NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC Thread (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=527084)

Shortly put, it was hell in Le'mon. The port city had been attacked by an overwhelming amount of socialist revolutionaries and the little populated port city has a like-wise police department, which was overrun much as the city, the exception being that the Fascist police had been stabbed to death, and brutality beaten before they were finally able to end their lives on this world. All except policemen who had escaped the mainstream carnage, who were left to form a resistance until the Nationalist Army could come, which would most-likely just bomb the small city off the map before risking a single soldier's life. The policemen had to show the Nationalist Army that they didn't have to bomb the city, kill everyone, they just had to wait.

Cadet Jeremy Scott

Police Cadet Jeremy Scott was an average policemen, his skill with his FN Five-seven was matched by nearly all competent policemen in his police department. His academic skills also matched this precedent, except he was more intelligent than his fellow cadets. Maybe not academically, but at the mere daily affair of being a policemen, he was, simply put, better than average.

Scott had arrested some big time criminals, such as drug dealers and pimps by mere, intuition. He was set for a promotion to Half Officer in two months, but the socialist invasion had ceased this, increasing his already thriving hate against their kind and ideals.

Scott's thick fingers embarrassed the trigger of the aged Remington 700, along with the barrel that had found its resting position on his right shoulder. He was renowned as the Fascist sniper, a symbol for the dozen or so 'rebels' that were fighting against their socialist occupants. Even now he could hear faint sounds of a small battle, most-likely the Socialist Kalashnikovs against the Fascist rifles which they had commandeered from some random, usually victimized, rifle-selling establishment.

But the Fascist sniper understood his calling, and put on his gray policemen's cap, picking up his rifle at the same time, and dashed off to a nearby highpoint. He had chosen a church tower, which he calculated to have a firing range that could encompass the nearby battle.

The sniper's rattling gear smacked against his thighs, causing molecular bruising, which would soon multiply into a throbbing pain. Which it did as he reached his sniper's coop and found his position aiming down towards the battle.

It seemed that the rebel Fascist force was in numbers of around six, while the Socialist occupant forces had a score or so of men assaulting their position, which was a two-story housing complex. Due to Fascist marksmanship the Socialist forces ability to penetrate into the houses interior was halted, giving Scott a chance to wreak havoc on the Socialist forces.

The sniper quickly scanned the area, finding his target. A rather short man, wearing a green uniform, aiming benignly threw his binoculars, unknowing of the death that was about to be brought upon him. The sniper quickly aligned his rifle's scope for the shot, zooming in enough to insure a personnel feel to the kill, one which he enjoyed. He pulled the trigger as the scope's cross hairs rested comfortable on the Socialist officer's temple, his exploded cranium caused the sniper's scope to go entirely red, the bullet's speed allowed for the sound to catch up just as soon as the sniper's cross hairs cleared, now he could see the havoc he had caused among the Socialist forces.

It was a slow realization on the ground, the second-in-command was the first to notice his commander's pink cranial fluid oozing all over his uniform, he turned to see an empty space, a space his commander was once in, then he looked down, seeing the headless corpse laying on the ground. He realized, or at least believed, he was next and ordered a full body retreat.

{{OOC: This is the thread that will decide whether or not I should have a Socialist revolution in my country. This thread will contain SMALL BATTLES ONLY, so no bringing in your entire army, just a few special ops teams, that can be for or against the revolution. They can only enter the city via river insertion.

I Reserve the Following Rights:

To KICK any player from the RP, for any reason.
To not allow any player to join this RP, for any reason.}}

http://i52.photobucket.com/albums/g20/Xavier_Solis/port-of-spain.jpg

River bank in eastern Port Le'mon

Lieutenant Ben Stone's Special Boat Service team slid their Zodiac rafts ashore in near total silence.Within seconds all rwelve men were ashore and the boats were hidden from sight and booby trapped with Claymore mines to prevent tampering. The team moved off the bank and towards the ruins of a nearby house.

The SBS was a much lower profile organization that the SAS, but their expertise in aquatic insertions got them the nod for Phase One of Operation Swift Dagger (Stone thought the name was exceedingly corny but he didn't get to make that call).

Once Stone was sure the team hadn't been spotted he gave the order to advance. Their first objective was a suspected Socialist HQ 19 km away in an old factory.

A handfull of sleek black boats gracefully cut through the water as they neared the city. The men had managed to bypass the Terran coast systems by way of the stealth systems aboard the vessels, which masked the ships to RADAR, IR, SONAR, and even the naked eye. Now, however, the visible cloaking was off and the darkness of the night hid them. A day before, Claudius Griffincrest was thumbing through his newspaper when he came upon this story, the classic Fascist vs Socialist showdown in a small, developing nation. As luck would have it, one of his teams attached to the Kampferian assault group was passing by the nation, and with the fighting in Kampfers over before it even started, he decided to give his men a taste of combat. With a phone call, Operation Silent Strike was underway.

Aboard one of the ships, a middle aged mercenary by the name of Brutus Ironfist stood by one of the windows, the metal plates formerly covering them now slid back allowing the men inside to look out at the area they were passing. Brutus was a member of the elite mercenary group known as the Bone Chillers. Before he was one of these elite mercenaries, he saw combat as an Imperial Honor Guard, back before Exponent collapsed. He had seen alot of death in his time, but it was a long time ago and Brutus wasn't sure if he was still able to handle the conditions that he was under so many yers ago.

He stared blankly out at the landscape passing by along the port side of the ship, watching as the trees went by with barely a thought on his mind. As his commander walked past, Brutus snapped off a quick salute, pounding his right hand to his heart than raising it in a fist so shoulder height in a tradition Roman salute. "I hate that guy" Brutus thought as the officer passed him.

Fascist Rebel Volunteer, First Grade Kyle Orson

Fascist Volunteer, First Grade (FV1G)Orson was one of the few police sergeants that had survived the initial assault via Socialist occupants. His mission was simply, take three of his men threw the river to see if the Socialists were being reinforced, a simply mission, common also, and usually to no avail. The Socialists had no more reinforcements, this was the last of the militant Socialists in the whole damned nation, but Orson, nor his higher-ups knew this.

So with a bored reluctance he took his men, one wielding a captured Kalashnikov, the other an aged Remington 870. FV1G Orson himself was wielding his father's old FN FAL that was given to him after he met up with his father again, during the first days of Socialist occupation.

Orson's father was a rigid old man, strict and hard as the meanest Nationalist Sergeant, but he also knew when to love, and when Orson had reached his breaking point, and this was what had made him such a fine leader, this was the reason why he joined the Nationalist Police Force, to stay and protect his father. And if need be, die for him.

Orson waved for his men to lay prone into the knee-high grass, this was in response to a beating he heard just moments before. It wasn't the beating of Nationalist bombs whipping the city from the Terre Nationale tourist maps, but of a fist impacting flesh, a playful Socialist brawl nearby? Orson though to himself, he decided to keep him and his men prone waiting for more information, though he was pretty sure he'd have to assault a Socialist camp tonight.

