NationStates Jolt Archive

Theohuanacu Jungle, The Deep Basin

For a moment I thought I heard something. Something deep down below, beneath the canopy and roots. The vines crawl and twine, suffocating the lower regions of the basin in darkness. The foul stench of rotting plants penetrated your clothes, hair shoes everything. I’m not happy to be here, but I have to. Rumours go around people from foreign nations are going to land here soon to aid the Theohuanacu rebels. If only I could talk to someone who could confirm this, that would please Hoogenbosch.
The bastards! They have taken many of our good fighting men, savages they are. Brutal barbarians who have no respect for civilisation. They live in tree houses, cook raw meat above a bonfire and dance to worship their idiotic and ludicrous deity: Tlaloc, lord of the rain.
Why did I even bother to take a compass and a map with me? Compasses are useless. If you need to go north there’s a cliff obstructing your way. You have to go forty miles south before you find a gap that goes north. Other way around? Idem. Maps? Only the coasts and the oilfields are mapped, the rest is unknown territory. Well, not to the Panoolians but we couldn’t find one that could guide us. We are not lost, we are temporarily disoriented. That’s all, nothing to worry.

All of a sudden, completely unexpected I can hear it. I can hear it so closely in fact that I might have forgotten we are in the middle of the world’s largest jungle. It’s like the voices are coming from a source next to me, behind me… They are Panoolians, thank God!
‘…Ye sure we walking this way good?’
‘Ye bet. Some rebles have taken refuge on thee bottom of thee basin. Ye shuld be cautious.’
‘Aye.’
At first I couldn’t believe my ears, people who know their way around here! If only… yes! I have some Ducats in my pocket. That’ll be enough to buy them for a few weeks.
‘Hey there! Hello?’
‘WHA! Who’s there? Guffingfords what are ye doing here?’
It appeared these two lads were walking next to us, without them noticing us. I began to explain what we were doing here, and along the way I made some subtle hints about me being rich and in need of a guide or two.’
‘Yeh, we are the right type of people ye need.’ I gave them the money, three Ducats each. I believe they never touched gold in their life before.
‘They sey Cepten [captain] Bloomsburry has entered the local town, only three miles from here.’
‘We better go there’ I immediately replied, ‘we have to speak to him. It’s extremely important.’

A few hours later we arrived at the camp, and it came as a surprise to me, Blouff was there too as well. I don’t know why, but he was quite busy with talking to – what seemed to be prisoners. I haven’t heard the whole conversation from the start, but as soon as I saw Bloomsburry, I told him I’d need to talk to Blouff. I sat down, grabbed a beer and watched Blouff ranting at the prisoners. Strangely, they do not appear to be rebels. Maybe they are the people I had to warn Bloomsburry and Blouff about.
‘Well my good prisoners’ Blouff continued ‘you have many freedoms in your country from whence you came. Divorce, homosexuality, sodomy? Or the freedom to be a communist. I don’t care actually but it’s funny you come here to protect the ideals of freedom in a nation where your idea’s of freedom aren’t appreciated.’
When I heard this I started to have the idea this could take longer than I wanted it to take, so I walked up to Bloomsburry and told him I need to talk to Blouff – fast. He nodded and whistled to let Blouff pause his monologue for a minute or two. Bloomsburry whispered something into his right ear.
‘D’rs eene heer veur jou, die zeg da die belangryck niews het’ [There’s a gentlemen for you, who says he’s got important news]
‘Aye, la maar wagte’ [Aye, let him wait] With a nod of approval, Bloomsburry walked back to me and told me to “raptang”. To wait a while in Malaysian. Blouff continued.
‘The freedoms of your nation may make you and family feel smug but over here, in Theohuanacu the people don’t want them. I don’t understand how you just can say: “Hey! We are given the right to have sex with another man.” That makes such perversities accepted, and generally accepted things such as that only create stains on your society.’
‘And on the sheets’ someone yelled from the band thugs and mercenaries standing around the prisoners, who were still sitting in the grass. Loud laughter rose from the men, but Blouff told them politely to shut up.
‘Where was I? Oh, okay. Well here in Guffingford or Theohuanacu we don’t have a government that grants us rights conerning freedom. Nay. We take freedom. There’s an old saying in Guffingford. It’s Hoogs; I do not think you are, in any way, familiar with that language. It says: “Egte vryheid die wor nie gegeve, die wor genome.” Real freedom isn’t given, it’s taken. Remember that.’
Finally Blouff was finished and me, him and Bloomsburry could retreat into his tent and I can warn him about the people knocking on our door tomorrow or next week. After I told him that, he merely laughed and threw away my warning, scoffing and filled with arrogance.
‘My good Mr Renshaw’ he said ‘I know all about this. And if these people weren’t on some top secret mission I’d have called Hoogenbosch or Redmound weeks ago. These scouts come and… No they don’t go but do you think their secret instructor in whatever nation admits they have sent their boys to this place? I don’t think so.’
And when Blouff said that, the meeting was concluded. We had to wait.

* * * * *

OOC: This is it good people! A war with Guffingford you had a chance of joining! Too bad it's too late now, because it's closed RP if you want to join in the direct attack. Political/diplomatic RP is promoted and everybody is welcome to participate if you don't deliver direct support to the attackers. I'm counting on the intelligence and integrity of your national leaders, so I don't think nukes will fly around.

OOC Planning thread >>> http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=430281

Participants
Guffingford - Major role
Sarzonia - SpecOp; major role
Kriegorgrad - no motives known
The Parthians - Political/diplomatic?
Illior - Small scale; SpecOps etc.
Skinny87 - Medium scale; SpecOp
Hogsweat - SpecOp mission
Doomingsland - small scale; SpecOP
Risban - small scale

So far this looks good. I'll see whoever decides to join up as well. Now, have a good time here!

Somewhere near the Theohuanacu Heartland

There were a few man standing in a circle with a small fire burning in the middle. All of them were whispering things. Hate carrying messages, talking about swift action and decisive policies by the local leaders.
'Tonight we are going to do something about them bastards over there. They have killed our buddies. Cannibals they are!'
'Aye, we have the government funds to do it.'
'We are going to do it tonight, when the women and children are 'sleep. Okay?'
'Aye right.' All of the men agreed, they packed their bags filled with explosives and went off the small camp of the rebels. The small group was sure they wouldn't be caught, the rebels are probably somewhere running amok, while we can do to them... Sweet revenge.

Hours later...

'Finally,' one of the men whispered to his group 'we have arrived, now stay close to me and do what I do. Strap the C4 to the pillars of the huts, and put everything to one detonator. Later I'll connect them all to let the whole village blow.' All of the terrorists followed their leader closely - doing what he was doing. Before they left, he poured some poison in the village well. If some people survive they'll die from it - and all the others who drink after them.
Back in the safety of the jungle the leader was counting down to armageddon. How could he possibly know these actions would lead to even bigger events?
'Three, two, one...' The blast awoke all the birds and animals of the rainforest, making them run around in panic and the monkeys screamed like during the day. None survived and this repeated itself until the international community awoke from the rolling thunder of explosions through the hills of the Theohuanacu heartland.

Grey House, Dowland City

The flames were rising, casting grimly dark shadows all around; buildings were burning, and in the middle of the city was nothing but flames, smoke and a giant impact crater. The crater was several hundred metres wide and was one of more than a dozen that pockmarked the city; ugly scars blighting the once-beautiful part of the city. Thousands lay dead from the missile strikes, and hundreds more lay dead and dying. The emergency services were quickly overwhelmed, and many died that could easily have been treated due to the severity of the damage caused by the missiles. Motorways were destroyed, roads had disappeared, and everything was covered in a fine white-gray dust that caused everyone to look the same, that seemed so innocent yet half-choked them to death, such was its sheer amount in the air. The sheer horror of the event shocked millions, and even with foreign medical aid, the death toll would eventually come to over ten thousand.

Now, just over two years later, the craters were gone. There was no dust in the air, and life, it seemed, had returned to normal. Only a small memorial park and a simple granite monument in the middle of the park told of what had happened there.

And, of course, for the memories.

Seeing the coffin, far, far too small it seemed, especially in comparison the giant Grey House Lawn. Draped with a Republican flag and carried by a Marine honour guard a dozen strong, silently lowering it into the grave in the South Garden; tears had flown freely down his cheeks, and of his wife as well. The event was private, with only the family and a few close others, yet a whole nation mourned along with them; they had lost, the same as thousands of others, and their grief united the entire country. He could still see the coffin in his mind, the only memory he had now.

Of his daughter.

They had murdered her. Thousands of others had died, and so had she. She had no right to be in that coffin; she should still be at his shoulder. Laughing. Smiling. But they had murdered her. And for that, they would pay. He had vowed that, and now, it seemed, they would pay.

Guffingford would pay.

He looked at the map of Theohuanacu, another country being put under the ruthless yoke of Guffingford control. He had not been able to hurt Guffingford before; the blood of thousands of brave men and women of his airforce had shown that, slaughtered by the seemingly impenetrable defences of Guffingford and its murderous leaders.

But here, here he could hurt them. They wanted the country, but they would not have it. He slammed his hand down on the map, cut it; his blood oozed onto the map, covering the country red. He did not care how, but he would make them pay. Here the line was to be drawn, here they would be stopped. Finally, she and ten thousand others would be avenged;a country would be avenged.

