NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: Continuation of this (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=467601) thread.

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Damien did not sleep a wink that night after witnessing the day's events, for it had impacted him deep within his soul. His old friend and trusted ally had tried to assassinate him inside his own house. It was something he could not come to grips with, and after the ordeal was finished he had called forth his son Azrael. He immediately left his flagship, the Death Rattle, and made for the AMF mainland to seek council with his father.

The next morning when The Advocate arrived, he wasted not a minute in getting to the Great Hall. The grounds outside still showed the scars of the small skirmish days before, and immediately Azrael could feel a knot in the pits of his stomach. As the large oak doors opened and allowed him in, he was greeted by Damien and embraced as if he had not seen his son in eons.

I never thought I'd see this day my boy....I have been betrayed by one of my oldest friends....

Azrael knew exactly what he spoke of, for the meeting between Dreadfire and Phillips was widely broadcast across Automagfreek. Oh Father...I am so sorry.... Dreadfire turned a sour face towards his son briefly, not sure how he was feeling himself. I don't need sympathy from anyone. The mother fucker brought this on himself, and now his entire populace will suffer for his boneheaded actions. I want you to stay for a day or two and rest, then I want you to rally Zander and all of our offensive fleets. We are mobilize and prepare for operations against Sniper Country.

Azrael swallowed hard, for he knew all too well the rich history that AMF and Sniper Country shared. To fight this war would be the same as brothers fighting to the death, but the cards had been dealt and the game was now on. Damien spent the rest of the day in his gardens before making his way to the press room for a worldwide broadcast. This would not be the usual short and sweet message, but instead a speech that would echo throughout time.

~From the desk of Lord Damien the Destroyer, Supreme Warlord of the Excessively Armed Empire of Automagfreek~

Greetings fellow Freeks, and peoples of the world.

I come to you tonight under grave circumstances....circumstances that will live forever in infamy. As many of you knew, John Phillips of the Confederacy of Sniper Country came to Automagfreek to enjoy a conference with myself. However, during this time, for reasons that even I cannot fathom, he ordered 36 men of the Sniper Country special forces to infiltrate my lands and conduct terrorist operations within my borders. However they were met by my Sentinel Stalkers, and given a parting gift of artillery shells.

But this tale of betrayal does not end there, for Mr. Phillips then attempted to assassinate me in my own home. That's right, in an act of pure cowardice and treachery, the once great friend of the Empire tried to take my life. And that is something that I cannot ever forgive.

There was once a time when a young Automagfreek, under the leader of President Thomas Kaye, looked up to Sniper Country. Kaye modeled his military after that of the famed SC troopers, hoping to achieve the level of success that the Confederacy showcased. Throughout my reign Sniper Country continued to stand as one of AMF's staunchest allies, until one day the nukes fell and their once great lands were nothing more than nuclear waste.

But the story does not end there, for the surviving Sergeant First Class Paul Howe lived out his life in slendor in Automagfreek while the poisoned lands of Sniper Country were being rebuilt. I came to the Freeks and requested volunteers to clean, rebuild, and repopulate the Confederacy. Many years passed and great progress was made, and before we all knew it Sniper Country was back on the scene.

And then the war against Omz222 began, and that is when AMF/SC relations began to sour. Just as my forces were ready to land on the Omzian mainland and join the war, they had to be recoiled and sent to defend the Empire from a foreign threat. I was not able to fight alongside Sniper Country's brave soldiers, and that was a decision that has lead us to this conference here today. That seed of resentment grew into a twisted and defiled tree of hatred, and in the days passed the repugnant fruit of that germination ripened. And now here we are, standing amidst confusion and chaos of a love lost in a hail of gunfire.

But how could this happen? How could great and mighty allies sit at the table of brotherhood, only to be lunging at each other's throats with daggers in hand? It is sheer madness to think that Sniper Country now finds itself at odds with the greatest military Empire of all time, but alas here we are.

So it is with a heavy heart that I, Supreme Warlord Damien Dreadfire, declare the Confederacy of Sniper Country to be an enemy of the Empire. Their treachery and attempt on my life will not go without swift and righteous punishment, and for the actions of John Phillips I declare all treaties and pacts null and void. All diplomatic ties are hereby severed, and my warfleets have already been deployed to the Freekish seas. I have contacted Dayne the Evenstar of Pantera, and those throughout Gholgoth are invited to take part in the cleansing.

But as for John Phillips....he will suffer a fate that has never before been witnessed on this Earth. His pain will become legendary as he spends his remaining days within the Halls of the Dead....suffering a level 5 Puritania. Never before has this level of punishment been sentenced on another human being within Automagfreek, but now his body and soul will be torn apart by my instruments of pain and death until his essence is cleansed through torment.

The beast that is Automagfreek has been awakened in a fury of retribution and in a sea of hellfire. The lands of Sniper Country will burn until the sun is blacked out from the ashes of the dead. The gates of Hell itself will be opened, and the unstoppable war machine that is AMF will destroy and devour everything in sight...until not a trace of the old remains.

Against the Sentinels there can be no victory, and the fate of an entire nation has been decided on this night through the actions of a foolish leader. To those in Sniper Country: I would start praying to whatever God you worship that your death will be swift, because you will not get the luxury at my hands.

Sleep Now In The Fire, Sniper Country.....

...Sleep Now In The Fire.


http://img418.imageshack.us/img418/3269/dreadfireclose7ue.jpg
---Damien the Destroyer---
-Supreme Warlord of AMF-

Damien immediately left the podium and made his way towards his private chambers, leaving instruction with his servant to ready his private jet to make for Pantera. He then ordered a message to be sent ahead of him, addressed to the Lord Reaver himself:

Dayne,

The skies grow dark in the west, and war brews once more my old friend. I am in need of your council and opinion on this matter, and I need to speak with...the old woman. I fear that there may be forces at work here that are far greater than what meets the eye.

I will be with you soon.

-Dreadfire

*thread subscribed to and for future IC and OOC interest*

[Oh yay. I see you've learned from the NPO. That said, subscribed...]

Silence. That was what the Evenstar loved about the cool mornings and the black nights that came to these heights of the range. From his vantage near the top a peak known as Landtop, he could see Pantera's great Range of the Dawn spread out below, to north and east. Cruel, forbidding peaks stretched in all directions, save for directly below, where the village of Eldacre rested, nestled in a narrow valley created by two other peaks. This southern corner of the Vale was one of his favorite retreats in all of Pantera.

An ancient manse of timber and white quartz was his residence here, the site old beyond memory. Simple and lacking the finery of his usual quarters, the place was beautiful, and, more importantly, secure. The stony slopes of Landtop were home of the Rigante, who were said to be the oldest tribe.

It was a wonderful place, especially this morning as he stood on the covered porch, his breath still frosting the air before him. His young son, Valanus, remained abed, but he could hear his wife stirring now, waking as their new daughter began to fuss.

It was good to get away from the bustle and constant politicking of his Seastone Palace. It sickened him. Landtop was a fine retreat, and he had begun to use it more often, as his son grew older. He enjoyed watching the boy, now nearly five. A savage little creature, he had inherited the purple eyes of House Vayne, though his were a lighter lilac than Dayne's own indigo orbs. Blonde, strong, and energetic, he was all a man could want in a boy. He would be a fine warrior, and, in his time, a Lord Reaver who would make his own everything he saw.

It was proper.

Thus were the thoughts of the Lord Reaver when his reverie was broken by a soft word from one of his Rigante, one of his fanatically loyal tribesmen who were ever present. He sighed as he looked to the man, a eyes falling on the folded message he carried in one hand. Before he could stop it, another sigh escaped his thick chest. The peace of the morning was over.

Beckoning, the Lord Reaver drew the bearded tribesman away from the doorway and out, into the yard. Lowering his voice so as not to carry in the still morning air, he questioned the Rigante,"And now, Ramas? Here to spoil my morning?"

He'd meant the comment as a jest, but frowned when he noticed the look on the warrior's face. "What is it now, boyo?" He said quickly, thrusting out his hand fo the message. Anything that could leave even the small frown he saw on the features of this man was something to be worried about.

The Rigante were the hardest people he had ever known. Tucked away in their corner of the southern Range, they had maintained the Old Ways. They still Reaved. They also occasionally ate the hearts of slain foes, made an art of rape and torture, and cavorted naked in their wierd fire-dances, before battles. The gods of these men were the cruel gods of the windswept peak and the lonely forest. The gods of iron, blood, and vengeance. No promise of a soft, Christian heaven for them, no. They were bound for Valhalla, and would have plenty of stories for their brethren.

So it was with great reluctance that the Evenstar unfolded the message and scanned it's contents. A scowl stole over his bearded features as he read, the muscles of his jaw knotting and clenching. "Sniper Country? Motherfucker."

