NationStates Jolt Archive

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The Streets of Ajer, Yafor 2
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His code name was Snake 11. What his real name was, none of his lodgemates knew. He was a tough, dark, man, capable of murder at the drop of a hat, the kind of man who wouldn't think twice before drawing out a pistol and ending someone's life in the bang of a gun. He looked like a spy, like someone who could sneak into a room and steal documents important to someone at the blink of an eye. And he was like he looked, a cruel, hidden, man.

But all SRACH agents were, in some way, dark and terrible. Every one of them looked like the part that he played, every one of them looked like he would kill any time. But men who did all looked the same and SRACH agents were always in dangerous places. They were inconspicious, despite being, to the core, an armed force of assassins, dangerously loyal to the government, a terrible foe to their enemies.

But Snake 11 did not dwell on the politics of his job as he softly sped down the concrete sidestreet behind the lit houses of Ajer. Lamps lit his path, as he ran, making sure to keep his footfalls discreet and quiet. The other three men circled around the street, making sure to block off the pathways of the man they were following. The other man had the eyes, nose, chin, and stupidity of a Generian, and few were in Yafor 2, and fewer still showed the fact that they were here. He must have been a new spy.

Snake 11 drew out his gun, grinning as he closed in on the target. The Generian had realized that he was being persued, over twenty minutes after the chase had begun. He must have been a new spy. As Snake 11 sideled up next to him, the Generan turned to face him, an insolent look upon his purely Generian face. "So you got me. Filthy son of a damn - " Snake 11 clapped a hand to the back of the mans head, driving the man into the brick wall that was near the place that this drama was taking place.

"Who are you and who do you work for?" Snake 11 hissed in a cold tone. "Who?" he drove the man futher into the wall. Blood was streaming down the wall now, and Snake 11 could tell that the other man's nose was broken. He leveled his eyes and stared, enjoying this grousome spectacle that would striked fear into the hearts of man, faint-hearted many.

"The emperor..." the Generian's voice betrayed his pain. "And he'll murder you gods till you sleep in the slop that you are!"

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The Next Day, The Government Offices, Ajer, Yafor 2
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Chief Minister Guillermo Vicente had had little sleep the previous night. The whole situation, the situation of everything, had become much worse. Now dulled were the daily reports of battles between their allies Praetonia and Hogsweat against Automagfreek, now lessened was the pain that was felt when the next report on Branwyn was released. Now everything else had beeen put down a notch because of this.

The political implications of this would be tremendous. The Generian government would be furious, both with the spy and with the YAforites. Both sides had spies on the other side, but somehow something like this would leak to the press. It always would. In fact, it had. Already, every news station in Yafor 2 was running the story, the fact that "A Generian Spy had been captured." He cursed and sat down to writing a letter to the Generian Government. This would be a long day.

OOC:This is it, the event of the year! The YAforite-Generian war! Feel free to post your government's position, though do not get involved too much, this is a closed RP. RP criticism/comments welcome.

Colonel Vladek Chernitsky’s face was expressionless as he read the report. The dim light from a desk lamp barely illuminated the Imperial Military Intelligence insignia against his jet black uniform. A man in similar uniform stood at attention in front of the desk. The Colonel spoke softly, his eyes not leaving the documents in front of him.

“Rodenko was a fool. He got what came to him. GIIS trash. No discipline, no talent. Couldn’t run the operation on their own.”

He chuckled coldly now.

“Fucking Yafs. Dumb animals, all of them. Look at the buzz the bastards are making over there. They must not understand the first word in the title ‘clandestine services’. Broadcasting it all over the planet. Fuck their free press. Fuck their democratic system. The whole fucking country’s heading for the toilet.”

He smirked with a degree of satisfaction now as he laid the documents on the table.

“General Vrantasha will be disappointed, but don’t let him trouble himself. The man was GIIS, the last of a dying breed, a fractured group of incompetents. Tell him that while unfortunate, the events are meaningless in the context of ongoing operations. The Yafs have their own agents here. If we wanted we could pluck a few up right now and parade them through the streets, but we won’t. Why, you ask? Because we’re better than that. Civilized, not like the animals on the other side. SCRACH.”

He let loose a harsh laugh.

“Bastards are in over their heads. Well, get moving. Take the report to Vrantasha, and send my regards. Tell him things are under control. I’ll handle the proper diplomatic responses. Our compatriots in Civil Enforcement will handle the press. God bless state media. God bless it.”

Chernitsky continued to chuckle in the dim light while outside the city of Sofia was still, caught in a pre dawn pause, unaware of the events that were moving like clockwork in the larger world. Blissfully unaware. Under control.

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Undisclosed Location, Somewhere in Yafor 2
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Rodenko's eyes fluttered open. He groggily sat up, unaware of his surroundings. He was in somewhere he never guessed he would be, somewhere hw didn't know. He felt his way around the area, feeling his hands touch solid stone. He gasped. It was cold and slippery, wet and dank. Where was he? Feeling his way down his body, his heard a noise off to his right. He guessed it was the door to this area opening. Then, to his profound amazement, he heard a voice that he thought he would never hear again.

"Rodenko, are you all right?" The voice was soft and much changed by the events of a month, but Rodenko had no trouble making it out. He had always been good at that sort of thing, finding out and identifiying people based on their voice or other various fascets of their identity. It had served him well, and it would serve him well now, again.

"Maximus Gutilerren!" Rodenko shouted with the happiness of one who was resigned to dispair, but had realized the silver lining. Rodenko sprinted towards the source of the voice, grabbing Maximus with his hands and body. It had been months since he had seen his dear friend, one of the ablest agents of GIIS who had ever been, but had been "killed" and "resumed dead". Rodenko now saw that he had been captured.

"Yes, Rodenko Krutz, it is your dear friend MAximus Gutilerren. Now look at his body;l your eyes must have adjusted to the light, and see what you do if you deny us what we want. Tell us all you know, Mr. Krutz, and your body will remain whole and unblemished. Tell us all you know, Mr. Krutz, and you will buy medical aid and safety for your closest friend since high school back in Generia City."

The voice came from a loudspeaker pinned onto the wall of the stone cage that Rodenko now realized he was in.At the words of the man, he stared at Maximus; body, at the three scars that ran down his bear back, at the flayed, ripped, and impaled skin, and sobbing, gave in to the vile treament of the YAforite torturers. YAforites were a gentle people, but they were harsh to those they deemed would hurt humanity. Generians were one of those peoples. Sobbing, Rodenko Krutz, once a senior officer for the GIIS, told the YAforite SRACH everything he knew about his former service.

OOC:No time right now to actually say; pretend public anti-Generian letter has been sent to the General. I was going the write it, but no time now. IT has asking reasoning for spy in it. Thanks.

Imperial Palace:

The clap of high heels echoed off the walls as the Emperor's newest assistant ran down the halls towards his Day Chambers. She was hired more for her attraction, and the Emperor's supreme belief he could have her in his chambers in under a week; but that aside she did serve some practical use.

The men in the Day Chambers looked up as Joanna entered, and remembering the Emperor's claim, and temper, averted their eyes back to their work.

"Ah, my favorite assistant, how are you?"

Joanna smiled and held the papers in her hands out a little further, "I'm ok sir, I'd be better if it weren't for this news."

"Oh? What is it?"

"Well if you read these papers," as she talked she walked over and handed the papers to Bhalk, "You'll see that Yafor 2 Captured a Generian spy."

"Oh...Open diplomatic hostilities yet?"

"Not yet sir."

"Alright...hmmm. As we are a merged nation we are bound to assist Generia. Although we have our own problems with Yallak and Generia can no doubt handle this themselves. Take out some paper and write up some messages."

...Encrypting...
...2VX Encryption...

Official Imperial Communique:

To: Generic Empire
From: Emperor Bhalk

You, of course, have our support in this problem with Yafor 2. As you are no doubt aware when our coalition is done with Outpost we have plans for possible invasions and defense against Yallak. Therefore, it is doubtful we will be able to militarily support you, however we politically do and is aid is needed not of military aspect we can no doubt send some over our border.

Also, if you need us to insult Yafor 2 a bit, we can.

End Transmission

http://usera.imagecave.com/mobrule132001/GINNLogoImproved.bmp.jpg

“Hello, fellow citizens of the Empire. I am Tatyana Rubayovic for GINN headline news. Today’s top story, the government of the small backwards nation of Yafor 2 has recently made claims at having captured what they believe to be a ‘Generian spy,’ however both General Vrantasha, overseer of the glorious Empire, and Colonel Vladek Chernitsky, director of Military Intelligence, have dismissed the claim as unfounded saber rattling. Colonel Chernitsky iterates that his department did not have any agents currently operating in Yaforite territory, reinforcing the departmental claim that Generian Intelligence, since the rise of the Military Governing Council, has assumed a purely domestic and defensive role.

He has further stated that placing such operatives within the borders of a foreign government with which there is no official quarrel, such as Yafor 2, would be a foolish maneuver and an unnecessary one. Still, the Imperial government questions the motivation of the Yaforite government in making these claims, and also the true nature of the supposed Generian agent. General Vrantasha has stated that he would not put it past the traditionally malicious and conniving Yaforite ministers to have arrested or kidnapped an innocent Generian citizen. General Vrantasha is further demanding an investigation into the matters and a public release of evidence against the captive.

In other news, small firefights continue to rage between Alexian loyalist supporters and New Imperial troops in the south and on the Alberian border…

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

General Vrantasha was stone faced as he scanned the letter that had just been handed to him.

“Guillermo Vicente. Where have I heard that name before?”

An attractive red haired woman who sat at a corner desk replied softly.

“The Chief Minister of Yafor 2, sir.”

“That’s right.”

The General chuckled lightly.

“I heard he had an Oedipus complex.”

“No, sir. That was old President Sergei of the Island of Rose.”

“Right, right. That makes sense.”

A strong featured officer standing beside the desk tried to suppress a grin. Vrantasha’s eyes roved over the last line of the page and he set the letter down with a sigh.

“Just what I need. More complaints. He knows just as well as I do that he has his own men over here. They’re not bothered, and now he goes and picks up one of ours and makes a public stink over the entire affair. That’s just bad policy. No decency. None at all.”

Vrantasha shook his head resentfully and turned to the secretary.

“Take a letter, Ms. Abramova.”

From the Desk of General Nikit Vrantasha, Overseer of the Generic Imperium-

I note with some regret the outrageous claims your government and media have been making over the past day, those which are reinforced in the letter I received from your office. I must say I find the accusations insulting especially considering the fact that my government in the days since the overthrow of the corrupt successionary council has striven to garner and maintain positive international relations among those that may have once found themselves opposed to Imperial policy. Your recent statements, however, have prompted me to consider a severe shift in policy with regard to your nation.

Still, I must look into your claim and while I am certain the man is not who you claim he is, seeing as it is Imperial policy to oversee the wellbeing of Generian citizens at home and abroad, I must demand that if this man is indeed a Generian citizen, he be returned to Imperial custody immediately.

Good day.

General Nikit Vrantasha,
Overseer of the Imperium

Official Yaforite Response

Good sir, we have everything you need. Identification we have [please see the attached letter and note the signature at the bottom] and your so-called "identification" is of no import givien the circumstances. Please review who this man is, as my Chief Minister noted in his last letter. This man has been identified as a Rodenko Krutz, former head of Generian Intellligence, and a known spy.

For our evidence, not only do we have photo ID's, fingerprinting, signed letters where he states who he is, and much much more [please see all attached items] but we also know exactly why he was here. We have recieved information on own intelligence networks (of which no operatives are in Generia, I may add) regarding sabotage or ouf Nuclear Powerplants [please see attached document "Operation: Deadfox" and a signed letter by the said Rodenko Krutz].

This is lowdown, evil, and terrible. I am appalled that such a highly respected nation such as Generic Empire would even think of committing such a crime. You must be punished for your blatant deeds, all of which are internationally abhorred by many respactable nations, nations which you and your allies are not ranked among. Please, I beg of you, do not lie, nor use your state media for propoganda. I beg of you. Tell the truth.

What you have done is threaten to destroy the very fabric of Yaforite energy systems. Also, as part of "Operation: Deadfox" [see attached document] you were going to destroy over 50 windfields, 11 hydropower dams, and, worst of all, 71 solar panel denominators. This is a very heious deed, one you should be ashamed and, hopefully, acceptant, of. You must be punished.

Many nations, more belligerant, crueler, nations would consider this enough to spark a declaration of war, but I assure you that we are not so inhumane and barbaric to even think of such an idea. I assure you that we are not even considering such a momentous decision. We will not wreck the already war-torn earth by adding to the misery of millions more with such a declaration.

So many nations go into wa without a second thought. So many nations let their citizens feel torn and wrecked by wartime shortages, deaths of friends and family, and the overbearing tention that precides over a situation such as a war. We are not ready, nor will we even think of, such torture and humiliation for citizns of YAfor 2. We will not jump into war like a child after a candy bar. We will not.

But something must be done to avenge such a crime. Something must be done to show that we have power, that we will not let anyone push us around, so that we only escape by luck. Thus we declare:
1)All Generian shipping is to be forbidden from any YAforite territory, including the Passage of Mared.
2)All suspicious Generians will be arrested, no exceptions. The YAforite government reserves the full right to unreasonably search any residence of a Generian national or a Generial decended YAforite citizen, no exceptions.
3)If an event such as this occurs again, the repercussion will be war.

"In Peace do we stand, it if in war that we fall."

~Signed~

Rudiv Sodo
Elected Duke of the Grand Democratic Duchy of YAfor 2.

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Just off Generian Waters
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Captain Jose Albertan of Wolfpack XI had been ordered on the mission, especially. He did not know the reason, nor did he care very much, but he suspected that it involved the spy crisis that was erupting between the two nations. Personally, he detested spies and what the spy had been planning (it had been broadcast on the IYNS long before Rudiv Sodo's letter) but, on the whole he didn't care.

What made him suspicious was this; it was rare to see a whole Wolfpack guarding a simple convoy of trade ships. These particular ones were carrying Pacitalian refrigerators, not something the state had found very interesting before. But it was near Generian waters.

The night slumbered on, silent and unassuming. Stars shone in little patterns, invisible to humans on the ground, because of cloud cover. It was a scene of utter contentment, of the glorious beauty of nature. No one who would have seen the picture-perfect scene then, would have even guessed at the catastrophy that was about to happen there. No one realized what the Generian government saw, 50 YAforite submarines, ready to attack...

Ell was concerned for the Yaforites, and knew the morale of his allies in the Grand Democratic Duchy would be greatly increased should even one ally respond with support. He chose to wire his support to Yafor 2 and let Generia know his government's opinion.

http://kfox.gamehorizons.net/Pacitalia/coatofarms_Medovicia.jpg
Official Statement of the Prime Minister
Federal Central Government
Democratic Capitalist Republic of Pacitalia

Let it be known heretofore that our close and staunch allies in the Grand Democratic Duchy of Yafor 2 have our full moral and diplomatic support in this conflict. It is not our business to get militarily involved, nor do we wish to; however, we know who we support in this, and we have now made it perfectly clear.

Economic aid will also be ready for shipment to Yafor 2 should it ever be needed. If need be, we will escort these assets to the ports of Yafor 2, to ensure their protection while they are transferred onto our ally's soil.

Jesucristo sea con l'Iaforitamu. May God be with the Yaforites.



Sincera in domina bene,

Dr. Timotaio Fortanescu Amacano Jared Ell, MPP
Prime Minister of Pacitalia



Witness-countersigned by:

Dr. Adrian Calin Mariu Copilul-Minune, MPP
Senior Deputy Prime Minister of Pacitalia

((OOC: IC post in the oven. I'll get it up when it's finished. Sorry to keep anyone waiting.))

OOC:No, it's OK, I can wait.

OOC: Hate to tell ya this Yafor, but GE is seriously set on quitting NS, this whole Hogsweat thing and all was the final straw. If you have his AIM or MSN, you should talk to him, otherwise I could give it to you.

OOC:This is Yaf', BTW. I talked to him via TG about..hmm...last week(?) and he said that he was planning to post soon, with much of his weekend time free-er. Of course, that was before the whole Hogsweat thing and all...

Damn, and we put so much work into planning this, too. What a pity.

(as to the instant messengers, I don't need them, due to the fact that I don't have either myself :rolleyes: )

((OOC: I changed my mind about all that, as I am wont to do, but now I have to write an english paper so no post until the weekend.))

OOC:Sure, fine with me. Glad to see you're still here!

OOC: Damn you GE! Damn you for making me a liar.

[/hijack]

The overthrow of the military junta in Generia City and Sofia had come relatively suddenly, and most if not all of the diplomatic and intelligence channels and networks had been shaken if not severed completely by the move. Emperor Kazatmiru had been struggling for the past few days to set up his transitionary government as quickly as possible, and among the first duties of the new Emperor and his newly appointed director of Imperial intelligence, Dr. Isaac Andropov, was to deal with the situation that had been developing over the past week with the Yaforian government.

Andropov was somewhat shaken by the nature of the way things had been progressing when in the hands of General Vrantasha and the Department of Military Intelligence, and was even more shocked to learn of the circumstances under which Rodenko had been captured. Frankly, right now he was not able to know if Rodenko had indeed been planning the alleged assaults, whether he had government support, and if so who had ordered the attack: Antonius’s regime or the junta. He was flying blind, but luckily he was also a man of superb intelligence and intuition. If anyone was fit to defuse such a situation, it was he.

He sat now reading and rereading the library of documents that had been circulated with regard to the incident. It had kicked up quite a stir in all departments of Vrantasha’s military government, but of course it was very much worthy of such attention. Yafor 2 was no longer a small nation, and had a military of reasonable reputation. Generia was also more vulnerable now than it had been in the past. Instability was rampant. Ismeria was on the verge of revolt. Buchiana had split in half. The economy was in recession with the near complete destruction of Generia City during the last civil war. Kazatmiru had assumed emergency powers in an effort to regulate and stabilize the market and word was the government of the Khalifah Al Muslimeen was looking to pass a cash injection to help redevelop infrastructure, but things were still looking grim. Andropov was one of few men who was able to credibly assess the situation outside of his own department, and he recognized that if ever he had to do a job right, it was now.

