Teremara Security Summit [Closed]

[Arkyatan]

Morska,
The Imperial Union of Arkyatan

Morska was an aberration when it came to K’toca cities. Tall skyscrapers of glass and steel warmly reflected sunlight and the sky, creating distorted images on their smooth faces. Elevated highways towered over the city’s urban buildup, which was composed primarily of multilevel buildings adorned with neon signs and billboards. Unlike the interior cities of the Empire, which were roughly carved out of mountains or scraped through the sands of deserts, Morska looked like a modern city, only a small inkling of the ancient and traditional architecture that defined places like Qo’noS, Rura Penthe, or Kalendra. It made sense that an international summit would take place in Morska, as international as they came within the confines of the K’toca Empire, and Arkyatan at large.

Deputy Foreign Minister Etranni Gunlat felt the heat of the city wash over as she stepped out of the state limousine, the familiar stench of asphalt, motor exhaust, and dust filling her nostrils. Holstering her handbag over her shoulder, she started straight ahead as she made her way across the sidewalk into the main entrance of the city’s administrative center. The thick glass double doors parted automatically for her, and she didn’t bother taking note of the two guards that snapped to attention as she passed.
It had taken years for her to get here. It wasn’t easy being a woman in the Empire, especially one of non-noble birth. In some ways it would’ve been easier if she was an Olmerak, slick black hair, sinister smile and all. But no, she was K’toca, a proud daughter of the Empire. She wouldn’t have it any other way, even if that meant the climb to the top had been arduous. Of course, now she was on top she couldn’t think herself just as K’toca. She was Arkyatani. The Imperial Union was the future of the world going forward, and she sometimes had to remind herself to stick to that frame of reference. All of her education growing up had been marked with the typical K’toca focus on the glory of warriors, hardly a mention of women politicians and civil servants. She would change that.

She had the opportunity to do it now. For the past month she had been carefully negotiating with other major powers in Teremara regarding Arkyatan hosting a major security summit for all regional powers to attend. Recent events unfolding not far from Arkyatan’s own borders has made it clear that regional security with regards to terrorism and potentially volatile political instability needed to be addressed. It hadn’t been easy convincing the Foreign Minister to agree to it. Etranni felt her blood pressure rise slightly as she thought of her superior. J'ker Mvastroc had been Arkyatan’s Foreign Minister for the past five years, and although they had only worked together for 14 months, Etranni had developed a rather profound distaste for the man.

If it wasn’t his unwieldy weight and size that made standing near him feel uncomfortable, it was his almost maddening arrogance and complacency. To Etranni, the Foreign Minister seemed like a man who felt he had peaked and needed no further exertion on his part. When she had first approaching him about Arkayatan’s possibility to host the summit, he had practically laughed her out of his office. Why should the Imperial Union worry about the security concerns of these smaller nations? Arkyatan had no concerns regarding it’s safety.

Etranni had bristled under his words even as she tore them apart in her mind. Mvastroc was part of an old breed of K’toca who felt that nothing outside Arkyatan’s borders was of any real concern. His role as Foreign Minister had effectively been an empty post, full of benefits and privilege but without any sustenance or real value. She would change that. All she needed was opportunity.

The fat bloke was waiting for her at the top of the building, in a conference room where he stood next to a polished oak table with enough chairs for everyone. If he had any inkling of her disdain for him he showed no signs of it, and indeed apart from the usual formalities of their post his only attention towards her seemed to be the occasional glimpses he reserved for her backside or chest. Neither of them let their true feelings bubble to the surface as she approaching him, fake smile on her face.

“Foreign Minister, good to see you again.” She lied through her teeth.

Mvastroc’s round face contorted into a smile. “Ah, Etranni, good, you’re here.”

Standing next to the Foreign Minister was an Olmerak man, his skin tan and jet black hair slicked back. Etranni recognized him as Gul Prezett, in charge of security for the summit. Like most Olmerak he was tall and lithe, compared to his stocky and shorter K’toca counterparts. He at least had the air of a professional, which instantly made Etranni prefer him over her own boss. “Gul, I hope security proceedings have gone as scheduled.”

“Everything is within acceptable parameters.” He said simply. Nothing more than necessary, nothing less than was enough. Etranni appreciated that about his kind. Turning her attention back to Mvastroc, “Have we receiving conformations for everyone’s arrival?”
“Yes, the word just came in from the embassies. We expect all the delegations to begin arriving tomorrow morning, or possibly a few later tonight. We have already booked appropriate holdings for all of them.”

Etranni nodded. She let her disgust with the Foreign Minister fade for a moment to appreciate the situation. All her hard work had finally paid off. No, she checked herself. There was still much work to be done in the actual meeting, where they would establish the basis of what protocols for international security cooperation. She had her own ideas on how to proceed, but of course she also had to listen and incorporate the desires and wants of the other dignitaries. She absentmindedly rolled her shoulders. The next few days would be interesting.

