Unto The Breach [Closed | Afalia]

[Regnum Albion]

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12:34, Tuesday July 2nd
The Old Joint Stock
Temple Row
Port Royal, Regnum Albion

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It was the hottest day of the year so far, a stifling twenty-seven degrees, and the sun which pressed down on the citizens of Port Royal had been blaring brightly for four days straight now. The Royalists (as the residents of Regnum Albion's capital were confusingly known) had become accustomed to the heat in the recent weather and most had made the transition from their protective spring wardrobes to the somewhat more liberating summerwear that suited the clear blue skies and crisp green grass of the city. Students, young couples, happy families and any other person who was lucky enough not to be at work that day sported the uniform of the summer months, bright shorts, boat shoes, pastel shirts with top buttons undone, short dresses, tight t-shirts, anything, in fact, that introduced their skin to the rarity of Anglican sunshine. And now that the sun was out, there was a general feeling of relaxed calm throughout the busy city. It was still as vibrant as ever, more so with the numbers of pedestrians milling around in the warm weather, but people went about their days with a much more casual approach than usual. Even the businessmen and bankers of the financial district would find themselves, sans ties and jackets, reclining in the outdoor terraces of cafés or pubs, enjoying a frosty glass of ginger beer or a refreshing pint during their lunch break. Shirt sleeve was the order of the day for anyone unable to liberate themselves in shorts and t-shirts, but this could not get them down in the atmosphere of summer bliss that swept across Port Royal that day.

At the heart of this leisurely climate was St Mark's Square, a plaza in the centre of one of Port Royal's major retail districts which was named for the old Baroque church rising from its centre. The church building summed up the feel of the area perfectly. Built in 1715 to accommodate the congregation of a rapidly-growing suburb of the city, it represented the self-belief and optimism that infected the country at that time. The steeple jutted high into the sky and was flanked by two great wood-and-metal doors which were about twice as high as even the tallest church-goer. The stone walls that formed the rectangular structure supported vast windows that covered a good two-thirds of the height of the building and were repeated for its entire length, and between these were sets of simple pilasters that ornamented the outer walls nicely and gave the illusion of grandeur that must have been ideal awe-inspiring for those who first saw it some three hundred years ago. Around its edges was a well-pruned graveyard-cum-park in which the gravestones were ancient enough that their inscriptions were indecipherable. Most had been removed at any rate and transferred to a more dedicated cemetery closer to the suburbs of the ever-expanding capital. With many wide sand-stone paths cutting through the irregular grassy shapes of the church grounds, the area was a popular thoroughfare and an ideal place for scores of sun-lovers to relax in the summer rays. Around the edge of the church's grounds was a high wrought iron fence, tipped with ornate spikes and protruding from a large stone base. Only past these great barriers did the modern city start to make itself known. Clean white-grey pavements indented with under-street lighting gave way to the roads which bordered the church and the many alleys which led outwards into the wider city. The road facing the entrance to the cathedral was Temple Row, clearly inspired by the consecrated land on its eastern side.

On the opposite side of this road to the cathedral was a row of buildings, about four in total. It was a short road, cut off by two pedestrianised alleys spurring off in diagonals at each end, and so the great stone premises on its western side were somewhat crammed into position. By far the largest of these, and constructed in a similar baroque style to St Mark's Church, was a popular pub, well known to the businessmen and politicians of the capital. The Old Joint Stock was named for the Joint Stock Company whose headquarters the building was originally constructed for in the mid eighteenth century, and evidence of the Company's illustrious ambitions was still clearly noted in the design. Steep stone steps led to the great wooden doors on the far right-hand side of the building, and continuing along the facade at equal distances from the doors were tall windows that reached the roof of the ground floor, arched at the top and revealing great velvet curtains at their edges. Through these windows, one could see the pale green ceiling of the pub bordered in plaster and alabaster which swirled across the room before meeting in the centre to draw the eyes towards the great chandelier hanging down above the centre of the drinking area. The tables were dark-wood on a patterned dark-green carpet which matched the equally patterned walls, and at them sat an assortment of suited businessmen, casually-garbed shoppers and, in one corner a lone middle-aged man pouring over countless files while ignoring the small glass of tonic water to his side.

