Under the Tropical Sun

[Brettaine]

George Darboe looked out at the Big Island of Tyrisle. From his seat on the aircraft, it looked like an emerald on top of a cerulean sea. Darboe wondered how a land of such beauty could be suffering from such grave internal unrest.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we are beginning our decent into Charleston International Airport. Please return to your seats at this time. We ask that you please secure your seats and your tray tables in their upright and locked position as we prepare for landing."

Darboe would be on his own for this mission. The Ministry wanted an assessment of the situation in Tyrisle. A day of assessment followed by a few days of vacation in this island paradise.

Forward of Darboe's seat in Business Class sat two young Bretons in First Class. One was Dominique Paradis, the 17-year-old daughter of Philippe Paradis, the owner of Paradis Energy Corporation. The other was her boyfriend, 18-year-old Tyler Drake. Dominique would be joining her parents in Charleston for a cruise on board the Polar Star, a cruise ship operated by the Blue Star Cruise Line. Philippe Paradis had been in Charleston for the opening of the new Deepwater Cadiz oil platform, located 20 miles off the coast of Tyrisle.

The Bowen 747, dubbed the Clipper Riviera by Royal Brettish Airways, touched down on the ground with a thud. Darboe looked out of his window at the festive, tropical-colored buildings at the airport. There was hardly a cloud in the sky as the sun began to set along the western horizon.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, on behalf of Royal Brettish Airways, we would like to welcome you to Charleston, Tyrisle. The current time is 8:15 P.M., and the current temperature is a comfortable 83ºF. We ask that you remain seated with your seatbelts fastened until the aircraft has pulled into the gate and the captain turns off the fasten seatbelt light. Again, we would like to thank you for flying with us today, and hope you have a great day in Charleston, or wherever your final destination may be."

Thirty-Five Minutes Later

With his luggage in hand, Darboe walked out of the concourse and out to where the taxi cabs waited. He noticed a black sedan with a man standing beside it. He held a card in his hand, which read, "DARBOE"

"I am George Darboe," said the diplomat, handing the man his diplomatic passport.

"Ahh, welcome to Tyrisle, Mr. Darboe. I am Winston Coolidge, your liaison here in Tyrisle. The Chief is very eager to meet with you tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, a suite has been booked for you at the Venitian Royale at the waterfront," said the man, as a chauffer came to put Darboe's bag in the trunk.

Darboe took a seat in the back of the car, as Coolidge turned to the driver. "On to the Venitian Royale!" barked Coolidge.

And off they were. Darboe's mission had begun.

OOC Note: "Bowen Aerospace Industries" is the largest Brettish-owned manufacturer of passenger and military aircraft. Bowen 7x7 aircraft are exactly similar to "Boeing" aircraft IRL.

 

[Tyrisle]

Winston knocked on the door of the Venetian Hotel's Grand Suite Room 1612. Standing at 6'3' and 230lbs, he was a big man, and a solid bulk of muscle. His dark skin belied his ancestry of that of an escaped slave-turned-buccaneer, and his wild stock of dreads almost gave anyone who looked at him the impression that he could have lived back in those ancient times, a vandal of the sea. If anyone were to look too closely into his own past, they might even find such a comparison closer to the truth than they would expect for an agent of the government. Or perhaps not. It depended on who you spoke to, really.

In the rich and colorful accent shared by most of the inhabitants of the Islands, he spoke clearly to the door, "Mr Darboe, it is nearly time for your appointment with The Chief. If you would like to pack your swim clothes, The Chief has arranged for you and any guests you should want to entertain to take a day cruise to the Great Cay on the Tyrisle Grand Bank aboard his private yacht. But you must hurry, please. The Chief is on a tight schedule this afternoon."

A few moments later, the dapper Brettish diplomat emerged from his room, a small suitcase in hand. Winston took the bag and led the way down the elevator and out the lobby to the waiting limousine.

It was a short and relatively uneventful trip to the Presidential Offices in downtown Charleston. This early in the afternoon, most people were either at work or already on the beaches enjoying themselves. The rushes wouldn't start until five, when the city would come alive as people got off work and either headed home, or headed to the dozens of bars and night clubs dotting the city. If Winston's charge had cared to look out his heavily tinted windows, he might have seen a few people walking the streets - delivery boys, unemployed laborers looking for work, and plenty of hookers. Especially nearer the labor district, out of sight and out of mind from the majority of tourists.

