NationStates Jolt Archive

The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.

Edmond Burke


The Grey House, Dowland City

The Oval Office was swathed in darkness, with the only light once again coming from the small lamp that sat on the Presidents desk. This time, however, the darkness was not artificial, nor even planned. The weather had taken a turn for the worst in the past two days, as huge cloud banks had gathered over the city, casting it in a perpetual shadow. The torrential rain never seemed to cease, and in the rare moments that it did give some relief to the troops that constantly patrolled the area around the Grey House, ground littered with the burning remnants of an MP convoy loyal to Parliament that had tried to break into the huge building, it was only to begin anew, with even greater fury.

Looking past the projector that was being set up by two aides by his desk, Life President Martin gazed out of one of the thick glass windows. He could see his face reflected dimly in the window, from the light cast by his lamp. It was a pale, drawn face, a mere shadow of what it had been ten years ago, when he had first taken office to serve his country. He mused on that point, bitterly. He had fought in the military, then become an MP for this very city, full of hope, and idealistic zeal. He thought that he could change the world, lead the Republic, as it was plainly known back then, into its proper role as a world power. But at every turn, at every point at which greatness stood, he was blocked. The damn fool politicians in Parliament had vetoed all of his true ideas, the fools. They could not see his vision for the country; it was not as if he had not told of it. At every opportunity he had lectured them on the dangers of caution, of becoming sheep in the international community. But, they had ignored him and vetoed him.

And then, they had betrayed him. Led by that damn harlot Farrox, they had tried to make him resign. Resign, by god. Just because they balked at using money to support an ally; an ally that had always stood shoulder to shoulder with them at every opportunity. They had been tested, and with that final, treacherous blow, they had failed. Failed not just themselves, but more importantly their country. He had taken great pleasure in having them arrested in Parliament itself; to see them cry, and shout, and scream as they were beaten and dragged away. Thus was the end of all traitors, the end of all those who would betray their country. That should have been the end of a disgraceful period, and the beginning of something new, something glorious!

But things had gone wrong. First Parliament had turned against him, but he had planned for that, expected that. Then he had announced his great plan, and awaited the people to come flocking to his banner, as he known they would. But they did not. Some did, many did, but not all; not all of them realised his vision and instead hid under their beds, confused and cowering like the fools they were. Some had even joined the elements of the military who had decided to pledge allegiance to the traitorous Parliament, who even now fought against those troops still loyal to him to the south and east of the Capital.

That betrayal, he would admit, hurt him the most. The people were sheep, designed to be led and to be told what to do. The military were the wolves, the predators who would lead the sheep towards their glorious future. They were supposed to have joined him, but instead more than half of it had decided to turn traitor against him. He slammed his fist onto the tabletop, breaking through the varnished wood with the strength of the blow. He snarled at the enquiring looks of the aides, then looked once more out of the window. Even mother nature had turned against him now, turning the Capital, a city that had once been so beautiful, into a dark and smeared image of what it once was. She was mocking him, mocking his vision, his plans. But he knew better. He would show her one day the folly of her actions, pay her back for the treachery. But, for now he had to deal with those traitors in physical form.

He turned to the aides, satisifed to see that the bumbling fools had managed to set up the projector at last. He waved them away, had them escorted out of the Office. When the great doors had shut with a soft hiss, Martin turned to the coner of the office, and to the figure that had been standing there, watching silently. He beckoned to a seat opposite the desk, but still in view of the screen. "Take a seat, General, take a seat. This must be watched." The figure sat down, moving from the shadows and resolving itself into a man in camouflaged BDus and a floppy hat, assault rifle slung over his shoulder. The name Briggs was stitched onto the front of his jacket. He sat down, lightly, and watched the screen. Pressing a button, the President started the recording.

The screen whirred to life, and a black screen appeared for a second before being replaced by the slightly blurry picture of a man clothed in a uniform styled similarly to Briggs. The man was tall, and lithe, with close-cropped grey hair and thin, aquline nose that suited the pinched expression of his face and mouth. On the mans left sleeve was a thick white band, and on his jacket a name was stitched; Major-General Ryan Crombie. The man, presumably Crombie himself, stood behind a desk, hands pam down, as if bracing himself for the news he was about to deliver. The sound of a shell whistling by and exploding somewhere near the desk was heard, but the man did not flinch. Instead, he tilted his head to face the camera, and began speaking in a rich, deep tone.

