NationStates Jolt Archive

Severmansk Railhead
Slitzpole, Rhadia, USSR

Maj. Detrovich stood on the train platform, watching his men load up onto the cars. 20th Tanks Regiment, the cream of the USSR's armored forces, were going to war, and not for the first time. Detrovich had fought in Tirjkia a decade before as a young tank platoon leader in the same regiment. How like these men I was then, he thought as the lead column of T-80's made its way to the cargo platforms at the rear of the train. The first tank slowed as it approached the ramp, guided by one of the dismounted crew members. The driver, his eyes fixed on his ground guide, inched the tank up the ramp and into position on the flat-bed car. As soon as it was in place, the rail crew moved to secure it in place with heavy chains for the long ride to the border.
Satisfied at the progress of the work, Maj. Detrovich returned to his small temporary office in the train station. All civilian traffic had been diverted to allow 20th Tanks and her sister unit, the 38th Motor Rifle Brigade, full access to the rail lines. The orders given to Detrovich by Armed Forces Central Command had been specific; Deploy to Republic of Tirjkia with all possible speed. Renewed hostilities emminent. Detrovich sat down behind his desk and removed his peaked cap. What a time to be leaving home, he thought. Football season is about to start... Detrovich's son, Boris Vladovich, was captain of his school's team, and the Major had few opportunities to watch him play since the death of his wife. Something had always come up, but such was a soldier's life. Last minute training exercises, deployment alerts, and miles of paperwork were the norm in the People's Army.
Speaking of which... Detrovich picked up the latest dispatch for his headquarters, outlining the fuel supply requirements for the next few months. He did some quick figures, made some changes to the paper, and placed it in the wire basket marked "OUT". One down, thousands to go, he thought ruefully.

Northern Tirjkia,
Two weeks later...

It was a hot day, almost unseasonably hot, and that made the task of harvest all the more unpleasant. Most of the work was still done by hand, much as it had been for the past 200 years, since the tribes of the northern mountains had given up their nomadic ways, and settled down to raise wheat on the southern slopes. The women had come in from the fields to prepare the noon meal and take a much-needed break from the heat and wind. The men, for the most part, sat in the shade, talking. Working in the fields was for women and children; the men concerned themselves with running the daily operations of the village, and conducting what trade passed through. Here too, things had not changed much in two centuries.
At noon, one of the local holy men climbed to the top of the town's mosque and, in a very melodic voice, called the men to prayer. Nearly every man in the village made his way to the center of town and, spreading his mat on the ground and kicking off his shoes or sandals, knelt to pray. The people of Tirjkia were, as a whole, very devout people, which had been a source of both strength and hardship for many years.
At the edge of the village, the few women and older children still collecting the harvest began to notice a large cloud of dust to the north. Most dismissed it out of hand; dust storms were more common this time of year, and the drought hadn't helped that any. A while later, their attention was again directed north; this time, by what sounded like the growl of a very large, and angry lion. The noise grew louder as the dust cloud approached, untill it was far too loud to be the voice of any animal. The workers began walking slowly to the dirt road that ran through the fields into town, and then beyond to the central plains of Tirjkia.
The children, their eyes sharper than most of the adults, were the first to see what was causing the spectacle. Most were around 12 years old, and too young to see the things their parents had told them of. Most had never seen a car or truck, let alone a fully loaded main battle tank, with troops sitting on the track skirts, rifles at their sides. But the women, and some of the older children had seen, and remembered. Mothers grabbed their children and ran, the crops forgotten. Most headed for town; others headed out into the countryside, thinking that would be safer.
Both would be proven wrong.
The men, collected at the center of town, were caught almost completely by suprise; the buildings had done much to drown out the rumble of the approaching tank column, and so focused were they on their prayers, they had been too late to escape. The tanks encircled the town square and pushed in, the infantry dismounting to close the noose and ensure none escaped. The men were quickly rounded up, their hands tied and blindfolded. Flat-bed trucks that had followed from the border were soon called up, and the men were herded into them for the long ride back to the prison camp the 38th Motor Rifle Brigade had established the day before. Their comrades in 20th Tanks Regiment would be pushing on to the next village that night, where they would again capture the men and await the return of the trucks to take them away.
The pacification of Tirjkia had begun in force.

http://www.hobbylinc.com/gr/rvl/rvl03104.jpg
T-80 tank in combat, Northern Tirjkia, 1973

Majari-E-Sarwat
Later...

