“He’s looking at his phone again,” Dirk remarks glumly as he observes the ever distant Logan Greer. The latter, who sits only inches away upon a large, flat-topped green chest, has his distant hazel gaze focused on the slim piece of technology in his left hand. His right hand is braced against the chest; right arm straightened; back stooped forward; and his legs rest on the ground below them. His light brown hair, once long and wavy, is now short and sticks upward.
“A product of military brutalism,” Dirk notes, moving his cool azure
gaze from his silent friend to himself, the latter being dressed in the white
uniform of the United Nations Armed Forces, while the former wears the
camo-green trainee version. Black boots contrast sharply to white cargo pants,
belted also in white, and finally his chest is constrained by a coarse grey
t-shirt covered by limply hanging white jacket covered in pockets. Over each of
Logan’s shoulder sits a singular golden point, embroidered in black.
Conversely, three in close order exist on Dirk’s uniform. “They made a spy a sergeant,” and gives his head a shake, “Unbelievable.” Yet there is something so
clean about his uniform.
Canting his gaze back over at his
friend and subordinate, he finds what he suspected to find. Private Greer, as
he is referred to in public, is going through pictures of his childhood –
pictures of his parents. A time now in the past, for it was stolen from him. “Stolen from him because I was too inept to
see that Greenpeace really is the cover organisation for the terrorists,”
The silent sergeant chastises himself, “I
was distracted by befriending Logan and it cost him his family. His parents are
dead because I was weak.”
Looking up, he observes the
courtyard before him. Whereas they sit off to the side, next to them is a large
barracks, across from it a field hospital, perpendicular to that is another
barracks, and to close off the area, thus limiting traffic to between the
buildings in controlled ‘streets,’ is a mess hall. Trainees move languidly
around them, never terribly concerned with decor.
“It is a strange thing, isn’t it?”
The sergeant comments to himself more than the quiet Logan, “This is not what I
expected military life to be like.” The lack of a command structure, the
languid nature of their training, the long periods of idleness. None of it is
what the military is known for, yet here it exists before them.
Logan doesn’t look up from his
reverie, but he does speak: “Well apparently it is now. The UN must really not
care if we survive or not.” His statement is made with such a cool detachment
from any value he might have for his life, but Sergeant Ritter, as he is
loathed to consider himself, knows that his friend’s indifference to death
stems from his deep desire to die and see his parents again.
Something cold and wet drips onto
Dirk’s face, and he dabs at it: “Rain,”
he realises. It seems both the students and the weather of Vancouver have come
to the Canadian Prairies. In total, two hundred UBC students joined the UN
Armed Forces when Secretary General Matthaeus Kingsley declared war on the
World Confederation. “The angels weep for
the fallen, even if they still walk amongst the living,” the young man from
Lichtenstein muses.
As he watches the grey skies
slowly undulated and roll eastward over his head, he hears heavy footfalls approach
him and stop. Looking back to earth, and quietly noting Logan’s utter
detachment from the situation at hand, he finds a strong woman with dull auburn
hair cut to only an inch in length standing before him. She salutes him crisply
– a foreign and undesirable experience, but it is made bearable by her
admirable professionalism – then speaks in a heavily accented English,
evidently from Eastern Europe: “Sergeant Ritter, sir.”
Dirk nods, “At ease,” the words
seem so silly, as though they’re straight out of a movie or book. “Something I
can do for you, Private Starek?” Only now does Logan look up, his tired eyes,
drooping with dark bags, listing from his friend to his fellow soldier, for the
newcomer also has only one point on her arms: she too is a trainee, a private.
“Yes, sir. You asked me to inform
you when the squadron was collected and ready for your instruction. They are,
sir.” Her professionalism is immaculate, and Dirk feels a small warmth in his
stomach – that perhaps if the others are like her, they may not yet die the
moment they land in Japan.
“Excellent, Lo -... Private Greer
and I will be along shortly. Dismissed.” His quick catch does not escape Logan,
who offers him a rare small smile as Helena Starek moves southward. He slides
himself off the chest upon which they stand and is quickly followed by the
private which he had almost referred to by name. “Sorry, Logan, old habits die
hard.”
Logan strolls ahead, zipping up
his verdant jacket and stuffing his hands into his pockets depositing his phone
into one of them. “It’s alright,” he admits freely, a moment of his former
personality coming through as he looks almost fondly on this other young man
who has been so loyally at his side, “Being called ‘Private’ is weird enough. I
can’t imagine how you can stand your rank.” He pauses in thought, and his
jade-flecked eyes move back to the white clad blond man, “Why did they make you
a sergeant? I never asked.”