My name is Major-General Ryan Crombie, late commander of the combined military forces of the Grand Republic. I find what I have to say disturbing, even treacherous in a way, yet it must be said. Three days ago, the President of this nation dissolved this country's Parliament, the democratically-chosen and elected governing body, chosen by the people, accusing them of treachery and of being traitors. Close onto four hundred men and women were arrested, beaten severely, and taken to what we believe are prisoner camps somewhere to the North of Dowland City. The President, having destroyed the democratic body, then declared Martial Law throughout the Grand Republic and made himself 'President for Life'.

This action was not only that of a dictator and a tyrant, but one that struck at the very heart of this country. This man is no longer the leader of a country, but a mere dictator; he has dismissed the wishes of the public, the very people that elected him to serve them. Though I, along with every other man and woman in the armed forces, swore an oath to serve this man, his actions have forced me to break this oath. It was not a difficult choice, for I do not serve one man, but rather this country, and its elected officials in Parliament. I am not the only one to feel this way; as I speak, more than half of the Grand Republics armed forces have broken away and sworn to uphold and protect the democratic ideals of this country and its Parliament.

We are fighting against this dictator even as this speech is being recorded. It will be a long fight, but one that must be won if this country is ever to be released from this madman. We have intercepted radio communications that tell of our allies denouncing President Martin and his coup, and this is joyous news indeed. This man must be fought every step of the way or he will triumph, and democracy will be crushed; and with it the hopes and dreams of every person in this country who wishes once more for a peaceful and democratic country. So to our valiant allies, I call for arms, aid, supplies, and military action. This madman must be stopped before he destroys this country. We are fighting, and dying, so there is still hope; the colonies of the Grand Republic have refused to answer Martins calls for reinforcements, so his forces are stretched thin in place. Now, we must strike, and strike swiftly before it is too late.

Long live Parliament.

The recording finished playing, and Martin thumped the desk again, this time with even more violence, drawing blood. He hardly seemed to notice it, instead turning to Briggs, who had been watching in silence. "The gall of that man! To call me, me, a traitor to this glorious country. When I find him, I will take great pleasure in killing him and having his head stuck onto a pike." He sneered at the thought, then continued. "Where did that damned broadcast come from, General?"

Briggs turned, face a frozen mask. "Port Stanley, like the rest of the rebels broadcasts. We've been bombing the place for several hours now, but their defenses are practically invulnerable; the entire garrison there defected within hours of the dissolution of Parliament. I'm afraid the news gets worse, Xavier. Most of the Airforce has come to our side, but only four Armoured Divisions and a handful of Infantry and Mechanised Divisions. The naval situation is even worse; only one Carrier, the Republicana, and her naval group, are responding to orders. The rest are either off the air or moving to Port Stanley."

Martin turned, face dark red with anger. "There are many traitors, but they will pay for their actions with their lives when we finally triumph. For we shall, Briggs, we shall. First we shall crush Port Stanley, and then move onto the fleet. Traitors to the last."

"What of our allies, Xavier? What of Praetonia, Questers? Sarzonia?", Briggs questioned.

"They are our glorious allies, and would not dare to fight alongside that damned rabble. But if they do, then they too shall be destroyed. Nothing will stand in the way of this country, do you understand?" Martin had stood up now, hands on the desk, voice raised to a high pitch.

"It is our destiny, Briggs. Our destiny!"

Military Intelligence HeadQuarters, Praeton

"These are very interesting times you know, Lucundus. If the Liberal-Tory Party wins the election - and I am very much inclined to believe that it shall - then we will see for the first time in a great long while an expansionist Praetonia, not an isolationist Praetonia," said a man in a khaki military uniform - Major General, most like - with a thin moustche and peeked cap.

"Really? What will that mean for us? More satellite intelligence I expect!" Said the second man - Lucundus - with a short laugh, as if the Major General's expecations for exciting times ahead were somewhat exaggerated.

"No, Lucundus. Something far more interesting. You are aware of what is happening in the 'Authoritarian Republic' of Skinny87?"

"Yes sir... 'Banana Republic', more like."

"Well quite, but that is not the point," continued the first man, patiently, "We can't be holding with 'Presidents-for-Life' and other such authoritarian rubbish - afterall, this is the civilised world we're talking about, not Generia or Doomingsland. We expect brutality from those peoples, because they cannot government their people in any other way," the man explained, as if he was teaching his friend and subordinate that one and one made four, "but this is quite different."

"Why?" Lucundus interjected, "we support other dictatorships. Why should this one be any different? After all, President Martin is quite supportive of us."

"We support stable dictatorships, my dear Lucundus. Stability is the key. What will Mr Martin over there think when the Tories get into power, and he reads what they've said about him in the papers?" Lucundus did not reply. "Exactly. That is why we must do something. I believe I can persuade Polax, so we should get things in order right away. How long will you need to have a covert liason team in Skinny87?"