Here they would die.

At Theohuanacu.

Army Chief Antonius Santius was sitting in his office one afternoon as he was preparing a report of the changes he wanted to make to the Incorporated Sarzonian Army. The war effort in Inkana was universally considered a disaster for Sarzonian forces and he wanted to make sure that his forces would be able to handle a different kind of war effort. However, he knew that Parliament would not be quick to approve involving an army that just got its hats handed to it by Doomingslandian army forces in the kind of warfare with a sworn enemy such as Guffingford.

However, he had a notion. The Sarzonians had begun the process of opening channels with Theohuanacu since that country was the lone bastion of left-leaning views that coincided more with Sarzonia's foreign policy in a region of right-wingers and hostile forces. His plan was not one of direct military involvement; rather, it was more along the lines of becoming a destablising influence in the region. He figured Sarzonia's best bet to create a foothold in the region was to support Theohuanacu diplomatically economically, and, if necessary, militarily.

"Mr. Santius," a clerk said as she approached the open office door.

"Yes, Candi?"

"I have the latest on the situation in Guffingford."

"Let me look at it." He studied the report with a grimace. Instability in Guffingford, forces threatening Theohuanacu.

"Look at this," he said to no one in particular. "Skinny87 is getting involved. There's our chance!" He picked up the phone and called Vice President for Naval Operations Kathy Bunhall.

"Hey Kath," he said, not waiting for her to say her name as she answered the phone."

"Yes, Tony?"

"Did you see the report about Guffingford?"

"Yeah. What do you propose?"

"Skinny87 is going to need some help. Perhaps an amphibious squadron might do the trick?"

"Tony, what are you getting at?"

"We could provide the destablising element in the region."

"Tony, you're talking like a terrorist right now."

"What's good for the goose is good for the gander, as you people like to say," Santius said.

"Let me get this straight. We're going to be counter terrorists?"

"Personally, I like the term freedom fighters better. Or insurgents."

"This will never fly with Sarzo."

Just then, a text message came across addressed to all the section chiefs and Vice President for Defence John Newman.

"Attention, all section leaders are to meet with the President in the situation room in the Gray House. Code blue. Reason: Guffingfordi situation."

"I guess we'll find out what Sarzo has to say now," Santius said.

OOC:Sarz, shall we say this is taking place shortly after the Inkana Conflict?

Doom Citadel, Doomingsland

It was just a week after Sarzonia had completely pulled out of Inkana after her armies were crushed beneath the brutal steel fist of Maximus the Defiler, son of the Emperor. A treaty had been signed shortly after his triumph through the streets of Doom City, granting the release of all Sarzonian prisoners of war in return for various concessions. Celebrations still continued, and would do so for the rest of the month: a full month of gladiatorial matches, parades, and general merry-making.

The streets of the capital of the Empire, Doom City, were filled with military traffic: thousands of Imperial soldiers in dress uniform marching in step in a mighty parade, their polished bayonets glistening in the hot desert sun, the creak of the tank treads creating a deafening roar. The city itself resembled Ancient Rome, but one need not look far to find technology; the city was bristling with massive advertisement screens, interactive propaganda posters, monorail systems, and other futuristic things. The Emperor's home, the Doom Citadel, was an ancient fortress that sat to the north of the city on top of a great hill, its mighty walls drenching the surrounding countryside in shadow.

The Emperor sat upon his guilded throne, fanned by several hand maidens, and entertained by some random musical act. He was within the Great Hall of the Citadel, a massive chamber spanning the equivelent area of a football field. It was of Roman architecture, with a high cieling supported by massive marble columns, two enourmous oak doors on the far end of the hall.

The great oak doors of the Great Hall were cast open, and a big, burly man clad in ceremonial armor stepped through the threshhold. This was General Quintus Eviserus Tyrranus, the Emperor's top advisor. Upon seeing the arrival of this man, Emperor Helldawg V knew something was up.

Waving away his servants and commanding his Equites Singulares to close the door behind them, he motioned for Quintus to come.

"You bring me news, General?" asked the mighty Caesar in a neutral tone.

"Indeed, my liege. It seems the Guffingfordians are making war on a small neighboring state..." replied the man meekly. The Emperor shrugged his shoulders in response,

"And why is this deserving of my attention, Quintus?" asked the Emperor in a now impatient tone,

"Well, as you know, the Sarzonian infidels have made war upon Guffingford before. They consider themselves sworn enemies." replied the general, now smiling wryly. The Emperor returned the expression,

"I see. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Quintus. This is an interesting turn of events, indeed. Keep me informed. Hell, establish a whole intellegence wing for the monitering of this conflict. If they thought we were brutal in Inkana, they're only getting a taste of things to come. If and when they decide to deploy, send Hunter-Killers to strike fear into their ranks," commanded the Emperor with a sardonic smirk.

The general bowed his head and turned towards the door.

Now came the waiting game...

Moat Hill Airbase, New Kaylee, Skinny87

The entire airbase was under a 'Silent Running' drill, a drill designed specifically to ensure that the entire base was fully guarded, alert, but did not draw any attention to itself or its occupants. It was hardly an easy task for a military base, but through stringent lighting policies, harsh punishments for offenders, and a large security force, such a drill could be achieved; this was one of those times.

In half a dozen large aircraft hangers sat a dozen huge transport aircraft; giant C-130s and several C-5 Galaxies, all painted matte black and equipped with the latest stealth and anti-radar equipment, including reflective paint and anti-LADAR panels. The aircraft did not appear on any offical lists or documents; they had no serial numbers and did not belong to any aviation unit in the Republican military. They had no markings on them, military, civilian or otherwise. They were completely anonymous.

The same situation existed for their pilots; thye too were anonymous, unknown. Though they had names, they were rarely used, and they did not belong to a military unit or any such institution. When needed, they were issued with false papers, passports and identities, which were discarded after each use. As with the entire operation, they did not exist.

Their cargo for this night was a little less secret. Boarding, and preparing to board the huge transports were the men and women of the 95th Republican Regiment. They were, however, no mere line regiment. The 950 soldiers of the 95th Regiment, First Battalion were the elites of the Republican Special Forces; they were veterans, bloodied in Nerotika and Hitlerreich, recruited into the 95th and trained in small-unit and covert tactics and equipped with the finest equipment, weaponry and intelligence that the country possessed. They were well equipped, well-trained and the best the Republic had.

And they were going to war.

Soon the transports were full, and they taxied out onto the hard concrete runways of the airbase. They did so at random intervals so as not to be spotted all together by some satellite photo, and they took off in irregular intervals to further the subterfuge. Once they were airbourne, each aircraft headed on a course for the Republican Colony of Hitlerreich, entering the usual military flight routes for extra protection and to remain anonymous. There they would refuel, and then head for the coast of Hitlerreich, where the soldiers would disembark, and the aircraft returned home.

From there, the soldiers came under the care of the 190th Naval Flotilla, another military unit that officially did not exist. Using the small naval craft designed especially for these occasions, in groups of ten or twenty they would be taken and dropped off on the coast of Theohuanacu, where a small advanced base had been purchased by a shell company of the Republican Intelligence Corp. Under the guise of a Petroleum Company setting up, the 95th would finally assemble, together with heavier equipment shipped in covertly and overtly through other shell companies, consiting of small-arms ammunition, small arms themselves, and light transport vehicles like Humvees and Lorries.

Though it was a long-winded subterfuge, in a few days the first Republican commandos would be ashore and ready to conduct the first stage of a guerilla war against the Guffingford aggressors in Theohuanacu. Their orders were to disperse, create small, covert bases and strike against Guffingford soldiers and bases, as well as supply lines. They would be reinforced within a week by three more covert regiments, but for a few days the 95th was on its own.

But they were far from helpless. They were to become a dagger in the belly of Theohuanacu, striking hard and fast against the Guffingford oppressors, and drawing the blood their President so desperately wanted.

Needed.

Lieutenant Thom (http://www.endevil.com/images/deathwatch1.jpg) looked over the side of the run down vessel, white foam appearing orange in the late afternoon, the presence of which heralded the passing of the juggernaught, stamped steel bolted into place against iron, the beginnings of rust had already infiltrated the base of the railing on which Thom leant. After leaving Haven waters and entering the deadly region in which Theohuanacu was situated, the young lad began to note the sweltering heat, even now, Thom was glad that he was issued with a pear of beige cotton shorts, matching the similarly coloured top, his bare pale legs glistened from sweat which the heat sucked out of the young man, beige socks were stained a deeper brown from the heat controlling moisture that exuded from the unusually young lieutenant.

Thoughts raced through Thom’s head, many of them that shouldn’t be burdened on a man of his small years, the youthful lieutenant sighed at the prospect of all the responsibility that bore down on him, no less than forty soldiers were under his command and a few of those soldiers were double his age, though most just had another ten years on the lad. For the most part, they respected the young man’s rank and didn’t challenge it, however, there were occasions when one of the older men took offence at being commanded by someone half their years, Colonel Heatherfield himself had the break up the rare confrontations, the old man, though wiry in build and kindly in appearance; he had an aura of command that complimented his father-like smile and he gave off the feel of charisma.

