NationStates Jolt Archive

"Farmyard to all Red and Blue elements, Farmyard to all Red and Blue elements. Word is PEGASUS. Repeat, word is PEGASUS. Good luck and good hunting."
"Roger that Farmyard."
A ripple of that phrase as the lower Blue elements begin to slide out of the clouds and arrow down towards the ground, half a dozen aircraft types, the strike craft bristling with weaponry and drop tanks, a synchronised domino-tip of bombed-up war-craft.

"Red Dog Lead to all Blue elements, starting our attack run now."

Engines spool up from cruising speed and the languid peel off becomes an aggressive charge down to attack height, the big, ugly and tough Buzzards ripping down in a a cloud of their own smoke, below, gunpits snarl into life, tracer lifts up like lights on an equaliser and men flinch as flak bursts around them; inside the armoured cocoons of the Buzzards it's the sound of rain on a tin roof, but this is only a precursor to what's coming next and the Buzzard pilots and their SSOs are all veteran enough to know it will be worse.
And sure enough, it is, the thermal blooms and screaming lock-on tones of batteries of SAMs erupt from the ground and the Buzzard drivers huddle into their seats, racing to be at tree-top height before enough missiles smash into their flying tanks to drag them out of the sky.

"Here we go boys! Remember, last one back buys the beer!"
Red Dog Leader barely finishes talking before the first missile spirals towards him, a spinning contrail augering in fast, faster than anything he'd encountered before he'd started doing this shit.
Now however, Red Dog Leader is an old hand, a practised slap on the stick and the Buzzard snap-rolls sideways, the missile howling past and Red Leader smiles. And dodges the next one. And the next.
Behind him, the rest of the Red Dog formation enjoy varying levels of success, enormous engines screaming as they hurl the big warplanes downward, sideways, whichever direction there isn't a missile in.

Inevitably though, missile triumphs over man. Red 17 rolls in just the right way to have a missile go through a wing-root, the titanium and aluminum construction flicking like paper in the wind as it snaps up, slamming a full load of bombs and missiles into the top side of the Buzzard.
On the plus side, the massive fireball which ensues sucks away a tithe of the missiles intended for Red 17's squadron-mates, a useful death and more importantly, a fast one.

Not so for Red 23, which is hit in the cockpit by a dud, missile and aircraft are traveling fast enough that it punches through armoured glass, and through 23's S.S.O. like the javelin of a God.
23 jerks his controls up, climbing for altitude instinctively, the G forces of the Buzzard's over-built engines snapping the missile almost instantly, bursting a fuel bladder all over 23, who has barely enough time to draw a startled breath before a spark ignites him and his Buzzard begins a hard climb skyward, it's burning pilot trapped screaming in its cockpit till the strike craft gets high enough that there isn't enough oxygen for breath or burning and Red 23 begins a death-glide downward.

Still, most of Red Group makes it down to tree-top height, gaps are torn in their ranks, but they're veterans. They close up and snarl towards the missile pits and gun-bays which murdered their buddies, blasting over (and in some cases through) foliage that is now horribly little cover for the anti-air crews.

The Buzzard is, as stated, an ugly aircraft. That's at least a little on purpose. Kingdom aircraft design, whatever its bureau is obsessed with the concept of "Form Follows Function." A fighter must be elegant, a bomber must loom, an attack craft must intimidate. It is not, however, just aesthetics that make the Buzzard ugly. No. The Buzzard is also ugly because its designers were exposed to the A-10s owned by other Ns militaries and responded thusly:
+ It's a good idea, but couldn't it have a bigger gun?
+ Yeah! And more engines.
+ Yeah! Lots more! And armour! Lots of armour!
+ Yeah! BEST PLANE EVER.

Hence, when the nose of Red Leader's aircraft finds itself levelled at a Rebel AACV it's not a 30mm minigun that he triggers.

No. That would be far too wussy.

Instead a fifty milimetre railgun cycles once and three fore-arm length, hyper-dense slugs rip the multi-tonne vehicle in half, Red Leader comes snarling through the fireball, the shockwave of detonating munitions lifting and dropping the rear of his aircraft even as he thumbs the bomb-toggles, bomblets sprinkling from canisters buried in the bulk of the Buzzard's hull.
Below, things are hellish, the flashing bars of golden light that are the Buzzards railguns split the air in front of them with a echoing BA-BAN-BANG, accompanied by the sonic booms of Buzzard after Buzzard thundering overhead, the constant tooth-shaking crackle of canister munitions exploding in the wake of the first wave.
Then the second wave open their munition dispensers and things get worse, trails of flame bursting into hungry, grasping, sticky flame.

By the time Red Leader wrestles his airplane round to get rid of his remaining warstocks the entire area is either on fire or exploding.
To Red Leader it's a beautiful sight, so much so he rolls his Buzzard onto its back and slows down, removing his hand from the throttle to pump his fist, one finger extended at the valley below.
"That's for Oxford you commie fucks! ENJOY!"
His S.S.O. sighs.
"You know they can neither see or hear you, right boss? Even if they were looking up the canopy is blanked out anyway. And it's night-time."
"You have no sense of the appropriate, you know."
"I know when it's appropriate to flip people the bird boss. When they can see you and gnash their teeth in frustrated rage. They can't do that here boss, on account of previously mentioned circumstances and even then, were the sun to suddenly emerge, there's the inhibiting factor of them all being either a. dead or b. on fire and thus uninterested anything but bodies of water."
"Whatever. Break. This is Red Dog Leader to Blue Elements, you are are clear to begin."
"Roger that Red Leader. Pleasure to watch you work."
Red Dog Leader smiles.
"Oh no. The pleasure was all mine."

Out of Character Information.
A spot of background and explanation:

+ This is the Kingdom's civil war thread, said civil war is set approximately 30 years before the NS 'present' and is being fought at a varying level of technology, entirely dependant on my own personal whim but you should aim for somewhere between (rl)1940 and low FT. A warsie Stormtrooper with his gear is ok as your standard entity, an IoM Space Marine isn't.

+ This is open to -everyone-. And I do mean everyone. Yes, even you Boris.
As it's not oppositional warfare, by which i mean players writing against each other, I see no reason why people who's usual war rp inhibits them from working with others shouldn't be able to thrive here, with the slight limitation that if you're a deliberate asshole your posts -will- be deleted.

+ The participants are the Royalists, who are the faction which wins and are also the nominal 'good guys', but this being a civil war, can be expected to be fairly unpleasant, and the Communist-Republicans, who are the 'bad guys'.

+ Because most of the older nations on NS don't seem to do much presently, I thought'd it'd be an idea to open it up to all participants, inviting all and sundry to meddle, send troops and generally get their war porn on on an enemy who are exactly as tough as you can be bothered writing them.

+ Your participation will be along the lines of outside involvement in the Spanish Civil War, which leaves a nice wide area of levels of involvement with the condition that anyone deploying anything more than a division clear it with me first.

+ The rules are are few. You can portray the Kingdom's citizenry, both factions thereof, as you'd like. Anything that the powers involved in the SCW got away with, you can do. You can run around with vampire jedi catmen if so inclined, provided you write them well.
However, a few limitations do apply.
-Firstly, any war crimes should be run past me first.
-Secondly, no nukes or biological weapons. Chemical agents and gas are both ok.
-Thirdly, magic is ok, but certain aspects of magic are no go zones due to cultural peccadilloes applying to both sides.
Vampires who are recognisable as such are probably the most prominent example of this.
-If in doubt, ask me.