He opened his laptop and began composing a letter under a pseudonym, that of a fictitious director of foreign affairs. At the moment the old minister of that department was lying under a four story pile of concrete in downtown Generia City.

Official Imperial Communique: Generian Imperial Ministry of Foreign Affairs-

To: Rudiv Sodo
From: Dmitri Ivanovic

Duke Sodo,

I write today on behalf of His Majesty, the newly crowned Emperor Kazatmiru of the Generic Empire. It is of utmost importance to his Majesty that all loose ends brought about by the government of his predecessor be dealt with immediately, and your government’s concerns expressed in correspondence over the past week are foremost in the list of such loose ends.

While we continue to note and regret your anger at the capture of an alleged Generia spy, my department, the Generian Imperial Intelligence Service, and the Emperor Himself still do not see proof enough to believe your claims. While it is our great wish to deal with this matter quickly, we are unable to acknowledge your allocations of even this Mr. Rodenko’s existence, as his name is not apparent in any of our records. Furthermore, we find no evidence of such scandalous conspiracy so noted as “Operation: Deadfox” initiated by any Imperial government to date, and thus are forced to claim that if there was indeed such a plan, it was either one concocted by a raving “Mr. Rodenko” or another organization besides the Imperial government.

We have done our best to convince you that the above is the case, and continue to extend our most sincere regrets and our desire to move forward and repair our relations, however, we also note with frustration and dismay your recent government edicts enforcing the apprehension and illegal incarceration of all Generian citizenry in the Empire. Therefore it is our duty to demand the immediate release of these persons and their immediate extradition to Generia. Until such measures are taken we have no choice but to enact similar measures. Effective immediately, all Yaforite citizenry and those of Yaforite background are to be immediately apprehended and incarcerated, with utmost attention paid to their proper care and wellbeing until the Yaforite government takes measures to release similarly held Generian citizens and those of Generian descent, whereupon the incarcerated Yaforites will be promptly released and extradited to the country of their choice, unless they be Generian citizens of Yaforite descent whereupon they will be allowed to return to their lives and businesses without further incident.

We beseech the Yaforite government to act quickly on these matters that we may be able to move forward along diplomatic channels.

Yours in Hope,
Dmitri Ivanovic,
Minister of Foreign Affairs for His Most Gracious and Eminent Majesty,
Emperor Kazatmiru of the Generic Empire

Andropov opened the official instant communication server and dispatched the message. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath one would almost be able to construe as a prayer. Maybe, just maybe this would end peacefully and Generia could see an end to bloodshed, at least for now.

However, peace was not in the cards tonight, for off the eastern seaboard of Generia, the Imperial 19th fleet was making its runs, and the sonar operator of the destroyer GIS Kyatyusk was sitting wide eyes with his ears wide open.

“Captain, you may want to come look at this…”

Captain Bohuslaw Ivieno walked over, a perplexed look on his face.

“Yes?”

“Sir…”

The Captain looked at the readings.

“Sweet mother of God.”

He turned to the radio man.

“Get the admiral on the line!”

Rear Admiral Bronislaw Slavayovic stood on the bridge of the aging dreadnaught Alexei, a new transfer from the 13th fleet. She, like the rear admiral himself, had been serving her proud and honest duty since well before the Inkanan War, and looked forward to a well-earned retirement.

“Admiral, sir, urgent reports from the [I]Kyatyusk. Their sonars have just picked up an ungodly number of unidentified submersibles. They’re not any of ours according to Naval High Command in Port Belgrade and our sub stations at Kreschnev Isle aren’t able to place the signatures.”

Slavayovic’s ears perked and eyebrows raised. Perhaps this was it. The loyalist Imperial navy had not yet managed to round up the fleets that had been under the command of captains and admirals loyal to Vrantasha. They were out there somewhere, lurking, ready to pounce on any innocent trade convoy or Imperial naval patrol. He almost grinned with anticipation.

“What’s their position?”

“Just inside international waters, sir.”

The Admiral grunted and nodded. It was suspected that the rogue captains had taken off into international waters to launch retribution strikes on the northern and southern coastlines. He was lucky to find them here. It barely crossed his mind that this wolfpack was anything but one of the loyalist convoys in question.

“Sir, do you think they’re-“

“Almost certainly. Still, run it by the Imperial Naval Command. See if the traitors had access to submarines of similar size and number.”

The radio operator did so quickly and turned back to the admiral.

“Aye, sir. A similar number were missing from the pens when our good boys swept in and drove the junta out.”

In actuality, the submarines in question were all resting on the bottom of the Belgrade Bay, sunk trying to escape from patrol around Port Belgrade. The exact number of confirmed kills had not been properly recorded given the confusion of the exchange of power, an accounting error that would prove disastrous.

The Admiral nodded again now.

“Notify High Command of our suspicions and request permission to engage and destroy.”

“Aye, sir.”

The radio operator turned back a moment later.

“Permission has been granted, sir. Shall I give the order to the fleet.”

“Do so. Battle stations effective immediately.”

The radio operator’s features brightened.

“Battle station! All personnel to battle stations! Enemy submersibles detected 12 degrees of the starboard bow of the Kyatyusk. Engage and destroy!”

From the decks of the two escort carriers accompanying the fleet, GIF-80 naval bombers scrambled into the air, beginning combat air patrols while frigates and Generian submersibles formed ASW perimeters around Generian capital ships.

LF sonobuoys and LIDAr buoys were catapaulted from the decks of Generian frigates, scanning for traces of the foreign vessels.

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A Village In Ismeria
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'Control your anger.' That phrase was all that Yeokitara knew. He was a machine, a creature made simply out of experimentation, a beast that could be unleashed at any point. He sometimes found himself lost, doing things that his training forced him to do, figuring out things that he never wanted to figure out. That was one reason he was here.

The Freudian rebels were no good and Fron knew it. They had been untrained, unarmed, even unsure. They seemed to be only made of useless ideals, ideals which alone could not fuel a camel into action (of course, it took a lot to feul a camel into action). Fron had brought Yeokitara for that reason; a human robot could convince these thickheaded fools to follow what he said, through thick and thin.

He wished he was working with proper criminals again. Fron was a mastermind; one who had done operations scanning the globe, from Dubai to Timiocato. He hated, however, working with the government - any government! - and so even when the SRACH had come to him - with $15 million no less! - he had been doubtful. But here he was, training the untrainable, with a SRACH human ape as a pet. Well, that was life.

"We move tonight." were his only words to the Generian in the enterence of the tent. The man nodded and exited, flitting away softly into the night. Soon, Ismeria would be in flames like Buchiana.

OOC:This is mainly a bump to show I edited. Sorry for the lateness/badness of the post; creative juices haven't been flowing. Your move in the sea; attack, if possible. Another thing; you get 10 bonus points if you guess what movies Yeokitara is based after (hint: Matt Damon played him).

((OOC: Ismeria is a Freudotopian province. There are no Generian rebels there. Come to think of it, there aren't any rebels there at all at the moment.))

OOC:You said it was "Ismeria was on the verge of revolt". So, I'm just putting myself behind that "revolt". BTW, can you link the CAD map?

Oh, and the answer to my second post was "The Bourne Identity/Supremacy"

OOC:You said it was "Ismeria was on the verge of revolt". So, I'm just putting myself behind that "revolt". BTW, can you link the CAD map?

Oh, and the answer to my second post was "The Bourne Identity/Supremacy"

((OOC: Verge of revolt, yes, but that's just unrest. I think you have the thread but i'll link it if you want. It's still a Freudian province with Ismerian rebels, not Generian. No biggie. I'm still working on the revision of the CAD map, which is actually just Bornerifreudia at the moment. I'll get it to you soon as it's done.))

OOC:'K, thanks, I'll edit it to "Freudian" rebels.

OOC:'K, thanks, I'll edit it to "Freudian" rebels.

((OOC: Cool, thanks. By the way, do you care if there's OOC stuff here or do you want a separate thread? I don't mind it, but if you think things might get cluttered, then I'll go ahead and make an OOC thread.))

OOC:Why? For most of the OOC stuff we can just TG or post here; I just hate OOC threads. Also, if you don't mind, can we keep going? I'm waiting for you to actually fire upon my subs; destroy them, I don't care, the important thing is that we actually fight.

((OOC: Crappy post, but I want to get things moving too.))

The blips were beginning to appear on the radar and sonar screens, products of the effectiveness of the buoys. When a submarine was located, a flight of GIF-80s would move into position and deploy their ordinance, largely air-launched super cavitating torpedoes. Destroyers and frigates split off from the fleet, joining the sub hunt, targeting their enemies with ASROCs. The merchant vessels also fell under the guns of the Generian navy, not wanting to take any chances that they might be running cargo to the traitorous forces.

OOC:Apologies for not posting.

BIC:

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The Battle
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The Yaforite submarines had stood no chance since the beginning. That much, at least, Captain Jose Albertan knew. Much beyond that, or indeed, anything beyond that was not known either to him or to the men on his ship. The best they could do was fight to the end, the bitter, bitter, end, and alert high command. Captain Albertan ground his lip. The prospect of dieing was not one he looked forward to.

But why the attack in the first place? This fact still escaped Captain Albertan, though he was known (by some) as an analytical master. Was it but a mistake? Flashes of the horrors of war shot before Captain Albertan's mind. Would Yafor 2 be forced to undergo the violence that had wracked, was racking, and would rack many nations before and after it?

"We're under attack from Generian forces, reason unknown, over." the submarine commander radioed to high command. They needed to know about this strange, irrational, and altogether unprovoked attack on Yafor 2. Captian Jose Albertan waited for the response, tense all the way down his lithe and frightened body.

"WHAT?" The response floated in the silent air. But no one would hear it, for indeed, the submarine to which it had been sent to was sinking down into the bottom of the ocean, never to be seen again.

Four days later, all the major nations of the world, including all major Yaforite allies recieved a notice.

[QUOTE]The Grand Democratic Duchy has declared war upon The Bold Imperium of Generic empire.

There was no signature, no seal, no reason. For it was to not concern the world what horrors would occur in the Yafo-Generian War.

OOC:Not a great post, but a lack of time, as well. Hopefully we can get this baby moving soon. ~Yaf'~

“Soldiers and citizens of the Great Generic Empire, today marks the 105th anniversary of the end of the first invasion of the Generic Empire by the armies of the Commonwealth of McQuaide, the first instance in our history when a foreign power challenged the sovereignty of the Empire. We refer to it as the first slave war, our first great test. Emperor Vladimir Kreschnev’s first demonstration of his capabilities in the face of a conquering army, a coalition of the self righteous who would make slaves of their heathens. Today marks the 105th anniversary of the event that brought Generia into the first hours of the dawn. Since then we have been challenged time and time again. The Great Vladimir Kreschnev fought three more wars to keep these borders, these Generian people free and to preserve our Imperial rights. We have met with countless travails since that assault 105 years ago. We have fought countless battles, many of them upon our own soil, and in those years we have done the impossible. We have survived.

Generians! Today the Grand Commonwealth Duchy of Yafor 2 has declared its intention to make war upon the Generic Empire! To bring the clatter of their arms to free shores in an effort to topple our holy and legitimate dynastic rule, to force their will on a people that are not theirs to govern, and to challenge the armies of the Empire in open contest of arms. Generians! Today they seek to do what countless states have done in the past: to topple our Empire! To seize our crown! Generians! Like so many before them, they will FAIL!

The Yaforites may be students of war, students of government, students of their precious international laws, but they are obviously not students of history! My proud people, look around you! What do you see? You see an Empire, gleaming, standing head and shoulders above the world. You see a nation of unparalleled economic power! A nation of undisputed military strength! A nation of tradition! A nation of honor! You see Generia! You see an Empire that, despite countless attempts to prevent it, stands proud and secure. Proud like her people, like her armies, like her leaders past and present. You see a nation that has been forged by the saber, the plough, the hammer, and the guiding hand of the Emperors.

The Yaforite government has offered no explanation for its declaration. They have sought no other means to remedy their dispute with Generia. I do not complain! No, in fact I welcome their challenge. Others would call the route of diplomacy the civilized way to get past our differences, but I disagree. Is an honorable contest of arms not more civilized? I say that war is now the only civilized path! The Yaforite government has made their challenge public. They have announced it to every major senate and royal house the world over. They want the world’s attention. They want them to witness the coming conflagration. Their eyes are on us! The Empire built on the strength of her people, the ability of her military machine, the raw will of the Emperors. Let us show them how civilized we are! Let us show them that this Empire is still capable of the feats that astounded the world 105 years ago! Let us show them what makes us men! What makes us Generians!

To the Yaforites, I say to you the following. Come here to Generia. Come with all your infantry, all your artillery, all your tanks, all your flotillas, all your aircraft, all your bombs and bullets. Bring them here to Generia, for the moment you set foot on our territory, all those soldiers, those sailors, those grand machines of war and conquest will enter the history books as just another group of statistics, your nation just another in the list of failed empires that made the mistake of challenging Generian might. Come here. Our invitation is open, your challenge is accepted. We will be ready.

For Generia! For God!”

Across the Empire, from the high scaffolding on the reconstructed buildings of Port Belgrade, to the old avenues of Sofia, to the rubble mounds of Generia City, that same warcry that had echoed in defiance could be heard on the vocal cords of every citizen, man, woman, child. With a single five minute speech, all doubts about Kazatmiru’s commitments to maintaining unassailable strength in the face of unimaginable danger vanished. He was no longer the calm scholar, the pacifist ruler, though his hand would be soft in peace. Indeed he had joined the ranks of the old Kreschnev Emperors, of the Alexian rulers before him, his father Antonius, his grandfather Alexei, of the war kings that had done battle with McQuaide, Psov, Muktar, Shoobooshaaba, Palombia, The Lightning Star.

It had not been Kazatmiru’s intention to assume this role, to replace the pen and scepter with the saber, and to an extent he found the shattering of his dream for a new and peaceful chapter in Imperial history shattered a part of himself, but he knew that he had been called, and the duties on his shoulder, while not his intentions, were those of the most honorable nature. He had been tasked like his forefathers with defending the Empire, and he would fight like a lion for the sake of his home and his people.

The war bells were ringing, the Empire was on a fast moving course for collision with another superpower because of a misunderstanding in the Inkanan Channel. She had just recovered from a six month civil war. She was bruised and she was bandaged. Some doubted her ability. She herself had no doubts. She may not have been ready, she may not have been fit, but like her king and like her God, she was a being of pure will. Her existence was proof enough of that, and now in her moment of trial, her will was as strong as ever. “Let them come!” her King demanded. “Let them come!” her people bellowed. “Let them come!” her warriors barked. “Let them come!” was the phrase on every lip, in every heart, and where it fell off the thunder of her cannon would continue.

War was upon them. The conflagration had been kindled. The stage was once more set.

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Ajer, Yafor 2
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Elected Duke Rudiv Sodo ascended the podium, his heart pounding in his chest. It was not so much fear, but more anticipation, anticipation of what he was about to do. He was not making a speech to convince; nay, for convincing was nothing near what he was trying to accomplish. He would be rebuking, criticising, and most importantly, making a statement that Yafor 2 was not afraid.

He stood forward, leaning slightly to the frint, but keeping his eyes on the crowd. It was a select crowd, comprised mainly of journalists, but with a few business heads and others who were influential and important. The Elected Duke had meticulously prepared and rechecked every fascet of the deed which was about to be done. He needed it perfect, not just for show, but also for the good of his nation.

"All right, we're on. Buckle your seatbelts!" Only one news corporation had been invited; the government sponsored IYNS. While the fact that the government had sponsored them was fairly important in the choice of making them the sole reciever of this live television broadcast, there were other reasons, as well. Mainly, it was due to the fact that the head of the IYNS was Rudiv Sodo's good friend, which was seriously important. Confidential information would be released here and the Elected Duke needed it in good hands.

Guillermo Vicente stood to his right, tall and masculine in his tuxedo. Rudiv Sodo took a deep breath, than another, concious of how momentous what he was about to do was. The other man, the strong and able Chief Minister winked at him, giving him a quick thumbs-up. Rudiv Sodo flashed a smile. The pressure would not bend him! It would not! He would not let it, nor anything else phase him now! His country needed him and he would not let it down.

"We are live with Elected Duke Rudiv Sodo as - " Rudiv Sodo tuned out the sound of the television reporter, famous Juhar Narshimanar. It was the first time in his life that Rudiv Sodo had been covered by that man (a living legend, nothing less!), but it was not important. It was just and indicator of what he was doing. Rudiv Sodo tried to ignore the outside world and failed. 'Hold together! Hold together!' ran over and over in his head, an everpresent mantra which he could not get rid of. The Elected Duke turned his head and received a pleasent surprise. His anxiety was nowhere on his face. But his time to speak was here and there was nothing he could do to delay it.

"I stand here, before you, naked, though clothed. I lay myself before you, to let your judgement pass over me, as you do every time you sit in the morning, reading the newspaper, and drinking a cup of tea. I stand before you, preparing to lay aside all masks and throw aside all desceptions, to show you the final goal. I will give you everything you ask for, people of Yafor 2, I will give you all you ask for, people of the world. I will tell all, and beyond all, to let the truth, that precious jewel, that deadly poison, get out.

I have no wish, have had no wish, and will have no wish, to bring Yafor 2 to war. War is terrible, for it brings death and fire to the weak, and laurels of victory to the strong. Yafor 2 is strong. But fire and blood are the tests along the way, and to subject you to these tests is not something which I would EVER do to my nation, my people.

