The Revolutionary

[Brettaine]

Village Kerby, Berengaria Province, Brettaine
28 July 2011, 12:50 a.m.

Waves crashed against the rocky shores of the Berengarian coastline. Thin clouds shrouded the full moon like black rope, drifting gently across the night sky in the breezes. The temperature was a cool seventeen degrees, offering the residents of the tiny village of Kerby a welcome break from the summer heat that often clung to the coastline during the summer months. Many had their windows open, as lace curtains billowed in and out of the frames with the oscillating winds coming off the sea.

The twelve o’clock hour was rapidly waning, and many of the houses in Kerby had gone dark for the night as the villagers went to sleep. In one flat by the ocean, a few rays of light emanated from the windows. Alan Miller, a former lieutenant in the King’s Army, was quietly typing away on his laptop. Still wearing his compression workout clothes from an intense, two-hour workout earlier in the afternoon, Miller sat at his desk with intensity and perseverance. It was a nightly routine for the thirty-two-year-old Miller, a fierce nationalist and history buff. The walls of his modest flat were adorned with militaria; replicas of Aquitainian swords, pistols used by the Brettish Republicans during the Grand Revolt of 1789, and a suit of shining silver armour worn by soldiers in fourteenth-century Daventry. Amidst his collection of historical artifacts were his own medals of commendation from the Brettish Army, as well as those of his father; a general who faithfully served the Crown for forty years under King Paul I and King Charles IV.

For those in Kerby who knew Miller, they saw a respectable member of the community. A native of Adelaide, Miller had moved to the primarily Francophone village of Kerby in 2007, when his Army career was cut short due to an accident. Although he hardly spoke any French when he arrived in Berengaria, he quickly picked up on the local dialogue and soon became fluent in his new tongue. Tall, blonde, and handsome, Miller was very intelligent and a fierce patriot. His interest in politics went to the bone, and it was very rare that Miller was not heard discussing the matter in the local coffee shops with elder gentlemen.

Yet as fierce as his patriotism may have been, so was his faith. A Catholic at birth, Miller was raised in a conservative church that invariably followed the word of the Gospel and that of the Tiburian Curia. He attended Mass every Sunday morning, prayed in Latin, and was often a pillar in the Catholic community in Kerby. Some in the community thought Miller a zealot, but as he always seemed a charming and easygoing fellow, few had any negative words to share about him.

Yet behind closed doors, the charming, stylish, and well-spoken Miller changed into a brooding monster. Four years since his honourable medical discharge from the Army due to a diagnosis of cardiac dysrythmia, Miller felt cheated from his destiny. He grew highly critical of the Dahlgren Government, which had enacted strict medical guidelines for military personnel in order to maintain a smaller defence force, and by extension, a smaller defence budget. He celebrated the meltdown of the Dahlgren regime earlier that spring, and actively campaigned for the National Party of Brettaine candidate, Sarah Copeland. He felt that the Conservative candidate, Jeanne Hollingsworth, was too liberal and too tied to the policies of the Dahlgren administration. Copeland advocated a strong defence, a restoration of Christian values in Brettaine, and nationalist policies.

For twelve months, Miller followed his evening routine. Rain or shine, upon coming home from work he ran 10 kilometres alongside the Bay and then lifted weights at the local gym. He’d return home, watch the evening news, and then proceed to write thirty to forty pages of his lengthy manifesto every night. A strong mind was as vital as a strong body, he hypothesized. And if he were ever to enact any true change in his beloved Brettaine, it would require absolute dedication to both body and mind.

Change would come. “To protect the rightful people of Brettaine, to protect her values and her culture, it is necessary to wash the filth from the nation. Purity is the key to a nation’s strength: purity of thought, purity of faith, and purity of her people,” he hammered away on his laptop.

Ashtonfield, Capital District, Brettaine
The Aquitaine Palace
28 July 2011, 9:15 a.m.

The ticking grandfather clock struck a quarter past the hour as Prime Minister Hollingsworth sat quietly in the King’s office. For two months, the Conservative Prime Minister found herself waiting for the notoriously tardy monarch. She glanced at her wristwatch and noted the time, and sighed as she went back to waiting for the King.

Before much longer, the King entered the room. The Prime Minister stood from her chair, with a blue leather dossier in hand, as the King welcomed her to the Palace and apologized for his tardiness.

“Michael just arrived back from St. Kilda and we had some family affairs to tend to,” said the King.

Hollingsworth looked at him with cold, sharp eyes.

“May I speak candidly, Your Majesty?” asked the Prime Minister.

The King knew that whatever she said couldn’t possibly be a compliment.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“Your Majesty, for two months now I have been here at the time scheduled and yet, His Majesty still finds a way to appear ten to fifteen minutes late. I’m sure I don’t have to tell His Majesty how much this muddles up my schedule for the rest of the day,” said the Prime Minister, with a cold tone to her voice.

“Madame Hollingsworth, in case you haven’t recognized I have a seventeen year old son and a nation to lead,” said the King.

“Your Majesty, I have two daughters: eighteen and sixteen, in addition to a 6-year-old son. So in between having dresses sent to the tailor, hair appointments for dances, going to the record stores to buy the latest Cody Mallette album, and whatnot; I still have to find time to bring Alec to soccer practice, meet with kindergarten teachers, go to school plays and recitals; along with all the other mundane aspects of life like taking my car in to have the oil changed or waiting for the gardener to arrive to set my flowers; all the while – in case you didn’t realize – run a government while still looking fresh, prim and proper. Yet I still make every one of my appointments on time, or make time to call ahead if indeed I will be running late,” said Hollingsworth plainly.

The King didn’t know how to respond to the chastising he had just received. Naturally, the King of the nation could simply rebuke the Prime Minister for taking such an insolent tone. Despite it, though, the King knew that she was right.

“So, are you asking I call ahead if I know I will be late?” asked the King.

“It would be much appreciated. Or, if indeed you cannot make 9:00 appointments, then schedule them for 9:15. That way, I can arrange my schedule accordingly. As it stands now, I have to go back to Parliament Hall to make a vote in ten minutes. So, unfortunately, I have to end this meeting,” said Hollingsworth as she stood. “May I contact Colonel Sellgren to reschedule?”

“Of course, Madame Hollingsworth,” said the King.

“Good Day, Your Majesty,” said Hollingsworth before leaving the room.

The King sat behind his desk and lit his pipe, still reeling from the lashing lecture that his Prime Minister had just delivered. In twenty-five years, he had never been criticized so harshly for his laissez-faire scheduling practices. Today, he had certainly met his match.

 

[Brettaine]

Rural Labelle County, Berengaria Province, Brettaine
17 November 2010 – Ten Months Ago

“Prime Minister James C. Dahlgren announced today a bill which would relax immigration restrictions in Brettaine. The current law, which has been in place since 1924 and places heavy quotas on immigration, would be amended by doing away with the quota system and providing paths to Brettish citizenship…”

The radio played the BBS Radio News as Michael Miller drove down the leaf-strewn roads of rural Berengaria. Autumn had finally settled, as the last of the yellows and reds of October gave way to the brown and barren forests of mid-November.

Behind the wheel of his 1994 BMC coupé utility, Miller drove down the road with daggers in his eyes, fixated on the road with precision and accuracy as his speedometer flirted with 100 km/h. In such a rural part of the country, fifty kilometres east of Beauceville, the chances of him running across a Berengarian Sheriff was slim to none.

On the passenger seat lay a manila envelope containing crude sketches and confusing arithmetic. They were, in fact, his master plans.

The clock on his radio read 10:16 a.m. as he turned off the rural highway and onto a desolate gravel road. Three kilometres down an overgrown and neglected private street waited an abandoned hunting cabin. Pulling up beside the cabin, he pulled the parking break and shut off the car.

The air was cool and crisp as he exited the car, and he took a fresh breath of clean air. Under a tarp that covered the bed of his ute was an arsenal of weaponry: automatic rifles, semi-automatic pistols, cases of ammunition, and pounds of C-4 explosives. Miller, wearing a camouflage jacket and heavy leather boots, slung an M-16 Marauder over his shoulder and grabbed a ribbon of ammunition, tossing it over his other shoulder. With his free hands, he grabbed his C-4 explosives and the detonators. Training day had arrived.

Ashtonfield, Capital District, Brettaine
Offices of the Prime Minister
12 August 2011, 7:15 p.m.

Prime Minister Hollingsworth sat in a leather upholstered chair, her smart style and radiant smile in full swing this evening as she conducted her very first one-on-one interview with BBSNews since becoming Prime Minister. Well spoken, with a clear and rational thought process, Hollingsworth engaged with the interviewer over policies that the Conservative administration had enacted since she became Prime Minister. Many of the earlier questions revolved around security in the Kingdom since the hijacking of Brettish Airways Flight 239 in the spring. Although criticized by Reformists and Liberals, Hollingsworth defended her party’s legislation by stating that there had yet to be a terrorist threat since she took office; a fact that the interviewer had little to argue against.

The subject quickly shifted to Parliament’s recent decision to legalise gay marriage in Brettaine. The interviewer presented the case that many older Conservatives, particularly social and religious conservatives, were quite angered by her government’s decision and particularly her avocation for legalisation.

“Cindy, I’m not the Prime Minister for the Conservatives of Brettaine. I am the Prime Minister for the People of Brettaine, who happens to be a Conservative. You know, two centuries ago there was a time when the aristocracy held supreme power over the population. It was with our Constitutions of 1863 – where the House of Commons was established – and the subsequent Constitution of 1914 – where the Houses of Lords and Commons were both abolished in favour of a Senate and House of Representatives – that the people of Brettaine finally had a chance to run their government. Now, that having been said, I will not allow the political parties to become the next aristocracy. And while it may go against the party line, the fact is that the people of Brettaine have been asking to legalise marriage for gays and lesbians for some time, and it was time for us to stop oppressing a minority of our population. I spent a lot of time soul-searching during the last ten years, and I came to realise that the oppression of a minority cannot be justified simply if members of the majority may feel offended. That is why I took a stance backing legalisation,” said Hollingsworth.

“Do you feel that legalisation may promote violence against gays and lesbians?” asked the interviewer.

“Could there be some isolated incidents where homosexuals are taunted or assaulted, perhaps. But I fail to see how restricting the rights of individuals should be the course of action in preventing violence against said individuals,” said Hollingsworth.

“Thank you, Madame Prime Minister, for joining us this evening,” said the interviewer, wrapping up her segment.

“Thank you so much for having me, Cindy,” said the Prime Minister with a smile. Per Brettish tradition, the two women shook hands and the segment ended.

“Clear!” said the cameraman.

Ashtonfield, Capital District, Brettaine
The Aquitaine Palace
12 August 2011, 10:04 p.m.

The King sat in his study, puffing on a pipe as he very carefully rigged a wooden ship model. With his bespectacled gray-green eyes locked on his hands, he threaded the coarse black line through an eye loop and tied a knot, barely flinching a muscle.

It was one of his great pleasures, a hobby he indulged in as a way to decompress after a long day. Since starting the hobby in 1993, he had constructed twelve model ships, all of which were prominently displayed in a glass display case in his office.

A knock came at the open door, and without taking his eyes off his work, he muttered for the visitor to enter the room. It was his son, Prince Michael.

“Good evening, Dad,” he said.
“Good evening,” said the King through his teeth, as he finished tying a delicate knot in his rigging.

Michael gulped as he walked into the room, with his father seeming to pay no attention whatsoever to his presence. The King was too involved with his hobby.

