NationStates Jolt Archive

Official Statement From the Coalition for the Preservation of Civilization

Over the past several months, a new threat to the stability of the sovereign nations of the world has emerged. This threat comes in the form of a congregation of tyrants calling themselves The Global Alliance of Sovereign Nations, or the GASN. This alliance stands against everything we freethinking nations of the world hold dear: the right to run our own national affairs and chart our separate, sovereign courses. They seek to undermine the freedom of self-determination that all nations of the world are entitled to, through forcibly involving themselves in our affairs. As such is the case, this alliance cannot be allowed to exist, and as such, many nations dedicated to stopping the GASN cancer have banded together under one banner: the banner of the Coalition for the Preservation of Civilization.

The CPOC, on this day that will be hallowed as a victorious one in the memories of all free men, hereby declares its solemn intention to wage war upon the nations of the GASN. We of the Coalition will not rest until the alliance is nothing but a smoldering ruin, and a bad memory. With this declaration, we usher in a new era for the world, an era where the nations of the world will be free to conduct their business unhindered by meddlers, and where a new group of world powers will ensure that their right to self-determination is never again infringed.

To the GASN, we of the Coalition warn you that resistance is futile. Your alliance is fragile, your armies weak. You cannot hope to stem this vengeful tide that will destroy your organization for its sins. Against you stands a coalition of the willing, old friends and enemies alike united in their hatred for your corrupt ideals, and dedicated to your destruction. Old nations, skilled in the arts of war unite with the up and coming powers of the world to bring your swift annihilation. Against such a force, there is no chance.

However, we are not without mercy. Should your leaders see reason, and agree to surrender to our noble Coalition, to come to our terms and disband your alliance, you will be spared a more lethal fate. Let it be known to those members who have become disillusioned with the alliance that the arms of the Coalition are open to you. Renounce your loyalties to the GASN and embrace the ideals of our Coalition, and you will be spared, and treated as our national brothers in arms. Should resistance be your course, however, we can promise you only a swift demise.

Nations of the world, today is a new dawn. The star of the GASN, long in decline, falls forever, while the star of the Coalition rises, bright. A brave new world is at this very moment being born. Let the Coalition’s star guide you.

HMS Wellington, High Earth Orbit

The Wellington moved through the inky dark void of space, harsh rays of sunlight from the distant star hitting the black and grey hull of the great starship; to an outside observer, the hull would have gleamed, natural light intermingling with the artificial illumination created by the powerful lamps installed along the bow and flanks of the vesel. The joint effect was to dispel the shadows on the exterior of the ship, revealing the protusions and humps that held inside of them the massed weaponry of the powerful vessel.

More than a dozen Missile Cells, each holding thirty missiles fitted with High Explosive warheads, and eight mighty Railguns fielding centimetre-long shells that could tear through metres of armour formed the primary armament of the Wellington. Next to the Cells and Railguns, and scattered all over the rest of the ship, were the tiny misshapen lumps that protected the CIWS system, each converted Gatling weapon ready to unleash thousands of tiny bullets against anything thrown against them.

The Wellington was a predator, a fighter; the best class of vessel that the Royal Space Force possessed. Upgraded through even the leanest of budgetary years, the vessels had been kept at peak-effectiveness, its crew trained constantly for battles that had never come to reality. True, there had been skirmishes between the RSF and other space-faring nations - and even whispers of a battle between a vessel of the RSF and a mighty vessel far more powerful than anything even the mightiest of present-day nations could produce or even dream of. Yet there had never been any mass conflicts; no fleet battles that the tens of thousands of men and women throughout the Space Force had been training for for years - even decades in some cases. Groupings larger than a few vessels were a rare event, and something to be talked about for months.

That was, until now. For now, cosmic rays of sunlight causing their hulls to gleam, were gathered more than fifty vessels of the Royal Space Force. The Wellington was in the centre of the mighty force, and surrounding it in a concentric circle that stretched for more than half a mile were ten more Wellington-Class spaceships; the sunlight highlighted the lettering etched into their top armour plating - names like Nelson, Copenhagen, Assaye and even the Trafalgar, battle-scarred but restored to full health and raring to fight.

