[b]Brussels, Belgium[/b]

	In the situation room, an intelligence watch center located in the OTAN alliance’s headquarters in Brussels, a staff of multinational officers scurried about furiously. Fax machines whirred and printed off pages of documents and reports which were hastily collected to be analyzed by a myriad of different working groups and departments. The buzz of chatter and discussion filled the air as officers talked over plans and new intelligence coming in. The whole office smelled strongly of coffee and the officers, some with five o’clock shadows and bags under their eyes, looked like they hadn’t slept much for days. Televisions played out scenes from across the Atlantic, showing the deteriorating circumstances in Canada as years of pent-up frustration was finally boiling over.

	An assassinated prime minister, someone’s lucky hit with a thrown brick, had unleashed total pandemonium across the country. Militias broke out from hiding, riding the wave of resentment to independently conduct raids and attacks against American outposts and patrols in the occupied country. The streets of Canadian cities had been ravaged by car bombs and improvised explosive devices as a wave of revolution swept across the country. Like the OTAN staff had suspected, it was the Quebecois that kicked off the show: now the resistance groups were finally rolling out to press attacks on American forces.

	[i]Capitaine[/i] Clara Fillion was exhausted, slumped over her desk with her head in her hands as she fought the urge to fall asleep face first into her keyboard. Beside her, a West German colleague reached for a slice of pizza that had been ordered for their cell in lieu of a dinner at the cafeteria downstairs. Too much information was coming in for anyone to leave for longer than a smoke break. She felt her eyes getting heavier as sleep began to overtake her, before the telephone on the desk rattled her awake. Hurriedly grasping for the phone in a startled rush, [i]Capitaine[/i] Fillion answered automatically:

	“CJ3 CAN CUOPS,” she blurted out, announcing her office using the unwieldy military staff designation for OTAN’s international staff planning division, current operations in the Canadian theater. “[i]Capitaine[/i] Fillion speaking.”

	The familiar voice of her staff section’s boss answered her from the other end: “Clara, [i]Colonel[/i] Dupree here. We just got out of a meeting with the [i]Président du CMO[/i]. He’s going up to the [i]Secrétaire Général[/i] to brief him on the situation, but it’s highly likely we’re going to mobilize to go into Canada. Get your team and wait for me.”

	Clara, now wide awake with surprise, hesitated for a moment. “Yes, sir,” she said simple. [i]Colonel[/i] Dupree thanked her and hung up while she spun around in her chair to the West German officer next to her. He stared at her with a raised eye, finishing a bite of his pizza silently.

	“Kohl, the colonel is coming down,” she said, barely containing her emotions. “Big fuckin’ news, I think OTAN is actually going to mobilize for this thing.”

	Fillion jumped up from her chair and walked out to the floor of cubicles that her group worked in, announcing that they all needed to head to the conference room immediately. Her small staff of junior officers and senior sergeants all obliged, and she found herself sitting in the conference room for ten minutes waiting for the colonel to arrive. Just as the clock struck nine in the evening, the door swung open to reveal the tall, slender frame of [i]Colonel[/i] Dupree. She called the room to attention and was quickly told to sit back down.

	“Evening, everyone,” the colonel said. He practically collapsed into his chair at the head of the table. “I just spent a good long meeting with the CMO,” he said, referring to the [i]Comité Militaire de l'OTAN[/i] that formed the highest military headquarters in the alliance. It was unusual enough that a [i]Colonel[/i], a comparatively low-ranking officer for them, was invited there. “And they recognize that we need to act fast with regards to Canada.”

	The staff sat silently. “The [i]Secrétaire Général[/i] is going to make a decision later tonight and then publish the order, and I fully expect our own president to make a statement and give the go-ahead in the morning. In the meantime, the Canada operations staff is getting picked to deploy.”

	There was silence, then soft murmuring between the officers. OTAN had never deployed a battlegroup outside of Europe before. They didn’t realize that there was even a possibility that their staff section could be sent overseas. Fillion pursed her lips and shook her head. She had a husband and two children living in Brussels, what was going to happen to them if she left?

	The colonel frowned, concern washed across his aged face. “I’m aware that this is so sudden, but the situation is worsening by the day and OTAN has decided they need to act to stabilize things before it gets too late. The good news for you is that this is now being picked up as a battlegroup command, which is currently being organized. I’m giving you all a few days off to pack your bags and settle your business here before we deploy. But once you’re back, it’s going to be straight on a plane or a boat or however the hell we’re getting over there.”

	Clara Fillion found herself in her car an hour later, uniform top thrown onto her passenger seat along with her beret and a cigarette between her fingers dangled outside the car window. She kept promising her husband that she would stop smoking, but the army made it harder and harder to quit with every development. At the very least she refused to stink up the interior of her 1987 Renault with cigarette smoke, if only because the carseat in the back of her rearview mirror reminded her of the consequences. She started the ignition, a misnomer of a term now that most vehicles since ‘82 had been produced with hyper-efficient electrical drive systems, and waited the few seconds for the system to start up. 

