NationStates Jolt Archive

Part One: No Better Place to Die
War would end if the dead could return. ~Stanley Baldwin
In war, truth is the first casualty. ~Aeschylus

1. Raven
Karasburg, Namibia 27 years ago

The summer was coming, adding more heat to the already unbearable warmth the land was enduring. The days were much longer now, the sun staying up for what seemed like weeks at a time, the ground crying out for rain. The clouds had long since passed away replaced by the endless ocean of blue, the miles of nothing, the stale unknown. Beneath the endless limits of the wild blue was a landscape that seemed identical, vast miles of barren, inhospitable wasteland, a dry unforgiving moonscape. Every now and again a breeze would systematically find its way through the town, kicking up choking thick brown dust. It was a filth unbearable even to those that had endured it for years, the fine particles leaking their way into any and every crevices left open. The slightest opening to the outside would leave you coughing, chocking for air that simply wasn’t there, a steady and unavoidable misery. Skin left exposed, open to the grit, would find itself tortured by a never ending pain, sheered and scratched off leaving in its wake a red puss, a burn of inconceivable pain. Boils and soars would mysteriously appear, the desert taking its unseen toll, breaking you down methodically. Then the night would come, the summer heat changing gears without any prior warning, a rapid chill covering the land. Heavy winds would whip across the stillness, the grit stinging every nerve, every sense, clouding your vision, choking you, suffocating you, the chill freezing you, cutting through your skin, grasping at your breathe. Unforgiving. Damning.

His father would come home from the mines, dirty and broken. His thick coat finally released after being smothered for ten terrible hours, the vile smell omitting, seeping into his every pore. Ten hours, ten hours of back breaking work, dirty, tiring, unfavorable work. The man would come home, his back low, his legs heavy. He would stumble into the house, his huge feet crashing down on the weak, rotting wood beneath, his beard emanating vodka and sweat, his eyes twitching nervously about. He was a drunk, a dirty, broken down drunk. Every night would be the same, Ethan would watch, would be sitting at the table eating whatever his mother could muster, which usually was nothing more then a foul tasting stew, maybe a small animal Ethan and his brother would trap during the day. He would tumble in, mumbling and cursing, and at times, vomiting heavily. He would go from work to the local bar, a trashy decrepit bar in the center of town and spend his earnings on cheap vodka. He was drink away his misery, his failures and mistakes, while at home his mother and two sons near starved, went for days at a time without meat. There was no reason for him around, but no way to escape him. He was a parasite killing everyone around him. He was a large man, forged from years at the mines. His shoulders were broad, and his back thick. His forehead could cut stone and his eyes were drilled deep into the man’s face. He carried with him two arms, cut and solid while underneath his legs shook the ground as they walked. He spoke broken English, spoke with a heavy German accent. His words usually alien, muffled by a great big thick black mustache that melted into his dirty rigid beard.

Tonight he came home just as any other night. He was drunk, delusional, tired, and angry. Angry at the world, his life, his mistakes, he was angry at everything, felt little remorse for anyone accept himself. Probably why he went to the bar, to cover his dreams in the soft burn of the bottle, which is what Ethan thought. Ethan never let himself get close to the man, his loyalty to great to his mother, his protector, his champion. The soft spoken and gentle women that shielded him from evil saved him from sin. There was no greater importance on Earth to her more then her two sons. He had grown to actually hate the man, hate his ignorance and self pity. He hated cowardliness, his false bravado. How women like his mother could fall into that man’s trap was beyond Raven. Now his father was home, and the routine continued. His yelling would begin, drunken and incoherent, yelling at his problems, yelling at Ethan’s mother. They would argue for hours, his mother trying to defend what dignity she could hold on to, would never lose it, not in front of her sons. He would hit her, hit her with terrible force. He would knock her to the ground; pounce on her like a tiger to prey. She would bleed sometimes even break a bone yet she never cried, never in front of her boys. She was strong. Ethan would try and do something, try and help but the man’s strength was too great for him, would simply be tossed aside, hard into the wall. Weapons were no use; his father would slap whatever Ethan had out of his hands, or use it against him, cutting him, knocking him unconscious. His brother was to young and to small to do anything, simply sat in the corner, crying. Then sleep would come, the beautiful peaceful silence would take over. Ethan didn’t sleep, hardly ever did when his father was home. He would listen, listen closely hearing the muffled screams, awful moaning from his mother. Would listen for a rhythmic pulsing, a disgusting groaning. He listened, cried, but could never stop, he could not pull away, could not escaping the fact that his mother was being raped. He did as he did so many nights before, he would cry himself to sleep. His head filled with memories and thoughts, anger mixed with sadness and joy. His anger grew, his sorrow grew.

Another day came and went, another day where his stomach grumbled, the emptiness inside screaming at him, holding him hostage. There were no animals to be found that day, just the harsh never ending ocean of dirt. He apologized to his mother when he got home, fought to hold back tears as he looked her in the face after failing her. But she would have none of it, held him close, her warmth calming him, tending to his wounds. How did she do it, how did she have anything left? Then the night came, the cool air creeping its way into the small home, sweat now turning to shivers. The door burst open, the thick bodied man hovering in the door way, his frame casting a shadow along the floor. Drunk again. Ethan eyed him up, looked at him, looked past him. His father went straight for his mother without warning and raised his hand, landing it directly against her cheek. A small grunt escaped as she fell to the ground. Ethan twitched, his eyes growing wide, something inside him churning. His hand rose again falling, this time, on her back. She was flat on the ground now, her back to the ceiling. Ethan’s breathing was now heavy, deep, disturbed. He clenched his fists; let his nails dig into the palm of his hand. His father stood backed, said something, inaudible. Then Ethan’s mother began to cry, he had never heard that before, not in front of him. He blinked hard, fought the anger building. His younger brother was up now, bending over his mother. Ethan’s father grabbed the young boy’s arm and tossed in aside, hard against the wall. The house shook against the collision. Ethan was up now, facing his father, the fury uncontrollable. Ethan charged forward, yelling and screaming. His father cocked back and landed a right fist against Ethan’s face knocking him to the ground. Ethan was on the ground, his head throbbing, anger clouding his vision. His mother was up had retrieved a pan from the kitchen and swung at her husband. It collided with his head sent him stumbling about but did little more then annoy him more. He removed a small pistol from his back pocket, something he had never shown anyone more, raised it and fired. The bullet hit Ethan’s mother in the head, sending her to the ground without a sound. Ethan was up, no longer cared about anything. He could only picture his mother, blood everywhere. His father turned saw his son moving forward, fired, hit. Ethan felt nothing, only the warm trickle of blood. His spine tingled, his body never before so alive. The gun was empty now, and he tossed it aside. Ethan was panting yet calm. His father landed a left hook on his nose, breaking it on contact, knocking out three teeth as well. Ethan stumbled backwards, but did not fall. He tasted the blood, the warm taste, the odor, filling him, engulfing him. His swallowed hard, yes! I have never tasted anything so good before! Blood leaked from the wound in his shoulder, his nose dripped blood, his mouth swelling up. The pain from the nose was overwhelming, his vision blurred. He stood straight, hit me again! His father obliged his thoughts striking him again. Ethan was wide eyed, a deep gash near his eye. He licked at the blood in his mouth, feeling its warmth, feeling its embrace. It filled him like nothing before had. Every sense on his body was awake, his muscles tense, his eyes alert. He could not believe the feeling, the beautiful pain, the mind numbing glory of it.

He stood again walked over to his father who cocked back. Ethan ducked the lunge, moved quickly behind his father, wrapping his arms around his head. His father was caught be surprise, let out a tough grunt, began flailing his arms behind him. Ethan squeezed hard, his anger releasing itself, he tugged and pulled. Strength flowed through him, the pain undeniable, his arms turning. There was a loud crack, his father going limp, collapsing in his arms. Ethan let him drop, was delirious, unaware of anything anymore. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, the pain finally succumbing him. He went black.

Bozos, Mali
Present Day

It was raining…heavily. The dark grey clouds had spent that past week building up, swelling with moisture. It started about an hour ago, the rain slowly coming down in a mist, a mere trickle. Yet only minutes after it had commenced the rain poured from the heavens above with no signs of stopping. It was as if the Flood was back, the ominous clouds covering the far reaches of the sky. It was noon, yet the sun could not be seen, wouldn’t be for weeks now. The sounds were calming though, the tranquil harmony of Mother Nature rolling over the riverside. The rain fell against the ground, which was hard from the lack of rain, with soft thuds. The thunder, though intense, was sporadic. It was as if the storm was miles away when in actuality it was right on top of him. The lightning was equally sporadic, though dazzling. It danced across the sky, a fiery storm of indescribable beauty. Despite the storm, the temperature was still good. The heat had been dimmed by the weather but it worked out to a comfortable warmth.

He laid back in his tent, a makeshift home, sighing the entire way down. Thank god for the rain he thought, one less misery I have to deal with. The day had been long but relaxing nonetheless, allowing for Raven to get some well deserved rest. The rain was coming down harder, diagonally, had turned annoying. Jesus, it couldn’t have just stayed put. Nope, that is my luck before you know it the wind will take my tent away too. My tent. My home…I bet not everyone calls this place home. Well then again I am in Africa; probably more people call this home then people that don’t. He looked around; it was dark, only a small candle illuminating the room. I wonder how much more of this I can take, how much more I can handle, how much longer can I hold out? His mind rushed with activity, he winced, his head pounding with pain. Damn it! He lived with it his entire life, the wound from the bullet not healing properly from when he was a child. He rubbed the throbbing pain, grinded his teeth, anything to release the pressure. Christ dad! It eased, gradually but thankfully. He was lying down again, looking at the ceiling, the pain gone now replaced by another feeling, hunger. He thought about it for a second, sat up in bed. Yes, why not. I haven’t done anything all day besides sit on my ass.

The rain was coming down hard, almost hurting as it hit your skin. No relief from this land, damn this place. The water dipped down his face, right down past his eyes, around his nose finding a home near the corner of his mouth. His put a hand on his face and wiped, blinking hard, the water removed for now. His hair was matted down, the rain already soaking him through. He went shirtless, no point in this weather, only way him down. He licked his lips, spit out a muddy mixture. He was crouched low, breathing steady, heart rate slowing. The brush was just above his head, the perfect height, but if he couldn’t get close enough it wouldn’t matter, wouldn’t protect him. His feet were bare to, boots would only get stuck, cause noise. He moved slowly, his feet digging in deep against the soft brown muck beneath him. He peered up, the lion trotting slowly away the fierce animal dirty and confused. He watched it now, the beast hovering around, planning its next move. He was hunting something, couldn’t see it because it was beyond the hill, past the lion. He squinted to see, eye what the monster was eyeing, to no avail. The lion stood still, hunched his back, thrusting its head upwards, sniffing the air. The head came quickly down, the animal breathing heavy, every muscle fully strained. Raven crept slowly closer, ignoring the warning signs. The lion wheeled around, forgetting about its prey, knew now it was being hunted. It was an instinct all killers had, the ability to realize when the tables have turned, when the challenge begun. The thunder broke the silence, the lightning casting an eerie shadow over the small groove. The lion’s head was down, its hind leg muscles protruding from its back, smelling the air once more, trying to home in on the smell. Raven stopped, close enough. No way are you going to win this hand to hand battle he thought. He slowly took his right hand and removed an arrow from his left forearm. He kept four arrows around his forearm in a holder he had fashioned together. The lion caught the movement, its claws gripping the earth tightly. Raven knew the animal saw him, stood, the rain pelting him, disrupting his vision. Shit! He pulled back the arrow, the tip razor sharp, pointing directly at the lion. The rain stopped for a brief moment, the wind died down, stillness. The two hunters stood, watching each other, staring at one another. Raven looked right into the king’s eyes, looked deep inside. How many have you killed, how many lives have you taken? Do you regret it, feel remorse? Of course not, you must survive. You are a hunter, a born killer; you understand why I must do this. Will you miss it though, the hunt? Will you miss the taste of blood, the warmth, the energy? What about that first kill, the first bite you ever took. The life draining in your jaws…how was it? Do you remember it? No, no you don’t. Why would you? You kill because you have to kill, but what if you didn’t? What would you do?

The sound was soft at first, a popping in the distance. It grew louder now, grew as the two beasts squared off. It was gunfire, wild, belligerent gunfire. AK-47 he thought, well of course…it’s Africa. It was loud now, close, startling. Raven ignored it, kept his eye on the lion. There was an explosion, the ground rocking beneath his feet, the lion flinched. Raven released his grip, the arrow launched forward on track, penetration. The lion jumped, the arrow diving right into his back, just above his leg. Raven reached for another arrow, the storm kicking back up again. The lion wheeled around, began to take off. No, damn it! Another explosion, the lion gone now, a small trail of blood. The storm was in full fury again, Raven stood arrow in hand. He turned around looked in the direction of the commotion. You had to get drunk now!? I hate these people. Though something else caught his attention, something he hadn’t heard for a while. A loud motor, squeaking, no wheels…a tank. What the hell?

2. Nkosana
Mopti, Mali February 5th

He noticed the sudden and random shift in the weather. It had gone from a warm wet spell to a curious cold. Despite the time of year, things were usually warm all year round in Mali even to the point of chocking heat. Forty Seven degrees was disturbingly cold but even more bizarre was the lack of wind of any sort, even from the ocean. Didier Nkosana was 46 years old was a Frenchman by birth but lived most of his life in Mali rather miserably. Having lost his family early, he simply became a nomad spending much of his time in the armed forces of whatever country required his service. For all his black holes and for the many skeletons’ in his closet he was dashingly intelligent. He had been the mastermind behind the Mali Uprising though he never took credit and many who knew wondered why. A small grunt from across the table was one of the curious. Sitting sluggishly in the chair facing Nkosana was the notorious Jean-Pierre Ugo better known as the Monster of Mali. It was unfortunate for Ugo to have acquired the name though far from the truth it wasn’t. Commander Ugo was the sole survivor of Nkosana’s clandestine war against his own terrorist creation and not without reason. Ugo was a large and sadistically indulgent excuse for a man. He was strong and passionate, vicious and unforgiving, ruthless and methodical but mostly he was dumb. His downfall was Nkosana’s prize, being a simple face to take the ever present fall. Ugo’s distressingly excessive rape of Mali had drawn the attention it should have; Nkosana was already confirming reports of TATO’s mobilization. Though Nkosana knew it to be true, that TATO would simply sweep away Ugo’s force, he didn’t need or want Ugo thinking that.

Mali was never Nkosana’s goal, though a nice prize it would be, it was simply a show. Nkosana’s true goal, though cloudy, involved the complete break down of the United States of Brink. To many, such a goal by simply one man with an idea was beyond farfetched. Though it is usually those people that who fail to realize that the world is shaped by men and their idea’s, not to mention that Nkosana knew more about the country then most did. He knew that its safety was false guarded, that its modernization was only a façade and nothing more. True, the cities were safe havens, a true show of the glorious modernization and elegant advancements. They had all the grander of a new age city fresh from the earth but travel deeper into the country, the blazing deserts and the dense jungles and you’ll experience something you wouldn’t be able to believe. To try and unite the thousands of different tribes and clans calling South Africa home is more farfetched even then Nkosana’s plan to bring the States to its knees. The world sees this sort of situation in Somalia but what they fail to see is that that sort of tragedy befalls the majority of the country. Though credit must be given where credit is do, the US has done a smash up job of keeping things quiet and small, the majority of their pacification was bloodless because no matter how primitive a man is currency is currency. Every man no matter how backwards has his price and those that don’t usually have a tragic downfall. It was the same ailment that created the paradox which was Ugo.

Ugo would not be bought, could not be bought because he had mankind’s other flaw…pride, or at least a cheap disguise that gave that impression. Pride and greed, man’s greatest enemies, though it is true that the only names that we remember that fall victim to the two are those that pride kills. It seemed as if this was no exception. Ugo was no more then a pawn and do proud and/or stupid to realize it. His end was not in question it was rather the question of who would be his ender.

Ugo’s face was scared and rugged, deep lines traversed the crusty dark skin above his eyes. His nose was large and oddly misshapen, perhaps a childhood accident or maybe a birth defect. His neck was thick and his body thicker, though somewhat broken. Though he was large and husky, there was something about him, something that not many could see. Beneath his bulky exterior was a fragile interior, a man that’s fall would be quick and heartless. His eye’s caught Nkosana who clearly saw a man of arrogance and disguised evil. Jesus Nkosana thought the man is nothing. No I shouldn’t think that, he is a shark out of water…nothing more, nothing less. Nkosana put his hands on the table and took a deep breath in drawing his words carefully in his head, “You are aware that your planned actions in Cote will most assuredly draw TATO?”

Ugo grunted, clearing his throat, making some sort of grand show that was not at all necessary. “TATO is nothing more then aging bureaucrats and pacifists. They won’t arrive in time to cause any sort of fuss.”

“I feel your confidence is misplaced. TATO is mobilizing as we speak, waiting for you to make such a move.” Nkosana felt his voice rising but it was all a ploy. He knew damn well that TATO would be there and he knew even better that Ugo’s force was no match for the power of TATO. He needed to light a fire underneath Ugo despite the fact that one was already there. He needed Ugo to dash in and take Cote quick; he actually needed Ugo to be right, that TATO would fumble around a little too long.

Ugo’s patience was wearing thin. He wasn’t a big supporter of Nkosana, planned to lead the countries after everything was said and done and under rebel control. Nkosana was a mere nuisance to him, a bump in the road. Little did he know Nkosana had already mapped out his fate down to a tee, he had no idea he was being played right now. He knew it was Nkosana that had ordered the killing of his fellow generals, figured it was to set Ugo up as the rightfully leader of the armies and for that he was grateful. Regardless of his pride, Ugo knew he could not accomplish what he wanted without some sort of help, the same kind of help that Nkosana provided and the same reason for which Ugo kept him alive…or so he thought. “Your defeatist attitude is troubling. You place little faith in Ugo’s forces?”

“No, not at all. Cote will fall, that is no question. I am concerned about what you will do when TATO announces its presence.”

“I will crush them before they can even get established.” Ugo’s patience was almost gone, his eyes twitched at every comment Nkosana made. His icy friendship was slipping away, the man simply wasting his time.

“Ugo, you will be making history you know.” It was Nkosana’s cheap attempt at flattery, a five year old tactic that somehow seemed to work. It was credit to Ugo’s deep intellectual mind.

“What will you be doing in all of this?”

“Making more friends.”

Mopti Mali
February 7th

He had gotten up early, wanted to see the sun rise this wonderful morning. The air was still cold, something he was not particularly fond or used to. The crispness was somewhat shocking though utterly refreshing. The air was still and easy and the sky clear. The sun shot up rather quickly, its orange and red rays breaking the monotonous blue that hung over the harsh desert. What a wonderful morning he said to himself as he walked to the balcony. His house was near the edge of town and three stories off the ground. He gripped the ledge hard, wet from morning dew the night before. His breath could be seen, wonderment he could not grasp. Damn this weather. Global warming my ass. Below him the sounds of the city were rising slowly as well. The city was once again breathing, stretching itself out for the coming day. Yet there were more sounds now, something unfamiliar to the city, quick movement unaccustomed to such a place and time. The hard clank of metal treads rippled through the city followed by the heavy clasp of boots on cement and gravel. Squeaky machines of war passed ominously through the brightening streets. Ugo was massing his men, getting ready to enter a slaughter house unknown in Africa. It amazed Nkosana how blind one man could be, how utterly clear everything should seem. Ugo’s band could not withhold the TATO onslaught that was sure to ensue, there was no way in hell…expect one. Knowing Ugo, and knowing his soldiers it was almost certain it is what route he would take. History had proven almost hundreds of times its effectiveness in the fields of battle. Ugo’s men would fall into a chaotic insurgency. Though it would be a meat grinder of souls it would provide him ample time to accomplish his own mission while taking out Ugo as well. Two birds with one stone he often thought to himself.

He looked closely at the rising sun, admired its furious beauty.

Mopti Mali
February 8th

“Sir, excuse me sir but he has arrived.” The aid was not small, like his counterparts but rather large and well built. Had he not been so intelligent he would probably be another nameless victim to enter Ugo’s ranks. Nkosana had quickly snatched the man, much to his chagrin, from one of many training camps for Ugo’s army. Though the man longed for the field, Cote was not god’s plan for him.

“Of course, come in.” The aid knew the drill, Nkosana would not be meeting this man face to face, it was far too dangerous, so he walked in and sat down. Nkosana reached into his desk and pulled out a manila folder. Inside were pictures of a man, names used, and any other pieces of information. The aid already knew the drop off location and simply had to take the folder there and keep an eye on it. The aid gave a nod and was quickly off, enjoying the errand as a chance to leave the office and do some actual gritty work. Nkosana waited till he exited the room and removed one of many cell phones he kept in his desk. From a pocket on the inside of his jacket he removed a chip and slid it into the phone. It began to ring.

“Mr. Greenbourne, welcome to Africa.”

3. Raven
Bozos, Mali
February 5th

His nerves were high and his temper even higher. The rain had ceased almost as suddenly as it had started and the sun began to break through the menacing clouds. It was a few miles from his encampment but sounds traveled fast and loud across the wide open plains of Africa. His curiosity had gotten the better of him and he headed in the direction of the sounds despite his troubling appearance. In spite of his age, he was still very much a threat to anyone. His body had been honed to perfection and he kept it that way. He couldn’t afford not to, he would have been dead long ago. Yet was more to him then simple physique. His eyes were cold and nonexistent, nothing but a blank evil stare, a man with no soul or conscious, a machine. His body was scarred and maimed by years of torture both mental and physical. There was the bullet in his shoulder, another in his leg, a gash across his left eye, shell fragments in his back, burns across his face and chest, and countless broken bones. The years of covert operations, splinter cell missions, Ranger duties, terrorism, and bounty hunting had worn him down into a deadly twisted excuse for a human. Though his body was broken, it was not destroy, but rather his mind that took upon itself the darkness of his life. He was no longer sane, had not been for quite some time. A civil war had been fought within and he did not win. He was torn between evil and good, god and the devil. Killing kept him sane, kept the devil at bay as ironic and morbid as it sounds.

His thin hair was dripping wet, not able to dry despite the intense heat now consuming the land. The noises were loud, close. He trudged along, the mud attacking his feet with unmatched intensity. Air pockets beneath the mud tugged at his feet. Every step was a battle with nature. The camp came into view, four tanks sitting abreast. Men were scrambling about them, others sitting carelessly beneath its shade. He kept moving, no point of stopping, surely they have seen him now. He kept his bow behind him, he could take a few but a bow was of little advantage against a tank, no point of starting anything. He got closer and watched as AK’s were pointed in his direction. AK’s and Abrams he laughed to himself, hell of a world.

Had they not been soldiers they would have probably opened fire or better yet would not have tanks. The markings were strange though, not the usual Mali, not even TATO. They didn’t seem to mind once they saw him, some white man walking aimlessly about with a bow. The wind picked up stinging the water that soaked him. It was cold, very cold. A chill rose quickly against his back and his muscles tightened. Strange weather indeed.

The local bar was small, decrepit, and more or less pathetic. Yet for that night at least it was full of customers. Its dark mysterious insides were flooded with soldiers and local villagers coughing amid the thick cheap smoke. Since it seemed the soldiers meant no harm the villagers became curious as people usually are. The soldiers were all too eager to explain what was happening, especially after a couple of drinks. Raven stood in the corner for most of the night, nursed a drink the entire time. Drunken songs soon echoed through the small establishment, the crowd swaying in rhythm. He moved in, tugged at a soldier’s jacket until he noticed. The soldier swung around with a delusional grunt.

“What do you want?”

“I couldn’t help but noticed you had an A1 parked out there.” His eyes perked up a little bit at the name of the tank. Nevertheless the man kept up his façade of disinterest.

“What’s it to ya?”

“It sure is a beautiful machine, how’d you come about it?”

The soldier broke his demeanor and began to blabber at the thought of someone who knew something. “Damn right she is! Part of the 3rd Guards mobile infantry. Hell of a machine. She glides right over this damn terrain, dust, mud, rain, doesn’t matter. Shoots straight as an arrow too!”

“3rd Guards?”

“Yea, part of the People’s Army of Mali. We’ve retaken the land for ourselves…Mali is ours!” There was uproar from some soldiers sitting nearby. They had overheard as he said the last part rather loud. “We are getting ready to liberate Cote!”

4.Ugo

DISCLAIMER: This post contains graphic scenes. Reader caution is advised.

Burkina Faso State, Commonwealth of Hirgizstan- Kossi County, Border Defense Force Guard Station 21

February 8th

The uniformed BDF soldier wept. He just collapsed into a chair and cried, jumping slightly with every crack of rifle fire and groaning at every scream. He dropped the binoculars, he never wanted to look through them again. It was too much.

He kept crying, sobbing, pleading, praying until the screams and shots ended. The crunch and drag of tires could be heard. He just sat in the chair in the elevated Guard Station until a patrol vehicle turned up on its routine patrol. The two Officers got him out and one drove him to the County HQ. He wouldn't be working on the border again.

He wasn't the first to do that. Probably wouldn't be the last if things didn't stop. The militarized and fortified triple border walls along the former Brydog territories were like a demarcation line between night and day, or heaven and hell as some said.

Border Defense Force personnel who manned the elevated Guard Posts, that peered over the huge walls into the land beyond, were basically on the front-line, with front-row tickets to the sickest show humanity could produce-genocide.

Bodies littered the border area, right in front of the border walls, Malians that opposed Supreme Leader Ugo, or the Dear Leader as people had been forced to call him. The vulture pecked carcasses of his enemies lined the border. The hooded and evil looking birds were constantly over the area, looking for fresh meat that was provided almost daily by Ugo's People's Army thugs.

They drove their victims out to the border, sometimes cuffed them to the chain link fence that marked the beginning of the PRM (People's Republic of Mali), and just left them to die, vultures eventually sitting on their heads, pecking their faces off, sometimes while they were still alive. Or the thugs raped the women and kids by themselves or with their guns...or their machetes. Then they slit their throats or cut mens testes off and left them to bleed to death. Sometimes they simply shot the poor people, at least that was quick.

Evil had rolled right up to the border of the Commonwealth.

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Bamako, People's Republic of Mali- Palace of the People

February 9th

The Palace of the People had once been the Presidential Palace, seat of Government for Brydog. It was a grand old place. On the outside it was white walls, gold domes and gold window frames, with stained glass windows. Inside it was all marble floors, gold fittings and opulence that would have put Cleopatra to shame.

Ugo had appropriated the entire upper floor for himself, and had installed a gold plated bath, solid marble sink with gold taps, a toilet that looked like a throne, several jacuzzi's, an indoor pool, sauna and steam-room as well as a number of offices for him and his aides. Plus, of course, his personal quarters were he slept and ate. His harem, made up of women and girls aged from 10 to 50, lived on the same floor. Most of the time they were confined to their quarters, Ugo would simply enter, drag one out and have his way with her. He had killed more than a few.

Addy, his loyal aide, had the closest office to Ugo's personal quarters. Addy was more scared of him in power than he had ever been. The lazy, laconic and uncaring demeanor had been replaced by disgusting smiles and looks of manic pleasure that opened a window into a twisted, disgusting soul. Addy kept a gun hidden under his desk, up late with too much alcohol he'd put it to his head more than once, but never had the guts to go through with it. He continually felt sick around Ugo, like he was living with the devil himself.

The 'Dear Leader' spent nearly every hour of daylight at the main PAM base just across the road from the Palace. He was busy preparing for the invasion of the Ivory Coast with his Generals.

Every so often he would use his personal helicopter, a Huey with tan and green stripes, to go out to the border and inspect the build-up for himself. The People's Police were busy there also, organizing ravenous bands of loyalists into angry mobs and running them across the border into the Coast, often torching houses, killing, raping and pillaging all they could during the night before returning around dawn. Ugo was proud of this, his people were taking initiative.

Ugo had also been called away to Mopti to see Didier Nikosana, a powerful man of influence. Ugo needed him, without being able to really explain why. But he hated him. The man was a buffoon, Ugo thought. Too fond of his suits and comfortable chairs, a silver tongued devil. He would be strung up like so many others, but not just now.

He annoyed Ugo immensely. Addy, up late again one night poring over truly alarming financial reports, heard Ugo, probably drunk, with a girl, she was screaming. He shouted, fired a couple of shots and threw her body out of one of his bedroom windows. He entered the hallway, where Addy could see him through the open door, pistol in one hand. He fumed, "THAT BASTARD! SMUG, SILVER TONGUED NANCY-BOY. I SHOULD EAT HIS HEART! He DARES to doubt me? DARES to question my abilities? I LIBERATED THIS COUNTRY...ON MY OWN! I should have him killed...yes...I should string him up on the border, where those Hirgizstanian pigs can see him, see the vultures pluck his eyes out...or maybe I'll do that." A Butler stepped out into the hallway further down, and was stopped dead by the sight of Ugo, fuming, eyes wild, pistol in hand.

"You...servant...yes you...Did I not liberate you? Am I not a great leader...your own saviour?" The Butler didn't know what to say as Addy appeared at the doorway near Ugo. He started stuttering, but was cut off by Ugo's roar, "YOU SWINE! ARE YOU NOT GRATEFUL? YOU ARE ONE OF THOSE HIRGIZSTANIAN LOVERS AREN'T YOU..." The Butler was looking wild and unsure, about to run, as Ugo raised the pistol. He fired, the bullet caught the butler straight in the face, knocking him into the door, blood shooting out the back of his head, spurting on the white marble as he slipped to the ground. Ugo spat.

He looked to Addy, speaking quietly now, eyes wild. "My friend...I will slaughter spies and traitors like him, to make my country great. I will sweep the Ivorians away, like the cancer they are. Then I will turn my anger on TATO, and reduce them to nothing. Then, maybe we will have Africa at our feet? Is your father not a genius? Do you doubt me, your own father?" Addy mumbled out, "I do not doubt you Dear Leader, but you are not my father...you are the Sup-" Ugo stopped him with a look of sheer crazed malice and evil and continued at a menacing whisper, "Ah...but all Malians are my children...I am their father...I am your father...and I will take care of my children."

5. Baruti
February 9th
Johannesburg, South Africa

His walk had slowed in recent years, his age catching up to him during the election. His steps were now small and methodical. They had recommended a cane but he stubbornly refused it, not yet, he wasn’t old enough yet. His face was slipping, the years of strain and stress beginning to wear him down, taking its everlasting toll on his body. His hair was thin and white, fading more everyday. Breathing was becoming harder and harder, he simply could not go fast even if he wanted to, a prisoner in his own body. Despite the wear that time had inflicted, it had yet to attack his mind and his heart. He kept with him a great will and a keen mind. Modest, he would never admit to anyone’s praise yet everyone knew it, knew he was the smartest man in the country. Baruti followed suite with the old stereotypical notation that the old are wise. Nevertheless he was concerned; it seemed as if people didn’t believe that any more, had changed since he had taken office. We have always been a peaceful people, words and money are more powerful then guns could ever be he thought. What has happened to everyone? Perhaps they are scared, scared of a world gun mad. Russia, America, even right here in Africa, the seeds of hatred are flowering. Yet it would be wrong to fall into it now, we must help not instigate.

His entourage insisted he take the escort that was provided but he, almost annoyingly, turned it down. He braved the rather intense bursts of cold air ripping through the city, the weather unlike he had ever seen. But this was his city, his home, his land, and he wasn’t too old yet. He hugged his coat close, felt the warmth energize him. He didn’t shield his face that would look weak. No, he is the President and he will take the abuse of the cracking wind. Can’t have anyone call me weak or old, no that just simply wouldn’t sit well. Meanwhile his escort cursed the wind under their breathe; a warm vehicle would be a much better way of transportation now. They didn’t complain though, knowing what he was trying to do. They respected the man as much as the next person, probably more. Most had been with him since day one, had rode the wave of glory all the way to here, the cold hard streets of Johannesburg. The building was in view as they turned a corner. It was a marvelous building, tall, gracious, and stunning. Its glass sides reflected the beautiful mid day glow courtesy of the fierce African sun. Though it was less then famous in the eyes of the world, it was a national landmark to the people of the country. The sign in front read words engraved in silver and chrome, “There are dark shadows on the earth, but its lights are stronger in the contrast.”

The Courts had been established a number of years ago, about the time Baruti was coming into office. Former First Lady Ovambo, him, and indeed the country had high hopes for the establishment but the world had different plans. The nations of the world in their infinite wisdom turned tail when it was unveiled. They threw around accusations like encroachment of sovereignty and servitude. They enjoyed more there bureaucratic often corrupt isolation. Rules of war? What kind of nonsense is that when the world seems to enjoy its savagery? Why choose diplomacy when you can twist the sounding of words like conscription and use them to force upon an innocent land your obviously right ideals? No, let the world take pleasure in its downfall, let ignorance reign. The courts simply moved past the minor shortcoming. They now served as the country’s personal Supreme Court, the national library, and even rivaled Windhoek University for the country’s best college. Simply put it was the intellectual Mecca…for the United States at least. It was also where he liked to reside when he wasn’t laden with work. It was his tranquil escape from the treachery of the desert, the jungles, the cities, and the cameras. But this time his reason for coming was different, it wasn’t for peace and it wasn’t for cameras. He was meeting someone, actually a close friend who he had known ever since he was a child. The halls were full of style and complexity as he moved steadily along. His staff had parted ways at the door, knew that the meeting was personal. It was a godsend; they collapsed in the comfort of heated chairs in the lobby, the warmth slowly melting the nagging coldness that held them prisoner. Meanwhile Baruti had reached his destination. He had an office designed specifically for himself; since he spent so much time there it was only natural. As he moved into the room a body, almost hidden, rose from a chair opposite him. A wide smile appeared across his face from ear to ear. The man was almost unidentifiable, his old hard face near hidden by his lips. He extended an energized, though frail, hand in Baruti’s direction. Baruti met it and drew the man in close, his arms grasping at the visitors back.

“Ah Kobe my dear friend how have you been?”

6. Captain Morgan Tasvangari

Debakala, Republic of the Ivory Coast

February 11th

Morgan Tasvangari held his child close to his chest. He loved her smell, the smell of baby powder and freshly washed clothes. It was a scent unlike any other in the world. He held her just like he had done the day she was born.

He was standing in her small bedroom, the dim red nightlight casting a warm glow over the baby toys and wooden cot. She breathed deeply, her hands coming up to her face in stretches every so often, as she sighed, contented.

Her name was Gloria, for she was glorious, the light of his life and the apple of his wife's eye. She was sleeping, just down the hall. Morgan often got up during the night. He couldn't sleep a whole night, hadn't done in ages. Every time he fell into a deep sleep he dreamed...saw those machetes...those evil faces, covered in blood and smiling...laughing...raging at them. The sound of gunfire or a mortar usually woke him from the dream with a start, usually sweating and breathing heavily. He couldn't get the images out of his head. He wouldn't tell his wife...he'd never tell her. She didn't need to know.

So if he woke he went into Gloria's room and plucked her out of her cot, if only just to smell her, and cuddle her warmth against his chest. A tear streaked down his face as he held her and rocked her gently.

This night he'd got up for a reason, he was dressed in his uniform. The same one he wore in the Brydogian military, only there were faded patches were the old insignia was. The only difference in the uniform now was a small flag on the left shoulder. A few other symbols had been removed, but the Republic couldn't afford new uniforms. They had to make do. So Morgan kept his good, his wife ironing it immaculately every time he needed it, sometimes crying over it, her tears seeping into the fabric before being eclipsed by the iron.

His red Infantry beret was slotted through the shoulder boards, below the three subdued metal Captain's stars.

He kissed Gloria on the forehead, she scrunched up her face and moved her arms, still sleeping, hopefully dreaming of something nice. Morgan placed her back in the cot and tucked her in before taking one last look and leaving the room.

He stopped in his bedroom and kissed his sleeping wife on the forehead before stepping out into the hall, taking the bulging green duffle bag, 'Brydog Army' still written in faded black down the centre.

The base houses were all laid out the same, the Officers cul-de-sac was parallel with the married NCO's area. But the street was quiet and dark, except for the muted streetlights and the sound of ciccadas and insects buzzing around, inhabiting the night-time.

Morgan stopped outside his house, took one last look before putting his beret on and stepping out to the footpath. He started off at a quick trot, the Barracks lay about two miles away.

He saw nobody as he went. The first person he did come across was a white-helmeted MP standing in his shack at the entrance to the Barracks area. He nodded at the Captain as he walked past the checkpoint. In the parade area outside the barracks he could see a couple of people, his CO Major Brins and the grizzled old Sergeant Major. They stood at ease, chatting with each other, nodding at Morgan as he arrived.

He stood with them for a few minutes before some other officers arrived, another Captain, and four Liutenants. The big green buses arrived a few minutess later and the soldiers piled out of the barracks room and lined up in formation before boarding with a shout of 'FOLLOW ME!', an infantry motto.

Some of the soldiers were barely 17, they had probably never shaved and wore clothes either too big or too small. The Republic had no money, but it needed soldiers. It was through being picky about who signed up, they basically needed everyone who could fire a gun.

Morgan was one of the last to board the lead bus, and as the doors shut and he sat down the big old diesel contraption fired up and headed out of the base, up north toward the border.

Melisizwe extended both arms, throwing them across the back of Baruti. He pulled him close, knew Baruti’s will was faltering. He tried to energize him as much as possible, knew he would have to give him strength. The smile never left his face. It was wide, extending from ear to ear, his personal trademark. Melisizwe was roughly four years younger then Baruti but his appearance was deceiving. His life was spent, for the most part, in the ghettos of Mogadishu. His family moved constantly when he was young all across Somalia but they could never seem to stay away from the capital for long. His mother and father worked small time jobs for most of his teenage years, enough to live but not enough to allow them to leave the country. Somalia itself was in bad shape. Years of neglect and conflict had left the land an inhospitable waste land. It can only be summed up by comparing it to the Wild West of America. Vigilantism was law and warlords supreme. When he was nineteen he joined the Mogadishu Police force. The experience changed his life. Though he never speaks of his time in the force it is almost a certainty that he killed and saw people get killed. The odds of dying in the line of duty during his first year were 61%. He stayed in for six years until he was 25. A few years later the country joined the United States. With the induction into the Union he began to do low level politics figuring there was a future in it now. His fierce vigor and determination quickly lent a name to himself. At the age of thirty he became mayor of Mogadishu. He then demanded for Somalia to be stabilized and was outraged when nothing happened, the Union seemingly forgetting the country even existed. His battle continued to the gates of Windhoek but to no avail. His only option was to force the decision on the country and the only way, so it seemed, was to become President.

During his rise in politics he caught the eye of none other then Baruti. Seeing the potential Melisizwe had and becoming familiar with his modest upbringing he saw a great future in the man. Taking him under his wing Baruti brought him into the world of national politics and greatly honed Melisizwe’s talent as an orator and politician. As a sign of respect Melisizwe was not going to run against Baruti but Baruti insisted he did. Though curious, Melisizwe obeyed and despite the heated debates that always ensue during Presidential runs they remained friends. Now Melisizwe was obviously worried, the appearance of his close friend was looking near dreadful.

“As good as I’m going to be Ngozi.” He took a step back and looked Baruti over, “Jesus Ngozi you look terrible!”

“You’re not exactly eye candy yourself,” he said with a chuckle.

“Well I suppose you’d like a seat. Damned craziest weather I’ve ever seen.”

“I can’t argue with those words. Odd time of year I guess.”

Melisizwe could see something was building within Baruti. He seemed to search for words, sorting out the best and worst to use. He scanned the air for the timing.

Baruti seemed to hesitate but only for a moment and started, “This job has exacted a heavy toll on my mind and body. Yet for what it is worth my mind wants to fight, wants to guide the country but alas, my body cannot. I seemed to have forgotten my age but I couldn’t forever. My body aches from a new ailment every day forever deceiving my mind.” He paused for a long moment, looking straight into Melisizwe’s eyes. The man responded with a sorrowful glare. “Do you understand what I am trying to say?”

Melisizwe took a deep breath in, of course he understood. Yet he showed the usual and earnest respect. “I don’t quite think I do.”

“I cannot afford the toll another term would take. Melisizwe I am dropping out of the race.”

Ivory Coast, near the border with the PRM

February 13th

Captain Morgan Tasvangari sat in the wood pannelled dugout reading a dog eared adventure novel. It had no cover and every page was bent backward. It was crap. But he'd read it anyway, it was better than doing nothing, better than counting how many mortars or artillery fire that was being lobbed at them.

The trenches were good though, dug out of the hard packed earth by a trenching machine, which was a strange looking digging appliance attached to what looked like a big tractor. The trenches were deep and sturdy, and the small squads of engineers had lined them with railway sleepers. The dugouts were built by hand though, they were small and cramped, but bareable and bloody comfortable when the Malians were firing their rocket artillery.

Morgan had just under 240 men in his command, 7 platoons plus a small HQ platoon. His men occupied a few miles of defensive trenches along the border. Major Brins, now Colonel Brins due to the fact the Colonel had bought it while touring the trenches a few days ago, was behind the lines somewhere, desperately trying to drum up reinforcements.

The army was in disarray. Nobody knew what to do and Central Command didn't want to committ any more forces to the border area, because they knew when, it wasn't 'if' anymore, the Malians came they would steamroller anyone there. Morgan was there, his men were there. He didn't complain, like a good soldier. But he had become sarcastic and short with people. Then again, nearly everyone had.

The Malians were bastards. They sat behind big border defences and huge berms of sand, with MG's and mortars and artillery and tanks and everything they needed. They blared loudspeakers day and night, mocking the Ivorians, sometimes broadcasting noises of torture and rape, screams echoing over the arid land in the night. Haunting, chilling...sickening.

Morgan had resigned himself to his fate. He would probably never see his wife or daughter again, but he wasn't sad. He was doing his duty, not just for a country he loved but for his wife and daughter, who would become victims if the Malians succeeded. He couldn't live with himself in the eyes of God if he sat idle.

7. Nkosana
Mopti Mali
February 14th

His legs were getting stiff and trickle down his throat evolved into a nasty cough. His days of tedious paperwork in the dark cavernous rooms of his headquarters had taken all life out of him. His eyes had drained of color and began to sag. His skin turned pail and cold. He simply could not take that kind of torture anymore, had to get into the sun. So he did, he left his headquarters and began to tour the countryside. The sun’s warmth energized him, the life returned to his eyes. The blazing sun lit his skin on fire and returned him to his natural being. The dust and sand caught in his mouth woke his senses and he was once again happy. The days and nights spent huddling over a tiny office lamp; eyes straining to create what he was going to destroy were over. For now at least, he would be able to flex his legs and his body. The sun provided ample light for which he could marvel at all he had accomplished. Within days of drifting the countryside his legs had returned and his cough replaced by the far more agreeable sores on the arms and legs. Credit for which must be given to the wonderful desert and all its far reaching joys. It wasn’t of concern though, something no African could avoid if only once. The desert was an unforgiving place and it didn’t care who you were. Besides, the sun bouncing off the hulls of his tanks made for a most striking sight. He overflowed at the sight, the rows and rows of tanks and the vast array of soldiers that manned them. Poor ignorant fools they are. They have no true grasp on what is going on, offer them food, money, a chance to fire a gun and they come pouring in. It was a chance for them to escape the irregular tribal life, the life that comes with a backwards nation as many dub them. They had seen enough jets fly overhead to realize that there was something different on the other side of the vast openness that is the desert or the dense foliage of the jungle. Eager hearts with ignorant minds can leave one open for rather easy manipulation. In other words they made for very agreeable soldiers.

The news of Baruti dropping out of the race which was announced about a day ago was splendid news to Nkosana’s ears. For despite his outward appearances, Nkosana rather enjoyed Baruti. He had met him once, during a visit to Windhoek. He was simply touring the country during his youth. He had heard that it was a beautiful town and while touring the Capital Complex he actually bumped into him, though he was not yet the President. He marveled at his charisma and intelligences and his humility at that. He felt better now that he had no reason to kill him. Though the thought made him laugh, so much blood will be shed why care about one person? I am a simple paradox he chuckled to himself. Nevertheless it would make his job much easier now. A man of Baruti’s caliber would be no easy obstacle to overcome. Now his attention was turned to the next big thing, the soon to be president. Though nothing was set in stone, the elections not yet underway it was obvious that Melisizwe would win. Two factors played a role in this. One Baruti had said, in his announcement that he would be withdrawing, that he supported Melisizwe’s run for presidency. People within the country respected Baruti enough, whom had the best popularity figures, to do as he said. Second, despite her intelligence and experience, Ingrid didn’t have what it took with the people to make a serious threat to the Presidency. All this meant that Nkosana’s focus would be entirely on the to be President. Not to worry though he already had a man on the inside.

He didn’t meet with Greenbourne and he didn’t want to. Rumors had it that the man was just as dangerous as Raven was. It was best to simply give him the money, let him do his work, and then never speak of it again. With Raven being the target Nkosana had to call in the best and the only person that would take the hit against Ethan was none other then Sven Greenbourne. His past history is a mystery, rhyme aside. Nobody knew where he was born, what age he was, who his parents were. The only thing people knew was that he was very good at killing people. Hiring him was another thing all together and it took Nkosana months to track down a contact. The contact was in Lichtenstein, a small overly rich country located seemingly in the middle of North Germania. It was the last vestige of human freedom within the European continent. Hiring one of the most notorious hit man on the planet in such a place was ironic enough to make Nkosana giggle a bit. Nevertheless his brief conversations with Greebourne over the phone were rather enjoyable. Greebourne, though straightforward, was actually quite funny and incredibly smart. The conversation only lasted a few moments but every one of them was in a different language, many of which were in tribal tongues leading Nkosana to believe this wasn’t his first visit to Africa. Regardless it was a deadly serious matter. Raven if not killed could cause serious jeopardy to Nkosana’s life and the entire operation.

Ivory Coast, near the border with the PRM

February 17th

Morgan felt like he was losing his mind. Perhaps if he did they would ship him out of the front lines? But who the hell would notice another crazy person at the front? The Malians never stopped their artillery and they flew jets over the lines, strafing the trenches, and they were gone too fast for any response. He hadn’t had a good sleep in weeks. Even after drinking the whisky his wife had sent him, it just made him angry and drowsy, but no sleep came.

The Malians were still waiting, amassing their forces. Morgan often wondered whether his superiors would simply wait until their tanks rolled over his trench line before deciding to attack. Was he expendable? Was that their plan?

His dugout was squalid and lonely. It shook out dirt with every shell impact and creaked every time he moved. He sometimes wished it would just cave in and take him. He didn’t want to receive the inevitable orders, didn’t want his wife to get his body back in pieces or not at all.

It was around midnight when the field radio crackled into life, calling for him. He thought about ignoring it, but they’d probably just have shot him for desertion or something, no point in not answering the damn thing.

He picked the receiver up and listened for a few minutes, sighing when the message was over. The attack was on, for sun-up at 6.30am. He passed the message along to his 200 or so troops along the line. 36 had been killed so far, in so short a time. Morgan kept their tags in a bag on his belt. He often looked into it, like staring at the abyss of death, the coppery smell of blood wafting out from stained and bullet ridden tags of young men who had died in horrible ways. It would sober the most inebriated of drunkards in a second.

Morgan returned to the bed he had in the dugout and read his Gideons bible, the small camouflaged one he had been given his first day in the Brydogian Army. He finally stopped reading about 6 when he donned his uniform jacket, checking that his rifle and pistol were loaded. He said a quick prayer and stepped into the trench outside the dugout.

It was dark, but the Malians were bombarding part of the line behind Morgan’s position, the sound of the impacts was loud and the light lit up the early morning darkness every few seconds. It was disconcerting to see the light before the sound, it was a bit like thunder storm.

The barrage lifted just as daylight approached, the Malians usually quit around 6 or so, and didn’t start again until 7.30, probably getting their breakfast. All Morgan and his men had were ration packs, which meant some oatmeal bar or tinned fruit that still had Brydogian markings on them.

It was nearing H Hour when Morgan took one last look at the picture of his wife and child. He kissed it and crossed himself saying a ‘Hail Mary’ before digging out his radio.
He held it to his face with his right hand and looked at his watch on his left wrist. It was a minute to 6.30 exactly. He looked at the quickly brightening sky, sniffed the air that smelled like fresh dirt and savored it as much as he could. It was probably the last time he’d get to do it. Funnily enough he had no nervousness, no manic depression or internecine excitement. He just felt spent, like it was time to get it all over with. There was simply no avoiding it.

The second hand finally crossed the 12. Morgan clicked the transmit button on his radio and hollered ’GO, GO, GO, GO!’

He was the first up out of the trench, he saw the Malian positions about 100ft in front of him through the early morning mist. The land between his position and theirs was strewn with bodies, discarded equipment and churned up sandy earth. It looked like hell. Morgan was greeted with the battle cry of his men erupting from the trench line to his left and right. He surged forward into the lifting mist. The Malians opened fire. Morgan saw men all around him fall screaming or gurgling or just plain dead. He pictured his wife and child, closed his eyes and met his fate.

30 Miles South of Sikasso, Mali
February 18th

He paced back and forth, the sun beating down on his neck relentlessly. His feet dug deep into the arid earth beneath them. Though the area was heavily wooded, much to Nkosana’s annoyance, the trees had been removed to create room for Ugo’s headquarters. Not exactly the best thing to do when trying to blend into your surroundings but it was simply Ugo’s arrogance at play. His life was expandable though, would be when the time came. Judging by his character he probably knew this anyway already had plans for Nkosana himself. I wonder what elaborate torture he has in store for me. He indisputably would spare no extravagance. The Divine has much different plans for the both of us I’m afraid.

Ugo was late, as was the case during recent times. Probably off murdering a family or a soldier who tried to desert. His bloodthirsty reign would happily be short lived. Nkosana’s frustration was building, his energy leaving him. His mind began to drift as he waiting for his General. He walked about the camp. He came across an assortment of tanks not yet engaged, boxes full of rifles and grenades. Behind the headquarters was a truck full of missiles, probably not the safest form of travel. They were different though, something about them not like the conventional munitions usually used. He looked closer and saw the difference…chemicals. Of course he thought, he is selling nothing short. He wants terror and murder more then he wants victory. His faults are my gain. Yet it amazed him still, perplexing as it seems. Here was a man planning the utter destruction of civilization thinking about the evils that mankind has produced. Humans create to destroy. A sad and morbid philosophy but unquestionably right. Humans have turned killing into an art form forever perfecting the trade. Humans spend years, money, and time into producing machines that make killing more effective. The nation that can kill with the most ease and lethality are king. Nations are judged on their power, and nothing else. Anger grew inside him, his energy returning. No! The world will learn their lesson. If the world wants agony I shall give them an apocalypse worthy of their own bloody ambitions.

Ugo strolled into the camp about an hour after Nkosana had arrived. He did little to notice his presence and it wasn’t until half an hour later that the two met. Nkosana didn’t mind, understood all of Ugo’s games. Until his time of use came into play he would simply have to deal with his childish egomaniacal behavior. Something though startled him. Something had changed in Ugo’s demeanor. His eyes were different, deathly cold, downright scary. The two men sat across from each other, measuring the other, waiting for the right moment to speak. The battle had been going well enough. The Malians had beaten back every assault. It was as if they had already given up, throwing away countless waves of men. Despite this, the reckless regard for their own men worried Nkosana. He needed to know more, know what exactly was happening on the front. His plans didn’t call for a pre-emptive strike. So he had to look to Ugo, he had to cooperate with him.

30 Miles South of Sikasso, Mali, February 18th

NOTE: This post contains scenes of a very graphic nature. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

Ugo really did not want to speak first. Nkosana looked like a little accountant to Ugo, wearing a creased suit and by the looks of things suffering from the weather. The Supreme Leader on the other hand wore his uniform, medals adorning the whole left side, clinking gently with nearly every movement.

Ugo had commandeered the office of the Area Commander. He simply sat behind the desk, sizing up Nkosana. The man was unarmed. Ugo could simply remove the now famous L frame .38 special he kept on his waste at all times, the barrel encrusted with the blood and grey matter of more than a few undesirables, and blow his head off. A slight smirk spread across his heavy face as he thought of forcing Nkosana to lick the gunge off the barrel before covering it with his own. But he couldn't, not yet. He still needed the 'little accountant'.

Ugo removed his gold braided peaked cap and stared into the gold badge on the front for a second before placing it lightly on the desk and then sharply looked at Nkosana. "...I suppose you have come here to find out what I plan to do about those disgusting Ivorians...those knuckle dragging festering pools of decadence and depravity. Shall I tell you what I plan to do to their army...and then their women and children...do you want to know?" Ugo could barely contain his utter cotempt for Nkosana or for the Ivorians, he spat every word like an angry snake, venom dripping off the end of each syllable.

Nkosana barely noticed, his demeanor didn't change, he just nodded and sat back a little more. Ugo nodded. A huge Colonel stood by the door behind Nkosana, the man's ugly features and rotund belly simply made him look like what he was...a thug in uniform. He grunted and opened the door, shouting something outside. A couple of seconds later an Ivorian soldier was dragged in, blood all over his face and torn clothes. His chest was heaving and he moaned with every movement. His arms and legs were bound with electric wire that dug deep into his skin. Nkosana could see pink flesh. The man's eyes were wild and erratic, darting to and fro like lightning bolts. It seemed to be the only faculty that was still functional. His nose had been sliced off and oozed puss and blood, his ears were no longer there, just blood encrusted hair. His lips had been sliced off and electrical wire had been pulled through holes to keep what was left of his mouth shut.

Nkosana, like any sane human, wanted to bolt, to gag, to throw up...to kill Ugo and stop the madness. But he couldn't. He had to see his plan through.

The Ivorian soldier was simply dropped on the floor a few feet from Nkosana. A kid was then marched in, hands tied behind his back, legs handcuffed in huge rusty fetters that probably weighed more than he did. He sniffled and had been crying. He had bruises and cuts on his face and flinched every time the soldier shoved him. He was made to stand beside the bloody soldier. Like any child he wore a brightly coloured t-shirt, a yellow one with khaki pants, both dirt and blood smeared.

A woman was then shoved into the room by the fat Colonel, his pistol jabbing her back. Her dress was bloodstained at the crotch and she could barely move. She had blood all over her and was barely conscious. She fell down beside the child, her hands were tied behind her so she simply hit the deck hard, bouncing a little. The stench from the three was overpowering. The Colonel smiled and kicked the woman in the back before spitting on her and returning to the doorway.

Nkosana kept looking at Ugo. The monster smiled briefly, his eyes alive with malign thoughts. He stood up, gestured grandly at the three snivelling, bloody and pathetic bodies that lay and stood grovelling on the floor, "Behold the filth of the earth," he then turned his hand round and pointed at his chest, "behold the cure." Ugo smiled maniacally, never taking his eyes off Nkosana even as he moved closer to the downed soldier, who was coughing something disgusting up on the floor. Ugo moved his brown leather shoe over the man's temple and without any delay stood all his weight on that foot, right on the soldiers temple. The sound of the cranium and skull giving way was like a sodden piece of wood cracking. His whole face just caved in under Ugo's weight, and the soldier stopped moving.

Nkosana wanted to kill Ugo so much he could virtually taste it. He was disgusted...more than any human could be with another. It was like Ugo was not human but monster...animal...not human, anything but human. The Supreme Leader smiled at his work. He now had the revolver in his right hand, at his waist. He had the boy's head in his left hand, he was rubbing his hair, like a loving father. The kid could not have been older than 11. It was sickening. Ugo simply brought the revolver up to the kids chest and fired. The explosion of the bullet in the small room was defeaning. Nkosana jumped. The kid shot backward and hit the ground hard, a hole the size of a baseball had been blown open in the middle of his chest. He heaved for a second, eyes wild, trying to breathe. His shattered body just gave up, gurgling coming from inside the chest before it settled, blood trickling out on the dirty yellow t-shirt he had been wearing.

Ugo laughed like he was watching a comedy film. He saw his revolver had more blood on the barrel, his eyes lighted up, delighted at the sight of the kids sticky lifeblood dripping off the steel of the gun.

The woman on the floor coughed and moaned, she could barely move. Ugo grabbed her hair. It was long, perhaps once it was pretty and flowing. Perhaps she had a family, a life once. Ugo shoved the barrel angrily into her mouth, probably knocking teeth out. The woman convulsed, trying to pull away, but Ugo forced her head back onto the gun, forcing the barrel deeper into her mouth. He shoved it right up to the chamber. He turned to look at Nkosana, sitting on the chair not three feet away. They locked eyes and Ugo pulled the trigger. The woman's neck exploded, forcing blood, bone and everything else out of the jagged hole and into the wall. Ugo never took his eyes off Nkosana, who kept looking at Ugo.

Eventually the Supreme Leader stood up, smiled when he saw his barrel had even more blood on it, carefully sliding it into the holster and resuming his seat like he had just stood up to give a lecture, not murder three people. He gestured to the floor, where the bodies lay near each other, leaking blood, brain matter and other vital fluids. The sickly smell of copper, cordite and singed flesh hung in the air like some death vapor. "That...that is what I will do to the Ivorians."

8. Raven
Mopti, Mali
It wasn’t really his business, or actually it wasn’t his business at all…literally. Don’t ask, don’t tell, that about summed it up. A soldier of fortune doesn’t normally need a reason other then money and usually doesn’t want to have one. Any attachment at all to a job and you are no longer any good. It was a simple rule, movies teach people that much. You get paid half up front, do the job, and the rest when you return head in hand. Simple, uncomplicated, and you come back alive. What most people don’t take from movies is the fact that they have to be based off of something. The people are real just not in name of appearance. They kill, though not with style; they get women, though usually against their will; they live on the edge, though they usually die. No, the average person would rather sit idly at home ignorant to the fact that the world isn’t peaceful and nothing is free. While they sell insurance people across the world or in their backyard are paid to hunt down hapless souls and arrange a meeting with their maker. It is a silent war and one that never ends. The body count is unknown but the common belief has it at endless. Most people believe the world is a good place with only small pockets of bad and ugly. How wrong are they? The world is generally bad with only pockets of good. They say nothing in life is free, it’s ironic. Death is expensive.

Yet there he was, fighting the unusually and now frightening chill that ripped through him, braving the streets of Mopti. He cursed the place, as he often did. Why in hell did someone pick this place to build a city and why the hell did someone pick this place to set up their headquarters. He had never met the man that hired him only a few short months ago, but he didn’t mind. The pay was unbelievable. They must have played their cards very wrong. All easy jobs though. He even got creative. He was in Layarteb City once, vacation, and saw a show on the history channel. During war they used to tie fishing wire across an embankment where jeeps rode through. If the jeep had their front windshield down the occupants would find themselves decapitated. It worked quite well, though he usually didn’t like to leave such things to chance. It wasn’t until the last hit that he got wind of who these men were. Rebel leaders. Good, one less evil the world has to deal with. Yet this rebellion seemed to gain wind, not lose it. Inside job I suppose. There was only one way to find out, go to the source. It was easy enough to find the epicenter; his sources were more then reliable. A man within his profession didn’t last long without trustworthy sources, or rather sources that weren’t hard to kill if need be. He had his networks throughout the world, to the darkest corners of the globe. He had names in the vast emptiness of Siberia all the way to the jungle filled valleys of South America. It was an investment too they way he figured. He had traveled the globe, saw the world, and picked out a place to retire. He enjoyed Cape Town but his welcome there would be short lived. No, instead he figured he’d waste away in the sunny town of San Diego, Californian.

He found an alley, something to shield him from the wind and wave of dust that would doubtlessly follow. He leaned against a sand colored building, allowing his body to rest. His legs were consumed by a small ache, his age finally coming to haunt him. He reached in his pocket and began fiddling around until he found a cigarette and lighter. Slowly, as if to savor every moment, he brought the cigarette to his lips and let it rest a minute. A flick of his wrist and the warmth of the light began to fill him. The nicotine began to works its magic and his mind sat at ease. The taste filled him with a renewed energy and he closed his eyes, if only for a moment. Eyes still closed he again reached into his pocket this time exiting with a cell phone. He then dialed the number of a contact.

“Hello?”

“Who’s leading the Malian forces?” There was a brief hesitation, the man obviously startled.

“Oh…it’s you.” He was stalling.

“Why not?”

“I’ve heard rumors, they know you.” Up until this point Raven’s patience had been wearing thin, but now he was very eager to hear more. He continued, “I can’t say much more right now, too many people around. We should meet.”

He didn’t say another word. He instead hung up and began to write a message on the phone. It was going to be an interesting night.

The wind was howling as if angry at the moon. Its hard gusts pummeled everything in its path, berating endlessly the fragile walls of the dusty town. The chill of the air filtered its way down into each building, the city not well prepared for such cold weather. It was 20:30 as he got ready to leave for a small bar in the center of town. He pulled his black coat back, allowing him to slip his P22 into a compartment within. He never went to meet contacts unless he personally knew and trusted them. It was simply too risky to do otherwise. It wasn’t a game to play on luck. But if what the man said was true, which he didn’t really doubt, he was caught off guard, beaten to the chase. If that was the case then there must have been a reason why someone was after him by name beyond the usual government bounty hunter. Before they’d come for the bag of money placed on his head, which was usually incredibly high, and they’d be dead before they even entered the country. This character had at least a hint of skill and for once Raven was having a good day. He looked at the clock; it had been about five minutes since he last glanced over. The wind had died a bit and it was a good a time as ever. He placed his hands into his pockets, the wool stopping the cold in its treacherous tracks. He tucked his chin into the neck of his coat and began his long and chilling march to the bar. Half way there it began to rain. After first it was nothing more than a soft chilling drizzle but within minutes it became a heavy downpour, adding to the already miserable cold that hung over the country. The street lamps swayed back and forth casting a ghostly light that reflected off the asphalt beneath. He regretted his choice in coat at this point but he wasn’t far from the bar now. Neon lights were visible through the heavy rain and the faint sounds of cheesy music hung in the distance. He ducked underneath the marquee and wiped off his face. He checked his watch, 20:45.

The music, as was the case with all similar bars, was way too loud and not even good for that matter. It didn’t matter though; he didn’t come for the music anyway. He glanced around, picking out faces and giving the place the once over. He wasn’t pleased with what he felt, sure everything looked normal but that was actually the problem. A small, dirty bar in the middle of a forgotten African city shouldn’t be so friendly. It was unsettling to say the least. Raven wasn’t going to dillydally. He quickly picked out the contact, a small fragile man sitting in the corner. The seat across from him was empty but one that Raven wouldn’t take. He marched past the man letting a small piece of paper to float into his lap. Startled the man to a quick look to his sides and picked up the paper: Meet in bathroom, delay you die.

He was up without hesitation. If was working for anyone he didn’t care, Raven was someone you should fear above all others. He opened the door of the bathroom where the barrel of a pistol met his temple. It was cold, though barely touching. He froze and the door fell quietly back into position. Raven went to work, aiming the entire time, fixing the door so it wouldn’t move. The contact stood motionless as Raven frisked him. With a wave the two went into separate stalls, feet on the seat of the toilet.

“Where you followed,” Raven said calmly

“No, I swear it.” The voice was weak but truthful.

“You have five minutes to tell me everything and then you’ll never see me again, but you will see a large sum of money. That is if you tell the truth. You might not live to see six minutes.”

“I don’t respond well to threats, but I do to bribes. Word is they brought in a kid to knock you off, someone by the name of Greenbourne. I don’t know the first part.”

“Sven.”

“Yea, that sounds right. You’ve heard of him?”

“I’ve heard rumors. Keep talking.”

“Well I don’t really know why they would want to do that, seems you have the higher up’s scared.”

“Names,” Raven blurted out.

“Only have one and I’ll be damned if he is running the whole show…Ugo.” Raven thought a moment that sounds right. Deider is probably behind it. “Well they don’t want you around, paying a lot more than the usual too.”

Useful information so far, Raven continued, “Anything else?”

“Yes, I’ve heard a lot of commotion over something called the Opulent Group. I didn’t really look into though you know, they don’t pay me for that sort of thing and I really don’t have the ability to do so. I think it’s something military related though because it is apparently part of our next operation.”

“Next operation?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. I’m just a pawn I just know something else is in the works. Something big too.” Raven thought about it for a moment. Something big…surely they wouldn’t move into a surrounding country, they’d be crushed. They are already pushing it with Cote. He began to notice something. The bar was calm, not much chatter. He took a deep breath in.

“There are people outside.”

“You mean people with guns?”

“You weren’t followed?”

“No, Jesus I swear it!” His voice was cracking, he was scared. Raven believed him.

“Move, get out of the stall, you’ll be leaving first.”

The man was frightened but obeyed. He opened the stall and poked his head out. The window at the end of the bathroom shattered, the bullet tore into the informant’s skull. Raven watched the body hit the floor. A good shot, no, a great shot, that window was covered; he is using a thermal scope. Greenbourne. The people outside and Sven were obviously not related, nor was the informant or else they would be all over him by now. He would have to somehow get the henchman outside the door to come in. He laid on the floor and took out his pistol. A few shots later and the door block was gone. He fired a few more shots into the door to alarm the men outside. With any luck the henchmen would be like all others, terrible, and coming racing in. They obliged though they only opened the door a crack, sliding in a flash bang. The noise was disturbing but the flash didn’t blind Raven, who quickly covered his face. Instantly he dropped a smoke grenade, always a handy device. Before the men could even move in the small bathroom was full of thick smoke. The men entered three to be exact and began to pepper the room with small arms fire. Raven slid underneath the stall and under the cover of the smoke screen made his way to the first man. Before the assailant could react he had a bullet lodged in his brain. Raven was quickly behind him, his arms wrapped around the man’s neck. Unaffected by the smoke, Sven fired round after round into the body to no avail. Two more shots dispatched the flanks and Raven exited the room. Despite the failed attack, his night was not over.

Once he was outside the bathroom he was safe from Sven’s rifle and with the door being on the other end of the building he was sure that he could travel freely, for a little bit at least, outside. Surely Sven would be on the move; perhaps a secondary position overlooking the streets in front of the bar but it would nevertheless give him time to move. He felt a sudden regret for the informant. The man was only trying to help and he didn’t even know his name. Now he was dead. He stumbled a bit, his eyes got blurry but he quickly returned to normal. The bar was indeed empty and he exited with ease. The streets were cold and dark, devoid of any form of life. They had gotten the people far away by now; curious as it was he couldn’t stop. Every moment he delayed Sven was getting into position. He didn’t dare move to the sides of the building thus exposing him to the same fire he endured in the bathroom. No, he moved straight into the building across the way. It was empty, the store owner long home by now. Finesse wasn’t a priority and he smashed his way in, asking for forgiveness to the innocent shop keeper under his breath. He couldn’t wait long, with a thermal scope Sven would waste no time in spotting him again especially with the lack of people out. Something, however, caught his attention; a faint sound not too far off in the distance. It didn’t fit, not here. He couldn’t delay, he was sure Sven was back hunting him again. What he didn’t know was that Sven heard the same sound, a sound he wasn’t expecting to hear either. Being on the other side of the building he closer and could hear it better. It was rather distinct from his standpoint…a helicopter.

Raven could just make it out, only a few seconds after Sven did. He didn’t have time to react, within seconds the bar was in flames. The blast was so intense it blew in the front section of Raven’s hideout, hitting Raven like a train. Glass shattered in every direction, finding its way into Raven’s soft flesh. The debris finally settled, but the fires raged on. Smoke and flames filled the cold once still air. Luckily for Raven the large amounts of heat and light created by the fire disrupted Sven’s scope. Night vision wouldn’t work either. Sven did his homework; he knew a close quarter’s firefight with Raven would not prove the best decision so going in with guns blazing was out of the question. The blast knocked him off his feet as well, but not being near anything it only took a few moments to regain his wind. He was on his feet long before Raven and decided to take up his secondary position anyway. It would give him a perfect line of sight along the street and the surrounding area including Raven’s hideout. However, his sight was blurred with all the confusion. He was too professional to let it get to him, no time to be annoyed. Meanwhile Raven slowly recovered, it wasn’t his night. He knew Sven wouldn’t have left, he wasn’t safe yet. He made his way to his feet and looked around. The front portion of the building was completely destroyed. He had two options at that point, move out the front hoping the confusion would give him enough space to make it out or take the back route hoping that Sven didn’t have a bead on the alleyway. It was a choice he didn’t have to make, seconds later another explosion hit the building next to his sending him flying across the room. The light was so intense inside Sven’s scope he had to squint and pull away. Raven was again slow getting to his feet. His head was throbbing, the pain almost unbearable. His nose was dripping blood, the taste slowly finding its way to his mouth. The taste was returning to him, he couldn’t escape it. Its warmth taking over, his eyes were coming alive. There was no use fighting the sensation.

Sven tightened his sight on the scope hoping for some glimpse of movement. He saw something in the top corner of his sight, movement. He quickly fired; the bullet glanced off Raven’s shoulder who hardly jerked at the impact. Raven simply kept walking, oblivious to the gash across his shoulder. Sven went to fire another round, his focus getting better but Raven was quickly behind a plume of fire and smoke. He saw him again but this time another explosion rocked the house Sven was holding up in. The blast knocked him off his perch. He rapidly recovered but it was too late, Raven was gone somewhere behind the thick clouds of smoke and fire. Sven grimaced, he was so close. He fired a few shots madly into the street before retiring for the night. Raven had more than one hit placed on his head.

9. Nkosana
Bamako, Mali February 21st

He had moved his operations to the capital; it provided the best place to conduct his business. It had all the necessary prerequisites making an ideal location. Not only that but it would allow him more public freedom. He could now talk directly to the people a goal he had yearned to reach. It would help him solidify his position which really didn’t need it. The majority were with him and for good reason. The former government had been neglectful and uninspiring. Now nationalism was on the rise which is often a dangerous thing, but for the time it was helping to create a more effective Mali. With his military plans all set and being played out to his South he could focus in on the matters that he cared about more, his ultimate goal. As is the case with seemingly all dictators throughout time, Nkosana began to improve the economy. It was actually quite easy; with total control over the country he could dip his hand where ever it was needed. Infrastructure was the key to any country and in trying to improve it jobs would spring up practically overnight. Unbeknownst to his adopted countrymen they would never see much of that money. Mali was a pawn and nobody realized it yet.

The fanfare for his new regime was growing at an alarmingly rapid rate. The country, with most of its population unschooled, fell victim to exploitation very easily. While this was good news to Nkosana’s ears it troubled him from a military standpoint. He wanted the war with Cote to be drawn out, dirty, and alarming. With the increase of soldiers being sent southward to join Ugo’s armies the outcome seemed closer rather than later. He often found himself depending on TATO rather than Ugo whose predictability was nonexistent. He often wondered when the man would begin putting hits on him. He knew that once this was over there wouldn’t be room for the two of them. Yet for now he still served a purpose and so the room would have to make do. Perhaps another visit to his camp wouldn’t hurt. For now he had another meeting to attend to.

February 22nd
The sun was showing bright and hot. It was a rarity among a rarity. The weather as of late had been unusually and terribly cold. A chill had crept over what seemed to be all of Africa and wouldn’t leave. Today was the exception however and once again the African sun was beaming down on the dry earth beneath it. Outside his main office building he set up a tent trying to soak in as much of the warmth as possible. It energized him like no other, the warmth of the sun, the heat in the air. He had been secretly miserable with this cold weather; it had no place in Africa. The tent was patchwork at best and small rays of sunlight easily penetrated its top. The commotion around the capital building was nonstop and dust hung heavily in the air. He sat at a small table set up underneath the tent. Despite his renewed energy the heat had its drawbacks and he slumped slightly in his chair while beads of sweat dripped gently down his forehead.

A man approached a few moments later. He was a decent sized man with a rough beard covering his face. His English was rough and masked by a thick tribal accent. He ducked his head underneath the tent and leaned over the table to shake Nkosana’s hand. Nkosana watched him closely the entire way. He knew the news wasn’t good but yet the man held himself very well. Was it arrogance or confidence? He sat down landing hard in the chair. He took a deep breath in and let out a large sigh, as if the heat and walking had gotten to him.

Nkosana began very calmly, “I’ve heard the news isn’t to my liking?”

The man shifted in his seat and looked up through the tent. “This damn weather is so confusing. The gods aren’t happy.”

Nkosana eyed him with curiosity. “What happened?”

The man shifted again this time putting his elbows on the table brining him closer to Dieder. His voice was deep and raspy, “It is the damndest thing.” He had a smile on his face as if this were a joke. He continued, “We don’t have any confirmation…from anyone. No body counts, er well actually we do.”

“The bodies?”

“We’ve identified two as our guys and we assume the others are as well. The bodies are burnt bad and not exactly in one piece. I have to say though; we bombed that place to ruins. I couldn’t imagine anyone living.”

Nkosana was annoyed now, “But alas! You…you incompetent fool you seemed to live through it. Let me tell you something. These are the kind of men in which you always give the benefit of the doubt. Unless you seem them take their final breath on this forsaken earth, until you see them depart you must assume they are very much alive. Do you have any idea the kind of person we are dealing with?”

The man was obviously stunned by the sudden outburst. So was Nkosana but he was right nonetheless. He took a minute before regaining his composure. “We’ve all heard the rumors. We all know he’s killed, some say up to 400…”

Nkosana cut him off, his anger rising, “400? You are woefully misinformed! Try tens of thousands of people. It is amazing what you can do with a nuclear weapon isn’t it! He has some of the world’s most powerful countries hunting him, entire countries! But it is all ok. You shot a few missiles from a helicopter and think you cleaned up.”

The man was utterly defeated at this point. His head was hanging low on his shoulders. He mustered a reply, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize the gravity…”

“The gravity? Enough. Go back to wherever it is you came from. Your usefulness has long since passed. Surely Sven will catch on quick. God help us.”

February 24
35 miles south of Boundiali

The plane ride was smooth and relaxing. He picked up the jet on a trip to Egypt about a year ago but really only started to use it now. It felt good to travel above the barren African lands, avoiding the sun or in this case the chilly clouds that seemed to hover over all of Africa. He always enjoyed the recycled air, the perks of being the boss. His pilots were the best too; they needed to be to make landings in the makeshift desert runways that seemed to follow Ugo wherever he went. The plane touched down, roughly, in Boundiali just as the sun was peaking above the clouds. It was an early day so he took the time to sneak a few extra hours of sleep before they arrived, though his trip was far from over, he was still some thirty five miles from Ugo’s camp and even farther from the actual front-lines. A Blackhawk would take him the rest of the way, not nearly as luxurious as his jet but nevertheless took him to where he needed to go.

