NationStates Jolt Archive

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Sporadic gunfire is audible in the background as a shaking camera captures a long stretch of farmland, thick black smoke trailing into the sky in the distance. A middle aged Generian steps in front of the camera, a stiff wind blowing his hair over his eyes.

“After months of mounting border tension between Bosnian nationals and Generian security forces, the recently united Generian Imperial States consisting of the former republics of Yugoslavia, Macedonia, and Greece took the initiative as Generian mobile rifle divisions of the Generian 12th army crossed the border, moving into the sovereign territory of the republic of bosnia and Herzegovina. As you can see behind me, fighting has continued here along the border in earnest as Generian infantry units battle their way along the flatlands towards the cities of Foca and Trebinje. Resistance has-“

The reporter is cut off as a screeching whistle splits the air, and a large black cloud of dust explodes a few hundred yards behind him. He ducks, and gets back to his feet a few seconds later.

“As you can see, resistance from Bosnian republican army forces has proven particularly fierce, as the Bosnians have no doubt seen the Imperial action coming for several weeks. In addition to the government forces in the area, many local militias, the same bands that have been making incursions into Generian territory for months, have taken up the fight against the Imperial Army. Despite this showing, however, Imperial military spokesman, normally tight lipped this early in a campaign, are already reporting heavy casualty figures on the side of the enemy combatants, though they are playing their own losses very close to the chest. Coming live from the Bosnian border, this is Ivan Krekov for GINN.”

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Imperial artillery guns thunder away on the Generian side of the border

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Imperial Regular Infantry on the move into Bosnia

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Generian Mobile Rifle Unit Heading northwest towards Foca

---------------

General Bharoslav Nirokovic peered through his binoculars as he chewed on the end of the long cigar. He muttered something under his breath in Generian, and lowered the glasses.

“General, Sir, it isn’t safe for you to be this close to the front.”

“I’ll decide what’s safe for me and what’s not, you insolent little prick.”

“All I’m saying, sir-“

“Can’t you take a hint boy?! Shut up, or I’ll take you off this cushy little chauffeur assignment and send you to the front! That what you want, boy?!”

“No, sir.”

The General grumbled and raised the binoculars again as a pair of GIF-1s screamed overhead towards Bosnian positions a few dozen kilometers away. The thunder of artillery and the sound of gunfire drifted up to the low grassy ridge the General’s jeep was parked on as the Imperial infantry and armored units worked to break the Bosnian forces holding them on the road to Foca. They had been surprisingly well prepared, and had guessed the Generian intentions to move into that city first, giving them the advantage they needed to prepare a defense. Their artillery was being hammered by Generian airstrikes and General Nirokovic knew that in the end Generian numbers would win out, but it was still a distasteful turn of events for the General, who wanted to keep to his strict, though possibly excessively optimistic, schedule.

“Bastards!”

A Generian IFV took a direct hit from a Bosnian artillery shell through sheer chance just a few hundred yards away.

“Goddamnit! What are you waiting for? Get my armor up there! We need tanks, damnit! Tanks! Are you daft!? Tanks!!”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get on the radio right away.”

General Nirokovic grumbled under his breath as a fuel air bomb exploded over Bosnian positions in the distance. The invasion was going well.

Sergeant Burrian Koparov leaned back against the stiff leather seat, and tried to rest his head on the metal siding of the Imperial G-119 IFV. He was jolted forward as the sound of a heavy explosion nearby shook the vehicle, and instinctively his finger raced for the trigger of his GIR-37x. Technically, this road was supposed to have been secured hours ago by advance forces, but in reality, militia activity was still heavy. Burning vehicles from both sides and civilians lined the sides of the shattered paved road. The IFV, accompanied by footsoldiers and a dozen other armored vehicles, rolled under a large green sign.

City of Foca: 30 kilometers.

Sergeant Koparev tried to relax, and leaned back against the siding once again. Through the corner of his eye he spied one of his men fumbling with a rosary, muttering to himself in a Hellenic dialect of Generian. He closed his eyes.

The anti-armor rocket was proceeded by the telltale roar of the launcher, and the warhead slammed directly into the front of the IFV, sending fire and shrapnel into the meat of the driver and gunner, and halting the vehicle. Thick black smoke quickly filled the troop compartment. Sergeant Koparev shook his head to clear his dizziness, and unbuckled himself from the seats. The two men across from him were still, not moving. The beads of a rosary rolled over the floor. Koparev pushed his way to daylight from where the rear hatch of the vehicle had blown open. Gunfire was already erupting outside.

