The Red Sun Also Rises

[Havenshire]

MINISTRY OF DEFENCE,
Westhaven, PRH, September 9th, 14:00HRS

"What the bloody hell do you think your playing at?"

Angela Steele turned, calmly, to meet her accuser. It was Party Chairman Barry Knott himself, a fat man fond of old-fashioned, shabby suits. He was red-faced, and his jowels wobbled as he shook with anger. Steele, by contrast, resembled her own name. She was in her early forties, cool, collected, blonde and famous for her ability to fake sincerity and warmth with total conviction. In truth, she was rabidly ambitious, and fully intended to displace this fat incompetent as Party Chairman one day.

"Me, Chairman? I am simply defending this nation's interests, and acting to meet the will of the People." she replied cooly.

They stood in the polished, art-deco corridors of the Ministry. Clerks hurried past, keen to avoid getting embroiled in a public confrontation between some of the most powerful people in Havenshire.

Knott heaved with sweat. "You damn well know that you can't act unilaterally without permission from the Directive. This isn't the first time you've stepped out of line. I'm warning you, Miss Steele. The Boss doesn't like being shown up. You try to steer the Ship of State without my EXPRESS permission again, I will eat you for fucking breakfast. Are we clear?"

Angela simply regarded him with cool ideas, ignoring the spittle flying from his ranting lips. She adjusted her specs, and clutched the thin folder to her chest. Inwardly, however, her heart thudded. If the Chairman had any idea of the true scale of her plans...

He snorted derisively at her silence. "You've been fucking lucky this time. The Boss has seen the mood, and agrees that a tougher line need be taken. I HOPE that your boys in the CIB are right about the missiles If those missiles WEREN'T made in Germania-Gallia..." He let the threat hang in the air.

"I can assure you that the Central Intelligence Bureau does not produce sloppy work." She half-lied. In truth, they had been unable to gain access to the missile debris in Augsburg, so they had instead manufactured some extremely convincing fakes to base their report on. Only she and the agents involved knew this, and she was already making arrangements to ensure that that secret, stayed a secret.

Despite her cool front, however, she felt panic in her chest. Perhaps she had overreached with that claim. Her biggest flaw was a lack of patience- she wanted everything, and she wanted it now. Despite this, she knew she had greater vision and greater ability than almost anybody else in the Central Congress.

Knott harumphed. "See that it is so. I will be watching you, Comrade Steele. Don't step out of line again."

The fat Chairman waddled on his way, leaving her in the long polished corridor, still as a rock. When he was out of earshot, she sighed in relief. She then quickly hurried to the Intelligence Offices, which had been her destination.

"Good Afternoon, Ma'am. How can CIB help you?" said the chirpy secretary when she arrived. She did not reply, and simply handed the folder over.

"See that this gets to Liquidations." she said coldly, masking her own fear behind stillness.

"No problem, Ma'am." The Secretary replied affably. The folder was stamped CLASSIFIED, and put into the Black in-tray on the side of her desk. Within a few hours, the wheels of Bureaucracy would turn, and Liquidations would get its new orders.

Inside the folder was a single sheet of paper. A list of the names of everyone involved in the Augsburg Infiltration mission. Dead men tell no tales.

 

[Havenshire]

CARNFORTH MILLITARY DOCKYARDS,
Northern Havenshire,September 10th 0630 Hours

The sky was still grey over Carnforth, gulls slowly beginning their dawn shrieking, as night shift changed over to day, and Agent Tuttle from the Office of Liquidations arrived.
His Land Rover all-terrain vehicle drove up to the front-gates, Ministry of Defence pennant fluttering, to be greeted by a still groggy gate guard.
"Identity Papers, please." he yawned, leaning over to the side window, his submachine-gun slung at his side. Carnforth was one of the most securely guarded and important millitary naval base in all of Havenshire, and its security record was considered impeccable.

"Of course." Tuttle handed over his "official" MoD papers, identifying him as the new naval intelligence liason, a Lieutenant Henry Clifford. The guard didn't bat an eyelid at this ID- it was afterall, an authentic one.

"Alright, everything seems in order. Go on through. Go straight to Arrivals after you park, and make sure to get an ID." the Guard said breezily, shivering as a sudden gust ruffled his uniform.

Tuttle nodded, and as the barriers rose, his driver slowly guided the Land Rover through the checkpoint and into the Base proper, past three-foot thick concrete walls and another iron-barred gate. Tuttle noted approvingly the stingers by the side of the road, and the second and third guards sitting in the booth, their submachineguns slung casually at their sides. For once, he was happy that security was so slack. It would make everything so much easier.

The Land Rover drove along a winding road at a leisurely pace, passing huge dour sheds and another checkpoint, before reaching the visitor's car park. It was mostly empty, except for a few other 'rovers and some heavy transport trucks. The wind was picking up now, and Havenshire's flag fluttered raggedly nearby. It was going to be a cold winter, Tuttle knew.

Stepping out of the Land Rover, he gave firm instructions to the driver. "Wait twenty minutes, then depart. Wait not a minute longer, you understand?"
"Roger boss."

Striding purposefully in his borrowed millitary lieutenant's uniform, Tuttle walked up to the Visitor's centre, careful to keep his face down and obscured for the ever-watching CCTV cameras.

Tuttle smiled as he saw the young receptionist adjusting herself at the desk. She was rather plain, her hair tied back in a severe bun, her face palid and somewhat unattractive. Like most Havenite women. Nonetheless, he was used to manipulating unattractive servile women to get what he wanted.

"Good morning, sir. How can I help you?"
"Hello, I'm Lieutenant Clifford. I need a visitor's pass."
After five minutes of flirting, he had her smiling and laughing, such that she failed to notice that he wasn't scheduled as a visitor, indeed, she even forgot to check the millitary register to see if he was a genuine officer. Which he wasn't. Henry Clifford did not technically exist.

With the visitor's pass affixed to his overcoat, he could now access parts of the base he couldn't before. However, he made sure to make a stop at the restroom first. Slipping an ALL-ACCESS pass out of his pocket, he carefully, quickly, and neatly replaced the pass he had brought with the one had just been issued, but ensuring his name and photo were carefully affixed. He considered writing a report about the lax security, but remembered that noone was supposed to know he had ever been here, and checked himself.

It didn't take him long to slip from the Visitor's Zone to the Orange Zone. Getting into the Red Zone, however, would be tougher. As he navigated the interior of the naval base, he passed a handful of staff, most only just now waking up or checking in. He had been sure to arrive early. But the Red Zone, where his objective was, would almost certainly be guarded and watched heavily. It was a good thing he had planned ahead.

Stopping by a vent, he planted a tiny smoke-bomb he had also brought with him inside, and broke the seal on the microfuse. It would quickly trigger a fire-alarm, and cause the base to lock-down. He'd have a very narrow window to take advantage of the chaos.

The Checkpoint into the innermost part of the base was guarded by 4 men and at least six CCTVs cameras with overlapping fields of view. He had studied this carefully in his preparation, and knew that he'd only get one shot at this.

He approached calmly and as casually as possible, ensuring that he did not attract the guard's attention by behaving suspiciously.

He heard the sudden, urgent chiming of the fire alarms, very different to the screaming air-sirens that most people on this base were familliar due to regular drilling. Ironically, they were less prepared to deal with a fire emergency than an attack drill. The guards panicked, and quickly abandoned their posts in a shocking display of unprofessionalism, racing towards their fire muster points, uncertain if this was a drill or not. Tuttle pretended to follow them, but quickly raced back, ignoring the cameras, counting on his luck here. It was risky, allowing footage of himself to exist at all like this, but even the best agents have to rely sometimes on luck- or outside help.