By now he hated his meetings with Ugo, not that he ever liked them before. He was annoyed just thinking about the monster’s devilish smirk. He was the epitome of hate and ignorance. His very presence darkened the atmosphere around him and yet he remained a hidden coward. He was a twisted paradox. Though he was a ruthless and pitiless killer he lacked the actual killer instinct of men live Raven or Greebourne. He was all talk yet for now, unopposed, he could walk the walk. Regardless of his ill fated personality he was essential to the plan. He had Mali up in arms and Cote by the balls, and he was doing all this with meticulous procession. He knew, as he was sure Ugo knew they were at the point of no return. They were in this till immortality or death.

The chopper touched down underneath the blazing African heat. The sun was an eerie red and the horizon was masked in a distorted, wavy glow. Though usually normal weather, it was a break from the cold that everybody seemed to enjoy. It was just enough to energize everyone and once again given light to the shadow cast African plains. There weren’t as many tents as last time; Ugo had apparently found a small abandoned complex to house his operations for the time being. The complex itself was uncomfortably small, probably once used for a mining operation that had fizzled out. The smell of death hung heavily in the area around the complex, more so then usual. It was a stench that did not sit well with Nkosana who held a small handkerchief against his nose and mouth to thwart the smell. It was to little avail, however, as the smell was unavoidable. There were flurries of people here and there but again it wasn’t nearly as busy as it had once been. A small boy in uniform, no older then 17 led Nkosana into the complex. The boy’s face was most terrifying. It was scarred in numerous places and burnt where it wasn’t. His eyes were hollow and colorless and his teeth crooked and yellow. He was seemingly immune to the smell of decaying flesh that grew horridly stronger as they pressed on. The boy said not one word as they walked along the small, dank corridors. It wasn’t until they turned the corner that he began to hear sounds, terrible sounds. He passed a door that was closed and ostensibly locked. It was being pounded on by someone on the other side, cries pouring from underneath the crack at the bottom. Screams and shrieks echoed against the cramped walls of the hallway. Deider fought to keep his strength up and his stomach down. The boy on the other hand remained impervious. He stopped at the end of the hallway and moved to the side to reveal a door which led to Ugo’s chambers. He looked up at Nkosana with his big lifeless and colorless eyes. They shot straight threw him, as if he wasn’t even there. The life dropped from Nkosana, ‘they have no souls’ he thought to himself.

The door squeaked open with horror movie fashion. The little boy disappeared back into the shadows where he came from as the door slid to a close. The room was unnervingly dark except for a few rays of light that were able to break through the grime covered windows. One such light fell conveniently enough upon Ugo and his desk. Ugo scarcely moved or even flinched as Nkosana moved towards him, his big yellow eyes watching intimately ever step. The room, in distinct contradiction to the rest of the complex, was deathly quiet which gave the slow and paced footsteps of Nkosana a booming effect. There was only one chair available for sitting and realizing this, Nkosana quickly sat down. He understood that these theatrics were nothing more than a mind game but they were nonetheless intimidating. It was important that he keep his mind clear and voice strong. What little control he had left over Ugo he needed to keep lest the entire plan be thrown to the dogs. Surely, however, Ugo most know that he stood no change against the combined might of TATO and would therefore cooperate. It was an excruciatingly thin balance of power.

He sat in what felt like an eternity of silence broken by the occasional creek or moan of the aging establishment. He cleared his throat, though silently, and began, “You know why I am here. I’d like a full report, perhaps a tour of the frontlines.”

Ugo took a minute or two to respond, his deep yellow eyes growing more sinister by the minute. What faint light graced his ugly scarred face illuminated blood encrusted nostrils and rotting teeth. A small grimaced traversed his lips, “Why?”

Nkosana did not shift, “I must know how this little ugly war of yours is going if we are to maintain our dominance. You know we are treading a fine line with our African neighbors.”

“Damn those swine!” he said pumping his fist against the table which seemed to cower beneath his blows. “You need to make sure I follow your plan, you need to make sure I am still your pawn. You are not as subtle as you make yourself out to be.”

Deider had lost of feeling of hesitation and was beyond annoyed. “Then you should know that if you go unchecked TATO will wipe your fat ass aside! Despite your overzealous gluttony you are no god yet! I could honestly care less what you do with your later life, but now you are on my terms.”

Ugo’s face twisted with excitement. He laughed loud enough to shake the room. “Yes, of course. Than perhaps I will show you.” He reached for something under the table making Nkosana uneasy. He slowly pulled out a map and slid it across the table.

10. Baruti
February 16th
Windhoek, Namibia

It wasn’t long before the sun began to slide comfortably beyond the horizon. Its last gently rays of light casting the city in a dazzling twilight. Soon the moon would grace the city with its reflective beauty, towering high above the starless sky. It was still cool, and light jackets and even heavy ones for that matter enjoyed their sudden rise to fame. The weather, in actuality, did little to affect the daily lives of just about everything. Animals continued their normal trend, most sleeping in the day and hunting at night. They just enjoyed even colder weather, nothing the amazing creatures couldn’t adjust to. In fact more people began to roam the streets for longer periods, the heat not restricting them to sudden bursts of energy. For many it was just a cold spell, however unusual; not an ominous warning of future events.

Baruti was enjoying his last months in office. It had been a peaceful lame duck period, though his announcement that he isn’t re-running allowed him to escape that title. Aside from the usual presidential duties there was very little for him to do. The only stain on his record was the ineffective hunt for Ethan Raven, the number one suspect for the bombing of Grenada. The pressure had seemingly died down from Layarteb officials to find him and though the chase was still very much on, it had slipped to the back burner. The country itself was not exactly crying out for justice. Most, if not everyone, did not know what he had become. Others didn’t know he was a suspect at all. Many still remembered him for the hero he was during the revolution. Bridges, buildings, and monuments still bared his name. It was an ironic and somewhat saddening twist of fate. It wasn’t until a few months ago that he was actually discovered alive. It was generally believed he died long before. Even so a new issue, and the only one really getting any news time, had risen to the forefront.

The situation in Mali and Cote D’Ivoire had become, what some would call, critical. The word genocide was beginning to be tossed around with relative ease. In light of that it was only a matter of time before many would begin to call for TATO if not USB intervention. It was no doubt that Hirgizstan had a close eye on events, being more directly linked via land. In all it had the possibility of turning into a Charlie Foxtrot, as Marine General Desmund Ownuniw put it. It was something no leader wanted to have to deal with once things got very ugly. Baruti had been there before and had come out on top unscathed. It was fortunate, as many leaders who dive into the exact same situation end up losing their job and often their country as a result.

The Malian’s led by the ever increasing in popularity and hatred Ugo were nearly half way through the country. Though the first half took longer than was expected, with the Cote’s forces in utter chaos and turmoil the Malians would surely make quick work of the second half including the capital. Ugo was especially ruthless in his efforts making quick work of soldier and civilian alike. Despite the zealous fever that it instilled against his enemies the Cote soldiers could do little to slow the overwhelming assault. In the beginning of the campaign international photographers and the press were allowed into the conflict zones. They two were soon killed or exiled from the fighting. It was the last piece of international or unbiased news evidence from the war. Now the images came from Cote soldiers and horrifying they were nonetheless. Most pictures came from desperate counter attacks that encountered initial success. It was only than that the real atrocities were seen. Heaps of dead littered the streets. Signs of rape and torture were rampant, and age and sex seemed to have little advantage. The path of destruction caused was unparalleled in modern times. The Malian’s now stood at the doorstep of the Lac de Kossou. Urgent pleas were being voiced by the Cote republic and until now most had fallen on deaf ears. The problem with democracy, the kind that the States enjoyed, was that it made the people rather lackadaisical. Hirgizstan’s people would have much enjoyed the ability to utilize their world renowned forces to end such travesties but they were more concerned with events happening in Europe and the Cote struggle was pushed to the backburner. It wasn’t until now that the States began to take notice. It was the reason why Baruti found himself among top officials seated around a large glass table in a secret room hidden within the labyrinth of the Capital Complex in Windhoek on this cool African night.

The room was like many others and yet decisively unique. It was almost a direct resemblance of those war rooms which you would see off of an action movie or war film. It had the traditional large table with touch screens mounted in front of every seat. Various screens blazing away random information dotted the walls around the room. Black tinted windows masked the room in a veil of secrecy. Around the table sat the top brass, older distinguished faces with medals and ribbons mounted along their uniformed chest. Baruti sat at the head of the table and made himself comfortable as he knew it was going to be a long night. The men around him began to shift, eager to start off the conversation.

Baruti took it upon himself to open up the festivities, “So gentleman, what do we have?”

The first to speak up, with a heavy German accent was army general Eugen Valentijn. Eugen was one of four South African Germans in the Chiefs of Staff. This wasn’t unusual as most of the high ranking military officers were of German or Dutch ancestry. His speech, though barred with a thick German undertone, was surprisingly soft. He said, “The Malians are sweeping through…”

Baruti raised his hand and interrupted, “I know what is happening, I’ve read the reports. I want to know your takes on the situation...proposals, attack and defense capabilities.”

The men looked surprised the by abruptness of Baruti’s comment. Valentjn wasted no time however and was quickly talking again, “It is unavoidable. We cannot, as a leading power and symbol of freedom, let these atrocities go on. You’ve all seen the photos, they speak for themselves.”

“That is what TATO is for,” quipped the only female member of the JCS, Kostya Valery.

Eugen replied in earnest, “TATO be damned! Give me a division and I’ll clean that mess up.”

“Though an exaggeration that might be, we have to look at the facts,” spoke Karlmann Ayo a sailor by trade, “The total Malian force isn’t very respectable. A minimum deployment would have little troubles.”

Valery was heard again, “Couldn’t we approach this without initial violence?”

Baruti sitting quietly at the forefront shook his head in disagreement, “Though our usual route, even I think we are past that.” She shrugged her shoulders as if to say it was merely a suggestion. He continued, “Cut and dry this looks like a job for TATO. However Hirgizstan has been preoccupied with events in Europe. They might suggest going in alone. If that is the case what forces would be required?”

It was Eugen’s stage once again, “As Karlmann said previously it wouldn’t take much so we do have options. We could deploy an Army Group or two to be safe. It would guarantee success but also cost more and get the public’s attention more for better or for worse. We could go smaller and it probably wouldn’t make much of a difference strategically but the risk would always be there. It would obviously cost less and cause less of a public disturbance.”

Baruti nodded in satisfaction, “navy?”

“Considering Mali isn’t bordered by water anything save a carrier would be more or less useless. Though a few frigates would be able to throw some missiles around, logistical vessels is about it. Nevertheless none of my fleets are doing anything besides patrolling or docking.”

“Air force?” Baruti said.

“Since we could use Hirg airspace and even Cote when we got the chance just say the words or better yet the coordinates and we’ll do the rest.”

THE CAPITOL DISPATCH

'Quaere Verum-Seek The Truth'


THE WEEK'S OPINION:

WHAT PRICE IS RIGHT?

BY MYLES SUNRU

Ivory Coast- On a Sunday, like many Hirgizstanians, I go to Church. So two days ago, even though it was a Friday, standing outside an ornate old Church in the middle of a brown-grass cemetery I felt strangely homesick. As a reporter used to travel, first with RWB, now with the Dispatch, homesickness is something I have gotten used to and don't really feel anymore.

So why the sudden feeling of it? Perhaps it was the crows and dogs chewing, ripping and pecking the carcass' of a couple of bodies that hung over the double oak entrance doors. The hollow eyes of the bodies looked down on me and my Ivorian Army guide. He couldn't have been older than 18 and seemed completely unfazed by the spectacle before us. The quiet stretch of the ropes and the hideous pecking from the birds was begining to turn my stomach.

However, I believe now I had this feeling prematurely. Inside that same church I believe I saw hell. On every rafter was at least ten hanging bodies, women, young children- the old and the young. Their broken necks cast their heads down upon me as I walked underneath, my mouth covered and my eyes burning. The black hollow eye sockets or the grey haze in their discoloured eyes seemed to accuse me a thousand times. I ran outside and threw up and cried and cursed and finally prayed with my guide for the souls of those people. The last thing I saw was the Priest of the church, his hollow and broken body strapped to the gates of the cemetery.

This is reality in the Ivory Coast. The Church I visited is not isolated or uncommon. It is merely reality. The small town in which the Church was situated was once home to just over five thousand people. Close to four thousand of them were killed just three weeks ago as the Malian Army swept through the area.

The town was not unique, or special in any way. It is just one of many, all suffering the same or worse fates. General Ugo has declared all Ivorians targets, his 'war' is based on their death, nothing more. His drugged up soldiers, some of them mere boys, do his bidding like the four horsemen. Untold numbers have fallen.

So far I have reported on this conflict. I have done just that. But after seeing something as close to hell as I ever imagined I feel that I can't just report.

We Hirgizstanians are a proud people, we live in the greatest nation on earth. So why is hell being unleashed just across the border from a number of our states? Our concept of foreign relations is realist-isolationism. It works and its good. But we all know we must act when we have to. What price is right for us to get involved in the genocide just across our borders?

Genocide is happening, as I write and as you read, in what is our back yard- in what is the United States back yard. They advocate action, we have not advocated at all. When there are no Ivorians left will the price be right? When the Malians are under the thumb of a victorious and bloodthirsty madman- will the price be right then?

The Church I saw haunts my nights and my days. I burn with anger and I now carry a gun wherever I go in the Ivory Coast. I have chosen to fight against evil. Now we, as a nation, must do the same.



© Copyright 2007 Hirgizstanian Pan-Africa Newspapers Inc.
This service is provided on HPA Newspapers' standard Terms and Conditions. Please read our Privacy Policy. To inquire about a licence to reproduce material from The Capitol Dispatch or The Sunday Dispatch, please visit our website. This paper is published by a member of the HPA Group. Hirgizstanian Pan-Africa Newspaper Incorporated, 1-20 Constitution Avenue, Hirgizstan City.

11. Raven
February 22nd
Somewhere between Mopti and Tombouctou

‘I’ve never enjoyed myself more,’ he thought to himself. The two had been dancing pirouettes in the African sand for a few days now, every so often lobbing shells at one another. Sven was no doubt having a ball as well. Why wouldn’t he be? He had faced who many considered the most dangerous man on the planet and wasn’t dead. Raven was a modest man, he couldn’t deny the kid credit, he did have talent. Before Greenbourne entered the picture he was simply getting old, doing small time jobs for pay. He didn’t need it, but he didn’t know anything else. He had long since realized that the only way for him to control himself was to make sure he controlled his killing. His mind was destroyed, had long since seen its last rational thought. He had no human emotion left in him; there was nothing that linked him to the world. He was an outcast, a shadow; he was no more than death. Sven Greenbourne, on the other hand, was hitting his peak. He was hunting a man responsible for more deaths than smallpox, and enjoying some success.

Night was falling quickly on the 22nd. The temperatures were beginning to fade rapidly and the countryside was quick losing its outline. He could have kept moving, the cold would not have slowed him much, and he did have night vision to guide him. Still he judged Greenbourne to still be at least half a day away and his night vision could use the extra break to conserve power. With the last traces of the sun’s rays still hanging in the thick African air he was able to locate cave along a cliff that bordered the river. The river itself was calm and slowing flowing. Below the cliff a few small gazelles sipped at the cool water before heading in for the night. They drank without fear as Raven could see no predators in sight. Though one would make a hearty meal, he couldn’t risk the fire and besides he wouldn’t have the resources or time to really utilize the entire animal. He could not waste an animal, he felt ashamed to take only a small portion. If he was to take a life it should at least mean something. No, instead he would watch them with great envy. For this brief time in their life they drank without fear, they let their muscles relax, and allowed the stress of their life to melt away. Once they had their fill they dashed away in wonderful brilliance. As they pranced away Raven slid deeper into the cave and began to settle in for a few hours rest. He removed his day bag and a few weapons he had stored within. With the bag now void of any metal protruding objects he molded it into a pillow and closed his dirt encrusted eyes.

A loud crash of thunder drew him out of his sleep. His startling blue eyes peered into the darkness. The cave seemed to come alive with noise and movement. The rain outside was pounding hard against the rock and river below. Streaks of lightning sent shadows racing across the rust colored rock walls. This was the Africa he loved; he could not get over the raw power the land could evoke. ‘Yes! Come Alive!’ he screamed within his mind. Again the lighting broke the blanket of dark covering the land and sent a quick flash through his cavernous dwelling. Another clasp of thunder, loud and roaring! The rain was falling heavier now; he could hear the river growing more rapid and violent. More thunder now, another flash of lighting, Mother Nature was alive with fury. He arose from his rest position, wanting to get to the entrance of the cave to see the show in all its glory. Another steak of lighting illuminated the cave and in the corner he saw a single green eye. Without hesitation he tumbled to the ground, grabbing at his handgun. The cave was too small though and he smacked the wall with a thud. A shot of pain tore through his shoulder. He winced and fired a few shots into the dark abyss. The sound was deafening, the noise vibrating against the claustrophobic walls of the cave. He slid between two outcroppings of the cave giving him good cover. A volley of shots flew over his head sparking against the rock behind him. Another flash of lightning and a violent burst of thunder rocked the cave. The wall from which Sven was behind was no more than five feet from Raven’s shell. Raven fired again and was met with a wall of returning rounds. There was little either could do, they were trapped a mere five feet from each other in an otherwise lightless cave. Night vision was useless as the lightning was growing more intense. What was left was to trade shots and talk.

“I did not mean to wake you,” Sven shouted with a thick German accent.

“Don’t give yourself too much credit Sven, it was the thunder that did that,” replied Raven.

“It is a wonderful night to die though...Yes?”

“Or a wonderful night to hunt.”

A few more rounds were exchanged, another flash of lightning, another roar of thunder.

“I’m not sure about this Africa, this place you call home,” Sven began. “The weather follows no rules, the people do nothing but kill or starve, and the beer is lousy.”

“The beer is lousy,” Raven quipped. “So what brings you here than?”

“Ah yes, well it would be this fellow they call Raven. They told me that if I don’t kill him, he will surely kill me. I haven’t had the privilege of such a match.”

Raven thought about it for a second, “You are in luck than. There is no better place to die.”

He fired a few more rounds into nothing but was met with no fire. Instead he heard something clink around the bottom of the cave. Slowly something rolled next to him. He didn’t need to see what it was; his time it appeared was up. However, before it went off another noise, quickly approaching, rushed past him. The cave was becoming flooded. The flow of water had gripped the grenade and swept it behind the rocking shield Raven stood behind. It wasn’t long after that it went off thundering against the sides of the cave. The sound shattered in Raven’s ears knocking him against the stony wall. Blood began to trickle out of his ears and his head could hear only a ringing sound. The water was at his knees already within a few seconds. The cave would be underwater in no time if this were to keep up. Surely Sven had not yet moved but realized what was happening. He had to think quickly. If he tried to wade through the water from where he entered he would surely be gunned down as the lighting would illuminate his slow moving figure. The water was no waist deep and rising quickly. Raven dropped low, waiting for the water to rise a little more. When it flowed to his chin he slid beneath it and began to guide himself along the rock floor. The water pushed at him with surprising power and within seconds he was on top of Sven. He plunged out from underneath the water, bringing his pistol to Sven’s temple. He spoke no words but pulled the trigger. Click, the water or explosion rendered his firearm useless. Without hesitation Sven brought his arm to bear and quickly lashed out at Raven. He caught him along the cheek and sent Raven stepping back. The two stood, darkness encompassing them both. Lightning, a flash of light, Sven lunged with a right arm but was met with Raven’s left forearm and was muted. Raven returned with a volley from his right and Sven caught that an attempted to break it over his shoulder. Raven was quick to react spinning underneath his grip and bracing his arm. The two stood deadlocked, the water rising ever higher. They broke off. Again they were covered in darkness. The wind outside began to howl, overcoming even the sound of the rushing water. Suddenly the water level rose above their heads as an oncoming rush of water entered the cave. The two men were swept off their feet and flung at the mercy of the water.

The night was chilly as the moon seemed to counter all the sun’s previous work. A million stars glistened like diamonds in the black African sky despite the intense storm clouds hovering above. The water, now seemingly everywhere, reflected the moon’s beams and lit the area in an eerie fluorescent glow. The two men washed up about a hundred yards from each other. For a minute they both did not move trying to see where the other landed. They couldn’t stay in one spot for long, the water and drenched them completely and the cold of the night would soon take its toll. Both were battered and bloodied and pain began to stab at them. The night was quiet save the patter of water against the puddles and rock walls around them. Since they had washed up outside, the rain had began to calm itself. The lightning too began to fade moving off with the storm. The thunder was still imminent and it continuously rocked the earth in every direction. Yet another sound grew in its distinction. It was a sound all too familiar to both men, helicopter blades, slicing through the air. The direction was oddly removed, far off even but it was definitely military grade. Still the two men sat still, the only movement coming from the gradual rise and fall of their chest. The sounds grew louder but at a sporadic rate. One could only surmise it was a recon unit. The chopper grew louder, it was nearly overhead now. Raven looked upward trying to figure out the situation. The copter stopped moving just over his head. He didn’t think twice, he was on his feet and moving quickly. The chopper above opened up the cannon mounted on the nose. The large rounds flung dirt and mud in every direction surrounding him. The rounds screamed as the smacked the moist Earth. A small forest began just in front of him, 70 yards at most maybe. He zigzagged back and forth trying to dodge the incoming barrage. The Copter didn’t chase however, it remained hovered, sending volley after volley from its fixed position. Two ropes dropped on either opening of the helicopter and four men descended. Meanwhile Sven continued to lie motionless trying to decipher the situation. It was no doubt Ugo’s men trying to finish something they shouldn’t have started. Though he still had his own personal objective and once it was evident that the helicopter hadn’t taken down Raven he leapt to his feet and followed the pursuit.

Raven sprinted across the muddy field, 50 yards left. The shells inched closer, the impacts spraying him with dirt. 30 yards now, not much left. A flash of hot air lifted him off the ground. He stumbled forward and slid on his hands and knees. He glared behind him and saw the silhouettes of a number of men following close behind, no doubt using Night Vision. Sven was following suit, trying to maintain a low profile. Raven resumed his sprint, 10 yards now. The followers were close now, he could hear them rustling behind him. A thunderclap roared hard in the air, as loud and stirring as to knock Raven again off his feet. He crawled forward and glanced behind him. The chopper had halted its assault for the moment, whether it was to re-load or to adjust its angle of attack. His stalkers were close behind but having trouble with the NV because of the streaks of lightning that seemed to remain behind the storm. Sven had closed in on the followers and Raven himself. Raven had resumed his run but in the blindness of the night he quickly found himself falling down the edge of a steep slippery slope. His hands and feet scraped up against the jagged rock beneath him. The rock face than gave out and he splashed into a river below. Two of the four attackers followed suit slipping unbeknownst. The remaining two halted just shy of the cliff and stared below. The rain, thunder, and helicopter now back on course drowned Sven’s footsteps as he closed in behind the two men and shot them both point blank. He then edged himself closer to the cliff and jumped downward.

Gombele, 15 Miles South-West of Bondoukou, Ivory Coast

For Abdul Suleiman it was the worst possible thing that could happen. He had thought about it for days, agonized over what would happen if he didn't make it, and had finally consoled himself by believing it was a fairly remote possibility. But in this war, up was down and down was up, so naturally what he thought wouldn't happen, did.

Gombele was the last area of habitation before the ironically safe welcome of dense jungle that awaited him on the other side. The jungle went all the way down through the hills to the border with the state of Ghana. The jungle was his way out after months of being in hell.

His de-facto bodyguards were with him of course, had been since his Reporters Without Borders cover team had left the warzone. They were Ivorian special forces troops. Their official name was Unit 12, but they were always called 'The Weeds'. On the first day Abdul met the squad their commander, a brick-house of a Sergeant simply called Bug, told him they were called Weeds because weeds were extremely hard to kill and could appear anywhere without warning.

In any case Abdul had come to view his bodyguards as mere extensions of his team. They helped him gather information, plant listening devices and gain access to the Ivorians still in charge.

Gombele was, in fact, the home village of one of the six bodyguards, a small and skinny sniper named Morty.

Gombele was slightly behind the front line at the time it was suggested to Abdul as an ideal point to prepare his escape from the country, back to Hirgizstan. In the few days it had taken them to get there it was being reinforced by a rag-tag band of militia who looked tired and scared. They seemed to pay no attention to Abdul or his bodyguards when they arrived in the beat-up green Hummers. Abdul remembered thinking that they must look a sight, the seven of them wearing mere rags with the odd bit of camouflage here and there, and of course loaded down with weapons.

Morty had set them up in his home, a large flat in the centre of the village that overlooked a nice churchyard below. Abdul used the roof of the flats to send his message to the pick-up team in Ghana that he was 24 hours out.

Now Abdul found himself on the same damn roof, his head buried as deep as it would go into the stone covered top, a sat-phone pressed hard to one ear and his finger dug as far as it would go into the other to drown out the rattle of small arms fire and the thunder of artillery. Every now and then the building would shake beneath him, threatening to give way as arty rounds crashed into it or around it.

In the village below his bodyguards, the able bodied civilians and the militia were fighting tooth and nail against the Malian People's Army, now fully surrounding the small town and by the sound and looks of things taking their pleasure in levelling the place. And worst of all, Abdul was stuck in the middle with no hope of getting out alive.

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Kurasi Border Defense Force Base, State of Ghana, COH

The BDF hadn't really noticed the 'spooks' that now occupied one of their larger briefing rooms. For months they had been in there, the windows blacked out with garbage bags and an incessant chatter and hum coming from inside.

However, there hadn't really been much of a disturbance caused by the spooks. A couple of teams, now familiar to the base personnel, came and went several times a day on different shifts, always with an Army Major in tow. They simply seemed to do their work and let the next shift take over, to the BDF personnel they never seemed to do all that much.

Inside the briefing room, however, was a whole other ballgame. Everyday the NIA men poured over new reports, photographs and information passed to them by Agent Yellow, Abdul Suleiman. There wasn't a minute of the day they weren't looking at his information or helping to work out where he should go next, all the while liasing with the Army and NIA HQ in trying to keep him one step ahead of the Malians.

Gombele was their first mistake. The Army's reports had shown and suggested that the Malians would bypass it after taking Bondoukou, flanking around it and dealing with the larger towns further on, before doubling back and suppressing the smaller towns and villages in the flanks and rear that posed no real strategic threat. That had been the MPA's tactics all along the Western border areas, due mostly to the dense jungle that lay dense along the western hills that shielded the flanks of the advancing units.

What the MPA were predicted to do was use the roads paralleling the river Bayakokore which would take them to Tanda, where a fairly sizeable Ivorian military force was dug in. However, instead of using the road in the river basin, the MPA had forced their way through the jungle roads via the smaller towns. Gombele lay right in their path. The satellite photos and video didn't show up due to their orbit, until the MPA were literally on top of Agent Yellow.

Almost at the same time as the NIA realized their predicament, Yellow had contacted them, with the sounds of intense battle in the background.
"This....Agent Yellow...this is Yellow. Enemy...close...town surrounded. Ca-...hold out. 10 hours max. Requ-...urg....evac. Please...knowledge."

The NIA Operations Chief acknowledged they would do everything they could, but Yellow didn't return the message. Now the Army Major got to work sending the information up the chain of command. In fifteen minutes the situation was being spelt out to the Fuhrer in detail.

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Fuhrer's Office, Hirgizstan City, State of Cape Verde, COH

The Fuhrer had known about the operation from the beginning and had in fact met read and seen much of Agent Yellow's information in his National Security briefings. The current situation was explained to him by one of the Joint Chief's over the videophone and by the NIA Deputy Director, who was sitting in the room. It took the Fuhrer less than ten seconds to answer the question posed by both men, "What do we do?"

The Fuhrer simply replied, "Get him out, and do it fast."

Gombele, 15 Miles South-West of Bondoukou, Ivory Coast

It was 3.35 PM. The heat of the afternoon was on the wane and a slight breeze was kicking up from the south, twisting the plumes of smoke that hung over the village. The Malians had overrun the first defensive trenches sometime after mid-day, capturing most of the Militia's crew served weapons and the bunkered down APC's they had spread out.

Resistance was now centred around the three blocks of flats, the church and the Community Center that lay in the middle of the village. The largest block of flats was, by some miracle, still standing, despite looking increasingly like a piece of swiss cheese.

After breaking through the first militia lines the Malians had stopped their attack, principally to re-group, but they continued to bang away with artillery and tanks to soften up the areas of resistance before their next move.

Abdul was watching a formation of tanks getting refuelled further up the north road out of the village. He had become Morty's spotter since the spotter himself had died earlier in the fight, a victim to shrapnel. That left Abdul with only five of the bodyguards left.

Morty and Abdul were on one of the higher floors of the largest block of flats, hiding behind a huge oak dressing table that was riddled with holes. It was a decent hiding place and seemed to cover the muzzle flash pretty well.

Sniping had been slow to say the least. The Malians weren't a well trained Army, at least as seen through Abdul's eyes, but they knew enough to take good cover and button up their vehicles. Morty was simply picking off those that poked heads around corners or moved out of cover.

In the buildings beside and behind Abdul and Morty the remnants of the miltia and the civilians that stayed, plus of course the Weeds, were busy preparing for another attack by shifting cars and furniture into positions that would hopefully funnel a Malian ground attack. The dusty roads outside were simply no-go areas and were pounded by the artillery every few minutes or seconds.

Unfortunately, as Abdul knew, there were not nearly enough men or weapons to hold off an attack for any longer than a few hours, if they were lucky. Malian tanks, troops and artillery literally ringed the village, so there was no chance of escape.

Abdul had taken the slight lull in the battle to pray and kiss the picture of his family he kept hidden in his shoe. He tried to raise his superiors on his small radio but couldn't get through, it was almost certain the Malians were using some sort of interference to stop word of the battle getting out to Ivorian units.

Abdul took his eyes off the scope for a second and looked to see what Morty was doing. His rifle was propped up against the wood cabinet while the skinny marksman looked dejectedly into a can of something without a label. He turned to Abdul, "It's dog food. I'd been hoping it was beans or something. I don't suppose you have any food left?" Abdul shook his head. He had only had a can of corned beef which he'd already eaten.

Morty sighed and threw the can out of the room into the hallway were it clattered about for a few seconds. He turned and stretched before lying down again behind his rifle and yawning slightly. Abdul said, "So where did you live in this village?"

Morty turned around, slightly bored looking and was about to answer when a renewed barrage of artillery smashed into the block of flats, shaking it like an earthquake, sending bits of dust and debris flying off the roof onto their heads. They both ducked down and covered their heads with their arms until it seemed there was no more shells incoming.

Morty turned to Abdul again, listening for a seconds before speaking. "I lived in one of the small bungalows behind the Church. It was a nice place, this village. We used to hunt in the jungle and fish at the river to the west. It was a great childhood. I left when my Mom died, I was only 16. She drowned in the river while trying to cross it one evening. My Dad had died before I was born. So there was nothing left for me. Now, I want to save this place...it never meant much to me, but when someone is trying to take it away and destroy it, well then it's a different story. My Mom and Dad are buried in the cemetery inside the Church walls. Now that I think about it, there's no better place to die."

Abdul merely nodded and returned his eye to the spotting scope. He saw some movement to the east, close to a small wall that parallelled a dirt road. Every few seconds a head would bob up as it moved along. Then finally the head appeared, just the top part, over the wall. There was a Malian there. Probably an Officer talking to soldiers in cover behind the wall.

Abdul guided Morty to the area and dialled in the range and windage. The top half of the head was still there, angled down slightly and moving a little every now and then. Morty confirmed he had the target. It wasn't a great one, the head was difficult for snipers, this was only part of a head. But there was no point in not trying, at least he'd force the silly bastard to shit himself, if not kill him.

Abdul steadied himself aswell and ensured he could still see the target clearly. "Ready...fire...fire...fi-" Morty fired just as he was about to say 'fire' for the third time. The rifle kicked up dust as the bullet thundered away. Abdul watched as a geyser of blood shot out over the wall. "HIT! Fucking HIT! Great shot Morty"

The room was silent for a few seconds before Morty cycled the gun and the brass tumbled out, tinkling onto the floor. A few panicked shots rang out from the Malian lines but nowehere near the two men.

They shared a quick smile before getting back to work. Every soldier they killed was one less that would be a threat in the coming storm. They both accepted they weren't going to make it, but why lay back? They would keep fighting to the end.

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State of Ghana, COH

Once the Fuhrer had given the all clear to go and get Agent Yellow, things became much more clear and much more fluid. The NIA and the Military had come up with three possible contingencies dealing with emergency extraction before Agent Yellow had even gone into the country. The three plans were one based on a ground approach, another by sea and the other by air.

Each plan was broad in its foresight so that each could be amended accordingly if an extraction was needed. The Military Command in Accra, liasing with the NIA, had decided on an airborne approach.

No matter what approach was used, the mission was tricky. The Malians were very well equipped and extremely hostile. Any mission had its drawbacks. However, the problems were alleviated slightly by the close proximity of the area where Agent Yellow needed to be extracted from. Gombele was a mere 35 miles inside the Ivory Coast.

Special Forces, would naturally, be heavily involved in the plan. From the minute the approach was decided the planners had been poring over maps and satellite photos, while analyzing the reports about the Malian forces.

At 3.30PM a final plan was accepted and sent up the Chain of Command for approval.

The mission would be fast and decisive. It called for using a team of 10 Centurion equipped Strike Force Lightning personnel as the retrieval team. They would be dropped in by two MV-87KG Dragon's, piloted by the Army's Special Forces pilots. The two Dragons would be accompanied by MH-60 DAP's, plus two AH-53 Serpents. The DAP's would provide close cover over the target area while the retreival team went in for Agent Yellow, while the two AH-53's would hang back and cover the retreat, or enter the battle if needed. The Dragon's and DAP's would be known as 'Alpha', while the Serpent's would be 'Linebacker'. And the final part of the plan involved four F-104X Starfighters that would overfly the target area before Alpha arrived, destroying any heavy armor and causing as much mayhem as possible, hopefully covering Alpha and the retrieval team.

By 3.45PM the plan had been approved by the Joint Chief's and the Fuhrer. The necessary units were being assembled and the BDF base at Kurasi had been called to Battle Readiness.

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Ejura Central AFB, State of Ghana, COH

The four F-104X's had been rolled out onto the jetway after having had their weapons added and their pre-flight checks completed. The four were camouflaged in a digital African pattern that included blacks, greens, browns and sand colors.

The four of them started their engines on the jetway and taxied to the the nearest runway. Three of them waited in the jetway, while the lead jet, Rhino 1-1, centred on the runway.

"Rhino Lead, Tower has you clear for takeoff. Wind at 2 Knots from the West. Godspeed Rhino. Tower out."

The huge engine at the back of Rhino Lead seemed to suddenly enlarge and almost immediately a cone shaped reddish-yellow flame kicked out the back as the aircraft began to roll forward. With a defeaning roaring punch a blue flame now replaced the previous one as the plane was kicked down the runway. It roared off into the sky a few seconds later, followed in intervals by the rest of Rhino Flight.

Almost as soon as they reached their first waypoint and cruising altitude the flight was contatced by the E-5A AEWCC bird that would be controlling the whole extraction operation. "Rhino Flight, this is Blue Crown AEWCC. We have you at waypoint one. We'll be with you all the way gentlemen." It was 5.30 PM.

State of Ghana, COH

Since the approval of the plan at 3.30PM various units had been moving to the BDF base at Kurasi. It was one of the larger BDF bases, being in a good location atop a rise that gave a commanding view over the border areas. A small military airstrip was adjacent to the base, enabling supplies to come in and out quickly.

The airstrip was the staging point for Alpha and Linebacker. The two strange looking MV-87's sat side by side, while the helicopters were spread out next to them, their crews walking around them and doing last minute inspections.

The crews and BDF ground personnel all turned to the skies when they heard the whine of a Globemaster transport plane. As it came in for approach the personnel on the ground could see the plane was black with no markings whatsoever, not even a serial number or flag on the tail. It was truly menacing looking.

It landed and taxied to a small hangar well away from Alpha and Linebacker, no base personnel approached the plane.

When the engines were finally shut off the rear ramp came down and several camouflaged soldiers bounded out, hastily setting up a perimeter around the cargo ramp. A few minutes later ten strange looking figures walked out of the plane and, flanked by the soldiers, began to make their way toward Alpha and Linebacker.

The figures stood taller than the soldiers escorting them. As they neared the personnel around Alpha and Linebacker, they could see them more clearly. This was the retrieval team. The figures wore a digitized camouflage undersuit, lined with heavy kevlar, over which was mounted an exoskeleton. This was the Centurion Battle Armor.

Since the inception of the Centurion Battle Armor, ways of improving it had been steadily forthcoming. One of the best was the Complete Modular Armor Package (CMAP) which weighed just under half a ton when fully applied. CMAP consisted of a series of interlocking ceramic armor plates that could be fitted to the exoskeleton. Completely fitted, the Strike Force Lightning (SFL) soldiers could still move relatively well, at least as well as a normal soldier. However, high and long jumps, as well as high speed running were limited, as was the weight they could carry. Due to these drawbacks CMAP was almost never applied fully. The kevlar undersuit could stop most rounds up to 7.62mm at certain ranges, so the added protection of CMAP was only used when the threat was greater.

However, since CMAP's trials, SFL soldiers had taken to using only some of the CMAP plates, placing them over their outer arms, chest, back and upper legs, as well as adding the plates to the helmet. This enabled them to keep the weight down, while protecting more vigorously certain vital areas.

The plates gave the SFL soldiers an even stranger look than they normally had. The plates on the helmet gave it an angular shape, severe edges and then flat in places. The SFL soldiers looked truly menacing and worst of all, the suits, heavy as they were, seemed to make no noise at all. In fact it seemed as if the SFL soldiers were simply not touching the ground, as there was no audible indication that they were doing so.

The guard soldiers walked them right past the crews of Alpha and Linebacker, and into the rear bay of one of the MV-87's. The soldiers then returned to the Globemaster and the crews and ground crews returned to their work.

At around 5.30 PM, Alpha and Linebacker were ready to move off. They sat on the runway, everyone in their correct seats, waiting for the off. But first came the mission briefing.

One of the greatest advantages of the COH Battle Network and its Soldier Systems, like Land Warrior, meant that briefings no longer had to be confied to a room or an area where people could gather and stand or sit. With personnel now all connected in the network they simply had to open a menu window and there was the CO ready to give the orders. Naturally, detailed briefings, when there was time to do so, always took place in a briefing room or some such place. But the Battle Network enabled missions to get under way more quickly, as information could be disseminated as units were rolling.

So the pilots of Rhino Flight and the crews of Alpha and Linebacker, plus the SFL soldiers, were all keyed into the same briefing. In one part of their visors/helments/viewers they saw the officer giving the briefing, in the other scrolled a list of information and, where appropriate, showed maps, real time footage and other vital info.

The briefing was quite simple. The Malians had surrounded Gombele, the target area. 6 M1 Abrams and 5 M60A3 tanks ringed the village, with 10 M113 APC's supporting, as well as six field-artillery pieces and at least 250 veteran troops. As of 5.30 there was no air cover in the area, but some of the troops were likely to have AA weaponry. Ivorian units and Agent Yellow would most likely be in one of five buildings, these were pointed out on the map, and included three blocks of flats, a Church and a civic center that were in the central part of the village. Insertion for the retrieval team would be a car park beside the civic center and pick-up would be in the same place, or the secondary area which was just a wide part in the road.

Rhino Flight's task would be to fly in under the radar and pop up over the target area, taking out the tanks and other vehicles with their ATGM's before heading out of the area. In the ensuing mayhem, and again under the radar, Alpha would come in and insert the retrieval team while engaging any hostile forces. Linebacker would linger outside the target area, ready to be called in at any time. The success of the plan hinged on causing as much mayhem and confusion as possible, while getting in and out very quickly.

To end the briefing the Officer offered a prayer for deliverance.

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Rhino Flight

Rhino Lead led the rest of his fighters down to nap of the earth, roaring low over the BDF watchtowers and skimming the tops of the Ivorian jungle. The huge pulse-detonation turbofan pushed the jet to extremes, in fact it could go so fast that were the weapon hardpoints not internal, then the weapons would simply be ripped from the fuselage.

However, they didn't need to push the jet that hard to cover a mere 35 miles at tree-top level. A short burst brought them to their Initial Point. "Rhino Flight, this is Blue Crown. Pop up and engage. Repeat- pop up and engage enemy forces over the target area."

"Rhino Flight copies you Blue Crown, preparing to engage."

The four planes suddenly tipped upwards and shot up into the blue sky, switching on their targetting radar. Immediately the ADVSCAD (Advanced Deep Visual Scan Canopy Awareness Display System) began displaying primary targets.

Each F-104X had locked up a tank or APC, all their AGM-165X Maverick's were locked on. Each pilot simply spoke the command, not needing to press any buttons, "Fire Mavericks." A tone sounded and the missiles dropped away from their bays and immediately their engines struck up, slicing out and down toward the target area.

High above, still over Hirgizstanian airspace, Blue Crown tracked every missile to its intended target and registered their destruction, following up the confirmations with real-time video feed showing shattered hulks of metal with sputtering flames all around them.

With the tanks, artillery and vehicles now burning where they once stood, Rhino Flight swooped up above the village, looping into the air and diving vertically back down, releasing four 500lb Napalm canisters across the Malian lines.

The retreat of Rhino Flight was framed perfectly by the walls of smoke and flame that engulfed a whole part of the target area, they had completed their part of the mission and now kicked their engines, shooting out of Mali at Mach 4.

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Gombele

Abdul was still helping Morty to snipe at targets of oppurtunity when the Malians had begun their assault around 5 PM. Their tanks had rolled closer and for a blessed time their artillery had held off, lest it hit their comrades who were closing in on the beleagured defendants of Gombele.

Instead of continuing sniping Abdul and Morty grabbed up their assault rifles, a pair of battered G36's, and dashed outside, sprinting across the street and into the Church cemetery. It was quite a good place to take cover as the heavy stone wall surrounding the place and the headstones made great bullet shields. However, once the tanks got close enough it would all be for nought.

The first Malians he saw up close appeared in the upper floors of one of the blocks of flats. They were climbing rapidly up one of the staircases and were suddenly blasted to pieces by a barrage of fire from the church cemetery. Abdul was firing virtually without noticing. It had become second nature over the monts he'd spent in country. Pick a target...fire...move on...pick a target...fire...move on. It was quite simple.

Grenades suddenly sailed over the cemetery wall, but exploded harmlessly behind a large cross tombstone.

A couple of heavy thuds around the grass beside him forced Abdul to duck behind the big flat tombstone he was firing from. He was just about to raise his gun over the top and fire back when a huge explosion, somewhere beyond the flats looming up outside the cemetery gates, seemed to force him to stop. That explosion was followed by others, and he saw a tank turret fly up, high in the air off down the western road that led up to the cemetery. Explosions, loud and devastating suddenly seemed to come from all around.

Then suddenly a huge roar seemed to fill the sky and as he looked up, he could see the other defenders in the cemetery were doing likewise with looks of puzzled wonderment etched on their faces. For a few blessed minutes the firing, from both sides, seemed to cease.

The roar grew louder and bursting through the pall of smoke was a sleek aircraft form. Instinctively Abdul ducked, thinking it was a Malian fighter. But then the roar seemed to fade away and get less and less...before increasing again.

It increased to a massive cresendo and then, just beyond the block of flats, as well as to the west and east, and behind the chuch, huge walls of licking, groaning flames seemed to explode up from the earth. The the roar then seemed to dissipate and all that was left was silence. Utter silence for an unknown length of time.

As Abdul was about to crouch down again, a young Militia soldier ran out of the back of the Church into the cemetery and blurted out, "Somebody destroyed the Malian tanks. They're fucking gone, burnt to a damn crisp. It was those planes, then they firebombed the fuckers. Malians burning everywhere. Fucking beautiful." He seemed to wait for a reaction from the defenders in the cemetery that never came and dissapointedly dissappeared back inside the Church.

Abdul turned to Morty who was standing just to the front of him. He was about to say something when he noticed movement over at the cemetery gate. He tried to shout but suddenly a shot rang out and Morty's neck erupted in a geyser of blood, and his body slumped down. Abdul ducked as a hail of bullets smacked into the ground and tombstones around him.

He returned fire round the side of the tombstone, toward the cemetery gate. A couple of grenades went off over in that direction and more defenders joined the fray, adding more bullets to those Abdul was letting loose.

Over the din of the battle he could hear frantic shouts, confused and panicked, beyond the cemetery walls. The Malians were in a fit about their tanks by the sounds of things. Then it dawned on Abdul...if their tanks really were gone, then maybe he had a fighting chance. Just maybe.

The firing seemed to die down for a bit, and he took the time to throw a pineapple grenade, before leaping behind another tombstone, alongside one of his erstwhile bodyguards. It turned out to be Bug, his face slashed open from shrapnel. He was shouting curses at the Malians with every blast of his G36 and laughing maniacally as he changed magazines.

Over the pop and sizzle of bullets. Abdul began to hear a slight drumming noise, like soft martial music drums or something of the sort. It seemed to get louder...and louder. And then suddenly a strange sand colored shape seemed to scream overhead with a steady thrum and a faint whistle. Then another. What was this now?

A huge roar of weaponry fire seemed to erupt somewhere overhead, followed by the unmistakable streak and crash of missiles. Abdul and Bug exchanged looks and then he shouted at Bug over the din, "Do you think thats your comrades coming to our rescue?" Bug looked at him and laughed, "Well that would be a first!"

Abdul didn't smile, he just stuck his gun over the tombstone and loosed a bursed in the direction the Malian fire was coming from. The thrumming noise now filled the air above and around the village, or at least it seemed that way to Abdul.

For a minute he stopped firing and desparately hoped that the Ivorians were coming to the rescue. Just as he dared to let himself believe, a clink-clonk noise drew his attention..."FUCKING GRENADE!" Bug screamed at the top of his lungs and lunged forward, covering the round green thing with his huge body before Abdul had time to react.

Then it exploded. Bug's body was blown clear off the ground, a huge hole tearing right through him, blood and bits of intestine were thrown everywhere. The wind was sucked from Abdul's lungs as Bug's blood was smacked across his face. The force of the blast knocked him sideways, sending his rifle clattering away onto a path.

Coughing and spluttering he tried to crawl forward. The Malians would be on him in seconds if he didn't get that gun. Just as he stretched out his fingers a huge dusty boot filled his view, and slowly pressed onto his hand with mighty force. Abdul felt the bones in his hands crack. He thought he screamed but couldn't be sure.

A strong pair of hands suddenly hoisted him upright, face to face with an ugly fat Malian officer, with hideous jowls that seemed to hang off him like they would simply fall off at any moment. Around him were a couple of swarthy looking soldiers, young and wild but menacing all the same. One of them poked Bug's broken body with his foot and spat into the hole in his back. The sounds of battle and that incessant thrum filled the air. But the characters in front of Abdul seemed unperturbed.

The Officer sneered something at him, but he couldn't hear it. Abdul simply spat a mouthful of blood and dirt onto his nicely pressed uniform. He struck Abdul so hard with the pistol in his hand that a couple of teeth flew out of his mouth. He lurched upward, blood running down his chin like it was from a tap. He knew this was end, and he wanted to go out standing tall like a man.

He closed his eyes and the sneering officer raised the gun. For a few seconds nothing seemed to happen. All Abdul was aware of was the ringing in his ears. When he opened his eyes to see what was going on he had to blink a couple of times to make sure he was seeing right.

The four soldiers with the officer were lying where they stood, huge double knife slashes over their hearts or between their left shoulder blades. The fat Officer himself was held about two feet off the ground by an immense figure wearing some weird metal frame with a digital pattern on it. The Officer squirmed and kicked his feet, saliva spewing forth from his mouth, onto the mighty hand of the figure that gripped him round the neck, holding him off the ground and rock steady.

Then the hand seemed to close tighter around the neck and the Officers eyes bulged. His neck was literally being crushed flat. His tongue bulged out of his mouth and his eyes became wild. Then the life suddenly ebbed away, and Abdul saw that the figure's hand was holding a totally flattened human neck. The figure dropped the Officer, and Abdul saw that his neck was as flat as a piece of paper.

He looked up at the two figures standing before him, a good few feet taller than him, both looking down. And then he saw it, right there on the chest of the two figures- a Hirgizstanian flag. Abdul simply smiled. That was all he could manage. He still couldn't hear a thing except a gentle whooshing noise in his ears. One of the figures held out his huge hand and Abdul grabbed it for all he was worth. The figure hoisted him up onto his back and sprinted out through the church toward the civic centre.

Abdul couldn't see where he was going, but he could see the church and most of the village behind him. Malian bodies lay everywhere and a few of the huge figures that had come to his aid were standing alongside some of the militia, firing weapons down one of the roads.

The last thing Abdul saw was the sky and the smoke that obscured its beauty.

First let me apologize for my last post. It was rushed and poorly written. I will try and maintain a level of the highest quality henceforth. Now back to the story.

Mysteriously the rain had stopped but the storm itself continued to rage on without unrestricted fury. It grew more dangerous by the moment as if angered by some unseen force. Though the rain had ceased to plummet toward the earth a new element of the storm was quickly making up for lost ground. A swift and heavy wind began to howl across and in-between the cliffs. Had it not been for the rain that halted moments ago the ground would be alive with bee like grains of sand. Yet with not a spot of dry sand or dirt to toss around the wind began to toss around a chill that stung no less. The hillside was alive with movement very inhuman like in nature. The long strands of grass fell to the side, pushed down with an intense current of frost bitten wind, dead tree branches battled against each other with animal like vigor, and the water rose up and down like the breathing of a dying man. Yet not everything in this alien landscape lacked a heartbeat. Men splashed about, choking and freezing, in the rough waters of the river. They were simple pawns in the clutches of a power far greater in strength then themselves. The river had firm control over their movements but stuck to no pattern in particular. It opted to rather let the wind do most of the work and downstream the men recklessly flowed to.

Raven was the first to recover from this ravenous turmoil. He managed to manipulate his body so that his legs faced downriver and was able guide him past any misplaced rocks hidden beneath the midnight blue of the water. As the river bent he was able to give it the slip and fall ashore. Second behind him but much farther north was Greenbourne. Being the survivalist that he was it was common knowledge how to navigate such a raging river as he found himself. Feet first and head above, though much easier said than actually done. They both were ashore but badly bruised and of desperate need of oxygen without the influence of a mouth full of water. They both were on their stomachs, a number of yards apart, soaked and coughing violently and soon to feel the effects of the wind on their waterlogged bodies. The third man ashore was neither Ethan nor Sven but one of the anonymous henchmen that had mistakenly followed Ethan off the ledge. By sheer luck, if you could call it that, he wound up on shore as well, tossed perhaps mercifully by the river that deemed it adequate to claim only one soul that night. In regards to that the fourth man, the second henchmen, was unable to land himself upon the very same coastline that the three others now clung to. He tossed ferociously about the murky waves and cried out for help to which he was met with only mouthfuls of the bleak water. His lungs soon filled with these very same waters and before long his cries faded away as did his head beneath the surface. Eventually, after the storm passes, his body would turn up on sure and play host to a breakfast or lunch for some creature as such is life in Africa. Back to the third henchmen, his landing spot was in poor taste as he was located firmly between both Ethan and Sven. He too had consumed woeful amounts of water but was quick to relive himself and come to.

Ethan sat upright; his age had never slowed him down until now. His entire body ached, from his matted blonde hair to his broken pinky toe. Streams of blood from cuts and gashes intermixed with streaks of water dripping harmlessly downward causing it to look slightly worse than it was. His heart was inconsistent and his muscles were tense. He nearly forgot where he was and quickly began check his body for something he maybe did not feel. He flexed his toes, at least three were broken. Next he rubbed his legs and tired to stand. He stumbled but maintained himself. Nothing broken there but he had severely bruised both of his knees. He twisted back and forth. He was lucky his tailbone was miraculously fine, save for a slight soreness which he credited to his age. He contorted his back in odd ways and gave it a once over with his hand. He traced with his mud encrusted pointer finger a large gash that ran nearly the length of his back and was bleeding with alarming intensity. A sharp pain jolted his body into complete awareness. He put a firm hand on his rib cage and another pain reawaked his eyes. At least one broken rib if not two, but that was the last of the serious injuries. His head, neck, and arms all sustained minor cuts and that was all. He was in no condition for a fight. All had compounded into a severe throbbing in his head. He was already on his feet but the whereabouts of the others was yet unknown to him plus the sound of the helicopter was no far off. Meanwhile just a few yards away hidden by the shrill of the wind and the lack of a moon the henchman was on his feet with nothing but some cuts and bruising. Fate had so far been kind to him. Since his weapon was secured by a strap he wore over his shoulder, his rifle remained on him and thus it was the first thing he reached for. Beyond him and slow to his feet was Sven. He had suffered a broken arm despite all of his training. In a normal occurrence he would have fashioned himself a splint, but time was not a luxury that he could afford. Though his left arm was unusable his right still held firm his pistol and he clutched it was earnest. The darkness of the night was as thick as the three could not see each other though in close quarters they were. The noise of the storm, the hollowing wind and earsplitting thunder, hid even what their ears could usually see.

All of this changed so suddenly that daylight seemed surprisingly early. The helicopter had made the discovery of the gang first and opened up its searchlight on the small yardage of ground on which the three claimed. Once their eyes adjusted it quickly became evident how volatile the situation actually was. Ethan was unarmed yet stood facing an MP-5 nearly in touching distance. That trigger was held in check by barrel of a sidearm held by the steady working hand of Greenbourne. To finalize the entrapment a large caliber machine gun stood half out of the helicopter aimed (while the gunner made it clear his position via loudspeaker) at Sven. Time seemed to fly by while at the same time stand still. The wind ceased on that small spit of coastline for that infinite time, the lightning faded from existence, and the thunder like all sounds dimmed into nothing. Ethan’s eyes were fixed on what he could make of Sven’s. He came upon a feeling unlike any he had felt in some time. Something about this character was different and at the same time very familiar. He saw a past that haunts him and a future that isn’t real. He looked into his eyes and was afraid. It was a trance quickly broken has Ethan saw his time to move. Old instinct took over and despite his bodies age he retained his quickness. The henchman’s eyes switched upwards for a quick glance at the helicopter. Ethan stepped silently toward him. Quickly he reached around and with his left hand grabbed the henchman’s left shoulder rotating him towards Sven. So sudden was the action that the man let his grip on his sub machine gun weaken and as it was extended Raven took control of it and pulled the trigger in an aimed burst. About four rounds sailed upwards slamming into the gunner of the helicopter and killing him instantly. As this was taking place Sven had dropped to his knee and placed two rounds into the subdued henchmen. His body became limp and his water logged clothes made him too heavy for Raven to hold up under his own strength. As the man was slowing falling from Raven’s hold he fired another round that tore through the cockpit glass and incapacitated the pilot. The helicopter jerked violently and strafed into the side of the cliff from which they had fallen. It erupted into a dazzling flash of vibrant oranges and yellows lighting up the sky more vividly than the lightning had before.

There was little time to enjoy this government funded fireworks show. The two now stood only feet apart. They were broken, tired, and in extreme pain. Yet they remained stoic and lifeless holding each other up with the tip of a barrel.

National Intelligence Agency Headquarters, Hirgizstan City, Cape Verde

It had been several months now since Abdul Suleiman, 'Agent Yellow', had been lifted out of the nightmare in the Ivory Coast. He never did find out who or even what it was that had saved him in the nick of time. He had blacked out and woken up in Ghana State University Hospital a few days later.

Naturally, few people outside of Hirgizstan City knew of his mission and he was simply another sick patient in a busy urban hospital, except that he had two 'police' officers at the door 24-7. In reality they were NIA agents, but nobody would know that.

After a few weeks of rest and re-cuperation with his family in Benghazi it was back to Hirgizstan City to prepare for the November Congressional hearings on the Mali-Ivorian War. This had been announced quite a while ago and the subject had picked up more and more momentum as the weeks counted down to the Official hearings.

The Fuhrer's position was quite clear, he wanted action but was not willing to go above Congress. Thus a hearing had been scheduled for the week before the scheduled Congressional vote.

Abdul would be presenting expert analysis on the war itself, but his face and identity would never be known. He would broadcast live via video-link to the hearings from the NIA HQ with his face blacked out and voice altered.

Personally testifying at the hearings would be the Secretary of State, the Secretary of Defense, numerous policy analysts and a number of BDF (Border Defense Force) personnel who had witnessed actions of the war fought close enough to the border to be observed and recorded. Reporters from RWB (Reporters Without Borders) were also expected to testify and show footage of what they had seen in country.

The war itself had become an extremely volatile issue, with the public sentiment firmly behind the Fuhrer and many people signing petitions and taking actions to, hopefully, prompt the Government to make the right decision. The United States had also made their position clear in that they wished something to be done, and quick. But the situation demanded more than the actions of one country, it demanded full GATO (Greater African Treaty Organization) action.

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Congressional Committee Room 1, Capitol Hill, Hirgizstan City

The press were the noisiest of all, as usual. From the foreign press to the domestic, they were all clamouring for the best views for their cameras and mics. They were bunched into the corners at the sides of the room, in front of the spectator area. Some cameras faced the doors at the rear where those who would be testifying would enter from, while others faced the long wooden podiums at the front of the huge room, five upper seats and five lower seats, for the five Senators and five Representatives respectfully.

The Senators would be Jim Tyler (New Mexico), Loziedes Kuchazos (Greece), Denise Geshon (Central Congo), Waifa Al-Sazo (Sudan) and Jubail Al-Sud (Libya), each a member of the Senate Committee on National Defense. They would be joined by five Representatives, each a member of the House Committee on National Defense.

Abdul would be the first to testify during the hearings and for this a pair of large TV's where wheeled into the room, and the small monitor on the desk of each Congressman flickered to life showing the same image- a shadowy human form behind a deep purple background.

A Clerk introduced the man simply as 'Agent Yellow'. The room fell quite silent as soon as the Clerk made his announcment, the only noise that could be heard was coming from the quiet clicks made by stills cameras from the press areas as they snapped away, filling up their memory cards with images for the newspapers.

Jim Tyler, Chairman of the Committee, was the first to speak. "I'd like to welcome you all here today to this hearing on the Mali-Ivorian War. As you can see we're ready to begin so lets not delay further.

Agent Yellow, as I understand it you were in the two nations in question several months ago conducting surveillance for the government. Now, I'll get straight to the point- was it genocide?"

The blacked out figure on the camera shifted a little and then a slightly digitized voice came across the room's speaker systems, "Yes. I was personally witness to several massacres conducted by the Malian troops. They spare no Ivorians. It is estimated by the Ivorian leader, General Kanu, that close to one million people have already been killed and millions more have fled south or are simply unaccounted for."

Senator Tyler simply nodded and made a few notes, "Yes...now General Kanu, we haven't heard the best of things about him. The press here was saying he might be just as bad as Ugo, is there any truth to this Agent?"

Abdul had personally met General Kanu several times on his mission. The story of how he came to power had been convoluted many times by a press that had little or no access to Ivorian information and only RWB had reported the complete factual basis about the man. The civilian leadership had been decimated when the Malians shot down a plane carrying the Ivorian President and several of his Ministers. The event was sheer luck but it had happend nonetheless and the Prime Minister, who took over the reins of power, had a heart-attack because of the pressure. It thus fell to the retired General Kanu, then head of the opposition party, to step in and take control, donning his uniform to give him extra control of the Armed Forces. As Abdul well knew, the greying old soldier was no tyrant, simply a man doing the best he could in an awful situation.

"I'm sure that during this hearing you will get to hear from the RWB people, and at the time they were the only news outlet to produce factual evidence of how General Kanu came to power. I assure you Senator, he is no tyrant. In fact, he told me that he was considering holding an election...an election during a war for the nation's survival! His advisors eventually talked him out of it, but like I said, he is no tyrant."

Tyler grunted and made a couple more notes.

Denise Geshon now leaned forward and spoke, "Agent Yellow, were you able to ascertain on your mission what the Malian leaders intentions may be if he was to pacify the Ivorians?"

"Madame Senator, unfortunately the 'Dear Leader' was not avaliable for comment during my time in his country. However, the Ivorian group I was working with did manage to capture a Malian Intelligence Officer, a Colonel I believe, and from him we managed to gain some perspective on Ugo's grand plan, if it could be called that. From what we heard from the Colonel and what we read of his documents and others we found, Ugo plans to completely eradicate the Ivorian people. He sees this as perfectly attainable in a fairly modest time frame, somewhere in the region of 2-4 years for a complete mission. After this, though, things become slightly distorted. We know his anti-Hirgizstanian rhetoric but whether this is simply hot air or not we can't tell. But judging by his character and actions thus far, saying he would not attack us is like saying a hungry lion wouldn't eat a fillet steak."

A Representative interjected at this, asking "So, your saying that we could not, perhaps, deal with Ugo and the Malians if he was to succeed in his mission?"

Abdul sneered at this but it went unseen and unrecorded. He knew well the position of Hirgizstanian foreign policy, that no country's internal business was to be meddled with. The respect for sovereignty in the Commonwealth was a well known and well worn concept. Abdul needed to be careful here, he wasn't a politician.

"I'm not a legislator Congressman, but I would say no, we can't deal with them."

The Representative chirped up now, seeking a small victory of sorts, "Yes indeed Agent, as you say you are not a legislator. Why should we not consider dealing with the Malians and Ugo? It is not our business or our place to become involved in his foreign policy."

The man's remark drew a loud murmur of voices from the crowd and the press cameras began to go into overdrive as they snapped pictures of him. He seemed to bask in it, like he had that remark prepared.

Abdul was about to say something further when Jim Tyler interjected to quiet the crowd. Abdul then spoke up, more forcefully so the digitized voice became deeper and slightly ominous. "No, as you say Sir, it is not our place to become involved in his foreign policy. You speak the truth when you say that we can't lift a finger when his soldiers rape girls not yet in puberty in front of their mothers. No, we can't even intervene when Ugo wipes out whole towns because they were Ivorian. It would be truly awful for us to intervene when his men hack infant children to pieces in front of their families...oh yes sir, I've seen it happen, I've been so close I could smell the coppery blood on the air...so no, perhaps we shouldn't get involved and we can just do business with him when he's done killing. Or maybe while we're busy counting our money, he'll be preparing to invade Ghana or another Hirgizstanian state, preparing to do the same there as he did to the Ivorians. So will you still want to do business when his men are hacking Hirgizstanian kids to pieces or will you allow us to intervene then?"

The silence in the huge room seemed endless. Not even the stills photographers fired off shots, they just sat or stood and stared at the TV screens. The smile on the Representatives face had vanished, he now looked visibly ill and seemed to have shrunk in his suit.

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

For the next few days the Hearings would continue and then the Committees would report their findings to Congress. There would be a vote that held in the balance millions of Ivorian and Malian lives.

The Senate, Capitol Hill, Hirgizstan City

The day of the vote had finally arrived and it certainly showed in the capital city. The press had essentially besieged Congress and had camped out on the front steps and rear gardens all the way down to the beginning of the Mall.

The crowd of reporters, photographers and cameramen on the front steps kept surging forward every few minutes as another Senator arrived. Political Protection Agents kept a walkway open down the middle stairway and a group ushered in the Senators quickly, only allowing them to stop for a few words before getting them moving again. The likelihood of someone threatening one of the senators in the capital of the world's safest country was highly unlikely, thus the quiet urges from the Agents was more to keep the Senators on time for the start of the morning session. Some of them could talk to the press all day, if left to their own devices.

Once inside the huge old building the air conditioners greeted all comers and the only cameras allowed inside the building was from Congress TV which showed everything that went on inside the Senate and the House.

The last Senators to arrive found the room abuzz as the 74 Senators chatted amongst themselves, waiting for Senator Tyler to begin with a short speech about the significance of the days vote.

The previous day the House of Representatives had already voted 'For' intervention in the Mali-Ivorian war by a landslide after the three days of hearings the previous week. The press had went into a frenzy speculating which way the Senate would go, as an 'Against' vote would kill the motion and force someone to re-introduce it. By then the situation would probably be too late.

It was just after noon when Jim Tyler took the address podium underneath where the Speaker of the Senate and Chairman of the Senate sat.

The hall quieted down as the Senators' conversations died and they took their seats.

Tyler's voice echoed from the speakers, "My fellow Senators, this is an extremely important day for us and for the country. But not only is it important for us, the lives of millions of people hang in the balance of the decision that we will make here today. You all by now, have heard or read what was presented and debated during the hearings last week so you will be in no doubt as to why I stress todays importance, moreso with yesterdays result in the House still in mind.

I will make no more comment. You should all be aware of the facts and now it is time to vote. Thank you."

Tyler returned to his seat in the second row of desks.

A screen on the left side of the huge room came to life with each Senator's name displayed beside an 'Against' or 'For' icon with the title of the bill displayed at the top of the screen.

The Chairman of the Senate now spoke, "Ladies and Gentlemen, please begin voting. You have two minutes."

A small count-down began at the bottom left of the screen as the Senators voted, pressing small buttons on a console at their desks. It took just over a minute for everyone to have voted.

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The Verde Mansion, The Fuhrer's Personal Residence, Cape Verde

Congress TV displayed the full vote on screen for everyone who was watching to see. It was quite clear, 64 'For', 4 'Against' and 6 'Absetention'.

The Fuhrer stood in the office of the huge mansion looking at the TV screen set into the ornate wooden cabinet on the left side of the room. His personal secretary and the Secretaries of Defense and State sat on the couches in front of the fireplace in the middle of the room.

The Fuhrer simply let out a large breath and turned to the couches.

"So, we have our mandate. Our first action should be to contact the United States and let them know how the vote went, send a copy to the Hawdawgians aswell. Then, start mobilisation. I also want a press conference scheduled at the White House for 6.30 this evening. Let's get this rolling, every minute we waste is lives lost over there."

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http://i25.photobucket.com/albums/c88/Karl187/COHSeal.jpg

OFFICIAL COMMUNICATION
FROM: The Fuhrer
TO: President Baruti
CC: Prime Minister Wells
SUBJECT: Mali-Ivorian Intervention
ENCRYPT-MAX

As you have probably both heard by now, Congress has authorized the use of force in Mali and the Ivory Coast to stop the genocide there.

At the moment I am mobilising forces and I wish to acquire a GATO mandate for them. The Commonwealth will act alone if necessary but I think it would be in the best interests of the continent and GATO if forces from either or both your nations were to participate in the intervention.

Signed,
The Fuhrer

END OF MESSAGE

12. Baruti
Windhoek, Namibia

The votes had come through and were not surprising in the least. The United States had already made the resolution to become involved in the conflict and was simply awaiting the go ahead from their GATO ally. The United States wasn’t mobilizing a large force, it wasn’t deemed necessary contrary to the US General Staff. A few divisions along with a carrier task force were tasked with bringing order to the turmoil in Africa. It was understood that the Malian forces were subpar at best but utterly ruthless. Most of Windhoek saw this more of a humanitarian mission more so then a military one.

Baruti wasn’t so sure. It wasn’t so much the Malians that scared him, though he did fear both countries underestimated them, but rather the rift between Hirgizstan soldiers and US soldiers. Though territorial neighbors, and friendly ones at that, the two countries were woefully different in nearly every way. Being one of only two true democracies in a world of dictatorship the US had become increasingly liberal in its views while Hirgizstan followed strict conservatism. As a result the US had a large immigrant population from those trying to escape conflict around the world into a more peaceful climate. The largest of which were Russians who naturally were extreme enemies of the Hirgizstan people. Finally the US people were up in arms over the recent killing of civilians by the Layarteb Armed Forces which are extremely close allies of Hirgizstan. Though Hirgizstan publicly denounced the actions, it did little in the eyes of the US public. Nevertheless this animosity appeared only skin deep and had yet to affect any official ties between the countries.

Meanwhile the people of the US went against their rather liberal beliefs and were fully behind action in Mali. The media had, as is expected, taken a field day on the entire conflict. The Hirgizstan based, Reporters without Borders, had passed their unnerving and unimaginably intense footage the way of the US news agencies and papers. The result was a public outcry that even the US was unprepared for. Since the very start of the conflict the US had opened its borders to refuges some of which testified within the US speeding the ultimate decision. It would be the first time that the US would face and outside force since TATO took on widespread rebels after the fall of the Teh Ninjas government.

All that was left to do was for Baruti to respond to the Fuhrer’s message:

We have also passed resolutions against the Malian aggression. We would like to officially authorize GATO intervention in a joint press conference in Johannesburg.

http://i25.photobucket.com/albums/c88/Karl187/COHSeal.jpg

OFFICIAL COMMUNICATION
FROM: The Fuhrer
TO: President Baruti
SUBJECT: Mali-Ivorian Intervention Press Conference
ENCRYPT-MAX

Yes, I will be free from Friday onwards. Expect my arrival in Johannesburg on Saturday morning. I will trust you will take care of security matters for this conference.

Signed,
The Fuhrer

END OF MESSAGE

Saturday morning started out as a bleak rainy day. The air was stale and cold as dark rain clouds stood like sentinels in the sky. A rather annoying drizzle of rain persisted throughout the morning hours and greeted the Fuhrer as his plane landed in Johannesburg. Security, as was usual, was bumped up around the Hirigizstan leader. However, unlike the usual display which was set in place more so to impress the leader, this time it was for a reason. The US population was somewhat disgruntled with the Hirgizstan people and President Baruti, who usually traveled with minimum security, wasn’t going to let a displeased Russian immigrant or Malian sympathizer disrupt activates. The atmosphere was made even more solemn by the actual event itself. The city, hunkering down for the day, wasn’t its usual bright and alive self. The streets held no actors or painters, and musical performances were scarce. The delegation enjoyed a quick afternoon lunch before heading into the conference room. The room had been prepped for their arrival and was undergoing last minute security checks before the press would be allowed in. It was a large meeting room that had its share of luxury but was not lavish in that sense. At the rear of the room sat a long oak table and two podiums side by side. Chairs sat on either end of the podiums as each delegation has its own side. Surrounding the table an amphitheater format was a series of gradually sloping chairs that would hold various members of the press as well as local and foreign government dignitaries.

Baruti sat the Fuhrer and his delegation down first before allowing his own to take their seats as a sign of respect. The room was still undergoing its final security checks and the press was held outside for the time remaining. The air inside was nearly as crisp as its counterpart outside. Baruti took this time to review with the Fuhrer all the last minute details before the conference began.

He leaned over to the Fuhrer who met him halfway. “Alright one last time…”

The Fuhrer watched as the camera crews, reporters and photographers prepared themselves for the upcoming press conference. At the head of the room were the two podiums on a small raised stage, that had the United States, Hawdawgian and Commonwealth flags side by side with the GATO one. The energy in the room was quite noticeable, it was an important conference.

After taking their seats the President leaned across the aisle and asked the Fuhrer to briefly run through the plan they had been discussing for some time. It was never too late to run through things another time before you stood up in front of the press.

The Fuhrer leaned halfway into the aisle to meet the President and spoke quietly, but audibly over the chatter in the room. "Mr. President, like I said before, the capital of the Ivory Coast was taken by the PAM (Peoples Army of Mali) early last week. As far as we can tell the Ivorians are making a stand in and around Sassandra about 100 miles along the coast to the West of Abidjan. We also know of a group of Ivorian military surrounded on three sides east of Aboisso. They have their backs right against our border minefields so the Malians can't fully surround them...yet. So what we need to do is get in and shore up these two pockets of resistance before they are wiped out. That means a Marine Landing at Sassandra and a ground invasion near Aboisso, in conjunction with a massive air campaign in to destroy the PAMAF (PAM Air Force). As I have showed you, this won't be easy. The Ivorians are all but spent and the Malians are very well equipped. Now, as I understand it, you won't have any Marine or Army ready for the initial operations, but you will have Air Force units, to be followed by Marine and Army units? Before you answer, I trust the locations we discussed are adequate, and in addition I will offer as many cargo aifrcraft as I can to get your forces in place that much quicker. So, what do you think?"

OOC: Map of the Ivory Coast-

http://images.nationmaster.com/images/motw/africa/ivory_coast_pol88.jpg

“…I believe that will suffice sir.”

The room was in motion without restraint now. The security team had made its final sweep and was taking positions around the room to help keep order once the news teams and national correspondents came flooding into the quickly shrinking room. It wasn’t long before they obliged and soon the room entered a new wave of activity. Quick flashes from a cornucopia of cameras illuminated the room like bolts of lightning. Such was the roar of footsteps cascading through the door to give the impression of rolling thunder. ‘Surely,’ Baruti thought to himself, ‘a storm is coming.’ It was not long before the air inside the room became stale and overused. The noise continued to grow and the flashes slowed only when the light bulbs within began to fade and give way. Yet so important was the meeting and so professional were those controlling those dying cameras that they were reanimated with almost no loss in time. As everyone was forced to begin finding their seats, which was no easy task, a multitude of tiny red lights began to flicker on. Huge black beasts of technology came to life with a dull hum. It sent millions upon millions of little signals across the dense air and into the blankness of space. Soon these signals would reach televisions a room away and half a world away. For the new few minutes an entire continent, if not the world, would have its eyes and minds and hearts focused on one event, and event that would surely change the lives of millions.

Baruti waited with the patients that comes with age. At first, as was usual, the blood would flow ever fast and his nerves would tense. Slowly and surely he would recover himself and his heart would regain its normal rhythm. He took deliberate breaths, slow and deep, to keep control of his heart. He glanced at the Fuhrer seated next to him. He looked forward as if looking into the eyes of a long time enemy. They were fierce and determined; his mind had long been made up upon the outcome of this meeting and this coming fury. He face was well defined and displayed great discipline. Though not a bodybuilder by any means, he nevertheless came off as intensely powerful both physically and mentally. There was a vast difference between him and Baruti, in appearance and beliefs it seemed. Baruti was growing old and was unable to hide his age. His hair was thin and losing its color with haste. Deep lines traveled his face and his eyes sat almost always half closed, as if he were in a constant struggle to keep them entirely open. They were men that stood for different things, vastly different beliefs except at least on this subject today. Today they would defend human rights’, today they would defend the fallen.