Hand on his helmet, Koparev stumbled out into the hazy grey light of the late morning. Suddenly, he heard a distinct clank on the pavement beside him, and looked down dumbfounded at a pineapple grenade lying a few feet away from him. He grimaced and turned his head, not seeing the other infantryman dive onto the explosive, but hearing the muffled detonation and feeling the hot blood and chunks of meat that spattered across his face, and dribbled down over his uniform. He looked for a second at the mangled corpse, before realizing himself, and crouched behind the relative shelter of the burning IFV. The other two Generian IFVs had turned their 30mm cannon on the dip in the flats about 100 meters away.

“Allahu Ackbar!”

A rocket propelled grenade slammed into the dirt and skidded over the mud, before taking flight and detonating directly in front of an abandoned car, causing a brilliant explosion and flinging metallic debris in every direction. Koparev peered around the side of the burning hulk just in time to see an Imperial jet soar low over a small ridge, and send a missile streaking towards the enemy position. The ensuing explosion fried the enemy militiamen, though in the process annihilated an Imperial IFV, cooking everyone inside.

“Sir, are you hurt?”

Koparev looked up into the face of a medic, and began getting to his feet.

“No, no I’m alright. Can’t say the same about those poor bastards.”

The medic looked blankly at the wreck of the recently fried IFV.

“Bad communication.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

(OOC: BUTT and kudos for you. Very well written.)

((OOC: Thanks. Anyone want to RP some international news media? That would add a new element to the war, give it a good current events feel.))

Koparev’s convoy had made their way to a secure zone a few miles off the main road for repairs and refueling. As the trucks and armored vehicles rumbled to a halt in the center of the moderately sized outpost, Koparev jumped to the mud below. The attack had wiped out nearly half of his command, six good soldiers shot to ribbons, or blown up, or spattered across his face. He looked down at his uniform, wondering when he’d get a chance to wash it again.

“You should get the bastard’s family to cover the dry cleaning costs.”

Koparev looked up to see a detached young officer leaning against the side of the truck, a cigarette trailing from the corner of his mouth. Koparev shot the man an acid look.

“Fuck you.”

The man shrugged and walked off.

With the fluid front evolving just a few miles away, the outpost was a whir of activity. In just a few hours, the cluster of homes and a gas station had been transformed into a working forward command and refueling station. GH-2 gunship transports were ferrying men to and from the outskirts of Foca, fierce looking soldiers with painted faces and black insignias on their uniforms. The Black Guard. Generian special forces. A few men in civilian clothes could be seen rushing about between the various structures. Obviously Generian Imperial Intelligence, GIIS, had a presence here as well.

Koparev wandered over to the side of a jeep and leaned against it. He reached into his pocket, and withdrew a hand rolled cigarette from a rusty metal box. He placed it in his mouth and struck a match on his heel, touching it to the tip of the smoke and taking a drag. A few feet away a cluster of soldiers were talking.

“Man, you’ve got no idea. When we take Sarajevo it’s gonna be a fucking party. You ever seen the tits on a Bosnian chick? Fucking huge.”

“You say it like it’s gonna be easy. You saw what happened back on the road.”

“It’s gonna be a fucking cakewalk. Those bastards back there didn’t stand a chance. The jets toasted their asses.”

“Yeah, but they also toasted our IFV.”

“Fuck that. We lose a few, so what. More pussy for us when we conquer the place.”

An officer’s voice broke up the conversation.

“You queers quit your grab-assing. We’re moving out.”

The grizzled lieutenant looked over at Koparev.

“You! Sergeant! Get the fuck over here.”

Koparev dropped the cigarette and crushed the tip under his heel, before walking over and saluting.

“You were in the IFV that took a hit back there?”

“Yes sir.”

“I hear your squad was wasted in the fighting.”

“six men dead, sir. Two wounded.”

“I’m tacking you on with my 4th platoon. One of my sergeants took a rocket through the gut, and now he’s spattered all over the grass, not commanding.”

“Yes sir.”

“We’re heading up to Foca to join the 19th armored. We leave in five, be ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

Koparev saluted, and the lieutenant walked off, shouting at his men to get ‘off their lazy asses’. The sergeant climbed into the back of an IFV with other soldiers of the 4th platoon. The armored vehicles roared to life and rumbled out of the compound, back onto the main road towards Foca.

Imperial artillery had been pounding Foca for hours, while on-the-ground special forces teams directed air strikes against enemy positions, and performed bombing raids of their own on SAM batteries and communications relays. Now, ST-29 tanks of the 19th armored division made their way over the roads and farmland towards the black smoke pillars of the embattled city.

