NationStates Jolt Archive

The Kido Butai.

The primary striking force of the Imperial Questarian Naval Aviation Force. While it was not nearly as impressive as the battleships that lay dormant in Port Hood and Kure, the Kido Butai had been training and homing their skills for six months in anticipation. Twenty three carriers, carrying five thousand aircraft and their airmen had been specifically chosen by the Admiralty to be trained above world standard, their aircraft and carriers maintenanced and refitted and replaced. Within six months, the twenty two carriers of the Kido Butai, led by HMS Shokaku, were ready to carry out the ultimate mission.

A failing economy is the concern of any government. Inflation, unemployment, rising fuel prices had struck Questers after the Juumanistran war and crippled it. The death of a generation had left the nation derelict and destroyed. In Questers, everywhere you looked there was a ruined factory; a bombed out church; an empty mine. The London skyline had been reduced from tower blocks and skyscrapers to smoke and arms factories. A nation had been set back fifty years.

When you dig a hole, don't stop digging.

Yet the Navy had come out relatively unscathed from the large Juumanistran war, and it had been given a single task. Train, train, train and train your carriers!

To that end, when the time came fourteen months later, the Kudo Butai, the main carrier striking force of the Imperial Questarian Royal Navy, was ready to undertake the task at hand, which was an admirable one at best. And what, do you say was this task? What had they been training and building up for? War, of course. As Josef Stalin said - Death solves all problems - no man, no problem.

And so, for the second time in four years, the United Kingdom and Rising Sun marched, or rather sailed, to war.

HMS Shokaku 07:31 AM

Chief of Staff Maritime Torosuku Togo looked over the Kido Butai as it sailed in staggered formation across the wide, blank ocean of the nationstates world, the early morning sun rising, sending a backdrop of light over the fleet and casting shadows the size of pyramids. The carrier Zuikaku, its planes neatly parked on the deck, pilots and anti air gunners alike enjoying the cool breeze and shining sun. Togo had given up personal relaxation since he had been approached for this task. He had stayed up night after night, ignoring his wifes pleas to come to bed, ignoring his childrens sports games, but it would all be worth it. The Kido Butai would strike a blow that would devastate the enemy and it would be his doing. The enemy would be slaughtered. Togo could imagine it, the water slowly staining red with the bloody of the enemy, the Rising Sun slowly creeping over the horizon as his fleet dealt the opening blow of what might become World War Four.

He looked over at the Soryu and the Hiyru, identical in design. The twin ships, their ventilation funnels sticking out of the side of the freeboard and deck, slowly curving down to puff their toxins into the sea and the air. Glancing over to the Akagi and the Kaga, flanked by Shoho and Zuiho, Togo felt a pang of pride. They were in exactly the right positions had trained them. Even the exact number of planes in their launch positions were ready. Barely making out the red dots on their white wings, Togo grinned. These planes had been battle hardened in the late stages of the Juumanistran war and they knew how to fight. They were the elite of the elite and they were the finest young men and women Questers had to offer.

Togo turned to his left a little, the wind almost knocking his tea mug from its stand on the exposed watch deck above the Shokaku. His two favourite ships, the Ryujo and the Hosho, the first of their kind in the IQRN, were taking up the rear with their heavy bombers. They would make the first strikes that would cripple the target. The oldest carriers in the navy, the Ocean and Orwell, veterans of many a war, stood by next Togo's flagship to defend it from any counter attacks. Togo was glad to have the experienced interceptor pilots from some of the most esteemed ships in the navy next to him. There were few things in this world that made Togo more confident than that. Alongside them, Attacker and Audacious, modernised builds of the Ocean class, sleeker and better looking than some Questarian women. Or so Togo thought, much to the irritance of his wife.

One thing that plagued Togo was the presence of the Intrepid. She was old, slow, and ugly. The Chief of Maritime Staff felt sorry for the Admiral of that ship. Nevertheless, she was useful, carrying almost twice the loudout of some of the more modern carriers. Togo despised her captain too. He was a sleaze, an arrogant bozo who wasn't fit to manage a packet of cigarettes, let alone the Navy's largest carrier. He was married to the First Sea Lord's daughter, however, and so was given prestige and rank for no good reason. Togo spat into his tea before taking a sip. Bastard.

The Rolling Stones, as sailors had nicknamed them - although Togo never called them that, where in front of the task force, cluttered with oilers and frigates and the like. Togo admired the design of the Illustrious, Iron Duke, Indefatigable, Invincible and Indomitable. The four ships were some of the strongest aircraft carriers in the Kido Butai, and certainly the most modern. They were right up front where Togo had placed them, their bombers ready to strike at a moments notice. Behind them, the Yorktown and the Essex, two giant carriers of public fame and little else, where ready to follow up their attack with low level torpedo interceptors. Togo gave a sigh and a thought to the brave airmen, most of who would not come back. Their job was a suicidal one, and he had spent many an early morning waking up to a sweat from the nightmares and the callings of the dead men he would send to do their duty for King and Country. He assured himself the cause was neccessary. It must be! Surely, so many men would not give their lives to a cause that was not just? Togo's ponderings were dismissed when he looked right behind him, to the mighty Warspite, her Buccaneers

Veteran of a hundred wars, she was probably the Royal Navy's most respected ship, right after the Hood, which Togo had much distain for. Her Captain, a one Rear Admiral Thomas Phillips, was a good man whom Togo had much respect for. He had played poker with him a few times. Togo's son walked to school with Phillip's. They had family barbeques. Thomas Phillips was a man that Togo could confide in, and he was competent too; but even with the pressings of the Chief of Staff Maritime the Board of Admirals simply would not promote him to Admiral. Togo spat again into his tea. Idiots. One day, when he was First Sea Lord, he would hang them and replace them with competent men like Phillips and McBride and Tazimoto. Finishing his tea and climbing down the access ladder back to the bridge, Togo slipped back on his Admirals cap and took his seat. A bit of time up the observers mast always did him good. Time to think. Time to be alone. Togo's eyes scanned the bridge. He had hand picked his personnel from dispatches and from filing through thousands of records. They were good men and he was pleased with who he had picked.

'Chief of Staff Maritime, Sir.'

'Report, Lieutenant Junior Grade.'

The Executive Officer bowed before Togo and Togo snapped a salute back.

'We will enter strike range within twelve minutes. The Climb will begin in twenty two minutes.'

'Excellent.' Togo nodded. 'Are the subs in position?'

The XO looked down at his report, and looked up, eyes shining. 'Yes, Chief of Staff Maritime. The subs will strike in a hundred minutes.'

'Excellent. Thank you, Lieutenant Junior Grade Miyuko.'

HMS Illustrious 07:50 AM

Captain Richard Stonebury stood still on the deck of the carrier as the rising sun cast a shadow over him, the orange fiery orb lifting itself from its stellar path to light him and his comrades to victory. His father and pregnant mother had been killed in the Juumanistran war. The incendiary had crashed into their Southampton flat and set it alight, blocking all exits. He had been told they had died in each others arms, probably from the smoke. From that day onwards, he had made a vow that he would do his best to make sure this fate did not befall any more of his countrymen. Stonebury joined the Fleet Air Arm the very next day, graduating with top marks from the Academy and achieved the highest kills in the war, shooting down five Juumanistran aircraft. Now he was to lead the attack on the enemies that threatened to destabilise his nation. As he tied the bandana of the rising sun round his recently shaved forehead, his stomach full from the silent ceremonial breakfast, Stonebury shed a single tear for his parents and the many that died during that war. With Providence he had avenged them, and with Providence he would do his duty.

He did not know that he would never see his homeland again.

Nor did they know that they would sing for him eternal.

FOR THOSE MEN WHO DIED, WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES WITH DUTY AND HONOUR TO PROTECT A GREATER CAUSE, MAY THEIR SOULS ETERNAL LIE IN THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN AND MAY THEIR BODIES LIE IN PEACE. - Imperial War Memorial, statue of Richard W Stonebury.

SSBN 552

A submarine is an amazing thing. It can do as much damage as a battleship, yet it is fifty times stealthier. John Tinn had been a submariner for his life, joining the service at age twelve. Rising quickly through the ranks, he excelled in his posts and at the age of twenty nine commanded his own hunter killer submarine looking for Juumanistran SSBNs. Now, at thirty two, he was about to kick off one of the bloodiest wars in history.

'WO, do I have that firing solution yet?'

'Aye sir. Ready to fire on your mark.'

Hitting the RADARs first, the inter continental cruise missiles of SSBN's 552, 301, and 449 knocked out the enemy air search RADARs.

Three minutes later, the aircraft wave hit Arretium. Their target - The Doomingslandian superdreadnought Romulus.

Arretium

The second wave of aircraft came in high, at almost 65,000 feet, the white wings contrasting with the red spot of the IQNAF. Below them at 38,000 feet, the first wave of bombers flew through the hastily organised Doomingslandian triple-A wall, losing plane after plane to the fierce wall of flak and anti air missiles the Doomingslandians put up. Smoke filled the skies as the first wave reached the hulking form of the Romulus. Diving and accelerating, the remaining bombers which had bravely flown into a wall of flak, aimed their bomb sights and let fly. Precisely two hundred and ten 600 kilogram bombs were dropped on the Romulus, and at the range that the aircraft came in at and the size of their target it was impossible to miss. On the escape, the anti aircraft gunners of the Romulus were awake and determined. Machine gun fire rattled through the early morning as the residents of Arretium wondered what the hell was happening. Planes were dropping like flies, yet the attack did not faulter. With courage the Questarians pressed the attack, more and more planes coming in at every level. From 65,000 feet, the dive bombers soared down into certain death at the hands of CIWS and autocannons. Tracer rounds ripped through wings, flak tore apart planes, but the bombs were successfully dropped, the same number as last time. Planes careered their last moments into the superstructure of the giant ship, and a minute later the clouds were clearing as planes headed home. But that was not it. The third wave was as determined as ever, coming in three times larger than last time at 15,000, 22,000, and 30,000 feet, launching tungsten penetrator rockets at the side of the Doomingslandian battleship, before pulling off into more and more walls of the ever growing triple A presence.

Isoruku Ruko gulped as he accelerated his torpedo bomber, alongside the fourth wave, right into a wall of flak. The air around him was torn asunder with the sounds of Doomingslandian ack ack and machine guns, and Ruko knew he was going to die. But he was going to die with honour, and he was going to die doing his duty. As he dropped his plane in a straight dive, autocannons ripping past him and his wingmates, Ruko felt the rush of the fight. He felt what millions of Questarian servicemen have felt, a mixture of joy in serving ones country, pride in doing it right, and fear in dying.

Ruko grinned as he survived, pushing his torpedo bomber to the limits and finally he got in range. His wing was severely bruised though, and at a guess, Ruko estimated almost seventy percent losses before his unit got into position. Alongside his port and starboard, almost a hundred torpedo bombers were moving in position alongside the floating fortress. Almost in range.. almost...

Shit! Ruko screamed as a tracer stream cut through his wing, sending his plane almost crashing into the sea before he managed to lift his plane upright. It's now or never...

'Squadron launch! Squadron launch! For the motherland!'

There was no need for an affirmative. The splash of a hundred and eighty 21 inch torpedoes resounding across the port side of the Romulus. It would be impossible to miss. Ruko never found out of he hit, however, because a moment later his plane soared to the ground. Pulling up hard, Ruko went with his senses and slammed the 'OPEN' button, as his plane careered into the water. The cockpit opened and Ruko scrambled out as his plane began to sink. Miraculously, it didn't. He would later find out that his plane came to rest on the superstructure of a sunken destroyer, which saved his life. Fumbling for his combat knife, Ruko began to swim for shore. Maybe he could take out a few of those bastards in the ack ack turrets...

The attack was continuing, although losses were now mounting into the thousands. Already over nine hundred 400 kilogram bombs had hit the Romulus, along with four hundred 21 inch torpedoes, and she was begining to feel it, but it would be Richard Stonebury's attack that would make the killing blow on the Romulus. Bringing his plane down from 40,000 feet, Stonebury bit his lip as he dived to mantain a level alongside the freeboard of the Romulus. Constant training kicked in and he levelled his plane out at the freeboard level, alongside B turret's barbette. Stonebury grinned as he let off his payload directly at the barbette; six large unguided rockets with tungsten penetrators. His wingmates, or what was left of them followed. Pulling up hard, Stonebury had taken the risk of being at the head of the squadron, and was paying the price as CIWS and autocannons ripped him apart. He felt the bullets go straight through the fuselage and cried out in pain as one hit his leg. He saw an opportunity. Briefly pausing to consider it, Stonebury realised he had no time. This was it. He was going to die. No point pondering about it, kill the bastards!

And so his plane smashed right into the bridge of the Romulus.

HMS Shokaku

Togo was concerned. He had just watched a bomber crash onto the deck, barely landing as crews ran to the jet which was smoking heavily. The last wave had just gone out and the carrier group was turned to escape.

'XO, report?'

'Sir. The Romulus... it's...'

'Well?'

Togo blinked momentarily as he received the answer.

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*reserved*

" Know thy enemy and thyself, and you will always be victorious in war. " --Sun Tzu

He runs through a field of blazing fire, sweaty hands clutching a submachine gun to his chest, as he stumbles through the hell on earth, looking behind him fearfully as rocks and trees loom ahead of him. Blood coats his clothing, spattering the ground with every heavy step he takes, sobbing as he ascends a hill and fires a frenetic burst of rounds towards the collection of figures he sees there...

"General Ogden! What on earth are you doing?"

Ogden quickly minimizes Halo 4 and brings up a word document bearing the details of the Master Plan™ for World Domination, or at least getting the cookie jar off the top shelf. No, I'm actually serious here; some idiot put the cookie jar back up on the top shelf where Henrik A. Ogden couldn't reach it, and Ogden has spent the last few days trying to figure out how to get it down. What can I say, life in the Ministry of Defence is rather boring.

Ogden's stereotypically smart-arse aide, a woman named Alex with extremely short-cut orange hair and large glasses, peers at his computer screen inquisitively, but he tries to ignore her. “What is it now, my dear?”

(No, he isn’t having a relationship with her, he just calls random people “my dear” for some reason. Don’t ask me why, it’s not like I invented him or something. Oh wait... )

“Ministers Alhoun and Caverra would like to speak with you, sir. There were a couple of other men with them, a General Something or Other and some Air Commander... I’m afraid I don’t really keep track of these military people.”

Too tired, lazy, or impatient – or all three – to rebuke her, Ogden simply says, “Send them in.”

When the men walk in, Ogden is sitting back in his chair, running a hand along the fibres stretched over its sides. Foreign Minister Kari Alhoun, impeccably dressed, and Secretary-General (not Minister) Andreas Caverra is with him, looking unshaven and bleary-eyed, partly because he is and partly because everyone else isn’t. The elections are always hard on Caverra, especially because he tends to win, as there are few in Czardas more qualified for the post of Secretary General who are willing to run for the job.

The General Something or Other, Adrian Longleaf, head of Czardas’s armed forces, appears ill at ease, eyes flicking around the room at various screens and papers and maps, before returning to their pre-agreed spot on Longleaf’s lap, wherein sits a thick dossier of papers. The Air Marshal with him is Siobhan White, a passingly pulchritudinous woman of indeterminate age, with a symmetrical and well-proportioned face bespeaking repressed strength and ash-blonde hair done up in a popular hairstyle known as “The Dog Eating Cake On Top Of A Statue of Abraham Lincoln at Three in the Morning” or “DECOTSALTIM”, as it bears a slight resemblance to this phenomenon, provided you use your imagination. (Actually, it resembles more just shoulder-length straight hair with some gelled spikes and things in places, but who cares?)

“Ok, what are we going to blow up this time?” Caverra asks haggardly, locking Ogden’s eyes in place with his own.

“Patience, I’ll get to that,” Ogden says tolerantly. The others look at him like children up to their father. Ogden is looking remarkably fatherly, in fact, with the fuzz of a sandy-graying beard on his cheeks and chin, small twinkling eyes, and a grizzled pockmarked face. He shuffles some papers and says, keeping in tune with the fatherly attitude, “These are the master plans for ‘Operation: DEATH TO THE DOOMINGSLANDI FASCISTS, I SAID DEATH, DIE DIE DIE MUWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!’.”

