NationStates Jolt Archive

[OOC: For everyone who hasn’t been following the IC and OOC nature of Novikov-Azazia relationships – okay, for everyone out there, period – I made the decision about a month ago to let myself be annexed by Azazia and become a part of the United Kingdom. Because Azazia isn’t going to be terribly active for the next two months or so, the decision has been made to begin this thread at my own creative license – with input from Azazia – to detail the end of the war (which we haven’t written up yet) and subsequent occupation of Novikov. It is our intent to have this thread or its spin-offs keep the Novikov-annexation story fresh until Azazia returns and we can write up a flashback / prequel of the actual war.

Basically, that means I don’t expect anyone to know anything of what’s going on, because none of us do – or will until Azazia returns and we can end this thing the good old fashion way – by blowing shit up.

That said, enjoy.]

The city was of red-brick and wooden construction - as all Novikov’s cities were - and rising out of the northern plains the worn rooftops were said to glimmer in the sunlight of times remembered. Of old, almost archaic architecture, Vyšniy-Voločëk had not been made to withstand the ravages of battle, yet the ancient city staring out on the eastern sea had now become a symbol of resistance, a fortress ringed with what few men and guns could yet be mustered to defend the heartland of the State.

For eight days, this city by the sea had become the beating heart of resistance on the continent. Now, as dawn signaled the beginning of the ninth, the last throes of resistance were to play themselves out in the city’s dark streets…

-----

In a surreal scene the men advanced into the billowing grey of a city ground to dust before their eyes. There were no shouts to greet them, no warm faces in the midday sun. A thick and churning blanket of cloud and ash hid the light, and a dull rain stirred the fog together with dust until men choked on it and could barely see. To those marching in, Vyšniy-Voločëk looked as though it had been cast back, wet and steaming, from the depths of Hades into the world of the living.

So it also seemed to those few still living under the jetsam war so cruelly created and then tossed in its wake. For eight days this city’s outskirts had become a living thing which devoured men and machine with such indifference to prove the Lord picks no favorites in war. Now, on the dawn of the ninth, few defenders remained.

Those who had escaped to see nine thankless sunrises hailed from a multitude of units driven here by the agony and misfortune of war: the 114th Brigade, 49th Infantry – Lovitz, 23rd Brigade, 82nd Armored – Prostéjov – 2nd Battery, 8th Brigade, 44th Infantry – Duma – and 147th Brigade, 51st Airborne – Grozny. From the fronts collapsing all around them, these men had scraped together the surest front possible and for eight days defied all probability in a display of valor that would being them renown amongst their countrymen.

The men of Vyšniy-Voločëk had now, however, reached the end of their line. Following the dissolution of the State – a gradual event culminating with the capture of standing Prime Minister Milos Borovic on the fourth day of the battle – and the destruction of what remained of Theater III Command the following day, resistance had lasted as long as it could. With no hope of reinforcement, continued bloodshed was senseless. What little that could be salvaged from the site had put out to sea when the harbor had been evacuated, and all but a few civilians had either escaped the battle or were now hopelessly trapped on the wrong side of the advancing lines.

-----

Vyšniy-Voločëk’s commander knew full-well the situation presented to her. The orders ‘hold until relieved’ were ridiculous – no relief could possibly reach the city now - and with little left to defend but an array of emptied houses, blood spilled now would only add to the damages done to so many.

“Status?” The commander of the 147th Brigade /51st Airborne didn’t even shift her gaze from her window’s view of the garrison’s defense.

“There’s been no contact with other outposts for the past eighteen hours. The local government has been notified, but with the satellites down, we can’t relay the message off of the mainland to Marshal Stanislav. The only contact from the men on the Czechzen front was made five hours ago. A reconnaissance flight from the 3rd Tactical made a radio linkup – they wish us luck. Anyways, if we’re fortunate, Stanislav will have been relayed your decision by now.”

“And the men on the line?”

“Well…” The attendant’s voice trailed off into hesitant thought. “The situation is deteriorating rapidly. We’ve lost contact with most of our companies and militia has gone completely independent of our orders. I’m not sure they will honor your agreement.”

“That’s a risk I have to take.”

A tank’s main gun resonated through the ruined streets, evoking a sense of urgency in the commander’s voice.

“Come, let’s go.”

-----

Word was slow to reach the more distant units, but a half and hour later, the noise of gunfire had died down to only a brief, distant echo. The order to fall back was given and bit-by-bit the remnants of the defense retired to the waterfront to spike their guns and wait. Now on the unlit streets, the advancing soldiers of the Kingdom found only two soldiers, standing in the open under a white flag of truce.

For Anezka Streizovska, ranking officer of the Vyšniy-Voločëk garrison, this morning felt like her funeral, so repulsed by the idea of surrender was she. Clad in an immaculate dress uniform – the traditional black edged in cobalt-blue of Novikov’s elite – her hair drawn back, the sun slowly burning away the fog that loomed over the city, she appeared to those men on both sides who saw her to be a reminder of better days. Only the resolute look in her eyes served to drive away past memories and remind those who saw her of their situation.

The advancing infantry encountered her shape rising slowly out of the dust and fog as they advanced two-by-two towards the waterfront. These soldiers surrounded Streizovska and her aide cautiously; weapons raised, and shouted a string of wary commands at the pair. Their English fell on uncomprehending ears.

After a tense minute, a Lieutenant stepped forward from the mass of enemies surrounding Anezka and shouted his countrymen’s orders in a different tongue.

“Que voulez-vous? - What do you want?”

In capable French, Anezka began her response. “I am Mayor [Major] Anezka Streizovska, commander of the 147th Airborne Brigade. I am here to negotiate the surrender of Vyšniy-Voločëk on behalf of the Novikovian military and the State…”

-----

By evening, the fighting was over in the city, signaling the end of the ground war. With no troops left on the mainland, and scarcely able to defend what few assets he had left, Marshal Novikovskei Federatsii Boris Stanislav, the supreme commander of the Novikovskei Federatsii Sili and only member of Novikov’s political hierarchy not killed, captured, or in exile, made the merciful decision to end the bloodshed. His forces surrendered to delegates of the United Kingdom a 6:00 pm the following day, after a bloody sixty-three days of combat. All officers and local political figures voluntarily surrendered to the Kingdom’s forces within thirty-hours of the cease-fire, and all military equipment was likewise handed over to the new ruling authorities.

Withou the logistics or infrastructure to continue resisting, even the rouge patriots of the NFS were forced to admit defeat – though many fled to the countryside or exile – and without the NFS’s support, militia and partisan units were not capable of continuing operations. All military and paramilitary forces not from the Kingdom surrendered by the week’s end, and, after the loss of over 200,000 Novikovian lives in just two month’s combat, Novikov finally made the transfer from an independent Socialist State to part of Azazia’s United Kingdom quietly and peaceably.

[ooc: everything he said is true, this post doesn't mean that i'm back, i'm only home for two days before i leave again, but i at least wanted to put something up. So enjoy the end result, and in time, when I return, the gap will be filled with lots of stuff being blown up. For now, you just get to see *some* of what was blown up.]

Vyšniy-Voločëk

“Que voulez vous?” Lieutenant Pierre Roland shouted, waving his rifle menacingly in the woman’s direction. After nearly two weeks of combat, the last real point of organized resistance had all but fallen to the Royal Marines. Behind his two privates around the guarded corner sat a pockmarked and scarred infantry-fighting vehicle, which bore the scars of the last nine days of house-to-house combat. With a whistle, the diesel-electric engine kicked itself to life once more and it lumbered slowly down the street, with its infantry now swinging their rifles and their eyes upwards, scanning the fractured and crumbled buildings that had more than likely collapsed after the first day of the artillery barrage, a barrage that had, in Roland’s mind, ultimately failed to crack the resolve of these few defenders.