“Because they can’t tell the difference between Project L’s upbringing
and military training – since there isn’t one,” Dirk thinks glibly to
himself. “Well you remember how I told you that the orphanage that took me in
taught me all sorts of skills? Well, it was a dangerous time in Europe as the
Eastern European countries were joining the UN and it was seen as prudent to
train the youth of Lichtenstein in military combat.”
“Liar, Sir Gabriel had you trained so you could work for the UN without
them even knowing” he hisses hatefully at himself. “I want to tell him the truth,” Dirk admits to himself, “But after that incident with Elizabeth that
Nathan and saw – and how much time that greasy eco-freak and Logan spend
together at night – I can’t be too careful, lest that psycho-bitch slice my
throat in my sleep.”
“I took to the combat training –
It was enjoyable, gave me something to do.” Logan seems to accept this answer
and nods approvingly, seemingly impressed his superior has had such a colourful
life. “You don’t know the half of it,”
Sergeant Ritter thinks with chagrin.
The two of them move down the
corridor between barracks and into a wide, flat area that overlooks a
noticeable drop off in the land, where they can see nothing but tall
yellow-green grass for as far as the eye can see. The grey sky over it gives it
a morose feel, but Dirk can find nothing more beautiful than the unspoiled
Canadian Prairies. Even in this dull daylight, the prairie grasses twinkle as
they sway slowly in a light, cool breeze. “Pretty, isn’t it?” He comments to
Logan, gesturing to the wide-open vista.
“To think we’re only an hour out
of Regina, huh?” Logan comments, his eyes seemingly less dull as his mind is
further distracted from his unfortunate mindset. However he falls silent as
they move down the path they are on and see a group of green-garbed soldiers
gathered in an old helipad, the orange H dim and hard to make out.
Helena Starek, the husky, strong
woman that had approached the two of them previously, notices the white-clad
Dirk and abruptly shouts: “Sergeant’s approaching! Form lines!” Her accent
makes it clear English is awkward for her, and Dirk admires her for her effort
to bring some professionalism to this motley crew of a training camp.
As he and Logan approach the
group, Logan falls into line, completing the two lines: five in the back and
four in the front, spaced so that those in the front stand in front of the
empty spaces between those in the back. Dirk moves in front of the group, and
says in his calm, collected voice: “At attention.”
Confused looks are traded, but it
is Helena and Logan that salute first, the latter of which has a bemused look
on his face – a welcome change from his normal, gloomy persona. “It seems the more I get him to do, the less
he thinks about his parents,” the superior in their squadron realises, and
makes a mental note of such. The others are quick to follow, though some are
slower.
Sergeant Ritter, as he loathes to
be called, is very aware of who they are, though they do not know who he is.
Upon his excellent marks on the entry exams both physical, mental, and
intellectual, he had been granted a squadron of nine privates to train and
command. “The UN countries don’t have the
officers to spare, so you and your fellow sergeants will be in charge of
training the recruits,” he had been told, and the words feel only too real
now as imperfect salutes and confused visages meet his impassive mask of
emotionless disinterest.
“At ease,” he instructs them, and
many simply drop their arms. However, a tall Brazilian man by the name of
Emmanuel Otero folds his behind his back and spreads his feet shoulder width.
Upon noticing that none others have – not even the diligent Helena – he clears
his throat, and those gathered imitate him.
“As you can see,” he begins in the
same even tone, not once belying his inner feelings, “We have much to work on.”
Wearing this mask of nothingness is something that he, Elizabeth, and all
others from Project L. do well, much to his chagrin, as it becomes almost
impossible to not do so after a time. “Many of you may be disappointed by the
realities of military training thus far.”
“You may be comparing your
experiences here to those you see in movies or documentaries, or those you have
read about. You are correct in your assertions that this is different: this is
because we are a part of the UN’s forces, not a single country.” He looks over
the faces before him, noting their slow relaxation as he paints himself as a
calm voice of reason and logic. “Good,”
he thinks, “Keep thinking I know what I’m
doing. At least you can.”
“It is up to each squadron
commander – more often than not a sergeant like myself – to train their
soldiers. Concurrently, unlike in the militaries of sovereign nations, for the
upcoming deployment in Japan for the removal of terroristic threats, you will
not be joining new squadrons under new commanders. You will remain with me.”
This reality confuses many, and some even go to speak, such as a pale teenager
whom Dirk knows to be only eighteen.
“Well then what the fuck is the
point of even training?! You’re like 25, max! What the hell do you know about
war? The young man demands angrily, stepping forward as he speaks.
