NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: The Commonwealth of McQuaide occupies what is in the real world the Republic of Georgia.

Prime Minister's Residence, New Dublin, McQuaide

IC: Prime Minister Daniel Sweeny frowned as he read his daily intelligence briefing. For the third day in a row, McQuaide Border Guards Division troopers had been killed by a roadside bomb. This time, a suicide bomber had approached a BMP-3 infantry fighting vehicle posing as an injured civilian, tossing an incendiary device into a firing port that had been opened to allow a translator to speak to the man. Eight soldiers had been killed along with the bomber, who was later identified as an Azerbaijani citizen. For weeks, Azerbaijanis had been infiltrating the border region as part of an attempt to stir rebellion in the South Ossetian region, thus creating a bridge between Iran and the rebellion in Chechnya.

“Deploy what you need into the border region. Get UAV coverage up, and begin dropping notices that anyone found in the border regions without prior authorization will be engaged. And get the Internal Intelligence boys in on this. Tell them that they have free reign to do what they need to kill these sonsabitches.

Caucus Mountains

The 43rd Light Mechanized Infantry Brigade was an elite unit, with most members veterans of the Generian conflict and other engagements. They had been deployed as part of the McQuaide response to Azerbaijani incursions, with the explicit orders to engage any hostile forces entering the area.

Master Sergeant Robert Zubrin was the senior scout-sniper for the entire 3rd Corps. Although his primary responsibility was to run the McQuaide Scout-Sniper Academy in Tiblisi, he had requested assignment to the Caucuses in order to assist in the defense of his homeland. For three days he had been tracking a twelve man group that had been navigating a high mountain pass. Although the trail was occasionally used by shepherds, shepherds never traveled in groups of 12, and didn’t keep the sort of pace these men were keeping.

Later in the day, Zubrin spotted his prey. He was on the crest of a mountain ridge, looking through his rifle’s 24x scope to the other side of a steep mountain valley. The twelve-person party was indeed carrying large packs and weapons, probably intent on conducting another attack against his comrades. This group, however, would not get through. Zubrin fired his first shot from his assembled-by-hand .308 caliber sniper rifle, sending a match-grade round through the medulla oblongata of the apparent leader of the group. Through the rest of the day, he would hunt the rest of the group. None of the Azerbaijani terrorists would survive to see morning.

McQuaide Ministry of State Press Conference, 40 Hours Later

“Two days ago, a McQuaide Self Defense Force Special Forces team succeeded in intercepting a group of Azerbaijani terrorists attempting to infiltrate the country. All twelve terrorists were killed, with zero losses to McQuaide forces. McQuaide Internal Intelligence Bureau agents investigated the evidence of the case, and have determined that the terrorists were attempting to smuggle into the country 85 kilograms of sarin nerve gas. Although their intent is not known at this time, the terrorists were carrying maps of the Tiblisi and New Dublin subway systems.

In response to this attempted attack, the McQuaide Self Defense Force has deployed the 4th and 5th Mechanized Infantry Divisions, four light mechanized brigades, and three motor rifle divisions to the Azerbaijani border, in order to ensure that no terror attacks threaten the McQuaide people.

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I Chosroes, Shah of the Parthians sends greetings to the nation of McQuaide. If you give me a free hand I can solve your Azerbaijiani problem forever. Allow me to annex Azerbaijan and I will crush their raids and send you cheap oil from Persia via a pipeline.

Be careful McQuiade.

Greggory June
Minister of Intelligence
Blair, Grenval

bump--post saved on other computer, expect one soon.

Doesnt Russian Forces have a claim to Azerjaban?

Liberty Square, Tbilisi, McQuaide

McQuaide’s Remembrance Day holiday preceded the country’s Independence Day festivities by one week. They were meant to commemorate the men and women who had sacrificed their lives in the name of freedom and liberty throughout the country’s long history. In the former capital of Tbilisi, the day was marked by a solemn yet colorful procession down the city’s main thoroughfare. Featured prominently in the procession were members of the 4th Mechanized Division, an elite front-line assault unit equipped with the best equipment available in the international arena. Soldiers in their dress uniforms marched by in unison, before lines of infantry fighting vehicles, main battle tanks, anti-air vehicles, and the massive MLRS rocket launcher vehicles made their way through the procession. While Prime Minister Daniel Sweeny reviewed the troops from the central stands in front of the Tbilisi Cathedral, Admiral Ellie Fitzgerald saluted from the top hatch of an M-4 Command Post Vehicle. All told, nearly 100,000 McQuaide citizens had lined the streets of Tbilisi to participate in the events of the day.

In that moment in time, only twenty-six people on the planet expected the carnage that was about to happen. Eight were concealed behind a camouflage net, making final preparations on five 255mm rockets. Sixteen more were intermixed with the crowd. Some were depositing small parcels in trash cans and under benches, while others simply tried to push into the densest parts of the crowd.

The timing of the attack was perfect. At exactly 1500 hours, Admiral Fitzgerald’s command vehicle would pass by the review stands. At 1459.20 seconds, the five rockets were fired in a quick ripple of light and sound, quickly streaking through the air. They had the most rudimentary of fuzes, set to air burst 40 seconds after launch. Their warheads, however, were highly advanced air-gas explosive warhead designs taken from Russian MLRV systems. The rockets detonated within three seconds of one another, each over a different stretch of Liberty Square and the main streets of the procession. The air-gas warheads first made loud thumps, instantly disbursing 145 gallons of a highly flammable fuel-alcohol mix with the air. Instants later, sparker charges in the missile frames detonated, igniting the clouds of explosive vapor and creating massive, powerful blasts.

The air burst explosions ripped through the crowds, sucked vehicle crewmen out of their open hatches, and blew out the windows of the buildings in the area. The Tblisi Orthodox Cathedral, a medieval structure of massive proportions, collapsed from the force of two of these explosions converging on its façade, which was undergoing renovation.

Timed with the rocket attack, nine suicide bombers who had spent their day scouting out the densest parts of the crowd detonated belts of plastic explosive and nails, sending shards of shrapnel into the crowds. A tenth bomber’s detonator failed, and the crowd rushed him before he could activate a secondary detonator. Although authorities eventually took him into custody, he suffered three fractured ribs, a broken jaw, and a shattered femur before he could be wrestled away from the mob.
The first scenes to make the international press came mere minutes after the detonation. Helicopters in the air to report on the procession for domestic news media soon began delivering their feed to cable and satellite subscribers in offices and homes the world over. Minutes after the helicopter feeds started to come in, one of the networks picked up a webcast from several video cameras, ostensibly shot by the terrorists themselves.

Rescue efforts in the scene led to even more carnage. Explosives left in trashcans and under benches had been deployed exactly where the emergency crews had been expected to marshal their efforts, and exploded twenty-three minutes after the initial attack, just as ambulances and fire vehicles had arrived on scene and had begun triage operations. These detonations were captured by the helicopters on scene, and served to elevate the story from just another aftermath of a mysterious explosion to a sensation.

At 1500 and three seconds, the first of five rockets exploded.
At 1500 and twelve seconds, the first of nine suicide bombs detonated.
At 1504 the story broke on the first of a total of eighteen international news networks to cover the story.
At 1523, the first of an estimated 24 fragmentary devices detonated in a street intersection being used as a police command post. Other sites targeted were a hospital ER, the review stands for the procession, and several other intersections being used by ambulance and fire units.
At 1720, Prime Minister Daniel Sweeny was listed as in critical condition at the Tbilisi Medical Center.
At 1745, A doctor from TMC announced that Admiral Ellie Fitzgerald had succumbed to wounds received in both the initial air-burst attack and a subsequent explosion.

OOC: If anyone does have a significant claim to Azerbaijan, I'd love for you to involve yourself in this. I'm imagining this thread to become a pivotal part of McQuaide history, and would appreciate any good roleplayers helping out here.

