NationStates Jolt Archive

Yalec Gruban stood quietly across the street from The Only Firehawks State Building, his weather beaten and tanned face creased with a frown. With his hands in his pockets, he stood unmoving for many minutes, simply observing the traffic in and out of the large, teutonic structure of smoothen stone. The state building looked like a fortress, and indeed it was. The lower floors were offices of the many heads of state and beuacratic clerks, but the upper floors were home to the generals of the small, but growing, Firehawks Defense Forces. Gruban was quite sure that there were snipers and machine guns hidden in between the numerous butresses on the roof of the castle-like building, overwatching the plaza that stretched for several hundred meters.

To many people, the State Building was a pleasant feature in the capitol city of Firehawk, but to Gruban, it was an ominus one. Gruban knew that the basement of the State Building was a dark, foreboding prison where the criminals of the country were held in solitary confinement where mental interogation was conducted. For this Gruban held a deep and burning hatred.

Thirteen years ago, Gruban's brother Uric had accidentally killed a friend in a hunting accident. Yet the jury was unrelenting. When the sentance came down, Uric was given fifteen years, with possible parole. Uric would never know the joy of hunting again. In The Only Firehawks, a conviction of a class A felony, such as murder, meant that the convicted lost his or her right to bear arms, vote, drive a vehicle, and chose which department their taxes go to. And they also serve their prison sentances in the State Rehabilitational Departement. Locked away in the basement of the State Building, the criminals were subjugated to countless tortures of the mind. Too moralistic, physical torture - minus the death penalty, if that could be included - had been outlawed many years before. But the psycological ablities to wreak havoc in a criminal's mind still existeted. After ten years of mental disruption, Uric had been released. The effects were chilling. Uric was much changed. He often lost focus on the task at hand, lapsing into a glassy daydream or something of the sort. He was unable to remember things from between he twenties and the beginning of his sentance. And he couldn't walk very well from years of much confinement. Gruban was horrified at his brother's condition, and he chose to take action. Hence Truth For Man was formed. The condition of Uric frightened many citizens into action, and they began meeting with Gruban secretly, in barns, houses and churches. Plotting. Gruban quickly dominated the group as the leader. He was decisive in his decisions, but made calculated ones, and tended to listen over talking. He would often go for almost an entire meeting without speaking. And so they decided to strike.

Gruban checked his watch one last time, and then left the crowded plaza for the hotel he was staying in. The Chariot was luxurious, and was frequented by many foreign dignitaries, but it was also a well freqented hotel for business travel. Gruban lazily walked to his room, B101, the plot for the morrow running through his head. Fatigued, and having eaten nothing since the morning, sleep was quick to come.

Gruban smiled as the small Fijord Fj-150 pickup truck parked next to the State Building. Gruban knew the driver was Georg Harrold, but the two men didn't make eye contact as Harrold climbed out of the driver's seat and escaped down a side ally. In the bed of the pickup, ammonium nitrate, a common high-nitrogen farm fertilizer, was heaped in a large pile. Gruban waited several minutes, then walked to his own Fijord Fj-120 pickup, with several large drums of nitromethane in the bed. He backed his vehicle next to Harrold's, and transfered the drums. Quickly, but clumsily as it was his first time, Gruban finished preping the truck. Slowly, he turned and walked off in a direction away from where Harrold had vanished. He would never look back.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of The Only Firehawks. I am the bearer of great and saddening news. Today, at 08.28, a massive explosion ripped through the State Building. This attack on the central structure of our goverment has come as a surprise to us, and our Internal Directorate of Investigations has assured us they knew of no indications that such an event was imminent. Today, several hundred government and military personnel gave their lives for their nation, and we shall remember them for it. We have no firm fact to give you, and we here at the State Building are just as numbed as you are, but we will pull through. Today has proven that we must stand together as a nation, in these time of trial. Please pray for the victims as the stone and rubble of our country still lies smoking. We will perservere. We will perservere. Good night... and good luck."

The Franze Bridge, spanning three kilometers across the Franze Sound was crowded with cars in the early morning rush hour traffic. Many white-collar workers were car pooling into Firehawk to begin their lives as businessmen while many trucks crammed with goods or agriculture were heading to the several bazzars and markets in the town.

