De Ochtenden (Mornings)

[Batavië]

Het Grote Schiereiland (The Great Peninsula)
Western Batavië
06.35

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The Mig-29 was flying low, only 12 or so thousand feet above the ground. The mountains, although not comparable to those seen elsewhere in Europe, were unusual for mainland Batavië. Two thirds of the country was flat, some of it even below sea level, an agricultural paradise. The Southeastern parts of the country, where the capital and other main cities were located, had low rolling hills, but nothing spectacular. This pilot had seen it all. Being a member of Special Air Wing 7 had its benefits. He had flown over Windhoek Eiland, Batavië's gem in the Western Ocean. Hardly populated and graced with mountains that would put the peninsular ones to shame, it was a wilderness at the mercy of the military. If he changed his vector ever so slightly to the east and flew for about twenty minutes, he would be over flat farmland. But not here. The Great Peninsula, as it was marked on maps, was a mostly desolate region. Geologists believed it to be a former island in itself connected to the mainland of Scania relatively recently with a change in sea levels and ocean currents. That, thought the pilot, was why its topography was so miraculously different than the flatlands of the Northwest.

He yawned and looked again at his monitors. He had been flying for almost two hours and nothing of interest had been seen as of yet. The reconnaissance missions his Air Wing had been assigned this past month were dull. Strict flight paths, beautiful countryside, nothing to do.

'Vulture Six, this is command, come in.' his radio crackled at him, bringing him out of his mental geography lesson.

'Command, this is Vulture Six, over.'

A moment passed as the MiG leaped over the summit of a mountain and flew over a tiny village in the valley, probably home to no more than twenty cow farming families.

'Vulture Six, your position should be near the village of Leutof. Make two flybys with camera rolling and then return to base, over.'

The pilot activated the camera with the flip of a couple of switches and turned his plane around. 'Orders confirmed, Vulture Six out.'

As he flew over the village, probably giving the residents an early morning wake up call, he wondered why, of all places, he was being ordered to take pictures of this remote, nothing village. But as any good soldier of the People's Air Force, he did not once question his command. No, the only liberty and autonomy his conscience allotted him was to muse upon the order, not question its validity.

---------------------------

The sound of a jet not very high in the sky nearly caused Henk Roos to spill his early morning coffee. Taking his mug outside with him, he looked up into the overcast November sky. The chilled air of the night was loathed to leave the valley, a clear sign that winter was setting in early in Scania, or at least the peninsular region of Batavië.

Henk watched as the MiG came roundabout for a second pass, flying right over the centre of town before pulling up and seeming to head east. Interesting, thought Henk as he sipped the Vangalan roast and returned inside his small cottage. He set the mug on the kitchen counter top and went to the rotary phone in the living room. He dialled a number scribbled onto a memo pad he kept in his jacket's breast pocket.

'Hallo, Maria. Mag ik met Frans spreken? Ja, ik wacht. Dank u wel.'
(Hello, Maria. May I speak with Fraans? Yes, I'll wait. Thank you.)

Having hardly to wait more than a few seconds, Henk spoke into the receiver clearly, 'Frans, we hebben een probleem.'
(Fraans, we have a problem.)





OOC: essentially this is to be a somewhat long term RP of a separatist group operating underground in Batavië. They are supporters of a return to pre late 1940s civil war in which the constitutional monarchy was replaced with the authoritarian communist system. Henk, who I hope to develop into a fairly intricate character, is the leader of this as of yet unnamed group. They support AGE and would do anything to get AGE involvement in pretty much any form. I hope for Skånsige to get involved as well as other AGE members as it progresses. While basing their operations mostly in the large peninsula in Batavië's west, there are cells by the border with Arendaal who will try to contact the Dutch-speaking minority there. This RP will become 'hot', if you will, in the sense that military action will occur in varying forms and sizes. That all depends on whether or not/how AGE, Arendaal and other participants choose to aid this group.

Please PM me if you have questions or want to get involved. Skånsige and Arendaal can really jump in whenever they want.

 

[Batavië]

Eastern Batavië
Near the border with Arendaal
14.22

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Frans had been thinking about his early morning telephone call from Henk all day. He skipped his usual daily routine of coffee and newspaper, errand running in town and a visit to the bridge spanning over the River Overbos, named after the Arendaal province across the border where the river fed the large lake.

He shouldn't have done that, he thought to himself. Surely, if he was being watched by the Staatsveiligheid, which if he wasn't the neighbours surely were being paid to inform them on his ongoings, his actions might cause them to think something was wrong.

Something was wrong, thought Frans, no longer trying to deny the truth. His wrestles mind had kept him from thinking about menial things such as nourishment. At last feeling his stomach growling for sustenance, he left the grassy fields where the dairy cows were grazing and returned to the farmhouse. The maid girl was preparing lunch for the other men, but Fraans was perfectly happy with snatching a few rolls of bread baked that very morning and a fresh flask of milk. He wrapped the bread in a cloth and brought his simpleton lunch with him back outside. He walked for ten minutes to a lone tree standing stubbornly in the middle of the field and sat underneath it. It was cold, but warmer than the Great Peninsula was. He thought of the telephone conversation again as he drank the milk. Surely the first winter snowfall was to reach Henk's location by now, or if not, very soon.

Satisfied with his meal, Frans rubbed his stomach through his wool jumper. A MiG on a reconnaissance mission in the Great Peninsula? It could mean only one thing: they knew where they were. But did they know what they were planning or thinking? Fraans hoped to think not but was second guessing his thoughts.

Off in the distance, one of the men charged with keeping watch in town was slowly walking towards Frans. By the time he arrived at the tree, Fraans was standing and stretching.

'Is it true? The aeroplane out west?' the man asked as they leisurely walked back towards the house together.

'Ja. It is. The SV (Staatsveiligheid) is better than we thought. We need to alert everyone, though. Maybe not everyone is being watched. We can move people around, rethink some things.' Frans was wondering about the cells operating in Skånsige Statsunionen. Were they all right? Had they found support in some shape or form over there? He would send a postal letter tomorrow morning to find out.

'Sir, I actually came to tell you about army movements. Three lorries of troops, two jeeps and a few APCs came rolling through town about twenty minutes ago. It looked like they were heading towards the border.' The man stopped walking when Frans held him back by the shoulder.

