Disappearance of Volksnord Flight 117 [MT, OPEN]

[The Green Union]

"An airliner with three hundred people aboard doesn't just vanish. Find it."

- Adm. Harry Haida

It happened in an instant. In the early pre-dawn hours of March 27, 2040, Volksnord Flight 117 on a route from Himmelsdorf in the Green Union to Schwannsdorf in Auersten suddenly dropped off of radar. There was no distress call, no report of mechanical failure, no warning of any kind that something was wrong until, in an instant, the plane and her hundreds of souls, many of them from nations outside of Markion, disappeared without a trace into the swirling vastness of Markion's Central Ocean.

But this disappearance confounds normal explanation, because Volksnord Flight 117 was not alone. Among her ordinary passengers she counted a full delegation of Green Union officials flying to Auersten for an emergency summit, a precious cargo which necessitated the flight be escorted by two modern fighter jets. These jets, too, have not been heard from again. What could have caused three planes to disappear in an instant? Is it related to the horrific events which rocked Markion just one week ago, and the emergency summit those delegates were rushing to attend? Or is the rationale more mundane, like a freak weather event? Whatever the case, one thing is certain: Hundreds of lives are now on the line, some of whom may be from your nation. There isn't a moment to delay.

This incident is open, and drop-ins are welcome. For questions, come join the Markion Discord or send a telegram to me.

Timeline:
(New players can get caught up here)

Mar. 20, 2040: Speaking at an event before the Greater Markion Alliance of Nations, Ambassador Josef Stöckler along with dozens of leading Markish officials are assassinated by a chemical weapon planted by the Kraven Corporation. The attack leaves Markion reeling, with the Corporation vowing further conquest soon.

Mar. 22, 2040: Shocked into action by the Kraven threat, sworn enemies in the Arcadian Federation and Christbol agree to meet for a discussion in the neutral nation of Auersten. This emergency meeting is quickly picked up on by other Markish nations, ballooning into a region-wide crisis summit slated to host representatives of every major player in the region.

Mar. 26, 2040: Around midday, Volksnord Flight 117 lifts off from Himmelsdorf, the Green Union's capital, for the Auerstenian capital of Schwannsdorf. Aboard are 12 crew members and 300 passengers, including the entire Green Union delegation to Auersten's emergency conference. Two Green Union fighter jets fly in escort.

Mar. 27, 2040: Before dawn somewhere over the vast Central Ocean, Volksnord Flight 117 and her escorts disappear from radar. Within hours, authorities across Markion and the world are being alerted. Search and rescue agencies leap into action.

Mar. 27, 2040: During search and rescue efforts conducted this day, Enteresian aircraft locate the blasted apart tail section of one of VF117's escort fighters. Meanwhile, the Ormazdian merchant ship Shahpur encounters a silent icebreaking ship with its AIS transponder off. It is not known if these events are connected.

Mar. 30, 2040: The second escort is found crashed, with both pilots still alive. Later that night the pilots are rescued, reporting they were attacked by mysterious black fighter jets. They reveal that Volksnord 117 was not shot down, but instead forced to fly north by the attackers.

Mar. 31, 2040: A conference is held at the Enteresian EFB Renton, which has become the core of the rescue effort, in order to inform the public on these unknown attackers. Anyone continuing to assist is advised to prepare for combat.

More to come . . .

Rules:
- Avoid one-liners
- There is no OOC thread; keep OOC chatter to a minimum, and use TG or Discord to resolve confusion
- Always quote the post or portion of a post you are responding to; keep the many storylines cohesive
- Keep it semi-realistic. This means:
- Have a valid reason to get involved, such as . . .
- Your nation having citizens on the plane?
- Your navy ships already patrolling in the area?
- Your investigators looking to improve their own aircraft safety?
- Sidestepping the government entirely, such as roleplaying a fishing boat
- Other creative motivations not involving the deployment of huge military contingents
- Markion is a far off region for most, so extra-regional players not already flagged as friends of Markion are limited to two ships of any type
- And finally, focus on the narrative. This isn't a competitive roleplay. Everyone is on the same side, so working together is the best course of action

Frequently Asked Questions:

Q: I see the date set as 2040. How does this impact technology?
A: Although set in 2040, Markion treats most technological advancements as more flavour than anything. Soft PMT elements like advanced robots or holograms are welcome, but shouldn't give your nation any real advantage over players operating on MT.

[Enteres]

Otoront Area Control Centre, Otoront, Ontario, Enteres | March 27th 2040 | 06:03 Enteres Standard Time

In the dimly lit interior of the Otoront ACC building, dozens of air traffic controllers sit quietly, monitoring the thousands of aircraft over enteres and the large swaths of airspace over the central ocean. Senior controller David Pyrdz is in hour 7 of an 8-hour shift, his relief already on the way to the building, sleep a mere 2 hours away. The last 7 hours have been filled with nothing but the most mind-numbing traffic; one aircraft calls up, another gets handed off to the next controller. “Empress 321, contact Arcadia Control, 128.77.” Out of his headset, the faint noise of a reply can be heard: “Alright, Arcadia Twenty Eight Seventy Seven, see you on the return trip.”

Only one flight has been of interest this morning; what would otherwise be a simple overflight like the others, Volksnord 117, its primary target on the radar joined by two smaller blips. Apparently some important flight carrying some important foreign government officials to some important foreign meeting; David hasn't had the time to read the news for the last week; last he heard, there was some gas leak at an event? All he knows is that he's about to finish the last of his mandatory overtime for the month, and he gets to go on vacation for the next two weeks. Fourteen days of skiing on the best peaks Enteres has to offer, the snow reports showing an unusual extra 100 centimetres of snow over the last week waiting for him. The daydreaming of his coming trip is interrupted by a flash on his screen; what was once the only interesting aircraft of the morning is now a flashing question mark slowly gliding along on what was the aircraft's previous path. “Volksnord 117, Enteres Oceanic, Radar Identification Lost. Confirm squawking 5231?” No reply. “Volksnord 117, Enteres Oceanic, Radio Check.” Again, nothing. He waits a moment before trying again, “Volksnord 117, Enteres Oceanic, Radio Check.” And as before, he receives no reply. David presses a button on his comm panel, lighting up a new frequency in red: “Volksnord 117, This is Enteres Oceanic on Guard. Radar Identification Lost. Please contact me on frequency 125.775.” This transmission gets the attention of everyone, but the intended recipient, every controller in the room was monitoring that same frequency, and everyone in that room is now aware David is missing an aircraft. A few heads pop up over the dividing walls, trying to get a peek at what is going on.

Now two minutes since the aircraft disappeared, David's mind shifts to the phone on the end of his desk. Does he really have to call that number? He's definitely not getting home on time today. His hand reaches for the handset, and he presses one of three options on the quickdial page of the screen, “JRCC Renton”. The phone doesn't get the chance to ring once, and as he brings the phone to his ear, he is already connected. “This is the Otoront ACC; we’ve lost radar and radio contact with an aircraft approximately 156 miles south-southwest of the NQW VOR, Volksnord 117. Yes, I can hold.”

EFB Renton, Quinte East, Ontario, Enteres | March 27th 2040 | 06:32 Enteres Standard Time

As the sun becomes a sliver on the horizon, three EF-105DA aircraft barrel down the runway, large targeting pods hanging off their bellies, their mission not one of war but one of search and rescue. The last known location of their target is almost 160 miles south, with the circle of uncertainty growing by the second. The selection of the Super Spear as the Enteresian Armed Forces' primary first responder aircraft for search and rescue over the Central Ocean was a controversial one 5 years ago but as they reach cruising altitude and speed their importance in the EAFAF’s SAR fleet comes to light; at Mach 2.0 they reach the edge of the search area in a mere 7 minutes, the game of telephone required to get them airborne taking twice as long. With the missing aircraft not showing on their radar, they fire up their targeting pods and begin scouring the ocean for the smallest sign of the missing aircraft.

[Rhastov]

Central Ocean, March 27, 2040, 07:06

The sun rose over the horizon, casting a warm glow across five grey hulls holding station in the middle of the Central Ocean. At the head of the formation, the Slava-class cruiser Elisabeta cut a slow, steady wake, trailed by four Mangalia-class frigates in loose escort. It was meant to be an unremarkable patrol, routine presence in international waters, nothing more. That changed the moment the reports came in: an airliner and its two fighter escorts, gone from radar without so much as a distress call.

The timing did nothing to settle nerves already worn thin. Word of the Kraven Corporation's plans on Markion had been circulating through every mess deck and briefing room for days, and the task force had spent the better part of a week at a heightened readiness posture, waiting for a crisis that felt like it was always just over the horizon. Now, instead of a fight, they had a search, but after the "incident" days earlier, nobody aboard was willing to assume the two weren't connected.

Alarms sounded across Elisabeta and one of the trailing frigates as flight crews scrambled. Rotors began to turn, and within minutes two K-27 naval helicopters lifted off the decks, noses dipping as they accelerated low over the swell toward the aircraft's last reported position. Behind them, deck crews worked to ready a pair of SA-330s, kept back on standby in case there were survivors out there and the task force needed the lift capacity on hand the moment they were found.

As the K-27s reached the search area, their crews flipped on surface search radar and began working outward in expanding arcs, scanning a stretch of empty, indifferent ocean for any trace of debris, a life raft, an oil sheen, anything that would say where Volksnord 117 and her escorts had gone.

[Ormazd]

March 27, 2040 — Royal Palace, Artashir

The report reached the Royal Government shortly after the disappearance became public.

Ormazd had no ships stationed anywhere near the Central Ocean, and the prospect of dispatching a naval task force across half the world was quickly dismissed as impractical. There was, however, a small Ormazdi connection to the flight.

Among the passengers of Volksnord Flight 117 was an Ormazdi national travelling to Auersten for a private business conference. The individual was not part of the Green Union delegation, but their family had already been notified by Ormazdian authorities that contact with the passenger had been lost.

The Royal Ministry of Foreign Affairs consequently contacted the governments coordinating the search and requested that Ormazd be kept informed of developments concerning the aircraft and its passengers.