“If you have questions, you will
raise your hand and you will ask them in a respectful manner,” Dirk says with a
dangerous peacefulness to his voice. His icy gaze sends a different tone, and
the eighteen year old steps back into line, glowering at his superior
hatefully.
Returning to the topic at hand, he
goes to assuage their concerns once more. “I see this as an opportunity for
you. Because you will be under my command here and there, I have a vested
interest in you not dying and leaving me alone to fend for myself in Japan.
Thus, unlike those privileged rich kids who bought their commands, we will
train hard, and we will not die in
Japan.” All those gathered seem to take
a great deal of comfort from these words, all except Logan, whose expression
has once more grown distant.
“Now, let us begin. Private Greer,
get me that training M4,” he instructs Logan, who moves to a nearby green
chest, similar to the one they had been seated on. The top opens silent and
from the chest’s shallow depths the silent private procures a black assault
rifle with a long magazine clipped into its base, a foregrip jutting out from
the base of the barrel, and a basic scope attached to the top of it. Logan
hands it to his friend, who explains to those gathered before him: “This is not
a functioning weapon, but it’s made of the same materials – so it has the same
weight and balance.”
His cool, azure eyes glint
dangerously as a small smirk curls the corner of his mouth, “Who wants to
disarm me of it?”
Given the profiles he had been
given of his subordinates, Dirk is unsurprised when the same teenager from
before steps forward. “I’ll do it,” he says confidently. “Frederick Eastwick,” the sergeant thinks to himself, “Rich family, but not rich enough to buy him
a commission. He gets into trouble with his teachers at college because he
can’t shut up. He’ll be trouble if I don’t put him in his place now...”
“Very well, use whatever means you
wish,” Sergeant Ritter instructs calmly. He then grasps the trigger’s grip with
his right hand and the far grip with his left, and places the butt of the
weapon against his right shoulder, eyeing Fred Eastwick through the scope.
“Go.”
Almost bewildered by the seeming
simplicity of the task, the cocky youth moves forward, grasping the weapon by
the clip and the barrel, and tries to wrench it out of Dirk’s grip. “You’re
standing in front of the barrel,” he declares loudly, and Private Eastwick
flushes with embarrassment, the blush seeming to tint even his brown hair as he
moves to the side and out of the line of imaginary fire.
As he does, the sergeant makes his
move. Dirk pivots the weapon on an axis between his two hands, sending the
barrel of the weapon slamming into Fred’s jaw. Blood spurts from his mouth as
he stumbles back, but he is not deterred and lunges to the side, trying a
different angle.
This time, Dirk simply lets go of
the foregrip and lets the weapon spin out o the side, pivoting on his grip on
the main grip. He steps into the young man, forcing him backward, stumbling
once more, and delivers a curled back of his fist across Fred’s jaw.
The teenager lets go of the weapon
and flails as he collapses backward, coughing blood out of his mouth. He tries
in vain to wipe away the mess, but it’s clear he’s bit quite a fair bit into
his cheek and tongue. “You’ll be fine, just don’t swallow too much blood,” Dirk
advises him as he offers Private Eastwick a hand. He begrudgingly takes it, his
other covering his mouth.
“Sorry for speaking out of turn,
sir,” he mumbles as he steps back into line.
Dirk looks over his soldiers:
Logan Greer, Emmanuel Otero, Faith Ryan, Jack Irving, Claire Levesque, Helena
Starek, Fed Eastwick, Samuel Freeman and Masod Johip. It will be a long road,
he determines, but it’s better to try and fail, than to not have tried at all. “Alright,
who wants to try next?”
~*~
As Sasha looks over Ivan in his
grey military uniform, the excitement she sees in his eyes is certainly not
mirrored in her heart. “I know I said I’d do anything to get you out of that
horrible house, but are you sure this
is what you want?” She questions as he zips up his jacket and slings a large
rucksack over his shoulders. “This isn’t some joke – it’ll be dangerous, you
could die.”
Ivan for his part scoffs, shaking
off her concerns, “I’ll be fine! You can baby me all you like but when push
comes to shove I can hold my own.” He moves past her, shifting the large pack
on his back as he does so, and she can only see how small he looks with it on.
“Even if they didn’t make me a sniper – you know, something I’ve actually shown
I’m good at – I’ll be fine. I’ll have a squadron with me, after all,” his
confident tones are a thin mask she can see through easily. He’s terrified and
she knows it.