Behind Roland and his men the IFV stopped, its electric turret swinging to the right, then to the left, before finally stopping dead center, before lowering its 30mm chain gun straight into the faces of the two Novikovians standing before him.

Now smiling, Roland lowered his rifle, quite confident that the 30 mil behind him would adquetaly compensate for the abandonment of the threat of his own 6.5 mil gun. “Major, I am Lieutenant Pierre Roland,” he began in his first-tongue French, “commanding officer of A Company, 2nd Battalion, 19th Rifle Regiment. I do then believe we have quite a bit to discuss.” He laughed to himself, a major surrendering to a lieutenant. Too bad the captain was no longer around, he too would have found it absurdly funny. Or any of the other lieutenants. Too bad they were no longer around as well.

Ministry of Colonial Affairs
Imperium, Republic of New Britain

For the first time in nearly two months, Sir Thomas Cahill awoke from the underground bunker to find the sunrise quiet. The typical klaxons and public broadcasts of war-time information, of security alerts, of missile raids – all were silent, for the first time in two months there was nothing. Allowing himself to smile, he looked around, awaiting information on yet another attack on the capital. To find nothing. Could it be?

Cahill scrambled to reach his office on the fifth floor of the building, the security checkpoints and security officers betraying nothing with their typical sullen faces. He picked up the secure phone line and dialed his good friend Ashley Thomason, the Minister of the Interior, who had spent most of the war in outlying territories of the United Kingdom in case of a potentially disastrous strike on Parliament or the Citadel. She had returned, however, a few days ago upon learning of her son’s death on the high seas against the remnants of the Novikovian fleet. The problem with Prime Minister Tetley’s conduct was the late notices of deaths for the purposes of propaganda. The war had been a bit bloodier than anticipated by both the Admiralty and the Ministry of Defence. Blair’s head as MoD would likely roll in coming months. Finally, the lines connected.

“Good morning, Ashley. What’s the word?”

“Good news, for once. Thomas, it’s over. Stanislav surrendered last evening, their time. Alistair finally gave us the confirmation.”

“That is good.” Cahill sighed, remembering everyday the loss of his daughter in one of the bloody missile raids launched by the Novikovian subs.

“And he confirmed it, Thomas.” She added after a moment’s silence, both reflecting on their personal losses during the past months. “You’re heading over.”

HMS Intrepid

The past two months had seen some of the most intense naval combat in the history of the United Kingdom, many fine ships were lost to the “nascent” and “inferior” forces of the Novikovian navy. In the end, they had been defeated; the sheer size of the Royal Navy, the sheer fire power available in the super-dreadnaughts and the airpower from the super-assault carriers destined their navy to lose. However, as Brenton Hood sipped coolly from his tea, he remembered the good number of friends who had perished – most from the deadly quiet submarines of Novikovian design. However, the war had finally ended, the United Kingdom had prevailed, but nevertheless Hood could not recall friends from their last, ongoing missions.

The battlecruiser had been engaged in several naval battles and simpler bombardment missions, and had taken her share of damage, the last requiring a return trip to the shipyards in Breningrad – those in Portsmouth, far closer though smaller, having been heavily damaged during the war. However, today she sat at the docks of Imperium, preparing to take aboard computers and other important equipment for the governor also embarked in the quarters reserved for members of the Admiralty. As the final lines were cast off, the river captain piloted the ship away from the cluttered docks as small pleasure craft and sailboats swarmed like dolphins around the outbound warship which had gained some fame throughout the war.

Below decks, in the spacious quarterdeck cabin, Thomas Cahill laid flat on his back on the large kind-sized bed. For years he had thought that naval ships had Spartan quarters for their crews – never thinking the Admiralty received far different treatment. In the holds further forward sat his secure communication equipment, his specialized computers, and all the other assorted equipment deemed necessary for his new position as Royal Governor of the Royal Crown Colony of Novikov. This was Cahill’s second posting as governor, his first being that of Juristan, which had experienced significant problems in accepting the rule of the United Kingdom. He had of course solved those problems through some quite terse negotiations, but in the end Juristan provided a valuable resource and piece of territory for the Kingdom. She now sat amongst the other republics in the Kingdom – although they were merely republics in name, as semantics were not games for just the intelligentsia but also for statesmen and rulers, especially imperial powers.

He turned his head over on the silk sheets and saw sailboats sailing past. The war was truly over. And celebrations were now beginning to kick off in earnest. It would take weeks, he knew, but in time the forces deployed in Novikov would begin their cycling home, to be replaced by the oft-insulted peacekeeper divisions. For while members of the Royal Army, they served merely to keep the peace and rebuild the territories they occupied, and over there in Novikov it would take some time to rebuild the utterly destroyed infrastructure. That was his job, though, to oversee all of this. To facilitate the governance of Imperium in lands distant, to create an environment of understanding so that Novikovians would not come to hate their Azazian overlords. In fact, Cahill made a note to remove “overlord” from his vocabulary. That word would not sit well with his Novikovian bureaucrats.

Poldi’sk, Royal Crown Colony of Novikov

Smoke continued to billow skyward, nearly blackening the clear blue skies. The sounds of birds chirping, the sounds of children crying, of survivors laughing all deafened by the roar of Royal Air Force patrols screaming above the city while helicopters cleared large pieces of rubble from the important streets. Two months of warfare had taken their toll on the former capital of Novikov. The initial missile strikes to take out major government and military command centres heralded the beginning of what would become nothing short of a concerted effort to eliminate all control of the state.

The result was a capital of rubble.

A single man, physically felt at a height of one and three-quarters meters stood upon the marble steps of some crumbled government building, its purpose long since forgotten by Royal Marine intelligence officers, its occupants long since dead and buried. However, he could do little to help those who had perished weeks ago. Yet, now that the brutal war had ceased, he could allow himself to care once more for the native population, for the fellow officers on the other side – most of who had likely perished during the war. Across the street sat a young soldier wearing the uniform of Novikov. In his hands he held a small, tattered flag, a flag that had likely once flown over this very building, a flag now replaced by that of the United Kingdom. He stiffened and saluted the young soldier. One of the lucky ones in the war. He watched as the man stood and returned the salute, still proudly holding the flag.

“Sir?”

The tall man lowered his hand and turned to face one of his own kind, a captain of his own army. “Yes?”

“General, HQ would like to inform you that Imperium has dispatched a civilian onboard a cruiser, he shall be arriving in a few days, but until then, they wish you well as interim governor.”

Major General Lord Nigel Clifton nodded solemnly. His prior assignment before commanding the 87th Mechanized Infantry had been that of commander of the armed forces in the Verdant Archipelago, a role not too dissimilar from that of interim governor. There was little left to govern, especially in this city. However, in an effort to extend an olive branch, the headquarters of the new administration would be based here in Poldi’sk, technically on the outskirts since the city lacked sufficient infrastructure, but in time, the government of Novikov would return to these buildings. Though they would certainly fly a different flag. He picked up his rifle from a shattered column and nodded to the soldier across the street. Clifton then walked down the steps to the waiting infantry fighting vehicle that would speed him out of the city to the base.

Novikov was now a part of the United Kingdom.

-tag because i like Azazia's stuff :)-

[OOC: I hope you can follow these different plots. These are all the people I will be following throughout this RP, and I know there's a lot here.]

“Capitan, we are receiving a communication from Fleet Command.”

Kontr Admiral Denosovich took the transmission, printed in the block letters used to distinguish Naval communiqués.