He adds apologetically, “I didn’t think of the name, and we’re thinking of calling it Operation Iron Blood or something instead... but whatever.”

“So what is the basic plan for this?”

“We will send an expeditionary naval force, accompanied by the 6th Theater Air Command, which will link up with Questerian forces currently outside Doomingsland. Our ships will then stay there to bombard the nation, while groups of planes will engage in bombing runs nights and cloudy days, as well as attack the DIAF and attempt to draw it out within SAM range.”

“Makes sense,” Siobhan White comments, “except that there are no cloudy days in Doomingsland. It’s a desert, for Bob’s sake.”

“Meh,” Ogden responds.

Adrian Longleaf looks up for the first time. “It appears strategically sound,” he says, “but we’ll have to make sure we neutralize things like... say SAM and SSM batteries, and mines... and don’t they apparently use weapons such as nuclear pulse guns?”

“Ah yes, damned troublesome things... We need to get rid of them.” Andreas Caverra says knowledgeably, safe in the ignorance of the WSOGMMC’s secret operations in the northeast. Ogden and Longleaf exchange a silent shrug.

“After we have reconnoitered the terrain we will launch our Troops™!” The way Ogden says it you can almost hear the capitals and registered trademark symbol.

Kari Alhoun looks doubtful, being a reasonable person. “And what, pray tell, is the difference between troops and Troops™?”

“Well, Troops™ are better armed and more specially trained than troops. For instance, some of them’ll be carrying rifles that can penetrate the armour of a light tank from four hundred metres. They’re conditioned to work well despite the heat, in Bedouin warrior-style white clothing with pockets of air and stuff, over light amorphous or ‘spongy’ armour, designed specifically to protect the human body against...” Adrian Longleaf waxes enthusiastic in a discussion of the scientific properties of Czardas’s newest battlefield technology, the Troop™.

Alhoun cuts short a discussion of the properties of zinc chloroxide and nanometer-diametre holes to ask, “And exactly how many of these are we planning to deploy?”

“No more than about a hundred thousand, unfortunately, due to the expense... each one is worth around as much as a low-grade APC.”

Kari Alhoun, Henrik A. Ogden, and Andreas Caverra all utter a long sigh of desperation at once. They know where this is leading.

Siobhan White looks confused, being unacquainted with matters of budget.

“Well, gentlemen – and lady – are we ready to launch this battle of the century, or at least the month... in the defence of freedom, and to retaliate on behalf of our allies; as a blow against dictatorships everywhere?” It is Ogden’s turn to wax enthusiastic, even poetic. “On this day we tell the Coalition Against Democracy that it is not invincible! We show them that even ‘weak’, ‘inefficient’ democracies can take action against the vile forces of fascist oppression... that evil in any form cannot long stay in a position of power... that autocracy will never subjugate liberty... that...”

Alex pops her head in the door, face flushed with excitement. “Guess what! I just found a two-nazarin stamp with a picture of George Washington on it!”

* * *

Port Khûfi, Czardas

The harbour is filled with ships of all types and sizes, ranging from small rafts carrying three or four each to the great Super-Battleship, CCS Steel Penis, stretching 1860 metres from prow to stern. Huge crates, ammunition, food, and stockpiles are still being loaded into cargo ships after forty-eight hours of activity, while every half-hour or so buses full of soldiers and volunteer soldiers continue to arrive, the troops being housed in the already overflowing barracks or in makeshift tents and the like.

Grand Admiral Nelson T. J. Marcus smirks at the scene from the interactive surrounding display on the bridge of the Steel Penis. It’s of course rather dangerous for a Grand Admiral to be carousing about on deck, so he is at the moment watching the surroundings in a centre that gathers data from various cameras and pieces it together into a single whole to show Marcus a 360 degree view of the world around him. He flicks a button and the cameras rotate upwards, giving him a view of the aerial activity. He could get used to this.

Another button alters the view from eye to actual, showing positions of nearly 20,000 aircrafts, all part of the expeditionary force to be deployed against the Doomies. The vast majority are on the ground or on carriers, but some are flying around in the air (duh) in impressive displays of pilotry, showing off the maneuverability of the DF-4, the speed of the DF-1, and the skywriting ability of assorted logistical and less renowned aircrafts. It’s like a fireworks display for the crowds cheering below throughout the surrounding cities and countryside.

Soon, Marcus reflects, they will go to their homes, to their beds. But the night is yet young for the thousands upon thousands of men and women working here, in shift upon shift; and for the men and women in the Central Command, watching tactical displays with suppressed excitement and exchanging a few well-chosen words at carefully selected moments. In seven hours, the sky will lighten from midnight black to dark blue as cold morning air rushes past the last buses to arrive and offload their human cargo onto transports. In nine hours, the sun will be rising once again over Czardas, dispelling the low-lying fog blanketing the seas, as the seas begin to churn with the sound, familiar to Marcus’s ears, of nuclear reactors powering up.

In nine hours and twenty minutes, the Steel Penis will have accelerated enough for its stern to exit Port Khûfi Harbour. And the mighty fleet will be en route to its destiny, a fate that some say is predetermined and some say is merely inevitable; only a few crackpots and conspiracy theorists actually ascribe any chance to the Czardaians against the Doomingslandi military machine. But that won’t prevent Marcus and his “boys”, all 7 million plus of them, from doing their jobs.

In twenty-two hours, the sun will be setting again, turning the sea into fire and streaking the sky with pink and purple. The fleet will be sailing on into the west, constant CAP patrols keeping a vast open oval around the ships. Within a hundred and forty-four hours of leaving the harbour, the Czardaian ships will have reached their stations within striking range of the Imperum Doomanum. And Stage Two of the war will begin.

Within ten times that, the number of Czardaians overseas may well be reduced by half, or by two-thirds. Death will be omnipresent and omnipotent, galloping across fields on its pale horse, taking with it the souls of the living and the honour of the dead.

But that is always the way of things in war.

"...I am a Soldier of God

Faith is my shield

His Word is my sword

Lord, help me to strike the Infidel

With all the might of Thy Holy Wrath

And spread Thy Word

So that there may no longer be the Heathen

But only Peace..."

-The Legionary's Prayer

Arretium Air Force Base,

Twenty-miles east of the city

"You men, you warriors of the Imperium. Most of you probably have no idea how lucky you are to be living here. You know, in the former Sarzonian States, they actualy had men that would molest children? Male and female children alike. Sexual deviancy goes far beyond what you are generally told to oppose. Even in states such as MassPwnage, our supposed allies, these disgusting acts occur..."

Father Licinius Bacchus was the base's pastor and often filled his homilies with examples of the decadence and corruption of heathen lands. It never failed to amaze the pilots and crews just how seriously fucked up these people were. To do such things with to a child...it was just beyond sinful. That was most likely a damnable sin, Tribunus Angusticlavius Gaius Cassius Spurius (or Tribune, as the rank shall be referred to from now on), call sign Reaper thought to himself as Father Licinius continued his speech in a rather calm tone.

Doomani priests were quite unlike their Protestant counterparts. They did not favor loud rants on the sins of the world or hellfire sermons. Rather, their rants on the world were generally well thought out and spoken in a rather calm, fatherly manner, as evidenced in Licinius' rather scholarly tone.

"It seems that our 'noble allies' are a bastion of sin, after all. Then again, I'm sure you men have heard this plenty of times. We all know of their decadence, corruption, deviance, and downright sinful ways. I mean, seriously, people there fornicate in the streets!" he exclaimed, causing many in the Church to shift in their seats.

This sermon had been going on for the past twenty minutes and had yet to bore the airmen attending Mass that fateful Wednesday morning. Licinius just had a way about him that kept their attention. In Doomanum, you simply did not fall asleep during Mass. That was a bad idea. Of course, the men in Church this morning never did. They were far to dedicated and disciplined for such infidelity to come onto them. Besides, Licinius' homily this morning was rather interesting.

It never ceased to amaze these men the sheer sickness of the world outside of the Imperium. Rapists, child molesters, homosexuals, Muslim infidels, Protestant heretics. It was simply disgusting to the men within the rather large stone and concrete structure, with its high-arched ceiling and stained glass windows. It was the picturesque Doomani Church.

"Now, the Praetonians. Yes, you have heard some newspapers refer to these people as 'estranged brothers', and I am not denying that they are. But civilized peoples they are not-"

Everyone jumped up from the pews at once as the gentle silence was broken by the shrieking of the base's air raid alarm. Spurius, seated quite far back in the church, was the first out the door. When he exited the structure, he was temporarily blinded by the sun, but could tell something was not right from the not-so-distant cracking of anti-aircraft guns.

Yet he kept running. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see smoke rising from where the city was.

Shit, he thought.

He didn't really bother thinking of who was doing this. Well, he really didn't think at all. He acted on sheer training, reaching the hangar in a matter of minutes.

As he bolted across the tarmac towards the hangar where his aircraft was housed, he could see it being taxied out already. He went into an all out spring when he spotted his Aquila, leaping onto the ladder that leads into the cockpit of the sleek aircraft. When he slid in, he quickly slipped on his parachute and looked up to see the face of his crew chief, staring down at him. The expression on his face was one of sheer determination as he handed Spurius his helmet, which he slipped on.

"You know what's going on, Trib?" asked Decurion Sextus Junius, Spurius' crew chief.

"'Bout as much as you, Decs. We'll know who these fuckers are in a few minutes I suspect," he replied as he slid the visor of his helmet all the way down, sealing it.

His helmet-based HUD automatically kicked in, initialy displaying text regarding the situation automatically generated by the BattleNet. Ten minutes ago, several hundred RADAR stations unexpectedly went offline. That's when the scramble had initialy been issued, but only minutes later Atterium Harbor reported engagement with an unknown hostile force. Members of Spurius' own squadron were already fighting whoever these dirty heathens were.

"Good luck, sir." muttered Junius as the cockpit canopy slid closed.

Spurius was already in his own little world as data on the situation flew before his eyes. He took it all in like a sponge. These guys had some serious balls, flying right into the range of the 37mm CIWS guns like that.

He taxied for a little less than a minute before he was granted immediate take-off clearence. He quickly eased the throttle forward and he was pressed back against his seat as his ACI-73D rocketed down the runway into the air. Glancing down at the RADAR portion of the 'glass' cockpit (it actualy consisted of several large touch-screen LCD monitors rather than conventional gauges), he immediately was taken aback by the sheer amount of contacts being transmitted to him via some far-off AWACS aircraft.

Whoever these guys were, they weren’t exactly being subtle at the moment. They were going all out. As his aircraft headed towards the harbor, he was quickly joined by three more aircraft of his squadron (the XVIII Tactical Fighter Squadron). The other eight were already down at the harbor fighting the enemy. As he listened in on radio chatter, he could make out voices of both friendly and enemy pilots. Almost immediately he knew who he was up against.

Questerians. Their barbaric-sounding English language was unmistakable amidst the rapid Latin chatter between the Doomani pilots and ground units.

”Attention all armed ACID aircraft in the area, divert immediately to Arretium…we are under attack…” came the voice of the local AWACS bird,

”This is Reaper One, we are inbound to the area, ETA three minutes.”

”Roger that, Reaper. Concentrate on the enemy fighters, we have the bombers covered.”

”Affirmative.”

”We have more inbound Doomie aircraft! Vector 090, ETA three minutes!” Spurius heard a Questerian yell over the radio in English.

He had learned long ago it is wise to study the ways of one’s enemies. Including their language.

As they got within visual range, Spurius could see the carnage on the ground from where he was. The Romulus appeared to be on fire. Either that or its ack-ack was making quite a spectacle. He suspected it was probably both. Questerian bombs and torpedos seemed to hit the mighty dreadnought at five second intervals. It was amazing the amount of punishment that ship could take. On the shore around the harbor, he could see the distant muzzle flashes of anti-aircraft guns, and those of nearby friendly ships. Missiles occasionally flew from a VLS cell or from the weapons bay of a friendly aircraft, but for the most part it looked like a gunfight.

That was about to change. Spurius and his comrades were laden with a total of twelve short-range infrared guided missiles each, in addition to their 23mm cannons. As they approached, red boxes appeared around hostile targets in the distance, blue ones around friendlies. Displayed next to the boxes were the type of aircraft, any data on the aircraft’s remaining fuel and ammunition, and the call sign.

He immediately spotted eight targets, which he immediately designated as his own. With the quick movement of his thumb to the proper button on his joystick, he toggled off the safeties for his weapons and quickly squeezed off eight missiles.

”Reaper, Fox One, Fox One, eight away,”

With the command to launch eight missiles sent to the aircraft’s computer, the ARSADS system went to work. One weapons pod was lowered just slightly from the aircraft’s body and a jet of compressed air spat out four missiles and their sabots from the launch tubes. That launch carriage quickly retracted and another one was lowered, spitting out another four missiles. By this time the first missiles had ignited their engines and were on their way, and within milliseconds the second missiles were on their way.

Reaper sat calmly back in his seat as he watched the eight missiles streak out towards their targets at high speed, white trails of smoke flowing gracefully from the engines behind them as they adjusted course to compensate for defensive maneuvering by the Questerian fighters. Unfortunately for the Questerians, Reaper and his pilots had gotten the jump on them.

”This is Warspite, I see flames! Ejecting n-“

Sure enough, eight separate explosions in the distance above the water followed the missile launches, and he watched as the smoking wreckages of his victims plummeted into the bay, splashing down into the harbor and exploding. From where he was, Reaper could see only two parachutes.

”Reaper, splash eight,”

”Nice kill, Reaper,” one of his comrades confirmed over the radio.

Reaper eased back on the throttle as he closed into the massive furball that was the skies over Arretium Harbor, slowing down enough to allow for optimal maneuverability. He had already sighted a brand new set of targets closing in on the Romulus at sea level: a pair of enemy torpedo bombers. As Spurius rolled his aircraft in attack position, behind and above the enemy aircraft, he was able to see those red meatballs painted on the wings of the Questerian planes along with the Union Jack on the tail assembly. As he was a bit of a historian in his own right, he found it all rather amusing, the pairing of these symbols. He could write a magazine article about it some other day. In the mean time, he had things to brake and people to kill.

He looked down at the enemy aircraft, both Aichi Skua 11s, and nosed his Aquila down slightly, giving him optimal view of the two fighters, and lit both of them up. A satisfying hum pinging in his helmet, telling him he had a lock, and the digital boxes projected around the enemy aircraft began to blink red. He thumbed his launch button once more, and two short-range infrared guided missiles were thrown from the two side bays closest to his cockpit, igniting a millisecond later.

He watched as the two smoke trails crisscrossed one another, tracking their targets and closing in ever more rapidly. The enemy fighters both engaged in evasive maneuvering, and he was able to see as the enemy pilots frantically released chaff and flare in an attempt to fool the missiles. One plane was not so lucky and caught a missile right in the tail assembly totally blowing the rear half of the aircraft apart and sending it tumbling in a flaming mass uncontrollably through the air, hitting the water with a massive splash and sinking.

The other enemy fighter seemed to have a more experienced pilot, who almost effortlessly threw off the missile and began to maneuver to counter Spurius’ own moves. It was about that time that he realized these Questerian pilots weren’t the idiots the world made them out to be.

All the more satisfying…

Spurius, acting on sheer instinct, quickly maneuvered in behind the enemy aircraft, and it quickly turned into a turning game of cat and mouse; a duel in the skies over a flaming ocean. After roughly ten seconds of getting into a position he was satisfied with, crisscrossing through the skies, dodging flak and fighters alike, Spurius was finally satisfied with his position. The Questerian fighter-bomber went into a steep dive and Spurius quickly nosed his fighter down, lining up the green pipper for his cannon with the nose of the enemy aircraft. He squeezed the trigger on his joystick and his aircraft vibrated for a few seconds as the air was cut by fifty 23mm rounds, which tore right across the Questerian Aichi and exploded, literally ripping the aircraft in half.

He glanced towards his RADAR screen and spotted a whole crapload of other blips heading towards the harbor. This bloody day was only beginning. Well, for the Questerians at least. They had accomplished their goals, as a horrified Spurius was just finding out for himself. Wheeling his Aquila around to cover the Romulus, which was calling frantically for help. Or at least it had been a few minutes ago.

