NationStates Jolt Archive

Somewhere Distant, Somewhere Across the Seas

Damn you man, screamed a blonde-haired man, wearing the fatigues of the Royal Army, the veins in his neck near distended, beads of sweat glistening in the harsh high-noon sun.

Sorry, sir, a young almost pimple-faced private retorted, wiping particles of rocky dust from his brow. The auto-loader is malfunctioning, at best I can have it running say in forty minutes—

We need it now, Wilson! Major James Hewitt kicked a stone, sending it flying off the ridge his battery’s six light-weight self-propelled howitzers rested. Below, in the river-carved valley, Oceanian soldiers were battling a much larger enemy force mercifully equipped with antiquated weapons but by sheer numbers they still posed a considerable threat.

Hewitt listened, faintly hearing the crackling of automatic weapons fire and the more staccato, more spaced bursts of rifle fire from Oceanian troops. We shall go with the five guns then, leave the sixth out until we can repair it.

Very well, sir, the private replied, not a hint of his own frustration showing beyond his sweat in the hot and dry mountains.

Have the coordinates been loaded into the gun computers?

Aye. Hewitt’s executive officer responded now, having already ensured that the remainder of the battery would be ready to fire if and when the sixth came on-line.

Burst pattern Bravo then, if you please.

Aye, sir.

Within in one second, the ground convulsed throwing up dirt and dust into the air, choking those men foolish enough not to wear some sort of barrier over his mouth and nose. The barrels recoiled and the chassis shook as the five guns went off simultaneously, lobbing their 155mm shells upwards into the sky. Inside the guns, automated loaders were busily removing charges, replacing them and loading new shells that were quickly loosed. Two more rounds went into the barrels to be thrown out in plumes of smoke.

Hewitt took a step closer to the ravine, waiting anxiously for the effect of his battery, the first to be equipped with the new light-weight mobile artillery platform. Below, a cacophony of explosions resounded in the valley walls as the four shells from each gun landed precisely in closer perimeter – hopefully on top of the enemy forces. Enable target corrections and ready the guns again, if you please, Hewitt shouted, turning back to his battery.

Seven Months Before

Ground Defence Industries Manufacturing Plant
Kingsbridge, Bennington Province, United Kingdom

A nice little toy, I suppose, The set of blue eyes accompanying the dry response simply rolled.

Please, Major, a little more respect.

Major James Hewitt snapped his weary head into line, sorry, sir, he offered much more professionally.

Hewitt and his commanding officer had been selected to attend the unveiling of the Royal Army’s newest mobile artillery piece, a lightweight 20-ton vehicle with an automated loader allowing the gun to fire 4 rounds in ten seconds, all to detonate on the same location at the same time. A rain of steel, fire, and death indeed. At least that was how the company had advertised their product to both Hewitt and those tasked with selecting the new artillery piece.

Part of the ‘new’ Royal Army was to be the creation of new highly mobile units, ready to be deployed immediately to the distant corners of the world in support of the United Kingdom’s growing commitment to sponsoring fledgling democracies as well as the need for providing immediate support to its overseas colonies and territories, where sparks could ignite massive conflicts in mere hours.

By a selection not entirely based upon military needs, Hewitt’s battery had been selected to field the first of the new units. It had helped his battery if not his regiment that the battalion commander had several good friends in the Democratic Socialist Party in Parliament. MPs could sometimes be more helpful and more useful than battlefield prowess. Unfortunately, Hewitt knew as much and accepted as much. If battle did come, he would be the guinea pig.

Five Months Before

Somewhere Distant, Somewhere Across the Seas

Tumbling downwards in the air, a rough-edged rock of a dirty brown colour landed in the pale but callused hands of a small woman. This is it? the dyed blonde asked, her brown eyes looking down questioningly at a pudgier man squatting just above the rocks at his feet.

Wiping his hands off on his jeans, the man’s face scrunched as he pulled himself up, sweat collecting in his bushy mustache. Indeed it is, desired by most countries on this planet, rocks like this will provide long-term stability to the company.

Well I daresay we shall need a lot of these little rocks, the woman replied with a smile, tossing the rock at her companion in the dry mountains. She laughed as the pudgy man juggled the rock in a failed attempt to catch it, leaving it to rest on its side atop the rocky outcropping. Taking several quick steps in her dusty, but very sturdy boots, the woman climbed down the small ridge to a waiting vehicle featuring a high ground clearance and tires designed to climb the rocky hills and mountains of this landscape. How much of this mineral can we extract? she tossed backwards to her companion, stumbling as he walked around the rocks.

A good deal of it, we cannot know more until the proper teams arrive with the right equipment – and given the remoteness of this godforsaken place it could take a few weeks.

