NationStates Jolt Archive

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Urgent Communique

From: General Sverik Iljievo, Commander in Chief, Generian Imperial Armed Forces
To: General Lew Nys’ky, Commander, Generian Imperial Army of the South

General Nys’ky,

As was specified in the briefing this morning, the Imperial Government, noting the recently heightened tensions between CAD and SL alliance members, has seen fit to establish a Generian presence in the eastern portions of the Haven region, close to the heartlands of several SL nations. On the direction of the Emperor Kazatmiru, the Generian Imperial General Staff is to orchestrate the construction of a colony directly south of the mainland territory of the nation of Aralonia.

As you have demonstrated formidable competence in the reconstruction and refortification of the southern expanses of the Empire following the conclusion of the Yaforite war, and due to your exceptional efforts during the first and second Buchianan campaigns, I have seen fit to recommend you for command of this operation.

Effective immediately, you are to be relieved of your command of the Generian Imperial Southern Theatre, and take up command of the 1st Imperial Expeditionary Army, composed of the 3rd, 5th, 12th, 17th, and 21st Generian Imperial Armies, all of which were culled from your former command, and all of which distinguished themselves in the war of Yaforite Aggression.

The initial deployment, however, will consist solely of the 3rd Army, which will serve as the bulk of your forces in the early stages of the operation, as the territory in question is seized, and the construction of ports, installations, and fortifications begins. With the manpower available to you, the General Staff expects significant progress to have been made on this military “colony” in three months time, enough progress to facilitate the deployment of additional troops, and a large number of civilian elements. With the arrival of additional personnel, the General Staff will be sending heavy weapons elements, including one GINPG-1 Nuclear Pulse Gun.

You are to proceed immediately to Port Belgrade, where the 3rd army has already been assembled for deployment, and in three days you will accompany them, under protection of the 1st Imperial Foreign Operation Fleet to the waters of eastern Haven.

Good luck, General.

General Sverik Iljievo,
Commander in Chief, Generian Imperial Army,
Chief of the Imperial General Staff

-----------

Port Belgrade, Generia

It was a cool evening on the Bay of Belgrade, a storm out in the Inkanan Channel having stirred up the waters early that morning and sent a wave of cold air inland, towards Generia. The sun hung heavily on the horizon, over the distant hills, casting its red fingers out over the city and the sea in a final yawning stretch. Standing on the roof of the squat brown building that was the headquarters of the Generian Imperial Navy, Admiral Georg Stekov took in a bit of the calm that had become scarce in the past months since his return from Socal8.

The Generian flag waving on a pole jutting out below his feet, to hang over the entrance to the Imperial naval yard, the commander let the stiff breeze wash over the burn scars that covered his face. He had long been of the opinion that the salt air was far more effective than any balm of salve he could apply, to soothe the ache that still plagued him. In front of him, the massive gray hulls of the huge Generian troop transport vessels sat quiet in the water, and further out on the harbor similar vessels rested at anchor among more sinister looking ships of war, docile now in the calm before the storm hanging in the channel made landfall.

“Shipping out again soon I see, Admiral.”

The man turned his face slightly, letting the lens of his one unpatched eye scan the face of a newcomer, a man dressed in the uniform of the Imperial Army, not a rare sight these days. The man seemed to carry some less than 60 years, the hair on his head close cropped and white, like the neat beard on his chin. He was short and stout, and though aged, was still powerful. He wore a pair of magnum revolvers in holsters at his hips, something that would instantly identify him to even a casual observer as the famed General Lew “Lion” Nys’ky.

The Admiral cracked a slight smile.

“Don’t tell me they put you in charge.”

“God knows if they didn’t, I wouldn’t have come all the way just to look at your ugly face.”

Stekov turned his face back to the sea. Nys’ky went on.

“We’re shipping out tomorrow from what I hear. Going to give the SL sons of bitches something to think about.”

“The whole operation’s a fool’s errand if you ask me.”

“Yes, but I didn’t ask you. What The Emperor orders, he gets.”

“True. Still, I don’t see much reason for the expedition. The SL’s been sitting on their asses for years. Why would they lash out now?”

“Who cares if they lash out or not? It’s all for the glory of Generia, of course.”

Here, the General cracked a proud grin.

“Land, power. It’s been too long since this Empire behaved like one. I can tell you this much, Kazatmiru isn’t afraid to imitate his grandfather.”

“And remember what happened to him?”

“Kazatmiru’s smarter. He won’t make the same mistakes, but he won’t back away from opportunity. You know what this whole thing is? Opportunity. Plain and simple. We’ll have them with their pants down and they won’t be able to do a damned thing.”

Stekov raised his eyebrow and turned to his counterpart.

“So you think there will be war?”

“Of course. You’re a navy man, look at the way the wind’s blowing.”

“Political winds are more subtle.”

“This one’s a regular tempest, and it’s sure as Hell blowing in our favor.”

They fell silent, lost in thought. At length, Stekov turned and moved towards the roof access.

“Whatever the case, we ship out tomorrow evening.”

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

The next day was a gray one. The day proceeded with the loading of troops and supplies at each of the 7 major dockyards. The operation would be a massive undertaking, evident from the sheer amount of construction equipment and supplies being loaded on board the gigantic Generian transport vessels. As the sun began to sink once again, the last put out to harbor. The 1st fleet had already entered the channel, Admiral Stekov aboard the flagship, the supercarrier Sofia. As the clock struck midnight, the Generian transport fleet started out into the Channel, from which it would proceed to the distant waters of Haven.

taggity

tag

tag

tag

Feels like a [tag]

Tag

Pwnage Central Command, Some Late Hour:

"Alright, now what do the Generians need?"

Admiral Rebecca Zheng, Secretary of the Navy, flipped through the report that Central Command had just recieved. She brushed some of her hair out of her face.

"Naval support Becky, naval support."

"What's our cut Marcel?"

Marcel Han, Pwnage Defense Secretary thought for a bit.

"If we win, operational costs, and a few trillion in profit."

"Has higher cleared this op?"

"Maia's cool with it. We'll wake the Great Leader in the morning."

"You rang Marcel?"

The big Lizardman somehow managed to squeeze in through the human sized door leading to Admiral Zheng's office.

"Umm... well... yea? So what's the status on this Haven Op sir?"

"We do it Marcel, we do it. Becky get our boys and girls geared up."

"Yes sir." The young secretary nodded and began to tap out an email to her fleet admirals.

"In the meantime Marcel, get in touch with the army boys. I've been thinking of expanding our borders in Africa....."

[Tag of victory, since it directly concerns me and yes, it's going to be fun :)]

Teh tagz0rz

Bhalk’s office:

“It seems the old days are returning, does it not?”

“Ah yes, big profitable wars that could…but never will, end up in The Empire’s destruction.”

“I can smell the war in the air.”

Chancellor Licinius and Emperor Bhalk laughed as they both sipped their vodka at the same time. The strange unison however was shrugged off as they began to look at various maps laid out on a table nearby.

“So Licinius, show me how it goes thus far.”

Pointing at several metallic figurines on the map Licinius began to explain the situation. “And so we have only one fleet currently busy, in Warmaster and all, and everyone else is ready to go. Fleets and men have returned from the conquest of Socal8; and now we can deploy whatever we wish to assist Generia.”

“Excellent. The men are all mobilized or mobilizing for this war. Request what Generia would like us to do so as to assist them. Inform them that the First and Second fleets can set sail as soon as they request it, and more to follow if they so desire.”

“It shall be done.”

--------------------------------------------
….Encrypting…
…2VX Encryption Complete…
Official Imperial Communique:

To: Emperor Katzmiru
From: Chancellor Licinius

Emperor Bhalk would like me to inquire as to how you would want The Empire to assist you in your war. If you so desire we can immediately send the First and Second fleets to assist you, and more so later on if it is necessary.

End Transmission

OOC: Is it possible to play a part?

One Month Following Initial Embarkment

General Nys'ky stood on the top of a concrete bunker, overlooking the hills and dales that led to the shore a half kilometer away. The noise was deafening as the thunderous engines of construction machinery roared about him, working to fortify this stretch of terrain as with every other square kilometer of land Generia had so far claimed. The barrel of an 18 inch gun protruded from below the General's feet, facing east, in the direction of the large bay-like inlet in the surrounding sea, where a large portion of the Generian 1st fleet now waited.

Construction of a port was proceeding smoothly due to the sheer amount of manpower available, and shortly following the initial embarkment onto the strange and foreign shores of eastern Haven, a steady stream of men, equipment, and supplies were pouring in through the harbor.

A series of large airfields were also under construction, and a large number of ground based GIF-1 interceptors, GIF-77 strike aircraft, and GIB-1 heavy bombers had taken up roost in the hangers.

The speed with which the project was coming along would have been alarming to anyone, but more so to the nations of the SL sitting just over a nearby mountain range, no doubt paying very close attention. General Nys'ky's operation was already well ahead of schedule, and a new deployment was on its way, to arrive in less than a month complete with Generian civilian "colonists" and private construction contractors who would help speed the project even more.

[THE NONAGON, NEW SARIS, SARIS CONTROL ZONE, ARALONIA]

Archon Hopkins took a sip of his tea as his secretary Alexandra Bryant entered the room. She placed a manila folder on his desk and was about to take a step out when the Archon asked her a question.

“Ms. Bryant?”

“Yes, Archon?” She usually wasn't talked to like this on a normal day.

“What do you think of the Vice Admiral?” He motioned for her to sit down and handed her a cup of tea in a saucer.

“Well, sir, I feel he's a good Aralonian sailor and a patriot to his homeland, if that's what you're asking.” Bryant was puzzled slightly.

“I'm not talking about that. I hear that you recently entered into a relationship with him?” Hopkins smiled compassionately. “It's quite alright. I only recently could tell myself.”

“Well, yes, sir-”

“Call me Doned, please. I'm one of the Admiral's good friends.”

“Ah, that makes things easier. Yes, we're in a relationship now.” She smiled gently at the Archon.

“Good. I tell you to take good care of him – he's an important Aralonian citizen, as you said.” Hopkins smiled back, and opened one of the manila folders as Bryant left. He opened up a transmission to one of the fleet command admirals. “These are the results from the joint Whyatican practice operation?”

“Yes, sir, NIFTY DOLPHIN went down very well on our part. Without many submarines of our own, it was only natural to have to ask the Whyaticans to contribute submarines to the operation. All in all, it was a rather fine display of Aralonian force.”

“Good. How is the Third Expeditionary Fleet going? And who the hell are these ships belonging to?” The Archon pointed at a massive black-and-white composite photograph of a mass of ships headed on a course that might take them to Southern Aralonia and Nadixel. Nadixelian bastards.

“Well, sir, we've been troubled by a massive fleet moving towards Southern Aralonia and Nadixel. Nadixelian bastards. They appear to be owned by the Generic Empire and have taken landfall between us and Nadixel on the western coast.”

“Do we have any dossier knowledge on them?” The Archon looked genuinely worried.

“Not really. We'll contact the Whyaticans, Skyians, Czardians, Velkyans, and the Space Union, hell we'll call the whole group of just about everyone just to get info on these guys. But things are looking ugly. They're moving arseloads of tanks south of the Berona Range.” The Berona Range were the mountains creating the border between Aralonia and unclaimed, unnecessary land.

“That could get problematic. Keep me posted on this. And what of the Third Expeditionary? They're currently steaming home from a diplomatic meeting in Questers, aren't they?”

“Yes, they encountered a Nadixelian submarine – I believe it was a Golf-class – and sunk it well, though.”

“Splendid.” The Archon read over the reports with a pleased look on his face. “Very well. Keep me posted on this... Generian situation, Admiral. Do not let me down. Also, move the 12th Home Guard Fleet and the 14th Carrier Battlegroup to between Aralonia and Nadixel, near the unclaimed territory. We'll need them there just in case hell breaks loose down there. I know we can't fight with staying power, we may have to fight a retreat out if something like that occurs.”

The Admiral blinked. “Are you suggesting that in the event of war, we leave behind a hundred fifty million Aralonians to die?”

The Archon didn't react, with merely a dark look on his face. “If worst comes to worst... Aralonia expects that every man will do his duty. That's all I can say about that now. Is there anything else to report?”

The Admiral blinked and swallowed a retort. “No, sir, that will be all.”

“Very good.” The Archon closed the communications link and looked back at the image of a massive fleet steaming towards Aralonia and sighed. “Aralonia expects that every man will do his duty, indeed.”

High Orbit Over the Generic Empire

"Meet me in Outer Space

We could spend a night

Watch the earth come up."

Ah, yes, on yonder computer at 1 AM in the morning, the fifteen year old known to the NationStates community as Velkya searched to find something to start his post with. Seeing as the best he could come up with was some cruddy Incubus lyrics, I'd say he pretty much failed in that aspect.

Oh, wait, what?

Oh yes, the story. Silly me.

Anyways, where were we? Oh yeah, orbit above Generia.

Ah, the void. It's quite, big. And really, really empty. Well, for the purposes of this story, this particular part of the void was filled. Filled with what, you say? Why, filled with an Allied Union Space Defense Force Solaris class photographic recon satellite, it was. The electronic eyes of the satellite, filtering through infrared, thermal, and normal optics, it hovered over the space of terra firma currently recognized by the pencil neck in the V.C. as the Generic Empire. And oh, did they look pissed. Either there was free pie for the first Generian unit to mobilize, or some poor commie bastard has lifted his head into the kill zone. Or possibly a third option. Regardless, somebody was going to die a painful, humiliating death in a short while. The satellite continued to scan the area, registering everything from aircraft lifting off from their bases from mighty superdreadpenii leaving their docks and heading for open water, surrounded by the usual flotillas of escorts and what looked like cargo vessels. Intrigued, the satellite continued to take images of the Generic mobilization, until its massive databanks were actually bursting at the seams with images and video captures of every square inch of Generia over the course of several complete orbits.