The man, in the same shirt-sleeve as most office workers, had the look of someone who was overworked, underpaid, and spent too little time with his family. His hair was disturbed from being brushed through by his hand (a sort of stress-induced habit in this case) and his eyes bore that intense focus that one gets as you work through a difficult problem and are on the cusp of solving it. He had been sitting there for just under forty minutes having arrived from Portcullis House, the regional headquarters of the Regnum Albion Police Force, and was ordering notes for a presentation he was to give after lunch. The presentation concerned the Afalian Embassy Siege, whose coverage was filling every newspaper, news channel and general chit-chat in the country, and the reason the man in the pub had been charged with giving this address was because of who he was. Commander Harry Gibson was an unassuming fellow whose stocky build blended into the background with surprising ease. His face was forgettable, with a once broken nose and dark stubble distorting any immediately noticeable features. But his past was not so uninteresting. Having spent his six years in the Royal Air Force after leaving university, Harry Gibson had served with distinction at forward air bases in conflict zones around the world, where he led his ground forces in defence of the aerial assets of the RAF as well as taking them into areas of civil unrest and keeping the peace in so sensitive a way that he eventually helped to contribute to Anglican peace-making ideas (though his rile was unacknowledged and consisted of an interview in front of a small panel of flag officers). Deciding that his interests lay elsewhere, Harry Gibson left the RAF and immediately signed onto the Regnum Albion Police Force, remaining a loyal officer for the past seventeen years in which time (and in a fairly roundabout way) he eventually came to head the famous SOC-4 counter-terror unit of the armed police. His role was purely a desk job, but his experience gained in the armed forces and a long policing career made him a favourite of his junior officers and a respected group chief.

Finally, it seemed, he had finished his preparations. Commander Gibson stacked away the sprawling mess of notes into three buff-coloured folders, downed his tonic water, and left the pub purposefully. He turned right, heading down to the end of Temple Row and continuing through Horton Alley in order to reach the wide and crowded Broad Street. Twisting and turning to avoid the bustling crowds, he cut across St Teresa's Park and found himself on Marshall Avenue, stopping to allow a police car to make its way inevitably to Cherry Tree Lane, just three roads away. It was to the south of this road that Harry strode, past the monuments and statues that adorned its central reservation, and towards a crowd of people lingering around a set of wrought iron gates. They were held at bay by two police officers, armed with submachine guns, but were ferociously snapping pictures of the road past the gateposts. Commander Gibson passed through them easily and, with a quick flash of his police identification card and a message from one of the officer's radios, was through the gates, separated from the civilian world and in the heady government heights of Regulus Street. It was at the head of the cul-de-sac that Harry was ushered through that black door by the single police officer and found himself being rushed down the staircases of Chatham House. With the stress of the crisis and the abnormal sense of urgency, Harry didn't have time to take in precisely where he was - the building where most of the country's decisions were made daily, and where choices that could change the shape of the world would be mulled over. Instead, all that went through his head was his presentation, the order of his notes and the realisation that he was sweating a great deal.

There was no time for concern though, for after a maze of corridors and corners, Harry Gibson was invited to pass through the polished wooden door which was quite simply labelled "Intelligence Management Room A". The inside of the room was a mystery to most and as such was the stuff of intense speculation, theorising and conspiracy-forming. Most imagined maps of the world beamed onto screens with missile paths being traced and retraced, big red buttons and whirling computers and, of course, soldiers all over the place. Alas, it was nothing like that. As soon as Gibson opened the door he was greeted by a vast conference table, so large that it took up most of the room save for the passages around it and an area of empty face at the opposite end of the room - what appeared to be the 'front', so to speak. At the 'front' was indeed a large screen, but it was split into multiple quadrants showing everything from news feed, photographs and a live police camera of the front of the Afalian Embassy. Quite apart from brimming with soldiers, the only people in the room were politicians, civil servants and a few police officers. Clearly, however, Gibson didn't have time to be underwhelmed, for he was ushered to the front rather unceremoniously and asked to proceed forthwith with his presentation.