He saw several other, unarmed people leaving the main central building, the heart of the Red Zone. Naval Intelligence Headquarters. Home of his target, and his other mission parameters.

He quickly ducked behind a truck, letting the people pass by. Best not to be seen, and have to anwser awkward questions. They seemed in no hurry to anwser the call of the fire alarm, he noted. Either more professional or more slack than he had expected.

He began to move more quickly, now. He had only limited time to get in place, and to achieve his secondary objective.

The inside of the Naval Intelligence building seemed much larger on the inside than it had outside. glistening white corridors and heavy, opaque doors lined every corridor, and there was minimal signage. This was to prevent random infiltration, much like what he was attempting now. He smiled. He had memorised the layout, knowing that this would be the case.

He began to move quickly now, concerntrating on the map within his mind, running through empty offices and identical corridors, past checkpoints and ever present CCTV footage. He hoped that the Office of Liquidations would make good on their promise to him, and ensure that all the CCTVs here switched to looping footage after the fire alarms sounded. Invisibility was his agency's calling card, after all.

Finally, panting, the countdown timer inside his head approaching zero, he found the correct Office. Submarine Communications.

He ran in and sat down at the computers. They had been locked, in accordance with official policy. Tuttle quickly produced a flashdrive, and plugged it into the USB port. An Admin access only warning came up, again, in accordance with policy to prevent just this sort of hacking. He smiled, and typed the Admin password in. Even the greatest fortresses can be penetrated if you have the keys.

He quickly ran the exe on the flashdrive, and instantly began hacking the root directories, to access the encrypted communications files. From here, he could read all message traffic with Havenshire's submarines. And, he smiled with wolflike satisfaction, send a message too.
He saw a file marked vengeance.pis. He clicked it. Suddenly, the screen went blue.

THIS SYSTEM HAS PREFORMED AN ILLEGAL OPERATION AND HAS CRASHED.

"Oh fu-"
He heard a sudden rustling form behind him, and turned, too slowly. Suddenly, black-gloved hands wrapped around his throat, and broke his neck with lightning speed. He never even knew what killed him.

Lieutenant Harkness, Naval Intelligence Officer, quickly began searching the intruder he had just killed. An authentic visitor's pass, he noted, and identity papers that were equally authentic.

"Shit. Liquidations." He muttered to himself. He put his hands under Tuttle's arms, and began dragging the body into a supply closet. The fact that this "Lieutenant Clifford" had the same rank and position as him told him everything he needed to know. He was supposed to have been replaced. But Liquidations had clearly forgotten to do their homework. Jack Harkness was ex-CIB, and had taken the precaution of setting up that trap. What an Idiot. He thought. Clicking so obviously marked a file, and forgetting to secure the room.

Harkness knew he was in trouble, now. If they had come to kill him, dispatching one agent would not stop them. They'd just send a better one, next time. or worse, simply frame him for treason and have him executed. It was time, he reflected with bitterness, to defect.

He sat down at the computer, and rebooted it, removing the flashdrive. He quickly accessed the correct file, mislabelled as "tutorial.txt", and began to type an encrypted e-mail to the PSS Vengeance.

INTELLIGENCE OFFICER REPLACEMENT ENROUTE STOP AT 55 62 43 FOR HELICOPTER DROP AT ARRANGED TIME.

"So long, suckers." He said, and quickly left the Office.

He had a Helicopter to catch.

 

[Havenshire]

WESTHAVEN HEROE'S AVENUE,
Havenshire, March 30th, 1952

John Walker was dead. The "Red Labeller", The Father of the Nation. His liver had given up only five days ago, after a lifetime of hard-drinking. Today, his body would be transported from the People's Palace to his private yacht, moored at the Westhaven docks, and would then be towed out into the centre of the River Thorn, and then set alight, in accordance with his wishes. A God in life, he did not want his age and drink-worn body to be preserved for all time in a glass coffin, as Robert Clynes's body had become.

As the Reliant Robin which carried his body, painted in bold socialist red, trundled along the cleared streets, hundreds of thousands of Havenites openly wept. The way was strewn with roses, thousands and thousands of roses, thrown from windows and baskets. The Robin slowly crushed the petals beneath its three wheels, as the symbol of Automotive success in Havenshire carried "Father John" past his grieving people for one last time.

A woman broke through the cordon, and began banging on the car with heaving sobs. A Land volunteer, her independence and success in life made possible by Walker's iron-handed laws. The Honour guard reluctantly pushed her away, but their eyes were no dryer than hers. Each one of them was a five-times decorated Veteran of the Civil War and the Great War, fighting as part of the International Volunteers, sometimes for Carentania, sometimes in Vangala. Each of them had lost friends, brothers and even sons fighting for the glory of John Walker. Now they would have the honour of guarding his body tp its final resting place.

As the Robin turned a corner, it passed a Tavern named the Old Cock and Bull. This Tavern had been preserved as a monument, Walker's old drinking place. Hundreds of men from the Miner's and Farmer's Unions ceremoniously poured pints of Stout onto the ground, a river of beer flowing from the street towards the Funeral procession, lapping gently against the boots of the guardsmen. Never again would there be Happy Hours to celebrate the achievement of a production quota, or at least not ones that would feel quite the same.

At last, reaching the final leg of its journey, the Red Haven Guards's 12inch Guns boomed out a tribute, and the River Monitor PNS Fist of Solidarity added its own guns to the deafening tribute. As the echoes reveberated throughout the city, there was total silence. Cameras rolled, and radio representatives somberly commented in a respectful whisper. "And now all Havenshire stands silent, in tribute to the great man."

Reaching the gangplank, the Robin was driven carefully and directly onto the deck of Walker's Yacht, a stern clipper named Ol Skipper, after a dog that Walker had once owned as a boy. The Yacht was loaded to the gunwales with tributes to the man's life, crates of the finest whiskey, wreaths of roses, and a solid gold pickaxe, representing the one, now lost to time, that he had used to personally begin the first truly Socialist Miner's Strike alongside Robert Clynes, way back in 1924.

The car now stops, and the Chaffeur, none other than his personal secretary, David Wilkins, somberly climbs out, and leaves the yacht. The gangplank is raised, and there is a stifled sob that ripples across the crowd, as it is towed out into the harbour.

The Havenshire Army Ochestra now plays up the old tune, Flowers of the Forest, and the Yacht soon glides into its designated place. Many look away, too consumed by grief to see the final tableaux. For others, it will be seared onto their minds forever.

The yacht, soaked in high-grade petrol, is set alight, and the music soars, as it quickly catches, the sail flapping madly as it burns. Flames drip around the Robin, and the Clipper begins to list as flamesa race madly along the wooden decking.

A batallion of Crimson Marines in full dress regalia raise their rifles, and fire off 3 gun salutes in rapid succession. Over head, a squadron of Gloster Meteor Jets flies past, a stream of red and yellow coloured gases trailing not far behind.

On the docks, on a raised podium, the Central Congress in its entirety, including Deputy Chairman George Macclesfield, look on with hard eyes. They wearily salute the burning ship, and hold to their hearts their own private feelings about John Walker.
Soon, they know, will come the battle for the leadership.

Far away, mingled in the crowds, straining to catch sight of the burning ship, is a young boy, the son of a mid-level party official. This boy is Michael Foot, future Premier of Havenshire. In a strange coincidence, not far away is the teenage factory girl, Miranda Hart, who will one day give birth to Angela, destined also to be Michael's Minister of Defence...and perhaps, eventual, successor.

But this day has little baring on the events that were to rock Havenshire in 2011...