Returning to its data-link up point over the North Pacific Ocean, it relayed the terabytes of data it had gathered on the potential enemy to the already overworked spooks at the Office of Military Intelligence in Chronopolis, Selka. Groaning threats about union intervention, then remembering that the military didn't have unions, they fed the literal millions of images into several Apollo supercomputers they had on hand for specifically for this purpose, which placed the images on a terrain data map of the Generic Empire, superimposing the images onto the three dimensional map to create a photorealistic map of Generia from which military planners and news "analysts" who didn't know the difference between a missile boat and a battleship could work from. In order to keep the data relevant and up-to-date, more satellites, including a small group of dedicated RORSAT units, were assigned to the Generian theatre of operations in geosynchronous orbits, photo recording the sea lanes that the Generic fleets were operating in, then bouncing the live, streaming data through several unsuspecting foreign satellites to reach the OMI headquarters and it's computer systems, allowing the map to be updated in real-time to the needs of the Defense Force. Over the course of several days, intelligence officers of OMI specializing in naval operations began to decipher the course of the enemy warships, and soon discovered they'd be in a world of paperwork. The course, narrowed down to the slightest degree possible, was determined to be the northern reaches of Haven.

And, Velkya happened to be in the northern reaches of Haven as well.

Fuck, man, fuck.

OMI, without delay which might be slightly detrimental to the current situation, forwarded this data the Allied Union Defense Force Central Command in the Cap Range of southern Velkya, who then prepared it to go the Allied Union Grand Senate, who, I must say, are going to be a hell of a lot more serious about this situation than I was. While they debated, the AUDFCC began priority one alert calls to other allied nations in the region, including but not limited to the Democratic Republic of Omz222, the Armed Capitalist Republic of the Silver Sky, the Crown Commonwealth of Praetonia, the Federative Sikh Republic of Space Union, Royal Sovereignty of Aralonia, those crazy anarchists over in Czardas, the Sovereign Republic of Willink, and of course, the oddly dressed fucktards to the north, Whyatica. In addition, as par with Velkyan military doctrine, military bases from the smallest concentrated Coastal Defense Force surface-to-air missile batteries to the huge nuclear pulse gun complexes around the mainland of the Allied Union were alerted to possible hostile action within the next several days.

The stage was set.

(OOC: Master thread including links set up here (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=11645470#post11645470).)

Not this bullshit again..

This entire damn world was always in a state of war. In some form or another, nations waged war in what seemed to be eternity, almost fulfilling the prophecy 'War Is Peace.' Citizens these days didn't care when Nation X declared war on Nation Y for Z reason, because they got used to it. "Oh, some nation I've never heard of before got invaded and exterminated. Big whoop." Even when the allies of the Imperial Democracy were threatened, civilians didn't usually care. Most cannot name the myriad allies of the Empire, much less care whether they've been attacked. Today, however, would prove to set the Empire to total war for the first time in nearly half a century.

Numerous spy satellites watched as Whyatican submarines, along with Aralonian subs wargamed and did joint fleet maneuvers, while other satellites near the Aralonia-Nadixel border noted an anomaly. A rather large anomaly.

Imperial High Command, Miana, Whyatica
High General Brad Sherwood slammed his fist into his polished wood desk, a desk pitted so badly with fist-slammings and other such things that it had permanent holes and pits in it. He muttered to himself, "God damn the Generians.", and wandered out to the main command area. He said to nobody in particular, "Get me General Robert Fred, now."

When nobody responded to him, he yelled it out. "GET ME GENERAL FRED DAMNIT!"

Everyone, at the same time, rang for General Robert Fred. He was rudely awoken in his quarters deep in the high command by the high-pitched noises of about a billion buzzers going off in his room, and various pitches of voice saying "High General Sherwood is looking for you, General Fred." He pulled himself from his bed, rather frustrated that Sherwood was looking for him again. The last week he had been quizzed a billion times on the readiness of his corps for a military attack, and on the strength of it. He was sick of it. He put on his uniform, dragging along, and went out into the main chambers and said, "Sir."

"I have a deployment for you. Your Corps is going to be moved to Southern Aralonia, you'll move out this week. Station yourselves in Fort Naraya and Fort Gornist. We have recieved intelligence of a massive movement into the unoccupied zones by the Generic Empire, a nation which as you know is hostile to our allies. I'm also assigning the 99th Infantry and the 103rd Infantry to seize the island off of the unoccupied zones and fortify it, so we can have an airbase in the event of an invasion of Aralonia. An IWAAF air tanker brigade is going to move you there. You'll have naval fire support by the 9th Battleship Group. Go, god damnit."

The extremely confused General Fred saluted, and headed for the lift into the real world, and his Corps home base, Fort Tannenberg.

Tannenberg
"Okay, Gents." Fred started, watching his 12th Infantry Division eat their grub in the mess hall of Ft. Tannenberg. The men stared at General Fred, waiting for their oncoming 'inspection time!' speech.

"We'll be heading out in four days, boys, to Aralonia. Some enemies got themselves a colony near them, and they're scared shitless. High Command told me the Velkyans are shippin' a corps out too, so we'll have some help there. Get your shit ready. An Army Air Force brigade is bringing us down t'Aralonia with 50 supercarriers. The 4th Battleship Group will be supporting us off of the island near Aralonia, as well as a couple other divs. Move it, boys."

The boys cheered and screamed. They were going to war! Well, maybe. Still, they were excited. Away from the dullness of Fort Tannenberg briefly, so they finished eating as quickly as they damn well could, so they could head back to the barracks and pack their stuff.

Approximately one week and some days later
In the horizon of the Aralonian coast, a mighty fleet appeared. Mighty small. But hey, it was still pretty strong. 2 massive battleships led this fleet, the Indomitable and the Ingenious, along with an equally massive fleet carrier, and dozens of smaller ships. Flying behind them but coming up fast was a horde of SuC-1 cargo carriers, carrying the VIII Corps, along with it’s extra two divisions over to Aralonia. 20 or so of the tankers pulled off of the main grouping, circling over a large island near the Aralonian coast, dropping airmobile soldiers out rapidly. Most of the soldiers hit their intended LZs, running rapidly out of the way as supplies began to fall down into the area. The rest of the SuC-1s proceeded on to the Aralonian bases…

To Arms!

OOC: This is basically just to show I'm ready to participate.

IC: Haven.

The word was an interesting one for any Imperial citizen. Psov, formerly one of the Imperium's greatest allies, had been a Havenite nation. But then, Haven hosted the Imperium's greatest enemies as well, and Psov was gone. But an invasion?

And by Generians?

The Generic Empire was the moderate nation of the CAD. It was known (among the elite of the Empire) that Generians looked down somewhat on the Imperium for its 'savage' ways, like human sacrifice and disregard for human rights. It seemed completely out of character for Generians to make a move like this. Even the Imperium had had a legitimate justification for the invasion of Czardas.

But what mattered was that Generia had gone to war, and it was the Imperium's duty to follow. Well, not war; but it was coming. Not a single man in the High Command doubted that.

Good news for the Imperium, then, that the mobilization was complete. High Lord Ishamael was assembling one of the greatest forces in Imperial history to be ready to move. As Generians labored to reinforce their positions in Aralonia, the Legions prepared to go to war again.

[THE NONAGON, NEW SARIS, SARIS CONTROL ZONE, NORTHERN ARALONIA]

Hopkins sighed and stirred the tea he retrieved from the drinks cart. Things really were going to hell. Many things needed to be done immediately to secure Aralonia herself from invaders. He pressed several buttons and called up Miss Bryant again.

“Miss Bryant?”

“Yes?”

“Contact USSNA. I'm too lazy to remember what their full name is. Tell them to speed up production on the Hoplite missiles, both types. Also, contact ZMI again, I've heard good things about one of their missiles that we're going to need.” He took another thought. “I also want to reinforce the Tallen Line. Contact the shipyards, we're going to need more guns.” He began to jot down some quick notes and brought up a map of Northeastern Haven. “Contact, err, Whyatica, Velkya, The Silver Sky, Space Union, we'll need their fighters, er... Hell, we'll need aquatic support too, call Questaria. All of their leaders. I want to arrange a meeting with them in New Saris within the next week.”

“Err, what about their schedules?” He could see Bryant's puzzled face.

“The hell with them.” He slammed a hand on the table. “We're going to need a hell of a lot of support for this, I can tell it's going to hell.”

Bryant blinked. "You used 'hell' three times."

The Archon blinked. "Damn it to hell! I can say 'hell' whenever the hell I want to! The hell with this! Damn it to hell!"

Translunar Space

A magnificent starscape seemingly utterly empty save for a few rogue specks of ice and the odd errant TV satellite. The interplanetary medium was a empty and cold affair in comparison with the hubbub of the planet it surrounded, the world swinging endlessly about in there warm soup of energetic but still relatively thin solar ejecta gently but surely blasting millions of persons DNA into cancerous soup. Suddenly part of the view shimmers, blinks and something that had been distant is now visible. What appears to be the scattered remnants of man made detritus slowly spreading across the supposedly virgin starscape. Its starlight obscuring vaguely spherical form was made up of flecks of ash, scorched reforming droplets of a dozen metals and the glitter of advanced synthetics. Here and there the shining tumbling chunk of a supposedly smashed solar panel or a heat dissipation fin flashed. If one looked at the patterns of remains and had a sufficiently advanced extrapolation system one would find the slowly expanding of what looked like an abandoned station

The last module looked like it was burning as recessed cold gas jets shuddered into the endless night. A vanilla white cylindrical canister nearly 15 metres long and 6 wide tumbling end over end in the depths of translunar space, its surface pitted and stained, the stumpy slagged remains of conduits and cables strewn across its slowly rupturing skin obscuring a single massive slowly peeling corporate logo. On one end of this burning warped man made carbuncle in the sky a vast airlock door which had once been covered in a wasp like warning pattern gaped open, its massive doors blasted outwards by what appeared to be heavy direct weapons fire, still studded with needle rounds and old fashioned bullet holes its thick form was steadily beginning to open, intricate geometrically “smashed” door sections artfully winding open to reveal the lenses within. As what appeared to be the pathetic remains of blackened hard EVA combat suits, their visors cracked with heat and there surfaces drifted about on tethers a single massive antennae began to unfurl, though one would not see it if one simply glanced, tethers tightened, drifting wreckage aligned as the downlinks established..

The modules interior was on the outside a cluttered mess, the scorched blackening metal panelling in places still glowing and drifting away in scorched black motes while swathes of stronger support columns still kept there silver shine, the heat damage however visibly causing them to sag. Wall lockers scorched and damaged and actually containing simple low velocity fragmentary bombs dotted the outer entrances, tangled outwardly burnt hoses of synthetics on the floor carefully feeding the inert propellant to the venturi hidden in pockmarks on the hull. As tens of thousands of CCDs ate the photons the great lenses imbedded behind the carefully crafted armoured lens cap door an image was built up in detail that had and if nothing untoward happened would be able to decode ambient sound from reflections of ambient light on glass without the help of known lased light sources. In this case the photons were from the dancing waves around the steaming Generian and Whytican shipping, the movement of troops on the ground, and the electromagnetic emissions of a half dozen command structures in the area. Data was correlated, filed and eventually flowed not downwards but to a dozen relays before finally finding its way into a dark air conditioned warren somewhere under the Fallbright mountain range before being converted into more meaningful reports and forwarded to where it could do some good.



Fallbright Central MiliComCon facility, 430 metres under mount Lorenz, Aurillia, Haven


The lake lapped gently against an endless backdrop of shattered grey rock. Nothing living moved upon it, no villages dotted its shores, seemingly only the endless grey skree covered slopes and wind scorched hunks of trees now almost as grey as the skree were visible. However occasionally upon this dead coastline a small concrete brake water and a monitoring station sat, its traversing optics every now again glinting in the moonlight. They ceaselessly watched and tested there surrounds, at there base a duo of tiny drone hangers lay, only basic utility models within there cramped cubical quarters. The next structure however was no mere monitoring station, it was for one illuminated and surrounded in places by the buzz of helicopters, illuminated blast doors over road ways which led into its depths, it was a series of arcs cut into the mountain side in the heart of this empty mountain top lake, a single tall but massively built sky scraper without windows curving above the valley like a Neolithic monument, lights illuminating its massive concrete flanks which rose from the grey dust dunes into tiers that ended nearly half a kilometre above the surrounding terrain. Most of the structure was support for OTH sensors, the rest was of more offensive use, the tell tale search light like forms of heavy duty optics dotting the higher reaches of the tower. On the ridges above this military cornubation the ground hugging brutishly angular forms of bunkers lay, massive ablative sections over there gun ports while upon the tallest snow capped peaks in the distances a veritable forest of antennae and radar domes were spread.

The ZMDFs Aurilian military central command and control centre was large and for all intents and purposes one of the more boring jobs in the ZMDF. Apart from the occasional re routing of a civilian airliner, or watching as some errant lump of space junk was blasted or avoided the complex this room was at the heart of had never seen much action. The missile silos it commanded had never fired in anger, the NPG batteries it was linked to had never left the ocean surrounding Aurilia a boiling steam wreathed mass. This facility was a temple to wars not fought, warehouses full of unused IFVs and choppers, nearly a divisions worth of armoured mountain fighting vehicles lay in its underground garages and a single Landcrawler repair depot lay on the surface , its gantries reflected in the lakes waters seeming like the ribs of some great dead animal.