"Ladies and gentlemen." The room hushed, the low murmur of conversation being replaced by an expectant silence that exaggerated the nervous pause Gibson gave. It was only then that Gibson really noticed who he was talking to. At the head of the table, back to the door (hence why Gibson hadn't noticed him as he walked in) was the Prime Minister, the Lord Tweedsmuir. He maintained that same charming but intently-focused expression that he did in the papers and on the news, Harry thought. Beside him was the Home Secretary, the Lord North. He seemed far more stressed than the Prime Minister, or perhaps just eager to get into the meat of the situation for he didn't have the dishevelled look that one would normally associate with nervousness.

"I, um, am Commander Harry Gibson, organisational chief of SOC-4." There was no response.

"Right, well. As you probably already know, we're facing twelve armed and motivated gunmen who have multiple hostages within a civilian area of Regnum Albion. The gunmen can't be talked out of this, and we won't give into their demands. They've already been holed up for a day and now we're starting to worry about how long we can keep this up for." Good, he was getting into the flow of things now and it was paying off. The Home Secretary was nodding.

"RAP-For believes and has reason to support the notion that the only way to eliminate the gunmen and retain a chance of rescuing the hostages is through an armed assault by counter-terrorist forces. This will take some time to prepare, but the result will be at best the disarming, arrest or death of the gunmen and the rescue of some or all of the hostages. The worst-case scenario is that we bungle this, lost some of the hostages and get the whole thing blamed on us. But the advantages to this are simple: you are able to maintain a non-negotiation stance with terrorists, the siege can be ended quickly and decisively, and the gunmen won't be given a chance to escape. Additionally, I'd like to add that we have no other viable options and are unlikely to find any before time beats us." Again, there was no response, but this time it was because the assembled body was eager for Gibson to continue.

"If you do decide to go ahead with this then the process will be relatively simple from your point of view. We need to decide who will conduct the raid - police or military - and I assume you'll need to contact the Afalians too. From then on the raiding party will prep how they wish to go about things and the police will continue to try and get some intelligence from within the embassy. Those two will work closely together, as will the Afalians I imagine. Once a plan is ready, you'll be asked for approval and, if given, it all goes ahead. Now, I've got details of some preliminary work that SOC-4 has already prepped if you'd like to..."

"Thank you, Commander. I think we've heard all we need to hear." The Home Secretary cut Gibson off with an insincere smile. Gibson felt no slight against him and was instead relieved that his presentation had ended earlier than he had believed.

The Home Secretary looked over to Tweedsmuir, his eyes seeking approval. The Prime Minister sat, looking thoughtfully over at Gibson, his eyes narrowed. With one hand he stroked his chin, the one movement in a room that was perfectly still in anticipation of Tweedsmuir's decision. Eventually, after what seemed to be minutes, the Prime Minister motioned in one single nod, his eyes not deviating from their focus on Gibson.

"Call the Afalians." The Home Secretary spoke to a suited man next to him. "See if they approve of the plan and ask them how they want to play it."

[Afalia]

OOC: Apologies for the delay and the rather poor quality of this post. I've hit a spot of writer's block I'm afraid.

Tuesday 2nd July
10:54 Afalian Eastern Time
Prime Minister's Office,
Fairfax House,
Kingwalk, Blackdon,
Afalia

The Prime Minister sat quietly in her office. The clock on the wall annoyingly ticked as the television in the corner, switched to the 24 hours news channel, continued to broadcast images of the Afalian embassy surrounded by armed police. In the corner of the office sat a collection of boxes, some were Shaw’s, her documents from the treasury still being transferred into the bureaucratic mess that was Fairfax House, whilst others were Christopher Kelly’s, his packing cut short by his death.

It had not been a good start to Shaw’s premiership. She had expected a smooth appointment, a few speeches and then some much needed domestic and economic policy changes. Instead the Harling issue had blown up again, with the death of a national hero and an international crisis. Shaw had planned to get involved with the issue soon, a tactile approach. Her Catholic background, she knew, was useful and would have been an easy way to ease into some negotiations.