 

[Havenshire]

PALACE OF THE PEOPLE,
Westhaven October 18th, 2011

It had not been a good month for Angela Steele. She was still sweating over the effort she had exerted indirectly to contain the disastrous PSS Vengeance Affair. She had barely got away with her skin that one. She had had all records of what had occurred on board that submarine destroyed, and had good reason to believe that this troublesome Lieutenant Harkness had once and for all been dealt with.

Things had almost started to look bright again when Bantyr made the catastrophic error of attacking Suionia. A chance to win prestige again, keep her name in the limelight, cover over any tracks she might have left with that unfortunate overreach with the Central Intelligence Bureau. Perhaps some day, she mentally resolved, she would revisit this incident, and examine its events with a more critical and dispassionate light. But for now, the wounds were too raw. And other matters crowded for her attention.

She entered the vast teak and mahogany beladen Hall of the Central Congress. A cathedral-like space, smelling older and looking more worn than its mere seventy years would bely. Above was a reinforced steel and glass dome- a recent addition, replacing the structurally unsound and somewhat too neoclassical marble dome that originally adorned the structure. In the middle was a three-layered circuit, nicknamed the Arena by longtime apartachiks and party-members. For it was here in the middle of the Atrium that the Great Debates which shaped and forged the policy of Havenshire were made. Anyone lucky or unlucky enough to be asked to take the Circle in the heart of the Central Congress would not soon forget it. She had stood there three times already, once for her confirmation as Minister, once for re-election, and once very recently to justify Havenshire's position regarding the "August Catastrophe" which had not ended in August. Now she would be called again, to justify sending Submarine Groups into the An Lyric Sea.

As she walked down the plush carpeted steps towards the centre, beneath the bright lights, she became uncomfortably conscious of a hush falling over the Congress. She became increasingly aware of roughly six hundred pairs of eyes boring into the back of her neck. Members of all Three legitimate Parties sat in full session today, eager to gauge this upstart Minister of Defence, a young, barely middle-aged woman who nonetheless had half the authority needed to start a nuclear war.

As she reached the podium and the long microphone, she glanced briefly in the direction of the Chairman. Barry Knot sat heavily on the plush chair that was his by right, glaring at her triumphantly. He mouthed something at her, which she took to be gloating. On the podium with her was the Central Speaker, the Adjudicator for all debates and disputes, a stern, frail man who had held the post for nearly twenty-four years. The Premier sat some distance from her, conspicuous by his absence. He would not shield her this time, nor supplement her responses. She would have to Defend herself.

"Honoured Members of the Congress, I present to you Minister of Defence Angela Steele, late of the Council-Communist Party and the Constituency of Morthorpe West. Miss Steele, You are here to anwser formal Questions from the Congress. I will determine who may ask questions first, and I will regulate the session so it does not exceed ninety minutes. Please keep your anwsers to the point and brief, As there are no doubt many who wish to cross-examine you." The Central Speaker's voice was dry and formal from decades of saying the same rote things. He at least was not peturbed by recent events, and seemed not to betray any overt disapproval of her position. His neutrality was some small comfort to her.

"I am ready to begin, Mr.Speaker." She said, unfolding her slim red folder onto the podium top. She had chosen to eschew her reading glasses. In truth, there was very little on the notes in front of her. She would either stand or fall based on what she said today. If she anwsered too meekly, relied too much on her notes, she might satisfy the questioners, but her preformance would be remembered. She could never openly display ambition again, if she allowed herself to be humbled today. But if she irked too much anger, displayed too much contempt, she would be howled out of the Congress, and lose not just the Ministry but perhaps any power within her Party itself. It was a fine line to walk.

"First Question. I open the floor to you, District Councillor Adam Werrity..."

And so it began. In spite of herself, she allowed a brief, ironic smile. Let them come.

===============================================================

 

[Havenshire]

NORTH RIDING AIRBASE,
Northern Havenshire October 22nd 1000hrs, 2011

Angela Steele wrapped the thick trenchcoat tighter around her, as she stepped down from her private helicopter onto the thick tarmac. A cold wind immediately hit her, her blonde hair thrown into her face. She had often thought of cutting it shorter, but didn't need to give her detractors anymore reason to think she was some kind of lesbian. She smiled to herself at the idea. She would never limit herself in such a way.

"Minister Steele?" a voice shouted. It was a young man in a blue flight tech uniform. "The Air Marshal told me you'd be visiting. Welcome to North Riding!" he shouted to be heard. Not only was it a windy day, but as ever the sound of Jets landing and taking off dominated. It was afterall, one of Havenshire's largest airbases, and home to 2 of its proudest Squadrons, aswell as its largest bombing range, which dominated a sizable chunk of the northernmost coast.

"Thank you, Flight Technician." She said cooly, donning her sunglasses. She was all the cool minister today. Having survived and emerged, grudgingly, intact from her grilling in the Central Congress, she knew she would have to act fast to cement her alliances where she could, before the Council-Communist Party tried another character asassination. She was accompanied today also by her loyal Bodyguard, a large and impressively muscled Carentanian immigrant named Victor.

Victor followed, a discreet blacksuited shadow always at her side. An omnipresent reminder that, frail woman that she may be, she was not incapable of resisting asassination attempts. totally defenceless against asassination attempts of the more literal kind.

They got into the back of a cramped jeep, which would take them up to the main Command Bunker. Steele watched impassively as they drove past rows of gleaming Jackdaws, and a couple of larger, older planes of various types, mostly for cargo and bombtesting purposes.

They drove in relative silence, the noises of a fully working millitary airbase making any smalltalk impossible anyway.

Upon arrival, she was led to the Control Tower, where Air Marshall Thornton stood. He was a proud, muscular man in a simple skyblue uniform, a shock of white fuzzy hair covering his balding scalp. He had piercing blue eyes, and his weatherbeaten skin hid many scars. He embodied the Old Guard, the people that Angela most needed to win over here.

"Ah, here at last, Minister." He said. "Just in time to witness the tests." He said brusquely. This man was all substance, and no style. Despite herself, she smiled. She could work with this.

"Excellent, Air Marshall. I trust you found the funding allocations to your liking? How is your leg?" Although she still wore her sunglasses, Thornton imagined a glint in her eye. He reminded himself that this woman was his superior, though he rubbed his prosthetic limb self-consciously.
"It is as it always is, Minister." He said, simply.

He directed her to a Conference room, where a full range of video-equipment and recievers had been set up. A powerpoint slideshow had been set up on the opposite wall, and there were briefing folders aligned around the table.

"Expecting other visitors, Air Marshall?"
"I was told that the Central Congress would be sending a delegation to see the fruits of their...labour." He sniffed.
"I'm afraid the Congress has more...important matters on its mind." She let that barb stand in the air. She knew well what the millitary thought of the Congress. She had been adverse to courting their support in the past, but after her drubbing by the Party, she knew that she could not rely on the appartachiks to achieve her true goals.

"We have set up a live feed and multiple angle cameras for you to witness the test."
"Can I not view it...first hand, Air Marshal?"
The Marshal coughed, hiding his own growing irritation with this sharp woman. She was not what he had come to expect from the usual bureaucrats he had to anwser to. She seemed almost...too keen.
"It is customary to view it from the conference room.." He said, aware of how lame the words sounded coming from his mouth.
"That seems a little disengaged, doesn't it? If I wanted a video conference I could have watched it from my office in Westhaven."

Suppressing the desire to snarl, Thornton simply nodded. "Very well. There is an Observation Bunker about five miles from here, where the Test can be viewed with more...clarity."
"Then I'd appreciate it if you arranged transportation to this Bunker, posthaste, thank you."
"But the Test..."
"Postphone it untill I get there. Quickly, Marshall."
Grumbling, he quickly got out a satellite phone, and made the necessary calls. She stood, tapping her feet. Rattling the Air Marshall was important, for now. He needed to know that she intended to be top dog, here. But later, she would show him what rewards came with loyalty and efficency.

