Make Columbia Great Again (MT, Sep Only)

[Organized States]

MAKE COLUMBIA GREAT AGAIN, CHAPTER I

Marine Security Guards from Marine Security Forces Regiment, Detachment Washington, stand guard outside of the 1 Observatory Circle, the Vice Presidential Residence (1/21/17)

JB Fort Jackson-Puller Hall Chapel #1
Arlingdale, Columbia Commonwealth
Four miles from the Federal District
1/19/17
+1 Hour from X-Hour

And I saw heaven opened, and behold, a white horse, and He who sat on it is called Faithful and True, and in righteousness He judges and wages war. His eyes are a flame of fire, and on His head are many diadems; and He has a name written on Him which no one knows except Himself. He is clothed with a robe dipped in blood, and His name is called The Word of God. And the armies which are in heaven, clothed in fine linen, white and clean, were following Him on white horses. From His mouth comes a sharp sword, so that with it He may strike down the nations, and He will rule them with a rod of iron; and He treads the wine press of the fierce wrath of God, the Almighty. And on His robe and on His thigh He has a name written, "KING OF KINGS, AND LORD OF LORDS." Then I saw an angel standing in the sun, and he cried out with a loud voice, saying to all the birds which fly in midheaven, "Come, assemble for the great supper of God, so that you may eat the flesh of kings and the flesh of commanders and the flesh of mighty men and the flesh of horses and of those who sit on them and the flesh of all men, both free men and slaves, and small and great." And I saw the beast and the kings of the earth and their armies assembled to make war against Him who sat on the horse and against His army. And the beast was seized, and with him the false prophet who performed the signs in his presence, by which he deceived those who had received the mark of the beast and those who worshiped his image; these two were thrown alive into the lake of fire which burns with brimstone. And the rest were killed with the sword which came from the mouth of Him who sat on the horse, and all the birds were filled with their flesh. The words on the page cried out as he flipped through the Book. Relevation was never his favorite book in grade school. It never appeared to make any sense. It seemed almost wholly full of doom and gloom. However, today, just an hour before he would change Columbian History forever, quotes about the apocalypse seemed fitting to General James White. The former Raider was a man of small stature and great intensity. A man who had given his all, his life and then some, to the Corps and his beloved Country. Standing idle would be the end of his very soul.

"Are you okay, brother?" said a grey-haired man in ODUs with a stoll around his neck and a Colonel's eagle patched on his chest. It may have been one in the morning, but leave it to the Chaplain Corps to be there.

"Yes, Chappie. Thank you." White replied with a sigh.

"It may not be my place, but I can tell something troubles you. The Book of Revelation isn't exactly casual reading for many. Perhaps related to the events of tomorrow?" the Chaplain said, taking a seat in the wooden pew behind him. He was a pastor. White was his flock, regardless of his rank.

"I'm confused as to the Lord's plan, Chappie. It feels as if everything we've ever worked for is in danger."

"I think every man can feel that sometimes. However, what something you must remember, is that you must trust in the Lord. You are his instrument here on this Earth and by your very presence here, I think he's well-pleased with your performance so far. You are here to carry out his plan. What you work for, he came up with, and what he will take away, he came up with. You must simply seek to act justly." Chappie replied, in a reassuring, and perhaps slightly patronizing, tone.

"Then, why Chappie, do we spend our money fighting the enemy abroad when it turns out they were in our backyard this whole time?"

"Because, my son, the evil of men is not something measured. Free will means that the evil of this world is truly real and it is insidious. It infects everything and everywhere. It is an equal opportunity employer. That's why good men, like yourself, must ride out to meet it."

"And how do you know I am a good man, Chappie?" White queried, puzzled by the Chaplain's odd response.

"That's for you to decide." the Chaplain responded. White turned to face the man in the pew behind him, finding only an empty seat.

Fairford, Federal District
Organized States of Columbia
1/20/17
X-Hour, 0100

The pre-dawn silence above the district was shattered by the roar of engines. Four EA-18G Growler electronic attack aircraft of VMAQ-3 quickly went to work. Contrary to popular belief, the ALQ-99 electronic attack pods utilized by the EA-18 were able to target far more networks than just radio. Broadband and Satellite Communications were soon jammed as the various headquarters of almost all of D.C.'s Intelligence Community offices went into lockdown. Just across the Annadale River at Joint Base Annadale, the hangers of HMX-1, home to the famous MH-60s that transported the President, were flooded with Law Enforcement Marines from the Provost Marshall's Office as reports of an "active shooter" situation quickly spread across the base. Just minutes later, the bridges across the Annadale and Elizabeth Rivers were cordoned off by Military Police elements of the Federal District's National Guard. Teams from the Department of Homeland Security and Federal Bureau of Investigation immediately shuttered Metro Center and L'Enfant Plaza and promptly closed the Metro system. Just moments later, a No-Fly Zone notice and a total ground stop was issued by the Federal Aviation Administration for a 45-square mile radius around Fairford. Air Traffic at Biltmore-Fairford, Fairford National, and Fairford-Dulles stopped immediately as Air National Guard and Active-Duty F-22As alike quickly took to the skies as reports of airliner hijackings flooded the National Aerospace Defense Command Center.

At the Biltmore Hotel Alexandria, President-Elect Daniel Pounce sat in the massive reclining chair found in the aptly-named "Presidential Suite". It was the nicest place he had ever stayed in, without a doubt. The booze was great. Perhaps most importantly, however, the water wasn't yellow when it came out of the faucets, unlike his childhood home in Central Louisville. In fact, it wasn't until he got into Dickson-White on scholarship that he knew what hot water felt like in the shower. Times were tough, but he got ahead, with the generous support of others who shared his views. Who would have thought that the outsider, the one they said would never win, would somehow make it to the nation's highest office? He laughed. Their fears will all be allayed tomorrow.

A knock on the door interrupted Pounce's train of thought. "Come in!" He answered. It was likely another Secret Service agent from his detail, here to brief him on the security situation for tomorrow. He shifted in his chair to face the door, putting his drink down on the coffee table in front of him, just in case he had to great someone more formally. The door slammed open abruptly, the bright light of a flashlight blinding him.

"DOWN ON YOUR KNEES! DOWN ON YOUR KNEES! HANDS ON YOUR FUCKING HEAD!" "INTERLACE YOUR FINGERS!" multiple voices shouted, almost in unison. Pounce barely had time to get out of his chair before he found himself face down in the carpet, a boot pressing down on the center of his back.

Emergency Alert System Broadcast (Columbia Commonwealth)
1/20/17
0800
EMERGENCY ALERT SYSTEM NOTIFICATION

Code: Select all

------THIS MESSAGE HAS BEEN TRANSMITTED AT THE REQUEST OF THE ORGANIZED STATES DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY OFFICE OF CIVIL DEFENSE AND NATIONAL READINESS--------
AT APPROXIMATELY 1:00 AM FAIRFORD STANDARD TIME, A STATE OF EMERGENCY WAS DECLARED FOLLOWING A NATIONAL SECURITY EMERGENCY WITHIN THE FAIRFORD METROPOLITIAN AREA.

DUE TO HEIGHTENED LEVELS OF DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE ACTIVITY, RESIDENTS OF THE FOLLOWING COUNTIES: ALEXANDRIA, ANNADALE, ARLINGDALE, FAIRFORD, BILTMORE HEIGHTS, JAMESTOWN, FRANKLIN, PRINCE THOMAS, AND QUEEN MARY ARE ADVISED OF AN IMMEDIATE AND MANDATORY CURFEW OVER THE NEXT TWENTY-FOUR TO FOURTY-EIGHT HOURS.

RESIDENTS ARE TO BE ADVISED TO OBEY ALL INSTRUCTIONS FROM CIVIL DEFENSE AUTHORITIES, LAW ENFORCEMENT, AND MILITARY PERSONNEL AND TO TUNE INTO 162.45 FM FOR FURTHER UPDATES FROM CIVIL DEFENSE AUTHORITIES.

[Letnev]

MAKE COLUMBIA GREAT AGAIN СДЕЛАЕМ КОЛУМБИЮ СНОВА ВЕЛИКОЙ! - Chapter I


Soviet bomber escorted by a pair of fighters (1/20/17)

Fairford, Organized States of Columbia
Soviet Embassy
1/20/17
01:20 local time

Valentin sighed as he looked through the window. Fifteen years had passed since he became Soviet Ambassador to the Organized States. At first, he had resented the post. He was a military man, and the endless formalities his title brought with it bored him. He never had any love for the OS growing up. No one did. They were the enemy- the enemy of the state, the enemy of the church, the enemy of the everyday man. Or so he had believed for a long time. But as he grew older, the more of the world he saw, he came to see the foolishness of his youth. Yes, this country was his enemy. But, as he learned with age, an enemy could be respected. Understood. But now, as he watched OS marines secure the perimeter of the embassy, he wondered if his respect had been misplaced. How could things come to this? Communication was cut off, martial law was in place. The situation was starting to look suspiciously like preparation for a war. But why? The night before the new president was to be inaugurated? Why now? Valentin nervously clutched the cross necklace hanging around his neck as an aide quickly strode up to his side.

"Comrade Rogozin. We were able to get a single message out, but that's all so far."

Valentin sleepily rubbed his eyes. "Well, it's up to Turov now. All we can do is pray that they make the right choices." He looked out the window again. And if they do not... God save us all."

Turov, Federation of Soviet Republics
Central Defense Headquarters
1/19/17
16:10 local time

The Central Defense Headquarters of the Federation was always busy. It was, after all, the brain of all military and defense in the FSR. Afanasiy watched as analysts, generals, and aides ran back and forth throughout the hallway. On most days, he found comfort in the hubbub of people rushing to and fro, but today an unsettling feeling covered his thoughts like the icy blanket of snow outside.

"General, are you listening?

Afanasiy turned to face the table of military leaders in front of him. "Ah, yes. Sorry. We were discussing the Organized States?"

"Yes. Numerous accounts of massive military activity in the capital, but connection with the majority of our important assets in the area has been cut off. The Chairman isn't available, and the KVB has told us to expect the worst. Cyber, nuclear, or conventional attack."

Afanasiy's hand curled up into a fist. "Dammit. What are our options?"

The analyst previously speaking frowned. "The best of our current options? To be ready for a war. The OS did not inform us of any major military operations, and our intelligence network has been entirely cut off in all of Fairford. We have conflicting reports that OS Nuclear capable bombers have been launched. More ominous yet, no connection can be made to the White House- they have us completely in the dark. As the Chairman is not available, the decision of what we do is ultimately up to you.

"Understood. Keep trying to connect with the Columbians. In the meantime, put all major cities into a state of nuclear readiness. I don't want to be the man that left his people just outside of a nuclear shelter because they didn't know it was coming. Where the hell is the Colombian diplomat? Get him up here, force him to come if you have to!"