Nice

*Tag*

(OOC: Excellent writing as always, GE. Mind if I RP some international news media?)

The camera was shaking violently in the hands of her cameraman, and the pretty little reporter – her image being broadcast around the world – silently cursed ever taking this assignment. Artillery crashed down a hundred meters behind the camera, shattering one of the old stone buildings and sending a shower of debris towards the camera. The reporter cringed, ducking, and then righted herself. Brushing dirt out of her already ruined hair, she began to speak.

“As you can see, I’m here reporting to you from the frontline of the fighting in Bosnia. This city is called Foca and, though most of our viewers at home have never heard of it, this is becoming the focus of fighting between the Bosnian resistance and Generian invasion troops. The situation is pretty confused right now-” She paused as a line of Bosnian troops in muddy brown and green fatigues rushed past, heading for some distant post. The camera shifted to a view down a small avenue looking out on the horizon. [I]“You can see the battle lines advancing.”

A tank crested the ridge in the background and fired, the flash of its guns reflecting off a low lying cloud patch. Half a mile away, a church tower exploded. Artillery began to creep towards the town once more.

A black-gloved hand grabbed the camera and pushed it to the ground. The television screens cut to static, but the audio feed continued. Heavy voices shouted warnings in a blur of Slavic tongues, and the skirted reporter was pulled away from the scene, making one final report.

“Bosnian commanders have given the order to evacuate the city. I must go now. This is Emily DePaul signing o-”

The audio cut. Viewers at home looked at their television sets, confused, but none of them could hear the chatter of automatic weapons as Miss DePaul and her Bosnian escorts fell onto the muddy street, signaling the Generians’ entry into Foca...

---

[OOC: Hope this does you justice, Generic. Thanks for letting me do this.]

((OOC: Well done, Novikov, thanks much. RB, feel free to RP your reporters.))

OOC: is there anything I can do?

OOC: is there anything I can do?

((OOC: You can do what you want as long as you're a member of CE's Earth 13.75)

The City of Foca, Bosnia-Herzegovina

The massive ST-29 main battle tank crashed through the small wooden farmhouse, the turret turning in search of a target. A T-80 tank rumbled out from behind a barn, and exploded into flame as a kinetic round slammed into the ammo storage compartment, engulfing the crew in flame and molten steel. The tank rumbled forward as a shell exploded in the side of an apartment building in the distance, sending a cloud of grey dust into the air, and stone rubble pouring into the streets below. A wing of GIF-1s streaked overhead, releasing a payload of bombs onto the city, sending enormous black and orange fireballs into the sky, over the rooftops of the downtown area.

A GH-2 touched down in the field, and a dozen Black Guardsmen poured out, rushing towards the streets of the city, weapons and eyes trained on the rooftops for snipers. A mile in the distance, a tall radio control tower exploded in a dazzling display of fire and electrical sparks, more of the Generian special forces’ handiwork.

The Imperial IFVs of the 4th platoon, 32nd mobile rifle division rumbled over the mud caked, crater covered pavement of the highway leading into Foca. 30mm cannons whirled, and turned to search for targets amid the ruin of homes on the city outskirts, occasionally opening up and cutting a Bosnian to ribbons.

Sergeant Koparev cradled his rifle, and felt a sense of déjà vu. Gunfire exploded nearby ushering the familiar clanking of bullets against the hull. The cannon atop the IFV opened fire, sending high explosive rounds at the enemy position, throwing severed limbs and limp bodies into the street. The vehicle halted and the door opened. Sergeant Koparev stood, and ordered his men out.

“Get out! Move!”

The soldiers rushed out into the street, moving surgically to cover, and taking aim. Koparev took position behind a partially destroyed sandbag wall. Wordlessly he ordered his command forward as an ST-29 crashed into the street ahead through an alleyway. The scream of a jet engine proceeded the roar of an explosion two dozen blocks away, the rush of air from the fuel air bomb blasting over the heads of the Generian R.I.s.

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Roach-Busters National News Network- Live Broadcast

"Good afternoon, everyone, this is Walter Krankheit, of RBNNN- the most trusted name in government-approved news. Yesterday, Generia staged a full-fledged blitzkrieg against the tiny country of Bosnia, launching a massive incursion into that country. The invasion began scarcely a day ago, and already we are seeing some of the most ferocious fighting in history, reminiscent of the Battle of Ia Drang, or even the seize of Stalingrad. The body count is already staggering, even...haunting. We have not been able to determine the number of casualties as of yet, but we will keep you posted. That is all. We will update this report in an hour or so. Again, this is Walter Krankheit, of RBNNN. Thank you, and good day."