Then beyond the formidable collection of Capital vessels were their escorts - thirty Centurion-Class spaceships, engines flaring as they moved about in a similar formation to their larger bretheren. They were the guardians, tasked with protecting the firepower contained within the hulls of the Wellingtons. Finally, beyond the Centurions were the smaller, faster forms of the Saertech-Class Escorts. Thirty of the vessels - more than two-thirds of the Class's entire number - roamed about, gathering information and acting as Destroyers to their Battleships, guarding the flanks of the mighty force. To anyone watching, the sight would have been awe-inspiring, and more than a little worrying; never in the history of the Grand Monarchy, and the Grand Republic before it, had such a force been assembled.

The Bridge of the Wellington was in a state of organised chaos, most closely resembling the interior of a bee hive that had been shaken by some foolish individual. Officers and ratings, clothed in the black and tan uniform of the RSF, rushed back and forth through the cramped interior, passing messages back and forth and ensuring that the myriad of minor yet vital tasks required of running an operation of this magnitude were completed without a hitch; collisions were inevitable and frequent, and more than a smattering of curses were uttered as they occured. Tensions were running high throughout the fleet, and the levels were no higher than on the Flagship of the fleet itself.

Ironically, given his unique position and responsibility in the entire complex scheme of things, the only island of tranquility was the Command Chair itself, situated in the middle of the Bridge and which had the familiar figure of Rear-Admiral Terrence Yates sitting in it. Yates, more than a decade older and wiser from when he had first sat in the chair of the Wellington, sat quietly; one hand formed a fist upon which he rested his chin, stubble rasping along his knuckles, and the other sat loosely on an arm of the chair, fingers drumming a tune on the hard black plastic. Yates stared straight ahead, looking at the viewscreen through which all the footage of the cameras positioned around the exterior of the vessel was collated.

At the moment the screen showed a single, high-resolution shot from the bow camera; the Trafalgar and the Assaye moving slowly, engines flaring a bright yellow-blue as the gases escaping from the huge engine-blocs escaped and expanded in the vacuum outside the ships. However, with a single command from Yates, the screen could be divided into a dozen smaller screens and show a different picture on each, all without losing resolution, focus or updating-speed. Such was the progress of technology, Yates mused as he stared at the viewscreen. When he had first commanded the Wellington, a mere Commander fresh from the Space Division of the Naval Academy, the viewscreen had shown only a single, low-resolution image that updated every ten seconds; now it updated flawlessly.

Perhaps it was the fact that he was getting older and more cynical, or perhaps it was merely the strain of the upcoming operation. Either way, Yates felt his age even more as he stared out at the aft of the two other vessels; would this be his first - and last - operation in command of the RSF before he had to retire? Or would there be others, even larger than this? He wished he knew the answer, and realised that it would depend entirely on this coming operation going without a hitch. His fingers drummed even faster, the beat turning into a crescendo of noise audible even over the bustle around him, and then stopped, fingers poised over the scratched and violated plastic. He turned to his Security Officer, Commander Angerla Ovair, and nodded at her. Ovair nodded back and turned to her bank of monitors and screens, manipulating controls.

Instantly the lights above them dimmed to their lowet level and a klaxon began hooting, reverbarating throughout the length of the ship. Immediatrely, the Officers and Ratings not a part of the Bridge Crew stopped what they were doing and filed out of the Bridge, thoughts already on their futies to be conducted in the coming battle. Over the hooting of the klaxon came Ovair's voice, high-pitched but otherwise neutral.

"This is an Alert Status Red, I repeat an Alert Status Red. This is not a drill. All crewmembers to their posts; all Marines to report to the Armoury and recieve weaponry on the double. Secure all equipment and non-essential items until further notice."