All around them, hurried soldiers
in grey uniforms akin to their own move back and forward with restless abandon
as they ready to leave. Sasha sighs, and looks up at the distant hangar
ceiling. Behind them, the wide doors are open to the tarmac, and across it is
another similar hangar. In front of her, a hulking aircraft looms. Larger than
any commercial aircraft, she finds it to look suspiciously like an Antonov,
though its wings are not as long and its body is just slightly less huge. “Ilyushin
Il-76, what a beast, eh?” Ivan remarks with a whistle, “Hard to think we’ll be
in that for... what, ten hours? Fuck us, eh?”
“Don’t play dumb, you twit,” Sasha
chides him. She pauses as various men and women looking decidedly miserable and
donning various demarcations of sergeant, lieutenant and up. “Looks like we’re
getting on, but where’s Vadim? He’s our platoon commander, after all...”
Casting her gaze around, she finds to her surprise the very same black haired
man she sought looking at her thirty feet away, gesturing for her to come over.
Next to him stood a messy group of young men and women clad in the same drab
colours.
“Oh look, your boyfriend wants us
to come over,” Ivan jeers playfully and moves past his sister, hurrying toward
the platoon.
Sasha follows, though cuffs him
upside the head as she moves swiftly past him and offers Vadim a crisp salute,
noting how tired his already gaunt features look. Messy black hair is pulled
back, revealing his widow’s peak forehead and a few scars thereupon from a
rather unfortunate incident in downtown Moscow.
He’s a tall, typically Russian
looking fellow. Where the stereotype of a brutish Soviet comes to the mind for
many foreigners, she sees a comfortingly normal fellow in Vadim. “A lieutenant
in the World Confederation Army, yet you can’t seem to not look exhausted no
matter what you’re up to,” she smirks at him, and he offers her a serious gaze.
“Well, look who’s talking, Miss
I-always-wear-my-hair-in-a-ponytail-because-I’m-hardcore, I never knew we were
in the presence of a fashion expert!” His angered tones abruptly give way as a
wide grin grows on his face and he embraces her in his arms. “Good to see you,
Sasha, glad you could join us, Sergeant
Alkaev, congratulations on the promotion,” He claps her on the shoulder,
squeezing it lightly before moving his attention to the younger Alkaev.
“And if it isn’t our newest cub,
Private Ivan Alkaev!” Ivan grins widely as he sees the same expression on
Vadim’s face. The latter leans over from his impressive height and places his
hands on the younger Alkaev’s shoulders, “I have a mission for you, private.
Don’t let your sister get injured in Japan. Failure to achieve this mission
will result in a serious case of boot in ass, got it?”
Ivan salutes him crisply as he
lets go of his shoulders, “Yes, sir!”
“Great, now! Off to your platoon,
kid.” Vadim ushers him off.
Taking that as his queue, Vadim
turns around and addresses the twenty-odd people amassed. “Alright you sons of
whores, this platoon is boarding whether or not we’re supposed to! Follow me!”
Those gathered quickly fall into two lines. Sasha looks on as they move past,
only to hear someone call out to her.
“Sasha, you twit, get in front of
your squadron!” Realising that she now is in command of these people, she moves
swiftly to the front of the lines to find none other than Dina, whom she had
called following her and Ivan’s explosive exit from their parents’ house,
giving her an amused stare. “Some sergeant you are,” she chides playfully.
Sasha rolls her eyes, “It’s not my
fault they promoted me and gave me a squadron with literally no notice.” Looking back at those gathered,
she’s grateful most are either zoned out or wearing earbuds – absolutely
against military regulation, but for the time being she has no interest in
stopping them.
Their platoon, headed by
Lieutenant Vadim, moves closer to the huge plane. The large aircraft is painted
with a dark grey underbelly while the top side is painted bright red. On the
side of the plane is a huge silver star, the emblem of the World Confederation.
A steep set of stairs leads into the side of the plane, and their platoon pauses
before it.
A man with the markings of captain
stands before it, and speaks with Vadim. “Platoon?” The officer asks.
“Platoon 37, of the Third Army,
sir.” Vadim’s response is uncharacteristically serious, but Sasha suspects
that, given his position in the military, like any good soldier he’s honed his
soldiering demeanour.
The man nods and wordlessly steps
aside, and they begin to ascend the steps. Boots clank noisily on the metal
steps before they move into the plane. Sasha takes a moment to look back, and
makes a mental note of Ivan and sees to her dismay that he is indeed in line
behind their platoon to get on the plane.
Sasha, having never been on a
plane in her life, has only seen the interior of commercial planes on TV, and
this is nothing like that. The window seats, such as they can be considered
given the lack of consistent windows, are only one row, and they face toward
the centre of the aircraft, perpendicular to the middle rows. The centre rows
seat seven across and stretch all the way up the length of the plane.