Yalec Gruban peered at the bridge through 4x binoculars from the cliffs over a klick away. At the mouth of the bridge, a semi-trailer fuel truck was slowly edging onto the bridge. The silvery aluminum body of the fuel trailer glistened in the early morning light as the traffic creeped along. As the truck neared the center of the bridge, Gruban murmured a quick prayer for the young man inside. Racked with tuberculosis, and too poor to pay for treatment, the young driver had selflessly volunteered for this one way trip. Gruban knew that in a few moments the young driver would twist the percussion box that would set off the det cord, and blow the seven sticks of TNT to pieces. The explosion would ignite the entire cargo of fuel, setting it off in a massive explosion. It seemed forever before the truck reached the center of the bridge, and the flash of light that ensued still surprised Gruban. He turned away, and headed back to his small house. He had more work to do.

The bridge was littered with debris, and over one hundred cars were still burning from the massive explosion. The rescue crews were still fishing vehicles, and body parts from the cold waters below the bridge where dozens of cars had been tossed. The bridge itself was a flamming mass as the tons of disel fuel that had ignited raged. The rescue workers had long ago assessed that the explosion was so hot that the pavement had melted and ignited. Burned out wrecks of vehicles were tossed around like rag dolls. Bodies lay charred in the median, or tangled among the wreckage.
"Major, it looks like over three hundred are dead. And the count's risinig..." a tired looking police sergeant said to his department's major. They both surveyed the carnage solemly. It was going to be a long week.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of The Only Firehawks. I am again bringing tragic news to the nation. Today, we were the recipiants of one of the most single deadly attacks in the area. Our men, our women, our children - they have all suffered today. In the cold and murky depths of the Franze Sound, the bodies of dozens of our citizens lie, starting to decay. One the Franze Bridge, burned out cars have been cast around like leaves in the wind. And in Heaven, over eight hundred of our citizens have arrived. The death toll is still rising in this recent attack, and we need to pull together even more. We urge to be wary and cautious in these trying times. Pray for us. May we not lose another in such a way.... Good night, and good luck."

"Ugh... What's in the intelligence reports today, General Kuropatkin?"

"Nothing of large importance, sir. But I'll leave that for you to decide." General Kuropatkin leaned forward over the desk and handed the day's intellignence report the Pime Minister of Karchzia, Vasil D'Anglas.

D'Anglas scanned through the headers on the files. "Rogue Union stalling negotiations, while mobilizing. What's new there...", he mumbled to himself. "Hm? What's this? 'The Only Firehawks experiences terrorist attacks'? Do you know anything about this General?"

Kuropatkin glanced up, "There's been a little bit about it on the news. Nothing deemed that important to Karchozia."

"Do you know where The Only Firehawks is? Or their history?" asked D'Anglas.

General Kuropatkin appeared to be in a slight amount of discomfort. "Erm. No, sir."

"Well, I'll give you a brief synopsis then. The Only Firehawks is a relatively new nation, with a population of about 28 million. They've made some political decisions to abolish practices such as the death penalty. On the surface, this appears to be a moralistic and just decision. However, they have not stopped imprisonment or torture. Their torture techniques are actually quite unique. You see, they don't physically harm the inmate. Rather, they mental destroy them."

"How do you know all this, sir?" asked a disbelieving Kuropatkin.

"I've, erm, authorized special intelligence teams for various nations. The Only Firehawks happens to be one of many that we have 'infiltrated'. But back to the point: Our intelligence teams are reporting that a grassroots movement known as 'Truth for Man' is behind the attacks. They are fiercly opposed to the torture that goes on within government prisons."

"What do you want us to do then, sir?"

D'Anglas thought for a moment. "Send in more teams. I want to try and assist The Only Firehawk's government. They could prove to be a powerful trade ally."

The General nodded his understanding and made for the door of the office. D'Anglas spoke before he left, "Oh, and General," Kuropatkin turned around. "Make one of the infiltration teams a squad of commandos." The General nodded again and left.

Yalec Gruban smiled as the blue Fijord Fj-200 pulled into the gravel drive. In the cab, two of his closest friends and TFM associates were riding, while seven more of Gruban's inner circle sat in the bed of the truck talking and smoking. Most carried sidearms, stolen Glock 27Cs or various revolvers, and there were even a few black market AK-47s among them. They quietly entered Gruban's modest house, and grabbed beers or whiskey as they prepared for their next planning session. The targets were growing more valuble as their experience and confidence increased. Now the target was Deputy Prime Minister Ross Harosini.
"Okay, I'm going to be frank. This is going to take a few days to iron out, and we need to be dead sure we know what's going to happen. This is our biggest strike, and after this, we can announce our identity to the world," Gruban said. The other men around the table nodded. With that, the brainstorming began.