The People's Republic of Octovonia wishes to send its condolences to the families of those killed in this recent cowardly act of terrorism. Octovonia condemns this attack to the fullest degree.

The People's Republic of Octovonia wishes to send its condolences to the families of those killed in this recent cowardly act of terrorism. Octovonia condemns this attack to the fullest degree.

The above and a tag.

Prime Minister’s helicopter, over Tbilisi

From the Elias-made executive helicopter, acting-Prime Minister Alexandre Karpov scowled over the latest intelligence feed. The captured terrorist had already rolled. Although the Commonwealth usually abided by international convention, Karpov himself had ordered the torture of the Azeri terrorist. “Either he talks, or he dies” were his exact words. He was headed to Tbilisi. If he was to have to be in charge, then he would be in charge from the front.

The McQuaide Internal Intelligence Bureau, although flushed of the Soviet-era secret police, were still well studied in how to get this sort of thing done, and the man had within hours revealed several incriminating facts. Karpov had ordered the IIB to make several arrests based on the intelligence gathered. The border was under constant observation, and the 4th MID had been immediately deployed to the southern edge of the border in preparation to support any raids. The 4th, bloodied by the attack, were thirsty to get revenge. They had seen their comrades sucked from hatches, seen infantry burned to piles of dark ash, seen friends explode from the pressure of the explosion’s vacuum.

Karpov asked his boss’ aide, Irina Solomonov, to fill him in on the domestic side.

“Executive losses were significant. Education minister, Interior minister, and State minister all dead. Admiral Fitzgerald, General Zaitsev, and three other members of the General Staff. The Prime Minister’s been on the operating table for 36 hours now. The doctors… They aren’t very confident.”

“Civilians?”

“Satellite imagery is the best estimate we can make now. Although even that can’t figure out a lot of the mess down there. Best estimate is between 2,000 and 5,000, sir. Those bombers were, well, proficient, sir. The secondary explosions caught a lot of emergency service workers, which made efficient treatment of the wounded almost impossible. Our medical brigade is there now, but things are still hard.”

“Put out a statement. Start talking to the powers-that-be in Azerbaijan. Tell them that we want blood, and for the honor of McQuaide, we’ll fight the devil himself to wipe out every monster that had a thing to do with this. And… Get a camera ready. I’ll be making a statement of my own.”

Acting Prime Minister’s Press Statement

Yesterday, the Commonwealth of McQuaide experienced a brutal, cowardly, and barbaric attack during our national day of mourning. Many government officials were claimed, including our beloved Prime Minister, the man who helped build this nation.

We were hurt, yes. We lost thousands of innocent people, a loss that we will remember for centuries to come. However, we issue this statement to those who perpetrated this attack:

Do not celebrate. Do not revel in your one success, or begin making additional plans. Rather, return to your homes. Bid farewell to your families, your friends. Make any arrangements for their welfare. Do not bother hiding, as this will only prolong your suffering. We, the collective people of the Commonwealth of McQuaide, do solemnly vow that we will not stop until your scalps hang from the gates of Tbilisi!

teh Ninjas Official Government Statement
"We'd like to offer our condolences for the people who lost their lives in the recent attacks in your nation. We strongly appose terrorist attacks against any nation, whether ally of enemy. Our government is ready to offer a compensation fund of 100 Million USD. We hope these funds can help pay compensation for families who have lost someone, and also that these funds can help your effort in finding these criminals."

Minister of International Affairs
Mikav Pupov

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True to his word, Karpov acted quickly against the Azeri Brotherhood. The entire McQuaide Self Defense Force had been placed on alert, with plans being drawn up for a variety of contingencies ranging from special forces raids to a full-scale invasion of Azerbaijan. Twelve divisions of the McQuaide Army waited along the border, with two airborne divisions waiting at forward airbases. Already, members of the 26th Special Operations Infantry Brigade were crossing the border, both by ground and by MC-130J Combat Talon III. Their mission was to investigate twelve sites across the border that were identified through interrogation of prisoners and by satellite imagery as possible terrorist camps.

Emperor Vladimir Kreschnev II sat in the spacious executive office in the GovCorp tower, that had become the center for the new Imperial government. A courier arrived and placed a report on his desk, concerning the events in McQuaid. Kreschnev read the report, and the wheels in his head began to turn. Emperor Kreschnev II was an Azerbaijani by birth, his real name being Leon Bahadori. He had been adopted by the late Vladimir Kreschnev I. There were other reasons to consider this situation in the borderlands. Had McQuaid not been responsible for several crises in the Empire under his father's reign? Yes, this situation posed an excellent opportunity for the new Emperor. He would make his father proud in the afterlife by avenging the strife that McQuaid had caused, and he would help his Azerbaijani brothers.

"Natasha," the Emperor called for his assistant. "I want you to contact the foreign minister and tell him to send an immediate letter of condolence to the McQuaid Prime Minister. Then I want you to contact Ivan Cac"

Ivan Cac was the new head of the Generian Imperial Intelligence Bureau. He had killed his fair share of people under the Corporate flag, and later against it.

The Emperor stood up to address the imposing man.

"Ivan, I want you to set up an Intelligence web in McQuaid controlled Azerbaijan. Send your best agents, but do not act until I tell you to. They are to observe, and try to contact the leader of the forces responsible for the attacks. Set up a line of communication with the organisation, but do nothing else. This operation is extremely sensitivee. The political fallout if it was uncovered would be horrific. I trust you can handle this."

The Emperor dismissed Cac and sat down at his desk, a smile crossing his lips.

--00--

Official Imperial Statement

Prime Minister Karpov-
The Generic Empire sends its utmost condolences to your nation for the loss of Prime Minister Sweeny and the other casualties. We will do everything we can to put an end to the scourge of terrorism in your nation. A division of 200 of our finest special forces are awaiting deployment to your nation if you will have them. Again we offer our most sincere and heartfelt condolence for you loss.

Georg Maccek
Imperial Foreign Minister

((OOC: Darn it, GE, if we weren't just made to antagonize each other. This whole string of different threads have been damn fun. I'd like to propose that we try and end this storyline with an actual alliance between GE and McQuaide. It would be deliciously ironic. Watch for my other thread, it will be up in but a second. We'll keep this espionage thread going here, though, and the bigger military stuff in the other one.))

((OOC: Darn it, GE, if we weren't just made to antagonize each other. This whole string of different threads have been damn fun. I'd like to propose that we try and end this storyline with an actual alliance between GE and McQuaide. It would be deliciously ironic. Watch for my other thread, it will be up in but a second. We'll keep this espionage thread going here, though, and the bigger military stuff in the other one.))

((OOC: An excellent idea. Where would a terrorist RP be without the borderline psychotic reasoning of the Generic Emperor? An alliance would be most fascinating.))

Thomas Edemskoi stretched in the terminal after the long flight to McQuaid. It was going to be another long trip to the Azerbaijan borderlands, this time by car. He collected his baggage, and checked the fake identification card the agency had given him. The name read Jonathan Andrews. Mr. Andrews was a 5 foot 6 male of English birth. He was a successful accountant in his native land, and had a beautiful family, including 3 children. The agency had even been kind enough to furnish a picture of Mr. Andrews's family for his wallet. Edemskoi looked at the picture and chuckled softly. His "wife" was much too fat, and his "children" looked nothing like him at all. Putting his wallet into his back pocket, Edemskoi made the trek out to the front of the airport. A taxi was waiting in the long line. Agent Edemskoi climbed into the back and told the driver his destination. The driver looked at the Intelligence agent as if he had just sprouted a third arm. Edemskoi pulled out a stack of large American bills and showed them to the driver. When the cabbie reached to take them, the Generian agent pulled them away.

"When we get there," he said softly.

"You the boss," replied the driver in heavily accented English.

