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Going For Broke - Omi - 11-21-2016
The wine bottle had nothing else to offer her, which was - in a word - terrible. To describe Maréchale LeBlanc as a 'heavy drinker' would have been like describing Planet Honshu as 'sort of damp'. Her mood frayed and knitted together again depending on how much alcohol coursed through her bloodstream, and after weeks of a growing problem facing her once again there wasn't enough wine aboard the entire ship to calm her nerves. Not even the cigarettes were helping - the room had practically been fumigated by her latest bout of chain-smoking, but the gnawing fury in her stomach hadn't gone anywhere. It had taken a concentrated effort to avoid smashing her fist into the console after her latest communiqué to LeRoux had bounced back with no reply, and the realisation that Roche and the rest of them had not the faintest clue what had happened or where he had retired to was staggering. Oh, but they hadn't meant to tip her off about it - no, she knew what they were planning.
Lucie's fingers clutched her glass so hard her knuckles turned white, her gaze boring into the wall as if she were trying to laser holes in the sculpted wood. They were trying to undermine her at every turn - oh, they'd been at it for years. From that snake Charbonneau to that incompetent Lebeau - even Evreux might have been at it, if the man had ever bothered to say anything. They were all gone now, gone gone, but there was always someone else trying to trip her up. The only thing reining them in was the Directorate - that was her safety net, yes. Pelletier was still on her side, and she'd ensured every agent under his umbrella knew their words by heart. Honneur et patrie, valeur et discipline - not today. Leave those for the rank and file, for the Directorate had its own little catechism. She'd even had it engraved on her desk as a little comfort of sorts. The sign faced anyone who would have ever had cause to sit in the chair opposite her, the unfamiliar yet familiar little phrase a mimicry of the Royal Navy's real motto.
Vigilance et loyauté, fideleté et obéissance. As far as she was concerned, Pelletier could get her results through whichever methods and channels he desired - he didn't have to be particularly honourable, valorous, or disciplined about it, and nor did he need to do it for anyone but her. The rest of them could hang. When she had restructured the Directorate during the end of her first tenure as Grande Maréchale, one of her primary concerns - and that of her immediate subordinates, naturally - had been ensuring that their newly unleashed and christened bureau was kept well to heel. Naval intelligence could not afford to be the first point of failure for any of them, after all. It had been easy enough to convince them both to agree that keeping the Directorate on a short leash was a great idea; the only hard part was not letting them realise who was holding the other end. Fortunately, they had both dropped off the radar again - Charbonneau pulling another characteristic disappearing act, and Lebeau retiring to whatever cursed world spawned him on health concerns. Hopefully this time the fat oaf would finally kick the bucket, wheezing his way into an ignominious grave. They were both ghosts of the past now - and once she had Pelletier and his newfound powers all firmly under her thumb, it hadn't even been that hard to dupe both Dupont and LeRoux into believing she was administering it on their respective behalves.
The problem, though, was that nobody seemed content to let her work in peace. They would lose this war without her - how could they not see that? They were as blind as they were stupid, all of them - scrabbling at her station from below, each one of them wielding a different dagger to plunge into her back. None of them cared for Gallia like she did - none of them could see beyond their own desires for power!
She was standing now, although it took her a moment to realise it. Her anger had almost gotten the better of her again, and it was with some amount of surprise that Lucie realised she was breathing heavily. Again, she took a look at the console emblazoned on her tabletop, her gaze flicking between the flight plans she'd been in the midst of plotting out and the ever-increasing list of urgent messages flooding in. Something twitched at the corner of her lips - the beginnings of a wry smile - but it died away as soon as it appeared. The Maréchale was never one to believe in such things, but if she had she might have called it fate. Even the successors she nominated herself soon shuffled out of sight, whether it be by death or yet more unexplained 'disappearances'. It seemed she wouldn't find another Ansel Xavier to scheme under for quite a while.
More to the point, it seemed there was more action to be taken. Again.
Pressing a button with one slim finger, Lucie opened the intercom to her aide. "Bertrand."
"Oui, madame Maréchale?" The young Capitaine sounded almost bored, which irritated her. He had probably been expecting another order for cigarettes or wine - or both - and she just knew she could hear it in his voice. Maybe he'd even bitten back a sarcastic remark about it - that wouldn't have surprised her either. Little shit. How dare he. Perhaps she should replace him.
"Get the bridge prepared for my arrival. I'm coming up immediately."
"Right away, madame Maréchale? When shall I tell them exactly to expect your arrival?" That only made things worse. Yes, she definitely should. How many sarcastic little quips would he be able to think up when he was back with the rank and file? She'd never trusted him anyway - greasy hair, suspicious eyes. Someone else would do.
"I said immediately, Bertrand! What do you think that means?" she spat, flecking the tabletop with spittle. Maybe she was too drunk for this already. "Tell them I am coming right this instant, and that they have as long as it takes me to walk up there to prepare for new orders. Is that clear, or should I repeat myself?" Her tone suggested that there might be no repetition at all, merely an execution by firing squad. "And get me Pelletier - private channel, he knows the one. Now!"
"At once, Maréchale LeBlanc." Lucie never even heard the confirmation - she had already spun on her heel, swiping her dress coat from where it hung over her chair as she strode through the haze of cigarette smoke towards the door.
