OOC: viewtopic.php?f=5&t=454747#p34984610
B Company, 1st Battalion (The Cheshire Scarlets) 76th Foot Regiment, Mercian Battlegroup
Pulai Wetlands, Sultanate of Johore, Viceroyalty of Malaysia
The officer's mess back in the Battalion HQ in Singapore seemed a million miles away for Lt. William Haselwick. He had been chomping at the bit to get out in the field and maybe nab him some treacherous UCA (United Communist Army) insurgents, but now with his bergen weighing on his shoulders, his rifle becoming more cumbersome by the minute and a graveyard of insects forming on his face where they had become trapped in a mix of sweat, repellent and camocream -a gin and tonic was all he wanted now. Yes, prop himself up on the balcony of the mess in his blue flannel suit, a tall glass of icy gin and tonic with a wedge of lime and maybe some lovely expat girls milling around too. But that would have to wait, suddenly the hand signal to form the herring bone formation was passed down the line silently and one by one his platoon took a knee directly behind the man in front, facing in alternate directions so as to avoid a flank attack. Silence reigned save for an obnoxious hornbill which cawed in their deep almost metallic manner. Haselwick wondered what the front man: Corporal Kevin Smith had spotted or heard. Slowly the soldiers at the front of the file began to slowly stand up, one by one, tapping the soldier behind them as they stood up, the next soldier waiting for the one in front to take at least five paces before he began moving. They moved quietly but not silently -for a platoon of 30 or so men that was impossible and indeed the rest of the Company was following the logging and rhinocerous tracks nearby. One foot slowly in front of the other, rocking on the heel to sweep the widest arc possible, the barrels of their firesystems directly in line with their field of view: ready to blow anything that popped up into a red mist. The soldiers had good reason to be nervous: not a week before had ten Royal Marine Commandos been ambushed and in these forested wetlands and cut down to a man. They had taken many with them, but the UCA was becoming increasingly sophisticated as China pumped funding into it in its desperate and ever serious attempts to dislodge Albion from the Orient.
B Company had a simple mission, locate and engage a UCA military investment deep in the Pulai Wetlands as had been located by drone surveillance and informants, take as many prisoners as possible and secure the location for future intelligence gathering. They were providing the main brawn of the operation, whilst Royal Marine Commandos, arriving up river in canoes and some having formed observation posts on the site several days before via HALO insertion would make the initial contact. The company had left barracks two days before, and had slept in the field for two nights in order not to panic the UCA who had began to suspect something was afoot but did not want to abandon their position just yet due to its reach and influence on the local populace. They finally came to the river which marked the beginning of the danger zone. The three combat platoons fanned out in the undergrowth of the riverbank watching intently for any movement on the opposite side.
"Haselwick."
The young officer turned to face the company CO, Captain Richard Goode, crouched low and clutching a battered and well annotated map of the area.
"There is a fording 400 yards to your left, you will cross it in single file under the cover of 02 platoon, but you will not mount the bank until I say so. When you mount the bank, you will likely encounter resistance. 04 platoon (combat support) will paste them up very shortly, then you will go, followed by 02 platoon covered by 03 platoon and in turn 03 platoon will also join the assault. The marines will be engaging on the other side of the camp in..."
The Captain pulled back his combat shirt sleeve to find his watch. "6 minutes. Stand by, make sure you are ready to engage upon mounting the bank."
"Very good sir." Chirped Haselwick and he scuttled over to his platoon to brief his sergeant and 1-ICs.
Haselwick's heart was in his mouth and it was pumping heavier than a bass drum on the parade square, he nearly mistook the first mortar round launched by the combat support company for a heart beat until it was followed by screaming, smoke and the gradual snap and crack of a mangrove tree.
"01 platoon on me!" He roared, running down the muddy slope to the river ford and splashing through the low water, as the various sections and fireteams in the platoon followed, spread out, watching the vegetation line above them intently. More mortar rounds thudded into the jungle in front, one blast briefly showing a chunk of flesh from its billowing cloud of and muck and bark before it flew into the river.
"Contact front!"
The weapon systems of platoons 02 and 03 roared to life as the first UCA combatants reared their heads, drowning out the words of direction shouted by the soldier that first spotted them. By this time 01 platoon had reached the opposite bank and was ready to climb up the short overhang of undergrowth and press into the enemy lair, bayonets fixed on those with unmodified SA80s, whilst the platoon SMGs, marksmen and grenade launcher armed men were ready to support the assault. Haselwick's radio crackled to life in his ear.
"Up! Up! UP! Take the bank!"
Gazing briefly at the dulled metal of his bayonet, Haselwick gritted his teeth and and scrambled up the steep but low verge.