Ovair repeated the message twice more, voice echoing through the small Bridge module, and then she fell silent, nodding again at Yates. The Rear-Admiral swallowed, then flipped down the microphone attached to the headset he wore and began talking into it; his voice was as neutral and level as Ovair's, yet one could detect the merest hint of excitement and tension within the short passage he spoke.

“This is Rear-Admiral Yates to the Fleet.” The message would now be issuing through every speaker and headset in every vessel in the fleet. “We will shortly be engaging the enemy at long range. We expect little difficulty with the initial part of the operation, but this does not mean anyone should do anything but their utmost best during the coming events. Yates out."

And that means me as well, Yates observed grimly as he flipped up the microphone and turned to face his Communications Officer, Lieutenant-Commander Bruce Hartley, a tall man in his late twenties.

"Issue the orders, Commander. Operation TENSION is green for go."

Hartley nodded and flipped down his microphone and began talking into it whilst typing on his console, both typing and speaking going at a tremendous rate. The fleet would now receive the orders that they had been waiting for ever since the grouping of the entire fleet had been confirmed; they were going into action.


The first blows of TENSION were dealt by the Saertech-Class Escorts circling around the fleet. On confirmation of their orders they peeled off in different directions and accelerated, engines glowing as they were pushed to the peak of their efficency by the Engineers onboard the vessels. The RSS Tripoli was the lead Saertech-Class vessel, and under the command of her Captain, Bob Traskins, the Tripoli commenced the actions that were mirroed thirty-fold across the face of the planet. Swinging into an High-Earth-Orbit (HEO), the Tripoli deployed her weapons, two Missile Cells being revealed as the armoured plating that protected them was rolled back.

Three rows of ten missiles were revealed, warheads gleaming weakly in the sunlight. For a moment they remained stationary and then were suddenly fired, released from their protective cocoons and unleashed against the multiple targets given to the Tripoli in her orders. The missiles seperated into ten groups, three missiles to each target; their engines kicked in and moved the missiles at a phenomonal rate of speed- their targets, satellites belonging to GASN nations throughout the planet below them. All over the planet, in HEOs, the other twenty-nine Saertech-Class vessels moved into position and fired their initial payloads, missiles streaking towards the satellite positions given to them. The positions had not been easy to find; it had taken millions of manhours by both RSF Command the Royal Intelligence Agency to track the signals bounced off of the platforms and trace them back to the countries of origin. But the information had paid off, as now the first satellites were targeted.

This was the first part of TENSION, but it was by no means the last. These initial satellites were but a fraction of the total number of targets listed as vital enemy assets to be destroyed; this required more than the firepower that the Saertech-Class vessels could provide. Even as the small vessels emptied their payloads and moved out of orbit, the larger Centurion-Class vessels moved into their firing positions. Armour-plating slid back to reveal more Missile Cells, far more than the initial wave had possessed. A few seconds were given for the first missiles to impact on their targets, and then the second wave of missiles were unleashed - thousands of them, Cells moving back into cover and reloading before firing again. Thousands of missile engines kicked in and guided their deadly payloads towards their targets - more GASN satellites and anything that even vaguely resembled a space-bourne threat.

As the missiles reached their targets, Yates watched in fascination from the Bridge of the Wellington, camera arrays focusing in on different attacks, the screen divided into twelve parts. Many thoughts whirled through his mind; pride, at seeing his fleet act so efficently; morbid curiosity at the cost of the damage being unleashed upon the GASN, and the untold chaos that the destruction of these satellites would cause; detached horror at the thought of what this declaration of war meant, exactly. It would mean the beginning of a conflict that might rage for years and consume the lives of millions, and he was the man who had struck the first blow; was that something to be proud of, he wondered. Should he bear the mark with pride, or conceal it away? It was an...uneasy...thought process to have at such a critical moment in the Operation. Yet try as he might, he could not shake it off. Sighing audibly, he continued to watch the screen and examine the damage he was creating...

((OOC: Aralonia, who will be absent for several hours, requested that I post this for him in his stead.))

