Price of the Jackal's Feast [MT/PMT]

[Allanea]

Given the vast amount of ammunition the coalition fleet had expended on fighting the Shackleyan surface vessels, it was not immediately planning to attack any more surface targets. Ships and men alike were, one could very reasonably argue, resting and recuperating from the fight. Some of the Allanean officers were already raising their glasses of vodka in memory of those men – Allanean, Soviet, and even Shackleyan – that had found their way in the cold depths of the North Atlantic.

But there were some who were not permitted this solemn moment of silence, nor the moments of cheer and celebration. These were the men and women who manned the air defense ships and the AWACS aircraft who patrolled around Allanea's carriers. It was of course obvious that they had to stay on guard, lest the foe launched a missile or a flight of planes – but more pertinently, they of course had to remain on guard for the results of Operation Oversight. Even now they recorded the signals they intercepted from enemy RADAR, and their own reads as the Shackleyan planes destroyed the decoys.

Then there was the issue, of course, of targets of opportunity.

Sixteen enemy contacts were in the air.

Thirty-two of the long-range anti-air missiles were now launched, streaking from one of the air defense destroyers towards the enemy Lightning fighters. It was, of course, understood that the enemy was here at the advantage – they were quite far off from the Allanean ships, and perhaps would even escape from the missiles before they arrived on-location. But the hope was to get at least a few.

*

The next stage, as proposed by Allanean commanders to their Soviet counterparts, would be called Operation Odysseus. It called for the preparation of a division of Soviet naval bombers. A similar number of Allanean strike aircraft was being prepared on the Atlantic shore. On the Soviet and Allanean aircraft carriers, strike fighters were being prepared for their launch.

Also joining the mission would be an assortment of other planes – AWACS, electronic warfare, tankers, and drones.

The exact purpose of Operation Odysseus, and even its targets, remained classified, unknown even to the pilots that would be involved. The exact target packages, in fact, were still being worked out, to be sent to the air regiments a few hours before the mission would be on its way.

The only hint as to what would happen was the operation's name.

[Shackley]

The Lightnings were quick to react. Their RADAR receivers picked up the incoming threat and they positioned themselves to evade.
They'd expended all thirty two of their missiles at this point and were thus unarmed, but this was not a threat that could be countered easily by air-to-air missiles anyway.

They were somewhat lacking in countermeasures. Being a rather aged platform the Lightning had been built in an age when guided missiles were in their infancy and the only countermeasures a skilled pilot needed was a firm grasp of the flight stick and a weighty pair of brass bollocks.
Times had changed.

The fighters positioned themselves for evasive manoeuvres, exchanging altitude for speed as they sped towards the surface in an attempt to stretch the distance, speeding north towards the coastline at almost Mach 2.5.
They were heading home, the airfield was almost in sight. But the shrill tone of the RADAR warning wouldn't go away. They were outnumbered and soon they would be outrun.
A few more minutes of intense chase and the missiles were closing in, soaring over the first few miles of Shackley soil. The airfield was almost in sight.
As one the fighters turned, splitting off into a palmtree of contrails with the missiles in pursuit. Several lost their bearings and at such a low altitude they had nowhere to go. A few missiles plummeted into the ground.
But they weren't safe yet. There were still 20-something of them and they were relentless. Another split manoeuvre was attempted but the missiles were closer this time; when the fighters turned and sacrificed some of their speed they signed their death warrant. 4 missiles hit their targets, the Lightnings consumed in flames. There was no time to eject.
At this point there were few tools left in the box for the interceptors. They slammed their throttles home as they resumed the course back to the airfield, the missiles nipping at their proverbial heels. They tried one last time to split formation, allowing the sparse AA guns on the ground a few shots at the missiles. Emergency flares were detonated in an attempt to distract them but it was a futile endeavour. Another Lightning was lost as an explosion tore his tailfin away, giving him less than a second to punch out before his jet tumbled through the soft earth.

In all they'd lost 5 fighters in what was supposed to be a simple intercept mission. They'd feared the worst, and while 4 dead men and one crippled pilot was better than a strategic bombing campaign on Upper Dalton these brave souls had lost their lives because of some fucking decoys. The Air Force Colonel nearly broke the handle off his mug in frustration.

* * *

Meanwhile preparation was underway for the coming invasion. At the outbreak of war the populace had been mobilised and now it was seeming to pay off. The streets were lined with sandbags, every junction and roundabout with tank traps, and every bridge and ford with checkpoints. The government had organised several volunteer militias to man outposts while gardens across the country were being dug up for the planting of vegetables. The Paramarines' Engineers Regiment was deployed extensively along the coastline, sowing the sands of every beach with landmines and casting concrete pillboxes onto clifftops. Trenches, foxholes and tank-pits had been dug and were now being reinforced as corrugated iron fresh from the factory was delivered by the truckload.
Some of the more patriotic engineering firms had even pitched in for free, spewing out thousands of caltrops to be scattered across the frontlines. Some of the environmentalists were worried about the cleanup efforts that would be required after such an extensive deployment, but the strategists thought this was a rather nice problem to have, all things considered. In order to worry about cleaning up after a war, you first had to survive said war.

* * *

In the heart of Shackley's strategic command centre, a hundred feet below the wreckage of Fort Dalton, the distinct sound of a champagne cork popping could be heard.
The Officer Commanding of the Royal Shackleyan Air Force entered the room and presented the bottle to his peers.
"Your Majesty, Sir Higgins, my good friends. We've found Admiral Rimmer!"
In another of those fleeting cheerful moments in wartime King Harold XIX shared a smile with his countrymen.

[Allanea]

Now, by the gods, I drove my big hand spike
deep in the embers, charring it again,
and cheered my men along with battle talk
to keep their courage up: no quitting now.
The pike of olive, green though it had been,
reddened and glowed as if about to catch.
I drew it from the coals and my four fellows
gave me a hand, lugging it near the Cyclops
Its more than natural force nerved them; straight
forward they sprinted, lifted it, and rammed it
deep in his crater eye, and I leaned on it
turning it as a shipwright turns a drill
in planking, having men below to swing
the two-handled strap that spins it in the groove.
So with our brand we bored that great eye socket
while blood ran out around the red hot bar.
Eyelid and lash were seared; the pierced ball
hissed broiling, and the roots popped. ~ Homer, The Odyssey.

Several hours would pass before the next strike. The Allanean Minister of War waited, in the Situation Room in the tall tower of the Ministry of War building in Liberty-City, and in the Soviet General Staff building in Moscow, men waited as well. Their aircraft would be under radio silence now, and there would be no way to track precisely their progress through the darkened skies. The dots – one bright dot for each squadron – moved across the screens regularlity, but it was merely theory.

