Someone in Tallinn should be fired by the sound of things.
Polyphemus Member
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Okay guys, as promised, we are up and running. Do not take the length of that post as a standard, that's just me trying to introduce characters and set the mood. Posts should be whatever length you are comfortable with.
If you have not yet posted a character, no worries! Do so at your leisure, I have no problem with people joining after we start.
Also, before you ask, yes, that is Firefly attacking, and yes, Wayne's board is made up mostly of supervillains.
If you have not yet posted a character, no worries! Do so at your leisure, I have no problem with people joining after we start.
Also, before you ask, yes, that is Firefly attacking, and yes, Wayne's board is made up mostly of supervillains.
The protest was gathering strength. What had started out as a small handful was rapidly multiplying, especially now that the television stations had began to cover it. Minute by minute, in spite of the chill winter air, more filtered past the uncertain police blockade and joined the crowd on the steps of Wayne Tower, waving signs and shouting slogans. The homeless, the jobless, the working poor, recent immigrants- the forgotten of Gotham City.
Forty stories above, Bruce Wayne stared down at the gathering, his cold blue eyes reflecting little but mild disinterest. “They look like ants from up here,” he noted quietly.
Nearby, Tom Trigger coughed respectfully. “Boss, all due respect, but I reckon me and my brother here might feel a mite happier if you were step away from that there window,” he said with a gesture to Tad, standing next to him. The two soft-spoken twins were not only physically identical, but dressed the same in an odd combination of business and Western wear, Armani suits with bolo ties and cowboy boots. The two bodyguards even carried the same weapons- specially made single-action revolvers, two apiece.
Wayne ignored the advice of his bodyguard, continuing to look down at the protest gathering at his front door. “What exactly do they want?” he asked of the room, filled with some of his closest corporate advisers.
The men and women briefly gave one another panicked looks behind the back of their boss. Wayne was not asking rhetorically, he wanted answers and solutions. As per usual, the first to respond was CEO Tobias Whale, a hulking mountain of a man with a rumbling voice. An albino, he was frequently called “the Great White Whale” behind his back- but never, never to his face. Whale was too powerful for that. “It seems they're protesting your 'New Gotham' project, Mr. Wayne. Most of the protesters seem to be from the Narrows and Park Row- two of the prime areas selected for redevelopment.”
“We're going to improve those neighborhoods. Don't they know that?” complained Sapphire Stagg. The youngest member of the board, she was occasionally written off as naive and altruistic. Roland Daggett and Warren White in particular could be seen rolling their eyes in response to her outburst. She continued on unabated, however. “We're going to put an end to the drugs and gangsterism, bring new jobs, revitalize Gotham.”
“And in the meantime, dearie, we bulldoze their homes and churches and force them into wee little temporary housing,” replied Edmund Dorrance in his British accent. The COO of Wayne Enterprises was older, but still retained the athletic build and blond hair of youth- he looked twenty years younger than his age. Completely blind from an old war wound, Dorrance expertly made his way around with neither a dog or cane- only his dark glasses suggested his condition. “Short-sighted as it may be, they have the makings of a point there.”
“Be that as it may, let's talk damage control,” Wayne interrupted, eyes fixed on the protest below. “Sapphire, I'd like you to contact Ms. Vale at the Gazette. We need some spin, have her write some editorials in favor of 'New Gotham'. In the meantime, if these people are as blind as that- no offense, Edmund- let's distract them. Noah?”
Noah Kuttler, the CFO of Wayne Enterprises, looked up from his scribbles on a legal pad. Nicknamed “the Calculator”, Kuttler was nothing short of a mathematical and financial genius, a man who did complicated proofs simply to amuse himself. “Mr. Wayne?” he said guiltily, snapped out of his daydreaming.
“Donate a million to some charity. Cancer research, after-school programs, something that'll make good publicity.”
“A million is nothing, sir.”
“It'll sound like a lot to the rabble,” Wayne said with a dismissive wave towards the protest.
As he was giving his instructions, Tom and Tad Trigger both touched their fingers to their ears in identical gestures and listened to the instructions they received over their earpieces. Tad waited politely for Wayne to reach a stopping point before speaking up. “Boss, Lawton just let us know that he's having Victor, your driver, get something less ostentatious than the Jag. We'll be leaving quietly out the back, just in case.”
