NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: While not yet fully accepted by the Modern World RPing community, I just thought I'd give it a go and start RPing a bit. Should anyone feel objections to such behaviour, please voice your opinions and I will cease my cravings ;).

Edit: Please do note, my dear fellow NSers, that this is a closed Modern World RP. Only members of the "A Modern World" RPing community are allowed to join.

IC:

A grey limousine pulled up along the wide boulevard that stretched out through downtown Damascus. It was night and, while heart of the Damascus never slept, no motion or light other than that from the worn streetlights was on display. The many alleys were shrouded in a pressing layer of darkness, and where the light penetrated were still dark shades of grey enveloping the cobblestone-paved roads from direct view. A short, stocky man, lean as a rail leapt out the car and, accompanied by a squad of armed escorts, paced up the stairs of an large, majestic building. The few decorations that graced its frontage were smooth and flawless portrayals of palm trees and desert plants, inlaid with gleaming silver. The man didn’t pay any attention to it and jogged right through the curved entrance, entering a hall with a domed, flawlessly white ceiling. Again, he trotted on, passing through a labyrinth of many narrow corridors. He swung the two giant oak wood doors at the end open and burst in.

“Assalam alaikum.”

He muttered before sinking into a leather sofa. He gestured his guards away and looked into the room. Obviously, it was an office, a very large one too. As with the hall, it had a toweringly high, domed ceiling, covered in golden decors of ancient history, Assyrian battles especially. While it was against Muslim law, the person whom the room belonged to wasn’t very concerned with that. At the narrowest point of the triangular-shaped office, a dominating mahogany desk was planted on the plush, blue carpet. Behind it, another man sat with his feet on his desk. The two men had the same-sized posture and both faces were lined with a broken nose and chiselled Arab features.

“Shouldn’t you get on your lazy feet and greet your old father?”

The man behind the desk said in French, his speech peppered with a slight hint of irritation

“Of course, father, my apologies.”

The man got on his feet and hugged his father shallowly.

“My son, welcome home.”

The old man whispered in his ear.

“Please settle down there and we will discuss what you’ve come here for.”

The two man strode over to a pair of armchairs on the open balcony.

“Here.”

The younger man handed a compact four-by-five inch manila envelope, with in over exaggerated letters Diplomatic Post printed on it, as well as the name of the President, Fayiz Sabir, in a more compact size. Fayiz, the older man, shook slightly as he slit the envelope open with a small pocketknife. His son, Rashid Umar Sabir, the first in line to take over the control of Sabir, impatiently tapped his fingers on his knee. With oval-shaped reading glasses perched out far on his nose, Fayiz scanned over the lines of the first page of the pack of folded documents, rising an eyebrow. He flipped through the rest and threw it down on the table between the two. He lit a Montecristo cigar he had retrieved from a small cigar casket in one of his pockets and inhaled.

“Are you sure about this?”

“They have one of those son-of-whore Turks in safe custody, father. I’ve overseen the interrogation personally. The Al-Amn al-'Askari (Military Security Department) cracked him after a just few beatings, quite severe ones though. After some inquiries, the guards and I concluded that he was a PKK member, a foot soldier, but with extensive knowledge of local operations, including the position of several underground re-supply bases. It would by no means be a loss of resources if we ordered a thorough investigation of that area.”

“The infected villages are on Turkish soil.”

“It involves a bit of risk, my father, I know that, but we might seize valuable documents, or capture high-ranking officials. We’ve invested quite some time and effort in our paramilitary security groups. A quick helicopter raid would probably be sufficient and could turn out quite profitable.”

“All right, you’ve convinced me, as I have some sources claiming you are an expert in your areas and I tend to believe those, with pride. I’m proud of you, my son.”

Rashid blushed and stood up.

“Thank you for your trust. I will consult with my senior advisors and send you a final confirmation inquiry in a few days.”

OOC: More yet to come...

tag

Two days later, shorty after dusk had settled down over the country, a small formation of helicopters skimmed the rural hills of the Gaziantep province of Sabir. Hordes of sheep and goats, herded by a few sleepy local townsmen, panicked and fled away in a thundering wave through the valleys, crushing a few villagers under their onraging paws.

The airborne task force consisted of four license-built SA.330C Puma transport choppers and two Alouette III light attack/reconnaissance helicopters with small SAAF insignia emblazoned over the shabby desert camouflage schemes on the fuselage Tonight's haul were two platoons worth of soldiers of the second Border Guard Regiment, all trained ferociously in battling the crippling strikes of Kurdish PKK rebels in one the most harsh and desolate outer regions of Sabir. Many of the hardened veterans aboard had seen their comrades die in rocket ambushes, sudden sniper assaults and road-side explosive strikes, often all three combined. Their faces were lined with scars, stiff burn tissue and overall wear of years in the outdoor, in the beating sun and roaring desert winds.

In the cramped cabins of the old transport helicopters, all four worn and torn by years of service in the arid Golan Heights, most were stroking the large, sharp-edged blades they carried as standard issue, often fielded by butchers in Islamic communities to slaughter Halal animals. These had contributed to the haze of myth and desinformation that had shrouded and shielded these proud Border Guards from retributions for so long. Most Kurds in the border area were frightened to death when they came, often fleeing inland when sightings were reported. The PKK wasn't as intimidated, but remnants of decapitated insurgents jabbed on stakes, made most rebels think twice before crossing the border.