---

State visitors to Morska attending the summit would be afforded the opportunity to stay either at one of the government’s sanctioned villas not far from the city, where they would enjoy a nice view of the Arkyatani coast far enough away from the urban hustle and bustle, while also being close enough that the commute would not be too bad. Morska itself looked like a very modern city, part of the reason it had been chosen to host the summit. It’s metropolitan feel gave it at times a sense of movement, as though the entire city was rolling along some modern highway. There was an almost palpable air of transaction and construction, as if it were a living, breathing organism.

The summit was set to start the following day and take three days. Heading the Arkyatani delegation would be the Foreign Minister, his Deputy, and Gul Prezett, representing the Obsidian Order. On day two, Regent Sullerr Ghil, the leader of the Imperial Union, was expected to arrive and give a brief statement on the importance of inter-regional security, offer a toast, and then let the bureaucrats and civil servants work out the tedious details. All meals would be provided by the catering staff at the administrative center, though delegates were also free to get out and explore the city’s various eateries. Most of them would’ve served K’toca food, which was either very gamey, or very hardy, and either way was heavily meat based with plentiful pasta and race. Imitations of foreign cuisine were also optional, of course with the understanding that is was foreign territory for K’toca cooks and chefs.

When delegates arrived at the city’s administrative center they would be greeted by the Deputy Foreign Minister, who would show them to main conference chamber where the Foreign Minister himself would be waiting alongside his counterpart from the Obsidian Order. He would greet every delegate with a warm smile, belly full of laughs, and a quip or two.

[Gragastavia]

Morska, Arkyatan

The flight from Gragastavia had been uneventful, and their aircraft was in the process of taxiing to the hangar. The GRITS had seen to that: bad things only seemed to happen when they willed them to, and since one of their more senior members, who had presently not run afoul of the current leadership, was aboard the plane, it made sense that an accidental act of terrorism had not occured, at least not on the departing flight. Depending on the final report, the return trip might be a different matter. Not that any of the other officials knew just to what levels of subterfuge the GRITS would sink to, even against members of the government that theoretically controlled them. They were becoming an agent unto themselves, and while he disapproved of their methods from time to time, he was more than pleased with their results.

Most knew him as Hasim Zarnoush, a name that he had adopted when he first joined the GRITS nearly twenty years ago. In his party were two senior military officials, who were both present as a formality at the request of the Ministry of War and would likely not partake in any serious discussion, except to give the military’s assent to any agreement. In truth, any agreement that the delegates reached would be acceptable to the military, provided it was also acceptable to the GRITS. Both of the officers were also in agreement that their assignment to this undertaking was also largely a waste of time and resources: they thought that they would be better off in service of the war effort against the South Gragastavian insurrection. On the far side of the cabin was the face of their operation, a rising star in the Royalist Party. Senator Mansur, who had been elected in the year prior, was making waves as a potential threat to President Al-Farsi’s leadership, despite his seeming lack of political experience. At fifty-six, though, he had already had a successful career in the arms industry, and had leveraged his background to secure a seat on the Committee for State Security.

Then there was Faraj Al-Aziz. Zarnoush had only met him when he arrived aboard the plane, but already Zarnoush hated him. Al-Aziz was President Al-Farsi’s national security advisor, and from what Zarnoush could tell, he was the smartest person in her entire administration. His intuition from years in the GRITS had told him that Al-Aziz was wise to the GRITS’s plans, and it manifested in hints that would fall from his mouth from time to time, almost as if he were testing Zarnoush to see how much he knew. As far as Zarnoush cared, he was a threat that either had to be eliminated or removed from his position as soon as possible. Fortunately, President Al-Farsi would soon be unable to complete the rest of her term, and her successor would no doubt want to choose his own national security advisor, hopefully someone that the GRITS would pick for the job. Not that Zarnoush was supposed to know about that plan, of course, but there was certainly no way that Al-Aziz could know, either.

In all truth, they were a star-studded cast. Their credentials and reputation preceded them, but Zarnoush - who, in his opinion, was the only one who had any business being on this trip - knew that their team was assembled only to look good for the media. It would make President Al-Farsi look as if she was taking Gragastavia’s international commitments seriously - seriously enough to take two senior military officers off of the frontline to attend and to send one of her most senior assistants, as well. Their party was originally meant to be only the four of them, but Mansur was added almost as an afterthought. Mansur and many others thought that Al-Farsi was capitulating power to him in order to save face. Zarnoush knew better, though: her intent was, in fact, to keep Mansur off of the senate floor for a few days so they could force through a defense spending bill that Mansur had threatened to block at all costs.