Truth be told, during the entire Kraven fiasco, Dayne had continued his attempts to withdraw Pantera temporarily from the national scene. The time for war would come, but no foe worthy of his attention's had presented itself. The British and Sarzonian's could both wait. Their day's would come. But for the conflict to come now, from such a place, was an irritation.

"Fuck!" He barked, his voice shattering the icy silence of the morning. Nearly immediately his new daughter began to wail. He frowned and waited a moment for the scathing snarl from his wife. When it came, he nodded. He deserved it, but this was trouble, and he knew it.

Sniper Country could never hope to stand against AMF. They knew it, Damien knew it, the Evenstar himself knew it. Gods, his four year old son probably knew it. But, Dayne himself was also smart enough to see that they would not fight a conventional war. There would be no grand clash of arms or decisive battles.

No. It would be a bloody guerilla war, waged by men that Dayne knew to be warrior's of the first class. Damn them all...

He shook his head and turned for the door but glanced down at the message once more. His mind awhirl, he'd only skimmed the words of Damien's wire. Something caught at him though, and he scowled, his indigo-flamed eyes blazing.

"Something amiss, love? You've woken the children." Richenda stood in the doorway, beautiful in a pale robe, her dark hair hanging about her face. He looked at her then, wanting to take her in his arms and crush her to his body, to kiss her until he tasted the salty bite of blood.

Instead, he reached forward and caressed her face. "Yes. Something. I must ready myself, love. I'm afraid I'm back to Toke, to meet with the Dreadfire. You and the children will remain here."

The look in her eyes told him enough, but a raised hand silenced her words. "I'll hear no arguments. If this comes to blows, the SC forces will doubtless try something here in Pantera. I'll not have you in danger."

Further protest was stilled and she continued to watch him. A glance to the message that bordered on sulking almost startled her, prompting the question,"What else, Evenstar? Why do you look chastised?"

Dayne narrowed his eyes in warning, only recieving a sweet smile in response. The morning had deteriorated, and he was in no more mood for questioning. Turning, he moved into the house and to his study. A few quick orders and he was upstairs, slinging clothing into a bag angrily. Damn him! What good will it do? A hand went to the scabbarded broadsword that rested against the wall, and he straightened, knuckles tightening on the hilt of the massive weapon. The knuckles turned from red to white as he squeezed and lowered his eyes. He hated the idea of returning to the capitol, but now he was even more reluctant to return to what Toke had in store for him.

Her.

[Oh yay. I see you've learned from the NPO. That said, subscribed...]


OOC: I've been around NS much longer than the NPO.

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The jet had torn across the high atmosphere as political tension began to circulate throughout the foreign AMF colonies and the mainland. War had not befallen the Empire in some time, and the magistrates of the new territories were reluctant to see their ports clogged with bloodthristy Sentinels.

Damien could not wait to see the Free Lands of Pantera once more, though he knew Dayne would not take kindly to having his leisure interrupted. I feel my sanity beginning to leave me Bastien... He spoke to himself as the jet entered Panteran airspace and headed for the airport at Toke. He knew that his business with the old woman that day would not be pleasant, but her gift of poetic foresight would be needed on this day.

Massive mobilizations began to take place all across the Empire, as hundreds of thousands of combat ready Sentinels, Death Dealers, and Fallen began to pile into their ships. The massive flagships of the Warchiefs dominated the horizon as the first of the fleets, under control of Zander, began to deploy. They would soon be joined by Azrael, Brinks, Vidimir, and Dreadfire himself. It was a mammoth operation that would see millions of Freekish combatants, though they knew this would be a different kind of war.

I expect us to be home soon Zander. Azrael chirped over a secure radio channel between his ship, the Death Rattle and Zander's, the War Nerve. Zander paused for a second, his years of experience telling him that perhaps the Advocate was underestimating their enemy. Azrael, we must fight every foe as if they are the Gods themselves. Azrael laughed, replying in a grim but confident voice. It's easy to fight a war when all you have to do is kill everything in sight.

The fleets that had slipped out of port began making their way to the outer most reaches of Sniper Country waters, where they would rally with friendly forces and begin to put the squeeze on the heathen traitors. It had been far too long since Automagfreek had felt the sting of battle, but it was not simply another day at the office...for a friend would soon be on the chopping block.

Meanwhile, the jet that carried The Destroyer passed over the green fields and rocky mountains of Pantera, bound for Toke. He then sent word ahead of his location, and that he would be arriving shortly. His business with Dayne on this day would not be joyous or celebratory like it usually was with Bastien...oh no. His business today would be about fire and retribution, and Dreadfire's train of thought was soon broken by the touchdown of the plane. He would waste no time with formal greetings, but instead take the waiting car straight to the Seastone Palace.

[ No, silly. The CN NPO. I didn't think you used to beat up on people when they cut relations... Still, I'll stop cluttering your thread with OOC comments.]

Commander-General Mark Spitz looked on at the massive project that was taking place. Pascagoula Naval Yard, located in Pascagoula, Sniper Country was the site of one of the largest defensive projects ever attempted by SCAF forces. The entirity of Sniper Country's coastline, which wasn't a small distance, was made up almost entirely of fjords, making any amphibious landing impossible. However, there was this one, singular location where an amphibious assault was possible, and it all came to a head here, at Pascagoula.

Buchanan Inlet was large to say the least. Thirty-one miles from the mouth to the shores of Pascagoula; eight miles wide at the mouth which closed in as the inlet approached the city; the winding Crowe River that flowed into the inlet from the peaks of mountains deep inside the Philipedes Mountain Range; the Buchanan Inlet was the obvious choice for any conventional invasion. And this was the place where one the SCAF's last stands would be made.

With just shy of five million total GRUNTs, the request was made by CGN Spitz for 750,000 GRUNT volunteers to defend the Inlet, as it would be known, against the brunt of the Freek invasion. What he got was 1.5-million GRUNTs lined up and ready to fight for their nation. Only 750,000 were chosen for the defense, though, as the rest were needed elsewhere. And they were ready for a fight.

On both sides of the Inlet were massive cliffs, which, at the mouth, measured as high as four hundred meters. The height of the cliffs decreased as the Inlet got closer and closer to Pascagoula. About two hundred meters in front of the Beachside Avenue, the first road any invading forces would reach after exiting the water, the beach rose like a sly fox from the drifting waters. The beach itself stretched for almost a mile, forming a sort of semi-circle in front of the city itself. The beaches inconspicuously turned to cliffs, as the land began to rise out of the water below.

The site was something to behold. At the absolute mouth of the Inlet, huge batteries of 200mm Towed and Mobile Artillery were dug in and ready to fire upon any incoming ships. Every three miles, huge nests of 200mm, 210mm, 155mm, and even 105mm artillery emplacements were constructed, dug in, and supported. Also placed strategically between these nests and batteries were land-emplaced Harpoon II and Yakhont III anti-ship missile launchers. Embedded with these units were the newly developed and field-approved Non-Line-Of-Sight Launch System "NetFires" and the Counter Rocket Artillery Mortar (CRAM) System. The NLOS-LS would provide an unequivocal accuracy advantage for both the missile system itself and others targeting any incoming ships, while the CRAM would provide constant protection from incoming enemy missiles or shells. They were innovative systems, and would hopefully allow for the SCAF to fight, rather than be run over. Closer to the beach, beginning at four miles out, troops began manning mortar systems, ranging from the 60mm to the 120mm tubes and rounds. These would provide a constant attack on the enemy landing craft. The landing craft would get no mercy: once they were out of range of one set of mortars, another set would pick up the slack. At two miles out, troops would begin manning heavy machine guns, mostly fifty caliber M2s, but also the automated Metal Storm systems to unleash fury upon the enemy. Troops would also begin firing RPG-7 rockets as well as small-arms fire beginning one mile out. As the enemy hit the beaches, they were to be greeted with fire which would resemble the belly of the beast. Well dug-in troops, firing from deep trenches and fighting positions scattered along the very edge of the beach would then open fire utilizing all means necessary to repel the Sentinels. Mark 19 automatic grenade launchers, M2 machine guns, small arms fire, RPGs, mortars, and extensive use of the newly developed Counter Armor and Personnel System would commence fire, raining down molten lead onto the Freeks. The CAP System was a direct accomplice of the CRAM System, only it was designed to engage enemy ground forces instead of aerial foes. The systems would dot the entirity of the beach. Death awaited anyone who ventured to land on this beach.