But the murder of Kelly had meant a more aggressive response was needed. Now an extra 2000 troops were on their way to the island, the number of AIS agents was increasing and the new oil spot theory was beginning to be put into practice. Anglican and Itailian expertise would help, as would the deployment of the Bush Hunters regiment once they got back from South Arturia in the search for Gareth Curren. The aggressive responses were already being prepared to be matched by incentives.

'We need a carrot and stick approach,' Shaw had told her colleagues as they first gathered following the sad news.

Ideas of a Harling legislative assembly had already been drawn up by Shaw, though they had been floating around the civil service for years. The policy of 'Harling Themselves' under Nicholas Christie had failed. Harlingers were far too divided to come together and end the problems on both sides. Instead Shaw would have to be the one who could bring peace to the island, end the conflict and division and bring back troops. It was a potential achievement which could crown her premiership, she thought, or damage and damn her, reducing the people's memory of her to someone who couldn't defeat the HFA.

The fact that her predecessor won a war already meant the shoes she had to fill were immense. Kelly's shadow were hang over Afalian politics for a long time, even longer now that he was dead. Shaw remembered the questions she had asked her priest back in childhood-whether we all had a purpose, whether we were assigned divine tasks. Divine or not defeating the HFA was a task that Shaw seemed destined to have to try. Whether or not she would succeed or not remained to be seen. For now however it appeared the government were on the back foot. Once again the HFA had hostages on foreign soil.

'Prime Minister?'

Shaw looked up from her daydream to the figure of her new home secretary, Simon Hue, former party leadership rival. Hue had come last in the contest but Shaw had enjoyed working with him in the cabinet previously. He was a rather unpredictable creature, something which had essentially meant his barring from anything to do with the foreign office, but a strong leadership style made him practical and suitable for the home office, a ministry which had spelt the end of five careers during Kelly's premiership.

'Yes Simon?' Shaw asked, standing up from the desk and motioning for Hue to sit.

Hue's face turned visibly red for a moment at the mention of his Christian name but he heeded the Prime Minister's advice and sat. Shaw sighed. She didn't particularly enjoy the chair tactics of some of her predecessors, making her juniors sit at chairs whilst she stood and paced around threateningly, reinforcing the image of her superiority and power. For some however it was necessary. Shaw's gender also cursed her. Regardless of the relative equality and forward thinking of Afalian politics in comparison to the rest of the Western world, women still had to earn more forcefully the respect that men in senior positions enjoyed quite easily.

'We've had a call through from the Anglicans,' Hue said, but paused, waiting for Shaw's permission to continue.

'Go on Simon.'

'Well their boys in the police force have outlined the skeleton of a plan to storm the embassy building, using either armed police counter-terrrorist specialists or the armed forces. An armed assault essentially to kill or capture the terrorists and rescue the hostages, or at least as many of them that they can.'

Shaw nodded her head, 'It seems the only viable solution at this point.'

'Well we could go with the suggestion of Lionel and concede to some of their demands.'

The Prime Minister snorted, in a rather unlady like way, 'I'm not going to start my premiership with negotiations with the bloody HFA Simon. Have they got any concrete details for this assault at this stage?'

'Not at the minute, no Prime Minister. They're awaiting our word I believe.'

'Good. Well tell them we approve the plan and thank them, once again, for continuing to keep us constantly informed of the situation. Moreover tell them that from our perspective we believe that special forces would be best suited to this mission. Our Special Air Service Regiment and their Special Air Service have worked together on the HFA before in Songhia and whilst the situation is somewhat different I believe that their experience with the HFA directly could be very helpful when conducting the assault on the embassy.

Hue nodded, memorising the details in his head.

'Furthermore please tell them that the intelligence service has been working on some dossiers of the suspected gunmen involved in this situation and should be able to pass this onto the police on the scene shortly,' Shaw concluded.

Hue stood up from his chair and politely returned it to its original position, 'Thank you Prime Minister. I'll return when I know more?'

'Yes please Simon.'

