NationStates Jolt Archive

Terra Recedentia
Two months ago

Two months previously contacts within the Oceanian government had altered Hamptonshire about the existence of a vast new land of potentially great wealth: Terra Recedentia. With help from the already established Oceanian colonies, Hamptonians began to scout out the terrain. News quickly made its way back to Hamptonshire City of vast open farm tracts and mountains that could be teeming with mineral wealth. That was enough to get the United Realms' various business communities interested in the new continent. Lord Rosecrans and his administration were not too concerned about establishing a permanent colony on the landmass until a reconnaissance team of Royal Army Engineers stumbled across several communities of so-called natives.

It was a bit of divine providence that the Engineers came across the natives. When the squad leader entered what looked like their main city, he was concerned that there wouldn't be a way to communicate with the locals. When the first local denizens walked up to his team and began to speak Danish, the lieutenant was floored. The Engineers quickly established that the locals were long lost descendants of Danish tribes that came to the continent more than a thousand years ago. As the centuries passed the Danes formed new tribal governments. The latest stage of unification happened less than a hundred years ago. Facing continuous attacks and border raids from the west and north, the tribes banded together and formed the Nordindsø Kollektiv (North Lake Collective). It was with that body that the United Realms of the Hamptonian Empire reached out with open arms; like those of a parent to a long lost child.


Ny Frederickshavn, Nordindsø Kollektiv, Terra Recedentia
Present Day

Josef Haffley squinted as the harsh summer sun of Ny Frederickshavn beat down upon him. As the newly appointed Royal Commissioner to the Kollektiv, Haffley could look forward to many more months under the radiant sun of Terra Recedentia. It was not a job that he had hoped for but the middle aged, slightly pudgy civil servant could hardy refuse a request from Princess Anne. Being tapped for Royal Commissioner was an honor, after all. After the Kollektiv joined the United Realms as a protectorate, he would effectively be the small nation's leader. Still, the weather was a bit much for the born and bred Harrkonan.

Haffley and his staff, a grand total of three people, were loaded into a large sedan and driven from the airport to the Kollektiv's legislature in central Ny Frederickshavn. Josef looked out the tinted windows to the land that he would soon oversee. Nordindsø was easy to recognize as a somewhat modern and nominal democratic nation. Most of their technology was roughly equivalent to what Hamptonshire possessed in the 1950s, 60s and 70s. What few computers they had seen used vacuum tubes or large transistors. Television, while established, was quite basic. Most weapons and scientific endeavors were in pace with the rest of society.

There were two things, though, that struck Haffley and other Hamptonians as out of place in Nordindsø. The first were airplanes. While the Nordindsøans possessed basic rocketry technology and equipment all evidence to date indicated that they had not yet developed practical or working jet engines. Most aircraft were powered by liquid cooled piston engines. Only a few of the Kollektiv's most advanced planes had turboprops. The second technology that caught Hamptonians off guard were Nordindsøan firearms. Near constant warfare forced them to develop small arms and rifles that could actually compete in power and accuracy to some of the best weapons being produced in Hamptonshire, Pacitalia, Isselmere-Nieland or Oceania.

"It is like they are stuck in a time warp," he quietly said to his aides, careful not to alert his Nordindsøan driver. "It's going to be hell to modernize all this."

"Sir," his senior aide whispered, "what about the political system. As it stands only ethnic Danes can vote and participate in the government. That means a full third of the Collective's populace is disenfranchised."

Haffley sighed and sank into his seat. His shoulders drooped. "That, Miss Neergaard, will be our biggest obstacle."

The car continued through city's narrow streets until it came to rather unimpressive looking building with a stone-facade. "The Rigsdag, sire." The driver said in a rather oddly accented Danish.

The Royal Commissioner and his two aides left the car and crossed the large square that separated the building from the street. They wondered where everyone was. They did not exactly expect or parade or grand reception, but the three Hamptonians did expect at least something from the Nordindsøans. Their concerns were quickly dismissed when they entered the building. Standing to greet them was the figure of the elderly Christian August, Markgreve of the Kollektive. While a figurehead, he was nevertheless the head of state of the Nordindsø Kollektiv.