Lucie's fingers clutched her glass so hard her knuckles turned white, her gaze boring into the wall as if she were trying to laser holes in the sculpted wood. They were trying to undermine her at every turn - oh, they'd been at it for years. From that snake Charbonneau to that incompetent Lebeau - even Evreux might have been at it, if the man had ever bothered to say anything. They were all gone now, gone gone, but there was always someone else trying to trip her up. The only thing reining them in was the Directorate - that was her safety net, yes. Pelletier was still on her side, and she'd ensured every agent under his umbrella knew their words by heart. Honneur et patrie, valeur et discipline - not today. Leave those for the rank and file, for the Directorate had its own little catechism. She'd even had it engraved on her desk as a little comfort of sorts. The sign faced anyone who would have ever had cause to sit in the chair opposite her, the unfamiliar yet familiar little phrase a mimicry of the Royal Navy's real motto.
Vigilance et loyauté, fideleté et obéissance. As far as she was concerned, Pelletier could get her results through whichever methods and channels he desired - he didn't have to be particularly honourable, valorous, or disciplined about it, and nor did he need to do it for anyone but her. The rest of them could hang. When she had restructured the Directorate during the end of her first tenure as Grande Maréchale, one of her primary concerns - and that of her immediate subordinates, naturally - had been ensuring that their newly unleashed and christened bureau was kept well to heel. Naval intelligence could not afford to be the first point of failure for any of them, after all. It had been easy enough to convince them both to agree that keeping the Directorate on a short leash was a great idea; the only hard part was not letting them realise who was holding the other end. Fortunately, they had both dropped off the radar again - Charbonneau pulling another characteristic disappearing act, and Lebeau retiring to whatever cursed world spawned him on health concerns. Hopefully this time the fat oaf would finally kick the bucket, wheezing his way into an ignominious grave. They were both ghosts of the past now - and once she had Pelletier and his newfound powers all firmly under her thumb, it hadn't even been that hard to dupe both Dupont and LeRoux into believing she was administering it on their respective behalves.
The problem, though, was that nobody seemed content to let her work in peace. They would lose this war without her - how could they not see that? They were as blind as they were stupid, all of them - scrabbling at her station from below, each one of them wielding a different dagger to plunge into her back. None of them cared for Gallia like she did - none of them could see beyond their own desires for power!
She was standing now, although it took her a moment to realise it. Her anger had almost gotten the better of her again, and it was with some amount of surprise that Lucie realised she was breathing heavily. Again, she took a look at the console emblazoned on her tabletop, her gaze flicking between the flight plans she'd been in the midst of plotting out and the ever-increasing list of urgent messages flooding in. Something twitched at the corner of her lips - the beginnings of a wry smile - but it died away as soon as it appeared. The Maréchale was never one to believe in such things, but if she had she might have called it fate. Even the successors she nominated herself soon shuffled out of sight, whether it be by death or yet more unexplained 'disappearances'. It seemed she wouldn't find another Ansel Xavier to scheme under for quite a while.
More to the point, it seemed there was more action to be taken. Again.
Pressing a button with one slim finger, Lucie opened the intercom to her aide. "Bertrand."
"Oui, madame Maréchale?" The young Capitaine sounded almost bored, which irritated her. He had probably been expecting another order for cigarettes or wine - or both - and she just knew she could hear it in his voice. Maybe he'd even bitten back a sarcastic remark about it - that wouldn't have surprised her either. Little shit. How dare he. Perhaps she should replace him.
"Get the bridge prepared for my arrival. I'm coming up immediately."
"Right away, madame Maréchale? When shall I tell them exactly to expect your arrival?" That only made things worse. Yes, she definitely should. How many sarcastic little quips would he be able to think up when he was back with the rank and file? She'd never trusted him anyway - greasy hair, suspicious eyes. Someone else would do.
"I said immediately, Bertrand! What do you think that means?" she spat, flecking the tabletop with spittle. Maybe she was too drunk for this already. "Tell them I am coming right this instant, and that they have as long as it takes me to walk up there to prepare for new orders. Is that clear, or should I repeat myself?" Her tone suggested that there might be no repetition at all, merely an execution by firing squad. "And get me Pelletier - private channel, he knows the one. Now!"
"At once, Maréchale LeBlanc." Lucie never even heard the confirmation - she had already spun on her heel, swiping her dress coat from where it hung over her chair as she strode through the haze of cigarette smoke towards the door.
RE: Going For Broke - Omi - 02-11-2017
LeBlanc's mood was grim. The others had already been summoned to convene with her aboard the Chant, although her message hadn't specified why. They might have been able to guess halfway, at least - even the lower ranks had noticed the changes in patrol schedules. The Royal Navy rarely sent more than a few reconnaissance flights a week up past Tau-37 and out into Omicron-80, and almost never through the Lorraine passage itself. Now, however, more and more wings were finding themselves assigned to the region, and even the Directorate's forces had been directly deployed in the region. The rumours had been spreading for days now, but so far the exact specifics had been disclosed to no-one. Obviously, it had something to do with the Outcasts, but beyond that the rest was speculation. Were the High Command expecting an offensive, or planning one of their own? Bets were already being taken and made, despite efforts to discourage the practice.
The glass of wine she held was one of her best. One of Blouis' finest vintages, well over a century old. Those who were closest to the Grande Maréchale would have recognised this as a serious warning sign - Lucie was not partial to breaking out the dearest parts of her collection without good cause. She hadn't even lit up a cigar yet, but the cravings were already there. The stress of leadership, perilously heavy even at the best of times, had gone exponential in the past few days. God, this was a disaster. How the hell had this happened?
