𝟷𝟸:𝟶𝟷 - 𝚁𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢
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							<h1 class="p-title-value">𝟷𝟸:𝟶𝟷 - 𝚁𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢
	
	

	

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<span style="font-size: 18px"><span style="color: rgb(163, 143, 132)">Boston, Massachusetts<br>
April, 1981</span></span><br>
<br>
<span style="font-size: 15px"><span style="color: rgb(97, 189, 109)">Damond Garnier </span>was by all accounts an unremarkable man. He woke up, exercised, showered, travelled to work on the crowded, thoroughly unpleasant MBTA, and opened the shutters of his unsuspecting convenience store on 71st street just in time for the early morning's first customers. Then, sitting behind the divider at the front of the store, he would proceed to spend most of his day restocking the shelves, ringing up customers, and lazily gazing at the television set he had installed into the corner of the wall opposite his register. By far his greatest achievement with the place, all things considered.<br>
<br>
<i>President Discusses Europe Plan. </i>The flashy red news banner at the bottom of the screen read.<br>
<br>
A son of French refugees whom had fled the old country during the darkest days of the War, the man had never even stepped foot in the land of his parents or grandparents, his only experiences of France having been from the stories of beautiful countrysides he had been told as a young boy, or the stories of German brutality other, newer refugees had shared with him, after they had arrived in the boatloads following that awful day. A balding, red-faced, single, store owner in Boston who was rapidly approaching forty, and who's relationship with his parents, and local French community center were the only worthwhile ones he'd had in years. That was who Damond Garnier was, and two weeks ago, he had been the talk of every news network in Boston for one very Damond reason.<br>
<br>
His store's<i><span style="color: rgb(235, 107, 86)">"No Germans or Dogs"</span></i> sign.<br>
<br>
<span class="horizontal-rule bbcode-horizontal-rule bbcode-horizontal-rule- "></span></span><br>
<span style="font-size: 18px"><span style="color: rgb(163, 143, 132)">Western European Airspace<br>
April, 1981 </span></span><br>
<br>
<span style="font-size: 15px">Soaring high above the stratocumulous clouds of southwestern Europe, a white painted, Navy insignia'd four propeller aircraft made its way to an unknown location.<br>
<br>
"Attention any station, attention any station. This is Foxtail-1 of Patrol Squadron 5 of the United States Navy. Please respond if you are hearing us, over."<br>
<br>
That had been the message Warrant Officer <span style="color: rgb(97, 189, 109)">Andrew Mills</span> had been repeating into his console's radio equipment for the past hour. His P-3 Orion maritime reconnaissance aircraft having been dispatched from the Kitty-Hawk class aircraft carrier; USS America as part of the 6th Fleet's newly designated area of responsibility along the coastlines of Western Europe. <i>"It might practically be a new world over there." </i>He recalled hearing one political correspondent gush about on NBC a few weeks ago. If only that Seattleite pseudo-intellectual was sitting where he was sitting right now, he might not feel the same way.<br>
<br>
"Attention any station, attention any station--" He begun again.<br>
<br>
For months now the news hadn't shut up about Europe. What little information got out of the continent, what Ivan's intentions with the place were, and countless speculations about the resurgence of fascism, or even some new horrifying ideology, whatever that might be. Honestly, despite his profession, Mills wasn't big on geopolitics. He was from rural Missouri, and for most of his life had just assumed that the continent had been reduced to rubble, its people cavemen, and little much else about it, though not due to any evidence based reasoning, but more because of his own personal apathy regarding the situation.<br>
<br>
Sat in the dimly lit back room of the P-3, face illuminated by the variety of flashing lights that littered the instruments in-front of him. He had been ready to once more repeat his prepared inquisition, when he was abruptly interrupted.<br>
<br>
<i>"Atenção, atenção. Foxtail-1."</i> The response begun, the speaker seemingly trying to find his words. <i>"This is the <span style="color: rgb(44, 130, 201)">Galician Air Force</span>. You have.. Entered our.. Our airspace, over."</i> The respondent continued in his best English, Mills quickly switching on the record function of his radio. Washington was gonna love this...<br>
<br>
<span class="horizontal-rule bbcode-horizontal-rule bbcode-horizontal-rule- "></span></span><br>
<span style="font-size: 18px"><span style="color: rgb(163, 143, 132)">CNN Studios, Atlanta<br>
April, 1981</span></span><br>
<br>
<span style="font-size: 15px">"Good evening, I'm <span style="color: rgb(97, 189, 109)">Dave Walker</span> with the Cable News Network."<br>
<br>
So began the six o'clock bulletin from the world's first twenty-four hour news provider, as it did every night at the time when Americans on the east coast were getting home from a long day of work.<br>
<br>
Started less than a year ago by philanthropist Ted Turner, the network had surged to heights comparable only to the other major broadcasters, and had over the past year begun to rapidly expand its operations across the globe, to cover truly global news. Even Dave himself had been drawn to the new network from his old occupation in California by the sleek, modern aesthetic, and already proven business stature of its founder. Lightly fixing some of the papers that laid before him on the large wooden desk that sat just below the frame of the camera pointed at him. He carried on.<br>
<br>
"Tonight's top story comes from Europe, as Press Secretary Speakes announced to the White House press corps this afternoon the successful Navy reconnaissance mission over the Iberian peninsula. The mission, led by a P-3 Orion aircraft from the USS America has been hailed by President Reagan as the so-called <i>'beginning of our return to Europe'</i> And has stated that his administration intends to establish formal diplomatic ties with the apparent government in what was once northern Portugal."<br>
<br>
The introduction, accompanied by video footage of naval aircraft launching from carrier decks, and earlier recordings of the Press Secretary's announcement, quickly switched to Walker's co-anchor, <span style="color: rgb(97, 189, 109)">Lois Hart</span>, a prettier, blonde woman with a bright, professional attire to match.<br>
<br>
"<span style="color: rgb(44, 130, 201)">The Kingdom of Galicia</span> is what the State Department has been referring to it as, and from insider accounts, the European nation appears to have established itself as a democracy. Led by a Prime Minister and an elected party, the specifics of the newly contacted government have as of yet been left vague by the Secretary of State. However sources from the Pentagon have claimed that a friendly, Navy-led first welcoming will be made with the country in the coming days. We hope to have more information within the hour." She finished.<br>
<br>
"In other news..."<br>
<br>
<span class="horizontal-rule bbcode-horizontal-rule bbcode-horizontal-rule- "></span></span><br>
<span style="font-size: 18px"><span style="color: rgb(163, 143, 132)">The Oval Office, Washington D.C.<br>
April, 1981</span></span><br>
<br>
<span style="font-size: 15px">"Gentlemen, what's the situation?" <span style="color: rgb(97, 189, 109)">President Reagan</span> asked, one leg resting over the other in his beige cushioned chair at the center of the room. A line of men sat on each of the two sofas opposing him, all sharing their similar theme in the form of suits and dark green or black service uniforms. As it was most days, the atmosphere of the oval office, of the room that had seen so much history, was one of quiet contemplating and firm resolve.<br>
<br>
"It's our belief at this time, sir, that the situation on the continent is unstable at best." <span style="color: rgb(97, 189, 109)">Admiral Inman</span> replied, his voice holding that strong kind of formality that most military men had when talking to a superior. As Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency of course, it was his job to do most of the talking in these briefings.<br>
<br>
"Well, yes, Admiral. I believe that much we already knew." The President quipped back with a spirit of levity, much to the amusement of the room of normally staunch men. Smirks and chuckles briefly emanating around the once deeply quiet room. And the Admiral himself even looking down with a small--slightly embarrassed smile of his own. Knowing that his statement had without context sounded obvious. Although one slightly raised hand from the former actor was all it took to reign the mood of the room back in. Allowing the momentarily stunted Admiral continue with his verbal report. The silence from the other men swiftly returning as he done so.<br>
<br>
"Initial reports indicate that the Iberian Peninsula is by in large a comparatively stable region, with what appears to be several democratically-inclined governments in function. Our men in Iceland however have told us that the situation on the British isles, and in northwestern Europe is at a much greater risk for future conflict.."<br>
<br>