“May I speak to you about next week?” asked Michael.
“Of course,” said the King, setting his work down on the table and giving Michael his undivided attention.

Michael smiled and sat down in a chair opposite the King’s desk.

“There is a gay-straight alliance campout in Clayhill this week. Berkshire School is hosting it, and Headmaster Baxter asked if I could attend,” said the Prince.

“Do you want to attend?” asked the King.

“I do, but I thought I would ask you first,” said Michael.

“Why would you need my permission?” asked the King.

“I just, I thought…” started the Prince. “Well, you know, the media might catch on and some people are really upset. I just don’t want to be a problem,” Michael said.

The King removed the pipe from his mouth and tapped out the white ashes into a crystal ashtray on his desk. Clasping his hands, he leaned over the leather desk protector and looked at his son.

“Michael: you are not a problem,” said the King plainly.

“Well, I mean,” started the Prince before the King interrupted.

“You are not a problem, Michael. You have never been a problem. I want you to follow your heart and do what makes you happy. I want you to support what you believe in. Don’t worry about me. I will handle my own affairs,” said the King.

“Would it be okay if I didn’t have a bodyguard?” asked Michael.

The King stopped short at this point. “Why on earth would you ask that?”

“I don’t like how they follow me around everywhere. The event has security, since it’s through the school,” said Michael.

“Michael, I don’t think that’s a wise idea,” said the King. “Bodyguards are supposed to follow you. It’s why they’re called ‘bodyguards’.”

“Dad, I just want to be like everybody else there. I don’t want special treatment,” said Michael.

The King sighed. He didn’t want to comply, but maybe his son had a point. Maybe the bodyguards did smother him somewhat. And after all, he would be at a school camp, so it wasn’t exactly a public event where psychopaths and assassins were waiting to nail the King’s son. Biting the bullet, he conceded to his son’s wishes.

“Thanks, Dad,” Michael said.

Village Kerby, Berengaria Province, Brettaine
12 August 2011, 11:56 p.m.

The manila envelope, marked simply “AMOUREUX,” sat on Alan Miller’s desk atop a mess of blueprints and figures. Adjacent to this, his laser printer was pushing out page after page of documents. His preparations were nearing completion. Soon, his scheme would be placed in motion.

 

[Brettaine]

Caledon Nature Park, Clayhill, Daventry Province, Brettaine
15 August 2011, 4:30 p.m.

Prince Michael looked out the windows of his car at the summer camp where he would be spending the next few days. The other campers, all between the ages of 14 and 18, were walking towards the entrance of the camp with backpacks slung over their shoulder and sleeping bags in hand. Smiles adorned their faces, as many of them were friends at Berkshire School. The Prince let himself out of the car and ran over to a few of his friends who were waiting by the entrance.

“Hey mates!” he said, running over with his backpack bouncing on his back.

Melbourne City Hall, Norfolk Province, Brettaine
15 August 2011, 5:00 p.m.

Prime Minister Jeanne Hollingsworth, back in her home province for the unveiling of a new statue in Melbourne, stood at the podium as the summer sun shone overhead. Today she was taking place in a ceremony to honour Melbourne Mayor Kryzstof Trofimiuk, who had immigrated to Brettaine from Polasciana when he was four years old. A member of the Liberal Party, Trofimiuk was very popular in his city, and his victory in the last four elections proved it. He spoke with a Brettish accent as clearly as a native, and although fluent in his native tongue, he never mangled the structure of his adopted language. He was known as kind and compassionate. Unlike other politicians, he chose to ride the MetroRail to get around town and take public transportation with his fellow Melbournites. So deep was his personality and his humanity that he and Hollingsworth had forged a solid friendship, despite their political differences.

“Today, it gives me great pleasure to honour one of Melbourne’s finest mayors,” said the Prime Minister. “On behalf of private donations by the citizens of the City of Melbourne, and through generous contributions from Burt Motor Company and Sellers Investment Group, it does me great pleasure to unveil this statue in honour of Mayor Kryzstof Trofimiuk,” said Hollingsworth, as she pulled a giant white sheet off the statue behind her. There, cast in brown copper, stood the likeness of Trofimiuk, kneeling as he released a dove while schoolchildren stood by. The design was taken from Peace Day, an annual event which Mayor Trofimiuk and Melbourne City Schools had engaged in since 1997. Held on the second Monday of November, the event entails a picnic by the bay for schoolchildren, community service projects by high school students, and the symbolic releasing of the dove by the mayor at Central Park.

Ashtonfield, Capital District, Brettaine
The Aquitaine Palace
15 August 2011, 4:45 p.m.

The King sat on the alfresco overlooking the gardens at the Palace. The hot summer sun bore down on the Brettish capital, with temperatures having topped in the mid-thirties by teatime. It had been a rather uneventful Tuesday for him: with Jeanne Hollingsworth in Melbourne for an event with Mayor Trofimiuk, and Parliament gearing up for the summer break, there wasn’t a whole lot for the King to do. He had spent the morning going over some paperwork, but decided to take the rest of the afternoon off to enjoy a few hours of rest.

The King, however, couldn’t spend the day relaxing. Michael had left for a weeklong camp earlier that afternoon, and for the first time ever, he was spending the week outside the watchful eye of a bodyguard. Of course, the King ordered extra security around the perimeter of the camp, to make sure that nobody got in who wasn’t allowed to. Michael may have wished to have the liberty to move about without a bodyguard clinging to his every move, but the King certainly wasn’t going to allow his youngest son to be in public completely unguarded.

M64 Motorway, East of Charlesbourg, Berengaria Province, Brettaine
15 August 2011, 11:30 p.m.

The dim glow of the instrument panel lights reflected on Alan Miller’s face as he drove down the highway towards Ashtonfield. An evening drizzle dotted the windscreen, and every few seconds the windscreen wipers engaged to wipe the surface clean of water. There was silence in the cabin of Miller’s coupé utility. Only the gentle sound of rain hitting the car could be heard.

Beside him in the passenger seat lay a package wrapped in brown paper, marked “SPECIAL.” And, under a tarp covering the bed of the ute was his cache of weapons: a few pistols, silenced sniper rifles, two large cylinders, and two tanks of propane.

Through the darkness, as he crested the top of Sideling Hill, he could see a sign: “Welcome to Fairfax Province.” A half-kilometre beyond that was a guide sign: Houlden, 29. Fairfax, 61. Ashtonfield, 96.

Ninety-six kilometres to go. He would arrive in the Brettish capital within the hour.

 

[Brettaine]

Over Nassau Province, Brettaine
Aboard Brettish Airways Flight 697
16 August 2011, 7:15 a.m.

Prime Minister Hollingsworth looked out over the eastern sky, as the radiant reds and yellows of dawn advanced across the deep blue sky. The sun cast golden shimmers throughout the darkened cabin of the airplane as it peeked above the horizon.

What a glorious sight, thought Hollingsworth as she flipped through her day planner.

Once her plane touched down in Ashtonfield, she had just enough time to have breakfast with her husband before heading to the Aquitaine Palace for a 9:00 meeting with the King, and then back to her office by 9:30 to start the last week of the Summer Legislative Session before the August break.

One more week, she thought, then it’s vacation till the first of September.

Laurel, Fairfax Province, Brettaine
Parramore Neighborhood
16 August 2011, 7:20 a.m.

The beautiful summer sunrise that Prime Minister Hollingsworth was experiencing at ten-thousand metres had yet to be seen by Alan Miller as he sat in the box of a large delivery truck.

“Blue to blue,” muttered Miller to himself as he rigged up a device in the back of the truck. A set of crudely drawn diagrams sat next to him as he soldered and wired up a cellular phone to the pair of large canisters and the two tanks of propane.

“There we are,” he said, taking a few steps back to look at his creation. “What a glorious sight,” he said with a grin on his face.

Everything was in place. Having stayed up all night, popping tablets of amphetamine salts to stay alert, everything was finally in place. He grabbed his gun holster, climbed into the cab of the truck, and started off towards Ashtonfield.

Ashtonfield, Capital District, Brettaine
Offices of the Ministry Building
16 August 2011, 8:45 a.m.

Having landed an hour earlier and had a quick breakfast with her husband, Prime Minister Hollingsworth arrived back at her office to start the day. She had just enough time to grab a few papers before she was out the door again to meet with the King.

“Good morning, Madame Prime Minister,” said her secretary as Hollingsworth entered her office.

“Good morning, Jenny,” said Hollingsworth.

“How was your flight?” asked Jenny.

“Very uneventful, although the sunrise this morning was gorgeous. I’m afraid I have to run though. I’ll be back in about forty-five minutes,” said Hollingsworth in response. “Oh,” she said, pausing. “Here are the pictures from the statue unveiling in Melbourne. Would you please upload them to the website?” she asked, handing Jenny a small SD card.

“Of course, Madame Prime Minister,” said Jenny.

“See ya later,” said Hollingsworth with a big smile as she walked out of the room.

Pressed for time, Hollingsworth rushed out of the building and into a waiting black sedan. As her car pulled away and sped towards the Aquitaine Palace, a RPS van pulled up and stopped in front of the office building.

Aquitaine Palace, Capital District, Brettaine
16 August 2011, 9:10 a.m.

Having booked an early flight from Melbourne that morning, sped through traffic, and nearly broken a heel making her way through the palace in order to make it to the King’s office by nine o’clock sharp, Hollingsworth was disappointed to find that the King was running late once again. Once again, despite her best efforts to keep her schedule, she wound up waiting an extra ten minutes in silence, listening to the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock.

Godda-, she thought to herself, before the doors to the King’s office loudly swung open and the King entered the room. Clutching a horse riding helmet and still wearing his riding outfit, the King strode across the room and apologized to Hollingsworth for his tardiness.

Angered after having been delayed by the King once again, Hollingsworth was ready to scold the Sovereign before she decided against it. Rather than waste time arguing, Hollingsworth simply delivered the paperwork to the King and started with her daily report.

“The House of Representatives is expected to vote today on the Northern Infrastructure Reinvestment Act which will provide additional funding to the northern provinces for bridges and motorway expansion projec-,”

Boom. A loud sound, much like a crack of thunder, interrupted the Prime Minister. A shock wave rattled crystal candleholders on the mantle, and even knocked a small picture off the wall. The King jumped out of his seat, wondering what in the world had happened.

“What the bloody hell was that?” asked the King, stunned.

Hollingsworth looked out the tall window and could see a cloud of black smoke rising from near Parliament Hall, five blocks to the east of the Palace.

“Oh my God,” thought Hollingsworth, as the papers in her hand fell to the floor.

 

[Brettaine]

Ashtonfield, Capital District, Brettaine
Offices of the Ministry Building
16 August 2011, 9:25 a.m.

Fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars sped towards the centre of Ashtonfield with sirens wailing and lights flashing. All throughout the city, the dull squeal of emergency vehicles emanated across what was an otherwise beautiful summer morning.

At the offices of the Prime Minister, though, it was anything but beautiful. Wounded office workers, covered in soot and blood, emerged from the wreckage of the nine-story building, some carrying others who could not escape themselves. Shattered glass and concrete littered the street, and many of bewildered workers were stunned when they saw half of the building gone. Cars, set ablaze by the bomb, began exploding on the street corner as many ducked in cover while trying to escape the scene.

The first emergency responder arrived at 9:16 a.m., three minutes after the blast. A lone police officer, Sgt. Kyle Evans of the Astonfield Metropolitan Police, had been around the corner from the office building buying a cup of coffee on his morning route. When the blast shattered the storefront windows, he ran out to his police cruiser and sped two blocks down to assist the wounded. Overwhelmed by what he saw, he quickly put in the word that they needed backup.