At the same time, the Royal Ormazdian Civil Aviation Authority offered the services of two of its accident investigators to the international investigation. Neither investigator was deployed to the search itself. Instead, they were placed on standby to assist with the examination of flight records, weather data, communications logs, and any debris or wreckage recovered.

The investigators were particularly interested in one detail.

Three aircraft had disappeared almost simultaneously.

That made a conventional aviation accident considerably harder to explain.

Central Ocean — Aboard the Ormazdi Merchant Vessel Shahpur

Several hundred kilometres away, an Ormazdi-flagged merchant ship was already making its way across the Central Ocean.

The Shahpur, a large bulk carrier, had been travelling along its scheduled route when the news of the missing aircraft reached the bridge. Its crew had no special search-and-rescue equipment and had not been sent to the area for the operation, but its position placed it within the wider region being searched.

The captain listened carefully as Enteresian and other authorities began coordinating the response.

After a brief discussion with his officers, he contacted the relevant search-and-rescue authorities.

The message was simple.

"Ormazdi merchant vessel Shahpur, currently operating in the Central Ocean. We are aware of the ongoing search for Volksnord Flight 117. We are willing to assist if required. We can provide our current position, course and speed, and will maintain a watch for debris, life rafts, or survivors."

The Shahpur was not ordered to abandon its commercial voyage or independently enter the main search area. Instead, the vessel was asked to maintain a lookout and remain available should the search authorities require assistance.

The crew began keeping a particularly close watch over the surrounding water.

There was still nothing to see.

Artashir — 08:15

The Ministry issued a brief statement to the press.

"The Government of Ormazd is deeply concerned by the disappearance of Volksnord Flight 117 and the aircraft accompanying it. An Ormazdi citizen was aboard the flight, and our government is therefore following the search closely.

Ormazd has offered the assistance of its civil aviation investigators to the authorities conducting the investigation. An Ormazdi-flagged merchant vessel currently operating in the Central Ocean has also made itself available to assist the search-and-rescue effort if requested.

At this time, our priority is the recovery of the missing passengers and crew. We urge against speculation concerning the cause of the disappearance until reliable evidence has been recovered."

For the moment, Ormazd could do little more than wait.

But two investigators in the Royal Civil Aviation Authority's headquarters were already beginning to examine everything that was publicly known about Flight 117's route, weather conditions, communications, and last recorded position.

And somewhere in the Central Ocean, the crew of the Shahpur continued watching the horizon.

If something from Flight 117 had survived the disappearance, they wanted to be ready to see it.

[The Green Union]

As the sun becomes a sliver on the horizon, three EF-105DA aircraft barrel down the runway, large targeting pods hanging off their bellies, their mission not one of war but one of search and rescue. The last known location of their target is almost 160 miles south, with the circle of uncertainty growing by the second. The selection of the Super Spear as the Enteresian Armed Forces' primary first responder aircraft for search and rescue over the Central Ocean was a controversial one 5 years ago but as they reach cruising altitude and speed their importance in the EAFAF’s SAR fleet comes to light; at Mach 2.0 they reach the edge of the search area in a mere 7 minutes, the game of telephone required to get them airborne taking twice as long. With the missing aircraft not showing on their radar, they fire up their targeting pods and begin scouring the ocean for the smallest sign of the missing aircraft.

Alarms sounded across Elisabeta and one of the trailing frigates as flight crews scrambled. Rotors began to turn, and within minutes two K-27 naval helicopters lifted off the decks, noses dipping as they accelerated low over the swell toward the aircraft's last reported position. Behind them, deck crews worked to ready a pair of SA-330s, kept back on standby in case there were survivors out there and the task force needed the lift capacity on hand the moment they were found.

As the K-27s reached the search area, their crews flipped on surface search radar and began working outward in expanding arcs, scanning a stretch of empty, indifferent ocean for any trace of debris, a life raft, an oil sheen, anything that would say where Volksnord 117 and her escorts had gone.

Daylight had only just broken over the Central Ocean as Enteresian and Rhastovian aircraft swept into their search patterns. The task before them was daunting; to search several hundred thousand square kilometres of open ocean, on small fuel tanks and with as-of-yet nonexistent coordination between different nations. The arrival of nearby ships to the area would take hours. Proper search and rescue vessels wouldn't be available for days. If the airliner was lost she could be running dangerously short on fuel by now. If she was down then survivors would not be lasting much longer, if indeed they could hope for survivors at all. Needle in a haystack did not even begin to describe how desperate and urgent this search could quickly become.

The Enteresian fighter jets in particular were on a short timer. EFB Renton was about as far as one could get from a coastal base, and their fuel gauges were creeping low almost as soon as they had arrived. It didn't stop them from making pass after fruitless pass over what were now brilliant gemstone waves, but beyond the occasional merchant ship or leaping whale their scans turned up nothing. First one wingman called bingo and turned for home, then another. The flight lead, heart filling with despair and no small amount of bewilderment, knew they would be making the same call in mere minutes.

And then, there it was: The needle.

The EF-105DA's targeting pod locked onto a large piece of floating debris. And with a sinking heart her pilot immediately knew what it was: The blackened tail section of a Green Union Arrow interceptor, almost exactly the same model flown by Enteres. Its livery, a bespeckled feather-like pattern, identified the fighter as belonging to Loon Squadron, the same known to be escorting VN117. Seeing that tail now, scorched and limp like so much a broken bird, brought on complex feelings. They had exercised with Loon Squadron just last month.

The Enteresian pilot had time only for a few passes to record footage, before needing to pass the location on to their Rhastovian compatriots and turn for home. Hopefully their closer analysis could help unravel this bizarre situation. Yet already one thing was becoming abundantly clear: Something had gone very, very wrong out here. And with the lone delta wing flying back to Enteres through a clear sapphire sky, it seemed sickeningly unlikely to have been a natural occurrence.

If the applicable equipment is available, Enteresian and Rhastovian forces can detect high levels of military ULF radio chatter shortly before their arrival in the search area. They cannot ascertain thee origin at this time.

"Ormazdi merchant vessel Shahpur, currently operating in the Central Ocean. We are aware of the ongoing search for Volksnord Flight 117. We are willing to assist if required. We can provide our current position, course and speed, and will maintain a watch for debris, life rafts, or survivors."

The Shahpur was not ordered to abandon its commercial voyage or independently enter the main search area. Instead, the vessel was asked to maintain a lookout and remain available should the search authorities require assistance.

The crew began keeping a particularly close watch over the surrounding water.

There was still nothing to see.

Artashir — 08:15

Steaming towards the area where Volksnord Flight 117 had been last seen, the crew of the Shahpur were suddenly faced with an odd sight: A heavy built icebreaker, sporting an abnormally powerful looking radar array, steaming south out of the area. Her appearance came as a surprise to the Shahpur's bridge crew gazing on through their binoculars, as she did not appear on their commercial AIS map. What was more concerning, she seemed to be armed. A number of guns were visible across her surface, along with what might just be missile tubes.

Yet the patrol ship, if indeed that was what they were looking at, made no move towards them. Attempts to communicate were met with silence as she continued her journey across the horizon, only indication of who, or what she owed allegiance to being a small black and gold pennant flying from her superstructure. Soon enough she was gone, disappearing somewhere in the direction of the October Islands.

The Ministry issued a brief statement to the press.

"The Government of Ormazd is deeply concerned by the disappearance of Volksnord Flight 117 and the aircraft accompanying it. An Ormazdi citizen was aboard the flight, and our government is therefore following the search closely.

Ormazd has offered the assistance of its civil aviation investigators to the authorities conducting the investigation. An Ormazdi-flagged merchant vessel currently operating in the Central Ocean has also made itself available to assist the search-and-rescue effort if requested.

At this time, our priority is the recovery of the missing passengers and crew. We urge against speculation concerning the cause of the disappearance until reliable evidence has been recovered."

For the moment, Ormazd could do little more than wait.

But two investigators in the Royal Civil Aviation Authority's headquarters were already beginning to examine everything that was publicly known about Flight 117's route, weather conditions, communications, and last recorded position.

By the time Ormazd's offer was made, the Green Union had already become aware of her flight's disappearance through Enteresian authorities and was, herself, mobilizing to assist what was rapidly becoming an Enteresian and Rhastovian-led search effort. Ormazd's assistance was gratefully accepted, with the Green Union expressing their anxiousness to host the extra-regional experts in their capital of Himmselsdorf until a proper centralized location for the coordinated effort, likely in Enteres, could be established. Any and all information was being made available to the relevant partner nations. Critically, nobody had yet determined a weather event which could account for the disappearance. In fact Enteresian and Rhastovian forces engaged in the effort have reported nary a cloud in the sky.

The Green Union, meanwhile, is themselves rushing forces into the area. The naval icebreaker Hakapik, diverted from a sovereignty enforcement patrol through the Donovan Run, is expected within the day, and has placed herself at the disposal of Rhastovian naval forces. At the same time Mallard Squadron, operating several flying boats, have begun arriving in Enteres to bolster their air search effort.

[Enteres]

And then, there it was: The needle.

MVN Industrial Intent | Central Ocean 79 nautical miles south of EFB Renton

When the call to JRCC Renton was made, Industrial Intent, the third Ampersant-Class nuclear auxiliary vessel, midway through its post-ARLEP2 sea trials to test the newly refuelled Enteresian Fissionables N5P reactor, was the closest Enteresian Armed Forces Navy asset to the search zone, sea trials were put on hold as the industrial intent was ordered to make its way south at its earliest convenience, the reports of wreckage found changed its orders. The industrial intent was ordered to "nuke it", dump all 150 Megawatts of energy produced by its reactor and get to the search zone and look for more, if anything, to use its brand new high-power towed sonar array to find the wreckage. Unfortunately for the crew of the industrial intent, while the array can structurally handle the speeds the ship is capable of, the propellers and mechanical noise generated by pushing 29,000 tons of what was originally based on a civilian freighter at speeds in excess of 30 knots negate the abilities of the sonar array, and the search on the ocean floor cannot begin until inside the search zone hours away.

