Umniati Coastal Observation Post, Umniati, Vasil Island
23 July, 2017, 0400 Local Time
The Sergeant sat in his observation tower, scanning the waters periodically with a set of binoculars. He could see the silhouettes of several ships coming into view just on the horizon. He noted in the watch log that the ships displayed no lights, when he heard the telltale sound of a propeller-driven aircraft high above. He stepped outside and looked into the dark sky, trying to see the source of the sound, but he was unable to see the aircraft through the darkness. Thunder sounded in the distance, a storm rolling in no doubt. He picked up the phone mounted to the outside of the tower, reporting to his superiors back at the air station. He received a printout inside, and walked in to read it when rain started pouring furiously, obscuring any vision be previously had. He skimmed over the printout, it was a detail of any ships in the area, he looked back at his log, noting there were too many ships on the horizon for the printout. He picked up the inside phone, again calling his superiors, informing them of the discrepancy. He put the phone down, shaking his head and picking up his binoculars again, trying to see through the storm.
Naval Air Station Sunshine Bay, Tactical Operations Center, Vasil Island
0410 Local Time
A Naval Infantry Lieutenant on the night watch had taken the report from the Sergeant, and informed him of the expected ships and noted the strange aircraft. He sat back in his comfortable chair, thinking about how lucky he was to get a post like this. He pulled out a book to read when he was startled by a knock at the door, a young Petty Officer stepped into the TOC, holding a paper report in his hand. "Comrade Lieutenant, the Admiral asked me to bring this to you. He offered a weather report, advising that storm shutters be closed and the area prepared for foul weather. The Lieutenant looked at the report, and nodded in agreement. "Alright. Spread the word to the Air Force." The Petty Officer turned and exited the room as the Lieutenant turned back to his book.
Umniati County Sheriff's Office, Umniati, Vasil Island
0410 Local Time
The smell of tobacco hung in the air of the Sheriff's quarters, as he sat on the edge of the bed smoking a hand rolled cigarette. He stood up, walking to his dresser and getting his faded blue jeans from the top drawer, sliding them on. He reached into the drawer below, removing a dark red button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled and tacked in place. He put on the shirt, tucking it into his pants and buttoning it. He was slender, but well built, still muscular and imposing in his 50s. He'd served in the Royal Syikenian Army for 25 years and retired as a Master Sergeant, but had decided to return to Vasil Island after his retirement, despite having citizenship there. He'd grown up on Vasil Island, back in the 1980s when it still belong to Syike. He left the Syikenian Army in 2007 when the Socialist-Royalist split started, otherwise he would have stayed in the Army. He'd been elected Sheriff of Umniati County since 2010, and was big on serving his people. He had a low opinion of Syikenian Socialism, but a neutral opinion of the Cannidarsan variety, the Cannidarsans long being allies of the Royals. He slid his old service boots on, tying them carefully and slipping his old combat knife into his right boot. He then turned, picking up a medal and a set of Army dog tags. He read the back of the medal, running his fingers over the engraved the words. "Awarded to: Corporal Zeke Bagara of the Royal Syikenian Army, on 14 September 1986 for Acts of Valor while under enemy fire" He thought back to those days long gone by, and he could feel his rifle in his hands again, charging the insurgent machine gun position when he'd run out ammunition, and he could feel the many wounded men he carried on his back. He sighed, knowing the Syike he fought for was long gone now, and placed the medal round his neck, tucking it under his shirt. He pulled his jacket on, an old jacket from when he owned a motorcycle back in Syike. He adjusted it, and slid his gunbelt on. He reached back into the top drawer again, producing a shiny nickel plated revolver, also engraved carefully. He felt it in his hand, feeling the nice engraving on the wooden combat grip. He checked the cylinder, 6 rounds of .357 loaded up. He slid it softly into his holster and picked up his hat from the rack, a cowboy-style hat that was popular in the desert regions of Syike in the 1990s. He clipped his badge onto his belt, and grabbed his rifle, leaned against the doorframe, checking it for rounds as well. It was old, and had seen many wars before he was even born. But it was sturdy and reliable. He slipped a few stripper clips of rounds into his jacket pockets before heading out the door to his truck, climbing in under the downpour. He let out a heavy sigh, he loved the sunshine of the Toile, where he'd spend most of his life. He wasn't fond of the frequent tropical storms of Syike, he thought to himself as he turned the key, starting the old truck and tuning his radio. Classic Syikenian tunes, from a radio station in Jomo. He nodded along to the music as he pulled out of the lot onto the streets, ready to respond to the inevitable car accidents.
