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Operation Pasture Orange
2nd Air Assault Brigade
0211 Paris Time
March 28 2004
The pitter-patter of rain on the ruined buildings and the smoldering rubble of Rabat drowned out the noise of the explosions and gunfire in the distance. Fighting for the city had been the heaviest that most of the men had experienced during their tenure. The only thing comparable was, some said, the fighting in Germany and Eastern Europe in the Summer War.
The Moroccans had poured a total of four divisions into the defence of the city and all had been swept aside. Charge after charge, the armies of Europe had beaten back her enemy and crushed all opposition. Rabat was almost secure, and now word had spread that reinforcements had landed in Melilla to reclaim the stretch of European territory along the coast and to bring Morocco to heel once and for all.
And yet he was not satisfied.
Colonel Templer was kneeling in the rain, feeling the gentle caress run down his face and scalp. It ran between his hairs, short and clinging to his head. It ran between his muscles, strained and sore as they were. It ran down his body, through the hairs on his arms and chest, his legs and his neck. It ran over the scars of Atocha Station. It ran over the scars of battle.
It felt good. Cleansing, almost. It would not suffice.
It was a poor substitute for her touch. A poor substitute for her presence and her caress. A poor substitute for her warmth and her love. And now he was not even sure he could go back to her.
Kneeling in front of the ruined mosque, his knees smeared with the churned and blackened mud. Boot prints littered the ground around him as shell casings glistened like silver in the rain. The flames in the rubble licked at what remained of the walls and danced upon the crumpled spires. The rotting bodies lay within, rotting with his soul.
Men clad in golden turbans, and soldiers in broken uniforms, it didn't matter. They were all dead. Gone to rest in the arms of the devil. And he? He had to suffer there with them.
Tears ran down his face as he clutched her hand and listened to the heart monitor. She looked so peaceful. He wouldn't believe she had gone through such a horrific experience earlier that very day if he hadn't been there with her. If he hadn't been there to hold her and to hide her.
"I'm sorry." he gasped in between breathes. "I know you didn't want to go. I know you just wanted me to stay at home with you. I never should have pushed you. I'm so sorry." he said, his breathing heavy and hard as he gasped for breath between tears.
He looked down at the report in his other hand, crumpled and shaking with his body. He glared at it, enraged and defeated. He was overcome with a hopelessness and a loss that he could have never dreamed of feeling. He read it over and over again, hoping and praying against the world that it would change before his eyes.
How could he live without her? His wife and his world? The woman he loved and the mother of his children? The glimmer of hope that lived within her, was masked by the grief that had rushed over him. There was nothing he wouldn't do to get her back. There was nothing he could do to get her back.
His gasping slowed and as the tears running down his face began to burn, he looked at her face. She looked asleep. It was as if she was dreaming of their early days, walking in the woods, traveling the globe, and spending each day and night together. It was like a dream, so long ago, and so far from their minds. How he longed to go back to those days. How he longed to see her smile at him and to see her wake up.
There was nothing he could do for her. But there was something he could do for himself.
"How could I leave you?" he yelled into the night. "Why?" he wailed like a siren with her song. The tears running down his face mixed with the rain. As he wailed, and cried, and gasped in the muddy and scarred earth. He bowed his head and beat his fist into the ground, his face contorting as his muscles tightened and his breathing grew hard.
He didn't know how long he was there. Maybe he had been there for ages, crying and screaming. Maybe he had just passed out, keeled over with his forehead in the mud. Maybe it hadn't been long at all. But after a while, when the rain had stopped and the gunfire had grown even more sparse, his tears ceased and his screaming grew to a whimper. His gasps fell to breathes as his breathing calmed and as he opened his eyes to look at the sky.
He arched his head back, letting the sweat and tears and rain drain from his face and scalp as he gazed up at the moon.
"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned ..." he whimpered.
"I'm coming home, Honey."
