The Rise of the Speaker

by Pete Driscoll

  “Ok then, put me through.”

  A few minutes later, the faces of five African men appeared on the new bank of monitors that had been installed in my office. They had obviously been told to expect a video call as none of them seemed particularly surprised when my face popped up on their respective computers, part of me still expected the same reaction that I had seen from Morgan Blake all those years ago. The connections were poor, each man freezing or jumping around on screen as their internet connections struggled to provide the necessary bandwidth to accommodate Alice’s communication channel.

  “Give me a moment…” Alice said, her voice echoing in the rooms of the leaders on screen, I was surprised to realise that her words had been translated by her connection automatically, that would make the conversation go better… if the connection could be improved enough to use. “Ok, got it. The signal has been re-routed through radio waves for the majority of the distance, only using the old copper wire system once inside the building, the connection should be much better now.” Once again – sticking with a now well-established tradition – Alice was right.

  The screens came to life with the worried and anguished expressions of the five national leaders, I couldn’t really tell at this point which one was from which country, but all five greeted me politely.

  “thank you for agreeing to speak to me.” I finally said as the chorus of greetings - between not only them and me, but between themselves as well – subsided. “I have been monitoring the situation with Nassan for some time, I know you haven’t had much luck from the UN or the international community, so I would like to offer the services of the Atlantian military.”

  The five men looked at me in a mixture of confusion and concern. “forgive me,” Timothy Malida, the Congolese Premier said carefully, “We have obviously heard of Atlantia and your new island, but we didn’t know you had a military at all, let alone one that could help us stop Nassan.”

  “More than that,” James Mtumbe, the leader of Chad, added, “the Americans are calling you a criminal. With respect, we don’t want to replace one crisis with another by defying the strongest nation on earth.” The four other leaders nodded solemnly

  “I appreciate your candour.” I smiled back through the screens, “the Americans label anyone who doesn’t do their bidding as criminals, especially someone who was once an American citizen…”

  “You were an American citizen?” Mtumbe said in surprise, “I … I didn’t know that.”

  “Yes, I was,” I nodded, “and the reason they call me a criminal is that I didn’t give them access to my technology, technology I have since used to build Atlantia’s military force.” A few raised eyebrows flashed across the various screens, but the leaders remained silent.

  “What are you proposing?” Jean Montreau, from the African Republic, finally asked.

  “Gentlemen,” I answered slowly, “you know the situation on the ground better than I do, but if the reports are to be believed, it is only a matter of time before Nassan and his armies are on your doorstep. Given the atrocities he has been committing against the rural population, the loss of innocent life in the larger cities will be enormous, Atlantia is not prepared to allow that to happen, not if we are in a position to help.” I watched the faces of all five leaders drop as they were reminded of the reality of their situation. “So, here is what I propose. My forces can be on the ground in…” I looked at Alice for the answer.

  “12 hours,” she said quickly.

  “… 12 hours,” I continued to African leaders, “We can stop the expansion of Nassan’s territory, halt the attacks on population centres and then start pushing them back.”

  “And what sort of force are you talking about?” Mailida asked plainly, “that kind of plan would require more than a token deployment of a few hundred men, if you are looking to use this conflict to earn some reputation on the world stage, we cannot help you.” Malida was obviously a man used to hollow promises.

  “This is no token deployment; I can assure you. 75,000 soldiers of the world’s most advanced fighting force can be dropped where needed and fighting the rebels by this time tomorrow.”

  Another round of raised eyebrows. “And what do you want in return?” Idi Museveni, the Ugandan President asked cautiously.

  “I don’t want anything in return.” I answered simply.

  “Nothing?” Museveni replied suspiciously.

  “Look, gentlemen. We all know that Atlantia is going before the UN for recognition eventually. I had considered asking for your support in that endeavour when the time comes in return for my assistance now. But that would make Atlantia no different from any other country out there, you have no strategic value to them, so they refuse to help when you need it. Well we are not like any other country; we were founded specifically not to be like any other country. So, no… I do not want anything in return, this help is available now and for as long as necessary to end the current crisis, with no conditions attached. Once the crisis is over, they will leave, and if – in the future – you require assistance again, you will know who to ask.”

  The five leaders remained silent for a while, their eyes flickering around their screen at the faces of the colleagues, none wanting to be the first to speak. Finally, Jean Montreau spoke up. “The Central African Republic cannot afford to wait on an indifferent international community to provide aide which may never come. We gratefully accept your offer. Thank you, Mr Speaker.”

  That was the first time I had been addressed by my title by a foreign dignitary, the relevance wasn’t lost on me. I simply nodded to President Montreau.

  “The Demographic Republic of Congo agrees.” Malida said,

  “So does Uganda,”

  “So does South Sudan.”

  “Then we are in agreement,” Mtumbe said, “The government and the people of Chad would be grateful for your assistance. Thank you, Mr Speaker.”

  “Your faith in me – and Atlantia – is not misplaced, gentlemen. Our forces will be on the ground in a few hours, tell your men – and your people – that help is on the way.”