Lucundus thought for a minute. "A day? Maybe two. We can have an official Government inspection team go into the country, get 'killed' by a roadside bomb, and disappear into the Parliamentarian section. We have plenty of people with experience of Skinnian terrain."

"Good. But no guns, Lucundus, no guns. We can sort that out later. Do you know what the main concern of the Parliamentary army will be, Lucundus?"

"Weapons? International support?" The operative guessed.

"No, Lucundus. Money. Men do not like to fight their countrymen, but if they are well equipped whilst the enemy is not, well fed whilst the enemy is not and, more importantly, well paid whilst the enemy is not, they will fight like devils for the right cause, and the 'Loyalists' will lose at least as many to desertion as to our bullets. All we need is a blockade, and we can control everything that goes in, everything that comes out - only the side we choose will receive money, food and arms. Only the side we choose will win."

[TAG For later post]

Outskirts of Chatham - Ten Miles North of Parliament-Controlled Port Stanley

The flight of A-10 'Warthogs' had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, the quiet noise of their engines masked by the uneven roar of the shells and rockets hitting the outer buildings and areas of Chatham, and the constant downpouring of rain that hissed and spat and muffled every noise in hearing further away than a metre. The squat, ugly planes soared through the miserable weather, rain spattering on their fuselage and hardened plastic canopies and forcing the pilots to rely almost exclusively on their Heads Up Displays and instruments.

The four planes, all that was left of their squadron, moved swiftly through the air, keeping as low to the ground as the built-up areas permitted. They dodged towers of flats and dozens of the imposing black electricity pylons scattered throughout the city, before going lower still to avoid the ever-present radar sweeps that the pilots had been briefed on before taking off from Port Stanley. Finally, often skimming no more than a few inches from the roofs of houses, the four aircraft reached the northern outskirts of the city, nearing their targets. Inside the cramped cockpit of the lead aircraft, the pilot checked the digital map that scrolled to one side of the HUD, updated every half-second by a burst of encrypted data from a Parliament-controlled KEYSTAR satellite in orbit over the city.

Convinced that everything was in place, he gave the order for the other three aircraft to follow his lead. Toggling his weapons from 'Safe' to 'Activated', the pilot also flicked the A-10s radar from passive to active. Instantly the radar screen was lit from more than a dozen directions by radar beams and missile lock-ons, but by this timeframe it was too late. The flight was already in range of its primary target, a series of squat, vaguely rectangular shapes in the distance that rapidly resolved into the distinctive shapes of Abram Main Battle Tanks; dozens of them were lined up in rows, crewmembers refuelling and repairing them. In the split second that the pilot could see the vehicles, he saw hundreds of small figures clustered around them, working, walking, and in a few cases, running. By then, however, he had already pulled the trigger on his control column. The AN/GAU-8 30mm Avenger seven-barrel gatling gun attached to the front of the Warthog began firing hundreds of armour-piercing and high-explosive rounds at the tanks and their crews, raking the ground and vehicles alike.

Several of the tanks erupted in flames, and dozens of the tiny figures lay sprawled on the ground. Making a tight turn and still ignoring the insistent beeping from the HUD that indicated a missile locking on, the pilot turned the Warthog around and watched as the rest of the flight unleashed their own gatlings and pickled more than two dozen Mk82 and Mk84 bombs onto the vehicle-repair depot. More than twenty of the irreplaceable tanks were destroyed, and more damaged, and the personnel loss would be high. Pulling a complete ninety-degree turn, the pilot regretted being unable to follow his wingmates example; there had been a lack of the heavy bombs at Port Stanley, and he had instead been given a full complement of gatling ammunition for the Avenger. Determined not to waste the precious ammuniton, the pilot searched for a suitable target. He quickly located one; a convoy of Loyalist tarpaulin-covered trucks was travelling towards the ruins of the depot only a few hundred metres away. Taking control of the gatling again, he manually targeted the first lorry, and pulled the trigger, emptying the magazine in a single, sustained burst that travelled the entire length of the convoy.

Inside the last lorry of the convoy, Private Antony Franklin squatted nervously, trying to keep from falling off the poorly-designed seat whilst at the same time trying to keep from getting soaked by the appauling weather. Stuck in his own thoughts on his situation, Franklin did not hear the cries from the soldiers at the front of the convoy as the A-10s appeared, nor the rumble of their engines. The first sign that something was going terribly wrong was the string of explosions from the Abrams being hit the gatling rounds and bombs, a painfully loud series that jolted his from his worries and made him stand up, hitting his head on the top of the truck. Mere seconds later came the panicked cries of "Warthogs! Warthogs!" from the cab, and the jolt as the truck swerved desperately to avoid the burst of fire from the lead aircraft. The last truck was relatively lucky; it avoided most of the stream of fire, although several shells did hit the right-hand side of the truck, killing four soldiers inside. However, the desperate manouver caused the truck tires to slide on the slick road and skid, overturning the lorry and spilling its remaining passengers. Franklin, not holding onto anything solid, was thrown from the back of the truck and onto the hard concrete of the road. His helmet and gear saved him from suffering anything worse than a severe bruising and getting the wind knocked out of him, but he could do nothing for several minutes but lie on the ground, panting.