Nearly all the seats have been
taken, save about four rows at the back, and as such Vadim moves their platoon
into these rows, while he himself takes one of the window seats facing the
centre rows. Sasha takes a seat on the end of her squadron’s row, still wholly
indifferent to their existence.
As they take their seats, behind them,
the last platoon boards the cavernous aircraft, and Sasha spies in their ranks
her younger brother, Ivan. His dirty blond hair has been cut short and without
a huge bag on his back, he looks distinctly older. “Perhaps he’ll be alright,” she muses thoughtfully, though
indecision still wracks her brain.
Overhead, a loudspeaker crackles
to life with a few pops: “This is Lieutenant Colonel Dimitry Kozlov,” the gruff
voice begins. Looking up the aisle, the newly minted Sergeant Alkaev sees a
broad shouldered man in a crisp grey military uniform befitting a lieutenant
colonel. His grey hair is buzzed short and a large scar is visible on the side
of his head even from near the back of the plane. “We’ll be taking off shortly,
but I am here to inform you that our landing may be a bumpy one. I’ve just
received word from General Markov that the United Nations Third Fleet has arrived
outside of the Bay of Tokyo. We expect bombing runs to begin shortly before we
land, and our aircraft have been scrambled to protect our transports.”
Looking over the likely uneasy
faces before him, Kozlov growls into the loudspeaker: “Look alive, men! This is
what you signed up for! History will show that it was not the UN that began this
conflict, but that we did end it!” With a noisy clack, he hangs up the phone in
which he had been speaking and almost immediately the huge plane begins pulling
backward.
“Dramatic fucker, huh?” Vadim
comments, leaning back into his stiff seat and gesturing to the front of the
plane where the Lieutenant Colonel Kozlov is taking his seat. “I don’t think he’s
ever had to come into a battleground in a transport before. I know I haven’t –
Moscow seems almost tame in comparison,” he chuckles in spite of it all.
Sasha shakes her head, “I think it’s
probably that he feels the World Confederation has abandoned us. How many
Armies are moving on Japan? Four from the WC, and yet only one is Chinese – you
know, the people with good equipment.” Light streams in through the windows on
the sides of the plane as it rumbles noisily over the tarmac and toward the
runway. Loose hanging cables clack against one another above them and the floor
below them vibrates.
The huge aircraft turns and as it
does, Sasha spies out the window next to Vadim’s head the runway. For a moment,
the transport is silent, its dull metallic interior, burnished with so many
odds and ends necessary for war, eerily still. But then there is a roar from
outside, at first quiet, but then grows to be deafening. The throttle has been
pushed forward. “No going back now,” she declares confidently, looking to her
anxious squadron, “We’ll show the Western pigs what it means to invade the
World Confederation.”
Those nearest her seem to take
some comfort in their distant commander’s words, but do not yet speak. This is
the World Confederation Army, where discipline is flawless and privates do not
speak without good reason.
The engines grow ever louder, but
the hulking plane only rolls forward. After a moment, the aircraft body finally
seems to catch up to the engines and all are forced back into their seats. The
engines scream their bass cries of protest at the strain put on them to lift
this behemoth.
The transport rockets down the
tarmac and slowly begins to take off, seemingly reluctant to leave the surly
bonds of the earth, though finally gives way. Sasha relaxes into her seat and
procures from the bag under her seat – the one that, as a sergeant, had been
brought on for her – a grey military-style cap, and places it on her head, with
the bill lower over her face. She closes her eyes, her last thought of the
barren, dirty streets of Moscow and the life she had so willingly left behind.
“Nothing but forward, now,” she tells herself.
Later...
When she awakes she does so with a
panicked startle. The hat is pulled up, her bleary eyes open, and her ears are
suddenly all too aware of the blaring alarms overhead. Most everyone is still
seated, but worried chatter is alive.
She looks to Vadim for an
explanation, but he’s no longer seated, and so she sees through his window the
silver forms of three fighter jets peeling off from the transport’s flight path.
The clank of heavy boots sounds on the metal aisle and from behind Sasha, her
superior reappears. “Get your squadron ready for landing, we’re disembarking as
fast as we can when we land,” he instructs her before moving to the row in
front of her and repeating a similar instruction to Sergeant Dina Utkin.
Sasha returns her attention to her
squadron. “Privates!” She says over the blaring alarms and harried chatter, “Get
your packs in your laps, and be ready to move out on my command.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Are the responses
from the young men and women seated next to her.
