OTN Leadership Summit (Closed: Tyran)

[Ossoria]

Kenlis, Ossoria

The flags of dozens of states from across Tyran whipped and snapped in the breeze, standing sentry in front of the airport outside Kenlis, the capital city of Ossoria. The airport was busier than usual, as the leaders of many of those states arrived in the city for the annual Leadership Summit hosted by the Organization of Tyrannic Nations.

At the airport's landing platforms, the diplomats and protocolists of the Foreign Office were present in as much force as the Ossorian Royal Guard, going through their lists of who was to greet which delegation. Allied delegations as well as certain other important nations' representatives were being met by members of the Privy Council or the Rídhamhna, the five most senior members of the Royal Family, while other delegations were greeted by senior diplomats of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs.

Security both at the airport and in the governmental districts of the capital was extensive. The Kenlis City Constabulary had been issued firearms for the occasion and units of the Kenlisi Home Guard had been called up to reinforce the Royal Guard, who was responsible for the security of each visiting dignitary.

Soon, the leaders of nearly all of Tyran's nations would be in the White City, and they could get to work.

[Gylias]

Well, this isn't quite how I imagined I'd start...

Lena Haidynraix contemplated the view outside the plane's window for a few moments. Here she was, Prime Minister, after having gotten a cabinet approved by the Chamber of Deputies, and the first assignment after being sworn in was to catch a plane to Kenlis for the OTN summit.

Much of the preparation for the summit was carried out by staff from the Foreign Ministry itself, so that wasn't going to be an issue. In between the final results' release and Parliament being sworn in, she'd been kept in the loop. Now it was just a matter of getting up to what speed she could manage. It was a long flight, after all.

She was with her foreign minister, Anne Giraud. They resumed talking and going over details in preparation for the summit. Lena's government had been put over the finish line by anarchist parties in exchange for a stronger pro-KSA line in Æsthurlavaj. She knew it would be a non-starter at the Common Sphere so she wasn't planning to try to convince the entire CS to back anarcho-syndicalists.

Eventually, their plane landed in Kenlis. Here, they'd meet with OTN ambassador Sari Senas — who, rather unsurprisingly, was already in Kenlis. But first, the reception.

Lena and Anne arrived and exchanged greetings with the Ossorian hosts. "Tişax", Lena said as she was shaking hands with the Taoiseach, "it is an honour. Thank you for having us today."

[Megelan]

The Consuls of the Community can not enact decrees or executive orders; they only enforce the law as written by the legislature and interpreted by the judiciary.

A couple sentences that, according to Captain of the People Giovanni Capra, meant only one thing:

The Consuls of the Community are expendable sacks of meat and bone whose only role is to put a face and a voice to decisions already taken; if they happen to die while on an experimental solar-powered aircraft, whatever, we've got plenty of people that can replace them anyway.

He wouldn't have spent more than a day in a cramped cockpit otherwise. The only good thing about the flight, was the fact that the Impulso Solare 2 was on autopilot, its flight path closely following that of the aircraft ahead of it, the Impulso Solare 1 - piloted by the minister of Foreign and Political Affairs.

The minister of Foreign and Political Affairs, Antonella di Sergio, was an astronaut and national heroine, and he trusted her with his life about as much as he'd trust the Lady of the East with it, but he felt like the Community's effort to promote clean energy even at the highest level of government had gone too far nonetheless.

A man my age should die peacefully in his bed, not in the ocean's depths while inside a thrice-damned solar-powered coffin.

They'd arrived, however; Mr. Capra in a suit and tie, and Ms. di Sergio in the kind of military attire that, after falling out of fashion somewhere around the middle of the 19th century, had been kept for ceremonial purposes, bayonet and sabre included.

At least the octuagenarian Captain of the People had been able to convince the forty-something Consul and minister to keep bayonet, sabre, and their respective sharp, pointy ends safe in their hotel room, and away from diplomatic meetings.

Prime Minister, Taoiseach, it's an honour to meet you - the Captain of the People said to his Gylian and Ossorian counterparts.

[Syara]

October 24, 2009
Central Ruvelka

She was very pretty. Green eyes that nearly shined like emeralds against her fair skin. Her hair was a dirty blonde, but something was off. Maybe it was highlights, or it wasn’t her natural hair color. Either way it suited her, the wisps of her hair fluttering around her round face, occasionally brushing against her small nose. Her lips were party slightly, almost in gentle surprise. The straps of her helmet pressed into her skin a bit too tightly but helped frame her face well enough.