There were three airbases in the area. Hagler Field was the largest, fielding eight EB-52H Superfortresses, along with fifty-six F-14G Tomcat Plus fighters and forty-eight F-15E StrikeEagles. Hagler was located about fifty miles northwest of the Inlet, and protected by various SAM batteries and a small garrison of troops. The eight Superfortress planes were kept underground, and brought to the surface by a huge, hydraulic lift elevator. Key Field was located thirty-five miles northeast of the Inlet, and was slightly smaller. It held ninety-six A-36B Mustang "strafers" which were used mainly for strafing ground targets and as anti-helicopter aircraft; twenty-four AH-64D Apache Longbow helicopters, thirty-six AH-1X SuperCobra helicopters, and eight ACH-64C Guns-A-Go-Go helicopters. Key Field was also protected by the same established defenses as Hagler, but with a much smaller contingent of troops, numbering only to platoon size; whereas, Hagler held an entire company. The last airbase in the immediate vicinity was Sledge Field, the smallest of the three. Sledge Field carried forty UH-60 Blackhawk helicopters for Medivac transport, three CH-47G Chinook helicopters for transport, and twenty-four A-36B Mustang "strafers" for support and protection. Sledge Field carried the SAM armament of the other two airfields, but only held a contingent of two units for ground protection. All three fields were armored with Hardened Aircraft Shelters, in which all aircraft were lodged. Each base also carried its own AN/TSQ-198 TTCS for tactical Air Traffic Control support, if the regular base tower was destroyed by the enemy.

The city itself was what many would consider a megalopolis. About four times the size of Los Angeles, USA, it sat divided into two sections by the Crowe River. The massive skyscrapers that lined the horizon each morning were specifically rigged to collapse by implosion whenever the signal was given. Engineers had designed the buildings to collapse in such a way that six out of eight major exits from the city would be blocked off by rubble and debris. The other two exits would be left wide open, for reasons left unexplained by CGN Spitz. Hundreds, if not thousands, of points throughout the city were rigged with Improvised Explosive Devices, although heavy use of C4 and SEMTEX gave these devices a large advantage over their third world counterparts. Explosives were planted within the corpses of dead dogs and animals, into sidewalks, along the guard rails of roads, under roads - all over the place. The city, for the most part, was barren. Most of the civilians that lived within the city had retreated to the jungles or mountains, although there were a few hundred who stayed behind to fight.

Most of the 4.3-billion Citizens had taken it upon themselves to move into the villages and desolation of the jungles and mountains, both in the Philipedes Range and Cayuse (Altitude) National Park (though survival in the Cayuse was anything but assured). Most of these were women and children, though many males who resided in the bigger cities also found themselves disheveled and in the heat (or cold) of the wilderness. There were, on the other hand, those who took up arms in order to defend their homeland. The final count estimated the force and just under one billion Citizens, mostly men who'd spent their entire lives in the Backwood. Armed with anything from basic, .22 caliber hunting rifles to fully modified M4A2 assault rifles, men of all ages, and some women were ready to fight the Freeks in the Backwood. Though the number was huge, only about a quarter of them had any real military experience, and this was limited to say the least. These, roughly quarter billion men, knew only the basics of tactics and strategy, and were armed with mostly M16A2/A4 rifles, assorted small arms, and the occasional M2 fifty caliber machine gun. The only real thing these Citizens had going for them was the knowledge of the land. They knew every nook and cranny and bush and berry and twig and leaf this jungle of a country had to offer. There was no major militia strategy. There was no real organization at all. There were simply small bands of Citizens, usually numbering no more than twenty, out to wreak havoc for the Freeks. They'd been looking forward to this for a very, very long time.

Then again, the SCAF was deciding to operate much the same way. Aside from the fact that they actually had somewhat of a battleplan, that is. There were some four million GRUNTs ready to fight for Sniper Country against the aggressors. As their brothers-in-arms were prepping the Inlet, these troops were gathering all their gear, which wasn't a light load, and mounting on helicopters, aircraft, and trucks, spreading over the entirity of the nation. Tanks were driven offroad to set up small perimeters within tiny villages throughout the nation, whilst the largest troop sizes that could be found were no larger than a battalion. Mostly, it was down to platoon and company sized forces, yet a huge portion could only be found in unit sized strength, numbering twelve men. They all knew how to live off the land, and that's what they would do. There was ample wildlife and vegetation throughout the country, and they would make do perfectly. Some troops were lucky, or unlucky, enough to be placed with IFVs and APCs, which would deploy around the source of the Crowe River in the Philipedes. It was known in all the SCAF that the GRUNTs couldn't take the Freeks in a head-on war. However, if they fought in their own, guerilla style warfare, they may stand a fighting chance. So there they were, scattered through the entirity of Sniper Country. Roughly four million of the most highly trained troops in the world, scouring the countryside, waiting for the invasion to commence. Many would make small camps and wait for it, while others would continue to move, locating the very best vantage and ambush points.

All that was left at AO-101 was the 22nd SOF-D Regiment. And God only knew why.

OOC: All I got time to do now. Hope that's enough.

Dreadfire was recieved without fanfare or celebration. A firm handshake and embrace from the Evenstar, and the two were on their way to the Seastone Palace. They chatted softly in the car, Damien filling in the younger man on the details of the coming storm.

"Gods,' Dayne breathed, shaking his head. "I still can't believe it's Sniper Country... One of our own."

Seeing the look on the Freek's face, the Evenstar waved his hand in dismissal. Raging about the traitors would do nothing. Nor would taking with the old woman, but Damien seemed fond of her, even if Dayne himself dreaded every chance meeting.

Though he was never quite sure if the woman was completely sane, the truth was that he was a gifted seeress, enchantress, and a Priestess of the Wind. Well over a century old, her crooked form and dry voice were as much a part of the Seastone Palace as the sea-green stones. Always about, and always with a word of doom and gloom to ruin the Evenstar's day. Forever ranting about things that smacked of prophecy, Dayne himself never knew if she truly knew some of the things she hinted at, war and darkness and worse, or if she only toyed with him to amuse herself during her twilight years.

The car arrived, and after a brief interlude to allow Damien to refresh himself, he was brought to the door. The Evenstar retreated into his throne-room, and the Dreadfire was left to his own devices.

The door opened beneath his hand, and there she stood, frail and small, but with an aura of danger about her. Though the towering warlord stood a good three heads above her, the old woman loomed, a frown of distaste on her face. Her voice cracked,"Lord Oaf! Come to grace me with your presence once more? And without a flower or bauble for the fair maid?"

A papery-dry hand flipped the edge of her shawl at hm as she complained,"What do you want, boy? More prophecy? You want to hear of the crows, the fires, and the rising darkness? Bah! None of that, this time 'round, Damien. There is no greater purpose, here. No evil to fight or epic battle to wage. Only men to kill and women to mourn.'

"Men are wretched creatures. Spilling blood over the most foolish of things.'

"Land? Eden has enough to go around. Plenty in the garden, no? But I suppose that is why you are bound to divide it, and then devour each other, one by one.'

"Honor? Silly monkeys. Your honor was gone to shit the instant you raised your banners, for no king has ever been truly righteous. Not you, not my Evenstar. Not your President Kaye, nor the Bronze, that you held so dear. Selfishness rules men, every one. Sometimes that selfishness is tempered by the good, yes... But not enough. Not enough! Give you thumbs and you take up clubs. Give you peace, and you war. Give you love, and you rape."

Shaking her head, blue eyes blazing, the old woman advanced a step on the warlord, raising a gnarled finger,"Is that what you wanted to hear, Dreadfire? That regardless of all the war you wage, all the enemies you vanquish, and all the great pyres you build, men will still be men. Cutting this world in twain, then thrice, then again and again and again until the people have been reduced to lines on a map."

Flinging up a hand, the old woman barked,"Go then, boy. Get from my sight and wage your war. This is a war of men, and no help will come from me. And stay from me until you have a need."

The Warlord's feet had begun to move before he could stop them, but the Crone's voice gave him pause,"And give my love to your children. Their prosperity is ever a joy to me."

And the door closed.

OOC:A rare post from me as logging in once a week to keep my nation from being deleted is the best I can do.

IC:

From deep within the now-silent lands of Tersanctus a stir rumbled. A spark of thought from a back empty void. A whisper whimpered from within the still halls of the Executor.

Betrayal. Betrayal, most foul.

“Name me one nation that has ever stood against Damien Dreadfire and survived! Name me any one nation that has ever engaged Automagfreek and lived to tell about it! There are none! I-“ Senator Al Pickens was cut off by a weak, crackling voice in the rear of the Senate Hall.

“Senator Pickens, shut up,” came the retort, as a small, frail, old man stood with the aid of a cane. The entire Hall fell silent as to hear what the old man had to say. The man gained his composure after standing, and began to speak. “You know, back in the days when the SCAF was just starting, there was a handbook for incoming hopefuls to read through before entering the long, arduous training. On the first page, there was a great quote that permeated the mind of every young man that bothered to open the book.