He heard, or rather sensed, the Warthog go over the top of the ruined convoy, and moved his head slightly, neck killing him, to see another Warthog go past the burning depot, silhouetted by the flames. Sparks flew as rounds ricocheted off of the armour of the aircraft, and a Stinger was fired at it, engine burning brightly in the sky. Franklin watched it scream through the air and near the Warthog, getting nearer and nearer. With almost casual arrogance, the Warthog jinked to the left and fired off a flare that the missile locked onto. It exploded in a blindingly-bright flash of light, before quickly fading away, Warthog unharmed and heading back to Port Stanley.

After what seemed like an hour but must have only been a minute at most, Franklin could feel his breath returning, gulping down air in savage bursts, before finally staggering to his feet. He felt groggy, and suddenly very tired, but apart from being bruised seemed to have no physical injuries. He looked around him; his truck was overturned and smouldering, with several bodies hanging out limply, obviously dead. More bodies were scattered around the truck, several moving slowly and groaning. Franklin staggered forward to try and help, checking the dead and wounded, but there was nothing he could do; nearly all his squadmates were dead, and those who were not were badly wounded, suffering from what looked like broken bones and internal injuries; blood was everywhere, mixing with the mud by the side of the road to turn a ghastly dark crimson.

Franklin moved onto the rest of the convoy, and found that it had suffered just as badly as his truck had. Every truck was either burning fiercely or smouldering like his, and there were many more bodies, hanging out of doors and backs or lying still on the ground. Huge bullet-holes could be seen everywhere on the vehicles, so big that with little effort Franklin could put his fist through one such hole, covered in gore. He stared at the blood for a second, before moving on, still dazed and horrified at what he was seeing. A few soldiers were moving to the sides of the roads, but for the moment there seemed to be no-one in command, something Franklin was happy to see. Finally adrenaline ebbed away, to be replaced by pain and exhaustion, and he slumped to the ground. His vision didn't seem quite right, and for some reason his hands were shaking; he couldn't remember if they normally did that, but they weren't hurting, so he let them be.

His breathing gradually returned to normal, and his hands stopped shaking a bit, enough to pick up his rifle and slowly, painfully check it. It seemed to have survived the crash and drop quite well - only the stock was slightly cracked, but otherwise seemed intact. He was about to check the rest of his gear when a shadow appeared over him. He looked up to see a figure, clad in camouflaged BDUs and wearing the bars of a Major, black Loyalist armband plain to see. He seemed to be saying something, for his nouth wa smoving, but no sound seemed to be issuing forth, like the scenes from an old black-and-white film. He stared at the Major, trying to make out individual words, but the man snarled at him and motioned. Suddenly Franklin was rising, gripped at the elbows by two soldiers who had obviously not been in the convoy, for they seemed fit and unwounded. The sound was coming back now, rapidly. First came the rain, still beating down, and the dry crackle of the fires from the burning trucks. He turned to the Major and concentrated on what he was saying.

"...et...ov..g...dier

Frabklin slapped his ears, hard, as if had water in them, and tried again, gesturing to his ears to show he was still deaf.

"Get....ing...soldier. No..!

Franklin shook his head a final time, and felt the Major grab him and pull him close. By now his hearing had practically returned to normal, and he had no trouble hearing the Majors shouted words.

"Get moving, Soldier! That is a direct goddamn order!

Franklin saluted, sloppily as his arms ached, but the Major didn't seem to notice, instead pushing Franklin off of the road and towards a large group of Loyalist soldiers that had gathered in a large indent in the ground. Franklin moved to the group, using the trucks as cover, and made it to the depression and joined the group; it seemed to number about a hundred or so, made up entirely of men and women like him. He could see from the uniforms that there was no single unit represented here, but instead an ad-hoc grouping of scattered soldiers who had survived the aerial attack. He saluted again, this time to a Captain who had a gash on his face, and he was once again ignored. The Captain was crouching to the front of the group, shouting orders. "Allright, heres the situation. The goddamn Parliamentarians have full air support around here, so don't go expecting any of our planes to show up. We do, however, have armour and artillery support. We go in immediately, to assault that section of houses over there." The Captain turned and motioned to a series of houses, many of which were mere skeletons of their previous shapes, from which machine-gun fire and mortar rounds issued.

