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The Incident

Those things were loud; loud and big. They were hard to start and, in some cases, almost impossible to stop. And if they didn't when they were supposed to, people got hurt and killed...

Livio's parents had had a hard time making him finish high school; it was eventually his driving instructor that made a good case of it, pointing out that these days one needed a diploma of some sort even to work as a truck driver. The wiry boy nodded, winced, barely said a word and got his GED fifteen days later, then finished the year anyway so that his folks could go home with pictures of his graduation.

Two years later, he'd been from Portugal to Russia, seen more life than most of his acquaintances who went to college ever would, and learned the rudiments of five languages and the common insults of ten. He lived in his truck seven days a week, living on canned food and moving whatever he had to for anyone who would hire him -- always people, his father's experience having warned him away from signing up with big companies -- until he managed to pay off the entire loan for the vehicle. He was still wiry, but he'd developed the understated sort of muscles that truck drivers, construction workers and dockhands use to get things done and beat up the occasional gym dandy or steroid freak. Rather than waiting until his next job took him in the vicinity, Livio went straight home and proudly announced to his parents, "I am a free man now": from him, it was almost a speech. His sister took a picture of him holding the title to the truck, and his mother hung it next to the one with the diploma.

Those things were fast and stupid, they had a lot of momentum; that was their strength, and their danger. And they always attracted more police attention that was warranted -- of course, for some people it was part of the fun...

Nina lived in one of those small happy Alpine countries that American filmmakers who'd never even been there decide to base chick flicks in because it's better than making a country up. She was in high school during the Dot Com boom, and learned websites. She was a freshman in college when 9/11 happened, and sent care packages to random soldiers in Afghanistan half of which were confiscated along the way because they contained wine. She had transferred over to a college in the USA for a few months when Iraq happened, and became a political activist.

Her great accomplishment in life up to then was a simple, effective piece of communication infrastructure that she'd helped develop during an internship somewhere in Italy, that allowed transportation workers to quickly find work locally, as long as they had at least a basic cell phone with them. Her ecologically-minded soul caused her to work nights and weekends on that project, and although she never saw a dime in royalties, the system was slowly but steadily decreasing the percentage of empty trucks on the road by making sure they were doing useful work on all legs of their trips.

Her family, all thirty or so of them, had to threaten her with disownment to make sure she wouldn't drop out of college in protest after the sitting President won reelection in what she was sure had been a rigged event; she got her degree, ripped her visa in half, threw it at a military recruiter who honestly had no idea what was it with the crazy diminutive girl with the sharp accent, and flew home.

Home had changed. One of the first things she saw in one of her country's two airports was the "Welcome to New Europe" banner, in English, festooned across the arrivals terminal. Nina had relied on her family for news, getting letters (actual paper letters!) from her grandmother with newspaper scraps in them; to avoid upsetting her, they'd edited out enough recent history that even her math major's brain could not piece things together.

There hadn't been a coup or anything of that magnitude, although the startled newsstand operator might have thought one was happening right there when she shouted at him to tell her what was going on. Simply, the US air force had lobbied for the use of an old WW2-era airfield as a staging area, and ended up building a permanent base around it -- Nina's country was among the minor members of the "coalition of the willing", with all the economic benefit and diplomatic tiptoeing that it implied. The fact that today's headline read that, with the recent "surge" planned in Washington, guest US forces outnumbered the national defense unit three to one to one didn't help. Nina wasn't kicked out of the airport solely because the newspaper man managed to calm her down.

For Livio, all that had changed is that the small Alpine valley -- previously off-limits to most diesel trucks thanks to a surprisingly good light rail system and a somewhat excessively ecologically minded government -- now let him through; as in a few other places, he'd have to watch out for the occasional jeep full of off-duty soldiers who had the unearthly power to dismiss police if they got involved in minor accidents. Like most in his trade, he adapted to the situation quickly, bought a CB that handled their frequencies, and used the change to his advantage.

Nina had been trying to find steady work for a couple of months now, making do with designing Web pages and working on a paper on statistical analysis to bolster her resume. She'd fit back in with small-town life with relative ease, although after a bout of curiosity about the kid who'd gone overseas her family and friends found her remarkably more bitter than she'd left them. There were always a few youths outside the base gate holding signs -- two to six years younger than her, on average, which made Nina everyone's big sister considering that she was the one making an effort to keep things organized -- and low-key political activism had become the focus of her creativity. While Nina's parents disapproved as they knew she'd never go into politics full time and the work was not generating anything that would help her career, her older folks figured that it was healthy for somebody her age to take an interest. It was fairly harmless; on occasion, off-duty airmen would play pranks on the protesters and they would retaliate. The sumer's tally had been one egg battle, three Super Soaker fights, one soccer grudge match grudgingly sponsored by the base command inside the fence, and a grand total of fifteen dates between members of the enemy camps. Ecentually people over thirty, while still as untrustworthy as they'd been in the late sixties, by and large figured that there were much worse spots for politically buzzed kids to hang out -- and keep an eye on the younger boys, who'd ignore the politics and congregate as close as they could get to the runway to watch the airplanes come and go.

"As you know, we are ramping up operations; this base is on the primary supply route, and we are expecting a visit from an administration official, possibly even the Secretary of State, en route to the Middle East for a diplomatic tour." The new base commander was somewhat younger than the old, who had officially retired hours ago at a small ceremony and was now going to enjoy three weeks of vacation courtesy of the local government before flying Stateside.
"Yessir." The quartermaster, on the other hand, hadn't changed and probably wasn't going to -- he was the most experienced officer that spoke the language, and his new boss was known to be a pragmatist.
"I understand that the local population is planning a rally just outside the base's main entrance. My predecessor has taken great care to operate this base smoothly, and I intend to do the same. We may just be a small cog in the machine here, but we serve an important function and the best way to keep doing that is to keep at it while causing as small an amount of fuss as possible."
"Yessir." While the quartermaster had heard the new commander was a firm believer of stiffness in regulations, so far he'd been positively impressed -- in the few years this base had been active, it'd taken on a reputation as a vacation spot: the countryside was likeable, and the locals -- while retaining their middle-european coldness -- were unfailingly polite to servicemembers, and even friendly with those who had the good sense of letting themselves be seen without the uniform. "We used to have a few protests a while back, but it's mostly simmered down by now, and there haven't been any incidents for about a year." That wasn't quite true; there had been dozens of "incidents", but who would bother writing a report over water balloon fights between gate guards and people who were ostensibly there to oppose the base's existence?
"Schedule a meeting with local law enforcement, we will need their support to make sure this spotless record isn't marred. I had your job at a base in Rome before I came here, and we had to cordon our perimeter a few times... forty officers of theirs and forty of ours should do the job."
"Sir, were you given the PR briefing when you came in? Local law enforcement consists of three full-time officers and eighteen firefighters and emergency medical technicians who double as deputies when required."
"Then talk to the county seat, or province, or whatever these people have here! Get to it. I looked outside and it's mostly a bunch of teenagers anyway. Get a couple of IFVs prepped and shined up, the kids will probably be too busy to gawp at our rigs to cause any trouble, but I don't want to be off to a bad start here!"
"Yessir. We'll have a response early tomorrow." The quartermaster saluted and left, figuring that overall it was a reasonably good way to deal with it -- the only problem being that, given the small size of the country they were in, he'd have to ask for a police detail directly to the national government.

"Guys! Look here." Nina felt a little ridiculous. Here she was, twenty-six years old, with a math degree, planning pranks inside a clubhouse. Sure, this particular clubhouse had a peace flag in front of it and a few posters from the local Green and Social Democrat party in it (and that red-and-black picture of Che Guevara; why does every other activist in the world have to have one? Is it an unwritten rule?), but most of the people inside were maybe five years away from playing army with wooden sticks, if that. Her initial political enthusiasm gone after realizing that most of the US soldiers stationed at the base were people trying to pay for college because their government was stingier with scholarships than hers, Nina now saw herself mainly as a moderator, making sure that none of her mostly teenaged "comrades" got in serious trouble. However, the brief layover visit of a high-ranking official gave her a push to work up some indignation again -- the slick-haired, dark-skinned lady who despite recent scandals in her homeland was still Secretary of State was one of the people who had actual responsibility for the current Middle East mess.
After waiting for the six people currently in the room to gather around the table, Nina translated the article for those who couldn't read English, skipping over the details. "She's going to be here in five days, and is actually worth making noise over. Franz, is your band still available? I know we can't pay you guys, but..."
"Don't worry about it, if we can round up some people, it's good exposure. Plus, we just got a new amplifier and speakers, and trying them out outdoors sounds great!" Franz was a big kid who looked much older than his eighteen years; his claim to local fame was having carried two kids home one on each shoulder after they got separated from their group and broke their skis last winter, which had netted him free ski-lift rides for a year at the resort just uphill of the town and a general grudging tolerance of his atrocious keyboard playing.
"If we're setting up a concert we'll have to get a generator and lights there. Actually, if you want to use the new speakers, we'll need both our generators and a few batteries... that's a lot of stuff, and it takes time to set up." Matias was a freshman electrical engineering student home for the summer, and had been aching to show off his electrician's skills ever since by general consensus his plan to mess with the base's radars by means of a homemade Tesla coil was nixed by his friends as too dangerous.
"That's a thing. I bet that they will actually have some security out this time around, so we need something easy to move away if we don't want to lose our equipment. They do have water cannons." Franz knew that by experience -- during the first water fight, one of the airmen 'cheated' by convincing a mechanic to bring a decommissioned firefighting truck out and firing it at quarter pressure towards what at the time were still seen as potentially dangerous protesters, hitting the bulky Franz and soaking him to his ears. The other kids in the room laughed good-naturedly at his concern.
"Why don't we hire a truck? We have a foldable flatbed trailer in the workshop, it just needs to be put back together and one new tire. I'll have to tell Tomas, though..." This was Annika, who contrary to genetics was barely decent with a lathe but quite talented with watercolors, and whose all-important fifth date with PFC Tomas Rodriguez would likely have to be canceled due to the politician's arrival.
"That's going to be expensive to get a truck driver on such short notice, though" Matias pointed out. The group didn't have any favors to call in from truckers, simply on account of not knowing any -- big rigs were not a common sight this far into the mountains until the base opened up, and nobody they knew from their town or the places where a few of the ersatz activists had gone to school had taken that career.
Nina smirked and regaled her younger friend with a master conspirator's expression for a second. "Not at all, I think I can handle that. Now, I think the first thing we need to do is look at that trailer and see if Nikola's drums are going to fit on it..."