As if on cue the room grew silent. Only a soft hum of the video cameras in the back and the LCD projector that was presently in sleep mode were audible. If the room could look any smaller, it most certainly did at that point. It was a stunning silence, epic even. In cities just minutes away, in households throughout the country, families gathered in front of their excessively large high definition televisions and awaited the outcome that would surely have little effect upon their daily life. They would sit and feel concerned with a war that would not touch the lives personally of 80% of them. Yet they watched because they thought they must and they thought they must give a sigh of sorrow and pretend as if they were genuinely concerned. They wanted this and now they were going to let someone else see it through. Others watched from crowded barracks with their comrades in arms. They were the power in the words of which these two men spoke. They were hope and freedom, death and vengeance. They watched the television with one eye for they already knew the outcome as they were already loading their weapons. They had left their homes, their loved ones, their lives to help save a people they knew nothing about. Nervously they joked with their fellow soldiers, the generals had promised them a victory but it took only one bullet to ensure defeat to at least one of them. Thousands of miles away, hidden from the constant report of gunfire and ever present death, men huddled in front of a small black and white television hanging on every word that these two men would say. As they watched a trickle of tears, ones that come from sacrifice and hope, began to wash away the months of blood and nightmares. Some grew red with anger as they had already seen all there was to lose, and others could not cry with joy or sadness because they had already departed this world of misery, this land of sin.

Baruti stood and took a deep look at seemingly everyone in the room. His eyes took a serious note and he spoke with eloquence that comes only from time. His voice was as commanding as it was soft. The cameras caught every detail without interruption. The world watched. It was the beginning to an end.

The Fuhrer waited until Baruti had once again re-taken his seat before walking up the steps to the raised platform and the podium.

He stood behind it and said nothing for just over a minute. This wasn't to let photographers get their shots or for the camera men to fix his position on screen, it was to look at the audience, look at every camera as if he was looking directly at the people watching on TV's all over the world.

He eventually cleared his throat.

"I'd like to thank the President for that...rousing speech...such eloquence and force is a fitting way to mark this press conference. Mr. President, I thank you." The Fuhrer nodded at Baruti as a sign of respect.

"Africa is everything. We are the richest of continents, the best of places. It is our responsibility to make sure Africa stays this way, it is GATO's responsibility. But I stand here before all of you today to admit our abject failure at this goal. We in the Commonwealth, you in the Holy Republic and you in the United States may feel we are still the richest of continents and the best of places. But we are not. I will not stand up here today and tell you of our success, instead I will tell you of our failure.

Our failure lies north-west of here, in two places , one called the Ivory Coast, the other called Mali. Hundreds of thousands, perhaps more than a million people are dead because we chose to ignore the break-down of a country and the descent into war that it has led to. In the middle of our continent, or nearabouts, we have let this evil happen.

Well no more.

The time has come to do something.

I say to the Ivorian people that we have failed you and we ask, nay beg, your forgiveness. I tell you today that we will not see you taken asunder, there is hope and today will come the proof.

I say to the Malian people that we will not and are not fighting against you. Mali is ruled by nothing but evil, and its people subjected to depravities beyond our worst imaginations. It is not them we will fight, for they are also the oppressed.

So now, I say directly to General Ugo-," the Fuhrer paused for a few seconds and steeled his gaze, "we're coming for you."

He paused again and took a couple of sips of water.

"From midnight tonight, an ultimatum will begin. If, 48 Hours from Midnight, Malian forces are not retreating with all haste from the Ivory Coast we will begin full scale military operations to force them back and set things right.

From today onward, we will no longer turn our backs on those that need us."

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Before the press conference in Johannesburg had even begun, Hirgizstanian military forces were ready to deploy. They had been ready since the vote in Congress. Soldiers had been issued GATO insignia, vehicles had been re-issued with GATO licence plates and revised copies of GATO protocols had been handed out to every soldier.

The 1st Fleet, known usually as 'The Home Fleet' was already in position south of the Ivory Coast, along with the 6th Heavy Marine Division.

Aircraft bases all around Mali and the Ivory Coast had been preparing for operations and to receive an influx of United States aircraft to help participate in the first offensive.

Army forces had also been deployed at border crossings in the south of the Ivory Coast. Many bases were also preparing to receive massive land forces from the United States, whose troops and equipment would be airlifted into Hirgizstan and then deployed.

All that was needed was the final orders, which would surely come, unless by some miracle Ugo decided to pull his forces back.

Comoe Savanah, North West Ivory Coast

For a buck Private in the PAM the pay wasn’t all that great. Limno Rungu wasn’t one to complain, especially when he could see such beautiful sunsets. So far he hadn’t seen much of the Ivory Coast, just wretched towns, scarred by battle and burned by fire. The people weren’t much to look at either, inferior whelps of low intelligence and calibre. He wondered why they hadn’t collapsed a little quicker, they were truly pathetic.

Even the last woman his squad had their way with didn’t fight, she just lay there and took it. The Sergeant threw her out a three story window afterward, she broke her legs and had bled to death in the morning. It had been pretty funny.

Rungu desperately wanted to push south, their haul of loot had been relatively meagre, although he had bagged a couple of nice rings, one was a seriously large diamond engagement ring. It would make up for the low pay that was for sure.

With the binoculars pinned to his eyes he watched the silhouettes of elephants plucking leaves off trees in the distance. There was a couple of giraffes out there aswell. They were easily identifiable against the elephants.

The sun seemed to go down all too quickly in the Savanah and then the temperature dipped. He wondered if the Sarge would take them to get another woman, that would sure warm them all up, perhaps a younger one with a bit of fight about her.

The Sarge was listening to his radio, a piece of loot from an abandoned office, in the front of the jeep. The Corporal and the PFC were both dozing in the back, only Rungu was keeping watch on the area they had been told to patrol. It didn’t matter much- there were no Ivorians this far north.

A good song came on the radio and Rungu bumped his head up and down to the beat while catching the last glimpses of sunlight out on the plain in front of him.

Something brushed against his leg and he put the binos down around his neck, he shouted “What is it Sarge?” There was no answer, he shouted again but got the same silence…well almost silence, there were hundreds of chirping, buzzing and crazy sounding insects about that made a hell of a ‘silence’.

He looked down at his feet. He could see the Sarge, his head was lying over the arch of the back of the front seat, his jugular spurting blood up in the air, his windpipe and neck muscles exposed completely. Beside him the Corporal had a pool of blood running from his neck down on his clothes, a seething angry red slither that didn’t seem to ever stop as it soaked his uniform.

To his left the other PFC, his friend Bernie, had his own knife wedged in his right eye socket, his mouth agape.

To his own personal credit, Rungu didn’t shout or scream. His breathing just got heavier and his mind raced, coming up with the worst possibilities in a matter of seconds. His hands closed on his pistol…gone…his knife…gone. How the hell could that have happened? He pulled himself up quickly, onto the roof of the vehicle. The sun was fully gone now, leaving only an orange glare that was quickly darkening.

He waited on top of the jeep until it went fully dark. His plan was simple- he would quickly swing down inside the jeep and kick the Sergeant out, slam on the gas and get the hell out of there. It had to work, it was simple and it would catch any stalker off guard.

He prepared himself and swung down, booting the Sergeant’s limp body out of the frame door with one fell swoop. He grabbed the keys and stopped dead.

He had seen it, right beside the drivers door was a figure, standing as tall as man, in silhouette. He couldn’t see any features. He turned the keys but that was as far as he got, the figure lunged forward and his forearm dropped off his upper arm onto the dusty savannah. He screamed in abject agony and horror and tried to get onto the passenger side, but the figure, calmly this time, stepped forward and struck his left leg with a machete, sticking it in so far that the blade disappeared into the flesh of Rungu’s leg.

He didn’t scream, he howled like an animal- just like those that stalked the plain at night.

Rungu was sprawled inside jeep now. The Figure watched intently. Rungu’s eyes were wild, he had blood all over his face. He screamed curses at the figure that just stood there, silent and unmoving while Rungu screamed like a pig in a bear trap.

But his howls and screams died away to a whimper when he heard the king of animals roar less than a few metres from the jeep. He saw the male lion, its mane bushy and healthy, its eyes gleaming with hunger. The beast stepped up onto the passenger side and sniffed at Rungu’s head before lifting its head to roar again. There were return roars in the distance and then the Lion again lowered its head, its paw smacked Rungu on the head and he screamed, the lion roared inches from his face, so close he could smell the carrion and the blood from its mouth.

Rungu’s head flopped down, he had lost too much blood and couldn’t lift it anymore. His last image was of the figure that attacked him, standing motionless on the other side of the jeep.

The lion’s mouth opened wide and closed on Rungu’s neck and snapped it like a twig.

The figure watched for two hours as four lions devoured the bodies in the Jeep.

13. Nkosana
Korhogo, Cote D Ivoire

It had taken a lot longer then he thought it would, the GATO intervention. It was unavoidable there was no doubt to that. His time table for the entire operation was behind schedule and for once such a predicament was beneficial to his campaign. Personally he didn’t agree at all with what Ugo was doing along the coast, it was unspeakable but such is the cost of war. Speaking of Ugo the man was becoming uncontrollable. So far he had gone along with Nkosana’s plans, if only the base line of them. This next step would be the final test, if he did continue to fall Nkosana’s plans then they might just have a chance to complete his intended mission. It was a long shot no doubt but it was the only chance. It took no genius to realize that Ugo’s forces were outgunned, out trained, and out everything. They stood no logical chance in a conventional battle. The feeling didn’t really sink down into the ranks, a testament to Ugo’s leadership and cult like following. It was a vital piece of the plan and probably the main reason Ugo was still alive. If the soldiers actually realized the pickle they were soon to be in it could throw off everything. No they would have to have a sense of being immortal, Ugo would have to live and lead a little longer much to Nkosana’s chagrin. Ugo would be arriving in a few minutes and the final stage of this theater would hopefully being. The best part of everything was the fact that Ugo had become the evil mastermind behind this entire scheme, at least to the public eye. He embodied all the horror that was the Malian-Ivorian war. The media gave no hint to anyone else more involved. As of now Nkosana was a ghost.

Ugo’s arrival did not come as any surprise. His thunderous footsteps and loud vulgar remarks could be heard before he even entered the building. He was oblivious to anything that was not him or his war. His stench, a lingering smell of ever present death, followed him as close as the hair on his body. He was an unwelcomed sight and smell no matter where he traveled and even more so in the quiet office of Nkosana. He gave no mind to knocking as he pushed aside the doors of Nkosana’s office with unwarranted authority. He kicked aside the chair that awaited him and slammed his fists down upon the desk which was the only thing between the two men.

“You said you would keep GATO out of this!” he snarled and spit.

Nkosana just now glanced up from his papers and looked at Ugo. He had learned by now to not be intimidated.

“I said for as long as I could. You are no fool, you didn’t see this coming?”

“You lied to me!”

“It is all part of the plan. I’d ask you to sit but you have seemed to have destroyed my chair. Thank you for that.”

Ugo glared with his dead yellow eyes. His black bottomless pupils grew small.

“You mock me?”

“Listen to me. Have you seen GATO’s conference?”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously, yes. Do as they say.”

Ugo stood motionless. “Withdrawal? Is that a joke? Do you laugh at me now?”

“Yes. You know you stand no chance against them. They will control the skies and destroy you where ever you go. Even at night you have no refuge.”

Ugo tried to interrupt but Nkosana continued, “You will disband a portion of your army and leave them in Cote. You will take the rest of your forces back to Mali. When GATO arrives they will set up along the border and turn their focus to rebuilding.”

“What shall I do then?”

“Systematically kill them all.”

Something was still missing. A large piece of his puzzle was dangerously out of place. What had he forgotten that troubled him so much? It was that twisted feeling you get deep within your stomach when you know you are in for bad news. There was little time to embrace this unwanted feeling, because as suddenly as it left him, it returned in all its horror. There had been no word on the return of his men, the men he had sent to hunt and kill Sven and Ethan. His one mistake, though only two men, he feared would be his biggest. Surely their lack of a return meant they were dead. With the two men in question he would unfortunately give them the benefit of the doubt, as it would be a clear mistake not to. The best he could hope for, and it wasn’t a wonderful feeling of relief, was that at least one of them was dead. Perhaps, a moment of glory overtook him, they are both dead! Yes, what a grand idea that would be. Reality, however, returned to its rightful place and that old feeling of dread overtook him. Surely, he thought idly to himself, they were both very much alive and both very angry. The last official report he heard was that Raven’s location had been found. The final radio chatter had been too erratic and confusing to distinguish before finally ceasing all together. He had only to speculate what that meant. Raven had once again fallen into the wind, a ghost to everyone. Sven was probably dead as well, or else he would be hearing from him in regards to their financial agreement. Of all the things Nkosana had committed in his life, all the atrocities he was allowing to be played out, none scared him more then not killing Ethan Raven.

The show must go on, he presumed to himself. For now there were much bigger fish to fry. Ugo was slowly, actually very slowly, pulling his forces back to the border. Though the US, seeing this would probably allow more time for the entire pullback, he had counted on the war-happy Hirgizstan people to push onward regardless. Now with their growing involvement in that damned Australian conflict, they might not be so willing to divert forces. He reassured himself though, the mighty Fuhrer personally promised. Their foolish pride and immortality would certainly get them into trouble, he could rely on that. Small terrorist cells, mostly disbanded Ugo loyal fanatics, were taking up roots within Cote D’Ivoire awaiting their time to unleash an unparalleled hell. Ugo was disturbingly predictable, a trait he used to his advantage and one that Hirgizstan generals would soon use to theirs. If his plan was going to work, and it was so far, he would need to move ahead of schedule. Some inspired event would have to take place, a twisted miracle for lack of a better word. Little to his knowledge events were transpiring on the other side of Africa that would give him his so called miracle.

Part Two: Ghosts of the Queen
“But in here in this graveyard that is still no man's land the countless white crosses in mute witness stand, To man's blind indifference to his fellow man, To a whole generation that was butchered and damned” Eric Bogle

LAND OF SIN CHARACTER LIST

MALIANS

Name: Jean Pierre Ugo (AKA The Dear Leader/General Ugo)
Age: 51
Position/Status: Leader of the Peoples Republic of Mali
Info: Ugo was a former freezer salesman from Mopti, of Touareg descent. During the period of prolonged civil war in Mali after the Brydogian collapse he became the leader of a band of thugs, rapists and de-mobbed soldiers that eventually seized power in the capital. Appealing to popular support and uniting regular Malians with the warring Touaregs he set the country on a path to a left wing dictatorship in which his power is fully exercised in his quest to take over the Ivory Coast and eradicate its people, which he sees as somehow inferior.
Picture: http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/film/forest460.jpg

Name: Addison Mikel-Yumru (AKA 'Addy')
Age: 26
Position/Status: Personal Aide to General Ugo, Honorary Liutenant Colonel in the PAM
Info: Addy was a former street kid who picked up a dead soldiers gun during the fall of Brydog. He saved Ugo's life once and was taken under his wing as his personal aide and has been there ever since. However, with every gain of power Ugo has become increasingly unstable and unsavoury and Addy's conscience is screaming at him to do something. He attempts to drown it with painkillers, anti-depressants and alcohol.
Picture: http://www.cinemarx.ro/poze/persoane/2007/04/sammi_rotibi.jpg


IVORIANS

Name: General Timole Isan Kanu (AKA General Kanu), Ivorian Army
Age: 61
Position/Status: Leader of the Ivory Coast and Commander of Ivorian Armed Forces
Info: General Kanu was a former head of the Brydogian Army and had been retired four years before the country collapsed. He took a token command of a Reserve unit of the newly formed Ivorian Army. It was not until the newly formed country entered its first political crisis, with the deaths of the President and most of the cabinet, that he was forced back into the upper echelons of the Army. He eventually stepped in to take the place of the Ivorian President. Kanu is simply an old soldier struggling to save as many people as he can from the Malians. He is old but will do his duty until he is killed or dies. He desperately wants GATO to become involved but thinks it will be too late before they do.
Picture: http://www.hitparade.ch/actorimages/morgan_freeman.jpg

Name: Captain Morgan Tasvangari
Age: 38
Position/Status: Captain of 1st Republic Infantry (Disbanded after destruction, 17th February)
Info: Captain Tasvangari's unit was wiped out along with 62,000 other Ivorian Soldiers on the first day of the war.
Picture: http://content6.flixster.com/photo/44/30/61/4430612_tml.jpg

Name: Chief Constable Marko Navuman
Age: 50
Position/Status: Chief Constable (I.E. Chief of Police) of the Ivory Coast
Info: Made Chief Constable by default, assumed command of the last remnant of police forces in Sassandra. Volunteered to stay behind with a few local officers in case any civilians turned up and needed to be evacuated into the jungles. Navuman is a cautious, often dour man with little sense of humour and a serious demeanor. His greatest quality is simply being able to get tough jobs done.
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HIRGIZSTANIANS

Name: Abdul Suleiman (AKA Agent Yellow)
Age: 38
Position/Status: National Intelligence Agency Field Operator
Info: Abdul is returning to the Ivory Coast for the second time after giving his much-anticipated report to Congress. Once in-country he will establish a link between the Ivorian leadership and GATO.
Picture: http://media.apn.co.nz/webcontent/image/jpg/curtis_cliff.jpg

Name: Captain Joseph Merrick, CHMC (AKA Raven)
Age: 35
Position/Status: Captain in Marine Force Recon, commanding 1st Platoon, 16th Recon
Info: Merrick is a Marine Corps lifer with a talent for pulling off difficult missions at short notice. In his private life Merrick is unattached after a failed marriage at 21. The Corps and the men of his platoon are his family. Merrick is known to be placid and seemingly dis-interested during combat, known for his laconic habit of chewing the end of a lit or unlit pipe when under heavy fire.
Picture: http://www.premiere.fr/var/premiere/storage/images/diaporama/william-fichtner/la-chute-du-faucon-noir-black-hawk-down-2001/1937991-1-fre-FR/la_chute_du_faucon_noir_black_hawk_down_2001_reference.jpg

Name: Gunnery Sergeant Sumi Hydill, CHMC (AKA Hydro)
Age: 41
Position/Status: Gunnery Sergeant in Marine Force Recon, 1st Platoon, 16th Recon
Info:Hydill is a combat vet of many years in the Corps, having joined at 20 after his National Army Service. Hydill is the epitomy of a Gunny in that he is older than most of the officers commanding him and because of his wealth of experience. He commands respect and obediance from the platoon and keeps them on their toes.
Picture: http://smartlabs.lewiston.k12.id.us/Jenifer/WordExcelPaint/Excel/Celebrities/DenzelWashington.bmp

Name: Corporal Nico Tyzxas (AKA Newby)
Age: 25
Position/Status: Corporal in Marine Force Recon, 1st Platoon, 16th Recon
Info: Tyzxas is the newest member of his platoon, the FNG or newby, hence his call-sign that must be kept until the rest of the men deem fit to award him something better. Tyzxas is eager to prove himself to his brother Marines and is learning as much as he can from Gunny Hydill before his first combat mission.
Picture: http://dover.idf.il/NR/rdonlyres/73D192E7-B4BA-415B-A4BB-19B802C4EB41/0/dotz23060522.jpg

Name: Sergeant Timothy Riley (AKA Flatfoot)
Age: 32
Position/Status: Sergeant in Marine Force Recon, 1st Platoon, 16th Recon
Info: Riley is one of the platoon's machine gunners and is a heavy-set yet affable Marine of considerable experience. He is one of the Gunny's favourites but Hydill often laments his friendship with Private Numuz (see below). Riley is considered by the rest of the team to be the next in line for Staff Sergeant and eventually Gunnery Sergeant.
Picture: http://img5.allocine.fr/acmedia/medias/nmedia/18/35/05/83/tearsofthesun_p10.jpg

Name: Private Timothy Numuz (AKA Playboy)
Age: 28
Position/Status: Private in Marine Force Recon, 1st Platoon, 16th Recon
Info: Numuz is the resident ladies man of 1st platoon and his swathy, sleazy outlook on the world, as well as his frequent run-ins with the Shore Patrol, conspire to make him the bane of Gunny Hydill and an eternal 'PFC'. Numuz disdains his critics and basks in his own appeal.
Picture: http://www.sonypictures.com/movies/rent/blog/images/headshot_taye.jpg

Name: Corporal John DeBusie (AKA Evil Genius)
Age:28
Position/Status: Corporal in Marine Force Recon, 1st Platoon, 16th Recon
Info: DeBusie was a former stockbroker until he became bored with the life and decided to join the Marines for some meaning and a bit of adventure. Being a former Economics major at Lusaka University, explains one portion of his call-sign, 'Genius'. The 'Evil' part is a result of his cackling laugh that seems more suited to a cartoon madman.
Picture: http://img5.allocine.fr/acmedia/medias/nmedia/18/35/97/40/18459407.jpg

Name: Staff Sergeant Lee Jildaz (AKA Lucky Lee)
Age: 32
Position/Status: SSgt in Marine Force Recon, 1st Platoon, 16th Recon
Info: Jildaz is one of the platoon's longer serving NCO's and is best friends with Captain Merrick and Sergeant Riley, who he hopes will replace him at some point as he gets promoted. Jildaz carries a huge keychain full of lucky charms he has collected from all over the world. They go with him everywhere, but he claims not to be superstitious or to believe in 'any of that crap' as he puts it.
Picture: http://www.freewebs.com/delta_force_black_hawk_down/2002-05-31-bana.BMP

Name: Corporal Francis Whittaker (AKA Whiskey)
Age: 27
Position/Status: Corporal and Medic in Marine Force Rcon, 1st Platoon, 16th Recon
Info: Whittaker is the platoon's second medic. He was training to become a Nurse Practioner in his civilian life when he was spotted by a Corps recruiter and persuaded to join. His father, a former Navy Corpsman, was pleased but still didn't believe the new system of Marine medics was any way better than the old Corpsman system.
Picture: http://www.tvguide.com/images/pgimg/eamonn-walker1.jpg

UNKNOWNS

Name: Atrum Bestia (The Dark Beast)
Age: N/A
Position/Status: N/A
Info: Atrum Bestia is the moniker applied to a dark figure of sorts that has attacked a number of Malian military units in the northern Savanah's of the Ivory Coast. Some have suggested the beast is a form of gorilla not yet discovered or perhaps a mutated animal of some kind. Use of chemical weaponry by the PAM in the north of the Ivory Coast certainly points to the possibility of mutation.
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The HNS Courage, south of the Ivory Coast

Captain Joseph “Raven” Merrick, CHMC Force Recon, leaned over the rear walkway of the HNS Courage, a Wasp Class LPD of the 6th Heavy Marine Division.

The near-sickly sweet taste of cherry tobacco filled his mouth and nostrils and as he let it slowly puff out of his mouth. The warm smoke stung his eyes slightly as the wind whipped it back behind him and away to nothing. He was nearly finished with his current pipe. A couple more smokes and it would burn through, the tough briar wood wouldn’t last forever.

Eventually the tobacco was gone and just the black carbon and burned leaves were left at the bottom of the small bowl. Merrick turned the pipe upside down over the railing and tapped the bottom gently, letting the charred pieces fall away into the churning foam at the back of the ship, about 30 feet below.

As he turned to walk back inside the ships structure he heard the distinctive high pitched drone of a CV-22 Pavehammer on its final approach. As he made his way to the personnel bays the plane thumped down on the deck, the dull vibrations reaching the grey corridor Merrick was walking through.

It was coming toward the end of the day, people were getting tired and the smell of dinner had most Sailors and Marines making their way toward the mess halls. Merrick squeezed past them in the thin corridors. For him and his platoon the day was just beginning, and it promised to be a very long one.


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On the flight deck of the Courgae the digital grey CV-22 bounced once and then settled, the whine in the cabin immediately began to subside as the engines wound down.

There was only two people inside, one was a Marine officer, the other was Abdul Suleiman, Agent Yellow. The officer, a Major, was still wearing his ‘A’ uniform and carried no baggage, he’d be going back to Hirgizstan City in a few hours.

Abdul had his old Army duffel bag on the floor beneath his feet, his name had long since worn off. On the bench beside him sat a field-op lap-top in its protective bag. He wore the same desert DIGIPAT uniform that the other Marines on the ship were wearing, except his was devoid of a name tape and rank badges.

The rear ramp of the CV-22 didn’t open, instead a deck hand in a green helmet yanked the front cabin door open and poked his head in before folding out the metal steps. The Major and Abdul stood up and moved toward the door.

Outside the warm African wind whipped down the deck and the noise of a pair of F-35’s starting up greeted the two men. The deck hand lead them across the busy black deck toward the island and in through the metal door.

Inside this the Major led the way up to the Command Deck and from there found out the Captain was in his quarters on the next deck down.
The Major led Abdul through the unfamiliar corridors, squeezing past other Marines and Sailors that almost ran through the tight spaces doing their various jobs. The huge boat still rocked a little and the constant noise was unnerving to Abdul. He didn’t like Navy or Marine ships, they were unfamiliar to the former Army soldier. He much preferred to be on dry land, although he would be again in a few hours time.

The Captain was in the middle of his dinner when Abdul arrived with the Major at his quarters. He conversed with the Major, reading over a file he’d been handed and then dismissed him, still holding the file. Abdul was ushered into the Captain’s quarters.

The smell of meat, potatoes and gravy filled the nicely sized and apportioned room. An orderly with a serving towel stood beside the table set out for one, with a steaming plate of half-eaten food sitting in front of one of the four chairs.

The Captain gestured for Abdul to sit in one of them and the orderly poured him a glass of ice water before he’d even sat.

Abdul declined the orderly’s offer of food and simply sipped the water while watching the Captain read through the file and eat his steak and potatoes with one hand.

Eventually he finished reading and returned to eating with both hands. The Captain, George Kilbwena, was a balding Navy man of 52. He’d been a former pilot before commanding a few smaller ships in the Pacific before being given the Courage. Abdul had read the man’s file before even setting foot on the CV-22. Kilbwena was a competent officer and had been pegged for a promising career in naval intelligence whenever he decided to pack in his sea-legs.

Abdul was fine with the silence, it was simply the way most military officers dealt with intelligence agents. ‘Spooks’ were never the flavour of the month in the armed services, even though nearly all of them had been through one or other of them in their lives. Spooks always represented the unknown, the dangerous or the plain annoying. Being welcomed with open arms was not de-rigeur.

When Kilbwena finished he dismissed the orderly and sat back in his chair, eyeing Abdul.

“So…Abdul…it seems even your second name is a luxury they will not afford me, nor anyone else for that matter. You are obviously an important asset, but your dealings will not be with me beyond this meeting.

You will report to Captain Merrick, he will lead the Recon Team that you are going into the Ivory Coast with. I understand you will be coming back to the ship every so often to give full reports, so I have set you up in an Officers cabin. You’ll share it with a sailor whenever you are aboard, limited space on a ship.

So if you’re ready I will take you down to meet with the Marines who’ll be taking you into the combat zone. Anything you need to do beforehand?”
Abdul listened and nodded respectfully as he listened to the Captain. He knew the drew on ships, it wasn’t his first time he had to share a room on a ship. He recalled that sharing a room was usually still referred to as ‘hot-bunking’, although nobody really did that literally anymore, each Sailor, no matter the rank, had at least their own bunk and storage.

Abdul stood, “I’ll be keeping this with me Captain,” Abdul held up the laptop bag, “Just need a couple of things from my duffel, will you arrange for it to be taken to the quarters you’ve arranged?”

Kilbwena nodded and sipped at a can of soda.

Abdul pulled the duffel upright and pulled the drawstring, grabbing the topmost item, his ancient Army issue web-gear. He’d had it since his first day of advanced infantry training, it was a good luck charm of sorts. It was heavily faded but the old-woodland BDU camouflage was still party visible. Nobody was issued the same stuff anymore, all the load bearing equipment , web gear and assault vests were modular designs that could have pieces added or taken off depending on a mission.

The modern stuff was all geared towards Land-Warrior equipment with waterproof pouches for electrical equipment and inner pockets and lines by which to connect the helmet and visor to the computer, usually mounted on a back pocket, behind the hydration pack. Abdul had left the Army just before Land Warrior had become standard issue, learning all the systems had been a steep curve in the NIA. Even so, it was nearly all a waste, he’d only used it one time and for spooks it wasn’t really necessary. To operate with the Marines he’d simply carry an IFF transponder and a radio headset. The rest he didn’t need.

The HNS Courage, south of the Ivory Coast


Captain Merrick found 2nd Squad still at the range making last minute changes to their weapons and ensuring their support weapons were all zeroed and working. 1st Squad was back on the Ready Deck sorting out their equipment.

In the regular Marine units, Merrick would command two platoons and at one time he had done. But in Recon a Captain commanded only one platoon and personally led one of the squads. A Lieutenant led the other platoon usually and 1st Platoon, 16th Recon was no different.

Lieutenant Massoud Jafar was the 2nd Squad leader. Not so long ago he’d been the FNG but the NCO’s, especially the Gunny had helped him get acquainted with everything. Merrick trusted the 26 year old to do his job well, he’d proven himself more than once and he was comfortable to let Jafar simply freelance 2nd Squad for the mission.

Merrick was more mindful of his own squad. Up until a week before they left for the Ivory Coast 1st Squad had been a man short, and instead of transferring in a veteran from 2nd Platoon they’d been given an FNG with his first recon assignment. In Recon no one was really an FNG, they’d all had at least five years service in the Corps with exemplary records all, plus they’d all been through Recon training. But they were FNG’s to all the other guys in the platoon and you couldn’t simply waltz in and have all the kinks worked out in the blink of an eye. It took time, at least a month, and getting a new guy a week before you were due to go into combat was not exactly a pleasing concept.

The Ready Deck was essentially a big equipment house, with everything from guns to abseiling ropes and a large area for troops to assemble and check everything out before they headed down one more level to the Sea Deck.

As Merrick entered the huge room he heard voices from the empty left area, empty except for eight men standing against or near one of the bulkheads, a mass of equipment strewn in front and around them.

Closest to the door was Gunner Sergeant Sumi “ Hydro” Hydill, a 41 year old from Gambia. He was crouching over a pair of radios and was fitting the handsets and getting them ready to go into their waterproof packs. He kept glancing at the FNG, Corporal Nico “Newby” Tyzxas (teez-axe).

Tyzxas was a 25 year old from Crete, a wiry pock-faced youngster with high and tight brown hair and squinty brown eyes behind combat glasses. He looked a bit like a nerd in uniform and sat cross-legged on the deck fitting different pouches to the front of his combat vest.

Standing upright beside Tyzxas with a broad grin on his face was Sergeant Timothy “Flatfoot” Riley, the squad’s machine gunner. Riley was 32 and his pale face was a result of too many cold winters in Idaho and not enough sun. Riley was huge, and had been picked as a Gunner from the moment he stepped off the bus on his first day of training.

Talking to Riley was Private Theodore “Playboy” Numuz. Numuz was a swarthy looking 28 year old from Sudan, the platoon’s resident lady’s man, whose day old stubble and longer than average hair-cut always set him slightly apart and was the bane of Gunny Hydill. He was a Private because he could never follow the rules, or never wanted to, and always ended up his shore leaves with the SP’s. But he was too good a Marine to chuck out of the Corps for a few drunken nights.

Numuz was recounting a story of his escapades to Riley, standing to his right and listening intently with a knowing look on the deck to his left was the team’s sniper, Corporal John “Evil Genius” DeBusie. Evil Genius was so called because he had a Masters in Art History and Economics from the Lusaka University, one of the worlds, and Hirgizstan’s best. At 28 he’d simply got bored being a stockbroker and thought the Marines would be an interesting change of pace. DeBusie had loved every second of his time in the Corps, he was a lifer and one of the best Snipers the STA’s or Recon had ever had.

Rummaging around in his patrol pack was Staff Sergeant Lee “Lucky Lee” Jildaz. Lucky was probably trying to find one of his good luck charms. He didn’t really believe in them, but the 32 year old from Niger collected them and had a large key ring festooned with all of the ‘good luck charms’ he’d collected over time. From rabbits foots to bits of marble, he had everything and it always went into his pack before he put anything else in.

Corporal Francis “Whiskey” Whittaker was fiddling about with his helmet’s visor. Whisky was 27 and was the Team’s medic. Unlike his dad who had been a Corpsman in the Marines, Whisky had joined up long after the Corps had started training their own medics instead of relying on the Navy’s personnel. His dad often argued with him about the pros and cons of the two different systems.

The squad didn’t see Captain Merrick come in at first, but they eventually noticed the sound of his boots on the metal deck and nodded their welcome to him. In the regular Marines the Gunny would have made them all jump up and snap to attention, but in Special Forces such things were usually let go. Gunny Hydill would still do it every now and then, just for badness and to see if the men could still cut it as regular Marines. If they didn’t do it fast enough he’d usually launch into a tirade about tradition and discipline. Such was the way of the Gunny, always keeping the men on their toes.

Merrick had talked to the Gunny about the two radios before going to sort out his own equipment, heaped against the bulkhead in an untidy pile with a packet of tobacco sitting on top. He had just put that and his pipe away when he heard a quick rustle behind him and then an unbelievably loud shout, almost a scream of “ATTENTION ON DECK!”

Merrick spun round and stood up, snapping his neck upright and his head level, looking strait ahead with his hands firmly pressed to his sides, right along the seems of his trousers in fists.

Standing inside the bulkhead door were two men, one was Captain Kilbwena, the other looked like a Marine except he had no unit or name tapes and no insignia on his DIGIPAT. Merrick realised this was the person they were supposed to take with them to the Ivory Coast. He looked like a spook.

Kilbwena gestured with his hands and said, “As you were gentlemen, as you were. Captain Merrick and Gunny Hydill, come forward would you?”

The rest of 1st squad went back to sorting out their equipment as the Gunny and the Captain made their way to Kilbwena and the other man.

“Captain, Gunny, this is Abdul. I have not been told anything else about this man except that name and what he will be doing with you and on my boat. I suggest you arm him and go through your plans with him. Anything you need gentlemen?”

Merrick and Hydill both ‘no-sired’ before the Kilbwena asked, “So, I assume your mission times have not changed?” Both men nodded. “Excellent, then I’ll see you on the Sea Deck in a few hours. Good luck gentlemen.”

Gunny Hydill and Captain Merrick both snapped to attention and fired off a couple of crisp salutes, returned by Kilbwena as he left through the bulkhead door.

The Gunny looked Abdul over with disapproval. He didn’t like taking anyone with them, it was a risk and a bad one at that. He almost snarled at Abdul as he spoke, “So, you ever been in combat before…or do you polish a seat?”

Abdul expected nothing less from a Gunnery Sergeant. They were like CSM’s in the Army, all grizzled vets with a vigorous respect for their service and a hawk-like protectionary instinct for their men. If Abdul was in his position he’d likely react the same way. But he wasn’t going to say that he had been in the Army, depending on the Marine, they could take an even bigger dislike to him.

“I’ve been in a couple of scrapes Gunny. I should be able to handle myself.”

Hydill smirked and half-laughed, “I hope so…” He was muttering under his breath as he walked back toward the rest of the men, most of whom were looking at Abdul from the corners of their eyes.

Merrick was still sizing him up. “So…Abdul…you’ll need a weapon. Any preference?”

“If you got any M4’s that would be great, plus about 180 rounds, a 1911 and three mags, plus some grenades if you have any?”

Merrick nodded at Abdul, he’d just asked for a standard combat load-out, nothing special about that but it suggested he had some training. “I think we still have some M4’s knocking about, that should all be fine. You need Land Warrior?”

Abdul shook his head, “Just a radio headset so I am in your squad’s network and some Night Vision. Plus, an ACOG for my M4, if your armory still have them.”

Merrick nodded, turned and walked toward Gunny Hydill. He explained to him the weapons Abdul wanted and he walked out the door and down the corridor to the armory. Merrick returned to Abdul, “I need to go through the mission with you, we need to go to Ops for that.”

Abdul followed him out the door.

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General Kanu’s HQ, Sassandra, Ivory Coast

General Kanu had been in Sassandra for two weeks, in the same place. This was in the sprawling basement of the state legislature building which was looked out over the highways and low-rise buildings that paralleled the long beach that had once made Sassandra one of the best tourist cities in Brydog.

Once upon a time Sassandra had been the main shipping hub of the country, second only to Abidjan in terms of size, but not turnover. The huge double headed river delta that sat to the east of the city made it one of the prime places for ship-building, imports and exports because goods could be shipped to the interior of the country right away, much of the time on the same boats they entered Sassandra Harbor with. The fact that the city had a huge harbour and a river delta on its western edge meant that the beach on the southern end of the city went completely unspoilt by unsightly industrial shipyards and warehouses. The hugely long white sand, blue water beach had enabled the building of a picturesque coastal highway with its own hotels, resorts and beachfront houses, giving the city a second huge revenue base.

General Timole Isan Kanu remembered the beach very well, his family had been there many times when he was a child and he had taken his wife many times, often stretching his Army salary to the limit to get into the best hotels.

But now the whole place seemed unreal- some people called it a shadow of its former self, but it was so much worse. The war had destroyed most of the larger buildings and the once picturesque city was a mess of rubble and uncontrolled fires. The beach was a no-go area as it was often used by the Malians to sight artillery before walking it into the interior of the city. During the day a haze of smoke seemed to rest of the city and the African heat did it no good, the wind simply wasn’t strong enough to whip it away. Even the one thunderstorm they had experienced in the two weeks General Kanu had been here had only sufficed to clear the pall of smoke for a few hours before the artillery bombardments and aerial bombs had brought it right back.

At night the place was even worse, like a horror story from a nuclear fallout. Fire illuminated what the street-lights no longer could and the inky blackness flickered like a galaxy with the fires and explosions. If one was to venture outside or up to the higher floors of the legislature building then you might be able to see the vast ocean, sometimes lighted by a yellow moon, seemingly hanging low just at the horizon, ready to dip below the waves at any moment.

But rarely did the General go outside or venture up above the 1st basement level. Even if he tried, he doubted his men would let him. They needed him. Even after so much hardship the men still looked at him with some faint flicker of hope issuing forth from the eyes locked into faces covered in blood, grime and the debris of battle.

The Generals HQ was in the 4th basement, what was once the heating, maintenance and storage level of the General State Legislature of Sassandra. In the cities heyday the GSL had been a magnificent building, even it only housed a bunch of dry, mundane lawyers and politicians. They city had built it well. Twenty floors of marble and white stone, with a pyramidial roof that was once copper, but had turned a light green in the elements.

Statues used to stand on each corner of every floor, the building was ornate in every way. Even the inside was well apportioned with wood, marble and golden chandeliers in all of the big, well apportioned rooms.
But like so many things in the Ivory Coast, the war had utterly destroyed this thing of beauty. The statues no longer stood, except in heaps of rubble on the ground below. The white edifice was pock-marked with bullet and artillery holes, none of the windows had a single piece of glass in. Inside the place had been gutted and wrecked by incoming fire and the necessity of barricading by the soldiers inside. Above the second floor was out of bounds for everyone now due to shelling.

The building was shelled every day, sometimes for all the hours in a day, sometimes for only a few. It was a testament to its construction that it had not yet fallen in on itself, although most of the roof had been destroyed early on.

The troops occupying the building were no particular unit in no particular order. The only unit that seemed to have more than twenty soldier in it was the General’s Staff, identifiable by red epaulletes. The rest of the soldiers were the remnants of the once 400,000 strong Ivorian Army. At best the building had perhaps 1000 soldiers in it, but no one had really bothered to count. A few more Airborne troops had taken up positions directly in front of the GSL in the remains of several buildings and had been using mortars and AT rockets to staunch the Malian onslaught.

Apart from the soldiers in the GSL there was the remnants of three Armored Cavalry Divisions occupying underground car parks to the west and east flanks. They had between them around 25 tanks and other vehicles. The Cavalry had gotten used to fighting at night against overwhelming odds and they mostly used hit and run tactics by racing out of their underground car parks in the dead of night, shooting off a few rounds and retreating to defend against counter-attacks. This helped relieve pressure on the GSL.

Four roaming bands of special forces, mostly ‘The Weeds’ and Army Commando’s, were also operating in the city, but they had little contact with anyone but General Kanu.

He was the centrepiece of the drama now, no matter what anyone said. As the leader of the Ivory Coast all eyes looked to him to do something. He himself was drowning, and was looking to GATO to save him and his country.


General Kanu had been awake for the past 56 hours. He was getting very used to not sleeping now. In the past month he had gotten perhaps 48 hours of real sleep. His body screamed at him for succour and he knew, at his age, that he couldn’t go on forever. If things continued he would die soon, but even sooner if he gave up.

As ever the General was sitting in a moth-eaten easy-chair that was once used, probably, by the janitors who had once been employed in the building. His men had found it in another room a few doors down from the one he was in and insisted he take it. Kanu was by far the oldest of the military commanders.

He sat in one of the larger storage rooms on the 4th Basement level. Inside it where six radios, map boards and a couple of computers that were no longer of any use. They also had a TV which had a feed from a Hirgizstanian satellite, allowing them to keep track of the news in the outside world. A Hirgizstanian agent of some description, called Agent Yellow, or ‘Abdul’ had given it to him some months ago. It was a lifeline that they really couldn’t do without. At night many of the soldiers not on watch or deployed would crowd into the small room and watch the news reports on the Hirgizstanian News Channel. They had cheered and hugged each other when the Hirgizstanians had finally voted to intervene with GATO.

They had watched with much anticipation at the Johannesburg Press Conference when the Fuhrer and President Baruti had outlined their plans for intervention.

The men had started a count-down timer based on the ultimatum given to Ugo by the Fuhrer, but the 48 hours had run out at midnight, that was 18 hours ago and still nothing had happened. His men were muttering, praying or simply hoping out loud that something would happen.

The ultimatum had brought about the fiercest days of fighting that General Kanu could remember, the artillery had not stopped for less than 2 minutes since the end of the press conference and the Malians were apparently bringing in hundreds more troops and tanks, at least that’s what the Special Forces had been saying.

Ugo’s plan was plain for all to see, he wanted to extinguish the final fires of resistance in the Ivory Coast before the end of the ultimatum. But he had failed, and he was still trying to destroy the Ivorian resistance.

The old General got off the chair and stretched, wandering closer to one of the radar sets and leaning close by the operator, listening to the chatter that seemed to be filled with the sounds of bullets and explosions as well as voices.

He turned when he heard someone coming down the concrete steps just across the corridor. A few seconds later Lt. General Someke Bulkino entered the room.

Bulkino was the commander of the Airborne troops in the city, he himself was 52 and wore combats that were completely covered in grime, mud and dark, dry blood. His rifle was slung haphazardly across his back and blood dripped heavily out of the collar of his right arm. A horrible, ragged wound had been torn in his left shoulder and shiny blood coated the top left of his uniform.

His eyes were deep and seemed to convey only a sense of complete loss. There was utterly nothing there but despair and horror. The brown eyes seemed fixed on General Kanu, peering out through blood and dirt.

He spoke in a raspy, uneven tone that conveyed pain beyond measure. “All my men…gone…totally gone. Only…only me left. It is over.”

He straightened himself up as best he could, brought his heels together and saluted General Kanu as crisply as he could. “General Kanu, it has been an honor to serve my country and to serve you. Goodbye General.”

Before General Kanu had realised what was going on, Bulkino had removed his M-9 pistol and placed it quickly under his chin. Kanu lunged forward, shouting ‘no’ as loud as he could. But it was far too late. Bulkino pulled the trigger and collapsed backward as General Kanu fell to the floor after him.

He saw Bulkino’s body sprawled out in front of him as his men lifted him off the ground. Blood squirted from the head wound with the dying beats of the man’s heart. The squirts of blood got less and less until they stopped and it simply seeped out of its own accord. His lifeless hands still clutched the pistol.

The radio operators began removing the body as quickly as they could, their boots making sole marks in the dead mans blood as they hefted his body out of the room.
As they did so his pistol clattered to the ground. General Kanu picked it up. He examined it carefully before dropping it as he dropped the thought of suicide from his head. He wouldn’t do it. He just wouldn’t. But then again…

He collapsed back into the chair and offered up a short prayer. It consisted of one word, “Hurry.”

1. Nkosana
Algeria somewhere outside of Tamanrassest

The trip was unexpected but nevertheless welcomed. It was the simple outcome of a world perpetually in chaos. It mattered little what kind of power you controlled, or the length of your regime. All empires die and new ones are reborn, it was the life-cycle of the planet. The world was fully aware of the problems that North Germania faced internal strife and a war with yet another faction of Russia. Russia itself was a different story, the new graveyard of empires though usually their own. Regardless, it was to the dismay of much of the world when a full-scale collapse began to disrupt much the German empire. The empire of North Germania thus presented itself as a two faced nation. To the public, it was just another totalitarian dictatorship powered by an excessively and economically irrelevant military. Yet when faced with what in comparison were minor obstacles they caved in with little fight. It was thus apparent that this totalitarian state had effectively exhausted its creditability and in a brief lapse of general human behavior intelligence beat out ignorance. The people of Europe had for too long lived under a tyrant. It had become a lazy empire with no visible signs of forward movement. The ironic part of it all was that within the next few years the continent will have returned to its former self. True, that is not under the same name but lucky for the people of Europe, Germany’s allies will be quick to claim the land for themselves in order to return ‘stability’ to the region. The punch line is the fact that disguised or not, all of German’s allies are equally oppressive totalitarian states. The people of Europe, to their own fault, will fall again into the quagmire of ignorance and all the bloodshed that has fallen and will continue to fall will be in vain. Such is the way of the world.

As is always the case one man’s misery is another man’s glory. It is within that statement that we develop two sides to every story, the good and the bad. It is an accepted belief, in most cases mind you; that the bad guy is usually the one that benefits from another’s suffering. Nkosana hoped to be that beneficiary. With the fall of Germany came a loosened grip on its colonies, Algeria being a very large one at that. Algeria itself was erupting with internal turmoil. The term erupting refers to the process to which the event erupts. It was in the process of becoming a problem for Germany, it hadn’t as of yet. The incredibly high Arab population that made up clearly the majority of people within Algeria sympathized with their rebellions cousins in Spain and Portugal. The difference between Algerians and Europeans was that Germany’s grip was much less and loyalty was not nearly on the same level as say someone from Germany. Had the government held on to power just a little longer they would have found themselves fighting on a new front. With the sudden collapse it left a power void in Algeria. German troops stationed in the area abandoned troops and headed home and with this came high grade equipment. On the other side Algeria was woefully unprepared for such a sudden change in events and found itself without a government and nobody to take the lead. Quickly the situation degenerated into faction wars, though small. The conflicts weren’t actually wars but minor skirmishes not large enough to alert neighboring countries. The potential, however, was there. Nkosana’s Somalia contacts were reporting an increase in arms trafficking tenfold, most of which heading to factions in Algeria and small guerrilla groups in Europe. With tensions flaring and arms pouring into the country, not to mention the availability of former German equipment and rogue generals, the area was ripe with the possibility of bloodshed. Algeria itself lay ripe for the taking.

With really no contacts within the nation itself and with no forces to spare he had to think outside the box. First on his mind was getting the German equipment. As of now he really had nothing to stand up to the power of the GATO forces on any front. His largest concern, of course, was airpower. In a one on one encounter there was nothing in his arsenal that could statistically come out victorious. This mismatch could be most negated on the ground where things like landmines and RPG’s could even the odds, but in the air the disadvantage was simply too great. If he could secure a few squadrons from German airfields located in Algeria then he would have the proverbial ace up his sleeve.

The HNS Courage, south of the Ivory Coast

Abdul listened quietly and memorised everything Merrick was saying. His plan was excellent, simple and easy to follow. Something that every military plan should be.

They would be using two squads, Merrick would lead one and a Liutenant in his platoon would lead the other. Two fast landing boats (FLB’s) would get them from the ship to the beach in a few minutes if the weather stayed good. They would go in at night, and would watch a live UAV feed of the beach LZ the whole way to ensure nobody had suddenly decided to give for a late night dip.

At the beach, 2nd Squad would set up in cover in the dunes in front of the highway, setting up a TOW Missile launcher and a .50cal in case the Malians broke the Ivorian flanks. They needed to keep an escape route open.

1st Squad would enter the town and wait for the go-ahead from the Courage. It would be broadcasting across all known Ivorian channels to alert them of the prescence of the Marines, and to send out soldier to take them to General Kanu. This had to be done to avoid friendly fire by the Ivorians. Their radio frequencies were not secure, so they would have to move quick, lest the Malians try something if they heard the broadcast.

Once contact with Kanu was established they could set up a secure link with their own radio between Kanu’s HQ and the Courage. 2nd Squad would come to 1st Squad and then the assault could begin as soon as General Kanu could explain his position.

The mission was simply to get in, make contact and get things rolling, preferably before dawn. A massive naval, air and marine assault could only take place when the Ivorian positions were confirmed by General Kanu.

Abdul just hoped the old man was still alive.
Walking back to the equipment bay Merrick noticed the strange assault vest that Abdul was wearing. He had last seen one in an Army surplus store. He was going to ask Abdul where he got it, but thought better of it. If he didn’t know how to handle himself, Merrick didn’t really want to know- his main concern had to remain his men and his mission. If some spook got his head blown off for being an idiot, what did it matter to him? If he put his men at risk he’d take care of him personally.


At midnight the two squads were ready and had already run through the plan once more in operations. All of the men were now gathered around a number of large screens showing real time satellite footage of the landing zone and surrounding areas.

The grey thermal image showed the beach as warmer than the surrounding four lane highway and bombed out buildings beyond. It glowed a bright, almost white, color, compared the dark grey/black of the buildings. The UAV was a small naval model that looked like a mini-helicopter called Fire-Scout III that was being controlled by an operator at the next station beside the large viewing screens.

The picture lingered for a time over the beach, zooming in and out, ensuring that nobody was moving around in the area. The same place had been watched as much as possible over the previous forty-eight hours and only three vehicles has passed close-by, all Ivorian military jeeps travelling extremely fast between flanks.

The camera zoomed out from the beach and jerked slightly as the UAV was moved onto a different course. The General State Legislature Building now came into view. It was the largest building in the area, and a miracle it was still standing. Only a few others nearby were still intact, the rest had been pulverized by Malian artillery and air strikes.

The screen seemed to pulse with light every few seconds as artillery went off close to where the camera was pointing. The UAV eventually came around so it was facing the GSL from the west side and the battle raging below and around it was the fiercest thing any of the Marines or Sailors in the room had ever seen.

The sheer volume of incoming and outgoing fire was almost mesmerizing as tracers blazed bright and small black/grey figures darted between buildings.

The Malians had closed the gap on the building, they were now in the ruins of another large building directly in front of the front steps of the GSL and were firing into the courtyard below them that was dotted with barricades, craters and what appeared to be bodies, crew served weapon and vehicles.

Fire from the barricades was fierce and the huge bright tracers of 50.cal weaponry issued forth from the entrance, ground and first floors of the GSL, with the bright trails of missile being exchanged between the two forces, offering up huge explosions on both sides.

The battle was entirely noiseless over the camera and it was fairly difficult to tell what was going on. However, as the UAV moved to a point looking at the diagonal of the front-most Malian units they could see them pressing forward the attack through the rubble only to take extreme amounts of defensive fire and retreat.

The camera eventually panned downward to look at the streets below and out westward. There was more fighting going on around a kilometre away from the GSL. Ivorian tanks, mostly old model Leopards and M60’s, were firing from the cover of ruined buildings at all sides of the Malian advance. The crews seemed to know what they were doing, the hulking metal beasts would fire a round or two and then charge to another position as fast as they could before doing it again.

Smaller armoured vehicles raced in between the streets, firing AT missiles at the Malian tanks arranged in front of them or fire at the low-flying attack helicopters that buzzed in every now and again.

But as suddenly as the Ivorian tanks and vehicles appeared they seemed to disappear as one was suddenly taken out by a massive explosion. It was an air attack, only an air launched missile could cause such devastation. All the Ivorian vehicles seemed to race as fast as possible through the streets toward what appeared to be another ruin before disappearing below it, into one of several underground car parks. The Malians had still not worked out what the Ivorians were doing, but they would soon enough and then nothing could help the Ivorians.

The GSL seemed to rely on the tanks and armor to relieve some of the pressure on them and if they were taken away then it would only be a matter of time, perhaps mere hours, before General Kanu was at the mercy of Ugo.

Captain Merrick turned away from the screen and looked at his watch. In two hours he and his men would be going in. He took one final look at the screen and prayed to God that the Ivorians could hold on for just that little bit longer.

The United States and Hirgizstan had their forces too tied up in their new African campaign to bother with Algeria. Algeria proved to be a diamond in the rough, neglected by seemingly everyone. When the German collapse was made official its allies began what they considered a noble stabilization campaign, but was actually just a façade for their imperialistic hopes. One by one the individual nations that comprised the German empire began to fall to allies and enemies alike, each claiming their piece of the European pie. Algeria, however, avoided this land grab. Perhaps racism played a role, nations not wanting to annex an African nation into their kingdoms or perhaps they recognized the turmoil that the country was about to go through and wanted no parts in a lengthy battle of attrition. Whatever the reason Algeria was left to its own undoing and would most likely remain in that state for a long period of time.

Nkosana, however, was not going to let the fate of Algeria go unchallenged. Using his notorious connections with organized crime lords in Somalia he arranged for a meeting with an up and coming warlord in Algeria. He arrived at a small encampment around Tamanrasset. Tamanrasset was hardly anything worth looking at. The surrounding land was flat, rocky, and arid or rocky and arid. It was hardly habitable, and Nkosana was surprised that anyone could even live out there let alone build a small town. Town was a generous term as village was even to forgiving. It comprised of a few small houses, which were nothing more than rock and animal skin, one rocky road, and a few buildings that comprised of a bar and a another building that served as about every other service or facility that was needed. The town had long since been abandoned, has what buildings remained were in terrible condition. The elements had slowly taken their toll and erosion and decay were clearly evident. A few miles out of this small abode was a surprisingly well maintained and large mining facility. Clearly built by the Germans it was once used to mine the large rock structures that surrounded the area. For one reason or another it was closed down and the town had consequently died with it. Now, however, it housed the base camp for the young warlord Rutendo Kwaku Sithembile. His small group of men had resurrected the bar and spent most their time in a drunken stupor while the houses were improved to make somewhat decent shelters. The other building was used as Rutendo’s headquarters but most of the men spent the nights either there or past out on the floor of the bar. The mining facility was a makeshift armory which housed an assortment of small arms and a few vehicles but nothing more.

Nkosana waited for his meeting at the bar. The building was about two stories high and constructed of clay and rock. The constant wind that swept through the stony valley had eroded any color it might have once had and what remained was a dusty sand colored structure. The bar stood a few feet underneath the building with a few crumbling stools lining its customer side. The building and bar were open air and a few arches made up the west side of the building. Dust seemed to be everywhere even inside what little alcohol was there. The bottles were all sand encrusted and faded from their original bottled color. As he sat at one of the stools an obviously drunk rebel stood from behind the bar startling Nkosana. Obviously the man had passed out where he stood and only now awoke. Seeing someone at the bar he made a comical effort to act professional. Nkosana kept a close eye on him as he incoherently offered him a beverage. The man’s breath stank with vomit and his clothes smelled of urine. He politely declined and watched as the man stumbled away.

‘This is certainly not what I expected,’ he thought to himself as he regretted coming here. As he waited rather impatiently Rutendo, in full military dress, took a seat beside him. Rutendo was in his early twenties, perhaps 25. He was your average height but extremely well built. His face was tough, worn by the treacherous Algerian terrain and he had the look of an educated man. It was the first time Nkosana had been impressed since entering the country.

Rutendo did not waste any time, “I have heard about you. Why have you come here today?”

Sassandra, Ivory Coast- 0212 Hours

The boats made a kind of hissing sound with their carbon fibre hulls against the fine sand as the Marines dragged them quickly up the beach and into the dunes.

Merrick’s 1st Squad had everything they needed on their persons and immediately threw their digital camo tarpaulin over their boat and set off across the dunes toward the silent black top highway. 2nd Squad had to lift a TOW, four Stingers and a 50.cal ACCSW (Advanced Common Close Support Weapon) out of their boat and get them into position just to the side of the highway.

Abdul was spread out in the left side of a ‘V’ formation as 1st squad made its way across and down the dunes to the black-top. He was wearing the superb black and white night vision and could see perfectly. He kept the M4 up in the shoulder like the other Marines held their weapons. The old ACOG scope was covered in faded green camo paint and the lens was slightly dull, but it would do nonetheless. He listened in on his radio as Merrick talked to them. He was at the front of the ‘V’ with the Gunny to his right.

“Ok, all stop.” Merrick put up his hand in a fist but everyone had already heard the order. They were crouched behind a large dune overlooking the four lane highway. Pieces of rubbish were gently swaying along the sandy concrete in the breeze that came in off the sea. On the Marines visors a yellow marker appeared in a ruined house on the other side of the highway, with ‘RP’ beside it and a range in metres. Merrick spoke again, “Flatfoot, Playboy- get across to the RP and check it out. Signal us when your done and we’ll be over. Get to it.”

From the extreme left and right of the ‘V’, Riley and Numuz, crouched low with weapons up, started forward and burst down the dunes at a run, sprinting across the highway and disappearing through the front gates of the house. Each man’s visor now had Riley and Numuz’ marker positioned above the RP. This could be turned off but it was better turned on when soldiers were out of sight.

A minute or two of silence passed until Riley’s voice came over the radio, “All is clear Raven. Bring em’ in.”

“Copy Flatfoot, wait out. Lets move people. Ears and eyes open, Whiskey, Newby- get across first. After ten seconds I want Evil Genius and Lucky Lee across. Myself, Gunny and Abdul will follow. Go, go, go.”

It took a couple more minutes before all of the team were safely inside the charred remains of a large beach-house. As they had been coming in 2nd Squad had reported being set up and ready.

So now everything was set. It was up to the communications boys to do their job and up to Merrick and his men to wait.


Operations Room, The HNS Courage, South of the Ivory Coast- 0225 Hours

Another Fire Scout III was up in the air and hovering high above the beach at Sassandra. Markers circling the 1st and 2nd Squads of Captain Merrick’s platoon were highlighted on the viewing screens in the Ops room.

Captain Kilbwena nodded after Merrick reported that he was in position. Now came the tricky part of the operation.

At 0630, a mere four hours from now, a massive Marine, Air and Naval Assault would begin in and around Sassandra. It was vital that this be co-ordinated with whatever units of the Ivorian military were still alive in the country. Merrick had to establish a secure link with General Kanu, but his squad couldn’t just walk up to the front door and announce their prescence. Nobody knew for sure where the General was or even if he was still alive.

Surveillance suggested the GSL building was probably the main Ivorian position, but no-one could confirm that. The communications people now had the task of broadcasting to the Ivorians un-securely to get their attention and alert them to the prescence of friendly forces that they would need to guide to General Kanu’s position. Nobody was even sure whether this was feasible or not. If Merrick couldn’t establish contact with General Kanu and the Ivorians then the assault risked killing them as well as the Malians, which would be a tragic start to the GATO campaign. And to loose the Ivorian leader would simply be the icing on that giant cake of shit.

Kilbwena sighed, the problem was large. He gave a nod to the comms people and they began their broadcast. He prayed the Ivorians were listening…or that there simply be some Ivorians left to hear.


General Kanu’s HQ, Sassandra, Ivory Coast- 0235 Hours

So far the losses of the night had been on their side. One helicopter, four tanks and at least two companies of Malians had been killed or destroyed. They had forced them to retreat four separate times. But it still came at a high price, with 24 men dead, 21 wounded and one more Leopard tank destroyed.

General Kanu had been listening to the reports over the radios. They reports were short and succinct, usually partly or fully in military code as the frequencies were being listened to by the Malians, that was for sure. They had been doing it the whole war.

The room General Kanu and his radio operators were in reverberated heavily with every explosion above ground. He sometimes found himself wishing the roof would just give way and take him quickly but it never seemed to happen.

Everytime concrete dust was rattled loose he turned his head down to the floor to avoid it getting in his eyes, yet his eyes were greeted with the dried blood stains left on the floor by Lt. General Bulkino. He couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes- the blood stains made everything real and gave it perspective. He couldn’t let his men down anymore. Bulkino had cracked, but nobody could blame him for it. General Kanu wouldn’t…he couldn’t…but if he did?

The old General shook his head. One of his radio operators turned away from his station and yanked off his headset. The young man’s eyes looked dead and the bags under them had turned black. His cheeks sagged and he had an unhealthy pallor about him. But as he looked at the others, he saw they all did. Nerves and adrenaline…the sheer will to survive was the only thing that kept them on their feet, kept them going.

The young man looked up desperately at the General, “Sir…we’ll need a miracle to survive this. Perhaps you…y’know…could get out before they overrun us. There’s bound to be some more of our troo-.” General Kanu put up his hand for silence.

“I’m praying for that miracle son, but I won’t leave you. Not now, not ever. Now you buck yourself up, keep on that radio. Pray if your so inclined, two people praying for one miracle is better than none. Ok, son?”

The young man nodded and rubbed his face vigorously before putting his headphones back on.

From another radio set on the other side of the room an older Special Forces commo had turned around in his seat with a strange look on his face. The puzzlement eventually broadened into a smile. General Kanu wondered what the man was up to when he yanked down his earphones. “That miracle you were talking about…turns out someone up there was listening.”

He clicked a button on the radio console behind him and a voice issued forth from the small speakers on the set. “-ease respond… I say again, this is the Hirgizstanian Navy searching for Ivorian units in Sassandra, if you can hear this please respond….I say again…”

The General simply thanked God while the other radio men in the room laughed and breathed massive sighs of relief, shaking each others hands. They were going to make it…maybe.

General Kanu was more sceptical. If they could hear the broadcast, so could the Malians.

The General walked over behind the SF Commo and took a spare set of earphones and clicked the mic on interrupting the message. “Hirgizstanian Navy…this is General Kanu, we acknowledge.”

There was a slight pause on the line for a no less than a minute. “General, this is Captain Kilbwena of the Hirgizstanian Navy. Please listen very carefully. These lines are not secure. First, can you confirm your position is the General State Legislature building?”

“That is affirmative Captain.”

“Roger that General. Second, we have some troops south of your position. They have to make contact with you before we can do anything. Can you send some men south of you?”

The General’s brow furrowed. He wasn’t sure what they were up to, but he had no choice but to follow their instructions.

“Yes…but-”

“Just trust us General. Send them south of you, our men will find them. Tell your men to check their fire in case. Best get off this line. Good luck General…out.”

The General put down the headphones and turned to the other radio operators in the room. “Get me four volunteers.”

Nkosana was glad, at least, for the direct nature of the conversation. He did not want to spend any more time in this country then he needed. He took a brief glance over his shoulder, observing the vastness of the terrain behind him. A light wind had picked up in the west and a small whirlwind of dust and debris floated around them. The sun, though high in the afternoon sky, was very comfortable and not at all scalding. He rubbed his hand to his to chin feeling the grime and filth that the resulting wind had left behind.

“What of this German collapse,” he said trying to understand the man next to him.

“Inevitable,” was the reply and nothing more.

“Inevitable,” he questioned making a gesture around him, “it hardly seems as if you were prepared.”

Rutendo took offense to that statement as evidence to the grimace that grew on his face. He too looked around and took note of a few of his men stumbling along, others firing at an animal scurrying about.

“What is it you want?” he said with some frustration under his voice.

Nkosana paused for a moment debating whether to move forward with his plan or not. “I want you to help me.”

He took another pause waiting for Rutendo’s reply but received nothing. Rutendo was looking at something on the other side of the bar, hardly listening as it would seem. Deider took no notice and continued.

“Algeria was ill-prepared to be leaderless. The resulting power void has left the country split between numerous factions, your…small faction among those.”

Rutendo had apparently found what he was looking for and was no longer interested in it. His attention was now in firm control by Deider.

“I want Algeria.”

“I want Algeria,” replied Rutendo suddenly becoming hostile. His intelligence Nkosana thought he had was quickly diminishing.

“And you’ll have Algeria,” quickly countered Nkosana, “you’ll have it, if you cooperate. I have the equipment and money to fund your campaign into Algeria. What I don’t have, and why I need you, are men to lead this expedition.”

Rutendo gesticulated this for a moment in silence finally speaking, “I can get men.”

“Good,” replied Nkosana. He smiled a little bit at the quick change in demeanor in his new friend.

Sassandra, Ivory Coast 0245 Hours

Captain Merrick had his men positioned around the house looking out the front, sides and back. Nothing was happening on this side of the town, but the sound of battle could be heard distinctly, and it sounded like hell.
Merrick was sitting beside the Gunny in what had probably once been the dining room of the house, looking out onto the front drive-way. The couple of scrawny palm trees, scarred by fire, swayed gently in the sea breeze.

“Raven’s Nest this is Blue Bird, please acknowledge.”

‘Blue Bird’ was the code-name of the HNS Courage. Gunny Hydill sat a little straighter at the radio message, as did Merrick who replied, “Blue Bird, you have Raven’s Nest- go ahead.”

“Raven’s Nest, the message has been delivered. Check your UAV feed- we show four figures emerging from the GSL building. They are now moving south toward you. They are two streets west of you, and around a click and a half north. Check in when you make contact. Also- be advised- there are helicopters in the area. Repeat- there are enemy helicopters in the area.”

“Copy all Blue Bird. Raven’s Nest out.”

Merrick nodded to the Gunny before swapping to his squads channel.
“Ok guys, game time. I want everyone to keep a UAV feed downsized on his visor, we check it every time we stop. Playboy, your on point. Abdul, your with me. Lets move.”

As the squad was moving out of the house, in teams of two following Playboy, 2nd Squad came over the net, it was Liutenant Jafar’s voice. “Raven- be advised, we have enemy prescene on eastern flank. Looks like they are fighting a running battle with the Ivorians. I reckon they were coming to try and get us. We’re hidden from few of the road so we’ll stay put. I’ll keep you updated. 2nd Squad out.”

The first street Merrick and his team bounded across was covered with rubble and the hulks of burned out cars, as well as a few impact craters full of water that rippled with the impact of nearby artillery.

As they got into cover between their target street they could see on their visors from the UAV that the squad of four Ivorians were only half a kilometre north on the next street. They were using cover and going forward as fast as they dared.

“Playboy, get into cover near the corner, when they pass you a metre or so, call out to them. You got it?” Numuz acknowledged. “Everyone else, pick one of the four as a target, if they aren’t Ivorians or they start panic shooting, take them down on my orders.”

As Merrick finished talking the black-grey shape of Playboy darted out from the wall and found a bunker next to a car shell. He crouched down beside the rear panel as the rest of the squad spread out.

Abdul was behind a discarded washing machine with the Gunny to his right and Merrick lying prone a few metres to his left. He saw movement in the street intersection ahead as a lone figure darted across the road and knelt into cover behind a pile of rubble.
Abdul picked the shadowy figure out in his ACOG and followed his movement as he darted forward again.

Playboy could see them closer, the first two were past him, the other two were level. One passed just on the other side of the car. Without moving he spoke loud, clear and quickly. “Hirgizstanian Marines- don’t move.”

The four men went rigid. Abdul’s finger closed on the trigger as he sighted into his targets chest. He breathed slowly, ready to fire on the half-breath.

Playboy waited, not nervous and not excited- just alert, with his gun up and ready to fire if he had to. But he breathed a huge sigh of relief as one of the four figures replied. “Thank Christ you’re here. We're Ivorian Army, where are you?”

The four soldiers were moving about, trying to see where the Marines were. It didn’t help that only two of them had night vision. Merrick spoke to Numuz, “Tell them to stay put, we’ll come to them.”

2 Years Ago

Ash Shariqah, Saudi Arabia- Near King Khalid Military City

“All Callsigns, this is Blue Crown. You are approaching IP’s, please report.”

“Arrow Flight to Blue Crown, still climbing to release point, over.”

“Guardian Flight to Blue Crown, ECM’s engaged…now. Heading into our holding pattern, over.”

“Wolf Flight to Blue Crown, IP crossed. Heading to target, over.”

“Blue Crown copies all. Good luck Wolf flight. Arrow Flight, fire when ready. Blue Crown Out.”

“Arrow Flight to all units, HARM’s away. Time to target is 2 minutes and 45 seconds. Arrow out.”

“Wolf Flight copies Arrow, thanks for the help. Wolf Lead to Wolf Flight, target is 4 minutes out. Prepare to engage. Low and fast, pick em’ off like we practised.”

Major Naboth ‘Reaper’ Yefet, Wolf 1-1, increased the throttle in the spacious Thunderbolt cockpit, pushing the bulky, ugly plane to its maximum thrust. Unlike the supersonic jets he had flown in the past, the venerable Warthog wasn’t all that fast. It was not a ‘fighter jocks’ plane, it was more a ‘thinking man’s’ plane as he called it. The Warthog required nerves of steel, a head for ground based strategy and much of the time, a healthy dose of patience. Unlike the supersonic jets the Warthog simply got there when it got there, it didn’t hurry or drag people back, it just plodded along-steady and confident.
Reaper’s first assignment had been with the F-4SX Phantom Blackstar, a mean looking X Project aircraft based on the Phanton airframe. However, his affair with the Warthog had started the day he saw one in a training op. His F-4 flight had been up at 15,000 feet and had ‘killed’ a couple of tanks with missiles. But there had been no thrill in it at all, just point and shoot, then forget about it. Even ‘dogfighting’ had become boring as stand-off munitions meant you rarely got up close and personal, the way he thought they would when he joined up. They trained like that every now and then, but in actual combat it would probably never happen.

But his flight had stayed around, eventually coming down to 8000ft to watch the A-10’s punch a hole through the ‘enemy’ defenses on the ground. Unlike the F-4, the Phantom had no aesthetic beauty, it was ugly and completely un-aerodynamic. However, the huge grey planes had been so laden with missiles and bombs it was a wonder they could get off the ground. They carried way more than the F-4. At about 5000ft the A-10’s fired off their missiles, but unlike jets they didn’t break formation to return to base or anything of the sort. They pressed on after the missile trails, swooping in low and dropping iron bombs over their targets.

But even then they weren’t quite done, in they swooped again, lower this time, below 50ft…firing that menacing 30mm Cannon that seemed to tear a hole in the air itself…even below 25ft they were still firing before pulling up as their targets exploded in balls of flame. In they swooped again until they ran out of ammo, ‘died’ or killed all their targets. That was the way to fly!

So here he was, in his very own A-10, about to do what he’d seen them do all those years ago.

King Khalid Military City was the target, a strange octagon shaped complex that used to house the bulk of the Elephantum military machine. Since the collapse of that country the terrorists that had pervaded the country were using the base to conduct their operations in Ash Shariqah. They were utilising the tanks, vehicles and artillery pieces that had been abandoned by the Elephantum Army. Cruise Missile strikes, along with SOF operations had put paid to the SAM and AA capabilities, so now it was the sizeable contingent of tanks that was for the chop. Once they were gone, the 15th Army could get moving and the Cottish military wouldn’t have to worry about attacks on their flanks.

Wolf Flight was composed of five A-10 III’s. Out in front of the arrow shaped formation was Reaper. At 3000ft and 10 miles from the target zone, the FLIR in the cockpit beeped on and a green image of a tank was clearly visible. Over the radio his wingman and the other pilots confirmed they each had targets.

Reaper took one last look at the picture of his wife. She was five months pregnant and thought she looked like a rhino, but he really could see that she was glowing. He kept the small picture despite her protestations that it was awful and had it wedged between a couple of buttons above the FLIR screen. He stared at it for a few seconds, said a quick prayer and armed his missiles.

“Reaper had missiles armed. Lock on…Fox 1.”

A Maverick AGM-165W screamed off the wing hardpoint and dropped down in front of his aircraft All he could do now was watch the FLIR patiently. And sure enough the missile crossed the screen and impacted the tank right between the crosshairs pinned on the tanks image. The screen went blank for a couple of seconds as the FLIR adjusted to show a huge fireball, followed by the fire-work-esque display of ammunition exploding from the tanks hull like roman candles.

“Reaper one, this is Blue Crown- that’s a kill. Go get em’ Wolf Flight.”

Without any prompting the other five A-10’s fired their first missiles before locking up their next targets and firing again until all five of the big planes had loosed all of their eight missiles, forty in all.

King Khalid military city was now in view beneath the aircraft, including the oily black smoke rising directly upward from their kills. It was a great sight. But the fight wasn’t over. Each A-10 had three Mk.91 Anti-Tank Cluster Bombs.

Wolf Flight dropped to 2000ft now and levelled off, pushing up the throttles to max and keeping an eye on the HUD display that now showed the lines of the virtual horizon and in between these was a single green line with a circle at the bottom that showed where the cluster bombs would land if released.

About two kilometres out the five A-10’s pulled sharply up, dropping all three of their bombs in quick, one second intervals as the planes sped up into the sky. Reaper heard the release confirmations in his helmet and replied over the net, “Wolf Lead to Blue Crown, all primary ordinance is expended for Wolf Flight. Commencing secondary bombardment, out.”

“Blue Crown copies Wolf Flight, good hunting.”

“Wolf Lead to Wolf Flight, break formation and pick your targets. Tallyho!”

Reaper himself didn’t break, his FLIR had already chosen a target, an armed IFV, that was just in front of him and slightly to the left. He throttled down the big aircraft to a steady 400 knots and banked the nose toward the ground, closing fast on the target. The smoke rising all around the military base made sight acquisition hard, but he concentrated on the FLIR image and kept an eye on the virtual horizon. The 30mm cannon was the selected weapon.

A couple of seconds of a gradual dive and the FLIR beeped to tell him the gun was in range. The crosshairs on the FLIR were point at the hull rear as he depressed the gun trigger on the stick.

A roar like that of a male lion erupted from the aircraft as the huge bullets erupted from the gun. He held the button down for only a second, and watched as they impacted like mini-bombs all over the IFV that exploded into flames a second or two later.

He clicked another button on the stick to mark the target as ‘destroyed’, that would then be relayed to the Battlefield Network to tell other planes it was useless trying to ‘kill’ that particular target.