RELAY TO FLEET:

CEASEFIRE SIGNED EFFECTIVE MIDNIGHT. ORDERS: SCUTTLE OR RETURN TO PORT.

IN HOPE THIS IS NOT TO LATE,
STANISLAV.

Denosovich took a deep breath, swallowing his doubt and his pride. Twenty years or successful patrols had not prepared the man for the task of relaying news of his government’s surrender. He would later say it was the most difficult thing he had ever been required to do.

The control room was silent, the exhausted crew’s focus resting on their ageing commander. As he did before every engagement, he removed a monogrammed silver case from his breast pocket and rolled a cigarette. The only difference between this ritual and the countless others before it was that now, his hands were shaking.

He lit the cigarette and inhaled, his hands slowly calming as he drew a breath in. “Sonar,” he began, “Contacts?”

“Three, presumed hostile, closing on our position, eighteen knots out.”

“Exec, prepare to blow main ballast. My crew, prepare to abandon ship; we will scuttle NPS-11. Comm, relay this message:”

MY SUBMARINERS, I DO NOT HAVE THE WORDS TOTELL YOU THIS, SO I LOOK TO THOSE BEOFRE ME. IN 1945, GERMAN ADMIRAL KARL DOENITZ RELAYED THESE SAME WORDS TO HIS GALLANT CREWS AFTER SIX YEARS OF WAR. NOW, I RELAY THEM TO YOU:

YOU HAVE FOUGHT LIKE LIONS. AN OVERWHELMING MATERIAL SUPERIORITY HAS DRIVEN US INTO A TIGHT CORNER FROM WHICH IT IS NO LONGER POSSIBLE TO CONTINUE THE WAR. UNBEATEN AND UNBLEMISHED, YOU LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS AFTER A HEROIC FIGHT WITHOUT PARALLEL. WE PROUDLY REMEMBER OUR FALLEN COMRADES WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES FOR THE FATHERLAND. COMRADES, PRESERVE THAT SPIRIT IN WHICH YOU HAVE FOUGHT SO LONG AND SO GALLANTLY FOR THE SAKE OF THE FATHERLAND.

HE ENDS, “YOUR GRAND ADMIRAL.” NO. NONE BUT YOU AND I HAVE FOUGHT A FIGHT SO DIFFICULT AND SO DEMANDING. I THEREFORE WILL END:

PROUDLY YOUR COMRADE,
KONTR ADMIRAL DENOSOVICH.

LONG LIVE THE STATE!

-----

In historic Novikovian fashion, the sudden governmental change brought about with the end of hostilities brought protestors to the streets in droves. In Novikov’s two largest cities – Poldi’sk and Grozny, both famous for past civil disobedience – the protests had struck amazingly hard considering the harm that had fallen on their buildings and citizens. In Grozny, a stunned Mayor Streizovska found herself walking through the streets of her past.

In passing the rubble of the city’s seat of government, Anezka stumbled across the path of and advancing crowd of protestors. They advanced in a ragged line, filling the streets already strewn with bricks. By Anezka’s estimates, they numbered over three-hundred. She ignored them and continued towards her parents’ neighborhood, praying to find it still standing.

“Zabiť zradca! –Kill the traitor!”

She turned, stunned, to find a handful of men rushing towards her. A brick shattered on impact with the ground only a meter away. She was a uniformed officer – former officer, she thought, not knowing the fate of Novikov’s military – and highly decorated. Not comprehending what was about to occur, she turned to speak.

“Nie, nie nepovedal som niečol. – No, I didn’t do anything.”

Four continued running, the crowd behind them seemed suddenly inflamed, lurching forward quicker now, shouting about cowards and betrayers of the state. Anezka realized there was a problem.

I desperation she yelled, “Som vojenčiť. – I’m a soldier!”

They kept coming, reaching Anezka as she turned to run. Suddenly surrounded, instinct took over. A hand grabbed her collar, dragging her head back and down; she responded as she had learned in basic three years earlier, her palm striking up, the other arm coming down while she turned, in a motion the succeeded in shattering the wrist of one crazed dissident. She caught a glimpse of the assailant falling, a youth no more than sixteen, his arm clutched in pain. A heavy blow fell on her back, then on her head, dropping Anezka to the ground.

Her head ringing from the blow, vision cloudy, Anezka focused on only the thought of escape, the only thought that mattered to her at that moment. Escape and find her way home. The skirt of her dress uniform, now tarnished and torn, was not accommodating as she flung herself off the ground and ran, throwing another man away from her into a mound of rubble. Blood pounded in her ears, breath coming in ragged gasps. A brick whizzed past her head as she turned a corner to safety.

Home... Still dazed, Anezka found herself looking up at the apartment she lived in as a child, the apartment her mother and father still shared. That’s what she thought it was, at least. The state of the building was so poor its former use could not be determined; the address had long since been burnt away, but the distance we right. She looked back, checking to see that she was on the correct street, the correct block. Everything checked out, the corner of Sedmina Ulica and Neresnicka Cesta, second building down. This was where it was supposed to be, but only shapeless dirt and brick remained.

Anezka walked past the exposed foundation, into the building. There, mixed with the ashes of others belonging, she found a blackened picture frame. Framed inside, she saw, was the picture her parents kept of her the day of her graduation from secondary school. She buried her head in her waiting palms, the sun setting behind her, she cried.

-----

“Smrti na Azazičina!”

Kacnerova’s voice crackled out the speakers of a transistor radio clutched in the hands of a young Alexej Danecek loud and harsh. Seventeen and impressionable, his nation under the thumb of a foreign enemy, Alexej, known to his peers as Ales, the words of former Prime Minister Kacnerova were magnified, glorified, becoming his heart and soul. Death to the Azazians, she cried. Yes! Death to them and all imperialists! She spoke at length, telling Novikovians to rise up, soldiers not to surrender, saying that those who had endured so much must endure more, that Novikov would never be conquered. In exile, she was hardly a member of the resistance in Poldi’sk, her words summarized the beliefs Ales and his companions held. They were young, and death had not touched them yet, so onward! Take back what is ours; God damn cowards and those who fall behind!

Ales shut off the radio as static filled the void left by the Prime Ministers voice, and stood. Around him, four other ‘true-Novikovians’ stood with him. They were all young, and together, they felt invincible. One by one, they picked up the weapons they had recovered and walked up the stairs of the cellar, into the light, each one determined, each knowing what he had to do…

-----

Milos Borovic’s sentiments differed greatly from that of his former colleague, though they originally had hailed from the same political party. Minister Kacnerova had fled the country in the days following the invasion, leaving an incomplete and paranoid government to organize its scattered populous and meet the daunting challenge of resistance. In her place, Borovic had taken command of the government and tried to salvage what he could from the situation. Borovic had taken on a job that few would have accepted, and he had done so with courage and tenacity, keeping a tight reign over the population and coordinating the military and economic efforts of his countrymen.

According to most accounts, he had conducted himself in a praiseworthy manner, being called another Ulyanov. Yet some – most notably his colleague now in exile – had the audacity to call him a coward, and a traitor, someone unworthy of Novikov and its people. Yet where she had fled, he remained, staying in Poldi’sk until troops entered the city, at one point coming within sight of an Azazian convoy. Most in the military still held faith in him, and he hoped that would hold true to the rest of the population as well – today he would meet with the Azazian governor to establish an official plan for Novikov now that she had become a Royal Colony.

-----

“Sir, are you ready? Transportation has arrived.” The attendant walked in to find Foreign Advisor Alexi Gerchinkov staring at his hands. “Sir, are you alright?”

“Monika,” he responded, not even lifting his head. “What am I doing?”