Sergeant Afif Salim, a seasoned NCO with combat experience not only in the border provinces, but also in Lebanon, felt an ice-cold jolt of fear soar down his spine as the chopper passed a small beacon, a liquid-filled plastic stick, lighting up in bright red tints. They were now in Turkish airspace...

OOC: Nothing more than a glorified bump, but more to come, eventually...

OOC: That was a log-in mistake, future posts will be double-checked.

tagged 'til I have some time

"Forward!"

Second Lieutenant Asad Khalil yelped, kneeling under the whizzing rotor blades of the Puma, softly humming as they slowly came to a stop. His FN FAL beat back against his shoulder as he pulled the trigger, cutting down a few weary locals. He pressed himself against a brick wall nearby and motioned his platoon to disembark from the SA.330C. They dashed over the dirt beaten central road, kicking up small plumes of dust and strafing all sudden movements in the dark. The villagers were alarmed and now grabbed their battered AKs, stunned for a moment as the platoon's pair of 60mm mortars lit up the skyline with a number of illumination rounds.

Dodging the occasional sudden outbursts of enemy gunfire that engulfed the small mountain town, Sgt. Salim's squad pressed forward, riddling a solid oak wood gate with bullets. They shouldered the door off its hinges and rolled inside, bullets flaring past their heads. Any motion in the shadows of the small courtyard they had stumbled upon was quickly immobilized by a hail of bullets, shadows suddenly slumping onto the ground. Salim lobbed a grenade into the doorway they were facing. Tungsten fragments were flung into the interior of the house, screams reverberating between the partitions of the yard. Salim nodded to his direct subordinate and a small man in near fetal position was pushed towards him. Salim caught him in a headlock and poked a FN Browning "Hi Power" against his jaw.

"Where's the safe?"

He barked. The prisoner, whose face was battered with bruises and scratches, trembled, his index finger pointing to another doorway, where stairs led down into the dark.

Salim pushed the prisoner away and plucked a tear gas grenade from his webbing, arching it down. A cloud of white smoke was propelled out in a sizzling pop. Subdued coughing led up to Salim's ears. As soon as he saw movement down there, he bolted down, his sleeve covering his eyes and nose. He seized one nude man and shoved him up, where he was cuffed and dragged away to a helicopter. Salim waited until the smoke faded through the ventilation shafts, as he shot the paralyzed PKK rebels in the basement, whose blood-shot eyes now stared skywards. The same prisoner was again pushed down and received by Salim.

"Where to?"

The prisoner leapt towards the side and kicked a stretcher away. He began tugging a few planks loose and a stainless steel safe with a time lock was unveiled. Salim poked him with his gun and indicated him to bypass it. The prisoner's fingers slid over the keypad and the safe clicked open, revealing a disorganized heap of documents.

"Get to work, Corporal Bahij."

Two soldiers crawled towards the safe and took it out, carefully taking photographs of every piece of paper, before putting it back in the same order. Corporal Bahij shut the safe close and snapped the planks back into position.

"All right, boys, root through the entire room and turn everything upside down, like we tried to find something but couldn't lay our hands on it."

In a minute, all stretchers were broken and the brick walls punctured with bullet holes. Salim yelled:

"Let's go!"

The men stormed up the stairs and lugged the prisoner along.

"Stop it!"

Salim yelped again and approached the frightened prisoner.

"Turn around."

He ordered him in Kurdish. A lone gunshot echoed through the hall and prisoner's lifeless body sank onto the ground, the blood flowing over the carpet. Salim grabbed a fuel can and soaked the entire chamber. He walked outside, lit a match and threw it inside, pacing back to the helicopters. Behind his back, an inferno deluged the house, the flames licking the skyline. In the entire village fires shot up to the sky rapidly, consuming the bodies of fifty-nine dead men, women and children.

Only two motionless bodies were flung into the cabin of the first Puma. The entire task force lifted up in the air and soared back towards the border.

(OOC: Hope you don't mind if I jump in? Of course if I'm totally ruining your plot then tell me.)

The Elias Embassy Compound situated appropriately on Baghdad Street, between the Faruq Mosque and Tahrir square was by any standards lavish. Rebuilt in the 1990s, its white colonades and domes combined in an ecclectic mixture of Roman classicism and Islamic architecture, gave an unambigious impression of wealth yet without the gaudiness that overuse of gold and glitz caused. The structure itself was in a setting of formal gardens, small tranquil patches in the middle of a bustling city. Whilst substantial walls and guards in dress uniform prevented public attention, official cars of both governments would roll in and out of the high gates with great frequency, such was the significance of Sabirian-Elias relations.

Well inside the structure, in quite a small but well appointed office with a window that if you leaned right up to one side had a view up to the city's ancient Citadel, two men began a meeting. The first, one of the intelligence analysts that worked in the suprisingly well staffed 'Cultural Affairs Section', and the other, Faysul Al Qasr, Deputy Political Consul.

As the junior man entered he was invited to sit down at a coffee table with a hand gesture, "Mahaba, Kayf Halak?"

The man replied in English, "Good Sir, and you?"