The Allaneans and the Soviets, as luck would have it, happened to follow similar color schemes, using red on their maps for their own forces, and blue for Shackleyan positions. As the glowing red dots swooped out across the watery plains, they followed the path – theoretical, again, of the Allanean and Soviet planes, at the cruise speed of these aircraft.

Around the time the Soviet Tu-22M3M bombers approached the six-hundred-kilometer line – that is to say, they were six hundred kilometers away from the Home Islands, with the Soviet warships still between them and the enemy – additional dots lit up on the screen, speeding towards the enemy.

– "They fired! The satellites detect a launch!" – a less-restrained Lieutenant at the Soviet General Staff shouted. "Pizdets kotenku, srat ne budet!"('The kitten is done for, it'll shit no more! – RUS). Several of the Soviet admirals eyeballed the Lieutenant, but, given the circumstances – and given they were with the Soviet Navy, nobody condemned his use of the expletives.

The missiles sped towards their targets – Shackleyan radar sites and air defense installations. And when we say sped, we mean that very thing that our beloved reader thinks of when he imagines a missile – roaring, six-ton monsters, three for each of the Soviet planes, riding forward at four and a half times the speed of sound itself. They had no radar of their own operating and were carried forth only on the precision of their own inertial guidance – and as such they could not be disrupted, only shot down. When they approached their targets – the longest-range and most powerful radar installations in Shackley – they would turn on their passive sensors, and dive towards the broadcast sources.

This was expected to happen in six minutes and twenty-seven seconds after the launch.

[Anglya]

Message in Behalf of The Red Cross of Anglya

It has recently come to the attention of this organization that a state of war has come into existence between the Independent Naval States of Shackley, the Free Kingdom of Allanea, and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, leading to a sharp and increasing loss of life, and likely to soon involve extensive combat operations in the midst of civilian populations.

We will not even bother asking you to stop. We know your pride will not allow it.

Instead, we seek the permission of the government of the I.N.S.S. to deploy resources and personnel to your territory to assist in preparing for the torrent of wounded and displaced innocents who invariably will result from any such conflict, especially with the mounting prospect of an invasion now facing your country.

Signed,
Jeremiah Lowery, Director, A.R.C.

[Allanea]

Dear friends!

We appreciate your concern for innocent lives. However, we are unfortunately unable to allow your personnel access to the Shackleyan Home Islands at this stage. The Shackleyans have already shown willingness to engage in military aggression, as well as utilize deception, slave labor, and other practices that would make it difficult for us to distinguish legitimate shipping and resupply for civilians and military convoys. This would endanger both your personnel and our own.

We note further that the Shackleyan crown, clearly concerned about the potential of a prolonged ground war on their territory, is transitioning to a territorial army/militia model, which our analysts suggest may expand to contain the majority of the public in the event of need. If this scenario evolves as our analysts predict, a bloody conflict in which it will be impossible to distinguish civilians from soldiers either practically or even legally.

As such we will not allow any shipping to enter or leave Shackleyan harbors, except as below:

We however make the following proposals, as a gesture of good will:

1) As soon as it is practical for us to cease blockading the Shackleyan trade, we will allow your organization access to the territory of said nation (naturally this, if it occurs, will very likely be alongside massive, high-intensity, land warfare that would make the foreign aid you speak of very necessary), or at the cessation of hostilities.

2) We request that you assist our diplomats in negotiating an honorable peace with Shackley, to include reasonable provisions for restitution to the counter-terrorist coalition powers and for the establishing of a secure long-term peace.

Baroness Priscilla Conde,
Lady Knight
Free Kingdom Ministry of War

[Shackley]

From: Sir Lionel Higgins, MSE; Ministry of Foreign Affairs
To: Jeremiah Lowery, Director, A.R.C.
Encryption Level: Low

Dear sir,
Your concern for our people in this time of great anguish has lifted the sullen hearts of many. We are but a humble set of islands, and though our swords may be blunted and our pride scratched we hold tightly to the glimmers of hope offered to us by people such as yourself.

The fact that this Baroness feels she can dictate our foreign policy is one of many indications that the Allaneans are not only arrogant, power-hungry warmongers, but they also heavily underestimate us.
In spite of her false assurances I can guarantee that should you desire it we will clear a path and lay out a red carpet for your aid workers. The Goliath of the Allanean Navy may be intimidating, but it is not as invincible as they would have you believe. David will make himself known soon enough.

In any case let it be known that your willingness to assist and the hopes you seem to express are received warmly in Shackley. Whatever propaganda that vile communist coalition might produce always remember that we are not monsters. Nobody willingly fights to make the world a worse place to live in.

Salutations and respects,
Sir Lionel Higgins, MSE
With dignity and persistence

[1st Union of Soviet Socialist Republics]

Министерство иностранных дел Союза Советских Социалистических Республик; Отдел специальных
Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics; Special Affairs Division

From: The Kremlin, Moscow, Central Civil District of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.
To: Jeremiah Lowery, Director, A.R.C.

---

From: Marshal of the USSR, General Secretary of the CPSU Fikatsia Latrova
To: Jeremiah Lowery, Director, A.R.C.

---

Comrade, Lowery. I as well as others of the Soviet Military High Command agree that yes, the situation the Shackleyan people find themselves is a tragedy. However it is a tragedy brought on by it's arrogant, incompetent, and idiotic leadership. We would be happy to allow the red cross to coordinate efforts to assist the people. ....After the war when the situation is firmly under our control and all resistance to the soviet union is eradicated. It is as you say a matter of pride. The Shackleyans have attempted to deny any involvement on the attacks on soviet forces in Qaidi by, Shackley's own forces. They have tried to lie their way out of taking the blame. After the war ends and this matter is settled, then you shall be allowed by the Soviet Navy to do as you please. Until then, the Soviet Union with it's Allanean comrades will continue it's blockade of Shackley.

Подпись. Маршал СССР, Генеральный секретарь Коммунистической партии Советского Союза, Фикациа Латрова.
Signed. Marshal of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, General Secretary of the CPSU, Fikatsia Latrova.

[Shackley]

All was dark. He heard the creaking screech of torn steel as the water rushed around him. A door rocked on its hinges, blood pounding in his ears.
The unbearable scorching of kerosene and oil stuck to his skin. A sliver of noonday sun poked through the curtains.
He stared in dazed fear at the colossal chunk of whirling bronze rising above his head. The ceiling fan span soundlessly from the ceiling.
What is this place?