This godforsaken place, Henry, is going to keep AKR Mining competitive and profitable for years to come. The woman opened the door for herself, buckling herself in and starting the engine while she waited for the man to clumsily find his way around to the passenger side. Now get in, she added hastily, we have a meeting to attend.

Present Day

Somewhere Distant, Somewhere Across the Sea

In the candle-lit halls, Percival Hughes’ heels clicked loudly on the polished tile floor. The grey-haired diplomat had been sent to this forgotten land weeks ago after the request of the local governing authority, and now summoned before the executive at the head of the government, a government barely democratic but a functioning one nonetheless, Hughes had brought with him a small briefcase containing several documents and a pen.

At the end of the long hall, two men dressed in uniforms of a light brown colour pushed open the door, their long bayoneted rifles instilling a slight fear in the Oceanian who had never served in the armed forces and never even fired a gun, a man who as a young boy was renowned in his schools not for his propensity to engage in fistfights but rather for the ability to intervene and end them without bloodshed. Before Hughes on a raised throne sat a man ordinarily of pale skin, though it had been obviously tanned, likely on purpose, Your Most Serene Eminence, Hughes began, lowering his head as was established custom. I was summoned to your presence.

Indeed you were, Mr. Hughes. The pale-skinned figure raised his arms from the armrests and motioned for Hughes to approach the throne. Please, step forward Mr. Hughes. I have been considering your words from our last meeting and after much deliberation I agree in theory.

In theory, Sire?

In theory, the king-like figure responded with a coy smile. You say this George commands armies of millions and warships of great length and big firepower?

Indeed he does.

You say this George would be willing to offer myself and my people protection from the tribes to the north and to the south?

Indeed, Sire. Hughes nodded patiently.

Then what would become of me?

Hughes blinked, not anticipating such a blatant question. Well, Sire, this George would become Emperor of this land, and You would become a king at His service. There would also be a need to create a new government here, one created by the people, although You could very well likely remain the head of your territory if not government.

So I would become a king you say, the man responded, deep in thought and relishing the thought of such a new title. And these millions of men would protect me and my land.

Indeed. The man smiled again, and of course you brought your papers here with you for me to sign.

Hughes now smiled as well. Indeed, Sire.

The man on the throne motioned for Hughes to step even closer, bring me these papers, Mr. Hughes. I shall sign.

Downtown Norova

It shall likely entail a great deal of work, a slender faced woman spoke over her cup of tea, blowing the steam and the scent into the fat face of her companion. He shot across a harsh glare and laboured to produce some unintelligible noise that the woman could not discern as being either positive or negative. Loquacious Lewis speaks once more, the woman quipped back, only afterwards pausing to wonder if even Lewis’ utterance had required recognition.

Fortunately for Sarah Timoney, the streets of Norova provided relaxation as the backwardness of the locals had left many without noisy automobiles that would have otherwise disturbed her lunch. Amongst the many street-side shops and kiosks was a small building, resembling a home with its bay windows and garishly excessive drapery but inside a small piece of colonial England, the proprietor one of the few Englishman who had settled and started for himself a tea house though the local cultivation of a small stock of tea plants. Timoney and the Oceanians who had made it up the Poco River as far as Norova had brought what they called a salon a great deal of business. It was the closest any of them had to a piece of the United Kingdom of Oceania in this wayward land.

Timoney replaced her tea cup on its saucer and with her delicate fingers picked up a small sandwich off the platter resting at the centre of the table. Anyways, Lewis, the most critical aspect to economic sustainability remains the upgrade if not complete construction of a sufficient infrastructure for this whole area. She raised her eyes with her still tilted downwards, casting another glance at her companion, whose stubby and hair-covered fingers were covered in the jams and spreads of the sandwiches he had all but devoured thus far. Timoney simply shook her head. Anyways, the good news is that the first rail line from the mountains to Iarapoco should be finished within nine months. At least, she added half-heartedly, that what schedule says.

As a deep rumble filled the room, the two turned their heads not in reaction to the noise but to the startled reactions of the locals. The two Oceanians allowed smug smiles to slip upon their face, from the window they watched over the low-rise buildings across the street a Royal Air Force fighter fly overhead, an attempt to display the power of the United Kingdom to the locals, who had been content before to fight with semi-automatic rifles of indigenous design. Since the treaty of friendship, the prior armies had been somewhat reluctant to hand in their weapons and pass on the mantle of the guarantors of national security to an unknown power. And so Timoney and Lewis returned to their meal, quite glad to hear the power of the RAF overhead.

Port of Iarapoco

The local commander is aware of the procedure, correct?

Indeed, sir.

