NationStates Jolt Archive

Skies of Kriegorgrad

"Greenlight!"

Luis Cabrera gulped, he could feel the dry saliva in his throat. His stomach was turning uncontrollably but this was no time to turn back. What was command thinking, throwing them in here like this? There was barely any planning, it was just a leap of faith, a hand reaching out to a light in the dark. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity that the Zarbian government had decided to seize.

He watched as the line in front of him began to shrink and soldiers disappeared at the open hatch of the C-130. The plane was packed and stuffy, he had felt almost claustrophobic riding in there for so long. As he approached the front of the line, an old army officer gave him a good luck and an encouraging pat on the back. A bit rough for Cabrera's taste, he winced and moved forward.

With the wide open sky in front of him, Luis dove out of the plane. The cold winter wind whipped past his body as he tumbled towards the earth below him. Quickly pulling his ripcord, Luis felt himself slow down as his parachute opened up. Below him he could spot the green parachutes of his comrades, easing them down to the ground.

Kazarkia Province

The Iron Tiger (http://s7.invisionfree.com/Venom_Defense/index.php?showtopic=5) rumbled along, its tracks leaving deep imprints in the snow. Hugo Cortes sighed from inside of the IFV, the veteran tank commander was extremely displeased in the frigid weather of southern Kriegorgrad. Out of all places to go fight, he had to been sent to this frozen hell. Hugo was used to the mediterranean climate of Zarbia, not winter and ice; this was the first time he had ever even seen snow. At least he was fairly comfortable in this heated tank, not freezing outside like the infantry. Cortes sighed once more as his vehicle lumbered forward, closer to their target.

Captain Rodrigo Peron walked through the snow slowly, his face stung from the blistering cold while his feet were almost completely numb. Every now and then he could hear curses from behind him. It was clear that Peron was not the only one who was irritated, the squad of men following him were struggling through the same as he was.

Rodrigo wasn't completely sure what his men were here to do. Command had sent them out here to find and kill the oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Fedorenkov. A search and destroy mission. According to intelligence reports, Fedorenkov was in Kazarkia but exactly why was unknown. Captain Peron shook the snow from his shoulders and pressed on, deeper and deeper into this foreign land.

The clean snows of Kazarkia, a snowy southern province of the paranoid state known as Kriegorgrad, the kindly sun retreating from its day of trying to heat the snows and leaving a luminance to safeguard the rest of the fiery orb as a changing of the guard took place, soon the moon was to stand vigil at the sun's post; to survey the gentle, beautiful hills and mountains covered in virgin snow. A pure white canvas with which to paint the highs of humanity; and the lows. The sun's orange hew was usually absent around this time but it was almost as if nature was trying to voice its disdain at what was happening in one of its final, relatively untouched domains.

The APC's treads compacted snow, leaving ugly trails of patterns on the snow, the stench of engine oil and the excretion from the engine tainted the virgin substance whenever it came near, coating the white canvas with a sickly taint of a black. Steam rose from the tanks engines and the Proletarian Guardsmen who were perched on it, holding on to whatever they could on the FV432 (http://www.britisharmedforces.org/blirreg/ns/nat_armytoday_.htm), the soldiers below in the heated compartment jeered at the soldiers forced to hold onto the exterior of the tank much to the chagrin of those not belonging to the FV432's normal compliment of soldiers; and wishing they signed up for longer hours of the mechanical division.

With about twenty men packed into a personnel carrier intended for only ten at the very most, it was almost as if the Proletarian Guard was in the mood to showcase its comparative poverty next to most modern day armies. The troops holding on to the unreliable machine kept their trench coats wrapped around their slowly but surely freezing bodies. Lieutenant Thom (http://www.endevil.com/images/deathwatch1.jpg) was easily identified by the decorated red star (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v227/Kriegorgrad/seal.jpg) adorning his officer's peaked hat, a hat that seemed too advanced to atop the head of the young, innocent faced lad. The drab matt green fit in perfectly with the rest of the squad and their own attire, each having the same red seal emblazoned upon their epaulettes. Once again, the poverty, or laziness, of the Proletarian Guard was showcased as if a pride by only having a drab olive uniform for snowy warfare.

Thom hoped that the COMSEC agent's suspicions amounted to nothing, while Thom loved Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov dearly, with all his soul and being, he did not want to die for him, even if duty did command him to; he wanted to live regardless of his loyalty. Thom could only pray that the Winston had been over-zealous in the oligarch's security and that no-one had actually parachuted into the snowy hills and mountains of Kazarkia, though the idea of a COMSEC agent throwing them on a wild goose chase didn’t sound particularly plausible.