Wayne nodded, while he wasn't the least bit afraid, he understood the precautions. “One of you call Alfred at home, I want dinner waiting on the table when I return. Any further business?” he asked of the board.
Wayne never got a response. “Christ, what is that?” Roland Daggett cried, jumping up out of his seat and pointing down at the protest. Even from forty stories up, the chaos that was breaking out was easily visible. It was nothing short of a stampede as protesters fled in every direction and panic broke out.
The cause was easily visible. Over the tightly-packed crowd, a bizarre armor-clad figure flew in circles, propelled by some kind of jetpack stabilized by wide metal wings. The man hurled small explosives into the crowd which exploded into balls of flame. As the board pressed up against the windows to watch, the explosions flipped over a police car and flames began to lick at the buildings across the street.
“Alright, folks, away from the window,” Tom ordered, revolvers out and ready. The rest of the board followed his instructions, but Wayne continued to watch.
The cold indifference in his eyes had been replaced by deep interest, and maybe even satisfaction as he watched the armored man attack the protest.
Forty stories above, Bruce Wayne stared down at the gathering, his cold blue eyes reflecting little but mild disinterest. “They look like ants from up here,” he noted quietly.
Nearby, Tom Trigger coughed respectfully. “Boss, all due respect, but I reckon me and my brother here might feel a mite happier if you were step away from that there window,” he said with a gesture to Tad, standing next to him. The two soft-spoken twins were not only physically identical, but dressed the same in an odd combination of business and Western wear, Armani suits with bolo ties and cowboy boots. The two bodyguards even carried the same weapons- specially made single-action revolvers, two apiece.
Wayne ignored the advice of his bodyguard, continuing to look down at the protest gathering at his front door. “What exactly do they want?” he asked of the room, filled with some of his closest corporate advisers.
The men and women briefly gave one another panicked looks behind the back of their boss. Wayne was not asking rhetorically, he wanted answers and solutions. As per usual, the first to respond was CEO Tobias Whale, a hulking mountain of a man with a rumbling voice. An albino, he was frequently called “the Great White Whale” behind his back- but never, never to his face. Whale was too powerful for that. “It seems they're protesting your 'New Gotham' project, Mr. Wayne. Most of the protesters seem to be from the Narrows and Park Row- two of the prime areas selected for redevelopment.”
“We're going to improve those neighborhoods. Don't they know that?” complained Sapphire Stagg. The youngest member of the board, she was occasionally written off as naive and altruistic. Roland Daggett and Warren White in particular could be seen rolling their eyes in response to her outburst. She continued on unabated, however. “We're going to put an end to the drugs and gangsterism, bring new jobs, revitalize Gotham.”
“And in the meantime, dearie, we bulldoze their homes and churches and force them into wee little temporary housing,” replied Edmund Dorrance in his British accent. The COO of Wayne Enterprises was older, but still retained the athletic build and blond hair of youth- he looked twenty years younger than his age. Completely blind from an old war wound, Dorrance expertly made his way around with neither a dog or cane- only his dark glasses suggested his condition. “Short-sighted as it may be, they have the makings of a point there.”
“Be that as it may, let's talk damage control,” Wayne interrupted, eyes fixed on the protest below. “Sapphire, I'd like you to contact Ms. Vale at the Gazette. We need some spin, have her write some editorials in favor of 'New Gotham'. In the meantime, if these people are as blind as that- no offense, Edmund- let's distract them. Noah?”
Noah Kuttler, the CFO of Wayne Enterprises, looked up from his scribbles on a legal pad. Nicknamed “the Calculator”, Kuttler was nothing short of a mathematical and financial genius, a man who did complicated proofs simply to amuse himself. “Mr. Wayne?” he said guiltily, snapped out of his daydreaming.
“Donate a million to some charity. Cancer research, after-school programs, something that'll make good publicity.”
“A million is nothing, sir.”
“It'll sound like a lot to the rabble,” Wayne said with a dismissive wave towards the protest.
As he was giving his instructions, Tom and Tad Trigger both touched their fingers to their ears in identical gestures and listened to the instructions they received over their earpieces. Tad waited politely for Wayne to reach a stopping point before speaking up. “Boss, Lawton just let us know that he's having Victor, your driver, get something less ostentatious than the Jag. We'll be leaving quietly out the back, just in case.”
Wayne nodded, while he wasn't the least bit afraid, he understood the precautions. “One of you call Alfred at home, I want dinner waiting on the table when I return. Any further business?” he asked of the board.
