[b]Toledo, Spain[/b] Everyone has a different way of preparing to make a public address. Some prepare notes and outlines of their speech, some practice reciting the address until they master it. Others still like to meditate and relax prior to taking the stage. Alfonso Sotelo prepared for his speeches by doing a hit of cocaine. But that was not easy to do when being driven around by a chauffeur. The driver, as one would usually hope, was alert and attentive. He checked the rear view mirror frequently and drove cautiously, as one would expect the Prime Minister's driver to do. But as dependent as Sotelo had become to the coca, he was a master of getting his fix stealthily. Behind the driver's seat, he sprinkled out some of the fine white powder from a plastic baggy onto his cupped left palm. Now, for the distraction. "Driver, would you happen to have the time?" Sotelo had a fine Swiss timepiece of his own tucked under his right cuff. But nobody in their right mind ever questioned the Prime Minister's requests. To question Sotelo was to invite disaster upon oneself, even if it seemed a silly request. "Certainly, Excellency." The driver took his eyes off the road for a moment to tuck back his sleeve and check his watch. With a swift, unassuming inhalation, Sotelo snorted the cocaine on his palm, and then brushed above his upper lip to dislodge any errant motes of white powder. "It's about ten 'til three." The coca gave Sotelo seemingly boundless energy, and the courage to be assertive and audacious. It coursed through his veins, infused his muscles, and drew open his lungs like a sail filled with air. Most dignitaries preferred coffee and tea to give them the extra boost of energy to keep them functioning. Sotelo, in his younger - more honest years, had been an avid coffee drinker as well. But if caffeine was the gasoline, cocaine was nitrous oxide. No finer pre-speech routine existed, and Sotelo had to be convincing now. Officially he was up for re-election next month. Of course, no candidates would be presenting him with a challenge to keep his position; he had seen to it that no one could ever usurp his rule. But he still had to pretend as if there was an actual election coming up. The charade that was the Spanish Republic had to seem authentic... for now. To that end, he would be speaking to the military men fighting the war in Ethiopia. Specifically, the pilots who would carrying out the first bombing runs in Africa. With suitable press coverage watching, recording, and photographing the Prime Minister before all those pilots and airmen, it would seem a convincing effort to attempt to stay in the public's good graces. The motorcade rolled on through the checkpoint into the chain link perimeter of the airbase. Uniformed soldiers stood at attention as the Prime Minister's car drove through the raised turnstile. Not long after he had arrived on the base, the fusilade of camera flashes had begun. Photographers for numerous publications snapped photos of the Prime Minister's motorcade as it wound past the the designated parking for the press and continued on to the runway. Sotelo forced himself to roll his window down and wave politely for the cameras. Through the windshield, Sotelo could see the planes that would be flying in these first sorties. Eight of the four-propellered Gargolas had been parked in a single file line, waiting to taxi out and take off. Standing before the planes in a loose crescent were some 60 airmen and pilots donning leather pilot's jackets over khaki coveralls. They had been arranged in front of the airplanes in an artificial repose similar to that of still life fruit, positioned such that the artwork on the nearest bomber was prominent in each shot. Glowing against the black fuselage of the fore Gargola, an equally black feline was outlined in white moonlight - lunging frontward with bared fangs and ghostly green eyes. Sotelo's motorcade parked a respectable distance from the gathered airmen and the reporters hounding them. But just as soon as the Prime Minister's car was in view, the bomber crews snapped to attention which prompted the reporters to back away. Loose pebbles crunched between Sotelo's soles and the tarmac as he made his way to the middle of those gathered around the airplanes. His bodyguards followed him loosely enough to allow the reporters to isolate the Prime Minister in their photographs, but strayed no farther. The cameras snapped hungrily as the Prime Minister swaggered across the runway to the [i]Fuerza Aerea[/i] crews, the airmen did what they could to avoid squinting in the bright sunlight of the afternoon. Once in their midst, Sotelo surveyed his airmen, noting the patches and decorations on their flight jackets, wondering for a brief moment how hot they must all be standing at attention in their jackets in the hot sun. "At ease, gentlemen," he commanded, relieving them at last. "Pilots, my countrymen. My intention today was to visit you before this greatest of missions. To you, airmen of this Second Spanish Republic, I had prepared an address to offer my thanks for undertaking this endeavor: to pilot these machines deep beyond the borders of fastidious Ethiopia, to destroy vital enemy objectives and infrastructure, to reach into