{{OOC: This is in response to Blackhelm.}}

Some distance off the coast from Port Le'mon

The RNS Boxer cut through the water quickly as Navy Commander John Gibson stood in the ship's Combat Information Center as he spoke with the special operation's unit liaison officer about the deployment orders for "The Service" personnel aboard, "I hope you people won't be needing my bird for too much, I don't mind you calling for my guns or missiles, but that SH-20 is expensive Navy property."

"No worries, Commander, we should do just fine with this," Explained the former Aequatian Republic Army Special Forces Captain, "Just get us close to the shore and we'll take it from there." It would be easy enough to get in, the fighting was distraction enough to cover the insertion, which had been pushed back to happen sooner with the intelligence received on the involvement of the Blackhelm forces in-theatre. The captain checked his watch, "Thirty minutes," He thought as he watched the ship's position on the digital screen.

Nikolai Azmailov sat on the veranda of his beach house enjoying the warm, setting sun over the ocean. Inside, the TV quietly played, a Vetalian satellite channel broadcasting yet another music video by Valentina Ardunov, the biggest robotic popstar in the country. As a member of the board of directors that produced her music, he knew that every new video netted his company millions. Tomorrow, as a matter of fact, her new holorecord was coming out; by this time tomorrow, 613 million robots and cyborgs would be rushing out to buy it, netting his company a cool $6 billion.

However, things were not looking good here in Terre Nationale. VNN's deal to build a new satellite office in Terre was in trouble thanks to the revolutionaries who seemed content to pillage everything people like him worked to build. Port Le'mon was perfect, too; the small town had plenty of open land around it with a few high spots perfect for satellite transponders, and the government was quite pliable to suitcases of Vetalian Solaris when pesky zoning issues came up. It would open up untold millions to the wonders of Vetalian pop culture and put untold billions in to his company's coffers and his bank account.

Of course, he realized that word of this "revolutionary" problem had gotten out and plenty of interested nations would be coming in to take care of the situation. And, given that he had plenty of cold, hard cash on hand, he knew what to do to ensure his company's project would be completed on schedule. He picked up the phone and dialed. The voice on the other end recognized him immediately.

"I'd like to speak to Mr. Griffincrest. I've got an offer that might interest him quite a bit, and I have enough cash on hand to make it worth its time. We need his forces to take care of some local issues and we need it done now."

In the aft welldeck of the RNS Boxer, a total of twenty-four Russkyan nationals belonging to "The Service" stood broken into small four-man "bricks," dressed in the mottled camouflage preferred for such operations as this. All faces were darkened with green and brown greasestick, hands gloved and weapons rechecked on their black phosphatized finishes and matte surfaces to ensure no inopportune gleam.

Smiling faintly to himself, one man sat astride the gunwale of the Salamander RHIB bobbing gently in the water off Le'mon, as Aequatian naval ratings prepped the boat for launch. Nodding deferentially to one and deftly stepping back up onto the deck, he continued sharpening the distinctive dagger they all knew and loved from melee combat and silent killing instruction. The weapon itself was either six or eight inches of black phosphatized cold steel, razor edges coming to a fine point, a balanced full-tang wrapped in matte black polymer grip panels and a skullcracking pommel cap. It bore resembelance to nothing else so much as the V-42 or Fairbairn-Sykes daggers of WWII Commonwealth Commando and FSSF fame.

The initial plan was for these two units to land swiftly and silently as was the Russkyan aptitude for such things, secure the landing site and then be reinforced pretty damned quickly by Aequatian and Kilrany commandos arriving via the Russkyan-designed Shallow Draft Infantry Assault Boats, affectionately known as "Sea-Dabs" due to their acronym; SDIAB. Comfortable with their orders and equipment layout and as well briefed as intel and years of professional soldiering would allow, the Russkyans purposefully boarded the Isselmere Nieland designed Salamander RHIBs.

Machinegunners fitted their "Stormwind" GPMGs to the mountings, the boats waited for the launch order from the Aequatian commander of Operation Subtle Wind and the camouflaged faces of the majority of the personnel departing from TF Green on this part of the insertion phase were serenely calm.

OOC: I have corrected a typo in this post, and add an OOC note addressed to Terre Nationale - apologies for any confusion. A joint service force established between myself, Aequatio, and Kilrany has been deployed here in limited numbers. Think of it as a "modernized FSSF" of sorts. As thus you will have the three of us posting in this thread assuming we're not killed off in short order, but our actions are cooperative and under the same unit banner, just to avoid confusion for you as to why my personnel would be aboard and operating in close cooperation with the Aequatians in particular thus far, without further explanation than the simple fact that they are/were.

The ship's executive officer, a younger Lieutenant-Commander, was commanding the operations on the welldeck in the Navy's gray utility uniform while the ratings helped the Russkyan Salamander RHIB assault craft into the water as he received word from Gibson of the greenlight for the operation. As soon as they were in the water and clear from the aft section, the ship's personnel turned to prepare the Aequatian and Kilrany soldiers. Captain Donald Ruiz, one of the Aequatian team leaders, prepped the last of his personal gear, all older style and still in olive drab green over his experimental Army Universal Terrain Disruptive Pattern battle dress uniform, the pattern also covered his field cap as he tightened it to his head and loaded his new G102 Commando with a fresh magazine, his team's Weapons Sergeant, Staff Sergeant Bill "Dozer" Manson loaded one of the new Marine MG84 automatic rifle with a magazine of the heavy 8.5mm rounds, others also filled the pouches hanging across his body armour vest.

Others in the platoon carried mostly the newer Century series weapons which had been accepted for use in the Army and Marines, while most still had heavy weapons along the lines of the MG66A2 SAWs and MG84 ARs. Ruiz's Team Scout, Staff Sergeant Victoria Grissom, carried the lightweight PRC-220 multi-channel radio on her back as she hefted the G106 and snapped closed the lenscaps on the M75A telescope mounted on it as the Aequatians boarded the waiting "Sea-Dab" assault boat. The troopers took their seats as they waited for the order to come down from the bridge, their faces painted in a solid green camouflage paint under a plethora of headgear ranging from field caps, tropical boonies or protective black hockey helmets purchased from civilian sports stores to protect from bumps from operations in urban terrain within buildings and confined spaces.

A subunit leader, identifiable only by his actions as he wore no distinguishing insignias or carried equipment openly on his person that might identify him as a leader, stood in the Salamander and snapped a precise parade ground salute to the Lieutenant Commander in the aft welldeck of the RNS Boxer that left the tips of his rigid fingers quivering slightly just millimetres from a strap of the communications headset he wore underneath his olive drab watchcap.

Taking a prone position in the RHIB manned by men from "The Service's" Mobility elements, specifically men from the so-called "Boat Troop," he shouldered his personal weapon - a "Black Rook" integrally suppressed assault rifle, chambered for 9x39mm ammunition - and faced outboard, leaning half on the inflated gunwale. His four-man subunit and another were fit into the boat with their full equipment, and two other boats were similarily laden. At a silent forty knots, they left the welldeck of Boxer and headed towards the known insertion point.