[ABOARD RANS DUKE OF SARIS, SOMEWHERE IN THE FYRE SEA]




It was time for war. The Aralonian hammer blow would fall first, ironically, against some of their first allies.




"Open all anti-satellite es-ay-em-dash-en-dash-four tubes and bounce vectors from the allied satellites. Target should be overhead within ten minutes, should be within range in six. Fire one missile every 10 seconds from every ship in the fleet until we take it down. If we don't take it down by the time we've expended all missiles, fire Hoplites instead. Understood?"




"Aye, sir, orders received."




Vice Admiral Hawking sighed. Did it really have to boil down to this? Did it really have to turn out that he would be fighting his nation's first allies, ever?




He blinked once, shaking his head. Yes, it did. He opened his eyes, the determination and feeling for his homeland twinkling in his eyes. "Time to range?"




"Three minutes. Sir, permission to speak freely?" It was one of the more brilliant sensors operators.




"Aye, permission granted. What's on your mind, Hobbs?"




"Sir, I suggest that you go get a cup of coffee." Hobbs lowered her tone. "And drop this into it, too." She handed Hawking a bottle of Irish crème, imported.




"Thanks." He smirked and walked off to the galley, making himself a nice cup of coffee. He took a sip, enjoying the aroma. He checked his chronometer and power-walked up to the bridge again, or rather, down to the bridge, past the armour box, closing the doors behind him. "Are we ready?"




"Crossing barrier in three... two... one."




"Weapons, this is Bridge. You have been authorised to fire anti-satellite missiles at target."




"Authorisation acknowledged, firing anti-satellite missiles now."




Across the Third Expeditionary Fleet, element of the 15th Grand Aralonian Fleet, about fifty VLS tube hatches opened. A single missile launched from each of the tubes, lancing up into the sky, activating their rocket motors after the cold gas launch. The streaks of light lanced up, up towards the sky, up towards what seemed like infinity in the cool, clear night, one after another, one every fraction of a second as fifty missiles launched evenly in the time frame of 1 minute, time between launches monitored perfectly by the Duke of Saris' onboard supercomputers.




The first Aralonian shots in this war flew true and straight towards their target, towards eternity.

OOC: Okay... I've got a couple of points to make here... But I'm moving them to the OOC thread.

OOC: Tag

OOC:This FT? Soz to intrude, but i thought GASN was P/MT generally. Oh, and TAG

[OOC thread is here (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=498359)for the OOC stuff.]

"Code Green, I repeat, Green. All systems go. Execute Plan Delta-Alpha-Echo-Echo-Seven-Nine-One, yesterday."

Words spoken that would announce the twilight of one age of the world, and the beginning of another one bathed in the white light of redemption.... The sailors, soldiers, and airmen of the Czardaian Expeditionary Taskforce, having been waiting in tense anticipation for hours of the cold night, quickly and shaking slightly in excitement take their positions as nuclear reactors began to churn, ships casting off into the sea, leaving the protective confines of Mariosz harbour. It is four in the morning, but the streets and plazas are already crowded with people watching as the transports and ships set off, cheering as the Czardaian flag is raised along the mainmast of the CIS Steel Penis, oohing and aahing as the sky shatters under the force of two thousand plus DF-1 Peregrine Air Dominance fighters accelerating from zero to Mach 4 in thirty seconds flat.

But this is far, far more than just a display.

In the main cabin of the 1.85km long length of floating metal death on turbines, Very High-but-not-'stoned'-high Admiral Louis Dragoun watches the fleet and its corresponding air armada departing. Hundreds of aeroplanes fly above the fleet, forming elaborate shapes in the sky, while the solid lumbering shapes of Assault and Command Battleships serve as centres for the massive aerial formations. Around Dragoun and his flagship sit more Carriers, Battleships, Transport Ships, and a picket of Cruisers, Destroyers, Frigates, and finally Submarines to guard against any attack from outside... The massive force begins heading south towards Aralonian territory, its orders clear.

It will eventually join up with allied forces to mount the assault that will be the first phase of the greatest world war since Operation Hellfire.