Finally, they had arrived in the hangar. As the pilot opened the cabin door, all the men seemingly in unison withdrew cigarettes from their jackets and lit them with flicks from their lighters. Slowly, they shuffled off of the plane, a bit less tense as the nicotine began to hit their brains.

Mansur exhaled sharply after taking his first drag. Relieved, he groaned, “Fuck, I’ve got to do something about this.”

“Upset you can’t smoke on planes anymore?” one of the officers, a colonel, asked, smirking.

“I voted against that bill for this very reason. But,” Mansur said, pointing at the officer’s cigarette, “Look who’s talking.”

The officer snorted, a puff of smoke engulfing his face. Zarnoush had been following their exchange, but his attention turned to the open hangar door, where a limousine was heading down the tarmac towards them.

“I hope I can smoke in the car,” Mansur said, laughing, though his laugh sounded more like a misfiring engine. “Has anyone ever been to this country before?”

“You asked that on the plane,” Al-Aziz said, rolling his eyes.

“I’m asking again, then. Has anyone ever been to this country before?”

Zarnoush stared at Mansur, his face covered by a mask of mild irritation. “I have, but I’m not allowed to say talk about it.”

“That’s right, that’s right,” Mansur said, slapping Zarnoush on the back, much to the agent’s annoyance. He balanced the cigarette between his lips, “Car’s here.”

The driver of the limousine stepped out with a clipboard tucked under his arm. He waved to everyone, and much to at least Zarnoush’s surprise, he was a Gragastavian. The dark complexion and prominent nose were telltale signs of his nationality.

“Good day, gentlemen!” he said in perfect Arabic, taking the clipboard out from under his arm. He moved in closer to the group. “My name is Mudasir - I just need to check that we have everyone here.” He back and forth from the clipboard to each person as he identified them, “General Jahid… Senator Mansur, happy to meet you, sir… Mr. Al-Aziz… Colonel Ghanem… and Mr. Zarnoush, good to see you again, sir.”

Zarnoush furrowed his brows at the driver. “Have we met?”

“Yes, sir, we have, sir.” Mudasir smiled, “We met at the King’s Invitational.”

Zarnoush feigned recognition. “Oh! Yes, Mudasir.” They shook hands. “Good to see you again.” Zarnoush knew that that was a lie: there was no such thing as the King’s Invitational, but it was a signal that they were working for the same employer. Mudasir was a GRITS agent.

Mudasir made his way over to the back of the limousine, opened the door, and gestured for the guests to file in. Mansur led the group, and Zarnoush was the last to slide in. Once everyone was seated, Mudasir stuck his head in and said, “My instructions are to take you directly to your hotel. Your baggage has already arrived, as well as Senator Mansur’s and General Jahid’s entourages. Is this okay with everyone?”

There were nods of agreement.

“Excellent.” Mudasir pointed at the minibar on the opposite side of where they were sitting. “There are drinks in the cooler, so please help yourself.” He smiled, paying no mind to anyone’s cigarettes, shut the door, and climbed into the driver’s seat.

The passengers were quiet for a bit, except for the sound of Mansur reaching for, opening, and slurping from a can of soda. Once the limousine had cleared the tarmac, Al-Aziz pierced the silence.

“So, Zarnoush…” he said, “How, exactly, do you know the driver?”

“Oh, him?” Zarnoush said. He was caught off guard by the question, but hid his surprise well. “It was many years ago, back when I was still a field agent. I had been assigned to guard the car of some Falkasian official, and Mudasir was his driver. So we had quite a bit of time to spend together.”

“I wonder how he got to Arkyatan,” Ghanem mused aloud.

“Still,” Al-Aziz said nonchalantly, though he was staring square at Zarnoush, “It’s always nice to have friends in a strange land.”

[Falkasia]

Morska, Arkyatan

"Why are we here?"

"Didn't you read the dossier?"

A scoff. "No... do I look like an academic?"

"Decidedly not, but please let's try to make a decent impression. We already have enough enemies in the region. Lest we make more... especially on our own doorstep."

"They're just jealous."

"Maybe; maybe not. But we do have the responsibility to lead by example. Have you not studied Hutanjia?"

"Maxim. Really?"

"Touche. Touche."

A crimson curtain was drawn back, revealing the two conversing men. Both turned, surprised, to face the flight attendant. She smiled and nodded curtly before withdrawing further down the aircraft. It was clear she either understood the nature of their conversation or understood that their language was not one she could comprehend.

Maxim extended an enormous open paw. "After you."

The other gentleman simply nodded and stood, reaching behind him for a discarded sport coat. In a quick, well-rehearsed movement he donned and buttoned it at he waist. Absentmindedly, he adjusted a small Falkasian flag pin on his collar. Maxim followed, having to turn sideways and shimmy to escape his seat.

