"Alvin, I hope I am not disturbing you, however I would like to bring your attention to Report Delta-Five on Gallia, Subsection III, look for references to 'Cassard', I believe that this is something that would interest you" he said, waiting for him to reach the section he was speaking about.
"Intelligence as you can see reports that this ship, which the locals call a 'Valor' class Battleship has been sitting there since the end of the Council's battle to get through the Mine Fields into the Orkney system, according to local reports and visual inspection by our Artificial Intelligence 'BAAL' the vessels Engine's, Datacore and Rear armaments are disabled, however the council has not seen fit to claim it nor salvage it after they're efforts, old Friend, have you ever heard of the term 'A Fixer-Uper'?" He asked, taking a small breath as he waited for it to sink into the Premier's mind.
"Comrade, I believe that I can...Acquire this and bring it home, should the rumours of a Gallic invasion be as the Council says they will need all the help they can get in terms of firepower, plus it would be a boon to our Research and Development Division if we can make repairs to it...What I need from you sir, is permission to bring this ship into our Forces by any means required that do not go beyond morality...Old Friend...Do I have your leave to do so?" he asked, waiting patiently for an answer...Yes...Or No....
Katz folded his hands on the desk before him, "it will be a considerable investment of resources... but we have a repair ship in the region that can be adapted to assist. I have no issue with this, if you can pull it off, Commandante. Just... let's fly under the radar with this one, yes?"
"It shall be done Comrade-Premier, I shall report back once I have made progress." he reported, before closing the transmission, switching the link over to the Fighter Corps' Headquarters and getting the Officer on Duty.
"Comrade, I have Orders, I require a Pilot of decent skill on the line soon, I have a mission of utmost importance to our cause. And hurry, time is not on our side." he ordered, receiving a "Confirmed." as the officer attempted to locate a pilot that was known for decent ability and has shown absolute loyalty to the cause.
Lt. Commander Santini was busy at her desk, signing a few documents, when her datapad blinked. It was a message to all fighter corps, reading as follows.
Quote:Commandante Warner requires a pilot of outstanding ability and absolute commitment for an assignment. Only apply if you feel that you can live up to the requirements. Failure to meet them will result in termination of life.
She smiled wryly. My whole life of late has been close to termination. Why not do this?
She picked up her datapad and messaged back, confirming that she would be interested.
As the Personal Merit passed through the Dublin System Ben was hard at work getting everything ready to determine the feasibility of liberating the Cassard from it's state of being dead weight. He had to determine how many parts, engineers and ships would be needed to get it at least partially operational as well as plot an escape route for it should they be successful in getting it's engines online and it to safely to Omega-52...
The same Sub-Lt from before walked back inside from the cockpit and handed Ben another Datapad, Ben smiled, he had a volunteer...Ben quickly and calmly switched the Comm-Frequency over to Santini's personal Comm Channel at her desk and spoke calmly.
"Lt.Commander, what I say cannot go beyond this transmission, much of this operation is classified and if you reveal any information to unauthorized personnel you will be sentenced to Twenty Years aboard the TOR-ONE. So this is your last chance to back out...Do you accept the mission Comrade?" he asked calmly, waiting for a reply over the Communications channel...
A group of men huddled around a makeshift fireplace, a few of them talked in their native tongues. Their breaths could be seen in the frigid air. Many of them wore camouflage jackets with the emblem of the Republique on the left shoulder. Slung over their shoulders as well were standard issued coalition rifles, and other various models.
"Why the hell are these Sirians helping us?"
"Beats the hell out of me." One of them said lighting a cigarette, and taking a drag. "The Amiral is up to something though. Which reminds me, theres a meeting going on back at the barracks. Just starting. Come on."
"If you insist.."
The group began making their way to a makeshift tent near the middle of the town that was just being built. The men headed inside.
"Good, the rest of our marines have arrived." Arthur said lightly, smiling and looking up from the crowd towards the group that had just walked in. "Men, settle in." The group of soldiers nodded and made their way fully into the tent and stood, waiting for the briefing.