Christian August took Haffley's right hand, bowed to it and kissed the ring on his middle finger. Haffley was a bit perplexed by what just happened, especially since the Markgreve kissed his wedding ring, but decided to play along. After a few introductions the Markgreve escorted the Royal Commissioner into the Rigsdag's chamber. Haffley walked to the only person he recognized, the nation's prime minister Konseilspræsident Thorvald Fonnesbech. They two men shook hands as Christian August sat upon the large wooden throne in the center of the circular chamber.

The Markgreve motioned for everyone to sit and be silent. In a slightly raspy voice he called the legislature to order. "We request Our Government and The Honorable the Knights, Lords and Councillors of the Rigsdag to listen and pay homage to Us."

Konseilspræsident Fonnesbech, seated on the bench directly in front of the throne, stood and bowed to the Markgreve. "In the name of Your Government and the Members of this Rigsdag, I pay homage to Your excellence and mercy. Your Government shall serve at the pleasure of Your will. This Rigsdag seats because of Your mercy. When You speak, we shall listen."

"We command the legate from the Grand Archduchy of the United Realms of the Hamptonian Empire to address Us, Our Government and this Rigsdag."

Josef cautious rose from his seat by Fonnesbech's side. He took two small stacks of papers out of the briefcase Miss Neergaard brought with them. He handed one stack to the Konseilspræsident and placed the other on a high desk below Christian August.

"Your Highness," he began, "Konseilspræsident Thorvald Fonnesbech, on behalf of the Grand Archduchy of the United Realms of the Hamptonian Empire I present to you the 'Treaty of Friendship, Union and Protection', signed and sealed by His Grace, Lord Philip Rosecrans, Duke of Eeasen, Lord Protector of the Realm. It is His Grace's wish that the Nordindsø Kollektiv take its place within the Empire. The Kollektiv will join an empire with deep Danish roots that, indeed, counts sacred Copenhagen itself as a territory. The Kollektiv will enjoy the protection of the Royal Armed Forces and the prosperity of the United Realms."

Haffley paused to clear his throat, "Konseilspræsident, Members of the Rigsdag, Your Highness the Markgreve of the Kollektiv, Hamptonshire welcomes you with open arms. Let us embrace each other like long lost members of the same family."

He finished his short speech and sat down. For a few seconds nothing happened. There was no applause, no visible reaction to what he just said. Just when he thought something was wrong, the Markgreve rose to his feet and began to clap. On that signal the five hundred some members of the Rigsdag erupted into cheers and vigorous applause.

The Markgreve grabbed a nearby microphone, one that was actually quite large and antique looking, so that he could be heard over the cheering legislators. "We and Our Government agree to this treaty. Our nation will be under the protection of your Empire and Our authority and Our crown shall be subject to the authority and throne of the Empire. When the United Realms speak, We shall listen."

The celebration became even louder. Somewhere in the back benches a cheer started. Within seconds the halls of the Rigsdag's chamber were vibrating with the chant: "Long live the Kollektiv. Long live the Empire."

Ny Frederickshavn, Protectorate Margravate of the Nordindsø Kollektiv

"Alice, please request additional heavy air conditioners from the Royal Army." The sweating Royal Commissioner Josef Haffley said to this chief of staff. It was not enough that the new protectorate-cum-colony was remote and nearly devoid of proper civilization, but it also had to have a climate that most Hamptonians would find throughly distasteful. It was too hot and humid in the summer and not cold enough or wet enough in the winter. In Haffley's first official report back to the Domestic Affairs Ministry since taking office he wrote that "Ethnic Hamptonians will not want to move here. Oltremareans, McClellenites and New Tyrolese should find it more hospitable." The new Protectorate Margravate, however, was not intended to be a colony hot spot. Eyes in Obsidia, Hamptonshire City and Seaburg were focused on the protectorate's agricultural potential.

"Has Council President Fonnesbech's office sent over the latest budget data?"