The President nodded, the Admiral taking the subtle que to finish as the Leader of the Free World processed the information that he had just been given. Hands held together on his lap with fingers entwined as his eyes turned from somewhere in the distance back to his Deputy Director, who sat facing him at the nearest position on the left-most sofa to him.<br>
<br>
"And what do we know so far of that particular situation?"<br>
<br>
"Far less than we'd like to, sir. Other than that there are several diametrically opposed organizations in the region, and with a claimant successor government of the <span style="color: rgb(226, 80, 65)">United Kingdom</span> present on the isles, we fear there could be a potential for fighting to break out with other factions on the island, or even a currently rumored counterpart in <span style="color: rgb(251, 160, 38)">Germany, </span>though this does heavily depend on the capabilities, and will of each participant."<br>
<br>
Fingers now impatiently grasping over his hands as he sat, the President switched legs in his sitting, as one fell over the other in a crossed position. Thinking over his options, he had been elected partly on his promise of furthering the global fight against communism, and he knew all too well that it had not only been his small government economic policies that had made him as popular as he was among the electorate, but just as much his proactive stance on issues of foreign policy. Which, whatever the potential backlash from Congress and the press lest it be discovered, left him with only one option, if he were to stick true to his guns.<br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(84, 172, 210)">"Admiral, I want you to expand our covert operations in Europe."</span><br>
<br>
<span class="horizontal-rule bbcode-horizontal-rule bbcode-horizontal-rule- "></span></span></span></span></div></div>
				
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	<div class="message-userContent lbContainer js-lbContainer " data-lb-id="post-10598852" data-lb-caption-desc="General Deth Glitch · Oct 22, 2020 at 7:36 AM">

		

		
	


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					<div class="bbWrapper"><div style="text-align: center"><b><span style="font-family: 'book antiqua'"><span style="color: rgb(184, 49, 47)"><span style="font-size: 26px">The United Kingdom</span></span></span></b><br>​</div><span style="font-family: 'book antiqua'"><span style="color: rgb(84, 172, 210)">"Prime Minister, this truce with Mosley can't continue."</span> Said Admiral Lewin as he briefed the Prime Minister in Cabinet Office Briefing Room A (COBRA), Government Villiage, Acomb, just over a mile to the west of the centre of York. The building wasn't opulent and it certainly missed some of the heritage and history of the surviving government offices in London but Mosley had managed to take them and make use of them for his own purposes. The assembled personnel had gathered in COBRA to update the Prime Minister and the Cabinet as had become a Monthly occurrence over the past few years. PM Fred Peart sighed, a sigh that showed how this job aged people, a constant balancing act or ensuring the people enjoyed their freedom while keeping the delicate balance of peace in place to avoid what would likely be a long, brutal conflict. This balancing act has ensured that the British Government has had little capability to communicate with the rest of the world as its communication infrastructure was destroyed relying heavily on sending word to nations via sea or air. <span style="color: rgb(84, 172, 210)">"The number of refugees emigrating north into the regions we police has tripled in the last year. The reports of how they deal with so-called 'undesirables' are appalling and it's one thing when it's off in Africa or some such but these are OUR people."</span> Lewin continued <br>
The PM waved it away, he was already well aware of the situation but he also knew what a war would cost <span style="color: rgb(209, 72, 65)">"Hows work repairing Flyingdales?" </span>he went on effectively changing the subject to hopefully better news. <br>
RAF Marshal Beetham chimed in to report on that saying <span style="color: rgb(164, 188, 210)">"It's going well Prime Minister, my understanding is that final checks and tests are currently underway to see if communication can be established with America using satellite networks, we aren't sure what up there is whose or whats in active service but we feel confident that RAF Flyingdale will soon be opening secure trans-Atlantic communication with the US. We are already positioned for Radio and it shouldn't be long before the Various Tracking systems are operational. Provided the US-USSR Situation remains as it was we should be able to use the Early Warning System at Flyingdales, that allowed us to survive as well as we have, as a bargaining chip."</span><br>
<br>
Rawcliffe Bridge 01:13 | Albion - UK Border Town<br>
<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255)">"STOP IN THE NAME OF THE LORD PROTECTOR" </span>Came shouts of soldiers from the south pursuing another band of people, most of minority descent, toward the border. They were approaching on foot pursued by an Albion border patrol. <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255)">"HALT!" </span>Came the cries from behind them as they looked with pleading eyes at the soldiers stationed on the land between the two bridges. They might have cried for help but they were too tired and desperate to waste their breath, instead just choosing to run hoping to cross the border before they were shot... or worse. The soldiers looked on helplessly as the Albion forces slowly caught up with the refugees, another patrol in a Land Rover Defender was also fast approaching to help round up the Refugees but it was beginning to look like some of them might actually make it to the border. The British Soldiers on the north side of the river quickly directing those that crossed to a nearby building where they could rest, warm-up and get fed. Just as about half had crossed safely shots rang out and began dropping those that were yet to cross the border. The guards stood on helpless as they knew their orders but they wanted any excuse to take action and when a stray bullet hit one of the refugees that had crossed the border that was all they needed to take up positions and begin returning fire. The Albion Patrol knew it had messed up as the British soldiers stationed there and, for the most part, stood in tactical positions opened upon them. The ensuing fire fight didn't last long before Albion troops, outnumbered and caught out in the open quickly pulled back but not before a few of them had been killed or wounded. The British forces took on some fire but due to their position and advantage only two of the soldiers out in the open directing refugees were killed in the brief conflict.<br>
<br>
Back at COBRA<br>
<span style="color: rgb(84, 172, 210)">"Prime Minister, I know tensions to the south aren't exactly rivetting stuff to discuss and we would all much rather talk about the weather but there remains another matter. There was another Incident on the Border last night, the third this week and I am sure the Papers are taking it to print as we speak. I am sure you have been briefed" </span>Peart nodded gravely at the Admirals words<span style="color: rgb(84, 172, 210)"> "Two soldiers dead and a soldier is in intensive care and its uncertain if he will survive the night while the fascists lost some of their own in the brief firefight. The Public is going to be clamouring for war if we lose our man and Mosley is likely already rallying his people around the banner of war. I know we have seen worse, even since the bombs dropped but... after the public promise to not 'impede on their border policing efforts' and our assurance that for the duration of the truce we would ensure we wouldn't interfere with their... peacekeeping, as they call it, near our border, politically I don't need to mention how this looks."</span><br>
<span style="color: rgb(184, 49, 47)">"Yes, yes. Seeing as it happened AS they were crossing the border marked as agreed in the truce, our public is going to see it as Mosley overstretching his oppression into our region while their people are going to see it as us trying to forcefully police them and enforce our 'wild ideas of freedom and the like' past our boundaries. In short, the clock is running slow and we are already 10 minutes past midnight. Another incident like that WILL mean war and I am sure Mosley is going to come out of this looking far better then I am. We need to hold back the moment for as long as we can, hopefully, we can get US support to peaceably bring this to an end... So... Tell the soldiers policing the border to... to do nothing unless one of their soldiers cross north and even then the aim is detaining unless the enemy engages first. Even if we witness their soldiers doing their worst right on the border and I am sure Mosley is going to make sure they do."</span> Peart stood and as he did his manner began to change, it was clear he was getting ready to be seen out again and so the new would be watching and photographing so he needed to look commanding, especially as the news broke of the incident. <span style="color: rgb(184, 49, 47)">"Gentlemen, Ministers, I am scheduled to meet with the queen at 2 and it's quite the trek to Harewood, so I shall bid you all farewell. If the Defence Council could meet with me later in the day so we can discuss how we move forward in more detail, otherwise good day to you all."</span><br>