Faysul ingored the pleasantry, "Sit down, we have dates, from home of course, not the feeble things they have here and coffee. Now what is it that requires my attention?"

The analyst enthusiastically produces documents and photographs, "These are from an intelligence satellite, taken yesterday over Southern Turkey on our frontier watch program, took a while before they realised we needed them over here....As you can see they show what we believe are Sabirian helicopters in Turkish airspace."

"Border force, lovely people I hear. So what is new? They have a go at the PKK often."

"Well Sir, its that I checked the intelligence wires, cross referencing the names of these villages with all SIGINT from the last few months...The database came back with a report on the possible aqusition of SA-7s in quite significant bumber by the PKK. Largely unconfirmed and single source information, saying that the SAM's would be distributed around several towns and villages on the frontier both in Turkey and Sabir. According to this report, false information would then be given to Sabirian intelligence tipping them off to get them to raid cetain places, and at first they would be allowed to getaway with it. Then gradually, as the information they find on these raids continues to prove for all intents and purposes accurate, a few more raids are launched, and they will be ambushed with the missiles."

The diplomat nodded, "Well I see, that would not do, I should handover the report? That is normal is it not?"

"Not when we gathered the intelligence from somebody within the Al-Amn al-'Askari."

"I don't understand."

"It would seem that some less than zealous members of the security forces are complicit in this plot, I would imagine with financial incentives rather than ideological ones. Of course thats how we found out, we have a few sources that accept renumeration in return for information."

"Its a little different spying for a nation that just wants to keep its little ally in check than the Kurdish insurgency, I am skeptical as to the voracity of this report."

"Well of course it also leaves us in a slight dilemma, do we handover something which proves that we have one been comitting acts of Espionage on them, and two allege that there is a Kurdish conspiracy in the highest ranks of the Al-Amn al-'Askari or do we forget about it and allow Sabrian troops to be killed if it is indeed true? That is assuming we manage to give it to someone who is not involved, or else we really would have screwed up."

"I think it would be irresponsible not to tell them, of course it would have to be handled correctly. I know someone who I can trust, do me a favour get me a copy of the report with all of our source names removed."

"Complete sources and methods sanitation is in impossible, they will be able to deduce where this information comes from."

"That can't be helped, I don't think we have a choice." The analyst left and Faysul paced across the room to his desk, dialling a Damascus area code on the phone. (OOC: Sabir, you can choose who his contact his and RP him.)

tag

The phone rang, and as always on Monday afternoons, Hasim Tufayl Afzal was seated right beside it in a brown, plush arm-chair. He checked his watch and nodded. It was exactly five o'clock and the sultry heat blanketing Damascus was slowly being pushed aside by a gentle, soft breeze. This was the time that he would be instructed by his Elian employers on a new assignment. He anxiously lifted it up the receiver, nearly slipping it on his lap, and brought it to his ear.

"Naher."

"Bohaira."

Hasim heaved a sigh of relief, the entire process of mutual identification went flawlessly. The man on the other side switched over to French and the two got down to business...

Al-Amn al-'Askari Headquarters

The Al-Amn al-'Askari, or Military Security Department, wasn't officially tasked with intelligence gathering, but the Shu'bat al-Mukhabarat al-'Askariyya, or Military Intelligence Department, had slowly disintegrated by bureaucracy and corruption. On the order of President, the MID had merged with the ruthless, but efficient Al-Amn al-'Askari, giving this Department influence in the highest political quarters, a feat only rivaled by the omnipresent General Intelligence Directorate.

The establishment of the Ministry of Defense, an impressive tribute to the power and might of the Ministry, had a lush courtyard half the size of Central Park, stretching out behind the massive block. The structure, erected out of solid granite, housed the headquarters of the feared Al-Amn al-'Askari, deep in its in catacombs.

It was just six o'clock when a twelve-car column of Land Rover Defenders came screeching over the semi-paved drive of the Ministry. The gate guard trembled as he pushed a button on his control panel to fling the bar up. He had recognized the insignia emblazoned on the hood of each car, the State Security Department symbol. If you weren't keen on becoming dangling like a rag-doll from a branch with a rope around your neck on the outskirts of Damascus, or getting perforated by a hail of bullets, you'd better let these guys pass by. The Land Rovers halted before the entrance and nearly thirty masked raiders poured out of the Defenders, their M14 rifles dangerously pointing forward. They stormed inside, pushing bewildered armed patrols and civilian contractors aside. A few gunshots reverberated through the many open halls of he Ministry, all interconnected, and a few minutes later the troop sped outside, having rifled through the most sacred of headquarters in Sabir, that of the Al-Amn al-'Askari. A few motionless bodies were dragged along and swung into the back of their Defenders. The convoy dashed off through the gates as sudden as it had arrived, leaving only dazed individuals behind in the Ministry, trying to fathom what just happened.

"No, you must be confusing him with someone else. This thing isn't my son."

President Fayiz Sabir whispered, as he observed a shredded and battered object of raw flesh crawl back into the depths of the cell. Light rays emitted by the flashlight of the guard at his side illuminated the cramped quarters, but Fayiz resisted the urge to step forward. He'd look like a helpless reindeer caught in the headlights of an onraging car, not the most ideal position for a national leader to get remembered as. Besides, he had recognized the creature in the corner. It was his son, no doubt, but would he admit it a lay it to rest and forget about it? There was only one rule in the unwritten etiquette of Sabirian leadership and the political elite would come about his ears if Fayiz would break it.