Mohammed Haji Kumeni knelt in prayer, his eyes closed. He prayed for many things; a good harvest, good health for his family, a healthy child for his pregnant daughter. To anyone observing him this morning, he seemed a man at peace with the world. Those who knew him, knew better. He was a man who had known much in his long years, but peace was not one of those things.
Years ago, when the Communists had invaded from the north, he had been just one more young man who had picked up a rifle and stood against them. Skill on the battlefield, and the brutal Darwinian process of combat had elevated him quickly, to a leader of many men. He had seen men die, some by his own hand, but had never relished it, as too many other mujhadeen had. And once the Communists had their fill of them, they had gone, as suddenly as they had arrived; the great leaders of the Jihad, drunk with power, had fallen to fighting amongst themselves within weeks.
Oh, how they must have laughed, he thought bitterly. To have defeated so great an army, with the meager resources we had, only to turn on each other like rabid dogs... Kumeni shook his head, banishing the thoughts and continued his prayers. When he had finished, he bowed low to the ground, then stood and retrieved his prayer mat. From outside the walls of his home, he could hear his grandchildren playing, laughing as children always seemed able to, regardless of what happened around them.
Mohammed Haji decided that he would take the family's sheep west to graise today, and with the help of his eldest grandchild, began the task of herding them together for the trip. He did not see the rusty old pickup truck coming up the trail to the house untill it was a few hundred meters away. He scowled; hardly anyone visited him now, and never in a vehicle. The road was far too rugged...
The truck came to a halt just in front of the house in a cloud of dust. It was then that Kumeni noticed the bed of the truck was filled with men. With rifles.
"Peace be upon you, friends. I was not expecting guests today."
The passenger door of the truck opened, and a young man jumped out and began walking toward him. Kumeni noticed that he too was armed. He took Kumeni's hand and kissed his cheek, as was the custom in Tirjkia.
"Peace be upon you as well, Mohammed Haji. I regret that we come today not as guests, but as the bearers of ill news. They have returned."
His words, and the way he spoke them, left no doubt in Kumeni's mind to whom he referred. He sighed heavily; he was far too old for this. The young man continued.
"They have already siezed villages close to the border. They have taken the men and put them in camps behind barbed wire and dogs, as though they were animals. This is something they have not done before; they seem intent to imprison all our nation."
"Have any stood against them?" Kumeni asked, even though he already knew the answer. The youth's face turned grim.
"Our men are brave, Haji; you know this. Some, those not taken completely by suprise, resisted. They died bravely."
Kumeni shook his head. He had hoped he would not live to see this day. But it was not his will that these things had happened; it was God's will.
"I am an old man. But I have fought this enemy before. If it be God's will, I will fight them again."
Kumeni turned and went into the house. His children, and their children, were standing outside. They knew what he had to do. A few moments later he returned, carrying a few personal items and his rifle, a Mauser that had once been used against the British in North Africa. It was familiar, and had tasted Communist blood before. The young man gave up his seat in the front of the truck, and then Mohammed Haji Kumeni was gone, leaving behind all he had grown to love. He wondered if he would see it again, but he knew that too was in God's hands.

Forward Base 77
Republic of Tirjkia

Junior Lieutenant Viktor Bondarenko was awakened promptly at dawn by the clatter of tank treads, seemingly just outside his tent. This was because there really was a tank rolling by not five feet from his bunk. Bondarenko yawned, rubbed sleep from his eyes, and went out to greet the new day.
20th Tanks Regiment had made Forward Base 77 their home in the weeks since the invasion of Rhadia's wayward province. Even in the early hours, the base was a flurry of activity; tank crews bustled about, tending to their tracks and engines. The deserts of Tirjkia were harsher on the machines than the climates of home, and kept the maintinence crews busy. That, at least, was a blessing; there was little time for trouble, of which there was plenty already. Resistance to the Rhadian offensive had been ineffective; a few stubborn outposts, which had collapsed after a few days heavy fighting. Causalties had been mild; far less than most of the officers had anticipated, based on the last war.
Bondarenko ambled to the far side of the motor pool, where the tanks of his platoon were assembled. He took a moment to admire them; squat profiles and dull bodies, gun barrels pointed skyward. Like a pack of Siberian wolves, ready for trouble, he thought. The crews lounged on the track skirts, trying to catch a few more minutes sleep. The tank commanders got everyone on their feet as thier platoon leader approached. Salutes were given and returned, and Bondarenko set about getting his men ready for the day. The tank crews readied their tracks for travel while the lieutenant took the sargeants aside, filling them in on the day's mission. It would be more of the same; escort troops from the 38th Motor Rifle Brigade as they continued to round up anyone and everyone they found. The camps to the north were already full to overflowing; Bondarenko had heard rumors he knew better than to think about. Mostly because they were probably true.
The informal briefing concluded, the tankers mounted their vehicles and rolled out of the motor pool. At the gate, they were met by trucks and BMP's carrying the infantry, and together they headed off down the road toward Herjat, Tirjkia's largest city.