Tag this, I will.

--Yoda

Machine guns chattered away from the blown out windows of apartment buildings, swarms of lead slamming into concrete and steel. A GH-2 raced down the street between the apartment buildings in this southwest corner of the city, side gunners hammering on the Bosnian militiamen who dared the streets below. Mangled bodies littered the streets, and small streams of blood had formed and were rushing into the storm drains.

Generian special forces had been fighting the militias in this corner for hours, now. Several smoking hulks that had once been four or five story buildings were products of their work, and love of semtex charges.

Now, the Imperial mobile rifles were moving in force to drive the last of the Bosnian resistance back to the center of the city, around the town hall, where they would be easy prey for air support.

Sergeant Koparev rushed blindly across the street as the gunner in the window at the opposite end paused to reload. The chatter of the gun started up again as he ducked into an alley, linking up with the remainder of his fire team. Three of his men lay dead two blocks down, two riddled with lead, one with his legs blown off by a grenade, abandoned to die because there was no way to pull him to safety. His agonized screams still rang in Koparev’s ears, but he put them away to focus on the matter at hand. There would be time enough later for that business.

He turned his head to see a bright laser beam coming from the end of the street opposite the gunner’s position. Special forces on the roof were directing an air strike to blow the whole building up, rather than risk the manpower needed to clear it. Koparev cursed under his breath, before ordering his men to sprint to the next street, out of the smart bomb’s blast radius. The shriek of a jet engine and a bright explosion leveled the building.

Generian armor was cutting through the streets from the east, making steady progress towards the government district, a small one, but still an important destination. On a ridge a mile outside the city, Bosnian army commanders were watching the proceedings. Their men were fighting well, but they knew as well as their officers knew it was a lost cause. Regular army groups had begun surrendering in the city, though fortunately the zeal of the militias was stronger, and some had turned to terminating the would-be prisoners before they could turn themselves in.

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This Is PNN: The Most Trusted Name in News

"Hello, I am Farah Aryanpour, here with a special report on the situation faced by our great and powerful allies of Generia. Today, in order to liberate the Bosnian people from their government of robbers and leftists, the Generian government has launched all out war on the terrorist state, but the ungrateful citizenry being leftist saboteurs they are, have deemed it wise to resist our excellent allies' freedom they bring, thus, sealing their own fate. The liberation, however, is going along well, and progress is rapid.

In other news, no resistance has been reported from Ashgabat since the VX attack by our brave men, yet spectators...."

Dusk was fast falling over the city of Foca, and the bright fireballs and burning wreckage flashed and glowed beautifully under the clear velvet black sky. Imperial armor and infantry had been fighting block for block against stiff resistance, but things were beginning to break down on the Bosnian side. Body counts were skyrocketing due to Imperial special forces actions and the superior armor and air power of the Generian army.

Koparev gritted his teeth as he fired a few bursts at a militia fighter dashing across the square in front of him. The man fell to the ground, writhing and screaming against the backdrop of gunfire and explosions. He looked behind him to check that his fireteams were still ready. The Imperial forces had reached the large plaza in the center of the city that surrounded the mayor’s office, a large traditional structure, scarred from the recent fighting. The Bosnians had been surrounded and cut off, and now had resolved to fight to the last, expecting no mercy from the Generians. Burning carcasses of IFVs and a few battle tanks were scattered about the plaza, and machine gun nests sawed away at both sides.

Imperial high command wanted the palace left intact, as GIIS had received information confirming that a high ranking militia leader was located somewhere inside, and so bombing the area was out of the question. Koparev silently cursed this decision. The man could be already dead for as far as anyone knew. A GH-2 soared overhead, guns blazing in the gathering dark. A white streak as a missile was fired from below, but the gunship handily dodged the projectile, and moved to unleash hell with the fore mounted 30mm cannon.

The guerillas turned their attention to this new menace, giving Generian infantry an opportunity they desperately needed to break this standoff. Koparev fired a round into the head of a machine gunner, and leapt over the low sandbag wall he was sheltering behind, leading his fireteams in a charge to the next line of makeshift defenses. He leapt over the machine gun nest, and came face to face with a Bosnian soldier. He slammed the man in the face with the butt of his gun, sending him stumbling back a few steps, before closing and grabbing him to slam his knee into the man’s abdomen. He straightened the dazed Bosnian and slammed his head into that of his opponent, sending him backwards to the ground. Other squads had joined his charge, and continued it to the next line of defenses, leaving the Bosnians to split their attentions between the helicopter killing machine and the infantry assault.