____________________________________
1 - The Treaty of Atocha Station was named in remembrance of the devastating attack that occurred there.
2 - King Mohammed VI and other members of the Moroccan government were put on trial for the deaths and injuries of those lost at Atocha Station, for starting a war of aggression against the European Union, for harbouring and granting asylum to the organization responsible for carrying out the acts, and finally, for the persecution of dissidents and protesters in his own nation.
2nd Air Assault Brigade
0211 Paris Time
March 28 2004
The pitter-patter of rain on the ruined buildings and the smoldering rubble of Rabat drowned out the noise of the explosions and gunfire in the distance. Fighting for the city had been the heaviest that most of the men had experienced during their tenure. The only thing comparable was, some said, the fighting in Germany and Eastern Europe in the Summer War.
The Moroccans had poured a total of four divisions into the defence of the city and all had been swept aside. Charge after charge, the armies of Europe had beaten back her enemy and crushed all opposition. Rabat was almost secure, and now word had spread that reinforcements had landed in Melilla to reclaim the stretch of European territory along the coast and to bring Morocco to heel once and for all.
And yet he was not satisfied.
Colonel Templer was kneeling in the rain, feeling the gentle caress run down his face and scalp. It ran between his hairs, short and clinging to his head. It ran between his muscles, strained and sore as they were. It ran down his body, through the hairs on his arms and chest, his legs and his neck. It ran over the scars of Atocha Station. It ran over the scars of battle.
It felt good. Cleansing, almost. It would not suffice.
It was a poor substitute for her touch. A poor substitute for her presence and her caress. A poor substitute for her warmth and her love. And now he was not even sure he could go back to her.
Kneeling in front of the ruined mosque, his knees smeared with the churned and blackened mud. Boot prints littered the ground around him as shell casings glistened like silver in the rain. The flames in the rubble licked at what remained of the walls and danced upon the crumpled spires. The rotting bodies lay within, rotting with his soul.
Men clad in golden turbans, and soldiers in broken uniforms, it didn't matter. They were all dead. Gone to rest in the arms of the devil. And he? He had to suffer there with them.
Tears ran down his face as he clutched her hand and listened to the heart monitor. She looked so peaceful. He wouldn't believe she had gone through such a horrific experience earlier that very day if he hadn't been there with her. If he hadn't been there to hold her and to hide her.
"I'm sorry." he gasped in between breathes. "I know you didn't want to go. I know you just wanted me to stay at home with you. I never should have pushed you. I'm so sorry." he said, his breathing heavy and hard as he gasped for breath between tears.
He looked down at the report in his other hand, crumpled and shaking with his body. He glared at it, enraged and defeated. He was overcome with a hopelessness and a loss that he could have never dreamed of feeling. He read it over and over again, hoping and praying against the world that it would change before his eyes.
Medical Report; Patient 'Rachel Templer' said:
How could he live without her? His wife and his world? The woman he loved and the mother of his children? The glimmer of hope that lived within her, was masked by the grief that had rushed over him. There was nothing he wouldn't do to get her back. There was nothing he could do to get her back.
His gasping slowed and as the tears running down his face began to burn, he looked at her face. She looked asleep. It was as if she was dreaming of their early days, walking in the woods, traveling the globe, and spending each day and night together. It was like a dream, so long ago, and so far from their minds. How he longed to go back to those days. How he longed to see her smile at him and to see her wake up.
There was nothing he could do for her. But there was something he could do for himself.
"How could I leave you?" he yelled into the night. "Why?" he wailed like a siren with her song. The tears running down his face mixed with the rain. As he wailed, and cried, and gasped in the muddy and scarred earth. He bowed his head and beat his fist into the ground, his face contorting as his muscles tightened and his breathing grew hard.
He didn't know how long he was there. Maybe he had been there for ages, crying and screaming. Maybe he had just passed out, keeled over with his forehead in the mud. Maybe it hadn't been long at all. But after a while, when the rain had stopped and the gunfire had grown even more sparse, his tears ceased and his screaming grew to a whimper. His gasps fell to breathes as his breathing calmed and as he opened his eyes to look at the sky.