"How many are hurt or killed?" was asked.
"Likely more than one-hundred. The entire eastern side of the building is gone," replied Evans.

Aquitaine Palace, Capital District, Brettaine
16 August 2011, 9:29 a.m.

Palace staffers and armed guards ran up and down the elegantly appointed corridors of the palace as the entire complex went under lockdown. The King and Prime Minister Hollingworth both stood in amazement in the King's office, their eyes locked on the ominous plume of black smoke that was rising from the Ministry Offices. As they did, two armed guards and Colonel Sellgren entered the room.

"Your Majesty, Madame Prime Minister, you must come with us," Colonel Sellgren said.
"What is going on, Colonel?" asked the King.
"We've put the palace under lockdown. There was an explosion at your office, Madame Prime Minister," Sellgren said.
"Oh my God," she said, running towards the phone on the King's desk.

Sellgren lurched after her and grabbed her by the arm.

"Madame, we have to go now," Sellgren said.
"Get your hands off me, Colonel. I have to call my staff!" Hollingsworth demanded.
"Madame," Sellgren said as the Prime Minister dialed her office.

Hollingsworth ignored him.

"Madame!" he stressed.
"What?" Hollingsworth said, curtly.

Sellgren slumped his head down.

"Madame Prime Minister, your office is gone," Sellgren said.

The phone slowly dropped from Hollingsworth's ear and ran down her neck, resting on her shoulder for a second before it dropped from her hands entirely and landed on the floor. As it dangled from the desk, her tear-filled eyes met with the Colonel's.

"Gone?" she asked. "My staff, what-" she started.
"Madame, we are doing all we can at this moment. For your safety we need you to go downstairs to the emergency bunker until an all clear is given."

A paralyzed Hollingsworth could do nothing but oblige. A million thoughts bombarded her mind, all revolving around the members of her staff that had remained in the building. She then thought of Jenny, her secretary, who she had told little more than half an hour earlier that she would be back shortly. Was she safe? Would she see her husband and infant daughter again?

"Colonel," said the King as Sellgren was walking out the door with the two bodyguards and the Prime Minister.
"Yes, sire?" said Sellgren.
"My family?" asked the King, very quietly.
"Her Majesty and Diana have been taken downstairs. Lizzie and Grace are both safe at Kensington Manor; James has been taken to a safehouse in Melbourne. At the moment, we are still locating Michael. The decision to not have a bodyguard with him is really hampering our efforts to secure him," Sellgren said, frankly.
"Let me know as soon as you find him," said the King.

 

[Brettaine]

Ashtonfield, Capital District, Brettaine
Offices of the Ministry Building
16 August 2011, 9:35 a.m.

Jenny Andover lay on the floor of the copy room, bewildered as she regained consciousness. The choking smell of smoke filled the air around her, and hot pieces of debris covered her body. With a bloodied arm, aching from bruises, she reached up to the photocopy machine next to her and tried to pull herself upright. Her hands, soaked with blood, slipped off the handle and she fell flat on her back. Determined, she reached up, grasped the handle tightly, and pulled herself up off the floor using every bit of strength she had.

Standing, she looked around the copy room. The frosted glass walls that separated it from the corridor had been blown out, and lay on the floor like shards of ice amidst tiny, blackened rocks of concrete and shards of metal. The mangled remnants of aluminium venetian blinds that hung over the windows dangled from their hangars as the crackle of fire seemed to come from every direction. But as Jenny looked around the office, she felt a fresh gust of wind tickle her on the back of the neck. Thinking the window had been smashed open, she turned around. What she found amazed her.

Barely a metre from her feet was a nine-story drop where the Prime Minister's office had been – the entire side of the building was gone. She looked down into the abyss, and saw a pile of wreckage in the footprint of the building. On the street below, ambulances and fire trucks had parked themselves next to the wreckage pile, feverishly rushing into the ruins of the building to assist the victims. For Jenny, an unlikely rescue lay 28 metres below her.

The stairs on the south end of the building had vanished into the wreckage, and flames and live electrical lines lay strewn across the debris-laden corridor leading towards the stairs on the north end. And even if Jenny did survive what seemed to be a death-defying march through the ruins of her workplace, there was no guarantee that the staircase was even there.

She was trapped with rescue in sight.

Caledon Nature Preserve, Clayhill, Daventry Province, Brettaine
16 August 2011, 9:37 a.m.

For the students at the Berkshire School summer camp, that Tuesday morning was as routine as any other. They woke, showered, and gathered at the mess hall for breakfast at 9:30 that morning. The Prince of Brettaine was no different. At the camp, he wasn't the son of the King. Rather, he insisted he be addressed as Michael Thieriot, that he be treated as equals with the other students. After all, he was a student at the prestigious Berkshire School as much as anybody else, despite his royal connections. Such an attitude was born from his parents' own renunciation of stuffy traditions that often separated the monarch from his people.

"Mikey, look at this picture we caught," said his friend, Lizzie Anderson, the daughter of shipping magnate Carl Anderson. She held out her digital camera, with a picture of a cheery red cardinal displayed on the screen.

"Wow, what a beautiful picture, Lizzy. Will you give me a copy?" asked the Prince of Brettaine politely.
"Of course. I'll email it to you this weekend when we go home," she said.

Outside the mess hall, an Ashtonfield Metropolitan Police cruiser slowly came to a halt. A tall, young officer stepped out of the vehicle and fitted his cap squarely on his head. A camp counselor, noticing the presence of the officer, quietly approached him.

"May I help you, officer?" asked the counselor.
"Good day. I am Officer Michael Browning, Metropolitan Police. There is a situation in the capital. His Majesty has ordered that the Prince of Brettaine be secured for his own safety," said the officer, handing the counselor a letter from the palace.

The letter seemed genuine enough: it was printed on cotton-linen stationery, had the foiled seal of the palace at the top, and was signed by the King together with a perforated seal. The counselor, unwilling to disobey an order direct from the monarch, quickly went inside to inform Michael of the situation. As he did, the officer set a small package next to the door.

"Michael, this is Officer Browning. He's orders to escort you to the palace for your own safety," said the counselor.
"Why would I go to the palace if there is a situation in the capital? Aren't I safe here?" Michael asked.
"We have a signed order from the King," said the officer.
"May I see it?" asked Michael, politely.
"In the car. We must hurry," the officer said.

Michael, unaware of the situation, quietly walked with the officer to the cruiser. The officer opened the passenger door, and Michael quietly entered the car. With a wave, he said goodbye to the counselor, entered the car, and sped off with a cloud of dust roaring from the back tires.

Aquitaine Palace, Capital District, Brettaine
16 August 2011, 9:46 a.m.

"...recapping breaking news this morning out of Ashtonfield as for the second time this year it seems, Brettaine has fallen victim to terrorism. Live pictures right now outside of the Parliamentary Offices building in the capital where, approximately half an hour ago, a truck bomb exploded...again we have no official casualty count at this time but it is clear, from these photographs, that something devastating has occurred in Ashtonfield this morning. BBSNews has learned..."

Staff members, palace workers, cabinet members, and military officers stood next to the King and the Prime Minister in the Palace Bunker as the news blared on about the explosion. From a special communications station within the bunker, Colonel Sellgren and others were issuing orders to tackle the situation. He had spent thirty-five minutes on the line with the Metropolitan Police trying to get them to send a cruiser to secure the Prince, to no avail. Left with no other options, he called up to Fort Corann just north of Clayhill to have an army officer go to Caledon. The officer was instructed to confirm when he had the Prince in his custody.

Fifteen tense minutes later, the phone rang.

"Yes?" answered Sellgren.

His face grew pale.

"What do you mean? No Metropolitan Police officer was given any instruction to do so! The police told me they were too busy dealing with the bomb threats," Sellgren said into the phone. "Call Metro and figure out what the hell is going on," he said, slamming the receiver on the hook.

Melbourne, Norfolk Province, Brettaine
Brettish Broadcasting System Headquarters
16 August 2011, 10:03 a.m.

Art Townshend was running about all morning. As Director of Programming for BBSNews, Townshend was taking in information from sources all over Brettaine in reaction to the bombing in Ashtonfield, trying his hardest to bring the latest news to the worried public.

"Call down to the Ministry of Defence, find out if there is a connection to Karishnikov's group, the BA209 hijacking in May. That seems to be where most of the roads are pointing to. Seems like the Aresuran Legitimists are trying to retaliate," said Townshend to one of his reporters.

"Art, Line 3," said one of his assistants from across the room, a worried look on his face.
"I'm busy, tell them to hold," Art said.
"Art, I really think you need to take this one," said his assistant.

Stressed, Townshend picked up the phone.

"Yeah, what?" he said brusquely.
"Mr. Townshend, I would rather you speak to me more politely, considering I have your next big story," said a voice from the other side of the phone.
"What's your tip, mate?" he asked.
"Tip?" asked the voice on the other line.
"You said you have a news tip about the bombing, what's up?" Townshend asked.
"Oh no, not in regards to the bombing, my dear Mr. Townshend," said the voice.
"Look mate, I don't need you wasting my time. I am very busy here," Townshend said.
"I have a story for you, Mr. Townshend. My name is Alan Miller. I have a task for you," said the voice.
"Are you deranged? Do you have any idea how busy I am?" Townshend yelled into the phone.
"Do it, or someone important will die," the voice said.
"Who?" asked Townshend.
"The Prince of Brettaine. Say hello, my dear boy," said Miller, holding the receiver up to the Prince. The gentle sounds of sobs and screams emanated from the phone. A puzzled Townshend listened intently, cautious to whether it could be a hoax.

"Art, the Palace is reporting now that the Prince of Brettaine has gone missing!" shouted a reporter from the other side of the room.

Townshend turned all of his attention to his phone call. Miller soon returned to the conversation, and Townshend asked him what he wanted.

"In your email inbox there is a link to a video. It is a manifesto, of sorts. You will play that by 10:30 a.m. or he dies. Am I clear?" Miller asked.
"Okay. Are you affiliated with the Aresuran Radical Legitimists at all?" Townshend asked.

Miller laughed on the other line. "Are you kidding? They couldn't even hijack an airplane properly! Ten-thirty, Mr. Townshend. Afterwards, I will contact you for an interview. Good day," said Miller before hanging up the phone.

Townshend held the dead phone in his hand for a second as the gravity of the situation set in. At an instant, he popped into gear, instructing his reporters to locate the video and make an announcement to play it on air.

 

[Brettaine]

Caledon Nature Park, Clayhill, Daventry Province, Brettaine
16 August 2011, 9:44 a.m.

Four police cruisers and two black sedans from the Ministry of Defence came to an abrupt halt at the Berkshire school camp, kicking up a cloud of dust as police and army officers jumped out of the cars and ran up to the mess hall. The counselor who had released the Prince of Brettaine about half an hour earlier looked at the scene with amazement.

"May I help you gentlemen?" he asked.
"Lt. Harmon, Royal Army Intelligence. I have orders to secure the Prince," he said.
"What?" asked the counselor. "He was released into police custody not more than 10 minutes ago."

The Lieutenant looked at the counselor, as one in his entourage called Colonel Sellgren at the Aquitaine Palace.

"Are you certain it was a police officer?" asked Harmon.
"He had official paperwork with him," said the counselor.

For the other students, the scene was drawing more attention. Ms. Gibson, a teacher at Berkshire School, thought it best to get the students out of the mess hall to start the daily activities, to keep their minds off what was going on.