Turov, Federation of Soviet Republics
Red Square
1/19/17
17:20 local time

Victor watched his breath as he slowly trudged through the snow. Negative twenty degrees centigrade. Ridiculous. Kirov was never this damn cold, even in January. Why did he ever come to this cursed city? Machining jobs payed better here, but at least the navy kept a man warm. His thoughts were interrupted by the boom of jets flying close overhead. Hands covering his ears, he scanned the sky. Were those fighter jets? "Oh God..." he whispered. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen... at least twenty jets were visible in the Turov sky. What was going on? He laughed nervously. "Surely just a training exercise, those happen all the time."

He pushed his hands harder against his ears as the loud whine of a siren echoed across the square. The old system of air raid sirens, still functioning long after the days of the Pan Septentrion war, came to life. He quickly walked over to a nearby shop, at which a crowd of people was listening to a government broadcast over the television. ATTENTION CITIZENS. ATTENTION CITIZENS. STAY CALM. THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM THE INTERIOR MINISTRY. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. RETURN TO YOUR HOMES AND BE PREPARED TO MOVE TO NEAREST NUCLEAR SHELTER. ATTENTION CITIZENS. STAY CALM. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. RETURN TO YOUR HOMES AND BE PREPARED TO MOVE TO NEAREST NUCLEAR SHELTER. ATTENTION CITIZENS. STAY CALM. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

As the siren continued to blare across the street, Victor could see visible confusion and panic. Some people moved immediately, quickening their pace or even starting to run down the street. Other simply stared into the air incredulously. One older man just scowled and shook his fist in the air. In his navy days, Victor had been one of the most fearless soldiers, part of the most decorated of the marine units. But now, standing here, a feeling of hopelessness and dread crept over him. As distant screams and cries began to mix with the shriek of the siren, Victor slowly began the long walk back to his home.

[Allancia]

Fairford, Federal District
Federal States of Columbia
Allancian National Embassy
1/20/17

The custodians were the first to take the initiative.

The Allancian Embassy Complex was an unimposing but handsome building. Concrete, built during the 50s in the unique style of the day. The ground floor was glass paneling all the way around, the lobby had white tiles, and you could see right through to the elevator from the crystal front doors. The whole of the first floor was open. The waiting rooms and lobbies were separated only by the backs of sofas, like an airport. A row of pristine Allancian tricolours hung on the front face. Anyone who walked by felt a sense of openness, the pleasant 50-era carpeting and clean glass on one side and the open street on the other. The interior of the building was inviting: brochures to potential citizens were bountiful on rotating wire display cases, and advertisements for Allancian airlines and hotels and cruises were hung on the walls. Behind the front desk, like a great Christmas decoration, was a paternal-seeming portrait of Rodéric Brouillard, Consul of the Allancian Republic during the Pan-Septentrion War. Local teenagers often hung out outside the embassy because of the warmth of the embassy, and the more delinquent ones pinched vacation brochures to make narcotic paraphernalia. The genial and pleasant Allancian staffers never seemed to mind, only speaking in their gentle Gallic accents and restocking the stands as needed.

On that day, the sweet accents were nowhere to be seen. The Allancians of the Magentist Wars came out then, as they did in times of crisis.

1 a.m.

In the short hours of the morning on the fourth story, a custodian in a blue denim jumpsuit was sweeping trash from a translator’s office into a trashbag when he heard a harsh roar outside. Rushing to the window, he flung it open and stuck his head out just in time to see the source of the noise disappear over the horizon. The roar grew again, and another jet flew overhead. He ducked inside to get away from the terrible noise. Shutting the window, he abandoned his task and rushed into the hall. His mate Armand was there, and the two began to confer excitedly on what they had heard. A third custodian appeared from the stairwell and joined them. He took out his mobile phone and attempted to call his wife elsewhere in the city to see if she had heard it as well. The first sign that something was wrong was that he received no signal at all, and when he attempted to text her, the app would not even open.

The three Frenchmen exchanged worried looks and descended to the bottom floor. Rushing to the Head Custodian's office, they found two other men already there and their boss speaking with them. The six spoke for a few moments, and then went into the little office. Turning on the TV and finding no channels were broadcasting, the manager and the men began to discuss what to do. In French, they puzzled over what these two things meant, the jets and the lack of communication. One of the older janitors suggested they lock down the building.

As the workers talked, the Head Custodian checked the security feed on the wall.

Men with firearms were standing on the sidewalk.

All employees in the building were called to the Head Custodian’s office. First came the Embassy Manager, Gaume, then the Security Manager, Patrice. Patrice was an Occitanian, an Arab and un musulman and rather well-liked by everyone on account of his endless witticisms. Gaume was short, leathery-skinned and had a significant paunch. He had a receding hairline and one eye rolled in an odd direction.

Fifteen more custodians arrived in the next ten minutes; twenty-five translators, staffers, and bureaucrats showed up as well.

Finally came the Consulate-General, the director of all Allancian Consulates in the country. His office was on the top floor, giving him a commanding view of the surrounding city. He arrived looking around nervously, and described in French what he had seen.

"People are starting to turn out. I saw several dozen people in bathrobes and throw-blankets just standing on the sidewalk looking at the planes go by while I was up there. There are jet planes going by in the distance. The busses are not running, not even the lights in the bus stations were on. The metro is shuttered and barricaded by the police. I some some men in uniform guarding important TV and radio buildings, and a vehicle with machine guns or something pass by at one point. There's a hand over this city, and it's going to come down like a meteor any minute."

Having recovered his nerve, the Consulate-General and the Embassy Manager entered into the main office and after a brief discussion decided that there had been either an invasion or a coup, and extreme measures were immediately necessary. The Embassy Manager turned on the intercom. Unsure of what to say at first, he began speaking slowly, and said this in formal French.

"No doubt all of you now know something terrible is happening. The causes are unknown, and what is going to happen next we can't tell. We may pass through this without harm, or we may be arrested. Our fates can't be known. I tell you this not because I mean to scare you, but because I care for all of you. I must ask you to do something very dangerous for our nation."

No one could leave with the Columbian soldiers outside, so no one objected. He continued.

"We must now take precautions if foreign forces should enter our building. Our duty to our Republic is first and comes before our lives. Gather the vital documents, and we must prepare to destroy all of them quickly if the front door is breached. We will coordinate."

He opened the door, and a great mass of men and women were crowded outside.

To begin with, some of the men were sent below ground to the emergency supply rooms to get gasoline siphons and petrol tanks. Then, they entered into the parking garage beneath the building and started siphoning gasoline from random cars. At the same time, the people back at the embassy began to take out everything of importance from the archives and offices. Codebooks, communiques with the Consul and the Foreign Secretary. Dossiers on spies operating in Columbia, evidence of wiretapping and bribing of Columbian officials going back five decades. Wall decorations were taken down for kindling. Doors that didn't open they broke down with fire axes. Those who were not there to open their office doors were simply discounted, their papers were scooped up anyways. One top-secret filing cabinet belonging to a Consulate-Secretary who was not in attendance was hauled up to the roof and thrown down the glass skylight in the center of the building, falling seven stories before exploding on the marble tiles, where they gathered up the contents.

2:30 a.m.

There were men outside the building, in green camouflage, carrying assault rifles. They did not move to enter but their presence made a barricade into and out of the building.

The important documents had more or less centralized in a handful of depots. One was the kitchen, with its large stoves. The cafeteria was cleared out as well, and fuel drums brought up from the basement were filled with kindling (shredded French dictionaries) and the gasoline clandestinely stolen from the surrounding areas. The wide hallways circling the seven stories beneath the building skylight were lined with paperwork and their makeshift ovens to burn them in. Gasoline was spilled into laundry baskets, cardboard boxes and the fuel drums, anything that could hold gasoline and paper. The papers were lined up near these incubators, matches and butane lighters were scrounged up. The weary diplomats and staffers continued their work of bringing up the crucial documents, ready to ignite them at a click from the intercom.

From his makeshift office in a security room on the fourth floor, the Embassy Manager rubbed his rosary as he watched the security footage of the soldiers outside. He had no opportunity before the planes came overhead to message the Foreign Minister or the Consul, and for all those assembled there knew, they had no idea what was happening. Still, they would do their duty to their nation. Gaume would make sure of it.

Like a fortress under siege, the building became quiet and dark. The work of bringing up papers from the countless offices continued in earnest, but the bottom story was abandoned. The managers moved to the third story surveillance room, the now-empty wire rotating stands were all pushed into the elevator to make as little room as possible for soldiers if they came. The twin staircases were barricaded on the bottom flight with desks and chairs. All windows were shuttered, and from the front doors, a chilling sight was made looking through them. The lights were all out on the bottom floor. The tiles and carpets were strewn with paper and plastic brochures. A coffee table in one of the open waiting rooms was tipped over and glass lay all over the ground. The posters and modern artwork were torn down for fire starters, leaving the walls empty and white. Despite all the confusion and chaos, the portrait of Brouillard still hung, his heavy-lidded eyes staring down the soldiers outside, his folded arms and impatiently pursed lips giving an air of annoyance to all the bottom floor.

[Maverica]

Fairford, Federal District
Federal States of Columbia
Maverican Embassy
January 20, 2017
1:25 Local Time

Karl sat on the balcony of his office looking down below in the sleepy streets surrounding the embassy. The moonlight lit the empty streets up creating an almost perfect scene to stare at and relax after finishing general paperwork at his desk. The old fifty five year old ambassador lifted his bottle of whiskey to finish it off placing it on his lips and drinking the remnats of the liquid. Just as Karl placed the bronze colored glass bottle on the floor the cold silent air was pirced by the sound of trucks. Karl stood up and leaned over the balcony to look down the street. Just then several Humvees rounded the bend and drove towards the embassy headights beeming down the street. The trucks drove at a normal pace until they reached the embassy and parked outside blocking both ends of the road as unifromed Columbian Marines raced out ofthe trucks and took up positions around the embassy armed with assult rifles and heavy machine guns. Karl turned and entered back into his office his heart racing. This is fucking nuts. Uniformed Columbian Marines kncoking at my door. Though the Ambassador as he exited his office quickly turning to run down into the main plaza.

"Karl! We have Columbian Marines surrounding the embassy." Shouted Abdul Bruntzburg the Captian of the embassy guard.

Karl turned and faced Abdul.

"I know. I saw them come up the street. Gather the staff and tell them to collect all documents of any importance and bring them to the furnaces in the basement and prepare to destroy them if anything happens." He paused. "And if anything does happen and we are not ready to destroy the documents you and your men hold that front door. Im going to try to contact Hickorysburg."

Abdul nodded.

"Consider it done sir."

Karl turned and ran down the hallway towards the communications office. Maids, Custodians, Secretaries and other members of staff hurried around him as they carried papers and anything of importance hastily away. Once at the Communications office Karl busted in to see several staff members despratly trying to call in back in Hickorysburg. The head Communications director turned to Karl.

"We can't get anyone. Not Hickorysburg or other embassies. Hell I can't even call on my cell phone. Looks as if the Columbians shutdown Communications or a cyber attack by something."