  Alice was smiling at me as the connections were terminated, I turned and looked out the window of my newly finished office. I couldn’t see them from here, but airbases and military garrisons all around the island had become a hive of activity as more than a thousand Condor Dropships, each filled with Spartan soldiers – and some carrying Mechs beneath their bellies – powered into the air, escorted by hundreds of fighters and fighter-bombers, the armada assembled over Port defiance and headed east towards Central Africa.

  The reporter was looking nervous. I couldn’t blame him, he was literally in the middle of a warzone, explosions were reducing the buildings in the distance behind him to rubble and he was having to shout to be heard over the shockwaves. “The fighting here has grown even more ferocious after rebel forces overwhelmed the government troops defending the town of Birao.” He turned to his side and pointed to a hillside in the distance, “as you can see, the forces of Abud Nassan have set up position on that hill, with artillery mercilessly pounding the town and its civilian inhabitants. With the government forces in full retreat, there is nothing to hold back the inevitable attack when it finally comes.”

  The camera – by this point – had zoomed in on rebel artillery positions, at least 12 guns could be made out, each one firing every 30 seconds or so and another explosion rocking the ground beneath the cameraman’s feet a few seconds after each shot. A huge swarm of men could be seen assembling for the attack - with vehicles ranging from Russian made BMP-1 armoured vehicles and armoured personnel carriers to pickup trucks with a machine gun bolted to the back, ready to support them – it was clear that the inhabitants of that small city wouldn’t stand a chance against that onslaught.

  “The steady stream of refugees fleeing the city has now slowed to a trickle,” the reporter continued as the camera panned back to him, “with civilians not wanting to risk being outside during the shelling. The residents who were u
nable to flee – the sick, the elderly and those caring for them – are now entirely at the mercy of a rebel army infamous for showing none.

  “BBC world service has heard rumours that Atlantia – the yet-unrecognised nation in the Atlantic – has offered military assistance to all the leaders who asked for it after it became clear that the UN and the wider international community were unwilling to help, we also understand that this offer has been accepted. But how long it will take them to get here, and what good they will be able to do is yet to be seen, but for the residents of Birao, that help may come too late.

  “From the BBC world service, this is… Wait!... There!...” The reporter began pointing wildly into the air behind the cameraman, who in turn swung his equipment around, scanning the sky for whatever the reporter was pointing at. A group of tiny black specs above the horizon quickly grew larger as 6 Condor dropships raced towards the battle, the lowest of which was less than twenty feet off the floor as it shot over the heads of the camera crew. “Holy shit!” the reported yelped against the noise and rush of air as the camera followed the aircraft towards the city. I was pretty sure he wasn’t allowed to say that, but given the circumstances, it would probably be forgiven.

  The phoenix emblazoned condor hovered over the battlefield at an altitude of about 15 ft, the garage-door of the aircraft’s side raising up to reveal the four rows of Spartan soldiers – twenty in each row and two rows on each side of the dropship. “There they are! Maybe help has come in time for the residents of…” The reporter yelled as the other five drop ships flew overhead and took up positions at various other points between the rebel army and the city. “The Atlantian forces have arrived, it only remains to be seen if they are capable of fighting off the overwhelming force of… FUCK ME!!!” The reporter dropped to the floor as a flight of Longbow ground attack aircraft raced a few feet over his head, their plasma jet engines propelling them at fantastic speeds towards the rebel’s hill.

  The cameraman – obviously a consummate professional – panned away from the dropships as huge swathes of the rebel army vanished beneath a burst of green tinted explosions as the bombers made their first pass, the X2 turrets beneath each wing firing four or five times before the Longbows pulled out of their dive and into the clouds as the rebel army vainly fired into the air at the quickly vanishing aircraft before returning their attention to the Spartans.

  “Errr… well, I’m guessing the Atlantian air force has also arrived, delivering a truly terrifying display of firepower towards the rebel positions. It is difficult to make out from here, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that single bombing run has inflicted serious losses on Nassan’s men… And the Atlantian soldiers are being deployed…” the reported squinted into the distance as the camera panned back to the dropships. The Spartans of the first dropship were already on the ground and advancing towards the hill, small red bolts shooting across the open land towards the enemy. The cameraman focused in on one of the other dropships as its doors opened and the Spartans simply stepped out, dropping the 15 or more feet to the ground and landing with a thud, before standing up, retrieving their weapons and moving towards the enemy.

  “…yes… yes, the rumours of robotic and unmanned soldiers using some form of laser weaponry look to be accurate as the Atlantian forces are absolutely decimating the rebel army!” The cameraman was following the Spartans as they shrugged of machine gun rounds, BMP shells and artillery fire, barely breaking stride as they marched towards the rebel army, firing as they walked. “Oh… and here comes another wave…” the camera shook, and the reporter held his nerve – and his helmet – as another dropship passed overhead, “… err, no… this one seems to be different. It seems to be carrying something underneath the main fuselage… yes, it is dropping it now…”

  The Mech’s legs had deployed before they hit the ground, its knees bending slightly to absorb the force as its weight impacted the ground. “… I’m not sure what I’m looking at here, but it appears to be some sort of heavily armed, robotic… walking… erm… thing. Oh, its firing!”