'It looks like they have a project ahead of them, my friend. Look.' Fraans pointed towards the gravel road about a kilometre away. An endless line of dumper trucks and excavators were heading northeast in the same direction as the small military convoy. The trail of dust contrasted sharply with the pale blue sky of November.

'I need to make a telephone call. It's time to activate domestic branch.'

 

[Batavië]

Central Vlaanderen
Batavië
16.47

Regardless of the fact that it was a Sunday afternoon, the streets of Vlaanderen were absent of cars. Even the bicyclists were not out today. A mother was walking down the street with her young daughter, probably on their way back from selling knitted socks. The chilled early winter air was funnelled through the buildings and the 24 year old man was walking briskly into the wind.

Was it really true, he kept thinking over and over as his target became closer and closer. His telephone call had come in at seven this morning. It was Frans, of course, his regular link.

You are to activate and place the flowers today.

Simple code for his simple job. The man had heard a hint of worry in Frans's voice, but he did not ask about it. His thought processes switched into work mode once he reached his destination. It was a small grocery store on the intersection of the road he was on and one of the seven major roads of the city, De Graaf Boulevard. A few buses passed by on the bigger road as well as some cyclists. He paid them no heed, he had to move quickly before the city CCTV watchers noticed him.

The grocery store was open and the only customers inside were busy talking with the shopkeeper, something about this week's cheese shipment arriving late and a bridal shower. Such trivial things, such trivial things. The man went to the back and pretended to browse at the packaged chocolates and crisps. He was really looking for a good location for his small package. He found it.

Carefully and nonchalantly, he removed a package the size of a hard cover novel and placed it behind a line of powdered milk. He paused for just a second, why had he chosen this spot? What made it better than behind the coffee tins or the cheese wedges? Then he remembered, this was southwestern Batavië, no one bought powdered milk here. The best dairy cows in all of Scania grazed just outside the city limits. Fresh milk was cheap, subsidised by the government, the very government he despised. He finished putting the package behind the milk and arranged the display to make it look normal.

'Anything else for you today, sir?' the shopkeeper asked.

The man shook his head and placed his coins on the counter top. Walking across the street back towards his flat, he sipped his coffee. It was burnt, having been sitting in the thermos all day. He didn't seem to notice. His mind was elsewhere. Tomorrow morning's shoppers, he hoped, wouldn't be browsing for powdered milk.

 

[Skånskige Statsunionen]

Gammel Rådhuset
Norrlandsby, Norrbyggarna
Skånskige Statsunionen

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It was a cold day in Norrlandsby, the frigid winds of the West Sea forced the small band of Batavian had to bundle themselves in warm Scanian wool to escape the wind.Still thought, Anton van der Steerbrueck, it was better to be cold than running always from the Staatsveiligheid. Being in north Scania, while cold and a bit desolute, was safe. The authorities didn't actively help them but also never really hindered them and the local Ågarder were more than helpful. The local cell run by Anton had already found billets with the local people and the Mayor allowed them to use the scenic old Town Hall as their base of operations.

The Batavians finished the walk up to the old building and walked in. It was nice to see that the locals had already put the fire on in the building and made some Smørrebrød in the local dialect, Smörgås in standard Skånske. Anton remembered his first day in the this small village, on the run with his little band. The local laughed heartily when the Batavian tried to use Standard Skånske with them and insisted that they could speak adequate Dutch. Indeed, their Dutch was sufficient though over time, his little cell had learned Ågarder pretty well. They grabbed their pre-made lunches and headed into the main hall.

Already all the other members of the cell, ten of them in total had assembled. After months of inaction, they were all itching for the fight but Anton continued to warn them to be patient until they heard from within Batavia to start action.

 

[Batavië]

Het Grote Schiereiland
Western Batavië

Henk had written a hasty letter. It would no doubt be opened before crossing the border and it would be read. But the letter was entirely in code and written in Skånsk. It appeared to be nothing more than a friendly letter asking about how things were over there on the other end of the border. As expected, it arrived in Norrlandsby without delay or any censoring. Henk was satisfied that Anton's cell would decode it within minutes and receive his orders.

Translated from the code the letter was short and precise:

Domestic Branch has been activated, watch evening Batavian news tonight. It is time to actively seek help and funding. Military will react strongly, require assistance soon.

And so it was done. Earlier in the morning in a small corner grocery store in central Vlaanderen, a bomb had exploded and had ripped through the store. It was the first bombing, or terrorist attack the news would call it, in decades. It was going to but the SV and Army on alert and it was going to mean high activity from the cells.

The Batavian Republican Army was no longer asleep and it was preparing for total war. Henk turned on his television set and got comfortable with a cup of tea by his side. Currently, nothing more than a nature show about Vangalan rain forests was on. At 20.30 the news would come on. Would they show the carnage? Would they even mention it? If it had been an explosion in a village, sure. But this happened in the capital. Too many people were around to see it. But they would spin it their way all the same.

 

[Arendaal]

Headquarters of the Aren Intelligence Service
Emyn Arnen, Arendaal

The chief of the Aren Intelligence Service (AIS), the Sverker Velde sat behind his desk in the agency’s headquarters’ in central Emyn Arnen, reading a report on the Serbovian Mafia, a lit cigar in the corner of his mouth. Smoking was prohibited in all government buildings, but his underlings weren't stupid enough to point this out to him.

Velde was what can best be described as a complicated man. As a result of his chronic sobriety and cynicism, he was somewhat dark, often angry, and an unshakable realist. But his manner also had to do with where he worked – the AIS was a strange sort of organization. Officially, Arendaal was a neutral country which didn’t engage in squabbles with other states. But it was also a pragmatic country, and since its goal was to maintain its own affluent stability, the ‘powers that be’ had decided that they had better be informed of what was going on, both within and outside of their country. Information was a lot more valuable than arms or arsenals. Information was power. And this was precisely what the AIS dealt in. They were very discreet, so discreet that even the Aren didn’t really know what the Ministry did or how large the organization actually was. Technically it was just a small branch of the Defence Ministry. Their discretion and their meticulous skills were what kept them in business. What made them untouchable was the Aren government’s ability to do its friends a good turn – information the AIS collected was routinely supplied to friendly governments.

One of the Chief’s aides, Nikolaj Erichsen, knocked sharply at the door and entered. “There’s been an explosion in Vlaanderen” he reported bluntly.

Velde’s hand, poised to bring his cigar to his lips, froze. “When?” he demanded
“A few hours ago. In a market, seems fairly central.”

