NationStates Jolt Archive

In the air, over Syskeyiapolis

The plane, while masked to look like a civilian plane, was a regular Allanena AN-227R. It was unebelievably huge, and it was filled with children – boys and girls aged sixteen to seventeen, dressed in beige outfits, and armed to the teeth with ancient M-16A4 rifles and newly-made Thompson submachineguns. Grenades clanked next to the badgeplates, and earphone plugs found their way into the kids ears. They did not know – most of them – where they were going. Some of them were pretty curious about it.

“Where are we going, Mr. Sanderson!” - screamed a young boy over the din of the monstrous turboprop engine- “Is this an actual mission?!”

Under Allanean law and practice, 16-year olds were actually legally adult. As such, the Boy Scouts could be called out from their summer camps and into warplanes and on to the battlefield. Samuel Sanderson – these kids' Senior Scout Instructor in summer and history teacher in winter - screamed back: “Not exactly! We're going to Syskeyiapolis! We need to secure order in the place!”

This elicited a collective “Woah!” from the children. They were going on a real mission! Yay! That was so cool!

“You'll ask more questions on the ground!” - screamed Sanderson as the door of the aircraft began to open. “Ready to drop out!”

In Syskeyiapolis proper

Even though the people of Syskeyia did not know that, their fate was already sealed – for good or bad. The ACIA has taken over the Syskeyian Parliament in a stealthy operation of bribery and blackmail, procuring itself 51% of the vote for an unebelievable resolution. On the ground, Team Dagger operatives in black uniforms waited near the homes of the few politicians who were not yet bribed or threatened, for the announcement to be made. In the sea, Allanean battleships moved swiftly towards the Syskeyian shore, carrying marines and infantry to enforce...

The radios all flared alive across Syskeyiapolis – accorss Syskeyia entire. “Good morning. Today, due to the threat of Reich invasion and the economic crisis, the leaders of Syskeyia decided to ask someone else to help and protect us – while, of course, preserving the native freedom of Syskeyia. There is only one nation liberal enough to do that. Only one nation both free enough and strong enough to shoulder the burden. Today, the Parliament voted, at a thin edge, to apply for statehood in Allanea.”

As those words were said, small white spots – similar to dandelian flowers, in fact – opened up all across the Syskeyiapolis skies and everywhere along the borders with the Reich. In total, ten thousand Boy Scouts were dropped out onto the nation, and already Marines were moved in by the brigadeload. In the sky, starships moved, aiming at possible resistance centers with weapons more powerful then the Syskeyians could imagine.

In the meanwhile, the killing began. In the capital, anti-Allanean Parliament memers began to meet their death in a variety of ways. Some had car accidents – the axle of the car suddenly sliced apart with a five-gram explosive charge. Some fell out of windows – helped along by a kind hand of a Team Dagger operative. Some had heart attacks – surely the high amounts of dioxin in the food had nothing to do with it.
The most vocal opponents were not touched – but witohut the ones that were killed, one could not have a majority to overturn the pro-Allanean resolution, even if some of the bribed politicians did change their mind.

Soon, Syskeyia would be an Allanean state.

Friends, beloved of God, His chosen children:
I stand before you today to announce a great and worthy crusade in the name of the One True God, spreading His rule and bringing his wrath to the unworthy ones outside our borders.
For the unworthy are legion, and we must strive against them to the full extent of the powers He has given His beloved children. Our tanks, our guns, our ships, all shall be turned against the vermin who swarm upon lands that have been sanctified with the blood of God's own children.
You know of our crusade to liberate the rat-worshippers from their demonic, whiskered masters. It was a triumph and we freed the island of St Peter Claver alongside our brothers from Endless Crimes and Eurusea.
A triumph for our God, blessed be His love for we, His children.
We lost many in our crusade, proving ourselves worthy of His love with our sacrifices. But now He needs us anew, for there our crusade is unfinished, new vileness seeps from the demons who stalk the earth outside of our beloved homeland.
Syskeyia itself calls for liberation from the crimes of it's people, it's green fields tormented by the touch of the rat-worshippers' impious, mutant claws.
Should we let them walk across the pure earth of our Lord untouched by His wrath?
I say to you No!
We shall not! We shall strive and we shall struggle and we shall TRIUMPH in the name of our God!
We shall liberate Syskeyia and cleanse it's impious habitants with fire and the sword, smash them from existence with our weapons and purity.
It shall be a volkkampf of proportions unseen since we liberated our nation from our impious kin decades ago, but we shall triumph, even though the Syskeyians call upon their foul and degenerate allies, the bestial Allanean murders, the incompetent bicyclists of Knootoss, even the traitors to purity of Lavenrunz. All shall fall before our mighty armies!
Heil the Wehrmacht!
Heil the Reich!
Heil the Glory of God's Own!
~ Great Leader Amadeus Shelford, Dawn Address, 12/06/--


God's Own is an uncomplicated nation.
It's priorities are God and the Fatherland, strong sons and fertile daughters preferred to any technological fripperies, men of blood and iron in an era of glass and lightning.
It's war-making is similarly uncomplex and to the point.

The first sign the Syskeyian defenders have that the ceasefire has ended is a storm of artillery fire lofted to the heavens, the barking of massed towed guns, cracking their shells skyward.

The artillery is not alone in it's rumblings, as jets claw skyward and snap and snarl their way past defences to bombard strong points, paying particular attention to Allanean landing zones.
The scouts heading out from their deployment zones claim some with the man-portable AA no light force should leave home without, but the survivors drop their payloads accurately and the dumb weapons release over group after group of scouts.

The weapons burst, and demonstrate that God's Own is no more bound by the strictures of effete, liberal war, than it is by the rule of law, nerve gas floating down in lethal, colourless and tasteless clouds to poison and paralyse, attacking the nervous system, victims choking to death on their own bile as the compound shuts down lungs, striking at the whole body, organs failing rapidly.

Soon the deployment zones are silent but for death rattles, motionless except for the spasms of particularly hardy scouts, the compound leaving no trace but for bodies and the smell of sileage in the air.
There are survivors of course, those who reacted swift enough to don CBW gear, or those who's deployment zones were missed, but the slaughter is horrendous among those who don't.

Meanwhile, even as the nerve gas fells scouts, God's Own armoured columns smash against the Syskeyian lines, pushing forward even as their own artillery rains down on them and the positions they assault, APCs exploding into gouts of flame as the steel rain causes casualties amongst it's own massed troops.

However, the tactic is a success in many places, the lines breaking under the twin prongs of armour and artillery, Reich troops punching deep salients into the rat-worshipper lines, killing and burning, slaughtering all they come across, no prisoners taken.
Atrocities to the outside world, but to the God's Own troops the crucifixions and burnings are part and parcel of a campaign against heretical demon-worshippers such as these.
No rapes of course. Not of these tainted subhumans.

Gradually the artillery slows and even more massed formations of field-grey clad troopers pour forward, urged on by commissars screaming passages from the Reich bible, howling fanatics forcing bayonet charges home into machine gun nests, whipping penal battalions across minefields.

Unit after unit of coal-scuttle helmeted troops smash into the over-stressed Syskeyian lines and the cracks begin to show, only held back from total shattering by the sheer numbers of God's Ownii to be coordinated and the inadequacy of their supply lines.

Every man has a rifle true, the bolt-action Lee Enfields just as common as the Tokarev SVT-38 copies that are supposedly the standard rifle of the Wehrmacht, scattered PPSch-41's scavenged from vehicle crews also popping away at the riot of colour that is Syskeyian camouflage, but most of them walk into battle with only their grey uniforms between bullets and skin.

The clumsy Wanderer APCs are slow and easily out-manouevered, the Tuatara-Panzers few in comparison to the relative swams of Abrams in Syskeyian service, even though they smash them invidually, there's not enough to prevent savage losses in the Reich forces.

Still, in a phrase Shelford has stolen from Stalin: "After a while, quantity has a quality all of it's own.", there are enough grey-clad soldiers coming forward to die that even inferior tactics and weapons cannot hinder their advance...even before the Luftwaffe fighter-bombers return and begin to rain napalm and cluster-munitions down on the Syskeyians.

State of the Union Address by the President of the United States

Friends, Freemen, Countrymen!

Sons of Allanea! People of Syskeiya! Even as you hear this – even as I speak this – waves of Reichite tanks and infantry are pouring into the free lands of Syskeiya. Even as I speak, brave Syskeyians, valiant Allaneans are dying by the hundreds to defend that which we treasure most - our sacred liberty.

Yes, there are differences between Allaneans and Syskeyians. Yes, they are many. But there is one thing we have in common, and that is something we are ready to fight, and to die, over. We believe that there is a complete and absolute evil in the world, and that if there is a full and ideal expression of that evil, that expression is the Reich.

Yes, we are different peoples – but today, Syskeyians have two choices alone – to side with Allanea, or to side with the Reich. It is their choice – and some have probably already chosen service to the Reich. But to those who hate the Reich with the burning, purifying, true hatred it deserves – the people of Allanea have only one thing to say: we have no limit of places in our ranks. Any free man or woman who wishes to stand in the gap is welcome. If there is one thing there’ll never be a surplus of, it’s heroes like you.

Even now, the Boy Scout Brigades are holding the gap against the Reich forces, together with some valiant Syskeiyans. And while we are trying to organize three Marine brigades in Syskeiyapolis for a counterattack, it may be too late. We need your help to keep you free, Syskeiyans. To arms! To arms! It’s your homeland that’s at risk!

To the Allaneans I have few words today, except this: First of all, I am sending a Force Projection Fleet to deploy in the capital of Syskeiya. Hopefully it will be there on time. I would like to you pray for those sailors. Pray for them, and pray for the people of Syskeiya. They need it. They really do.

Good night,

And May God Bless Allanea

In Syskeiya


“Don’t run! Please! For all that is good and holy!”

The line is broken, and the Syskeiyan troops are now running, with the horizon painted grey – thousands and thousands of Reichite troops. And there’s little between them and the rest of Syskeiya – only a handful of Syskeyian troops who have not run yet, and a hole ten kilometers wide in the defensive line.

There are other holes, elsewhere – probably.

Scout Leader Lionel Johnson does not know.

He does not even know where the rest of his brigade is. Some are no doubt dead. Some may be stuck somewhere in broken down ‘troop-transporters’ (school buses repainted in camouflage patterns). But he realizes that the majority are indeed dead, burned alive by Reich bombs. There is… maybe seven and a half thousand left. One out of four is gone.

“Don’t run! Don’t for the love of God!”

He rallies all he can – ten thousand people if you count the Syskeiyan troops, shamed as they see that boys and girls, sixteen, seventeen years old are here, fighting for Syskeiya, and they, native citizens, are about to run.

The grey line is approaching. Above them, shells begin to shriek terribly.

And then, Lionel Johnson sees it.

They can stop the front.

At least here.

At least for a few hours, stop the Reich forces from pushing on.

“To arms! Drummers, to your sticks! Begin the advance!”

“The… advance…?” – gasps a Syskeyian soldier.

The twenty-year old Allanean nods. “The advance.”

And the beige uniforms begin to move forward.

They are not all carrying the same weapon. Some are carrying the issued M16-A4 rifle or Thompson gun, some the military AAR-8, others, some obscure weapon their family bought for them upon joining the Boy Scouts Corps.

They begin to close in, the tank shells killing and injuring some.

“Get down! Distance to enemy!”

A Boy Scout with a good eyesight winks for a second and replies:

“Estimated, one point two kilometers, Sir!”

The Scouts are lying down like on a range – not in a solid row, but dispersed all over the place so as not to make an easy target. Some are half-seated behind cover. And on a small hill where the Scoutmaster himself is, waves the flag – the Allanean flag.

The Scoutmaster raises his hand, holding the hat. He is standing on the hill, well-open to Reichite gunfire. Ten meters from him, a boy of sixteen is aiming a scoped M-14 at the enemy. With the scope, he can almost see the proverbial whites of their eyes. He holds on where he thinks the chin of the Reichite soldier is.

And the Scoutmaster raises his hand, holding his officer’s saber high, the sun reflecting off the blade.

Is he mad? Does he WANT them to shoot him?

“Ready!”

The boy is ready. He flicks the safety down.

“Aim.”

His finger is on the trigger.

“Fire!”

And it begins.

He was shoved into the cylinder with a bayonet, a stench of sweat, urine and vomit hit him as a hammer as he entered the hot humid darkness of “Deployment pod #623”. He felt the heat of other bodies closely together with the hard pieces of weapons squeezing into the side of his body and the smell of oil from a barrel just in front of his nose. The smell of oil was welcome as it took away some of the other body odors inside the pod. Another 20 people was forced in and then the hatch was forced shut.

Normally the pods used for deployment of soldiers had seats where the soldiers were strapped as they shot down through the atmosphere and rockets to break the fall and slow the pod down to almost a halt before opening up and deploying the well armed soldiers. The Veganian approach was slightly different when it came to their penal battalions. They removed the seats and most of the life supporting systems and also got rid of all but the last retro rockets, then they removed most of the infrastructure and finally put a weak welding in the joints so it would break apart on impact thus deploying the writhing mass of soldiers within.

Penal Battalion member Hanson felt the jerk and the shiver in his body as he was shot out from the tube launching the deployment pods towards inland Syskeyia. He could feel the acceleration through the luke warm liquid that stained his legs and slowly was pressed up towards his torso.

The journey ended abruptly less than a minute later when the pod crashed with a bone crushing sound skidding through the field as it was ripped apart sending soldiers tumbling in every direction at a firm speed of 60 km/h . Remnants of a surprised cow flew through the air as several tons of metal went through and over it like a freight train. Hanson felt himself spin around and suddenly he was surrounded by blurry light and legs and arms as he flew through the air and started to skid through mud and grass. He tumbled to a stop and quickly removed grass from his mouth as he crawled up to a sitting position. He could hear screams from the smoking wreck of the landing pod and saw several bodies crushed by the pod on its way down.

All in all it had been a very lucky landing for deployment pod #623. Normal casualties for deployment of penal battalions are around 30 % and that is before the enemy starts shooting at you.

Hanson quickly removed the cover shielding the muzzle of his rifle and ran towards cover. He had no training in soldiering what so ever but he had a strong survival instinct that told him to get to cover and to get close to his group as quick as possible. As he ran towards a shrubbery he passed by a soldier that had crashed into a tree, leaving everything over the shoulders a bloody and gray pulp.

Heil God! Praise the Lord of hosts! Praise the Risen Lord!

The metahuman stain will be washed away with the blood of the Lamb. Syskeyia will be liberated from the evil cancer....the true catholic faith will again rise in the land!
To support the wonderful Jaar and the forces of Reichliberation, Iesus will send 'Redemption brigades'. the 99th Armoured Regiment and elite forces of the Legio maria to help this wonderful operation.
Whatever is required will be provided...we will cleanse the land!
Victory to our God!
Victory to the noble Reich!
HEIL GOD! HEIL VICTORY!

Bridgette Iesus
Ministry of Social order.

Blessed be the LORD my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight.

Psalms 144:1

Joey screamed in surprise as he saw the projectiles land behind and inside the Boy Scout positions.With horror, he realized that most of the Reich troops landed in this way were dying – what kind of fool launches troops in this way? Only one that doesn't really care about a human life – came the realization as he swung his camera at one of the approacihng Veganans and took a picture.

There's always someone on every battlefield who does not fight. Such a person was Joey, a young reporter for the Scouting Magazine. He was supposed to tag along with the Brigade for a routine patrol-and-police operation in Syskeiya as it joined the United States. Instead he was here, covering a real, blood-and-guts battlefield. It was every teenage reporters dream gone horribly wrong.

As it all started, the Scoutmaster told him: “Let others handle the fighting. Take up the camera.” And he took up the camera. And he started taking pictures.

The first one was of the Scoutmaster himself, standing at the top of a small hill – large, parkerized Desert Eagle in hand, fire blazing from the barrel as he fired again and again at the attacking Reich troops. With the other hand, the Scoutmaster held an officer's sable, one that was intended to be ceremonial only – but that now, it seemed, would find a renewed use.

The ground shook around the Scoutmaster's legs, as he became a living target for Gods Own mortars and anti-tank launchers. The weapons impacted all around him, showering him with dirt and mud, but so far he was unharmed – something which could not be said for the several Boy Scouts lying on the slopes on the hill. And yet, despite it all, the Scoutmaster remained calm.

“Hold the line! Hold the line, Scouts! Remember! We must stop them here! At any cost! At any price!”

Here is a Syskeyian soldier slumping dead behind his M2HB, and a Boy Scout rushing to replace him. A long burst of fire – somewhere far away, a Reich soldier or two are knocked off their feet by the impact of 12,7-mm ammunition- and then this Boy Scout is falling to the ground, and another rushes in again – but is cut down by a .303 round before he can even press down the trigger of the heavy machine gun. And now another, wounded Scout takes up the gun. Over the din of battle, and through the red mist of blood loss and exhaustion, he cannot hear anything – especially not Joey's shutter clicking.

Here is a young girl knocked down to the ground by a Penal Battalion soldier. Her Thompson is a yard from her fingertips, and the Veganan soldier thinks it's over as he raises his own gun – and she moves the edge of her short uniform skirt slightly – extracting a thigh-holster full-size-1911. Her muzzle-flash is still visible as the camera's shutter clicks.

Dozens are dying every minutes as .303 rounds are speeding between the Boy Scouts. But the Boy Scouts are very well trained in the arts of marksmanship, and they carry more modern weapons – or rather, weapons with more firepower in them.

[i]If you lose, go down fighting.
L.Neil Smith

“Platoon B-6!” - cries Lionel Johnson. “At my command, deploy emergency medicals.”

They know what to do. The ragged remains of the platoon extract something from their clothes – small, sealed plastic bags. From the bags – pills – methamphetaine, PCP, adrenaline, testosterone. Only seconds later and the Boy Scouts gulp them down.

“Platoon B-6, forward! For Mother Liberty!”

And they charge – not towards the main Reichite line, but towards the Penal Battalion soldiers. There is a thump as a round hits a Scout in the face, flattening itself against the cheekbone. He simply moves on, oblivious to the pain – PCP tends to do that to you. His only reaction is to raise the stock of the Thompson to his shoulder and fire a long, long burst. Next to him, another Boy Scout kneels, aiming his ABR-8 at a random enemy. He fires twice, then the adrenaline finally takes over, and he charges, thrusting bayonet and stock at the enemy.

The shutter clicks, again.

They were told to make no mistake, and no mistake was made. The original Syskeyian takeover was quite probably an act of unwarranted imperialism. It wouldn't be terribly uncommon, really, for the occupying nation- but regardless, this isn't a discussion about that nation. It's about Syskeyia. Now, normally, Cocentrica would have nothing to do with this. But the Reich invasion played another factor in there, and here was the crux. It was a matter of supporting one nation over another, both of which were equally undesirable. On one side, however, remained a hope of transformation- unpleasant as it may be to the Cocentricans to support. And so, Cocentrica and agents of the other government- for now, let's call them MOVIC- prepared to help the imperialists fight the Reich.

The Cocentricans took off from their aerial and space bases. This was under the command of the 1st Space Command, in charge of all Earth-related Cocentrican warfare. Only a few forces were sent out at first- about 100 or so- just to test the waters. Still, it would be much more powerful than a group of Boy Scouts with pistols.

And, of course, a message.

>>Secure Line
>>To: Whoever's in command on the Allanean side
>>From: 1LT Sai-Liu, 1st Space Command, Cocentrican Air Force; MOVIC
>>Subject: Syskeyia

As requested, we're here to help fight off the Reich- pending, of course, your approval.

A fucking scout?! You better be kidding me! He was running to cover in a hail of bullets and Gods Own still was barraging the area and now he faced boy Scouts?

He watched as his fellow men fired away at the kids without a single second thought or care in the world. Well, why shouldn't they? They were trying to kill us weren't they?

He recognised one of his fellow dog soldiers, they were called dog soldiers because of the collar filled with explosives they were carrying around their necks, this one was a convicted pedophile, he must believe he died and got to heaven.

Hanson threw himself behind a rock and peered out while firing his rifle towards the advancing line of Scouts, he didn't need to worry about ammo, even if he only had been given 5 mags there were plenty of dead people around not using theirs. A ricochet sent a needle sharp shard from the rock over his head, he could feel a warm trickle of blood coming down over his forehead.

They had been told that they needed to take that hill. If it wasn't in Reich hands before dawn the collars would be activated. It was impossible to get a better incentive than that. He quickly caught his breath and then stormed over the tock towards the boy scouts with a scream.

We possess a proud consciousness of the fact that we carry a historical mission which we will continue to carry out – protecting Western Civilization, which has of old been our heritage; but we also know that we will repay our debt to the West to the last penny.

Marshal Baron Karl Gustav Emile Mannerheim,
Order from March 13th, 1940

New Syskeyiapolis

“Fire!”

The Praetorian II mobile launcher recoiled slightly on its wheels, two large, threatening-looking anti-aircraft missiles sped upwards from the city square, streaking towards the miniature black point that was the Reich aircraft.

Colonel Greenblatt followed their ascent with his Mohawk field binoculars (they indeed had an engraving of a person sporting that haircut – the brand was named after the haircut, not the tribe) and began to walk back towards the headquarters – the former building of the Syskeyian Ministry of Defense, now the joint command HQ of the Syskeyian State Defense Forces (formerly the Syskeyian Army). Behind him there was a dull roar as large trucks carrying Marine equipment went through the city and towards the Front.

It already was the Front with capital F, the place where a titanic battle was already beginning between the Allaneans and the Reich – and of course, the Syskeyian volunteers fighting on both sides. It would not be a battle for Syskeyian independence – it was probably obvious now for even the most ultra patriotic Syskeyian that Syskeyia would not remain independent. Now, Syskeyia had the choice of either nominal independence as part of the Reich, or joining the Union – something that the corrupt Syskeyian politicians have already voted for.

Yet even now, it seemed that quite a few Syskeyian soldiers have decided that serving under Jaar and Bridgette was better then the 'depraved' lifestyle of the Allaneans. No amount of convincing would help, and hundreds and thousands deserted, with their weapons and uniforms, and began making way towards the Reich forces, bits of white cloth attached to their bayonets – handkerchiefs, napkins, even underwear.

Greenblatt was still shrugging in disgust at the thought of those people as he entered the briefing room. In the room, Marshal Kosetsky was already waiting for him impatiently.

The Marshal was a tall, imposing man, with a long, gray mustache, his head shaved entirely bald – reminiscent of the fashion of the Cossacks of Russia. While Allanean ranking officers are generally exempt from uniform duty, Kosetzky was wearing a well-ironed suit of parade dress, his ranks shining in gold on his shoulders, his officers' saber at his side, and his medals and badges – a Bravery Under Fire medal, a Liberty Medal, 2nd class, an Excellent Marksman Badge, an Ace Marskman badge – shining on his chest. He also sported operation badges – from Operation Antanjyl Freedom and Operation Yazmarean Dawn.

Right now, this decorated officer was looking down at Greenblatt. “Well, Shlomo, how is it with the SDF? Are any of the Syskeyians coming down to do it, at least?”

“Many are, Sir. We are thinking we can put most of the military structure back together, and maybe patch up the holes with some volunteers.”

“I''d hope so. Those Boy Scouts can't hold the Reich off forever, you know.”

“I realize it. We just need a few more hours to get the Marines there, and then...”

“Yes, yes I knew Greenblatt. Once you get the Marines there they can hold off Hell and its legions until either the Syskeyians get their ass in gear or the cavalry arrive.”

“The... cavalry, Sir? You think that'll be enough?”

“Figurative cavalry. You know. Federal troops.”

“Oh.”

“But on the good side, the Cocentricans are willing to help?”

“Eh... don't they think we're being imperialist wackos for taking over Syskeyia – despite their own legislature consented?”

The young Colonel did not of course know – few people did – of the nature of the ACIA trick behind the legislative consent in question.

“They may at that, but I understand from their communications that they think we're not quite as bad as the Reich.”

“Undead monkeys with Alzheimer's would be better then the Reich, Marshal.”

The Marshal's face remained impervious at this joke.

“That is true, Colonel. At any rate, I have sent them a fax.”

“A... fax?”

Dear Cocentrican comrades!

A friend in need is a friend indeed, and you have in fact proven this by your offer. On the condition that you recognize Syskeyia entering the United States as a free and sovereign state we are fully happy to cooperate with you. As such, we would request from you mainly a temporary and extremely needed measure – the help of your mighty Air Force in shielding both Syskeyian civilians and Allanean personnel from persistent Reich bombing. This is necessary until such a time that we are able to deploy AN and AAF aircraft, which will happen within the next few days. It is especially necessary in the next few hours to allow safe transit of Marine Corps and Syskeyian State Defense Forces troops to the Front.

Sincerely yours,
Marshal Andrei Kosetzky

In the meanwhile, on the Front, the Boy Scouts were still dying.

Then came Amalek, and fought with Israel in Rephidim. And Moses said unto Joshua, Choose us out men, and go out, fight with Amalek: to morrow I will stand on the top of the hill with the rod of God in mine hand. So Joshua did as Moses had said to him, and fought with Amalek: and Moses, Aaron, and Hur went up to the top of the hill. And it came to pass, when Moses held up his hand, that Israel prevailed: and when he let down his hand, Amalek prevailed.

Exodus 17:8-11

On the Front

Being among Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts is probably any ephebophile's (and pedophile's, too) idea of Paradise. But when those Scouts are Allanean, then it's probably more like a child molester's vision of hell.

Monica Lindsey-Monsoon was busy demonstrating just why that was so. Her medical kit was ripped up and in her front shirt pocket, the adrenaline pills within were busily traveling in her bloodstream, and she was holding a Thompson M1921 with a coaxial laser pointer, giggling like a teenage girl – as indeed she was one – as the ceaseless stream of jacketed hollow point ammunition made a Reich Penal Battalion soldier fold up like he was hit by a monstrous fist from hell, make a step back – only held standing for a second by the sheer impact of the .45 rounds – twitch, straighten up, and fall, his spine, kidneys, and liver a mass of pulverized flesh. For all practical purposes, Monica has just cut his body in half. She laughed, oblivious to the danger, not noticing that next to her, a Syskeyian volunteer has fallen, his head pierced by a God's Own .303 round.

*

“Turn away! Don't you see the road is blocked, you damn communist Edolian revenuer!”

Volfram von Ephenbah did not react. He did not notice it when people said something about his Edolian heritage. When he was young, he dueled over it. He killed two people over it, but now he didn't care about it now. He was Allanean, now, he knew. And right now, he had a duty.

He turned to the officer next to him.

“No, Sir. No time!”

The burned-out Syskeyian army truck was blocking the road, blocking the path of the Allanean tank transporter. They could nearly see the burned corpses of the Syskeyian troops as they came closer, closer to the truck...

“Stop the truck!”

“No time, Sir! There are men at the Front who need these tanks! We can't stop!”

As he said those words, the question became academic, as the monstrously oversize tank transporter cast most the lighter vehicle's hulk off the road, ripping off only it's driver's cab, the body of the already-dead driver crunching as the burnt-out cab was flattened under the wheels of the tank transporter.

The Marine Brigade continued to push on towards the Front.

*

“For Mother Lib...” - a Scout maybe seventeen years old at best collapsed to the ground, and another one dropped immediately to use his still-warm body as a sort of impromptu shooting stand for his M16-A4. The testosterone injections and methamphetamine pills let the combat skills kick in – no reservations, no regrets, no pain – and no fear.

But death is still there. And death comes to you, not matter how brave you are – sometimes because you so brave. The Scout Brigade and its Syskeyian auxiliary were being mown down by the dozen, and their number shrunk. Now, there were 5,000 left - of the 10,000 Allaneans and Syskeyians that started fighting earlier that day – and the day was not yet out.

At first, the Scoutmaster tried to think of their names, their faces, what they did – but then it became too difficult. Now, all they were to him was a mass of bodies in beige Boy Scout and Girl Scout uniforms, with a smattering of Syskeyian army greens.

“Scouts!” - he called to those alive - “Scouts, do you remember Francis Scott Key?”

“Yes!!” - those on the hill who could hear him roared, and a few more bursts of machine gun fire cleared the hill-slopes of attackers – for just a few seconds.

“Remember the textbook edition?! Does anybody remember, here, how the story ends?”

There was a pause. Then, a young Scout rose from his dugout – bleeding, wounded, only held up by the combat drugs - “....and he saw that the bodies that kept that Flag flying at that awkward angle were Patriots' bodies.”

“That's right, Scout! What's your name?”

“Timmy...” - whispered the dying boy.

“That's just right, Timmy!” - the Scoutmaster spoke cheerfully, as if in a lesson – just as a mortar shell showered him with sand and mud.

“Well, Scouts, remember that! Remember, every generation, the Flag needs to be propped up by Patriots' bodies. It's just this generation that we lucked out to be the Patriots”
.
There was a pause, as again Reich troops attacked the hill. When again they retreated, some of the boys and girls who saw him begin his speech would not hear any speech any more.

“We are here, Boy Scouts! We are here, in Syskeyia, because when Allanea fought the Edolians and Knootians – even during the Sentient Peoples occupation – even during the Civil War – every time when the Flag was about to falter, some Patriot was there to prop it up with his own body! And when the Army, the Marines, the Navy and the Allanean People kick the living shit out of the Reich - “

A shell plowed through the Scout positions, and several fell. But the Scoutmaster was not fazed.