The relentless barrage of warmth never offered its victims respite of its own accord, only the kind whip of ocean wind that occasionally skimmed across the glistening water, fiery orb of orange cast its luminance onto the reflective liquid through which the ship carved its passage. A face too innocent for war and ears too big for his head, the lieutenant had the sweetly appearance of a kind boy, not the hardened face of an experienced soldier. How the lad got the rank of lieutenant so quickly, no-one knew, some thought it was an administrative error but not a soul seemed fussed enough about it to go through the laborious battle with the administration of the Proletarian Guard to see something changed, even if a soul was fussed enough, it wasn’t likely anything would happen. The huge size of the Proletarian Guard ensured that many minor mistakes were left without rectification, so, the teenager commanded a large chunk of the seventy-first mountaineer rifles.

The regiment was from the snowy region of Kazarkia, white topped mountains of ominous stone was where the rather lightly equipped body of soldiers fought, not in the steaming jungles that awaited them at Theohuanacu, the fact that the soldiers aboard a ship subject to the chills of the sea, were the still boiling hot, didn’t bode well for when the largely infantry based rifle regiment finally landed at their destination. The engineers were already complaining, saying that the tanks would have difficulty running in the ghastly heat that surrounded the jungle nation of Theohuanacu. Whatever half-reason for the war the Collective Oligarchy had concocted for the masses, Thom did not know, however, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov sanctioned the soon-to-be conflict so it must be a just and righteous crusade.

Nikolai was always right about these things, anything to the contrary that existed in Thom’s young mind was wiped out systematically by the years of state sponsored programming that came from the telescreens and speaker towers that dotted the urban population centres of a nation firmly deployed behind a veil of lies.

Thom counted himself lucky, he’d heard that some people were awfully ill on these trips, the buckets below deck were always full and the sound of men vomiting from their hammocks was never a nice thing to hear, sea sickness was overall rampant in the ranks of the soldiers of the mountains. Heaving a sigh to the merciful ocean breeze, Thom stood and set off towards the bridge as the flaming solar orb gazing balefully at the ship and the dozens of other ships. Ships of war and ships of logistics dotted the fleet, each in similar states of disrepair to the transport vessel Thom was located on.

Thom’s footsteps sounding hollow, the dull tap of leather on iron as he arrived at the bridge, the fatherly face of Colonel Heatherfield had done away with its paternal countenance and was instead replaced with an expression most serious. Lieutenant Thom noted the other officers gathered around the map table and took the last final steps to the colonel.

“Come on Lieutenant,” that was one thing that Thom liked about the older officer, he treated people with respect not based on age; “we have work to do.”

Minutes ticked by and Kriegorgrad was tipped over the brink of war.

OoC: Sorry for the lack of actual action, I just wanted to get into the RP before doing anything!

“…I feel they are coming for us.
I know they will show us no mercy.
I sense their hatred here…”

- Ancient hymne told by Theohuanacu High Priest Ix-Chel, after having visions of white colonists coming from Guffingford.

Bloomsburry and Blouff were gazing at the waves, they saw nothing but the smell of fear was enough to let them know the enemy was approaching rapidly. When the wind was waving from the sea through the jungle, you could sometimes hear them, so softly. Listen closely, the elders said. Listen… And then, I heard them. The accursed words of Sarzonians or Skinnians. Kriegors? Yes. No! All three of them. Their vessels are sailing near the shores where many have perished over the last couple decades. They will think only people and soldiers from Guffingford await them. How wrong could they be? The jungle itself lives here, it will consume them. The Panoolians are children of the jungle, the Guffingfordian colonists are wanderers. They, are the invaders. Both men walked back to the camp and informed their mercenaries and soldiers of the forthcoming storm.
‘Men, they are coming in numbers. These enemies are not the first socialists you encounter, and not the last. Remember, and be vigilant, they have skill.’
‘You better be careful,’ Blouff added, ‘we do not know the intentions of their “invasion”. I don’t even know if they want to invade Theohuanacu or liberate Theohuanacu. The government in Hoogenbosch is uncertain about both, but they have given us sufficient information about them.’
‘Luckily, we have something they don’t have. A map of Theohuanacu.’
‘A map?’ someone asked from the men lined up.
‘Yes, this island has never been mapped by men from the west, where they come from. They know nothing of it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Well they can have a rough impression of what’s it like from satellites before the Anti-SAT grid was set up. Most of them aren’t in orbit above IA because they get shot now.’ Gradually, crimson light was drowning the valley and harbour, coming from the moon which turned red. A blood moon, this will predict a long lasting, bloody battle.

The Panoolians and Guffingfordian soldiers are prepared.

OOC: To some it might seem a bit puppet wankish to tell about Panoolians and Guffingfordians at the same time, but picture this: the real Guffingfordian Armed Forces are still at home. 20% of the fighters there are from the HP and Guff army, the rest are tough people who live their life in such a harsh climate. Neither their potence or wits should be underestimated. Your military HQ’s estimate of the troop number isn’t accurate at all, because hardly any news leaves the country. Some basic information on Theohuanacu:

Size: USA
Population: In game it’s +/- 3 billion. RPwise it’s around 35 million.
Troop numbers from Guffingford, and others: 130,000. With troops I mean all fighting hunters, Theohuanacu mercenaries and Wildmen (you will hear from them soon!) and official listed Guffingfordian soldiers. On the whole the total troop numbers don’t really matter. The nation is so vast and travelling with vehicles is only possible from and to cities. The number of Panoolian fighters is unknown, same for the Wildmen. Estimates range from 10,000 to 20,000. Most fighting units are grouped together in numbers from 50 to 100, try to imagine them spreaded all across a country the size of the US!

>>> http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=415685 If you want more info, read this.

Basecamp Able, Theohuanacu Mainland

Basecamp Able, known merely as 'Able' by the 95th, was the largest of the covert bases in Theohuanacu; it was several hundred metres in length and perhaps twice that in width, and held over a hundred of the elite commandos. Disguised from aerial view by careful dispersing tactics and use of the natural vegitation, which seemed more than plentiful to the soldiers, to call it a 'base' was to stretch the word to its extremes. It had no fences, no guardposts, no lighting of any kind except carefully shielded fires lit in the corners for rations, and there were no definitive boundaries.

Instead, the out edges were constantly patrolled by random roaming patrols, tripwires were set with claymores and infra-red sensors, and sentries were perched in the larger, thicker trees, covered in ghillie suits and more of the vegitation. It would be extremely difficult to find the base, which was exactly how it had been designed.

Inside one of the Command Tents, which had been positioned carefully under a large, jutting tree, the newly promoted Colonel Timothy Harn crouched by a newly-drawn map of the region the 95th was in. Technically with the orders he had been given, alongside command of the 95th, he could operate throughout the country, but for now with his limited numbers, he preferred to operate within fifty miles of this basecamp, and the three smaller ones dotted around the region. He knew that the time to strike was soon, and he had selected the perfect spot to strike the first blow against the enemy; a small road had been spotted five miles from Outpost Zulu, to the west, and Harn planned to take a reinforced platoon with him and arrange a nice little ambush to announce his presence...


Ambush Point Indigo

Harn was lying flat on his stomach, XM-8 Assault Rifle lying in his outstretched hands, covered by a large green bush, which had been enhanced with a ghillie net he had wrapped arpund himself, leaving just enough room to move his hands and feet. Arrayed in a line next to him were six members of his reinforced platoon, in similar positions and wearing the same jungle camouflage BDUs. Three had XM-8s, one had a SAW squad support weapon, and two had M16A2s with the under-slung grenade launchers.

In positions Nectar and Echo, fifty metres to his left and right respectively were the same number of men and women, armed similarly with the addition of two portable light mortars, several AT-5 AT Missile Launchers and a heavy M-60 machine gun. Two more positions were on the opposite side of the track, nestled silently and invisble to the naked eye, waiting for his command to spring the ambush.

His plan was a classic ambush plan. Wait for the hoped-for convoy, wait until it came into position, then destroy the first vehicle with a buried C-4 bomblet, the rear with two AT-5s, and destroy the rest of the marooned convoy with small-arms fire and claymores. At a given signal by throat-mike, the mortars would fire smoke to cover a withdrawal, aided by the MG positions.

Harn had the detonator to the C-4, and as a trickle of sweat ran down his forehead, unimpeded by his hand, he waited to fire the first shot of the Republic's war...

Crawling like a serpent through the tree branches, the men from the Panoolian regiment (fifty) under command of Colonel James Lowtax and his associate from Guffingford Marc Whistler, were getting awfully near the Skinnian men who thought they were safe under a few leaves. Yes, their outfits were very nicely made, guns camouflaged without a doubt. Lowtax stood there, out sight from anyone except his men, whistled a tune that resembles a sort of parrot, and the screech of a monkey returned. A few moments later, the blow of a horn echoed through the jungle. Then, from another direction, the roll of a deep drum sounds.