Do not dodge personal pain and sacrifice.

Fayiz grudgingly accepted it, there was nothing he could do now, and gestured the guard to follow him up the stairwell. The flashy daylight dazed him as another guard aided him in ascending upwards. As soon as he was on his feet he was directed to the office of the prison's headquarters...

OOC: More to come later on

Taggith!

UE-Turkish Frontier, North of Mosul

It had been a long uneventful shift, and the night was a cold moonless one. Two men approached the sedan as it pulled up at the barrier, leaving the warm, relative comfort of a border guard office. Each, wearing the dark blue uniforms of the Internal Security Force, they wrote down numbers on forms after taking the driver's passport, a Turkish one, and verifying the validity of his visa. While the first continued with bureaucracy, the other searched the trunk, and the back seats of the old vehicle. After ticking the 'no contraband' box on a customs form, the immigration officer completed the final part of the formalities, "Can I see your vehicle registration."

The man, his passport showing his name as Kemal Onan, reciprocated, reaching for the glove box, and handing over some official papers. The officer glanced at them, before noticing that the document bore a different identification, Omo Hejar, with a very similar photograph. "Is it not your car?"

The man, slightly hesitant replied, "It is a friend's."

The officer nodded, "Okay, I need to check my database anyway, just so I know the car isn't stolen, it will take just a minute...Tariq, keep an eye on him, need to use the computer in the office."

As the other sentry grunted acknowledgement, he went into the guardhouse, powering up the PC, before tapping in the name on the registration. A minute passed while the device whirred before a screen came up with a Federal Security Bureau logo. At the top of the page, 'Omo Hejar - PKK Revolutionary, Approach with caution, if detained alert FSB immediately. His eye scanned down to a section titled, 'known aliases', to his horror seeing Kemal Onan was one of them.

He jumped up, hitting a red panic button before grabbing an AK from the arms rack and rushing outside. As the claxon sounded, his colleague also drew his weapon, "Get out of the car now! Hands Up!" In response Hejar hit the accelerator and went through the barrier, snapping it, only to stop abruptly as a hail of bullets slammed into his tires and the engine block.

***

Baghdad

36hrs Later

This far down in the numerous basements of the Federal Security Bureau's Headquarters was the domain of the notorious al-Amn al-Khas (Special Security Organisation – SSO). Sometimes joked to be the tallest building in Baghdad, because of how far it went underground, the building had acquired numerous nicknames including, 'The Lubyanka of Arabia', 'Evil Empire' and a more sardonic take on the Bureau's acronym 'the Freedom of Speech Building'.

In a grim cell, reminiscent of a medieval dungeon with a few added modern amenities such as ultra-bright lighting, and a siren that made the exact frequency most degrading to the human brain, Omo Hejar sits, back against the wall, trying desperately to compose himself for what he suspects is coming. Suddenly the siren stops and the door is heard to be unbolted from outside, then the lights drop, yielding to complete blackness. He hears men enter the room, and something clatters behind, a trolley with something on it, something could only mean something bad.

A clam voice pierced the darkness, "Ready to tell us about the missiles? Ready to give us all the names of the Sabirian officials you bribed? We know you were there in Damascus, we know Omo, all you can do is help yourself, just tell us."

The pathetic excuse for a man responds, torn and bloodied lips turning his voice into a whimper, "I told you, I'm not PKK, I know nothing!"

"You know Omo, you'd be surprised how much pain is stored up in a car battery." The lights come on, the interrogator who is speaking is a youngish man, with a little moustache and dressed in an immaculate suit and tie. Two other men flank him, both wearing ski masks obscuring their faces and dressed in black fatigues. A device sits on the trolley behind, a box with electrodes coming out of it. It has a thick cable running through the door, presumably into a plug somewhere in the corridor. Two more guards are seen just outside the cell, also masked, both carrying steel batons and tasers in holsters. "Quick, undress him!"

The captive is approached and his resistance his futile, he is unclothed and the machine is brought closer, now making a whirring noise.

"Tell me everything you know."

Fayiz slightly bent over the desk, folding his hands together and probingly staring to the man ensconced in front of him. Pristinely dressed in a anthracite-coloured, three-piece suit, the head of the State Security Department, Yasir Bakr, an older Alawite muslim in his fifties, loitered his gaze over the impressive cartograms pinned all over the wide mahogany panels of his office and got up.

"Mr. President, you have ordered the recent raids on the Kurdish villages over the border with Turkey, correct?"

"Yes I have, get to the point."

"This was on the advice of your own son, honourable Rashid Umar Sabir, head of the Military Security Department?"

"You are aware that several high officials in the Military Security Department have conspired against the Sabirian state and have funded the acquirement of SA-7 surface-to-air missiles and have faked evidence in order to lure Sabirian troops into ambush?"

"Yes, I received notice this morning. No mercy for those bastards, no, you have my full authorization for public flogging and beheading, as we do with all traitors and spies in our midst."

"Rashid Umar Sabir was one of the conspirators, Mr. President."

Fayiz gasped for breath.

"No, no.."