“When they kick the living shit out of the Reich, and park tanks in the front yard of Brigette's palace, and start pool parties in Jaar's own personal swimming pool, and lug Bridgette out into the street and lug her behind a technical, then – they will say, “we only got here because back then, in Syskeyia, those Scouts kept the Flag flying.

And they will say what I say today: God bless Baden-Powell's own Infantry! God bless Allanea!”

It had taken sometime for the Iesus forces to be deployed…a lethargic Iesus command had needed a reminder from the most wonderful Jaar that action was imperative.
Now, finally the soldiers arrived.
Under heavy navy and air support, the first troop transports arrived.

The 'Redemption brigades' arrived first. They followed very closely to the Veggy model…criminals or dissents were presented with a chance to redeem themselves. They lacked the criminal collars that their Veggy allies wore; they in fact had the minimal amount of equipment possible.

Supported by the 99th Armoured Regiment, and units of the Legio Maria the Iesus forces lumbered into support of their allies. legio Maria political officers had orders to encourage Syskeyian defection…after all they were Catholics too…
Even Pamphlets had been prepared….
Catholic Brothers and sisters….
Why do you fight your catholic friends? We are all brothers in the Lord!
Come over to us! Reject the Atheist secular Satanists of Allanea! Reject their homosexuality and atheism! Reject their liberal values!
Come to us! Help Syskeyia stay catholic!

At home in Iesus Christi, long range Iesus bombers prepared to follow Reich command orders.

Smoke rises and artillery moves from the battlefield, marching upward to the lines of communication and transport.
The Allanean Marines may well be on their way, but they won't be driving to the front, they'll be walking, or the God's Ownii artillery commander will be fired from one of his own guns.

So the order comes down from Shelford, at least.

The artillery is joined in it's re-concentration by the buzzing and howling of the Luftwaffe's excellent aircraft, far more sophisticated than anything else the God's Ownii have, smashing the Syskeyian secondary defences aside with numbers where they cannot with technology.
Air-strike after air-strike hits the reinforcing troops, hitting their transports as they land, as they dock.
At sea, the Kriegsmarine moves to blockade Syskeyia, an curtain of blood and iron to shield her from the world while she is cleansed of the parasites infesting her and their evil.

For the troops, not charging into their own artillery is a relief, allowing their sweeping-tide formations to advance unhindered but for the cowardly bullets of the heretical rat-lovers and the vile, acurs'd rounds of the Allaneans, who every Reicher knows are born with tails and cloven hooves, a people so vile even the Nephilim rejected them, truly a sign of being the utmost abomination, so revolting even the cleansing, purging fires are denied them in death.

Without the menace of their own artillery, the Wehrmacht begins to roll up the Syskeyian front, the shattering effect of huge numbers concentrated telling heavily against the Scouts and rat-worshippers, glorious last stands being made by the beleagured enemy in increasing numbers as strong point after strong point is cut off.

After all, the Allaneans are under-supplied and poorly dug in.
The Syskeyians are under-motivated, commanded by ineffectual incompetents and piss-poor soldiers to boot.

As the Wehrmacht takes ground, short-range missile forces trundle after them, crewed by a more competent class of soldier than the cannon-fodder currently suffocating the Syskeyian line in bodies, necessarily so, as the missiles they're launching contain virulent concoctions.
Missile after missile howl through N.o.E paths into Syskeyian cities, horrifically, as far as their limited programming allows, they're aimed at the schools and hospitals of the rat-worshippers, hitting them at the start of their evil lives.

Back on the front lines, the Wehrmacht conducts it's own savage rituals with captured enemy combatants, the lucky ones are the Syskeyians, their rat-worship sees them purified in the accepted manner, the flame.
Where time allows, officers are crucified, wired to pre-welded crucifix-trucks their writhing bodies driven into battle as living standards and examples, others being nailed to the hulls of Tuataras', the slow and heavy battle-tanks grinding into the fight ignorant of the screams of their living ablative armour.

For the Allaneans captured, things are much worse, the chemicals coursing through them keeping them fighting, struggling, long after a rational man would have fled into the release of death.
Flaying. Disembowellment. Lovingly-performed and horrific tortures and cruelties, all the frustrated rage of an abused people vented on the brainwashed child-soldiers.
No rapes. Young girls in uniform are obviously camp-whores, the debased women of Allanea brought to war to serve their depraved masters, taking such would be like taking an animal, a demon.
Or so the Commisars say.

The savagery is unrelenting and unrepentant, God's Own trains it's citizenry from birth to be unquestioning cogs in the machine, conditioning them with cruelty and capriciousness, a vast and horrible portrait of evil perpetrated in the name of God.
And they have been unleashed on Syskeyia, tearing holes through the lines of it's defenders, streaming past them, more and more and even more of the grey-uniformed soldiers moving through the ruined defences.

God's Own has one of the largest armies in the world after all, perhaps the largest for it's technological level, and nearly all of it is swarming into Syskeyia to claim it for 'God'.
Luck is with the fallen, for they shall not see what is wrought by the Reich's soldiery.

High overhead, one of the thousands of satellites that made up the Menelmacari Elenpalantír network sat lazily in its orbit that took it, currently, over Syskeyia. The satellite hadn't a care in the world, lacking an AI; it simply did its job, that of relaying real-time holographic intel data back to Menelmacar.

There had been a time, once, when the ships of hostile nations would destroy the satellites; it was eventually realized, however, that there was no point to doing this. Orbits would adjust to compensate for the loss. A Menelmacari ship, somewhere, would respond tit-for-tat and destroy a satellite of the offending nation, and somewhere else, an on-board fabber aboard another ship would drop a replacement for the lost Elenpalantír into the complex orbital matrix that made up the network. It didn't even cost the Menelmacari any intelligence - the telemetry was, again, sent in real-time.

The telemetry of this particular satellite was being viewed at this particular time in Vinyatírion, in a vast holoprojector that took up most of a large room. The resolution and scale of the system was astounding. Spread out like a carpet was the rolling hills and seas and plains and forests of the whole of Syskeyia; nearly imperceptible to any but elven eyes were the projections of ships - naval vessels bobbing on the waves, spacecraft in orbit, below the orbit of the satellite itself. There were flashes, always, everywhere, of explosions - and even smaller things, like infantry units and armored columns, were shown simply as icons with accompanying color-coded script showing current strength.

"So, what do we do, my Lady?" Serendis nos Fithurin asked as she came up behind Lady Sirithil, who stood at the holotank, watching the carnage from afar with the eye of a goddess. The Elentári was silent for a long moment, explosions and fire reflecting in her crimson gaze, one hand clasping the other delicately behind her back.

"We wait, and we watch," the Lady replied. "Keep the forces on alert - we know not yet how this will grow and spread, or if it will. The Allaneans started this, as you reported..."

"Yes," Serendis nodded. "That much is certain. We would not even need our agents to confirm that. The near-simultaneous sudden and tragic deaths of roughly half the anti-Allanean contingent of the Syskeyian Senate points very strongly to the indication that this was not simply democracy at work."

Sirithil closed her eyes, pondering for a moment, before looking to the Prefect. "Of course. Though why anyone would want to take over Syskeyia is anyone's guess. Anyway, Allanea has sown these seeds, and now it will reap the crop. I hold little hope for Allanea learning from its mistakes, but at least a protracted... skirmish... will cull the Reich. Send a message to my husband, perhaps he will have some of his more esoteric plans for those involved... but beyond that, let it continue, let it be so."

Serendis nodded, and withdrew, leaving her Lady to watch the war.

Hanson crawled up from the mud, scraping of the dust thrown over him by Gods Owns barrages, dozens of grenades had fallen in their area like gods wrath spreading cleansing fire and destruction. He felt something wet on his thigh as the whistling noise in his ears slowly subsided. He couldn't understand how his bladder had been able to contain more urine, but somehow it had, and as he began to be able to breath again he looked at the destruction around him. He walked upright towards a barn that somehow miracleously had survived the carnage, the ever continous beep in his ears made him miss that the barn was already occupied. It somehow kept him from hearing the screams of a teen age boy scout being raped by three men wearing their dog collars. He saw the pleading look in the boys eyes before one man forced the boys head to his crotch with a knife over the boys throat. He couldn't make himself care about it but slowly walked away towards the hill, now reduced to rubble, that they were supposed to capture.


Syskeyian front, operation Hail Mary

Sergeant Shiriponov slammed a new magasin into his rifle as he carefully advanced into the trench. Some of the enemy had for some reason advanced from the trench and left the security of it behind them as they had counter attacked on the first wave. He didn't know why. But he expected booby traps or worse in this muddy hell of blood and debris from Gods Own artillery barrage. He waved to his men to advance and the heavily armoured shocktroops slipped down into the trench with him. They spread through the trenches like silent armoured death, doing what they was born and bred for, killing the enemy.

Boy Scout Hill

“Joey.” - spoke the Scoutmaster somberly.

Joey looked up at the officer who was still standing – despite his bandaged head, his bleeding left arm
with which he was leaning still on the flagpole, and his bruised right with which he was still holding the Desert Eagle. “Yes, Sir?”

“I want you to leave the Hill. Now.”

Above their head, a Reich artillery shell screamed by, and a second later, they were showered with dirt. Joey winced – perhaps it was a bit of sand that got in his eye. Perhaps, some other reason. “But... why, Sir?”

“You have taken photographs. You are a witness to what your friends did. Someone must tell the tale – so that they may be properly remembered.”

The boy gasped. “But, Sir, you can't mean that you'll all...” - he paused “stay here?”

“No.” the Scoutmaster pretended not to hear the other meaning of it - “I will order a Syskeyian volunteer to go with you. Go. Take the camera, and take it to the nearest Allanean officer. He will know what to do.”

As he spoke, a line of Scout skirmishers rose from the grass in front of the Hill – a thin chain of beige upon green – to brave yet another gray wave of Reich soldiers. Joey swung his camera to his eyes, and snapped a single picture – just as the barrels of their ABR-8 rifles flared to life.

“Go. “ - said the Scoutmaster. “Just, go.”

The figures in beige fell, one by one, and the single gray wave advanced a few dozen meters. There were simply too many of them, thought Joey, as the Scoutmaster simply pushed him towards the rear – and the Syskeyian volunteer retreated with him.

When they were already far away, Joey turned and raised the camera to his eyes one last time. He could see, at the top of what would be called later Scout Hill, outlined clearly in the sunset sky, the Allanean flag flying at a strange angle.

“...and what kept that flag flying at that awkward angle...”

Syskeyia, near the Front

The Syskeyian State Defense forces tore down the highways, mixed with the three Marine brigades, coming to greet the Reich forces and the Renegade Syskeyians with fire and steel.

From the sky around them, aircraft dropped leaflets onto Syskeyian villages.

Syskeyian citizens! Do not believe a word of what the Reichites say. Allanea is not a secularist nation – if it where, would there be a tradition of all Allanean presidents to end every speech with the words 'May God Bless Allanea'? Would there be support of homeschooling, to allow people to best grow their children under the auspices of their own faith? Would there be military chaplains? Would government obligations bear the words, 'in God we trust'? Certainly not! And since Allanea does not do any of these things, then certainly it is no secularist state.

And look what they do now – to your children! To your brothers! To your relatives on the other side of the Front!

Gruesome pictures were attached.

But still, quite a few Syskeyians left their homes, shouldered their rifles, and walked towards the Reichite troops to join with them. In one town – named Merburg - an entire infantry division mutinied and took control of the town hall.

Soon enough, both sides would have at their disposal almost equal numbers of Syskeyian volunteers. The Allaneans found this more then disturbing – the numerical superiority the Reich possessed over them was indisputable, and it was only through the support of the population and famous tenacity of Allanean soldiers that they had any hopes of holding on.

Before them, the roads were torn into rubble by Reich artillery, and the Allaneans had thanked whatever gods they prayed to many a time for their leaders' love for off-road capable vehicles, and for six-wheel-drive trucks that simply roar onwards through the mud and highway wreckage.

With the Syskeyian vehicles, it is not so easy, and thousands of Mechanized Infantry are turned into leg infantry now, simply forced to walk their way to the front. Many will not be walking any more. Such is the will of Shelford. So is it done. There is no time to bury the dead. Forward, to the front!

Syskeyian Front, in the sky

“Sir, we have targets in sight.”

The Allanean attack helicopter emerged from behind the tree-line, followed by four Syskeyian State Defense Force Apaches. In front of them was a narrow country road, leading in the direction of the Reich lines – and it was clear that soon the Reich would have to use it. The trucks moving towards the Reich direction were full of Syskeiyan troops – and looking at the homemade, white-with-swastika flags the cars carried, it was not likely they were going to fight the Reich.

Which is precisely why the Syskeyian pilots referred to them only as “targets”.

Captain Donald Fox, pilot of the Allanean helicopter, nodded to his gunner. “Take 'em.”

From the left UGM pod, all twenty unguided missiles launched at once.

Generally, even one was enough to take down a truck – but the Allanean gunner really didn't like Reichites.

The front truck was hit sixteen times – of them, ten missiles hit in bed of the truck, where the Renegade Syskeyians sat. They didn't even have time to scream.

The helicopter turned slowly, the Renegades screaming in horror and trying to fire at it, their 5.56-millimeter rounds bouncing harmlessly off it's armored hide, then showered the backmost truck with a similar salvo of missiles.

The last vehicle stopped, trapped between two burning wrecks. Syskeyian soldiers clambered outside, but by now it was too late to run or hide, as the SSDF helicopters showered them with fire from their Gattling guns.

Donald Fox laughed with approval as he watched the last figures on the ground twitch and stop moving, forever. “Serves 'em right, boys. Now let's drop out 'em air-deployed mines and get the hell outta here.”

At the Front

The first to get within range of the enemy lines are not the infantry of course, but rather the crews of the MRLS launchers and artillery vehicles, and very soon, the plan begins taking shape. The Allanean cannon and artillery are focused all on a single narrow range of ground – just in front of what was Scout Hill. Only a kilometer wide, the area is pounded with the compounded firepower of five Mechanized Infantry Brigades, just as the Syskeyians move to secure the line elsewhere – but they will come… only later. Many will not come at all.

The mobile AA launchers pump the sky full of lead, steel, and explosive, stopping missiles en route- but many pass through. Thousands die. Such is the will of Shelford.

At sea

The Force Projection Fleet is here for a reason – it is here, because the Kriegsmarine must be stopped. And it will be stopped, no matter what the cost. And so, the submarine complement has begun to spread out to sea, carrying out constant hit-and-run attacks on the Reich navy – while the transports and destroyers made way to Allanea.

But the main firepower of the fleet was only now making itself evident. The Fleet was rather heavy on Arsenal ships – something domestic critics had long decried. These critics where about to be proven wrong, as the ships have begun to speak, unleashing several hellish salvos of missiles - aimed at the concentrations of Reich troops, they carried loads of incendiaries, high-explosives, and cluster munitions, harassing the enemy day and night, painting the sky with red traces when it was dark, pale smoke trails when the sun was shining.

The Air Armada awoke to life, working to shield the Syskeyian and Allanean positions from enemy overflight, and dropping tons and tons of air deployable landmine into projected Ownii routes. Shelford ordered that war. Shelford would get war.

Two days later, Editor's Office, Allanea Times

“So, Mr. Cornwall...” - started Niniel Ganalle, a rather nice person all in all – once you got over the fact she was a newspaper columnist and started in that business somewhere near 1700 AD - “how do you want us to cover the war?”

Anatoly Cornwall shrugged at the elf. “Well, Ms. Ganalle... think of it this way. As we long know, the age of supposedly 'unbiased journalism' is long dead and buried. Mind, it has never existed – merely, it was an age where journalism pretended to be biased, the better to promote whatever the editorial policy was.”

“I know this,” - replied the Bajoni expat - “that's Journalism History 101. Exuse me, Mr. Cornwall, what's your point?”

“I was getting to it. My point was that modern journalism – at least in Allanea – has gotten over this and returned to proudly wearing its bias on its sleeve. Allanea Times has an opinion, and we are not afraid to state it.”

He paused as he took a printout from his desk and read it. “The College Socialist Association of Allanea, the Javivalentira Association of Hash and Ngmgweni, the Pacifist United Movement of Allanea...” - that's called PUMA, believe it or not! - “oppose this new needless and brutal war, supposedly a war against the Reich, but in fact a war for Allanean capitalist imperialism...”

He paused. “Ms. Ganalle, I appreciate your sense of humor, but I felt it necessary to stress it...” Cornwall reached for his Zippo and set the paper on fire. “That was most definitely not our editorial position.”

“And now, excuse me, I have an email... holy shit.”

The email had carried the most amazing .jpeg files – the very same photographs Joey had made.

“See? This one is going to be our front page. Tell Scouting Magazine we're willing to pay for syndication rights. However much they wish.”



OOC:
If anybody is interested in puny stats, here is the structure of my infantry brigade, of which IIRC something like five are approaching the front.

http://s12.invisionfree.com/Allanea/index.php?showtopic=5

The structure of my navy. Note the First Force Projection Fleet.

http://s12.invisionfree.com/Allanea/index.php?showtopic=4

Asaid Virenus was what you might call one of Ranisath’s oldest human friends. She’d known him in the future-past, eventually having become one of his various agents, a job she still retained. Asaid’s childhood had been in poverty that almost every nation would consider so squalid as to be unbelievable. She’d not been content with that, however, and used her remarkable skills at mimicry to begin a trail of – from the age of six onwards – murder that lead her to the top of the human hive she’d been born into – she had been the governor’s nice before being caught.

Then she’d been presented with the options of being trained as an Imperial Assassin, or painful execution. And, five years later, the same choice, for though she had been quite able to understand the training, there had always been doubts about her loyalty – this time, she was used for experimentation with an enhanced form of the quasi-psychic drug that the assassins used. Where others had died, she proved to have sufficiently strong will to survive even with such an enhanced. And subsequently escape and begin working as a free agent. Of course, eventually, she’d run into someone she couldn’t kill, who’d decided that her abilities and rebellious streak made her ideal for working for his own ends.

And now, Asaid was walking into the elf-palace of Menelmacar, at his side. She had the kind of athletic, wiry, strung out, physique one would expect given her profession. Now of course, she spent most of her time passing on her extensive skills to the officers of the Elenaran.

Dressed from head to toe in the black body glove of the type favoured by her kind, as well as a light set of Menelmacari robes, white and cream, with the gold pin of the office of the Elenaran displayed on one of her lapels, surrounded by a small wreath of ‘evergreen leaves’ made from bronze, and more exotic materials lacquered in a perfectly realistic green.

“Siri, Asaid Virenus,” he was saying, “Asa, Sirithil nos Fëanor,” he then smiled a little, “Asaid is what you might call the instrument of my vengeance… My favourite assassin, I’m thinking about sending her off to Allanea,” she pouted, “to extract vengeance for their assault on Syskeyian democracy.”

“Oh?” Siri asked.

”Well, they murdered a good slice of the Syskeyian senate, I don’t see why they deserve a blind eye turned to that.”

“Okay,” Siri said, “anything of actual help to the Syskeyians?”

“Yes,” – it was Asaid’s turn to speak, this time in her capacity as one of the numerous influential backers of the Venturers organisation, the ‘NGO’ responsible for various acts of terrorism directed at genocides across the galaxy. She took a crystal, and put it into the holo-projector, displaying a map of Syskeyia. Asaid tapped a finger on the capital, “Most forces are concentrated here, however,” she said, “at present, most Reich forces are engaged in battling the Allaneans. So, an adapted version of the standard retrieval operation could work…”

“Don’t they have local air superiority?” Siri asked.

“Yes. That’s why the operation is going to have to use teleport-bridgeheads,” Siri winced at the perilous plan there, “and MIDF will need to supply at least half the troops if we’re to get locals cooperating. Necrons aren’t exactly popular with these people, the MIDF, on the other hand, is.

“So, our initial objective is deployment of four thousand monolith bridgeheads throughout the ‘Gods Own’ area of the country, followed by deployment of eighty thousand necrons, and one transport’s worth of MIDF. They can probably round up and persuade several million, in all, if we’re lucky, before the God’s Own airforce shows up with heavy bombs. Anyway… I’d best be off…” Asa concluded, “Allaneans to kill…”

In the building of Congress

"The honorable William Pinkerton will now take the floor."

The Edolian-descended Representative (D-Axackal) took the stand. He was immaculately dressed – the results of two generations of Knootian private school graduates. His skin was no longer the dark-yellowish hue of Edolians, but more pale – perhaps due to the Prussian blood he now had in him. His hair – well, nobody knew it's real color, but today it was painted black.

He spoke.

"This war? This war is merely an act of imperialism by our current administration? Look! Does anybody think it's an accident that half the Syskeyian opposition just goes off and dies just before they vote on Syskeyia joining the union? And look! Our children – yes, I know they are technically adults, but nevertheless – our children are dying pointlessly at the Front, for what? For the political will of a few thousand Republicans and their henchmen, who are sitting here in warm chairs? Do you think they'll actually go to fight the war? Do you?"

There was a dramatic pause, and into that pause, burst another Congressman

"Mr Charleston, at a time of peace, I'd challenge you to a duel. But now, there is a better way to prove you what you are – a cowardish idiot liar."

There was commotion as the Edolian paled.

The Speaker screamed "I demand ORDER in the House!"

But the Congressman continued. "I am a reserve Lieutenant with the Army. As of now, I step down from my seat, and volunteer my rifle and my life to the service of the Allanean Army in Syskeyia. I dare the honorable Axackali Representative to do the same."

The Speaker blinked in horror. And another man rose. "I am not a former soldier, but I can shoot. If the Army will not take me, I will go to the Front and I will fight as a militiaman. "

William had no choice in the matter. Within a matter of minutes, 150 signatures were collected, and the Representatives left the hall, never to be seen in it again. Within the next week, 600 more people were to volunteer from both houses. William Pinkerton was among them.

At least he could console himself that the anti-war party benefited from this – the gap between them and the majority party shrunk noticeably. Now it was 3,000 to 4,003.

In the meanwhile, the Allanean President was rumoured to be conducting secret meetings of some sort in New Syskeyiapolis. The truth of this was not known.

Day One

Devicr was what was called a necron immortal, one of the more elite of the necrons. Lounging back in an ornate chair in her duat house she looked nothing like that, however. Instead she ‘wore’ a form similar to the one she’d had many thousands of years ago. The view there was quite spectacular, perched as It was, in the cool mountains of the Northern Wastes of Duat. Like many necron buildings, it was perched perilously on a mountainside. Its lower floor, containing a winter garden and recreational rooms, was excavated below the surface of the cliff. Its location served as something of a reminder of the degree to which the environment of Duat was controlled – Devicr would see the cliffs erode backwards, except for that her own home was built upon, which was protected from the full effects of erosion by a lacing of field generators that would cause it to age at what was, even by geological standards, an infitesimal rate.

The whole place oozed a form of inter-species good-taste that was very expensive to pull off. Incorporating major elements of human design, as well as necrontyr aesthetics in its clean lines, here and there, panels were crafted in an ornate, Noldorin fashion, and window-frames crafted in a near-living stone sculpture that appealed to the Tel’Quessir. Most notable in this house, was the trend of using ceiling supports and banisters that resembled the Eldarin ‘wraithbone’ material. Such architecture was one of the few things that couldn’t be done by machines. The techniques of crafting a new design so that every room appealed to and put at ease more than five different species were more intuition than science, and many public and private spaces paid handsomely for it.

In Devicr’s case there was a fine reason for all this. She was one of the necrons who found that she enjoyed the company – provided it knew its place, of course – of many races, especially the Yvressi. Knowing its place was of course, a form of arrogance that many would consider reprehensible, but it was very common in the necrons. They almost invariably viewed themselves as superior to organic life forms. There wasn’t any spite or desire to mistreat in it, they were merely so self assured that to deny their superiority – immense physical superiority to any conceivable organic life form aside – seemed to be to deny conservation of momentum or some other basic law.

At the moment, she had six such Yvressi living in her home. It was common practice amongst the necrons now, to have various eldar ‘outcasts’ living with them in the role of courtesans and lovers. The necrontyr government encouraged it, because practically any form of decadence was encouraged by them, and by the Yvressi government because it promoted good relations with the most influential group of the Necrontyr society. And it appealed to the hedonistic outcasts for more reasons, aside from simple gratification. Duat, Garm and other necron planets had extensive networks of devices designed to reduce the influence of what was called the warp. While it was somewhat discomforting at first, it allowed, in the long term, them to behave however they liked without the slightest risk from ‘She who thirsts.’

Hence, sprawled across her lap, her current favourite, Lauthelias, dressed in an excessively ornate and impractical outfit with extensive corset-like (though this was rather less restrictive, given the anorexic figure of most eldar) waist cinching, was watching the news reports with a certain disinterested disdain. Devicr, her hands wrapped around the eldar’s waist, frowned, “Looks like I’ll have to leave for a while…” she said, passing a glass back to one of her servants – these, human, in this case, from the nation of An-Havva – and looking into the eldar’s amber eyes, “It seems they’re sending in a force to extract Syskeyians.”

---

Less than half an hour later, it began. A large flotilla of ships, lead by the battleship Riissac'a moved into position relatively close to the beleaguered nation.

Blocks on the undersides of the five largest ships disappeared as the monoliths were teleported from their cradles on the undersides of the ship, their destination? The area occupied by God’s Own. One a second for around fourteen minutes for each ship, and as each landed, necrons streamed through, and took up positions in the towns and villages of Syskeyia, and following swiftly on their heels, elves from the Menelmacari troop ships All The World's A Destination and Awesome Ship The First spread out among the population, heading for chapels and churches, where Syskeyians naturally gathered in such times of trouble.

Devicr was, to no-one’s surprise, one of those sent on such raids, her squad taking up a position on the higher levels of some of the buildings in a small town, waiting for the inevitable retaliation…

Two Days later

It wasn’t an assassination, it was retribution, Not that Asaid would think so. The Allanean house of representatives was easy enough to get into. Disable one of the cleaners, take her equipment and take on her form, and she was inside. After that, it was rather more complex. Her weapon of choice was an obscure and amusing one. Not to mention, sadistic. The ‘shrieker’ ammunition used by some factions of eldar was the basis of it, each tiny assassin’s needle carried a dose of this bio-explosive psychic elixir which would essentially cause the victim to explode from within with the force of a grenade, after a brief period of agonising pain of course. Each such needle was to be pressed into furniture, and contained a timer. Twin needles, the first, the size of a large swing needle, made up its body. The second pointed in the opposite direction, and would shoot forwards by a small explosion. It would normally leave evidence, but the explosive effects of the eldar poison would more than cover it.

Asaid placed each one into the chairs at a random pattern, covering all parts of the hall, around two thousand in all, and made a point of being out of the country by the following morning, though she did make certain to be watching a video feed of the next session of the Allanean house.

OOC: Boris pressured me into doing that last section like that!

Somewhere on the Front

A John R. Bolton Mark 1 Heavy Battle Tank is a monster of a machine. Equipped with two main turrets – one small, carrying a standard Allanean 140mm tank cannon, and one big, carrying a very short 300mm mortar – and an oversized engine, the device is rather agile for it's 250 tons of weight. Right now, the one right before Detachment Five is reduced to a crawl, though.

It is the spearhead of a Battalion-scale advance, moving slowly towards the Reich line – five platoons, twenty-five detachments just like this one, five MBT's and one HBT at the front providing really heavy firepower, twenty-five IFV's behind them, providing very heavy firepower, and the infantry spread out in a line between these, providing ordinary heavy firepower.

Sergeant-Major Mike Smith, AMC, witnesses this first hand. It starts as the ridiculous 300mm mortar fires – it seems that the recoil is dangerously near to flipping the Bolton tank over. There's an unholy shriek as the rain of shrapnel – kilograms and kilograms of hot, spinning steel balls – blasts the fast-approaching Reich soldiers. Even at this range – how far is it, anyway? – Mike thinks he can see a small gasp blown in the endless gray mass of Gods Ownii, Veganan, Infinite Loving, Iesian troops. It's certainly impressive... but the Reich troops are drawing near.

“Get down!” - he screams, and his troops lie down – eight motionless shapes, almost entirely concealed by their camouflage, their wide-brimmed hats hiding their face. They are spread out – fifty meters at least from Mike on the right to the machine gunner on the left. Mike grins as he looks at the enemies for the first time through the scope of his rifle.

They are less then a mile away, and running fast – your typical bayonet charge. Mike blinks. If I fired, I would probably even hit someone. What kind of poor, stupid sods, are these Reich people? The cannon on the tanks and the 30mm automatics on the IFV's begin speaking in unison, and Mike is forced to smile as he observes the effects the HE-F munitions have on the 'Reichies'.

But there's simply too many of them.

Overhead, the fiery traces of MRLS rockets streak out, hitting something – or missing something – in the Reich rear. God only knows what. Stupid, stupid, stupid! We need this *here*! Here, damn you all!

As if in answer to Mike's prayers, the Bolton breaks out all it has – the six mounted ACSW 25mm launchers, the .308 machine guns, the heavy coaxial guns – alone, it has the firepower of an Allanean mechanized infantry detachment, and more. Mike is happy. He screams. “One thousand meters to enemy lines! Ready your rifles! Machine gunner, fire! Only the machine gunner!”