“You’re preparing to return to Poldi’sk, sir. The war is over, and Minister Borovic is gathering his cabinet to meet with the Royal Governor. Some people are saying he will draft a new Constitution.”

Alexi sighed. “No, Monika, what am I doing?” He turned his head to meet her gaze, still hunched over in front of the mirror. “Why am I here and not Yuri? Why am I here and not Peter? Please, tell me, WHY THE HELL DID THEY LEAVE ME?” His fist smashed into the mirror, criss-crossing his dim reflection with a web of cracks.

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know. That’s something you’ll have to ask Him when you get there,” she said, motioning gently upward. Alexi’s head sank down. He shuddered as his hand returned to hold his tired head, the trickle of blood reaching to his wrist. “Would you like a bandage sir?”

“No, Monika. Just go. I’ll be along.”

HMS Prince of New Britain

“Helm reports all stop, Admiral.” The clean polished surfaces echoed the crisp reports from the command crew of the United Kingdom’s finest warship. At nearly three-hundred billion Commonwealth Credits, the Royal Navy had ensured the command centre of the UK’s first super-dreadnaught would provide a spacious and comfortable environment from which to direct not just inter-ship combat, nor even inter-fleet combat, but instead full theatre multi-spectrum warfare command and control. In a segregated aft section sat members of the Royal Army while to the port sat the Royal Air Force and then to starboard the Royal Marines, which were assigned separate facilities despite their official attachment to the Royal Navy.

At the centre of the room sat a raised platform with a finely adorned chair, upon which sat an elderly man adorned in the standard dress uniform. Despite his age, his black trousers and green-blue dress shirt fit well on his still muscled body. Upon his face he wore a stoic expression, neither enjoying nor disapproving of his current situation - that being commanding the Azazian Grand Fleet.

Atkinson noted the report with a simple nod. For now, the fleet stood off the shore of Novikov, close enough to Poldi’sk that his massive naval artillery and cruise missile batteries could wreak havoc upon the civilian population. The giant shatterproof display screen stood in front of Atkinson’s command platform, providing a continuously updating view of the fleet’s position - which for now meant nothing more than rotating patrols of escort ships, submarines, and aircraft while the main capital ships stayed in their relative positions, including the Prince of New Britain.

A commander of slight build handed the old admiral a small palm-sized computerized display. With another smile and nod, Atkinson accepted the status report. According to the terms of the surrender, the Novikovian submarine force that had ravaged the Royal Navy’s surface fleet had either surrendered to UK ships in their vicinity and then scuttled their subs, or returned to port and surrendered. Although their threatening power had diminished with the continual loss of support facilities, fuel, and ammunition, Atkinson had seen their power when he had arrived to take command of the fleet with the loss of His Majesty’s battleship Valiant. Sunk by a sub, subquently found and sunk in return, but a frontline battleship for a submarine seemed quite acceptable to the Novikovians and would to Atkinson if he were in his counterpart’s position. Since then, he had completely discarded the report from the Admiralty that the subs no longer posed “even a marginal” threat. The grossly egregious report had thus cost far too many lives. But now, as the update reported, the threat was largely over.

As Atkinson breezed through the communication updates, he saw that Captain Hood’s ship would be arriving in a few days. The arrival of one of the most decorated ships of the war would likely raise the morale of those who now wanted nothing more than to return home, a common complaint within all the branches of the service. Unfortunately for the sailors, the Admiralty, the administration, and even Atkinson realized that a significant naval presence would be required to stem the flow of personnel, material, and even ideas that would threaten the assimilation of Novikov into the United Kingdom. The Royal Navy had fought hard, valiantly, and determinedly to win control of Novikovian seas so that the Royal Marines and Army could do the hard work of routing out the resistance. Atkinson would not allow all of it to go for naught.

Office of the Prime Minister
Imperium, Republic of New Britain

“So in short, we’ll still be short of foodstuffs for the next two years.” Dr. Jackson concluded his brief report before sitting down.

Alistair Tetley nodded before putting his glasses squarely on his face in order to review the document himself. “Thank you, Garret.” Although the war had been concluded only for a brief time, the occupation plans had already been set into motion - the first stage of which called for a preliminary estimate of available Novikovian resources, most importantly food. Now, Tetley combed through the charts, maps, and statistics only to find that far too much prime farmland had been damaged during the course of the war from saturation artillery strikes, from tank tracks, from a whole slew of problems related to the actual war. The problem had been that to secure Novikov had required the unfortunate destruction of their infrastructure, which now meant that many of the goods to be internally exported from the territory would be stuck within the territory. Port cities had been all but destroyed to prevent potential re-supplying of the Novikovian naval forces, and now they were unable to export foods along the destroyed rail lines and highways from the ravaged farms. The United Kingdom would likely require food imports for two more years before Novikovian supply could adequately reach the far-reaching corners of the Kingdom.

After a long while Tetley placed the summary down on his desk and looked to the corner of the room where Daniel Blair paced quietly. “Daniel?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Your report?”

“Here, sir.” Blair handed his own report over to the prime minister, taking a moment to steady his shaking hand.

Tetley held the document firmly, looking into Blair’s eyes, before accepting the report. Without a word he began to breeze through the document that detailed deployments present and future along with expected expenditures. “Daniel, I see… I see that the Grand Fleet ought not to be expected home for years. Is this true?”

“Yes, sir. The Admiralty is worried about potential insurrectionists attempting to return to Novikov. We know that Kacnerova fled shortly into the war and she continues to prattle on about anti-imperial this-and-thats and it remains well within the realm of possibility she will either try to return or try to provide arms to rekindle the resistance. The Royal Navy will be on station to prevent this from happening, in addition to our occupation force from the Royal Army and Air Force.”

“What about the threat from their submarine force?”

Blair paused, well aware of the pointed nature of the question. “Unfortunately, prior intelligence reports were… ah, not as complete nor as conclusive as I was led to believe. And so--”

“And so you made a mistake?” Tetley asked sharply.

“I would not put it as such, sir. Instead, there are to be unexpected losses in war. In war, people die. It’s unfortunate, but true. We lost men and women, but in the end the United Kingdom’s future is secure.”

Tetley shook his head. “Daniel, Daniel, Daniel,” he muttered. “What am I going to do with you. This is an election year, you know this, I know this, Collins and the opposition know this, the people know this. You, me, Collins, we all know that war is a bloody business with unexpected casualties. But the people know only their father, their brother, their friend, their cousin, they know they are not coming home. And that, to them, is unacceptable. And someone must pay a price.”

“I see, sir.” Blair paused and spread his legs apart, standing ‘at ease’ as it were.

Tetley simply leaned back in his chair, placed his glasses in their protected case and folded his hands upon the desk.

“I understand, sir.” Blair finally said, ending the pause.

“Good, I’m glad you do.”

“Sir, I’d also like to add that I hereby am resigning from my position as Minister of Defence.”

Tetley nodded, taking note of the silence of Dr. Jackson and his Foreign Minister Emily Deveraux, whose report on Novikov’s government had yet to be delivered. “I’d like to thank you for your service, Daniel. I’ll expect the actual written notification on my desk within the hour.”

“Yes, sir.” Blair nodded and took the cue from the silence that he was in fact dismissed from the meeting.

Tetley smiled broadly once the door closed. “Alright, where were we?”

HMS Intrepid

The sun set in a brilliant and blazing fire on the blue horizon. Standing on the quarterdeck, Cahill smiled at the serenity of the moment, enjoying the sea spray and sound of the ocean churning just aft of his feet. In a few days this tranquility would be replaced by a smoldering hellhole, the only apt way to describe the rubble called a capital city. Novikov would be a challenge, far more difficult than Juristan, despite its initial armed resistance - which while expected in Novikov, would likely be nowhere near as severe as his prior experiences. Now, the problem would be rebuilding and reconstruction.