Karl shook his head and grabbed the intercom.

"This is Ambassador Karl Heinzel I am addressing all staff members of our embassy. It appears that our secrurity has been compromised and Columbian soldiers have surrounded us. For what reason is beyond me, but it does not matter of what is to be our fates. What I do know is that as loyal Maverican citizens and workers we are too defend our Fatherland and his secrets. Even as a heavily armed and trained force of Columbian Marines surround us a thousand miles from home we will not rest untill every single document of any importance small or big is secured and gathered. And if those doors are breeched I assure you to take any means nesessary to safeguard those documents. For the Fatherland! For our wives and Children back home! We will overcome!"

He put down the mic and turned to the secruity monitor at the front gate. No movement was seen, just several soldiers standing guarding the area.

Outside carts were being used to hurry loads of documents down to the furnaces in the basement to be thrown into the furnaces at a moments notice. Sounds of comation that rang through the building during the first moments of the events turned into quiet sounds of footsteps and carts being rolled as documents were gathered. all entrences were barricaded with desks, chairs and anything else around to slow a possible break in. The five secruity guards armed with a collection of 9mm pistols and a old pump shotgun took positions at the front and back doors to stall any forced entry untill all documents are gathered to be destroyed. The old brick building turned into a erie sight of a makeshift fortress surrounded by an uncertian world.

[Organized States]

Make Columbia Great Again, Chapter 2

Fairford, Federal District
Organized States of Columbia
1/20/17 +8 Hours from the Coup
0800

"Mr. President, you are live in approximately 30 seconds." one of the White House aides said. Acting President David Beauregard smiled as he sat down behind the desk in the middle of the Oval Office. The feeling of being in the West Wing was perhaps unlike any other. It was enchanting. Maddening. Perhaps most importantly, empowering. Power never fades. The name written in stone stays in stone. He thought to himself. Sure, he had come to power in the most unconventional way in the history of Columbian Democracy, in the short 241 year history of a Republic. However, he was still in power, at least until the next election. No President is removed right after his predecessor. The Columbian people would crave stable governance, something Beauregard planned to give them.

"We are live in three... two... and one." the aide gave him the thumbs-up as the teleprompter turned on. This address was being carried on all of the major networks, at the President's "invitation", of course. Every channel and radio station in the country, and many around the world, would carry his words, beginning with the simple, "Good Morning, my fellow Columbians and to the people of the world." He paused, perhaps to give emphasis to the fact that it was the controversial and greatly-feared Pounce speaking from behind the desk in the nation's and the Free World's most powerful office. "I am speaking you today, not in the capacity of the Vice President, but rather as the Acting President of the Organized States of Columbia." He continued, in a debonair Southern accent refined after years of practice and public speaking.

"At approximately 9:00 A.M. this morning, due to an disgraceful series of events which I am sure you, the Columbian people, will learn about in detail in the coming days, myself and all the members of the Cabinet, including the Secretary of Defense and the Secretary of State, unanimously invoked Article Four of the Twenty-fifth Amendment to the Organized States Constitution, and submitted in detail, a formal notice to the Speaker of the House and the President Pro Tempore of the Senate, stating that President-Elect Daniel Pounce, is unable to carry out the offices of the President of the Organized States. We began this process over the course of this month, after becoming aware of serious flaws in the President's moral character that would have disqualified him for this nation's highest office." Beauregard stated, starring intently at the camera.

"I believe with the full fiber that we have acted with the greatest due diligence in regards to defending the Constitution of the Organized States, and while debates about our actions may occur in the near-future, I look forward to faithfully discharging the duties of the President of the Organized States for the time being. In order to ensure the continued security of the Organized States and her economy, we have temporarily halted trading on the Stock Exchange and I have ordered our nation's military to the highest levels of alertness to deter those who wish to take advantage of the processes of our Democratic system. We will continue, and only be strengthened in our resolve, for the defense of Democracy, Our Freedoms, and the Freedoms of those around the world. God Bless all of you, and God Bless the Organized States of Columbia." The teleprompter suddenly turned off and the camera with it. The President grabbed the phone on his desk, saying calmly into the line as he leaned back into his chair, "Get me the Secretary of Defense and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs."

Pounce Campaign Headquarters, 726 Fifth Avenue
New Erus City, New Erus
Organized States of Columbia
6/8/16

Pounce carefully examined the woman from his seat in the private meeting room. Her long, chestnut brown hair was perhaps one of her most enchanting features. Natalia Veilevsky was beautiful, without a doubt. Perhaps the only thing that captivated Daniel Pounce more than her looks was her brain. She was truly one of the smartest people he knew, and in the company of the most brilliant political minds in the country, that was not a compliment thrown around lightly. However, the thing that interested him the most was her offer, one that she assured him would win him, the underdog, the Presidency. She wouldn't discuss any details over the phone, even through the very expensive secure lines. "Only in person." She had insisted in her Letnevian accent multiple times to both Pounce and his campaign manager, Saul Danaforthe. Now, that meeting in person had come. She had casually strolled into their Fifth Avenue campaign headquarters, a spartan collection of cubicles and campaign memorabilia, on a surprisingly quiet Thursday, accompanied by a well-dressed gentleman that Pounce didn't recognize. If Danaforthe was pulling him in on what may have solely been an opposition research operation, it must have been really good.

"Ms. Veilevsky, it's pleasant to see you again." Pounce said, kissing her hand, causing her to blush. Danaforthe rolled his eyes.

"Natalia, who is this and do you plan on wasting my time over the phone again? Time is votes." He said curtly, his eyes molding themselves into daggers as the group moved from the lobby and into the private meeting room, routinely swept for bugs by the party's contracted security staff. He was a longtime lobbyist and a longtime political operative, and though this was his first Presidential campaign, he had managed it astoundingly well, helping to divert dozens of attacks on Pounce's eccentric and non-sensical populist viewpoints onto his opponents.

"Mr. Pounce, Mr. Danaforthe, this is my comra-I mean-collegue from the Association of Letnevian-Columbians for Change, Mr. Sergei Imanov. We're here to present you with an offer we believe your campaign cannot refuse." Veilevsky replied to Danaforthe's comment in an accent that only proved to add to her charm.

"And that is what, exactly? What could you offer us that is so remarkably important that this couldn't be said over the phone?" Danaforthe replied as he reclined into his chair, his tongue even sharper and bordering on open mockery of the woman's assertion. Danaforthe had been around a long time and it was quite hard to teach a old dog new tricks.

Ivanov spoke up, perhaps cutting off Veilevsky as she prepared a retort. "Mr. Pounce, Mr. Danaforthe, our organization holds access to a number of cyber and opposition research assets that your campaign would find extremely useful. As a gesture of our goodwill, we have emailed you a copy of some information you might find interesting." Ivanov said, in one of those voices that managed to mix gruffness and charm. Almost as he said the word, Danaforthe's smart phone chirped with a notification that an email had arrived.

"Ruiz's FEC filings from this year? What does this have anything to do with that? This is public information." Danaforthe snorted, clearly becoming fed up with the course of the meeting.

"Mr. Danaforthe, I suggest you check the other attachment." Ivanov replied, not phased at all by the rude campaign manager's sneers. "In the second attachment, you will find the financial details of one K-Street Lobbyist firm, the Glendale Group. Glendale has been contributing big to Ruiz's campaign, as a part of a contract of course, with Royal Vourt Shell. I believe that would contradict the good Senator's position on renewable energy, no?"

For once, the campaign manager didn't seem to have a word in response. He stared in disbelief at the documents displayed before him on his phone. Dozens of bank statements, memos, and so many more confidential documents. Information that would ruin Ruiz's campaign and political reputation, likely permanently. "Is this even legal?" Danaforthe managed to get the words out of his mouth as he faced the two lobbyists in disbelief.

Pounce held up his hand before any of the others could answer and broke his silence, "I want in. Give me everything you have. I'll take it. Whatever you need to do to help us win."

"I'm glad we could come to an agreeable arrangement, Mr. President-Elect..." Ivanov said with a wink.

[Westervelde]

Uschovia, Vuortish Occupational Zone
Vuortish 2nd Army, VI Corps, 4th Motorised Infantry Division

The land was quiet as the convoy of Broncos moved along the single road. The view was almost completely unblocked. The land was mostly scrub covered swamp land, every now and then lakes would be viewable, some worthy of the title, others more like puddle. Though, at this time of year, the lakes had grown until it seemed like they had consumed the land. The moonlight glittered off the murky water as the night continued, the convoy began banking off the road and headed towards a small smidge of flat land that had yet to be flooded. Water and mud was sprayed around as the tracks fought a brutal war with the waterlogged ground, once they spread out over a few kilometres and came to a stop, the large rectangular radars on some of the vehicles began to rise and begin their restless searching of the night sky, the missile vehicles elevated their launchers to firing positions. A dozen or so infantry scattered around and found some places to dig in to defend the missile company. It was going to be a long, cold night.

Uschovia, Vuortish Occupational Zone
Vuortish 2nd Army, VI Corps, VI Corps Command

What had once been an embassy for some far-off country had been commandeered after Uschovia collapsed and Vuortakane and the Federation of Soviet Republics occupied the country to stabilise the region. The diplomats had fled long ago, now Vuortish flags flew from the masts, and Vuortish generals commanded their forces in the East of Uschovia, now known as the Vuortish Occupational Zone, or just the VPZ. From this one post, the Vuortish military commanded the lives of 2.5 million ex-Uschovian civilians, and around 60,000 troops. The post had been sent an order to mobilise all forces under its command to complete readiness as soon as possible. Plans for a civilian government had been put on hold since the bomb/knife attacks at dozens of poll booths in 2014 killed hundreds. The situation had barely calmed in what remained of the shattered country since the occupation began in 2003. The order sent by NORCOM didn’t help.

Code: Select all

FAIRFORD UNDER LOCKDOWN, SUSPECTED COUP, MOBILISE ALL FORCES, EXPECT IMMEDIATE AIRSPACE VIOLATIONS, NORCOM HAS BEEN PLACED UNDER READCON 2, WAR IS A POSSIBILITY

What forces could be mobilised rapidly were, units that had been on city policing duties being sent to the border, leaving only barebones skeleton crews behind. Aircraft began being scrambled or placed readied to fly within the next six hours. A flight of six F22 fighters prowled the skies above the region, looking to pounce on any Soviet interlopers. The command fully expected the beginning or a conflict. If the intelligence report sent to the Vuortish government by the Ministry of Intelligence at 6AM that morning showed the activation of Soviet units in a similar manner, and the movement of the Federation’s aircraft carriers, it was expected that a first strike would be launched by either the FSR or Organized States by noon. The lockdown and chaos in Fairford had put the whole world in a panic, the first few reports of what was happening began appearing on Twitter soon after most neighbouring governments found out. The military and political chaos that was occurring whilst most of the civilian population slept would be made worse as they woke up and turned on the radio, TV or phone and saw the news. Officers in were arguing in various rooms with subordinates and superiors alike about whether various checkpoints in Uschovia should place the entire VPZ under lockdown. The general consensus was no, better not to encourage the chaos, and besides, with all possible units moving or planning to move most of their troops to the border region, it wouldn’t even work. The situation was well out of their control.