<br>
RAF Flyingdales 13:57 | RAF RADAR and Communications Hub, North Yorkshire<br>
<span style="color: rgb(147, 101, 184)">"Ready Gentlemen?" </span>Wing Commander Hayes said as he prepared to make contact with the US "Let's begin trying all the old lines of communication. Hopefully one of them will still be open after 15 years if not, we improvise. Let us get to it." He ordered. As he said it almost everyone in the room put on headsets and began attempting to make contact all with the same message, hoping for any response <span style="color: rgb(147, 101, 184)">"This is RAF Flyingdales of the United Kingdom. If you receive this message please respond. This is a Royal British Installation. REPEAT. This is RAF Flyingdales of the United Kingdom. If you receive this message please respond. This is a Royal British Installation." </span>As this was going on others in the room were positioning their satellites and monitoring short and long wave radio communication as well as monitoring the surviving RADAR that they can access as their advanced RADAR is yet to be finished. </span></div>
				
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					<div class="bbWrapper"><div style="text-align: center">Kingdom of Denmark​</div><br>
Copenhagen, Denmark<br>
<br>
"Alright what's the situation?"<br>
<br>
"Well, Prime Minister we aren't sure. Our contacts in Iceland have told us that the US has sent some planes to scout out Europe for the first time in decades. It could be nothing...."<br>
<br>
"But it could be something. Gentlemen, this is our opportunity. Years ago, when we first made landfall onto the shores of Iceland, our forefathers prayed for our swift return to Denmark and the re-establishment of our great Kingdom. This is our time. Today, the US is the most powerful nation on earth. And most importantly, they own the variety of lands we need to reclaim our birth right. Our Divine Right.<br>
<br>
"Well Prime Minister, we haven't even spoken to the US since the 1970s when we left. You know Richard Nixon gave us the go ahead to leave and then never spoke to us again once we landed."<br>
<br>
"We're still not sure why communication stopped. I know, minister, I know. We've reviewed this before but we must face the facts. Europe remains a bloodbath. We've just this year, started work on the Forsvar Line. Our navy is finally respectable. We have finally dug our economy out of the hole of nuclear destruction. We are finally net energy exporters. We. Need. This. Send some ships over to Iceland quickly. We must be at the table when America comes back. We are the closest to some of the hottest action in the region. Without a larger trade network, we can kiss our territorial ambitions goodbye."<br>
<br>
"I understand sir, we'll send a fleet to Iceland right away. Of course with the diplomat's attached."<br>
<br>
"Good, a lot is riding on this for me. I promised the return of Denmark. We must deliver."<br>
<br>
"Yes Sir"<br>
<br>
<span class="horizontal-rule bbcode-horizontal-rule bbcode-horizontal-rule- "></span><br>
Elsewhere in Copenhagen<br>
<br>
Bring. Bring. Bring. Slam.<br>
<br>
A hand swiftly pounded the clock and rubbed his face. He began to awake and get his tea. His wife stirred slightly. He glanced towards her and grinned. She was certainly very precious when she slept. Nonetheless, in a few hours she would awake. The kids would be taken to school. And the house would become a flurry of activity. He knew this from that one time last year he nearly died of pneumonia. Now though, it was still dark out. Summer was just beginning to come around but for a while, spring was here. That meant seasonal fishing and the beginning of the thaw of major ice passages. So he put on his clothes, loaded up his boat, prepped his gear, and headed out.<br>
<br>
If you were to witness the routine of Felix Overson, you would not be impressed. He certainly was no expert. And no high level government person. No, he was just a fisherman. With two kids in the local Church school, Church of Denmark of course. Not that he any aspirations for higher level work, like some of those wolves did up in government. He had read the articles. Sure, many had pure hearts. But some just said the right thing to line their own pockets. Nothing changed.<br>
<br>
But while others served the Queen in their own way, he felt that his kids would be brought up in their sacred Church. Nothing against other churches, might even be right. But only Denmark, good Denmark, has the Church of Denmark. And that was all that counted.<br>
<br>
With that thought, he took another whiff of that salty air. Nothing like a good day for fishing. He could smell the fish,....the radiation from the mainland as well. But thankfully, the sea was much less irradiated than the land. Meant when most of the farm land got torched, many took to fishing instead. They also took to oil drilling and factory work as well, but he wasn't as aware of that of course. He waved to Bjorn with his boat which he always docked in Sweden. Thanks to the recent growth of the trade navy, the nation had just started trade with Finland and Sweden. Meant that a fair amount of traffic was operating on formerly quiet routes. It was all fine. Nothing like a little business to get the blood flowing. Now with the news that had leaked from the government that the Americans were flying planes over Europe, he just might get a chance to talk to some Icelanders again. Maybe go fishing up there like he used to before the bombs dropped. Another sigh. It was a good day. A good day indeed.<br>
<br>
<span class="horizontal-rule bbcode-horizontal-rule bbcode-horizontal-rule- "></span><br>
Venstre Headquarters,<br>
Copenhagen<br>
<br>
"Run that by me again?"<br>
<br>
"Well, sir, we've gotten word..."<br>
<br>
"No, no I got that, I mean the government response."<br>
<br>
"Well the fleets are gearing up to move out, to go on standby while a smaller fleet sails for Iceland."<br>
<br>
"And how long is that expected to take?"<br>
<br>
"About a week sir at most. Technically, its not that far."<br>
<br>
"Right,  right. Should make for an interesting year. Gentlemen, elections are coming in December. If this government can secure an alliance with America in that time, they are guaranteed a win. We need to get on board with that. We must be seen supporting this government in its efforts to America. I want our people briefed on making sure to emphasize the good America has done while also hoping for a better tomorrow. I want print, I want radio, i want television. I want it known that we are cautiously if not very optimistic."<br>
<br>
"Sir, the no contact."<br>
<br>
"Listen, right now we don't know why we never heard from Richard Nixon. He promised us contact. It could be any reason. Until we get a confirmation of dastardly plots, we stick to the narrative. The Americans are preoccupied in other aspects of the world. But we must wait until we get word back from the diplomats. If this is a win, we capitalize on it. If this is a loss, well we'll take that road when it comes. But I want our people hopeful. This nation is hopeful. We've finally shaped up the economy and the government remains one of the most popular governments in years. The liberals are a minority party now. We can't loose that. Get our people briefed Jon. This is our time to shine."<br>
<br>
"Yes sir, I'll get right on that."</div>
				
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					<div class="bbWrapper"><b><span style="color: rgb(247, 218, 100)"><span style="font-size: 18px">Basilicata, Cosa Nostra</span></span></b><br>
<br>
During the day the region was quite a sight to behold, the capital, Potenza, sat on top of a mountain, it’s buildings spiraling around the mountainside and overlooking the former wine country below. In its shadow lay the farm of the Vincenzo’s. A beautiful slice of countryside with crops lining the hills and a small cottage in the centre.<br>
<br>
Not far from their house, towards the river, lay a newly converted factory. The Vincenzo’s had worked out a deal with the <span style="color: rgb(147, 101, 184)"><b>Inzerillo’s</b></span> to have their barn space become a workshop for the Clan’s new project, metal scraping. A favour granted by <b><span style="color: rgb(97, 189, 109)">Don Barilaro</span></b> after the passing of his Soldier and the family patriarch, Anthony Vincenzo.<br>
<br>
It was just after midnight on a cloudy night and in the deep black rustling could be heard. Virginia, the matriarch of the family, woke at the drop of a pin. She may have been getting on in years but her hearing was as sharp as ever. Initially believing it to be her boys up to no good, she made the effort to roll out of bed.<br>
<br>
Reaching for her dressing gown, she got ready, lighting a lantern and grabbing her rosary beads. She’d need Mother Mary to grant her restraint if these boys were causing trouble again.<br>
<br>
Slowly she made her way to their room only to find both of them sound asleep.<br>
<br>
“Luca,” she whispered, gently shaking his leg.<br>
<br>
The boy woke.<br>
<br>
“Yes Mama, what time is it?”<br>
<br>
“Late my boy, get your brother up I heard noises coming from the barn.”<br>
<br>
The teen crawled out of bed, rousing his younger brother.<br>
<br>
“Gianni get up, Mama says there might be an animal in the barn.”<br>
<br>
Gianni shot up, almost as if he was never asleep in the first place.<br>
<br>
“Can I shoot it this time Luca? Please, I want to learn, I’m ready!”<br>
