NationStates Jolt Archive

Lt. Col. Stryker stood, the lone figure doing so, and looked over the troops of his HQ company and the battalion of fighting men he commanded. The 11th Airborne Division was an elite unit by Imperial Army standards, better trained than most of the airborne divisions in the Imperial Army and possessing a string a victories that dated back centuries, and his 1st of the 33rd PIR was its vanguard. So, to he and his soldiers it only made sense that they'd be the first boots on the ground of the soon-to-be Imperial colony.

Unfastening the cover on his battlearmour's embedded watch, he noted the time and called, "Suit and equipment check by company. Alpha company, you're first up since you jump first. After that, in sequence according to jump order. I don't want any non-combat casualties on this jump, so be thorough. Do I make myself clear?"

"ARCHANGELS, SIR!" Came the roared reply from his soldiers.

The half-bird colonel nodded in satisfaction before signaling to his second-in-command and walking down the middle isle. Every now and then he touched a shoulder and asked the soldier how they were doing, more often than not they were the ones known to become airsick or who developed pre-jump jitters. As he neared the end of the walkway he fastened his helmet and turned around, "Fasten your helmets, check your weapons, and prepare to jump. We all know combat isn't expect or even likely, but as far as you all are concerned this is a combat jump and I won't have anybody slacking in their duties. Clear?"

"ARCHANGELS, SIR!" Again the soldiers sounded off in unison with the battalion's motto.

"I'm glad. Stand up, stack up, and prepare to jump," Stryker ordered as the yellow jump prep light flashed on and the ramp lowered.

When the light changed to green the Lieutenant Colonel took a running leap into the void-like blackness of the night at 30,000 feet. At a little over five miles in the air the view was crystal clear for as far as the darkness allowed a human to see, constellations became clearer and stars that one had never seen before dotted the sky like the sparkling facets of a diamond. At 5,000 feet Lt. Col. Stryker reached for the d-ring attached to the ripcord that would deploy his parafoil and yanked hard. The sudden deceleration gave one the impression of being a marionette being yanked up by its cords, but it wasn't quite violent enough to make a paratrooper black out.

Stryker hit the ground hard, not as hard as pulling his chute at 3k feet would have caused but nowhere near as soft as pulling it as nine thousand, and rolled into a forward somersalt and came up in a crouch. Bringing his carbine to the low-ready position he scanned the terrain around him for threats as his soldiers landed just as he had. The terrain around him was entirely desert, and sandy desert at that, scooping up a handful of sand he noticed the shifting rainbow of colors in the otherwise gray material. Whatever the ore was before this place became sand, it sure was laced with a lot of iridium. Which means the Imperium is improve its output of rare earth metals by quite a bit, thought the battalion commander.

"Archangel Six, HHC on the ground," called his Battalion Sargeant Major.

"Roger. Archangels," that word switched his comms to the battalion net, "company COs and XOs to me."


[This isn't an attack on any nation, just the opening stages of the Imperium claiming land for a trading post and forward operating base in southern Haven. Map can be found here (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v172/NSFlags/HavenMap.png), the area being claimed is called Aldea and is located between Hallad, the GPE territory, and Skinny.]

[bump]

OOC: Since this is all happening a short distance (<1000km) from my border, I'll be definately watching this. No amphibious landing of sorts?

[Not yet. Too many nations in close proximity that would get jumpy if I went amphib first. By jumping in troops I make my intentions clear and pave the way for heavier forces to be shipped and flown in.]

Northern Military Command, Grand Republic

The defense of the Grand Republic itself is divided up into five major areas of military responsibility; Northern, Southern, Eastern, Western and Central, concerning itself exclusively with the Capital, Dowland City. As much of the Grand Republic is bordered by water and not land, many of the military zones are concerned primarily with naval and amphibious operations. However, the Northern Military Command (NMC) covers the entire of the Grand Republic's land borders with the GPE, Hallad and the former territory of the NSR, now under Grand Republic attention.