Half an hour later, and another bumpy jeep ride, She stood inside a dimly lit and poorly heated concrete bunker, designed to withstand even thermonuclear explosions. A narrow, heavily reinforced view slit peaked out on a barren shoreline, and a desolate isolated rock that stood out of the frothing cold sea, a scant mile or two from the beach. She was, all told, three miles from ground Zero.
"You may wish to wear these goggles, Minister."
The Air Marshall had donned his full ceremonial trenchcoat and peaked Marshal's cap. To hide his own weakness to the cold, she suspected.
Other, heavily clothed men wearing facemasks and fiddling with a laptop, sat on hard benches within the bunker.
Suddenly, the radio barked, a loud squeal of static followed by clipped messages. The Test was about to begin.
"Lowering Blast shield." a heavy sheet of steel began to descend across the bunker slit. "Is that strictly necessary? It rather obstructs the view."

The Marshall grunted, and nodded. One of the full facemasked soldiers pushed a button, and the blast shield retracted again. Only thick persplex glass stood between them, now.

"Eyeglass, this is Phoenix One. Egg is ready to be hatched, over. I say again, Egg is ready to be hatched."

Angela seated herself with as much grace as she could muster. "Then by all means, Let the Phoenix be born." she said, in what she hoped was a poetic tone of voice.


The Air Marshall picked up the radio. "Acknowledged, Phoenix One, this is Eyeglass. Crucible may be formed. I say again, Crucible may be formed."

Outside, above, at 50,000 feet, a C-47 Cargo plane opened its modified cargo-bay doors, and a large heavy rough steel cylinder was ejected out forcibly, its parachute opening at 30,000 feet as it fell towards the Target Rock.

At 10,000 feet, the classified explosive mixture deep within the cylinder is ignited, and makes contact with the pressured aluminium gas around it.

All noise is annihilated. Even with industrial headphones on, a wall of sound and pressure can be felt in the Bunker, like suddenly stepping into an oven. The light is -briefly- almost blinding. There is a sudden torrent of pressured wind, released from the blast-site, which throws up sand and water as it expands outwards across the bay, drumming against the persplex glass.

When the dust settles, Half the huge outsticking rock has crumbled away in burning flames, and a small tidal wave hits the shore of the breach, crashing with force against the breakers.

Angela watches, awed. This is what her years of discreet funding have provided. A working Thermobaric explosive- a Fuel Air Bomb. Roughly 42 kilograms of TNT compacted into a mere thirty kilogram charge. A small difference perhaps, but worth all the difference in the world.

"How soon can these go into production?"
"I'm not sure, Minister." Said the Air Marshall, seemingly unruffled. "I didn't bring the briefing notes from the videoconference room."

She smiled warmly, genuinely. "I think I may like you after all, Air Marshall Thornton. But I think you both know I didn't bring us out here to discuss the FAB."
"No, Ma'am...?" Actually that was exactly what he had thought, but he'd be damned if he was going to admit that to her.

She produced a simple, sealed envelope from her breastpocket. "Tell your men that their further presence will not be needed."

"Ma'am..?"

"Just do it."

The soldiers left, leaving the Air Marshall and the Minister alone in a sealed bunker, the light of the flames three miles away flickering across them.

"We have much to discuss, Marshall...." She said, handing him the envelope.


================================================================

 

[Havenshire]

Stanchester Armoury,
October 24th, 2011

Quartermaster General Baker was in his office smoking a cigar, reading the latest munition production reports, when the door burst open, admitting a cool blondehaired woman he recognised as his Boss, the Minister of Defence.
"Shit- I mean, Minister. How can I help you?" He said, sweating.
"Relax, General. This is an informal visit. I have come to discuss with you an interesting matter..." She said, smiling, nodding to her bodyguard, who closed the door. She reached into her suit pocket, and pulled out an envelope...

Thorn Submarine Yard C,
October 26th, 2011

""Its a magnificient operation you have here." Angela shouted over the sound of whirring machinery and flying sparks. In front of her was the massive sight of rennovation work on a Buccaneer Attack Submarine, the PNS Valiant.
"We're using new roboticised machinery, which massively speeds up the process." Admiral Kynes shouted. "I am confident that we can extend the service life on our Buccaneers at least another five years, though it might be cheaper in the long run to build more Blackbeards."

Sensing her cue, Angela Steele reached into her suit pocket and produced an envelope. "Yes, its a shame how the Central Congress won't make the necessary commitments to defence policy. Perhaps I can help you there, Admiral..."

ArcherTech Headquarters, Greathampton
October 28th, 2011

"To what do we owe this honour, Minister Steele?" said the Chief Director, Alan Parsons. It wasn't often that he recieved anyone from the State who wasn't a Safety Inspector or some nosy bureaucrat. Technically, he didn't anwser to the Ministry of Defence, but was an independent private contractor under the supervision of Arms Coop. However, in practice, the Ministry of National Defence had total control over what of his business they would buy, and it was illegal for him to sell his company's research to anyone but the Havenshire State.

"I have always had an interest in archery." She quipped, moving slowly around his desk, refusing to sit down. "In truth, Mr.Parsons, there is something...thrilling to me about the hunt. About picking a target, emptying your mind of all concerns and fears, knowing you will have only...one...shot." She circled around behind him. He began to wonder if she was trying to seduce him. She produced an envelope from her breastpocket, and handed it to him. He frowned.

"What is this, Minister? A bribe? Some new contract?"
"You are the leading developer of software for Havenshire's missiles, yes? It is very simple, Mr. Parsons. I want you to create an exclusive backdoor in your programmes, a code known only to you and me."
"But that's outrageous! Does the Central Congress know about this?"
"I think you may find whats in the envelope to your benefit....

Private Residence, Revolution Road, Clyneston
October 30th, 2011

Mark Hamilton was packing a large suitcase frantically. He had spent the evening looking over his shoulder, and had driven himself home from work. He was the Chief Paymaster at the Department of Wages for the People's Army. He had always prided himself on his honesty and strength of character. He had worked hard to purge the Department, and the People's Army itself, of corruption, and of maintaining the integrity of the Armed Forces.

When the Minister of Defence had come to him that afternoon, and what she had brought him... He had known that all of that work would come to nothing. He had tried to bluff his way out of that deeply uncomfortable meeting, but a frantic part of his mind knew. She knows. They're coming for me.

"What's the matter, dear? Why are you packing?" It was his wife, a frumpy woman who he had never really loved. "I'm sorry Helen, but I am urgently needed at a conference in....Carentania. I'll be back in...two weeks." He lied. In truth, he planned to defect, that night if possible, to Breotonia. He had friends at the Foreign Ministry who could get him across the Strait of Zeal. He had to get out, before it was too late.
"What! What the fuck, Mark? You said that we could spend the evening together..."
"LATER, HELEN! THIS IS IMPORTANT! Just- Just look after the kids, okay?" he shouted, sweat beading on his forehead.

"Whats the matter with you, Mark? Your acting like you've seen a ghost!"
"I promise I'll explain everything, I just need to go away for a bit-"
"What the fuck did you do, Mark? What are you talking about?"

Knock. Knock. Knock.
A silence. Both he and Helen held their breath. Mark prayed the silence would not e-
Knock.

"And they shall Knock four times." He whispered, trembling. "Oh Fuck..."
"Mark...Oh honey..." Helen said, her eyes softening.
Their housemaid opened the door, reluctantly.

It was two men in long brown trenchcoats, with fedoras.
"Good evening, miss. I'm here to see a Mr. Mark Hamilton. I'm with...Internal Affairs." The agent lied, grinning.

