"Kohu ʻahuʻao no ka uka.
He kamalani kamaehu kau i ka hano ē.
He kamalei, kamahiwa pā i ka lani ē."
"A finely woven cloak for the highlands.
A cherished one, respected for power and strength.
Esteemed, treasured, touched by heaven."
White Sands Part I
White sands. Blue skies. And a gentle breeze that lightly touches the lines of palm trees and willow trees. It stretches for miles down the coastline. This peace. This tranquility. This truth that is ours alone to behold.
This is my home. This is my faith, my life, and my future. This is my burden, my privilege, and my birthright. This is Nui'a.
"M'lady," says a voice, interrupting the silence of the morning, "Your guest has arrived."
"Tell him to entreat himself to the tea and fresh poke set out on the back porch," I say in response, my voice slightly dragging out. I stretch out my arms and legs however I possibly can from this cradle that is this hammock. Situated under a pair of palm trees, a group of beach mangroves, and some assorted other greenery, the local beehive will sometimes send a messenger to deliver its morning greetings to me. Curious little things they are, the bees.
The aina are like that. Curious. Naive maybe. But always curious. And I love them for it.
Haphazardly, I manage to not really get out of, but fall out of my hammock.
"Not really the most royal thing I've done," I say to no one in particular.
Nevertheless, I persist. Getting up off the ground, I dust myself off before wrapping my lower body with a towel. A hand reaches out and bestows to me a simple flower. Wrapping my long hair into a bun offset to one side, I place the flower onto the bun, so that it protrudes outward in all its glory.
"How do I look?" I say.
"You could look better, respectfully, Your Majesty," answers back the voice from earlier, "but I think you look good enough for the occasion."
"Do I look like just another Nui'an girl?" I question further.
"Respectfully M'lady, but to say as such of yourself, you invite self-harm," the voice says in reply.
You will never be just some other Nui'an girl, go the words left unspoken.
"Please bring me to my back porch," I declare unto my servant.
"Yes, M'lady," he says almost reverently, "let me lead the way."
The morning is warm. The warm, inviting sunshine kisses my skin. And the birds are singing a lively tune. The house we were approaching was in and of itself relatively unremarkable. It was once a sterling white colonial with all the fixings related. But overtime, as the ocean and mother nature do, the house became worn down and fell into disrepair. It's once perfectly square windows began to sag and rot away with the paint. The water pipes corroded as the salt water seeped into the ground, causing them to rust. A fine layer of dust had settled by the time my grandmother came upon this place. She had planned to let the place demolish itself on its own accord but once I came here, I begged her to let me have it.
She gifted me this place on my eighteenth birthday as a present for graduating high school.
"Now it is your turn to make yourself a home," she said to me.
I wonder what she would say about what I'm about to do, I think to myself.
No one knew about what I was about to do. Only those personally in-charge of ensuring my safety were told anything. Not that what I was about to endeavor was against the law or anything… but it's almost like that.
Approaching the back porch of the house, I spied my guest waiting for me at a simple table paired with simple chairs positioned against the wall of the house. On the table was a tray with two medium-sized bowls. And if one looked closely, one could just make out a white teapot hidden against the faded white paint.
As my butler and I draw nearer, he quickly finishes taking a bite out of his food and stands as I begin to climb the few steps up to the porch.
"I hope the food is good," I say to him as I finally reach my chair.
"It really is," my guest replies, "did you make this?"
I shake my head slowly while making myself a plate of freshly made poke and hot white rice.
"The man who cooks for me here goes fishing just about every day," I tell him. "And if he fails to catch something and he knows he's cooking for me, he'll go to the local fish market that you passed on your way here."
"Funny enough," I added, "that fish market didn't exist until I began to live here on the weekends."
My guest chuckles at the remark, before replying, "I can see why."
"Before we formally get started, I'd just like to say that it is an absolute honor and privilege to meet you in person, Crown Princess Nui'a."
He takes a moment to turn on his voice recorder that he was allowed to bring. He also takes another bite out of his bowl of rice and poke.
"Yoʻkaiʻahio Nui'a na waʻina aiʻkoʻihaʻwei," greets my guest as he bows. "Good morning beloved Queen of Nui'a."
