June 5th, 1995
South Belka Munitions Headquarters, 3rd Level, Sudentor, Belka
0901 Hours
Richard Collins stood at attention before the Sudentor representative of the Chief of Belkan Intelligence, hands at his side, gaze fixed half a meter above the officer's head. For the Official, this was an almost weekly ordeal – interviewing the new intelligence recruits who had passed basic indoctrination and the battery of screenings they were subjected to. This was his third interview today, and after he finished with this "Christian Schumacher" character, he was free to go. He really didn't know why he was forced to conduct these interviews, as, really, there was no chance any spy could pass Intelligence training, indoctrination, screenings, and then the initiation coursework without being spotted by someone along the way. It was virtually impossible – all recruits were monitored 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, and had had their family and social lives reconstructed and scrutinized on a scale that would terrify anyone scared of the thought of a "Big Brother." With a full file, an official could literally put a recruit's life back together backwards, on a day to day basis, and then examine any given 12 hour period in that recruit's life since his 5th birthday. The system was invasive, yes, but effective. The net had been catching spies since its initiation in the late 80's, and established Belka as the most difficult country to infiltrate in the world. The Official figured that he was here as a sort of "last trial" for any infiltrators. He may have been unwilling to carry out this particular facet of his job, but he was by no means lazy or idiotic. He knew a quisling when he saw one, and his self-assurance put him at ease.
For Collins, however, the air seemed to hum with tension. It couldn't have been the air conditioning; the Representative Head of Intelligence was icy enough to lower the ambient temperature without any help. His mission had been in the works for years now, and the smallest social slip could render all of that work useless now. Inventing a life, day by day, was no small task even for a team specially trained in the art of deception and invention; even the smallest discontinuity could spell disaster. That work had been done and tested, and now it was his turn to feel the pressure. His Belkan was, of course, flawless, his inflection nearly perfect. His knowledge of idiomatic usage was extensive, as was the knowledge of the town where he supposedly grew up and the surrounding countryside. Now, however, he had to keep composure during this interview (conducted entirely in Belkan) and avoid conveying a sense of unease through even body language. Even the slightest perspiration in a room of this temperature (he was sure the official kept it at a frigid 58F solely to make recruits uncomfortable) would indicate that he was nervous. The Official would ask, nervous of what? And then the game was already lost – the official would have the advantage (and, of course, all the time he needed) and could easily sit and ask questions all day, until eventually Collins' Belkan faltered or until a discontinuity appeared. Then he would be caught, trapped, imprisoned, and his government would deny his very existence. Much more relied upon this interview than the fate of a half-effort mission.
The Official looked up from the recruit's file, which, though impressive, gave him nearly no indication as to the character and appearance of the recruit himself. He was fit, of course. That was expected. His facial features weren't Belkan, but his family had apparently immigrated to Belka well before the economic crisis. His uniform was flawless, the folds crisper than the air around it. The Official found this impressive. It meant discipline, and an attention to detail that many recruits these days lacked badly. He traced the suit's lapel up to check his tie, and finding its composition satisfactory, followed it back to the recruit's chest, where the badges and patches he had earned in the training course were displayed. It was often said that you could read a man's military career on the ribbons he wore and the distinctions he earned. This ribbon stripe read highly-trained-incredibly-deadly-pencil-pusher. He had qualified in all but the most stringent of firearm and urban warfare courses (each recruit was allowed to pursue one other practice during training, and he had obviously chosen firearm proficiency). Not a bad choice, and an even better one diplomatically – Intel pukes were often made fun of by the armed forces due to their lack of perceived skill in the war arena. That was something this recruit wouldn't have to worry about, at least until these qualifications expired and he had to renew them.
Collins held at attention while the official looked his uniform over. He knew that the man was criticizing every fold and wrinkle, and knew that he would read his training career from the badges on his chest.
The Official stood up. Seconds melted into the passing stream of time more slowly than any glacier. A single bead of sweat materialized on Collins' face, sliding slowly down past his left eyebrow and down to his chin. It fell, splattering like blood on the black polished steel floor below. Collins could have cut the cords of tension in the air with his knife, if he had really wanted to.