On the chessboard that is the world, White moves its pawns forward. Time is running out for Black to respond. But in truth, it will not matter.

White always wins.

Always.

Tagging because it says in nice little cute letters:

ATTN GASN...

Sorry, but if you looked at my involvement in Chitzeland
you'd know that the GASN (and especially myself) does not swing that way

And you are in for a surprise if you attack me or anyone else of the GASN

Wait a sec, Space forces? Is this FT?

GASN is MT only...

No, technically GASN is MT/PMT.

Tagging because it says in nice little cute letters:

ATTN GASN...

Sorry, but if you looked at my involvement in Chitzeland
you'd know that the GASN (and especially myself) does not swing that way

And you are in for a surprise if you attack me or anyone else of the GASN

Wait a sec, Space forces? Is this FT?

GASN is MT only...

OOC:( I know I know.... no thier like the human ships off halo... )

"Ripp Garrison activatation complete" Flashed up on a screen on the Ripp Garison command center. The employees in the room made preperations for the large numbers about to be moved from the area. The field of Orcas sat ready with engines burning. The pilots in thier cockpits going over thier final check lists. In the housing facilities, Soldiers retrieved thier daily nurtitional infuzstion and had thier air tanks filed with the normal water saturated O2, Muscle enhancers. Thier armor was checked and readied for ASAP deployment and combat. Soon over 100,000,000 troops stood read in a large open field thier identical Armor gave them a eriee look of demons ready to end the realm of mortality. With no exsposed skin and thier eyes enhanced with optic amplifiers that glowed with an angry red. Large screens turned on and gave orders to the mass.

" Security Ready Weapons!" said the man on the screen

And in unison the sound of 100,00,000 clicking bolts sounded over the hills.the soldiers with reqadied weapons holding them out exactly 3 inches from thier chest armor plate.

" Security Ready Ordiance!" shouted the man again

And again in unison the sound of mechainical voises sounding
" Ordiance ready!"

" Security ready for Combat!" schouted the man agian

The land was silent just as the men shouted in unison

" We are the SF of Raven corps, we serve always, and forever even to our dying breath we give to the corporation. To Colderon, to profit. We are the SF. Brave and unmoved we fight, unshakable we move forward. We are the SF......( pause) And this day we fight!"

" Security move to your place of deployment!" shouted the man.

The soldiers began to move in unison, the sound of 1 million metal buttom boots made the ground shake. The soldiers arrived to the Orcas drop zone and readied for deployment, Employees making a check of each soldiers stepping on to the Ocra.

" Force member 463863954-aa-9786 approved for comabt.....And so on each soldier went through this measure. Soon over 5000 orcas started to luanch like a wave of killer bbes attacking an intruder. The where going to the second garrison that was activated... Hannica. There they would link with the Raven corps security naval force Talon fleets 2-14. Fleets 2-8 where the Arsenal ship fleets. Fleets 9-14 where carriers and supply ships a well as a smaller fleet of Talon dreads. the Arsenal ships could make short work of any ground installation and can strike space born vessels. Each ships holding 1000 missile and able to fire all in less then 20 mins. The arsenal ship was cheap and destrucive... the must death for your buck.

5 hours later... the Orca fleets arrived and refueled. The Talon fleets ready and waiting. the Hannica command center gave wrd to Corporate H.Q. that complete Garrison activation was complete.

When the news arrived to Colderon he sent word to the Generic Emipre..


Offical Corporate address

To Generic Empire
From Raven corps

As promised we are here. And now we ask where you would like us to go. And if you dont want somthing destroyed.... dont send us thier.

This day we fight.... May the GSAN trembleat the sound of SF.

Ps. If you thought the CP where bad. wait until you see my men work.


Colderon Jason Zion
CEO. Raven corps

For the purposes of any other RP's I'm involved in, this has taken place immediately after the Azazian one, so no decisions that have been made will have taken effect, and some time after the Yallak one

Fire.