"It is both a pleasure and an honor to meet you in person as well, Senior Journalist Lunalei'o Kalakawa," I reply in return.
"Yo'kai'ahio yo'kai'wei. Omua ni monaka ataiʻwa. The morning is very good; give praise to God."
"So, to be clear, your condition for giving me this interview, is that the transcript stays relatively unedited, but that you will not be allowed to see it before we publish it? Is that correct?" Kalakawa says with a hint of hesitation as he retakes his seat
"Yes," I say while taking a bite out of my own bowl, "that is correct."
"Alright then, now that we've got our greetings out of the way and you have told me plainly what the conditions are, why am I here?" Says Kalakawa while helping himself to the tea.
"Pono wau e manuahi, hāʻawi aloha
Pono wau e ikaika ʻaʻole e hāʻawi
Pono wau e hīmeni me ke kani o nā pahu
ʻIke ʻoe ʻo wau no koʻu ʻohan"
"I gotta be free, got to give love
I gotta be strong never giving up
I gotta sing praise with the sound of drums
You know that I'll be for my family."
White Sands Part II
A Few Days Later
"Check check. Clear the channel."
The rain started late last night. Her Majesty's finest had, prior to the start of it, done their best to get the homeless to someplace where they could shelter for the night. The clouds darkened the already dreary night sky. And as the rain began to pour, the atmosphere in Nui'a proper became laden with its weight. Street lights stood out as beacons against the metaphysical darkness. House lights went out as their occupants found their beds to lay their heads in. A stay dog barks out from under a covered back porch. And all across Her Majesty's realm, did the earth fill only with the sounds of the rain.
"Operation Downfall is a go. All teams proceed to final positions and await for All-Call."
"Confirming Operation Downfall is a go. All teams will proceed to final positions and await for All-Call," responds the unit leader.
"Chief! The teams have been given the final-go and are awaiting for All-Call," shouts the lieutenant across the control room.
The HQ for the Office of Nui'an Intelligence (ONI) was abuzz with activity early in the wee-hours of the morning. Prior months of intel-gathering had finally resulted in a breakthrough for an investigation that's been years in the making. A smuggling ring had been using a house on the outskirts of Nui'a City proper to store and ship packages of cocaine and heroin across the channel and across the continent. They are well-funded, well-trained, and well-equipped.
But of course, any such illegal organization had to be, if they are to manage to infest the nation-state of Nui'a with their vile and evil seeds.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I announced to the room as it falls silent, "today, we put an end to this corruption! Waʻnou omua'ni o'hi aku'wa na'me! For Our Gods and Country!"
"For the Chair, Its Regent, and Our Homes!" respond everyone in turn.
"All-Call. All-Call. Standby for All-Call," broadcasts the lieutenant from earlier.
"Alpha-One to all teams, standby for All-Call," says the unit leader over the channel. A chorus of affirmatives ring out over the local chatter.
Another voice from near the lieutenant speaks up this time. "All teams be advised," begins the ONI special operations captain, "There is a thunderstorm* advisory in effect for your OA (operation area). The National Police Department (NPD) has been notified and a storm watch* is in effect."
"Your failsafe is Omaha," continues the captain, "I repeat, your failsafe is Omaha. Approach the horizon (the target building) with extreme caution. Alpha-One, from hereon, OpCon (operation control) is yours. I repeat, OpCon is yours."
"Confirming weather advisory," responds the unit leader, "Thunderstorm advisory in effect. Storm watch advisory in effect. Approaching the horizon with extreme caution. OpCon is mine. Failsafe is Omaha. Failsafe is Omaha."
"Read back is correct. Good hunting Alpha-One," finishes the captain, "Waʻnou omua'ni o'hi aku'wa na'me. For Our Gods and Country."
"Waʻnou omua'ni o'hi aku'wa na'me. For Our Gods and Country," finishes the team leader.
"Put Bravo and Delta on standby," I say to the lieutenant, "Find me the Captain of the Watch (Commander of the DMSR*) and patch him through immediately once he picks up his phone. We may their help in securing the bay."
"You got it chief," affirms the lieutenant.
"Chief!" perks up a communications corporal, "the DETM* unit has reached the target building!"
I nod, acknowledging the news. Turning to the men manning the feed, "Bring up their body cameras and switch to satellite imagery."
