NationStates Jolt Archive

2006, Batambui, Abassamara

"I will not allow thirty-five years, more than half of my life, to be wasted! Goumba will save the situation! I have given orders for that half-blood Mallus to be shot, and for Goumba to take command of the Third Battalion. Goumba is the son of a good liberation soldier, I knew his father, Goumba will lead from the front and we will deal with this blackguardism once and for all!"

At sixty-four years young, Marshal Chakwae had lost none of his energy, but he appeared to have lost his grip on reality along with most of his territory. Fighters associated with the Abassamari Democratic Movement for Development were in the same position now as had been Bekem's own anti-colonial forces in 1971, except that, today, the capital was known not by the colonial name, Padamboy, but by the name assigned to it by a much younger Marshal: Batambui.

Marshal Bekem Chakwae had maintained power for thirty-five years, allowing one or two polls to take place but never with a chance of anyone matching him (nor with much chance of walking free once defeated), and he considered that his great legacy would be first the defeat of old colonial masters, and second the lasting defence of Abassamara, as he had renamed the territory of Free Abassaland, against neo-colonialism. This was not enough for a rebel movement that had existed in isolation for several years in the vast and varied landscape of a sparsely-peopled nation with limited infrastructure. Chakwae's government was on the verge of defeat, and not more than a few hundred fighters remained active in its defence, tired and isolated with communications breaking down.

The Marshal was sending orders to units that existed primarily on paper, through deputies who had no clear way of communicating with the front, wherever it was. He was sinking into nostalgia, relying on anyone he could link to the victories of the liberation struggle, even some of those who'd since betrayed him, or whom he'd given more than enough reason to do so.

The ADMD claimed to be fighting for democratic reform, but were in truth deeply factionalised along extremist lines, a distant co-operation of religious and political minorities pursuing their own agenda. If Chakwae had a realistic hope, it was in his long-standing ability to contain radicals that would upset foreign governments: he did not allow foreigners much access to Abassamara, but he made sure that Abassamara did not present a threat to anyone else. It was his desperate contention that, if he fell, the nation would collapse into warlordism, and become a uranium-rich land with numerous old munitions factories, crawling with warped Christian and Islamist sects, cultists, Bolsheviks, drug-lords, gun-runners, poachers, and heaven knows what other demons.

1967, Padamboy, Free Abassaland

In much of the land now incorporated in the Abassaland mandate it was traditional for the subject of birthday celebrations to host a party and dispense gifts or at least unusual hospitality to his loved ones, in a show of appreciation for their companionship and support over the previous year. Today, Bekem Chakwae was turning twenty-four. He did not feel like there was much to celebrate, even though it was only during this year that he'd finally recovered from prolonged illness caused, he thought, though he couldn't prove it, by the traumatic loss of his left ear. Still, the young man kissed his mother goodbye and swore, somewhat cryptically, that he would give all of his brothers and sisters something to celebrate.

That day, something was begun.

His biological siblings would not see Bekem again until 1971, when he returned to the colonial capital at the head of a bloodied and twisted army. Horrible though the rebels may have appeared, they came to Padamboy as victors and heroes with Chakwae, having spent the last four years fighting his comrades no more mercifully than his enemies, riding a battered 4x4 vehicle at their head.

The colonial authorities were several hours into a flustered evacuation attempt, having realised and accepted perhaps too late that their forces really were going to be defeated by the stupid, slothful natives. A massacre began, the day of ten million cuts as one foreign journal would call it, in which the deaths and mutilations of several generations were repaid by anyone regarded as being in association with the colonial order.

---Imperial Palace, Pythogria, 7:20 PM---

"Sir, it appears that Abassamara is in a civil war." the Advisor told the Supreme General.

The Supreme General replied, "Hmm... Send Abassamara a message, and tell them we'll help. Give them 50 billion dollars and 20,000 soldiers. Oh, and give 'em three Rods of God too."

"OK, sir."

To: Abassamara

From: Pythogria

Re: Assistance

Text:

Pythogria takes pity on your plight, and condemns the actions of the rebels. Thus, we place under your command, 20,000 infantry, and we will allow you acsess to three of our orbital Rods of God, giant "darts" which are as powerful as a nuke but leave no radiation. We also wire 5 billion USd to you.

The eyes of Chakwae's closest deputy grew wide when he read the piece of heat-and-humidity-warped paper handed to him by a minor secretary, who soon had scuttled away down the stiffling corridor of the old colonial mansion that the Marshal made his headquarters. Five billion dollars was very nearly equivalent to the net worth of legitimate economic activity in Abassamara in the whole of 2005. With it, Bekem's deputies could make sure of the loyalty that the closeted leader placed in previously unworthy officers and soldiers. It was enough to make sure that the surviving government troops would fight on that little while longer while Batambui awaited the arrival of 20,000 promised infantry from Pythogria.

This could change the tide of the conflict... but allowing in foreign troops in such force, from one national entity, seemed like a contradiction of almost forty years work by the leader of the liberation struggle. One could only guess at the social and political impact of Chakwae's decision to accept the help of these soldiers.