All animals were either sleeping, collecting food or protecting their territory - the men who were about to attack the Skinnians ain't no exception. Whistler took his binocular from his backpack, and closely inspected the area. Only small bits of the men from the enemy were seen [nobody knew they were from Skinny87; they're named Skinnians for clarification]. A jackboot, a little bit of colour that did not match the background. These troopers were remarkably well hidden compared to British Communists' invaders, but that was so long ago. Again the horn echoed, followed by salvos from AK47's, directed at the enemy; Lowtax and his men took cover behind trees. No bullet can penetrate such a thick, massive log. Grenades were also fired from AK74's coming from another direction, blowing away parts of the vegetation. In the heat of combat, and the grenades raining down, nobody from Skinny87 noticed explosions behind their positions... They must think they're from the grenades. Because all the gunfire was coming in from eye-height, they could not foresee what was about to happen.

But the real ambush, Lowtax and his men was still waiting.

It was one of those defining moments in life that Harn would remember for the rest of his life. One moment, he was in control of everything, and the next, chaos. There came the call of a parrot, oddly muted even in the thick jungle air, and then hell came to the his little part of the jungle; the one vital difference being that he was not in control of the hell-making.

The harsh crack of heavy bullets came through the air at the same time that grenades began exploding in and around Harns platoon. The man next to him grunted and fell on his side as he took a round to the chest and another to the abdomen, and a grenade exploded in a shower of earth and vicious fragments only a few metres to Harns left, killing another of his team members, this one a grenadier. As he took cover behind a thick tree and raised his head a fraction to see what was happening, he could hear more explosions in the jungle near his other positions, and the anguished cries of the wounded.

The sudden counter-ambush had turned the tables, and put the commandos in a state of temporary shock; more than a dozen were down already, and the others were gripped with fear as the bullets cracked over their head and more of the seemingly never-ending grenades detonated around them. Then there came the cool, calm voice of Harn over their internal radio net.

"Omega, Omega, abort the ambush. Remember your training and fall back to the rallying point. Echo, take point, Flowers, provide covering fire. Now!"

With this short and harsh set of orders, the Republican soldiers remembered their training; fear turned quickly to bloody resolve and lower levels of adrenaline; though team Indigo had been all but wiped out, and Echo the same, they returned fire at anything they saw moving, and began to move back in pars; one firing as the other moved to another position, and then repeating the process. The mortars fired the smoke they had been carrying, though it hung limp in the air, another lesson learnt the hard way.

Harn raised his rifle and fired a short burst at something that moved ahead of him, then changed his clip. He grabbed the detonator and pulled the trigger; though now redundant, hopefully the explosion might buy them a little distraction time to fall back and reorganise. With a whump the explosives went off, cratering the road; at the very least, the road would not be used for a while, though Harn suspected that might not bother the enemy that much.

Finally there came the blessed relief of the M-60 firing into the bushes ahead of them; although they were firing blind, it gave the retreating commandos a much needed morale bost, and they renewed their covering fire. Harn fired again, hoping to have hit something, then turned to go. He looked for his partner, a short and stocky young commando, and found him lying on the jungle floor, covered in sticky blood from a grenade detonation. The man was in sight of the enemy troops, but Harn fired a final burst and ran into the clearing, grabbed the young commando and heaved him onto his shoulders in a firemans lift, praying silently that his opponents were at least honourable and would not fire.

As Harn made his mercy dash, the remnants of his platoon moved back wards in a well-practiced manouver; their movements were short, sharp, well practiced, but in their minds a state of subdued shock was in motion. They had been cocky, self-assured a few minutes ago, expecting a quick and easy victory; instead they had found surprise, agony and death. More than fifteen were dead, and several more lightly wounded, and as they fell back they knew that lessons were to be learnt here.

Lessons to be learnt in blood.

[OOC: Doom, I think that's a good idea. It will give me a chance to RP the army as being at least somewhat reformed. Major General will be a higher rank than Brigadier General now in the ISA.]

Secret IC: Situation Room, Gray House

"Lady and gentlemen," Sarzo said, skipping pleasantries to get quickly to the heart of the matter. "As you know, our friends in Skinny87 are planning an operation to invade Guffingford. I realise that our major reforms of the army have only begun to bear fruit, but we have a chance to give an early field test to those reforms.

"Here's the deal: We are going to send the Eleventh Fleet and the Sixth Fleet to Guffingford under the guise of observing the developing situation. However, as you know, the Eleventh Fleet is our top amphibious assault fleet and will be bringing additional Normandy-class heavy combat transport ships with it. Twenty Perseus-class river monitors and other littoral warfare combatants designed by the Portland Iron Works will also be en route. Our plan will be to use shallow waters to bombard coastal positions and small attack submarines to hit them where they're not expecting us."

"Mr. President, we barely have one Army that's gone through the full training programme outlined by the Imperial Inkanans and the Praetonians. Only two other armies are even halfway done," Santius protested. "We'd be best served launching a special forces operation and leaving it there."

"Objection noted, General," Sarzo said. "However, it's overruled. That army will be on its way with the Eleventh Fleet under Major General Mike Quinn. He's being tasked with the operation because he would have made somewhat of a difference in Inkana. Knowing Quinn, he's probably got the troops training for jungle combat right now."

"A reminder that this operation is to be considered top secret and highly classified. We only have a matter of months before Parliament finds this out and the shit hits the fan.

"If we fail again," Newman said, "it will be your head that Parliament will have on a platter."

"If we succeed, we'll have removed a major power from being a threat to our security. We'll still use elements of your special operations attack Antonius, but the opportunity here is to strike quickly and powerfully and show our troops have learned from Inkana."

Rising quickly, "if there are no further objections, I wish you all Godspeed," he said. "Meeting adjourned. I remind you all it is classified top secret. A word of this to anyone and you'll be asked to clean out your desks."

Eleventh Fleet, en route to Guffingford

Quinn waited anxiously for the reports from his colonels and lieutenant colonels who commanded the regiments as they were preparing for the coming battle. He sat in the situation room of the ISS Manassas, a Brandywine-class command dreadnought as it plied the seas with the rest of the Eleventh Fleet. The Sixth Fleet under Rear Admiral Matt Lance would be joining shortly, and Lance would assume command of the Sarzonian naval forces. Commodore Katie Patinkin pored over the intel reports on the Panooly and Guffingfordi jungle, realising grimly how sparse those reports were.

The colonels and lieutenant colonels sat aboard the Normandy-class armed transports and trained in simulated jungle combat with an eye toward getting familiar with how the Guffingfordi armies fought. Quinn knew in the back of his mind that Maximus, his old nemesis from Doomingsland, would likely not be far behind. He ordered the Blue Cobras detachments to simulate the Legionaires as best they could so that his troops would not be as frightened in live combat against them as they were in the Inkana disaster. He also knew it would make matters much easier if he could find a way to gain the intelligence he realised would be necessary to acquire so the Sarzonians could know what they were up against.

The fleets were also employing Isselmerian-built ocean tugs to tow 20 Perseus-class river monitors to position. They would be expected to bring their 14 inch gun ordnance to bear against fortified positions should they be facing such positions. The tools to construct Maidstone-class river gunboats and Stills-class assault combat support ships quickly made their way aboard the repair ships. Quinn and Patinkin agreed they needed to be able to assemble a fleet to use in river combat quickly, and they were glad the boats were able to be assembled fairly quickly. At flanking speed, the fleet should be in position within two weeks, Quinn knew. Engineers were working overtime to prep the river fleet's ships for an eventual attack that Quinn hoped would pierce Guffingford into squabbling parts.

The armies continued to train feverishly in the large bays that were converted to mimic jungle warfare. Quinn knew that landing his troops for the second time would be a challenge, and he also knew that the kind of urban warfare that was present in Inkana was not going to be a factor in the jungles of Guffingford. However, he realised the first battle was not going to be against the Guffingfordi or Panooli rabble. One problem he noticed straight away with the Austarian, Axis Novan, and Sarzonian military effort from many years ago was the lack of coordination on the part of the allies. With Skinny87 and likely Kriegorgrad fighting against Guffingford, Quinn decided that presenting one united plan would be vastly more successful than having each military unit bring its own agenda.

"Put me in touch with the Skinnian and Kriegor military command units. Full encryption," Quinn said as he and Patinkin walked onto the bridge.

"Aye, sir," the communications tech said. "You're on General."

"This is Major General Mike Quinn, commanding officer of the Incorporated Sarzonian Armed Forces en route to the region. I would like to ask you to meet with me in the situation room of the ISS Manassas so we can discuss strategy and tactics to prosecute this war. I'd like us to put maximum effort into winning the hearts and minds of the people so we can make their army units' jobs that much harder, but we can discuss the particulars of that operation more effectively aboard the Manassas. I look forward to meeting all of you."

Quinn began pacing the bridge as the message was sent, waiting for a reply.

[OOC: Skinny87, if you have AIM, could you please TG me your screen name? Thanks.]

OOC: In response to Skinny87

IC:
'KILL THEM ALL!' Whistler's horn blew off the tone that meant to cease firing, and the AK grenade- and gunfire came to a halt. The hastened tone of Lowtax' voice rolled down the trees, as he jumped down from branch to branch, until he hit the ground. There, he and the Panoolians crawling from the holes they blasted into the maze of roots and funguses, armed to the teeth with daggers and knives. Running on bare feet or simple leather boots, they chased the Skinnian soldiers, while remaining unheard. After at least fifteen minutes - and more animal screams later from Lowtax and Whistler - their troops noose was beginning to draw tighter around the Skinnian troops. Around seventy five men were moving to surround them, and to slaughter them.