"Ah, I see you're finally awake, Admiral!" The voice was hearty and warm but came tinged with a professional coldness.
A Shackleyan accent, at least.
"W-where am I?"
"Only the finest military ICU in Lower Dalton, sir. My name is Doctor Cummings."
Well, if he had been captured by the enemy they were certainly putting up a good ruse. Rimmer glanced at the various charts and medical apparatus lining the room. Many bore the symbol of the Shackleyan Standards Authority along with the crest of His Majesty.
Then again, he thought, the Soviets were known for their Maskirovka.
"You've been rather lucky if I may say so Admiral. Our boys found you floating on a piece of door-panel about a mile from your battlegroup's last transmission. Can you recall what happened?" Cummings produced an artificial smile.
With an expression that hollow he must be a local, considered Rimmer.
"I should've gone down with my ship." He breathed.
"Ah yes, the Cleese." The Doctor's tone was clinical, sympathetic. "Your ship was lost, was it?"
"With all hands!" came the spiteful remark. "Well, not all, obviously. I saw them burn, Cummings! A thousand souls lost before my very eyes, scrambling in the darkness for a dying hope as my ship, the greatest glorified fucking bathtub ever put to seas by our people swatted from the froth and foam like it was nothing!" the Officer grabbed the Doctor's tie
"Did anyone else make it out alive?!" He stared bloodshot into the thinner man's eyes.
"We managed to pick up a handful, here and there..." admitted Cummings
"Are we still looking?"
The Doctor took a moment before reaching for his clipboard.
"Admiral, it's important to understand that we're at war and picking up survivors isn't always possible, not to mentio-"
"ARE WE STILL LOOKING?"
"Rimmer I'll be blunt with you; It's been weeks, weeks since the battle and we simply don't have the manpower nor the firepower anymore to search for them, even if a miraculous few did survive this far with no food or water in the freezing seas without being killed or captured by the enemy! I'm sorry, but no. I'm just the messenger." Cummings stared at the tiled floor and adjusted his glasses.
Admiral Jeremy Rimmer just sat in silence for several minutes. The remainder of his day would be spent contemplating the news and trying to organise his thoughts. Part of him was still there, drowning on the bridge.
The next morning after the usual miserable experience that is hospital food, he asked only one thing of Dr. Cummings;
"I must speak to the King."

* * *

The once-proud Royal Shackleyan Navy stood in ruins. The pride and joy of the nation's propagandists had been sunk alongside all her escorts. The only surface ships remaining were Connery, Redemption and a paltry few Type 45s miles away in foreign seas. The submarine fleet still had yet to be put into full effect, and this thought took centre-stage in Rimmer's considerations as the armoured saloon carried him to the airport. A defensive use of the SSKs? There's a thought. He wasn't looking forward to meeting with the Air Force commander though. If memory served correctly that intolerable chinwagger would likely still be moaning about his precious RADAR sites, Rimmer observed as he skimmed through the many reports and briefings scattered across the back of the car.
The bureaucracy of it all almost made him wish he had drowned.

[Allanea]

Isolation Hospital No. 2, Moscow
Seaman Ruslan Nurmagomedov was died. He did not die at sea, nor in battle against the enemies of the sovetskaya rodina. He died in a hospital bed, his enemy having deprived him not only of his health, but also of his very dignity as a man and a warrior. In his last hours, his bowels spewed forth noxious, black fluid, a horrifying mix of feces and blood. Bloody tears streaked down his face as he lay on his death bed. He had been taught all his life that a real man does not weep, but what meaning does that even hold when you are coughing up bloodied vomit, and the very barriers that hold the different organs of your body apart are giving way to disease?

In his final hours, Ruslan begged for his mother. She was back home, in a village in far-off Dagestan, but even if she was here, in Moscow, there would be no way for her to hold him in his final moments. The room was sealed and guarded, by men in light-green protective suits and rifles on the outside. The only nurses who came in to peak to Ruslan did not even look human – clad in white, rubbery-looking suits with rebreathers, they looked like messengers from some unspeakable underworld. Though the plastic hoods on their faces had a transparent front, it was difficult to figure out what they looked like. Ruslan imagined, in his final fever, that they had kind, blue eyes. Perhaps.

They did not let on that they feared him, but of course they did. They washed down the outside of their suits with pressure hoses, and went through a special room – like on the ship, for nuclear readiness, a fleeting thought passed through Ruslan's brain – before they came out. Of course they were afraid. The biologists in Shackley had figured out a way to make ebola airborne – a fearsome weapon indeed.

At last, Ruslan was dead. His body was lowered into the morgue in a special body bag, and men in protective gear placed him in the incinerator. The Director of the Isolation Hospital did not dare approve transporting Ruslan to his home village, even in the 'zinc coffins' for which the Red Army was so known. What if it got opened? What if those people in Dagestan – of course, the Director, a Muscovite in the third generation, imagined the Dagestani as much more primitive than perhaps they were – opened it? God knows what they do there in the Caucasus.

Denied death in battle, denied the company of his loved ones, at last there was a final denial – Ruslan was denied also the honorable burial his tradition called for. The unfeeling flame of the crematorium transformed Ruslan's body into ashes and bone fragments, and these were placed into a small metal urn. To be fair, at least, to the Director, he used the same method he himself would have asked for, and the same method that was used for the burial of Soviet leaders and Marshals.

Within a day, the urn was on its way to Ruslan's home village, and a brief letter was sent to Ruslan's father and mother.

Your Son, Seaman Nurgmagomedov Ruslan Abduragimovich, birthplace Temiraul, died of his injuries as received in combat for the Socialist Motherland. His body is currently being shipped home for burial This document may be used as basis for applying for a military pension as per the appropriate Orders of the Ministry for the Defense of the USSR...

The other urns, with the bodies of the sailors and officers that had perished from the disease, would also soon begin making their way through the railway system and home.

Soon, the names of those who died from the ebola attack would be printed in Pravda – and the Soviet and Allanean press would tell their stories.

SAILORS SLAIN IN UNDERHANDED BIOWEAPONS ATTACK, wrote Pravda. SHACKLEYAN BIOWEAPONS CLAIM THEIR VIST VICTIM, echoed Liberty Times in Allanea. HOW LOW WILL THEY GO?, inquired Svoboda I Pobeda, and Komsomolskaya Pravda replied: THE CRIMES OF THE FASCIST-IMPERIALIST AGGRESSOR KNOW NO LIMITS.

Even a very limited power of perception would suggest to a reader of these papers that both the Soviets and their coalition partners were far from being positively impressed.