---Off Abassamaran Shores---

The transport fleet containing 20,000 soldiers had arrived. The soldiers would soon land on the beach.

"Come on... Terrorists, then Insurgents, and now Rebellions? Do we EVER stop intervening?" an infantryman asked his superior.

"No. we are Pythogria, and thus we hold up good."

"Well... OK... At least I get paid."

---Pythogria---

This message was sent:

To: Abassamara

From: Pythogria

Re: Actually, you may need this.

Text:

We will give you one final help-- one nuclear warhead.

1964, Free Abassaland

One of history's most cruel misnomers, Free Abassaland is a terribly abusive colonial possession. Twenty-one years old, Bekem Chakwae, slumped against a tree older than the colony, shuddered, his heel forcing a groove in the dirt, a canal into which flowed the bloody waters of this puddle made of recent rains. The vital claret was his own, though it would soon be joined by that of others: he wasn't the only Abassani caught, today, by the mission to punish the indentured who dared to run home.

Bekem wasn't actually an escaped company worker, had never been indentured, but he did grow two black ears on his head, and so could be relieved of one when a patrol arrived at his village.

The whole affair was ridiculous: the foreign power in military occupation of this land -carved almost at random from a vast landscape inhabited by more tribes, clans, and other communities than anyone cared to count except when attempting to keep a tally of who had and who had not been converted, religiously speaking- rounded-up locals on a regular basis and, "rehoused" them in a policy of indentured servitude. When they tried to leave -or else when company guards, imperial troops, or contractors went mad with boredom and killed them, explaining the depopulation as resulting from an escape- the directors, officers, or governors would, as a warning to others and a legal punishment for breaking contracts that most workers had never even seen, assemble armed missions to wipe them out. To prove they'd done it, the missions -which, in another sick twist, comprised sometimes in part of conscripted locals- initially brought back heads. Over time, low success rates in catching AWOL workers -and the punishments doled out to officers and men responsible for the failures- caused some missions to kill anybody they could find just to bring back the requisit number of heads, often slaying too many and discarding excess remains after a recount. This went on for some time until it became impossible to deny that, clearly, the wrong people were being targetted, as could be confirmed by their unfamiliar facial features. This lead instead to the taking of hands, which could be counted up but could not so easily be identified as belonging to someone who was never indentured.

The system worked for those maintaining it, but was a total failure in respect of its original intention. It spread terror, but without direction, doing nothing to convince anyone that they were in more danger by running than they had been before they were taken into servitude. Worse yet, it was now happening on such a scale -precisely because so many people were choosing to run- that it was often too expensive to actually shoot people, so they were left alive, and a notable portion of the native population was fumbling about with debilitating wounds -id est, the lack of a hand- that were not only hard to miss but were contributing to economic hardships, and were rendering them immune to indenture since they could not work. It was suspected that a minority were even cutting-off their own hands to protect themselves from arbitrary selection for killing and, as a bonus, ensure that they would not be taken into servitude.

It was impossible to admit officially that the practice was happening at all, since that would mean acknowledgement of complicity with not only random torture and killing of subjects, but of a failure to actually catch escaped workers. But, in the ultimate layer of absurdity-spiced insult, it had been seen to that, instead of taking hands, ears would be used.

One should understand that the hands were taken as proof that contract-breakers had been executed. One must also understand that, now, orders were to take ears, instead, because taking hands crippled valuable workers. This was tacit recognition of the fact that people weren't being executed for escaping, but that random people were being mutilated, escapees still at large were recorded as executed, and then -later- that innocents mutilated with the mark of an executed escapee were indentured themselves! If anybody actually went to government and company plantations, mines, and other enterprises, they would find a lot of people walking about with one ear.

For decades, Free Abassaland's colonial masters had taken masses of timber, rubber, ivory, animal skins, fruit, tin, coal, smaller quantities of platinum, gold and of diamonds, and a trickle of oil, and had exploited cheap (to free) labour in textiles, food processing, and -starting in the mid twentieth century- munitions and consumer goods. More recently they had discovered uranium and some natural gas, and had begun to develop the land's significant hydropower potential -almost wholly for export- without doing much to improve Abassaland's domestic power distribution infrastructure.

The Capitol Spire, Viconia City
Federated Union of Democratic Colonies

Secretary Neil Jaeger leaned back in his seat, taking a hand to adjust his necktie. The setting Pacific sun shone through the row of windows behind him, casting an orange glow throughout the spacious chamber that was the Foreign Secretary's personal office. Although the office was decorated with the finest of imported furnishings, much of it was buried beneath the documents and reports that sat in small piles and caches wherever a flat surface could be found. Inspite of the luxurious surroundings, it was clear that the office was more then simply a decorative chamber. The work that drove the international relationships of the nation occured here, and was mostly conducted by the man and woman who sat within.