After killing the IFV Reaper was past the target area and began to head out of the combat zone, so he throttled up and inclined the big plane, pulling a slow loop and flipping over to come back for more.

He aimed the plane for the large parade ground that seemed to shimmer in the sun. The terrorists had been using it as a rally area for their vehicles, now it was filled with smoking wrecks and vehicles and men desperately trying to get to cover. He listened on the net as his fellow pilots called off their positions and hits.

He throttled back and let the FLIR pick up another target, this time a tank slowly emerging into the parade ground from one of the many streets on the base. He got lower and closer, waiting for the systems to tell him when the optimum time to fire would be. He watched the tank lurch out from the street and watched the crewman firing the .50cal wildly into the air. It wouldn’t scratch an A-10, not that he could aim it properly anyway.

Reaper was low now, just 100ft off the deck, speeding in toward the target. He heard the tone and was just about to fire when another alarm kicked off in the cockpit, something bad.

Before he even realised what it was, Blue Crown had picked it up. “Wolf Flight, we see a triple A radar tracking from the ground, all break now and RTB. Get the hell out of there.”

Reaper looked at his radar screen and sure enough there was a green circle around one of the targets, that meant a search radar. Then, without giving him time to blink the screen turned red and the alarm got louder with a voice in his helmet, “Radar Lock…Radar Lock…Radar Lock.”

His hand was closing round the stick and the throttle, ready to bank out when through the pall of smoke licked a pile of angry red tracers. He had no time, he heard the distinctive crumpling sound that told him he’d been hit. More alarms went off inside the cockpit,. Hydraulic pressure was spiking and there was an electric failure in the right wing. But as soon as it had happened it was over. He heard over the radio, “Wolf 2, got the bastard. Sneaked up from behind, he’s toast. Wolf Lead, are you ok, over?”

Reaper breathed a sigh of relief and keyed the radio to speak, “Roger that Wolf 2, got shot up on the right wing, I still have control. Thanks for saving my bacon 2. Wolf Flight, lets get out of here, RTB.”

Reaper took a look at his controls, the alarms had stopped and the on board computers had fixed the problems. He almost laughed, this is why he loved the A-10, it was a venerable old bastard of a plane.

He was out past the target area now, if he continued on he would overfly the 15th Army and eventually go into Eurasia and back to base. He throttled up and jerked the aircraft to the side to get back onto course…

As he did so the entire right wing of the aircraft snapped off like a twig. The bullets from the AAA had blasted a line underneath the wing, close to the fuselage. The torque of turning the plane simply snapped the entire thing off at the bullet impact line.

Reaper heard the crumble and crash and metal screeching noise and looked to his right in time to see the wing come off and be whipped away by the wind. His eyes went wide and wild. But there was no time for anything else. Almost immediately every conceivable alarm in the aircraft went off, blaring every warning imaginable in his ears all at once.

By instinct he keyed the radio, “Wolf One going down. MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY. WOLF ONE GOING DOWN. MY WHOLE RIGHT WING IS GONE. MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY.”

Instinct also throttled the engines down completely, and then the worst thing of all started, the altitude warning began to ask him to ‘Pull Up’. But the aircraft was already in a spin that was forcing his hands up and off the control stick and then down onto his legs as it spun and spun and spun some more. Without the right wing he was a completely dead stick. Power to the engines would simply force the spin into worse machinations. He couldn’t eject now, his only chance…he didn’t have a chance. So he prayed.

All he could see was sky…sand…sky…sand. His hands were being shot up and down like a ragdoll, his body being alternately pressed into the seat and lifted out of it with incredible force. He caught a glimpse of the altimeter, it was spinning incredibly, he thought he read 100ft but it was going so fast he could have been wrong. He saw the sky again…then the land and as his hands shot down toward his legs as he was pressed back into the chair. He finished his prayer as the sky loomed large once again before the desert seemed to take over as it raced up toward him. He closed his eyes tight.

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What was left of the A-10 smashed into a rise around 300 metres from the main highway north. A small recon unit in a pair of heavily armed HummVees saw the whole thing and watched, waiting for a parachute as the plane contorted itself in many positions as it careened toward the ground.

But they didn’t see any parachute as it smashed into the ground just over a kilometre away. The explosion was seen first and then heard as the fireball erupted up into the clear blue sky before petering out and leaving a stack of black smoke.

The unit immediately radioed in the situation and sped off the highway toward the impact site.

They neared the site from the rear and could see a line of debris leading up to what was left of the smoking plane. The Hummers stopped around 20ft away from the burning remains…but their eyes alighted on something else sitting about 30ft to their left.

It was what looked like the cockpit and part of the nose of the plane sitting on its side. They could see part of the front wheel frame through a torn off piece of metal.


Reaper could still hear…that was something. Yeap…he could hear the wind whipping the sand against the metal frame of the aircraft. He opened his eyes, slowly. The sky was right there above the broken HUD and everywhere to the right. To the left the desert was right there, the sand was actually inside the cockpit. Aha! He was on his side!

It was then that he noticed the pain…it wasn’t too bad but it was there alright. His right arm wouldn’t move and his legs were trapped beneath the main console. But he was alive…holy crap he was alive!

As he thought about his predicament he thought he heard something other than the wind…like a car engine. And it got louder…two engines, coming toward him. They got really close and then they stopped and the powerful sounding rumble was cut to an idle that was barely audible.

Then voices, “Holy shit, Liutenant. Can you believe that?”

“Man…look at that, the cockpit is over there. Go check it out, quickly now.”

Reaper did a double take at what he’d heard. He tried to shout something, anything but it wouldn’t come. His mouth was moving but it seemed to only make rasping noises, nothing more.

He looked to his left and sure enough a camouflage helmet appeared over the edge of the cockpit and looked straight at him. The soldier’s eyes went wide as they locked with Reaper’s.

“HOLY CRAP- HE’S ALIVE. TELL THOSE MEDEVAC BOYS TO HURRY UP- HE’S ALIVE.”


1 Month Ago- Goudiri AFB, Senegal

Major Naboth ‘Reaper’ Yefet still didn’t feel much like a teacher, but that’s what he basically was. The veteran A-10 pilot was in charge of all of the new ground attack pilots at Goudiri. He taught them about the base, about the primary mission that the base would carry out and he also refreshed them on their ground attack training until they settled in to their roles. His official title was the ‘New Assignment Officer’, which was written in black letters on the glass door of his office.

Goudiri’s only ground attack planes were A-10’s but they were relatively new ones, not the old versions he’d once been so proud of. The latest version was the A-10X Sonic Thunderbolt with new engines, airframe and electronics. Aesthetically the only difference was the engines which had a different shape and could push the unweidly Warthog just past the sound-barrier, something many A-10 pilots had long wanted, if only to be able to get out of danger quicker than they got into it.

Reaper didn’t like his assignment, he’d made it known many times but kept on with it because he still got to fly and at least he could pass his knowledge on to the younger officers. Having a job that mostly required a 9-5 shift with flying in the morning and teaching and paperwork in the afternoon meant he could spend more time with his family, his wife, 3 year old son and 2 month old daughter. That was the real perk of this job.

But it didn’t stop him from filing requests to transfer to a front-line unit, although one still based at Goudiri as he liked it there. Originally from the Lake Tana area in Ethiopia, Naboth had always liked the hottler, slightly more humid-deserts of Africa than those of the Middle East where he had once served. Goudiri was a fairly decent approximation of Lake Tana although nowhere near as beautiful and the sight of the massive Synagogues and that little chatter of Yiddish that he would often speak to his kids in, they didn’t understand but they giggled and laughed at the strange words and pronunciation. Even in Lake Tana, one of the worlds largest Jewish population centers, Yiddish was a kind of joke language, everybody spoke English, Yiddish was just what people used when talking animatedly or perhaps heatedly as it conveyed a little more meaning with each word depending on how they were said.

A couple of the new pilots he currently had under him were Jewish and he often went with them to the base synagogue or the bigger one in the city a couple of miles from the base.

It was 3.35pm, and Naboth was writing up his paperwork for the mornings flight which had ended just before mid-day. Two pilots were rusty on their landings and needed practice, this often happened when new pilots came to a new base, they had to master a whole new take off and landing procedure for each new runway, you had to get it right or one wrong jerk and the plane would end up on its side or nose down in the grass…or worse.

The phone rang…it was the base commander, an old pilot called Graf who Naboth had once served under many years ago. Graf was a good man, and him and Naboth were good friends whose families knew each other quite well. He wanted to see him in his office.

That meant taking the elevator up to another floor.

Graf’s office was on the highest floor of the Base Command Building. It was twice as big as everybody else’s. On the wall were Graf’s pictures from his various commands and different periods of his life, including the side panel of an A-10A, his first ever plane, that was mounted in a large glass case. Naboth had one in his office aswell, of the same area except his was burnt and scratched, a reminder of that day.

Graf had a file in one hand and a coffee mug in the other as Naboth knocked and entered.

“Ah, Naboth, sit down will you.”

Naboth did and waited for a minute or two before Graf put the file down. “Coffee?”

Naboth shook his head.

“I have no time for long winded explanations, so here it is straight. Your going back into a front line unit…no don’t say anything, questions when I finish, ok? Good, this thing over in Mali, as you know, has gotten bad enough to warrant a GATO response, and Goudiri here will be base of operations for both our air forces and those of the United States, their planes should be arriving soon. Anyway, the higher ups say we need some vets up there, and I had you squirreled away in an office for just such an occasion. So, are you ready to get back out there in the thick of it, or do I need to find someone else?”

Naboth didn’t respond for a minute. This is what he’d wanted ever since the day he’d been shot down in the Gulf War. He’d broken both his legs, his left arm and fractured his skull, as well as seriously bruising his spine and pelvis. His wife had nearly died of shock when she saw him in the hospital. He’d been looking after newby’s since he’d been fit to fly again, and he’d been biting at the bit to get back into the trenches, so to speak. But was he truly ready? All the tests and psych crap said yes, definetly. But could they be wrong? Could he be wrong? Could he handle taking the new A-10 into combat, being shot at again, probably by better trained forces? It was the most difficult decision of his life.

The words came out before he realised he’d said it, “Yes…I’m your man.” His own body was in some form of shock at its own words. He struggled to listen to Graf.

“Excellent, so Lt. Colonel Naboth ‘Reaper’ Yefet will fly into combat again. Excellent…you have a new command then, report to Building G5, transfer your plane to the right hanger before 2000 hours. Questions? Good, information about your mission will be forthcoming. Training begins tomowwo at 1600. You’ll be participating. So, dismissed Colonel, good luck.”

Naboth stood up and saluted.

Nkosana left that foul smelling patch of dirt rather relieved. He hadn’t expected much of a return on his time invested, but it turned out even better than expected. Algeria was still clear of foreign imperialism and it looked to stay that way, which allowed Dieder plenty of time to work out this portion of his plan.

Algeria was a vast and rather desolate land. Under German control the country did in fact begin to urbanized, towns and cities sprang from the dry hard ground with stunning quickness. Yet the sheer size of the nation and lack of just about everything save raw materials limited the expansion of the country. It entered a stalemate against itself stunting economic success. During its peak, the country was booming with the extraction of metals and oil. People from every nation the Reich flocked to Algeria to make it rich. For that reason alone Algeria was one of the most diverse places in Africa save South Africa. It also meant that a lot of those people were common laborers, men and women of rough hard working nature. The Germans priorities in education in the region were lacking at best and Algeria drew a distinct line between the wealthy and the poor. As in every case the wealthy were educated and made up of about 3% of the population, the poor were the complete opposite. While under German rule this unequal proportion was kept in order without violence or crime. Ever since the economy became stagnant and the rich left, crime in the poor class began to rise. German control on the area began to weaken and relax. With no government and poor, uneducated workers out of jobs the area was ripe for conflict.

This conflict would pose the perfect opportunity for Nkosana to open a new front against GATO and, he hoped, would break the back of already strained US – Hirgizstan relations. His whole planned revolved around not military victory, but chaos and catastrophe. Implode Africa and take it for himself. Rutendo would prove valuable for now, but his services would be up soon enough. He didn’t like Rutendo at all, the man lacked intelligence and military doctrine. He would be good only for gathering forces. Once this was done he would be disposed of and Ugo would take his place. Of course Ugo wouldn’t like it, be taken away from his country and his men. That was Nkosana’s only real problem at the moment. It wasn’t that probably the biggest military in the world was bearing down on his small rag-tag force, or that GATO was slowly moving against him. It wasn’t that his resources were slowly dwindling. No, it was none of that. It was the arrogant and utterly dangerous Ugo not wanting to move to Algeria. Yet it had to be done, there was no choice.

If Ugo were to stay in Cote D Ivorie or Mali he would surely die. GATO had his number and was number one on their most wanted list. He had even edged out the infamous Ethan Raven who had previously held the position since its creation. Ugo was too important to the cause to be lost of the unforgiving bullet of a trained marksmen or the random piece of molten hot shrapnel from a mortar shell. If his presence was made known in Algeria GATO would surely have to expand their campaign and that large desolate land of petty criminals and hard easily manipulated people would be their downfall. It was all perfect on paper; surely its execution would be much harder.

Of course Nkosana was up to the task. So he left Algeria to attend to his duties back in Mali. Though a challenge he had in front of him, the nations he was fighting against were making it somewhat easier. Hirgizstan’s mass execution had pushed GATO allies the United States to their breaking point. The laughable liberal US were downright appalled by the Commonwealth’s actions. Baruti was arguing sanctions against them and their expulsion from GATO altogether. Regardless of that outcome Hirgizstan would definitely not leave the country until Ugo was dead and his men dead too but the fear that Hirgizstan would evoke in the people without the restraints that the United States had on them through GATO would cause and outcry and unrest against those not in arms. Though many saw the plight of Mali already finished, the battle was only just beginning.

General Kanu’s HQ, Sassandra, Ivory Coast- 0315 Hours

The back entrance of the General Legislature Building was well defended and concealed. At first Merrick couldn’t even see it. There was a ramp leading down to a service entrance but the charred remains of two tanks were wedged up against the heavy steel shutters at the bottom, along with a few bodies he noted grimly.

The windows from the ground floor upward were all blasted out, but were either boarded up with heavy wood or had something in front of them. The door they went in was down a half step in the centre-rear of the building, three steps went down slightly below street level to a heavily rusted door. The first Ivorian soldier went quietly down the steps while everyone else fanned out in a semi-circle. He rapped out a code and the door opened with a metal crunch.

He quickly disappeared into the darkness inside, followed by everyone else. If not for their night vision they wouldn’t have been able to see anything. Inside the door was full darkness. An Ivorian darted outside with a pair of claymore mines in his hand, and re-appeared a minute later. The door crunched closed and heavy bolts were shunted across it. The Malians had powerful torches.

“Best get your Night Vision off, we have these torches. No power on this level. Only on the lower levels.”

The Malians switched on a few big, bulky black torches that were brighter than most industrial lights, probably 50 Millions candles. They illuminted the corridor instantly. Merrick liked what he saw.

To the side of the door was a massive double stack refrigerator that two soldiers were busy replacing in front of the door. The corridor itself was lined with office furniture, more refrigerators and cold storage units in a kind of slalom/chicane pattern. It was good defensive tactics, if the Malians ever got in here they’d have one hell of a close quarters fight on their hands. The Ivorians might be shot up to hell, but they were still thinking straight. Merrick felt a little better about the situation.

The three Ivorians that had met them outside led the Marines and Abdul through the building, past debris, blockades, dark rooms and tired, bloody and dirty soldiers resting or sleeping or staring at nothing. The sound of the battle was inside the building and it shook with artillery impacts and reverberated with heavy gunfire and explosions.

The Ivorians reached a flight of concrete stairs and one of them with Sergeants stripes said, “Go down to the 4th Basement, it’s marked on the walls. The General is in there. We need to get back to our posts.”

The Ivorians were no more excited or angry or laconic about the fact that the Hirgizstanians were coming, they were still fighting, and whether anyone would get there in time was something that weighed heavily on their minds. Merrick nodded at the three men and turned to his own, “Gunny, take everyone and go with these men. See what you can do. I’m going with Abdul to meet the General. Get to it.”

Abdul followed Merrick down the stairs as he radioed 2nd Squad of their position and what was going on. Everything was apparently quiet down at the beach. Kilbwena back on the Courage was pleased they’d made it into the HQ without getting iced by friendly fire.

The huge concrete stairs were dimly lit, but at least they had some light. A couple of haggard looking soldiers gave Abdul and Merrick surprised looks as they passed them going down.

As they neared the 4th level they could hear radio chatter and low voices. Abdul could make out the General’s voice. It would be nice to see the old man again, they had gotten to know each other quite well when he was last in the country. Kanu was a good soldier, a strong man who really did care for his soldiers and his country. He hoped he still believed they had a chance.

Merrick went in first and saw the General leaning over one of the radio sets. He was listening intently on a single earpiece as the operator tuned the set. He slowly put the set down as he saw Merrick enter.

The Captain crisply came to attention and fired off a smart salute. “Captain Joseph Merrick, CHMC, at your service General.”

The General returned a bewildered salute, “Welcome…aboard…isn’t that what you Marines say?”

“It certainly is General. I have a radio for you, a direct link to our commander at sea. He’d like to talk with your securely. If I may?” Merrick gestured toward a table that only had a closed down laptop on it.

He un-shouldered the radio and set it up with practised precision. He had Kilbwena on the line in a matter of seconds and gave the headset to the General.

Kanu conferred for a couple of minutes with Kilbwena, occasionally looking at the heavily notated map just in front of him that showed the positions of the Ivorian and Malian units.

Eventually he set the mic and earpiece down and turned to Merrick and Abdul. He was about the speak when he noticed Abdul for the first time. “Ah…Agent Yellow…Abdul, my friend. You have returned?”

The two men shook hands. “I wouldn’t miss this, sir.”

Merrick’s eyes went a little wide and he mouthed. ‘Agent Yellow?’ to Abdul. Everyone knew who Agent Yellow was, but Merrick hadn’t realised it could have been the man he’d been escorting.

Agent Yellow had become fairly famous, for someone whose identity was unknown, among the military community. As with all things like that, rumours had abounded about who he was and what he’d been doing. Merrick had himself discussed with the Gunny what he might have been doing, and they’d both heard the rumours from somewhere or other about the mission that had got him out. He was rumoured to be a brave son-of-a-gun, spending around 3 months in Mali and the Ivory Coast in the midst of the war and the genocide. And Merrick had this guy standing right beside him, this veritable legend.

Abdul spoke up, “So, what did Kilbwena say?”

“He wanted to know our positions, and as you can see from the map, there are three concentrations, including right here. Malians are trying to surround us, and they are bringing in reinforcements. As you can hear their arty and their planes are always on the go, but they seem to be keeping their helicopters out of the fray, we’ve taken down six of them in the past two days. Kilbwena says to stay put and wait for the offensive, supposed to begin at 0600. I hope we can make it to then, otherwise there won’t be much point.”

Merrick spoke now, “We’ll all still be here General, I assure you of that.”

Kanu sighed, “I hope your right Captain. So, is it just the two of you then?”

“No sir, the rest of my men, eight in all, so that’s ten of us including…Abdul here. May we go see what we can do?”

General Kanu nodded, “It would sure be a big help, I would show you myself but my men won’t let me go into harms way, so I’m stuck down here.”

“Not a problem, sir,” Merrick took a small radio headset out of his chest pouch and handed it to General Kanu, “This is a direct link to me and Abdul, feel free to call us if you need it. We’ll report to you what we’re up to. Thank you General.”

Merrick saluted again and Abdul nodded at Kanu as they both left the room.

Halfway up the stairs Abdul spoke first, “I trust you know the whole ‘Agent Yellow’ thing is classified. I would rather you didn’t know, but it can’t be helped now. I hope I don’t have to remind y-“

“I know what classified means Abdul, not a word to anyone. But since I know you aren’t a desk jockey, you fancy getting your hands dirty?”

“I thought you’d never ask, Captain!”


General Kanu’s HQ, Sassandra, Ivory Coast- 0315 Hours

They called him ‘Chief’. He still didn’t think of himself as the actual Chief, even though, technically, that’s what he was now. The Brydogian Constabulary had been an unbelievably well funded and staffed force, better, some said, than the Army. His first day on foot patrol as a newly badged Constable had been exciting and he knew he’d made the right decision.

A smart man, rising through the ranks had not been at all difficult, and with a healthy number of convictions and citations, the top jobs were there for the taking. But just as he thought he could reach the top, the Chief Constable, it all came down around him, and quicker than he could ever have imagined.

He found himself in a battle to get a country in order, to get onto the streets and sort it out before it destroyed itself. It had been the worse time in his life. And because he was now one of the top men in the Ivorian Constabulary, any blame that came to the police usually landed on his desk.

With the country the way it was he was glad to play only third fiddle, as the junior of three Deputy Chief Constables. He didn’t need the stress. And his decision was further cemented when war finally came, but it didn’t stop the stress, not anymore.

He and his men found themselves increasingly fighting as front line soldiers instead of policemen. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually locked someone in a cell or even pulled out hand-cuffs.

Despite the war, he found himself at the top of the pile, something he’d always wanted- but not now, definitely not now.

The former Chief Constable himself had been captured with a couple of truckloads of civilians he was trying to get out of the capital and into the relatively safe jungle. That’s where most civilians had fled. The Malians were awful in the jungle, they came mostly from a desert country and the lush woodlands and jungles made them nervous. But they were learning, that was a big problem.

In any case, the other two Deputy Chief Constables had vanished, or at least it seemed that way. He never heard from them after the capital fell. So he assumed he was the Chief Constable of the Ivory Coast, the men with him certainly seemed to think so. But he didn’t, and even if he did, what country was there anymore- one city that would fall anytime, the was no point in the job anymore. But like his father, a trawler captain, had told him, ‘the captain always goes down with the ship’.

Looking in the cracked mirror at his reflection he barely noticed the man staring back. His cheek-bones seemed higher and sharper than ever, his hair had slightly more grey in it, and his brown eyes had become sunken into his head, above huge bags that screamed to people he was on the edge of exhaustion. He’d always wanted to lose weight, to loose the paunch he hated so much as it bulged over his crisp uniform.

What paunch? He thought to himself- it wasn’t there anymore. Although that wasn’t a good thing. He had also started smoking again, something he had given up in his twenties, but what was the point in not now- he would be long dead before cancer ever developed.

Outside the bathrooms in the General Legislature Building, Chief Constable Marko Navuman walked slowly back to his ‘office’ or what had been his centre of operations for a time. He’d done his duty here, so he wondered why he was even bothering to stay, should he not try and escape? Most of his constables and officers had fled with the civilians to the west, into the jungles and toward the Hirgizstanian border. He stayed, along with three other Constables and one Sergeant who had once lived in Aboisso and wanted to defend their town. They wore their police jumpsuits- just a standard issue Air Force flight suit, only black- and all the weapons the soldiers of the Army were willing to give them.

The Chief wore his jumpsuit aswell, but the Army unit he was with was on their ‘downtime’, which meant he could come back inside the building and rest for a couple of hours before heading back out the front to stem the Malian tide.

He checked his watch, an expensive divers watch he had picked out in this very city on a holiday quite a while ago, and found out it was time to head back to the front of the building to re-join the fight. It was pointless he kept saying to himself, but then his fathers voice would barge its way in as he was once wont to do, and shout about ‘the captain’s duty’ and he’d obey.

As he walked past the concrete stairs he saw two figures emerge from the darkness of the basement steps, wearing strange camouflage, one of them wearing some sort of strange blacked out ski goggles-at night?- and a strange looking gun with a high-tech looking sight. The other man didn’t wear the weird goggles and he carried an M4. He was almost past them when he saw a subdued Hirgizstanian flag and a circular patch below that that was subdued and simply said ‘GATO’ in black letters.

The Chief smiled for the first time in almost a year.

General Kanu’s HQ, Sassandra, Ivory Coast- 0340 Hours

Abdul and Merrick found the rest of the squad near the front of the building standing beside a group of dirty, hollow eyed and battle fatigued Ivorian soldiers that were all slumped on the ground, either sleeping fitfully, eating, smoking or talking in between the crash of artillery.

They took little notice of the Hirgizstanians. Abdul and Merrick stood to the left of the others and waited. One of the Sergeant’s that had brought them in was going to find the Ivorian groups CO. Merrick was puzzled as to why the soldiers sitting around him weren’t out fighting- there was a system of some sort in operation and he needed to learn it quickly if they were to survive until 6am.

The couldn’t actually see outside from where they were- the room was spacious- probably a conference room- with no outside windows. But the sound of the ferocious fighting outside could be heard loud and clear. All the sounds seemed to gel together into one almost indistinguishable roar, punctuated every few seconds by the sound of various sizes of artillery hitting the upper floors of the building or hitting outside. Every time it happened a bit of dust would come loose from the ceiling and the soldiers on the ground that were sleeping were stir but not wake. They were so used to it.

Eventually the Ivorian Sergeant returned with a middle aged man that had a blood stained uniform with several cuts and slashes across his face, including a bandage around the top of his head. He carried a G3 on its sling and a 1911 sat in a holster at his side. His helmet dangled off his web gear. He had a cigarette wedged into the corner of his mouth, the red glow lighting up the lower part of his face.

He walked slowly up to Merrick and stopped, “Lieutenant General Ahab Jiklo.” Merrick faced him front-ways.

“Captain Joseph Merrick, Hirgizstanian Marines. We’re here to help.”

Jiklo didn’t seem impressed or even interested. His face was impassive and unemotional, like a statue. He sighed, “Well, I guess you arrived just in time for the end then. We’re the morning group. We’re going out at 0400, fifteen minutes. The night group is out there now. That’s our rotation system, night and day groups. But we’re loosing men so fast we won’t be able to do this much more.”

Merrick thought for a second, then said “Well, we need to hold here until 0600, that’s when the cavalry arrive.”

Jiklo nodded nonchalantly.

“What can we do to help, General?” Merrick spoke earnestly.

Jiklo sighed again and nodded gently. “We sure could use you. Our flanks are always vulnerable. I’ve also heard you gave General Kanu a secure radio- if you can communicate with him, stay with me. I could do with a secure line for once in this shit.”

Merrick nodded. He turned “Gunny, take Flatfoot, Playboy and Evil G to the left flank when we go out. Lee, take Whiskey and the Newby and go to the right. Watch your ammo and help get these guys through to 0600. Abdul, you come with me.” The men nodded and then Merrick turned back to Jilko, “I’ll stay with you so we have a line to General Kanu. Any other information?”

Jilko hunched his shoulders and stood up a little straighter, “Yeah…be prepared for close combat. My face was bitten by some fucker who jumped on top of me, it ain’t shrapnel. The Malians are crazy, they will keep coming until they get on top of you. Make sure you have pistols and knives and your damn fists ready.”

Merrick nodded.

Outside General Kanu’s HQ, Sassandra, Ivory Coast- 0355 Hours

For Merrick it was easily the most fearsome sight he’d ever laid eyes on. In all his years in the Corps he’d never seen a battle so ferocious. He could see everything clearly without the night vision. Tracers ran back and forth, red and greens between opposing forces, fires bathed the city rubble in shadowy, flickering light and the steady thumps and explosions of artillery rumbled the ground and added to the light show.

Jiklo had command of some 189 men, armed with G3’s, grenades, a few LAW’s, a pair of AT launchers and a single Stinger. The 60mm mortars and heavier machine guns were out on the line, firing away at the hands of the night group.

Merrick’s men had already split off and he could see their markers on his HUD heading further away to the left and right as Jiklo led his men forward through the rubble, relieving the day group soldiers as he passed them.

The HQ was the strangest thing Merrick had seen in a long while. It was an old M113 APC with a couple of antenna’s that sat in the ruins of a huge building. The entire front half was buried under a pile of rubble, with only the back half and the rear door showing. The rubble was probably an accident, but it would certainly provide a decent bit of cover.

A tall, lanky man was pacing at the back of the APC shouting something into a radio, the operator standing off to the side, jolting forward and back every now and then as the tall man pulled the radiophone closer to his mouth.

He saw Jiklo and some of his men approach and waved to them. He said something final and threw the radiophone back to the operator and stepped forward to meet Jiklo, eyeing up Merrick and Abdul, eventually understanding as he saw the subdued Hirgizstanian flag on Merrick’s shoulder.

He spoke close to Jiklo’s ear, “The damned armor groups are running low on fuel and ammo, they won’t make the covering runs we need as often. I told them to damn well try, but you’ll have to see for yourself. Tell your flanks to watch it. Good luck.” He ran back toward the GSL crouched low, weapon up and picking his way through the rubble until he disappeared from view.

Jiklo immediately didn’t look happy. Merrick asked, “Problem?”

Jiklo nodded, “The armor groups cover our flanks and front, they have a few tanks and armoured vehicles hidden away but they have no ammo or fuel reserves. If they stop operating, we’re as good as dead.”

The other men with Jiklo didn’t stop at the APC apart from his radio operator. The other men went forward, guns up and ready. Abdul nodded toward them and Merrick nodded his head ‘yes’. Abdul smiled and followed them.

Abdul walked abreast of them. A couple grabbed crosses on necklaces or patted bibles in their fatigues and crossed themselves a couple of times, looking into the heavens. Abdul said a quick prayer and checked the safety was off the M4 and that the ACOG was turned on.

The soldiers took up positions in the rubble about ten years in front of the ruined house where the Command APC was buried. Abdul heard Gunny Hydill and Lucky Lee reporting in their positions to Merrick. Gunfire echoed through their radio, adding to the din of the night.

Abdul crawled the rest of the way up toward where one of the Ivorians was. A 50.cal MG on a tripod mount sat just above him. He was looking at a picture. Someone shouted to him and he put the picture away, winked at Abdul and scrambled the few feet up toward the gun, grabbing the wooden handles and pressing the butterfly trigger.

The loud, deep and slow report of the weapon seemed to drown out all the small arms fire, only artillery and explosions could be heard against the big fifty. Abdul came up to the side of the big gun and for the first time peered over the makeshift rubble defences and onto the front line.

What he saw would not have looked out of place in a gothic horror painting. An entire swathe of the city had been destroyed, with little or no buildings left standing. Just piles of rubble, some of it on fire, with craters here and there from artillery. But the worst thing of all was the bodies. There were hundreds of them lying on the ground, some two or three deep as they got closer to where the 50.cal was. Ivorian and Malian were mixed together in death. It was truly horrific.

As he looked it appeared some of the bodies were moving and he sighted in on them with his ACOG, seeing almost as clear as day with the flare’s and fire that lit up the night like an evening sunset.

The ‘bodies’ that appeared to be moving were in fact Malian soldiers crawling slowly forward. He sighted in one, but was too late as he saw the body jerk and the head fall into the ground. He found another and quickly fired, catching the soldier somewhere on the lower jaw. His head snapped back and then the body pitched forward into a crater.

He found another crawling soldier and fired again. Then, almost imperceptible amongst the sound of battle, he heard a whistle. It was high pitched and shrill. A few seconds later he heard over his radio, “Merrick here, that whistle is signalling an attack. Gonna’ be big if General Jiklo is right. Dig in and keep your heads down.” Abdul scanned the ground in front of him as a red flare arched up into the sky from somewhere among the Malian lines that were hidden behind some half-destroyed buildings.

Then he heard the rumble that he had come to know and fear from his years in the Army and elsewhere- tanks…and by the reverberations there were lots of them.

He saw the Malian infantry first, breaking out of their lines like demons from hell, firing wildly at the Ivorian lines. They were everywhere across a huge front. They seemed to keep on pouring into view. Abdul stopped shooting and took stock.

He’d never seen a frontal advance so large, never seen so many troops advancing so quickly. Artillery stepped up toward him to dispel is thoughts and he ducked down onto his stomach as the arty was marched forward. He tried to make himself as small as possible, to disappear into the smallest crack in the ground. It was an infantryman’s reaction.

He could still hear the fifty firing away and then the artillery got so close he had to open his mouth to equalize the pressure. The heat waves and debris washed over him, the shockwaves buffeting his body and threatening to throw him up into the air. And then as suddenly as it started, it stopped.

He looked up and the first sight that greeted him was the Ivorian fifty gunner, his mangled face staring right at him, his brains leaking out onto the rubble.

His first instinct was the fifty- he looked up- it was still in tact. He scrambled over the dead man’s body and drew himself up behind the gun.

The Malian advance was in full swing now. He could see the hundreds of soldiers streaming across the ground. Abdul spotted five ASCOD ULAN’s firing their 25mm guns and to the sides of them spotted at least four Leopard tanks, their huge guns ripping into the Ivorian flanks left and right. A round smashed into the frame of the house behind Abdul and he ducked as the debris rained down around him.

The Malians were also firing at him as .50cals and a roar of other small arms fire and mortars seemed to erupt out of the Ivorian lines, cutting down the first line of Malians.

Abdul grabbed the fifty, turned it slightly to his front, cocked the huge level, and pressed the trigger. The huge gun didn’t buck much on the tripod but he could feel the vibrations ripple through his body as he sent round after round of 50.cal brass into the Malian lines.

He cut swatches of soldiers down as he moved back and forth in a close firing arc.

He could see the long belt of ammunition from the box to the right begin to run out and he looked around for another box, finding it under some brick debris. He let go of the big gun and just as he did he heard the blasts of 25mm HE rounds hit real close. Before he could dive one smashed into the sandbags in front of the 50 and the explosion sent him flying backwards down the hill of rubble.

He seemed to black out for a few seconds before blinking his eyes open. His face ached and he moved his hand to touch it, seeing blood as he drew it away. But everything felt in tact. Apart from not being able to hear anything except a high pitched whine, he seemed fine, if a little shaken.

He looked to his left, back up to where the 50 was. It lay mangled on its side with smoke coming out of it and some of the ammunition cooking off where it sat. Then his blood ran cold as he saw the first Malians roll, jump and run over the defences and begin firing all around them.

The Ivorians nearby peeled back from their positions and began to return fire at the Malians inside the perimeter. Abdul realised his M4 was gone. As he lay on the ground his hand closed on the .45 SOCOM holstered on his thigh. He undid the Velcro strap and pulled it out, still lying prone. He took aim at one of the Malians and fired, dropping him. He drew up to his knees and began picking them off one by one, and moving back as the other Ivorians withdrew, fighting all the way.

But there were way too many Malians. They just kept pouring over the defences.

Abdul was now back at the Command APC with Jiklo, Merrick and a whole load of other Ivorians. Apparently the flanks were holding out fine, but were now pulling back toward the GSL quickly to shore up the centre.

Merrick and Jiklo had both now joined the fight. Jiklo was firing a 1911 and Merrick was blasting away with his SCAR-H. Every few shots the Ivorians would turn, run and tap the shoulders of other soldiers kneeling and firing, signalling them to do the same as they were covered by those behind them. It was an orderly fighting retreat.

Abdul marvelled at their guts in the face of overwhelming odds. Abdul’s SOCOM ran dry and he grabbed up a dead Ivorian’s G3 but as he was about to fire a grenade went off close by, knocking the gun out of his hands and sending him sprawling into the dirt yet again.

As he rolled over something fell over him and he could sense somebody moving close beside him. Then a face loomed over him and looked for a second. He was puzzled. He looked for insignia but found none. However, the uniform was enough to tell him Abdul didn’t belong and the figure presented a knife which he raised up to drive down into Abdul’s chest.

But the NIA man quickly parried it and rolled away, drawing his combat tamohawk from its belt sheath. He stood up and faced the soldier, they were oblivious to what was going on around them- just two soldiers locked into basic combat, one of them would die and both knew it and both wanted it to be the other one.

The Malian screamed and lunged toward Abdul who quickly sidestepped and cut the man’s arm quickly, but to little effect. It seemed to enrage him further as he tackled Abdul. Both men sprawled into the bricks and concrete. The Malian was on top of him, pinning him into the uneven ground.

He brought the knife up again but Abdul was faster, shifting his weight slightly and bringing his tamohawk swinging around, spike side first. It smashed into the Malian’s lower jaw, sending blood, teeth and parts of his gums out his mouth as he fell screaming off Abdul.

He jumped up and now reversed the predicament, pinning the Malian to the ground. The soldier had his hands up to his mouth as he spurted out blood with every shriek. Abdul brought the axe end of the weapon quickly down into the centre of the Malian’s forehead, feeling the impact as the sharp edge pierced the skull bone and lodged itself into his brain. He stopped screaming and went limp.

Abdul pulled the weapon out and collapsed off him. He was breathing heavy, like he’d just run a marathon. The hearing began to return to his ears and he could still hear the crackle and pop of small arms and small explosions all around.

Merrick suddenly appeared over him and grabbed him up, shouting “You all right? Good to go?” Abdul nodded as Merrick helped him up. He walked forward a few paces and found a Malian G36K, picked it up and ran with Merrick, firing at the pursuing Malians.

The GSL building soon loomed up in front of Abdul and Merrick as they dived over a set of bastion defenses- basically big bins filled with debris that stopped bullets. They rolled over the top of them and flopped down in front of a pair of young Ivorians.

Abdul knelt up and continued to fire at the oncoming Malians as Merrick checked in with his men, also just coming over the bastion defenses on the left and right flanks.

Heavy 50.cal MG’s now erupted from the 1st floor of the GSL, as well as along the line of bastions.

Jiklo was storming up and down with his radio operator screaming into the handset in anger and also to be heard over the din of the battle. As Merrick got closer he could hear him shout, “GOD DAMN IT…GET YOUR FUCKING TANKS OUT OF THEIR HOLES AND OUT INTO THE FUCKING FIGHT…WE’VE FALLEN BACK TO POINT CHARLIE. WE ARE ABOUT TO OVER-RUN…DAMN IT…YES…GET TO WORK.” He threw the handset down and it bounced wildly on its cord as the radio operator reeled it in.

Jiklo tore off his Kevlar helmet and rubbed the sweat off his face with his sleeve, smearing brick dust all over his face. Merrick shouted over the din of the machine guns and rifle fire, “Another problem?”

Jiklo nodded, looking out over the defenses as he replied, “Armor is still stuck in the underground car parks, they were re-arming when the Malians attacked. They’re sorting themselves out now. I just hope we can hold here and push back…again?”

Merrick looked around, “So you’ve been pushed back before?”

Jiklo looked worried. “The late General Bulkino’s Airborne troops got pushed back to here one night, he was the only man that survived as we helped push the Malians back again. Unless that armor rolls soon we’ll have to pull back again.”

Merrick wondered where they could pull back to, but didn’t say anything at the time. He was still staring at the tired and haggard looking Jiklo when he heard a faint noise above the din of battle. He could pick it every so often as it got louder. Then he realized what it was…aircraft.

Jiklo heard it too and shouted, “INCOMING AIRCRAFT…GET THE STINGERS READY.”

Merrick turned to watch and as he did so could see part of the two multi-story and underground car parks on the extreme left and right flanks. Their reinforced concrete structure had protected them and helped them survive as the rest of the city was reduced to rubble and dust.

He was staring at the left most structure when he picked up a sharp, quick but distant thud and a plume of dust erupt into the flare-lit night from the roof of the car park. His eyes went wide as he realized what it was. Before he could say anything the very earth beneath him shuddered like it was an earthquake and the entire car park structure seemed to buckle and then collapse inwards into itself.

The firing from the Ivorians eased off for a second or two as they all saw what had happened. Jiklo, stunned, grabbed his radio handset and was about to speak when the other car park buckled, exploded and collapsed.

Jiklo said nothing for a moment, then keyed the radio, “ANVIL…COME IN…ANVIL…DAMMIT, ARE YOU THERE? REPORT…”

But the General knew it was no good. He pulled on his helmet and walked closer to Merrick, “Inform General Kanu that Anvil is gone.”

Merrick did and heard Kanu sigh heavily as he acknowledged. Jiklo looked defeated and seemed to visibly deflate.

The sound of small arms fire seemed to intensify and Gunny Hydill came over the net, “Captain…we got beaucoup enemies bearing down on the right flank, looks like the Malians are throwing everything at us…can I take it those two explosions were not good news?”

Merrick responded, “No Gunny, very bad news. Ivorian armor is gone. Dig in and stand-by.”

The Gunny acknowledged. Merrick turned quickly to Jiklo, “General…what is the plan from here?”

The officer didn’t respond at first. Merrick grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him face to face, then he said “Point Bravo is next, that’s inside the GSL building. Then Point Alpha, which is the beach, but there’s no defences out there and the sea at our backs.”

Merrick nodded grimly. He spoke over the net again, “Listen up guys, we gotta hold out here as long as possible…”

He was cut off there by Abdul, “Captain…TANKS…CLOSING FAST…FOUR…NO FIVE…OH SHIT…MAYBE MORE, ALL HEADED THIS WAY. NO WAY WE CAN HOLD THEM.”

Merrick cursed as loud as he could but still his ears barely registered it above the noise. He could now faintly hear the tanks and then the sound of their main guns reached him a fraction of a second before the front line of bastions took a massive hit sending debris and bits of metal frame everywhere.

General Jiklo was still out of it. He was defeated and didn’t look like he could do anything anymore. The radio operator stood looking nervously at Merrick. “Give me the hand-set, son.”

The young soldier handed over the green phone-like device to Merrick. He spoke over the Ivorian network, “This is Captain Joseph Merrick, Hirgizstanian Marines. General Jiklo has given me command.” He looked at the General who stood staring off into the distance. He was completely gone. “We’re pulling back to Point Bravo. Repeat, pull back to Bravo.”

As he said it troops began to peel away from the defences and move off toward the front of the GSL. The pointers on his HUD showed his team moving back toward him aswell. He saw them as they came from the flanks. They went with the Ivorian troops back into the building, firing back toward the Malians as they went.

He didn’t see Abdul and few of the troops from the front point seemed to be coming back, just a trickle. Merrick couldn’t see them and started forward, rounding the upturned hulk of a bus he saw the front line area.

Abdul was standing in the middle of the line of bastions, loading a Javelin AT Launcher with an Ivorian. He hefted it onto his shoulders and a second later the huge missile jumped out of the tube and then exploded vertically into the air, racing down a few seconds later and exploding a hundred or so yards away on the turret of what he assumed was a tank.

He was about to shout at Abdul over the net when an explosion knocked him backward to the ground and he just managed to see Abdul disappear in a cloud of fire and smoke.

Within seconds Merrick shook the shockwave effects off and he could hear the Gunny shouting into his ear, “Captain, what the hell are you doing?”

He keyed his radio and replied, “Abdul…out here.” The explosion had knocked the wind out of him and he had trouble taking breath.

He walked forward into the swirling cloud of dust and smoke. Someone barrelled into him and knocked him over again. He was drawing on his knife when the person on top of him shouted, “Captain…that you? Come on, lets go.”

It was Abdul. Merrick saw his face and it was covered in blood and soot, his eyes were the only thing that seemed to poke through the dirt. He helped Merrick up and they sprinted back toward the GSL, heavy calibre bullets popping around them in the dirt and zipping past so close they could feel the heat.

Goudiri AFB, Senegal- 0400 Hours

Reaper took one last look around the hangar, smelling the jet fuel and the early morning air. Both smells mixed in his nostrils as he breathed deeply. He made sure the yarmulke was sitting properly on the back of his head before climbing up the yellow ladder to the cockpit of his aircraft.

He stopped at the lip and looked at his name emblazoned in black letters over the dry-woodland digital camouflage. He said a prayer, Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha olam…Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the Universe. He slapped his hand over the printed name and swung himself neatly into his seat, pulling his helmet on over the yarmulke

He carefully placed the picture of his family just above one of the screens on the console in front of him. He looked at it for a few seconds before he signaled to the ground crews to remove the ladder and stand back.

The Ground Traffic Controller stood at the right front of Reaper’s aircraft where he could see him from the cockpit. Reaper started up the engines and watched the dials, readouts and screens come to life in the multi-million pound aircraft.

He quickly went through the usual systems check and gave the thumbs up to the GTC who then raised his lighted hand panels to guide the plane out of the hangar. Reaper eased the plane forward and began his radio checks at the same time.

“This is Ocelot 1-1, exiting hangar. Go for Status Check.”

“Ocelot 1-2, systems are good. Right behind you 1-1.”

“This is 1-3, I’m all good. Rolling out.”

“1-4 here, a-ok. Let’s roll.”

Reaper smiled as he listened to his flight group check in, “Roger Ocelot Flight. Stay frosty gentlemen, we’re at the head of forty other aircraft. Watch your formation and stay with me. See you at Waypoint B. Reaper Out.”

The big Sonic Thunderbolt roared like a tiger on a leash as it ambled down the taxiway beside the brightly lit hangars. Reaper and Ocelot Flight would be the first of a flight of forty A-10’s coming out of Goudiri for the initial strike on Malian forces at Sassandra. Along the way they’d pick up F-15’s, F-22’s and F-104X’s from Guinea, Sierra Leone and Liberia.

For now Reaper concentrated on the white GTC hummvee that drove along in front of his aircraft, with a huge, electric ‘FOLLOW ME’ sign on the back, highlighted every second by revolving yellow warning lights.

Outside the morning air was getting warmer and Reaper could see the first vestiges of dawn brightening the cloudy sky. In truth, he would have preferred a night attack to a dawn one, but things rarely went direct to time on an invasion as large as the Hirgizstanian led GATO intervention. The Marines that would land at Sassandra wanted to go at dawn to avoid unnecessary confusion with a huge beach-landing. A night-time amphibious landing just screamed trouble.

So Reaper and his men would have to deal with being a little more vulnerable in the dawn light. But it really wasn’t like going up against terrorists in the Gulf. They had been poorly equipped for night fighting, especially against aircraft. However, the Malians were a fairly professional military force. The People’s Republic had many problems, but its military usually received the best of everything and were, according to intelligence, competent and well trained with significant night-fighting and advanced air defense capability.

To counter this, SEAD missions were starting from Liberia with Electronic Warfare aircraft, a plethora of HARM missiles and a healthy compliment of Navy F/E-18G Growler’s.

Reaper was still nervous though. Few of the pilots that would be participating in the invasion had ever seen combat. They were the best trained and equipped in the world, but combat experience could make all the difference in the end.

As he turned the aircraft around at the end of runway 03, he could feel the sweat on his hands as they closed tighter on the throttle and fly-by-wire stick that sat at his right leg.

The GTC vehicle pulled out of the way as he centered the A-10X down the runway.
“Tower, this is Ocelot Lead, am ready for take-off.”

“Roger that Ocelot Lead. Wind is at 2 knots from the north-west. You are cleared for take-off. Good luck, over.

“Copy Tower, Ocelot Lead on the way, out.”

Yefet breathed in deeply and took one last look at the picture. He could see the white hummer sitting at its space in the grass by the side of the runway, making sure the take-off's went smoothly. The man in the drivers seat saluted Reaper who returned it forcefully before making the rock n roll signal as he always did.

He then inched the throttle to 70% and felt the aircraft’s engine kick off powerfully. The noise of the runway under the wheels and the jet engines speeding up filled his ears. As he came up to speed he pushed the throttle all the way forward and felt a bigger kick as the afterburner kicked in, sending the aircraft hurtling down the long runway.

He passed the relevant marker on the left side, checked his speed and flaps and then eased the stick back letting gravity and air flow do the rest.


Dear Leader’s Palace, Bamako, Mali, 0410 Hours

The thick, rounded glass bottom of the litre bottle of vodka was great for crushing tablets. The prescription painkillers were quite large, as tablets go. But then again, they were extremely powerful.

Addy made sure to grind the ten tablets up into the finest of powder, otherwise they wouldn’t mix too well with the vodka. Once the powder was sufficient Addy folded the piece of paper he’d ground them on and poured the powder into the half-pint of vodka sitting on the desk. He gave it a quick stir with a plastic spoon and quickly drank the whole mix.

He knew his problem was getting worse when his gag reflex barely registered. He could have been drinking a strong wine, not cheap, generic 40% vodka and enough painkillers to flatten a baby elephant.

But unless he took his concoction he couldn’t push himself to pull on his uniform or even leave his quarters. He needed to be ‘medicated’, as he called it, to get through the first part of the day…until he could take another concoction as lunch.

As he put the olive drab dress shirt on over a white vest he consoled himself with the thought that maybe, just maybe, the drugs and the alcohol would kill him before he got to work.

A perpetual coward, Addy hadn’t been able to kill himself despite trying several times in different ways. But as he tightened a noose or picked a razor blade or held a gun to his temple he just couldn’t complete the act. He would collapse onto the floor and drink himself into a stupor, trying to forget everything he’d done and seen in the last few years.

The darkness of sleep was his blessed release unless he was haunted in his sleep by the figments of horror that lurked in his conscious, ready to re-visit his sins tenfold as he slept. If that happened he’s drink more…until he went numb and passed out, where nightmares couldn’t get him.

He’d concluded, eventually, that the best way to end his life was not suicide, but murder or execution. So he’d taken to disobeying Ugo at every turn, until he’d been removed as Chief of Staff and simply given his old job as Chief Aide to the Dear Leader.

He wanted so badly to stand up to Ugo…to show the fat, perverted animal how his soul would burn for eternity and how, by association, Addy’s would as well.
But his cowardice and weak-legged inability to do anything had always gotten the better of him and he simply shut his mouth and watched the beast rape, murder, torture and revel in his depravity.

The ordinary people of Mali were one of four things- either dead, in awe of Ugo, too scared to speak up or just plain evil, like the man himself.

Addy recognized very little of the city he’d grown up in and the people he thought he knew. If they weren’t shouting racist abuse at the Ivorians being executed live on TV or at the country’s many civic halls, then they were mindlessly watching the propaganda on the country’s single TV and Radio station.

Addy now lived inside the Dear Leader’s so called Palace in the centre of Bamako. His quarters were in the east wing, along with a number of other single aides, cabinet members and military brass. He was shunned by them as he never socialized with them and glared if they so much as walked too close.

He was basically a wreck now, a pasty, weak, sick and exhausted looking shadow of his former self. Addy had once been a strong young man, fit and healthy with a high-up position in the new regime alongside a leader that had saved his life and inspired him.

But all he saw in Ugo now was a child-raping, drug abusing gluttunous **** of the devil’s own hand. His walk to Ugo’s quarters every morning now seemed to take on the qualities of a condemned man on his last mile. Every day it seemed to take longer and feel worse.

The stiff, swarthy guards that stood at the doors of the central wing of the Palace, where Ugo lived, barely acknowledged the dishevelled man that Ugo insisted on seeing every morning.

Addy couldn’t really figure the whole thing out either. He also couldn’t figure out why Ugo had called him so early. It was nearly 5am- Ugo kept no business hours or anything of the sort. He could hold court with his cronies at 3am before sleeping until 10pm that same day and then deciding the orders of business for a day nearly over. The fact that he’d sent for Addy at 4.30am hadn’t meant anything in particular.

As he entered the cavernous outer hall he could hear Ugo in the cavernous dining room off to his left. If the monster decided on breakfast, he would have it served in epic proportions at the largest table in the entire Palace, with his aides standing around him as he gorged himself on the best food the broken country could offer.

The smell of the food brought back Addy’s gag reflex and his stomach began to churn angrily. He was lucky the dreamy effects of the alcohol and painkillers had begun, otherwise he might have thrown up.

He saw Ugo quite a few feet away up the table, his vast mass covered in a gold robe. The military cronies crowded closest to him and he talked excitedly with them, a smile on his face as he stuffed it with grapes.

He saw Addy and stood, gesturing for him to come over, and with a mouthful he boomed “Addy…Addy, come, sit…eat. You look unwell. We have fantastic news.” For some reason Ugo allowed only Addy to sit at a right angle to him at the table. Everyone else was made to stand. A few of the cabinet members, spineless, corrupt megalomaniacs with nothing more to do than twiddle their fat thumbs, fuck whores and eat, glared at Addy as he sat.

Ugo gestured for the military men to step back a bit and he leaned closer to Addy, ”We have done it. The Ivorian lines have broken and we will drive them into the sea before sunrise. Nkosana and the Hirgizstanians have both been bested. I, of course, was always right.”

Ugo sat back, smiled and stuffed half a full croissant into his mouth, chewing monstrously on the crisp, fresh pastry. It fell in flakes out his mouth and down onto his chest. With a full mouth he asked incredulously “Are you not happy Addy…not ecstatic that the Ivorian scum are defeated…the Hirgizstanian butchers are defeated and that Nkosana was thoroughly bested?” He swallowed with a gulping noise and roared at Addy, “ARE YOU NOT HAPPY WITH YOUR LEADER, ADDY? TELL ME…”

Addy took a deep breath and smiled, deploying the platitudes he used repeatedly to calm the animal sitting a few feet away. As he was droning on about Ugo’s magnanimity and grandure he wondered if the bastard was telling the truth, had the Ivorians finally been broken?

Ugo believed that if he defeated the last of the Ivorians the Hirgizstanians and GATO would back down, since they would have nothing left to save. Nkosana then, would be proved wrong. The smooth talking, mysterious man annoyed Ugo to extremes. Addy could see him as a snake slowly coiling himself around Ugo like an anaconda, ready to devour him at any moment. Whether Nkosana would be any better than the Dear Leader remained to be seen, but the man had basically told Ugo to not face the Hirgizstanians and GATO head on, but to pull out of the Ivory Coast and conduct guerrilla warfare.

This would surely sap GATO’s reserve. The United States certainly wouldn’t have the stomach if the casualties began to mount, and they surely would. But Addy thought Nkosana had dangerously overlooked the Gulf War. The Hirgizstanians had destroyed an entire city just to kill a few thousand terrorists. They had shown, in the subsequent occupation of the former Elephantum that they could deal with an insurgency.

Addy’s fear, but also his hope, rested on what would happen if GATO and Hirgizstan became involved. The situation was on a hair trigger and the fat man holding the gun, Ugo, was pulling it mighty hard.

2. Henning
November 17th

Thick grey clouds loomed overhead blocking out the usually ferocious sun. A cool breeze traced the outline of the ground as thunderstorms sounded off in the distance. Storms had been scheduled for a little bit later in the day but they were already moving in, clearly visible along the flat desolate plains. At random intervals a long thick thunderclap would roll along, dragging out its booming sound. The day was refreshingly moist because of it, a soft mist engulfing anything underneath the clouds. It was that pleasant time when the air is cool and the smell of rain is ever present. Henning loved such days. He loved storms in general. The mighty raw power they could wield fascinated him ever since he was a boy. It was the way they made the lights reflect off of the black asphalt streets beneath him, the way cars sounded as they sped by spitting up water from their tires. During a storm like this he would sit on the roof of his house and watch the storm roll in, feeling the cool breeze caress his cheeks as it moved onward. When the storm got close and his mother began to worry she would demand his presence off the roof and he would grudgingly oblige. It didn’t faze him; he would sit by his window or in the garage with the door open and simply watch the storm as it flew overhead. Indeed, these were his favorite days. Of course that was back at home in South Africa and he was a long way from South Africa. He was back in his least favorite place he had ever been, Mogadishu. Once before, prior to his incident, he was working a case in Mogadishu and he had since never been completely the same. Ironically enough this was his first case since returning to the force and some genius in the higher-ups thought it prudent to place him in Mogadishu again.

A few police cars littered the area and some barriers and police line tape had been hastily thrown together though, in this rather remote area, there was little need. Crime scene investigators scoured the area with cameras capturing the aftermath of an obvious deal gone wrong. Investigators were running against the clock however as the storms moved closer evidence would become susceptible to the heavy rains that were sure to follow. Henning had arrived around 1400 but most of the police had been there since 1200. His partner pulled their black Land Rover alongside a parked police car with an officer leaning against the door. As they exited the officer stood upwards and greeted them with handshakes.

“Detective Henning,” he bowed his head, "detective Wekesa; I’m Sergeant Kweku.”

“How are you,” replied Henning.

Kweku took a deep breath of cool African air and rubbed the top of his head before replied, “I suppose I’m good sir.” He paused a brief moment in an awkward silence before suddenly coming to life. He motioned for them to follow and continued, “Well we got the call just before noon. A local hunter was out looking for game when he came about truck about half a mile down the road a piece,” he pointed in the direction, “he didn’t think much of it but decided to poke his head around anyway.”

They were walking for a good distancewhen they crested a hill. Sergeant Kweku continued, “He crested that hill over there,” pointing again, “and saw this with his binoculars.” At this time the main crime scene was in plain view just below them. Two jeeps stood near each other, with some blood scattered about them both. Though he couldn’t see behind the one jeep, he could tell by the CSI activity that a least one body was recovered and hidden behind one of the vehicles.

Kweku removed his hat and rubbed some glistening sweat from his brow. “Sure is an interesting crime scene if I ever saw.”

“What do you mean by that,” questioned Henning curiously.

“Well we’ve got a hell of a lot of different shell casings and only one body. That truck that the hunter saw appeared to have died but upon further examination it was just fine, good amount of gas in the tank at all.”

As Henning and Wekesa neared the crime scene the CSI and police members backed away and allowed them their room. First thing was first, the body. The two jeeps sat facing each other. On the opposite side one of the jeeps was the body. Both men bent down to examine closer. The thunder was growing louder and some of the men, including Wekesa were a bit nervous. Henning, however, knew by the sound they still had plenty of time to view the crime scene before it was washed away.

“Better hurry,” commented Wekesa.

Henning took a minute to reply, “About twenty minutes before we feel rain.”

Wekesa looked skyward not entirely convinced by his senior partner’s predication. The body was badly sunburned at this time, the clouds not protecting against the heavy UV radiation that the sun was producing. The cool weather had kept the body from bloating to terrible as would normally be the case with the weather. His face was non-existent as a round had definitely removed any possible means of identification. Another round had left nothing short of a gaping hole where his heart would usually reside. In all he was in pretty bad shape. A small pool of blood sat underneath him but clearly visible were streak marks that bent around to the other end of the car. Henning stood and moved to the front side of the vehicle, the side facing the other jeep. Blood covered the side and two holes were drilled into the door. Henning looked closely at the holes and then behind him, looking over the plains in the distance. He returned his view back to the door of the jeep and stuck his finger into the air. Without talking he stood, a sign for Wekesa to stand as well.

“What are you thinking,” Wekesa said.

Henning scratched his five o clock shadow and fingered something in his pocket before finally producing a cigarette.

“It was a sniper.”

“Sir?”

He lit the cigarette before continuing, “No not a sniper, it was a team…yes very professional.”

“Why a team, this was obviously a drug or arms deal gone wrong, could have been a hit.”

“Possibly, but why two shots? Both of them were kill shots,” Henning was thinking out loud, “Protocol that is your answer. Whoever the shooter was is extremely talented, they had to know that first shot was a done deal. The second shot was simply protocol, drilled in by hours of training. No, this was not hit; this was done by a soldier. A hitman is to ego-driven. They like to have a certain style about them; the first shot would have been it.”

“That isn’t always true though sir.”

“Perhaps, but you mean to tell me one guy ranged these targets and adjusted for wind speed by himself? The wind isn’t too bad yet but certainly a factor. Two men and we know it is no hitman. Have ballistics dig those slugs out of the door, they are the only two that matter.”

“Yes sir.”

Wekesa was off to his duties. Henning, on the other hand, wanted to try and find the location the sniper had used. It was a pretty desolate area so any markings were going to be visible. The scene offered itself plenty of evidence, no matter how good those involved were. Henning didn’t like this though. He didn’t like this country, he didn’t like this city, and he knew damn well he wasn’t going to like this crime scene.

General Kanu’s HQ, Sassandra, Ivory Coast- 0430 Hours

Once inside the GSL building the Malian arty barrage had lifted, but it wouldn’t be gone for long. 60-120mm Mortar rounds continued to pound into the building, but the ground and first floor level windows were reinforced with bastions that were stacked floor to ceiling with spaces from which to fire out of.

The Malians had tried firing LAW rockets and rifle grenades through the firing openings but the inaccuracy of both weapons put paid to their attempts, with the explosives smashing into the heavy dirt and debris filled defences.

Merrick and his soldiers were again split up into the same groups they had been in outside, going to the east, west and centre of the building.

General Jiklo had disappeared. The last Merrick had seen of him he was sitting on the ground oblivious to the fact that his men were retreating. He was either dead or captured, it really didn’t matter.

General Kanu was biting at the bit to come up to the ground floor and help but if the front façade of the building gave way, as was looking increasingly likely, Kanu would be better off in the basement.

Merrick had linked up with the haggard and tired looking commander of the night force, Colonel Katobu. He was a strikingly young man with extremely short hair and a thin moustache, as well as sporting a day’s stubble growth. He looked alert and fired up despite having already been on the line for more than seven hours. His men were now shoring up the defences with their colleagues in General Jiklo’s day outfit.

Huge boxes of frag grenades had appeared from somewhere and the soldiers were lobbing them out through the firing holes like confetti. Merrick ordered them to stop doing that and stop firing. Katobu looked incredulous before realizing what he was up to.

As the Ivorian firing tapered off the Malians launched another assault. They got dangerously close to the building, leaping like hell-hounds over the abandoned defences outside.

But Merrick gave the order to resume fire as they closed in, cutting their assault to pieces.

Abdul liked what he was seeing. He was beginning to believe they could hold off the Malians comfortably for an hour or two. His head was covered in small scars and having very short hair meant that the blood from the cuts and gashes ran down the sides, back and front of his head.

Whiskey had wrapped a tight bandage around his head and he’d then given Abdul a green bandana which he’d placed over the bright white bandage. It would have made too nice a target.

Abdul had lost his rifle and his pistol. He had two hand-guns left, plus his tamohawk and a small 2inch claw knife, holstered into the laces of his boots. His main weapon was a battered G3 7.62mm rifle he’d lifted from a pile. The wooden stock was chipped and ragged, it was in need of some major TLC. The metal body was also in poor shape, pitted and scared, exposing the steel beneath the black carbon coating.

But looks didn’t really matter, as long as the bullet came out the end when he pulled the trigger and went somewhere near where he was aiming, it didn’t matter. He had plenty of ammo. An Ivorian had dropped a fully loaded canvas bandolier in front of him, with fifteen full 30 round mags.

He was sitting, leaning against a wall looking down the east corridor at the front of the ground floor. He could see Ivorians moving back into the corridor to re-load or grab ammunition and grenades before going back into the large rooms to return fire.
He walked down the corridor and stood looking into one of the rooms. Four soldiers crowded two each to two firing openings and were poring fire out into the Malian lines. A GPMG had been set up and its heavy report roared in Abdul’s ears across the concrete space.

It was dark in the corridor and he instinctively reached up to his head for the night vision but remembered it had been busted up by shrapnel from a tank round. He began to focus on those tanks, to think about whether the 120mm rounds could smash through the bastion defences as the front of the GSL.

He barely heard the discernable BOOM-WHOOSH of the tank guns firing. But he saw the explosion tear the bastion defences clean into the air and hurl them back into the room he was looking into. The soldiers standing behind them never stood a chance.

Down the corridors, east and west, much the same was happening. The Malians were breaching the defences.

Abdul was blasted back into the corridor from the doorway, he slammed against the wall and slumped down before regaining his senses. His ears were ringing violently as he looked out through the huge gashes in the façade of the building.

Smoke wisps turned orange and bright yellow with the flickering of artillery flares. He could see shadows moving through the smoke and realized the Malians would be through and into that room any second.

He pulled himself across the corridor and shored himself up to the left of the doorframe, side on to the doorway. He then heard Merrick shouting in his ear, “Ok, everyone pull back to Point Bravo. The Malians are inside the building. Get to Bravo and re-group, I’m going to get the General.”

As Merrick stopped speaking Abdul heard, faintly through his throbbing ears, the heavy, fast paced boot-steps of the Malians enter the room behind him. He had dropped the G3 and he saw it a few feet away, too far if the Malians were coming quickly. He fumbled for the holster at his lower back and pulled out a small, pathetic looking silver revolver. One look at it and one might think it was a run of the mill .38. Of course, that was the point.

Abdul pointed it round the corner and the first Malian loomed up out of the smoke. He took aim at the centre mass and fired, a massive kick sent the gun flying upwards after a long tongue of angry yellow and orange flame licked out of the barrel with a deafening roar.

The .410 gauge shotgun shell blasted the Malian all over the chest and lower neck, sending him sprawling backward with a scream.

The small pistol was a actually a unique piece called ‘The Judge’, capable of firing .45ACP or .410ga in the same barrel. Merrick had loaded his with five .410 rounds for close-up encounters. He’d never used it in combat before and was amazed at the power the little thing punched out.

As he saw the Malian go down another shape loomed up through the smoke on the other side of the room, he moved and fired again. The figure fell back into the smoke and Abdul grabbed a grenade off of his chest harness, pulled the pin and counted two seconds before rolling it round the doorframe.

He dived away as the explosion sent debris and smoke flying out the doorway. He grabbed the G3, clicked the selector to full auto and sprinted down the corridor to the central hall leading to Point Bravo, which was a double set of marble stairs that the Ivorians had reinforced with bastions and machine guns if they had to fall back inside the building. Behind the stairs were loads of different rooms and corridors leading all the way back, perfect for slowing down the Malians with close-in fighting and booby-traps.

As Merrick ran down the corridor he saw a few Ivorians running up ahead of him, he watched as they were cut down the minute they exited the corridor into the entrance hall. The Malians were obviously over the outer step defences and into the building. He was, basically, trapped.

He kept running though, and as he closed on the huge archway leading to the entrance hall a Malian, his back turned, ran out from one of the rooms on the right of the corridor. Abdul tried to stop running, but tripped on a loose brick and fell into the Malian.

They both went sprawling to the floor, Abdul smashing down on his left side. He had the pistol in one hand and the G3 in the other, so he couldn’t break his fall.

As he came to rest the Malian was on his knees. He was looking down at Abdul, lying just to his side. He looked at the Hirgizstanian’s strange uniform for a second before realizing he wasn’t Malian, and that meant he was an enemy.

The skinny youth began to grab up his G36K but Abdul was too quick, rolling over and blasting him in the face with a .410 round from a foot away. The young man's face erupted in a geyser of blood as the front of his face was sent violently through his skull.

Abdul wasted no time. A couple of stray rounds licked at his feet and the walls beside him as he started forward again. Merrick was shouting into his radio, “Abdul, where the fuck are you? Report in now damn it.”

He keyed the mic and shouted breathlessly, “I’m at the entrance hall, don’t shoot as I come through to Bravo. Hold on.”

He ran straight through the blasted archway and into the entrance hall. A squad of Malians was waiting inside the huge entrance way. They were aiming their guns forward, firing through to where the Ivorians had retreated.

A couple of them saw Abdul sprint through from the left and they kept firing before realizing he wasn’t one of them.

What he assumed was an Officer pointed at him and yelled above the noise of the battle, the men began to turn their rifles. Abdul kept running and, with his right arm extended, started firing the G3 on full auto wildly at them.

He saw them take a few hits and their fire wavered as he neared the doorway to his left. As he turned through the double doorway he heard the rapid click-ick-ick-ick of his empty rifle. Then, as he started to sprint again, the wind seemed to erupt from his lungs and he felt like he’d been hit by a car in the left of his back.

As he pitched forward and to the left he realized he must be hit. A searing, dull pain began to throb as he smashed into the ground, the G3 skittering across the marble floor. He managed to hang on to the pistol as he sprawled onto the dirty marble.

He looked up, thinking his vision would be dimming and he’d be seeing a white light- hopefully- sometime soon. But instead he saw the angry orange flame erupt from a 50.cal on the double staircase in front of him.

The sound was muffled and he felt the shockwaves of the huge bullets as they passed close overhead. He snapped his eyes tight, thinking how awful it would be to die by friendly fire, even though he’d told Merrick to watch for him.

But the 50.cal bullets kept shooting past overhead and then they stopped. As he looked up he saw the Gunny and Newby running toward him, their weapons up and blazing. The Gunny grabbed his web gear and began to drag him forward. The 50.cal erupted into life again as they made it to the stairs. That’s when Abdul lost consciousness, he thought, for the last time.

Thirty-Two Days Ago
An Nakhal, Sinai, Egypt, United Federation of Eurasia

The heat that morning was sweltering. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and the Sinai Peninsula hadn't a breeze crossing over its sandy terrain in days. Viking Airfield was in the middle of nowhere, in the center of the Sinai, far removed from the Mediterranean to the north or the Red Sea to the south. Home to the 5th Regiment of the Layartebian Foreign Legion, Viking Airfield was one massive base. It supported sixty-four helicopters on permanent detachment but the base was built to handle cargo transports up to, and including, the C-29 Titan. It had a long runway and a large tarmac area. Helicopters usually had the pleasure of being stowed inside of hangars but, often, one or two could be found on the tarmac, waiting for a flight. Their base, with a large perimeter, was rarely the site of attraction or attention for anyone. Few would brave the harsh desert from far away and the town of An Nakhal had the base to thank for its sustenance. Soldiers on base frequently came into the town to spend money, helping it to survive. There were no rivers, no ways to connect An Nakhal to the rest of the world except massive super highways that ran throughout the desert. They brought tons of supplies to the airfield every few months and there it sat, in the middle of no where. The Viking Regiment was just one of nine and it was also one of the furthest from the Empire's mainland in North America. Based in the Sinai, the regiment was particularly skilled in desert warfare and survival in extreme environments. The Sinai Desert was as extreme as they could be, next to the Sahara.

The regiment had not seen much activity in the recent months. Established in the middle 1990s, they had some experience fighting with the Eurasian forces but that had since stopped for some time. Their last combat action was in the Caucasus region, fighting against Azerbaijani and Armenian nationalists. They fought gallantly there to defend Eurasian forces against hardened fighters who wanted nothing more than independence. A victory for the Eurasian forces, the Viking Regiment suffered some casualties. After the onset of war, a UH-96A Panther utility helicopter carrying eight soldiers to an insertion point took a hit from a ground-fired SAM and exploded in mid-air over the mountainous region between Azerbaijan and Armenia. All eight soldiers and both pilots were killed, their bodies recovered some time later. Later in the war, they suffered two more fatalities as a result of a well-placed mortar round. Throughout the conflict, the Viking Regiment took twelve losses and at least eighty of them were wounded in some way or another, although few critically. Now, they mostly spent their time training and tracking down smugglers in the region. That had even waned significantly.

Earlier that morning though, they had received a tip that a small terrorist cell, indigenous to the region, was plotting to set off a car bomb near the airfield. Though it had a large perimeter, a car bomb placed at the proper point could cause damage to several buildings on the airfield and its shockwave could damage aircraft on the tarmac. The tip came putting the terrorist cell fifty-two miles to the east. A platoon of men, thirty-two troops in total set out to establish their superiority and arrest the terrorist forces. They climbed into three MH-102C Dark Lord transport helicopters, their newest piece of hardware, and set out along with a pair of AH-6M Little Bird attack helicopters to capture the terrorists. The five helicopters took off and immediately took a southerly heading, keeping low over the desert, the sun still no out. Using their night vision, the helicopter pilots could see everything perfectly and they continued to the south for about fifteen miles before they turned to the east. It was a longer journey for them to make but it allowed some sort of deceit. If the terrorists had spotters at the airfield, they would report that they went south, not directly east. It could buy them some time.

Lightly armed, the five helicopters were mainly loaded with unguided weaponry, primarily guns. Both AH-6M Little Birds carried a pair of M74A1 Miniguns, each with 1,500 rounds of ammunition and the three Dark Lords carried a pair of these guns as well, each loaded with 3,000 rounds. The AH-6Ms also carried a little extra firepower though, in the form of unguided, air-to-ground Adder rockets. These 2.75" rockets were based off the CRV7 design and offered better velocity, range, accuracy, and equally destructive warheads. Neither of the Dark Lords fitted any external weaponry, opting only for their door guns, keeping their weights down. Using the desert terrain to hide themselves, they fast approached the location when they popped up to 100 feet. Both Little Birds took the lead, flying a mile ahead of the Dark Lords, moving much faster. They used GPS to guide them as the Dark Lords did the same, preparing to position themselves for troop insertion. All three helicopters were equipped with fast roping systems for the element of surprise but they weren't going to all go in that way. About five miles away, the helicopters split their formation and the Little Birds commenced their target run, low and quick, making their presence known. They were just outside of a small settlement, barely numbering a hundred people, mostly Bedouins who had settled down for some time. When the Little Birds soared overhead at high speed and low altitude, they shook the whole settlement. Though fires still burned outside of the lavish tents, nobody was outside of them.

Awake now, the people rushed out to see what was going on around them as the rotor wash from the helicopters compressed their tents, waking everyone up at the settlement. The three Dark Lords, just a mile behind, zoomed in and immediately put themselves down, on the ground. One remained in the air at all times while the other two carried the thirty-two soldiers. Both of them put down, at opposite sides of the settlement and the soldiers jumped off, their weapons to their shoulders, plastic goggles protecting their eyes from the sandstorms created from the helicopter rotors. The primary firearm of the L.F.L. was the M99A2 Advanced Special-Applications Carbine (ASAC), which was just an indigenous designation for the DDI produced DR-87. Since the L.F.L. switched away from 5.56x45mm caliber in early 2001 and to the Doomani 6.7x53mm cartridge, they had received new weapons. Most of them carried the M99A2 ASAC as a primary firearm but gunners used the M106A1 SAW. Grenadiers fitted their M99s with M115A1 Grenade Launchers. Snipers opted for the heavier 7.8x63mm cartridge used in the M107A1 Designated Marksman Rifle. Some even carried the powerful M109A1 Advanced Combat Shotgun (ASC) with powerful 12 gauge magnum slugs and 00 shot rounds. Some even carried the larger M104A1 Tactical Rifle, which was also a Doomani product, the DR-83. Almost all of their weaponry came from the Doomingsland Defense Industries (DDI). A manufacturer of high-quality arms, they exported throughout the world. Every country sold their products or used them. Though the L.F.L. were an official part of the Imperial Layartebian Army, they often operated without jurisdiction. Their weapons, being common, made it that much harder to track their origins. They also carried one more piece of Doomani hardware, the M105A1 Tactical Defense Pistol, the standard sidearm of the Imperial Layartebian Military. It was based on the Doomani TDX. Though none of these particular soldiers had any, they also had another firearm in their inventory, the M112 Viper, a submachine gun using the 10x23mm round used in the M105.