<br>
The boys looked to their mother who handed Gianni the lantern.<br>
<br>
“Just go already, it’s too dark outside for nonsense. Luca take the rifle and come straight back, we have too much to do tomorrow.”<br>
<br>
“Yes mama,” they replied in monotone unison.<br>
<br>
Their mother was right, there was definitely something moving around at the back of the barn but it was too dark to tell exactly what it was. Luca was concerned, he had hunted wild rabbits before, even in the dead of night but whatever this was, it sounded much bigger.<br>
<br>
“Luca please, can I…”<br>
<br>
“Shhh,” Luca brought his finger to his lips.<br>
<br>
They were close now, close enough that the light from their lantern was coming into view of the boiler behind the factory. Suddenly, a large figure darted out, still covered by the darkness, running off into the bushes towards the river.<br>
<br>
Luca gave a feign chase, yelling for whatever it was not to come back and bringing his double barrel to his shoulder.<br>
<br>
Gianni on the other hand, un-phased by the figure could still hear noises coming from the boiler. Wandering away from his brother the young boy went to investigate, digging around in the long grass.<br>
<br>
“Luca, I found something! Come quick!”<br>
<br>
Sure that whatever it was had disappeared into the night, Luca jogged over to his brother.<br>
<br>
“Yes Gianni what is…”<br>
<br>
The ground shook as an explosion ripped through the night sky, the fireball could be seen from miles around as the barn was blown to pieces and the area was covered by flames. It was a violent awakening for the city of Potenza and a night to remember for the <b><span style="color: rgb(147, 101, 184)">Inzerillo Family</span></b>.<br>
<br>
<br>
<span style="font-size: 18px"><b><span style="color: rgb(247, 218, 100)">Palermo, Sicily</span></b></span><br>
<span style="color: rgb(247, 218, 100)"><b>Two days later</b></span><br>
<br>
It was a calm day and the Mediterranean shone a beautiful shade of blue under the cloudless sky. A slight breeze picked up the fresh smell of ocean air, wafting it across the balcony of <span style="color: rgb(97, 189, 109)"><b>Don Stefano Bontade’s</b></span> luxurious mansion. There, under the shade of a large umbrella, sat the Prince of Villagrazia, one arm on the table and the other fidgeting with a pen.<br>
<br>
To his right stood his Consigliere, <b><span style="color: rgb(97, 189, 109)">Romeo Esposito</span></b>, in his freshly pressed suit and straight from morning mass. Neither man had spoken a word to each other, instead <span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204)">Romeo </span>stood patiently waiting, ensuring to brush his slicked hair back into place every time the wind tried to mess with it. The two had known each other since childhood, long enough for the Consigliere to know when his boss was in deep thought and not to be disturbed.<br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204)">Stefano</span>, the Don of Don’s, continued to play around with the pen, unscrewing the top and taking it apart before putting it back together. His eyes stared into the distance with a deadpan squint before finally he reassembled the pen one last time. Placing it on the table he exhaled audibly, gesturing to his advisor to approach.<br>
<br>
“What did you find?” he said, still looking out towards the horizon.<br>
<br>
Romeo stepped forward, his hands behind his back hiding something from the view of his boss.<br>
<br>
“The explosion came from a newly made factory just outside of Potenza. The locals in the area claim it could have been a faulty installation but…”<br>
<br>
“But?”<br>
<br>
“Don Barilaro says otherwise, as does the owner of the farm.”<br>
<br>
Stefano shifted in his seat, already aware of the rumours he was not pleased about their confirmation.<br>
<br>
“Who was killed?”<br>
<br>
“Two boys, their mother is all that’s left of the family.”<br>
<br>
“Who was the boy's father?”<br>
<br>
“A foot soldier for the Inzerillo’s, loyal and well connected to the Don. He passed from what they believed to be cancer two years back.”<br>
<br>
“And the mother?”<br>
<br>
“Already taken care of Boss, Don Barilaro has visited her personally to offer his sympathies and he’s moved soldiers in to help take care of her and the property.”<br>
<br>
Brushing over his stubble, the Don nods, “Send her a gift in my name, express to her my deepest condolences and tell her any funeral expenses will be covered by our family.”<br>
<br>
“Yes Boss,” Romeo replied, making a mental note for later.<br>
<br>
“And? What does Don Barilaro say?”<br>
<br>
“Well, he presented me with this.”<br>
<br>
From around his back the Consigliere produced a scrap piece of metal, it’s edges jagged and scorched but in the centre was an inscription. Stefano stood, moving into the sunlight to get a better look before recognising the <span style="color: rgb(226, 80, 65)"><b>German </b></span>print.<br>
<br>
“You and I know where this is from Boss, those traitorous sons of…”<br>
<br>
The Don held up a finger silencing his advisor but nodding in agreement.<br>
<br>
“What did you say to Barilaro?” he said, still flipping around the piece of metal.<br>
<br>
“I told him that these boilers are old, salvaged from the Northerners or from the old regime before the war. Untrustworthy things, a malfunction is just as likely an answer as to why the boiler exploded. But we understand that this smaller family has been causing them trouble and if this is as they say, then it is a great disrespect to have this done right under his nose as he sleeps in bed.”<br>
<br>
Don Stefano smiled.<br>
<br>
“I said that I will bring this to you as a transgression, of course being honest in my thoughts but also you would hear of the Don’s thoughts.”<br>
<br>
“Excellent and there was no mention of the <b><span style="color: rgb(147, 101, 184)">Motisi’s</span></b>?”<br>
<br>
“No Boss, the Inzerillo’s believe it to be the work of this small time family.”<br>
<br>
Stefano turned, facing his Consigliere,<br>
<br>
“I should rename your position as my Frumentarii.”<br>
<br>
Romeo chuckled,<br>
<br>
“You’ve been spending too much time with those fairies in the <b><span style="color: rgb(147, 101, 184)">Cuntrera-Caruana’s</span></b> Boss.”<br>
<br>
Both men laughed as Stefano moved back into the shade. He took a moment to recompose himself once again brushing over his stubble.<br>
<br>
“Ok, call a meeting of the families.”<br>
<br>
Romeo almost took a step back.<br>
<br>
“Boss?”<br>
<br>
The Don shook his head,<br>
<br>
“No, we aren’t going to make our move yet but this issue with the Inzerillo’s needs to be fixed, even if it’s a short term resolution to our long term problem. The meeting will be held next week, at the same time, you will personally accompany the next shipment to <b><span style="color: rgb(226, 80, 65)">Split</span></b>, I don’t want any extra men or any problems with those tribals. This is a fact finding mission pure and simple. This was a bold move against us and there are bound to be mistakes made.”<br>
<br>
“Yes Boss, of course Boss.”<br>
<br>
“Good we need to be nipping this shit…”<br>
<br>
The Don extended his arm, handing back the piece of metal to his advisor.<br>
<br>
“In the ass because the wind is changing direction Romeo.”<br>
<br>
“What do you mean Boss?”<br>
<br>
Don Stefano turned back to the ocean, looking far out into the horizon.<br>
<br>
“<span style="color: rgb(44, 130, 201)">Last night the Americans put out a news story saying they had discovered a new nation in the ruins of Portugal.</span> <span style="color: rgb(44, 130, 201)">This means it won’t be long before they begin to eye up Europe. It also means that the Russians won’t be far behind them and when they come, we need to be ready.</span> It’s time we made some moves of our own, I’ve got plans for us Romeo, plans that will add me to the hall of fame with my forefathers.”<br>
<br>
The Consigliere smiled in admiration, his heart swelling with pride.<br>
<br>
“Now go, do as I have asked and tell Tony that I want a full report from our friends over in the Suez, even with everything going on our operation will not miss one step.”<br>
<br>
“Yes Don Bontade, as you wish.”</div>
				
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					<div class="bbWrapper"><span style="color: rgb(184, 49, 47)"><b><u><span style="font-size: 22px">Building 14 (Kremlin Presidium) - Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR, Moscow, April 1981</span></u></b></span><br>
<br>
<a href="https://www.rpnation.com/attachments/1603447738088-png.798161/" target="_blank"><img src="https://www.rpnation.com/data/attachments/735/735121-a1f36711b151697ca8069f24437ddeca.jpg" class="bbImage " style="" alt="1603447738088.png" title="1603447738088.png" width="100" height="62" loading="lazy"></a><br>
<br>
<span style="color: null">Lists. Lists upon Lists upon Lists. That's all they were getting out of this. Names of the dead, of the wounded of the missing. Equipment numbers, damaged, lost, written off. Those young men had marched off for glory, to solidify the dream of united workers, unabashed by creed, colour or race, and instead all they were doing were producing lists. Blood, sweat and treasure, and just paperwork and body bags to show for it. Each of them had a docket, condensed of course, but Andropov knew that behind the numbers lay the names, the numbers just made it far easier to understand, to actually comprehend the bloody butcher's bill. Softened the blow. Smoke curled above their heads, and ashtrays littered the table, one for each of them. Over the years the culmulative smoke had ruined many of the furniture and fixtures, and endless battle against Soviet cigarettes and filters (or lack of in regards to the latter), every couple of years they replaced what they could, but you could see the damage, the yellowing of the ceiling, the peeling paintwork and wallpaper in the corners of the room. So grand and regal until you knew where to look, then you could see the flaws. Andropov almost smiled. Almost.<br>