"Yes, that is what happened. Your son had ties with the extremist PKK and channeled yet to be determined amounts of hard, cold cash to bank accounts of exiled sympathisers of the party."

"But why? He lives a life of opulence and excess here, under my wings of protection."

"One of our sources indicates that Rashid might've been seduced by outside promiscuous factors we yet have to determine."

"Great, so my son has a Kurdish whore as his mistress."

"Could be."

Fayiz got up and slammed his fist onto the desk.

"Keep that filthy excuse for an Arab in custody and treat him as any other prisoner, no luxury, nothing. Keep him alive, though. I won't give those PKK bastards the satisfaction of knowing that I've tried to hide my own suffering.

He'll punished as all others, with the only sentence fit for treason. Death."

Fayiz motioned his two personal guards to follow him and took his car back to the Presidential palace.

Baghdad

Omo Hejar, or what was left of him, had broken. The combination of electric shock induced pain, sleep deprivation, Sodium Pentothal shots and cryptic questioning had yielded much information. Rashid Umar Sabir would soon receive tapes of the interrogations, confirming the names of the officials that were involved in the conspiracy.

However, Omo also revealed other things, the details of how the PKK had aquired SAM launchers, its stronghold its remote parts of Southern Turkey, the location of key ringleaders and sponsors. Inside the al-Amn al-Khas it was not immediately obvious how to proceed, since technically these targets were beyond its jurisdiction, being external to the borders of United Elias, but on the other hand it represented a threat to the homeland. In return for informing President Sabir of corruption in his own government, it was hoped that the SabirBorder Guards could take it from here...

tag

Mind if RP a Hindustani revolutionary in with the PKK?

tag

Mind if RP a Hindustani revolutionary in with the PKK?

Fine with me, good idea in fact...

Fine with me, good idea in fact...

OCC: Ok...

IC:

Abdul Musharraf groggily wakes up, and picks himself up off the dirt track where he so recently was helping to pull a light mortar along. Dead bodies lay nearby, killed by the grenade that concussed Abdul. Fortunately, his handy AKM is still intact.

The attack came out of the blue, and apparently took many lives, a good deal of them civilian. Not even Abdul, a seasoned fighter who had fought both the Soviets and fundamentalists in Afghanistan, had seen it coming. The attackers-whoever they were-missed most of the AA machine guns hoarded in the area, but a structure frighteningly close to the underground cache had apparently been burned to the ground.

Today's raid would apparently have to wait...

Baku

Central Asia was the wild west, many people said. The Ahzadi was frankly just glad it wasn't Eritrea. This wasn't his first time in Baku- they had contacts here going back before the republic. It was one of the routes western equipment took to the units of one unknown General Massad. Now things were going the other way. Aah, the heady days of the revolution. Anything was possible! Students were in the streets (this Ahzadi was one of them, but he had ulterior motives at the time), grand things were promised, wonderful things. Beth Gellen actually send a ground-effect craft full of arms to the Revolutionaries. Seems silly now, but oh, youth....

Realizing that he was entering sardonic spy mode, the Ahzadi left his small office inside the warehouse and went to check on the crates. They were bigger than what he ususally sent back over the border, but he thought he could do it.

Raysuz

Hikmet Bektasi was probably the most important man Al-Ahzad had never heard about. Right now he was sitting in the office of the unimportant statistical analysis bureau called "Bureau Six" and listening to the grim reports from Sabir.

"Sir our intelligence network in Al-Sabir is gone." The Analyist was in perfect report-grim-news mode.

"Look, don't you think that's a bit melodramatic? 'our intelligence network'? I mean, really" Bektasi leaned back in his chair.

"Um, uuh, alright. Ahmet. Ahmet is gone." the analyist was embarassed.

Bektasi began to speak to the assembled room in that voice that everybody had come to know. The "things are going to get done" voice.

"Word has come down from on high that this is important. Turk against Arab, good guys bad guys, and all that. What keeps the Arab powers tied up is good for us. Plus, we owe the PKK. They gave us contacts back when the western powers were still paying lip service to the Sultan. This is going to be big. This is going to be bigger than Eritrea, but it's also going to have to be quieter. I want the usual comb-outs. Look at dossiers for General Staff Force Recon and the Commando Battalions. Ex-ASDPR personell are no problem. Former republican guards, whatever. We're going to rile up the Grey Wolf party and other far-right organizations to send volunteers of their own so we can have deniablity."

The people in the room listened as he spoke, and things were soon put in motion.

The 10:45 bus out of Ankara

Ahzadi musunuz?

The young man looked up from his book. "Uum, uhh, hayir. Tehran'liyum" he nodded and smiled. The man next to him- an older guy, looked like a villager, tried to make small talk with the quiet "iranian" student for a while longer. By hour five of the bus ride he was asleep. So the student got off casually mentioning to a few who asked that he was going out to see assyrian ruins.

He went to the gift shop at the bus station. Contact was made.

Twenty-Four Hours later

The rattle of gear was muted, but there. People were breathing heavily, nervous but not panicked. The Bureau Six agent crouched, peering out through his night-vision goggles at the scrubby countryside of Kurdistan. Soft scraping sounds started to come from the road below them. The Kurds down there worked quickly, but calmly, with their small shovels to carve out the small holes. They carried away the excess dirt in the same satchels they brought the explosives in, moving away from the road after less than ten minutes.