That massive vessel, the pride of the Imperial Navy, was now starting to capsize from that last barrage of torpedoes.

Spurius then realized that he was fighting, for once in his life, an enemy with above average competence. An enemy with a hint of bravery in his blood. He passed over that mighty vessel one last time slowly, looking down as men desperately lept off into the flaming water of the harbor.

Of course she had gone down with all bridge crew, including Admiral Marcus Herenius Aulus, commander of the Imperial I Armada. That was assumed. With such dishonor brought upon himself, his house, and his Empire, he had no choice but to die. He understood that better than anyone. How he would be remembered he would never know; he could be called a hero for his brave stand against the infidel, or as a fool for the loss of the flagship of I Armada while it was moored in harbor in one of the most heavily defended ports in the Empire in peacetime.

His men had payed for his mistakes, whatever they had been. If you wanted to be nitpicky about it, he technically couldn’t have saved his ship. Air defense command was more to blame for this for their failure to down that initial ICCM launch on the RADARs, but the sailors aboard the Romulus had not cared about that one bit.

Drifting in the water, staring at the flaming skies above, Discens Cornelius Varus floated on his back as fighters crisscrossed in the skies above. It had become suddenly more quiet after the Romulus had capsized. All that could be heard now were the screams of the wounded and dying, the gentle crackle of flames, and the roar of jet engines. The explosions had stopped mostly; there was the occasional detonation within the hull of the capsized Dreadnought.

The last few minutes had been a blur to Cornelius. The only thing he really knew right now was that he was missing his left arm and that he would probably bleed to death within twenty minutes if he wasn’t rescued soon. And yet he did not utter a sigh or groan. He lay there in the water, accepting death’s cold embrace. He had done well; he did not need to be told that. He was going to be a martyr for the faith and that was fine with him.

He was going to a place far better then this hell on earth he was now escaping.

Only twenty minute before he had stood on the deck of the mightiest vessel in the Imperial Navy and bravely fired his 15.7mm machinegun at incoming torpedo planes. He’d actually managed to take one out. He got a burst right through that cowardly infidel’s cockpit and killed him and sent that piece of shit they called a plane into the harbor. Of course, that had been after it had launched its torpedo. And so here he was, floating in the water, missing an arm.

And his legs. That torpedo had ripped his legs right off when it detonated. That was part of the reason he wasn’t really trying to swim or anything, what with it being a bit futile. Nasty stuff.


The Imperium had been attacked on its own soil. This was an unprecedented violation of Imperial security, and a direct insult to not only Caesar, but God Himself. Just how the Questerian infidels had succeeded in such a feat of aggression and managed to sink an Imperial Super Dreadnought while it was in harbor during peacetime was almost incomprehensible. Of course, the Questerians were not without their losses. Historians would later estimate Questerian aircraft losses to be well over two-thousand shot down.

After the first wave, the Questerians totally lost their element of surprise. With a hostile foreign fleet just over two-thousand kilometers off of their shores, the Doomani quickly enacted a swift and terrible vengeance on their foe.


Ira Dei Command Facility, Damnatium, Imperium Doomanum

This was turning out to be one of those days for Legatus Legionis Tiberius Regius Decimus. All had appeared fairly normal at the start of the day, and he had been able to go about his normal routine of checking up on stations, filling out paper work, and other assorted nuisances associated with his job. What was his job exactly?

Well, he was the commander of a rather vast complex stretching over hundreds of miles, all housing one of the Imperium’s most important defensive assets. Ira Dei, or Wrath of God, was a series of massive artillery guns operating on a rather unconventional principle: They were nuclear pulse guns. Guns that utilized a sub-kiloton nuclear charge to propel a massive ten-ton projectile to obscene velocities and hit targets from thousands of miles away.

Thanks to political connections, he had managed to land this last job before he retired. It was rewarding; he was able to work with some of the Imperium’s finest and most dedicated soldiers and most intelligent scientists and engineers. He was the first line of defense against an invading army or fleet. And at the moment, there was an invading fleet to be dealt with.

At the moment, he was stomping down the long, winding, neat, well-lit corridor, hastily returning salutes of men who were shocked to see him in such a fury. He was pissed, and that was not difficult for one to see. It had taken them this long to get him the data he needed. Despicable.

The vast majority of Ira Dei was beneath the ground; the command structure and, indeed, the very corridor he walked through was no less than thirty stories below the hard rocky Damnati surface out in the middle of nowhere. Finding the place would take nothing short of a miracle on the part of the enemy, and God did not favor the infidel.

As he arrived at the guarded door of the control room, he impatiently bypassed the two heavily armored legionaries standing on either side who crisply saluted him as he passed. It was absolutely chaotic inside. Men scrambled about the large, darkened room frantically, yelling reports, delivering data.

It was your typical militaristic strategic control room. The rear of the room was elevated, with descending rows of consoles and work stations going down towards the main floor upon which there was a large holographic display situated in the center, a series of massive LCD monitors running along the wall. On the monitors were real time images of both Arretium harbor and the Questerian fleet.

The enemy ships were outlined with illuminated red boxes. Data on the vessels regarding armament, dimensions, known specifications, the name of the vessel, and other key information was listed below each one.

Everything was all set for Decimus by the time he arrived.

Strolling down the stairs leading to the main deck, his XO, Tribune Marius Caius greeted him stone-faced.

Caius was a hardass to say the very least. He was short, standing at five-foot eight, but he was not a man to be trifled with by any means. His large muscle size and mass was probably the most noticeable feature about this old soldier, as was his immaculate gold-trimmed black dress uniform and cold complexion.

His superior, on the other hand, was generally far more relaxed. He was well-liked by his men. He a father figure to the base; as a result, the men under his command would do things otherwise unthinkable for him.

This moment was no exception to the later. After seeing that everything was in order, he had calmed down a good deal, regaining his normal cool complexion.

In this instance, he looked rather sinister thanks to the eerie glow cast across his face by the light emanating from the countless monitors within the room

”Sir, we’ve received instructions from the High Command,” Caius said in a calm, buisiness-like tone, ”They have ordered that you immediately engage the Questerian Fleet. ‘Target enemy vessels at your discretion’,” he quoted the report.

Decimus grunted in response and looked towards the large LCD screen in the center, then towards the holographic display. He leaned close, running his hand through the floating red images of aircraft carriers. Studying them for a few seconds, he stood up, satisfied.

”Contact Legatus Galerius down at Arretium if he’s still alive. I want to speak to him personally,” Decimus finally said, breaking his silence.

A few seconds later, he was handed a wireless phone. He waved for the others to leave him and he spoke in a soft tone. Galerius was the Imperial Army’s local commander in Arretium. He had full command of all of that cities defenses and of the surrounding coastal defenses. Galerius and Decimus were old friends, and so the conversation appeared to go smoothly. Two minutes later, Decimus clicked off the phone and handed it back to the soldier who had given it to him.

”Arretium is going to launch a counter-strike on the Questerian heathens,” said Decimus to Caius, ”I want all guns ready to fire on my order. Target only the aircraft carriers. Which carriers you target I shall leave to you, Marius. I trust your judgment,” instructed Decimus rather casually.

”Is that all, sir?” asked Caius.

”I suppose. Now we wait.”

He took a seat at the center display, leaning back and rubbing his chin as he continued to study the holographic enemy fleet. Soon enough there wouldn’t be many left for him to look at. He took that to heart and smiled to himself.

Those bastards had made the biggest mistake of their lives by attacking the Imperium.

He would now wait for the call from Galerius. He would let him know the precise time he would commence his attack to allow for Decimus to better plan his. They were going to attempt to overwhelm the Questerian carriers on multiple fronts.

A few thousand miles away, the land-based vertical launch systems under the command of Legatus Galerius began to go hot, their carefully hidden hatches silently sliding open amidst the desert sand, revealing their insidious payloads.

On Decimus’ desk, the phone began to ring and he picked it up, knowing full well who was calling. All was falling into place quite rapidly.

A hundred or so miles away from that command bunker, Ira Dei V, the fifth of thirty such installations, prepared for its first firing on an armed foe.

It could be described at a dusty concrete hole in the ground, a very, very large one at that. It had to be deep enough to contain the entire gun and its firing mechanisms, and it did that job flawlessly. The walls were lined with steel scaffolding upon which technicians and guards scrambled to and fro in preparation from the firing. They did their work in the shadow of an absolutely massive piece of artillery, one of the Imperium’s first nuclear pulse guns. It, along with the railroad system it was based on, took up most of the chamber (which was capped by a large composite-reinforced concrete ceiling, concealed from the outside).



At the bottom of the chamber was a large entrance leading to a tunnel system, which went even deeper down. Running through this was a railway system which was connected to the circular railroad tracks upon which the gun was based. Above this massive exit was the gun facility’s command bunker, which jutted out slightly from the smooth surface of the chamber wall.

The chamber was abuzz with noise coming from a highly advanced PA system and from the loud croon of machinery. At that particular moment, the massive lights studding all along the walls of the cavernous chamber were lit up white, giving the technician optimal lighting when performing their duties. As the final warning alarm sounded, the lights turned red and the facility suddenly becameeryone began to scramble into the various different bunkers along the bottom of the chamber, sealing the steel-encased lead shutters and activating the air filtration systems.

It was a nuclear pulse gun after all. If something went horribly wrong they would have a week’s worth of food in those tiny cramped bunkers. After that…well, they tended not to think of such things.

Once all staff had been safely sealed within the bunkers, the commander of the facility, Tribune Quirinus Septimus ordered the weapon to be trained to target.

A section of the ceiling methodically began to slide along the rails upon which it was based, rolling out of the way of the barrel which began to rise up from its resting place on a carriage on the floor of the chamber. It poked itself out of the ground, precisely adjusting its position to allow for the round to be fired on the proper trajectory required for hitting its distant target.

All of this was being watched through a series of digital cameras by the Doomani personel within the bunkers. Septimus himself watched through his personal LCD monitor mounted on his chair as a massive ten-ton anti-shipping round dropped in behind the chamber from its gravity hopper. A massive hydraulic ram then shoved the round through into the vast chamber of the weapon; following this was the nuclear charge. The chamber was then sealed. The weapon was ready to fire.

Five minutes later, fire orders zipped down the line and appeared on Septimus’ console. That was it. Time to get underway.

After issuing a few orders, turning a few keys with his second in command simultaneously, the launch controls were unlocked and slid out of the right arm of his chair. He thumbed off the safety, revealing the “big red button” as it was referred to jokingly.

It was actually a switch.

With little ceremony or hesitation, the threw the switch, and everyone in the room was nearly deafened from the detonation of the sub-kiloton nuclear charge that propelled the ten-ton shell out of the massive barrel of the NPG. The whole room shook. Luckily, shock absorbers mounted on the seats kept the men from getting sore asses from being jolted up and down so violently.

The only thing Septimus wondered at the moment was weather or not his shell had successfully hit the target…whatever the target was…

A few thousand miles away, across the Crematorian Desert, near Arretium, the vertical launch systems had already belched out their payloads of land-based Quinqereme heavy anti-shipping missiles. If the Questerians had been expecting regular old pop-up attack anti-shipping missiles, they would be sorely disappointed. These missiles, upon launch, climbed to an altitude exceed 90,000 feet and cruised towards their targets over two-thousand kilometers away, eventually detaching their cruise stage and activating their terminal stage, in which a gel-fuel rocket engine would propel their two-thousand pound tungsten-capped ONC explosive warhead right into the decks of enemy aircraft carriers, battleships, and dreadnaughts. These would be hitting almost simultaneously with the NPG rounds, which were also targeted at the carriers.

The war had begun.

HMS Shokaku

Togo removed his cap and, pinching his nose, held the cap against his chest, as he watched the Romulus capsize, the gaping holes in its hulls from the torpedo blasts evident for the time that the Romulus rolled over. Smoke flooded over the harbour, and flames licked the seas, from fallen aircraft and the explosions that minutes previously had danced around the mighty battleship's steel encasing.

'Gentlemen.' He said, scratching his scalp and sliding the cap back on 'We have just sunk the Doomani battleship Romulus.'

Cheers erupted around the bridge, as the message spread through the carrier task force.

On the deck of the Warspite the last bomber landed, its engine trailing smoke. It bounced on the deck as it slowed to a stop and the pilot opened the cockpit while ground crew ran to send the plane down below. His friend met him with a hi-five, sweat pouring from his forehead and a bottle of champagne in his hand.

'Isoroku! We did it! We sunk the bastard!'

Isoroku grinned and gave his friend a comradely hug. Many were dead that day. His friends who he had spent many months training with, many months drinking and discussing women and playing cards, many were dead. They had been shot out of the sky like pheasants during the shooting season. But he was alive! He had lived, and he was a hero!

Meanwhile, John had opened the champagne bottle and several other pilots from different squadrons had come over to join in the celebrations. One of the m stood out though - he had a different badge and he was visibly shaking. His hands vibrated and moved back and forth and his teeth where chattering like an electric toothbrush.

'Hey.' Isoroku looked at him 'You're not from the Warspite.' he noted.

'Nnno. Had to er... land here when my um... the plane... damaged, fuel tank.'

He got some odd looks from the pilots.

'Are you alright mate?'

The airman blinked.

'Holy shit.' Michael, another pilot noticed. 'He's a torpedo.'

Isoroku and his friends had all been lucky enough to be assigned positions as rocketeers or dive bombers. Isoroku had learned from radio chatter that the torpedo bomber attacks which had done most of the damage had been chewed up badly. They had always known from the beginning their survival rate was not going to be high, but he didn't know that they had taken this many casualties...

'Fuck.' the torpedo bomber said randomly. 'We were coming in uh... coming in low, yeah, low. Just like when we did that simulation off... um... off Ascension. Their... uh... their sea-whizz ripped us apart.'

Isoroku gulped. The torpedo bomber now had the whole attention of the six pilots.

'We were dropping like flies. I don't - I don't know what, how, how I survived. I just... remember pushing the... uh... pull the trigger, then pulling up and... christ.' He was looking down at the deck of the carrier.

A whizzing sound appeared out of nowhere.

'What the fuck is that?' One of the pilots managed to say. In an instance, a bright flashing light appeared before their eyes before they were thrown off the floor. The NPG round had torn straight through the deck, right down the hull, and crushing the ships interior, came out from the bottom of the keel, snapping a giant hole in it. The shell had come right down and straight through the eleven inch deck of the Warspite. It all happened so fast - one minute there was nothing, silence, and Isoroku could hear nothing, and it felt like he was immersed in water. Then it came back to him, the sounds, his senses, the screams and then one giant crack.

It was like nothing he had ever heard before. A giant crunch, like crunching up a crisp packet and some tin foil, then ripping them apart. Except much, much louder, and much, much more real. Seconds later, the decks split apart a hundred metres from him. There was a thud and a rumble, and fire belched from the giant gap in the carrier that stretched from the port side right over to the starboard. He realised was happening. The ship was oddly stable, and nobody knew what to do - jump overboard and get sucked underneath the ship, or stay onboard and take your chances. The helos were all packed away - some men were readying carley rafts, but Isoroku would not bother. Ten seconds later - although it felt like an eternity, the same thud and boom as before and the cracking again.

What had actually happened was that the NPG round had gone straight thruogh the carrier and out the keel, snapping it and breaking the ships back, but the mass of the Warspite had allowed it to survive. The secondary and tertiary keels would have kept her afloat for much longer, but under the pressures and rigours, they both snapped, one after each other, which explained the two other cracking noises Isoroku heard. The explosions nad flames was actually the magazine and fuel storage detonating, although their armoured interior stopped it from spreading too badly. While the Warspite was stable, it would not be for much longer.