Her call with New Paris two days ago had been brief but chilling. The King himself had not spoken to her - a small relief, at least - but the spokesperson had made her position quite clear. Failure was not an option. The DeFrance dynasty had lost enough to this war already - if they lost one more, then the consequences for her were all too clear. The specifics of what had happened were unclear, as the Calliope's black box recorder had been stolen with the rest of the ship, but the 'debriefing' of the recovered pilots and the last transmissions received painted a chilling picture. The crown princess, the heir apparent had fallen into Maltese hands.
In the wake of the Tau-44 fiasco, this was the last thing she needed. It was entirely unclear whether the Outcasts even knew who they'd captured, given the light size of their assault team. It had looked more like a raiding party than a serious boarding attempt. The chance was slim, and getting slimmer every day, but while it might still exist it ruled out all attempts at negotiations. The idea was almost unthinkable anyway - the Crown could not seriously bring itself to consider the slave state as an equal, let alone to organise some kind of ransom to be paid. No, this would have to be done the old way - that, at least, LeBlanc and the King had both agreed on.
She checked the time again, the tension in her frame clearly visible. The Grande Maréchale was not an imposing figure in any conventional sense, but it was her dress and poise that spoke to most people. Her uniform was as immaculate as ever, and her blue eyes were like twin shards of glacier ice. When she was in her element, she had a commanding presence that almost hushed rooms by itself, and her piercing gaze seemed to bore straight through tactical situations and quivering young Capitaines alike. Her characteristic frown was there today, as it was most days - but there were more lines in her face than ever. In the past few months, she had been feeling older than ever. Commanding such a vast military force was a herculean effort, and every day she could feel it eat away another piece of her. For every sector and system she led forces to victory in, another would suffer from the ineptitude of her subordinates. Despite her best efforts, the Royal Navy's chain of command was as rotten through with nepotism and blustering nobles as ever. She had been acutely aware of this fact when planning this latest, hurried operation, each sleepless night she took more critical than the next as she covered map after map in lines.
The Chant du Cygne's conference room rarely saw any use these days, but the ornate chambers were always kept ready. Only one other person was really needed, though she had sent out the summons to three. If Lebeau's gross carcass never stumbled through the doors, however, it was no great loss - the scouting reports from his men had come through anyway, and their findings corroborated perfectly with those she'd had Pelletier and his Directorate goons dig out. It was Général Marie who she most needed to speak to, and Commandant Avignon would have been useful to have around. Marie herself would be integral in the planning and execution phases, and Avignon's battlegroup under the Valenciennes had been an impressive part of her recent campaigns. The rotten wood had already been carved out of her plans - an operation like this required only the best. The assault had to come soon, before their intelligence began to age. The window of opportunity was wide open - all they had to do was advance. She had already taken steps to reinforce the Tau garrison, with the Chant itself leading the reinforcements now attached to Battlegroup Guillestre. There was little time to delay, after all, with every hour more crucial than the last.
LeBlanc refilled her glass once more, trying not to let her agitation show, even though she was alone. Where in God's name were they?
The glass of wine she held was one of her best. One of Blouis' finest vintages, well over a century old. Those who were closest to the Grande Maréchale would have recognised this as a serious warning sign - Lucie was not partial to breaking out the dearest parts of her collection without good cause. She hadn't even lit up a cigar yet, but the cravings were already there. The stress of leadership, perilously heavy even at the best of times, had gone exponential in the past few days. God, this was a disaster. How the hell had this happened?
Her call with New Paris two days ago had been brief but chilling. The King himself had not spoken to her - a small relief, at least - but the spokesperson had made her position quite clear. Failure was not an option. The DeFrance dynasty had lost enough to this war already - if they lost one more, then the consequences for her were all too clear. The specifics of what had happened were unclear, as the Calliope's black box recorder had been stolen with the rest of the ship, but the 'debriefing' of the recovered pilots and the last transmissions received painted a chilling picture. The crown princess, the heir apparent had fallen into Maltese hands.
In the wake of the Tau-44 fiasco, this was the last thing she needed. It was entirely unclear whether the Outcasts even knew who they'd captured, given the light size of their assault team. It had looked more like a raiding party than a serious boarding attempt. The chance was slim, and getting slimmer every day, but while it might still exist it ruled out all attempts at negotiations. The idea was almost unthinkable anyway - the Crown could not seriously bring itself to consider the slave state as an equal, let alone to organise some kind of ransom to be paid. No, this would have to be done the old way - that, at least, LeBlanc and the King had both agreed on.
She checked the time again, the tension in her frame clearly visible. The Grande Maréchale was not an imposing figure in any conventional sense, but it was her dress and poise that spoke to most people. Her uniform was as immaculate as ever, and her blue eyes were like twin shards of glacier ice. When she was in her element, she had a commanding presence that almost hushed rooms by itself, and her piercing gaze seemed to bore straight through tactical situations and quivering young Capitaines alike. Her characteristic frown was there today, as it was most days - but there were more lines in her face than ever. In the past few months, she had been feeling older than ever. Commanding such a vast military force was a herculean effort, and every day she could feel it eat away another piece of her. For every sector and system she led forces to victory in, another would suffer from the ineptitude of her subordinates. Despite her best efforts, the Royal Navy's chain of command was as rotten through with nepotism and blustering nobles as ever. She had been acutely aware of this fact when planning this latest, hurried operation, each sleepless night she took more critical than the next as she covered map after map in lines.