[Shackley]

The Jag rolled to a halt, flanked on both sides by barbed wire and sandbags. The roadblock was manned by Royal Guards, the wounded regiment now consisting almost entirely of reserves and the very few survivors from the palace bombing. Clad in crimson they kept the heavy machinegun aimed squarely at the driver as he handed another Paramarine his papers. Rimmer opened the rear door and stepped out, brushing down his tunic and adjusting his cap. He returned the Paramarines' salutes and walked briskly past the gate as his driver pulled away.
More guards offered salutes as the Admiral paced onward, his mirror-polished dress shoes squeaking in the gravel. His Navy uniform was stark contrast to the ceremonial battledress of the Paramarine elite.
The thick steel doors to the bunker lay ahead and, equidistant between them and Rimmer, the cracked remains of a collapsed archway. Engraved on the keystone was the royal slogan.

"'Under the King, survival'" muttered Rimmer under his breath. He noticed his right hand unconsciously grasping at his holster. He grimaced slightly, bringing the hand up into salute and away from his Browning, assuaging the concerns of the last pair of Paramarines. He flashed his ID and stepped through the narrow passageway onto a wiremesh staircase. He was in.

The Admiral had seen the bunker only once before; several months between postings in the military high command. All officers serving at Fort Dalton were shown the same tour.
This time it felt different, however. Not unexpectedly Rimmer had to admit, but despite the increased number of personnel operating down here the rooms seemed quieter, the air colder. There were no guards down here, no surveillance. This was the new centre for government and military operations of the very highest level; not a place for 18-year-old John Smith on his first year of National Service.
As he clattered down the steps towards the first corridor he made his mental preparations. Remembering the layout from the last time he was here Rimmer knew to take the next turn left.
He took the turning into the utility room and took in his surroundings. There was a set of electrical transformers, a large air-conditioning unit, a fibre-optic relay box and a diesel generator. The transformers and the fibre relay kept the bunker connected to the outside world while the generator and the air-con were there if it needed cutting off. Rimmer took a letter-opener from his pocket and set about cutting the fibre-optic cables, all but one. He then went to the small control panel on the far wall and started up the NBC emergency drill. This automatically sealed all ventilation coming in and out of the bunker and kicked the AC into full capacity. The backup generator started not long after and a series of red lights blinked on, indicating the closure of additional blast-doors. The shelter under Fort Dalton was now fully self-sufficient. If the experts were to be believed, they could last up to a month at full operational capacity, and up to 6 if they deactivated the Strategic Defence computers and communications equipment.

Despite this Rimmer knew his time was short. Exiting the room he yanked on a steel locker, quickly stepping through and shutting the door as the heavy metal furniture fell against it. Going back into the utility room would now take significant coordinated effort, something Rimmer cynically doubted his country's top military planners were capable of.
He unbuttoned the lily-white leather holster and slid the 9mm Browning into his eager palm. He thumbed off the safety and cocked back the hammer, weighing the chequered woodgrips in his hand.

The first room was full of junior officers; Ensigns, Lieutenants. Aides more than anything else, fresh from the academy. The warning lights informing the bunker's inhabitants of the Nuclear/Biological/Chemical emergency had caught their attention and one walked right into the Admiral as he turned the corner. He received a sharp kick to the shins and a 9-millimetre hardball for his trouble.
His comrades went down more easily. The shot surprised them and Rimmer now had a more open field of fire with which to engage. He fired another five rounds, two for the first and three for the second man in the room. He crumpled them both.

The gunfire travelled easily down the hard-walled corridors, quickening those already roused by the emergency warning. A group of civil servants piled into the corridor in front of Rimmer, some grasping at gas masks as they came into view. He didn't hesitate, emptying the last 7 rounds of his magazine into the crowd. Those who survived the barrage ducked back into what turned out to be a lounge adjacent a small office. There was little room for them to hide as Rimmer slammed home his second magazine and turned the corner. After putting another three cartridges to use he reemerged and went deeper into the bunker.
Ahead were the main sleeping-quarters in which a few startled officers were now drawing their sidearms.

The first to emerge was the Chief Marshal of the RShAF, Sir Charles Riley. He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of the Admiral and his smoking gun.
"Rimmer? Jezza, what are you-"
"Fucking drop it, Charlie. I'm giving you one chance to not fuck up for once so you'd better take it!"
The Air Force man started to speak again but was cut off by a Paramarine Lieutenant-Colonel striding through the door with his own weapon drawn.
He managed to turn and face Rimmer, his arm raising just above his hip when he was knocked down by a burst from the Admiral. Rimmer took the opportunity to shoot Riley in the knee, dropping him like a sack of potatoes before kicking the man's pistol out of reach. The last man in the room took his chance and fired at Rimmer's back, his shaking hands causing him to miss by a couple inches. Rimmer cried out as the bullet cracked past his ear, deafening him somewhat before it shattered against the concrete wall. The Admiral turned on his heel and dropped to one knee, drilling a hole right through the forehead of the unlucky General.

"Stay right there, Charlie, or I'll end it all before you make it to the door. You've got none of your precious pilots to help you this time."

The final door was ornate and wooden. Admiral Jeremy Rimmer decided to do what he always wanted to.
He raised his knee to his chest and planted his foot firmly in the centre of the Royal Crest decorating the door panel, sending the whole thing flying on its hinges. This room housed King Harold himself, and sheltered in there with him behind the thick oak table was Sir Lionel Higgins, MSE and his deputy Basil Hawthorne. He had five rounds left.
Higgins got up first, sensing the opportunity for diplomacy. With his hands raised above his head and a politician's smile he greeted the Admiral.
"Hello, Rimmer! Finally come to join us-"
Two shots silenced the man, penetrating the head of the Head of Foreign Affairs.
The Admiral walked gingerly to the table, keeping the muzzle pointed at the elderly King.
Keeping his eyes on Harold he spoke to the only other remaining man in the room; "You're not stupid enough to try anything, are you Basil?"
"Certainly not, sir." The Deputy chewed on his moustache.
"As for you, Your Majesty. If you think for a moment anything that I've done here today comes close to the damage you've done to our country you're sorely fucking mistaken mate." Rimmer wiped his face with the back of his free hand.
"Stand up, come on. Chop chop, fucker!" He pointed with his pistol. "We're going over to this desk here and we're going to have a nice little chat."
Rimmer didn't even let the former King speak as he led him to the desk. He quickly found a pen and paper and prepared to sign his country over.
Nobody in the room could predict what the result of all this would be, but Rimmer had his plans.

