NationStates Jolt Archive

FRTA Monitoring Station Emo Goff, Bay of Abzhan-Rejak

The moon was high, bright and yellow, and the sky a clear, deep-set blue. Night had come to Gruenberg's seas, and with it the wind that cut low and strong across the waves, flicking spray up and flinging it out in bands of white, dashing across the stone-black waves like a thousand prickling fingers. Lieutenant Polter watched the dance for another moment: beneath the thick, churning treacle shit, there lay a vast bed of wiggling fish, spinning debris and lurking mines. He couldn't see them. Finally, he wiped the cold spray from his face with a gloved hand and turned back to duck inside the cramped observation room. The heat - the packed radiance of a dozen men and as many computers - hit him full on, and he pulled the thick jacket off quickly.

"Still, nothing, I suppose."

"Negative sir," replied the watchman.

Polter rolled his eyes. Was there really any need for such formality out here? One day, when the Gruenberger military pulled its head up from the reg book, it might actually be able to do something. Until then, dusting off uniforms and enforcing antiquated legal codes remained far more important than, say, arming the troops. He squeezed his fist, the leather crackling, and peeled off the gloves.

"Alright. You're dismissed. Head back to bunk; report in again oh-six-hundred."

There was a muttered babble of thanks, but for the most part the men were tired, and just glad to pry themselves from their sweaty enclave and head towards a hard pillow and an unlit swig. They filed out past him, leaving him with the two new observers. He sighed, laying his coat carefully down over the back of an unattended chair, and leaned against the back wall. He drew a thin cigarette from a leather-bound case, and snapped it shut. The prying glance of one watchman flickered to his right.

"You smoke?"

"No, sir."

"Ok." He slid the case back into his pocket, and idly flicked at the lighter for a minute before bringing it up to light the tip. The orange flared in his eyes, and then it was all sweet relief as he sucked gladly at the smoke. He exhaled lightly, popping a small but solid ring around his tongue. There was a bright ping.

"Sir, we have something."



Captain's Quarters, HSS Farfalarin, Bay of Abzhan-Rejak

For the heart shall sour not in the face of bold endeavour, but grow ever stronger. The quaking of man before man is nothing pleasurable nor right. For the fool is not he who dare not dream, nor he veiled and lapsed in whimsy, but he rooted in the absolute fact of his existence, yet ever an eye for the clouds...

Three sharp raps at the door stirred Captain Morrwhen. He placed down the book, and stood, tugging down the creases of his shirt.

"Enter."

A harried young officer whose name Morrwhen couldn't quite whip up the effort to recall leaned in, his face bright.

"We have an urgent line, sir, from one of the observation posts."

Morrwhen sighed. "And how big was the one that got away?" He moved to sit down.

"No, sir. It's an alert."

Morrwhen paused, his knees half-bent. His eyes trickled up.

"Ah."



Bridge, HSS Silimen, Bay of Abzhan-Rejak

"Yes, sir. They've refused to respond to Hail, and have not altered course."

The communication system spat a gob of static at him, and he jerked his ear clear. His knuckles were white on the receiver.

"Try again."

"Sir, we have sent three Hails. They're evading us. Please assist."

"Try again, Lieutenant.

"Very well."

The bridge was still for a moment, not an eye daring to move to the silent radio. They really weren't responding. His eyes were dead.

"Sir, still nothing. Sir, you must intervene."

There was a long pause, a slow orchestral build-up of static rising. Finally, the voice came across, thin and crackling, "We will assist. Hold your course."

* * * * *

Royal Chambers, The Court, Flurthwel

Sultan Gardab Woltzten IX sent the cup crashing to the floor. Thick red wine sprayed, spattering the cold stone with a thick, bright, crimson stain.

"Why?"

"I can only guess, Holiness. I believe they thought they may have been Gelzien arms smugglers. There has been heightened activity -"

"Do not try to justify this Mikko, do not even try," he bellowed, running ringed fingers through coarse, dry hair.

"Naturally Holiness."

The silence dripped from the walls. Finally:

"And they're all dead?"

"Yes, Holiness."

"No survivors in the water?"

"I believe...no." Machine-gunning the screaming ignorant, clawing pathetically at the icy waves, was the sort of detail he would spare the Sultan today. He still valued his life, after all.

