NationStates Jolt Archive

The rioting had been going on for 3 days now, Craig could hardly get out of his house without getting rocks and mud thrown at him. It was his fault, a Muurite who lived in the Hoper neighborhood, a stronghold of the Darian Liberation Front. He couldn't sleep either, constantly, screaming and groans were coing from thoughout the neighborhood, along with the continuous light emitted by the flaming cars. Suddenly, a hard thup came from his apartment door.

"Get out you filthy halon!" came a voice from the door. A 'halon' was the word for slug in the Darian dialect, and they thought it was an adept name for Muurites. The door swung open, and three Darian men blazen with the gray shirts of the Darian Liberation Fronts military branch, the Nubanta Militia, one wilding a two-by-four, another with a switchblade, and the other with a wrench, charged the terrified Craig.

"Come here you halon! I'll change your face to suit your race." hollered the one with the switchblade. He charged him with the knife held high above his head, and swung drunkenly at Craig. Luckily for the Muurite, these Darians could not handle their booze very well, however, numbers soon overtook the young man, and soon a mutilated, but still very much alive Craig was being dragged down the stairs, his face hitting the hard concrete stairs on ever step, the dust, grim, and pebbles sticking into the hole in his face that once held a nose.

Zacao, a Darian boy was perplexed by the scene. Three men were tying a young man of about twenty to a trailer hitch, while the people in the crowd cheered. Zacao came down to the crowd with his friends, curious why his parents told him not to come down. He was a small, sensitive child, of only twelve, and was not ready to see such a sight. Zacao ran into the middle of the crowd, and tried to push the men away from the suffering man. One of the men screamed at Zacao to get away, and he grabbed him trying to throw him back into the crowd.

Zacao bit him in retaliation, and as he tasted the blood between his lips he heard a growl from the mob, "Race tratior, the Halon sympathizer must pay!" Suddenly, the rabble grabbed the small boy from the gray-shirted man's grip, and threw him on the ground. Zacao screamed from the pain as the bare chested man hurt him, taking away his innocence and purity forever.

The crowd of Darians cheered as the car drove down the street, with two strange peices of cargo on the trailer hitch.

The small garrison of troops has been under constant attack now for two months straight. Major Chip Alia drinks his morning coffee as he looks out the steel enforced glass of the unassuming building. The garrison was created during the Pentacost Uprising of 1986, when a Darian businessman was murdered by a Royal Gaurdsman in the city of Gtordo, causing rioting similar to this. It was a five acre former office complex with a large, ten story tall office building, retrofitted to fit its military purposes. Throughout the complex were machine gun nests and barricades. At the front was a large wooden gate which was recently barricaded with cinderblocks after a Nubanta attack made its way through it only to be repelled by Vietnamexican Kolechnokov gunfire. The garrison bore scars from the many Darian rebellions and riots that had occured over the past twenty years, burns from when a Nubanta terrorist cell attempted to blow it up in what became know as the Gunpowder Affair of 1993. Graffiti, bullet holes and the odor of death held on from the January Revolution of 1997 when the garrison was occupied by the Billagio Militia. Now the Darians were at it again, the first of the rioters coming over, bearing gray shirts and red knives. Hanging out the windows of their mini-van waving their knives and rifles around like they were roses of a strange variety. In the distance, Alia heard the chop-chop of a helicopter's propellers, a far-off memory of his days on the unstable border with Little India.

A young Sargent barged into the room, "Sir, we need your orders, we have a helicopter coming from Videte in with some supplies, it cannot make it down thanks to the harrassment from the Darians, do we have orders to fire upon them."

Alia set his coffee on his plywood desk, and thought for a second. The soldiers only had one week left of victuals, and even less ammunition. The helicopter was carrying enough to supply them for two months of both. However, firing upon the Darians would further harm the situation, which had been getting better ever since Alia's men had quelled a raid on a Muurite orphanage. Alia then replied, "Fire upon the Darians, and give them a taste of Vietnamexican mortar fire."

OOC: Someone RP the Darians

As most will be offering you help in these times. We offer these words. Join with the Cenobites enjoy your pain.