Following his arrival he could sign official documents with the head of the new Novikovian government that would allow for importation of new heavy industrial machinery to initiate reconstruction of important port and harbour facilities, with the aim of expanding several ports to handle the hyper-freighters, -tankers, and other such vessels that would be vital in keeping Novikov relatively stable. For now, the Royal Army and Marines would be responsible for clearing important streets and rail lines for distribution of humanitarian goods that ought to be arriving shortly from the UK.

In the interim, in his hands, he held reports on the surviving members of the likely government of Novikov. Only two were ‘well-known’ figures within the United Kingdom: Gerchinkov, and Heartman. While not yet keen on what posts would be held by whom, it was likely that both would be given high-profile positions given their prior dealings with Prime Minister Tetley and his closest cabinet ministers. And as Cahill continually reviewed the files, he had great hope that the two of them would represent minds of logic and understanding given the new direction that Novikov would be taking. At least, that was Cahill’s hope. Yet, as the sun set and the sky darkened, Cahill remembered the few items with which he needed to attend before settling into a deep sleep.

Outside Poldi’sk
Poldi’sk Royal Army Base

Situated on a small hill outside the devastated capital city, the first Royal Army camp established in Novikov now served as temporary headquarters for the Royal Army - whose commanders were glad to be off the floating headquarters provided by the Royal Navy throughout the duration of the conflict. Surrounded by a ditch and reinforced concrete walls topped with barbed wire, the base defences were augmented with heavy machine gun emplacements as well as mortars, howitzers, and patrols from the units stationed as Poldi’sk.

Captain Tyler Colair grimaced at the sight of the idling Royal Army tanks situated outside the base. For the past two months he had spent his time attempting to avoid such monstrous beasts of war, and now he would need to make contact and let the United Kingdom know that he was not actually killed in action - as was likely presumed.

For the past two months or so - Colair had lost exact count of the days - he had been off on his own in the Novikovian wild. During the first few hours of the conflict the Office of Royal Navy Intelligence had directed raids against missile silos located throughout Novikov, most of which had been taken out - or should have been taken out. A member of the elite Epsilon Force of the Royal Guards, Colair was one of the best soldiers in the whole of the United Kingdom, and that meant one of the few qualified for low-orbit insertion. His mission had been a simple one, drop in to a site in northwest Novikov, near Lodiv, and take out a strategic missile site before the Novikovian government could prosecute a long-range stand-off attack against UK targets. The mission was successful.

Then the mission had collapsed. A small mini-sub designated to extract the small six-man team had been detected and sunk by the Novikovian Navy leaving the men trapped within Novikov. Not long afterward, having decided to spend the remainder of the war taking on targets of opportunity, a small ambush had gone horribly awry when reinforcement arrived unexpectedly - and wiped out all but himself and two men of his team. Among the casualties was the communication equipment. From that point on, the most Colair could gather from scattered radio intercepts using pilfered radios was that the capital had fallen. The three men made way for Poldi’sk. Along the way taking out anything they could, bridges, isolated defence units, the occasional convoy, each had fallen prey to the elite team.

Luck finally ran out and Colair was left alone without any ammunition, leaving him no choice but to begin taking Novikovian weapons instead of his own, Novikovian uniforms instead of his own, having to speak the Russian language he so despised. For the last month he used a story of a separated soldier to eliminate small patrols and the occasional unit headquarters while making his way towards Poldi’sk.

Finally, after many grueling weeks of travel, often without food and large amounts of water, he had managed to reach the capital area, and learned of the Royal Army Base. Finally, after many grueling weeks of travel he had arrived - leaving him with one last challenge. Getting into the base as a soldier of the United Kingdom, not as a surrendering Novikovian.

Taking cover in a deep crater, likely a stray impact from the massive naval barrage of which he had heard reports, he emptied his belt of ammunition, grenades, sidearms, knives and the rest of his combat gear. Although the gear would make excellent souvenirs and gifts to the family, it could possibly get him killed. With a deep breath Colair hoisted himself out of the muddy hole and held his rifle above his head in the traditional act of surrender, at least the act recognized by the United Kingdom. He slowly walked across the field, likely a farm before the war began, in the direction of the idling tanks.

From an impact crater a dozen or so meters away four men rose pointing rifles in Colair’s direction. “Lay down your weapon!” they screamed.

Colair complied, laying the weapon down slowly at his feet.

“Step back and kneel.”

Colair once again complied, watching the men climb out of the hole - likely only one fire team of many dedicated to such defence of the base. They inched closer, the familiar site of Colair’s former weapon of choice now frightening him just a tad bit. For what if the men on the other side were… Colair decided to stop thinking.

“If I may?” Colair asked in his native English - hopefully a sign of his true loyalties. With the nod of the lead man Colair continued. “I am Captain Tyler Colair, His Majesty’s Royal Guards.”

“Unit, man! Give us a bloody unit!”

“Epsilon Force. His Majesty’s Portsmouth Regiment.” He watched with hidden delight as three of the men dropped their faces in awe. Although Epsilon Force was known to the military community, its members were not. Indeed, even in this instance Colair ought not to have revealed his actual unit - but his desire was to live, not to follow the letter of the law. He noted, however, that the lead man did not react with anything but a scowl.

“Bloody right, men. He’s a bloody saboteur.” The fire team approached closer, their weapons still drawn on Colair. Of course, Colair didn’t blame this sergeant for in the same situation he too would doubt the authenticity of the statement. Nobody outside Epsilon Force knew the actual names of the units. Anybody could know the name of one of the most important cities of the United Kingdom. As the men arrived and roughly hoisted him off the ground, they threw a pair of handcuffs around his wrists while their own hands patted him down searching for the weapons he had discarded.

Instead, they pulled out a small piece of heavy fabric from his rear pocket. The fabric was the shoulder insignia patch of his unit, roughly cut off before the uniform itself was destroyed. The private who held the patch swallowed at the sight of the angled letter E fashioned into a menacing trident. Despite the non-existence of the unit, its symbol was well known. Colair watched as the private handed his sergeant the patch.

“This shan’t give you any special perks…” the sergeant muttered, “but if you are a member than you know this is the way it ought to be. And if you aren’t, you’re obviously bright enough to kill our most elite soldiers, in which case you ought to know this is how it should be.” With a rough shove, the sergeant pushed the relieved special operations soldier towards Poldi’sk Royal Army Base. Colair could feel nothing but happiness. For him, the war had finally ended.

For Lord Clifton, the conclusion of the war had brought nothing but a different set of challenges as interim governor. Fortunately, Cahill had been in touch with him informing Clifton of the direction that his directives were to take. Before him sat some officials from Novikov’s former military, not necessarily high-ranking as they had all been arrested and were being made ready to ship off to the UK for debriefings and for some war crimes trials. Yet, Clifton knew the importance of these middle-rank, middle-pay, middle-men officers. They were the bureaucracy of any military, and the ones that made a military run effectively. From these ranks would come the new Novikov Self-Defence Force (NSDF). Although it currently would lack His Majesty’s blessing as a royal unit, there were rumored hopes both here and back home that such a honour would befall the Novikovians, integrating them more fully within the United Kingdom’s military structure.