The thirty-two soldiers operated like a fast moving tornado. They moved throughout the tents in the settlement, fanning out into eight groups of four, checking tents all around the settlement. Though still in a state of shock, most of the Bedouins had begun to pull out their own firearms, which were no match for the automatic firepower the men carried. However, the Bedouins were not their target. The soldiers shouted to them, "We are looking for the Arabs. Where are the Arabs?" Most of the Bedouins were not happy to see them but they understood. They weren't too willing to help them either. They had no idea who these troops were, mostly thinking that they were Eurasian rather than Layartebian. The Little Birds buzzed overhead again and most of the Bedouins ducked for the ground. Radio chatter was high as the soldiers talked amongst themselves, directing each other, yelling to the Bedouins for the locations of the Arabs. They found out soon enough when gunfire erupted near the middle of the settlement. The terrorists were there, six of them, and they were armed. Firing off rounds towards the Layartebians, they aimed erratically, spraying more rounds towards the Bedouins than the Layartebians. The radio erupted again, "We've got them. Middle. Spraying out rounds." Soldiers approached, quieter now, keeping the Arabs in their sights. They had switched to their nightvision goggles by now and could see the whole camp, bathed in green light. It was all over a few minutes later. Two of the terrorists lay dead on the cold sand while the other four were captured, one wounded. Several of the Bedouins were injured in the assault and the soldiers administered medical aide to them. By the time the sun rose, the terrorist prisoners were inside Viking Airfield, being interrogated, the Bedouins were stitched up, and the helicopters were inspected. After every flight, mechanics inspected them to make sure everything was in proper working order, the benefit of a big budget.

Things were dull for the rest of the day until just before sunset. The regiment commander, Colonel Jens Torske, had to look over the tasking order twice before he believed it. Colonel Torske was a Layartebian by birth but, by ancestry, he was Cottish and Layartebian, his father being a Cottish politician, though both of this parents were deceased now. He had a brother but his brother was more of a civilian than anything else. He served his two year stint with the military but got out soon after to work as a consultant for an architecture firm. Though he had been married for eight years, Colonel Torske was now divorced, though without any children. He enjoyed the serenity of the Sinai Desert but he missed home.

He had been inside of his office, reviewing fuel expenditures when the tasking came across the encrypted channels. Encoded, he was immediately phoned by the watch officer, "Sir. We've got emergency flash traffic on the radio."

"On my way," he said as he stood up and squashed out his cigarette. The watch officer was a second lieutenant, green, and had quite a bit of combat experience. Everyone in the Legion did. In order to even be thought of for duty with the Legion, which was entirely volunteer, one had to have at least two years of military service and served one tour of duty in a combat zone, as a combat soldier. There were no accountants or supply managers in the Legion, they were all soldiers. Hardened and tough, the soldiers within the Legion were also not entirely Layartebian. Of the 18,432 soldiers: 5,856 were Layartebian, 2,048 were Cottish, 2,048 were Eurasian, 3,925 were Hawdawgian, 1,280 were Hirgizstanian, 1,825 were Kaliningradian, 850 were Neuvo Rican, and 600 were Roman. Kaliningradian and Neuvo Rican personnel were now without a homeland and were loyal to the Empire, the few that were in this day and age. "Alright what do we have?" Colonel Torske said as he entered the radio room and was immediately saluted. He returned the salute and walked over to the watch officer. "Decode the message."

"Roger that sir. Decoding the message. Sergeant."

"Yes sir." A staff sergeant sitting at the control panel immediately began the decoding sequence while Colonel Torske reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small, laminated plastic card. The watch officer removed one too. The card was full of codes and they all meant something. It took a few minutes but the message was decoded and printed immediately thereafter. "Sir. Message properly decoded."

"Authentication?" Colonel Torske asked.

"Sir. Authentication Alpha." It really meant gamma and they both looked to their gamma codes, which was seventh from the bottom. The card went bottom up, not top down, adding to more confusion. The sergeant handed him the tasking order and, at the bottom, there were two codes. Colonel Torske matched his and the watch officer matched his. Authenticated, Colonel Torske took the message and read through it. He read through it again and then laughed, which was out of place in the particular situation but he knew that it was for a reason.

Leaving the radio room, he immediately picked up his radio and paged for Lieutenant Colonel Jacob Iverson, the commanding officer of the 1st Battalion and Lieutenant Colonel Donald Romanus, the commanding officer of the 3rd Battalion. Both of them answered, agreeing to meet him in his office on the double. Colonel Torske beat them there by at least five minutes as both of them were on the other side of the airfield at the time of the call. "Gentlemen," he addressed them. "Stand at ease." The Legion was disciplined, more so than most units within the Imperial Layartebian Army. "We have just received crucial orders for a deployment. Your company will deploy to two different locations. Romanus, you will take your battalion to Hirgizstanian territory, inside Ghana. I have full details for you. Iverson, you will deploy to South Africa, in the United States. Gentlemen, you are given a great honor to defend our allies against their threats. Do the Legion and the Empire proud!"

"Yes sir!" A sharp salute was given before they were handed their tasking orders and they went to get their respective platoons in order. They would ship out in full, with their helicopters and their armor. A group of C-29A Titan transports would assist their move, transporting their helicopters and their armor to the proper locations along with their supplies and mobile operating centers. The L.F.L. wasn't necessarily a quick reaction force and it would take at least a week to get them to their destinations and then another week to get themselves fully operational. Luckily, for them, they had four weeks or more.

OOC: Edited with the proper force determinations.

November 17th

The crime scene was a mess with people moving to and fro, snapping off pictures, and scribbling notes which were crumbling in the ever increasing wind. The roar of the wind whipping across the relatively flats plains had reached the point where you had to shout to communicate with the person next to you. Henning had to put on a pair of sunglasses, not for the sun as it was slowly becoming engulfed by menacing clouds, but to shield his eyes from the dust and sand kicking up. He was about to try and walked to where he believed the shot to have come from, but as he walked he continually thought about the level of difficulty of the shots, and thought better of his journey. It would suit him better to take a drive in that direction. At least 1000 meters he predicated and since he would have to scan the area, it just made more sense to pull the car around. As he walked back towards the jeeps Wekesa was quickly by his side.

“Sir, the ballistics guy dug two slugs out of the side of the jeep as you asked. He said they were pretty smashed up, he’ll have to take them back to the lab to make any sort of adjustment.”

Henning replied, “Of course.”

“He did say,” continued Wekesa, “that it wasn’t a very common bullet, probably specifically designed for long distances.”

“Doesn’t help my sniper team theory does it?” Wekesa understood it was a rhetorical question and decided to leave it at that.

They both walked back over to the jeep and continued to scan the area. Shell casings littered the area as it was obvious both parties traded shots to little avail. Besides Andre there were no other bodies, some blood stains here and there but no bodies. What would possibly draw a team, ostensibly from another country, to take out a drug dealer?

“Who is the dead guy,” Henning asked rather nonchalantly.

Wekesa walked over to the victim and gave him a good once over. It was near impossible to tell anything by looking at him as his face was nearly nonexistent. The bullet had made even dental records unusable.

“How the hell should I know…the guy doesn’t even have a face.”

Henning simply shook his head.

“Well, let’s take a drive and see if we can spot anything about 1000 meters down there,” he said pointing in the direction he believed the shot to have come from. “All we can do before the rain starts to fall. Everything else we have to wait for the god damn lab results.”

They stopped about 1000 to 1200 meters from the crime scene which, while visible, was too far to distinguish much with the naked eye. Henning motioned for Wekesa to start looking around but he looked a little dumbfounded.

“What exactly am I looking for?”

Henning shook his head and shouted over the wind, “Anything…nothing…just something that looks out of place. Maybe they used a tri-pod and dug into the ground a little, maybe a piece of cloth from a guile suit…whatever.”

As he finished his statement the first drops of rain began falling around them. It was still light, but certainly it would be changing. Wekesa looked at his watch, twenty minutes as predicted. As he searched, probably in vain, Henning held up his binoculars draped around his neck. He laid flat against the ground, as he assumed the shooters were, and looked toward the jeeps roughly 1100 meters away. In his narrow field of vision he saw the jeep clearly; the blood stains as brilliantly vibrant as if up close. ‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘this is the direction. They waited here, somewhere around here, measured the distance, speed, rotation of the earth, everything. Then they took the shot, click. Probably hit before they heard a sound. He slumps now, everything happens to quick, forget adjustments, click. They had no idea what hit them, these guys were ghosts before they realized…if they realized.’

“Hey I found something,” Wekesa shouted breaking Henning out of his little re-created world.

“Really?”

“No not really, I’m not going to find anything.”

“Asshole,” replied Henning.

The rain was coming in hard now and the temperature was quickly falling. The both raced into the car and slammed the doors.

“We’ll have to wait for ballistics,” said Wekesa softly.

Henning put the key in the ignition and the engine kicked to life.

“Yea, might as well head back to the station.”

--

Their particular station was on the South Side of Mogadishu, the relatively safe portion of the city. The safe portion in Mogadishu was comparably to the worst portion of just about any city on the planet, times ten. Mogadishu’s only claim to global fame was the highest murder rate of any city. It had changed little since warlords had controlled it and Somalia for years. Militias still roamed the streets in the deepest areas of the North Side, where even US soldiers didn’t venture. They usually didn’t leave their section of the city and if you didn’t enter you could actually enjoy yourself if the weather was right. It was a most surreal city. People walked along the streets and went about daily life, eating at foreign themed cafés, going to work, walking dogs all in the presence of the distinct popping of gunfire from the North. The militias and gangs were so entrenched that the only way to really dislodge them would be to level the city, which was something Windhoek wanted no part of. Because there was no media coverage in that area, and Somalia itself wasn’t a large population of the United States the city remained under the carpet so to speak. US Special Forces would make raids every so often but it had little actual effect. The place kept itself in balance by the control of warlords, as they called themselves. No gang could gain too much power and threaten other portions of the city. As long as this sinters charade was to continue Mogadishu would effectible function, if not ideally.

They pulled into their station, a small two stories building with sand bags and a bunkered toll house. A few machine guns lined the perimeter but they had not been put to use, ever. It was all simply for precaution, nobody usually even manned them. They had beat the storm their but the clouds were trying to catch up, and as they got out of the land rover the rain followed suit. They ducked in, with their coats over their heads, to a relatively empty station.

Henning tossed his jacket to Wekesa who hung them up and took a seat at his desk. The desk was a typical low budget detective desk. It was grey with four imposter steel legs. A box sat in the middle full of clutter that was soon to become littered about his desk once he had time to settle in. He sat down heavily, testing the durability of the poor chair beneath his weight. A few orderlies raced back and forth. He heard the toilet flush and out walked another detective, Bosede Jelani.

“Where is everyone,” Henning asked.

Jelani took his time with his answer, choosing to sit first. “Another shoot-out uptown, called in some backup. They have been gone long though.”

“What about you,” chimed Wekesa.

Jelani hadn’t noticed Wekesa and looked back to meet his gaze.

“Just got back from a call myself. Craziest shit I’ve ever seen and I’ve worked Mogadishu for two years now.”

“Tell me about it,” Henning said sarcastically.

Jelani obliged, “Got the call a little before one. House fire…some little abandoned place. Wasn’t much anything until they discovered someone had been cooked.”

Henning wasn’t really paying attention but listened nonetheless.

“So I drive down there and take a look. Turns out, this guy is strung upside down dangling in front of the door. Alive too, I think. There are some weird markings around his waist, legs, and arms that seem like a struggle. Can’t really tell much, he was in pretty bad shape when I got to him.”

Something caught Henning’s ear.

“Strung upside down you said?”

“Yea, real professional like.”

“What time did you say you heard about this?” Henning was completely re-energized.

“One…why?”

Henning was up from his seat with coat in hand.

“Wekesa come on, take a ride with me.”

Outside the storm was in full fury above the city. The high winds and heavy crackling of thunder had overtaken the report of gunfire from the other side of town. Ironically, despite the intense storm, it was the most peaceful Mogadishu sounded in quite some time. Most of the side streets, usually covered in sand and dirt, were a mess spilling mud into the main streets. Movement was slow and pretty dangerous at that, but their Land Rover was one for the challenge. They sped along the roads, practically empty of human life, until they neared the outskirts of the city where Jelani had said his crime scene was. The GPS, courtesy of Hirgizstan satellites, calmly read out directions, though Henning was familiar enough with the area to go off of memory. Wekesa was sitting on the passenger side talking into his cellular phone. The head detective at the day’s earlier scene had wrapped up events there. Wekesa hung up the phone and slid it into his pocket. Henning looked ever, wanting an explanation. Wekesa had to raise his voice to overcome the patter of rain and the rip of the windshield wipers working diligently to keep Henning’s vision ok.

“That was Vandi, they were able to get everything before the rain fell hard. Should have the coroner’s report and suspect identification in the next day or so.”

“Good,” replied Henning, “hopefully that will shed some light onto this bloody mess.”

The Land Rover pulled up to a house charred black from fire. Yellow police tape blew violently in the wind and little orange flags representing points of interest swung from to and fro. The small frayed remains of a rope hung near the door, or what remained of it. Henning pulled the car to the side of the road and put it in park. Wekesa looked a bit confused, especially when Henning opened the door and walked into the torrential downpour.

Henning walked around the building, surveying it up and down. He wasn’t going to find much, if anything at all. Nevertheless he stood on the surrounding sidewalk, drenched from head to toe in the warm African rainfall. After a minute or two outside he returned to the Rover and to a befuddled Wekesa.

“You think this is linked to the sniper?” Wekesa asked trying to figure out what his partner was thinking.

“Yes I do. It all fits, but doesn’t at all.”

Henning pulled his seatbelt over his chest and flipped the Rover on.

“This was obviously no random act. They strung whoever that was up and let him burn. No bullets or evidence to connect him with the sniper victim,” he continued, “he knew something and these guys were merciless.”

“But how do you know it is related. This is Mogadishu, this happens all the time,” shot back Wekesa.

“This house is too close to outer boundaries of the city. A nice little safe house, nobody is going to pay any attention to. They base their operations out of this, drive out to the location of the deal, knock off the target, call the guys back here and knock off this guy, probably an informant. You’ll see, the time of death on this guy and our sniper victim will be to close for it to be one guy.”

Wekesa remained skeptical, “but I do not see how these two things are linked.”

Henning was quick to reply, “We have two crime scenes separated by no more than an hour, though I’d put money it is more like a few minutes, both with victims we cannot identify, both with little to no evidence, both done obviously by professionals? You don’t think they are related?”

He paused for a moment to think, “When the rain clears will come back and see how quick the route is from here to the sniper scene.”
The yellow blinker from the Land Rover ticked ominously amidst the roar of thunder. The vehicle pulled abruptly into the roar and was quickly on its way back to the station. The two remained quiet until Henning broke the silence.

“Call Jelani, I want surveillance video of anything within a three mile radius.”

“There is nothing near this place though with a camera on it.”

“There are enough cameras within that radius to do some good. These guys obviously aren’t here anymore…they had to leave somehow.”

General Kanu’s HQ, Sassandra, Ivory Coast- 0455 Hours

Chief Constable Marko Navuman was down yet another man, killed in the recent Malian onslaught. He had two Constables left now. They were both with him as he helped prepare traps and firing positions at the back of the GSL building.

The Malians were literally inside the GSL, although they still weren’t through the main entrance hall. But it wouldn’t be long.

The sound of heavy gunfire echoed and reverberated through the giant building. Thankfully the Malians had stopped their artillery barrage, lest they hit their own men in and around the structure. That at least put the threat of death in a collapsing building out of the Chief’s head for the time being.

He was carrying a backpack full of claymore mines and had a sketch of the first floor corridors in his hands. The ones with a red arrow running through them were the Ivorian escape route to the back of the building, ending at the staircase on the south side which led down to the ground floor and out. Dim red lines of spray-paint had also been discreetly painted on at down the edges of the ceilings on the 'safe' routes so everybody knew what to look for when trying to get out.

Every other corridor and room was fair game to be trapped and the Chief was doing just that with the help of his remaining two men.

They would drag furniture toward doorways and then stick claymore tripwires across the frames, concealing the green mines with the furniture before pulling the pins and arming them.

They didn’t just stick them in doorways though. Many of the roof tiles and strip lights in the corridors and rooms were broken or movable and so they used that to conceal the mines, aiming them downward toward the ground and running the wires into furniture in the corridors or tightening the wires by putting them under bricks and debris.

This way the Malians would simply be walking or running down the corridor or through a room and the blasts would hit them on top of the head, instead of at their legs.

It took a while for the Chief to get through the entire bag of mines, but once he did so he returned to the front of the building to see if he could help.

He and his men made their way forward to the main stairwell at the entrance hall. Tired, bloody and dirty Ivorian troops lined the corridors on the way, resting before the Malians broke through. The stairway wasn’t big enough for everybody to fight at once.

He saw three of the Hirgizstanian’s on the way, one of them was unsconscious and propped up against a wall, the other two talking in hushed tones beside him.

That was worrying. But much more worrisome was the sheer volume of fire that seemed to be coming from the stairwell, both incoming and outgoing.

The Chief stepped out into it with his two men and immediately got as low down on his haunches as he could, just like everyone else. Debris filled bastions and sandbags lined the top of the stairs. A lone .50cal was set up in the center continually firing away, the gunner kneeling down behind the defenses, blind firing at the Malians.

An RPG screeched by overhead and detonated high up showering the Chief with concrete dust as he inched forward to where the rest of the Hirgizstanians and Colonel Katobu were gathered to the left of the gun.

They were speaking loudly with gestures of the arms and moving close to each others ears to be heard.

Every now and then one of the soldiers, a towering, older black man with Gunnery Sergeant’s insignia would lob a grenade over his head toward the Malians.

The Chief moved up close behind Katobu and they let him come closer. Merrick gestured to him and asked who he was. Katobu leaned forward and explained.

One of the Hirgizstanian’s was turned away from the rest of the group. The Chief didn’t know that he was looking at the UAV images showing the outside front of the building. The Malians were quickly moving in a breaching tank with a shovel at the front that would make quick work of the entrance hall and allow the Malians to punch right through to the stairwell.

Lee Jildaz quickly turned to Merrick and hollered, “Breacher is closing fast, suggest we get the fuck out of here Captain?”

Merrick nodded and relayed the information to Katobu. They and the other Ivorians began to slowly make their way out of the stairway landing and into the corridors behind.

The machine gunner was the last to leave. Merrick watched the UAV footage of the breacher storming up the outside steps of the building and felt the vibrations as it smashed through the outer walls and stalled before revving back and then rushing forward, disappearing inside the building.

He could hear the engine from where he was now. It was big and powerful and he felt the building shake as it crashed into the wall not 25 yards in front and below him.

The shock of the breacher seemed to wake Abdul from his unconscious state. He jumped and immediately felt the surge of pain from his back. Whiskey saw him come to and knelt down beside him, “You took a round in your back plate, knocked you out cold. Can you get up?”

Abdul laughed. Whiskey thought that was strange given their current predicament, and considering the fact that the man had nearly died. A bit lower or higher and the big 7.62 bullet could have hit his head or the arteries in his leg. And he laughed.

He stood up and shouldered the G3. Abdul looked around wondering where he was for a second before getting his bearings.

As he did so General Kanu arrived down the corridor, his radio-men at his sides. He stopped by Abdul and bent down to have a word. “Are you injured, my friend?”

Abdul smiled and stood up level with the old man, “Hell no, it’ll take more than one bullet to stop me. Now, get yourself to the rear of the building…no arguments.” Kanu nodded knowingly and shouted to grey haired man wearing a flight-suit instead of combats, with a police shield on the left side. He took off after the General down the corridor with two other men dressed the same way.

Timothy Riley was clearing dust from the exposed links going into the M240G’s tray. He gave the big gun a shake to test the weight and judge how many rounds were left in the big tub beneath the gun that carried the 7.62mm rounds, 200 if it was full. He watched as Merrick approached the rest of the men who were spread out with the Ivorians on the floor of the corridor. Heavy firing started up again at the exit to the stairs.

Riley noticed Merrick had his pipe clenched in between his teeth. That meant the shit was really starting to hit the fan.

It was Riley that first noticed the renewed barrage of incoming shells from the Malian tanks that had now entirely circled the building. They were pounding the side of the legislature, perhaps hoping to punch a hole through the walls and flank the Ivorians and Hirgizstanian Marines inside.

Abdul, though, heard it too and he spoke quickly over the net to Merrick. “They’re trying to blow the sides out of the building and take us down. Let me check it out over that way.”

Merrick was crouched low near the doorway to the stairs. He wasn’t next to Merrick but turned and spoke to the NIA man who was now on the other side of the corridor, looking in the direction the explosions were coming from. Newby was crouched low next to him fixing his MOLLE gear. “If you feel up to it, go ahead. Take the Newby with you and stay in contact. Move quickly and get back here A-SAP, keep to the corridors with the red spray-paint on the ceiling, those are safe, everywhere else is booby-trapped according to the Ivorians.”

The Newby heard the Captain over the net and stood up next to Abdul, checking his SCAR-H was cocked and ready. Abdul nodded at the Captain and was turning away as he saw an Ivorian moving toward the door with an RPG on his shoulder. An Ivorian Liutenant was standing at the side of the doorway peering out, bravely putting himself in harms way to keep an eye on the Malians. He was using hand signals to tell the RPG man what to do.

He stopped him and the man with the rocket launcher crouched down. Then the Liutenant gave him a thumbs up and he stood. He fired the rocket out the doorway and Abdul could hear the blast down below them. The Liutenant gave another thumbs up and a second RPG man took the first one’s place.

He stood up and Merrick and Abdul were the first two to hear the first shots of return fire and then see them blow chunks of concrete from the walls as the Malians blasted rounds through the doorway. Abdul watched as a couple of the rounds hit the RPG soldier clean across his chest. He slumped to the side and Abdul watched in freeze-framed horror as the man’s finger locked down around the trigger of the rocket launcher.

Merrick saw too and shoved Riley down, shouting at everyone else. The Liutenant by the door was cut down by the same barrage the RPG man had been caught by.

Abdul threw himself into the Newby and they both began to fall to the floor as the rocket ignited and rushed off the launcher, spraying the tight corridor with sparks from the gunpowder booster along with the cordite smell and a cloud of white smoke. Abdul was by now half-way to the ground, with the Newby falling beneath him.

Merrick, Abdul and his soldiers instinctively drew up the information that the warhead wouldn’t have time to arm in such a small space. It would likely harmlessly fall to the ground and remain inert since the rocket motor only ignites ten metres from the barrel.

But, as in war, few things go as they should. The rocket leapt out of the launcher and smashed into the high ceiling of the first floor. The detonator was so old that it simply gave up and the warhead exploded, ripping the plaster, wood and concrete out of the ceiling, sending a four metre section of the roof and the floor above crashing down beside and around Abdul and the Newby.

There was no way back to the rest of the Ivorian and Hirgizstanian Marines, the two men were trapped. Both of them shoved pieces of plaster and concrete off them and coughed up lungfulls of concrete dust.

Both men couldn’t hear a thing, the ringing in their ears was the most intense thing either had ever felt. Abdul doubly so as his ears had already been buffeted several times in the space of a few hours.

It took both men the best part of ten minutes before they stopped gagging on dust and before any semblance of hearing came back. Both could hear a faint voice shouting down their radios, “Newby, Abdul, please respond…Corporal Tyzxas…Abdul…respond if you can hear this, or squelch the radio if you can’t talk. We can’t see or hear you and we’re pulling back to Bravo. Repeat, we are pulling back to Bravo…”

Newby was the first to respond in a gravelly voice through a couple of deep, scratching coughs, “Roger that Captain…floor has collapsed back here...No way through to you. We’re both fine though, we’ll try and meet you…at Bravo…out.”

General Kanu’s HQ, Sassandra, Ivory Coast- 0515 Hours

The image that came foremost to Captain Merrick’s mind was the kill-house in which he and his men honed their CQB and hostage-rescue skills from time to time. Except in this particular house the enemy weren’t cardboard and the scene couldn’t be re-set if a mistake was made.

The Ivorians were now under the de-facto command of Merrick and his men as they were the ones with the guns that could see around corners. Katobu kept squarely in the middle of his men, helping tend to any wounded, pass out ammunition and re-assure them. He also kept in contact with Kanu who was already waiting at Point Bravo.

Through the constant and consuming racket of small arms fire in an enclosed space the odd rumbling explosion and distant screams told Merrick and the Ivorians that their carefully placed booby-traps were working and the fact that the ‘safe’ corridors were lined with huge pieces of furniture and the odd bit of kitchen machinery meant progress for the Malians was slow and costly in blood.

But Lucky Lee was eyeing up a potentially much bigger problem materializing outside. The Malians weren’t just throwing all they had into the GSL, several tanks and other armored vehicles were attempting to break through the fortified and apparently mine-infested barricades that would put them behind the building, cutting off any hope of retreat.

Merrick was now slumped down beside Lee looking at the UAV image in his visor. The Malians would get through, that was for sure. The choice in front of Merrick and the others was to stay inside the building and risk being trapped completely or hurry through and break out possibly before the Malians broke through the barricades, which meant putting their backs to the sea and hoping they’d make it to 0630.

Neither were palatable choices. Merrick had to make a decision, but he didn’t want to force himself into accepting either bad situation, so he made another choice that would give them a fighting chance either way.

“2nd Squad, this is Merrick, come in, over.”

“Captain, this is Jafar, we read you, over.”

“Listen close Lieutenant- I need you to move positions to the petrol station at the rear west corner of the GSL, we might need your heavy weapons. You can see from the UAV that the Malians are trying to get around behind the building, where we might need to break out or risk being trapped. We need you there to cover us. Do it fast and be careful, don’t be seen. There’s a lot of people counting on you Massoud.”

“Roger all that Captain, give em’ hell, out.”

Merrick was about to stand up when he heard the unmistakable sound of a .50cal being fired close by and then the massive thuds as the rounds hit concrete. Then a scream as the rounds found their mark.

He stood as Riley hustled quickly toward him from the top of the corridor where a pair of Ivorians crouched over a comrade with blood spilling from his stomach like a leaky pipe, soaking into the dingy, dust strewn carpet.

Riley shouted over the din of the big gun, “They got a fifty on a tripod, they’re really giving it everything. They got RPG’s too, but they haven’t used them yet, I reckon they’re scared of the roof collapsing, but shit- if they don’t make good progress then they will, only a matter of time. We need to move again Captain, keep heading to Bravo.”

Merrick nodded grimly. He talked to Whiskey who was with Katobu tending wounded around another corridor. The Ivorians were sitting or standing everywhere, waiting to either move or move up to the corners to help defend their retreat.

With Merrick’s orders they all began moving, with the wounded moving out first.

Forward Operating Base Lima-6A
Kokum, Ghana, 25 miles east of Côte d'Ivoire

"Gentlemen. Listen up, there's some important news on the wire from Next Door." That was what they called Côte d'Ivoire or the Ivory Coast, "Next Door." The situation had been bad when they arrived outside of Kokum, a city of 50,000, just twenty-five miles east of the border with the Ivory Coast but now it had spiraled out of control. Opposing forces were driving hard against the Hirgizstanians, who controlled the Ivory Coast. "OPFOR have General Kanu's HQ basically under their control. Ivorians holding out are under intense fire and bombardment from the Malians. We do not know yet if they are surrounded or not but we can expect that Sassandra will be in OPFOR hands by evening, the latest, if they do not already control the city. Our intelligence is being fed from Hirgizstan so we may be lagging behind. Command wants us to be roaring and ready to go. The Hirgizstanians are going to hit the coast hard, aiming to secure every town around Sassandra and, from there, launch an assault on the city. Once they have the location secured, their engineers are going to construct an airfield for us to operate out of, letting us right into the action. The drive is to push the Malians all the way back.

"Gentlemen, I can't begin to tell you how intense this combat will be. We're in the jungles down there and you and I know how difficult it is to fight in the jungle. The Hirgizstanians are trained for this and so are we. We will operate as independent forces at times and as Hirgizstanians at times. Our mission is to secure the Hirgizstanians mission. If they fail, we fail. Never has the Foreign Legion failed and we shall not fail now, not in this time of need. We will be moving out shortly, assisting Hirgizstanians forces along the border and the coast. We're tasked with a pretty large armored and infantry unit that is going to make a push for Aboisso, a city about fifty-seven miles northwest of our position. Gentlemen, this will be our finest hour!" Lieutenant Colonel Donald Romanus, commander of the 3rd Battalion of the 5th Regiment of the Layartebian Foreign Legion dictated as he stood in front of his men inside of a hangar at their makeshift, temporary airfield. Helicopters sat ready on the tarmac and troops were itching for combat action. They had little time left before Operation OPEN SEASON began, which would be the offensive meant to push the Malians all the way back to Mali.

3. BarutiNovember 18th
Windhoek, Namibia

Hell in a handbag. That was his only thoughts of the day. Hell in a handbag.

The recent surge of national and international woes had forced him off the campaign trail and back to Windhoek. He didn’t mind all that much, the duties of the presidency were weighing on him, and some time off the road was much needed. He was hardly getting the rest he needed though. With GATO’s campaign kicking off in Cote, small uprisings in far away Algeria, Somalia being Somalia, and the election not far off, his stamina was wearing thin. Something was going to have to give if he were to continue this strenuous pace. He had to turn down an invitation to Layarteb for its annual Fleet Week, something that did not help relations. While it was met with some criticism from Layarteb and GATO partner Hirgizstan USB’s stance had been the same on Fleet Week since the country’s birth. With Layarteb and Hirgizstan’s recent ongoing operations meeting widespread disapproval among the population, the stance was even more firm now than ever before. He was due in Ghana within the week for a meeting between GATO command, one which was sure to be both physically and mentally draining. Baruti found himself the peace keeper between Hirgizstan and his US. Relations had been slowly growing apart and this campaign against the Malians would surely test the ties between the nations. While Baruti didn’t completely agree with all the doings of the Hirgizstan government he understood that the United States survival, economically speaking, depended on Hirgizstan. The United States still had a lot of growth that needed to be exploited and for that to happen the US needed oil. Hirgizstan had plenty of it and with the economic union between the nations; the US got this oil for cheap. It was just one resource that was vital to the economic growth of the US and just one resource that Hirgizstan supplied out of many.

Algeria would surely be mentioned. Rumors had already filtered down to Windhoek that Ugo had left the Malian front and was now leading an assault on Algeria. Official reports denied this rumor as several intelligence agencies both US and Hirgizstan found no significant evidence to conclude such. It seemed unlikely that man of Ugo’s drive would abandon an attack on the verge of victory. Then again it the very same intelligence agencies all agreed that Ugo wasn’t running the show. Ugo or not, the situation there was quickly deteriorating. A quasi civil war had broken out among factions vying for control of the country. This left the country wide open for foreign intervention something GATO wasn’t all too happy with. Not to mention that it also left the door open for Ugo to recruit if it ever came to that. Something would have to be done and it seemed it would be GATO that would have to do it.

These were only two out of many problems that now faced the bewildered president. His age was catching up to him with terrible timing.

Hell in a handbag.

General Kanu’s HQ, Sassandra, Ivory Coast- 0520 Hours

Abdul and Newby could both hear the gunfire and explosions that reverberated throughout the building. They were a floor below the rest of their squad, on the ground floor, moving toward the heavily fortified and booby-trapped rear areas of the building, towards Point Bravo- the last possible point of defense inside the GSL.

They had followed the red lines painted on the ceiling the whole way and found themselves in the ground floor restaurant. A lingering smell of cooked food, disinfectant and smoke filled their nostrils as they walked in. The tables and chairs were mostly kicked over and lying broken all around, with a few spaces cleared here and there that were stained with blood and littered with bandage packages, spent shell casings and various empty boxes of rations and ammunition.

The metal counter-tops and chiller cabinets shook and vibrated with the sounds of gunfire and the odd explosion that came from somewhere above. A faint sound of big diesel engines also ran through the concrete walls and gave a slight buzz, barely audible.

A few leftover bottles of still water sat in one of the chiller cabinets. The Newby went over and poured a complete one over his face before throwing another to Abdul who did likewise. It felt good, almost refreshing as they both rubbed at their skin to get the grime and soot off.

“We’ll take five here, let’s see what the Captain’s up to.” Newby nodded and opened another bottle of water before wandering behind the heated food stands and into the amber-tiled kitchen. He could hear on his radio what Abdul was saying.

“Captain, Abdul here, what’s your status, over?”

“We’re close to Bravo, the Malians are following us down the corridors, and trying the booby-trapped ones as well. We’ll be at Bravo in five minutes at our current pace.”

There was a pause and the somewhat distant sound of gunfire exploded on the radio now. A couple of sharp, neat bursts later and Merrick spoke again, “Sorry about that…yeah, so how are you guys getting along?”

“We’re on the ground floor in the restaurant, should be with you soon. No sign of the Malians on this level.”
“Good, keep it going and watch your back. See you soon, out.”

Abdul wandered over to the broken chill cabinet and got himself another water, drinking it down eagerly. It was kind of warm but better than the stuff in his canteen which usually tasted of plastic or puri-tabs.

He was about to turn around and check out the exit of the restaurant marked with a red dot above the frame, but as he put one foot forward he heard raised, pained voices and agonized shouts, before a gaggle of Malian soldiers burst in through the entrance they’d come through carrying wounded.

Abdul ducked quickly into the kitchen and nearly bowled over Newby who was moving toward him, crouched behind a hot-food cabinet. Newby pointed down the aisle between the food cabinet and the preparation tables, around a corner to the rear of the kitchen and they both moved slowly, listening to the shouts and groans of the Malians as they noisily went about laying out their wounded.

Unfortunately for the two men there was no rear exit to the kitchen. They slumped down behind a wall where a couple of big freezers or cookers or some appliance had once sat. Everything that hadn’t been bolted to the floor was gone, used as a barricade somewhere in the building. Wires and tubes littered the tiled floor of the big kitchen.

Newby was fiddling in a side pouch of his MOLLE vest and brought out what appeared to be a small coil of black wire. It was a fiber-optic cable. The young Corporal moved off on his hands and knees back around the corner, placing the coiled wire through a gap between two chiller cabinets and running the wire back to their position where he inserted the end of it into a small connector on the touch-pad on his forearm.

He was greeted by a fish-eye black and white image of the restaurant’s seating area. Boots moved in front of the lens every so often and it clearly picked out several bodies lying or sitting on the floor, bandages attached here and there. Several other soldiers sat on chairs, smoking and drinking from canteens, talking loudly to each other. A few of them carried medical bags and wore white armbands with red-crosses in the centre. They tended to the wounded every now and again.

Every few minutes a fresh casualty would come through the doors and the medics would rush to treat him. It was pretty chaotic.

Newby relayed everything he saw to Abdul. They were trapped. The Malians might only be wounded and medics but all of them hand hand-guns or rifles close to hand and there were probably more troops close by.

They had to get out somehow. “Listen kid, no easy way to do this- we either stay here and hope they move on which looks unlikely or sit here until 0630 hoping we either don’t get discovered or that your squad stays in the building so the Navy don’t flatten it before then. Choice is yours Corporal, I’m not officially here, remember.” He winked.

Newby looked taken aback, he spoke low but was pissed off nonetheless, “How the fuck can you just sit there like that, we’re probably gonna’ die you moron, and you just…just fucking sit there and put it all on me?”

Abdul seemed not to notice his tone and seemed oblivious to the ramifications of their predicament, “You’re a Marine kid, a Force Recon Marine no less, you gonna’ shit yourself in all hairy situations or just this one?”

Newby was visibly stumped for words, who the fuck was this nobody lecturing him in such an offhand manner at such a time? But before he got a chance to speak the sonofabitch spoke again, “This is your first time in combat kid, your Captain told me that. Tell the truth I was worried, I don’t need someone fucking up under pressure and getting us all a one-way ticket to six-feet-underworld. So you were fit enough mentally and physically to get into Force Recon, didn’t expect to have to make shitty choices like this your first run-out did ya’?”

The young man was staring straight at the ground, he was thinking which was good. Abdul had seen all of this before. In his time in one SOF unit or another he’d seen guys who were fit enough mentally and physically crumble their first time under enemy fire- the training couldn’t make you realize or comprehend that in combat, the end of your life was smashing down all around you and coming face to face with your mortality really separated the capable from the incapable. You could have all the training in the world, but once a bullet passes so close you can feel the heat, that’s when its time to man-up or fuck off.

Newby had a decision to make. Abdul could see he’d made it, he was blinking again and looking around, watching the image of the restaurant in his visor, the cogs were ticking. He hadn’t frozen at the crucial point. He’d make it…probably.

“So what’s it to be kid, we try and get out of here or sit tight and get our knitting out?”

“Grenades…use grenades to clear the room then run like fuck out the doors shooting as we go. We might just make it, better than knitting any day.”

“That’s the spirit, how many grenades you got?”

“Four frags and a willy-pete.”

“I got two frags and two willy-pete’s- if that ain’t enough we never stood a chance anyway.”

Both men began to grab grenades from pouches or webbing, setting them on the ground beside them. The white phosphorous ‘willy-pete’s went first. Both men removed the pins and tossed them high over their heads into the seating area. Before the first one kicked off Abdul had his second thrown.

Then the burning white metal fired up and the shadows and light danced all over the walls of the kitchen as the shouts of confusion and screams of agony began. Then came the six frag grenades and rocking explosions sent shrapnel flying and clunking into metal cabinets and tiled walls.

The sound was excruciating on the ears, Abdul was convinced he’d lost his hearing for good as he jumped up after the last grenade went off and sprinted into the smoke wreathed maelstrom of kicking bodies and dampened screams.

At every shadow he cracked off a couple of rounds and kept moving where he knew the door was, tripping over the odd body or straying into a table. But he found the wall and felt the Newby slam into his side. He shimmied left to find the door and fell through it, the Newby crashing down beside him.

They both pulled themselves up and ran down the deserted corridor, keeping their eyes on the red line on the roof as they went. Behind them they could hear piercing screams and harried shouts from the restaurant. Following the red line they turned a corner at what appeared to be a typing pool of some sort with broken computers sitting on about twenty oak desks in various states of disrepair.

They bombed through the room and out the other side, to be greeted by a squad of Malians hustling down the corridor to their left . The two men loosed bursts of gunfire but the Malians were quicker, letting off two RPG’s that looped and barreled towards Abdul and Newby like a pair of angry sharks.

But the two grenades were way high and as both men ducked they heard the missiles hit home on the wall to their right that led around to another corridor on the red line.

With their ears ringing and barely able to see in the dust they continued firing blind down the corridor to the left as they dodged around the corner filled now with chunks of debris, only to be greeted to more Malians coming the other way.

The game was up, for sure. Both men looked at each other knowingly, prepared to meet their fate. Abdul crouched down and began firing down the corridor to the right as bullets impacted all around him, cracking and whizzing past him like awry fireworks. Newby did the same down the corridor to the left.

As the Malians closed in Abdul caught a glimpse of a weird light filling the corridor all around him. He looked left and through the haze of smoke from the RPG hits on the wall he could see…outside.

There was a sizeable whole in the wall now, with the smoke and dust being sucked out into the sea breeze. He fired a full burst down the corridor, grabbed Newby by the Heli-Evac strap on the back of his MOLLE gear and yanked him around, dragging him stumbling toward the whole in the wall.

They clambered quickly and ungracefully over the bricks and concrete before falling a meter to the ground, landing almost on top of each other in a heap, bullets flying by overhead like angry bees.

They were outside on the western flank of the building on the pavement of a totally barricaded street replete with burned out cars, tanks and metal debris, some of it concreted crudely to make removing it a little harder.

The bullets erupting overhead from the hole they’d jumped through wasn’t their only problem though, as they looked right a massive Leopard tank with a devilish looking dozer blade on the hull front was revving its huge diesel engine and banging pieces of the barricades out of the way. The driver and commander were both visibly up in their turrets, cast in a strange reddish glow as the sun inched its way up the horizon.

The tank crew hadn’t seen the two men yet, but the amount of gunfire at their position meant they would soon. Over the din Abdul shouted, “We gotta’ move, we fire over our heads and then sprint across the street, don’t fucking stop no matter what.”

The young Corporal’s face was pained and showed the stress of worry etched in every grimace line. But he was holding up fine. Abdul quickly stripped a mag out of his G3 and locked home another before swinging the long rifle up over his head and loosing the whole mag into the hole they’d jumped out, just as the Newby did the same with his SCAR.

Then both men jumped up and sprinted into the street, splitting up and dodging left and right through the debris and being careful not to tread near the huge, dinner plate sized anti-tank mines here and there. A few seconds after jumping up small arms fire started kicking at their heels and thunking into car hulls and other metal debris as they made their way forward as fast as they could.

The crew of the tank saw them and the Commander swung around his .50cal and let loose a long tracer filled burst. Abdul could see the tracers kick up around him and flash past leaving blinding spots in his eyes as he moved forward, ducking and dodging through the street.

For the second time in the space of only a few hours he heard the unmistakable sound of the tanks main gun spitting out a round close by, and he felt the shockwave move his clothes and rumble the earth before he heard the shell pass close overhead like a flying car before it smashed into the side of an already destroyed building, showering the two men in the street with debris.

The .50cal started up again as the they sprinted into the wrecked forecourt of a gas station on the corner before ducking right down a tight alley and into a warren of destroyed buildings, another tank shell erupting close by, with 50.cal rounds shooting past overhead.

They ran out from the side of the house across a lawn and wide residential road into the bombed out shell of a large three story house and straight through the melted charred black conservatory before emerging into a garden filled with scorched black and yellow grass, dead plants and the burnt remains of a sizeable shed.

The garden was walled off by a sturdy 8ft concrete wall that ran around all sides. A small pool lay half full off to the right in front of a garage and driveway. Abdul quickly motioned over to it and they both made a bee-line for the driveway to get out of their trap.

But once they heard the shouted commands of Malian solders and the lights of their under-barrel torches bouncing off the remains of the house they knew it was no good.

Both men fell back into the garden and ran back inside the remains of the house, blasting away toward the Malians surrounding the front and driveway.

Abdul could see straight outside through one of the house rooms and into the street beyond which was filled with Malians sitting in cover behind cars and in holes in the tarmac.

He took a couple of shots, hitting nothing but metal and pavement before a return volley nearly cut him and Newby in half. He ducked down and turned in the direction the Newby was firing, just to see a Malian jump through a gaping hole in the house wall, only to be cut down by the SCAR.

Another body popped up and Abdul knocked it down before turning his fire to the garden through the charred conservatory where another bunch of Malians were making their way toward the house.

He hosed two of them down before the others ducked back behind a still in-tact wall. Then he heard what every soldier dreaded at such a time, the dead man’s click- no bullets left. He had plenty of other magazines and was relying on the Newby to hold them off while he re-loaded but the young Corporal’s gun had gone silent as well. He was fumbling for a magazine. ‘Shit’, he thought.

It didn’t take the Malians a second to notice and then they came piling through the conservatory and side of the house toward them. Abdul had heard of soldiers in different wars recently and in history making their last stand, but in all his years he’d hoped and prayed it would never happen to him, never believing it could ever happen. The closest he’d come was a few months ago at the border town in Mali when he was trapped with Ivorian SOF. But it hadn’t been such a close thing, the good guys had arrived right on time.

There was no chance of that now. He shouted to the Newby, “Nice knowin’ ya’ kid, let’s give em’ something to remember.”

The Corporal looked around with an expression of pain and terrible anguish etched across his face as he nodded before roaring like a true Marine and whipping out his Mk.23, blasting away in front of him.

Abdul tore his 1911 from his thigh holster and did the same, taking down the gaggle of Malians screaming for blood a few meters away. The enemy firing full auto, ripping chunks out off the fire-blackened furniture and pieces of the collapsed house roof that Abdul and the Newby were holed up behind.

For the first time, in the blinding torchlight from the Malian guns, both men saw the enemy had fixed bayonets. This was it.
Abdul slapped another magazine home as the Newby kept up his firing, then changed out a mag himself. The Malians were pouring into the house now and screaming like banshees. The faint sound of a voice magnified by a bull-horn cut through the maelstrom of gunfire in the small space.

“Drop your weapons and get face down on the ground. You will not be harmed. Do not throw away your lives, surrender now. Stop firing and we will stop, SURRENDER NOW.”

Abdul laughed as he sent the slide forward again on his 1911 after slamming in his second to last mag. He didn’t see that a group of Malians had quietly entered through the front of the house and were slowly flanking him, covered by the intense gunfire and swirling cordite smoke.

In a second one was one him, jabbing out with a huge bayonet on a long G36K, blinding Abdul with the torch.

He saw the Newby turn round and then get smacked on the head with a rifle butt before he was blinded again by the torch. His hands were clasped around the front body of the composite rifle, swinging to and fro with the exertions of the Malian. He felt another bayonet stab at his side and glance off his body armor. He jumped to the side and collapsed to his knees, grabbing up his combat tomahawk with one hand, and swinging it out toward the legs of the Malian attempting to stick him in the neck with a bayonet.

He heard a scream and the gun flipped upward as the Malian headed down. The torch dropped and Abdul’s vision struggled back to normality in time to see another Malian lunge toward him. He clobbered the gun away with the axe and jumped up at the soldier, swinging the weapon in close to the man’s torso and feeling it bite deep before coming out again.

Abdul bent down quickly and grabbed the karambit curved 3 inch knife out of his boots and began slashing at the wounded Malians lying screaming on the floor. Their hot blood splashed onto his face.

He then jumped forward to meet another attacker, bringing the tamohawk crashing down through the enemy’s neck and watching him slump to the ground before embedding the axe deep in his spine.

Abdul just had time to look up and see the man who would kill him. It was an Officer, a machete in one hand and a hand-gun in the other. He pointed the latter straight at Abdul and shot him until the magazine was empty, ten times.

Newby just had time to see Abdul’s limp body slump backwards and collapse in a heap beside him as he grappled with a Malian pinning him to the ground as another constantly booted him in the arms and face. His hand was flailing close to where Abdul dropped.

He saw the blood-red glint of the tamohawk in torchlight as it bounced over the debris, the handle landing a few inches from Newby’s outstretched fingers. He breathed deeply as his second attacker drew back his boot and the one on top laughed. His fingers found the lethal weapon’s grip and he brought it arching up and crunching down, spike side first, into the spine of the soldier pinning him.

He let out an almighty howl as Newby grinded the blade out and brought it down again, into his side this time. Blood spewed out of the man’s mouth, spraying him in the face.

The young Marine let out his war cry like the devil-dog he was and shouldered the enemy soldier off him, swiping wildly at the legs of the man still kicking him and shouting. He hacked at his legs, embedding the small axe in the Malians thigh, resulting in a shocked cry of anguish.

Newby stood and brought the weapon arcing down into the man’s screaming face. The blade bit through the side of his head above the ear and stopped after ploughing through his left eye and embedding itself in the man’s upper palate.

He pulled it out and let the body fall, blood pissing up from the Malians head in a geyser caught by more than ten gun-mounted torch lights in a semi-circle all pointed at the Corporal.

The Officer who had killed Abdul stood in front of him with a sneer of evil on his skinny face. He cradled a pistol and a machete hung down from his belt.

“You are ours now Hirgizstanian. You have failed, and your corrupt leaders will forget about you as you languish in our prisons. Welcome to the People’s Republic of Mali.”

Newby spat a glob of blood on his face and as he did so heard a distant voice shouting, “Actually, he’s one of us and we’ll have him back now, thanks.”

The roaring, tearing sound of a rapid-firing M249 SAW erupted somewhere off to Newby’s right as a shout went up from the Malians. The young Marine didn’t miss his chance and sank the spike end of the tamohawk into the Officer’s cranium before hitting the ground hard and covering his head as Malian bodies fell lifeless on top of him as the roar of machine gun fire raked over his head, joined now by the unmistakable sound of an M240G and several SCAR’s.

For what seemed like an eternity but was probably only thirty seconds the Newby lay there until the firing stopped and he heard hushed orders being given and the sound of bits of debris being crushed under slow moving combat boats.

Arms dragged him up from under the tangled and bloody bodies of several Malians before he came face to face with another Officer, this time Liuetenant Massoud Jafar.

ILN Hunter Class SSN
32 nautical miles south of Côte d'Ivoire

Slowly, quietly, carefully, the Layartebian submarine came to a slow crawl off Côte d'Ivoire's southern coast. Two weeks earlier, the advanced, classified, and still unknown submarine of the Imperial Layartebian Navy left its undersurface pens at the Groton Naval Base in Connecticut and exited the Thames River, submerged the entire time. It have moved then, into the Atlantic Ocean, diving progressively as the seabed dropped away. Once they were in the ocean, they went to their maximum test depth, thirty-two hundred feet beneath the waves. From there, they moved, at flank speed, through secured lanes, towards Africa. These were lanes without commercial or even military shipping traffic and, at their depth, far below the thermocline, they aroused little suspicion, even at flank speed, thirty-five knots. When they closed on the African coast, they slowed down, progressively, until they reached areas known to be patrolled by Hirgizstanian and other submarines. There, they took speeds of under ten knots, well below "tactical silent," which was rated up to twenty-five knots. Now, they rested, at 400 feet under the waves, moving at a mere four knots, thirty-two nautical miles away from the souther coast of Côte d'Ivoire. They were there for three reasons. They would support Hirgizstanian military objectives by launching cruise missiles, protect Hirgizstanian seaborne vessels, and gather intelligence. The Malians didn't have a navy, being a land-locked country but Layartebian intelligence was concerned that, with their crucial campaign against Côte d'Ivoire, they could gain control of several diesel-electric submarines, which Côte d'Ivoire's navy possessed.

The Hirgizstanians seemed unconcerned though and when informed that a Layartebian submarine would be on-site to help, they weren't overly enthuasiastic, probably seeing it as a waste of resources. For the Imperial Layartebian Military, one could never be too careful or too cautious, especially fifty-three hundred miles away from home. With the Hirgizstanian offensive just days away, the Hunter class submarine made two ventures up to periscope depth, the first to receive radio traffic only. They spent less than eight minutes trailing their wire underneath the waves. By doing so, they wouldn't need to raise their mast, which would give away their position to anyone on the surface looking for a submarine, regardless of whose side they represented. The second time, it was for intelligence gathering. The submarine moved up to periscope depth once more and deployed its mast. There wasn't much intelligence to gather and their electronic systems picked up only a few seafaring vessels, none of them hostile or friendly, all of them merchant. The Hunter ducked back down to 400 feet shortly thereafter, waiting now for the next set of orders.

General Kanu’s HQ, Sassandra, Ivory Coast- 0540 Hours

It had taken a lot longer than five minutes to get to Point Bravo and the overall consensus about the fortified position was that it wouldn’t hold for much longer. Lucky Lee also reported that the Malian tanks had been making steady progress through the barricades and were using engineers to move the crudely placed anti-tank mines.

Merrick was thoroughly pissed off as he hunkered down beside Katobu and Kanu, both sitting on the side of an overturned fridge, well back from the top of the conference room that was Point Bravo.

Bravo, the conference room, was quite large and looked fairly modern with a big whiteboard and several plasma TV’s stuck to the walls, with nice desks planted in the middle of the room for meetings. There was a big fire exit to the right of the interactive white board that led out the rear of the building onto the rear wheelchair access ramp. From there it was s stone’s throw to the wrecked gas station and about half a klick to the beach.

The corridors outside the room were fortified with defensive bastions and heavy machine guns the noise of which rumbled through the room. Merrick was talking with the two Ivorian Officers about what their next moves would be.

“You can hear them out there, the tanks are coming and in here they’re showering us with RPG’s. Those defenses won’t last another 30 minutes. Plus, we got wounded we need to move out. There’s no way we can stay here. We need to move gentlemen.”

Katobu rubbed his sweat matted hair and nodded resignedly. Kanu didn’t seem to react at all. He was thinking about things. He said somebrely, “Will we make it Captain…the truth, if you will?”

Merrick sighed and took the pipe out of his mouth, “Honestly General, I’ve never seen or heard of a worse situation. We can’t call for back-up because its all being tasked for the invasion, some of us might make it to 0630 but not all. That’s the best case scenario, sir.”

The General nodded his head once and spoke slowly, choosing his words, “And the worst case scenario is…we all die and my country dies too.”

“I’m sorry General, we’re doing our best.”

“I know you are son, I know. By the way, where is Abdul?”

“Him and one of my men got separated a while ago, they’re making their way here through the other safe route. They should have been here by now actually.”

Merrick thought about what he’d said for a few seconds before turning his radio to squad chat. “Captain Merrick for Abdul, please come in, over?”

There was no answer. He repeated the message. Again there was no answer. “Corporal Tyzxas, please come in, over?”

Now there was a return on the net, a raspy cough and some mumbled words that Merrick couldn’t make out. “Say again Corporal…what’s your status over?”

There was no reply this time. But a blinking light in his visor told him the 2nd Squad net was looking for him. He pressed a button on the keypad on his forearm, “Go ahead 2nd Squad, Merrick here.”

It was Massoud Jafar, “Captain, we’ve got the Newby here, he was outside, about 200 yards from the gas station.”

Merrick was puzzled but was more concerned with the condition of his youngest and newest team member, “What’s his status Liuetenant?”

“A little banged up and bruised, he had a real close encounter with a whole platoon of Malians. He seems ok, a little shocked and tired. He’s getting some medical attention Captain…”

Before Jafar could continue Merrick asked another question, “ And Abdul?”

There was a short pause, “He’s dead, sir.”

Merrick cursed loudly. He was supposed to look after the spook, not get him killed. And the man wasn’t just any spook either, he was Agent Yellow. ‘Dammit,’ he thought, ‘this is all I fucking need.’

“How Massoud, what killed him?”

“Newby says he was shot at close range, didn’t stand a chance. We’ll take his body with us, don’t worry.”

“Ok Lieutenant, I’ll see you soon at the Gas Station, I reckon we’ll make a move in ten minutes. Be ready.”

“Aye sir, out.”


Near General Kanu’s HQ, Sassandra, Ivory Coast- 0545 Hours

Massoud was standing amidst a pile of Malian bodies examining their pockets for information. He’d found a fairly detailed map, radio codes and a mobile phone on the Officer and his radio-man had given them a working Malian radio.

Most of his squad was hunkered down in the street outside, after having chased the Malian squad and gunned them down as they attempted to retreat. Their bodies were everywhere, the torches on their guns still shone bright. They were well equipped and, it seemed, well trained.

The Newby had a concussion, a broken nose and several deep cuts on his head, as well as a broken rib and bruised torso. But he was alive, if a little groggy.
The Doc was finished fixing up his wounds and moved over to the body of the dead spook, Abdul. Someone had laid him down flat on a large piece of wood in the house and the medic began to check him over. He removed a nasty looking knife from his left hand and moved up to his face to close his eyes, which he saw, were already closed.

Then something grabbed the Doc’s MOLLE gear and then he heard a deep, raspy voice say “You wanna’ get that close to me, you oughta gimme’ your number first.”

The Doc drew quickly back and saw Abdul’s eyes wide open and staring straight at him, his blood covered hands clasped around one of the pouches on his gear. He shouted, “Hey Lieutenant, this guy ain’t dead.”

Jafar dropped the wallet of a soldier he was looking at and clambered over to where the Doc was sitting beside Abdul’s now apparently life-filled body. The Doc grabbed at the spook’s web gear and pulled it off before opening his body armor and removing a plate to reveal ten small calibre bullets deeply encrusted in it.

Jafar said, “You believe me now Doc, I told you this stuff works.”

After revealing the plate the Doc opened Abdul’s combat jacket to reveal a brutally bruised chest. He poked it and the man snarled, “Fucking watch it sawbones, cure me, don’t fucking kill me. What’s the damage?”

The Doc took a closer look, prodding a little more. He took out a stethoscope and listened closely to his breathing, “I thought you had a deflated lung, but it seems okay. But you’ve got about four broken ribs and the rest are bruised and probably cracked. Your lucky your heart didn’t stop.”

Massoud got on the radio, “Captain, scratch my last, Abdul is actually alive. Will advise you on his condition. Out.”

Massoud looked at the Doc, “Can he walk and fight or what? This ain’t over y’know.”

Abdul again snarled, “Of course I can walk, get this quack out of my face and I’ll fucking show you.”

The Doc put up his hands and backed off. The NIA man closed up his jacket, looked strangely at the bullet ridden plate before re-inserting it and closing up his web gear. With help from the Doc he stood up to his knees and with an agonized grimace and grunt stood to his feet. The first thing he did was spit on the nearby body of the Officer who’d shot him.

“Where’s the Newby? He make it?”

Massoud pointed to where the young man was sitting, looking totally exhausted and oblivious to the goings on around him.

Abdul walked unsteadily over, the Doc at his side. He stood over the Corporal, “You ready for round two kid?”

Newby looked up and smiled a little. Abdul was looking around the floor, like he’d lost something. “Anyone seen my tamohawk, looks like a small axe…anyone?”

Newby pointed over to a body with what looked like a blood covered piece of metal sticking out of the skull, “Check his head, sir.”

Abdul gave the Corporal a wry look and cautiously made his way over to the body. Upon looking at it he noticed it was the last face he’d seen before the sound of many bullets being fired at close range. He started laughing as he stuck his foot on the Officers neck and pulled at the handle of the weapon. A crunching, squelching sound was heard in the still night as he eased the axe out of the fatal wound. It was covered in dark blood, grey matter and bone fragments.

He wiped it on the clothes of the Officer before pointing at the Newby with the outstretched weapon, “This your doing?”

The Corporal nodded, Abdul did likewise approvingly.

Massoud was standing toward the front of the wrecked house and he shouted back to the Doc, Abdul and Newby, “We need to move now, get your weapons and saddle up.”

The Newby collected his SCAR which someone had picked up and fixed his visor back into place before standing up. He waited for Abdul as the spook fished around a couple of bodies, taking up a G36K with an additional sight and torch-handgrip before stuffing his web gear with mags.

The three men ran to catch up with Massoud as he sprinted across the street and into the driveway of another house, back up toward the GSL, the looming form of which was now visible in the lightening sky.

It was early morning when Baruti climbed aboard his presidential airplane though it certainly didn’t feel like that. The past few weeks had aged him terribly and it showed in his face and stride. His legs had become much weaker and he required a cane to move around long distances. He was nagged by a constant chest pain and showed early signs of a developing stomach ulcer. The past few nights were long and sleepless and though dawn was nipping gently at his heels he had yet to catch some shut eye in the past twenty four hours. The plane ride Sierra Leone, he hoped, would allow him to catch up on some sleep. It wasn’t until he had boarded the plane and left the hard asphalt runway beneath him that he finally slipped into his pajamas and into sleep.

The meeting would take place in Sierra Leone as Ghana proved to be too much of a security risk. It was one of many meetings between the GATO heads of state and the various military advisors behind the GATO intervention in Cote and Mali. It was typical military protocol, strategies were discussed and expectations set. The generals would leave knowing their power and objectives while the Fuhrer and he knew what to tell the home front. Support for the operation was actually quite high in the States. A usually liberal mindset had been replaced, for the time, with a strong passion for armed intervention. It surprised Hirgizstan the most. For political sake the two countries were polar opposites. Albeit Hirgizstan, for the most part, was proud by this showing of national pride and responsibility and the multinational peacekeeping force was looking forward to working together. Unfortunately that was on solely one issue, the war in Cote. This brief letting down of the guard was a façade hiding the larger problem that was the growing rift in cultures. If this peacekeeping mission was taking a step forward it was only masking three steps backwards behind the scenes.

The plane ride didn’t make for a pleasant sleep. Baruti simply tossed and turned. His stomach and chest were causing him great anguish. He appeared a few hours in groggy and unshaven. His plane was one place he could relax and not worry about maintaining his image. It was crewed by a handpicked group who had since developed a close friendship with the old man. He sat near a window in the middle of the cabin watching the warm sun rising above the grey tinted clouds. The warmth through the window picked him up and relaxed the tensions building in his aging body. He simply sat back in the chair allowing this lull in pain to allow him so much needed relief. Walking in from behind him was close friend and reporter Berko Kwasi. Perhaps his only reporter friend he had known Berko since they were kids and Kwasi wouldn’t publish anything Baruti didn’t want him to. He could thus tell him anything without fear of it being leaked. Berko was carrying two coffees, one in each hand. He sat in the seat opposite Baruti and slid one of the coffees across to Baruti. Though childhood friends Baruti was older by six years but looked to be older by thirty. He took the cup without saying a word and held it firm between his fragile hands.

After taking a reluctant sip he sighed and said, “I am too old for this. This is a young man’s job.”

Berko was looking out his own window admiring the beauty but quickly turned his attention to Baruti.

“You look awful,” he said concerned.

“There are so many things weighing on me now, I fear I cannot hold this burden much longer.”

“Like what,” question Berko sincerely.

“I fear for this alliance and this country.”

Though only a few words it was a mouthful. Indirectly Baruti had hinted towards the growing rift in public but never as direct as that. It was part of his job though, diplomacy, and he simply couldn’t say something like that.

“What do you mean?”

“Every action they take, every step is a step away from us.” He paused for a long while and sensing that he wasn’t finished Berko never interrupted. “We claim to be a free country, we claim to care about human rights’, but how deep are just words. We have yet to back these claims up. They murdered fifteen thousand people Berko, fifteen thousand.”

Berko couldn’t find the right words so he just nodded hoping that Baruti would continue.

He did, “What can we do? God forbid it came to armed conflict with Hirgizstan, we wouldn’t stand a chance. Even if it didn’t, we rely on that for so much. If we break this alliance do we break all ties as well? Our economy cannot handle the rise in oil if this sort of thing were to happen. But how?! How can we stand by a nation that kills fifteen thousand people without batting an eye? The people, they want nothing to do with Hirgizstan. They’ve made their opinions clear but I don’t think they know just how much we rely on them. I’ve got to be that ambassador and the burden is just too much.”

Berko was stunned. He wasn’t aware of the amount of pressure that was on his embattled friend. Before he could reply Baruti spoke up again.

“I just fear that Hirgizstan will do something to force our hand and in the middle of all of this,” he muttered.

As if on cue a flight attendant walked into the cabin and located the two friends. He held a message from Windhoek in his hand. Baruti motioned for it to be left on the table and quickly the messenger was away hidden in the caverns of the mammoth plane.

“Does it say top secret or urgent anywhere on that envelope Berko?”

Berko examined it before replying, “No.”

“My eyes aren’t what they used to be and I forgot my glasses in my room could you read it please.”

Berko obliged and opened the envelope.

Yesterday Hirgizstan launched a chemical attack against civilian targets in Yemen. Estimated casualties are only 1,500 though the intended rate was upwards of three million we believe. More reports when we receive them.

Inside General Kanu’s HQ, Sassandra, Ivory Coast- 0555 Hours

Merrick was talking to Massoud on the net, “We’re all set up out here Captain, we’re in good cover. As far as we can see the Malians are bringing up infantry reinforcements down the streets to the left and right of the GSL, and the UAV shows more forming up at the front of the building. Looks like they’re bringing artillery forward too.”

“We know Lieutenant, we’re going to be with you in five minutes, wounded are coming over first. The minute the lead tanks get wise, take em’ down, we clear?”

“Aye Sir, out.”

Merrick was standing with Lucky Lee, Katobu, Kanu and Chief Constable Navuman who, with his remaining men, were looking after the wounded and carrying those who couldn’t walk. Their flight suits and badges were covered in blood, dried and wet blood that glistened in the light.

“Ok, we move in 2 minutes. General Kanu goes first, then the wounded covered by Katobu and his men, followed by myself and my squad with the rest of the Ivorians. We go to the garage diagonally across the street. Another Hirgizstanian squad is there, do what they tell you. Are we all clear on this?”

The assembled men nodded sullenly. Kanu, not for the first time that morning, took out his silver-handled 1911 and checked a round was in the chamber.

Two minutes later and people were set. The firing from the bastion positions was kept up by Playboy, Riley and the Gunny with a few Ivorians. Merrick stood by the exit doors counting down on his watch. He spoke to Jafar, “We’re coming now Liuetenant. See you soon.”

He kicked the door open and Kanu and his radio men jumped out first with Lucky Lee, into the quickly lightening morning and sprinted across the debris strewn street. No one saw them. Merrick counted off ten seconds and motioned to Navuman who set his G3 into his shoulder and went out the doors as fast as he could with a wounded Ivorian clinging to his neck. His men and Whiskey with Katobu and most of his men went out next with the wounded.

Merrick watched as they made it half-way across the street before a steady rump-ump-ump-ump of 50.cal fire erupted outside, with tracers flying down the street like colored lightning bolts. Then Merrick heard the sickening sound of a tanks main gun fire and a round erupted just in front of the Ivorians now running for their lives. It sent bodies flying in the air, screams of agony and terror tore through the night.

Merrick stepped out of the doorway and looked up the street to see a tank no less than 75 yards away, the Commander firing away from his 50.cal, with the co-ax giving it 7.62 as well.

But then the distinct roar and whoosh of a TOW III being fired broke the spell of tank fire as a long finger of flame and exhaust leaped down the street and suddenly the tank disappeared behind a wall of flame. He got on the radio, “Gunny, get the fuck down here, we need to go right now.”

He got a gruff confirmation from the Gunny before he heard the sound of grenades exploding nearby and then the man himself charged round the corner, with a few Ivorians, Riley and Playboy in tow. Riley stopped at the doorway and sent a barrage of rounds from his 240G back the way he’d came before sprinting out the door and firing wildly up the street as Merrick ran out behind him.

They reached the garage before more 50.cal rounds began to come down at his feet and not a moment before another tank round whooshed down the road and exploded close by. The TOW launcher lit up again as it sent another round in answer and yet another wall of flame seemed to erupt next to where the burning hulk of the other tank sat.

The first thing Merrick noticed on skidding into the garage forecourt was the amount of blood covering the ground and the screams of agony from freshly wounded men. He saw legs, arms and a head sitting dis-bodied on the ground as he fought through the disorganized melee to find Jafar.

The young Liuetenant was sitting behind his TOW position. “What have we got Massoud?”

Jafar stood up and smiled a little, glad to see his Captain unhurt. “I’m looking at the UAV feed right now, sir. We got three tanks coming around the other side of the GSL and another couple making their way down the street where we just killed those other two. Infantry as well, plus smaller armor. This is no good, we need to move again.”

Merrick lifted his visor and wiped his face of dirt. “I know. Hold as long as you can, let me get this damn mess sorted first, then we move.”

The Captain eventually found General Kanu nursing a wounded man he seemed to know. The old soldier looked incredibly sad as the man in his arms coughed up blood and gurgled, trying to speak. Kanu wiped his head with a cloth and kept telling him to be quiet. Merrick said nothing and only nodded at the appearance of Abdul and the Newby by his side.

The man died in the Generals arms amid the cries of pain from others and the sound of tank engines roaring not too far away. Kanu spoke in muted tones, barely audible, “He was my daughter’s husband…my son in law. Now, I have no one…”

Abdul spoke up now, in a gruff voice, clearly in pain, “You have your country, General. And she needs you now.”

The old man didn’t seem to react. He just closed the dead soldiers eyes. Merrick said, “We need to move again General, to Point Alpha. Last chance at staying alive another 20 minutes. That’s all we need sir, to save this country. We need you to lead now, sir.”

“What will you have me do Captain?” The General seemed resigned to meet any fate God through at him, it was all he could do.

Merrick breathed a silent sigh of relief. To loose the General physically would have been bad enough, but to loose him mentally would have been worse. “Get as many abled bodied men as you can, gather up the saveable wounded with Katobu and Navuman, then set out for Alpha through the streets, you need to do it now and do it fast. I’m talking five minutes at the most. Can you do it General?”

“I must Captain, I must.”

The old soldier got up and, with his radio men tagging behind, went off into the maelstrom of Ivorian wounded and un-wounded.

Merrick turned to Abdul and Newby. Both men were covered in dirt and blood. Abdul was clearly having difficulty breathing and had visibly loosened his armor and web gear. He was bent over a little aswell. “Glad to see you two are still alive…just barely it would seem. Stay with me now, we need to defend this position while the General gets away. This is the Last Chance Saloon, you got it?”

Abdul gave a wry two fingered salute as he bent double and began to limply cough. Newby gave a “Aye Sir.”


Garage Forecourt Outside General Kanu’s Former HQ, 0610

The sound of the 25mm Advanced Crew Served Weapon was like the roar of a furnace as it lashed out round after round of HE. All of the guns AP ammunition was gone, having been enough to destroy two ASCOD Ulan APC’s that the Malians had tried to force through the barriers behind a smoke screen.

But the big vehicles didn’t make it far before the thermal imaging on the gun picked out their heat signatures bleeding hot yellow fumes from their diesel engines. After that both vehicles were ‘lit up’ and taken out.

The small number of the big rounds had been expended as the Malians began to move infantry through the smoke but they were easier caught out in thermal imaging than the vehicles.

The Malians were in serious dis-array. They had no idea where the fire was actually coming from and couldn’t bring their artillery or mortars to bare and two destroyed tanks with two destroyed APCs were now stuck in the middle of the road, impeding progress.

The UAV above Merrick and his two squads showed the Malians had moved up a dedicated breaching tank with no turret and some serious moving equipment attached. But it was having trouble getting past the other tanks and vehicles that lined the various routes.

On the other side of the GSL a huge trench in the middle of the road was preventing the tanks moving forward. It was too far for them to traverse without becoming stuck and they were bringing an engineering vehicle in with a roll of logs to close the gap, but it too was making slow progress.

Merrick was beginning to believe that lasting another 20 minutes wouldn’t take such an effort after all.

Then he heard Riley’s voice roaring over the pops of gunfire, “ENEMY FLANKING, SIX O’CLOCK MY POSITION...INCOMING.”

An RPG round kicked off just as Merrick turned to face the other side of the garage forecourt, where Riley and a few other men were defending the rear of the position. So far the Malians hadn’t been able to get around that way due to mined barricades.

The small rocket went wild and powered straight over everyone’s head but then small arms rounds began to zap past and smash into the ground all around the Marines. An M240G and an M249 started up, sending rounds down the street. The incoming stopped after a few brief seconds.

Then another, much worse, sound could be heard a little further away, the sound of artillery and large bore mortars. It was a deadly, barely audible sound that made every soldier cringe and wish they could simply disappear into the earth itself.

Merrick knew instantly what was up, as did his men. The Malians knew where they were now. It was time to go, and fast.

Merrick keyed his radio and hollered, “EVERYBODY MOVE, GET TO POINT ALPHA NOW. GO, GO, GO, GO!”

They moved out quickly, leaving the tripod mounted TOW and ACSW behind and chucking a pair of WP grenades underneath as they ran out of their position, covering their front, flanks and rear. The first arty shell smashed down just in front of the position a few seconds later. They could feel the shockwave as they bounded away down the street that Merrick had met the Ivorian soldiers on a few hours ago.

Amid the crash and boom of artillery they could hear the sound of the sea. Merrick warned Whiskey, still with Kanu and the wounded at Point Alpha, that he was incoming.

The incessant gunfire that had marked the last several hours suddenly died away to the whump of artillery as the Marines and Abdul hustled down the abandoned streets toward the red sky and the vast expanse of sea they couldn’t quite see yet over the walls of dunes.

Merrick was behind Lucky Lee as he led point, using the pointer on his visor to guide him to Alpha where Whiskey was. As a group they slowly made their way up the soft sand of the dunes, pockmarked with dry grass here and there, before emerging on the flat top and coming down the other side, the vast Gulf of Guinea and South Atlantic stretching out in front of them.

Some of the Marines studied the horizon closely for a few more seconds, just picking out the barely visible forms of some ships in the distance through the scopes on their weapons. They were close now, it was 0615.

Point Alpha, Sassandra Coastline, 0615hrs

Kanu and Katobu hadn’t wasted their time free of being shot at to do nothing. Instead they had organized their position effectively, moving the wounded behind them to a depression in the miles long beach that would afford them some cover.

The exhausted Ivorian soldiers were digging positions in the sand as quickly as they could, some using their bare hands. They had already marked out a semi-circle of defense that covered every angle back to the sea, with the wounded protected in the middle and behind.

Merrick placed his men in teams of two at points throughout the semi-circle, careful to make sure it was his men at the mid-point and tail-ends of the position, for two reasons: to help keep the Ivorians encouraged as best they could and to make sure IFF signals were being given off in the correct positions so friendly forces wouldn’t make a mistake and have a ‘blue on blue’.

For the first time the whole night everything seemed silent and peaceful, the crashing of the waves on the beach almost lolled some soldiers into sleep and some into a false sense of security, making some believe they’d make it another fifteen minutes without an attack.

But Abdul and the Marines knew that to expect the worst was to face reality and when the sound of diesel engines revving began to pierce the sounds of the ocean they knew their expectations were well placed.

Abdul found himself again with the Newby and with Merrick at the very centre of the semi-circle. Katobu was with them, but Kanu and Navuman were again with the wounded.

There was little or no talking amongst the soldiers gathered into the small half-dug semi-circle. Out of an Army of more than 1 Million soldiers, the Ivorians had less than 50 able-bodies, with 22 wounded. Their last chance to save their country now lay at the southernmost tip and would take place in a fifteen minute window. Few of them ever believed it could have come down to such a thing, and fewer still thought they’d still be alive to see it.

Abdul was sitting just outside the small trench that made up the semi-circle. Sand kept falling into it every time someone moved. He was side on to the trench, his head turned to look out at the sea as the sky got brighter with the eastern rising sun. The orange glow cast fingers of light over the calm waters and the sun got more intense in the east with each passing minute.

Abdul sniffed in as much of the air as he could and said a short prayer, thinking for a minute of his family back in Tripoli. They’d be waking up soon. He hoped he’d see them again.

He hopped back into the trench between Merrick and Newby. “Captain, I just want you to know its been an honor.”

“Likewise Abdul, good luck.” The Marine offered his hand to Abdul who shook it and smiled a little. The sound of tank engines was getting closer.

The Corporal picked up his gun and checked a round was loaded before flicking off the safety. “Abdul, sir, did you volunteer for this stuff?”

Abdul laughed out loud as he took his own gun off its sling where it hung around his chest. He checked it was loaded and also clicked off the safety before looking at the Newby, “Yeah, I did.”