Out there on the ground, the DETM teams have been breathing in the damp, dower air for the last two hours. Using the buildings they encounter for shelter against the downpour, they quickly came to find that their target building was segregated from the rest of the neighborhood, by means of an empty lot, and then a gated courtyard. The only way to approach the building itself was to risk being caught out in the open. As the gentrification of this particular development was not finished, it was a small wonder to the team as to why this building hadn't been suspicious from the get-go.
"Alpha-One to Victory (HQ). Alpha-One to Victory," squawks Alpha-Team's leader over the communications channel.
"Victory reads you loud and clear Alpha-One," responds the lieutenant back in the control room.
"Why weren't we briefed about the target being separated from the rest of the development?" questions the team leader, barely containing his anger.
After a brief pause, the lieutenant responds, "ONI reconnaissance didn't mention the target being separate from the rest of the development."
"Yeah?" says the team leader, "Well someone please pass-along the message to whoever's in charge of recon to fire the idiot that botched their job."
"Do you need more assistance? Do you see anything?" presses the lieutenant. "Do you want to turnaround?"
"Negative Victory. Omaha not in effect. We will continue to infiltrate the target. Is satellite picking up anything on infrared or thermals?"
I quickly turn to the satellite officers on the opposite side of the room, who in turn are running through their data as fast as possible. The feed on the big screen at the center of the control room quickly flips between thermal imagery to infrared imagery, over the target building. The officer in charge of the satellite staffers swiftly maneuvers his way to where the lieutenant is standing, and turning to the microphone, says,
"Negative on all accounts Alpha-One. The house is showing up as dead on our feeds. Infrared isn't picking up any movement and thermals show next to no heat from inside the house."
As the officer says these things into the mic, a truly horrifying amount of scenarios begin to run through the unit leader's mind. Not only is the house supposed to have several occupants inside who were armed, but at the very least, where are the mice? Why wasn't the satellite picking up any actionable intel? And why, for the life of him, was this place, despite the torrential downpour, too f*king quiet?
"Alpha-One," says the lieutenant, getting back to the microphone, "Big Mountain (Chief) is asking for your no-BS assessment. Do you need to regroup back at the Farm (HQ) to reassess the situation?"
Inside his wetwork-suit, beads of sweat were dripping down from the team leader's head down his back to his feet. The pressure was building, and he needed to make a decision. These smugglers were so capable that they managed to operate in Nui'a for an untold amount of time before being detected in a roundabout way several years back. Many arrests had been made, but few of them had ever gone to trial. The smugglers had been willing to take their secrets to the grave rather than cooperate with the NPD.
The health of his country depended on him. And as f*ked up as circumstances were now, ol' man Murphy* wasn't going to stop him today.
"Negative Victory. Alpha-One will approach with extreme caution and we will secure the target building before the morning sunrise."
Switching back to the team leader channel, Alpha-One begins to layout their plans for approach.
"Alright guys. Looks like our good ol' friends at ONI managed to f*k up this job just a little. So here's what we're going to do. Alpha-Two, take your squad and flank to the west and then come across the street. You'll hit the front gate. Alpha-Three, you'll flank to the east but instead of stopping once you get to directly behind the target, you'll continue going until you can approach from the northeastern corner. Blow a hole in the wall and enter through the northeastern window. Alpha-Four, your squad will back mine up and we'll continue as we originally planned. Once all teams are in position, we'll hit the target all at once. Alpha-Five, have your team setup over watch on the southwestern approach and cover our asses. If sh*t hits the fan, you'll coordinate with storm watch and get us the f*k outa there."
"All teams confirm your orders," barks out Alpha-One.
"Alpha-Two will flank west and hit the gate, entering through the front gate."
"Alpha-Three will flank up to the northeast and hit the wall, entering through the northeastern window."
"Alpha-Four will back up Alpha-One."
"Alpha-Five will setup over watch and maintain active communications with Victory."
"Read back is good. Let's get this show on the road gentlemen!"
~~~
Thunderstorm = Heavily armed and dangerous Storm watch = Units have been mobilized and are on standby awaiting further orders DMSR = Division for Maritime Safety Regulation DETM = Division for Emergent Threat Mitigation