There were rumors about bombing Iran; there were rumors about bombing Syria; there were rumors about some crazy lady named Anna Smith or something who'd ended her unremarkable life unremarkably, but had made a lot of money in life by marrying a rich man and was thus somehow newsworthy. Livio picked up a copy of USA Today from the gas station's newspaper rack (those had started appearing a little later than the American soldiers did, which suited him just fine because it helped him practice English without having to wait for a job that got him across the Chunnel) and started going through it as he ate his krafen. A leaflet inside the paper announced a new base commander and a small ceremony internal to the base as the old one retired. Livio barely looked at it. Being at the tail end of a flour delivery, he turned on his cell phone for long enough to let it synchronize with the automatic transport controller, and made a quick call to the first of the four local jobs that it proposed to negotiate terms. He'd been an early adopter of the system: it worked, the monthly fee was tiny, and it gave him a lot of freedom as to whether to stay in a place he liked for a little longer between long hauls, while still making money and meeting people. Well, what do you know? He'd have to go just a short distance, and deliver something right outside the base. Making a point of at least trying to study languages as he traveled definitely paid off. The delivery was marked "electronics", and "high priority"; Livio figured that it was something for the base itself, and he'd have to help transfer the cargo to a military truck. He hoped the security nonsense wouldn't take too long.

"This is absolutely unacceptable!"
"Sir, I don't see it as a big deal. We are getting fifteen military police officers, after all. That is about one percent of their entire armed forces!" So much for the reputation for levelheadedness; why was the commander so worried about this visit? He'd been given an extremely easy assignment as it was, and had too many years under his belt and too few distinctions in service to try and make a career out of it. The quartermaster resolved to look into his boss' public record after this meeting-- it was, after all, part of his job.
"Didn't you read their brief? It's a damn honor guard, they're useless! We'll just have to step up security ourselves. Cancel leave for all our MPs. And remind the gate and perimeter guards that they are absolutely forbidden from stepping out of bounds unless it's to stop an intruder! Can you believe I found one of our men frenching a girl through a hole in the fence during my morning run? When did this turn into a summer camp?"
"Well sir, these people haven't had a war in four centuries." The quartermaster sighed inwardly. What he just said wasn't technically true: during World War II the small republic, then a principality, had been briefly invaded by a German infantry division for all of three days during a transfer to southern France. According to local history, the people of this area dealt with it by removing a few signs so that the Germans didn't even realize they had gone right through a whole different country during their march.
The base commander harrumphed. "Good for them, certainly, but this doesn't really help us any! I do expect trouble, Frank. These people have no notion of security. Someone from the outside might try something."
"Yessir. I realize I'm not part of the security detail, but if you want a suggestion, I'd just make a few phone calls to the hotel and restaurant proprietors around here... you know, ask who just came into town. People here value privacy, but my impression is that they value gossip a lot more." The quartermaster knew first hand; he had pulled rank to bring her wife over on the Air Force's dime, and in the first week she'd found out about the local culture and social scene more than the security people ever did, and told him about it more than he ever wanted to know.
The base commander smiled. "Duly noted; good idea, actually. Since we're stuck with the toy soldiers, we better make sure we display them prominently, at least... deal with it and keep them out of my sight, will you?"
"Right, sir."
After his subordinate left, the commander left a message to the head of military police. "Joe? This is Bill Boykin, XO. I want you to take five men who know the language and interview all the hostels restaurants around here, tonight and tomorrow night. Full uniform, we're not damn covert ops, but bring some bugs just in case. Start with the halal places, if there's any." Reminding himself that he didn't need a secretary to wipe his nose, the base commander got a slim phone directory out of a drawer and looked for the local police's non-emergency number. At least out of practicality, he'd best tell them that they were going to have to step security up and the locals were expected to cooperate.

High school and college students have an inborn talent for getting everything done at the last minute; even as the base stepped up security as a matter of course, the fence guards found that the usual gaggle of teenagers milling around each given day would be greatly reduced, even absent in some cases. Joseph Redfield's men reported that the only new visitors in town were a number of German backpackers, an Italian trucker, and a Swiss gentleman who was on a high-altitude skiing holiday, came down this side of the mountains and hadn't even realized he was in a different country.
Few flyers were posted; the concert was organized almost entirely through cellphone text messages and a message board courtesy of the local internet provider. Livio was paid in advance, and found the job rather amusing given what he'd expected; after taking the money, he invested part of it in offering lunch to Nina and the band.
When the airplane landed, a sleek corporate-type jet rather than the grey-paint transports that had become a common sight, only two middle school kids were milling about at the point outside the fence closest to the runway; even with the heightened security, fence guards figured they were there to look at the airplanes -- if anything, there were fewer of them than usual. One of them sent a text message...

By the time the politician's airplane had reached the end of the runway, a few minutes later, people had... well, appeared, mostly from right behind the nearby hills. Almost all of them were young, friends of Nina's group, and friends of friends; a few came in cars, and quickly unpacked their gear from the trunks -- ice cream and beer coolers, a small electric wurstel grille, a few signs that were quickly picked up. To top it all off, Livio's truck moved gracefully through the low grass and parked sideways to the runway, just outside the "restricted area" signs a few meters from the fence.
Franz's band had climbed on for the last segment of the ride, Matias quickly hooking the audio system to the generator and batteries before getting off to help Livio unhitch the trailer; the music, a decent effort at 80s style heavy metal rather than the hippie fare that one might have expected, completely obscured the small generators' engines.
The gate guards, two of them, were fairly dumbfounded -- upon seeing the truck, one started radioing an alert, but noticed that the vehicle had stopped. Nevertheless, he was asked to report; he quickly explained to his superior what was going on.
"I have to give it to these kids, they're organized" Joseph mused. While they weren't doing anything disruptive as such, it didn't make his department look good; the native honor guard had been asked to stand on the runway and salute the incoming dignitary, and while his own men were providing more than adequate cover, there wasn't much they could do -- the impromptu concert was being held at a safe distance, although the speakers had been obviously aimed at the plane rather than at the audience. He thought quickly -- how best to deal with it?
"Maintenance? I'll need to borrow the backup fire engine..."

Minutes into the concert, the old fire truck that had been broken out during one of the water fights slowly made its way towards the band, having exited the base by another gate; the driver, moving deceptively slowly, let everyone consider his vehicle harmless until he kicked third gear in and started spraying water at full force.
"Stop! Go away!" The water cannon was inexhorably aiming itself at the trailer; those in the audience who had figured it was time to disperse had already done so, about thirty or forty people had haphazardly formed a cordon behind the trailer. Nina jumped up the trailer platform and snatched the microphone from a fairly confused Werner, directing his plea alternately at whoever was operating the modified firetruck and those in the audience that had decided to hold fast. What she knew is that high-pressure water and high-voltage electricity really didn't mix; there was a definite chance of somebody getting hurt beyond a few bruises. "STOP! Get away from here!" Nina was frantic; she didn't know which way to turn. Nikola finally got the hint, and jumped off the platform after grabbing his sticks and ride cymbal.
She couldn't see Livio anywhere... until she could; his truck came to life and in a few slow-motion seconds positioned itself between the trailer and the water-cannon truck; the military vehicle simply evaded, taking the longer route. Livio copied the move, giving his own truck a thorough washing and getting close enough for the water jet to peel some paint off; as far as Nina could see, even as she was running around to unplug cables as the rest of the band grabbed their instruments and left, he was trying to stall the fire engine until it ran out of water.
The riot truck's driver caught on after the second attempt, and decided to just charge the trailer; Nina and Franz were still on it. The generators were still running. Livio didn't wince, or curse to himself; he simply looked around, decided on a course of action, and followed through with the same determination he did everything else -- the collision between the two vehicles was far from lethal or even dangerous, happening at maybe twenty kilometers per hour, but the water jet broke Livio's windshield and sprayed him with glass fragments even as he ducked to roll out of the cabin.

People with guns showed up just as rapidly as the flash mob had, the excuse they were waiting for having come; the claimed, to nobody in particular, that the incident had happened within the base perimeter. Nina was politely led inside the base by two female guards; Livio was dragged out of his truck, and fought with one of the MPs for a few moments before another knocked him out with the butt of a rifle. Franz was led away from Nina by two more soldiers, both of which were simply slammed into each other before the sound of a machine gun being armed led the large young man to follow his friends in retreat.

During the entire incident, the Secretary of State hadn't even dismounted from the plane, although she did take the opportunity to take a nap. The next day came shrouded in the thick fog that sometimes forms between a cold and a warm spell; it was the sort of climate that made one want to stay home, and the few who felt like fighting that were too depressed or scared to do so. Nina's parents visited the mayor and the chief of police, and were told that nobody from the base had contacted them yet other than to tell them that the collision had happened on base property, and was therefore their responsibility; Nina's friends spent most of the day online, few wanting to talk face to face but most wanting to regroup.

By the following day, the guards had all been replaced; there were six rather than two, all conspicuously carried M16's rather than just their sidearms, and -- most importantly -- none of them knew anybody in town; Kiara had to repeat her greeting three times before her heavy accent got through to any of the MPs on duty.
"Er... this is a what?"
"Tis is a declarasioun of wor. Teke it tu yor lider!"
The Officer of the Day took over from there by letting his current subordinates keep an eye on the stout young woman in front of them and taking the envelope she had brought with her; it wasn't sealed and it had no address, so he just opened it and read. Inside was a piece of heavy drafting paper that had been meticulously painted -- by hand, as far as he could tell -- to look like parchment. At the bottom was a seal that he didn't recognize, but looked remarkably official. The text, in good English, was flawlessly calligraphed in.

"To the Leader of this Force:
Two Days ago, your Soldiers perpetrated an Illegal Incursion in our Sovereign Territory, and Abducted a Free Citizen of this Free Nation, as well as her Guest.
We the People of this Proud Valley, given to Us by the Divine Architect since Before History Began, find you Guilty of a Gross Violation of their Privacy and the Sanctity of their Life, not to Mention our Bond of Trust by which We let you in as Our Guests.
Should the Captives not be Released in a Timely Fashion,
and a Personal Apology not be Rendered by the Leader of your Forces,
We will Consider our Selves to be in a State of WAR with you, and Vow to Drive you from Our Land,
that the World may See that no Bond of Trust and Hospitality may be Broken Impunely."