For those who have never been to sea, there is very little in this world that can be quite as dark as any large expanse of water during the nighttime hours. Arriving from this darkness on the shore a scant twenty minutes after leaving the stern of the RNS Boxer, the low-silhoutted rapidly moving shapes of the boats throttled back, waterjets responding instantly to the helmsman's control. The boat chief laid hands on the shoulders of the commandos nearest him, who tensed underneath his flat palms inside their combat uniforms.

To a man who could see what was happening across a hundred meters of shoreline, the "Viktor Wedge" formation of Salamanders opened out into a smooth line, all boats arriving two meters from dry land near simultaneously. Boat chiefs lifted hands, and vaulting over the sides and storming ashore onto the beach with remarkable quiet, twenty four commandos arrived. They stuck together in loose four man formations predominantly, regrouping into eight man subunits then into their larger twelve man sections as they moved inland and linked up with one another. They then went prone as the RHIBs reversed away from shore, spun about bow to fading wake left by their approach, and left for the Boxer again.

And on the shore, the commandos seemingly merged with the terrain, camouflage and darkness doing a good job of hiding them from any prying eyes. The oval-esque formation now assumed by these men was open to the sea, covering seventy-five meters of shoreline that would encompass the initial landing point for the following on Aequatian and Kilrany commandos. One of the Russkyans stayed prone in the breaking surf, head barely above the surface of the gently rolling water. His passive night vision equipment amplified the little available light and gave him a decent view. In his left hand he held an infrared strobelight which would be used very sparingly when the SDIABs were spotted to ensure they landed within the peremiter.

OOC: Just want to clear up some confusion.

Even though my character is PMT, the actual RP is strictly MT. Just want to clear that up; any PMT stuff is simply for a little bit of background and to fit our nation's overall feel, which has some PMT elements because we're a tech-focused society. There won't be any super soldiers or swarms of nanobots, just a greedy corporate exec willing to fund a civil war to boost profits.

For the Kilrany members of "The Service" aboard the RNS Boxer, this would be the first time entering combat under an overall commander who wasn't one of their own countrymen. Though the extensive training had smoothed out irregularities between the three nationalities, it would still be a different experience for them. Although given the presence of the Russkyans in this special unit, it was enough to give them confidence in the Aequatians, something that most likely wouldn’t have come about otherwise.

As the Kilrany sections waited their turn to head ashore with the Aequatians in TF red, their designation being TF Black, they checked over their weapons, aside from the usual they preferred to carry, the RPG-7V, PKM and SVD-K, they carried a relatively new Russkyan designed rifle with a Kilrany technical designation of RK8, a bullpup weapon with various possible chambering. Because they expected primarily urban combat, they were chambered for the 7.62x39mm round, considered much more effective for the given scenario.

Included with the Kilrany platoon under the HQ section, was a sniper-spotter pair along with two light mortar teams. While the sniper carried a DSR-1 bolt action sniper rifle, strapped on his back was the Lapinkoira, the smallest version of the RK8 with an integrated foregrip also chambered for the 7.62mm round.

With the majority of their numbers drawn from elite combat units of the Kilrany Imperial Armed Forces, they were a mix of both men and women, both genders quite capable of handling themselves in close combat situations should it arise. Underneath their Kukla pattern uniforms, webbing and masks that hid their faces, the women were indistinguishable from the men.

{{OOC: Is "The Service" for, against, undecided, or fighting everyone? Also, could you please verify where you're attacking? I'd expect far North or South, as a middle assault would lead you right into the city, which is defended by Socialist forces.}}

Socialist Revolutionary Trooper Karl Mann


Karl Mann was far from a violent man, he almost didn't get involved with the revolution, if it wasn't for his son's death. The damned capitalized health care system kept his seven year old boy from getting the medication nor treatment he needed, and because of this, his boy died of an ear infection. Such cases were not unknown, it could be said seventeen percent of the revolutionaries had lost a child and was the actual reason they were fighting. Not for some ideal, but to assure themselves that they created a better system for children to grow, though they were doing just the opposite.

Trooper Mann was part of the fifty man surge to the King George Park, which had been promptly made the assignment and distribution of Socialist troops center. But the true reason, or at least speculation to Mann's and the majority of troopers, was that they were being moved to Kg. George Park because there was a suspicion of combat with Nationalist forces {{OOC: Actually 'The Service'}} that had landed near the river bed. Of course these speculations were not true, at least by the Socialist command staff's views. The actually reason for the ramp up of troops in the Kg. George Park was that more men had joined the ranks of the Socialist revolution, seven hundred in total now.

When Mann finally reached his barracks in Kg. George Park he was greeted by seven other Socialist Militant Supporters, all of which were wide awake, loading ammunition into their Kalashnikov magazines. Due to a severe accident where a trooper loading his RPG-7 had lost his grip on an HE round and killed three of his bunk mates, himself, and wounded four others, all RPG-7 crews slept in separate, smaller, tents with their loaders.

Mann decided not to rest yet, and simply dumped his ruff sack onto the only open bed, and exited the barracks accordingly, looking around at the park. The park, the only one in the city, and quiet large at that, was the town's pride, now it had been turned into a dirt laden, sand bag loving, grunt housing military pig sty. As he swiveled his head around Kg. George Park he noticed another column of men coming from the center of the city, no larger than twenty men, but they were still unwanted, as more men meant less food for the lot of them, yet Mann did not know this yet and was happy to see fresh troops.

After inspecting the park Mann had decided, as well as a grunt could, that the position was safe and any attempt to take the hundred-twenty man base would be defeated unless the enemy out numbered them seven to one. Thus, after inspecting the park he re-entered his barracks jumped into his bed, and also a dreary sleep.

A meeting was called in the Griffincrest headquarters shortly after the word was recieved of a possible business deal with an over seas corporation. Within twenty minutes, most of the Board as well as Mr. Griffincrest were sitting around a massive oak table, in the center of which sat a speaker phone connected to the offices of one Mr. Nikolai Azmailov. Throughout the sky scraper, as well as in their massive villas, the executives who could not be at the meeting called in and were patched through as well. The Vetalian Conference was starting, and the Griffincrest executives were eager to see what they could gain.

Meanwhile, outside of Le'mon, the boats picked up that people were approaching, and immediatly the steel slits slammed shut and the boats went into stealth mode, the thousand of little cameras on the ships making them seem invisible. The boats continued upstream untilthey were parralel to the Terran soldiers, at which point they would reveal themselves, turning off their cloaking devices and opening up with a pair of Griffincrest made .50 caliber machine guns, not aiming to kill but merely to frighten, giving the first wave of mercenaries time to hit the shore.

Brutus was one of the men in the first wave. He was following in a foreign sergeant, a man named Jimmy Corrigan. Corrigan had served in the special forces of some nation which Brutus had long since forgotten, but it was obvious that they were a powerful nation, as Jimmy's skill was evident, even in his descent into the water. As Brutus slid into the blackness of the river water, the stealth transport ships let two off two massive fireworks, set to explode directly over the suspected enemy position, not to kill but to disorient. Of course at the moment, it was obvious that the stealthy ships now had their cover blown, but as soon as the last merc was overboard, they would simply cloak up and move, once again becoming invisible.