With no further discussion, the cab pulled out onto the highway and commenced the long drive out to the borderlands. Edemskoi pulled out a folder from his coat and broke the seal. He had not yet read his official mission, as he had been instructed to wait until he was en-route, so as not to complicate security. When he had finished reading the instructions, he pulled out a small lighter he had bought at the airport and set the papers ablaze. The driver turned around with a quizzical look on his face, as Edemskoi tossed the flaming documents from the cab window out onto the highway, but the agent simply smiled and showed the driver the bills again.

After a 2 hour ride, the cab approached the first of the McQuaid checkpoints, marking the entrance into the Azerbaijani borderlands. The cab slowed down, as the soldiers motioned for it to do so. The cabbie rolled down the rear window, and Thomas Edemskoi showed the guard his Identification card.

"An Englishman? What business do you have in the Azerbaijan wastes?" enquired the soldier, skeptically.

"My boss, he runs a firm that wants to do some drilling out there. He has a small office in Baku. He sent for me, his accountant, because he wants a man on the scene for an extended period of time," replied Edemskoi in perfect English.

The guard looked at him for a few seconds.

"I might have to call this in."

"No, sir. Please don't do that! My boss, he is a very respected man in England. If it turned out one of his most trusted employees was in trouble with a foreign government, he would be most unhappy. Please, sir I could lose my job!"

Edemskoi's acting was so good that the guard bought it. He did not call the man in, and let him proceed towards Baku.

--00--

After another hour, Thomas Edemskoi stepped out of the cab in downtown Tblisi. He walked to the driver side window and pulled out the rolled American bills. He placed them in the cab driver's hand, but before releasing them he said:

"Now, I have been very generous to you. When I leave count those dollar bills, and you will see just how generous I was. But, I also expect you to forget that any of this ever happened. If you tell anyone about this trip, some very powerful people will not be amused. And they will kill you."

The smile disappeared from the cabbie's lips, but retained its position on Edemskoi's.

"I am sure you understand, and here is a little something extra to pay for your trouble."

"Hey, but whattabout this 3 hours gone! How I gonna explain that? I gonna lose my job! I got eleven kids ta feed! You tell me that mista," replied the cabbie in a rather panicked tone.

"Don't worry, friend. That right there," he motioned towards the bills, "should keep your family quite comfortable for a long time. Just tell your boss you got drunk and passed out in an alley," he laughed, "You don't need this thankless job anmore."

Edemskoi patted the man on the shoulder and walked away, taking his luggage with him. Walking down the street, he spied a small cafe. He walked inside, and headed towards the restrooms. A manager stopped him.

"Sir, I am sorry, but you must buy something if you wish to use the restrooms."

Edemskoi put on an irritated face. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his wallet, a second one, flashing a Tblisi regional police badge. The man pulled his hand from Edemskoi's shoulder and stepped back.

"I am sorry sir. Please proceed."

Edemskoi shook his head towards the ceiling and sighed: "Service personnel."

Edemskoi entered the men's room and locked the door. He unzipped the first of his bags. The Agent peeled away the false moustache and beard, and the faint scar beneath his left eye. He stepped over to a mirror and removed the false eyelashes. He pulled away the hat and toupe, to reveal a long mane of hair that reached his shoulders. Edemskoi re-applied makeup to the real scar on his right cheek. Walking back over to the open bag, Edemskoi removed the business suit he had on, and took out a new shirt and pair of pants along with a long black coat. He put these on, and packed the old clothes into the leather bag. Edemskoi left the restroom, and proceeded towards the door, careful not to be noticed by the waiter who had stopped him earlier. Edemskoi stepped outside and reached into his pocket pulling out a pair of dark rayban sunglasses. He slipped them on. The sun in Azerbaijan could be blinding. Edemskoi proceeded down the street. It was getting to be late afternoon. He would need a few things: A place to stay for the night, and a weapon (It is near impossible to get weapons, of any sort, on a plane, remember). The accomodations would be easiest to find. Edemskoi headed towards a seedier neighborhood to find a more discreet hotel. When he reached the red-light district he found the perfect place: a small ramshackle hotel that businessmen, and cheating husbands often frequented when they were in need. The rooms were rented by the hour, and customer privacy was always ensured. Everyone gave false names, so nobody would assume anything. It was indeed perfect. Edemaskoi would need a girl, so as not to appear suspicious (if this was indeed possible for anyone in a place like that). He spied a young hooker waving to him from across the street. He approached her and pointed to the hotel. She understood and gave her price. The two characters entered the run down building, even more of a disgrace on the inside. He approached the large, tatooed man at the counter. All throughout the lobby, the ladies of the evening were searching for customers.

"It's twenny bucks an hour for a room," the man said in a thick throaty voice, not even looking up from the counter. Edemskoi reached into his jacket and pulled out $240 in wrinkled bills (the wrinkled look was more fitting of a place like this.) The man looked surprised.

"You must have one hell of a girl there mista," said the man with widened eyes. "Whatever, here's ya key."

The man slid a rusty slab of metal, barely resembling a key, across the desk, and went back to what he was doing.

Edemskoi and the girl proceeded up the steps, and down a hall with half of its wallpaper peeled off to reveal the cheap wood beneath. The sounds of satisfied couples echoed through the building. They cam to a door, and Edemskoi forced the key through the rusted key hole. He opened the door to reveal one of the filthiest, most dank rooms he had ever seen. There was no carpet, and cockroaches slithered along the walls and floor. The "bed" was simply a mattress held up by some rusty poles and springs. The girl followed him closing the door, and pressing her body up against it. she smiled, but Edemskoi turned and walked towards the bed, setting his bags on it. He opened one of the bags and began to take out a few items. The girl approached him speaking in very poor english:
"Don' you want what you paid for?"

She lay down on the bed.

"Oh, you can go now," Edemskoi said as if he had forgotten about the girl."

She stood up and looked, perplexed, at him.

"Wha?" she said flatly.

"Oh, excuse me, I almost forgot." He pulled out the twenty dollar bill from his coat and handed it to her.

She looked down at the bill and up towards him.

"Do you need more," Edemskoi asked, preoccupied.

"No, no," replied the hooker, in a near dazed voice. "You a quick one aren' you," she said and left the room, still puzzling over the bizarre encounter.

Edemskoi looked back towards the bed at his things. He removed his several wallets. He then mentally calculated how much cash he still had on him. Enough. If he needed more, there was an account waiting for him.
'Now to concentrate on part two' he thought. Surprisingly, the management of the pit of filth he was staying in had left an old phone book on the floor, by the bed. The cover was worn, and stained with God knows what, like everything else in the room and hotel. He flipped through the pages. It was years old. Many of the places probably did not even exist any more. He set the phone book down on the floor and thought about what he knew of Baku. He had been there a few times before, and knew of a couple of good pawn shops with no questions asked policies. That was where he would go next. Edemskoi hid his luggage in the closet, taking with him a pen, his wallets, his cash, and his ever-present sunglasses. He left the room and locked it firmly, then headed out of the hotel and into the street, where night was falling quickly. The neon lit up the sky in a blaze that was as bright and beautiful to Thomas as Haley's comet was to an astronomer.

(to be continued)

The Generian Intelligence man hailed a cab and gave his destination: another seedy part of town, full of illegal casinos and pawn shops. When the cab pulled into town Edemskoi paid the cabbie and went about searching for the two places he remembered. The first place, he soon found out, was long gone, turned into a restaurant years ago. He was afraid that the same may have become of the second store, but located it tucked between two large tenement buildings. Edemskoi stepped into the shop. There was no one inside. He heard faint sounds coming from behind a curtain that covered the back room. He rang the bell on the desk, and an annoyed clerk came out of the room. Edemskoi scanned the pawn shop's wares, pointing to an average sized switchblade, a piece of wire, some duct tape, a screwdriver, and a small jeweled good luck amulet. The man collected the items and layed them out on the counter.
"50 bucks."