Haffley's chief of staff, Alice Neergaard, flipped over several pages on her clipboard. "It doesn't appear so, Commissioner. Fonnesbech did manage to send over the agricultural and intelligence reports we asked for last week. We've begun to review them."

"Is everything being forwarded on to the Domestic Affairs Ministry?"

"The moment we get the information in I personally make sure a copy is sent to Hamptonshire City. The Ministry's analysts and experts are head and shoulders above what 'talent' we can find here."

Haffley leaned back in his chair. The heat and humidity were almost too much for him. If it was not for the four years he spent in Oltremare at university and the three years he worked at the embassy in Pacitalia he probably would be a quivering puddle of goo in the corner of the room. The room's small air conditioner struggled to keep the room comfortable but all it could do was delay the inevitable. A bead of sweat streamed down the side of his face stopped only by the high collar of his suit jacket.

"Do you have any idea what the temperate is today?" He asked his equally uncomfortable aide.

"The humidity is at 80 percent. If I remember the morning weather forecast," Neergaard paused to recall the radio broadcast, "it's only supposed to be 78 degrees." Her lips curled into the slightest smile when she reported the temperature.

"Very funny." Haffley tried to feign annoyance but he was truly amused, "What's the temperature in Fahrenheit. I do not want to hear about that Nordskov nonsense." The Royal Commissioner was commenting upon the local temperature measurement unit, the Nordskov. It was almost as bad as the Celsius system but made even less sense to the casual passerby. Haffley made it a personal goal to introduce the Fahrenheit scale to Nordindsø as soon as possible.

"It's 97 degrees Fahrenheit."

"Dear Lord," Haffley wiped the sweat from his brow, "how this is the climate for biomass farming is beyond me...but then again I am not a farmer."

Agriculture was the true reason for making the Collective part of the United Realms. The fertile ground of the entire rift valley could provide enough Jatropha, palm oil and algae to quench the fuel thirst of a quarter of the Empire. Most of the incoming aircraft and trains were loaded with agriculture specialists and equipment. There was still a search for mineral wealth but the true gold of this protectorate was the soil itself.

Alice could see that the Royal Commissioner's attention was beginning to drift. He was a good administrator but the heat and time away from his wife began to take their toll. "There's just one last thing, sir."

"Uh...wha..." Josef knew that Alice caught him wandering off in thought, "What do you have left?"

"Brigadier General Alexandra Crane and the first of two battalions the Royal Army is sending us to increase the Protectorate's defenses will arrive later tonight at the main airport. I was thinking that if we invite the Margreve, Council President and the local media we can show them a taste of Hamptonshire's strength. Since we can't pull one of our superdreadnaughts up to the Collective, it's best to take our opportunities to show them we're the boss when we can get them."

"Sounds like a plan. And Alice, please inform Christian August and Fonnesbech that I am personally requesting their presence."

"Yes, sir." Alice left her chair and walked toward the door. It was not an easy task to corral the native Nordindsøan government to do anything on time.

"Miss Neegaard," Haffley called out to his aide as she opened the door to leave, "if that does not work, tell them that the Royal Commissioner is ordering them to be there. I think Mister Fonnesbech might not fully grasp the concept that I am not a figurehead. He needs to learn that I am the representative of the Throne in this nation. Make sure he realizes that."


OOC Reference-
Nordskov Temperature Scale

Fahrenheit to Nordskov: ((Fahrenheit - 32) / 1.8)) + 42
Nordskov to Fahrenheit: ((Nordskov - 42) / (5/9)) + 32

Therefore, 97°F is approximately equal to 78°N

Ny Frederickshavn, Protectorate Margravate of the Nordindsø Kollektiv

The illumination from the city's bright street lamps forced one of the numerous aides present in the room to close all the blinds. The piercing light reflected off the Hamptonian-made display screens making it very difficult for the assembled Nordindsøans to appreciate the current situation. Royal Commissioner Haffley and Protectorate Defense Force Commander Brigadier General Crane called the emergency meeting of the Collective's Cabinet to keep the local government apprised of the growing crisis in the south.