[Shackley]

After several gruelling hours the ordeal was over. Harold had signed all the necessary papers while Rimmer negotiated via the King's personal hotline to the central government.
At the end of it all Jeremy Rimmer had been appointed Lord Protector of Shackley and pardoned for his crimes. King Harold XIX abdicated and the Monarchy was abolished. Rimmer now held the power of a God over his countrymen, ruling the new Imperial Fiefdom with an open mind. The (former) Royal Bureau of Heraldry had even drawn up a new flag, if rather confused by the whole affair.

It took no small amount of courage for the Admiral to leave the bunker, swarmed by Royal Guards. They eased up after they saw their protectee unharmed but either way the newly-appointed Lord Protector thought it best to leave before they started clearing up the bodies.

Rimmer's first actions as Head of State involved cleaning up the Government. He'd always been an inside man and knew where to find the corrupt ones. Basil Hawthorne was appointed to head the Foreign Office and Sir Riley kept his position commanding the Air Force.
It was hoped that this time around they could rekindle the spirit of the first Shackleyan Revolutionaries gaining independence from the old Empire.

From: Lord Protector Jeremy Rimmer, The Imperial Fiefdom of Shackley
To: Whomever it may concern; The Free Kingdom of Allanea & The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
Encryption Level: High
Esteemed leaders,
I'm not one to waste time when it comes to such pressing matters. You may be aware of my recent rise to power but I won't bore you with the details; rest assured you won't need to worry about King Harold anymore.
I hope you will agree with me when I say that it is in all our best interests to resolve this conflict as soon as possible. I believe the bloodshed has gone far enough and am willing to allow my diplomats to enter negotiations if you so desire.

That being said it is vitally important that I defend the interests and sovereignty of my nation and I am equally prepared to unleash the full military might of my Imperial Fiefdom to this end. Surely the conflict in Afghanistan is still present in the minds of many Soviet citizens? I'm confident I don't need to explain the costs of Guerrilla warfare to you.

In any case I hope we can resolve this for the benefit of us all.
With Dignity and Persistence
Lord Protector Admiral Jeremy Rimmer

[1st Union of Soviet Socialist Republics]

(Image)

From: Lord Protector Jeremy Rimmer, The Imperial Fiefdom of Shackley
To: Whomever it may concern; The Free Kingdom of Allanea & The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
Encryption Level: High
Esteemed leaders,
I'm not one to waste time when it comes to such pressing matters. You may be aware of my recent rise to power but I won't bore you with the details; rest assured you won't need to worry about King Harold anymore.
I hope you will agree with me when I say that it is in all our best interests to resolve this conflict as soon as possible. I believe the bloodshed has gone far enough and am willing to allow my diplomats to enter negotiations if you so desire.

That being said it is vitally important that I defend the interests and sovereignty of my nation and I am equally prepared to unleash the full military might of my Imperial Fiefdom to this end. Surely the conflict in Afghanistan is still present in the minds of many Soviet citizens? I'm confident I don't need to explain the costs of Guerrilla warfare to you.

In any case I hope we can resolve this for the benefit of us all.
With Dignity and Persistence
Lord Protector Admiral Jeremy Rimmer

Министерство иностранных дел Союза Советских Социалистических Республик; Отдел специальных
Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics; Special Affairs Division

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From: The Kremlin, Moscow, Central Civil District of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.
To: Jeremy Rimmer, Directly.

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From: Marshal of the USSR, General Secretary of the CPSU Fikatsia Latrova
To: Jeremy Rimmer

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I shall see you to a gulag. Personally. You shall soon regret that choice of words when the USSR's flag flies over your country and every single officer of your military is sent in chains to the gulags in Siberia. However, you? You shall receive a fate worse than death. I promise you that.

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Подпись. Маршал СССР, Генеральный секретарь Коммунистической партии Советского Союза, Фикациа Латрова.
Signed. Marshal of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, General Secretary of the CPSU, Fikatsia Latrova.

The Kremlin, Moscow, Central Civil District of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

Marshal Latrova finished her communique and a loud explosion was heard in the next building over, quickly her guards rushed in and got her safe below her desk while the rest of the Kremlin was put on high alert. Thankfully however the explosion was found to come from the next building from where the USSR's military headquarters was, the building that was hit was the civil administration. Seemed as if those car deliveries were going to take another 10 years sadly for those applying. Meanwhile the Marshal herself was unhurt and as were the bulk of the Soviet Armed Forces General Staff.

Third Soviet Battlegroup, The Atlantic, Flagship Ulyanovsk

The last Soviet fleet to come and join the blockade had arrived, the four Sovetsky Soyuz class battleships, and the super carrier, Ulyanovsk. A ship which stuck out from the other fleets, mainly for the large object situated on it's flight deck, covered by a large canvas tarp, standing around 21.7m. As it had been found out by the NKVD, Shackley had planned on deploying quote on quote "Super soldiers". The USSR had weapons of it's own, far more terrifying.

[Allanea]

From: Cassiopeia Blaken-Kazansky, Empress of Greater Prussia and the Thousand States, Queen of Allanea, Reichskamphen, Leipzig-Island, Tsarina of All Russia, Moscow, Vladimir, Novgorod; Kazan, Astrakhan, , Siberia, Chersonese Taurianl Lord of Pskov and Grand Princess of Smolensk,; Prince, Karelia, Tver, Yugorsky land, Perm, Vyatka, and others; Lord and Grand Prince of Nizhny Nogorod, Ryazan, Polotsk, Rostov, Yaroslavl, Belozersk, Udorsky land, Obdorsk, Kondia, , and all of the northern countries Lady; hereditary Sovereign and ruler of the Circassian and Mountainous Princes and of others; Lord of Turkestan; Archduke of Free Dragkon, Duchess of Leyfield, Blaken-Island, Schleswig-Holstein, Stormarn, Dithmarschen, and Oldenburg, Countess of Centreville, Protector of Snoghosia
To: Marshal of the USSR, General Secretary of the CPSU Fikatsia Latrova, Lord Protector Jeremy Rimmer, The Imperial Fiefdom of Shackley

Subject: Can we please not, and say we did?

Hello!

I fully understand that the people of Shackley are heroic, dedicated to their cause, and willing to fight to the last man. So would Allaneans be if they were posed in a situation such as the Shackleyans, and so would the Soviets be. The memory of the World Wars, the Freemen's Crusades, and many other encounters is proof enough that everyone here is the representative of a civilization that knows to value honor and to stand on principle.