'Prime Minister.' Hue gave a bow of the head and exited the room, cursing himself for his sudden unexplained respect for the new boss. Shaw returned to her seat as her assistant closed the door of the private office. The images on the telly continued on, a mixture of shots of the embassy exterior, soldiers marching in their uniforms and Shaw herself answering questions outside Parliament.

[Regnum Albion]

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19:22, Tuesday July 2nd
St George Barracks
RME Regent's Park
The Highlands, Regnum Albion

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"So I was with my old regiment..."

"What was your old regiment again, Buster?"

"Grey's Scouts, Mac, 'The First'. Anyway, I was with my old regiment out in Malaya, doing some patrols against some bloody insurgents from Thailand. I was in a two man team with a Hibernian chap, Paddy, we used to call him, who'd been in the unit for God knows how long. Let's just say that his feet were webbed by that point! Well, this was near the end, when the Commies were giving it all up, and we knew that this patrol was going to be a kick-about - bugger all to do and no one to fight. We'd got some intel in from the JSS saying that our quadrant was clear, but the generals in their comfy headquarters decided that they needed to show they were serious, and what better way to do that then by sending a couple of us bruisers out to crawl around in the grass and mud for five days. Now, I'm not one to complain and Paddy, who deserved to be moaning far more than me, wasn't either, so we loaded up our gear, reported to a piss-take of a briefing, and got dropped off in the middle of some God-forsaken jungle. Day one passed, and all we did was trudge about for eight hours looking for a decent camp. Day two passed, and all we'd done was wait out on one of the known insurgent routes to spy any activity - nada. Day three passed, and we'd moved about from spot to spot finding nothing. We were in the arse end of nowhere and we were on a mission with no objectives - we were bored shitless by this point. But then we got to day four of the patrol."

"Now, Paddy was an oldie, and he acted like it. Every night on base, he'd make sure to get his tumbler of whiskey out and enjoy a double. His favourite was Talisker, 18 years. Not as much of a kick as their others but still had a decent smokey taste to it. Anyway, it was getting to sunset and we'd set camp for the night - everything was in order and we'd just finished off the rat packs for that day. And then, out of his bergen, Paddy pulled a two-thirds empty bottle of this Talisker. We knew there was no one around to disturb us and we were pissed off with all the pointless patrolling, so we cracked it open and sipped the bugger all night. Sure, whiskey doesn't taste as good out of the mess mugs, but after four days of needless boredom this was just what we wanted. We finished off the bottle that night and went to bed very happy men, but my head the next morning felt like we had been attacked by the bloody insurgents! No such luck, eh - it was just a never-ending hangover! We buried the bottle and made our way back to camp. Paddy never complained about a hangover, I think because he was still drunk when we got back to camp! When they asked him for his ID at the main gate he tried to show them a picture of him and his wife he kept with him!"

"So, that was my best mission. Who's up next?"

There were about fourteen men in the room, all of them in the utilitarian MultiCam uniform that was reserved for tough physical or operational training. Their sleeves were rolled up to halfway between the elbow and the wrist and around half of them kept their webbing on over their lightweight shirts. Helmets were hung on hooks by the side of the room's door. Most of the men were sitting in a square of plush sofas, drinking mugs of tea or coffee and regaling one another with stories about past operations. A couple were listening along while they played some table football nearby. All of the men wore on their sleeve-patches the winged-excalibur that denoted them as members of the Special Air Service, the Army's most well-known Special Forces unit. Taken from their regular regiments after ten years of service and put through one of the most gruelling selection processes in the military world, these men then proceeded to engage in near-continuous training for the rest of their military careers, so long as they weren't on operations, that is. That day had been one of counter-terrorism training - storming a balsa wood knock-up of some office building using abseiling and room-clearance techniques. The rest break, though short, was appreciated by all in the room.