ESS Maskinganna | Somewhere in the Central Ocean

Similar to the Industrial Intent, the Maskinganna, which officially is a simple long-term chartered support vessel, was within an hour of the crash site, conducting “support activities” related to a recent Enteresian Space Agency Launch from the mobile launch platform Scobee. In reality, the Maskinganna is a brand new state-of-the-art nuclear-powered ballistic missile submarine that happened to be using the exclusion zone of the space launch as cover for its patrol route; it too is dispatched to the area to use its sonar to scour the seabed for the main wreckage of the aircraft.

ERS Moncton | in the vicinity of MLSP-2 Scobee 1 hour south of the search zone

Moncton a 16-year-old Enteres-Class Frigate is also (and actually) supporting the launch operations on Scobee and was also brought away from its posting to support the search with its helicopter


Back on solid land, with reports of wreckage found, the Transportation Safety Board requisitions a hangar at the EFB Renton/Quinte East Air and Space Port for wreckage to be assembled for further inspection, and invites representatives of all interested parties to set up shop at Quinte East for easier coordination.

[Far Harbor]

Far Harbor, noting the tragedy that has occurred, while also noting that several of its citizens were aboard flight 117, offers its most sincere condolences to the Green Union, as well as the FHS Seeker, an advanced coastguard ship, to aid in the rescue. the Seeker has begun the long trip from Kenai to the search zone.

[Rhastov]

Daylight had only just broken over the Central Ocean as Enteresian and Rhastovian aircraft swept into their search patterns. The task before them was daunting; to search several hundred thousand square kilometres of open ocean, on small fuel tanks and with as-of-yet nonexistent coordination between different nations. The arrival of nearby ships to the area would take hours. Proper search and rescue vessels wouldn't be available for days. If the airliner was lost she could be running dangerously short on fuel by now. If she was down then survivors would not be lasting much longer, if indeed they could hope for survivors at all. Needle in a haystack did not even begin to describe how desperate and urgent this search could quickly become.

The Enteresian fighter jets in particular were on a short timer. EFB Renton was about as far as one could get from a coastal base, and their fuel gauges were creeping low almost as soon as they had arrived. It didn't stop them from making pass after fruitless pass over what were now brilliant gemstone waves, but beyond the occasional merchant ship or leaping whale their scans turned up nothing. First one wingman called bingo and turned for home, then another. The flight lead, heart filling with despair and no small amount of bewilderment, knew they would be making the same call in mere minutes.

And then, there it was: The needle.

The EF-105DA's targeting pod locked onto a large piece of floating debris. And with a sinking heart her pilot immediately knew what it was: The blackened tail section of a Green Union Arrow interceptor, almost exactly the same model flown by Enteres. Its livery, a bespeckled feather-like pattern, identified the fighter as belonging to Loon Squadron, the same known to be escorting VN117. Seeing that tail now, scorched and limp like so much a broken bird, brought on complex feelings. They had exercised with Loon Squadron just last month.

The Enteresian pilot had time only for a few passes to record footage, before needing to pass the location on to their Rhastovian compatriots and turn for home. Hopefully their closer analysis could help unravel this bizarre situation. Yet already one thing was becoming abundantly clear: Something had gone very, very wrong out here. And with the lone delta wing flying back to Enteres through a clear sapphire sky, it seemed sickeningly unlikely to have been a natural occurrence.

Handed the Enteresian flight lead's last reported position, the two K-27s pushed out over the Central Ocean at low level, the morning sun still low and glaring off the water ahead of them. The lead helicopter's systems operator switched on the surface search radar and began sweeping ahead of their track.

"Pelican 1-2, this is Pelican 1-1, multiple radar contacts, bearing zero-two-niner, three-two kilometers, over."

"Pelican 1-1, Pelican 1-2, copy multiple contacts, bearing zero-two-niner, three-two klicks. Coming to new heading, over."

The helicopters turned onto the new bearing and closed the distance. At ten kilometers they switched to thermal imaging, radar still up as a backstop. What resolved on camera was one aircraft in pieces. The blackened tail section the Enteresian pilot had already reported came into view first, and around it, smaller sections of the same airframe, scattered widely enough across the water that each had painted as its own return on radar.

"Pelican 1-2, Pelican 1-1, be advised, contacts appear to be a single airframe, consistent with the Enteresian report. No indication of a second aircraft, over."

"Pelican 1-1, copy. Continuing in for confirmation, over."

Closer in, it was confirmed beyond doubt: the same Arrow, the same Loon Squadron markings, just further broken apart than the single tail section had suggested from altitude. Of VN117 and the second escort, there was nothing.

Both aircraft brought their ESM suites online, working the passive bands for anything resembling a distress beacon or emergency transmission, while flying an expanding square search pattern centered on the debris field. No survivors, no life rafts, no sign of the flight data recorder. They widened the pattern once and flew it again. Still nothing.

"Elisabeta, this is Pelican 1-1, over."

"Pelican 1-1, this is Elisabeta, send it, over."

"Elisabeta, Pelican 1-1, we've confirmed the wreckage as the escort aircraft reported by the Enteresian flight, no survivors, no ELT, no beacon contact on the black box. No indication of VN117 or the second escort in this area. Continuing search, over."

"Pelican 1-1, Elisabeta, copy all, continue search, out."

It was partway through the second search pattern that the systems operator on Pelican 1-1 picked up something on the ESM scope.

"Huh. That's odd," he said over the internal comm, adjusting his headset. "Got something transmitting ELF, real short burst."

"So? Could be a boomer running deep somewhere nearby. Not exactly our department today," the pilot replied.

"Boomer wouldn't be my first guess, but maybe. Doesn't match anything I've logged in this area before either, and I've been doing this since '28."

"Could be a sardine can testing a new comms rig, or a new protocol entirely. Log it and let intel sort it out."

The systems operator flagged the intercept for the post-flight report and went back to the search.

An hour on, the search had turned up nothing further. No sign of VN117, no sign of the second escort, no wreckage beyond what had already been found. Both aircraft were approaching their fuel reserve.

"Elisabeta, Pelican 1-1, bingo fuel, RTB, over."

"Pelican 1-1, Elisabeta, copy bingo, cleared RTB, out."

With the K-27s recovering, Elisabeta relayed the search results to Northern Fleet HQ and requested a long-range maritime patrol aircraft to continue the search beyond helicopter endurance. With the fleet already at heightened readiness over the Kraven crisis, a patrol aircraft was released within the hour.

The P-142 Proteus lifted off from the 87th Air Base outside Craiova and climbed out on a course for the datalinked search area. By the time it arrived, several hundred kilometers out, it would be operating well beyond the helicopters' reach. The crew, familiar with how these searches tended to go, had loaded extra rations before wheels-up, already assuming the mission would run long.

"Elisabeta, this is Thunderbolt, over."

"Thunderbolt, this is Elisabeta, send it, over."

"Elisabeta, Thunderbolt, feet wet, en route your location, ETA three-zero mikes. Request update on last known search area and any datalink track for VN117, over.”

"Thunderbolt, Elisabeta, copy ETA. Uploading search box and last contacts to you now via datalink, over."

"Elisabeta, Thunderbolt, datalink confirmed, we have the picture. Standby to expand the search box once we're on station, over."

"Thunderbolt, Elisabeta, copy, out."

Thirty minutes out and already flying the numbers before they'd so much as crossed into the search area, the crew of Thunderbolt settled in. Whatever the K-27s hadn't found in an hour, they had the fuel, the radar, and the patience to keep looking for a lot longer than that.

[Salomeia]

Volksnord Flight 117 had vanished over the Central Ocean, and by the time confirmation reached the Salomeian capital Yeinika that Salomeian citizens were among the hundreds aboard, Senior Investigator Airi Kosen was already walking into a transport-safety conference room with a folder under one arm and breakfast under the other.

Airi was a compact woman in her late forties, with dark hair beginning to gray at the temples and cut just above her shoulders. She dressed plainly: a charcoal blouse, loose government jacket, comfortable black trousers, and flat shoes that barely made a sound across the floor. She did not move quickly, but she moved with purpose. Every room she entered seemed to become somewhere she had work to do.

Reiya Tamiya had beaten her there.

She was sitting sideways in a chair with three separate reports spread across the table, one leg tucked beneath the other. Younger and taller than Airi, Reiya wore a pale blue blouse with the sleeves rolled up above her elbows despite the aggressive air conditioning. Her dark hair was tied into a loose ponytail that was already beginning to fall apart around her face.

“You started without me,” Airi said.

Reiya looked up with the faintest smile. “You were late.”

Airi checked the wall clock, then looked back at her.

“Check your watch. Reiya, I am legitimately four minutes early.”

“Then I started offensively early.”

Airi set the folder down in front of her.

“What do we actually know?”

Reiya straightened and began immediately.

“One civilian airliner, two escorts, no distress call, no known weather event, the Green Union delegation aboard—”

“Thanks, but no.”

Reiya stopped.

Airi pointed at the reports.

“That is what everyone knows. What do *we* know?”

Reiya looked down again, considered the papers for several seconds, and tapped one finger against the table.

“Very little.”

Airi nodded once.

“Good. Keep that answer.”

Sumi Noyama arrived next, shouldering the door open because both hands were occupied by a technical case that looked less like luggage than something intended to survive a crash.

She was thin and long-limbed, wearing an olive work shirt, dark utility trousers, and practical boots. A narrow pair of glasses sat low on her nose, and her black hair had been cut short around her jaw. Nothing about her clothing suggested that she cared whether foreign officials thought she looked appropriately important.

Mika Sorai followed her at a slower pace, carrying a paper cup of coffee and the expression of someone who had already decided she disliked the day.

Mika was broader through the shoulders, with her hair braided loosely over one shoulder. She wore a dark green blouse, a long black skirt, and a light coat left hanging open. She had a habit of watching people quietly for a few seconds before deciding whether something deserved an answer.

Sumi lowered the technical case beside her chair with considerably more care than she gave the chair itself.

“Original radar plots?”

Reiya shook her head. “No.”

“Communications recordings?”

“No.”

“Spectrum data?”

“Not yet.”

Sumi stared at the reports as though personally offended by them.

“Then we have shit. How in the spirits of our country are we going to get them? I don't pray to the rivers and lakes we got. That's my mother's business.”

Mika sat down beside her and blew across her coffee.