Very well. Fire main batteries if you please.

Along the waterfront of the city of Iarapoco, crowds of people had gathered since dawn, when the first sign of something new had appeared on the horizon. The port city had long been accustomed to the ships of its fishing fleet and a few small cargo ships that hauled goods from Iarapoco to distant cities along the continent, but as day broke the crowds realised this was not something they had ever seen before. Within a few hours, the massive shape of an 800+ meter dreadnought had taken shape off the coastline, and while it remained offshore from a lack of suitable docking facilities it dispatched via helicopter the first officials from the Royal Navy who relayed their intentions to the garrison commander at Iarapoco. Shortly after the helicopter returned to the dreadnought, the fort at Iarapoco fired its artillery guns, prompting the ship’s commander to make sure one last time that the fort commander knew the response.

Without warning the earth cracked, glass shook and some loosely fit panels shattered, showering streets in the crinkling of glass – a rain deafened by the massive ear-splitting noise of the twenty main guns of the dreadnought firing at once. Children screamed and women teared as fire lashed out from the ship, seeming to spell certain death for all those onboard the piers and wharves who had interrupted their day to see the massive piece of machinery off their coast.

At sea, the ship’s commanding officer made his way to the bridge, along the way retrieving from his private cabin a pair of binoculars, a gift from his father who had once belonged to the merchant marine. Resting the rubber upon his skin, he peered out towards the port of Iarapoco and found a shocked and scared populace. His stoic face cracked, a smirk appearing ever so slowly before he rested the binoculars on a navigation console. I should say they know who is boss now, he spoke quietly to himself.

Ilaerta, Oceanian East Recedentia

Rather less than impressive, is it not, Harold? Newly titled Royal Governor Percival Hughes asked, his one grey eyebrow arched while his lips pursed together tightly. He glanced over at his personal assistant, whose face also betrayed a lack of comprehension of the object in Hughes’ delicate hands. Hughes fingers felt the finely smoothed grain of the dark equatorial wood in his hand, his eyes absorbing the subtle hues of brown pigment layered in asymmetrical designs. At long last, Hughes gave up and placed the mask lightly upon his desk, a prefabricated and cheap import that would have to suffice until an appropriate one could be shipped in from the United Kingdom.

It is, nonetheless, an important sign of fidelity from the southern tribes. We will face massive problems in the south, Harold, and I think it best that we remain on good terms with the natives.

I concur, sir.

Hughes nodded and found his way around the cheap office furniture and onto a similarly cheap swiveling executive chair upholstered with imitation leather. While the new crown colony of Oceanian East Recedentia was technically distinct from the southern colony, styled Oceanian Equatorial Recedentia, until an effective administration could be established in the jungles Hughes and his administration in Ilaerta were unofficially responsible for its development. Gifts such as masks from tribal chieftains heralded potentially peaceful and thus beneficial relationships. His Majesty’s empire was governed through the good graces of His loyal subjects. At that thought, Hughes allowed himself a smile as the rumble of a diesel engine could be heard echoing through the streets below – and as the natives had nothing as powerful as what he heard, Hughes estimated it to be some Oceanian armoured vehicle of some sort.

Allowing himself to relax into the chair’s backing, the royal governor drew himself a mental image of the continent and the United Kingdom’s territory; what do we know of these natives? Outside of His Royal Highness, Hughes overly emphasized the former sovereign of the lands now ruled over by the UK, I have yet to meet any of these tribal leaders. He frowned at the thought, the map disappearing behind the coalescing form of a hyperbolically primitive native rushing at him with a blood tipped spear.

Thus far, sir, the quiet Harold replied, standing stiffly before the desk and royal governor, we have identified two primary ethnic groups living within East Recedentia: the Ia and the Brimati who inhabit the north and the south, respectively. So far it seems safe to conclude that the Ia are the dominant of the two, making use of the local resources to create some level of a feudal monarchy that lords over the more pastoral Brimati. The assistant paused and tilted his head for a moment, then righted it and continued on with the impromptu briefing.

It would seem that for now we have inherited a multinational state; consequently one of our first concerns should be the establishment of a more democratic and pluralistic government.

Hughes nodded; now it is my time to concur, Harold. My lingering concern, however, is whether or not we are governing an electorate able to comprehend of itself as an electorate. Political parties will likely be meaningless and as such so will national platforms. He paused, allowing his gaze to fall upon the mask once more. Thus the question becomes what to do, Harold? What to do?

