its myriad buttons and controls, none of which seemed capable of restoring coherence to an old file photo of Dun Adien, recently transformed into a puzzling multicolored array. General Edvard Bergenstrand, the STO's notorious department chief, sighed impatiently, while Colonel von Liewen, head-of-section, turned in his chair to cast Eloranta a disappointed look and Major Anders Lenning, Eloranta's immediate supervisor, dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and tried to appear composed. Indoors, shut inside a windowless, upper-floor conference room whose only method of air-conditioning was a number of small portable fans, the heat, all of 28 degrees Celsius and then some, was barely tolerable. Bergenstrand's presence brought another source of discomfort, especially as his subordinates were aware, if only dimly, that matters in government had adopted a chaotic aspect since Andres-Kletsk suffered his stroke. It stood to reason that, after another heated and perhaps none too successful State Council meeting, Bergenstrand would, upon the slimmest pretext, seek to vent much of his stress and frustration against those unable to answer back.

Sweat dripped from Eloranta's furrowed brow in huge quantities while a much more composed Major Anders Lenning attempted, within his limited technical abilities, to provide some guidance. "What seems to be the problem, lieutenant? Have any wires come loose?" he asked, trying to sound helpful.

"No, sir...it may be a faulty display processor," Eloranta offered, halfway hoping to confound his superiors, most of whom could barely handle an electric typewriter, with technical jargon. “Should I call administration?"

Bergenstrand's irritated finger-drumming halted briefly as he leaned over to reproach the Colonel in a very audible whisper. "I don't have time for this, von Liewen!" he hissed, and for a moment Eloranta's blood ran cold. In a tone of voice raised an octave, von Liewen promptly gave his orders. "Continue with your briefing, Major. I trust you have the pertinent information on memory."

"Yes, sir. To continue, then," Lenning paused to unroll a map of the old Grand Empire, several years out of date, from a wall bracket. "This will serve for our purposes. Now, according to our diplomatic sources, within the last few days a major security incident took place at Dun Adien, where the former King James has been confined, along with part of his entourage, for these past few months. Our information on this matter is still sketchy, and we haven't yet heard of any official statements that might confirm our suspicions, but from what we've gleaned from signals intercepts, and through informal channels, it seems reasonable to believe that the incident in question was in fact an escape by King James, and possibly some of his followers, from captivity in Ianapalis, with or without external help we can't yet be certain."

Lenning pointed to Ianapalis on the wall map, and drew a short line with his finger westward. "Almost simultaneously, our airborne listening post began to pick up an anomalous volume of military signals traffic in the vicinity of Balliat, not in itself any cause for special alarm, but interesting because of its timing and location."

"Is there no satellite imagery?" interjected Bergenstrand. "Keltainen-2 is oriented to cover Shieldian territory, why hasn't it been used?"

"I am afraid, sir, that we won't have any direct satellite access until next Monday at the earliest. The Army apparently still has Keltainen-2 booked-up, and the Central Reconnaissance Office declined our request for priority. Regardless, I believe that we can still make some strong inferences on the resources currently on hand. First of all, it seems safe to say that James Callahan must still be in the GFR, based on the speed at which he is likely to move, and his limited options for asylum abroad. He hasn't had enough time, based on these assumptions, to stand a plausible chance of reaching a foreign border, and if he has, it would be strange for the state in question to make no statement or indication. Byzantium, perhaps, is an exception, but let's leave that aside for now.

"Assuming James Callahan hasn't left the Shield, where is he likely to go inside of it? Somewhere rural, for reasons of concealment, and, just as important, that’s where he can expect to find supporters among what’s left of the landed aristocracy. Which brings us to Balliat, or, more correctly, its old Barony. It’s here that the Gulls seem to be looking, and for good reason, as the Baroness of Balliat, the so-called Fighting Baroness, is thought to be still at large, and, prior to the Gull Flag revolt, was one of King James’ more active supporters. Beyond that, we have no way, as yet, of knowing where James Callahan might actually be, but on this operating assumption…”

“Stop it right there, Major,” said Bergenstrand in a disparaging tone. “I can see where this is going, and I think we’ve all learned our lesson when it comes to these half-baked covert action schemes.” Bergenstrand was referring, of course, to Operation Granary, whose failure he had been lucky to survive. Since Mikalous Andres-Kletsk’s stroke and subsequent hospitalization, the maligned STO had just started to gain some advantage over its traditional rival, the Security Police, and Bergenstrand did not want to complicate matters any further. “Lieutenant, Major, leave us.”