The Corporal laughed out loud now. But his laughter was drowned out by a shout down the line. “CONTACT, FRONT.” A burst of fire from a SCAR-H lashed out into the dunes and return fire prompted a powerful volley from many more guns and then hell itself seemed to break-loose as rounds began slamming into the sand all around the Ivorians and Marines as the Malians crested the dunes.

Grenades shook sand back into the trench as they exploded everywhere. Bodies erupted up into the air after fiery explosions, sending them flying out of the trench or careening down the dunes depending on whose side they exploded on.

There was a shout from the Malians that erupted into a roar and whistles pierced the night as a blanket of DPM green surged down the dunes, torchlight bouncing as they ran and catching the glint of fixed bayonets.

Abdul was aware only of himself as he concentrated on keeping the horde back. He was firing on full auto into the bodies that seemed to fill his vision, their faces contorted into hellish grimaces as they came at him. When he felled one, another took its place and so on as he frantically re-loaded, every time checking to see if the Captain and the Corporal were still upright and shooting.

Both Marines were screaming back, but he couldn’t hear them in the maelstrom. He kept shooting and re-loading to do it all again and then as he downed another few onrushing Malians others no longer popped up and within a few seconds the firing on all sides died away to just a few cracks as the defenders killed wounded and moving Malians.

The sky was now a grey-ish white and the scene in front and to the sides of Abdul was unlike anything he’d ever seen before. A mass of bloodied humanity lay contorted and motionless in front of him, some bodies three deep, some part covered by bloody sand that seemed to be in and on every bloody wound visible.

Little arcs of clear sand stood a few feet in front of everybody’s position and Merrick was busy calling off to his men. Massoud was okay but two of his men were lightly injured. Several Ivorians were injured too and were being dragged or carried down to the wounded area.

In some places Malian dead were literally thrown out of the trenches, they had gotten so close they had collapsed dead inside the defensive line.

The Newby turned, breathless, to face Abdul and both saw their faces and dirty uniforms covered in a fresh spray of blood.

Through their ringing ears they could still hear the sound of diesel engines. What they didn’t hear were mortar and artillery rounds being fired by the Malians, but they did hear the incoming whistles as rounds of various calibres impacted all over the dunes, walking their way forward. The only thing to do was to collapse to the ground and go into a foetal position, protecting oneself as best as a body could against white-hot shrapnel travelling faster than bullets.

Screams pierced the stomach churning explosions and concussive shockwaves tugged at the people lying in the trenches, threatening to drag them bodily into the open to smash them to pieces like a hammer on a piece of glass.

Almost as soon as the barrage began it lifted and Abdul was back on his feet, gun ready. He was totally unable to hear anything except a long whistling noise that seemed to be constant, with no change in the pitch, like he was walking under-water. Around him the swirl of smoke dissipated slightly with a light breeze from seaward. Newby and Merrick was kneeling beside him, guns at the ready. Merrick was shouting something into his radio but for Abdul it was like watching a mute television.

Bloodied bodies lay on various parts of the semi-circle, some around huge blackened craters where the sand was a dark red and the smoke seem to stay in horrid clumps, only being torn off slightly by the breeze. Able-bodied soldiers either stood-to or helped carrying wounded.

Through the pall of smoke he could make out the figure of General Kanu, pistol in hand, helping some wounded and making his way forward, shouting encouragement to the people still standing in the trench. Navuman was at his side with a G3.

Both men dropped deftly into the trench beside Merrick who was gesticulating back the way they’d come and shouting at them while listening to his radio.

The Newby nudged Abdul in the back and he turned. The young man was saying something and pointing at the dunes but he couldn’t make it out. His hearing was getting a little better but everything still sounded like they were shouting underwater.

Then the thud of a bullet sent a shockwave through his body as it landed too close for comfort and he looked up the dunes and silhouetted against the blue-grey dawn sky was another mass of Malian soldiers again charging their position.

But this time he also felt the horrid rumble of armoured vehicles and the sand around him began to shake, the sides of the hurriedly dug trench seemed to vibrate as the sand cascaded in around his boots.

He opened fire as everyone else did. Kanu was standing right next to him firing round after round through his pistol. Abdul’s hearing was better now, the white noise seemed to dissipate to be replaced by the roar of gunfire and tank engines.

As he fired up the dunes at the onslaught of Malians the barrel of a tank shot up into the air and then tracks and hull followed as it crashed down on top of the rise and rolled forward. The crew were up in their cupola’s, manning the two turret guns, pouring fire down into the trench.

Abdul knew the end was close. It was matter of seconds. Once the tank moved forward its gun could obliterate the defenses and that was that. But he wasn’t scared to meet the end, he’d done it more than once that morning. He was instead mightily pissed off that they’d come so far and would end without success.

The Malians seemed to get closer and closer, their screams louder and louder. He felt the G36K run out of ammo and grabbed up his pistol, firing off a mag before ripping out his tamohawk to meet the first Malian into the trench. He took him down with a blow to the stomach and finished him off as he fell into the trench.

As he jumped out to meet the next assailant he was jostled out of the way by another Malian, smashed in the chest with a rifle butt. He went down and saw the Malian lunge for the Newby, who was too late in turning. The Malian would kill him for sure.

Abdul lunged upward and stuck the tamohawk through the back of the enemy soldiers neck, collapsing forward on top of him and then the Newby. As he hit the ground his radio crackled noisily to life.

“All Units, All Units, the season is open. Repeat, OPERATION OPEN SEASON IS A GO.”

He didn’t have time to react before another voice bled in, “This is Ocelot Flight looking for Raven’s Nest. Come in Raven’s Nest.”

Merrick’s voice erupted over the speakers with a backdrop of gunfire at full-auto. “This is…Raven’s Nest, on the beach…surrounded. Help…”

“Roger that Raven’s Nest, Ocelot Flight is incoming. We have your position, hold on.”

Abdul moved awkwardly off the body he was lying on top of only to see the black form of the Malian Leopard tank lunge down the dune’s. He closed his eyes…too late.

A warm heat seemed to wash over his body before he heard a God-awful roar and was buffeted and blown clear into the air, landing in the soft sand with a thud a few seconds later. He felt the warm glow still on his whole body and peeked open his eyes to see the tank burning on the dunes, pieces of it sitting everywhere and the big metal hulk on fire.

Explosions erupted around the dunes but now he could hear the strange whine of gas turbine engines. He turned his face in the sand to see Marine AAAV’s rolling up onto the beach, Marines already running from behind them as their main guns pumped out round after round.

Overhead he could hear and see CV-22’s as they pounded the air charging by overhead. The roar of supersonic engines seemed to also fill the air, as did the sound of distant explosions.

The NIA man turned over on his back, exhausted, and looked at the sky.

In the Skies Over Sassandra, Ivory Coast, 0630

Reaper was hauling ass as fast as the A-10X would carry him. His wingman trailed just beyond his left wing while the other two A-10’s of Ocelot Flight hung out on his right in a tandem team.

In the cockpit of his plane Yefet had his visor locked up and was using the ADVSCAD (Advanced Deep Visual Scan Cockpit Awareness Display) System through which all the information he needed to know was displayed directly onto the glass of the canopy. To his extreme upper rear-left he could see the receding blot of blue squares that identified the rest of the invasion aircraft. They were mostly dedicated jet fighters that would use Stand-Off weapons to destroy their targets from long-range.

Yefet used to be one of those pilots, trained to drop bombs with ultimate precision from miles away and then to get out of dodge quickly for another mission as soon as possible. In war the turnaround times were vital but he’d never liked the practice. For him it was air combat without the combat.

He preferred the clunky, ugly A-10 in which getting up close and personal with the enemy was a must, so much so that he’d been shot down. The very thought of his ordeal was at the forefront of his mind as he wrestled to put it behind him and concentrate on the job at hand.

As Ocelot Flight had approached the border with the Ivory Coast he’d been told of a change in his mission. Instead of simply providing ‘Search and Destroy’ he and his men would now be providing Close Air Support (CAS) for a squad of Marines and Malians attempting to evac the Ivorian leader. They were in serious contact with massively overwhelming enemy forces including armor. It was the job of him and the rest of Ocelot Flight to help them.

On the right hand screen he cycled through the options using his voice and found the geographic waypoint read-out. A green line with a circled ‘X’ at the end of it was the last line of retreat for the Marines, they were en-route to it.

He turned the screen back to the blank FLIR option and pulled down his visor bringing up the Battle Network and cycling through the options to find the UAV feed the Marines were using. He’d seen it before and could now make out their IFF tags as they ran down the side of some sand dunes before spreading out in a U-Shape.

Zooming out of the close-in view he could see the hulking dark shapes of tanks and smaller armoured vehicles as well as the smaller sections of Infantry moving between them. Looking at the plethora of enemy forces he certainly didn’t begrudge those Marines their jobs.

He flipped up the visor and keyed his radio, “Ocelot Lead for Blue Crown, come in please.”

‘Blue Crown’ was one of the two JSTARS aircraft overseeing the invasion. “Blue Crown here, go ahead Ocelot One.”

“How are those target lists coming, Blue Crown?”

“They’ll be with you in thirty seconds Ocelot One, good hunting, over.”

“Roger that Blue Crown, out.”

Sure enough thirty seconds later the FLIR and target computer in the A-10X came to life and the canopy display now showed eight red squares with target classification and range displayed beside them. Reaper often marvelled how air combat had become like the video-games he played during down-time. The technology often made his job easier, the only thing he really needed was the invincibility and unlimited ammo!

“Ocelot Lead to Ocelot Flight, check you all have active targets, over?”

Reaper got three consecutive confirmations. Now the only thing to do was wait and watch the range ticking down until the AGM-65X Maverick missiles were in-range and then forty Ivorian tanks and armor would become scrap metal in under 60 seconds.

At 30,000m the red boxes denoting targets now filled with a crosshair and a steady ‘ready tone’ filled the cockpit. Reaper armed his weapons, “Ocelot One arming weapons.” His team did the same. They waited with baited breath for the orders they had been waiting on for several months.

It came at exactly 0630.

“All Units, All Units, the season is open. Repeat, OPERATION OPEN SEASON IS A GO.”

Reaper immediately got on the radio, “This is Ocelot Flight looking for Raven’s Nest. Come in Raven’s Nest.”

A voice erupted over the radio with a backdrop of gunfire at full-auto. “This is…Raven’s Nest, on the beach…surrounded. Help…”

“Roger that Raven’s Nest, Ocelot Flight is incoming. We have your position, hold on.”

Reaper gave the fire command with his voice and the bright flashes of eight AGM-65X Engines lighting up filled the cockpit and sky as he watched the big missiles streak away from his plane, arching up into the sky to perform their terminal dive-to-target. “Ocelot One, Fox One. All Missiles Away.”

The rest of Ocelot’s flights missiles were then on the way. Reaper kept his aircraft pointed forward and now pushed the throttles into ‘Afterburn’ and felt the aircraft leap forward.

It didn’t take long for him to see the explosions of his missiles in front of him and through the left side of the canopy he could see many other explosions from his team’s missiles. “This is Ocelot Flight, all missiles hit. Going in close. Tallyho.”

Reaper sat straighter in the cockpit as he eased the nose of the plane down, pointing straight at the Malian Infantry still massing on the dunes of the beach. He let fly with the 30mm Cannon, savouring its beastly roar as it turned bodies into mush. He banked upward, climbed out and then came streaking back in dropping his two 500lb Napalm canisters behind the dunes among the now retreating enemy forces.

For a few more minutes Reaper lived up to his name and the expectations of his Commanding Officer as he went after the Malians until his guns ran dry and then stayed to ensure his team got out safely.

Reaper flew up the beach on his way back toward Goudiri, wiggling his wings at the Marines on the ground, their vehicles and LCAC’s now swarming onto the beach in massive numbers, careful to avoid their CV-22 transports that were buzzing around like flies over sugar. The sight of the invasion was truly something to behold from a few thousand feet up in the morning sky.

Sassandra Beachead, Ivory Coast, 0640

Abdul hadn’t moved for ten minutes. He didn’t know. He was so tired yet so elated he’d made it that he didn’t want to move. The searing pain in his chest from his damaged ribs made it hard to do anything much except stare up into the sky. He’d seen the big CV-22 Pavehammer’s race overhead to deposit the Marines into Sassandra itself and seen them race back out again.

The CV-22 was a superb aircraft for combat-rich invasions and insertions. The original MV-22 Osprey from which it took its pedigree had been a major improvement over the ancient CH-46 which had been out of COH service for quite a while. But the Osprey hadn’t proved much better in combat. A single RPG hit on the rota-wing sent the big aircraft sprawling into the ground like the helicopters it was supposed to replace.

The CV-22 was designed specifically to overcome that problem as well as to be faster, better armed and better armored as well as providing a ready-test bed for a jet engine version that was still in development. The CV-22 had been tested to the extremes of its airframe and could survive multiple RPG hits on the body and would stay up even with one of its two engines being disabled or destroyed. The on-board computers made the calculations in nano-seconds, keeping the big aircraft up.

The ‘Hard Chargin’ Charlie’ was the nickname the Marines had now bestowed upon the CV-22 for its tough qualities and the invasion at Sassandra was a cake walk for it. The Malians were in head-long retreat as the predatory metal birds flared overhead, pouring down mini-gun fire on their heads as Marines fast-roped down into the streets and onto buildings.

Where Abdul was, lying on the beach, was where most of the activity was taking place. Over 250 AAAV’s were either still in the water near the beach or actually on it, their Marines disembarked and fighting to open the beach-head, pushing the Malians back.
However, the Malians were no wilting flowers. For a few minutes they gave as good as they got, attempting to destroy the AAAV’s with artillery and rocket fire. But as the LCAC’s (el-kack’s) and larger Giant LCAC’s rushed over the waves and onto the beach, disgorging their cargo of M1A5’s, the Malians began to turn and run as the huge tanks roared off their transports and churned up the sand as they went up and over the dunes, their 80+ ton bulk shook the earth like a quake’s aftershock, unlike the puny rumblings of the Malian Leopards.

Abdul didn’t know it but the Marines had their beach-head secured within five minutes of landing and had, with the help of their own helicopters, F-81 II’s , various Navy Fighters and the Air Force aircraft were pushing the Malians back through the city at record pace.

What finally did rouse Abdul from his supine position was a thunder clap. He raised his head and looked off to sea thinking a storm was coming. But instead heard eleven more identical thunderclaps and then the groan of something huge flying rapidly overhead before an explosion in the city shook his very bones. A voice broke his thoughts, speaking above him, over the noise of shouting Marines, LCAC’s and various vehicles, “That’s a big Mo. There’s two of them out there. One shell’s enough to wipe out an entire Company. Beautiful.”

He looked up a little more to see the Newby standing over him, hand outstretched. The NIA man grabbed on and the young Marine helped him up, being careful to avoid aggravating his wounds anymore.

As he was hauled upright twelve more thunderclaps erupted from seaward followed by more cataclysmic explosions.

As the Newby helped him turn to face in toward the city he saw the figure of Merrick with a smoking pipe clenched in his teeth talking to another Marine, the Gunny at his side. Riley and Playboy were nearby, they waved at the Newby and Abdul as they walked over.

Merrick saluted the unkown Marine officer as he walked away. The Captain turned to face his men as Massoud and most of his men arrived in the huddle, with Whiskey eventually arriving to hear what their Captain had to say.

“Massoud, your injured guys get on the transport safely?”

“Yeah, they hopped on board with all the Ivorian wounded. Their already on their way to the Courage[/I].”[/I]

“Good. The el-kack behind us is for the rest of the Ivorians and General Kanu, I’ll have a word with them. Abdul, your going with the General right?”

He nodded.

“Okay, the rest of us have a Chargin’ Charlie waiting to take us back. General Knox wants a word first though.”

Merrick dismissed his men and told them to wait where they were until he got back to them. The Newby made sure Abdul could walk as he and Merrick went off to talk to the huddled group of exhausted Ivorians that lay a few feet away in a small group, the last able-bodied survivors of their entire military.

Kanu was walking amongst them, talking and joking with them as Merrick and Abdul approached. Both men saluted the General. He saluted back before walking up to them. Merrick spoke first.

“General, that hovercraft over there will take you back to our ships-” The old man protested.

“Captain, this is our country. We must stay here.”

Merrick nodded, he understood but he had his orders and so did Abdul and that was to get the General and his men back on the ship but not to take them out of the fight, as they might have thought.

“Don’t worry General. Your men will be given all the treatment they need, hot food, a couple of night’s rest and then you’ll re-form the Ivorian Military. We have new uniforms, weapons, vehicles, tanks, aircraft- it’s all waiting. But you and your men are in no fit shape to contribute to the fight just now. And, I think you’ll agree, we have things in hand.”

Merrick smiled and so did the General. He would meet the Fuhrer in Sierra Leone at the GATO CENTCOM before re-joining his troops to begin taking back his country with a new military.

The Captain helped the General and his men on board the now empty LCAC. The Ivorians sat on the wet surface of the big hovercraft and smiled that they had finally made it.

Abdul stayed with the General but drew Merrick back to have a word with him. “Captain…the Corporal. I think I have a call-sign for him.”

Merrick seemed interested. “Oh yes?”

“Corporal Nico ‘Axe’ Tyzxas. He was handy with this.” Abdul unsheathed his dirty Tamohawk. “Tell him to keep it, I have another.” He unclipped the sheath attached to his calf and handed it to Merrick who nodded and smiled before walking down the ramp of the LCAC to his men that had assembled just in front of it.

As the motor of the ramp began to close it Merrick shouted above the noise, “MARINES, ATTENTION ON DECK!”

His platoon, minus a few men, all snapped to attention despite their exhaustion. “PRE-SENT ARMS.”

They snapped to salute in unison. The Ivorians stood up and saluted back, as did Kanu. Abdul smiled and did it with two fingers.

The ramp closed.

Alakouakrou, Côte d'Ivoire - 06:40 hrs [GMT]

"Go! Go! Go!" The radio blared as the two AH-103A Cheyenne attack helicopters lifted off from the ground at Kokum, followed by a pair of AH-6M Little Birds and an RAH-70A Arapaho. The five helicopter task force had a single mission, which was to land four squads of Foreign Legion soldiers into a hot zone near the border, where Malian soldiers were positioned on the Hirgizstanian flank. They would only have to fly thirty or so miles from their base in Kokum, close enough for air support to be fast-responding. Because time was crucial, this initial assault force had to leave before the cavalry could be readied and sent. Essentially, they would be out there, alone, surrounded by Malians for a few hours. That was why they brought along a slew of attack and reconnaissance helicopters.

The Little Birds were light, fast, and could carry a potent load of Miniguns and air-to-ground rockets. They could maneuver down the packed and tight streets of the Côte d'Ivoire town, to protect the soldiers on the ground and assault flanking forces. The Cheyenne's, on the other hand, were brute force. They carried a load of heavy air-to-ground missiles and rockets, including a deadly combination of machine guns and cannons. They could easily tear apart most of the town by themselves if they went full-force. The smaller, lighter, less armed Arapaho helicopters were reconnaissance and they could alert ground forces to hiding and flanking soldiers as well as engagement them with machine guns and air-to-ground rockets as well. The five helicopters were a potent force for the Foreign Legion but represented less than 25% of the full potential of the force. However, over the small Côte d'Ivoire town of Alakouakrou, they would represent more than 500% of the potential of the Malian forces down below.

Flying low and fast, the five helicopter force bolted over the Ghanan landscape and towards the border with Côte d'Ivoire. Alakouakrou was just thirty-two miles away on a straight-line path but their flight would be forty miles long. Covering just one and two thirds miles each minute, the twenty-four minute flight would be the longest flight for the soldiers in months. Ground forces would take over two hours to get there, once they left the base because of the shoddy roads and numerous snakes and curves along the way and they wouldn't leave for another five to eight hours.

Inside the two Cheyenne helicopters, the twenty-four men, arranged in four squads of six, sat mostly comfortable. They clutched their M99A2 ASAC Carbines, M104A1 Tactical Rifles, M106A1 SAWs, and M107A1 DMRs. Among the twenty-four men there were eight men with SAWs and three men with sniper rifles. The remaining thirteen were loaded with either the Carbines or the Tactical Rifles. They were a fast moving group of men that could clear areas as large as a town in less time than it took most platoon sized groups. Their tactics were akin to that of highly skilled and capable airborne forces and they had all served in armies around the world, most of them October Alliance allies. But here, in the Layartebian Foreign Legion, they fought bravely for one cause and one cause only, the Empire. They were ready for battle and though their enemies today would not necessarily be enemies of the Empire, they were the enemies of the Commonwealth of Hirgizstan and thus, an indirect enemy of the Empire, as per the guidelines of the October Alliance treaty.

When the helicopters broke over the border, they assumed an attack formation, with the two Cheyenne's spreading out to avoid ground fire taking down both aircraft. The Little Birds sped ahead, increasing their speed by at least forty-five miles per hour. They would both come in and attack the landing sites from opposite directions, crisscrossing over themselves at different altitudes and high speed, careful not to injure one another. The Arapaho, on the other hand, took up a higher position for overwatch and turned on its powerful reconnaissance sensors. Flying at over five hundred feet in the air, they were out of the range of small arms fire, except shoulder-fired guided missiles but the Malians weren't known to possess those in this instance. It would be the job of the Cheyennes and Little Birds, while protecting the men on the ground, to protect the Arapaho in the air as well.

"We're approaching the town, this is Ghost One-Four. Activity seems quiet," the lead Cheyenne pilot barked over the radio as he looked out, over the horizon to see the town in the distance. The two Little Birds had already begun their attack run and fired a slew of rockets into the landing zones, just to make sure that they were cleared.

"This is Ghost One-Two. We're making our run to the target. Commence altitude shift."

"Roger that Two. We're one hundred above you. Let's get some!" Both helicopters had swung out and now banked back in, towards each other, at low-altitude, a hundred feet between them. They swooped in, guns blazing, their rockets firing, tearing the landing zone on the southern edge of the town to shreds. They didn't know who, if anyone, was dug in there but they wouldn't let their brothers-in-arms land in a hot zone surrounded by angry, armed, and powerful Malian soldiers who were out for blood. The Little Birds raked the zone and moved out of the town, observing the area as they did, "We've got some smoke here on the western corner, not sure what it is, can't get a good look at it. Smoke's moving through the town. Unknown origin."

"Roger that Ghost-One Two. I've got it on visual and thermal. It's tough to see what's going on down there. Advise caution Four and Five."

"Roger that One. We're on it. Coming in for deployment now," the two Cheyennes moved into hover position, stopped abruptly, and began to set themselves down. The doors were wide open on them and the gunners manned the two M74A1 7.62mm Miniguns. Each gun was fed from a unitary 8,000 round magazine, enough ammunition for them to utterly destroy an assaulting army. Hanging on their six, underwing pylons was an assortment of weaponry for a multitude of tasks. On the outer pylons were four AIM-227A Viper missiles for dealing with air threats. The Malians could be in possession of attack helicopters, which was why they were carried. The other four pylons held two 19-round rocket pods and two triple packs of Corona anti-tank missiles. When the two helicopters finally touched down, twelve men dropped out of them from both sides, six per side, emptying them in just seconds. They were back in the air and on the offensive now as they swooped back over the town to conduct their own reconnaissance.

Alakouakrou, Côte d'Ivoire - 06:50 hrs [GMT]

The twenty-four Legionaries were on the ground and ready to go in no time. They shouldered their rifles and light machine guns and began to move forward, into the small town. Overhead, the helicopters circled, looking for targets or some signs of life on the ground. To the men on the ground, everything felt like an ambush and to the men in the air, everything read like an ambush. Smoke wafted over the city from two specific locations and the men cautiously split into their four teams, two going to the smoke sources and the other two protecting the flanks. They moved into the village streets first, the haze and smoke keeping their visibility below fifty meters. Anyone fighting in the village, even the Malians would have a tough time seeing. If the Legionaries saw flashes in the smoke, they were going to find cover, and engage methodically. They weren't into "spray and pray" tactics like most ill-equipped, poorly trained armies were.

The huts and structures of the village were abandoned, at first, wide open, and nothing to celebrate. The first Legionaries to check the first huts were horrified by the filth that these people lived in, slept in, ate in, and accepted. Flies filled the huts, feeding off rotting food and human waste. There were, for all intents and purposes, no signs of life when the Legionaries first entered the village. They moved down the dirt paths that made up streets, none of them wide enough for a car, not that there were any vehicles to be found. There weren't even any bicycles around. These people walked, everywhere. The Legionaries knew this and they know how these people lived but they had yet to see it with their own eyes. Kokum was a city and though not a world class city it was no rural village. Kokum had electricity, running water, facilities, and garbage detail. This rural village had none of those. Overhead, the Cheyennes swooped in nice and low, spreading the smoke all around as they did, not really making the situation any better.

The Legionaries continued into the village, the first two groups approaching the smoke sources now. They had advanced slowly but the village wasn't terribly large. The four groups of men methodically checked each and every hut, looking into them as they moved into the village. It was nerve racking and the more huts that they found to be empty, the more tense the situation got. They knew they were in an ambush situation but they had no idea where the ambush was going to come from and every possibly location that they expected had been emptied. Where the fuck are they! Every single one of the Legionaries thought as they checked another row of empty huts.

By now, the smoke had gone to work on their bodies. They had worn goggles in the helicopters and some of them had removed them from their eyes, only now to be putting them back on as the irritating smoke made their eyes burn and water. Those who managed to avoid getting the smoke in their eyes felt its caustic effects in their nasal cavities, throats, and lungs. Whatever was burning or smoldering now stunk horribly too. The smell alone was enough to make their eyes water and throats hurt. What is that! They thought to themselves now as the threat of ambush continued to loom over their heads.

The Legionaries reaching the first smoke source seemingly stopped dead in their tracks. The second group didn't get to theirs much later, stopping dead in their tracks just the same. All twelve of them suddenly became lost in what they were seeing. The other twelve had swept around the final part of the village and keyed up their microphones, "Alpha, nothing to report. Looks empty."

"Bravo. Same. What do you have over there Charlie?" Silence filled the airwaves. "Charlie what do you have?" Silence continued on the airwaves. "Delta. Do you read?" More silence followed. "Shit! Cover!" The squad leader of Bravo squad yelled as he and his men began to run, full steam towards the locations of their fellow soldiers. They were all carrying locator systems and they could, through a secure and encrypted satellite feed, see where everyone was. Charlie and Delta squads were clustered into two areas around both smoke sources, not moving. That was a bad sign and a million thoughts ran through the heads of the two other squad leaders and their soldiers. The ambush struck! They didn't expect the Malians to be this stealthy, silent, or skillful. As they approached the corners, they slowed down and took cover, their weapons ready. The two squad leaders huddled against their cover and peaked around the corners, expecting to see nothing but six dead, motionless bodies. When they saw six, standing, motionless bodies, they were confused. "Towel!" The squad leader of Bravo squad yelled, the codeword that friendlies were approaching. There was a return response but none came, the six men seemingly trapped in a trance. "TOWEL!" Nobody answered again. "Caution gentlemen. We've got a major situation." They kept their rifles to their shoulders and turned around the corners and started walking down the path, towards the men.

The six men from Bravo squad moved in closer but slowly, coming up to the rest of the men. The putrid smoke's source was blatantly evident by now. It came from something none of the men had ever seen before. They had served in various armies around the world and fought in wars left, right, and center. They had heard stories, horrible stories. They had seen pictures, horrible pictures. They had done things, horrible things. But nothing could ever equate to what they saw. It shocked them, froze their system, and locked in their eyes. "Situation. Clear." The squad leader of Bravo squad said over the radio, barely able to keep his composure, the tone of his voice obviously showing his drastic change in mood. Alpha squad saw the same thing but couldn't repeat the same clarity the squad leader of Bravo could.

Everyone stood frozen, staring at the scene in front of them. It wasn't until a Cheyenne tore ass overhead that Charlie and Bravo snapped out of it. The twelve men blinked first, as if it were something surreal out of a movie. Then four of the twelve men doubled over and wrenched their guts out, the sound and smell, the latter not being very pungent, causing two others to repeat the feat. The other six men had different reactions. Two of them started to tear up while three others turned around, unable to look anymore. The last one, the squad leader of Bravo turned to his men and looked for the words to say but couldn't find them. "Animals," was all that came out of his mouth. "Animals." He keyed up the radio and contacted the helicopters overhead and relayed the scene to them. He confirmed with Alpha squad. The village was empty and devoid of life, enemy or civilian.

At that moment, on that plane, as the sun filtered through the small oval window beside him he was speechless and terrified. He was motionless for a great deal of time. The sadness that was etched in his tired face was never more evident. Berko had placed the telegram down and tried to look away. While nothing had been said for a good deal of time he was no idiot. He knew the repercussions this would cause and as a United States citizen he knew what it meant for him. Baruti simply sat in his chair and gazed unconsciously out the window which now put forth a luminous yellow-orange glow. The warmth from the light was the only comfort he felt now. He had been through so much as President. He had weathered the best of times and the worst of times. This was the worst of times. He had to be resolute. He had feared it for years and now his hand had finally been forced. He no longer could put up the façade of diplomacy any longer. A new era, strange and unknown was about to descend on Africa.

His honest bravado would have to wait however. The façade of diplomacy would have to be in place just a little while longer. Another telegram had been sent to the President while in flight. The Hirgizstan Special Forces had extracted General Kanu of the Ivorian resistance along with some of his lieutenants. The meeting that Baruti was en route for would now include these people and had since turned from a political and military meeting into a publicity photo shoot. This was certainly bad timing for Baruti who wanted to return home as soon as possible to discuss the Hirgizstan situation to his cabinet and other trustees. Nevertheless Kanu’s rescue was extremely important to the campaign and his insight would in fact be extremely helpful. To argue at this meeting, in front of the General, would be foolish. He would travel to this meeting as planned and return home as planned.


ooc: I know this is short but I’ve been busy and I wanted to get something up. Hirg you don’t have to respond to this I might skip over the meeting and leave it up to the reader but I might continue this a little.

OOC: No, I wouldn't mind having a meeting here, a little spontaneous RPing is always good fun. Feel free to RP the landing whenever you want, I'll have Baruti met and brought to see the Fuhrer and others. Plus, have Baruti mention a few things about the chemical attack, a bit of tension between the two leaders will be interesting.

0600 Hours, End of COH Route 405, South of Enchi, Ghana

From the slight crest of the hill overlooking the six lane 405, CSM Lee Briggs could see tanks and other vehicles until the horizon. He knew they didn’t stop there either, but kept on going, six lanes wide.

In all honesty he’d never actually seen an entire Hirgizstanian Army Corps, never mind ten, an entire Army, parked along a road waiting for battle. And, to beggar belief further, it wasn’t even the whole ten Corps, there were only three on the 405, the rest were spread out north and south of it.

There were soldiers everywhere too. Some chilled out on the sides of the road, set up on boxes or camping chairs or sat on the ass God gave them. They drank water, played cards, ate rations and shot the shit for miles. Below the relatively calm exteriors he knew, from much experience, they were balls of nerves and engery waiting for zero hour.

As the sun rose those not already awake began to yawn and stretch and stir, smiling at their sleep-less comrades. Briggs himself had slept like a baby in his air conditioned tank, along with the two other crew members. As far as he could tell they both hadn’t slept.

Briggs was 45, old in Army terms, a real lifer with more stories than a library and more experience than most of the Officers. To some he was a kind of father figure, to others a symbol of discipline. He was really a stereotypical Command Sergeant Major, and he knew it, with the well trimmed, greying moustache, squared off buzz-cut and a cigar perennially trapped in the corner of his mouth.

His voice, a gift from his dad, was gravely and deep, he could command a room with little more than a single, often whispered word or could deafen people from a few feet away.

But all in all he was a fair man, a soldier’s soldier, like most senior NCOs. Because of his reputation and his position he had the ‘honor’ of being the first tank of the entire three Corps, his would be the first across the border.

He was proud of that, immensely so. He turned and looked down the banks at the side of the road at his ‘baby’, the massive M1A5 Fuhrer-Abrams that sat silent in the road in front of everyone else. He could see his two crew scrambling about on top securing their stowage which covered the entire rear portion of the turret. It was all stuff, he knew, they could replace easily, like rations, a water cooler and clothes, things of a generic nature.

He knew to keep valuable personal items either on your person or inside the tank somewhere, as the likelihood of the stuff on the outside of the tank getting blown to smithereens or burnt off was very high in combat.

The digital camouflage paint on the vehicle cast it in a weird light in the morning sun. The only parts not in camouflage were the unit numbers on the front fenders, side skirts and rear grille. They all said the same thing, 5th Battalion, 6th Mechanized Infantry Division ‘Demon Dogs’, II Corps, 7th Army.

His tank was officially the second of ten, his radio call sign being ‘Kilo Two-Five’. But he thought of himself more as ‘Genocide This!’, the name of his tank, emblazoned in huge black letters on the middle of the barrel.

Still scrambling around on the turret fiddling with the tie-downs was Sergeant Nathan Ngomo, the Gunner and Corporal Aaron Kazos, the Driver. Although both men knew how to use all three positions in the tank, Commander, Gunner, Driver, as per their training, they were both damn good in their chosen roles.

Briggs slowly turned away from his tank and looked out down to the literal end of the six lane 405. It was very close, just over a single kilometre in front of him down a steady decline.

It ended abruptly, simply running into a huge, 15ft reinforced concrete wall, topped with bales of interconnected razor wire. Behind this wall was a ten feet deep trench and then another wall of solid concrete wall of 10ft with electrified chicken wire wrapped around it. Finally, there was a third concrete wall, 15ft high again and buttressed, topped with more razor wire and armoured cameras.

It was a truly fearsome sight, like a huge gash that ran all the way into the distance, north and south, never ending, right the way around the Ivory Coast and Mali. It was a standard Hirgizstanian Militarized Border. They were shared with countries that were not recognized by the COH. However, they didn’t actually mark the actual line of the ‘border’.

The inside 15ft wall was placed exactly 1000 metres inside the Hirgizstanian border. A small chain-link fence in front of a 600 metre mine field actually marked the line of the border.

The mine-field was the interesting part. It was huge, a sprawling mass of buried death ready to kill anyone or anything that dare stray into it. Of course Briggs didn’t know much about the border area or the minefield. He knew it was standard practice at militarized borders but it was within the purview of the Border Defense Force, not the Army.

He had just been told that the ground beyond the wall would be clear of mines come zero-hour. How he didn’t know. The road ended at the first wall. He knew how to get threw those okay, they simply opened in various places to allow invasions and such.
So far they’d got to see quite a bit of the BDF operation around the 405. There were two massive 20ft Guard Towers within Briggs’ view. They were strange looking structures, like a huge metal bunker atop a thick metal frame. They were armoured enough to stop RPG’s and 25mm ammunition dead in its tracks and apparently they had sensor suites not unlike his tanks, which could deal with AT missiles from the ground or air.

Not that anyone needed to worry about aircraft. He had seen the formations of fighter jets flying patrols right along the border over their position for the three days they’d been sitting on the highway. No one was getting close.

Briggs looked up into the beautiful morning sky and tried to see if there was any aircraft up there but he couldn’t see any. He heard the radio unit in his radio start up, and he put it back on, listening in.

“II Corps, listen up. Its time to mount up. 30 Minutes to Zero-Hour. General Jaymel out.”

Briggs smirked, that was Jaymel. A man of few words. He didn’t bloviate, that was for sure. No silly patronising speeches about duty or honor, to him that was for funerals and medal ceremonies, where soldiers deserved it more than ever. Going into battle, he knew, soldiers didn’t need to be patronised about the big picture. If they didn’t already know what that was they probably weren’t fit for service anyway. Jaymel knew that when it came to crunch time soldiers only wanted to concentrate on the job at hand and whatever their own specific objective was. That was what was important to them 30 minutes to zero hour, that and not much else.

Briggs kicked a bit of dirt into the air to see if there was any wind. There wasn’t. The dust settled calmly to earth around his boots and he started down the embankment, watching the wave of soldiers do the same all the way to the horizon.

Alakouakrou, Côte d'Ivoire - 07:10 hrs [GMT]

"Saturn. Saturn. This is Mercury One, we've got a sitrep."

"Go ahead Mercury One. What have you found?" The leader of Bravo squad looked around at his men and at the scene around him. His men had still not gotten their composure fully yet. The scene was horrific.

"We've got an empty village. No hostiles. Village is not abandoned. Locals were killed by the rebels it seems. We've got two piles, about eighty bodies between them. Burned, lit on fire. It's horrific."

"Roger that we've got a visual now Mercury One. Smoke obscuring the scene."

"You aren't missing anything you'll want to see. Get a cleanup crew over here and alert the Hirgizstanians. We're moving to the secondary target."

"Copy Mercury One. Advise caution. Report of rebel activity in that sector with vehicle support, heavy weapons, possible anti-aircraft missiles. Air support is not available."

"Understood Saturn. ETA is thirty minutes." The two Cheyennes were setting down on the landing zone where the four Legionnaire teams were going to load back into them to move to their secondary target, another village similar to the one they had just hit. It was named Kétésso and it was about forty-five miles northwest and intelligence put at least a hundred rebels there just twenty-four hours prior to the offensive. The rebel forces there could easily snake through the jungle and hit the flanks of the Hirgizstanians as they marched north from the sea. They could deal devastating casualties and they had to be neutralized fast since the Hirgizstanians were going to be moving at a fast pace.

4.Raỉ
November 19th
Sassandra, Ivory Coast

The assault on the beachhead was for all intensive purposes complete. The Malians had pushed has far and as hard as they could. They obliterated the Ivorian Army which had since ceased to exist. Only a handful of soldiers including the headquarters made it out alive. Knowing what would happen to them if they surrendered; only a few did. Their fate, those that did surrender or were captured alive, would be a grotesque one. They would suffer the reprisals of the Malian soldiers whose twisted hearts had seen the death of many a comrade. The only comfort the damned had left was the fact that they had saved their country. Even the lowliest of the Malian soldiers knew that they had done all that could be done. Their glory had all but run out. Yet their demented souls would continue to fight. They had been brainwashed to believe a false prophet and now everyone in this act would pay the consequences. They would fight on any way they could. They would kill for as long as they could breathe. They had reached the point of no return with tormented yellow grins. While actual armed fighting in Sassandra had ‘officially’ ceased sporadic gunfights continued. At any time throughout the whole of the city the single crack of a sniper rifle was ever present. It was a strange silence for a city that had been seen an almost perpetual state of combat since the Malian’s had attacked. The smell of death and burning flesh hung over the city with its usual tenacity. The last remaining Ivorian soldiers who had yet to be evacuated sadly concluded that such a horrific smell could never be washed away. Sadly enough that stench covered the entire country. The cost of life along the Ivory Coast and Mali, since the start of the war, had been catastrophic. GATO had already listed it as genocide and even with their intervention the death rate was continually rising. Sassandra was the first city liberated by GATO, and if it was any indication, the death rate was much higher than expected.

Two days after the invasion began the last of the Malian soldiers had retreated back through the city. Only a handful of sappers lingered behind to set booby traps and demolish buildings, roads, and ‘clean up’ the city of any evidence of genocide. However they were too little to do an effective job and their work became more of a nuance then anything. Other than that the city was effectively in the hands of the Hirgizstan forces which would soon be complimented by forces from the United States. The Hirgizstan forces were slow in occupying the city not knowing the just how rapid the Malian retreat was. The beach itself was alive with activity. Engineers were busy building the port into something useful while landing craft unloaded soldiers and supplies with methodical efficiency. The Hirgizstan forces were known for their tenacity and prowess but little credit was given to their logistical team which was responsible for keeping arguably the most efficient war machine going. Patrols dotted the city streets and guards manned important landmarks and roadways. It was textbook occupation duty. Off the coast, through the haze, one could make out the hulls of massive aircraft carriers and mighty battleships. Every now and again the roar of fighter planes would rip apart the sky or the steady thump of helicopters would linger in the distance. A small gunfight between a patrol and a group of sappers would break the relative tranquility if only for a moment as the Malians scattered away to the cover of dark alley ways.

Rai’s arrival in the city was unknown as was her general presence. Her name was unknown to both the civilized world and the criminal. She was a ghost by all standards. She was not supposed to exist. There were no official records, no pictures, no relatives. Those who aided her entry into the country, and the city itself, were terminated. The only evidence left on their lifeless bodies was the various cuts that killed them. As dark and mysterious as her presence was in the city it was nothing compared to her purpose which was soon to be known.

It was during D-Day +2 that the first soldiers encountered her. It was a small, five men Marine patrol. While they were patrolling a generally quiet sector they still maintained a hardened discipline that was seemingly built into Hirgizstan Marines. Despite being only five men, without armor support, they were nevertheless one of the strongest forces known to mankind. With state of the art battlefield technology they could bring down thousands of pounds of devastation within minutes with the touch of the bottom. This sort of pin-point firepower allowed them to fight much larger forces with ease. Unfortunately, this sort of capability is rather useless against quick guerrilla strikes by small units. Rai, for all extensive purposes, was a small unit. She stood at a modest 5’ 2”, draped in head to toe in a traditional Chador. Dressed in this black Muslim garment she appeared no more than a small shadow as dusk settled in over the worn torn city.

The patrol was on its way back to camp, finishing the last of their rounds when they came upon Rai. It was along a small corridor surprisingly intact compared to the rest of the city which was nothing more than ruins. Rai was huddled in the corner, awaiting their arrival. When they appeared she ran towards them shrieking something in Arabic. A tempting target for any soldier in a hostile environment, the Marines held their discipline. It appeared to be a small refugee, and a woman at that. The Marines halted and shouldered their firearms to dissuade any aggravated movement by Rai.

“Halt,” the squad leader said in fluent Arabic as a native to Northern Africa, “we are Hirgizstan Marines and we are here to help. Put your arms above your head and don’t make any sudden movements. We are here to help.”

She stopped about five yards in front of them and raised her hands slowly as if frightened. With the rest of the rifles pointed directly at her the squad leader began to approach cautiously. A small detonator was hidden in the palm of her hand unbeknownst to the Marines. As the lead Marine neared she squeezed her hand tight setting off a series of explosions which rocked the alley. Six claymore mines along with small personal mines had lined either side of the corridor sending molten pieces of shrapnel crisscrossing the alley with deadly effect. The four soldiers caught in the crossfire were ripped apart, their protective gear doing little at such short range. The entire block seemed to shake as windows shattered and dust filled the street. The squad leader was pushed effortlessly from his feet. Though quick to react Rai was even quicker, as he lunged for his rifle just inches next to his hand Rai came down hard with a foot to his outstretched arm. She moved her foot to his throat holding it with mind numbing pressure. He grabbed her foot with both hands, struggling under her surprisingly powerful weight,

“Go to hell,” he gargled in English.

“I plan on it,” she whispered back as she drove a long metal rod into his skull.

0615 Hours, End of COH Route 405, South of Enchi, Ghana


CSM Briggs had completed the checks on the M1A5’s running gear. The wheels were all new and instead of having large chunks ripped out of the rubber padding they were merely dusty. To look at the road wheels he needed to use a tool to unlatch the hinges on the armoured side skirts and fold them out. It took a while but he was used to doing it. The fluids in the tyres were also in good shape, with no leaks that he could see.

Sergeant Ngomo and Corporal Kazos had checked the engine and the various electrical components in and around the turret and crew compartment while Briggs was outside checking the running gear.

Then all that was left was to make sure the external weapons were secured and working properly. Briggs started at his own cupola where a 40mm Metal Storm APW (Advanced Projectile Weapon) was attached, a four barrelled monstrosity that he controlled via the RWS (Remote Weapons Station). It was working just fine and he had two additional ammunition packs for it. It ate its ammo like no other weapon.

Ngomo’s position had a 40mm AGL attached with the standard RWS cameras and sensors. The proven Mk.19 had once been Briggs’ favourite weapon. There was simply nothing to compare to a fully automatic grenade launcher. It could tear a building in half in just a few seconds.

The Right Weapons Dock had a huge LOSAT Bundle, as it was called. This sat out of the dock on a frame and was parallel to the turret and main gun, it had to be this way due to the extremely long length of the big kinetic missiles. There was four of them in all and there wasn’t a much better tank-killing missile anywhere in the world.

The Left Weapons Dock had what was known as ‘The Toaster’ attached to it, a strange looking movable nozzle hung out of the weapons dock, behind it was an M200 Dragon 180 Degree Napalm Flame Thrower. The M200 was a pure anti-infantry weapon, it had a range of about 40 yards if conditions were right, but such a powerful blast would waste its fuel quickly, so it was usually only used out to a 10 yard distance, but it worked unbelievably well at keeping infantry pinned down or at bay. With an M200 on either side the M1A5 could simply wade into an infantry infested position and raise hell without stretching its abilities or becoming vulnerable. This had actually been proven several times during the Gulf War. It was controlled by the tanks computer.

Finally Briggs hopped down onto the glacis plate and checked the 150mm Main Gun mantle and the 20mm Co-Axial Chain Gun from the outside, before getting into the tank and checking it from the inside with Ngomo at his side, confirming the checks.

And that was them done. Each man then settled into their positions, keeping their cupola’s open and their chairs hydraulically raised to they were all half-in-half-out of their positions.

Inside the tank the Climate System (the air conditioning) kept the compartment nice and cool but each man also had the Personal Climate System attached to their tanker suits. It was an ingenious system, a hose attached into one of several points on their flight-crew style uniforms and pumped in hot or cold air directly into their uniform.
Instead of just heating or cooling a large area it directly heated or cooled them personally.

It was a real lifesaver in the Hirgizstanian military, especially considering they were the one military that operated in the world’s harshest climates, from biting cold in northern Washington State to the humid, inhuman depths of the Congo to the hottest places on earth (including the worlds hottest, the Libyan Desert). Having innovative A/C systems that worked in the worst conditions was something the Hirgizstanian military did better than anyone else in the world.

Briggs had the electrical system up and running in the tank but the engine wasn’t started yet. He radioed to Kazos, “Check the cameras and start her up Corporal.”

“Right away Sarnt-Major.”

Kazos used the external cameras around the tank that he could see from his position in front of three large LCD screens that gave him all the info he needed. There was nobody around the tank.

He made his checks and pressed the red ‘ENG STRT’ button. A second later the engine literally roared to life, the huge 3000 Horse Power rumbling through the bulkheads and vibrating the huge metal beast.

Kazos, the parking brake still on, revved the engine a couple of times, feeling the unbridled power of the engine straining against the industrial sized brake locks. If he revved enough and let the brake off the tank would almost leap away from its stationery position. Kazos loved the fact that at his fingers and feet was one of the most powerful engines ever to propel a vehicle on a road, twice as powerful as the huge Monster Trucks he often went to see when he was back home.

Briggs then spoke to Ngomo, “Sergeant, start the gun checks.”

“Yes, sir.”

Briggs felt and heard the main gun moving through its vertical axis and then felt the turret move to the left and right with the signature electronic whine of the motors shifting and moving.

Eventually the turret and gun settled back to the 12 O’Clock position and Briggs went through his own checks, making sure all the tanks systems were running optimally, checking fuel, ammunition and GPS location before entering the Battle Net to be ready for Zero Hour.

He checked his watch, it was twenty past six.

Briggs’ radio crackled to life. “Tower Kilo-Oscar and Tower Kilo-Papa, this is 405 Control, prepare for system and visual check, over.”

It was the BDF communications net, they were broadcasting over the Army’s comms as well, so everybody knew what was going on. Now everyone would get to see how they’d get past the huge minefield that lay beyond the border walls.

There was silence on the net for a couple of minutes. Then, [I] “Kilo-Oscar to 405 Control, Systems and Visuals are optimal.”

“Kilo-Papa to 405 Control, Systems and Visuals are A-OK.”

“This is 405 Control, we copy all. Prepare to clear your sectors for commencement of OPERATION OPEN SEASON. Check in when ready.”

Another two minutes ticked by.

“Kilo-Oscar here, we are ready for clearance.”

“Kilo-Papa, we are go for clearance.”

“Excellent, Kilo-Oscar and Papa, you will clear on my mark…Five…Four…Three…Two…One…Mark.”

Briggs wasn’t prepared for what happened next. He had lived through a small earthquake, a 3.1, once in his life during a deployment overseas. It had been quite unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. It was like a giant had literally grabbed the earth and shook it violently.

Sitting in the tank he was thrown almost clear out of it, not wearing his harness. The giant seemed to be back, shaking the earth much more violently than before. The tank, its 80+ tons seemed to jump and buck and then the sound of the tearing, ripping explosion and the multiple shock-waves pressed his body back in his seat, like a huge hand forcing him down and back.

Out over the border fences the ground seem to swell upward and for a few minutes the sky was obscured by a pall of smoke from the tons of dirt thrown up into the air.

Briggs had been expecting something else entirely. The Army, and in fact his tank if it was so equipped, used a Starbust Mine Clearance tool that was launched like a missile on an explosive leash. It then detonated as it touched the ground, exploding mines all around it, creating a path through the obstructing field.

But he didn’t know that the BDF minefields were all electronic. Each mine was tagged and visible on a huge system. Interspersed in the minefields were Seismic Clerance Nodes that detonated when told and cleared huge swathes of the minefield in designated sectors.

The radio came to life again, “405 Control to Kilo-Oscar and Papa, confirm clearance, over.”

“Kilo-Oscar confirms sector is 100% clear. Uploading boundaries to the Battle Network.”

“Kilo-Papa, clearance is not complete, repeat not complete. We have several unexploded mines in the west of our sector, please confirm 405 Control.”

“Roger Kilo-Papa, clearance failure is confirmed. MCV, call-sign Dirt-Bird is on its way to you. Prepare to open the gates.”

“Copy that 405 Control.”

A few minutes later, “MCV Dirt-Bird is approaching the gates.”

Briggs looked over into the 405’s one empty lane all the way over on the right hand side and saw a BDF M1A5 with the Slicer Mine Clearer attached to the hull. The tank looked exactly like his with the same African Savannah digital camouflage. The only difference was the ‘BDF’ markings in black letters on the side skirts and elsewhere.

The big vehicle powered through the opening gate and disappeared out into the minefield, heading west into the huge shallow trench that had been created by the mine clearance.

Several loud explosions could be heard a few minutes later just a short distance away, followed by plumes of smoke.

Then, “Kilo-Papa now confirms 100% clearance. Thank you Dirt Bird.”

The BDF mine clearance M1A5 roared back through the gate and down the free lane of the 405.

“405 Control confirms mine clearance in Oscar and Papa Sectors. I, II and III Corps, its all over to you now. Good luck and God Speed. 405 Control Out.”

Now that the way was clear it was time for the Aboisso portion of OPERATION OPEN SEASON to be put into action. CSM Briggs logged into the Battle Network to monitor the progress of what had become known during the briefings as the ‘Running Fake’.

It was a simply case of age-old trickery that would give the coveted element of surprise some value in this instance. The Malians, unlike at Sassandra, could see what they were facing. All they had to do was get close to the border and they could see the lines of tanks and armor, all waiting for the end of the Fuhrer’s ultimatum and Zero Hour.

The Malians could prepare. That was the problem. Surprise had, supposedly, been lost in the pursuit of expediency.

But the Running Fake would hopefully get it back. The plan would be carried out mostly in the air, but an artillery unit and some fast-recon detachment would also be needed to add the finishing touches.

What the plan hoped to achieve was to trick the Malians into believing their planes in the sky, already on their way as far as Briggs could see on the Battle Network, had successfully stalled the Hirgizstanian advance. The Malians had also crudely mined the various roads on their side of the border, a plan was in place to make them think that had also worked in halting the advance.

Of course, it helped that the Malians had pulled all of their forces close to the border back to Aboisso and several other towns close by. This was to avoid the BDF shelling them if they got too close, as had happened several times. The Malian front lines were, therefore, quite a bit inside their own borders.

The Malian aircraft heading for the border area had been picked up on satellite leaving their base in Daoukro. There were a total of three formations of fifteen aircraft, Mig-29’s and 31’s, all headed for the three 7th Army ‘starting lines’ across the COH border in Ghana.
They were so pumped up on propaganda, Briggs thought to himself, that they actually believed forty-five out of date aircraft would ever even get close enough to do damage.

Briggs could also see their AWACS aircraft lingering behind them, it was an old E-3A. A single red line linked that with the ground operations unit outside Aboisso. This was a stationery unit linked with several powerful radars, SAM and AAA batteries, put in place to try and stop Hirgizstanian aircraft.
The Running Fake plan would, Briggs assumed, use JSOW’s to quickly eliminate the Malian aircraft and their AWACS aircraft while powerfully jamming their ground based sensors in Aboisso before using and EC-380D Tayfun Orel to commandeer their radio signals and feed them false information.

They would be told that the Malian attack aircraft had stopped the Hirgizstanian advance. This would be achieved by having Hirgizstanian aircraft fly overhead, on their way to conduct a bombing mission elsewhere, and then using various artillery units to create explosions on the various roads across the border. This would also help to explode the crudely placed mines. A small recon unit would then race forward, just before the explosions and, after the artillery did its job, would set numerous heavy-duty tyres alight, sending thick, oily plumes of black smoke into the air suggesting to the Malians that their aircraft had indeed stopped the Hirgizstanian advance.

This would cause them to relax slightly instead of trying to quickly press home their slimming advantage, giving the surrounded Ivorian unit in Aboisso some breathing space while the Hirgizstanians advanced, undetected.

Briggs, a ground pounder by nature, didn’t trust the plan completely. He knew something could, and probably would, go wrong and he and his men would be on the receiving end of whatever trouble it caused.

The CSM however, looking at the Battle Network view of the area, didn’t know how the flyboys planned to destroy the incoming Malians without some fighters. All he could see were three AL-52 Dragons, or ‘Puff’ as some called them. He knew roughly what they were and thought nothing of three of them in the area, they were likely on missile patrol in case the Malians had something larger than cruise missiles to lob over the border. That did seem unlikely though.

A little red light flashed at the bottom of the Battle Network screen and he pressed the ‘COMMS’ button to listen in. Running Fake was about to begin, just under ten minutes before Zero Hour.

“Blue Halo AEWCC comms check for Running Fake, all air units please check in, over.”

“Spoiler checking in, ready to commence jamming, over.” ‘Spoiler’ was the gigantic C-380 ready to lay down a powerful jamming blanket across a huge swathe of the enemy’s front.

“Puff Alpha checking in, over.”

“Puff Bravo, present and accounted for. Hungry for some toast, over.”

“Puff Charlie, we are go, over.”

“Blue Crown copies all. Spoiler, begin the play.”

“Spoiler copies Blue Crown.”

Briggs didn’t know it nor could he measure it but within a few short seconds every radar screen and sensor suite in the Malian arsenal across a certain area suddenly went haywire. Screens jumped and bounced around, setting alarms off for things that weren’t there. Some of their older equipment short circuited, while others simply melted into static that, no matter what the operators did, didn’t seem to lift. They all knew it was coming and they simply dealt with it as best they could, reverting to sand tables and charts where possible, doing it the old fashioned way.

“Spoiler here, ball is in play, over.”

“Copy that Spoiler. Blue Crown to all Puff’s, begin your run, over.”

Briggs saw it clearly on his display. The AL-52’s that had been idling slowly toward the border suddenly picked up speed and within a few minutes they were across it. The three planes were headed straight toward the oncoming Malian aircraft. He had heard about the versatility of Air Borne Lasers, and knew the Hirgizstanians led world research on the subject, but he didn’t really believe they could shoot down enemy aircraft…could they?

What he didn’t know, of course, was that from the 3rd Generation of ABL’s air-to-air interception of slow-moving targets, including aircraft, was entirely possible and had been practised and proven many times. The 3rd Generation had also proven adept at destroying ground units quickly and efficiently although even the 5th Generation was still not entirely adept at destroying the new generations of main battle tanks, but it could be done.

Within a few minutes of crossing the border the three Puff AL-52’s were within range of the formations of Malian attack aircraft. They were being roundly jammed and didn’t know that 30,000ft above them sat the Dragons, ready to engulf them in its fiery breath.

“Puff Alpha here, engaging.”

Briggs watched as he zoomed the screen in to see the individual Malian aircraft, fifteen in a tight, arrowhead formation with the AWACS behind them. Suddenly the AWACS signal blinked and disappeared, a log appearing on the bottom of the scream saying in red, to denote an enemy, ‘E-3A Destroyed’.

“Puff Alpha, Blue Crown confirms the kill, over.”

“Puff Bravo, engaging enemy aircraft.”

“Puff Charlie, making marshmallows.”

The Malian pilots, to the last of them, hadn’t a clue what was going on. No missile trails could be seen, no enemy aircraft were in range, as far as their jammed sensors could tell them, and yet their planes seemed to be bursting into writhing balls of flame every few seconds, despite their quick, reflexive evasive manoeuvres.

None of the forty-five Malian aircraft survived. The engagement was over within ten minutes.
“Blue Crown reports clear skies, all Puffs RTB, well done.”

Briggs checked his watch. It was two minutes to Zero Hour. He shook his head, the Air Force were certainly innovative, he’d give them that.
“Crew, we ready or what?”

Kazos replied first, “100% Sarnt-Major.”

Briggs could see Ngomo below him to the left, he looked up and smiled at the CSM, “Are we there yet?”

“Ok guys, this is what we’ve been waiting for. DEMON DOGS, DEMON DOGS!”

The two lower-ranked men dog-howled into the radio shouting the same motto right back at the CSM as loud as possible.

Each man’s radio crackled to life a minute later:
“All Units, All Units, the season is open. Repeat, OPERATION OPEN SEASON IS A GO.”

Then they heard Jaymel come over the net to speak directly to Briggs, Kilo-Two-Five.

“Kilo Two Five, this is Big Six, what are you waiting for a written invitation, kick that pig Sergeant Major!”

“Roger that General.”

Kazos didn’t need to be told. He revved the big vehicle up to a screaming, howling roar and then lifted the parking brake. The 80+ tons of pure killing machine leaped off the mark like an Olympic Athlete and had covered the short distance to the open border wall gates within a few seconds.

And then they were through, bumping down into the newly disturbed earth that the minefield had monstrously churned up. Suddenly the flimsy chain-link fence denoting the real border loomed large in Kazos’ view and he expertly flicked a switch, sending his seat reclining and downward, ‘turning in’ as they called it.

Briggs and Ngomo did the same and the tank was locked down for combat as they broke through the flimsy chain link and were then in Mali proper.

0640 Hours, West of Aboisso, Mali

Aboisso was actually quite far away from the border itself, just over 15 miles. But it was the first of civilisation in that area. The town itself was small, barely ten miles north to south and around five miles west to east. The problem for the trapped Ivorians was the river that ran to the west, all the way down to the coast.

The battered Ivorians had no way to cross the fast flowing brown mass but they had tried at first, in fact they could still see the upper hull and main gun of one of their tanks that had tried to wade across and got stuck in the silt. The crew had died. The other side of the river had been peaceful for a while, there was nothing there but a huge, sprawling private golf course, but it had soon filled up with Malians and then they began to pound on the beleaguered Ivorians from all sides.

Luckily for them the small town had had a fairly large population and had housed a large Internal Revenue filing centre that had been furnished with a sprawling bunker to protect the government employees and those people of the town who would have been within short drive or walking distance. It was built far too well for the Malians to destroy it with anything in their arsenal and the Ivorians had used it well, becoming a splinter in the huge hand of the Malian war machine.

But they were rapidly running out of drinking water as the Malians had found and blown up the underground well and pump station that provided the bunker with water, and they had managed to find the secure power generator on the outskirts of the city, so now the vast underground cavern was very poorly lit and was beginning to stifle even the hardiest of the Ivorian soldiers.

Their only release was to go outside which meant facing the almost ceaseless artillery barrage and the roving tank and infantry patrols that combed every inch of the town seemingly in a ceaseless mission.

If the soldiers got out they could attack the Malians but their chances of surviving to make it back was slim. Some hid out in various places, some were found and captured and tortured or just killed, some fell victim to the artillery while others continued to fight because the choice was either do that or lie down and die.

The Ivorians had resigned themselves to their doom but they would all be damned if they didn’t go down fighting to the last man.

“Kilo Two Five this is One-Five, have you a visual on those mines yet?”

Kilo One Five was commanded Lieutenant Kazansky, a rough lad of twenty three who was a former brick layer, despite having a university degree. He was in the M1A5 to Briggs’ right.

Briggs took a quick glance through his periscopes and then had another closer zoomed in look down the gravel road using his RWS, but still nothing. They were expecting the mines to have been closer to the border, but they’d been wrong. Either that or someone had moved them.

“Negative One Five, nothing yet…oh wait, IFF just pinged me….yeah, got them…woo boy, a whole lot of em’, right across the road and as far back as I can see, you got them Lieutenant?”

“Copy that Two Five…I see them now. One Five to Five to Big Six, we have made contact with the AT mines, over.”

Jaymel came back on the net a minute or so later, “Roger that Kazansky, arty is coming in sixty seconds, adjust if necessary. Watch out for Coyote One-One, their coming up the road behind you.”

Under a minute later a boxy Cougar 4x4 turned up and halted alongside Brigg’s tank. Then the incoming artillery rocked the earth, tore up the road and began to detonate the huge AT mines as it walked up the road.

Briggs kept watching as the arty barrage in the road got further away. The Cougar 4x4 darted gingerly forward. The crew knew AT mines would only explode when the proper weight touched their pressure plates, the Cougar was heavy but well below the 45 Tons that was the supposed Malian standard. But it was always better safe than sorry.

The rear doors opened as the stocky vehicle rolled slowly over the smoking, pockmarked gravel and then large, wrecked tyres were flung out the back. They had been doused in petrol and as the first one was flung out two soldiers wearing huge gas-masks and wearing flame-retardant suits covered in body armor jumped down, their huge flamethrowers in their hands.

The COH military was one of the only modern forces that still used flame-throwers in an infantry support role. Briggs didn’t know much about them, but from what he did know about the M200 Dragon on his tank, he reckoned it was a fearsome thing to be on the receiving end of.

The two men plodded along behind the Cougar, igniting the petrol soaked tyres as they walked. They disappeared round a bend and the artillery finally stopped.

Briggs switched his main screen to the Battle Network and listened in to the finishing touches of Running Fake.

A Malian came over the net with a message he kept repeating, “Star AWACS, can you confirm the origin of the black smoke to our rear. We hear aircraft overhead, please acknowledge us, over.”

Briggs didn’t know where the EC-380D was, but he heard one of its crewmembers effect a decent Malian accent. “We hear you Prairie Dog, those are our aircraft, and that black smoke is from burning Hirgizstanian tanks, do you copy that Prairie Dog?”

“Holy shi-…I mean, yes Star, we copy you. Our systems are being jammed, so we don’t know what’s what. Thanks for clearing that up.”

“Roger that Prairie Dog, we’re handing it to the Hirgie’s over here, they don’t stand a chance. Your systems should clear up soon, we’re on to their jammers. We’ll be on station if you need us. Star AWACS out.”

That was that. Briggs smiled, the plan seemed to be working.

A few long minutes later the Cougar 4x4 roared back down the side of the road and right past him, then he ordered his tank forward down the road that was now wreathed in thick, black smoke. It didn’t really matter though aa drone overhead showed where the tank was and were the road was, the night vision also helped cut through the worst of the smoke.

Briggs didn’t realize how long it had actually taken them to get from the border to the next RV that was just before a sharp bend in the gravel road a mile or so behind the Golf Course course at Aboisso where the Malians had stationed their first defensive line, not only to go against the Hirgizstanians, but so they could continue to shell and attack Aboisso.

From the drone and satellite overhead Briggs could see their positions clearly. If they moved any further down the road the thick woodland would thin out and the artillery and defensive positions on the ridge in front of the golf course would spot them and start the shooting. They didn’t expect the Hirgizstanians, but they were stupid either.

The Golf Course itself had been turned into a base for tanks, artillery and helicopters. They were dotted in their respective units on the fairways right up to the river.

Every few minutes the artillery would unleash a barrage and it would crash into Aboisso a few seconds later. Briggs definitely did not envy the poor Ivorian bastards supposedly still in the rubble of that city. How anyone could survive what was being thrown at them, he didn’t know.

Through his periscopes and cameras he saw the rest of the 5th Battalion tanks line up three abreast on the road to his right, left and rear. This was their starting line. Over the radio he heard Jaymel, who was in a tank somewhere close by. “Okay, Demong Dogs are assembled at the RV, commence barrage.”

Briggs kept his eye on the overhead images of the Malian positions. He kept watching as the artillery soundless crashed into the ridge and the golf course, until the sound rolled down to his position. As the barrage continued Jaymel ordered them forward.
“DEMON DOGS, LET’S HUNT!”

A resounding chorus of ‘Demon Dogs’ and wolf whistles ripped across the radios as the line abreast of M1A5’s started up the hill.

It was simply a turkey shoot. As they rounded the corner the computer picked out targets, ensuring that none overlapped with the targets of other tanks, and Briggs began his well rehearsed commands.

“Targets up. Sabot, fire.”

Ngomo replied, “Sabot on the way.”

They repeated this endless for a good fifteen minutes sometimes switching ammunition to HEAT or using the Co-Ax and turret weapons. They were hit a few times themselves but it barely registered with them, just a slight bump that was dispersed by the tanks armor.

As for the Malians they really didn’t know what had happened or what was happening. Those tanks and vehicles and soldiers assigned to the golf course area emptied round after round of missiles, tank rounds and guns of all calibres at the huge tanks that seemed to inexorably creep slowly forward dealing fiery death, left, right and everywhere.

Their own tank shells, SABOTS and HEATs from 120mm guns, had no effect on the Hirgizstanian tanks. The Malian crews screamed at each other, not knowing what to do, caught between an enemy they couldn’t defeat and a river they couldn’t cross. They screamed and then they burned as the 150mm rounds from the M1A5s tore their 50 and 60 ton tanks literally to shreds, sometimes flipping them fully over or onto their sides with the force of the impacts.

Briggs and his crew entered a well practised trance that saw them slow down the battle to their own pace. What they thought took a half an hour really took the guts of ten minutes before the river was racing up to meet their tracks and the only enemy forces left were getting smashed by artillery and aircraft on the other side of the river.

As had been the tradition Briggs was the first across the pontoon bridges, shaky and bouncy as they were. He took out several more tanks and gunned down a few hapless Malians trying to flee or fight, he wasn’t sure.

The assault on the city itself didn’t take long. A whole bunch of Malians in a pair of tanks and various small vehicles were surrounded on the road out of town, blocked in by the smoking hulks of some of their own vehicles and the Hirgizstanians behind them.

Ordinarily Briggs and the rest would have opened fire on surrendering troops but he remembered the GATO patch on his arm and the new number plate on his tank with the GATO emblem. There were rules in this fight for surrendering troops and alien as it was to him he watched from the top of the turret as several squads of infantry rounded up the bloodied, tired and shocked looking Malians. There were about eighty or so survivors as far as he could count.

It wasn’t until a couple of hours later that morning that he finally found out where the Ivorians had been. Troops had literally driven through the deserted and battle scarred town shouting on loudspeakers and sure enough from rubble hollows and a bunker below a huge wrecked building the beleagured, tired and bemused Ivorians began to emerge, shaking hands with the Hirgizstanians and scoffing down rations like starving men, which they basically were. They were, it seemed, the lucky ones and they would get to fight for their country.

Briggs watched as several trucks rounded them up over the course of the morning and took them back into Ghana, where they would eventually fly out to Sierra Leone to meet up with their leader, who, it turned out, had been saved, just, by a platoon of Marines in Sassandra before the invasion began.

0920 Hours, Aboisso, Mali

So far the Demon Dogs had held the city without a counter-attack. This was due to the fact that two other Corps were roaming north and south pushing the speedily retreating Malians back. Of course, the point of doing this was to trap them between various lines of advancing forces from the 7th Army until they couldn’t retreat, due to being dead.

CSM Lee Briggs was following the fight on the Battle Network as he sat atop his M1A5 taking in the early morning sun in the smoking ruins of Aboisso. The debris of a massive battle littered the city with Malian and Ivorian tanks and vehicles broken down, abandoned and destroyed all throughout the jagged pieces of rubble and metal from fallen buildings.

Briggs had the centre screen from his position attached to the keyboard and was sitting on top of the tank looking over After Action Reports from Kazansky and several other officers that he would then forward to Jaymel

Unsurprisingly, to him at least, Hirgizstanian losses had been slight in the battle for Aboisso. Three Infantry soldiers had died and twenty two were wounded, some seriously.

Losses elsewhere were also thought to be at a minimum. It shouldn’t really have been a surprise to anyone after the Gulf War. For 15,000+ enemy killed, there were under 70 Hirgizstanian killed. The world’s best armor and equipment saw to the thankfully declining trend in huge casualties against inferior enemy forces.

Briggs knew that there were better trained forces in the world than the Malians, the Nerotikans, Russians and Eastasians to name a few, and in a war losses against those nations forces would likely be much higher, but certainly not anywhere near the level of a decade or two ago. It was still bloody, but it was progress.

Briggs was thoroughly engrossed in reading a report and didn’t notice General Oscar Degunde Jaymel step up onto the front of the tank.

He only heard the footsteps as they got closer to the turret and the CSM turned to see the General.

Jaymel was an enigma of sorts. For a start he had once been in the Air Force and had flown F-15’s. He had crashed five planes and been assigned desk duty afterward. He bore the scar of what he called ‘a botched exit’ on his face, a tight indentation running from below his neckline all the way up the left of his face and around his forehead. Nobody really knew the entire history of his spectacularly bad flying career but all that mattered was he had quit and re-enlisted in the army, first as an APC Gunner, but he had eventually found his way into the tankers.

He always said he was a bad flyer, but everyone agreed he was one of the best armoured warfare tacticians in the Army, with two hefty books published on the subject.

If Jaymel’s military life wasn’t strange enough, his civilian life, or what there was of it, was even more bizarre. He was a Representative of a small southern area of his native Gambia and had been re-elected for more than five times, despite the fact he was rarely ever in his constituency. The fact was that there were only around several thousand voters and like most Hirgizstanians they were happy to get on with their own lives without the state. Jaymel only ever went to Capitol Hill if there was something important about that part of Africa on the agenda, but Briggs noted that he hadn’t been back for about a year.

It wasn’t actually all that uncommon in Hirgizstan, there were quite a number of politicians serving in the military. Few were full-time soldiers like Jaymel, mostly those in very small districts or areas. But many served in the National Guard and Reserves.

The General stood now, leaning on the turret of the M1A5. He had something leathery and furry curled up on his shoulder which he lifted gently down onto the roof of the turret and began to play with it.

Briggs laughed slightly. Jaymel had a strange pet, an Epaulet bat (Ephomorphus Gambianus) that he claimed he found half-dead on top of his car one morning a few years ago. It had been small then, Briggs recalled. Now it was quite big, about the size of a Chihuahua dog with its wings unfolded, and surprisingly enough it almost looked like a dog as well, with a long canine like face, front teeth and ears to match.

Jaymel kept it lying expertly on his shoulder during the day, as he’d taught it, with its wings wrapped around itself. Every so often it would come out of its cocoon, shake and flap, eat something Jaymel would give it, then curl up again. During the night he’d let it hunt. It caught small insects, he said, but actually acted more like a bee, by sucking nectar from certain plants.

The General played with it now on the turret, just like a man would do with a dog. Its claws and talons scraped about on the surface of the tank as it tangled itself with his moving hand.

Briggs put the lap-top down and moved toward it, but it cocooned itself quickly and Jaymel, laughing, gently put it back on his shoulder.

“Damn thing hates me. Why a bat, why not a parrot…at least it’s pleasant to look at.”

Briggs had an ongoing commentary about the pet, he didn’t like it and it didn’t like him. Jaymel usually kept it on a perch in his office, it hung there upside down all day but would sometimes awaken, and upon seeing Briggs it would screech and flap like a tiny banshee until Jaymel patted it and it would then quiet down.

“Lee, parrots are rude, idle creatures. This is a hunter, a survivor. Like me.” The General smiled.

“Yeah, but I bet he can fly better than you.”

Jaymel laughed heartily at that. “I bet he can.” He paused for a minute and then continued, in a serious tone. “Listen Lee, I know it was you, Kazansky and Bin Tulafar who cornered those Malians this morning. You guys did good to ignore our usual SOP, much as we hate to do that. I’m glad it was you, anyone else I would have been worried about them perhaps forgetting.”

Briggs nodded at the General, now leaning sideways onto the turret. “Have faith General, you drummed those GATO rules and reg’s into us so well…actually, you spoke and I drummed it into them…but it stuck, believe me. We’re all wearing the GATO patch and we all have the plates on our vehicles, we know were our bread is buttered.”

Jaymel conceded that point with a slow, thoughtful nod. “That’s good to know. How’d it feel following somebody else’s tune though?”

“Honestly, sir?”

“Don’t bullshit Lee, of course honestly.”

“Felt like shit…felt wrong. We don’t need eighty six Malians to baby-sit, it’s a waste of our resources. Like our SOP says, we only need a couple to interrogate, the rest are expendable.”

“Un-huh. Problem is, GATO…well, in the spirit of things I won’t bullshit…the United States, doesn’t want us killing surrendering troops. Our higher ups reckon if we don’t follow GATO rules the organization will fall apart.”

Briggs turned to fully face the General now and said bluntly, “You’re the politician and the General, I’m just a cranky old Sergeant Major, I do what I’m told. We’re told not to shoot, we don’t shoot. Simple as that. I couldn’t give a shit about politics or alliances, and I’ll bet my stripes that the US soldiers don’t either because they’re in the same boat.”

“Exactly…well they bloody should be, we built their damn military. Problem is, this whole war has the distinct possibility of turning into an insurgency quagmire faster than a Nerotikan surrender. The Malians are too weak to fight conventionally, and that leader of theirs is a nut-job, but he’s no fool. Once that happens, our priorities might change.”

Briggs didn’t fully understand this. “Why’s that?”

Jaymel locked eyes with his CSM, “You remember Admiral Eberendu?”

“The Butcher of Dubai? Hell yeah, hell of a guy for a web-footed Navy officer.”

“Indeed. Well, as everyone knows he wrote the current armed forces counter-insurgency manual with a load of other officers after the Gulf War. I co-wrote two chapters on armoured warfare and logistics.”

Briggs was kind of restless, not really sure were the conversation was headed. “General, what has this got to do with our current situation?”