The Chant du Cygne's conference room rarely saw any use these days, but the ornate chambers were always kept ready. Only one other person was really needed, though she had sent out the summons to three. If Lebeau's gross carcass never stumbled through the doors, however, it was no great loss - the scouting reports from his men had come through anyway, and their findings corroborated perfectly with those she'd had Pelletier and his Directorate goons dig out. It was Général Marie who she most needed to speak to, and Commandant Avignon would have been useful to have around. Marie herself would be integral in the planning and execution phases, and Avignon's battlegroup under the Valenciennes had been an impressive part of her recent campaigns. The rotten wood had already been carved out of her plans - an operation like this required only the best. The assault had to come soon, before their intelligence began to age. The window of opportunity was wide open - all they had to do was advance. She had already taken steps to reinforce the Tau garrison, with the Chant itself leading the reinforcements now attached to Battlegroup Guillestre. There was little time to delay, after all, with every hour more crucial than the last.
LeBlanc refilled her glass once more, trying not to let her agitation show, even though she was alone. Where in God's name were they?
RE: Going For Broke - Wesker - 02-11-2017
Marie sat down in the shuttle leaning against the wall. High command "meetings" usually ended with someone getting a demotion, promotion, or someone being scolded. For Marie, it was usually promotions, which were boring and took a while. Leaving the Royal Vauquelin in the hands of her second in command while she made the boring trip to the taus didn't make her feel any more comfortable. She spent less time worrying about what would happen at the meeting and more time thinking of what could possibly happen on the Magellan front while it was led by some indecisive boy who climbed through the ranks from his father's money. Whatever, there was nothing she could do, the Royal Navy wouldn't discharge her, they had NO ONE else to go to if they did.
Then came the thought of LeBlanc discovering her fruitless actions to find Ambre LaChance, there was no way she would've known, Bernard didn't have the spine to rat out Marie's actions to LeBlanc. Never mind facing her afterwards, Marie would've killed him. Marie starred at one of the gaurds, he was asleep, likely been on this shuttle for much longer than she, escorting other officers. After staring at what looked -his lifless body- she turned and looked up out the pilot's window.
System jump successful, we're closing in on the Chant now, transmitting clearance codes. The pilot's voice over the intercom was as alerting as a mortar explosion.
The gaurd squadron snapped awake immediately. They drew out their arms standing around Marie like statues. Marie looked at each of them, she drew out her gun and starred at it. One of the gaurds looked back at her. Something wrong Mademoiselle?
Non, just bored. She holstered her gun, stood up and stretched, time for what was likely another boring meeting.
The shuttle boarded and 2 of the guards moved up in front of her, 2 moved behind her. One of the officers onboard the Chant was waiting for her in the hangar.
Général, Marechal LeBlanc has been expecting you, you're behind schedule.
Non, your transportation methods are behind schedule. The Officer looked at her for a moment, he ran out of words.
Well don't keep me waiting here, show me to the meeting room, this isn't my ship.
The group made their way towards the meeting room, the Officer had no idea why Marie was called to meet up with LeBlanc at this time nor was it made out to all of the High Command members, making Marie a bit more weary. The group arrived outside the meeting room. Wait here. Marie told the gaurds as she entered the room, she looked around but only really focused on the desk. Some papers, a wine bottle, a half filled glass of wine, a radio, and a blond woman sitting behind the desk.
Marechal. Marie spoke up, she didn't get a reply, she looked over at the wine bottle. You have good taste. Still no answer, fine, it was time to cut to the chase. So?
RE: Going For Broke - Jayce - 02-11-2017
As if on cue, Commandant Avignon trotted into the room, cutting LeBlanc's reply to Marie short. Behind the shorter woman stood her personal aide, Marine Lieutenant Levi Epave. His arms were occupied by an assortment of boxes, rolled papers, and a trio of rods, each with an L-shaped crook at one end.
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," Avignon spoke, twirling her swagger stick about, "I understand someone with a sense of tactics and a level of intelligence fitting for an officer of His Majesty's Royal Navy is required. I am here."
"On the table, Commandant?" Questioned Levi, struggling to prevent the stack of boxes from toppling, simultaneously holding his rifle in a vague ready position.
"Where else would it go, Epave? The floor?" The raven-haired Commandant of the Valenciennes quipped, taking her seat opposite the other attendees. "Go on then, we haven't got all day."
The young Royal Marine set about his work, quickly laying out what appeared to be a detailed map of the Taus and Bretonia, before securing the corners with a generous application of sticky tape. His next task was unboxing a near-endless number of small, well-painted models of Gallic craft, varying from the minuscule Caracal to the largest Valor. Each was mounted on a plastic base with a square cross-section.
"I've taken the liberty of bringing along a few planning aids." Avignon gestured to the tiny models, sliding a crooked stick to Marie and LeBlanc, their purpose obvious."I'm sure everyone is appreciative, no need for thanks." The young woman slid one of the Valor models towards herself, "VALENCIENNES" scrawled hastily on the base in white paint. "Shall we get to work?"
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," Avignon spoke, twirling her swagger stick about, "I understand someone with a sense of tactics and a level of intelligence fitting for an officer of His Majesty's Royal Navy is required. I am here."
"On the table, Commandant?" Questioned Levi, struggling to prevent the stack of boxes from toppling, simultaneously holding his rifle in a vague ready position.