‘The warrior’s mindset must always be focused on winning. If even an inkling thought of doubt or failure enters the mind of the warrior, the battle is already all but lost.’”

He stopped for a moment, seemingly allowing the words to fill the air and infiltrate the minds of his audience. “You see, Mr. Pickens, by the way you speak, I could already venture to believe that you’ve given up. You’ve given up on hope, on your family, on your country, on your armed forces, and most importantly, on yourself. It seems to me that you, along with several others in this Senate fail to remember who we are. We maintain one of the most formidable fighting forces in the world. We’re fighting on our own turf. Our troops are the best, and if anyone stood a chance at defending their homeland against an Automagfreek invasion, it’s them. We all know this. Not to mention some billion Citizens, at arms, ready to defend their families, their homes, and their nation. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I refuse to believe this is the end.”

Silence was the only thing heard, as the old man reached down, picking up a newly refurbished RPK machine gun. He slung it over his back as he turned, walking through a crowd of politicians that seemed to part like the Red Sea. No one knew who this man was, or why he was even in the Hall. No one saw him come in, but they all heard his words, and they saw him leave. And so it was.

-----

“I don’t know, man, I just don’t have this real fantastic feeling about this one,” said Sergeant Robert Sims, as he replaced the barrel on his M60E4.

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Every square inch of the Inlet, let alone this beach, has been pre-sighted and set for defense. Any Freeks that make it through the Inlet itself, and aren’t too terribly stunned by the ride, are going to be met by a wall of lead, literally. Not to mention we’ve got artillery hid back in the city, in apartments, houses, business complexes, condos, just everywhere. They’ll help pound the enemy on the beach. If they decided, which I’m sure they will, to try and pound the crap out of us before they actually land, we should be alright. We’ve got probably one of the most complex, intricate trench systems ever constructed, plus pillboxes that would rival most bunkers, bunkers that might almost be mistaken for a fortress, and even these foxholes are pretty freaking awesome – twenty feet underground and covered on all sides. Seriously man, don’t worry about it,” consoled Specialist Abraham Castillo, as he put his LBE/PBA Vest on.

“Yeah, that’s true. I mean, if it’s my time, it’s my time, huh?”

“That’s the way I see it. Hey, I’m right with God. I may not exactly be too eager to die, because, I mean, I like life and all, but I’m not afraid of dying either. And hey, if I can tag a few Freeks before I go, all the better,” Castillo joked as he laughed to himself.

Suddenly, from the voices of two or three soldiers running through the trenches, they heard it. “Wombat, wombat, wombat!” the soldiers screamed. Castillo, Sims, and the other soldiers residing in the same foxhole immediately grabbed their equipment and rushed out of the hole, running toward their respective pillbox. Wombat was the code word for troops to man their fighting positions, meaning that enemy ships and/or boats were spotted entering the Inlet. It was an ongoing joke that deep in the jungles of Sniper Country resided one of the most ferocious creatures the mind could imagine: the Face-F*ck*ng Wombat. There were fabricated horror stories of troops who ventured out into the deeper parts of the jungles on various missions and were confronted by the beast. The stories almost always ended, “it mounted his face, latched onto his ears, and well, he’s never been the same.” The joke had been passed down almost since the inception of the SCAF. It seemed a good code word for the invasion, as far as command was concerned. They were, essentially, getting face-f*ck*ed by a wombat, and after all, humor was a leadership quality.

All over the beach, troops were pouring out of their foxholes, rushing to their respective fighting positions. The trenches connected everything were so intricate and so well designed that there was no congestion, as men and their equipment moved freely through their way. When Castillo and Sims arrived at their pillbox with others from their foxhole, Sims immediately began setting up his M60E4. Castillo simply looked outside, his SOC-16 slung over his chest. This was obviously a drill, as there were still engineers constructing the last of the obstacles down at the absolute bottom of the beach. But then again, “We train like we fight and we fight like we train.” The other soldiers in the pillbox were busy setting up their weapons – a few M240Bs and an M2.

The beach, for the most part, was desolate. There were only two real sets of obstacles on the beach. The first set was located at the very bottom of the beach, and resembled log ramps used in WWII. Their purpose was simply to either slow down enemy landing craft, or possibly stop them short, leaving them the only option of dumping their troops into the water, further hampering the enemy infantry attempt to gain ground on the beach itself. There had to have been hundreds already constructed, and by the looks of it, they were just about done constructing them. They spanned the entirety of the beach, leaving only small, random spaces for enemy landing craft to successfully land troops. The only other real obstacle for the enemy troops was a line of pungi sticks which spanned the entire length of the beach. The line was fifteen sticks (ten feet) deep, and through the middle laid several overlapping strands of constantina wire. If the enemy troops even made it to the sticks in the first place, then managed to get past the first half of the sticks, they would get tangled in the wire, and if still not put down by weapons fire, they were to fall into the remaining half of sticks. They stood about two and a half feet high, just enough to cut anyone off at the knees. They were only spread apart in width by four inches, which was an immediate sign that there were well over a million sticks out there. They resided twenty meters in front of the Sniper Country fighting positions, which was perfect.

Within minutes, the entire beach fighting force was in position and ready for a fight. Obviously, though, there was none. Castillo stood, in silence, watching the Inlet. He wore his LBE/PBA Vest, Pro-Tec helmet, Bermuda shorts, t-shirt, and flip-flops. Command saw no need in trying to enforce the In-Country uniform. Each individual soldier knew what he liked, and what was advantageous to him during combat. Sure, there were some GRUNTs who did where their In-Country uniforms, but not many.

About ten minutes later, the same three soldiers began running through the trenches, letting the troops know that the drill was over, they did excellent, and that they were relieved to go back to their holes. Command had chosen to utilize runners instead of electronic communication for the situation, since it was more logical to do this and leave the radios and other electronic communications to the smaller teams. This also helped defend against EMP attacks.

The beach was secure, as far as anyone was concerned. Now, they just had to test that assertion.

-----

Throughout the city, random teams of GRUNTs were scoping different positions at which to set the city ablaze. Command had decided that, since the city would go to the dogs anyway, there had to be a way to utilize this for an advantage. And they therefore came up with the idea of scorching the city, or at least parts of it, to provide for smoke cover over the city, beach, and parts of the Inlet. This would, hopefully, hinder enemy aviation operations, along with blur sight pictures of the beach and city areas. Several houses, apartment complexes, and businesses had been gutted and stripped, allowing several artillery pieces to be placed throughout the city in support of the beach defense troops. Troops within the city were required to wear their ProMasks at all times once the burning commenced, as to protect them from smoke inhalation. The guns were already zeroed on the beach, targeted at assorted positions. Stored in nearby buildings were stockpiles of shells and ammunition for the artillery guns throughout the city. It would be a tough job, fighting through the smoke, but it had been done before. And it would be done again.

-----

At AO-101, only the 22nd SOF-D Regiment as a whole remained. All other units had been transported out, throughout the nation, to set up their defenses and prepare themselves for the coming battle. The 22nd was preparing for various missions that other SCAF units would flinch at the thought of being assigned. All SOF-D members were ready for the coming fight. Throughout AO-101, the 2,148 members of the Regiment were gathering and checking equipment, constructing IEDs, placing charges, moving vehicles and aircraft, and destroying various pieces of equipment. Usually, the men would do this with a cheerful expression, laughing and joking as they went. Today, though, there were no jokes. There was no laughing; only straight faces. There was a job to get done. Never before had the lands of Sniper Country been invaded, at least by such a predominant force as this. This wasn’t like other operations, where a team would be inserted to wreak havoc throughout the enemy’s troops, and then pull back. No. This would be a long, sustained firefight between two of the greatest powers the world had ever known. It seemed as though the world was united in the belief that Automagfreek would simply run in and destroy Sniper Country without problem. But the men of the 22nd refused to believe this. They refused to let it happen.

It took several hours, but everything was finally in place. All the IEDs and charges were set on key structures and positions, burnt-out vehicles and aircraft blocked various roads and streets, and the Command Headquarters Building had been stocked up with enough high explosive to nearly imitate a nuclear explosion. The faint sounds of music playing the background were disrupted as Colonel Lee Ramsdell.

“Hey guys,” he called the troops from their resting positions as he stood in front. “Listen up. I’ve been commander of this Regiment ever since it was formed. I know you all know this, but I want to make it clear again. You are the best soldiers in the world. You’re better than the Sentinels. When the stuffing hits the fan, you guys are going to be the ones we need to step up and make a big play. Some of you have already been handed assignments. Now make no mistake, your assignments are the toughest jobs that are to be taken. You are going into an extremely hostile environment. Guys, when it comes right down to it, there’s a huge chance that many of you aren’t going to make it out with your lives. Those of you who are about to be released into the jungles, I wish the very best for you. You’re fighting on your own soil, your flesh and blood, your home. Defend her. I have full faith in all of you, and I only pray that I’ll see you again when this is all over. As for me, I’m going out on my own. So, if I don’t see any of you again, and this is the last time we meet… Cut ‘em.”

