NationStates Jolt Archive

((OoC: Okay, all OOC stuff goes here (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=10802193#post10802193). Thanks, and have fun!))

Kriegorgrad was rotten to the core, its military lax and decaying, its people oppressed but slowly growing aware of the tyranny they were forced to live under. The hour of change was ripe, the apple of Kriegorgrad had numerous holes in it, eaten away by the worms of corruption, and slowly but surely, the seeds of a new era were tumbling through the uneven tunnels left in the worms’ wake to the ground of fruition. The Oligarchs were in constant disagreement, which resulted in poor organisation and nothing getting done, the military was constantly confused, and the incident about a nuclear device arriving at a poor farmer’s home. Only a few hours later did the Guardsmen realise their mistake and return to the farmer’s home to retrieve the WMD.

Overall, the country was falling apart. Its relations with its allies had evaporated, and things were going down the drain for the Collective Oligarchy. Even the Oligarchy’s closest allies had deserted the declining nation, and the diplomacy of Kriegorgrad, which was polite to its allies at least, turned gruff and increasingly isolationist. Dissent and low morale was at a new time high amongst the ranks of the Proletarian Guard, and only the presence of the Ordos Fedor kept the declining military barely functional.

Things were going to change, about that, there was as much doubt that the sun would crest the horizon after a long night, as much doubt as the promise of liberation after tyranny. Liberation was nigh, for the oppressed people of the Collective Oligarchy of Kriegorgrad, the clichéd hammer of freedom would shatter asunder the chains of dictatorship.

However, the action that would bring about the downfall of the Collective Oligarchy was ironically an action that was testing the defences of Kriegorgrad. Analysis had been undertaken to see how far Kriegorgrad could push the envelope when it came to nuclear weapons testing. A nation known as “Questers” seemed a good target, the didn’t seem the type to stand up to a nation like Kriegorgrad, and dropping a nuke off of their coast could easily be fixed by a honey coated “shut up and we won’t invade”. Intel from COMSEC had told the Oligarchs that their military was inept and undermanned.

*****

Over the cool, but rocky waters of the Questarian south west coast, soared the smooth form of a TU 160 aircraft, the furious winds of the region buffeting the TU160 aircraft as well as the distant white cliffs of the nigh impregnable nation. Unbeknownst to the pilot of the aircraft, and his crew, the 50 megaton Soviet Bloc nuclear device they were about to deploy was going to leave more shockwaves that originally intended. Shockwaves in the ocean were one thing, shockwaves in the international community were another.

Soviet Bloc had expressly forbidden testing the nuclear weapon outside of Kriegos borders, for it could damage their reputation of selling to the right customers. Sadly for Soviet Bloc, Kriegorgrad wasn’t one of the “right customers”, and it would gladly flaunt the request from their long-time ally if it meant that they got some more data on their weapons of death and destruction. The repercussions of this particular test were echo throughout the halls of Kriegos history.

Corporations and business were on the rise in Questers, and that placed more importance on profit, and the route to profit is very simple. A low input, a high output. The input was capital to buy labour, and the output was the finished product. If you could put little capital in, and get just a high an output, then: why not? Kriegorgrad was going to be caught in the middle of business, though the media of the Questarian and Soviet Bloc government would say otherwise.

Still, the consequences of bombardier Jonathon Fisher’s actions were unknown to him, his orders were simply to drop the bomb and let the pilot take them back to Kriegorgrad. To safe soil. To soil that wouldn’t stay safe for long.

”Five, four, three, two, one and mark…drop it lad!”

Jonathon nodded to himself and slammed his palm on the flashing red button. The bomb bay doors grudgingly opened. Mechanical engineering passively trying to stop, or at least impede the bomb falling out of the door, the Armed Republic of Soviet Bloc eagle painted onto the bomb with loving care. The bomb free-fell to the choppy waters below, and at the designated height, it detonated. The TU 160 had long since left the area and was on its trip back home.

And with the detonation of the fifty megaton nuclear device, the cogs of war were irrevocably set in motion by the ignorant oligarchs pulling at levers in the factory of world politics.

RAF Saint Phillips Island, 06:30

A pair of jets came down from the night sky, guided by the lights of the airfield, and slowly landed past lines of anti aircraft missiles. Another hour of flying time clocked up on the small, yet proffessional Questarian Royal Air Force. No sooner had the planes shut their flaring engines down than a rumble shook the airfield. A small white flash lasting less than a millisecond flew over and was gone as soon as it had came.

'Jesus christ, what was that?' The trainee pilot asked his instructor. The instructor simply shrugged. 'Nuclear test. Odd, we weren't warned about that. Must have been a pretty large yield. Maybe its one of the new hundred MT' bombs.'

The trainee pilot was still in awe from the miniscule effect on the airbase. In the distance, high above his head, a pair of unmanned aerial vehicles shot across the sky.

HMNB Saint Phillips Island, 06:31

'What in the seven hells was THAT?' The Admiral asked.

'Uh, uh uh' An aide stammered. 'Come on, out with it, you incompetent twerp.'

'A nuclear' One aide began.

'No sher, shitlock. I know what it was. Want I want to know is WHO dropped it, WHEN, WHY, and what yield it was. And I want to know before the goddamn press geta hold of it.'

'We have a UAV flying overhead now sir, it should only take a few minutes to-'

'IDIOT.' the Admiral slammed his fist down on the operations table, sending several diagrams flying. 'There are supposed to be constant AWACS flights around this country.'

'Sir, Flight 505212 was our detection aircraft in the vicinity, it was downed shortly after the explosion. The pilot was probably blind or-'

'Whatever. Get me video control from those UAVs.'

Not wishing to displease the admiral anymore, the screen in front flashed up a connection network and then it was transmitting from the UAV that was circling the impact area. The sea was notably darker with heat emananting from what could be spotted as an underwater crater. Thermal views of the UAV showed the area as totally red - evidently a thermonuclear weapon. To the top of the ocean several whales floated, completely dead. All smaller life had been obliterated upon impact. What was more shocking, however, was the giant smoke cloud that was filling the sky. Almost ten kilometres tall, it was now dissapearing, but the remains of a mushroom cloud could be spotted from a distance.

The information shot up the ranks like wildfire - from the Admirals headquarters at Saint Phillips, to Admiralty Command at London, to the First Sea Lord at Scapa Flow, who flew back to London, and then to Saint Phillips. By 06:52 the entire Admiralty was aware of the situation. They were ready to inform the press of what had happened. From local fishermen, to commercial aircraft to independent satellites, to seismic readings, there was no way to keep the explosion a secret. At 08:00 hours, the information was broadcast on the QBC (who had aqcuired it for a great deal of money three minutes before ITV) '8 O clock news'

'Reports from the naval base at Saint Phillips Island have shown a superlarge yield thermonuclear weapon was detonated just off Questarian shores several hours ago... there was no news of who dropped it, although Admiralty reports show that an EC-101 AWACs aircraft was downed in relation to the explosion...'

HMNB Saint Phillips Island, 13:41

'Sir!' The Admiral saluted the First Sea Lord, Richard Nelson. 'At ease, Admiral. What do we have from the underwater vehicles?'

'Ah.. they've retrieved the crash of the AWACS bird. They're retrieving the black box now.'

'Alright. Wake me up when you do.'


'Coffee?'

'Yeah, okay'

'Jesus. I can't wait to get some break, the baby's due on monday.'

'I know, these drills are getting endle- Wait, what the'

'uh?'

'Unidentified aircraft, bearing 230.'

'Uh.. hail it, then.'

'Okay, okay. This is Flight 505212, Royal Air Force, identify yourself, over.'

'Eh.. no reply.'

'Do we have an IFF?'

'Yeah.. Kriegorgrad People's Airforce, apparently, I dont' think - WHAT THE HELL?'

'Is that'

'I think so, evasive, get the hell out of here.'

At this point the explosion can be heard and obviously distortion has affected the black box.

'Jesus, turn around, turn around.'

'NBC systems online, <distorted>, we're down to one one engine, <distorted>'

'This is <distorted> to anyone in the area, we are going down on one engine, mayday, mayday'

'Ugh, christ, the <distorted> glide, glide <distorted>, electronics offline'

'Repeat, Flight 505212, mayday, mayday, we are going down on one engine and require assistance.'

London
The Prime Minister stepped up onto the podium, the giant union flag draped on the wall behind him. He coughed, and began his speech to the media.

'Earlier this morning, air forces from a foreign sovereign state dropped a thermonuclear weapon on the maritime boundaries of the Questarian homeland. The weapon has affected 32 kilometres radius of ocean and is threatening to expand. Two airmen from the Royal Airforce have been pronounced killed in action when their plane was downed by the blast. The government of the United Kingdom hereby promises to act swiftly to disarm these terrorists that pose a grave threat to our liberty and our freedom. We aim to disarm the rogue state of Kriegorgrad from their weapons of mass destruction. That is all, thank you.'

Hundreds of reporters hounded the Prime Minister, evidently irate, to his limousine asking hundreds of questions, all which received some cliche answer such as 'No comment' or 'We will carry out our promise in due time.'

“I’ve just heard the news, turns out we may be giving the Questarians a jolly good thrashing! Well what’s going on chaps?” Melchett announced to the green-clad aides surrounding the table. He was stood palms down on the large oak table, surveying the scene, maps and diagrams scattered about, his aides pouring over them, each one careful to avoid answering his question. The walrus-moustached man frown at that, his face blooming a deep red as he opened his mouth to shout.

”What in the bloody hell is going on?”

One the aides finally gathered up the mettle to reply to the enraged, slightly deranged old general. Patrick Gonder, a good man who knew what to do in the military, he had been key to crippling a large amount of the insurgents that have been rising up about Kriegorgrad, on and off, especially in the south. “Sir…we’re in no shape to fight the forces of the United Kingdom, I suggest we surrender now and minimise losses, and see if we can compromise.”

Melchett simply nodded, bit his lip, and shot Patrick in the chest. Some of the aides jumped, some screamed but all of them held the same look of complete and absolute shock. One of the aides recovered and took off his glasses, retrieving a handkerchief from his pocket to rub the blood from his glasses and to dabbed at his face to remove the bone and brain matter. Silence gripped the old fashioned war room, broken only by the walrus general clearing his throat and going into an unusually serious speech.

”Now, you all know I harboured no ill feelings for Patrick, the poor fellow, but he was pivotal to my making a point: dissent among the ranks will not be tolerated, I hope you understand. The Collective Oligarchy is being tested, and I want to hear no fear-mongering or traitorous talk. Is this understand?”

The aides verbally tripped over each other, each almost shouting “yes Comrade General”. The cacophony of noise was what the occasionally intelligent Melchett wanted to hear. Fear meant discipline, and discipline meant things ran smoothly. “Now, boy, go and fetch me a pen and paper, I must write a report to the oligarchs post-haste.” The young man scampered off to fetch a pen and paper for the Comrade General.

*****

”Well, the report says our military is in top-fighting form, and we’ll effortlessly crush any aggression moves made by the Questarian military,” said Henry, reclining back in the tall leather chair. He swept a glance over the other men at the long rectangular table, “I believe we’ll have no trouble in destroying the Questarian threat.”

This provoked some dissidence from certain other members, “don’t be stupid Henry, you know, as well as I do, that our military can’t tackle a western military and win!” Ironically, it was only hours before that Mustapha Krin, the provocateur of the current clash of wills, had said that the Kriegos military could take on any other in the world, and force them to their knees. Mustapha was simply argumentative.

”Well regardless, it’s too late now. And we both know surrender isn’t an option. I myself, place full faith in our armed forces-“, Henry was cut off by Mustapha once again.