Flight monitoring officer Philip Samson had for most of his watch been watching the endless flow of civilian flights, three hours earlier he had reason to contact a small civilian flight that was out of its assigned air corridor. Sitting in the eerily smart dust display illuminated command centre in a Hawaiian shirt (definitely against regulation) and a pair of what appeared to be shorts made entirely from duct tape he was not the only odd figure in the control room. Boredom and the fight against it was one of the primary occupations in Milicom, and the base’s commander had long given up the fight to keep things to “normal” ZMDF standards. By Philip’s elbow a cold half empty mug of coffee was unnoticed as said elbow jerked backwards. Slamming down the overrides on one of the main wall screens which was presently filled with a dozen images of warships was now filled with another pack of warships, side readings showing its minimal radar returns and wire frame pointers outlining damage and stress points. Alarms rang and communications shook through the somewhat disused channels as amongst other things upon the outskirts the defence crews tended to the massed ranks of sky slam surface to air missile launchers. Samson could only watch on over the following hours in horrified morbid fascination as the movements became clear the warning level lights far above his console began there decent.



The Ziggarat, Zone One, Megacity One

Minister of Foreign affairs Peter Hule sat in the depths of a restaurant, a pleasant fake Greek temple in ruins half engulfed in vines, hardwood tables dotted around the lush surrounds while the sounds of splashing water from the back wall could be heard emanating from a water feature in the shape of a rather nubile venues that fell the full huge height of the vast stain glass roofed room. It was one of thirty or so restaurants in the heart of the Ziggurat, helping to feed the tens of thousands of bureaucrats and government officials. Peter would have before he was a minister have taken the transit line out of the ziggurats confines down to the sea front, probably he thought reminiscing, to one of the small café’s that dotted one of the cities piers or promenades.

These days he would be escorted directly to his chosen restaurant by armoured air car a flashing escort of M1PD troopers on motor bikes flashing the other traffic out of the way. It was not exactly what Hule thought of as a relaxing repast, so he more and more found himself eating with his staff within the precincts of the Ziggurat itself. He had found the restaurants here on the outer tier to be a very pleasant surprise.

Looking up from his work and at this point tepid coffee accented by a few remaining pieces of salad on his plate he saw the waiter begin to quietly clean the table. His swish matt black uniformed body delicately loading plates onto his tray in artful poses meant to be reminiscent of the images of heroes upon Greek vases. Hule spent a moment starring at the display without really thinking about anything at all. He then glanced back down and sighed while picking up his palmtops stylus and once more returning to his work, insubstantial thin screens slowly moving about the table as he worked and the hours ticked past, seemingly playing an intricate game of dodge the paperwork.

Hule had always preferred to do his own analysis, it was a pleasure he said that he would not give up to some jumped up official or secretary, though his secretary Roslin Price was a pleasant woman in her mid fifties who was god mother to one of Hules children. However at this point he was regretting his life long statements as he contemplated the long list of possible diplomatic communiqués and far more worrying ZMDF projections of the present building conflict that lay on the table in front of him.

On Hules flimsy words and data danced to his stylus while screens showing demographics and possible diplomatic shifts flickered as his hands flashed over his keyboard to alter their feeds or occasionally shut them down or open a new one. Far away a fog horn sounded in one of the industrial zones.


Megacity One, Zone 8, Sector 83, 34 East central transit way between Acro Avenue and Willow Industrial Area, 18:28. Rush Hour.

A seemingly endless flow of traffic flowed in steady controlled multi levelled streams darting between the massive buildings like schools of fish in a coral reef there movements timed and controlled by a thousand separate computerised agents. Above them a cobweb like network of railways arced between the buildings on delicate spans occasionally vibrating to a darting train, standing on seemingly far too thin silvered supports, below them the huge concrete embankments of heavy cargo lines cut through the city like scratch marks, sharing the limited surface area not taken up with structures with a 20 lane megway, smaller streets and walkways visible below it, seemingly skipping up the sides of buildings in crazy jumps till they reached to just below the height of the railways. Through it all a dancing myriad of advertisements broke the lines of structures. This multicoloured haze of advertising screens giving the sunset dominated horizon an odd multicoloured dapple, huge neon figures in the distance almost looking like Greek titans, be it titans selling everything from diapers to illicit experiences involving moose.

The seeming well ordered nature of things was shattered as a burgundy 39 Parkan “Whitewater” sports special slammed through the traffic, streamers of hot exhaust blasting out of its four tastelessly chromed exhaust’s which occasionally spit fire as its super charger gulps air, the car almost leaving a glowing con trail behind it as it smashed through the streaming traffic, the traffic control agents slamming the huge number of passengers under there care in sudden manoeuvres the drive trains on the standard cars were never built to handle. Then came a flurry of white and black darts surrounded by flashing blue and red, drone police motorbikes, there remotely operated cameras flashing as they recorded possible witnesses followed by the screams of high torsion electric engines and the screech of tires as manned centaur heavy pursuit vehicles followed, there truck like sides studded with retracted winches, net guns, smoke and gas grenade launchers and a half dozen other pacification tools while smaller two person standard police cars darted around them there M1PD insignia quick golden flashes in ordinary citizens eyes, their lights seemingly taking on the forms of smears of blue, the red being almost invisible against the setting sunset.

The words to describe this situation were hot pursuit. Its not a situation INT-SEC Inspector Sarvin Thompson was overly fond of at present, his coffee having died an ugly death on his lap after sitting precariously balanced between his knees some 8 minutes ago due to a close call with a 30 ton articulated lorry loaded with instant deep fried banana powder. They ran, they always run he thought grimly banking his somewhat battered Mark.8 Ranger around the stuttering mass of an overloaded filthy green garbage collector.

It had been a fairly uneventful day most of it spent with a visit to take an interview from an insurance companies internal auditors wife. The woman had been as dreary as her husbands job sounded, her spouse however had embezzled a little over 80,000 rungs over a period of 4 years possibly to fund a foreign information gathering network for corporate espionage, a tough feat to do in a data agent saturated environment but not exactly a case Sarvin felt his talents were fully used by. He still felt better for doing the interview in person, for all that the gadgetry of emotional analysis he still had an unreasonable belief in his gut feelings, it had served him well enough in the past. He had finished his report and was eating the somewhat sad lettuce and onion sandwich which made up his dinner in Sector 4 from a Smarty Happy Mini Mart auto outlet when the Whitewater had darted past, his coffee rocking out of his grasp and giving him more than enough reason to assist with the chase.

This little shindig had apparently from the disturbing cascade of reports sidling through his incoming data stream started in an apartment complex hub building in Sector 3. From the brief details the nice vehicle in fronts occupants had shot the hell out of the apartment complex supervisors residence with Wreath guns, a favourite of the dock gangs, the thick meshes of high explosive or cordite like detonator string they launched having turned it and the surrounding apartments into a charnel house. They had then driven what the analysis agent was giving a 93% of being a SCAPA industrial cutting tool through one of the unfortunates spinal cords in a somewhat graphic execution. Multiple homicide was not something the M1PD tolerated with ease nor did it like heavy weapons fire in an uptown habitation district and so what should have been a metropolitan problem was now also Sarvins and Internal Securities. This however didn’t look like the work of a gang, it was the wrong part of the city and the wrong pattern, if one of the gangs wanted a hit they made a point of making it clean outside there territory. This Sarvin thought as he watched the Whitewater scraped past a school bus was definitely not “there” territory if it had been a city from an earlier period this would be suburbia and this rampant use of weapons was a far cry from the ordinary criminal world that the uptown areas of Megacity one tended to experience. Sarvin arced the Ranger through a Taxi put down ramp, his wake scattering trash from a poorly designed bin, the roar of the Rangers twin Verdion 300 horsepower wenkel rotary engines drowning out his radio as he kicked the car into high gear, reverberating across the lanes of traffic between the monolithic faces of the buildings like a demented pin ball as the police lights hidden behind the air intake flashed on.

The Whitewater was dancing, the heavily modified and tuned engines and foam tires making a mockery of the police’s units feeble attempts at caltrop deployment, its driver taking it closer and closer to lighter traffic, daring the police units to miss which with a harpoon set to stop the 3 tons of speeding Whitewater which would crumple a normal vehicle like a poorly made tin can. Suddenly they were out of the “sunny suburbs” the accommodation towers and the tiered levels dropping away nearly a kilometre straight down as they passed over sector wall and diving down and into the outright maze of an industrial sectors insane pipe work. A voice crackled over the com “This is control I have definite weapons going hot on suspect” the characteristic layed back police drone pilot nasal twang identifying itself almost immediately, the man operating the drone quite happily and safely sitting back in his chair in an office miles away. Sarvin blinked in disbelief, were they suicidal with police drones in pursuit? If push came to shove the police remote pilot could always frag the cycle and the whitewater. Suddenly there was a flat blast of noise as the Rangers windows flexed inward alarmingly. Sarvin knew that noise, but it couldn’t be, as he rounded the bend though and saw the shattered glass on the roadway and the rising fireball, dancing hands on the wheel as he dodged the crater and the shrapnel imbedded into the road he caught sight of the close pursuit force, three of the drones was simply gone another was still tumbling with half its body missing towards a warehouse. Gang members rarely even had the weapons to scratch a police unit much less destroy it and only one rocket in Sarvins memory sounded like that. Mayhem broke out on the coms strings of swearing and the voices of controllers trying to calm the pursuers down. One scream above them all, the agonised sound of one of the officers who had been hit by shrapnel saying over and over again “SMECKIN VENDETTA” in reference to the 90mm compressed gas low infra red signature clip fed launcher system that had just belched a blast bomb tipped rocket into the middle of the road before it echoed away to nothing as the com controller squelched the errant signal. Something more important however was flashing on Sarvins com screen and as much as the chase always drew him he slowed, merged into the normal traffic and watched as the heavy pursuit vehicles trundled on into the distance.


It was a small derelict warehousing module decades disused, its windows smashed it lay on a brown field site in the midst of a vast sprawling heavy industry mess, to close to primary materials processing to be of any value in delicate modern manufacturing, too far from the massive freight lines and far too small to be converted for use. Its janitorial staff were long gone, the simple minded utility drone purchased as an interim solution had broken down, its ability to clean floors, glass and replace the odd light bulb with a single gangly servo motor filled arm showing its lack as whatever well of funds that had kept it in repair and windows clean having dried up, its mechanical forms lay draped shabbily in a blue plastic tarpaulin in one corner. The stretches of illuminating neon strips were stained with filth and cobwebs there power long ago turned off, the pitiful amount of power generated by its ageing solar panels on the roofing fed into the grid.

The warehouses only illumination was now from its narrow windows jagged lines of light giving eldritch form to the mundane items within. The stench of slowly rotting cardboard lay thick in the humid hot air emanating from a selection of leaking crates scattered across the floor, the smell reminiscent of a thousand decomposing carpets. In one corner the only hot blooded inhabitant lay creeping along a ledge, its ears and whiskers bristling at the noise.

Four men brutishly shoved back the warehouse door, its ancient caster like wheels screeching along a metal shod groove in the floor long lacking in lubricant as the Ranger swung in. They wore tattered gang land enforcers clothes, a dozen garish insignia sewn into their scruffy stained puffy black jackets, the thermal insulation removed and replaced with kevlar. In this city the gangs had found sub contracting a cost effective method of keeping hired muscle. Power in the criminal hierarchy of the big meg didn’t depend on how big your stick was, merely how much damage it could do. A single illegally altered combat drones HMGs could take down a hundred street side thugs from the safety of an operators apartment. This did not mean that sometimes the human touch wasn’t needed. This rare touch was provided by a disorganised mass of thugs. These however didn’t look right. The clothes looked wrong, out of place and ill fitting on well built well fed bodies that moved like predators, eyes constantly scanning their surrounds even as they bantered. These were a long cry from gang land enforcers and their talk revealed a disgust with the warehouse that on occasion gave them away. A real gang land enforcer would have immediately noticed the disused high bandwidth universal data port in one corner and wouldn’t have given a damn about the smell given the other possibilities for the location. Details too were wrong, the bulges beneath there jackets were incorrect in form, not the long bulk of a wreath gun but the thin neat forms of corporate SMGs.

The sound of wheels on cracked cheap concrete paving slabs as the Ranger came to a stop and Sarvin exited . The men spent a few moments moving yellow barrel sized canister and dragging it over to the centre of the warehouse. One of them a thickset bald mans head emerges from the van and screams at them to be careful as the barrel is almost dropped on his foot. Sarvin visibly winces. On his left ear wrapping itself around half of his faces contours the smooth black form of a real time high bandwidth mobile phone sits like a flattened robotic crab, a slick corporate logo barely visible along one side. The screeching closing of the door once more dropped the warehouse into silence and Sarvin and the ranger disappear from site as the floor drops away on well greased hydraulic platforms.

The rat moved up to this new part of its homes landscape. Thin and sickly it was the last of its brood, the rest long gone or dead when the workers had left. New smells emanated from the canister, the stench of the men’s aftershave and anti persperant, the smells of meals on there breaths all now filled the warehouse and a new smell, the cold hard smell of ozone rolling out of the cylinder in waves as unbeknownst to the rodent xenon gas flooded the air. The rat moved closer its scurrying form brushing one of the cylinders bolts with its whiskers. It smelled something it had not smelled in years, something that it longed for, cooked meat. It didn’t have time to feel the pain as its body became engulfed in a blue white incandescent electrical flash as the warehouse’s interior was sterilised.

A few hours later Sarvin left the building in a similar way to how he had entered, on his passenger seat a wads of print outs and optic discs with neatly typed bar-coded inscriptions covered in dire warnings should the contents ever fall out of his hands. In one corner of a report lay, a paper clip attaching a dull pack of dull 5X5 photos of odd lumps of coastline, of gun emplacements and bunkers and most of all of men’s faces.

Those crazy anarchists over in Czardas are, at the moment, in a great state of uproar. Rallies and protests in the streets, long a common sight, have grown united, with solid masses of people marching around demanding blood, anyone’s blood. It is now a definite sign: The usually harmlessly insane Czardaians are massing into a terrifying war machine, at least terrifying to those afraid of shiny uniforms. Czardas is marching to war.

On a park bench in busy Czarna, watching the rallies march by, sit the two stereotypical old men, Neil and Dave, the modern-day equivalent of our Greek chorus, discussing the recent events.