But we all come to a time in our lives where we must forsake our ideals, our wishes, our wants, for the right course of action. Every one of us comes to a fork in the path of life, where we have two roads ahead of us. One is a life of opulence and comfort, where we do what we believe is right, but is actually an illusion. It is a road of false splendour, one which is seemingly perfect, but in truth, is but the easy way out.

But the other! The other is the road I take; a high road of idealism and prosperity, one where you forsake your wants for what is right! Yes, Yafor 2, what is right! We were attack, Yafor 2, 53 submarines and 6 merchant ships, destroyed in an unprovoked attack on Yaforite property! And, yes, Generia has not replied, given any reasoning, but confirmed it! They have invited us up the path of war and we accept! We will avenge the dead, Yafor 2, avenge the dead and give back to the Generians what they have done.

To the Generians I say this: WE WILL COME! And when we do, be warned, we will show you what you do when you threaten YAfor 2, when you attack for no reason, when you invite and invasion. Politics is a complicated game, Kazatmiru, one which is more that it seems. But I see a clear and simple path ahead of us; one which is obvious in every way. To war, Yafor 2! To war! And may the gods protect us in our fight for righteousness and justice!

Rudiv Sodo ascended the podium to the sounds of resounding cheers.

"So, are we on yet?"

"Nae yaer majeshy. Give ere a momen."

"Gra."

"Tray, twa, wan. Yaer un!"

The King was still young looking. His hair streaked with one hair of grey among thousands of royal brown with a golden red hint. He was every inch the proper King. A crown of caramelized thorns sat atop his head. His face was long in the shadows of the lights. Something only recognizeable to a Camel was indeed casting itself across his face. A fervent sorrowful joy. A damning of grace. He was every inch the warrior. A sword rested next to him. A most royal sword. Simple, elegant, and regal. It was struck of fine space-forged metals. Never known to break. Never known to crack. Never known to give in.

"My people. My people's people. My allies and enemies of the moot. My ancestors and my descendants. My Sawneys and my Mudrats. Our closest ally. Our greatest friend. Our brother Empire. Hath been attacked. Hath been layed at a high altar. A sacrifical lamb that is truly a wolf."

He grinned.

"Yae ken wha' I saes naw. Generia never known defeat. Not even when my grandfather-king, Freckula of the Lost Clan of Garzivonni, met them for the first time those illustrious years ago. Not even when Linfield," at the mention of this name a hush came over the nation, a reverent pause which lifted a moment after, "when Linfield was in rule and Buchiana rose and the Sawneys fist struck at my Uncle's chin. Nae. Even not then have Generia known defeat. And neither have we. When the Drum Gods betrayed us. We fought back. When the world around us was falling apart and only a few fists struck the air and told us all that the Clan of Hannon was not of Gahlan. We fought back and we knew that we would not let rumour a thousands of many years old tear us. When every time we've been attacked, when we've been challenged, when everything has taken itself to fight us. We've fought back. And we've always fought back with the help of a few."

He paused and let the history of these words sink in.

"At Wuhan Alexander Sawney Beane the Third fought in the Cu Chullian militia. He captured eight enemy tanks and made them attack their own lines under threat of death. Upper Xen stood by us."

Nods all around.

"When Drum Gods tried to take Kashmir. The Great Sixth Reich stepped in to stop them. They stood by us."

Once more nods all around.

"When the Veritas clan tried to take the Gulf from us. We destroyed them ourselves. Damn good thing too. They were getting annoying."

Puzzled looks all around.

"My point is this! We have always had an ally standing next to us and fighting with us. We should do this now."

YAY! Cheers and stuff.

"But we cannot. This is a fight that Generia must fight. But we shall stand with them. I call upon every Catholic, Monotheist, Muslim, Jew, Pagan, and Zoroastrian to pray now. Pray for your brothers. Pray for the Clans without Clans. Pray for the nation that needs no prayers! AYE!"

More cheers and stuff all around.

"And should Generia ask war of us," at this point he raised his sword high and everyone nodded, "what shall be our answer? FUCK YEAH MAN! Just give us something to attack and we'll do it!"

Massive applause echoed all around the nation. Every home, every bar, every library, every school. They were all filled with the sounds of great enthusiasm.

And there the King stood. He was every inch a Camel....

OOC: Mhm. Break it down now.

Sub level 4, Old Imperial Senate Building, Sofia

The heavy steel door slid open with a rumble and a hiss, and from the dim corridor, Emperor Kazatmiru I, sovereign lord of Generia and all her dominions stepped into what had become Imperial War Room. It was one of the larger and more brightly lit rooms in the bunker complex that fanned out under the Sofia streets, the nerve center beneath the Imperial Senate Building, and the numerous illuminated monitors and electronic map displays combined with the dull hum and whir of electronic equipment did not at all resemble the traditional building above them. This particular bunker was now packed to the brim with personnel imported from numerous Imperial bureaus, offices, and departments, all working at a frantic yet controlled pace. As the Emperor entered, flanked on each side by an Imperial White Guardsman, the bodyguards of the Imperium and the most skilled warriors in Generia, all activity halted. Every man in the room stopped in his tracks or stood to his feet and turned to face Kazatmiru. There was absolute silence, then a loud thump as every man present fell to his knees and bowed his head in reverence. Kazatmiru offered a short bow of his own, bending subtly at the waist. At this the company rose and went back to their business, leaving the Emperor to his.

Kazatmiru walked briskly towards the rear of the bunker where a large glass wall separated a conference room from the hubbub of the rest of the bunker. The door opened for him and closed as quickly as he stepped inside, leaving his guards waiting on either side of the door. The room was quiet, save for the breathing of the fourteen men seated around the table. Kazatmiru proceeded to a large chair on the far end and sat down. The fifteen most important figures in the Empire had now gathered in one room.

Kazatmiru looked around the table, then spoke.

“Is my Empire prepared for war?”

It had been the question hinging on everyone’s lips since the solemn news of the declaration. Bold words were of course one thing, but actualities were quite a different story. Generia had only months ago come out of a civil war that had near completely leveled the capital, Generia City, and severely crippled the infrastructure of Port Belgrade, the Empire’s largest port and seat of commerce. Until recently many of her soldiers had been locked in battle with each other, and now many were slain by the hands of their own brethren. Also until recently a crazed junta had been at the Imperial helm instead of a true born Emperor. To say that progress made in the wake of Kazatmiru’s ascension and the fall of the junta had been miraculous would not in the least do it justice. The reconstruction projects had been progressing at nearly 400% the expected rate. Port Belgrade had been brought up to the status of a functional port once again, and repair work on comparatively minor damage in the city of Sofia had been largely completed. However, the scale, expense, and complexity of the projects meant that reconstruction was far from over, and a recession still loomed. A war could very well push Generia over the edge, and for the first time in her history many felt that she was indeed not ready.

However, there was a beacon of hope, and fittingly it originated from their Emperor. His recent declaration had dispelled any doubts the people had in the leadership and strength of Antonius’s third son. Youth or mild manner could no longer be taken as a sign of weakness, and he had shown that he was as determined to fight and win as his father and grandfather had been when faced with the prospect of war. He had also proved to be a remarkably savvy bureaucrat, having constructed an entirely new government nearly from scratch following his ascension. The monster governmental apparatus of Antonius that permitted much to go on behind the Emperor’s back and without his knowledge was gone, and Kazatmiru made sure now that he knew every detail of what went on in the Imperial government. Needless to say, he also had the advisors he needed for such a job, the brightest minds in the Empire to be certain were all sitting around that table. Even despite the savage nature of the civil conflict that had only just ended, things in the military branches had seemed to settle down quickly with Kazatmiru’s ascension.

Seated across the table, a dark haired man in his early thirties sought to answer the Emperor’s question. Lord Varus Tiberius Alexei was the only son of the late Emperor Tiberius, who had held power for only two days before his brutal assassination that forced his brother Antonius to take the reigns. From that moment on, Antonius had taken Varus in as his own son, and the man had quickly become known as one of few reasonable voices in Antonius’s convoluted circles, making him the Emperor’s most trusted advisor. He had been largely behind the plans that toppled the junta and brought Kazatmiru to the throne, and now had assumed the title of Kazatmiru’s Grand Vizier.

“Your Grace, as we speak the Empire moves closer to total preparedness. There is no doubt in my mind that we will be ready to repulse an invasion when and if it comes.”

Kazatmiru nodded, allowing Varus to continue.

“It is also my belief that the Yaforite government has made the declaration in haste and will not be ready to act in the capacity that is required for a period of a few weeks, buying us a good deal of time. Therefore it is my opinion that our strategy should be one of patience. Pre-emptive offenses would be unwise in the scenario we are handed, and I argue that we should destroy the Yaforite armies on our own shores before we take the fight to them.”

“Sound logic. I agree. Dr. Andropov, can you confirm that the Yaforites do not yet have the capacity to move in force?”

A white haired man in his late fifties responded to the Emperor’s question. Dr. Isaac Andropov had been in the Imperial intelligence circles for nearly thirty years, and his place as head of the reformed Generian Imperial Intelligence Service was well earned. His loyalty to the Alexian dynasty and commitment to maintenance of the administrative status quo were unshakeable, and it could easily be argued that he was the most intelligent individual in the imperial government. If nothing more, he was certainly the most reliable and his experience in managing operations before, during, and after both Buchianan wars, in the Khalifah Al Muslimeen, and recently the second Ismerian war ensured he knew how to juggle administrative duties without dropping.

“Varus’s estimate is the same as my own. From what I can surmise and from what our operatives have managed to pick up, the Yaforites won’t be able to begin proper actions for at least two weeks.”

Kazatmiru again nodded.

“General Iljevo, what is the status of my armies?”

General Sverik Iljevo was a man in his late forties, though his face carried the lines of a much older man. He was a well built individual, his physique befitting a career soldier, though he possessed a military mind as sound as his body. It had been he that had rescued Lord Varus from the clutches of the junta and who had initiated the overthrow of the junta along with Varus and Maximus of Doomingsland. He had been rewarded with command of the Imperial Army, answering only to Kazatmiru himself.

“Twenty Imperial armies have been called up. As of now, three are ready for deployment, six more will be by tomorrow, the rest by the end of the week. The men are eager, morale high throughout the ranks. They can’t wait to spill the blood of their arrogant adversaries.”

Kazatmiru’s pleasure was evident.

“Dispatch the available forces to the most vulnerable coastal areas, Buchiana, Port Belgrade, and Alberia. They will be reinforced as the others are ready to deploy.”

“Your grace, the Yaforites are not stupid. They will be expecting those areas to be heavily defended.”

“Exactly, and heavily defended they should be. They won’t try to force a landing against two separate Imperial army groups. They’ll try to settle for another landing spot. Then we will control the battlefield.”

Noises of approval went up around the table, the loudest coming from an enormous red haired, red bearded man who appeared to be in his early thirties. The Emperor’s older brother and the second of Antonius’s sons, Rurik, was renowned as a warrior, some said a match for Doomingsland’s Maximus himself. As of now he had been given control of the newly formed Imperial Royal Infantry Brigade, assembled from the ranks of the most brutal and skilled warriors of the Praetorian Guard. He now made himself heard without waiting to be acknowledged.

“Brother, Emperor, Majesty, my warriors long to sink their swords into the hearts of their callous enemies, and I request on their behalf that you send us to meet them when they come. We can be anywhere you want us in a day.”

Kazatmiru smiled.

“I have no doubt, brother, and I assure you, when they come, your soldiers will be first in line to meet them.”

Rurik grinned broadly, and let out a bellowing laugh.

Kazatmiru again looked around the table.

“You have reassured me. Generia will preserve her honor, of this I am certain. Attend to your business now. War will wait for none of us.”

Kazatmiru stood and left the room.

OOC:Sorry for the wait; I was wasting all my RP time on the Cup of Harmony (which I eventually won, today) and didn't get time to RP in this thread. I'll have an IC post up by this weekend, so, sorry for the wait.

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Ajer, Yafor 2
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Each of the men was gathered on the table, the long wooden table. Each men held a sheaf of papers in his hand, with tiny print on each one. Each man wore a grin expression written in bold lettering upon his face, one which could be read by even the least intelligent of the human species. Each man on the table was not happy.

The speaker was Paulo Dogrod, the representative of the absent Minister of Defense. His voice was a low monotone, occationally punctured by a slight crescendo in the tone, and susequently, the mood, of his arguement. He spoke softly, in a way which seemed to hold much patience behind it, and yet he commanded respect by the very low tone which he spoke in. Few men in the world could do that.

"As to my complete analysis of the situation, I have a few words, sir." he continued, finished up a speech which seemed to have taken quite a while, "The very fact that we went to war for a reasonable reason cannot be denied. However, I do believe that this declaration was, on thew whole, in haste. The points I have mentioned prove this. We can fight, yes, but I believe that it is in our greatest interest to begin this war with a strategic missile attack."

"Nay, you are wrong." A guttarral voice, barely understandable, radiated from the corner of the room. There sat the other of the men, hius face shrouded in the darkness, his body lithe and dangerous. Even his very voice seemed disguised, as if he were enshrining himself, cutting himself off from the rest of mankind. As he did. The minute his voice began to move, the others in the room averted their faces, in a gesture of deference to one much greater than themselves.

The man was The Bulldog, the head of the SRACH. Who or what he was was not known, if indeed anyone wished to even know. But as to why he was here, there was no doubt. If there was ever anyone more skilled - at anything - it had been, was, or would be doubtful. Not just was his expertiese in foreign affairs and in clandestine services, but also in his strange compassion and severity, in his analytical skills, and in his pure and simple strength. The Bulldog was, easily, the best man there, and everyone knew it.

"A missile strike would turn the world, especially our allies, against us. Instead, let us use our currently deployed forces. In two days, we can have three aircraft carriers, escorts, battleships, cruisers, and, of course, submarines deployed. HERE!" His voice grew louder as he slammed a gavel, which had come from "somewhere" on the map laid out on the table. "Ntac Island. The Gateway to the South Generian Sea. Their strongest defense. Take it, and we are guarenteed an excellent position. We must attack with our navy!"

OOC:Once again, apologies for the wait. Keep RP'ing about preparing your defenses, I'll have an actual attack up soon. Sorry again and I'll be more active when break begins (week after Christmas). Then we can get this RP rolling!

OOC:Once again, apologies for not posting. Got sick; had to spend the last two days like that. Happy Holidays.

BIC:

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The Shipyards of Eastern Ajer, Two Days Later
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Jyolt Straker was not prone to making decisions. He was a Yaforite soldier, one who was given orders, perhaps questioned them and found fault, and did the improved plan. Like most Yaforite soldiers, he believed the blame went on the High Command, the credit went to the High Command, the execution prize went to the soldier. But, being the "most able admiral", he now was in charge of the Second Armada, a force bent on the destruction and first invasion of Generia.

Admiral Straken had been selected not only on the love, affection, and bitter trust which his soldiers showed him, but also on the psycological tests, while at Camp Latif, the Yaforite Naval Training Center, where his teachers had all written: "Will become excellent leader. Keep free rein; can lead an army." The Admiral never believed that he was worthy of such praise. And now he had the best - or worst, depending on your opinion - appointment a military commander had ever faced.

"Supplies are ready." A voice floated behind him as he stared out at the azure blue sea and sky on the pier. He indicated the messenger with a slight motion of his hand, one which acknowledged the other, fit their difference in rank, and, yet, could not be seen as rude or insulting, for it was a standarn military practice. In Yafor 2, everything regarding the military had been regimentalized.

"Good. What is the estimated time for launch? How many hours?" The Admiral turned around, coming face - to - face with a young and eager recruit, who wore the three silver stars of a Second Sub-Lieutenant. The man was obviously ready to attack, and that was the way that Admiral Jyolt Straker liked it. But that boy would be shocked when it came time to battle...yes he would.

"Three, sir." The boy's voice piped up. He had a slight crackling in his voice, as if he had not yet finished the progression into manly baritone. A late bloomer. The Admiral nodded, then strode off the dock. Soon the Generians would pay for their unessecary, and un-called-for, attack. Soon, the coasts of Generia would be rent in blood and fire.

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Five Days Later, One Mile Off Ntac Island
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Silently, the night called to the armada. The Generian precsence on land was slight, easy, ready for destruction. Submarines roiled in the sea, a mass of metal, ready to be used. He grinnined, then turned, then signalled. Two Hundered and Fifty (250) missiles, Tomohawk Cruise Missiles, sped forward, arching in the moonlight. Headed straight for the island.

((OOC: This is the updated map of Generia. The map of the whole Bornerifreudian continent is too big to fit, so this'll have to do until i can figure out how to make everything smaller:

http://usera.imagecave.com/mobrule132001/TheGenericEmpire.bmp.jpg ))

Colonel Vladimir Stretayanovic was thrown from his bed onto the carpeted floor as the room vibrated like no room had vibrated before. The noise was as if someone was firing a cannon directly into his ear. The lights flickered and went out, replaced by an emergency glow that bathed the man’s weatherbeaten, mustachioed face in an eerie red. He struggled to his feet as the vibration took a momentary respite, the exposed muscles in an empty socket squirming as his one perfect blue eye searched the floor for his personal effects, thrown from a desk beside the bed. He bent down and grabbed a black patch, strapping it over the hole in his head. He threw on a green uniform shirt, walked over to an iron locker, opened it and removed a leather belt with a pistol holster which he put on and buckled across the chest. He checked his boots for an everpresent long knife, and contented to find it still there, rushed out into the hallway of the bunker several stories below the surface of base G114B, or Fort Nievsky, one of the six major fortresses on Ntac Island.

Shouts and screams added to the cacophony of explosions and thunder as frantic, surprised soldiers rushed from place to place. A young lieutenant, seeing the Colonel emerge from his quarters had the good sense to stop and offer a salute.

“Colonel sir! We’re under attack! Yaf warships launching Tomahawks!”