Vuortakane, Alalinna
NORCOM Headquarters

The generals, admirals and air marshals of NORCOM were perplexed by the situation in Fairford, the situation would be one likely before the launch of a first strike by the Organized States, yet it had been a few hours, nothing had been passed to Asukat or Vuortish commanders within NORCOM, and the Columbians in NORCOM were as confused as their allies were. Reports from Type 8 destroyers of the Royal Vuortish Navy had reported no detectable missile launches from anywhere in the theatre, or beyond. Units in Uschovia, Minilov and Vuort along the border had been placed on high alert and ABM systems around major cities in Vuort and Asumus were brought fully online as a precaution. The morning sun began to rise over the horizon as the various officers waited on reports from satellites, and just maybe, some kind of official statement from the Organized States.
The situation started to cool at six in the morning, or seven in the morning in Fairford. If the States were going to launch a strike, they wouldn’t take this long, and as the numerous reports of plane hijackings reached the ears of NORCOM from commercial airlines, diplomats and Columbian civil servants the situation became far clearer. No sudden hijacking of so many planes was possible. It was a coup. Communications were down so utterly it had to be carefully choreographed and have the full consent of a few certain companies and institutions within the OS. The actions of the FSR were just as knee jerk and sudden as Vuort’s, meaning they weren’t likely to launch a strike either as they were almost certainly just reacting to what was going on in the OS. Columbian military movements also seemed to point more inwards than outward which supported the theory that a coup was ongoing and the military was moving to take control, not that Columbia had decided it was better that everyone was dead, instead of everyone being alive and some being red.
At seven in the morning, in Alalinna, NORCOM staff tuned in to the statement from the White House. They were astonished, yet relieved. Firstly, relieved that the end of the world was unlikely, and second, that the election that had not exactly gone in the “right” direction, had been essence, voided. The hacks had crippled Ruiz’s campaign, and made him lose the election, but now David Beauregard, a far smaller threat to allied national security had taken power instead of the actual winner, Pounce. Slowly NORCOM returned to work instead of TV watching and began formulating a new plan instead of prepping to launch a hail of ballistic and cruise missiles at Socialist units to the West. Units would slowly be placed onto slightly lower readiness levels over the next four hours, but never go down to pre-crisis levels, at least, not for now. Other Vuortish and Greater Nothern Union Commands, namely CENTCOM and SOUCOM, followed suit.

[Themiclesia]

Office of the Minister of the Left
4:15 a.m. (3 hours ahead of OS time)
19th Jan., 2017

In the foreboding darkness and grave silence that shrouded the imperial palace in its eternal mystique and awe, a shrill series of footsteps shattered the peace of the lifting night. This part of the palace, which itself was enclosed within three sets of thick, strong walls, was built in the 8th Century, making it a comparatively young part. The klaxon of wooden clogs rammed by a pair of expeditious legs into the floor composed by square timber rang throughout the deserted corridors. In summer, these corridors would be teeming with activity, due to the early-rising sun whose arrival announced the commencement of the working day at Court; yet now, in the dour of winter, all the cabinet ministers and junior ministers were unconsciously expecting an hour or so more in sleep.

The footsteps waxed in volume, abruptly stopped, and turned into a imperious rap at the Minister’s door, which was at the end of the residences meant for officials working in the Department of Library Administration, that is the central government of Themiclesia.

“Enter,” the Minister granted as it easily arrested his awareness in his light sleep.

The messenger unapologetically entered the chamber, which was defined by four pillars equidistant, forming a square 35’ on each side; it was divided by book shelves into a study, a bedroom, and a lounge. Despite his bold entry, the messenger did not penetrate into the bedroom of the dignitary; nor did he need to.

“Minister,” the youthful voice began in a respectful but aloof tone, such as was expected for a gentleman of decent roots would conduct himself, “the Officer of Diplomacy reports that a cable from our embassy in the Organized States has cut short; attempts to reach the embassy staff have been futile.”

The Minister asked the attendant to bring him to the person mentioned by title, who was fretting before a large, humming machine, with latches and dials jutting out in every possible and impossible direction; the wires that connected this beast of an apparatus resembled a ball of yarn, except seemingly without any discernable order.

“Minister,” the Officer of Diplomacy greeted, bowing down deeply, which only allowed beads of sweat to drop to the floor.

“Yanpu, what happened?” He asked, using the Officer’s personal name.

“The cable to our embassy in the Organize States has been interrupted, without warning.” He murmured. It was not a dereliction of his duty, nay, but a cause of stress in the highest degree. “And we have not been able to reach any of the embassy’s staff.”

“What about the consulate general?” The Minister demanded.

“Nor were we able to reach them. But our man in Springvale has replied to the same effect.”

“Surely this isn’t some idiotic fire alarm test or earthquake drill that they do over the sea, is it?”

“Unlikely,” commented a third figure who stepped forth from the shadows cast by the setting moon and the filled bookcase, in the telegram room. “If this is some kind of test, they would test the channels of communication individually and sequentially, not everything at once.”

“Administrator,” the Minister said, with his hands held out in this awkward salutation under unwelcome circumstances. Before he had time to utter another word, the person revealed a feminine figure, perhaps fifty or sixty, with a long train behind her, which seems strangely dignified in the small hours of the morning.

“Satellite imagery reveals no significant change in the positions of ships and major military facilities,” she continued, “which is lucky as we just got a pass over their territories. I’ve instructed the relevant departments to bring satellite updates as they come through. But,” she paused, “we do see large traffic congestions in front of all the bridges leading from Fairford, and before them, tanks and what seems to be armed personnel.”

“What? Go notify the Director, immediately.” The Minister commanded of his attendant, who has been patiently waiting in a corner; after his exit, the most senior figure in the room made a terrible judgment, “It does seem to suggest that.” The room nodded gravely. “Will you go alert the Officer of Palace Affairs and proceed with the usual procedures to secure the Palace and all government agencies outside? Thank you.” The Minister instructed his other valet, whose hand was being pulled back by the Administrator of Five Forces.

“That may not be necessary,” she analyzed.

“Why not?” He asked, patiently, with eyes squinted in curiosity rather than suspicion.

“Those tanks are used by the OS Army, which seems to be well-co-ordinated and orderly in its deployment on the bridges, which suggests that whatever is happening is being backed by the armed forces in OS. If the people blocking the bridge were insurgents or infiltrators, the bulk of the army would be fighting over control of the bridges amongst themselves, in both directions, as there are military camps within and without Fairford; combined with the lack of movement of ships and aircraft, it appears to me that there is no impending military action.”

“Are you certain?” the Minister asked.

“Of course not. I can only see the situation as it’s visible to the satellite.”

“For goodness sake, I’m not suggesting a bombardment over Fairford. I’m merely asking for heightened attention across the Palace. Is that fine with you?”

“Well,” the maternal figure sighed, “you’re the responsible minister for diplomacy and the Palace. It’s up to you, not to me. Reading satellites, however, is my humble purview,” she said, snatching the satellite photographs back.

---

Upon being notified, the Director of Library Administration was in shock.

The Officer of the Palace, receiving the news, quickly phoned through to every department by a general call to every receiving on the internal line, recommending all officials in the Department Beyond the Gate, Department of Cavalier Attendants, Department of the Meridian Library, Department of the Secret Library, as well as his own Department, to wake up and stay ready for evacuation.

“What the hell,” a sleepy clerk in the Department of Library Administration muttered.

“It seems there’s been an incident at Fairford,” another replied, pulling the covers off his colleague, while reading and texting into his mobile phone. “Someone’s blocked the bridges into the city. Army, it seems.”

A member of the Department Beyond the Gate flashed his identification plate, a square of ivory embossed with his name and position in gold letters, which gained him entrance through the Gate of Thousand Autumns, which guarded the second set of walls that defended the Palace, and the Gate of Spiritous Tigers, which sat on the third; hurrying through to the little gap between the Great Hall and West Parlour, he pulled out another piece of identification, upon which the sleepy guard, not at all affected by the urgency in the visitor’s voice, expended great effort in pushing the heavy door open. A third ivory card was needed to pass through the Gate of Scarlet Fulmination, the portal to the Emperor’s bedchamber. Having gained entrance, he scrambled into the Hall.

Calling it a bedchamber is an understatement. This building, first laid down in 313 and rebuilt countless times after that, measures 236 by 131 feet. It’s so large that it couldn’t be heated properly in the winter, so a smaller house constructed out of a wooden frame and heavily draped with silks served as the retainer of warmth for the imperial monarch sleeping inside. He threw open the drapery and located the Emperor.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” the officer said urgently while performing the usual obeiscence, “I deeply apologize for this intrusion, but the government has instructed me to transport Your Imperial Majesty to a safer place. I beg for your pardon, though I deserve a thousand deaths.”

Quickly collecting the creamy sheets by its four edges, he threw the Emperor with his blankets into one bundle behind his back. The sovereign was still sound asleep because he is completely accustomed to being moved around by adults.

“Ladies-in-waiting,” he ordered softly, “times are uncertain. I discharge you from your shift today. Please return to your quarters and remain alert for further notifications.” The women obediently nodded in acknowledgement and filed out from this place, which was turning unusually cold. The Officer then left the deserted hall with the Emperor and scurried into an air-raid shelter located to the southeast of the Forest of Flowers, the imperial garden.

---

“Please pass a message to the ambassador from the Organized States; His Excellency has a lot of explaining to do.” The Minister of the Left decided.

[Nova Sylva]

On a field flanked by squat, redbrick apartments and under the shade of many tall and old oak trees, young people played football. A much larger building, with columns built from flat and cream colored stone, sat to their right, and around it mothers with baby carriages and gentlemen with walking sticks stood by younger people pushing trolleys . Here and there, a police officer watched men in light brown jumpsuits and shaved heads water flower gardens, and everywhere there were short-cast shadows and also birds, who formed a rough congregation around an upscale cantina.

And quite importantly, there was no chewing gum in sight.

From nowhere, a great big pair of fingers plucked a person from the sky, ignored by his comrades, and put him down somewhere else.

‘This model,’ Roqueta said, replacing some other figures, ‘Represents our new phase of planning for the city center. As you can see from the model, the entire lot is concentric, featuring four hundred and ninety eight three-storey apartments, in total housing a maximum of five thousand, nine hundred and seventy six people. And as you can see, there are currently seventeen different apartment block designs, each one slightly different, but still similar enough to fall into a general pattern.’

‘It looks wonderful,’ the Crown Prince said. Behind him, his private secretary, Morgan, played on her mobile phone, although if anyone looked back, her face could easily make candy crush seem like a difficult office e-mail.