From within the warm, protective cocoon of the FV432, the hands banging on the hull belonged to the Guardsmen sat atop the outside of the tank, the crunch of snow from the men outside leaping off the tank told of one thing and one thing only: contact. Thom winced as he forced open the double steel doors on the ceiling of the APC's cramped interior with a clang of a steel on steel. Then, both hands getting a grip, promptly pulled himself up and out of the welcoming shell of steel, before Thom landed on the now trodden snow, one of the other soldiers was already clambering out and running to some Guardsmen in the snow capped trees, a mix of Enfield rifles, Sten and Bren guns raised announced that they had definitely spotted something.

Thom didn't like his duty but if Nikolai willed it, it must be right.

Nikolai is always right.

OOC: Is this closed?

OoC: I'm afraid so, sorry!

OOC:Ah well. :(

First Engagement

A low groan rose from the Tiger's engine as the vehicle came to a sudden stop, prompting Captain Peron to look up sharply. His arm flew up instinctively, protecting his face from the bitter wind. As he peeked past the IFV he could see a sorry looking group of soldiers and behind them a rundown APC. As Peron shouldered his AR 70/90 he could not help but notice the outdated weapons held by the troops in front of him. These were the enemy, the filthy Communist bastards that they had been sent to kill.

Peron jumped as the Kriegos made the first strike; the small cracks of Enfields echoing across the open expanse. The Iron Tiger in front of him opened up with its dual machine guns, strafing the area in front of the Zarbians. Startled, Peron dove to the ground and began firing at the Kriegos ahead. Within moments the entire area was a scene of chaos as bullets zipped back and forth, bodies collapsing to the ground on both sides. Screams and yelling rang in the captain’s ears as he emptied his magazine but paid no attention. He could feel the cold penetrating his clothes, touching his body and rendering his uniform useless.

The silence had been shattered like glass and the pure snow stained with the blood of soldiers, driven to battle by the fires of propaganda.

[tag]

Thom flinched and shielded his face with his coat covered arm as the onomatopoeic thump-thump of 7.62mm rounds coming into contact with the pine tree Thom was crouched behind, small clouds of snow erupted as the machine gun raked the small clump of trees the lieutenant and his squad were pinned down in. He heard a voice call out to him, screaming something about retreat but the sentence was cut in half but a gurgle as a Zarbian bullet found its mark in his chest, thrown back into the snow, blood spurted onto the glittering white crystals.

Thom glanced left and saw Private Jenkins rip the pin out of his grenade and stand up to throw only to get a blast to the face. Seconds became an eternity as Thom screamed at his men to move. Shell shock set in, the dull ringing in his ears worked in conjecture with the foul stench of burning flesh filling his nostrils. Thom saw a Zarbian trooper trying to move between cover and lined up a shot with his Webley revolver. A bullet was lodged in the man's leg and the unfortunate soldier was clutching the wound, moments later, the crack of Enfields put an end to the Zarbian's suffering. Revenge for Jenkins's death; and half the squad's. Only ten soldiers left, Thom gave the call to retreat, notably upper or at least middle class British accent carried the noble order across the tree line.

"Fall back to the FV!" Cried Thom, only to have his hopes dashed as the FV432, barking fire from its turret at the Zarbian forces, exploded in a contemptuous display of superiority by the invading forces.

"Forget the APC, just fall back! I say again: Fall Back!"

The Proletarian Guardsmen began to flee, leaving their dead comrades to be consumed by the swirling snows, under a hail of gunfire from the victorious Zarbians, as the foreigners claimed their prize.

Blood and snow.

Victory

Captain Peron watched anxiously as the Kriegos fell back, ordered to do so by the frantic orders of a young man, presumably the officer in charge. He lined his weapon up and shot a burst at the officer, missing as the defeated troops disappeared behind a cluster of pine trees. Cursing under his breath the captain got to his feet quickly. He was in no rush to pursue the fleeing enemy for there was no need. Certainly the knowledge of their presence here extended further than a ragtag group of lowly infantry. Someone else knew that they were here, someone more important.

"Shit..." he whispered as his eyes fell upon two bodies lying on the ground, the snow around them now a stained crimson. The misled Kriegos would pay for what they had done, but that would come later.

His thoughts were interrupted by the moans of a wounded soldier, Private Barillo. The young man sat slumped against a thick pine, his previously polished boot now covered in blood. Peron walked towards the young soldier and kneeled beside him. The officer shook his head solemnly, and grasped the boot with his hands, pulling it off. Barillo screamed in pain while blood trickled down his foot and onto the snow. The captain checked the injury, which looked bad. The young man grit his teeth, the pain was unbearable, and every time he looked at his foot he felt sick.

"We need to get him to a medic!" Peron barked to a nearby soldier. Turning back to Barillo he smiled weakly at him. "You're going to be fine, don't worry."