Inside the envelope a bundle of ordinary sheets of paper held a long list of printed names and signatures -- a few people had even penciled in their addresses. This looked like another stupid prank to the officer, until Kiara spoke again.
"Teke it tu yor lider, or errest mi. Dun't just stend ther!". With the quiet imperiousness of an elementary school teacher, she'd pushed off the two soldiers next to her and was now standing in front of their superior -- the officer, taken by surprise, moved his hand as if to reach for his sidearm before thinking better of it.
"Right... Well, if you want to go all the way with this. Ms. Jackson, would you accompany her to the base commander's office? Thanks". The only female guard at the gate neatly folded the envelope back up, and put down Kiara's hands as she held them out to be handcuffed. "That's really not necessary, just stay in front of me and go where I say. The commander's office is beside the control tower, we can just take a walk." Kiara, still looking as serious as she would when scolding first graders, did as instructed.

"Please tell me this is a joke. Do you want to be arrested too? Do you have any idea what could happen if I for some crazy reason decided to take this seriously?" Colonel Boykin had read the declaration twice, and went through the list of signatures -- at first he intended to just kick the girl out and forward it to the local police department, then realized that given the size of the list it must have contained the names of just about everybody within a twenty-mile radius of the base; it was organized by village, and the different degrees of wear on each sheet lent it an aura of authenticity.
During the few minutes it took him to read it -- in his opinion, it paid to be thorough -- the stocky young woman stood in front of his desk looking straight ahead despite the female MP's suggestions that she sit down. Boykin looked up a few times to regale her with a glare from his old drill sergeant days, but Kiara simply returned it amplified by her obviously Teutonic facial features. Eventually, the base commander put down the list.
"I em a messenger and heve dilivered mi message. If yu want to perley wit our commender, yu can du so in the field. We are a peceful piople, and will esk yu to leave une more time."
A yellow light on Boykin's phone started blinking.
"In the field? Look, kid. We're an United States Air Force base, here with the permission of your government. If your friends are at the gate when I let you go, tell them that they have thirty minutes to go away or I'm going to have them rounded up and I'll be damned if they don't spend the rest of the summer in our brig before I let them go!"

Kiara tilted her head a little, and thought for a few seconds. "I will diliver your messege as well. Mey we not heve to fight." She even finished with a bow.
Gesturing the MP to lead Kiara away, the base commander was surprised when his visitor deliberately put her hand inside her blouse and -- the MP reacted flawlessly, her sidearm aimed at Kiara's head with a "Hands up!" shout before he even had time to duck. A suicide charge? Hidden pistol? He had never seen any of the natives with firearms other than hunting rifles, not even the policemen...
Kiara's hands went over her head just as deliberately. "We are not barberians, General. Miss, pleese reech in for mi? I had anuther messege."
"It's Colonel, actually." After regaining his composure, Boykin gestured for the MP to search Kiara.
The second message was, in fact, an antique arrow -- a crossbow dart to be specific, made of tempered steel with wooden fins. It was obviously ceremonial; the tip had been rounded, and a finely chiseled inscription was around the length. The base commander harrumphed. "Private, escort this young lady back outside, please. Excellent reflexes for the record, what's your name?"
"Melody Webb, sir." She'd already holstered her sidearm.

The two women were already outside when a red light started blinking on Boykin's telephone; anything really important would just have come through to the speakerphone, and the commander wanted to figure out what was on the arrow -- it might have been important; the artifact looked old and expensive, and therefore out of the reach of a bunch of high school and college students. If they'd stolen it, returning it would smooth relations out with the locals. He called out to his secretary. "This looks a lot like German, can you read this?"
"I can try, sir."
Boykin let his secretary work on it for a few moments. "Centuries... undefeated... next time... something about brotherhood, or society...."

The speakerphone came alive, interrupting the two. "Sir, this is Officer of the Day Jackson at gate two. Sorry for the interruption, but you absolutely have to come look at this!" An alarm siren started and the warning lights came on in the office, but returned to "stand down" a few seconds later as the siren wound down. What was going on?
"Get a security detail here ASAP, full battle dress, two with a loaded clip of dummy rounds. Raise someone at regional command on a secure line, but don't freak them out, okay? We may have a riot situation, I'm going to go try and talk some sense to these people."
"Sir, I think you should get your Kevlar vest."
"That's exactly what I'm going to do. Knock when the security detail is here." If these kids want to play medieval warriors, Boykin thought, he might as well show up at the head of his forces, such as they were. Since he had to get into that sort of spirit, the last thing he wanted was for anyone to see how he had to struggle to fit his paunch into the bulletproof vest.

Boykin quickly got inside the Humvee, surrounded by five MPs in battle fatigue; to his surprise, the usual low-level trailing of airmen and maintenance personnel that pervaded the base was almost absent. Smiling to himself, he figured that the men had heard the alert siren go off and were locking sensitive equipment down just in case.
"Okay, let's just drive to gate two. You two have dummy rounds, right?" the commander asked to two of the soldiers in the back seat.
"Yessir."
"If and when I snap my finger, I want you to step forward and empty it, shoot at person height. Ham it up a little, have you seen Scarface?"
The MPs grinned to each other. "Yes sir!"
"Everyone else, don't do anything stupid, please. This isn't Iraq, I doubt we'll see anybody trying to be a martyr. However, if any of them does do anything, single shot and aim for the legs. We're not playing frisbee anymore."

What Boykin had expected to see was a bunch of teenagers wielding renaissance-faire swords and crossbows and, maybe, wearing kilts and facepaint.
The kilts were there, mostly in the first row, all dark blue rather than in the colorful tartan designs. The swords were there, family heirlooms mostly from the look of them, and so were the crossbow -- a few, of modern design. What the Colonel hadn't expected was the number of people.

Gate two of the base was in a corner, and fully a quarter of the base perimeter was surrounded by what the commander guessed must have been every man within twenty miles, and quite a number of women and older children. Most of the younger people were wearing motorcycle helmets; some had shields, ranging from trashcan covers to plexiglass panels. Peeking out from the forest of heads were what looked like war horns, at least one broadcast radio antenna, and a few trucks and vans -- he glanced at one van that had somehow ended up in the first rows; from the sign, somebody was selling wurstels and beer out of it. He had the Humvee parked right behind the gate. "Sir, shall we deploy?"

"No, let's just get out, keep the engine running and the weapons out of sight for now. Is the megaphone on this rig going to reach them?"
"Yessir." The driver reached down and started fiddling with what Boykin guessed were the controls for it.
"Excellent, hook it up and hand it over to me."

With remarkable agility for his age, the Colonel climbed on the Humvee's hood and ended up standing on the roof of it, the megaphone at his feet. As he crouched to get the microphone connected to it from the cabin, a loud thump hit the ground and his ears. He stood up, and was rewarded with another, then another -- the last time, he could see that the crowd outside was banging things together -- weapons, shields, their own feet on the ground. The coordination they displayed while doing so worried him somewhat, but he took it as an invitation to speak.

"People! This is an United States Air Force installation, and the land on which it sits was duly leased from your government! You have my word that Miss Nina Kund is well cared for, in good spirit and will be released as soon as you disperse! Please, return home! Let's try to not cause an international incident!" Boykin spoke slowly and clearly to compensate for the megaphone's distortion; he knew that maybe half the crowd spoke some English, and would translate for the others; he noticed the movement in the crowd.

To Boykin's surprise, the answer came in the form of what he guessed was a guitar amplifier, hastily wired to a microphone and held up by a very bulky young man.
"What of her friend, the trucker?" A woman's voice had answered, with a cultured British accent that reminded the Colonel of his grade school principal.

"He attacked one of our vehicles. He will be taken to the United States and receive a fair trial! He isn't even from here. We will release him to the Italian government!" Letting the young man go as well would have looked too much like capitulation; the sovereignity of US bases was an important point that had to be made. While Boykin wasn't too sure that the young man had in fact been inside the base when the collision happened, in his opinion the point of whose interpretation had priority in borderline cases also had to be made.

The loudspeaker answered something in that German-French-Italian hybrid dialect that stumped Boykin's secretary earlier, then translated for the Americans' benefits.
"The trucker defends our people and you drag him to Guantanamo! Let him go and leave!"
What followed was the rumble of maybe twenty thousand people shouting at the same time, saturating every tone in the voice spectrum.

The Colonel figured that explaining to this mob how military prisons worked was not something to be done right there and then, and thought for a moment. He had to talk it through with somebody sensible, obviously... the base was not in obvious danger from these people, but the last thing he wanted on his record was the attention civilian casualties in Europe would bring.
"I wish to parley! I'm coming out on foot, with two men!"

The answering voice was the same. "I am the mayor of this town and this circondari. You have your parley. We're coming out with ten men, you have automatic weapons!" The old lady sounded fairly sure of herself -- Boykin knew that his two MPs could have loaded the live ammo and mowed down ten people even if they were armed, but he guessed it was the look of the thing.

"Agreed!"

Boykin carefully dismounted from the Humvee, ordered two MPs to follow him and the driver to keep the engine idling and be ready for an extraction run, and started walking across the grass at a brisk pace. He saw a small group of people do the same from the opposite camp, after some shuffling.

The Colonel had expected the mayor to bring along either uniformed police or, if she was as loopy as the rest of these people, big hairy guys in Celtic warrior garb; instead, what was following her looked like a single family. Possibly Nina's? He hoped so; it would be easy to talk some sense into them. The opposing group had to walk at the slower pace of a white-haired lady; he slowed down as well, not wanting to start the talks too close to the crowd.

The two groups met halfway, the mayor -- a Teutonic matron in her early fifties, definitely not a little old lady by anybody's standards -- stopping the rest of her group and taking the last few steps by herself. Behind her, one of the boys that followed her was setting up an old-fashioned field radio.