“Technically, we have several pages describing shit. You could read that instead of complaining so much about not having the shit you need, Sumi…”

Sumi leaned forward and started going through the pages anyway.

Airi ignored both of them, opened the breakfast bag, and pushed a wrapped rice roll across the table until it bumped against Sumi's wrist.

“Eat.”

Sumi did not look up.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask.”

That finally got a glance from her.

Sumi stared at Airi for a moment, took the food, unwrapped it one-handed, and kept reading while chewing.

Nobody remarked on it.

Among Salomeians who worked closely together, concern did not always sound gentle. Sometimes caring for somebody sounded very much like an instruction.

And finally, Teyo Seyon arrived two minutes later.

He stopped in the doorway when he realized everyone else was already seated.

Teyo was twenty-five and looked younger whenever he became nervous, which was unfortunate because nervous seemed to be his natural condition that morning. His hair had been combed too carefully. His white shirt was freshly pressed. The gray Foreign Ministry jacket fit him so properly that it almost announced that he was new.

He had even worn a tie.

Nobody else had.

A slim satchel hung from one shoulder, and for the first few seconds he held a notebook against his chest with both hands as if it might protect him.

He had clearly prepared an introduction.

“Good morning. Junior Foreign Service Officer Teyo Seyon. Foreign Ministry liaison.”

Mika looked over the rim of her cup.

“We know.”

Teyo blinked.

“Right. Of course. You have the manifest.”

Reiya leaned back in her chair and looked him over openly.

“We also have eyes. You’re the only man.”

That derailed him completely.

“Uhhh, yes, it seems like I'm the only… man in this group.”

“I noticed that too.”

Airi gave him a small smile and pointed toward the empty chair.

“Sit down. Do you know why you’re here?”

Teyo crossed the room quickly, nearly pulled the chair too far from the table, corrected it before anyone could say anything, and sat down much more carefully than necessary.

He gave the proper ministry answer first. Something about providing diplomatic liaison between the Salomeian investigative team and foreign authorities.

Mika immediately interrupted him.

“No. Why are *you* here?”

Teyo looked from her to Airi, then down at the notebook he was already opening.

“Because everyone more experienced is busy.”

Reiya's smile widened.

“Oh, I like him.”

Teyo continued before she could say anything else.

“And because somebody needs to ask foreign governments for things they may not immediately want to hand over to four people carrying instruments and asking about wreckage.”

Sumi finally looked up from the rice roll she had almost finished without noticing.

“Really now. Okay, tell you what, I got five things for you to take note of already.”

She raised one hand and started counting against her fingers.

“Radar. Communications. Air traffic control logs. Spectrum recordings. Maintenance documentation.”

Teyo bent over his notebook immediately.

“Wait. Slow down.”

“No.”

“Please slow down.”

Sumi smiled more.

“Then you gotta write faster.”

Airi turned her head slightly.

“Sumi.”

Sumi sighed as though this were a regrettable concession to human limitation.

“Fine.”

She repeated the entire list at half speed.

By the time the briefing settled into anything resembling order, Teyo had filled several pages and loosened his tie without realizing it.

Mika wanted photographs of every recovered piece of wreckage before anyone cleaned it, moved it, straightened it, cut it, washed it, displayed it, buried it, or otherwise interfered with it.

She spoke while slowly turning her coffee cup between both hands, stopping occasionally to point at Teyo's notebook whenever she thought he had missed something.

Airi added chain of custody.

“And remember,” she said, “we're asking for access, not ownership. We're guests.”

Teyo wrote that down.

“Access, not ownership.”

Reiya wanted every timestamp from every available source. If two clocks disagreed, she wanted to know which one was wrong and why.

By then she had stopped sitting sideways and was half-standing over the table, shifting reports around into a timeline that seemed perfectly obvious to her and nobody else.

Sumi had even more to add.

“And raw recordings of those unusual low-frequency transmissions. If anyone captured them, I want them.”

Teyo looked down at the growing list.

“Do I write down every disagreement too?”

Four answers came back almost at once.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Not that part.”

“Write the distinction about observation.”

Teyo stared at them, pen suspended over the page.

Reiya laughed first and dropped back into her chair.

“Welcome to technical work.”

Teyo put the pen down and rubbed the side of his hand.

“I studied international administration. I wasn't expecting all of this. You're all bullying me.”

Mika nodded solemnly, although the smile breaking across her face ruined the performance.

“Perhaps! But we are going to work with you, and you're going to work with us. Take it easy, Mr. Teyo. We'll be in good hands, and so will you.”

She took another drink from her coffee.

“It's excellent, really. You can internationally administrate us into the hangar.”

Teyo looked at her for a moment, trying to decide whether she was encouraging him or making fun of him.

“I can try.”

Airi gave Mika a look, although the corner of her mouth had already betrayed her.

“Leave him alone.”

Mika scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“Oh, what? Come on, I am encouraging him.”

“You told him to administrate us.”

“And he said he would try. Good attitude.”

The room grew louder after that, but never hostile.

Reiya thought aloud and moved constantly while doing it, circling the table, leaning over reports, sitting down only to stand again when another possibility occurred to her.

Mika remained seated most of the time, one ankle crossed behind the other, but became increasingly animated whenever the discussion moved toward physical damage.

“There is a fighter in pieces,” she said. “That means it was destroyed.”

Airi looked at her.

“Destroyed does not mean shot down.”

“I know.”

“You said it like somebody fired a missile.”

“I said destroyed because it is currently destroyed.”

Reiya raised one hand.

“If all three aircraft vanished at essentially the same time—”

“No.”

Reiya stopped.

Airi pointed toward her.

“They disappeared from observation at essentially the same time. We do not know yet whether whatever happened to them happened at the same time.”

Reiya considered that, then nodded.

“Fine. That's fair.”

Sumi had migrated from her chair to the edge of the table itself, her glasses now pushed up into her hair while she studied one of the diagrams.

“If somebody interfered electronically—”

“If,” Airi said.

Sumi frowned.

“I said if.”

“Good.”

Teyo watched all of it, writing less now and listening more.

At one point he finally admitted that he had no idea what half the acronyms meant.

Airi shrugged.

“Good.”

Teyo looked confused.

“Good?”

“Better than pretending. If somebody uses six acronyms and you understand none of them, ask.”

Reiya looked over from the other side of the table.

“And do not nod intelligently. People can tell.”

Teyo looked genuinely offended.

“I do not nod intelligently.”

Mika glanced at him.

“You did it twice since you walked in.”

Teyo opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He looked back down and wrote something else instead.

When transport finally called to tell them they needed to leave, the table was covered in empty cups, wrappers, loose pages, handwritten notes, and one untouched Foreign Ministry briefing packet nobody had found especially useful.

Airi gathered the papers into neat piles, then stood with both palms against the table and looked around the room before anyone else could begin collecting their things.

“Last thing. Nobody goes there trying to prove Kraven did this.”

Mika nodded first as she pulled her coat properly over both shoulders.

“We identify damage.”

Sumi crouched beside her technical case and clicked the latches shut.

“And we're also going to have to identify systems behavior.”

Reiya folded her arms. Her ponytail was barely holding together anymore.

“I'll have to see if I can reconstruct what happened.”

Then all four women looked at Teyo.

He froze for half a second under the attention and straightened his jacket as though that might also straighten his thoughts.

“I… guess that means that I have to make sure the people who can answer your questions keep speaking to you.”

Airi smiled.

“There. You do know your job.”

“Barely.”

She picked up her folder.

“Barely is enough on the first day.”

They were almost out the door when Teyo suddenly stopped.

“My notebook.”

He spun around so quickly that his satchel struck the doorframe, hurried back across the room, grabbed the notebook from the table, and nearly collided with Mika coming back for the coffee she had forgotten.

Teyo stepped one way.

Mika stepped the same way.

He moved the other.

So did she.

“Sorry.”

Mika stopped.

“Sorry,” Teyo said again.

She stared at him.

“Stop doing that.”

“Which one?”

“Both.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Teyo froze.

“Fuck.”

Mika finally laughed.

She moved aside, caught the door with one hand, and motioned him through ahead of her.

“There. Now you sound Salomeian. Come on.”

[Wonderlandss]

The Salomeian team is already one of my favorite parts of this incident. The dialogue feels natural, and the different personalities come through without turning the whole post into a list of character traits. I also like the distinction Airi keeps making between what is known and what is assumed. Fits an investigation like this well. Curious to see how they interact with the other teams once they reach the hangar.

[The Green Union]

ESS Maskinganna | Somewhere in the Central Ocean

Similar to the Industrial Intent, the Maskinganna, which officially is a simple long-term chartered support vessel, was within an hour of the crash site, conducting “support activities” related to a recent Enteresian Space Agency Launch from the mobile launch platform Scobee. In reality, the Maskinganna is a brand new state-of-the-art nuclear-powered ballistic missile submarine that happened to be using the exclusion zone of the space launch as cover for its patrol route; it too is dispatched to the area to use its sonar to scour the seabed for the main wreckage of the aircraft.

The Maskinganna had been aware for at least a few days, while conducting operations around her nation's space launch infrastructure, that she was not exactly alone in this neck of the Central Ocean. Sound carries well thorough water, and the far off indistinct pings and chops of far off submarines had been growing in intensity since the present crisis commenced. Most of this was to be expected, even seen as reassuring. It meant their Markish neighbours were likely mobilizing their submarines for war. Others were comforting in their familiarity. After all, this area is where the Central Ocean meets the Still Sea - Markion's name for the vast interregional ice sheet which covers the North Pole. Knowing that noisy cargo subs still transit these under-ice passages, carrying their trade as far abroad as the Badlands or Gholgoth, was at least a sign that Markion was not (yet) alone against the storm.

Yet none of that could explain some of the distant sound contacts which matched no known Markish native, biological or mechanical. None of it could explain why their chatter had grown to a pitch just before Volksnord Flight 117 had disappeared or why, now, they were silent . . .

All Maskinganna could do was begin her search. Yet this area of sea was, at least for now, eerily empty.

Back on solid land, with reports of wreckage found, the Transportation Safety Board requisitions a hangar at the EFB Renton/Quinte East Air and Space Port for wreckage to be assembled for further inspection, and invites representatives of all interested parties to set up shop at Quinte East for easier coordination.