The huge plane abruptly banks to
the right, sending unrestrained items skidding to the side, and the roar of the
engines momentarily turns into a scream as the plane struggles to accommodate
the manoeuvre. “Ladies and gentleman,” the familiar voice of Lieutenant Colonel
Kozlov sounds on the loudspeaker once more, “We’re about three minutes out from
Tokyo International. As expected, UN bombers and fighter jets are in the air.
It looks like they’re giving us the birth to land, but we can’t know that for
sure.”
The plane continues its descent,
and as it banks once more, this time more gently and to the left, Sasha looks
out the far windows of the plane and sees a disturbing sight. There lies the
broken city of Tokyo, a mess of buildings never bulldozed from the Second World
War, new projects half finished, and the central area of completed high rises,
surrounded by dilapidated suburbs, much like Moscow.
Though it is not the city that
gives her pause. Instead, floating in a glittering sapphire sea, illuminated by
a bright, sunny sky is a smattering of brilliant white ships. Aircraft carriers
dominate the scene, but are joined by destroyers, battleships, cruisers, and
much more. In total, Sasha sees about thirty ships floating off the shore of
Japan, watching the city of Tokyo intently.
As their large transport comes in
for a land, the scream of something foreign overtop their aircraft causes more
alarms to sound. “Missile over the fuselage!” Someone shouts from the front of
the plane.
Sasha looks left again as they
come in for a landing, and indeed sees a smoldering grey trail through the air.
In the immediate vicinity is only tarmac and runway, but in the distance she
sees the target. “Vadim, the control tower!” She alerts him, pointing out the window.
The missile which had only barely
missed their transport slams into the stocky, concrete structure that is the
control tower, and sends a ripple of destruction upward and downward, ruining
it in a hellish explosion of fire. The missile, having struck the structure in
its narrow tower, keels forward, and the actual disc wherein the operators
controlled the coming and going of aircraft crashes downward.
The transport touches down, and
Sasha knows that for now they are safe, but the true battle has yet to begin.
~*~
The lights are dimmed, everyone’s
attention is on the TV screen before them. Deathly silence permeates the air,
its tension and anxiety hanging heavily on those gathered. Josh looks to his
left, noting the new Minister of Defence Lisa Dredger’s tight grip on her
crossed arms, her pale grey eyes looking cold and calculating behind a pair of
frameless glasses. On his right is his girlfriend, Alisha. The sixteen year old
girl brushes a pale blond strand of hair behind her ear as she watches the live
feed before her, though he can only manage to notice the tension in her form.
He returns his attention to the
monitor before the roughly fifteen people amassed to watch the broadcast.
Drumming his fingers over the ceramic mug in hand, he notices Minister Dredger’s
hand extend toward him, though her eyes have yet to divert from the screen. He
hands the mug to her, and she takes a long drink before handing it back to him.
On the screen, Secretary General
Matthaeus Kingsley speaks quietly with his aides as he preps to go live to the
United Nations in his first address following the declaration of war.
“Did you hear? Lacertus and
Greenpeace are calling for Kingsley and the World Confederation Chancellor,
Delun Zheng, to resign,” someone whispers behind him.
Rustling can be heard, and worried
eyes move to the heavily armed guards, clad in white uniforms embroidered with
golden filigree, and the assault rifles they hold in their hands. Glancing
back, Josh realises something: “I guess
they heard of that rumour that UN guards killed a protestor outside the UNHQ...”
The idea is a worrying one, but seeing the youthful, black-haired, handsome man
on the toilet speaking animatedly with his aides on the TV, it seems like
madness that he would cover it up. “It
must have been someone else that covered it up.”
“Lacertus is ballsy,” the first
person comments, “Gotta give him that.”
Their counterpart scoffs and
shakes their head, “He’s all talk. Wants to do anything to save people and the
Earth, but what’s he done himself? Just walks around cities and lets people
praise him for telling it like it is.”
Minister Dredger abruptly unfolds
her arms and turns around, her heels clacking on the marble floor below them.
Her whip thin form, tightly clad in a knee-length navy blue pencil skirt and a
matching jacket overtop a crisp white shirt. In short, she’s a frightening
woman in the way she dresses, her six foot height, her withering gaze, and her
sharp tongue, which Josh expects will soon come out to lash the chatty people
behind them.
She places her hands on her hips,
and cocks her head to the sad, a hand smoothing out her neatly organised bun of
charcoal-coloured hair. “Gentlemen if you are so intent on rumour mongering you
can do it in the hall,” she says with false calm. The two men who had been
speaking look to each other. “Get the fuck out! NOW!” The minister snaps
furiously, pointing a bony finger in their direction. The two secretaries hurry
out of the room in shame.