"So what do we do, Mikko?" He collapsed into his heavy throne. "What do we even say?"

"Holiness, they didn't respond -"

"Yet you say the inspection showed up faulty equipment."

"Yes, Holiness."

"And...they didn't even check?" He leaned forward, cradling his forehead in sweaty palms.

"Evidently not."

He sighed. "So. My officers have slaughtered thirty Zanzii traders...because their radio was broken."

"I...yes, Holiness."

The Sultan sat back, dark eyes inspecting his subordinate. "What will they say?"

Chamber of the Grand Maester, Royal Palace, Nypto, Zanziik

"No, Jeeri, if you are going to be that way, I'll leave!"

"Why do you have to be like that? Always yelling!"

"I AM NOT YELLING!"

Just as Grand Maester Jeeri Walsh was about to inform his wife of this particular double negative, he glanced into his living room and watched a news break.

"... And all thirty men were found dead in the Bay of Abzhan-Reja, riddled with high caliber weapons ammunition. The reason for the attack is unknown, but the crew of the trading ship Ovari Yous had radioed in to announce possible radio silence in the near future, as the ship was experiencing auxiliary power problems. The owner of the trading ship had this to s..."

Jeeri grumbled as his wife grumbled at him with the remote in hand, and walked to the door.

"I'm going into the office. Be back later."

The last thing he heard as he left the room was profuse swearing and the words see you in hell.

Office of the Maesters, Royal Palace, Nypto, Zanziik

As the four Maesters filed into the room, followed by their advisors, the Grand Maester called them to order.

"I assume you have all seen the news, but I have a bit more to add. A ship of the Gruenberg Navy was reportedly seen attacking our ship."

The room filled with gasps as this news sunk. Only one thing could come from this.

War.

"Now, I don't need your advice on this decision," sighed Jeeri Walsh slowly. "But I do need your support. This could be one of the largest conflicts since the Dracun Engagements. We need to step softly."

"I agree, but we must do something."

They voted, four to one, to declare war.

It had begun.

Royal Chambers, The Court, Flurthwel

"How goes it?"

Mikko shook his head. "Not well, Highness, not well. The ambassadors are ten a phone...but it's all they can do to keep our friends out of it, I'm afraid. We are being portrayed by foreign media as butchers."

"We're being portrayed by our own media as butchers."

"Not in a good way."

"Oh." The Sultan was still, finger cocked below his chin, eyes dark. He raised his goblet slowly, and took a long sip.

"Highness, we need to start preparing."

"I've already put the army on alert -"

"I mean, Highness, that we put the army on alert when our cricket team loses. We are at war, and there is going be no room, backwards or sideways: we must attack."

"And aggrevate the situation further? Charge forward like rash suitors? Mikko, I will not lead this country on some sort of crusade over thirty fucking sailors."

"No, sir. But the Zanzii will. And I for one don't want to watch their ships sailing into the Bay tomorrow." He looked up, and pressed his hand to his mouth. "I mean no, disrespect, Highness."

"Yes, you did, Mikko. I have never led this country in law; you think less of me for it. Right now, I'm finding it very difficult to disagree."

They both smiled uneasily. The Sultan drained his drink, a dribble of dark red escaping. He jabbed it with a finger, serving only to smear it further along his cheek.

"Suggestions?"

"Firstly, we send out a task force. We can carry on negotiations, but we need to get something out there."

"Yes, Mikko, I have generals for that. I mean, what happens here? Will I need to declare martial law?"

Mikko sucked the air between his teeth. "No, Highness. Such a move would only promote fear and panic. But we will need...measures."


* * * * *


"Dear people, my humble brethren. In Wena we know."

The response was more muted than usual. They were really going to listen.

He cast his eyes out again at the mass, comfortably five thousand strong, and then returned to his sheet. "I shall be brief. As you will no doubt have been informed, I was informed by the Zanzii Ambassador to Gruenberg this morning that his government now considers us to be at a state of war. We are naturally still pursuing all available diplomatic channels, but in the meantime, His High Holiness has instructed me to announce the following cautionary measures. A draft will be instated."