<br>
He looked up from his dossier at the men around him, the battlelines were already drawn, it didn't take a genius to see it, the jostling for the pecking order, made worse by the empty chair at the head of the table,  the lack of one man creating more of a stir than any inclusion of another. They had a quorum, even without the head of the body. But then again he hadn't truly been there for 6 years now. Yes he was wheeled out for the social distance, with the cameras kept a healthy distance away, and it was his face that was still plastered in every office building, but Leonid was little more than a leader in name only, yes he signed the documents, but there were some days where he didn't know whether he was signing military papers, economic policy, or fan mail. Leonid had set them on the path, but now he had fallen from it. It was the two men sat opposite Andropov who were keen to make sure that the old man's prescribed route was followed by the letter. Gromyko and Ustinov, military and foreign affairs. Given the intense secrecy that prevailed, they were perhaps two of the most powerful men in the room. The USSR was built upon projection, projection of strength, of one to match the Capitalists dogs to the West. Asia had turned into a political minefield as a result, constant coups and counter-coups, scrapping for puppets and strength in numbers. Of course Andropov was the other side of the coin, whilst they projected strength, it was the KGB who prevented signs of weakness from coming out. Embarrassment. Far more dangerous than a defeat, a defeat could always be spun into a victory one way or another, or you just shut the whole thing. But weakness is an open wound, there to be poked and prodded and sure to entice waiting vultures and scavengers. Hence the war they found themselves in, to prop up a government that was dead on arrival. To fight would cost lives and resources that were quickly running out, but to leave would mean admitting limitations. It was Ustinov who spoke up first. An improvement on his predecessor Grechko, but given Grechko's attempts to move the Nuclear Arsenal up from a defensive measure to a weapon of first resort, it didn't take much.</span><br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(184, 49, 47)">"Afghanistan will continue as long as it will have to. We control the cities and the government, let the Mujahadeen have rule of the countryside for now, we have the airpower, we have the manpower we have the resources. They'll retreat to their caves and then we'll bring the whole lot down around their heads,"</span><br>
<br>
<span style="color: null">Fighting words from a man whose career was constructed on sending others to fight. Andropov's eyes drifted over the latest offensive reports, drives having been made into the Panjshir valleys, 4 helicopters lost, 20 tanks, and 178 casualties in total. Of the insurgents claims of over 500 dead, but still the valley was considered hostile territory within a fortnight of the cessation of operations. The Soviets drove out of the cities, and the insurgents fled, the Soviets left once more, the land handed over to the Afghan government, and then within a month the whole cycle had to repeated as it slipped from their control once more. 2 years in and no end was in sight, the government was theirs but by and large the country was not. 1939 had sealed Soviet foreign policy for the next 40 odd years however, the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact had secured their western borders and set their eyes on Asia. Decades of political thinking that Asia was key, decades of proxy wars and maneuvering against the states, soon Europe was forgotten, not just in nuclear fire, but also in the eyes of successive Soviet Premiers. Now however it appeared to be coming back into play, the American's were making moves. The Soviets knew of course of the truth behind the continent, it was still their back garden, even if it was an overgrown and neglected one. It was the reasons the Americans had been stopped when the first bombs fell. But now they knew that Soviet heads were turned eastwards to this Afghan backwater, pouring resources into a situation that continued to stagnate by the day. As such it was the next docket that interested him the most, CNN transcripts, policy extracts. The American European Dream.  Andropov cleared his throat as he shuffled his papers, bringing silence to the room. They may all be equals within the halls of the Presidium, but as Chairman of the KGB, he could always maintain an aura of authority, it may not overwhelm those like Ustinov and Gomyko, but even they knew that it was best to toe the line when the KGB was involved, natural bedmates when it came to forming the Troika, controlling the USSR inside and out.</span><br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(65, 168, 95)">"Afghanistan will of course be maintained as a priority, a Socialist ally besieged by religious extremists and feudal barbarians backed by Capitalist America will always be there to receive our aid. However it appears that events threaten to overtake us in a long forgotten and neglected field, one that we hoped would remain little more than a irradiated slag heap,"</span><span style="color: null"> The room was momentarily filled with the noise of papers being turned and flattened as Afghanistan, for the first time in months, was momentarily forgotten and put aside. </span><span style="color: rgb(65, 168, 95)">"<i>Tonight's top story comes from Europe, as Press Secretary Speakes announced to the White House press corps this afternoon the successful Navy reconnaissance mission over the Iberian peninsula. The mission, led by a P-3 Orion aircraft from the USS America has been hailed by President Reagan as the so-called 'beginning of our return to Europe'</i></span><br>
<br>
Andropov lowered the paper and stared about the room, <span style="color: #41a85f">"Beginning of our return to Europe. This is not some intercepted cable, or gleamed knowledge from a in-bedded agent in the halls of power. They are declaring this on CNN, 6 o'clock for the whole world to hear and see. They are opening an old front gentlemen, to be expected really, Regean made his position known early, a crusade against communism, his continued support of the Afghan Mujahideen, and now Europe. And we are not ready,"</span><br>
<br>
<span style="color: null">Ustinov reddened at this comment, but Andropov was quick to continue before the Minister could retort. </span><span style="color: #41a85f">"This is a situation that we are guilty of making just as much as our predecessors. We have fallen behind, Europe should have been an opportunity, The British and Germans felled with one stone, but instead we allowed it to pass us by, and now the Americans plan to worm their way in.  We can not allow them to proceed unmolested, already I have drawn up a number of potential measures, if you would turn to page 11"</span><br>
<br>
Gromyko was already raising an eyebrow as his eyes went over the documents. <span style="color: rgb(251, 160, 38)">"And you did not think to include myself and Minister Ustinov when coming up with these ideas Chairman Andropov? Did you not think that this was beyond even your remit?" </span>Despite the measured tone, Andropov knew that behind the facade Gromyko would be fuming, unfortunately time was not a luxury that they could afford.<br>
<br>
<span style="color: #41a85f">"Apologies Minister Gromyko, of course the final decision rests with this wider body, But initial steps must be taken, we can not waste time debating or arguing. The wider picture we still have time to draw, but a response is required. The latter pages you will see more in depth reports from a number of agents on the lay of the European Land. But for now we must send the message, Europe is not America's playground,"</span><br>
<br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(243, 121, 52)"><b><u><span style="font-size: 22px">2 Weeks later, 40,000 Feet above the North Sea</span><br>
<br>
<span style="font-size: 22px"><a href="https://www.rpnation.com/attachments/1603447713825-png.798160/" target="_blank"><img src="https://www.rpnation.com/data/attachments/735/735120-c633df26fcc098fdf7745140c2950b6d.jpg" class="bbImage " style="" alt="1603447713825.png" title="1603447713825.png" width="100" height="54" loading="lazy"></a></span></u></b></span><br>
<br>