"They're far to protective of thier markets to agree to our proposal," said Evelyn Westinghouse, the Undersecretary of Foreign Affairs. She was perched in one of the few vacant chairs in the room, allowing her a seat infront of Jaeger's massive oak desk. "I highly doubt that Anderton will get anything done out there, inspite of her best efforts."

"No," nodded Neil. "Well, Anderton's good at working through the tougher trade deals. We'll see how she does. There was something else though, wasn't there? Something else you wanted to talk about?"

"Yes, the situation in Abassamara," replied Evelyn.

"I've had a look at the report. I'm not sure if sticking our noses in that one would be a good idea," said Neil.

"I'll admit that the circumstances are difficult, but I think we should consider some course of action," insisted Evelyn.

"Let's slow down a minute, Evelyn. The situation in Abassamara not only doesn't affect DC, it's one hell of a mess. On one hand, you have a brutal dictator that's leading a regime that hasn't had a real election in, well, ever. On the other hand, you have a rag tag collection of religious extremists, anarchists, and others who, if placed in power, won't be a single bit better then the current regime. How do you propose we get involved?" asked Neil. He shook his head. "I think we should stay out of this one."

"The DC Intelligence Service hasn't fully sorted out the factional divisions amoung the rebels," said Evelyn. "I think we should approve thier request to paradrop a contact team into Abassamara to meet the rebel leaders, and determine thier viability."

"Too much risk, and for what?" countered Neil. "Even if DCIS reports back to us that one rebel faction or another is a viable choice to form a future government, what do we do then? Assist the rebels in toppling the current government, and then assist our chosen faction in yet another civil war?"

"Well, it's worth a look, atleast," said Evelyn. "Compared to them, our nation is a hyper power beyond belief, militarily, economically, and socially. If we can rebuild thier nation, I think we have an obligation to do so. And you know it, Neil. You realize it too, that whether or not it affects us, as a first world nation, we have a responsibility."

Evelyn Westinghouse had worked with Neil Jaeger for some years, and so she knew that she was right about her superior, and her friend, even as he seemed to struggle with her words.

"Alright," he said at last, pausing before continuing as if to reconsider.

"Alright," he repeated. "I'll give the DC Intelligence Service our approval on thier paradrop, and send it up to the President."

"He'll have it approved within the day," said Evelyn. "He trusts you."

"I know," said Neil. "Sometimes though, I wish he didn't trust me quite so much."

The government of the People’s Republic of Arbeiterreich is a relatively simple system of legislative, executive and judicial sovereignty which in theory created a freely democratic state, and in practice created a Soviet-style Dictatorship. In theory, the Politisches Büro, the state executive, was formed of a democratically elected President that chaired a Cabinet of appointed Ministers, the Arbeiters-Reichmarschall of the Armed Forces and the Chairman of the Communist Party. This body proposed legislation to the Volksversammlung (or People’s Assembly), who discussed and voted upon legislation. If such legislation was rejected, the Politisches Büro would have to reconsider the legislation. If passed by majority vote, the Höchstes Gericht (Supreme Court) then examined whether the legislation infringed civil law, before sending it back to President for his assent into law.

In practice, the Legislature and the Judiciary were subsidiary to, and controlled by the Political Bureau, where the President was always the Arbeiters-Reichmarschall of the Armed Forces and Chairman of the Arbeiterreich Communist Party. The People’s Assembly was a rubber-stamping tool of the Bureau’s will, and the Judiciary merely an afterthought to display some form of legality. The elite could get away with almost anything, including interfering in other people’s business.

The weekly Wednesday afternoon meeting of the Politisches Büro took place, as usual, behind closed doors and without any records kept of their discussion. A thin layer of smoke drifted below the lighting from the cigars of the assembled Ministers, as they relaxed with decanters of wine amongst decorations of Communist paraphernalia and Imperial German furniture, a strange combination of historical colonialism and Marxist modernism.

At the head of the table, Alexander Neuberger, the most powerful man in the People’s Republic, reclined with a Cuban cigar between his teeth and a glass of German Red Wine in his left hand, and smoked silently. Minister for International Relations Frederick Grubel was finishing his briefing on the current international situation. The majority of the report had centered around the current situation in Eonopolis and Arbeiterreich’s continued support of Whittier in their sanctions. The report had now turned to the Civil War in Abassamara. Grubel detailed the confused situation in the country, with a regime on the brink of collapse and several rebel groups fighting for control of the state. When he had finished, Grubel sat amongst his twelve colleagues around the seventeenth century oak table and opened the floor to debate.

After several moments of silence, Neuberger spoke. “What is the capability of the left-wing groups in Abassamara?” he asked in a quiet, slightly hoarse voice.

Grubel hesitated before replying. “Comrade Vorsitzender, there are very few details on their size, strength and capabilities at this time,” he explained. “The current situation in Abassamara, coupled with the poor infrastructure for communication nationally, means that it is particularly difficult to get accurate information.” He looked around the table and shrugged. “We know that there are Communists, but we don’t know how many, where they are or whether they will succeed.”