Closer... Closer... You could almost hear their breath. Lowtax pulled out one knife, placing the razor sharp tip between his dirty thumb and index finger, aimed and threw. The sound of choking, blood gargling through his heavily wounded neck and blood gushing from his lethal wound shocked the Skinnian forced.
'Where the hell did that come from!?' A trooper asked in sheer panic. Another one, whose helmet accidently fell off during the fight, was about to respond 'I don...' And two knives were sticking in the back of his head. All of them were looking around, firing into every direction.
Above them, several warriors were standing ready with crossbows. Yeah, one bolt made of titanium would do it. Carefully aiming through the green density. One shot, another done. He knocked another bolt, took aim, he hit 'em where the neck and shoulder come together. This happened in a few minutes, and made their leader realise they couldn't stay any longer. Now swords would do the trick, as they began moving - the Panoolians lying on the ground grabbed their machetes and each of them sliced the skin off the enemy shins. Lying badly wounded on the ground, there wasn't much they could do to save them. Only brief moments later, their agonizing screams died.

Another one was running in some direction. Panic made itself master of the situation, madness did the rest. Someone from Guffingford, who was hanging in a tree, jumped on him, immediately slicing the poor guy's throat. Scenes like these continued on and on, until only a few managed to escape. Others were taken down with blowguns, machetes or bow and arrow in one-on-one fights.

Losses: 4 dead, 6 lightly wounded.

OOC2: To Sarzonia, I'll reply in a moment. Good posts everybody! Keep it up :)

Slaughter.

That was the only way to describe what had happened to Harns men and women. Within a period of five minutes he had gone from commanding a crack platoon of elite commandos, the best that the Republican military had, to being alone, on the run from the men who had wiped out his command. He was now running as fast as he could, caring little for the noise that he made as he did so; they seemed to be able to hunt however much noise he made. He leaped over an up-turned log and then saw his opportunity to at least slow his pursuers down; there was a natural hollow under the log which he ducked into, panting hard and with sweat running freely down his face.

He drew his Glock 18 from his holster at his side, having lost his XM-8 in his hurry to get away from the slaughter, and cocked it, putting it on single-shot mode with a dull click. He pushed away his hair, slick with sweat and dust, and tried to slow his heartbeat. He brushed absentmindedly at a graze on his leg caused by an errant round, and then crouched down. He didn't have long to wait.

He strained to hear the jungle, trying to filter out the natural noises, and then heard them; two pairs of feet, moving quickly yet carefully towards him, a few feet apart from each other. He heard a few grunts, nothing more; they were obviously experienced in this. Finally they were right above him, straddling the log and then over it in a short jump. Perhaps they were too over-confident from slaughtering his ill-prepared commandos, or perhaps they even heard him at the last second, as one seemed to turn, but Harn didn't care; this would be revenge for all his men and women, however small or trivial. He aimed and fired, the pistol pulling slightly to the left as he did, hitting the two hunters square in the back and side, aiming for the spine and vital organs.

He didn't stop to take a look at his handywork, and instead grabbed an assault rifle from one of his pursuers and took off. He finally saw what he was looking for, a slightly bent and gnarled tree stump; inseperable from any of the others around it, but a distinct marker to him. He followed the signs and as soon at the rallying point.

There was no-one else there.

He waited a moment, to see if anyone else would miraculously come from the jungle, but no-one came. Dejected but still alert, he took off to Basecamp Zulu. Lessons had been learnt in the hardest possible way, but they had been learnt, and would be used. Now was a time for sorrow and learning.

And vengeance.

OOC: No way can I match those long winded posts right now, but I need a bit of an Intro...
IC:
Captain Michael Karzen was sitting in his executive stateroom aboard the INS Hellrain, one of 2 Assault carriers in a small fleet that was on a predetermined route by the Illior at the Ready policy, meaning 1/3 of the naval forces are out at sea, patroling random routes, and his route took him past Guffingford.
" Cap, comms, we got incoming flash yellow traffic, we need you down here sir" The head radioman, Fez, was his nickname.
"Be down in a minute Fez," The captain called back over the intercom.

Roughly 30 seconds later, Mike was at the radio room looking at the fax that came in, it said
[I] ************PRIORITY YELLOW******************
CAPTAIN, YOU ARE HEREBY ORDERED TO INSERT BY HELICOPTER TEAMS PHAGE, VIRUS, CYAN, GREEN, RED, HOT DOG, FRENCH FRY, AND HAMBURGER, BE AS STEALTHY AS POSSIBLE, WE HAVE A SOURCE( Assuming I have some "random" civillians in the country, post for that after this) SAYING ALL HELL IS ABOUT TO BREAK LOOSE, STAND BY TO CONTACT INVADING FORCES, IF THEY COME, AND GIVE THEM YOUR FULL SUPPORT, REPLENISHMENT GROUP ALPHA IS ON THEIR WAY WITH MORE SUPPLIES
AUTHORIZATION H567LKIH
****************END MESSAGE** ********************
Mike read and reread the message several times abd took 5 minutes before saying anything. "Weath, when's the next heavy cloud cover?
"about 36 hours away,"
"Sarge, you've got 24 hours to get your men ready for insertion, by tiltrotor"
"Sah yes sah" The cheif master Seargent said as he walked towards the barrack,"
"Con, get us within 100 NM of Guffingford,"
"Con aye"
"Fez, tell the group to do the same,"
"Haves," Mike said to a Lithe man in an orange jacket," step up our routine airpatrols,"
Haves was the air captain, and a very experienced fighterpilot, and outranked the captain but it was never enforced " aye sir."
OOC:, gotta go, but will finish posting later.

The base was the only pillar of order and law in the god-made hell of Theohuanacu, the cool ocean breeze wafted over the encampment carved into the sandy coast of the jungle nation. Pre-fabricated buildings crafted from cheap corrugated iron were steadily being encroached upon by a worryingly fast building plague of roots and fungus, dark green vines risked moving out from the cover of the foliage into the harsh sunlight. Often, the vines realised their mistake and retreated but those who dared outdo their comrades were now nothing more than dried up weeds, trodden down by the steady patrols of the Proletarian Guards.

Coat wrapped nearby but not worn, Thom sat atop a crate of .303 ammunition, only shifting when engineers came, grumbling about the lack of Bren gun ammunition, cracking open the crate and getting to the bullets within, and grumbling about the difficulty issues of running a tank in such a hot climate. Thom was already used to the grumpy nature of the engineers but wasn’t pleased with it, most of the other men kept a polite exterior, though the civility was curbed by the sweat masking the men’s faces. Casting a gaze to the ships anchored in the large cove, Thom found it hard to believe the Kriegos military had forgotten to bring pre-fabricated docks. The programming in Thom’s head clicked and the teenager suddenly remembered that the Kriegos military didn’t forget to bring docks, it simply wanted to challenge the Guardsmen by making them craft some themselves.

All the men were grateful about shorts being issued, the stinking heat and the stench of rotting leaves was completely foreign to the mountain rifles, most of whom had never been in a warm or even just mildly cold climate. Snow was all the infantry were used to and the hostile, dark and dank jungle was a far cry from the pristine mountains and the virgin snow. Thom felt the tendrils of sleep infiltrate his being, the siren song of fatigue worked its seductive magic and before the young man knew it, rest had claimed Thom in the midday sun…


The loud speakers strewn about the camp, borne aloft by sturdy wooden poles, crackled into life, the monotonous drone wasn’t pleased by Thom’s restfulness and the drone gave way to a roar. Stirred from his pleasant nap, Thom leapt up, grabbing his Enfield rifle and wrapping the coat around his shoulders, it billowed in the wind as Thom made way for the FV432 (http://www.britisharmedforces.org/blirreg/ns/nat_armytoday_.htm). The impatient yelling faded in and Thom came into distance of the already moving APC, men clinging to the hull chuckling at the officer pursuing the armoured personnel carrier, closing the gap, Thom leapt up onto the side, into the waiting arms of his comrades. With hearty smiles and grins, they hoisted the young man aboard.

Smiles are fickle things. They flee and run at the first sight of trouble and soon enough, the merry expression painted into the Guardsmen’s faces was soon to be washed away in a display of blood and sweat.


The lead Centurion battle tank had a dozing trooper leaning on the pintle-mounted Bren gun, hands providing his cheek an uncomfortable pillow in the semi-darkness beneath the dense jungle canopy, hardly the prime example of a foreguard, the rest of the convoy was in a similar state of fatigue, soldiers drooped on the five FV432 armoured personnel carriers. Shadows played across Thom’s face, his features expressed boredom as did his comrades. Swatting at a mosquito before it stuck its disease infested needle into his vulnerable, sweat covered flesh. A few of the soldiers commented on the intense lack of action. All in all, the convoy was complacent, their job to set up a forward base near Tiwakanu, as it was known as to the natives, met no resistance; so why should they be worried?

Out of nowhere, a monkey call came.

OoC: Last post for two-to-three days, I'm going on a school trip, don't get too far into the RP without me.