A voice sounds from the TV: “And
in five, four, three...” The countdown falls silent and all eyes are back on
the TV screen before them. Kingsley shifts in his chair, sitting up straight,
and folds his hands before him on the heavy oaken desk.
“Good evening, friends. Exactly
four weeks ago I called for a declaration of war on the World Confederation for
their attacks on the innocent people of the many peoples that comprised the
United Nations,” his words are calm, but his demeanour is as it is often:
engaging, empathetic, and wholly interested. Even the frosty Minister Dredger
seems to be listening.
Kingsley’s dark eyes bore into
those watching, and Josh barely takes a second to look at the young woman next
to him: Alisha, his girlfriend, is completely invested in what he’s saying. “Because he believes, it” he determines, “Because he’s a good man.” “We live in an
age of uncertainty, as we delve once more into the horrors of war in the
interests of our people’s safety and our promise to them as the government that
they can live safely under the azure flag of peace; the United Nations flag and
all those who fly with it.”
“Our intelligence has informed us
that many of the attacks on our friends and families were carried out in the
country of Japan, which as you are aware is a member of the World
Confederation. The United Nations Navy has been deployed to the Bay of Tokyo to
stop an escalation of the conflict by the arrival of large numbers of World
Confederation forces.” An video appears over Kingsley’s right shoulder of the
UN Navy floating in majestic blue seas; the white ships solitary and strong,
overlooking the Japanese coast.
The video changes to one of
fighter jets and bombers flying overhead a United Nations relief centre in a
desert. “The United Nations Air Force has also been deployed to neutralise
military and strategic targets in relation to the sources of their attacks on
our friends and family,” he explains confidently, sure that, as Josh can see in
the faces of those around him, the people will trust him.
“The United Nations Armed Forces
will be moving in on foot as soon as our new forces are sufficiently trained –
and this is being done without a single tax hike or cut into social services
supported by the United Nations transnational government,” the addition to his
comment seems almost out of place, but Josh sees why it’s there: he needs to
assure those in the left wing political ideology don’t think him a warmongering
imperialist and the right-wing don’t think he’s wasting money or being soft.
As Kingsley continues to explain
the number of men and women from across the UN that have enlisted for this
campaign and how many will be deployed into Japan, Josh hears exiting
footsteps. Looking back, he sees the stout form of Shari exiting the viewing
room. He shrugs it off, quite sure she has to see to a tour group. “Rest
assured that everything is being done to ensure that this campaign will be
quick and as bloodless as we can manage. We seek only to destroy the sources of
these cowardly attacks, not the World Confederation as a whole.”
“Concurrently, I have asked to meet with His Excellency, the Chancellor
of the World Confederation, Delun Zheng, to discuss the attacks on our people.
It is not the United Nations’ interest to drag the world into war, but we will
defend our friends and family, whatever the cost may be.” As he speaks, Josh
notices the live feed seems to fluctuate momentarily as Kingsley speaks about
his lack of a desire for protracted war.
“Is the feed giving out?” He
questions Alisha, though she only shrugs, unsure, but also not wanting to incur
the wrath of the Minister of Defence by speaking. Kingsley continues to speak,
but once again the broadcast fluctuates to a static screen for a moment.
Evidently aware, Kingsley
addresses this: “We appear to be experiencing some interference,” he explains,
looking to the side and evidently receiving updates. “But we will continue all
the same. The goals following our campaign in Tokyo will be –“ the broadcast cuts
out completely to a static screen.
“What the hell?” Minister Dredger
says, hands still crossed over her chest. Looking to the guards at the doors to
the Secretary General’s office, she signals them with her hand: “You four! Open
the doors! The Secretary General may be in danger!” She pushes past those
gathered toward the four white-clad men bearing assault rifles. “Call in the
others!”
“Yes, ma’am!” They announce in
unison.
Grabbing Alisha’s hand and doing
his best to ignore the sickening apprehension growing in his stomach, Josh
moves to follow Dredger. Two of the four guards step back from the set of oaken
double doors, pointing them at the entry, while the other two grasp the handles
and with a nod to each other, push them in.
Josh is quick to follow as the
soldiers move in, but stops abruptly as the words “Come any closer and Kingsley
dies!” are uttered from a similarly clad soldier holding a handgun to an eerily
calm Kingsley’s head.
Dredger, ahead of Josh and Alisha,
swears under her breath. “What the hell is this? A coup?!” Inside the office is
a number of aides to Kingsley off behind the TV cameras, another soldier
pointing an assault rifle at them. Terrified gazes in that crowd move from
their captor to the newcomers, and an eerie silence settles over those
gathered.