Radovan’s face twitched uncomfortably as he took in her features, trying as hard as he could to stop himself from revealing his emotions. He swallowed, a wave of nausea threatening to wash over him and bring the contents of his breakfast back to the light. Despite himself he couldn’t stop his eyes from darting down to what had been her torso, now just a mess of pulp, shattered bone and charred flesh. He forced himself to look away, stare at the mountains in the distance, and breathe. Cold, sharp Ruvelkan air entered his lungs and he exhaled deeply.

He looked back down at the body. She was young. If he had to guess, younger than 25. He blinked, suddenly feeling a wave of emotion wash over him. She was someone’s daughter, probably someone’s sister, partner, friend, cousin. Now she was just a memory, a name printed in a mass-produced letter delivered to a grieving family. Or maybe she had no one. That made it seem even worse, the idea that this women had only herself in this world and how her life had been taken from her.

Taken by him.

A foot away from her body was the crater, a few feet deep and wide. It must have landed right in front of her, either because she was standing there or because she was running somewhere else. Radovan briefly wondered which crew had fired the round. They’d never know for sure, the only thing certain is that Radovan had given the order and because of that this young woman was dead.

Radovan closed his eyes. He inhaled, then slowly let the build up in his lungs escape. He opened his eyes again, staring at the jagged mountains that dominated the distant horizon. “All-Mother forgive me.” He muttered.

It was easy to hate the Ruvelkans at times. It was easy to hate the way they lurked in the shadows, melted into the forests, fired their rifles then ran off never to be seen again, shrouded by the rugged lands they called home. There were plenty of times Radovan had cursed them, hoping they would all be damned to Tartarus for their sins and crimes. But most of the time he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t forgive them, as forgiveness was not his to bestow, but try as he might he couldn’t come to hate them like some of his brothers did.

It was hard to hate the Ruvelkans right now. Radovan glanced around. Pillars of ugly black smoke, the kind that comes from burning fuel, were everywhere. In a distant hilltop he could make out the smoldering remains of a helicopter, its badly twisted metal carcass embedded into the hillside. It was one of the larger ones, the one that doubled as a troop transport on top of its rocket pods and chain guns. Ruvelkan helicopters were fearsome foes, swooping through the air and popping up from behind hills and trees to unleash their arsenal before quickly retreating. The bigger ones though were slow though, and not very agile. When they got on the jump on someone it rarely went well for the poor sucker, but if the reverse happened, the chopper was usually too slow to escape. This one had been gutted by a MANPAD from one of the Syaran air defense platoons. Scattered around the wreckage were the bodies of the squad the chopper had been carrying. Radovan was glad he wasn’t close to it. One disturbing corpse was enough for today.

He looked over his shoulder. A lot more bodies were laying around, twisted and contorted among the random patches of snow, dirt, and mud. Taking once last glance at the body of the young woman who’s death he was responsible, Radovan turned away and walked off while his lips offered up a silent prayer for the soul of the young woman.

Scattered around the area in a loose perimeter were the mechanized infantry of the battalion, with combat now over they were focusing on setting up their new positions and conducting accountability of their weaponry and equipment. A large Myrmidon sat in the center, it’s reactive armor still intact but residual scorch marks still apparent in some places. The tank engine was running but the armored vehicle sat motionless while atop the turret the commander gestured orders to his subordinates. Radovan approached the tank and nodded when he locked eyes with the tank commander. Placing his hands on the chassis just above the Treadwell he lifted himself up, feeling the subtle vibrations of the engine under his palms. The Myrmidon was, surprisingly, not very loud, making it easy to communicate.

The commander, a handsome tall Makedonian by the name of Major Obetkovski, smiled warmly when Radovan leveled with him atop the turret. “Nice rounds, huh?”

Radovan nodded, images of the dead girl flashing in his mind. “Your guys were on point.” He said without emotion. The Major didn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah, the fuckers didn’t even run for the trees. I think we caught them with their pants down. One of my captains said he stumbled on their fuel depot and caught their technicians empty handed.” His grin widened. “Eyes as big as dinner plates.”

Radovan nodded with his expression still blank. “I’m going to bring my batteries up and have them set up for 360 arcs.”

Obetkovski nodded. “Think we might have some trouble?”

“With Fusiliers, anything’s possible.”