"Alright, we have a situation developing in the nation of Theohuanacu. Although we do not have sources in the nation itself, we understand that the condition in the nation is quickly degenerating. We've passively observed it via satellite and have noted instances, even through the dense jungle canopy, of heavy gunfire in... This region. We've also noticed a fleet steaming straight for the region. We're trying to identify the vessels, but we're pretty damn sure a flock of elderly people don't ride in carriers and destroyers as they head for a week-long outing in the jungle." The comment met with a handful of chuckles from the assembled staff. "Anyways, I've been in contact with Cheif Marshal Kerenskiy and the Kagan and both have agreed to deploy some forces to the region, primarily for observation... However, the Ministry of Commerce has informed us, that they have received repeated complaints of piracy in the region, including the killing of a number of crew of various merchant vessels. OMONIA has identified a number of these pirates, primarily the leaders, and that's the secondary objective, if we come across any, they will be taken out. Any questions?" The uniformed man, an obviously high-ranking member of the OMON Intelligence Agency, stepped back from the podium in a move to recognize any questions.

An OMON field agent stood up, and upon being recognized, proceeded to speak, "Sir, realizing that I will be a part of this mission, as per our conversation, what are we going to have for support?"

"Good question lieutenant... We're planning on moving a small group of vessels, designed Task Force Palm, to the region, which will include a light carrier. If the need arises, we have special forces evacuation units, with MV-87s, along with several companies of Marines aboard a series of smaller amphibious assault vessels. You have air support, naval support, and some form of land support if deemed necessary. You will be dropped in via twin MV-87Gs on the south-western coast of the nation (you will receive more specific orders before departure), which will be refuelled periodically by tankers in-region. Question answered?"

"Yes sir, thank you sir." The young lieutenant gave a nod and returned to his position.

Before the OMON officer could ask for any more questions, a nearby Black Beret stood up, and without receiving recognition began to speak, "Sir, who are we sending on this operation?" The man was certainly worried, there weren't many in the room and of them, only three were officers, including the OMON officer who stood up front. To him it appeared that those present were going. He scanned over his shoulder at the group of men which he recognized as his team-mates, fellow Black Berets.

"Senior Sergeant Sergei Ivanov... I thought you would have figured that out by now." The Black Beret, at the sound of that, let his head back, Shit... The OMON officer, a colonel in the Foreign Services Directorate, smirked and continued speaking, "You, comrade, your men, Captain Hektor Greghorvskiy and Second Lieutenant Boris Malakian will be going on this operation." He paused as something came to mind, "Ah, one thing I forgot to mention, along with you, we will be dropping in two fully original UAZs, which should be a common feature in the region. If not, there are two Land-Rover front grilles and fascias in the rear box of each. Each UAZ has a recharging cradle, as you will all go in wearing VEPRK NGICS. You must prevent the capture of the NGCIS, you are also given explosives to detonate the suits if need be, no one knows of their existance, not even Doomingsland, which we understand may be getting involved. We don't want them to know. These suits, compared to the originals, are like comparing stone tools to plasma torches, there is no comparison, one is shit the other is not. Understand?" The group collectively nodded. "Good, you ship out in four hours. Dismissed."





[b]Several hours later...



The twin aircraft flew mere feet above the waves, their forward, and down, looking terrain following radar made damn sure they avoided any swells, rocks, ships, or islands, although GPS tentatively said there weren't any ahead for several hundred miles. Fresh from their final refueling, the operatives were getting ready for a mission they would've rather have left to unmanned aerial vehicles, but, it was the military and they had to follow orders... Or did they. Yes, they did.

It was several hours after dusk and the two aircraft, outfitted with their advanced visual signature reduction system [flexible plastic screens which projected the relative color scheme of the other side/angle/whatever] were a wavy black as they cruised along at about four hundred miles per hour. They were somewhat small, a cross between a helicopter and an aircraft, but only in principle, the aircraft was a turbofan outfitted light vertical take-off and landing transport and gunship rolled into one, and as the all-ARSB special forces variant [MV-87G] it packed one helluva punch courtesy not only of its armament but its advanced electronics, completely unparalled by anyone, especially since these avionics and detection systems have never been exported. Its armament had been replaced with the potent CFA-760D III 30mm electro-thermal automatic cannon mounted under the nose in a semi-retractable turret system to allow for attack helicopter-like fire support, along with a similar cannon, albeit only a 12.7mm mounted in the rear fuselage in a hydraulically assisted crew-served position to cover exiting infantry. Rocket pods and missile racks hunt from the wings. And twin turbofan engines sat above the wings, protected by the wings which protruded from the roof of the vehicle. The crew in front had a commanding view of the battle-space, courtesy not only of their extensive computer systems, but also of their helicopter-like cockpit.

The lead MV-87G carried the operatives, the one in tow, and slighly to the right, carried the two UAZs, packed into her hull so close there was no room for any crew besides the three up front [pilot, gunner/co-pilot, navigation/communication]. Upon landing the forces from the first would have to unload the UAZs from their bird. However, in the lead bird, the operatives in the rear were engaged in some relatively friendly banter...

"So, captain, why the hell did they have to send us to this Theo-who-wanna-chew shit-hole? Really, can't they just use UAVs?" The Senior Sergeant had a smug look on his face, his feet crossed in front of him as his head was leaned back against the simple canvas headrest.

The captain spoke without looking up, as he rotated his helmet in his hands, fiddling with the internal workings and adjusting the visor and face mask system, which gave the individual Soviet Bloc soldier a fierce disposition. "Well, we could use UAVs but then we'd have to send in one of our 'sinister'-looking fleets in order to support them and their continuous flying. Why waste several million dollars in fuel, repair costs, and whatever to send an entire fleet to the theatre to operate two UAVs when they can just send in eight men and get about the same job done but at half the cost. That's assuming the shit doesn't hit the fan and they have to deploy the can-heads to rescue us Then, not only will we have a budget disaster but a PR one as well." He set the helmet in the small storage 'sack' that hung between his seat and the one next, lifting his head up in time to notice the sergeant grin.

"I suppose... So, lieutenant, you're our..." Sergei Ivanov, the senior sergeant, glanced down at the packet of material he held, which contained the identifications and pictures of the people they were to watch for, "Intelligence Advisor and Expert. You might want to talk with Corporal Komroskiy down the line, he has problems with that." The sergeant leaned forward to catch the glaring face of the corporal.

"Oh fuck you, Serj." He threw the empty packet of food he had just been feasting upon at the senior sergeant, hitting him in the jaw. "He's the one you have to worry about, can't even accept his own problems, blames it on us instead, right guys?" He laughed. The rest of the group joined together in a collective "Hell yeah!"

The senior sergeant flashed them all the middle finger, a grin on his face. They were all good friends and most of this was in jest. "We'll see what happens."



The two aircraft continued their leisurely flight as they neared the south-western coast of Theohuanacu, hopefully avoiding detection while en route [although these specially modified MV-87Gs carried radar defeating systems, including active cancellation, which would likely narrow down anything that picked them up to either land stations or powerful ship-based radar]. So far, none of the members of the group knew what the future would hold...

Grey House, Dowland City

The mood of the Grey House had changed, it had been noticed by the staffers working there, and not for the better. Ever since the beginning of the campaign in Theohuanacu, the entire Grey House had become somehow darker. The atmosphere was more stilted, thicker in a way. No longer was there the light banter of staffers throughout the complex, and the guards seemed more numerous and more heavily-armed. Even the lighting seemed to have grown dimmer, as if the spirit of the great house was ebbing away, reflecting the state of the people inside it.

The centre of this dark aura was the Oval Office itself. Though nothing had physically had changed, the atmosphere was thick, dark, brooding. A large-scale relief map of Theohuanacu was pinned to the West wall of the office, with small pins denoting unit positions, and harried scrawling next to them, and seemingly random across the map in the Presidents writing. more than one Ambassador had fled the room quickly, feigning a stomatch upset or pressing state concerns, just to be out of the room as quickly as possible.

Xavier stood by the map, gazing at one of the multi-coloured pins when the door opened and the ever-present Secret Service agents ushered in the Joint Chief of Staffs. The four men entered and stood in an awkward silence as the President continued to stare at the map, arms crossed behind his back. Eventually he turned away and seemed to notice them for the first time.

"Gentlemen, welcome. As you can see, I've taken to noting where our positions in Theohuanacu are. But enough small talk. Tell me, how many enemy dead from the ambush arranged by Colonel Harn?"

The three men shifted awkwardly; giving bad news was never an easy task, and even less so to the President in his present mood. Finally the Chief of the Army, under whom Harn technically operated, spoke.

"We...we do not have any exact figures, Mister President. The survivor did not know how many enemy combatants were killed in the...firefight."

Xavier turned, his face going pale.

"Survivor. Plural? As in, there was only one man who survived?" His voice began to grow ever higher and angrier. "One man survived? One man from a platoon of the finest soldiers in the Republican Military? And you do not even know how many of the enemy were killed?"

The Chief paled at the Presidents anger, whilst inwardly reflecting on the fact that the President had not asked after the survivor himself, or those that had been killed, and was only concerned with the enemy casualties. He spoke again, an edge to his voice.

"I am sorry, Mister President, but we do not. Quite frankly, this is what I was afraid of. Our troops were not ready for this style of warfare, it is too soon. I suggest we withdraw out troops n..."