Minister for Defence Hans Gaering cut in. “Surely these are all signs to stay out of this conflict?” he put forward. “We have very little hard facts on which to justify supporting the Communists against the government.” Gaering opened his palms in a gesture bidding answer. “How can we justify the possibility of sacrificing the lives of our soldiers on simply that?”

Neuberger fixed his eyes on the Defence Minister. The President was old, nearly sixty years in age, and had achieved his position through political infighting, physical outfighting and covert sub-fighting. He was a shrewd politician, but also a shrewd national leader. Gaering was young at thirty-five, and somewhat over-eager to speak out, but Alexander could already see the capabilities within him to become a strong replacement.

Alexei Vishnayev, however, was an old horse. The Party Theoretician, Vishnayev was only two years younger than Neuberger, and still an ideological thunder storm within the climate of the Communist Party. He was impeccable on theory, but lacked practical experience of reality. Vishnayev glared around the table. “Comrades,” he said in a strong voice perfect for speech-making at the Party Congress. “Surely we must immediately aid our fraternal proletariat in their struggle against the Fascists both in power and in opposition? Surely we must strike now, and save these people from themselves?”

Neuberger smiled inwardly. Forty years of politics within Arbeiterreich had caused him to become a massive cynic, but it was nice to hear someone still quote the ideology so fervently in an place of practical reality and political deception. “Comrade Theoretician,” he responded. “We must first assess the capabilities of our fraternal comrades to help themselves, otherwise we risk leaving the homeland open to attack by the Capitalists.”

Gaering nodded. “Comrade Vorsitzender, I put forward the motion that we send a team to Abassamara to ascertain the potential of the Communist freedom fighters there before committing to anything else.”

The motion was seconded by another member of the Bureau, and passed unanimously. Within the day, it had been given legislative and judicial assent by the Rubber Stamps.

Airbase Midte Mark, Outskirts of Viconia City
Federated Union of Democratic Colonies

Night had fully fallen by the time all of the correct authorizations and procedural protocols had been dealt with. The airfield was darkened, lit only with the ghostly glow of pale white floodlights as a pair of military humvees came to a slow stop at the head of a runway, next to a B-2 Spirit that was being prepared for takeoff.

Four figures emerged from the humvees and strode through the pale lights towards the black stealth bomber that would serve as thier transport. They wore the bulky military body armour that was standard in the DC military - ceramic plates surrounding the chest and back, shoulder pauldrons, knee and elbow pads, with an undersuit enriched with shear thickening fluids (http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2004/04/30/tech/main614961.shtml) forming a final protective layer. It was heavy, hot, and contricting, but it offered excellent protection from the dangers of the battlefield.

An airman watched from the open hatchway of the B-2 as the armoured figures approached, clutching rifle cases and carrying massive backpacks.

"DCIS?" asked the airman.

"That's us," said a lean, older man, the leader of the group. He offered the airman his handheld computer, letting him scan the group's orders.

"All checks out, sir," said the airman. He led the four figures, agents of the Democratic Colonies Intelligence Service, into the aircraft.

"We don't think that there's anything in Arbeiterreich right now that should detect us, sir," said the airman. "As your briefing stated, once over Arbeiterreich, I'll be equiping you with your parachutes - it should attach directly to your combat harness without any trouble. Any questions, anything I can do to help you people right now?"

"Nothing, thank you," said the older agent again.

"Alright then," said the airman. "We'll be airborne within the next few minutes, with Abassamara our destination."

OOC: Hang on, not to stop what you're doing but I'm missing something - why are you dropping agents into my nation? So far as I'm aware, Abassamara was what y'said you were concerned with, and the only thing that has linked Arbeiterreich to the current situation is a private Political Bureau meeting. It seems surprising your nation would even know I exist right now. :)

As I said, just trying to clear up my confusion.

OOC: Hang on, not to stop what you're doing but I'm missing something - why are you dropping agents into my nation?

Terribly sorry, I've made a rather embarrassing mistake. I meant Abassamara. I'll correct my post. Thank you for noting my mistake.

Terribly sorry, I've made a rather embarrassing mistake. I meant Abassamara. I'll correct my post. Thank you for noting my mistake.

OOC: Don't worry about it, we have similarly structured names at a glance. :) I'll post my insertion of people within the next half-hour.

The coastline of Abassamara created a dull shape against the darkness of the water, a beacon of life against a backdrop of endless sea beyond. Kapitan Ross Rhelm stared grimly at the island from the bridge of the PRS Wolfowitz, an Arbeiterreichian Bremen Class Frigate that sat in a darkened hush just outside the territorial waters of Abassamara. Taking a deep sigh, the Kapitan turned and stepped back into the Wheelhouse, welcoming the warmth of the room to the contrasting cold of the night air.

The Wheelhouse was crewed with its usual staff of navigators, watchmen and helmsmen, but differed in the presence on an extra person. The man stood tall in a black wetsuit, with an oxygen tank on his back and a mask in one hand. He looked at the Kapitan expectantly. “Are we in position,” he asked, not referring to Rhelm’s rank.