"Alright. I've been put in charge of operating under the Coalitions control in the Gallic sector. They've granted me permission to command the flagship Karl Marx, as well as a Recon Cruiser known as the Kerimov. However, that's not what this is about, no. This is about something totally different, Monsieurs and Madames." He paused, looking towards the Bretonian who stood next to him, Henry Murphy, a native leeds born who joined the Coalition a few months back.
"Lieutenant."
Henry cleared his throat and began speaking. "The Captain and I have devised a plan for multiple planet side assaults known as Operation Gallic Freedom. This is just the first briefing of many to get teams prepared for the assaults. Now, your Captain has provided very detailed accounts of locations that will be interesting to hit both industrial and militaristic. Regiments of the Royalist Army will be on garrison at several high-risk areas. Which is why a team of experts is heading towards these isles to train all able-bodied soldiers to fight in the ground battles."
He paused briefly, and looked towards the projector screen behind him, shining a laser-light on a center area. "This area is known as the Royal Palace on Nevers. It's said to house the Prince himself, one of the heirs to the throne." The screen changes, "Here is a military installation that we'll most likely hit first, seeing as it's part of a rather large industrial factory which is located a few miles south, here. Now, we're not planning a full scale invasion, no we don't have the resources nor people to do that, however we do have the resources to put multiple twelve-men teams on the surface."
He paused once more, the screen changes again showing a Vache transport, "We'll be using one of these to drop the teams off in their respected locations. This is just a brief over-view of the Operation. It's still in the planning phase and hasn't been accepted by the Premier."
Someone spoke up, "Will we be expecting high civilian causalities?"
"No. If this is done correctly, causalities will be minimal on all sides except that of the Royalists." Levesque said instantly, then turning to look at Henry, "The hell with the Premier, sitting around and waiting for an official go ahead isn't going to bring freedom to my people any sooner, Monsieur Murphy."
Henry glared, and made a slight hand gesture towards his pistol, but stopped. "It's out of the Premier's kindness that he allows your people to settle on our planet. We don't want to make this temporary settlement a permanent residence, now do we, Captain Levesque."
"Know your place, Lieutenant." Arthur said lowering his voice, "Your Premier might have granted us this sanctuary but those are my people I'm risking my life for, and I'll plan my operations to save their lives without your Premier. You can tell him that yourself."
Arthur looked back at the men and women standing in the large tent. "The operation will begin officially within a few weeks, I'd suggest you begin getting your things ready for extensive training, dismissed."
Many of the people started to shuffle their way out back into the cold and began talking, carrying on, as if nothing had happened. Levesque glanced back at Henry who was standing there staring him down, Levesque smiled lightly and leaving shortly after his smile.
"That man is going to die." Henry said, under his breath in the now empty tent.
Standing with his hands crossed over his chest, his tired eyes creased into crowsfeet around the edges.
Premier Alvin Katz stood staring across Red Square at the Kremlin on Volgograd at the multitude of tanks, troops, and military hardware streaming past him. On parade and for show to the populace to see and understand the might of the Sirius Coalition.
There was an air of jubilation in the square, built to closely resemble the one left behind on old Earth, but at the same time different enough to be unique to Sirius. It was a monument to that which had gone before, and in whose footsteps they all trod.
Beside him Admiral Karchov, and Admiral Straitov were standing. Both in formal uniforms, watching with pride as a squadron of XKR fighters shrieked overhead in perfect formation.
For Katz, it wasn't about the power, or the glory. His eyes were lost on the people, the people that it was his sworn duty to uphold, to support and protect.
They needed a strong hand to offer guidance, to steer the Coalition to victory.
Sure the Coalition had its heroes. Captain's Alvarez and Warner, the newly liberated Commissar-Captain Norman Bethune, who had pride of place on the podium where he would be named a HERO OF THE REVOLUTION for his triumphant escape from the duplicitous Mandalorians.
However, Katz knew who the real heroes of the Coalition were. The men and women that had toiled for the Coalition's war machine out of terror under McIntosh, and who now toiled for the Coalition out of love and loyalty to the party that had succeeded him.
"A word, Comrade Premier," His Watchful Eye, wearing a nondescript uniform and a large urshanka hat, asked while smoking a cigarette.