"Students," she said with a clap of her hands, "let's clear our tables and head out," she said, trying to keep the students as calm as possible.

The students stood with their trays, walking over towards the kitchen area to set them on the cleaning rack, while Mrs. Gibson propped open the back door for the students.

As her shoe knocked the door stop firmly in place, a deafening roar knocked her to her feet. Students screamed in terror as they started rushing out of the dining hall, knocking a deafened Ms. Gibson into a bush next to the back patio of the mess hall. She looked above her head at the mess hall, as a black and orange mushroom cloud, carrying planks and boards with it, rose high above her head. Dazed, she pulled herself up, fought the stream of panicked students rushing out of the building, and walked over to the door. As she looked inside, she saw fire engulfing the entire front of the building.

"Oh my God," she said. "Mr. Bennett! Keith!"

There was no answer.

"Oh my God," she said, pulling out her cellular phone. She quickly punched in the emergency response number: #000.

"Emergency Services, Clayhill. May I have your location and nature of the emergency please?" asked the responder.
"I'm Sharon Gibson, at the school camp at Caledon Nature Park. There's been an explosion at the mess hall. I don't know how many people are hurt, we need help now," she said.

The responder quickly punched a button for fire, ambulance, and police to go to the park.

"They are on their way, Ma'am. Stay on the line please."

 

[Brettaine]

Melbourne, Norfolk Province, Brettaine
BBSNews Headquarters - Oceanic Tower - Central Business District
16 August 2011, 10:14 a.m.

Art Townshend clicked on the file in his email inbox, titled simply "AMOUREUX.doc." What downloaded was a 1,500 page manifesto, the work that Miller had laboured for so long to produce. Today it would be broadcast to the world. For accompanying the document was a ten minute video that he wanted played on National News.

"Right," said Townshend's assistant, on the line with the Aquitaine Palace. "Art, they're giving the green light. Air the tape," said his assistant.
"Okay," said Townshend as he clicked the icon that said "Download to Disk." The video file began downloading to the server.

Aquitaine Palace, Capital District, Brettaine
16 August 2011, 10:23 a.m.

"How could you do it! Why did you let him do it!" said the Queen, tears rolling down her face as she slammed her fists against the King's chest. "How stupid do you have to be Paul, to have let him out without a bodyguard? Did you lose your fucking mind?" she said, overcome with anger and despair.

The King couldn't reply. He was paralyzed with thoughts. This was his fault. He let Michael go away on his own. Yet on top of that, his people were suffering. His government was in chaos. One man, it appears, had brought the entire nation to its knees in little more than an hour. The King couldn't say anything in his defence. He simply held his wife and tried to console her.

A knock came at the door, and the King gave permission to enter. It was Colonel Sellgren.

"Your Majesty, BBSNews will air the tape at 10:29 a.m.," said Sellgren.
"Okay," said the King, unable to say anything more. "What of the others?"
"We've secured the Palace grounds, Sire. We're going to lift the lockdown at 10:45. Prime Minister Hollingsworth is on the telephone contacting Members of Parliament. Parliament Hall is under lockdown until further notice, because of remaining bomb threats at the O.M. building. Madame Hollingsworth will address the nation from the Map Room at 11:00 a.m., and Parliament will meet in the Grand Ballroom for the remainder of the day to respond," said Sellgren.
"And our children?" asked the King.
"RAF-1 is in the air with the Princesses, en route to Kessler Royal Air Force Base. The city is under virtual lockdown right now. As for Prince James, he is secured in Melbourne. He will be leaving by Air Force transport in twenty minutes," said Sellgren.
"Thank you, Sellgren," said the King.

Sellgren bowed and exited the room. The King turned to his wife and continued to comfort her, as she clutched a Rosary and prayed silently.

Ashtonfield, Capital District, Brettaine
Offices of the Ministry Building
16 August 2011, 10:24 a.m.

Jenny Andover pushed her way through the scorching hot wreckage that was once the ninth floor of the Offices of the Ministry building. Dizzy from a loss of blood, struggling to walk with a broken leg, she stumbled and fell flat on her bottom, tears of frustration rolling down her soot-covered face.

"God help me!" she screamed, unwilling to die in the hellfire of the building.
"Hello?" she heard a familiar voice from behind her. Labouring to turn her head, she could make out the blurred outline of two men coming towards her. "Jenny! Oh my God!"
"Frank?" she asked. It was Frank Calbert, secretary to Labour Minister Randolph. A heavy set man of about 45, Frank was a Royal Navy veteran and one of the most dependable people in the office.
"Jenny, can you walk?" she heard the voice say.
"Barely," she said, trying to pull herself up.
"Brandon, help me," Frank said to the other man. It was Brandon Wilson, an intern from the University of Ashtonfield who had been at the Ministry for about three months. Twenty-one years old, Brandon was a tall man who expelled almost no effort in helping the wounded Jenny to her feet.

Jenny looked at both men: their jackets had char holes in them, their faces covered in soot and small cuts and scratches from blowing glass. As they were further from the blast site, they weren't in as bad of shape as Jenny.

"Let's go," Frank said, slinging one of Jenny's arms over his shoulder as Brandon slung her other arm over his shoulder.
"Right," Brandon said.

The two men carried Jenny to the remains of the staircase, and Brandon kicked the damaged fire door down.

"Careful now there, Brandon," Frank said as Brandon jumped over the door and helped Jenny into the stairwell. "Good on ya, mate," Frank said as he jumped into the stairwell with the others. "Let's start down," he said.

Aquitaine Palace, Capital District, Brettaine
16 August 2011, 10:29 a.m.

"BBSNews is airing this exclusive news segment from the main who is claiming responsibility for the attacks in Ashtonfield," said the news.

Members of Parliament, Prime Minister Hollingsworth, and members of the Royal Family looked at the television screen as they got their first glimpse of the terrorist mastermind behind the attacks.

"Good day, all. By now, my little attempts at attention grabbing seem to have worked. Let me assure you that this is just the beginning. Your government has sold out the people of Brettaine for the cause of liberalism and multiculturalism. Even our Conservatives do not have the guts to defend what is left of our dear nation. You have allowed the Mayorship of our largest city to fall into the hands of a dirty immigrant from Polasciana; you have abandoned our military in pursuit of peace -- last month, we had to rely on Sereniérre to rescue passengers on board an airliner. This is a disgrace. Your government is a disgrace. Let me assure the people of Brettaine: revolution has arrived. For those in Ashtonfield, simply look out your windows at the plume of smoke rising from the capitol. One man has brought down your government. But this is just the beginning.

"I have in my custody the Prince of Brettaine: Michael. Yes, the very same Michael who has disobeyed the word of God, who has tainted the Royal Family and His Majesty's opinion on the Catholic faith which has guided this nation for a millenium. The same Michael who attended a so-called 'ALLIES' summer camp in Clayhill. The same Michael who has violated natural law in support of the disgusting homosexual lifestyle. He is frightened.

"To the King, who so flagrantly disobeyed the word of God to support his son, and who for a quarter of a century has sent this nation down a path towards "peace" and "multiculturalism" at the expense of our heritage, our power, our culture: your son will be safe, under one condition. The King of Brettaine will abdicate his throne by midnight tonight, or the Prince will die. Seeing as how the Monarch has supported his son over his nation, I don't believe this should be a terribly difficult decision for you. You will not abdicate in favor of your son or any other member of the House of Thieriot. Rather, you will abdicate your position in favor of a provisional government which will establish a Republic. The Kingdom of Brettaine will cease to exist by midnight tonight.

"And to Prime Minister Hollingsworth: your government is a disgrace. You, who promised to vehemently to bring peace and security to the Kingdom in the wake of the Brettish Airways Flight 239 hijacking last summer has provided neither, as now one man has crippled your government. Let this be a lesson that a woman's place is not to be the leader of government, but rather to raise the next generation of Bretons who will bring glory back to our nation. You, Prime Minister Hollingsworth, will resign your position by midnight tonight in favour of MP Benjamin Andrews, of the National Party from Lancaster Province. Otherwise, the Prince will die. And if this is not enticement enough for you to relinquish your power, Madame Prime Minister, let me be clear: I rather fancy your daughter's equestrian trophy on display at Cheval High School. I left a little surprise there for your children.

"Glory be to God. Bring Glory back to Brettaine."

The King and the Prime Minister looked at one another in horror as they realized what had happened. Their personal and professional lives had been threatened, and it seemed they had no recourse to handle the situation. As soon as Miller's video stopped, the news returned, and the Map Room at the Aquitaine Palace exploded into a blizzard of activity. Experts, police, army officers, and the like began running around to come up with plans to deal with the menace. The King quietly slipped a cigarette between his lips and lit it. The Queen and her daughter looked on in horror as the government scrambled to respond.

Caledon Nature Park, Clayhill, Daventry Province, Brettaine
16 August 2011, 10:30 a.m.

Patricia Gibson was placed on a gurney and set into the back of an ambulance. After the bombing at the mess hall, the police and fire officials rushed over to control the situation. Five were dead: two students, Keith Bennett, and two army officers who were talking to Bennett when the bomb exploded. Forty-two were injured, twenty-eight of them from smoke inhalation or flying debris. Ms. Gibson, still trying to help, tried to sit up in the ambulance and ask if the children were okay. A paramedic gently tapped her on the shoulder and told her that everything was under control, as he gave her a mild sedative to calm her down.

Ashtonfield, Capital District, Brettaine
Offices of the Ministry Building
16 August 2011, 10:37 a.m.

Labouring to make it down the stairs, Frank and Brandon finally had to stop at the landing of the second floor from exhaustion. Sweat poured down their faces, as the heat from the fire and the smokey summer air clung in the stairwell like toxic gas. As they sat back against the wall, they could hear creaking noises from the stairs above them. The building shuddered, and small pockets of dust fell from the walls.

"What the hell was that?" Brandon asked, gasping for breath.
"I don't know," said Frank. "Come on, we've got to get out of here. Two floors to go," he said. "Jenny, come on, we're going for broke," he said.
"Help," she said, trying to bring herself to her feet. Brandon grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up.

As the three of them came to their feet and started down towards the ground floor, a loud roar started from above their head. The entire stairwell shook violently, and chunks of concrete and debris started rolling down the stairs.

"Jesus Christ! Get down!" yelled Frank as a blast of rubble cascaded from all around them.
"God protect me!" cried Jenny to herself, her voice strained in fear, as she struggled to make the sign of the cross.

....and...it looks as if the remainder of the nine-story Offices of the Ministry building has now collapsed. We have no idea how many firefighters or office workers were still in the building. Good God. There are no words... said the news announcer on BBSNews, as live video showed the ruins collapsing to the ground in a huge cloud of dust.

 

[Brettaine]

Aquitaine Palace, Capital District, Brettaine
16 August 2011, 10:40 a.m.

"Draw up a device for abdication," said the King to Colonel Sellgren.
"Your Majesty, are you insane?" asked the Colonel.
"I cannot live with myself if I allow my son to die. I would rather be a commoner with a live son than a King with a dead one," said the King.
"Goddamnit. Sire, if I may speak freely," said the Colonel.
"No, you may not," said the King.
"To hell with that. Sire, I don't know about you, but I want this bastard to suffer," Sellgren said.
"Colonel, I asked for your silence," the King said. "One more word and I will relieve you of your post."
"I'll resign my post if I have to just to say it: Your Majesty, we will find this bastard and we will get your son back alive. You cannot cave to this guy. I know it's difficult, I know he's got your son. But dammit, you won't win if you cave to terrorism. We have to fight," said Sellgren.