”Now, assuming our military forces are up to scratch…what do we do about the Armed Republic? We disobeyed a direct order from them regarding their nuclear device.” At this, Henry just smirked and coolly made his retort.

”So what? They’re allies, they won’t do anything…they know as well as us that with our army in top form, they’ll lose who knows how many men, and with their society, they can’t cope with heavy losses.” Mustapha nodded, not completely convinced but lacking the incentive to argue back. The Oligarchs would pay dearly for their arrogance, for the Armed Republic of Soviet Bloc wasn’t as cowed as they thought.

”Anyway, we’ll make an announcement to the international community. We’ll simply ignore the Soviet issue until we have to confront it.”


{::Establishing Uplink::}
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Type of Communiqué: Announcement
To: Any whom it may concern
From: The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov
Subject: Arrogant Pigs

------------

”It was recently come to my attention that the greedy capitalist state of Questers and the proud nation of Kriegorgrad are locked in a de facto state of war. Kriegorgrad will not tolerate this, we offer the Questarians this one chance to back down, or face the full wrath of the Kriegos armed forces. Blood need not be spilled, but if it must be so, the sandy beaches of Kriegorgrad will run red with bourgeoisie blood.

The test was routine and the fact it was near Questers should have nothing to do with anything: it was an innocent test. Saying that, I will reinforce my original point: we won’t tolerate insolence, and with our military in prime condition, we’re more than able to back up that claim.“

Yours Sincerely,


The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov

{::Closing Uplink::}

S-482, Her Majesty's Submarine Venerable

The Venerable was a ballistic missile submarine - meaning that it was usually fitted with nuclear warheads. In this case, the sub wasn't, but it did have the capability to launch similar sized missiles. She glided sleekly underneath the waters nearby the Kriegos coast, the black coating of the submarine and her stealthy form mirroring that of a whale. She had spent the better part of 8 hours steaming from south pacific duty to reach Haven. Onboard the submarine, the Commanding Officer, Captain Williams, was preparing to read the operations document to his crew.

'Attention, attention.' he said through the speakers. Everyone from the bridge to the mess room to the engines could hear. 'At 06;30 hours this morning, forces acting with instructions from the Kriegos airforce dropped a thermonuclear device off our maritime borders. 82 kilometres of water has been contaminated, and two RAF servicemen have been pronounced KIA. Both were happily married. In response to an arrogant Kriegos communique to our government, the Admiralty has ordered us - not the diplomatic corps - to carry out the response.' Williams smiled. 'Will all crew move to battle stations, please. This is not a drill.'

Surely and efficiently the battle stations of the submarine were rolled into place. Ten minutes later she was ready to fire. The Venerable was loade d with 32 'Catapult' class missiles, each one having a payload approximately 3 times larger than the sub launched Tomahawk. The missiles took their turn to burst from the vertical cells of the submarine like a new flower in the spring and catapult towards Fedorgrad. To conserve the fuel, the missiles were designed to run on a straight route and then crash down onto infrastructure sites in Fedorgrad - power plants, hospitals, airfields, military bases, large roads, railways, schools, etc. No doubt it was overkill for the death of a pair of servicemen, but it was a prime example of the United Kingdoms determination never to say no (that is, if the nation in question is at least considerably weaker). Because of their running path, a number of missiles, maybe 4-6, were downed by stationary rocket fire and flak, but the rest crashed into their assigned targets leaving them in fire, smoke, and ruin.

The cruise missiles are raining down.

Jonensburg, Kulikovo

Prime Minister Dantes sat and listened to the bleak news that his cabinet broke to him. Kriegorgrad dropped a nuclear bomb just outside Questarian territorial waters. And learned sparce reports of retaliation. Dantes rubbed his eyebrows and sunk in his chair, in deep thought. Kriegorgrad was a fellow Socialist nation, though it was highly corrupt. Dantes stood up and spoke.
"We must aide them. Though, I will not risk open war. We will try and mediate a peaceful resolution. Kriegorgrad has committed something dangerous, using unconventional weapons. Our aide will be financial and military aide. I will see that not one Kulilovian soldier will partcipate in combat. It will be purely under the table support."
The cabinet was dismissed except for Minister of Defence Yeltonovi and Minister of Propoganda Letono. Yeltonovi started.
"Sir, we have come to the conclusion that open war would turn out in our disfavor. And we support your under the table aide. It is clear that Kriegorgrad will not be able to fend off the Questarians. We are already on unfriendly relations with them. It is possible for us to hamper their efforts. Special forces teams could enter Kriegorgrad and conduct sabotage, assasinations, etc. on the Questarians. A sort of terrorist cell. The SAO is more than up for the challenge." he said, taking out some files.
"What is the SAO?" Dantes asked, looking over the files.
"It stands for Special Actions and Operations. They are a sort of black ops, they do not exist, officaly. There are several hundred SAO operatives. Under the guidance of the Foreign Security Bureau, they could do real damage. As of now we have plans to send a team of twelve in and set up operations. If need we will send in more. But, I would be advised that we do not begin operations until after the occupation. No sense in wasting the money and expertise yet. Do we have your permission and conscent?"
"Yes, I will allow such an operation to take place. Letono, spread the word to the media and people of our stance, that we will be brokering a peace."

Rostov, District I of the Armed Republic of Soviet Bloc

“So what? They do have a right to test their own weapons, don’t they?” The Kagan’s deadpan response was in retaliation to the seemingly meaningless and rather random statement from an overzealous aide. Apparently, Kriegorgrad had tested a nuclear weapon. Similarly, the Armed Republic effectively did it on a monthly basis, but not to the fanfare, or rather, uproar that this one apparently created.

The aide, clearly engulfed in excitement, nearly shouted, “Sir, you don’t understand. No. They detonated it off the coast of Questers.”

Lifting his eyebrow, Dokhturov eyed the aide, “Well, that makes it slightly more interesting. But we have no relations with Questers and nor are we particularly entranced into stepping into Fedorenkov’s affairs when we aren’t needed. I don’t see how this even affects us in the slightest?” He was on the verge of dismissing the aide as he turned to the computer monitor at the edge of his desk.

The aide lost his excited temperament and quickly released a serious response, “It was our nuke.”

It took a moment for the information to fully digest into the Kagan’s brain as he slowly rotated his head and spoke a single word laced with heavy disbelief, “What?”

Collecting himself, the aide responded, “We’ve had analysts with OMON cover what limited information we have available and they’re ninety to a hundred percent sure that its one of our weapons which we gave to the Collective Oligarchy.”

“What? When did we give them nukes?”

The aide, a man named Alexei, lifted up a thick stack of dossiers and facsimiles of official documents and slapped the tome of information on his desk. “I believe it was Executive Order 401801. Part of our continuous arms deal with Kriegorgrad.”

Dokhturov lifted the cover sheet and scanned its text. His eyes read a single sentence several times over, simultaneously, his eyes lit up, “Shit.” He put his face in the palm of his hand, “Don’t tell me they did what I think they did?” He opened an eye to catch the aide nodding profusely, at the sight of that the Kagan let out a heavy sigh as he winced. “WDX-033A. We lent them those to use and test but solely within their own borders. Ugh. This is going to have ramifications coming out the ass.”

“You bet sir.” The aide caught a scowling glance from Dokhturov emphasized with a low growl. Alexei recovered quickly and reworded himself, “Well, more than you think, sir. That detonation killed two Questarian pilots. And now they’re, sir, to say it bluntly, pissed. In that next page you’ll find the copies of their respective statements. This is developing faster than anyone expected. In fact, we have reason to believe that Questers fired the official opening shots of this conflict. A hasty satellite image caught unidentified plumes erupting off Kriegorgrad’s shore. Another satellite pass won’t be available for awhile but OMON said they’d do a detailed pass to determine if Kriegorgrad was actually struck.”

The Kagan let go of his own head and let himself fall back into his high-back chair, the chair tilting backwards as he did so. His eyes raced across the ceiling as he debated several courses of action. He could simply sign it off and ignore it. But what would that do? Lessen the effects of Armed Republic political intervention, if we let it go, they would do more of the same. But more importantly, what if Questers was able to recover any portion of the weapon, or more likely, be able to identify the source of the nuclear materials. Chances are this would draw the Armed Republic into something much larger than he could imagine. Possibly, the Questarian government would be stubborn and thick-headed enough to connect the Armed Republic with the ‘attack’ and be capable of justifying a response against the Armed Republic. Regardless, the evil one here was clearly Kriegorgrad, they masterminded the detonation and provided an arrogant response only to cement this position. If the Armed Republic got connected to Kriegorgrad, we’d have the potential to be targeted by the entirety of the international community. That wasn’t good for politics or business.

Yet, the Kriegs were allies of the Armed Republic. They have been for awhile. The Armed Republic couldn’t turn on an ally; or could it? Dokhturov picked up the receiver for his phone and spoke to the operator, “Yes, Svetlana, have Serj come to my office. Thanks.” He set the receiver done and lifted his eyes to the aide, “Alexei, go back to Hektor and have him keep me up to date on what OMON finds out.” Alexei responded with a nod and lifted himself from his seat, exiting the room. A short second later and the Minister of Foreign Affairs entered.

“Viktor, you wanted me?”

Dokhturov motioned for the man to sit. “Yeah, Serj, I take it you know about the developing situation with Kriegorgrad and Questers.” The Minister of Foreign Affairs, Serj Vileterov, offered a solemn head nod as he took a seat. “From what I’ve been reading in my daily reports, the Collective Oligarchy is effectively going down the drain?” Another nod from the Minister of Foreign Affairs confirmed the question. “We’ve always liked Kriegorgrad, a good ally, they use a lot of our technology, but now they’ve grown, what? Rebellious? Using a weapon (we specifically told them not to use outside their own borders) off the coast of a sovereign nation. The implications are enormous.”

Vileterov formed a sly grin on his face, “What are you saying Vik?”

“I’m saying. We can’t chance ignoring this, we’re going to have to step in on Questers behalf. And besides, old Kriegorgrad could use a new government?”

The Minister of Foreign Affairs smiled, “You know, you’ve always found an ‘official way’ to get your own objectives done. But, I’d have to agree. If we ignore this situation and we get tied to it, we could be through-with. I know for a fact, especially with my conversations with Roos in the MoD, that Kriegorgrad’s military is no match for our’s… And especially no match for two nations against them.”

Nodding along, the Kagan quicky spoke, “Well, let’s issue a statement to the Collective Oligarchy, and if they do what I’m thinking they’re going to do, then we’ll subsequently contact Questers. Mobilize whatever forces you have to. Dismissed.” With a wave of a hand the Minister of Defense disappeared and the Kagan averted his attention to his computer to craft a simple statement of the Armed Republic’s position to the Oligarch Nikolai Fedorenkov, and his government in power in Kriegorgrad.


-----
Official Government Communiqué

Subject- Dissolution of Armed Republic Support
Recipients- The Collective Oligarchy of Kriegorgrad; Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov
Dispatcher-The Armed Republic of Soviet Bloc; Kagan Viktor Dokhturov

“Comrade Leader, the Armed Republic has stood alongside you and your nation for some time. However, this recent series of events has led us to rethink our stance on your government. The fact is, we’ve been able to determine that that weapon which you detonated near Questers was in fact our’s; the same weapon of a class which you swore to use solely within your own borders for testing and development of your own weapons. The ramifications of this are not only between the Armed Republic and the Collective Oligarchy, but the potential for international political fallout is severe enough to warrant our change of policies. Mr. Fedorenkov, if you do not halt these foolish, aggressive, and haughty plans for war with Questers, then our support of your regime, people, and arms programs will effectively disappear. We cannot allow for an ally to blatantly disregard our warrants for use on our own technology, especially to effectively incite war. If you continue on this clear path to destruction, there is no doubt in my mind that we will stand atop your hastily dug grave, the victors of a foolish war.”