+ That's the formal stuff. Now, the background is freely available in my history thread, if you want that. But for immediacy, this is the opening of the Siege of Poitiers, a francophone city of several million in a region which approximates southern france in climate and culture.

+ The Siege lasts for an extended period and comprised a number of important battles, including examples of large-scale armoured combat, city fighting ala Stalingrad and at least one amphibious assault, so whatever type of fight you feel like writing, you can write.

+ Geography, other than the already mentioned, is that Poitiers, here, lies at the start of a peninsula extending into the ocean. It essentially seals off the land behind it which is also the land supplying it. Naval forces are extant and at the start should be about equal in strength for the two factions. That changes as the campaign continues, but I've never stated why. So perhaps it was your contribution? Who knows?.

That's about all I can think of at present. I'm hoping people will participate and not leave me hanging, but as this is the past, it's not like I need rapid responses. If you need any more information I can generally be found in the #nationstates room on gamesurge under the name 'Yamatto'.
And now for part 2.

"Stand up!"
Men scramble to their feet, stuffing equipment away haphazardly, re-slinging weapons put to one side for the bouncing journey to here.

"Hook up!"
Hands rise, the snap-tink of carabines locking onto the drogue-line rattling up and down the line of over-loaded men.

"Equipment check!"
A brief and impersonal frisking of equipment ensues, it should all be in place, checked to the nth degree by now, but failsafes like this check exist to catch the one in a million error.
"Twenty five ok!" "Twenty four ok!" And on and on down to number one, a Sea Islander Lieutenant who manages to look green even through skin the colour of teak.

"Get ready!"
The bellowing crew-chief standing at the front of the line smiles, then flicks the hatch back, its rumble instantly lost as the drone of the props becomes a roar, cold air whooshing into the cabin. The crew-chief looks up at the flashing red light above the hatch, a number centred in it cycling down to zero with each flash, the last few seconds tick away and the light changes to a steady green burn.

"Go, Go, Go!"
The Lieutenant leaps, tumbling away, screaming soundlessly into the dark void while the calm, rational part of his brain braces, counting down for the inevitable, jarring snap! of his chute deploying.
Behind him, as the transport roars on, his men leap out after him, and the rest of the drop leaps after them, men and women cascading out of aircraft to drift on the air like thistledown, augering down to the ground below.

It is a calm drop. There's no fire snarling up to greet the descending troopers, no scuttling troops below, only clouds of smoke and the occasional boom of flame rise from the valley floor as the paratroopers glide towards the ground.
Boots strike dirt, the majority of touchdowns are safe, troopers whispering thanks to whatever they thank.
But injuries are inevitable, legs are broken, ankles twisted, men are injured by falling equipment and poor landings and, unfortunately, one drop slides neatly into a still raging inferno in a hollow that used to be an ammo dump, half a company vanishing into the flames as their comrades look on in horror.
Those men who survive the drop unscathed, the majority, gather together, units swarming together and then radiating outward again as they move off to objectives, company, battalion or regiment, it doesn't matter which, the movement is smooth.
These are the first wave.
The pathfinders.
The Kingdom's 12th Airborne Division moves into a trot, the jingle of equipment accompanied by the bray of horns used to rally men to commanders, thousands of men still falling to earth, digital-camo splashed body armour and techno-barbute-helms distinctive even in the dark, men move out to begin the siege of the rebel capital.

Eyes are closed, head's way down in the mud, and an addiction is served. Brief moment of nausea as blood and advanced chemistry mix, then the power rushes into mind and soul alike.

"Ahhh... Fuck yeah." He sits up, then sinks back into the mud again, relishing the moment, sucking it all in as the world around him turns into a paradise of Edward Munch drafts.

At present, there's not much in the way of explosions - grenades seem to explode every few minutes, and the occasional rifleshot or machinegun-burst can be heard, but that's about it. Then there's the always-annoying screams of the wounded (Why can't they just fucking die already?), and there's of course still a load of civilians around, which used to be annoying, since Francis could never tell which side they were on.

He still can't tell which side they're on, but Francis has found that considering everyone with a white shirt and vaguely expensive trousers a bourgeoise fuckhead and bootlicking wannabe-noble serves his purposes well. Besides, it's a good way to spend the copious amount of ammunition he happens to be with him.

He briefly looks to his side, where a good friend of his - also a volunteer of the Democratic Front - is whimpering. Francis doesn't look for very long, though - that hole in the belly just looks gross.

He looks back into the oddly romantic sight of the many factories and tiny flats, shimmering orange-brown in the setting sun of the evening and the smoke of the ongoing battle, now riddled with bomb- and grenade craters, collapsed walls and bulletholes, trying to look for something to shoot, his injection making it all the more pleasant to take it all in.

Pretty...

Movement here and there. Probably civilians trying to find a way out... Yes, definitely civilians. Too small to be adults, yet alone fighters.

The finger pulling the trigger stops at the last moment. Francis sighs. This may turn out to be another one of those terribly boring nights.

"F-ing marxists... With their f-ing little red books and their f-ing propaganda and their f-ing slogans..."

----

Death rolled over the little village of Valence with the morning dawn. A trio of mesh-rotors daubed with the mottled browns, greens, and yellows of the South American mercenaries that had thrown their dubious lot in with the Royalists darted away from the forest line and towards the village that was just beginning to stir. Over freshly harvested fields and carefully piled hay they swept as their crews sat nervously silent or laughing back and forth in an attempt to fight off their own anxiety.

"The lieutenant... 'E says there is some kinda radio station in there. Some kinda commie DJ spinning tunes for the workers."

The two chatting troopers sat back to back in the slim belly of the 'Monarca' mesh-rotor, the irony of their craft's designation lost on them, legs dangling out the side as they watched the countryside zip past.

"Oh hey, vaca..." The other trooper pointed at some cows as the cows looked over at the noisy contraptions buzzing past. "Yeah. I figure the regular army is too busy though. Send some paid soja-boy out to do it instead."

"Whatever gets me my dinero, you know?"

"Shut it you two yappers!," The lieutenant, who was sitting in a jump seat next to the cockpit, shouted over the noise of the rotors. "Let's do this thing!"

Both troopers nodded and picked up their rifles to point them out at the village which was quickly approaching.

"Anything moves it gets a bullet, comprehende?"

"Ja. Civies should know to keep their heads down..."

"Doesn't matter to me and it doesn't matter to you, you got that? We gotta make sure that mother isn't hiding in his basement or attic or something so you gotta get out and make sure he's dead."

"What if it's a her lute?"

"Did I say it mattered? Put a bullet in her."

The trio of aircraft passed the first line of houses and headed for the rough area of the village where the Royalist intelligence said the transmitter was sitting. Most of the villagers were more interested in staying inside than seeing what was going on outside and those that lingered outside didn't stay long as troopers took pot shots at them. Moving too fast for accurate fire, the troopers mostly laughed as old men and young children dove for cover as they sent a smattering of lead across cobblestone streets. Then there was the distinctive 'pop' of rifle fire and they all twisted around to see where it was coming from.

"That's not one of ours essey... Must be some old goat with a deer rifle or somewha."

"Bullet can still kill you, you know?"