Unsurprisingly, foreign experts and reporters from the Green Union to Salomeia to Ormazd and Far Harbor and a dozen others aside have been surging in to the sleepy town of Renton. Small hotels are quickly full to bursting, and a frustrated provincial police team soon found themselves evicting young journalists from their impromptu campsites in Bian Park.

Even now, at the mere mention of wreckage being located, everyone was eager for news. It hardly mattered that nobody had so much as laid hands on the Arrow tail section yet, much less delivered it back to Enteres or conducted any sort of investigation. People were on edge, and they wanted answers.

"Thunderbolt, Elisabeta, copy ETA. Uploading search box and last contacts to you now via datalink, over."

"Elisabeta, Thunderbolt, datalink confirmed, we have the picture. Standby to expand the search box once we're on station, over."

"Thunderbolt, Elisabeta, copy, out."

Thirty minutes out and already flying the numbers before they'd so much as crossed into the search area, the crew of Thunderbolt settled in. Whatever the K-27s hadn't found in an hour, they had the fuel, the radar, and the patience to keep looking for a lot longer than that.

With more and more search assets arriving the new partners were able to begin expanding their search area. First it was just the one patch of debris where a Green Union plane fighter had been lost, something rescue ships were still steaming to recover. But in the nearly two days since there had been nothing. It was as if the sea had simply swallowed the remaining airplanes whole.

Now, the Rhastovian anti-submarine aircraft was beginning its third massive circle and the prospect for actually finding anything was becoming increasingly bleak. They were now well outside the original search area, approaching the distant and tropical October Islands. And increasingly their radar contacts were turning out to be little more than small atolls and reefs, jumping dolphins, or the occasional prowling great white. All of it would be excellent stuff if they were trying to get on the cover of Arcadian Geographic. Less ideal for the hundreds of souls who, in the best case scenario, would have been bobbing around here for days on end. Though, as one crewman helpfully quipped, chances are they wouldn't have suffered that long. Nosediving jumbo jets don't tend to leave many survivors.

Still they continued their pattern, growing increasingly frustrated by clutter. One radar anomaly was just an exposed rock. A magnetic reading was some Albatanian fishing wreck from the '60s. And yet here they stayed, searching, refuelling, searching again. As night began to fall on the second night the men had long since resigned themselves, assuming they planes were either long gone or else having gone down somewhere more plausible than this far, this obscenely off course. They were just turning over for a new shift at the controls when, in the early gloom of a growing darkness, one of the officers saw them.

Green flares, clinging to a rocky seaswept atoll. And just a couple hundred metres away was the obvious metallic signature of another, this one mostly intact, delta winged fighter jet.

Far Harbor, noting the tragedy that has occurred, while also noting that several of its citizens were aboard flight 117, offers its most sincere condolences to the Green Union, as well as the FHS Seeker, an advanced coastguard ship, to aid in the rescue. the Seeker has begun the long trip from Kenai to the search zone.

The Green Union was quick to thank Far Harbor for their support, promising to secure a place for their investigators at Quinte East as well as to work towards integrating the FHS Seeker into the broader international effort. Any and all information relevant to operations in the Central Ocean is to be made available to Far Harbor, alongside the other partner nations.

[Rhastov]

With more and more search assets arriving the new partners were able to begin expanding their search area. First it was just the one patch of debris where a Green Union plane fighter had been lost, something rescue ships were still steaming to recover. But in the nearly two days since there had been nothing. It was as if the sea had simply swallowed the remaining airplanes whole.

Now, the Rhastovian anti-submarine aircraft was beginning its third massive circle and the prospect for actually finding anything was becoming increasingly bleak. They were now well outside the original search area, approaching the distant and tropical October Islands. And increasingly their radar contacts were turning out to be little more than small atolls and reefs, jumping dolphins, or the occasional prowling great white. All of it would be excellent stuff if they were trying to get on the cover of Arcadian Geographic. Less ideal for the hundreds of souls who, in the best case scenario, would have been bobbing around here for days on end. Though, as one crewman helpfully quipped, chances are they wouldn't have suffered that long. Nosediving jumbo jets don't tend to leave many survivors.

Still they continued their pattern, growing increasingly frustrated by clutter. One radar anomaly was just an exposed rock. A magnetic reading was some Albatanian fishing wreck from the '60s. And yet here they stayed, searching, refuelling, searching again. As night began to fall on the second night the men had long since resigned themselves, assuming they planes were either long gone or else having gone down somewhere more plausible than this far, this obscenely off course. They were just turning over for a new shift at the controls when, in the early gloom of a growing darkness, one of the officers saw them.

Green flares, clinging to a rocky seaswept atoll. And just a couple hundred metres away was the obvious metallic signature of another, this one mostly intact, delta winged fighter jet.

The P-142 flew near what looked to be an empty atoll like many others, before two bright green flares lit up over it.

For a second, nobody on Thunderbolt said anything at all.

The tactical coordinator was already slewing the turret before the pilot had finished banking them around for a second look.

"Contact, contact, visual on flares, atoll bearing zero-one-five, range eight point seven kilometers," he called out, IR camera already tracking. "Wait! Wait! I've got an airframe. Delta wing, mostly intact, sitting right up on the rocks."

The camera crept across the wreck, then past it, then stopped.

"I've got a heat source. Standing. Moving. It’s waving at us!" A pause, just long enough for the whole crew to feel it. "Elisabeta, Thunderbolt, be advised, we have a probable survivor, repeat, probable survivor, on an atoll bearing zero-one-five from our datalink position, range approximately nine kilometers, over."

"Thunderbolt, Elisabeta, say again, confirm survivor contact, over."

"Elisabeta, Thunderbolt, confirmed, we have thermal contact on one individual, upright, appears to be signaling, alongside a downed delta-wing airframe consistent with a Green Union Arrow. Location and imagery being sent via datalink now, over."

The pilot didn't wait for a reply before reaching for the flare dispenser switch. A pair of large bright flares arced down and out over the water, well clear of the rocks, blooming orange against the dimming sky as Thunderbolt banked into an orbit above the atoll. It wasn't protocol, exactly, but it was the fastest way to say the only thing that mattered: we see you, hang on.

There was a beat of silence on the net that felt a lot longer than it was.

"Thunderbolt, Elisabeta, copy all, good work. Stand by on station, we are scrambling rescue assets to your position, over."

"Elisabeta, Thunderbolt, copy, standing by. We'll keep eyes on until they're overhead, over."

Word went out fast after that. Within minutes the order had gone out fleet-wide, and a pair of Pumas already fueled and spun up for the evening shift lifted off before their crews had fully finished being briefed, racing the last of the daylight toward a speck of rock nobody had thought to look at twice until now. Thunderbolt held its orbit above the atoll, IR camera locked on the one steady, waving shape below, narrating updates back to Elisabeta every few minutes as if speaking might somehow keep it from disappearing again.

[The Green Union]

Word went out fast after that. Within minutes the order had gone out fleet-wide, and a pair of Pumas already fueled and spun up for the evening shift lifted off before their crews had fully finished being briefed, racing the last of the daylight toward a speck of rock nobody had thought to look at twice until now. Thunderbolt held its orbit above the atoll, IR camera locked on the one steady, waving shape below, narrating updates back to Elisabeta every few minutes as if speaking might somehow keep it from disappearing again.

Wg Cdr. Alexandra Mctavish, Somewhere off the October Islands, Central Ocean:

A warm tropical breeze blew over Wing Commander McTavish, rousing her once again from restless sleep. For a moment her mind swam, unsure what was going on. The sun was shining. She found herself in the shade of a lovely palm tree, and someone somewhere had what smelled like a barbecue on. So why did her chest immediately contract with profound existential dread?

McTavish's hand clutched at sand, trying to pull herself into a sitting position. Yet in the very moment she tried to move her body revolted. Horrible fiery pains flared through her limbs, and all within her ribs fracture points screamed. And what was worse, the memories came crashing back. That horrible night over the sea's black void, not a light in the sky besides her wingman and the jumbo jet. Then, like someone had blocked the stars themselves, the black glove closed around them. GPS and radio were cut. Not a word could be raised to anyone on the mainland. And not a word came in save for those inhuman commands.

To turn north, or to die.

Alex shut her eyes to the thought of what had happened next. Those black fighter jets, moving like demons as they seemed to spring from the sea itself. How the hell had they made it this far into Markion?

The sight of their wingman shattering in a brilliant burst of red. The horrible realization that none could have survived that impact.

The hits to their wings. Their engines. The shrapnel piercing her cockpit.

The limp south, away from the airliner they could no longer protect, on clipped wings and spluttering turbofans.

The vain hope that they could make it clear of the jamming. Her co-pilot Friedov's attempts to call someone, anyone, before realizing their communications array had been shot out beyond all hope. That tightening heart setting in, that same knot she still felt now, knowing they had so utterly failed. And that awful panic when their final engine had finally died, nose arcing down towards the tropical Arcadian waters. Friedov had ejected. Her seat had failed. And it was there, struggling between blood loss and delirium to extract herself from a sinking aircraft, that the Green Union veteran of a hundred battles had finally just . . . given up. Her lungs filled to the brim with salt water, and with a final sob at the misery her failure had caused she allowed the darkness to close in.

It was Friedov who had saved her. Dragged from the wreck, swam her shattered body to the atoll, bound up her wounds and splinted the breaks. It was him who had found their shelter, recovered their flares and survival packs. It was him who'd caught them fish to eat and rain water to drink. And it was Friedov now who had abandoned his fire to ease her back down, eyes full of worry. He did his best to hide it, but over these last few days the jovial façade she knew so well was cracking more and more. One man can only keep the hope alive for so long.

"Another nightmare?" Friedov checked the binds she had so recklessly torn off in her jumbled state.

"Don't we live in one now?"

He managed to crack a smile at that one. "You're not lying. I'm way overdue for that drink you owe me."

Alex opened her mouth to retort, but the words caught in her mouth. For a moment she thought it must be some other hallucination, a bad memory brought back by their circumstances. But Friedov was straightening too, his head turning towards the sound coming over the waves. Helicopters. Never before had two souls been so happy to see the Rhastovian Navy.