Alone with Colonel von Liewen, Bergenstrand adopted a less formal manner. “Why have you brought me all the way out here, and in this ungodly heat, for such a snipe-hunt, von Liewen? Let’s just assume this story Lenning’s told us is believable. So he’s escaped, he’ll probably be caught, and Bradsworth will crack down on whatever monarchists are left at this point with enough force to ruin our chances of ever rebuilding a decent intelligence network in that slum of a country. No, I say this goes no further.”

“Sir, with respect, I believe this runs deeper. We’ve seen how the Republicans deal with monarchist agitation. It’s the behavior of a government on unsteady foundations, and if James has escaped, maybe it’s an indication that Ianapalis’ insecurities aren’t wholly unwarranted. As a unifying element for anti-regime forces, James Callahan can’t be beat.”

Bergenstrand scoffed. “What on earth would we do, if we could somehow get a message to Callahan? By Christ, what self-respecting Shieldian would do a deal with us, the ancient enemy? Even if we did get James to do exactly what we want, it would doom him to associate with us.”

“Perhaps not, sir. It strikes me that King James may harbor an interest in restoring his house, and we can help him do it, in Editraequan. We've been looking for some way to replace Todd Andrews and his mob, after all, and, among reactionary Catholics, a more legitimate ruler can't be had. He could be seen to frustrate our ambitions at the same time, and he'd show Munstra that the Gull Flaggers aren't the only ones with a mandate to govern. Why, it would be our biggest coup to date…I admit, sir, it’s a far-fetched scheme, but perhaps worth trying. Lenning also thinks John Callahan is alive as well, and still somewhere in the Shield, and we know how much James values that boy. If we could offer young John a safe haven…”

“My goodness, von Liewen, you think I haven’t thought about all of this before? Clutching at straws, all of it. Still…” Bergenstrand stroked his chin. “I find myself in agreement with your reasoning. Maybe there’s nothing in it, but it couldn’t hurt to find out, could it? But this must remain absolutely secret. No one, and I mean no one, can know apart from us four. And if something happens, I want, complete, one hundred percent, iron-clad deniability. Fagerholm would torpedo us for sure, if he got wind of this. But if by some stroke of luck we are able to pull it off, we can start feeding the Sapo some of its own medicine!"

“Can I take that as a green light, sir?”

“You may indeed. But I must ask you, do you really think Eloranta is ready for this sort of caper?”

“I don’t know, sir, but I think we can trust him to keep his mouth shut.”

“A valuable quality, in this day and age. Alright, let’s bring them back in. And call it, hmm, how about Operation Marquess?”

Northwest of Furthingham, Shadoran

Operation Marquess, a rare example of efficiency in military intelligence, took shape with remarkable speed and for once evaded detection by an ever-watchful Security Police. Strictly an off-the-books affair, what was essentially Major Lenning's pet project preserved its secrecy at a far from inconsiderable price in thoroughness of planning, and Baron so-and-so's willingness, Eloranta could not quite recall the man's name, to set up an interview with none other than James Callahan at his secret safe-house, albeit located unsettlingly close to Thomas Defenne and his revolutionary zealots in Balliat city, was an immense stroke of luck. Certainly, General Bergenstrand commanded more than a little influence and could even work a formidable charm when he set his mind to it, and this opened doors that may under different conditions have remained shut, but next to doomed Operation Granary, with its dossiers, maps, itineraries, sizable support staff, cast of hundreds, Marquess, if not for its immensely ambitious object, scarcely deserved mention.

