He wouldn’t have been able to even guess as to how many times he’d taken a seat in this room. But it still never failed to stir something within him. President Gregorio Emparán settled himself into the high-backed chair at the head of the long, dark table in the centre of the room. He regarded the other seats, spread along the table’s length. They were all empty. He’d once sat in one of those, when another president had been seated at the head of the table, but now he had the big chair. Monitors ran along both walls, including one huge one that dominated the wall to his left. Maps of various parts of Rushmore and assorted numerical and technical data were displayed on the screens. Data received via official diplomatic sources or through either state or military intelligence channels.
The Command Bunker complex, below the Presidential Palace in Soluca, was arguably one of the most secure sites on the whole continent. It was the centrepiece of Sargossa’s military and security apparatus. Protected by layer upon layer of security and an entire regiment of elite troops. It also provided a handy sanctuary whenever the president fancied a break from the pressing matters of state. Emparán had earmarked just such a break for that very afternoon. He’d faked a security situation in Darmen as a reason to excuse himself from a seemingly never-ending budgetary briefing about the future of guava imports. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d ever even tasted a guava. He was definitely sure they didn’t warrant a two hour meeting, with PowerPoint presentations.
Having successfully escaped, he made his way through the warren of the interior of the government wing of the palace before descending the flights of steps down into the depths. Where he now sat, surrounded by the region of Rushmore in data form. But that wasn’t the room’s only use. He pushed a button on the desk in front of him.
‘Captain, you can put it on the main screen.’
In a side room, a uniformed officer hit the appropriate buttons that connected a particular channel onto the screen. It burst into life, displaying an image of the city of Inhalo in Nyowani Kitara. It wasn’t unusual for Inhalo to appear on these screens, given its significance during Malik Akongo's rebellion against the former communist government. But this particular location hadn’t existed then. The Inhalo City Arena had sprung up since and had been hosting Copa Rushmori football. Crucially, today it was hosting a group fixture that oozed with historical resonance. For the first time in a long old while, Sargossa were taking on the Polar Islandstates. Emparán lent back in his chair and took it all in.
The Polarians may be lacking the stardust of the generations that had come before but these ‘True Valhallans’ still had that tenacity. That fucking tenacity. Three large centrebacks were arrayed in front of their goal, and ahead of them another line of four did little more than protect their half. Sargossan attacks were flung forward but broke against the Tern’s defence like waves crashing against the craggy rocks of their bleak, northern homeland. The first half came and, in frustrating style, went. There were slightly more Sargossan fans watching the Corsairs than in the previous group fixtures. The pairing with the Polarians had aroused the interest of those of a certain age. And they were watching their side struggle to break them down. Not for the first time.
As the second half went on Slavko Jelic withdrew Joaquín Sanz, content to let two centrebacks handle the threat of the Terns’ lone frontman. Fernando Moruga was introduced, as was Jorge Fernández and Gustavo Alcocer. At times the formation resembled a 2-1-4-1-2, with the wingbacks pushing ever forward in an attempt to find a way around the dogged Polarian defence. But a breakthrough was coming. Moruga started it, spearing a long pass to the marauding Iván Alegre down the left flank. Alegre exchanged passes with Enrique González before outpacing the covering Johannes Braun and cutting a ball back into the penalty area. Fernández had stolen a march on Ragnar Holst and arrived late to meet the delivery with the inside of his right boot. It was a sweet strike, one that Hans Aigner could only watch as it clattered off his post and bounced back into the mix. Cue an almighty scramble which ended with Alcocer driving the ball into the net, with a slight deflection off the outstretched leg of Onni Boes.
It was a goal to cause much delight, not least because it was a first win over the Polarians in ruddy ages. It also assured Sargossa’s passage into the knockout stages as group winners and saw the returning Terns miss out entirely. They were in good company, with luminaries of the likes of Pasarga, Tikariot and Pridnestrovia also falling at the first hurdle.
‘Thank you captain, that will be all.’
The screen went black. Emparán allowed himself a brief smile, but it soon vanished. Replaced by something else entirely. A feeling that left him, unsettled. The Polar Islandstates had returned to the world stage. The cuddly, leftist democratic caterpillar had emerged from its chrysalis as a tyrannical, jack-booted butterfly. The first public demonstration of True Valhallan supremacy may have been a damp squib but Emparán was certain it wouldn’t be the last. The new face of Polarian power may have come as a shock to wider Rushmore, but not to the Sargossan leadership. Time doesn’t heal all wounds and Sargossa had never stopped keeping a close eye on its neighbour to the distant north. The two nations shared a land border after all. One neither was particularly content with. Emparán knew all about the rise of The Party. But what he didn’t know is what really bothered him. Now they had shaken off all the checks and balances that came with a democratic system, Gregorio Emparán wondered what this new Polarian regime were truly capable of.
(72’ Kristmar 
), Kæja 