‘These two fields here and here are for lacrosse and football respectively. The main building, which includes a deep underground station, a principal supermarket, a bar and a police station, next to the bar obviously, straddles the main road underneath, lowering the chance of young children running onto the main road. And as you can see here, the main road is crossed over by a short bridge.’

‘I just wonder,’ Prince Iglesias said, ‘what about the winter? It’s quite a way for the old people to walk to the bus and underground.’

‘Yes,’ Roqueta replied, ‘We have thought of that. Do you see this raised walkway here, that runs around the field?’ He leaned over with a toothpick and snatched something. ‘A pipe runs below it, pumping hot water underneath the walkway. If turned on at the right time, it will melt the snow above it. And this walkway is also wide enough for a pram. It has the added effect that any adult or police officer standing on it is overlooking the collective play area. And the pipe is accessible by hatches, so maintenance is very simple.’

‘And how about these trees? They’ll take years to grow.’

‘We’re having them brought in from the cardigan forest. They’ll be replaced, obviously. In total, there are three trees for every house. We’re going to include some chestnut trees and apple trees too, so the kids can play.’

‘It looks wonderful,’ Iglesias said again.

‘This paved area here has been left open on the model. We will put a different monument of some kind in each concentric lot. It’s important that people associate something different with their living area. There’ll probably be a different type of shop in each area too. And there is an extra paved area with room for a plinth.’

‘Because?’

‘Because if there’s a war, we can build a war memorial there.’ Brief silence. ‘And on that topic, the underground station is deep and large enough to hold everybody as a bomb shelter.’

‘Well we won’t be needing that.’ Iglesias produced a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘I hope.' He handed over the dispatch.

Roqueta read it. ‘It's funny because they accuse the Monarchy of being anti-democratic.’

Morgan snickered as she blasted a piece of candy.

‘Be that as it may,’ Iglesias said, ‘Its concerning. It's a military coup in the liberal superpower, upending an elected official.'

‘I am not elected,’ Roqueta said. ‘I have held my position because I know what I’m doing. So I can’t sympathize. But yes, you are right.’

‘I honestly think that they're trying to correct a mistake. In electing that joke of a President. ‘ Iglesias stated bluntly. 'Everyone makes mistakes. Sylvans make mistakes, too. Well, not when we're planning cities, anyway.’

‘Well that’s your prerogative. I’m just a humble town planner,’ Roqueta said, moving around a woman with a pram. ‘Do what you like. For what it’s worth, I think it’s a good idea. If I had my way I’d abolish the Army and spend all the money on building beautiful houses and parks and underground trains.’ He paused. ‘Actually, there’s a … deeper point to be made there. You know what I mean.’

'Already the FSR and the Vourtish are mobilizing. The First Minister sent out a general mobilization order this morning and our Eisenmaat forces are being placed on high alert. The question now is whether to recognize it-'

‘I am thinking of putting a creche here,' he interrupted, 'It’s just a matter of arranging the space,’ Roqueta said to nobody.

The Prince sighed. This is why he liked Roqueta. Always thinking of the future.

‘Why don’t you put a peace monument here?’ Iglesias suggested.

‘A peace monument?’

‘I’m sure you have sculptors for that. Double it as a monument to the monarchy's commitment to democratic ideals.'

Roqueta laughed.

Morgan went back to candy crush.

---

This morning, the Sylvan Parliament voted, after a rousing speech by Crown Prince Iglesias, to recognize the new government in Fairford. It followed by releasing a statement reaffirming Sylva's commitment towards defending her allies and Casaterran sovereignty.

[Organized States]

Make Columbia Great Again, Chapter 3

Port Arreau
Republic of the Treville Islands
9/11/16
23:59

The goal of any weapon is to make it an extension of your own body. It is to be able to apply force effectively in multiple directions as effectively as possible. That concept had been instilled in them since the start of their training. The Marine Critical Skills Operators clutched their HK-416Cs, an advanced carbine based off of the venerable M4 series, close to their bodies and moved quickly and silently through the dark streets of Port Arreau, not phased by the heavy rains and strong winds of Super Typhoon Alana, the first powerful storm of the season. The storm had come at exactly the right hour. The eye wasn't expected to pass until 0200, allowing the Marines roughly two hours unimpeded by the possibility of a heavy security presence or the thought of causing an international incident if caught in a country that was nominally an ally of the Organized States. However, no operation ever survived first contact, even if this one was an off-the-books raid for the spooks of the Defense Clandestine Service.

The target building wasn't exactly adequately defended for what would probably be considered by many in the Intelligence Community to be the most important building in the world. The headquarters of Orco and Betarts contained a data storage facility on par with even the most extensive SCIFs, or Secure Comparmentalized Information Facilities, found in the OS. Its network security was second-to-none, as one would expect from a bank moving billions of dollars worth of dirty money around the world. Counting terrorists, billionaires, politicians, drug lords, spies, and Fortune 500 companies among its most-loyal clientele, Orco and Betarts, had amassed a reputation for being able to make your billions look like mere pennies and then move it anywhere around the world. Once it had reached its intended location in some obscure island nation, say the Trevilles, it would mysteriously turn into billions once more, except this time, it was tax-free. However, despite having the funds, it appeared as though the bank had skimped on reliable physical security, perhaps believing that hiding in plain sight was their best chance for survival. You can't rob the bank if you don't even know its there. thought Captain Alexander Troy as slowly stacked up against the door with his team, gazing on through the green hue of his GPNVG-18 "Cat Eyes" googles as his breacher, Sergeant Ian Keller, placed a small charge on the rear service door of the five-story office building.

For the first time that night, Troy heard Keller's voice. "Breaching in five...four...three...two...one...Breaching, breaching." He said, as the small charge detonated along the door's hinges, unceremoniously causing the door to fall forward into the building. Right on schedule, the power went out, blinding the poor security guard had the shift tonight at the building's security office. The small, eight man team creeped through the service basement, moving slowly through the large crates of copy paper, printer parts, and refills for the building's vending machines. Troy clutched his HK-416C tightly, finger just above the trigger, scanning for the threat that might just ruin his good day. Any number of people wouldn't want a team of Special Operators downloading millions of pages worth of files regarding their financial information onto a hard drive, particularly if this information ended up in the hands of the Columbian Intelligence Community.

A tap behind a side door quickly grabbed Troy's attention, snapping his finger quickly onto the trigger finger. It evidently grabbed the attention of the other operators too, as the pointman, Staff Sergeant Daniel Ellsburg suddenly held up a single fist, ordering a stop to their movement. Ellsburg turned back, signing "One hostile armed with a pistol" to Troy and the rest of the team through a series of hand gestures. Troy nodded in response, giving Ellsburg the greenlight to engage. Troy watched as Ellsburg stepped forward slowly, carefully keeping silent before whispering in the direction of the tap.

"Anapa? Anapa?" Ellsburg called out into the darkness. The team had trained for days on memorizing the names, faces, and watch patterns of that night's security shift, made up mostly of local hired guns and strongmen that the bank had managed to get into a suit. The only response Troy heard was that of a confused grunt before a large, well-dressed Polynesian man fell face down onto the floor, silently felled by two high velocity 4.6x30mm rounds from Ellsburg's sidearm, an MP7. Ellsburg signaled that they were clear to move forward, the whole team, creeping past the dead man's body unfazed, pressing further and further into the bank's offices. They passed rows upon rows of cubicles, corner offices, and meeting rooms, before working their way silently up the stairwell to the third floor. Obviously concerned about typhoon and water damage, the bank had chosen to place its server room in the center of the building on the third floor, where it was perhaps the most insulated from both of those threats.

A single door separated the team from the server room and that was an obstacle easily dealt with. The security card mechanism locking the door was one easily overcame by electronic countermeasures, things that came quite easily if you were a Special Operations team on loan to an agency with an almost unlimited and untraceable budget. The door came open easily and they rushed through the room, rapidly moving towards their objective, server number 4, containing the account information. Troy stuck a single USB drive, not unlike one someone might buy at their local computer store, into the single port and within two minutes, they were out the door again with millions of files in tow.

[Letnev]

Turov, FSR
Turov Kremlin
1/20/17
01:00 Local Time - 7 hours after the coup

The battlefield was eerily quiet. Though the fighting was only over a small town, Mozrian troops and Voldurian militia had brought their entire arsenals to bear: on one side of town, a Mozrian mechanized column was dueling with the separatist's technicals. In the middle, a Voldurian tank, covered in a makeshift shielding of scrap metal and bricks, plowed through the town's courthouse. And of course, the most terrifying piece: a Voldurian TOS-1 missile system firing on the outskirts of town, it's missiles instantly vaporizing the snow. The painting reminded Alexei of a place he had been once. He couldn't remember the name, but he could picture the quaint buildings, tall church, and deep snow.

"Do you like it?" Alexei was surprised to hear the General Secretary of the FSR, Andrei Zhukov's voice behind him. The man still had the uncanny ability to sneak up on people, despite his age - a sign of his KVB training.

"Yes, I do. Which town is this? It seems familiar."

Zhukov smiled. "The first battle of Neryutsk. Four years after your deployment to Volduria in 2011."

"Ah, yes. That poor mining town. They had a good bar..." Alexei paused and turned to face the General Secretary. "But Neryutsk isn't why I'm here at an hour like this, is it?"

The General Secretary laughed. "True. Please, sit." He motioned to a chair as he sat behind a desk. "I'll be upfront. Following your engagement, I wanted to give you more time away. But events regarding the past week have made me less certain. Our investments in the Organized States have paid off spectacularly, and in a most opportune moment..." He gazed out of the only window in his office, watching snow fall with the same, solemn expression he always carried.

"I assume that you are speaking of Comrade Lapukhov?" Alexei ventured.

Like the Organized States, the government of the FSR was full of infighting between factions. Zhukov, a reformist, took the position of General Secretary in 1997. This followed the party's ousting of Aleksandr Yegorov, who was blamed for gross economic failure and the general disintegration of the Turov pact. While the party was initially eager to accept Zhukov's reforms, continued infighting and slow returns on his policies led to opposition within the party. It wasn't until 2006 that his economic "liberalization" appeared to pay off, but by that time the opposition had already solidified. While quiet for much of the early 2010s, rival forces were beginning to act. Androniki Lapukhov was the current Minister of Oil and Gas Industry, and an old ally of the last General Secretary. Over time, he had been slowly gaining support in the Communist Party in deference to his vocal preference of "old fashioned" policies. While the General Secretary had tolerated him for many years, he had become an annoyance after covertly winning over several important members of the Ministry of the Interior.

"I am." Zhukov slowly responded. "All eyes, both inside and outside the Federation, rest on our forces after our dramatic overreaction to the Organized State's cleansing."

Alexei scratched his chin. "Cleansing?"

The General Secretary smiled. "Don't feign ignorance with me, Alexei. We both know they are simply reacting to our meddling in their democratic system. While we were hoping for a puppet in the white house, this outcome is also... rewarding. While the world is focused on preventing conflict, we can do cleaning of our own."