He arched his head back, letting the sweat and tears and rain drain from his face and scalp as he gazed up at the moon.
"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned ..." he whimpered.
"I'm coming home, Honey."
____________________________________
____________________________________
1 - The Treaty of Atocha Station was named in remembrance of the devastating attack that occurred there.
2 - King Mohammed VI and other members of the Moroccan government were put on trial for the deaths and injuries of those lost at Atocha Station, for starting a war of aggression against the European Union, for harbouring and granting asylum to the organization responsible for carrying out the acts, and finally, for the persecution of dissidents and protesters in his own nation.
Nice to see the AAR's alive and well.
Also, you achieved a very Return of the Sith moment there..., nice!
Also, you achieved a very Return of the Sith moment there..., nice!
Great post! Glad this is still alive.
I don't mind you taking it slow with the updates if you are still too busy
Hmmm. How is the new President settling in? And what are his ideas to do with the Arab world and the balkans?
I don't mind you taking it slow with the updates if you are still too busy
Hmmm. How is the new President settling in? And what are his ideas to do with the Arab world and the balkans?
Yes! It lives!
And I sense another disturbance in the force...... Ready to explode a significant part of the world.
Can't wait!
And I sense another disturbance in the force...... Ready to explode a significant part of the world.
Can't wait!
Presidential Meeting
Presidential Hall, Paris
1437 Paris Time
April 7 2004
President Vasanta de Lyons paced through the arched marble halls of Presidential Hall as craftsmen and construction workers continued their work in the stairwell, fitting in the new chandelier. Sparks were falling all onto the floor across the hall. If the hard wood flooring had been installed by now, he would have panicked. Thank God for life's small mercies. He brushed past one of the guards stationed at the door with his entourage, his blue silk tie swinging with his grey suit jacket as he did so. Had he not worn the jacket, he dreaded to think of the looks his stained arm pits would get with his newly pressed white shirt.
On his right, Wolfgang Gerhardt, dressed in his usual black suit and grey tie, and his young secretary were doing their best to keep up. He couldn't clearly remember, but he thought Harriet was her name. She wore the stereotypical pencil skirt and white dress shirt, hugging her figure and propping up her chest in her position with Gerhardt. Some things never change. On his left, Max Peter Ratzel was marching in a black suit and red tie. It looked very natural for him, or so Vasanta thought. In his position, Ratzel was flanked by a pair of Intelligence Officers from the European Intelligence Bureau, and the European Armed Forces Intelligence Corps, respectively dressed in a black suit with a black shirt, accented by a white tie, and in the green and dark blue camouflage pattern befitting of an Army serviceman.
"We're still finding out all the details Mr. President. From what we know however, things aren't looking good." Max touted.
"When have they ever looked good?" Vasanta asked, his stone face not changing in his brisk walk to the recently completed briefing room.
"Mr. President, I think that-" Gerhardt began.
"Save it for the briefing room. We can't talk about this right now." Vasanta interrupted, shooting a glare at the men installing the chandelier in his home. He couldn't risk any threats to security.
A few minutes later, they were at the room and a guard dressed in a black uniform with an earpiece and a sidearm at the ready ushered the men inside, and through the heavy, very much reinforced, oak doors. As the men took their seats, Max and his entourage with the grace of those in uniform, and Wolfgang with a sigh and a sudden drop, Vasanta continued their discussion.
"How the hell can the world expect us to keep peace in Europe? This is not a single super power world! We can't keep Italy and Greece from striking at Turkey while the Americans and the Chinese egg them on. It's an impossibility!" He began, throwing his arms into the air in futility. Rather than sit down, he propped himself up on the back of his chair, hanging over the seat like an Eagle at it's perch.
"Sir, we have already been working our diplomatic channels to their limits. We have pushed both sides, and their benefactors to cease the dispute."