Ramsdell leaned over to pick up his M4B1, and turned, walking toward a small gate which led out of the 22nd’s Regimental area and into the jungle. One of the troops that had just heard Ramsdell’s speech stood, and raising his right hand, prompted a salute. It was odd, as saluting was nearly never done in the SCAF. It wasn’t even instructed during Initial training. “Cut ‘em, sir!” yelled the soldier, as the others in the area did the same. Ramsdell turned, and cocking a smile, returned a slight, two-fingered salute. He opened the gate, slung his weapon over his back, pulled out his pistol, and walked into the jungle.

The troops remaining began standing, gathering their equipment, and grouping together for their assignments or their trek into the country. They were all dressed in full In-Country gear. They knew the seriousness of the coming battles, and were taking every precaution to save their own skin, kill the enemy, and protect their homeland. Each of them had to have been carrying a hundred pounds or more on their backs, but it didn’t really seem to bother them. With all the gear they had, they were still amazingly maneuverable, but that’s what you got from training with the stuff unceasingly. Within minutes, the first teams of twelve were making their way into the jungles. Teams with assignments were making their way to rendezvous locations where they would meet up with their transports, mostly being UH-60s or OH-6s.

“So, you guys got an assignment, or just going In-Country?” asked Sergeant First Class Chris Smith.

“Nah, we got an assignment,” replied Lieutenant Keith Yager as he packed a pair of NVGs into his bag.

“What are ya’ll up for?” inquired Smith again, going through checking his weapon’s magazines.

“We’re gonna blow Command HQ,” replied Yager, who promptly sat on his bag, waiting for the rest of his team.

“Whoa, I thought that thing was rigged to a remote sensor or something.”

“It is, but we gotta be here to know the right moment to blow it. When the Freeks get close, that’s when it goes. And we’re gonna be sitting around here somewhere, watching the whole thing,” Yager said stiffly. He showed no emotion; one could tell he’d been around a while.

“So you’re going to be sitting on the base when the Freeks get here… Man, good luck. They’re bound to come in here full-force. How packed is HQ? I heard they dumped a ton of HE in there.”

“More like seventy-three tons. Yeah, we took everything out of the explosives dump down in the Hazardous Area Site and what we didn’t use for IEDs and charges we stuffed into HQ. Seventy-three tons if high explosive stuffed into one building. It’ll probably evaporate everything for a good ways,” Yager replied, donning his Oakley sunglasses.

“Yeah including you if you don’t watch out,” SFC Smith said without thinking.

“Son, don’t tell me how to do this. You go on your little mission or whatever and let me and my men worry about ours,” Yager responded, showing the first sign of emotion yet. Smith promptly gathered his gear, and walked over to the rest of the men from his unit. Yager’s unit, Sonic Platoon, gathered around Yager, placing their bags and equipment on the ground, watching and waiting for the rest of the troops to exit the base. All of the members of Sonic had settled with the fact that they would die while defending the base. Their game plan wasn’t to blow the explosives and head out, like most would expect. No, they would blow the explosives, and stick around, fighting off what Freeks were left and any that arrived afterward. That was what Yager proposed, and what the men agreed on. But for now, they waited.

-----

Most of the aircraft of the SCAF were scattered across the country at different, small airports. But one question lingered in the thoughts of many GRUNTs: Where were the Naval Forces?

The Naval Forces had long since been all but kept up with. All that really remained were four Forrestal Class Aircraft Carriers, two Kitty Hawk Class Aircraft Carriers, six Arleigh Burke Class Destroyers, ten Oliver Hazard Perry Class Frigates, and three Seawolf Class Attack Submarines. The entire fleet, aside from the submarines, was lying in wait about seventy miles west of the Inlet. They waited for word that the invasion was commencing, at which point they would full-steam toward the Inlet, giving the Freeks an even harsher time. The three submarines lied at the bottom of the mouth of the Inlet, on the ocean floor, silently awaiting their prey.

-----

The boat rocked back and forth in the semi-choppy seas. The small Mk. IV SOC was one of two in the mouth of the Inlet, carrying two SALT units. The SALTs, twelve men per unit, were swimming through the mouth, placing strategic mines at different depths, in case the Freeks decided to send in any submarines through the Inlet, or if the enemy fleet decided to encroach right up to the mouth, or venture further. There were a few which would suspend near the surface, perhaps for enemy landing craft, but not many.

It was a painstaking chore, and even more so by what the mines actually held. It was nerve wracking even for the most senior SALTs, which only meant that they were taking even further measures to protect themselves and the mines. Inside the mines, nitroglycerine made its eerie presence. The mines themselves were relatively small, containing three pounds of the concoction, yet enough to still make even the most cautious sweat a little. They were held in place by anchors set into the ocean floor, not simply dropped to settle. It was a cautious move by Command, to allow this substance to be placed in the mines, but they needed all the firepower they could get. They would see soon enough how it would fair when the invasion began. The mines were equipped with acoustic sensors, and would set off when the acoustics indicated that a ship was within one hundred yards.

Some thirty mines would be placed throughout the mouth, and when it was accomplished, no one would be happier than the SALT units.

Foolish wench.... Dreadfire cursed aloud as the door closed behind him, leaving the old woman to her devices. He spoke loud enough for her to hear his every word, though he attempted to play it off as if he was not trying to address her.

If you had the slightest gift of foresight, woman, you would know that this planet as we know it will never again be the same. You would have seen that the course of history will be forever altered at the conclusion of this war...a war the likes of which mankind has yet to see. Foul conjurer, your flowery prophecies that spew from your forked tongue are nothing more than a fool's words. Just you wait madam, the greatest storm we have ever witnessed is about to begin....

And with that Damien left the chambers and returned briefly to Dayne's side before announcing he would be taking his leave. His words were few but his purpose was clear, that win or lose, Automagfreek may never be the same again.

My blood brother, you know where I must go and what it is I must do now. There is no doubt in my mind that the experience, determination, and sheer power of my armies can overwhelm those of Sniper Country. But should your fat and lazy Reavers seek to quench their thirst for blood, they are always welcome at my side. Hail the Blood Pact, Evenstar! I must be going now. May the Gods grant us victory.

Camp Rock
The largest Sentinel base in the entire Empire.

After Damien's flight back from the Free Lands, he wasted no time in attending to the last remaining offensive element in the invasion: his own. The fleets of Azrael, Zander, Brinks, and Vidimir were all out to sea and ready to begin their blockade as soon as the respective Warchief's were in position. However, it would be Lord Dreadfire himself that would smash headfirst into the lines of his foe.

Millions of Sentinels stood in formation by Company, silently waiting at attention for the presence of their master and commander. As the seven foot Warlord took to the stage, the roars of the mighty Sentinel hoard echoed in unison throughout the entire installation. However, with a raise of his hand the entire base fell silent once more, leaving only the humming from the dozens of full stack loudspeakers throughout the camp.

Greetings, warriors of Automagfreek!

The Sentinels responded in sync. Hail, Lord Dreadfire!

Damien smiled and cleared his throat before taking the microphone into his mighty hand.

Today is a day of fire and retribution, for we have been wronged in a manner most foul! Our once close and trusted ally in Sniper Country has turned against us, and following their cowardly attempt on my life, I can see no other solution to this matter....TO WAR!

The Sentinels roared in approval, beating their chests and pumping their fists into the air.

As I speak to you now, the largest offensive force in the history of our Empire has been assembled to deal with this upstart. We expect this to be business as usual, for the Sniper Country military has a dismal record when it comes to full scale invasions. The storm we are about to unleash upon their lands is one that they cannot hope to weather, and their prized special forces cannot win this war alone. Against Automagfreek, Sniper Country cannot hope to stand!

But do not get me wrong, they are indeed warriors that are worthy of your blades and bullets. They will fight hard and to the death, but ultimately their fate will be the same as all the others who dared to rise against AMF...they will suffer unspeakable torment and never ending hell until the last one of them dies. There are many here who are veterans of Operation: Hellfire, the invasion of Kahanistan, and the slaughter of The Kraven Corporation. You are the finest and most lethal military force that mankind has ever seen, and against you there can be no victory.

Go now, my dealers of suffering and death. Go now and avenge the wrongs that have been made against your Warlord and your Empire! Pour forth your wrath upon the heathens of Sniper Country, and let none survive!