In the din around them, the machine gun is almost inaudible as it clatters away. The machine gunner is an orc by race, one sporting a huge mustache. He grins – a malevolent, schoolyard-bully grin – as he fires the first, tentative short burst. From where the Reich soldiers are, it's almost invisible – God bless high-quality flash suppressors.

Through the scope, Mike sees three rounds of jacketed hollow point three-oh-eight blast apart the lower part of a Reich soldier's head. It's a drop in a bucket, though – a machine gun, despite all of it's World War One allure, is almost useless when there's nothing to slow the bloody bastards down as they approach. Otherwise they simply overrun your sorry ass.
It's entertaining though.

“Nine hundred meters to enemy! Choose your targets! Grenadier -”

A tank shell impacts the glacis plate of one of the excellent Macabees-made main battle tanks. It still stood, smoke rising from it's ERA plates, and the main turret swung – all main turrets, of all four tanks, swung to fire an almost simultaneous salvo of AP flechettes on the new enemy.

”Grenadier, fire! FIRE GOD DAMN YOU THRICE TO HELL!”

The grenadier fires. From his launcher, the missile erupts with a low hiss, impacting in the middle of the nearest Reich detachment, with a satisfying explosion of the third-generation FAE charge. In the front turret of the Bolton, the tank commander is probably stewing with envy. That is also good.

“Eight hundred meters to enemy! Riflemen, fire at will”

You can't fit a flash suppressor on a rocket launcher. Several dozen .303 rounds cut the grass very near that man, and he rolls immediately – and lets a few more burrow into the ground where the flash has been seen. Then, he prepares his launcher to fire again – and next to him, the riflemen are already doing their best. And they have something good to work with.

The ABR-8 is a most excellent tool of getting rid of people you really don't like. A select-fire, modular rifle, capable of firing a .308 hollow point round to an excess of 1,000 meters, it is ordinarily equipped with some form of optical scope, usually one the soldier buys for himself, and heavily modified by the soldier who carries. It also comes stock with a flash suppressor. Which means that at 800 meters, unless you have real sharp eyes, it's very difficult to spot the person who just shot at you. Not that it's a big problem – when you're facing people who learned Rifle Marskmanship as a school subject, it's not likely you're going to be doing much spotting after they shoot at you.

Still, when you outnumber the enemy like the Reichites do, and each of you has a rifle, someone is bound to get hurt. After firing his second rocket, the grenadier doesn't roll in time, and has his head blown off by several simultaneous hits. The machine gunner is hit – somewhere. And maybe it is the pain, maybe it's something else, but when he gets hit, the orc does something crazy.

He rises from the ground – exposing himself to a rain of enemy fire – and runs towards the enemy, screaming, firing the FN-MAG off-hand, screaming abuse. He runs out in front of the infantry line... the tank line - the HBT – and he is still running. Mike cannot stop him, for to get up is death. Nobody gets up when the enemy is holding a .303 bolt-action – it's a miracle the orc is still alive.

And then, there's a flash. Private Gorbag Norg, ID 45667687-N, is still standing, for an atrociously slow second – but his right leg is not there any more. Then, he falls. And Mike understands.

An unmarked minefield. So that's what the Air Force was up to, yesterday.

The Reich understands it, too – at least, when their soldiers begin to run into it. In the sky, two F-18's appear. Mike listens as the FAE bombs drop into the masses of men, as the fire consumes human flesh.

It seems – for now – that in this particular sector, the Reich advance has been stopped – and the Allanean counter-advance is kind of motionless, too.

Mike's combat radio is alive, though. “Quintus, this is Alpha. There's an unmarked minefield right in front of you, fifty meters from your head vehicle, created by our Air Force. Halt the advance and dig in. I repeat. Halt the advance and dig in. Confirm.”

Mike can't confirm. He's too busy laughing.

In Allanea

“Good morning, this is ANN, with fresh news from the Syskeyian Front.

Today, in a ceremony at an undisclosed location in Syskeyia, the President of the United States, has presented the awards of the heroes of Boy Scout Hill.

Joey Abramson, 17 years of age, the photographer who brought the world the story of Boy Scout Hill's heroes, had been awarded the Bravery Under Fire Medal, and the Liberty Star, Third Class.

The valiant Scoutmaster of the Brigade who slowed down the enemy advance at Boy Scout Hill, has been awarded the Medal of Honor, posthumuously.

Scout Martha Collins, 16 years of age, who continued to man a heavy machine gun after the three previous gunners where brought down by Reich fire, and after she herself sustained multiple injuries, had been awarded the Liberty Star, Second Class, poshumously.

Scout Pyotr Klockov, 18 years of age, who personally rushed a Reich tank, and detonated all ten of his RGD-33 grenades, along with the tank, has been awarded the Medal of Honor, posthumuously.

Scout Kreewheek Nookee, 17 years of age, who personally eliminated fifty Reich soldiers with rifle, knife, and beak, has been awarded the Bravery Under Fire medal and Golden Terminator badge, posthumously...”

There was a long list. Even though almost three thousand Congressmen died, hundreds of them were injured, and hundreds of aides, cleaners, and so forth got the body count to 3,400 dead and several hundred injured. And strangely, even though this was now leaving the anti-war Congressmen with a slim majority, they did not even try to act – they realized that this would be an incredibly unpopular to cave in like this – and so the public outrage has stopped the war from, well, stopping.

And down Jefferson Avenue, truck after truck after truck of Boy Scouts and Girl scouts rolled down towards Liberty-City International Airport. Only those aged 16-18 were called in – and then only those who came willingly. The Allaneans had neither the desire nor resources to chase down every 17-year old adult who now decided not to go out and fight as he promised when he turned 16. On the other hand, quite a few youngsters who were never Boy Scouts volunteered. They were given the beige uniforms and herded into the trucks as well.

They were given simple kit – an ABR-8 or Thompson, some grenades, a knife, the usual infantryman's gear, and a parachute. Then, they would simply drop out of a souped up Antonov somewhere near the Front and leg it to the lines. That was the fastest way – and the reason why the Scouts were called up – the Mechanized Infantry could not drop out with their IFV's and tanks – so they had to go via planes and ships to New Syskeyiapolis, and from there to the Front.

And in the meanwhile, Allaneans stood on the sidewalks of Jefferson Avenue, and watched as their sons and daughters rode smiling to war. Some where even singing as they went – past the weeping mothers, past the peace protesters waving COMPROMISE NOW banners.

The night of fire is yet to come,
The Tyrant's shadow's on the years,
Demands we kneel or take the gun,
And go shed blood instead of our tears!

Here was every face of Allanea – a girl, with long, black hair and lips, grasping her rifle with long, slender, pale fingers, her lips merely mouthing the song out, with no emotion to it – a boy with thick-framed glasses and dreadlocks, chanting out the words with all the pent-up rage you could imagine in a sixteen year old – another boy, with a talit barely visible from under the beige uniform, with his black peot flying in the wing, smiling dreamily as he leans on his Thompson - a Dohwar, not even humanoid, clutching a flamer in his or her limbs, the song coming out as a bit of penguin-squeak – an elf, his long, golden hair braided into a single ponytail, with the ten-inch bayonet already affixed to his rifle in anticipation.

Rejoice, Allanea's sons, rejoice,
To tyrants never bend a knee,
But pledge your heart and hand and voice
To Jefferson and Liberty!

Most of them didn't sing of course – mostly because most people didn't know this particular song – but the loudspeakers mounted on the army trucks played the tune, and soone enough quite enough Scouts began to sing at least the refrain to maintain the illusion that everybody was singing. From the sidewalks, you could not see the details – maybe some of the Boys was now crying – maybe some Girl wanted out of the truck and home to mother and back out of this silly volunteering thing. But most of them had no such notions, and whatever fears and uncertainties they held were not visible on their faces, at least not from eight lanes away. From the sidewalks, it was just a forest of rifles sticking out of the open-top trucks, and a bunch of patriotic children in beige uniforms and Stetson hats. Indeed, that's what was of them where – if you really simplified it.

Rejoice, Allanea's sons, rejoice,
To tyrants never bend a knee,
But pledge your heart and hand and voice
To Jefferson and Liberty!

Fred was as patriotic kid as any, and at seventeen, he was nobody's definition of a child soldier. But as the heavy truck took him further and further away from his comfortable home, as he saw his mother rushing towards the truck with tears rolling down her eyes – he became rather uncomfortable. That, and the uniform was rather too tight on him – in the Corps, like in the real Army, the clothing comes in two sizes, too big and too small. He could, of course, jump over the side of the truck – and chances would be he wouldn't be pursued, he knew that a cousin of his did that and nobody cared – well, he was hugely embarrassed in front of everybody, and of course that just wasn't proper. At all. So he just sat tight until the truck got there, and then calmly walked in to the plane. In flight, they were given testosterone pills, and so by the time it was time to actually 'shuffle to the door', he wasn't much fazed by anything anymore.

Kazansky Island, far from Allanea
He kissed Angelica on the cheek gently. She looked sadly at him – she was married to Kazansky for years now, and despite all her youth-extending treatments, despite still being sixteen on the biological clock, she never was sure if he loved her – or whom he did love, to that matter.

Kazansky smiled. “Well, darling... what's that that made you jog half across the island?”

His open range facility was on the opposite side of Kazansky Island from the main mansion, and positively huge. From here, Angelica could only barely see the target he was using – even though it was a silhouette target, man-size. She didn't need to see it to know it wasn't depicting a human male, though. She knew her husband well enough to know it would be some blue-skinned elf guy – he never told her his name, though.

“Well, dearest... it's news from Allanea.”

He shrugged. “And? You know I don't care about these screw heads anymore. They were a failure and I don't wish to talk about them.”

That was true. Alex tried to appear as little as possible in Allanea these days (only once recently, and then it was a party with the Prussian and Parthian nobility) and when Allanean admirers came here, he never came out to greet them – unless they crossed the No Tresspassers sign. Then he usually approached no closer then two hudred yards – simply because he never needed to. Even his wife was not Allanean, but Tiburonese in origin.

She insisted. “Alex, they've taken on the Reich?”

“The entire Reich? On their own?”

“Yeah. And you know what's weird? They have thrown the Boy Scouts into battle again... and half their Congressment are dead, but they are still fighting.”

“Woah. Didn't really expect that from them anymore. Okay, I will watch the news myself later.” - he kissed her gently on the nose. “Now, would you like to shoot some, too?”

“Nono... I haven't done reading that book you gave me for my birthday yet, and I would want to finish it today – and you know how it is with me and shooting.”

Kazansky laughed. “Yeah. Once you start, there's no assuring we get out here before dawn... next week.”

When she left, he resumed shooting. Today he was doing good – he put the first five .50AE rounds into the necrontyr male's head, and then broke the stick that was propping up the target at it's base with the remaining two shots. He smiled as it fell.

“Yes, the news is probably going to be interesting.”

OOC:

I'm sorry, but I am writing this at home, where I have no Internet connection. It is possible that inaccuracies will arise in the description of Reich combat procedures, or Allanean military procedures. I am terribly sorry for this. Please telegram me for comment and the usual OMG BORIS YOU MUST DIE stuff. :D

Also, the following questions have arisen:

1. Can anybody please draw a map of Syskeyia? It was supposed to be a peninsula, but where the hell is everything? I'm making a rough assumption here that St. Peter's Island and the parts you people are holding are in the South and I'm in the North, but I'm trying to avoid words like 'moving South' and 'moving North' in the actual IC post to avoid cluttering the issue in case I could be having it wrong.
2. Should we have one of the obligatory OOC threads that go with this sort of things?

In a mountainous area in northerns Syskeyia

Crouching under the heavy burden Findecano managed to take another step towards safety. He glanced at Nessas face and she managed a smile that filled him with renewed strength and an almost overwhelming love. He was carrying their whole life on his back but she was carrying their future and their dreams. The bundle in her arms moved a little and whimpered as she gently rocked it and shushed, the smile gone and replaced by a worried look. He stretched out and caressed her silky hair, stroking it back over her beautiful slender features, looking deep into her large sad but still enchanting eyes while smiling reassuringly.

They had stayed when the others had moved and then Nessa’s pregnancy had stopped them from moving when the first news of invasion had come. All their friends had told them to take a chance and try to reach the extracting point but he couldn’t risk Nessas health and neither the health of the treasure she was carrying. Hidden in the outskirts of a small town in the north they had stayed there even when they heard that Allanea had dropped troops over Syskeyia and The Reich had answered by staging a major invasion. First when the fighting moved too close to the area they were staying they had packed all their belongings and started to move north, towards the place where they had been told the extraction point should be.

They had not met more than a few persons and still hadn’t seen any soldiers, from any side, but Findecano had decided that they would move during dusk and night and stay hidden during the days. His sinewy muscles felt raw and sore as he shifted the weight of their belongings on his back and continued their walk towards the border under the clouded stars.

---


At the Front

The huge Hovercrafts sped in from the sea, never decreasing their speed as they swept over the beach and hit the fields towards the smoking front. They floated over the minefields without ever touching the ground and setting them off. Firing the coilguns, spewing high speed death in front of them as soldiers and tanks was dropped while the huge crafts were still moving and covering the deployment of the armed elite forces. Shock troops in heavy armour quickly hit the ground and slowly begun to advance, seeking cover on their way.

The low wedge shaped panzers didn’t slow down much before fanning out and firing at the Allanean front, raining auto cannon fire horizontally as Gods Owns artillery dropped shells from the skies over the same area.

Low flying fighter bombers swept over the advancing tanks dropping napalm and magnesium bombs on the Syskeyian lines before swerving and turning back to support the air coverage as new fighters flew in from the sea to meet the Allanean F-18. The front turned into A magnificient firework making people unable to look straight at the places where magnesium and napalm burned brightly.

“LEGIO TO ARMS!”
The men and women of the Legio maria could hear the chaos of battle miles in front of them as they marched to the frontline to join the Iesus units already in action…they’d passed Gods-own artillery units and been inspired…truly God was with the Reich!
“SOLDIERS! TO ARMS! What greater Love than to lay down your life for your friends! For Christ and humanity we fight! Onwards comrades!”
General Thomas More rode amongst the troops on his stead Enterprise. He knew it wasn’t safe or practical but it did inspire the troops…even the troops of the 'Redemption brigades' took heart at seeing the painfully ugly officer riding among them. He was a hard man, but fair…and that all the soldiers could respect, even if he’d win no beauty contests.
He pulled his sword and saluted the Iesus a unit of armour as it lumbered forward, causing the troops riding on the back to cheer in delight..
“I call you friends, not servants….trust comrades that any man who falls will receive paradise as their reward…Blessed are they who struggle for what is right fir the kingdom of heaven is theirs”
The soldiers and their General truly believed that they were here to liberate the nation. They didn’t hate the Syskeyians….but reserved their hatred for those criminals from Allanea.


Meanwhile Iesus aircraft had joined the combined Reich campaign. 3 squadrons of Iesus air superiority fighters had been assigned to the frontline, while bomber command would order its aircraft to attack whatever targets the Vegana's thought best.
Of course, more propaganda fluttered to the earth and radiated over the airwaves.

Syskeyia! Why! Oh WHY do you fight your family?!

"By this shall all people know that you are my disciples, if you have love one to another."
John 13:35

We are Catholics. We are brothers and sisters in the Lord. We have a common baptism in our Lord God…we share the same seven sacraments…we hope in the same salvation and trust in the same Church for the redemption of the hearts of humanity.

So why fight for the Allaneans? Do they share our faith? Our Common Catholic laws? Our common catholic heritage….Allanea is a land of homosexuals, abortionists, protestants and apostates. They do not believe in the sacraments, they do not believe in the union of church and state…
They blaspheme against the Eucharist! They defile the body and blood of Jesus!
Passion has strained but must never break our bond in Christ. Join us and together Syskeyia will thrive.
The alternative is to live as a state of Allanea.


“REDEMPTION! FREEDOM AND CHRIST! FREEDOM AND CHRIST!”
The grey clad redemption brigades screamed as they lead the assault, swarming the enemy with little regard for their own safety. Beside them Iesus armour laid down barrage after barrage of fire unto the enemy positions…their crews not carrying about the possibility of rounds falling short.

Non-Earth Florida Keys, Allanea Special Operations Command

Colonel Morrison blinked at the aide before him. “I am not impressed. At all. We lost, what, 250,000 Syskeyian personnel dead, unknown numbers injured, and there are about twenty five thousand dead Allaneans - and that's before you even start counting dead civilians! What exactly am I supposed to be impressed at, you stupid bastard? You fucks make General Haig look like a bloody military genius?”

The aide shrugged. “Well, Sir... looking at Boy Scout Hill, and looking at the Boy Scout Corps deployment at the Front – from which we have so far suffered, as you know, five thousand casualties, so in total, it's fifteen thousand dead Boy and Girl scouts throughout...”

“I still fail to be impressed.”

“Well, observe, Sir. The last time Allanea used the Boy Scout Corps in a major combat engagement was during Operation Free Axackal – the Fourth Edolian War, Sir. As you know, at the time it was a stop gap measure and we basically had to use the Scouts as leg infantry... cannon fodder, sir.”

“I know. Do go on.”

“Now, we have since reformed the system. We have created a program whereby parents sign their children for the Boy Scout Corps willingly, as it is with usual boyscouts abroad – starting at age twelve or so. There, they learn advanced rifle marksmanship, urban survival, forest survival, combat techniques and so forth. This takes place as afternoon meetings and weekend training sessions during the school year, and two-month summer camp sessions during the vacations.”

The eminent Special Forces instructor was growing rather visibly impatient. He took out a cigar, and chopped off it's end with his monstrous ABK-1. “So?”

“Even at this age, slow preparation begins – the children are shown a large amount of 'violent' films, their food is enriched with additives that encourage body growth, and of course there's the obligatory propaganda part.”

“Still I see nothing unusual – well, except the flicks. Pray explain that, and tell me, what the hell does this have to do with our current problem with the Front.”

The aide smiled. “I'm getting to it. You see, as we all learned at school...”

“Or at home.”

“Or at home. Exactly, Colonel. As we all learned as children, violence is not in and of itself wrong. It's wrong when it's a robber murdering an old woman for cash, and it's excellent if that woman happens to draw in time and blows him away. But, Colonel... it's difficult for some people to perceive that on an emotional level. That's where movies come in. Less 'Bambi', more 'Man of the Hour' and 'Battle Royale'. And “Rambo IV”, of course.”

The Colonel smiled. “I see your point.”

“At the summer camps, the food is supplemented with testosterone and other growth hormones. The parents are strangely happy with this – their children come back healthy and well-fed, and with bigger muscles or better-developed curves then anybody else in the neighborhood. What this means is that we are able to sustain a constant membership – not a majority of Allanean parents, mind, but enough to have currently 20 million Scouts in the Upper Age Bracket.”

“What is the Upper Age Bracket?”

“Those who are aged from 16 to 18, who are legally adults. They may be still in school, but all of them have signed a release form that makes them the legal equivalent of Army Reserves – we can send them into battle.”

“People sign that willingly?”

“Some people. 20 million is not all that much, considering the overall size of the age group... there's probably a billion people aged zero to eighteen in Allanea, you know – and then, we probably are not going to have all 20 million people turn up when SHTF.”

“You disappoint me.” - smiled the Colonel listlessly, lighting his cigar.

“That's because you misunderstand me, Sir. I do not mean that the objective is to produce twenty million leg infantry – although some of them do turn out to be excellent leg infantry. The objective is to produce twenty million people in the Upper Age Group – or in other words, approximately six million and three hundred thousand high school graduates that leave the program every year, some to remain as civilians, others to join the Army – who have received rather good military training, and are almost completely desensitized to violence.”

The Colonel gasped. “What?!”

“Have you not noticed? A Boy Scout goes through the training program – assuming he attends the summer camp starting at age twelve – for a combined twelve months spent at summer camp. Remember that the basic rifle marksmanship is taught at school – or at home – anyway – and you understand that we have here time enough for a basic training program more comprehensive then the Old American Marines got.”

“But they are children! Not Marines!”

“No. But the aim is not to beef up their body – it's to train their spirit and to enhance the proper skills that are needed of a soldier, while keeping them fit for civilian life. And so you have it - 6 million of people per year graduate from the program, and it works....”

The Colonel looked at the aide breathless.

“It costs us a thousand menelmacari credits for each month of summer camps – it's in fact cheaper then most Education budget, per child – and that's before the fact a lot of the parents donate to keep up the camps. And the program is not at all militarist – we keep the marching and the saluting to a minimum, and tune up the warrior mentality, the patriotism and the killing of statist invaders.”

“Wow. Just... wow. And by this you even avoid having people ditch your program... I imagine the outrage most people in this country would be in if they discovered that you were teaching little children to march in file and salute.”

“That's true. Even though... the program is not very popular. Even though the Boy Scout or Girl Scout is a necessary fact of that Allanean landscape we try to sell foreigners... only maybe one in a thousand parents will send his child to a Scout camp. We don't mind. We get all the kids we need. And once they are sixteen, plenty adults too.”

“Wow. Just wow. But what the bloody hell does it have to do with the Front?”

“Remember Scout Hill?”

There was a pause. “Holy shit. You sad creeps trained them for this kind of thing since they were 12?”

“Let me give you a small demonstration, Colonel.”

He opened a small laptop and placed it on the table. “Here. This recording has been made at the Front. This girl you see, Sir, is Sandra L. Conner, and she has been part of Scot Platoon Six. Of her own detachment, five members were killed by enemy fire before their 'chutes touched down. What you see here is TactiCamera footage of her... 'performance.' This is after she ran out of ammunition, you understand...”

The Colonel doesn't speak. He just watches as the slender girl – probably a cheerleader or something – brings a Iesian soldier down with the stock of her empty Thompson gun, then throws it down and draws a huge ABK-1 knife – just like his own, ten inches long- and goes on killing two more soldiers with it – even as gunshot wounds bloom on her chest and belly. Whether is it the combat drugs or the enthusiasm, or both, cannot be seen on tape. But the last scene, where Sandra, in her final convulsion, pulls a man with a SAW down to the ground with her and stabs at him furiously again and again with the immense knife, has it's effective.

“Now, that, my friend, is quite impressive.”

“Thank you. By the way, Colonel... General Haig was a military genius.”

New-Syskeyiapolis


“Third Free Syskeyian Brigade, attention!”


Good day, Freemen. – the Allanean Instructor spoke. He was tall, long haired, and wearing a gray uniform with the letters CI on its sleeve.

As we speak, thousands of your own brothers, the Freemen of this State of Syskeyia, are shedding their blood at the Front so that you might live free. And let me show you the alternatives to living free.” - he showed them photographs. Horrible photographs, made of what the Reich did in it's part of Syskeyia – from high-power sattelite optics – and of what happened to the victims of the Reich gas bombings.

The papers passed through people's hands, and the Syskeyians gasped and cursed.

Now, remember – as a State of Allanea, Syskeyia is free to maintain it's catholic culture, it's symbolics, it's own money – almost complete independence, and we also protect you from the Reich. We respect you, your culture and your tradition. On the other hand... the Reichite propaganda just calls you 'rat worshippers'. Let me quote to you the words of Amadeus Shelford, here: 'You know of our crusade to liberate the rat-worshippers from their demonic, whiskered masters '. That's you, people. You are the rat-worshippers, You are the people they despise, and yet claim to liberate by bombing your cities. Allanea is yet to bomb any Syskeyian cities, to crucify any Syskeyian civilians – like the Reich does – or to call any of you a rat worshipper. And as you know, the remnants of the Syskeyian Army are still fighting on our side.

He paused.

I'm not asking you, the Third Free Brigade, to risk your lives, or even fire a shot at the Reich for the protection of Syskeyia. The Allaneans are slowly taking over this role entirely, and by the end of this months, the Federal forces will entirely replace Syskeyian State Defense Forces on the front. What I am asking you to do is to give me a few hours of hard work. No fighting. No risking your life.

All we need to do is dig. Already now, engineering battalions of the five Marine brigades have been diverted to the cause – and with your help, we will succeed in it - of building a chain of field fortifications to protect at least half of Syskeyia from Reich invasion. It is the only way to hold back the Reich forces.

It is all I ask you – a few hours of hard work.

He paused. I will now lend the floor to father Dominic. He will pray for us all.

The priest spoke, and the Syskeyians listened – the Allaneans have in fact been cooperating with the Catholic church! The presence of this man was proof in itself.

And he spoke.

“O God, Who knowest us to be set in the midst of such great perils, that, by reason of the weakness of our nature, we cannot stand upright, grant us such health of mind and body, that those evils which we suffer for our sins we may overcome through Thine assistance, Through Christ our Lord.

Amen. “

At the Front

Mike screamed, shielding his eyes from the intense light. Almost simultaneously, several FAE and magnesium bombs fell nearby, and he felt like his eye were already being scorched out by them – which, for several of his comrades, was already literally true. Almost simultaneously with that, a rain of FAE and white phosphorus carried by Allanean cruise missiles came down on the Reich positions – having a fleet of Arsenal ships parked nearby is good. Soon, the entire battlefield looked like a medieval rendition of Hell.

Somehow, Mike and at least three other members of his detachment were still alive, and they retreated as slowly as they possibly could, often stopping to throw an RGD-33 (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/RGD-33) grenade at an oncoming Reichite or his vehicle, or to fire a shot from their oversized rifles. Of course, the RGD-33 grenades were made of modern, lighter materials, and held better explosives, but they were still the same old, good basic Soviet design. And Mike saw the grenades, and he thought it was good.

He saw the huge Bolton tank burn – it took a direct hit from one of those large anti-ship missiles or whatever, and was now burning like a fireworks display. From around it, Iesian soldiers began to approach. Mike had an idea. It was a tautological idea, but it would work.

“Flamer!”

The flamer was still alive – and obviously he was called that for the heavy flamer he carried. Mike looked at the Iesian soldiers as they burned alive. “Hehe! Take that statist fucks! Die!” - he laughed as they rolled on the ground in pain. “Haha, PWNed, bitches!” - said Mike, shooting one of them twice for good measure, and the Allaneans resumed the retreat.

In the sky, over Syskeyia

The Velkyan-made Lancaster II bomber aircraft slid through the athmosphere, the pilots thanking the merciful gods for their anti-detection gear. They were flanked on all sides by an Air Armada of F-117 aircraft, but it was they who would have to do the main task.

They dropped out on the Reich positions a cargo of 3,000 half-ton cluster bombs, tearing through the landscape with an ominous roar of sub munition explosions. Further, they dropped out 1500 tons of paper.

The thin, high-quality printed pages floated gently down to the ground. On one hand was an erotic image – rather mild by an Allanean standard, probably just a naked and obviously sexually excited woman or couple of lovers, but also probably illegal in most of the Reich. This was to encourage soldiers to pick up the pictures – after all, many of them have not enjoyed pornography more then once in their lives, and would try to hide this away from the Comissars – and maybe, just maybe, some of them would read the back side, too.

Dear friend!

We are sorry if the image on the back offends you... this was not our intent. It is just that some may be amused by it, and it's a good way to distribute our message and assure it gets to you. And this is the message:

1.It is untrue that Allanea is a secular nation. We have no separation of church and state, and Syskeyia is about to become the first openly Catholic state of the Union. If you were an Allanean Freeman, there would be no barriers to enjoying your religion, you would be given vouchers to send your children to a religious school of your choice... in short, you will be free.
2.Allanea is also highly prosperous, enjoying an average national income of [the sum was printed in Reich currencies], and practically every house in Allanea has a computer, a car, and all the other necessities of modern life. We do not mistreat prisoners of war, and in fact, if you choose to become a Freeman of Allanea (that's called 'citizen' in your nation), we will provide you with a sum of 10,000 Universal Dollars to start your new life, more if you cooperate with us.
3.In Allanea, we do not execute people for being slightly different from us. We are not cruel and vindictive like your own government.
4.Anybody who surrenders now to the Allanean government and refuses to become an Allanean Freeman, will be held in good conditions – with televisions, bathrooms, running water, air conditioning, and entertainment provided by us, as well as food – until the war is over and you can be returned.
5.As of now, ten Mechanized Infantry Brigades are en route to the Front. Things will become even harder for your guys.

Thank you for considering this message. If you are that kind of sort, do enjoy the image at the back.

Yours, the Allanean Government,
That obviously values your life more then the Reich government
.
In the meanwhile, the fighting continued – hundreds and hundreds of Boy Scouts were being landed at the Front lines, firint portable AT weapons at the Veganan landing vehicles – and from Allanea, a large fleet of cargo vessels took off, bearing the promised Brigades – and huge hovercraft, for some reason. Perhaps indeed the Allaneans had a plan.

Somewhere outside Allanea


“Dear God.

As You know, in Your Might, the Allaneans have started a war against the Reich – a war, in whose morality I have my own doubts. On one hand, it seems the poor Syskeyians are becoming a sort of puppet – a pawn in a game of Risk with the world for a gamemap, as part of some huge Allanean plan to weaken the Reich... or something On the other – they are fighting the Reich, and as You know, in Your Might, the Reich is one of the most evil groups of people that ever walked or crawled the Earth.