That was it. He had four pages of speech to read, but the rest was but a bee's hum underneath a gale of questioning and confusion, support and outrage. Mikko stood, watching the great rabble, and finally turned in. He slammed the Doors of Proclamation with an irreverent force, and marched back to his quarters. There he would wait on news of the continuing negotiations.

The task force was dispatched. He hadn't been entirely open with the Sultan, of course. The plan was less defensive than pre-emptive. Seizing a northern seaport would give Gruenberg options: they could press on, or back down with honour. At present they had neither. Mikko sat, as always, facing the wall - fewer distractions than the window - and thought. He continued to think for sometime.

"Sir..."

"Nothing?"

"They have issued a categorical statement."

"I see."

The final words were brief. The force commander was issued with scant advice: simply an order. "Take D'Martyr."

OOC: Sorry for the wait, the forums were being difficult. I also just officially recieved my Army, and my Navy is on the way.

IC:

Unified Zanziik National News Broadcast

*The screen flashes with images of the previous wars in Zanziik. Men carrying the banner of Dracun Imperium march past the Citadel of Northern Zanziik, in Jammal.*

WAR!

*More images flash, this time of Zanzii guerilla warriors attacking a patrol of invaders.*

"Never since the times of the Dracun invasions has a full scale war been declared by Zanziik," stated an elaborately dressed anchorwomen, hair fully arranged in the Omari style, so popular in Zanziik. "But now history repeats itself, with the drums of war being beaten once more by the expert Unified Zanziik Armed Forces. Two hours after the unanimous declaration of war on Gruenberg by the Maesters, the UZAF announced the activation of it's newly aquired armed forces, bringing nearly ten million volunteers in to man the new force. Although only about one tenth of these troops will actually be fighting, each and every troop counts as the homeland prepares for invasion. UZAF brass expect the brunt of the attack to fall on the island of D'Martyr, and the port city of Miko. All non-essential personnel and civilians began evacuating the city, which is now occupied by the 7th Mechanized Infantry Corps, and the 3rd Armored Corps, 7th and 8th Divisions, bringing the total number of troops in Miko to 38,200. Other units are preparing to depart too, and it appears as though this may be a long war."

"Whatever we do, we're screwed."

Commander Fallun watched the two senior officers intently. They prowled slowly around the chart desk, pacing a tip-toeing clockwise hunt. Sub-Admiral Cralk extended a languidly uncoiling finger and lowered it, resting on the thick black dot marked 'Miko'.

"Right. But if we take the port, we can at least get screwed while we build up replenishment forces."

"I'm telling you, there's no point. They have thousands of men there already. Why rush into some empty town, all in search of a bed for a doomed whore?"

Cralk rolled his eyes. Fallun stifled a grin.

"So what do you suggest? And...without the poetry."

Colonel-General Mendis resumed his stalk. "I say we set back, and fire everything we have at them. Bring in the Omagion and deploy from there."

Cralk shrugged quickly. "Pointless. They can replace them man for man. And in the meantime, they'll come out to us. We'd end up retreating pointlessly, and for what? Some craters?"

"'For what' is a dangerous path."

"Hmm."

The men continued to circle. The desk was thickly laden with small wooden models, huge arrows, animated scribblings, but also cups of coffee and broken pencils. Bright lights focussed on it, casting thick yellow beams zig-zagging across it.

"If we did -"

"I don't like it."

"If. If we did, we could hit on the west? They have virtually no troops there, and we could set up camps quickly."

"Too mountainous. We wouldn't be able to get to the port in time."

Fallun stepped forward, his face still half-shadowed. Enough.

"Sir, sir. May I make a suggestion?"

* * * * *

The morning was fresh and cold, several degrees cooler than anything most Gruenbergers would have experienced. Shoulders shivered, hands were rubbed, and warming cigarettes were raised to trembling lips. The previous night, the senior officers had been briefed. They'd held short talks with their officers. Then the NCOs had been led through the plan. Finally, they'd filed out among the men, passing out papers and instructions. The night had brought a hushed reverie among them, watching as the display began. Plumes of orange danced over the port briefly as the bombers spat out their loads. The sleeping hours had wilted away beneath the regular boom of fire crashing into the town over the waves, punctuated by drizzling return fire.