"Lets go! Go! Go! Go!"

With that, the group rose up from the ditch they had been gathered in, and charged across the damp, slick concrete. Franklin was still slow, and it took him a second to realise what was happening. By that time, most of the group had left the relative safety of the ditch and were moving in a long string towards the Parliamentarian-occupied houses. Dozens of men and women were falling to the accurate fire of the defenders, hitting the ground and not moving as rounds ricocheted off of the ground, and artillery burst around them, but still the rest moved forward. Loyalist artillery began screaming in, shells sounding like trains as they went overhead searching for the Parliamentarian batteries as well as defences; a shell hit one of the houses and destroyed it, throwing wreckage everywhere. Gazing at this view, Franklin heard behind him the sceech of tank tracks and saw an Abram MBT, armour charred and blackened, move towards the houses. He started to move behind the tank to follow the Loyalist troops crouching behind it, but before he could completely do so, something odd happened.

There was a sharp whistle, as if someone was blowing a whistle right by his ear, and he heard a loud crack that seemed to come from far away. He tried to keep moving, but his legs wouldn't work properly, and one was now drenched in blood where it hadn't been before, as it moved into view. In the few seconds of conciousness left before he hit the hard concrete behind the Abrams, Franklin wondered why he was fighting, and in particular why the mortar round had chosen to hurt him of all people. Then, there was nothing but silence, blissful darkness that engulfed him.

4:00 AM, SCN HMS Juno, Command Bridge, 390km from Skinny87
"Ah, Admiral Warter, glad to see you could make it."

Commodore Spinnet, the XO, nodded politely to the Admiral, and the Marine Major behind him, a man in his thirties, Roger Winters, followed suit.

"Good to see you too, Captain, Major." The Admiral nodded a return. "Now, without further ado, I'll explain the situation here. As you have noticed, Skinny87 has turned to turmoil. I have been asked, most politely, by the Prime Minister himself to intervene on the Parliamentary forces. We must do whatever we can, before backup arrives, to ensure that Port Stanley and any other deep-berths for heavy equipment do not fall. Our task force, nicknamed Force S, will be arriving in under a month. Our task force here.."

The whole three were wondering whether a Cruiser Submarine and two Fleet Submarines could be counted as a "task force".

"...will be codenamed Force 5-2-Hotel. When you radio back to us, that is the name you will use. Noone must know where we are or who we are, for that matter. This operation is to be code-named Operation: Valiant Rescue."

Major Winters snorted.

"Your SBS Company will drop in at Port Stanley via attack boat when we reach within 90km of the Skinny coast. We have full cooperation, I assume, from the Parliamentary navy, and we'll be contacting their leader before you land anyway. You have...three hours to prepare. Commodore Spinnet, you will be accompanying the SBS with a group of logistical workers with supplies for the Parliamentary forces. Every day a seaplane from Fiji will be coming to drop supplies to us and you will be ferrying them back and forth. Alright, that's it. Good luck lads."

The trio echoed "God save the Queen!" before the Major and the Commodore left the room to prepare.

[OOC: Sorry for the belated response, but I had a nice, long post eaten by Jolt. This one's bloody awful by comparison. I'm calling fluid time, obviously.]

President Mike Sarzo shook his head sadly at the domino effect that the fall of the Liberal Imperialist party in Praetonia seemed to have. The ripple effect it had on the Grand Republic -- for Sarzo refused to call it the Authoritarian Republic -- shook the Woodstock Pact and all Sarzo held dear to the core.

He looked up the charter of the Pact, looking frantically for something that he could do as the founding nation of the Pact. He'd already suspended the membership of Skinny87 in light of President Xavier Martin's declaration that he was President for Life and his dissolution of Parliament. There was nothing written in the charter that dealt with Founder's Prerogative. Even had there been anything related to that, Sarzo still was loath to employ it except in the most severe emergencies.

However, with Deputy Senior Vice President and External Affairs Officer Grant Haffner sitting across from him in his office at the Gray House, the reminder that this was a severe emergency was just three feet in front of him in the person of the young man who brought occasionally undiplomatic candor to the office of External Affairs when Haff's boss, Mark Lorber, was just too damn nice.

"What are you saying Grant? Should I invoke Founder's Prerogative and evict Skinny87 from the Pact?"

"We've discussed it at the office," Haffner said. "That's the only option."

"Shouldn't it come from Lorb since he's the man who actually engineered the alliance?"

