Bretonian Armed Forces Defense Intelligence Staff (DIS) (iRP) (AO)

[Dieter Schprokets]

There is no possible way to describe what happens to the atmosphere when five Dunkirks fly by. They fly by at 10,000 feet altitude. That is actually very high. But they look like you could reach out and touch them, and the air they displace knocks down ill prepared bystanders, and they affect the weather on the planet for days afterwards.

A sombre man on the parade square looked up and thought to himself, Bloody waste of precious fuel.

The parade in New London was spectacular. Bretonian pomp and pageant had been reduced by years of war, but one got the impression that even if Kusari conquered this place outright and reduced its inhabitants to rabble, they would be rabble wearing ceremonial Cavalry sabres and maintaining ancient bloodlines and their associated titles, even if they were reduced to eating bark.

The abovementioned sombre man was the new Fleet Admiral. He had just been assigned that position by the Prime Minister, who, like him, was a staunch Royalist and traditionalist. A former Minister of Defence, he was returning to military life after a decade as a bureaucrat. Bureaucracy was not to his liking.

Can't properly fight battles behind a desk, he thought. Can't kill people directly and honestly, there.

The abovementioned sombre man's name was James Ralston.

He regarded the man he was replacing. Former Fleet Admiral Martin Bridge also stood on the dias and was to receive the Marchpast with him. This was in accordance with tradition, and furthermore, was the least the man deserved. Bridge was a good Fleet Admiral. Ralston's appointment had nothing to do with Bridge's competence, and everything to do with politics.

By having the audacity to make their MOD the Fleet Admiral, the Royalists were effectively saying to their opposition, especially the Populists, "The Armed Forces are ours. Interfere with that, and you reap a whirlwind."

Martin Bridge, a non political man, was being replaced, but honoured by being knighted, and, that part of the ceremony complete, he was now Sir Admiral Martin Bridge.

The Marchpast was about to begin. The senior Fleet NCO, the Fleet Warrant Officer, was preparing to give the traditional order, when Ralston beckoned to him.

Time to send a message.

Ralston stepped forward, and shouted the order himself. He was a tall man, with lungs like bellows. He would need them to be heard above the din of the warships above.

"Fleet will march past in column of route by Wings, RIGHT... TURN."

The sound of thousands of well polished boots slamming simultaneously into the ground carried over the stadium like a wave, somehow, in its co-ordinated deliberance, more powerful than that of the engines.

"FLEEET", trumpeted Ralston, "will march past in column of route by Wings, by the left, QUICK... MARCH!"

The marching feet of the multitudes of young and old officers cadenced for at least 40 minutes while the former and new Fleet Admirals received the salute.

Ralston had sent a message all right, by explicitly commanding the Fleet to salute his predecessor; specifically, "This man that I am replacing is worthy of respect, and I have the stones to damn well order all of you to show that respect along with me."

It was at once both a tremendously thoughtful gesture to a popular officer, and a clever political act in a (relatively) apolitical environment, and it worked like a charm. Ralston, had, at least, learned something of use while in the Ministry.

Ralston smiled. He so much preferred a fleet of Templars to all the lobbyists in the world, and he was now going to command a lot more of the former, and see very little of the latter.

It was going to be bloody glorious.

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