It had in all probability been wildly ineffectual: perhaps a few hundred, at most, would have been injured, but quick collection would have resolved most of the problems. It was little more than an obligation, a first heavy knock on the door. The seas remained empty in the morning, though, and the flotilla continued its path in. The rocks loomed up, piercing the dull grey horizon, and the thick, flat plate of Zanzii mainland soon broke through trailing early fog.

The limitation of numbers of supportable landing craft meant barely two thousand men would hit the ground running. Additional teams were being deployed further west, but mostly in a reserve role, looking to establish grounds for artillery units. The actual port would have to be taken quickly, or at least fenced back so that the major transit ships could roll in.

Fallun crouched at the front. He was surrounded by junior officers and rough-faced NCOs. Bayonets, once gleaming, shuffled like bats: boot polish smeared thinly over all shiny surfaces. In the mass of dark grey FIBUA gear, it was difficult to pin-point individuals. The grinding was building.

"We have ten main units. Split into fire-teams. Don't cross over. Let's concentrate on securing sectors. If we can get four blocks back, the harbour will be ours. End everything you see: there shouldn't be any civilians. Stick to houses as you can: the streets will be fired on."

He cocked his weapon noisily.

"Alright. We're outnumbered in all probability. Stick to the walls, and aim carefully. In Wena we know."

There was a rugged chorus. Men scrabbled for charms and trinkets in a jangling prayer of good luck. The craft hit the beach with a jolt, and the doors crashed down.

The machine guns started blazing.

Miko, D'Martyr, Zanziik

Sergeant Mike O'Conner ducked under the table again, rattling the myriad silverware on it's surface. The whirring of the bombs had begun again.

They must be on the return flight.

O'Conner's thoughts were interrupted by a scream by one of his greener men.

"I CAN'T FUCKIN' TAKE THIS ANYMORE!"

O'Conner moved towards the soldier. He was young, maybe only eighteen, with the innocence of never having seen a man die on his face.

"What's your name kid," O'Conner asked him in his deep voice, resounding through the room.

"Johnson, Tim Johnson. I can't take this sarge, I got a girl back home!"

O'Conner sighed and remembered his wife, killed in the Dracun Wars.

"Listen kid. If you stick close to me, I'll watch over you. We got a job to do here, and we can't let women get in our way."

Johnson obviously found little comfort in the NCO's suggestion, but he had little time to remark, as the signature pounding of the Zanzii artillery opened up, obviously covering for another squads movement from building to building.

The brass' plan was simple, straight forward, and to the point. Stay undercover unless absolutely necessary, and don't let the son-of-a-bitches pass.

When the Gruenberger landing ships had shown through the early winter fog, the gasps could almost be heard throughout the city. Seeing two thousand men bent on your destruction is not easy to take in. For an hour or so now, the ships had been closing in, and the first shots of the war loomed. The squads in the first buildings were the badasses of the 7th Corps, ready to die for their countries and their women. O'Conner's eight man squad was, luckily, farther back from the front, on the fourth block.

When O'Conner saw the first landing craft hit, and the first shots fire out of their high cover, he was instantly filled with a rush of adrenaline, and turned to his men.

"Men, this is the real thing now. Those bastards think they can take Miko as a supply post. We are here to show them just what the hell they're getting into. If you see something move, shoot it. If it screams out in Rukialkotta, shoot it again! Lock and load!"

O'Conner turned back to his window for a view of the streets. The front-line squads were pouring round after round of bullets into the advancing Gruenbergers, and little did these foreigners know, they just stepped into Satan's Lair.

With the wail of gunfire rippling across the beachfront, it was impossible to pick individual shots. But Fallun could almost have picked the clicking sting that brought down his senior sergeant, the helmet spinning off as a thick paste of flesh sprayed up across his eyes. Fallun returned a burst of fire and hit the cold, wet sand, sucking in the blow to his ribs. The noise was awesome.

A shying call of 'grenade'. Too many men were folding too quickly as the machine guns blazed out. Fortunately, the Zanzii artillery hadn't yet picked out the landers, and a retreat, albeit it a bloody and hopeless one, was not yet out of the question. Away to his left, a sweet billowing column of fire swept up everything in its path. One of the bunkers had been obliterated. Scattering Zanzii tumbled down. He hugged back, his boots inch-deep in the freezing sea. More Gruenbergers spewed onto the beaches, but the rattling guns were knocking them down like so many bugs. He collared his grenadier.