Dreadfire then drew the Relic's Sword which hung at his side and began waving it madly in the air, causing the Sentinels to explode in approval. Mere seconds later, they began moving out in formation to the ships that awaited them at port several miles away. Damien, however, was flown via helicopter to his flagship, the Mouth For War. From here he would assume command of the entire operation, and he wasted no time in contacting all his Warchief's via satellite video feed.

Upon opening greetings and situation reports, Damien began issuing his orders and giving his thoughts on the upcoming invasion.

Gentlemen, you have been given your orders, and you know where you are to deploy. I'm sure that you have studied maps and sea charts of the region thoroughly, but until you and your men can draw it out by heart, you will continue studying. Our foe is a cunning one, and he will use the terrain as best he can until we impose our will.

M'Lord, what about their special forces? Asked Vidimir, who lacked the most experience out of all the commanders.

I'm glad you asked Vidimir. Our own special operations will be comprised of our Sentinel Stalkers, the Freekish Urban Combat Kommandos, the 25th Mountain Division, and Azrael's prized Sentinel detachment, the 406th Legion. All of these units have seen combat, but for you I shall list their resumes:

The Sentinel Stalkers are the only genetically modified soldiers we have, and they have seen action mostly in the second AMF Civil War, conducting operations against the demon whore Rayne and her minions. They have also seen action in Kahanistan and Kravonika, and their stealth and ability to conduct themselves almost without supervision and orders makes them our most lethal ops unit.

The Freekish Urban Combat Kommandos, known as FUCK, is the oldest special operations team in our nation's history. Founded during President Kaye's rule, FUCK saw action in World War 4 and World War 5 against the GDODAD. They also singlehandedly defeated the entire invasion force of Forumwalker back when we were allies with Russian Forces. FUCK beat back and entire regular army by themselves, driving the Forumwalker forces back into the cold Russian seas. They are some of the most lethal human beings in existance, and they have many times more combat exerience than anything Sniper Country has.

The 25th Mountain Division is another unit created by President Kaye, but much later than FUCK. These men can navigate even the most perilous of terrain, and have seen action in World War 5, The Dark Vengeance war, and were the backbone of the AMF units that slaughtered Fascist White States in record time. We will be relying on these men to operate in places where our infantry cannot, and they will be some of our best men to execute ops behind enemy lines.

The 406th Legion is a new addition to the Freekish military, comprising entirely of Azrael's Sentinels. I know it may not seem possible, but these generic Sentinels are many times more lethal than those not inside their unit. They have seen action in Kahanistan, but played a much greater role in the trouncing of The Kraven Corporation. They were successful in capturing what was known as Advocate Isle, and came to your aid (as you know) in smashing through Kravonika's Citadel Walls and leading the final charge into the remaining elements of the Capitol Police.

So there you have it Breathstealer, the history of our special operations. I don't care what that windbag Phillips thinks, our ops teams have seen WAY more combat than theirs have. The Omzian war is evidence enough of their dismal failure as a fighting force, and we have studied well their errors as well as strengths. Let us not forget that Sniper Country was cleaned and repopulated by Freeks. I am confident that there will be contingents of AMF loyalists within their nation, and we will use them to devastating effect just as we did in Kravonika.

But I have news for you. Following the closure of the Kraven Wars, a new black ops unit was formed. It was about to be scrapped for lack of purpose, however this new war against Sniper Country has rekindled interest in the program. It is called Black Star, and it is comprised of fighting men from all the above units...sort of an 'all star' team. They will operate under my direct supervision, and will act as an anti-spec ops force. Their goal is to wait for the Sniper Country SOF to strike, then hunt them down directly. Believe me, this will show them that we have surpassed them in terms of small squad black ops.

But enough of that, we will discuss this later when the invasion is about to take place. Our surveillance shows they are dug in deep around the beaches, but that is not something we are not prepared to deal with. We have been through exponentionally more beach landings than the Sniper Country military ever has and ever will. I have deployed all 'Sentinel' class Super Dreadnoughts to assist us, as well as our few Doujins. Our tribal garrisons stand ready to defend our mainland should they attempt to mount a counter invasion, though the possibility of this happening is extremely slim. They will devote all of their resources to holding us back, but our numbers and skill in battle are too great. We have millions of Sentinels on reserve in Automagfreek to supplement our battle strength in the event of a WMD attack, or some other catastrophic loss. However, I have learned since our bout with Kraven. Should there be any kind of WMD attack, you are authorized to launch a full chemical, biological, and even nuclear attack should it become necessary.

There is no word yet if Dayne the Evenstar and his Reavers will be joining us, but I have complete faith that we can finish Sniper Country without even coming close to the hurt locker.

And that concludes our meeting here today. I expect hourly situation reports once you are in position outside their territorial waters. Good luck my Warchiefs, and may the Gods be with you.

Dreadfire turned of the screen and resumed command of the Mouth For War. The ominous grey and black cloud that always hung over the cursed flagship darkened even more that day, a sign to Damien that the Corpse God was watching him and his every move. After several more horus of loading, the first elements of Taskforce Dreadfire slipped out of port and began heading for Sniper Country waters, where his armies awaited his arrival.

OOC: My troops, aside from a few last minute defense procedures (nothing much) are simply waiting for yours.

-----

AO-101 was desolate. Only the twelve men of Sonic Platoon remained, and even they would be hard to find in the massive base. The base itself was the size of Louisiana back in the United States, but there was one area, Command Area, where the enemy would need to get to if they wanted any thing important. On the short, thousand foot runway that resided in the Command Area, the men had taken spray cans and sprayed the words, “Screw you,” for any enemy aircraft that happened to fly over. The area was near the eastern edge of the base, with the jungles and country lying just outside the main post gate. Rolling hills, lush vegetation, and rocky terrain surrounded the area outside the gates, and this was where Sonic was taking their respite. LT Yager maintained the remote detonator for the Command Headquarters. The unit had dug fighting positions, and camouflaged them with nearby brush and vegetation. Their radios were only really going to be used for confirmation that the invasion had begun. Once they got word of that, they were turning them off and not turning them back on. The team consisted of two snipers, eight assault, and two machine-gunners, each with their own, specially modified weaponry. For their assignment, they’d requested specialized ammunition, which was of the Black Talon type, Teflon coated, and made with supplied depleted uranium from tank manufacturers around the nation. The DP was really the only upgrade, as BT was the standard ammunition for the SCAF, and all Special Forces units, ranging from the SALTs to DBs to SOF-D and beyond, utilized the Teflon coated ammunition.

About a hundred yards to the units’ rear, the hill ran into a long stream, followed by a long field of cotton plants, which were just right for the picking. Too bad there would be no combines running this season. LT Yager had posted the stream as the unit’s fall-back point, if they made it that far, and to continue fighting back into the field. It wasn’t that they wanted to get out alive, but falling back was a complete tactic on its own. The more kills they inflicted upon their enemy before they themselves were killed, the less enemy troops there would be to rape and pillage and burn their great nation. The main post gate and HQ building were in clear sight of the unit from their fighting positions, with the gate registering at three hundred meters, and the building at five hundred. It was quite a distance, but nothing they weren’t proficient with. All these thoughts and more rushed through the minds of Sonic Platoon. But when the bullets started flying, all it really came down to was what they were trained, and what their experience had led them to.

“Whatcha’ thinking on, Cowboy?” Specialist Tim Monroe asked as he jumped into LT Yager’s fighting position. It was dug deep enough for three men to stand comfortably, although taller guys would have a slightly less comfortable experience.

Yager smirked, one of his rare facial expressions. He almost always had a serious look about him, as if he was always thinking of something deep and intellectual. “Not much, what about yourself?”

“Just seeing how my favorite Lieutenant’s doing, that’s all. So, you ready for a fight?” asked Monroe.

“I reckon so,” Yager replied. “You know, I was thinking. The Freeks, well, like, the Sentinels and the AMF soldiers, they grow up knowing only war, terror, horror, and conflict. They’ve never really known anything else. They don’t know what it is to grow up and be a kid. They don’t know what it is to be truly happy about something. They grow up being brainwashed that war is some great thing – something that should be glorified and praised. Sometimes I truly wonder what they really feel when they take the life of someone; or do they even feel at all? I almost pity them, really.”

The words caused silence for Monroe, as he basked in the intellect of Yager. “They’ll never understand, man. To some folks, war is glory. And it’s the only glory they’ll ever know… They just don’t want to let go of it. Because if there’s no war for them, then what do they do? They’re nothing. No respect, no power, no glory. I’m sorry, but if you have to go to war to prove you’re greatness, you’re about as great as a dying cockroach.”

Yager looked to the floor of the fighting position, squashing a cockroach. “War is hell…” he mumbled.