"Where else would it go, Epave? The floor?" The raven-haired Commandant of the Valenciennes quipped, taking her seat opposite the other attendees. "Go on then, we haven't got all day."
The young Royal Marine set about his work, quickly laying out what appeared to be a detailed map of the Taus and Bretonia, before securing the corners with a generous application of sticky tape. His next task was unboxing a near-endless number of small, well-painted models of Gallic craft, varying from the minuscule Caracal to the largest Valor. Each was mounted on a plastic base with a square cross-section.
"I've taken the liberty of bringing along a few planning aids." Avignon gestured to the tiny models, sliding a crooked stick to Marie and LeBlanc, their purpose obvious."I'm sure everyone is appreciative, no need for thanks." The young woman slid one of the Valor models towards herself, "VALENCIENNES" scrawled hastily on the base in white paint. "Shall we get to work?"
RE: Going For Broke - Omi - 02-13-2017
LeBlanc thought about sighing, but stopped halfway and just got angry instead.
"Don't so me, Général,", she snapped, rising to her feet at once. "This is a military briefing, not a coffee break. The situation here is serious." Her expression shifted a few times as the Commandant's theatrics played out, but when the time came to dress her down LeBlanc decided not to bother. The holographic display hadn't seen use since Xavier's day, and she hadn't been very good at working it even then. Fleurette might have been a loose cannon and an eccentric, but as far as LeBlanc was concerned the woman could have cartwheeled into the room humming the Bretonian anthem as long as the Valenciennes kept cracking Dunkirks and Zephyrs open.
"Thank you, Commandant. Lieutenant, you are dismissed." Lieutenant Epave almost looked towards the Commandant for confirmation, but the expression on Lucie's face made him think twice. He gave a theatrical bow before backing out of the room quickly, seemingly very glad to be free of all his boxes and papers.
"Hardly a problem, madame Maréchale," came Avignon's reply. The woman slid something else across the table with her stick, offering it to LeBlanc with a certain pride. Upon closer inspection, the object was a double-sized Valor figurine. The letters 'CDC' had been inscribed on the base. LeBlanc picked it up before continuing, sweeping away from the table to begin her initial speech.
"Now," she began, the brief levity of before draining away in an instant. "I will get straight to the point. Two days ago, at approximately 1930 NPT, a Maltese raiding party intercepted and hijacked a Royal Naval transport in the eastern half of Lorraine. The ship's last known location was here-" she rapped the offending area with her stick, marking out a broad region in the south-east corner Omicron-80. There was nothing marked by name on the map other than the Lorraine border minefield, but LeBlanc was pleased to see that Lebeau's intelligence had made its way onto Fleurette's printouts. "Our esteemed friend Général Lebeau has been fielding reconnaissance teams in this area all throughout the past thirty-six hours, and we have identified a number of key Maltese installations in this border system. Furthermore, we have enough signal buoy data from the Lorraine minefield cordon to confirm that the hijacked ship went off-grid due to a gravitational anomaly, not by weapons fire or having its transponder cut off." She tapped insistently at the indicated area again, making eye contact with each of the two to check that they were following. "That means, Général, Commandant, that there is a jump hole somewhere in that vicinity. An entrance point deeper into Maltese space, and the next breadcrumb on the trail towards finding our lost VIP."
LeBlanc let the last sentence hang for a while, allowing the other pair to digest the implications of what she had just said. No doubt there would be questions, but there was one final piece of the puzzle to slam them with.
"The VIP in question is Charlotte DeFrance, the crown princess, and the King is most anxious to have her back where she belongs. Her sister too, if I am not mistaken, although it will be on the King's authority that failure here will see us dead. As we speak, she has already been out of contact for over forty-eight hours, so time is of the essence. Preliminary plans have already been drawn up for our advance-" LeBlanc gestured towards her desk, which was positively festooned with paper "-but it is essential that our attack is carried out seamlessly. The Maltese Navy - what passes for it, anyway - may be yet unprepared for us, as it is possible they have not identified the princess for who she is or what value she holds yet. We have the element of surprise, but not for long, and with our other fronts to worry about it is imperative that our initial assault is also our last. The Chant du Cygne,, Royal Vauquelin, and Valenciennes will lead our battlegroup into Omicron space, along with the capital and snubcraft of the Second and Third fleets-" the Grande Maréchale swept each miniature Valor into place as she spoke, positioning them in the upper reaches of Tau-37 "-and proceed to establish a forward operating base. Solars within the system include a pair of Maltese outposts and one of their shipyards, and I will be directing elements of the Third Fleet to cordon off and contain these strategic objectives as our advance continues. Once a beachhead has been established, our column will push forwards as one towards the point of entry to Maltese space, whereupon teams of strike craft will reconnoitre the destination system and advise how best we should proceed."
Finishing her spiel, LeBlanc completed the effect by deftly manoeuvering the rest of the pieces into place, assembling one potential scenario on the table between the three women. The Commandant's set of figurines had no Maltese vessels, but the Bretonian set was a fine substitute. The overall effect was quite dated, but ultimately still good at conveying the desired outcome - a spearhead of Royal Naval forces was frozen mid-advance in the Omicron system, scattered elements of the Maltese defense fleet arrayed around the outer edge.