The Ahzadi made note of that. His report back to Raysuz would be good. The men were decent asymmetric fighters. If they didn't become too dependent on easily targeted strongholds, they could really do some damage.

Numerous homicidal border raids were experienced by inhabitants of the ragged mountain ranges of southern Turkey. Clearly, the legal agreements with its large neighbour to counter past border infringements and ensure peaceful coexistence seemed no longer acknowledged by the Free Republic of Sabir. Fayid's patience with the PKK had been ferociously stirred by his son's betrayal and accordingly, dozens of upright shepherds and mountain townsmen, many with dual Turkish-Sabirian nationalities, were imprisoned. Strike fighters now flew daily sorties into Turkish airspace, peppering weapon depots and the homes of key PKK leadership with folding fin aerial rockets and napalm. The public paid a paltry interest to the guerilla conflict up north. Sabirian soldiers killed in action were rare, or at least was footage of flag-draped coffins, and live feed of the brutal killings and maimed bodies impaled on stakes were even less common.

Meanwhile, the news of Rashid's absence on weekly cocktail parties and wild festivities, organized by the nation's affluent elite, ironically enough quickly flurried through all layers of society and soon everyone was aware of the mysterious disappearance of the handsome and genuinely popular heir to the leadership of Sabir.

Growing disobedience of civil authorities through ill-disposed gatherings only developed further in the second week and rumours of a vicious murder on the charismatic Rashid by his own father to fortify his sole supremacy now cast an ashen overlay of desperateness and dead-endness over the nation, which slowly succumbed to hate towards the regime only further than it already was.

Southern Turkey

Sabirian Gazelle and Alouette III reconnaissance helicopters dominated the fragile bridgehead near the town of Akcakale, arching down on any ill-suspicious movement their newly installed electronic sensor eyes, mostly indigenous infrared and electro-optical turrets, could spot. Under this umbrella of aerial support, Sabirian modified M48A5 battle tanks rattled over dirt beaten roads, kicking up massive dust plumes. Goats and sheep fleeing up the crossroads at the arrival of the armoured juggernauts were gunned down, grounded to a bloody pulp by their tracks. Infantry swarmed across small farmer cottages dotting the countryside, raiding them one by one.

An elder yeoman trying to oppose the whirlwind of violence was shot numerous times through his chest and head, his five children and wife kicked in the abdomen and beaten severely against their heads by solid rifle stocks.

A few shacks were set on fire and while they weren't yet halfway consumed, the convoy of death and destruction moved up the road, only a few hundred meters from the ambush set up by Kurdish freedom fighters and their Ahzadi brethren.

Akcakale

The Bureau Six agent's AKM suddenly felt very small as he watched the Sabir tanks roll forwards, treads kicking up rooster tails of grit and dust. The PKK fighters had insisted that they set off the IED's they had planted the night before. The agent reminded them what would happen if the Arabs suffered an ineffectual attack. The village would probably be destroyed wholesale.

There was screaming, argument, AK's were waved around and threats were made, but the Kurds had to concede that seven men could not stop an armored column.

But they could send a runner on back trails further up the road.

Baku

The first of them had started filtering out the previous night. In ones and twos the men that had assembled in the warehouse last night had been leaving to cross through into Turkey on business or tourist visas. Not nearly enough of them- only about 100 or so to start with- to cause a stir or even have many people notice. The crates had gone eastwards as well, though by a much less obvious route.

The weapons were not obviously Ahzadi. They were Beth Gellen or former ASDPR, which meant they were either of Soviet, Chinese, or United Elias manufacture. They would get to their destinations soon enough. The instructors were already on the scene.

The softer, more subtle parts of Bureau Six were also reporting back that there was some sort of shake-up in the Al-Sabir leadership. It wasn't clear what it would all mean in the end, but it did mean that the actions of Sabir were probably personally driven, which made them hard to predict.

That worried both the station chief at baku and headquarters. Not so much because of what could happen- if the situation got bad for most of the middle east, Al-Ahzad could sit tight. It worried them because they couldn't really tell what was going on. Nothing annoyed spies more than that.

Abdul watches as the Sabiri column pulls away from the burning huts and corpses, fire in his eyes. He also looks back at the Ahzadi, gesturing that they should mount an attack. Abdul holds out his RPG-7 as well, indicating that he could very easily put a hole through the M48...well, provided that the Sabiri tank was as resistant to a rocket as a T-72.

He also remembers his time with Hindustani border forces during the afghan war, Pashtun and some of the world's best natural warriors, and how they would destroy multiple vehicles from over 3500 meters with a single AT. 30 post. If only he had one of those...

Abdul resolves to crawl over to the Bureau Six agent, and beckon him to allow an attack.

"Ahzadi, we can strike now! If they come up just a few hundred meters closer, I can hit them with a rocket," he whispers.

OOC: Ahzad, you refer to Eritrea, can you tell me what you got up to? As I was having thoughts of the Horn of Africa myself...

BTW I think its also important to remind people that UE does not shave a large ethnic Kurd population like Sabir, because although our nation includes the vast majority of Mesopotamia, the two modern Iraqi Kurdish controlled provinces, Arbil and Dahuk are not within our borders. Therefore, the PKK would not have as much greivance against us as they would Sabir.