the beating heart of the communist war machine and wrench out its very cogs." Sotelo reached out into the air outstretched palm as if to seize some invisible object between himself and the airmen, and drew back a clenched fist to his chest. "I am a man that values honesty above all other things. Therefore, I will not lie to you gentlemen; you have been tasked with a dangerous role. Our enemy makes up for craft and guile in their material deficiency. The Ethiopian air forces will harry you at every turn, flak fire will rattle against your planes. But you are brave men, and you are not deterred. "How then can I express gratitude for this service? What words exist to express my appreciation for your dedication to duty? Heads of state have long been expected to personally see off their fighting men as the go to war - for thousands of years such men have sought to inspire their warriors through orations. Over the course of such lengths of time, however, the practice has become trite. It is a meaningless thing to attempt to rouse men through spoken word; it is impossible to convey appreciation through such a means. Compared to such resolve, how can mere words hold any sway? "In my estimation, they cannot. But I know of another way..." Sotelo turned to one of the airmen situated in the center of the crescent, one he identified as the squadron commander on the account of the lion coat-of-arms and arrow quivers emblazoned upon his jumpsuit fatigues. "Tell me, what is your name?" "I am Captain Dorin Estevez of the 35th Bomber Wing, your excellency," The pilot reported. He was clean shaven and handsome in general, with short black hair cropped at precisely the 3.5 centimeter length as regulated by the Ministry of War. His features were blocky and masculine, yet refined and unmarred - free of any cuts or scrapes. Battle scars were a rarity in the Spanish military forces after all. Sotelo understood that some of the more seasoned militaries in Europe, namely the Prussians - some of whose officer corps had served in the Great War - regarded this fact as a sign of softness. Alfonso would show Europe how 'soft' the fighting men of Spain soon enough. But today, he would make a veteran of himself. "Captain Estevez," Sotelo repeated, "I would like to join you on your flight." At this, the captain's eyes bulged. He could not be serious... could he? Whatever the case, the camera flashes surged in frequency. The reporters could not help but to murmur as they pressed in closer, so close that Sotelo bodyguards had to step in and keep them from getting within one hundred paces of the prime minister "Why, excellency..." Captian Estevez stalled, giving himself time to think up a polite way to refuse the gesture. "I am humbled by your offer. But you said it yourself, our mission is dangerous. It is no place for someone of your importance." "Am I any more important than you?" Sotelo with a seemingly rehearsed delivery. He shot a glance to the press, and smiled as a barrage of camera flashes washed over him. The reporters were jittery with excitement. "What manner of Prime Minister would I be if I was not prepared to subject myself to the same danger that you face? So, Captain, with your permission, I will see this war firsthand." Sotelo watched the captain's eyes shoot momentarily to the ecstatic reporters. The pilot would not deny the Prime Minister, and certainly not before the collective eye of the Spanish press. Sotelo could already see himself on the front cover of El Pais, waving from the cockpit of a bomber taking off to drop the first bombs on Ethiopia. With some luck, such a story would break just before news of the Djibouti disaster made its way home. Captain Estevez nodded at last and drew the pilot's jacket off of his shoulders before presenting it to the Prime Minister. Sotelo graciously slid the leather jacket, lined with downy wool and embroidered with a roaring black cat, over his pressed black suit. He made sure to present the cameras with a good view. "Excellency, it is my pleasure to welcome you to the Black Panthers," he said at last amidst a pulse of furious camera flashing. "Let's get airborne." [b]Socotra[/b] With a final gasping gulp of air, the priest dove back into the waves, kicking his way down into the sea. A gurgling rush of foam and bubbles immersed his head as he dove, the curls of hair made knappy and unruly by exposure to the sun and salt water trailed behind his scalp like black streamers. The warm waters of the Gulf of Aden were comfortably cool against his skin. Only the improvised loincloth around his waist and the knife strapped against his thigh resisted the water as he descended from the shimmering surface into the blue depths. They had been at this for days now, and they had all become skillful divers in that time. Before their ill-fated arrival at Socotra, the priest could not remember the last time he had been swimming. His duty was to guard the Holy Tabot to his final breath, not to frolic in the water. But now the Tabot, by a great calamity, had fallen beneath the sea. Now, after so much practice diving to reach the Tabot, the priest could put the swimming ability and lung capacity of an Olympic swimmer to the test. Only a week ago, the priest could scarcely swim