The King collapsed into his chair.

"And how do you intend to do this?" asked the King.
"We've got computer nerds all over this guy. He's transmitting information from somewhere, we're gonna find where that somewhere is. There's no way he knows enough to prevent us from finding him. And when we find him, and we will find him, he is going to pay for this," said Sellgren.

The King looked up from his desk at the Colonel.

"You will get this guy?" he asked.
"And we will get the Prince back alive as well," said Sellgren.

The King simply nodded in response.

"Get everybody on this. I don't care if you have to get every computer hacker from the Mercury Corporation down here, do it. Put the military on high alert, call up the special forces. We're gonna do what we should have done two months ago with the hijacking. If he wants to see power, that's what he's gonna see," said the King, picked up by his aide-de-camp's passionate case to fight back and not back down. "And I want MP Andrews arrested and brought here for interrogation. Declare martial law - we're at war," said the King.

Laurel, Fairfax Province, Brettaine
Parramore Neighborhood
16 August 2011, 10:45 a.m.

In a cheap basement flat in a rough part of town, Alan Miller was enjoying a cup of tea as he watched the fruit of his labours pan out on national television. The O.M. building in Ashtonfield had collapsed into a pile of rubble; the school camp in Clayhill was steeped in chaos, and the government was reeling from the attacks as Act One of his grand plan came to a close. Act Two would begin shortly afterwards.

"Here," said an accomplice, Ryan Brys, as he handed Miller a bottle of cough medicine. Brys had been the "officer" who procured the Prince, and was essentially Miller's right-hand-man.
"Why do I want this, Brys?" asked Miller conceitedly.
"I put him to sleep. I got sick of him jumping around and denting up his shackles," said Brys.
"Well, I don't want your fucking cough medicine," said Miller as he threw the bottle against the wall. The cap popped off, and the red syrup splattered against the tattered and stained wallpaper. "Call up the boys in Lancaster and in Melbourne. Tell them Act Two is about to begin," Miller said.

Hartford, Lancaster Province, Brettaine
Parliament of Lancaster Province
16 August 2011, 11:01 a.m.

"Right," said one of the militiamen into his coded phone. "Let's go."

At that order, one-hundred and sixty-five men, armed with automatic weapons, stormed the Parliament of Lancaster Province. Provincial Sheriffs fired on the militiamen, but the dozen or so officers stood no chance against the huge force of militiamen that were storming through the gates. The leader of the group, Jeffrey Helms, entered the legislative chamber and fired his pistol in the air, causing the Provincial legislators to duck in cover. He walked up to the Speaker's podium as members of his group flooded in through the entrances and lined the gallery above.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Resolved: Lancaster Province hereby declares its independence from an oppressive federal government. By orders of the National Party of Brettaine, and the Holy Brotherhood of Bretons," he said.

The stunned legislators looked on in horror as the men aimed their weapons at them.

"First order of business: we must finalize our resolution by a vote. All in favour?"

Cheval, Heathrow County, Norfolk Province, Brettaine
Cheval High School
16 August 2011, 11:45 a.m.

A week after the start of the school year, students at Cheval High School watched intently as the news about the attacks in Ashtonfield played out on the screen. Among them was Brittany Hollingsworth, the sixteen-year-old daughter of the Prime Minister. Her thoughts revolved around her mother, who had addressed the nation little more than an hour beforehand. Her father was on an emergency flight home from business in Adelaide, and was expected to be home to pick her up within the next half hour. In the meantime, Brittany simply watched the news in horror.

"Mr. Yelnats, please come to the main office. Mr. Yelnats, please come to the main office for a telephone call," said a voice over the intercom.

It was a code: lockdown. Something was going on. The students knew the lockdown code quite well. In an instant, the students drew the shades to the room and gathered in the far corner. Their teacher shut off the lights and hid under her desk. Silence filled the room, as they sat in the dark listening intently.

Then, the locked door knob turned furiously. The students took a deep breath, before the knob went silent. Just as they breathed a sigh of relief, the glass on the door shattered, and a gloved hand reached in and unlocked the door. Brittany and her best friend clutched each other as the door opened, and heavy army boots walked into the room.

 

[Brettaine]

Cheval, Heathrow County, Norfolk Province, Brettaine
Cheval High School, Classroom 329
16 August 2011, 11:47 a.m.

Brittany Hollingsworth looked in terror as the heavy army boots made their way towards her position under the science lab table. The other students remained as quiet as possible, their hearts pounding in suspense. The boots stopped less than a metre from her table, and from above came the head of a monster. With blackened teeth, a leathery face covered with stubble and a shaved head, the monster looked at Brittany.

"Hello, Ms. Hollingsworth," he said, reaching under the table and grabbing her arm.

Brittany flailed and fought back, kicking at the man with her heeled feet. Grabbing her by the ankle, he dragged her out from under the table, and stuck a gun in her face.

"Have fun in hell, bitch," he said.

Seeing what was going on, one of Brittany's classmates, Dave Harrison, stood up in anger. He grabbed a bottle from the cabinet, marked H2SO4, and with one swoop smashed it over the gunman's head. The gunman screamed in agony as sulfuric acid instantly began eating his skin, his eyes blinded from the chemical. The other students, having won the upper hand, helped Brittany to her feet. Dave grabbed the pistol from the gunman's hand, and kicked him to the floor.

Angered by the events of that day, the students ganged up on the flailing gunman, kicking and beating him with books and other things. He screamed as they continued to kick him in the head, until he fell silent.

"They're here, mates. Grab something and let's go," said Dave, calling the other students as he rushed out the door. The instructor, stunned by the student's uprising, grabbed a few bottles from his chemical cabinet and rushed out the door with the students.

In the lobby of the school, four accomplices held off the Norfolk Sheriff's officers who waited outside the school with their weapons drawn. Snipers had been posted around the perimeter of the school, and waited vigilantly while the authorities planned an attack on the school. They knew very well the target was the daughter of the Prime Minister.

"Does anybody know morse code?" asked Dave.

One of the girls stood up and answered she did.

"Here," he said, handing her a flashlight he had grabbed on his way out of the classroom. "Go up to the library, and signal out the window to the cops that we'll be ready to back them up in ten minutes," he said.

The girl nodded her head.

"C'mon mates, grab something, let's go!" said Dave and the other boys, as they banged on the locked doors. Motivated to do something to fight back, shop students quickly grabbed their power tools, and the electronics instructor handed out iron bars from his supply cabinet. RAYTC instructors divvied out air guns to cadets. The entire student body, led by the footy team and cadets from the RAYTC, were arming themselves, ready to take on the terrorists. Even if they could just distract them for a minute so the cops could storm the place, it would be worth it.

Aquitaine Palace, Capital District, Brettaine
16 August 2011, 12:01 p.m.

"What?" said Prime Minister Hollingsworth, learning of the news at Cheval High.
"The cops are there," said Colonel Sellgren. "They are handling the situation."
"But now, Madame Prime Minister, we have the situation at Lancaster Parliament House in Hartford," said Lt. Emory, a Royal Army Intelligence Officer.

The Prime Minister had finally had enough. Now they were going after her own family.

"Get the special forces in the Parliament House in Lancaster," said Hollingsworth.
"They are there, Madame Prime Minister. The question is dealing with the hostage situation. They have more terrorists than they do hostages, by almost twice as much. It's a full-scale revolution in Lancaster Province," said Emory.
"Look around you, Lieutenant. It's a revolution all around us. Fill the chamber with laughing gas if you have to, I want every one of those terrorist assholes, dead or alive. I don't want a single one to escape," she said.
"Do you realize the health risks with doing that?" asked Emory.
"I am aware. The risks of letting them have what they want are greater," said Hollingsworth. "Now move. Colonel Sellgren," she said.
"Yes, Madame Prime Minister," replied the King's aide-de-camp.
"Miller is using phones and internet lines to coordinate his forces, am I correct?" asked Hollingsworth.
"Yes, Madame," said Sellgren.
"Why can't you find him again?" asked Hollingsworth.
"All of the transmissions are scrambled. We put a trace on him, and he came up in Cantigny, then he came up in Engellex, then he came up in Arendaal. His server keeps switching every five seconds," Sellgren said.
"But he can't coordinate his forces if he can't communicate, correct?" Hollingsworth asked.
"I suppose, Madame. What are you suggesting?" he asked.
"Shut down the grid," Hollingsworth replied.

The Colonel looked at her in amazement.

"Pardon me?" he asked.
"Shut it down. Shut down all forms of telecommunications. Telephone, internet, everything. Absolutely everything," said Hollingsworth.

Colonel Sellgren couldn't believe what he was hearing. During a time of national crisis, when people are trying to call emergency services and contact friends and relatives to learn if they were safe or not, the Prime Minister was actually asking him to shut down Brettaine's communications grid.

"Madame, I-" Sellgren said.
"That is an order. Move," said Hollingsworth.
"How the hell am I supposed to coordinate my forces?" Sellgren asked.
"The military lines. Have the emergency services use their walkie-talkies, keep them on the closed band. We've got to cut off the hand to save the arm, Colonel. We've got to stop his forces in Lancaster and Cheval and we've got to stop any other attacks from happening. Shut the grid down, Colonel," said Hollingsworth.

The Colonel, still in a state of disbelief, reluctantly obliged.

"We're going into radio silence. We need to shut down the telephone and internet grids across the country," Sellgren said into his walkie-talkie.
"Come again??" asked a stunned voice on the other end.
"Shut down the internet and telephone grids, now," Sellgren said.

He looked at the Prime Minister.

"I hope to God you know what you're doing," he said.

Ashtonfield, Capital District, Brettaine
Ruins of the Office of the Ministry Building
16 August 2011, 12:18 p.m.

Jenny Andover came back to consciousness, and through a small hole in the mound of debris saw the bright sun sparking in the dusty brown smoke that rose from the building. Despite being in excruciating pain, the warmth of the sunlight on her cheeks reminded her that she was still alive. Brandon struggled to dig his leg out from under a pile of debris, while Frank still lay unconscious in a pile of debris.

By sheer luck, they happened to be in the absolute perfect part of the stairwell to avoid being crushed. Falling debris from the top floors built a wall of debris along the sides of the stairwell that essentially kept the debris from falling any further than that point. Yet, the three of them, despite having survived, also sustained bad injuries. Brandon had a broken arm, Jenny still had a broken leg which was now buried in rubble, and Frank had a dislocated arm and a broken leg on top of that. Tons of shattered concrete hung barely a metre above them, supported only by a fragile wall of debris that could give way at any moment.

"Frank," said Brandon, nudging his friend on the shoulder.

Frank simply moaned in response.

"Come on, mate. We're alive. We can't give up," he said.
"I can't move," Frank said.
"We gotta, we gotta," Brandon muttered before fainting from dizziness.
"Save your strength, kid. There's not much more we can do but wait," Frank said.

Amid the chaos of the morning, the three office workers lay wounded, trapped, in a pile of debris. What was worse, nobody knew they were there.

Cheval, Heathrow County, Norfolk Province, Brettaine
Cheval High School, Classroom 329
16 August 2011, 12:19 p.m.

As Norfolk Sheriff Officer Jerry Braddock looked over the school, things seemed quiet. His men were trained on the lobby, where four terrorists had taken secretaries and administrators hostage in the main office. Bomb threats were made, and taken quite seriously, given the successful attack in Ashtonfield earlier that morning. As Braddock scanned over the front façade of the school, he noticed a blinking light in the window.