"To what end, Wolfgang? What have we accomplished?"
"At the least, I would say that we have stalled for time, but we have run out of ideas. Short of economic sanctions and sabre rattling against our neighbours we can't do much to have them talk it out. They're dead set on a war." he said, shrugging his shoulders in frustration.
"Well, I suppose it's a good thing I'm not alone in losing all hope. Mr. Ratzel, what have you found?" Vasanta asked, his voice an expression of the tension in the air, and of the tension in the Aegean.
"Mr. President, our sources at the EIB have found that Russia is indeed supplying the Turks with weaponry and military supplies. This is in clear contradiction to some American news outlets that have been speaking widely of Russian and American cooperation in the funding of Greece and Italy."
"And they haven't denied their cooperation?" Vasanta asked quizzically.
"No, Sir. Not yet anyway." Ratzel said, before being cut off by Gerhardt.
"Mr. President," Gerhardt began, immediately having the attention of the room with his unusual interruption. "President Putin is as politically cunning as his American counterpart. The only reason he hasn't denied a cooperative effort with the Americans, is because it gives Congress a reason, albeit false to secure oil and natural gas from Russia. I'd imagine that it's the same reason that American officials haven't denied it either. As frustrated as they might be, the Americans need the oil, and Russia needs them to buy it." Gerhardt concluded.
There was a brief pause in the room as the men, and Ratzel in particular considered it. "It fits with some of our information. The EIB has confirmed that neither the Republic of the Crescent, Iran, or even the Middle Eastern Defence Initiative is sending aid to either side. Given that information, and the conclusions from EAFIC about their production and Defence spending, it seems that neither Iran or Saddam want to waste the supplies they've been storing up on a conflict in the Aegean, and the MEDI has no desire to get involved in a fight it doesn't start."
"So then we can count on a war in the Near East as well?" Vasanta questioned.
"It's hard to be certain at this point, but it is a possibility that must be taken into account. If you'd like, I can find out more information as early as possible."
"I think Intelligence gathering is what I gave you that position for, Mr. Ratzel." Vasanta jabbed with a fraudulent smile. "Now, back to the Aegean. Mr. Gerhardt, you were asked to form a response in the event of a crisis."
"Yes Sir. It is my opinion that in the event of a conflict between the two parties, it would be in Europe's best interest to call for peace talks to be held here, in Paris."
"Wolfgang, I am not the United Nations and I am not a Chamberlain, I will not call the dogs to the dinner table while they scrap." There was a moment of silence as Wolfgang was deflated, and as Max beamed in his little revenge for the unwelcome interruption earlier.
"I propose that you, Wolfgang, begin formalizing a new policy of Interventionism. If either side intervenes against the other, then the European Union will intervene against the aggressor, no matter which side of the aisle they fall on. In the meantime, you can hold your talks in Paris, but I can assure you that you will make no progress. If nothing else, it will buy us time to take a breathe and return to the issue. I will see you at dinner tomorrow to discuss the proposal."
He concluded with a smile and a nod to the door. Flustered and irritated, Gerhardt rose to his feet.
"Harley." he said, rising to his feet with the young Secretary nodding and finishing her notes on the discussion. A knock on the door, and Wolfgang slipped out into the hallway, no doubt with a nod of 'good day' from the guard.
President Vasanta closed his eyes briefly to clear his head. A deep breathe. Ready once more.
"Mr. Ratzel, how is our man in Russia doing?"
Presidential Hall, Paris
1437 Paris Time
April 7 2004
President Vasanta de Lyons paced through the arched marble halls of Presidential Hall as craftsmen and construction workers continued their work in the stairwell, fitting in the new chandelier. Sparks were falling all onto the floor across the hall. If the hard wood flooring had been installed by now, he would have panicked. Thank God for life's small mercies. He brushed past one of the guards stationed at the door with his entourage, his blue silk tie swinging with his grey suit jacket as he did so. Had he not worn the jacket, he dreaded to think of the looks his stained arm pits would get with his newly pressed white shirt.