Signed
Viktor R. Dokhturov
Kagan, the Armed Republic of Soviet Bloc


-----


The statement was short, at least in its message – stop it or we’ll stop you. The last sentence may have been over the top, and could damage relations after this conflict if Kriegorgrad did stand down, but something bothered the internal workings of his mind, something that told him they wouldn’t. He almost knew that they would simply disregard the Armed Republic, counting that the long-dormant nation wouldn’t bother to intercede, at least not at this point. If Fedorenkov and his lackeys made that fateful decision, then the already-building firestorm of Armed Republic might would be relentlessly unleashed. But it would be unleashed with restraint. The Armed Republic held no qualm with the beleaguered people of the Collective Oligarchy, and would attempt for the most part to leave them unharmed, focusing entirely on the military and government infrastructure holding the masquerade up. But again, Dokhturov could sense that the people wouldn’t take too kindly to a new regime. The endless brainwashing they received from birth wouldn’t allow them to accept new ideas, especially of a foreign power apparently overcoming the ‘superior might’ of the Collective Oligarchy. For some reason, the Kagan didn’t believe this would only be a military-war. In fact, it may end up something akin to total war, an unrelenting war with casualties astronomically high. Yet, he knew, these casualties wouldn’t be Questarian or Armed Republican, but instead the stubborn people of Kriegorgrad, fighting to uphold that internal masquerade of a nation which hid the true face of its hideous government.

Thus, he made up his mind. If Fedorenkov dismissed the Armed Republic, he would immediately mobilize reactionary forces at sea and land, preparing for the inevitable land-war to seize the country. But before that, he would contact Questers and offer the full support of the Armed Republic and her long-oiled war machine to silence this rowdy regime. And then, war would ensue.

{::Establishing Uplink::}
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Type of Communiqué: Diplomatic
To: Viktor R. Dokhturov
From: The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov
Subject: Re: Dissolution of Armed Republic Support"

------------

”Mister Dokhturov, I have read your letter and seeing as we are, or at least were, civil servants of allied nations, I will proffer some advice: do not test us. We will put you down should you come at us with your military might, so I suggest you back off on this issue. As for the nuclear test…well, things happen. Anyway, I have much more pressing matters to attend to than the complaining of a cowed force.“

Yours Sincerely,


The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov

{::Closing Uplink::}


Ministry of Love, Fedorgrad

Mustapha slammed his fist down on the table, rage filling his form. “What do you mean there are missiles inbound on Fedorgrad, our military is in top-shape, what about our picket defences?” His question was answered: the distant boom sent uncontrollable shudders throughout the Ministry of Love. Dust fell from the ceiling and marred the gleaming black desk. Silence reigned over the room of kings. The distant rhythmic sound of klaxons reached their ears. The silence was broken by the stunned Mustapha opening his mouth to shout to the Ordos Fedor outside the door, who’d quickly relay his request to the nearest pen-pusher.

”By Fedor…get me a pen and paper!” The fact Fedorenkov had died long ago, and the fact that even in life, he was nothing but a puppet to the rest of the Oligarchs, his name still held some kind of pseudo-deity value, even to the puppeteers. The aide came into the great meeting room timidly, setting down the nice pen and a stack of paper, before fleeing from the presence of the stressed and startled dictators. “Well…I assume the attack was Questarian, we all know the Republicans won’t be do anything. We’ve been allies for too long to suddenly turn on a dime.”

{::Establishing Uplink::}
{::Procuring Broadband Channel::}
{::Open Channel Procured::}

Type of Communiqué: Announcement
To: Any whom it may concern
From: The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov
Subject: Cowardly Attack!

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”Just under an hour ago, my staff and I were in a meeting when a Questarian cruise missile struck the Ministry of Love; the building my staff and I were in. This cowardly attack serves only to undermine the morality of this senseless aggression in response to a slight miscalculation of a testing location for a low-yield nuclear device. The Collective Oligarchy wanted to have the issue resolved diplomatically, but it appears that the blood thirsty curs in charge of Questers wouldn’t be satisfied by that.

I later found out that my building wasn’t the only one hit by such a lowly strike: locations about Fedorgrad, including residential districts, hospitals and orphanages. Save for their strike on the Ministry of Love, they targeted the weak, the infirm, and the incapable.

We will respond to this issue with appropriate measures.“

Yours Sincerely,


The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov

{::Closing Uplink::}


HFS Virtue, off the North Eastern Kriegos Coast

The captain of the Virtue sucked in deep the smoke generously given by the chubby cigar in between his grizzled lips, the stubble leaving his tanned chin and mouth area a gritty form of natural sand paper. The man’s name was Nathan Salter, the surname ironically fitting for his post and designation, and as his name suggested, he had the scent of sea salt long entrenched in his very being. He exhaled, letting smoke drift about the bridge of the aging Soviet destroyer, sun lazily piercing the windows and battling its way through the light haze to illuminate the features of the experienced captain. “What the situation? Any idea about what launched the missiles? Any idea of where to look?”

The captain’s hand clenched at that, his family was all the way back in Fedorgrad, got shipped out from Pennerick to the capital, something about the need for nurses in the heartland...and the hospitals were targets for the Questarian cruise missiles. The bastards. A young, though competent member of the bridge crew was quick to respond to the captain’s query. ”Command thinks it was a sub sir, and they think its south of our current position, judging from trajectory of the missiles and the amount of time it took for us to muster a response.”

”A sub…makes sense. They wouldn’t deploy a top-side vessel this far in our waters unless it had a fleet backing it up. Deploy the ASAC choppers, see if they pick up anything.”

”Aye sir.”

The ASAC equipped helicopter struggled for a moment, its rotors providing momentum, desperate to get off the ground, then it managed haul its bloated form off of the landing pad aboard the Virtue. The captain watched from the bridge as the chopper soared overhead, blocking the sun for a moment before it rapidly moved into the distance, down south towards the corvettes ready to intercept anything the Virtue drove off. Mercy wasn’t in the Kriegos’ military dictionary.

Five minutes past. Then ten. Calm began to ooze into the captain’s painfully alert mind.

”Virtue, Virtue! This is bird ASAC oh-one, we have a contact. Subsurface craft just went under the blue, moving south at speed but we can keep track of it. Orders sir?” A snarl ran across the captain’s face, not a snarl at being kicked out of his little oasis of calm in a sea of anger, but a snarl of rage at the dogs who threw a cruise missile his wife’s way. Captain Salter grabbed the phone from the grey steel wall.”

”Open fire with your equipment, make it surface or the let the bastards drown or drive them into the corvettes south…just don’t let them get away.”

“Roger that Virtue, roger that, en route now…”

These bastards were going to pay for what they did, no dirty foreigner spills Kriegos blood and gets to tell the tale to their grand children. No, that simply won’t do. The captain’s fist curled into an angry ball once more as determination set into his jaw, determination to do justice unto these vile invaders, marauders and scoundrels.

S-482, HMSu Venerable

The submarine plowed its way southwards out of the Hallad strait, the elongated form pushing its way through the calm waters propelled by the massive waterjet spewing bubbles from the rear of the Venerable. She was expecting an easy run, the Captain thought little of the Kriegos Navy from his briefing and Williams didn't really believe they would try anything, in fact, he doubted they could - and if they could - who was the navy of a third world nation to challenge a submarine of Her Majesty's Royal Navy!? It is well known that complacency can be the downfall of a proffessional service, and well, the RN reeks of it. In fact, there wasn't even a watchman next to the large flapping ensign of the erect conning tower, and as such, the approaching helicopter wasn't even noticed until it arrived on the ships limited optical RADARs.

'Ah, sir' The communications ensign said.

'Hm?' Williams looked up from his book, down over his glasses at the ensign. The submarine was relatively stable, and the Captain liked to read, after all, his post was at the bridge and there was little else to do on the long journeys made by a ballistic submarine. He was an educated man, but he was still ignorant.

'Enemy helicopter on optics, bearing two six four, speed two fourty k, range five klicks and gaining.' The ensign reported slightly nervously.

Williams shrugged. 'Oh, well, dive and bring us to 100, decrease to nine knots and we'll hide until these idiots go away.' This would give Williams enough time to finish his book, and then maybe he could start another if they were still looking.

'Aye sir' the reply came from the navigation ensign. With a sudden jerk, and then a quick stabilisation, the Venerable blew her aft ballast and dropped into the sea, water slipping off her matt black top as she slid into the murky waves of the Hallad strait. Who would have thought that the mighty Venerable, second in her class, one of the quietest ballistic submarines on this earth, commanded by a first rate pay captain from the best funded naval academy in Questers, would be sunk by a few ex-soviet corvettes under the command of a determined officer? Well, as soon as the Venerable dived, a string of crumps cracked across the ocean above the diving Venerable, shaking her slightly. But it was enough.

'Ensign, what the hell was that?' Williams sat up, putting his book and reading glasses to one side.'

'Ah, ASW rockets sir, probably a cluster of ten or twelve from the helicopter.'

If there was a way to pronounce an ellipse, then Williams would have done so. Instead, he stuck with a simple 'Oh.' Continuing with 'ASW rockets? Is that all they have?'

The pocketa pocketa pocketa of another cluster of rockets could be heard, and a small explosion as one shot through the water and slammed into the submarine, exploding slightly, the shell bouncing away. Of course the weapons were old, and damage was little, but Williams straightened up a little. He had been caught off guard, but it wasn’t happening again.

‘Alright Ensign, bring us about thirty degrees to port.’ Still diving, the Venerable swung around to its left, and then a minute later, to its right, beginning evasive manoeuvres until she blended away below a hundred metres.

‘Keep us silent, advance to 13 knots. First Lieutenant Parker?’

‘Aye sir.’ The executive officer of the boat replied.

‘I’m going to take this submarine to our nearest ally and raise the commonwealth flag there. There’ll be corvettes and P-G-G-s swarming this area by now and maybe the Kriegos Navy will have put to sea.’ Williams said, unfolding a map of Haven.

‘Understandable, sir.’ Parker replied.

‘If we are here.’ He said, placing a point on the Venerable’s location. ‘Then our nearest ally is Skinny87, I’m sure they won’t mind us. We’re still a good few hours away.’ Williams said. ‘But I’m confident we can make it. Accelerate us to flank speed, lets outrun these bastards and bring the crew home safe.’

‘Aye sir.’ Parker saluted.

The Venerable, now at 200 metres, accelerated her speed, pushing the pumpjets to her maximum speed of 32 knots. She would flash up on the Kriegos SONAR, definetly, but Williams and to an extent, the more reluctant Parker, would never think that the enemy had the technology to hit them. Armed with a full brace of torpedoes, and fast nuclear pressurised water reactors, the Venerable was fast, well armed, and extremely stealthy. If everything went according to plan, she would push out of the Hallad straits, by force if necessary, dock in a friendly port, request assistance, and steam to Singapore. All in a days work. There was, however, a barrier.

‘Ah, Captain, contacts up ahead, hostiles.’

‘Let’s take a look.’ Williams ordered, and the SONAR screen illuminated and flashed up on the larger tactical display screen. It was true- four old soviet corvettes, maybe Grishas, were advancing steadily on an anti submarine pattern right towards the Venerable. This is where Williams made his first mistake – on a submarine, stealth is always more important than firepower.