It was only after Isoroku stood up and almost fell over he realised the list. The complicated, malfunctioning, and ancient pumping system had caused the water to fill to the other side of the giant crack in the keel and the ship was now listing to port so hard it was unfixable. Men were jumping off the opposite side like a spilled packet of doritos, and planes were falling off the other side, bringing many with them. Isoroku was running up the deck at at least a thirty degree angle, clawing on to anything he could find on the deck. He was about to make it, about to jump, when the ship rocked and Isoroku looked down, his heart filling with ice cold fear. Simple fear. The common driving force of every man, apart from lust and greed. What he saw was the most amazing thing he would ever see in his entire life. The explosion that had rocked the ship a millisecond before, had detonated the fuel and a giant sheet of flame was roaring out from the port side of the ship, extending its fiery arms outwards at least six hundred hundred metres, engulfing a destroyer that had come to assist and adding its own flame to the inferno. The raging fire and explosion cooked anything that had been lucky enough to be in mid air alive - the unfortunate sailors already in the water would be boiled. The hairs on Isoroku's skin rose and he felt sick; still holding on to the rail, Isoroku vomited across the deck and his bodily fluids slid down the flight deck off the starboard side, probably into the sea. Or into another sheet of flames, Isoroku noticed. The explosion had died down, and several more destroyers were coming in to pick up survivors in the water. If there were any. Isoroku severely doubted that the people that had been boiled alive actually wanted to live.

A photograph taken from a journalist would spread around Questers like wildfire. It was the photograph of an airman holding onto a rail, a lone figure on a flight deck with a 40 degrees list, on the sinking Warspite, holding on for dear life.

HMS Shokaku, six minutes later

The mayday calls from the Warspite had shaken Togo. The screams of men as the burning acrid smoke and the fiery blaze overtook their bridge, the last words of the Captain - 'Tell my wife and children to remember me.' The screams stopped coming over as Togo noted the bridge of the Warspite explode violently, shaking the ship once more. He watched the helicopter pick up the lone airman holding on to the rails, and blinked, glancing at the floor and ceiling.

'Damage report. What the fuck was that?'

'Looks like a nuclear pulse gun sir. The Warspite...' the Ensign sobbed. 'She's dead sir. Christ... did you see those flames.'

Togo sighed. 'Signals Officer, raise another Ensign. For the Warspite.'

A moment later another Ensign was raised, flapping alongside the other.

It wasn't over yet though - as the horrific casualties came in, reported by journalists every step of the way, the Kido Butai! still had a fair distance to travel before it was safe and out of the way. The missile attack had been picked up by satellites and long range shipborne RADARs, and the interception sequence began with the call of Ashtray, repeat, Ashtray from the battleship Dauntless. The first stage, long range engagement with anti air shells from a battleships main gun was passed, as the trajectory of the missiles made this impossible; smaller guns however did turn upwards and began to put up a hail of flak in anticipation. The destroyers and cruisers got locks on the missiles rather quickly, with the number of AWACs and large RADARs in operation, and began cycling through their missiles, launching one after another after another with renewed vigour, the sinking of the Warspite still fresh in their heads.

Isoroku had been lifted onto the destroyer E-452 by helicopter and was watching his comrades being lifted aboard into the destroyer, and was almost sick at the extent of their burns. Reaching from the face to the hands to the legs, some were so badly burned they looked as if they'd been barbecued. More commonly, the skin had been warped from the boiling they'd received while the explosion lasted, and some faces were barely recognisable as human beings. Isoroku saluted them slowly as they were placed on stretchers and were prepared to be lifted to the hospital ships via HELO. An explosion to his left made Isoroku jump, as he watched a missile soar down past CIWS and shear its way into a destroyer, the superstructure exploding outwards and the missile magazine erupting into flame not unlike the Warspite had a minute before.

He was approached by the Captain of the vessel, the Captain's rank pips slumped with his shoulders, sweat building on his face and sorrow in his eyes. The Captain was informed of Isoroku's arrival, as one of the only none-wounded that came off the Warspite, and Captain Moore had come down to meet the lucky Airman himself. Isoroku smartly saluted and Captain Moore returned the greeting and shook Isoroku's hand personally. 'I'm sorry.' he said. Isoroku did not reply.

'The rescue operation is underway -' The Captain continued '-But it doesn't look hopefully. Christ these guys are burned bad.'

Isoroku was about to say something when he looked in the air, the smoke from the missile attack still clearing and the raging fumes and fires from destroyed ships lifting off into the atmosphere. But Isoroku was not looking at that, nor was he noticing the HELOs dotting around picking up survivors, or the AWACs planes taking off and landing. He noticed the dot in the horizon that was getting ever larger by the millisecond.

'Capt-' was all he could make out before the second NPG round flew right past the destroyer, flinging Isoroku and the Captain to their feet, and smacked into the belt of the battleship Yamamoto. There was a shaking that rumbling across the water, and an explosion that seemed to lift the Yamamoto up in the air and sending shockwaves across its length, not unlike viewing something with a stream of gas inbetween. The ship rolled back hard, and then its stabilisers and pumps kicked in and water poured out and into the Yamamoto which righted itself in half a minute. Across the fleet all eyes were on the Prince of Wales class Battleship. The smoke cleared gently, and those close enough could get a clear view of the Yamamoto's belt just underneath C turret. Scratch marks were spread across it, and there was bent metal where some poles and electronics had been, and a giant shock mark which had burned the giant belt. Apart from some deck damage, things thrown across the deck, there was very little visible damage. Some internal rupturings meant the aft starboard quarter pumps would be out of action and there may be some rooms unusable there, but the Yamamoto appeared to be fine. Automated fire extunigishers and flooders would be dealing with the internal fires. A minute later, Yamamoto raised her semaphore flags.

'Providence has the situation under control. Reporting minimal internal damage. Loss of stores. Requesting extra cheese.'

[OOC: Losses: 11 destroyers, a hospital ship, 2 flete replenishment ships;
carriers: HMS Warspite, HMS Orwell, HMS Ryujo, HMS Hosho destroyed flight deck
cruisers: HMS Myoko

OOC: Hope you don't mind

Blackwood, Republic of Blackwood:
''What now?'' demanded Stewern of the young woman who had burst into his room. He had been busy discussing certain matters with his chief of economy (or, as his full title was, Minister of Trade, Economy and Finance) Harry Penningsworth. His name was not a result of the recent trend in namechanging that had been going on, but rather an old and respected family of bankers and businessmen from the 18th century. He had graduated one of the finest schools in Blackwood, Harmsworth's School of Higher Economics; and quickly made his way up in the world of finance, succeeding his father as leader of the Penningsworth conglomerate and one of the most successful businessmen in Blackwood. Upon being offered the position of minister on Stewern's original 2001 government, he had turned of the conglomerate to his brother James, while still retaining an important position as head of Penningsworth Banking. He was a man of great skill and he knew to appreciate the ability to arrive on time, a skill much sought after by the former soldier Stewern but almost scorned by the civilian populace.
''Erm, sir, urgent news from the.. uh, Ministry of Intelligence, erh, Defence... I mean-'' she stuttured, seemingly taken aback by Stewern's angry repsonse.
''I'll be there,'' he assured her more calmly, feeling ashamed for his unjust outburst earlier. He quietly defended himself with having a lot more important things to worry about than other nation's problems, his own for example.
''Harry, you'll have to excuse me. I'll get back to you about the... matter we discussed.''
''It's alright Tom, I understand if the welfare system is less prioritized than Blackwood's sovereignty.'' That was Harry in a nutshell, thought President Stewern as he hurried down the corridor to the war room (the ministry of defence always insisted on meeting in the war room, wether it was to discuss next years' budget or to lead the troops in defence of the motherland), always understanding. He served Blackwood in his won way, but he did not feel that his particular field was more important than the others. To say the truth, he sometimes appeared to suffer from a slight inferiority complex, or whatever the shrinks called it when you didn't stand up for ypurself enough.
There were two marines stadning guard outside the door, armed with submachine guns. That was a bad sign, it meant that whatever it was that was going to be discussed in here did not concern the budget, at least not primarily. He took a deep breath, and braced himself before he opened the door. Inside were the Joint Cheifs of Staff, bent over a a few very large maps that had been placed on the large table in the middle of the room. Jack Crawford, Chairman Cheifs of Staff, Head of the Admiralty and minister of National Armed Forces; Arthur Johnson, Chief of the Republican Marine Corps; Austin Huntingdon, Chief of the Grand Army; Nicholas Smith, Chief of the Republican Air Force; Jean Robertson, Minister of Intelligence and Foreign Affairs and his vice president Mary Aston. This did not bode well.
''Tom,'' Crawford said in a very serious tone, his face greyer than normal.
''What now? Jesus man, from the look on your face, I could have sworn we were on the brink of nuclear war.''
''It's not that serious. Not yet anyways.''
''What do you mean 'not yet'? For Christ sake, spit it out!''
'It would seem, sir,'' intervened Jane, '' that Questers and, erm... Czardas have declared war upon Doomingsland. The two launched a suprise attack against the port town of Arretium not too long ago.''
''That is quite bad,'' Stewern replied faintly, visibly shaken. Nuclear war in his immediate vicinity was not one of the things he'd used to ask Father Christmas about.
''Still, we could try to convince botht nations that-'' He was cut short by Jean Robertson.
''Um, sir, Doomingsland is a member of the Coalition Against Democracy, and you remember that've expressed our interests in joining the GDI.''
''That's... worse. Not the usual peacekeepers, then?''
''I'm afraid not, sir.''
''What does the JCS say, are we capable of waging a war against Doomingsland?''
''We will not be able to single-handedly achieve air superiority, not by a long shot,'' answered Nicholas, and with a glance he passed the word on to Arthur.
''We will probably be able to establish a beach head if we receive aid from Questers and Czardas. Less probable if we don't.''
''Our forces,'' Austin continued, ''cannot march inlands without fighter cover. We can take the beaches, as Arthur noted, but not much else if we don't eliminate their air superiority.''
''The navy is ready to fight,'' Crawford assured, confident as always in the capabilities of his forces.
''That's good to hear, Jack. Jean, what do you think?'' he said, turning to his minister of foreign affairs.
''It wouldn't hurt if we had extra backing in us joining the GDI, especially since Questers is a founding member. Our recent actions might have upset Hotdogs2, but I don't think Questers would mind if we tried to keep nuclear weapons out of that conflict. A war against Doomingsland might also send a signal to all dictatorships in the world that we are not afraid to wage war against even the mightiest of them. It might aid us in our future peacekeeping missions.''
''So you advise me to wage war against Doomingsland?''
There was a long pause, as everyone held their breath.
''...Yes, mister President, I do,'' she answered heavily.
''So be it, then. Notify Questers and Czardas.''


Official Communique to the His Questarric Majesty's Imperial Superpower of the United Kingdom of Questers:
It is my duty as Minister of Foreign Affairs, to notify the Questarric Majesty's Government that President Tom Stewern of the Republic of Blackwood has, after due consideration, come to the conclusion that it will be to great benefit to all nationa of the world, and not merely to those directly involved, if Blackwood was to aid you in this noble endeavour. We wish to make clear that we fully support the ongoing conflict against Doomingsland, and that we will render what assistance we can.
We have dispatched elements of the Republican Navy as a symbol of our support, and more forces shall be sent if the situation calls for it.

Yours truly, Jean Robertson of the Blackwood Ministry of Intelligence and Foreign Affairs.

A similar message was sent to the government of Czardas.


This was going to be a long night. They had decided to enter the fray, and now they must commit themselves fully to this one quest, if they were to be the least succesful. Crawford had already gathered information on what divisions and task forces could be sent within a moment's notice. They were a handful, though not at all as many as Stewern had hoped for. The Main Battle Ships Centaurus, Pisces, Scorpion, carriers Victorious and Tremendous and escorts would from the bulk Task Force 17 with amphibious assault equipment being sent once dominance of the seas was established and a mutual plan had been made.

OOC
Thanks, but no thanks.
/OOC


In Space

Somewhere an unblinking eye moves through the vast black emptiness of space, watching, always watching, and waiting. Captured through its objective lens, the world below appears like any other, continents sprawled across its mass, white swirling clouds and oceanic currents faithfully recorded by the minute and sensitive instruments with which the great eye is endowed, each one taking a different measurement of the same phenomenon.

To the casual observer the eye looks like any other satellite, its power collected from a solar disk, its carefully shielded lens and instruments hidden by a sheath of some metal or other; and unless one were to come very close to it, one would not be able to spot the minute lettering along one side, “Czardaian Space Service”. But this is the leader of a group of satellites, all tasked, at the moment, with positions high over the country known to Earth as Doomingsland.

The satellite, naturally, does not have a care as to whether the nation it is to monitor is Doomingsland or Skinny87 or Hataria. It is here only to record its measurements, and to remain in geosynchronous orbit until otherwise directed by its commanders back on Earth. And that it does faithfully.

In Central Command, screens begin piecing together the satellites’ measurements, forming a terrain map of the nation they are measuring, with temperature, climate, and deposits of various elements duly located. Major cities are pinpointed and recorded; other sites of electrical, radar, or infrared activity are laid out neatly in their positions, while the structure of the buildings as seen through the cameras is carefully reconstructed.

It is a long and laborious process; and the computers of Central Command are equal to the task, harnessing their formidable processing power to complete the program and create a full-scaled map of the area panned by the satellites. Nevertheless, nothing is immediate, and it is nearly six hours of uninterrupted work before the electronic nexus of Central Command sits back, and sees that it is good; and on the seventh hour it rests.

It is with no surprise, or very well-concealed surprise if that, that approximately nine hours later, the unblinking eye in heaven records a massive infrared spike in a sulfur-rich region known as Damnatium, and follows the path of a massive projectile at lightning speeds across the void below, straight into the group of vessels already marked as Questarian on Czardaian screens.

The location from which the infrared spike was harvested is carefully documented and saved in the computer system for future use.

Czardaian Expeditionary Battlegroup, Operation Iron Blood

It is another day, dawning bright and unforgiving on the foam-capped seas, the white and blue and green and grey melding into a single expanse of roiling colour extending as far as the eye can see in any direction, as the rays of a red sub filter through masts and towers and funnels to pierce the numerous windows surrounding the bridge of the great Super-Battleship that dominates the centre of the fleet, long since departed from Czardaian ports.

Inside, Admiral Marcus paces the bridge, eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night. Around him are displays, dozens of them. Each displays a different set of information, updated and gathered constantly by minute and sensitive instruments, graphs of radio and sound and light waves refracted every few milliseconds across the world and back. Marcus starts, feeling a tap on his shoulder; it was an aide, who had approached silently from behind him, and now bears a look of unmistakable urgency.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Sir, we thought you might want to see this.”

Marcus turns towards the display indicated by the aide, located directly behind him. It is connected via Central Command straight to the Eye above, the All-Seeing and Unblinking – the spy satellite network of Czardas, stretching above the earth for thousands of kilometers, and then some. It has recorded a massive burst of energy released in the Damnatium region, and then a few seconds later another energy release atop the Questarian fleet, as already documented.

With shrewd revelation, Marcus’s eyes snap towards the real-time imaging. Plumes of smoke billow from aircraft carriers and destroyers, and the waves are filled with wreckage, blown apart by the massive shells and missiles. Dead bodies fill the water, staining it reddish, as the waters roil in rage, dashing themselves against ships and reefs and rocks.

“Okay. What the hell was that?” asks Marcus.

“Whatever it was, it’s bloody big,” another Admiral chimes in. Marcus has no idea where he came from, but meh. A General or two appears on the bridge as well now, alerted by various Ensigns and Lieutenants, or other such aides.

Marcus’s quick mind has already drawn the connections. “Something was fired from this spot in Doomingsland that just pwned part of the Questarian fleet.” (Yes, he did just say ‘pwned’, shut up.) “It doesn’t look like the effect of a nuke; in my experience those cause very different types of destruction... more like a massive projectile fired at very high speeds...”

“You can tell that on sight?” an Admiral asks, awed.

“No, but I’ve heard of these Doomies before. Apparently they’re using a new weapon now... something called a nuclear pulse gun... Intel must have picked that up from their ops in Dorandor or elsewhere. It’s not my business to know how they know, though. It’s my business to kill it before it does this again.”

A Vice Admiral Ryukoshantih speaks, his voice sharp: “That’s an excellent idea, sir. But how?”

“Like this,” Marcus says, and presses a Big Red Button.

Nothing of great import happens. The Admirals, &c. look at each other, confused.

Marcus then speaks in a clear voice. “Launch five hundred C-K1s at that big infrared spot, on the double.” The red button is the comms button.

No missiles are launched. Instead, a tired voice answers, “We’re out of range, sir.”

“FUCK!” Marcus yells. The Admirals recoil, partly due to the force of the word and partly because Marcus’s outburst has sent a glass of very cold water spraying all over them. “Well, blow something up then. Anything!”