“Well, as you know I was called away to the capital last week for three days. It wasn’t for work on Capitol Hill though, it was for a conference on this war. Admiral Eberendu is now head of MIDEASTCOM and he chaired it along with the Joint Chiefs. We were discussing what to do if this turns into an insurgency…and Sergeant-Major, I’ll tell you right now that the US will not like what we concluded.”

Briggs had read the hand-book that Admiral Eberendu had written along with several others, in fact he’d had an advance copy thanks to Jaymel. Not only did it recommend what was now SOP for dealing with surrendering enemy forces, but it took the harsh lessons of the Gulf War and the insurgency that followed and drew some brutal but effective conclusions. Briggs now thought he knew what was coming.

The CSM said nothing and General Jaymel continued. “Right now we’re doing the whole conventional invasion thing, and that’s fine for now…but I don’t think the Malians will continue to be a conventional enemy, especially when we cross into Mali proper.”

“So you think as soon as they realize we can beat them with both hands behind our backs, they’ll change tack?”

“Precisely Lee, precisely. And the Fuhrer, Admiral Eberendu, the Joint Chiefs and everybody else at that conference concluded the same thing. We haven’t told the US yet but if it does we go street to our COIN manual because we’re not going to sit back and take losses because the US doesn’t have the balls to do what it takes to stop an insurgency. The people won’t stand for that, you know it and I know it.”

Briggs was just a Sergeant-Major as he often said, but he knew more than he liked to admit about politics and about their current situation regarding the US. He knew the US soldiers were exactly that, soldiers, following orders just like he was, they were not and would not be the problem.

He had, of course, read and practised what was in the COIN manual, he could quote verbatim from some chapters and draw the important diagrams that were used to teach other non-coms and enlisted. Most of the book was unexceptional and workaday, simply re-stating old lessons only in a modern context for the modern soldier and modern battlefield.

Emphasis, of course, was placed on ‘Hearts and Minds’ strategies that would bring a target population into line by providing them basic services and whatever else they needed to survive and feel secure in periods of transition. The huge military budget and Civil Liason troops, as well as the foreign service State Department people, meant H and M was never usually a problem. It had not been in the Gulf War.

The main problem lay in what to do about the actual insurgency. During the war against the Nerotikans in Russia the Commonwealth had come up against a well funded, well trained and well organized insurgency capable of striking literally anywhere, anytime. Briggs had seen it first hand. They had used the standard tactic of using H and M to turn some of the populace to their side and had trained up loyal paramilitary forces, supplying them with equipment, money and intelligence. This worked in some places to an extent.

The COH military itself had gotten increasingly aggressive with the actual insurgents and had brought losses from a high after the end of major combat operations to a low during the insurgency itself, but no matter how many they seemed to kill there were always new cells popping into existence among hostile civilian populations. No amount of H and M strategies or money seemed to change their minds and the insurgency was never fully stopped, other nations who eventually took political control of the areas had had to deal with the unsolved problem.

The Aazadis in the Gulf War were of the same vein. They seemed to sprout up in areas filled with disaffected civilians and no amount of enemy bodies seemed to stop them. Admiral Eberendu had been stumped at the early stages of the war but had eventually decided on a brutal but massively effective strategy.

Admiral Eberendu himself called it ‘literally murderous in its simplicity’, and it was exactly that. His first success had been levelling the entire city of Abu Dubai, avoiding confrontation with the hostile population that sheltered the insurgency and deciding instead to eliminate them along with the insurgents, citing the maxim that ‘those who help insurgents, are insurgents.’

And so the strategy was born, originally called ‘The Eberendu Doctrine’, it helped win the war and destroy the insurgency that followed. Wherever a civilian population helped insurgents or sheltered them or attacked the Hirgizstanians, all the civilians in a that area would be killed.

The strategy had turned the ire of the entire world upon the Commonwealth, earning Eberendu the ‘Butcher’ moniker he was now known by even in Hirgizstan, only in the COH it was a nickname for a national hero.

The COIN manual was an in-depth fleshing out of the The Eberendu Doctrine and using it against the Malians would and could prove to be absolutely devastating to the future of GATO, unless the US somehow saw the wisdom of it. Briggs seriously doubted they ever would but he wondered how their soldiers and their people would feel once they started to take heavy casualties from an insurgency that was mercurial in its practice and existence.

Briggs shook his head. It hadn’t happened, there was no insurgency…yet.
“Maybe they will see sense in it General, once they start losing people by the double digits every day of the week. They’ve never experienced an insurgency, maybe they’ll look to us for leadership.”

Jaymel wearily shook his head. “There’s too many ‘maybe’s’ and ‘ifs’ in that sentence Sergeant-Major…Anyway, just so you know, don’t be surprised. I need you at 110 per cent out here.”

“Yes sir, Demon Dogs are always hungry.”

“Damn straight.” The General paused for a minute and looked into the beautiful, endless cobalt sky. He eventually continued, “Listen, the Fuhrer’s speech is in a few minutes…0930. At 0945 we move out west and secure towns along the southern highway, we’re clearing the route for a push on Abidjan, brass wants it taken by 7am tomorrow morning, so prepare your guys. I’ll brief you all over the network before we leave here, there’s a written briefing and the usual related info and intel already on there. Have a good one Lee. I’ll see you later.”

With that Jaymel hopped off the tank, the bat on his shoulder and his assault rifle swinging on its sling around his back.

Edit: Re-wrote my Rai introduction.

WARNING: The following post contains graphic scenes. Reader discretion is advised.

D-Day +1, In the Jungle, 150 Miles South of PAM Forward Operating Base, Odienne, Northern Ivory Coast

The Malian Special Warfare Group Detachment knew there were civilians in the area. They had been hunting them down for quite a few weeks.

Many Ivorians had managed to flee into the dense woodland and jungles of the Ivory Coast during the swift Malian advance. Those not herded into concentration and labor camps or simply killed were now being hunted like animals by Malian troops.

The tactics were simple- trackers from the SWGD’s were dropped into grid squares covering 50 Square Kilometres and they would patrol and hunt down groups of civilians before calling for reinforcements or air strikes or artillery- whatever was on hand.

The SWGD’s were the PAM’s SOF. Most of them were experienced Touareg tribesman, used to trekking animals and sometimes people for miles over harsh desert and mountain terrain. They were steely men with almost no limits.

However, their one weakness was their relative unfamiliarity with jungle and woodland. Hailing from a mostly arid desert region of Mali they were not native to the dense areas of vegetation that was a hallmark of certain areas in the Ivory Coast. There was no doubt they could hold their own in jungle and woodland but some of the Ivorians they were hunting had grown up in the jungles they were now hiding in and finding them had become much more difficult as the least fortunate ones were usually killed quickly, leaving only the hardiest.

The five men in the woodland south of Odienne had been patrolling for four days without sighting any actual civilians. All they had found were old signs, encampments and the odd bits of rubbish and clothing left here and there as well as some trails through the undergrowth.

They knew they were being shadowed by a lone leopard that had come very close to their sleeping positions several times. At night they could easily pick up its eery reflective yet hollow green and black eyes, stalking their flanks.

Had they been native to the jungles they might have sensed the other things that were watching and following them.

The five men had, on one particular night, been awakened by the howl of wolves not too far off. They knew the only wolves native to Africa were Hirgizstanian Wolves, a particularly vicious and aggressive animal at home in jungle or on the plains that often travelled in small or large packs. They had been introduced to Africa by the Hirgizstanians hundreds of years ago and had altered the food chains of the many nations they now roamed.

Usually in Africa the lion was the mammal at the top of the food chain, and it usually had to contend with hyenas, leopards and cheetah’s for that exalted position. However, when naturalists began to study such things they found that in some areas the wolves had replaced the lions, often simply using their greater intellect and numbers to bring down whole lion prides. They didn’t do it often, but it happened.

The howls had chilled the Malian soldiers to the bone. Big cats were not really a threat to humans. They were usually curious, like the leopard that constantly stalked them, but rarely a danger. The wolves, on the other hand, were entirely unpredictable.

And hearing the wolf cry had been doubly unnerving because of the reports of attacks by what the Malian soldiers were referring to as ‘the Dark Beast’. The Ivorians had always believed there were a breed of demented gorillas that lurked in some areas, attacking rural communities and people unlucky enough to come across them in the woods or jungle. But the fact that this beast only attacked Malian soldiers was stranger still. And what was worse for the Malian’s patrolling the jungles was that the beast usually attacked with a pack of Hirgizstanian wolves in tow.

In any case the five men, a Lieutenant, First Sergeant, Sergeant and two Corporals, had been tracking four or possibly five civilians that had been moving clumsily through the jungle ahead of them. They had not yet come close enough to make a positive ID but the men were fairly sure there were two adults and either two or three younger people, and it seemed none of them truly knew where they were going as they had, probably unintentionally, doubled back on their own trail at least twice.

The five Malian special forces soldiers finally got eyes on as the sun went down on their fifth day in the field. They had, it turned out, been tracking a family that seemed to have gotten separated from a group they had been travelling in, according to what they were saying. The lost family were totally at unease in the jungle, crashing through vegetation and talking loudly, often arguing with each other over where to go or what to do. There was a dad, a mother, a girl of about six and two teenage looking girls.

They were so caught up in their own predicament they never even sensed there were five pairs of menacing eyes watching them.

The Malian’s main mission was to locate the larger groups that moved through the jungles with guides, often twenty or more strong. A lost family was nothing to call in about. They could do what they wanted with them.

The scared family had a small pop tent and a rucksack with them and as the light went down they set a small fire and settled into their unfamiliar surroundings as best they could, huddling together for safety and comfort. The Father soothed his family by re-assuring them, confidence in his voice but not his eyes.

The fire they had set ruined any hopes of having natural night vision and they didn’t see the five soldiers move into position all around them and their small tent. They only saw the five menacing figures as they closed in on the fire, their hideous smiling faces half obscured by camouflage netting and bush hats. However, the sneering smiles and lecherous eyes could not be hidden as they looked over the mother and the young children.

They immediately flex cuffed and gagged the struggling father and then cuffed him again around a tree. They didn’t blind-fold him though, they would make him watch as they ravaged his wife and children.

The mother fought with the little strength she had but strong hands held her to the ground, exploring her body roughly and covering her mouth brutally as she tried to scream and shout.

The two teenagers didn’t fight as they were attacked beside their mother, they cried and struggled meekly against their stronger aggressors.

The Lieutenant regarded the smaller kid as his own, he would have her. He took her away from the rest of her family so she wouldn’t struggle so much. She seemed tired more than disturbed.

The little girl knew he meant her harm and she cowered, trying to run from him but her small legs and small stature meant she kept tripping over undergrowth. She managed to scramble up a small incline, using exposed tree roots to pull herself up as the Lieutenant licked his lips and followed her, amused by the little girls vain attempts to escape.

He watched her scramble up the incline. What he didn’t see was the small Hirgizstanian wolf pup that sat waiting for her as she reached the top. It sat perfectly squat and upright, tail wagging and eyes bright, like it had been waiting for her all along. She smiled at it.

The pup came forward and licked her arms as she stood up and it jumped up at her, yelping a little. The girl gingerly picked it up and held it close. It playfully licked her face and she lost herself in its bright eyes.

The six year old became oblivious to the Lieutenant approaching behind her. He eventually stood astride her and laughed as he saw her holding the dog, still ignoring him.

He bent down to grab her and as he shifted his weight he heard, from all around him a low, truly terrifying growl. It came from several sources. He noticed it and looked around, unable to see in the dark. Moving closer to the girl the growls got louder. She still seemed oblivious to the growls, him or anything but the puppy she played with in her arms.

The Lieutenant slowly snapped down his night vision and eight pairs of dark green reflective eyes greeted him from the darkness. He straightened up and turned, but something hard, sharp and metallic bit deeply into his chest as he did. Taken by surprise, his body armor and harness back at the family tent, there was no protection on his chest. He had nothing to fight with of his own.

In the night vision all he saw was a dark shape holding a huge knife deep into his stomach just above the beltline. The thing had an inhuman shape but seemed to have hands of some sort on the blade. The Lieutenant realized instantly what it was and tried to shout but the blade bit upward and his words got choked off in his throat.

And the blade kept biting upward until it had opened a massive gash from the soldiers belt-line to his rib-cage where parts of his intestines began to poke through. And then he was nearly lifted bodily off the ground as the blade inside him ripped his ribcage open and continued up, cutting his neck arteries as it ripped out near his shoulders.

With a wet plop the Lieutenants intestines hit the ground as the gash in his chest could no longer hold the bulging mass back. After a few seconds of blood exploding from his neck wound he collapsed forward into his own insides. The last thing the Malian Lieutenant was conscious of was breathing in his own faeces from his own ruptured intestines.

A few hours later a group of Malian Light Infantry had been dispatched to look for the Special Forces soldiers after they missed two sit-reps. The two platoons of Infantry had eventually found the five soldiers, swinging upside down from trees, their insides hanging down around their necks, reaching to the ground.

Diligently, the two platoons gathered up the bodies but they too broke contact with the base at Odienne and some several hours later a lone survivor stumbled out of the jungle, covered in blood and babbling about wolves and beasts and terrors that his brain couldn’t comprehend.

November 20th
Sassandra, Ivory Coast

Five dead, an entire patrol. It had been the costly attack of the campaign to that point. The Hirgizstan Marines hadn’t lost five men in the actual invasion. While casualties were modest, KIA’s were almost completely unheard of. Stranger yet there had been no sign of gunfire or even return fire for that matter. No signs of enemy dead or wounded. It was a problem that perplexed and frustrated Hirgizstan high command. The remainder of the city, by day three, was in GATO control. As usual sporadic gunfire did erupt but officially speaking the city was no longer hostile. City wasn’t a practical term as most of it was smoldering rubble. Yet true to GATO doctrine those parts that still remained intact were already receiving electricity and water was forthcoming. The first set of civilians was moving back into their homes to pick up their shattered lives. Their tired bodies giving a face to the destruction, the unavoidable sorrow that death brings. Luckily for Hirgizstan they wouldn’t be around much longer to witness the return of those people who faced tragedy. The first United States troops were coming ashore and would take over occupation duty to free up the Marines for the push out from the beachhead. Once the US forces had built up enough numbers they too would join the fight.

The US soldiers weren’t all that different from their Hirgizstan counter-part. They were an all volunteer unit; they trained alongside of the Hirgizstan military, and had a lot of the same equipment. A major difference though was experience. Unlike Hirgizstan soldiers most US troops were not career soldiers and there were very little veterans left over from the campaigns against Teh Ninjas some years earlier. Having spent so much time training with the Hirgi troops they knew they were the brunt of a lot of their jokes. Needless to say they were eager to prove themselves worthy.

Occupation duty was not what they had in mind. The first units ashore were Marines, just like the initial invaders, and they were itching for a fight. However with Hirgizstan already in numbers they were to make the initial push outward from Sassandra until more US units were ready. This meant that those first Marine units would have to play the waiting game while babysitting the destroyed city and its meager inhabitants.

Yet there was a growing trend in this war. There was something different about this conflict. Sinister things were stalking the land, unspeakable and unexplainable things. Stories of ghosts, demons, and monsters flowed through the ranks of every unit on every side of the conflict. While such rumors, such stories of fiction would usually be tossed out as nothing more than stories, Africa was a land of mystery and so they stuck. One such story was gaining favor in Sassandra, one of a demon.

It was another patrol, same as last time. Five men heavily armed patrolling another quiet sector of the city. Five dead that was the last casualties the city had seen and that was a day ago. A few small gunfights erupted in the northern sector of the city but that resulted in two dead Malian fanatics and nothing more. The South Eastern sector had actually been the least hostile of all sectors within the city. It was simply protocol for the Marines, something to keep them from falling asleep. It was a pointless endeavor usually, but they didn’t bitch. They knew it was only a matter of time before they got to see some real action. At certain times they could hear the rumble of Hirgizstan armor off in the distance or the thunderous rumble of precision guided munitions falling from fighters that would roar over from the coast.

“Lion Actual, this is Lion 8-2 over.”

“Lion 8-2, go ahead, over.”

Sgt. Jengo Unathi, leader of the patrol looked around for a brief moment confirming his whereabouts. His men were keeping an eye out around him, though not expecting anything.

“We’ve reached Checkpoint Alpha, repeat Checkpoint Alpha. All clear…as usual, over.”

“Lion 8-2 all clear, RTB, over.”

Unathi waved his finger in the air as he listened signaling for his squad to return home.

“Affirmative, Lion 8-2 out!”

The men under his command turned around and gathered up their belongings. It had been yet another uneventful patrol. It had only been a day but it seemed to routine. The sun was beginning to fall over the city creating ominous shadows on the streets below.

“Sarge, hold up a second,” it was the voice of private Itumeleng. “I’ve gotta take a piss, it will only take a second.”

Unathi looked around and then at his watch. “Alright fine but make it quick.”

With the Unathi’s blessings he jogged over to a small alleyway looked around to avoid running into an ambush and proceeded to relieve himself against the wall. Unbeknownst to him Rai was stalking him like a spider. Using the walls of the alley she braced herself just above his head. Gracefully she let herself fall coming down just behind the soldier with no sound. She removed a small serrated knife from her belt and held in firm in her hand. Without warning or struggle she slid the knife across his throat. Blood flooded quickly through the slit quickly draining the life from the obviously shocked and helpless soldier. Before his knees even touched the ground she was gone flowing back into the rubble and alleys of the destroyed city.

It didn’t take long for Unathi and the rest of the squad to see the Private on the ground, a puddle of blood surrounding him. After a quick scan of the area they examined the body. With the thickest concentration of blood around his neck it didn’t take a doctor to figure out what happened to him. They didn’t have long to dwell however. An explosion sent them all to the ground wounding, though not severely, two of them. Another explosion erupted nearby and then another. The entire area seemed rigged with timed explosives, though in random and often ineffectual locations.

The radio crackled to life.

“Lion 8-2 his is Lion Actual we need a god damn sit-rep, over!”

Unathi quickly replied while ducking at each explosion, “Lion 8-2 under heavy attack, withdrawing to base, over!”

“Affirmative Lion-8-2, Out!”

After a few minutes of explosion it became apparent that the explosions were in fact random, a scare tactic more than anything. The person who planted them wanted the rest of the men to shit their pants, but come out alive.

OOC: Alright let me do some catchup here. I want to get this post detailed for what I should have posted for the second part of the initial support from the Empire. Then I'll get back up to speed with Hirg's current posts.

Kétésso, Côte d'Ivoire - 08:20 hrs [GMT]

The Layartebian air assault force was covering fast on Kétésso. The five helicopter assault force included a pair of AH-103A Cheyenne gunships, which carried the Legionaries a pair of AH-6M Little Bird fast-attack escorts, and a single RAH-70A Arapaho reconnaissance helicopter. There were just twenty-four Legionaries inside of the two Cheyennes and they were going up against possibly a hundred or more rebels. Intelligence put a hundred or more in the village just twenty-four hours prior to the offensive and now, with the offensive going full steam, these rebel forces could easily snake through the jungles and attack the Hirgizstanian flanks as they marched north from the sea.

Both Little Birds accelerated ahead of the main assault force when they were ten miles away. The Arapaho had already moved off to a different vector and was putting itself into position to observe the village. The Arapaho was armed and could defend itself but, unlike the Cheyennes and Little Birds, it didn't have a lot of firepower, opting more for speed than force.

The two Little Birds moved into position and swept over the village at 140 miles per hour and just one hundred feet. Armed with rocket launchers and machine gun pods, their goal was just to draw fire to locate enemy forces, which they would attack on the second pass. In the first sweep, they got exactly what they wanted. Rebel forces all along the village opened up with their assault rifles, sending hundreds of rounds into the air, all harmlessly missing the two Little Birds. "Ghost flight. Ghost flight. Heavy activity at the village, a lot of tangos down there. We're making a second pass now to assault."

"Roger that Ghost One-Two. One is in place. Observing the village. Thermals show a lot of targets and optics easily put over a hundred down there. Advise full effect strafing run."

"Roger that One. Commencing run!" The two Little Birds had overflown the village by three miles and banked to the left and right, going into a sharp 180° turn that now put them on target with the village. This time, they flew a little slower, just over 110 miles per hour but they kept their altitude the same as the pilots selected their rockets and Miniguns. Once they reached the village, they opened up, each one on a separate path down the village. In a single pass, both helicopters exhausted their rocket ammunition but put a heavy dent into the rebel contingency, killing at least two dozen and spreading out the rest. The warheads on their Adder 2.75" rockets peppered the ground, detonating on impact, each warhead filled with ten pounds of plastic explosives. Though they exhausted their rockets, they both still had their Miniguns, each of which carried fifteen hundred 7.62x51mm rounds. Capable of putting up to 6,000 rounds per minute on a target, both helicopters fired off over two hundred rounds, peppering the ground with bullets as well.

The rebels that managed to escape the two strafing runs now took cover although they continued to fire their rifles, now from concealed positions. "This village is fucking hot!" Ghost One-Three said as he came off the strafing run, both Cheyennes now in visual range of the village. They both had their own weapons and they had plenty of ammunition and ordinance still left over to engage the rebels. Because the village was so hot neither of the two helicopters would be setting down. Instead, they would deploy fast ropes. Already attached to the sides, the two helicopters maneuvered into position on the southeast of the village, about a half mile away and dropped their thick, black, nylon ropes seventy-five feet to the ground. Already prepared with their goggles and gloves, the Legionaries threw their weapons around their backs, grabbed onto the ropes, and let gravity do the rest. Separated by only nine feet, six men went down each rope until they were all on the ground. Both Cheyennes immediately banked away and began to retract the massive rope system.

Normally, helicopters detached the ropes and left them there until a team could recover them at a later time. However, because the Legionaries often never had such an option, they had developed a new system. The ropes could be dropped into place from the helicopter just as quickly as any others but a rapid moving gear system attached to the rope system would allow them to recover the full length of the rope in under three minutes. The only drawback was that, while retracting the rope, they had to remain at a heightened altitude and at a lower than full speed, to avoid the ropes catching any obstacles. Despite the drawbacks it worked. The two Cheyennes had moved off of the target village and began retracting the ropes when the Legionaries began to move out into the village.

Weapons shouldered and goggles still on, they moved through the jungle separating the clearing from the village and immediately took fire. The rebels had seen them rope in and tried, in vain, to take down the helicopters but none of their heavier weapons were ready to be launched at the helicopters. They did not know of the coming helicopters in advance and only got ready when they heard the incoming helicopters. They had a wide assortment of weapons in the village that ranged from simple assault rifles to various types of RPG systems such as the RPG-7, RPG-18, LAW, and RPG-22s, a couple of Carl Gustav 84mm portable recoilless rifles, heavy machine guns, possibly a few Iglas, and various weapons mounted to pickup trucks (i.e. technicals). They were already rolling out a technical that was armed with an SPG-9 73mm recoilless rifle. They had a few with both light and heavy machine guns ready as well but they were going to be prime target for the assault helicopters.

The Legionaries weren't equipped with any anti-tank weapons except a few M101A1 CLAW tubes, which they could easily use against the technicals. Spread out and taking cover, the Legionaries opened fire on the rebels firing quick bursts or single shots with far greater accuracy than the rebels who seemed to lack any sort of formal military training. They seemed more like a rag-tag militia that lacked discipline but had weapons. Surely, whomever the commander of this force was, he had failed his men in terms of preparation. Against the superior Legionaries, the rebels stood little chance, which was primarily due in part to their spray and pray technique. They had some sort of tactical organization though as they met the Legionaries out at their landing zone and even began to open up flanks. Unfortunately for them, the Legionaries were expecting it, giving them the ability to shoot back. They returned fire while one of the Legionaries reached around his back and pulled out the CLAW. He quickly went through the motions for firing the weapon by opening up the tube, unlocking the safety, and setting the sights. The technical was only about one hundred meters ahead of them and big enough that it was an easy target. He shouldered the weapon and yelled out, "BACK BLAST!" Even though the CLAW was a "CS" or confined space weapon, he still gave a warning. The original confined space weapons came out of a development of the Swedish AT4. Designers fitted a saltwater countermass to the rear of the launcher. When the rocket fired, the saltwater absorbed the back blast, dramatically slowing down the pressure wave, allowing it to be fired from inside of enclosed spaces and also with other soldiers in the area.

The Legionnaire sighted the technical and pushed down on the trigger. The rocket launcher shook on his shoulder. All at once, his whole shoulder and body vibrated, a saltwater spray filled the air around and behind the launcher, and the rocket left the muzzle of the plastic, disposable tube at 285 meters per second. Capable of penetrating 500mm of RHA after ERA, 1,000mm of concrete, or 1,200mm of brick, the 76mm projectile and its powerful warhead slammed into the side of the technical at full force. The warhead detonated in nanoseconds after it struck and penetrated the thin metal exterior of the technical. Instantly, the technical exploded and erupted in a ball of fire as the Legionaries smiled. The launcher was dropped on the ground and the Legionnaire pulled his M99A2 ASAC and squeezed off two rounds as he sighted a rebel soldiers on a flank. Both rounds zoomed right into his chest and knocked him onto the ground, dead.

"Move out!" The squad leaders ordered as the four Legionnaire squads of six men, codenamed Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, and Delta began their assault into the village. Together they were known as Mercury with the command named Saturn.

The twenty-four men pounded through their welcoming party quickly, killing half of them while the other half pulled back, retreating back to the village. The Legionaries took their time coming out of the jungle foliage and waited for the Cheyennes overhead to pepper the area with gunfire. Both Cheyennes made quick passes firing their nose-mounted M88A1 20mm cannons and window mounted Miniguns. Moving overhead quickly, they spotted the remaining technicals and passed on the information. The chatter between the pilots was quick paced and they were calling out technicals, hiding positions, and enemy personnel. The Little Birds moved in with their Miniguns next, targeting whatever they could see. The Cheyennes targeted the technicals with their wing-loaded Corona anti-tank missiles and fired off two missiles, taking down two technicals. The rebels continued to fire though. Retreating back to the various structures of the village, they were easily outgunned as the Legionaries now entered the outskirts of the village. The combined attack was dealing heavy damage to the rebels.

The assault on Kétésso continued another half hour while the Legionaries swept through the streets and structures, most of which were small huts, easily searched. The rebels were, in effect, slaughtered. A few managed to escape into the jungle and avoid being killed or captured by the Legionaries. When the bullets stopped flying, rebel forces had eighty-three killed, seventeen wounded, and seven captured. An unknown number of them had escaped into the jungle but with only their assault rifles. A large cache of weapons were found in the village along with a number of other things, including more bodies. The rebels had begun their ethnic cleansing some time ago and slaughtered at least sixty-three villagers, including women and children, all of whom first had their right arms hacked off, possibly for being pro-Hirgizstanian. Several huts were burned with bodies inside of them, makeshift crematoriums from the looks of it. About an hour after securing the village, the prisoners were loaded onto transport MH-102C Dark Lord helicopters as well as the wounded and brought back to base for interrogation and treatment. The Cheyennes, Little Birds, and Arapahos returned to base and rearmed and refueled. The Legionaries remained at the village during the time, trying to find out what they could from the dead. They found out little and wound up flying out of there just after setting off a few blocks of C4 plastic explosive, destroying the arms cache.

Sassandra, Ivory Coast, D-Day + 2

The key to the mobility, lethality and success of any modern fighting force lies not in the prowess of main battle tanks or the training and preparation of soldiers. These are essential, but they can only do so much without fuel, food and ammunition. A main battle tank can only go so far on a single tank of gas and a soldier cannot carry thousands of rounds of ammunition nor enough food for more than a few weeks.

The old saying that ‘an army marches on its stomach’ still holds true for even the very best fighting force on the planet. Thus, without vital supplies an army will, quickly, become static and useless. To avoid such an occurrence modern military forces need capable, durable and effective logistics frameworks.

Just such an effective system could be seen swinging into full force on the second day of the GATO invasion of the Ivory Coast. The city’s small civilian airport had been re-surfaced and extended in under forty-eight hours- several thousand Navy SeaBees had accomplished in that short space of time what would probably take civilian contractors up to a month or longer. Almost as soon as the surface had been weight-verified the Air Force controllers had been flown in and then the planes started arriving in a seemingly never-ending air lift.

The runway had only been verified for C-130s, C-17’s and C-141’s. The larger C-5’s, C-18’s and AN-225’s would have to wait until the Ivorian’s second largest airport, at Abidjan was in friendly hands before arriving.

Nevertheless, a plane arrived every fifteen minutes at Sassandra and the Hirgizstanian palletized load system (PLS) allowed supplies to be dumped off the aircraft quickly and transferred to waiting vehicles. At the same time, C-130’s with parachute pallets were dropping vehicles and supplies on playing fields on the eastern side of the city.

As well as supplies an entire Army Air Wing was in the process of flying in its 4,950 helicopters in to Sassandra. They would begin transporting supplies and Marines further into the country as well as providing an overwatch for approaching units of the 10th Army’s 4, 5 and 6th Corps which were smashing their way through retreating Malian forces on their way to link up with Hirgizstanian Marines north of Sassandra, ready to push on toward what was becoming known as the ‘Gagnoa Pocket’.

Basically, the situation of the Malian forces in the Ivory Coast was dire. The Army’s 1, 2 and 3 Corps had cut straight across their line of retreat from Abidjan and were now waiting outside the city while the Navy pounded the hell out of them.

The 4, 5 and 6th Corps were advancing straight through the middle of the country, taking out smaller installations and cutting off any hopes that Malian forces from the north could make it through to Abidjan or Sassandra.

The 7, 8 and 9th Corps had, meanwhile, advanced to the edge of Agnery province, while Air Force units from Ghana began to turn their firepower on the Malian’s strongest position: Yamoussokro. This would be the toughest nut to crack but it wouldn’t be taken yet and the Army would not advance.

The plan was to first take Gagnoa and force any surviving Malians to retreat to Yamoussokro while Marine and Army units advance into Haut-Sassandra and and Marahoue provinces. The United States would then move in their forces advancing into N’Zi-Comoe province, thereby completely encircling Yamoussokro.

The Layartebians, with their swift Legion forces, would harry the Malians on their retreats, ensuring they were kept fighting while running and they would help flush out any stubborn areas of resistance toward US or COH forces.


Dear Leader’s Palace, Bamako, People’s Republic of Mali, D-Day+2

Addy had witnessed some fits of rage in his time serving Ugo. But the man had nearly had a stroke after he’d finally been told the truth of the situation in the Ivory Coast.

He had gone into an apoplectic rage at the news the Hirgizstanians had rescued General Kanu. That night he’d raped and strangled to death a young boy and girl. Addy had been left to clean up the mess as usual. The ‘Great General’ had injected himself with so much morphine that same night that he didn’t come round for a full day.

The sycophantic General Staff had been called to a meeting and Addy had attended, in a drunken stupor that seemed to give him some sort of courage. He had needed it to burn the two children’s bodies in the palace furnace. As he shoved them into the fire on the metal tray he’d gotten to see a preview of the hell that awaited him. It sickened him to realize that he didn’t baulk at the thought of burning kids bodies anymore. It was…routine.

Addy now spent his days watching TV…but not Malian TV. He used a military encoder to get a fuzzy but decent reception from the Hirgizstanian News Corporation and, depending on the time of day, he could get the Layartebian News Network or a couple of US channels.

Unlike most people in the Palace he knew exactly what was going on. The General Staff did too, and most people had their suspicions that the war was not going exactly as the State Network claimed. In that world the Malian’s had forced the Hirgizstanian forces to a standstill in Sassandra and had shot down twenty something aircraft.
It had been a little shocking, even for Addy, to see what the truth really was and to hear that only three Hirgizstanian Marines had been killed in their assault on Sassandra, compared with what they estimated was over 1000 Malian dead. Add to that the fact the Malian’s were in headlong retreat from the city.

As if that hadn’t been enough, Addy had watched live as more Hirgizstanian forces smashed their way into the Ivory Coast from the east. The news channels had shown lines of tanks and vehicles that stretched across multiple lane highways to the distant horizon.

Without being any sort of expert Addy knew the Malians were finished if they continued to fight conventionally against the Hirgizstanians. And yet, they weren’t even the only ones involved. The US and Layartebians were also involved, and they both hadn’t even really started their offensive campaigns. There was no way and no how Ugo could hope to win against that.

Addy was beyond caring about winning or losing. He couldn’t kill himself because he was too much of a coward, but hopefully with his drinking and pain killers he’d die soon. Though, it would be just his punishment that he would survive to be continually tormented in actual life before the hell that he was sure to meet in the after-life.

In any case, the General Staff had briefed Ugo with the same crock of shit the State Network pumped out every night and Addy had, half-way through one of the briefings, started to laugh out loud, uncontrollably.

Ugo had been amused at the outburst and chuckled to himself at Addy’s lack of self-control. “Something to add, my friend?” Ugo had said it with a slight edge that had the promise of a bullet buried somewhere within. And Addy didn’t care. He screamed through tears and laughter at the General Staff.

The pompous, medal encrusted buffoons had begun to sweat as the truth poured out of Addy like water from a broken tap.

Eventually someone brought a decoder to the meeting room and the full truth was displayed on the wall mounted plasma screens as some Roman news channel broadcasted images of US and Hirgizstanian Marines patrolling a peaceful, but still wrecked, Sassandra, with civilian cars and people in the background, returning to their homes.

That’s when Addy believed Ugo was going to have a stroke. He started to breathe heavily, his eyelids began to flicker and he began clenching and un-clenching his fists. Very unlike him though, he didn’t explode into a fit of rage.

The Dear Leader simply called on the intercom from his Guards and they appeared out of nowhere, behind his throne-like chair.

The General Staff officers, five of them in all, were really sweating now despite the air conditioning. They were burning looks through Addy as Ugo sat contemplating, looking exasperatedly at Addy and then at the General Staff officers.

He eventually gestured to the military officers and said, quietly, almost inaudibly, “Take them to Camp One.”

The officer’s faces, despite their sweating black skin, seemed to turn a deathly grey, their eyes sparking with abject horror at the very mention of ‘Camp One’. Two of them started to scream and claw and struggle against the thick arms of Ugo’s Guards and they were dragged, kicking and screaming and howling and crying, out of the room.

Kétésso, Côte d'Ivoire - 10:00 hrs [GMT]
Day Two

The Layartebian Foreign Legion had set up a forward airbase in Kétésso in just twenty-four hours and had already refueled and rearmed their helicopters. Now they had a foothold in the Ivory Coast and they would need it as they pressed onward, assisting the Hirgizstanians on their march from the sea. The LFL's assault through the Ivory Coast and, thus far, been met with success. What resistance there was in Kétésso was quickly stomped by the better equipped, better trained, and far superior Layartebian forces. Those who had escaped were running scared, very scared, now that they had been introduced to the Layartebian Foreign Legion, a feared fighting force throughout the world. Two days now into the offensive, the Hirgizstanians had now gained control of Sassandra, two hundred and ten miles south-southwest of Kétésso. That basically meant that the Layartebian Foreign Legion forces were the northernmost and easternmost forces in the Ivory Coast. Granted that the biggest concentration of Malian forces were north of Sassandra and in Yamoussoukro, one hundred and forty miles north of Sassandra.

Yamoussoukro would be a battle in and of itself. It lay just over one hundred and fifty-eight miles northwest of the Layartebian encampment in Kétésso. The plan was to have the Foreign Legion secure territory east of the city as well as cut the Malians north of it off from Malians south of it. There was no telling how long it would take the Hirgizstanians to get to the city. While the Foreign Legion were moving around via helicopter, the Hirgizstanians were moving around on the ground, in tanks, at a much slower pace. While they secured supply lines for themselves and established forward operating bases, the Layartebians hoped from here to there via helicopter at a significantly quicker pace and without the same necessity that the Hirgizstanians had to take into account.

When the sun had rose the next morning on the second day of the offensive, the Layartebian Foreign Legion prepared to set out on another assault. Now in full force, the entire battalion of the L.F.L. were in the Ivory Coast, in Kétésso. Five hundred and twelve men equipped with armor and helicopter support, the battalion was ready and raring to go. Terror shook the airwaves that morning as contact was reported on the outskirts of the village by a patrol. Rebel forces had made contact early in the morning, just after 06:30 hours. They only numbered about a dozen but when they showed up, they put hundreds of rounds into the air right off the bat. The four Layartebian soldiers on the patrol immediately hit the ground and returned fire, their rounds far more accurate but the rebels were firing so many rounds that it was hard for them to move. Pinned down, they called in reinforcements, a backup patrol of four men not more than three hundred meters away. The small skirmish lasted about fifteen minutes but the Layartebians prevailed with all of the rebels killed.

When the morning began, the battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Donald Romanus was already laying out plans for the next strike. He had split the battalion up into three groups, the first would move entirely by helicopter, the second entirely be ground, and the third would remain at base to protect it and provide reinforcements. Both the ground and aerial groups would move to separate targets, the two groups securing three or more villages just in this day alone. It would take the Hirgizstanians far longer to do the same feat, simply because of their makeup and size. The 3rd Battalion of the 5th Foreign Legion Regiment had brought with them: two AH-6M Little Birds, two AH-103A Cheyennes, two RAH-70A Arapahos, six MH-102C Dark Lords, one MQ-6B Hunter, one MQ-8C Fire Scout, and one RQ-16A Soaring Eagle. The latter three were unmanned aerial vehicles, both the Hunter and Fire Scout capable of engaging ground targets with weapons. The Hunter could fly with up to two AGM-230 Harbinger or AGM-235 Corona anti-tank guided missiles or six GBU-44 Viper Strike small bombs. The Fire Scout, on the other hand, could carry either four light air-to-air missiles or either a pair of seven-round rockets pods or a single small, anti-tank guided missile such as the AGM-230 Harbinger or AGM-235 Corona. The Foreign Legion was carrying Corona missiles with them to ease logistics since the single missile could be used in all of its helicopters, its vehicles, or in man-portable launchers.

LTC. Romanus had already ordered one of the UAVs into the air to conduct a reconnaissance patrol. The RQ-16A Soaring Eagle had been launched into the air at 07:00 hours and was sent north to establish reconnaissance on the villages of Bianouan and Ebikokorékrou, nine and a half and sixteen miles away, respectively. Then, it would fly west, fourteen miles to Bétié and then twenty-one miles southeast back home. Those three villages were going to be hit by the Legion today and in rapid succession as well. A flight of two AH-103As carrying twenty-four soldiers and two MH-102Cs carrying thirty-two soldiers would head to Bétié and assault it at noon. The fifty-six Layartebians would, in essence, annihilate resistance in the village of a few hundred. The armored column of two M2008A1 Dingos, M2010A1 Bushmasters, four M2047A1 Arrows, one M2047A4 Arrow, one M2047A6 Arrow, one M2050A1 Serpent, three M2051A2 CMPLVs, and two M2051A3 CMPLVs would take one hundred and forty men north to both Bianouan and Ebikokorékrou. Of those one hundred and forty men, one hundred and two were specifically tasked with infantry duties while the other thirty-eight would be manning their vehicles. The presence of a single light tank, tank destroyer, and anti-tank vehicle meant that anything the Malians had in either village wouldn't stand a chance. The other armored vehicles boasted chain guns and heavy machine guns. The armored column would leave at noon as well and by the time the helicopters began their assault on Bétié, the armored column would be at Bianouan.

The RQ-16A Soaring Eagle had revealed quite a bit on its small reconnaissance patrol, which would last three hours in total. The first village, Bianouan was quiet but there was a possible rebel presence on the ground. There weren't any civilians out and about around the village and there was smoke rising from the village, from small camp fires that had been extinguished only an hour or so earlier. The ultra-quiet drone cruise at 8,000 feet and forty miles per hour, making very little sound to those on the ground. Costing a million and a half dollars, the drone was an excellent tool for the L.F.L. It was launched vertically, from the back of a pick-up style M2051A2 CMPLV. Weighing just one hundred and eighty pounds empty, it could be carried by two or more men and it weighed only three hundred and sixty pounds fully loaded. It was powered by a small, thirty-two horsepower two-stroke engine that could propel it as fast as one hundred and thirty-seven miles per hour at low altitudes or ninety-three miles per hour at its ceiling of 11,500 feet. It had an endurance of three and a half hours or one hundred and forty miles, normally cruising at just forty miles per hour. When it was done, it would come to its launch area and land simply by deploying a parachute and cutting its power. It was not automated but its remote control unit could allow a single operator to fly it to the fully extent of its range with total functionality.

When the drone passed over Ebikokorékrou, it revealed something totally different. There was a significant rebel presence there, numbering at least over two hundred and they were equipped with a number of technicals and the Soaring Eagle revealed the presence of a single T-55 main battle tank. Completely outclassed by the Serpent, the tank could still dish out casualties to the Layartebians with its 100mm main gun or various machine guns, which included a co-axial 7.62x54mm PKT-T light machine gun or turret-top mounted DShKM 12.7x108mm heavy machine gun. Whether or not they were carrying gun-launched anti-tank guided missiles was something they could assess from the overhead reconnaissance flight but the presence was enough to task both AH-6M Little Bird helicopters to the armored column's advance.

In Bétié, the reconnaissance drone revealed a large village. Like Bianouan, smoke lofted up from the village from small camp fires but obscured the larger picture of the village from the reconnaissance drone. It eventually had to be recalled from its flight over Bétié because it was almost out of fuel. Intelligence was now incomplete from the village and the aerial troops would be warned to keep their guard up as they assault the village. It would bring them that much closer to Yamoussoukro. Day three would put them a lot closer when they made an assault for Akoupé, sixty miles northwest of Kétésso. The armored column would continue moving north to Abengourou along with the rest of the L.F.L. forces as well as Hirgizstanian forces from Ghana, aiming for a decently sized airport that the Hirgizstanians could use to bring in their supplies and more forces. Then they would move southwest towards Akoupé and then the combined forces would move towards Yamoussoukro. It was a brilliant plan that the rebels were completely unaware of but one that the Hirgizstanians and Layartebians had carefully planned and laid out, with the L.F.L. spearheading the drive to the massive city of over two hundred thousand.

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Noon arrived and the go codes were echoed across the encrypted airwaves as the ground in Kétésso shuddered to life. The armored vehicles started up their engines and it was quite obvious that the adrenaline was pumping as the Layartebian soldiers jumped into their vehicles and prepared to head out, to the north. In the southern portion of the village, the helicopters sprang to life, the soldiers jumping into them as the rotors began to spin, the engines already at idle speed. "Let's go!" Captain Jens Christensen yelled from inside the cabin in the lead Cheyenne. He would be the leader of this contingent while Major William Anderson led the ground convoy. Both of them had already gotten their faces dirty in this war and they planned to lead the Layartebians through two successful assault this afternoon against numerically superior but poorly trained rebels.

The helicopters lifted off the ground first, heading towards Bétié at only 70 mph. The ground convoy departed immediately thereafter and took off heading north at only 35 mph, still fast for a ground contingent, although they could have gone much faster. Whereas the helicopters had to fly twenty-one miles, the ground force only had to move nine miles and they would be there in just under sixteen minutes. The helicopters would be there at the same time as well.

Wary of possible ground forces in the jungle armed with anti-aircraft weaponry, the helicopters were up at five hundred feet with their infrared jamming systems active and flares ready to be deployed. Crew chiefs arming the door guns kept a close eye for ground-launched missiles and kept their weapons pointed down, to engage any possible hostiles. The gunners in the cockpits of the Cheyennes kept their turrets moving around, looking for targets as well, ready to unleash their guns, missiles, or rockets against any hostile forces. Twenty-one miles wasn't particularly far and it was close enough that any search and rescue mission mounted for a downed helicopter wouldn't take much preparation time. It would take a lot to take down the helicopters though, especially given the vast amount of self-defense systems they possessed.

Ten minutes passed without incident for either the ground convoy or the helicopters. Both targets loomed on the horizon for them as they were more than half way to their destinations. For the helicopter force, they could see the smoke puffs and haze rising from the village and the convoy could see it at the far end of the road. Neither contingent had come under hostile fire yet and they were all counting their blessings that the area remained quiet, though it was short lived when the port-side gunner on the lead Cheyenne yelled out, into his microphone, "SAM! PORT SIDE! TWO KILOMETERS!" The rebels had fired a surface-to-air missile towards the helicopters though it failed to track. With a sharp bank, the pilot of the lead Cheyenne turned into a defensive position and dropped a salvo of six flares, the missile instantly picking up the heat signature and tracking against the flare. The other helicopters in the group immediately took defensive actions as well as two more missiles streaked up towards the helicopters, both of them unable to track with the intense infrared jamming being conducted by the helicopters.

"Goddamnit! Starboard side. Three kilometers. Lifting up, o'clock!" The gunner on the second Cheyenne yelled as he looked out of the cockpit glass and saw the next missile coming up towards them. The helicopters took immediate defensive measures and watched now as, in front of them, rebels fired even more rockets up towards them. Unaware what they were, the pilots took evasive measures although these were shoulder-fired, unguided, anti-tank RPGs. With Bétié right in front of them, the helicopter force immediately sped up to 120 mph, which was a speed that made it impossible to hit them with unguided rockets. Whether or not they still had any guided SAMs, the pilots didn't know but they kept their infrared jamming running.

The ground convoy met their own resistance just a mile from the first village, Bianouan. Alongside the dirt, single lane road, in a trench dug in around it for water to train off, rebels had been dug in with a wide array of weapons. Thermal imaging wasn't very helpful in the heat of the jungle and that meant they had to stick mainly to visual sighting. When the muzzle flashes erupted around the convoy, it was obvious that they were being attacked. The Layartebians returned fire immediately. Gunners in the Dingos and Bushmasters watched their sectors as they fired their weapons. Their convoy was arranged in a very capable way. The lead vehicle, the Serpent light tank watched forward. Behind it, Arrows, Dingos, Bushmasters, and CMPLVs watched to the left and right, alternating as they went down the convoy. In the rear, the Arrow tank-destroyer watched the rear. Now with heavy machine gun rounds pouring into the air, shredding the rebels to pieces, the convoy slowed down slightly, to properly engage the enemy forces and make sure they got all of them. Rebels with rockets attempted to get them off but they were met with the quick decisions and quick reactions of the Layartebians, keeping them from getting off many shots. The few that they got off mostly missed except for two, one of which smashed into the side of a Serpent LBT but did not penetrate it. The second hit the front of the Arrow APC but did not penetrate either.

The rebels emptied their assault rifle and machine gun rounds into the convoy with little effect. Their low-caliber rounds could not penetrate the hulls of the armored vehicles but the Layartebians in the pick-up style M2051A2s did have to worry. Their body armor could stop the rounds but not too many of them as they stayed low, firing from both sides of the vehicle, against the rebels. There couldn't have been more than forty of them but they put so many rounds into the air that it was tough for the Layartebians to accurately fire back without exposing themselves too much. The gunners on the shielded turrets of the CMPLVs, Dingos, and Bushmasters returned fire with a significant amount of rounds themselves, many of them higher-caliber rounds or grenades. More rockets streaked across the air, some landing short of the vehicles, others passing harmlessly overhead.

In the short two and a half minute skirmish, the rebels had put a massive volume of ammunition into the air but, surprisingly, had not even hit a single Layartebian soldier. They took heavy casualties, mostly from the 40mm grenade launchers equipping one of the Dingos and one of the Bushmasters. Capable of firing up to 330 rounds per minute, each M49A1 Grenade Machine Gun was fed by a belt that held 48 rounds. Several belts had been linked together to give them a larger amount of ready ammunition. With a maximum range of over two kilometers and an effective range of one mile, there was nothing the rebels could do to avoid its power.

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The helicopter assault force touched down on the north of the village of Bétié unscathed, despite being fired at by the rebels. They had evaded some twenty unguided RPGs and four guided SAMs. Unfortunately though, the gunners were not able to fire back but they did get to use their weapons when they prepared to land. Clearing the landing zone and putting suppressive fire into the air, the gunners unleashed a flurry of fire from their Miniguns, which graced the doors on the Cheyennes and the Dark Lords. Fed by thousands of rounds of ammunition, the Miniguns were the infantry's best friend. The soldiers who hit the ground hit the ground knowing that their enemy would not be able to move, given the massive amount of lead and tungsten being dropped onto the ground.

It took less than thirty seconds for all fifty-six men to hit the ground, with the helicopters lifting back into the air to now provide cover. Once the gunfire stopped from the helicopters though, the enemy came out swinging. Dug-in around the landing zone to the north and inside of various huts and buildings, some two and three stories tall, about thirty-two rebels had come out to greet the Layartebians, including a technical. The technical was a small pick-up truck that was crudely armed with a PKM machine gun but its presence meant that the Layartebians would be facing a force that was more mobile than they were. The PKM gunner poured rounds towards the Layartebians at a rate of over one round per second and he was firing rather accurately. Despite this, he was stationary and before he could order the driver to get on the move, a Layartebian soldier sprang up from his prone position with a CLAW on his shoulder, sighted the truck, and fired. The rocket streaked through the air at 285 meters per second. When it hit the vehicle it detonated, destroying the vehicle with a single blow.

"Move up!" Captain Christensen ordered as he fired towards a third floor window. He struck a rebel in the shoulder and knocked him onto the ground. Soldiers all around him moved forward, towards cover as they continued to fire at the rebels. Just like everywhere else, the rebels poured rounds into the air, firing inaccurately against the Layartebian forces while being fired at by highly accurate fire. The Layartebians had the edge though and it came around for them just as they moved up another few feet. It was one of the Dark Lords and it passed behind the Layartebians on a westerly course, firing its Minigun at the various muzzle flashes. The rebels took cover, which let the Layartebians advance more. Those who didn't take cover were shredded by the multiple rounds that impacted them.

Bétié was small, just thirteen hundred and fifty meters top to bottom and about a mile across. Normally it was home to only a few hundred villagers who were flat-out poor. Poverty littered the area but when the Malians had come through, they drove them out, adding to the massive number of refugees walking around the Ivory Coast. Stories of the Malians genociding those loyal to the Hirgizstanians had filtered through just about every village and when villagers saw them coming, they ran. There was no way to prove they were or weren't loyal, which, by default, made the Malians suspicious of them. Rather than stick around to find out what was going to happen, the large majority of them had fled. Bétié had been the site of a mass exodus just eight days earlier.

Four minutes after hitting the ground, the Layartebians had already won the first phase of the battle. The Dark Lord run had pushed back many of the rebels and allowed the Layartebians to storm forward. They split off into four-man groups, sweeping through the landing area while they listened to the gunshots in the background. Several groups moved into the buildings that overlooked the landing zone and were met with rebels within as soon as they entered the doors. They used grenades to clear the paths ahead of them as they walked through halls stained by fresh blood trails. The rebels had tried to pull their fallen comrades to safety after the strafing run but they weren't very successful. Bullet holes had torn through the walls and peppered every part of the buildings.

Gun battles raged in the village as the rebels took fire and returned fire, attempting to push the Layartebians back and massacre them. They were flat out unsuccessful. The Layartebians opened up on every alleyway and street from their weapons and from the orbiting helicopters that had brought them here. There wasn't a significant amount of ground to cover either but the rebels had packed themselves into the village so densely that the Layartebians could only move so far before they had to stop and slaughter the vast amount of rebels around them.

Losing the various buildings around the landing zone would prove detrimental to the rebels. Two teams of Layartebians moved to two roofs of the two tallest buildings and now they had elevated positions. Two more would join them as the rebels fired wildly through the air. Snipers on the rooftops looked down their scopes and fired, picking off the rebels with single shots. Rebel snipers tried, in vain, to take them apart but they were too well protected. Joining the snipers were machine gunners as well, who opened up into the rebels as well. This was the worst mistake the rebels had made as, with an elevated positions, the Layartebians could not only protect their own forces but call out targets for the orbiting helicopters.

Layartebian forces continued to advance into the village, searching every alleyway and building they passed near, clearing them of any rebel forces and using them for cover. Expert fighters, the L.F.L. used every advantage they had in the village to push back the rebel forces. The Layartebian helicopters continued to circle overhead, firing at anything that moved that wasn't Layartebian. They also fired at targets called out by the Layartebians on the rooftops. It was crucial they had this position because about thirteen minutes into the fight, the enemy began dropping mortars near the Layartebian positions. The fire was inaccurate but, because of the short range between the enemy and the Layartebians, it was dangerous and highly deadly. Atop the roof, the snipers could see that the rounds were coming from the southwest and they directed one of the Cheyennes to attack the mortar position. Flying nose down on the strafing run, the Cheyenne pilot unloaded a quick burst of 25mm ammunition from its fuselage cannons. The salvo of rounds tore into the ground at high velocity and with a lot of force, detonating their small HE warheads on impact. The mortar team was instantly liquefied.

The Layartebians continued the assault on the village for the next two hours before the rebels were completely dispatched. They numbered close to two hundred and the Layartebians forces stood atop the village with it under their full control by 15:00 hours, three hours after their mission began. They had taken a few casualties, mostly wounds from ricocheting rounds and shrapnel. Still, the Layartebians had no KIAs and the few WIAs they had were treated in the village and patched up for the next round of assaults.

************************

The Layartebian ground convoy reached the first village at 12:20 hours and began to clear it immediately. The foot soldiers dropped out of their vehicles and began their search of the village. It was quiet at first but five minutes into it, they began to take fire from concealed locations. There were a number of rebels inside of the village of Bianouan but not nearly as many as there were Layartebians, who spread out around the village, using everything for cover. The rebels took a few pot shots here and there but it was obvious that they didn't necessarily know what they were shooting at, thanks largely in part to the numerous smoke grenades deployed by the Layartebians. At the same time, the Layartebian armored vehicles pushed forward, using their thermal sights to see through the smoke. They targeted the enemy forces with their machine guns and let out quick bursts, saving their larger ammunition for the tank battle at the next village, Ebikokorékrou.

The foot soldiers in Bianouan were moving in small maneuver groups of six men each, watching their corners carefully as they rounded them, moving into the larger roads, which weren't more than glorified alleyways. Bright flashes echoed through the white smoke from the assault rifles and machine guns of the enemy rebels while bullets whizzed through the air harmlessly. They missed the Layartebian soldiers by more than a few feet and the Layartebians returned fire, sighting the muzzle flashes and using those as their targets. The volume of fire in Bianouan was nowhere near what the Layartebians a few miles away in Bétié were facing.

Armored vehicles moving up through the village were being protected by the Layartebian soldiers around them and they were, likewise, protecting them as well. They advanced and engaged, advanced and engaged, a methodical procedure that was met with the same result each and every time, dead rebels. Bianouan was a simple task for the Layartebians because of their armored support, which allowed them to engage their enemy at long distances, through the smoke they deployed, and quickly. The foot soldiers fired only half of the rounds that the Layartebians put in the air, the rest being from the machine guns on the vehicles, which fired in short, quick bursts, accurately putting just a few rounds into each enemy, knocking them all down in a single salvo.

After just an hour and a half inside of Bianouan, the Layartebians were ready to move out and head north. They secured the village and counted forty-three dead rebels, most of them hidden around the village. Once reassembled, the Layartebians reloaded and rechecked their weapons. The Layartebians would now push forward and head to Ebikokorékrou, where reconnaissance had sighted a T-55 main battle tank. With their readiness to move north, Major Andrew Wells, a Hawdawgian by birth, picked up the radio and called back to base that they were ready to go north. Back in Kétésso, the two AH-6M Little Bird fast-attack helicopters lifted off, each armed with a pair of rocket pods and Miniguns, which would allow them to attack the tank.

The convoy departed the village and sped north at 45 mph, their weapons oriented to their sectors. Nobody spoke, the tension too high for anyone to say anything. Everyone clutched their weapons, ready in case anything decided to challenge them. Their ultimate goal was eight miles to the north, a distance they would cover in just ten and a half minutes. The incoming helicopters would have to travel double that distance, sixteen miles but they would be moving at over 100 mph, giving them the ability to get there in just nine and a half minutes or less, if they flew faster.

The convoy encountered resistance just two miles from the village and with a sense of fury that was obviously a precursor to what they were going to fact in Ebikokorékrou, just two miles away. Enemy forces alongside the road opened up with heavy machine guns, rockets, grenades, and everything else they had in their arsenal. With more smoke deployed, the APCs used their powerful chain guns against the enemy positions, tearing them to shreds. Machine guns on all of the vehicles opened fire as well, the co-axial on the tank being used to a high degree of effectiveness against approaching positions. This time, the convoy did not slow down, opting instead to fight the forces in Ebikokorékrou over wasting ammunition against those along the roadway, who were being easily dispatched by the various armored vehicles.

It was also at that time that the helicopters arrived on scene. They overflew the roadway at lightning speed, firing their Miniguns at locations ahead of the convoy, peppering the ground with bullets. The vehicles moved forward through the road and into the village amidst and even bigger amount of enemy resistance. Their show along the road to Ebikokorékrou had alerted the whole village to the approaching convoy, which was part of the reason for the ambush along the road.

Now inside the village, the biggest threat was the tank and a variety of technicals in the city, including one armed with a recoilless rifle that had come out to greet them. The Serpent LBT at the front of the convoy locked onto it and immediately fired its loaded round, a sabot meant for the enemy tank. The technical was blown to smithereens and put shrapnel through the air. The gunners loaded another sabot round and went hunting as the Layartebian foot infantry departed their vehicles. They fanned out along the area under the cover of the same white smoke they had been deploying in Bianouan and along the road towards the village. Just as fanned out as the troops were, so were the vehicles. The infantry used them for cover as they took fire from everywhere in the village, helicopters flying overhead keeping the enemy forces down with their Miniguns, saving their rockets for the tank that they would soon face.

The Layartebians waited for the tank to come, readying their weapons. CLAWs ready to be unleashed, the Layartebians pushed forward, looking and hunting. They expected to hear it coming, hear its powerful diesel engine roaring and its tracks shredding the ground but they couldn't hear much over the symphony of destruction that rocked the air around them. Grenade explosions and machine gun bursts were the most prominent sounds that they heard in the village as they returned fire themselves. The rebels were everywhere!

Fifteen minutes after stepping foot into the village, they finally got their answer. The rebel T-55 had finally begun moving and they could hear it, clanging as it moved through the streets. The Little Birds overhead tore back through the air and unleashed their rockets against the tank, blasting it to pieces to the cheers of the Layartebians on the ground. Ammunition spent, they were forced to return to base to rearm their guns and rocket pods. They were in for more than just that single surprise though. The rebels had parked two additional tanks, both T-55s in the village as well but covered those with camouflage, meaning that the reconnaissance flight couldn't see them.

Obviously elated at the destruction of the only 'known' tank, the Layartebians felt their tension levels ease. They were still in a fierce firefight but the tank that threatened to shred them was now completely gone. It was much to their surprise when they heard a second tank approaching around the corners. Instantly, they felt their stomachs drop as they were unsure if they had actually just heard what they heard. The Serpent LBT immediately sprang forward, its deadly 105mm main gun ready to unleash unholy fury against the approaching tank, which suddenly appeared around the bend, only to instantly take first from the Layartebian tank. Its main gun ready, the Serpent crew let loose a single round, which was that second sabot they had loaded.

Ripping through the air at over 6,000 feet per second, so fast that the enemy tank didn't have time to react. A 1950s era tank, the T-55 stood no chance against the modern Serpent, which weighed only slightly less than the T-55. The armor on the Serpent was far superior to that on the T-55 and it showed when the sabot round pierced the side of the tank. The T-55 exploded in a giant ball of fire and the Layartebians cheered again. Now they advanced further into the village, fighting the rebels at every turn. When mortar rounds began to land around the Layartebians in the village, they realized that not having the air support was now going to hurt them, especially since the mortar rounds were accurately placed.

While Layartebian forces split off from the main group of those advancing into the city and sought out the mortar rounds. Their weapons shouldered, the Layartebians moving to find the mortar teams met fierce resistance themselves as the firefight took on three dimensions. Rebels were all over the place, up high, down low, and on the level. They fired rounds everywhere and at everything that moved, even animals. Skittish and scared, the enemy rebels were quickly being killed by the combined assault of armor and infantry.

Eventually, the mortar teams were found and killed, their weapons destroyed by hand grenades. The fight in Ebikokorékrou lasted until 18:00 hours when the Layartebians had finally seized the village, with the help of two more strafing runs from the Little Birds. When the fight was over, the Layartebians counted over three hundred dead rebels. In the course of the engagement at Ebikokorékrou, the Layartebians suffered a few casualties, only one serious. One of the Layartebians had taken a round right to his throat and was medevac'd out of the village back to base. Though he would live, he'd never fight in the military again.

Outskirts of Abidjan, Ivory Coast

Command Sergeant Major Lee Briggs looked out over the low-rise, smoking and besieged city of Abidjan. The morning haze made the black smoke hard to make out and not quite as ‘black’ against the deep blue sea that ran sweeping away from the city to the south.

His sunglasses meant the glare was cut down but the effects meant he could see a few hundred yards out to sea and no more. He knew there were ships out there because their guns hadn’t stopped firing on the city for two days.

For an entire forty-eight hours, and slightly more in fact, the Malian forces inside the city had been subject to a never-ending land, sea and air attack. Artillery, naval weapons, missiles and aerial bombs rained down in a concerto of death that never warmed up or down, but played a constant, fearsome tune to perfection.

Buttoned down inside his tank, the aptly named Genocide This!, he couldn’t hear much of the explosions ripping the enemy forces apart. The only thing he could hear through the armoured walls was the unmistakable explosions of 25inch shells which usually came in ten or fifteen minute windows.

The Demon Dogs, among other units, had surrounded the city in a semi-circular pattern that went from the coast on the west to the coast on the east. Every major road and highway had a tank or several sitting on it and those roads that didn’t have a tank had other armor or soldiers. The Malian attempts at escape had become known as ‘Target Practice’ because that’s exactly what it was.

The People’s Army of Mali had, despite the odds stacked against them, put up a healthy resistance as the Hirgizstanian forces drew the semi-circle tighter, sacrificing their better tanks, the Leopard 2s, 2A6EX’s and Panzer VII’s, VIII’s, and their few IX’s. These tanks weren’t a threat to the M1A5’s as a vehicle but they could damage the tracks, perhaps mis-align the main gun and rip off sensors and weapons. However, its 125mm ETC gun, one of the most advanced and powerful in the world, didn’t have the range of the 150mm M1A5’s and this was their downfall.

Despite this the Malians had fought a decent retreat but it had been totally in vain. Most Intelligence personnel assumed the Malians were labouring under the impression their own forces were regrouping beyond the Hirgizstanian lines and would eventually attempt to punch through and relieve them. But that was simply an impossibility.

Briggs and his men, as well as the Officers above him, had been shocked and a little amused on the second day of the siege of the city when, from surrounding areas, trickles of tired, dishevelled but happy looking Ivorian people had started pouring out of every nook, cranny, backwater, hole, cave and forest in the area to have a look at the Malians getting their just deserts in their city, no less. They had been moved to a makeshift camp near a church and convent that overlooked the city, and were being treated to front row seats for the liberation of their homes.

Briggs had learned that this was a familiar story all over the country. From forests and backwaters and overlooked areas Ivorians had been trickling out for the first time in weeks and months, cheering Hirgizstanian vehicles by the roadside and waving their own flag whenever they found a surviving one.

However, more sinister finds were also being reported- initially from small units of the LFL, but then larger Hirgizstanian units had rumbled into villages and found a familiar horror story- all the inhabitants had usually been rounded up in a large building or simply the town square or park and burnt alive…with God knows what done to them beforehand. The bodies of women, children and babies had been identified and the Hirgizstanian and US Army’s Graves Comissions were working overtime to help oversee the removal of the bodies to identification and burial sites in the south of the country. The Hirgizstanian, Layartebian, and US Red Cross organizations were also involved.

Of course nobody was truly surprised at the finds. Shocked, saddened and genuinely angry-yes. But various news agencies, most notably RWB, had effectively shown people what was happening and what would have continued to happen without intervention.

Perhaps the worst thing was the cold calculated efficiency of many of the massacres. Much of the bodies were weeks, usually months old. The LFL had found some fresh examples in smaller villages, places the Malians may have overlooked until they were retreating. And even in quick retreat their hatred burned so great that they took time out to burn innocents to death.

Briggs and his unit had captured quite a few hundred more Malians and every time he and his officers couldn’t wait to hand them over to someone else, be it the MPs or the helicopters that would bus them back to POW camps. For Hirgizstanians in war, to leave any enemy, surrendered or not, alive was like defeat and already soldiers were starting to crack and return to drilled SOP. Malians were sometimes shot when surrendering or when being marched to holding areas or killed by soldiers overcome with anger. The incidents were kept quiet for the sake of the GATO alliance and the soldiers sent home.

The Sergeant Major was confident, however, that taking Abidjan would hasten the Malian defeat in the Ivory Coast. As long as their forces remained in control of a few city blocks the large airport was effectively useless due to the fact the Malians had very sophisticated MANPADS and had been using them against fighter aircraft if they got too close. So far they hadn’t scored any kills, but against slower moving cargo aircraft they would most definitely start to chalk up kills.

However, bombardment from the air or sea or both was not totally effective against small numbers of enemy troops moving freely between standing or smashed buildings. Just a handful of advanced MANPADS in trained hands, hidden in some unexplored hole could cause a fairly hefty problem for any modern army that relied on air power to any extent.

That is, of course, where Briggs and his unit came in. The 5th Battalion, 6th Mechanized Infantry Division ‘Demon Dogs’ were just one Division in 2 Corps, I and II Corps, 80,000 men and hundreds of machines including 740 Main Battle Tanks, that currently surrounded the city, ready to move in.

Opposing I and II Corps was approximately 120,000 Malians of what they referred to as Army Group South. At one point they reputedly had over 400 advanced MBT’s, a sizeable lot of mechanized armor and around 500 Artillery pieces including 155mm guns and unguided GRAD rockets.

The bombardment of the city and the battle to encircle it had wiped out most, if not all, of their tracked vehicles and artillery capability. Enemy dead accounted for was a little over 40,000 with a steady trickle being reported every few minutes.

However, Abidjan was formerly a city for over 3 Million people and was the banking and commercial hub of the Ivory Coast. The only thing it didn’t have was the national Legislature and Presidency, which were located in Yamoussoukro, which was in fact smaller than Abidjan.

The fact that major parts of the city were connected to each other by bridge and inaccessible any other way was a headache since the Malians had blown them up already. Of course this only helped seal their eventual fate but it made assaulting some areas difficult as pontoon bridges would have to be built.

Brigss and the Demon Dogs had the responsibility of clearing the two westernmost bridges that stood across the sea leading into the district of Treichville. They would then help get the bridges down and push on to the Robert Champroux Stadium which lay a few miles down the main road from one of the bridges.

The plan after that was dependent on how others units in the city were getting on. Briggs knew it would be a tough, bloody and dirty fight- probably face to face and hand to hand for the Infantry. The tight streets and standing and broken buildings would provide hornets nests in which the Malians could hide and attack.

Thinking about this he remembered the conversation he’d had a couple of days ago with Jaymel and he remembered Admiral Eberendu’s decision in the Gulf War to simply flatten Abu Dhabi rather than risk a costly assault. He was glad that in around ten hours time a few sizeable units of US Marines would join the fight and many in the Hirgizstanian command were hoping the losses they took in the battle would hammer home to the United States the high price of their military decisions within GATO.


FOB Blazer, Sassandra, Ivory Coast

Kopano Lenka had never actually been on a Hirgizstanian commercial aircraft before. It certainly beat the hell out of the C-130 that bounced and rattled on landing at FOB Blazer. The howl from the engines and the rattle of the interior wasn’t even close to being drowned out by the noise insulation.

The whole middle of the fuselage was taken up with two M3 Arrows, and a few pallets of supplies. They looked like ammunition boxes. In every available seat there was someone dressed in camouflage with rank badges, unit badges, GATO insignia and Hirgizstanian flags. There were a couple of groups who talked with each other the whole way from Accra. Others kept to themselves- reading books, working on laptops, listening to music or, amazingly, sleeping.

At first every pair of eyes had been on the slick looking guy with the suit who was on the plane before they got on. But they’d got bored of wondering who he was and sizing him up. For once the looks and talk was something he was used to. In the US he’d get the same thing if he ever found himself on a military base in his office clothes.

In any case the United States Central Intelligence Agency liked him to wear a suit when not in the field. The problem with this was that sometimes getting anywhere near said field required military transport and they were always suspicious of suits. Despite this Kopano liked wearing a smart suit. He’d worn one in his previous job as Head of a SWAT team in Botswana. The police uniform wasn’t as smart or as expensive as the one he currently wore, but it had still looked good.

His role as a field agent usually required military dress of some sort. He wished he’d changed during his hour layover in Accra.

As much as he didn’t enjoy the C-130’s ride, he had thoroughly enjoyed his trip from Windhoek to Accra on Western Airlines. It was a Hirgizstanian company, a low-cost operation that serviced nearly all of the Hirgizstanian western seaboard and also flew flights into and out of Windhoek.

He’d expected a cramped, uncomfortable flight for the couple of hours he’d be in the air but had been completely taken aback by the situation on board. Instead of the seats pointing toward the cabin they pointed backward. He knew that was safer- military planes did the same thing when carrying people. He had also expected just a few inches of legroom and generally being squeezed in like cattle. Instead he had his own reclining chair with several feet of legroom, a large seat-back TV and quality earphones. At first he thought he was in ‘First Class’ or something, but then he’d looked around and realized all the seats were the same.

A Hirgizstanian businessman in the seat next to him had noticed his quizzical look and asked with a smile, “First time?”

Kopano had just nodded and the man had laughed. “Yeah, I see that a bit out here with you Brinkians. This is normal for Hirgizstanian aircraft. We have a Passenger Bill of Rights. It ensures we’re treated right.”

Kopano had been puzzled. “How?”

“How do we do it? Low fuel costs. I could probably fill this jet up myself its so cheap. Heck, a gallon costs less than an NCN in some places. That’s why it’s like this inside. Enjoy it.”

Kopano did. He swore he’d always try and fly on Hirgizstanian airlines whenever he could. His first impression of Hirgizstan, he had been surprised to find, was positive. It was a country he’d never actually visited, despite it being so close geographically.

He had never really believed many of the media stories about the COH, but some of it had stuck. However, much of the silliness was dispelled when he spoke with his fellow field agents. Most of them were ex-military and all of them had nothing but praise for the ‘Hirgs’ as they called them. They explained that the modern US military was trained, equipped and organized mostly by the COH. The ex-military guys never had a bad word to say about them.

In any case Kopano hadn’t been a field agent too long and he knew that an appointment to work alongside the COH’s NIA anywhere in the world was a long shot, and not something he really wanted if he was honest. He knew they were much more into field ops than the CIA but even so he’d wanted a few more domestic operations beforehand. But that wasn’t the case in the end. He had a good record and they needed someone with career prospects and brains to handle their operations out in the Ivory Coast.

Thus he was chosen, though he almost didn’t accept. Kopano had had a long chat with his wife about the situation. She, he knew, had spent most of her adult life dealing with the prospect that he might be injured or killed on the job- be it in SWAT or the CIA. And with a five year old boy to look after, she worried quite a bit. However, no matter how bad the situation in the Ivory Coast was ( “It’s a warzone!” she had repeated numerous times), the experience and kudos he was sure to get would cement his position and hopefully propel him up the career ladder, which was his ultimate goal.

So he now found himself holding a suit carrier and a heavier duffel bag standing outside FOB Blazer in the hot, sticky weather in Sassandra. The thin, salty sea breeze did little to disturb the heavier humidity. He immediately didn’t like the place.

Add to that the constant scream of noise behind him in the FOB and the rumble of trucks going back and forth past the gate a few yards away and you had the perfect storm for a headache. He felt the first stages lancing into his temples as he squinted down the road, seeing nothing but a constant stream of trucks with helicopters buzzing by overhead and all over the city that loomed to the east.

Eventually he saw what he thought was his ride making its way up the road into the FOB. Sandwiched between two huge trucks, the digital camouflaged hummer made its way slowly toward him. It was dusty and its huge tires bulged out slightly under the weight of armor and weaponry. He thought that was strange for an NIA vehicle, but then he reminded himself the whole place was a warzone. He heard those words in his wife’s voice.

Eventually the vehicle rolled off the main road and came to a stop outside the military cabin that constituted a kind of pick up area. The hummer looked nothing like the vehicles he used in his SWAT days. This one had huge doors with small, thick plexiglass and M249 SAW’s in small pods pointing forward next to the rear view mirrors. On top sat a strange looking gun he’d never seen before that was nestled inside a big turret with thick armor plating and more plexiglass. Several huge antennas shot up into the sky over the vehicle, two of them strapped down across the roof in an ‘X’ shape with paracord.

The engine roared up and then died and he heard the door open on the other side and a tall, muscular Libyan with a near-bald head appeared around the hood. He was wearing an advanced piece of body armor and MOLLE gear with a pair of reflective sunglasses perched on his nose. A radio was strapped around his neck and ran up to his ear, the black antenna poking out of a pouch on the MOLLE gear.

Rifle magazines and grenades packed out the rest of the gear and a hydration system’s tube was wrapped over his left shoulder. He wore a T-shirt beneath the armor and a pair of digital camouflage trousers and desert boots. A hand-gun was strapped to his thigh with its magazines strapped to the other.

To Kopano the man looked more like a SOF trooper than an NIA Agent. The man made him feel a little stupid in the suit but he did have a friendly smile on his face.

As he got closer the smile broadened and Kopano noticed the fresh scars on his face and head and the bandages on his left forearm. That made him a little apprehensive. Was the place really that bad?

The NIA man got closer and took his sunglasses off. They bounced down onto his MOLLE gear and bobbed on a rope around his neck. He stuck out his hand, “Beautiful day, isn’t it? I’m Agent Abdul Suleiman, Hirgizstanian National Intelligence Agency, nice to meet you Agent…?”

Kopano stuck out his hand in turn and met the man’s firm grip, “Lenka, Agent Kopano Lenka, US CIA.” He was a little happier when he heard the NIA man’s name. He was supposed to meet with an ‘Agent Yellow’. This wasn’t him.

The handshake ended and Abdul motioned toward his ride, “Shall we?”

Kopano nodded and Abdul opened the rear passenger side door and the front one. Kopano put his bags in the rear and jumped into the front. There was a rifle rack in the centre console and in it was an M4A3 with a battered looking ACOG scope. The other three places had in them two SCAR-H’s and, closest to Kopano, a SCAR-L. Magazines sat in recess beneath them.