Of course, they knew why their training had become more intense as of late. It was day two of the Afalian Embassy Siege and, despite a lot of naysayers suggesting that the government should and would negotiate with the terrorists, it was unlikely to happen. The government wouldn't budge, the terrorists wouldn't budge - the only people moving would be the Special Forces, right into the heart of things. Regnum Albion had a large Special Forces contingent to call on in times of need. The Army had the Special Boat Service, the Reconnaissance Commandos and, of course, the Special Air Service. The Royal Navy had the Naval Commandos, Coastal Rangers and Frogman Commandos. The Royal Air Force had its own RAF Pathfinder Regiment, RAF Commandos and Paratroop Commandos, and even the Royal Medical Service technically had the Para-Rescue Commandos and Combat Rescue Commandos. On top of that, the Regnum Albion Police Force had access to SOC-4, its own special operations unit modelled after military forces. But of all these units, the SAS was the one that sprung to mind in times like this. The other military units were too specialised in other areas - the exception being the Special Boat Service and Reconnaissance Commandos, both of which were overseas at this point, however. SOC-4 might have been ideal too, but the Foreign & Colonial Office was leaning on using military resources to enable closer co-operation with Afalia. That meant that when everything was added up, it was the SAS that would be asked to assemble a team to prepare a raid on the Afalian Embassy alongside their counterparts across the Austerian Ocean.

There was, of course, a precedent in Anglo-Afalian co-operation on this level. The November 8th hostage crisis in which an airliner had been seized and taken to Songhia was an early example of the tight-knit relationship, and dozens of clandestine operations in South Arturia were likely to have involved further joint arms. Now, the world was almost expectant that anything this large to happen on Anglican soil and regarding Afalian interests would necessitate a joint response. The Entente Amicale called for it, that powerful uncodified bond between the two nations. Therefore, after the end of their day's training, the troop's commanding officer had been called in to see the Major and hadn't been seen since. A meeting of this length could only mean one thing in the eyes of the troops, though, and that was that the CO was being briefed for something.

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17:48, Tuesday July 2nd
Chatham House Intelligence Management Room A
Regulus Street
Port Royal, Regnum Albion

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When formal presentations weren't being given, the CHIMERA room was, Gibson noted, rather relaxed. Obviously, the situation merited some stress, but the emergency committee members were able to just come and go with a swish of their security clearance to the police officer at the door. At this point in the late afternoon, the Prime Minister had been taken away by his secretary to deal with more state business, though most affairs of the nation were being put on hold to deal with the terrorist crisis. Another hefty chunk of the room's occupants were only 'popping by' to provide updates or receive new instructions. The hardcore cadre of personnel remaining in the room were the Home Secretary, Foreign Secretary and, now that the Special Forces had been called in, a couple of military big wigs. Gibson had been somewhat sidelined, his SOC-4 team brushed aside to allow for greater co-operation with the Afalians, and though he was feeling somewhat bitter about it he recognised the merits of a decision that wasn't purely political (though he would have liked to believe it). His only reason for being asked to stay was that he was the one man in Regnum Albion to have done the most research on possible assaults on the embassy building, and he would be saving the Special Forces lads a lot of time if he was able to offer his assistance. Once that brief liaison was over, he would likely be shuttled off to his desk back in Portcullis House to resume the daily grind. At least, he supposed, he was getting a good view of the action.

The Home Secretary was briefing the other important members of the committee on his recent phone call with his Afalian counterpart, Simon Hue. Gibson remembered the name from from a few articles that the Times had done covering the Afalian Progressive Conservative's leadership race, and some more stories broadcast through the Aenean Broadcasting Corporation. Apparently the go-ahead had been confirmed on both sides, and a raid was to be finalised. This was also the phone call that signed the death-knell for SOC-4's involvement and had them replaced by the SAS. At this point, one of the military men, replete with the full khaki-green regalia, had detailed the troops to be involved in the exercise: the First Battalion's 'Aldershot' Company. There was some explanation given, along the lines that the Company had been on counter-terror training for the past few months as part of their rotation through various training regimens and was therefore the most prepared unit for rapid deployment against the gunmen in the embassy. The Foreign Secretary had also chipped in, saying that the Strategic Intelligence Service (the Crown Commonwealth's foreign intelligence agency which fell under the authority of the Ministry of Foreign & Colonial Affairs) had received some extremely important information regarding the gunmens' profiles from their equivalents in Afalia. It seemed, or so Gibson thought, that the whole operation was beginning to take off.