“Goddamn bastard Yafs!” Stretayanovic shouted, his barbaric north Generian accent coming through perfectly. He darted off immediately in the direction of the command room, the nerve center at the heart of the spider’s lair that was the subterranean levels of the fortress. As he rushed down the winding corridors, he passed wounded men, rooms filled with smoke and fire from missiles that had penetrated the surface and exploded a few levels above. The command center was understandably close to the officer’s quarters, and Stretayanovic was in the bunker in thirty seconds.

“Damage report!”

“Sublevel 1 is trashed, sir. We think they hit a munitions locker. The surface facilities were toasted, but we’ve got some functionality on a few of the sensor bays and defenses.”

“What about the goddamn guns?”

Here he referred to the massive rail cannons that dotted the island, concealed in large protective bunkers slightly inland from the coastline itself.

“We lost total contact with bunkers F3, G9, and B14. The rest are reporting in with varying stages of damage. A few were untouched.”

“Goddamnit, man! Can they shoot!”

“We’ve got about 27 ready to return fire right now.”

“Do it!”

Stretayanovic stormed to the center of the facility. Numbers of the large monitor screens were showing static, others maps of the island with flashing lights indicating emergency situations. Other showed feeds from soldiers’ helmet cams on the surface. It looked as bad as the report had made it sound. Trees were flattened and burning. Everywhere there was fire, and the roar of explosions. Great plumes of black smoke were everywhere on the horizon, leaving sparse patches of sky visible. The dawn was blood red as the sun spread its fingers over the vast south Generian sea. On the horizon the black silhouettes of Yaforite vessels could just be seen, and every now and then a white streak would appear overhead to be followed a millisecond later by a roaring explosion.

But with the Colonel’s orders, the Generian guns began to add to the thunderous symphony, their screaming unique amid the roar. On the airfields that were still usable, pilots raced over the tarmac, jumping into the cockpits of their GIF-1 fighters to take to the skies and carry the fight eastward to the enemy. On the other side of the island, the previously dormant ships of the 4th task force of the South Generian fleet were on full alert, moving into position to engage. Seven Sofia class cruisers rounded the coast and set their sights on the Yaforite vessels, unleashing a heavy barrage of their own anti-shipping missiles, several hundred airborne within the first few minutes of this particular retaliatory strike.

Across the continent, in Sofia General Iljevo banged his fist on the table, a rare show of frustration from a man who was otherwise a bastion of calm. Their gamble had failed. The intelligence had been a fault. “Never count on time,” he had wanted to tell them, but Andropov’s agents had said that time was in the favor of the Generians. It was no matter now, he knew as he listened to the distress calls coming through on the monitors and radios in the massive nerve center of the Imperial General Staff Headquarters. He had by now regained himself and turned to speak quietly to the subordinate beside him.

“Inform the Emperor that the Yaforites have launched their preliminary strike on the fortresses of Ntac. Tell him the forces there are preparing to repel invasion. Tell him also that I am sending every available man to the south of Generia.”

“Yes, sir.”

Iljevo frowned as he turned back to the monitor screens.

“How swift, then is the work of disintegration and destruction.”

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

The grim countenance of Iljevo was in direct contradiction to the raucous mirth of Grand Prince Rurik as he leapt into the VTOL transport after a contingent of other equally hardy, equally excited Praetorian officers. He clenched his strong white teeth around the stub of a thick cigar and grinned broadly as he took his place, his short saber at his side, a pair of GS-1 machine pistols strapped to his waist, a GIR-47 slung across his back. For a prince of Generian royalty, he was unique in that he actively pursued the Generian warrior tradition, making his home in the ranks on the field of battle. Now as the VTOL lifted off and began to make the mad dash towards the southern coast of free Buchiana, so his spirits soared. In less than an hour, he would be in the thick of it. He had gotten his wish. His rough riding Praetorian legion was going to be the first deployed.

OOC:Nice map!

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Just Off Ntac Island
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'It would have been a very beautiful night,' Admiral Jyolt Straken reflected, 'If only it hadn't been like this.' The intense darkness was interrupted sporadically by assive bursts of fire, extensive and huge plumes of orange and red flame that sent sparks in every direction. Everywhere one looked were burning trees, branches, and trunks, the effusive smoke barely obscuring the few fires which remained.

The ground was as dark as the sky, and few stars could been seen through the smoke and the fog of battle and war. It was not that any man was even gazing upward, for every man and woman upon a Yaforite ship was obsessed with their duty, aiming at the flashing emergenc lights on the fortressess which inordinately gave away the location of the Generian targets. That had not been their original function, of course, but everything had an unintended side affect.

"Incoming!" came a shout from somewhere else on the battleship. It radiated around the loudspeaker, and each manjack aboard readied his or herself for an explosion. There was a slight thundering and whistling over head and then, for a brief second, silence. Then came the crash, a massive explosion, renting the sea into fire. Then all was quiet.

"Bloody hell!" one of the men behind the captain said, his body illuminated in the pallid light of the fires on the shore. "What gun could fire like that? What gun could even be that size? We made the biggest mistake in coming here, admiral, the biggest mistake!" The man's eyes were full of fright, but he was the only one.

"SHUT UP!" The admiral shouted, his voice carrying across the silent deck. "Who do you think you are? We can't get out of here, even if we wanted to!" Anger filled Admiral Jyolt Strakens veins and, in one quick motion, he strode up to frightened other, grabbed him, rougher then he intended, and threw him to the ground. "There is no room for that kind of insubordination on this ship, or even in this navy."

"We need to win this battle!" he continued, turning to face the others. "Look, they send cruisers, and we fight back, burying them in a hail of fire! You, Juakins," he indicated a determined young man, "Send word to the aircraft carriers and the squadron commanders. I want those aircraft in the air, now! You, Keiones," he indicated another, "Get word to the landing party. Let's take the battle to the Generians."

There was grin silence on the Yaforite side as they complied with his orders. In a strange state of utter quiet, each man turned as K-6 and YT-3 fighters and K-B12 and YT-B6 bombers lifted off the decks of the aircraft carriers there and began a manuever which would take them into the air, into the heart of the fighting. They watched as boats left the battleships and headed towards the land, as enemy fighters were engaged by AntiAircraft from ships, as missiles were launched, from submarines and from battleships and destroyers, as the escorts engaged the enemy ships, as the Yaforites continued on the long road to final victory.

His engines screamed behind his head as the jet began to grind forward, slowly at first as he urged it on, but soon picking up speed and careening down the runway while shells and missiles exploded around him. The GIF-1 in front of him screamed up off the runway and promptly kicked its pulse detonation engines into gear and began a mad climb straight into the brightening heavens. He felt his body thrown back into the seat as his jet began to mimic the one before him, and with that sense of liberty that always accompanies breaking the bonds of the Earth’s gravitational pull, he guided his craft into the air, and promptly thrust the stick back. He slammed the throttle and felt himself thrown back, his g-suit keeping his body functioning with the rapid acceleration. Suddenly the ground disappeared and he found before him the maddening expanse of the sky, the screaming still in his ear as the blue-orange glow burned fast behind his mechanical bird.

The radio was alive with frantic chatter: distress calls, engagement reports, body counts. He flipped the channel open and began to speak.

“This is lieutenant Ivanov, airborne and armed.”

The chaos of the radio backed off momentarily as a calm voice cut through.

“Good to have you with us, lieutenant.”

Ivanov was by now miles above the scene below and with a graceful spin, he leveled his aircraft and glanced out below to see an ocean of thick black smoke, patched occasionally with visions of the island and the sea below. The radio again crackled to life.

“Looks like you were just in time, lieutenant. We’ve got Yaf bombers and escorts heading our way.”

Ivanov looked to his right and saw the blurred outline of another GIF-1 just before it turned its nose at a steep angle and rocketed off towards the war. Ivanov glanced at the rosary taped to his flight controls, smirked, and followed.

The black mass he was rapidly approaching looked so solid he felt almost as if he would break up on impact, but he kept himself steady and pierced the cloud, coming out and leveling just below. He glanced at the radar display. A sea of red, and he was flying right into it. Another GIF-1 appeared in front of his nose, screaming towards the enemy flights. He was close enough to see the pilot give a thumbs up right before the aircraft broke into a million tiny pieces by a fireball. There was a screech over the radio.

“Jesus Christ!”

He barrel rolled and decreased altitude. On the horizon he could see tiny red flashes every few seconds. Suddenly an alarm sounded, and with it his instincts kicked in. He released electronic countermeasures and turned his nose skyward, detonating the pulse that gave him an enormous burst of speed back towards the heavens. The alarm went off, and he turned to go in for a retaliatory strike. His ears perked up as a certain alert went over his radio. Three hangers just went up in smoke. He whipped around, and gunned the engines once again, moving to hit them on the return. His radio cleared once again and the same voice from before came through loud and clear.

“You still alive Ivanov?”

“Alive and kicking.”

“Good. Let’s get the bastards on the return.”

Amid the complete chaos over the base, the two GIF-1s closed within sight of each other and moved towards base G-114B. The lights began to flash in Ivanov’s cockpit as his instruments locked onto the returning flight of bombers. He slammed the trigger and a dozen white streaks appeared beneath his wings seconds before a dozen more appeared beneath the wings of his compatriot, all bound for different targets. He pulled back on the stick and kicked his engines into gear once more.

“Nice work, Ivan-“

The radio screamed and Ivanov looked back towards the ground to see a cloud of smoke, fire, and small metallic fragments.

“Shit.”

He turned his nose towards the nearest available runway to rearm.

Meanwhile the surprised aviators continued to take to the sky and engage the Yaforite fighters and bombers with the fervor of cornered animals. On the ground, the soldiers of the Imperial Regular Army and the Imperial Praetorian Guard had by now adjusted themselves to the situation, and were preparing to repel a landing assault as the massive guns continued to thunder and the bombs continued to rain.

The Generian cruisers, now joined by a dozen more continued to fire on the Yaforite fleet, sending continuous calls for reinforcements. The reinforcements drew closer every minute, but for the time being the island fortress was still on its own, against the brunt of a full assault.

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In The Air
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Likard Kuarmenos shivered impulsively. It was not that it was cold in the cockpit of the jet, the "K-6", as it was officially called, but it was more that it was the fright of battle. Nay, fright was not the correct word in the circumstance. The correct word, he decided, after taking a moment of thought, was "trauma". Trauma, fright, and determination, all blended together to make what could only be called "The Fear of Battle".

Shanking his head softly, he piloted his plane far above the massive cloud of smoke that obscured all vision on the island. He had been trained escpecially for this venture, had been selected out of many to join the Second Armada simply due to his flying skill and the recognition of his instructors, and he had undergone intense physical and mental testing to see if he could handle this, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of war.

He immediately sighed an enemy fighter, one of few, preparing for another strike upon the strafing bombers. This was his job - to protect the bombers at all costs. Bombers were move valueable than fighters, cost more, and there were more men in each bomber (as opposed to the single-seater K-6 and the two-seater YT-3. These low numbers of men were due to a Yaforite obsession with "speed over strength".) so he had to protect them. But then again, maybe it was safer in a fighter.

Dipping into a lightly sloped dive, Kuarmenos gained the opposing plane in his sights. It was hasty, to be sure, but he needed to distract the enemy, instead of actually fight him. Kuarmenos nodded. He, at last, had a clea angle upon the enemy. For a second, his finger hesitated on the button, but then he pressed in resoundingly. Pulling up, he ignored the fact whether he had hit it or not. He had done what he had set out to do; distract it, and now he was moving back to a safer location.

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On The Ground
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Damer Keiones had been commanded by Admiral Jyolt Straken to marshal the troops and to prepare them for assault at the word of the other. All of this and more Keiones had done, to the best of his ability, and now he sat, impatient and willful, waiting for the other's call to fight. Each of the soldiers too was, handling their weapons, turning them over and over, in a manner which spoke of impatience and only that.

Then it came, a flashing light of blood-red color, an ironic choice, in light of what was about to be done by these men. But the responsibility for these men's lives weighed not on Damer Keiones' mind; he knew that it was not his fault if they died in the service of all that was right. He knew that each soldier here, young or old, eager or frightened, knew just what he or she was going into.

Standing up, he and the other soldiers around him began to charge. The thick oily cover of black smoke hung in their vision, blocking the line of sight, but still each man charged. Flashes began to appear in their ranks, and into the ranks of the place they were headed, but still they charged. Cries of battle, shouting of "for this" or "For that" filled Damer Kieones' hearing. But there was only one thing he could say. "For Yafor 2!"

And still the battle wore on...And still did men die where they stood, their blood staining the feritle earth in a henious act of sacriledge...And so would Ntac Island fall, in the blood of her sons and of the sons of Yafor 2...

“Here they come!”

Corporal Dmitri Liveic gritted his teeth as he squinted under his goggles through the smoke and dust and debris that choked the air. Then through the swirling mists of disintegration he saw several fluid silhouettes dancing between the rocks and rubble, growing larger as they approached. He gripped the handle of the quad-barrel heavy machine gun and slammed his fingers back on the triggers. The muzzles roared and spit fire and lead as he worked the gun back and forth across the rocky coast. Smoking empty shells fell with a deafening clatter on the concrete floor. Beside him, others wearing the armor and bearing the black insignia of the Imperial Praetorian Guard crouched amid the rubble of the bunker, unloading clips from GIR-47 assault rifles in the direction of the invaders.

Some of the silhouettes fell, others disappeared behind larger immobile shapes, and other still continued the mad charge. Still his finger remained on the trigger as the pops and cracks of bullets colliding with the rubble began to sound around him. He heard a grunt and saw one of the soldiers step back, before raising his rifle again and continuing to fire. Across the coastline, the scenes were repeated. The bunkers and machine gun nests met the landing craft beside the larger artillery pieces while farther inland the rail guns continued to pound away and the missiles streaked overhead.

Suddenly Liveic felt a great force that threw him to the side, leaving the gun to fall limp. He brushed the dust from his goggles and checked himself before struggling back to his feet. He removed his GIR-47 from his back and covered his return to the machine gun, where he remounted and unloaded another barrage before the gun clicked dry.

“Empty!”

“No more rounds, corporal!”

“Fuck.”

He picked up his assault rifle and took cover behind a half destroyed wall, leaning out to put a well controlled burst into the chest of an enemy. In his helmet he heard the radio come to life.

“Bunker B17, status report.”

“The big gun’s out of ammo. Still holding.”

“We’ll try to get some more rounds to you. Hang tight.”

Liveic once again rounded the wall and opened fire before returning to cover.

In the skies overhead the air war continued to rage, with fireballs replacing the aircraft of both sides as AA missiles streaked from every direction. On the ground, surviving emplaced and mobile SAM batteries scanned the skies, firing at their locked targets, fighters and bombers. On the northern coastline, the Imperial fleet carrier Kazatmiru had joined the rest of the task force and was throwing more Imperial fighters into the sky to repel the Yaforite air waves.

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Just Off Ntac Island
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His hands were shaking, though not with fear, but with anger. Admiral Jyolt Straken hated, hated with a bitter and deep hatred, being in the dark. He hated that feeling of apprehension and terror that grasped one when one was unaware of what was happening, especially in the midst of a long and terrible battle, as he was in now.

It was not so much the terror that he hated, but more that feeling that, perhaps, in the darkest corners of his mens' minds, that they were purposely keeping him in the dark, or maybe even revolting against him while he stood at the deck of his ship, unable to discern even the finer points of what was occuring on the shore, or above him, in the air.

A light touch descended on his shoulder and his heart leapt for a second, until he figured out that, logically, it was impossible for an enemy to get on the ship without him hearing it. Nonetheless, as he turned, he swore, loudly and coarsely, into the face of the one who had touched him. "Never do that to me!" he said, angrily. He recognized the man now, his chief of intelligence, come to give him a report on the battle. That was good. "What is the news?"

The other shook his head, as if in disbelief of his captain's weakness, then continued normally. "I have both bad and good news, depending on your standpoint. Our landing troops are making inroads onto the island, gathering things up as they go. As you said, while they have killed quite a few enemies and quite a few of their men have died, their main operation is to sabotage all enemy guns. Most have run out of ammunition by now, but they are beginning to be generally successful in their job."

Admiral Jyolt Straken nodded, his lip in the semblance of a slight smile. "That is good, good. I assume that you gleaned the loss of ammunition due to the reports of the men who captured the big guns of Ntac, correct?" He spoke with the air of one who knew he was correct, though he knew that he would be corrected. Sometimes it was good to show your men that you were more than an infallible figure who watched them die; that you could make mistakes like them; that you would understand when they made mistakes.

"Yes, and reports that the return fire is lessening." Jyolt Straken smiled inwardly. So there had been another reason. Good. "But the bad news, as well, sir. An enemy aircraft carrier, has come, as a reinforcement, on the north coast. Now it seems that our airplanes are outgunned over there." The grin on the other's face had vanished and so had the Admiral's inward grin.

"Order many of our planes up there, submarines as well. I want to win this, now, today!"

((OOC: Sorry for not posting. I've been caught up at school.))

The engines of the VTOL screamed in Rurik’s ear as he watched the sea become shore, passing over the beaches of the north coast of Ntac island. Smoke clouds obscured the horizon and the sounds of explosions were barely audible over the jets. The 35 Praetorians in the belly of the large transport were stone still, the demeanor of hardened professionals meditating before they were put in to do their jobs. Rurik himself removed the stub of a smoldering cigar and flicked it out of the open bay door. He patted the handle of his saber lovingly and picked up the GIR-47 he had rested on the floor in front of him, checking the ammo. He took the helmet that rested in his lap and pulled it over his head, his face now becoming the menacing metallic frame of a Praetorian helm, black eye sockets the only break from steel smooth as glass. A clear voice sounded in his ear.

“Milord, we’re passing over Fort Nievsky. We’ll hit the beaches in forty seconds.”

“Affirmative.”

The VTOLs gleamed in the sun as they lowered altitude, passing just over the tops of the fort’s burning compound structures. The wind whipped around the wings and the glass of the cockpit.