Baghdad

Quietly the upper echelons of the Federal Security Bureau were slightly nervous. To some degree a revival of the Kurdish threat had been anticipated by many analysts, and it inevitably would be a cause that would attract revolutionaries of many types from around the world. Although the PKK had never considered Elias to be a number one enemy, the siginificance of Sabir as a friendly neighbour could not be overestimated, and the scenario of a protracted guerilla war close by would inevitably make it easier for insurgents to smuggle weapons and personnel into Sabir and UE.

The priority of the al-Amn al-Khas (Special Security Organisation – SSO) was therefore to concentrate on determining any international involvement in this dispute, and they would work with the Federal Intelligence Bureau, focusing their covert investigations on the usual troublemakers, Ahzad, Beth Gellert and Hindustan. Within UE, certain Kurds who had previously been linked to any sort of even remotely subversive group would be placed under close surveillance, and security on the Northern border would be strengthened. An attack within the nation from Kurdish sepratists was quite unlikely, but UE had no shortage of potential terrorist enemies, ranging from fundamentalist Islamists, communists, enviromentalists and veen extremist Zionists that if allowed free access to equipment could potentially cause some harm. In this case, most realised that it was perhaps an over reaction to a not so real danger, but it was this security ethos that had protected UE from foreign terrorists with great success in the past.

OCC: Just a little to clear things up...Abdul Musharraf, while a native of northwest Pakistan, isn't on the Hindustani payroll. He's there on his own accord...probably along with a number of other Indians and Pakistanis.

Its sort of like, well, Parliament doesn't totally disagree with what they're trying to accomplish, but is not terribly supportive of their means, so it takes a policy of neutrality concerning such volunteers. They won't be accosted if they go back home, and would probably be celebrated in their communities, but they won't recieve any weapons either.

OOC: UE, you should check this out:

http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=413282

the ASDPR leadership fled to eritrea, and has sort of gone off the deep end. it's slow moving, but ongoing.

Akcakale

The hindustani was shouting and waving around an RPG-7, but the Bureau Six agent was having none of that. If for nothing else but simple self-preservation. If the Sabiris had come in trucks, that would be one thing, but tanks...

Then again, maybe he had a chance to play matador. He hit the auto-dial button on the modified cell phone and was rewarded with a flat bang that echoed across the village.

He shouted at the foriegn volunteer to follow him up the valley.

Crossroads north of Akcakale, three hours later

This was a rush job and nobody liked it. The Ahzadi Bureau Six agents disliked direct combat, but the volunteers who were slated to do that sort of thing hadn't arrived yet. There were only a dozen Ahzadis in the hills above the crossroads, along with maybe a hundred peshmerga. They waited. Earlier that morning- before sunrise- they had run men down to the road to mark ranges and set charges.

They waited for what seemed like forever, hearing the squealing of the treads and roaring of the diesel engines get closer and closer. The Sabiri column rumbled into sight, and, just as predicted, slowed down a bit as it came to the crossroads.

The Bureau Six agent, still breathing heavily from his madcap run from Akcakale, heard the beeping of a cell phone. After a tiny pause, the daisy-chained artillery shells planted by the side of the road went off. That was the signal. Peshmerga mortars fell on the column, and the small three-man teams of Ahzadis let fly with their AT-4 antitank missiles. Attacking from cliffs, they all tried to get in shots to the top of the sabiri tank's engine compartments.

The Kurds owned the first few seconds of the battle, but once the Sabiris started shooting back, it would get ugly.

Abdul, not exactly in top physical condition, arrives at the crossroads panting, but immediately swings into action once he sees the Sabiri tanks.

The AT-4 isn't an entirely alien weapon to Abdul, having seen a few in Afghanistan, but it isn't something he knows how to use just the same. Unfortunately, as far as he is concerned, the tanks are still out of RPG range. Hopefully, they would get much closer.

And Abdul is handy to have with an RPG, known for hitting moving BMP-2s at more than 400 meters range. He is still upset at the Bureau Six Agent's unwillingness to attack, mostly out of his very strong displeasure at the Sabiri column's very recent actions, and on a better day might have gone down and shot off a rocket by himself.

But he seems to know better, and finds a large rock to hide behind. Three PG-7 grenades for the launcher and five AKM magazines...enough to do at least some damage.

OOC:Posting here because Ue told me to. As far as I can tell, Sabirite rebel-tyoe people are conducting raids in Southern Turkey (Sabir-held part). If that is not correct, I will edit my post. For now, my post is being made with that in mind.

BIC:

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The Streets of Ankara
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The city of Ankara gleamed in the sun. Rays of ultraviolet light were reflected in all directions by the opulence of the inhabitants of the city. Jewelry, glass, and even plastic all had their place here. Ankara was like a trip back in time, to the heyday of the Ottoman Empire. Bazaars were at every corner, men in robes strode around, and silk and gold were much in prominence. The only difference between the two times was the topic of discussion.

Gossip floated, through bazaars and past houses, via road and mouth, like a living organism, a pestilence of words. Of course, that was what gossip was, a pestilence of words. Though slandering politicians was forbidden here, gossip could nott be supressed and what was gossip but the poor man's slander?