During this war, the Reichites have assassinated, at once, a large amount of Congressmen with explosives – something that surely only happened that You wanted to punish the Allanean nation for its sins – and the Secretary of State has been injured – by tooth fragments, my Lord the Messenger. Now, it seems I am slated for the job if – or rather, when he dies. The question is.... should I remain in government service to become the Secretary of State – or should I abstain from representing this nation before the world when it does things like this war, and divert myself full time to Your work? What would serve Your cause of Liberty better, Lord?

Please, dear God. Send me wisdom, so I would know. Make your servant Victoria wiser, and I hope I will make the right decision.”

She was 18…
Her name was Lucy and she’d joined up because her Father had ‘problems’ with the government….She’d been allowed to join the ‘Redemption Brigades’ in his stead because he was too old.
Now she burnt as the Allanea Scouts gibbered and laughed like lunatics.

Some of her squad saw her fall. They heard the deranged war cries of the scouts. They saw before them the evidence of the insanity of the Allanea regime…..
Iesus soldiers didn’t like killing children, no one rational enjoyed killing…but this had to be done..

Reich units weren’t slowed for long. Crazed Scouts didn’t delay fully operational combat units for long in reality. It was simply a disgusting waste of life from the disgusting Allanea regime.



“Oh My God….Haahhahahahaha”
“Oh PLEASE. Shit. That’s so hahahahahaha”
“Hehe no wonder we’ve already had over a thousand Syskeyian soldiers come-over this morning alone…God this is ridiculous…”
“And that is so FAKE!”
“Troopers. What’s that you’re reading!”
The muscled female NCO towered over the laughing troopers. With a growl she snatched the piece of paper out of one of the younger soldier’s hands.
“HOLY SHIT… What do they think we are. Calvinists!” The Sarge roared with laughter “ and those tits are fake. Let’s move out”
The nature of life in the Iesus armed forces was clearly more robust than foreign Intelligence had perceived. Also the fact that the Iesus armed forces were 99% unisex had also slipped under the Alleanean Radar.

At the Front

Mike screamed abuse as he saw another one of his soldiers fall. Now there were only two of them left for him to command. They retreated – slowly, slowly, taking cover behind every rock and bush and thorn to practice their marksmanship on the advancing Reichite soldiers. The flamer operator kept the reichites off their backs if they got too near, and Mike and the other soldier – a huge man named Coalhouse, the group's Designated Marksman, which meant he could shoot even better then an average Allanean rifleman – fired shots at them when they were far away. And they retreated - sometimes they stopped though, and sometimes they advanced for a meter or three, only to be thrown back by the Reich advance.

“Remember” – Mike whispered to the flamer - “Somewhere back there, the Free Syskeyians are digging... a hundred thousand Free Syskeyians, ten brigades... digging trenches and fortification – that's that's a hundred kilometers of trench line per hours. For every hour we hold them back...” - he paused to take a shot - “for every hour, they dig a hundred klicks of trench line. Now... every hour we hold... even though this is not a hundred straight klicks of Trenchline, I'd say the defensive line gets at least eight kilometers longer in actuality... that's without considering that they are not actually digging with shovels, the Engineers are back there helping them with D-9's and such... so every hour...”

Then they were not able to speak for a few minutes.

* * * *

The crew of the Incinerateur (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=8595745&postcount=8) rapid firing artillery guns were based behind the front line, and behind even the earthen entrenchment lines that the Free Syskeyian Brigades were digging, pouring a hail of shells down onto the enemy lines from a hundred miles away. They didn't care about the danger – they didn't even see themselves to be in danger at all, and in fact, they were rather happy, and their shells where painted with a variety of joking messages – THIS IS FOR ST. DOMINIC, FUCK YOU BRIDGETTE, DIE REICH SCUM, and the like.

There were only 500 of these towed cannon on the Front, but with a cyclic rate of fire of 1 round per second per cannon, they were laying down hell on the Reich – or at least, they hoped they were. A mix where a third of the rounds is high-explosive, a third is white phosphorus, and a third is land mine subminitions dispensing, nothing good can really happen to the people you are tossing them at – that was the Allanean rationale.

Above them, a flight of SAH-27A combat helicopters flew by. Somewhere behind the horizon, they would attack Reich targets with a mix of ATGM and FAE missiles, making forward movements harder still – at least, this was the hope.

And in the meanwhile, the Syskeyian volunteers were digging at their best – the Allaneans not send Syskeyian volunteers to the front any more, since the steady flow of aircraft full of Boy Scouts allowed them to sort of hold the line – and in fact, Syskeyians were sometimes even sent back from the Front to do the important thing – dig.

* * * *

Even the best combat drugs fail eventually, and Murielle's eventually did. She was standing in the middle of a battlefield, her hands and skirt stained with blood, but in her arms she still held her ABR-8S rifle, the ten-inch blade of the bayonet knife bloodied as well. In front of her was the body of a dead Reich soldier – apparently she had just killed him – him and several more. But that was not scared Murielle – not at all.

Nor did the advancing lines of the Reich troops scare Murielle. She knew how to deal with that – she dropped to prone, using the dead Reich soldier for cover, unfolded the bipod on the rifle, and started shooting – slowly, measuring each shot, not allowing herself to do more then smile when one of them fell, cut down by a .308 hollow point round.

Nor did the dead bodies of her friends scare Murielle – long Boy Scout training, learning to drink the blood of deer you just killed on your own,watching countless hours of films designed to make you numb to violence prepared her for this.

No, what scared Murielle was the strange, gurgling sound she suddenly heard on her right, in the din of battle. She turned her head and saw Neil Kochkin, her classmate, the captain of the school practical rifle team. She used to be in love with him – with his slender hands, his beautiful face and the green, smart eyes behind his glasses. Now, he could instill only fear. He was a PCP-infused monster, wrestling with a Reich captain on the ground, splattered with blood. They were holding each other by the hands... and Murielle did not see what Neil could do to win – until he leaned forwards and bit the Reichite in the face, again and again, blood spilling down his chin. Then he got up, rifle in hand, and went forwards, roaring and swearing terribly.

And it was then that Murielle just couldn't take it anymore... she just turned and ran.

God’s Own Occupied Territory

Space twisted as it was assailed by the force of unimaginable power, the might of a starship’s power nodes directed to a single point of minute size. Space twisted and warped as two points were forced to link to one another, and mass was transferred with a tremendous ‘bang’ that sounded rather like a small mortar round landing.

Hovering over the dirty ground of the single road leading into a local settlement, a small mountain of metal that covered the entire street reoriented itself. On a groove in its fore section, an engraved and enamelled surface slid open, another section rotating down to position a small set of steps almost against the ground. A vertical wall of shimmering green light cast long shadows out over the road, magnifying the ruts left in it by heavy Reich tanks that had passed over it recently.

A metal foot slammed into the ground, followed by a sharpened, reinforced sapphire cradled in a living metal spike, the butt end of a staff of light.

The ‘camera’ – a scarab unit displaced in first to record the operation, pans up to show a necron Lady dressed in armourweave robes that seem gold but glisten with an oily iridescence akin to crow feathers. Her polished face, decorated with ivory and stylised ‘tear ducts’ turned from one side to the other, gimlet green eyes surveying her surroundings. Then she stepped forwards, past the camera, and five hulking necron immortals cantered out behind her, forming a brief perimeter as ten, smaller, lighter necron warriors followed, weapons held facing downwards as they rapidly disembarked, followed by a collection of ‘scarab’ constructs.

The Lady looked around, and, vocalising for the benefit of her audience, “Move out,” she said, and at once, the scarabs flittered off silently but for the brush of carapace on carapace, into the Syskeyian town ahead. The camera followed, and one could see what was best described as a small hamlet.

The feet of running necrons damaged the road even more, already splintered, parts of the tarmac were crushed underfoot as they moved out, the lady herself not impaired in the least by the cumbersome cloak she wore, which flittered out of the way of her feet as she moved, on its own suspensors.

Swift witted observers might notice something else about the town as they passed through its outskirts. There were no lights. No reaction at all to the necrontyr. One of the immortals paused at a garden on the street, neat and pristine, and pulled up a white flower, an Arabian jasmine, holding it up and pressing it against its chest. The flower wilted instantly, as though it were being absorbed by the machine, turning to ashes in a heartbeat, “No airborne contaminants detected…” it reported.

“Sensor-scan report: No animal larger than a dog remains here,” another added. They didn’t need to communicate in such a way; indeed, one mind controlled all the immortals. But public disclosure materials were not intended to supply accurate information.

“Extend coverage,” the Lady said with a nod. The camera showed the scarabs flittering up vertically.

A moment later, the immortal came out with another report. “Sensor report: Sapient activity detected. Woodlands, four hundred meters outside this area, light military vehicles detected!”

“move out…”

A judicious cut followed, showing the same necrons, their faces illuminated by the distant reflections of fire and white light. Distant screams in Latin give the entire affair an even more hellish feel.

The camera pans to bring the necron lady into its capture field, and flickers with translated commands and a map of the area, showing one group ready to approach via the trees, and another blocking the road, supported by the monolith, which can be seen in the distance, dark and quiescent.

Then it turns to regard a scene more directly out of some medieval vision of hell, panning past a line of immortals crouched behind the ridge of a hill, and half a dozen figures in cloaks and heavy body armour that are presumably Menelmacari, prone, already aiming.

Here, men and women of all ages can be seen being unloaded from cattle trucks and herded towards the trees, where a multitude of figures already stand – no, hang, from bolts plunged through their forearms, almost universally bare. Open fires of books and possessions complete the scene.

The picture zooms in on an altercation between one of the, as yet unharmed prisoners and a guard, then cuts to a child running. With perfect clarity the camera rests its field of vision upon a guard drawing a bead with his rifle. It’s hard to see the lightning bolt of brilliant whiteness that impacts him a moment later, it simply seems like he explodes from within, every part of his body being blasted apart as though his bones had become explosive. The camera cuts to show the Necron lady, staff head crackling, as the bolts of lightning flicker out again.

She held it forwards like a lance, and its bolts didn’t seem to be affected by this, lightning flickering out. She wasn’t the only one firing though. Plasma bolts and the staccato green beams of the immortals’ weapons joined in, and a tank was immolated as its entire rear section disappeared under fire from the monolith.

The camera flies towards one of the few soldiers standing firm, and, probably censored by most networks (unless they’re in, say, Allanea) anyway, the view turns black as it plunges itself into his head.

It shakes the remains off in time to show the Lady decapitate a commissar and push his torso back with a flick of her wrist, like some perverse music video, and step onto his chest.

Some of the outnumbered butchers flee into the woods between their hanging victims, but even as this can be seen, flickers of green from necron eyes and weapons can be discerned, and it becomes obvious where the necron warriors went.

The butchery continues for several minutes, necrons electrocuting some with touch, or killing with axe-bayonets or ornamental sickles. Some retreat back the way they came, the wiser ones dropping their weapons and surrendering. The ‘video’ then cuts to a scene of many of the same Syskeyians in a hospital ward with the six-sided symbol of Isasrach on one of the walls, a few interviews, and then a scene of the Gods Own soldiers being herded into the portal on the monolith, one scarab following each of them, occasionally ‘biting’ those who seem uncooperative with sharp mandibles.

OOC: Any/all errors in description of GO behaviour, methods, etc. will be corrected as soon as I become aware of them…

Hatusu drunk her tea and listened to the lute players. Drinking tea is one of her most common habits. She preferred drinking tea with milk especially in the morning and after lunch. She added some cardamom and considered the situation.
She stretched her legs and signaled for her consul Rafiq. He knelt by her couch as she whispered her orders.

“If our allies see it an necessity to fight, it is our honor to aid the holy ones and we naturally shall join them.”
~Sultan Hatusu.


The siren screamed out and the aircrews rushed to their assault craft – Hyper Vyper bombers, nicknamed Vomit Vypers by early test crews and painted lime green and yellow by their ground crews.
Kalid flipped on his communications as he taxied his craft “Flight One ready to serve the sultan, honor and blessing upon her and the God we serve. Mmmmmhm “he groaned as the craft blasted into the air. Flying was the ultimate freedom; it took him far away from the orthodox traditions of his country and into his own world where he was prince. ““In the sultans vaunted name, fight! Win!”

They’d bombed designated targets[in particular the syskeyia attempting to fortify to prevent the reich advance] from their bases in north star, meanwhile starian soldiers in there in their plain green fatigues, smart yellow berets and shiny black boots were being organized to be sent to serve under the benevolent Jaars leadership.

o.o.c: i just saw this now. i hope its ok for us to help.

Tv-Spot

In a world in flames there's only faction between you and eternity in hell. Free people of Syskeyia, stand up for your christian rights and throw off the yoke of the hedonistic Allaneans.

Camera switches to a city where a small kid robs another kid.

This is what a rule of the demonic Allaneans mean. A nation where sister lays with Brother and all people are armed and on drugs.

Camera Switches to battle field and zooms in on Boy scouts.

This is what you kids will end up as, being used as cannon fodder in Allaneas war machine when they spread their Sodomite message to the world

Camera zooms to people being mowed down in front of an Allanean tank mixed with a movie from an Allanean Orgy.

This is wrong! Stand up for your rights and humanity! Take to arms against the demons that wants to break you and rape your country. Defend your country against the enemy of Faith!

God Bless..


Command Center West

-"I want you to put Ortillery fire on these areas where we have enemy movement" The colonel pointed at two spots at the map. " The enemy is on the move and we want to take him together with the minefields they put up there."

The colonels aide scribbled in coordinates on the computer to be sent to the StreiteKräfte Ortillery unit as a man in a long leather coat came into the room.

The man showed his ID from the ministry of information to the colonel and moved over to the map. -" You will put additional ortillery on this are, focused on this small city here."

-"You're crazy! That is Gods Own territory, they have troops there!"

-"We have strong indications on Nephilim intervention in the area, clearly we dont want to use troops to root it out." The man from the ministry glared at the colonel. "Sometimes we have to take sacrifice in order to clean the world from evil, dont we colonel?" The insignia from the Inquisitors gleamed on his shoulders as the Colonel nodded and added the coordinates to the list.

In space several ships moved into position to start the attack, the coordinates were already entered as massive iron rods were shot at high velocity to hit the ground in a close to 90 degree angle on the set up areas. Dozens of rods on the bigger areas, spread evenly to maximise the effect.

Four of these 140 ton rods were directed into another area, far away from the other, straight into Gods Own controlled territory, an excuse for this horrible accident had already been sent to Amadeus Shelford. The next day some material and satellite pictures of Nephilim intervention would be sent tohim together with a strong condemnation on the Nephilim that apparently caused this acident.

There were of course, no ‘Nephilim’ under the command of the necrontyr empire within any Syskeyian cities, focussing as they were on outlying settlements where they would not be immediately defeated by garrison forces. The battleship Riissac'a watched with a slight tinge of mechanical incredulity as several orbital attacks in the kiloton range wiped an entire subdued city off the map in an occupied zone for no apparent reason. The necron incursion was strictly low-key raids at fairly random locations throughout Syskeyia. There were no central points to assault in such a manner, and the battleship predicted that Gods Own forces would be quite able to rout the forces it had dispatched within one to two hours.

Meanwhile, elsewhere, in answer to an open e-mail, Ranisath mentioned that he considered the use of child soldiers by the Allaneans reprehensible.

O Prophet! Exhort the believers to fight. If there be of you twenty steadfast they shall overcome two hundred, and if there be of you a hundred (steadfast) they shall overcome a thousand of those who disbelieve, because they (the disbelievers) are a folk without intelligence.

(Qur'an 8:25)


The missile and aircraft launches have done terrible damage to the Allaneans – not mostly on the fortification line, where so far 4,670 people were killed alone, but rather on the communication lines. The Front depended on a constant fresh supply of blood – with every RB-227 aircraft carrying 250 Boy Scouts, and every BE-23 carrying 320, it meant that this supply of blood would keep pumping – but it also mean that each time that an aircraft was shot down, hundreds of people would die. So far, twenty of the monstroust cargo aircraft were shot down – meaning that untold amounts of young Allaneans have become war casualties before ever seeing the enemy. Several dozens of aircraft were lost when protecting the immense air bridge to the Front, and it was rumoured that Allanean pilots had bailed out and were now in Reich hands.

At the Fortication Line

“Dig! Dig! Dig! The Reich is coming!”

The President of the United States of Allanea eyed the horizon nervously, as if at any second a wave of Reich infantry could appear there – even though the Boy Scouts and the Marines were there, holding off it's advance. He knew they could not last much longer – but he also knew that he here was safe.

He recognised, in one of the trenches right next to him, Senator Gordon Frienson [R-Aissur], working at it with the spade. The 10 additional Mechanized Infantry Brigades were beginning to arrive to the Front, but instead of merging with the Marines, they were here, diggiging with spade and tractor and tank – with dozer blades attached to the front of the Nakil MBT's, very soon a sizeable anti-tank ditch began to form.

The President could have given a speech to the troops, and it would have played well to the people in Allanea – but he wanted to do something that would actually be useful for the troops here and now. He looked at the Senator for a second, his bald head glistening with droplets of sweat, burrowing deeper into the ground with every thrust of the spade. He thought again of what the Reich assassins had already done -

Suddenly, the meeting of Congress was interrupted – by an explosion. Representative Harold Mitcham (L-Axackal) literally burst like a king-size, 220-pound hand-grenade, bits of his body spraying the people next to him. Women screamed. A media camera swiveled to focus on the explosion – and then, another one went off. This time, it was a Democrat Representative, the man next to him screaming in terror as the bone fragments bit into his flesh.

A Hashi delegate rose. “Gentlemen! This is proof of the Administration attempt to eliminate all oppo-” another explosion cut him off, but before the Administration could say anything, more and more explosions were tearing through the Republican part of the hall, with bone fragments and personal belonging becoming deadly projectiles.

Moses Franks, a reporter for ANN, was killed on the spot when a Congressman's Glock pistol, still in its holster and attached to the shoulder rig, hit him in the side of the head. His camera was still filming the ongoing carnage – which did not end until all of Congress was colored in blood and brain splatter. There was preciously little of the latter, one had to admit.

- and then he simply jumped into the trench that was being dug under his feet. He reached for his cellphone. “Martin, listen. I want you to transport five Imperators to the front. That's right, get them onto the ships and to Syskeya A-S-A-fucking-P. We have had three thousand Boy Scout deserters so far here, we have ten thousand more Boy Scouts dead, do you want me to spell this out for you? Get the bloody things here!” He turned the cellphone off. “Now, give me a spade.”

The troops cheered.

At the Front

“Do not retreat! Hold the line, you bloody cowards! You communist cocksucking scum! Hold the bloody line!” - Scoutmaster Mohammed Harjani screamed as the 56th Scout Battalion began to break up and run. For the first time in several hours of fighting, his Scouts began to falter. He did not see why – there was still over two thirds of the Battalion there as combat-ready Scouts, and all around them, more and more parachutes opened in the morning sky – the Allanean air bridge kept pumping more and more beige paint into this part of the battlefield.

Still, the Battalion broke, and ran – only Harjani, and maybe two dozen Boy Scouts remained of the entire unit. The rest ran in horror, spreading all over the battlefield. For many, this ended up as worse then standing and fighting as they were cut to ribbons by Reich gunfire Harjani smiled sadly as he saw it, because he knew that these people had spelled their own doom.

He had right now other matters to care about – his own survival, and honor. He waved his flamer, pulling the remaining Boy Scouts together, and caught a place between two of the newly-landed Battalions that formed just as he prepared his weapon for a last, hopeless stand against the onslaught of Reich soldiers.

And then, they came. Two hundred bomber aircraft – B-2 bombers and the enormous Ankh'riat bombers (big enough to carry 250 tons of bombs each), escorted by F-117's and F/A-18s, poured across the sky – a majestic display of Allanean aerial might.

“Allah is truly great indeed.” - whispered the Scoutmaster as he saw the aircrafts begin dropping their bombs.

The ground shook. The horizon was clouded in thick smoke. And while the Air Armadas were under-planed (with almost four hundred aircraft lost in the previous days of fighting) they still did an amazing thing. As the Boy Scouts watched, over 40,000 tons of explosives and napalm were deposited into a stretch of front aproximately forty kilometers wide. Some aircraft would be shot down of course, and the Reich would probably continue it's push – but as of now, Harjani considered himself saved.

In front of him, a hell of Qur'anic proportions opened up. The entire horizon was cloaked in flame, and he could almost hear the cries of the wounded and the smell of burning flesh. He enjoyed this greatly. But still, it was not enough time to relax – in front of him, a group of three Reich soldiers approached, firing their rifles. Someone fell -and the Harjani fired his flamer.

The effect was staggering as the clothing the soldiers wore burst into flames without a sound, and they screamed in horror as their hair caught fire, rolling on the ground and trying to cast off the promethium.

The Scoutmaster shook his head at a Boy Scout who moved to put the men out of their misery. “Remember the words of the Prophet: “But as for those who disbelieve, garments of fire will be cut out for them; boiling fluid will be poured down on their heads,” - he motioned at one of the men who rose from the ground for a second, stretching his flaming hands towards them, pleading for mercy with a single, high-pitch whine as the fire ate through his skin - “Whereby that which is in their bellies, and their skins too, will be melted;And for them are hooked rods of iron.”

The Reich soldier collapsed again, and it almost seemed he was already dead – but his body was twitching slightly, as if he was trying to get up again. “Wenever, in their anguish, they would go forth from thence they are driven back therein and it is said unto them: Taste the doom of burning."

Fire reflected in Harjani's face as he began to laugh.

At the very edge of the Front, on the seashore

Apart from military units, there were, in Allanea, a variety of civilian groups that wanted to lend to the effort. Sister Nike's (nee Nickole Sheshet) Order of the Sisters was such a group. The Allanean Army even gave them a hike on its hovercraft – and now they were to land, on the very place where the Allanean flank stood in front of the Reich flank

Some of them were wearing light powered armor (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=9140645&postcount=298), painted in the colors of their faith, with the Sign of the Messenger engraved onto the front plate, and some where simply wearing the long clothing of the Order, which hid dozens of pockets for ammunition, knives, and grenades.

Sister Nike spoke:

Sisters! Remember the words of the Messenger's Gospel! “Thou Shalt fight the Statist with the Rifle and the Sword, and purge him from the face of My Earth with thine Flamer” Now is the time to proof our trust in the Messenger! Remember Him! Pray to Him as you go into battle!

She juimped onto the shore, EX-41 in hand, the embedded speakers in her suit repeating the word of the prayer.

Spread forth the Messenger's Gospel
With handgun, flamer, and blade.
Fight for the Messenger's Gospel -
Even if you are afraid.

And thre were screams, and moaning, and gnashing of teeth.

Elsewhere

In every war, there are prisoners taken. Allanean prisoners were now at the hands of the Reich – and a certain amount of Reich prisoners were now taken. Colonel Morrison watched with interest as the members of the Penal Battalions had their collars disabled, and there were taken into vans and away from the front, into some local in Allanea itself.

About ten Storm soldiers were left, Veganan ones, apparently. These were different, mused Masterson. They fought willingly – so it seemed – for the Reich. They participated in its atrocities. He nodded to them. “Come with me.”

He took them into a small warehouse, abandoned by the Syskeyians. “Your trucks come in a few hours. See this gasoline spill on the floor? Clean it up. The mops are there.” The Veganans got to work immediately. They did not grouse about how hard it was, as to them this meant one thing: 'He's making us work. This means he will not kill us. '

The Colonel nodded. 'Good. I'll be back in ten minutes, I want it to be ready.”

He went out, locking the steel door behind him. He then took a few paces back and toseed his cigar in through the window.

The other prisoners had of course no way of ever hearing about the event.

In Allanea

In the meanwhile, the C'tan video of the even became an instant best-seller, and copies were downloaded all over the nation – one hundred million copies in the first twenty-four hours. And very soon, Victoria Sheshet, the new Secretary of State, began her press-conference.

Dear friends.

First, I have a reminder to you all. No television stations, and nobody else, is allowed to take money or do business with the governments of the Reich nations, or broadcast commercials on their behalf. This is basic Allanean law, as these governments are at war with the United States of Allanea, and are prohibited from operating any financial transactions in the United States.

Now for the important moments of the day. As you know, the glorious Allanean Armed forces, the Syskeyian State Defense Forces, and other units, are continuing so far to fight the Reich. A second defensive line is being prepared to hold off the Reich, and ten infantry brigades are deployed on it. Ten more, as well as special heavy vehicles, ar en route.

Further, you have all probably seen the video that was distributed by the Necrontyr Empire. A snip of it, portraying the atrocities committed by the Reich, is being broadvasted on television stations in Syskeyia and in military training locations.

We of the United States have this, and this alone to say: that video depicts the true and only nature of the Reich. Where Allanea's sins may be hedonism and excess liberalism – loving pleasure and freedom too much, if that is a sin – the sins of the Reich are murder, and sadism, and genocide. They are murderers. Murder is their profession, their life calling, their only purpose in this world. According to their own description, we love pleasure and freedom. They love suffering and death.

I also have a separate message for the nation of North Star. As of now, we are beginning to issue pig-fat based lubricants for our ammunition, bombs, and bayonets. Every bit of Allanean weaponry that has a chance of touching the body of a North Star soldier will be treated with pig lard in some form, and if we get hold of the bodies of North Star warriors, we will bury them in pig entrails. Some will say we have no respect for Islam. We do. Some of the bravest of Allanea's soldierrs are muslim – but the particular strain of Islam worshipped in North Star deserves no respect, and neither do the supporters of North Star's regime. All we have for them is the same pain, suffering, and death, the same humiliation and horror that they inflict on their innocent subjects – without merc, without retreat, without a pause, we will inflict it on the armies of North Star.

Some would argue that there is no black and white in the world, no good and evil. I disagree. I believe there surely is an evil, and the Reich leadership is evil. And this is why they will fall. This, I promise you.

Thank you. You may now ask questions.

OOC: Taggish.

Reich National Broadcasting


The camera pans to bring the necron lady into its capture field, and flickers with translated commands and a map of the area, showing one group ready to approach via the trees, and another blocking the road, supported by the monolith, which can be seen in the distance, dark and quiescent.

Then it turns to regard a scene more directly out of some medieval vision of hell, panning past a line of immortals crouched behind the ridge of a hill, and half a dozen figures in cloaks and heavy body armour that are presumably Menelmacari, prone, already aiming.

Here, men and women of all ages can be seen being unloaded from cattle trucks and herded towards the trees, where a multitude of figures already stand – no, hang, from bolts plunged through their forearms, almost universally bare. Open fires of books and possessions complete the scene.



-"The Nephilim has already started untold genocide and acts of cruelty towards the poor inhabitants of Syskeyia. This is a video brought from the nephilim themselves where they brag about treating humans as cattle and then fullfilling it all with ritual butchery. Our brave army immediately reacted by destroying the area of this plague."

Camera shows ortillery hitting a small town.

-"Humanity HAVE to unite against such a foe. Allanea is clearly allied with the Nephilim and we also have pictures of Nephilim killing brave warriors from Gods Own. God Wills everyone to help liberate and save Syskeyia and the government also pledge another legion to deal with and extinguish the cancere that already has started to grow. God Bless Syskeyia!

Elsewhere

Hanson watched with fear as he tried to escape from having his collar removed. He had already seen six of his friends explode from the Allaneans doing it. Vegana had always been proud of its technology level and taking off a collar was no easy affair. He had fought against the Allaneans until he fainted, but when he woke up he didn't feel the pressure of the collar around his neck, on the other hand he couldn't find another ten of his comerades, not as if he cared... He followed willingly into the vans. This might be his chance to get away.

Sergeant Atkins had been pushed into a big warehouse by the Allaneans. In the middle of the warehouse there was a big puddle and the stench of gasoline was strong. They had all been handled mops and told to clean up before the trucks came.

He looked around the place, completely empty and with steel doors. This was more likely an execution spot. He grabbed the mops to be able to use it as a mean for escape if any Allanean soldiers would come close enough. He was the one closest to the door as he heard the Colonel say: 'Good. I'll be back in ten minutes, I want it to be ready.”

He saw the cigar come flying in as the steel door closed. He immediately threw himself into action stomping on the cigar but on his way to the door.

-"Help me to block this door!" he yelled to the others "We have to be prepared to when they come for us!"

As he threw himself against the steel door he laughed a hysterical laughter. That idiot of a colonel obviously didn't know that you couldn't ignite gasoline with only the glow from a cigar butt. All those glorified action movies that seemed to be included in Allanean military training obviously had made them expect a grandious explosion. Maybe they could use this to get away and make those murderers pay for their mistake.

Colonel Morrison laughed as he stepped away from the warehouse. This was probably the most elaborate and sadistic execution he has ever witnessed. He raised his cellphone. “Hehe. Yeah, done. They actually seemed to have bolted the door from within too after I did that trick with the cigar. The fools! They really think I'm that stupid. Is the helicopter ready? Oh!”

It was already en route, a big cargo helicopter, carrying a big, big, enormous sack of something soft, that lowered it's load carefully – very carefully – onto the roof of the abandoned warehouse. Then there was another load, then another – by this time, the thin roof was starting to creak under the strain – the strain of a combined thirty tons of C4 explosive and electronic detonators.

Morrison was still laughing as he walked away. Only when there was another building between him and the warehoused did he get out a small remote control device and press the button.