I understand also that the Soviets have a legitimate casus belli, and an advantage in firepower that makes future war on this matter a truly lopsided conflict. The geography of Shackley makes engaging in guerrilla warfare a significantly more disadvantageous enterprise than the War in Afghanistan. Afghanistan, we must remember, is a vast mountainous country where even a 'legitimate' government would find it difficult to maintain its rule over all corners of the land, and borders several countries of which the rulers are nearly always willing to assist some faction or another. (These very factors that have made Afghanistan nigh-impossible to conquer also have, in the case of most Afghanistans I am familiar with, have rendered it a poor and miserable fifth-world country – so really, I don't think you want to imitate that).

But Shackley's Home Islands are not Afghanistan. Their small size would allow a Soviet force to level, with its superior firepower, all assets that make the Home Islands' climate tolerable in winter, devastate its industry, and so forth. Any guerilla band that arose could be immediately engaged by the Soviet or Allanean Navy. Now, again, we are not talking about some manner of atrocities – merely about the inevitable outcome of any guerilla conflict, which would be to render the entirety of Shackley a ruin even if the Soviets did their best efforts to minimize damage to infrastructure.

As such, we bring ourselves to the necessity of peace. I have no interest in having the Free Kingdom's Navy hang about at sea, pelting the Shackleyan shore with explosives for months to ensure a surrender. I therefore request that a peace treaty is sought on terms that would both compensate the Soviet government for the aggression it had undergone, and leave Shackley in a situation where it is not humiliated or occupied.

As such, several issues must be addressed:

1) The government of Shackley must at last admit the truth of the incidents that have occurred in the Mediterranean.
2) Some compensation must be engaged in. Perhaps a fund could be started from which compensations to the families of the Soviet fallen would be paid.
3) In addition to the above, we could start a Soviet oil concession off the Shackleyan coast. As part of the treaty we could establish that this oil concession is taxed at the same rate as Shackley's oil industry is taxed at this time, and immune to future tax raises.
4) The use of slave-soldiers/clone-soldiers must be prohibited, and the clone-soldiers currently present should be demilitarized and transferred into a rehabilitation/demilitarization program under global oversight. The Lord-Protector's government must ensure that members of the Royal Family and its supporters are treated humanely, within the boundaries of Shackley's historic commitment to the common law and natural rights.
5) Finally, Shackley could hand over to Allanea some of the tiny islands it probably owns somewhere in the Atlantic.

I believe that this is a reasonable conclusion to the affairs. Please let us all agree so I can be getting on with things that actually matter, such as trade agreements and tax discussions.

Thank you all for your cooperation.
Cassiopeia.

[Shackley]

From: Lord Protector Jeremy Rimmer, The Imperial Fiefdom of Shackley
RE: Can we please not, and say we did?
Encryption Level: High
I am grateful for the respectful tone with which Her Imperial Majesty addresses this most delicate of situations. I have no doubt that you appreciate the difficulties presented to me- as such I will endeavour not to dwell on them too heavily.

First I will address the requests made by Her Imperial Majesty:

1) It is the driving purpose of my new government to strive for true justice and prosperity. As such the failures of the last regime must be acknowledged so that we may succeed where they did not.
We are perfectly happy to shed light on this dark chapter, just as long as it is done under the cautious supervision of Shackleyan officials. The incidence in Qaidi is bound to be a controversial one and thus we must take precautions to ensure the safety and stability of our nation in these troubled times.
I hope you will take comfort in the knowledge that transparency and objectivity will remain key Shackleyan values in these endeavours.

2 & 3) I accept the desire for compensation. The actions of our last two governments are uncomfortable, to say the least, and I can empathise with the victims.
Nevertheless I have some concerns:
It is important that the events that took place in the Mediterranean and those of this more recent conflict remain separate. Not only are they two very different cuts of meat contextually speaking, but the justifications are wholly separate themselves. One was a rash, ideological decision. The other is a matter of survival.

Your proposal for an oil venture in Shackleyan waters is appreciated for its optimism, but I'm sure you can understand the discomfort that would be caused by having Soviet vessels and platforms so close to our islands. The seas surrounding Shackley are critical to the needs of our fishing industry as well as foreign trade, not to mention our defence forces.
Granted, currently there are more pressing issues regarding these needs but I would be failing in my duties if I did not aim for the best outcome for my people.

As a counter-proposal I have conferred with members of the Foreign and Colonial Offices and we are willing to offer a portion of our lucrative sawmill ventures in our small colony of Lebanon. The industry is not vast but has proven rewarding enough and should be adequate to satisfy the needs of a compensation fund. It is within the realms of possibility to either open those borders to a Soviet sawmilling expedition of appropriate scale, or to simply provide a percentage of profits directly to the Soviet treasury.
A significant portion of the Shackleyan sawmilling venture in Lebanon is state-owned and as such it is possible to streamline this process to a degree. Our only provision is that the private contractors operating in the region are treated fairly by any Soviet competitors.

4) The former Royal Family have been treated as humanely as has been practical in their relocation and rehabilitation. The former King has received medical attention and is being allowed to retain all private property that was not paid for by the taxpayer. The Royal Residence in Chilton has been left to them where it is hoped they will prosper as private citizens. What remains of the facilities at Fort Dalton remains under control of my government.
The question of the "clone-soldiers" is a tricky one. The term "slave" seems rather harsh in my opinion. I believe the subjects of the Neogrenadiers experiment might be better described as indentured servants, perhaps.
In any case the ethical issues are complex. I am reluctant to cancel a programme which has cost the government no small amount of money and still seems so lucrative, but I feel I'm hardly in a position to argue the point. I propose that the facilities containing the experiment be open to evaluation by an independent source to establish its ethical and legal viability after hostilities have ceased.
That's the best I can offer at this time.

5) There are some minor, uncharted landmasses currently in the possession of my government. Some are uninhabited, some are not. If these islands are to be ceded to Allanean authorities I request only that those Shackleyan citizens inhabiting said islands be granted safe passage to Shackleyan territory when given the choice.

With that out of the way I have some demands of my own:

1) The naval blockade surrounding our islands be lifted immediately. It is vitally important that humanitarian aid can get through and that international trade resume so that my people may live the comfortable lives to which they have been accustomed. This war has had a heavy toll on morale as well as economy.

2) Any motions to forcefully invade Shackley or any of her territories be discarded at once. I will not ignore the threats made to me by the Soviet leadership. The sovereignty of this Imperial Fiefdom is imperative.

That will be all for now. I look forward to receiving word on these developments so that we may end this crippling bloodbath.