======

They deplaned rapidly, the flight having been somewhat unoccupied following their layover in Kenega. It was an awkwardly long and indirect route, but it was important for matters of security that they did not fly direct across the border. Given the gravitas of the upcoming summit, there was little doubt that the sentries would be monitoring the small strip of land and airspace separating Falkasia and Arkyatan like a hawk for any weaknesses to exploit. No, they took the long and scenic way around.

He scanned the main terminal. A disapproving look quickly befell his place.

"You see a burger joint? I need a burger." He declared.

"There are no burgers here," Maxim replied, towing two hand-rollers behind him. "Well, not what you'd consider a burger."

The other man nodded. "That's unfortunate. At least they sell kaboobs... or whatever that is..."

"They're called Kah-bobz," Maxim responded exasperated. "We've been here ten minutes and you're already about to create a diplomatic incident. Please... as your counsel... shut up."

This won Maxim a satisfied smirk.

=======

A quick trot and they were outside. A man, dressed sharply in a t-shirt and shorts, waited impatiently. He held a small laminated piece of paper, the name "Smith" hastily sharpie'd onto its surface.

"This is our man," Maxim stated with a smile, pounding a fist onto his left breast in greeting.

"What would have made you say that? The other responded sarcastically. "I can't tell from the mass of people here."

The chauffeur nodded and returned Maxim's gesture. He turned and narrowed his gaze.

"What kind of name is Smith?" he accused.

"What do you mean?" Smith nonchalantly replied. "That's my name."

"You're a Falkasian. Falkasians do not have this surname.... Smith."

Smith's lips curled into a predator's smile. "And that, my friend, is where you're wrong."

He too beat his fist against his left breast.

"John Smith, Universal Defense master negotiator. At your service," he stated with a wink. "We're here to sell world peace."

[Terre des Gaules]

3 Months Before the Summit
Bureau Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure
Centre Administratif des Tourelles
Paritte, First Arrondissement, Terre Des Gaules

Attendance List For the Annual Security Brief

• President Michel Trevalle
• Defense Minister Alain Melarde
• Secrétaire Général: Charles Thibault
• Director of Bureau Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure (BGSE): Luc Ressard
• Director of Bureau Générale de la Sécurité Intérieur (BGSI): Sara Foucain
• BGSE Aide: Camille
• Director of the BT (Territories Bureau): Hercule Graveur
  
  
  BGSE Section Chiefs
• W. Madurin Chief, DD Jacques Billeau
• E. Madurin Chief, DD Charmaine Debuene
• W. Tavlyria Chief, DD Jean-Marc LaTreuse
• N. Tavlyria Chief, DD Andre Chevral
• S. Tavlyria Chief, DD Janosha Grixkol
• Wishtonia Chief, DD Victor Budreau

It happened every year. The BGSE, along with some of their colleagues in the BGSI (Bureau Générale de la Sécurité Intérieur) and the BT (Bureau des Territoires) briefed top members of the government with the geopolitical situation of the past year, as well as what they expected it to be in the coming few years. Officially, it was referred to as the Annual Regional Security Brief.

President Michel Trevalle sat at the largest table, with one aide, Camille, (the only Presidential aide with this high a clearance); plus his Secrétaire Général, Charles Thibault. He had just come out of an election to be re-elected for a third term, despite a cloud of scandal following him. That he won was just short of miraculous. Even on television, as now, he seemed perpetually exhausted. He ran hands through his grey long hair and glanced up and down from his notes to Ressard.

Defense Minister Alain Melarde sat further down at another table. He looked equally disgruntled and stony faced, if it was possible to be so at the same time. He had been caught up in the scandals that had wracked the President and their friendship had not persevered through to the other side. The brief had barely begun and he looked ready for it to be over.

The Director of the BGSE, Luc Ressard, despite being a bit outranked in the room, was clearly in control of the meeting. His second, Assistant Director Trumont, was not in attendance for the simple reason that putting all your eggs in one basket was never a good idea and someone had to keep the ship running down the street. His panel of Desk Chiefs sat in one row holding briefing materials. While they looked like nerds, and for the most part were, they were also Deputy Directors that not only led the analysis operations in their sections, but field operations, as well.
“Thank you for being here. It is good to know that our hard work can help to shape policy, as well as maybe save lives....”

More than a few rolled their eyes at the hyperbole.

“You want to know answers, and we want to give them to you, but we don’t have all of them. I think we did well enough to give you what we have. Jacques, can you take the first part?”

A man in his thirties, with a neatly groomed beard and roundish spectacles, stood up from a side desk.
“Jacques Billeau. I’m head of the Western Madurin section, So, to keep it brief, as I know there’s other things that will need deeper attention...We still maintain good relations with Neu Engollon, but same as the previous couple years, they have pulled out of most military security arrangements for the region. Garavano’s government has no interest in re-introducing legislature that will get around the neutrality clauses in their constitution, and that’s what her party rode in on.’Re-establishing neutrality.’ We haven’t lost an ally, but getting them to join any future punitive coalition would be asking a lot. Garavano has vowed that no regular Neu Engollian ground troops will set foot outside the Confederacy again, unless the Confederacy is truly threatened.”