“Gentlemen,” Clifton began, “I brought you here today to inform you of the future plans for both you and your comrades.” Clifton struggled with the Russian terminology, so foreign to his English-born blood. As a full lord of the United Kingdom these men were far from his comrades, nonetheless, such niceties were stressed from high above. “The Novikovian military, as it stands, will be disbanded. He took a silent joy in watching the look of distress evident in the youngest of the officers. “But,” Clifton continued, having enjoyed the pleasure of the moment, “I think we can all agree that right now, the situation here is tenuous at best. Your military has effectively collapsed under the weight of the entire UK armed forces - your valiant efforts notwithstanding. And while the UK could deal with the situation itself, we’d rather the Novikovians deal with your own people lest our own people take… roughly to those who killed their friends and loved ones. I assure you that there is quite a bit of hostility floating around this base, and you don’t want to see that exercised on the streets of your city.”

“Now, as for the exact plans, this is what I envision. Your ground forces will remain at the same pre-war level, the difference is to be made up from surviving naval infantry and air force personnel who are capable of firing weapons. The air force itself will remain nominally intact as the Novikovian Air-Defence Force, the navy as the Novikovian Home Guard. Both will no longer operate the heavy units you are accustomed to from the past. Gone will be your high-tech fighters, carriers, battleships, armored divisions, et cetera et cetera ad infinitum. What we will allow will be small mechanized ground units tailored to fast and rapid reactions to problems within Novikov - no overseas deployments are to be expected, though if required by the United Kingdom, the Royal Navy Auxiliary will provide the necessary logistics. The Home Guard will deploy at most light frigates and a few diesel-electric submarines for home island use. And home island use only. I don’t think I can make that quite clear. My colleagues in the Royal Navy are quite adamant about that fact. But then that’s why I stay on dry land.

RFA Sir Lancelot

The large fleet auxiliary vessel slammed into a high wave created by the storm blowing around the southern coast of the Home Islands. Onboard were a few Royal Navy reservists and a host of merchantmen that controlled the first real deployment of resources to Novikov, all bound for the capital city. The Royal Navy had been tasked with the initial supplies of materials for the reconstruction of Novikov, and such materials were to be embarked on fleet auxiliaries like the Sir Lancelot escorted by a few frigates that would then rotate home the escorts of the Grand Fleet, the returning vessels would escort the auxiliaries back home and then new frigates would escort new auxiliaries down to Novikov, and even more escorts from the war would return home. The Admiralty had accepted a plan from Atkinson that would begin rotating the Grand Fleet home in a piecemeal fashion, but would keep the strength of the fleet on or about the same level - which was more than sufficient for its orders to “secure” Novikov, which meant a blockade by any other terminology.

[OOC: It's been a while, but now that Azazia is back I'm going to try and continue this. My apologies for the short post. More will come soon.]
The sun rose as it always had in this remote locale, blood-red and golden, shimmering across the fields and gracing the land with a serene quality that Gerchinkov had never felt before. Perhaps it was the events of the previous night, but Alexi preferred to blame the tranquility of this mountain village on the Voločëk coast. An atheist, he had never felt a connection to the divine, but he had always believed in goodness, and here, in the quiet dawn, the sun and the fields melded into something beautiful and good. And so, some form of divine peace separated him from the charred wreckage he knew lay just a kilometer to the west.

As the sun lifted higher into the sky, pulling its warm blanket of color back as it did every morning, Alexi rose from the grass and walked east, slowly downhill following some ancient path worn into the earth by past travelers. A hundred meters and he reached the building where his associates were located. Inside, the bottles of cognac were still open though all the toasts has already been made, and, waking from a fitful sleep, the Prime Minister, two cabinet members, and the delegate to the United Kingdom rose from their seats and congratulated each other once more.

“Alexi…” One man, occupying a minor post that Gerchinkov no longer remembered began in his normal drone. “Minister of the Interior.” He cackled with uncharacteristic laughter, and Alexi turned from him. He had obviously had too much to drink, and Gerchinkov was happy he and the other senior members of government had not made the same mistake.

“Heartman,” he called out in Slovak. “What time is it?”

“Six-thirty,” the Englishman responded, “time for us to leave if we’re to reach Poldi’sk in time.”

“Of course. Alert security and the Prime Minister’s driver. We’ll leave as soon as possible – I don’t want to be late to meet this Cahill fellow…”

---

The motorcade consisted of a mere three cars, scuffed and dirty from their long travels the night before. Inside the middle car, Prime Minister Borovic and his cabinet sat. Borovic was deeply engaged in a conversation with his new Minister of Defense, speaking of what manner should be used to quell demonstrations, and though Heartman wanted to speak, a splitting headache prevented him from doing so. On these pockmarked roads, the carriage bounced too much, he thought; pity they had destroyed all the rail lines.

----------

The riots had intensified in Grozny, Anzeka noted. She was now living comfortably in what remained of the local barracks. Two days ago, the order had been sent out over the radio commanding all soldiers loyal to the legitimate Novikovian government to report to the nearest military headquarters where they would either be discharged or deployed for police work, depending on the area’s need. At the center of political unrest, Grozny’s entire garrison had remained on-duty.

According to a map of the city, several large crowds of protesters were converging on Courthouse #14 where two protesters were being held after they had instigated an assault on the Novikovian soldiers and guardsmen defending one of the six bridges separating the Grozny industrial quarter from the rest of the city. They had become, according to several illicit broadcasts, ‘martyrs for the cause.’ Whatever was said though, Anzeka didn’t quite understand the ‘cause’ they were being martyred for. And martyred was hardly the word to describe what they faced in court, public support for their actions giving them what would certainly be a hung jury.

“Mount up.” The order cam crisp and clear. Anzeka turned, putting her back to the cement wall, and repeated her orders to the handful of men and women milling around the barracks.

“Mount up, everyone get ready to move!” The shout was somehow reminiscent of her first day of the war. “Prepare to jump,” she had yelled then, leading twenty-six others into uncertainly. Now, she was doing the same.

She turned back to the local guards commander and, though she outranked him, simply listened to his orders, having not the experience or desire to make an attempt at controlling the riots that were tearing the city apart. She would simply do what she was told.

“Radio message. We’re needed along Ulica Treitina. There’ve been reports of weapons fire coming from the crowds there, so everyone keep your eyes open.”

A nod signaled comprehension and the twenty-some guardsmen piled into the back of two open-air transports and began to roll. Some of the soldiers had been doing this same drill for the past eighteen hours, some were without ammunition or weapons, those pulled away along with their flack vests in past confrontations, and all were tired, and dirty and wanted simply to go home.

Poldi’sk

“My Lord, must they really fly that low?!” shouted a rather tall man, slender with a sharply angled jaw and a chin that jutted out just so to distinguish him from his colleagues and counterparts. Against his breast he clutched a locked briefcase that also served to keep his bright red tie inside his expensive three-piece suit of a fine black silk Just a hundred meters or so overhead roared a fighter jet officially on combat air patrol while the royal governor arrived. Unofficially asked by the military commanders to buzz their new civilian boss.

A hearty laugh answered the question. “Sir Cahill, they absolutely must.”

“I daresay, General Clifton, that really is not humorous in any respect or sense of the word.”

“Duly noted, Governor.” Clifton continued to smile and chuckle to himself. Politicians were all the same.

The two men climbed into an armoured vehicle, flanked by sportier versions featuring the hottest amenities in urban combat vehicles: .50cal machine guns, anti-tank missile launchers, and anti-aircraft missiles. Cahill opened his briefcase once the vehicle got underway, digging around the shuffling papers he found a small brief and handed it over to Clifton. “You might find this interesting, General.”

Clifton took the paper, snapped it stiff and read the concise body of the letter. “They’re joking, right?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid not.”

“I thought only the damn Novikovians were going to be charged. Hell, they started the whole bloody thing.” Clifton responded, barely containing his rage.