The two troopers looked around for the likely source of the shots and one raised his rifle to let off a long rattling burst at a shuttered house that was almost right under one of the other mesh-rotors.

"I thought I saw something in there... Hey lieutenant? F-ing 'hit man..."

The trooper had looked over to the lieutenant in his jump seat where he saw the man slumped in his chair. His face and head were a ruined mess. A lucky shot, or a very good one, had punched right through his chin and bounced around in his skull and helmet and now he was slowly tipping over the side of the aircraft.

"Damnit!"

"What? You didn't like him anyway man..."

"Yeah. I hear your up for a promotion though and I don't like you either!"

The two men watched the lieutenant's corpse totter for a moment before the elder of the two, not that there was much more than a few years between them, reached out and grabbed it. From the other two craft they could hear more shooting now as they neared their objective. Long bursts from the chin mounted chain guns tore through the walls of houses and businesses alike as the pilots let everyone know that it would be a bad idea to come outside. Here and there a family raced away from the hovering aircraft as bullets tore up the ground behind them or slapped the unlucky down to lay motionless in the streets.

"First thing you learn... It's always good to get paid twice!"

One of the troopers grabbed the dead man's wallet and tucked it into his own pocket before tearing off his tags and stuffing them into another.

"Maybe three times even... They gonna wonder why we didn't bring anything back though."

Looking up to the cockpit where the pilot was steadfastly focused on flying the craft the other trooper fished out the officer's sidearm - a useful prize - and took one of the lieutenant's grenades from his belt.

"Depends on how much of him they find! Bombing run!"

With that he pulled the pin and stuffed the grenade down the corpse's shirt and tumbled it over the side. Both soldiers laughed as it tumbled away then exploded just before it hit the ground. One toggled his mike and hefted his rifle.

"Hey, essey, the lute got hit. We're ok though."

"..ksssht... Keep an eye on the buildings then. We are flying cover for mop up. Repeat. Flying cover for mop up...ksshtt..."

From the air the two troopers watched as as a half dozen of their fellows kicked in the door of the suspected building and burst in to drag the occupants kicking into the streets a moment later. One of the troopers came out carrying what looked like a rusty old radio set with a pile of papers and a much more modern looking digital recording setup. As he boarded one of the hovering mesh-rotors with the evidence there was a crackle of rifle fire and the remaining troopers jumped back into their slicks.

"...ksssht...Heading home. Buckle up back there...ksssht..."

The mesh-rotor swung around the house with the three bodies slumped against the bloodstained wall outside once, then twice as if the pilot was checking for anything they might have missed. In the bay the younger trooper dug frantically through the lieutenant's pack before pulling out a cannister in triumph.

"Ah! What's the second lesson you learn? Pillage..." He pulled the pin on the red banded cannister labeled CIF3, "...Then burn!"

As the aircraft darted away the tiny cannister tumbled towards the village below before hitting a house across the street from the marxist' radio station and bursting into flames. Fire began to leap from roof to roof even as they watched the village retreat into the distance...

"I am growing to hate trucks, Sergeant."

Staff Sergeant Carson Malloy considered the man sitting across from him in the back of the commandeered truck with a carefully controlled expression, designed to conceal the fact that the Sergeant was, again, sizing up his new Lieutenant.

Unfortunately, Malloy was not quite successful -- but Lieutenant Jonas Brant, unwilling to alienate his Senior NCO, declined to comment on that fact. That Brant himself was quite capable of considering the Sergeant without being overt about it was all the more reason to not bring the matter up. Brant knew full well that his upbringing -- which gave him certain skills, like control over his expression -- was something of a disadvantage in his present occupation. But it was an occupation he'd chosen, and one that, he believed, he could perform very well in.

Malloy drew his mouth into a slight smile, "Well, they are...different. I won't say they're worse than a Goat at full gallop, but they are...different."

Brant nodded, "That they are, Sergeant. Still, a Goat is at least uniformly horrid. It does not attempt to lull you into any sense of calmness with periodic stretches of smoothness. Something in me prefers that sort of honesty to this...thing."

Malloy shrugged, "Well, at least we're almost there."

Brant shook his head, "No, Sergeant. We are there."

As he was speaking, he grabbed his kit and vaulted out of the back of the truck, mantling the side of the bed with the ease of a Revenian in a one-gee environment -- and the grace of someone who was a bit more than a mere one-axe RevArm Lieutenant.

--

"Lieutenant Jonas Brant, reporting for duty, as requested, Ma'am!"

Captain Lesley Allereigh got up from where she was crouched in the dirt next to one of Bravo Company's Fanged Goat APCs, and gave the tall, clean-shaven man a good once-over. The close-fitting RevArm battle uniform -- designed for wear underneath Standard Infantryman's Battle Armor (SIBA) -- revealed much of his physique, and it was not the sort of physique that Allereigh was used to seeing in a first-tour one-axe. Not the gym-won muscles of a recent OCS grad, but the sort of body that could only be achieved through extensive hardship. Jonas Brant had the lean body of a veteran soldier, and there was something in his eyes that seemed quite out of place in his young face.

The issue, there, was that Jonas Brant was the third child of Cassius Brant, Duke of Winthrop, and one thing that could never be attributed to Duke Brant was a hard lifestyle, and his daughter -- and heir -- Amanda, was cut from the same cloth.

Her woolgathering was cut short when her earpiece chirped. She was quite unable to hide her shock, or concern, at the message she received.

Lieutenant Jonas Brant was suffering from similar issues, and voiced them, "Well, this is wonderful. I won't even have time to meet my damned squad leaders before we're thrown into battle. Captain, could you at least point my command vehicle?"

Allereigh nodded, and pointed out 4-Squadron's command APC. She did not get a chance to speak further, as Brant was already running for it -- the 'deployment imminent' orders placed haste above most forms of military courtesy...

--

Major Alexander Kincaid dropped himself into his tank's waiting cupola, bumping his knee on one of the consoles on the way in, but he didn't have time to complain about it. As a matter of fact, he only now had time to secure his combat helmet into place properly.

His fingers danced upon the consoles about him, bringing the systems to life -- soon, diagrams and maps were showing Bravo Company in all of its glory -- two squadrons of tanks, a squadron of combat cars, and two squadrons of mechanized heavy infantry. Not all that much, in the greater scheme of things...but enough. Probably, enough.

Despite the tropical heat, the evening air seemed crisp to William Drake as he watched his grandson play in the courtyard below him. In theory, the boy Augustus was practicing his swordsmanship, but in reality he was mostly just goofing around. It brought a smile to the old man's face and he wished his wife had lived to see her son's child at this age. She had passed away a year ago, suddenly of cancer and it had left William alone and tired. He thought more often of retiring, these days, abdicating the Praetorship and leaving it to his capable son, Honorius.

Soon, he confided to himself once the current crisis was over.

That crisis centered around the island of Terra Laga, a socialist nation founded as a result of a communist revolution at the turn of the century. If was the Imperium that had guaranteed independence, intervening to end the conflict and since then the two governments had been allied despite their differing ideologies. So it was when radicals in the Terra Laga government supported the revolution in Britmattia, that the Imperium, as it enjoyed the trade that passed from Lavenrunz in the south, to Britmattia in the north, was forced to press the Terra Laga government to withdraw its support.