"Mark's too nice, you know that," Haffner said. "And I don't have enough authority to make an announcement for the Pact as a whole. Nicole's authority as Lieutenant President," he began.

"Starts and stops in Sarzonia," Sarzo finished Haffner's sentence.

"Exactly. The way I see it, you're the only one besides Lorb who can invoke Founder's Prerogative and decide on Skinny87's fate in the Pact."

Sarzo sighed. The whole founder's prerogative issue gave him sleepness nights since the breakdown in relations with Pacitalia started and stopped. Now he was about to invoke a rarely-used and unwritten rule that he dreaded. Not just for the implications in the present, but for the precedent he was worried the move would set. He would have to assure the other 18 member nations that it wasn't SOP for Sarzonia to begin a power grab. Just as troubling for Sarzo was the thought that he'd misjudged Martin. That hurt him worst of all.

Sarzo walked slowly from his office to the press room in the Gray House without a speech. He saw the press outlets from several countries, including a renegade media outlet from Skinny87 itself. He silently took in his breath and began to speak.

"Regarding the dissolution of the rightful government of the Grand Republic of Skinny87," Sarzo began with a seething tone of voice that caused raised eyebrows among the Sarzonian media outlets, and the Praetonians who knew Sarzo almost as well as his own countrymen did. "The Incorporated Sarzonian Government can not and will not stand for the willful desecration of the will of the people employed by Xavier Martin.

"The Woodstock Pact is devoted to the protection of human rights the world over," Sarzo continued. "And one of its bedrock principles is the establishment and protection of democracy. Yes, we have nations in the alliance that aren't democracies by literal definition, but they have shown themselves to be ardent protectors of the principles behind the rights of the people. By abolishing the lawfully elected Parliament and declaring himself President for Life, Xavier Martin has sullied the principles of this alliance and spat upon the will of the people of Skinny87.

"The exercise of the Founder's Prerogative in the Woodstock Pact is something that we in Sarzonia undertake with extreme reluctance, and we have only done so once in the long history of this alliance. It saddens me that I am even considering invoking Founder's Prerogative in an alliance that is democratic by its very principles, but the deteoriating situation in Dowland City forces my hand.

"As of this moment, the membership of the Grand Republic of Skinny87 in the Woodstock Pact is hereby revoked. Once a rightful government can be restored to Skinny87, they can consider a new application to the Pact. But until that time, we in the Woodstock Pact can not countenance the inclusion of an autocratic member of our alliance."

Sarzo's eyes narrowed and he stared directly at the camera.

"Xavier, you bloody fool, you won't be able to hide from justice for long. You will have your day when your luck runs out. When that happens, retribution will be swift and severe. Mark my words Xavier Martin. I'm coming after you."

Port Stanley, Parliament-Controlled Territory

The thick black smoke seemed to be covering the entire Port, as well as the shattered area immediately around the embattled perimeter. Unlike normal smoke, which merely caused people to choke and irritate their eyes so that they seemed to be in a permanent state of distress, tears streaming down their faces, this smoke was far more potent. It emanated from the remains of one of the massive underground bunkers that stored aviation fuel, hit by a single GBU Bunkerbuster missile launched from a Loyalist F/A 18 that had managed to break through the air defenses around the Port. It had paid the price for its recklessness, hit by a Patriot ISAM and disintegrating into a fiery ball from which no-one had emerged alive, but it had caused enough damage. One of the vital storage areas had been completely destroyed by the missile burrowing through the thick concrete and detonating within inches of a barrel of fuel. A fluke hit, but still a reality; the primary result of which was the loss of precious fuel and the grounding of several Parliamentary squadrons.

However the secondary, and unexpected, result of the strike had been to release a constant and seemingly unending bank of thick, oily smoke that moved slowly but inevitably for more than a day until it covered several miles in all directions. The smoke was slick, almost solid in its consistency due to the aviation fuel, and it layered everything with a thin, greasy film. Soldiers and non-combatants on both sides breathed in the mixture constantly as it mixed with the air around them. Although at first it had just been an annoyance, it had by now become an actual physical problem; medical centres and aid stations were overwhelmed by hundreds of men and women, staggering and vomiting, and there had been more than a dozen deaths in the Parliamentarian lines. No solution to the cloud could be fathomed, and despite the limited efforts of the fire teams inside the Port, the initial fire could not be stemmed; dozens of fire personnel were dead from inhaling the pure fumes. Gasmasks and biohazard suits were issued where they could be found, but these were found to be few and far between, although they worked to a degree. Those who did not possess these valuable items improvised as best they could; Loyalist and Parliamentarian soldiers on both sides of the Port perimeter were distinguished by the scarves, handkerchiefs and other material that could be found or looted to cover their faces.