Thibault cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry. Can you clarify that? ‘Regular ground troops’? So, then, that leaves the door open for their elite troops to still be committed to action? Isn’t that like half their small army?”

“Militia. They formally refer to it as a militia.”

“Fine. Militia. Answer the question.”

“I’m sorry, Secrétaire Général, there were several…”

Director Ressard, annoyed by Thibault, interrupted Billeau and waved him down.
“It’s been known commonly enough, or at least I thought…” The jab was taken, “...that their most elite troops, the Diplomatic Guard Corps, serve multiple functions. The primary is to guard VIPs and foreign dignitaries in their nation, as well as guarding embassies, but the other high profile function is coming to the aid of Neu Engollian citizens and property in jeopardy overseas. That’s not to say that they will intervene politically, but it is solely to rescue said citizens, or protect property. It’s a unique clause in their constitution. Ms. Debuene, our Eastern Madurin chief, will address that more indepth in just a bit. Thank you for your patience.”
He rode over Thibault’s attempts to challenge him.
“Mr. Billeau, please continue…”

“Yes, thank you. Well, things have cooled between Neu Engollon and Austrakia over the last few years, but we know there’s the potential there to see things flare up and right now, the fuel is there.
Neu Engollon grabbed an Austrak sporting official at the Alpine Downhill Skiing Championship held in Ciavno this year. They claim he’s a BND spy trying to photograph the military facilities, but the facts have yet to bear that out. It’s still touchy and reports from our colleagues in Pine Park and NESA are that the Austraks have tried to rescue him right out of Geneva. That would seem to bolster their claim that he is a spy if the BND is trying so desperately to get him back. We’re keeping an eye on it.”

“How are our relations with the Bundesrepublik?” President Trevalle inquired.

“Uh...normal. Kind of neutral. Still some trade…”

“Yes, I am the President, I’m aware of all that, thank you. I meant covertly.”

“Oh...well. Yes, of course, Mr. President. We have no contacts with the BND. They don’t maintain friendly ties to anyone that we’re aware of, at least in the region. There may be a conduit through the Geheimdienst des Kaisers, the Prostoreich’s intelligence service, but if so, they don’t tell us.”

“We have good relations with the Prostoreich and their intelligence services, or so I thought?”

“Yes, directly with the GK, but with the Austraks, it’s complicated.
Lastly, the Romans, however, as we know, are still fully on board with the Western defense pact. That’s the good news. They are committed to any action we may see necessary to hold the peace in the region.
Things are a little more complicated with the Arcers, but relations are generally good and we have a lot of the same security concerns, as does the Reich.
There’s not much else to tell, relations are good with Montforte, as always, along with the other Madurinite nations that are pretty tranquil these days.
Now I turn it over to my colleague on the Eastern Madurin desk, who has a bit harder job than me. Charmaine?”

She stood up, a woman with dark brown hair off the shoulder, she wore a business pants suit and minimal jewelry. While officially, she was the head of the Eastern Madurin section, most of her job really focused on Southeast Madurin, a long simmering hot spot.
“I’m Charmaine Debuene. Yes, my job is not as easy, but Jacques does back us up quite often with his personnel, as well as what Director Ressard and BT Director Graveur can allocate to us. Anyway, I will start off with some good news. It is delightful that the new Prince, Alberto the First, was born to the Royal family in Reino do Brazil. I know that we sent an official congratulations and gifts along…”

The President nodded.
“Yes.”

“The Brazilians are doing well and their trade is flourishing, with our neighbors and the rest of the region, but like most in Madurin, and especially in their case as they share the substantial border, they are frustrated with the nearly unrestrained flow of narcotics coming up from San Rosito. I know that our government, as well as that of the Confederacy of Neu Engollon, have pleaded for restraint from Reino do Brazil. They have mobilized their military and they have targeted labs near the border, stopping short of bombing them and starting a war…”

“What do the Brazilians want to do about it? I mean...what line are we drawing here? Or do we have any right to draw such a line?”
The Director outright laughed at the Secretary General, and the Defense Minister also seemed quite amused..
“That is rich, especially coming from you, Thibault. This isn’t about ethics, it’s about what is best for the Republic and what price we are willing to pay, materially or morally, to maintain our security.”

“So righteous!”

The President cut them all short.
“Enough! We aren’t debating our nation’s past actions here or how justified we have been. We are trying to steer the best path forward. Let us continue. Ms. Debuene?”