Terra Laga had done so, but not before those radicals had formed the Citizens of the World, an organization dedicated to communist revolution with the support of prominent communist in the Imperium. Citizens of the World had begun a campaign to gather weapons, arms, and volunteers to go to Britmattia. With their support, the Imperium had seen no other option than to support the Royalists and to help to restore order.

Praetor William Drake, had ordered forces sent to Britmattia and the Naval Task Force would be arriving on the morrow. To the Praetor, it was all too personal. He could not help but to make the connection between the war in Britmattia to the events that had lead up to his own ascension to Praetorship.

"This is not over, William!"

1943 A.D., and all William could see was the body of his brother laying sprawled where the mob had left it to lie when the Praetorian Guardsmen had begun to fire over their heads. Now, the entryway to the Grand Praetorian Palace was empty, and Praetor John Drake who had tried to reason with mob, dead.

And all for what? Hysteria? Paranoia? William could not understand what had become of his brother since he had taken the mantle of responsibility after their mother's death. It had seemed he had run the country into straight into the arms of strife and disorder. There was more at going on than that, William knew, and even he could not deny the claims that certain Senators were conspiring against his brother. After all, had they not tried to approach him with their conspiracy? Turning them away had not solved anything, it seemed. It had only made everything worse.

And now. Now, after all the civil strife, he wondered if maybe it was over, or if it could finally be ended. And those who had caused this could be brought to justice. William’s heart fill with sorrow, over missed opportunities, even as with that sorrow came resolve. Resolve to see justice done and ordered restored.

The woman, John's lover, was livid. "If you think this is the end of it, it is not! Everything I do, every breath I take, will be to restore John's Legacy. I would see the Imperium burn than to leave it to you and those who did this! And mark my words, even should I die, this is not over between us."

William opened his eyes, looking again at his grandson. He had restored the Imperium. He had saved it, preserved it. But he still could not help, but wonder, was it really over? Would it ever be over?

0350 Zulu, 1978 A.D. Drakonian Reckoning
South of Britmattian Continent
International Waters, North Atlantic Ocean
IDS Preeminence

Darkness had descended fast upon the Task Force as it continued to sail for Britmattia. Yet, Admiral Li Zahn knew this would be the last night of their journey. They expected to be in sight of land by dawn and then the Operation would begin. The small Asian man paced the observation deck of the battleship, looking out to the waves as if he expected the sun to crest the horizon and reveal land at any moment.

At just less than a hundred ships, the Task Force was the largest assembled by the Imperium in decades. But the Imperial Drakonian Navy was no longer the giant it had once been. Many of the ships, like the Preeminence were old. The Admiral's flagship had been commissioned for a different time and different war, in 1945 and while she had since undergone extensive refits, her glory days, like those of the Imperial Navy were in the past. Even the new carriers, IDS Roc and IDS Chimera, were small, designed for an age in which cost trumped power.

Nevertheless, the Imperium had put forth great effort into the undertakings, deploying as well two Amphibious Assault Carriers, the IDS Veii and the IDS Augusta, six Cruisers, six destroyers, eight of the newer Watchguard-Class Frigates, alongside four of the aging Brigantine-Class Frigates, five submarines, and over sixty support, supply, and other transports ships, including even an old liner, which had been converted into a navy hospital ship.

"Sir," the officer on watch called out, gaining the Admiral's attention. "You asked me to inform you when it was 0400 Hours."

"Yes, of course," the Admiral affirmed. Instantly, he changed as he turned, the pacing stopped and he straightened ready for the business at hand. "Call action stations, increase the Combat Air Patrol, and set condition two throughout the fleet. We will be entering Britmattian Territorial Waters soon."

OOC: Due to technical issues with the forums, this could not be posted on the proper account, CoVar Corporation.

{Lavishly apportioned Hotel Suite in Bigtopia}

"Actually, I am quiet curious as to why you asked me here."

The old woman sat in a Victorian-styled chair in front of a window, which looked out on the Bigtopian city sprawl. Not that she noticed the view in front of her. Her gaze was centered solely on the small pile of papers she held. She was no longer the beauty that she had once been. Yet, she still possessed the beauty and elegance, which comes with age and power. Once, she had been Drakonian Nobility, but all that was all far in her past. Now, she was just another business mogul, trying to hold together disparate conglomerate.

"Of course, you are." She did not even bother to look up.

Looking out the window, the expensively dressed gentlemen held a glass of champagne. He turned away from the view. "The Board of Directors is quite dissatisfied with how you are managing corporate affairs. Golanus is a drain on our resources. And they are not at all enamored of the idea of pursuing security contracts and hiring soldiers-of-fortune."

"The Board are fools." The old woman finally looked up. "You know that as well as I. Look around you, the world is falling to pieces and those that will benefit are those who take advantage of that fact and use it to turn a profit."

"You do not have to convince me," the man replied after a sip of his drink. "I just like to keep you appraised of the whims of the board. You know as well as I, who and what they were, all from rich and noble houses. They want their riches and power back."

She stood. "You do not have to remind me what we lost!"

"Of course," he backpedaled. "I am sorry, Miss Ferrara."

"You know, I do not prefer to be referred to as such," she said frowning.

"Yes, Lady Drake." He set down the half empty glass and half bowed.

"That is better," she continued, appeased. "I summoned you, because I have discovered a way to solve some of our problems and satisfy certain members of the board. Are you familiar with the situation in Britmattia and how it is related to the Imperium and Terra Laga?"

He pondered. "I am."

It almost looked as if a smile started to appear on her face, and for the first time she turned to the view. "Our organization will reach out to this organization, the Citizens of the World, offering them our considerable resources. We will use Britmattia as a proving ground. And through the connections we build with Citizens of the World, we will infiltrate Terra Laga in order to bring down the government there and restoring the island to Australius. We will use those with connections to the Australian monarchy and nobility to provide much of the capital required."

He considered the plan for a moment. "And what of the Imperium?"

Her head half turned to him. "We will use Britmattia, to do our best to discredit the Imperium. Get them involved in a bloody and violent conflict, swaying public opinion from those in power. So that when our plans for Terra Laga come to fruition, the Imperial government will be powerless stop them.

"As for our plans for Drakonia,” she paused, as if thinking. "If we are to supplant William and his progeny, then you had better hurry the search for my son."

It almost looked as if the well-dressed man cringed, and there had clearly been a twinge of menace in the older woman's voice. "Yes, my lady."

She ignored him. "You are dismissed."

OOC: Due to technical issues with the forums, this could not be posted on the proper account, Terra Laga.

Mooring of the Worker's Resource, also known as Caribbean Conveyer
Port of Poitiers, Ducky of Birmingham, Britmattia

Felipe Gonzalez was surprised at the activity on the docks of Poitiers. In spite of the late hour, and dark night, the ship he had arrived on, the liberated ferry Caribbean Conveyer had nearly been entirely emptied in just a few hours.

Yet, regardless of how quickly things were going, the ship's crew were still anxious. "Hurry it up! We have to sail before dawn," the ferry’s captain kept urging. The man kept glancing nervously toward to the horizon, where the occasional flashes of artillery fire would illuminate the broken ruins of the cityscape, as if he expect the sun to rise at any moment.