Corrigan and Brutus both rushed ashore as the fifty caliber fire buzzed over head, every shot a tracer to give off a spectacular show for the men on the shore. Corrigan flipped up a flashbang at the nearby foreign troopers, and Brutus did the same. Both men then charged up toward the position, and when they were within range began ordering the men to drop their weapons and surrender. More than likely, the foreign troops would have absolutely no idea what just happened, or where these men and their ships came from.

"Ahh, Mr. Griffincrest, it's a pleasure to meet you. I am Nikolai Azimov. As you may know, we have a bit of a problem. Our company is building a new satellite array to provide this market access to our programming, but the recent troubles in this country have cost us unnecessary time and money that are costing us billions in revenue and lost profit.

What we need you to do is simple. We need you to provide us with some aid in regards to our construction site outside of Port Le'mon. The locals are sympathetic to these socialist criminals and the government has its hands tied trying to keep them under control, so we're not able to do anything about it. These troublemakers been constantly disrupting and sabotaging our project, and we feel that it's time to resort to outside channels to address the problem.

I'm not going to mince words. I want you to go in there and take out that village. Monitor it and see if you can find who's in line with the socialists, and kill them. Everyone else is either loyal to the government or apathetic, and we'd prefer to keep them that way, so avoid unnecessary casualties.

Do whatever you think is necessary to ensure the villagers don't disrupt our work any further, and we will compensate you accordingly."

Fascist Rebel Volunteer, First Grade Kyle Orson

FV1G Orson was shocked as tracers flew by, a good foot above the grass which concealed them. Sweat poured from his body, he was more resembling a river than a man, his fear was kept in check by his police training, which entitled Machine Gun Strain Endurance (MGSE), which was meant to give policemen the ability to function if they were thrust into a joint operation with the military, that would lead to heavier weapons, louder fire, and more stress.

This was the same for one of Orson's men, but the other wasn't a former policemen, his fear wasn't suppressed, he was damn well near crying. True, the man had seen combat before, but never in the night, with tracers flying by him where he was sitting like a duck, as soon as the flash bang grenade went off it was all over for the poor boy, he though he had been shot, so he picked up his feet and walked towards the light, which lead to his death, several dozen machine gun rounds. His blood spewing a top the remaining two rebels.

Orson heard the orders to surrender and as he listened for more machine gun bullets to fling by, which he did not hear, he made his decision. Still blinded by the flash bang grenade he raised up to a standing stature, his gun resting in the knee-high grass. His hand were in the air. His subordinate followed his example, and they both surrendered to their attackers.

"Thats a shame, unnecessary casualties is something that we here at Griffincrest avoid Mr. Azmailov. Nonetheless, for a price, we will clean out this village for you. If you have a map of the area handy, our men are currently just outside of Port Le'mon, for you men" he turns to the executives "this is the red circle on the powerpoint. Now this is only a kilometer or so from the current insertion zone, and we would be able to reach the area with relative ease. Remember, however, that we do not work for free. What is your starting offer Mr. Azmailov"

After a brief pause, Claudius than spoke again "And no, the pleasure is mine"

"Before I continue, there is something I must add, Mr. Griffincrest. Terre Nationale's security is significantly higher than in the past due to these incidents, and they are cracking down on entry in to their nation. However, there is an easy way around this that we take care of without any cost or inconvenience on your part.

We will transport your mercenaries and their equipment in to Port Le'mon on some of our supply ships, disguised as construction workers for our project outside the city. You soldiers' military equipment will be listed as construction supplies for delivery by our workers to the site. Since these vessels, their passengers and their cargoes are already approved, it won't be a problem, and even if it were, as unlikely as that is, I am sure the customs officials will be quite open to financial persuasion, especially when so many high-ranking members of the local government are making a fortune off of this project and would hate to hear that we were unable to take necessary precautions due to interference from their subordinates.

I offer you $750 million for this job up front, with additional compensation coming once your men are safely in the country and after they complete their mission. We'll take care of any externalities you might encounter. Just get in there and get the job done, and make sure to keep it subtle."

The Russkyan SDAIB assault craft sped ashore, guided by the pair of flashes from the waiting TF Green trooper in the water equipped with an infrared strobe. Captain Ruiz hopped over the side of the craft followed by his team as they waded through the surf, greeting the Russkyan operator with a subtle hand signal as they moved inland, alongside the Task Force Black members before linking up with the other commandos of the troop. The "Sea-Dabs" pulled away as they snuck off into the night air and set a return course to the Boxer and await instructions from there.

At the temporary beachhead, the troop snuck inland as their separate platoons panned out and began to examine the immediate area along the shoreline, Sergeant Grissom halted the team as she spotted a petrol station, abandoned in the fighting, but with a number of civilian vehicles that more than likely still ran, their owners probably fighting in the city as pawns for the two factions.

TPFS Bonefish
Captain Daniel Broth eyed the shoreline carefully. Him and his crew had spent the better part of the last three weeks chugging underneath the ocean towards this destination. They were finally within sight.
" Major, we are near the shoreline and you and your Raiders can start preparing to leave the boat."
" Thank you, Captain, what does the enemy shore look like?"
" Seems to be pretty clear from what I can see, probably some patrols, however."
" Good. Thank you, Captain. It's been a pleasure to ride this boat." With that, Major Guderian undogged the hatch and left the command center. Then he went to where his platoon was staying. They been extreamly unhappy the entire trip. The sub was cramped with the full load of sailors, bot including the forty Marines. Marines had slept anywhere, from the engine room to the torpedo room. But now they were ready to be inserted into the ocean. They put on their SCUBA gear, and wrapped weapons and other sensitive items in plastic, before going into the air lock. Then, the hatch in the air lock opened, and the water of the ocean rushed in. They went out, in twos or threes.
Finally, they reached the shoreline. They all got in cover, stripped off the suits, and took out their M-26 Carbines and other weapons, such as the M-27 SAW. They began the trek towards the city, hoping to link up with Griffincrest and fascists troops. They then activated a special burst transmitter. It sent two messages. One to High Command noting they had arrived safely, and the second to Griffincrest forces asking them where to go.

"That is a good enough sum. All agreed? Excellent. As for transportation. That is not necessary, we already have men in the country...in fact they should be arriving on shore right about....now"

"Fucking shit we hit one! Medic!" Corrigan screamed as the tracer fire died down, the ships once again dissapearing into the darkness as they went back into their stealth mode.

Brutus covered the medic as he rushed up from the waterline to check on the fallen rebel, then turned to the two still standing soldiers before him. "We are mercenaries here to support the current government here. State your allegiance, name, and rank"

Behind him, the medic muttered to himself "I pray they answer right, I don't want any more work"

"Excellent, Mr. Griffincrest. Should you need support, however, our ships will be available for the rest of the week until they depart to pick up more supplies. The money will be transferred from VNN's accounts to your own."

Azmailov put down the phone quietly and returned to the veranda. It was almost nightfall, but the air was still warm and humid with a soft breeze. Turning to his left, he saw the distant lights of Port Le'mon twinkling, a small beacon of settlement on the quiet coast. This place was going to go up, and people were going to die because of it. Gods forgive me for what I've done he thought. However, in this situation, the ends definitely justify the means and what must be done must be done. That was the end of it.