Edemskoi paid in cash, collected his items and went back into the street. He walked the few blocks to the next neighborhood. Here he would find his most important destination for the evening: the black market. An old restaurant hid the notorious haven for arms dealers and smugglers of all sorts. Edemskoi entered. A waiter approached him.
"Cain, table for three," said Edemskoi.

The waiter grinned at the phrase that acted as a password, revealing his many missing teeth.

"Right this way Mr. Cain."

The man led Edemskoi through a door and down a hallway to a large back area. This area contradicted the restaurant and the entire area of the city it was located in, because of its unusual cleanliness. Edemskoi and the waiter stepped through another door into a whitewashed room. All across the walls were covered glass display cases, containing everything from automatic handguns to high explosive rockets and launchers. A terrorist's dream. A large Arab man in a striped suit greeted them. He rose to shake Edemskoi's hand.

"Thomas, its been a long time. Come in, have a seat," the man said in Russian.

"Hello, Vladimir. I see you are doing well for yourself. Better than the last time I saw you," Edemskoi told the arms dealer.

Years ago, Edemskoi had rescued this man from a Saudi prison, where he had been placed for conspiring against the royal family. The night before his execution, Thomas Edemskoi and another man crept into the prison, killing his guards, and taking him to a Bulgarian airport. They had not seen each other since.

"Well, Thomas, I suppose you didn't come here just to see me, did you?"

"No, Vladimir. I need some firepower."

"Well, as you can see we have plenty of that," he said as he leaned back in his chair. "What exactly did you have in mind?"

Edemskoi got up and walked over to a rack full of handguns. He picked one up, examined it, and put it back down again. He repeated this action several times until something caught his eye. It was not a large gun, but it was bulky. Its perforated cylindrical silencer easily snapped on. It held a nine round clip, with three in reserve, 36 shells total with the firepower of a .357 magnum. Perfect.

"I'll take this one."

"An excellent choice. Something we picked up from our friends in Hong Kong. I will let it go for two thousand dollars."

"I did not say I was going to buy it, I said I'll take it."

Edemskoi sensed the waiter who had led him into the restaurant coming up behind him. He turned, snapping the man's arm, and jabbing the screwdriver under his ribs. The man dropped to the floor, bleeding, and whimpering.

"What the hell is this Tom!" yelled Vladimir.

"I'm sorry my friend, but I can't afford to leave my footprint anywhere tonight, not even for an old friend."

Edemskoi aimed the weapon and fired a round into Vladimir's head, emitting a muffled thump from the silencer. Vladimir's face dissolved as the round penetrated his skull, his figure falling forward onto his desk. Edemskoi wiped off the screwdriver on the dead waiter's clothes and slipped his new firearm into his coat pocket. He removed a key from Vladimir's pocket. He approached one of the many glass cases and smashed it in, exposing the ammunition beneath. He grabbed several clips and put them into his pocket. He smashed a second case, removing a small explosive device, slipping this as well into his coat. He placed the amulet from his earlier purchase on the floor, next to the smashed glass, covering his tracks. Anyone who found this would see that it was a hit by some unsatisfied customer, most likely one of the many gangs and cartels that arose out of the lawlessness in these neighborhoods. Edemskoi stood up and strode calmly back the way he came, locking the door to the arms dealer on the way out with Vladimir's key. He walked out into the restaurant, where the patrons dined as casually as they had before. No one had heard a thing.

Edemskoi returned to the hotel on foot. He reached his room and slipped his weapon under his pillow, before lying down for a few hours of sleep. In the morning he arose, ready to make the last leg of his journey.

((OOC: This all occurs prior to the attacks on the terror camps.))

At 5 AM, Edemskoi got up and dressed. He took his pistol and tucked it into a small holster under his arm. He placed his various wallets in different inside coat pockets, and hid the switchblade in another pocket. He took the duct tape, and fastened the small screwdriver to his ankle. Edemskoi picked up his black leather bag, put on his coat and Raybans, and went downstairs. The hotel manager was passed out on his desk. Stepping out into the street, Edemskoi saw what he needed: a large parking garage a few blocks down. He covered the short distance and went inside. There was a white pickup truck parked in one of the spaces. It was unlocked. Edemskoi got into the vehicle, and hotwired the engine. It coughed itself to life. Edemskoi pulled out into the street, and headed towards the highway that would lead him out of town.

The terrain shifted quite suddenly when the Agent pulled out of Baku, and into the outskirts. Several miles out of the city, in the direction Edemskoi was heading, it became barren and quite deserted. In the distance, there were faint clouds of dust and smoke, where the McQuaid forces had begun their campaigns. Edemskoi increased his speed. Time was of the essence. There were roadblocks on the major roads out of Tblisi. This is where the four wheel drive pickup became an asset. Edemskoi turned off of the main roads, before he came into sight of the road blocks. He had a suspician of where the terrorist leadership would be located. The main McQuaid targets would be the camps. The attacks would come soon. Again he increased his speed. The old truck was surprisingly fast.

Edemskoi ditched his truck half a mile outside of the largest terror camp. He was awed by the enormous expanse of poppy fields. They blanketed the ground in every direction. It was truly a beautiful sight to Edemskoi. He made the hike through the fields until he was stopped by a group of masked soldiers in a pickup truck. One of them trained his mounted machine gun at him, and demanded something in coarse Russian. Edemskoi answered him, and two guards with AK-47s dismounted and tried to grab him. Edemskoi kicked the one in the lower abdomen, and he doubled over in pain. The other soldier aimed his rifle, but Edemskoi quickly disarmed him. The man on the mounted gun laughed harshly.

"Then you must be him. Get in," he said in English.

Edemskoi did as he was told, leaving the two injured terrorists to run after the speeding truck.

The vehicle stopped outside of a flimsy wooden structure. The man on the mounted gun, who had revealed his name to be Egishe, led Edemskoi into the building, and down a flight of stairs to an unusually well furnished office. Edemskoi had been correct in thinking that this camp would be where Asaf Mammad, leader of the Azeri Brotherhood, would be located. In all of its immense size, the camp was not easy to locate, being in such a deserted part of the country. The man sat in a fine leather chair at an oaken desk. He wore sunglasses, and a black beret with the emblem of the brotherhood stitched into it. He was a young man, in his thirties. Most of the brotherhood was young, old enough to remember occupation, but little else.

"You live well for a terrorist leader," said Edemskoi in English.

"We do well for ourselves," replied Mammad. "I heard your government sent their best. You don't look like the best." He said something to an armed man standing beside him, and they laughed.

"You insult me," Edemskoi said coldly.

"We are trying to accomplish revolution here, Mr... I am sorry I did not catch your name."

"That is because I did not tell you my name."

"I do not think I like you very much, Russian. You are quite rude. Perhaps you need to be punished."

A large Azeri man stepped into the doorway. He grinned and drew a large machete from his belt. The man charged, and Edemskoi dived backwards, kicking the man in the chest and propelling him over his head. The man crashed through a table, and got up, rage burning in his eyes. He wrenched the machete loose from the wooden floor where it had lodged itself and slowly approached Edemskoi. The man was nimble for his size, and caught the Generian when he tried to dodge, with a quick swipe of the saber. Edemskoi clutched his bleeding shoulder. The man swung again, slashing the front of his leg. Edemskoi made it look like he was bending down to cover his wound, but instead pulled the screwdriver from his ankle and brandished it with menace. The Azeris laughed hysterically, and the large man tilted his head back in mirth just as the tool left Edemskoi's hand and buried itself deep in the large man's throat. The room went dead silent. Edemskoi strolled across the room and pulled the screwdriver from the man, wiping it off on the dead man's clothes. There was a yell as one of the other Azeris made an attempt to charge the Agent, but it was cut off by a command from Asaf.