“Um...yes, well...I think that based on yours and the Defense Ministers dealings with the Brazilian government, as well as backing from Neu Engollon and other Tavlyrian nations, there has been a consensus that we will let them support the San Rositan government in stemming the cartels. Unfortunately, many in the San Rositan government, possibly even up to half the Junta, seem to be in the pockets of those very cartels. Hence the frustration of the Reino government.”

“So they would be justified in attacking San Rosito, after all?”

“I don’t think that’s what we’re saying. Things are still complicated and were not ready to start a war, not when their government still seems to be making an attempt at controlling, if not curtailing the cartels.”

“So your recommendation is that we continue to support the San Rositan and Brazilian governments with financial support...and…”

“Intelligence support, yes.”

“I would like to make you aware of one more fact about the area, Mr. President. That is that the Neu Engollians might get involved more than their self-imposed limitations might suggest. As mentioned before, they utilize their DGC troops to a degree that seems incongruent to their normal foreign policy. It appears that they may do so here, in the Republic.”

“DGC?”

“Diplomatic Guard Corps.”

“Ah yes. I understand, Director. What is the interest that might require them to deploy the DGC?”

“The Feldhaus clan. The most infamous criminal family to ever disgrace the Confederacy. One of their progeny seems to have settled in to San Rosito, and become Abramiento’s right hand man, no less. The Federal Council in Geneva wants him bad. Hence, NESA is backing our play in order to narrow down Emile Feldhaus’ whereabouts. We will, in turn, continue to back NESA to enable them to reach their goal, unless you object?”

“No. No objections. They have helped us on many similar projects. As long as the quid pro quo stays in order and they continue to back us, even if not militarily, I see no issue with it.”

---

Morska
The Imperial Union of Arkyatan

Months later, the Foreign Affairs and Defense Ministers, but also the BGSE and BT Directors, were on a plane bound for Arkyatan for a security summit. It was a large luxury liner that had been remodeled to serve as a political command center for all the heads of the Republic’s government. Many considered it the President’s plane, but he did have to share it and this time he was staying put in Paritte.

The airframe of Acier de Gaul itself was a GA9 Moirai made by Genesis Aerosystems with many of the electronic suites provided by Schwyz Defense Systems, but unlike its military cousins, more space was given over to social and comfort accommodations rather than CNC and surveillance. The outer frame was painted a royal blue with the fleur de lis on the tail, while the bottom was a flat dull gray. At one time, the whole plane had been painted a dull gray for security reasons, but when it started to be used more for state visits, that was not considered to be very aesthetic

They landed in Morska and they and their accompanying aides were escorted to the villas where they would be staying. All but the Foreign Affairs Minister were in tune and taking mental notes on the security measures of the Arkyatanis.

There was little talk on the plane or the vehicle ride over. They were all quite sick of each other at this point after having had several meetings to make sure they were on the same page and also to review who it would be best to get more intimate meetings with among the other international delegates. They were colleagues, but they certainly weren’t friends.

Heloise Telaclan smiled upon seeing the Gaulic standard of blue with gold fleur-de-lis on it on a staff out on the front grounds of the villa. It was a well thought out touch. She could tell the others were still too focused on security to notice such a detail, or the blue and gold bunting around the building.
When they exited the vehicles to inspect their temporary abode, it was as a solid team that they marched in step and no one would know the difference that they had been flinty and cold with each other most of that day, There was a time to earn political points at home, and a time to put a united front up abroad. They hadn’t gotten to their positions not knowing which time was which.

[Neu Engollon]

Morska, Imperial Union of Arkyatan

They were met in the airport by Reinhard Barlaccio, the Neu Engollian Ambassador to Arkyatan. He had flown in a day earlier from the capital, Qo’noS. Life was pretty mundane for him here in the one of the most stable and powerful nations in Tavlyria, but he felt it was something that he’d earned for his long service with the Foreign Affairs Ministry of the Confederacy. Half a lifetime of service serving in shitholes all over Teremara and beyond, and he had earned this. It wasn’t a cozy spot in one of their Western Madurin allies like Gaul, Roman Free States, Lacetanya or Taranima, but...it was relatively comfortable in comparison to his previous duty posts.

He greeted his boss first, then nodded to the rest of the staff.
“Minister Servino, it is a pleasure to see you again. How is Geneva treating you?”

“It’s unseasonably balmy there right now. One of those warm Madurin winds. Ambassador Barlaccio, you know some of the Ministry staff, but this is Commander in Chief and Minister of Defense Marshal Jacques Fernand, and National Security Minister and NESA Director Karl von Tindelberg, and their staff.”
Minister Aldric Servino had traveled with Marshal Fernand, but Director Von Tindelberg and his staff had traveled separately, to avoid the risk of having three top Confederacy Ministers going down in one plane, should the worst occur. They all had very capable Deputy Ministers in the wings, but it still wasn’t prudent to tempt fate.