"Take out the central bunker. I don't think they're roofed."

The young man fired, twice, then dropping his stinging weapon and tumbling in an eruption of blood. The sniper's bullet had neatly bisected his eyes. Still, the explosions told of his work, and the second bunker spewed sand and blood. The gunners, exposed, went down quickly. Fallun checked along. Still, the piles grew far too large, too quickly. Fallun steadied, and unleashed another few rounds, with one satisfyingly spurting success.

Ahead, four men broke through. Rounding the corner of the sandbags, they began firing, a berserk energy riveting their cold hands to the stiff triggers. The flashes of a shotgun being unloaded. One even drew his blade. The furious mayhem was short-lived, four helmets hitting the bloodied sand. Their snipers were good. Two bunkers destroyed and, to judge by the weak patter of rifle fire, a third left barren. Still, maybe seven machine guns kept roaring, and still soldiers tumbled in their tens. They were briefed for quick, solitary, confined fighting, not charging into the vast mouth of the beast.

“Commander!” The voices were calling from a small craft, grinding off the dark sand, a few injured stragglers draped over its side. Retreating.

He reached for his radio. "We need something, fuck it! Bring in the second wave, and hit the town front."

Static leapt back at him. He jumped up, and, leading five - four, as another rifle cracked out - men, he scuttled up, half-crouched, to shelter against the damaged central bunker. It was open-backed, so no use trying to get in, and as it was, it was barely of use, but it was a start. He glanced down: smoking corpses still twisted in fright. He glanced back: what were they waiting for? He snapped off a couple of rounds. The man to his left collapsed, hands grasping at his torn throat, blood spattering forth. He dropped, twitching, to the damp ground, his face locking in a choking explosion. Fallun glanced back: the boat was ten yards out, a young corporal splashing messily out to it. He stretched his flailing arms, rifle sliding limply from them, and his legs locked. Amid the awful tearing hell of the bullets, he stood in abject silence, and finally tumbled, easing into the water with barely a splash, a red rash spreading over his back. Fallun checked sideways – just two now, both weak from firing – and began to sprint.

The onslaught continued crashing over his shoulders as he waded out, the icy wave-crests battering his thighs, denuding him of his pistol, but he could no longer care. The sergeant dragged him aboard, dumping him down such that his head clattered into the smeared boards at the bottom. He lay in inverse ignominy for a solid minute, and then crawled round, aching, salt grinding at his nose, matted blood stinking in his hair. He peeled off his helmet.

* * * * *

The deck was silent. Ten articulate officers and yet not a word between them. Finally Mendis stepped forward.

“One –”

He was cut off by another roaring ring. Away to the south, the mountains flooded brightly again. The second flight had returned to refuel and in the meantime missiles whipped periodically from the fleet to whistle their paths into the Zanzii artillery, occasionally skipping east to flick Miko dismissively.

“One thousand men.”

“Yes.” Another massive explosion, this time on the return. “Yes, we failed.”

Mendis sucked his tongue to his teeth and arched his back. “Ok. So you know agree we sit back and hit the town?”

“No.”

He sighed. “Zabbat, this isn’t funny. They were my men you butchered out there.”

“No, they were our men the Zanzii butchered, and I feel it every inch you do. But this is not the answer. Tomorrow, we try again.”

“And send another fifty score charging to their deaths?” Mendis howled, placing his fist into the table with a thick thud. A missile peeled off.

“No. We don’t land at the harbour – too narrow. We unload the heavier forces and all the metal we have, and cut off the town. Continue hitting the artillery, and leave the town to the ground forces. The western teams should be breaking through by the morning.”

The discussions raged on, and long before Cralk won over the backing he needed, Fallun had slumped off to rest. The MD’s diagnosis still echoed within his fragile skull: ‘no serious injuries’.

Miko, D'Martyr, Zanziik

After the first bunker had fallen, several of the squads positioned on the beach had run, and were quickly shot by their comrades. Cowardice was not tolerated in the rough and tumble life of an army soldier. When the second bunker fell, instead of running away, several squads had charged out of the houses on the beachfront and onto the beach, fighting the Gruenberger forces up close. Captain Jovari Ulls had been in one of those squads, and once he had hit the sand, he had realized what a mistake he and his brothers-in-arms had made. As soon as he was out of the building and on the ground, a bullet had pierced the captain's left leg, leaving him stranded, unconscious, in the gunfire, and his squad pinned down by an advancing force. It hadn't been until a light tank had been called in that the squad was safe.