“War is hell,” reiterated Monroe. After several moments of silence, Monroe spoke up again. “So, you think we’ll push them back? The Freeks?”

“Huh,” Yager puffed as he spit a wad of chewing tobacco from his mouth and into the grass outside. “About five million troops, against an unknown sized enemy force of soldiers we know are top caliber, no real intelligence on their capabilities, one major stand at Pascagoula, total Guerilla Warfare after that… I really don’t think we’ll push them back to where they came from. I think we’ll be a thorn in their side for months, heck maybe even years to come, but will that send them home? No, not really. They’ll slaughter all the civilians, rape all the women, kill the children in front of their mothers, torture the men, burn all the villages, tear down ever building in the cities, set the jungles ablaze, and pollute the Crowe with the blood of their victims. And what’ll we do about it? Say we tried. We’ll say we put up a valiant fight, and we did all we could to stop them. But what are words when your actions show otherwise? Yeah, but anyway, that’s my opinion. I’m doing my job. I’m not here to critique our nation.”

Monroe nodded. Deep inside, he felt the same way. In fact, no one would really be surprised if everybody in the nation felt that way. “It’s all we can do, huh…”

-----

One unit that had hardly been mentioned in all the preparation for the invasion had been PackRat Platoon, otherwise known as “Sierra Hotel.” The forty-eight men that comprised the unit had been in hiding since preparations for the national defense had begun. About three hundred miles up the Crowe River, a large cliff overlooked the shallowest portion of the river, which, the last time the team checked, was at nineteen feet. About thirty feet above, near the middle portion of the cliff, was a lone hole in the rock, much resembling a cave. Deep within the cliff was a place that only a few knew of. The complex system of tunnels and caverns was only accessible from the hole in the cliff, a tunnel hatch back in the woods, behind the caverns themselves; or an underwater cavern near the bottom of the river portion. The hatch behind the caverns had been rigged with a disturbance sensor, where if the hatch was opened more than six inches, the sensor would go off, alerting the men of PackRat. The underwater cave-like opening was the main point of entry and exit for the troops. Not only was it their main escape to the outside, but from the position they could fish, gather water, and sufficient storage for ammunition and equipment. It wasn’t the most comfortable of living quarters, but they’d suffered through much, much worse. Their main goal was to observe enemy movements up and down the river, and help with local militia groups in ambushes and attacks on Freek supply lines and patrols. For now they waited, as they had been for a few weeks now.

-----

Still, the unit most adorned in the SCAF, though unknown by much of the SCAF, much less the general public or world, was Force Haze. The absolute best of the best of the best Sniper Country had to offer. There was no sign of them. No records, no missions, nothing. Technically, the twelve men were legally dead, but not even the highest of command knew where they were. Only time would tell…

Wonder and wait as I stare at the cross,
thinking in ways that have Christ at a loss.
Kick your ass out through the Lord's pearly gates,
when heaven burns and engulfed into flame.

The massive fleets of each Warchief came closer and closer to the Sniper Country mainland, careful to stay in international waters until Dreadfire arrived, or at least inside Gholgoth territory. Covering a radius almost the size of the great St. Freeksburg Isle, the combined armada stretched its blackened hand across the mighty seas and towards the homeland of quite possibly their most formidable opponent ever. Submarines ventured quietly outside the fleet perimeter, scanning the waters and ocean floor for any intruder that lay in wait, while fists of jets took to the skies in search of aerial predators. This was the first major operation since the invasion and destruction of The Kraven Corporation, and the formidable Freekish war machine was all too ready for the carnage that was to come.

Blasphemes villain, the killings begin,
murdering Christians and torturing them.
Conquering churches and slaughtering lambs,
doing it all for my love of Satan... (I love you Satan, my lord)

Many miles to the southeast the great black cloud of the Mouth For War lingered in the high atmosphere, a telltale sign that the Warlord himself was on the way. He paced the decks of his flagship and remained in regular council with his commanders, who had been planning the main incursion for several days. It would without a doubt be the largest Freekish operation since World War 4 and World War 5.

The Sentinels within Lord Dreadfire's divisions were all too eager to be thrust back into the sting of battle, having heard and seen their master and commander wronged in the most cowardly way possible. Nobody, man nor God, tries to take my life. My warriors....my brethren, we go now towards our destiny. Today your Empire marches with you to the shores of Sniper Country, where the defining moment in Automagfreek's long history will be made. Will you fail, lyind broken and defeated on their sands? Or will you rise up and smash them downwith the righteous hammer of the Corpse God?

Damien's usual pre-invasion speech always had a way of preparing his Sentinels for battle, and this one was no different.

The heathen John Phillips believes that his God will save him and his people, casting the Freeks into a lake of hellfire and brimstone. But my Sentinels...we were born of this! We will descend upon his lands like ravenous dogs, tearing apart his people and setting his great cities ablaze. Their God will not save their bodies from your blades, nor their souls from my wrath! There are many Freekish bloodlines in Sniper Country, but on this day they are traitors. They have shown their true colors and their thirst for war, and by the will of the Corpse God we will give it to them!


Bring death to your god; tear apart his begotten son,
Christian you are dead, fucking kill every one of them.
Drop down in defeat, retribution of hypocrisy.
In life is unknown, after here I will own your soul.
Death to God banished and burned to incite the invert.
Blasphemy.... When heavens burns we inherit the earth!
No more lies, churches and crosses confusing the mind.
Agony, watching them burn in their righteous empire.

While still outside of Sniper Country waters, the main elements of the first armada began to break off, forming ranks along the entire outer perimeter of the enemy territory. Once the incursion into their waters began, each Warchief was instructed to tighten the noose, moving their formation closer to the shore while still bloackading any possible sea based exit.

Damien knew the Sniper Country navy was laughable at best, and his commanders had studied the terrain well both from maps and seacharts as well as briefings from those who had been there. Hmm....high tide seems to be our best option. The flat bottoms of the landing craft will allow them to slip up towards the shore, but our ships will have to stay far enough out to sea as to not run aground. This gives us several important strategic advantages, but I'm sure you all knew this already.

Dreadfire's commanders listened eagerly, paying close attention to his hands as they moved across the map and plotted their attack. We will insert everywhere across the board after the unsual openening ceremonies, but first I want UAV's and UUV's to scout the entire area, searching for sea mines as well as any hidden SAM sites that our satellites cannot see. From there, it's business as usual. If they decide to play the WMD game, we are equipped for a full strategic response. This concludes this briefing. Meet back here at 0830 for a situation update.


When heaven burns I will dance in its fire!
Drop dead hyraces, paradise has begun to bleed,
Give praise to the lord, over run in the face of war.
Christian wait with death, heaven burns into nothingness.
Satan on his throne rejoice in returning home.
End of God, when heaven burns it will fall to the earth.
Watch it burn angels on fire and screaming berserk.
Holy ghost, lost in confusion and puking in pain.
When it burns pissing on prophets that fall to the flame.

Dreadfire did not sleep much that night, knowing that the following morning his fleets would make their first move. He had already closed the gap between his forces and was only an hour or two out from the rally point. Two of the three Sentinel class SD's began to spread out to the east and west respectively, while the third remained in the center of the Freekish lines. Missile frigates, destroyers, and corvette's were already arming their payloads in anticipation of the coming assault, knowing that anti-shipping missiles would be fired in abundance judging from satellite imagery of the enemy beach head.

But he was no stranger to the sting and suffering of war, for he had lead Automagfreek through eight of its nineteen wars. If there was ever a better man for this task, it was Lord Dreadfire. As night fell for the last time before the eruption of battle, he noted the black cloud above his ship begin to expand, swallowing both moon and star alike. The Corpse God was watching, and his essence began to spread amongst the many ships that crowded the horizon. My Lord, my Commander...I shall grant you your tribute of souls come daylight. Your damned halls shall receive a mighty gift at the hands of the Sentinels and the Dread Fires.

His eyes rolled back and embraced the darkness that swallowed his ship and his body, inhaling deeply and offering his blood stained hands to his God. Meanwhile, Azrael, Zander, Brinks, and Vidimir prepared themselves as well. Each had their own rituals and superstitions, for they knew that once daylight came, all Hell would break loose. But for now, they took refuge in one last good night's sleep.

Wonder and wait as I stare at the cross,
Thinking in ways that have Christ at a loss.
Kick your ass out through the Lord's pearly gates,
when heaven burns I will stomp on his face.
Blasphemes villains, the killings begin,
murdering Christians and torturing them.
Conquering churches and slaughtering lambs,
doing it all for my love of Satan.

"When Heaven Burns"
-Deicide

Almighty and all-present power
Short is the prayer I make to Thee
I do not ask in battle hour
For any shield to cover me.