"The third Platoon of Bravo Company, 7-5 Cavalry Battalion was ambushed on the northern bank of this river." The General said while pointing at a map of the region. Her strong but feminine finger found its way to the point on the map where the river just to the south of the Collective wanders closest to Nordindsø.

"Konseilspræsident Fonnesbech, your intelligence reports clearly indicated that the Velorii would keep south of the river."

The middle aged Fonnesbech nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot. "That was our assumption. We seem to be wrong. The point is, Commissioner Haffley, one can never trust the Velorii." He said in heavily accented English.

"Don't base another of your intelligence reports off of assumption again. If you do," Haffley's voice became harsher with each word, "the Margreve will find himself appointing a new Council President."

The Hamptonians in the room, especially Haffley and Crane, were growing, by the day, increasingly irritated with the Nordindsøan government. They would only produce requested reports after multiple requests, demanded impossible procurement orders from the Royal Army and refused to pass several laws necessary to bring the Collective's law code into line with the rest of the Empire. Now they had to deal with a possible offensive from the Velorii.

The Velorii Republic was ancient offshoot of the Roman Empire. The centuries had left Roman tradition, religion, culture, society and military much in tact. From the sprawling coastal city of Aeminis the 300 member Senate, led by the Magister Justitiarius, ruled the Republic with an iron fist. The aging and senile head of state, the Princeps Senatus, was the focus of the state's official religion the Cult of the Princeps. Though less than 15 percent of the Velorii could actually call themselves citizens, all Velorii were bred to believe in the sanctity of the state and to answer the call of duty. If war, or even protracted border strife, was on the horizon it would be difficult for the million plus inhabitants of the Protectorate to hold off the 27 million souls of the Republic.

Haffley stood in the back left corner of the room observing everyone else. The Nordindsøans were nervous, even on the verge of panicking, while the Hamptonians, for the most part, betrayed no emotion. The discussion continued on for almost an hour. The argument between those that wanted to launch a counter attack (the Nordindsøans) and those that wanted to form defensive lines (the Hamptonians) degraded into a shouting match. Fonnesbech became so fired up that he threw a ceramic coffee mug across the room. It was at that point the Royal Commissioner rejoined the fray.

"Enough." His voice unusually firm, he pointed toward the door, "I want everyone except for Crane and Neegaard to leave immediately."

One of the Council President's assistants was going to say something but was motioned off by Fonnesbech himself. Quietly, with heads held low, everyone he ordered to leave left the room. When the last person closed the door he sighed and turned to the general, "What is the military situation?"

"I have five thousand soldiers plus another thousand or so support personnel. If we activate combat-ready units of the Kollektiv's militia that puts another twenty thousand on the field, but they should really only be deployed to the rear."

Haffley paced the room, deep in thought. Suddenly he broke the silence, "It is not going to be enough." He paused to consider his options, "I want you to contact the Defense Ministry directly. Tell them that Royal Commissioner Haffley is directly requesting two combat capable Royal Army infantry divisions with attack helicopter detachments. While you are at it, light a fire under the Royal Navy. We need those patrol cutters airlifted to us immediately." General Crane snapped to attention upon receipt of the orders and left the room to make the necessary phone calls.

"Miss Neegaard," the Royal Commissioner turned to his most trusted advisor, "please get me Royal Governor Percival Hughes on the secure phone line. We are going to need overflight and free passage clearance through East Recedentia if we are to stand a chance against the Velorii."

ooc: joint post/ooc

HMS Pacific, Off the Coast of Iarapoco

A great deal nicer than much of the city, Percival Hughes answered casually to a question posed by a Royal Navy commander. In fact, I daresay that any place with air conditioning is a great deal better than the primitive huts we inhabit in the capital. Hughes had decided to inspect the latest arrival from the United Kingdom, the HMS Pacific, one of the new assault carriers designed to operate far from the Home Islands providing both airpower and the ability to land troops via helicopter or landing craft. Having sailed into a holding position off the coast some 48 hours ago, the previous Royal Navy taskforce that had deposited the current garrison had set sail back to the Home Islands. Since the Novikovian War, great care had been taken to improve the living conditions for sailors aboard ship – and in the Pacific class that included air conditioning, especially in the wardroom.