When the Reich ortillery projectile hit the fortification line, it caused an explosion of immense proportion. Everybody within four and a half kilometers who was not sheltered – for example, standing in the very fortifications themselves – was injured, killed often burned alive. The immediate vicinity – some 200 meters from the site – was turned into molten glass, the humans there vaporised or turned into charred skeletons, mere vestiges of their former selves.

One of the casualties – standing precisely 580 meters from the location of the enormous blast – was the President of the Unted States. With him, 3,000 Allaneans and 6,000 Siskeyians were killed, and thousands more were injured.

It was as if the Allanean nation collectively sucked in the air in pain. First came the murder of the Congressmen, and now this...

Only several hours later did the Vice-President of the United States give a first address:

Dear Freedmen!

In this difficult hour, I ask you all to remain strong. I know it is difficult. And I know that you may be a afraid – after all, this has been a terrible blow to our nation. Still, regardless, we will continue. We must continue. For if we surrender – if we slacken in our effort – if we compromise – it would mean that these people have died for nothing. This is not to be permitted, and I will not permit it. Not on my watch. Not on your watch, Freedmen.

As I speak, the United States mechanized infantry units are now opening an artillery barrage of the Reich rear – not of the front lines where it can ijure our own troops - with shells and MRLS rockets carrying sarin and lewisin. These gases were chosen in retaliation to the non-conventional attacks by the Reich, and because they seep in through the skin and make gas masks nearly useless.

This bombardment will continue for two more hours, in hopes that it will give our forces time to complete the building of the fortifications. You understand how crucial this is. Today, I ask you all to remain strong – to believe in our troops – in the United States – and in God.

Friends,

Freedmen,

Today, when it is more needed then on any other day,

Let God Bless Allanea.

* * * *

In the meanwhile, the POW's were brought to the New Syskeyiapolis airport, and put into a plane – an ordinary passenger plane – and strapped into ordinary first-class seats. If not for the soldiers escorting them, you would think they were free men wearing strange orange jumpsuits and this was but a usual flight – except there was nobody else on the plane. Otherwise, they were given normal service.

* * * *

Elsewhere in the Greater Prussian Bay – only a thousand miles from the Allanean shores – a boat motor started.

OOC: Added at Vegana's request. Could we please abstain from the nukes and other WMD in the future? It kinda gets the fun out.

Rear of Reich troops, open Sea

A seagull is not what you usually refer to as an intelligent animal and there are good reasons for that. When you are going to spend hours in a row flying over open sea you want as little weight to carry as possible and if your vocabulary consists mostly of mindless screaming there really is not much sense of having a big brain. In the whole bunch of seagulls in the big flock there was several different personalities; there was George (there was actually several Georges, close nesting tends to do that to you) who had his special scream and enjoyed flying high above the others occasionally trying to hit some of the others with a well aimed dropping. There was Jill, who enjoyed more reckless acrobatic flying than the others and thus often evaded George’s droppings and there was ofcourse Jeremy.

Jeremy was doing his usual somersaulting to avoid Georges droppings when he more felt than saw that something was happening. Big whining noices closed in and exploded in the sky, spreading big clouds in the wind. Just this special day when Jeremy as usual was circling around the many Reich boats hoping for some scraps to be dropped into the sea he had an idea. He had just snatched a piece of scrap from Jill and was hunted by George, George and George when he thought of hiding in the Cloud. The clouds were quickly dispersing as the wind caught them and ripped them to parts but small drops of liguid seemed to come off them. Jeremy didn't really mind a small rain so he climbed the sky into the cloud, quickly followed by the Georges and ofcourse Jill.

Navy Ensign Natalyonova was hit by the falling seagull first after having watched seversal others dive into the sea without coming back up. He felt a burning sensation as he pressed the gas alarm and hundreds of people who had been on deck on the other ships screamed together with him as the gas had its course. The ships showers was used to rescue as many as possible and a lockdown was ordered. If it had been really windy the gas would never had any effect but the slight winds carried the gas like raindrops on top of the ships and a local hysteria quickly built as people was running to get into safety or to get desinfected.

On the Jumbo jet

What the fuck is it with the jumpsuits?! Hanson thought as he was strapped into a big confy seat onboard a jjumbojet. The difference between this seat and the Penal Pod he had been pushed into less than 20 hours earlier was monumental. He glanced at one of the guards and looked around at his fellow prisoners. He tried to remember what they had done to get him into the position but there were too many new faces and he could see noone from his pod from his seat. He decided to take it easy and lean back to enjoy the ride.


Mountains of Northern Syskeyia

They had stopped for a short time to drink from a stream bubbling with the waters of early spring. He felt the cold fresh water trickle down his throat and a cool refreshing sensation spread throughout his body. He decided that they should camp there near the stream and quickly built a shelter, using twigs of the trees on the bottom to create something similar to a nest.

As he lay there with his wife, smelling her hair and listening to her breath he looked down on their daughter who slept between them. Her small hand still holding onto his index finger in her sleep with a look in her sleeping face as if there was no trouble in the world what so ever. Nessa snored just a little. He knew that she completely denied ever snoring but she made a little whistling noice as she breathed in. He tried to calculate the distance they have walked and decided that they couldn't be more than a few more days from safety. He swore that nothing should come in between them and a better life for his family.

Contrary to Allanean propaganda, the line is not static.
The Scouts' digging is a waste.
The Reich salient into Syskeyian territory is now hundreds of miles deep and the ripples of the atrocities perpetrated by both sides have spread.
For what else is the gleeful burning alive of thousands but an atrocity?
The Allaneans have wrought their own Dresden on the line, and the inevitable result is those nations which have historical enmity with the vile anti-statists, and no contact with the Reich, find it in their interests to supply things that would perhaps be usually kept away from the murderous forces of "God".
Thus it is that T.U.S munitions rain on the unbelievers, nerve gas and explosives created by the substantially more advanced foreign chemists all pelting into the supposedly-freedom loving Allaneans.
Freedom-lovers who unashamedly murder unarmed conscripts in the most horrifying ways.
Freedom-lovers who rape the democratic process, soiling Liberty by associating their filth with her shining name.
All their evil matters not, for the armies of God are fired by faith, minds warped carefully over decades till there is no thought of retreat, no thought but the glory of the Church of Christ the Warrior.
Meanwhile, overhead, the Allanean air armada is decimated by the Luftwaffe, the inferiority of it's aircraft perhaps the only equipment it will find lacking in this conflict, given the overwhelming technological superiority it enjoys elsewhere, this is perhaps surprising.
It's not just here that the Luftwaffe strikes of course, the Sparrowhawk bombers and Kararea fighter-bombers snarl down from the skies to hammer at the Syskeyian-Allanean line, even as Weta air-superiority fighters smash the obsolescent allied aircraft from the air.
It's not just the Luftwaffe in the air over and around Syskeyia of course, at sea the Kriegsmarines' Kahawai strike-fighters howl off the Fuhrer Class carriers, thundering off to smash at the ships of the enemy, be they freighter or frigate.
Also launching from the carriers are the ground-ungainly Swallow interceptors, who's variable-geometry wings smooth out their surging transition into supercruise, their flight-profile intersecting with the Allanean aerotransports' some 250km from the slower aircraft.
When they reach this distance, the big interceptors ripple-fire long range air-to-air missiles, which deploy disconcertingly powerful active guidance as they hit Mach 4 on their howling drive towards the transports.

In the Plane

A well-dressed flight attendant walked in. Apart from openly carrying an MP-7, she was normal – good-looking even – lady. But then, openly carrying firearms was common in Allanea. She spoke: “Good day, friends. I am Sandra, your flight crew chief for this flight. You are being delivered to the Star Crown Hotel, on Roanoke Island. It's a five-star hotel that's been rented by the government specifically for you, and you will be allowed to live there until the end of the war. You will not however be allowed to exit the hotel – consider it as a high-comfort prison or something. You will have television, computers, and internet access there. However the hotel is heavily guarded, and everybody has orders to shoot you if you try to escape. You will also be given lessons on Allanean history and culture, so you know the country you're fighting better.” - she smiled. “Any questions? “

On the Front Line

The Air Armada has not been been decimated – being decimated means you kill one out of ten troops. In fact. Four hundred fifty fighter aircraft were lost. From the original Armada, only 250 F/A-18 craft remained. Of the F-117 stealth armada, a lesser number of craft had been lost, but by now, it had been eroded and only 600 craft remained operational.

The most terrible damage had been done to the Boy Scout Corps, as the Gods Ownii missiles burrowed into the ranks of the aircraft. Within the first hour of the assautl, fifty cargo aircraft were downed - and 15,000 men aboard were lost. On the ground, the casualties were almost similar.

Even more horribly, an Allanean transport had been sunk in harbor, losing all hands aboard, making landing of more troops impossible there until that was fixed. Dozens of hovercraft were sunk as well, and two cruisers heavily damaged. An aircraft carrier had it's rudder utterly destroyed and ran aground. Only half the crew were able to be evacuated before Reich bombs finished the ship off.

There were measures taken. The submarines continued launching torpedoes at Reich carriers and othe vessels, and then escaping to sea – or trying to. And from Allanea, the Sturmfalke Air Armada – composed of the Sturmfalke aircraft, Allanea's most advanced fighters – began to make it's way to Syskeyia. The Allaneans still were determined to win this – most of them, that is.

In Liberty-City

The casualties have reached a new and amazing level – 633,000 Syskeyian State Defense Forces personnel, 40,000 Allanean Armed Forces personnel and – most horribly – 60,000 Boy Scout Corps personnel dead, and unknown numbers injured. The numbers of Syskeyian civilians dead... well, nobody really even wanted to count. It has been a long time since Allanea had last seen such incredible casualties in such a short period time - and it showed.

Four hours after the new casualty totals were announced on television, there was a small group of people assembled in front of the enormous building of Congress. These were groups that you would not normally see protesting in Allanea – the Communist College Union, the Mothers Against War, and the Socialist Workers Alliance. There was also a new group – the Four Scout Mothers. There were not, unfortunately, four of them literally. Rather, fifty or so women who lost their Boy Scout and Girl Scout offspring gathered in front of the legislature, angry as hell. They waved posters – END THE OCCUPATION, BRING THE BOYS HOME, SCREW SYSKEYIA – ALLANEAN CHILDREN FIRST and so forth.

On the steps leading up to the Congressional Hall stood grim Hashi Border Patrol soldiers, leaning on their rifles. CREST countersnipers made themselves comfortable on the roof – they didn't quite expect any violence or anything like that. In fact, one of the leading war party Senators was now out there, speaking to the crowd via megaphone, trying to persuade them to leave- or rather, trying to look good for the C-SPAN cameras, as it wasn't likely he was going to persuade the Mothers anything.

The boat hit the concrete pier of the harbour. From the deck, a gigantic bike leaped from it's place, and roared down away from the harbor. The rider wore no helmet. As he burst through Liberty-City, the drivers on the roads instinctivel made way for the enormos Dodge bike.

“Listen to what you are saying! This war is not just a fight for the Syskeyians – who, by the way, are now part of Allanea, Freemen like yourself! It's as fight for liberty! Since when do Allaneans give up on liberty? Since when do Allaneans give up, anyway?”

“Since my son died at the Front, you son of a fucking bitch, you statist cocksucking punk!” - replied one of the women.

And then, something strange happened. An elf rose between the ranks of rhe protestors – a young one, with strange blue skin and long hair, and a Che Guevara T-shirt – and waved his hand at the senator. Almost immediately, two men in the crowd fired their guns. The Senator fell.

“Salvo! Salvo!” - the Hashi officer screamed, and the Border patrol replied to the order – with a volley of .308 shots aimed at anybody who they saw dangerous. And all hell broke loose.

The bike approached, carrying a young man – maybe eighteen years old at best. He was slender, and he wore thick-framed glasses, and it looked like he spent his entire life in front of a computer – in short, he was everything an Allanean girl would want – yet the agility with which he got off the bike betrayed a much stronger figure then he seemed. He was wearing a pair of black pants and a simple grey shirt, and high leather steel-toed boots – as well as a pair of gold-plated, full-sized Desert Eagles. He was also wearing a gold chain with a portrait – of a lady that was not his wife.

The Border Patrol troops ceased firing for a quarter of a second, and so did the rioters – they knew who the man was. Alexander Kirillovich Kazansky, the Founder of Allanea. Then, one of the rioters, a young man wearing a red star lapel, rushed at him. It was almost with a nonchalant air that Kazansky grasped the man by the wrist and broke his hand like a match so the communist's wrist touched his elbow. Then, as the man fell to the ground, Kazansky literally stomped on him. The man stopped moving.

And then, Kazansky saw him – a young elf, blue skinned, with long hair, trying to rally the rioters for a last charge as they fled in all directons. A necrontyr, it seemed to him. And it is well known that all foreigners look alike...

“Governor!” - screamed Kazansky. “Over here!”

Somehow – instinctively – the young man knew that the Founder was talking to him. He turned to hm, and screamed. “Bring it on, you capitalist swine!”

Kazansky smiled and raised both of the Desert Eagles to fire – and at that precise moment, a grenade thrown by one of the other rioters exploded a few meters away from him, peppering him with shrapnel. He fell to the ground. He could not see – a red mist was obscuring everything. He did not see the Border Patrol assaulting the last rioters and killing all that moved – nor did he see 'Governor' until he was almost over him, grasping by his gold chain. “So who's the bitch?” - grinned the 'necrontyr' – was he one? - as he ripped the locket off - "I'm going to enjoy this photo very much... in private..."

“Get your hands... off her...” - coughted Kazansky. He felt, strangely, that the pain began to recede – were his wounds healing up that fast? The 'necrontyr' laughed.

Which was a bad idea. Kazansky's slender, pale fingers caught him by his wrist, crushing bone and sinew. Kazansky rose slowly, raising himself up by the enemy's hand. He ripped the pendant away - breaking a finger or three in the process. “I told you, good sir...” - he said. He knew now it was not the Governor, but he didn't really care - “I told you. Hands off.” - then he knocked the elf down to the ground. Before the riot leader could get up, Kazansky's steel-toed boot crushed his chest and lungs.

Tsar Alexei, Emperor of Greater Prussia, was looking over the briefing from MSS and DMI. "Well, Allanea is in a bit of trouble, it seems."

"I'd say so," Yuri Golovko, the Minister of State Security, responded. "Frankly, I think it's in the best--"

"It is my decision what is best for Derscon and the Empire, not yours," Alexei quickly shot back. He read the rest of the write-ups and saw the satellite displays, and handed them back.

"I am not going to mobilize any Dersconi armies, however, I think Kazansky could use some Prussian help."

To: Alexander Kazansky
From: Alexei Andropov
CC: Reverend Graves/Marechal Brune, New Geneva

Alex,

First off, I'm glad to see your return. IT will do Allanea a lot of good, and you're always welcome in the Kremlin and in the Court of the Emperor of Greater Prussia.

However, there is more pressing business to attend to, so I will keep this message short so as to give you more time. I have ordered the deployment of the Burgundian Guard, the Catholic divisions of the Imperial Guard, to Syskeyia. It's about a three million man army, with mechanization forces. Along with that, I am sending the 42nd Imperial Air Wing for support.

I am also ordering the deployment of the Soli Deo Gloria Division of the Imperial Guard as auxillary, as well as the 88th Imperial Air Wing, and First Navy.

If I recall correctly, the New Genevan government will be sending troops once they are integrated into the Imperial Guard.

I hope this helps.

--Alexei

When the letter was sent, it also triggered the orders for all of the mentioned divisions to activate. In a few hours, there would be a very large Prussian military force heading to Syskeyia, and there wouldn't be a whole lot to stand in its way getting there, as Derscon's Superfleet was escorting them.

It didn’t take long for the image of Kazansky killing a ‘necrontyr’ to reach the vigilant eyes of the Necrontyr. Soon, most of the fleet orbiting above Syskeyia turned its attention to Allanea itself. Soon thereafter, a representative arrived in that benighted nation – there was no embassy, what with Allanea being prone to being flattened with nuclear weapons and sinking into the ocean and things, it had never even made the list for such an honour. The battleship’s avatar was metallic, and for the most part, red. Standing around eight feet in height, with a blocky head, and limbs mostly made of flexible metal armour. The large horns on its head would probably work most of the Syskeyians now pouring into Allanea (and indeed, those that the ship that controlled it had evacuated) into a frenzy.

Tapping its claws, the Robot Devil strode into the ‘White House’ building of Allaena, flourishing credentials it took from a box in its torso, and demanded, in a surprisingly suave accent, to speak to ‘whatever reprobate makes an effort at pretending to be in charge of this charnel house.’

Good day, this is ANN.

Greetings, Freemen! As you may or may not know, Alexander Kazansky had reappered in Liberty-City just in time to personally help to put down a minor communist riot, after communist rebels had fired at and killed Senator Tronson, and several Border Patrol operators. After that, Kazansky proceeded into Congress, which promplty agreed to reinstate him in his constitutional role.

Please stand by for the first State of the Union address by Alexander Kirillovich Kazansky, President for Life of the United States of Allanea.

Allanean Anthem is heard in the background. Alexander Kazansky appears on screen. He is still wearing a simple white T-shirt – in fact, it'sstill sprayed with blood from the riots. His hair is in disarray.

Friends! Freemen! Allaneans!

I am back. I am well-impressed by you accomplishments – you made Allanea a proud, great nation again.

Not President Klotchkovsky. Not Presdent Kazansky. Not President Atchinson. Not President Johnson. Nobody of these. You made Allanea a great nation. You – the six thousand seven hundred million people out there – made Allanea great.

Allanea is not about the best guns in the world, or the biggest budget, or whatever – Allanea is about Allaneans. And it's Allaneans that made Allanea grow beyound anybody's wildest dreams – from Mercury to Mars, from Haven to the Greater Prussian Bay to Non-Earth to the stars above us. You did it. Not me. I couldn't have done it.

I haven't fought the Dark Eldar, or the Reich, or the Antanjyli, or the Yazmareans, haven't brought freedom to millions of people, haven't shielded Syskeyians with my own body from the Reich. You have done so. Not me. I couldn't have done it.

Do you rembember how our critics said about us - “The question of an armed Allanea ... cannot come up now or even in the future. Allanea still has no peace treaty. It has no army, and it must have none. It has no weapons, and it will have none…” remember this? Do you remember?”

They have failed in this endeavor. You have made them fail. Some elf hippie communist tried to stop me in before I could get into Congress today, and I made him fail, too.

Outside the White House

"You can see the President right away. What is the matter?"

It ignored the question. The Robot Devil cared not for explaining its motives to underlings. The CREST official hesitated for but a second, perusing it's credentials, then let the robot pass through. What it discovered inside was not the typical atmosphere of a national leaders' office, but rather

that of a frontline headquarters. Maps where everywhere, and clouds of cigarette smoke floated in the air. Kazansky met the robot while talking on a phone and jotting something on a piece of paper. "Umm yes. Hello. Excuse me..."

Its eyes narrowed a little, rather suspiciously, despite the fact that they were metallic orbs about the size of golf balls. The robot opened its chest cavity, and took a poorly printed T-shirt of the boy before it stamping on the chest of what appeared to be a necrontyr out and held it up.
"What is the explanation for this?" it asked.

Kazansky shrugged. "He was attacking Allaneans. I tried to stop him. Then he tried to rob me when I was wounded. I broke his arm, the fingers on his other arm, and then killed him."
"You saw it on video."

"Identify this individual..." it snapped, wanting to exchange as few words as possible with Kazansky.

"How do I know? Some elf dude, I presume. You could take a sample from my shirt if you will."
"The rumour prevalent at the moment is that this individual is a necrontyr," it said, folding the T-shirt, "I doubt this, but I am here to provide you with the following warning; should such a rumour be confirmed, Allanea will be destroyed."

Kazansky shrugged. "He was a fucking elf, okay? And threats don't work. However, I would like to have a message of my own to the C'tan. Will you deliver it?"
"I think you'll find they do. Unless you're even less rational than has been estimated. And, I am the C'tan. You may speak with me."

"I understand that you have... eliminated a variety of Gods Ownii who were... doing their usual thing in Syskeyia. I would like to use tihs opportunity to say this was cool and you should be doing more of it. Thank you."

"That was my initiative," it said, "Thank you. Only the degree to which you are outnumbered in this war has prevented the same action being taken in support of the captives currently being murdered by Allanean soldiers, of course. Perhaps you should endeavour to keep a tighter leash on your officers, and make them stop the unnecessary deaths of large numbers of young auxiliary combatants..."

"I will... investigate this." blinked Kazansky - "You must excuse me, but I assumed office only a few hours ago. The details are... still vague on me."

"Perhaps you can persuade your commanders to use their resources airdrop the marines before the militia. That is what they're meant to be for, after all, is it not?" it asked, its tail twitching a little.

"The Marines are unfortunately organized as mechanized infantry. Their vehicles are too heavy for paradropping. We're discussing the purchase of lighter vehicles and the organisation of paratrooper corps, but unfortunately that will take months if not years. We have a contingent of marines at the Front, but as you see -" Kazansky pointed at the map - "They're bleeding out."

It tapped its tail on the map thoughtfully, "And you have no other units that you could deploy in the same manner?" it asked. (Half tempted to offer to move a few brigades...)
Kazansky shrugged. "The entire thing is designed for slow, ponderous projection from battleships, or rolling off a big cargo craft - not airdropping." - he shrugged. "Yes. I know, I know. It sucks."

The devil's tail shot out and stabbed an icon representing one of the marine forces embarked for Syskeyia on a large map, pointed metal punching through it, and lifted it, moving along, "I could do this," it said, shaking it icon off and dropping it rather haphazardly on the coastline. "But more accurately... if you'd like"

"Jesus Christ." - blinked Kazansky - "You actually would?"

"Without the giant stabbing blade, yes. And try not to mention him. He's a real jerk," it said playfully.

Kazansky blinked, trying to take it in. "Well. Can I have a small adjustment?" - he pointed at a different location - "There are Marine Brigades stationed here. Would it be possible for you to move them?"

"It's a lot easier if they're already at sea..." the devil said, "Then they're in what is essentially a giant box for ease of shipping..."

"We could simply order them into their vehicles and onto their landing ships. That'll make for boxes." - smiled Kazansky. "But you are offering the help. There are Allaneans as young as sixteen dying as we argue. I'll take whatever."

"Fair enough," it said, "You owe me a favour though," it added, turning away. Behind the back of the robot-devil, Kazansky returned to work. He was angry. Very angry.

*The Waters off of Syskeyia*

The Imperial Transport fleet was within a few hours of reaching the Port and sending its first ship into the harbour.

The Dersconi escort fleet still hung tightly by, but was preparing to depart once they got more deeply into Syskeyian waters. On the Bridge of the RNV Stonewall Jackson, the flagship of the Imperial battle/transport fleet, a red light flashed at the Comm Pannel. "Admiral Orlonov! Incoming message from the Kremlin, clearance Beta Epsilon."

"Acknowledged, Lieutenant." the Admiral nodded to the young officer. "Bring it here."

The Admiral held the paper in his hands, still hot from the old fashioned printer. He preferred to handle his orders. Computer Screens were not his forray.

"Commander Karloff!" the Admiral shouted. "Relay order to all aircraft carrier. Scramble all fighters, double fighter umbrella strength. Await further orders."

As he finished, the sky overhead began to fill with large transport planes, their escorts landing on the aircraft carriers to refuel while the carriers fighters continued in with the planes.

The massive airfleet proceded onwards inland over miles upon miles of fields and cities before they reached their destination. It was obviously farmland with several abnormally large fields. The Allaneans had prepared douzains of temporary runways. Several trucks waited by on the ground as Allanean jets soon crowded the skies to augment the guarding force. Several fields were set up as drop zones. Plane after plane landed, unloading only the men as quickly as possible and then rapidly taking off again to allow the next plane down. Afterwards, the equipment and vehicles were parachuted into the drop zones. Several hundred troops from the Burgundian Guard parachuted down to assist the Allanean Ground forces in the area to prevent Partizan activity against the landing site.

Meanwhile, back in Greater Prussia, authorization was given by the Emperor for the forces of the New Genevan Government to reintegrate into the Imperial Guard, and shortly join the Imperial forces in Syskeyia Proper. But more importantly, an overall commander of Imperial forces had been named. The hero of the Campaign in West Axackal, the Chief Marechal of the Empire under Napoleon IV, and most recently, the commander in Chief of the Armies of New Geneva, Marechal Alexandre Brune. If anyone could bring this war to order, it was him. It was universally agreed within the military circles of the Empire that if Napoleon wasn't available, Brune was the next best thing.

New-Syskeyiapolis

The didn't quite know how it happened – but the point was, the Allanean ships were now – somehow – entering the New-Syskeyiapolis harbor, several days before schedule What exactly caused these ships to appear so quickly next to the harbor, only one man – and one woman – in Allanea knew. And they werent' telling.

On the piers, a flurry of activity went up as a massive steel gangplank of sotrts was erected, to meet one of the Allanean cargo freighters. “Go! There's not time! It is coming!” - screamed Colonel Morrison. And indeed, it wasn't an hour later when the freighter's side jamed into the steel gangplank's end with a screech. And there was a roar.

The massive Imperator tank moved slowly, ponderously ashore, bending the gangplank entirely, and almost crushing it. It was an enormous, slow beast, and the Syskeyians gasped as its tracks bit into the asphalt of the city, turning it into mush. It was slightly wider then the narrow streets – some homeowners would need to be compensated.

In other places, four more such monster tanks rolled onto the shore and moved – slowly, ponderuosly, at 40 kph – towards the forification lines, which were now getting reinforced with concrete, anti-tank ditches, and so forth. The ten additional infantry brigades that were brought by the vessels poured into the trenches, the engineers and infantry working to strengthen the positions while tanks and IFV rolled neatly into their dugouts.

A tank in a well-prepared armor dug-out is a fearsome thing. It's most sensitive spots are shielded from shells and RPG fire by a mount of earth in which the tank seems to be embedded. The mound is high enough to only barely allow the turret to fire over it and to mayve allow a slight angling of the cannon downwards – so anything from the turret ring and below is invisible and protecte by the layers of earth. A tank in a dug-out can take on three, and even sometimes as much as five, tanks of the ssame model.

In the meanwhile, as these preparations were being made, the Front line trrops continued their retreat – with the same dogged resolved, and with the same horrible losses.

And while the fighting still went on, two men in CREST uniforms walked up to Colonel Morrison. “Come with us, Sir. The President needs a word with you.”

Radio contact with the enemy had been forbidden the Islamic forces for truly it is said “ Therefore listen not to the Unbelievers, but strive against them with the utmost strenuousness, with the Qur'an 25.52”.

The pilots averaged better than 800 hours' flying time, they had intensive training and experience in horizontal and dive-bombing and in the technique air to ground missile attacks. Aircraft screamed in low over the enemy positions, shaking buildings as they flew at tremendous speeds.

The favored payload of the vipers multi-aerospace was cluster bombs. Each cluster bomb contains 300 individual ‘bomblets’ designed to saturate an area with explosives and tiny flying shards of steel; the core of each ‘bomblet’ is the high explosive and metal melting capable payload known as “Code Green”. When the bomblets contained inside cluster bombs fail to explode on contact as intended, they become in effect antipersonnel landmines-volatile and deadly remnants of war that can explode from a simple touch.

Over the seas, Starian aircraft patrolled looking for targets of opportunity. They would be the eyes and eats of the newly arriving water skipping skiff-boats and assualt craft only Navy and air forces would be assigned to the conflict as this was the sultans will.
Should any Reichskamphen flags be seen heading towards the shores, they would receive the honor of being the primary targets of any of the Islamic forces stings. The Islamic officers of the Navy and Air force who wore green headbands to distinguish them easily while on mission, were well disciplined but now they turned into uncontrollable warriors when they saw that flag. Reichskamphen was an insult to every Starians honor and every officer longed to be able to claim Reichskpamhen kill.

Beware the seeds you sow and the crops you reap. Do not curse God for the punishment you inflict upon yourself.
-The Book of Tenets, addition to the North Amestrian Church’s Protestant Bible by the Second Council of Évry.

Secret IC

The State of Amestria,
Northwestern Amestria,
The Estate of the Honorable Duke de Villepin (Vignerot),
The Estate’s Windowed Sitting Room

“So you’re unhappy.”

The Honorable Dominique de Villepin, Duke of Vignerot (a Northwestern Estate), Minister of Foreign Affairs, Member of Parliament and the Honorable Catherine Curie, Vice President, sat in the sitting room, each enjoying a cup of tea. The tea was black, sweetened with kluntje and flavored with crème, unstirred. Being friends and (for the most part) political allies, such informal meetings were not uncommon.

Catherine sighed. “No, I just wish you would lend my candidacy your full support and stop playing both sides.”

“As we are both of the same party and, as I have stated my approval of your candidacy and character numerous times, I therefore see no reason why my support for you has to be spelled out any further… Furthermore, I am not playing both sides.”

“You have privately met with Liscel and granted her similar rhetorical favors, voicing approval of her candidacy and her character.”

“She’s a friend whose company I enjoy, and I fence with her. What you call playing both sides is actually benign neutrality. If the Centralists and their allies are able to gain enough seats to thwart the formation of an anti-Centralist Coalition, and it looks very likely that they will, then the Social Democrats will be faced with the choice of either forming a government with them or once again throwing themselves to the whims of the voters.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Curie replied, somewhat annoyed.