‘Flood all chambers and prepare torpedoes for firing. We’re not that far away, lets take these arseholes down.’ Williams said.

‘Sir, we could easily sneak underneath the’ Parker suggested.

‘Lieutenant, when I want to hear your course of action I will ask for it. Now is the time to show these morons not to mess with us.’ Williams replied.

‘Aye sir.’

The flooding of torpedo tubes is one of the loudest things a submarine can do, it can be picked up for miles, and for specialist anti submarine boats like the Grishas, that would be no problem. Of course, the Captain didn’t’ expect the enemy to put up much resistance, the operation would be simple: torpedo the communists from a distance, pick up survivors, and steam off. If anyone else tried to get in their way, woe betide them. Unfortunately, it did not quite work out like this. Firstly, the Kriegos corvettes were actually faster than the submarine, and secondly they were packed full of anti submarine weapons as Williams discovered as the first explosions from long range depth charges popped around the discovered Venerable as she rolled into action.

The emotion was clear on the Kagan’s face. And it was clear in its symbolic meaning. The Collective Oligarchy, as Dokhturov had expected, simply dismissed the Armed Republic and actually going so far as to say the Armed Republic was already defeated. Regardless of the thoughts astray of the Oligarch, Dokhturov’s own thoughts were quite clear and well-defined upon his face: his tell-tale smirk. He did it all the time, and each and every time it meant something was in the works. The Armed Republic was going to take action with little regard to the nation in question, Kriegorgrad. The stubbornness of both powers here would result in neither ever forgiving the other, so one had to capitulate, correct? Kriegorgrad would fall, no doubt, especially in the Kagan’s mind.

“Sir? A response?”

He waved his hand, “No. Don’t dignify them with a response. Wait.” He contemplated a potential response, maybe purposefully misleading the Oligarch. No. “Never mind. Don’t offer a response, I doubt that in his current state of mind he’s all there and probably wouldn’t notice the difference. How is Objective Argentina commencing?”

“The Minister of Defense has included a proper report on the subject, its in your morning briefing. I believe everything is completed.” The aide offered a lift of his eyebrows to galvanize a response from the Kagan. Dokhturov simply waved away the aide, who readily complied, leaving the Kagan in silence.

Objective Argentina was a simple mobilization order. Within its paper boundaries and electronic releases, Objective Argentina set forth the mobilization of several distinctive portions of the Army of the Armed Republic, Navy of the Armed Republic, and Air Force of the Armed Republic, as well as the venerable District Guard. Truth be told, the Kriegs wouldn’t know what the hell hit them. From naval bases in the republic of Buechoria, twin expeditionary fleets would prepare for operations with a third expeditionary fleet in reserve. Expeditionary fleets were the bread and butter of the Navy of the Armed Republic and said a lot about the Navy’s, and the Armed Republic’s, doctrine of swift and efficient mobilization. There was a dire lack of sheer firepower in an expeditionary fleet, nothing larger than a destroyer except the medium carrier, light carrier, amphibious assault vessel, and the arsenal ship. Everything else was a destroyer, frigate, support vessel, or any of the smaller missile, patrol, or auxiliary boats. They were designed to provide fast, mobile fire support in response to conflicts around the globe. Regardless, the Kagan was expecting a swift battle, necessitating the mobilization of two of the light, but swift, expeditionary fleets, and not one of the two heavy battle fleets in use in the Navy.

In terms of Air Force equipment, only defense assets were mobilized as the Collective Oligarchy was effectively out-of-range of any land-based aircraft from the Armed Republic. Any aircraft used would be from the sea, or long range delivery platforms and bombers. Even then, the Naval Air Forces of the Navy of the Armed Republic offered a well-developed capability at sea. Heavy development of these forces allowed the NAFNAR to utilize aircraft not normally found on the decks of aircraft carriers including light bombers and airborne assault aircraft [designed to deliver airborne infantry and light mechanized forces]. This all but enhanced the utility and capability of the Armed Republic.

In regard to airborne forces, a number of units had been mobilized. These forces would, if able to, airdrop into Kriegorgrad from the specially outfitted aircraft of the Airborne Armed Forces. An entire airborne infantry division numbering some ten thousand troops as well as an airborne mechanized division [with light mechanized units including utility vehicles, light attack vehicles, etc.] and one of the Armed Republic’s unique airborne armor divisions [using T-05 light tanks and light attack vehicles] were all mobilized to provide an initial ground force to secure immediate objectives while heavier forces amphibiously landed [these forces would be the two heavier Marine divisions; one from each expeditionary fleet].

However, the final tenet of this Objective Argentina called for the cooperation with Questers, and so far, no such channel of diplomacy had existed. Before any competent and organized armed strike could be made against Kriegorgrad, Dokhturov had to initiate some sort of diplomatic channel with Questers and hopefully they would be willing to cooperate in a joint venture against Kriegorgrad in the name of quelling a rebellious state.


The message would be delivered beyond the eyes and ears of the Collective Oligarchy, by whatever means necessary to escape whatever espionage system they had in place, if any. Regardless, the utmost attention to secrecy and detail led this message to the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Questers.

The contents of the message were as follows:


“Mr. Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Questers,

It has come to our ready attention that your nation was, essentially, fired upon by the Collective Oligarchy of Kriegorgrad, who without regard detonated a high-yield nuclear weapon off of your coasts and which lead to the deaths of several servicemen of your military. Through-out the past, the Armed Republic of which I represent, has had good relations with the Collective Oligarchy. However, this is no longer so. Our relations as of yet are becoming more strained, especially with the revelation that the weapon used against your shores was, in fact, a weapon we provided them for use as a test device to develop their own warheads. We regret this fact deeply, and are further incensed by the fact that the Collective Oligarchy deliberately disobeyed our demands that this weapon be not used for any use besides testing/training.

Additionally, the government of the Collective Oligarchy and more importantly the Oligarch himself has rapidly degraded in terms of mental capacity and their ability to govern. I sincerely believe, especially with this unprovoked attack upon your sovereignty, that they are unfit to continue to rule their nation. I believe a new government should be instituted as soon as possible. They are now a rogue state and must be dealt with immediately and swiftly.

And this brings me to my point; we are both after the same things- the silence of a boisterous and rebellious state. Thus, I believe a partnership in this escapade will result in nothing short of a more spectacular success in our joint mission to end this rogue state’s unprovoked thrashing. Please keep this message an utmost secret, as the Collective Oligarchy believes the Armed Republic has simply stood down.

I leave you to contemplate your course of action, thank you for your consideration.

Regards,”
Signed
Viktor R. Dokhturov
Kagan, Armed Republic of Soviet Bloc



By now, the actual call orders and mobilizations began. The periodic passes of satellites over the Collective Oligarchy's nation took incredibly detailed photographs and snapshots of everything within the nation. OMON Intelligence Agency analysts poured over the data, marking off targets of importance and pre-loading them into Armed Republic's DefenseNet, allowing any relevant unit to the conflict to access the information.

In addition, the two expeditionary fleets, the First and the Ninth, set sail from their ports in Buechoria, steaming for the Collective Oligarchy's home soil to project the might of the Armed Republic directly to their doorsteps. Airborne forces hopscotched from the Armed Republic mainland to bases in Buechoria, the closest entity under Armed Republic control or influence near Kriegorgrad. Training began at the posts to prepare the soldiers for the conflict which awaited. The Kagan hoped it would be swift, lethal, and decisive. But the fact was, the massive military of the Collective Oligarchy and her brainwashed citizens would lead to a fight akin to grinding stones together. And thats why the District Guard was mobilized. This National Guard-esque force was composed of far more numbers than the regular forces but of considerably less technology. However, they were more rugged and more suited to long and drawn-out operations. Regardless, training commenced for all forces involved. One of the central tenets of this new training: the killing and maiming of the civilian populace. Whether it was an ominous foreshadowing or just pre-emptive planning, no body knew, but they did know this conflict would be a far different one than the Armed Republic could even imagine.

post not finished~ sorry, lameass jolt posted it.

National Television, 17:58, 7th May
'...Claims direct can help you get bette... New! Super soaker oozinator!... buy this! buy that!'

Questarian television was full of consumerist television adverts. The more money you had, the more money you spent. That was the rule of business in the United Kingdom. New salary in? Well, buy a new car then. Most middle class families had at least two diesel guzzling land rovers, and more useless gadgets than you could count (who wants four DVD players, anyway?). Television was an addiction for some families, from the working class who spent the days watching football matches to the upper class who watched imported manga cartoons to the many documentaries to dirty pornography movies that filled the channels. Every six o clock, come rain or wind or foul weather, each family would sit down and watch the six o clock news. It was essentially mandatory, and the government loved this. It was a great propaganda tool for a nation so 'free.' It was usually economic statements and figures, shiny pictures of new warships, or some patriotic speech by a war vet. But occasionally the government would use it to stir up hatred, and on this day, they did so. With over five billion people watching the television at that moment, it was the perfect opportunity to blow a situation out of proportion.

'This is Andrew Lainer from Questarian Broadcasting Corporation, with breaking news on the Kriegorgrad Situation.The Royal Navy submarine Venerable has been attacked and sunk off Kriegorgrad today after delivering a political statement to the Kriegos government. Surfaced and with her United Nations flag raised alongside the light blue flag of neutrality, the Venerable had already declared herself a neutral vessel three times before being fired upon by a pair of Kriegos cruisers. The submarine was chased down the Hallad Straits by a force of two cruisers, eight destroyers, twenty frigates, and countless corvettes. Sinking at least one cruiser and six destroyers, the Venerable escaped into international waters and once again declared her neutrality. Although the brave crew of the Venerable attempted resist, the nuclear submarine was chased down by several squadrons of modern anti submarine helicopters and aircraft. The Captain, whos name has not yet been disclosed to the public, attempted a formal surrender to the Kriegos. In return for this offer, he and his superior officers were summarily executed. It is unknown what happened to the rest of the crew. It is expected that the government will issue a strong message of condemnation and a retaliatory order later today. In other news…’

RAF Dilberton, 03:18, 7th May

‘Thirty years and they’re finally doing it.’ The Air Commodore said tearfully, patting the side of the giant C42 transport planes.

‘Aye. Bloody Bureaucrats.’ The Captain replied.

The C42 was a beast – an absolutely giant transport plane that had been used in so many theatres throughout the years with the paratroopers. Cuts in the para division had forced the C42 out of service for a more economical choice in aircraft. For its pilots and the men who had travelled upon them, it was a sad day. The C42 was a very popular aircraft, and although the Air Board had managed to hold on to them for some time, their last mission was about to begin. Troops were piling on, dark beige uniforms and kevlar helmets lining the runway. The flashing lights of the RAF’s largest airbase lit up the night as aircraft after aircraft pushed their way past the wind, thrusters blazing, up into the sky leaving heavy trails of exhaust smoke over the city of London. Rumblings in the sky were a common occurrence but for some residents of certain districts (maybe it was a coincidence that the airbase was built so that aircraft would fly over the slums…) the sounds of aircraft thrusters would give them a rude awakening and sleep would probably be impossible for the next two hours.

Air Commodore Harvard sighed and looked at the lone C42 sitting on the ground.

'Is she fuelled up?'

'Aye.' the airman said. Though the C42 was expensive - a fuel guzzler if there ever was one, she was extremely easy to mantain and exceptionally reliable. The plane was loved by both pilots, aircrew, and the men who travelled upon it.

'Well then.' Harvard saluted the plane. 'One last time.' he then stepped onboard, saluting to the para officer, who was also looking quite sad.