"I am USAF Colonel William Boykin, in charge of this installation by agreement of our two governments."
"I am Karina Soldai, mayor of this town and by tradition seneschal of this circundari, by choice of the people who own it and live in it. We know this base is used by your military as, among other things, a rest stop in the evacuation of your wounded. Let our young woman and our young man go, and we will allow you to continue in that function." The woman spoke English perfectly and measured her diction with a caliber; Boykin was temporarily stumped.
"Ma'am, rest assured that we will release Miss Kund as soon as your people disperse! As for Mr. Oboti, first of all he is not a citizen of this country, and the Italian government hasn't contacted us yet. Second, there are rules--"
"There are rules. One of them is to understand reality; another is to act upon it. We both know that he acted in defense of our young men and women, and we both know that the pretext by which you hold him is simply not factual; we have our own video footage, and our own forensic experts, Mr. Boykin. And we would release our data to you while you wouldn't release yours to us."
"I... I understand that, but we have procedures I must follow, and... look, don't you think we can compromise? This thing has snowballed enough as it is, hasn't it? What about your government, would your people really be prepared to go to war with the United States over two people? One of them isn't even your citizen!"
The mayor listed calmly to Boykin. "We have kept our independence since the Bronze Age, Mr. Boykin. Sometimes we have done so by force, others by guile, others by bending with the wind so we wouldn't break. We made a choice each time, and we made the right choice every time. You are from a young culture; throughout your history you've always relied on wielding the biggest stick. We are very small; do you think your stick is nimble enough to even hit us? If you do, let the Divine Architect uphold the right. I have nothing further to say to you."

So said, the mayor took a few steps back and rejoined the people she'd brought along; moments later, the echo from the loudspeaker that had broadcast the exchange to the rest of the crow died. Boykin expected arguments in the crowd, or maybe a roar of defiance; what he got was silence, enough to hear the wind whistle. Exhasperated, he motioned for his soldiers to be ready and walked in front of the small group.

"We are an Air Force base! We have gunships and jeeps with machine guns! We could land enough tanks to flatten your town to dust in two days! What are you people going to do, storm our gates? And then what? This isn't a medieval castle! Look, just let it go. You'll have your girl back in a few days and probably that other guy in a few months, too. Madam Mayor, you're right. We're big. So why are you trying to make us mad? Even if your national government supports this craziness... whoever heard of you? I bet people a hundred miles from here don't even know what your country is called! Think about it. Let's even say that we do have this silly 'war'. We won't even have to fire a shot, we can just keep landing people in here until we crowd you out! You keep going on about your ancient culture, do you really think it will survive that? This can go two ways, and I'm not counting the one by which I have you mowed down, because we're not bastards like that."

Boykin stopped to catch his breath; other than the mayor and one of her men finishing the translation for the rest of the group, there was silence. Maybe he had an audience to make his point to, now.
"One, we forget about this stupidity, you go home, we go back to base, and in a year everything's back to normal. Two, we really do escalate this. We'll drive you away, use the state of war as an excuse to install a permanent base -- I know the top brass has been wanting one in this region -- and build up and out. In ten years everyone around here will use dollars to buy groceries and in thirty you'll have to speak to your kids in English or they won't understand you! Is that what you want? Do you really want to go to war like that?"

The Colonel stopped again, noticing the group was talking among themselves; from what he could judge, he hit the right chord this time. This time, a man stepped forward -- just that little shorter and wider than Boykin, but somewhat less overweight.

"My name is Kristian. Nina is my daughter; I would go to war for her, even by myself."

He was joined by a woman in the mayor's group who hadn't said a word so far, and who sported a much thicker accent; she was taller and thinner, with Slavic blue eyes and Mediterranean dark hair.

"My name is Alina. I would go to war for my daughter, and my husband."

Boykin looked at the rest of the group clearing their throat, or mouthing under their breath what they were going to say, and realized what was coming.

"I'm Tito. Leave my big sister alone! And Mom and Dad, too!"

"I am called Elka. I will fight for my son. And my grandchildren."

"Name is Gudrin. These are here, my neighbours. I will stand with them."

By then people were walking across the grass -- not charging, just converging to the meeting point. Most of them had put their weapons down; all Boykin could see in their hands were some of the improvised shields. From behind the group, loud voices were calling.

"I'm Aldo! Kristian is great employee and great friend, and I don't want lose him!"

"Grandfather Kund was a doctor, he saved my wife's leg after she fell into a ravine! Our family will go with theirs."

"Nina's friend hasn't paid me for his truck repairs yet! Let him go."

The mayor politely walked around Nina's family, a faint smile on her face. Her voice was noticeably softer. "These people put their trust in me by electing me. I must stand by them. All of them."

The next voice came from behind Boykin, to his surprise; his soldiers had noticed the newcomers a few steps away, but reasoned he wasn't an immediate threat.

"Sir, I am PFC Tomas Rodriguez. If you want me to go to war with my girlfriend, I would like to file for immediate discharge on grounds of objection of conscience." He wasn't wearing his sidearm.
Annika was on his side almost instantly. "Besides, we will have plenty of time to fight each other after we move together!" she added.

Behind Tomas was what Boykin figured out was a local boy in fatigues three sizes too large, similar enough to US standard issue but without any markings.

"I'm Matias and... well, first off I really like Nina, although she thinks I'm too young for her, and... uhm, I wired your base's PA system to our radio. Hope I didn't break anything." The teenager was grinning manically, the chance to hack into military hardware something he'd spent countless movie-induced daydreams fantasizing about. Looking left and right, he awkwardly jogged off to the back of the growing group.

More people were identifying themselves, some in English and some in the local language, but Boykin wasn't listening any more; he turned around, seeing two jeeps park just inside of the base gate and the troops carried in them dismount and start walking towards the meeting point. The mayor was looking at him; she got right up to the officer.

"Congratulations for defusing an international crisis, Mr. Boykin. Rest assured that our own press will give you all the credit you deserve."

The Colonel got the hint, and waited for the mayor to step back before clearing his throat. "Ah, very well. I acknowledge your declaration of war, and... request an immediate mutual cessation of hostilities. Men, stand down."
"Request accepted and agreed to, Colonel." Tha mayor leaned forward and said something into the radio, which resulted in scattered cheers and the vans carrying the food slowly moving forward.

The handshake between the two was photographed by any number of cell phones; Boykin found Mayor Soldai's handshake surprisingly ladylike, considering her healthy heft.
"As an aside, a lot of us skipped a few meals to get ready for this. We did bring plenty of provisions along, perhaps your men would like to help us set up camp and share in? It's a nice day for it."
Boykin stifled a smile. "We'll both have to make sure nobody gets too drunk, I guess."
The mayor gave him a laugh that for a moment made her look twenty years younger. "The burden of command, eh?"

There were a few fights, even a swordfight after a local amateur fencer found his opposite number among the airmen and they both decided they were sober enough to have a go at each other; but it was the sort that happens at any large gathering where men somewhat outnumber women and there's a sufficient amount of alcohol available. By mid-afternoon, it was obvious that common will had declared a holiday; in front of the main gate an experiment to hybridize soccer and football was going horribly but entertainingly wrong, the base pantry had been thrown open, and the radar operator that had to go back to work had done so without locking their doors and were sharing tech tips with the few local ham radio enthusiasts.

The Mayor and the colonel figured amongst themselves it would be best if she went to let the two prisoners out; Livio had been very uncooperative the first day, to the point of guards having to remove his steel-toed boots because he was trying to kick the lock open and, through sheer dogmindedness, beginning to succeed at it.
The brig had small, high-up windows that were sufficient to let in slices of sunlight but did not allow to see anything outside. The guards had joined everybody else, one of them having had the presence of mind to leave a note explaining that they weren't sure whether to just open the doors or not, decided to go look for their commanding officer just in case, and the maintenance password for the keycode locks was 74221.

"....so we actually end up cooking the stuff right on the radiator! After all that mess it was the best steak any of us had ever had. "
Nina laughed softly as Livio finished the story. During their captivity, she'd decided that while Livio was definitely not her type, he did have some endearing qualities -- he strongly believed in getting things done, for one. If it wasn't for the current situation, she could imagine her mother becoming extremely pushy for her to try and date such a dependable and honest young man.
When the guards had left, both of them had tried to ask what was going on, but were flat-out told that the guards themselves had no idea; the two of them spent the next hour or so in silence, both trying to hear the sound of battle and wishing they wouldn't have to. What they did hear some time later, instead, was a polite knock on Nina's door.

"Er... Open it?"

Boykin watched Karina hug Nina and kiss her on the cheek three times; after a quick explanation in their language, both women looked at him.
"That guy is probably going to hit me, you know."
"Do you think you'll have deserved it, if he does?" the Mayor asked.
"Well, frankly, no; we do have rules, and I was as polite as possible within them."

Livio did hit the Colonel, but not at all hard, having seen Nina behind him; Boykin, helped by the kevlar vest, took it in stride. The young man let what lust for righteous vengeance he still had subside, and looked at the expectant faces of the two women standing to the sides of him and the base commander.
"Sorry for the punch. And the firetruck, I guess."
This handshake wasn't photographed by anyone, but as far as the four were concerned, it marked the real end of the hostilities.

After a day and a night of partying, a morning of hangovers and an afternoon of cleaning up, by general agreement everyone returned to work; the Secretary of State flew back to the States another way for her return trip, sparking a small protest at a big base in Germany that ended peacefully. The Premier eventually did tour the base, and was presented with the arrow Kiara had given Boykin -- a machinist had etched on the other side, "We wish they were all this easy". Even though a small water fountain was erected on the site of "the shortest armed conflict in history" outside the base, and the Guinness Book of Records duly registered the event as such, only a few die-hard political blogger and the World Weekly paid much attention to the event.

Nina used her burst of notoriety to apply at a number of universities as a research assistant, and eventually got hired by CERN.
Colonel Boykin received a curt letter of congratulations from his superiors, and was deemed eligible for a full pension the next year, three years in advance; again he took the hint, and retired with a spotless record and a classified wartime citation; he tells the story if people ask him, although he embellishes it somewhat.
The base continued to exist for a few years, and due to the particularly cooperative relationship with the local community, ended up being used to host two air shows; eventually, it was mothballed. When the lease for the land expired, it reverted to the municipality and became a good spot to fly RC airplanes and ultralights from.
As for Livio, his truck was ready to go, and while he'd surely return he didn't want to sit idle; he agreed to stop for exactly one interview, and gave exactly one comment:
"E' finita a tarallucci e vino*".

* The Italian language contains this idiomatic phrase, which literally signifies "It all ended at wine and cookies" and means "A situation between two groups of people leading to a confrontation which, after much tension, was defused and led to a reconciliation party instead". How often this theoretically rare sequence of event actually happens should be inferrable by the fact that a special phrase for it exists.

