Christophskiffer
12-01-2005, 22:45
The order was about to be given.
Paratroopers were going in first. They, along with tanks dropped along with them would secure the main towns. Fighter-Bombers would suppress targets in the intermediate range, and three Brigades of infantry in support of the First Armoured Division would simultaneously push over the border and link up with the expeditionary troops. All in all, 10,000 Infantry and around 200 tanks would be going into action. Guided Missile Cruisers would support them from the coastline, if necessary. Nearly 100 fighters would be on alert.
General Alexander Gilligan was the Head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. A tall, muscled man formerly of the Special Forces, he was a dominating six feet ten inches and usually held sway in any conversation.
Here, however, the man stood at attention in the audience of the President. Gilligan didn’t know this new man recently elected, but he knew he deserved the respect the nation had put in him.
Thomas Vosselieu sat behind his desk, looking down at the papers in front of him. The silence extended into minutes. The gold clock on the marble mantelpiece counted the time. Gilligan continued standing.
Presently, Vosselieu looked up at the man. “Less than a hundred casualties?” He asked dubiously.
Gilligan hesitated. Spending a lifetime stuck between the Devil and the Sea made that an instinct. “We can’t guarantee that, Sir.”
“But you’re as certain as possible?” Vosselieu demanded impatiently.
The General nodded. This was the President’s first action decision. Naturally, he needed convincing. “If all goes to plan, yes Sir.” His reply wisely failed to mention the cynicism of ‘any plan that meets the battlefield…’
Vosselieu pursed his lips. He was a cautious man: a survivalist by nature. Being a professional politician required it. He had campaigned on retrieving lands of the former union, but the prospect of open warfare made him momentarily uncertain.
His Chief of Staff, Andrew looked at him. “Mr. President?” He asked, trying to politely move the man towards a quicker decision. He knew the man; Thomas just needed a minute to get his thoughts together.
Thomas Vosselieu sighed, looking at his hands. Outside, it was raining. Thunder rumbled in the distance like some sort of omen. Vosselieu weighed the political outcomes. Than he weighed the outcomes of being the man that reunited at least some of the Union.
He looked up, fixing a stare at Gilligan for some moments.
“Hit them.”
Paratroopers were going in first. They, along with tanks dropped along with them would secure the main towns. Fighter-Bombers would suppress targets in the intermediate range, and three Brigades of infantry in support of the First Armoured Division would simultaneously push over the border and link up with the expeditionary troops. All in all, 10,000 Infantry and around 200 tanks would be going into action. Guided Missile Cruisers would support them from the coastline, if necessary. Nearly 100 fighters would be on alert.
General Alexander Gilligan was the Head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. A tall, muscled man formerly of the Special Forces, he was a dominating six feet ten inches and usually held sway in any conversation.
Here, however, the man stood at attention in the audience of the President. Gilligan didn’t know this new man recently elected, but he knew he deserved the respect the nation had put in him.
Thomas Vosselieu sat behind his desk, looking down at the papers in front of him. The silence extended into minutes. The gold clock on the marble mantelpiece counted the time. Gilligan continued standing.
Presently, Vosselieu looked up at the man. “Less than a hundred casualties?” He asked dubiously.
Gilligan hesitated. Spending a lifetime stuck between the Devil and the Sea made that an instinct. “We can’t guarantee that, Sir.”
“But you’re as certain as possible?” Vosselieu demanded impatiently.
The General nodded. This was the President’s first action decision. Naturally, he needed convincing. “If all goes to plan, yes Sir.” His reply wisely failed to mention the cynicism of ‘any plan that meets the battlefield…’
Vosselieu pursed his lips. He was a cautious man: a survivalist by nature. Being a professional politician required it. He had campaigned on retrieving lands of the former union, but the prospect of open warfare made him momentarily uncertain.
His Chief of Staff, Andrew looked at him. “Mr. President?” He asked, trying to politely move the man towards a quicker decision. He knew the man; Thomas just needed a minute to get his thoughts together.
Thomas Vosselieu sighed, looking at his hands. Outside, it was raining. Thunder rumbled in the distance like some sort of omen. Vosselieu weighed the political outcomes. Than he weighed the outcomes of being the man that reunited at least some of the Union.
He looked up, fixing a stare at Gilligan for some moments.
“Hit them.”