As Koparev joined the rest of the Generians in the assault on the next line of sandbag barriers, a white streak collided with the GH-2, sending it to the plaza below in a whirling fireball. The Generians, motivated by their momentum, were able to catch the Bosnians as they scrambled back to the guns, and the fight became a close quarters brawl. Koparev leapt over the next barrier to see the façade of the mayor’s office looming before him, but suddenly was knocked off his feet by a blow to the side of the head. In the blackness, a massive form lurched over him, face crazily lit by the flickering flames. The Bosnian raised his rifle to plunge a bayonet into Koparev’s heart, but a hard kick to the genitals forced him back, and sent his rifle to the ground.

Koparev forced himself up, and drew the combat knife from the sheath on his left shoulder. He plunged the blade between the man’s eyes with all of his strength and blood gushed forth. The Bosnian screamed and reeled backwards, the blade still buried in his skull. Koparev charged forward, and slammed his shoulder into his enemy, catching the handle of the blade and jerking it free as the body fell. The Bosnian lay there screaming and rolling as the Generian stood over him, knife dripping blood at his side.

Overcome by a sudden blood lust, a primordial sort of rage, he leapt on his nemesis, and proceeded to gouge out his eyes, yanking the organs free and dangling them over his head by the optic nerves. Clenching his teeth, he dropped the eyes onto the man’s face, and one landed in the open mouth. The Bosnian’s screams were stifled as he launched into a desperate panic, the eyeball dropping into the back of his throat and blocking his windpipe. Koparev got to his feet and wiped his blade clean as the man suffocated there before his eyes.

He sheathed the knife and turned towards the palace. Generian soldiers had stormed the front gate as he had battled his own foe. He could see Generian troops battling Bosnians on the roof. Several had begun leaping to their deaths below, trying to avoid a Generian blade or bullet. Koparev watched as his compatriots hauled down the Bosnian flag and raised a battle-scarred Generian standard over the mayor’s office. Foca had fallen.

The fall of Foca was heralded on every news channel in the world – save one. Many called the victory, “tremendous,” “stunning,” or even, “a liberation.” Many less took the opposite stand, slandering the Generian valor with remarks of, “cowards,” and, “tragedy.” Yet in Novikov, no voices rang out for or against the Generian conquest.

Novikov had but one International News channel, and their very own Anglo reporter, Emily DePaul, was unable to report from Foca, live or otherwise. Days later, reports would surface of the reporter’s violent death – supposedly at the hands of Bosnian militia – and this would solidify Novikov’s stance on the war as one stoutly in support of the Generian “liberators.” Miss DePaul would be remembered for a time, then forgotten, and, despite all the stories her career had entailed, her most lasting contribution to the opinions of Novikov’s public was actually made after her death…

----------

[OOC: Trying to put a different spin of the same old media stories everyone else is giving. Enjoy.]

Body Count Rises as Battle Rages in Foca

Today, the Generian military lived up to its ruthless reputation as it moved on the city of Foca, destroying much of the surrounding agricultural land. Foot soldiers and tanks swarmed into the city, and artillery has been heard screaming into the city all day. It does not appear long before Foca falls to the might of the Generian juggernaut, however the Bosnian citizens have mobilized alongside the army to fight for their land, and have proved a major annoyance to the Generian forces.

“Good afternoon. This is Briggs Jurgenson, reporting for Freudotopian International Journalism, Incorporated. (FIJI) The scene you can see behind me is typical of action taking place all over the city of Foca. The battle is raging, and the Generian troops have been steadily pushing back the Bosnians, although at a high cost of human life on both sides. Air strikes, artillery, and tank battles have caused monumental amounts of destruction. I’ve never seen anything like–SHIT!”

The pile of rubble he had been sheltering behind suddenly started to spray chunks of rocks and steel.

“What in God’s name is fucking happening?”

Jurgenson’s cameraman dived for cover behind the pile. A few seconds later, a barrage of automatic fire wrecked the dropped camera.

“You fuck! We’ve lost our feed!”

“Better than our fucking lives, you idiot. Who do you think is shooting at us? Schoolgirls? Keep your goddamned head down if you want to stay alive!”

The cameraman, Walter Henry, had once served in the FIA, and he knew when a combat situation was turning for the worse.

“Listen, Jurgenson, we have to make a run for it. It looks like a coupla those Bosnian motherfuckers are tryin to take out the newsmen. That’s us.”

“But we’re neutral! They can’t shoot at us!”

“Bullshit. They can and they will. Our government is closely allied with Generia, and somehow those pricks up there musta figured out where we’re from. This is bad. We gotta move, before they throw a fucking grenade at us.”

