Russia: South - 0539 Hours - Friday
Premier Vladik Ramonov, dressed in his statesman's uniform, eases back in the leather chair in his office, puffing on a fat cigar. A cold breeze blew in through the open window, stinging his bare face. The cold air felt good, and he enjoyed the sensation, painful as it was. It woke him up, cleared his head, reminded him of his position, of his people, that he was a true Russian. He closed his eyes and listened to the howling wind..
The phone rang.
He opened his eyes and leaned forward, swearing under his breath as he tapped the ash from the cigar and set it down in a nearby tray. He reached for the phone and picked up the handle, pressing it to his ear. да. A practiced scowl grew on his face. Что вы имеете в виду? He switched to english, his accent was heavy, but the man on the other line understood it better than Russian. That can't be right! You told me we would have the men ready to move out today! He stabbed at his desk with one large finger. не! No! I refuse! You have your money! Just get them here now! He shouted the last word directly into the receiver before slamming the phone back into its cradle and running both hands over his weathered features. He glanced at a bank of red phones at the far end of his large desk, each one marked with dark black letters on a stark white background, each one with a direct line to one of the world's mightiest leaders.
Iceland, Germany, Turkey, India..
He sighed and picked up the first phone, then looked at the clock. 0541. It was going to be a long day.