'So many theatres. Nigeria, Yemen, Lebanon, India, Malta, Malaya..’

Harvard nodded. ‘Indeed. Well, lets make the last one the best, eh.’

Minutes later, the C42 lifted itself from the ground and sped into the air to join its waiting comrades carrying the entire 38th Para.

Skies nearby Kriegorgrad
Major Jarovski coughed and, facing the assembled troops, began to talk

‘Alright lads, orders are in from the top, and it looks like this Op won’t be simple. We’re looking at a full scale interference operation into Kriegorgrad. This is a code red operation – I don’t have to tell you that you must not under any circumstances surrender any information regarding your mission or your service. More orders will be issued on the field, but for now you are being warned that we are entering a hostile zone. Shoot to kill, troops. That is all, further briefing will be on the field. Good jumping.’

Meanwhile, in the command C42, General Percy Letterham (http://i44.photobucket.com/albums/f16/MattShipwrighter/Questers/PERCIVAL.jpg) reviewed his operational plans. Hastily drawn sketches on the plane trip over and various satellite photographs, which he had only skimmed, weather and terrain reports from MI6 which he had ignored altogether, and some enemy troop concentrations in the area, which had also gone ignored, made up the General’s operation portfolio , the General paused as a crackle in his personal radio told him he was required in the cockpit. Walking over from the command section to the cockpit of the giant craft, Letterham ignored the black (coincidence?) airman who saluted him, and entering the cockpit immediately demanded why he had been rerouted from a very important task.

‘The success of the operation depends on consistent planning, Commodore. This better be worth it.’ Letterham sent another glance towards the Sudanese cockpit engineer.

‘Yes, of course.’ Air Commodore Harvard rolled his eyes. ‘We’re approaching the drop point. All aircraft are at 32,000, I assume you will be dropping HELO, so I’ll bring us dow’

‘Er, excuse me?’ Letterham looked confused. ‘Air Commodore, I don’t believe you are the senior officer here. Please do not make assumptions about my strategic ability. I find it highly insulting that yo’

‘Alright, alright. What does the plan say then?’

Letterham smiled slightly, moving his eccentrically groomed moustache a little.
‘Bring us down to 3,000-‘

‘THREE THOUSAND?’ Harvard said. He knew the General was stupid, but…

‘Metres.’ Although Royal Air Force height calculations were all done in feet to maximise precision, like the Submarine Fleet, Letterham did not use do the quick calculation in his head and instead used the Army standard of metres. ‘Three thousand metres, when the convoy is straight, a standard jump will be carried out. That is all you need to know, Air Commodore.’

Though he didn’t like it, Harvard was under Letterham’s control for the duration of the drop operation. Harvard had worked with Letterham before, and he had hated him. The RAF was the most elite force in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. It was disciplined, it was strong, and it was fairly multicultural, a lot more so than the Army. Letterham did not seem to respect this. Either way, orders were orders and several minutes later the planes dropped down to 3k metres and the drop began. Of course, the first on the ground where the recon units, then the main combatants, then Command. Lack of leadership meant, while discipline kept the basic standards of paradropping in place, the drop was spread out and unorganised. Letterham took his time setting up a real chain of command, and it took time for the some nine thousand men to form a cohesive unit. They did, eventually though, and on the border of a very large forest in south Kriegorgrad the 18th Para Brigade dug in in a semi circular defensive line and made their temporary base of operations.

[OOC: SB - I'll give a government response in a bit, I'm still not sure of what to say diplomatically. This op is highly secret, though.]

Robert Berke stalked through the undergrowth of the wet, morning lit forest, his shotgun held low as he pursued his quarry, the typically cheap country clothes on his stocky frame doing little to keep the chill from his bones. It had been moving with some speed for sometime and had only just slowed down, seeming somewhat unsure about its next course of action; the proud deer stood, swaying its head left to right, when suddenly it bolted. Robert tracked it with his shotgun but the buckshot never left the barrel. Robert saw a shift of slightly out of place green, his old eyes struggled for a moment in confusion but he was certain he saw the pink of flesh, then the muted glint of dulled metal: soldiers. And these weren’t the normal Kriegos soldiers, they were dressed differently, and they were far too quiet to be Kriegos soldiers: foreigners. The men had about them an air of professionalism, and an aura of purpose, as if they were here to do something: enemies.

Without making a sound, Robert turned and slinked his way back into the forest, doing his utmost to dodge the occasional shaft of luminescence that nosily peered down through the moist, dripping canopy. Robert was about fifty metres from the spot where he spotted the foreigners when his Wellington clad foot came upon a cluster of dry leaves spared from the omnipresent wet with a terrifyingly audible crunch. Robert forgot himself, all thoughts of his former quarry pushed to the back of his consciousness as survival mode kicked in. He ran.

50 Miles South of Sandington, Groling Proletarian Guard Base

Lieutenant Tamworth leaned back in the moth-eaten chair, spinning about half-heartedly, entranced by the creak that came with each revolution of the chair. The wooden planks that made up the walls of the command centre groaned not from a barrage of the elements, but just from age, and almost from boredom. Tamworth heard Sergeant Harrod talking on the phone, probably about the next shipment or milk or beef to the base…Tamworth had been growing tired of the stringy beef, and he was sure it was turning a little green. Yes, it was definitely turning green…

”Sir, Robert from Berke farm has rang up about seeing foreigners in the forest where he goes hunting.”

Tamworth awoke to the sound of Harrod’s voice, concern plain on his face. Something was wrong, Harrod rarely look concerned. After clearing his throat with an audible cough, much to the courteous Harrod’s dismay, Tamworth spoke.

”From the Berke farm? But they’re the only farm that doesn’t call in whatever they see…they’ve never even submitted a report before!”

Harrod stood silent, the expression of concern glued to his face. The cogs in Tamworth’s head turned in thought and the end result of the thought process was the lieutenant leaping to his feet, grabbing his cap and greatcoat and beckoning for Harrod to follow. About fifteen minutes of screaming and ordering had a platoon of Proletarian Guardsmen moving out of the largely wooden base guarded by a chain-link fence towards the forest in question, about ten minutes of driving and they were at the edge of the forest. One minute later, and platoon was moving into the forest, the smattering of Enfield rifles, Sten guns and Bren guns held high and low as they edged their way into the hotzone.

Proletarian Guardsmen, while passably trained, weren’t famed for their silence, and despite the harsh rule on minimal verbal communication, the jostle of equipment and the rustle leaves that left much to be desired when it came to discretion. Shafts of sunlight pierced down through the blanket of leaves held aloft by the sturdy, wet tree trunks, illuminating the khaki garbed figures in all their poverty before they moved back into the relative shadow of the canopy.

Fedorgrad, Kriegorgrad

The unrelenting yell of klaxons filled the air as the 1940s style firemen ran to and fro, lugging with them old fire hoses, dousing the flaming buildings in a freezing, unstoppable jet of water. The fire clung to the cheap manufacture of the failing home, the parched wallpaper desperate for the aqua stream sent forth by the hose as flames illuminated the rooms of the home in a twisted hellfire. The cry of rubber on cement announced a truck burdened down with Proletarian Guardsmen, the men doubtless hurrying to regroup with the rest of their unit that was deploying somewhere in the city. While this happened, the jaded citizenry of Kriegorgrad simply watched, the elder, the father and mother, whose house was just reduced to rubble by the Questarian cruise missile expected no charity or assistance, that wasn’t the way Kriegorgrad worked. No, they were simply lucky to live in the freest nation on Earth. The younger ones, the son and brother, of the flaming house, however, weren’t as understanding of Collective Oligarchic policy. Discontent was slowly stirring at the bottom of the oppressed Kriegos people.

Nearly much as a quarter of the population would gladly accept a new regime change, due to the hideous corruption, and the recent failing of the Ministry of Vanity, the ministry itself falling apart from the inside thanks to the despicably far-spread corruption, the roots of inefficiency growing to form a rotten, dying trunk that supported the exterior image of the Ministry of Vanity. Kriegorgrad was ripe for change, the Oligarchs had already made plans should the Questarian situation grow beyond their control. Most namely: fleeing while their loyal subjects get systematically annihilated and slaughtered by superior Questarian technology. The possibility of the respected and demonically efficient Soviet Bloc armed forces joining the fray wasn’t even considered, not because it was impossible, but because the outcome of a conflict with Soviet Bloc would be clear, even to the most biased of military analysts. Questers was lethal enough on its own, add Soviet Bloc in and things weren’t going to bode well for the Collective Oligarchy, anyone could see this. Except Melchett.

Melchett’s Office, Ministry of Peace, Near Fedorgrad

“Where on the earth are my regiments?! Where are my tanks? Where is my damn army!” The booming shout erupting from the moustache-guarded mouth of the Comrade General himself. Melchett surveyed those who cringed under his verbal onslaught, enraged not by their incompetence but by the incorrect nature of their answers. They were speaking madness, saying that certain regiments were out of contact, saying that certain regiments were too spread out to regroup, saying that certain regiments simply refused to heed the call.

”Sir…I’m sorry, but I’ve personally contacted twenty nine regiments of the Proletarian Guard, and only thirteen are in fit-fighting shape, and only seven of those regiments actually will fight.” Was the reply of one of the aides. This sent Melchett into another fit of undiluted anger, sending a fusillade of words the man’s way.

“That simply shan’t do, you ignorant fool! I’ll have all the traitorous dogs shot! I’ll rip every one of them from their beds and force them into uniform, lazy cowards!”

The other men in the old fashioned, wood panelled room exchanged looks of uncertainty, not sure whether or not they should point out the fatal, practical flaw in Melchett’s plan: there weren’t enough of them to discipline all the regiments. It looked like that the Youth Guard would have to be called on again. This wasn’t a moral dilemma, simply a material issue. Full grown men make better soldiers than developing children, but still, a soldier was a soldier, and a rifle was a rifle. Manpower was manpower.

The room stayed silent.

Nearby Morritch

The black and grey clad motor inflatable speared its way towards the Kriegos coast like a guided missile, the Special Air Serviceman tugging the motor to top speed. Behind it, its sister boat plowed through the water, emotionless and uniform to the first. Deployed from a submerged submarine that was literally at the bottom of the Hallad strait, the sub had surfaced for under a minute before diving again. No more precautions were taken. A carrier group had been dispatched to the area and although it had not yet violated Kriegos waters, any sign of trouble would be crushed with extreme prejudice. And as pre usual, a great number of journalists were onboard. The Questarian public just loved to watch foreigners getting blow up. The two boat themselves contained a troop of men from the Special Air Service, the most elite regiment in the Questarian military. Wearing jet black wetsuits, which they would eventually abandon, the thirty strong SAS troop would split up into ten groups and yomp it across Kriegograd carrying 200 pounds worth of equipment to spot targets for the bombers in the sky. They were ghosts - denied by any major authority, invisible, and they could walk through walls.

Well, they couldn't do that, but they were still damn skilled.

Eventually, the boat careered into the sand and efficiently and silently the special forces piled out, carrying their gear and anything on the boats. They were disposable, and within a few nods the order had been carried out; a pair of men to each boat. The engine was removed and buried deep in the sand, and the rest was deflated, ripped in half, and set out to sea. By the time the Kriegos found the motors unearthed by the incessent pounding of the sea, which may be never, the cruise missiles would already be raining down. Splitting up into the groups shortly after, they would surround Morritch and use ultrasecure radio lines and infrared spotters to alert the satellites of the targets, and possibly even directly to the aircraft themselves.