Fascist Rebel Volunteer, First Grade Kyle Orson

Orson's eyes widened as he saw the body of his teammate, gasping for air as his own blood choked him to death. The medic, even if he was there immediately, couldn't have saved him, too many bullets had ripped him apart, he was dead within moments of the medic's arrival. Such a lose was a great one for the Fascist ranks, men were too few to lose and not be felt a great pain for.

Orson's eyes quickly wretched themselves from the laying corpse and onto the bulky soldier standing in front of him. None could say he was the best judge of character, but the dress, the mere way he acted was not that of a Socialist occupant, no, this man either supported them or was against them. He wanted to lie, and say he was Fascist, for any help from the Nationalist government was a simply bombing, no, this man was most-likely Socialist, but Orson couldn't pass as one of them, so he told the truth. Praying it would be rewarded.

Orson stature straightened his robust jawline was in perfect use for such condition, for though he was wearing musty, ragged civilian clothes he had a look and feel of an officer. "I am Kyle Orson, son of Port Le'mon. I am a Fascist Upriser, First Grade. Equivalent to Gunnery Sergeant." He pointed to his second man, such a motion could get him shot, but he felt that it must be done. "And this is my best soldier under me, Neil Vesta, also a son of Port Le'mon, Fascist Upriser, Fifth Grade. Equivalent to your Private First Class." Orson jutted his chin up, Neil following his example.

Returning Captain Ruiz's subtle hand gesture, the commando reached up and tapped the transmit key on his personal role radio twice. The team leaders of both "Green" elements glanced over their shoulders to check on the shapes of the TF Red and TF Black commandos swiftly moving across the exposed ground.

Three Salamanders returned carrying "Green Three" with two SDIABs transporting the whole of "Green Six." Debussing the vessels quickly a series of hand gestures from Lieutenant Sergei Ruslanovich Sorikorov sent the entirety of Taskforce Green over the beach to join their Kilrany and Aequatian counterparts at the edge. Heavily laden with the components of the 82mm PODNOS-R mortars, the two mortar teams attached to Green Six were escorted by the remainder of the headquarters element with two "bricks" from Green Three providing rear security.

Brutus popped off a quick Roman salute towards the men before speaking. "Hail brothers, we are here to help you" he said in his deep, powerful sounding voice. Corrigan looked over at the medic as he tried desperatly to revive the fallen rebel. "It's over, he's dead, let him go Val"

The medic was a young man, about twenty years old, by the name of Valentius Coppercross. Val grew up dirt poor in the Paradise City slums, and signed up as a Griffincrest mercenary at the ripe age of fourteen, lying to the recruiter and claiming to be sixteen. He was put into medic training soon after because his drill sergeantrealized he was only a kid, and by eighteen he was inducted into the ranks of the Bone Chillers after surviving some of the Corporations bloodiest battles.

Val looked up with a look of loss in his eyes. "FUCK! Why the hell would you stand up you dumb fuck! Lay down! You should have layed down!"

"Take it easy Val, you don't even know the guy and you are acting like he was your brother" Corrigian said, clapping the medic on the shoulder.

"Arent we all supposed to be brothers?" Val replied.

Nikolai walked around the construction site, discussing things with the contractor responsible for the job. It was alive with activity, with the cranes hoisting satellite dishes in to place, bulldozers clearing out land for roads and warehouses and others working to put the metal support structures for the radio antennae that would bring VPR access to the region.

Things were still moving forward, but the problems were taking a worsening toll. Some construction workers quit, and they were suffering disruptions in supplies of equipment from the port thanks to the increased security. They were likely about two months behind schedule, and if things kept worsening they'd fall further and further behind.

He saw the hazy outline of the village in the distance where most of the trouble was coming from. His spies knew that about half of the men on the site were from that town, and easily a quarter had socialist sympathies. He also knew that they were intentionally working slower to disrupt the "unjust" project. They'll be taught their lesson soon enough, he thought, and a smile crossed his face.

Fascist Rebel Volunteer, First Grade Kyle Orson

"Men die in war." Orson stated as he stared into 'Val's' eyes, as if penetrating his very soul. "I've worked with this man for a week, and he was the biggest asshole you'd every meet. Excluding me, of course." He lied, straight to the boy's face, but his expression betrayed some sort of realism, that most men just couldn't capture, maybe he was a born actor. Maybe he was a born thief, he was a born something, possible even a born politicians. But it made no difference what he was born as, because what he was, was a soldier.

Orson then saluted to the larger man, whom seemed to be in-command. "So, I take it you're a Fascist Militant Supporter?" He enjoyed using large words, sometimes he didn't know what they meant, but this time he did. And he liked the gentle tingle that game to his tongue as the intelligent words escaped his mouth. "Well, if you are, there's no way with hooking up with the command, they move around like rats, you know." He gave a faint smile, but remembered the time he and his team looked for any Fascist Uprisers, and found known, as if they had betrayed him, and his smile melted away. His stony glaze fixated on the large man, "We have about fifteen left, not including the 'sniper'."


Socialist Revolutionary Trooper Karl Mann


Mann had been recently re-assigned from the safe haven of Kg. George Park to the Southern side of the city, a real hell hole where it was said that patrols were fire bombed every night, and that's what Mann's job was, patrolling. His mission, along with fourteen other men, was to capture an abandoned gas station, that would become the Socialist's only fuel dump.

Mann was given limited training as a fresh recruit, other than firing at a sand bag fifty feet away, and reloading and unjamming his gun. Any other information about combat that was given to him was threw his squad mate, George Stock. Stock was a short man, a man who gave off a small impression on the world, well at least normally. But to Mann, he was god. He had taught him to use cover, and to make love to cover ever night, because if he wasn't in cover, he would die, horribly.

Even though Stock had given out this information to all of the troops in the squad, as it was his job as the squad's Commissar, he gave special attention to Trooper Mann, who he had spent extra time helping him to distinguish what was bullet proof and what wasn't. This came in handy when it came to vehicles, as most men believed vehicles were bullet-proof, quiet the opposite, they're like sheet metal for bullet, and that pure concrete was a soldier's best friend.

It was an eerie night, and the sounds of birds chirping and flying away were more common as they approached the gas station, but the birds weren't flying away, no, they were flying towards them, this meant something was down there. Mann didn't have a good feeling, but he knew his squad leader would dismiss it ass total bullshit.

Mann still took precautions, he kept his sights up towards the gas station, and slowly edged to the back of the squad formation, praying the man in front of him would save him from any spread of bullets, because he was sure as hell they would be coming, but he was sure as hell he was prepared for it too.

Through extensive combat training at the NORDLAND facility, all Russkyan soldiers were trained to pay attention to nature. In this case, nearly every Russkyan commando mentally cursed the fickle local birds, who had chosen to leave their nests and fly to percieved safety, thus betraying their location to an observant enemy.

Then Sorikorov's radio headset clicked twice in his ear. Contact. The report came later - contact with patrol, approaching objective, strength estimated twelve to twenty personnel equipped with small arms seem unaware of presence, a handful of exceptions to that last statement were noted with the typical precision and nonchalance of well hidden men on picquet duty.
His hand came up to his transmit switch, he toggled the frequency to TF Red's command frequency, informed them of the contact and its nature, then the same for TF Black.