The topic was this: an emergency council of all three Houses of Parliment had been called, in the house which could hold them all, the House of Merchants, the democratically elected house. The reason: raids along the Ottoman border, a threat to national security.

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House of Merchants, Ankara
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Sultan Abdul Hamid III looked out. Men crowded the halls, shouting and screaming at eachother across the elaboratly carved aisles. He hated it here, with his brothers Achmed Rashid and Mehmet and his oldest son, Ibrahim Murad. Guards were everywhere, unnerving many of the people of parliment, but that was not what he hated. It was the endless discussion, the unachieving talk, that hurt his head.

"We must join aid! By the photos, this is a rebel band certain on annhialtion of Sabir! We have leads that Sabir killed your father, great sultan an-" The rough-looking member of the House of Peasants found himself interrupted.

"We will not go to war on a vague claim, fool. I agree that something must be done. We should gain United Elias' aid before proceeeding furthor." The lean member of the House of Nobles gave a wry smirk.

The Sultan raised his hand. "You have all made points and I have come to my descition. We will send troops to the border to lock it down. Meanwhile, the government of United Elias will be reached, to ensure we are doing the right thing." Roars of assent echoed through the building. The Sultan smiled. He knew he had done the right thing.

To the esteemed government to United Elias:

Have you heard of conflict in Sabir territory. As your ally, we are inclined to ask of what you are doing about this before we make our move. Will you consent and share information?

~Signed by the Sublime Sultan Abdul Hamid III and the heads of the Three Houses of Parliment~

Akcakale

The improvised explosive devices hit the vulnerable rear and side of the second and third tank in the column, fireballs rocketing into the crystal air as their engine compartments burst apart. The vanguard tank's turret was flung thirty feet into the air as three rocket-propelled grenades simultaneously discharged amidst its pivot mechanism, before plunging down on the chassis with earsplitting blow. In the down wash, battered M113s swarmed off road, mortar shell fragments and rifle rounds ricocheting off their armour. Infantry dismounted from the armoured personnel carriers and zoomed up the hills, pelting the cliff edges with their FN FAL assault rifles. At least forty soldiers were immediately cut down in the chaotic rush uphill, but then air support was called in by a radioman in one of the command vehicles near the rear of the convoy. An orbiting pair of EA-120 strike fighters, just minutes away on close air support duty, answered the call, strafing rebel forces with gun pods and unguided aerial rockets. High-pitched screams of agony and pain filled the skies and the Sabirian commander, pressed tensely against the side of a tipped M113 in the road's verge, knew the situation was shifting to his advantage.

"Bayonets!"

His yell was relayed along the entire convoy and infantrymen, now either prone in a shallow bank or uphill, mounted gleaming metal knifes on their rifles' barrels. It was entirely psychological, as all Kurdish knew the reputation of the Border Guard as vicious knife fighters and what would occur when would fall into their hands alive. Though still advantaged by the geographical features of the area and the element of suprise their high morale now began to crack and with 105mm tank rounds whizzing past their ears, this only grew worse.

As rockets and tank shells explode across the crossroads and surrounding hills, an M113 moves into just the right spot. Its back door swings open and disgorges Sabiri troops, and Abdul steps out from behind his rock.

Taking careful aim with his rocket launcher, he sends a PG-7 grenade hurtling towards the APC before starting to run for new cover. Abdul loads another PG-7 into the launcher on the move, miraculously dodging gunfire, and attempts to engage another M113...

"Airplanes!"

The Afghani fighter looks into the air just in time to watch the EA-160s make a run. The Sabiri border guards get close, and Abdul reaches for his AKM. Rolling behind another sizable boulder, he fires a burst of 7.62mm fire on the Sabiris advancing up his particular slope. Hopefully, they didn't have rifle grenades...

Now was the time. The Sabiris had recovered from the initial shock and were starting to bring their firepower to bear. The howling of jet engines only proved that. It also served as a signal to the Bureau Six team to the rear of the Kurdish forces.

Beth Gellert was probably kicking itself for ever giving equipment like this to Al-Ahzad, but there was nothing they could do about it now. Their SA-18 was a top of the line SAM that had proved itself lethal against Ahzadi-allied France in the pacific. One of the Bureau Six agents had decided to bring one along for just such an eventuality. Next to the agent with the SAM stood another operative with a video camera. Raysuz was very interested in recording the countermeasures and abilities of the United Elias built EA-120's. A harsh buzzing tone told the Ahzadi that the missile was locked, and he let the advanced SAM fly.

There weren't all too many SA-18's, but the Sabiri's wouldn't know that. It's not like that fact mattered much to the Sabiri pilot up there, either.


Already the Kurdish forces were pulling back under the cover of their machinegun fire. Engaging the Sabiri forces in stand-up battle was a good way to lose.

Somewhat carried away, Abdul continues to shoot at the Sabiri border troops until almost too late. The crackle of an FN-FAL much too close nearby brings him back into a more alert state of consciousness, and Abdul starts to run.

Running doubled-over to avoid the FAL's powerful 7.62mm cartrige, he crests a hill and leaves the immediate battle. He does stop for a moment to watch a SAM snake upwards at one of the Elian jets, and then realizes that the missile could very well be his ticket to safety.

Hopefully, the Sabiris wouldn't have the Helicopters out for them...