“Secretary General,” a familiar
voice sounds, “Your duplicity is hardly surprising for a politician, but
disappointing all the same.” Next to one of the cameras is TV, whose screen was
formerly the static of the broadcast, but now the figure of a familiar
activist.
Lacertus, visible from the waist
up, stands against a black background, and on either side is the familiar logo
of Greenpeace: a golden sun. His signature mask, covering roughly half his
face, glints dully in the light cast on his mostly hidden face and light blond
hair. Josh cannot help but notice how he and Kingsley looks so entirely
different yet similar.
“Citizens of the United Nations, I
apologise for the interruption to this broadcast. As many of you know, I am
Lacertus, leader of Greenpeace.” His declaration is a confident one – all too
similar to the manner in which Kingsley operates, Josh finds. “Secretary
General Kingsley says he wishes for nothing but a swift end to this war, yet he
has jeopardised the safety of everyone in the UN by waging open war against the
World Confederation over recent terror attacks over the past few years.”
“Millions of innocent men, women,
and children may die in the ensuing conflict. The earth will be despoiled, the
rivers will run red with blood that need not be spilt.” He pauses, his
controlled personal once more erratically giving way to a more dramatic one as
he gestures before him and his voice becomes a driving, righteous one. “Citizens!
Hear me! This man Kingsley lies to you! He will lead you down a path of blood
from which we cannot return!”
“Do not forget Africa!” Lacertus’s
person is momentarily replaced with a video of the devastation few see: a city,
decimated by a nuclear bomb, sits vacant with charred skeletons heaped over one
another in a desperate bid by parents to protect their children from the
ensuing destruction. Others are sprawled over limply, while further out
hideously disfigured, rotting corpses lay. It’s clear the video is from shortly
after the bombing of Zambia’s capital, Lusaka.
“Do not forget the hideous things
the United Nations and World Confederation did to Africans in the pursuit of ‘liberating’
them from savagery!” Lacertus pauses, “I implore all those who oppose Kingsley’s
bloody war of vengeance to join Greenpeace today – join us and help us stop the
madness that has consumed the transnational governments of the World
Confederation and the United –“ the broadcast abruptly cuts out.
“But he’s trying his best!” Josh thinks to himself miserably, “He doesn’t want war, Lacertus! Why can’t you
see that!?”
Silence once more falls over the
room as the same static returns, only to be replaced by the image of Kingsley’s
seated form and a weapon held by a partially obscured UN soldier to the
Secretary General’s head. This rebel looks from the TV camera to his compatriot
in the corner of the room: “Shit! We’re live again! You heard Hades’ orders!”
“Right, waste ‘em!” The other
calls back.
Josh panics. “I can’t let them die!” He screams in his head. His heart pounds so
loudly in his ears he cannot even hear the harsh tones of Dredger or Kingsley’s
oddly calm tones. All he can hear is his heart. “I won’t let those people die,” he determines, looking over the
interns, secretaries, aides and officials huddled in the corner.
Without even giving much thought
to his actions, Josh sprints forward as the first rebel soldier is focused on
his compatriot on the far side of the room. “Josh!” Alisha screams, terrified behind
him, as he jumps up onto Kingsley’s desk and tackles the unsuspecting guard to
the ground.
Seeing the man’s gun skitter off,
Josh screams in rage and terror and begins punching the man in the face, his
knees bracing the rebel soldier’s chest. His knuckles immediately swell up and
blunt, hot pain rockets through his forearms as he attacks the man. So focused
in his adrenaline-induced mania, Josh barely hears Kingsley shout: “NOW! FIRE!”
The ‘thump’ of a limp body sounds
across the room before Josh feels someone grab him by the dress shirt and toss
him away. Sprawled on back, he watches with shock as Matthaeus Kingsley,
Secretary General of the United Nations, stands between Josh and his former captor.
“Enough! You will not threaten my staff!”
“But I thought yo –“ the rebel
soldier’s garbled words, difficult to discern through a broken, bloodied nose,
missing teeth, split lips and black eyes, is cut off as Kingsley opens his grey
pinstriped suit jacket, procures from it a small handgun, and simply shoots the
man in the head. The rebel soldier goes limp, blood and brain matter
splattering the ground under his head.
Josh feels Alisha’s hands on his
face and sees her pale face, tear stricken and anguished, before his own, but
doesn’t hear anything but the furious pounding of his head. “What...?” He
questions dumbly as Kingsley tosses his concealed weapon onto his desk and turns
to face him. The Secretary General’s mouth moves, but Josh hears nothing but
his heart.
His sight begins to dim and
fatigue overcomes him. Within seconds, Josh’s eyes close and he passes out.