The wounded soldier nodded and let out a long sigh.

"At least now we know that they can't shoot straight," added Peron which caused Barillo to grin.

Standing up, Captain Peron motioned for two of his men to assist him. "Help me get him into the IFV. He's got to get treatment or he will not make it."

The trio helped Barillo to his foot, he held his injured one out in front of him. Between the three of them they picked him up and moved slowly towards the rear of the Iron Tiger where another soldier forced the hatch open...

*****

Tank commander Cortes looked back to see the young boy being lifted into the vehicle. He had no idea what had happened to the injured soldier, but from what he could hear it didn't sound good. His nose wrinkled as two corpses were brought in behind the boy.

"Listen to me Cortes, you've got to get this man back to where our main forces are. They've got medics and they will know what to do with him."

"Yes, sir," came the commander's response. He just wished that they would close the damn hatch; the cold was getting in.

*****

With that done, Peron resumed his duties as captain and led the remaining soldiers over to the ruined APC which was still aflame, twisted black clouds of smoke snaking up to the sky.

"Nothing here," grumbled Private Fuentes, his lips blue from the cold.

"Nothing of value, anyway," responded the captain, his eyes moving to the antiquated Enfields lying beside their dead owners. Sighing, he walked back up the small slope where the Iron Tiger had departed from, eleven men following him. They would continue walking, following the tank tracks, struggling through the treacherous snow and wind of Kazarkia...

With only four men left, including himself as the others were shot in the back as they fled by the Zarbian paratroopers, Thom came to a halt, panting at the wooden sentry house, corrugated iron roof sheeted in clean white snow. The same couldn't be said for the ground of the proletarian military base. Aging FV432 armoured personnel carriers, along with Centurion battle tanks, littered the grey-black snow strewn earth upon which the instruments of the oligarchy were set up, stark spotlights overhead offered the old metal structures and the wooden command centre luminance, spots of rust at the bases of the cheap buildings where the snow had melted and water had wrought its damage.

A puff of red light from the shadows of the sentry house announced a soldier on duty, smoking one of the cheap cigarettes issued by the Collective Oligarchy to its citizens. The darkness that swirled within the confines of the sentry box produced a soldier walking out at a casual speed, Enfield hanging about the haunches, resisting the pull of gravity thanks to a gleaming brown leather strap. The on-duty soldier took a final drag and plucked the dying cigarette from his lips, dumped it on the floor and crushed it underfoot. Exhaling, a puff of smoke escaped the thirty-something sentry's interior.

"Well Comrades, why are you back so soon? Where is the APC, I definitely remember you lot going off out with one of the FV432s!"

Panting, the young Thom struggled to string together words to respond to the sentry.

"Comrade...we were-"

"You what, Comrade!" Butted in the impatient sentry.

"We were..."

"What?"

"...Ambushed."

All the colour left the previously impatient and disenchanted soldier, he was about to say something but all that came out was a gasp, turning on his heel, the soldier fled into the base, completely abandoning his post as he disappeared into the one wooden structure in the base, golden light pouring out from the windows onto the dirty snow, alot of which was melted to allow the patrolling soldiers to see the mucky mud beneath.

*****

Colonel Heatherfield rubbed at his temples as he closed his eyes, fully aware of the COMSEC agent in log-crafted room, as well as his guards. A tool of COMSEC was a dangerous enough character on its own, let alone give it Ordos Fedor as elite guardsmen, what better way to give a man more than power than he should have. A tall, lanky man with a monocle covering one eye and a golden chain leading down to his pocket, officers' hat was absent and instead replaced by a thick head of white hair, the hawk nose that seemed prominent in stereotypical officer elite was making itself known proudly on the weary countenance of Heatherfield, a tight mouth look as if it was never meant for the bombastic shouting required on the front lines yet it also held a fatherly expression that demanded respect.

With the lack of a peak hat to denote authority, it was the burden of decorated epaulettes and the fatherly countenenace to ensure things got done, as the plan strewn map table entailed, alot of things did need doing. Buried within the peaceful reverie, Heatherfield got the first time of peace in he didn't know how long. The COMSEC officer wasn't snapping at him, although the colonel knew those dark eyes kept a constant vigil on the tired form of Heatherfield, the junior officers weren't asking for orders as usual, seeming kind enough to offer the old man some respite even though they were buzzing about the command room. For the first time in days, Colonel Heatherfield was close to feeling, completely and utterly content...

"Sir!"

The colonel's eyes opened reluctantly to see the jaded but in this case panicked form of Watson, yellowed fingers telling a perceptive observer of his habits. The senior officer heaved a sigh and put on a patient face as he mustered himself, still lethargic from the ecstasy of his reverie.