“Mommy, why are we all outside?” the small child looked at his mother with questioning eyes, holding her hand, while a small teddy bear clung to his other arm. He wore his pajamas, and sleep still hung from his eyes as he yawned. In the middle of the small village, a huge fire burned. Some thirty villagers stood around the fire, staring at its beauty, but somehow it represented wrath to the each of them that was able to understand what was happening.

“Sweetie, do you remember Jesus?” the mother looked at him and cracked a smile, a tear running from her left eye.

“Yep,” the boy blurted with a joyful sense of pride at remembering the name. “That’s God’s son. Did he come back?!” he inquired with an excited vigor. The mother’s tears began to pour like the Crowe poured from the Philipedes. She knelt down beside her son, who couldn’t have been older than five years old. Taking him by the shoulders, she stared into his eyes.

“Yes, son. He’s here,” she said as she hugged the boy tightly against her.

The sounds of several automatic weapons filled the night with a vengeance. The five unfortunate men who had been chosen to perform the task wept as they pulled the triggers, sending their sons and daughters, wives and mothers, fathers and grandfathers, to their eternal resting places. Of the five, one was chosen to kill the others, and then, if he so could, kill himself. He wasn’t ready. Heck, he was only nineteen. He held the weapon to the other four, one of whom was his own brother. The men muscled up and hid their tears; it was important to die like a man. The trigger was pulled, and the men he’d grown up with, who’d raised him, fell to the ground, lifeless. The aroma of death filled the summer air, staining the moisture from the humidity with a stench only known by few. He fell to his knees as the tears rushed down his poor, humiliated face. From the ground he pulled his pistol, holding it to his head. Snot ran from his nose as he tasted his own tears. He stared at the bodies around him. His village, his friends, his family, his life. “Sincerely, Ichabod,” he whispered. His corpse hit the ground with a thud; silence.

I ask no help to smite my foe
I seek no petty victory here
The enemy I hate, I know,
To Thee dear Lord are also dear.

The beach was desolate. No one could be seen aside from a few troops on watch, searching for the everpresent danger of the enemy, creeping in by night. The only sounds heard were those of whispers to pictures of family, and the occasional prayer. Each man slept with one eye open, if he slept at all. They’d always been trained for something like this. They were trained to fight and to kill, to evade and survive. To many, however, what was most important could not be trained. Each had his thoughts on how he’d like, but in the end, it wasn’t really his choice. No amount of training, no specialized equipment, no surplus of knowledge could ever, ever teach a man how to die.

If there had been any disputes, any hate, any anger, any trouble between any two men in the entirety of the SCAF, it was over by now. Questions always lingered in the back of the head as to what exactly would happen when the stuffing hit the fan, and how the man to the side would react. Would he fight alongside you, or run in fear? Would he warn you of incoming fire, or duck for himself? Perhaps the one that stood out more than any other, though, was the simple question of whether the man to your side would jump in to take that one bullet that had your name on it. Better, though, would you jump in and take the one that had his name on it? However, this maybe wasn’t the right question to ask. In the end, it was easy to die for your comrade, but how was it to kill for him? Thousands already knew the answers, nonetheless they still fluttered about. How?

The vast unalterable way
From which the stars do not depart
Shall not be turned aside to stay
The bullets flying to my heart.

LT Yager opened his eyes to the sight of SPC Monroe standing, leaning on the wall of the fighting position opposite him. He took a glance at his watch; he’d been asleep for thirteen minutes. To him, though, it felt like about six hours. His men called it the Cursed Blessing; Yager had an inability to sleep for longer than maybe half an hour at a time, and yet had more energy than probably any single one of them. Yager stood, dusted his pants off, and took a swig from his HYDRAtion pack.

“What’s up,” Yager asked, looking out toward AO-101. Nothing new, aside from a few more bird droppings on the road.

“Command says it’s on at sunup. After that, they estimate eighteen hours until they reach here. They want us to be ready,” Monroe replied, spitting out his gum.

“Eighteen hours?”

“Yeah, eighteen.”

“Twelve,” Yager said, putting himself in the shoes of a Freek. “We have twelve hours from the time the invasion begins. Make sure the guys get some sleep. I want them all up and ready to go by ten to go over last minute preparations and a final briefing.”

Monroe nodded and stepped back, out of the fighting position. Twelve hours? Yager had his ways of figuring things out, and no one really questioned it. Out loud, at least.

Yager turned to look out of his fighting position, trying one last time to imagine the sight of the Freeks entering the base. Would they come in full force, tanks and APCs, aerial cover and thousands of infantrymen? Or would they send in a forward party of a few troops and light vehicles to check things out first? He was sure they’d come in the former, but he kept his options open. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, the shimmer of something unnatural in the wilderness forced Yager to draw his pistol from its holster and prepare to fire. However he held, as he noticed it being one of his own, Sergeant First Class Jason Robertson, also known as Zeke. What shimmered? Only the pages of some small book, as Robertson placed it in his pocket and knelt his head. He was obviously praying, preparing himself emotionally and spiritually for not only the battle at hand, but probably also his death. Yager had lsot his faith in any sort of god long ago, and though he often wondered if being placed in such a dire situation as the one he was engaged in now would being him back to his knees before God, the thought hadn’t even dawned on him until now. He’d always admired anyone who could maintain a steady faith in any sort of higher power; it was easy to not. He watched as Robertson stood and walked back to his fighting position, probably to sleep. I want a faith like that… Yager thought as he sat back down.

He glanced at his watch. Ten til two. Sunrise would come in three and a half hours. Twelve hours after that, he and his men would make their stand at AO-101. Probably about fifteen minutes after that, they’d all be dead. Sounded like a plan, if you asked him.

But this I pray: be at my side
When death is drawing through the sky.

Natural clocks were going off, as men began to rise from their cots and don their equipment. Of course, it wasn’t absolutely confirmed that the invasion would begin today at sunrise, but from all that Command could tell, from the position of the enemy fleets and their movements, it was going down today. Last minute checks were in place as men shook hands, hugged, prayed, and talked. Many shared stories of their families, while others tried to joke and laugh. They were ordered to stay within the confines of their bunkers and whatnot until the invasion signal was given, but many commuted to their friend’s bunkers and foxholes to share last minute thanks and love. For most, this would be the last time they met face to face. Still, there were those who remained solitary. Those who had no desire in seeing their buddies, or sharing about their families, or trying to crack a smile; those who were ready to kill and die, just as the enemy was. Though undoubtedly few in number among the SCAF, there were the elitists; those whom even the Freeks who would soon land upon the sands of Sniper Country would think twice before crossing.

And so the clock struck five thirty seven, and the first beam of light shone across the shining sands of Pascagoula, Sniper Country.

Almighty God who also died,
Teach me the way that I should die.

“A Soldier’s Prayer”
-Roy F. Collie, Milne Bay 1943

Magna Casa, Aequatius Prime

President Kurt Moltke tiredly moved through the halls of the Ebon Tor, the meeting with the envoy from the Northern Colonies had been nothing more than another weight on his shoulders as the ongoing campaign in Kubra was winding up against Tocrowkia. A young aide approached with a folder marked with the insignia of the State Department and a bold red stamp with the word "REGIONAL AFFAIRS" printed along the side and handed it to the exhausted Aequatian head of state. He thumbed through it, reading of the situation that had been occuring within Gholgoth while the Republic moved throughout the world, helping its allies of GASN. He handed the folder back to the aide and dismissed him before turning around and making his way to the office of Chairman of the Joint Chiefs General Krist Von Mann.

The general stood at attention and saluted once the president entered, "Greetings, Sir, what can I do for you?"

"I have made my decision on what our move will be for the Hawk Coalition and Northern Colonies," He replied as he wheeled towards Von Mann's desk, "We are to withdraw our support since I made a snap decision without thinking it through and our forces mobilized for the Hawk Coalition prepare for deployment to Automagfreek to support their operations."

"Do we have permission from Lord Dreadfire and the Freek government?" Asked the general as he stood from his seat.

Moltke shook his head, "Do no worry, Krist, this is Automagfreek we're dealing with, they will have no problem with us helping in their campaign."

"All right, Kurt, I'll have our forces prepare for the move, it should be ready in about twenty four to thirty six hours," Said Von Mann as he turned back to his desk covered with papers.

----------

To: Warlord Damien Dreadfire of the Excessively Armed Empire of Automagfreek
From: Doctor Kurt Moltke, President of the United Socialist Republic of Aequatio

It has come to my attention that the nation of Automagfreek is on the verge of war against the ex-nation of the Gholgoth region, Sniper Country, for their recently attempt on your very life. I have sent this message to present you with the offer of aid from the Aequatian Republic, including the deployment of the entire Aequatian Republic Marine Corps and a number of other units from the branches of the Aequatian Republic Joint Military Forces.