~

'You sure this thing bloody works?' 'Vixen' asked. They had all been given codenames, the SAS never used realnames, and she had thought that Vixen was fitting for a female. Well, it left the better names to the male members of the troop, anyway.

'Yes, of course.' 'Badger' replied irritably. Vixen had asked the same question six times in a row, the result of constant SAS awareness about equipment designed to operate with rank and file infantry. The ultra-secure radio could send a secure message to the planes 60,000 feet up, but if some Kriegos airbase picked it up they'd be in deep trouble.

'Sorry. I just don't want the entire Kriegos army coming down on us.' Vixen replied.

'Mmmm. Right, well, link established. Get the cords, quick.'

Vixen didn't say anything, instead she looked over the ridge and down at the Kriegos airbase, the lights of the buildings and the airstrip a stark contrast to the blacked out city.

'Jesus. They just left us right open.'

'Victor One One reporting, we are in position and have a firing solution for you, over. Roger, Morritch airbase.' Badger motioned his partner to get the coordinates, and grumbling, Vixen trained the infrared spotter onto the first Kriegos plane, sitting dormant on the tarmac with a squadron of its friends. Planting it softly in the ground, Vixen looked over to the other side of the ridge where a brief flash indicated that the other team member, Panther, had planted his spotter too. That was infrared linked to Vixens spotter, providing a backup coordinate check. Pressing the button solemnly, the information from the infrared spotter tailored straight into the radio and up to the skies.

'Roger. Yep, check. Thats the field, over.'

Panther got up, leaving the infrared training on the airfield, and jogged back over to Vixen and Badger. He didn't notice though, when he accidentally nudged the spotter to the right.

It was now facing the city, lighting it up for the planes overhead to see. Far above the clouds, they would have no idea what they were bombing.

Skies over Morritch

All our times have come
Here but now they're gone
Seasons don't fear the reaper
Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain
We can be like they are

The brand spanking new Vanchester Vanguard pushed aside the air, cutting into the thin particles as the light from the moon slashed over the wingframe. The scarlet red O3 RAF painted on the top of each wing was almost invisible from outside, but the dark didn't affect the pilots who had top of the range satellite gear, night vision, thermal vision, and infrared spotters. The nine planes cruised over Morritch, the thrusters kicking into motion like an angry horse, pushing the plane forward and down, and bringing them slightly lower, enough to launch their payload but still keep out of Kriegos interception range. In fact, they probably weren't even picked up on RADAR. The ‘surgical strike’ began at precisely three in the morning.

The first three Vanguards, right on top of the airfield, dropped their payload. Sixty cruise missiles rained down on the airfield. Though the missiles were expensive, they were being used like bombs, albeit much larger than any bomb, as a saturation tool. Explosions ripped across the airfield, sending planes, fuel, and ammunition into a giant blazing inferno that washed heat over anything close. Missiles were strong, but they had little penetration value; so, as the planes were literally on top of the airfield, they opened their bomb bays and the racked dumb munitions literally fell out of the aircraft onto the tarmac below, gravity assisting their fall, rendering it incapable of launching aircraft. The three Vanguards peeled off and begun the trip home.

Meanwhile, a flight of the heavy bombers, following the misplaced spotter, flew over the city itself as an attack run. The first opened fire on the oil refinery outside of Morritch. The racks of smart bunker busters underneath the wings beeped and precautiously they dropped and fell towards the refinery. Unfolding from the packaging they had been dropped in, twelve of the giant bombs sped towards the refinery. There was no stopping them. Like fists from the playground bully they pummelled the building and struck it harsh blows again and again. Caving in the building, forcing its chimneys down into rubble, the refinery was just the first innocent to get in the way of a brutal bombing campaign. Then, unfortunately for the citizenry of Morritch, who’s only crime was living in the country, discovered that their nation was about to suffer.

One of the bunker busters, inscribed with the words ‘Christmas is coming early, and your present is liberation!’, span too fast as the bind flew off, and careered down onto the oil storage. Breaking it open, the explosive from the ‘buster triggered the rest of the oil cans and the resulting explosion spewed flame over the city. Followed by a salvo of cruise missiles, it resembled something like a nuclear explosion, mushroom cloud and all.

The rest of the bombers continued unemotionally, unaware of the civilian destruction below. Reigning firepower down, cruise missiles struck building after building, some of them not even important. Panther’s spotter had targeted the middle of the city, and predictably, noone had bothered to check what they were actually shooting at. As such, the explosions ripping across the city were unchecked by the aircraft. The SAS operatives watched in dismay and despair as the smoke and flames drifted across the suburbs of Morritch. The attack had started and Kriegos interception and jamming would be on high alert. They dare not call the bombers.

This time it was not ignorance. The incident, once investigated, was filed under ‘human error’ and was never spoken of again. In fact, it was more a technological fault; the gear on the Vanguards was faulty too, and it wouldn’t be until the bombing campaign was over that there was time to rectify this.

Northwood Military HQ, London

'Alright.' The Prime Minister said. 'Let's see the figures.'

The General laid a copy of the sheet in front of the PM, and began to read off a short list of numbers. 'Two dead, 250,000 fish contaminated, 500,000,000 to decontaminate the area, 635,000,000 Pounds of fishery gone.'

The PM nodded. 'Well, that's not really that substantial. What about the strike on Morritch?' he shrugged.

'Highly successfull. That airbase is probably out comission. Slight collateral damage, but that's to be expected. The Vanguards were highly successful. Not even a single loss.'

'Obviously.' The PM replied. 'Now we've gone and done that, we can do two things. Back out, or go in.'

The General said nothing. He was only a representative of the Armed Forces Command, and although that technically outranked the PM, he couldn't say anything. If the PM's decision, based upon the General's, was disliked, then it wouldn't be the Prime Minister that took the punishment. Instead, the Prime Minister took the lead.

'What we'll do is this.' He took a pencil out of his shirt pocket and scribbled something on the paper. 'Add three zeros to each of these numbers. Then go authorise the strikes again.'

The General faked surprise. The PM was a warmonger, everyone knew it, but it still paid to make the extremely vain man's decision sound genuine. 'Why, of course. Sir.' The two men saluted and both left the room in silence. One to his superior, the other to his well protected, well powered and watered home with a garage the size of most houses in Kriegorgrad.

HMS Orwell, Hallad Straits
In the background, the busy deck of an aircraft carrier can be seen, with rolling green and brown hills in the distance. A few smaller ships can be seen and a helicopter is buzzing around somewhere.

'Hello, and I'm Mark Jenson reporting from the aircraft carrier Orwell, nearby Kriegorgrad. I'm here to talk to the commander of flight opreations on this ship, if I can get some time.'

Jenson walks over to a man who is making notes with a pilot. Both are wearing officers strips.

'Sir?'

'Hm?' the Flight Operations Ensign, FOE, to give him his full rank, looks around. 'What do you want?'

'I'm Mark Jenson from QBC and -'

'Not interested. Go away.' the FOE replied without checking back. With a slightly quieter voice he began talking to the aircraft officer, who was a little more interested in Jenson than the FOE. 'Don't worry about collateral. We don't have enough smarts stocked here, so just be sure that you hit something, and - HEY!'

~

'Uniform One One you are cleared for launch. Good luck.' The Sea Hurricane shot along the deck, propelled by both the catapult and its own thrusters, and the lights and engine flames of the jet aircraft illuminated the midnight sky. Behind it, two wingmates jumped the decks as well, and soon an entire squadron was in the air and ready to engage. The thirty fighter bombers soon dissapeared, becoming a speck, and then they were gone. Thirty minutes later they were 20,000 feet in the air around Morritch. They pulled out of combat formation, and still being leaked information from the SAS teams on the ground, began pounding any large building in the city. Precincts, hospitals, government buildings, were all hit by a large mix of weaponry, mostly dumb bombs, with some guided missiles and the occasional smart bomb.

[OOC: I left it there Krieg cos you might wanna RP some anti air resistance, you could down a plane or something. TTYL on MSN anyway.]

Morritch, Kriegorgrad

Morritch was ablaze, liquid fire leapt from building to building as daemons of havoc and destruction outdid each other, striking fear, shock and awe into the poor, downtrodden people of Kriegorgrad. Already the wail of klaxons battled with the boom of explosions and the omnipresent crackle of flame for ears. The screech of tyres announced firemen, in their vintage automobile, complemented by Proletarian Guardsmen with buckets of water, firemen dismounting from their red semi-truck, and Proletarian Guardsmen from their drab olive beast of a two tonne piece of machinery, began to vainly fight back the flames brought forth by those who sought to ‘liberate them’.

Of course, the old regime wouldn’t let go of its stronghold so easily, and the sky was slashed asunder by an endless fusillade of tracer anti-air rounds, cutting through the night sky like daggers of searing flame, reinforced by the occasional rocket or out of date missile. Such was the numerous nature of the defences of Morritch, that missiles and munitions actually collided in mid-air, rendering each other useless and creating a sky potch-marked by fireworks, a parody of what an effective defence should be. If it were not for the sheer, and somewhat ridiculous amount of anti-air weaponry on display, there never would have been enough stray rounds to catch the wing of one of the liberating war birds.

The little ineptly crafted dagger of the antiquated Kriegos air-defence systems, by chance, punched a whole in the undoubtedly superior and far more sophisticated mechanical anatomy of a Vanchester Vanguard. A cheer erupted among the men on the ground as they saw the aircraft, so far up and distant, become semi engulfed by the ruthless flames, the daemon of havoc turning on their master and bringing the metal steed of the sky to earth, silence pushed down the cheering as people became occupied with saving their fire lit city. However, the spectacle found many a spectator, people too entranced by the descent of the aircraft to look away, when the aircraft finally nose-dived, and smashed nose first into a dilapidated orphanage. What exploded from the impact didn’t matter to the spectators, hiding in their homes, on roofs, wherever they thought they could find safety, and the only thing of importance was that they had struck back against these vile, foreign dogs from over the sea.

Foreign dogs, doubtless jealous of the wonders, of the Kriegos Collective Oligarchic lifestyle, that’s what the posters said, that’s what the Comrade Leader said, and that’s what was true.

However, there was no such victory at the airfield near Morritch, as the imps of destruction hopped about the gutted, blazing facilities without challenge. Destitute, flaming wrecks of Kriegos warplanes lay dead, a tribute to the sheer inferiority and the arrogance of not only the Kriegos war machine, but the Kriegos people. Previously they thought themselves the rulers of the world, at the fore of technology, and within such a short period, that illusion was dashed against the cold, hard floor of reality until it shattered.

With the airfield destroyed, and with it Morritch’s retaliation capabilities destroyed, it seems the city is at the mercy of Questarian bombing runs. These foreigners, these bearers of the banner of freedom, these mighty gods of war brought not liberation, but fear, death and destruction, more so than the jaded Kriegos public had suffered in many a year. The Kriegos public did what it had always done in such times under Collective Oligarchic rule: they looked to their leaders for reassurance. The loud-speakers about Morritch, still functioning by some miracle, albeit with a more than healthy dose of static, started crackling out nationalistic lies and promises, “we will smash the foreign scum! We will rend their tanks limb from limb, we will crack their ships open and feed the murderous rats to the seething angered seas of benevolent Kriegorgrad, who are offended that such an inferior race had the audacity to attack the Collective Oligarchy!”

The lies, the anger, the hatred, all the signs of a dystopian Orwellian horror flick were present. The state thrived on war and war thrived on the state. The Kriegos public were temporarily shed of their fear, the reward for listening to the speaker towers and their endless bombardment of barbaric promises and lies. Civilisation was coming to Kriegorgrad, whether the bloodstained, war tainted soil was ready or not.