Private Antony Franklin pulled up the bulky gasmask that was strapped to his face until he was temporarily free of the oppressive smell and heat created by the equipment. He took a deep breath, and immediately realised his error; his vision misted and he fell to the floor, pushing away his M-16 to clatter on the mud of the trench. He retched a few times, but nothing happened except his breathing became a little more regular; he lay on all fours for what seemed like an eternity, but what the rational part of his brain said was but a few seconds. Then he reluctantly grabbed the lip of the trench and pulled himself up, ignoring the slimy feel of the muddy ground the trench had been dug in. His stomach rebelled against him, and his limbs still ached, but otherwise he seemed to be better than he had a moment ago. He pulled down the mask until it covered his face again, breathing becoming distant and metallic as the respirator began working. He picked up the ’16 and checked that he had not damaged it; he pulled back the bolt and checked the chamber, then pulled out the magazine and tapped it; it gave a faintly metallic ring, and he grunted, satisfied. He thrust it back into the rifle and pulled the bolt, then propped it on the side of the trench.

He tensed as he felt a hand grasp his left arm, and he moved round, right hand already reaching for the knife he had stashed in a pocket. He stopped when he saw that the arm belonged to Sergeant Alvarez, his squad leader. Alvarez was dressed almost identically to Franklin, with only two exceptions; the small black metal pin that signified he was a personal supporter of Life-President Martin was something Franklin had refused to wear, and was sure had caused his promotion to Corporal; Alvarez had also been unable to gain a gasmask like Franklin and instead wore a scarf wrapped tightly around the bottom of his face. The gasmask was a constant source of bitterness towards Franklin, as he was the only man in the entire Company to have scavenged one; several times someone had attempted to steal it, and once he had been threatened at rifle point to hand it over, being saved only by an artillery barrage that had enabled him to flee. The stay in the filthy, overcrowded aid station after being hit by artillery fragments had caused Franklin to consider his status and loyalty considerably; the fact that he was now for all intents and purposes a pariah amongst his squad mates was furthering this disenchantment.

However before Franklin could dwell any further on his current state of affairs, Alvarez was shouting at him through the muffled scarf. “Get off your damned arse, kid, and pick up your weapon. Those damned Parliamentarians will be coming soon, and I don’t want one of those democratic traitors breaking through this line. You understand me, Private?” Alvarez bellowed. Franklin nodded as Alvarez roughly pushed past him and moved onto the next person in the trench line. Franklin had rapidly become accustomed to the way Alvarez treated him, and although it rankled he could deal with it. Far more disturbing to his thinking were the words that Alvarez had uttered. "...Damned Parliamentarians...democratic traitors..." ran through is mind, each word anathema to him; how on earth could Democracy be called a traitorous ideal, and how could Parliament, an institution that embodied democracy in its purest form, also be traitorous. This way of thinking, as well as the fact that Alvarez seemed to take it as gospel, worried Franklin immensely, and it was something that he could not deal with, unlike his rough handling.

His distant and complex thoughts, combined with the muffling effect of the gasmask meant that he did not hear the first bombs hitting the area around the trench line. It was only until the man next to him dived to the ground that Franklin realised what was happening. Suddenly the sounds of war filled his ears; the ear-splitting shrieks of bombs falling, the crash of artillery rounds hitting the ground and traveling overhead as loud as trains. His breathing instantly became rapider and adrenaline began to pump through his nervous system as he dropped to the floor and pulled his rifle with him. The bombs were reaching a terrible crescendo as they blended in with the artillery rounds, and shrapnel was being flung into the trench itself despite its protection; a piece cut through the strap of Franklins M-16, causing it to jerk around, and another slammed into the man next to him, pinning him against the muddy wall of the trench. Franklin moved to try and help the man whilst keeping as low as he could, but it was obvious the soldier was beyond his rudimentary medical skills. The shrapnel piece had cut through his camouflaged smock and deep into his chest, where it protruded, gleaming despite the poor light. The man was choking, the metal having shredded his lungs, and crimson bubbles rimmed his mouth as he jerked around like a beached fish. Franklin reached for his medical kit, determined to do what he could, but distant shouting instead caught his attention.

Tanks!


TANKS!