"Yes private Watson?"

"The...the squad that was sent out earlier!"

"Yes Comrade?"

"It was ambushed, I presume the APC was destroyed as well, sir!"

Worry crept into the stress free mind of Heatherfield, what was a pleasant time only moments earlier had become one of the colonel's worst fears: for the first time in the twenty years since the Hogsweatian Border Wars, war loomed on the horizon. Composing himself, Heatherfield spoke in as calm a manner as he could manage, clearing his throat, he began.

"Comrade...how do you know of this?"

Quick to reply, Watson spat back like machine gun fire with the speed at which he spoke.

"Thom! Thom, Lieutenant Thom, he survived and others are with him!"

Closing his eyes, he ordered the sentry to go and see that the survivors got medical attention and a good cot, not including poor Thom though, with whom, he needed to speak and at the behest of the sentry, would come and do just that.

*****
Thom had only recovered his breath when the soldier trotted back, white powder crunching beneath his boots, and relayed colonel Heatherfield's orders, taking a deep breath, the lieutenant set off at a slow pace towards the sole wooden structures in the base, the roof, like all the others, was carpeted in. Outside the door, the lieutenant braced himself for losing a squad to unknown hostiles and opened the door.

Inside the warm nerve-centre of the base, was the regal although lanky figure of the friendly colonel Heatherwood and directly opposite him, over the tap of maps was his counterpart: Derka Pul, the COMSEC agent attached to the loyal soldiers under Heatherwood's command, fear spiked into the young lieutenant. However, it wasn't the sinister Derka that sent the chill down Thom's spine, it wasn't even the huge black coat Derka wore, no, it was the two grim reapers that flanked the small agent of COMSEC. Ordos Fedor (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v227/Kriegorgrad/character_05_desertarmada.jpg)

Swallowing hard, Thom pried his gaze away from the sinister embodiments of death with a shudder to the more amiable view of the fatherly Heatherfield, who was currently beaming down with that parental look of semi-happiness. The old man cleared his throat and spoke.

"Now, what about this ambush?"

Lieutenant Thom explained everything, every minute detail he could recall about the traumatic ordeal, the colonel didn't interrupt once, instead listening with that caring look that so many of his soldiers looked up to with a kind of reverence. All the while, Derka kept his pair of dark eyes on Thom and Heatherwood, his pale skin contrasting with the black trench coat of the agents of the security service which enforced the oligarchs' rule.

"Very interesting." Commented the colonel, almost casually, before adding, "Mediterranean you say? Dark skinned in appearance?"

"Yes sir."

"Tell me, what was that tank you mentioned, what did it resemble."

"It resembled an Iron Tiger, manufactured by the capitalist dogs of the west." Said the young man, and with ferocious zeal.

"Indeed, and how many Mediterranean countries use the Iron Tiger?"

"Not many, to my knowledge sir."

”Exactly, now which nation does the Master live in, he who once oppressed the people of Kriegorgrad?”

”Kriegor Zan Varr…the name sends a chill down my spine but I’m quite certain that the evil fascist state known as Zarbia harbours the dark one.”

”Correct again, lieutenant, you outdo yourself.”

”Thank you sir.” Suddenly, the meaning washed over Thom and he let out a gasp.

”So, sir, we are under attack by an extremely wealthy and motivated army then?”

At this, the colonel frowned in deep disappointment, furrowing his wrinkled brow into the aforementioned expression.

“No, we are not under attack by a wealthy army, at least not by comparison to Kriegorgrad. We are the wealthiest nation in the world.” Said bluntly but with a tone that said that Heatherwood believed lie to be truth.

“Yes, sorry sir.”

”You will take command of the platoon that just arrived from the Holston Rifles, get a night’s rest, we’ll shift to code red. You are dismissed, Lieutenant.”

”Thank you sir.”

The formal gratitude of Thom went unnoticed as the fatherly colonel began surveying his maps, Derka watching with his marble dark eyes, a sinister glint in which his sinister guardians were reflected. With a breath, Thom let himself out and made his way to the barracks in which his weary squad was already sleeping in, he found a fresh cot, wiggled out of his great coat and fell onto the bed. Cheap springs protesting at his meagre weight as he pulled the drab green blanket over his tired form. Thom was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

*****

The base was in upheaval, the men who were sleeping prior to the survivors return were roused from their bunks and ordered into position, the secondary spotlight clicked on and a light as bright as day illuminated the base. The growl of tanks and the tromp of feet entailed mobilisation in the early hours of the morning. Motion reigned in the base and it seemed no one was idle, while morale was quite high in the base, despite the humiliating skirmish which Thom was subjected to, they had no idea what waited for them in the shadows of the mountains…