Staring at it for a few minutes, he realized it was a message.

"Jesus Christ, the kids are counterattacking," he said, grabbing his pair of binoculars. He peered into the windows of the school lobby, and quickly noticed all four of the terrorists were running out of the main office and into the lobby to reply to gunfire. Noticing the RAYTC cadets firing from the second floor mezzanine, he quickly ordered his SWAT team to storm.

"Let's go, let's go. Get those kids out now!" he said.

With that, the cops broke through the windows and fired on the terrorists with precision and speed. The hostages, freed by distraction, quickly ushered the remaining students towards the gymnasium, while the footy team, the RAYTC cadets, and other brave students remained in the lobby.

All four terrorists were quickly put down, and the school was secured. Of the five who had entered the building, only the one in Classroom 329 was still alive, although badly injured. When the SWAT team found him, his head and face had ulcered into a blistered, puss-filled mass and his eyeballs had become pitted from the acid attack. He was covered in bruises and cuts from when the students rushed him. Despite the horrific scene, all Braddock could think of was praise.

"Good on those kids," he said. "Let Ashtonfield know the school is safe. Secure the students," he said.

Aquitaine Palace, Capital District, Brettaine
16 August 2011, 1:34 p.m.

"How many students were injured?" Hollingsworth asked as she learned of the school being secured. "No deaths?" she asked. "Amazing. Good on ya. I want every school searched and locked down. Get every man you've got on it," she said over a secure military phone. "Don't breathe a word to the media. Don't contact their parents. As far as they are concerned, you are still in a standoff until I tell you," she ordered.

One minor victory in the mini civil war that was gripping the nation. Now they had to secure the Lancaster Parliament House, and of course, find Miller and the Prince.

Laurel, Fairfax Province, Brettaine
Parramore Neighborhood
16 August 2011, 1:45 p.m.

Alan Miller, still enjoying the horror he created pan out on television, couldn't help but wonder why in the world he hadn't heard from the team in Cheval by now. The news was still reporting that officers were standing outside of the school, but no word on whether they had secured his next prized hostage. Just as he picked up the receiver to his phone and switched on his scrambler, he heard a kicking and screaming noise coming from the back bedroom. He slammed the receiver down on the hook and went to go see what all the ruckus was about. His hostage was screaming at the top of his lungs, clanging his shackles against the metal bed.

"Shut up!" Miller said as he fired his pistol at the ceiling.

The Prince fell silent.

"That's better," Miller said.

Hartford, Lancaster Province, Brettaine
Parliament of Lancaster Province
16 August 2011, 2:01 p.m.

Following orders direct from the Prime Minister, the special forces began to pump an odorless anesthetic gas in through the ventilation system in the Lancaster Parliament House. The militia members quickly noticed their vision blurring and their comrades in arms giggling excitedly. Within minutes, many of them simply started to collapse into unconsciousness. After fifteen minutes, the leader of the Special Forces operation gave the order to cut the supply of the gas, and the Special Forces started to approach the buildings.

Snipers with scopes looking into the building from afar could tell that the occupants had gone still. The commandos, donning gas masks and heavily armed, rushed into the building and found everybody inside collapsed unconscious. Vomit covered the floor, and it appeared that some of the militants had voided themselves during the chemical attack. The commandos quickly attended to the legislators, all of whom remained unconscious at their desks.

"Get them out, now. Get them out!" ordered the Chief.

 

[Brettaine]

Laurel, Fairfax Province, Brettaine
Parramore Neighborhood
16 August 2011, 4:05 p.m.

...BBSNews is now getting reports coming in from Melbourne and Hartford that the hostage situations at Cheval High School and at the Parliament House of Lancaster Province have come to an end. No students were killed at the high school, although there were some minor injuries reported. At the Parliament House, several legislators have been hospitalized after overdosing from anesthetic gas that was piped in through the ventilation systems of the building to subdue the militants. No word yet on casualties, although the Royal Army Special Forces have reported that all of the militants are now in custody...

The news blared on as an enraged Miller threw on his uniform and holstered his pistol. Brys, seeing the uprising unraveling before his eyes, quickly began to turn on Miller.

"We're finished," Brys said.
"No, we're not," Miller said, angrily.
"They took back the Hartford Parliament and managed to rescue the kids at that school. It's just a matter of time," Brys said.

Miller glared at Brys. The lack of faith irritated him to no end.

"We still have our bargaining chip," said Miller.

...authorities are reporting that communications sent earlier this afternoon have been triangulated to one location in Laurel...

The sound sent a chill down Miller's spine, and convinced Brys that the revolution was falling apart quickly. Miller quickly recalculated. Although his battle may be dying, he certainly was not about to die with it. He told Brys to pull the car around and get ready to go to the airport.

"No," Brys said, pulling a gun on Miller. "It's over, Alan," he said.

Miller glared at him.

"You're going to pull a gun on me?" he asked.

Brys' hand quivered, his pistol shaking in his hands as he held it out at Miller.

"Huh?" Miller yelled.

Brys lowered his handgun and dropped it on the floor. Miller, enraged, pulled his gun out and fired at Brys at point-blank range. The bullet hit him directly in the forehead, leaving a splatter of black-red blood against the wall behind him.

"Oh ye of little faith. I hope you burn in Hell," Miller said. He walked over to the stove and turned on the gas burners. While they got nice and hot, he ran to the bedroom and unshackled the Prince, sticking a gun to his head.

"Come on, we're going for a little trip on an airplane," Miller said, dragging the resistant Michael through the flat. As he did, he tossed a pile of papers and vegetable oil onto the hot range and they quickly caught fire, igniting the cabinets above. As the room filled with fire, Miller dragged Michael outside to a waiting car and threw him in the back seat. With squealing tires, Miller's car tore away from the building as thick smoke started to rise from the basement flat.

 

[Brettaine]

Laurel, Fairfax Province, Brettaine
Parramore Boulevard
16 August 2011, 4:25 p.m.

Alan Miller's black sedan sped down the highway at 90 kilometres per hour, ten kilometres over the speed limit. By now, Miller certainly knew what he was up against. In a matter of hours, his plans for revolution had gone seriously awry. The planned succession crisis in Lancaster, which he hoped would spark a full-scale civil war, had failed when the special forces stormed the Hartford Parliament House. His emotional blackmail by threatening the life of the Prime Minister's daughter also failed to succeed. Neither the Prime Minister nor the King seemed to have any intention of backing down from their positions. Ben Andrews, the lone National Party candidate in the Federal Parliament and Miller's personal choice for the Premiership of the new Republic, had been arrested and sent to an undisclosed location for interrogation.

Miller had seriously underestimated the risks that Jeanne Hollingsworth was willing to risk in order to combat terrorism. Her emotionless, commanding leadership during the crisis seemed almost reckless and wanton when compared to that of her predecessor, James C. Dahlgren. She unilaterally took down the communications network for the entire civilian population; she ordered the arrest and interrogation of a sitting member of Parliament suspected of high treason; she ordered information blackouts regarding the school crisis; she had ordered a dangerous operation to take place using anesthetic gas to stop the militants in Lancaster. Like a steamroller, Hollingsworth flattened the rebellion by breaking every rule in the book and taking gambles at every turn. By late afternoon, those gambles were beginning to pay off.

Yet Miller still had one very powerful bargaining chip: Michael. The Prince was his key to survival. And now that his glorious revolution started to fail, he was now preparing for his final act: escape. A private jet waited for him in a hangar at Laurel Corporate Air Field, along with four of his compatriots. So long as they could keep the authorities away, they could make for Axifloas in southern Aresura and then on to hiding in Engellex beyond that.

Miller's car tore into the parking lot by the hangar, as his four compatriots waited by the door. Miller, enraged, dragged Michael out of the car and into the hangar. Shortly after their arrival, the cavalry had arrived.

Aquitaine Palace, Capital District, Brettaine
The Map Room - Temporary Office of Prime Minister Jeanne Hollingsworth
16 August 2011, 4:55 p.m.

"Madame Prime Minister, we have the primary suspect surrounded at a hangar in Laurel," said Lt. Emory, coordinating a special forces response.
"Tell me when they are ready to storm the building," said Hollingsworth.

Just as she said that, the phone on her desk rang. The trace pinned it to the hangar in Laurel.

"Jesus, how did he find out our number?" Hollingsworth asked.
"Answer it, quickly," Colonel Sellgren said.
"Hollingsworth here," she said, picking up the phone.
"Ahh, Madame Prime Minister. I'm glad to see you haven't had an emotional meltdown from today's events," said Miller.
"Listen to me you son-of-a-bitch, when we get you I am going to personally sign an order to hang you from the highest tree in the Kingdom," said Hollingsworth.

Miller laughed.

"Ahh, for a lady you are not very ladylike, Madame Prime Minister. But I am a man who knows when he has been beat. Checkmate, Madame Hollingsworth, and well played. Although I do have one request of the victor," said Miller.
"Stop wasting my time, Miller. Where is the Prince?" asked Hollingsworth.
"He is quite safe, for now. Listen closely, Madame Hollingsworth: in ten minutes the doors to this hangar will open, and a plane will be leaving. I will be on board that plane. The Prince will not. Ensure my safe departure, and I will ensure the Prince lives to see tomorrow morning," said Miller.
"And why should I do that?" asked Hollingsworth.
"Because, you see: I have a very high tech and expensive bomb strapped to the Prince as we speak. It is triggered by a frequency from my cellular phone. Deny me my opportunity to escape, or pursue me, and I assure you Michael will make a very explosive fashion statement," said Miller. "Call off your men, Madame Hollingsworth. Once I reach my destination I will provide the disarming code for the Prince, and you shall never hear from me again."

Hollingsworth looked at Sellgren, and then up at the King.

"Miller, I will aim a cruise missile right up your arse if you break this deal," Hollingsworth said.
"Why, Madame, I assure you I am a man of my word. I am a patriot, but I prefer to be a living, not a dead, patriot. Now then, do we have a deal?"

Hollingsworth clasped her hands together.

"Call off the snipers. Tell them to stand down and allow the plane to depart," said Hollingsworth.
"Very good, Madame Prime Minister. I will notify you with the disarming codes once we land. Good day," Miller said as he hung up the phone.

Hollingsworth stood up in a rage. She couldn't believe, after everything the nation had endured throughout the day, that she would allow the mastermind of the August Terror to escape unharmed. She wanted blood, but her hands were tied.

Laurel Corporate Air Field, Laurel County, Fairfax Province, Brettaine
16 August 2011, 5:05 p.m.

The polished aluminium hull of the private jet slowly crept out of the hangar, while the Brettish Armed Forces waited, their arms held down. The jet spun around on the tarmac as it positioned itself towards the runway. Under direct orders from the Prime Minister, Miller's jet was given clearance for takeoff, despite a grounding of all aircraft in the nation's domestic airspace.

The engines spooled up, and the jet started to roll down the runway. As soon as the silver bird took to the sky, the armed forces descended on the hangar. In one corner, the Prince stood with his arms handcuffed to a pipe, his torso covered in a bulky black neoprene vest covered with wires and explosives. Tears rolled down his face as an uncertain fate awaited him.

"Get the bomb squad in here, now!" said the team commander.

 

[Brettaine]

Laurel Corporate Air Field, Laurel County, Fairfax Province, Brettaine
Hangar D
16 August 2011, 5:35 p.m.