The Official glanced down at the files on his black marble desk and back up at the applicant, and offered his hand to Agent Schumacher, no questions asked. "Welcome to the Agency, son."
Collins took it, and found himself trapped in a viselike grip that, he imagined, he could never escape as long as the Official deigned to hold it. The thought scared him.
"Let me show you to your office. 47th level."
They matched pace for the entirety of their descent. It wasn't something Collins intended to do, nor was it something that he found amusing in any way. However, his lifelong career in the Special Forces had drilled many things into his brain, one of them being a strict adherence to discipline and order. Apparently, the pace at which he had walked for most of his adult life matched almost perfectly with the pace the Representative Head of Intelligence had either adopted or drilled into his own life. Neither of the men was willing to alter that pace, so they settled into an unnervingly militaristic, synchronized march down the myriad black steel hallways of the underground corporate headquarters.
Being a government subsidy, South Belka Munitions arranged for the presence of government and intelligence personnel in their headquarters by constructing a mammoth underground structure, complete with bunkers, its own company of the Belkan Army (to provide security), a supercomputer array, 30 levels of offices and situation rooms, and a hardline to Belkan Central Command. That wasn't mentioning the defense network around the headquarters composed of SBM's finest and newest weapon technologies, the base-wide surveillance program, and the underground fighter hanger located on the 20th level.
"As you probably know," the Official started, "Intelligence offices are located on Levels 30 to 50, and command offices are located on Level 80. Your room will be on Level 40, and you'll work in 47." He paused as they passed two Belkan soldiers on patrol. 0927 hours. As soon as the clicking of their steel-toed boots were out of hearing range and around a corner, he resumed. "Do you have any questions regarding the duties that accompany your new job?"
"No, sir, I do not," Collins replied. He had received a packet containing his official orders the day before, and he knew well the kind of job he had applied for in the intelligence branch – data compilation. Due to the massive amounts of information obtained by Belkan spies and agents on a daily basis, Belka had switched from the traditional method of hiring a single consultant to prepare raw data for a conference or briefing to relying on a large number of data composers who prepared briefs and forms on a request basis. For example, a data consolidator might have four to five files to complete on any given day; he would find the relevant data, examine it, compile it, and send it off as a completed brief to his superiors. It required a lot of trust, but Belkan authorities had plenty of that when it came down to their Intel Recruitment strategy. Data Compilers had to go through several special and rigorous courses during their training, and Collins had performed well in all of them. In Belka's eyes, he was fully qualified. More importantly, however, it gave him an excuse to be among the files and data repositories on the lower levels – nobody would look twice if they witnessed a DC rooting through file cabinets or pulling low-classification documents up on the station's computers.
From the 20th Level they entered a lift, which bore them silently down to the 45th Level. They were stopped by a woman behind a glass security station. Her black Belkan MP body armor absorbed the blue glow emitted by the translucent computer screens flanking her position at the desk.
"Hello, Director. Identification, please."
The Official laughed, pulled out his identification card, and handed it to her through a thin slit in the glass. She swiped it through a slit in her computer screen, and the text boxes around a picture of the Director's face flashed green to indicate a verified identity.
"Computer also indicates that you're heading to Level 47 with a new DC. Give me a sec to print out his identicard also."
She typed a couple commands into the keyboard embedded in her desk, and a plastic chip with Collins' face and fake identity slid out from underneath. She swiped it to confirm its validity, and handed both cards back to the Director through the slit. The Director took the chips from her, nodded his thanks, and then handed Collins the card with the name "Christian Schumacher " imprinted on the front, below his picture and above the magnetic data strip. The two figures proceeded, again in lockstep, down two levels further until they arrived at Collins' door. Collins swiped his card, turned the handle, and stepped inside. It was a sparsely furnished cubicle 5 meters by 5 meters by 5 meters, complete with desk, chair, shelf, and computer display, all painted a glossy black. The Director wished him luck, stepped back, and closed the door. As room SBM-47/C sealed, Collins couldn't help feeling like he was trapped. Of course, he could open the door at any time and walk out at his leisure, as long as he completed his daily quota.