“Are you SERIOUS?! If we move, they’ll kill us!”

Henry felt his patience for his bedwetting reporter waning fast.

“Fine then, you pansy. You can just stay here until those soldiers come down and mess up your pussy. I’m getting the hell out of here! GET UP!”

Jurgenson panicked. The stain spread across his pants, and Henry looked at him disgustedly. Then he lost patience. Utterly. Grabbing the sobbing newsman off the ground, he slung him wailing over his shoulder, and dashed out from cover. Bullets zinged after him like angry wasps, and he knew that if they hit him, they were both dead as dirt.

Then, without warning, a felt a searing pain in his thigh, and fell forward. From somewhere behind him, he heard a laugh. He crawled forward, desperate to reach the corner of the next building, dragging Jurgenson along with him. The laughing increased, and he heard a sadistic shout.

“Stay still, little Freudotopian shit. I’ll give you a message to give to your Generian friends. No, wait. You’ll never make it that far. Better to just cut you off and send it in a nice, small package to the Generians. Hah hah hah!”

Galvanized by fear and anger, he dragged himself inch by agonizing inch, finally making it to the building. He pulled Jurgenson out of harm’s way, then tried to stand. He almost collapsed from the pain.

Then the door a yard away blew out, and Henry knew they were both dead. Until a voice yelled in Generian.

“My God! It’s that reporter! Help me, Yuri!”

Three Generian soldiers helped the two men to their feet, and then the one called Yuri grabbed his radio. He called back to the medic at his base, and explained the situation.

“Good news, you two. There’s a ATC just around the corner that was about to pull back. It’s taken heavy damage, but should get you outside of the city in one piece. Follow me.”

The soldiers half-carried the journalists to the ATC, and the back door popped open. Inside, a menacing looking Generian with a skull tattoo on his cheek hauled the two inside, then shut the door.

An hour later, a military surgeon was able to remove the bullet from Henry’s leg. As he lay in his bed, he spoke with the doctor about the ambush and the escape.

“No harm done, my friend. You acted more bravely than some soldiers I’ve known.”

“Doctor, will Jurgenson be okay?”

“Hah! Your compatriot? The only thing wounded on that man is his pride. He’ll be fine.”

“Damn.”

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“Good evening, citizens of Generia and international viewers. Welcome to GINN, the only station bringing you true to life on site coverage of the war in Bosnia, as it happens. Tonight, the city of Foca has fallen after a vicious eighteen-hour battle between Generian liberation forces and Bosnian security forces fighting alongside local militias.

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Casualties are reported high on both sides, and dead and wounded are still being pulled out of the rubble. Generian military commanders are also reporting the capture of large amounts of Bosnian regular army soldiers, who surrendered when the tide began to turn visibly against them. The city itself has been virtually leveled by hours of aerial and artillery bombardment, causing collateral damage estimates to skyrocket.

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Generian authorities also report that they failed to apprehend a high ranking militia leader presumed to have taken refuge in the mayor’s office, but are not releasing details, however, Generian authorities have also offered a 25 million dollar reward to anyone who can provide information leading to the arrest of a certain Skopij Nriej, presumably the director of the Bosnian National People’s Militia, the group that has seen the most action against Generian forces since the start of the war.

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In related news, the city of Trebinje on the opposite end of the southern border also fell to Generian forces after a much milder fight lasting four hours. A Freudotopian reporter is also said to have wet himself when he came under fire, effectively destroying his credibility. His heroic cameraman managed to carry the blubbering mess to safety, reportedly headbutting four Bosnian soldiers to death on the way.

With the Generian offensive in full swing, expect plenty of live coverage in the coming days. For GINN, I’m Dmitri Gregoriov.

Red = Imperial secure zones, advance

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Very impressive

Me tag this now! 111shift+1!
-The dumbass side of me

OOC: Dude, my reporter didn't headbutt four Bosnians, although he did give head to four Bosnian chikas. Maybe you got confused. Anyhoo, methinks I'll promote him to head of FIJI.

Oh, and that contract on the military leader...is that open? You know me and contracts. I INVENTED THEM. Am I going to have to hike Ol' Boo Radley from Greenland all the way to Bosnia to bring this mofo in?

And who did kill Mr. Boddy? Was it Professor Plum in the Ballroom with the Lead Pipe? Or Colonel Mustard in the Billiard Room with the Revolver?

The answer to all these questions, and more...NEXT.

Freudotopian International Journalism Incorporated (FIJI)

“Good evening. This is Walter Henry, proudly reporting for the first time for FIJI. Briggs Jurgenson has been recalled to Greenland, where he is awaiting trial for blatant unmanliness.