"Before I ask for input, I will point out that Général Lebeau has, as of yet, been unable to reconnoitre anything beyond Omicron-80. Whatever lies beyond that jump anomaly is very well guarded indeed, and that is the reason why we will be advancing towards territory yet unknown. That is why I need the best and brightest the Kingdom has to offer, as this is not the kind of tactical puzzle you have been taught to solve at the academy. We have no time to waste here, no alternative avenue through which to pursue our goal. We will pour ships and men through that jump hole until the other side is ours, and we will do so again and again until the eponymous Malta is broken. They are little more than rock-rats and bandits, with an entire navy barely a tenth the size of our Home Fleet alone. Employing such a large force of Valors will slow us down - it will likely take us hours to transit the Omicron-80 system alone, to say nothing of the rest - but it is the safest and most reliable way to break their backs with our first thrust. Once their fleets are shattered and we have them trapped, then the exact details of our retrieval operation can be worked out before we char their poisoned world to ash."
"Don't so me, Général,", she snapped, rising to her feet at once. "This is a military briefing, not a coffee break. The situation here is serious." Her expression shifted a few times as the Commandant's theatrics played out, but when the time came to dress her down LeBlanc decided not to bother. The holographic display hadn't seen use since Xavier's day, and she hadn't been very good at working it even then. Fleurette might have been a loose cannon and an eccentric, but as far as LeBlanc was concerned the woman could have cartwheeled into the room humming the Bretonian anthem as long as the Valenciennes kept cracking Dunkirks and Zephyrs open.
"Thank you, Commandant. Lieutenant, you are dismissed." Lieutenant Epave almost looked towards the Commandant for confirmation, but the expression on Lucie's face made him think twice. He gave a theatrical bow before backing out of the room quickly, seemingly very glad to be free of all his boxes and papers.
"Hardly a problem, madame Maréchale," came Avignon's reply. The woman slid something else across the table with her stick, offering it to LeBlanc with a certain pride. Upon closer inspection, the object was a double-sized Valor figurine. The letters 'CDC' had been inscribed on the base. LeBlanc picked it up before continuing, sweeping away from the table to begin her initial speech.
"Now," she began, the brief levity of before draining away in an instant. "I will get straight to the point. Two days ago, at approximately 1930 NPT, a Maltese raiding party intercepted and hijacked a Royal Naval transport in the eastern half of Lorraine. The ship's last known location was here-" she rapped the offending area with her stick, marking out a broad region in the south-east corner Omicron-80. There was nothing marked by name on the map other than the Lorraine border minefield, but LeBlanc was pleased to see that Lebeau's intelligence had made its way onto Fleurette's printouts. "Our esteemed friend Général Lebeau has been fielding reconnaissance teams in this area all throughout the past thirty-six hours, and we have identified a number of key Maltese installations in this border system. Furthermore, we have enough signal buoy data from the Lorraine minefield cordon to confirm that the hijacked ship went off-grid due to a gravitational anomaly, not by weapons fire or having its transponder cut off." She tapped insistently at the indicated area again, making eye contact with each of the two to check that they were following. "That means, Général, Commandant, that there is a jump hole somewhere in that vicinity. An entrance point deeper into Maltese space, and the next breadcrumb on the trail towards finding our lost VIP."
LeBlanc let the last sentence hang for a while, allowing the other pair to digest the implications of what she had just said. No doubt there would be questions, but there was one final piece of the puzzle to slam them with.
"The VIP in question is Charlotte DeFrance, the crown princess, and the King is most anxious to have her back where she belongs. Her sister too, if I am not mistaken, although it will be on the King's authority that failure here will see us dead. As we speak, she has already been out of contact for over forty-eight hours, so time is of the essence. Preliminary plans have already been drawn up for our advance-" LeBlanc gestured towards her desk, which was positively festooned with paper "-but it is essential that our attack is carried out seamlessly. The Maltese Navy - what passes for it, anyway - may be yet unprepared for us, as it is possible they have not identified the princess for who she is or what value she holds yet. We have the element of surprise, but not for long, and with our other fronts to worry about it is imperative that our initial assault is also our last. The Chant du Cygne,, Royal Vauquelin, and Valenciennes will lead our battlegroup into Omicron space, along with the capital and snubcraft of the Second and Third fleets-" the Grande Maréchale swept each miniature Valor into place as she spoke, positioning them in the upper reaches of Tau-37 "-and proceed to establish a forward operating base. Solars within the system include a pair of Maltese outposts and one of their shipyards, and I will be directing elements of the Third Fleet to cordon off and contain these strategic objectives as our advance continues. Once a beachhead has been established, our column will push forwards as one towards the point of entry to Maltese space, whereupon teams of strike craft will reconnoitre the destination system and advise how best we should proceed."
Finishing her spiel, LeBlanc completed the effect by deftly manoeuvering the rest of the pieces into place, assembling one potential scenario on the table between the three women. The Commandant's set of figurines had no Maltese vessels, but the Bretonian set was a fine substitute. The overall effect was quite dated, but ultimately still good at conveying the desired outcome - a spearhead of Royal Naval forces was frozen mid-advance in the Omicron system, scattered elements of the Maltese defense fleet arrayed around the outer edge.