Velde didn’t need to ask how Erichsen knew this. The AIS had informants everywhere.

“Have they reported it?” By ‘they’ Velde obviously meant the Batavian government.
Erichsen shook his head. “No reports of an announcement as yet, sir.”

Velde looked thoughtful. “Anything out of the ordinary at all?”
“Nothing conspicuous. Army patrols close to the border. Some fly-bys over rural areas not far from Hainaut”*
“They must have some suspects in mind, then” Velde mused, chewing on the end of his cigar. “Who do we have in Hainaut?”

Erichsen consulted a file in his hand. “Kristianna Rybak, sir. She’s been there a year investigating groups who might have ties to Batavian groups”
“Good. Get her on to this now,” Velde ordered. “It won’t be long before whoever did this comes begging”

He sat back in his chair and mused as Erichsen hurried off to contact Rybak. Arendaal had cautious relations with Batavie’s government, cordial but a bit guarded. It went without saying that they would prefer the country to become democratic, but they’d never openly intervene to sway things one way or another. Tacit support though? That might be another matter altogether, Velde thought as he picked up his phone to call Prime Minister [WIKI]Svea Bjornsen[/WIKI]’s office and appraise her of the situation.

*OOC: Hainaut = Aren province bordering Batavië. The Batavian minority that lives in Arendaal is concentrated here

 

[Arendaal]

Vlaardingen, rural Hainaut
Eastern Arendaal

In a small town in rural Hainaut, Kristianna Rybak had just received a phone call from AIS headquarters with her instructions. She’d been in the town for what seemed like an age, undercover, gathering information about the groups which had ties to Batavian underground groups.

In truth, it was not her idea of an ideal assignment. Kristianna had been born in Hainaut, her mother was Batavian by birth and her whole life she had wanted to move to a big city like [WIKI]Emyn Arnen[/WIKI] or Trondheim and have an exciting job. Working as an undercover agent for the Intelligence Service was exciting, she knew, but it would have been more so had the 26 year old not found herself back in Hainaut for her first assignment.

But this last phone call changed everything. Kristianna jumped in her car and drove towards a small, inconspicuous book shop owned by a man called Jan Andersen. Andersen probably had more ties to Batavian groups than anyone else in Arendaal, Kristianna knew, which is why she’d gotten a job in the bookstore and then worked so hard to gain his confidence. Under the pretext of wanting to take inventory, Kristianna strolled back into the store nonchalantly, walking into Andersen’s office to check whether he was excited about anything. If he’d heard anything, she knew, he’d tell her.

 

[Batavië]

Downtown Vlaanderen
De Graaf Boulevard
20.29

Jozef Groeneveld stood still in the rain. The firemen were packing up and returning to their station while the metropolitan police and SV troopers were finishing their interviews. His uniform was getting wet and an aid brought over a black umbrella.

'No thanks,' muttered Groeneveld, 'I don't want to be hidden from the sky.'

The aid thought that a peculiar response but nodded all the same. He would remain dry and warm instead.

The ripped open grocery store still reeked of carnage and body parts. Groeneveld could not help but stare. He was supposed to have a cushy job with a window office in some big building in the Government District. That's what all SV Detective Inspectors were told and promised. The hearsay was flawless because the system was, up until now, flawless. It took little more than ten years in the SV and, sure enough, Groeneveld had a window office, respect and good pay. And now this. He was in the field. Not tracking down vandals or dissenters. He was stuck with this unnerving case.

A grocery store in the capital, totally botched up and it wasn't a gas line. It was a bomb. Head Commissioner de Bruin himself assigned the case to Groeneveld. Easy for you to assign it, thought Groeneveld. All de Bruin had to do today was release a press briefing and then go back to his family. No, he was stuck in the rain on a Tuesday night with a crew of men equally as annoyed but all equally concerned. Who would dare act against the government? If the Supreme Leader did not will it, it did not happen. That is what they were taught. That is what they knew. That is what they must defend.

------------

A couple metropolitan police cars and a pair of SV troopers were left at the scene to keep watch. Groeneveld was sitting in a small café five blocks away with his partner, Joop. They were sipping cheap and piping tea from polyethylene cups and chewing on equally as disgusting biscuits, stale from yesterday's batch. Neither complained for it was hot and somewhat nourishing.

'Kids. Kids must have done it.' said Joop as he downed the last of his tea.

Groeneveld shook his head in dissent as he stared out the glass pane, watching drops of rain slide down slowly, conjoining with nearby ones and all the while gaining momentum to their imminent deaths upon the pavement.

'This is bigger. Did you get that memo this afternoon? About two hours after the bomb went off, de Bruin sent out a memo to all Grade 4 and up Department I staff.'

Joop scratched his head, 'Nee. Must have missed it.'

'It is a basic dossier on a group. They call themselves the Batavian Republican Army.' Groeneveld spat out the last three words with distaste.

'Sounds bad.'

'No shit, Joop. It is bad. Apparently the Air Force has been taking pictures of known cell locations as far out as the Great Peninsula.'

' 'the fuck they doing out there for?' cried Joop in surprise.

'Beats me. Spreading out maybe? Trying to confuse us.'

'Yeah, I heard from a friend of mine in the Army that there's a lot of construction going on in the border regions by Arendaal. All rumours though.' Joop, noticing that Jozef wasn't going to finish his tea, took the honours of drinking it himself.

'They never talk to each other until it's too late anyway.' sighed Groeneveld, referring to the Army and SV.

'So where do we start?'

'I'm working on it.'

---------------

Vlaardingen, rural Hainaut
Eastern Arendaal

Frans owned a small five door hatchback smuggled in from Skånsige. The Department of Private Vehicles didn't ask where people got their cars. The official waiting list for a domestically made Trabant had, at minimum, a five year waiting time built in. As long as you paid your taxes and got it registered, they let you drive it.

Getting into Arendaal was another thing entirely. Only government officials, approved businessmen and the Elite community were permitted to travel abroad. Frans's family happened to be a member of the Elite. A class of about 300.000 people, mostly centred around Vlaanderen or the other cities. They were privileged with travel rights, better education and food and top notch careers. Frans had left as soon as he could, seeing the evilness of it all from an early age. He still kept in touch with his family. They all thought he had a clerical job in De Grenz, a medium sized city near the Skånsk border.