Barlaccio took their hands.
“Your immense reputations precede you, Director. Marshal.” He was correctly informed that they preferred their operational titles over their Federal Council titles of Ministers.

They both smiled and shook his hand. They were both civil and Marshal Fernand had no reason to be otherwise,
“Thank you, Ambassador. I also hear you’re doing quite well here with our Arkyatani friends.”

...But Director von Tindelberg had some friction with the Ambassador. In more than a couple of his postings, the Ambassador had pushed back at the respective NESA Station Chiefs, who were not only subordinates of the Director’s, but good friends. It was the Director who had in return made sure that Servino never gave Barlaccio the prime postings he wanted. All present knew it, but pleasantries must be observed for the duration of this Summit. Von Tindelberg only smiled, short for compliments for the man and tired from his flight.

“Well...let me show you to the vehicles, and we will go to the Embassy first so you can freshen up and drop off your bags before heading to the Summit.”

A fluid detail of security consisting of both NESA and DGC (Diplomatic Guard Corps) men and women moved with them, as well as some Arkyatani government security. The DGC Major in charge of the detail spoke with his Arkyatani counterpart chief for a couple minutes to coordinate their plan to get the party safety to the cars and on to the Embassy. Within another couple minutes of loading the bags in, they were off.

[Yellow Star Republic]

Morska, Arkyatan

The two men and one woman arrived via a commercial flight, Royal Brazilian Air that had flown out from New Frontier with a connection in Cedecra. Partly, it was because they didn’t want to make a noticeable entrance, even though the Arkyatani government had been informed they intended to attend the Summit, but also because the Yellowsian government did not have the funds to fly their personnel around on private jets. This time would have certainly been allowable, even if the Director General had to sign off on it herself, which she would have, but the infrastructure to sign out one of the few such jets in the government fleet to non-RLO personnel just wasn’t in place, especially at such short notice.

They could have been mistaken for siblings, all with very Nordic features, high cheekbones and icy blue eyes, but they were not. It could be explained by the fact that with few outside influences over the last few generations, but for their fellow Nordics and a few Slavs from Glisandia and Falkasia, Yellowsian society had become quite homogenous.

The easy way to distinguish them was their hair: Inga Torvirsdottir had deep blonde, almost brown hair that came down to her shoulders. Torvirsdottir was part of the newly reformed Foreign Service of the YSR, A department that had seen little activity over the last couple decades with their pariah status after the wars, fought with Falkasia in the 60’s, the Bjelnorg Incursion a decade prior, and most recently the Northern Tavlyrian War, where they had invaded their neighbors, only to be ejected by an international coalition.

Around the time of the Northern Tavlyrian War, they also had a brigade overseas in the Cardwiths, ‘volunteering’ with the ISVC during the Hutanjian War. It was their subsequent membership in this international socialist organization that brought them back from the brink of economic collapse and diplomatic world wide excommunication. Their willingness to back their fellow socialist nations brought mutual appreciation and a small trade flow. Inga had a lot of experience dealing with fellow socialist nations and worked at the International Socialist Congress for a brief time, learning from fellow diplomats.

The man who sat next to Inga on the flight was Gundar Evaldsson, nominally her deputy, but also an expert when it came to dealing with the Madurinite nations and other heathen non-socialist nations. His distinguishing hair was whitish blonde, swept into a fashionable style...for 1980’s teen movie villains.

The last of their party was a ginger haired, buzz cut, bearded man in his 30’s. Jelvan Wiltasson was according to cover, an official from the Yellowsian State Trade Development Directorate. In reality, he was a high ranking Deputy Director of the RLO, the YSR state security organization that ruled over the nation currently with an iron fist. He was tasked with several missions, including keeping tabs on the TSO representatives, and making contact with his Falkasian and Austrakian counterparts.

They landed and headed straight to the main exits. They hadn’t checked any baggage and only had their light carry-ons. They found their Arkyatani government guide holding a dry-erase sign with ‘YSR’ lazily written upon it.

Inga led the party over to him.
“Hello, we are from the YSR, yes? Please be taking us to the Summit?”

[Austrakia]

Morska, Arkyatan

Like the Yellowsians, the Austraks were all about making little fanfare in their arrival to the Arkyatani union. Also similarly, they had few friends and many enemies in the region, some of it due to their autocratic regime’s harsh stances on social and political issues, as well as their isolation, some of it self-imposed, but a lot of it due to poor relations with their neighbors, the Confederacy of Neu Engollon and that nation's easily influenced allies.

They also took a commercial flight into Morska, with connections through Eastern Madurin. Also like the Yellowsians, they were met in the airport by a low level Arkyatani diplomatic representative to take them onto their accommodations and lead them to the Summit.