Seeping though the sky like blood on a hospital rag, the sky was lit with debris. Small, silver, red, flaming, they floated through the unpoluted sky of the Nortfordian dusk. Settling onto the plains that made the foot of the Milak mountain range, their impacts cratered the surface, sending impact waves though like pebbles on the water.

====

"....And today, like yesterday, the news in the Saint Fedeski camp is notably absent. It remains to be seen whether or the Government of the Northford will get involved officially yet, although rumours are abound that unofficially certain key figures in the Government are lobbying the Prime Minister to formally announce a suspension in Northford's activity in the GASN. While the official line has not changed, growing opposition at home has led many to believe this latest debacle in the reorganisaion of the GASN might reveal its most obvious weakness i.e lack common culture between many parties. While it is said the GASN has a policy of mutual defence, as time goes on it is becoming more and more apparent that once surface niceities are past, countries such as Cravan, Northford and Aequatio have much more in common poltically and perhaps culturally, with countries such as Questers and Praetonia"

Wizzzzz Buzz......

"Hey, Pete, what up with the Box?"

"No idea... probably a summer storm has blocked the Sat, want me to try and fish the ol' aerial?"

"Yeh, might as well... damm thing, reminds me once again why we should get the management to install cable. They spend so much money on keeping those bloody tanks in a good state of repair, and yet they can't be bothered to give us guards a decent set o' channels"

"Yep Paul, right on. I don't know about you, but keeping these bloody things like this is stupid, anyway...'GASN Alliance requirements'...'doing our bit for our allies'... stupid fuckers. It's not like these silly little tin cans can anyway. Either way, here's the aerial".

"Channel 5 hereby apologises for the interuption to normal viewing channels, and will commence analogue transmission shortly

"Pete, what say we go back to this hunk of junk later? I know being a caretaker sucks, but unless we finish off cleaning out those damm offices we'll be out of this job, too."

"Yeh, you're right man.......... fucking yuppies".

====

Several Hundred miles away, in the Northfordian Naval HQ, the attitude was rather different. Admiral Begeezers was taking the evening watch of FRONTVIEW one, the Navy's, and in fact Northford's primary strategic command centre.

"Sir", started a captain, who, despite his rank, was manning a computer terminal, "we've just lost contact with about 25 high altitude weather balloons."

The Admiral stop sipping his coffee.

"Balloons, you say? Excuse my rudeness captain but why does this matter? While I understand the.... usefulness of them, especially with the 'unofficial' sensors we had installed, but is there an actual problem? It's the middle of summer. Surely a lightening storm could have just taken them all out?"

The captain, look round, holding his earpiece rather closely to his ear.

"Well, Sir, you could say that, but, there's a slight problem of falling debris too. It seems that a television satelite has decided it wanted to be closer to home."

"Captain?", replied the Admiral, looking rather bemused. "Do you mean, our 'television' satelite, or he other one up there? God knows which one is which, but pray do tell."

For a brief moment, the captain didn't say anything, as he was listening to reports on both his earpiece, and on his monitor.

He started slowly. "Well, it seems they've both been damaged, with the our one jettisoning the 'extra' module that we saw to being attached. It's still operating mind you, just about, als-"

"Do we know what caused it?" asked the Admiral, quickly hitting buttons on his panel, "was it man made or natural?"

"Not sure, Sir" replied the Captain, "it could be solar wind, god knows. It will take us another 15 minutes to have any solid data, we we've lost the primary transmitter on our module. The other satelite has been completely destroyed... no chance. According to reports, it presently on it's way down to earth, in pieces."

"Captain, activate code alpha. Meet me in the side room when you've finished your duties."

The Captain lifted up the key board, revealing a number of rather discreetly hidden buttons and fingerpads.

"Switched".

"Switched" echo's the admiral, doing the same.

Code alpha, the Code for Strategic Alert had been activated. All through Northford military units and politicians were being alerted. Admiral Begeezers was in for a long night.

Incase this is revised, tag

OOC: Tag, should this actually work for the future. Hoping that all of the idiots involved can get their act together (That's on both sides!)