In the end, Raul knew that this would happen, that the garrison would send in reinforcements in order to prevent the embarassment that occured in 1997 when Raul's brother Timo and other members of the Militia took over the outpost only to be slaughtered by the Vietnamexican Zielefrente (regular army). Raul hid behind the small minivan as another car of Darians drove up, a gray Chevorlet pickup, bearing the red flag of the People's Army, another Darian independence group. Raul's Nubantan fighters would normally be firing upon the communist group, but the two feuding groups had signed a local truce, in hope to unite the sects against militant Muurites and Vietnamexicans. Raul rejoiced when he saw that one of the reds was carrying a valueble weapon, one that could change the outlook of this battle, an RPG.

"You, over there, aim that at that at the helicopter, take out the propeller. It is the only shot we got at turning around this fight!" The young rebel nodded slowly and pressed his eye to the scope. The large supply chopper seemed unable to stand still just for one moment, and with the bullets flying from the helicopter and from the machine gun nests and riflemen at the barricade. Suddenly, it came aligned in the sights, a perfect shot. As the grenade flew through the air the rebel felt a pain, tearing through his side, as he fell over, limp allowing the warm liquid to fill his lungs.

A blast came from behind Captain Frost's head as he directed his soldiers' attack against the Darian troublemakers. It caused him to jump slightly, and made his heart race. He looked around and saw what had caused the explosion. Standing in a small feild where construction of a new sentry tower had been underway, stood a massive heap of rubble, in the shape of a helicopter. Black, gray and white smoke plumed from small fires around the crash site, as well as from the once-flying heap of rubble itself.

"We gotta get over there!" Frost cried to his men, "Goodberg, Willis, and Pratt, come with me, Liutenant Vinter, take command why I go help out." A young soldier, still with peach fuzz under his nose, looked at the ruddy Frost and nodded.

"Burton, take that MG from Willis, and Rutherford, you go cover those guys as they salvage the wreck." barked the child officer. His voice shook as he announced the order to the various men, "Captain you're clear! Go! Go! Go!"

I, Chancellor Lucius BLackhelm of Exponent know the strife of the Vietnamexican people, as I myself am currently combaing an insurgency. In an effort to stamo out communism wherever it grows, we wish to send in 12 XM-1 battle tanks, and a force of 120 men to relieve the besieged garrison. 80 men will fly in via helicopter, and the remaining 40 move in on the ground.

We have been watching the recent riots in your nation. It seems that your government is unable to control the situation. We are willing to send a small peacekeeping force to assist your government. This force would be composed of the following:

Task Force Alpha OOB
- F-4 W.K.S. Unbesiegbar, Admiral Dönitz Class Carrier
* 15th Flugzeugträger Kampfgruppe - Composed of 32 WF-18 Hornet
* 16th Flugzeugträger Luftgruppe - Composed of 4 E-2C Hawkeye; 5 C-2 Greyhound; 8 HH-60H; 16 MH-60R; 8 HV-22 Osprey
- KK-1 W.K.S. Scharnhorst, Scharnhorst Class Nuclear Battlecruiser
- Z-66; Z-67; Z-68; Z-69; Z-77, Type VI Destroyers
- 1,000 men from the 1st Fallschrimjäger (Deployed by parachute insertion)

Please respond ASAP.

Signed,
Generalfeldmarschall Hermann F. Wolfstein
Secretary of Defense
Republic of Wolfensland

OOC: You know, it's better if you play the Darians themselves. A lot of people sem to hate playing the bad guy and would rather gang bang him (the bad guy).

"President Sanchez, rioting and insurgancy have taken hold in Vietnamexico, our ally."

Roberto Sanchez, the newly elected President of Bonstock who replaced the long standing Harald Gustavsson, sat, and nodded. Staring at some maps, he said, "We cannot spare many more troops," he said. "Besides, we've already got one war."

"Still, sir, Vietnamexico is a longtime Bonstocknian ally. The old President's wife is from that country, if I am not correct."

"What history there, eh? I am sure a few special forces should do this. Better yet, this operation should be, how would you say, perhaps, classified."

"All right. We will be sure of that, sir."

Within minutes a dozen plain-clothes Bonstocknian Special Forces troops got aboard a commercial flight to Vietnamexico, with their equipment in luggage. A message was sent to the Vietnamexican government.

Bonstock is willing to help you fight your insurgancy. We will deploy special forces to help train and advise your troops, and may also provide air support from a nearby carrier if necessary. If your country is attacked, we will intervene on your behalf, of course.