There were only two of them.
Adalbert Scholz, a Foreign Affairs ministry officer from Vilgenna, who was average height with brown, wavy hair greying at the edges and softened features. Reinhard Graf, also supposedly from the Ministry, but actually tasked from the BND to represent both intelligence and military matters. He had dark hair and very sharp features and to the noticeable eye, was in very fine physique for a bureaucrat, as well as very attentive to his surroundings. Neither were high ranking, as the paranoid Austrak regime feared that they might be seized in any of the nations they touched down in and were not willing to risk officials from higher up the chain to be held ransom against them.

They traveled light and in non-descript business clothes, showing their diplomatic credentials in order to easily pass through Arkyatani customs. They met their rep and they were on their way, ready to deal with whatever might be thrown at them, but also ready to possibly open up relations with the rest of the region, no matter what Neu Engollon and the rest of the Western Madurin powers thought on their participation.

[Gragastavia]

Morska City Administrative Center
Morska, Arkyatan

“We need to get things in order,” Zarnoush said, “You, Jahid, and Al-Aziz need to figure out exactly what you’re willing to agree to.”

“It’s simple,” Mansur said, a cigarette resting between his lips, “We’ll agree to the best deal we can get.”

“You mean you’ll agree to whatever the Falkasians agree to,” Al-Aziz said.

“Isn’t that what I said?” Mansur replied, rolling his eyes. “That’s been our foreign policy for the past forty years.”

“I can’t accept that,” Al-Aziz said, scoffing and shaking his head. “We’re trying to set ourselves apart from them, not trying to enslave ourselves to them even further.”

“I agree,” Jahid nodded. “Our troops that are stationed in Ekaterine wear Falkasian uniforms, for God’s sake. When I went to inspect the parade last year, even I couldn’t tell the Gragastavian and Falkasian soldiers apart.”

“The military man always talks about uniforms,” Al-Aziz groaned.

“President Al-Farsi has instructed me to use my discretion, and I believe that the best deal we will get is the one that the Falkasians get,” Mansur said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth. “I’m not opposed to playing the field, but we need to be careful not distance ourselves from them. Like it or not, the Falkasians have supported our nation through more scraps that I think all of us care to admit.”

“Okay, let me understand where everyone stands,” Zarnoush said. “Al-Aziz, Jahid. You two want to broker a deal for us specifically, while Mansur, you want a deal for our whole power block.”

“Who says that Gragastavian and Falkasian interests are aligned?” Jahid asked.

“Who says that they aren’t?” Mansur responded, poking Jahid in the chest with an accusatory finger, his cigarette resting between his thumb and middle finger.

Jahid swatted Mansur’s finger away. “If you weren’t so concerned with foreign affairs, Senator, you might be aware that we’re in the middle of a war. The Falkasians don’t seem to-”

“I hate to interject this… heated exchange of views,” Al-Aziz said, “But it looks like they’re starting. We’d better head in and take our seats.”

Jahid and Mansur backed away and nodded in tacit agreement with Al-Aziz. Zarnoush breathed a silent sigh of relief as he followed the three men into the meeting room.

As they were walking through the doors, Jahid looked back to Al-Aziz, “Have you heard from Colonel Ghanem?”

“He had some… urgent business to attend to, from what I heard,” Al-Aziz said.

A Nearby Parking Garage
Morska, Arkyatan

“Colonel Ghanem,” Mudasir said, leaning against the side of the limousine, “I am happy to see that you made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Ghanem said. He carried a briefcase in one hand and gestured to the door with the other. “Shall we go in?”

Mudasir nodded and slid down to the limousine’s back door. He opened it and Ghanem climbed inside. Mudasir stepped in after him and slammed the door shut. The door locked automatically, and Ghanem swung the briefcase up onto his lap. He undid the clasps and opened the lid.

“I’ve got some valuable documents about Gragastavian defense capabilities here,” he said, handing Mudasir a nondescript manila folder. “The information would be quite damning to our negotiating position if these were to fall into the wrong hands.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“But,” Ghanem continued, slapping the briefcase shut, “I am sure that you will see to it that these make their way to the proper people.” He smiled, “Be careful that the Falkasians or the YSR or the Gauls don’t get a chance to look at these.”

Mudasir shrugged, “I don’t know, sir. Leaks are terribly common at events like these… especially if there are lots of copies.” He paused for a moment for emphasis, “And I shall have to make a great many copies if the proper people are to see these.”

“I’m sure I can trust your discretion,” Ghanem said, sliding over to the door.

“God-willing,” Mudasir responded as Ghanem left. He watched him make his across the parking garage and into an elevator. Once he was definitely gone, Mudasir reached to the telephone hidden in one of the panels underneath the limousine’s minibar. He dialed and held the handset up to his ear.

“This is Al-Aziz,” the voice on the other end said.

“Mudasir,” Mudasir said, “We got him.”

“Good work,” Al-Aziz said. “I’ll talk with you later.”

“Sir.”