Description
The Incident

Those things were loud; loud and big. They were hard to start and, in some cases, almost impossible to stop. And if they didn't when they were supposed to, people got hurt and killed...

Livio's parents had had a hard time making him finish high school; it was eventually his driving instructor that made a good case of it, pointing out that these days one needed a diploma of some sort even to work as a truck driver. The wiry boy nodded, winced, barely said a word and got his GED fifteen days later, then finished the year anyway so that his folks could go home with pictures of his graduation.

Two years later, he'd been from Portugal to Russia, seen more life than most of his acquaintances who went to college ever would, and learned the rudiments of five languages and the common insults of ten. He lived in his truck seven days a week, living on canned food and moving whatever he had to for anyone who would hire him -- always people, his father's experience having warned him away from signing up with big companies -- until he managed to pay off the entire loan for the vehicle. He was still wiry, but he'd developed the understated sort of muscles that truck drivers, construction workers and dockhands use to get things done and beat up the occasional gym dandy or steroid freak. Rather than waiting until his next job took him in the vicinity, Livio went straight home and proudly announced to his parents, "I am a free man now": from him, it was almost a speech. His sister took a picture of him holding the title to the truck, and his mother hung it next to the one with the diploma.

Those things were fast and stupid, they had a lot of momentum; that was their strength, and their danger. And they always attracted more police attention that was warranted -- of course, for some people it was part of the fun...

Nina lived in one of those small happy Alpine countries that American filmmakers who'd never even been there decide to base chick flicks in because it's better than making a country up. She was in high school during the Dot Com boom, and learned websites. She was a freshman in college when 9/11 happened, and sent care packages to random soldiers in Afghanistan half of which were confiscated along the way because they contained wine. She had transferred over to a college in the USA for a few months when Iraq happened, and became a political activist.

Her great accomplishment in life up to then was a simple, effective piece of communication infrastructure that she'd helped develop during an internship somewhere in Italy, that allowed transportation workers to quickly find work locally, as long as they had at least a basic cell phone with them. Her ecologically-minded soul caused her to work nights and weekends on that project, and although she never saw a dime in royalties, the system was slowly but steadily decreasing the percentage of empty trucks on the road by making sure they were doing useful work on all legs of their trips.

Her family, all thirty or so of them, had to threaten her with disownment to make sure she wouldn't drop out of college in protest after the sitting President won reelection in what she was sure had been a rigged event; she got her degree, ripped her visa in half, threw it at a military recruiter who honestly had no idea what was it with the crazy diminutive girl with the sharp accent, and flew home.

Home had changed. One of the first things she saw in one of her country's two airports was the "Welcome to New Europe" banner, in English, festooned across the arrivals terminal. Nina had relied on her family for news, getting letters (actual paper letters!) from her grandmother with newspaper scraps in them; to avoid upsetting her, they'd edited out enough recent history that even her math major's brain could not piece things together.

There hadn't been a coup or anything of that magnitude, although the startled newsstand operator might have thought one was happening right there when she shouted at him to tell her what was going on. Simply, the US air force had lobbied for the use of an old WW2-era airfield as a staging area, and ended up building a permanent base around it -- Nina's country was among the minor members of the "coalition of the willing", with all the economic benefit and diplomatic tiptoeing that it implied. The fact that today's headline read that, with the recent "surge" planned in Washington, guest US forces outnumbered the national defense unit three to one to one didn't help. Nina wasn't kicked out of the airport solely because the newspaper man managed to calm her down.

For Livio, all that had changed is that the small Alpine valley -- previously off-limits to most diesel trucks thanks to a surprisingly good light rail system and a somewhat excessively ecologically minded government -- now let him through; as in a few other places, he'd have to watch out for the occasional jeep full of off-duty soldiers who had the unearthly power to dismiss police if they got involved in minor accidents. Like most in his trade, he adapted to the situation quickly, bought a CB that handled their frequencies, and used the change to his advantage.

Nina had been trying to find steady work for a couple of months now, making do with designing Web pages and working on a paper on statistical analysis to bolster her resume. She'd fit back in with small-town life with relative ease, although after a bout of curiosity about the kid who'd gone overseas her family and friends found her remarkably more bitter than she'd left them. There were always a few youths outside the base gate holding signs -- two to six years younger than her, on average, which made Nina everyone's big sister considering that she was the one making an effort to keep things organized -- and low-key political activism had become the focus of her creativity. While Nina's parents disapproved as they knew she'd never go into politics full time and the work was not generating anything that would help her career, her older folks figured that it was healthy for somebody her age to take an interest. It was fairly harmless; on occasion, off-duty airmen would play pranks on the protesters and they would retaliate. The sumer's tally had been one egg battle, three Super Soaker fights, one soccer grudge match grudgingly sponsored by the base command inside the fence, and a grand total of fifteen dates between members of the enemy camps. Ecentually people over thirty, while still as untrustworthy as they'd been in the late sixties, by and large figured that there were much worse spots for politically buzzed kids to hang out -- and keep an eye on the younger boys, who'd ignore the politics and congregate as close as they could get to the runway to watch the airplanes come and go.

"As you know, we are ramping up operations; this base is on the primary supply route, and we are expecting a visit from an administration official, possibly even the Secretary of State, en route to the Middle East for a diplomatic tour." The new base commander was somewhat younger than the old, who had officially retired hours ago at a small ceremony and was now going to enjoy three weeks of vacation courtesy of the local government before flying Stateside.
"Yessir." The quartermaster, on the other hand, hadn't changed and probably wasn't going to -- he was the most experienced officer that spoke the language, and his new boss was known to be a pragmatist.
"I understand that the local population is planning a rally just outside the base's main entrance. My predecessor has taken great care to operate this base smoothly, and I intend to do the same. We may just be a small cog in the machine here, but we serve an important function and the best way to keep doing that is to keep at it while causing as small an amount of fuss as possible."
"Yessir." While the quartermaster had heard the new commander was a firm believer of stiffness in regulations, so far he'd been positively impressed -- in the few years this base had been active, it'd taken on a reputation as a vacation spot: the countryside was likeable, and the locals -- while retaining their middle-european coldness -- were unfailingly polite to servicemembers, and even friendly with those who had the good sense of letting themselves be seen without the uniform. "We used to have a few protests a while back, but it's mostly simmered down by now, and there haven't been any incidents for about a year." That wasn't quite true; there had been dozens of "incidents", but who would bother writing a report over water balloon fights between gate guards and people who were ostensibly there to oppose the base's existence?
"Schedule a meeting with local law enforcement, we will need their support to make sure this spotless record isn't marred. I had your job at a base in Rome before I came here, and we had to cordon our perimeter a few times... forty officers of theirs and forty of ours should do the job."
"Sir, were you given the PR briefing when you came in? Local law enforcement consists of three full-time officers and eighteen firefighters and emergency medical technicians who double as deputies when required."
"Then talk to the county seat, or province, or whatever these people have here! Get to it. I looked outside and it's mostly a bunch of teenagers anyway. Get a couple of IFVs prepped and shined up, the kids will probably be too busy to gawp at our rigs to cause any trouble, but I don't want to be off to a bad start here!"
"Yessir. We'll have a response early tomorrow." The quartermaster saluted and left, figuring that overall it was a reasonably good way to deal with it -- the only problem being that, given the small size of the country they were in, he'd have to ask for a police detail directly to the national government.

"Guys! Look here." Nina felt a little ridiculous. Here she was, twenty-six years old, with a math degree, planning pranks inside a clubhouse. Sure, this particular clubhouse had a peace flag in front of it and a few posters from the local Green and Social Democrat party in it (and that red-and-black picture of Che Guevara; why does every other activist in the world have to have one? Is it an unwritten rule?), but most of the people inside were maybe five years away from playing army with wooden sticks, if that. Her initial political enthusiasm gone after realizing that most of the US soldiers stationed at the base were people trying to pay for college because their government was stingier with scholarships than hers, Nina now saw herself mainly as a moderator, making sure that none of her mostly teenaged "comrades" got in serious trouble. However, the brief layover visit of a high-ranking official gave her a push to work up some indignation again -- the slick-haired, dark-skinned lady who despite recent scandals in her homeland was still Secretary of State was one of the people who had actual responsibility for the current Middle East mess.
After waiting for the six people currently in the room to gather around the table, Nina translated the article for those who couldn't read English, skipping over the details. "She's going to be here in five days, and is actually worth making noise over. Franz, is your band still available? I know we can't pay you guys, but..."
"Don't worry about it, if we can round up some people, it's good exposure. Plus, we just got a new amplifier and speakers, and trying them out outdoors sounds great!" Franz was a big kid who looked much older than his eighteen years; his claim to local fame was having carried two kids home one on each shoulder after they got separated from their group and broke their skis last winter, which had netted him free ski-lift rides for a year at the resort just uphill of the town and a general grudging tolerance of his atrocious keyboard playing.
"If we're setting up a concert we'll have to get a generator and lights there. Actually, if you want to use the new speakers, we'll need both our generators and a few batteries... that's a lot of stuff, and it takes time to set up." Matias was a freshman electrical engineering student home for the summer, and had been aching to show off his electrician's skills ever since by general consensus his plan to mess with the base's radars by means of a homemade Tesla coil was nixed by his friends as too dangerous.
"That's a thing. I bet that they will actually have some security out this time around, so we need something easy to move away if we don't want to lose our equipment. They do have water cannons." Franz knew that by experience -- during the first water fight, one of the airmen 'cheated' by convincing a mechanic to bring a decommissioned firefighting truck out and firing it at quarter pressure towards what at the time were still seen as potentially dangerous protesters, hitting the bulky Franz and soaking him to his ears. The other kids in the room laughed good-naturedly at his concern.
"Why don't we hire a truck? We have a foldable flatbed trailer in the workshop, it just needs to be put back together and one new tire. I'll have to tell Tomas, though..." This was Annika, who contrary to genetics was barely decent with a lathe but quite talented with watercolors, and whose all-important fifth date with PFC Tomas Rodriguez would likely have to be canceled due to the politician's arrival.
"That's going to be expensive to get a truck driver on such short notice, though" Matias pointed out. The group didn't have any favors to call in from truckers, simply on account of not knowing any -- big rigs were not a common sight this far into the mountains until the base opened up, and nobody they knew from their town or the places where a few of the ersatz activists had gone to school had taken that career.
Nina smirked and regaled her younger friend with a master conspirator's expression for a second. "Not at all, I think I can handle that. Now, I think the first thing we need to do is look at that trailer and see if Nikola's drums are going to fit on it..."