On his right, Wolfgang Gerhardt, dressed in his usual black suit and grey tie, and his young secretary were doing their best to keep up. He couldn't clearly remember, but he thought Harriet was her name. She wore the stereotypical pencil skirt and white dress shirt, hugging her figure and propping up her chest in her position with Gerhardt. Some things never change. On his left, Max Peter Ratzel was marching in a black suit and red tie. It looked very natural for him, or so Vasanta thought. In his position, Ratzel was flanked by a pair of Intelligence Officers from the European Intelligence Bureau, and the European Armed Forces Intelligence Corps, respectively dressed in a black suit with a black shirt, accented by a white tie, and in the green and dark blue camouflage pattern befitting of an Army serviceman.
"We're still finding out all the details Mr. President. From what we know however, things aren't looking good." Max touted.
"When have they ever looked good?" Vasanta asked, his stone face not changing in his brisk walk to the recently completed briefing room.
"Mr. President, I think that-" Gerhardt began.
"Save it for the briefing room. We can't talk about this right now." Vasanta interrupted, shooting a glare at the men installing the chandelier in his home. He couldn't risk any threats to security.
A few minutes later, they were at the room and a guard dressed in a black uniform with an earpiece and a sidearm at the ready ushered the men inside, and through the heavy, very much reinforced, oak doors. As the men took their seats, Max and his entourage with the grace of those in uniform, and Wolfgang with a sigh and a sudden drop, Vasanta continued their discussion.
"How the hell can the world expect us to keep peace in Europe? This is not a single super power world! We can't keep Italy and Greece from striking at Turkey while the Americans and the Chinese egg them on. It's an impossibility!" He began, throwing his arms into the air in futility. Rather than sit down, he propped himself up on the back of his chair, hanging over the seat like an Eagle at it's perch.
"Sir, we have already been working our diplomatic channels to their limits. We have pushed both sides, and their benefactors to cease the dispute."
"To what end, Wolfgang? What have we accomplished?"
"At the least, I would say that we have stalled for time, but we have run out of ideas. Short of economic sanctions and sabre rattling against our neighbours we can't do much to have them talk it out. They're dead set on a war." he said, shrugging his shoulders in frustration.
"Well, I suppose it's a good thing I'm not alone in losing all hope. Mr. Ratzel, what have you found?" Vasanta asked, his voice an expression of the tension in the air, and of the tension in the Aegean.
"Mr. President, our sources at the EIB have found that Russia is indeed supplying the Turks with weaponry and military supplies. This is in clear contradiction to some American news outlets that have been speaking widely of Russian and American cooperation in the funding of Greece and Italy."
"And they haven't denied their cooperation?" Vasanta asked quizzically.
"No, Sir. Not yet anyway." Ratzel said, before being cut off by Gerhardt.
"Mr. President," Gerhardt began, immediately having the attention of the room with his unusual interruption. "President Putin is as politically cunning as his American counterpart. The only reason he hasn't denied a cooperative effort with the Americans, is because it gives Congress a reason, albeit false to secure oil and natural gas from Russia. I'd imagine that it's the same reason that American officials haven't denied it either. As frustrated as they might be, the Americans need the oil, and Russia needs them to buy it." Gerhardt concluded.
There was a brief pause in the room as the men, and Ratzel in particular considered it. "It fits with some of our information. The EIB has confirmed that neither the Republic of the Crescent, Iran, or even the Middle Eastern Defence Initiative is sending aid to either side. Given that information, and the conclusions from EAFIC about their production and Defence spending, it seems that neither Iran or Saddam want to waste the supplies they've been storing up on a conflict in the Aegean, and the MEDI has no desire to get involved in a fight it doesn't start."
"So then we can count on a war in the Near East as well?" Vasanta questioned.