out to the crash site, but with such frequent and determined practice he had made great progress in going deeper and diving longer. It would not be long before he could reach the airplane and the prize within. The sun's scintillating glow was far above him when the water pressure squeezed against his eardrums. The first time he had experienced this painful sensation, it seemed as if the pressure would kill him. But with practice, the priest had learned to cope with the weight of the sea itself pressing against his ears and sinuses. It was still quite uncomfortable to be sure, but not enough enough to deter him from his sacred mission. The reef soon came into view. Brightly colored corals formed an underwater garden of spectacular beauty. Among the branching limbs and crusty nodules that spread across the seafloor, anemone flowers billowed in the current. Striking yellow tangs darted about the corals in teeming schools, giving the black and white triggerfish a wide berth as they went. The priest wished he could remain here and admire the Lord's marine handiwork. But his duty to protect the Tabot was ironclad. He paid the reef no regard and continued down into the blue abyss where the reef ended at an abrupt dropoff, pacing his kicks to conserve oxygen. He had no choice but to pay careful attention to the predators in the water. Sand sharks with long, lobed tailfins and wicked teeth paddled lazily beyond the precipice of the dropoff. They looked sinister enough, but always gave the Christians a wide berth. It was the big fishes that concerned the priest. Barracudas behaved much more aggressively than any shark he had seen, but it was the giant grouper that made the priest bring his knife on every dive. Just three days ago, a monstrous grouper attacked another priest with lightning ferocity. The fish meant to drag the intruding diver down to its lair, and it would have succeeded had that priest not brought his own knife with him. By the grace of God, the prick of the blade drove the beast away and he had not been seriously hurt, but the incident served to remind the Christians that the ferengi were not the only servants of the evil one in these waters. A nebulous, white form glowed beneath him; a mass of aluminum which reflected what sunlight reached these azure depths with long wings that reached out and embraced the sand it rested upon. It was the airplane, he had never seen it anywhere near as clearly as this. Only five more meters separated him with the sunken aircraft. His lungs did not burn so badly yet, and he could tolerate just a bit more pressure on his ears. He was going to make it this time; he would be able to get inside the fuselage and ensure the Tabot was intact. Once his companions back on shore had found something sufficiently buoyant, they could return and float the Tabot's container up to the surface. He made determined kicks now, closing the distance between himself and the impact-warped fuselage. [i]BWONG[/i] The entire ocean reverberated with a piercing metallic sound the likes of which he had never heard. It was so loud and so crisp that he could feel the pulse pass through his body. He knew of nothing that could produce a such a sound. [i]BWONG[/i] As the second pulse shot through the water, he heard and felt the airplane beneath him ring out as it echoed off of the riveted aluminum. As quiet returned to the water, he could hear another sound to accompany the nigh-defeaning pulses. This one was a constant, low drone. A motor. Far above him, a great shadow crept across the surface. The hull of a great metal ship glided into position, casting rays of shadow where it blotted out the sunlight. The Spanish had come for the airplane at last. [i]BWONG[/i] This pulse was the loudest of them all. The priest reasoned that these sounds allowed the ferengi to see underwater, because the vessel was now positioned directly above the wrecked airplane. The Spanish had come for the Ark of the Covenant. But they would not leave with it. With the ark just beyond his grasp, the priest reluctantly turned about and kicked upward. He dug forward with his arms, there was no need to pace himself on the way up. His lungs screamed for air as he climbed toward the metal hull of the warship. It was such a long ascent, and he was so hungry for air that he feared he might go unconscious and drown at any moment. But he did no such thing; he reached the hull of the ferengi ship and then swam under the bow. His head cleared the surface at last and he drank in delicious oxygen. In the shadow of the ship, he could hear the deckhands going on in the ferengi language. He could hear chains clattering and metal equipment being moved about. The priest knew they were going to take hoist the ark up out of the wreckage. Over his dead body, that is. But he would need a way up onto the vessel's deck. By the grace of God, the invaders were kind enough to provide that to the priest. The Spaniards dropped the ship's anchor, which shot downward with a thunderous splash. The falling hunk of steel narrowly missed the priest, but provided a length of heavy chain links up to the topside of the ship. With his path granted to him, the priest took the knife into his teeth and proceeded to climb up the anchor chain.