Obetkovski’s grin turned into a grimace. “Too fucking right. Ah well, if they want round two, they can have it.”

Radovan simply nodded and dismounted the tank, making his way for his command vehicle. Around him the rest of the battalion continued to fortify their position; fighting positions were dug, machine guns set up, weapons reloaded and cleared of jams or debris. Radovan couldn’t help but notice the men around him seemed a bit chipper than usual. They were laughing, jawing, occasionally tossing snowballs that were as much dirt as ice at one another. Part of Radovan couldn’t blame them. This had in fact, been a rather crushing victory.

He passed by the overturned wreckage of a Ruvelkan armored personnel carrier. Its undercarriage was a mess, and the three upright wheels has been shredded by shrapnel. A discarded Ruvelkan helmet lay on the ground nearby, along with an empty magazine. There was another Ruvelkan body here, part of it crushed by the armored vehicle. Radovan didn’t allow himself another glance. He had seen enough.

Obetkovski hadn’t been wrong. Victories like these were rare these days. Radovan passed an abandoned Ruvelkan fighting position, still occupied by the Ruvelkans who had held it, and now would remain there until buried. Radovan didn’t recognize the patches on their uniforms, but he remembered enough from the brief. 1st Regiment, 75th Royal Infantry Division, 5th Army, 1st Central Front. Under strength by about 20-30%. 2nd Category Division, composed primarily of conscripts. Mauled at the Battle of Sagerejo by the Syaran 51st Mechanized Infantry Division. Reconstituted behind the Karillas with remnants from the shattered 56th Infantry Division.

They had dispatched recon in force early in the morning, trying to probe Radovan’s Brigade for weaknesses. After the failure of their Autumn Offensive further south the Ruvelkans needed to keep the Syarans on their toes to avoid any major counter-offensive. A recon platoon backed up by a couple of IFVs had pushed out of the southern forest and unwittingly wandered right into the fire zone of one of the brigade’s forward security detachments. No survivors.

Less than 30 minutes later 3rd Battalion engaged and eliminated another platoon sized patrol. Radio intercepts picked up frantic transmissions between separate Ruvelkan observation posts and revealed there was now a major gap in their forward warning area. Within an hour the Syaran quick reaction force, reinforced to near battalion size with a company of armor were racing forward to exploit it.

The Ruvelkan regimental headquarters must have panicked, because the advance guard ran straight into three companies of infantry backed up by two platoons of Ghost tanks. In the open like that, it wasn’t really a fight. To their credit the Ghosts fought to the death, but outside their usual ambush positions their thin armor and 105mm gun couldn’t stop the Syaran Myrmidons. At the cost of 2 AFVs destroyed and 15 dead the Syarans continued, this time the entire brigade on the move. Either a breakdown in communications or some other error left the Ruvelkans reeling; their regiment headquarters were overrun by 2nd Battalion’s tank company and the rest of the regiment was decimated while frantically trying to establish defensive positions. The hill Radovan was descending had been their last redoubt, hastily occupied by what was left of their under strength reserve battalion and overrun in less than an hour.

Radovan hardly took part in the battle. His detachment had set up exactly twice, fired four salvos in total and that was it. This was by every measure an easy, textbook victory. The kind of wins that were hard to come by these days. And yet, he felt no satisfaction.

He felt sick.

Nearly two years now they had been fighting. Radovan had been in more battles than he could count. He had fired more shells than he though physically possible, been shot, watched his soldiers and friends die, heard men scream in agony as they burned alive inside their tanks, watched in gut wrenching horror as a Fusilier with no legs attempt to crawl back to his own lines. Radovan felt his stomach churn with unease. He stopped walked, shutting his eyes tight.

He wanted to go home. To back to his house, his temple, his friends, and his old life. He didn’t want to fight anymore, he didn’t want to kill, he didn’t want to spend another single day in this forest of frost and death. He didn’t want to be responsible for any more death and destruction than had already been laid onto his conscience.

Radovan opened his eyes and looked up at the sky. As usual it was bleak, overcast made darker by the pillars of smoke drifting into the atmosphere. Somewhere behind the cloud cover was the sun, but Radovan couldn’t see even a hint of sunshine. All he could do was stare at the dreary sky that offered no answers or comfort. Radovan recalled reading somewhere that the longer you stared into the abyss, the more it stared back at you.

He sighed, and slowly made his way back towards his unit. For now, at least, this war was his world.