There were rumors about bombing Iran; there were rumors about bombing Syria; there were rumors about some crazy lady named Anna Smith or something who'd ended her unremarkable life unremarkably, but had made a lot of money in life by marrying a rich man and was thus somehow newsworthy. Livio picked up a copy of USA Today from the gas station's newspaper rack (those had started appearing a little later than the American soldiers did, which suited him just fine because it helped him practice English without having to wait for a job that got him across the Chunnel) and started going through it as he ate his krafen. A leaflet inside the paper announced a new base commander and a small ceremony internal to the base as the old one retired. Livio barely looked at it. Being at the tail end of a flour delivery, he turned on his cell phone for long enough to let it synchronize with the automatic transport controller, and made a quick call to the first of the four local jobs that it proposed to negotiate terms. He'd been an early adopter of the system: it worked, the monthly fee was tiny, and it gave him a lot of freedom as to whether to stay in a place he liked for a little longer between long hauls, while still making money and meeting people. Well, what do you know? He'd have to go just a short distance, and deliver something right outside the base. Making a point of at least trying to study languages as he traveled definitely paid off. The delivery was marked "electronics", and "high priority"; Livio figured that it was something for the base itself, and he'd have to help transfer the cargo to a military truck. He hoped the security nonsense wouldn't take too long.

"This is absolutely unacceptable!"
"Sir, I don't see it as a big deal. We are getting fifteen military police officers, after all. That is about one percent of their entire armed forces!" So much for the reputation for levelheadedness; why was the commander so worried about this visit? He'd been given an extremely easy assignment as it was, and had too many years under his belt and too few distinctions in service to try and make a career out of it. The quartermaster resolved to look into his boss' public record after this meeting-- it was, after all, part of his job.
"Didn't you read their brief? It's a damn honor guard, they're useless! We'll just have to step up security ourselves. Cancel leave for all our MPs. And remind the gate and perimeter guards that they are absolutely forbidden from stepping out of bounds unless it's to stop an intruder! Can you believe I found one of our men frenching a girl through a hole in the fence during my morning run? When did this turn into a summer camp?"
"Well sir, these people haven't had a war in four centuries." The quartermaster sighed inwardly. What he just said wasn't technically true: during World War II the small republic, then a principality, had been briefly invaded by a German infantry division for all of three days during a transfer to southern France. According to local history, the people of this area dealt with it by removing a few signs so that the Germans didn't even realize they had gone right through a whole different country during their march.
The base commander harrumphed. "Good for them, certainly, but this doesn't really help us any! I do expect trouble, Frank. These people have no notion of security. Someone from the outside might try something."
"Yessir. I realize I'm not part of the security detail, but if you want a suggestion, I'd just make a few phone calls to the hotel and restaurant proprietors around here... you know, ask who just came into town. People here value privacy, but my impression is that they value gossip a lot more." The quartermaster knew first hand; he had pulled rank to bring her wife over on the Air Force's dime, and in the first week she'd found out about the local culture and social scene more than the security people ever did, and told him about it more than he ever wanted to know.
The base commander smiled. "Duly noted; good idea, actually. Since we're stuck with the toy soldiers, we better make sure we display them prominently, at least... deal with it and keep them out of my sight, will you?"
"Right, sir."
After his subordinate left, the commander left a message to the head of military police. "Joe? This is Bill Boykin, XO. I want you to take five men who know the language and interview all the hostels restaurants around here, tonight and tomorrow night. Full uniform, we're not damn covert ops, but bring some bugs just in case. Start with the halal places, if there's any." Reminding himself that he didn't need a secretary to wipe his nose, the base commander got a slim phone directory out of a drawer and looked for the local police's non-emergency number. At least out of practicality, he'd best tell them that they were going to have to step security up and the locals were expected to cooperate.

High school and college students have an inborn talent for getting everything done at the last minute; even as the base stepped up security as a matter of course, the fence guards found that the usual gaggle of teenagers milling around each given day would be greatly reduced, even absent in some cases. Joseph Redfield's men reported that the only new visitors in town were a number of German backpackers, an Italian trucker, and a Swiss gentleman who was on a high-altitude skiing holiday, came down this side of the mountains and hadn't even realized he was in a different country.
Few flyers were posted; the concert was organized almost entirely through cellphone text messages and a message board courtesy of the local internet provider. Livio was paid in advance, and found the job rather amusing given what he'd expected; after taking the money, he invested part of it in offering lunch to Nina and the band.
When the airplane landed, a sleek corporate-type jet rather than the grey-paint transports that had become a common sight, only two middle school kids were milling about at the point outside the fence closest to the runway; even with the heightened security, fence guards figured they were there to look at the airplanes -- if anything, there were fewer of them than usual. One of them sent a text message...

By the time the politician's airplane had reached the end of the runway, a few minutes later, people had... well, appeared, mostly from right behind the nearby hills. Almost all of them were young, friends of Nina's group, and friends of friends; a few came in cars, and quickly unpacked their gear from the trunks -- ice cream and beer coolers, a small electric wurstel grille, a few signs that were quickly picked up. To top it all off, Livio's truck moved gracefully through the low grass and parked sideways to the runway, just outside the "restricted area" signs a few meters from the fence.
Franz's band had climbed on for the last segment of the ride, Matias quickly hooking the audio system to the generator and batteries before getting off to help Livio unhitch the trailer; the music, a decent effort at 80s style heavy metal rather than the hippie fare that one might have expected, completely obscured the small generators' engines.
The gate guards, two of them, were fairly dumbfounded -- upon seeing the truck, one started radioing an alert, but noticed that the vehicle had stopped. Nevertheless, he was asked to report; he quickly explained to his superior what was going on.
"I have to give it to these kids, they're organized" Joseph mused. While they weren't doing anything disruptive as such, it didn't make his department look good; the native honor guard had been asked to stand on the runway and salute the incoming dignitary, and while his own men were providing more than adequate cover, there wasn't much they could do -- the impromptu concert was being held at a safe distance, although the speakers had been obviously aimed at the plane rather than at the audience. He thought quickly -- how best to deal with it?
"Maintenance? I'll need to borrow the backup fire engine..."

Minutes into the concert, the old fire truck that had been broken out during one of the water fights slowly made its way towards the band, having exited the base by another gate; the driver, moving deceptively slowly, let everyone consider his vehicle harmless until he kicked third gear in and started spraying water at full force.
"Stop! Go away!" The water cannon was inexhorably aiming itself at the trailer; those in the audience who had figured it was time to disperse had already done so, about thirty or forty people had haphazardly formed a cordon behind the trailer. Nina jumped up the trailer platform and snatched the microphone from a fairly confused Werner, directing his plea alternately at whoever was operating the modified firetruck and those in the audience that had decided to hold fast. What she knew is that high-pressure water and high-voltage electricity really didn't mix; there was a definite chance of somebody getting hurt beyond a few bruises. "STOP! Get away from here!" Nina was frantic; she didn't know which way to turn. Nikola finally got the hint, and jumped off the platform after grabbing his sticks and ride cymbal.
She couldn't see Livio anywhere... until she could; his truck came to life and in a few slow-motion seconds positioned itself between the trailer and the water-cannon truck; the military vehicle simply evaded, taking the longer route. Livio copied the move, giving his own truck a thorough washing and getting close enough for the water jet to peel some paint off; as far as Nina could see, even as she was running around to unplug cables as the rest of the band grabbed their instruments and left, he was trying to stall the fire engine until it ran out of water.
The riot truck's driver caught on after the second attempt, and decided to just charge the trailer; Nina and Franz were still on it. The generators were still running. Livio didn't wince, or curse to himself; he simply looked around, decided on a course of action, and followed through with the same determination he did everything else -- the collision between the two vehicles was far from lethal or even dangerous, happening at maybe twenty kilometers per hour, but the water jet broke Livio's windshield and sprayed him with glass fragments even as he ducked to roll out of the cabin.

People with guns showed up just as rapidly as the flash mob had, the excuse they were waiting for having come; the claimed, to nobody in particular, that the incident had happened within the base perimeter. Nina was politely led inside the base by two female guards; Livio was dragged out of his truck, and fought with one of the MPs for a few moments before another knocked him out with the butt of a rifle. Franz was led away from Nina by two more soldiers, both of which were simply slammed into each other before the sound of a machine gun being armed led the large young man to follow his friends in retreat.

During the entire incident, the Secretary of State hadn't even dismounted from the plane, although she did take the opportunity to take a nap. The next day came shrouded in the thick fog that sometimes forms between a cold and a warm spell; it was the sort of climate that made one want to stay home, and the few who felt like fighting that were too depressed or scared to do so. Nina's parents visited the mayor and the chief of police, and were told that nobody from the base had contacted them yet other than to tell them that the collision had happened on base property, and was therefore their responsibility; Nina's friends spent most of the day online, few wanting to talk face to face but most wanting to regroup.

By the following day, the guards had all been replaced; there were six rather than two, all conspicuously carried M16's rather than just their sidearms, and -- most importantly -- none of them knew anybody in town; Kiara had to repeat her greeting three times before her heavy accent got through to any of the MPs on duty.
"Er... this is a what?"
"Tis is a declarasioun of wor. Teke it tu yor lider!"
The Officer of the Day took over from there by letting his current subordinates keep an eye on the stout young woman in front of them and taking the envelope she had brought with her; it wasn't sealed and it had no address, so he just opened it and read. Inside was a piece of heavy drafting paper that had been meticulously painted -- by hand, as far as he could tell -- to look like parchment. At the bottom was a seal that he didn't recognize, but looked remarkably official. The text, in good English, was flawlessly calligraphed in.

"To the Leader of this Force:
Two Days ago, your Soldiers perpetrated an Illegal Incursion in our Sovereign Territory, and Abducted a Free Citizen of this Free Nation, as well as her Guest.
We the People of this Proud Valley, given to Us by the Divine Architect since Before History Began, find you Guilty of a Gross Violation of their Privacy and the Sanctity of their Life, not to Mention our Bond of Trust by which We let you in as Our Guests.
Should the Captives not be Released in a Timely Fashion,
and a Personal Apology not be Rendered by the Leader of your Forces,
We will Consider our Selves to be in a State of WAR with you, and Vow to Drive you from Our Land,
that the World may See that no Bond of Trust and Hospitality may be Broken Impunely."