So how did he just drive into Arendaal and get through the gates and fences? He used a forged External Passport and Exit Visa. Not much needed to be forged. He simply used his families name, one of the deceased third cousins, and he was set to go. Poor cousin Erwin. He died during the Great War overseas before the Revolution brought Batavië out of it. With no records to determine that Erwin Wegen was dead, Frans could go almost anywhere thanks to his 'Elite' status.

Vlaardingen was a tiny little village so finding the bookshop was never any trouble. He parked his car behind the post office just to be safe. The SV was sure to have at least one Watchman in town.

He walked into the shop. No one was tending the store-front. Frans heard a man and a woman speaking in the back. He walked over quietly and listened in before making his presence known.

'Jan Andersen, come out with your hands up!' he mocked a police officer's stern voice and suddenly jumped into the door frame, smiling and laughing when he saw the two shocked faces before him.

 

[Skånskige Statsunionen]

Norrbro
Målmöholm Centrala
Målmöholm, Målmöholm Provins
Skånskige Statsunionen

It was a stormy night in Målmöholm, the strong winds off the Målmösund made standing on the old Norrbro (North Bridge) a task in itself. But it was necessary, something an unsuspecting Åsa Gustavson did not know. It was in these sorts of conditions that the popular bridge next to the Chancellory of External and AGE Affairs Building would not be in use. It was ideal for the dark purposes of the night. The clock on the Frihet Klocktornet chimed that it was kl. 10 in the evening. In the strong downpour of the rain, a shadow emerged. It was a man in a wide brimed hat, as the shadow approached closer and closer. An older man emerged, where a dark blue rain coat and dark blue dress pants. As he approached her, Åsa could feel her heart beating in her throat. She was terrified. She had nightmares that her demise would be this way.

Within seconds the man was next to her, though contrary to her imagination, she found a sad looking old man.

"Hello Åsa, it is a pleasure to finally meet you. I hope you are enjoying the rain. I have an assignment for you." said the old man.

"An assignment for me, I think you are mistaken. I was replying to a weird letter on government letterhead to come to this bridge at this time. I think you have the wrong person." protested Åsa.

"No, we have the right person. You work for the Chancellory of Finance, correct? If you do this assignment well, my friends in high places will make sure you make it as far as you want to go in life." replied the old man.

Åsa sort of laughed inside at the funny proposal and strong boasts of the man until she realised that she did recognise the old man. As she studied his face more and more she realised that she was having a meeting with the King himself!

"Oh my goodness, Your Majesty! Forgive me. I have been so rude to you. Forgive me." cried out Åsa.

The King shushed her and said, "Do not worry my child. Your caution is warranted. This assignment is something that not a soul can know about and if they do, you will face all prosecution for it. Since who would believe that the non-political King would involve himself in foreign intrigue."

Åsa felt scared but the prospect of having Royal patronage stroked her egotistical side and her ambitious side. "What do I have to do?"

And so the King handed her mission on a piece of paper, the ink quickly ran in the hard rain. She was to make contact with the "Friend of Batavia" and be the middle man for assistance to the anti-Communist forces in Batavia and to ensure that a pro-AGE government was set up in Vlaanderan.

She nodded her head in agreement and the two departed each other.

 

[Arendaal]

Vlaardingen, rural Hainaut
Eastern Arendaal

Kristianna nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of the voice. Her hand instinctively shot towards her right hip, but she retracted it just in time when she recognized the man’s face. Frans had been there occasionally before, though the two had never spoken alone or at length. Jan seemed to have known him for years, and Kristianna had learnt that he was a Batavian, using a dead relatives’ identity to slip relatively easily in and out of Batavië.

Andersen jumped up to greet him. “How are you?” he asked warmly, slapping Frans on the back. “Any good news for us?”


Aren Intelligence Service Headquarters
Central Emyn Arnen
Sverker Velde watched the News on the flat screen television in his office with an unsurprised expression. The Aren National News reporter relayed the official information put out by the Batavian government – that a faulty gas pipe had caused an explosion in the capital.

Next to him, his aide Nikolaj Erichsen’s face was sour. “The cover up is hardly surprising, Erichsen, there’s no need to look so disappointed”

“It’s the lack of effort that gets to me, sir. It’s such a flimsy lie. No one will believe it, even in Batavië, aside from the repulsively patriotic.”

Velde shrugged. “I don’t imagine the Batavians care who believes them,” he said. “Now find out what they’re up to near the Hainaut border”.

 

[Batavië]

Vlaardingen, rural Hainaut
Eastern Arendaal

Frans returned the greeting in kind and took a seat in the back office.

'As you've figured out by now, this morning's explosion was us. The Batavian Republican Army is in an active state now, Jan. This is the real thing.' Frans realised he should have kept his mouth shut until he was sure the girl was secure, but felt certain that if she was with Jan, she was clean.

'They're going to clamp down hard now.' Frans said. 'I wish we didn't have to hurt innocents, Jan, I really wish we could. Henk says that after a few more, when the media finally caves in and the government admits an insurgency is active, we can telephone warnings to limit collateral damage. But still.'

He didn't brood much longer on the touchy issue. Instead he sighed and faked a good smile.

'Mevrouw, I don't believe we have met. I am Frans Wegen, at your service.' he took her hand and gave it a light kiss and smiled into her pretty eyes.

'Perhaps you can do me a favour?' he winked at her. He knew she was intelligence.

---------------

Downtown Vlaanderen
Government District
14.49

Jozef Groeneveld had not slept well after his brain storming session with Joop. He had arrived back to his flat late, his girlfriend already in bed, lightly snoring. He had laid there, tossing and turning, finally dozing off around three in the morning then waking promptly at 6.30 to be in the office by 8.

He couldn't get the case off his mind. All of his other cases and paperwork had been taken care of by under staffers. That was a blessing in itself, yet only gave him more time to constantly think about the evolving case.

His inbox on his desk was full this morning. He flipped through the files and papers. Dossiers on suspects, reconnaissance images from the Great Peninsula. Too much to sift through. He had rung Joop and told him to get two Inspectors to begin work on the files.

In the meantime Jozef Groeneveld was on his way back from lunch. He had chosen a sandwich bar and downed two beers. He felt full, too full. It was just the beer, he thought. He had to show his identification before entering the station.

'This is a pleasant surprise.' remarked Jozef as his documents were looked through thoroughly by an SV trooper.

