2020: Chapter Eight

“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.