"Before I ask for input, I will point out that Général Lebeau has, as of yet, been unable to reconnoitre anything beyond Omicron-80. Whatever lies beyond that jump anomaly is very well guarded indeed, and that is the reason why we will be advancing towards territory yet unknown. That is why I need the best and brightest the Kingdom has to offer, as this is not the kind of tactical puzzle you have been taught to solve at the academy. We have no time to waste here, no alternative avenue through which to pursue our goal. We will pour ships and men through that jump hole until the other side is ours, and we will do so again and again until the eponymous Malta is broken. They are little more than rock-rats and bandits, with an entire navy barely a tenth the size of our Home Fleet alone. Employing such a large force of Valors will slow us down - it will likely take us hours to transit the Omicron-80 system alone, to say nothing of the rest - but it is the safest and most reliable way to break their backs with our first thrust. Once their fleets are shattered and we have them trapped, then the exact details of our retrieval operation can be worked out before we char their poisoned world to ash."
RE: Going For Broke - Wesker - 02-13-2017
Marie held back the urge to chuckle at LeBlanc's little outburst, "oh a military briefing" she thought to herself as she held together a straight face. Then the reality of the situation sunk in, catching her attention at the mention of Charlotte DeFrance. Marie pressed her palms and hips against the table slightly as she leaned forward, studying the hologram while she listened to LeBlanc. As she listened to the briefing she immediately got a negative impression. Sure, the daughter of the King was something to anxious over at minimum, but captured by a Maltese Raiding party? In open space in Lorraine just a few Kilometers from a Royal Navy installation? That didn't make sense in the slightest. How did they get past Luneville undetected? How did they get BACK undetected? The Council and the Corse were no friends of the Maltese, which further made any chance of it being a "typical raiding party" unlikely, given they had a slight grip on the system. That, or the Royal Navy's ability to protect their most precious individuals had diminished, greatly. Marie once again resisted the urge to chuckle at the mention of Lebeau, who hadn't been seen on the front doing anything important for almost a year. Now that a career changing moment has presented itself, he's decided to step in? What a joke. Either way, the situation was a challenge, but nothing she and Avignon couldn't accomplish. Marie looked at Avignon, who's chatter had ceased even after LeBlanc finished her briefing. LeBlanc was looking at her as was Avignon, fine, it was time to speak up.
They're likely expecting us. There's no way this was just some ordinary raiding party, how did the Maltese get past Luneville? She pointed to the minefield in Lorraine, then dragged her hand up to the left as she continued to speak. All the way to to the lanes connecting Lyonnais and Metz. That's where she must've been taken, unless the King or the Royal Navy has some reason for the princess of Gallia to be in the southeastern half of the system, littered with council and brigand patrols. Her facial expression turned a bit surprised as she looked at LeBlanc while continuing to speak. Both of which mind you, are no friends of the Maltese, unless they started sleeping together recently. There's no way a casual Maltese raiding party would just happen to sneak past Luneville, capture a transport, and bring it BACK without being detected by Luneville. Which just happened to be the Princess's vessel. Maltese raiding parties have always been stopped by Luneville's guards. How they were eluded twice and how Princess's guard squadron was defeated by a bunch of rock-rats and bandits is beyond me.
She paused for a second, both LeBlanc and Avignon kept their eyes on her.
Marechal, I'm not in the position to give you orders, but I would strongly advise you begin interrogating everyone with knowledge of the Princess's whereabouts and destination that day. It might be a long list, but if someone did indeed tip off the Maltese, which at this point seems likely, they might prove essential in locating her beyond Omicron-80, which we don't have mapped unless the ONI is keeping secrets from us.
She paused again briefly before speaking up again.
That being said, the Maltese will almost certainly be expecting us. Even if the Royal Navy truly lacked the means to defend the Princess from a bunch of rock-rats and bandits, as you said they've held her hostage for 48 hours. If they haven't yet, they will soon realize her value to the Crown. We need more resources, we can obviously accomplish this with the resources you mentioned, but as you said it would take hours for Valors to traverse the Omicron 80 system as well as assemble them in tau-37. A larger force of Obstinates should punch through to Omicron-80 first, followed by the Valors. While the 3rd fleet bottlenecks the installations, the Obstinates of the first and secondary fleet should push forward towards the VIP's last known location followed by the Valors. She grabbed some of the painted obstinates and moved her valor, the Chant, and the Valenciennes behind the obstinates near the tau-37 Jumphole. If the Obstinates and the Valors move at once and we end up walking into a trap, we'll be caught off guard together and risk more casualties, as well critical damage to the Valors. Bomber's might sound more convenient for flushing out any Maltese traps, but chances are the Maltese will be waiting for capital vessels to strike at rather than a squadron of bombers or gunboats. Of course, some Obstinates should also remain behind with the Valors, but a fraction of the amount that should be moving ahead of the Valors. She moved up around some of the Bretonian vessels next to the Gallic fleet on either side to demostrate what exactly she was saying. If the Obstinates move up first, they'll be the ones to draw out or flush out any Maltese ambushes. So the Valors can mop them without taking any serious damage. If they aren't expecting us, Obstinates will still be capable of mopping any Maltese force along the line to the VIP's last known location. However, I'm still quite positive the Maltese have ambushes planned out for us, for the reasons I just stated. Maybe not 3 Valors, but I wouldn't take lightly to these rock-rats and bandits if they managed to take the Princess of Gallia right out of our hands in broad daylight. The strategy certainly poses a risk to the Obstinate fleet, but its a risk we'll have to take if we wish to hasten the advance of the Valors through Omicron-80, which will hasten the return of Mademoiselle DeFrance. She let go of each of the vessels and gave them back to their owners.
Marie looked up at both the Officers who remained silent, her plan was a risky one, but it was the fastest means of safely getting the Valors to this hidden jumphole. That way, the Valors would be untouched in the face of the Malta's larger defense force, which would obviously be within this hidden system.