"I've spoken to the PM and he's given the nod on it all too." The Foreign Secretary, Joshua Marlebury, was interjecting at this point. Gibson had always liked the man, as a politician at least - he had never had much of a chance to meet him face-to-face. He remembered after Templer retired from the Commons that he had been amongst the many celebrators in favour of the new, reinvigorated cabinet. Now he could see that his support was well placed. A finely-tuned machine was hashing out a plan with the Afalians and fulfilling their promise to conquer inaction with decisive and robust decisions. "I've taken the liberty, therefore, of contacting the Afalians to formally give permission for them to send their SASR over here. Our boys will be training together before long, and we'll have those bastards out of the embassy one way or another before the week is out."

---

19:59, Tuesday July 2nd
St George Barracks
RME Regent's Park
The Highlands, Regnum Albion

---

The stories were still ongoing, one of the soldiers reminiscing about how an explosion had damaged his mortar's stand and forced him to hold the thing while it fired. He'd apparently scorched half of his uniform off before receiving the order to cease fire. That one had brought a good few laughs from the assorted troops, all of whom relished in the brutal and disconcerting stories that held a dark humour only understood by their battle-scarred minds. Those same minds were the one's that kept them smiling, and indeed caused a great cheer, when the CO came through the doors of the rec room and informed the troop that they would be storming a building full of armed and motivated madmen. Better still, they were going to do so alongside a bunch of lads equally as audacious as they were.

[Afalia]

Tuesday 2nd July
16:59 Afalian Central Time
Eanford Barracks,
Eanford, Helmsford,
Afalia

'I could not give less of a foony,' Major Taylor shouted.

To an outsider the Major's angry words would probably be undermined by the word 'foony' to end his sentence. To members of the Special Air Service Regiment however it underlined how serious the Major was when addressing the private before him who had foolishly requested leave at a moment of national crisis. The word foony, a Traditional Aafaliian word reffering to an elaborate ceremonial dance undertaken by elders to show their trust in the young was common Afalian Army slang. If you couldn't give a foony you really didn't care.

'I apologise sir.'

'You should apologise. Right now our own countrymen, and the countrymen of which your family and my family heralds from Atkins, are being held up by those bloody HFA bastards, the very same backwards bastards who killed one our own in Songhia, murdered twelve fellow squaddies, assassinated our prime minister and have continued to blow up our own people on numerous occasions.'

'I apologise again sir.'

'Yes Atkins, you should apologise. If you haven't got the appetite for this anymore then you should never have signed up for SASR training, should you?'

'No sir.'

'Well then, do you still have the stomach for this?'

Atkins nodded briefly. He had relished the training. Ever since survival training in the outback he knew he'd wanted to be a part of the regiment. Who else, he'd asked himself, would relish the opportunity to be dumped with pittance for rations and water in the middle of a desert stretching thousands of miles in each direction and having to survive for five days, but a SASR man? His appetite for action however had died down somewhat after his wife got pregnant. After trying for years without success she'd picked the day he got back from training, having just been certified as a member of the regiment to tell him they were going to be parents.

'Don't nod Atkins, answer me with your voice!' Taykor shouted.

'Yes sir, I still have the appetite for this.'

Taylor nodded, 'I thought as much. Now go back and join your comrades in action before I write you up for being a bloody aaqeeaatyl!'

Again, there was more Traditional Aafaliian adopted slang from Taylor. An aaqeeaatyl was a sort of appeaser during pre-colonial times who refused to fight, but was not wise either. Nowadays the word had enjoyed something of a resurgence thanks to the Titanican War and more recently the HFA. Those who advocated negotiation with the HFA hated the word but it didn't stop people using it. Atkins was no aaqeeaatyl. He saluted and quickly marched away until he was out of Taylor's sight. Taylor held his angry face long enough until Atkins was away before snorting and making his way to the officer's mess for some tea.

'You alright Taylor?'