Wayne never got a response. “Christ, what is that?” Roland Daggett cried, jumping up out of his seat and pointing down at the protest. Even from forty stories up, the chaos that was breaking out was easily visible. It was nothing short of a stampede as protesters fled in every direction and panic broke out.
The cause was easily visible. Over the tightly-packed crowd, a bizarre armor-clad figure flew in circles, propelled by some kind of jetpack stabilized by wide metal wings. The man hurled small explosives into the crowd which exploded into balls of flame. As the board pressed up against the windows to watch, the explosions flipped over a police car and flames began to lick at the buildings across the street.
“Alright, folks, away from the window,” Tom ordered, revolvers out and ready. The rest of the board followed his instructions, but Wayne continued to watch.
The cold indifference in his eyes had been replaced by deep interest, and maybe even satisfaction as he watched the armored man attack the protest.
Added some simple equipment and psychology. I can make something a little more superhero-ish if you like.
No, he looks great. Put ol' Wildcat up there!
A heads up for everyone, I'm planning on posting the IC about 24 hours from now. That's not to say characters submitted after that will not be accepted, though- everyone may jump in whenever they feel comfortable doing so.
Poly, I can use Ochoa as an NPC, right?
Sure thing.
Alright, guys, we're moving. Thank you for your patience. Just so you know, my post should not be considered a standard for length- that's just me trying to set the scene. Post length should be something comfortable for you.
Also, a couple images of the Embassy if that'll be of service to you.
Front gate- Loos' current position
Also, a couple images of the Embassy if that'll be of service to you.
Front gate- Loos' current position
THE OUTSKIRTS OF ESMARCION
0912 LOCAL TIME
Six months of civil war. Six long months of fighting the government forces. The hard slog through the coffee plantations up north. Street fighting in Concepción, Valverde's third-largest city. The long fight up the V14 roadway. The last-ditch pounding from the bombers and artillery that remained loyal to El Presidente. And yet throughout it all, morale had been high, the men had remained loyal- a hard thing to come by in this country.
It had all been leading up to this moment.
General Leopoldo Cortes was not a man given to displays of emotion, yet even he could not suppress a slight grin as the fields gave way to houses and low-rise buildings. Even inside his staff car, over the low grumble of the hundreds of APCs and trucks that made up the rebel column, he could hear the excited chatter and occasional cheer of his men as they entered the capitol. The disciplinarian in Cortes wanted to open the radio net, order them to stop and focus. But he decided against it. Scouts were reporting no resistance, the war was nearly over. Let the boys have a little fun.
Here and there, civilians cautiously peeked out from windows or balconies. The braver few stood on the side of the streets, pressing cigarettes, fruit, and other gifts into the outstretched hands of soldiers- a sight that reminded Cortes of historical pictures he had seen of occupied countries being liberated towards the end of WWII. The green, yellow, and red flag of Valverde was waved enthusiastically by some of these civilians. But for the most part the streets were empty. Cortes reluctantly admitted the prudence of staying under cover under the circumstances. Hopefully, once Ochoa was standing trial in the courts, there would be a greater celebration on the announcement of the inevitable verdict. Then and only then would the long national nightmare be over.
Ochoa leaned forwards, tapped the shoulder of his intelligence officer, Jiminez, riding up front and closely monitoring the radio net. “Anything from our forward units?” he asked.
Jiminez shook his head, before removing his headset and hanging it around his neck. “No resistance to speak of. The Military Police barracks at Altamirano surrendered without firing a shot. Oh yes, and we cornered some Blue Helmets. From Pakistan, I think.”
“Tell them to disarm and detain the Pakistanis. If they resist, summary execution of the entire unit. The UN has to understand the consequences of supporting corrupt governments like Ochoa's.” The general's eyes were cold and impassive behind his sunglasses. This was a Valverdan matter in his eyes, any outsiders were unwelcome.
Jiminez nodded as he relayed the orders over the radio. “Anything further, sir?”
Cortes hesitated a moment. He was uncertain about the next command, but anything that might hasten the end of this conflict was welcome in his mind. “Yes. Contact our asset in Esmarcion. Tell him to organize his men and place El Presidente under arrest. I'd like to have Ochoa ready and waiting for us.”