Hughes sat reclining in a leather-backed chair still new enough to retain the new-leather smell that mixed with the sterile and filtered air blowing down upon him from a ceiling vent. In the previous days he had been briefed by the Royal Navy on the necessity of establishing some sort of protocol and/or infrastructure for offloading supplies in Iarapoco, destined to become a new Royal Navy base. For now, however, the Pacific remained idle off the coast, along with all but one small frigate whose small dimensions barely allowed it alongside the largest civilian quay. And so for now, Royal Marines continued to disembark via the air-cushioned landing craft held in the well at the aft of the vessel. They would be critical in restoring peace and order in the mountains to the north, a tenuous border as on the other side of gorges and ridges lay the Khailfah as Muslimeen – a potential threat to the fledgling colony.

Sir, a sharp voice practically echoed in the bright compartment, forcing Hughes attention to turn from a portrait of King George to a lieutenant standing at the open hatch. Ilaerta has informed us that the Royal Commissioner of the Nordindsø Kollektiv is waiting to speak with you on the Pacific’s secure line.

The Royal Governor cocked his head and unintentionally raised an eyebrow. The Pacific’s secure line… why not the line in Ilaerta?

Hughes’ assistant stepped out of a corner, where he had been silently taking notes on the deployment of troops to the northern border. Sir, the communications equipment for your offices are not yet ready.

Not yet ready, why the bloody hell not? Hughes asked, carefully restraining his temper.

It shall not be installed until next Tuesday.

Imbeciles, Hughes muttered under his breath. Very well, put him through in here, if you please, Lieutenant. He waited until the room cleared of everyone but his assistant and then picked up the phone in the wardroom.

Good evening Your Honour, I hope all is well in the Collective tonight?

Unfortunately, Your Excellency, the Kollektiv faces uncertain times. Several Hamptonian units were attacked by the Velorii and there are indications that they may be massing for additional strikes. The cold truth is that the garrison forces I have in the Protectorate won't be enough to hold back a coordinated assault. I am requesting overflight and free passage clearance through your territory so we can be reinforced.

Hughes cast a quick glance over to his assistant, the Velorii were a nuisance, especially for the UK now that they shared a common border in the southern mountains – fortunately for East Recedentia the border was across rocky peaks, not a broad flat stretch of land like in the rift valley. You shall have overflight and free passage, Your Honour for as the Hamptonian Empire and the United Kingdom share a deep friendship and an alliance so too do our local jurisdictions. And while I cannot guarantee what I next propose, I shall bring it up with the government in Imperium; for it may very well be possible to… shall I say distract their armed forces by tying them up in skirmishes on our common border in the mountains. But again, that will require approval from Imperium though I shall send the request with utmost urgency and immediacy, for which it will likely be approved.

The distant sounds of explosions rolled across the wide, flat countryside as thin columns of smoke spread on the horizon. The hot, slightly humid air was still but very heavy. Hamptonian soldiers, thousands of miles from home, were being committed to a fight that was not theirs. It was a war that had begun while Christianity was still young and the embers of the Classical world still burned bright. That did not matter to the Royal Army soldiers fighting to hold off overwhelming numbers of Velorii legionnaires. All that ran through their minds was the desire to stay alive.

Camp Delta, 65 miles from the Velorii Republic border

Field Colonel Miles Wallace and his command staff raced about a 40x40 foot tent in the exact center of the camp trying to organize all the incoming information to and from the front. It was the Colonel's job to hold the forward defensive lines. It was no easy task, for almost five days Velorii infantry and artillery Legions had been attacking Hamptonian and Nordindsø in the area between the Republic and the Kollektiv. The Defense Ministry sent the Protectorate an additional fifty thousand Royal Army personnel to bolster defenses, but even with the reinforcements Nordindsø was being slowly overwhelmed. The Protectorate Defense Force could only muster thirty-five thousand combat personnel to guard the entire border region. The Velorii could mass the same numbers of soldiers at just a single point on the perimeter. The Hamptonians may have had a fifty-year advantage in technology but that could only go so far against a force that was outnumbering the defenders fifteen or twenty to one at most engagements.