=======================================
THE CLARION WEBSITE,
OCTOBER 31ST, 2011

DRUNK DRIVER DROWNS AFTER HORRIFIC CAR ACCIDENT

Early this morning, a Drunk Driver careened off the Clyneston Memorial Bridge, Constabulary officials confirm. The man was apparently speeding, and was spotted by several eyewitnesses in the dawn light, apparently sobbing at the wheel.
His body was fished from the river by officers of the Clyneston Constabulary, and has been identified as Mark Hamilton(52), apparently a high-ranking member of the Administration, working as the Paymaster for the People's Army. His family are reportedly distraught at this development, and this tragedy is one of a number of road-related fatalities that have occurred recently....

 

[Havenshire]

PALACE OF THE PEOPLE
Westhaven, 8th November, 2011

"This is getting out of hand." thundered Barry Knott, the Party Chairman, pacing up and down. "I know that bitch is behind this, somehow. We should impeach the whore."

Michael Foot, Premier of Havenshire, regarded his right-hand man cooly. They were sat in the Cabinet Office, along with a handful of other, trustworthy CCP diehards. Officially, a Cabinet meeting required all Cabinet members to be present, but this was strictly "off the record", and as such the Minister of Defence had most carefully not been informed.

"I think your getting too worked up, Barry." said the Premier. "I believe that we have hamstrung her ability to influence the Directive. A few businessmen are certainly no threat to that."

"I think you're underestimating her, Premier." said Barry, calming down a little, but still pacing and clenching and unclenching his fist. "Letting her run this country's millitary and armaments industry into the ground is fucked. I say we call for a Vote of No Confidence, or better still, hand over all control to the Minister of Armaments. We've been wanting to get a tighter leash on ArmsCoop anyway. We can still forbid this deal with a general ruling." He leaned in over the polished oak table, his meaty hands crushing scattered dossiers.
"The trouble is, she does have popular support. This move will create jobs, and, for the time being, its a distraction the people need." this from the Minister of Labour, normally a quiet, nervous fellow. Barry snarled at him.
"Minister Harriman is right, Barry. In any case, I have begun making my own moves to isolate her powerbase. Right now she is riding high on popular support, but to expand any further she will have to try and use her purely millitary influence. The last time someone did that in this country, it didn't end well." The premier spoke confidently, though others in the room flinched at the casual reference to the failed coup detat by Council-communist hardliners.

"Bah. She's a capitalist whore who has long dreamed of sleeping in the bed of foreign business interests. I remember when she was undersecretary under the market socialists. I read her fucking file, same as everybody else's, when you wanted me to find cabinet members, Michael. I told you then and I'm telling you now, She's an ambitious cunt with no ideological commitment."
"Oh, Barry. I do admire your dedication to our cause, truly I do, but Realpolitik is no crime." Foot's eyes hardened. "But she will learn that I am master of this game. Keep the Councillors in line, Barry, and I will make sure that her little empire in the Ministry of Defence is slowly cut from under her feet. There's no need to make things messy yet, at anyrate." He rose from his leather chair, and picked up one of the dossiers.
"Minister Bulwer? Perhaps you could help me get in touch with Colonel Blood."

Suddenly the room went deathly quiet, and a pall seemed to fall over everyone's faces. Bulwer, Minister of Transportation, simply gulped. "Premier, you know that I cannot reveal Colonel Blood's identity to anyone..."
"I don't care who he is. But I did read very carefully the exact wording of the Secret Provisions in the First Constitution. I know what he is, and what his duties are. I'd like to get in touch with him. I am confident that he will agree with me on this subject."
The other ministers shuddered. Even Barry seemed more quiet than usual.
"I thought you said you didn't want any mess, Premier? Nothing's messier than the Colonel."
"Oh, you're being too literal again, Chairman. I don't want the Minister of Defence...liquidated...merely shall we say, irrepably discredited."

Bulwer gulped. "I'll uh, see what I can do, Premier. But you understand that I- you can't, let anyone know, about uh, that." He twiddled his thumbs awkwardly, feeling caught out. In truth, he felt like he was betraying the spirit of Clynes and Walker, who had wanted the existence of "Colonel Blood", actually a small team of individuals, from coming to light, and, not trusting future Premiers, they had trusted the sole link in formal government with someone they could count on to have no real power normally anyway- namely, the Minister of Transport. Colonel Blood was the anwser Walker devised to the ancient question, "Who Watches the Watchers." They were a surveillance network set up to watch the CIB itself. Since Walker's time, it had mostly been dormant. During the coup, it had been caught completely off guard, and Adam Kettering had ranted furiously at the Cabinet. The then MoT then let slip the Colonel Blood provisio, and ever since then a segment of the Cabinet had been aware that there was in fact, supposed to be a failsafe to prevent institutional abuses, and that for the last 50-60 years, it had been listening and watching everything they had been doing, and done nothing with the information. At first they had been terrified, but eventually astounded at the incompetence of it. They hadn't been co-opted by Breotonia, corrupted by their power, or anything. They had simply gone to work each day, and compiled a mountain of unwatched recordings, confidential papers, and sat on them. Only in the most Labyrinthine of bureaucracies could Colonel Blood exist in this way.

Of course, only the Minister of Transport was allowed to know how to contact them, or even who the teammembers were. It could priobably be extracted form him relatively easy, he supposed, but he knew from his own ministerial records that the last time someone had tried that in the Interregnum, the team had somehow vanished. It was rumoured they had even bugged the Cabinet offices.

Now, it seemed, Foot wanted to use the Watchers to destroy the Minister of Defence. A resource seperate from, but probably deeply a part of, both her conventional Ministry and the Central Intelligence Bureau, which nominally also anwsered to her.

Things were going to get interesting.

 

[Havenshire]

Gallows Rock Maximum Security Facility,
Northwestern Havenshire, 11th November 2011

The Storm raged outside, howling winds battering the grim black fortress that jutted off the rocky coast of Havenshire. The distant rumble of thunder could be heard, and it looked like a real thunderstorm would soon batter the coastal promontory. It was that time of year, afterall.

"CAN YOU GET US TO THE PRISON HELIPAD?" Angela Steele shouted over the roar of the Helicopter's straining engines. In retrospect visiting this place at this time might have been a very, very bad idea, instead of merely a foolish one.
"WHAT? IT'S FIVE MINUTES TO LANDING." Shouted back the pilot. He didn't know who he was transporting. Only Steele's bodyguard knew who she really was. Both of them were masquerading as Ministry of Corrections Inspectors. The paperwork was after all correct. She smiled. The Minister of Corrections had been most amenable when she had given him the envelope. That arrogant idiot Foot thought that by cutting her political power he could control her and let her burn herself out raging at the bureaucratic walls he was building. He had no idea of the tunnels she had dug under those walls.

And now, for curiosity's sake, she was visiting this Shithole.

It was a rough landing, and the howling gale was threatening to drag the Helicopter off the rain-soaked Helipad. The Pilot quickly killed the engine. "Shit, had to burn through alot of fuel. Hope the Prison has some, or else we'll have to boat back." The Pilot wasn't joking. Gallow's Rock was an enormous jutting crag along the northwestern coast of Havenshire, exposed to high winds and battering waves from the An Lyric Sea. It was about 60 miles from Sunder, and was inaccessible by road. Everything was brought in by boat or Helicopter. In winter months, the Prison was usually on a graveyard shift, and didn't see visits or new supplies untill the early spring.

"Welcome to Gallow's Rock, Inspectors." the Deputy Warden, nominally in charge, greeted them with 2 grey-uniformed guards. "You have picked a fine time to visit, no?"

