The snow was still falling heavily across Prestwick even at half past ten at the night. MBC One was just wrapping up the news programme in preparation for Late Political, Kitten Over The Rooftop was playing on practically all Mirnect’s radio stations. The Ministry of Defence was crapping itself as the two hours since New Azura threatened colonisation were over, the populace remaining ignorant of either a severe case of sabre-rattling or the mobilisation of a joint task force. Infinity Radio was asking for listeners to call in to discuss the various merits of the infamous, illegal, student-produced alternative school magazine of Manaway Upper, The Withering Witch, which was now seeking comfort in the arms of all good bookshops. All in all, it was a night Mirnect was accustomed to. Being under threat from a much larger nation that is.
Thanks to the unexpected heavy snowfall and the effective freezing of roads and railway tracks across Mirnect, many car crashes and delays of public transportation had resulted, obliterating many Christmas plans from the Sociology student to the limping pensioner. Without much salt in store, local councils had made a wild scramble to collect as much of it as possible. Tower Downing Borough Council had managed to gather a respectable amount of salt and snow removal equipment, though following orders from 10 Beckett Street itself, much of it had gone towards clearing snow and ice off the runways of Prestwick International Airport, one of the main airports in the city. Despite the given reason being that thousands upon thousands were flying in and out for Christmas, though the Council hadn’t been as foolish to assume that; they knew it to be because a foreign head-of-state was coming in for talks. Still, they carried out their orders well and angrily, the Social Democrat-controlled Council knowing the people would dethrone them and their MP, likely to go Conservative or Green next election. Likely Conservative sabotage, they thought. Standing there just off the runway – identified by a straight white line of paint and a slighter darker tarmac – stood two individuals of utmost importance to the Kingdom.
The Right Honourable Anthony Henry Davis Shaw stood in line with the Prime Minister, waiting patiently for the aeroplane of the president of Tubaui. He, like everybody else, didn’t know much about the country, which had recently exited from a lengthy civil war in which a nuclear reactor had been detonated. Apparently, according to their International News Network which Prime Minister Sullivan had made such a big deal of, the destruction of a rebel-controlled submarine marked the end of the war. A strange thought – wars didn’t end until either the opposition were all six feet under or twenty or so years had passed. He’d observed that during his four years as Minister of Defence, a rather peaceful, serene term, per say. In other words, nothing had happened of any importance – though the business with the New Azulans might change that, perhaps, if they carried through with a threat half an hour overdue now. He wouldn’t think colonisation; they weren’t that mad, surely? Well…he could hope, he could hope. Several RMN vessels, including the aircraft carrier Olympus, were being recalled from their positions in the various small possessions of Mirnect, from an era long past. Most of them would be a day out, at best; anything coming from the Spanish-speaking island of Azules would be a few more, at best. Conveniently, that’s where Olympus was, on a show-off stunt to the islanders, more used to fishing boats which resembled their land’s absolute economic dependence on fishing.
David Bernard Sullivan, better known as D.B., shivered slightly, out in the cold only in a little bespoke suit. Shaw had made do rightly; he was out in a long, heavy tan coat, brown pants and a long tan scarf, a slight breeze rustling his light, beige-ish blonde hair. Besides, in the cold weather of Mirnect, this was his usual clothing, suiting his round, childish face and immense height – compared to him, the five-foot ten-inches Sullivan was a dwarf, to the gargantuan annoyance of the Prime Minister. He’d mainly tagged along for tonight’s meeting because discussions would likely take a defensive bent to things – this was a country just out of a civil war, after all – and Sullivan knew nothing about the military, having aspired to Prime Minister since the age of eight.
He decided to pass an item of conversation to Sullivan; in his soft-spoken, deep voice, he asked; “Any idea of who Whitterman is?”
Sullivan nearly whispered his reply, being as cold as he was. “He’s was…elected because…he wasn’t dead.”
Sullivan was practically an icicle by now, unused to cold conditions having lived in Dukedom up until last month. Shaw had lived in the cold mountains of Elkberg all his childhood and most his adulthood, used to living in minus zero conditions. Still, he wasn’t sacrificing this coat of his. There was a limousine behind them, a Swan-7 specifically, his secretary, Jorge Betts, leaning on it in a coat replica to his. He knew he had an extra coat in there. He called over to Betts, “Mind getting the PM one of my coats.”
Betts nodded,, his silhouette opening up the car’s boot and fetching one the coat, throwing it around his shoulder and quickly galloping over to the freezing PM. The coat was lucky enough not to be damaged by the water, indicative of melted ice, lying on the ground in scattered yet large puddles. Quickly, the man threw it over the PM and got it on him. Instantly, the PM was relieved and after thanking Betts – who returned to smoking by the car – he turned to look up to Shaw.
“These are good!” Sullivan exclaimed.
“I always told you, but you never listened,” he grinned sarcastically.
He noticed a few bright flashing lights in the dark, cloudless sky. He smiled. The president was here, or nearly, anyway. The plane was drawing in fast, probably just being granted permission to land. He patted Sullivan on the back like a father, almost, despite him being much more younger than Sullivan; “As they say in Azules, Vamonos.”
They walked forward a bit, the aluminium staircase being readied for the landing. He kept his blue eyes on the plane as it made its descent.