'New policy is in place indefinitely, Sir.' responded the young trooper.

'Related to the bombing then?' Jozef said this as he put his Internal Passport an badge back into his blazer pocket.

'I don't know what you are talking about, Sir. Have a nice day.'

Smart ass, thought Jozef as he returned a weak smile and walked up the limestone steps to the station entrance. The main foyer, three stories high, was abuzz with foot traffic. Jozef walked by the Desk.

'Afternoon, Mark, how's the wife and kids?'

Jozef expected some funny joke or comment, something the Desk Guards always had up their sleeves. They knew everyone and were a wealth of information if one needed to spy on a colleague. Everyone did, it was no secret. The game was rough. Jozef's dossier collection was small compared to most. He kept twenty or so files in his safety deposit box, just in case.

'Afternoon, Sir. Can I see your credentials, please?'

That wasn't a joke.

'You serious?' Jozef stopped his fast walk and turned around.

'New policy sir, Government District is Class A1 Locked right now. Indefinite, they say. Didn't you get the memo?'

'Must have come in during lunch.'

'Ah, that must be it.' Mark quickly scanned the badge into his computer system and handed it back. Much less scrutiny than outside. He thanked Mark and went up to his office.

What a day.

 

[Vistrasia]

Antioch, Levantine States
Two men were pacing through a deserted hallway in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, it was well past midnight, but all the lights were still on. The men had just come out of a meeting between diplomats and members of the intelligence agency. The IS2 had been picking up of chatter about the explosion in Batavia being done by pro-capitalist, pro-democracy insurgents. It seems the government covered it up, but it was a matter of serious concern to all.

The first topic of the meeting was clear:

"We know this isn't a false flag operation, and we know that this isn't a gas explosion. These we're actually insurgents, the question is, do we have a connection to them?"

The attack had complicated matters for the Levantine States. The Intelligence Services were eager to topple the regime in Batavia, a regime change could well increase AGE. But the problem is that scare tactics were not the way to go, any organisation the Levant would be willing to support would have to be led properly and have a degree of professionalism. These were just amateurs. The IS2 had analyzed all of it's operations in Batavia, discussing with the diplomatic services on what to do.

The two men were talking, one the Minister of Foreign Affairs, the other Head of the Joint Intelligence Services. "We are alerting all our agents in Batavia, we need desperate intelligence on these people. We need to know who are leading this operation, and who are actually capable of doing this."

 

[Skånskige Statsunionen]

Krigsveterangatan 25
Ronneby, Blekinge
Skånskige Statsunionen

Åsa Gustavson arrived at the place that was on the note handed to her on the fateful night on the bridge. It was a small mailbox centre and she took the key that showed up on the floor of her apartment that night and went inside. She was looking for box Pumbaa 10. It was a strange name for a box but she looked anyways. After about 10 minutes she went to the counter and asked the young attendant for the box called Pumbaa 10.

Immediately, the young attendant looked quite scared and told her to wait for a couple minutes while he got his supervisor on duty. Åsa waited apprehensively for the attendant to come back with his supervisor and sure enough within a few minutes, a middle aged blonde man emerged and unlocked the side entrance to the back of the mailbox centre.

He motioned for her to follow him and then asked politely for the key. He inspected the strange key and then handed it back and they walked towards the back section of the mailbox centre. There she found a series of strange looking lockers. They looked like pieces of solid steel with only the dividing lines visible. She went to number 10 and put the key in. The lock began to turn with the key in and the door swung open.

Within she found a black dufflebag and she took it out. The supervisor then grabbed her by the arm and escorted her out of the centre surprising quickly andbefore she could say anything, she was laying in the mud having just been thrown out and with the dufflebag heavy on her chest.

She got up and took the dufflebag with her back to her car. She was furious at the supervisor for his actions, especially now that she was covered in mud. She zipped open the dufflebag to find it was full to the brim with thousand Skånske Kronor notes and a white envelope on the top. She took out the envelope and began to drive, reading the envelope as she made her way back onto the highway.

Go to Våsternäsgatan 121 in Malvik, Västbyggarna. Ask for Dottie and tell her that Pumbaa sent you to get a delivery. Additionally, destroy this note after you are done.

Åsa put the note back into the duffelbag and got onto the A10 highway to Uppstad. She put on her favourite radio drama "Ladies of Letters" on and drove down the empty highway between Sölvesborg and Uppstad.

Våsternäsgatan 121
Malvik, Västbyggarna
Skånskige Statsunionen

After a gruelling eight hour drive on the A10, finally Åsa's GPS told her to run right into a grey looking warehouse in some small Ågarder town about one hour north of Uppstad. Åsa walked into the front of the warehouse and asked this very unfriendly looking Ågarder lady, she asked the lady the she was here for 'Dottie', the woman bearly looked up and yelled out loudly for Dottie.

Out came this very perky looking, twenty something girl who piped up in clear Skånske, who was calling for her. Åsa looked at her and said that Pumbaa sent me to get a delivery. The look on her face turned for perky happiness to a look of stern business.

Dottie looked at her and asked if she had the money. Åsa was surprised but nodded. Magically, the happy perkiness returned to Dottie and Åsa followed as Dottie motioned her to follow. She followed the girl to to back of the warehouse and noticed quickly the large truck and all the military hardware being loaded. Åsa didn't even ask but within a few minutes Dottie said that all the used military equipment needed had been arranged through black market sources and that everything was virtually untraceable and lead her to a young man who introduced himself as "Jakob". Dottie explained that included in the contract was Jakob who would ensure on his life that the supplies reached the Friends of Batavia as promised.

With that Jakob signalled to her to come over. He explained that they were going to go to a small village near the border with Batavia. Make contact with the Friends and then her assignment and the contract would be finished and they could go back to normal lives. He said that she was going to have to leave her car here and to give the keys to Dottie and that Dottie would move her car to a 'safe' location to extraction on safe return.

With that they got in the truck and pulled out and headed for a rural road heading up to the desolute north, home of the Ågard.