Today, however, a great success for Generian troops, as they captured the besieged city of Foca after an intense battle. Most of the city effectively lies in ruins, and prisoners are being executed or dragged off in the streets. Women are being carried off, and homes are being burned as the Generians ‘pull a Viking.’ The Bosnian Army has been completely routed, and soldiers are still trying to flee the city. Most are being shot or captured, but some have escaped into the country side. A massive manhunt has been organized for the remaining military leadership, some of whom are hiding in the city. Skopij Nriej, the Director of the Bosnian National Peoples’ Militia, is being sought, and a bounty has been put on his head. In other news, the battle has resulted in--”

He broke off as a spectacular explosion leveled the only building left standing on the block, and grey dust rained down on him. Completely coated, he turned to the camera once again.

“As I was saying, the battle has resulted in a number of POWs being taken, who will face trial shortly. Most are expected to be executed. For FIJI, this is Walter Henry.”

OOC: If the contract is open, could you post some specifics, like a reward?

OOC: Dude, my reporter didn't headbutt four Bosnians, although he did give head to four Bosnian chikas. Maybe you got confused. Anyhoo, methinks I'll promote him to head of FIJI.

Oh, and that contract on the military leader...is that open? You know me and contracts. I INVENTED THEM. Am I going to have to hike Ol' Boo Radley from Greenland all the way to Bosnia to bring this mofo in?

And who did kill Mr. Boddy? Was it Professor Plum in the Ballroom with the Lead Pipe? Or Colonel Mustard in the Billiard Room with the Revolver?

The answer to all these questions, and more...NEXT.

((OOC:

1) That was a joke. When my troops heard the story, they exaggerated it a little bit to make him seem more heroic and manly than he already was.

2) The contract is open.

3) It was in fact Mr. Green in the kitchen with the knife. ))

OOC: Guess who's got the contract on that Bosnian dude? ME!

Samuel “Boo” Radley walked into the darkened conference room. A man sat at the head of the table, his face impossible to make out in the gloom. He spoke in a low growl.

“Mr. Radley. Glad to see you’re recuperated after that unfortunate business in Durthmont. I have a new assignment for you. You will leave at 0230 hours for Bosnia. Pad 3, Mandrake Military Airfield. Unmarked Night Stalker chopper. On the table in front of you is your briefing. Skopij Nriej, presumably the director of the Bosnian National People’s Militia, is your target. You are to ascertain his location, and provide that information to General Nirokovic posthaste.

You are not to attempt to capture Nriej, unless specifically authorized by the Generians. You are certainly not to make any attempt on his life. They want him alive, and I intend to provide him, for the sake of our alliance. You are dismissed, Mr. Radley. You do not exist. All knowledge of your whereabouts has been disavowed. The only human being who knows who or where you are is myself. Godspeed.”

Samuel Radley exited the room, scanning the file he had been given.



secure transmission beginning
priority alpha encryption
encrypting...
-randomizing cipher
-scrambling message
-reducing signature
-recalibrating pad
-applying new pad
-converting file
encrypted

General Nirokovic, I have decided to use private channels to discover the location of your missing rebel leader. Officially, no one has been sent to Bosnia to find Nriej. If you receive information from a person calling themself Axl, you may transfer the contract reward to account 11232315-98769-556376, Freudotopian Imperial Bank.

–Saul Hudson, Emperor of Freudotopia

trace sweep running
taps found: 0
cleaning line...
line clean
dropping line
transmission ended

"How's it feel?"

"It's heavier than I expected."

"Go ahead, fire it."

Corporal Lubomir "Polish" Krekowski raised the GIR-47 to his shoulder and took aim at one of the beer bottles resting on top of the worn down wooden fense 50 yards away. He squeezed the trigger and the stock kicked into his arm as the tell tale clink of shattering glass marked his success. He took aim and fired four more times, each time shattering the bottle. He lowered the gun and turned to his friend and compatriot, Corporal Mandek N'tac.

"Not bad, Lubomir. You like?"

"Yeah. It feels...powerful."

"Heh. It should. It's made to cut those Bosnian bastards into shreds."

"So they're getting rid of the '37's?"

"Yeah. The mud kept jamming them up. These babies are supposed to resist anything. Completely R.I. proof."

"We'll see about that."

Lubomir held the gun out to his friend, but he waved it off.

"You keep it. You'll make better use of it. I'll get one of my own soon enough."

"You sure? We're moving out tomorrow, you know. No more booze and pussy like we've been getting here in Trebinje."

Mandek chuckled.