Meanwhile, elements of Green One were already moving. Bounding forward silently by pairs, some of the commandos noticed one soldier shifting back nervously towards the rear of his formation. Green One split by six man subsections, one taking cover and preparing to fire, the other continuing their flanking movement. A 'transmit click' on the encrypted radios again, and looking down the sights of his Black Rook rifle, two deft pulls of the trigger. The rifle thumped backwards into his shoulder, practically no noise produced as the suppressor caught whatever minimal report the subsonic cartridge would produce, and hid any possible muzzle flash quite nicely. Those rounds were directed for center mass of the man just behind the lead man of the enemy patrol. The remainder of the fireteam also fired similar short bursts, and the men of the second fireteam went prone, ready to deliver enfilade fire. As quickly arranged with Red Two, they held their fire and awaited the engagement of the Aequatian commandos.

Socialist Revolutionary Trooper Karl Mann

"Snipah!" Was the first sound Mann heard as the men in front of him fell, like the Japanese islands to the American Marines during World War II. It became apparent to the squad that it was no sniper as men fell, two by two, apparently. The squad leader still alive, but his XO was gunned down, his orders were clear as day light as the silent enemy had allowed us one comfort, communication. "Nade everywhere!" The troops pulled the pins off of their grenades, indeed one fell with a grenade in hand, miraculously his body collapsed onto his arm, shielding the rest of the surviving squad from the blast.

"Prone, you dumb sons-of-a-bi-" The man screaming, was cut down, Corporal Zakoda, who was one of the more out-spoken men of the squad was killed outright, his body pouring in blood, and the mist, along with others, spraying the squad red. But thanks to his 'order' the six remaining men were able to prone, blending in with their comrade's corpses. They continued to pull and launch grenades, none daring to firing their weapons, which would give away their positions.

Mann was laying under a two-man high pile, of which both of their blood sprayed on him, from the puncture wounds inflicted by the incoming lead. "What, now!" Mann screamed, a bit too loudly as to allow the enemy to hear also. He waited for an order as he threw his last grenade.

{{OOC: Each of them have two-three. I say about ten to twelve grenades.}}

The troopers of Red Two were equipped for assault and thus, had G101 carbines fitted with suppressors as they joined their Russkyan comrades in putting fire on the patrol around the gas station, the gas escaping from the muzzles were almost silent as the two four-man sections fired from their concealed positions in the brush. The fusilade of semiautomatic rifle fire was meant to place the Aequatian rounds on their targets, allowing the kinetic fragmentation rounds to penetrate the flesh and expand painfully inside, causing the rounds to seriously incapacitate if not kill their targets immediately

Concealed by low brush and darkness and 'staggering' their fire so that no more than one man would be reloading at a time, the Russkyans had yet to empty a single magazine as they calmly picked their targets, engaged with a quick double-tap and tracked the corpse's fall to ground.

Responding to the barrage of grenades, three of the six men in a flanking position pulled RDG/R5 fragmentation grenades from their pouches on their combat webbing. Pulling the cotter pins free simultaneously, an overarm throw sent the powerful explosives into the midst of the impromptu killzone. Each grenade had a lethal radius of twenty-five meters due to the overly powerful explosive and tremendous amount of halfcut steel wire fit carefully inside the metal shell of the grenade. The grenades bounced onto concrete with a metallic 'thud,' and a second later exploded with tremendous blasts that ripped the roiling air further in conjunction with the fading blasts of the enemey's grenades.

Holding steady and checking every aspect of the terrain around them, the ambushing elements awaited more movement or return fire from the killzone. Many of the men had combat experience in such locales as Sorachoak or the FLRJ. Others were sucking cold air deep into their lungs, tasting the tang of cordite and the iron smell of spilt blood, the foulness of ruptured internal organs, calming the adrenaline surging through their veins. Frighteningly enough for one commando with less combat experiance than his "battlepair partner," his comrade wore a benign close-lipped smile as wide blue-grey eyes watched the killzone through passive night vision goggles.

Like their Aequatian colleagues, the Kilrany men and women moved ashore as quietly as they could, those equipped with the RK8 ‘Laika’, the carbine of the family had placed suppressors on their weapons should they have encountered any patrols or sentries on the shore, perhaps unnecessary given that the Russkyans had secured their beachhead, but Kilrany never saw a little bit of paranoia as a bad thing.

Not immediately sure what the plan was, they concerned themselves with merely getting to the shore and making sure everyone and all their equipment was present and accounted for. Once that was accomplished, they did a second quicker check of their weapons before the platoon leader made a quick check with his counterpart in the Aequatian unit to see how they wanted to go from here.

Catherine scanned the woods around her slowly with her night vision goggles, kneeling she held onto the hefty PKM with relative ease. She always found the woods fascinating at night through low light optics, but tonight she had no time to savor the sight as she watched their Eastern side for threats.

A moment later she felt a tap on her shoulder, recognizing the signal she reached out with her right hand and tapped the shoulder of the next man behind her, and he did the same to the one behind him. She stood up and moved forward, following behind her comrade in front of her. Her section of twelve men, Black Two was moving to regroup with Green One and Red Two in advance of the rest of TF Black. They maintained a column formation with small spacing due to the dark night.

Her own encrypted personal role radio snapped to life and from the receiver in her right ear she heard her section leader quickly inform them that Green One had made contact. Near the center of the column she couldn’t see the break in the trees yet, so she continued to follow behind her comrade in front of her, constantly scanning right then left as the rest of the section did.

Le'Mon, Terre Nationale

Stone's team had linked up with the two man sniper team inserted the night before to overwatch their landing sites and moved on.

About an hour into their trek they reached their first waypoint, a small gas station and found fire fight raging between what appeared to be Socialist troops and a large force of well-trained commandos, likely foreign. Stone saw no need to get involved and the SBS team, now known as Team Zulu, moved on towards the factory.

Socialist Revolutionary Trooper Karl Mann


The grenades flew into their position, missing the mass body of the squad by several meters, but this was not enough to escape the wrath of the foreign grenades, their blast liquidizing the remainder of the Socialist patrol. Mann was one of the lucky two to survive the blast with next to no wounds. Of course, Mann did sustain a head wound via shrapnel, which effectively knocked him out for the remainder of the battle. Though, in his unconscious state he was protected, by two corpses that laid atop his body.

Mann's only squad mate still able to fight did so, and continually picked up grenades from his dead comrades, chucking them into unknown expanse. His gun was silent, so to the enemy it would seem as grenades were simply floating towards their positions, or near them, and exploding. And hopefully it would be enough to halt them from advancing.

The racket was not unheard and a reply of fifty men was soon sent out towards the gas station. They inserted themselves prone, for the grass would cover their sneaking attempts into the battle, and hopefully save their lives.


Socialist Revolutionary Commissar Chuck Perry

Commissar Chuck Perry was one of the five hundred that had originally attacked the city. His doctrine was as strict as it needed to be to obtain the rank of Commissar, and carry out the blood thirsty tasks that were usually set before him by his squad, platoon, or company commander. But it was not with a blind faith, no. He understood the acts of cruelty needed to be carried out in order to establish a working Socialist nation.