“Yes, sir!”

And he does so...

CCS Return of the Jedi, That guy in the red shirt who dies in every episode-Class Ballistic Missile Submarine

Captain Roman Stone is asleep at his desk. This is not unusual; his crew has noticed that he seems to spend his life in a perpetual state of either going to sleep, sleeping, or awakening from sleep. Many wonder how he finds the time to eat or utilize the bathroom between his pursuing of these three intensive activities.

An alarm klaxon begins flashing and wailing, and while his ship erupts in action, Stone sleepily raises an eye, lugubriously reaches for a cigar, and swivels to face his men and women.

Wearily he queries a lieutenant, “Okay, what do they want now?”

“They want us to fire all missiles, then submerge again, sir.”

“They know what this is loaded with, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Get the firing solutions...”

The Lieutenant mimics his commander’s words at double speed and triple enthusiasm: “Get firing solutions!”

“ *yawn* ... Weapons stations...”

“Weapons stations!”

“Fire all... all... lll... zzzzzzzz...”

The Lieutenant turns back to look upon the pudgy face of his sleeping commander, before sighing deeply and yelling, “FIRE ALL!”

Roman Stone wakes up once again as the submarine recoils with the force of twenty-five massive ballistic-style missiles bursting the surface of the water with trails of fire, pushing the submarine back under. As similar scenes are visible simultaneously across the fleet, their trails of heat showing up on Stone’s tactical displays, he does a very typical thing.

He goes back to sleep.

The CCS Steel Penis

“Kennies fired, over.”

“Roger that Batman, prepare for defensive stations.”

“Bulldog, come in Bulldog, all forces to high alert, yesterday.”

“This is Grey, reporting in for no good reason and damned proud of it too.”

“Shut up Sam or I’ll feed you to a seven-one-one.”

XO Josephine Sakhuiz pulls herself away from the radio chatter as Marcus enters. “Well? Do we have a report on what’s going on out there?”

“Well, we’ve fired approximately six hundred missiles towards the city of Arretium and the defenses around the coast where we plan to land.”

“Such as what?”

“Well, we’ve targeted big guns, missile batteries, and anything else we could find. Not to mention harbors and the like; each of those missiles carries five two MT warheads, so they’ll be doing quite some damage.”

“Excellent. You’re well on your way towards earning a position on the top, young lady.”

Sakhuiz thinks, I’m executive officer to one of the highest-ranking officers in the Czardaian Navy. How much farther does he want me to go?

Then she shakes her head to clear it from such thoughts and goes back to work.

The missiles have finished their initial stage and are now high in the atmosphere, rushing towards their targets at very high speeds. In addition to the missiles themselves, several score EWC decoys have been deployed, intermittently jamming enemy electronics systems within range, either causing them to display thousands of times the actual number of missiles being launched, or less than a tenth thereof – or sometimes both at the same time. Unhardened ABMs will be similarly confused, minimizing the likelihood of a successful intercept.

Then the third stage begins, with the flight paths of the missiles radically altering until they face their true targets. This is less than forty seconds until zero. By now the fuel of the high altitude ramjet engines is running out, and shortly the third stage will detach to reveal the fourth stage, a fairly conventional engine that turns the missiles to face downwards, then lets them fall. They have a long way to go.

On the way down, they will release four of their warheads in an airburst pattern to destroy whatever is above ground. Then the penetrator will enter the ground at approximately Mach 12, with a slight delay before the last warhead explodes, taking whatever is underground with it. Overall, it is a rather effective missile.

As the missiles prepare to do their deadly work, the Czardaians near the Questarian forces, with only a few hundred kilometers to go before the two fleets meet; but at the same time Marcus has directed the fleet to veer slightly away, in order that it might assault Doomingsland from another side, and thus throw the enemy into disarray or at least damage it more seriously. The fleet, however, is slowing down from the rapid pace of the past few days, and forming up in a definite battle position. CAPs have just doubled in frequency, and the massive Battleships that hang in stall in the air – admittedly, they are just massive bomber + AWACS complexes rather than airships, but who cares, “Battleship” sounds grander – are being fueled and stocked with armaments in preparation for the ultimate battle.

It sounds grand, I know: “The Final Battle”, “The War to End All Wars”, and so on. I’m sure we all know the stories of heroic knights battling castles, or in the modern era heroic soldiers fighting off tanks or aeroplanes. But once again, we are faced with the reality that nothing is ever so grand – or so harsh – as we conceive of it to be...

Imperial Super Dreadnaught Remus

It seemed as if the Romulus still drew breath. Well, that was because Remus was her sister ship. They looked extremely similar. Once more, the admirals who commanded the vessels were actualy brothers. Admiral Quintus Cassius Aulus was normally a quiet, intimidating figure, and now he was especialy quiet and intimidating. He had learned of his brother's death only hours ago.

His family had been dishonored by the failure of Marcus and he would have to live with that now. God willing, he would be able to reclaim his family's honor by avenging the Romulus. Orders had come in from the High Command to intercept the Kido Butai and deliver the Questerian admiral's head on a platter to Caesar.

Quintus was not sure the later order was entirely possible; it was more than likely their admiral would be turned into a cloud of mist by a lucky hit from Remus' twenty-seven inchers, thus delivering his head on a platter would probably be impossible. It did not matter. As much of a perfectionist Quintus was, he would be satisfied with turning his foe into a cloud of red mist.

It was probably the best he could hope for in this instance. The Questerians were a mighty foe at sea and some questioned the Imperial Navy's ability to counter them.

Any debates were to be put to rest soon enough. Aulus' III Armada was coming for the infidels.

Aulus' flagship, the Remus, was at the center of the vast fleet which was built around a heavy battleship task force consisting of another super dreadnaught, the Scipio, four smaller pocket super dreadnaughts, the Antonius, the Crematoria, the Doomanum, and the Tyrranus. Six other BBNs further accompanied that force, making for a rather intimidating group of vessels.

At the moment, Aulus stood on the admiral’s bridge of the Remus, looking across the vast ocean stretched out before him. It looked so deceptively peaceful. He had fought in many wars before. He knew this was merely Satan’s veil for a place of great agony and torment. Billions had died at sea and Aulus himself expected to die the same fate some day.

”Today is a good day to die…” he said aloud to himself.

A few of his officers heard him and turned away from their task, perhaps expecting a speech. If they knew the old man well enough, they knew none would follow. He was a man of very few words.

He stalked about the bridge as the rising sun began to show itself, reflecting off of the water, creating a dazzling spectacle for the Doomani sailors. For many of them, this would be the last such sunrise they would bear witness to.
Arretium

By now everyone in the city was awake. It was hard not to be, what with the ear drum-splitting sounds of Romulus’ magazines cooking off and the disgusting crunching of the hull as the vessel capsized. The navy was fully occupied at the moment in putting out fires and plucking its sailors out of the water. The city was a total mess.

Imperial Guard units began to get the women and children together, herding them into fallout shelters. It was more than likely there would be a follow up attack, and the last thing these men wanted were for their wives, daughters, and under-aged sons killed in a heathen bombing. Some men went so far as to order their wives to take the family and leave the city altogether until the whole situation blew over.

Such was the case with Nero Laurentius Lupus, a guardsman with VIII Century, IV Cohort of the local legion. Technically, in normal terms, Lupus could be called either a reservist or even a militiaman. Imperial Guard units, aside from the active ones, were largely privately funded, trained, and maintained, and were of varying qualities. All were more than capable on the defensive.

”Fetch me my armor, woman!” shouted the twenty-three year old reservist NCO to his wife in the next room as he sat on the couch and laced up his boots, his rifle laying across his lap.

Lupus’ home was a well-decorated four-room apartment. He sat in the living room in front of a forty-two inch flat screen television which was tuned into the news at the moment. The only thing being reported on was the recent attack on the harbor. He found it quite interesting how quickly the media had managed to find out who was behind the attack. The woman on the TV was reporting from a boat sitting in the harbor, commenting on the rescue operations underway.

Nero tried changing the channel but it was the same thing everywhere- people reporting and commenting on the recent attack, clergymen calling for a holy war on Questeria. Caesar had not yet made a speech on the incident yet, but everyone knew what he would say. He, of course, would declare the Imperium’s intention to wage a crusade.

His attractive young wife appeared from the kitchen a few seconds later and tossed the old vest onto the couch.

”Nero, what the hell is going on?” she asked in a somewhat worried tone.

”In case you didn’t notice, the fucking infidels just bombed the fucking harbor!” he replied annoyed.

”I know that! But what are you doing?”

He stood, putting on his vest and grabbing his webbed gear off the coffee table, strapping that on over the vest.

”What’s it look like? I’m going to war, my dear.” he said softly, picking his rifle up off of the couch and slinging it over his shoulder. ”You knew this would happen eventually with the world we live in- it is our duty as Children of Christ to join the Global Crusade. That is now evident more than ever.”

It was clear he was totally convinced of the worlds spewing from his mouth. Attia, his wife, could only nod in response.

”You are right…but what of our child?” she asked timidly. Their son Valerius was only six years old, and it was painfully obvious Arretium was about to become a war zone.
”Get him out of here, Attia. Pack your things, get in the car, and get out of the city.”

He embraced her, holding her close, whispering into her ear, ”Chances are I will be martyred…I do not want my bloodline to end with me. Valerius must survive, and so must you…I love you both…”

He let her go. He did not allow her to speak.

He spoke once more in a strong tone, ”My place in heaven is assured. Do not weep for me, for if I am martyred, you will see me again. Go now, get our son out of here. I have heretics to purge.”

She began to cry as she handed him his helmet, which he plopped down over his head.

”Wait, I have something for you,” she managed as he turned towards the door.

He turned around as she ran over to a closet, fetching a box out from the top. It was wrapped in silver paper, and she gave it to her husband, who quickly tore the paper up and opened the box.

He smiled. It was a shotgun. A Camillus-XXVI over-under police model, with polymer furniture. It lacked a stock, having only a pistol grip, as it was meant mostly as a back-up weapon. She handed him a box of twelve-gauge flechette shot and a large leather holster which was meant to be slung over his back.

”It was supposed to be for your birthday, but I suppose you need it now,” she said as she watched him handle the new weapon.

He broke open the weapon, observing the chamber, and removed two shells from the box, sliding them in and sealing the weapon, making sure the safety was switched on. He slid the shotgun into the holster, which he slung over his back, and then emptied the box of shells into his pockets. A tear rolled down his face as he kissed his wife goodbye for what was probably the last time.

Just then, his son walked into the room.

”Father, where are you going?”

Clearly the boy was a bit confused at the moment.

Lupus quickly walked over towards the boy, who was dressed in his Youth Imperial Guard uniform for school, and went down on one knee in front of him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

”My son, I am going crusading.”

Valerius’ eyes lit up and he smiled.

”Can I come, father!?” he said excitedly. Lupus chuckled. The boy would be kicking himself when he got older that he was too young to fight this war when it happened.

”My son, you have other duties you must attend to. Fetch your rifle; you must take care of your mother while I am gone.” he replied in a fatherly tone.

Dutifully, the boy ran back to his room and disappeared inside.

”Take care of our son, Attia.” Lupus said once more to his wife.

He stood as his son came back and patted him on the head. ”I’m going now, Valerius. Make sure you shoot those heathens in the face if they try to hurt your mother.” he said with a smile. With that, he strode out of the apartment and headed to the elevator.

Two of his comrades, Pontius Junius and Herius Sirus, held the door for him.

”Sending the family away, Nero?” Pontius, a tall, well-built man of about twenty-five years of age asked.

”Yeah, a warzone is no place for such young woman and a child.” replied Nero.

”I sent mine off to the shelter twenty minutes ago,” Herius, a short stocky man of thirty chimed in.

Lupus’ unit consisted of middle and lower middle class citizens, armed with a variety of 7.8mm weapons. Lupus himself carried a DR-78-II, the lighter-weight, higher quality polymer-stocked version of the DR-78 fitted with an accessory rail. The poorest weapon one could possibly carry in the Imperial Guard was the DR-78, which was owned by even the poorest of citizens. Everyone had one.

In many cases, these militia Imperial Guard units were far better equipped and even better trained than active units, which acted as the Imperium’s police. It was somewhat of a mixture in this case. Lupus’ wife, Attia, had purchased him body armor for his birthday recently. Not even body armor was standard issue with the Imperial Guard in some provinces (Arretium was a wealthy city and could afford such things).

Active Imperial Guard units generally consisted of young men aged eighteen to twenty doing their two years of mandatory active duty, with some older men in the ranks serving as officers and higher ranking NCOs. Once you’re done with your mandatory service, you are then required to join up with the local century and remain on call in the event of invasion.

VIII Century was more or less average in Imperial Guard terms. They drill once or twice a month, go out and train in the field occasionally, practice room clearing and other urban tactics at least once a week at the squad level (this was often made a social event by men as it was with most other units throughout the country, with the men competing to see who can clear the infidels from the building the quickest). Marksmanship was superb all around, as it was a skill taught as a child in school and by parents. It was, in fact, an extremely important aspect of Doomani culture.

After a short ride to the ground floor, the three Guardsmen strolled out of the building onto the street where the century was assembling. They didn’t bother falling into formation; rather they had all gathered around Centurion Titus Valerian, commander of VIII Century.

Titus was a formidable man in his fifties. He was well-liked by his men and was always one to joke around, and was always the first into the bar after they had finished up the day’s exercises. He had been a career Guardsmen and had only recently retired to reserve duty. It was the general consensus that he knew his shit.

The mood outside was one of total seriousness. Chatter amongst the men was low-toned and rapid.

The three men walked over to the edge of the crowd of Guardsmen just as Titus had ordered the Century to “shut the fuck up.”

”As you know, one hour ago, the United Kingdom of Questers declared unconditional war on the Imperium with their cowardly sneak-attack on the harbor, and even succeeded in sinking the Romulus.” he began, ”We have reason to expect that the infidels will attempt an assault on our beloved city.” This generated a low murmur among the men, which was quickly silenced by Valerian’s raised hand. ”We have been ordered first to evacuate all women and children from our AOR and then to commence fortification of the neighborhood. Brothers, if those fools do indeed intend to land here, it is going to be a very bloody fight.

“Now, in the name of God and Caesar, go forth and carry out your orders. Today we begin a righteous and holy crusade against the infidel. Glory and martyrdom awaits us all! Deus volt!”

”Deus volt!” the hundred or so men roared back in response.

Just as they began to break up into squads, a massive roar erupted north of them and all were knocked off their feet. Lupus looked up to see smoke and flame rising in the distance. The repugnant smell of ash and burning flesh choked the air. They knew what was coming. Suddenly, more roars broke the silence and the ground continued to violently shake.

Lupus was deafened as the building behind him burst into flame. Massive chunks of rubble soared through the air, crashing down all around, crushing dozens of men. Lupus stood and stumbled about as the world around him seemed to be crashing down. Clouds of dust choked the streets; you could not see five feet in front of you.

It did not stop; the ground continued to shake as the city was relentlessly pounded by Czardaian missiles. Imperial missile defenses had managed to shoot down quite a few but it hadn’t been enough. The city of Arretium was being totally devastated.

Continuing to stumble about the ash and flame, Lupus’ ears rang. He was in a nightmare. He watched as men missing their arms and legs crawled and stumbled by, as men who had been set on fire screamed in agony, rolling on the ground attempting to put them out, or simply praying for an end to their misery.

Miraculously, Lupus had been unharmed in the attack, save for a minor shrapnel wound. He sat down as the smoke began to clear and stared at where his apartment complex had once stood. He could see clear through to the ocean; it had been totally leveled. He stared with his mouth wide open.

The neighborhood he had once lived in was no more. The charred shattered foundations of the buildings were all that remained. How he had managed to survive all of that was beyond his comprehension; he could only assume it was God’s will. It was then that he realized it: his family was in the building when it collapsed. He leapt to his feet, leaving his rifle (which he had somehow managed to hold on to) behind, and bolted to the smoking pile of rubble that was once his home. He began to climb through the rubble, turning over chunks, hoping to find his family alive.