OOC: All players can treat these characters as rescued now. Their testimony on what they saw is now known to all nations.

[Rhastov]

-snip

The last of the daylight was nearly gone by the time the two Pumas came in low over the water, their navigation lights the only warning of their approach beyond the sound already rolling ahead of them.

Friedov heard it first. It was a heavier, more distinct beat than the P-142 orbiting their atoll had been, unmistakably rotors, growing louder by the second. He was on his feet in an instant. Then the shapes resolved out of the dusk: a pale blue-gray, low over the wave-tops, roundels catching the last orange light as they banked to circle the atoll. Rhastovian.

"Elisabeta, this is Delfin 1-1, we are overhead the datalinked position, commencing visual assessment, over."

"Delfin 1-1, Elisabeta, copy, out."

The lead Puma made one slow pass over the atoll, low and unhurried, its searchlight sweeping the rocks below as the light kept fading, a distant wall of black cloud on the horizon giving the crews one more reason not to waste time. The second aircraft held higher and wider, orbiting at a slight offset.

"Delfin 1-2, 1-1, I've got two survivors, one upright and waving, one being supported. Wreckage confirmed forty meters northeast of their position, over."

"1-1, 1-2, copy, holding overwatch, over."

They circled twice more, tighter each time, the crew chief in the lead aircraft eyeing the terrain through the open door. There was no flat ground to speak of, just broken rock, low scrub, and surf breaking close on every side.

"Elisabeta, Delfin 1-1, be advised, no viable landing zone on the atoll. Terrain's too broken. We'll hoist, over."

"Delfin 1-1, Elisabeta, copy, your discretion, over."

The lead Puma eased into a hover ten meters above the rocks, searchlight fixed on the two figures below, rotor wash flattening the scrub and kicking spray off the nearest waves. The crew chief clipped into the hoist line and rode it down.

On the ground, he found what the imagery had already suggested: one man ambulatory and steady on his feet, the other, a woman, barely conscious, lying propped against a rock, one arm held rigid across her ribs, unable to do much more than turn her head toward the noise.

"1-1, this is the swimmer, I have two survivors, one ambulatory, one litter case, suspected rib and limb fractures. Sending the litter case up first, over."

"Swimmer, 1-1, copy, standing by on the hoist, over."

McTavish barely registered being strapped into the rescue basket, the world narrowing to pain and noise and the impossible, dizzying sensation of being lifted clear of solid ground for the first time in two days. Friedov watched her go up, one hand raised against the downwash, and didn't let himself breathe properly again until he saw her pulled safely through the cabin door above.

The basket went back down for him a minute later, and then he too was rising, the atoll and the wreck and two of the longest days of his life shrinking away beneath him.

"Elisabeta, Delfin 1-1, be advised, both survivors aboard, one ambulatory, one litter with suspected fractures, requesting medical stand-by on arrival, over."

"Delfin 1-1, Elisabeta, copy all, medical team will be standing by, over."

"Elisabeta, Delfin 1-1, two souls aboard, RTB, over."

"Delfin 1-1, Elisabeta, copy, cleared to return, out."

[The Green Union]

- Snip -

EFB Renton, Quinte East, Ontario, Enteres:

As dawn broke on the day following McTavish and Friedov's rescue, various leaks and rumours had already drawn throngs of journalists and anxious families to what was rapidly becoming the centre of this entire international effort. It hardly mattered that the requisitioned hangar, which was slated to house any aircraft wreckage they could recover, remained empty. The people demanded a proper update on a situation rapidly spiraling out of control, and it was one poor spokeswoman who would have to deliver that.

"Yesterday, our Rhastovian partners succeeded in locating one of Volksnord Flight 117's escorts crashed off the October Islands. They were able to return later that night to effect a rescue of both flight crew. The pilot remains in critical condition, while the weapon's systems officer sustained only minor injuries and has been able to provide invaluable testimony about the missing flight. Both are being treated aboard the Rhastovian cruiser Elisabeta. There are currently no plans to move either, nor will we be releasing identities at this time."

Fat load of use that would be. Everybody already knew the psuedo-celebrities McTavish and Friedov from the first moment a photo leaked from the Elisabeta. It was hard to miss the woman whose antics somehow landed her on a Möslii swimsuit calendar.

"Partner nations have already been informed, and I am aware of several leaks. So the answer is yes. I can confirm that, as per the officer's testimony, in the early hours of March 27th Volksnord Flight 117 was attacked by unknown aircraft which shot down the escorts and took control of the airliner, ordering it to divert north.*

Those words had barely left her mouth before the reporters were crushing, shouting questions.

"Is this related to the murder of Jo-"

"I don't know, and you should know better than to baselessly speculate." The rebuke came harsh, cruel, even. And the reaction was immediate. Green Union officials simply didn't act that way, especially not to the press. And yet shutting it down said more than any real answer could. We know who did this. You know who did this. Now shut up before you start a mass panic.

Silence fell over the crowd for a long, uncomfortable moment, before she began again.

"At this time we have strong reason to believe the crew and passengers of VN117 could still be alive. We are following up on this lead and redirecting our search north, into the Still Sea.

That name carried weight. The Still Sea was not named that for nothing. It was the Markish term for that vast sheet of endless ice which capped the Hyperearth along its north pole. The image of three hundred souls now stranded up there, either floating on the arctic waters or huddled on the ice itself, suddenly made shark-infested tropical oceans seem not so bad.

"In addition, days ago we also identified a debris field we believe to be from the other escort jet. Reaching this wreckage remains a priority, and we are coording with partner nations to get a surface ship on site to start recovering components. They could help tell us about the nature of this enemy."

Finally, the spokeswoman looked up from her notes and fixed the assembled press with an Indefatigable stare. She wouldn't need prompting for this last part.

"This is now a combat operation in addition to a rescue one. Any actor, government or private offering assistance beyond this point must be prepared to shoulder the risks inherent to that. Whatever happens next, it's not going to be clean."

"Now go report that. I won't be taking any more inane questions."

[Enteres]

OOC: All players can treat these characters as rescued now. Their testimony on what they saw is now known to all nations.

EFB Renton, Quinte East, Ontario, Enteres

Within minutes of the news of the aircrew's rescue, and the news of what happened to Volksnord 117, the Enteresian Armed Forces were moved to a heightened defence readiness status; EF-105s barrelled down the runways at EFB Renton, spreading across the skies of Enteres. Aerial refuelling aircraft followed, as well as AEW&C. Every square meter of airspace over Enteres was being watched, every flight vetted. Across the nation, flights are cancelled or delayed due to flight restrictions over major cities. Armoured vehicles take to the streets of Awatto, with SAM batteries parked on Parliament Hill.

Northwest Central Ocean

The Fraser and her escorts cut through waves, its deck the normal controlled chaos of flight operations off a carrier of her size: one aircraft lands, another departs, one aircraft lands, another departs, one aircraft lands, they found one of the escorts, another departs. They found one of the escorts? It was shot down? That's not good. Before the rumours of the airliner's fate or her attackers can even leave the first mouth on the ship, the ship's PA blares to life.

“General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands, man your battle stations. The route of travel is forward and up to port, down and aft to starboard. Set CBRN condition Zulu. Unknown sea or airborne threat in the central ocean.”

The controlled chaos of the ship shifts into a different gear; the whole fleet shifts into a higher gear as they turn southeastbound. 220,000 tons of ships turning around on a dime.

MVN Industrial Intent | Near The October islands

The industrial intent, nearing from the coordinates supplied by the Rhastovians, deploys its Cyclone, loaded with an unusual set of passengers; alongside its SAR techs are two aviation technicians previously stationed at EFB Renton repairing Enteresian Spears.

“Ok we’re 10 minutes out; not sure what the island's surface is like, most likely going to be hoisting in and out for the recovery team. They’ve got what, two or one baskets of equipment?”

“We got everything in one, a little heavy but the hoist can handle it”

“Ok cool, so we’ll hoist three and the basket. Three hours of gas; the Chinook should be airborne in 45 minutes to grab it, and we’ll head back to the boat once we drop you guys off, then come back to recover.”

“Roger that, time to scene?”

“Uhhhh, two three minutes, looking a little rocky so yeah we’re hoisting. Team lead brief?”

“Yeah team lead brief for a hoist. Target is going to be 300 feet downwind of the target, insertion will be via hoist from uh, we’ll start high and beep down to keep the wreckage out of the downdraft. Can expect it to be single, basket, double, guideline on the basket and last two techs. Expect we’ll need, ahhh, two, two and a half hours on the ground while the Chinook grabs the big parts. We’ll establish comms on Fifty six three or through sat phone and make the plan for extraction there. If recovery cannot occur, we will call the boat for a rhib. Brief complete”

“Ok check insertion: single, basket, double. And then brief the extraction from the ground, start high and beep it down.”

“Aaaand we’re on final 380 feet”

“Ok keep it forward; don't see the downwash on the beach yet, forwards and right 160, how's the wind?”

“Rad hold engaged; it's a little gusty; should get better as we get lower, starting down further now. Hoist powers on.”

“This is close enough; lower if you want. What's that vibration?”

“That's just the helicopter; it's fine”

“Cool, SAR tech safety check is complete, clear SAR tech to the door?”

“Clear”

“SAR techs off comms… off tail. SAR tech is at the door. Clear to hoist?”

“Clear”

“Easing the SAR tech off the sill, no guideline… clear of the sponson… approaching the ground… on the ground, disconnected, hook coming up, on guideline.”

“You want lower?”

“Uhh yeah, let's do 200.”

“Hooks at the sponson, I have the hook… Basket, baskets hooked up, safety check complete, cleared to the door?”

“Clear”

“Off tail, Jesus, this thing's heavy, baskets at the door, clear to hoist?”

“Clear”

“Aand baskets out the door on guideline… clear the sponson, one quarter out… half way out… three quarter out… approaching the ground… on the ground, disconnected, hooks off the ground, guideline attached”

“Hooks in the door, safety check on the double techs… check complete, clear to the door?”

“Clear”

“Techs off comms, off tail, techs at the door, clear to hoist?”

