AUGUST 2014
July 1st, Salzbeck
National People's Republic of Malden
National People's Republic of Malden
Richard Clarke-Turner took one last look out of the rain-smeared rear window of the Land Rover before closing his eyes. It was still the same. The drab uniforms of the National Volkspolizei strutting here and there, a personnel carrier or two on the side, the racket from the distance, a series of riot police holding back lines of protestors. The road to the embassy had been rocky, and not even the driver's card — "GSR GROUND FORCES" — the sight of which made any NVP officer stand aside — had made it easier.
"We're almost at the embassy, Comrade-General," the driver said, eyes fixed ahead. Clarke-Turner didn't reply. Truth be told, he had been brooding for the past hour in the heavy, rainy traffic of Salzbeck. The roadblocks made it even worse. It was only more evidence that the country was falling apart, and the buffoons in power - our buffoons, Clarke-Turner though, were making it worse. So now he had been summoned to see the Questarian ambassador, since, as everyone knew,the NPRM was nothing more than a satellite state of Questers anyway. Whatever he had to say would certainly not be good, but deep in his stomach, Clarke-Turner already knew what it was about.
They finally stopped at the building — almost a fortress — that comprised the embassy of the General Social Republic, a heroic revolutionary state, nobly assisting and supporting another heroic revolutionary state. That was what they all said, anyway. Clarke-Turner was led inside, where the ambassador was waiting. There were two gins on the table. The ambassador's face spelt it all out rather clearly. General Clarke-Turner, Commander of Twenty-second Army, Malden Command, sat down and took a drink without speaking. A moment later, his fears were proven right.
July 2nd, Ground Forces Aviation Salzbeck Aerodrome
National People's Republic of Malden
National People's Republic of Malden
Leather jackboots clacked down the hallway. Clerks peered up from their desks to see who the owner was as he walked past their cubicles, and then returned to their work, unwilling to be noticed. The owner of the boots was none other than the base commander, pacing angrily between the signals rooms. The rumours spread through the clerks. Five thousand fresh troops were going to be arriving. No, ten thousand. To replace? No, to fill up the ranks of the four divisions. No, fifteen thousand troops. The commander was being asked to find ten warehouses. No! Twenty! And petrol! Look, here, I've the paper!
The officer in the room smiled coyly, as if to give the impression he knew what was happening. Of course, he didn't. So far, only the base commander and a handful of other officers did. But as the days progressed, rumours did develop, with a shocking accuracy. The figure was twenty two thousand men, thirty warehouses of petrol and eighteen of ammunition, food for sixty thousand men for an indefinite period, and more. Twenty-second Army was coming up to combat strength. And as the rumours spread, they began to pour. And then they began to filter across the border too, to the Mandate of Henaan-Malden, the Gallan client state that shared the island of Malden over a two hundred kilometre border.
They were not happily received.