"You are willing to attack Lapukhov directly then?"

"I won't need to. I have a list of forty-seven of his supporters, along with arrest warrants for all of them." The General Secretary gestured to a pile of documents on his desk.

"Why are you telling me this? Shouldn't the Ministry of the Interior deal with these arrests?" Alexei protested.

"Over half of them are in the Ministry of the Interior. This is now a national security issue, and as my KVB attaché I am delegating responsibility to you."

Alexei thumbed through the documents. There was a plethora of charges on each of them, ranging from corruption to treason. "These are high level government officials. Are you sure about this?"

"This is about sending a message. Of course, officially this is just part of the anti-corruption campaign. The arrests are, after all, legitimate."

"True. Will that be all?" Alexei asked.

"Yes. Make sure you do this quickly. I want these men out of Turov before Lapukhov wakes."

Turov, FSR
Turov Kremlin
1/20/17
05:00 Local Time - 11 hours after the coup

The nerve of some people. Who calls someone for an emergency meeting at midnight and then doesn't show up? The minister looked around the parking lot and stuck his hands further into the pockets of his coat. Just as he was preparing to leave, a pair of headlights appeared at the edge of the parking lot.

"Thank God... it's about time" the minister muttered as the car, a black military style UAZ, came into view. A feeling of dread began to seep over the minister as the UAZ parked next to him and three men exited the vehicle.

"The deal's off." The minister shouted to the man who appeared to be in charge. "You promised you would come alone- I count three of you." He fingered the handgun in his coat pocket and prayed he wouldn't need to use it.

The man who seemed to be the leader raised his hands. "It's alright." He gestured to the other two, and they got back into the vehicle. "I understand that you have some files for me?"

The minister slowly nodded. "Fine. You have the cash?" The other man nodded. The minister reached into his car and procured a small, brown briefcase. The other man walked closer and held out a similarly sized black briefcase.

"You don't need to count. It's all there." The man said as the they traded cases. The minister just nodded and walked back to his car. He watched from his car as the other man got back into the UAZ and drove off. All in the case, he said. Hmph. Better just to check, the minister thought as he opened the case. Empty! As the minister angrily pulled out his phone, a strong sense of drowsiness overtook him. What..? Those bastards! The minister tried to open his car door, but his hands no longer obeyed him. He felt his body slump back into the seat. What to do, what to do? His neck muscles were no longer responding, he could do nothing but look at the ceiling of the car. What did they put in the case?

Suddenly, the door of the minister's car opened. Rough hands pulled him out of the car, and he was pulled across the ground. He tried to get a glance of his captors, but he could only hear the slow, steady rasp of a respirator. Were they wearing a gas mask? Did they gas his car with the case? Suddenly he was picked up, and roughly thrown into a vehicle. The man who had taken him- who he could clearly see now, wearing a gas mask- propped him up in a seat and buckled him into the seat belt. Wordlessly, the man got into the vehicle, and the driver took off. As the vehicle left the parking lot, the minister slowly slipped out of consciousness.

He awoke in a dimly lit room, in front of a table. "What's... what's going on?"

A voice answered him. "You have been arrested on charges of espionage and treason. Do you have anything to say in your defense?" The single light in the room, hanging from the ceiling over the table, cast a shadow over the wall. The minister thought it looked an awful lot like a face. Was it looking at him?

"What do you say in your defense?" An irritated voice repeated.

The minister was struggling to keep his eyes open. "I... I'm innocent..." he trailed off. A form across the table, which he vaguely made out to be a man, seemed to shrug. The face on the wall smirked at him as the light shifted.

A third voice penetrated the minister's scattered thoughts: "We have evidence. You handed off over two-hundred files on Federation employees to one of our agents. Just admit it, and this will go easier for you."

The man across the table became clearer as the drug started to wear off. The minister didn't think he looked like a typical interrogator; tall, slim, and suited, he was far from the thugish stereotype. "I don't know what you are talking about. Hey, you are internal ministry, right? I work directly under Minister Lapukhov... surely we can come to some kind of deal, right?"

The third voice, which he now placed to a man standing in the dark corner of the room, laughed. "I don't think you understand the situation. There are no deals you can offer us. You have two choices: give us the names of anyone and everyone involved in this, and spend the rest of your life in a comfy suite in Turov, or refuse, and spend the rest of your miserable life in the Arctic Penal Force."

The minister frowned. "But, really. I didn't do anything. The files I handed over were intended for the internal ministry's investigation of corruption in the automotive bureau!"

"Ah. So, you want to play that game. Alright." The man across the table said as he stood up. "You said you worked for Minister Lapukhov. Does he have anything to do with this?"

"Wait, no! It's true, I swear! It is illegal to circumvent the document request process like that, but not treachery!" The minister watched in panic as the man walked over to him.

"Oh, sure." The man opened a small case on the table. In it were various syringes, filled with different colored fluids. "You know, I believe you. I really do. But unfortunately, my friend over there doesn't." He nodded to his compatriot in the corner.

"No, no, no, nononono" the minister whispered as the man pulled out a syringe.

"Now. Let me ask again." The man quietly said as he plunged the syringe into the minister's arm.

The face on the wall seemed to laugh as the minister's screams filled the room.

[Roskian Federation]

During the coup; Fairfield, Organized States

"People may die" thought Ambassador to the Organized States Luka Davidović as Marines slowly but surely surrounded the embassy. He had just come back to the embassy, after three months in Yugoslovenski coordinating an effort to bring the Federation of Soviet Republics and Maldania to a speaking table with insurgents. While in Maldania, Yugoslovenski soldiers had tripled presence when an attack was thought imminent around the embassy. The fact that OS marines were doing the same was, interesting, to say the least. The embassy had not been informed of any terrorist activity in the Organized States, so it was unlikely the embassy was going to be attacked itself. Luka had decided to contact the President of the Organized States, ask as to what may be the meaning of the sudden surrounding of the embassy.

When he left his office, however, the scene he witnessed was utter chaos. Embassy staff were running frantically around, seeming to be trying phones.

"Ambassador!"
"Yes Isaija" was an immediate response. The whining of the voice was so plain; no others typically would do the same.
"None of our phones are working!" Isaija said, this time less of a whine and more of utter fear. Luka didn't believe this; so he went to the first phone he could find. He picked it up. Typically, a low, droning beep would take place, indicating a connection. This was a dreadful silence. Marines had surrounded the embassy, and the phones did not work. THe inability to call for help was extremely concerning.

"I need everyone to take shelter in the central meeting room. I, alone, will be present in case the Marines wish to speak with me. I will be right outside the door."

The staff, quite rapidly, evacuated into the central meeting room. Luka waited, just outside the meeting room door, as promised, in total fear.

Smederevo, Sebrenska, Yugoslovenski
Central Command of Occupation force of Maldania
14 minutes after FSR bombers take to the air

The blaring of air raid sirens was beginning to annoy the Commander, who after fifteen minutes was beginning to think that an FSR bombing raid wasn't coming. As he waited, he wrote up a declaration to the Federation of Soviet Republics. This wasn't something that had been done yet during the entire insurgency operation in Maldania.

FSR troops had been allowed to roam free in Yugoslovenski occupied areas, in order to help arrest terrorists in the nation. But as many planes took to the sky, the Commander was given direct orders to declare the YOZ unaccessable to FSR troops. The thought of this was terrifying. Federation of Soviet Republic troops would have to listen to a declaration of intent of military combat should they not comply; and if this escalated into open conflict, there would be no way that Yugoslovenski would be able to defend itself. Who knows why the Central Command wanted such an order, or if it would even work.

The air raid sirens subsided; albeit temporarily. This was because MiG-29s had begun to circle the city, in order to attack any attacking aircraft. There were only 3, and though they wouldn't be able to stay up long, others would surely take their place.

The commander issued the following order to the Federation of Soviet Republics:

Troops of the Federation of Soviet Republics must fully withdraw from areas currently occupied by the Yugoslovenski Joint Action Force in Maldania. Failure to do so will result in attacks on individuals still found within the areas. Additionally, bomber and fighter aircraft cannot come within 100 miles of the force, and Federation of Soviet Republic troops should withdraw to 150km away from the border with Yugoslovenski.

Failure to do so will result in the belief that war has been declared, to which the Federal Republic of Yugoslovenski will inform the Organized States and the Able Vigil Accords that the Federation of Soviet Republics is attempting to invade or attack the Federal Republic of Yugoslovenski.

This order was sent to Turov directly, as well as the FSR command in Maldania. The command also sent another order; this time it would send in 3 hours (after the initial order to FSR troops) to Yugoslovenski forces: Any and all FSR forces in the occupied zones are considered hostiles. Shoot to kill.

[The Soodean Imperium]

Menghean Central Television News Network
Special Broadcast, 2017 - 1 - 20
1500 hrs Menghean Standard Time; 10 hours after the coup

...We move now to an update on the emergency situation still unfolding in the Organized States of Columbia. The exact details remain unclear, but new information filtering in from official broadcasts and social media has confirmed preliminary reports that elements within the military are attempting a coup. Previous rumors of an organized terrorist attack appear to have been incorrect, though as of yet we are unable to refute them with certainty.

At 9:00 local time, incoming Vice President David Beauregard issued a televised statement in which he proclaimed himself "Acting President" and claimed to have removed President-Elect Daniel Pounce with the collaboration of the legislature and armed forces. Beauregard attributed this effort to "moral failings" on the part of the President-Elect, though he did not specify what these failings were. It also remains unclear whether the coup has the support of the entire military or merely an insurrectionist faction, and whether Beauregard is the ringleader of the insurrectionist movement or merely a figurehead chosen by uniformed commanders.

Han Yong-chŏl, the senior defense analyst at the Jungang Ilbo, noted on his official microblogging account that Daniel Pounce had adopted a conciliatory tone toward the Federation of Socialist Republics during the 2015 campaign, and that the insurrection may have been engineered by imperialist hardliners within the armed forces. In a follow-up to the original post, Han added: "Detente with the FSR, while a major achievement for world piece and prosperity, would deny the OS military establishment tens or even hundreds of billions of dollars each year. So this is a financial issue as well as an ideological one."

Official news remains in a blackout state, but starting a few hours ago, some Fairford residents have been able to intermittently post updates online - including our OS politics correspondent, who sent footage of armored personnel carriers on the street outside his house. The Menghean Ambassador has confirmed that all embassy staff are alive and well, though startled by the sight of armed military personnel. Some microblogging posts by Menghean citizens living in Fairford and other cities mentioned sporadic gunfire, and at least one emigre was severely beaten by security under the supposed grounds that he had violated curfew, but as of yet there are no reports of Menghean fatalities.

More worrying are the potential long-term ramifications of a hardline military leadership in the White House. Earlier this morning, Chairman Choe Sŭng-min called an emergency meeting of the Supreme Council's Central Steering Committee and its foreign-policy staff. The Menghean Navy was also placed on high alert, as were the long-range interceptors of Army Aviation. While an immediate Columbian attack is still considered unlikely, any post-coup leadership is likely to pursue a more aggressive imperialist agenda.