Rhelm grimaced inwardly; he hated these people. The Sicherheit und Intelligenz-Ministerium was responsible for internal and external covert operations, and had at its disposal dozens of people like the man in front of him. Ilyovich Reuberg had no rank other than the title ‘Wirksam’, or ‘Operative’, no family and, ostensibly, no friends. A veteran of the Patriotic War, he had volunteered for work within the Security and Intelligence Ministry due to his military training and experience. He was also a die-hard Communist; believe hard, ask no questions.

Rhelm nodded, looking away from the man and out to sea once again. “You will be deployed in a ‘Delphin’,” the Kapitan said, referring to the one-man delivery torpedo that was held onboard the deck of the Frigate. “Our observations show a large task force of ships unloading troops along the beach thirty miles to our east, but at this distance they are unlikely to be looking for anything.”

Rhelm turned once again to Ilyovich. “You will be deployed in the Delphin and operate it to within one mile of the coast, after which you will abandon the vehicle and swim ashore. You are then to make contact with the Communist rebels on the mainland and assess their capabilities and prospects for success.”

Reuberg nodded. “What about extraction?” he asked.

The Kapitan smiled unpleasantly. “We will be back in this same position in two weeks time; you have that long to find the Communists and assess their capabilities. They don’t know you’re coming, so you’ll have to persuade them. You will also have to acquire all weapons and other equipment on-site.”

Reuberg again nodded, accepting his orders, unquestioning in his belief. “In that case,” he said, lifting his mask to his face. “I must go.” He took a moment to salute the Kapitan, before turning and walking out onto the deck.

Several minutes later, the Delphin was lowered over-side, and the vehicle shot towards its target at twenty-six knots. Behind it, the Wolfowitz yawed and melted into the night.

Pythogrian ships closing on Abassamara's short coastline were confronted by a pair of small speedboats, aboard which were a handful of rebels who would attempt to get close to the transports before firing rocket-propelled and rifle grenades in their direction and raking them with rifle and machinegun fire. Ashore, shouts and shots rang out with equal frequency as residents of the small port town of Dajumaba raised the alarm and warlords, only recently having attained power after forcing Chakwae's forces out of the area, mobilised their men and headed for the little port's limited anchorage.

Of course, the Marshal wanted to receive that nuclear warhead -not that he had any delivery system for such a weapon, nor anyone trained in its care or use- and was already thinking of future glories, even as the rebels closed in around his headquarters in Batambui, fighting street to street against his soldiers, who now hung-on as word spread of help on the way and of a bonus big enough to retire on if they survived to win a medal.

The Democratic States of Abassamara

Abassamara, formerly a colonial possession known as Free Abassaland, is draped over four and a quarter million square kilometres of high plateau descending into a rugged basin pinned by the roots of a vast and partially unexplored jungle. The northeastern plateau ends, with the nation, in a highland range on the northern border, and it is in the extreme northeast that Abassamara has its only ocean access on a short coastline, the nation being otherwise landlocked. Much of the nation is described as tropical monsoonal, and suffers many arid months on the edge of life while awaiting the rains, while many jungle areas are prone to flooding once the rains do come and the plateau drains into the southwest.

The nation is so remarkably under-populated because of oppressive misrule under colonial domination that ended only in 1971, the previous century having seen an estimated ten million people killed by violence or what the Marshal has called, "neglect with intent [to kill]". A society -or collection of societies- that was -or were- pre-industrial and in a large part pre-historic prior to subjugation could not afford to lose an average of one hundred thousand young lives every year for a century, and so, today, in spite of recent population growth, much of Abassamara is wilderness.

The Abassamari Democratic Movement for Development came into being only in December of 2005 and gathered substantial force just this year. Until that time, Chakwae had proven able in playing rebel factions against one another, receiving information from one in order to carry out hits on another, and then offering to take revenge on the first if given information by the second. It is not clear exactly what changed in the course of the last few months, but somehow or other a co-operation grew-up between rebels that previously would have competed with one another for Batambui's favour.

The most likely explanation is that the schism between Abassamara's leftist rebel groups had lost much of its significance in the twenty-first century, and the two came to terms at the end of 2005, other groups attaching themselves in a largely apolitical rebel alliance that became the ADMD. Previously, one communist faction had called the other Maoist and accused its members of being out of touch, and that group in turn accused the other of revisionist activities following Khrushchyov. On the face of it, this founding status makes the communists the ADMD's strongest element, but, one suspects, victory over the Marshal's government would only lead to a reccurrence of the ideological split between them.

Initially, the ADMD's combined forces boasted just a few thousand full-time fighters, around four thousand coming from the two communist factions, along with several thousand more from several dozen individual organisations across the nation, including Islamists and Christian radicals, plus followers of sinister modern interpretations of local beliefs, and those who simply put no cover on their power-craving or money-hungry motivations. Now, though, more than one percent of the population was frequently found under arms, and several times that number had been involved in fighting in some way, even if just as part of a stone-throwing mob that attacked supporters of government or rebels, or simply became caught in the already growing chaos of warlordism.