The warm voice of Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Charter greeted Taylor as he entered the room. Charter was the regiment's overall leader. His appearance had signalled to the boys that they'd be doing their practice raids for real very soon. Some of them thought the Anglicans would handle this on their own, but the 8-N attacks and Songhian hostage situation had proven that the two special forces regiment worked well together-especially as they both had citizens in that building. The co-operative nature of the two sides went beyond joint operations.

Everything about the Special Air Service Regiment had been modelled on Albion's SAS, from the name to the training. The SASR had originally been formed some years after the Anglican SAS as Afalia's own version-at the time mainly to deal with the things involving firearms that the unarmed police couldn't deal with. Once the armed forces had been reformed in 2013 it had sprung up again, taking its most experienced members from the Special Unit of the security wing. It was despite its young age, a good force.

Now it seemed like a fresh anti-HFA operation would be the SASR's purpose for July. There was talk that some of them would be deployed to Harling to join the Anglican deployment there on special missions. Within the army's headquarters and officer's messes the talk of the Harling situation was surprisingly optimistic. Despite the PM being assassinated and the embassy in Port Royal under HFA control AIS intelligence suggested that things were starting to go badly for the Harling extremists. Counter-intelligence operations within HFA service units, the implementation of the oil spot theory within Broadplace and other major population areas and the deployment of more troops, equipment and Anglican and other foreign support was working. Moreover the navy's patrols around Harling had essentially cut off most of its weapon supplies although it was still receiving large quantities of cash from unknown sources.

Even more interesting for those most experienced members of the SASR was talk of a special mission to hunt down and arrest Gareth Curren, the leader of the HFA and the man who had claimed responsibility for the personal planning or oversight of every HFA operation since 2006. But that was just talk. For now the focus was on rescuing the embassy hostages, a difficult enough task.

'Lieutenant Colonel, any news?'

'I'm afraid not Major. We're still waiting to hear from Blackdon but I should be getting a call soon.'

'Excellent news sir. Hopefully we can go kick the bastard's teeth in, along with the motherland's best.'

'Indeed. I hear that we may be joining the SAS. It'll be a pleasure to work with them again.'

'Do you mean from the exercise or last time we had to deal with HFAers sir?' Taylor asked.

'Well both I suppose. I hear some of the boys might get to catch up with some friends they made. It's nice when we can get together with them.'

Taylor laughed, 'Yes, well to give the HFA their due they are good at bringing people together.'

Charter smiled and pointed to a chair opposite his. Taylor sat down and gave a sigh. It was only early evening but he'd been up since two that morning looking at schematics of Cherry Lane in Port Royal and on the phone with all sorts of people, senior and junior to himself. It had been that way since Kelly's death. Everyone had been on edge. There had been talk then of some sort of 'hit', a special forces raid on suspected HFA buildings in Harling or something similar. In the end though the new PM had decided a properly organised campaign rather than an isolated hit would be better. Taylor had read the memo promising retaliation, but not quite yet.

'Sir, if you don't mind me asking, are there rumours about going after Curren true?'

Charter paused, 'I can't say yet. I'm afraid if there is an official operation to do this then I'm as much in the dark as you are. I have heard they're going to get the Bush Hunters involved once they're back from South Arturia.' Charter leant forward and said much quietly, 'Don't let on but I've also seen a memo from the MoS talking about a battlegroup involving us, the Bush Hunters, parachute regiment and intelligence corps. Quite a lot of men, all focused on finding Curren.'

Taylor nodded, 'Well they do revolve around Curren sir.'

'I agree. If we can get the bastard then it'll be a bloody coup.'

Charter leant back into his chair and Taylor resumed his position on the seat. They sat in silence for a minute before their thoughts were interrupted by the telephone ringing. Charter looked at the phone before looking back up at Taylor.

'Well here we go Taylor,' he said before grabbing the phone, 'Lieutenant Colonel Charter here. Yes...I understand...Indeed...Yes, thank you sir, good luck to you too.'

With that the phone was placed back on its receiver.

'Get the boys ready Taylor, your company's up.'