“My point is that I, no matter the final outcome, shall remain Foreign Minister and I will require good relations with both the Head of State and the Head of Government to keep the Foreign Ministry running smoothly…and as I said before, she is a friend… Also, you yourself have not shied away from meeting with Kasumi, who has publicly stated she is perfectly comfortable with you remaining Vice President in the event of her victory.”

Catherine remained quite and sipped her tea; further argument would be pointless, she already knew she was not going to convince him.

“So,” continued de Villepin, changing the subject, “how are your kids?”

Curie smiled warmly at her friend. She always enjoyed talking to de Villepin about their children. Both parents viewed them as a point of pride. Curie had two daughters, Jeanne and Émilie. De Villepin had three children, two daughters, Marie and Victoire, and a son, Arthur.”

“Their doing fine, Jeanne-”

The Official Phone rang. The Minister sighed. “Please excuse me for moment.”

“It’s alright.”

De Villepin got up and answered the phone.

“Yes this is Minister de Villepin. Yes, yes…go on… I want a full report written up and sent to both me and the President by tomorrow. Yes. That is all.”

De Villepin hung up the phone and returned to his chair. Curie eyed him curiously.

“What was that about?”

“President Johnson of Allanea is dead."

“Do go on,” Curie replied, even more curious. “Tell me everything.”

“Johnson evidently decided his time was best spent assisting personally in the construction of fortifications in Syskeyia. He was apparently even crazier then Atchinson and Klotchkovsky, a hard feet to manage.”

“Blindness can take many forms other than the inability to see. Fanatics are often blinded in their thoughts.”

“A quote from The Amestrian Catholic Bible…?”

“The Collected Letters Of The Cardinal in Exile…”

“The writings of a traitor…”

“That does not make what he wrote any less true.”

Curie took a sip of her tea.

“So,” she continued, “what exactly killed the Allanean President?”

“Ortillery… The Reich apparently dropped it right on his head.”

De Villepin raised his hand into the air and then let it fall. “Wooooooooo…BOOM!” He then laughed darkly. “That, in addition to the deaths of well over 2000 Allanean legislators, has threatened to throw what remains of the country’s elected government into turmoil. There have already been significant riots and killings.”

“Who has succeeded Johnson?” Catherine asked.

“As is fitting of such bizarre events, not the Vice President… Instead the debilitated Allanean legislature voted to reinstate former President Kazansky, an utter lunatic. Meanwhile, the Allanean forces in Syskeyia have been pulverized and are retreating in full. Over 100,000 Allanean soldiers have died and the conflict has the potential to consume tens of millions more.”

Curie smiled. “There is great potential for this war to bloody and destabilize both the United States and the Reich.”

“Tragedy for all and victory for none, we can only hope…” De Villepin sipped his tea. “The only regrettable aspect of this most favorable situation is that it will likely result in the complete destruction of the Syskeyian people.”

Catherine shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. “That can’t be helped.”

* * * * *

Amestria’s Reaction to the Syskeyian Conflict (Public IC)

The Amestrian Ministry of Foreign Affairs released a statement condemning both the “unilateral extra-Constitutional Allanean annexation of Syskeyia” and the subsequent Reich invasion. Heavily criticized in the statement was “the wanton savagery” displayed by “both sides”, the use of child soldiers, the deliberate targeting of the civilian population, and the use of WMD. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs further declared that it recognized neither Allanea nor the Reich as exercising de jure control over Syskeyia and stated its opinion that both sides should withdraw at once.

Amestria however took no further action as Allanea already had sanctions placed upon it and Amestria had no economic or diplomatic relations with the nations of The Reich what-so-ever.

Amestrian citizens were forbidden from traveling to both Allanea and Syskeyia due to “increasing violence and the breakdown of law and order.” Of course any Syskeyian civilians/refugees who applied for asylum with Amestrian Ministry of Foreign Affairs by Consulate or Embassy were welcomed (likely very few given that Amestria had no Embassies or Consulates in Allanea or Syskeyia and applications would thus have to be filed through third party countries).

Devcir was still there, after several days, one of very few necrons who were. Several of her immortal squad showed deep ‘chinks’ in their armour from their last engagement with God’s Own helicopters. There were only three of them now, jogging across the open ground by the base of a chalky outcrop of rock. That annoying starship had signed her up to stick around long enough to run a ‘pickup point’ that the annoying creature that sat in orbit had distributed to certain ‘covert’ elements in the remnant of the Syskeyian population.

The unit she’d been with had been going there for almost a day now. They’d moved into a small town where the local population was being crucified. They’d taken them down and moved them through the portal on the Monolith they’d had with them.

That had been incapacitated and forced to return to the mother ship by a hefty barrage of bombs that had damaged its upper surface. Helicopter assault had produced most of the other casualties; such was the peril of engagements without full air-control. While they’d moved, the Gods Own authorities had not ceased dispatching infantry to attempt to destroy necron units.

She momentarily reviewed the most recent engagement.

At that time, four warriors, two scarabs and three immortals had remained in the unit. Sensors detected two hundred or so Gods Own infantry nearby. They’d done the only logical thing. They’d attacked – if it were not for the gross disparity in vehicular support, they estimated one necron would be sufficient to destroy all enemy infantry. They carried little that could, except in cases of extreme luck, harm a necron.

Rifle fire had pattered off their metal bodies as they had begun the task of attacking. First priorities were those equipped with whatever poor substitutes for decent anti-tank weapons their government issued them with. While there was, even with a rocket propelled grenade, only a small chance of eliminating a necron, a large number could be lethal enough.

After that, had been the boring task of eradicating the rest of the infantry. As had happened elsewhere, the seemingly inexhaustible supply of Gods’ Own infantry had been there mostly to draw necrons out. The heavy sound of beating rotor blades had alerted them to the support first. While a rifle could barely even scratch the paint on a necron, weapons fired from vehicles, even of the same calibre, tended to carry more than enough kinetic energy to do considerable damage. She saw, through one of her bodies, the hand of a warrior disappear as a wide bore bullet slammed into it, and another flip over backwards as a bullet caught it in the head. The first helicopter’s cockpit disappeared in a cone of gauss fire, the pilot writhing momentarily before disappearing.

She caught full sight of another. To call it an ugly vehicle would be to do a great disservice to ugly vehicles. It was a floating obscenity. She brought the first body’s gun around too late, and a chunk of metal ‘zinged’ out from its shoulder guard and then another bullet punched through its eye, burying itself in the skull. The necron stopped moving momentarily and she was struck by a missile, disintegrating the ground beneath the body’s legs and sending it high into the air ,minus two limbs.

Another of Devcir’s bodies spun slowly as the raking fire came towards it, and she shot at the cockpit, missing by about a meter. Fortunately, this managed to allow it to disintegrate the axis of the rotors, sending long blades flying outwards, and causing the helicopter to drop like a stone a moment later.

In all, it had been only her efforts that had stopped the unit being forced to phase out. Of the several thousand units that had entered Syskeyia, only half a dozen remained in the scant operational condition of Devcir’s squad.

A quick check with local landmarks revealed that she was there. Her first body hefted its gauss blaster, and began cutting into the rock, burning the grass and shale around the base of the cliff instantly with the released energies.

---

Meanwhile, in orbit, the necron ship, the Riissac'a continued her complex efforts to move an entire fleet of ninety transport ships. So far, it had been rather cautious. That said, two transports had been destroyed by being dropped back into the water too quickly, another had been accidentally submerged and sent straight to Davy Jones’ Locker. A fourth had found itself in orbit, its entire crew suddenly bereft of air. A fifth had been dropped upside down. In the case of the sixth error, the Riissac’a had accidentally dropped it onto land. The seventh and eighth had been transported consecutively – and the eighth had been dropped on the seventh, resulting in a twisted, mangled pile of metal that held water. The ninth, reappeared prow down fifty meters above the USS Nottingham, a massive aircraft carrier in the escorting battlegroup.

The battleship finally stopped, after materialising an arsenal ship inside a super-dreadnought. Several of the upper decks on the inside of the larger ship were boiled and melted away to make space for the ship neatly deposited among its upper decks and guns. The dreadnought was called USS Prophet Mohammed – You name a ship like that and then entrust it to the devil, you deserve everything you get.

Somewhere over Venus, outside the massive construct called S14, another Allanean ship appeared (normally, such a transfer would be impossible, but the the sheer mass involved, moving downwards in a gravity well, made it just about possible, if... seriously unsafe for the occupants, and inaccurate) this one a massive superdreadnought marked USS Gates of Hell.

In all, it managed to mangle, or misplace into the wrong ocean, or deposit in Syskeyian public parks, or accidentally slice like bread one tenth of the fleet; such was the price that destiny extracted when one made a deal with the devil to deploy ships.

Of course, all these accidents might just have been malicious…

Allanea, Liberty-City In Alexander Kazansky's office

“Jesus Christ. Look at this, Mr. President.”

“What now?”

“The ships that were.... teleported...”

“What of them?”

“Some of them where teleported quite wrong, Sir.”

“I am aware. I realized there would be mistakes. I didn't quite expect that many, but I realized it – and frankly, we're better off then we would be if we had to fight the bloody Shelford fleet en route.”

“Are you insane... ehm, I'm sorry, Sir, but....”

Morrison blinked. Kazansky was smiling, his feet thrown up on the table, the steel toe-ends of thte combat boots.

“Now let us see. Count with me. The USS Mohammed, and with it the USS Special Destination had been lost with all hands. This means, per se, eight thousand eighty personnel lost. The explosion I understand was seen from orbit. We also lost a CVN. I believe there needs to be an investigation of why we even HAD CVN's in that battlegroup since they had no planes on them, but let us avoid the small details.

Further, we lost nine transports – carrying ammunition, food, and suchlike to the front lines. Well, eight per se, but...”

Kazansky laughed.

“The bloody necrons put it in the middle of a Syskeyian amusement park. I'm told that it's not likely it's going to ever be recovered in any sort of way. They are trying to unload it's ammunition supply, though.”

Morrison was not laughing.

“Hey, that's not the worst part. They have disappeared another Zealous, with all hands on board. No idea where it is, probably in the center of the sun or such like. Oh, and there's a silver lining in it all.”

“Huh?”

“Well, two of the transports were Dupont oilers. There's now a giant oil patch of radioactive oil somewhere in the ocean near Syskeyia. Hopefull it'll make problems for Shelford. Also... did I mention they teleported seven CVN's, in formation and all, into Southern Haven?”

Morrison blinked. “I fail to see how it is a good thin, Sir.”

Kazansky shrugged. “Those were CVN's without any planes on them. I would rather have them in Southern Haven then utterly sunk by the Reich. But I am not done. We also lost two escort frigates, five Arsenal ships, and three guided missile destroyers.”

“Jesus. How are you able to say this is a good thing?”

“Because, unlike you, I care.”

Kazansky rose.

“Mr. Morrison, my first responsibility, as President of the United States, is to preserve the life of Allaneans. When I send out an escort of warships, I know, that, in war, some of them will be lost - whether due to errors of transportation, enemy shelling, or whatever, makes no difference. As we are facing a superior Reich naval force, it would not be unexpected that over 10% of the fleet would be lost.”

He continued. “These accidents have caused the loss of life of twenty thousand men, most of them thre crew of two warships. The necrons – you need to give them their due – actually did get the USS -” - Kazansky paused, listing twenty of the most enormous assault transports - “arrived safely. I would assure you that the Reich would do the exact opposite, targeting these ships first and foremost. So would I if I were the Reich commander.”

Kazansky looked deep in Colonel Morrison's eyes. “Colonel, would you prefer to have one hundred thousand Freemen at the bottom of the sea, now? Would you prefer that?”

The Colonel blinked.

“And I am not done. This saved us possibly three days on the transportation time. Do I need to explain to you that so far, we have suffered casualties of twenty-thousand people every day, Colonel – counting the Armed Forces alone? Do I need to remind you that on average, two hundred thousand Syskeyians die every day on the Front? Do I need to remind you that there are boy scout dying on the Front?”

There was a pause.

“I understand the Brigades will finish deploying towards the end of the day. After that is done, I will order the cessation of the airlifting Boy Scouts to the Front. I will order the cessation of all use of Boy Scouts in military engagements except during emergencies.”

The Colonel blinked, again. “Excuse me, Mr. President?”

“Oh, and before I forget. That incident with the Reich prisoners.... our allies are complaining about your behaviour, Major Morrison.”

“Maj...”

“Yes. Consider yourself demoted. Now go back to Syskeyia.”

-"They did what?!"

-"They retaliated with some kind of secret weapon sir."

-"Secret weapon?! They dropped a bloody battleship on our troops!" General McNolan looked at the satellite pictures with a frown of disbelief "How the hell did they manage to do that?!"

-"I dont know sir" the ensign stuttered "Maybe some kind of Nephilim magic trick?"

-"Magic trick my arse! Check for big ships capable of dropping or else some kind of teleportation. Doesn't the StreiteKräfte do anything for us? Send General Major Graham on StreiteKräfte staff my compliments for his utter incompetence." mcNolan walked over to his desk. "Any other news?"

-"Well sir, some nation seems to have put up a small airforce to embargo us."

-"Embargo us? The Reich? One nation? I thought Iesus Christi took care of the airforce. Send a request to Iesus command and ask them to rid it for us. If we dont get any answers we'll swat them ourselves. Bloody small cocky nations getting a hard on and tries to prove something everytime we are on campaign. One nation you said?!" McNolan chuckled "In the good old days the whole of SATO used to embargo us. Now that's what I call embargo!"

The Front

The Shocktroops were quickly moving along the coast rolling up retreating Allanean and Syskeyian troops with their Panzer. They had been told to use their momentum, intelligence reports suggested that Allanea was fortifying in the north, and the fortifications seemed to grow stronger for every minute. Speed was everything or they would end up in front of giant weaponized walls which would be extremely costly to attack.

Colonel Walsh looked out over the big field, completely littered with mines dropped from the Allanean airplanes and sighed.

-"Ok boys, this is as far as we get today." The Reich ortillery had removed some of the earlier minefields with the shockwave but this one looked intact. "We have to wait for the lads with equipment to get through this, and according to the maps there is no easy way around it either." He followed a river with his finger and ended up on a mountain. It certainly looked grim but the engineer troops were only hours behind them, surely they would have sorted it out for them in the morning.

In the plane

Hanson looked around as Sandra spoke. What is this? Some kind of torture? They will just calm us down enough to perform hideous experiments. A five star hotel rented for POW's, yeah right!

-"Excuse me miss? Can I use the bathroom?"

The trench is the simplest personnel shelter. It protects fully from small arms fire, artilery shell shrapnel, mortar shrapnel, and aviation bomb shrapnel, and partly from the shockwave from a conventional explosion...

[Yuri Veremeev, Personnel Shelters (http://armor.kiev.ua/army/fort/okop_5.shtml)]

It was a pure wonder of Allanean fortification Within the several days of fighting, 200,000 Allaneans and almost a million Syskeyian soldiers havebuilt complex line of trenches and fortifications. They were aided, of course, by legions of bulldozers, tractors, tons of explosives and anything else the Allaneans could commandeer from the bomb-plowed cities.

If you came from the Reichite directiion, the first thing that you would notice would be that there was a system of barbed wire and 'tank-stoppers' (basically, rows after rows of huge, one-meter tall, concrete prysms, rapidly poured and mounted to block Reich tanks, or cross-shaped portions of rail rapidly cut up from no-longer needed rails or I-beams from burned out Syskeyian buildings). Between these was a variety of land-mines – anti-personnel landmines, claymores, Bouncing Bettys, and anti-tank landmines – laser-triggered LAW launchers, ten-kilogram burried weight sensor mines that looked like they were from the 1940's, and anything in between – thre were even 'bamboo mines' – plasting tubes that would fire a single 9mm bullet into your leg if you stepped on one just right – or wrong.

This stretched for three kilometers of ground – most of it done by minelayers, some by people. Of course, it wasn't expected to stop every Reich soldier cold – but it wasn't designed to do that. It was designed to slow them down, so they would be forced to move like turtles in heat, unable to overrun the Allanean positions and simply cudgel everybody to death with their bare hands. And while they sat there, they would be exposed to firepower – Allanean firepower – 300mm mortars, 240mm cannon, automatic grenade laucnhers (which happily double up as indirect fire weapons), and so forth.

At the last mile of approach, they would be set upon with fire of rifles, machineguns, and other manportable weapons – held by men whose nation was often abhorred for promoting the use of small arms too much. The Reichites would soon find out on their skin why Allanea did that. The troops were protected – some simply by their trenches, other by specialized machinegun dugouts. At timed intervals, tank and IFV dugouts housed the vehicles of the Allanean Army and Syskeyian State Defense Forces. In this way, the vehicles would be sheltered from the front and sides by a layer of earth a meter thick. According to the manuals, a tank so protected could take on three tanks of equivalent model – if indeed they were equivalent. Lines of trenches connected this line to second- and third- line defenses, and to the rear and support units.

On the last few meters between them and the Allied lines, the Reich troops would meet the last defense – an anti-tank ditch, with sides steep enough for a tank not to be able to get out on it's own, and with the sides and bottom lined with all kinds of mines. Several machineguns were positioned to be able to fire into the trench.

The artillery, and long-range AA were positioned out of LOS from the front line, but still able to reach out and attack Reich aircraft that tried to bomb the front Line. From the air, Imperial, Tiburonese, and Allanean (the Sturmfalke have finally arrived) aircraft would be requested to patrol the Line, and at sea, the dozens of Air Defense vessels stood at the ready to fire long-range AA missiles at Reich aircraft, if they tried to come over and bomb the Allanean positions.

The SHBTs would take a few more days to arrive. In the meanwhile, the surviving Boy Scouts and Marines were ordered to evacuate to the shore, where they would be picked up, as much as possible, by hovercraft and rescue ships – beating it across land was no longer an option. The door has closed.

Aboard the Aircraft

“Sure,” said the flgiht attendant with a polite smile.


OOC: Post is a result of a prior discussion with Vegana.

OOC: Now being more fully informed of Boris’ plan for the resolution of this thread than I was previously. All I can say is: Jesus, I’m not participating in this. Retconned. I’m out of here. No posts here by me have any value for my continuity.

DEMOCRATIC SOVIET REPUBLIC OF KAHANISTAN
Ministry of Foreign Affairs

First of all, the Government of Kahanistan expresses its concern over the recent return of Mr. Alexander Kirillovich Kazansky to the Presidency of Allanea, especially following the deaths of much of the Allanean legislature.

We urge an impartial, international investigation into the deaths of many Syskeyian legislators who opposed Allanea before it annexed Syskeyia.

Furthermore, we strongly urge both sides to lay down their arms and meet for peace talks. We suggest our capital as a suitable location for such a meeting.

Signed,
Margaret Delray,
Minister of Foreign Affairs

---

A fleet of 50 transports and 10 hospital ships mobilized for Syskeyia. The transport ships had every non-essential cubic millimeter cleared to carry food and medical supplies to Syskeyia. Once they had dropped off their cargo, their orders were to load refugees on by the hundreds of thousands, while the most badly injured were to be taken to the hospital ships.

The fleet would take four days to arrive in Syskeyia after leaving.

*Allanean Fortifications*

For two hours now, the recently dropped Burgundian Guard troops had been pouring through the Allanean fortifications; making their way towards the front line in order to stabilize it just a bit longer.

As the Guard units approached the Allanean defenders, the characteristic Golden Eagles of the Greater Prussian Empire were quite visible. A large standard fluttered below it, emblazoned in white silk with red and blue corners. It was a picture of uniformity. Men and machines moving as one and with all the pomp and grandeur of days gone by. Marechal Brune had ordered a full parade of the Prussian military might. He wanted to drive the message home to the beleagered Allanean defenders...the Cavalry is here. Morale was unusually high for their situation...but it could use any possible boost. The Burgundian troops suddenly came to attention with a sharp order from their bedecked leader. A brass band suddenly began to trumpet out the Italian Hymn "O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing my Great Redeemer's Praise...The Glories of my God and King...the Triumph of his Grace."

As the hymns clarion call rang into the heart of every person of the faith, a giant Divisional standard was unfurled by Two Lieutenants. Upon it was blazoned the Emperor Napoleon IV's Personal Standard superimposed upon two crosses. These were the mighty Catholic armies of Greater Prussia. Soon, the whole land would know of their might.

The troops fell silent.

They all turned to the flag and saluted in silent memory of the fallen Emperor.

Then turning back to their commander they Shouted as one, God Save the Emperor, God Save Czar Alexei!"

Nearly a mile away, while this parade proceeded, two truckloads of Prussian Army Engineers arrived at the fortifications and reported to their Allanean Commanders for duty.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hauptmann, when do you think we will get to the front?"

"Not long Private Mulcahey..." Hauptmann Cornelius Schenker looked through his telescopic eye piece at the land around him. Even though he was in a tank, all was relatively visible through a system of cameras that fed into a main computer and then to the eyepiece which in turn faithfully replicated the land around for 360 degrees.

Dirt and rocks were blown high into the air when an artillery round slammed into the wooded area just to the left of the tank column.

"I'll say we're here Private!" the Hauptmann shouted. "Prepare to fire, and see if there are any Allaneans around here.

A magnificent Imperial Robe was on the daughter of heavens shoulders, the green velvet cloth was a superb masterpiece and contrasted with her whitegown. Around her neck, the Sultan wore the most splendid diamond and emerald necklace. The necklace, mounted in platinum and gold, composed by an enormous engraved hexagonal emerald, mounted in pendant and surrounded by diamonds of old cut, of four big square emeralds and five smaller ones. Her Imperial Majesty wore no tiara and had her long hair flowing down over her robe.

The nation watched and listened intently, for the Sultan[She whom was loved by Heaven] was about to make one of her rare broadcasts.

“In the Name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful
Today, the appalling and abominable demon of domination is threatening all the world’s nations. The Starian nation and the Reich nations are not the only targets of such threats, as they are targeting the entire humanity and human principles and values.
Presently, you can see how the Allanea horrors are treating human beings and human values. And if the killing and trampling on the honor, dignity and national identity of human civilization wasn’t enough, the Alleanea plotters have allowed the Reichskamphen animals out of their cages! The very embodiment of wickedness and evil!
Are we to expected to surrender and give up our moral or human principles?

We are clean and spotless. Our young hearts are pure and enlightened. We will try to bring further honor to the Army of the Islamic people which, by divine favor and assistance, has so far achieved great honor and dignity.
To fullfill this honor, we are now at war with the tryants of Reichskamphen and the weaklings of Allanea.
Reichskamphen forces are criminal and will be treated as such by our forces should they fall into our hands.

I hope that our step today will be a prelude to greater strides in the future.
Greetings be upon you my people and Allah's mercy and blessings.”




Day after day, war planes, hypercraft and Aerocraft have attacked enemy forces in Syskeyia, not waiting for nightfall to launch attacks.
A rain of massive 5,000 pound "code green bombs" pounded the ground, shattering everything in sight. Falcon missiles snaked through the sea at high speed before flying into the air and cruising inland where they exploded over their targets. spraying deadly needle-like fragments that shred any living thing within three hundred yards. Among the prioty targets was anything flying the Golden Eagles of the Greater Prussian Empire.


The first Jet-bikes had arrived also.
Riding full speed on his jetbike, Shad felt his skills were at his fullest. He was unbeatable, unstoppable. He had three dozen swooping jetbikes with which toattack the enemy,
"Honor to the sultan, I detect a threat, just a mile ahead."
With a sudden thud, Shads craft was burning.
The Starian pilot screamed in insane fear as the flames began to blacken his cockpit. Quickly, the Starian pilot began to melt like a candle. The Syskeyia shoulder launched missile had ignited the highly volitale ‘Code Blue’ plasma tanks of the Starcannon.
A jetbike ploughed into the dirt, sending a pillar of white flame into the air.
With a nod the commander of the jetbikes aknowledged the fat that atleast Shad had destroyed those he had landed on.

OOC: [...] All I can say is: Jesus, I’m not participating in this. Retconned. I’m out of here. No posts here by me have any value for my continuity.

A similar situation with me. Retconned.

Leaving the ports

Aboard Kahanistanian flagship RKS Asclepius

Captain Ismail Mohammed ibn Abdul-Hamid, the commander of the expedition to retrieve millions of lost souls from Syskeyia, sat in his cabin. This will be one hell of a mission...

He remembered the allied ships coming to Kahanistan to retrieve the millions of people who had been displaced during the Freekish war, expecting a grand decisive battle to wipe out Kahanistan. That battle never came, and the devastated nation had rebuilt with allied aid after the war.

While the Reich was not like Dreadfire, they were certainly brutal opponents, and the Allanean government seemed to be somewhat destabilized. The Kahanistanian military lacked the strength to help the Allaneans in battle, but they did have the option of staying neutral. This would mean, however, that if they treated Allanean wounded, they would also have to treat the wounded Reich soldiers.

It doesn't matter... we're not on either side. The Reich soldier is not the enemy, their leaders are the threats.

The expedition commander sat back in his chair and put more weed in his bong. It would be days before they arrived, they had just left port.

Captain Ibn Abdul-Hamid prayed to Allah that the Reich would not fire upon his fleet of transport and hospital ships in breach of international law. He was uncertain that the DSRK would have the political will to retaliate against such an attack.

The front

Colonel Walsh watched his men being beaten back on one front while slowly advancing on the other on the screens. The counter offensive from Allaena and Reichkampfen together with the minefields had on no accord pushed them back but it had slowed them down and on some parts pushed them to a halt. The heavy tanks of their opponents had shown a devastating effeciency against their stormtroops and while he got daily reports about the progress of the fortifications almost 200 km in the north he had no opportunity to reach there to stop them. He had panzer reinforcements coming up from the south but the terrain made them awkward and inefficient towards the dugdown tanks defending on the other side. Their North star allies bombings seemed to have softened the enemy a bit on some fronts but had limited or no effect where the heavy terrain had made it possible to hide or fortify.

The only plan he had so far was to get around this pocket of resistance and attack them from behind or outflank them. But with the sea on one side and the mountains on the others that would take time, time he wasn't sure he had. He followed a stream with a laser pen and found it to end in the middle of nowhere. He cursed under his breath. He would pull back a little and ask for Iesus and North Star bunker busters and then try to move into the nothingness those bombs would create. But he would still be delayed a few more days and the air defence up in the north was too strong for using the same tactics against the fortifications.

------

Message to Kahanistan Government
From: Ministry of Information

Dear mr whom it may concern.

We have indications of forces moving towards Reich territorial waters. Since we understand that you might not have the inclination to send those ships on a suicide assault we felt that we should have the courtesy to give you the chance to turn back.

As far as we are aware of there has been no formal request to send in humanitarian aid into the warzone and no permission have been given. This means that any Kahanistani ships crossing into Reich territorial waters, which is 40 km off the Syskeyian shores, will be looked upon as combatants and dealt with accordingly.

We have on the other hand seen a proposal of having negotiations in your beautiful nation and we thank you for this and ask for permission to have those once we have crushed the terrorists that wreaks havoc on the true believers of Syskeyia. But that is a completely different discussion.

Have a Nice day.

Slobodan Jovanovic, Minister of Information, Vegana
http://members.cox.net/davage/images/Slobodan.jpg

Najaster, Capital of Kahanistan

Ministry of Foreign Affairs

Foreign Minister Margaret Delray read over the Reich message. She picked up a satellite telephone to talk to Naval Command.

"This is Margaret Delray. Does anyone know where our humanitarian fleet is, Admiral?"

"It's about three hundred kilometers from Syskeyia."

Good. It's not too late. "Have them hold position at fifty kilometers, we have to negotiate with the Reich. I'd rather avoid a war with these people if I can."

"OK, I'll radio in a message to the fleet to have them hold position at fifty kilometers from the Syskeyian shore. Should I send someone?"

"No," said Delray. "I'll negotiate with the Reich myself."

The Kahanistanian Admiral hung up.

---

Two hours later

DEMOCRATIC SOVIET REPUBLIC OF KAHANISTAN
Ministry of Foreign Affairs

The Government of Kahanistan wishes to deploy humanitarian vessels to extract the civilians who are seeking refuge from the war with Allanea, and to render medical assistance to those who need it.

While we still have a formal alliance with the United States of Allanea, we feel that this war has been poorly conducted and have no desire to commit troops to the cause. We will allow Reich inspectors aboard our vessels to search them for excess arms, marines, or contraband.

We want nothing more than a quick end to the conflict, with minimal loss of lives.

The vessels have been ordered to hold position fifty kilometers from the Syskeyian coast.

Signed,
Margaret Delray,
Minister of Foreign Affairs

Come the time of peril did vermin who dared call themselves human step forward and say “Let us teach our children to hate and kill those who have so perverted the most Holy Word of God.” And in their folly the people did answer “Yes, let us.” Thus for two generations Amestrians slaughtered one another.
God will not forgive such despicable crimes committed so self-righteously in His Name.
-The Collected Letters Of The Cardinal In Exile

A Neutral Third Country,
A Significant Port City,
The Amestrian Consulate,
Office of Consul Pierre François Gentil

Pierre Gentil sat at his desk, pen in hand, with all the relevant forms and paperwork before him. Behind the Consul was a massive window, providing the book filled study with subdued light (it was somewhat overcast outside). To Gentil’s left stood a large impressively crafted grandfather clock, the sound of which could clearly be heard, tick…tock…tick…tock.