Thus it was that at 0130 Hours Central Time, dozens of low-flying airbourne contacts were detected only a few hundred kilometres from the Northern Border of the Republic. Alerted instantly to this fact, the NMC went through a series of almost automatic and well-performed actions. More than a hundred fighters were scrambled from high-alert status bases throughout the NMC and began patrolling the aerial borders of the Republic, and airbourne AWACS sentries gathered with them, monitoring the airbourne armada in the empty territory before them.

Onboard Eagle Delta Two, an upgraded AWACS, two technicians monitored the Radar sets on the huge plane and studied the screens with intense purpose, jotting down occasional notes and handing them to their superior, a staff sergeant. These notes, added with those from dozens of other aircraft and listening posts on the ground by the border, were quickly digitised, compiled, and sent to the Octagon. There, a briefing was prepared, and at 0300 Hours the President was quietly woken by a staffer and informed of the news.

Bleary-eyed from a late night due to an Embassy Dinner, it took some seconds for the President to come to terms with what was happening. Suppressing a yawn, Martin took the cream folder from the staffer, thanked him, and sat down at his desk, the door closing softly behind him. Placing a pair of wire-framed reading glasses on his nose, Xavier began reading. By 0345, the folder had been read, and by 0350 the Joint Chiefs had been hastily assembled at the Grey House. There, a three hour conference took place; at 0700 the Joint Chiefs were dismissed, and the President could finally rest.

He wiped his bloodshot eyes. So, the Scandavians were finally back, and taking territory next to Grand Republic. Right next to it, in fact. Given other circumstances, he might have taken a more pro-active stance against the colonisation. However, with a Parliament baying for cuts in budgets and a recent decrease in Colonial affairs, as well as a period of intense isolation, there was really nothing that could be done. The NMC was kept on alert, and several divisions moved to their Northern staging points, but nothing offensive was done. For the moment, the Grand Republic simply watched...

"What's our situation?" Major General Perez asked.

"Reports from ESS indicate that Skinnies have reacted to our operation. Fighters were scrambled and it appears they're starting to shift divisions to the border," responded Major Adima Ling.

Perez shifted his gaze to his Operations (S-1) chief, Major McGonagal, "Are they prepping for offensive operations?"

"Unknown. We have not had enough contact with them to have a good idea exactly what it is they're doing. My guess, and it's purely that, is they're just shifting to FOBs for defensive purposes. Why, I don't know, we have no bases of operation right now and we have none of the support we'd need to take on the Skinnies," replied the burly, red-headed man.

"So we continue as we are?" The General wanted clarification.

"Aye, I think so. No need spooking them and if we start reacting to them then we begin to play their game. Not something I would prefer doing," answered McGonagal.

"I concur, sir. We pretend like we don't know or give a damn what they're doing, and if they try something we can use a fighting withdrawal until the reinforcements arrive," came from affirmation from Adima.

"Sounds good. Supply, what's the situation with the plasticizer?" Perez asked his S-4.

"Should be paradropped tonight or tomorrow. At that point we can begin mixing it with the sand to make some nice airstrips, whatever or is in this sand will make some nicely sturdy landing surfaces. Only problem is, we don't have the heavy equipment to do it fast," the quartermaster replied.

"Very well, just make sure the engineers get on it. Good night ladies and gentlemen, sleep tight," with that the two-start walked away from the command group and towards his sleeping roll.

[bump]

"Drop in 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... deployed," came the call from the rigger in the back of the transport.

The package, or rather packages, contained 300 tons of plasticizer and 50 tons of reactant. The wall molds had dropped with the engineer detachment, so all that needed to be done now was to lay the molds on their sides and mix some sand, plasticizer, reactant, and water together to get a nice little open-air kiln for a few hours while the walls baked into their shape. Of course it would take the helicopters to lift the walls up and mate them to the other walls, but that was a relatively trivial exercise so long as it was done right.