Norova, Oceanian East Recedentia

Bloody hell, muttered a well-tailored man dressed in a black pinstripe suit with a blue silk shirt and solid red tie, his brown eyes hidden behind a sleek pair of sunglasses and his hair gelled into a slicked back position. The man drew his hand up to his face as a lorry rumbled past, its cargo hold full of shiny black rocks. He turned to the slightly smaller woman next to him, similarly dressed in a suit considered fashionable in the UK, sorry about that, love, he replied a bright white smile plastered on his face.

Sure, James. The woman turned her head to watch the vehicle lumber down the main road into Norova from the west and turn into a small gravel pathway that signaled the entrance to the railway that linked Norova to Ilaerta; unfortunately for the two strangers in a strange land, the railway had yet to be completed west from Norova to the mines of the AKR Mining Group. From Ilaerta, a functioning port at the mouth of the Poco River, out to the major coastal city of Iarapoco the railway was also under construction. But between the growing mining town of Norova and the colonial capital a single rail link had been established, and on the passing lorry the future profits of AKR.

The manager and his wife smiled at each other, for out of sight beyond a hastily constructed warehouse an imported diesel push-pull engine blew its whistle, signaling its crew to move to the loading docks to prepare another load of magnetite.

Village of Alium, Oceanian East Recedentia

Kevin Peters grimaced, shifting his rifle in his hands and then shifting the load of his gear from his left foot to his right throwing his hips in the process. A member of the Exton Rifle Regiment, Peters unit had been selected to serve in the colonies with the intention of re-training the local militia units on how to fight in coordination with the Royal Armed Services and for some fucked up reason he was now stuck at the edge of Alium as sentry over a militia encampment. Bloody colonials, he muttered.

Beyond the camp, just over an earthen berm lay the small river that eventually flowed out through the town of Baroso. Peters scanned the crest of the berm once more, his thermal imagers making a bright white note of the Velorii settlement on the opposite bank, at one point in history the village of Alium had been under Velorii sovereignty on both banks, but during the height of the power of what was now the UK colony the eastern side had been taken in battle. Yet the Roman influences remained in the name of the town, the gridded streets and military dual-use nature of almost every public building. He never noticed the two men who swam across the river and crept along the far side of the bridge connecting the two halves of the town.

How goes it, a quiet nasal voice inquired from the shadows.

Peters turned and found the bright spot of a fellow rifleman, Paul Reynard, all quiet on the western front, he muttered. For some weeks the United Kingdom had been engaged in low-intensity combat operations along its northern border with the Khailfah, though targeting not the Muslimeens but a tribal group seeking to secede from the new UK colony. Meanwhile on the border with the Velorii Republic, small raids and kidnappings were attributed without hard proof to Velorii special forces units. Further west, the Velorii had brazenly engaged Hamptonian forces and thusly East Recedentia had become part of an air route through which the inland Hamptonian colony was being supplied with military hardware.

Unbeknownst to the two infantrymen, it had not taken the Velorii long to figure out the UK’s complicity in their border war. But then in a moment of blinding clarity, all became quite clear to the two men. Streaks of white light practically burned their retinas, the two men quickly removing the thermal imaging units and taking cover as arcs of white and pale yellow raced from across the berm, across the river, reached an apex, then screamed downwards, ever faster, into the heart of the tents.

Bloody hell, Peters muttered.

Merde, Reynard sighed. Shall we, he half-seriously asked his comrade.

Probably should, Peters huffed, checking and removing the safety on his rifle before Reynard did the same. Below them within the camp came screams of horror and of pain, cries of confusion and pandemonium. From across the river came another barrage of rocket artillery that landed square in the middle of the militia unit tasked to defend Alium. Amidst the explosions and concussions of earth being blown into the night sky came the staccato burst of machine gun fire near the centre of the village followed by two loud blasts.

Cannon fire, Peters said calmly. The two quickly made their way back down the hill that they had occupied until they came to an eight-wheeled vehicle mounting a turret from which various antennae and domes and sensors stuck out at normal and odd angles.

Are we under attack? a half-dressed lieutenant asked, obviously having been woken from a deep sleep.

Yessir, Peters replied.

A massive barrage of rocket artillery on the main encampment, sir. Best estimate, most of the company is either dead or dying. Thus far their aim has been extraordinarily accurate.

Another two riflemen came running up to the command vehicle, the headquarters for an infantry platoon augmented with one light tank theoretically placed in Alium to deter the Velorii. Lieutenant Mikhail Lavrov grimaced as another series of explosions could be heard from within the encampment. How many times did we tell them not to construct their base that close to the river? he fumed.

From within the town, more fire of heavy calibre weapons rocked the night garnering the attention of the men and one woman thus gathered round. I want HQ moved further eastward, Lavrov barked, an infantryman running to the front of the armoured vehicle to relay the order and within moments the diesel engine rumbled to life, the hatches closed and the command vehicle for the UK’s main deployed forces began a tactical retreat.