Present Day
Approaching the High Kingdom of Ossoria

Radovan felt a familiar hand shake his shoulder until his eyes opened. Foreign Minister Dubravko Lenković was staring at the Executive from his seat opposite the Syaran Executive. “Sir, we’re about to land.”

Radovan blinked a few times, trying to readjust his vision to the lights of the aircraft’s interior. “Right,” He muttered, shaking his head a few times before sitting up in his seat.

Lenković smiled. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah, not too bad.” Radovan said, rubbing his eyes with his hands. Radovan didn’t know what it was about flying, but it always seemed to put him right to sleep. The flight from Zovahr to Kenlis wasn’t that long all things considered, but it had been enough that Radovan had racked out within an hour of departure. Had he bothered to look outside the nearby window he would have been greeted by the emerald island below growing increasingly larger as they drew closer.

“Last time we were in Ossoria was what,” The Foreign Minister said, “Four years ago?”

Radovan nodded. “4 months after the election.”

“What do you remember?”

Radovan shrugged. “Not much. More of a meet and greet than anything. Toured the countryside, had dinner with the Queen and Taoiseach. Was out in less than 48 hours.”

“How was the High Queen?”

“She seemed alright, I guess. Kind of distant, but cordial enough. To be honest that whole year was such a blur, I barely remembered I’d met here before we met last year for the Arzell situation.”

Lenković nodded, bringing up a mug to sip at his coffee. A moment of silence passed between the two of them.

Radovan suddenly jolted in his seat. “Dogs.”

Lenković blinked, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“She has dogs. Two of them I think.” Radovan said while making eye contact with his Foreign Minister.

“What?”

“She had two dogs with her when we met last time. I don’t remember their names though.”

The Foreign Minister’s face almost portrayed an expression of annoyance. “That’s what you remember?”

Radovan shrugged. “I like dogs.”

“Why don’t you have one then?”

“With my schedule? The poor beast would probably starve from lack of attention.”

“Wouldn’t be a problem if you it Monika…” Lenković muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing, sir. Ah, it appears we’re about to land.”

The private plane of the Syaran executive and his associates arrived in Kenlis and set down without incident. From there the group made their way to the governmental districts of the capital where the OTN headquarters was located. Inside the car on the way to the summit the two conversed on more serious matters.

“Both Ambassador Lukic and Representative Vankova will likely want to speak with you prior to the official meetings. Lukic likely won’t be present for the meeting itself but she’ll certainly want to talk prior and afterwards about a number of issues.”
Radovan rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

Lenković glanced up from his notes. “You seem less than pleased.”

“Lukic is going to have the same speech she has every time; we need to get closer with Kenlis and make more overtures to the CSN.”

Lenković nodded. “There are some persuasive arguments in favor of closer ties with the High Kingdom and the-“

Radovan waved his hands. “Yes, and I’ve heard them all. What they keep forgetting to leave out is the responsibilities that come with it.” He rolled his eyes. “Lukic might as well defect how much she loves the Celts.”

He folded his arms. “For the time being we can’t afford to rush into foreign entanglements. We barely avoided a major confrontation in Arzell and now the Azzies are on the verge of a civil war. We start tossing lives and money at everything we can possibly get our hands on, we’ll soon be out of both.”

Lenković nodded. “Well, either way it’d be remiss not to stop by the embassy.”

Radovan slumped in his seat somewhat but nodded. “Fine, let’s save it for our final night here.”

A few minutes later they had pulled up to the OTN headquarters, where the two men stepped out. They were joined by a few others, Brigadier General Marjan Cilemanoff among them, with a handful of assistants and deputies. Both men were dressed in appropriate suits and ties, a small Syaran pin on their lapels. Radovan himself was personally greeted by Dáithí Ó Cuinn, the Rúnaí Tráchtála, which he understood was the Ossorian version of the Commerce Secretary.

[Mansuriyyah Islamic State]

Al-Jadidah Great Mosque, Mansuriyyah

“Allahu Akbar”

The words resonated through Al-Jadidah Great Mosque’s marble pillars as the hundreds of worshipers prostrated, their long robes swaying in the early morning’s cool breeze.

“Allahu Akbar”

The worshippers sat on their shins, concentrating on their prayers as the dawn light started to engulf the mosque.