They quickly hurried inside the warmth of the Prison itself, just in time as a heavy downpour of rain began to drench the Helipad.
"I am Deputy Warden Carl Reinier. These are..." The deputy Warden began giving her and her bodyguard a tour of the facilities, after they had changed out of their flightsuits and properly fitted their visitor IDs. Security was indeed impressive. The Facility was built to a cylindrical design, divided into layers accessible by remote-controlled gantryways. The Control Room was at the top of the facility, just below the Helipad and Barracks for the Guards. In layers of Cells, the Prisoners were held. From top to bottom in order of severity of crime. Angela wanted to go to the sub-basement level, below sea-level. She wanted to see Prisoner Zero.

For an hour she and Victor were escorted around the prisons, always circling downwards. The storm beat against the thick stone and steel walls of Rock, vibrations shaking the whole facility. They passed rows of sad, weakened men, all confined to their cells for the night, access to the Excerise Hall restricted. All of them wore shabby, ill-fitting striped work overalls, as was typical of convicts. At first, the men she passed would sometimes spring up, and make catcalls or signs of token defiance. "Newcomers. Don't worry, Inspector, after a few months they quickly settle down when they realise how Hopeless escape is from Gallow's Rock."

As they passed ever downwards, the lights flickered, and she could see signs of where the storm had leaked through into the facility, puddles of rain and seawater, and dripping moisture from the ceilings. "I regret that Gallow's Rock is an old facility, Inspector. We do not always have the funds to maintain everything..."

She let his babble wash over her. She had a specific reason for coming here, on such a highly risky mission. There was always the chance some idiot would check the internet and find that she looked identical to a senior cabinet member. Not that her pass wouldn't check out, of course. The Minister of Corrections had been very careful to ensure she would pass even the most stringent of systems checks.

The lowest levels were dark and dank and stank of death and hopelessness. The prisoners here were emaciated, scrawny individuals with sunken eyes. All of them were the worst criminals and dissidents Havenshire had ever seen. Multiple rapists and pedophiles housed alongside Anarchists, Fascists, and those whose political influence was considered too toxic to safely dispose of. Instead, left here to rot and be forgotten.

There was one occupied Cell lower even than this, in the sub-basement, above the Generators and Interrogation Rooms. It was the most secure Cell in the facility, and, indeed, arguably, all Havenshire. This was the Prisoner she had come to see.

"Ah, Inspector, seeing Prisoner Zero is...most irregular."

"I don't care. It is critical to my report that the condition of Prisoner Zero be asessed." she lied smoothly. "If I like what I see...perhaps those extra funds might be released." She struggled to hide her wolfish smile, as she saw that she had guessed right. These graveyard shift guards, stuck in the same shithole as their prisoners, used the funds not on repairs but on buying illicit luxuries from the Mainland. More money would mean more ways to fill the long cold nights.

The Deputy Warden licked his lips with naked greed, and nodded. "Of course. I'll see what I can arrange." He produced a hand radio, and issued some short instructions to the Control Room Staff, twenty floors up. It was a long way from top to bottom in Gallow's Rock. A long way from warmth to dripping, killing moisture and cold.

The heavy, vaultlike doors to the sub-basement were rolled aside. They proceeded along a narrow corridor, past CCTV, and came to another heavy, deadlocked electronic door with laser sensors. The Deputy Warden used a retina scanner to open the door with a loud buzz. He then typed in a code, and there was a second buzz. "Disables the Secondary Alarm. If the code hadn't been typed in within 30 seconds, the whole facility would have gone into lockdown." The Deputy Warden boasted.
"Impressive." she murmured.

They came at last to a single, heavy iron door with a narrow visor-slit. There was no visible means of opening this door, which had a heavy black "0" printed on it.

The Deputy Warden approached the door, then, took a sharp right, towards what looked like a rusty, iron airlock. It was even marked as "EXIT TO THE SEA". "If anyone tried to cut through Door 0 there, they'd let in the An Lyric Sea, and flood this whole area." The Deputy Warden giggled. "We have thought of everything."

He tapped in another code into the keypad next to the airlock. There was a hiss of releasing gas, and the door slowly slid into the wall. Unsuprisingly, it was an Airlock. "Decontamination. Maintains the illusion, too." After entering the narrow, cramped airlock, the Warden began to turn the wheel nearest to him, slowly rolling the door back behind them. With another hiss of escaping gas, they entered the brightly lit, stainless steel holding area for Prisoner Zero.

He was sat, on his bed, in a large steel cage. CCTV cameras adorned the exterior. No guards were currently present. In the cage with him was a small desk, and on it a large collection of books. The Prisoner wore a simple white tunic and trousers without any belt or long strips of fabric. He rose at the sight of them, and grinned.

"Greetings, Reinier. How fares it up top?" He said, with a voice hoarse yet mellifluous with age. He had dark, greying hair, and deep, haunting blue eyes. He had a truly evil-looking smile, and, though gaunt, he maintained a wiry, strong frame.

"Hello, General Rothmann. Some Inspectors to see you."

Angela smiled. "Greetings, General. You probably don't remember me." She reached inside her coatpocket, for an envelope. The man who had led the failed Coup of 1993 was a risky investment, but she felt that, as suicidally dangerous as talking to him might be, he could shed valuable insight on how to achieve radical goals from a limited position...

=====================================

 

[Havenshire]

"Falling from the sky,
memories of pain,
tomorrow and today it will rain,
but it won't get on my neck,
back to the land from where I hail
to the pub and go, I'll go, I'll go!"
-Old Havenshire Drinking Song

December, 1989

General Arnold Rothmann watched with icy-blue eyes, the lightly drifting snow settling on his epaulettes, unnoticed. It was going to be a Cold Winter, he knew. He rested his gloved hands on the stone balcony, as he surveyed the parade ground below. The 2nd Division was preforming its winter parade excercises in full dress uniform, a light emerald green standing out starkly in the grey and white of the snow-covered parade ground. Red banners fluttered in the biting wind. It was a sight that would fix itself in his memory for years to come.

10,000 men drilled and marched as one body before the Palace of the People. Their rifles raised and fell with perfect, clockwork precision. Behind them came a small assortment of armoured vehicles. The missile launchers had been retired 10 years ago. Then, he noted wryly, he had been in this parade, a young up and coming officer with too many ambitions. He had looked up at the balcony where Rothmann now stood, and saluted his predeccessors, old men in stiff, black suits and green and grey millitary uniforms.

Then, the Parade had been saluted back by those old men, weary and cynical as they were. But the new regime had little time for millitary affairs. He glanced to his side, now, and saw the seat where Premier Emily Brown was meant to sit was vacant. It was just him, the Minister of Defence, and some attaches. The Government had more...important things to do. He simply grimaced and continued to watch, keeping his hard, cold face blank of all emotion.

"I'm sorry for intruding on you, sirs...but I was told I had to give you this report..." a young voice, female. He turned, and softened. Some poor shivering secretary, bright blonde hair done up in a bun. She wasn't that pretty, he noted. Competent, perhaps.
"Mmm? A report, on parade?" General Henson, of the 1st Division. Pushing 70, now. Had clung on his command position past mandatory retirement through sheer force of will. A dinosaur, compared to Rothmann's own youth and hard ambition. A fossil next to a diamond.

The secretary blushed, despite the cold, and handed them the red folder. Henson gruffly opened it. "Oh! It's a christmas card. From the Central Congress." The general said these last two words in the same tone that a normal person might say "Child Rapists". He sniffed, his grey moustache shuffling on his cracked lip. "How nice of them."

Rothmann noted that the 8th company was slightly out of time with the rest of them, by almost a half second. He made a mental note to have the Sargeant Major responsible discplined. Sloppiness was unacceptable. He flexed his gloved fingers, and turned. "Hand me the christmas card, if you'd be so kind." Henson stared, then reluctantly handed the folder over.