Where is Captain Hendricks? Lavrov finally asked, seeing that not even any other squadron-level officer had arrived.

Other side of town, sir, the woman, Julie Castel replied quickly. Meeting with the militia commander to try and get him to move his base.

The small group of soldiers laughed while more rockets screamed down. How many of us were in the base? Lavrov asked, knowing full well that if any of his squad or other squads were training at this hour they would have been doing so within the target area for the rocket artillery. He waited and listened to silence, apparently nobody knew or wanted to say. Either way, there were seven individuals under his command for the moment; and they faced a likely invasion of the town from across the river.

Alright, Lavrov finally said amid the chorus of enemy howitzers joining the fray, our mission is to take out the bridge linking the town. Does anyone have any explosives or a laser designator?

I have a designator, Castel replied. The explosives team was not set to arrive until Tuesday, however.

Very well, we call in for RAF close air support, lase the bridge and blow it up before any major Velorii armour crosses into Alium. Lavrov withdrew his small digital assistant and sent an urgent message to the platoon’s command vehicle, asking them to request RAF support in taking out the bridge linking Oceanian Alium to Velorii Alium. Unfortunately, the only useful ground-attack aircraft were currently onboard a Royal Navy carrier off the coast as the main RAF attack aircraft were not slated to arrive until Tuesday. For now they would have to make do with a rather simplistic if not rugged design, the colonial Viper – an interceptor that could be made to perform rudimentary ground-attack missions if absolutely needed. And as Lavrov watched an errant rocket soar overhead he felt the necessity more than ever.

Ilaerta, Oceanian East Recedentia

Campbell Downing ran his tongue over the front of his teeth, attempting to remove the remnants of a local fish from his mouth before speaking to the assembled group of business persons. I think, the Democratic Socialist MP finally said, that for the time being His Majesty’s Government has allotted as much of the Colonial Development Fund as the this colony is likely to receive. This is not to say, however, that Parliament is dismissing your concerns over a lack of a suitable infrastructure for significant economic development – bur rather that our hands are tied with a great deal of this year’s emergency funding going to building up our defences in New Albion. Downing smiled and then deftly speared another piece of the light whitefish, grilled with a citrus and oil marinade, before placing another piece of his evening snack into his mouth.

The problem, with all due respect, sir, an elegantly dressed businessman replied cautiously, is that East Recedentia is not as secure as it seems from Imperium. We have fighting in the north near our border with the Khailfah and to the west we have the Velorii already attacking the Hamptonians whilst in the southern straits between us and Equatorial Recedentia we have reports of heavy pirate activity that the Royal Navy seems incapable of stamping out. The man paused, noting that his voice had slowly risen and the reserved anger had been about to burst from below his usually cool exterior. What I am trying to say, sir, is that for now, Oceanian control over East Recedentia is perilous at best. We have the Hamptonians inland, and I am reasonably sure that they can be depended upon to at least hold the Velorii at bay, but with the Khailfah to the north with their armies massing – we need more money to fund an infrastructure for economic development. Only with increased tax revenue can the local government fund the necessary procurements to build an effective militia and colonial defence force.

Indeed, a mid-thirty-ish woman added, her bright white teeth gleaming between her lightly coloured rose lips under the electric light of a street-side lamp. Mr. Downing, representing one of the larger UK companies involved here in Ilaerta, continued Oceanian investment in East Recedentia is contingent upon the government lessening the significant risks associated with the allocation of capital in such a volatile environment.

Downing nodded, sipping slowly from a glass of water. While I most certainly sympathise, ladies and gentlemen, the fact remains that the United Kingdom remains stretched in terms of its purse strings and the deployment of the armed forces. We are attempting to rearm and reequip the forces after significant depletions in Novikov—

Hence the inadequately armoured vehicles in Recedentia, a short man with a pointy black goatee coolly interjected, his red tie devilish looking under the light.

They are only as inadequately armoured as they are ineptly deployed, Mister Dawson, Downing quipped back. His glare and sharp tongue withdrew and the magnaminous politician returned to the table, nonetheless I do understand all your points and will convey them with haste to both the Colonial Secretary and the Prime Minister upon my return to Imperium.

Downing smiled and looked down from the table at his pants, where a slight buzz and vibration had tipped him off that his mobile phone was ‘ringing.’ Fortunately, one of the first improvements in the colony’s capital was the installation by AzJur Telecom of a mobile cell – and towers were already under construction for the cities of Iarapoco and Norova as well as along the rail routes linking the three cities together. He looked up at his guests while pushing his chair slowly out from the table, if you will all excuse me for a brief moment, he asked entirely rhetorically.