“We are discussing the recent events,” Neil explains. See, I’m always right. “My name is Charles, and this is Peter.”

Dude, WTF? I said Neil and Dave!

“Shut up.” Neil, who calls himself Charles, says, shaking his cane at me.

“Bloody Doomies,” Dave/Peter mumbles under his breath, drawing the conversation back to its previous substance.

Charles (it would get too confusing to keep calling him Neil, anyway) responds, stroking white whiskers, “It’s the Generians that are invading though.”

“’Nerians, Doomies, it’s all the same,” the bald-headed Peter and/or Dave mumbles gloomily. “They’re aimin’ to hit us back for not becomin’ a slave colony o’ theirs. Or whatever it was.”

Opinion was divided as to what exactly the “bloody Doomies” would have done to Czardas if they had prosecuted the Kregaian War to a successful conclusion. Some maintained that Czardas would become a strip-mined slave state à la Kraven; others held that she was to be divided up among the CAD states; a few even contended that the aim had been to exterminate all life in Czardas and use the land for nuclear testing. Whatever the reason, people agreed it was bad.

The official decision would mirror the vague viewpoint of Peter/Dave. Establishment of a colony near Aralonia by the Generians indicated to Czardaians that the plan was to utilise Aralonia as a stepping-stone to destroy and colonise Czardas, so the latter had to strike back at a CAD nation, any CAD nation, to divert Generian attention and prevent them from carrying out their heinous plan (mua ha ha!). Nevermind that Aralonia and Czardas were separated by a lot of sea and plenty of allied nations.

Minister Henrik A. Ogden of Defense had already indicated the target as Doomingsland, partly due to its strategic importance as the founder of the CAD, and partly because there seemed to be Questarians already attacking the Doomies, and the more the merrier. Besides, Czardas wanted Questarian naval support to assist with shore bombardment and the like, as the Questarians have a lot of Really Big Ships™ whereas Czardas has very few of them. It seems a sound strategic plan.

Doomingsland is a notoriously hard country to invade, and in fact no-one has ever successfully invaded it, according to Czardaian intelligence archives; furthermore, it is a harsh climate, with daytime temperatures said to be reaching 65 degrees Celsius at times. Its natives also tend to be fanatically devoted to their country and are likely to form organized militias or other forms of resistance against a foreign invader. However, Czardas seeks not to wage a war of conquest, but one of deterrence; not for herself but for others; not to destroy, but to preserve; not to – Damn, I’m starting to sound like Warren Harding again.

Volunteers have been trained in the last Czardaian outposts remaining near the Kahanistani border; for the past few months regulars have been on rotating tours of duty there, their duty being mainly to shine their boots and engage in complicated maneuvers which usually end in them falling flat on their faces. However, with an estimated 2.2 million eager volunteers in addition to nearly 1.8 million regular troops, Czardaian officials are confident of victory, whatever that means.

Well, actually, they’re not. Henrik A. Ogden is pessimistic about Czardaian chances against superior numbers and equipment for some reason. General Adrian Longleaf appears to be in bed with an aide and thus unavailable for comment. General Ezekiel Shaestri is arguing with Air Marshal Karlsen over the role the Air Force is to play in the conflict (Shaestri thinks it should smash the enemy whereas Karlsen is of the opinion it should just blow them up). General Nicolai Sherman is upset that he’s never been referred to before in a roleplay. General Nathaniel Leodamas is formulating a plan for blowing up Doomish nuclear pulse guns with Czardaian nuclear pulse guns or vice versa, except that neither nation can figure out exactly where the nuclear pulse guns are. And Airya Wong, perhaps the only really reasonable person around, is sighing in exasperation as she, CEO Marcellus Dvardiah of DDI, Alma Finlay of the 14th Special Operative Division, and the people who really count for something in Czardas form their own master plan... for big things are coming and coming soon. And Czardas will be at their forefront.


ooc: further posts will be taken to the 'Are you ready to die for your country?' thread.

The responses and paranoia of the Greater Kingdom

The figure stood on the balcony and yawned before sitting down onto the chair and leaning on the table slightly. The mists of the morning rolled gently by along with the countryside, another figure in a red coat came through the door carrying a tray, he set the breakfast down on the table. A typically Midlonian Fry-up of Midshire county sausages, egg, lean bacon, fried bread, black pudding, mushrooms, tomatoes and of course a pot of tea. Enough to give lesser men heart attacks.

With a sigh the figure picked up his knife and fork and began eating. The 56 year old General Haig was a bulky man who was just beginning to turn to fat, his old campaign medals were pinned to his jacket which was on the back of his chair as he ate. The figure who had bought through the meal still stood with several folders tucked under her arm.

“Yes?” mumbled Haig as he shovelled a bit of black pudding into his mouth.
“There’s been some problems recently within our area of influence, some kind of invasion near to some of our trading partners, the build-up around Aralonia in particular is mildly alarming, its already affecting trade around some areas and His Majesty is rather alarmed, he’s asking you to run any operations he deems and to work closely with the Airforce and Navy over this matter.”

Haig merely tapped his knife on the table, the woman placed the files, saluted and left him on the balcony of his Mobile HQ.

Over the course of the week various air armadas were activated, Land Warfare Battle Groups headed slowly for the coast and Haig’s own Mobile HQ, the Hercules followed suit, its normal zone of operation, the centre of the country, having changed by the request of the King. Across the localities of the Greater Kingdom and its various dependencies in the area such as the Isle of White and the Northern Border Fortress area of Helathia more and more troops were called in, leave was cancelled and a more intense refresher course for those recently called back was implemented. Haig was making sure everything was ready for whatever happened, at least on the land.

Out at sea several taskforces were called back from further in Haven, and two of the four taskforces in the Eastern Colonies were also brought back. Two Dozen mothballed aircraft carriers were currently undergoing electrical tests along with nearly 120 fighting ships. The merchant Navy began their own systematic mobilization program of their own Essence Frigates, rapid and well armed ships designed to help keep the sea lanes open as well as possible, though for some lanes they were already in operation, the trips to the anarchic Czardas nation needing them to stop people trying to loot the dockyards at least.


Such a troop build-up, without prior notification, had resulted in this massive response. It was simply how such a large local power reacted. Especially one such as Midlonia which enjoyed the stability in the north-east of the Haven Geographical region. It would not tolerate such attempts at instability. This had nearly happened before with the concept of the Nuclear Pulse Gun in the locality, this had been sorted by ensuring several pieces of the Midlonian long range missile compliment were targeting each and every NPG that M.I.R.A had found so far. Now Midlonian Intelligence (and) Research Agency was going haywire and beginning to estimate the eventual troop numbers, what response should be given and what assets should be used.

Messages were sent off to the Aralonians over whether liasing was necessary, or if they could handle the situation themselves, the build-up of structures, troops and other things on their southern border had not gone unnoticed by the Midlonians either.

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9th Army Group Headquarters
“How long until we are at full strength?” Haig asked as he sighed and pushed his plate away and dabbed his mouth with a napkin.

“Another five days, General, then add another 12 hours or so in order for all communications to be liased and patched through to here and we’re good and defending the West Coast and attached territories.”

“And our current disposition?”

“The 2nd Army and the 9th fleet are taking on the defence of the Isle of White. The 15th Army and 10th fleet are taking up positions in Northern Midlania. Meanwhile We’re here with your 7th Army and the First Fleet, Grand Admiral Beatty will want to talk to you.”

“Send him a message, I will see him over breakfast tomorrow, either here or on the Golden Bow, whichever he chooses.”

“Yes General.” the Aide saluted, turned. She yawned as she left.

Haig turned and pursed his lips and flipped open the reports, it was taking too long for the mobilization process, but he sighed and shrugged, a large amount of troops needed to be activated, moved, re-billeted, re-armed…

“Too damn long…” he muttered and leant back in his chair on the balcony. The mobile HQ was a giant piece of machinery. Guns, weapons, soldiers… his armoured train was a strange combination of protection and luxury, this balcony, surrounded by the two sponson gun-points and the armour plating behind him.

He enjoyed it though, and as the train thumped along through the countryside he flicked the pages of the report and pondered as the sun began to glow red on the horizon.

OOC: To the issue of my rapid movement in this, I have been mobilized since the Socal8 Affair.

IC: Korronis, straddling the world like a prince upon his charger...proudest of cities, seat of the proudest of rulers, heart of the proudest of lands. Harder than the bones of the earth, loftier than the peaks of mountains, and indomitable as the raging tempests. Korronis.

In the sprawling harbors of Korronis, capital of the Empire, many hundreds of ships waited at anchor, banners waving from their heights. Along the ports themselves, countless thousands of Imperial citizens yelled and chanted and whooped, celebrating the magnificence of an army heading to war.

As was typical of such grand military forces, the ground troops were loaded already in the bowels of their transports. Supplies, support personnel, equipment...every need of an army on the move was held in abundance inside the fleet. The preparations extended far beyond the ports of Korronis, though; all over the Empire, factories churned out machines of war and reservists went through their re-training programs. Total war; after all, one never knew what cowardly plans might occur to the infidels...perhaps even to strike at the heartland with High Lord Ishamael and his army away. Vast forces were held in reserve; the initial invasion force would only consist of a part of the forces that the Sacred Emperor was willing to commit to the operation, and even should it be necessary to send those away, still many professional Legionaries would remain, able to defend the Kregaian continent.

The auguries had been taken, and the omens were good. The priests had offered rich sacrifices in the morning to all the gods, but especially those associated with war. Across the nation, special services were being held to mark the launching of the armada, hymns and prayers rising from millions of lips even as the ships waited in the Sacred City's harbor.

High Lord Ishamael, the man ultimately in charge of the vast array of military power, stood on the bridge of the superdreadnaught Apophis and surveyed his forces. Although it was smaller than the force that had crossed the seas to Czardas not so long ago, it was better trained, its weaponry was upgraded, and it was better prepared for the war ahead. The Imperium had refined its methods of warfighting in the intervening peace and the brief Socal8 Affair.

Haven. Where Generians labored to fortify their positions, just shy of invading a major nation. Events would come to a head there, one way or another; the Sacred Emperor was sure of it, and the Divine One was almost never wrong.

It was a full two hours later that the great fleet, and the equally magnificent army in the depths of its vessels, sailed from Korronis towards Haven at a leisurely pace. After all, war had not quite broken out yet, and it was the Generians' honor to start it if they so wished. The Kregaians would take their time.

War, like all things, must be done properly.

High Orbit, Northeastern Haven

Eyes in Space, sounds like a cheesy movie huh? Well, it's actually a pretty literal statement.

The Silver Sky had an absolutely huge recon/spy satellite network, which was paticulary dense over the skies of Haven (for obvious reasons) satellites regularly orbited and watched over the eastern continent, especially the area around Southern Aralonia and Nadixel, with the two being enemies over watching was required.

Deus Oculus (God Eye) Class spy satellites orbited above the area previous mentioned, they snapped thousands of pics of the landscape below, Southern Aralonia, Nadixel and the Generians in sucession.

The data was streamed to a controller satellite and then down to headquarters in The Silver Sky to be processed by one of the many thousands of Super Computers in the country and routed to the intended headquarters.

Combined Intelligence, National Defence and Emergency Response Headquarters [CIND-ER]

General of the Army Lance Jackson, a towering man at 6'8" with a medium-large build and silver hair, watched as the data from the satellites fed data into the 3-D overlay of the Generia-Aralonia-Nadixel area and the surrounding islands. Besides him stood several smaller, but more built figures, Four-Star General Adam Fisher, leader of the 10th Theater Force with piercing black eyes and dirty blonde hair, Lieutenant General Mercutio Marks, of Italian descent, black hair and hazy blue eyes, he was commander of the 20th Field Army.

Last, but second most important for this story, was the rather young Major General Daniel Larson, brown hair with determined hazel eyes, a newbie to the other generals, he only enlisted 6 years ago and had already been promoted to command of the 96th Army Corp, although part of that was due to the stepping down of several commanders, so he was inexperienced. He seemed nervous as the 3-D image neared completion, complete with color overlay. After what seemd an eternity, General Jackson spoke.

"Seems our Pentalpha Pact Allies weren't lying, those are Generian all right, I can tell by the aircraft and vehicles, these bastards have to be up to no good." He Finished as ha took a bite of an energy bar, he cringed and swallowed hard 'Damn things are worse then cardboard, my wife needs to buy me some other brand.' he thought.

He started to speak again to break the silence, "Seems our allies in Aralonia, Whyatica and Velkya have requested we sent troops, but not too many, because we do not want it to look like we're gonna invade, and that'll just give them an excuse to invade," General Jackson paused to take a focused look at Maj.General Larson before continuing, "That is why you are here Larson, you and your corp will be deployed with the Whyaticans to Fort Noraya and Fort Kraniya, with Noraya at the font and Kranyia a fall back point. It's up to you how you want to disperse your forces when you arrive, understood?"

"Yes, Sir." Came the enthusiastic but nervous reply from the young man. "Will we be recieving any of the M260A1 or A2s before deploying? And how about the new HBTs they're testing in the colony near USSNA?"

"No, our current production limit for the M260s is not high enough to equipp your division by the time of your deployment, and the HBTs are having problems with inadequate power, we're currently closing discussion with SCAPA to build a larger engine, they won't be in production for another few weeks, with first line units in two months." Responded General Jackson watching as little dots representing Aralonian, Whyatican and Velkyan Forces dotted the land scape of Southern Aralonia, while just opposite them, red dots of Generian Troops. Both facing each other down in a prelude to what would be a bloody war.

"How about Naval and Air support, surely we will have that at least?" Poked Maj. Gen. Larson.

"We are deploying the 1st and 2nd Tactical Air Command to bases in Velkya and potentially Northern Aralonia, but we've discused with our allies that our ships will be kept in our home waters, we believe it is possibly the Generians brought along a Nuclear Pulse Gun, because we know they have them, they probably got them from the Doomies. So fleet stays home until the NPG is taken out."