The two mile-long airstrip was already being built, the division's engineers had requisitioned any infantry that weren't on, or hadn't just returned from, patrol to hammer the frames into the earther and lay down the required ingredients. Given the number of people involved the work wasn't all hard, but working in the sun made it seem so and that made people irritable. Already there had been a fight and one soldier was being treated by the medics for a dislocated shoulder when they had been thrown into an arm bar.

"How long until this is all finished?" General Perez asked.

Captain Eriksson, commander of the Engineer Detachment, answered, "Well, assuming that we can avoid incidents similar to what happened to this morning, I would estimate that we can have buildings up and the airfield done in about a week."

"Very well, that is sufficient so long as the Skinnies decide to behave. If they start fucking with us, we're probably going to have to withdraw and abandon the work we've done," the General's tone suggested that would be something very distasteful to do.

The 'Submarine' didn't really deserve the name. It was mostly wooden, constantly leaking oxygen, and sufferent from an equally constant influx of water.

All in all, three perfectly good reasons to not submerge, but to stay on the surface, floating relatively unharrassed on the sea, a few kritters getting bitten as they played more-or-less violent - And dangerous - games with the Klap Traps, whereas others received sunburns (When they didn't try to run away from the local Krusha, who was 'protecting' the single main gun on the submarine).

Pirate songs were sung (Well, kinda. 'Belched' was probably the more appropriate term), domesticated sharks and barracudas surrounded the smallish submarine, hoping to get a bite, and so they drifted (A few kritters tried to get the engine to work, again, but so far, they'd been unsuccessful), propelled only by the wind blowing into an improvised sail.

"LAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNDDDDDDDDDDDKRRRRRKKKRRRKRKKRKRKKK!"

They stared, toppling over each other, kicking, screaming and occasionally stabbing. Indeed, land.

Inside the submarine, the captain (A really huge, sentient shell suspended in a pool of water) blubbed.

Vultures started heading for the land, scouting and searching for possible loot, and the kritters started paddling in the direction of the coast, constantly hit by the Krusha, while the domesticated sharks and barracudas were indeed domesticated enough to not bite them instantaneously (They generally waited for a number of seconds).

Perhaps here, far away - More than 6000 kilometers - from home, they'd find something to loot.

Months away from today, Gooik had been a thriving place in the Camewottian community where every well respected citizen would spend its vacation, if they were not doing that in sunny Wrakistan, the Camewottian colony. The major had numerous foreign bank accounts, the stores and tourists shops had their biggest boom in the last 200 years. But what few people knew that Gooik was also appointed a reserve military base for the Camewottian military. The major knew, but had wisely put that secret away in the deepest safe of his mind. But one day, it had to come.

It was the day that the tensions between Praetonia and AMF rose to their high. The Camewottian government, being allies for centuries with the Praetonian counterpart, promised their support and made a connection with Rotovia, whose leaders had declared war on The Parthians for freedom and justica. It was that day that hundreds of trucks and other vehicles arrived at Gooik and took their place in it.

Now, months later Gooik was one big military community, the local citizens and shop keepers had long left it and who would dare to spend his vacation there? The camp leader practised airdrops everyday, and fireworks were now just lit when infantry did nightly excercises.

But today was a day to be proud of, the Minister of Defence came to visit a patriot who had been serving in the military for 40 years and the Minister was just about to have a cup of tea after the long talk with the lad when his vice-minister arrived at the townhouse. His mood changed as quickly as the weather, everytime he saw that face he knew it would be something bad.
The conversation itself was in Camewottian, so there is no point in writing all of that out.

Eventually, the minister decided not to interfere right now. The Skinny's had put themselfes away into isolation and therefore we had promised to leave them alone. But one thing was sure,

Camewot is watching this. tag (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v295/Catacombe/20030329-McEscher6blog.jpg)

[OOC: I know I'm not in Haven, but since I RP with many of the Haven countries regularly and SS asked me if I would react to this, I'll post something.]