As a young, eager officer hungry for his own adventure and still trusting in his superiors, Eloranta greeted Lenning's plan of action with unreserved optimism and full confidence in its chances, although, as he crept across the frontier on a still, moonless night, trying to avoid not only Republican border patrols but Gandvian, uninformed, as well, wheeling a Pavojarvi bicycle stripped, supposedly, of all identifying marks but hardly conducive to stealth, some of his early enthusiasm began to fade. When he finally made his rendezvous, and clambered into a covered truck-bed, he dozed off almost immediately and did not stir until well into the following afternoon.

Exhausted from successive nights spent in hurried preparation, and the previous evening's supreme stress, Eloranta slept heavily, dreamlessly across nearly a third of the Shield's total east-to-west span, rattled but undisturbed by a road network not known as Europe's most efficiently-maintained, and it was a rapid halt in motion that finally jarred him to life once again. He awoke suddenly to unfamiliar day-lit surroundings and endured a moment of paralyzing panic before faintly-remembered details collected to form a tentative picture of his probable reality. A Shieldian prison it clearly was not, but Eloranta, in a major lapse, had left much to chance, and he could not know with any certainty what might greet him outside the truck's threadbare canvas canopy. A sense of helplessness overtook him as he listened to the cab door open with a squeal and slam shut, followed by crunching footfalls on packed gravel, and he wished that he'd lobbied much more insistently against von Liewen's prohibition of a sidearm.

Eloranta followed the slow and weighty steps as they passed behind him, and paused for what seemed like an unnaturally long interval before, with a loud squeak and clang, a bright afternoon sun stormed the dim canvas enclosure and temporarily blinded its solitary occupant. Instinctively, he raised his hand against the assault, as much for shade as for protection against whatever physical attacks might be headed his way, and was taken aback to hear, in a decidedly gruff but far from aggressive tone, "Time to get going, now, Bill, is it? We're here."

A short, portly, balding man in a short-sleeved shirt and straw hat stood peering in at the Gandvian agent. “Hurry along,” he prompted, impatient to be rid of this most dangerous cargo, and unloaded Eloranta’s bicycle with no great delicacy. “You’ll be alright from here, then? I’m off.”

Left on a deserted stretch of road, Furthingham's skyline just visible through afternoon heat-haze, old Westerton kicking up dust in the growing distance, Eloranta, still slightly fazed by his disorienting sleep, stretched, yawned, and pulled out a map. He could hardly fault his driver, clearly a Royalist stalwart of some sort but perhaps not wholly comfortable transporting foreign agents, for wanting to be on his way, but he might have hoped for a softer transition, and a clearer idea of where exactly he was. Still, he had to admit that, so far, his mission was proceeding more smoothly than anyone involved believed possible, a condition that surely owed more to luck than to skill. Eloranta committed an unpardonable lapse of professionalism by indulging in a dangerous luxury, and it would only have been right for him to suffer as a result. Instead, he appeared to have been dropped off in more or less the right place, well ahead of schedule and, with luck, neither noticed nor expected by local security forces.

Over one hundred miles still separated Eloranta from his next and, if everything went according to plan, final rendezvous, and this new stage, which passed through one of the Gull Flag Republic's most important strategic regions, promised more hazards. Much, of course, he had to take on faith, his Royalist contact's trustworthiness most of all. A banished landlord, forced to linger in a country that he liked scarcely more than his own Republican antagonists, might well view an intelligence coup as a sure ticket home, and while Operation Granary had in fact been exposed by a Gandvian, the experience did little to raise confidence among STO personnel in Shieldian exiles, some of whom were reliable, most of which could not be trusted to maintain operational secrecy, and many of which struck military intelligence as distinctly suspicious characters. A great deal could still go wrong, and Eloranta knew well that, in terms of future prospects, his experience so far offered little to go by. Matters were not entirely beyond his control, however, and after taking several minutes to collect himself, basking in the warm sunlight and sipping a flask of strong Viina, Eloranta set out pedaling west, resolved never to take such flagrant liberties again, and armed with a renewed sense of purpose. Built on such flimsy foundations, Operation Marquess was against all probability still a going concern, though much would depend on the qualities of its redoubtable servant, and the goodwill of a little-understood Monarchist underground, which Eloranta was due to finally meet on some distant crossroads near Balliat.