Directly in front of his desk sat Murielle Moore, the Allanean asylum seeker whose request had decided to handle personally. Since the outbreak of hostilities in Syskeyia ships loaded with refugees had been ceaselessly docking in the port. Many now made their home in temporary shelters set up in the cities parks, living off government and private charity as they took stock of their situation. One or two Syskeyians had visited the Consulate to ask for asylum, but the vast majority seemed to be looking for assistance elsewhere. The young women before him had been on one of the boats. Upon disembarking she had apparently found a newspaper with an article detailing the Amestrian Governments offer of asylum to all victims of the Syskeyian conflict and immediately made her way straight to the Consulate. Behind the subdued girl, and near the office door, stood Private Denise Juin in her immaculate blue Military uniform.

Murielle was an attractive girl of no more then 17, tall, slender, pale skin, black hair, and full lips. Her hair, once long and luscious, had recently grown dull and been shortened to her ears. When Murielle had entered the Consulate her hair had been a tangled mess, matted with dirt, filth, and blood. While cleaning her up it had been necessary to cut nearly all of it off.

Gentil knew Murielle had been an Allanean Scout, a child soldier trained and conditioned since age 12 to be a fearless desensitized killer, but he did not see any of that as he watched the shivering girl draw her blanket more tightly around herself, gulping down hot medicinal tea and coughing at the bitter taste. The sad bruised creature before him could only be described as pitiable.

Just the other day she had been an utter wretch; dressed in dirty rags, starving, exhausted, suffering from several bacterial infections and the various stages of drug withdrawal. Murielle had been bathed, fed, given a cocktail of antibiotics to fight the infections along with several medications to treat her drug withdrawal symptoms and help her sleep.

“Now Ms. Moore, for what reasons are you requesting political asylum?”

“I hate my country…I don’t want to ever go back. It worships death; they drugged me up and sent me off to die…” Murielle sniffled as she spoke, she had a cold.

“I can’t actually remember what happened, but I get these…terrifying flashes (sniffle) and I just want to scream… The one thing I clearly remember was running…running from the fighting. I was on an empty street. I broke a shop window with a rock and considered using the shards of glass to slice my wrists (sniffle), I was about to…then I just threw it to the ground and started running again.”

She paused for a moment.

“I was pressured into joining the Girl Scouts and signing up for the reserves by my friends and family… I’ve been pressured into a lot of things in my life. When I was 14 my boyfriend pressured me into sex…(sniffle). It hurt and I felt like throwing up afterwards. All my friends congratulated me on losing my virginity, it was something to be proud of and I smiled, but I felt like shit. I broke up with him a week later… Oh god…”

Murielle dropped her empty teacup to the floor and buried her head in her hands. “…why did I just tell you that?”

“Its okay, we can take a break if you want…” Gentil remarked, obviously concerned.

“No, I’m fine,” Murielle answered, with little conviction. “If I go back they could potentially prosecute me as a deserter and I will still be a member of the reserves. My parents will heap scorn upon me…ashamed of my cowardice… I…want to escape this desolation…”

Murielle trailed off and looked at the floor. Gentil wrote down the relevant bits of what she had said.

“How old are you using the Gregorian calendar?” he asked.

“I’m 16; I’ll be 17 in eight months.”

Gentil wrote down Murielle’s age in Gregorian years followed by her approximate age in Bradlian years. Amestria considered the deliberate use of combatants under 18 a war crime, in addition if the girl returned home she faced the potential of prosecution, re-conscription, and abuse, all, given her status under Amestrian law as a minor, suitable criteria for political asylum.

“Under Amestrian law a person is considered a minor until he or she reaches 18 Gregorian years of age, so you will be placed in a foster home. Do you have any objections?”

Murielle shook her head. “No.”

“Do you wish to inform your birth parents of your decision and change of status?”

“My parents were the ones who signed me up for the Scouts…”

“Enough said…” Gentil wrote down in the space provided: The parents and family are never to be contacted, notified, or otherwise informed, ever, do to their past history of abuse and their role in the forced conscription of their child by the Allanean State for military service.

“Given your wish for anonymity I assume you want to change your name…?”

Murielle nodded. “Yes.”

“Murielle is not an uncommon given name in Amestria; we need only change your last name…”

Murielle shook her head. “I want to become a completely different person.”

The Consul nodded and removed from his desk a thick book of first and last Amestrian names. He opened the book to Given Names: H, feminine.

“Your new given name shall be Hélène and your new last name…”

Gentil flipped through the book, scanning the various pages for a name that aesthetically went with Hélène.

“…Rollès. Hélène Rollès, that’s a pretty name, don’t you think so Private Juin?”

“Oui Consul…a very pretty name...”

“A pretty name for a pretty girl,” Gentil finished, giving Murielle a soft smile. “Do you like it?”

Murielle, or rather Hélène, smiled and glanced subconsciously at the floor. “Yes,” she answered quietly.

In the box under New Name Gentil wrote in Hélène Rollès.

“Now Ms. Rollès, do to the various health concerns the doctors have brought to my attention, I am going to have the Ministry of Health and Human Welfare place you in a treatment and counseling program.” Health concerns was putting it mildly, Hélène was clearly suffering from a Post Traumatic Stress Reaction as well as side effects of the various drugs she had been given along with serious withdrawal problems.

“Do you have any questions?”

Hélène shook her head. “No.”

The interview continued for a little bit more, Gentil collecting additional unimportant but necessary facts and pieces of information. He then placed a form in front of Hélène and handed her a pen.

“Sign your Allanean name on the bottom line.”

Hélène signed her name and handed the form back to the Consul.

“Will I be granted asylum?” Hélène asked.

“Definitely Ms. Rollès, most definitely.”

“Thank you so very much.”

“Don’t thank me, I am only doing my job.”

* * * * * *

After her interview Hélène spent the remainder of the day reading comic books, snacking, walking in the Consulate gardens, and talking with Private Juin, who accompanied her whenever she went outside and was always nearby. At eight o’clock she had dinner, a delicious beef stew served with buttered Amestrian bread, a tall glass of milk, a sliced up apple, and a grape fruit. Hélène cleaned her plate without the least regard for table manners and had seconds. At ten o’clock she went to bed.

* * * * * *

Dressed in a soft white night gown (purchased for her by the Consulate) Hélène lay back in bed, hugging her new teddy bear Mr. Michel-Jarre tightly. She had not slept with a stuffed animal since she turned 12, but when Ms. Juin had asked her if she wanted one she had immediately answered yes with a forceful desperation that had surprised her. The idea of holding a soft teddy bear as she slept had been very comforting…indeed it was comforting, she felt more secure with Mr. Michel-Jarre in her arms…the dreams were less terrible.

“Will you be needing anything else?” asked Private Juin as she tucked her in.

Hélène shook her head.

Juin leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. “Goodnight ma chérie. Pleasant dreams.”

* * * * * *

The next day, after awaking late and having a leisurely breakfast, Hélène was informed by Pierre Gentil that her application for political asylum had been accepted by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. “You’re safe now.”

Comrades Soldiers! Hero warriors of God! Iesus Christi NEEDS YOU!

A bounty is issued for the following....

$300 Evidence of killing a meta human(Elf ears, catgirl tail and ears, drawen hands)

$400 Bringing in a mostly intact meta body and handing it over to Iesus Ministry of social order special sections.

$800 For capturing a live adult meta and handing it over to Iesus forces.

$1000 For capturing a live child meta and handing it over to Iesus forces.

$2000 For capturing a live pregnant meta and handing it over to Iesus forces.

To be paid in Iesus currency or equal value in other currency.Optional Payment in gold also.

General Robert Smith
Ministry of Social Order.
General Iesus information broadcast

[OOC: I beg apology of all the people whose issues were not addressed in this post. I have lost my internet connection on Friday 14th, 2006, and the last post I've read was this one:

http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=11358716&postcount=53

As such, all issues that are addressed above are from posts up to and including North Star's post. I will be writing another post to address whatever happened after that.]

IC:


At the Front

“Marines!” - Mike screamed. There were precious few Marines left. From his detachment, only one of his subordinates was left alive, and in others, the situation was not better. “Form!” - he had put together a 'platoon' from the wrecked remnants of Marine units he was finding around him, and now it was retreating across the plains, cris-crossed by tracer rounds and shells, where Allanean heavy artillery and Reich bombs shook the ground. Sometimes, they would recover a crew of Boy Scouts, pricking the advancing Reichites with rifle shots and anti-tank grenade launchers, and continue to retreating – fast. Too fast.


Suddenly they saw, with some alarm, what looked like a tank platoons aproaching from the direction of the fortifications. This was impossible. They knew it already from the orders they were given, they were not to expect any help – Allanea could use every man it could spare on the building of the defensive line. And yet, here they were, the tanks, speeding in their direction, engines roaring. Suddenly, Mike realized what precisely these tanks were. He took his hat off and waves it to the tank crews, screaming.

“God bless the Empire! God bless the Emperor!”

For a brief second, the Allanean troops – those in beige and those in green – paused for a second, looking at the deadly Reichkamphian vehicles, and then the survivors of the several Marine and Scout brigades raised their rifles, and shouted.

“God blees the Empire! God bless the Emperor!”

At the fortifications line

“God bless the Emperor!” - thousands of Allanean soldier shouted, hurling their famous broad brimmed hats in the air. “God bless Greater Prussia! God Bless Czar Alexei! God Bless Marechal Brune!”

Behind the trenchlines, they could clearly see the flash of the Allanean artillery batteries, pounding the front ranks of the Reich troops. Through the sky, MLRS rockets streaked through the sky towards the positions of Veganan and North Star troups, pelting them with a hail of submunitions. From the sea, long range missiles streaked out towards the Gods Ownii positions, hitting them with a mixture of incendiaries, high-explosives and sarin.

The Strategic Bomber wings – the Ank'riat superbombers and the B-2's, escorted by advanced Sturmfalke fighters – made a habit of reaching out just to the very fortifications line, covered safely by Allanean and Imperial AA from any counterattacks, and firing salvoes of stand-off fire missiles towards the enemy. What the Allaneans and the Imperials lacked in numbers they made up in technological and firepower superiority.

And speaking of firepower, the arsenal ships at the sea have now made a habit of attacking the Reich rear with cruise missiles – immense 100-missile salvoes targeted at rail and road intersections, airfields and port facilities. The USS Allanea cut loose on the Reich positions with 30-inch cannon, pounding salvo after salvo of oversized artillery shells into the enemy.

Aboard the USS Linus Torvalds

A superheavy battle tank is an immense machine – big enough that in some nations they have names, like ships. Allanea was one such nation, and the USS Linus Torvalds was a fine example of the supertank breed. It weighed 3,500 tons, and was armed not unlike a battleship. Right now, the Torvalds was slowlly pushing through what was only recently a Syskeyian town – but now, after Shelford's weapons took it's toll, none remained. The town was now only a collection of concrete coffins – and home to 400,000 corpses. It was in the city stadium that the tank was now standing. All of the stalls were full of rotting corpses, and the field was strewn with players – the game was still on where the missiles came streaking through the air.

One side of the stadium had collapsed, providing the Syskeyians there with something remotely resembling burial – that was how the immense tank has just come into the green. In the loudspeakers, they heard Major Morrison's voice.

Men!

I have chosen this stadium as a position not only because of the advantage it will provide, but because I wanted to give you an impression of the nature of your enemy. Your enemy are the people who did this. They have slaughtered millions, literally, of civilians, in order to... actually, not in order to do anythoing. They have slaughtered millions of civilians, for no reason but their own bloodlust. The people who did this are serial killers to make anybody who is doing time in Allanea's prisons look like an innocent Christian baby.

But there are many which are even more vile. I am speaking of those Syskeyians who, after the Reich did to their people, have chosen – chosen you understand – to side against Allanea and with Shelford and Jaar and Bridgette and the murderers of their people against those who would protect them, allow them to keep their faith, and shield them from atrocities like the kind you see here. These are called Traitor Syskeyians for a reason. The most horrible thing is that there are so many of them – ten to every Syskeyian soldier who is fighting on our side.

Look now at the sattelite feed your tank is receiving. What you see is one of the Traitor Syskeyian units advancing towards our fortification lines. You know what to do.

You should not feel any kind of remorse at killing these men – because they are not men.

They are traitors. They have betrayed the basic values that all sapientkind should properly stand for – and supported the vampires and homicidal lunatics that compose the governments of the Reich, against their own people. These people, I tell you, would eat the fresh corpse of their grandmother had they wanted to, because they have no moral compunction against it. Let none survive.

The captain of the tank nodded in agreement, and began pressing buttons.

Somewhere above him, Allanean Sturmfalke and F/A-18 aircraft engaged the famous craft of the North Star air force. Sometimes, an Allanean aircraft would fall, streaking across the sky like a meteor. Sometimes the body of one of the sultan's pilots would be recovered by the Allaneans. The head would then be removed, and the rest of the body wrapped into pigskin and dropped into an unmarked grave. The captain didn't really care much. In front of him, S.u.S.E. 20.1 Allanean Version opened it's GNOME interface, and he clicked the Applications menu.
launching combat-sat.rpm...

The program launched, showing on the captain's screen a hi-resolution depiction of the front ranks of the Traitor Syskeyian forces. Almost immediately, colored dots appeared, controlled by the gunners of the separate weapons. With the advanced, open-source, Linux-operated targetting software, all they had to do was pick a target – S.u.S.E. would consider range, wind, and so forth, and bring out the weapons to the needed trajectory.

The Captain looked at the crew's mascot - a large plush penguin that took up almost as much space as an extra crewman. It brought luck. Luck was more important then an extra crewman. He shook the penguin's flipper. “Let's hit 'em, S.u.S.E.”

The main, 18-inch cannon fired, filling the charnel stadium with smoke and fire.

The 10-inch cannon fire, adding to the noise with a roar that seemed almost innocent chattering in comparison.

The VLS missiles launched, streaking through the smoke towards their designated targets.

Aboard the USS Katherine Eisenherz I

As the sultan's aircraft passed towards the Allanean and Imperial positoins, they may have not noticed the scores of Air Defense Galleons parked in the Syskeyian Bay. These have acted against Reich aircraft before, and not noticing 23 ships all decked out in air defenses was a big mistake. This, Captain Lionel Shards knew very well, as he looked at the crew of his ship running to battlestations. Around him, missiles were being raised from magazines, only to become flaming bolts of lightning to streak out upwards to met the enemy's Falcon aircraft, and CIWS turrets have begun to chatter away.

Shards was smiling happily as he came to the bridge, and his smile got wider when he heard about the amount of enemy aircraft shot down. It only decreased slightly when he heard that all Allanean CVN's were leaving towards Allanea, as there was perfectly no use in CVN's without aircraft.

Somewhere behind the lines.

Murielle still walking. She did not notice – or perhaps did not want to notice – the Allanean lines. She was overcome with fear, shame, grief – and she mixed in with thousands of Allanean deserters and millions of Syskeyian refugees, streaming towards the harbors, where, so rumour had it, there would be ships from foreign nations ready to pick them up.
She did notice the horrible sights of destruction created by Shelford's missile bombardments. At day, she could see black, acrid smoke from several blast furnaces, where the bodies of millions of Syskeyians were being burned – there was no time to bury them before the rot would set in – this was only way. At night, she shuddered in horror when trucks loaded with the dead came by.

Her supply of pills ran out eventually – on the fifth day of walking – and now she simply had to sleep. She fell asleep in a street corner of New Syskeyiapolis, her feet aching. As she dozed off, she could only vaguely hear the roar of Sturmfalke engines overhead as they went towards the Reich positions again.

Roanoke Island, Allanea

The hotel that the POW's were promised was indeed a 5-star resort – paid for, as they would be told, 'by the personal charity of President Alexander Kazansky, out of his own funds – not by taxpayer's money, you note. We hope you are not offended, but the general population in Allanea would not at all like to pay this much money for putting up some prisoners of war.'

President Kazansky found time to meet the Veganans himself, in the hotel's lobby. He looked exactly as they may have heard of him – while incredibly ancient, he still had the body and demeanour of an adolescent, and smile at them cheerfully from behind a pair of glasses that would have gotten a person 'supergeek' qualification anywhere but in Allanea. He was simply dressed, and apart from a pair of immense gold-plated pistols, he wore no ornaments.

“Good day. You might be surprised by this... hospitality, but please do understand. You may have been told that our nation and yours are uncorrigibly different – and that this is the underlying reason we are at war. I will not lie to you. This is true. If Vegana could somehow conquer Allanea entirely, I am sure your leadership would see it fit to... 'help'... say, sixty to seventy percent of us by putting us in re-education camps, or outright executing us. The furries, the Scientologists, the wargamers, the trekkies, the merciful Lord knows who else, all of those are seen in your nation as dangerous, decadent deviants. The other forty or thirty percent are worshippers of a variety of religions that forbid these kind of lifestyles – mostly evangelical protestantism, but also, I am informed, some Buddhists and catholics and muslims. While those are not necessarily dangerous deviants – that's the term, right? - I'm sure you have been told a variety of nasty things about the majority of these people.”

“On the other hand, most people in Allanea consider the very existence of the Veganan government immoral, and would happily get your leadership horribly killed if they could get their hands on them. Now, you're probably asking yourselves, what are we going to do with you?”

He paused.

“Well, despite the comfort of this hotel, you are still prisoners until the end of this war. As I speak to you, security cameras are being installed in every room of the hotel, and every hallway.”

And indeed, the noise of drills and hammers at work could still be heard. When the prisoners had time to inspect their hotel, they would find that indeed, there were freshly-installed cameras everywhere – which, to the smart observer, read:

There are no security cameras in normal Allanean hotels.

“This is so you will not escape of course. There's heavy security and such, and armed guards, and so on, and so forth. Now, here's what we'll do. The Allanean Army and Department of Education will provide you with courses on the history and culture of Allanea, and on general political science. You will have acess to a small library with books on the topics – both written by pro-Allanean analysts and those who hate us, even from countries such as Edolia. I myself recommend the book Allaneans: Why They Fail – by some elf dude, I don't remember where from, for a critical treatment of our society. Anyway... where was I?”

The boy blushed slightly. “Ah, yes. Books. You will receive completely uninhibited Internet access, and a personal symbolic credit from myself – say, a thousand creds – so you could order books and whatnot. This acess will unfortunately have to be monitored, but we only really care about stuff that affects security. Just don't try and plot an escape, and you'll be fine. I promise. “

He paused.

“The actual courses will take up six hours every day, and you'll all have to do silly stuff like hand in assignments and whatnot. Imagine yourselves being back at school. Also, my people will sometimes come to interrogate you – we hope to get some useful information. You will not be physically tortured during the interrogations.”

He paced between the prisoners.

“I hotly recommend that you do not try to escape. If you do, I will announce a reward for the heads of the escapees. Practically everybody on this island hates the Reich, and with the exeption of babies and foreign tourists from crapholes like Amestria, everybody has a gun, knows how to use it, and would enjoy hunting you for fun and profit. “

“On the other hand, when this war is over, you will have a choice between returning to Vegana, or any other ation of your choice. I myself recommend getting an Allanean citizenship.”

“Does anybody have questions?”

In Allanea

“Mr. Moore. Mrs. Moore...” - the officer nodded sadly. “We're terribly sorry.”

Jonathan Moore blinked, grasping suddenly at the doorpost. “What do you mean, sorry?”

The officer was somber and correct. “Your daughter... Murielle Moore, BSC 0584055-X, had been reported missing in action for the last three days. I have been ordered to take the official notification to your door.”

Cynthia Moore shrieked, her scream of anguish piercing the walls and going into the ultrasonic. Then she collapsed.

“You sons of bitches.” - whispered Jonathan. - “I trusted you stupid commies with my daughter's LIFE. And you can't even tell me if she's alive or dead. You stupid, stupid worthless fucks.”

On the Front

Immense trucks moved at high speeds away frm the front. From them, blood dripped. They were marked 'trophies.'.

For indeed, Allaneans did have one thing in common with the barbarians of old. When confronting enemies they despised – like the Reich soldiers – they would use opportunity to collect their heads – hundreds and hundreds of skulls, from Boy Scout Hill, from the battlefields of the South, from the Front where the Greater Prussians and the Allaneans were beginning to fold up, slowly and methodically, the skulls were coming. It would be of little comfort surely for Iesian soldiers to know their skulls would be used as drinking cups – but nobody really cared.

Soon, the retreat would be complete and the trap would be snapped shut.

The Iesus troopers weren’t intimidated or terrorized by the actions of the Alleaneans….rather they were disgusted. They were a confirmation of all the worst stereotypes of foreigners portrayed in the Iesus media….they were uncivilized barbarians…undisciplined thugs…not Soldiers at all and the news quickly got around the army network.
Any doubts soldiers had about this war were vanishing in the haze of Alleanean vulgarity…..

“Arseholes…”
The Iesus soldiers spat at the passing column of captured Alleanean troops…but did nothing else. The Iesus regular armed forces didn’t make war on prisoners.
Alleanean soldiers who fall into Iesus hands were taken behind the line to temporary camps, eventually to be loaded onto cargo ships that would be used as prison barrages. Iesus soldiers who in the past would be likely to engage prisoners in discussion and perhaps barter now treated them with contempt.

The Iesus forces continued to press forward. Infantry rode Iesus’ own super heavy fighting vehicles into battle and with them came the Iesus media…

In a rare decision the Ministry of Social order allowed soldiers to talk live on air and send direct video messages home to family members. They confirmed the stories of the child soldiers, barbaric rituals and vulgar conduct of the enemy.

Soon other images were recorded. Alleanean troops undisciplined by Officers and wild with combat drugs firing at medics and priests as they administered the last rites to fallen soldiers.
Happily these images were passed onto the Syskeyian and the already bulging local volunteer units increased even more.


OOC: Based on the totally disgusting conduct of your troops, the combat drugs and the apparent complete lack of moral character in your officers I’d say your troops would shot anyone. Hell you say it yourself.

“Remember!” - screamed Major Morrison as he pointed his pistol towards an advancing Iesian soldier and fired several shots. - “Remember! Anyone who you see on the battlefield in front of you is willingly cooperating with the Iesus government! Kill them! No mercy!”

He fired again, and a Traitor Syskeyian collapsed. “If they do not surrender, kill them! There is only one exception to this rule. Only one exception.”

There was tense silence as they saw the Reichite lines advance. “Do not kill medics. Even a wounded Reichite scum deserves medical attention. Besides... wounded soldiers drag down an army.”

The soldiers laughed, and Morrison waved his hat

An infantry platoon fired at once, and Morrison saw, with a smile, blood soak the clothing of a Iesian priest as several jacketed hollowpoint bullets tore through his flesh. He saw a Veganan soldier, screaming in pain as a 'sugarcane' landmine pierced his foot. He saw a HEIL armored vehicle burn, the soldiers inside screaming as they cooked alive, and he was pleased.

But for himself, he had another mission.

He snuck out unto the battlefield, and hit between a set of anti-tank emplacements. He waited, for a long time, concealed by the hugs slabs of concrete.

Eventually, he had his chance – a Iesian soldier, knocked out by an explosion. He looked like he was someone important – or maybe he was not.

Morrison snapped his plasticuffs on the man's hands, and began to drag his body back to the Allanean lines...

DEMOCRATIC SOVIET REPUBLIC OF KAHANISTAN
Ministry of Foreign Affairs

The Government of Kahanistan wishes to deploy humanitarian vessels to extract the civilians who are seeking refuge from the war with Allanea, and to render medical assistance to those who need it.

While we still have a formal alliance with the United States of Allanea, we feel that this war has been poorly conducted and have no desire to commit troops to the cause. We will allow Reich inspectors aboard our vessels to search them for excess arms, marines, or contraband.

We want nothing more than a quick end to the conflict, with minimal loss of lives.

The vessels have been ordered to hold position fifty kilometers from the Syskeyian coast.

Signed,
Margaret Delray,
Minister of Foreign Affairs

To: Ministry of Foreign affairs. Att: Margaret Delray
Re: Humanitarian Aid.

Your request has been duly noted and we will prepare a unit to board and search your vessels for illegal arms. In term of humanitarian aid we will guarantee your safety and no arms are necessary. We will however allow small arms for personal protection under the condition that you accept full responsibility of any crimes commited by any of your personell, this is ofcourse a responsibility for a Kahanistan as a group.

Looking forward to meeting you.

Best regards
Slobodan Jovanic

------

The Troops crawled through the trench covered in mud and shrapnel from the bombaradment. They had advanced close enough to be able to spot the Allanean fortifications through their communication systems and they were indeed magnificent. The Scouts had reported that the Allaneans had cleared a large area in front of the heavy fortification so any advances would have to be done under heavy cover. An Allanean POW had told them about thousands of workers building day and night, most likely performing under enhancing drugs.

Colonel Walsh spat on the ground in front of him as he received the latest reports. Some of his troops had been close enough to the fortifications to hear voices from the other side, but it was clearly a bloody mine field between them and the walls and their airforce was busy clearing the skies in Southern Syskeyia so they wouldn't support them.

-"Bloody politicians!" he mumbled as he spat again. However he would do to take the fortifications it would be a bloody affair. Allanea had dug themselves in deep this time and it would take a lot to flush them out. Every day they waited the Allaneans dug in deeper. He cursed under his breath again.

The Kahanistanian ships held position 50 kilometers from Syskeyia. Aboard each of the 50 Wasp-class troop transports and 10 Mercy-class hospital ships, there were skeleton crews of 400.

There were weapons aboard the ships, mainly assault rifles, carbines, body armor, grenade launchers, pistols, and a few heavy machine guns. These weapons were insufficient to attack the Reich forces, but if anyone attempted to board or capture the ship, there would be one hell of a fight.

Crew quarters left vacant by the skeleton crewing were prepared for the refugees, approximately 6,000 to a ship, or 300,000 total - four times the normal capacity of the vessel, but these were desperate times, and people wouldn't mind being crammed into smaller quarters when the alternative was to have a shell dropped on their heads.

The hospital ship crews possessed arms, too, solely for repelling boarders. This fact could be verified by the simple fact that there weren't enough arms aboard to arm a large military organization. Carrying greater than the usual amount of medical supplies, they could care for 2,000 wounded each, or 20,000 total.

A refugee camp in Kahanistan was already under construction, hoping to be capable of supporting eight to ten million refugees. It had a solar power plant, water purification units, hospitals, schools, and other infrastructure planned. It would be easily visible by satellite.

There was even an immigration officer on each ship, who could process applications for Kahanistanian citizenship or refugee status, and forms in all four of Kahanistan's official languages (Arabic, English, Hebrew, and Latin.) These forms would be faxed to the Ministry of the Interior from the ship.

In the meanwhile, the Allaneans continued to dig in, with concrete and cement now used to fortify the line, which even now had a name – the Sukothai Line, named after the former President of Syskeyia. The Prussian and Allanean troops have withdrawn to the line now, and anybody who could still walk was diverted to reinforcing it.

From Allanea, a continuous air bridge continued to pour in mechanized infantry to the fortification line – ten thousand troops each day, replete with artillery, cannon, and so forth. A full half of all the cargo aircraft in Allanea's disposal was used for this purpose, and every day, the line was getting stronger – with more and more infantrymen firing from the trenches, more and more combat bulldozers digging, more and more artillery pouring steel and explosives onto the Reich ranks.

And at the same time a Reich soldier would know – if he fell and died within reach of the Allanean lines, his body would… disappear. Not only his skull, but his kidneys, lungs, and any other useful organ would be harvested, and diverted to hospitals in Allanea – and many a cancer patient blessed the Army commanders for saving his life.


Official Announcement of the Allanean Government

We welcome all foreign aid personnel to the area of combat in Syskeyia, and we would also like to begin ceasefire negotiations with the Reich. We would like the leaders of Kahanistan to mediate this dispute.

DEMOCRATIC SOVIET REPUBLIC OF KAHANISTAN
Ministry of Foreign Affairs

The Government of Kahanistan accepts the Reichite conditions for delivering aid. We again state our desire for peace talks, and invite representatives from Allanea, Syskeyia, Vegana, and other powers involved in the conflict to meet in our capital to negotiate.

Signed,
Margaret Delray,
Minister of Foreign Affairs

The glory of a totally controlled state is that whatever the leadership says, is the complete truth...for a given value of "true".
Thus, when Amadeus collapses, spasming, his attendants do not react.
These are not fits, these are the Great Leader receiving visions from God.
After a period of gnashing his teeth at the deep plush carpet of his office, Amadeus clambers to his feet, eyes bright as they always are and calls for his generals.
Generals who know where the power lies in God's Own.
Who, assembling in Amadeus's office, can look down onto the burnt-out ruins of the House of Representatives, preserved to commemorate the victory of God's chosen, Amadeus Shelford.
Thus, when Amadeus announces God has ordered him to halt the Syskeyian campaign, halting the Wehrmacht in place to hold what they and the other Reich forces have captured, there is no dissent, no questioning of the Great Leader's strategic acumen.
Instead, his orders are followed to the letter, the Wehrmacht repositioned within days, an Iron Line cutting the remanant of Syskeyia, or what used to be Syskeyia, and is now a province of Allanea, from the Reich-held majority of the country.
The Sukothai Line is ignored, now a waste of resources as the Wehrmacht, in all it's vastness, shifts from attack to defence.
Behind the Iron Line, conditions stabilise, Syskeyian refugees flee into sectors not filled with troops in the field grey and Russian-style helmets of the Wehrmacht.
Trenches begin to form.
Not the ineffective, glorified Berlin Wall of the Sukothai Line, no.
Trenches that cross the country, winding in on each other and out again, deep into the earth, coiling along the edges of No Man's Land like some vast and hideous snake.
The Wehrmacht digs deep, sends a snarling negative to the offer to negotiate and settles down to wait.