“Visual on hostile ground forces!”

The rotating 30mm cannon on the nose roared to life, spraying lead at illuminated enemy soldiers and vehicles. The smaller 20mm door guns were also soon brought to bear on the common foe. Rurik reveled in the chaos, feeling his own heart leap and thrill with the guns, though he kept himself steady. The VTOLs approached the coast, pulling back a bit to directly over the line of shore fortifications before making their descent.

The craft jolted as it touched down, and Rurik was off. His boots fell heavily on the concrete, and he raised his weapon to scan the area for his enemies. I the skies above a VTOL exploded as a surface to air missile made contact, and the sparking heap fell heavily in the sands over a low ridge. The men were on the ground and the aircraft made a quick ascent, some beating back to the fortresses to make themselves useful there, others remaining to provide cover.

Contact was made almost immediately, and the armored Praetorians leapt into the fight. They were the toughest, most impressive legionnaires in the world, feared by peoples the world over, and now they had finally been brought to the forefront to fight for the crown and stem the tide.

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

“We have massive enemy contact! Overrun is likely!”

Corporal Liveic screamed into the radio over the gunfire. The Yaforite soldiers were in plain sight now, charging over the open field, more of them than there were bullets. Liveic gritted his teeth and opened up on a cluster, watching them fall. He leveled his rifle at another group, but was met with the dreaded click. He cast his rifle aside, and whirled about, drawing a long knife just in time to plunge it into the belly of a flanking enemy. He pulled the knife free and drew his sidearm, scanning the ruined fortifications for infiltrating enemies. His radio came to life.

“Roger, corporal. Orders are to withdraw to the outer walls of Fort Nriev. Praetorians inbound to cover you.”

As soon as the message ended, the scream of VTOL engines could be heard. The sound was met with cheers and shouts from the battle worn regulars fighting for their lives on the coast. Liveic even felt himself grinning a bit.

“We’re pulling back to the Fort! Come on!”

The soldiers grabbed whatever gear and ammunition they had, and started off for the hazy, smoke obscured silhouettes that were the buildings of Fort Nriev. Liveic looked back, and, remembering, rushed back to the machine gun. He grabbed some plastic explosive from his pack and set the charge for five seconds. He broke off in a sprint, catching up with his men as a brilliant tower of flame shot up behind him, leaving a twisted mass of metal as the sole remnant of the gun. Elsewhere, similar towers of flame were seen as machine gun crews spiked their empty guns and began to beat their withdrawal under the cover of Praetorian guns and VTOLs.

OOC:It's fine, take your time.

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On The Ground
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Damer Kieones' eyes were set on the targets in front of him. He knew nothing, nothing but the feel of battle, the overwhelming power and excitement that gripped him as bullets rattled around him, spewing blood and crashing onto stones. The thick black smoke that surrounded him, obscuring much of the surrounding area only added to the racing the seemed to control his pulse as the level of just plain fun went higher and higher.

His gun shuddered as bullets poured out of it, his hand clenched on the trigger, his face a grim countanence that heralded only death to those close and far, to those who he was killing, rapidly, and terribly. He was oblivious to all things around him and men streamed up the beaches, in the same state that he was in. For many, this was one of their first battles, and yet they were fighting like hardened veterans, battling with no fear, and no emotion at all.

Then something changed. He could hear it, a new sound, not the sound of the now-identifiable GIF-1s, nor the sound of a K-6 or a VT-3, nor of a "Golden Hawk" Bomber, but something else. The man on his right, who had trained as an air force mechanic before becoming a soldier recognized it, and, from the slightly frightened look on his face, whatever it was, it was not good. "VTOL! Must be Praetorians!"

Kieones shuddered impulsively. They had been told, before the campaign, about the Praetorians. They were tough, strong soldiers, who could fly, fight, and filled with terror many nations the world over. The Yaforite commanders had told their recruits that they hoped not to face the Praetorians. No commander wished to scare the new soldiers, but sometimes, there was no way to avoid it.

What was more was that it would be exceptionally difficult for the AA guns and the K-6s and VT-3s to shoot down the VTOLs, due to their skill and superior engineering. Not only were those enemies fast, but they were also strong and fierce, and now, to be fighting the Praetorians on the ground, now, it seemed that there was very little that the Yaforites could do to stop them.

And yet, as bombs and cruise missiles continued to fall, there was one option that was left to the Yaforites; to fight with honor and strength and achieve glory. And so, with composure and total calm, every Yaforite soldier emptied his body of emotion, as they had been taught, and fought on. And so the battle continued, in the smoke recesses of Ntac Island.

Rurik roared as he fired wildly at the troops pouring over the smoke covered ridge, feeling the heavy GIR-47 kicking like a mule at his armored shoulder. He whirled as a foe approached him from the flank, and knocked the courageous fool back several feet with the butt of his rifle, listening to the thud as he fell on the concrete, his face bleeding. The soldier struggled to get to his feet, but the crack of Rurik’s rifle dissolved his face and the lifeless carcass fell back, still. Overhead, the engines of a gunship blotted out all sound, as did the ceaseless whirring of the cannons and the occasional streaking rocket.

Still, the brave Yaforite warriors poured on from the sea, braving withering fire and their own conceptions of the Praetorian legions. On both sides, the tattered banners were visible, flying from the tops of bunkers, emblazoned on the helmets of soldiers and the uniforms of the fallen. Rurik whirled again amid the hazy concrete ruins and put a bullet into the chest of an enemy, who staggered back but did not fall. The man raised his own rifle and fired, the bullet colliding with Rurik’s shoulder. Enraged, the Alexian Prince ignored the searing pain, stepped forward and with outstretched hand clasped the man about the neck and lifted him two feet off the ground. He hurled him against a wall like a rag doll, where he remained still.

At Fort Nriev, the scene was still chaotic, however the command center still carried a professional air, perpetuated by the stalwart Colonel Stretayanovic. Despite this, however, the air was full of a sense of the inevitable. Ntac Island would have to be evacuated.

“Colonel, our men are successfully withdrawing from the beaches. The Praetorians are holding strong. The first wave of VTOLs just arrived in the hanger. They’ll be refueled and ready in twenty minutes.”

“Fine. Send the first units to the hanger. I want to get this started.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stretayanovic turned his good eye to one of the few remaining active monitors playing footage from the shoreline battle. The Generians were fighting honorably, but the fact remained that they had been caught unaware, outnumbered, and outgunned. Victory was now off the table, but saving Generia’s soldiers to fight another day was not.

OOC:Sorry dude, for not posting. I've been caught up in finals (hate 'em!) and with Jolt crashes (got two posts eaten up. TWO) so I'll get something up by thie weekend - presuming nothing goes wrong. Once again, sorry for the wait.

((OOC: No problemo. I'm in France for another 6 days, so take your time.))

OOC: Could we get this going? I've got some stuff to do afterwards, so I don't want to be stuck in limbo forever.

OOC:Sorry, my fault. Here's the post:

BIC:

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Ajer, Yafor 2
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Rudiv Sodo's eyes were not red, but it was still clear that he had not gianed enough sleep the night before. He walked in a strange shuffling motion, the opposite of his high, powerful stride, and he stared dejectedly at the ground in front of him. He yawned nearly continuiously, and it seemed to the casual observer (if there had been any casual observer) that Rudiv Sodo had stayed up the night out of pure will, with the way he though, depite the fact that his brain was "parked in neutral".

The casual observer would have been correct. Rudiv Sodo was an "early to bed, early to rise" person, who often put hiself to bed earlier than most college students. It seemed odd, to his secreatries at least, to see the man who ruled the country, tuck himself in like a small child whose mother told them everyday what time to go to bed and why.

He reluctantly sipped at the bitter, pungent, coffee as he sat at his desk, smelling the steam, and wishing, for a brief second, wishing he wasn't quite here. He picked up the packet of papers, the sheaf of rough fibers rubbing against his thumbs, as he looked at them. They were clearly battle reports, as the bold titles proclaimed. He put them down again, with disdain, as he showed no interest in battle reports. He had other business to attend to; like the election.

One of his secretary's clear voices rang out in the air. "I would read it if I were you. Look and see." He grimaced. He couldn't recognize who's voice it was (his secraterys were all the same to him), but he hated that attitude displayed. He hated attitude in general, despite having been, and still being, a very disruptive and arrogent person willing to put forward his opinion. That trait had annoyed many a teacher in grade school.

He read the bolded title: "Report," and then the date. Standard. HE continued to read and began to smile, his previous fatigue gone away. Ntac Island was about to be evacuated by the Generians, and Armada 2 was set to sail, to blockade Port Belgrade. All was going well for the Yaforites...

OOC:BTW, got MSN. alittlebitofboredom@hotmail.com .

As the sounds of battle engulfed the island and her coastlines and horizons were obscured by hot flame in the mid morning sun, a sight rarely seen in history was visible on the grassy planes leading off the beach in the direction of the crippled, burning, though still imposing shadow of Fort Nriev: what must have been two thousand of Generian Regulars pouring away from the explosions on the beach.

Dmitri Liveic paused as he crested a small hill, and looked around at the sight. They were ragged, disheveled, though still collected and cut a strong figure in their uniforms, covered in dust and soot as they may have been. The retreat was quick, but orderly. There was no panic in the ranks of the fighting men of Generia. They carried themselves as soldiers, their rifles in their hands. He almost felt a swell of pride as he watched, amid the chaos of the surprise attack. He turned his head to look back for a brief second, but a shell exploding a few hundred yards away jostled him to his senses, and he pressed on with his unit.

meanwhile, the hangar was as noisy and chaotic as the beaches down the road. Units of regulars were marching into the bays of the VTOLs as some of the birds lifted off and shot out in the direction of the mainland while others arrived to fill their places.

Colonel Stretayanovic continued to watch the screens in the command room. The room had emptied slightly as personnel were evacuated, but it was still quite busy. There was, however, a truer sense of order and calm here, seeming to radiate from the stone faced Colonel.

On the beaches, Rurik and his Praetorians continued to hold strong, staying the tide for their comrades in arms.

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Port Belgrade, Generia
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The battle raged on upon the beaches of Ntac, but far to the north, all was quiet. There were a few streaks of dieing sunlight, speeding down from the heavens like arrows of fire, but barely providing illuminataion for any human in or around the city. Port Belgrade was quiet, a make-shift "calm before the storm", crisp air smelling of food, drink, and all the other smells which accompany a warm, fulfilling, day. But not for long.

There were few people out and about the docks. Most sailors and cargomen were over with their shifts, or had gone home to meet their loved ones, or were deliberately skipping their work to be with another, or a dozen other excuses. Not Boras Michanov, though. He lugged the few casks of drink aboard the cargo ship, pausing to rest, before walking over to the dock to get another. What he saw next, he would remember for the rest of his life...no matter how long his life would be.

Like a shooting star, arching over the water, a firey tail leaving behind a trail of smoke, a single cruise missile sped it's way across the open water, its reflection showing just what any bystander could see; certain death. It curved ever-so-slightly, casting pallid shadows and dancing lights upon the water. But ehn, instants after its exposition, it reached its final destination, and the idyylic moment was shattered by the realization of what the missile just was; a tool of destruction.

The cargo ship was all that bobbed in the water that day, and it was an expensive cargo ship. Weighing thousands of pounds (at least!), it would be a weighty investment for any company that made, but also an investment that paid. Cargo ships were precious, the lifeline of any nation, and the market for such vessels was huge, especially during times of conflict, when ships were valued even more.

But that investment would be gone in instants. In a short time, nay, a split second, the skies were lit up by a tower of flame. It recided as soon as it leapt, but all would see it, all in the vicinity of miles. Pedestrians gazed, shellshocked, at what had just happened. But then, like a strike of Thor's thunder, realization struck. Previously, the war had seemed far away, fought in some place to the south, but now it was here. Now war had come. Port Belgrade was under siege.

OOC:Sorry, hurried post. I'll try better later. ~Yaf'~

OOC:Sorry, hurried post. I'll try better later. ~Yaf'~

((OOC: It's cool. We've written enough epic posts that we can afford to slack off a bit and enjoy the fight.))

“Captain! They’ve opened fire!”

Captain Nikolai Andriev of the missile cruiser Sofia whirled around in his chair as the sound of the explosion reached his ears halfway across the harbor. The Yaforite fleet had moved quickly, faster than the Generian fleets in the Channel could move to intercept. There was only a token defense fleet in the area.

“Well goddamnit, son, shoot back.”

“Aye, sir.”

The lights flashed red as the ship’s weapons were armed, the coordinates of the enemy tracked by AWACs high above the coast. As the Yaforite bombs streaked towards the ships in the harbor and the city itself, the decks of the Sofia exploded white as her missiles took flight, towards the attackers.

General Iljevo, watching from the window of the General Staff Headquarters, felt his heart sink. Once again Generia had been hit hard and with inadequate defenses, but fortunately this time they had been expecting it. Port Belgrade had been the first line of defense since the beginning of time. It was the helm that kept the Empire safe, and it would not fall on his watch. A second explosion met his ears, and he turned, walking briskly towards an emergency elevator that would bring him to a bunker below the building.

Scattered throughout the countryside and within the city itself were many massive gun batteries, shore defenses of a similar nature to those protecting Ntac island. The first thundering blasts were heard now, resounding for miles in every direction as the shells from the rail guns took flight in the direction of the enemy. The siege had begun.

OOC:Sorry, buddy. I've been really busy. A post will come this week, but I'm not sure when. Once again, sorry man.

The night was alive with fire and smoke, the sky black-orange over Ntacian orgy of chaos and disintegration. The beaches were war, the Imperial Praetorians moving like concrete ghosts, dancers in a cruel ballet, swinging sabers, hurling lead as cannons fired into the masses of the Yaforite troops, who were steadily moving to secure their beachhead.

Prince Rurik sheltered behind the ruins of an inland bunker, directing his personal vengeance against his faceless, nameless, innumerable enemies. His wound was covered in a makeshift bandage, caked in dry blood, but he did not notice. His eyes were alight behind his heavy face plate as the man made stars exploded over his head.

“Your lordship, the evacuation inland is nearly complete. The last waves are preparing to depart. Our men are holding strong, but it is requested that you begin a withdrawal. Emperor Kazatmiru requests that you return to Generia alive.”

Rurik chuckled a roar and cut the air with his saber.

“They should leave us! Leave the Yafs to us! We’d hold on this beach until they had no more to send, and then we’d bring it to their shores!”

He looked around.

“But no matter. Kazatmiru is right. We’ll live to fight another day, and there’ll still be more Yafs to kill. Sound the fighting withdrawal!”

The VTOL engines screamed overhead as the Praetorians began to slowly pull back towards the fortress.

At that moment Dmitri Leveic reached the same fortress, and with the rest of the last bastion of regulars, entered the large blast doors, moving for the hanger. The explosions were nearer now, the sounds of gunfire more defined. The enemy was closing. He felt a sense of immediate urgency, and picked up the pace as he headed for the hanger. At that moment a shell exploded just above him, impacting the wall of the fortress, and the shock threw him face first to the ground. He heard shouting and muffled shooting in his ringing ears, and glanced around, dazed and dizzy. Suddenly he felt himself lifted, no, hurled to his feet by a great claw, and thrown forward into a gallop as a figure of monstrous size barreled past him. He saw a long line of flowing red hair, and knew instantly who it was. As he followed the Prince towards the hanger, there was a roar and a screaming of twisting metal and concrete as the ceiling behind him collapsed.

The hanger was chaos. The last of the VTOLs were taking off into the burning night for the distant Generian shore. Liveic rushed into the hanger and fell into a seat, strapping himself in. Rurik waited until the last of the VTOL engines began to scream to life, and then quickly turned, barreling into the bay. He glanced back just in time to see a squad of Yaforite soldiers pouring into the hanger, shooting at the escaping aircraft, and he let loose a roar and a shout of triumph, waving his saber as the door closed and the aircraft rocketed off into the sky.

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Two Hours Later, Ntac Island
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Even a blind man could see it. Admiral Jyolt Straken shook his head, climbing across the railing of his ship as he let his dirty military-grade shoes touch the soft sand of one of Ntac Island's famous beaches. It was scarred, now, the charred remains of a plane but three feet away from him. Fires had burned here, and the blood of injured men covered the beach, but that was not what made him shake his head. It was the simple fact that the battle was over. That they had won.

He nodded. The Generians had managed to escape, the greater part of their force, that was. The lesser part was still here. He smiled wryly, as if at some joke. Death was no joke. But to a soldier like him, who had gone through so much, to at last have control of his life, to have succeeded, it was a great feeling to smile. "So they're gone?" he said in a matter-of-fact tone, to the man sitting next to him.

"Yes, sir. Troops to the east are cleaning up by orders of the Septimarch, with two hundred hindering the retreat..." Admiral Straken tuned out the mechanical voice of the soldier. He sighed proudly. It was wonderful the savor the sweet smell of victory.

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Outside Port Belgrade
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The 2nd Armada was not made up of the type of troops that comprised the 1st. These were not battle-hardened, tough, fighters, but instead trained, young soldiers, each getting their first taste of that action which they had dreamed about ever since entering the army. Admiral Haenir Poalda knew exactly what he was told to do. Keep Port Belgrade out of the fight. Keep as many of these men alive as he could.

The shore batteries continued to pound away at the hulking Yaforite fleet that stood ouside, like a behemoth of fear. It was still night, and the great blasts of the enemy lit it up like fireworks, while achieving minimal damage. A few ships fired back, those within range. It would seem to the men in he Port itself that the Yaforites were planning something. In reality, their plan had already manifested itself.

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The "Channel", The East Coast of Generia, South of Port Belgrade
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The Yaforites did not have only two armada(e?s?) in their invasion force. Nay, not even close. The Imperial Yaforite Navy was massive, divided and subdivided into so many catagories that it was difficult even for organizers and recruiters to pay attention to what was what. Bureaucracy in a military force. What a novel concept. "Armada" was not even the highest rank, not that it mattered.