He frantically and relentlessly tore through the debris, looking for any signs of his family. There were none, of course. It was futile. He knew that in the back of his mind and yet he continued. After searching for twenty minutes, he sat down staring at the concrete desert arrayed before him. Satan was laughing, that much was certain. Lupus was filled with pure rage. His family had been vilely murdered by the infidels. He would have his vengeance. He would kill them…all of them…he would kill their families too, if he lived that long. Without even knowing it, he had walked away and picked his rifle back up.

He couldn’t wait until they landed. He couldn’t wait until he could reap his holy vengeance. He would be God’s fist, and His fury would flow through the veins of Nero Laurentius Lupus until his family had been avenged.

Arretium is dead.

The skies above its formerly bustling and vibrant metropolis have been stained the red of drying blood, the effect of the sun's rays filtering through clouds of dust and ash thrown into the air by four hundred multiple megaton explosions. The ground is permanently irradiated, so much so that most electronics will fizzle out and die if they get too close to one of the points of impact. If the city could be seen from above, it would look like a giant lump of Swiss cheese; wherever a missile's penetrator exploded, a deep crater was left in its place, with the ones closer to the shore welling up with poisonous, bubbling seawater mixed with the uranium waste.

Farther on, along several of the defenses similarly affected, fires and explosions have broken out, leaving SAMs and coastal batteries unfunctioning, their machinery ruined. Elsewhere the defenses are still intact, and doubtlessly turning towards the Czardaian fleet that now approaches the coast, preparing to fire as soon as it is in range.

Of course, the Czardaians will not stop while they're ahead. Admittedly, a truly massive missile barrage such as the one just executed will not have nearly so great an effect. But their fleet is now approaching the coast at Arretium, pickets of destroyers and frigates moving off to bring their defensive anti-missile power.

From on high the fleet is starting to look like a solid wedge pointing towards the Doomani coast, with another solid wedge pointing the other direction; the two wedges both being separated by the bulk of the supercapital between. Lines of submarines troop along dutifully under the waves, defending the ships above.

It is a truly glorious sight, which is very surprising; no-one ever thought to associate those words with anything related to the Czardaian Navy.

* * *

CCS Thomas Hobbes, Salvatore-Class Battle Carrier

Around him klaxons are screaming, their red lights blazing -- the noise clashing harshly with alarm klaxons screaming on carriers on either side of his -- but Airman First Class Emil Deleri is used to it, and he straps his long knife to his belt as he runs on the heels of fellow aviators, all bound for their fighters. Tuttle arrives at his DF-3 and executes a complicated handshake with his designated copilot Pete.

"Looks like we'll be working together this time," he drawls with a South Czardaian accent -- Dorandor possibly -- which sounds a little bit like a more nasal South British accent, with long 'a's broadened even further if possible to what is almost a long 'i'. But enough on phonology.

"Yeah." Pete half-smiles lazily, a complete contrast to the frenzied activity all around him. Their shared glance speaks volumes. Both are from the same area of Czardas, and support the same political party (a rarity in the WSOGMM as anyone knows), and that enough is sufficient to create a permanent bond between the two. Emil climbs into the pilot seat of his Kestrel, which has been transformed from the once uncommon stealth fighter to the mainstay close-in fighter of the CNAF. Kestrels are rarely necessary, however; the DF-1 Peregrine Air Dominance fighter does much of the work, intercepting and destroying enemy fighters and even sky eyes from afar, or at least softening them up for the Kestrels, which do the main dogfighting of the battle in question.

Emil and Pete speak little as they taxi their fighter from its deck position to one of the pair of STOVL ramps, waiting for Raphael to give them the go-ahead. This is partly because of the noise, which makes normal conversation difficult, and partly because their foreheads glisten with concentration on the task at hand. Presently Raphael's signal comes through on the fighter's radio system, with none of the static that normally heralds such announcements; Pete says to Emil through the radio system before they take off, "Always wondered how they got Raphael to do that."

Emil grunts in response as the wheels of the fighter leave the ramp and it accelerates towards the speed of sound, its elegantly streamlined and conscientiously designed shape showing up as perhaps little more than a fly on Doomani radars, that is, those that have not been incapacitated by the nuclear explosions. The Kestrel joins formation with three-and-twenty fellow fighters, just one squadron of the force sent by Raphael to escort the bombers taking advantage of the chaos to approach the Doomingslandi shores and destroy whatever the missiles neglected. Among the payload of the bomber wing are assorted low-yield, low-radiation nukes "just in case they happen to be needed"; in addition, every variety of conventional weapon is being deployed, including some especially nasty ones Czardaian Central Command has been saving specially for Doomingsland.

Emil had chosen the air force upon recruitment because he wanted to serve his country, no matter how much it defied his religion, but he would rather serve it at a distance; additionally, the air force was the only branch with any real prestige in the Czardaian military, with the exception of the Special Forces which he was too old for anyway (they selected likely SpecOps at age ten and began training them at twelve, right after the conclusion of primary school).

Emil loves to fly. High above the clouds and commercial air pathways, he wheels and whirls through a sun-fleck'd wasteland of blue, perhaps a little bit closer to God than he is on the ground; now, he has no time for acrobatics, his features focused in grim concentration as he follows the blinking route outlined in red on his plane's computer (set to avoid Doomingslandi and Questarian shipping and head straight for the shore).

Pete’s head snaps upright as a voice crackles through on their radio, “Jade Seven, Jade Seven, this is Raphael, do you read me?” One can almost hear the bolding in Raphael’s voice.

“This is Jade Seven, we read you loud and clear Raphael, over,” Pete says into the radio, wiping off his forehead with a clumsy hand and turning his attention back to the skies as more radio chatter enters his and Emil’s ears.

“Jade Five reporting in.”

“Jade Nine up an’ flying.”

“Jade Sixteen on standby.”

“Jade Three reporting in.”

“Jade Twenty-Two all ears.”

“Better not be Jade Twenty-Two, where would you go without a radar or engine?”

“Ha ha. You think you’re so funny, Charlie.”

And more of the same. Emil blocks it out, until the almost, but not quite human voice of Raphael comes in again. “Jade Squadron, you’re to stay with Jericho, Jove, and Janeway Squadrons on the right flank of Gamma Wing, do you copy?”

“Roger,” Pete says to the radio, replacing it carelessly as he returns to the controls. Emil keeps the plane steady with minimal afterburner use, nosing it into the clouds overhead; Jade Squadron follows. Although Jade One is nominally the squadron leader, most of the squadron tends to follow Emil, for reasons Central Command is still trying to uncover. Emil is definitely a good pilot, keeping his aircraft as difficult to see on infrared or light-based detection systems as it is by shape and distance on radar.

The unearthly calm of Raphael’s voice comes through again. Emil suspects strongly that Czardas’s experiments with AI development were not quite so inconclusive as they claimed, but he is distracted terminally by the words emanating from his radio. “We have zombies inbound from left, Aquilas. Epsilon, Sigma, Tau, fire to intercept.”

Aquilas. Emil had always wanted to see one, see why they were such a source of fear to fellow pilots and foreign nations alike. He almost prayed that the Peregrines would be unsuccessful in their interception so that he could have a chance. Pete, meanwhile, is looking nonplussed at the radar screen. “I don’t see anything,” he says.

“Aquilas are stealth… like us,” Emil says without looking up. “We can’t see them until we get in close. They can’t see us, either. Only our Sky Eyes have that chance.”

“So how do they expect Epsilon, Sigma, and Tau to intercept?”

“Sky Eye guidance? No idea,” Emil says. “They invented a fucking AI, they can do this.”

Raphael crackles in again, radiating calmness. “We’ve got another wing of Aquilas inbound from the right. They must have started later than the first wing. Gamma, Omicron, Sigma wings, prepare for dogfighting maneuvers; Beta, fire to intercept.”

“Fucking stealth,” Pete mutters, nosing his plane towards the perceived threat. He can see it now on the radar screen, a patch of tiny blips moving steadily towards the Czardaians’ current position. He tries to count them offhand and fails.

“Damn, that’s a lot of them,” he grunts as Emil noses the Kestrel towards the left, towards the flanks, watching a burst of orange fire as long-range missiles streak across the sky from the Air Dominance Peregrines below. Then Emil’s active radar begins to beep. A lock.

“How the fuck are they locking us?” Pete cries in frustration as Emil begins executing a complex series of maneuvers with detached interest, whirling down and around to shake the lock. Pete flicks open a menu on the screen and looks at the pair of MRAAMs streaking towards the fighter at approximately Mach 5 from somewhere off to the right. Raphael’s signal disappears as fellow fighters activate ECM, trying to shake the path of the missiles. Emil takes over the control work now, descending towards the sea and ascending to the sky, but the missiles refuse to give up their stubborn lock. Emil ascends once more, dispensing a pod of chaff as he goes; one missile is fooled by this and explodes, showering the area with shrapnel, but the second one continues on doggedly until another fighter streaks across its path, one of its wings actually colliding with the missile.

Emil watches the explosion from above as he descends once more detachedly; Pete hits a button and a pylon descends, whipping off four missiles in rapid succession towards the Doomani fighters; he yells into the radio, “Jade Seven, four away”, but the transmission fizzles out in the haze of radar jamming surrounding the patch of airspace ahead.

They are almost within visual range now, and the air is filled with exploding missiles and 25mm rounds as fighters exchange a heated volley of weaponry. Emil has no idea where the bombers are; he quickly glances at another screen. Jade Squadron has effectively fallen apart, with four of its planes in the sea and the rest scattered about the sky. Emil sighs and begins to fire a continuous burst of 25mm fire as he pushes forwards, giving Pete another instruction; two more short-range missiles streak out from under the aircraft towards the Doomies.

Emil feels the impacts of cannon fire upon his tail wings down towards the sea once more, falling from the sky like a stone from the heavens; he abruptly maneuvers to the side as an Aquila zooms down from above him, descending further, unable to pull up in time to make its kill; Emil turns once more and fires, 25mm rounds pelting the enemy fighter, and watches with a small bit of triumph and a small bit of regret as its engines fail and it falls down towards the eternal blueness below, catching fire as it goes; but no parachute descends from its cockpit. The Doomani die honourably.

He is disappointed; the Aquilas look like any other fighter except in wing design and stealthier plan; he expected something grander, almost something more certain of victory, more intimidating. These thoughts are only momentary, as he releases a pair of medium-range missiles towards a group of fighters beyond him, then wings in towards them, his remaining two missiles locked on a fighter each, his radar beeping crazily... clouds of smoke and fire coming up to meet him...

And suddenly it is over. The engagement, so brief in time but so long in significance, has been spent, and almost completely winchester Emil returns towards the Transport Airships to restock on missiles and fuel. These ships hang above the Assault Battleships below, slowly lumbering along, one accompanying each battlegroup. As Emil flies back towards the bomber formation, he and Pete look over the forlorn remains of the once-proud eight-wing fighter group.

The Kestrels have been decimated. Gamma Wing, on the right vanguard, was hardest hit, losing almost a quarter of its planes – thirty, out of one hundred and forty-four. Omicron and Sigma Wings have also sustained losses, with an estimated 80 airframes in total lost and approximately 120 aviators dead or captured, which was as good as dead. Doomani losses were unknown, but Emil suspects that they are slightly lower, partly because the overall number of Doomani planes was lower. Partly because of the skill of the Doomani pilots and commanders, which is also a force to be reckoned with.

Tau Wing, which had stayed back to escort the bomber group, and the Peregrines have fared slightly better. On the left flank, the firepower afforded by the four long-ranged air-to-air missiles the Peregrines carry each was a help, and the narrow band directional electromagnetic radar jamming systems (hereafter abbreviated to NBDEMRJ) carried by the pair of Chimaera EW/AACs in the area additionally succor in dealing with the enemy missiles; nonetheless, the inevitable losses have occurred, with twenty-two fighters resting on the floor of the sea, or as burning wreckage atop its blue swirling waters.

As his Kestrel zooms back out into empty space, Emil toggles through a menu, making sure that all twelve missiles are secured in their pylons; the check is unnecessary, but nonetheless it gives him a sense of security. Raphael comes back online, and its clear voice rings out across the radios. “All fighters, we are now within half-k klicks of the coast; commence Foxtrot Alpha Bravo Three at T minus fifteen seconds... ten... five...”

From on high Emil and Pete watch as the bombers loose their payloads upon the shore defenses across a wide area of Doomingslandi coast. Said payloads consist of massive numbers of bomb bay launched drones, whose ramfan engines swiftly activate, propelling them to Mach 7 within moments. Then Emil watches as SAMs appear on the radar screens, powering up to meet the drones. It is, of course, rather difficult to hit something moving at Mach 7 even with an advanced surface-to-air missile, but Emil has no doubt that the bombing run will not have quite the brilliant effect Central Command expected it to. Some of the drones survive this and continue on, bearing their payload of fuel-air bombs and bunker busting munitions towards guns and missile launchers...

Then the air around Jade Seven erupts in red flames and smoke as one of the bombers simply disintegrates, as though it had never existed. Emil stares, uncomprehending, as the second wave of Doomani fighters comes in.

Raphael is screaming something urgent across the radio system, but Emil disregards it, wheeling his plane a hundred and eighty degrees. With sudden clarity Emil knows what has happened, even if Central Command does not. The Doomani fighters were not retreating... they were merely pausing to refuel and restock, like the Czardaians. Now they are back, and attacking from seemingly all directions at once.

Emil does not lose his head; he remains calm. Opening a channel to his squadron, he says loud enough for him to be heard across the noise of battle, “It’s an illusion. Strike them.”

Then he is off, whirling into the skies as missiles streak across the blue and cannon fire slaps the wind, rounds bursting through the air. An Aquila looms large as life on his radar screen, and he hits a button without thinking, sending two laser guided short range missiles screaming across towards the fighter. Without waiting for a confirmation on the hit, he maneuvers across and hits mach once more, streaking towards the edges of the Doomani formation. A solid mass of missiles is rising up already towards the circle, probably from one of the Assault Battleships. Damn those things are good, Emil thinks, loosing another quartet of short-range missiles at the nearest flight of Aquilas and trying to distinguish the rapid Latin radio chatter from the Czardaian, Rejistanian, Pacitalian, English, and Cantonese emanating from the Czardaian formation. He understands Latin fluently, having learned it in the Church, but at this speed, and with so much other chatter interfering, he cannot make it out.

The number of Doomani fighters seems to have tripled, and the bombers and Battleships seem to have disappeared entirely; either downed by Doomie fighters or simply RTB. Emil mutters a question to Pete, and Pete groundsweeps the ocean; but the waters reveal little of the wreckage that would be left by one of the larger aircrafts. Jade Seven is suddenly alone in the clouds; it is as though the air battle has suddenly ceased to be. Then Pete spots something on radar and an Aquila enters visual range, its 23mm cannon spewing a swift succession of rounds.

Emil dodges, descending and then ascending, as his own cannon returns burst after burst, as if of its own volition. The fighters are in too close combat to use missiles, so it becomes a freakish dance of maneuverability, the Kestrel against the Aquila, the hawk against the eagle. Rounds burst against the sky, the metal becoming riddled with holes. Emil is a skilled pilot, avoiding the Doomani rounds, but when he tries to return fire the other in turn maneuvers out of the way; and so it goes.

Emil is beginning to hold a deep respect for the other aviator. He rolls to avoid another volley of rounds and fires back, watching with silent glee as a 25mm bullet catches one of the canards, ripping a hole through it. Then Emil feels a sound explosion against his tail, and begins to fall.

There is an initial moment of disbelief. He cannot have lost the battle so easily. He cannot be falling now, falling to what must surely be his death.

Then comes acceptance, resignation.

Then comes epiphany.

And then, panic.

Without knowing it Emil feels himself ejecting, feels himself free falling through space as his parachute billows out behind him and he looks down to a broad sandy beach below, hundreds of feet below. He watches as his plane goes down beyond him, enflamed, its ashes scattering on the ocean. Then he looks up. The Aquila is gone; in its place is empty sky. His heart sinks as he realizes that to the Doomani pilot, he is just another infidel, another person to kill.

Then he hears the telltale sign of an engine, looks up, and a volley of 23mm rounds slices his parachute in half.

* * *

Sand has a particular smell when it is wet. Ordinarily one’s nose is so inundated with other smells that one does not notice it. However, it is difficult not to do so when one’s nose is buried in it. As Emil Deleri’s happens to be at this moment.