Deputy Senior Vice President and External Affairs Officer Grant Haffner stood outside the office of his boss's office and waited with the standard briefing. Haffner was looking haggard, and not just from the usual traffic jam on Hull. Despite being the second in command at External Affairs, Haffner was a very busy man. With Mark Lorber known for being diplomatic almost to the point of being mousy, it was often up to Haffner when Sarzonia's diplomatic corps needed a pinch of undiplomatic candor.

He flipped through the standard briefing materials for his meeting with Lorber. It was his last item on his to do list before he could go home early and get some badly needed rest.

"Let's see, Guffingford and ViZion are about to go to war," Haffner muttered. "Diplomatic tensions in other parts of the world. No real big news here." This should be easy, he thought, getting visions of the warm, comfortable bed that beckoned like a siren song. However, his reverie was about to come to an abrupt end.

"Haff, did you see this," Lorber said when he saw Haffner standing outside his office door. Lorber brought a sheet of paper with the movements by the Scandavian military in Haven. Haffner shook his head and slowly reached for the paper that detailed the movements into Aldea.

He spent several minutes poring over the notes. There were no gunshots. So far, the Skinnian government seemed to be doing nothing but watching the situation. There was no word yet from Hallad or the Omzians or anyone else, for that matter.

"What do you think Grant?"

"This doesn't affect us," Haffner replied. "We're not in the region and that area isn't one that we're interested in claiming. Still, that land's right up the crack of two of our Woodstock Pact allies, so it bears watching."

"Care to issue a statement?"

"A glorified, 'we're watching you'?"

"Exactly."

"If you want."

"Go ahead. Then meet with me when you're done."

"All right." So much for that early trip home, Haffner thought sullenly.

Official Statement, Incorporated Sarzonian Government

The Incorporated Sarzonian Government has noted the landing in Aldea by the Scandavian military and we are monitoring events there. Since the allies who are most directly affected by such movements have not reacted publicly yet, we will withhold further comment until such time as they have reacted.

Grant Haffner
Deputy Senior Vice President and External Affairs Officer

[OOC: Consider this an overblown tag.]

"LAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNDDDDDDDDDDDKRRRRRKKKRRRKRKKRKRKKK!"

The cry startled the platoon of infantrymen, who were neither wanting nor expecting company. Acting on instinct alone the stanggered column dropped to the prone position and began scanning their fire sectors. Not finding anything the platoon's CO, Lieutenant Shevchenko ordered, "Chang. Hayes. My HUD's tagging whatever the fuck that was as coming from the south, get up on the dune and find out what's going. Everybody else, security overwatch."

"Yes ma'am," replied Sgt. Chang, first squad's sniper.

Corporal Hayes, one of two first squad grenadiers was right behind the veteran sniper as they climbed the tall sand dune. As they came up on the ridgeline they eased themselves into the prone position and began high-crawling to their observation point. Chang peered through his scope and could barely stifle a laugh and Hayes, noticeing this, made a hand motion as if to ask, what the fuck's so funny? Chang just passed his rifle over to allow his partner to view the scene and she too had to force herself from laughing histerically.

About half a click out, swimming towards the beach, were a bunch of idiots desperately trying to outswim a group of sharks who appeared to be lazily persueing their quarry. In order to escape the bafoons were punching, kicking, and occassionally stabbing their way towards safety. Perhaps even funnier, there was a seemingly intact ship that was powered by sail and had a slightly rusty-looking deck gun that the morons had to have willingly jumped from. Why, neither had any clue, but it didn't matter.

Looking back, Chang signalled to the el-tee to join them. This was simply too ludicrous to believe without seeing and besides that, Chang doubted whether he or Hayes could keep from cracking up if they made the attempt to explain.

Shevchenko quickly climbed the dune and settled down beside her scouts. Pulling out her binoculars and looking to where they indicated, the infantry officer saw the scene and began thinking through scenarios before coming to a decision. "Sand Viper," calling the firebase her platoon was operating out of, "I have a fire mission."

"Roger," the surprise was evident in the voice on the other end, but hesitation was not.

"My position plus 500 meters, direction south, tracer," called the 2nd Lieutenant.