Perry's cruelest act was that of beating and stabbing three policemen to death, ruthlessly, as it was broad casted threw out the port's television sets. Everywhere he went he was greeted by sly, distrusting looks, which made him feel horrible regret for what he did, but he soldiered on. He wasn't like most of the men fighting in the Socialist revolution, in fact, he was an an anomaly. His father was a rich oil tycoon, who had a network in the billions.

Though it was unknown to all who knew his secret, and few did, and in truth himself also, he continued to fight, when he could have easily called his father to get him out of his deathly situation, but he did not. Now Perry was called upon by his belief, and would be tested in the fields of battle.

As Commissar, Perry wasn't in charge of the usual logistics of pre-battle tendencies. But he still marveled at them, the astonishing way bullets appeared out of nowhere, and troops were able to go from friendly men, to cold, rigid troops that marched uniformly, almost in an exact robotic procedure. And this he loved, maybe that was the reason why he fought.

Now his men were on the move, and as they were all trained outside of Port Le'mon they were true soldiers, the finest that the Socialist Revolutionary Army could bring to the battlefield, and they acted as such. From a mere hand signal from their platoon commander they drifted into a seeming invisibility into the knee-high grass. None exposing themselves, even their gear was kept from rattling by ingenious draw strings that kept their supplies tight enough together to allow a sleathly insertion.

"We are gunna need you to escort us to a village. Apparently a company by the name of VNN is installing a satelite system of some kind, just got the word of the objective now. Anyway, the guy who owns VNN is paying big bucks for us to clear the village for him, so can you take us there or not?" Brutus asked the man now identified as Kyle Orson.

Corrigan took out a piece of cheming gum, unwrapped in, and popped the stick into his mouth. He then took out another stick of gum, and held it out, offering it to either of the two men, new, although temporary, additions to the team.

Val got up from the dead body of the Terran sniper, his shirt splattered with blood. "Well, we best get a move on, don't wanna be caught in a firefight at sun up now do we?"

Fascist Rebel Volunteer, First Grade Kyle Orson

The two men declined the gum, not trusting the newcomers that had shot one of their few teammates, and also believing the propaganda told to them, any foreign food not of Fascist hands was most-likely poison. And the worst way for a soldier to die was by poison, because it was one of the most efficient ways to kill them, and they wanted to make it as inefficient as possible.

Orson's eyes glared as he contemplated his response to the question. The only village near Port Le'mon was Chikahowi, a small village that was technologically advanced for the region. It was one of the few positions that actually held out against the Socialist attack, though the attack was only about seventy men strong, it was still considered a great victory by the Fascist rebels. Though it was known to have a pro-Socialist feel to it, as they all worked together in an equality larger settlements could not acquire.

Orson decided it would be an acceptable and honorable choice to tell them, as they could secure the position from an expected attack from the Socialist forces which had been recently bolstered in ranks, thanks to treacherous 'citizens' that had joined them. "That must be, Chikahowi." He pointed North East, "It's the only village around Le'mon, and a good one at that." He yawned, "They were able to old back a seventy man assault by the Socialist forces, and I'd suggest you not follow their example."

OOC: Cleared control of TF Red and TF Black with normal commanders prior to this post. Normal control of those units will return to them when they are available to post.

Given that the Russkyans had initiated the ambush from concealment and had been using integrally suppressed weapons from the start, and had begun firing from a range of seventy five meters, they were safe from the grenades that still flew from the piled corpses. After throwing their own grenades, Green One's section leader ordered a cease fire. With men watching all aspects in conjunction with Red Two, the Tolvan SBS men were in a very dangerous situation indeed, stumbling across a firefight in progress such as that.

The commandos, irritated by the fact that their ambush had taken a few seconds longer than the book's proscribed ten seconds maximum, were further annoyed by the Terran grenade that detonated, wounding one of them with a freakishly driven piece of shrapnel slicing across an upper arm and stopping in the skin of the soldier's upper back. He bit the inside of his cheek, tightened his grip on his rifle, and couldn't feel the blood cascading from his torn flesh due to the searing pain of the wound. Another arm flicked up, and an observant pair of commandos double-tapped the man connected to that arm twice. Detonation of the final grenade, and one subsection of Green One was ordered to sweep the killzone. Bodies were checked visually, none were given a "quietus" as the sustained precise rifle fire and grenades had seemingly killed all, and thus Mann survived the ambush, knocked unconcious and coated in his comrade's gore.

Mann would reawaken to find his rifle gone, stacked together neatly with the others in an unloaded state, boobytrapped with antipersonnel directional devices - a nice word for the rifles being trapped with two Russkyan DAPM-5s. The DAPM-5 was effectively a M18A1 "Claymore" on steroids, covering a seventy five degree instead of sixty degree arc with 3.5kg of high explosive and over three thousand ball bearings and steel shards. Anyone approaching the rifles from the direction of the Terran bodies would find themselves translated abruptly into a red mist, shards of bone, and scraps of flesh. Anyone approaching from another direction would be safe until they chose to try and dislodge one of the rifles. The knee-high grass hid the devices quite nicely.

Green One and Red Two left as silently as they'd arrived, bounding back by four man subunits towards the remainder of TFs Green and Red, who were near TF Black - this last unit arranged into an all-around defensive formation five hundred meters from the ambush site, sited in terrain cover with the PKM GPMGs some of those soldiers carried professionally sited with excellent fields of fire. Sorikorov conferred with his Aequatian and Kilrany counterparts, and with a few short radio messages and a subtle hand signal, the commandos moved out yet again.

The SBS personnel had been incredibly lucky in two things. One, that they had not been noticed during the brief combat. A fluke, more than anything else, and that they were not noticed afterwards. Two, that the course the "Service" personnel took was divergent from theirs. With luck, no fighting need occur between the two groups.

With his innate skill at such things, the man at the tip of the formation stepped through knee-high grass silently, eyes constantly scanning from left to right, above eye level and checking the ground, and then back again. Listening carefully, Kostikev smiled his patient smile as he came across tracks, drew Sorikorov's attention to them, and for the third piece of luck for the Tolvans, dismissed them as belonging to a previous Socialist patrol. As to the commandos, they stepped primarily in each other's footprints to minimize their signature. Such action was not difficult in the slightest, and many Russkyans wondered why more militaries didn't implement such procedures on reconnaissance patrols or other such stealth-based activities themselves.

They halted and formed a circular all-around defensive peremiter, slightly irregular to adjust for the terrain. Concealed by thicker brush and a grove of trees that for some reason - perhaps slightly more fertile soil here than nearer the ambush site - the commando leaders checked maps. Two kilometers East from the ambush, no further contacts. Sorikorov checked his watch, annoyed that he'd forgotten the time at which the sun rose in this locale.

Socialist Revolutionary Trooper Karl Mann

Mann awoke, his head pounding from the wound he took to his head. The pain pulsated threw out his body, as he looked around, and fell off of some kind of structure, that had cushioned his back, much like a bed. His eyes weren't able to focus yet, but the smell of death penetrated his ignorance firstly, it did not sad him, to his own surprise, he had almost expect it. Soon his vision returned and he saw the fool carnage that the day's battle had brought him.