Still the ship had managed to relatively rapidly offload its cargo of ten T-72 Tanks, four BTR-60 Armored Personal Carriers, and even a 152mm 2S3 Akatsiya Self-Propelled Howitzer. The ship had also been loaded with as much ammunitions and smalls arms as it could hold, for the most part liberated from the factories and armories of Terra Laga and almost entirely consisting of weaponry developed in the Soviet Union. The latest Kalashnikovs, both AKMs and AK-74s, RPG-7s, Dragunov SVDs sniper rifles, SKS rifles, RPK machine guns, it was a veritable catalog of Soviet weaponry and all marked as built in Terra Laga.

The equipment was partly for the several hundred men of Citizens of the World 1st Volunteer Regiment that had crammed aboard with the ammunition and weaponry, but the organization had had the foresight to supply enough ammunition and weaponry to go around to beleaguered revolutionaries.

The whole thing had left Felipe Gonzalez completely baffled, but it did not matter much to him. He was only a lowly private and just did his best to help with the unloading so that his NCO would not bark at him.

Felipe had signed on with the Citizens of the World out of gratitude for what the socialist government of Terra Laga had done for his life. In his homeland of Mexico his family had nothing. His father had struggled desperately working himself into an early grave just to provide for his family. His mother suffered from an illness she caught from bad working conditions in a sweat factory, leaving Felipe and his brothers to provide for his family. He had been lucky and had found work on the island of Terra Laga and eventually was able to bring his family to his new home.

The socialist government had helped him provide for his family such that when he heard of the struggle in Britmattia, he had decided that it was his duty to help. Felipe was no radical, but after what Terra Laga had done for his life and family he felt that people should not suffer as his family had in Mexico. So he had joined the Citizens of the World.

And clearly some powerful others in Terra Laga, felt the same way or so much military equipment intended for homeland defense and foreign sale would not have mysteriously found its way onto the ship christened by the Citizens of the World, as the Worker's Resource.

"Careful now."
Corporal Fain Cloudmallet casts a disgusted look over his shoulder, beard bristling where it wasn't rain-slicked down.
"D'yae wannae do this?"
The trooper who'd spoken grinned back, the expression revealed only by the quirk of eyebrows, the rest of the man's face invisible under a re-breather.
"No, you're doing fine Corp."
Fain glared at the man again, then went back to carefully burying the little black plastic boxes the concealment of which was his mission on this disgustingly damp and dark night.
One last mysterious plastic cube, a swift scattering of earth to hide it being disturbed and Fain and his partner slither back across the mud towards their own lines, dodging wire, wreckage, shellholes and not a few corpses to the relative safety of the outpost they'd launched their trip from.
Ensconced therein, Fain's offsider removes his re-breather and gives his superior a questioning look.
"So what were those things anyway, d'ya know?"
Fain, hands wrapped round a warm mug of soup, shrugs slighty.
"Some sensor thinget thae puwers that be wanted planted. Buggered if Aye ken what they dae exactly."
"Well that's helpful."
"Ours is nae to reason why, ours is tae-'
"Shut up Corp."

Time passes. It rains more. The sensors sit quietly beneath the Kingdom's earth, quiescent and patient.
More time passes and the sensors continue to sleep.
Then...the edge of the net wakes. Vibrations come through the ground, stronger and stronger, more and more of the net waking up until the entirety is activated, whereupon its limited programming proceeds to the next step, and warns its masters that something is shaking the earth under which it lies.
The warning ripples out, then back, percolating from division level back down through regiment, battalion and company, finally arriving with a ping and scrolling text on a green-lit screen.

The screen is one of a number surrounding a throne-like command chair inside the massive turret of a Crusader tank, the Molly Hayes, presently commanded by the shaven-headed, ice-eyed Michael Von Marder, a Lavenrunzian whose family had followed the former queen to the Kingdom.
Michael, at twenty six, was an ascetic, precise, dry and calm in any circumstance, a living embodiment of the Lavenrunzian ideal.
He was also dog-tired, having been on the line for over a month, Crusader Heavy Tanks being just as rare (and thus as much in demand) as the near-mythical Champion skimmer MBTs, so when the message pings, Michael is droolingly unconcious, snapping back to wakefulness with a startled flailing of limbs, most of which smack into anti-spalling padding in the tight confines of the turret.
"Gah."
He rubs at his eyes with a gloved hand, pauses, stares at the gloves he doesn't remember donning, then shrugs and rubs some more, muttering to himself while his eyes struggle to focus.
"Blech. Now what the fuck?"
The text at last resolves itself into a warning of enemy movement on the seismic sensor net and Michael gives it a dirty look, reaching into a pouch and withdrawing a stim-cone, jabbing it into his neck, the little ampule kicking him fully away in moments with a rush of icy chill through his veins.
"Gott, I will never get used to that."
He scrapes at his tongue, which is tingling.
"I'm sure those things aren't good for me. Ah well, we must endure."
A kick of a lever and his command chair shifts out of its recline, moving to align with the turret's hatch, Michael rising and clambering up the short ladder leading out of the turret's cavernous interior up to the top of the hatch, which irises open as he reaches the top of the ladder.
The young commander sticks his head cautiously, just in time for a gust of wind to blow a face full of rain his way.
"Gah! Fucking climate!"
Rubbing at his streaming face, Michael scowls out into mist, peering out for a hint of the enemy.
"Nussing, nussing, nuss-. Shit."
He drops back down the ladder, thumping into his command chair, already pulling the targeting periscope to him.
"Shit some shitting more."
Not taking his eyes away from the periscope, he keys the internal microphone on, a sharp tone squalling from it into the other manned section of the tank certain to wake his driver.
"Sarah. Sarah, vake up!"
A burst of swearing is the response, before his driver brings herself enough awake to reply in their native German.
"Was ist los?"
"The enemy Sarah. Lots of enemy. It's a break-out attempt. Get on the horn to Regiment and bawl for support. Ve'll need it."
His driver responds but Michael isn't listening anymore, instead, he pulls the periscope to guide the heavy, double-gunned turret of the Crusader around, toggling the thumbswitch mounts on the periscope through fire modes, settling on alternate barrels, measured.
The big turret glides sedately as Michael pans the periscope round, settling his target pipper on the centre of a Chancellor Tank Destroyer which is popping off enough EM radiation that it is almost certainly a command vehicle.
"Softly Molly. Softly now." Michael whispers, then, louder.
"Target acquired, servicing."
Michael clicks down on the thumb trigger of his left barrel and the Crusader hums for a moment, then shivers with a "whum!" sound as its main gun fires, the immensely dense projectile a blur of ionized water particle in the mist, hitting virtually as it fires.
The effect on the Chancellor is spectacular, the 200mm projectile punching through the entire length of the T shaped vehicle, howling off into the distance, the sonic boom barely echoing before the tank destroyer explodes in a ball of blue flame.
"Enemy destroyed, re-targeting."

Out in the mist, the assault shivers for a moment, then presses forward, there are dozens of armoured vehicles moving forward, from the light 'Stalin' tanks, to heavier generic MBTs imported from other, sympathetic socialist powers, a scattering of Kingdom designs, and, laced throughout, more Chancellors with their heavy, high velocity cannon, swarming forward despite the periodic, shattering destruction of Michael claiming an other victim.
After all, the Molly Hayes is individually superior to them all.
But that is the point, a point proved in the final days of the pre-fractal Second World War.
Individual super tanks will inevitably be destroyed by a committed and numerically superior enemy.
And the P.S.I. is nothing if not committed.