Fedorgrad, Kriegorgrad

The dark cityscape of Fedorgrad sighed as the wind wound through its streets, silent save for the low-static afflicted announcements from the speaker towers, the cold air blowing wisps of smoke apart, smoke from the now extinguished cruise missile inflicted flames, the night sky overhead clouded, shafts of moonlight occasionally bypassing the shield of cloud. People moved about the streets but in a muted manner, the Collective Oligarchy had just suffered a bloody punch to the nose of its ego and confidence, the people of Fedorgrad were gripped by a mix of anger, fear and confusion.

The white four-faced pyramid that was Ministry of Love, still marred by the gaping whole of the cruise missile strike, revealing workers inside the place like cracking open a hive and looking at its internal workings. Of course, this didn’t effect the Oligarchs that were exchanging words about the matter of the Questarians, and they were undecided on how to deal with the issue at hand. Inside the dark conference room, which in the country’s most important decisions were made, two sides quickly formed regarding the issue of the Questarian conflict, and possibility of Soviet Bloc intervention. Mustapha took his turn to speak.

“Henry, you must understand, Morritch has been completely and utterly gutted by Questarian munitions. We have effectively lost Morritch already, and we can’t move men there without crippling our other regions! We need to consolidate our defences elsewhere!” Henry saw Mustapha’s logic, but disagreed with it, and disagreed with the cheers that accompanied Mr. Krin’s statement

“Mustapha, no, we need to plug this gaping hole in our defence as soon as we can, before they start to pour through!” A small cluster of Henry’s supporters murmured agreement but it seemed Mustapha had won this round, with a bit of clever wording earlier on. And it was Mustapha’s lack of an offensive mindset that would cost him and Kriegorgrad dearly.

“Henry, look at the numbers here. I think we both know who, by Oligarchic rule, has the defensive idea that will pass. I feel we’ve discussed all we need to, and I feel like a glass of wine. Feel free to join us, Henry.” Mustapha ended his contemptuous miniature speech with a smirk that looked foul on his dark red lips.

If one was observant enough, they would have noticed that Mustapha wasn’t as confident in his decision as he made himself out to be, judging from the Proletarian Guardsmen dismounting from their olive trucks outside the Ministry of Love and setting up defensive positions, and image repeated about Kriegorgrad’s cities, at strategic points and, in particular, government buildings. The Collective Oligarchic regime wasn’t going to go down without kicking and screaming, not matter how futile it was against the might of the foreign armies preparing to grind any resistance underneath well polished, bourgeois jackboot.

Morritch

'Echo Forty Four, this is Echo Forty One, roger that, over.'

The last Vanchester Vanguard coughed its engines into full acceleration, and lowered its altitude dangerously low over the city - the strike was over, but Echo Forty Four had only just unjammed the laser guided bombs from their internal struts and was coming in for a last, fast attack before tailing his comrades back home to RAF Ceylon. Echo Forty Four had gotten cocky though, and as the matt-black swing wing bomber strutted it stuff over the Morritch skyline, it was picked up by a searchlight; then one more, then another, and though it was still dark, rockets and cannon fire directed towards it caught the wing, and Echo Forty Four crashed out of control and careered into the ground, ripping apart an orphanage before viciously exploding, orange flames dancing around the explosions that shattered the building. It was the first loss of the Campaign.

The thundering of jet engines, the explosions and the determined yet almost entirely useless anti air defences faded away slowly. Massive civilian damage had been caused, and this wasonly the first day of bombing. Morritch would burn. Yet, when the city believed the bombing was over - for now - a CYCLOPS-3 satellite was systematically scanning the city and processing information for later use.

Three hours later, when much of the city had been able to sleep, the bombing returned. Refueled Sea Tornados came from the carriers in the Straits, followed by the first naval missile bombardments. From a submarine in the strait, sixteen bombardment missiles shot up, and activating their solid fuel boosters, sped towards the city. The tiny orange flames of their engines were barely visible to a Kriegos farmer who had woken early to tend to his flock, and had instead caught sight of sixteen missiles streaming over one of his hills, knocking over his flock of sheep. Before the air defence could be awoken from their slumber, the missiles hit home, and the policy of 'The higher the building, the higher the priority' came into effect as a government building collapsed under the missile bombardment, followed by a hotel, and then a 'military' hospital. The Tornados swept down over the missiles, targeting anti aircraft stations picked up by earlier satellite scans, and finishing off RADAR stations and most of the missile batteries, once again awakening the city. Smoke drifted over Morritch as the cackle of exploding munitions began. It was a spectacular sight. That is, if you weren't Kriegos.

Morritch Beach

'Hooah! One, two, three four...'

'MARINE CORP!'

The hovercraft landing craft thumped as it hit the beaches nearby Morritch, the Royal Marines spilling out from the front, rifles at the ready, their urban uniforms blending into the night, although during the day time they would contrast to the sand of the beaches, even if they'd be useful during the streetfighting. The marines moved out onto the beaches, a pigeon observing from above would notice the spearhead of troops advancing up the beach as the landing craft hit the beaches and began to pull back and turn around to pick up more troops. The pigeon was momentarily startled, then sliced in half as the rotor blades of a helicopter cut through the air, landing on the shore, kicking up dust as soldiers jumped off, hands on helmets and rifles slung over shoulders or under an arm. The formation was fairly impressive, as was the sound the troops kicked up and the Sea Tornados sweeping the skies and shores for targets - anything letting off a slight heat signal was targeted with a heat seeking missile and turned to ash before it was identified. The roar of aircraft, the thump of LCACS aborting their engines, the whizz of helicopters, and the clacking of rifles was all part of the adrenaline that Brigadier-General Marcus O' Reilly loved when he hit the beaches - althouhg this time it was not an excercise.

Drawing breath, he took a whiff of the sea as he watched marines jump off hovercraft and run forwards, calling out various shouts and shouldering rifles. Leaning back and taking another sip of his tea in the back of the command APC, O' Reilly nodded to the signals lieutenant.

'Sir, the tanks are landing.'

'Oh, goody.' O' Reilly grinned, though it was invisible in the darkness and the face camouflage. He watched as a part of the beach was cleared and engineers laid pontoon roads as the LCAC halted its engines, dropping its front door. A pair of tanks rolled out, the turrets roped down to the chassis, and a commander waving on top as a union jack fluttered from the signals antennae. Another LCAC, and another, and another, as tanks began rolling up the beaches, the tracks flopping up and down underneath the skirts. O' Reilly momentarily thought of the Kriegos anti tank - anti tank rifles and guns and a smattering of RPGs and soviet anti tank missiles. They wouldn't stand a chance. He smiled, leaned back, took another whiff of the sea, and looked up into the stars where aircraft were zooming under the clouds. It would only be a matter of months.

Forest Near Groling Proletarian Guard Base

'Four queens.'

'How the fuck did you get four queens? That's bullshit. You're cheating.' Corporal Rogers took another drag from his cigarette, the squad in their forest entrenchment either sleeping or playing cards.

'It's called luck, retard.' The private answered back.

'Luck my arse. Whatever.'

The private collected the cards, dusted the mud off one, and dealing them out, yawned.

'I'm getting some sleep after this one.'

'Mm.' The Corporal replied, studying the cards. A snap in the distance and a bird flying caught his attention. 'What was that?' He said, looking around with his eyes.

'A bird, jesus.'

'Birds don't randomly move around at 11 o clock.'

'They might here.'

'There it goes again. That's a twig, I swear.'

'It's not.' The Private said. 'Are you burning or not?'

'Yeah, these two.' the Corporal said, and then reached for his rifle. 'It's definitely something. Go and wake up the rest of the men.'

'Whatever.' The private said, sneaking off to wake up the rest of the squad. The morning fog was just setting over the forest and while the four men were preparing their rifles, the Kriegos platoon was advancing unexpectedly into a close range engagement. The Corporal didn’t pull the bolt back on his rifle, but he held it carefully and noted the radio to his left – fumbling with the rifle, he let off a smoke grenade in front of the dugout, which may or may not have taken the Kriegos by surprise, depending on how much they knew. There were several shouts, and a stream of automatic fire came through, splintering the silence and hitting a tree, sending the birds off into the night sky. He pulled back the bolt and quickly raised the rifle to his shoulder, letting off a two round reply. There wasn’t a cry of pain, or a shout, so he figured he hadn’t hit someone. A moment later, some return fire echoed through, bolt action rifles Rogers thought. He had been briefed on the state of the Kriegos armed forces, but before he could judge what kind of rifle it was, another burst of sten fire broke over his head and he returned fire again, through the smoke, as his squadmates began to shoot back too.

The exchange of fire was brief, disturbing the silence of nature and spilling blood across the ground. One of Roger’s squadmates was hit, but overall the degree of accuracy and training won over, and the platoon began to fall back. The five minute engagement had left seven Kriegos dead to one Questarian – but even at those losses, the escape of the Kriegos meant that they could muster a force large enough to overwhelm the Questarian paras. The muzzle smoke drifted up into the night sky and Rogers wondered how long it would be before they came back.

General Letterham was reading a favourite magazine of his (‘Legalise Slavery Monthly’) when his aide entered the rather large tent, pulling a swift salute before Letterham looked up from his magazine.

‘I say, what are you doing bothering me at this time of night?’ Moments later, an owl twittered over the tent, in search of prey. A young woodmouse nibbling away at some kind of discarded food would be an easy target for the predator. Letterham paid no attention to the sounds of the dying mouse and the lieutenant began.

‘Sir, three company, four battalion, second brigade has encountered enemy troops. Lightly armed party which quickly retreated after taking losses.’

Letterham splurted his tea. ‘What! This is a disgrace. Why where they not hunted down and killed?’

‘I don’t know sir. This is all the information the fireteam gave me.’

‘Damnit. Go and get the command staff and give the word to prepare the troops to move out.’

Minutes later, General Letterham was meeting with his staff. The assorted group of brigadiers, colonels, and field majors were standing by, a few of them drinking discardable plastic cups of tea.

‘Right. Working on the assumption they’ve already reported us to the high command.’

The commanders nodded. ‘There’ll be conscripts pouring all over this place by the time the sun rises, you better be sure of that.’

The others sniggered. ‘Well.’ The field major continued. ‘Recon shows a hill here, in the centre of this forest. We can move up there and hold that pretty well.’

‘Alright then.’ Letterham said. ‘Better get moving quickly, I say. These Kriegos chaps don’t diddle-dally, do they? Go and fetch some of those Sudanese buggers to move my tent.’

Half an hour later, soldiers barely awake were shifting machine guns, rifles, tents, and various other supply up the hill to establish their base of operations. At the very top, next to Letterhams’ command tent, the flagpole flapped the Union Jack as tired soldiers began to dig foxholes and lay sandbags for machine gun emplacements. In a few hours, the Proletarian guard would be swarming on the hill and there wouldn’t be much time to get prepared!

One mile from the forest near Groling Proletarian Guard base

Colonel Dartmoore strode up and down the stiff ranks of the upright Proletarian Guard, shafts of light from the sun cresting the horizon bestowing upon the men of the Guard a halo of light, a halo of purity and purpose. The tide of khaki on the field of green, the forest about a mile in front of the Guardsmen, the glint of bayonet on rifle, the sabre at the hip of the officers among the rabble, the men of the Kriegos military looked blessed with the light, something deeply ironic considering how the day’s events would unfurl. Dartmoore clambered atop a Centurion tank (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_tank) that was retrofitted with a few booming speakers, and stood against the dark backdrop of the forest behind him, light beaming down on his hawkish features, his dark, slicked back hair refusing to shift in the wind. A small testament to the Kriegos’ steadfast nature. Dartmoore leaned down as the hatch opened, and took the microphone offered by a Guardsmen. The day was already silent, saved for the wind, and when his hand was raised in a call for silence, even the wind hushed a little.