"That's fine sir, I'll be sure to show the Generians who's boss anyways." He said with a wink an a self assured smile.

"You'd better Larson, now go rally your troops, most of them have already been called up, deployment via air transport in 3 days." Responded General Jackson with a slight smile.

"You're all dissmissed, now go do your duties, the Republic expects the best."

"Sir, Yes Sir!" Yelled out Maj. Gen. Larson as he turned to leave the room, the other two generals, who had remained quite simply nodded to Gen. Jackson.

Garcia Army Airbase, Near Porto Diego, Meridional Province, The Silver Sky

A very heavy fog had set over the base as Major General Larson's LV-08 'Raptor' Armored Light Truck pulled away from the air strip, it seems a heavy storm due to the strange East Haven 'Fyre Sea' Current, coming up from Omz222 and the Omzian Strait, the waters were especially warm for this time of year, as consequence the same currents that brought the warmth and rain to the southern part of the continent also brought storms. Ah mother nature, a true schizophrenic, nice one moment, a total bitch the next.

Anyways, back to the main character, the jeep had navigated the rather dense fog without incident, except for the death of Widow O'Leary's cat, but hey, who cares, damn cats. It pulled into a special parking garage right next to the Corp's Headquarters.

Already the troops were loading into their air transports, C-115 and C-1 transports were taxing from the hangars to the runway, loaded with M160A2 and M89 IFVs and a dozen other vehicles. ETA for the whole corp to arrive in Aralonia was approximentaly 12 hours. Another 12 hours to fully unload and deploy and a day to set up, 2 days for full deployment, not too bad for a corp of 94,900 troops.

Maj. Gen. Larson moved around in his office gathering up his things, he paused for a moment as a company of tanks rolled by towards the hangars. He pondered the current situation of the world.

"Seems the world is moving from a black and white, good and evil, perspective, to a one composed entirely of shades of gray, this may be the last conflict where the enemy side and the allied side are so clearly defineded, the last war where good was good and evil was evil.

The Last Good War"

Capitol Building, Silver City, Capital District, The Silver Sky

The Message from the Aralonian Government was received a reply was sent, President Kara Maddox was prepared to leave to the meeting at a moments notice.

Xerxes Naval Yard, Allied Union of Velkya


Ah, the sights and sounds of a military budget in the multi-trillions.

The night air nipped at Admiral Gian Vespa’s exposed face as he stood along the railing of the roof of the rear observation deck of his ship. Sprawling nearly a half mile on either side, the nearly eighteen million tons of steel, guns, and brute force called the V.S.S. Just Retribution floated in her dock amidst the titanic Xerxes Naval Yard, the homeport of the 1st Naval Defense Battlefleet. Even through the many lights of the port facilities and the distant metropolis of Southport, the stars were visible this night, and they were a sight to behold even to the most experienced warrior. The Admiral, lighting up a cigar with his gloved hands, staring into the night sky, watched a pair of lights streak across the sky, most likely fighters from nearby NDFAS Blue Sky Isle on a routine air patrol around the harbor, no doubt piloted by a handful of young hotshot pilots looking for trouble. He smiled, and remember his own days of youth as an ensign aboard the V.S.S. Fremantle, the then fledging Velkyan Navy’s first battleship, fresh from the dockyards of Oured based Fletching & Co. The Velkyan Naval Jack flew proudly from it’s mast, he remembered, as the ship made its first maneuvers out of the crowded Oured Bay, amidst the sounds of hundreds if not thousands of small pleasure cruisers and passenger liners sounding their foghorns while destroyers and cruisers of the Navy proudly formed up alongside their new flagship, that warm July day nearly three decades ago which Gian remembered clear as day.

His mind flashed to the present, as he surveyed the dockyards around him, leaning further into the railing. For as far as the eye could see, the blue-grey color scheme of the Allied Union Naval Defense Force 1st Naval Defense Battlefleet covered the landscape, a formation of over five hundred warships with numerous legions of support vessels. The Velkyan Navy had transformed from a virtual third world power to a truly massive navy nearly eight thousand vessels strong in the space of thirty years, aided no doubt by Velkya’s industrial, technological, and military might. He smelled the air, a bastardized scent of oil, machinery, and the sea, the sort of scent that calmed his battle tested nerves substantially. Shifting his gaze across the dockyards, he exhaled deeply.

Might, he thought, as he pushed himself off the railing and walked to the entrance of the spiral staircase that lead down to the superstructure, that will be in no small demand should things continue going on their current path.


Combat Air Patrol Route Echo Bravo Eleven, Outer Edges of Velkyan Airspace


Far from the great metal and concrete fortress of Xerxes, in the inky black night sky above the glassy waters of the Great North Sea, two birds of iron and flame cut through the air, emitting a thunderous roar that could be heard for miles. The blue and white star emblazoned on the vertical stabilizers of these craft compounded with the lightened initials AUADF contrasted with the general dark schemes of the fighters, illuminated only by the celestial figures and the bluish engine exhausts. Inside the cockpit of one of these birds of prey sat 1st Lieutenant David Sermanov, gently keeping the control column in his leathered grip as his canopy, illuminated by his aircraft’s night vision systems displayed on his helmet’s visor, kept him warm from the chilled air of over forty thousand feet above the seas below. His wingman, trailing several hundred meters to his 5’o’clock position, was the only other source of light for miles. It was almost three in the morning, and David had gotten little sleep over the past few weeks. The situation with Generia and her allies was worsening beneath the surface, he knew, although the bigwigs of either side weren’t ready to admit it. Tensions were high, and combat air patrols, especially along the Southern Air Defense Zone, were stepped up almost threefold. Every few hundred nautical miles, a fight of IF-13 Phoenix interceptors identical to his would loiter over a target area for several meters, scanning the airspace with the aid of AWACS behind the lines and the Space Defense Force’s orbital RADAR arrays to provide coverage in every direction.

His radio suddenly crackled to life, causing him to snap of his reverie of sorts. The voice of the local AWACS operator resounded in his ears.

“Echo Flight, inbound bogey, bearing, 021 degree northeast, move to intercept!”

The navigation screen of the aircraft immediately displayed a navigational waypoint data-linked from the AWACS bird, and the pilot zoomed his RADAR scope out to capture the battlefield in its entirety. The bogey was moving in a northeastern course at 400 knots, and carried the RCS of a large strategic bomber or cargo craft and was displaying no IFF signals, making it highly likely to be an enemy bomber attempting to get into cruise missile range of the Velkyan mainland. David pitched his stick to the side, causing his craft to bank, and then eased it towards him, drawing sharp contrails from his Phoenix’s extended wings and canards as he maneuvered on an intercept course with the bogey, his wingman tailing him close behind. He began to passively monitor the incoming craft’s RADAR emissions with the IF-13’s electronic warfare package, not wanting to risk turning on his craft’s powerful sensors and give his position away. Content with making steady progress to the bomber, his ears soon filled with permission to lock the target up from his AWACS. Obeying this command, his RIO turned the aircraft’s RADAR systems on, focusing the power on the target, while arming one of the long range missiles he had in his internal bays.

“Yo, Eight Ball, you want to take this one?” He radioed to his wingman, referring to his call-sign. The other voice on the radio, a gruffer, deeper one, responded, indirectly, immediately, broadcasting on all channels.

“Attention unidentified aircraft, you are entering into the Allied Union Southern Air Defense Zone without proper identification signals. State your serial number, nationality, and purpose immediately.”

There came no response from the other end. Waiting a moment, the pilot tried again, repeating his message, but to no avail, as the aircraft was still visibly approaching its assumed target. Although he felt powerless, David was instructed to wait for his AWACS to clear him to engage a potential enemy, lest a friendly fire incident ensue. The tension built as he watched the blip on his RADAR draw closer and closer to that imaginary line. He rested his thumb on top of the safety covering of his missile release button on the top of the control stick, preparing to flip it open and unleash hell. But, still nothing from the other end.

What in God’s name are they doing, there’s a fucking bomber headed straight for the SADZ, and they haven’t said shit.

Then, almost to his relief, the AWACS returned, stating with renewed vigor, “Echo Flight, cleared to engage, down all confirmed hostiles!” David smiled inside his helmet, flicking the plastic safety cover off, revealing a red circular button. He raised his thumb, preparing to drop it down and snap off a shot, when he heard it. His radio opened up again, and he was shocked at what was being broadcasted. A haggard male voice was screaming into another language foreign to David, and he was joined by several others, the tone of the voice indicating he was pleading and screaming at the same time. Immediately replacing the safety cover of his release control, he opened up all channels again, broadcasting his message. They fell silent, and he repeated himself once more, asking if anyone spoke English on board. The aircraft continued on its course, although it had noticeably slowed by several hundred knots. After a short pause, a meek voice of a woman came through, and she said calmly, but a slight bit shakily, “…are…are we safe?” David was taken aback by this sudden display, and nodded, although not a soul was around to see it. “Yes, you’re safe. State your nationality and purpose.” There was a short pause again, and the woman spoke again. “We’re Air Ixiom Flight 982 out of Octavia (fictional nation); we were en route to Praeton International Airport and were attacked by a handful of jets…” She broke off, having another conversation with the aircrew before returning to the radio. “We’ve been damaged and own of our engines is…inoperable, the pilot is requesting an area to land.” Before David could respond, his AWACS answered the young woman. “This is Allied Union Air Defense Force AWACS Voltage; we are tracking you on RADAR and have alerted Southport International Airport to an emergency landing by your aircraft, over?” The woman relayed the information to the pilot, whose own voice seemed to be relieved. “He says that’s good to hear.” Voltage responded, this time directed at David and his wingman. “Echo Flight, escort the airliner to SIA, we have directing a flight from Zulu squadron to take over operations in your area, over?” David stared into the distance. They were coming into visual range of the airliner, and he could see it was trailing a small amount of fiery smoke. “Roger that, Voltage, will do, over and out.”

Increasing airspeed, the two fighters formed up alongside the wounded airliner, scanning the craft for damage. Outside of one looked like a few cannon holes in the wings and a glancing hit by an air-to-air missile to the number four engine nacelle, the craft was fairly stable looking, and David glanced up at the view ports of the liner. Faces lined the dimmed Plexiglas ports, staring in awe at the sleek angel that had aligned itself with their own mount. The faces of children, of adults, of the elderly all lined the side of the plane to get a look at their savior and near-executioner, and David was compelled to do something. He lifted his hand up off the throttle, making a slight wave at the passengers. He distinctly saw a few people’s faces turn upwards into a smile of relief; their ordeal was finally over, that they were in the arms of their protectors.

12 miles off of the West Coast of Midlonia.

The helicopter cycled down as it thumped heavily onto the rear deck of the battleship (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v160/Midlonia/Ships/AuroraBB.png) the only difference between this one and its classmates were the heads on the end of the guns, great snarling lions heads painted gold stared out with pupiless eyes at the sea all around them.

Haig was in full dress uniform, his campaign medals clanking as he stepped out of the side of the Goshawk, he brushed and smoothed out his coat and bought his thinning hair into some sort of order before sticking his hat on top and saluting at the honour guard. The admiral, in his white uniform and, somehow, whiter hair stepped forward and saluted also. Haig Returned it.

“Admiral Beatty, good to see you again.” remarked Haig as the two men fell into step and walked along the decking.
“Same to you General.” remarked Beatty as he picked a bit of lint from a sleeve.

“How is the readiness of the fleet?” Haig coughed lightly and took a small amount of snuff from a snuff-box and sniffed.
“We’re still de-mothballing the Angelic class Battle cruiser, we’re having to redo the electrics on at least 20 ships. We’re in a smidge of a state, to be perfectly frank. But the normal fleet elements are fine and patrolling the set areas and supporting the army, obviously.”

“What of the R.A.F?”

“The Air marshal is being his usual self, reclusive as heck. Though we’ve been informed the second and nineteenth air armadas are now in the air. The R.A.F is the only services branch to be on the proper road to readyness within the two week mob period.

Haig sighed. “Typical.”

They stepped through a doorway and the sound of the breezy sea air dimmed to a dull roar.

“Yes, I thought so also.” shrugged Beatty indifferently as they stepped onto the metal grating of a lift, which thumped, whined and began to rise upwards, it stooped after a few seconds and the Admiral lead Haig to his dining room, where two places were set out at opposite ends of the table.

“Still, its not as if we’ve got a large leg to stand on. Its only elements we’re mobbing as is anyhow, but its enough to get a bit of local media attention, after all. Its not everyday that we jump like this.” he sighed as he picked up a cup of steaming tea and sipped. “I wonder why such a large response was necessary though…” mused the Admiral.

“NPG’s.” was Haig’s curt reply.

“Ah, those silly little white elephants. What about them?”

“M.I.R.A got jumpy, apparently foundations for a new one are being built, it was picked up by one of our birds a few days back.” Haig got a small folder out of his jacket and threw it so it span down the length of the table. Beatty caught it with ease.

“This is nothing really shocking General, after all, the other Northern Havenic powers have them, these are just new kids on the bloc-” Haig cut him off.

“They’re apparently tense and unfriendly with the other powers. This is a response incase things go south to smash whoever keeps trying to use the fucking things.”

“I see.” Beatty said, pursing his lips and frowning.

“Of course I have the unofficial nod that any territorial gains we make as a result of any conflict which may arise are to be kept and incorporated.”

“Well, that wasn’t hard to assume.” grinned Beatty as he placed the folder down. “So, what else needs to be done?”

“Waiting, yelling, asking. Usual politicking within the armed services before we even begin to consider anything else.”

Haig sighed and scratched his chin thoughtfully.

Communiqué from General Nys’ky to officers and enlisted men of the 1st Imperial Expeditionary Force

Men of the 1st IEF,

Earlier today I received a message from Emperor Kazatmiru himself, congratulating our Expeditionary Force on its work so far. As you can see around you, our progress here in this savage and desolate corner of the world has gone above all expectations. Where once there was nothing, now there stands a true Imperial stronghold, a bastion of Generian influence and power in the midst of the corruption that plagues this region, so ironically named “Haven.”