Cortes leaned back in his seat. He wasn't sure how much he could trust Marten Loos- a drug smuggler with a checkered military record wasn't his first choice for a guerrilla leader. But if there was no organized resistance, the Dutch mercenary and his men could at least contain Ochoa until their arrival.
It was almost over.
The general's reverie was interrupted by the sharp crack of an explosion, followed by the heart-stopping rattle of a machine gun. The staff car slewed off to the side of the road, as the trucks and APCs around them began to stop and troops disembarked. Cortes crouched down, the nickel-plated M1911A1 sliding out of his holster. Firing began on both sides as his men responded to the ambush.
Most likely, it was only a handful of diehard loyalists. But their positions were good and they would not be intimidated into surrender. Cortes cursed the circumstances that had forced their advance to proceed solely up this one narrow road.
The ambush would be sorted out quickly enough- but valuable time would be lost in the process.
THE PRESIDENTIAL PALACE
0934 LOCAL TIME
The palace was in an uproar. Staffers rushed to and fro without any clear direction. Some frantically shoveled documents into the old building's many fireplaces. Others yelled into telephones and radios, trying to coordinate with the Army, Military Police, civil authorities, and other entities. More than a few had simply quietly grabbed a few trinkets and slipped out the back- one Estonian peacekeeper had caught a maid trying to sneak out with a $2000 bottle of champagne.
Paradoxically, however, the calmest person there was the one in the most danger. Amongst the chaos, President Augustin Ochoa sat at his desk finishing a cup of coffee.
He was rational. His two sons were studying abroad- Walter in Argentina, Luis in the United States. His wife Claudia had gone to Spain on a “goodwill tour” as soon as the fighting started. Ochoa's family was in no danger, which was a massive load off his mind.
Besides, Ochoa knew he had made the right allies in his time in office. His name was known in Washington and London. Not to mention his connections on the other side of the law. And so Ochoa was calm.
He drained the gold-plated cup, gently wiped his lips with a linen napkin, and then stood up from his desk even as another harried courier laid yet another desperate message on his desk. Ochoa ignored it, and the general bustle. There was nothing to be done, no last-minute defense against the rebel army. He knew this. The least he could do was preserve himself and his hold on this country.
Ochoa reached inside his desk, retrieved the item he had been keeping there for the last five months- a holstered SIG P230 chambered in .380 ACP. In the long and varied history of Valverde, more than one man who had sat at this desk had ended up putting a pistol to their own skull. But Ochoa did not intend to be one of them. Not while he still had benefactors.
He waved to one of his foreign bodyguards, a Russian named Avdeyev. “Please bring the car around. We're leaving the palace,” he instructed calmly as he slipped the tiny handgun into a jacket pocket. The bodyguard nodded, stepped out to carry on his instruction. Ochoa flagged down another scurrying aide. “Garcia, is it? Please tell the civilian staff that they are dismissed. Thank them for their service on my behalf.” Ochoa gave the young man a clap on the shoulder. “Go home and be with your family, Garcia. They will need you.”
Avdeyev returned. “The motorcade is ready, sir,” he reported in accented Spanish. “The security detail is arming up.”
Ochoa straightened his necktie, then walked with as much dignity as he could muster over to one of the Estonian peacekeepers standing guard in the hallway. “I am leaving the palace with my security team,” he said curtly to the foreign soldier. “As I represent the legitimate government of this country, I expect you to accompany me.”
“Where are we going, sir?” Avdeyev inquired, as he checked the safety on the HK MP5K he had somehow acquired in the ninety seconds he had been away.
Ochoa nonchalantly dusted imaginary dust from his lapel. “The American embassy.”
BBC NEWSROOM
“We go now to Simon Wainwright, reporting live from outside the Presidential Palace in Esmarcion. Simon?”
“Thank you, Priya. Moments ago, we filmed several vehicles leaving the Palace- as you can see, a motorcade of eight or nine vehicles including the Presidential limousine and even a white-painted UN truck. This is the first activity of any kind we have seen from the Palace in four days. As yet, the government has not issued an official statement on the fighting in the suburbs, but insider sources speculate that the fighting will soon- are you getting this?”
“What's happening?”
“Priya, a large number of civilian vehicles are gathering at the Palace. They seem to contain armed men, but they are not in any sort of uniform that I can see. They- there! Men are jumping out of cars, they seem to be armed with rifles and handguns. They're running inside the Palace, but they don't seem to be meeting any resistance.”
