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give me your faith ][ narrative
The problem with modern warfare, Alex has always said, is that everything is impersonal and no one understands the costs, no one appreciates the blood and fire of it all; missiles and tanks and guns and planes and the world forgets that there are beating hearts inside each machine until it's their town that's being razed, their sons and daughters dying. It's a simple belief, but he means it so much more than that: it's so easy to condemn war from afar, to be a council and look down on a military coup to free a nation, or a civil war to liberate a society. To the African Union, war is something that they are steeped in and yet they frivolously ignore, like if they shut their eyes and cover their ears, the fact that they've suspended Morocco for political allegiances while permitting the Democratic Republic of the Congo to carry on business as usual will just go away.
Alexander exhales a sigh and leans back in his chair. Working from behind the scenes isn't something that he particularly likes, but he's learned to do it and do it very well over the course of his life. Not everything is a Gordian knot. He says he isn't a politician and perhaps technically he isn't, but he twists and manipulates and paints all the same. He holds no offices, but a veritable army of his people do. Right now, he needs several more to step into place, and he has to find a way to do it without earning the condemnation of the African Union.
The United Nations, he notes wryly, hasn't even noticed anything's happening. Of course not – Madagascar is insignificant, poor, and not in bed with any particular global power. (Well, except for him. But that fact isn't exactly on the UN's circular.)
A media blackout, then; and he hates to do it because of the fear it will bring down on the people, but it'll be necessary in the scramble – the military coup will go on as planned, but a call for an emergency election will go out first, and all the reports will be of a corrupt government with his private forces striking first and being valiantly, decisively subdued. Simple in theory, and the ease in which he explains it to the generals and admirals in the Malagasy war room betrays just how delicate and vicious of an operation it will be. He watches each man and notes who looks eager, who looks serious, and who looks more like they think he's insane. They're free to think that, of course; people have and will continue to think so for a very long time, and maybe he is – his ambition and daring nature is too much for most men. (Women, not so much – women smile and curl their nails closer, vicious and knife-sharp, his mother's blessing bleeding through.)
“You'll plunge Antananarivo into endless night,” murmurs Rivasoa, his Africa-based assistant. She isn't Tina, but she's getting there. Her nails clack quietly along the edge of the table as work begins, the room illuminated with computer screens and the hum of satellite phone conferences filling the air. He wonders if it's a habit of all battle-ready women.
“No,” he says, “Just a long one.”
“And you'll bring the dawn?”
He half-smiles at her as he flips through his PDA. “That's the point.”
Rivasoa smiles in return, tight-lipped to try and hide how amused she is. “Who are you calling?”
“I'm firing the contractors who were supposed to be here last week. I think they're dead, anyway.”
“Dead?” She doesn't look startled, just curious.
“I'd heard they were involved in something shady – for them, which means something utterly unforgivable - on the mainland and that they might not be trustworthy...” a shrug. “But they were the only ones willing to work in a rush. Now, however.” He holds up his phone and smiles, almost coy. “I can backhack the people who put the hit out on them and find someone much better.”
“You're a concerning man, sometimes.”
Alexander laughs quietly. It only unsettles a few men in the room – the rest already love him like only soldiers can, taking comfort and finding strength in the joy and pride the monster holding the reins of their storm exhibits.
Alexander exhales a sigh and leans back in his chair. Working from behind the scenes isn't something that he particularly likes, but he's learned to do it and do it very well over the course of his life. Not everything is a Gordian knot. He says he isn't a politician and perhaps technically he isn't, but he twists and manipulates and paints all the same. He holds no offices, but a veritable army of his people do. Right now, he needs several more to step into place, and he has to find a way to do it without earning the condemnation of the African Union.
The United Nations, he notes wryly, hasn't even noticed anything's happening. Of course not – Madagascar is insignificant, poor, and not in bed with any particular global power. (Well, except for him. But that fact isn't exactly on the UN's circular.)
A media blackout, then; and he hates to do it because of the fear it will bring down on the people, but it'll be necessary in the scramble – the military coup will go on as planned, but a call for an emergency election will go out first, and all the reports will be of a corrupt government with his private forces striking first and being valiantly, decisively subdued. Simple in theory, and the ease in which he explains it to the generals and admirals in the Malagasy war room betrays just how delicate and vicious of an operation it will be. He watches each man and notes who looks eager, who looks serious, and who looks more like they think he's insane. They're free to think that, of course; people have and will continue to think so for a very long time, and maybe he is – his ambition and daring nature is too much for most men. (Women, not so much – women smile and curl their nails closer, vicious and knife-sharp, his mother's blessing bleeding through.)
“You'll plunge Antananarivo into endless night,” murmurs Rivasoa, his Africa-based assistant. She isn't Tina, but she's getting there. Her nails clack quietly along the edge of the table as work begins, the room illuminated with computer screens and the hum of satellite phone conferences filling the air. He wonders if it's a habit of all battle-ready women.
“No,” he says, “Just a long one.”
“And you'll bring the dawn?”
He half-smiles at her as he flips through his PDA. “That's the point.”
Rivasoa smiles in return, tight-lipped to try and hide how amused she is. “Who are you calling?”
“I'm firing the contractors who were supposed to be here last week. I think they're dead, anyway.”
“Dead?” She doesn't look startled, just curious.
“I'd heard they were involved in something shady – for them, which means something utterly unforgivable - on the mainland and that they might not be trustworthy...” a shrug. “But they were the only ones willing to work in a rush. Now, however.” He holds up his phone and smiles, almost coy. “I can backhack the people who put the hit out on them and find someone much better.”
“You're a concerning man, sometimes.”
Alexander laughs quietly. It only unsettles a few men in the room – the rest already love him like only soldiers can, taking comfort and finding strength in the joy and pride the monster holding the reins of their storm exhibits.