In the harbor, which many of your comrades have taken to calling ‘Empire Bay,’ Generian vessels float alongside those of her allies, standards waving proudly at the mast, a symbol of boundless empire, while inland, the bastions and fortifications that we have worked so hard to construct stand proudly, invincible against any foreign tide, supported by the will of the Imperial citizenry and the Alexian tradition.

Our mission in this respect is complete. The Empire has taken for itself a foothold in yet another shadowy corner of the world, where enemies lurk under every rock and behind every wall. We have created for ourselves, and for Generia on the orders of his Infinite Majesty, the Emperor Kazatmiru, a fortress such that our foes may look on it and see that Generia’s dominion is not confined to her continent, and that her dominions will stretch one day across the surfaces of the Earth, as is the will of the Deity above.

However, while we have done as we set out to do, our final mission has not yet been accomplished, and indeed, due to its nature, it is a mission that will last for our whole lifetimes, and the lifetimes of all subsequent generations. We are men of war, let us have no illusions in this respect. Let us have no illusions about our purpose, either. Our causes will always be just because they are the will of a just Empire, and a wise Emperor who rules with a firm and fair hand. Our job is to serve as the fist of these entities, to serve Generia by spilling the blood of those who would stand against the grand design that would see her glory echoing for a thousand years, and by sacrificing our lives for her greater glory, should it be called upon us to do so.

The coming years will see great changes sweeping the world, a stage reset. Nations once great will sink into obscurity. Peaceful lands will know the torrent of total war. The once righteous and strong will succumb to their lusts and avarice, while the bloodthirsty will know the serenity of peace. Old alliances will crumble, new ones will be forged, and enemies will be consumed. Throughout this tumult, however, Generia will continue to stand firm, as she always has. Her armies will remain strong, we soldiers will continue to do our duty, and more than ever, her enemies will know terror at her name.

I remind you all that we are all bound to Generia’s destiny, and it is our duty to see it achieved. Every action you take reflects on the Empire, and on her Emperor. Your victories are her glory, your defeats are her shame. Remember this always, and stand proud under the Imperial standard, for we are Generians, and it is our fate to be glorified.

General Lew Nys’ky,
1st Imperial Expeditionary Force, Commanding

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

The Empire’s deployment and the establishment of her presence in the formerly undeveloped and unclaimed country to the south of mainland Aralonia had proceeded well ahead of schedule, and at a pace no one would have previously thought possible. The sheer volume of manpower available coupled with an odd and all pervading sense of purpose had pressed the men to work at a breakneck pace for months, finishing the key fortifications and installations in a positively inconceivable period of time. As it stood at the end of the five month period, 10 million Generian Imperial regulars, and an additional 2 million Generian Imperial Praetorians, the Empire’s elite shock troops, stood on call in the colony, having also previously contributed the bulk of the labor force involved in the extensive construction effort. A steady stream of men, equipment, and supplies continued to pour into the colony by way of the bay on the eastern section of the continent.

In the first week of the month, however, as the pace of construction slowed, and the projects were completed, the atmosphere in the colony changed. A restless sense settled over the Generian soldiers as drilling intensified, and divisions began shifting towards the mountain ranges and the northern border. Generian aircrews drilled ceaselessly, pilots patrolling the skies with an extreme vigilance, as the vessels of the first fleet kept watch in the bay and the waters outside the mouth. Meanwhile, a discreet deployment to the base of the northern mountain ranges began.

It was here, standing in the shadows of the impressive peaks, that General Nys’ky watched the steady flow of Imperial armor and infantry, bathed in the noise of war machinery and construction equipment. The landscape here, as elsewhere, had been transformed from a pristine expanse into a compilation of overturned dirt, concrete, and metal. Beneath the Generian flag, disturbed occasionally by an errant breeze on an otherwise calm day, the Imperial officer stood casually smoking. Casting the smoldering cigarette butt aside, he turned and walking through the door of a squat concrete bunker. Descending a well lit staircase several levels, he walked out into the belly of a cavernous complex of subterranean rooms and passageways.

Approaching the first door on his right, he received a salute from an Imperial Regular, who then turned and proceeded to punch in a smart code on a panel beside the heavy iron blast door. The General stepped through the door as it opened, and found himself facing slightly less than a dozen Imperial Army officers and a pair of individuals in the uniform of the Generian Imperial Navy.

As the door closed behind him, he approached the head of a long wooden table, a series of maps spread before it. In the age of modern, computerized warfare, Nys’ky found himself remarking on how primitive such a display must seem to the others, who were all several years younger than him with the exception of one of the navy men, who’s age differed by just a year. However, to a man who had served the Empire since the 1960’s, he found himself feeling nostalgically at home.

Lighting another cigarette he addressed the men before him.

“Gentleman, across the mountains directly above our heads lies the nation of Aralonia. In three days our invasion begins.”

This simple, succinct sentence, spoken with such a calm that it could almost be considered brazen, summed up the entire reason for the existence of the 1st Imperial Expeditionary Force in Haven. It was the culmination of the preparation of the colony, the reason for the millions of troops hungry to spill blood for their standard, the fleets in the bay, the pilots patrolling the skies, and the huge lumbering shadow of a GINPG-1 nuclear pulse gun, being erected on the far southern border of the Generian colony.

“You’ve all been informed of this for several weeks, and I’m sure that you read and received the briefings that I sent out two nights ago. Therefore, I am certain that you will all be prepared to execute your orders. Since this is the case, are there any questions?”

Nys’ky looked around the room, dragging casually on his cigarette. There was silence. He nodded.

“In that case, finish what you have left of your preparations, and if I may make the suggestion, get some rest. This will be the last opportunity you’ll have in a long time.”

Nys’ky took a last glance around the room of silent, stone faced Generian officers, nodded, saluted, and left without another word. In less than 4 minutes, Aralonia was officially condemned. There was no going back now.

OOC: Here’s my forces deployed so far, cause the OOC thread seems not to exist as a practical matter.

Note: these are edited as of September 24th to include reinforcements.

LAND FORCES
Commander: High Lord Ishamael Sadow

Primary force:
4,200,000 Legionaries
22,000 Immortals
9,400 War-Priests
1,100 light guns (105mm)
950 medium guns (155mm)
850 heavy guns (188mm)
60 Colossus howitzers (460mm)
850 AA guns (155mm flak)
1,000 SAM batteries
5,200 T-120 Ravagers
5,200 M146 Despoilers
10,200 Sidewinder LAVs
7,200 F/A-104 Balefires
2,800 A-10 Thunderbolts
640 Behemoth heavy bombers
24 B-6 Paladin stealth bombers
640 MI-24 Hinds
840 AH-166 Twilight gunships
3,600 Lawgiver VTOL transports
840 C-7 Generia transport planes
72 Thunderbird AWACS planes
1,720,000 associated personnel (medics, cooks, drivers, pilots, servants, techs, engineers, etc.)
Associated transport trucks
Construction materials/equipment, and prefabricated buildings

Secondary forces: (2x)
1,200,000 Legionaries
6,400 Immortals
3,200 War-Priests
550 light guns
500 medium guns
450 heavy guns
25 Colossus howitzers
750 AA guns
700 SAM batteries
2,400 T-120 Ravagers
2,400 M146 Despoilers

4,800 Sidewinder LAVs
2,800 F/A-104 Balefires
840 A-10 Thunderbolts
280 Behemoth heavy bombers
480 MI-24 Hinds
600 AH-166 Twilight gunships
2,400 Lawgiver VTOL transports
620 C-7 Generia transport planes
36 Thunderbird AWACS planes
860,000 associated personnel
Associated transport trucks
Construction materials/equipment, and prefabricated buildings

NAVAL FORCES
Commander: High Admiral Ludo Anor

Northern Fleet:
6 Apophis-class superdreadnaughts
24 Imperator-class battleships
6 Invictus-class supercarriers (245 aircraft; 180 Balefires, 36 MiG-45s, 24 AH-166 gunships, 5 Behemoth heavy bombers)
38 Prophet-class aircraft carriers (160 aircraft; 120 Balefires, 24 MiG-45s, 16 AH-166 gunships)
286 Silencer-class missile submarines
248 Stalker-class attack submarines
275 Attila-class cruisers
305 Assassin-class missile cruisers
292 Darius-class destroyers
334 Piranha-class frigates
780 Atlantis-class troop transports
60 Caduceus-class hospital ships
420 Arsenal-class supply ships
200 Vulcan-class repair ships

Total: 3,082 vessels; 1,288 surface combat ships, 534 submarines, 1,260 support ships

Southern Fleet
3 Apophis-class superdreadnaughts
16 Imperator-class battleships
4 Invictus-class supercarriers
28 Prophet-class aircraft carriers
264 Silencer-class missile submarines
186 Stalker-class attack submarines
190 Attila-class cruisers
245 Assassin-class missile cruisers
296 Piranha-class frigates
460 Atlantis-class troop transports
40 Caduceus-class hospital ships
360 Arsenal-class supply ships
160 Vulcan-class repair ships

Total: 2,253 vessels; 783 surface combat ships, 450 submarines, 1,020 support ships

That should cover everything I’ll need. If I’m leaving anything out, please remind me; to any and all of you who were in the Czardaian War, I hope you’ll be satisfied with my overall changes to how I work since then. And if I seem to have way too many/few personnel in any category, let me know. I’ve still never really nailed down the exact number of unarmed logistics personnel I would need traveling with this kind of army.

IC:

OFFICIAL MILITARY COMMUNIQUE

To General Lew Nys’ky

Greetings on behalf of the Sacred Emperor and the Imperium. I am High Lord Ishamael, and I have been given the honor of commanding the force that His Divine Majesty has sent into Haven to assist you. I have roughly 1800 combat ships off the coast of your recently-acquired holdings, and a total of well over four million troops, along with thousands of tanks and aircraft. Rest assured we are equipped and determined to fight hard and long, and the gods are with us. We request information on your status; locations of your various positions and defenses, the number and composition of your forces, and any information gathered about Aralonia’s likely defenses and allies. Also, please inform me of your plans of action; incidentally, I currently intend to land my troops on the northernmost shore of this region of Aralonia, that is, the coast southwest of Mackinay And Margia. I have attached information about my own armies...and I assure you, there are many more where these came from. The Legions are well able to supply much greater numbers of personnel and materials. Therefore, we go forth in honor and dedication to the true gods, rightly confident of victory. I await your reply; we will not act until you have begun your own attack, nor until I am fully aware of the situation. Blood and Honor.

High Lord Ishamael of Domain Sadow

encrypting...
transmitting...
Official Military Communique:

To: High Lord Ishamael
From: General Lew Nys'ky

Attached you will find the requested information. As of 2000 this evening, the Imperial military is moving into attack coordinates in preparation for the assault, set to begin two days and 4 hours from 0030. Your vessels will be expected to support Imperial Naval assets in locating and engaging Aralonian and allied fleets in the area, and in defense of the bay and the waters outside its mouth. Likewise, Warmaster troops will, by forcing an amphibious landing on the western end of the peninsula, support the Imperial advance into southern Aralonia by cutting off Aralonian troops and occupying positions along that particular peninsula. Warmaster air units will be needed to assist in obtaining and maintaining air superiority over the nation throughout the first stage of the campaign.

I strongly urge against a landing anywhere on the western coast, and as mentioned, will expect amphibious deployments on the western extremity of the eastern peninsula, just north of the mountain ranges that the Imperial 3rd Army will cross to begin their attacks on Aralonian positions.

Specific details, including maps and force details, as mentioned, can be found in the attached documents.

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

General Georg Brekov puffed on a cigar and fondled the rims of his spectacles as he read the briefing on last time. The Commander of the Imperial 3rd Army folded the document, and flicked his lighter, touching the flame to the corner. As it ignited, he dropped it onto the cold concrete floor. Getting up, he ascended the staircase, and emerged under a clear sky, the night breeze refreshing against the stuffiness of the subterranean installations. He breathed deeply of the cold air, tinted with the perfume of the smoldering cigar, hand resting on the hilt of the Imperial infantry saber that hung at his waist.

"A fine night, General."

Brekov turned his neck slightly, seeing a familiar face emerge from the same bunker he himself had just come from. Brekov turned his eyes back towards the starlit sky, replying:

"Enjoy the fresh air while it lasts, General Ivanov."

The other man, a tall figure in a sharp dark green uniform, stepped up beside him. On his brest was the simple black bellicose emblem of the Imperial Praetorian Guard: a pair of crossed swords beneath a leering skull. His own face resembled this death's head, his smile that of a wolf as it rips out the throat of an unfortunate lamb.

"Personally, I prefer it as it will be in two days."

Brekov looked at his companion out of the corner of his eye, and chose to remain silent. He was more than well aware of the realities of war, and he had never shown any hesitance in sending men to kill and be killed, but he did not share his fellow General's infamous relish for blood. It was the way of the Praetorian Guard, he suspected, and he further assumed that it was an attitude that came from their duties. Without bloodlust, perhaps it was impossible for them to exist, perhaps their purpose was obsolete; but as long as men settled their disputes, and satisfied their lusts for power and glory through war, such men would serve as a byproduct.

"Did you hear," continued this Ivanov. "The Questerian navy bombed Doomingsland."

Brekov was surprised. He hadn't heard the news, having been closeted with his aids preparing for his own coup against the Aralonians.

"When?"

"Two hours ago. It's fitting. A suitably dramatic opening move."

Brekov remained quiet, chewing this development over in his head.

"Still, I would have rather it was our hand that drew first blood, rather than that of our enemy."

Brekov added, quietly.

"The world's attention is elsewhere now. This is favorable to us."

Ivanov laughed brazenly.