His sense of smell returns first. He smells salt. Dirty water. Sand. The sea. The seashore. The beach. He reflects on an afternoon spent on the beach as a child, listening to shells, swimming in the hot sun. And he also smells blood, both his and others’, and he wonders how he got hurt.

Then hearing comes in. He hears the noises of engines, of aeroplanes flying, of bombs falling and of distant explosions. And, closer to his head, he hears voices. The voices seem to be making noises of some type. Cognitive thinking begins to kick in and he realizes that the voices are speaking Latin. Moreover, they are speaking Doomani style Latin, with all its peculiarities of inflection and the unusual formation of the perfect subjunctive active in 3rd conjugation I-stems. Or something.

Then feeling returns to his body, and he gasps in sudden pain, and tastes sand. His entire body throbs with pain, not the harsh red pain of a migraine headache, nor the dull pain of a bruise; but the deep welling burning pain of broken bones and of bloody cuts, and of a deathly injured dignity. He opens his eyes and slowly brings his world back into focus.

He is lying on a beach of sand, as already deduced; he is looking sideways across the beach at shadowy figures and vehicles in the distance, the view of which is impeded by a pair of booted feet. His eyes slowly travel up from the pair of booted feet, along the dirty white desert fatigues of a Doomani uniform, up to the belt with grenades, a knife and a Bible strapped to it, to the hands, one carrying an assault rifle and one a book which Emil recognized with a pang as his own self-annotated version of the Good Book, to the creased Roman face of a soldier, who is at the moment looking from Emil to the book and muttering in Latin, “Strange... and with the infidels, too...”

Emil twists his head to the side to behold a brace of further Doomani soldiers, and tries to sit up, but the unstaunched blood flow seeping from somewhere under his ribs prevents him. The Doomie squats down near Emil and speaks in hard, accented English.

“This is yours?”

“It is mine,” Emil answers in Church Latin, watching the other man’s face transform with slight shock, and watching, in turn, a new chapter unfold in his life. There is a dichotomy in his soul now, and he will explore it, and see where it leads him. He is among people who believe in what he believes, and see what he sees. Fanatics and warmongers, maybe. But perhaps, with a bit of effort, he can establish a new, lasting peace. One in which there will be no enemy but the Devil, and no war but the war of the soul, the good against the evil, the way it was and is and will be to come.

It is as though he has surrendered his life and begun to live again; he has been redeemed, resurrected... almost saved. A fountain of dark light has been born, and its waters run through the avenues of his brain, carrying with them salvation and nourishment. And by what? By his mind? By his beliefs? By a sudden freedom from freedom, established through war, effected through death?

Or perhaps, by the spontaneous fulfillment of knowledge?...

The aged brown eyes of Centurion Gaius Lentallus stared right through the Czardaian that lay crippled and broken at his feet. He seemed to be in an almost trance-like state; rifle in one hand, bible in the other. To a foreigner, it could have seemed a contradiction. To Lentallus and his countrymen, it was, of course, the way things were, had been, and always would be.

What the hell is going on?

Finally he took a knee next to his captive, sinking slightly in the moist sand upon which he stood. He dug the butt of his rifle into the sand and handed the bible back to the downed pilot.

He removed his helmet for a moment, revealing a shaved head, and scratched it for a moment before replacing the Roman-esque helm. He heard footsteps behind him; the kind one makes when one is walking through moist sand. It is more of a crunchy sound than dry sand, of course; that is probably due to the water within the sand. Lentallus wouldn’t know, for he was a man of war, not science.

He knew the way things were, not why they were. The reason why they were was, of course, God. That was all he needed to know, and he took comfort from that.

”Sir…” a familiar voice spoke in Latin behind him.

It was Decurion Antonius Varinius, one of the members of his patrol.

They had been dispatched following the massive air engagement that had taken place near Arretium. Their purpose was, primarily, to rescue downed Imperial pilots. Contrary to the beliefs of most foreigners, the Imperium cared a great deal for its pilots. These were men the Empire had invested millions in; allowing them to die would be nothing short of a total waste. A man could be replaced, but experience could not.

”Shall we kill him now?” the voice again spoke.

This particular patrol had already summarily executed two other Czardaians in the past three hours, and had done so rather brutally. Both had been flayed alive and impaled on a spike: left out for the Czardaians to see when they finally came in their ships.

It had been satisfying for the men but not overly so. Their homes, their families, their livelihood. It was all gone now, thanks to these heathen scum. Murdered in cold blood by an uncaring barbarian horde for no reason other than greed. They had no reason to show mercy to these infidels. For Lentallus, this was especially true. His wife, children, and even grandchildren had been in the city during the attack.

He knew there was little to no chance of them surviving, and he had accepted that. He was a solider, albeit a mere Imperial Guardsman, but he had grown accustomed to death. That made it only a little easier.
Decurion Varinius stepped up next to his centurion, brandishing a pugio dagger, stroking the blade with his left hand, staring at the Czardaian menacingly. This blade had already drawn unclean blood on that day. He too had lost his family and home in the attack, and had been able to gain a small bit of personal vengeance in the wake of the massive air battle that had ensued.

The images of those skinless men screaming in agony and squirming about helplessly as the blunt end of a ten-foot steel pole was shoved into their anus and they were raised high above the ground was still etched into his mind. It would doubtlessly have taken them days to die were it not for the flaying; it would take quite some time for the blunt end of that pole to work its way through the body, drawing more and more blood with every quarter of an inch.

”No,” Lentallus finally spoke.

A puzzled look came across the face of his subordinate.

”He is wounded. I want you to fetch a stretcher while I apply first aid. We are going to bring him back to the CP alive and unspoiled. I want Father Seneca to have a word with him.” Lentallus said in a casual tone.

Varinius thought he understood. This man was, for some reason, worthy enough to be handed over to the Inquisition to be tried for heresy. Lentallus once again took the bible from the Czardaian and handed it to Varinius.

Varinius flipped through the damp pages. It was like the bibles the Doomani carried (minus the more violent verses being highlighted): it was actually written in Latin. Strange.

”A heretic?” Varinius pondered aloud.

”I am no heretic,” the injured Czardaian managed in a weak voice, speaking once more in Church Latin.

Varinius was clearly taken aback. He sheathed his dagger and unslung his rifle.

”I’ll fetch the stretcher now…” he said to Lentallus, turning and running off towards their armored dune buggy, shouting for the soldiers standing around the vehicle to ready a stretcher.

Lentallus turned back to the Czardaian.

”Well, my friend, it seems God has deemed it fit to spare your life.”

Those were the last words Emil heard before he blacked out from blood loss.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

”Wake up, Emil,” a booming voice called out from the abyss in Latin.

The stench of blood filled the nostrils of the Czardaian pilot. Once again Emil found himself in unfamiliar surroundings. His eyes were open, and yet he was blinded. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he began to make observations of his surroundings. A bright light shined directly into his face from above.

He was laying on a cot, but was still in his flight suit. It took him a few moments to recall what was going on. Then it hit him. He was a prisoner of war.

He looked away from the light, towards where the voice had come from. He was in a small hospital room, several IVs were hooked to his veins. He’d been spared a gruesome execution. There was a man in the clothes of a priest, complete with the collar, sitting across the room from him, flipping through papers on a clip board.

The man looked up and smiled.

”Ah, good, you’ve decided to join us. Welcome, child.”

The priest stood and set the clip board down on the wooden chair where he had previously been sitting, and walked up to the side of Emil’s bed.

”Where…am I?” Emil spoke in hesitant Latin.

”Underground, Emil. We are safe here.”

It was then that Emil noticed the lack of windows in the room.

”Who are you?” Emil asked suspiciously.

”I am Father Seneca, and you have nothing to fear from me. I promise you, you will not be tortured for heresy,” he said jokingly.

To Emil, that was not something to joke about. He knew that torture at the hands of the Inquisition was probably a grim reality for some of his comrades at that very moment.

”You can probably guess why you have been brought here rather than put to death on that beach.”

“My bible…” Emil replied dazedly.

”Precisely,” replied Seneca smiling.

He was a friendly-looking man, thick brown hair covered his head and prominent Mediterranean features were present throughout his face. He spoke in a booming, fatherly voice; one that was not so much malevolent as it was authoritative.
”Emil, the reason you have been brought here was nothing short of God’s Own Will. That Bible saved your life, as you yourself pointed out. Centurion Lentallus thought it appropriate to spare your life because of your faith!”

Emil’s fear and uncertainty began to melt away at the reassurances of the friendly priest. He seemed trustworthy enough. Besides, if the Doomies wanted him dead, they wouldn’t have bothered wasting a hospital room.

”So…wait a second…I’m alive because of God?” he asked, only vaguely aware of his own words.

”Yes. It seems you have a higher purpose than to be put to death for the crimes of your heathen comrades,” the priest noted with a slight hint of amusement at the whole situation, ”Tell me, Emil, how is it that a faith-filled individual such as yourself could fall into the service of the unclean?” queried the priest. It was more of a rhetorical question than anything.

Emil suddenly became aware of what was going on.

”Father, the Czardaian people are a tolerant folk. We neither discriminate on basis of religion nor race nor sex,” he proclaimed almost boastfully, ”I wanted to serve so that I may defend this way of life.”

Father Seneca seemed concerned. The boastful smile of the pilot faded away. ”What is wrong, father?

Seneca sighed and spoke once more, ”Child, I fear for you. Living in the company of the infidel for too long can have…terrible consequences. One’s mind can be…twisted…”

He seemed to stare into space as he spoke, as if reminiscing. ”They say God works in mysterious ways. He indeed does; you need only look at your life in the past ten hours. But Satan works in strange ways as well….” Father Seneca went no further.

”Father…what are you saying?” replied the Czardaian.

Father Seneca turned towards Emil and stared into his eyes in a most serious manner.

”All your life you have been lied to; brainwashed to serve the whims of a pagan slave-driver. Whether you know it or not, you have served Satan willfully, and it is this fact that inspires men to terrible deeds. Tolerance.” the priest scoffed, ”Look towards Arretium. There is your ‘tolerance’.”

Emil looked towards the spiteful priest nervously.

”I have…served the devil?” he managed weakly.
Seneca’s tenseness relaxed. ”Yes, Emil. As I said, I fear for your soul. If you were to have been slaughtered on that beach, you surely would have been damned for all eternity. Do not forget that. But the fact remains: God has chosen to spare you. There is hope for you, Emil. And if there is hope for you, there may possibly be hope for…well, many of your people. Tell me, are there others like you? Believers that serve Satan?”

Emil looked away.

”Yes…”

Seneca put his hand on Emil’s shoulder.

”Fear not, brother, for our God is one of infinite forgiveness,”

Emil turned back towards the priest, staring at him for a moment. And then he spoke.

”Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were a sorry sight. It was depressing to watch as the remainder of the aircraft touched down on that Crematorian air base; many of them had scorch marks, shell holes. Then again, many of them didn’t even come back in the first place. Tribune Gaius Cassius Spurius looked to be a beaten man when his cockpit canopy popped open. He was very, very tired, and it showed.

A crewman had to help him out of the cockpit so sore was the Doomani ace. He clambered down the ladder and onto the surface of the subterranean hangar. Yes, subterranean. Because of Crematoria’s high rate of sand storms, all hangars and other key facilities of the airbase (and indeed, any other base located in that vast desert) were located underground. The only thing above the surface was the runway, a few entrances, and the control tower.

Above ground, aircraft landed at a constant rate: this was necessary due to an impending sand storm. Getting caught above ground during the day in the middle of a Crematorian sandstorm was nothing short of suicide. When steaming hot sand hits your skin at ninety miles per hour, it tends to hurt quite a bit, especially when there’s a lot of it. If too much of it hits you at once, your flesh could literally be torn from the bone. Therefore, it was a good idea to stay indoors during a sandstorm.

When an aircraft landed, it would immediately taxi to a nearby elevator, which would bring it to an underground hangar. At the moment, the base was becoming very crowded: it was designed to house just one squadron of Aquilas, and it was now required to accommodate three. Well, two and a half.

The nuclear strike on Arretium had forced Spurius’ squadron to relocate to another base. This particular facility, Manius Quintus Air Force Base, was five hundred miles inland. Quite a ways away from Arretium, but still well within range of the Aquila squadrons.

”Hard fight, eh Trib?” a crew chief asked him, handing him a bottle of water as Spurius stepped off the ladder.

Graciously, Spurius took the bottle from him, downing the liquid in a few seconds. He turned to examine his beloved aircraft to find three large holes in the starboard wing. He stuck his fist through it one from beneath the aircraft: it was still hot. But it was a clean hole. Some asshole had gotten lucky with his 25mm cannon and raked the whole wing: three neat little holes all in a row. It was unsightly.

”Shit!” Spurius yelled, throwing his helmet to the pavement and kicking it.

”Woah, take it easy, Tribune! We’ll have ‘er fixed up in no time!” the crew chief consoled.

Spurius calmed down. It probably wasn’t so much the fact his fighter had a big hole in it so much as the fact that half of his squadron had been killed in the fighting that day. Well, the important thing was that he’d come out alive with the other half of his squadron. That meant he would have the opportunity to avenge those killed by the Czardaian infidels another time. That was all that mattered now.

In total, the Czardaian Air Force had shot down ninety-three Aquilas, including six aircraft from Spurius’ squadron. He and his men could be considered lucky: some squadrons had been totally annihilated in that furball. Spurius himself had only shot down two on the previous sortie, and that wasn't counting Questarians, and there sure as hell weren't only two aircraft in the Czardaian Air Force. That meant he had quite a ways to go before he could proclaim with confidence that he'd killed the last of them.

He wasn't quite sure he'd ever get there, either. The men he faced today were some of the best pilots he'd ever seen. That last Czardaian had given him some serious trouble: Spurius himself had nearly been shot down! Of course, he'd given that heathen his just reward, pumping his Kestral full of 23mm high explosive incindiery shells.

Of course, there was also the matter of dead family. While that was now a very real problem for most of the men of the XVIII Tactical Fighter Squadron, its leader did not have that to worry about. Spurius’ wife and children had gone vacationing the previous day to Doomanum Superior the previous day.

God had granted him that much out of all of this, and he was indeed grateful. But for now, it was time to recuperate. The Czardaians were bound to come ashore very soon, and when they did, Spurius and his men would be ready for them.

Prae Domine omnia aequi.

Before God, all things are equal.

Emil Deleri raises his head. The phrase has just occurred to him, as he sits here, in a Doomani camp, praying. It is almost like an answer to his desire for forgiveness... a solution, staring him hard and inexorable in the face. God does not look upon any of His most loyal servants any differently if they have lived all their lives among infidels or among the faithful.

Emil knows now that he will make it his standard. He will wage his own crusade against those who try to claim they are better than others; for in the newfound light in which he exults, he sees now. The Czardaians are attacking Doomingsland not for any righteous reason – but because they think of themselves as better, as morally more correct. And for that, in terms of morality, they are contemptible, arrogant, unworthy of the love of Jesus. Yet the Lord in His infinite compassion has shown pity on the ignorant; for He will allow them – through His vessel Emil Deleri – a swift death, an end to the life in which their names will only become more blackened with their actions.

As these thoughts pass through Emil Deleri's mind, he searches. His hidden boot knife, they have yet to take it from him; and he reaches down, pulling that from its sheath on his lower ankle. It is a small knife, but it will do the job adequately enough.

Emil takes out the blade and begins to write, upon his own skin – his right arm, in clumsy lettering, grimacing as the welcome pain flows through him once more. Blood wells up, running down his forearm, but he continues on until the lettering shines in the light, an irreparable message and a penance in one. The pain is becoming unbearable, but Emil raises his eyes to the heavens, a silent question – and one that goes unanswered.

As he washes and cleanses his self-injury, he reads the block lettering once more – Prae Domine omnia aequi – and begins to speak, in a voice unheard by any, perhaps not even himself. "With this right arm of mine, and this sign, given me by the Lord Above, I shall conquer. I shall not rest until the boastful, the egoistic, those concerned only with themselves have ceased to threaten true and Christian peoples. Above all, I shall remember that it is only by the grace of God that I may be victorious, and I must remain humble, knowing that without His mercy I would be burning in Gehenna with the souls of the damned."

And speaking this, a weight seems to be lifted from his mind by some reverse gravity; a great calm comes over him, and he sleeps.