"Get this bloody thing off me!" screamed the Prince as he jostled around.
"Stop moving! You'll set something off," said the bomb expert as he studied the wiring on the vest. He had not seen such sophisticated bomb making from a terrorist in all his years of counterterrorism. One of the lieutenants, Caitlyn Anderson, held the Prince's hand while the bomb squad worked on diffusing it. She knew very well the danger she was putting her life in simply to keep the Prince calm. From a safe distance, other members of the commando unit looked on anxiously as the three officers did what they could to safely remove the bomb.

Aquitaine Palace, Capital District, Brettaine
The Map Room
16 August 2011, 5:40 p.m.

The King listened intently to the live audio stream coming from the hangar. Every bellow from his son's voice stabbed his heart as he stood there, helpless. The Queen wasn't able to handle the stress of being present. Doctor Hawthorn had escorted her to a sitting room to wait for the news. Meanwhile, Hollingsworth was working diligently on preparing a covert operation to get Miller back.

"As soon as we get word that the Prince is secure I want fighter jets in the air in hot pursuit. I don't care what airspace you have to violate, that plane will either be returned to Brettaine or it will be shot down, do I make myself clear?" she ordered the Chief of Staff for the Royal Air Force.
"Yes, Madame Prime Minister," said the chief, General Andre.

The live audio continued, the soothing voice of Lt. Anderson trying to calm the Prince as the bomb squad diligently worked to free him from death.

"Down to two. Fifty-fifty," said the bomb expert over the line.

The King's heart began to race when he heard that: he had a choice of cutting one of two wires. One would cause the device to detonate, the other would cause it to deactivate. He tilted his head in the air and quietly prayed.

"I'm going for it," he said.

A snip of one wire, and everything suddenly changed.

 

[Brettaine]

Ashtonfield, Capital District, Brettaine
Ruins of the Office of the Ministry Building
16 August 2011, 5:40 p.m.

Jenny Andover lay in the ruins of the stairwell, looking with glazed eyes as the afternoon sun began to set behind the gilt dome of Parliament Hall. For seven hours, she lay in the ruins of the stairwell next to Frank and Brandon. Seven uncertain hours, as tons of concrete hung precariously over their trapped bodies. Seven hours of agony, as their wounds started to become infected. She had begun to accept that she would never make it out of the building alive. All she could hope for was that her husband and child would maintain without her.

"Tom! We've got three down here!" she heard as she saw the light from a flashlight shine down on her. "Hello! Is anybody alive down there?" she heard a voice shout from atop the pile of rubble.
"Help," she struggled to speak. "Help, we're alive," he said, tapping her hand against a piece of concrete to make as much noise as possible. Frank and Brandon also tried to make noise to alert the rescuers that they were there.
"Get paramedics over here now! We've got three alive!"

Laurel Corporate Air Field, Laurel County, Fairfax Province, Brettaine
Hangar D
16 August 2011, 5:42 p.m.

Michael stood firmly in his place, his eyes closed as tight as he could hold them. With one deep breath, he exhaled, and quickly realized: he was still alive. Before he could think, the three bomb squad officers hurriedly stripped the vest off him and Lt. Anderson grabbed him and ran him over to the other side of the hangar.

"He's secure! We have the Prince. He's secure," shouted the commander of the team over the direct line to the Palace Map Room.

"Go, get those jets in the air," Hollingsworth said to General Andre without so much as blinking an eye.

Kessler Royal Air Force Base, Sommersdale, Daventry Province, Brettaine
16 August 2011, 5:47 p.m.

Alarms blared throughout the hangar as six fighter pilots quickly scrambled to intercept Miller's jet. At a moment's notice, they were in the air, pursuing the private jet at supersonic speed. Having witnessed the tragedy of the August Terror, they were ready for revenge. They were ready to perform their duty.

Aboard Miller's Jet, Over the Green Sea
16 August 2011, 6:27 p.m.

As Miller sat in his plush armchair, sipping on a glass of champagne, one of his compatriots came out from the cockpit and whispered in his ear.

"General, we have a problem. We've picked up 6 contacts on radar," said his compatriot.
"Fighters?" Miller asked.
"Yes sir," said his compatriot.
"I told Hollingsworth not to fuck with me," Miller said, as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed in a number.

Nine-hundred kilometres away, at the hangar in Laurel, the vest that had been strapped around the Prince exploded. Unbeknownst to Miller, the bomb squad had removed it before Hollingsworth gave the order to pursue. While Miller thought he had just executed the Prince of Brettaine, in reality he had just blown a large hole in the side of the hangar and killed nobody.

In the cockpit on the plane, the jets continued their pursuit. Before long, Miller looked out the window and could see the pilot of a Brettish fighter on his wing. Stunned, he ordered the plane to descend.

 

[Brettaine]

Aquitaine Palace, Capital District, Brettaine
16 August 2011, 6:30 p.m.

"Madame Prime Minister, our boys have turned the plane around, and they're returning to Wyndham with the suspect under escort," said General Andre, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. "Estimated time of arrival, forty-seven minutes."

Hollingsworth bowed her head as a wave of relief spilled over her. Nine-hours after the nightmare began, it seemed to be coming to an end. At least, for now.

"Call Army Intelligence, I want them there and waiting as soon as that plane touches down, do I make myself perfectly clear?" Hollingsworth said to the General.
"Yes Madame Prime Minister," said General Andre.

Outside the Palace, a helicopter carrying Prince Michael and his bodyguards touched down on the North Lawn. The King and Queen, who had been anxiously waiting for his arrival, rushed out to the helicopter. A bewildered Michael, his disheveled hair blowing in the wash of the helicopter blades, jumped out into his father's arms.

"I'm sorry," Michael said, his voice weak from the ordeal. "I'm so sorry."
"I know, I am too," the King said, tears of happiness rolling down his face. "You are never going out of my sight without a bodyguard again!"

Hollingsworth looked out the window as the Royal Family was reunited. As the sun began to set on the horizon, behind them rose brown smoke from the ruins of the O.M. building. Somewhere in the Kingdom, a teacher's wife was getting word that her husband was killed. Somewhere in Cheval, frightened students met with their parents. Somewhere in Hartford, bodies began pouring into the morgue. Somewhere in Laurel, an apartment building was burning to the ground, along with valuable evidence regarding this whole affair. The terror may be over, but the damage would last a lifetime.

"I want to go on national television, live at 7:00," Hollingsworth said to an aide.
"Yes, Madame Prime Minister," he said, and immediately began preparations.

As he walked away, Hollingsworth quietly picked up the phone on her desk and dialed a number.

"Peter," she said. "Is she safe?" she asked about her daughter.
"She is safe, Jeanne. A little shaken but unharmed," her husband replied.

A tear gently rolled down her otherwise emotionless face.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be there," she said.
"She's very proud of you, Jeanne. We both are. You keep fighting 'em," her husband said.
"I will," Hollingsworth said, before saying goodbye.

Parliament Hall, Capital District, Brettaine
Old Offices of the Prime Minister
16 August 2011, 7:00 p.m.

From an office used by every Brettish Prime Minister from 1864 to 1988, Jeanne Hollingsworth began her address to a grief stricken nation.

"Good evening. Today, our nation came under attack in a series of terrorist acts. The pictures on the news outlets from Ashtonfield, news from Hartford about a coup at the Lancaster Parliament House, news from Cheval about a school shooting, and the kidnapping of His Royal Highness the Prince of Brettaine fill us with terrible sadness and unyielding anger. With the memory of Brettish Airways Flight 239 fresh in our memories, we worry if the recent bouts of terrorism that have plagued our nation are becoming a common thing.

"The attacks today were perpetrated by a far-right extremist group, a nationalistic splinter group from the National Party of Brettaine. Their means of achieving change was to force us into their worldview by intimidation and fear. Such means of governance and political interaction are antithetical to Brettaine itself. Today we met fire with fire. By my order, under the direction of the armed forces, the nation utilized counterterrorism tactics unseen in Brettish history. It was by those means that we were able to quell the attacks and bring down the operation as quickly as we did. The attacks today were meant to frighten us into chaos and retreat. Instead, it brought about our finest hour.

"As I speak, I have learned of office workers, factory employees, and folks in the neighborhood who have volunteered to help assist rescue workers at the ruins of the O.M. building in Ashtonfield. Bretons are joining together to help one another through this crisis. As one nation, we will send a message that terrorism and extremism are unwelcome on our shores.

"None of us will ever forget this day, yet we will go on to defend all that is good and just in this world. Thank you, and goodnight."

"Clear!" said one of the cameramen as Hollingsworth removed the microphone from her jacket.
"Okay," said Hollingsworth, hastily walking out the door.
"Where are you going, Madame Prime Minister?" asked her assistant.
"I'm going across the street to help the rescue workers," Hollingsworth replied. "I'll see you folks in a couple of hours."

 

[Brettaine]

Aquitaine Palace, Capital District, Brettaine
17 August 2011, 12:01 a.m.

The King sat in an armchair in his dimly lit office, the atmosphere somber after the events of what became known as the August Terror. Not twenty-four hours had passed since the bombing at the Offices of the Ministry building, yet for the King it seemed as if a decade had passed. Silence filled the room, with only the ticking grandfather clock making any noise as he went over the events of the day in his mind. In a matter of hours, his entire world had been turned upside down. In a matter of hours, the entire nation had been turned upside down. From preliminary interrogations, it appeared that the entire operation was pulled off by the Holy Brotherhood of Bretons, a hyper-nationalistic, hyper-conservative splinter group from the National Party of Brettaine. Miller was the ringleader of a group of twenty or so terrorists who executed the operation. Joining them were approximately one-hundred and fifty militiamen who had allied with two of the group's members in Hartford. Together, one-hundred and seventy people attempted full-scale revolution against the Crown. And although by nightfall the bloodshed seemed to have stopped, the King couldn't help but wonder how stable his nation truly was, or how effective his leadership was during the crisis.

A gentle knock came at the door, and Colonel Sellgren quietly entered.

"Your Majesty, I have sent the non-essential personnel home for the evening," he said.
"Very well, Sellgren," the King said.

The Colonel took a step out the door before the King called for him again.

"Sellgren," the King said.
"Yes, Sire?" asked his loyal aide.

The King paused for a moment as he looked down at the smoking bowl of his pipe, setting gently in the palm of his hand.

"Your professional opinion, if I may inquire," he said.
"Of course," Sellgren replied, entering the room and closing the door behind him.

The King stood up from his chair and walked over to the window. The bright white construction lights that were aimed at the wreckage of the O.M. building glistened like bright moonlight against the curtains of the window. Cranes and heavy machinery had been brought in to help clean up the destruction. The King sighed as he looked upon the sight.

"Did we handle this correctly?" asked the King.
"Of course, Sire," Sellgren said. "We got him, didn't we?"
"I know we got him. But I mean, look at it out there. We waited too late to respond. God damn. One-hundred-and-sixty-eight is the latest death toll I heard. And all the while I was too caught up with Michael to think of anything except him," said the King.

Sellgren knew what the King must have been thinking. Faced with the possibility of losing his own child seemed to drown out his own responsibilities as a monarch, and unlike Hollingsworth, who popped tall to fight, the King seemed to retreat into his own world. Granted his role was largely ceremonial - but yet he had not even addressed his own people, nor had he addressed them to help comfort them during the crisis.