The Publicity Office of the Menghe Socialist Party has already issued a preliminary statement condemning the coup. Its core text reads: "...The recent insurrection in Fairford only confirms what we have known for decades: that Columbian 'democracy' is a thinly veiled sham held out to cover a web of imperialist aggression and plutocratic exploitation. It is proof that multi-party conflict only brings social division and political instability, and that the eternal Menghean principles of Minju and Minbun are superior to Western liberal-democracy. Our Party will stand firm in defense of expatriate citizens living abroad, and in defense of the inviolable borders of the Socialist Republic of Menghe..."

[Organized States]

Make Columbia Great Again, Chapter 3

Arlingdale, Columbia Commonwealth
Organized States of Columbia
9/12/17
0800

Kathryn Hunter pushed a lock of her hair away from her face. It was black, that deep Asiatic black, a gift from her Themiclesian mother. Her alabaster skin would have completely given her away on any other day. Today, however, was different. Huge bags under her eyes had formed in the last eight hours. Perhaps one of the few traits her father had endowed her with was her work ethic. Her sole goal for her team of analysts today was to get through at least 75% of the files from the Ocro and Betarts raid before word that they had been broken into reached all of their stockholders. If the DIA or their CIA counterparts over in Langdon were able to get anything before that happened, they might be able to hand information to the door kickers or the drones before the enemy, whoever that may be, changed its tactics. Thusly, Kathryn watched as her group of ten analysts poured over the data inside their computer-equipped cubicles, quickly filing away things that the agency might need later, such as the Sylvan Crown Prince's payments to keep word of his sexual liaisons secret; things the Agency might need now, such as word on an Al-Tadhia arms deal in the sticks of Khalistan; and things the Agency can discard of, such as the details of Karen from accounting's birthday party. Karen sounds like a bitch anyhow. Kathryn smirked, taking a sip of coffee. She had never drank coffee prior to this morning, and now it seemed like her only salvation.

"Ma'am, I think I have something!" yelled out John Olive, the youngest and newest analyst on the team, from the very last cubicle. He was a bright kid, two degrees and Cum Laude from Hufts, and in many ways reminded Kathryn of herself when she first arrived at the agency just two years ago. Kathryn walked briskly towards the end of the room. She was damn near praying, at this point, that there would be something good within the data cache.

"What is it?" She asked Olive, peering over his shoulder and towards his computer screen.

"Ma'am, these are a series of transfers from an account that we've already flagged as being owned by the KVB. They're all just below one-hundred thousand OSD, the legal reporting limit."

"Do we know where this money went?" Kathryn asked in response. The KVB and GRU accounts in other banks had been dry and flagged for awhile, many in the Agency had just associated it with the country's worsening economic situation or with the increasing costs of its engagement in Volduria, at least, that was until early this morning. The Ocro and Betarts data cache had unveiled dozens of new accounts belonging to the KVB and the GRU or individuals associated with the KVB or GRU still active, with significant sums of capital in them.

"Well, you see ma'am, that's what I'm confused about. It states that these transfers were made on June 7th, to an account with Wells-Largo opened in New York. " He replied in a quizizcal manner, almost unsure what he was saying was true.

"Who owns the account?"

"That's where it gets interesting" He responded. "The account is registered to a political action committee associated with the Green Party."

"Whose campaign is it working with?"

"It's Pounce."

Site Delta
Undisclosed Location
+8 Hours after the Coup
1/20/17

Pounce sat in complete darkness. The chair they had practically bolted him to was horribly uncomfortable. Likely on purpose. The Department of Defense's current reputation with prisoners overseas wasn't great, particularly with those they considered to be "non-uniformed combatants", thus depriving them of often the most basic human rights. It was hard to tell how large the room really was, particularly in this absolute darkness. His head was still spinning after their raid on his room. Maybe it was the Concussion Grenade. Maybe they had drugged him. It didn't help that they had deprived him of all sensory details outside of him being tied to a chair. Suddenly, the lights slowly flickered on, the harsh light revealing the room to be almost completely grey. Concrete floors. Possibly a concrete ceiling. All enclosed by a steel door that looked to be from some kind of 1960s bunker. The only other exit for anything appeared to be a small drain on the floor.

The door opened, slowly, creaking open like it was the first time in 50 years that it had been opened. In stepped, a tall, broad man with graying hair, eyes glassy with the thousand yard stare that few men have. He uncapped the canteen attached to his duty belt and took a drink. He was certainly fit the profile of "every Marine a rifleman", sidearm and canteen at his side. General James White, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had master-minded the Coup, likely alongside Beauregard. Beauregard was the brains, White the muscle and the air of legitimacy around the action that managed to co-opt the DoJ, DHS, and DoD into joining the attempt.

"White. How have you been James? How's the son?" Pounce smiled cockily, taking a swipe at General White's son, still fresh in the memory of many on the Joint Staff. It was amazing that a man who was truly and wholly fucked could still manage to produce a smile like that, maybe he wasn't aware of how truly and wholly fucked he was. The FBI and Secret Service clearly had spared no punches when bringing him in. A severely swollen black eye provided proof of that.

"They're fine, Dan. You know, some of what you said did actually have merit." replied the Chairman, stoic at the mention of his only son.
"Like what? You know, you might have even voted for me. I did win, didn't I?"

"The idea of service in your campaign. It was great. Your speech in New Erus about our duty to those who have served us, excellent."

"Why, thank you, General."

"Unfortunately, it appears as though the evidence suggests high treason. Beauregard was fortunately able to listen and legally able to take control while you went to trial. The country's ashamed, Dan. It feels duped. You know there was a mob ready to lynch you in New Alexandria? Screamin' not my President and all the regular political bullshit." the Chairman continued in a condescending tone, almost like a teacher correcting a student who tried to claim he turned in his homework.

"You know, I'm not surprised. I had long suspected the game would be up." Pounce giggled. "You caught me." He beamed with the smile of a guilty man who had known he had been caught.

"I had wanted them to help you, Dan. I was going to tell them you had cooperated. Too bad that's not something you're interested in." White said, turning his back and leaving the room with a slam of the metal door.

Undisclosed Location
9/12/13

"INCOMING!" one of the Raiders screamed as the high pitched shrill of more artillery rounds screeched in overhead, soon followed by the deep, guttural roar of the rounds impacting the earth around the Marines as tracers illuminated the night sky around them.

"This OP has completely gone to shit. We're going to get fucking torn to fucking pieces out here if we don't get the fuck out right now." 1st Lieutenant James White, Junior spat out along with a huge dab of tobacco, before popping up over the pile of rubble that used to be the compound wall to fire a set of rounds downrange towards the insurgents, wherever they were.

"Amen to that, brother." replied 2nd Lieutenant Daniel Pounce, gritting his teeth as Hospital Corpsman 2nd Class "Doc" Edwards, the MSOT's Special Amphibious Recon Corpsman, tightened a tourniquet around his leg in an attempt to stop the bleeding. "I don't want to fucking die in this shithole." Pounce said, tears forming in his eyes as he looked up at his Anneville classmate and the man who had earned his coveted trident right alongside him.

"I'm not going to let you die here. I fucking promise you." White responded, nearly drowned out by the screech of more artillery and the clunking sound of a DShK heavy machine gun, probably mounted on the abandoned mosque rooftop across the street.

"AIRDALE ACTUAL, THIS IS AIRDALE 2-5, REQUESTING IMMEDIATE AIR AND ARTILLERY SUPPORT ON MY POSITION. CONTACT FOURTY TO EIGHTY HOSTILES SURROUNDING MY POSITION. IN DANGER OF BEING OVERRUN." Staff Sergeant Adam Krysmanski screamed into the backup satellite phone while crouched behind a wall, before popping up to return fire with the Mk-48 in a vain attempt to force the "Muj" from their DShK, before ducking down once again when the gun's fury pointed towards him.

"Airdale 2-5...say ag-ain. Heavy j-mming in effect. Unable to pro-de s-port at this time." the radio crackled in response, prompting an audible "FUCK" to slip out of White's mouth. "I'm done taking fire. I'm going to clear out that fucking mosque. COVER!" White ordered as the eight voices still up screamed "COVERING" in response. White bounded across the bombed out street before raising his HK-416C to put a quick three-round burst into a white-clad insurgent attempting to exit the downtrodden and ancient mosque through a side door. Flushing himself up against the door, White tossed his last remaining grenade through the door, prompting screams from inside before a loud explosion took the lives of any Muj unlucky enough to be caught what was formerly a female prayer room. White rushed into the room, putting another three rounds into a Muj attempting to crawl away with what was left of his legs dragging behind him.

"ALLAHU AKBAR!" a gutteral scream came from another Muj as he burst through the door, armed with a PSW-era pistol that looked as ancient as he was. White squeezed the trigger slightly, sending a short-burst into the old man and sending him tumbling back into the room behind him. White moved forward slowly, scanning the hallways and corridors of the Mosque through the green-lenses of his night vision googles carefully. A simple creek of a door sent White turning directly to his rear and sending another burst from his rifle into another Muj. White tossed the now-empty rifle and drew his M45A1 from a holster along his right leg, careful to maintain his silence in the dark. SLAM, as a door directly in front of him swung open and a the barrel of ancient AKM poked through the opening. White grabbed the barrel and yanked it from the surprised insurgent's hands, before sticking his sidearm underneath the insurgent's chin and squeezing the trigger. Proceeding through the door and bounding up the stairs towards the roof, the DShK fell silent. As White finally stepped onto the mosque roof, a single insurgent ran towards him with a small wire appearing to run down from his hand. It ended like that.

Arlingdale National Cemetery
9/20/13

"The President of the Organized States in the name of the Congress takes pride in presenting the Medal of Honor posthumously to First Lieutenant James White, Junior, Organized States Marine Corps, for service set forth in the following citation."

James White, Senior snapped himself out of his catatonic stare at the green grass when he heard these words. He hated funerals, but most especially he hated this one. He'd been hiding from it for days, throwing himself back into his work at the Joint Staff, even as the Chaplains and his aides begged him to take a break. To actually mourn. But he just couldn't bring himself to it right now. There was a war on, and the fucking Haijis had killed his boy. His pride and joy. Sarah grabbed his hand, and clutched it tightly. White looked over and saw the tears forming in her eyes underneath the black veil as the VP continued to read the citation. Congress had made a point of getting Junior's citation passed within days, particularly after the Fairford Post broke the story of the botched raid.