"It's hard to be certain at this point, but it is a possibility that must be taken into account. If you'd like, I can find out more information as early as possible."
"I think Intelligence gathering is what I gave you that position for, Mr. Ratzel." Vasanta jabbed with a fraudulent smile. "Now, back to the Aegean. Mr. Gerhardt, you were asked to form a response in the event of a crisis."
"Yes Sir. It is my opinion that in the event of a conflict between the two parties, it would be in Europe's best interest to call for peace talks to be held here, in Paris."
"Wolfgang, I am not the United Nations and I am not a Chamberlain, I will not call the dogs to the dinner table while they scrap." There was a moment of silence as Wolfgang was deflated, and as Max beamed in his little revenge for the unwelcome interruption earlier.
"I propose that you, Wolfgang, begin formalizing a new policy of Interventionism. If either side intervenes against the other, then the European Union will intervene against the aggressor, no matter which side of the aisle they fall on. In the meantime, you can hold your talks in Paris, but I can assure you that you will make no progress. If nothing else, it will buy us time to take a breathe and return to the issue. I will see you at dinner tomorrow to discuss the proposal."
He concluded with a smile and a nod to the door. Flustered and irritated, Gerhardt rose to his feet.
"Harley." he said, rising to his feet with the young Secretary nodding and finishing her notes on the discussion. A knock on the door, and Wolfgang slipped out into the hallway, no doubt with a nod of 'good day' from the guard.
President Vasanta closed his eyes briefly to clear his head. A deep breathe. Ready once more.
"Mr. Ratzel, how is our man in Russia doing?"
Now, this world is far more volatile than OTL. I like it~ (purrs like Catwoman from Arkham City).
Nice to see that Russia and the US are further drifting apart... Now only oil keeps them together... If an alternative sorce could be found we could lure the US to our camp, I think it's a far more natural alliance. After all, what are a few years of Summer War compared to fifty years of Cold War?
I need to pre-order that ...
I love the idea of a Freedom loving alliance fighting back the Authoritarian Russia and the Paradox Socialist China, but alas, I cannot discuss my plans.
I think it is a better idea to support Italy and Greece. And then diplo-annex them to the EU
Another great update. Nice to get a birds eye perspective on the world.
Exciting to see who attacks first then, a EU-Turkey allied against Greece-Italy would make an interesting twist.
Exciting to see who attacks first then, a EU-Turkey allied against Greece-Italy would make an interesting twist.
Will Poland ever join the EU? Im not concerned about Greece or Italy, but what about the big Bear.
Thanks. I really appreciate that. I hope you continue to love it.
I think it is a better idea to support Italy and Greece. And then diplo-annex them to the EU
It's all under consideration.
I think I might make it an event of chance to see who declares war on who.
Poland will hopefully join. Eventually.
European Intelligence Bureau
Operation Myrmidon - Christopher Liberius (Recurring Character)
2130 Moscow Time
April 12 2004
The air was damp and thick in the fog of Moscow. April was a very wet time of year for the city. The homeless and the urchins retreated to the abandoned houses and the usual bustle of businessmen and the laughter of children playing in the street had long since given way to the hammer of rain and the spray of mist. Of course, there were so few street urchins nowadays that they were easily a write off. Pausing for a moment, Christopher couldn't recall the last one he'd seen. Moscow had improved, even in the short time that he had been there.
Putin's industrial reform and construction package had been proceeding nicely, and more and more, Russia was starting to look like the European countries it looked at through the sights of a rifle. Now, with oil and gas on the rise, his rule was looking to become even more stable, and his term even more profitable for those oligarchs who put him in his throne.
The wind howled above the alley, lashing the roofs of Muscovites throughout the city with another unforgiving lash of rain. There, it wasn't quite so bad. Huddled between the newer homes, rising up like apartments around him, he was mostly shielded from the storm. The rotting cardboard and the dumpster that kept him company, out in the open and lacing the streets was soaked, resting in the puddles and pools of the weather.