Inside the envelope a bundle of ordinary sheets of paper held a long list of printed names and signatures -- a few people had even penciled in their addresses. This looked like another stupid prank to the officer, until Kiara spoke again.
"Teke it tu yor lider, or errest mi. Dun't just stend ther!". With the quiet imperiousness of an elementary school teacher, she'd pushed off the two soldiers next to her and was now standing in front of their superior -- the officer, taken by surprise, moved his hand as if to reach for his sidearm before thinking better of it.
"Right... Well, if you want to go all the way with this. Ms. Jackson, would you accompany her to the base commander's office? Thanks". The only female guard at the gate neatly folded the envelope back up, and put down Kiara's hands as she held them out to be handcuffed. "That's really not necessary, just stay in front of me and go where I say. The commander's office is beside the control tower, we can just take a walk." Kiara, still looking as serious as she would when scolding first graders, did as instructed.

"Please tell me this is a joke. Do you want to be arrested too? Do you have any idea what could happen if I for some crazy reason decided to take this seriously?" Colonel Boykin had read the declaration twice, and went through the list of signatures -- at first he intended to just kick the girl out and forward it to the local police department, then realized that given the size of the list it must have contained the names of just about everybody within a twenty-mile radius of the base; it was organized by village, and the different degrees of wear on each sheet lent it an aura of authenticity.
During the few minutes it took him to read it -- in his opinion, it paid to be thorough -- the stocky young woman stood in front of his desk looking straight ahead despite the female MP's suggestions that she sit down. Boykin looked up a few times to regale her with a glare from his old drill sergeant days, but Kiara simply returned it amplified by her obviously Teutonic facial features. Eventually, the base commander put down the list.
"I em a messenger and heve dilivered mi message. If yu want to perley wit our commender, yu can du so in the field. We are a peceful piople, and will esk yu to leave une more time."
A yellow light on Boykin's phone started blinking.
"In the field? Look, kid. We're an United States Air Force base, here with the permission of your government. If your friends are at the gate when I let you go, tell them that they have thirty minutes to go away or I'm going to have them rounded up and I'll be damned if they don't spend the rest of the summer in our brig before I let them go!"

Kiara tilted her head a little, and thought for a few seconds. "I will diliver your messege as well. Mey we not heve to fight." She even finished with a bow.
Gesturing the MP to lead Kiara away, the base commander was surprised when his visitor deliberately put her hand inside her blouse and -- the MP reacted flawlessly, her sidearm aimed at Kiara's head with a "Hands up!" shout before he even had time to duck. A suicide charge? Hidden pistol? He had never seen any of the natives with firearms other than hunting rifles, not even the policemen...
Kiara's hands went over her head just as deliberately. "We are not barberians, General. Miss, pleese reech in for mi? I had anuther messege."
"It's Colonel, actually." After regaining his composure, Boykin gestured for the MP to search Kiara.
The second message was, in fact, an antique arrow -- a crossbow dart to be specific, made of tempered steel with wooden fins. It was obviously ceremonial; the tip had been rounded, and a finely chiseled inscription was around the length. The base commander harrumphed. "Private, escort this young lady back outside, please. Excellent reflexes for the record, what's your name?"
"Melody Webb, sir." She'd already holstered her sidearm.

The two women were already outside when a red light started blinking on Boykin's telephone; anything really important would just have come through to the speakerphone, and the commander wanted to figure out what was on the arrow -- it might have been important; the artifact looked old and expensive, and therefore out of the reach of a bunch of high school and college students. If they'd stolen it, returning it would smooth relations out with the locals. He called out to his secretary. "This looks a lot like German, can you read this?"
"I can try, sir."
Boykin let his secretary work on it for a few moments. "Centuries... undefeated... next time... something about brotherhood, or society...."

The speakerphone came alive, interrupting the two. "Sir, this is Officer of the Day Jackson at gate two. Sorry for the interruption, but you absolutely have to come look at this!" An alarm siren started and the warning lights came on in the office, but returned to "stand down" a few seconds later as the siren wound down. What was going on?
"Get a security detail here ASAP, full battle dress, two with a loaded clip of dummy rounds. Raise someone at regional command on a secure line, but don't freak them out, okay? We may have a riot situation, I'm going to go try and talk some sense to these people."
"Sir, I think you should get your Kevlar vest."
"That's exactly what I'm going to do. Knock when the security detail is here." If these kids want to play medieval warriors, Boykin thought, he might as well show up at the head of his forces, such as they were. Since he had to get into that sort of spirit, the last thing he wanted was for anyone to see how he had to struggle to fit his paunch into the bulletproof vest.

Boykin quickly got inside the Humvee, surrounded by five MPs in battle fatigue; to his surprise, the usual low-level trailing of airmen and maintenance personnel that pervaded the base was almost absent. Smiling to himself, he figured that the men had heard the alert siren go off and were locking sensitive equipment down just in case.
"Okay, let's just drive to gate two. You two have dummy rounds, right?" the commander asked to two of the soldiers in the back seat.
"Yessir."
"If and when I snap my finger, I want you to step forward and empty it, shoot at person height. Ham it up a little, have you seen Scarface?"
The MPs grinned to each other. "Yes sir!"
"Everyone else, don't do anything stupid, please. This isn't Iraq, I doubt we'll see anybody trying to be a martyr. However, if any of them does do anything, single shot and aim for the legs. We're not playing frisbee anymore."

What Boykin had expected to see was a bunch of teenagers wielding renaissance-faire swords and crossbows and, maybe, wearing kilts and facepaint.
The kilts were there, mostly in the first row, all dark blue rather than in the colorful tartan designs. The swords were there, family heirlooms mostly from the look of them, and so were the crossbow -- a few, of modern design. What the Colonel hadn't expected was the number of people.

Gate two of the base was in a corner, and fully a quarter of the base perimeter was surrounded by what the commander guessed must have been every man within twenty miles, and quite a number of women and older children. Most of the younger people were wearing motorcycle helmets; some had shields, ranging from trashcan covers to plexiglass panels. Peeking out from the forest of heads were what looked like war horns, at least one broadcast radio antenna, and a few trucks and vans -- he glanced at one van that had somehow ended up in the first rows; from the sign, somebody was selling wurstels and beer out of it. He had the Humvee parked right behind the gate. "Sir, shall we deploy?"

"No, let's just get out, keep the engine running and the weapons out of sight for now. Is the megaphone on this rig going to reach them?"
"Yessir." The driver reached down and started fiddling with what Boykin guessed were the controls for it.
"Excellent, hook it up and hand it over to me."

With remarkable agility for his age, the Colonel climbed on the Humvee's hood and ended up standing on the roof of it, the megaphone at his feet. As he crouched to get the microphone connected to it from the cabin, a loud thump hit the ground and his ears. He stood up, and was rewarded with another, then another -- the last time, he could see that the crowd outside was banging things together -- weapons, shields, their own feet on the ground. The coordination they displayed while doing so worried him somewhat, but he took it as an invitation to speak.

"People! This is an United States Air Force installation, and the land on which it sits was duly leased from your government! You have my word that Miss Nina Kund is well cared for, in good spirit and will be released as soon as you disperse! Please, return home! Let's try to not cause an international incident!" Boykin spoke slowly and clearly to compensate for the megaphone's distortion; he knew that maybe half the crowd spoke some English, and would translate for the others; he noticed the movement in the crowd.

To Boykin's surprise, the answer came in the form of what he guessed was a guitar amplifier, hastily wired to a microphone and held up by a very bulky young man.
"What of her friend, the trucker?" A woman's voice had answered, with a cultured British accent that reminded the Colonel of his grade school principal.

"He attacked one of our vehicles. He will be taken to the United States and receive a fair trial! He isn't even from here. We will release him to the Italian government!" Letting the young man go as well would have looked too much like capitulation; the sovereignity of US bases was an important point that had to be made. While Boykin wasn't too sure that the young man had in fact been inside the base when the collision happened, in his opinion the point of whose interpretation had priority in borderline cases also had to be made.

The loudspeaker answered something in that German-French-Italian hybrid dialect that stumped Boykin's secretary earlier, then translated for the Americans' benefits.
"The trucker defends our people and you drag him to Guantanamo! Let him go and leave!"
What followed was the rumble of maybe twenty thousand people shouting at the same time, saturating every tone in the voice spectrum.

The Colonel figured that explaining to this mob how military prisons worked was not something to be done right there and then, and thought for a moment. He had to talk it through with somebody sensible, obviously... the base was not in obvious danger from these people, but the last thing he wanted on his record was the attention civilian casualties in Europe would bring.
"I wish to parley! I'm coming out on foot, with two men!"

The answering voice was the same. "I am the mayor of this town and this circondari. You have your parley. We're coming out with ten men, you have automatic weapons!" The old lady sounded fairly sure of herself -- Boykin knew that his two MPs could have loaded the live ammo and mowed down ten people even if they were armed, but he guessed it was the look of the thing.

"Agreed!"

Boykin carefully dismounted from the Humvee, ordered two MPs to follow him and the driver to keep the engine idling and be ready for an extraction run, and started walking across the grass at a brisk pace. He saw a small group of people do the same from the opposite camp, after some shuffling.

The Colonel had expected the mayor to bring along either uniformed police or, if she was as loopy as the rest of these people, big hairy guys in Celtic warrior garb; instead, what was following her looked like a single family. Possibly Nina's? He hoped so; it would be easy to talk some sense into them. The opposing group had to walk at the slower pace of a white-haired lady; he slowed down as well, not wanting to start the talks too close to the crowd.

The two groups met halfway, the mayor -- a Teutonic matron in her early fifties, definitely not a little old lady by anybody's standards -- stopping the rest of her group and taking the last few steps by herself. Behind her, one of the boys that followed her was setting up an old-fashioned field radio.