The shout, more of a scream, echoed throughout the line as the artillery fire was abruptly silenced and the Parliamentarian aircraft flew off to find other targets. For an instant there was an eerie silence across the front as Franklin stood up and grabbed his rifle, but then the deep roar of diesel engines and the squeak of tracks filled his ears. Through the thick smoke came faint lights and indistinct shapes that rapidly resolved themselves into the forms of M1A1 Abram Main Battle Tanks, Bradley Armoured Fighting Vehicles and hundreds of supporting infantry. Alvarez, his voice clear from the restraints of his scarf, was shouting to Franklin and his squad mates as the Parliamentarian forces rapidly advanced. “Aim for the infantry. Aim for the infantry only, and leave the vehicles to the Javelins and TOWs. Aim low, and do not run. I will shoot you personally if I think you are even considering leaving us.” Somehow Franklin knew that Alvarez was not bluffing, and would in fact shoot him with no more remorse than shooting a dumb animal. He raised his M-16 and put it to his shoulder, aiming through the thin sights; the sight before him was terrifying. There were more than a dozen of the Abrams and at least twice that number of Bradleys, stubby cannon pointing forwards to the trenches. Hundreds of infantry were moving alongside and behind the vehicles as they moved relentlessly forward.

There was a whistle, and then a whoosh as the Javelin anti-tank missile launchers began firing their missiles at the advancing MBTs. Franklin watched as more than a dozen of the missiles streaked through the thinning smoke and hit their targets. Several bounced off of the thick armour or did nothing, but the rest hit their marks; the MBT that Franklin had set his sights on was hit just below its long cannon. The missile tore open the tank, gutting it and setting it on fire; it came to an abrupt stop and the clusters of infantry that had moments ago been using it for protection scattered, several being caught by burning cinders and falling to the ground. Chancing a quick movement of his head, Franklin counted at least eight of the large tanks burning or immobile, whilst several of the Bradleys were also stopped. However this did not seem to faze the rest of the line and they continued on, now in range of the launchers. They signified this with a ragged but effective volley of cannon fire, whose sound suddenly dominated the battlefield; several of the launchers were hit and blew up, sounds muffled after the roar of the cannon, but the rest fired another volley of missiles, this time at half the range the first volley had been. Two more tanks and another Bradley were hit and came to a stop, smoke and flames erupting, but it wasn’t enough; although the ground was littered with bodies and burning wrecks the Parliamentarian attack had now reached the Loyalist trench line itself. All along the line rifles and machine-guns began firing at the attacking infantry, and Franklin took this as his cue to fire; he sighted his rifle onto a green and brown-clad infantryman, but hesitated to pull the trigger. Despite the screams around him and the explosions and firing, he still had some vestige of humanity left inside him, and he could not make himself kill another human being. Instead he moved the sights a fraction and fired harmlessly above the mans head. Alvarez had seemingly not noticed, and thus Franklin did this again and again, firing and ensuring he actually hit nothing, whilst actually looking like he was doing something.

It seemed that even if he had fired on the attackers it would have made little difference; despite the heavy gunfire and several LAW and TOW handheld missiles being used, the Parliamentarians had made it to the trench line and were now fighting in some sections. A shape loomed before Franklin and he barely had time to fall to one side before a Bradley AFV had actually moved over his trench and past it; mud and dust fell on top of him and coated him, choking him more than the black smoke had. The roar of the AFVs engine filled his ears, blocking out the sounds of the battle, and then he became aware of several soldiers jumping into the trench from the back of the Bradley; there was several bursts of fire from rifles, and then a sharp blow to his head that knocked him out cold.

When Franklin eventually came to, he was not in the trench; he was instead laying on a small patch of grass several hundred metres away from his previous position. He got to his feet, aware of the huge bump on his forehead from the rifle stock used to beat him into unconsciousness, and saw that he was part of a small group of Loyalist prisoners. Grim-faced Parliamentarians guarded the loose-knit group with weapons drawn. Trying to draw as little attention as possible, Franklin surveyed the scene before him. The burning tanks and AFVs were still present, but several of the less-damaged ones were gone, presumably towed away to be repaired. Many of the bodies were gone as well, and turning Franklin noticed a small pile of bodies being thrown into the trenches and covered with piles of dirt. From this and the fact that he was a prisoner Franklin deduced that the Parliamentarians had breached the Loyalist line, and with it breached the siege of Port Stanley itself. It seemed as if the war was developing a new stage in its history, but Franklin had no time to dwell on this fact. The screech of brakes heralded the arrival of a convoy of open-topped trucks, and a guard pushed Franklin towards one. He climbed in hesitantly, but he was not harmed further so he sat down on one of the thin, uncomfortable seats. More prisoners wearing tatty Loyalist uniforms did the same, and Franklin became aware of one glaring at him. He focused to see the angry features of Sergeant Alvarez staring back at him; from his expression it seemed that he had indeed seen Franklin’s actions on the firing line. As the truck pulled away and onto a muddy track, Franklin realised that his ordeal had not yet come to an end.