While the 2nd Armada in its quest to quickly neutralize Port Belgrade had slipped through this area comically named "The Channel" with lightning speed and perfect precision, the 3rd Armada was not even trying that. The 3rd Armada was commanded by shrewd Admiral Lamer Divanes, a veteran of the Roach-Bustrian conflicts, among others, and was attempting something else. The 3rd Armada was drawing Generian ships, Generian fleets, and would defeat them all. "The Channel" would be freed.

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The Northeast Coast of Generia, North of Port Belgrade
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And the last fleet that the Yaforite army was sending was under the command of Admiral Givard Poltera, another veteran. The 4th Armada was a large fleet, ship-wise, though troop-wise it was not as strong. It was made to show the Generians one thing; that the Yaforites would come at them from all sides. The 4th Armada would advance along the north coast of Generia, destroying enemy encampments, capturing enemy ships, and generally causing havoc.

But all knew one thing; where the attack really would come from. Two days later, Admiral Jyolt Straken was ready, and so were his allies. Southern Buchiana had not known peace, but it had not known true war, either. This was not guerilla fighting. No, as the Yaforite 1st Armada set out along the setting sun, great things were in motion, and the wheels of the Yaforite war machine were turning swiftly.

Imperial General Staff Headquarters, Sofia

General Iljevo stepped into the room, letting the doors seal shut behind him. He took a seat on the near end of a circular table. Six others sat around the table, and the faces of several more were visible on monitor screens.

“Gentlemen, Ntac island has officially fallen into enemy hands. Prince Rurik and his Praetorians managed to stall the Yaforites long enough to save the majority of the garrison. The last of our men evacuated an hour ago.”

A voice interjected:

“What of our equipment? Our guns? Our fortresses?”

“The last of the shore batteries were spiked shortly before the evacuation finished. Damage to the fortresses is extensive. A few of the lower bunkers are still intact, but the connections have been severed and the databases spiked.”

“And the commander?”

A third voice cut in, this one rough and husky and emanating from one of the monitor screens.

“Colonel Stretayanovic left with the last of his garrison. He handled himself remarkably well. It is my personal opinion he be given a field promotion. We can use men like him in a time like this.”

“Your recommendation is as good as any, milord Prince Rurik. If it’s your wish, we’ll give him a general’s commission.”

“Do so.”

Iljevo looked around the table again.

“The question now is one of defense. The Yaforites have taken up their positions. They are poised to move on us from the south and the east. Deployments to the southern coast and the Buchianan region are continuing as we speak. Prince Rurik, I’ve been instructed by the Emperor to inform you of his insistence that you take over command of that theater.”

“Good. What am I working with?”

“4 million regulars and a million Praetorians by the end of the week with more to come. Limitless air support and the 1st through 9th armored corps.”

“Big guns?”

“Mobile rail cannon are available as well as smaller artillery pieces. I’ll leave that to you.”

“Fine.”

Iljevo turned to address the table once again.

“The Yaforites have also deployed 3 additional armadas besides the one in the south Generian sea. One of them is the fleet blockading Port Belgrade.”

Iljevo’s voice took on new emphasis.

“It is imperative that we lift this blockade as soon as possible. Lord Admiral Stekov, what is the status of your fleets?”

A smooth, cultured voice replied, though the accent of the north betrayed the man’s heritage.

“Steaming full speed from the north. They’ll enter the channel by the end of the day, and then the Yaforites will have hell to pay.”

“Remember your objectives, admiral. You must close the channel and prohibit the enemy from moving north until we can bring the Alberian fleets to bear.”

“Aye.”

“Gentlemen, the Yaforites are trying very hard to bottle us up, but Generia is a big place. It would take a billion ships to close us off and ten billion troops to make any inward leeway. Remember this when you engage the enemy. Your motherland will aid you as you fight for her.”

“For Generia! For the Emperor!”

“For Kazatmiru!”

The cry went up. As the fires of the cannon blazed several hundred miles away in Port Belgrade, a similar cry could be heard in the shadows of the streets, amid the silhouettes in the dancing flames. Unlike their counterparts, the Port Belgrade garrison was comprised of the Empire’s scarred sons, warriors to the last man. The garrison was 60% Praetorian, 2 million bloodthirsty fighters. Right now, the city was a hornet’s nest, stirred by a metal stick. With every thunder of the guns, two million hearts soared as they looked furiously out past the harbor. In the surrounding countryside, the hills were alive, moving, the sounds of grinding steel incessant in the pre-dawn darkness. Mobile rail cannon moved into position, dozens of the monsters taking up spots on hills, in valleys, in abandoned fields as satellites plotted targets out at sea. By the time the first fingers of the sun spread out to grasp the countryside, the cannon would have joined the fight. Meanwhile, in the airbases to the west, the first of thousands of Imperial strike fighters began to take to the skies, rocketing towards the ancient Imperial Port.

In the south, there was also no lack of activity. Like a great green mass, the Imperial armies of the south moved, preparing to react to a landing. Imperial vessels in the south sea continued to bombard both the Yaforite fleet and their positions on Ntac.

In the middle of it all stood Buchiana, the land that had never known peace, now divided between free and provincial. The south, the so called free land, was too busy with its own infighting to much care about the eventws transpiring around it, though some did look out to sea nervously as the dawn came around, watching the grey monsters that had appeared only the night before, and wondering when they would bare their fangs. Every man who owned a weapon held it as close as he held his wife that morning, and waited.

The whole Empire waited, drawing breath for a midnight struggle to which the end was uncertain.

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The Southern Coast of Buchiana
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Admiral Jyolt Straken stood at the railing of the ship, staring out towards the east. The sun was barely see-able, barely beginning its ascent into the heavens. Rays of light shone across the ocean, lighting up the sea in brilliant orange and gold hues. He shook his head. It was such a picture of serenity. But how long could it last? The sea would certainly stay in those hues of red and yellow, but not because of the sun, but blood.

He shook his head again. Why must all of his thoughts be so dark? There was no reason to be unhappy. The Yaforite 1st Aramada was strong, very strong. Ntac Island had fallen fast and the people of Free Buchiana, who owed nearly everything to SRACH agents, would have a chance to repay their debts. There were close to 3 million soldiers in his fleet with another four hundred thousand soldiers on the island itself. By the end of the week, he could field an army in excess of four and a half millions.

But what would happen? Would it really be as happy as he hoped it would be? He would stare out at the ground, at the lines of corpses, at the trenches and battles that would surely occur and he knew that he would not be happy. And how could he? These were young men, smart men, people who could be aiding the world as doctors and lawyers, aid workers and airplane pilots, not as soldiers marching on a battlefield of smoke, fire, and death.

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The Southern Channel
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The Yaforite 3rd Armada was strong, powerful, and dangerous. Admiral Lamer Divanes looked at the map of the Channel on his desk with wary eyes. Small red pins dotted the area, along with small blue pins. Upon each was written a classification, numbers, and the factions, as if the red-Yafor 2, blue-Generic Empire classification was not enough. He stared, his entire mind and conscience upon that map and those pins.

"There." he said suddenly, frightening a young underlieutenant, his finger stabbing a place on the map where five pins intersected. "Our force in Port Belgrade can hold the enemy. We will attack, nay, annihilate, this Generian fleet. We are the Yaforites, men of the sea. Our power has always been where our hearts have been...here, out on the blue, open, water. For Yafor 2!" He stood up, fervor shining brightly in his eyes.

OOC:GE, is there a port in the Channel south of PB with a large airfield and moderate defenses?

((OOC: The modest port of Aljievo has been transformed into a military stronghold in the past weeks, and boasts a large airfield.

http://usera.imagecave.com/mobrule132001/PortBelgraderegion.bmp.jpg

))

The Northern Channel

Admiral Stekov, recently arrived from Sofia, stood on the bridge of his flagship, the Alberia Class heavy battleship Sandor, watching the gray waves under the gray sky. Weather in the channel was fickle, and while the sun shone several thousand miles to the south, here a chill wind beat around heavy raincoats drenched in frozen spray. Ahead of him, there was nothing save the seemingly endless expanse of waves, framed on one side by a distant, nearly invisible horizon, the peaks of the northlands stark silhouettes against the clouds. He always felt a certain pang when he passed this way, by the lands of his birth. He knew by heart every peak that stood off to the right, those visible and invisible. Their presence was unchanging, one permanence in a land of constant change. Standing against them, he never could help but feel small, insignificant. His duty was to destroy, but those peaks stood unchanging despite the destruction that played out around them.

"Admiral Stekov, sir," came the rough voice of the ship's captain.

Stekov turned his head, beholding the aging mariner.

"Our leading vessels are prepared to deploy long range ordinance."

Stekov nodded and smiled politely.

"Very well. Time to wake up the Yaforites."

The Captain grinned a yellow grin and shouted out.

"Admiral's orders, boys. Deploy long range anti-shipping ordinance."

A cheer went up over the bridge and soon carried itself throughout the vessel and then across the fleet as the orders were transmitted. Old war songs echoed in the bellies of the Generian naval war machines as the sights were set on the Yaforite vessels blockading Port Belgrade.

It would have been a spectacle for one soaring high overhead, had the clouds been lifted suddenly and one permitted to view the miles upon miles covered in grey steel, and then to witness the flashes and the white trails that cascaded upward in a brilliant choreography, arcing ahead to the south as the Generian missile cruisers and battleships launched their ordinance.

Meanwhile, the Generian fleet carriers cleared their decks and scrambled their pilots, who, eager to take to the skies, jumped into the cockpits of GIF-11 naval fighter bombers and GIF-1 fighters. The engines screamed as the aircraft were catapulted into the gray expanse, between sea and sky, bound southward at full throttle.

Yet another opening waltz.

OOC:Not sure if I get just what you are doing, Gen'. If this fleet is the "Alberian fleet" mentioned, wouldn't it be fighting the 4th Armada in the North Channel? I specifically sent a fleet up there for that reason. I'll get a post up this week regarding Buchiana and all that, but I need to be clear on a couple of things first.

Thanks,

~Yaf'~

OOC:Not sure if I get just what you are doing, Gen'. If this fleet is the "Alberian fleet" mentioned, wouldn't it be fighting the 4th Armada in the North Channel? I specifically sent a fleet up there for that reason. I'll get a post up this week regarding Buchiana and all that, but I need to be clear on a couple of things first.

Thanks,

~Yaf'~

((OOC: The fleet in question is one of the Northern fleets, coming in directly through the north of the channel to engage the blockading fleet at PB. If there's something in between this fleet and PB, then sorry for missing it and that'd be what i'm engaging. The Alberian fleet is elsewhere.))

OOC:Ok, let's continue, assuming that the fleet you were talking about attacked ships of the 4th Armada.

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The North Channel
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Admiral Givard Poltera was rudely awoken. He lay snoring on his bunk, the sound emanating from his open mouth and nose akin to trucks moving down a highway. He lay, twisting and turning on the rough implement that was barely a bed in itself, nodding silently in his sleep. Then the the ship shuddered, a shot going the down the mighty ship in a flash, a thunderous noise, and then another. They were under attack!

The admiral was immediately awake. He had been trained and had been in combat long enough to come awake with his full senses, instead of taking time to adjust to the sensation of being awake. He leapt out of the bunk, his feet clattering to the floor, his hand grapsing a pair of sodden binoculars. The sounds mighty horns were already sound, massive blasts of noise, long and still. He raced to the front end of this ship, hurridly pulling a jacket on him. Then he put the binoculars to his face.

"Christ..." he said, he face wide. Poltera was a Christian, rare enough as it was in Yafor 2, one of the Greek Orthodox leanings. But any man would have felt the urge to call upon his or her gods at the sight which greeted them. Rows and rows of steel, obscured by the clouds, so the observer could only guess at their true number. He stared, his hands and the binoculars numbly dropping down.

But his commanders had not been asleep. The Yaforites were already beginning to return fire, though their losses had been far from insignificant. Nearly twenty ships had heavy technical damage and tons more were slightly injured. A few Yaforite soldiers were dead and more were injured. But the Yaforites didn't take attack lightly. Their own fire was returning, fast and strong, in waves of pure death.

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Off Aljievo, The Channel
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Rain sleeted down, splattering and boucing off of everything around. A black cloud hung over the entire scene, masking the area in what seemed like a dirty smog. It made a difference to the men aboard the ships, though, that there was the wetness of the area. The previous sentances' terrible sentance structure also added to the confusion. But it made no difference to the 3rd Armada whether it was rain, snow, hail, or a new Ice Age (Ice Age 2).

The great gund began to thunder, a rythmic smashing, accompanied by crashing and breaking from across the water to the city. The attack had begun. Yaforites huddled together around the big guns, avoid the rain, hiding beneath their raincoats, but still managing to bring death to the enemies. The air reeked with fire, rain, oil, and death.

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The South Buchianian Coast
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A tremor shook through the land. The great ships of Yafor 2 had been on Ntac for close to a day now, with their troops and their ships quartering there, feeding their, and clothing there. Admiral Jyolt Straken had been preparing and both the Generians and the Buchianians were scared, and prepared for his attack. The Yaforite Admiral had all the cards in his hand. Then he chose to play them.

Sluggishly, as if they were a massive behemoth of steel and iron, the great Yaforite 1st Armada came awake. The moved the short distance from Ntac to Free Buchiana, avoiding Generian attack. They landed and began to unload, their troops not counted in the hundreds, but in the thousands and millions. It could seem anticlimatic, the simple drop-off of an army, but the attack had begun. And so had the land war.

OOC:Brief summary of the post: Yaforites attack Generians in North Channel, Yaforites attack Aljievo, Yaforites land in Buchiana.

Sofia

General Iljevo watched the skies as they darkened with the formations of migrating geese.

Flying north.

He turned back to the small room, watching the monitor screens displaying satellite maps of the entire empire. The channel was illuminated. He watched the death throws of a Yaforite warship as the flames engulfed the bridge. He watched the looped footage of the Yaforite retaliation, the barrage of missiles. His thoughts went out to his comrade in arms, his old warrior cousin, Admiral Stekov.



The skies screamed.


Flash. Bang. Roar. Flash.

Stekov watched the mists rolling off the coast. The orange aurora sparkled above them.


Scream.


Lt. Andrej Nikeilv watched the glowing green instrument panel, the only light in the gloom that surrounded the cockpit. He turned his head, trying to see his wingman through the clouds, but with no luck. In his ears he heard only the radio chatter that he had been tuning out for the past 20 minutes as he and his squadron cruised southward towards the coordinates of a group of Yaforite vessels. Several had been reported struck, and the job had to be finished. In his radio, a voice in Generian.

“Prepare to deploy long rang ordinance.”

Nikeilv flipped the row of switches, arming the weapons.

“Fire when ready.”

As the words were spoken, the mists vanished as the cloudbank was left behind, and Nikeilv found himself staring up into a clear blue sky, surrounded by dozens of other aircraft. He pressed the trigger and felt the jolt as the ordinance fell from the bay, the fuel igniting and sending the missiles off into another cloudbank. Hundreds of white trails appeared in the sky around as the long range anti-shipping missiles streaked off in the direction of the Yaforite task force.

Overhead he watched two dozen noiseless GIF-1 fighters streak past, moving in intercept positions. Then, as quickly as they had passed, he watched awestruck as the cloudbank in front of him dissipated, hundreds of missiles moving in the opposite direction. He moved the stick low and to the right, instinctively, but the missiles did nort adjust to his course. No, their destination was a different one.


"Incoming missiles! The Yafs are shooting at us!"

"Well, damnit, shoot back!"

Stekov stood motionlessy, watching the window as the bridge exploded with activity behind him. Countermeasures exploded from the ships deck and those of the neighboring vessels, as CIWS cannon began to pivot, watching the skies.

"10 seconds until impact."

Several dots disappeared on the radar screen as a few countermeasures made contact. The whir of a CIWS cannon began to sound, then another, then another. Then, out of the cloud cover, a white trail and an orange light appeared. It detonated, but was followed by three more, then three more. Stekov watched the deck of a destroyer explode half a mile away.

"The Aljiev has taken a hit to the bridge."

Stekov winced inwardly. He knew the captain of that vessel personally. A young Sofia native. A smart, energetic young man with a handful of mistresses. No more.

The flashes roared out across the fleet as missiles made contact. 11 missile cruisers suffered damage, 8 of them severely, as well as two dozen smaller warships. The battleship Sandor had taken a critical hit to the forward munitions storage locker, and was taking on water quickly. The carrier [/i]Nikolai[/i] had suffered damage to the deck, and was operating at 3/4 launch capacity.

Stekov listened to the damage report.

"Return fire."

"Sir, squadrons CD7, CD8, and CD11 report a successful strike on a Yaforite task force. They're returning to rearm."

"Keep them in the air. Tell them to reroute to waypoint delta and carry out a medium range ordinance attack following the long range retalliatory strike from the twelfth cruiser group."

"Aye, sir."

((OOC: Replies to the other theaters coming shortly.))

Aljievo was a small, old city. The inhabitants of the region often referred to it as Little Sofia, as it shared much of the same architecture, and was rumored to have been largely designed by the same man. It was a traditional city, often overlooked, and yet it commanded the enviable position at the mouth of the Dededka river, which ran through the fertile valleys of the middle Generian expanse from an area just north of the ancient Imperial capital. Over the past three months, however, the city had undergone a stark transformation. Large guns stood on the portside, looking out over the new, concrete seawall fortifications. Today the bleak, icy waves thundered against these walls as the rain soaked the barrels of the cannons. Imperial soldiers, faces wrapped against the wind and rain, patrolled the road that ran along the seawall, GIR-47 rifles clasped in heavily gloved hands or hidden under heavy coats.

Overhead, the roar of a jet engine screamed, a GIF-1 cutting its way invisibly through the sky. Far to the north, a rumbling that had carried on for nearly half an hour had just ceased.