Stepping away he opened the flip-phone design, yes?

Mister Downing, this is the Royal Governor’s Office, would you please hold for Governor Hughes?

Yes, Downing smiled at the question and waited only a brief moment before hearing the click of a connecting line.

Mister Downing, I presume?

Yes, Your Excellency, what can I do for you tonight.

A small situation has arisen on the western border, a small incursion of foreign troops has most regretfully besieged many of our outposts while outright taking several civilian towns. I am already in contact with the Colonial Office, however, I was wondering if you would be so kind as to visit the frontlines in order to relay to Parliament and the appropriate financing committees the need for increased military deployments to East Recedentia.

Downing scratched his brow and tightly shut his eyes. Despite his attempts to reduce military spending in Parliament, everybody on the frontiers of the Empire wanted it increased. However, performing a favour for an influential Royal Governor could pay dividends back in Imperium. Very well, Your Excellency, give me until the morning and then I shall depart posthaste.

Alium, Oceanian East Recedentia

The air tasted of limestone, the smoke of chemical propellants, the blood of sweat and salt. Peters peered into the scope atop his rifle, his finger delicately stroking the trigger while he waited for the next man to make the dash across the rubble-strewn street. Then, he did. A figure appeared on the street some 600 meters down from Peters’ position, kicking with it brightly coloured toys including one stuffed animal. Before the soldier even got halfway across Peters quickly and smoothly pulled the trigger.

Throughout the canyon of a street, the rapport of the large-calibre rifle echoed off shattered windows and shelled and mortared concrete. The Oceanian’s shoulder stung, the rifle slamming back into his body with no mercy. But it mattered not, for Peters training allowed him to quickly find the area his target had occupied, except now Peters’ target lay in a crumpled heap upon a pile of scattered bricks, a massive bloody hole clearly visible in his head. Then Peters ducked.

A moment later, the concrete barrier behind which he hid shook as a machine gun spat out suppressive fire, showering the UK infantryman in slivers of quarried and processed rock. For near half an hour, Peters had been engaged in just such actions, taking out one or two Velorii soldiers before having to take cover beneath a steady stream of suppressive fire – though thus far, from Peters’ reckoning at least, they had not made it far from their advance across the main bridge. Admittedly, Peters and his fellow Oceanian regulars had been unsuccessful in destroying said bridge.

While the shower continued above, Peters crawled along his belly to another obstacle from behind which he had a moment to check his ammunition. Two full magazines remained and then he would be forced to scrounge for the Velorii rifles, while reliable, also of poorer design than the L62. Carefully moving his head from around the side of the toppled statue, Peters found the operator of the machine gun covering the advance of a few Velorii infantrymen likely moving down the street to flush Oceanians out.

Once more, Peters found himself staring into the scope and taking care to find not just the machine gunner, but the lead man advancing towards his position. One pull of the trigger for the gunner, a pause for the recoil, a moment to find the leader – now scrambling for cover – then another pull of the trigger and the officer is down, then another moment to scramble backwards to another position with adequate cover.

Beneath Peters, Lavrov, Reynard and Castel moved as silently as possible through a cramped and poorly lit sewage system filled with refuse and unseen particles that would have made one of the three at the very least nauseous. They moved quickly, however, trying to take advantage of the clamour of battle raging on the streets above. Their goal, the exit along the riverbank from which they could lase the bridge for the RAF aircraft flying somewhere overhead.

It smells awful down here, Reynard mused.

Silence, Lavrov hissed, his eyes glancing about avoiding the ribbons of light coming from grates atop the sewer system that were now allowing not rainwater but rather light from flares and explosions above them. He listened contentedly to the silence that followed until again he heard Reynard’s nasal voice.

Are we there yet?

Shut up, you ass, Castel quipped. She shook her head and threw a knowing, sympathetic glance to Lavrov, who simply smiled. More silence as the group made their way towards the sound of a flowing river, their ultimate objective.

Above, Peters thrust a hand into his vest, pulling out his second to last magazine. Bloody hell, he whispered to nobody in particular. He now found himself behind a fountain in what would once have likely been a rather popular public square, the intersection of the two main roads that ran north-south and east-west. As he maneuvered himself into a position from which he could view and fire upon the whole of the street he instead jerked backwards, feeling a sharp pain in his left shoulder.

A sharp, stinging pain was quickly dulled by adrenaline as Peters crawled to another position, throwing a glance backwards to find a small trail of crimson upon the pale sandstone-coloured tiles of the plaza. Not a good development, he chided himself. Leaning as comfortably as he could against the brick facing of the fountain, Peters took aim at more Velorii soldiers and fired off a few more rounds, this time with less accuracy than before.