  The Mech’s main weapon unleashed a blistering salvo of fire onto the hill, each explosion unleashing enormous and devastating sheets of green plasma fire that enveloped the enemy positions and reduced the unarmoured rebel soldiers to smouldering piles of charred remains. The armoured vehicles were turned into ovens, their crews frantically scrambling to get out, only to be engulfed in yet more sheets of green fire as they did, artillery pieces warped and twisted in the heat, their ammunition cooking off and exploding under the relentless fires. What few men remained standing turned and fled.

  The cameraman, realising that we was recording the slaughter of human beings – albeit genocidal, mass murdering rebel ones – panned back to the reporter who was looking out at the battle; his arms – and mic – hanging loosely by his side, his faced posed in baffled astonishment as he watched with macabre fascination as the rebel force - which had terrified and harassed this part of the world - was systematically annihilated, his face had turned pale, his jaw hung loose and his ability to give a coherent commentary had long since fled.

  The screen stayed that way for another 8 minutes.

  “Err… Connor?” a female voice from the studio called out. “Can you hear us, Connor? ... can you tell us what’s happening”

  “Err… not really… I mean, yes… sorry Michelle,” the reporter finally said as his attention snapped back to the camera. “It would appear that any concerns over Atlantia’s ability to handle this crisis have been settled beyond all doubt. I have been a war correspondent for longer than I care to admit and that…” he pointed back towards the battlefield, “was the most awesome and terrifying display of firepower that I have ever seen!”

  The reporter glanced back to the hill, “The rebel army who - only a few minutes ago – were poised to attack and slaughter this town have been completely destroyed. The Atlantian soldiers - if that’s what we are calling them - have continued to move up the hill in pursuit of the fleeing rebel army, although after that display, I doubt there can be many of them left…” another roar flew overhead as the cameraman panned upwards to follow the flight of Longbows as they raced across the battlefield and into the distance beyond the hill, another echo of explosions reverberated from somewhere out of sight as the tops of green tinted explosions crested the top of the hill. “…and now, there are probably even less.”

  The reporter put one hand to his ear, apparently being given some stern instructions from his producer. “What? … Well I don’t know what to tell you, Tim,” The reporter answered the voice in his ear, “I know its live but they’re gone, the whole rebel army is just gone, and – to be frank with you - I doubt the men upstairs will let us show you what is left of them! Alright, alright…” he straightened himself up and looked into the camera. “Although this is only a small fraction of Nassan’s half a million strong army, the crushing defeat that they have suffered here today can only be taken as a clear message to the warlord and his remaining forces. The BBC have already started receiving reports of similar engagements throughout the region as Atlantian forces come to the aid of this impoverished corner of the world. We have yet to hear from the respective leaders of those countries but – at least for now – the residents of Birao can breathe a little easier.

  “Back to you Michelle”

  Chapter 30

  Kampala

  There were dozens of individual engagements over the next few days; Raga, in South Sudan was liberated as Nassan’s army was pushed away from the Chad border, Kisangani, in the Republic of Congo – the Western limit of rebel territory – was retaken in a ferocious battle that lasted almost 40 hours. Numerous columns of Nassan’s forces were hit from the air while they were moving between one battle and another across the vast expanses of the Central African countryside and within a week, Nassan’s grip on the region was starting to crumble.

  More importantly, large sections of the rebel army seemed to have lost the will to fight. Almost
6,000 men had been deployed to attack Birao, along with a considerable contingent of armour and artillery. Nassan had sent such a large force to the relatively small and poorly guarded town due its proximity to the Chad border and the assumption that the Chad army would enter the fray if the rebels came too close. The almost total destruction of the rebel force had been a significant blow to Nassan; of the 6,000 strong force, a little over 300 had made it back to Nassan’s headquarters alive, and only 26 of them were uninjured.

  Those 26 were brought before Nassan to give their account of the battle, once their debriefing had been completed, they were marched onto the mustering field – with the rest of the army watching – and executed. Nassan’s men received the message; if they fled death at the hands of the enemy, they would find it waiting for them when they returned to base. If they didn’t return to base, Nassan would have death squads find them at home – he had been careful to record the home villages of every man who had chosen to join him – their families, friends and neighbours would meet the same fate as any man who deserted his army.

  In the days following this gruesome act, the resolve of the enemy had seemed to strengthen; Nassan’s men throwing themselves against the solid wall of Spartan soldiers as they advanced towards Nassan’s capital in Northern Uganda, more afraid of Nassan than they were of the Atlantian army. But as the war raged on, rumours started to spread through the rebel forces; men who were captured alive were being treated fairly, the wounded had received treatment and those who had laid down their weapons and surrendered to the Spartans had been rounded up and placed under guard in giant prisoner-of-war camps away from the fighting – Spartans being deployed to their homes, often behind enemy lines, to ensure the safety of their villages.