Liberty-City, the White House

Alexander Kazansky pours a small doze of a thin white powder on the table, and then eyes his cabinet for a few seconds. He eyes the team for a few seconds, and then inhales the powder through a special straw. Then he straightens up, a look of bliss on his face.

“Ahh... cocaine. The true ambrosia.”

There is a short pause, and then Kazansky nods to Henry Morrison. “You don't have to sit that straight. You're a civilian now, you know.”

“Excuse me, Sir?”

“Relax, Henry. Anyway, I reviewed your suggestion. I like them. I want you to do exactly what you suggested – to dig in, reinforce the battlements with Marines and concrete, and just sit there. We'll weather it out, until they negotiate.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Now don't be so gloom there, Henry, it's your own advice I'm acting on here.”

* * * *

And so the Sukothai Line is reinforced – more layers of concrete, more complex battlements, more Finnish-style bunkers. Aircraft seed the land between the two Lines with landmines, and cannon fire lazily at the Reich positions as the Reich cannon are firing back at them.

Casualties fall. Support for the war rises.

Recruitment rises, and private militias deploy to the Sukothai Line – the Sisters of Liberty, the Florida Constitutional Militia, and a few other units. In the meanwhile, the Boy Scout Corps units are folded entirely.

Of course, it's now difficult for Syskeyian refugees to cross the line into the Reich or back into Allanea. Such is life. Nobody really gives a flying one, anyway. The most important thing now is that the Reich doesn't win, that the grey waves don't cover all of Syskeyia. If that happens, all is lost.

The United States Army and Marine Corps now dig in even harder, and wait for the inevitable.

The Allanean Army knows a lot about waiting.

The order they waited for came at dawn. Colonel Walsh stared at it with disbelief. Thirty minutes later the mobile artillery began to rain down fire at the Sukothai defense line as penal battalions rush towards the enemy fortifications followed by monstrous panzer shapes emerging from the Reich trenches with long rattling and slashing chains to both encourage the dog soldiers to run faster as well as take out the mines the human wall misses.

Thousands of Katyush rockets plays their symphony as they make their way towards the barricades with an eerie howling like an army of tormented souls until they crash into the walls with loud bangs as a thunder clap that goes on forever. The artillery drops mixes of poisonous gas and smoke, hoping the gas will reach into the fortified trenches and burn the lungs and skin of their enemy as the smoke covers the all out assault like a huge milky sea spreading over the no mans land.

In the sea of smoke screams and explosions are drowned by the howling of the Katyush but puffs of smoke can be seen everywhere in the sea of smoke as men and women get their legs or guts ripped out by mines. Running in the front are almost naked men holding smoke torches in their hands like Olympic runners rushing to light the fire. Once in a while a larger puff leaves the sea as a tank hits a mine not released by the chains. For the men and women in the front the choice is easy and the direction too. The only way is forward or get caught in the whirling chains and be teared into pieces. The smoke makes their eyes teary as they dash towards the enemy line in hope of getting there alive and finding a hole without any poisonous gas to ride out the attack in.

Mixed with the penal battalions are thousands of so called insurgents captured in the offensive and now driven by the steely whirling chains like cattle together with the Veganan criminals and political misfits. Everyone has been handed a rifle and a limited amount of rounds. Behind the Panzer however the shock troops advance well protected in their suits against both gas and light rifle fire.

One of the runners jumps the first outer fence and throws himself to the ground as he continues to crawl towards enemy lines, his legs badly cut by barbed wire and the trail of smoke leaving him as Allaneans open fire and bullets tears into his body. He twitches and rolls in agony to be completely still a second later when his adrenalin filled body finally understands and embraces death. A heavy panzer comes closely behind only to be stuck in a tank trap like a giant bug with the chains still whirling several meters in the air.

The lonely destroyer advanced directly towards the 60 kahanistan ships in an almost outrageously arrogant way. only slowing down a hundred meters from them an open message was sent.

"Prepare to be boarded!"

Captain Morris looked out over the small fleet with a grim face. His mission was easy. He would disarm these ships and escort them one by one to the port where a refugee camp had been established. The sanitation facility was having a hard time keeping the thoussands of refugees in a controlled area and the Veganian authorities had emptied several prisons into the camps making the situation almost unbearable.

The Kahanistanian vessel commanders allowed the Reich soldiers to board. They would not hand over their small arms, but they would allow the vessel to be searched throroughly for heavier arms or excessive weapons.

It was established policy of the Republic Navy to arm all ship crew members in the event of boardings.

Aboard the vessels, there were plenty of office and medical supplies.

“Gas! Gas! Quick!”

For some of the Allanean infantry, this came too lae. They were already at the bottom of their trenches, coughing and screaming in terror as the lethal substance oozed down their throats and into their lungs. But still, the Allanean Army had trained for this eventuality. While they waited in the Sukothai Line trenches, they had drilled dozens of times to put on gas masks – the enemy had used gas before, and this kind of thing was bound to come again. But still, many an Allanean soldiers had breathed his last gasp of air when it was mixed with Reichite poison.

“Fire! Fire! Let none survive!”

The large .308 rifles were considered weapons of immense overkill before the war. Now, the jacketed hollow-point ammunition was doing it's job on many a soldier, many a Penal Battalion prisoner. In the meanwhile, MRLS missiles pumped the battlefield full of fuel-air explosive rounds, making it not unlike a danteic Hell.

And the most horrible Allanean tactic was yet to be revealed. Far above, the Ank'riat bomber made their dive, like the B-52 strafing runs in Vietnam – but with much more bombs and napalm. Every bomber would drop out a complete 240-ton payload onto where the Reichites stood, making the round shake with the sheer impact of the immense bombs.

But still, the sheer amount of the Reich troops and their undeniable bravery made itself evident in the field. At long last, the Line began to crack. At a single point in the line, where the bodies of the Reich soldiers covered the approaches like a green and red carpet – and their comrades stepped on them to get closer to the Allaneans – the 34th Furry Mechanized Infantry began to give under pressure. Already, some battalions began to turn, and their half-slaughtered remnants ran in horror before the waves of the Reichite troops.

A few kilometers back, Scoutmaster Nigel Jones stared in horror at the reports. He knew that the line was about to fall – and something had to be done. On the other hand, he had clear orders from the President of the United States not to rejoin combat...

“Fuck that.”

Within minutes, the first platoons of Boy Scouts were making way towards the Line.

An hour later – just as the first Reichite troops began to appear on the crest of the first line of escarpments – Nigel climbed it from the Allanean side. And just as the Reichites thought they had victory, the 456th Boy Scout Brigade hit them.

They fought, bayonet and bullet and grenade, the brave Boys In Beige, some already bandaged in the places of previous wounds, taking the Reich troops in surprise. Even as they expected victory, the Brigade went into them – and even as countless Boy Scouts fell to the ground, they began to push the enemy off the Line yet again.

Kahanistan vessels

-"Greetings. These are the terms delivered by our great leader.

you will hand over all your weapons save ten hand arms and your ships will be escorted one by one to the port for boarding of the refugees. Your security will be guaranteed by Reich forces as long as you are ashore. Any extra weapons discovered, or delivering arms to insurgents will result in a collective punishment."

The officer looked around for anyone responsible to answer

The fleet and vessel commanders were in no mood to argue; they merely wished to save lives here, not take them. As much as they detested the Reich, the fleet commander ordered the ships' captains to cooperate with them.

"Your terms are acceptable."

Outside the coastline

The ships started to be guided towards the camp where all the unwanted, criminals and refugees where stationed. Not even The Reich usual efficiency in keeping it clean had helped and after a few weeks they had just let it go. The stench from the Ghetto was breathtaking and the first refugee boat was quickly filled under supervision of armed military police.

The Front

Sergeant Morris shoved a dog soldier in front of him as he felt the resistance was giving way. The smoke was everywhere and people around him, mostly dog soldiers, were vomiting and gasping for air as the poisonous gas was spreading. He knew that the effect would be at its greatest down in the trenches so any resitance he met up here would hardly be made defenceless from the attack. Jumping over a bleeding man trying to keep his entrails in after a bad bullet wound from something big he advanced through some structures. The situation was very similar to all the battle simulations he had performed during his three years basic training so he moved towards a wall as his Infra red showed the glaring red of bodies around him. He cursed as he almost stumbled on a piece of a fence that had been covered by all the smoke. He knew he had to be careful since his mates all had the same heat deflecting clothes as him and he didn't want to shoot them by mistake. The dog soldiers on the other hand was shining beacons in a shooting gallery and he waited to see where the fire would come from.

The fire came and he could see masses of bodies advancing while firing leaving dead dog soldiers in their path. He started to pick off the ones coming from a hill when he suddenly was hit by the burst of a grenade. His armour protected him from the biggest part of the explosion but he was thrown into the wall and his vision became shady for a while.

When he came to again the enemy was everywhere and three of them was shooting at him. While firing back he never saw the shadow that emerged from behind and shot him several times from a close range. As the shadow bent over him with a bayonet to finish him off he could see his nemesis.

For fucks sake! A bloody boy scout!

The Bayonet slid under his vizir into his brain.

The Front

The smoke was still covering the area between the line and the Allanean defence line, but it was slowly drifting apart, showing burning wrecks of tanks and horribly disfigured corpses. He watched the slowly trickling lines of men returning from the line with tears in his eyes. The assault had been a total failure. Thousands of dead lay between him and the defence line and reports from other part of the army told stories about casualty rates close to 50 %. They had waited too long. The fortifications had been too strong. He cursed the names of the people holding him back for this long as he slowly removed the binoculars from his face. He watched one of his men return supporting a young man whose leg had been severly injured by a landmine. Why had they waited for this long!

At the Sukothai Line

“And twenty-six!” – the young soldier unshouldered his massive ABR-8 rifle and marked off another small X on it’s buttstock.

The rifle was a marvel of craftsmanship – originally a stock-manufacture ABR-8, it was now renovated with a hair trigger, and a silver inlay on the grip and around the trigger guard – done at a gunsmith’s store in Allanean Alabama at the soldier’s own expense. George N. Gordon knew that he would be keeping the rifle when his service ended, so he could afford to invest in such things. This was also why there was a custom scope on this rifle – and why Gordon, while not a sniper, had such a high kill count.

“Twenty-seven, damn you all! Will they never stop?”

And at that very moment, the Veganan troops began to full back.

“Damnation! Come back, you cowards!” –screamed the soldier, his attitude seemingly reversed. “Come back, you communist suckers, I need my frags, you…”

He paused for a second to aim and fire.

“Twenty eight.” – noted the soldier next to Gordon as he lowered his binoculars. “Wow. You’re a tough one, George.”

In the meanwhile, Victoria Sheshet, Secretary of State, was making another appeal for a ceasefire.

....

To: Victoria Sheshet.

Your request for a ceasefire has been accepted. I suggest discussions regarding a long term stable situation is to be held in a third party nation, Kahanistan.

Lord Marshal Benedict Johnsson




To: Kahanistani Government

Regarding your previous proposal to have peace discussions with the Allanean aggressor we happily accept. Could you host a secure position for us and the Allanean delegates?

Best Regards
Lord Marshal Benedict Johnsson

DEMOCRATIC SOVIET REPUBLIC OF KAHANISTAN
Ministry of Foreign Affairs

The Presidential Palace in Najaster, Kahanistan, is one of the most secure complexes in the world, guarded day and night by 1,500 soldiers.

While the President himself is attending a conference in an allied nation, a meeting with me, Reich delegates, and Allanean delegates, in the Conference Hall is a secure option.

Signed,
Margaret Delray,
Minister of Foreign Affairs

ATT: DEMOCRATIC SOVIET REPUBLIC OF KAHANISTAN
Ministry of Foreign Affairs

Dear Margaret,

The Presidential Palace in Najaster, Kahanistan, would suit perfect for such an occasion. We would greatly appreciate if you could handle the invitations.

Signed,
Lord marshal Benedict Johnsson








The Front

Rogbert hunkered down a bit lower behind the ceramic armour of the assault hovercraft.
No one liked the noisy open-topped vehicle but it was cheap, fast and easily mass-
produced. Perfect for the Penal Battalions. Another spray of sea-water whipped up into
his face and he sputtered weakly. He wished fervently that the defenders would sleep
in and forget about this particular piece of beach. But as the first tracer-rounds began
to whip through the morning mist he knew his wish would not come true.

...

Desperately cutting through his combat-harness Rogbert finally managed to extricate
himself from the burning wreckage that had been his transport. It had been hit by
something armor-penetrating seconds after reaching the shore. The first two rows of
Penitents had been sprayed by molten metal and were now a pile of moaning,
twitching flesh. At least they gave the rest of their comrades some cover against the
defensive fire that raked across the beach. Unless the fire spread to the ammunition
canisters for the Gatling gun. Rogbert grabbed his rifle and jumped over the side of
the wreck. The water was safer than this.

...

"Move! Move! Move!"
The officer was shouting hoarsely to the pinned down Penitents who were hugging any
cover they could find. The air around them was filled with razor-sharp shrapnel and
screams from the wounded. Rogbert had found a nice little crater to play dead in. The
earth smelled of cordite and blood, probably from his former comrades who so
thoughtfully had set of the first of the plastic proximity-mine in the minefield that covered
the approach to the bunkers. Between that and the razor-wire criss-crossing the
sand-banks Rogbert had decided to take a rain-check on the whole spectacle.
The officer kicked one of the scared soldiers and then twitched as someone, Reich or
Allanea, put a bullet in his crotch. Rogbert could hear him scream even over the
bombardment. Oh, well, at least this was a good place to ride out the whole shit storm.
Then the first of the mines in the self-healing mine field bounced ten meters into the air
and landed an armslength from his cosy crater. Rogbert watched as the LEDs on it
started to tick through its post-movement arming sequence. Suddenly those bunkers
felt like a much better place to be; mines, razor-wire and Allanean soldiers be damned!

...

Rogbert slid painfully down the bunker wall. Those last Allaneans had died hard.
He felt along the wound across his ribs and decided against exploring it further. At
least he had solid concrete walls around him and not a mine-filled beach. He
kicked away two of the corpses that covered the bunkers grenade-sink. One never
knew when some over-eager asshole with too many grenades and too little brain
would happen by. Idly he wondered if someone else in his impromptu break-out
force from the beach still lived. Not that he really cared. Ahhh, concrete. Beautiful
thick concrete ...

- - -

"Sir! The Penal Battalions have breached Typhoon Beach! We have access to the
secondary trenches. But they will counter-attack as soon as they can move units
away from the adjacent beaches."

"Good! I knew our boys would come through. Even lowly Penitents can out-fight
Allanean regulars. At least when cornered like rats ... <he he>."

"Sir. The counter-attacks ...?"

"Yes. Yes. Deploy mine fields with artillery on both sides of Typhoon Beach. That
should make their counter-attack loose its edge. Use self-destructing mines with
a timer of 45 minutes. I expect our armored assault units to move in behind the regular
soldiers in about 40 minutes and don't want to block any of _their_ movement.
Oh, and remove the reserves from the other beaches. I want to pour them into the
breach as soon as possible. And make sure any artillery that target that breach
get some suppressive fire on it."

"Yes Sir!"

"Good boy. Dismissed."

Najaster, Capital of Kahanistan

Foreign Minister's office

"I can't believe it. The dumbass actually addressed me by my first name," said the Foreign Minister angrily. "And at the same time we're trying to distance ourselves from Allanea, their enemies have to insult us?" She turned to the Deputy Foreign Minister. "I've had enough of this crap. You deal with them."

She downed another can of beer and the deputy walked off to compose a brief reply to the Reich and Allaneans.

---
Open IC:

DEMOCRATIC SOVIET REPUBLIC OF KAHANISTAN
Ministry of Foreign Affairs

The Government of Kahanistan invites all warring parties involved in the Allanean-Reich conflict to meet in the Conference Room of the Presidential Palace in Najaster, Kahanistan, for the purpose of discussing peace terms on neutral territory.

Signed,
Mohammed Hassan ibn Malik,
Deputy Foreign Minister

Official Response of the United States Government

Our representative, John R. Nichols, will arrive to complete the negotiations. He will proceed unguarded, and armed with a ceremonial knife. His security is purely the responsibility of the Kahanistani personnel, who will answer if they allow him to be harmed in any way by the loathsome vermin that constitute the Reich government at all it’s levels.

ATT: DEMOCRATIC SOVIET REPUBLIC OF KAHANISTAN
Ministry of Foreign Affairs

Dear Mohammed,

We will select a proper representative to discuss with our adversaries. We accept your offer of responsibility of our representant.

Signed,
Lord marshal Benedict Johnsson

Slobodan read the messages on his screen as dozens of monitors showed different pictures on his wall. His old man hands reached out clawlike as he pushed the button that brought him their latest intelligence about Kahanistan.

"Smaller nation, less than half our size. Turbulent past and now very similar in demography to those libertarians in Allanea. Intelligence code: B-27. Not sure about their stability... Send Primero Robada, he needs to get out and about. Choose a bodyguard to go with him and send a box of boy scout clothes from Lager 24, make sure there are some soiled ones."

What the Veganans did not seem to get was that Kahanistanian officials of high rank were very touchy about being called by their first names in formal situations. This only served to offend the Kahanistanian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. However, their neutrality would not be affected; Kahanistan was trying to distance itself from Allanea to improve its foreign relations elsewhere.

---

Najaster, Capital of Kahanistan

Najaster International Airport

A tall, slender Mediterranean woman (http://i73.photobucket.com/albums/i206/Kahanistan/marakate78.jpg) in her late 20's, dressed in the uniform of an officer of the Kahanistan Republic Guard (http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/Kahanistan_Republic_Guard), awaited the Veganan and Allanean delegations. She was the one upon whose shoulders the safety of both sides' delegates would rest.

These Veganans... are they trying to offend the Ministry? Perhaps they're hoping that they can push us into the Allanean camp, then claim that we aren't a neutral power... The officer's mind continued to drift. She had just had the President's security doubled to 3,000 because of a surprise Kraven attack, she was distressed because she had recently made friends with another officer who was promptly deployed to Kraven, and now she had to mediate disputes between Allaneans and Veganans? It made no sense to her.

The young woman continued to pace the runway with a handful of other soldiers, waiting for the Allaneans and Veganans to arrive...

The small jet had followed all procedures. They had obeyed all orders as they descended towards Kahanistanian ground and their escort turned away. The sleak airplane slowly came to a full stop on the runway and the door opened.

Primero Robada had never been described as a handsome man, in fact many a times people had yelled words after him that could at best be described as rude. He peered out, squinting against the strong sunlight through bottle thick glasses, before he limped down the stairs towards the waiting officer. Three steps behind him followed a huge man in a too small dark suit.

-"Hullo, ehh.. you must be miss... uhh..." He picked up a paper from his pocket and looked at it. "Miss Margaret Delray?" He peered up at her over the thick rims of his glasses. "You look much younger than I expected"

The woman smiled softly, vaguely amused. She looked nothing like Delray. "No," she said. She extended her hand to the Veganan. "Major Mara Fulton, Kahanistan Republic Guard. I'll be in charge of security at the meeting. Dr. Delray is already there, she's waiting for both sides to arrive."

Fulton continued. "You must be Mr. Robada," she said to the man who had just spoken to her. "And you are..." She waited for the larger Veganan to introduce himself.

Primero took her hand and shook it while mumbling something unhearable. The large Veganian let his eyes fall on the major for a brief moment before giving her a pale smile that didn't give the hint of quite reaching to the eyes behind the sunglasses he was wearing.

-"Mr. Sanders is my personal aide" Primero said, " are we waiting for someone or should we go to the meeting?"

"We're waiting for the Allanean delegation. They should arrive in a matter of minutes, then we can get to business," said Fulton. She seemed a little suspicious of the Veganans, but figured that what he muttered had something to do with expecting the Foreign Minister at the airport.

"I know the security is tight," she said, hoping to break the ice. "We've recently come under unexpected attack from Kraven, so people are a little nervous here, but Kraven hasn't gotten here yet in force. The Presidential Palace is probably one of the safest places in the country, so we're going there after the Allaneans get here."

She gestured in the direction of a tank column. While Kahanistanian officials rarely traveled with large, obvious security detachments, the armor and troops here were to mostly reassure the Veganans and Allaneans that they were safe. The column consisted of ten Merkava IV MBT's and two larger tanks that appeared to look like upscaled Merkava IV's. There were also several IFV's and APC's, but no limo or other obvious VIP transport - it would attract too much attention.

The Allanean diplomat decided to push the envelope, yet again. Back at the front line, heavy artillery was plowing through the Reich positions with chemical weapons and incendiary ammunition, and superheavy tanks were being ferried into the front to fight on against the Reich armor. But here, the Allanean diplomat bid his time as if nothing happened.

In this case, John R. Nichols arrived at the meeting two hours late. Just let them stew on that one.

“Well… what conditions do the Veganan statist verm… I mean, the honorable diplomats from Vegana have propose?”

OOC: Appologies for falling out of this thread a long time ago. I am guessing things are probably well progressed beyond the need of my involvement, but I was checking to see if there is any possibility of my returning to activity within the thread now that most of my personal problems have been dealt with?

OOC: I think we're basically having a peace conference now, perhaps you would like to join?

OOC: Of course. I will do anything that I can to be of assistance in this endeavour. I can either send the commander of the Imperial forces that were deployed earlier...I cant remember who it was...Marechal Junot I think. Or another boring Prussian diplomat :P

The Allanean diplomat decided to push the envelope, yet again. Back at the front line, heavy artillery was plowing through the Reich positions with chemical weapons and incendiary ammunition, and superheavy tanks were being ferried into the front to fight on against the Reich armor. But here, the Allanean diplomat bid his time as if nothing happened.

In this case, John R. Nichols arrived at the meeting two hours late. Just let them stew on that one.

“Well… what conditions do the Veganan statist verm… I mean, the honorable diplomats from Vegana have propose?”


-"Ermm... *Eek!* sorry, I would suggest that the unlawful invasion of the catholic country of Syskeyia ceases and *bugger!*, sorry, that Allanea immediately withdraws their aggression." Primeros left brow twitched uncontrollable as he spoke to John R. Nichols. "Furthermore we demand an remedy from the Allanean aggression of 10 billions to rebuild the peaceful syskeyia to its former glory." Primeros arm flicked out to his right but he regained control.

Mr. Sanders watched Primero intently. Stress always made Primeros tourrettes so much more visible, but he had his medicine and as soon they had their first break he would see to it that Primero was calmed down and medicated.

OOC: Insults are IC only. Deal below is as agreed previously with Vegana over IRC and the like.

IC:

The Allanean shrugged.

"First of all, fuck you in the ear. Second, we refuse the Reich's solution outright.
Here is ours. Let the shooting end, and both sides retain sovereignty over the part of Syskeyia they hold. If not... we can come back to shooting."

Delray rolled her eyes and suppressed the urge to tell Nichols to watch his language. The only reason she had not asked for a Syskeyian representative was because the Reich and Allanea would never agree on whose views were representative of the Syskeyians.

However, letting the Reich grab more of Syskeyian territory was most certainly NOT an option that the government of Kahanistan was willing to entertain. Hell, she didn't even want to let the Reich hold sovereignty over the area of Syskeyia that they held control of already.

"I propose that a multinational force be assembled to set up an interim government in Syskeyia. Both Allanean and Reich forces would be represented, as well as soldiers from neutral nations. We set up elections in Syskeyia to be monitored by the international community, and let the people decide for themselves whether or not they want to be part of Allanea, part of the Reich, or an independent nation. The multinational observers would work to prevent either side from resorting to fraud." Delray looked pointedly at the Allanean.

"Going back to shooting is the last thing we want. That's why we're here, because we're sick of shooting each other. We want peace in Syskeyia, and we won't leave this room until we have peace here."

The Allanean shrugs.

"Actually, if you're not going to leave the room, that's fine by me. I'm going to leave, though. I delivered my offer to the Veganans. They can accept or deny it. That is all."

Then, he turns to leave.

Shit!

Delray thought quickly. She could have the Allanean detained, to try to force a resolution of some form in order to end the conflict. She remembered a meeting (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=496501) in St. Fedski, where Kahanistanian and Xirniumite officials were held in St. Fedski, the reason widely believed to have been to discourage Xirnium from seceding from the Adamantine Alliance. However, from what she knew of the Allaneans, such a move could easily lead to war. While she cared little for preserving relations with Allanea at the expense of foreign relations elsewhere, provoking a war was not a viable option with the Kraven invasion at the same time.

Major Fulton, who had attended that meeting, looked at Delray quizzically. She did not necessarily want to ruin relations with Allanea, unlike many in the government, but she was a military officer and would do whatever the government wanted her to do, as long as it wasn't a crime against humanity or anything of that scale. The two women made brief eye contact, and the Foreign Minister shook her head. The Kahanistanians would not detain Nichols, but they would be slow to act if the Reich did.

OOC: I have no issues what so ever with Allaneas IC insults, and yes the outcome has been agreed, just not the road to get there.

IC:

Primero huffed and puffed with a shocked look on his face, he watched the Kahanistani officials with astonishment.

-"That.. eh.. was .... I need to call *bugger* my superiors"

Mr Sanders stepped out in front of Nichols before he could leave and pushed a box into his arms.

-"We thought we should show some good faith and deliver back some stuff that belongs to your country men, or former country boys I might say." Mr. Sanders smiled a cold smile before he continued "I was thinking of getting one of these scout uniforms for my son but a few of them are soiled. I guess that happens to 13 year olds that die a grim death alone in the cold."

With that he stepped out of Nichols way and wallked over to Primero

The Allanean shrugged. “You’d know better. I am quite sure – though I could be mistaken – that no Allanean Boy Scout younger then sixteen is at the front. More to the point, bowel muscles relax after death, for reasons far too obvious for anybody with a... clue. I’m sure yours would, too, if I shot you in the face. However, I am also sure your particular bowels would relax even before I pulled the trigger.”

Sanders stopped on his way to Primero, his bulging neck muscles twitching as he looked over his shoulder with an evil grin.

-"I hope you dont mind I'm acting on that threat?" With a lightning speed the huge man spun the balls of his feet and struck the Allanean straight in the face with a bonecrushing sound. Deftly jumping away and putting the slumping Allanean between him and the Kahanistani guards.

Primero snapped out of his paralysis and run up to the floored Allanean while screaming;

-"You filthy scum! We should purge the earth of your kind! Everything I ever heard about you were true! Rot in hell! There will be no peace! " Salive showering the downed Allanean as he continued screaming, "You dirty creep, you crawl back to your trenches and continue your inhuman orgies! We've seen your rapes on TV and the world too!"

Nichols collapsed, a white flash of pain blotting out his vision and then subsiding, just as he saw the Reich official approach. He felts blood run down his face and into his mouth – his nose was probably broken – and boy, did that hurt. As Primero approached, he kicked him once. It brought Nichols pleasure to see that his heavy boot hit Primero right in the crotch, and he grinned through his pain as he saw the Reich official down over.

“Oh, and that video you broadcasted? That’s not rape footage. That’s not even orgy footage. That’s from my daughter’s prom. I should know, she’s in the video.“

Fulton stood up at the outbreak of the fighting, her Taser X-26 at the ready. She leveled it at the three fighting men.

"I'd advise you all to calm down and stop attacking each other's cultures long enough to get a treaty in place."

The officer was about three meters from the men. Her finger was on the trigger. It would be nothing for her to put one or more of them out for the count. She looked across at them, waiting for their response and if using the weapon was justified...

Sanders looked at the woman with the taser and made the calculation within a fraction of a second in his adrenaline filled mind. I most likely will be able to get to her and take her out even if I'm hit with the taser. I can use her body as cover against the others.. His battle clouded thoughts didn't go further as it was interrupted by a shrill voice screaming;

-"This is a disgrace! We come here in good faith and get threatened and insulted! " Primeros voice got back to his usual pitch as he managed to rise after the kick in the groin. "We have nothing to say to the barbarian perverts from Allanea. They prove once again that they are the lowest human lifeform and should be erased from the earth!"

He clumsily walked away while tugging the hesitating Sanders. "We will stay another day, if the honoured Kahanistani hosts can civilize the Allanean monkey before that we can take up the discussions again."

"We'll try," said the security officer as she lowered her weapon. The Foreign Minister nodded.

The major sat back down in her seat, her body language signaling the diplomats to sit down. She nodded to the Allanean and pushed out an empty chair next to her, motioning for him to sit down.

With him next to me and the Veganans not being so unruly, maybe this conference has a chance of getting off the ground.

The Allanean shrugs.

"I am offering the Veganans a much simpler offer. A ceasefire, under which both sides retain their current territory. The ceasefire will not include, however, the current government of Iesus Christi, which we do not recognise as a lawful government, but rather a bunch of thugs."