Along the riverfront, the other three carefully climbed out of the piping and onto the soft mud of the riverbank, directly below the bridge itself, above them the sounds of footsteps and diesel engines moving men and material into the Oceanian colony. Castel crouched and worked her way to the side of the bridge, thrusting the device into the soft mud and using a magazine for her rifle to prop it up at an angle sufficient to paint the far side of the bridge, where it joined with the road from the Velorii settlement. She nodded to Lavrov who quietly whispered into his radio that the target had been designated. The three quickly began to move back into the pipes and scurry back towards the safety of their lines.

Peters grimaced, another well placed round had blown off a piece of brick that had slammed into his wounded shoulder. The L62 unfortunately lacked a setting for full automatic and by now his fading concentration meant fewer and fewer shots met their target; more and more Velorii were approaching his position. From behind him he heard the roar of a fighter jet that he silently prayed was Oceanian, a few seconds later at the end of the street a tremendous fireball blossomed into the evening sky the deafening concussion wave and explosion arriving at the plaza a split second later – and with it the screams of dead and dying Velorii soldiers now with no easy way to return home or to even be re-supplied.

But as Peters forced his eyes to remain open, forcing his finger to keep squeezing off rounds until his rifle fired off not rounds but rather empty clicks, he never noticed that the shot that had wounded his shoulder had also caused a small but painless wound in his neck, his jugular had been ruptured. Long before the few remaining Velorii took his position, Peters was already dead.

Campbell Downing’s hands instinctively grasped for the small rubber-coated handlebar as the wheeled armoured vehicle fell into a small ditch. He had managed to take the railway out to Norova; however, beyond that he had endured a long helicopter flight until the local Royal Army commander ruled that air travel was unsafe for an Oceanian MP. Thus he sat in the rear compartment of an older armoured vehicle designed by the now defunct Kvassen Corporation, the vehicle known in service as the CV19. She is certainly a tough vehicle, Downing shouted over the throbbing diesel engine and grinding of wheels on un-cleared terrain.

The brown-eyed colonel in charge of the Exton Rifles remained emotionless, he had been briefed on the casualties sustained in the first several hours of the Velorii assault – and they were far from good. That he was now escorting a politician into the combat zone only solidified his silence. Downing shrugged it off and opened one of the firing ports to watch the trees and few stray buildings pass by. I suppose that—

He was interrupted mid-sentence, a deafening roar filling the passenger compartment. Suddenly the MP, the colonel, and those others not strapped into their seat were thrown against the right side of the vehicle as it turned sharply to the left. Lastly they fell to the roof of the compartment as the CV19 rolled to rest upside down. Downing blinked, his eyes unable to see a thing in the darkened, smoke-filled compartment.

Everybody out, shouted one of the riflemen. As Downing now stood upon the handlebar he had reached for a moment ago he stuck out his hands feeling for someone or something. An unfamiliar world had suddenly turned upside down in the literal and figurative sense. This way, sir, the same voice cried out, a large warm hand grasping the MP’s and pulling him from the compartment onto the cold, hard ground of East Recedentia. Pushing himself up from the ground he craned his neck to collect his bearings only to have it pushed down by a hand. Stay down, sir.

Instinctively, Downing’s hands went to his ears as several large cracks ripped open the air near his head. Slowly everything came into focus and he saw the riflemen with whom he had been traveling taking careful aim and firing their rifles at targets the politician neither saw nor even pretended to see. A rapid cacophony of fire echoed through the hole and the riflemen ducked, pulling down the MP with them. Return fire, the same voice from before called out.

The loud rapport of the L62 practically deafened Downing, who scrambled to push his back against the sloped dirt side of the ditch that he recognised as having passed what now felt like hours ago. After a few more moments, the short bursts of fire opposite the Oceanians ceased, and the riflemen around Downing climbed out of their ditch. All clear, the comfortingly knowledge voice cried out.

What happened?

A tall and awkward looking twenty-something smiled with slightly crooked, but brilliant white teeth. An ambush, sir. Most likely, an anti-tank team that decided to take out a target of opportunity; you see, sir, we have very few tanks in colony and the Velorii have satiated their appetite for heavy armour with any armoured vehicle they can find. Unfortunately for you, this strip of level land is the only real way of entering the front lines – and the Velorii know it. He stretched his long arms out and pointed to the trees surrounding the ad hoc roadway, we control the area, but the Velorii managed to infiltrate behind the frontlines in the first few hours and we have yet to round them all up.

I see, Downing responded quietly. Now what?

