Lime retired to his quarters in Istanbul. It was the end of a long day. War council was being held by Sultan-Elect /u/San_Rocco, for the fifth day in a row. They double checked reports, cross-consulted about what was to be done, and made decisions that could be monumental or have no impact at all. Only to do it again the next day. Since he returned to Istanbul, it had been that and the other matters, both great and small, that came with the coordination of the rest of the government. That was the Prime Vizir's job, after all. Anything for the nation, even more for the Sultan, and the most for God in all his glory.

He had settled down to his evening tea when the çikadar arrived.

A small telegram in abbreviated French. From Bern. Lime of Crete squinted and parsed it.

Attack on team. Shot by Bulg. 6d, 5w Turk...

And that was when Lime's grasp failed him.

Six dead.

Five hospitalized.

He held his head in his hands as the emotion bombarded him. A cocktail of anger, sorrow, more rage... but mostly confusion. Why. WHY?!

He look hastily grabbed the missive up again and looked for any information to be gleaned. It was painfully concise:

...2d, 1w Bulg...

They will burn in hell for all eternity for this.

...Swede/swiss ended. No Bulg comm.

Thank Allah for them, and damn the eşol who started this.

He stood up with a start, and looked up. The scrawny çikadar was still there, witless as expected.

"WAKE THE SULTAN, GO!" roared the Prime Vizir, as he stormed out of his quarters. The quiet halls of Dolmabahçe Palace began to awaken from its slumber. Commotion began as people scurried about the halls, but none dared get in the way of the fuming vizir. He stormed his way to the councilroom, furious and teary, formulating how he would report this to the Sultan, and what his advice would be. Arrangements were to be made, messages were to be sent, and hell was to pay.