In and around Batambui, which lay near the southern border and around the point of divide between plateau and basin, eighty-four rebels and twenty-seven government soldiers had been killed in the first twenty-four hours since ADMD forces arrived on the outskirts, but it was only now that casualties were set to rocket. Rebel mortars were arriving as their advance units approached the machinegun posts of the government district, and refugees ran out of ground over which to retreat.

50,000 Feet Above Abassamara

The four agents of the DC Intelligence Service stood upright in the interior of the B-2 Spirit, waiting as the airman connected thier combat harnesses to parachute packages.

"Agent Martin, please adjust your - "

"Yes, I see, airman. Tightening that now."

Martin, the leader of the team of four, was the last to have his parachute attached. An older man in his early fifties, he was a lean, muscular man, inspite of what his age might have suggested.

"Alright, that's on," he nodded. "Everyone else have thier gear okay?"

"Lookin' alright," replied Toscano in his accented English, a sign of his fiery Italian heritage. The tallest of the four, Toscano was an intimidating six and a half feet of muscle, the result of countless hours of training.

"Spenca', Bella', you two alright?" Toscano asked.

"Yes sir," came the simultanious reply from Spencer and Belle, a man and a woman of junior ranks.

"Very good then," said Martin. He turned to the airman. "How far until the jump zone?" he asked.

"Two minutes, sir," the airman replied. "We open the jump door only three seconds during the jump window, in order to reduce the time during which we are detectable on radar."

"Very good," said Martin.

"As you know," Martin went on, now addressing his team, "once we jump, we'll be in free fall until we reach 3,000 feet, at which time we will open our chutes, and steer as possible towards the previously chosen GPS coordinates. If all goes according to plan, we'll hit the ground 13 kilometres away from the edges of Batambui, the capitol of Abassamara. Hopefully, we will find ourselves behind the rebel advance, where we will be able to make contact with them, and have them facilitate our meeting with the various rebel faction leaders. Any final questions before we go airborne?"

The team was silent, as they had all gone over thier briefing dossiers in extensive detail beforehand.

"Very good," nodded Martin. "Airman? How long until we jump?"

"One minute," said the airman. "I'm prepared to open the door as soon as we reach it - please be prepared to jump immedately."

"No problem," said Martin. "Once that door opens, we'll be flying well before our three seconds are up."

The Pythogrian ships sighted the speedboats. "We had no escort. Open fire!"

Infantry lined up and opened fire at the boats. They sunk nearly instantly.

The ships finally landed.

Troops marched from the ships onto the beach. They began the long trek to the Abbasamaran command center-- with the nuclear warhead, rocket included. Tanks and APC's formed a convoy.

OOC: You can RP recieving my troops .I'm putting them under your command.

The small, dusky inlet was perfect for leaving the water and climbing once again onto solid soil. Reuberg sat low in the water, his eyes scanning the short stretch of sand to see whether anyone waited beyond the water’s edge. After five minutes of observation, Ilyovich moved ashore, treading water, grabbing several rocks as he pulled himself onto the sand. Instantly, he moved to the side, into some of the bushes and continued watching for movement.

After being satisfied, the tall man proceeded to remove his wetsuit, leaving it concealed in the undergrowth. Underneath his swimming clothing, Reuberg wore a camouflage uniform that assisted in concealment within the tropical forestry of Abassamara. Reuberg grimaced, and then considered his position. He knew that the rebels were moving on the capital, so if he headed in that direction, he would eventually come across someone. Taking several moments more to assess the safety, Reuberg ran forward in the dusk, keeping low and quiet, before disappearing into the trees…

[QUOTE=Democratic Colonies]The Capitol Spire, Viconia City
Federated Union of Democratic Colonies
"Let's slow down a minute, Evelyn. The situation in Abassamara not only doesn't affect DC, it's one hell of a mess. On one hand, you have a brutal dictator that's leading a regime that hasn't had a real election in, well, ever. On the other hand, you have a rag tag collection of religious extremists, anarchists, and others who, if placed in power, won't be a single bit better then the current regime. How do you propose we get involved?" asked Neil. He shook his head. "I think we should stay out of this one."


OOC: why dont you take the country?

OOC: why dont you take the country?

OOC: Not all countries are looking to build Empires. :)

Off Dajumaba

The Pythogrians, having defended their transport ships with infantry on deck, took fire from the attacking rebel speedboats, one of which was able to loose a rocket-propelled grenade against the large vessels while others returned largely inaccurate rifle fire before their little boats were destroyed.

When the vessels moved in, their landing came under-fire from snipers, riflemen, machinegunners, and RPG teams in the port town and in the scattered vegetation at the top of the beach. At this stage it was virtually impossible to assess rebel strength in the town, especially since nobody seemed to have tried. The fire was, by and large, not very well co-ordinated or directed, and though dangerous.

Beyond the coast, more than one thousand kilometres of rebel territory stood between the Pythogrians and the national capital.