“Are you in any danger, Simon?”
“No, no, it's all very quiet here. They're looking around, they seem to be asking questions of the staff. I- I think they were after the President. If so, they may have missed him by mere minutes. Now, as you can see, several of these, uh, militiamen are getting back into their vehicles. They're heavily armed, but none of them are wearing uniforms and they're driving normal cars such as you might see on the street. Several of them are leaving, only a handful remain behind. Six men that I can see. They haven't been here more than a few minutes.”
“Thank you, Simon. For continuing coverage of the fighting in Esmarcion, please continue watching. Alternately, log into our live feed at our website, presented by Simon Wainwright.”
EMBASSY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
1037 LOCAL TIME
“Christ, are you fucking kidding me? God verdoeme het,” Marten Loos cursed in Dutch. He reached into the pocket of his jeans, extracted a plastic flask from which he took a sip of cheap rum. The rumors from the gardeners and maids remaining at the Palace had been one hundred percent correct, as it turned out. Peering through the gate from inside his Jeep, he could see the shiny black Lincoln and the white-painted UN truck parked on the other side of the high walls. More importantly, he could see the American flag flying over the complex of buildings. “This is so fucking irritating,” Loos complained as he took another sip of rum. “The stroeme tyfuslijer just had to make things complicated. Had to go running to his big, bad Uncle Sam.”
Loos considered his options. He had about fifty men under his command, armed with grenades and small arms, the odd disposable rocket launcher. The Embassy looked solidly constructed and he would be up against unknown opposition. Simply storming the place was out, at least not until they had a better idea of what was going on. The rebel army could be here in five minutes or five days. Loos took a moment to weigh his options before picking up his walkie-talkie and giving orders to his men. “Alright, muchachos, here's the plan. We're going to form a perimeter around the complex, make sure every exit and entrance is covered. Kobayashi, take some men and get on those high rooftops- I want lines of sight over those high walls and reports every ten minutes. Scan the windows with binoculars, tell me what you see. No one, I repeat, no one is to fire unless they are first fired upon. Our job right now is to observe and contain.”
As his men moved into position, Loos took one last sip of rum and stepped out of the Jeep. He sized up his personal weapons. Two M67 hand grenades, a .38 Rossi revolver, a Glock field knife. And of course his primary weapon, a Walther MPL submachine gun. The same weapon you could see slung over the shoulder of any Military Police in this country as he directed traffic or guarded a government building. Loos grimaced as he took position near the main gate of the Embassy. The place was built like a fortress. He didn't have enough men to take it by force, not without massive casualties.
Loos looked at the plumes of smoke floating over the city, heard faintly the sound of faraway guns. Cortes and his men were making progress, they would be here sooner or later and Cortes expected to be met by a captive Ochoa. The Dutchman thought for a moment before the beginnings of an idea started in his head.
He lifted his walkie-talkie again. “I may have a plan to smoke the old bastard out.”
0912 LOCAL TIME
Six months of civil war. Six long months of fighting the government forces. The hard slog through the coffee plantations up north. Street fighting in Concepción, Valverde's third-largest city. The long fight up the V14 roadway. The last-ditch pounding from the bombers and artillery that remained loyal to El Presidente. And yet throughout it all, morale had been high, the men had remained loyal- a hard thing to come by in this country.
It had all been leading up to this moment.
General Leopoldo Cortes was not a man given to displays of emotion, yet even he could not suppress a slight grin as the fields gave way to houses and low-rise buildings. Even inside his staff car, over the low grumble of the hundreds of APCs and trucks that made up the rebel column, he could hear the excited chatter and occasional cheer of his men as they entered the capitol. The disciplinarian in Cortes wanted to open the radio net, order them to stop and focus. But he decided against it. Scouts were reporting no resistance, the war was nearly over. Let the boys have a little fun.
Here and there, civilians cautiously peeked out from windows or balconies. The braver few stood on the side of the streets, pressing cigarettes, fruit, and other gifts into the outstretched hands of soldiers- a sight that reminded Cortes of historical pictures he had seen of occupied countries being liberated towards the end of WWII. The green, yellow, and red flag of Valverde was waved enthusiastically by some of these civilians. But for the most part the streets were empty. Cortes reluctantly admitted the prudence of staying under cover under the circumstances. Hopefully, once Ochoa was standing trial in the courts, there would be a greater celebration on the announcement of the inevitable verdict. Then and only then would the long national nightmare be over.