“Clear”

“Doubles out the door, at the sponson.. Past the sponson. Quarter out… half out… three-quarter out… approaching the ground… on the ground… disconnected. Hooks off the ground, no guideline… hooks in the door, closing the door. Clear to depart, keep to the right”

“Roger departing, ill stay away from the wreck.”

With the cyclone returning to an orbit, the aviation technicians get to work unloading the large basket of gear; the first item that comes out, a large chop saw, followed by a cutting torch.

“Ok boys, let's get to work. Make sure the tanks are empty, then get to work on getting these wings off.”

“Hey, these lifting points aren't the same as a spear. I can make it work, but it's going to be sketchy; we’ll need to leave more wing root than planned. They moved the lifting points further outboard on the port wing but not the starboard, and there's not even a lifting point back there. I'll need to run a sling under the tail.”

The quiet island is quickly engulfed by the sound of saws and drills as the crew gets to work on “recovering” the jet.

30 minutes later

“Ground Hammer 31”

“Go.”

“We’re 3 out for the slung load”

“Ok we’ve got the fuselage free; tanks are mostly empty with a tandem spreader hooked up, wind check 210 at 5, a little variable.”

“Check that; what's this smoke we’re seeing?”

“Uhhh, nothing big, just some fuel caught a spark and lit a puddle on fire; it's clear of the aircraft, just lit some brush on fire, we’re putting it out”

5 minutes later

“Ok hooks on, pins in, clear to lift.”

“Roger, lifting”

Slowly, the wreckage of the aircraft shifts, taking to the skies once more, only missing its wings and tail and under the lift of a Chinook.

“Ok airborne; we’ll be back for the rest in 30 minutes.”

[The Kraven Corporation]

Ice Shelf Supply Station Zebra
1200 Standard Imperial Time
Northern Markion
One week prior to The Disappearance of Flight 117

The underwater station was as usual, a hive of activity, they were expecting a scheduled supply stop from a Green Union transport submarine in the next couple of hours, they had crates of fresh food, fresh water, toiletries and some personal correspondence that had been sent in the days prior, staff in blue overalls stacked crates and moved boxes from carts, into the expansive loading bay, the crew were awaiting rotation having been stationed here for the last two months, very few making it up the long elevator to the surface, the frigid, freezing ice shelf above, some not seeing the sun at all during their tour, it paid well, well enough to make the arduous work and isolation worth it, it was a clean facility and always well stocked with supplies, but it was damp in the cargo bays with a constant chill in the air, only the habitat areas were kept warm enough to comfortable...

Petr stopped moving crates for a moment and took a pause resting his head on a crate of toilet paper, he closed his eyes for a second enjoying the ersatz comfort of the soft twin ply rolls, a clip board slapped him half jokingly on the back, "get up Petr, no time for sleeping today, we've got a sub in bound for resupply, them poor SOB's will be dying for some fresh toilet paper, I bet they've had to start using both sides!" Petr stood upright with a start, "Alright Corwen, I'm moving I'm moving" he gave a chuckle as he grabbed another crate...

On the command deck of the station, Commander Artur Simis leaned back in his office chair, feet on a console looking through a list on his clipboard, one of the younger crewmembers was watching localised traffic on their sonar station, "Hey, Artur, isn't that Green Union sub due in soon?" Artur barely looked up from his clipboard "Yeah why?" he clipped, the young crewman continued "I've not got it on sonar at all, it should have crossed one of the checkpoints by now and triggered our sensors" "probably running late, it happens" the crewman gave a confused look "The only thing that's come through in the last couple of hours was too small to be a Green Union transport sub" Artur sighed, "What's your name again?" "Jordhem" he responded "Look Jordhem, its probably just a Vilhalan pleasure sub, we don't bother them, they don't bother us, besides" He continued "You don't want to know what they get up to on one of them subs" Jordhem gave a funny look, then returned to his console a few minutes of awkward silence passed when Jordhem spoke up again, "Hey... Artur" glancing up from his clipboard, Artur gave a raised eyebrow, his gruff middle aged features, weathered with the cold gave him the look of a wise old uncle, Jordhem gingerly probed "How come you brought your family to the station?" Artur sighed, "The money Jordhem, the money, they offered me an extended contract and said I could bring the family as I would be out here for a full four tours" Jordhem grunted "Can't be nice for your kids, being out here without any other kids to play with" Artur thought for a moment, as though he hadn't considered that point until now "Yeah, its been tough I suppose, but we home school them and every opportunity I can, I'll take them topside to see the polar bears, takes their mind off things for a while" the silence resumed as Jordhem returned to his duties on the sonar, Artur had risen from his seat and was now pouring a cup of coffee, he savoured the aroma for a few seconds, "Want a cup Jordhem?" a shake of the head was the response.

*CLANG*

The noise was loud enough to reverb throughout the station, everyone stopped what they were doing, looking around the room for a moment, concern written across the faces of many, "What was that?" someone questioned, Artur was quick to calm his crew down, "It's nothing I'm sure, probably just the ice moving above us, happens from time to time" his words were reassuring, but to be safe he picked up the phone to engineering "Irenea?" Artur spoke as a female voice answered with a curt hello, "Everything alright down there?" Artur questioned, she responded, clearing her throat for a moment "Yeah everything's fine, nothing to complain about except the shitty coffee" Artur laughed for a moment "Well if that's the only issue, I'll take it" he put the receiver back down and returned to his office chair, he nursed his coffee as he continued to read through the documents on his clipboard...

Suddenly the telephone began to ring, Artur stood up quickly and grabbed the receiver Irenea spoke without being prompted "There is something actually, something or someone is cutting through the hull" Artur was stunned for a moment, then continued "What, are you sure? that's impossible" Irenea followed up quickly, "Absolutely certain, I can see the sparks from a cutting torch" Artur was still in a state of disbelief "It can't be, you must be mistaken, its an electrical short or something, perhaps that bang was a breaker switch tripping or something" Irenea continued, her voice now showing signs of concern "The room is filling up with smoke, I think it might have ruptured a pipe or something" Artur was now concerned for his crew "Just get out of there before something serious happens, I don't want any of you getting hurt, you are due to cycle out soon" Irenea was about to respond with a sarcastic quip when a large clanging noise rang out across the telephone line, it was the side of the hull dropping out onto the floor of the engineering department...

"Irenea...." Artur spoke before all he could hear from the line was a burst of gun fire, another and another, "IRENEA!" Artur shouted, his face turning red with exertion, he could hear footsteps, heavy set footfalls against the metal floors of the engineering department, he could hear the rhythmic breathing of what sounded like a diving suit, then a cold, machine like voice appeared on the end of the line...

"Your presence is requested in Engineering Commander."

[Enteres]

North Central Ocean | March 27th 2040 | 05:37 | Half an Hour before Loss of contact with flight 117

The Fraser and her escorts are completely blind, 5 hours ago, a hijacked civilian freighter was purposefully rammed into the frigate Stonewall, and an improvised nuclear weapon on board was then detonated, blinding every vessel in a multiple-mile radius, including the Fraser and her escorts.

For five hours, the crew of the escort destroyer Manitoba has worked to get their air search radar working, and after five hours, they are about to succeed.

“Ok flip the breaker; it should be working now,” yells Cooper, a petty officer who has served on the Manitoba for 3 years. “I can't just flip a switch; this is a multimillion-dollar radar. Actually, I don’t know how much this costs, probably more than my life,” comes from down the hatch. “If I just turn it on, it will trip every single breaker on the ship and probably scram the reactor.” “You know what I meant; just try it.” A slight hum emanates from the access hatch. “Ok its powering up; looks like it's working. Aft panel is still offline; let me see if I can force it on.” BANG! A shower of sparks flies up the hatch into Cooper’s face. “You ok down there, Sanchez?” “Yeah, I'm fine, just a 200-amp breaker popping in my face…” Cooper looks around. “Everything still looks good up here. Want to try to start it again?”

“Yeah, I'm firing it up again.” The familiar hum fills the air once again. “And look at that, the aft panels coming online with the others. Everything looks good now; get me out of this pit.” A toolbag comes flying up the hatch, landing sideways on the deck and sending a wrench clattering across the deck into the base of the nearby WetRAM mount. It's followed by Petty Officer First Class Sanchez, coveralls covered in dirt. “Alright, let's get CIC to fire up their displays.”

The air radar display in the CIC hums to life, slowly populating the different dots on the screen with data; mostly airliners and birds, but one seems slightly off from the rest, moving slightly too fast at too low an altitude to be an airliner or a seagull, and it's coming right for the fleet.

The PA Blares to life: “Vampire, Vampire, all hands brace for shock!”

Out of nowhere, a supersonic anti-ship missile is spotted on the horizon, skimming the sea to avoid what little radar abilities the fleet had left, now visible to Manitoba. The ship's one functional CIWS swings to its aft limit and unleashes a barrage of 30mm shells toward the missile, passing mere inches from the ship's superstructure. The WetRAM surface-to-air missile mount on the ship's midsection whirs to life, tracking and firing in a single motion with a tremendous flash, followed by a splash as the missile's solid rocket motor fizzles out, barely clearing the tube and falling to the ocean. The WetRAM system detects the launch failure within half a second and launches another, but not in time.

The anti-ship missile approaches the ship silently, faster than its own wake; the sound of it approaching doesn't reach Manitoba until it has struck, scoring a direct hit on one of the Province-class' box launchers, resulting in a chain reaction of explosions, crippling the destroyer. Not holed below the waterline and dry inside, but with the reactor scramming and fires breaking out, Manitoba is out of the fight…

“Endex, Endex, Endex” comes over the radio, all at once, with the sun barely starting to peek on the horizon; every ship in the fleet turns on its running lights. The slightly blue-hued black of the ocean is pierced by white, with the occasional green and red of nav lights. Miraculously, the same radars and sensors that were blinded by a nuclear blast minutes ago are suddenly working perfectly fine.