Greatest respects,
With Dignity and Persistence
Lord Protector Admiral Jeremy Rimmer

[Allanea]

From: Cassiopeia Blaken-Kazansky, Empress of Greater Prussia and the Thousand States, Queen of Allanea, Reichskamphen, Leipzig-Island, Tsarina of All Russia, Moscow, Vladimir, Novgorod; Kazan, Astrakhan, , Siberia, Chersonese Taurianl Lord of Pskov and Grand Princess of Smolensk,; Prince, Karelia, Tver, Yugorsky land, Perm, Vyatka, and others; Lord and Grand Prince of Nizhny Nogorod, Ryazan, Polotsk, Rostov, Yaroslavl, Belozersk, Udorsky land, Obdorsk, Kondia, , and all of the northern countries Lady; hereditary Sovereign and ruler of the Circassian and Mountainous Princes and of others; Lord of Turkestan; Archduke of Free Dragkon, Duchess of Leyfield, Blaken-Island, Schleswig-Holstein, Stormarn, Dithmarschen, and Oldenburg, Countess of Centreville, Protector of Snoghosia
To: Marshal of the USSR, General Secretary of the CPSU Fikatsia Latrova, Lord Protector Jeremy Rimmer, The Imperial Fiefdom of Shackley
To: Lord Protector Jeremy Rimmer, The Imperial Fiefdom of Shackley, Marshal of the USSR, General Secretary of the CPSU Fikatsia Latrova

RE: Can we please not, and say we did?
Encryption Level: High

I see that there are some matters that remain unclear but I feel that they can be addressed by our parties within a sensible context.

On the matter of compensation, I view it as reasonable that the compensation is one for the initial incident, rather than for the entire series of hostilities, otherwise we will end up with a situation where an ever-ballooning 'debt' is demanded which of course you would be ever-more averse to paying, and then of course the war would go on… this would of course be insane. No, some manner of pension for the families of the dead of the initial incident is sufficient.

On the matter of the oil venture, I believe – and Comrade Latrova will correct me if I am wrong – that what the Soviet government is interested in here is sustaining a supply of oil and money. It's entirely reasonable that the oil venture – if such an oil venture be agreed upon – be maintained by vessels and equipment that's crewed by Shackleyan citizens, and therefore no doubt also with the proper environmental measures that would maintain your fisheries' safety (one assumes that Shackley has appropriate oil resources, alternately another venture can be considered in the same vein).

On the matter of the islands, you can have the assurance of the Free Kingdom that we would of course prefer the uninhabited type of island, and in any event if local residents exist their rights would be fully respected, as are the rights of Freemen in Allanea, and they would be free to depart, or to stay, to sell their property for appropriate compensation, or to keep it, as always, and indeed should they sell any property they would be free of the ordinary sales tax which is typically imposed on transactions on the Free Kingdom.

Now on the matter of the clone soldiers, consider the fate of such an individual. They are born and crated in an artificial environment, where every element of their upbringing, and indeed their very genetic makeup, is designed to minimize any free choice they may have, other than to serve as members of the armed forces. Unlike a military draft system (which is also morally questionable, but practiced by many countries, and in ways that have allowed to minimize the most dubious aspects), where the service is temporary, and typically excludes most individuals, including those who refuse to serve for moral reasons, a clone soldier system creates individuals for whom it is impossible to be anything other than a self-sacrificial drone for the Motherland. (A similar ethical problem would arise, of course, with a clone-doctor program, a clone-carpenter program, or what-have-you). It strikes me as disturbing that Shackley, a civilized nation brought up on the ideals of the common law, has chosen such a disturbing path.

Yours,
Cassiopeia.

[Grater Tovakia]

Naval Support Base Juniper, Newfoundland, 9:14 AM

Captain George Markham looked out upon the ships before him, he had previously been stationed in Egypt where he served with honor in the Khataiy War. This place served as a stark contrast to the paradise that was the Mediterranean. Now he and the crew of the Bonohome Richard were going to escort 2 Kanimbla class ships, and 1 Choules class ship to the port of Havens Folly on the northern isle of Shackley. The Bonohome Richard would be the lead escort submarine which would require him to leave first. Markham had voiced his objections to the blockade run and his calls to wait for a larger surface escort force (the 2 escorts were submarines) had been ignored. Now they were a couple hours away from departure time and Markham could not have been more worried.




GTNS Hope, Choules class in the North Atlantic, 5:00 PM

The Hope came out of the harbor after both Kanimblas and The Bonohome Richard. As if to wave the convoy off, a falcon flew over the convoy as sailors cheered their national animal on. It seemed a sign that somehow, through insurmountable odds, this convoy would make it... Shackley counted on them. At the same time, a P-8A Posiden followed the convoy acting as a guardian angel for what was to be half of the trip. The P-8A was armed with 5 AGM-84 Harpoon anti-ship miles which would hopefully help the escort subs should an engagement with surface combatants take place. The Pilot a (30-year-old Captain) had flown maritime security mission of Adrimal Zhukov Shipyard when Shackley had been constructing a ship there. Now he was once again coming to the service of Grater Tovakia's ally. soon land faded away and all that surrounded the plane and the ships were the abysses of the Atlantic, sailing into the fire of war.

[Shackley]

RShAF Haven's Folly,
Northern Shackley Isle
1730hrs Local Time

The military were now increasingly reluctant to risk their assets. After the destruction of the Navy Shackley had been placed firmly on a defensive footing, and with the loss of several key RADAR installations it was now increasingly difficult to plan any aerial counteroffensives.
And now the new government was aiming for peace.

It would not be cricket to abandon one's allies in spite of all this, however. The airfield was several miles from the city of Haven's Folly, a coastal town with a strong fishing industry and ties to the navy. The Air Force presence in the area had increased in order to safeguard the last remaining aircraft carrier, HMS Connery. Now there were two whole squadrons of Air Force Harriers operating alongside the mini carrier's own. When top brass received word that the Tovakians were going to attempt to run the gauntlet it didn't take long for a force to be mustered. While the carrier was still in port it would be down to the RShAF to watch over the allied units.
A dozen Harriers took off near-vertically from the runway, heavily armed with their 25mm cannon, a pair of Sidewinders and unguided rocket pods on the wings. Each was equipped with drop tanks for increased range- this would be an escort mission, after all. Streaking low over the arctic coast and into the dark blue yonder they aimed for the Tovakian taskforce. Upon arrival it was hoped that they would follow the P-8A and act as a force-multiplier, hoping to deter hostile interference and bring Mrs. Miggins' margarine safely into port. If it came to the worst they were prepared for both air-to-air and air-to-surface combat.
Still, this close to the end they hoped that wouldn't be necessary.