Cahill took the paper back from the general and replaced it in his briefcase. “Unfortunately not, sir. We will of course be charging the appropriate Novikovians responsible – both senior commanders and lower-rank personnel – but the Prime Minister himself briefed me on this matter. We will also be charging His Majesty’s personnel as well.”

“How high up the chain?”

“I do believe you are quite safe, general. I’ve been all but assured by the Prime Minister that senior field commanders will not be charged. There might be a few depositions, but both Mr. Tetley and His Majesty are quite certain you and your colleagues reacted appropriately to the rather barbaric acts committed by your counterparts during the war.” Cahill began sifting through some more papers. “However, this is not to say certain key deputies are safe. Likely a few aides and executive officers will be tried – not necessarily convicted.”

“Our own troops…” Clifton muttered. “Indicted on crimes against humanity.” He turned to look at Cahill, now holding a packet of papers stapled together. “Between the two of us, who the hell does this Tetley character think he is?”

Cahill frowned. “Although I know the man somewhat well, I do tend to agree with you on this one, General. I highly doubt that the war would have deteriorated so rapidly if the Novikovians had not used chemical and biological weapons on our troops.”

“Did you know,” Clifton interrupted, “that we lost an entire company out here?”

“Really?”

“Yes, Governor, we did. They were in a tough spot, out of ammunition and most of their motor transports had been shot to hell – the Novies are a tough lot – and so they fought to the bitter end, but with only bayonets left the commanding officer ordered his men to surrender.”

“Well, that’s not too bad I suppose.”

“I’m not finished, Governor. You see, along with this company – by chance – was an embedded reporter, all part of that media-friendly army crap. Anyways, he and this lance corporal, well they are off recording footage or whatever and so stand back in the heavy forests filming the whole lot, hoping to smuggle out and report on the condition of our latest POWs. You know what they film?”

“No, sir.” Cahill responded slowly.

“The Novies. Executed every last one of the surrendering soldiers. And while we don’t have evidence of it on film, the two guys have reported that the few surviving women in the unit… well, suffice to say I’ve never been fond of having women serve on the front lines because—“

“I get the picture,” Cahill said quickly.

“And yet we’re the ones being charged. Hell, Governor, word got out, and sure, some of our units massacred Novikovian POWs. But the Prime Minister needs to remember that the reason the war got so bloody is because those goddamned Slovak inbreeds murdered our own boys in cold blood.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve seen the film and I tend to agree with you – I’m merely relaying a directive from the Prime Minister’s Office.”

“I know you are, sir. But it still hurts like hell.”

Outside Grozny

During the opening days of the ground war, the Royal Army’s 72nd Airborne Division had been dropped into the territory between Grozny, Kozice, and Poldi’sk in an attempt to cut off possible re-supply of the soon to be besieged capital. The tenacity displayed in the south on both sides had yielded a situation entirely unwanted by the new government. Racial hatred had spilled into racially-motivated violence against surrendering soldiers – on both sides. Consequently, Brigadier Adam Paisley held in his hands, orders to move on the increasingly lawless city – but to a point.

Paisley had been the executive officer of the division until his commanding officer had been killed in a very freak, or very lucky, mortar strike that had managed to hit the general’s tent. Since then, Paisley had been in command of the 72nd. Of average build, looks, and even intelligence, there was little to say of the still brown-haired man from Bristol except that his men – by and large due to his fondness of discipline and strictness – absolutely hated him. This was not to say, however, they wouldn’t march into death for their new commanding officer. They just hated the punishments for even minor infractions of uniform policies during a war.

“General, may I ask?” a young captain commented from behind the Brigadier.

“Of course, Henry.” Captain Henry Wilkins had been the chief of staff for Paisley since the war began and was entitled to all information by sheer position and by the sheer trust the aging commander had in the young man. “We’re to load the men up into the IFVs, have a company of tanks from the 80th Armoured detached to my command, and we’re to seal off the city of Grozny.”

“The rioting, sir?”

“You bet your ass, Henry. The flyboys have not yet apparently taken out just the right radio transmitter and as such rebel radio stations are continuing to broadcast crap that’s actually inciting the Novies. It’s our job to make sure they don’t leave the town.”

“Hasn’t that been tasked to the local military/police units still in Grozny?”

“Of course it has. They have to feel like they’re being included in this new government. But the truth is that I don’t trust the bastards. Hell, they executed one of our own companies and now we’re all best friends, brothers, and all that shite. They’re nothing but a lot of pissed-off, bloody miserable bastards who can’t stand the fact that we kicked their collective ass.”

“So their CO knows we’re sealing the town?”

“Supposedly. Does it really matter? Their communications are like shite anymore. Not that it matters, none of them are getting out until the city quiets itself back down.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Just get the men in their vehicles and let’s head out.”

In less than five hours the remnants of the superhighway that had led from Poldi’sk to Grozny swarmed with scarred and dented infantry fighting vehicles and heavy main battle tanks that simply obliterated any serious obstacles in the path of the convoy. Reports had Grozny as the centre of the remaining resistance against the official annexation and colonization of the Novikovian archipelago by the United Kingdom. And as Brigadier Paisley boarded his chopper he just wanted all the bastards in Grozny dead.

Inside Grozny

The entire city was screaming, a whirlwind of noise, rising and falling with the ebb and flow of the crowd, surging and breaking like waves on a seawall.

Surging and breaking until the wall collapsed with them, and the crowds were left unopposed, Anezka thought. Already police and military units were stretched to the breaking point, and each time the crowd risked a charge, they had to be beaten back with uncharacteristic force. It was the same across the city, but here at the violent epicenter, the waves were threatening to break through.

From the rear bed of an uncovered transport, the crowd appeared unimaginably vast, stretching down the length of a city block, and spilling across the red-tinted alleyways and sidestreets of Grozny’s brick-and-iron slums. The crowd roared forward, incited by some voice unheard on this side of the protest lines, and from her vantage, Anezka saw her twenty-some soldiers rise to meet them.

The contrast was vivid, unmistakable; the crowd vibrant, churning, all red and blue, the soldiers drab green and black, exhausted but heavily animated as they shouted futile orders for those first charging dozens to turn back. Those first few were driven back by a display of arms, by a wall of flesh and metal, and a resolve greater than their own; the police line held.

Anezka could not help but liken it to the wars of old, when armies clashed separated by only a few meters and a bristling line of weapons. The main body began to rush on the soldiers as their skirmishers drew back. They charged like a Roman cohort, heralding their advance with trumpeting voices, flinging dusty bricks and stones in the place of javelins. The soldiers carrying riot shields raised them against the pelting rocks, and those who did not ducked and cowered. For one moment, the horrifically weak line lost all the resolve it had before stood with, and before that courage and posture was regained, the crowd struck.

The dust of shattered mortar and cement was suffocating in the heat and press of bodies that followed. Anezka leapt down and rushed to throw her weight in with that of her men. Batons rose and fell with a dull crack, repeated to no end and no avail. Those with weapons now jerked them from side to side, swinging them free of the crow’s thousand groping hands, and then alternately back in, to batter some shrieking patriot banshee of old. On the line, the intensity of the moment was unimaginable. Thousands of faces bore down on Anezka’s, and her ruthless training returned to her in a flood of motion, driving a man twice her size to his knees.

Stepping clear of the press, the former paratrooper took momentary shelter behind a comrade’s riot shield. With little thought, she hurled a black canister over her head, into the crowd as she turned from them. This hiss of air that followed could scarcely be heard, but the white cloud that drifted up left no doubt in the rioters’ minds. Tear gas. Choking on the fumes, soldiers fitted protective gas masks over their exposed mouth and nose, and those who were without even that necessity tore strips of cloth from their own uniforms. Half gagging, Anezka fitted a bayonet to her rifle and disengaged the safety. Radio held almost to her lips, she screamed her orders.