Arnold studied the card, a thick, cheery piece of egg-white vellum with embossed lettering. In thick, looping curls, he could see that Emily Brown had written a personal message, in her own handwriting, congratulating the Army on its preformance, and wishing them a Merry Christmas. Those words burned in his hard soul. A merry christmas. She used those words. He felt his hands shaking. Gently, neatly, he closed the card, noting the watercolour picture of soldiers singing merrily around a christmas tree on the front. He felt the hairs on the back of neck go up. With an economy of effort, he ripped the card in half, then in to quarters, and finally into eighths, and let the pieces drizzle down on to the ground below. The secretary simply stared, agape.

"Thank you for the report, miss secretary." He said, without rancour in his voice. "Tell whatever Joker delegated you this pointless task that in future they should convey all reports to me, themselves." She gulped. "Yessir." The young woman saluted, stiffly, and quickly departed.

Henson merely grumbled. "Scaring the secretaries now, eh Rothmann?"
"We have grown too weak, General. Such a woman would be better placed in some Co-operative or Civil Service role. Instead we get the leavings. A christmas card." He forced a laugh, which came out more as a choking noise. Rothmann had not truly laughed in all his adulthood. His father had beaten such weakness out of him.

"There'll be more cuts, you know." Henson laughed hoarsely, coughing and spitting out phlegm on to the hard stone floor. "Next year it'll be 8,000 men and a box of chocolates." He croaked wheezily.
Rothmann snarled. "You do not do our cause any good with your antics, you old lecher. If that girl had had any chest, I'd have suspected she was here for your behest."
Henson frowned heavily. "Don't lecture me, you runt. You're barely 40, and already a General? Whose cock did you suck for that?"
Rothmann suppressed the urge to reach out and strangle this old man. Briefly, images from his past flashed across his mind. He had gotten where he was today by any and all means possible. It wouldn't be the first person he'd have strangled. And the comment bit a little too close to home for comfort. "I am an Officer of the People's Army. I am where I am because I deserve it, because the People need my skills." He said with total conviction.
Henson roared with laughter. "The People neither need nor want us anymore, Arnold. Isn't it obvious? We're a show they can't even be bothered to watch anymore. 10,000 men doing exercises in the fucking snow? What a joke."
He bit back his own, venomous retort. "We shall see, old man. We shall see. This...Premier's time will come to an end soon. Things will change."

"Things will change."

The cold wrapped around him like a coat, and he turned to watch the rest of the parades in silent gloom.

 

[Havenshire]

Grosvenor Hotel Conference Room, Walkerton
JANUARY 5TH, 2011

Angela Steele sat at the head of the conference table, a broad socialist-realist mural of the Worker conquering Need and the Farmer conquering Hunger square behind her. The choice of location for this crucial meeting had been very careful indeed. The Grosvenor was not only the finest hotel in Walkerton, the city that bore the name of the Red Labeller, but was also the most luxurious and opulent hotel in Havenshire which, nonetheless, conformed in all ways to a 1930s art deco and socialist realist aesthetic. Everything about it sung of the optimism, the glory, the achievement of a communist state.

And as such, it was perfect for the Alliance she was forming today. Despite her usual self-control, she couldn't help but feel like cackling in glee. All the peices were falling into place. Soon, she thought, soon.

"Gentlemen and Ladies, I want to thank you all for coming." she said smoothly, as the assorted guests sat down.
"What's all this about, Minister? You know we are busy, and don't have to respond to orders from your Ministry." this from the blustery CEO of Westfields Agri-Coop. He hadn't, and wouldn't, be part of her inner circle. But she had invited him, in part to throw off the Central Congress's hounds, but also to give her faction a stronger populist base, when the time came.

"This is about things that are to all of your advantage, friends. I don't need to tell you that this isn't a political matter, and as such, should not be discussed openly, or mentioned per se to our friends at the Clarion or the Directive." she pointedly glanced at the doors, where her simple-suited men were now taking up positions.

"The Jack is out of the box, everyone. The Market Socialist Revolution changed things in this country forever. The Council-Communist Party has tried to put it back in the box, but it is afraid of using force to do so, and as such it has allowed our armed forces to become a dumping ground for those without sufficient talent to qualify elsewhere." Her bold statement, right after asserting this was not a political meeting, caused an uproar, as they all began talking at once.

"Silence, please!" She roared, her voice taking on the commanding, authoritative tones she had perfected from hours of watching Emily Brown speeches. "I have called you here not to dispute what has come before, but instead to present to you all opportunities for the Future. In terms of Defence, the Security and safety of this country, the purview of which my authority is absolute, one glaring truth stands above all: Havenshire cannot possibly hope to resist the Capitalist world alone. It is simply not possible for us to build and maintain any armed force large enough to repel the strength of our greatest enemy, Breotonia, alone, much less the many allies and cronies of Monarchy and capitalism. This is a truth I admit to you because for too many decades we have allowed either our fear of the enemy within or the enemy without to dominate us. The Central Congress believed that by keeping the millitary weak it could protect us from the enemies within. It believed that by turning ourselves inwards, by refusing to acknowledge or engage with the capitalist system at all, that we would be safe from the monopolists in Lunden. I say it is time we began to reverse that, not in a political revolution, or a revolution of force, but culturally and economically. I ask you all, now, to consider what you have begun dabbling in already- Havenshire cannot stand alone. All the prosperity she has achieved so far has been from a small circle of allies and friends. I say, let this circle grow. From prosperity comes security. With all the world as our friend, we need not fear oppressors or invaders."

She nodded, and her men came forward, presenting each of the gathered magnates with a white dossier. "Inside is a customised list for each of you of known foreign companies and co-operatives, of nations whose assets we have assessed would be best enriched by our strong enterprise, and who in turn would enrich our economy."
"Why are you doing this?" blurted another CEO, as they began to mutter again, reading through the dossiers.
"I am not finished. In my capacity of Minister of Defence, It is my pride and joy to say that our arms industry is one of our greatest contributors to domestic wealth. It is also why it must lead the way in producing prosperity abroad. We must sell our arms, gentlemen, to guarantee a different kind of security. The Battlefield of the 21st century is wealth and information. You, as representatives of the collectives of industry, must persuade your shareholders that the battle must be fought abroad, if we are to truly reap the benefits at home." She neglected to state, of course, how she intended to win the battle for information. She was already in meetings with the 3 Heads of the Central Intelligence Bureau, and there was much discussion about how to quietly, covertly expand the networks of spies, and perhaps even expand the cyberwarfare division, so that the CIB could begin to meet the challenge of the Internet on an equal footing, rather than with clumsy, easily evaded IP censorship.

The meeting went on for another hour or so, but she knew she had already won the arguement. Just as she had met with the now-disgraced traitor, General Rothmann, to learn how to martial the armed forces more completely to her side- their weakness, she had been suprised to learn, was a genuine nostalgic, almost niave, sense of patriotism and yearning for martial glory. So, using the insights granted by that strangely compelling pyschopath Rothmann, she had begun to meet, at first one at time, but later in larger numbers, all the Generals, Admirals and Apartachiks of the Armed Forces, which she nominally oversaw as Defence Minister, but which had for so long been neglected, downsized, and relegated. In many ways it was simply a physical fitness club, led by people who had been too stupid or too niave to seek service elsewhere. It was a suprising revelation, given how her years of experience within the Defence Ministry and the Citizen's Defence Reserve had given her a completely different perspective.