"Stop!" the Azeria halted dead in his tracks at the formidable voice of his leader.

"But Asaf, he killed one of our own!" protested the soldier.

"Yes, he has proven himself worthy of the brotherhood's attention. Sit down and speak stranger." Asaf dismissed the guards, and Edemskoi sat down. The men spoke for a while about the Generian plans.

"There are already other agents arriving and setting themselves up all across McQuaid. If you have our support, we know you will be able to end this occupation," Edemskoi explained.

"But, why? Why is your government interested in this at all? Why does your Emperor care about us.," asked Asaf.

"He burns for vengeance, just like you do, my friend. He wants to help you strike at the oppressors. He knows that, together, we can succeed."

"Well, it is against my personal rules to turn down assistance. I trust you, friend, I hope that you speak sincerely."

"Have no fear. The Emperor will be good on his word."

At that moment there was a tremendous explosion from above. The Earth shook. A guard burst into the room.

"Asaf, sir! The McQuaid! They're here! They're bombing! You must leave immediately!" the man screamed in panic.

Asaf drew a submachinegun and aimed it at Edemskoi.

"Did you bring these men here!? Tell me!"

"I swear to you I didn't!" Edemskoi yelled over the thunder from above. "He's right! We must leave now!"

Asaf looked at Edemskoi and then at the room.

"Alright, follow me."

Asaf shifted a large painting to reveal a door. He opened it to show a long tunnel. The two men ran through. The guard grabbed a heavy briefcase and an assault rifle, and followed them through, shifting the painting, and closing the door behind them.

The men ran through the tunnel like the devil was after them. The ground shook, and the thunderous noises continued. Rubble fell from the ceiling, and faint screams drifted down through tiny ventilation shafts. They came at last to a ladder. Asaf climbed up followed by the other two, opening the hatch. There were several Azeri Brotherhood soldiers gathered about. They rejoiced when they saw their leader. Edemskoi came up out of the hatch, and the men grew hostile aiming their guns. Asaf told them to stand down in Azeri and they lowered their weapons, still eyeing the man suspiciously. Not so far off, the camp burned. Azeri soldiers were running from the explosions, soon to be followed by tanks and soldiers.

"Quickly! We must go now!"

Asaf grabbed Edemskoi as he stood watching the carnage. He pointed to a small helicopter that waited on a dusty helipad. Asaf, Edemskoi and two guards climbed into chopper, and the rotors began to turn. The soldiers boarded pickup trucks and sped off in the opposite direction of the camp, as the helicopter lifted off.

"Where are we going!" Edemskoi yelled over the noise of the rotors.

"To a safe haven on the Caspian sea!" replied Asaf. "Where will regroup and shift to another safezone in Russia!"

The chopper sped off, leaving the trucks, the encampment, and the enemy army far behind. That evening the chopper landed in a small encampment overlooking the Caspian sea. In the morning they would have to shift again.

RC-135 Rivet Joint Spirit of Tbilisi

A young female 2nd Lieutenant named Minerva Narvateski picked up a peculiar tone on her headset, recognizing it instantly. She quickly tripped a switch on her microphone, broadcasting an announcement to the entire aircrew over the intercom system.

“Satellite broadcast! Recommend immediate tight turn to port, sir!”

The pilot responded instantly with a tight left turn that made more than a few surprised crewmen grimace. The aircraft was in a 45 degree turn, pulling each crewperson into his or her seat. The quick turn was essential, as the narrow beam of a satellite transmission would easily be lost if the aircraft flew through it.

“Beginning tape. Beginning decoding. Its… It’s in Generian Intelligence Crypt sixteen hack eight, sir.”



McQuaide Joint Operations Center, New Dublin

Irina Solomonov, security advisor to two prime ministers, frowned as she finished summarizing the intelligence briefing for Alexandre Karpov. He was a hard man, a born soldier, not at all like the quiet and caring Daniel Sweeny. She had secretly loved Sweeny for years, since she was his aide in the KGB Tbilisi station.

“Essentially what this means is that the Generians have people in Azerbaijan. Whether they had something to do with the attacks or not is unknown, but we’ll find out soon enough. We have our best codebreakers on it, but it’ll take a while to decode the transmission. In the mean time, if they are supporting the Azeris, this…”

“Could mean the Azeris now have access to Generian training, funds, weapons, the works. Irina, you have my full authorization to work this case. Do whatever you need to do, but get evidence of Generian meddling, and we’ll nail these sonsabitches to the wall on this.”



Saki, Azerbaijan

The SA-15 crew was not expecting to see any action. They were reservists, members of the 1st Reserve Corps Air Defense Brigade, assigned to provide theatre air defense to the invasion force. The Azerbaijani Air Force was estimated to be at 5 old Russian training aircraft and a MiG-17, which may or may not have been sold to the Pakistanis back in 1974. Thus, the crew was surprised when they heard orders coming in from an AWACS aircraft over McQuaide assigned to monitor the Azeri incursion.

“Sierra 16, this is Archangel 4, prepare to copy fire orders… Sierra 16, make ready and fire three SA-15 missiles linked to Archangel 4 direct control. Repeat, link to us and fire three birds. We have a helicopter in the air, trying to get out of the invasion zone.”

“Roger that, Archangel 4, linking and firing.”

Seconds later, the vehicle stopped moving, deployed its stabilization braces, and erected its launch tubes. The crew did not themselves have a lock on the aircraft. Although they could bring up the battlefield intelligence network that displayed the overall radar picture for the entire invasion, they didn’t need to. The AWACS aircraft would provide guidance for the missiles until the last few kilometers, where they would go to active guidance.

Three quick blinding flashes announced the launch of the powerful, smart missiles.

((OOC: The whole point of the incursion was to prevent any terrorists from getting out, so the surveillance aircraft would be looking for a helicopter trying to escape like this.))

RC-135 Rivet Joint Spirit of Tbilisi

A young female 2nd Lieutenant named Minerva Narvateski picked up a peculiar tone on her headset, recognizing it instantly. She quickly tripped a switch on her microphone, broadcasting an announcement to the entire aircrew over the intercom system.

“Satellite broadcast! Recommend immediate tight turn to port, sir!”

The pilot responded instantly with a tight left turn that made more than a few surprised crewmen grimace. The aircraft was in a 45 degree turn, pulling each crewperson into his or her seat. The quick turn was essential, as the narrow beam of a satellite transmission would easily be lost if the aircraft flew through it.

“Beginning tape. Beginning decoding. Its… It’s in Generian Intelligence Crypt sixteen hack eight, sir.”



McQuaide Joint Operations Center, New Dublin

Irina Solomonov, security advisor to two prime ministers, frowned as she finished summarizing the intelligence briefing for Alexandre Karpov. He was a hard man, a born soldier, not at all like the quiet and caring Daniel Sweeny. She had secretly loved Sweeny for years, since she was his aide in the KGB Tbilisi station.

“Essentially what this means is that the Generians have people in Azerbaijan. Whether they had something to do with the attacks or not is unknown, but we’ll find out soon enough. We have our best codebreakers on it, but it’ll take a while to decode the transmission. In the mean time, if they are supporting the Azeris, this…”

“Could mean the Azeris now have access to Generian training, funds, weapons, the works. Irina, you have my full authorization to work this case. Do whatever you need to do, but get evidence of Generian meddling, and we’ll nail these sonsabitches to the wall on this.”



Saki, Azerbaijan

The SA-15 crew was not expecting to see any action. They were reservists, members of the 1st Reserve Corps Air Defense Brigade, assigned to provide theatre air defense to the invasion force. The Azerbaijani Air Force was estimated to be at 5 old Russian training aircraft and a MiG-17, which may or may not have been sold to the Pakistanis back in 1974. Thus, the crew was surprised when they heard orders coming in from an AWACS aircraft over McQuaide assigned to monitor the Azeri incursion.