 

[Skånskige Statsunionen]

Gammel Rådhuset
Norrlandsby, Norrbyggarna
Skånskige Statsunionen

The large transport lorry pulled into a small country road leading to a old villa on the West Sea. The road was exceptionally bumpy and so Jakob slowed down as not to unsettle the cargo. In front of them were too older men who flagged the lorry to pull into a small lot that was behind the villa. They pulled in and then stopped. Jakob immediately jumped out of the cab and Åsa followed right after. They were greeted by two very rough looking older men who were clearly Ågard. Jakob immediately began to converse with them in Ågarder, laughing and smiling while Åsa looked around the place. Out on a small island, the villa was beautiful. The sight of the open sea and the smell of the brine in the air unleashed romantic images of fishermans' life here in the North. After a few minutes, Jakob came over and said that all had been finished and that her assignment was complete.

One of the men said he would give her a ride back to Mårhalm where she could catch the train back to Ronneby to get her car. Jakob then gave her fifty thousand kronors and a big kiss on the cheek and they exchanged pleasentries and parted.

Jakob waited and watched the car with Åsa depart the small island, he felt sorry for the young girl. She had no idea what she had done and the events she set into motion, she thought she was just doing a simple job and would get a career advancement. Jakob's mind then turned to the issue at hand, his colleagues and friends did not know that he was alive and that he was here. And so he turned and headed into the back entrance of the Town Hall and walked into the room where he imagined Anton was surely telling the others to wait and be patient. But the time to patient had finally ended.

Jakob walked into the main hall to the astonished looks on the faces of the cell.

"Hello Anton, glad to see all is well up here. Any news from Vlaanderan?" said Jakob.

Anton smiled wildly at the sight of his old comrade and friend, "Jakob, you are alive. How the hell did you get out of Batavia? Nevermind answering though, I got a letter today, we are being activated. Though, we don't have much to activate with."

Jakob grinned mischeviously, "Anton, did you think I would show up without supplies? Come out back, I have a gift from the Scanians for you."

Anton and the small gang walked out back and noticed the transport lorry, they opened the back doors and went in. It was full of explosives and small arms. Anton felt euphoric and the sight.

"Excellent, I guess it is time to activate" said Anton slyly.

 

[Batavië]

Vlaanderen
Industrial District
17.04

They didn't go by names. At least not when in the capital. Vlaanderen had, since the '80s, been one giant bug. SV informants lay everywhere. You couldn't trust your own mother and father in the capital. Loyalty among the people was highest here, especially among the Elite class. With comfortable lives, they had no desire to protest against the government.

During the day the four member cell stayed mostly indoors. Three men and one woman. They were in their twenties, anxious and excited. The Industrial District was full of concrete tenement blocks, roach infested cafés and old factories from the '70s. They were once used to manufacture the famous Trabant car. Now they made smaller things like car seats and the like.

Today, after two months of staying cooped up in the flat, constantly watching for the dreaded sign of discovery, an SV watchman, they had received a phone call. It was brief, it had to be. Speaking in the best code they had yet devised, it came from the top. Henk himself had told the group of an expected delivery.

And so, yesterday during the darkest hours of the night, two of the men had met the driver of a hatchback smuggled in from Skånsige. It was one of those rare connections to an Elite person. Having heard of the Batavian Republican Army through the grape vine, he offered his services in the form of money. Hardly enough to fund the group, but sufficient for one cell like this.

Now that they had some small guns and explosives, they could act. But unlike Tuesday's grocery store bombing, they had a more specific target.

'So where will it be, again?' asked the girl as she set down a magazine of bullets for one of the men.

The man was cleaning a rifle and attaching to it a scope. 'Ten blocks from here. The Deputy Chief of the Industrial District Precinct will be on his way back from his weekly conference at Metropolitan Police Headquarters. We take him then.'

The girl nodded and took a cup of tea from her other colleague. She burnt her tongue as she sipped it, but did not show her annoyance.

--------

No planning in depth, no extensive research. So what? Thought the sharp shooter. This man rules over this district like a mini-Supreme Leader. He thinks he is royalty. He has his cronies beat up factory workers for no reason at all. He's a fine target. Just fine.

He looked behind him once more to find his partner watching the door. They were located in an abandoned factory on the fifth floor. Perfect viewpoint of the street below, lots of places to hide.

'There he is.' said the sharp shooter. He checked his scope again and prepared himself, both mentally and physically. He had left the army three years ago after his compulsory five year service. It fed him, that was nice, but he had no real job prospects after that. Everyone is guaranteed a job, sure, but not great ones.

He'd bring his own Army's training to use today. The Deputy Police Chief was dressed in full uniform. Two Police Constables were walking with him. They were chatting. They had parked their car illegally on the kerb and were crossing the street to make it to the station. Not if it could be helped.

The man's head was level in the cross hairs of the scope. His finger trembled on the trigger.

The shot sounded louder than he expected. It echoed throughout the neighbourhood, impossible to hide. The sharp shooter held his breath and took another shot, missing the constable. It didn't matter, he hit is primary target.

The Deputy Chief lay in the street, half of his head missing and surely dead. The two constables had withdrawn their nightsticks and found cover behind cars. Only special teams and SV carried guns.

The sharp shooter and his partner didn't wait to watch the pack of police officers rushing out of the station to see what happened. They didn't hear the two-tone sirens of the ambulance off in the distance or the barking of orders from street level. They were running too quickly to the roof where they crossed over to a nearby factory and slipped away into the annals of the city's poorest and worst district.

-----------

Government District
Staatsveiligheid Headquarters

The telephone rang loudly. Jozef Groeneveld, reading through as many dossiers as he could, spilt a little bit of his afternoon coffee on a page as he reached for the black ceramic receiver.

'Detective Inspector Groeneveld.' he said, sipping some more of his drink.

He nearly choked but instead spilt piping hot coffee onto his lap.

'Shit!' he cried, both about the spill and the news.

He slammed the receiver back into its cradle and reached for his blazer. He didn't have time to change.

 

[Arendaal]

Vlaardingen, rural Hainaut
Eastern Arendaal

Kristianna tensed slightly at Frans’ smile. It was a little too knowing. She suspected immediately that he may know who she was, and she wracked her memory to recall if she’d done anything to give herself away.

No matter, she decided a moment later as she returned his smile with ease. Her wide eyes went from an expression of innocent curiosity to a rather more shrewd look. “A favour? Of course Frans, what do you need?”