"Let them watch. They'll be getting an eyeful in a few days when the Aralonian army is routing before Generia's Praetorians."

This subtle dig caused a flush of anger in Brekov, but he bit his tongue. Ivanov was a fine soldier, and a brilliant commander in the field, but his arrogance seemed to be almost as worthy of renown as his ruthlessness in battle. Still, Brekov was not a man to start contention within the ranks of his own army. There were enough people worthy of killing over those mountains. He turned and offered a slight nod to his compatriot.

"I'll take my leave, General. I've matters to attend to in preparation."

Ivanov smirked.

"Good night, General."

Lieutenant Stasio Marekovic watched the dark terrain below him shifting and changing to the gentle background of the VTOL’s whirring engines. They were low, lower than usual, even for this particular craft, and he could make out the specifics of the terrain even in the near pitch black of a moonless night. He turned his attention away from the window, and looked down the rows of silhouetted figures in the fuselage. There was utter silence, again save for the engine noise, and no man looked another in the face. They were still for the most part, save for the subtle ticks and twitches that come out in men before battle; fondling a rifle grip, running the flat of a knife blade against a hand.

There were 60 of them in this particular craft, himself included. Most had trained together at that same cold base in Alberia, and many had fought side by side in Buchiana or against the Yaforites. They had all started out as regulars, enlisted men in the same program, experiencing the same hardships. They knew what it meant to be a soldier. Every man pulled his weight, and every man did his duty. They had earned the seats they rode in now, low over the mountains of southern Aralonia; fought their way into a spot in the Generian Imperial Special Forces Battalions, just like every other man in every other VTOL that night had.

2:30

In an hour, the thing would be getting started. Two hours after that, the Generian 3rd Army would be on the move, and the war would be on. It wasn’t enough time, Marekovic remarked to himself.

2 minutes. The words spread down the rows. Marekovic checked the magazine on his GIR-47f one last time, and pulled a set of night vision goggles over his eyes. The man to his immediate left stomped a cigarette under his heel. Marekovic looked down the line, It wasn’t the time or the place for motivational speeches. He simply looked every man in the eye and offered a nod. In the distance the sound of a few isolated bursts of AAA fire could be heard. It became more frequent, and closer.

A burst only a few hundred yards away forced the aircraft to shudder, and Marekovic held his breath and his weapon a little closer.

30 seconds.

the 30mms on the aircraft opened up with a thunder, and the engines slowed. The rocky, unstable ground came a little closer, and every man tensed. Another close explosion was accompanied by three more, and Marekovic saw a flash as an engine on a nearby transport burst, and the vehicle fell out of the sky. All the stealth technology in the world couldn’t save a slow moving VTOL on the descent from the keen eye of an artilleryman.

The doors opened and the aircraft touched down in a dale, with a heavy thump. The Generian lieutenant was the first on the ground as his men deployed. Sporadic rifle fire opened up, the sounds of two different calibers from two different sides. He couldn’t tell if they’d been caught off guard. He doubted it, but it didn’t make much difference.

Hitting the dirt, he ordered his men to move into position, above the growing noise. Approaching the edge of the ridge, his vision opened into a panorama of a larger dip in the rocky ground, and a pair of well concealed AAA pieces. His men had already opened fire.

Elsewhere, down the line, the fight was beginning. The tip of the spear was breaking the skin, Generian advance recon units engaging anti-aircraft and artillery emplacements in the mountains, paving the way for the assault that would come two hours later.

General Lew Nys’ky watched the flashing screens, listened to the orderly reports coming in over the secure channels. Beside him stood General Brekov, the 3rd Army’s decorated commanding officer.

“Are your men in their positions?”

“Yes, sir. They’re ready to move on your order.”

Nys’ky nodded.

“Soon.”

Overhead, the scream of jet engines could be heard, coming from the nearby airbase. Wild Weasel squadrons, GIF-1 interceptors, the new GIF-2 air-superiority fighters, and even a number of Doomingsland produced Aquilas were in the air. On the seas, in the bay, the ships of the coalition took aim, Generian vessels beside those of the Warmaster preparing to begin a bombardment of the peninsula, and strike targets further inland. Generian heavy artillery pieces did the same. On a word, they would turn the southern expanse of the nation into a lake of fire.

In the capital, the city of Sofia, so far removed from the chaos that was about to unfold, the Emperor Kazatmiru paced up and down in a dimly lit sitting room down the corridor from his bedchamber. Quietly, Lord Varus, his trusted confidant, passed through the double doors, left slightly ajar.

“Your grace, it is beginning.”

Kazatmiru paused, his back to the man, eyes gazing into the shadowy corner of the room.

OOC: Uhm...bump? Waiting for Aralonia...

[THE NONAGON, NEW SARIS, SARIS CONTROL ZONE, NORTHERN ARALONIA]

The Archon dropped his cup of tea, shattering it on the wood floor he was standing on, staring at a screen openmouthed.

Video footages of firepower being brought down on Aralonian mountain positions. A VTOL aircraft firing its primary machinecannons at a bunker, then that bunker exploding as a rocket or something hit it. A tank exploding -before- an ATGM hit it. Wait, what the hell? He rewound the video. Sure enough, the tank exploded a second before an ATGM hit.

He would have to have a talk with the ground defence forces about this.

What -wasn't- expected was the sheer mass of firepower in there. He quickly tapped several buttons on a keypad, bringing up additional satellite photographs. Granted they were pretty comparatively low quality from the fact that they were, y'know, from geostationary orbit, but they would have to do.

He blinked as he looked things over. Things -were- really bad.

“Oh, shit.” He fell back into his armchair, holding the tea cup's saucer. He examined it slowly, and decided to throw it against a wall, just so something could break.

He sat up again in his chair and adjusted his shirt collar, calling up the fleet admirals elsewhere in the building.

“Admiral Winterbourne. Where the hell are the fleets?”

“Sir, they're all over the place, literally. Pride of Aralonia is finishing up in port, we're working double time to fully outfit her. The Third Expeditionary is familiarising themselves with the Hoplite missile, the First and Second Home Fleets are patrolling around Northern Aralonia, while the 4th Cruiser and 5th Battleship Squadrons are returning from a diplomatic mission to Questers. The 6th Battlecarrier Squadron, 7th Cruiser Squadron, 8th Fast Reaction Group are in port at the moment, as is, well, everything else. We can however dispatch the 10th Light Carrier Squadron and 11th Fast Reaction Group immediately, they're already in the area.”

Hopkins nodded. “Very well. Dispatch them. Immediately. I have to get ready for a conference.” He closed the communications link and sat back in his chair again, crunching his boots on the tea cup's shards.

This was going to be a long war.

OOC: Have no illusions about the timing here, all this initial stuff happens days before Generia’s actual assault. Keep in mind that this fleet has been sitting in Haven since a little bit after GE started fortifying his colony. Also, pretty much the exact same attack pattern happens in the fleet in the south, which is attacking the coast that's directly south of the third 'a' in 'Aralonia' on the Haven map.

IC:

OFFICIAL MILIARY COMMUNIQUE

To General Lew Nys’ky,

We thank you for the information. With this, I have requested additional troops from the Empire, and they will be here well before the attack begins. The new total of Imperial forces, including these reinforcements, is attached. I have reconsidered my initial plans, of course. I have ordered my forces to split, and there are now two separate Imperial fleets; the smaller fleet and army will be attacking and landing at the southern base of the peninsula, just east of your own colony, while the larger force will concentrate on the northern base of that same peninsula. A massive naval bombardment will target Aralonian defense positions, especially those that allow Aralonian air control, to pave the way for the air attack and the landing of Imperial ground forces. The Legions are ready, General, and will act as they always have: with faith, with courage, with strength, and without mercy. Blood and Honor.


High Lord Ishamael

***

Early morning. Not really morning, though; the sun wouldn’t begin to rise for hours. A dark night, starless, the perfect quiet to precede the perfect war. Ishamael smiled. Since the Empire had become part of the CAD, war with Haven had been a great Imperial dream, realized yet again today. His peer, High Lord Rahvin, had achieved a great victory in Czardas; now it was Ishamael’s turn. He glanced at his watch. Not long now. He sipped a coffee reflectively and studied the night from the bridge of the Imperial flagship, thinking of the other fleet, at the southern base of the peninsula. The other fleet was smaller, though certainly amply armed, and carried a smaller army than the one waiting in the bowels of the transport ships with Ishamael’s fleet. Actually, in practice, the man on Ishamael’s left commanded this northern fleet: High Admiral Ludo Anor. Ishamael commanded the whole operation, but knew little of naval affairs, and he looked forward to stepping onto Aralonian soil and leading his armies.

A quiet cough came from behind him. Ishamael and Admiral Anor both turned, and the young lieutenant bowed to them both before reporting. “My lord, Admiral, the Generians have begun their attack. They’re launching Special Forces groups to take out the air defenses. We expect them to begin the full invasion in a few hours.”

The two high officers nodded, then went out among the bridge officers to give their orders.

It was time to begin.

***

Smoothly, from the decks of the dozens of carriers, B-6 Paladin stealth bombers launched, rising high into the night, loaded with payloads capable of razing cities. Cluster bombs, MOABs...the most advanced of explosives were packed into these planes, aimed at the godless pit that was Aralonia. They soared, invisible to the enemy’s detection systems, until they were over their targets, positions that had been located by the Imperial satellite network and tentatively identified: command centers, communications posts, and air defense emplacements. Many more, secondary, targets had been selected...but they would have to wait.

The bomb bays opened, and the first Imperial strike of the war began. With typical precise timing, as soon as the bombs started to fall, the Imperial fleet blasted a single message over any Aralonian frequencies they could, causing that instant of consternation before the storm broke: “False hope, the noose of dreams.” And so the war opened with typical Kregaian dark, ironic humor.

A second later, all hell broke loose.

The bombers unleashed a ferocious storm of ordnance. Major positions were targeted by the MOABs, 11-kiloton bombs that were among the most powerful non-nuclear weapons in the Imperial arsenal. Other targets were subjected to a hailstorm of laser-guided cluster bombs. Quicker than lightning, another rain of bombs, another. Airfields, SAM batteries, or anything that helped Aralonia control the skies were targeted with literally tons of high-explosives.

Miles away, on the dark and silent seas, the Imperial fleet opened fire. Targeting airfields, communications posts, field hospitals, artillery batteries, command centers, supply depots, transportation facilities...basically any and all examples of military infrastructure, in some cases reaching for hundreds of miles back into Aralonian soil. Ishamael was determined that the Imperial forces should destroy all Aralonian planes on the ground and air defenses in the opening minutes of the invasion if at all possible. Pandemonium II firebombing missiles streaked from their launchers aboard Silencer missile subs, shrieking into the upper atmosphere before plummeting down on their targets; superheavy bunker-buster Colossus shells tore from their guns aboard the battleships and superdreadnaughts, rubbing shoulders with 24-inch, 18-inch, and 6-inch shells and a vast cloud of missiles. Hundreds of these missiles were diverted to destroying any impediments on the shore itself, but most of them streaked towards air defenses and such, just like the other waves of attack. Some of the missile submarines switched their modes of fire, launching graphite missiles at the nearby cities; these would detonate in midair, knocking out electricity where the minute graphite threads contained within settled.

Finally, the stealth bombers emptied the last of their bombs. As quickly as they could, to flee the Aralonian response, they hurtled back towards the safety of the fleet, heaving a collective sigh of relief as they landed, but too late for two; a pair of B-6s had been struck by an Aralonian missile and destroyed. Still, it was only two down. The Imperium had opened the war in typical style.

False hope, the noose of dreams.

RAF NEW SARIS

Brigadier Harrison smartly saluted General Yamashita as he had arrived, and the General replied the salute smartly.

'What's the status of our forces, Harrison?' Yamashita got down to business immediately and Harrison offered him a mug of tea, which was graciously accepted, and the Brigadier replied shortly. 'Dissarray, quite frankly.'

Yamashita had expected this and replied 'What about this base?'

'Well.' Harrison continued, taking another sip of his own tea. 'There's a fighter squadron, but the pilots are all out in the city getting well... some R and R.'

Yamashita scowled. He had not expected this. 'What?'

'Yes sir.' Harrison replied. '892 squadron and 444 squadron are in the city. We can get them recalled ASAP and they'll be here in four hours.'

'Shit. What are they operating?'

'Sparrohawk As and Es, respectively.' Harrison replied.

'What about those Shearwater ELINTs?'

Harrison shrugged. 'I guess the pilots are hanging around.'

'Well why are they not in the air?' Yamashita demanded.

'We were waiting on your orders sir.'

Yamashita sighed. This day was not good. 'This is not the kind of beauracracy I expect from my officers. This will be rectified when - and I say when, we have successfully defended Aralonia.'

'Yes sir.' Harrison replied. And where were you five hours ago? Living it up in your mansion with your mistresses? Don't talk to me about beauracracy you aristocratic shit.

'Okay.' Yamashita paused momentarily. 'What about the ground forces? We have three divisions, right?'

'Yes sir.' Harrison nodded. 'Two in this vicinity and one south. The III is motorised, the others are infantry.'

'OK, what about the two infantry divisions?' Yamashita still had hope.

'Logistically, we're fine. We can have them weapon issued and equipped straight away. The problem is, two of three brigades are in the city. Probably catching up on their R and R too.'

'WHAT!' Yamashita spat on the floor. Some Aralonian would clean it up later. 'This is ridiculous. We don't pay those shits to sit around on their arses!'

No, we tax it off the Aralonians... Harrison thought.

'Get those troosp mobilised and in their bases ASAP. How long do you think it'll take?'

Harrison shrugged. 'Twelve hours? Thirty to be battle ready. In six days they can be assigned their defensive positions.'

'This is quite frankly not good enough.' Yamashita said, showing his short temper. 'I want those troops in their defensive positions in four days, or... well... Get me a meeting with their Archon. Get him over here in a HELO.'