“Proud men of Fedor, one of our advance fire-teams encountered the enemy. And for the first time in many a year, we are faced with dirty unwashed foreigners defiling Kriegorgrad with their defiant little footsteps! Men of Fedor, you are the hammer, I am the arm which guides you, and Fedor’s will is our will. We are his instrument! Noble men of Kriegorgrad, when you stare into the eyes of the enemy, desperation in his cowardly countenance when your bayonet tears his beating black heart to ribbons, do not feel mercy! For they do not feel like we do, they are tricksters, cowards and monsters! Men of Fedor: do not falter!”

A cheer erupted as the feedback afflicted speech came to an end. A ripple of orders moved through the ranks and within the space of five minutes, fifty thousand men of the Proletarian Guard advanced towards the forest, in old fashioned rows that would surely shatter as soon as the first bullet left its barrel. Whether or not that barrel would be of the native Proletarian Guard, or the foreign invaders was yet to be determined.

Colonel Dartmoore looked solemn from his position atop the tank as he saw his men march towards the forest, their ranks already beginning to falter a tad. The absolutely huge tide of men encroaching on the forest would suffer greatly, but they would achieve a great victory, no matter how hollow…

Dartmoore was somewhat sceptical about the entire operation: he’d been called away from the defence of Morritch (leaving it more or less open, thanks to the ever-growing amount of deserters) for this, he’d been told by his idiot superiors that a propaganda victory was required. The colonel knew this attack on some foreigners in the forest wasn’t really necessary, and it would be more tactically viable to wait for them to leave the forest, so they could be picked off, but Melchett demanded that they attack as soon as possible.

The Forest

Sergeant Humber kept an eye on the men in front of him and to his side: endless khaki in the green, wet forest. The sound of fifty thousand men, each breathing as quietly as they can, and moving as silently as possible, resulted in a gasping cacophony of silence, and an orchestra of shoes crushing twigs and splashing in puddles. The mammoth body of men lumbering through the forest in a manner as stealthy as they could muster, was louder than many could achieve if they tried. This became apparent when the first bullet found a Guardman’s throat. Private Croft fell to the ground, gurgling and grabbing at his throat. Screams and shouts filled the air as bullets found their mark in the malnourished bodies of the Kriegos soldiers. A series of whistles began to keen out and Humber, despite the fear coursing through his veins, fumbled for his whistle and let out the long sound that hundreds of men surged forward at.

More men of Krieg fell, only to be trampled by their replacement in the tide. A clearing began to make itself known, and Corporal Macolster spotted the large hill, trenches and improvised bunkers dug into its surface. He felt intimidated by the nasty looking system of defences and thought about flight, but was freed from such thoughts of doubt by a bullet that entered his left eye and exited via the back of his head, to the horror of the 19 year old trooper behind now covered in a mix of bone and brain.

Men began to spread out a bit more, until the entrenched Paras had to pivot to hit targets charging from different angles…although, with the amount of Proletarian Guardsmen charging towards the woodline, one didn’t really need to aim. A hideously long minute of slaughter, and a good deal of Guardsmen had found cover in the form of a log, a tree, a ditch or whatever else provided safe-haven from the omnipresent bullets. Some Guardsmen even had the gall to take potshots back at their targets-turned-ambushers. It was ironic that while these men fought with all the heroic ineptitude the Proletarian Guard was known for, their comrades and countrymen were already abandoning their posts about the country. It seems that the seeds of Kriegorgrad’s downfall had sprouted into stout, squat trees that sucked the very essence upon which the old Oligarchy relied upon out from underneath the rotted roots of Kriegorgrad.

The very fact Kriegorgrad was going to argue for a peace-agreement proved the weakness of the Kriegos’ diplomatic, political and military position, although, as always with Kriegos diplomacy, the message was rough and arrogant.

{::Establishing Uplink::}
{::Procuring Broadband Channel::}
{::Open Channel Procured::}

Type of Communiqué: Diplomatic
To: Questarian Military and Political Leadership
From: The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov
Subject: Peace Agreement

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”This communiqué will be short, decisive and to the point. We feel that enough blood has been spilt on both sides, and we are willing to write up a peace-agreement, and hope that you can forgive our mishap with the nuclear detonation.

We feel this is a most gratuitous offer you’d be bad leaders to ignore. Of course, some reparations would be needed for the damage you’ve done to our infrastructure and civilian population.

Yours Mercifully,


The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov

{::Closing Uplink::}

Kriegorgrad's military collapsed quickly. The outdated technology, vastly inferior to the Questarian military might, and the general inefficiency and bureaucracy that came with the Kriegos military rendered it incapable to fight a war against a modern military, and within two months organised resistance had been swept away by the endless tide of the Questarian combined arms. As more land was taken, forward airbases meant that nowhere was out of range of a laser guided bomb or the whirling blades of an attack helicopter. Furthermore morale among the Kriegos was low and many deserted or simply didn't heed the call to arms. The door had been kicked down and the shanty town house was falling to the ground. The last act came with the storming of the various ministries in Fedorgrad. Upon liberation of the many captured political dissidents the troops found horrors they thought existed only in the minds of the greatest horror authors. In the months that followed the Kriegos people would be won over to capitalism by the hearts and minds of the troops, by the despicable acts of terrific horror commited by the government and the downright web of lies it span by the hour. Under Questarian supervision Kriegorgrad would flourish.

The first act was to restore order and rebuild infrastructure. The insurgencies that fought back where brutally crushed with application of the hearts and minds program combined with overwhelming firepower. The insurgents tried every trick in the book but as a Colonial Empire, Questers had already read the book and knew exactly what was going on. Within the space of half a year the insurgency had died down to levels that where simply labelled 'anti-colonial dissent.' After infrastructure was rebuilt, various companies where given contracts - Royal Charters - to rebuild Kriegorgrad. What they found shocked them. Apart from the ultimate poverty many lived in, the businessmen and economists and planners discovered that Kriegorgrad used only the minimum of economic power, harvested only the minimum amount of food and mined only a small percentage of coal. Compared to their previous lifestyles the Kriegos would find themselves with an abundance of foreign luxuries that they grew to love - coffee and tea from the Aralonian plantations, electronical goods, cable television, private transport. The Questarian government, in its largest welfare movement yet, provided basic education to all the people of Kriegorgrad, educating them about geography, capitalism, mathematics, english, and all the other important subjects.

However, at least half of this was paid for by the Questarian Church. Furthermore the Church set up free medical checks for the entire population, but at a cost. The cost was that the Kriegos where converted in their droves to the Questarian Church. After it was revealed Fedor didn't actually exist, and the Oligarchs where put on trial and confessed (under torture, though only a few know) all, the Kriegos where a people without an aim. The Church provided that aim, it breathed life back into the people who had lost all they had ever thought was true. The Church, unlike the regime, was kind. It gave money, it gave food, it gave medical support and education, and it gave employment. As luxuries flowed into the country like water flows over the the Victoria falls, the people's riches grew parallel to their faith. Kriegorgrad, within a few years, would be a nation that knew the glory of, as the time-old Questarian colonist motto goes - Trade, the bible, and the flag thrown in for good measure.

So it was that Brother Harry travelled to Kriegorgrad via the steam ship Imperial Justice. Harry stood on the foredeck of the ship was he watched the harbour of Berstol close in from the afternoon mist that was clearing up as the boat arrived. An hour or so later he was finally off the ship, watching the many depart - economic immigrants from the colonies, soldiers, and fellow brothers of the faith. Waiting for him at the dockyard was his old friend, Brother Michael, who greeted him with a cheap plastic cup of tea and a welcoming handshake.

"How are you Brother?" Michael inquired, grinning at the presence of his old friend.

"I'm fine my friend. I have some mail for you from the Abbey."

"Excellent! I shall read it later. You've come at an opportune time Harold." Michael kept up his smile, and invited Harold into the car.

"Oh really? Why is that?" Michael bent down and stepped into the car, handing his things to a Kriegos porter to load into the car.

"I have a meeting with my group, very soon. There's no time to get changed, so you'll have to come with me. I hope you'll find it interesting."

"I'm sure I will" Harry replied as the car took several turns and moved onto the main street. Not everyone could afford private transport Michael noticed, but there was an abundance of buses and bicycles and indeed those who prefered to walk.

The group was already waiting outside the small room that the Church had bought for this purpose when Michael and Harry arrived. Michael nodded to the group of people waiting outside who smiled back. It was a mixed group, from children to the old, all who met regularly with Michael for religious, financial, and moral advice.

Harry followed Michael inside and took the seat Michael offered him. The room was fairly nice. The walls where painted a light blue and behind Harry's desk a map of the world and the Empire shaded in regal red. A portrait of His Imperial Majesty Konoye I in military uniform sat on the wall. Various political and moral posters hung from the walls too, endorsing the military, investment and employment and criticising stealing and vice. Harry had noticed that the entrance of the building, and indeed many other buildings, where marked by flags flying, both Questarian and Kriegos and it was evident that the new goverment was pushing patriotism for Kriegorgrad, Questers, the King, andt the Empire. The Kriegos took the seats they where used to and Michael introduced Harry.

"Friends, this is Brother Harry. He will be accompanying me here for a short while."

Harry introduced himself and was met with a friendly welcome from the Kriegos, who although had lost everything in the war and the uprooting of the regime where ready to turn over a new leaf and make a new life with the Church. A quick prayer was said and then Michael moved on.

"I can see you are bursting to ask me questions, friends. Put your hands in the air if you have a question and I will choose you."

Around half of the group of thirty had their hands in the air and Michael chose one at random. Harry sat back and watched.

"James?" he chose.

"Thank you Brother. One of my friends recently tells me he is gay. I'm confused to what the Church says. Some of my friend tell me to not talk to him, and some say otherwise. What shall I do brother?"

The room quietened down for Michaels response. "Son, Leviticus said 'Lie not with a man as one lies with a woman for it is an abomination.'" Michael had turned serious. "But the bible and the ten commandments also say, Love Thy Neighbour. So, in the eyes of the Questarian Church, it is wrong to act against those whom God has seen fit to punish for a previous crime. God created each of us, so blame not he who does not deserve blame. Remember, Love Thy Neighbour. Do you understand?"

James nodded. "Yes Michael. Thank you, I understand."

Michael chose another, a woman called Grace.

"Brother Michael, I know it is wrong to steal, but if a person has no bread and one person has a bakery full of bread, would the Lord not understand?"

"Grace." Michael began. "It is in a sin to steal that which belongs to another. But the Lord sees all and, eventually he will forgive all. However, the Lord and his Church also say that it is wrong that a man in excess will not help a man in want. These are the values the Church teaches, daughter. To steal is wrong, but to be in excess and not to help those in want is equally wrong. Do you understand?"

"Yes Michael, thank you."

Harry watched the rest of the day unfold, with various prayers, religious and financial questions. It was clear the effect the church had on the people. They where being taught that the democracy they had, the rights they had and the abuses they were protected from and the luxuries they worked for and enjoyed so much, that these things where good and these things where right, and they were also taught that it was neccessary to defend these things. Soon, Imperial General Headquarters began to recruit and eight regiments where raised - grouped under the Kings Krigeos Rifles. Pledging allegiance to the King, to the Empire, to God, the Kriegos nation would be rebuilt.