"Don't remind me. I've got a hangover to match any war wound those Bosnian bastards could have given me."

"What happened to Anna?"

"Huh?"

"The girl?"

"That was her name? Hmm. I should have remembered that. I suppose she's fine. Sleeping last I saw her."

Lubomir laughed.

"Same old Mandek. Just like back home with Sofia."

"Euhh. Don't remind me about her. I've still got the scars."

"What did she hit you with? A broom handle?"

"A cricket bat. I was still pulling splinters out of my face two weeks later."

"I doubt you'll ever live that down. Getting beat up by a woman for calling her a two dollar whore."

"She was a two dollar whore!"

A voice from the other end of the field caused both men to turn around.

"You pansis finished yacking over there, or do I have to break up your little sewing circle myself?! Move it! We're pulling out in five!"

"Sir, yes sir!"

Lubomir shouldered the GIR-47, and rushed off towards the cluster of buildings where a group of IFVs were waiting to join the Imperial Army in their drive north towards their next target, the town of Stolac.

The thick air of the rear compartment of the IFV was heavy with the stench of smoke, dust, and body odor particles weaved in with the very cloth of the men’s unwashed uniforms. Faded camo paint barely obscured scars on the faces of the soldiers, rested and in some cases hung over from a day and a night in Trebinje. A man with a menacing skull tattooed on his neck raised an unlit cigar to his lips and dived into his belt pocket for a lighter.

“Don’t light that! We’re suffocating as it is. You trying to smoke us out entirely?”

The man grinned and lit the cigar anyway, letting the heavy sweet odor permeate the compartment.

It had been raining heavily for the past few days, and the road had become a mud track. Civillian cars and trucks lay stranded in ditches on either side of the road that wound its way through the fields and forests of southern Bosnia. The sky above was blue, filled with white wisps, no sign of the thick grey combination of storm clouds and battle smoke that lingered over the border. Here, things were clear, one could even dare say peacefully deceptive.

The IFV came to a sudden halt, and Lubomir opened the rear hatch to a take a look at what had happened. A few officers were standing around looking at a pickup truck that had half sunk into a deep mud pool that had developed when a creek had bee diverted by a shell blast. One of the Generians was trying to communicate with an angry looking Bosnian who shouted and gestured wildly at him and the others. Lubomir walked up.

“What’s the problem?”

“Guy’s pissed cuz we won’t help him get his truck out. Casimir here is inclined to use it to build a bridge over the mudhole. I think we should blow it up and block that creak over there.”

The Bosnian’s face had turned bright red, and he was practically shouting at the top of his lungs. The Generian officer finally gave up and walked away.

“Guy’s a fucking nutcase. You deal with him.”

The Bosnian stood there for a moment, deciding where to next direct his rage. The other officer turned his head to Lubomir and spoke softly, mischievously

“We could just kill him.”

Lubomir pretended to consider the option.

“We could, but then he wouldn’t be around to tell us where he keeps his pretty young daughters locked up.”

“Good point.”

The Bosnian had started up again in full force.

“That’s it.”

The Generian officer drew his sidearm and clicked the hammer back, putting the barrel directly against the Bosnian’s forehead. The man shut up instantly, and watched the officer’s finger on the trigger. The officer spoke slowly and calmly, his voice dripping menace.

“Look buddy, you’re trucks gone. Deal with it. We’re not the ones who drove it into a giant sinkhole, so it isn’t our fucking problem, but what is our problem is moving these goddamn APCs. One way or the other, I’m going to put a chunk of semtex on your truck and blow the whole thing, fuzzy dice and all, straight to hell, and unless you want to be inside when it all goes down, I suggest you move along and leave us to do our jobs. Clear?”

The Bosnian was still fixated on the muzzle of the gun. He didn’t speak a word of Generian, but he knew exactly what he was being told. The officer lowered the pistol, and uncocked it. The man, relieved beyond words, clasped his hands in prayer, and began thanking the officer profusely for sparing his life, before rushing off.

“Problem solved."

(OOC: GE, is it all right if I have a character of mine die in this RP? I was going to send Walter Krankheit, the anchor of RBNNN, to Bosnia to cover the conflict, and have him step on a mine while patrolling with Generian soldiers. Is that okay?)

(OOC: GE, is it all right if I have a character of mine die in this RP? I was going to send Walter Krankheit, the anchor of RBNNN, to Bosnia to cover the conflict, and have him step on a mine while patrolling with Generian soldiers. Is that okay?)

((OOC: Sure. I don't see why not. Should be fun.))

On vacation GE is. Asked me to bump this he did, so that post in the thread others may.

--Yoda