"Shot," came the call some time later, indicating 5 seconds to impact.

The group looked to the sky and watched as the scramjet round fell out of the sky, the bright flame and exhaust trail marking its progress. Shevchenko flipped her HUD to an UV overlay, she noticed how the round stood out to an astounding degree, rivaling even the sun in brightness on the UV scale. Must have the new UV tracer liquid in the body, thought the officer. The round barely missed the ship, but she wasn't discouraged, "Target! Fire for effect, incindiary."

"Platoon, on me! Weapons section, hold fire until I give the order! Everybody else, fire at will! Kill the fucking invaders," ordered the platoon's CO.

The Kritters were still paddling when the light outshone the sun, missing them, barely.

The Kremlings themselves weren't really scared, more surprised, and - In the case of the water-dwelling ones - curious, swimming in the general direction of the impact while the Kritters clapped, impressed.

On board of the semi-sub, the shell blubbed, again.

Then the fire came, and as the (Forseeable) result, the ship was set on fire, instantaneously.

Screaming ensured, snarling, and the Krusha was still clubbing fleeing Kritters trying to get off the 'ship'. Klap Traps ran around, splashing into the water and sinking while reptilian skin burned.

The shell blubbed again, then the submarine submerged. Of course, this time, it wouldn't return to the surface (Despite the Kremlings' amazing repair skills)... But the shell wasn't particularly bothered.

It was happy to blub.

The various Kremlings on board... Well, some ended as food for their (Semi-) domesticated fishes, the others, being vaguely amphibious reptilians, most of them too stupid to swim, eventually landed on the ground, a dozen metres or so below the surface, and started to (Slowly) walk towards the coast. If there was an enemy, then surely there was something to loot there, too!

Wooden legs and giant teeth were on the march, and the sea was full of blubbered speech, most of it enriched with lots of superfluous 'K''s.

As the semi-humanoid reptillian things moved ashore the LT called out, "All soldiers, pour into the fuckers! Weapons section, fire where they're most concentrated!"

Fire from the carbines and designated marksmen rifles continued ripping into the invaders, however two 9mm (rifle, not pistol rounds) machine guns and two Mk99 Multi-Purpose Rocket Launchers joined the fray. The heavy slugs and missiles with HE warheads were designed to rip apart concentrations of enemy infantry and here the perfect enemy presented itself.

After a few seconds of heavy fire from the platoon the Lieutenant called, "2nd squad, Gwenedd; 3rd squad, Alexandria."

It was a coded order to cease fire and split to the left and right flanks of the enemy. This they did with such speed that anybody witnessing it who had not regularly operated with the Imperial Army or Marines would find it alarming. After all, a loping run was not supposed to happen at 10 miles per hour, it just wasn't natural for a human being. "2nd and third, reengage."

Now the bipedal reptiles were being fired upon from three different points by enemies whose point of aim converged on the center of their formation.

Given that the Kremlings weren't exactly used to attacking in formations, in wasn't particularly surprising that most got slaughtered with relative ease, turning the beach into a crocodile farm for gourmets.

On the other hand, there were other things, like the vultures - Zingers would've been nice, but hadn't been on board - which were now attacking the troops from above, screeching and staging poorly coordinated - And aimed - attacks, occasionally stealing a helmet or berret and, in one particularly lucky case, a hand grenade.

The rain of feathers coming from the sky was in some way romantic. Of course, the people directly below the detonation couldn't really appreciate it, being bathed in blood and organs as they were.

Then there were, of course, the Klap Traps. Giant, oversized snouts and even larger teeth, and relatively fast, heading in the general direction of the soldiers shooting at them... Hungry.

Very hungry.

Extraordinarily hungry.

Like always.

And, as if this wasn't enough, a couple of small, sword-swinging Kremlings of fairly noticeable skill - Though a bit too aggressive to put it to use - as well as the Krusha, who stalked slowly in the general direction of the 'defenders', apparently believing himself to be bulletproof.

He wasn't.