Major Alexander Kincaid glared at his tactical displays, as if through sheer force of ire he could somehow make reality a little less painful to watch, but, of course, he could not -- the information, as it was refined by Britmattian sources, simply seemed to worsen.

He growled, then, "Danielle! Stop worrying about the fucking hedges and pour it on!"

Specialist Danielle York was a superb tank driver, able to make Dread Song, Kincaid's command tank, execute seemingly impossibly delicate maneuvers. Unfortunately, she sometimes seemed to forget that while precision was magnificent, there were times when a less refined approach got the job done better -- like now.

Still, she also didn't take much prodding, and soon Dread Song was surging ahead, with the other three tanks of her Squadron following in a remarkably coherent near-diamond -- and leaving trails of crushed hedge, leveled berms, and clipped buildings in their wake.

--

"So, ah, Lieutenant Brant?"

Jonas Brant nodded, "Yes, Lance Corporal?"

"Well, ah, sir, we were sorta wondering where it was we were headed off to in such a hurry?"

Brant smiled, "We're being thrown in to plug a hole, Lance Corporal..." his voice drifted for a moment while he dredged the name up -- there were no identifiers on the terrain-tone SIBA breastplates that the soldiers wore, "Ruckers, isn't it?"

The Lance Corporal nodded, "Ah, yessir!"

Brant leaned over and flicked on the forward display screen, quickly slaving it to a tactical overview. Then, in short, concise terms, he indicated to the clustered men of his command squad -- as squad leaders throughout his platoon were doing for their squaddies -- exactly what the hell was going on, and why they were hurtling at speeds very near the 'do not exceed' number for their vehicles to reinforce a...single tank. Admittedly, it was supposed to be a very good tank, but RevArm infantrymen rather thought they knew what a single tank was capable of...and thus, expressed some displeasure.

Perhaps more than some.

"With all due respect sir, you have got to be kidding me! These damned...Solar-barbarian-pricks are spending us to plug a hole, and the Major is letting them? Because they screwed up? We're all gonna die! For politics!"

Brant shrugged, "Most likely, Walters. But, I think, not today. Gameplan is being transmitted to you now, review it, learn it, memorize it. We are implementing it in ten, that is one-zero, minutes. Clear?"

Silence.

Brant smiled, "Very good. We're all in the same boat, then. Essentially, what the lot of you need to worry about is fairly simple: when we get where we're going, we are going to crash decelerate from stupid-fast and the Goats are going to deploy cratering charges -- we will then unass with vigor and occupy the results of said cratering charges."

There was some grumbling, and some louder grumbling. And there was Trooper Reginald Walters.

"So, we're going to be stopping tanks with our rifles and the Goats?"

Brant shook his head, "No, Walters, the Major is going to deal with the tanks. We, with the aid of Captain Thomas' Gladiators, will be responsible for anything that survives Major Kincaid's Lancers."

Walters scowled, "That makes me feel ever so very much better, sir."

Jonas Brant considered himself a competent judge of character, not that Reggie Walters was making things particularly difficult.

"It warms my heart to hear that, Walters. Now shut up. Five minutes."

--

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Contact imminent, sir."

Kincaid nodded, "Thank you, Conley. See to your guns."

Lance Corporal Conley Ferrel, Dread Song's gunner, grunted an affirmative. Ferrel was, perhaps, not the straight arrow that a Major's gunner probably ought to have been, but he was a superb gunner, and had been with Kincaid the length of Kincaid's service, refusing multiple promotions to remain in the position that he preferred -- a gunner was a gunner was a gunner.

Kincaid directed his attention back to his screens, finding something aesthetically pleasing in the manner that his two squadrons were advancing. Specifically, they were maintaining formation remarkably well, considering they were moving at a speed well in excess of one hundred kilometers per hour. The two squadrons were arrayed in a pre-designated manner, echeloned Vs, with the less-weighted side pointing 'inwards,' so to speak -- and arrayed for dramatic flair. Important, though Kincaid, scowling, since this whole damned thing was more-or-less a PR stunt...

Sighing, then, Kincaid proceeded to ensure that the lone Britmattian tanker was aware of Bravo Company's impending arrival, in suitable terms. The "So please don't shoot us" was not exactly regulation communications discipline, but he was breaching RevArm comm discipline by speaking in English, anyway, so what the hell did it matter?

--

The M2 Lancer Main Battle Tank represented the Revenian Army's ideal compromise between mobility, durability, and firepower. Which was to say, "All of them! IN EXCESS!" The big tanks were quite fast, once they got up to speed -- an excess of power provided their miniature mass reactors saw to that. Their primary weakness was an initial sluggish acceleration from a standstill, due to a delay in the nearly-prototype gravitics they employed in conjunction with the cushion of air they rode upon.

They were designed to specifics set down by Dysaryn Stark's military, and Dysaryn Stark was quite besotted with 'shock' as a force multiplier. Thus, the bias of Revenian ground forces towards speed -- all offensive forces were vehicle-mobile, which limited their size significantly, but did make them quite flexible. Yet, there was also a certain tendency to pack on a whole lot of gun. And yet, armor couldn't be sacrificed, as the vehicles were intended to be 'heavy' combatants, capable of being exposed to more than token hostile fire.

The result was a compromise, as most things were, but it was a compromise that would, eventually, prove extremely successful -- the M2 Lancer would remain the primary MBT of the AFESSR for centuries, kept in line with the march of technology by successive upgrades. Though those future Lancers might be ever-more capable, they were still, at heart, the vehicles roaring out in Bravo Company's vanguard.

Soon, soon it was time -- soon, soon contact would be made. Indeed, as Bravo Company's eight tanks hurtled past the stationary Britmattian Crusader, they were already firing, no longer being forced to rely on 'imported intelligence' as the foe had come, at last, within their reach.

Most noticeable, as would be expected, was the main gun, a 20cm copper-plasma powergun. This weapon dominated the sleek-bodied Lancer, and in its own way, was just as devastating as the massive railgun mounted by the Britmattian Crusader that the RevArm tanks had so recently passed (though with plenty of clearance left). Indeed, as Sergeant Jaycie Kerr's Fat Lady fired the first shot of the war for the Star Supremacy, the effect would, at first, seem to be far worse.

Jaycie Kerr was under consideration for a commission, and she knew it -- and was trying to prove herself worthy of that honor. Attempting to display 'advanced tactical thinking' was just one of her many efforts in this vein, and in consideration of that, she had picked one of the lesser PSI vehicles and had her gunner hit it with the primary. The blindingly cyan streak caught the Stalin light tank on the nose, as it were, and the results were...impressive. Firstly, something like the front third of the tank ceased to exist as a coherent entity. Secondly, the remaining two-thirds were thrown three meters up and some further distance back, in several pieces.

It was, indeed, quite dramatic. It also displayed one of the weaknesses of the powergun, namely a complete lack of penetration. True, in this case the energy of impact had essentially shattered the target, but this would not necessarily be the case against a harder target. Whereas the Britmattian Crusader's railgun put slugs through its targets lengthwise, the powerguns of the Revenian tanks did no such thing. In most cases, the results were still lethal, but freak accidents did happen.

For example, one powergun bolt found the very tip of a PSI Chancellor's barrel at an angle, disintegrating the cannon and lifting the heavy tank destroyer's front up nearly a meter, but otherwise leaving the tank essentially unharmed. Of course, the shrapnel from the exploding breach would likely take care of the crew...but. The point was made.