[Allanea]

As a gesture of good will, the Free Kingdom Navy will allow humanitarian assistance shipments to sail through to Shackley as the peace negotiations between our nations are ongoing. That said, several obvious statements must be made:

Should the government of Shackley attempt to use the peace negotiations and our gestures of good will as a cover to attempt and build up its limited military strength, and then revert to violence, it should be obvious that the Free Kingdom's response will be a highly stern one.

We rely, here, on the honor of the Shackleyan people.

[1st Union of Soviet Socialist Republics]

(Image)

As a gesture of good will, the Free Kingdom Navy will allow humanitarian assistance shipments to sail through to Shackley as the peace negotiations between our nations are ongoing. That said, several obvious statements must be made:

Should the government of Shackley attempt to use the peace negotiations and our gestures of good will as a cover to attempt and build up its limited military strength, and then revert to violence, it should be obvious that the Free Kingdom's response will be a highly stern one.

We rely, here, on the honor of the Shackleyan people.

Министерство иностранных дел Союза Советских Социалистических Республик; Отдел специальных
Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics; Special Affairs Division

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From: The Kremlin, Moscow, Central Civil District of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.
To: Jeremy Rimmer, & The Allanean Ministry of War

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From: Marshal of the USSR, General Secretary of the CPSU Fikatsia Latrova
To: Jeremy Rimmer & The Allanean Ministry of War

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We shall allow humanitarian aid through. ...After the ships bearing it are fully searched by Soviet forces to ensure it is indeed Aid supplies being sent and not weapons being smuggled under the guise of "Humanitarian Aid" Any ship of which does not comply with Soviet naval commands to halt and prepare to be boarded will be sunk without question. This it only to ensure the conflict isn't prolonged by outside forces, we hope our Allanean comrades will understand our scepticism when it comes to Shackleyan "Honour".

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Подпись. Маршал СССР, Генеральный секретарь Коммунистической партии Советского Союза, Фикациа Латрова.
Signed. Marshal of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, General Secretary of the CPSU, Fikatsia Latrova.

[Shackley]

From: Lord Protector Jeremy Rimmer, The Imperial Fiefdom of Shackley
To: General Secretary Fikatsia Latrova, USSR; Whomever it may concern, Allanean Ministry of War
Encryption Level: High

Esteemed leaders,
I thank you for your patience and your faith in this matter. We may not see eye-to-eye on many things but I assure you we Shackleyers indeed have some sense of honour.
It has come to my attention that my Air Force is operating a small unit of jump-jets to assist in escorting the Tovakian convoy to our shores. In light of your graceful concessions it is only fair that I give the order that these aircraft are not to engage your forces unless fired upon first.

I will take this opportunity, however, to make it known that the aid provided by our Tovakian friends has not been officially requested or sanctioned by any Shackleyan authorities, and as such I cannot guarantee the contents. While I have it in good faith that the cargo is indeed wholly humanitarian and innocent in nature, without any manifests or official documents your guess is as good as mine.

I maintain the hope that we will be able to resolve this conflict amicably and soon.
Yours,
With Dignity and Persistence
Lord Protector Admiral Jeremy Rimmer

[The United Artherian Federation]

/tag
(Finally found it)

[Grater Tovakia]

The next day, near the Shackley coast, GTNS Hope

Petty Officer Grant Madre was below deck on The Hope trying to figure out how to hide the C-201W Silkworm anti-ship missiles from the impending inspection party. A call had already been made on channel 16 VHF to the Soviets, alerting them of the convoy's presence and that they were stopped for inspection. The 2 Kanimbla class ships only had food, medicine, and other non-military essentials. The Hope however had 75 metric tons (25 missiles in total) on her as well as a large amount of non-military essentials. Now PO Madre was overseeing the dispersal of the dismantled missiles through the ship, the oddity of Tovakian seamen dismantling Chinese missiles from the 80s that had been accidentally gifted to the navy then hiding said parts in there ship from Soviet inspectors did not fall unnoticed. It was also amusing to see some of the more junior enlisted members best hiding places were contraband of all sort's most likely resided, these hiding spots ranged from the engine room to the bridge and even in sailors drawers and footlockers. Now all the crew could do was wait and pray.

[1st Union of Soviet Socialist Republics]

Sovetsky Soyuz-class Battleship, Sovetskaya Belorussiya, Shackleyan waters, just some kilometers away from the GTNS Hope

"Comrade Captain, Rogovski. The Tovakian ships have stopped. We along with the Sovetskaya Ukraina, and escorts are moving to intercept, they are ready to be boarded according to their radio communications. With the NKVD, if even so much as a spec of dust looks suspicious, it shall be sniffed out." Captain Rogovski's adjutant spoke and the Captain waved him off. "Good. Get us underway to board." Rogovski said as he watched Soviet Marines file out onto the deck in full combat gear while the NKVD officers with them stood with their blue caps and red trim. "Inform the crews of these ships to file out onto the decks of their ships and prepare for a thorough inspection." Captain Rogovski said before he left the bridge to join the Naval infantry and the NKVD officers on the bridge. The Sovetskaya Ukraina floated two and a half kilometers away from the stopped ships with it's guns pointed and ready, if there was a need then the USSR would certainly risk hitting it's own ship to prevent one ship that doesn't meet their standards to the deep below.

[Shackley]

By this point the Harriers had refuelled twice. Over the past few hours they had run through the planned route coordinated with the convoy, scouted out several hundred miles either side of the convoy, and cautiously kept an eye on the approaching Soviet vessels below. They continued to orbit the scene, careful to keep their distance and move in an unaggressive manner. When the Soviets finally boarded the first of the ships it was decided that the pilots had been on-duty for long enough and they returned to base. It really was exhausting business.

At base it was decided that once the search has been completed another flight of Harriers would be despatched to oversee the cooperation of the Soviet and Tovakian vessels.
Of course, this couldn't happen until after the search was complete.

[Grater Tovakia]

GTNS Hope, Choules Class off the coast of Shackley,

The Soviet officers were greeted by the Captain of The Hope and multiple armed seamen. Tensions were high as all aborad knew that should contraband be found it would be the end for this convoy's participation in the war. Now armed sailors waited for what was to be the most stressful inspection of their lives.

GTNS Bonhome Richard, Collins Class Submarine within a mile of the convoy sitting at idle

Markham was in the control room anxiously waiting for the inspection to conclude. Should the Soviet Ships make a move on the convoy The Bonhome Richard would spring into action and attempt to cover the convoy while the ships rushed to Shackley. The likelihood of this working though was very low so it was hoped that Soviet Incompetence would allow for the missiles parts to remain uncovered.