“Sierra 16, this is Archangel 4, prepare to copy fire orders… Sierra 16, make ready and fire three SA-15 missiles linked to Archangel 4 direct control. Repeat, link to us and fire three birds. We have a helicopter in the air, trying to get out of the invasion zone.”

“Roger that, Archangel 4, linking and firing.”

Seconds later, the vehicle stopped moving, deployed its stabilization braces, and erected its launch tubes. The crew did not themselves have a lock on the aircraft. Although they could bring up the battlefield intelligence network that displayed the overall radar picture for the entire invasion, they didn’t need to. The AWACS aircraft would provide guidance for the missiles until the last few kilometers, where they would go to active guidance.

Three quick blinding flashes announced the launch of the powerful, smart missiles.

((OOC: The whole point of the incursion was to prevent any terrorists from getting out, so the surveillance aircraft would be looking for a helicopter trying to escape like this.))

((OOC: (sigh) Can't you just be content with blowing up the camps? Do you really have to ruin my hard work too? No "Hey GE, that was a good story", or "hey GE, well developed characters," or "nice escape there GE." Just "I'm gonna blow you to hell, and you're gonna like it!" My job as a villain is never done. Oh well. Oh, and there's no way in hell you're killing Edemskoi. Way too much time and effort for that.))

The pilots of the helicopter gasped in horror when they realised that they had been targeted by smart missiles. They were over open land. If there was any hope for survival, they would have to make a quick landing. The pilots reduced their speed and started the descent. Their nerves got the better of them and the chopper tilted and rammed into the sand. The men in the back of the chopper scrambled to their feet, collecting their items, and scrambled out of the vehicle. The helicopter's copilot forced open the damaged door and climbed out, dragging the dead pilot with him. He checked his pulse, checked his pockets, and ran like hell. The others did the same. A bright light could be seen streaking over the horizon in the distance. The men sprinted as far as they could, and dived behind a low rise of rock and sand. The missiles streaked in and blasted the damaged helicopter to kingdom come.

Asaf looked at Edemskoi.

"Well I suppose that means we proceed on foot, then."

"Better be fast about it. They'll have forces all over this area in no time."

"Then lets get moving."

"What are you talking about!?" asked one of the guards frantically, still shaken by the events that had just occured. "We are in the middle of nowhere, There are soldiers that want to kill us, and we have no food or water!"

"Relax, Azir. Remember, I'm much smarter than you," Asaf said lightly, holding up the emergency supply pack that he had cleverly removed from the helicopter.

With that the four men began their long trek through the wastes, to try and reach a friend before they all died like dogs.

((Hehe... GE, you got telegram. It essentially says all those things you were bitching about not being told, but here they are again so the whole II world can see.

Hey GE, that was a good story. By the way, I really enjoyed your well developed characters. And that was a nice escape there GE. I'm gonna blow you to hell, and you're gonna like it! Err, I wasn't supposed to copy and paste that much. Oh well.

I gotta run off to a party. Read my TG, tell me what you think. Expect a post about the beginning of the manhunt to come tomorrow, mid afternoonish.))

The 13th Special Operations Wing, among other duties, maintained a 24 hour Combat Search and Rescue capability. The CSAR squadron was equipped with the specially designed United Elias EA-24J helicopter, capable of mid-air refueling and significant combat operations. At the moment, one of these EA-24Js finished refueling from a MC-130J Combat Talon III, and dropped to treetop level. Its mission was to find, search, and recover any intelligence information from the wreckage of the helicopter that had been shot down earlier.

The aircraft made for the GPS coordinates provided, its pilots using Night Vision and Infrared imagery to find their way to the target. They would soon commence the hunt.

OOC: Sorry for the short post, more to come.

((OOC: McQuaid, where is your country located?))

((OOC: McQuaide is located in what is IRL the Republic of Georgia, on the Black Sea. Thus McQuaide and Azerbaijan share a border.))

((OOC: Thanks. Generia is made up of parts of Bulgaria and Romania.))

Crash Site, Azerbaijan

The EA-24J CSAR helicopter made a recon pass of the crash site before settling down and offloading the squad of Army Special Forces troops who were designated to search the area. Several set up a defensive perimeter, while the others began to put out small fires that remained from the missile detonations. They picked through the wreckage, removing the entire radio, transponder, and navigational systems from the wrecked cockpit. They also found a pilot’s manual, and various other papers that would be translated later.

“Sir, we’ve got tracks. Five individuals, probably male, traveling light.”

The squad’s scout-sniper, a 45 year old warrant officer with a near infallible ability to track humans, peered into the distance. He wanted this hunt. He licked his lips at the thought. These Azeri were tough fighters. They could easily set a trap to kill him. The idea of such a challenge thrilled the warrant officer. To the rest of the squad, he was simply known as Gunner, a slang term for his rank of warrant officer. His real name was Ruslan Mohammed, a common name in his homeland of Chechnya. He had emigrated to McQuaide when it was the Republic of Georgia, in order to start a new life away from the violence and killing of his homeland. When the McQuaide armed forces were reorganized, however, he found himself drawn to the idea of helping the country that had taken him in. So, he became a killer again.

Ruslan looked to his commanding officer, a 1st lieutenant 20 years his junior. The lieutenant looked at the tracks and nodded. “Gunner, I want you to take Malfoy as a spotter, and follow these tracks. These guys need to be taken alive if possible, but most of all, they need to be stopped before they can get away. They’ve had a few hours head start, but you’ll be traveling light. Report in to me every hour, or if there’s a change in the tracks. The rest of the squad and I will get back in the bird and begin searching from the air.”

Ruslan nodded curtly, then looked to the 24 year old corporal named Malfoy. A newer addition to the team, Malfoy was the fastest man in the entire McQuaide Self Defense Force over long distance, and had raced for McQuaide two years ago in the Olympics in the marathon. The lean corporal would make a good spotter. He would be able to pay attention to the tracks and the environment while on the run, and would be strong enough to fire a steady shot after they find their prey. Without a word, Ruslan nodded at his new partner, and started to run across the rocky terrain, following the occasional tracks.

After the pair had disappeared behind a ridge, the lieutenant had his men remount the helicopter. He then radioed in to the airborne command center coordinating special operations activity in the incursion zone. The possibility of terrorists escaping and striking McQuaide was a high priority.

Sure enough, within an hour there were nearly three dozen helicopters and planes flying around the area, searching for the escapees. They had infared, night vision, laser, and radar sensors, electronic listening devices, and other advanced sensors. Satellites were being tasked to begin a search. Reconnaissance drones were being retasked to the area to begin wide angle IR sweeps.

Although the search force assisting them was huge, Ruslan believed that he would be the one to find his prey. Satellites couldn’t see moss ripped off a rock, or lichens newly crushed, or bent pine needles. Satellites didn’t want blood today.

Ivan Cac was worried. This meant something was tremendously wrong, because Ivan Cac was never worried. He stood watching the monitors in the Generian Intelligence building, hoping that one of them would give him an answer to the question that was plaguing him. Where was Thomas Edemskoi? His last transmission had occured over a day ago. He had reported that he had located the camps and was preparing to make the trip there to contact Asaf Mammad. The contact line had been still ever since. This was unsettling, to say the least.

--00--

The Parthian invasion was all over the news. Since the start of this rape, the Emperor had been acting differently. His temper was easily stirred, nowadays, and at the drop of the word "Persia" he was overcome with rage. It pained him so to see the land of his birth abused in such a fashion. He prayed desperately for the mission to succeed. When all of this was over and the dust had cleared, Leon Bahadori would have his revenge.