* * *

Bridge of the CCS Steel Penis

Preceded by the cry of "Admiral on the bridge!", Admiral Nelson T. J. Marcus brings his imposing bulk onto the command bridge, looking around with some approval at the officers at their stations and the shiny LCD screens displaying ships and satellite images of the fleet's progress and achievements so far (which have included engineering the deaths of over 2 million Doomani, but who's counting?).

"Gentlemen, and lady," (after his female XO throws a large vase at him) "how is everything going?"

"We are doing remarkably well sir," an Ensign says, "being currently approximately five hundred klicks from the Doomani shore, with no action detected from the shore defenses. Partly because there aren't any more shore defenses."

"Are the troops prepped for landing, General?" Marcus asks his top general, who salutes in response.

"Sir, yes sir," the General says. "In fact, they've never been more eager to kill things, and the Troops™ are proudly showing off their super-cool armored exoskeletons equipped with internal cooling systems and carbon-carbon nanomatrix interwoven outer shell with internalised communication interface and..."

"Oh, don't remind me," Marcus groans knowingly, his brain still recoiling at the thought of an $850,000 soldier. "Air Marshal?"

"--What?" Siobhan White turns irritably from her screen to face the Admiral full on, causing several unprintable thoughts to pass through the latter's cerebrum. "Ah yes. Um... the Air Force is recuperating at the moment from its rather significant losses; initial estimates are of at least a hundred airframes completely lost, including two Hailstorms. However, by the time we reach the Doomani shore, I'm certain we shall be ready to provide full air support to our troops."

The Admiral appears to fail to notice her lack of formality; it's something she manages to get away with a lot. "Very well, keep me informed on the situation, dismissed."

At that moment, Marcus's XO calls him over. "Admiral, we're getting a message from Kari Alhoun, and he sounds angry."

"What does the message say?"

"It says, 'I am angry! Admiral Marcus, please contact me from your office; we have several things to discuss.'" the XO reads.

"Uh... very well," Marcus says, wondering what it could be all about; he meanders over to his private office and dials in the comm.

The face of Kari Alhoun appears on the screen, and he does look slightly upset. Smoke is pouring out of his ears, his face is red, and his hair is on fire. Well, not really, but he does have a really severe look on his face.

"Admiral Marcus, do you know why we are pursuing this war?" Alhoun says in a chillingly cold voice.

"Uh.... the Doomani and their CAD brothers are a threat to freedom and democracy worldwide, and if we let them go unfettered, Western civilisation itself and all it stands for shall be at stake--"

"Admiral." Alhoun's voice bears a tone of sharp rebuke. "You know better than to believe propaganda."

"So... why are we going to war then, Minister?"

"Well, let's face it. Information is far, far freer in Czardas than in any other nation worldwide. An estimated 36% of our population has at least a basic knowledge of computer code, including 45% of children under 16, and is capable of hacking our secret intelligence database. In effect, once we joined the Sovereign League, a good proportion of people with the time and effort could access records of everything the SL did, except for records we kept in Lac-Montagne, which were cut off from all outside access by a few hundred kilometres of solid rock and even more firewalls.

"We were rather stupid. We thought the SL would be more of a successor alliance to the Woodstock Pact, maintaining its integrity. So therefore, when the Imperialist Triumvirate was formed, and SL members began co-operating with Czardas's bitterest enemies, people found out about it. Of course, we quickly tried to cover this up, moving the SL datafiles to Lac-Montagne, but the damage had been done -- they had been posted to Czardasnet, and were freely available. People were becoming discontent, and insisting we withdraw from the alliance, sever all ties with member nations, and expel the Silver Skyian corporation We Buy It Inc. from our shores. Naturally, you know we couldn't do that.

"We needed to do something to stop an all-out revolution -- an organised one, that is. So we chose the best target: Doomingsland. Their allies were attacking our allies to the south, and we've been enemies with the Doomani for years... the only group that doesn't share our hatred is the predominantly Catholic area around the city of Dorandor, and they are a minority overall. So we sent our forces to battle the Doomani, appearing to be launching a crusade for justice."

Alhoun's voice breaks as he splutters, "And what do you do? You go and nuke them!"

Marcus's eyes widen. "But Minister... I thought we were launching a crusade against the Doomani, and had to kill them by any means possible..."

"You utter blundering fool! Our possession of nuclear weapons was a closely guarded secret, you weren't supposed to use them except as a last ditch defense... uh, well, offense... and we don't even have that many of them! You've wiped out a whole city of CIVILIANS, don't you know how badly the international community is going to come down on our collective asses for this? Or worse -- our own people! They may well sympathise with the Doomani as victims!"

Marcus fights back his shame, putting on a proud demeanor. "I don't regret what I did, Minister. The Doomani deserved it. Besides, can't you keep it from the people? Just store the sat images in Lac-Montagne?"

"No, I can't, Admiral," Alhoun says with chilling sarcasm. "The Doomani news networks have broadcasted this everywhere. People will see it whether they want to or not. We're already getting protests in front of Congress Hall, demanding that we apologise to the Doomani government and offer full reparations. With the state our economy is in from deploying more than eight million men, we can barely afford what we already spend anyway..."

"So what can I do about it?" Marcus spreads his hands on the table. "I can't recall the missiles, they've already done their damage. We can't apologise with reparations, because we don't have the money. We'll just have to go through with it."

"And have millions die in the process? No, Admiral. You're coming back to Czardas."

"Um, no. I am not coming back to Czardas."

"This is an order from Minister Ogden, Admiral. You're coming back or you're getting court-martialed."

"So I'm getting court-martialed then. I'd like to see you try to court-martial me when I'm a few thousand klicks away. Or maybe you'll deploy another fleet to retrieve me and take me home?"

Alhoun is silent for a moment. "Admiral, if you don't come back, all of Czardas will be in deadly danger. We'll be in danger of collapsing. Especially with so few soldiers to keep law and order in the streets."

"I bloody well started this," Marcus says. "I'm going to finish it. I don't get a job half done."

"Nelson." Alhoun leans forward. "If you go through this, we're all going to
die. Understand? It's imperative that you come back now."

"If I finish it," Marcus says, "we're not going to die. We'll win. Czardas will stand once more as a preserver of civilisation, of democracy."

"I'm disowning you, Nelson. And I'm going to order your individual commanders to come back."

"They can't. They're under my command." Marcus smiles in a sphinx-like fashion.

Alhoun picks up a heavy book and throws it at the screen. The book hits; the image of Alhoun sways and wavers for a bit, and then simply collapses into blankness.

Marcus remains staring at the empty screen for a long time. Then he begins to nod his head, very slowly.

He understands now.

And understanding is a frightening thing.

CCS Steel Penis, zero hour

The bridge of the mighty Super-Battleship is a literal hive of activity. The fleet has passed the striking range of Doomani shore defences, and nothing has happened; although as Siobhan White suggested sarcastically, "It couldn't have anything to do with the fact that we nuked them, now could it?" The general consensus is that Admiral Marcus had spent too much time around Anagonians for his own good. Be that as it may, the transport ships have already formed up to dock at whatever was left of the Arretium harbour and unleash their deadly cargo (almost a million troops, plus tanks and artillery and stuff) onto Doomani soil.

The XO is repeating orders from her CO as fast as possible, to the consternation of the junior officers as they try to understand what the hell she's talking about; aides, and Admirals, and Generals run to and fro carrying large stacks of irrelevant papers and/or cups of hot coffee, which intersect with catastrophic results; there is an island of sanity surrounding one Iosef V. Stalin (no relation to a latter-day Soviet dictator), a young radar officer who has temporarily taken charge of the satellite systems as well after the officer in charge of those turned into an iguana.

Stalin is watching the screens, which show from above pictures of the fleet moving in towards the coast. He scrolls up and, to his amazement, the deep blue abruptly disappears to be replaced with a light blue, as though the waters of the harbour simply poured over the edge into parts of Arretium. Further analysis reveals that one of the missiles hit at the edge of the harbour, its blast radius encompassing part of the town as well as another, much deeper crater; Stalin pans over the other crater, into which a massive waterfall of seawater is pouring in and immediately bubbling up as the immense heat and stray nucleons at the bottom of the crater boil it and turn it into heavy water, or deuterium oxide -- which is highly radioactive and, at these temperatures, will simply fry anything that falls in.

Stalin reports this to the XO, who cannot hear him due to the noise created by a rampage of small furry kittens across her section of the bridge; however, he eventually manages to make himself understood, and the XO contacts the CO, who contacts the XO back with instructions, which are then relayed back to Stalin. In the form they reach Stalin, they are something like this:

"Admiral wants you to map out -- get away from me you shitfaced idiot, can't you see I'm broadcasting?! -- a 'safe' path that, if we follow it, won't cause us to get our asses scalded off. AND YOU, LIEUTENANT, NO FELLATIO ON THE BRIDGE! You copy?"

"Roger," Stalin says. "Stalin out."

Putting on his headphones and hitting the 'Blast Music Really Loud To Drown Out Distracting Noises From the Rest Of The Bridge' button on his iPod, Stalin opens Photoshop and begins to construct a pathway from the landing zone around the various craters and zones of high radioactivity. It's a rather roundabout one, but tanks ought to be able to traverse it; except for hills and rubble, there is nothing else in the way. By the time Stalin has finished this map, the transport ships have reached the edge of former harbour waters, and disgorged their contents into the shallow waters off what used to be Arretium.

* * *

The landing is very different from any other the Czardaian Army has assisted in. Admittedly there have not been many of these; the troops of the Amyntos incident were airlifted in, and the invasion of Red Tide had been accompanied by overwhelming allied support from The Silver Sky and Anagonia. But although the Czardaians are the only ones landing, this is hauntingly different from any other they have participated in.

The doors of the transports slide open, and RHIBs splash down in shallow water; boatloads of armed troops emerge, guns and armour at the ready, but unfired. From other transports soldiers simply wade out, guns held high. Then they realise how silent it is. Aside from the distant roar of water, the lapping of waves against the shore, the sounds of nuclear reactors and ships working, and the sound of their own wading, there are no yells, no gunfire, no sounds of blazing metal or of battle. Arretium is truly dead.

One of the troops stumbles against something in the murky water; he turns it over and recoils in horror. It is a dead Doomani, his eyes bloody sockets, his skin coming off in chunks to reveal dead bones and muscles below. His clothing has been melded into his body by the sheer heat of the explosion; his face is drawn back in a scream of anguish, cut off by painful death. So this is how the Czardaians have repaid their enemies. Does anyone truly deserve this?

Ashore, in full NBC gear, troops half-heartedly begin setting up their guns; tanks roll up the beach, while field guns are dragged in by groups of soldiers. The ships wait beyond, standing grim sentinel. Detection systems and radios are, of course, screwed up beyond recognition due to the interfering radiation. The Czardaians stare out at the ruined city beyond the nearest hill, then back at each other. It is a solemn moment.

For more than an hour troops continue to come ashore, along with equipment and artillery. The Czardaian Air Force is already flying patrols over the city and the craggy cliffs on either side of it, making sure no army or police groups, or even armed Doomani, are awaiting the Czardaians. Gunships and strike fighters are returning to the carriers occasionally with a depleted missile complement and hot gun barrels, but more often, nothing can be seen or heard. If they knew from what direction to expect reinforcements, they could fly patrols around the area to look for them, but they do not.

Resolutely, the Czardaians begin to march up the paths set out for them by Iosef V. Stalin, taking care to avoid the occasional massive crater or bubbling pool of heavy water. Their assault rifles and SMGs are at the ready; the columns are headed by APCs and tanks; helicopters and fighter planes whirl past overhead at low altitudes, on the lookout for anything resembling an enemy emplacement. But just from seeing the broken, horrifically mangled bodies littered everywhere, the morale of the Czardaian soldiers is plunging. Was this all really worth the small strategic advantage the Czardaians might gain from it? Similar thoughts are in the minds of all of the soldiers landing today. Of course, they will soon find out.

* * *

Somewhere in Doomingsland.

He is doing much better.

It is, of course, a personal evaluation, because after all, he is the only one who can determine what will happen to him; God granted him free will for a reason, after all. His purpose now is to use that free will to bring himself back into the world of the living, of those whom God might look kindly upon, the world whence he was so close to falling from a few short days ago. But it feels a lifetime to Emil Deleri. He knows that God is forgiving, and will overlook his many sins and transgressions if he consents to spend the rest of his earthly existence in the just worship of God and pursuit of His enemies, if only to make those ignorant ones too understand, the way he did. Daily Emil reminds himself how fortunate he is.

Emil has been transferred. One day an Imperial officer had arrived at the camp, and—Emil guessed—had informed the commanding officers that Emil was to be inducted as an Auxilium. Wished the standard farewells and prayers by the priests, Emil had been given a new uniform and had boarded a small truck which already held a good baker's dozen Doomani airmen. It is that truck he now is seated within, rattling across the endless desert, which reminds Emil slightly of the Czardaian military outpost north of Kahanistan in climate, and which must be on nearly the same longitude. (Latitude? Emil can never remember the difference.)

It has been hours. How many hours, Emil does not know; but likely not more than four or five. The smell of sweat is pungent in the air and his canteen of water is nearly empty. Emil looks around at the other Doomani; they mostly ignore him, their eyes trained elsewhere, faces inscrutable. As Emil returns to his silent reverie, a shout reaches his ears, and he jerks upright as Doomani begin to wave and yell at each other, the rapid chatter of Latin reaching his ears. He realises that they have arrived, and listening with half an ear to the trash-talking and banter, Emil notices how similar it actually is to Sovereign League military forces.

He could get used to this.

He climbs out of the truck and, exchanging a few words with the commanding officer awaiting the new arrivals, is directed towards a fighter plane halfway across the sunlit airstrip. Emil crosses self-consciously, his eyes occasionally straying to his uniform and then to the Doomani airmen who may or may not be watching them; then he sees his fighter.

It is an Aquila, and it is the first time he has seen one from so close, save during his dogfight against that other Doomani fighter, the one that had shot him down. Emil is already examining it: it is surprisingly small, its wings an unusual shape slightly -- but not entirely -- reminiscent of the Kestrel; it is obviously not the newest and shiniest of models, and has seen action, but Emil never believed for a moment that the Arma Caelum Imperium Doomanum would give a beginning Auxilium one of its best aircrafts.

Emil is close to the aircraft and its camo RAM pattern; he can see the lines, the low-set airframe, the cannon, missile pylons, and engines. While his pace has not slowed, to him the world seems to be moving in slow motion; his feet feel leaden and his bowels have turned to freezing water. Emil Deleri climbs into the cockpit, the bottom dropping out of his stomach as though he were already catching some G's up there in the sky. Emil is looking at the interior of the plane: the instruments and dials, the instructions, everything. He is about to familiarise himself with it when he realises that -- with different names, colours, etc. -- the layout is essentially the same as that of any other fighter he has flown.

Reasoning that there may be some type of international standard for these types of things -- he is not actually too far off the mark -- Emil slowly begins to test his hypothesis. If the layout is the same, this lever may mean "go forward". Emil tests it and lo, so it does. He hits another button and, as calculated, his active radar turns on. Hitting another button, rather than the expected result of opening the weapons menu, sets the autocannon to chattering; that's a slight change, but the weapons menu is located just below that.

After a short time of this a voice comes through on Emil's radio, with almost the same amount of static as on a Kestrel. Emil truly marvels now. "This is control tower, you've been cleared for take-off for the past ten minutes. You going to fly anywhere?"

"Deleri to control tower, sorry about that, over," Emil says, and begins to move forward. He's done this before, many times, although more frequently from carriers. Hitting acceleration, he feels his fighter plane accelerate, lift off. He is climbing rapidly now, shot like a bullet from a gun; the airframe reverberates as Emil breaks mach and begins a swift turning maneuver. He is surprised at how maneuverable the Aquila is, more so than even the Kestrel; he rolls, wings away over the airbase, climbs higher towards the sun, then turns again to fall back towards earth.

Emil is really enjoying this now. He'll be glad to get back into action.

As he lands once more, Emil rolls up his sleeve and looks at the words he inscribed on there, his reminder. Prae Domine omnia aequi. Before God, all things are equal.

And he thinks: Perhaps, not all.