Katz raised his hand to his heart as the members of the Santiago-de-la-Omega Women's Auxiliary squadron marched past the podium, leaning back just enough to allow His Watchful Eye a chance to speak.
"I have word that Captain Levesque is planning an unsanctioned assualt into Gallia, with the intent on liberating his people." Medvedov chose his words with care.
"Will the bastard succeed?" Commissar Mendel asked, his heavy great coat hitched up against the cold, smoking like a chimney.
"It is unlikely," Medvedov stated.
"Well it is irrelevant," Mendel puffed as he walked to the edge of the podium staring in disgust at the pageantry below him. "If Levesque wins, we win... if he dies, we make a martyr of him, and we gain a large propaganda victory. Either way, the outcome will be favourable to the Coalition."
"And so we ignore this?" Medvedov inquired.
"On the contrary," Mendal said. "We give him everything he needs to succeed... but station a few loyal GRU marines on the Kerimov and the Karl Marx, just to ensure we don't loose too much when he throws himself upon the funeral pyre like a modern day Joan d'arc."
Katz kept silent, as he often did in those situations. His advisors knew what was needed, and they knew all too well that to him, the people were the first priority.
Come what may.
They would ignore Levesque's plotting, assist him as much as they could, and reap the rewards when the time came. And if Levesque got too far out of hand, His Watchful Eye wouldn't blink at having the man martyred by force.
Captain Ricardo 'El Coyote' Alvarez sat in contemplation of the 'Beast'.
His head rested in the palm of his hand, his elbow upon the arm of the chair, as he faced out of the observation window of Mykolaiv Research Station at the Freeman Du Gaulle. The Redemption class Council battleship that had made the dangerous flight through the back ways, and forgotten jumpholes to the sanctuary of Omega-52.
He had taken off his jacket and cap, setting both on a chair next to him. Glad to be in just his shirt sleeves and black waistcoat. The sleeves of his shirt rolled up slightly so that his wife's rosary was visible entwined around his wrist. He knew she was out there somewhere, watching him, and he wondered if the sins he had committed just to be alive would in any way atone for the sins of his past.
His face was a ghostly reflection int he glass, tired eyes watching as Coalition engineers crawled over the hull of the battleship, trying to learn what they could from it. Trying to see how they could repair the beast in order to once again have her fighting for her people.
The prognosis wasn't the greatest. She would need a complete overhaul, diverting much needed resources away from the Trotsky Cruiser project, meaning the Coalition would have to make do with the Typhoon class destroyers they were set to replace, at least for the time being.
Even then, the sheer technological differences in the design meant they would have to adapt technology, bastardize and jerry rig soloutions just to make her spaceworthy. It meant that while the Coalition was committed to the task, the Du Gaulle wasn't going anywhere, at least not for the time being.
It wasn't his problem, he had the Havana to contend with. And there had been the same teething problems when the Coalition had gained Elder Costello's flagship. It meant his engineers were the best suited to the task of adapting coalition technology (already finiky with Sirian tech, to Gallic technology.)
He sighed as he rubbed his jaw.
At least the DuGalle had made it, at least the people were safe. And that was the priority. The former Council pilots and crew were adapting well to their new lives in the Coalition, but he knew they longed for home, who wouldn't, under the circumstances.
He closed his eyes, wondering what other twists the future held for them.
Commissar Francesca Santorini roamed the muddy streets in the Island of Acadia, where the Gallic survivors were trying to eke out a new life, far away from home. For now, only Tents had been set up, to serve as temporary housing while more permanent stuff could be constructed. In the distance, a large building was looming up, undoubtedly to serve as headquarters for the new nation.
But it was not the housing that brought her here, it was to keep an eye on the newcomers, and to gauge their reactions. She looked at faces, made observations. Common expressions were those of tiredness, grief, sorrow, defiance, and anger. Anger dominated. She could guess. Anger against their oppressors, anger against the events that brought them so far from the home they loved, and anger at their weakness that had drove them to seek help from Sirians.
Every now and then, she talked to a random bystander, quick, subtle questions aimed at finding out the few things they needed. The results only affirmed her guesses. She did one last look at the surroundings, then turned back.
Caution is the key. We have to be cautious of these guests, and be ready to put the heavy sword at their throat.