--00--

High above the Earth, a long dead commercial satellite stirred to life. Its internal electronic gears began to turn, and the artificial eye opened. On the ground, the GIA programmers reported a success, as the sattelite coasted over Asia. The static on the screen did battle with faint images of the continent. The static slowly dissipated and a clear view of the old soviet "Stans" appeared. The picture zoomed in closer and closer, until Azerbaijan's mountain ranges and cities were visible. The picture enlarged again, and buildings could be seen clearly. It zoomed a third time and the figures of human beings appeared. Ivan Cac watched the screen intensely, Ignoring the subordinate babbling on about the legal consequences of this action.

"I thought you said this would help us find our man?" the General asked.

The hackers continued about their work, as the picture shifted from commercial Baku, to the red light district, the scene of Edemskoi's last transmission. The picture shifted again to the reported location of the training camp. All that could be seen was a blurry smoldering heap of rubble full of scavenging soldiers. The camera panned to several other locations, where activity had been reported, finally settling on a smoking helicopter. A military chopper had settled nearby and several men were examining the rubble. Half a kilometer to the north east two men were moving quickly, apparently following something. The satellite cam searched several kilometers further in that direction, and came to rest on a party of 5 men, traveling as fast as they could through he wasteland.

“That’s him,” said one of the agents on the locator team. “Don’t know who the other 4 are, though.”

“At least he’s alive,” said Cac.

“Not for long, if those soldiers catch him.”
“Can we get a chopper in there to get him out?” asked an agent.

“No, the area’s way too hot for extraction. We’ll have to wait,” replied Cac.

The screen reverted to static, as the signal was lost.

Bumping for easier reference (post to come soon)

CWO-4 Ruslan Mohammed was burning. His legs burned from running up and down the mountain ridges. His lungs burned from the high altitude. Most of all, it felt like his heart was on fire, as the thrill of the hunt overwhelmed him. He hoped his spotter Cpl. Malfoy was feeling the same thing. It was a wonderful feeling, better than any he’d ever felt. The absolute knowledge that at the end of the day, people would die, and he could be one of them.

As he jogged to the top of a ridgeline, Ruslan spotted movement across the steep mountain valley, on the opposite ridge. He snapped his rifle to his shoulder, spotting through the powerful scope. The body of one man, a soldier, and the heads of two others—they were about to drop out of sight. Ruslan lowered his rifle, and flashed a rare smile to Malfoy. They were close. Ruslan swept his scope across the rest of the valley, searching for any signs of a possible ambush. Satisfied he was safe, he started skipping down a rockslide, holding his rifle aloft with one hand and steadying himself with the other. At this rate, he would have a shot when he reached the next ridgeline. He knew he should call this in and have aircraft take care of the terrorists, but he wanted them for himself. For the first time in his career, Ruslan Mohammed disobeyed an order.

Five men neared the top of a ridge in the middle of an Azerbaijani wateland. One of the men paused at the top, wiping his brow and gazing back over his shoulder at the vast expanse behind him. A flash caught his eye. The Azeri squinted in the light, making out two figures coming over the ridge and disappearing into the valley. The man ran to catch up to the others.

"Asaf! two men coming over the ridge just now! I think they're snipers!"

Asaf cursed in Azeri.

"Damnit! We are all dead men if they get in range. Azir, take this rifle. Hide here and delay them as long as you can!"

Asaf turned to run, but turned again to face Azir.

"Azir, you realise that you will not survive."

Azir looked at him with steely eyes, as he picked up the rifle.

"I will make the sacrifice for the brotherhood. I will ensure your escape. Please, my wife in Baku...give her this" He handed the man a dusty jeweled dagger. "And tell her I died a man."

Asaf accepted and looked at his staunch companion.

"Good luck, my friend."

He turned and took off with the others, running as fast as they could away from the setting sun.

((OOC: Should have posted some details about these guys previously so the glare thing didn't happen, but we'll get it in now:

The McQuaide 26th Special Forces Brigade was mobilized early in the growth period of McQuaide, as a reaction to the inability of the small nation to be able to affect world events governed by much larger nations. An emphasis was placed on problem solving ability and physical fitness during the selection and training process. Members of the 26th come from combat units of the McQuaide military, and are placed in a competitive and demanding selections and training process. For some units within the 26th, the matriculation rate is as low as 3 out of 100 candidates.

Two regiments of the 26th Brigade are Ranger units. Another regiment is oriented towards rear area operations similar to the missions of the SAS, Green Berets, or Spetznaz. A fourth regiment is dedicated to a mixed bag of missions ranging from public affairs and propaganda to assassination to infiltration and sabotage. The 23rd Special Operations Air Regiment is often attached to the 26th for operational purposes, although it is administratively independent.

The CSAR team operating against your agent are members of the 26th SFB’s Third Regiment, attached to the Air Force’s 13th Special Operations Wing. They are specialists in both quick raiding operations and long-ranged patrol. Operating at the squad level, each team is made up of a squad leader, a sniper, a heavy weapons team, and three four-man fire teams. Each fire team in turn is equipped with a grenade launcher equipped rifle, a designated marksman’s scoped assault rifle, and two carbines.

The squad’s sniper, CWO-4 Ruslan Mohammed, is equipped with a rebuilt Remington .308 hunting rifle. The rifle has several small machining modifications made to the action to make it quieter, a flash and sound-suppressed barrel, a bipod, and a high-power scope specially designed and built by the McQuaide Self Defense Force’s Special Projects Office, the same department that builds the McQuaide spy satellites. The scope is equipped with a UV-band laser range finder, multiple zoom settings, glare-resistant hood, and an infrared setting. The system’s controls are built into the upper hand guard, allowing for a ‘scoped in’ sniper to adjust his settings without losing sight of his target.

In mountain terrain, the sniper wears a short haired ghillie suit, with native brush and gravel-colored strips of cloth. Beneath it, the sniper wears a full-body suit similar to a wetsuit, allowing for thermal masking of the sniper against IR scans. It works by running water through the suit , radiating heat from the back of the suit to the front, or vice-versa, depending upon the needs of the sniper.

Hopefully this will give you a better picture of what you’re up against. Fun tangent, anyhow.))

((OOC: Ahhh. I see. I needed some hapless heroics anyway. It goes with the style. Have fun hunting the rest of them though.))

The first sign of the ambush didn’t come until the 7.62mm AK-47 rifle rounds smacked into the rocks at Malfoy’s feet. Three shots relatively tight over the distance. The sound came later, telling the two special forces troopers that they were being fired upon from afar. They both dropped to the ground, scrambling for cover behind rocks. Ruslan switched over his thermal suit’s setting to maximize cooling at the top, to protect his upper torso. He slowly crawled around the rock he had taken cover behind, sighting through his glare-resistant scope to the opposite side of the valley.

For several seconds, Ruslan scanned the rocks and bushes, hoping to spot any of the lines of a human body. He didn’t have to wait long. Another burst of assault rifle fire was announced by a flare of yellow and the disturbance of dust around a rock outcropping—and there was a face behind a rifle, squinting to see the effect of his fire. The instant Ruslan sighted his prey, the next three rounds smacked into the rocks behind him, followed by the hollow sound of the shots. Ruslan took careful aim, reaching forward to deploy the bipod of the weapon. He bounced a laser beam off the target’s rock, and adjusted the range settings on his scope accordingly. He then made an estimation of the crosswind, and adjusted those settings. It would be a difficult shot at 1,124 meters, it was impressive that the Azeri was able to fire such tight groups at the range. Finally, Ruslan took aim, placing the crosshairs below the nose of his target. The round would ideally pass through the softer bone there, and into the base of the brain, instantly cutting off all nerve function, stopping his target’s heart and breathing. He muttered what would amount to a prayer in his native Russian, praying that the round kill his opponent, and kill him quickly. He imagined a connection between the two men, he could almost see a line of the life energy between the two men. With the finger control of a surgeon, Ruslan pulled back the trigger to fire the shot.