The soldiers and officers of the Royal Army continued on, though, without wavering in their commitment to the Empire. The odds were not numerically in their favor but everyone from Royal Commissioner Haffley to General Crane, Colonel Wallace and the greenest Private on the front itself were sure that with time the Velorii could be beaten. The road to victory was just long and trying. Perhaps no one quite realized how long it would end up being.

A communications officer quickly transcribed a message coming live from a battalion headquarters. She read it aloud to the Colonel, "Ninth battalion reports increased artillery fire from the northern sector. Major Griever says the Velorii are preparing to launch an attack."

"Estimation of enemy strength and position?"

"None available, Colonel."

Wallace stroked his clean-shaven chin. A few seconds passed before he replied, "Relay orders: Long range artillery counterfire must be concentrated on the northern sector. Major Everett's mechanized battalion is to reinforce Griever. And..." he trailed off, "um...alert available helicopter units. They will be called upon for CAS."

A tall, young woman who looked to be more at place on a soccer field than a battlefront interrupted the Colonel, "Sir, there are currently no available attack helos. All units are involved in the southern sector with General Richards. With due respect, nothing can be spared from that theater."

It all came flashing back to Wallace instantly. Damn Velorii have us tied down along the entire border he said to himself. In the south General Richards and ten thousand soldiers were holding off determined attacks from sixty-five thousand heavily armed legionnaires. The battle lines were stable for now, but both sides were just waiting to exploit a weakness in the other. The northern sector would have to make do without dedicated air support. It was not a prospect the Colonel especially relished, but that was the reality that he had to live and work in.

"You're right, Captain Fitzpatrick," he belatedly responded to the young woman, "CAS commanders must stay where they are. But I do want increased UAV flyovers of the north." The Colonel's staff snapped into action and carried out all of his orders. He took a moment to observe them. The precision and professionalism with which they worked under these less than ideal conditions amazed the middle-aged commander. In his heart he knew that every single Hamptonian in the Kollektiv could be counted on to do his or her duty.

The real question was what the Nordindsøans would do. While Fonnesbech, his Ministers and the Margreve all pushed for a full on offensive against the Velorii, the Collective's militia was much less enthusiastic about fighting. When the border actions first started, it was Haffley's intention to use the native militias only as a rear guard and support services force. Less than a week into the fighting and it was becoming apparent that unless the situation drastically changed, the Nordindsøans would have to actively participate in their own defense. The Royal Army could continue to hold the line against concentrated assaults, but it could not also secure the rest of the border. Colonel Wallace began to think about the possibility of asking the Royal Commissioner to release militia units for front line duty when explosions began to shake the ground.

"They're at it again." A sergeant said over the roar of artillery and rocket fire.

"They have started earlier today than yesterday." The rather blase Fitzpatrick said as she continued to type out orders to company and platoon commanders. The bombardment was part of the Velorii's daily routine. At late evening they would fire into the central sector with their longest ranged weaponry in hopes of pinning down the Protectorate Defense Force's most powerful units and material. Some units were still in the artillery's range after five days, but Camp Delta was moved out of weapons’ range. Today's bombardment was falling a safe five to seven miles away. The Colonel and his staff continued their work as the sounds of the attack grew more intense. When the attack reached its crescendo it suddenly stopped. Soldiers and officers quickly resumed their previous duties in preparation for the battles to come in the days ahead.

None of the Hamptonians knew that five miles behind the Republic's border twenty of the Velorii's most advanced rockets shot into the air. Most of the rockets harmlessly exploded in the vast empty expanses of the grassland. One rocket, by sheer luck, found itself to a small patch of land seventy miles from its launcher. The rocket plunged into the center of a group of tents and exploded just a few yards to the left of the camp's exact center. The closest tent, a white rectangle with red crosses, was miraculously spared from any damage. A square honey colored tent that could not have been more than forty feet wide was not as fortunate. White-hot metal and fire streamed into it. Those inside had little chance.