<span style="color: null">The noise was truely tremendous within the confines of the plane. Lieutenant Formin made his way back into his seat in the cockpit, strapping himself back in. Through the glass ahead of him he could see the last tendrils of sunlight dipping below the horizon. 6 of them were cramped onboard the TU-95, pressed together in a plane that was designed to be a long ranged, high altitude and serve as a bomber, maritime patrol craft, and a flying radar station, the crew's needs came after all of those. 6 hours into their trip, just about coming up to the halfway mark now. Formin pulled his headset into place, taking his position at the communications console. The Captain and Co-Pilot gave him little more than a nod, they were approaching their target now. Flights over Europe has been little more than a scattered occurrence before, a cursory check for American activity, not that there ever really had been. All changed over the course of a fortnight, Squadrons that had spent years out East were shipped and flown back to long disused airfields in the West of the Country, Stalin era graffiti still on the barracks and walls to greet them. Formin didn't complain, a thousand miles closer to home and the weather was a damn sight better too. They'd taken the long way round, skirting around the edge of the Arctic Circle, the dead wastes below them, and near frozen in their seats, their breath frosting before them. As they cruised above the North Sea, the weather was almost balmy in comparison. He's been taking in the view mostly, the console had remained silent save for the progress reports he was sending every hour, no update other than grid co-ordinates on each one. A grainy green line hummed before him on the screen, the illusion of movement coming from the flickering light, but it remained still. A dead continent by and large, that's what the news and politicians had always said. Destroyed by power hungry imperialists, struggling to remain relevant past their sell by date. What a waste.<br>
<br>
He was stirred from his musings however as feedback sounded over his headset. His training kicked in and he leant over the console, hands flying to dials and levers, isolating and improving the sound quality. </span><span style="color: rgb(235, 107, 86)">"Contact Captain. Active radar pings coming up, someone's lit us up out there. Nothing on our instruments, its got to be ground based. Also receiving some sort of radio transmission, trying to isolate it," </span>After a few moments it came through clear, the clipped British accent, sounding like it had come straight out of Charterhouse. Captain Jurlenko simply nodded and proceeded to bank to left. The British, or whoever was left, knew they were there now. Inside Radar range, but far away enough to not constitute an immediate threat. Their course now took them parallel to the British Isles, following the coast and retaining their distance. They weren't attempting to hide themselves, it wouldn't take more than a cursory glance from any investigating jet, or a half decent radar operator to know what model they were flying and so where the plane was from. He knew that this wasn't a real reconnaissance mission, this was a statement. And up and down Europe, this statement was repeated, as blips appeared at the extremes of the various states radar systems, just outside of their air spaces like some looming specter.<br>
<br>
(<a href="/members/general-deth-glitch.17501/" class="avatar avatar--xxs" data-user-id="17501" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" id="js-XFUniqueId20">
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		</a> <a href="/members/general-deth-glitch.17501/" class="username " dir="auto" data-user-id="17501" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" id="js-XFUniqueId21">General Deth Glitch</a>
 @all other factions essentially)<br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(0, 168, 133)"><b><u><span style="font-size: 22px">Linz, Austria</span><br>
<br>
<span style="font-size: 22px"><a href="https://www.rpnation.com/attachments/1603449688191-png.798164/" target="_blank"><img src="https://www.rpnation.com/data/attachments/735/735124-5e326584bb26731d2b804784fede1437.jpg" class="bbImage " style="" alt="1603449688191.png" title="1603449688191.png" width="100" height="55" loading="lazy"></a></span></u></b></span><br>
<br>
<span style="color: null">Unlike the crews of the TU-25s, the passengers aboard the Ilyushin Il-62 could not complain about a lack of luxury or comfort. The late morning sun was shining through the windows, and breakfast was in the process of being cleared away. Unlike most passenger jets, the insides of this particular plane was not cramped with rows upon rows of seats. Instead there were effectively armchairs, offices and tables, even a conference room towards the rear of the plane. This Il-62 was one of 5 in the inventory of the Soviet Air Force, specially updated and earmarked for official government use, a suitable vehicle for state visits. The VIP in this instance wasn't a politician, or at least he hadn't been for some time. The last time he had graced Europe with his presence had been some 40 years prior, and age had left him unscathed. His coat seemed several sizes too large for him, and liver spots now dotted the skin that was visible. But his eyes still shone with a sense of excitement, and the trademark mustache was still there, now a somewhat regal white. For too long he had been pushed behind the scenes, Khrushchev had seen to that, a forced retirement. Even Brezhnev had by and large forgotten about him, and made the USSR forget too. But he was coming back, even now in his twilight years, a robust 91 years of age. He's survived them however, outlived the lot, Stalin, Khrushchev, Beria,  even Zhukov the old warlord. There was a bump as the plane touched down, and he let out a groan as the jolt went through him. Old bones now. Almost the last of the old guard. One of the soldiers onboard came before him, Khodemchuk he believed his name was. </span><br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(61, 142, 185)">"The stairs are prepped and ready sir, do you need assistance or..."</span><br>
<br>
<span style="color: null">The old man chuckled and pushed himself to his feet. </span><span style="color: rgb(184, 49, 47)">"This old dog doesn't need a helping hand thank you very much."</span><span style="color: null"> The walk to the doors was short, but the trepidation fluttering in his chest grew steadily. Back on the stage, at the heart of things, brought out of his dusty datcha and brushed down to be presented once more, to represent the USSR on the world stage. It had been some time. Did he still have it in himself?<br>
<br>
He emerged into the light, and was met with a barrage of noise. The band to one side of the platform struck up, the opening chords of the State Anthem of the Soviet Union ringing out across the runway.  Before the steps lay a huge crowd, banners hung from the walls of the terminal building and lights, all bearing the Armanen Runes that were recognisable in Europe for so many years, even after the nuclear war. The two lightning bolts. A symbol of power and strength on continental Europe, not quite a friend, but not an adversary either, and they so easily could have been. It had been the old man who had lent his name to that agreement so long ago that had bridged the gap and brought about a strong and lasting peace where others had only seen war as the outcome. He finished his descent, being met by a black uniformed gentleman, they shook hands and embraced for a moment, before making room for the old man to approach the lectern that had been set up before him, numerous microphones in place, and photographers surrounding it. He made his way up, his hand momentarily moving to his breast pocket and the speech that was within. His hand fluttered there for a moment, before grasping the lectern, the paper put aside and forgotten, and he began to speak, his Russian accent thick, but his German was still understandable.</span><br>
<br>
<span style="color: #b8312f">"Friends, it has been too long. It was Moscow where our shared history was made, it warms my heart to finally make a return trip. It may not be Berlin, but they say that like the USSR, the heart of the Reich lays with its people and not in its geography. There was a time before the Western onslaught, where out two nations stood hand in hand, and with that co-operation we reached new heights. Europe stood as shining example throughout the world, of what could be achieved, we forged this together. It was the British who jeopardized this dream, their crumbling Empire could not survive the 20th Century, so what did they do? They could not build so they destroyed, the brought a whirlwind of fire and fallout to the continent, their jealousy manifesting as fury and hubris, lost themselves to a war of their own making. They did not see what I see before me now thought. Survivors, fighters, dreamers. You stood on an ashen continent and said no, this was your home, and shall be forever more. I am here to say that the USSR does not forget its friends. What was said still remains true. Whilst I, Vyacheslav Molotov remains still drawing breath, and whilst the USSR continues to battle the Imperialist West, our alliance remains true, the Supreme Soviet will stand with the Reich, and the other people of Europe to see that American and British Tyranny will be consigned to the past, and Europe will return to whom it belongs to. Europe for Europe, as you have done she will rise from the ashes!"</span><br>
<br>
As Molotov raised his hands, the cheers and applause rushed over him like a wave. It was good to be back.<br>
<br>
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					<div class="bbWrapper"><span style="font-size: 22px"><span style="font-family: 'Aldrich';">Hannover, Germany <br>
April, 1981 </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Aldrich';"><br>