At this point the man was interrupted by Xavier banging his hand down on the desk, silencing him.

"Withdraw. Withdraw? Never. We shall never withdraw or surrender. Never, do you hear me? No, no. Obviously our troops have failed because they were led by...inexperienced men like Colonel Harn. He shall be replaced fortwith by Colonel Briggs."

At this, all three men paled significantly, and the Chief of Naval Operations moved forward to voice his concerns.

"Mister President, with all due respect...are you sure that that is the best way to go? Colonel Harn is an excellent commander, and with nearly three thousand troops under his command, I am sure he will do much better now he has learnt the enemy ways..."

Xavier looked the Admiral directly in the eye, and his voice dropped to something just above a whisper. "Do you have a problem with Colonel Briggs, Admiral?"

The Admiral stood his ground as best he could. "Colonel Briggs is a...loyal commander, sir. His patriotism and love of the Republic can never be questioned, and the same can be said for his service record. However, he has become a little...overzealous, sir. There are rumours of his conduct in Nerotika, Mister President..."

"Merely rumours, Admiral. Merely...rumours. Never substantiated. Never. Colonel Briggs is a fine solider and special forces operative. The best we have. No, he shall take command from Colonel Harn immediately. And he shall be promoted to Brigadier as well. You are dismissed, gentlemen" Xavier said, with a slight purr to his voice.


The three men retreated from the office. The Admiral and Airforce commander departed, but the Army General remained, and called over one of his most trusted aides.

"I don't trust Briggs an inch. The man's one fight away from a break-down, but no-one will believe it. If he goes, something will happen. Have Major Gregory attached to his unit as they leave for Theohuanacu. Make sure he understands that if Briggs becomes a...liability, then he is to be removed from command immediately.

With force if needed."

The aide nodded, saluted and walked away, the potentially treasonous message lodged in his brain, heading for Briggs and Gregory. The President was sending the Republics best to deal with the tribesmen and hunters who had slaughtered so many.

The best.

And worst.

Night has caught all the foreign troops in Theohuanacu, huddling together in an awkward way. No attack would come that night. There was no moon, only thousands and thousands of stars. Only the sound of locust swarms, a few birds and the wind tickling leaves and branches was present. The whispering of frightened men, nervous of fear and not knowing what was going to happen.

Kriegorgrad. The name of the nation brings a mocking humerous theme to the most serious of all conversations. They were prosperous once, a florishing economy but something happened. A civil war, a war with Hogsweat... Disastrous. Now they have some kind of communism there, or socialism gone wrong. And mad. Something nobody foresaw, but it turned their country into some pover slum. And it proves yet again socialism isn't the answer. Anyway, enough with history.

A band of mercenaries and some others, who didn't quite look like the rabble that protects them, carry a large trunk. It seems to be very heavy, because two of the mercenaries help carry the blasted thing. Curses and more curses follow the other until they're coming near the camp of Kriegorgrad. Tough their true intentions are unknown, it's sure their poor people can appreciate a shiny yellow, highly valueble metal known as Aurum, gold for normal people like you and me.
'Hello?' Colonel Lowtax, accompanied with Whistler of course, started what seemed to be a suicide mission. Lowtax continued.
'I have something important to discuss with the commander. Remember we were both in IA once, we have stronger ties than you might think. We have valuables here. Let us in, you may have them. Kill us, we will not destroy you. The Wildmen will. Think!' They waited in the darkness, knowing that only their voices will arrive at the Kriegos camp - not the sight of them. And there, they waited.

A tough nut to crack. Let them in and be rich and wait for their offer of peace, bribe for information or cooperation or kill them and take the great risk of being killed by Wildmen.

Sierra Basecamp

It had been a shock to find Colonel Harn the only survivor, and a sharp shock to the Republican troops morale; as they had moved quickly but quietly through the jungle to their next basecamp their spirits had dropped, as they came to realise that they were not quite the 'Elites' that they had believed themselves to be. The ever-present jungle, damp, dark and oppressive did little to aid the recovery of their corp d'esprite.

Only a few hours after their finished move, their spirits were further lowered by not being allowed to rest, as expected. Instead the entire company that had travelled to the Basecamp was ordered to line up as if on parade, and await instructions. So, weary and downhearted from their losses in the jungle, they paraded, and waited.

A short while later, the flap of a tent that few had seen at the far edge of the camp was pushed open, and a figure strode out. He was tall, six feet two at least, but he didn't seem clumsy at all. Quite the reverse, in fact, as his confident stride and powerful build showed. He had a head of black hair, lined either side with a hint of silver running thriough the fringe, though it was hard to see in the failing light and the figures short buzzcut.
He wore a set of worn and used Jungle BDU's, but the pattern was different somehow, almost as if it had been customised to his tastes. At his side was a wickedly sharp knife, longer and sharper than a regulation one, and a holstered but easily accessible pistol with a silencer screwed on. His boots were not regulation either; instead of black rubber they appeared to be camouflaged as well, and made of some different material.

He made it to the line of restless men and women in a few powerful strides, and faced them. His was an attractive face, marred only by a small scar that ran along diagonally from top right to bottom left, ending at his upper lip. He faced the commandos, but said nothing. Instead, he turned his head slightly, and another figure came towards him, dropped a large cammie bag on the ground next to him, and retreated back into the camp. The man picked the bag up, unzipped it, and suddenly turned it over, releasing a shower of weapons and equipments that made a tremendous noise as they hit the ground and bounced slightly.

He turned back, and began speaking to the now quiet troops. "My name is Briggs. Brigadier Hans Briggs. You will not have heard of me, but be assured I have heard of you. And your recent disaster."

There was a murmuring in the ranks as they became angered at his speaking ill of the dead. Briggs raised a hand to silence them. He picked up a piece of equipment, a pair of large, black Night Vision Goggles. "Your comrades used this piece of equipment when they fought those hunters and their supporters. And weapons like this, and this, and even this." He gestured towards an XM-8, and a M16A2, and then to a SAW next to them as he spoke, his voice remaining calm, cold, calculating.

"They fought with this hi-tech equipment; the best that the Republican Military had to offer. And against any other conventional military special forces group, you would have been successful, or at least stood a fighting chance. Yet your comrades were beaten - slaughtered - with these."

With that, Briggs opened a palm face up and gestured towards more equipment that had been thrown on the ground. "The venerable AK-47 and AK-74; an old revolver. Knives; blowguns; poison-tipped darts. The very image of low-tech equipment, things that you will have never trained with, will even have been trained to dismiss. Yet, you lost against them."

"Your morale is low; you are tired, angry, bitter even. That is all to be expected of you at this moment. But, above all, you want vengeance. A chance to strike back against the enemy.

And you will. But not with mortars and NVGs; those have their place in this style of combat, but not predominantly. You will learn alongside my company about this low-tech weaponry. You will learn proper tactics. But, above all...

...Your comrades will be avenged."

OOC: To Sarzonia

IC:
Hoogenbosch, Capital Building

'Those arrogant Sarzonians have some nerve to knock on our door, have they not?' President Kruger wasn't nervous at all, he expected this move and was merely waiting for this to happen.
'Now,' Mr Moorehouse added 'we must exploit this policetally, somehow.'
'But now? That is the crux Mr Moorehouse.' Kruger threw in.
'Well, we can try something. First, do we have satellite photo's that conclusively show that the vessels are in fact, Sarzonian?'
'Definitely. Here we have photo's of their ships in Haven waters near Inkana, and here are the satellite feeds of the very same vessels nearing Imperial Armies.'
'Excellent. Just excellent' Kruger said cheerfully. Nodding his head while looking out the window, to the Greater Kaf Range in the east, in Oos Seeland he sighed and spoke again.
'Well, make sure to send this to every independent newspaper in Sarzonia. I don't know for sure of course, but it's likely this mission is off the records. Do it!'
'Yes my president.' While saying that, Mr Moorehouse left the well-furnished office and closed the door shut behind him. Paul Kruger wasn't worried about Theohuanacu in the least possible way. He knows the colonial office there handles it all, and only if Guffingford is under direct threat, he will act.

There are still other things that can be used to turn the tide of this war. However, not much has happened yet.

Legionary Headquarters, Legio VI

The 4th Legion. This was the unit that had so thouroughly humiliated the Sarzonian army in their final battle in Inkana. It was with a small force of 5,500 men that Imperator Maximus annihilated a Sarzonian force literally ten times his size, and had taken their general prisoner, making him the centerpiece of his triumph. This was the army that Quinn had been so easily swept aside by.

The Legion's headquarters was in one of the hottest, desolate places on the face of the Earth: the deserts of Crematoria. It was in this smoldering hell-hole that Maximus had achieved manhood, and it was here that he would personaly direct yet another gruesome battle of wits against his arch-rival, Major General Quinn.

His father had no interest in embroiling the Empire in a full blown war so soon after Inkana, so a small team would be sent. Four hand picked men. Four men that had a score to settle with Sarzonia. These men had been chosen for this mission soley as an oppurtunity for them to avenge the deaths of their family members who had been killed at the hands of the Incorporated Sarzonian Army.