Barely audible above the clash of clouds and the downpour up above, the plop of footsteps came down the alley way, not rushed like a thug running from the rain, or a businessman making his way through a treacherous shortcut. No, these were the slow footsteps of someone ready for the weather. The footsteps of someone who belonged. Christopher listened to them in the dark, standing in the shadow of one of the buildings.
He slowed his breathing. He had to be sure. He listened as the footsteps came to a halt and as the man turned on his feet.
"Winter's coming." came the call.
"And the World's getting hotter." Christopher shouted back, stepping out of the shadows.
His Handler looked at him. Arthur Burns was his name. An Englishman operating out of the British Embassy, was an odd contact for a spy like Christopher. In truth, Chris had always wondered how he got his job. Britain had fought against the European's in the Summer War, and unlike the usual group of turncoats, this man was operating in the British embassy, handling spies for Europe and dealing with information regarding Russia. It was all very odd, and it could very well be that he was serving Europe as much as he was serving Queen and Country.
Christopher looked at him quizzically for a moment.
"Still playing James Bond, Arthur?" he joked, stepping forward.
"The suit? Old habits. MI5 taught us class." he said in return. Arthur walked forward in his grey suit, a white shirt and a deep blue silk tie was marred only by the raindrops littering his robes of power.
"Maybe they should have taught you to dress for the weather." Christopher laughed, walking out towards him in his long black overcoat, opening up an umbrella as he stepped into the path of the rain.
"Jesus, Christopher." Arthur paused. "You look like you stepped out of the 20's."
"Well with what I've got for you, it's going to feel a lot more like the late 30's." Christopher said, his voice growing serious, and the smile fading from his face.
Arthur's laugh slowed. "Alright, what have you got?"
Christopher pulled a black and unmarked USB the size of his thumbnail from his jacket pocket. "Financial Records." Arthur gave him a blank stare. "From the Classified Projects and Operations of the GRU over the last six months."
"You called me out here, to give me their shopping list?"
"No, I called you out here, because the GRU has been setting up safe houses all across Africa and the Middle East for someone they call the Pale Khan."
"What do you know about him?" Arthur asked, taking the USB and slipping it into his jacket.
"Not much. Enough to know that he's on the radar."
"Christopher, the Techs are going to love sorting this data, but the politicians want more from the EIB. They want more from us. You've been working Russia for months now. We still don't know what the Omega Cell is, and Schroder is still screaming about his rapprochement. We're running out of time."
"Arthur, do you trust me?"
"Christopher that's not the issue here, what's at issue is-"
"Do you trust me?" He repeated, cutting him off mid-sentence.
"Yes." He paused. "Yes, I trust you."
"The data on that USB links the Pale Khan to the Omega Cell. It also links him to the bombing of Atocha Station, and puts him in Serbia until the night Beograde fell."
"You're telling me that the Russians had a hand in Morocco, and in Serbia?"
The two men stood in silence. "Ratzel is going to love this." Arthur sighed.
"There's something else on that USB. Their projected budget for this year."
"So?" asked Arthur, thunder clapping overhead. Christopher waited until it past to continue.
"It doubles."
______________________________
In Asia, Japan, South Korea and the Philippines announced the implementation of the Treaty of Seoul, passed through each members legislature in a whirlwind session.
Operation Myrmidon - Christopher Liberius (Recurring Character)
2130 Moscow Time
April 12 2004
The air was damp and thick in the fog of Moscow. April was a very wet time of year for the city. The homeless and the urchins retreated to the abandoned houses and the usual bustle of businessmen and the laughter of children playing in the street had long since given way to the hammer of rain and the spray of mist. Of course, there were so few street urchins nowadays that they were easily a write off. Pausing for a moment, Christopher couldn't recall the last one he'd seen. Moscow had improved, even in the short time that he had been there.
