[sup][h1] [center][url=https://i.imgur.com/1PEQlS3.png][img]https://www.crwflags.com/fotw/images/k/kn_gov.gif[/img][/url][/center] [b][center]SAINT KITTS AND NEVIS[/center][/b][/h1][/sup][hr] Basseterre - SAINT KITTS AND NEVIS Inspector Runako Morton of the Royal St Christopher and Nevis Police Force ("RSCNPF") reclined in a heavy leather chair and sipped at a glass of whiskey, condensation beading the sides despite the fan that rattled away diligently in the corner of his office. The room was luxurious by Caribbean standards, more than one book shelf, a big desk, and even small second desk with a type writer where his he could dictate memos and the like to a clerk. Unlike most of the island, his office had electricity, one of the few perks to being in a police department that suffered from little funding in almost every other fashion. The pages laid out before him fluttered gently every time the fan managed another turn and, judging by the noise it was staring to make, any turn might be its last. He had a dozen employment applications on his desk, most of them young men from the island who saw a better way of life in the police service. The pay wasn't amazing, but they could live in the barracks and when they bought their own home, they would not have to pay any land tax. This particular application however was dramatically thicker than the others, twice the size of the other dozen put together. Unlike those applicants however, he had no say in the hiring of this man. Rather he had been informed that the newcomer would be arriving by plane that afternoon and it was Mortons job to make sure he was made welcome before meeting with the Commissioner the following day. He reached out a finger, gently turning back to the first page and the picture that had been clipped to it. A white face, unusual in the past twenty years, stared back at him. The man wore a redcoat, tall brown boots, and blue pants with a yellow stripe up the leg. Blues eyes set above a white/blonde beard seemed to challenge him even from even from the picture. [i]Name: Thomas John Clarkson Rank: Staff-Sergeant Agency: Royal Canadian Mounted Police Years of Service: 24 Experience: General Duty, Major Crime, Drug Interdiction, Counter Intelligence, etc. Qualifications: Firearms instructor, police defensive tactics instructor, boat operator, crossed pistol, crossed rifles, diver, counter intelligence[/i]. The list went on and Morton could not help but be impressed by the mans resume. He had no doubt that St Kitts and Nevis was going to come as a rude shock to someone used to an agency that had any sort of budget at all, but the man had skills that the RSCNPF needed, badly. The military budget was even less than that of the police and the defence of the island was increasingly falling on the shoulders of men like him. No one could ignore the sudden uptick in Mexican, American, and Argentinian warships in the region. [i]Languages: English, French, Spanish[/i] Well, that would be damn useful. If the man was willing to learn, maybe he could pick up the local creole quickly enough. It was a mix of those three anyway. It suggested a man of intelligence, but then why would anyone making a good wage and living far from the troubles of the Caribbean want to move into the middle of it. [i]Marital status: Widowed[/i] There it was. Nothing to tie him to the homeland. Morton tossed back the rest of his whiskey and set the paper down. There had been a time, twenty years ago, when white police officer arriving from Britain had been common enough as they rotated through, an upper echelon that had been resented by the local, and primarily black, constabulary. Now the only white faces left in the department were the Commissioner and the Inspector in charge of the Nevis detachment. The island itself, by and large, was still split into two distinct economic groups, the wealthy white patriots from Britain, France, Spain, and America, and the poor sons and daughters of the slaves who had once worked the islands plantations. Granted, a few of those plantations still existed, but everyone knew that the true money these days was coming from the tourists who were flocking to the white sand beaches as the world economy boomed and a thriving middle class began to emerge. Morton himself had attended the University of Oxford, learning the art of business, before returning home to serve his community. He had risen quickly in the ranks and made a name for himself as a resourceful and intelligent leader. Would this new Staff-Sergeant begrudge him the position? Racism was very much alive and well in the former Empire, no matter that slavery had long been abolished. The phone on his desk jangled and he picked it up quickly. "Inspector Morton." "Afternoon sir. The Staff-Sergeants plane is due in thirty minutes." "Right, have the car brought round and I'll go meet him." The car. It was literally just that, THE car. There were only two in the department and he had one, the Commissioner the other. Otherwise everything was conducted with old paddy wagon vans donated by various police forces in Britain. The last one had arrived ten years ago, about the same time the British government decided it wasn't going to return letters from St Kitts anymore. He would have to do something about that. Maybe Clarkson would prove helpful. He rose, pulling on his white uniform coat and reaching for the pith helmet that was balanced on the edge of his desk. The mirror by his door caught the reflection and he paused for a moment. His own hair was salt and pepper now, a strong chin was clean shaven, and his dark skin showed the wrinkles and marks of age. Still, he was a strong man, his chest straining at the uniform buttons, and he had managed to keep the stereotypical gut from growing to large. He pulled the gold coloured chin strap into place, ensured the helmet was seated properly, and stepped into the heat of the outer office. Outside he heard the squeal of the cars brakes; not from an abrupt stop, just old age. Just another thing he would need to try and fix around here.