Ulls now sat in a hospital bed with his left leg missing, probably amputated while he was unconscious. His squad lay beside him, most conscious, but one was not. He spoke, more to the room than to anyone.

"Did we win? Did we beat them," his voice came out cracked, like he needed a drink. A nurse answered him.

"Yes, if you call thirty seven dead men a victory. Men will never learn."

Just as she continued mumbling, a corporal walked into the stark white room, offsetting it's blandness with his blood stained uniform.

"No luck saving the private Cindy," he said, and the nurse sighed and mumbled thirty eight...

"You did a hell of a brave thing today men," said the corporal again. "You helped secure a victory for our country, most likely the first victory of many. Unfortunately, we are not nearly finished. The Gruenbergers suffered severe casualties, in the thousands, but they retreated, and began a naval bombardment of our city."

So that explained the constant whirring sound Ulls had been hearing. He had thought he was going insane.

"You may not be safe here, but we can't ask you to go back into the fighting so soon. You will be evacuated to Jammal as soon as possible, and will join the 2nd Mechanized if you are able to rejoin the fight. I wish you the best for the future." With that, he walked out of the room slowly. The Zanzii had preparing to do for the inevitable second wave.

"You were meant to post this a week ago. Fool."

The sergeant tossed the letter to the ground.

* * * * *

Missiles had been peeling off into the Zanzii hillside all night, and the next day, and continued to soar on, pecking at the dark rocks with bright, wide, enveloping spasms of light. The Zanzii artillery no doubt held fast, but the flow of return fire had reduced to a pitiful trickle. Gruenberger intelligence had been unable to confirm whether this was a strategy to reduce visibility, the earlier shots having lit the mountains up like beacons - eminently targettable beacons - or simply due to destruction of ordinance. The teams in the west had begun to arrive at artillery stations, disabling what they could and killing all they found.

Close to four thousand men, including over a thousand logistical support troops, were to be landed in a five mile radius of Miko. The fresh, damp morning soil shook as tanks and vehicles began their steady roll on. The hike was tough: the ground uneven and rocky or deceptive and boggy, the occasional whip of Zanzii artillery scattering limbs and shrapnel in bloody supernovae through the cold morning air. The combined force would weigh in at barely one tenth of the Zanziis' total, and the foreigners held the town, still.

And so, the great guns of the Gruenberger frigates and assault ships began to swivel, to home in on the bricks and mortar of the island's defences. Missile systems retargetted, picking out the police station and town hall instead of craggy outcrops and rocky crevices. And as the smoke began to drift up, rubble spewing, glass shattering, screams dying, the darkening air was split as the Gruenberger air waves arrived.

By now, anti-aircraft batteries had begun to trace their paths from the carriers, and more than jet spiralled from the sky in thuck, spittering disarray. But the remainder continued their daunting, jagging runs, and began to unleash their savage diarrhoea. There were three waves to the bombing: first, the normal detonations, spreading fire and disarray; then came the incendiaries, crackling through the town and tearing down doors and walls; then the chemicals. The nerve gases flitted and flashed through the streets like odious ghosts, the choking smell tugging and prying. Gases were rarely effective, but the Gruenberger commanders had decided to throw everything they had forwards.

And so it began. The town rumbled and groaned, the hills burped back increasingly sporadic conternation. And in the middle, treading the even path between the bubbling spew of the two warring brats, the Gruenberger forces pressed on. Soon the Zanzii would begin to form up, and then tank, and perhaps man, would meet in combat. For now, they concentrated on hurrying to reach the island's arteries. Railtracks bent like rollercoasts as they were bombed; roadblocks stretched out in black, metal silence; barbed wire tangled up across open field. The lines closed around Miko, not yet a noose, but merely a forbidding wire encroachment.

And sure enough, a tracer and its buzzing tail flew up high over slanting tiled roofs, and crashed down into the Gruenbergers, men tumbling and spitting and crying.

"Return fire," came the order. And ship, tank and humble raging soldier began to do just that.