Maximus sat at a great oaken desk, sitting up straight in his chair, staring intently, emotionlessly at the door, a look of permanent triumph on his features. His face betrayed features of both his delicate and beautiful mother, the Lady Anja, daughter of the Emperor Antonius of Generia, and of his father, the ferocious Emperor Helldawg V of Doomingsland, a monster among men and a force of humanity to be reckoned with. His physique was pure Doomingslandian, raw power and toned muscle covered by battle armor to be worn at all times, a glinting gladius hanging at his waist. This man was through his birth a Generian prince as well as the heir to Helldawg’s fiery throne. It slowly creaked open, and through it walked the team's leader, Lieutenant Gaius Julius. This was the son of the famed Colonel Julius, the Hero of Waterston. He, along with the rest of his men, had fought to the last drop of blood against a vastly superior Sarzonian force, humiliating their enemies while dying the deaths of heroes.

The man commanding the force that had killed his father was none other than Quinn. Yes, his time for vengeance would come. Most likely not on this day, but it would be under the command of the Son of the Emperor.

Maximus had on polished black armor, the cieling light glinting off of it and the gold cross that adorned the breast plate. His desk was neatly polished with a computer moniter adorning the center, nothin else. His office was sparsley decorated for the Imperator of Doomingsland. Of course, this was just his office for this operation. He had others.

As Gaius stepped through the threshold, he immediatly dropped on his knees and bowed to Maximus, who didn't much like such groveling coming from one of his men.

"Lieutenant, do me a favor and get up," demanded Maximus with a slight hint of impatience in his voice. Gaius promptly obeyed. "You know why you are here?"

A nod.

"Why is that, Gaius?"

A slight pause, as if he were carefully thinking it out. His face then went completely serious.

"For the glory of the Empire, sire."

Maximus looked a bit disappointed at that answer.

"Lieutenant, are you certain that is the only reason?" asked Maximus with a raised eyebrow.

Another pause.

"Vengeance, my lord. Vengeance for the death of my father at the hands of the infidels,"

At that answer, Maximus' eyes glowered intently into the eyes of his underling, as if trying to see inside, his facial expression conveying no emotion. Normally, men would be a bit unnerved at this, but not Lieutenant Julius. Yes, this would be the man to command this mission.

"Very well, Lieutenant. You are dismissed. Strength and Honor."

"Strength and Honor."

The two men, both hardened by many years of bloody warfare in the name of the Emperor, stared at each other in silence for a few seconds, both with completely neutral expressions. Then Lieutenant Julius turned and exited, for battle and revenge awaited him.

Mike stood on the deck of his carrier, admiring the new H-75 and IH-65 Helicopters, knowing that they would be the heart and soul of this mission, seeing as low flying aricraft are much easier to deteect and much harder to fly. The special ops began loading their gear and other things into the helicopters. with them, they were bringing 5 dune buggys, of course armed, tools to literally make an underground base in the sand. All in all, 12 Helos were going: 4 IH-65s and 8 H-75s, three carring just extra gear and desaliniization tools, and lots of extra water. Each soldier was carrying desert painted weapons, desert fatigues and the like. Each had a Desert Eagle or some other large caliber pistol, one Seargeant was carrying a 15mm. The main weapons were assorted, mainly XM-8s, in their different forms, and a few sniper rifles and SAWs. Also in the helos were RPG-9s, not that sophistocated, but hard to track the origin of, along with several MP-SAMs, just in case. They expected a supply drop once a week, so they had to be frugal.
"This is Whiskey Alpha Niner, requesting Clearance for ignition and Take off," The pilot, Captain Winters said over the radio. A message just like his was repeated over 11 times, and in a show of skill, every Helo lifted off at once.
His troops were quiet, Gunny masterson noticed, probably a sign of apprehension, which was odd, because no one here was green...

Newsroom, Woodstock Daily Mail

Executive Editor Harry McCaskill, a man affectionately dubbed "Chief" by his staff for his Indigenous Persons* roots, thumbed through the list of potential A section stories handed to him by the News Editor. The gamut of City Council meetings, school board initiatives, and gubernatorial elections in far off states didn't look like it gave much fodder for a lede story. He harumphed.

"Isn't there some wire we can pull," he asked Connie Mitchell as he looked at the latest budget#. "This is looking pretty dead for A1."

"What about this," Copy Desk Chief Hannah Jordan said as she walked in gingerly. "Satellite recon photos of Sarzonian warships approaching Imperial Armies."

"What's Slick say?"

"He says there was no discussion of asking Parliament for an authorisation of sending force to Imperial Armies."

"What about the Gray House?"

"Pretty quiet over there, sir. They're saying it's an observation force to keep tabs on the region. Something about national security interests."

"Hmm, do you have enough to get a story out of it?"

"Gray House people won't talk, sir."

"That's fine. We've got something. Run with it."

The next day

"What?!"

"Sir, apparently, President Kruger sent satellite photos of Sarzonian warships approaching Imperial Armies to newspapers. The Daily Mail ran a story. We're damn lucky the TV networks didn't run with it last night or there'd be even more problems."

"I'll say. I can't believe McCaskill believed those lying Guffingfordi bastards. Time to play spin doctor," Sarzo muttered as he walked toward the press briefing room in the Gray House.

"Earlier this morning, the Woodstock Daily Mail ran a story and photographs regarding a Sarzonian fleet setting sail for the Imperial Armies region. Under the powers vested in me as Commander in Chief of the Sarzonian Armed Forces, I ordered the fleets to assemble in the region to serve as an observational force due to the current instability in that region and the need to protect national security interests.

"I ask our people to think long and hard about the source of those satellite photos. The government of Guffingford has repeatedly streched the truth about its intentions and has made several repeated disingenuous statements and expects a free, democratic people to believe their assorted lies and half truths. Remember that we are dealing with a group of hypocrites in Guffingford who would like nothing better than to end your way of life as you know it."

Sarzo turned around and walked out, not waiting to answer questions from the media. Time would tell if his statement would lead to further repurcussions.

[OOC: *Indigenous Persons is how Sarzonians refer to so-called Native Americans or American Indians.

#budget refers to the list of stories for the next day's editions that each section of a newspaper has. More of my journalism background shining through, lol]

Theohuanacu, Fifty Miles North-East of Sierra Basecamp

The jungle seemed even more oppressive at the moment than it ever had been before to the Republican soldiers concealed in the undergrowth. Most dismissed it as the possible beginning of a Monsoon season in-country, but several wondered if the jungle could sense their worries and the fact that their first battle against the wildmen and hunters had ended in a great slaughter. Perhaps the jungle that seemed almost to be alive, truly was.

OOC: I'll finish this tomorrow or saturday. My apologies, but I'm working long shifts the next three days, so It'll be finished when I can. Sorry.

OOC: TAG, will post later

OOC: Sentences said by characters in a color other than black are a non-English language. Orange is Hoogs, purple is Neuïsh and green is navtive.

Near Kriegos Camp

Whistler and Lowtax waited and waited, and no reply came. The morning hours slowly grew to noon, noon became high-noon and evening fell on the men. Almost twenty-four hours later, their time has passed. Without saying a word or making a sound, the detachment ordered to try and bribe the Kriegos soldiers departed. On the way back, on the bottom of an ancient riverbed, a group of Wildmen waited.
'Hey there! They have rejected our offer. You know what to do.' The leader of the rabble stood up and his muddy chest, his feathers and other ornaments as a crown on his head made quite an impression on the Guffingfordian men.
'Master has ordered us to fight the heathens. We will listen to our Master. We will kill all of the Kriegos haters.'
'Damn right you will, now, you will be rewarded greatly if you finish the job fast.'
'I will not disappoint my Master. Mishni í slegh!'
'That's right! Kill them all.' Whistler and all the others watched as they ran into the jungle, inaudible running on bare feet, jumping from tree to tree with only a few pieces of cloth and mud to cover their bodies.

OOC: I'm hoping this hasn't died yet
IC: Gunny Masterson sat back watching his troops along with several others not from his troop, known as Fremen, masters of the Illiorian deserts. He was glad to have them along.
"Hey Gunny!" a Lance Corporal called over his P2P channel.
"What young'n, you got somethin to bitch about now?" Gunny replied in a voice not unlike that of Seargeant Johnson from HALO
"Naw Gunny, just wonderin who these Cups are wh..."
"Don't you dare call those men Cups!" Gunny nearly screamed in anger, Cups being a slang for those who aren't combat ready, a major insult in the Illiorian military. "These men saved my ass before you were even born!"
After that, there was dead silence, until someone beagn humming Learn to Fly by the Foo Fighters. Gunny joined in, along with the other 50 or so people in the aircraft.

"FIVE MINUTES OUT!" was the cry that awoke Gunny, not realizing he's fallen asleep, "Men, let's lock and load, and show these Guff's who's Boss! Fremen, call me on channel Zulu Tango"
"Gunny, F-1 checkin in"
"F-2"
"F-3"
F-4" And the checkins went on through 11, 2 Fremen to a team, except his. They'd get the Fremen commander. A thought burst into Gunny's head, where the hell were Guffingfordian defenses? They were supposed to be Incredibly militaristic. Maybe, the Assholes are too concerned about air strikes from their Canal Closings than Low level Insertions. But that didn't stop Gunny From Worry'n about that....