Ochoa leaned forwards, tapped the shoulder of his intelligence officer, Jiminez, riding up front and closely monitoring the radio net. “Anything from our forward units?” he asked.
Jiminez shook his head, before removing his headset and hanging it around his neck. “No resistance to speak of. The Military Police barracks at Altamirano surrendered without firing a shot. Oh yes, and we cornered some Blue Helmets. From Pakistan, I think.”
“Tell them to disarm and detain the Pakistanis. If they resist, summary execution of the entire unit. The UN has to understand the consequences of supporting corrupt governments like Ochoa's.” The general's eyes were cold and impassive behind his sunglasses. This was a Valverdan matter in his eyes, any outsiders were unwelcome.
Jiminez nodded as he relayed the orders over the radio. “Anything further, sir?”
Cortes hesitated a moment. He was uncertain about the next command, but anything that might hasten the end of this conflict was welcome in his mind. “Yes. Contact our asset in Esmarcion. Tell him to organize his men and place El Presidente under arrest. I'd like to have Ochoa ready and waiting for us.”
Cortes leaned back in his seat. He wasn't sure how much he could trust Marten Loos- a drug smuggler with a checkered military record wasn't his first choice for a guerrilla leader. But if there was no organized resistance, the Dutch mercenary and his men could at least contain Ochoa until their arrival.
It was almost over.
The general's reverie was interrupted by the sharp crack of an explosion, followed by the heart-stopping rattle of a machine gun. The staff car slewed off to the side of the road, as the trucks and APCs around them began to stop and troops disembarked. Cortes crouched down, the nickel-plated M1911A1 sliding out of his holster. Firing began on both sides as his men responded to the ambush.
Most likely, it was only a handful of diehard loyalists. But their positions were good and they would not be intimidated into surrender. Cortes cursed the circumstances that had forced their advance to proceed solely up this one narrow road.
The ambush would be sorted out quickly enough- but valuable time would be lost in the process.
THE PRESIDENTIAL PALACE
0934 LOCAL TIME
The palace was in an uproar. Staffers rushed to and fro without any clear direction. Some frantically shoveled documents into the old building's many fireplaces. Others yelled into telephones and radios, trying to coordinate with the Army, Military Police, civil authorities, and other entities. More than a few had simply quietly grabbed a few trinkets and slipped out the back- one Estonian peacekeeper had caught a maid trying to sneak out with a $2000 bottle of champagne.
Paradoxically, however, the calmest person there was the one in the most danger. Amongst the chaos, President Augustin Ochoa sat at his desk finishing a cup of coffee.
He was rational. His two sons were studying abroad- Walter in Argentina, Luis in the United States. His wife Claudia had gone to Spain on a “goodwill tour” as soon as the fighting started. Ochoa's family was in no danger, which was a massive load off his mind.
Besides, Ochoa knew he had made the right allies in his time in office. His name was known in Washington and London. Not to mention his connections on the other side of the law. And so Ochoa was calm.
He drained the gold-plated cup, gently wiped his lips with a linen napkin, and then stood up from his desk even as another harried courier laid yet another desperate message on his desk. Ochoa ignored it, and the general bustle. There was nothing to be done, no last-minute defense against the rebel army. He knew this. The least he could do was preserve himself and his hold on this country.
Ochoa reached inside his desk, retrieved the item he had been keeping there for the last five months- a holstered SIG P230 chambered in .380 ACP. In the long and varied history of Valverde, more than one man who had sat at this desk had ended up putting a pistol to their own skull. But Ochoa did not intend to be one of them. Not while he still had benefactors.
He waved to one of his foreign bodyguards, a Russian named Avdeyev. “Please bring the car around. We're leaving the palace,” he instructed calmly as he slipped the tiny handgun into a jacket pocket. The bodyguard nodded, stepped out to carry on his instruction. Ochoa flagged down another scurrying aide. “Garcia, is it? Please tell the civilian staff that they are dismissed. Thank them for their service on my behalf.” Ochoa gave the young man a clap on the shoulder. “Go home and be with your family, Garcia. They will need you.”
Avdeyev returned. “The motorcade is ready, sir,” he reported in accented Spanish. “The security detail is arming up.”