"For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty while serving as the Commanding Officer of Marine Special Operations Team Four-Hundred Eleven, Second Battalion, 1st Marine Raider Regiment, First Marine Division in connection with operations against enemy forces in the Islamic Republic of Naseristan. During the early morning hours of 12 September 2013, Lieutenant White's team came under attack from a numerically superior enemy force equipped with heavy weapons, including artillery and mortars, that quickly threatened to overrun their position. Due to enemy radio jamming efforts, Lieutenant White and his team were unable to contact friendly forces. Observing that many of his team members were wounded or incapacitated, Lieutenant White unhesitatingly left the relative security of his position and, with complete disregard for his own safety, raced across the fire-swept terrain to launch a daring counterattack on enemy positions in a structure five-hundred meters from his position. Lieutenant White singlehandedly engaged and eliminated more than 30 enemy fighters singlehandedly in close and sometimes hand-to-hand combat as well as disabled an enemy heavy machine gun nest. When his element was threatened by a lone enemy suicide bomber, Lieutenant White, knowing full well of the probable consequences and without hesitation, threw himself onto the fighter, shielding his fellow Marines from the explosion. Lieutenant White's courage, valor, and initiative reflect great credit upon himself and the highest keepings of tradition of the Organized States Marine Corps and the Organized States Naval Service. He gave his life for his country." Vice President Stanford continued from the podium, as Sarah attempted to control her tears and the Honor Guard began to remove the flag drapped above the coffin. White watched as the Marines slowly and methodically folded the flag into a triangle and handed it to the team's leader, who marched over and presented it to the Lieutenant General with a sharp salute. The repeated twenty-one cracks of the rifles followed.

[Organized States]

Make Columbia Great Again, Chapter 4

Fletcher Park, Waterfront District, San Alvarez
11/1/18


Senior Special Agent Chris Field wasn’t the stereotypical federal agent. He maintained a trim, athletic figure with a well-groomed beard despite the fact that he was well-into his fifties, habits formed by his years on the Army’s Delta Force. Rounding out his differences from his counterparts was his current task, watching Game Seven of the World Series on a set of massive flat screen TVs from the comfort of one of the old press boxes, as well as his clothing, camouflage fatigues and combat boots. However, he wasn’t particularly interested in the game. He was interested in the crowd. He watched as two Army National Guard soldiers and three SAPD officers begin to run the facial recognition algorithms developed specifically for Game Seven, cross-referencing the faces in the crowds picked up by security cameras with whatever publicly-available information about the person existed online. While a nightmare for civil liberties advocates, it was a godsend for Field. His agents and the thousand police officers, National Guard troops, and emergency responders under his temporary command wouldn’t be forced to check IDs and search bags alongside the small army of private security officers hired by the league for the Game.

“Pretty Amazing, ain’t it?” a voice behind Field said. Special Agent Jason Lee was Field’s Team Medic and was in another life, an Air Force Pararescueman. Trained to rescue Special Operators and downed pilots, Lee was capable of putting two rounds into a man’s center mass, before proceeding to pull the rounds out of him, intubate him, and stick him with an IV to save his life with the all the skill of a trauma surgeon, all under fire. Jason’s skills had come in handy more than once too at the Critical Incidents Response Group’s family days, where he found himself particularly adept at bandaging injuries from the softball field.

“What is?” Field queried, curious as to what the more junior operator meant.

“Nothing, just the fact that we can do in a matter of seconds what it used to take teams of local LEOs and Feds days to do is impressive.” Lee responded, a bit of amazement in his eyes as he watched the computers scan the thousands of spectators.

“Hold up. I got something weird here.” said one of the SAPD officers, a large, overweight man who obviously wasn’t working the beat very often.

“Put it up on the screen.” Fields commanded. Although he wasn’t technically this man’s boss, he ordered him around nonetheless. His experience and position dictated that.

“Name’s Omar Bradshaw. 23 from Worthing Heights. He’s avoided all of the security checks thus far on the North gate. Cameras showing that he’s moving with a bag.” the officer stated in response, pulling up the image of an olive-skinned man with a tall, athletic build onto a large TV screen in the center of the harshly-lit command center.
“Who the fuck brings a bag to a baseball game?” Lee said, looking over the man’s face in the screen in front of him.

“Social details.” Fields commanded, a knot in his stomach starting to form.

“No kids. No living relatives in the city. Maternal Aunt in Fairford. Did a stint in prison for armed robbery five years ago. Liked a number of pro-Pounce accounts about six months back.”

“Fuck me. He fits the profile.” Lee said, glancing over at Fields, waiting for the more senior Operator to respond.

“Let’s get a team out there. Check his bag. Keep the guns down as best as possible. Get me a uniform on him and then we’ll hit him with a Tac team if it goes bad.” Fields said, turning towards Agent Lee, who quickly began relaying the commands into his earpiece radio.

Sea Dawgs, Fletcher Park

“You know there really are worse assignments.” Officer Jake Nakamura remarked as his partner, Eli Davis, continued to watch the crowd. “I mean, it’s game seven man. The series is all tied up and we’re only on duty for the first hour of the game. What’s to stop us from grabbing some chow here and then watching the rest?” He continued.

“As stupid as you are, sometimes you actually manage to have a good idea once in a while.” Eli replied in jest with a grin as he listened intermittently to the radio checks from all of the godforsaken men of patrol scattered throughout the Waterfront District for game day. Jake was right, they could have been stuck down at the docks helping clear out the drunks out of the bars and off the rides. “You know, I don’t think there’s a single worse day to be a cop than game day though.”

“What do you mean, man?” Jake asked. It was the first time he had heard Davis complain since they had finished the academy just three months ago.

“I don’t know, they just shove all of this counter-terrorism shit down our throats on top of the normal bullshit we already have to deal with when there’s a crowd like this and then it’s like they forget we’re-” Eli’s thought was suddenly cut off by the sound of the radio crackling.

“Hey Davis, Nakamura. Command wants you to go check out a guy’s bag. He’s hanging out down by the stairwell to your right. Bearded white male, 6 foot, approximately 200 pounds, wearing a Capitols hoodie.” the voice of their Patrol Sergeant, Adam Choi, rang out over the radio.

“See what I mean, man? They make us look for stupid shit like this when big events like these happen.” Eli finally continued as both him and Jake began to walk towards the stairwell to the seats about 60 feet from them. They quickly made it through the massive crowd streaming to buy hotdogs and souvenirs before the game started. No one in their right mind six months ago would have ever thought that the San Alvarez Sea Dogs would ever make it this far. Sure, they were good, but never Game Seven of the World Series against the Fairford Capitols good. Thusly, the whole Bay Area had gone all in for the Dogs and most especially for the star of the season, Johnny Kim, a Hanhaen First Baseman who had hit his way to the top of the league.

“You know, I wonder if the Sarge just wants to give this dude a hard time because he’s from Fairford.” Jake said as they approached the man, visibly sweaty for some odd reason. The Bay was seriously cold this time of year, especially down on the Waterfront.

“Hey man, do you mind if we have a word with you real quick?” Davis said calmly as they approached the man. He stared at them for a brief second, his eyes quickly discerning they were police officers before he slung his backpack over his shoulders and took off in a dead-sprint down the stairwell.

“HEY! STOP!” were the last words heard on the third deck of the fourth floor before Omar Bradshaw proceeded to detonate a vest packed with six pounds of plastic explosive. The explosion tore through the upper deck of the park, vaporizing at least two dozen and wounding close to three hundred.

The Present Day
Somewhere in Cheyenne County, Absaroka

At least, that was how it always played out in Chris Field’s head. It didn’t matter what he did. He couldn’t get the kids’ screaming out of his head. Twenty years in both the Bureau and the Army had never done anything to him like that day at the Park did. He could deal with bad guys, sure. But the screams? That was another matter. It was everywhere. It was in his dreams, depriving him of the sleep he could have used right about now as his team creeped silently through the thick branches of the long pole pine forest towards the house. It had been six weeks since the bombing. Though the guys who had rigged Bradshaw up were killed within hours, the bombmaker had somehow managed to avoid detection by the Bureau until now.

Elizabeth Oliver was something of a mystery. Even to guys like Field, who had seen among the worst the world had, from serial killers to mob bosses, Oliver was an outlier. Born in Altagracia to a Menghean refugee and a Tyrannese investment banker, Oliver was gifted from a very young age with an acute grasp of engineering math, a particular charm, and above average looks. A little proto-engineer, she had gone to the Columbian International School in Altagracia, rubbing shoulders with some of the very best and brightest Altagracia’s wealthy and diplomatic classes had to offer. At the top of her class, both in popularity and in academics, Oliver made her way to Bancroft University, perhaps Columbia’s most famous and acclaimed university. Then, she went off the radar. She disappeared from an internship at the Joint Agency Particle Research Facility in Douglas and hadn’t been heard from until a Stingray onboard a Bureau-operated MQ-9 picked up what was identified as her voice based on a video posted online of her at a conference from before her disappearance. The Bureau had eventually traced the call to here, a fucked up little eco-cabin in the woods that didn’t even look like it had running water. Real fucking instagram worthy. Field thought to himself as the team edged closer to the building.

“Moose Actual, be advised, Deer is standing by.” Jason Lee’s voice crackled in over the headset. Through his night vision goggles, Field had watched as Lee’s team of six fellow HRT operators had set up on the sides of the hill that surrounded the cabin to prevent an escape from any angle. While the HRT’s primary job was as stated, hostage rescue, they were by far the nation’s most experienced and well trained Law Enforcement Special Operations Unit. Counter-terror, manhunts for serial killers and kidnappers, high profile drug busts, nothing was completely outside of their realm.

“Roger that, Deer. Stand by for my mark.” Field said, before motioning the other operators forward. His Ostlandic-developed HK-416C at the ready, Field’s operators closed in towards the building, carefully moving to avoid landmines and booby traps, things they had known all too well from previous operations involving Pounce radicals. The Operators quickly stacked up against the decaying, aged cabin’s solitary wooden door.

“Light it up.” Field ordered. Special Agent Adam Kris, a rare instance of an agent who had came from the Bureau’s own ranks rather than having been recruited from the Military, broke a window and quickly tossed in multiple concussion grenades.

“BREACHING! BREACHING!” yelled Special Agent DeShawn Jackson as he slammed a large battering ram, an antiquated but useful tool, into the door.

“FBI! SEARCH WARRANT!”, “FBI!”, “SEARCH WARRANT!” what seemed like dozens of voices yelled as the six man breaching team rushed through the door. Shock and awe was the HRT’s best friend, particularly in situations like this. It was far different from the occupant-expendable style that Field had used at Delta, but it was practical in this case. They needed everyone in this case to come out alive, Pounce believers included. Field searched the room with his eyes intensely. His eyes darted from corner to corner. No threats, but the young woman tied up in the corner was certainly of interest to the agents.

Field stepped towards her carefully and lowered his weapon. His fellow agents kept their distance, rifles still raised. Field pulled the blind-fold off of her. While not their intended mark, she couldn’t have been more than twenty-four and nearly perfectly matched the physical description of Liz Oliver. Damn near the same height, the same piercing brown eyes. Her features, however, bore a more Casaterran look than the faintly Menghean features of Oliver’s ancestry.

“Тогда кто вы?” The woman asked, tears falling down her face.