Not far away, Reuberg wouldn't have to go far to find rebel fighters, the main problem with this was that the only coastal city in Abassamara, namely Dajumaba, was under the control of several competing warlords, none of whom were particularly political in their motivation. A few of the street kids, though, might be found painting revolutionary slogans and symbols on bullet-riddled walls in some districts of the city, and may at least know who to seek if interested in Abassamari communism. Beyond that, one may have to travel across many unpeopled miles with nothing better than an unmainted dirt road in operation since the railway, which links the capital to the coast and was designed to export the land's lifeblood, was blown-up at several points along its length.

The aircraft from the Democratic Colonies stood much less chance of detection than did anyone on the ground, and it wasn't clear if any radar systems were in operation anywhere in the country, even at the old neglected civil airports.

OOC: Will reply once Abassamara replies to my TG

13 Kilometres Away from Batambui, Abassamara
Abassamarian Jungle Basin

The team of four stalked quietly through the darkness of the night jungle as they moved in a line parallel to the city of Batambui. They had landed without incident, and had buried thier parachutes beneath the dark Abassamarian soil.

They moved in a line, single file, peering at the trees around them with the night vision goggles that were affixed to thier helmets. They moved with a minimum of words exchanged between them, as they did not know if they would encounter rebel forces, or the forces of the corrupt federal government. Thier silence, however, interupted as Agent Spencer let out a cry.

"Jesus, Toscano! Get it off of me!" Spencer cried, grabbing at the back of his helmet.

"What? Spenca, what the hell ah you talkin' about?" demanded Toscano as he dropped into a crouch, his rifle shouldered.

"Snake!" said Spencer as he threw off his helmet. "It's under my fucking body armour!"

Spencer struggled to undo the straps of his military body armour as grabbed at the back of his neck.

"It just fucking dropped down, and it - just get it off of me!"

"Calm down," said Belle as she helped him remove the rigid plate from his back. "You're going to get us detected."

"It's gonna bite me, damn it!" replied Spencer.

"Shut up!" demanded Martin as he fell into a crouch. "Did anyone else see that?"

"See what?" asked Toscano urgently.

"There's someone out there," hissed Martin.

The team fell silent, even as Spencer finally rid himself of the snake that had caused him so much distress.

"Anything?" whispered Toscano, his rifle shouldered.

"I think I saw someone move," whispered Martin, "but I'm not sure. "I guess we should find out."

"Hello!" Martin shouted. "We come in peace! Please, do not open fire!"

"You sure that was a good idea, sir?" asked Belle.

"I don't know," replied Martin. "Just pick up your rifle and be prepared to fire."

"Yes, sir," said Belle as she shouldered the massive, meter long bullpup that was her DCR-6 (http://s13.invisionfree.com/The_NS_Draftroom/index.php?showtopic=1296&view=findpost&p=573471). Each member of the team had such a rifle, and had it shouldered and pointed into the darkness as they strained thier senses, trying to detect any sign of human life.

Reuberg watched the outskirts of the city silently from the undergrowth at the edge of the urbanised area. His camouflage uniform assisted in keeping him hidden from the indigineous people going about their business, and allowed Reuberg to assess the situation.

There appeared to be at least one militia controlling the city, although Reuberg didn't dismiss the concept that this might simply be one faction controlling the port town. The problem Reuberg had was that the capital was a considerable distance away, and the Operative had no transport with which to get there.

Leaning down behind a tree, Reuberg considered his options. If he wasn't going to get the people in the capital to agree with the Revolution conception, he mused, then perhaps getting the Commanders of this city on the side of Arbeiterriech, allowing a landing point for the further liberation of the rest, or at least part, of Abassamara.

A crack of twigs made Reuberg tense, and he ducked low into the undergrowth. Crawling around the tree, he watched silently as a young man, one of the city-dwellers, took a leak against the tree behind which he hid. Reuberg grimaced, and raised himself slowly to place his back flat against the trunk. When the man was done and began to turn, the Operative darted around the tree, grabbing the man around the neck and pulling him against the tree.

"Don't move, don't even breath," he whispered, placing his hand against the man's mouth and turning his hip to pin the man's lower body against the tree. Reuberg grinned. "It's your lucky day Comrade, y'just became a founding member of the revolution. Now, where are the Commanders who run this city?"

13km SW of Batambui, Abassamari Rainforest

The quartet from Democratic Colonies had come down just about far enough from the heart of this giant forest, which was not dissimilar in scale to that of the Congo, that they were out of the totally uncharted reaches and just beyond the grasp of the more primitive jungle tribes. Martin's shouts drew a rapid response in like. A woman's voice, frantic and a little hoarse, probably too quick to understand, certainly for anyone who didn't speak the local dialect. A second or two, in which she managed to get out two sentences that urged her children to run, and the woman's voice was directed as forcefully as she could manage in the direction of the soldiers. She shouted something, briefly, in a local tongue, and then switched in an attempt to convey her meaning to what she supposed could be rebels or government troops from any quarter of the vast, ethnically diverse nation- there was even talk of foreign armies landing on the coast. "No bunduki" she slurred in obvious fear for her fleeing children, and then repeated the words she'd just heard and only partially understood, "Do not... openfire!"