A single crack echoed through the trees and Haselwick's brains flew out of his head, as the skull caved in and his combat helmet, covered in local vegetation, slipped off his imploded skull and onto the forest floor.
Horse Guards, the War Office, Whitehall, City of Westminster, Kingdom of England
From his window, Sir Godwin Delancey, Permanent Under-Secretary of State for the War Office could see a new troop of blue clad Royal Life Guards on their splendid black horses arrive onto the dusty parade square, in double file, trotting gently. Teeming hordes of tourists braved London's hot summer sun to snap themselves streams of photos for their facebooks, instagrams and holiday journals and videos. It was indeed a hot day, and Godwin felt it in his tight collared shirt and well fastened silk club tie. There was a knock on the door.
"Come in." He said curtly, still gazing out the window onto the leafy canopy of St. James' Park. A young staff officer dressed in no.2s; dark green with brown belt, shoes and peaked cap entered flanked by two sharply suited civil servants.
"Sir, intelligence fresh in from Malaysia. Operation Dyce was a success with minimal casualties. Best still, a Chinese intelligence officer was among those captured. Apparently he tried to top himself but we managed to secure him."
Sir Godwin grinned. "Those little cheeky chinks, I've got them now, I have, I have." He said quietly. He turned to face the young officer.
"Thank you Lieutenant. Go and fetch the Minister." He said, donning his pinstripe suit blazer, with a sarcastic twinkle in his eye.
"The international community will be shocked... perturbed... deeply UNSETTLED..." he mused, taking his seat at his dark polished oakwood desk. "Chinese army directly training Malaysian communist insurgents.. nay.. terrorists. So much for an home-grown uprising. Per-bloody-fect."
The two civil servants exchanged glances.
"What now sir? The Prime Minister has been trying to ameliorate the Chinese, he wants them appeased -to an extent." One of them noted. Sir Godwin raised an amused eyebrow.
"The Prime Minister is a naive man Mister MacPherson, he does not understand fully the evil of East. Lord Gressingham is a Prime Minister best suited to peace-time. He's good for the cameras, he has a nice smile, he has the good airs and graces of the aristocrat he is to charm even the most cynical and gruff working class ruffian. But he knows next to nothing about the Orient -he is an ex cavalry officer and whilst his advisors keep him well briefed I don't think his head holds much more than rugby, cricket, drinking memories from the Army Officer's Club and shooting fowl on his estate. He's a good family man too I'm told. The Tory party in their wisdom have him as a figurehead but he has no serious political convictions. That, chaps, is why we, the civil service exist. We are the long term interest of this country, whether there is a Tory, Liberal or other government in power, we keep the ship sailing in the rough direction we want it to go. I imagine this will get to the press shortly which will create a diplomatic tornado. Expert circles have known something of this nature to have been going on for some time now, but this is the first concrete evidence. China is seeking to remove Albion from Malaysia and presumably from Hong Kong too. It is now our job to advise the Prime Minister and His Majesty."
Foreign and Empire Office, Whitehall, City of Westminster, Kingdom of England
Ambassador Fen wiped his brow of salty droplets. It was almost as if the corridor had suddenly had its cooling turned off. All the windows were closed in the corridor where he had been instricted to wait and there were no fans. He knew the Foreign Secretary Lord Aberdeenshire was fond of mind games, like keeping Ambassadors waiting and insulting the dignity of larger nations by pushing them to the back of the queue behind places like... Albania. But this, creating an oven, was a new low. Or maybe he did this when particularly upset. Fen had absolutely no idea why he had been summoned, Beijing had told him nothing. Suddenly an attractive middle aged blonde woman appeared with a cherry red smile.
"If you may, Your Excellency, the Minister will see you now..." She said kindly. She stood behind him as he wandered into the office, having left a sweat stain on the chair, looking on in pity. She had been given orders not to offer him a drink.
"Ah, Mr. Fen, thank you for coming today... just a wee... bone to pick with Beijing.." exclaimed Lord Aberdeenshire, a rotund, red faced Scottish Lord, well spoken but with distinct Aberdonian brogue -almost snooty yet obviously Gaelic. "Please, be seated."
The ambassador sat down across from the Lord at his desk. Lord Aberdeenshire slowly pushed a document towards Fen with two photos clipped to it. One of a smartly dressed Chinese intelligence officer in dress uniform, the other, a dishevelled Chinese man on his knees in bloodied jungle combats. But they were the same man. A large drop of sweat rolled off of one of Fen's hairs like a drop of morning dew off of grass and splashed onto the document.
"One of your... most esteemed intelligence officers seems to have taken a wee jungle safari holiday in Malaysia sir.. quite an inopportune time do you not think? I think you know what has happened Mister Fen, do you not?"