Royal [WIKI]Karlheim Palace[/WIKI]
Emyn Arnen

King Edvard V of Arendaal, Prime Minister Svea Bjornsen and the Aren Defense Minister Magnus van der Berg were seated in the King's private study at the Royal Palace, awaiting the commencement of talks with the Belmontien delegation which had arrived in Emyn Arnen. As the Belmontien Queen and her ministers were settling into the palace before talks began. The Head of the Aren Intelligence Agency, Sverker Velde had promptly alerted the PM to the newest Intelligence out of Batavie, and she now discussed the situation with the King and the Defense Minister. Their expressions were serious. Officially, the King was only a symbolic Head of State, retaining key veto powers over official government policy which he almost never employed. Unofficially, the King was also a brilliant politician and a key behind the scenes player, who was routinely consulted on grave matters by governments (formed by both centre-left and centre-right parties)

The Prime Minister spoke, "I think, Your Majesty, that the situation will only get worse. If it deteriorates, there's no telling whether the populace at large will raise up against the communist government. It is after all, a dictatorship"

King Edvard looked thoughtful. "If it continues long enough, Svea, even a reign of terror may become a fondly remembered period. People believe they want justice and wise government but, in fact, what they really want is an assurance that tomorrow will be very much like today. If the Batavians can provide that, I doubt any uprising will ever take place."

"Even so Majesty, obviously there's no question of Arendaal violating her neutrality by actively taking sides if a conflict materializes, but even so a conflict so close to us will be impossible to ignore," the PM replied.

Defense Minister van der Berg spoke up, "Without actively participating, I think we must consider the possibility of tacit support for groups seeking to set up democracy. It'll be in our interests if a democratic government comes to power in Vlaanderen, after all."

The King glanced at PM Svea Bjornsen who looked palpably worried. "Let us wait for the situation to develop before we act," he posited, "Let intelligence do their job and find out how serious the situation really is before we jump to conclusions"

 

[Batavië]

Vlaardingen, rural Hainaut
Eastern Arendaal


Frans produced a list from his jacket pocket and handed it to Kristianna. 'We need weapons, mostly and cash. And, if you can get it arranged, some of our men could use some basic training, discrete of course. If we want an insurgency against these people, we need to be at least half as good as them, which won't be easy. Do you think you can help us?'

Frans wasn't counting on anything, but knew that he desperately needed her help.


Hilversum
Southeastern Batavië, near Arendaal

Hilversum was a quaint city and very old. Untouched for the most part by the concrete architecture of the post-war era, it retained most of its historic and beautiful structures. Situated in one of these old buildings in the city square was the local military branch offices. Newly named the 'Arendaal Border Bureau', it was unusually busy these last three weeks or so.

Major Peter Koorsen was examining a map in the main observation room. Situated on the balcony overlooking the large map of the border region, men sitting by rotary telephones received movement orders and despatched them as well. Down below at the map, smartly dressed women with headsets on used long sticks to push unit markers, like chess pieces, to different areas. Most of the markers were blue, meaning non-combat. Thousands of lorries and troop carriers were situating in the border region east of Hilversum working on a huge construction project codenamed 'Operation Glacial'.

'What's that there?' asked Major Koorsen, pointing to a red piece situated close to the border with Arendaal.

'That's a Frontier Guard unit, sir. They are scouting the border before the troops put up the towers.'

'Ah, very good, carry on.' but before he could sip his tea, the Major was interrupted by one of the desk men holding a telephone receiver.

'Major, sir, a Mr Groeneveld from Vlaanderen has arrived to see you, Staatsveiligheid I am told.'

Koorsen rolled his eyes, 'Yes, I am expecting him. Too bad he's SV. Send him up.'

Groeneveld had received clear orders from the SV top to report to Hilversum on the next available train. Luckily they booked him first class tickets or it would have been very awkward riding the train in uniform with so many civilians around. The entire carriage would have surely been silent the whole ride up. But in first class, everyone was in some sort of uniform. Police, SV, pilots, Navy, Army, even some business suits. It was more comfortable.

'Sir.' Groeneveld saluted and waited for the Major to speak.

'Glad you could make it, Meneer Groeneveld. I am told you are leading the investigation into the capital bombing and assassination?'

'That is correct, sir.'

'Excellent. Then, as you can see by looking down at the map, we have a large operation underway. Operation Glacial, it is called. We are fortifying the border, erecting light watch towers, paving access roads, building barracks. When you receive my briefing and reports tonight, and there is a good train ride or two worth of reading material, you will be fully aware of what the operation entails. As for now, prior to the Operation being completed, we will be sending in a special operatives force to do a cross-border raid. We know of a Batavian Republican Army leader residing in Hainaut and we want him alive. You will be second in command from this room, under my authority. Understood?'

'Crystal clear, Major.'

The major saluted Groeneveld and he left, leaving the SV Detective Inspector to think quickly over what he was getting himself in to and what the country was preparing to do.

 

[Batavië]

Spa
Northeast Batavië
17.10

Henk Roos never enjoyed travelling much. That was one of the main reasons why he had designated Frans to be the leader of the armed branch of the Batavian Republican Army. The train ride from the Great Peninsula had taken all day. Leaving early from the farmhouse, Henk had taken a regional train to the biggest village (there were no cities for hundreds of kilometres around) on the peninsula and transfered to another train which brought him to the city of Spa (improperly labelled on the map as 'De Grenz' which is the in southeast). Spa was a medium sized city consisting of well-preserved architecture from the middle ages. Being not too far from the sea and located in the flatlands of the North, it was famous the world over for its canals. Only the main streets had cars and trams. It was a pedestrian and cyclist friendly city, both by choice and necessity.

Henk had found the safe-flat with relative ease. Spa was as close to the communist regime as he would get. The densely populated southeast of the country had larger and uglier cities. Spa was a university city, friendly for students and single couples. It was the perfect oven for his recipe.

Henk had used the public phone outside. Even though he knew it was easy for the Staatsveiligheid to tap into it if they knew he was there he had an inkling they weren't following him yet. The coins made a clink when the call connected. Thirty seconds later he hung up after having uttered nothing but the password.

The preparations had been carried out successfully. Pamphlets and manifestos were distributed over the past month. Students were getting riled, being fed information, shown images and articles from smuggled foreign newspapers over the borders. All Henk had to do was say the word and a street demonstration could be summoned within hours. And so, as he thought best, Henk gave the word...

Hilversum
Southeast Batavië, near Arendaal
22.12

The observation room was busy despite the late hour. Detective Inspector Jozef Groeneveld of the Staatsveiligheid gave a silent sigh as he watched one of the women push the little bloc representing the special operatives force closer to the international border.