The mother and her two surviving children were stragglers amongst scores of refugees attempting to make their way to any kind of refuge from fighting that had enveloped the satellite communities around the capital, some close enough to hear the report of small-arms fire rattling through the low hills that skirted the edge of the basin here. They had every fear of being assaulted, killed, pressed into service, nobody was really sure and nobody wanted to leave such things to chance.

Dajumaba, Abassamari coast

The man pinned to a tree looked as much terrified as the mother in the jungle hundreds of miles west. As first he shook his head, not wanting to rat-out dangerous warlords, but did not take much persuasion before pointing in the general direction of what represented the stronghold of the most locally influential militia, a run-down street that hadn't been significantly maintained in more than thirty years. It was a crumbling alleyway of colonial-era frontage now crammed to bursting with waste, both material refuse and the rejected and neglected of human society. Abassamara's obscurity could be gauged by the relative ruin of its only port city even relative to other urban areas in the country. That such a significant lifeline had been allowed to split and fray was indicative of the depth of problems in this only quite newly independent state built to bleed that a colonial machine may be oiled.

Already Dajumaba, officially under ADMD control was hosting the odd return to violence as turf-wars threatened between rebel commanders who, in the absence of effective co-ordination across the massive, poor, and sparsely populated country, were after local victory established essentially as laws unto themselves. It wasn't a war zone like the capital, but the port saw several shootings every week, and the rate of violence was increasing daily, perhaps even as Reuberg gathered information.

13km SW of Batambui, Abassamari Rainforest

The forest was quiet again save for the hum of insects and the rustling of wind as the four Colonials remained crouched.

"I see one, maybe three figures moving," whispered Spencer, squinting through his night vision goggles.

"Any sight of our mystery speaker out there?" asked Martin.

"I don't have anything, sir," replied Belle.

"I see her, maybe," said Toscano. "She's about fifty metre to our left. I don't see a weapon - nothing obvious, anyways."

"She sounded afraid, sir," offered Belle. "Perhaps she's a civilian?"

"Maybe," agreed Martin. He unslung the his rifle, resting it on the ground. "Belle," he said. "Put your rifle down, and come with me. Spencer, Toscano, cover us."

Martin slowly rose from his crouch, and stood tall as Belle removed her rifle and helmet.

"We come in peace! We are here to help you!" said Martin into the darkness. "Please, don't be afraid! We are here to help!"

"Alright," said Martin to Belle. "We'll just - hey, where's your helmet?"

"I took it off, sir," Belle replied. She undid the bun that tied her hair back, freeing her light brown tresses. "She should be more comfortable if she realizes that we're not - "

"Alright," interupted Martin. "Good idea. Just be prepared to draw your pistol if things aren't what they seem."

"Yes, sir," nodded Belle.

"We are walking over to you now!" shouted Martin. "We are here to help!"

"You think she understands that, sir?" asked Belle.

"I hope so," replied Martin. "Now come on. Let's move."

Abassamari Rainforest, SW of Batambui

The mother, only in her thirties but looking somewhat older after a tough few years, was indeed very much afraid, but seeing that one of the approaching soldiers was a woman her expression changed a little. That she was being approached by foreigners added a little surprises and confusion to her mood, replacing at least part of her fear. Her children, too, were curious, and had, much to her frustration, failed to run far, and were crouched just a few metres away, half-hidden and watching with big bright eyes open wide enough to take in the unusual sight.

The woman positioned herself between the foreigners and her children, still highly suspicious, but supposing that her chances were no worse in staying to see what happened than in continuing her tired efforts to escape in no particular direction. The woman, a Julie Nkumbakwe, would turn out to be a fairly helpful sort. She was tired, of running and worrying and of all the fighting, and just didn't want any more trouble. She just looked a little more sad each time the distant rumble of an explosion washed through the trees, while her children jumped each time, and one always looked around apparently hoping to see something. Julie's husband died a long time ago, he was a soldier and became ill after a blood transfusion at the Batambui hospital, and since he died she had struggled to protect the remains of her family from worsening conflict, and would do what she could for anyone able to relieve the stress this caused in troubled Abassamara.

In the capital itself, fightening had worsened over night as government troops toppled several buildings, including some well over a century old, to create barricades on which to fight the ADMD vanguard units entering Batambui from several sides. Mortars and heavy machineguns had now joined rifles and grenades in the thick of the battle for Abassamara's largest city.

13km South West of Batambui, Abassamari Rainforest

"It's okay," said Martin, slowly approaching.

Martin and Belle stopped a few paces away from the frightened mother, showing her thier empty hands.

"It's okay," said Belle, "we're not here to hurt you."

"Do you know where the rebels are?" asked Martin. He wasn't sure if the woman understood.

"Rebels?" he repeated. "Do you know where we can find the rebels?"