"I thank you all for coming, Gentlemen. But as you enjoy the rest of your evening here in Walkerton, I remind you all to think carefully about where Havenshire came from, and to see clearly where it must go in the future, if it is to survive." She left them then, and went straight out into the hallway, not stopping for her questions. Her mind was ablaze with ideas, with connections, trying to stay one step ahead of everybody else. The Mud the Central Congress had tried to sling at her had thankfully slid right off, a favour the editor of the Clarion owed her which she had called in. So now they were seeking other ways to destabilise her as a political threat. All the while, she evaded their snares of politics and rhetoric, whilst building her own empire in the world of business, amongst the disgruntled millitary career bureaucracy, amongst the up and coming CEOs who sought greater profit and prosperity for themselves, something that could only be granted democratically, and votes for higher CEO wages could only be won by bold efforts to secure the greater prosperity of the Co-op as a whole. She smiled to herself. The system that Clynes had begun, some eighty years ago, had seemed doomed to slide into a political cul-de-sac of central planning and ultraconservative xenophobia. But since the chains had been broken by Emily Brown, the new CCP had simply lost all its once omnipresent momentum and control.

If any ideology could claim the future, she thought, it might be Post-delegationism, or some new form of Co-operativism. What had once seemed so vital, so necessary, about the political apparatuses of a parliamentary state were withering away. And she would be there, she knew, to greet the Red Sun as it rose anew.

 

[Havenshire]

PALACE OF THE PEOPLE
Westhaven, 22nd January, 2012

The Cabinet Office thrummed with life. For the first time in many months, the entire Cabinet had been assembled, and the People's Directive was even now mulling over some serious policy considerations. Worse, Election was only five months away, and the Market Socialists had roused themselves from slumber, and were going on a general good-will offensive, targeting the Businesses and the Unions and the man in the street. Angela Steele smiled. They didn't know what she already knew. That this election would be decided outside of Havenshire, not within.

Premier Michael Foot, for his part, seemed to glow. He was confident he had regained total control. He had approached Angela Steele two weeks ago, and laid bare some of his cards to her. He knew most of her co-conspirators. He knew she planned to challenge for the leadership. He made it clear he could destroy her in an instant. "You are an unelected cabinet member." He had said with cold gravity. "I can not only strip you of all real power, I can also have you arrested for any number of procedural and real crimes. Do you want to end your shining, glittering career in Prison, a hated nobody, someone who has failed worse than Rothmann- and yes I know you visited that madman, and even broke him out, though how evades me for the time being- or will you fucking get behind me? I will win this election, and you can't stop me."

Angela, for her part, had smiled, and revealed her ace. In return for her co-operation, she wanted the post of Chairman of the Party. Sacrifice Barry Knott, she had said, or I tell everyone about the real you. Bring down the CCP? I'd sacrifice all Havenshire to spite you. She had not said, but had thought loudly to herself.


Now here they all were, the Council-Communist Party Cabinet, the elite, gathered together. Friends again. Willing to work for the greater glory of the People's Republic, and securing their own power. Now was the time to unveil the next layer of the onion, Foot knew. It was time to unite foreign and domestic policy, and stop reacting to world events.

"Thank you for coming, everyone. Today it is time for us to unite our respective spheres, and work as the Council Collective this body was always meant to." He began, leaning over the heavy oaken table at the centre of the room, gazing down it like a hawk sizing up its prey.

"Most of you here have agreed on the necessity of Bastion economics. Despite the unruliness of the Co-operatives, the State Treasury has been very careful in controlling our expenditure. We have hired some of those retail workers we had to lay off, and employed them now in Econplan, to reboot the long overdue centralisation of our economy. Finance, gentlemen, is like any other machine. The mistakes of our forefathers were due to thinking in terms of mechanical machines. But the machine of Finance is digital. A vast global web, pulsing and throbbing. Like an IT Technician, we must ensure our connection is rocksolid. Which is why we must now move to Phase 2."

This was where people began to murmur. Barry Knott simply frowned, lost in the references to computers. He was an old party dinosaur in more ways than one. For him, the only mistake the CCP had ever made was in letting that bitch Emily Brown become Premier. Computers, Markets, Decentralisation, they were all anathema to true Communism in his eyes.

"Minister Angela Steele has kindly drawn up for us a plan that will enable us to proceed from Bastion to Network Economics."

This caused something of an uproar. For months Angela Steele had been regarded with suspicion and distrust, seen as a petty department tsar desperately using her isolated shreds of power to cause as much trouble as possible for the Party. Now she was, without further ado, not only being forgiven her wayward autocratic ways, but being welcomed to the heart of power, to help determine policy? Not just defence policy, either, but Fiscal policy, the lifeblood of Council-Communism.

"Order! Order please. Minister Steele, the floor is yours. Do not waste it."

Barry Knott's face was turning a dark shade of red, and he regarded this bitch with hateful eyes. He knew what she was about, and he liked none of it.

"Thank you, esteemed Ministers, for your time. For too long now, domestic and foreign policy have been working at cross purposes, considered seperate and alien worlds. For too long we have seen Havenshire merely as an Island Fortress, warily taking what it wants or needs from the outside world, whilst maintaining impregnable barriers, carefully controlling and monitoring all activity within to ensure a semblance of vibrancy and prosperity."

They nodded at her words. This much was patently true.

"Yet, since the beginning of the Brown Premiership at the earliest-" Many spat and repeated old curses at the mention of their hated predessecor-"Havenshire has had to face the reality of the world. To regard ourselves as a Fortress in this day and age is to pretend that the ancient Fortress Walls of our medieval castles are sufficient to repel all enemies and invaders. Just as the Cannon of the De Mortimers blasted out all their enemies in the post-feudal Wars of the Renaissance and Enlightenment ages, so too are we at risk, relying on outmoded defences and concepts of security."

"Comrades, as Minister of Defence, my charge is the security of all Havenshire." She echoed her previous speech to her conspirators, a speech most of these ministers would not have heard or know anything about. She smiled at the thought. "Comrades, our Economy is our weakspot. Every day we shut our gates and look inwards, we ignore the fruit, rotting on the vine, on the orchards outside. Every day we hide like cowards behind our economic and political battlements, the Mongols of the world plunder and pillage our harvest, and leave us isolated and starving."

They were enraptured now, her words leaving them spellbound. Premier Foot watched calculatingly, carefully assessing this Black Widow he had welcomed into his parlour. She was truly dangerous, he realised. He might really have to sacrifice Barry afterall, to sate her ambition. For the time being, at anyrate. He knew that one more term was the best he could hope for. Another six years of power was enough for a man of his age. But Angela would only be in her 50s by then. She would want the Premiership after him. Since he had decided not to destroy her, he must manage her carefully, and ensure this ambition did not threaten his next six years of desired power.

"Therefore, I propose a bold new Foreign Policy. One that Premier Foot has kindly agreed to facilitate. We have already begun sowing the seeds for it. We will step up to the plate, and stand full-hearted by our strategic partners and allies. The State Treasury has the details for how we shall more closely embrace our allies, and how the RDTO will be used to garner us a strategic reserve of capital and resources, a buffer against economic hardship, a way to spread the pain and maximise the intake. They will fill you in more on this crucial aspect. But, for my sphere and my side, we must also deal with our enemies, and make plain what we have always known in our hearts, and have for so long set aside in our fear and insecurity. Comrades, Council-Communism must again rise to the challenge. The Long Night of Capitalism is drawing to a close, its orgy of violence and imperialism a frenzied, last-gasp effort to shore up its rotting foundations. It is said that it is always darkest before the dawn, and we can see that throughout the world, as Empires collapse, and other Empires rise up to seize bloodily the remnants for themselves. Well I say now, now is the time to bring about the Red Dawn."

"Ministers, I present to you, Operation Watchfire, and Operation Torchbearer..."