[Iansisle]

((ooc: of probably minimal significance, but I've decided that Balliat probably best matches up in terms of geography and population with Pavlohrad. It's not exactly along what I've traditionally called the Weshield-Shadoran border, but close enough to be reasonable.))

Police Office, Wexelbury, Shadoran
RL Dmytrivka

“No, no. See, your name is Coe, right?” The captain of the Balliat Eastern Rural Police felt a little awkward having to explain himself.

“Correct.”

“And you've just flashed me a badge from the Commission Office of Enforcement, right? So you're literally a Coe-man. That's why I laughed.”

“My last name is just Coe. And I will warn you, citizen-captain, that I do not enjoy jokes at my expense.”

“Because the Commission’s initials are C-O-E, you see? You can't have not heard this before.” The longer he talked, the more nervous the captain became. He was a big, meaty sort with a red face and huge bustling whiskers peaking out irregularly across his face. Large beads of sweat were starting to form along his receding hairline.

Agent Coe stepped in closely, his nostrils flaring. “Have you been drinking, citizen-captain?”

“What? No!”

“Citizen-lieutenant?” said Coe, looking across the room at a lowly staffer who had been making himself busy inside of a file cabinet. The wire-glassed little fellow sat up straight as the question hit him and turned slowly around. His eyes darted nervously from his captain to the long-faced official from Ianapalis.

“Ah, I suppose that the Captain did have a nip of tusemat,” he said, referring to the traditional Shieldian sugar beet rum. “On his break,” was hastily added.

“On his break,” Coe repeated. His expression was inscrutable behind his dark glasses. “What is your name, citizen-lieutenant?”

“Harold Quincy...sir.”

“Very well. Congratulations on your promotion, Captain Quincy.”

“What?” The former captain was on his feet now, his fists balling. “That little pipsqueak? He's a nobody – a worthless nephew of mine who needed a job!”

“We can discuss your nepotism and corruption another time,” said Coe. “In the meanwhile, civilians are not allowed police offices. I suggest you remove yourself.” His head motioned down towards the bigger man's hands. “Before you do something truly unwise.”

The former captain allowed himself to be guided out of the room by one of the soldiers who had accompanied Coe, pausing only to bellow at Quincy how his mother had best consider herself dead to him. When the door slammed shut, the only sound that could be heard was the ceiling fan beating a dull, hopeless fight against the July heat.

Coe seated himself behind the decrepit wooden desk that dominated the small office. He laid open a small file. The top page was a map of the local area, with red lines drawn across it. Captain Quincy hovered just behind him, apparently unsure of his new responsibilities.

“These are roadblocks I have had set up,” said Coe. “They are based upon my best guesswork and supposition. Do you have any recommendations for improvements, citizen-captain?”

“How – how many men do you have available, Citizen Coe?”

“Roughly one hundred. There are more in Balliat that I can call on in an emergency.”

“You seem to have the major arteries covered, but I know there is an old trail here,” said Quincy, pointing at a blank area of the map. “I used to take it to school every morning. It is not paved, but wide enough for a Buck to pass through without difficulty. The local shepherds use it to take their flocks to water, so it is well-worn. I remember several times seeing motor-cars along it.”

“Interesting,” said Coe. His hand marked a jerky red line where Quincy had pointed. “Your insight is most appreciated.”

“If you'll pardon the indescretion, sir,” Quincy said, rallying his nerves. “The – ah – ci-devant captain said that the CoE was hunting James Callahan. Is that true?”

Coe fixed Quincy with a long, hard stare. At last: “Citizen Callahan is under house arrest at Dun Adien.” He drummed his fingers upon the desk a few times. “But, in theory, if a massive, nation-wide manhunt were being arranged, James Callahan would be an ideal target. In theory.”

“Of course. And I suppose, in that case, the houses of local royalists would be amongst the first searched, citizen?”