“Assalamu aleykum wa Rahmatullah… assalamu aleykum wa rahmatullah”

After finishing their prayers, the congregation stood to greet the imam as he walked down the hall, followed by a small retinue. The man in charcoal grey jubbah smiled back at the crowd, nodding with his head and placing his hand on his chest as he replied their greetings. The procession slowly made their way to a motorcade parked right outside the mosque’s doors. Only after the imam and his assistant entered the middle car and the door was slammed shut, the rest of the retinue entered their vehicles.

The assistant opened a bottle of water and handed it to the other man. “Please drink it, sir. Breakfast will be served on the plane, right after takeoff, but you got to stay hydrated. It’s a long flight to Kenlis.”

The man frowned as he scratched his greying beard. “Ya Ibrahim, you know that I just can’t stand flying, wallahi!”

Ibrahim knew perfectly well. He had followed every step of the man for more than seven years now, and knew his manners and quirks inside out now. He even dared to say he knew him better than he knows his own children.

“Shall we go through the schedule then? Focusing on something else might take your mind away of the flight, sir”

“True, let’s focus on something else, just not on this summit. We’ve got plenty of time for that on the plane. What about we complete our adhkar, Ibrahim? We didn’t have time for it today yet.”

He knew better than to complain. There were several things his boss was very punctual about, and his prayers and his daily litany were on top of the list – taking precedence even from most state affairs. He followed suit, pulling sandalwood prayer beads from his pocket, and followed the man’s prayer almost silently, “Bismillah. Aqulu ‘ala nafsi wa ‘ala deeni wa ‘ala ahli wa ‘ala awladi wa ‘ala mali wa ‘ala ashabi wa ‘ala adyanihim wa ‘ala amwalihim...”

**********

The sun had already risen over the horizon and the day was starting to warm up when the motorcade arrived at Al-Jadidah’s airport. Several people were already lined up in front of the plane’s stairs. Ibrahim realized his boss let out an irritated sigh; he knew the man’s dislike for these matters of protocol. He tried to get rid of most of them when he took office, but the bureaucrats still insisted on keeping some, which he grudgingly conceded to.

It would still take several long minutes until the embarking rituals were complete and the plane could finally take of – always an uncomfortable experience for his boss, which preferred to be left alone in such moments. After the Shaheen was firmly crossing through the Mansuri morning sky, the assistant entered his boss’ private cabin, personally carrying a tray with the much-awaited breakfast. Both men quickly devoured the cheese-stuffed borek pastries, hard-boiled eggs, olives and bread topped with clotted cream and honey, washed down with plenty of tea. The boss liked his meals simple and frugal.

“Now, habibi, let’s go over those matters of state I’ve been delaying to deal with. Insha Allah these meetings will help bring our people some real benefit. Otherwise, what's the point of wasting so much time and resources pampering those foreigners?”
“Yes, sir, right away”, he said, opening his tablet, ready to go over the Organization of Tyrannic Nations Summit’s schedule. His boss was a straight-forward, honest man, not the usual diplomatic type. But the duties of his office required him to sometimes play the part - and it was Ibrahim's duty to make sure he would be ready for it.

**********

It was a cloudy afternoon when the Shaheen finally landed in Kenlis’ airport. Ibrahim helped the man don his jubbah. He also placed a black cloak with silver trimming around his shoulders, and laid the pristine white, hand-wrapped turban he reserved wearing for solemn and special occasions on his boss’ head. He then proceeded to rub some traditional Asiri musk fragrance on his hands and neck. Mansuri leaders traditionally seldom ventured out of their borders, and his boss was no exception to that, but when he did, he strived to make the effort matter. He observed as he climbed down the plane’s stairs, with calculated steps, waving his hands to the cameras outside. At the bottom stood Seoras O Hannagain, the High Kingdom’s Runai an Statchiste. He lifted his right hand to his heart and slightly bowed his head. “Assalam aleykum, ahlan wa sahlan, Seyda”, he said with an obvious accent, but he certainly put a lot of effort to make it sound right. “In the name of Her Royal Majesty the High Queen, allow me to welcome you to the High Kingdom”

Muhammad Salih cracked a small but genuine smile at the small pleasantry. “Thank you so much for receiving us. I’m afraid my Gaelic isn’t half as good as your Arabic, mr. O Hannagain. I’m looking forward to our stay in your country, as well in meeting the Queen. Please send her my regards.”

After the two men parted ways, Ibrahim followed his boss to a Mansuri diplomatic car which would take them to the ambassador’s house. Tonight, they would just rest, in preparation for the next day, as the summit and bilateral meetings with fellow world leaders would take place.