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	</div><br>​</div><span style="color: rgb(61, 142, 185)">“You’re nuts if you think he would sign off on that. Absolutely insane. Maybe Erhard is right about you, Brandt. It is about time you stop with your little fantasy and attend to reality. You dream of elections! Elections! Can you not see what state we are in? Are you blind, Brandt?”</span><br>
<br>
The air of the office penetrated the young Colonels throat. His every urge wanting to gag at the smoke being blown at his face. The so called politician sitting in front of him, treating him like a child asking for an extra five minutes before bedtime. He was right, of course. <span style="color: rgb(209, 213, 216)">Tresckow </span>would never agree, but this wasn’t about <span style="color: rgb(209, 213, 216)">Tresckow</span>. <span style="color: rgb(209, 72, 65)">Colonel Brandt</span> wanted to get the measure of the men whom he would be fighting against in the coming months. He had his first card.<br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(209, 72, 65)">“I am perfectly aware of our state,  Erich. I have been well aware of our “state” for the past few decades. It was about time you woke up to reality.”</span><br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(61, 142, 185)">Erich Mende</span> was <span style="color: rgb(61, 142, 185)">Erhard's</span> deputy. A sycophant, but a pragmatic one. He had spent a vast amount of time establishing connections to all parties so that when the time came <span style="color: rgb(61, 142, 185)">Erhard </span>could ascend the throne like a mighty Emperor. <span style="color: rgb(209, 72, 65)">Brandt </span>loathed the man. A spineless creature whose life has been spent in subservience to others.<br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(61, 142, 185)">“No. I will hear no more of this, Colonel. Not a single one of our signatures will be on your petition to the President. Leave my office if you have nothing concrete to propose. I am a very busy man and herr </span><span style="color: rgb(209, 213, 216)">Stauffenberg</span><span style="color: rgb(61, 142, 185)"> has scheduled a meeting.”</span><br>
<br>
A clear threat. He wanted <span style="color: rgb(209, 72, 65)">Brandt </span>to beg. To get his knees and grovel for a place in the next administration. Were they really willing to partner with the military? He doubted it. He doubted it very much.<br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(209, 72, 65)">“Then tell </span><span style="color: rgb(209, 213, 216)">Generalfeldmarschall Stauffenberg</span><span style="color: rgb(209, 72, 65)"> that I regret not being able to see him at this time, and that I wish him all the best for the future.”</span><br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(61, 142, 185)">Mende </span>waved his hand at the <span style="color: rgb(209, 72, 65)">Colonel </span>in the universal sign of “fuck off” which <span style="color: rgb(209, 72, 65)">Brandt </span>complied with.<br>
<br>
It was a good meeting. <span style="color: rgb(209, 72, 65)">Brandt </span>had gotten the measure of an opponent.<br>
<br>
This was his third such meeting in the past month. He had met with <span style="color: rgb(209, 213, 216)">Stauffenberg</span>, and the man refused to acknowledge him as anything less than an army officer who serves underneath him. <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0)">Hartmann </span>was...much worse. For a fancy pilot he knew many insults.<br>
<br>
Deep behind it all, however, <span style="color: rgb(209, 72, 65)">Brandt </span>knew something they dreaded. They meant nothing. Forty years ago perhaps they had some semblance of influence over the people. Now they were just trying to be relevant once more. <span style="color: rgb(209, 213, 216)">Generalfeldmarschall Stauffenberg</span>. He was a Generalmajor at best. At worst he was a mere Colonel like <span style="color: rgb(209, 72, 65)">Brandt </span>was. An old one at that. Time was the great equalizer, and in the eyes of the German people he was just as important as all of those with delusions of grandeur. They lived in the past, as did their Reich. <span style="color: rgb(209, 72, 65)">Brandt </span>had seen the rotten disease for what it was years ago, now the German people had caught up to that point of view. Party men clinged to the idea so that they could be powerful. They could tell the radioactive wastes how powerful they were to their faces. Time. Time was on his side. And time was the great equalizer.<br>
<div style="text-align: center"><br>​</div>-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br>
<br>
<span style="font-size: 22px">Hannover, Germany<br>
April, 1981 </span><br>
<br>
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<br>
<span style="color: rgb(209, 213, 216)">Tresckow's </span>head bounced off the headboard of his bed. Bang. Bang. Bang. The voices around him filled the room with loud shouts and feverous nodding. These meetings always seemed to drone on into the afternoon hours. They rambled on about the Reichs new objective, it’s new goal. As if he would be around to see it.<br>
<br>
The President lifted himself up, a coughing fit overwhelming him as a doctor took another of his many blood tests. A pointless affair. He knew he was dying, they knew he was dying. He could see it in their eyes. He could feel it in his bones.<br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(209, 213, 216)">“Enough. Enough. I have only so much will to live, and each moment you continue a little more drains out of me. These meetings must knock a month off what I have left.”</span> He chuckled to himself, as no one else around him made a sound. Their stares burrowing into him like a mole digging through the earth.<br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(209, 213, 216)">“Our goals right now are not expansion. They are not trade. They are survival. I’m dying. You know I am. Stop pretending this issue is not an issue. I will not leave this to the wolves to decide. You are my cabinet, damnit! I appointed you to guide me. I appointed you to help me. Start doing it for a change. I am not the man I once was. I can’t even leave my bed. I want names. Names of those who could follow me. I want everything you have about them, unblemished, just facts. I want their supporters, I want their influence.”</span><br>
<br>
The needle entered his arm, the prick making him jump. He had always hated needles.<br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(209, 213, 216)">“They can decide what our goals are. They can decide whether we expand. Me? I will decide who they are. I am President. I am even Führer.”</span> He hated that word. Sometimes he needed to use it. <span style="color: rgb(209, 213, 216)">“I have had enough of everyone scurrying around like rats as they try to undermine each other so that when the time comes they can trample over my corpse. I will make my influence known before I depart this life. You have my word on that. Now, get me my names.”</span><br>
<br>
The lesser Ministers shuffled out the room. Mumbling to each other about things he could not quite pick up, his hearing having been damaged by a grenade during the first war. All that was left behind was the Chancellor.<br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255)">“You need to work on your decorum, old friend.”</span> The tired voice of the 94 year old <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255)">Admiral Canaris</span> reverberated around the room. Even in his old age, the power and respect that came with it being well known to all.<br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(209, 213, 216)">“I will when they do.” </span>Came <span style="color: rgb(209, 213, 216)">Treckow's </span>reply.<br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(209, 213, 216)">“What will they say of me, Wilhelm? What is my legacy? Will Germany even survive me?”</span><br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255)">“They will say nothing. The men who will follow you will sing your praises when it is convenient, then when they rule they will forget you and consign you to minor thoughts. Just like Hindenburg, remember him? Blasted fool.”</span><br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(209, 213, 216)">“So then what? I lived for nothing. I die for nothing?”</span><br>
<br>
<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255)">“No, Henning. You lived for Germany and no man can take that from you. As for dying, you can change everything. They will never admit it, they will never mention you again, but the man you lend support to can change the destiny of a people. You can choose the future Henning. You! An old General cast aside by the old regime. You control it all! Have hope, friend. When we go, we must make sure we have picked wisely. Now you rest up, I will get you your names.”</span><br>
<br>
The President sighed with a weariness that burrowed deep into his bones. Time wasn’t on his side.</span></div>
				
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					<div class="bbWrapper"><div style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'MedievalSharp';"><span style="font-size: 26px">New Asgard, Midgard </span><br>
<span style="font-size: 18px">The Halls of  Lecanuetson<br>
Dawn</span></span><br>