“The Constitution provides protections against unlawful search. Only those with something to hide should be afraid.”

“My cousin the local justice might be persuaded to issue the necessary warrants,” said Quincy. “And I've an idea where they would be best used.”

Coe took off his sunglasses. His eyes were a dark brown, and they were narrowed. “Have you ever considered employment within the Justice Directorate, citizen-captain?”

Route 57, east of Wexelbury, Shadoran

“I don't understand,” the old man was saying. His Westerton had a rough idle. “I've been living out here my entire life, and there's never been so much as a fly watching this route. Now you're telling me I need to unload my entire truck for you goons? Doesn't this Republic have protections against this sort of thing?”

“Please, Mr Bosbury,” said the solider. “Anyone traveling on state roads subjects their vehicle to routine inspections. If you will just turn off the engine, this will go faster.”

“Life of liberty and freedom, my right foot! This Bradsworth is no better than a highwayman!”

“Just step out of the vehicle, Mr Bosbury.”

“Humph!” The Westerton died with a loud, grinding whimper. “Fat chance I have of starting the old bitch up again. I hope you're happy, making an old man late to his stew.”

The soldiers did not listen to him, busy as they were with rustling through the glove compartment and truck bed. They proceeded with the determination and thoroughness of men who had been through the exact same routine many, many times without variation.

“Nothing, sir,” one reported at last. “You're free to go, Mr Bosbury.”

“Free and capable are two different things,” he said. “But don't worry about me, unable to start up my old truck – here comes a bloke on a bicycle. I'm sure he's an anti-Christ Gandvian saboteur come to blow you all up.” Bosbury turned the key, which resulted in an amusing series of clunks and splutters. He popped the hood, muttering obscenities all the while at the soldiers now holding out their hands to stop the approaching bicyclist.

[The Crooked Beat]

Route 57, east of Wexelbury, Shadoran

Eloranta expected, in the flat country around Balliat, to spot any roadblock or police stop with time to spare, and he was taken aback, after cresting a low rise, to see a group of Republican soldiers, clustered around a halted truck, a bare few hundred yards distant. He presented a small visual target, next to a truck or automobile, but not one so small as to avoid notice at such a short range, and any thoughts of doubling-back to search for a bypass route were dashed as the roadblock's garrison began to stare in his direction. He knew that some sort of encounter with security forces, especially near Balliat, was more than likely, and Eloranta was nothing if not prepared, on an intellectual level. His nerves, however, amounted to another problem entirely.

Tall for a Shieldian, but not outstandingly so, dark-haired and of otherwise average build, Eloranta, in terms of his physical features, might have hailed from almost any country in Europe. His neat, orderly, clean-cut appearance hinted at a military vocation, by design rather than by accident. Major Lenning preferred, after all, to include some elements of truth in an agent's cover where practicable, so Lieutenant Eloranta traveled as Lieutenant Bill Roberts, Electrical & Mechanical Engineers, posted previously to a Dunourton-based brigade group but on his way to a training establishment outside Pardens, a facility known to Gandvian military intelligence, or at least strongly suspected, from a mixture of satellite reconnaissance and a few references to its existence in public media. Balliat, of course, was situated along an approximately direct line between those two points, and while hardly an iron-clad explanation for his presence in its vicinity at such an unusual moment, Eloranta had thought his story a good one. Armed also with a convincing set of forged credentials, he set out believing fully in his ability to defeat, through bluff, charm, and if necessary by pulling rank, any routine inquiry. Now, as he approached the roadblock, his confidence was beginning to waver. Might his name, chosen for its supposed ubiquity, be a little too generic, or his speech, fluent and correct, strangely barren of regional flavor? Even a hint of suspicion could bring upon him scrutiny more direct and concentrated than his disguise, solid enough on its surface, was designed to bear. Summoning every available ounce of cheerful good-humor, he rode on.

"Hello, there!" Eloranta, waving, called out as he coasted, and, squeaking to a stop, asked, "What's all this about? You fellows on maneuvers?"