Harrison nodded, saluted, and on his way out saw the Union Jack and Rising Sun flapping proudly in the windof the aerodrome. Would it still be there next month?

Aralonia was technically a Questarian colony - it had alot more autonomy than say, India or Singapore, with its own democratically elected government and its own - albeit, with a good deal of funding - military. Still, wealthy Questarians moved there to escape taxation from the Questarian government, and often set up farms and mansions. Yamashita's personal mansion was full of local girls that he had... adopted, and various riches he had stolen from native Aralonians. The Union Jack and Rising Sun flew alongside Aralonian flags , but maybe not for much longer...

’Antonius’ Class Super Dreadnaught Empire

“Admiral Stekov, sir. General Nys’ky sends his regards. Initial operations along the border have commenced. We’ve been given the green light to begin coastal and inland bombardment.”

The silver haired Generian naval officer nodded.

“Tell him we’ll hold up our end of the deal.”

The alarms sounded across the massive Imperial fleet that stood poised in the bay, close to 300 Generian ships of war. As the clock struck 3:34, the blackness that hung heavily over the water was broken by the thundering of the 29.5 inchers on the Empire’s three dreadnaughts, targeting coastal emplacements, artillery, AA batteries, and known troop concentrations further inland. The chorus was picked up seconds later by the guns of the other battleships.

From the decks of 5 ‘Alexei’ class fleet carriers GIR-77 strike fighters and GIB-1 bombers took off in the direction of the enemy coast, presumably to link up with those already en route from airbases in the colony.

----

Aralonian Border, 3:46 AM

General Brekov watched the illuminated horizon. Even here the noise was significant, enough to rattle the earth and pound on the eardrums.

“This must be what Armageddon looks like.”

“From a distance..”

Brekov glanced over at his aid, a middle aged career military man who had stood with him since the time of his commands at the onset of the Yaforite war 7 years ago. The man’s blue eyes were clearly visible in the gloom, the scene on the horizon reflecting with surprising clarity in his pupils.

Brekov placed a cigarette between his teeth and reached for his lighter. Things were oddly quiet a bit further back on the line. He knew that in the passes a few thousand meters above him, a battle was raging, and in a few hours, his own men, all 5 million of them, would be moving to join it.

The Generian standard waved slightly in the breeze, and then a deafening screech shattered the dull rhythm of the artillery as a flight of GIR-77s roared overhead. The cigarette fell from his fingers as the Generian commander covered his ears. As the noise faded into the rhythm of the guns, he bent to pick it up.

A face appeared in the gloom behind the two officers.

“General Brekov, sir. General Nys’ky sends his regards.”

Brekov turned. He couldn’t make out any insignias on the man’s uniform.

“And, soldier?”

“The 3rd army is to be ready to move out in 35 minutes.”

“That’s sooner than initially specified.”

“General Nys’ky is aware. He seeks to take full advantage of the enemy’s confusion. Is the 3rd army capable of doing this?”

Brekov smirked.

“We’ll be on time.”

“I shall inform General Nys’ky, sir.”

Brekov nodded, and relit his cigarette as the guns continued to rain hell on the hapless enemy over the border.

Location Unknown, 4:21 AM

“Launch preparations complete, all missile crews, standby for further orders!”

The submarine shuddered as its missile tubes flooded, shaking the inhabitants of the control room slightly, contrasting with the stark and stoic faces of the crewmen. Lit only by the numerous gauges and red combat lighting, the control room pulsed with information, as their vessel, a Tower class ballistic missile submarine, cruised silently through the inky black depths. The commander of the vessel stood behind the chair of his weapon’s officer, scanning the ready status of the thirty-two missiles under his command. Each tube, now completely filled with icy seawater, held a mighty BM-8S Redsword intermediate range ballistic missile, loaded with three independently guided 1000kg high explosive warheads apiece. These revenant quietly sat on their exposed thrones, waiting for the signal that would send them hurtling into the heavens like a fiery arrow.

Inside the SSBN, the mood was getting tense. Only a half hour before, the submarine had received the encrypted ready code, notifying it that combat operations were imminent and to prepare to launch against specified enemy targets immediately. Now, this sub, one of over thirty deployed in the waters outside of Southern Aralonia, cruised just below launching depth, waiting for the final transmission that would send it’s charges flying in retribution at the Generian invaders. Above the surface, the calm, dark sea flowed on forever in an eerie silence, broken only by the distant thunder of Velkyan fighters high in the stratosphere, flying great oval orbits around the airspace of the submarines, protecting them from enemy ASW incursions like a mother eagle watches her young.

Climbing back down to the murky depths, the submarine banked, making a turn in its largely erratic course designed to confuse enemy anti-submarine assets. Several hundred meters away to either side of the missile sub, a pair of AUNDF hunter killer subs kept watch, their own vertical launch cells and torpedo tubes ready to strike at a moment’s notice in defense of their commanding SSBN. This trio of submarines was only a small part of a task force of combined subsurface and airborne assets from the 1st, 2nd, and 14th Naval Defense Fleets charged with carrying out Operation Solitude, the first counterattack against the Generic Empire and her allies. Over one hundred boomers, three hundred SSNs, and twenty squadrons of IF-13 Phoenix interceptors plus support vessels and aircraft were dispersed all off the coast of Southern Aralonia, readying their combined combat stores of over nine thousand, six hundred separate reentry vehicles, each filled with a mission specific payload. The vast majority of the missiles, around eighty percent, were topped with special SLADM (Sub-Launched Area Denial System) warheads, each filled with a mix of anti-tank and anti-personnel mines designed to be released in midair by it’s mother missile, then releasing it’s payload of approximately one hundred drag streamer retarded mines in a rough circle with a three hundred meter radius. Targeted all along the roughly six hundred kilometer border of Southern Aralonia and the Generic Empire colony, these missiles would create a wall of death and fire over five kilometers deep, spanning from east to west all the way to the sea.

Combined with these mines, the remaining missiles were equipped with everything from high explosives, fuel air explosives, and anti-runway penetration munitions, their targets the numerous troops concentrations and bases along the Generian side of the border, aimed to confuse, terrify, and stall the enemy before they inevitably swarmed northward, overwhelming all in their path. And they sat in their vertical launch cells, waiting for the encrypted command from faraway Defense Force High Command to commence the operation.

They would not have to wait long.

V.S.S. Ezekiel, Aircrew Ready Room No. 32

Sleep’s a great thing.

Except when you are ripped violently from it.

His eyes shot open. They beheld a blinding display of crimson light which temporarily blinded him, accompanied by an equally deafening klaxon. Being used to alerts such as this, the pilot shot up off his rear, scooping his helmet and kit from the desk next to him. Shaking his head to regain full consciousness quicker, he started down the hall, attempting to make out the voice of his commanding officer on the intercom system.

“Attention all crews, general quarters, man your battlestations, over. All aircrews are ordered to report to their aircraft immediately and prepare for launch!”

Running past the frenzied crews around him, the pilot navigated the tight corridors and staircases of the carrier, the red lights (which were now phasing from dim to bright rapidly) shining above his head as he struggled to remember his aircraft’s location. Finally, it dawned on him, and he grabbed a high-speed service elevator traveling to the hanger level, which opened to a labyrinth of aircraft, mechanics, weapons, and fuel. Trolleys screamed at reckless speeds through the corridors of parked war birds, transporting everything from stacks of cannon rounds to anti-radiation missiles to the overworked ground crews, who struggled to load the waiting aircraft. His adrenaline rising, he sprinted to his squadron’s row, hastily donning his flight helmet and adjusting his flight suit one last time. As he skidded to a stop next to his navalised Nightmare multirole fighter, he was greeted by a semi-dazed crew chief, which started to scream instructions at the pilot over the hellish din of the cargo area.

“Jack, we’re up first on the flight line, get your ass geared up and in that plane, you’ll be briefed en route!”

Before he has time to respond or even react, Jack was semi-aided, semi-forced into the cockpit of the fighter by the surrounding mechanics. Strapping into his ejection seat, he powered up his aircraft, watching his cockpit display spring to life around him. Engine, weapon, and sensory readouts became available to him, as he felt his aircraft jolt forward. Snapping his eyes away from the OLED panel, he watched as a tractor pulled his aircraft out towards one of the huge hanger elevators, coming in behind two other aircraft of his squadron, NMS 92 Death Adders, each emblazoned with a death black serpent on their vertical stabilizers. The trio of aircraft were carefully, if hastily, loaded onto the lift, three abreast, as the tractors detached their connectors, speedily running to next few aircraft in line. Time was of the essence, and they would be damned if they wasted a single moment of it. Rising into the exposed flight deck, the damp Aralonian night immediately felt. He pitched his head upwards, just in time to watch a squadron of IF/A-14Cs streak across the night, casting a mighty roar over the heads of those still on the flight deck, launched from the Zenith, another Tempest class carrier in the massive five hundred vessel strong battle group, aft of Jack’s own ship, the Ezekiel. After some shuffling about, his plane was pitched unto the electromagnetic catapult. Hearing the blast shields rise behind him, he closed and locked his canopy, sealing him off from the outside world. The roar of his engine became a dull rumble, and he was immersed in the radio chatter currently passing through his ears. Carrier aircraft of all shapes and sizes screamed over the flight deck, and the distant lights rising away from adjacent ships confirmed this. Jack thought to himself, ‘Christ, how long are they going to sit out there?’

As if to answer his thoughts, the control tower operator’s voice rang through his ears. “Blue 03, you are cleared for takeoff, activating catapult in T-minus ten, nine, eight…” Tightening the grip on his control stick, he increased the throttle, turning back to watch the exhaust plumes warp the air behind the engine nozzles of the aircraft. Leaning back into his seat to absorb the force of the catapult, he sighed one last time. “…three, two one, clear, launch!” He was, as predicted, smashed into his seat as a powerful electromagnet hurled his aircraft forward, sweeping across the damp flight deck and off the ship. The aircraft dropped tailward slightly, before he punched the throttle to maximum and pulled the stick towards him, sending his aircraft screaming into the stratosphere. Soon, his carrier was a distant dot amongst hundreds of others as he climbed to cruising altitude, forming into a left echelon formation with his three squadmates. Leveling his aircraft off, he switched on the autopilot, resting his limbs as the computer kept the aircraft at a straight course and fuel efficient speed. His brain stormed around, and the voice of an AWACS operator filled his ears.

“This is AUNDF AWACS Sauron to Echo Wing, repeat, clear all channels and wait for upcoming orders, over.”

The light radio chatter that had shot between the myriad aircrews subsided, as the voice of a high ranking officer made itself known.

"Alright, flyboys, listen up. At one hundred thirty hours tonight, Allied Union Defense Force High Command received word from Aralonian commanders on the ground near the border of Generian Special Forces teams crossing the border between Southern Aralonia and the Generian occupied territory south of it. They have engaged allied units in combat in land, sea, and air and OMI reports that they are mobilizing for an even larger invasion. In response to these incursions, High Command has authorized immediate action against all enemy forces attempting hostile action against both Velkyan and allied assets. You are part of this action and will serve as its spearhead. Targets and waypoints have been marked on your navigational displays. For this mission, you will be coordinating with Aralonian forward air controllers on the ground for up-to-date targeting parameters on enemy positions and formations. All rules of engagement are herby declared void, and any and all hostile targets, once confirmed by IFF systems, are to be terminated with extreme prejudice with priority given to designated targets. Except mission updates as strike teams close with the target area. Radio silence with the exception of emergency transmissions will go into effect at the conclusion of this broadcast. Good luck and good hunting."

Frosty listened to the transmission fizzle out as he stared into the starry night ahead of him. He looked at his weapons display. Stupidly, he had neither checked his aircraft before launch or even what its stores were before lifting off. He prayed silently that nothing was wrong with his aircraft, and looked down at the OLED monitor again. Six air-to-air missiles in the internal bays, a pair of anti radiation missiles, and an assortment of land attack weapons.

Enough to serve him, he thought, as he continued on his course with destiny.

Alarms rang out over the northern fleet as the carrier pilots scrambled to their aircraft, dozens and then hundreds already rocketing into the Aralonian night. Crews hurried about their business, removing blocks, operating the lifts, manning the AA guns...all the tasks of a fleet rushing into full alert. Over the loudspeaker, High Priest Icarus Syne lectured the Imperial servicemen about the glories of war and the dangers of the infidel.

"Make no mistake, sons of Typhon, you enter battle against the most deceitful and untrustworthy of infidels. This Aralonia, this pit of sin and rot, is a land inhabited by devils! Do you know the sins of these Havenites, Kregaians? I can enumerate a few. A few, mark you!

"They have worshiped idols, the foulest of distractions; they have turned from the light of the gods and plunged into the darkness of sin. Willingly! They have led THEMSELVES astray, unassisted by false prophets and other fiends. They have spurned the arts of war, the purest tool of the gods. They have plotted the overthrow of all that is sanctified and great, all that serves the Sacred Emperor, all that emanates from the forces of holiness..."

Thousands of aircraft were already in the air, swarms of Balefires mixing with the slower A-10 Thunderbolts and the massive Behemoth bombers. Below, missiles continued to streak from the launchers while the ships' guns, from 29.5 inches down to 6 inches, continued to hurl their deadly cargo at the Aralonian installations along the coast. In the depths of their transports, the Legionaries listened in silence to the High Priest's sermon, eerie attentiveness written on every face.

"...they are soulless, disgraced, less than nothing in the eyes of the gods. The eyes of the Imperium have fallen upon them and are disgusted by what they see: infidels, idolaters, foreign sodomite cowards, lying fiends who deserve only death. Give them no mercy, warriors; as this task of their extinction is holy, I pronounce you all sanctified for the war ahead. Further, I pronounce a curse on those who impede our cause! May his eyes wither, his limbs rot, his soul burn under the scourges of devils, who dares to bare self and soul to the might of the Imperium..."

Bump...waiting for a reply to my bombardment...

Bump again.