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The crows rose with him, fluttering with their shrouded wings into the sky, while he stood - his aging back bowed not like the rest of the old - few they may be. His face looked not like it did when he was younger. Eternally stern, dark eye now moving over the figures assembled before his throne of gold and wood, in his halls of metal mutedly agleam in the pale light of the morning. The table be already filled in surrounds with men, strong in body and will - eyes keen in their tutored savagery.<br>
<br>
The Council of Chiefs come before the prophet.<br>
<br>
Sometimes imagined himself that god instead, looking along his peers... were they? Had Ragnarök come so unknowingly, and this be the world remade? Did those cold times show the passing of the world, and not the wading of oars towards that glorifying doom... And left to that, was he the piece lay within the grass arisen once more? The cycle is again. Odin anew? Or Odin still? Whatever that semantic frivolity, could he imagine them that? Assembled by no will other than his. As peers? No. Fools? Perhaps - but was that not the measure of the world always. For the mind working there was to be a thousand bodies breaking. Thousands? Could his frayed imagination still think so small?<br>
<br>
Millions then... Billions, even. The thought made his stony visage offer a grin, and he found it infectious - the men surrounding him feeling that call. The call to worship. And there was only so many ways to worship War. But worship above... or worship him? Did these things matter anymore?<br>
<br>
He stood ahead for he had wisdom enough to stand aside and watch his... his <i>peers</i>... wipe each other out grabbing towards a throne he had made for himself. The culling had been a necessary and necessarily bloody affair. The mythology of power was inked in time and blood. Yet for all his cunning and forethought he wondered at himself - as the sight before him lay cut in half, and shadow overwhelmed parts of his mind.<br>
<br>
It was easier to think. It was easier to not get distracted. Was that what the Allfather found in his blinding. The ken of worlds and words... Was all that but the measure of thought now apparent to him. Did he, Jean-Snorri Lecanuetson - become wise? Being of minds split. One cast in light, terrible in wrath and devotion tp curiosity, the other dark, cold in the logics of war and murderous intent.<br>
<br>
Or perhaps wisdom lay in his knowing the inverse. A fool cuts out his eye. The wise work the fields for winter.<br>
<br>
His smile grew.<br>
<br>
<b><span style="color: rgb(26, 188, 156)">"Arise - and welcome our brothers in blood and bonded be you all here - in ties - fate's golden thread lead you through time to death and halls beyond."</span></b> He lazily gestured for the two younger men standing by the door, to enter. The rest of the room, who had risen with him turned to the newcomers - the two bright eyed youths sitting in the two empty chairs left at the table.<b><span style="color: rgb(26, 188, 156)"> "Take now your thrones - chief among your people - brother among your peers - servant under your gods."</span></b> The two bowed their heads to him, his voice large and welcoming, if domineering in its presence. One of the other chiefs laughed, placing an arm around the taller boy's shoulders. <b><span style="color: rgb(84, 172, 210)">"Don't get too comfortable. I think you can still feel the seats warm where their asses kept it!"</span></b> The room rose in humor while the men sat down, drinks served to them, their leader allowing for the mirth. <b><span style="color: rgb(26, 188, 156)">"Your brothers bequeath you their seats on this moot - their seats at the tables of the Allfather now filled, feasting for the day."</span></b> The newcomers seemed to take that as a warm enough welcome, chatter rising - and Lecanuetson listened intently.<br>
<br>
Every word was valuable. Every joke was accounted for. Every insult catalogued. Some were wise to his ways, and remained quiet. Some wiser still , spoke loudly of nothing at all. Some seemed to care little for these measures taken to honey over the loss and the grief. But the comradery was practiced and the ritual was to be observed. In ritual there was power. He turned his head to the side then, raising his hand, the palm calming the fervor and taming the championed bravado. <b><span style="color: rgb(26, 188, 156)">"Now, to continue matters."</span></b> He breathed out, as one of the chiefs stood. The man was tall, his hair braided behind his neck, and his eyes bright. It was apparent to all there however, that he was no warrior, his clothes too clean, and his arms too thin. Yet he sat at the right hand of the Prophet, and he always spoke first.  They would quiet for him.<br>
<br>
<b><span style="color: rgb(247, 218, 100)">"The outliers of our reaping have proven no challenge, but I return to the matter of dread. Our Black Ichor runs low, and our ships grow in size and number as if the branches of Yggdrasil itself. And more so, they are sent out on matters of low measure - rushing up and down our coast as if the scurrying's of Ratatoskr itself. Were they carrying the words between our allies and our enemies they would be championed in my voice... but to raids of resources we can produce here in equal measure-"</span></b> He stopped speaking as a taller man, cut with scars across his arms and his shoulders broad - his voice deep. <span style="color: rgb(84, 172, 210)"><b>"We perform the deeds only of the Prophet. Challenge our deeds and challenge the will of Lecanuetson!" </b></span>He turned to the quiet leader who watched the two as they stood across each other. They had been infighting, quarreling like children over who did more and deserved the larger piece of the cut.<br>
<br>
But one was a thinker. And the other a doer. One was wise. The other not.<br>
<br>
Lecanuetson looked between them and frowned. It was like he could never decide which. He breathed out, having them settle down with another wave of his hand.<b><span style="color: rgb(26, 188, 156)"> "Our forces rise, the men of conquered lands hearing the call of the Valkyrie. The horns of war bellow loudly, and the soul feels what the ears might never hear."</span></b> He remained quiet for a second more. <b><span style="color: rgb(26, 188, 156)">"We can ready food for what future that may never come. Yet we take from them that same again what me might need. The needs of mortal men are same in all. Taking from them, we feed ourselves, and starve them. And starving them, means we can take what we need beyond. Take their ichor."</span></b> He rubbed his chin, thinking more. The two men, still simpering glowered, but listened. <b><span style="color: rgb(26, 188, 156)">"Turn them, the raids to use. Take not just what ships carry but ships themselves. Learn from them their value, devour the ones we need not, study the ones we do - and feed our fleet with theirs."</span></b><br>
<br>
He sat back in the chair, as the room started talking further.</span>​</div></div>
				
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					<div class="bbWrapper"><div style="text-align: center"><span style="font-size: 18px"><b>Dublin</b></span><br>
<span style="font-size: 15px"><b>April 1981</b></span><br>​</div><br>
Taoiseach Charles Haughey sits in his office in Dublin, looking over a few papers, many of them the usual documents about the state of the nation. However, two are of unique interest to the Prime Minister. A simple letter to his counterpart in York, as well as an envelope, addressed to him from the President of the nation, Patrick Hillery. Charles picks up the envelope and, with a deep breath, opens it. The letter is rather ordinary. Why the President couldn't simply be there in person, the Taoiseach had no inclination of an answer to. Though from reading the letter, it does answer a few other unanswered questions. One of these being obvious, what is the letter about? Within the text, Hillery lays out a plan for the establishment of an Irish funded education system that could potentially replace the current system. The letter goes on to say, the planned system would be one spanning the British Isles and would encompass all nations on the islands. Clearly, the President simply wishes for the opinions and the advice of Haughey. He wrinkles his brow as he thinks about the prospect of this system. Though he believes it to be a rather interesting plan, he doesn't wish for his nation to act like saviors to the isles, simply because their nation was able to largely stay intact. He then takes a look at the letter he has penned to Thomas Frederick Peart, the Prime Minister of The United Kingdom. Within this letter, he wishes the leader well and further establishes the friendship the two nations have grown to foster. His reason for penning the letter is to personally invite Peart to Dublin for more talks about the future of the British isles, and the future of their friendship. He prepares the letter for delivery, by sealing it within an envelope and placing it back on his desk. He thinks for a bit. Perhaps this message should be sent via telephone. Or even maybe email. He nods his head and reaches across his desk, for the telephone, preparing to phone his friend. He backtracks a bit, though, wanting to get to a rather interesting decree within the stack of documents. He shuffles through them and removes one. This one calls for the further development of relations between Ireland and their ally of Denmark. He goes over it and begins to think of a response to it, choosing to pass into law the official establishment of a friendship between Denmark and Ireland.</div>
				
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