The ambassador gulped, he was completely unprepared for this, though of course he was aware of such activities. He knew not what to say -for he did not know what the official line in Beijing would be.
"His Majesty, King Arthur is more than a wee bit.. miffed I should have you know. He is very upset that you have been scurrying around our behind like A PORT RAT! Get your staff, pack your bags and vacate your embassy with all possible haste. You will be escorted to Heathrow Airport with an armed convoy in three hours. Any diplomat or other member of your staff who attempts to remain in the country or misses this deadline will be arrested and very probably executed as a spy. Good Morning."
Fen got up from his seat, leaving an even larger sweat patch on the seat. He attempted to stammer a response.
"Beij-beijing will... they will not be impress-"
Lord Aberdeenshire, who had already resumed to scanning though some of the day's other business looked up slowly and tilted his glasses of his nose.
"I said Good Morning sir." He said scornfully.
Blaenllechau, The Rhondda Valley, Glamorganshire (Sir Morgannwg), Principality of Wales
A thick and dark fog clung to the valley sides, leaving its dew wrought on the rich green grasses that were the soils' hairs. The gentle bleating of sheep, still invisible in the low hanging cloud came closer to Dewydd ap Gruffydd, a portly specimen of a Welshman. He was on his morning stroll to fetch the morning paper from the tobacconist in the village and also walk his dog -a german shepherd by the name of Iolo. Dewydd lived in a cottage on the outskirts of Blaenllechau, a mining village in the valley. He was not a miner himself, but much of the village revolved round that way of life. It was a life in the waning though, as Albion sought to do away with the pits and chimneys that belched up so much billowing black smoke into God's good air. But for now they were still open for business and indeed he could hear the miners off to work, walking through the streets heartily singing the great valley hymn Cwm Rhondda their gear clanging as they went, bellies full of a proper welsh breakfast; lava bread with bacon, cockles and eggs with a mug of tea. From his distance their singing was too muffled but as he turned down the farm track and into the village past the post office he caught the words before they kept trudging away:
Ffrind pechadur! Ffrind pechadur!
Dyma'r llywydd ar y môr.
Dyma'r llywydd ar y môr.
A spring in his step having had his morning made by his favourite hymn, Dewydd whistled down the street till he got to the tobacconist; The Carib. He kicked his rubber wellies against the wall to shake off some of the mud and proceeded through the door, jingling the bell as he did so.
"Bore da!" He exclaimed as he entered, taking off his cloth cap and nodding with a smile to an elderly and moustached man behind the counter listening to the radio, with a mug of tea beside him.
"Shwmae Dewydd." The tobacconist replied. Dewydd went to the news rack and glanced at all the headlines of the papers but nonetheless took the newspaper he had always bought and his father before him; The Daily Mail. It's front page was mainly concerned with the ongoing sex scandal of a Liberal Party MP who had the indiscretion to be photographed in a brothel. A grainy image of said MP surrounded by blurred bare flesh was super imposed on the paper. Dewydd grunted in mild amusement before grabbing two tins of tobacco for his pipe off the shelf.
As he wandered over to the counter to pay, rummaging though his shooting jacket pocket for some bank notes, he couldn't help but overhear the radio.
Whitehall sources are indeed confirming that the entire Chinese diplomatic mission is being sent back to China, many people in London have spotted the Heathrow bound convoy flanked by police cars and armed officers on motorbikes speeding through the streets. Downing Street has said that it will be releasing a statement shortly, whilst Malaysian officials are being quoted as implying that a recent search and destroy mission in Johore has uncovered deeper Chinese involvment with the UCA than previously suspected.
The tobacconist raised his eyebrows at Dewydd humourously.
"Those bloody people... always creepin' around like. Mi da used to always say that the beast of east would start occurin' soon and such. I say we send in the fleet, make 'em jump like. Bloody people."
Dewydd nodded slowly.
"Ie ie.. but it'll be lads from 'ere and roundabouts that get sent in like, won't it? Like Owain and Dafydd fresh from the rugger club and all. And there'll be ma's cryin' down at the Co-op like. But yes, Gressingham better sort those bloody drewgwn out. Can't have them spreadin' their bloody communism and all."
He placed the correct change on the counter and pushed the door open.
"Da boch chi!" He exclaimed cheerily, donning his tweed cloth cap on his balding head.
"Siwrne dda!" The shopkeeper called after him. Dewydd slowly made his way back up onto the country path, Iolo coming quickly at his heels. He saw a plume of smoke emerging from the chimney of his stone cottage with its slate roof.
"Will you look at that Iolo, the old bird has a brew on for me, maybe some breakfast too if we're both lucky. Come along now!"