Prime Minister Mikahil Rodderick rose and shook the hand of his long time friend and advisor Lieutenant General Petyr Groppen, Minister of the National Security Directorate. To Rodderick, news from Groppen was either excellent or terrible.
"What do you have for me, Petyr?" Rodderick asked. Groppen smiled dryly.
"Sir, some friends of my friends of my friends informed me about an hour ago that we might be receiving some... understandably covert help from some sources abroad. Now, my men are good, but not good enough to fully assess the situation completely. We don't have any information really on who this 'outside source' is, but my agents are working on it. We've also subversly announced to all of the local intelligence agencies that if they plan to infilterate someone, they might want to use Hangar 103B at Hoyola Airport. It's currently sitting abandoned. I've got a few of my agents hanging around looking like airline mechanics to greet who ever arrives."
"Excellent. God knows we need some help with this... problem."
"Yes sir. Our assets are limited - too limited. Such a small nation as ours always has problems fielding the necessary troops and material to man hunt these men." With this, Groppen took his leave, and headed back to his office. Help, he hoped, was really on the way.

Sergeant Sergei Obravich walked to the podium at the front of the darkened meeting room. He was about to brief his elite Karchozian commando team on their objectives and entry method. His squad consisted of the best the Karchozian Office of Covert Operations had to offer. Eleven men and women of varying skills would be accompanying Sgt. Obravich into The Only Firehawks to act as a strike team, should the need arise. They were equipped with the Karchozian Land Warrior Integrated System, and armed with the XM8. The XM8 were the newest rifles to be issued to the troops, and they were only just starting their induction into the armed forces. Obravich’s team was among the first to receive them. The sheer versatility of the weapon made it ideal for operations such as these.

Obravich cleared his throat and addressed his squad. “Okay, here we go. I’m sure some of you have heard rumors about our mission, so I’m not going to beat around the bush. We are being sent in to act as a strike team against a grassroots terrorist organization in The Only Firehawks. Our objectives are clear and simple: Our intelligence teams will find the threat, and we will neutralize it. Any questions about that?”

No one moved.

“Good. It is up to us to find a secure location and maintain a low-profile. Luckily, I found out that our job will be made a little easier. We have received reports that a hangar in the Hoyola Airport is currently vacant. We will be entering the country in a discreet private jet. Nothing too overly suspicious. I have a hunch that the local intelligence will make some attempt at contacting us. But we do not have any reason to avoid them. Some of our intelligence teams have already infiltrated the country via commercial airliners, so we already have men working on the situation. Any questions?”

One of the men, Corporal Fyeodor Ivanovich, raised his hand. “Yes Corporal?”

“Will we have any alternate identities for this mission?” he asked.

“We will be traveling as international businessmen thinking of expanding our business. Anything else?”

Nobody else had questions.

“Excellent,” said Sgt. Obravich. “Our flight leaves in three hours. We will arrive within the country at approximately 4:30 p.m. Firehawk’s time. Dismissed.”

Commando Team Delta-4 silently stood and filed out of the room. They’d get the job done. Or die trying.

Yalec Gruban paced the small room, thinking deeply. The group of men was profoundly silent, digging deep into their minds for the next target they could hit. Gruban knew this session was not producing much, but they needed to strike while they had the government at it's knees.

"Sir, we've just made an important discovery!" Lieutenant General Peytr Groppen announced as he moved into the Circle Office of Prime Minister Mikahil Rodderick. Rodderick looked up, waving off the startled Special Service agent as he rested his hand on his Sig Sauer P288.
"What is it?" Rodderick asked.
"We've recovered a partial license plate and VIN number from a blue Fijord model truck. We've yet to find the rest of those parts, but we can narrow the search down," Groppen replied. Rodderick nodded.
"Good. You can deploy whoever you need from the Reserves," Rodderick said.

Captain Gorg Hobbes saluted crisply as the Deputy Minister of the National Security Directorate entered his small and cluttered office.
"Sir!" Hobbes barked. The DMNSD touched his forehead and motioned for Hobbes to take a seat again.
"Captain, I understand you were trained by our National Intelligence Agency [NIA] in Covert Military Operations?" Hobbes nodded. "Good. We have a small job for you. You are authorized to wear civilian clothing, and carry a concealed sidearm of your choice. If you will follow me, I will brief you in my helicopter." Hobbes grabbed his fatigues jacket, slipped into a shoulder holster containing his favorite sidearm, a Mk 44 SOCOM .45 ACP with a threaded barrel for attaching supressors, and then followed the DMNSD out. Little did he know he would be sitting inside Hangar 103B in less than 12 hours, waiting for a group of superbly trained commandos to arrive, presumably by commercial airlines.