Colonel Alkev Suderic watched the stormy seas from the first floor of a heavy concrete bunker, a fortified old government building, the rooftop barbed, marked with a missile emplacement and several exposed antennas. His cap was pulled low over his head, shielding his eyes from the rain. His hands clasped a flask in his coat pocket as the roaring lyrics of a Machine Gun song blared from an open window down the street. Other than the music, the city was silent. Suderic knew as well as anyone what was waiting over that horizon. The last reported coordinates of the Yaforite fleet had placed them less than twenty kilometers from the shoreline, this shoreline, the one little slice of Generia he was expected to hold.

There was a flash in the distance.

“Colonel, flyovers reporting ordinance incoming. The Yaforite are beginning their assault. You must come inside.”

He pulled the flask from his pocket, unscrewed the lid, and drank deeply, letting the flaming liquor scourge his gullet before recapping and replacing it. Steam flowed from his nostrils as he turned and walked back into the building, descending the stairs into the secure lower levels.

The first shells hit, slamming into masses of concrete. Chunks of tenements went flying into the street as the rain began to fall more heavily. The city, largely evacuated, would bear the burden itself, its inhabitants long gone. There was little motion as the shells began to fall, most of the garrison sheltering in bunkers dug into the basements of existing structures. There was an explosion in the center of the city, and a century old bridge was blown to pieces, chunks flying into the river and sinking to the bottom.

A few miles to the west, the barrels of Imperial shore artillery peaked above the hilltops. There was a thunder and a flash, and the muzzles spit fire. Overhead, there was a droning scream as Imperial GIF-1 and GIF-77A aircraft, freshly scrambled from Sofia airfields, streaked towards the city and the Yaforite fleet, deploying long range ordinance against the enemy vessels.

((OOC: Last part in a few.))

Iljievo, free Buchiana, was a city of scars, a new Babylon, complete with its own perfect whore. But for this particular Sodom, there would be no rain of divine fire quite yet.

For days the children had run to the docks and stared out to sea to watch the moving behemoths of the Generian navy, the distant flashes and glow of fires, and to squint for a glimpse of the clear action. On the cold morning, they had watched quietly as monstrous demons coasted over the glassy waters straight towards them. They squealed as their mothers came for them, dragging them back to their homes at the sight of the strange banners.

They had been leaving in droves, moving north and east, towards the river and the border that divided free and occupied Buchiana. For all their internal struggles, the citizens of this strange, pockmarked region were no fools. They had never trusted before, and they would not trust again. Not a one of them was a stranger to invasion, to a foreign army. They had fought the Generian for decades. They knew their tactics, knew how to stay alive, how to fight. Some stayed, praying for the best, but for the others who marched like ants in the direction of the old BLA camps, there could be no hope for a kind embrace.

On a mountaintop a middle-aged man sat, thinking in the cold wind, a heavy fur coat pulled around him. His gray eyebrows furrowed as he stared out in the direction of the distant sea, his mind roving just as surely as it had five years ago when he considered matters of war. For these past years his mind had been absent from such considerations, focusing instead on matters of politics, of nation-building. He found himself glad for the straightforwardness of his task, for the clear life of the general, and in his heart he smiled, though his mind did not admit it.

Commander Nikolai Mareki’ev, the BLA leader who had succeeded where others had failed, driving the Generians from his southern homeland, reached into his coat and removed a blue beret. He placed it on his head, the letters BLA stitched on one side, a silver star staring out from the front.

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Off The Coast of Aljievo, Generia
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Admiral Lamer Divanes grit his teeth and stared out at the city. It had long since been evacuated, people having fled in droves long before the attack on the city had even begun. The city would have looked picturesque in the absent sunlight, Generian flags whipping in the wind, church steeples rising above small dwellings and living places. Markets lay pulled up against brick apartments which could have as easily been made a thousand years ago than a few years ago. Paved streets curled their way past homes, long avenues leading to the bridges of the beautiful river Dededka. It would have been a scene worthy of camera.

But no more. The houses, with their brick walls and red shingles, more at home in a novel, lay silent. The open-air marketplaces were closed, with nary a sign of human life. Only soldiers roamed the streets of Aljievo now, tough, hardy Generian soldiers, ready for street warfare and bombs. The rain splattered down, the wind slashing it to and fro, this was and that. Generian soldiers were holed up inside, not just because of the weather, which was as dreary as could be, but also because of the constant, yet terrible, shelling.

Admiral Divanes stared at the shore batteries of the enemy, the seawall that stood as a barrier to his dreams and hopes of conquest. Divanes knew that they would be the key to capturing the city, and that he had a short window of opportunity. With the weather as it was, as bad as it was, it was the perfect weather for a textbook sea landing. He needed to blast the seawall to bits, but that wasn't what he could do. In his mind, he began to formulate a plan, a daring plan.

"You need to capture the seawall." came a voice just behind him. It was his mentor and tutor, one of brains behind the overall Yaforite battle plan, High Commander Franael Kohol. His silver hair glinted, and he wore nothing on his head, a miracle with the weather as it was. He had a self-satisfied smirk upon his face, and seemed, to Admiral Divanes, to be overly arrogant. The Admiral did not like him, but he admired him, and he listened to him.

"You think I don't know that? Give me some ideas or get out." Divanes said irritatedly. The other grinned, sending a slight chill up the Admiral's spine. "I alread have some. The High Commander spoke softly, his voice dangerous and, well, arrogant. "Come inside, I have a battle plan to show to you." The High Commander turned and walked inside, followed by the Admiral.

OOC:I was half-done withis post before I had to leave, so expect some more in this theater of the war, with the other theaters forthcoming.

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The Skies Above Ajievo
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Navan Kidorost grabbed the wheel of his AAS/GAA AD/K-8 "Spartan Falcon" and tried to manouver it. He recklessly tiwsted left and right, managing only a slight hold upon the aircraft. Bullets showered the air around him, exploding glass and sending sparks up on his wings and fuselage. Adreneline pumped through his veins, sweat poured down his face, and bent on his task, and he gripped the wheel with determination. He grinned as he regained control over the aircraft, and began to fire at a Generian.

Over the intercom came a quick jabbing voice. "Group 3, Squadron 2, call in.". It was the voice of his leader, the cold and calculating man who stood at the bridge of one of the ships somewhere below him. "G3S2-1A reporting." Came the voice of the first in their squadron. Navan liked him. A grizzled veteran with a sense of humor. It was rare, and Navan Kidorost had learned to appreciate what was rare.

"G3S2-1B reporting!" The next voice was young and energetic. It disguised the calculating mind of its owner. "G3S2-2A reporting." Navan shuddered for a second, realizing, all in his Squadron did, that one of their number was missing. G3S2-1C, the third in the first triad, was a bright married man, one of the few in the squadron who was married. He was always talking about his family and his children, about what he would do when he got home. Navan shuddered again. To lost someone was...well, frightening.

He suddenly realized that it was his turn. "G3S2-4C!" he shouted into the communications link, realizing only that he was shouting to diguise his fear a few seconds later. Navan felt the icy grip of fear as he swerved to the right, avoiding a plummeting plane which looked all the world like an GAA VT-4. He felt tingling down his back. The long trail of flame had passed in from of his face, bathing it in heat for a second, exposing him to the reality that that could have been him.

There was a beeping sound over the intercom, and then came a loud voice, angry and impatient. Navan knew what that meant. Something had been going wrong. "All fighter squadrons, begin X-VA. All bombr squadrons, begin H-MY. All twin squadrons, begin J-UL." Those simple word sent adreneline once again pumping through Navan Kiderost's brain. The manual was on his desk, but he knew it by heart. He pulled his plane into the air, then began a sloping dive towards the airfield just a hill beyond this point. They were ground strafing!

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The North Channel
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Admiral Givard Poltera held the binoculars to his eyes, gazing upon the ever-increasing tide of enemy warships. The mists and clouds surrounded him, blocking his view. Ever so often, he heard the screams of the injured and the dying, the thud of impact and explosions, and saw the bright red and yellow flashes of explosions. The clouds seemed to be everywhere. He could not distinguish one thing from the next. Then, he gazed to the right.

It happened, within seconds, nay, miliseconds. Yet those few miliseconds, those tiny parts in time, would be ingrained upon the Admiral's memory forever, stamped there for him to always see. His second, the young Richad Jode, stood at the deck. What happened then, the youngster too would remember, for posterity and beyond. It would change both their lives forever and change the lives of those around them for as long.

The deck exploded into fire. A single missile sped towards Admiral Givard Poltera and, as he began to scream, he knew he had no chance. Each second ticked by like an hour and time did not slow, as it does in a catastrophy. It simply stopped. Both just stared out into the void, their mouths open like some slow-motion action movie, their eyes meeting for one final time. Then, the deck exploded into fire.

The Admiral was thrown off of the ship, but young Richad Jode knew it, knew it even before he saw the charred body of his friend an mentor. Admiral Givard Poltera was dead, of that there was no question. His ship, too, was gone, thrown into the depths of the ocean with his body. Richad had managed to throw himself to another ship, but he knew it now. He was the new Admiral.

And the commander of the 4th Armada was now less than twenty-five.

OOC:Sorry for the poor quality - I'm having RL issues and can't get the best quality in. About Buchiana: get on MSN. I need to talk to you about something.

((OOC: Well, I've been dealing with alot of significant personal crises myself, much to the detriment of my NS life and my various RP obligations, however, it's a given that in all cases RL comes first. Goes without saying.

In any event, I'm on MSN whenever I'm not at school, so we'll talk further there about the direction of the thread. Good luck with your OOC business, and with any luck we'll be able to come through it all and get back to our fun and games.))

Clack-clack-clack-clack

Like the hands of a clock the feet fell in time, the steady fall of leather soles on tile floors. The hallway was long, longer when it was empty, and the pink tinge of the dawn light coming through the massive Galerie des Glaces mirrors cast two strange and misshapen shadows on the floor.

Smoke trailed behind the cigarette which in turn trailed behind Emperor Kazatmiru’s hand. As he passed each window his face came into a different light, but his expression remained static, his thin lips set as if in stone. Eyes gleaming, flashing, stalking the shadows at the far end of the corridor, he walked, turning his neck occasionally to look through one of the windows at the green expanse of royal gardens.

It was a small palace, set on the banks of the Dolva, an ancient retreat of the Kreschnev kings, passed on but rarely used except as an occasional vacation spot. Kazatmiru had always had a personal fancy for it. The simplicity contrasted sharply with his father’s magnificent White Citadel, and he appreciated it. It was of a Sofian architecture, the sturdy yet elegant style that was dominant throughout the mid-south, reigning absolute over all others, but without arrogance.

“General Iljievo, I want numbers.”

“3 million is the closest approximation, 5 at the most. Estimates have put troops on Ntac anywhere from 500,000 to a full million, and reinforcements somewhere in the range of 2 million.”

As he spoke, a pair of tall, wide doors swung open and the two men stepped into a high-ceilinged chamber. Kazatmiru proceeded towards an armchair facing a window that overlooked the river flowing in the valley below.

“Our forces that were pulled off of Ntac are regrouping in Northern Buchiana, but with the numbers, they can’t be much more than a speed bump if left alone.”

“Mobilization of the additional forces you requested finished early this morning.”

Kazatmiru sank into the chair, and let his eyelids fall over bloodshot eyes.

“Of course, your grace. Prince Rurik arrived a few hours ago with some thousand Praetorians, and has taken over the artillery regiments and the air cavalry.”

Iljievo was silent, and turned to look out the window.

“Milord, the situation in Buchiana is difficult. As you are more than aware, the Yaforite special services played a large role in assisting the BLA during the war.”

“I am aware of this.”

“It is not easy ground for fighting, not a place for armies of millions.”

“I am aware of this as well. I understand you lost many good men in the Lew Valley.”

Iljievo was again silent for a moment, then replied in a subdued manner.”

“Yes, milord.”

“The Yaforites have chosen their ground, General.”

“And they’ll suffer for it, have no doubt, but it goes beyond this.”

Kazatmiru turned his head and watched Iljievo, waiting for him to continue.

“The Imperial General Staff has for some time had in the works a contingency plan for the invasion and occupation of free Buchiana, should something warrant it.”

He hesitated. Kazatmiru responded.

“Yes. I was informed of this when I took the throne.”

“Milord, I feel that the best chance we have for victory at the moment is to make a strike into the south before the enemy has the chance to occupy it and organize their forces for a push up the peninsula. However, this would entail infringing on the treaty..”

Kazatmiru stood and walked over to the general.

“General, the Yaforites have declared war on this Empire, and what’s more, have made clear their intentions to destroy it, completely and utterly at any cost. In the interest of preventing this, and preserving this Empire, you will take this war to them, wherever they may go. If the Yaforite army decided to go through hell to get to Generia, then I would expect you to step on the toes of the devil to counter them.”

The Emperor offered a weary smile and placed a hand on the General’s shoulder.

“Do what you have to do. You’re in charge of this war now. Win it.”

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Dust clouds rose high over the ridges as the sound of jet engines and helicopter blades created a symphonic cacophony against the wind. Prince Rurik stepped out of the squat concrete structure and breathed in the smell of diesel fuel and smoke. He turned his head towards the barbed wire fence running along the sheer cliff that made up the south edge of the base.

In the center of this particular cluster of barracks buildings and bunkers, what seemed several hundred Praetorians were lying about, checking their equipment, fresh off of transport planed from airstrips by the coast. The majority had been pulled directly from Ntac, brought here in preparation for a classified operation they knew little to nothing about. They did not question, only checked and rechecked their gear, and passed the time on a rare warm day.

Rurik walked along the edge of the fence. On his left, convoys of trucks, armored vehicles, and staff cars seemed to be in constant procession. He reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a far cigar, placed it between his lips, and flicked a stainless steel lighter. He touched it to the tip and a cloud of thick smoke burst from inside his cheeks, over his lips, through his nostrils, tainting the clear air with the sweet smell of good tobacco.

Ahead of him, in the center of a circular clearing, a large concrete structure loomed. The center of Fort Nr’iev, it wore a crown of antennas and satellite dishes. As he walked past, regulars and Praetorians halted and snapped to attention.

“Hail!”

He returned with a nod or a quick salute. He reached the front of the bunker. The steel blast doors were open, and he proceeded straight in, through a series of checkpoints and down a staircase into a room buzzing with activity. As he entered, the men rushing from place to place halted and saluted.

“Prince Rurik of Alexei! Hail!”

“Hail!” came the response. Rurik took the cigar from his lips, glowered with satisfaction, and returned the salute, before turning and proceeding towards the near corner of the room. As he did, a voice came from behind him.

“Milord!”

He halted and turned back to see a young officer walking quickly towards him, smartly clad in a neat uniform, though his eyes were bloodshot and he himself looked rather ragged with sleep deprivation. Behind him, an older man walked.

“Milord, I’m Major Arijievo, your aid.”

Rurik nodded and grunted a mutter of approval, his eyes still trained on the second man, who stood calm and quiet beside the Major. Rurik liked the looks of him. He seemed in his early 40’s. A black leather eyepatch covered his right eye, and a gray mustache held a place of prominence on his upper lip. His uniform was rumpled, but he held a certain dignity that made a man overlook the details of his unkempt appearance.

“This is Colonel Stretayanovic, commander of the Ntac Island Garrison.”

Rurik nodded as the Colonel saluted.

“I hear you handled yourself well there.”

Almost as an afterthought he added, “don’t worry about the Yafs. You’ll get your chance to get them back for it. That’s a promise.”

A slight smile cracked Stretayanovic’s lips.

“I hope as much, your lordship.”

Rurik grinned, and turned back to the Major.

“I want this place ready to receive an extra million. They’ll be arriving in the next two days.”

Without saying anything else he walked off, towards the center of the room to gaze at the large monitor screens that were displaying real time satellite and aerial photographs among other things.

OOC: The 4th Armada is under the command of a rash youth; otherwise, nothing has changed. Assume that they are still fighting up there. The city of Darvio and stuff like that we can discuss on MSN if you like; I just needed a port for my ships to land in, and that was the only name I could think of.

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Darvio, Southern Buchiana
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Admiral Jyolt Straken had been, to say the least, reluctant, to hand over command of the 1st Armada and its troops to another. He was the type of man who relished power, enjoyed the opportunities it presented him, and could not help, but miss the feeling of freedom that it presented to him. He used power fairly well, he thought, but the loss of so many troopsand such material could only be looked upon with anger.

It was not a total loss, he reflected, as stood at the docks of the port city of Darvio. He still had control over the largest Yaforite naval expeditionary force ever to set sail from the island itself, or the colonies. It was the loss of that army that stung him so much. Generian intelligence had been very incorrect in thinking of the amount of troops. The combined forces on Ntac and in and around Southern Buchiana were not "about 2 million." No, there were over four and a half million there.

He had to admit that the Ministry of Defense had picked the right man to head the job, if any. Nurvain Khast may have been a radical Jakallan, he may have been in the pay of the High Korut, but he knew how to command a ground force like no other! Southern Buchiana was a hellhole right now, a supposedly "free country", where only anarchy was the master. If anyone could cure that problem, it would be Nurvain Khast.

The Yaforite government was using this excuse for invading: "We are restoring order". Really, they were just setting order. Southern Buchiana had not had order for ages, ever since the Second Buchianan War, where it had been given it's independance. The Admiral shook his head. Sometimes it was saddening to think of the loss if life that ocurred here, all because of the Generians.

"Angry, right?" came a voice from behind him. It was Nurvain Khast, holding a beer bottle in his left hand. Admiral Jyolt Straken arched his eyes. He was a stickler for rules, and, well, alcohol was, well, illegal, in Yafor 2. Nurvain Khast grinned at the Admiral's response. "It's not really beer. Don't worry. The man commanding the Buchianan campaign is not a drunkard." The Admiral couldn't stop himself. He broke into hysterical laughter.