(OCC: Geographical points noted! Sorry for the scanty post, intend to bring Gandvian domestic politics up to date soon. Also, took a significant leap in that reference to Pardens, and if that doesn't work for any reason, I'd be more than happy to make the necessary alterations. Or, at the same time, feel free to have someone spot the mistake ICly, whatever works best.)

[Iansisle]

Route 57

The corporal who approached Eloranta's bicycle looked utterly bored by the goings on. A young man, unruly red hair tucked out from beneath a non-standard issue kepi, his helmet long since abandoned due to the humidity near their truck at the side of the road. Wrinkled khaki fabric sported the Gull Flag on one shoulder and the insignia of the Second Company, First Motorized on the other. His bullpup R10 hung lightly against his side as he put out a sun-baked hand, ignoring Eloranta's comments. "Papers, please."

After they had been examined in stony silence for nearly a minute, Eloranta's heart may have skipped a beat when the young corporal summoned his sergeant over and handed the transportation orders for the Pardens Military Engineering Training Base. The sergeant gave them a quick look-over, then smiled.

"Oh, lieutenant," he said. "I hope it's not too much of an imposition to ask -- I know this is completely above my station -- but could you carry a letter for me to Pardens? My wife is expecting, you see. I was going to mail it, of course, but you know how unreliable they can be in this rural backwaters." He gestured broadly the the tree-lined road and the flat buckwheat fields behind it. "Please, sir, it would mean a great deal to me."

"Lieutenant?" came a voice from underneath the stopped truck. "Is there an officer here? Thank God -- I should like to report on abuse suffered at the hands of these ruffians. It's worse than the Revolution, it is!"

((ooc: no worries on Pardens! Fits in just fine to my own loose conception of how things look now. Sorry about having him be unable to miss the roadblock -- that was a bit of a godmod on my part.))

[The Crooked Beat]

Route 57

Eloranta's pleasant demeanor lost much of its artificiality as several tense moments passed and it became clear that a squad of COE agents was not about to leap out from Bosbury's truck, and that his fake papers had been accepted as genuine. Lenning's back-story, it appeared, was working after all, and Eloranta, his optimism restored, attempted to build on his success. Acknowledging the Sergeant's request with a nod and a smile, he decided to first address Bosbury's remarks.

"Now, there, mister, I'm sure these men are only doing what they've been told. Inconvenient or not, there must be a reason for it." Grinning broadly, and looking around at the Republican soldiers at hand, he added, "And they seem like nice enough fellows to me! I'll tell you what, though." Eloranta looked back in the Sergeant's direction, and motioned for him to approach more closely for a private word. "Sergeant, about that letter. I'm to spend a few days in Balliat, promised to visit some hag of an aunt, you see, and I expect it'll take me at least another two days to make Pardens, so if that's not too much of a delay, I'd be happy to deliver it for you. I could post it when I reach Balliat, also, but I halfway expect I'll move faster than the Postal Service in any case!"

He glanced back over his shoulder at Bosbury. "But about this fellow here, I understand it's so ungodly hot and dry out, and you certainly haven't done anything wrong in my book, but, perhaps, call it a public relations exercise, you might detail one or two of your men to give him a hand. Not an order, mind you, I'm off duty anyhow, but it couldn't hurt, might even help, as they say." In a louder tone of voice, he turned again to face Bosbury and his truck, and examined it for a moment with what he hoped would seem like a knowledgeable eye. "Had a few of these in my old bridging unit. Used them to haul pontoons, you see. Reliable on the whole, but they had their quirks. I wasn't a maintenance man myself, but our mechanics were always checking the timing belt." Eloranta was speaking, of course, without any first-hand experience of the Westerton vehicle in question, but guessed that it might resemble, in some of its characteristics, Gandvik's own Fagerberg FR410, a truck with which he was more familiar.

Eloranta un-clasped a leather map-case secured to his handlebars, just above a small headlight. "This is the address, then, Sergeant...Cassels, is it?"

(OCC: No problems whatsoever, Ian! As to any possible godmodding, you are by far the lesser offender in this case.)