Major Kincaid flicked a toggle, gave an order. The order was: "Two."

For this operation, Bravo's Lancers had been outfitted with the optional four-tube missile racks on their outboard hardpoints, and these racks were promptly flushed. No sane tank commander wanted to retain such things while under fire, even armored as the racks were. They were designed explicitly for the armored spearhead role, to be flushed during the charge, hopefully before the foe had a chance to take advantage of their theoretical explosiveness.

Thus, Bravo's Lancers vanished in a cloud of smoke, though this was little hindrance to the tankers inside, aided as they were by multiple different imaging aids. Sixty four missiles streaked downrange, though they were not the advanced tank-killing ATGMs that were relatively common (particularly in simulated wargames between RevArm formations...), rather far simpler 'smart-ish' missiles with relatively 'simple' high-explosive warheads. Putting the pressure on...

And keeping it on, as the distance closed, and the secondaries came into play -- the twin tri-barrel powerguns, co-ax and AA mounted, and the two autogun fourpacks -- provided for an effect quite visually impressive, and nearly as effective, at least upon the lighter PSI vehicles.

Of course, this was as much a distraction as anything, for behind tanks came the rest of Bravo Company -- eight Fanged Goad APCs ground to a halt, flinging cratering charges in front of them as they disgorged squads of heavy infantry into those promptly excavated foxholes. Behind the Goats, the eight M5 Gladiator combat cars of Captain Carter Thomas' Greenfall Squadron were remaining loose and mobile, grim-faced gunners peering over the sights of their twin-mounts, watching the always pleasing sight of multiple M2 Lancers in their element -- no lumbering monstrosity like the Crusader about which the infantry had roughly deployed, but a weapon born of a devotion to the principle of 'putting on the pressure and never letting up' that had been imbibed into the nascent AFESSR by its founders...

In one of those newborn foxholes, Jonas Brant flicked the safety off his CR-17 and squinted his eyes. He knew all too well what it was like to dance on that sword-edge. And if the other man in his foxhole found it somewhat odd to see his platoon leader burst out into near-manic laughter, he was too good a soldier to show it, nor did the laughter last longer than a few seconds.

Brant smiled, then, and spoke a few words, as much to himself as to the dirt in before him, "And 'lo the wind is arisen.'

It really was not a question of movement or lack thereof. After all, the wind was slightly blowing, causing the trees to rock gently back and forth. And movement was the only way one was going to see stuff here under the dense forest canopy.

The small encampment was laid along one of the most logical axis of advance for the opposing force, and as such it had to go. A line of tents was woven through the dense foliage, and three rough bunkers had been constructed out of trees and dirt. Two were filled in with the hulking shapes of light armored vehicles, tanks on everything but the field where they would be unable to stand up to the more powerful, more modern designs. The central bunker was carefully designed to hold infantry.

It was roadkill to any serious attacking force, but it would survive long enough to warn its main body, and potentially weaken the oncoming front. It was well hidden, and if it had not been under observation for three days, it was entirely likely no one would have known of its presence.

But it was known. Just like all the others.

And, just like all the others, it had twenty minutes left to live.

* * * * * * *

The problem with waiting in one place for an extended period of time was that you tended to get stiff. Your muscles started to freeze up, your joints began to ache, and generally you started to ache.

Add that to not doing anything but breathing very slowly for that same extended period of time and you tended to get bored.

So that was Corporal Johann Mims’ current situation. Slightly achy and very bored. Fortunately, he knew that the situation would be changing soon. His shoulder and elbow protested silently as he reached for his knife. Dull black, the blade had no betraying sheen even had there been enough light to reflect from it. The tiniest whisper of sound broke the earliest morning patterns of the woods, but it was below the threshold of all but the nervous trooper.

In close quarters fighting there is no more deadly weapon than the knife.

The slim, double edged blade was just over thirty one centimeters long with a vase grip for precision handling and perfectly balanced for throwing should it be necessary. Hopefully, such a situation would not occur.

A crunch of dried foliage broke the stillness, and Johann’s fingers tightened around the blackened, patterned brass grip as he remember the words of his instructor, oh so long ago, before the failed war had driven him from the continent of his birth.

In choosing a knife there are two important factors to bear in mind: balance and keenness. The hilt should fit easily in your hand, and the blade should not be so heavy that it tends to drag the hilt from your fingers in a loose grip.

A shot of adrenaline pumped into the soldier’s system as the target stepped more fully into the clearing, nothing more than a black shadow of a man with a rifle. Muscles that had just a moment before been protesting their extended period of disuse tensed and had their pain flow away in the opening moment of combat.

Sharp eyes watched the shadow flow over the ground with light steps, calculating the moment of closest approach, silently working out how many steps Johann would need to take, how fast to move, how quickly to raise his arm.

It is essential that the blade have a sharp stabbing point and good cutting edges, because an artery torn through (as against a clean cut) tends to contract and stop the bleeding. If a main artery is cleanly severed, the wounded man will quickly lose consciousness and die.

Johann moved without even truly realizing he had done so until the first step was completed. The shadow had started to move past his hiding place, and the unconscious mind of a soldier who had stayed alive through a crushing defeat and innumerable campaigns to find enough money to feed himself and his squad had been honed to a razor’s edge. Much as the knife that found itself wrapping around the throat of the shadow.

Gloved fingers touched skin, tightening instantly over the mouth, preventing the instinctive call for assistance. The monster out of the darkness had come, and his claw was razor sharp. Skin peeled back as the blade cut deeper, opening to expose muscle and sinew to the seeking edge. The tiniest motion set these aside as well, then warmth flowed over black gloved fingers, coating hand and grip and blade.

Life fled from the motion, racing out in a pumping heart, an opened throat, a cut preventing sound as still silently protesting muscles flexed, lowering Johann and his victim to the leafy group. The smallest sounds escaped as Johann reversed his knife and sliced through the straps holding the enemy’s gear to the now dead body. Experienced hands sorted in the darkness, feeling spare magazines, another knife, not as good as his own, a couple of grenades, even some ration kits. Everything useful in the immediate future was attached to the mercenary’s own person. Rations could be retrieved later, if he still needed them.

In the darkness, the corporal hefted the rifle, feeling the weight of it. Heavier than he was used to, but that could help with the as yet unknown recoil. He extracted a single bullet and felt it with his eyes closed. Despite the darkness, mere shadows of reality before him, his touch was more sensitive without his sight. Blinded by choice, he reloaded the bullet and slipped the magazine into his pocket. Only one per each, no chance of rattling against the other…

Calmly, he sets the rifle to what he hopes is burst fire and waits for the rest of his men to arrive.

Ten minutes remaining.

* * * * * * *

Six muffled thwumps break the stillness of those early morning hours, followed by a sharp whistling that any one awake to hear knows means that it is already too late.

The central bunker vanishes in a closely spaced series of explosions, nearly blinding all those whom had been so friendly with the darkness for such time. But, having known it was coming, they had looked away. The same could not be said for those who were friends with the men now burning.

No shots yet fired, but a surreal glow quickly spread into the forest, enforcing the shadows and highlighting the targets of the newest sounds. Bright streaks of flame appeared after a double cough of sound, streaking out of the woods, some high, some low.

Some missed. Others did not.