"I am USAF Colonel William Boykin, in charge of this installation by agreement of our two governments."
"I am Karina Soldai, mayor of this town and by tradition seneschal of this circundari, by choice of the people who own it and live in it. We know this base is used by your military as, among other things, a rest stop in the evacuation of your wounded. Let our young woman and our young man go, and we will allow you to continue in that function." The woman spoke English perfectly and measured her diction with a caliber; Boykin was temporarily stumped.
"Ma'am, rest assured that we will release Miss Kund as soon as your people disperse! As for Mr. Oboti, first of all he is not a citizen of this country, and the Italian government hasn't contacted us yet. Second, there are rules--"
"There are rules. One of them is to understand reality; another is to act upon it. We both know that he acted in defense of our young men and women, and we both know that the pretext by which you hold him is simply not factual; we have our own video footage, and our own forensic experts, Mr. Boykin. And we would release our data to you while you wouldn't release yours to us."
"I... I understand that, but we have procedures I must follow, and... look, don't you think we can compromise? This thing has snowballed enough as it is, hasn't it? What about your government, would your people really be prepared to go to war with the United States over two people? One of them isn't even your citizen!"
The mayor listed calmly to Boykin. "We have kept our independence since the Bronze Age, Mr. Boykin. Sometimes we have done so by force, others by guile, others by bending with the wind so we wouldn't break. We made a choice each time, and we made the right choice every time. You are from a young culture; throughout your history you've always relied on wielding the biggest stick. We are very small; do you think your stick is nimble enough to even hit us? If you do, let the Divine Architect uphold the right. I have nothing further to say to you."

So said, the mayor took a few steps back and rejoined the people she'd brought along; moments later, the echo from the loudspeaker that had broadcast the exchange to the rest of the crow died. Boykin expected arguments in the crowd, or maybe a roar of defiance; what he got was silence, enough to hear the wind whistle. Exhasperated, he motioned for his soldiers to be ready and walked in front of the small group.

"We are an Air Force base! We have gunships and jeeps with machine guns! We could land enough tanks to flatten your town to dust in two days! What are you people going to do, storm our gates? And then what? This isn't a medieval castle! Look, just let it go. You'll have your girl back in a few days and probably that other guy in a few months, too. Madam Mayor, you're right. We're big. So why are you trying to make us mad? Even if your national government supports this craziness... whoever heard of you? I bet people a hundred miles from here don't even know what your country is called! Think about it. Let's even say that we do have this silly 'war'. We won't even have to fire a shot, we can just keep landing people in here until we crowd you out! You keep going on about your ancient culture, do you really think it will survive that? This can go two ways, and I'm not counting the one by which I have you mowed down, because we're not bastards like that."

Boykin stopped to catch his breath; other than the mayor and one of her men finishing the translation for the rest of the group, there was silence. Maybe he had an audience to make his point to, now.
"One, we forget about this stupidity, you go home, we go back to base, and in a year everything's back to normal. Two, we really do escalate this. We'll drive you away, use the state of war as an excuse to install a permanent base -- I know the top brass has been wanting one in this region -- and build up and out. In ten years everyone around here will use dollars to buy groceries and in thirty you'll have to speak to your kids in English or they won't understand you! Is that what you want? Do you really want to go to war like that?"

The Colonel stopped again, noticing the group was talking among themselves; from what he could judge, he hit the right chord this time. This time, a man stepped forward -- just that little shorter and wider than Boykin, but somewhat less overweight.

"My name is Kristian. Nina is my daughter; I would go to war for her, even by myself."

He was joined by a woman in the mayor's group who hadn't said a word so far, and who sported a much thicker accent; she was taller and thinner, with Slavic blue eyes and Mediterranean dark hair.

"My name is Alina. I would go to war for my daughter, and my husband."

Boykin looked at the rest of the group clearing their throat, or mouthing under their breath what they were going to say, and realized what was coming.

"I'm Tito. Leave my big sister alone! And Mom and Dad, too!"

"I am called Elka. I will fight for my son. And my grandchildren."

"Name is Gudrin. These are here, my neighbours. I will stand with them."

By then people were walking across the grass -- not charging, just converging to the meeting point. Most of them had put their weapons down; all Boykin could see in their hands were some of the improvised shields. From behind the group, loud voices were calling.

"I'm Aldo! Kristian is great employee and great friend, and I don't want lose him!"

"Grandfather Kund was a doctor, he saved my wife's leg after she fell into a ravine! Our family will go with theirs."

"Nina's friend hasn't paid me for his truck repairs yet! Let him go."

The mayor politely walked around Nina's family, a faint smile on her face. Her voice was noticeably softer. "These people put their trust in me by electing me. I must stand by them. All of them."

The next voice came from behind Boykin, to his surprise; his soldiers had noticed the newcomers a few steps away, but reasoned he wasn't an immediate threat.

"Sir, I am PFC Tomas Rodriguez. If you want me to go to war with my girlfriend, I would like to file for immediate discharge on grounds of objection of conscience." He wasn't wearing his sidearm.
Annika was on his side almost instantly. "Besides, we will have plenty of time to fight each other after we move together!" she added.

Behind Tomas was what Boykin figured out was a local boy in fatigues three sizes too large, similar enough to US standard issue but without any markings.

"I'm Matias and... well, first off I really like Nina, although she thinks I'm too young for her, and... uhm, I wired your base's PA system to our radio. Hope I didn't break anything." The teenager was grinning manically, the chance to hack into military hardware something he'd spent countless movie-induced daydreams fantasizing about. Looking left and right, he awkwardly jogged off to the back of the growing group.

More people were identifying themselves, some in English and some in the local language, but Boykin wasn't listening any more; he turned around, seeing two jeeps park just inside of the base gate and the troops carried in them dismount and start walking towards the meeting point. The mayor was looking at him; she got right up to the officer.

"Congratulations for defusing an international crisis, Mr. Boykin. Rest assured that our own press will give you all the credit you deserve."

The Colonel got the hint, and waited for the mayor to step back before clearing his throat. "Ah, very well. I acknowledge your declaration of war, and... request an immediate mutual cessation of hostilities. Men, stand down."
"Request accepted and agreed to, Colonel." Tha mayor leaned forward and said something into the radio, which resulted in scattered cheers and the vans carrying the food slowly moving forward.

The handshake between the two was photographed by any number of cell phones; Boykin found Mayor Soldai's handshake surprisingly ladylike, considering her healthy heft.
"As an aside, a lot of us skipped a few meals to get ready for this. We did bring plenty of provisions along, perhaps your men would like to help us set up camp and share in? It's a nice day for it."
Boykin stifled a smile. "We'll both have to make sure nobody gets too drunk, I guess."
The mayor gave him a laugh that for a moment made her look twenty years younger. "The burden of command, eh?"

There were a few fights, even a swordfight after a local amateur fencer found his opposite number among the airmen and they both decided they were sober enough to have a go at each other; but it was the sort that happens at any large gathering where men somewhat outnumber women and there's a sufficient amount of alcohol available. By mid-afternoon, it was obvious that common will had declared a holiday; in front of the main gate an experiment to hybridize soccer and football was going horribly but entertainingly wrong, the base pantry had been thrown open, and the radar operator that had to go back to work had done so without locking their doors and were sharing tech tips with the few local ham radio enthusiasts.

The Mayor and the colonel figured amongst themselves it would be best if she went to let the two prisoners out; Livio had been very uncooperative the first day, to the point of guards having to remove his steel-toed boots because he was trying to kick the lock open and, through sheer dogmindedness, beginning to succeed at it.
The brig had small, high-up windows that were sufficient to let in slices of sunlight but did not allow to see anything outside. The guards had joined everybody else, one of them having had the presence of mind to leave a note explaining that they weren't sure whether to just open the doors or not, decided to go look for their commanding officer just in case, and the maintenance password for the keycode locks was 74221.

"....so we actually end up cooking the stuff right on the radiator! After all that mess it was the best steak any of us had ever had. "
Nina laughed softly as Livio finished the story. During their captivity, she'd decided that while Livio was definitely not her type, he did have some endearing qualities -- he strongly believed in getting things done, for one. If it wasn't for the current situation, she could imagine her mother becoming extremely pushy for her to try and date such a dependable and honest young man.
When the guards had left, both of them had tried to ask what was going on, but were flat-out told that the guards themselves had no idea; the two of them spent the next hour or so in silence, both trying to hear the sound of battle and wishing they wouldn't have to. What they did hear some time later, instead, was a polite knock on Nina's door.

"Er... Open it?"

Boykin watched Karina hug Nina and kiss her on the cheek three times; after a quick explanation in their language, both women looked at him.
"That guy is probably going to hit me, you know."
"Do you think you'll have deserved it, if he does?" the Mayor asked.
"Well, frankly, no; we do have rules, and I was as polite as possible within them."

Livio did hit the Colonel, but not at all hard, having seen Nina behind him; Boykin, helped by the kevlar vest, took it in stride. The young man let what lust for righteous vengeance he still had subside, and looked at the expectant faces of the two women standing to the sides of him and the base commander.
"Sorry for the punch. And the firetruck, I guess."
This handshake wasn't photographed by anyone, but as far as the four were concerned, it marked the real end of the hostilities.

After a day and a night of partying, a morning of hangovers and an afternoon of cleaning up, by general agreement everyone returned to work; the Secretary of State flew back to the States another way for her return trip, sparking a small protest at a big base in Germany that ended peacefully. The Premier eventually did tour the base, and was presented with the arrow Kiara had given Boykin -- a machinist had etched on the other side, "We wish they were all this easy". Even though a small water fountain was erected on the site of "the shortest armed conflict in history" outside the base, and the Guinness Book of Records duly registered the event as such, only a few die-hard political blogger and the World Weekly paid much attention to the event.

Nina used her burst of notoriety to apply at a number of universities as a research assistant, and eventually got hired by CERN.
Colonel Boykin received a curt letter of congratulations from his superiors, and was deemed eligible for a full pension the next year, three years in advance; again he took the hint, and retired with a spotless record and a classified wartime citation; he tells the story if people ask him, although he embellishes it somewhat.
The base continued to exist for a few years, and due to the particularly cooperative relationship with the local community, ended up being used to host two air shows; eventually, it was mothballed. When the lease for the land expired, it reverted to the municipality and became a good spot to fly RC airplanes and ultralights from.
As for Livio, his truck was ready to go, and while he'd surely return he didn't want to sit idle; he agreed to stop for exactly one interview, and gave exactly one comment:
"E' finita a tarallucci e vino*".

* The Italian language contains this idiomatic phrase, which literally signifies "It all ended at wine and cookies" and means "A situation between two groups of people leading to a confrontation which, after much tension, was defused and led to a reconciliation party instead". How often this theoretically rare sequence of event actually happens should be inferrable by the fact that a special phrase for it exists.