"Given the circumstances, Your Majesty," Sellgren started before he paused. He didn't quite know how to answer the King.
"Yes, Sellgren?" he asked.
"Frankly, as a father myself, I couldn't imagine what I would do if I had a psychopath threatening to murder my own child. I'd be caught somewhere between giving up everything I could to get him back and wanting to kill the psychopath with my bare hands. It's an emotional roller coaster, I can only imagine. But as to whether you displayed poor leadership during the crisis, I would have to reply with a resounding no. You kept the Ministers calm, you backed Prime Minister Hollingsworth, you kept your family calm and content. Hollingsworth is your Prime Minister. By law she is acting commander-in-chief of the Armed Forces. She did a fine job today, given the circumstances.

"We just learned, in fact, that a large bomb was found in a Metro station in Melbourne around the time of the Cheval school lockdown. The Metro was evacuated and the bomb was disarmed successfully. Hundreds more could have died. The bomb was intended to explode under the Oceanic Tower, which could have destabilized the foundation and perhaps killed thousands. They didn't. Despite the horror we suffered today, it could have been worse," said Sellgren. "Happy Birthday, by the way," Sellgren said, noticing it was after midnight.

The King looked down at his wristwatch. Sure enough, the date read 17 AUG. It was his fiftieth birthday.

"Thank you, Sellgren," said the King with a somber tone to his voice. "Although to be quite honest I don't really feel like celebrating."
"That's quite understandable, Your Majesty. What of the ceremonies planned for today?" he asked.
"Cancel them. It wouldn't be right to celebrate given what has just happened. My family and I will have a simple affair here at the palace, nothing extravagant."

The Colonel nodded in acknowledgement.

The King looked out at the bright lights shining down on the ruins of the O.M. building. Rescue workers still sifted through the rubble looking for survivors, many of them ready to work through the night if they had to. Among them was Jeanne Hollingsworth, who utilized her first-aid skills at the triage station for a few hours that evening.

On the muted television screen, reports came from all over the Kingdom about the August Terror and how Bretons were responding. Many were holding candlelight vigils, helping the injured, pulling together as one people to help one another. As a reporter talked from her position in Melbourne, the King couldn't help but notice the number of Brettish flags hanging from balconies and windows along Strand Avenue. He couldn't help but notice the number of little flags or red, white, and blue streamers that hung from car antennas.

"Sellgren," said the King as the Colonel was about to walk out the room.
"Yes, Your Majesty?" asked the Colonel.
"I take that back. Tomorrow will be a special day. But it will not be in my honour. It will be in theirs," he said, pointing at the television. "Tomorrow will not be a celebration for my birthday. Tomorrow will be a day of honour for the people of Brettaine, for their bravery, their resilience, their patriotism, and their perseverance through this crisis. They are the ones who deserve praise," said the King.

With a smile on his face, the Colonel looked at the King.

"I will address the nation tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m. Please make arrangements," said the King.
"Yes, Sire," the Colonel said, before bowing and walking out of the room.

The King looked out his window once again at the scene, before he tapped out the ashes from his pipe into an ashtray on his desk, flipped out the light, and walked out the door.

Ashtonfield, Capital District, Brettaine
Ruins of the Offices of the Ministry Building
17 August 2011, 12:45 a.m.

Jeanne Hollingsworth had been working with the rescuers for hours. With her curly hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing a simple gray t-shirt, it was hard to tell the Prime Minister apart from one of the female doctors at the triage area. For hours, they continued to pull out injured people and bodies from the wreckage. Although exhausted from the events of the day, Hollingsworth continued to work, guzzling coffee to help stay awake.

It wasn't long afterward before she heard a familiar voice from behind.

"Hello, Madame Hollingsworth."

Turning around quickly, she saw the face of the King, standing behind her. He wore a ballcap given to him by the Captain of HMS Fairfax years before, with a simple collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

"Your Majesty," she said, startled. The other doctors and nurses looked up and saw their King standing there before them, dressed as a commoner. With wide eyes, they stopped and began to gesture to the King.

"As you all were, please. I am here to lend a hand, nothing more," he said.
"Here, grab a tourniquet and help me then," Hollingsworth said.

A nurse came over and, without a word, tied an armband around the King's arm with a red cross on it to signal that he was one of the nurses tending to the aid of the wounded. As she did, six paramedics came rushing up from the ruins with three gurneys.

"We've got three more here!" they shouted. "Internal bleeding, two broken legs, a broken arm, and bruised rib cage. We pulled them from the stairwell," they said.

Hollingsworth rushed over and began applying first aid. As her patient moaned and began moving around, she placed her hand on her shoulder and told her to calm down. When she looked at the patient's face, Hollingsworth quickly recognized who she was.

"Jenny," she said with amazement. "You're alive!"
"Madame Prime Minister," Jenny said, her voice weak from exhaustion. "I didn't get the files copied," she said, holding out her hand. The charred SD card that Hollingsworth had handed her earlier lay in the palm of her hand.
"Shhh, don't worry about such nonsense. Rest, please. You need your strength," she said as she stuck and IV in Jenny's arm.
"Please, will you call my husband and my daughter and tell them I'm alive," Jenny asked.
"I will, I promise. Rest. Please," said Hollingsworth.

The King walked up to one of the gurneys and saw Frank Calbert, who lay badly wounded. Dehydrated and woozy from a loss of blood and internal bleeding, Frank could barely keep touch with reality. One of the nurses had attached a morphine IV to him to help ease the pain.

"Everything is going to be all right, mate. Hold in there," the King said as he took Frank's hand in his own and reassured him.

Frank started to chuckle as he looked up at the man standing beside his gurney. "I must be on some really good drugs. I'd swear the King himself is standing next to me," he said.

The King laughed along with him. "Yes, you don't know how many times people mistake me for him," he replied as he started to administer first aid.

Throughout the night, the King and the Prime Minister resigned themselves from their positions of authority and took on the positions of nurses tending to their wounded citizens. Tomorrow would be a brand new day. While they spent the night tending to the wounds of the victims, soon they would have to tend to the wounds of a shaken nation.

 

[Great Engellex]

Battent Palace, Dulwich, the morning of 17 August.

The nation was at war. The sharp and frozen overcast almost demonstrated this as it hung over the silent awakening imperial metropolis of Dulwich. The Royal Page’s Office within Battent Palace, now the official residence of the Crown of Great Engellex, slowly digested the tragedy that had gripped Brettaine. Unfortunately for them, due to the necessity to focus on matters of war, the news reached the metropolis the morning after. My God, soon that Communications Assistance was joined by a colleague. It should be taken up right now. The royal residence was now in a flurry of activity to achieve readiness for the day of work ahead; hundreds of staff of the household descended upon the palace like ants to complete the daily preparation in the morning. Soon the news had moved around the staff and gripped the days conversation. The Dowager Duchess, was the first to arise from their slumber and descend down the huge marble staircase for the State Dinning Room. Good morning McGory, she said while observing the spread of breakfast down the side of the dinning room. Good morning your Grace, the footman replied. Is it true? The gossiping amongst the staff? The footman nodded. I suppose the Queen will have to ascertain whether we knew of any of those poor souls in that building. What a tragedy.

Lady Glenrothes, the Lady-in-Waiting to the Queen, entered Charlotte’s bedroom quietly and threw open the main sets of curtains. A media largely in the ownership of the various peers of the House of Lords, of all political parties, were somewhat ignorant to the sufferings endured by the people of the Far West. Charlotte was by no means sleeping, at seven every morning Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning the military band of the regiment charged with the protection of the royal residence drums up their regimental march for the sovereign; that Wednesday morning it was the kilts, pipes and drums of the

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Good morning m’am. Shall I ring for your breakfast? Charlotte sat up and declined, no –no, no I shall go down for my breakfast. The Queen’s Lady informed Charlotte that the War Secretary and Northern Secretary are on their way, m’am. Charlotte opened a dispatch the Lady left for her, oh I see. What a tragedy – it didn’t reach the papers? Terrible. I will have my breakfast brought up, if you don’t mind. I cannot see that I have time to-day. Lady Glenrothes nodded and rang the bell for the Queen’s breakfast tray.

Later that morning the Queen called upon the ambassador of Brettaine to extend her sincere condolences and offer any necessary assistance that may be needed.


((Will add this to my Glorious Sixth post for the 17th, just for consistency. ))

 

[Brettaine]

Aquitaine Palace, Capital District, Brettaine
17 August 2011, 9:00 a.m.

The King sat before a bank of microphones at his desk in the Aquitaine Palace. After having spent most of the evening at the O.M. building, he finally returned to the palace around 4 o'clock in the morning to catch a few winks of sleep. Exhausted from the events of the past twenty-four hours, the King looked tired on the morning of his fiftieth birthday. The camera crew had done their best to hide the dark bags under his eyes, but his once crisp gray-blue eyes seemed empty and withdrawn; his brown hair tinged with gray.

"And we're on in five, four, three..." said a cameraman.

The King looked directly at the camera and waited until they went on the air. At that instant, the cameraman gestured to the King that he was on the air.

"Good morning. Since the devastating events of yesterday, we have seen in Brettaine and elsewhere in the world an overwhelming expression of emotion - the emotions of uncertainty: fear, anger, and perhaps even defeat. We have all felt these different emotions over the past hours. And we have all been trying in our own different way to cope. An enormous tragedy has struck our nation: one which will affect our lives from this day forward. For the first time in two centuries, our government, our society, and our way of life came under attack in a series of coordinated, terrorist acts. The hallmark of these attacks was aimed at the centre of our nation's representative democracy: the Offices of the Ministry near Parliament Hall. Emotional terrorism was employed against my family and the family of the Prime Minister. Another, unsuccessful attack was aimed at the Oceanic Towers and Norfolk Stock Exchange in Melbourne - undoubtedly at the financial and economic centre of our nation. In short, what we saw yesterday was one group's attempt at full-scale revolution. They found tactical success in destroying the O.M. building; they succeeded at storming Parliament House in Lancaster; and they succeeded in capturing my son.

"Yet they failed their strategic goals in breaking our government. And they failed to break our spirit.

"I had the honour to witness, firsthand, the heroic efforts of our rescue workers at the O.M. building. Men and women have been working tirelessly through the night to provide first aid for patients and help the seriously wounded. Chains have been formed as people rush to remove debris from the building in the hopes of rescuing those who remain trapped inside the ruins. Our brave servicemen and women have fought heroically against the savagery that brought our nation to its knees. Others have started blood drives or donation drives across the nation. These events underscore the spirit of the people: the drive for good above evil, to help those in need, to respond bravely against violence, and to pull together as one even in the face of great danger. Our nation has not been broken, because our spirit has not been broken. By your display, I cannot express how truly honoured I am to be your King.

"Today, 17 August, marks my fiftieth birthday. Our tradition has held the monarch's birthday as a day of celebration. However, in the wake of the events yesterday afternoon, I certainly would not wish anybody mark today in my honour. Rather, today will be a day of solemn remembrance for the victims of yesterday's attacks, and a day of honour for the people of Brettaine. The display of citizenship and patriotism; the defiant renunciation of terror and violence, deserves a day of respect. Therefore, by my order, today, 17 August, will be known as Remembrance Day.

"Our lives may have been changed by the events of the 'August Terror.' Yet our way of life will not end. For the emotions of fear, anger, and uncertainty have since been shrouded by a blossoming outpouring of bravery, camaraderie, and victory. Our friends and neighbors overseas have expressed their condolences for the victims of this tragedy and to the Brettish people as a whole. And to them, in the name of the people of Brettaine, I offer a most sincere appreciation. We have shown the entire world the Brettish nation united in the cause against fear and violence; a most venerable national spirit. May that spirit continue to be a beacon for peace and civility in the face of adversity.

"May God Bless the victims of this attack, and the people of the Kingdom of Brettaine."