The double cough represented one of the more deadly weapons carried by the mercenaries – a single round that split into two parts the instant it was fired – a sabot penetrator tipped the round and a high explosive designed to strike a moment later. Even so, it took a direct, perpendicular hit to drive through the armor of the vehicles crouching low in their bunkers.

Sparks glittered off angled armor, and a high explosive burst among the wet trees, setting some alight. New shadows are born, new confusion reigns. Another round wastes itself on the upturned trunk of a tree, felled to stop exactly what it did, saving the armored weapon for another slice of time. With a shriek of tortured metal, though, armored hatches bulged upward and then released geysers of white hot flame.

Four seconds into the attack, powerful spotlights flicked to life, wiping across the trees to break up the shadows, to reveal the attackers. Five seconds into the attack, the first actual rifle is fired, and by six seconds into the attack, the spotlights are darkened once again, and the shadows are that much blacker.

Green lines reach across the darkness as the rolling pop of automatic weapons echoes in the night. Canvas bows, then shreds under the lethal barrage, and the carefully hidden tents flutter down as macabre sheets to cover their sleeping dead. But only for moments, as the phosphorous coating ignites what should have been flame-retardant material, and once more the shadows darken.

The more light that ignites, the more light that burns in the night, the blacker that outside of its influence becomes, wrapping the shades that stalk and deal death with such precision in even deeper in its protective embrace. Ten seconds after the first shot, stuttering fire is heard, reaching out towards the deadly trees.

But the fires silhouette those lone soldiers, doing their duty to cause and country, and they are cut down without mercy.

After another twenty second of sporadic rifle fire, the sound eventually dies away, returning to the sounds of the forest – a forest that was now silent except for the crackle of the fires.

Finally the shadows peel out of the trees. It takes them only a few moments to drift among the flames, flickering from one set of shadows to the next. A few shots rang out, and a single shadow spun with the first cry made by human lips since the firing had begun. The source of the shots was met by a shocking number of replies, though, and a cut off scream was all occurred.

The shadows floated among the flickering flames for some minutes, occasionally bending down and stripping the bodies of the dead, or helping those who were not yet at that level reach it.

Soon enough, the shadows merged once more with the trees, and eventually the fires burned out. Silence once more reigned.

The entire attack had taken less than fifteen minutes.

Tanks stream past the Molly's bulk and Michael smiles a wolf-smile, a Crusader captain cannot just be a mere gunman and crew-chief, he must understand the implications of events on his part of the line.
The implications of this unit's presence, here, now, are reach much further than the mere halting of an offensive.
The Revenians are proud, effective fighters, their vehicles far superior to anything the Communists can bring to bear here, their assault is broken before it has even really begun, their momentum broken by the shock of the immediate counter-attack, even as more PSI vehicles funnel towards the front, swarming forward to throw themselves at the mercenaries' guns Michael has followed the consequences of breaking the assault to their logical end-point and he knows what to do.

"Sarah, full mobility, follow them."
The Crusader shakes as Sarah yanks her control-yoke upward, hundreds of tonnes of super-tank lurching from the earth it had buried itself in, cradle-hung on eight massive legs, it scuttles off after the RevArm vehicles horribly fast for such a massive vehicle, the motion of it unnerving, a spider on massive scale, skittering its way across the battered moonscape of no man's land without missing a step, the slam of each foot casting a miniature explosion of mud in its wake as Michael takes advantage of the shock of the broken assault, following the line of broken, burning tanks, and where lines of sight and time allows, snapping off a shot, each followed by the pyrotechnics of an other shattering explosion as lesser vehicles find themselves unable to stand against the monster.

The second wave charges forward, engages, falls, the third charges forward into Hell or at least a reasonable simulacrum of it, wavers, and then as the Molly Hayes thundering charge takes it over a Stalin Light Tank, crushing the three-man vehicle like a beer can beneath the heel of God, breaks.
The painful, tooth-rattling hum of a railgun building to fire sounds again and again, Molly's turret is steam-coated white from discharged, super-heated coolant as Michael fires the double barrels in quick succession, targets exploding even before the streaks of light that track back to Molly's guns sear their presence on those unfortunate enough to be watching through unprotected retinas.
The RevArm vehicles slash and cut, their vehicles a compromise between speed, mobility and armour, whereas the Crusader makes no such compromise, power, sheer power is paramount.
It is a warhammer next to sabres and the P.S.I. forces are unprotected flesh beneath the blows of both.

"Michael, Michael you need to hear this.."
A click, and Sarah's voice disappears from his headphones replaced with panicked tones in a Gaullois accent.
"-ll back, I repeat fall back, we cannot stand against that thing, f-fall ba-"
The broadcast ceases abruptly with a squeal of white noise and Michael smiles his wolf-smile again.
"Sarah, get DivArty up and have them start hitting behind the Reds lines with Tang*. I want those bastards locked down when we arrive."

Back beyond the P.S.I. lines, panic has been met with scorn and logic, the commanders who know that there cannot be as many enemies engaging their armoured spearhead as is being reported.
Still, a precautionary measure is taken, the P.S.I. being good logical New Men.
Grendel wakes, yawning, rumbling out its den to meet the Royalists, fangs agape, for the monster that it is has not been recently and deep in its growling metal soul it hungers.

*Tang : slang term for Persistent Nerve Agent Number 2, called such because before firing it takes the form of an orange powder. After firing it takes the form of foaming-mouthed dead unprotected anything close enough to a human to reproduce with one. Just add water vapour.

M2 Lancer Dread Song, Command Tank, Bravo Company
Alexander Kincaid frowned at one of his screens, presently displaying the Britmattian spider-tank feduce.

"My, my, my, that is one of the oddest looking contraptions I have ever had the misfortune to see."

He frowned for a moment, then nodded to himself in recognition of the finality of his decision, then toggled over to a directed push...

M5 Gladiator Lady Anne, Command Car, Greenfall Squadron, Bravo Company
Captain Carter Thomas frowned as he reviewed the Major's transmission in his head, before giving, though theoretically he was only relaying the orders. Still, in effect, if not in theory, he was the over-all commander of Bravo's non-tank assets.

"Greenfall, Grimson, Helldawn, load 'em up, roll 'em out! PUSH 'TILL IT GIVES!"

The motto of the fictional Regulan Hussars had been adopted as something of Bravo Company's unofficial motto, courtesy of Carter Thomas' recreational pursuits. Still, it felt apt...

Thomas watched the infantry scamper out of their foxholes and mount their APCs with a speed born of training, and about three fourths of Bravo's infantry were veterans -- that figure carried through pretty much the whole of the AFESSR, though.

None of Bravo's other vehicles had the sheer offensive capability of an M2 Lancer -- the heaviest gun carried by the M5 Gladiator and the M7 Fanged Goat was a twin-mount 2cm tri-barrel, though the Gladiator carried three twin-mounts to the Goat's one. Backing up the twin-mounts were 2-tube missile pods, one for the Gladiator, two for Goat.

Unlike Bravo's Lancers, the lighter vehicles did carry the full up ATGM, providing them with a token anti-tank weapon, beyond the man-portable hypervelocity missiles carried by Bravo's dismounts.

A minute or so later, the Gladiators formed the vanguard for the Goats, and the rest of Bravo set off in pursuit of the tanks. Not a particularly hard pursuit, though -- while the M2 Lancer was a very fast tank, it was still a tank. Thus, it wouldn't take too long for the lighter contingent to catch up with the armored spearhead...