Command Bunker, Fort Nr'iev, Northern Buchiana

"Gentlemen, the Yafs have been working hard since they got here. Alot of men and machines are making the jump across the sea from Ntac to their positions in southern Buchiana. No doubt they'll begin their push north just as soon as they get the last of their gear unloaded, and I have the nagging suspicion that that's going to happen sooner rather than later. That puts the clock against us if we wait, but I have little intention of waiting."

Prince Rurik looked up from the large, digitally generated map on the table-sized screen at a sea of hard faces standing around him.

"As you've read in your briefings, we're moving first, to hit 'em hard with their pants down. Operation: Scarlet, formerly the contingency plan for a full invasion of southern Buchiana, will commence in two days. Our objectives are to dislodge the Yaforite armies from their positions, and drive them from the shores of this province before they have time to establish themselves."

Rurik stood to his full height, an imposing seven feet, and took on the air of the conquering warlord that so suited him.

"As you well know, this country is not suited to an offensive. Therefore, our timing is key. The Lew Valley will make moving any vehicles a difficult task, and will preclude almost entirely the possibility of an armored spearhead. Therefore, the backbone of the initial campaign will be the infantry, under General Iljientasha. His 28 divisions, nearly 4 million men alltold, will move swiftly through, over, and around the Lew Valley to assemble in strike positions just south of it. Following a heavy aerial bombardment of leading Yaforite positions and the assertion of Generian air-superiority, leading air cavalry elements will move to secure positions held by Yaforite forces furthest north. Meanwhile, Imperial armored and artillery units will be airlifted over the valley to serve as support, while the rest of the armored divisions are brought through the passes further west. Following the bombardment of the Yaforite beachhead, the infantry assault will begin, spearheaded by the Praetorians under Colonel Stretayanovic. With the massed weight of the assault and the continued aerial bombardment, the Yaforite will be forced back from their positions, and finally driven into the sea by the tanks, leaving us in control of the beach, ready to resist further landings."

He looked around the room.

"Questions, gentlemen?"

There were none, so he continued.

"This will prove to be a straightforward operation, but one on which the fate of this war hangs. I have the utmost confidence in your courage and will, and am certain that by the end of the week, this entire business will be put to bed. Good luck. God save Kazatmiru."

The prayer was echoed around the table, and the officers dispersed.

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Outside Iljievo, Southern Buchiana
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His eyes were trained on the target, not moving from the space in from of him. A small figure crept along a building above him, everything of the figure obscured, but his silhouette. Trees and grass grew all around the area, a miracle in itself. Southern Buchiana was a free country in itself, but it had never known peace. It was a hole full of politics, death, weaponry, and demon fire. No one in their right mind would even attempt to go near that place and yet the ultra-pragmatic Yaforites had become the first people (except for the Generians, but that was to be expected) to invade this land.

His fingers tightened on the trigger. The long piece of metal would have been a stick in any other man’s hands, but in his, it was turned into a deadly and dangerous weapon. Each knob was expertly turned, each tube expertly tested, each handle expertly wound. In had been crafted with skill and intelligence, a weapon for the SRACH alone, a weapon for him alone. Wolf 7 was used to private killing and he did not need this gun to murder the man. But this was no private killing.

He shot it. Without any pause for the man’s life, without any feeling of shame that he was taking a life, he shot the gun. There was nothing here that he had not done before. Taking a life was not taboo, now, for him, taking a man’s life was “all in a day’s work”, as many would put it. He was SRACH. He did not work for pleasure or for fun, or for anything of that sort any more. His work now was killing, spying, and dealing in lives. He was a pawn in the game of politics, but he was worth more than most pawns.

He knew that to the other men, the four score of rocket men behind him, he was a symbol, a cruel show of things that they hated, but had to stand. He liked it. Throughout his years, he had stood for many things. There was nothing wrong with this. He turned and swiftly called back in his hefty, cold voice to them. “The coast is clear. Do your work now.” The “work” that he spoke of was work that would bring death to many, many more. It was work that he enjoyed being part of.

The first of the rocket men shuddered at the sound of Wolf 7’s voice. He leaned over and whispered to his comrade-in-arms, next to him. The SRACH didn’t care what these ignorant fools were talking about. His job was to get this job done. He raised his gun, pointing it at both of them. “Having a nice little conversation, eh? Well, I don’t like your talking. Do your work, or my little friend here will do mine.” He knew that it sounded bad, like something out of a D-grade movie, but it was necessary. People responded to this type of thing much better than they did to anything else.

Both of the rocket men bowed and ducked down. As if on cue, the other three-fourths of a hundred odd men began to ready their own rockets and launchers. They each took their time, even though, it seemed, they knew the consequences of doing so. One man whispered to another. “Why are we doing this?” The SRACH agent, overhearing him, merely looked at him. “Because the Generians are traitors to mankind.” They nodded and busied themselves. They knew that that was true.

Soon, each of them was ready. At Wolf 7’s signal, they loaded their launchers and fired. A score or so of rockets arched their way through the air, towards the city. Then another. Then another. From all around the city came rockets galore, sent by small teams such as this. When the security forces neared the areas where the rockets had been launched, they found these places empty. The Yaforites had struck once more. Soon, their assault against the city would begin. In a short while, Southern Buchiana would be theirs. And then Generia and the freedom of billions.

Akit Mrievo paused idly to look out over the quiet of the countryside. His mind was still, like the night, as he sucked in his last breath of cool night air before a high caliber rifle bullet shattered his skull. His body fell with a quiet thud to the concrete below, blood, invisible in the night, covering the B.N.A. patch on his shirt. A moment later his compatriots and countrymen sitting at home or idly strolling the streets would be shaken to their cores by a rocket barrage.

There were no Generians in Iljievo that night, and there hadn't been for some time. Most of the rest of the citizens of the Empire wanted little to do with the little country that was really just a stain on the Bornerifreudic Continent. To the Yaforites, it may have been a viable strategic target, to the Generians, a worthless hellhole a little smaller than the State of Texas, but to the residents of Iljievo, as to the late Akit Mrievo, it was home, and it was strictly Buchianan blood that would be spilled that night.

And it was from the throats of Buchianan women and children that screams and shouts poured forth as the missiles struck buildings and intersections. The city's garrison, composed of Buchianan National Army troops and more recently BLA volunteers, sprang into action, breaking open the armories, and manning the artillery and anti'aircraft batteries in the defense of the city. In the port, long silent artillery guns boomed out at the lights of a distant fleet.

Freshly promoted Captain Erik Ivanov swung his GIF-1 into formation. Reading the HUD, he glanced over into the cockpit of his wingman, a fellow veteran of the Ntac garrison, and flicked a grin and a thumbs up before strapping his oxygen mask over his mouth. This would be for him, as it o doubt was for so many Generians on the ground and in the air that day, the first operation since the fall of that garrison, and hopefully, an opportunity for a little revenge. They were flying high, but slow, escorting the strike fighters and bombers moving below them that would deliver the first blow. Cloud cover was virtually nonexistent, a strong change from the high winds and rain that had dominated Buchiana the past few weeks, and Ivanov was able to look down and out over the jagged green of the Lew Valley.

"Gives me the chills to think about the poor bastards down there. Place is fucking creepy."

A response crackled over the radio.

"Don't get shot down, and you won't have to worry about joining them."

"Believe me, I'm not planning on it."

Below, Ivanov watched a flight of nearly a dowen strike aircraft accelerate and decrease their altitude.

"They're moving into their attack run. Get ready, boys."

The escort kicked up its speed. Below, there was a resounding hiss, like a pit full of vipers or water on hot coals, accompanied by a series of white streaks as the aircraft unleashed long range ordinance. A second volley came a few minutes later. Simultaneously, dozens of other wings opened up in a similar manner, unloading their ordinance on leading Yaforite positions. Ivanov and the other escorts circled around as they neared the edge of the valley, going into a circular pattern to await the arrival of the next waves of strike aircraft and heavy bombers. The first part of Operation: Scarlet was underway.

General Iljientasha adjusted the sunglasses that rested on his long, knife-edge nose, squinting against the glare from the sun that bathed the wide expanses of green below him. His fingers fondled the grip of a revolver holstered against his right hip as his gaze drifted first over the columns of men and vehicles moving through the narrow path below, and then up the face of a cliff a few miles opposite him. Only fifty miles beyond that natural wall lay the enemy. The thought filled him with a strange sensation, something not quite apprehension, but more of a quiet reflection. He was not a squeamish man, and he always did what had to be done, but something about this conflict did not feel right. The simple hatred both armies had for each other was enough to tell him that things would occur in the next few months that no one would want to remember.

He banished the thoughts from his head, and lit a cigarette, turning away from the edge of the cliff and walking back towards the communications tent that served as a field headquarters. A soldier was only entitled to so much reflection.


Lieutenant Izak Aljieov watched the green walls of the Lew Valley passing quickly on either side. His hand trailed idly from the window of the scout vehicle, and his countenance was relaxed, smoke trailing from a short cigar clamped between his teeth. This was nothing to betray the tumult of excitement that was even now blazing in his chest, however. He knew that in a matter of hours, he and the men of his command, along with the entire Army of the South, would be given their first shot at the enemy. The thought brought a smirk to his thin, aristocrat’s lips as he tossed the spent cigar out the window.

He welcomed this war, unlike so many of his counterparts, whose hesitation and reflection he derided as near treason to Generian ideals and cowardice before the Emperor himself. It had been far too long since Generian manhood had been given the divine opportunity to test himself in the only pure contest, that of armed struggle. His great-grandfather had served in Alexei’s armies of the north, in all three Alberian campaigns, first as a major, then as a full Colonel, and his father had fought beside Antonius at Dedovka in the Great Alexian War, but he prided himself on being the first man in his family in recent history to be given the chance to draw steel against a foreign horde. The Yaforites were unfit to breathe Generian air, and he would make sure that for many of them, they would draw their last of it today.


The Generian Army of the South lumbered its way, slow but steady, through the passes of the Lew Valley. The day was warm, quiet, and generally pleasant. For them, unlike their airborne compatriots over free Buchiana, the war had not yet begun, and they were not forbidden the pleasures of a beautiful day, though the notion that it would soon be shattered lurked in the back of everyone’s mind.

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Iljievo, Southern Buchiana
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It had been an easy battle. Yaforite troops had done, in the words of Julius Caesar, "a smart bit of veni, vidi, vici." The ships in the bay had broken the walls of the city, the rockets, the will of the people inside, and the Yaforite troops rather easily poured in, not really afraid of anything, but yet slightly complacent. It had been an easy battle, if indded one could call it a battle. The "Buchianan National Army" was, esentially, a group of farmers with pitchforks, if one could be that condescnding.

Nurvain Khast was not, or, at least, he hoped he was not. The commander was legendary on the battlefield, dangerous to be around when fighting, and a leader of his troops from the front (or, at least, the middle). He was used to fighting. Some called battle his second home. In reality, Nurvain was never at home during wars. He had an inner fear, a fear that he was careful to conceal from the troops, lest they begin to feel fear themselves. It was to main duty of the commander, he believed, to appear infallible, unbreakable, some sort of iron figure that no one could break.

Nurvain was not much with titles. It must have been a Jakallan thing, he reflected. Unlike many of the other men, he took his religion seriously, in a way that displeased many. He was sure to make the offerings on the Five Toradas every year, making sure that everything was perfect. He had been to Juhamda, the ancestral home of the Jakallan faith, three times, as the ancient scriptures said would bring joy to all around, and safety to those who needed it. He was priveleged in another way, as well. He had met the High Korut, knew him, in fact, and had had the hono(u)r of being addressed by the auspicious personage in person. It was the highlight of his life to do as the High Korut asked.

There was more than one way to win a war, he reminded himself. He was using another tactic here. It was the simple good cop - bad cop routine. He had captured the capital (albeit with little loss of life) and was threatening the country. But he was offering them a way out. Yaforite positions spread accross "Free" Buchiana. He had told all Buchianans to get to those positions before it was too late. Before the Generian army arrived. Before he carpet-bombed the place.

Then, all of a sudden, out of the blue, he heard a whistling, and explosion, and was thrown to the side. A blooded man lay next to him and he suddenly realized that this man had thrown him out of the way, saving his life. Nurvain Khast stared at the man in thanks, quickly recognizing him. "Damer Kieones!" His pulse quickened. "Sorry sir, but I just couldn't let you die." Nurvain stared at him in blank amazement. This man had just saved his life and he was apologizing!

Anti-aircraft guns had opened up all around the camp, swiveling in circles, and and firing upwards at the opponents. On the runway, planes began to leap into the air. Likard Kuarmenos was one of the pilots, throwing his plane into action, firing as fast as he could. On the ground, Nurvain Khast has gotten up and was directing troops. He would have to change his plans. "Head northwards! I want to cut off the Lew Valley! They're a lot closer than I thought!"

“They’re scrambling interceptors! Get ready!”

Captain Erik Ivanov swung his GIF-1 in a wide circle over the rolling fields and scattered villages below, leading the formation of Generian fighters back in the direction of the Iljievo pocket. Blips painted by Generian ground RADAR and AWACs appeared in formidable numbers on his HUD, and he clutched the flight stick with what amounted to a mix of apprehension and raw adrenaline. He heard every beat of his heart as if it were a cannon going off inside his head, but his nerves remained steady and he held course.

“I’ve got a lock Captain.”

He took a deep breath, said a quick prayer, and spoke over the airwaves.

“Break formation to counter. Fire at will, gentlemen.”

He kicked up the throttle and the aircraft bolted forward, propelled by the controlled explosion of pulse jet engines directly behind his head. He felt the Gs flattening his features, and every muscle thrilled with the combination of extreme speed and adrenaline. To be young and in battle, was there ever a more desirable thing?

His electronics locked on a Yaforite jet just taking off from an Iljievo airfield, and instinctively he let fly a pair of medium range AA missiles. The rest of his squad were doing the same, moving in to counter the scrambling Yaforite fighters in the Iljievo area, while Generian strike fighters and medium bombers approached for the second round of ground pounding.

Cruise missiles from installations on the other end of the valley lifted into the clear blue, as long range ordinance from Generian aircraft took off in the direction of Yaforite fixed installations and the columns of troops and tanks moving in the direction of the Lew Valley, where the Generian Army of the South was in motion.



Sergeant Mikhail Andrai clutched the grip of his GIR-47 in one hand and the handgrip above the door of the VTOL in the other. Through a pair of sunglasses he watched the tinted trees passing below, and listened to the distant thunder that he begun such a short time ago. He was instinctively apprehensive about going in so soon after the beginning of the aerial bombardment, but he was Praetorian and it was expected of him, so he would do it. He looked down the fuselage at the rows of armored faces, black emblems, and weapons of all shapes and sizes, and felt that peculiar thing known only to soldiers, that strange security that comes with strength of numbers. Generia had no shortage of numbers, this was certain, and they could hold their own in the realm of technology and equipment, but what Andrai had always realized was that it was not a question of either of those factors, but the will of the Generian fighting man that made her strong. Generia would be strong today.

The sound of Anti-aircraft batteries opened up in the distance, to be echoed by the roar of the VTOL’s 30mm cannons, and a burst of rockets from a wing pod. No one in the troop compartment moved. There was very little sound other than the occasional click of a magazine being loaded or a slight whispered comment. No one prayed. It was not a Praetorian thing to do so. When they touched down they would have to rely on their own training, will, and the providence that they made for themselves, not that of the divine.

“2 minutes!”

Andrai primed himself. The men of his command sat up straighter, muscles tensed under their body armor. Across from him, a lieutenant threw a cigarette to the floor and crushed it under the heel of his boot. The fire outside intensified, mingling with the screech and roar of aerial ordinance finding its mark. The VTOL began to descend, and the clanking of small arms fire on the outside of the fuselage echoed in the ears of the men inside.

There was a thud and a shock, and the doors opened. Andrai was the second man out, and he hit the dirt, scanning for targets. A convoy on a dirt road directly ahead of him, chewed to bits by 30mm fire. A face peering over a burning hulk. He fired, and it was gone, ripped to bits by the heavy caliber of the GIR-47. Other VTOLs were dropping elsewhere across the grassy plain interrupted here and there by a farmhouse, a hill, a drainage ditch. These Praetorians were the first ones in. They were the speedbump on the road to the mouth of the Lew Valley, intended to delay the Yaforites until the arrival of the main force of infantry through capturing forward positions.

A VTOL flew overhead, carrying a light artillery piece, and dropped it down on a slight rise in the landscape. In a few minutes, Praetorians were turning the piece to face some distant approaching target while Generian aircraft screamed overhead.

((OOC: Will post the Aljievo responses ASAP, but I didn't have time to finish that part right now.))

Aljievo, Embattled Generian Coastal City

Colonel Alkev Suderic took a long pull on his flask. Trails of dust fell from the ceiling of the command bunker as overhead, shells and airborne ordinance slammed into the city. A particularly violent blast sent him reeling against the back of a nearby chair as his lieutenant and aid ducked instinctively. Straightening, the junior officer looked a little embarrassed, but forgot about it seeing that his superior did not seem to notice or care.

“They’re beginning their landings, sir.”

Suderic did not acknowledge, but took another pull at the liquor. Just then a second shell sent a shock through the bunker, knocking the flask from his hands, and spilling the liquid on the floor. Cursing silently, Suderic straightened and turned towards the monitor screens giving feeds from various sectors of the city. Save for the shell blasts in certain areas and the fury of the storm, the scene was still relatively calm.

Along the seawall, the Generian infantry waited, watching the sea, illuminated by the flashes of the warships’ guns, and hearing the crash of the shells at their backs. They clutched their rifles and prayed to their gods, attending their enemies’ inevitable advance.

In the skies above, the scene was far less calm. Generian interceptors fresh from Sofia stormed towards the Yaforite aircraft. The Aljievo airfields became seas of fire as machine guns tore apart fuel tanks and aircraft alike, unleashing pillars of black smoke.