Putin's industrial reform and construction package had been proceeding nicely, and more and more, Russia was starting to look like the European countries it looked at through the sights of a rifle. Now, with oil and gas on the rise, his rule was looking to become even more stable, and his term even more profitable for those oligarchs who put him in his throne.
The wind howled above the alley, lashing the roofs of Muscovites throughout the city with another unforgiving lash of rain. There, it wasn't quite so bad. Huddled between the newer homes, rising up like apartments around him, he was mostly shielded from the storm. The rotting cardboard and the dumpster that kept him company, out in the open and lacing the streets was soaked, resting in the puddles and pools of the weather.
Barely audible above the clash of clouds and the downpour up above, the plop of footsteps came down the alley way, not rushed like a thug running from the rain, or a businessman making his way through a treacherous shortcut. No, these were the slow footsteps of someone ready for the weather. The footsteps of someone who belonged. Christopher listened to them in the dark, standing in the shadow of one of the buildings.
He slowed his breathing. He had to be sure. He listened as the footsteps came to a halt and as the man turned on his feet.
"Winter's coming." came the call.
"And the World's getting hotter." Christopher shouted back, stepping out of the shadows.
His Handler looked at him. Arthur Burns was his name. An Englishman operating out of the British Embassy, was an odd contact for a spy like Christopher. In truth, Chris had always wondered how he got his job. Britain had fought against the European's in the Summer War, and unlike the usual group of turncoats, this man was operating in the British embassy, handling spies for Europe and dealing with information regarding Russia. It was all very odd, and it could very well be that he was serving Europe as much as he was serving Queen and Country.
Christopher looked at him quizzically for a moment.
"Still playing James Bond, Arthur?" he joked, stepping forward.
"The suit? Old habits. MI5 taught us class." he said in return. Arthur walked forward in his grey suit, a white shirt and a deep blue silk tie was marred only by the raindrops littering his robes of power.
"Maybe they should have taught you to dress for the weather." Christopher laughed, walking out towards him in his long black overcoat, opening up an umbrella as he stepped into the path of the rain.
"Jesus, Christopher." Arthur paused. "You look like you stepped out of the 20's."
"Well with what I've got for you, it's going to feel a lot more like the late 30's." Christopher said, his voice growing serious, and the smile fading from his face.
Arthur's laugh slowed. "Alright, what have you got?"
Christopher pulled a black and unmarked USB the size of his thumbnail from his jacket pocket. "Financial Records." Arthur gave him a blank stare. "From the Classified Projects and Operations of the GRU over the last six months."
"You called me out here, to give me their shopping list?"
"No, I called you out here, because the GRU has been setting up safe houses all across Africa and the Middle East for someone they call the Pale Khan."
"What do you know about him?" Arthur asked, taking the USB and slipping it into his jacket.
"Not much. Enough to know that he's on the radar."
"Christopher, the Techs are going to love sorting this data, but the politicians want more from the EIB. They want more from us. You've been working Russia for months now. We still don't know what the Omega Cell is, and Schroder is still screaming about his rapprochement. We're running out of time."
"Arthur, do you trust me?"
"Christopher that's not the issue here, what's at issue is-"
"Do you trust me?" He repeated, cutting him off mid-sentence.
"Yes." He paused. "Yes, I trust you."
"The data on that USB links the Pale Khan to the Omega Cell. It also links him to the bombing of Atocha Station, and puts him in Serbia until the night Beograde fell."
"You're telling me that the Russians had a hand in Morocco, and in Serbia?"
The two men stood in silence. "Ratzel is going to love this." Arthur sighed.
"There's something else on that USB. Their projected budget for this year."
"So?" asked Arthur, thunder clapping overhead. Christopher waited until it past to continue.
"It doubles."
______________________________
In Asia, Japan, South Korea and the Philippines announced the implementation of the Treaty of Seoul, passed through each members legislature in a whirlwind session.
I love this!; two little words meaning that the Russians are moving industrial amounts of dung next to a huge fan
It keeps getting better