The limousine pulled up to the front of a large glass-paneled office building: the Presidential Offices. No fancy edifice of government here. No need. The Chief had several mansions in more secluded parts of the Islands where he could relax and enjoy himself. Here it was all business. The Business of running a country. The ten story high-rise was mostly clerical offices save for the top two stories. Those were reserved for The Chief and his advisers, personal secretaries, and department heads. The Chief's stateroom occupied the entire northern side of the uppermost story, overlooking the harbor. Through the main lobby and up a private elevator was the way to that floor, and down an elegant, though simply decorated marble hallway to the double french doors leading to the private office of The Chief.

The Chief's office was well-adorned. Teak wall panels and walnut flooring. A very large deep red alpaca wool rug occupied the middle, with a positively huge oak desk positioned in the exact middle of the room. The desk had a few objects on top of it - a flat panel monitor (the CPU must be hidden under the desk, Darboe thought), a writing board, with a notepad and a small leather binder on top of it, and an elegant pen box. No name plate here. All who entered this sanctum knew exactly who resided within it. And he was standing at the large tinted window covering the entirety of the north wall.

The tall, well muscled, though lean man turned when the door was opened. He wore his hair closely cropped in the military fashion. He was dressed in the green "class B" uniform of the Tyrisle Army, with only the rank of General pinned to the lapels to let anyone know who he was. Everyone knew who he was. A gold braid hung from his right lapel under his right arm in a loop. A golden strip looped each cuff, and his pants had a gold strip down the seams. A holster, polished to a high shine, held a conservative 1911 .45 service pistol. High-kneed boots were blackened and shined to a glossy gleam that would catch the midday sun.

His skin was white, though deeply tanned by life under the tropical sun. He wore a full goatee/mustache as black as his hair, and an eye patch covered his right eye, the sole reminder of what it took to gain the power he now had. The Chief's whole appearance was the stereotype of the Machismo, the Generalissimo, and yet he wore it in a way that distinctly discouraged humor.

"Good afternoon, Mr Darboe. I hope your arrival to our Islands was a pleasant one? And your drive here was uneventful?" Before the Brettish diplomat could even open his mouth to respond, the Chief continued on, walking towards a table against the left wall that held several decanters and glasses. "Would you like a drink? I have some of the finest liquors from around the world present on this table, though I prefer the rum we distill here, in this very city, in fact." Again, without waiting for a reply, he poured two highball glasses with a shallow helping of the caramel-colored liquid.

"You may leave us, Winston. Ensure the yacht is prepared for Mr Darboe's trip. And see to it that the girls are ready to accompany him." Without giving George much time to contemplate what the man could have meant by the girls, the Chief handed the diplomat the glass of stiff alcohol, the scent of the drink burning Darboe's nose. "Now, Mr Darboe, what have you come all this way to talk about? I am all ears."

 

[Brettaine]

"Mr. President, first I would like to thank you for meeting with me on such short notice," said Darboe as The Chief set the glass on the desk in front of him. "Your hospitality is very gracious and much appreciated."

In response, The Chief smiled and shrugged his shoulders, then took a seat behind the desk.

"Now, onto business. The Ministry is somewhat concerned about the labor riots here in Tyrisle - specifically, the state of Brettish-owned hemp plantations; as well as the safety of Brettish tourists and interests. Royal Brettish Airways terminals are one of these interests. There are talks that maintenance workers at Charleston International are thinking of striking. This is obviously very concerning to those in Kronstadt, as the safety of Brettish aircraft could be compromised by a strike."

Darboe noticed The Chief as he listened intently to the diplomat's concerns. A gentle tropical sea breeze blew through the opened Plantation Shutters, rustling the potted palms on the balcony outside the window.

"The Ministry wonders what measures your government is taking to control this issue, as well as what assistance we can expect from the Tyrisle government in protecting foreign interests. Additionally, the Ministry has authorized me to offer the assistance of the Crown should your government need it."

Again, silence. The Chief looked at Darboe, until the Brettish diplomat stopped speaking, and leaned back in his chair waiting for a response from the President.