The first training exercise of ENTFLAG 2040, an annual multinational combined arms training exercise hosted by the Enteres Armed Forces, is cut short. Not because of the terrific failure of the Manitoba’s point defence, but because of news that an airliner and its escorts carrying GU delegates en route to Auersten went missing, vanished into thin air. While the Fraser and its strike group were not being turned around to assist in the search, they were being asked for the data from the search radar on the Fraser and its escorts, such as Manitoba, which (apart from 3 minutes when an unfortunate Petty Officer tripped the breaker) were running the entire time, logging every aircraft visible.

[Independent Republic of Boldonia]

“This is now a combat operation in addition to a rescue one.”

When those words reached Boldonia the ability of the military forces to just watch from the sidelines began to fade. For an island surrounded on all sides by ocean for hundreds if not thousands of miles in every direction the ability to navigate freely by sea and air was just as essential to Boldonian prosperity as defending its shores. Even if the possible shoot down was politically isolated, relevant to only those involved in the tensions surrounding it, the mere notion that such action would be left tolerated scared the Boldonians. It wasn’t necessarily that they feared the nations involved in the search party were unable or unwilling to defend themselves, far from it, it was the fear that if it remained isolated then the tragedy would be swept under the rug as just a political squabble and not the threat to freedom of navigation it posed. Boldonia had been watching the events of the search closely, likely alongside the rest of the world, but felt no duty to intervene as of yet due to the distance between its shores and the search area. Now though, with unknown attackers shooting down an aircraft with civilians inside, the Independent Republic of Boldonia Military Forces felt a duty to intervene. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Joseph Moore, commander-in-chief of the IRBMF following congress’s abolishment of the presidency during the civil war, gave Chairman of the Naval Forces Herman Northrop a simple order: show up and show that this won’t be tolerated anywhere no matter who is involved.

With his orders Fleet Admiral Northrop organized and designated the Markion Central Task Force, although “task force” was more a description of organization and logistics rather than of size or capabilities. There was only one ship to actually be sent into the Central Ocean itself, the Arleigh Burke-class destroyer IRBS Radium (DS-10) which was already ping ponging between allied bases nearby at the time. The ship commanded by Captain Jeremy Hartley was built to Flight IIA standards sporting 96 Mk 41 VLS cells, with the Boldonians readding the Mk 141 launchers although not being necessary for this operation. An important part of its Flight IIA capabilities was its hangar, which although most Boldonian warships chose to prioritize the transport MH-60S Seahawk the IRBS Radium would use the MH-60R ASW variant instead. While all this firepower was meant primarily for the Radium’s main mission, air defense and civilian protection, the IRBS Radium’s sonar both on the helicopters and the ships themselves could be used to extend the search just a slight bit more even if more unsuited to the task than a dedicated civilian ship would be.

The real power of the task force lay in what was kept in reserve in Boldonia itself which could be called upon if needed. The Oliver Hazard Perry-class frigate IRBS Vancouver (FR-5) under command of Captain Marie Warner was assigned to the task force to reinforce IRBS Radium if need be, but was held back to avoid outnumbering and overpowering local forces unless the situation turned grim. Also on standby was the 2nd Expeditionary Maritime Patrol Detachment under command of Lieutenant Commander Baxter Smalls in case additional sonar capabilities were needed. Both of these units remained in Boldonia while the Radium diverted its course, their crews and personnel ready to mobilize but for the most part just listening in on what the Radium reported back.

IRBS Radium would keep its AIS transponders on to appear non-threatening to the nations already in the region, with Captain Hartley secretly hoping it would also bait out any attackers and end the combat phase early when the Radium knocked them out with a SM-2 but not making these thoughts open knowledge and understanding the risks deep down acting as bait posed. The Department of Defense, through its mysterious bureaucratic methods VCJS General Alexis Allen advised CJS General Moore to not question after her experience during the Boldonian Civil War, quietly released a statement not explicitly directed for the Green Union and its allies in the search but obviously something which would catch the interest of their respective governments.

“The Independent Republic of Boldonia Naval Forces will begin operations in the Markion Central Ocean to ensure the security of search operations in the region in light of recently publicized threats. All care will be taken to ensure operations are in compliance with the needs and regulations of all authorities currently in operation within the region, and the Independent Republic of Boldonia Naval Forces will assist however is needed both in security and in search.”

It, like the AIS transponder, was meant to give the involved parties forward notice of Boldonian involvement so that it wouldn’t seem as though Boldonia was attempting to interfere with the search while also leaving the decision to either integrate or remove Boldonia from the wider effort open to the Green Union without Boldonia influencing them in any one direction. This was all about a Green Union airliner afterall, in waters influenced by the Green Union and its allies involving the geopolitics of the union, Boldonia just feared others might take inspiration to turn the Markion from the only victim into one of many.

[The Green Union]

EFB Renton, Quinte East, Ontario, Enteres

Within minutes of the news of the aircrew's rescue, and the news of what happened to Volksnord 117, the Enteresian Armed Forces were moved to a heightened defence readiness status; EF-105s barrelled down the runways at EFB Renton, spreading across the skies of Enteres. Aerial refuelling aircraft followed, as well as AEW&C. Every square meter of airspace over Enteres was being watched, every flight vetted. Across the nation, flights are cancelled or delayed due to flight restrictions over major cities. Armoured vehicles take to the streets of Awatto, with SAM batteries parked on Parliament Hill.

The anxiety was palpable not only in Enteres, but across Markion. Across every continent and dozens of nations the jaws of a truly paranoid security architecture, already being brought to bear in record time since the assassination of Josef Stöckler, suddenly snapped shut. Camouflaged soldiers with their helmets and guns appeared at every airport, train station, and public place at rates perhaps not seen in Markion since the cataclysm of 1873. Commuters in disarmed liberal democracies found themselves waiting behind a tank for their morning coffee. There is a rapidly growing panic, now even moreso than during the assassination, that whatever monster is circling Markion is not only prepared to strike, but actively taking its first bites. And its hunger makes no distinction between politician, soldier, or common citizen.

But though the region's people race ever faster to arm themselves, the threat may as well be a phantom in the night. That was, until an Enteresian early warning aircraft following some strange radio chatter over the Still Sea saw its radar screens light up with an unknown contact.

A small flight of fighter-sized jets, their radar signature entirely foreign to anything before seen in Markion.

In normal times this sight may have prompted some investigation. These are not those times.

That AWACS ran.

5 minutes later

“Ok hooks on, pins in, clear to lift.”

“Roger, lifting”

Slowly, the wreckage of the aircraft shifts, taking to the skies once more, only missing its wings and tail and under the lift of a Chinook.

“Ok airborne; we’ll be back for the rest in 30 minutes.”

Over the next day, bits of fuselage from both recovered fighter jets began filtering back to EFB Renton for analysis by the assembled international agencies. The first to be found, blasted apart almost beyond any recognition, offered little in the way of conclusive evidence besides the simple fact that it had, indeed, exploded. But the other, ditched with such care by her pilot in the warm October waters, arrived with far more promise.

Investigators were not only able to identify the blast points from multiple short ranged, likely infared-guided missiles, but actually pull out vicious fragments of bizarre metal which very obviously did not come from any Markish steel mill. Some of this was pure tungsten, hardly surprising for the payload of an air-air missile. But some fragments, evidently from the missile fuselage itself, bore more of a mystery. The metal was dark, hard, brittle even. Its compound being of some strange alloy never seen in this part of the world. One metallurgical expert examining the fragments below an electron microscope merely shook his head in bewilderment.

"It's clearly some grade of steel . . . but the manganese and chromium ratios are way down from what we'd normally expect of something aircraft-grade. Whoever made this cut out all the safety margin. And yet it clearly works."

It was clear, then, that whatever the threat was came from beyond Markion and perhaps even beyond the known world. Their number of viable suspects was shrinking down to just the one, but was anybody going to stand up and say the name?

OOC: Though not written, I am assuming the other aircraft debris was picked up at some point.

IRBS Radium would keep its AIS transponders on to appear non-threatening to the nations already in the region, with Captain Hartley secretly hoping it would also bait out any attackers and end the combat phase early when the Radium knocked them out with a SM-2 but not making these thoughts open knowledge and understanding the risks deep down acting as bait posed. The Department of Defense, through its mysterious bureaucratic methods VCJS General Alexis Allen advised CJS General Moore to not question after her experience during the Boldonian Civil War, quietly released a statement not explicitly directed for the Green Union and its allies in the search but obviously something which would catch the interest of their respective governments.

“The Independent Republic of Boldonia Naval Forces will begin operations in the Markion Central Ocean to ensure the security of search operations in the region in light of recently publicized threats. All care will be taken to ensure operations are in compliance with the needs and regulations of all authorities currently in operation within the region, and the Independent Republic of Boldonia Naval Forces will assist however is needed both in security and in search.”

It, like the AIS transponder, was meant to give the involved parties forward notice of Boldonian involvement so that it wouldn’t seem as though Boldonia was attempting to interfere with the search while also leaving the decision to either integrate or remove Boldonia from the wider effort open to the Green Union without Boldonia influencing them in any one direction. This was all about a Green Union airliner afterall, in waters influenced by the Green Union and its allies involving the geopolitics of the union, Boldonia just feared others might take inspiration to turn the Markion from the only victim into one of many.

Keeping their distance out beyond the October Islands was both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, Green Union officials at EFB Renton were quick to seize on the offer for aid with all the enthusiasm and urgency one might expect of someone being offered a helping hand in such desperate times. The IRBS Radium was requested to steam north and link up with the rescue effort, in preparation for their broader move into the Still Sea. The Arleigh Burke's powerful search sensors and weapons package would be greatly appreciated in what was rapidly becoming a hostile environment.

On the other hand, by transmitting their location so freely everyone in the region could see where these foreigners were. Soon the Radium's spotters out on the deck could see themselves being shadowed as warplanes from a half dozen different nations swung by to suspiciously eye their intentions. Some passed by only briefly. Others hung back for hours, suspiciously eyeing them. Others still came in low and fast, buzzing by the destroyer mere metres away in an attempt to provoke some reaction.

And all the while, less bellicose but no less ominous, the Radium's towed sonar was picking up intermittent contact with something large which had begun stalking them back near Yyanwylthe. When she changed speed, it changed speed. When it changed direction, it followed suit. And yet the mystery contact made no effort to cut them off or make contact. It simply sat in their rear view, keeping them in its sights.