As Kopano closed the door the frame mounted M249 came closer to him and all he had to do to use it was lean forward. Abdul jumped in on the other side and fired up the big engine.

Inside the truck, behind the thick plexiglass, the sound from outside was almost completely muffled. The now distant rumble of truck engines and the muted clatter of helicopters was all that penetrated the thick armor. The A/C was also industrial strength and despite the dryness developing at the back of his throat, Kopano was enjoying the blast of ice cold air.

As the truck headed toward the city Kopano spoke to the Agent beside him, “Agent Suleiman-”

“Call me Abdul, everybody does.”

“Okay…Abdul, are we going to see Agent Yellow? Do you have an office or something in the city?”

Abdul gave him a strange look that was born half out of puzzlement and half out of amusement at the question.

“Eh…well my ‘office’ is a metal ship container at the legislature building. I don’t spend much time there. And as for Agent Yellow, that would be me.”

Kopano went from feeling good about his situation to being worried. The guy beside him…Abdul…Agent Yellow…looked like he’d been through the wringer and he, like most people involved in the conflict, knew Agent Yellow was something of a legend. He’d spent about 3 months undercover in the worst of the Malian storm and judging by the wounds visible on his person, had been involved in the recent action.

Abdul caught him looking at the wounds on his face and arms. “I wouldn’t be worried Lenka. This is nothing. I’ve hurt myself worse in the gym. What I am worried about is one broken rib, three cracked and bruised ones, a possible concussion and some blood in my urine.”

Lenka’s face turned even more downcast as he thought about those injuries as Abdul listed them like he was dictating a shopping list. Then, to make it worse, he smiled. Lenka knew Hirgizstanian’s had a reputation for liking war more than was probably healthy for other people. He didn’t know if he wanted to be around someone who fitted that stereotype like a glove.

Still, the CIA man wasn’t too sure what his next move would be. Abdul was the ranking Intelligence field officer, and he was seconded to him. Basically, Abdul called the shots for now. Lenka would simply be the US arm of the intelligence operation.

“So, Abdul, what’s the plan?”

Abdul, still driving, looked over at Lenka and eyed his suit, a little dusty now. “First, you need to get outta those civvies. You got field gear with you?”
Kopano nodded.

“Good, you can get changed at the office. There’s weapons and supplies there too but if you want any US stuff you’ll have to ask at the HQ, I don’t have any.”

Lenka understood, “I’ll make do with whatever you have. But, are we heading somewhere today?”

Abdul slowed the big truck as he entered a one lane checkpoint manned by US and COH Marines. They didn’t check the hummer over, they just checked Abdul and Kopano’s ID’s and waved them through.

Abdul spoke when he was at a steady speed again. “Yeah, no time like the present. We’re going up north.”

“For what, exactly?”

“To see a man about a plan.”

Kétésso, Côte d'Ivoire - 03:30 hrs [GMT]
Day Three

Akoupé lay sixty miles away, to the northwest of Kétésso. A major road junction, it was just one hundred miles from Yamoussoukro, where the Hirgizstanians were eventually going, which promised intense and hectic fighting. Akoupé was a small city, in terms of area but, packed inside of it were almost 35,000 people, who were living like rats and cockroaches on top of each other, in filth, most likely. Barely a mile and a quarter long and just three quarters of a mile wide, it was a definite death trap for the Legionnaires, if they didn't approach it properly. However, it had to be secured and quickly. It was a stepping stone for the ultimate target, Abengourou, which lay another thirty-six miles to the northeast, almost fifty miles away from the ground convoy, which would also be advancing. The ground forces, situated in Ebikokorékrou, sixteen miles north of Kétésso, would be heading northwest through both Borobo and Diambarakrou and finally into Aprompronou, where they would stop for the day. It would move then another fifteen miles closer to Abengourou. Resistance in all three villages was expected to be light. Late night reconnaissance showed that the Malians were in full retreat from these three villages, which meant that the Legionnaires would probably only be dealing with scouts, deserters, or the vengeful as they rolled through. Under orders to advance to Aprompronou and go no further, the convoy hoped to have an easy time moving through the roads and into the village, where they could get a good night's rest and prepare for the next assault, which would be on the fourth day, putting them just eight miles south of Abengourou in Bossematié. While the ground convoy would move there on the fourth day, the airborne contingent would move from Akoupé to Tigorikre, thirty-two miles away and just six miles from the outskirts of Abengourou.

While Abengourou was the ultimate target and the main focus for the Foreign Legion, it was still two days away and, therefore, in the back of everyone's mind. They concentrated on their focus for today, which was securing these new villages from Malian hands. While the ground convoy expected little resistance and an ideally pleasant ride, the aerial forces were expecting hell on Earth. Because of this, the ground convoy would be without air cover for the majority of their day, unless requested. The fifty-six Legionnaires would be moving out of Bétié in the middle of the morning, before the sun could even have a chance to rise, allowing them to enter Akoupé when most of the Malians there would be sleeping. The ground convoy would move out around the same time, using the cover of darkness to cover most of the distance they had to travel.

Akoupé was sixty miles northwest of Kétésso and therefore too far to send the Soaring Eagle UAV. With a combat range of just ninety-three miles, the UAV wouldn't be able to be over the city for very long and any intelligence it collected would be not worth its flight. It would be better used flying northward, along the road the ground convoy would travel, to alert them of any ambushes. The fifty-six Legionnaires in the helicopters would be all alone, except for their helicopter support, which consistently remained just a pair of Dark Lord helicopters and their two Cheyennes. To help them out, command had ordered the Arapaho reconnaissance helicopter to go along with the flight and the five helicopters set out from Kétésso at 03:30 hours, flying to Bétié at low-altitude and under the cover of total darkness.

It had been a quiet night for the soldiers there. The Malians that surrendered told of vast retreats. Officers were nowhere to be found and the only people who were dumb enough to get caught were mostly kids, too young to know better and too eager to ignore common sense. They were transported by to Kétésso and placed in prison cells in the village's police station, which had become the command center for the Layartebian Foreign Legion, simply because it was the only reinforced structure in the village, which remained sparsely populated even after word spread that the Malians had been driven north.

************************

The helicopters touched down in Bétié at 03:45 hours and the Legionnaires were inside and back in the air within three minutes. Their helicopters hugged the terrain as they flew at one hundred and twenty miles per hour. At that speed, they would be over Akoupé in just twenty minutes. By 04:10 hours, all of the Legionnaires would be on the ground in Akoupé and beginning the assault, five minutes ahead of time.

It was a quiet night over the jungles of the Ivory Coast. Even most of the animals that normally played a symphonic melody all night long were few and far between. Perhaps they had gotten wind of the Malians as well and high-tailed it out of there, expecting the looming firefight. Inside of the cabins of the four helicopters, the soldiers tried to shut their eyes and get a few more minutes of sleep, not expecting any for at least another forty-eight to seventy-two hours. They would get some shut eye after securing Akoupé but they didn't know how long that would take nor did they expect to get any the next day in Tigorikre. It was strictly for this purpose and reason that the men inside of the four helicopters saw this twenty minute flight not as a tense moment of total anxiety but rather the calmest twenty minutes they were going to experience for the next few days.

The Malians had made a grave mistake retreating back from Bétié, which was to expect ground forces. Not used to the tactics of the Foreign Legion, they had laid a significant number of booby traps along the roadside to stop walking patrols and ground convoys, wasting valuable and precious resources. Without adequate resupply, they entered Akoupé without the tools to successfully booby trap the city. Despite their numbers, they had essentially left the city in a "safe" condition for the incoming Legionnaires, who advanced so quickly and well in such conditions that the Malians wouldn't know what hit them.

Based on the fighting in Bétié, command expected at least two hundred Malians in Akoupé but had told the squad leaders and platoon leaders to prepare for over four hundred. Because they overestimated the enemy so much, they would be rolling in with plenty of ammunition and supplies, which was something the Malians simply did not have, despite there being two hundred and ninety-five of them, outnumbering the Legionnaires by five a quarter to one. With the AH-6 Little Birds on backup to help out the Legionnaires, the Malians in Akoupé were in for a very rough day that would begin ten minutes past four in the morning, when most of them were sound asleep. The lightning fast, surprise attack would be the biggest advantage the Legionnaires had in this assault, which would lead to them winning the battle.

By the time the Malians heard the approaching helicopters that morning, it was too late. The assaulting force was only a few minutes away from landing and that meant the Malians just didn't have time to prepare. Scrambling to get to their positions, to defend the city, they overlooked the flight path of the approaching helicopters. Though they had come in on a direct line path from the southeast, they had changed course just a mile from the village, still under the cover of darkness, and put in for a landing on the northern side of the city, behind the Malians. Both sets of aircraft landed briefly at 04:09 hours on the northern face of Akoupé and the fifty-six men jumped out of the helicopters in seconds. Immediately, they went to cover positions above while the men broke into two even groups of twenty-eight.

Looking through their night vision at dozens of infrared designator beams, the Legionnaires dividing the city into three specific zones. Flanking on its eastern side by a paved road, Akoupé had one other paved road, which forked off at the landing zone and went to the east. It also forked into a road that was between these two except that it wasn't paved. Everything to the west of this western road was one sector. Between the paved and dirty road was another second and between the dirt road and the eastern, paved road, there was another sector.

The Legionnaires landed in a clearing just to the side of the main fork in a grass field that led into the city. Though there were shanties and structures to their north, the bulk of the Malian force was to their south. What few Malians were north of them would most likely retreat, given their history thus far. The two groups of men split off from each other at the fork and further split again. The largest area to cover was the first sector, which would take a full brunt of twenty-eight men. The middle sector could be covered by fourteen and so could the third sector. It was official when the first shots were fired at 04:11 hours, the shots being from the Legionnaires, as one of the men commented, "God this is a filthy hell hole!" As he uttered those words, he caught sight of a sniper just fifty meters from his position, trying to sight the Legionnaires. He immediately placed the designator on his M104A1 Tactical Rifle on the man's chest and let loose a two round burst. Both 6.7 x 53mm rounds tore through the air and his chest at 930 meters per second, killing him instantly. "Got one!" He remarked as his squad continued to move through the first sector. The city opened up immediately thereafter. Despite not being able to see the muzzle flash on the Legionnaire's rifle, thanks to his flash suppressor, the Malians knew that the enemy was there. The sound of the gunshot, which slightly muffled and "tinny" sounding, shattered the silence on the ground. Instantly, the whole city erupted in small flashes of red and orange, white to the Legionnaires through their night vision goggles.

Rounds tore through the air without a discernable target or aim point, forcing the Legionnaires to take cover behind whatever they could find. Overhead, a Dark Lord began a strafing run, firing a few hundred rounds of ammunition from its port side Minigun against a number of the flashes, which happened to be mostly ground level being that most of the structures here were shacks arranged from whatever scrap metal could be found. It looked as if a powerful enough wind could destroy the whole village and the Legionnaires all wondered why the Hirgizstanian Air Force couldn't just drop a bomb on the village and wipe it out in one shot. Most of them deduced simply that it wasn't their priority.

Malian snipers, who were nothing more than soldiers with the common sense to put their rifles on semi-automatic fire and control their shots, popped up all over the place. Most of the Malians had AK-series assault rifles such as the AK-47 or AK-74. A few had older M16A1s and there would even be a few G3s found later on in the day and most of them only had a few magazines on them of ammunition, which they routinely emptied, without hitting much of anything. Uncoordinated, they planned to spray and pray throughout the night, to keep the Legionnaires from moving on them but they didn't realize that most of the time they were firing behind the Legionnaires, rather than to their front, the byproduct of not being able to see in the dark. Better equipped and trained, the Legionnaires carefully moved from shanty to shanty, checking it, looking for Malian soldiers and systematically shooting each and every one they saw and found. There were few civilians to be found and those that were looked more to be captive than anything else.

************************

When the ground convoy set out at 04:30 hours, they did so listening to the radio reports from Akoupé and the Legionnaires therein firing at the Malians. Happy they were surrounded by armor plating, the soldiers therein prayed for their brothers-in-arms and felt guilty that they were expected to have a relatively easy drive north. Setting out from Ebikokorékrou at fifteen miles per hour, the convoy used their optics and sensors to look for Malians. Though they were told it would be an easy ride, none of them were stupid enough to let their guard down. Inside of the Dingos and Bushmasters, soldiers looked out of the windows, their rifles draw and balanced. Turret gunners scanned their sectors and the alternating orientation of their weapons ensured that they would be able to watch a full 360° view around their convoy.

It took them a half hour to reach Borobo, the first village en route to their destination and they arrived to silence. Still under orders to investigate the area, the soldiers emptied out of the vehicles and moved quickly through the small village, which had been deserted. They found a few emptied magazines from AK-47 rifles, as well as spent tubes from RPG-7 launchers, meaning that the Malians they fought in Ebikokorékrou had definitely come through the village on their way back. By 05:25 hours, they declared the village empty and uncovered nothing of importance, despite a thorough search. With the sun eventually coming up on the horizon, they got back into the vehicles and continued to listen to the intense firefight in Akoupé. Despite the advantage and in coordination of the Malians, the Legionnaires were fighting through walls of bullets, trying to kill and capture the two hundred and ninety-five Malians present inside of the city.

Another twenty minutes and five miles away was Diambarakrou, which was larger than Borobo but still small enough that it wasn't even on a normal map. The convoy had moved quietly and easily through the road and entered Diambarakrou expecting the same. Unfortunately, they were in for a small fight. A band of Malians had stayed behind and taken up refuge in a three-story school building in the middle of the village and took a few pot shots at the convoy as it entered. The lead vehicles fired back but the building was largely reinforced. Necessary was a foot assault and the vehicles stopped, putting suppressive fire into the building as eight Legionnaires in two teams of four debarked one of the APCs and moved towards the building, two hundred and eighty-five meters ahead of them. Snipers exited the vehicles as well and laid down on the ground near their vehicles, looking through their optics at the building in front of them, trying to get a kill on the Malians inside.

Careful not to stick their bodies into view, the Malians mostly lifted their arms and rifles up from the windows and fired. The Legionnaires would return fire with heavy ordinance, mostly fifty caliber or fifteen point five millimeter machine gun fire, turning the concrete exterior of the building into dust, leaving massive holds where the rounds impacted. The gunners fired in careful, quick bursts, keeping their barrels cool while the foot soldiers moved up to the entrance to the school. The eight men took cover as one of the men stuck a C4 charge on to the door, backing up and taking cover to the side as it detonated three seconds later. The explosion shattered the door and its frame, giving the men entry but not before one of them threw a Flashbang grenade into the hole.

The first man in had a twelve gauge shotgun held to his shoulder. Because the sun had still not fully come up over the horizon, the men kept their night vision goggles on, which helped them in the darkness of the school, which was largely boarded up on the first floor. Though the building wasn't very large, in size, the first floor was full of individual rooms, which each had to be checked. Ransacked and littered with garbage, the school had been the site of definite ethnic cleansing. Despite the lack of bodies, there was blood everywhere and it smelled like death. Writing on the walls in French read all sorts of things from motivational sayings about learning to stern rules and discipline. There were even messages sprawled in blood but they were obscene and didn't needed to be repeated, even in the men's heads.

With the first floor secured, the men moved up the single stairway to the second floor, careful not to move too quickly and not to make any noise. It was difficult to do the latter though because of the amount of trash everywhere. Looters had turned the school inside out and left little behind except that which was broken. Desks and chairs weren't present and neither were the nice, wooden doors that closed off each door but there was plenty of papers and books lying around. Apparently the looters had felt that books weren't important enough to take, mainly because they were of little value, especially in a country with a remarkably low literacy rate. As they reached the top of the stairs, the lead soldier keyed up his microphone and whispered, "First floor secure. Moving to the second. Hold your fire on the second floor." Everyone in the convoy heard and the gunners now began their suppressive fire onto the third floor only, leaving the second floor completely alone.

The second floor was much more different from the first. There were rooms but not nearly as many of them and they had voices coming from them. Crouched low and quiet, the men walked down the empty, litter strewn corridor of the second floor and approached the first room. The four men in the front quickly prepared to assault the room and did so in lightning fashion. Without uttering a word, they tossed in a Flashbang grenade, entered, and quickly lined up against the wall, and opened fire on the blinded Malians inside. There were only six of them but they dropped like flies as they took shotgun, pistol, and carbine rounds to their bodies. Out in the hallway, the four men covering for them opened fire as well. Malians in the adjacent room had come out looking to defend their comrades, only to be dropped as they came out of the rooms. With only three such rooms on this floor and the first one cleared, the Legionnaires were moving quite quickly. The four men had taken down six Malians in the first room and another four had been dropped in the corridor. "Clear." The lead soldier reported from the first room as he alerted the men outside that he was coming out, making them hold their fire in the process. Coming out low, he and the other three men moved behind their four comrades as they advanced now to the next room. They swapped places and the other four men assaulted, finding and killing only one Malian. The third room was empty. "Second floor clear. Moving to the third. Hold your fire." The leader said as he and the men returned to the stairs and ascended them to the third floor. With eleven dead on the second floor and an additional seven on the third floor, the Legionnaires had quite a successful outing as they rampaged the third floor, firing at the soldiers who had taken up refuge from the heavy machine gun rounds of the convoy. Outside, a sniper got the final kill, seeing a Malian scrambling near the window, away from the incoming fire of the Legionnaires. The 7.8 x 63mm round from his M107A1 Designated Marksman Rifle tore through the Malian's skull and turned it to ooze. Despite the order to hold their fire, the sniper was under a different set of ROE and his job was to protect those inside as much as they were there to protect the convoy. With the third floor clear, the convoy went to searching the village. It was deserted except for the Malians in the building, who now lay dead.

The whole village smelled like death and it was obvious that the Malians had done horrific things there, despite the lack of overt evidence. It wouldn't be until 07:00 hours that the convoy set out north again, still listening to the firefight in Akoupé. Little Birds had arrived on site there to protect the Legionnaires while the Cheyennes and Dark Lords refueled back in Kétésso. News of the ambush in Diambarakrou was met with laughter by the Legionnaires in Akoupé, especially when it was revealed that they had only faced eighteen men. The convoy personnel were the dominant quantity there, unlike the Legionnaires in Akoupé who remained heavily outnumbered. After nearly three hours of fighting in Akoupé, the Legionnaires had advanced significantly but taken two casualties, both serious enough to require immediate medical evacuation by helicopter. One would die en route back to Kétésso, the first combat fatality in the Layartebian Foreign Legion's history.

His name was Sergeant Joseph William McGuiness, a Hirgizstanian by birth. He had joined the Layartebian Foreign Legion in 2006 and found a home there. An ex-paratrooper in the Hirgizstanian Army, he had never fully adjusted to civilian life after he was discharged. The Layartebian Foreign Legion would definitely be a better bet than becoming a mercenary, which promised lucrative money but lacked honor, as he would say. He had risen up through the ranks decently fast in the L.F.L. and became the leader of a squad when the L.F.L. deployed to Ghana. He had been on point, entering a shanty when a mortar round landed close to the shanty and collapsed it. The sharp, sheet metal wall had come down and sliced through the bottom of his leg, severing his right foot and causing him instant trauma. When he was evacuated, he was barely conscious, dying subsequently of cardiac arrest in the helicopter on the way back to Kétésso. When it fluttered over the airwaves that there was a KIA, every Legionnaire suddenly stopped. The realization that one of their own had just died shook the men for a split second.

Back in Diambarakrou, the convoy set out to the north for the four and a half mile, eighteen minute journey to Aprompronou. The Malians had laid a few mines alongside the road but, in their haste, failed to hide them properly. The convoy leaders saw them and immediately stopped. Engineers traveling amongst them immediately set out to disarm the mines, which provided to be so daunting a task that they opted simply to blow them up with primer cord. Carefully, the two engineers snaked a few hundred feet of detonating cord around the mines and stood back while they triggered the explosion. The detonating force traveled down the cord at a rate of over fifteen thousand miles per hour, destroying the six mines seemingly instantly and simultaneously. After a quick inspection, the engineers declared them destroyed and convoy continued. They would arrive in Aprompronou at 08:05 hours, entering the deserted village without any issue. Pleased with the speed at which the convoy advanced, the commanders ordered them to halt for a few hours while reconnaissance was conducted on both Ebilassékrou and Tanékrou to the north, two villages that were on the way to Abengourou.

4. Henning
November 18th
Mogadishu, Somalia

It had been a long couple of days. The storm had finally moved on and the sun was beginning to energize the city. The earth began to dry out and dust soon filled the streets and alleyways. The familiar and eerie echo of gunfire off in a far corner of the city was once again audible. Henning had gotten little sleep even without the relative peace the storm ironically brought. This case had one too many holes for him. He had sat in bed turning over thoughts. The humidity certainly didn’t help, creating an almost unbearable sauna. Most of his night was consumed by cigarettes and photographs. Certainly simple minded Wekesa was sleeping well. His soft-spoken partner was cautious of Henning and it was obvious despite his best efforts to camouflage it. Henning knew the rumors that surrounded him. His legend, be it infamous or not, had certainly preceded him. He tried to pay little attention to it. It would only get in the way. He didn’t need people second guessing him and he definitely didn’t need people distrusting him. It wasn’t all bad, at least not completely. He could use it to his advantage, to command respect in a way. He knew Wekesa, in a small way, feared him. It wasn’t everyone though. Some people didn’t believe any of the rumors that floated around, or rather just didn’t care. Jelani was one person. He never seemed uneasy around Henning, never seemed to change. It was a relief to Henning; at least I have one ally he thought.

With dawn on the 18th came a much needed call from Wekesa. The news from the ballistics report was in and apparently pretty interesting. The news had excited Henning and despite a very sleepless night he was off and running. Wekesa seemed a tired as well though not because he was too preoccupied with the case. He, like most of society, was not a morning person. It was one more thing that made Henning out of place, his ability to function like normal in the early hours of the day. The station was busy for it being so early. Cool recycled air filtered through the building, a relief from the ever increasing temperatures outside. Wekesa walked in the door at the same time as Henning. The smell of coffee seemed to bring Wekesa to life. Wekesa poured himself a tall steaming cup before doing the same for Henning. Henning took the cup with a nod of appreciation. Wekesa did have a point, it certainly was energizing. The heat warmed his hands as a gripped the cup, and the rich aroma awakened his senses. His desk was a mess with papers and reports scattered about in typical detective fashion. In one foul swoop he brushed it all aside and through down the ballistics report. Setting the coffee aside he opened up the report and began reading. Wekesa was above him now reading over his shoulder.

“338 Lapua Magnum. Those were the slugs pulled out of a Vic,” Henning said though Wekesa had certainly gotten to that part as well.

“We don’t use them…as far as I know.”

Henning was surprised at Wekesa knowledge of the States equipment. “No we don’t, not a lot of armed forces do. That is definitely a special bullet.”

“Hirgis’?”

“I don’t think so, but look into it.”

The 338 Lapua Magnum was not a round in widespread use. Despite its accuracy and lethality many armed forces around the world went with more well know calibers. The 338 Lapua Magnum was known more for its use in police forces and professional shooters. The report, luckily, contained some basic information about the bullet so he continued reading. The .338 Lapua Magnum (8.6×70mm or 8.58×70mm) is a specialized rimless bottlenecked center fire cartridge developed for military long-range sniper rifles. The .338 Lapua is a dual-purpose anti-personnel and anti-materiel round; however, its anti-materiel potential is limited, due to the bullet's lower kinetic energy compared with that of the .50 BMG's 35.64 to 55.08 gram (550 to 850 grain) projectiles. The loaded cartridge is 14.93 mm (0.5878 in) in diameter (rim) and 93.5 mm long. It can penetrate better-than-standard military body armor at ranges up to 1000 meters (1094 yd) and has a maximum effective range of about 1750 meters (1914 yards). Muzzle velocity is dependent on load and powder temperature and varies from 880 to 915 m/s (2887 to 3002 ft/s) for commercial loads with 16.2 gram (250 grain) bullets, which results in about 6525 joules (4813 ft-lb) of muzzle energy.

However that information wasn’t all that important to him. What he wanted was its origin, where was it produced. It would be the best place to start from, at least in his mind. Luckily for him it was included in report. He was beginning to really love the local ballistics team. The round was designed and created in Layarteb and produced in a number of factories in the country, not to mention some factories in Cotland where the round actually got its name. He closed the report, thoroughly satisfied with the work that had been put into it. He booted up his computer hopping to go online and get some names and numbers to put to use. Wekesa quickly returned with another file in his hands.

Wekesa tossed the file on the desk in front of and sat on the corner of Henning’s desk with a large smile stretched across his face.

“That was quick,” Henning said.

“Well that is because that isn’t what you think it is.” He seemed to pause, waiting for Henning’s retort.

“Well…what is it then?”

Obliged, Wekesa continued, “I was on my way to the captain’s office to get on the phone with a Hirgi liaison when Jelani stopped me in the hall. He said he had something that we wanted. I said…”

“Jesus Wekesa caught to the chase!”

“We have an ID on our vic. Andre is his main alias. He is a major gun runner operating out of… yes you guessed it Somalia. Apparently local forces tried to bring him in a number of times, with plenty of evidence to boot, but somewhere along the way the missions were canceled. That comes straight from the top too.”

This was news to Henning, he wasn’t entirely familiar with the city as of yet and certainly not the major plays in its criminal world.

He thought for a moment before asking, “Informant?”

“If he is one nobody is confirming it and if that were the case he was let on a very long leash. I suppose that rules out a government hit then? You know it could still be a rival. You get powerful in a city like this and you would without a doubt end up with some powerful enemies as well.”

“I am sorry to interrupt this conversation,” Jelani broke in, “but we’ve just got a call from the field, a couple of officers down. They’ve got themselves a firefight and the captain wants all he can get.”

--

The three of them were quickly in the Rover and speeding off toward the scene. Sirens screamed in every direction as what tranquility the city offered was shattered. Henning’s blood had turned cold and goose bumps covered his body. He pulled his jacket over his arm trying to hide the fact that he was nervous. His wounds were nothing more than scars now but the painful fact that he was not immortal was ever present. He had been shot twice before being kidnapped by Raven while in recovery. The pain it had caused was mind numbing just to think about. He gripped the wheel tight and pushed slightly on the gas which was as near to the floor as he could get in a city.

As they neared closer and closer the sounds of the firefight were growing. It was more than a few handguns popping off rounds at each other. This was something different. This sounded more like a battle. Heavy rounds began to fall around the car sending dust and stone skyward. Henning’s heart fell into his stomach as he saw the unmistakable vapor trail of an RPG screech overhead and detonate on the patrol car following him. Sound seemed too ceased and time seemed to slow to a near halt as the car somersaulted in a ball of flame.

“Fuck!” cried Jelani as reality returned.

Henning slammed on the breaks sliding the car sideways. All three were out of the car looking over to see something, a target, anything. Henning pulled at his Five Seven making sure a round was chambered. There was a ringing in his ears he simply couldn’t shake. He saw flickers of dirt fall around him, felt the warm air of passing rounds brush up against his brow. Sparks ignited around him as they made contact with the car. For a brief moment he couldn’t breathe. Adrenaline was engulfing him, quickly moving throughout his body. His arms and legs, his hands, his fingers tingled with exhilaration. The world around him became a fantastic blur. Colors began to fade. Something darted to his right, a dark shape; a person! There came a flash, a brilliant flash, sound and chaos erupted around him. He raised his gun a squeezed the trigger, released, and squeezed again. His arm recoiled back as the hammer clicked back into place. The person fell to the ground writhing in pain. To his left, Wekesa and Jelani were firing off round after round. There was another blur moving again to his right. Henning, still in a haze, dropped to his knee and fired again. Sparks and debris exploded around the man who quickly ducked behind a wall. Henning kept his sidearm trained at the wall waiting for the man to look out.

Suddenly there was a loud scream. He turned to see Wekesa on his knees grasping at his right shoulder. Blood poured out from between his fingers as he grimaced in pain. There was no time, however, as the fight continued. The man Henning was fighting with had returned fire of his own. He let fly a clip to little avail. The world was crumbling around him. Screams of the dying were overpowered by the screams of rocket propelled grenades. Henning turned back again, his body aching with excitement and fear, to see Jelani lying on his back, his faced covered in blood. His eyes were open but utter void of life. The simply looked upward as if to the heavens. Wekesa was sitting upright firing in a blind rage. His shirt covered in dark red blood. The stink of death began to make its way over the firefight. Henning could no longer take it. His muscles forced him to his feet and in a dead sprint he ran towards his assailant. A trail of live rounds followed closely in toe as he ran as fast as his legs could carry him. As he neared the corner where the shooter was hiding he began to fire. His heart was pounding, sweat beaded down him his head and into his eyes. His old scars were alive with newfound fury. The man was taken completely off guard. He tried quickly to recover but was it was too late. Henning stumbled to the ground. His high had ended. He gasped for breathe, tried not to throw up. His body ached, his head was spinning. And then the ringing in his ears stopped. The world around him was once again quiet. He sat now, recovering. Two bodies, of men he never knew, of men he never would know, sat dead at his feet. Their faces etched with emotions he was all too familiar with.

--

He needed information. The events that had just transpired demanded his immediate attention. He had never seen anything like that before. He had been in Mogadishu long enough to hear the gunfire and the stories. He had been there long enough to have fired his weapon once or twice. But it paled in comparison to what just happened. The sheer magnitude of the attack, the unbridled violence, screamed something unusual. Something had to set off such an attack. There wasn’t any obvious objective, nothing gained in the assault. The attackers had yet to be identified past lowlife street criminals.

The attack had presumably failed, as there didn’t seem to be any motivation behind the assault. Four officers were killed including Jelani. Henning could still see his face, staring aimlessly towards the clouds. His face held no expression, no fear; no anger. His eyes still pierced through his mind. ‘What was the point of it all?’ he thought to himself. He already missed the man, the quiet confidence he seemed to have, the trust, and the acceptance. He thought of the man’s family, the lovely wife and two daughters, waiting for their father to come home. ‘Such a god damn waste’ he thought! He would have to see them; try to explain how their father died. He would have to try to explain to them that their father was killed fighting off nobodies in a pointless bloodbath.

He had just left the hospital. Wekesa was wounded, but luckily would survive. It would take some recovery time, unfortunately as Henning needed him more than ever. Nevertheless he did pretty well under fire. At least he got to see his family at the end of the day. Wekesa did ask him for a favor before he left though; one that Henning had every intention of fulfilling. While he hadn’t been in Mogadishu too long, he still had his contacts however unreliable they might have been. It was time for Henning to do some spelunking of his own.

He pulled the Rover into the parking lot of a rustic looking bar tucked along the border between civilized and anarchy. It was a typical unkempt bar with haggard looking drunks and shady street thugs mingling around. Henning felt for his sidearm stashed away, just in case and pulled his jacket close. He lit a cigarette and placed it between his lips. He took a long meaningful drag and was surprised. He looked at the cig and back at the pack: Hirgizstan – Layarteb Cigarettes. ‘Pretty good’ he thought. He stretched his fingers, loosening the tension built up from a harrowing day and walked inside. The place was filled with smoke and the smell of stale beer. An out of date radio crackled out songs somewhere in the back corner of the bar. He searched the bar looking for his contact. He heard laughter, a sinister drunken laughter, and locked on to his target. He was sitting at the bar, a beer mug latched firmly to his hand. Henning walked up and nodded to the bartender who filled a rotten looking mug with a rotten looking beer.

“Thanks,” Henning said sarcastically.

The contact became very quiet and looked menacingly over at Henning sitting beside him.

“Hello detective,” he said with a scowl.

Henning didn’t reply he just slid a picture of Andre in front of him.

“Do you know who this is?”

The man’s face seemed to brighten at the sight.

“You are starting to catch on I see. Ha-ha. Yes I know him…everyone knows Andre. Ha-ha.”

The man was clearly drunk but Henning could tell the man did know him.

“Care to elaborate?!” Henning said with a rising temper.

The contact looked at him funny before replying, “Why.”

Henning could no longer control his growing rage. He slammed his fist on the bar and said nearly spitting, “I lost a good man today and he almost wasn’t the only one. This city is tearing itself apart! I want to know what the fuck is going on and this man has something to do with it!”

The contact seemed to brush aside Henning’s anger with pure diabolic laughter.

“Detective please do calm down. It as if you want to shoot me.”

Henning began to reach for his gun catching the contact’s eyes.

“I wouldn’t pull that out in a place like this, you might be adding another fatality to your list today. This man you see was this city’s largest gun runner.”

“I knew that, a few minutes digging turned that up. I need more.”

“Well I wasn’t finished. You are most rude. Ha-ha. You see this city; this city isn’t run by your ‘law’. This city is run by criminals and he was the biggest. Do you see? Mogadishu is a city divided up amongst gangs and mobsters. Andre sat at the top. Ha-ha. Well not anymore. He kept this all in order. Let me ask you, detective, have you ever heard of that saying. ‘Your only allies are enemies?’”

The man had an unsettling tone about him and an even more unsettling scent but Henning knew the information was legitimate and he wanted more. Henning simply shook his head no and waited for the contact to continue.

“No, of course. Well anyway you went on a killed him. Ha-ha. Now the entire city has gone to the dogs! He kept order. It was organized chaos at its best. So I must congratulate you on that. Ha-ha.”

Henning thought back. Local police wanted to bring his guy in hundreds of times all backed by hard evidence and it was always denied by the Fed’s. ‘They knew about this?’ he thought.

“How come you think it was us that killed him?”

The contact looked surprised at the question, “Nobody in Mogadishu would be foolish enough to try that. They knew what would happen.

You looked puzzled detective so let me let you in on a little secret. You are in way over your head. All of this, all of these events are all interrelated.”

He leaned in close, the stink of his warm breathe tingled Henning’s senses.

“This city, this country, this continent is a powder keg. It is just waiting to explode. There are forces beyond your control that are working as we speak to bring chaos to the world. This land is about to bleed.”

Henning, though skeptical of this man’s sanity, was curious.

“When is this apocalypse of yours supposed to happen?”

“Why…that isn’t the question you should be asking. The question, detective, you should be asking is what side are you going to be on?”

He broke into a startling laughter, and uncontrollable fit of laughter, his raspy voice echoing throughout the entire bar.

‘What side am I going to be on?’ Henning repeated to himself.

OOC: Reader discretion is advised. The following post contains some graphic scenes.



IC:

State Legislature Building, Sassandra, Ivory Coast

US CIA Agent Kopano Lenka was not in a good mood. He had a migraine developing, probably from the drone of the C-130, and he knew little or nothing about where he’d be going for the next few days. He had immediately been wary of ‘Agent Yellow’…Abdul. And since the man had refused to tell him any more than something about ‘a man and a plan’ up north, his liking of the man had gotten worse.

He was not wondering whether he could trust the strange Hirgizstanian. In fact, he thought, every negative thing he’d come to hear about Hirgizstanians or the COH was personified for him now, in the figure of Abdul- self assured, distant, gung-ho and probably crazy. And he was his partner for the foreseeable future.

“FUCKING GREAT!” He shouted in the enclosed space of the shipping container. His voice made a metallic boom as it bounced around inside, eventually being dissipated by the thrum of the large A/C attached to the roof.

The single strip light that lit the place gave the inside of the container and eery glow…it reminded Kopano of the inside of a freezer truck….where they put meat caracasess.

He didn’t know if it could get much worse. Lenka had believed there’d be an actual office somewhere with a desk, a computer…some minor comforts for doing paperwork and when he wasn’t in the field. But no, Abdul’s ‘office’ was the container he was standing in and the one next to it, an empty holding cell.

At the back of the container was a small steel bench and two large lockers. One was open and Lenka had stored his suit and other belongings in there as he got changed into his field gear.

He wore a pair of camouflage trousers and a grey t-shirt under body armor. He also had some MOLLE gear he would carry until he needed to wear it.

Gun wise, Kopano carried a P228 with a rail which was now in its thigh holster wrapped around his right leg. It was tight and he would have to get used to it again. Unfortunately the first time he’d ever used a thigh holster in the police it come loose and snapped off, dangling where he couldn’t get to it. Ever since, he strapped them up as tight as he could and would flex for a few minutes to get used to it.

As for a primary weapon, he had the pick of Abdul’s considerable collection which sat in three lockers down one side of the container. He had heard good things about the SCAR-L and H rifles which were Hirgizstanian standard issue, as well as the M29 AICW, also standard issue in a squad. But he was thinking ahead to where he and Abdul would probably be operating.

The Malians used the 5.56mm G.36- it would probably be best to use whatever they had and so Kopano picked a new looking example from one of the lockers, stripped it down and began to check and clean it.

After he was satisfied it all worked he put it back together and began to load magazines and stuff them into his MOLLE gear. With all his essential equipment packed into the assault vest it was pretty heavy, but the ergonomic design and modularity actually made it easy to carry with its handle or when strapped on.

The last thing Kopano did was take a few minutes to look at a picture of his wife and kid before leaving it in the locker and stepping outside.

Standing in the salty, warm and dry sea air Kopano wanted to go back inside to the cool, odour free air conditioned steel container but Abdul was already back from wherever the hell he went.

Kopano walked over to where the Hirgizstanian had parked an ATV with a trailer that was loaded with all sorts of supplies. Abdul saw him coming, “Give us a hand Lenka. Fuel and ammo in the trunk, perishables and the rest of the ammo in the back.”

There were so many gallons of fuel that they took up most of the space in the trunk. The boxes of 5.56, 7.62 and 50.cal ammunition just about fitted in beside them. Some sleeping bags, rucksacks, first aid kits and other items were jammed in on top and then the panel was shut down.

Abdul was already stacking things in the backseat. Lenka noticed there was a shitload of cigarette cartons being thrown in with the boxes of rations. “You know that’s a real bad habit?”

Abdul stopped and looked through the back seat to the other side where Lenka was peering at him. He didn’t understand, “What…,” and then he realized the CIA man meant the cigarettes. “Oh yeah, they ain’t for me. They’re for anyone we might. No point in interrogating someone when all they want is a carton of smokes. Its like currency. Trust me.”
Lenka nodded. “How’d you get so many?”

“There was a big merger back home, Layarteb’s Philip Morris and Hirgizstan Tobacco formed Hirgizstan-Layarteb Tobacco, one big ass company. They are handing these out free at the USO HQ a mile away. As many as you want. I thought I’d help myself to some Luckies.” Hirgizstan Tobacco ‘Luckies’ were a popular brand that sponsored several racing teams in various sports.

Lenka left Abdul to finish up and went to check around the vehicle, to ensure there was nothing hanging off or that the tyres weren’t down. At the front he found a new item. It sat just below the bars in front of the lights and grille and was attached to the chassis by massive connectors. Lenka didn’t know exactly what it was, but it looked like the undergrowth cutter that were sometimes fitted to tanks. It had huge, triangular shaped spikes that came to a point at the front and pointed menacingly out from the vehicle.

Abdul saw the CIA man admiring his new addition and shouted “It’s a ramming bar. The new thing for military hummers. The Cougar vehicles can ram things easily, brass wanted the remaining hummers to do the same. Fearsome piece. I hope we get to try it out.”

Lenka mumbled to himself, “I don’t.”

Eventually the truck was finished being packed full of stuff and Abdul slammed an armoured lap-top onto the hood beckoning Lenka over. On screen there was a photograph of an arrogant Malian General. “This is the man we’re going to see. General Pierre Gulano, Ugo’s right hand man in the Ivory Coast.”

Lenka frowned, “And how do you suppose we go see him? Can we make an appointment?”

“Funny. He’s in his bunker in Yamoussoukro, we’re going to drag him out and ask him a few questions.”

Lenka didn’t like the sound of that plan. “Just us two…against the Malians in their stronghold?”

Abdul smiled a crazy smile. His new friend sure was up-tight about getting his hands dirty. “Not just us. A platoon of Recon Marines aswell. They’re waiting for us up north. They’ll help us work out the small print on how this whole thing goes down. If we get this guy, the Malians are finished out here.”

Kopano nodded and didn’t say much. He wasn’t sold, to say the least. But he really had no choice.

Abdul shut down his laptop and both men jumped in the truck and hit the main roads. They drove endless miles north-east from Sassandra seeing lines of tanks and trucks and armor and soldiers and every piece of military hardware they could think of. Always beyond the next hill were plumes of smoke and if the armoured doors were open a crack the rattle and thrum of battle was never too far away.

Apart from MP directed diversions Abdul stuck to the main highway that led eventually to the town of Lakota. As they got closer to the city civilians, tired, dirty and dishevelled, shuffled slowly but hopefully toward the city, some fortunate enough to have caught rides on tanks or APC’s or other vehicles.

Lakota itself was mostly intact but heavily scarred by a battle that looked fairly recent. They skirted around the main centre of the town and got back on the highway to Divo in the east. The military presence there was bigger and it included US Marines. The 4th and 5th Corps of the 10th Army, Abdul could see on the Battle Network screen beside the dashboard, was in and around Divo, with various units out patrolling along a north-south axis for miles eastward.

Abdul was heading for a small town in a place called Lac De Tabb, which was a lake of sorts that led south from a dam. However, the main highways around the area were closed due to enemy activity and Abdul wound up taking the gravel and dirt back-roads.

Almost since leaving, Lenka had been asleep, occasionally jolted awake by a pothole or the noise of vehicles moving close to their vehicle. The dirt back-roads eventually roused him fully and no matter how hard he tried the uneven terrain and the noise of shifting fuel and ammo cans banging together as the vehicle went up and over bumps kept him awake.

Abdul was leaning back in his seat, not taking the whole ‘driving’ thing too seriously. He had one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the edge of the gun rack between the two men. His fingers drummed a beat on the wheel.

Outside the air-conditioned calm of the car, thick woodland opposed them on all sides, with the road cutting through it like a gash, the reddish dirt adding to the image. There wasn’t much to see apart from the green of the woodland, the red of the dirt or the blue of the cobalt sky. It was singularly boring.

Even the Battle Network screen wasn’t doing much. Reports kept filing in on the bottom but they meant nothing much to either man and as far as they could see there wasn’t a friendly unit, or any unit, for miles around. Pushing a button, Kopano zoomed the screen out and saw they still had a distance to where a yellow dot showed their destination and a gaggle of blue squares denoting friendly units.

Lenka’s absentminded fidgeting was stopped abruptly by a laconic hiss from Abdul, “Shit.”

The CIA man looked out the windscreen and up ahead saw a beat up old truck sitting nose-in to the woodland, blocking the road. A gaggle of civilians stood around, arguing excitedly by the looks of things. Arms were flailing and pointing every which way and it seemed everybody was blaming the person next to them. As they came closer Abdul slowed to a halt. Even with the engine at an idle, in the armoured cabin of the truck they could only hear the odd raised voice.

“Should we help?” Lenka asked.
Abdul said nothing. His mind was elsewhere. “Actually, I think…” His head darted to the left and then back to Lenka who couldn’t see his eyes past the sunglasses, “…I know it’s a trap. Check your mirror.” Kopano did. He could see uniformed Malians, about eight, forming up behind the truck. One held the unmistakable long, brown shape of an RPG-29, easily capable of turning their hummer into a modern work of metal art in a single second.

The ‘civilians’ in front of the broken down truck up ahead had by now produced their own weapons and some had thrown off their civilian clothes to reveal uniforms. They too had an RPG-29 pointed toward the hummer, along with all of their small arms.

Inside the car the only sound was the burble of the engine and the hiss of the A/C. Neither man said anything. The silence was broken from the outside. One of the men in front of the broken truck had stepped forward, clearly in charge, and was shouting at them to get out and surrender.

Lenka wasn’t one to panic, but nor did he want to die. He grabbed the door handle but another hiss from Abdul stopped him dead. “Move another inch and I’ll kill you before your boots hit the dirt. Stay put.”

The CIA man went to protest, “But-” He was cut off.

“But nothing. Maybe its okay for you Brinkians to surrender, but a Hirgizstanian never surrenders.”

Infuriatingly to Kopano, Abdul remained placid and seemingly unconcerned about the tank-busting RPG pointed straight at them. The Malian in charge was now threatening to fire. Lenka pleaded, “Are you nuts? That RPG will kill us in a fucking millisecond.”

“Better dead than caught.”

“WHAT! Enough of this, we negotiate. I’m getting out.”

But instead of being able to throw the door open, Lenka was thrown violently back into his seat as Abdul floored the gas pedal and the big truck roared and kicked off the mark, careening toward the bunch of Malian’s in front of the broken down truck.

Some of them scattered, the RPG man fumbled with his weapon and the Malian officer, the one in charge standing in front of his men, was frozen, unable to move.

Abdul steered right toward him and Lenka stared wild-eyed as the ramming bar spikes slammed straight through the Malian, impaling him on the front of the hummer like some sort of sick hood ornament. His whole upper torso sat above the hood and his arms flailed as blood spurted onto the bonnet.

The Hirgizstanian smiled and to Lenka’s utter amazement waved to the Malian, “Hi there.”

Kopano saw to his horror the RPG man about to fire in front of them but it was too late for him aswell. He was caught by the side of the hummer as it barrelled into him and the rocket fired wildly into the air as his body was dragged under the wheels, causing the big truck to jump wildly before smashing into the side of the broken down truck.

Lenka, thrown forward in his seat, dragged himself back up and watched in his rear view mirror as the Malians that had been behind them were now running forward. The RPG-29 man then knelt down and in that whole moment the CIA man was just transfixed on the realisation that once he saw the plume of smoke he’d be dead.

He was so caught up in thoughts of his own morbidity that he didn’t see Abdul hop out of the truck. He immediately knelt and whipped out his pistol, laying four rounds into the RPG man, sending him flying flat on his back. Rounds then began smashing and clunking into the truck all around him and he wrenched open the rear door to protect himself before ducking into the front and grabbing his M4. He said quietly to Lenka, despite all the noise outside, “If you feel like giving me a hand I’d sure appreciate it.”

Open mounted Lenka nodded and in a stupor grabbed up his own gun and yanked open the heavy armoured door on the passenger side. The angle at which the hummer had crashed into the broken down truck meant he was shielded by the rear flank of the vehicle from most of the firing. He clambered forward on his knees and began firing over the back of the armoured hummer at the Malians.

Some of them were lying in the ditches at the side of the road firing back up toward them, others lay dead in the middle and some were running headlong away. Both intelligence men kept firing and the fleeing Malians were taken down in under a few minutes, their plan shattered and taken totally by surprise.

To Kopano the whole event had seemed like a lifetime and he was mentally drained as he fired one last time at a soldier kneeling behind a tree. He hit him in the leg and he fell out from cover, a few more shots from Abdul put an end to his life.

Procedure then began to kick in and the two men inched catiously forward, kicking away weapons and making sure the dead were really dead. They took the two RPG-29s and walked calmly back to the hummer that was crashed into the side of the broken down truck.

As they neared it a burst of static froze them on the spot. It hadn’t come from inside the hummer. It had come from inside the truck that blocked the road.

Both men communicated to each other in hand signals and they slowly inched around to the tarpaulin covered rear.

There were hushed, whispered and scared voices coming from the rear of the truck.

Just as Abdul skipped around to the far side of the truck, a body jumped through the back of the tarpaulin and barrelled straight into Lenka. Another jumped out closer to Abdul. Luckily this one was wearing a heavy radio and fell unceremoniously in a heap and the NIA man cracked him over the head with the butt of his M4.

However, Lenka was embroiled with someone else, rolling about on the dirt road with a big, muscled Malian. There were grunts and roars coming from the heap of fists and kicks. Kopano eventually rolled the big Malian onto his back and Abdul kicked him in the side. Kopano smashed his assailant in the face and rolled away.

The Malian tried to get up but Abdul put a round into his groin and the big man screamed and flailed around in the dirt, blood erupting from the wound and pouring out onto the ground and around his hands.

Kopano lay panting on the ground a few feet away. “You okay?” The CIA man nodded breathlessly.

Abdul calmly shot the Malian through the head, the side of his skull exploding outward as the bullet ripped his cranium to shreds before exiting the other side and plunking into the dry dirt road.

“WHAT THE FUCK! YOU KILLED HIM!”

The Hirgizstanian was momentarily stunned by the obvious statement, but realised quickly it was an exasperated accusation. He quickly remembered that it was GATO policy to take prisoners. However, Abdul was black ops and they had no policies and no rules. Icily he replied through gritted teeth, “Yes, I did. Your welcome.”

Kopano was on his feet now, still trying to catch his breath but looking down in horror at his past assailant as blood drained from his groin area and grey matter slid out of the two holes in his head. “That’s murder! You’re a murderer.”

Abdul had turned around to see to the radio operator he’d knocked out, but at the mention of ‘murder’ turned around on Kopano with fire in his eyes. “What?”

“You murdered him…”

Abdul put his gun up and pointed it directly at Lenka, who’s face went wide in horror as he took an unsteady step back. “What…what…”

“What would you know about murder?”

“I…I…”

Abdul snarled “Fuck all is what you know. While you were sleeping safe in your bed I was out here watching the Malians kill people in every way you ever thought possible. I watched children get raped and babies bayoneted in their mothers wombs. You don’t know shit about murder until you’ve seen a five year old girl raped, doused in petrol and burned alive while soldiers watched and laughed and took bets on how quickly she’d die.”

Lenka was stunned into silence and just stared down the barrel of the M4 pointed at him with Abdul staring a hole threw him behind the weapon. Eventually he dropped it and stalked off to the hummer.

But he was back a few seconds later, a pack of smokes in his hand. He then began to try and rouse the radio operator he’d knocked out. He kicked, prodded and slapped him to no avail and then finally he awoke with a cough when water was poured over his face.

The Malian was nothing more than a kid, maybe 17 or 18. He looked frightened. Lenka felt sorry for him as he stood out of the way. Abdul had seen 17 year old Malians doing the very worst things. He felt nothing.

Abdul had flex-cuffed him and taken the radio away. He was kneeling in the dirt listening to static filled reports while reading the CODEX he’d taken from the dead Malian officer still impaled on the front of the hummer.

Eventually Abdul wandered over to the young Malian radio operator and offered him a cigarette. He took it thankfully and breathed in deeply, nodding his appreciation.

The name-tape on his chest said ‘Pulot’. Abdul hunkered down in front of him. “So Pulot…are there any more of you out here?”

He said nothing.

“Look, we’ll be taking you back where you’ll be interrogated thoroughly. If you give me the info now you can avoid that. I’ll make sure you are treated right. Think about it.”

He said nothing.

“Pulot…come on. Your war is over. You’ll never have to answer to your officers again, what’s the harm in telling me?”

The kid’s eyes flashed for a second. “I don’t know. We lost contact with our regiment two days ago south of here. All we can get on the radio is units too far to do anything or those already in trouble. We’re alone.”

Abdul nodded at every point made, making the kid feel comfortable and valuable. “So why attack us?”

Pulot spat and gestured over to the Malian officer impaled on the hummer. “It was his idea. He was a prick, didn’t know what he was doing. Thought we could take on one car. I thought he was right but now I see it didn’t make any sense, we could have just hidden out.”

Abdul pressed him further, he was co-operating. “Where were you headed?”

The kid took a long drag on his cigarette. “North…anywhere north of here. They told us Gagnoa or Yamoussoukro. We tried to get west to Gagnoa but the Hirgizstanians were all over the place, so we tracked back and headed north, then this happened.”

“Who told you to head north?”

The kid looked a bit puzzled. “I don’t know who exactly, all the officers I guess.”

“Did you hear anything about a plan or a counter-attack?”

“A couple of the NCOs in my platoon kept talking about regrouping in Yamoussoukro and said there would be a counter-attack. Other than that I don’t know much.”

Abdul nodded and stood up. He turned away from the kid and drew his pistol. Lenka saw it and darted forward to stop him but was too late. Abdul was already turning. The cigarette fell from Pulot’s mouth as he saw the gun come up, pointed directly at him. Abdul fired three times and was then tackled by Kopano, sending the gun flying.

Both men hit the deck hard, a few metres from the lifeless Pulot. Lenka, for a second, had the upper hand. He was screaming, “YOU FUCKING MURDERING BASTARD! FUCKING BASTARD!” But in his emotional fury he wasn’t concentrating.

Using the thrust of his legs Abdul rolled himself up and managed to throw Lenka off him, over his head. Then he was up and Lenka was still trying to get up. He booted the Brinkian so hard in the side it sent him right back to the ground, coughing and spluttering. He gave him another for good measure.

Then he went to look for his gun, leaving Lenka to cough and splutter his way to his feet. Abdul found his 1911 and holstered it before returning to where Kopano stood, doubled over and coughing violently.

He helped him up and asked “You okay?”

Lenka nodded through the coughing.

“Good.”

With that Abdul punched him so hard in the chest his feet came off the ground. He slumped down, the only thing helping him stand was Abdul who dragged him toward the hummer and threw him into the passenger side.

He was coughing like an old man with TB, trying to draw breath into empty lungs. Abdul stood outside the hummer, leaning on the door waiting for the fit of coughing and rasping to subside. It took a while. He’d roughed the man up good.

As Lenka began to get a handle on his situation, Abdul leaned into the passenger side and switched on the Battle Network on the LCD screen in the passenger dashboard. It came to life and a few passwords later he was in a restricted section accessing video files from his mission several months ago. Lenka watched but said nothing.

Eventually Abdul found the right video and began to play it. “You watch this Lenka, then tell me I’m a murderer.”

The video was high quality color footage, shot from about fifteen feet in the sky. The CIA man was slightly puzzled and with a weak, raspy voice inquired “What is this?”

Abdul kept his eyes on the screen as he answered. “Surveillance footage from a recon cypher I was controlling. This is three months ago, shot up near the border about two weeks into the invasion. Keep watching.”

Eventually the screen settled on the rooftop of a low-rise block of flats. There was a crowd of uniformed soldiers, Malians obviously, sitting or standing around the edges of the rooftop, all cheering something going on in the middle.

The video went out of focus for a second as it zoomed in and then it showed up what all the soldiers were looking at. A naked little kid stood in the middle of them all. She kept trying to run away but every time she was thrown back roughly by the soldiers standing around her.

Then one stepped forward and began to molest her. “Oh Jesus. Oh Christ, no.” Lenka couldn’t watch anymore. Abdul stopped the video.

“They gang-raped that kid, then set her alight and took bets on when she’d die. When she did they threw her charred body off the roof. Myself and several Ivorians could only watch and record this as a record for eventual war crimes proceedings. You have no idea…no idea how it felt.”

Both men were silent for a long time before Abdul asked quietly, “Do you have kids Kopano?”

He nodded, “A one year old son.”

Abdul nodded, “I have two girls, one of them the same age as the girl in that surveillance video.”

Lenka looked at Abdul and finally understood why he had killed those Malians. He felt like going back and killing them himself now. “The video…that wasn’t a one-off was it?”

“No, it wasn’t. This place Lenka,” Abdul gestured around the area with a wide arc of his arm, “was called ‘The Land of Sin’ by the Ivorians who were with me all those months ago. Its tragic…truly tragic.”

There was silence again for a few minutes. The sound of animals in the woodland nearby filled the vacuum. “I’m sorry Abdul…I didn’t understand…”

The NIA man nodded. “Its not your fault. In your country killing prisoners, even for the worst things, isn’t the norm. For us it is. But it’s something that needs to be done here. I’m not under orders from GATO, and neither are you. I killed them because they are bad people but also because our being here cannot be known to anyone and we can’t afford to helicopter prisoners out of here or take them with us. It would compromise what we’re going to do. You don’t have to like what I do…just understand it.”

Lenka understood now. Abdul wasn’t a murderer. He was a man, Agent Yellow, who’d spent more time in ‘The Land of Sin’ than anyone else in either the US or COH. Who was he to doubt him? He’d been there the best part of a single day and thought he knew better.

Lenka knew that was typical of him and some of his countrymen quick to pass judgement on the Hirgizstanians. By no means did Lenka like what Abdul did and part of him didn’t like it because he did see the necessity in it and hated himself for that.

But now he understood.

Abengourou, Côte d'Ivoire - 01:30 hrs [GMT]
Day Five

After a quick advance on the fourth day, the Legionnaires found themselves on the doorstep of Abengourou, their main target. To the south of the city, just eight miles away, was Bossematié and the bulk of the Legionnaire contingent, including both headquarters and the helicopters. Six miles to the west of the city was Tigorikro and fifty-six Legionnaires who had choppered in the previous day. The Legionnaires had advanced significantly in just twenty-four hours, the ground contingent moving from Aprompronou and the aerial contingent moving from Akoupé. The ground had shook on the fourth day of the offensive when the Legionnaires covered a significant amount of distance, sweeping in on their helicopters and rolling through in their armored vehicles. A few shots were fired, here and there, mostly at reconnaissance scouts. By the end of the day, the Legionnaires counted fourteen bodies but who knew how many escaped away, back to Abengourou.

Late on the fourth day, headquarters had sent up the Soaring Eagle UAV to perform a reconnaissance over the city. It was launched just after sunset and its low-res, stealthy paint, the same used on the F-22A Raptor, made sure that it would be hard to spot from the ground. Flying an orbit pattern at 10,000 feet and only 70 miles per hour, it used its forward looking infrared (FLIR) to observe the city. The patrol lasted three hours with the RQ-16 drone moving in various patterns above the city, eyeing the ground below, transmitting the images back to headquarters, eight miles to the south. There, the pilot of the drone adjusted the various aspect of it, flying remotely from a setup that was akin to that of a cool flight simulator. The Legionnaire headquarters staff eyed the footage and took their notes, counting positions, writing down their coordinates for the assault, which would begin at 02:00 hours on the fifth day.

The assault called for a combined assault of Legionnaires and Hirgizstanian paratroopers from the south and west and north and east, respectively. It was a battle plan that had been crafted and was now being fine tuned based on this reconnaissance, which revealed upwards of 10,000 Malians, at least, inside of the city. Equipped with heavy weapons such as mortars, heavy machine guns, anti-tank rockets, recoilless rifles, and plenty of vehicles at their disposal. Abengourou remained the largest Malian stronghold in southeastern Ivory Coast. As the Legionnaires pushed them back from the coast those who managed to survive and escape the assault fled north, quickly, eventually winding up in Abengourou. Having just been resupplied the previous day, Abengourou was not a target to take lightly. With a force of only five hundred and twelve, the Legionnaires were painfully outnumbered by the Malians. Even with the Hirgizstanian paratroopers, they were still going to be outnumbered over eight to one.

Ready to assault by 01:00 hours, the Legionnaire Headquarters staff keyed in the final orders to their Hirgizstanian counterparts based just across the border in Ghana. The Hirgizstanians had plenty of helicopters and fighters in the area, including those based on a carrier wing offshore. Their contingent included a number of C-130J Super Hercules and C-17A Globemaster III cargo aircraft, almost nine hundred paratroopers, F-18E/F Super Hornets, F-81A Savage II fighters, and a variety of other fighters. Up to seven hundred and sixteen paratroopers would be used to assault the city, giving the total numbers of twelve hundred and twenty-eight to over ten thousand. They were in deep trouble, numbers wise. Granted that they were easily outnumbered, they maintained a significant advantage in both tactics and technology. They wouldn't necessarily have the element of surprise though as the Malians knew that they were coming, they just didn't know exactly when but they all feared that it was sooner rather than later.

It was an thirty minute flight from the Hirgizstanian base in Ghana to Abengourou for the ten transport aircraft, which consisted of two C-17s and eight C-130s, all equipped to the max with paratroopers, sixty-four per C-130 and one hundred and two per C-17. Escorted by F-81A Savage fighters equipped mainly with anti-tank, air-to-air, and SEAD ordinance, the F-81s would clear the path if the Malians suddenly had anti-aircraft units or aircraft. It was known that they did control a number of gun systems but they were crude and ineffective against the fast moving, although low-flying transport aircraft. The RQ-16 had spotted a number of ZU-23 anti-aircraft guns that could pump out between four hundred and twenty-two hundred 23mm shells per minute, per barrel and each ZU-23 unit had two barrels. They even had a number of older ZPU-1 and ZPU-2 guns, equipped with either one or two KPV 14.5mm machine guns, each capable of putting up to five hundred and fifty rounds per minute into the air. Although highly capable of taking down anything in the skies within its engagement envelope, the guns were manually sighted and fired, meaning that there was little chance they would even scathe any aircraft, let alone take them down. The biggest threat remained surface-to-air, shoulder-fired missiles and the Malians had plenty of those, namely Iglas.

The battle plan was simple. At 02:00 hours, the Legionnaires would enter the city and begin assaulting it from the south and west while, at the same time, Hirgizstanian paratroopers would be dropping onto the city's northern and eastern sectors from altitudes of just five hundred feet. They would spend minimal time in the air, to keep from getting fired at by the enemies on the ground. At this altitude, they wouldn't be dropping in with their reserve chutes as they would be useless. It would take too long to deploy them in the event of an emergency. This would lighten them up a bit but they were still carrying their one hundred and ten pound ALICE rucksacks. Approximately one hour into the assault, the Hirgizstanians would have artillery support available to the south of the city at Bossematié. This support would include a number of M777A2 155mm and M119A2 105mm howitzers, which would be airlifted in by helicopter. The Legionnaires at the headquarters would be in charge mainly of their security but there would be a number of Hirgizstanians on the ground to fire and support them as the Legionnaires and Hirgizstanians called in fire support. Throughout the battle, Hirgizstanian CAS aircraft would be available, namely F/A-18E and F/A-18F Super Hornets from the carrier group to the south and a number of F-81A Savage IIs from Ghana and the carrier group. Helicopter support from the Legionnaires would be available as well.

At 01:30 hours, everything began. The C-130s and C-17s lifted off from their airbase in Ghana, the first wing of F/A-18F Super Hornets were being prepared on the Reagan class carrier south of the Ivory Coast's coast, and the helicopters were lifting off from Bossematié to pick up the Legionnaires in Tigorikro. The battle was finally beginning.

3 Days Ago, Fort Waddan, Waddan, State of Libya, COH- ‘The Home of Armor’

From his exceptions vantage point in the helicopter Carver got an unimpeded and uninterrupted view of one of the biggest military bases in the world. The beautifully bright day and the low altitude made visibility just right, although parts of the base were so far into the distance that the desert haze obscured them.

But for the few minutes the helicopter flew slowly toward the airfield, Carver managed to catch a glimpse of more tanks than he had ever imagined could exist. He had seen images of military bases in Doomingsland, satellite photos that showed up every tank and armoured vehicle. He had, at the time, believed no nation could have as many. But now he saw that this one base had more than in twenty of those pictures, and, as Colonel Kalo Mostas assured him, it was only a fraction of the number.

Many of the tanks at Waddan were actually not M1A5’s, although there were a few thousand of those. The Fort also doubled as a storage site for the Army’s excess tanks and those used by the Libyan National Guard. The base’s storage sites held over 120,000 Main Battle Tanks ranging from very old M1A1’s to newer M1A3’s used by the National Guard. The Libyan desert was, of course, the perfect place to store them as it never rained and therefore the tanks never deteriorated.

The last thing Carver saw before landing was lines of tanks sitting beside a hub of railway lines that ran into the base. As the helicopter got lower he could see tanks being driven onto train cars and the train itself, full of tanks on flat trailers, stretched away into the haze. He wondered where they were going, although a part of him thought he knew where

The Blackhawk eventually landed softly on an area covered with helicopters of various types. Along with Mostas, Carver jumped out onto the stone colored airfield and immediately the sauna style heat took his breath away. The arid, dry heat caught in the back of his throat and he gulped down water from a bottle he carried like it was running out. He had never been somewhere so hot before.

Mostas noticed, “You’ll get used to it Carver. Everyone’s like that at first. Heck, a few hundred miles north-west of here is officially the hottest place on planet earth. Don’t worry, keep hydrating and you’ll be fine.”

Carver couldn’t help but remember to ‘Hydrate’- on every building entrance and on every bulletin board he passed there was a sign with a water bottle that read ‘Remember to Hydrate’ in big red letters. In fact he did not see a single soldier walking about that didn’t have a hydration system strapped to their back, the feed tube either around their neck or stuck in their mouths.

The admin went by quickly as Carver didn’t do much, he just stood back and let Mostas handle everything. He was issued no clothes and had no bags except the small one he kept his personal belongings in. The suit the Cots had given him now began to itch in the heat, despite the air conditioning.

Eventually Colonel Mostas and another soldier, a Staff Sergeant, lead him to a large and well kept white colored building with a sign outside that read ‘Visiting Officers Quarters’. The room, on the ground floor, was like any decent hotel- a white-sheeted bed, pine fittings, a wardrobe, TV, computer, chairs, bathroom and some toiletries. Some clothes sat on the bed- some underwear and what Carver recognised as PT Gear- a grey t-shirt stamped ‘HIRGIZSTANIAN ARMY’ and a pair of shorts with the same, plus a pair of trainers.

The Staff Sergeant stayed outside while Mostas came into the room with Carver. “You have today to rest and acclimate. Reveille is 0600, breakfast is 0615 to 0645 at the VOQ’s Mess. You have to be ready in PT gear for 0700.”

“What happens at 0700?” Carver asked.

“Your Army Fitness Test will be undertaken. It’s a standard test that all troops have to undergo every two months. Since you were a soldier and we need you ASAP we are waiving your basic training, as my conversations with you and your file suggest you are well versed in all that stuff anyway. Just complete the AFT tomorrow and we can finally talk about why we need you.”

“Where do I report to?”

“Don’t worry, myself and the Instructor will be waiting for you in the morning. If you wish to leave the VOQ you need to have the desk Sergeant contact me first, otherwise you’ll meet the MPs. Clear?.”

Carver nodded.

“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that Mostas left Carver alone in the room, only the muffled sounds of heavy diesel engines outside and the hum of the A/C kept him company now. He didn’t wander. In fact he fell asleep within a few minutes.

Abengourou, Côte d'Ivoire - 02:00 hrs [GMT]
Day Five

A battle plan was only good if it was fulfilled. From the top down, Hirgizstanian F/A-18 Super Hornets and F-81 Savage IIs would be flying high-altitude and medium-altitude combat air support (CAS). An MQ-1B Predator would also be on station for non-stop reconnaissance over the city, flying at a medium altitude as well, out of the range of surface-to-air weapons. Lower, AH-6 Little Birds, AH-103 Cheyennes, and RAH-70 Arapahos from the Legionnaires would act as gunships, using mostly their guns and unguided rockets to provide immediate support for the soldiers. Their RQ-16 Soaring Eagle would be on hand to provide reconnaissance as well but the RQ-16 was far more limited than the Predator was. On the ground, the city would be assaulted by over five hundred Legionnaires from the south and west and an additional seven hundred and sixteen Hirgizstanian paratroopers from the north and the east. Providing support would be a number of armored vehicles including light tanks and armored personnel carriers from the Legionnaires but yet there was more. The Hirgizstanians had provided a number of M777A2 155mm howitzers and M119A2 105mm howitzers for artillery support, towing them into position outside of the city no closer than ten kilometers but no further than twenty. Arranged in groups of four guns, the Hirgizstanians had set up eight separate artillery positions around the city with enough shells to bombard it for a month straight.

The ten thousand Malian soldiers inside of the city were hunkered down but they weren't going to be ready for what was about to come. Ten thousand against just a little over twelve hundred meant that the good guys were outnumbered more than eight to one but the Malians weren't equipped nearly as well. The best they had in terms of artillery and defense were mortars that they had set up around the city, some in the most hard-to-reach spots. They had machine gun nests all over the city and all of the ammunition they could store. This was a whole division of the Malian invasion force, one that had been stopped and pushed back. This was to be their final stand and their leader, Major General Mahamadou Diarra was present in the city to see to it that they were going to succeed. Responsible for every atrocity north of Kétésso, he was among the most wanted men in the Malian military. The Hirgizstanians had placed a large bounty on his head and the Layartebians hoped to deliver him alive rather than dead but what could they guarantee. The Legionnaires outside the city had photographs of the man and his immediate command staff with orders not to shoot them unless they had to in order to survive. They would be joined by a four man team from the 9th Special Operations Group, "Ghost Recon," who had flown in throughout the night, HALOing into the battle zone just before midnight. The four of them blended in with the Legionnaires quite easily, dressed in the same uniforms as they were and only the command officer and his executive officer knew that they were there. To the rest of the Legionnaires, they were just reinforcements.

At 02:00 hours, the first rounds of artillery fell into the city, fired from twelve kilometers away. By using both the Predator and the Soaring Eagle, artillery spotters identified eighty-five spots for artillery fire missions and transmitted all of the information ahead of time. Five of the eight fire teams had ten targets to attack, two had eleven, and one had thirteen. Seconds before 02:00 hours, the all eight fire bases fired off their guns, each one putting four rounds into the air. They mixed guided and unguided, fragmentation and high-explosive rounds in their fire missions and each fire mission was three rounds per gun, a total of twelve rounds. For the M777s and their trained crews, they could sustain two rounds per minute over a long time but, in special situations, they could fire as many as five rounds per minute and they went into action while the crews of the M119s could sustain three per minute but go up to six in special circumstances. They too were put to the test.

The first thirty-two rounds into the city impacted on target and so did the subsequent rounds. There were some fuze failures but these were to be expected and the large majority of the rounds exploded properly, showering the city with millions of pieces of shrapnel and hundreds of pounds of high explosives. The rain of destruction shook the city to its very core and, for the soldiers on the ground, that was their cue. Most of them were manning their positions but they all had fall back locations and the instant the artillery started raining down, they retreated to those. They knew that the artillery salvo in the beginning was going to be powerful and destructive but they knew that it couldn't be continuous once the soldiers entered the city. Danger close fire missions were within six hundred meters of friendly positions and, even with guided shells, danger close missions weren't advisable, especially in an urban setting. Still, the Hirgizstanians and Legionnaires would coordinate fire missions throughout the course of the battle.

The artillery barrage lasted almost eight minutes and it did its damage. Each of the eighty-five targets were neutralized and they were the most strategic ones that the spotters could find. In the process, a few dozen Malians were killed and many more wounded but not nearly enough to reduce the fighting strength of the Malian 88th Division. They prepared for the next phase, remanning their guns, inspecting their decoy targets, forty-two of which were destroyed in the artillery barrage. They had done well, taken the pages from the books on warfare and hid their most important pieces of artillery, their mortar units and anti-aircraft guns from the prying eyes above. Soldiers grabbed hold of Stinger launchers and loaded missiles onto them, climbing onto elevated positions and keeping themselves somewhat camouflaged. Overhead, F/A-18E and F/A-18F Super Hornets, armed mostly with GPS-guided JDAM munitions and Maverick anti-tank missiles orbited at altitudes over ten thousand feet. Still in the range of the Stingers, they would have plenty of time to react to missile launches. Bright flashes would be the tell-tale signs of missile launches and any would be called out immediately, if they were seen. Once the action began, the Hornets would begin dropping flares, along with the Savage IIs, also armed with guided bombs and missiles.

In the dead of the green night, the pilots looked out over the horizon to see the incoming C-130s and C-17s, lined up in such a way that they could all drop their paratroopers without causing any safety issues. They both came inbound at less than fifteen hundred feet and less than two hundred miles per hour, as slow as they could go without stalling. This would leave them vulnerable to ground fire but they had to do this in order to deploy their paratroopers safely and it was a risk everyone would take. As the ten aircraft streaked overhead from various areas and the pilots of the Hornets watched as the paratroopers jumped from the backs of them, their chutes deploying almost immediately. The fight had fully begun now as the paratroopers drifted to their drop locations, night vision goggles on themselves, watching a smoking and smoldering city before their eyes. They would hit the ground, link up with each other, and begin their assault into the city. Tension was high but so was the morale of the soldiers on all sides of the battle, even after the artillery barrage smashed the city into bits.

Though the first shots were fired, the Malians had yet to return any fire until the paratroopers fell from the skies. That was when the first tracers lit up the sky, coming from a variety of anti-aircraft units placed strategically throughout the city. They were mostly ZPU-1 and ZPU-2 gun systems, which fired fourteen point five millimeter shells from either one or two KPV heavy machine guns. There were a limited number of ZU-23 gun systems, which fired much bigger twenty-three millimeter shells from two 2A14 autocannons. When the first tracers erupted over the city, they were aimed at the paratroopers and the C-130s, which were out of range for the guns. The gunners weren't green but they had little concept of distance recognition. They were taught to fire in short, controlled bursts, and to lead the aircraft but they weren't taught to judge range as well as they should have been, causing them to fire early. Regardless, they saw that their shells weren't hitting and stopped firing soon enough, saving their rounds for closer targets. Unfortunately for them though, they had given away their position and the Hornets swooped in for the action, using their Mavericks and guided bombs to target the guns that had fired. Their muzzle flashes lit up the sky and the Hornets and their FLIR systems were easily targeting them, dropping their ordinance with intense precision. They carried two types of guided bombs, one weighing just two hundred and eighty-fifty pounds and another weighing five hundred pounds, both filled with explosive material. The two hundred and eighty-five pound bombs were GBU-39 Small Diameter Bombs and they carried just thirty-eight pounds of Dense Inert Metal Explosive, a new type of explosive filler that reduced the blast radius of the weapon, to limit collateral damage. The five hundred pounders were GBU-38 JDAM bombs also filled with the same explosive but over a hundred pounds of it. The GBU-39s were perfect for the mobile gun units whereas the GBU-38s would be used against structures. The Maverick missiles they carried were guided by imaging infrared and had a range of over ten miles, supersonic speed, and carried a three hundred pound, blast-fragmentation warhead. They could be used against anything with good effect; although, originally, the Maverick was an anti-tank missile. Few tanks, if any could survive a Maverick hit, let alone be in one piece after the dust settled.

The Hornets had taken some of the bait that the Malian commanders hoped for when the ZPUs first opened up on the transport planes. As they swooped in, dropping their ordinance, they were engaged by a number of shoulder-fired Stinger missiles, which acquired the hot exhaust of the aircraft and tracked upwards, moving at more than Mach 2. The Hornets took immediate evasive action over the city by dropping flares and pulling hard turns to cause the missiles to lose their momentum. They were powered for only a few seconds of their flight and if they were made to bleed their speed, they wouldn't be of much use anymore. Dangerous and deadly, they were some of the best weapons the Malians had in the city and all of this in just fifteen minutes.