“Push them back; I don’t care how!”

-----

Ales was ecstatic, surrounded as he was by screaming, shrieking, chanting men and women, bound to them as much by common hatred as actual ideology. In the heart of the crowd, he was being swept away with them, into the same violent fervor that was threatening to consume the city.

One of Ales’s companions grabbed him by the shoulder and, over the din on those around them, shouted, into Ales’s ear. “Následujte mě!” Ales grabbed his hand and together they began to push their way through the crowd, moving towards the police line with violent intent.

-----

The soldiers, Anezka among them, fell back after five minutes of struggling against the crowd. Exhausted, they began to turn and fall back, quickly, unwilling to use their weapons against their own civilians.

Anezka watched as her troops turned and began to run, some dropping their equipment as they fled. The air was now filled with tear gas from her failed attempt to disperse the crowd, and, with blurry vision, she saw one of the soldiers stumble on the broken pavement. The crowd surged forward, and dozens of men and women, no longer acting on their own accord, but as one collective entity, ruthless and bloodthirsty, siezed the man. The white haze of gas began to draw a veil between herself and the poor man, but she saw the crowd tearing at him, circling, swinging sticks and rocks and signs. All focus switched from the fleeing soldiers to the helpless man on the ground, now at the mercy of the crowd. The once peaceful banners of protest were all but abandoned in the mad dash at the police. One still held, however, bobbed up and down over the heads of the crowd. JALKA! JALKA! CHTO NOVIKOVIE SPEAT! “What a pity Novikov sleeps!”

She turned and unslung her weapon. With the rifle pressed hard to her shoulder, she half-screamed, half-sobbed her order into the radio.

“Help him!”

-----

Swept away. Ales and his companion rushed forward, herded towards the fleeing troops by the bodies all around them. They saw a lone soldier collapse, and joined the throngs of people which hemmed him in. His companion let go of Ales’s hand, and Ales watched as he threw himself into the foremost ring of people, shouting for them to move aside, to let him get in too. Ales was left alone to watch.

The crowd was all around the fallen man, their arms rhythmically rising and falling with soft, wet thuds onto an already limp body. The soldier lay on his stomach, his swollen face tilted unnaturally to the side, staring at Ales. Many struck him simply with their fists, but, more frightful was one man, swinging the soldier’s own baton as fast as his arm would carry it. Each strike made the body quiver, and then Ales saw something terrible.

He blinked. His lips shuddered in a moaning gasp and Ales realized in horror that he was still alive.

For a moment Ales almost felt compassion for his enemy, but he quickly shook it out of his head when he heard his companion shout.

“Imperialista! Zrádna kříženec!” Imperialist! Traitorous bastard!

Ales scowled, felt himself practically snarling at the face, which still watched him with those horribly blinking eyes which reminded him that the face belonged to a human being. Had they continued to look, to blink, Ales may have found his devotion to ‘the cause’ wavering, but, blessedly for his conscience, a gunshot rang out, and the head bounced against the pavement, and the eyes stared right through Ales, right into eternity, and they didn’t blink again.

Four more gunshots in quick order, and Ales watched his companion walk away from the body of the dead soldier, still clutching a small pistol. There was blood on his hands, and he wiped them on his shirt. He smiled, and Ales smiled back.

-----

A burst of automatic gunfire reminded the crowd that there were other soldier about, and many, their bloodlust tempered by the frenzy they had just witnessed, shouted warnings and fled. Anezka watched them turn and separate from her rifle’s sights. She leveled them at the crowd and swung the weapon back and forth wildly. For an instant, she caught a glimpse of the corpse lying on the pavement, the uniform half torn away, and she was enraged.

The body was still surrounded by people, some still tearing at the clothing. One man had picked up the downed soldier’s rifle, and fired a long blast into the air.

The noise of the crowd had died down considerably, but still it consumed individual voices, swallowed whole words. So it was that as the first people began to charge towards her, hardly losing a stride, they could not hear her shouted order to stop.

-----

Only the most devoted Novikovians would attack an armed man, Ales’s companion had once told him. Cowards would fear for their life, and cowards were traitors. Patriots cared only for the State. Counting himself among the patriots, Ales was one of the first to move, running at the treacherous whore clad in a soldier’s garb.

Others were behind him, he knew, but if Ales could see them, he did not notice. His vision tunneled in on the woman, on the bars adorning the chest of her black uniform. All his energies focused on that single point, and he scarce realized that his hands had plunged down and pulled his pistol from his belt. The pistol wavered for a moment in his hands, and then Ales reached her.

-----

The lanky youth slammed into Anezka from the side, and his weight threatened to bear her to the ground. She staggered back, and the child took hold of her collar, tugging at it. Her attention was drawn to him, to the look of pure rage that twisted otherwise handsome features. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a piece of black metal flash. Something in the back of her mind reminded her that there were more people coming. More people coming to get her.

-----

“ZRÁDCE!” Ales bellowed, all his frustration, all his fears, and all the misplaced patriotism came shrieking out, embodied in one word, directed at one thing. TRAITOR!

His mind told him that this was the right thing to do, that this woman had given up on Novikov, that she would only try to stop him. And now, he felt suddenly different than he had before. There was no moment of hesitation, no sympathy. To him, the woman was no more human being than the rats which scurried through the ruined slum that surrounded him. He slammed him pistol to her stomach.

-----

Anezka shoved his hand away from her face, feeling it tear the collar of her uniform off with it. Her arm free, she fell again into the old training exercise, performing the motions just as she had at boot camp. As if she were a robot, the carefully rehearsed action was performed in perfect detail. Her instructor would have been proud.

Her hands tightened their grip on her rifle, one hand on the trigger, the other clutching the front third of the weapon barrel. She pivoted away from the boy and planted her feet, swinging her arms back, and then thrusting them forward.

-----

Ales lost his grip on the woman’s uniform, pulling it away still clutching his opponent’s badge of rank. He swung the free hand down and slammed it into the back of the pistol, pressing it as hard as he could against the soldier’s stomach, and, acting only on instinct, he pulled the trigger.

-----

Once. Twice. Anezka thrust her bayonet into the soft and exposed side of the youth trying to grapple with her. The first thrust drew an shriek of anguish from the boy; he raised himself up onto his tiptoes, trying to get off the blade.

The second hit struck a slashing blow to the middle of the youth’s neck as he slumped down. The same moment, though, Anezka heard a gunshot ring out, and a burning heat rushed through her abdomen, scalding hot where the back of her flak vest stopped the round. What followed could only be described as pure pain, rippling over her stomach. She doubled over, and collapsed face down on the pavement, remaining conscious just long enough to hear another exchange of gunfire behind her. Feet scampered by and she drifted into oblivion.

-----

Ales had once brashly said that he wouldn’t mind dying as long as he took a traitor with him. Only in the last fleeting moments of his life did he realize how wrong he had been.

Frightened, the youth held his hands to the long cut in his throat, struggling against fate as he tried to breathe. He felt suddenly cold, dim, and realized in an instant the foolishness that had brought him here. As his companion and all his ‘comrades’ rushed past him, none paying him any heed, his mind raced through memories of his seventeen years on earth. He saw his family, the house he had grown up in, his mother smiling at him, calling for him to come home now…


Ales slumped to the ground on a broken street in Grozny, far from his home, another victim of a violent and hopeless ideology, and around him followers of that same ideology rushed past, claiming a momentary victory.

The city was aflame, and then there was only darkness...