After Ruslan watched the round do its work, he nodded once, and for the first time turned to look at his young partner. The lean, quiet Malfoy laid on his back, staring past Ruslan into the darkening sky. The round had passed cleanly through his sternum and into his heart. The single layer of Kevlar was worn for protection from small pistol rounds or shrapnel, and couldn’t stop the heavy, fast 7.62 round. His heart had been pierced, and the round lodged in his shoulder blade. The death had been instant. Ruslan moved over to his partner’s body, closed the man’s eyes, and depressed a button on his GPS unit before pocketing it. The coordinates would be stored, for Ruslan to recover the body later. He quickly pulled a diary and a few pictures from the left breast pocket of the man’s load-bearing vest, before he stood, and silently began running. He would search the body of the Azeri, before continuing his chase. There would be one less set of footprints to follow, and they would know he was hunting them.

The sound of panting grew heavy in the dark as the men ran. There was no time to catch their breath. They were being hunted. Azir was surely dead by now. The sniper would be after them now. Their only hope was to reach friendly territory before he killed them all off. Edemskoi stopped, and checked the weapon in his coat. He pulled the coat tighter around him in the growing chill and continued to run. The other guards checked their ammo and did the same. After several more minutes of this, one of the guards collapsed on the ground. They could go no further. They would have to stop and make a stand. The men took cover wherever they could, in the crevices of a nearby ridge, behin sand dunes, under rocks, and in the sparse foliage. The darkness would help slightly. Now they would have to wait.

(OOC: Im going to try to have Edemskoi escape, as was the original plan, to perpetuate another attack.))

He finally had them. He could see in the tracks that their strides were shortening, that they were stumbling. On one sharp rock, blood and bits of skin and fabric attested to a fall. He smiled at the thought of the sting such a wound would make in the thin, cold mountain air. He stopped for a moment at a convenient rock, and deployed his scope to scan the horizon. The terrain seemed to soften—they were on a plain, near the Russian border. One more ridge, probably, and they would make the border. He estimated that they had run 18 kilometers so far this night, which felt much worse in the thin air. They would try to stop soon, or split up. He hoped they would try to fight.

Switching over to infrared, Ruslan spotted a small flare of heat. It could be a hare or skunk, but… no. There was another, and a third, and a fourth. The four he had been hunting. They had taken up well-concealed defensive positions along that last ridgeline. They probably thought they were safe there, able to hide in the darkness until their strength returned. Ruslan smiled. He would kill them all.

Ruslan slowly lowered to the ground, going through the same ritual as before. Bipod. Rangefinder. Windage. Take aim at the one furthest to the left, who seemed to have cover behind him where he could escape. Ruslan switched back to the plain visual scope, finding his target’s face illuminated in the half-moon’s light. He was old—their leader, perhaps. Ruslan fired his first shot, turning quickly to the second silhouette, a young one. The sound had not yet reached him, he was as tranquil as the first. Ruslan fired again, turned, aimed, and fired a third shot. His sights lingered on the target just long enough to watch the round enter his head. The sound of the first shot was just registering in the brain of the third man when the bullet was fired. He quickly reached into his shooting vest, pulling out a fourth .308 calibre match grade bullet. His magazine had a capacity for but three shots, and had to load the fourth for his final target.

Weapon loaded, Ruslan turned to find the fourth target. He had just thrown something towards Ruslan, but from 800 meters, what could it have been? Ruslan sighted in on the man’s sternum, intent on shooting him in the heart, when a blinding white light filled Ruslan’s eye. He instinctually cringed, turning away from his scope. A flashbang grenade, amplified by his own scope, blinding his right eye.

Ruslan stood, letting out a primal warcry into the night. His prey had outsmarted him, had forced a draw. He radioed in his position to his commander, and the status of the mission. One terrorist had gotten away.



OOC: And that’s that. Have fun hurting me, nothing too crazy. Please post his escape in this thread, and then any attack in a separate one, if you don’t mind. I’ll be back online tomorrow mid afternoon.

Edemskoi saw the figure on the hill move, as if in pain. His decoy had worked. He looked around. The Azeris were still. No, one was moving slightly. It was Asaf. Edemskoi crawled over to him as his blood soaked the ground. Asaf gasped slowly and was overtaken by a spasm. Then he lay still, a bullethole in his head. Edemskoi reached into the man's pockets and removed a wallet and some papers. He then picked up an Ak-47 on the ground next to Asaf's corpse. Edemskoi let out a growl. This was not the way for a man to die, hunted like an animal in the desert. His eyes glared. The night was still, but there was a thundering in the Generian's heart as rage boiled over inside him. Edemskoi got up and darted back at an angle towards the attacker, his movements quick, careful, deliberate. This was not how a man fought. Unbeknownst to the murderer there was now another man who wanted blood in the cold, cold, Azeri night.

Edemskoi stalked through the rocks, watching the shadow that had taken the life of his newfound brother. The moves were predictable, exactly as Edemskoi had hoped. The figure began moving towards the corpses, in pursuit of the one escapee. Edemskoi closed in behind. The man's head darted, sensing something, and then turned back to its prey, however the hunter's prey was behind him now. Edemskoi moved along a small ridge, parallel the other man. The first man approached the bodies, bending to check for footprints. Edemskoi tensed, readying himself. The man stood up, sniffing the cold night air, trying to pick up a scent. Edemskoi sprung, landing a few feet behind the man.

The man turned in shock to catch the wraith rising slowly in a patch of clear moonlight. The ghost wore a long black coat, had lengthy dark hair, and wore a pair of dark sunglasses. The creature's skin shone brightly in the natural light. The sniper reached for a sidearm, but before his arm was halfway there, the phantom was on top of him, the rifle knocked aside and the sidearm in his hand. The sniper lay shivering on the cold sand staring at the creature, who grew taller in the shadow. As the beast approached, the moonlight seemed to follow him, continuing to bathe him in a fluorescent glow. No matter how bright the light was, however, his features never seemed to discern themselves. A bead of sweat ran down the sniper's forehead in the cold air. He whimpered something that sounded like a prayer as the luminescent shadow glided closer. When it stood towering above him it began to move its face towards his. The beast's face was right in front of the sniper's now, and yet he still could not make out the features. A hand made entirely of night reached up tot he being's face and removed the dark sunglasses. At this moment the man's face was as clear as day, the steely eyes piercing the soul of the murderer. The white face opened its red lips and exhaled a cloud of steam, hot in the bitter cold air. The face held up a small steel cross and began to say a prayer. Although he spoke clear as day, Ruslan heard none of the words. The face reached into its pocket and revealed an ornat wooden handle. It flipped a switch and a blade sprang out with a flash. The sniper looked at his face in the blade, and beheld pure terror, but not on the face of one of his victims. This time on his own figure. The ghost's shadowy hand shot out and grabbed the hand of its victim. A tremor shot through Ruslin's body. The knife flew through the air, and a finger lay on the sandy ground, the blood spreading through the palpable moonlight. The sniper let out a sound quickly, not quite a scream. The ghost did the same to the rest of the man's fingers, the knife flashing quickly here and there. Then it moved up his hands and arms, slicing deep wounds and eternally scarring the flesh. The knife moved higher, to his ear. With one quick motion, his ear joined the limbs on the Azeri sand. The knife moved again, poised on his forehead above his nose. It moved down, slicing the nose in two. More slices across the cheeks and forehead. More scarring. The knife bypassed the man's eyes. They would serve as windows for the man to see the reactions of people towards his deformity. The wraith tore open the man's shirt and with smooth strokes, as if with a brush he wrote this simply:

"Принесите Заверителя"

Into the shadows he vanished, the wraith. Into the pure, darkest night, over the border into Russia, Leaving the man in his flight.

Link to continuation thread:

http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=340878