	Her car’s bulky information display ran through its boot code before displaying a fast-moving screen of maintenance data. All the stats were green, which she assumed meant good: she was an artillerywoman by trade, not a mechanic. The screen skipped to the FM radio embedded in the car console, which picked up the Brussels radio station that she usually tuned to. The soft beat of a hip-hop song played over her muted speakers as she looked into the backup camera display on her mirror and reversed out of the parking spot. She drove on autopilot out the gate of the OTAN compound and turned onto the main throughway that led her skirting around Brussels to her home.

	A million possibilities raced through her mind. The threat of combat was all but nonexistent, the pressing issues of her life were all she could think about. Was her will up to date? How about power of attorney? Did she need to open up a shared bank account with her husband? What about childcare? When would she be able to mail home? Her first son’s birthday was coming up in two months, she would definitely be missing that. The pager in her uniform pants pocket buzzed and she withdrew it to check the message on the screen. It was [i]Colonel[/i] Dupree publishing some info on the staff group page: [i]I just got 7 days of leave approved for all of you, come back once you’ve got some rest.[/i]

	Three minutes later, as she turned into the exit lane for her neighborhood, the pager buzzed again. Fillion waited a minute as she merged into her proper lane before checking the pager. [i]FR President will give a message at 0800 tomorrow – strongly advise watching.[/i]

[b]Paris, France[/b]

	François-Jean de Mer knew fully well that the cigarette and coffee breakfast was a joke among the international community about the French. He chuckled softly to himself as he stubbed out the cigarette, smoked down to its filter, and finished the last of his dark black coffee. With a sigh, he stood up from his table on a balcony outside of the governmental offices in central Paris. He had been up all night, conversing with military commanders and the OTAN [i]Secrétaire Général[/i]. All of the information had resulted in one conclusion: it was time to head back to Canada.

	Through a series of hallways deep within the complex of the office, he was escorted by a member of his press corps. The officer chattered nonstop about optics and tone and how to deliver the script that he, admittedly, had also written all night on short notice. Nobody in the building had slept. Such was life when the world seemed to be buzzing with conflict. [i]Président[/i] de Mer nodded along, staring at the sheet of paper in hand and trying to commit the words to memory as best as he could. A teleprompter would be there, of course, but de Mer talked fast and often outran the words scrawling across the prompter. It had been quite the gaffe back in 1988.

	He reached the podium, the familiar lights shining onto his stage while members of the French and European journalist community filed into the room in front of him. Behind him, the symbol of the French government eloquently occupied a tasteful background. It looked perfect for the television cameras, of which there were at least a dozen pointed at him. Such was life in the seat of Europe’s most important power.  [i]Président[/i] de Mer smiled softly, his trademark way of setting the crowd at east, before clearing his throat: “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I know it’s a little early. But things are moving fast and we need to get ahead of the situation.”

	He confidently shuffled the papers in front of him and sat them down on the lectern. Looking into the teleprompter in front of him, the words of his speech began to flash across the screen:

	“If has been an eventful few weeks for the Canadian nation,” he began. He stood up straight, confidently yet softly reciting the words of his statement: “A miscarriage of justice has enraged the long-oppressed people of Canada, and now they are expressing their frustrations. What the Canadians are feeling now is entirely justified – we have grappled with the reign of authoritarian rule ourselves, and have a long history of revolt against unjust governance.”

	He paused to look around at the press corps ahead of him. “Yet as it has been demonstrated, the current Canadian government has failed to safeguard the safety and security of its people. Basic services and securities have failed across the nation, and millions of people are in danger of harm because of this tragic lack of governance. The international community has long agreed to a declaration that we owe the world a responsibility to protect from tragedies such as this. We saw the great humanitarian tragedies of the Second World War and the worldwide devastation of The Visitation and we agreed that this would be no more.

	It is in concordance with this understanding that France and OTAN are organizing a task force to deploy to Canada as quickly as possible. The world sees the impact of this catastrophe daily on television news and on the Internet. We need to right these wrongs before more of our friends in the Canadian nation suffer. OTAN has pledged to uphold the new standards of international peacekeeping and stabilization. 28 million Canadians need help from the international community, and it is our responsibility to ensure they can live their proper lives.

	I understand that this is the first deployment of OTAN outside of its borders since the alliance was reformulated in 1984. Rest assured, this is the work of almost a decade of planning and structuring to ensure that OTAN carries out the righteous application of justice in the world. We need to be a global force for good, ensuring the safety and stability of people who cannot otherwise fend for themselves. I give my word that France will use her military forces to maximum effectiveness in ensuring the prosperity of the Canadian people. Thank you.”

	He nodded to the camera as the words ended on the teleprompter and the crowd erupted into a sea of raised hands and shouted questions. He was advised, rightly so, to not answer any of them. He waved the press corps goodbye as he left through a stage door on the side of the room and a public affairs officer rushed to the podium to stymie the flow of questions and accusations in the room. [i]Président[/i] de Mer vanished into the backstage of the briefing room, heading back to his office where more reports and plans surely awaited. After all, this was only the beginning.