We walk, sir, the colonel shouted. A demonic smile had plastered itself to his face, the grim reality of war far more welcome than the politics of Parliament. Driver is dead not to mention the vehicle in and of itself. Of the six other riflemen, sir, we have Sergeant Anderson there, the colonel pointed at the tall but obviously experienced non-commissioned officer. And two privates, so here, he said, hoisting a rifle from the ground, dumped from the vehicle during its tumble. Ever fired a weapon, sir?

No, at best a few arrows during an archery class at the university, but never a firearm. Downing brushed off his pinstripe suit, now permanently ruined, while the slowly assembling Oceanian professional soldiers laughed. Although I suppose I must now learn, he added, trailing off as the dead soldiers finally registered in his mind. He took the weapon carefully from the colonel, who alternated with the sergeant in explaining the rudimentary operations of the rifle. For a half-hour the privates collected the salvageable supplies while Anderson trained Downing had to aim and fire and reload. He left the complexities of stripping the rifle out; the MP would never learn those within an hour.

Ministry of Defence
Imperium, New Britain Province, United Kingdom

Not very good at all, Your Lordship. Defence Secretary Sean O’Donnell hashed out a few quick lines on a pad of legal paper sitting next to the phone, currently set to ‘speakerphone’ and allowing him to listen more easily to the Prime Minister. I am afraid that at the moment, the colonial defence forces are stretched rather thin – the chances of repositioning forces within the colony are frankly not very good.

O’Donnell looked to the other side of his desk, where he had laid out a detailed satellite map of the colony of East Recedentia, increasingly beset by problems of instability. What had started so wonderfully was quickly devolving into a quagmire. Even the Royal Navy is stretched thin; a single assault carrier providing logistical support to much of the ground forces requires the presence of the carrier and her escorts at Iarapoco and Ilaerta – they cannot be sent south to combat rampant piracy.

I grow tired of outlining the problem, Sean, the Prime Minister replied, clearly exasperated. You have limited resources, we both know as much, but I need you to maximize the efficiency of the units – we still need to keep significant ground forces in New Albion and Novikov, not to mention the regular garrison in New London.

With due respect, Lord Prime Minister, we simply need to expand the number of ground troops.

And to do that, the Prime Minister responded in step, we shall need an act of Parliament.

Indeed, O’Donnell sighed.

3km East of Alium, Oceanian East Recedentia

With a heavy sigh and a loud gasp of breath, Downing threw himself down upon a felled tree trunk, gingerly resting his newly acquired rifle alongside him – double checking the selector and making sure he would not accidentally shoot himself somehow. I daresay, we ought to have vehicles for this sort of thing, he panted, almost entirely out of breath.

The colonel laughed heartily, there are, sir. However, Parliament seems more intent on limiting their deployment to make the most use out of that piece of scrap metal we had been riding in a few hours ago. Finding a spot next to the politician, the colonel too rested himself and with a wave of his arms motioned for all but one private to do the same, the private drawing guard duty. If I may, sir, Parliament has shown great interest in re-equipping the Royal Armed Services since Novikov; but for bureaucratic reasons, red tape and all, we have seen little progress on the ground.

Much has been made, for example, the colonel continued, feeling vindicated in his ability to now lecture the MP, of a new infantry fighting vehicle seeing limited deployment in New Albion. Yet its manufacture is behind schedule and has thus to be seen anywhere outside of Dawesport. The new tank has had numerous setbacks – from what I understand a misfire of the main cannon killed quite a few and delayed progress for a few months. New strike fighters and ground attack aircraft have yet to make an appearance while we infantrymen continue to grumble about this rifle here.

Downing simply nodded his head. I see, was the best response he could devise.

Your shoulder hurts, does it not, sir?

Again Downing nodded, the tremendous recoil of the rifle had surely left a bruise on his arm and he knew not how the regular troops managed to put up with the weapon.

Why can we not get a new rifle?

Likely because this rifle was agreed upon just after the war, Colonel.

Indeed, and do not misunderstand me, the colonel replied, this is a fine killing machine – but it could be better. And why do we drive these lightly armoured vehicles, should we ever go up against Velorii armour let alone more advanced armour units we will be torn to shreds.

I see. Downing looked down at his lengthening shadow, he raised his head only at the distant rumble of thunder, perhaps we best get moving, Colonel, I would rather not be in the open should lightening strike.

The group of Oceanian regulars slowly smiled, sir, that is no storm of nature, Sergeant Anderson replied, that is artillery, the man cocked his head and closed his eyes, I reckon one-five-five, Colonel.

Smiling, the colonel motioned for the group of individuals to rise, well, Mr. Downing, it appears we shall shortly be entering the combat zone.

Downing cracked a wry smile, taking note of the rifle in his hands and the ruined shoes of a politician and the torn coat and trousers of a civilian.