Ochoa straightened his necktie, then walked with as much dignity as he could muster over to one of the Estonian peacekeepers standing guard in the hallway. “I am leaving the palace with my security team,” he said curtly to the foreign soldier. “As I represent the legitimate government of this country, I expect you to accompany me.”
“Where are we going, sir?” Avdeyev inquired, as he checked the safety on the HK MP5K he had somehow acquired in the ninety seconds he had been away.
Ochoa nonchalantly dusted imaginary dust from his lapel. “The American embassy.”
BBC NEWSROOM
“We go now to Simon Wainwright, reporting live from outside the Presidential Palace in Esmarcion. Simon?”
“Thank you, Priya. Moments ago, we filmed several vehicles leaving the Palace- as you can see, a motorcade of eight or nine vehicles including the Presidential limousine and even a white-painted UN truck. This is the first activity of any kind we have seen from the Palace in four days. As yet, the government has not issued an official statement on the fighting in the suburbs, but insider sources speculate that the fighting will soon- are you getting this?”
“What's happening?”
“Priya, a large number of civilian vehicles are gathering at the Palace. They seem to contain armed men, but they are not in any sort of uniform that I can see. They- there! Men are jumping out of cars, they seem to be armed with rifles and handguns. They're running inside the Palace, but they don't seem to be meeting any resistance.”
“Are you in any danger, Simon?”
“No, no, it's all very quiet here. They're looking around, they seem to be asking questions of the staff. I- I think they were after the President. If so, they may have missed him by mere minutes. Now, as you can see, several of these, uh, militiamen are getting back into their vehicles. They're heavily armed, but none of them are wearing uniforms and they're driving normal cars such as you might see on the street. Several of them are leaving, only a handful remain behind. Six men that I can see. They haven't been here more than a few minutes.”
“Thank you, Simon. For continuing coverage of the fighting in Esmarcion, please continue watching. Alternately, log into our live feed at our website, presented by Simon Wainwright.”
EMBASSY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
1037 LOCAL TIME
“Christ, are you fucking kidding me? God verdoeme het,” Marten Loos cursed in Dutch. He reached into the pocket of his jeans, extracted a plastic flask from which he took a sip of cheap rum. The rumors from the gardeners and maids remaining at the Palace had been one hundred percent correct, as it turned out. Peering through the gate from inside his Jeep, he could see the shiny black Lincoln and the white-painted UN truck parked on the other side of the high walls. More importantly, he could see the American flag flying over the complex of buildings. “This is so fucking irritating,” Loos complained as he took another sip of rum. “The stroeme tyfuslijer just had to make things complicated. Had to go running to his big, bad Uncle Sam.”
Loos considered his options. He had about fifty men under his command, armed with grenades and small arms, the odd disposable rocket launcher. The Embassy looked solidly constructed and he would be up against unknown opposition. Simply storming the place was out, at least not until they had a better idea of what was going on. The rebel army could be here in five minutes or five days. Loos took a moment to weigh his options before picking up his walkie-talkie and giving orders to his men. “Alright, muchachos, here's the plan. We're going to form a perimeter around the complex, make sure every exit and entrance is covered. Kobayashi, take some men and get on those high rooftops- I want lines of sight over those high walls and reports every ten minutes. Scan the windows with binoculars, tell me what you see. No one, I repeat, no one is to fire unless they are first fired upon. Our job right now is to observe and contain.”
As his men moved into position, Loos took one last sip of rum and stepped out of the Jeep. He sized up his personal weapons. Two M67 hand grenades, a .38 Rossi revolver, a Glock field knife. And of course his primary weapon, a Walther MPL submachine gun. The same weapon you could see slung over the shoulder of any Military Police in this country as he directed traffic or guarded a government building. Loos grimaced as he took position near the main gate of the Embassy. The place was built like a fortress. He didn't have enough men to take it by force, not without massive casualties.
Loos looked at the plumes of smoke floating over the city, heard faintly the sound of faraway guns. Cortes and his men were making progress, they would be here sooner or later and Cortes expected to be met by a captive Ochoa. The Dutchman thought for a moment before the beginnings of an idea started in his head.
He lifted his walkie-talkie again. “I may have a plan to smoke the old bastard out.”
Alright, I'll get the IC up soon.
@Polyphemus So, can I move my profile to the character tab?
Absolutely.
That goes for all of you- as soon as your character is approved by Pyro or myself, feel free to repost it under the tab.
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