But he couldn't quite shake the feeling of entrapment.
June 5th, 1995
Sudentor Air Base, Main Runway
1120 Hours
Alexander watched as a flight of three MiG-31 interceptors and two MiG-29As landed on Sudentor Air Base's main runway. They were painted with the standard Belka Air Force color scheme, but they had the insignia of the 6th Tactical Air Squadron, Regent Flight. This confused him; Regent Flight operated MiG-29's exclusively, not MiG-31s. On the other hand, though, the extra jet in the formation (five flew in to replace two dead pilots and two wrecked jets) meant that his flight would have a full 8 members again. They had been operating on a 7-flight basis for months, as the Belkan Air Force had been too stretched out to spare the extra fighter. He assumed that the two MiG-29As would be for his pilots who were currently stuck without a plane – both Burke and Regent 7, Joseph, had escaped from their jets uninjured and were still in flying condition. The three MiG-31s, however, must have been flown in and landed by the replacement pilots, and it bugged Alexander to know that his flight was to be mixed now. Everyone knew that the 31s were much faster and more powerful than their counterpart 29As, but as long as they were all on the same team, Alexander guessed he could work with fast. He wasn't worried about subordination, not in the least – he inherently trusted his fellow Belkan pilots. But he was unfamiliar with the 31s' abilities and strengths, and he needed to know how to use them to their maximum effect. He knew the 29A inside and out, and he had always flown in one. He knew how they performed in a dogfight. The Foxhounds, however, were completely foreign to him.
He'd have to make do with what he had, however. And he had to adjust, quickly. A storm was coming, but not a storm of mere cloud and rain. It was a storm of vengeance, fast descending on Ustio. It was a storm that Alexander would take personal pleasure in executing – not that he enjoyed killing civilians, of course. The mission's main target would be the military industrial complexes outside of Directus. Not even Alexander Finn, arguably the man with the most reason to bear enmity and hatred towards all Ustians, would stoop so low so as to target civilians. It just would not be done.
But for those who served the Ustian military?
A storm was coming.
June 5th, 1995
South BelkaMunitionsHeadquarters, 47th Level, Sudentor, Belka
1700 Hours
Richard Collins leaned back, a hard day's work done. He had managed to wade through 4 data requests, which was pretty impressive by itself. He was startled, however, when the door to his office was forced open and the MP he had encountered on the 45th Level stood silhouetted in the light coming from the hallway, flanked by two Belkan Army soldiers in full battle gear. With a gesture of her hand she told them to wait outside while she stepped into the cubicle and closed the door behind her. She slowly and deliberately paced up to the front of Collin's desk, sidearm protruding ominously from the holster on her hip. She turned, faced him, and smiled under her visor before taking her helmet off completely.
Her name was Annabeth, another agent of the Golden King assigned to espionage in Belka.
She leaned over the desk and started speaking quickly. Her tone was earnest and distressed. "Listen, I don't have much time in here. The guards outside think I'm performing an inspection and computer search on a suspected agent of the enemy. I'll tell them you're clean, but while I'm here, I'm your only contact. You will not be allowed to speak to me after this meeting. Do you understand?"
Collins nodded quickly, eager to receive any information or help she might bring.
Annabeth continued, "In the combination-locked drawer in your desk, you'll find a Belkan standard-issue handgun, with silencer and 40 rounds of ammunition. The combination is five-oh-eight-one-three. Use only in an emergency. Next, I have your security clearance for levels 90-110, where the information we need should be located. Your extraction will be tomorrow, at precisely 1900 hours. If you miss this time, we will leave you. If, for any reason, you must contact a fellow agent, you must attempt to force an entrance into a locked room somewhere in the 42-48 Level block, which is directly under my jurisdiction. I will hold you on Level 10, where we have another contact waiting for such an occasion. That is all I have to say. Now please let me perform that computer search so it gets logged in Central Control."
She moved around to Richard's side of the desk, sliding him a new false identicard as she did so. A few typed commands later, his computer was found clean, she had walked out the door, and the footsteps of her armored guards had receded. In all senses of the word, Richard was alone.