'Just received word, Meneer Groeneveld, they have crosses the border.' reported one of the operators after putting down his telephone.


Arendaal side of Border

The special operatives team consisted of seven men, dressed in dark clothing, armed with machine guns and pistols outfitted with silencers. They wore night vision goggles and travelled by foot. Crossing the border was the easy part for the area was rural, rugged with hills and brush. Only farmhouses lay about.

'Intel says that this Frans target is staying in a barn outside the village.' said one of the soldiers on the radio.

'We'll split up. Blue team go left and put a lookout by the road. Red team comes with me and we go into the barn. Out.' The sergeant and his Red team trotted silently through the pasture, the cows in their barns sleeping.

Sergeant Helbrig (Hell-brugh [phlegm on the 'g']) was excited to be in another land operating. Training time was over and his boys were ready for anything. They were the cream of the crop. Yet despite the careful planning and excellent men chosen for this mission, Helbrig could not help but wonder if something was going to go wrong tonight. He also did not like the fact that there was no air-cover. The clouds, common for the winter, had blown off to the east and the starry night and the moon were clearly visible. Moonlight was a danger and a threat, but even his boys couldn't do anything about that.

The Red team dropped to the ground in an instant. The foreman had put up his hand, signalling contact with someone.

'What is it?' Helbrig asked.

'I think it might be a guard, sir.' the foreman whispered into his radio set.

'Is he armed?'

'Yes, rifle of sorts. I think he might be BRA.'

'All right, Blue team, listen up. We've made contact with possible BRA guards. Stay on alert for others.'

Now reverting to silent hand motions, Helbrig gave the order to take him out. The guard was smoking a cigarette, not doing his job. Frans had to be in there then. A soldier tasked with shooting him stopped, a second guard approached the first. They shared the cigarette, chatted for a minute and it didn't look as though they had plans to separate again.

'Jan, you take out the one on the left, I'll take the right. You first.'

The muffled sound of the shot was immediately proceeded by a second. The area outside the barn door was now home to two dead bodies left there to be discovered by the locals in the morning.

Helbrig entered the unlocked barn first. The cows were half awake, half asleep, but mostly silent. The Red team checked the corners and two went up to the loft. Frans Wegen, very much awake, was holding a small pistol and standing in front of the window, casting a silhouette.

'Are you Frans Wegen?' asked Helbrig, aiming his rifle at the BRA leader's chest.

'Spot on.'

'Drop your weapon and come with us.'

Silence. Frans appeared to be leaning down to set his pistol on the wooden floor of the loft. In an instant a loud shot was fired, aimed at the foot of one of the other soldiers to the left of Helbrig. In the commotion that followed, Frans had fallen backwards through the window, shattering the glass. Helbrig ran over to see him landing in a pile of hay, unscathed. He made a few shots, but Frans was already running towards the road where a running car awaited him.

'Fuck! Blue team, Plan B. Target has gotten away, repeat, target has gotten away. We have a wounded soldier. Radio for air medivac at border and pick up soldier in barn. Red Team, stop that car.'

'Sir, the shot may have woken the farmer.' mentioned one soldier.

Indeed it had for the lights on in the nearby house had come on.

'Kill him then.'

 

[Batavië]

Hilversum
Southeastern Batavië, near Arendaal

Jozef Groeneveld put his head in his face as the news came in that the special operatives team was having difficulties on the other side of the border. But he didn't have time to worry about it. A uniformed man came in through the door and handed Groeneveld a piece of typewriter paper. It was a a memo addressed to him.

REPORT TO SPA IMMEDIATELY

Nothing more, nothing less. He bid farewell to the men in the room, letting them know to keep him informed about the cross-border operation. Now he had another long journey ahead of him, or so he thought.

'Staatsveiligheid DI Groeneveld?' the man's voice echoed lightly in the lobby.

'Yes sir.' Groeneveld saluted.

'Please follow me, a flight has been chartered for you to Spa.'

How lovely and kind of them. Really, it was more attention than Detective Inspector Groeneveld wanted. He got comfortable for the quick one hour flight. He wasn't alone. A few other SV agents were on board as well as some men dressed in suits. Bureaucrats maybe? He didn't bother trying to guess which Ministry or Department they were a part of.

Upon landing, Groeneveld was put into a car and driven to the city. He noticed why he had been sent here immediately.

Lorries full of troops were heading into the cities and further down the road Groeneveld saw the chaos. An armoured personnel carrier was firing tear gas into a crowd of people. The next block down riot police were forming a line against a charging crowd. Not much further a molatov cocktail was thrown at a parked police car which soon blew up into flames, the officers nearby were on their radios, probably calling for backup.

'What the hell happened here? The whole city is in flames!' Groeneveld asked the man who he had met just over an hour ago in Hilversum.

'The Batavian Republican Army seems to have inspired protests which turned into riots. It's not just the students any more either. They've used simple leaflets, but the citizens are ravenous for them.'

Their car soon entered a caravan of police cars heading towards an office building. A rock hit the window of the car, causing Groeneveld to jump up in surprise. In response, a soldier in a makeshift checkpoint at the intersection, opened fire with his rifle in the direction the rock came from. Groeneveld didn't see if the bullets hit their target. He didn't want to know. He didn't know what he was supposed to do here.

 

[Arendaal]

Vlaardingen, rural Hainaut
Eastern Arendaal

Kristianna took the list and scanned it quickly. She nodded as she read, "I'll have to clear it with my superiors but I think we just might be able to help each other."

She gave him a hard, searching look as though trying to read him. He was dedicated, certainly, and that was greatly to his credit. But from what she could tell, he was unscrupulous too. The unpredictability that involved could be dangerous.

"Excuse me a moment," she said, walking out of the room and pulling out her cell phone. A few moments later she was talking to Velde himself. He was almost impossible to talk to personally, usually communicating through one of his many assistants, but this was a time to be direct. He had spoken to the PM and received permission. Arendaal would lend covert and entirely confidential support to the Republicans, on the understanding that any tactics against civilians were to be minimal.

Kristianna reappeared inside the bookshop a quarter of an hour later. "Supplies can be on their way by tonight. Get me a list of men you need trained immediately. Some of my colleagues will escort them to an Army base outside Vlaandern." She picked up her bag, ready to leave and brief her superiors in more detail over the phone. "Oh and Frans? Try to limit the collateral damage."

ooc: sorry this is so late