OOC: Bonstock, long time no RP, however, I don't quite need you yet, see, the word of this rioting has not gotten out to the public that it is going on, the only one in the government that knows right now is the Ministry of War and they have..."omitted" the existence of them from the King. Therefore, give me a while longer to get this thing developed and they you can send in your troops, oh, and by the way, this thing is going to be big. Real big. Same thing for the rest of you guys, Wolfensland and Exponent

IC: "What the hell are they doing?" Raul muttered under his breath. The only at the barricade with brass was out running toward the crash site, along with three lower soldiers. Did they honestly think that there would be survivors from the crash. The helicopter came down with much to much velocity for anyone to have survived that. All of a sudden, a sonorous thwack sounded from the gate. The a gray armored car slammed into the gate, and slowly backed up again as three fighters hung out of the windows firing upon the Vietnamexican soldiers. Upon the side of the car was a blue star, the symbol of the Citizen's Gaurd, a militia dedicated to creating a independent, and democractic Daria. The gate bent in, and, thanks to the fast speed of the armored car, and the wrecklessness of the driver, was ripe for breaking. From his belt, Raul pulled off a small spherical grenade, pulled out the pin and threw it. it landed a meter away from the gate, and innocenly rolled toward it. BOOM!

Frost had picked up a medium-sized crate marked "ammunition" when he heard a small blast from near the barricade, he turned around as the terror stuck his chest. The gate, now useless, swung freely from it hinges, knocked open by the blast. From the Vietnamexican side of the concrete and steel barricade came a tear gas grenade, spewing the foul, burning gas into the air, distorting the images of the Darian rebels.

Sargent Jacose loaded the chain of munitions into his machine gun, safely tucked away in his machine gun nest hidden in an unassuming building in the large complex. The Darians little heads must have been confused by the tear gas, giving him the perfect oppurtunity to give them retrobution for their wrongdoings to himself and his fellow Muurites. The acid that Nubanta fighters had thrown on his face still burned in the night, and he was still haunted by the look on his brothers, sisters, and parents faces when they were shot, and fell into the massive hole that they had been forced to dig in thier backyard. Jacose aimed his gun into the cloud, and pressed the trigger down, hoping to give them pain before they died.

The teargas burned Ibas' eyes as he and the rest of the Darians charged through the teargas. He was confused, not knowing whether he was running straight or in cicles. Suddenly, the air around him filled with lead and fire. Ibas flattened to the ground, and crawled through the eye-searing gas.

Raul swore under his breath, if you wanted anything to get done, you had to do it yourself, Raul looked through his binoculars, hoping to see where the hell this ghost shooter was. Finally, he saw him, and releasing a barrage of rounds in his direction. The man fell out of the nest as a black pickup truck, with a machine gun turret in the bed, and seven men in the back, three including the driver in the trucks bench seat, and two standing on the running boards. An arrival that could change the pace of the battle.

"We need to get through that teargas!" yelled Raul to the driver, "If you can get in, lay fire on the barricade, so we can get through." They drove through the gas, and as Raul heard the cries of battle, he picked up the RPG out of the dead gunner's hands and lauched a rocket at the tall building. He loaded it again, sending one into hurtling over the gate, hopefully hitting the Vietnamexicans. About twenty meters to the front, the Darians were trying to hold their own against the Vietnamexicans. They had been able to take out a few of them, but they had superior firepower, and many more numbers. A rocket had flow over the gate, and though it was clearly intended for the Vietnamexicans, and not these Nubanta fighters, it had landed nearby and the blast had overturned the truck, trapping one man under the car, and two on the inside. Another had earlier ripped through the sky, crashing into the garrison building, and sending off black smoke calling other Darians to the fight.

"Papa, do you see the black smoke?"

"Yes, son, and yes, I have to go."

"But why daddy? How come you have to go?"

"It is my duty. I will explain it when you are older," Gegg told his son as he strapped the ammunition across his chest, his knife to the sheath on his calf, and picked up his Kileshnokov and slung it across his back, through the strap, "I have to go now Timo, I will see you in a few hours." He walked out the door to the bicycle rack out in the front of his small urban home. He unlocked his bike, and hoped on, and pedaled toward the ominous black smoke, just like the other men, young and old, rich or poor, in the city of Billagio.