I do hope you take my recommendation into consideration Marechal. She stepped back and folded her arms, waiting for someone else to speak up.
RE: Going For Broke - Omi - 02-19-2017
"Luneville is practically a retirement home," spat LeBlanc, dismissing Marie's concerns with a wave of her hand. "It is a small miracle they manage to send daily reports at all, let alone asking them to secure that minefield. It has been dead space for so long that the Ministry of Defense cut funding for the whole system, and now look what has happened." As usual, the Grande Maréchale didn't bother raising her voice, but the iciness of her tone got her fury across well enough anyway. Heads would roll for this, but she would be damned before letting hers be one of them.
The rest of Marie's spiel she listened to in near-silence, her gaze drinking in both the movements of the figurines and the other woman outlining her plan directly. The Générale had not made many alterations, which was good for two reasons. The first was that she had made alterations at all - the kind of spineless individuals who simply nodded their head and murmured assent did not deserve to be around her command table. The plan of action had to be watertight, and it had to be overwhelmingly so. The second was that the amended plan struck her as more resilient to problems as her original one, which was even better. It was less of a blitzkrieg with a screening force in front of the Valors, of course, but there was a much smaller chance of plowing a ten-kilometer long starship straight into a minefield or similar ambush. They would have to adapt their tactics to compensate, because the focal point of their operation relied on taking the Maltese by surprise. If they were allowed any warning at all to assemble a defense fleet, their lack of intelligence would hamstring them. Ideally, whatever poor sod was in charge of Malta's defence wouldn't know a thing about the Navy's advance until they had already smashed the initial defenses aside.
"Very well, Marie," she said eventually, locking eyes with the junior officer. "Your recommendations are solid, and screening our Valors with their support fleet will preserve them for the thicker defences that undoubtedly lie beyond. It is imperative that we preserve our capital ships for future conflicts as well as the final stages of this campaign. We must inflict such a blow to the Maltese that they have no option but to capitulate - if push should come to shove, the Chant is equipped with cyclonic torpedoes to threaten Malta itself." Even as she said it, her fingers tightened on the tabletop. It was no small thing to threaten a world with bombardment, let alone the kind of apocalyptic hellfire that could crack continents wide open and scorch atmospheres clean from their worlds. "I have already had Director Pelletier briefed on ONIs role. The Directorate will deploy reconnaissance teams in close proximity to our main battle fleet, so we will have some warning of what lies ahead. It is not much, but it is the best we can do here. We are riding the edge of a knife here; all of us together. Every second we delay reduces our chances of success."
LeBlanc wanted to sigh, but she couldn't in front of the others. Instead, she just strode up the room to the other end of the table, turning again to regard the other pair with her jaw set. "If there is anything else, Général, Commandant, now is the time. We will be acting on the final version of these plans within twenty-four hours, so they must be distributed to the assembling battlegroups as soon as possible. I shouldn't think I need to impress further on you the urgency of our cause, so make it quick and make it concise. If there is nothing else, you are dismissed and will await the formal arrival of your finalised orders."
The rest of Marie's spiel she listened to in near-silence, her gaze drinking in both the movements of the figurines and the other woman outlining her plan directly. The Générale had not made many alterations, which was good for two reasons. The first was that she had made alterations at all - the kind of spineless individuals who simply nodded their head and murmured assent did not deserve to be around her command table. The plan of action had to be watertight, and it had to be overwhelmingly so. The second was that the amended plan struck her as more resilient to problems as her original one, which was even better. It was less of a blitzkrieg with a screening force in front of the Valors, of course, but there was a much smaller chance of plowing a ten-kilometer long starship straight into a minefield or similar ambush. They would have to adapt their tactics to compensate, because the focal point of their operation relied on taking the Maltese by surprise. If they were allowed any warning at all to assemble a defense fleet, their lack of intelligence would hamstring them. Ideally, whatever poor sod was in charge of Malta's defence wouldn't know a thing about the Navy's advance until they had already smashed the initial defenses aside.
"Very well, Marie," she said eventually, locking eyes with the junior officer. "Your recommendations are solid, and screening our Valors with their support fleet will preserve them for the thicker defences that undoubtedly lie beyond. It is imperative that we preserve our capital ships for future conflicts as well as the final stages of this campaign. We must inflict such a blow to the Maltese that they have no option but to capitulate - if push should come to shove, the Chant is equipped with cyclonic torpedoes to threaten Malta itself." Even as she said it, her fingers tightened on the tabletop. It was no small thing to threaten a world with bombardment, let alone the kind of apocalyptic hellfire that could crack continents wide open and scorch atmospheres clean from their worlds. "I have already had Director Pelletier briefed on ONIs role. The Directorate will deploy reconnaissance teams in close proximity to our main battle fleet, so we will have some warning of what lies ahead. It is not much, but it is the best we can do here. We are riding the edge of a knife here; all of us together. Every second we delay reduces our chances of success."
LeBlanc wanted to sigh, but she couldn't in front of the others. Instead, she just strode up the room to the other end of the table, turning again to regard the other pair with her jaw set. "If there is anything else, Général, Commandant, now is the time. We will be acting on the final version of these plans within twenty-four hours, so they must be distributed to the assembling battlegroups as soon as possible. I shouldn't think I need to impress further on you the urgency of our cause, so make it quick and make it concise. If there is nothing else, you are dismissed and will await the formal arrival of your finalised orders."