Mann then noticed movement in the corpse pile, which he feared was of the enemy. But closer examination and time revealed that it was the other surviving man, who had located something to the front of the body pile. He pointed to the pile of weapons and told him to check for survivors. Mann did as such, and went to the back of the pile, taking a dozen steps back to put the entire pile into perspective. Then a loud sound came, one that caused the pile to become shrapnel-like and the bodies launched themselves at him, but thanks to his previous steps none impacted him.

The smoldering scattered remains of the corpse pile allowed Mann to see that his other survivor had been blown to smithereens, and that a several large objects were in the air, all falling down shortly. He scanned the pieces and found them to be remnants of the squad's rifles that his counterpart had went to investigate. These still did not affect him, but one thing did. A had found a complete rifle, the butt stock had been blown off but the rest of the Kalashnikov was still in one piece.

The Kalashnikov, that Mann now labeled Kali, had no magazine in the feeder, except one round in the chamber, and a bayonet was still stuck to the gun. His thoughts still lingered as a dream, he thought the damned Fascist army must be attacking the city by now, despite no sounds of battle or scares of such an engagement was found in his view of the city.

Mann decided his best chance was to prone in the grass and head towards the city which was just a half a kilometer away from his current position, and he thanked god for the rare blessing.

Socialist Revolutionary Commissar Chuck Perry

Commissar Perry's unit was dispatched to a rather large explosive sound that was just a hundred meters from the building the rest of his platoon had considered their new forward head quarters center. Perry was given seven men for his exploratory embarkation from the platoon head quarters and began his small trek towards the sound of interest.

Perry had decided it best that in the dark it was less likely of them being seen, and that moving in a slow prone crawl would lead to a simply lose of time, he wanted to get back to his head quarters as quickly as possible. So his men jogged towards their mission site and made it there within several minutes, where they found the scattered, and charred, remains of fourteen Socialist troops, along with blown apart rifles.

Perry ordered a full sweep of the position, and within eight minutes had located a single survivor, who was identified as Trooper Karl Mann, and was now attached to his squad.

With the dawn fast approaching, Perry decided again that the troop of nine men must run a hundred meters back to their in-city head quarters and relay the good, or more likely, bad news of the unfolded events, no doubt still sure that the Nationalist Army had finally moved into the city to wipe out the Socialist threat. Perry even joked that the army ran out of bombs to kill them with, which had the odd affect of raising his troop's hopes, and setting them up into a cheery mood.

It was only a short time before they hooked up with head quarters and Mann was decided to be a new propaganda tool and would be sent to the 'Red House'. Where he would be instructed on what to say, what not to say, and how to act. He would become, an actor, an idol, a model for the Socialist soldier and city.

Port Le'Mon, Intersection of Wrightson Road and French Street

Team Zulu slowly approached the run down factory that once made soup cans or some other mundane product, but was now far past it's prime. The bricks were worn and not a single window was without at least a few large cracks. The SBS operators slid into overwatch positions just before dawn, they much preferred to work in the dark after all.

Stone positioned most of his team in an abandoned store about 350 meters from the factory. The rest were deployed in three hidden OPs around the perimeter. The plan was to wait the daylight out and simply watch and asses the Socialist strength and if Stone made the decision to attack, they'd move at nightfall.

"Chikahowi it is then, lets go" Brutus said, before moving off towards the northeast. The other two mercenaries were following close behind, when Corrigan turned back to the two Fascist soldiers. "Well, dont just stand there, lets go" he said, before darting back to catch up to Val and Brutus.

At the riverbank, several other mercenary teams were coming ashore, and they began to fan out over the area and set up a base camp. Within an hour, nearly twenty teams, or sixty men, were ashore, a small radio post was up, and a tiny tent city was formed. The base was surrounded in barbed wire, and mercenaries went about felling trees to construct makeshift towers, to provide more defence for the camp.

The small EQ-20D Shade drone flew at a lofty altitude of four thousand metres as it helped the combat information centre aboard the Boxer in its normal command, control and communication duties along with detection as its receivers started to detect an increase of radio traffic coming from the mainland. The communications section aboard the vessel had been monitoring the radio chatter over all of the channels since arriving in-theatre, most of it belonging either to the Nationalist Army surrounding the city or the usual propaganda broadcast by the Socialists, however, the traffic picked up was encrypted in an odd fashion as the ship's Chief Electronic Warfare Officer, a Lieutenant Hazel Younge, watched over the monitor at the station manned by one of the petty officers, the joint Crow badge of all Aequatian electronic warfare personnel on their shoulders, she pointed at the waves on the screen, "Any idea what that is?"

"No idea, ma'am, but it seems about right for ground-based radios, a C.P. maybe," Replied the petty officer as he switched to the channel and listened on his headphones, "It's encrypted, but it sounds familiar," He said handing them to the lieutenant as she listened.

She listened for thirty seconds before turning to the small pile of books and sweeping through the pages before setting it in front of the operator, "I thought it seemed familiar, it belongs to Griffencrest Corporation mercenaries, they haven't changed much since the campaign in World Soviet Party and the ELINT collected by the Army then is still good now," She said with a proud smile as she turned to Gibson, who was overlooking another station, "Skip, I think you'll want to see this." Those words beckoned him over to the EW station.

Major Kevin Brookes looked over the map with the other Task Force leaders along with his executive officer and lead scout, Sergeant First Class Mike "Gazelle" Green, and considered the unit's next moves. The three commanders each conversed with each other in a committee circle as they started plotting.

A second Shade drone was launched off the rear helipad of the Boxer with the usual rocket booster as it came to its standard altitude of four thousand metres, although it was fitted with a multichannel receiver, enough to track the Griffencrest radio traffic and link to the other EQ-20D and the Boxer herself. The small craft took up its designated position thanks to the pilot's skill as it began to receive the encrypted signals from the Griffencrest mercenary camp, transmitting the time between receiving the signal compared to the other drone and the ship, allowing the computers at the electronic warfare station to properly triangulate by reading the telemetry coordinates and calculating the position in comparison to the positions of the drones and ship. Commander Gibson smiled as he brought his hand up onto Younge's shoulder, "Well done, sailor, Comm, make sure the task forces are aware of this new intelligence."

"Aye, sir," Replied the communications officer as the location of the Griffencrest radio post along the riverside. At the same time, the RQ-20B was set on a new course that brought it over the location itself for real-time intelligence gathering of the site to aid the soldiers already on the ground. The drone's small size, slender fuselage and materials helped mask it against radar detection along with a near silent motor allowed it to run its course, the observer traversing the FLIR camera to scan the ground below, spotting the trees being cleared away and the perimeter of garrison towers.

Socialist Revolutionary Commissar Karl Mann

Mann had been given a promotion, for his deeds in outskirts of the city. The brutally crushed attempt to take the simple gas station, it's truly lost battle since Chikahowi. But the propaganda and 'plans' that he and his adviser, Gery Green, had rehearsed nearly a dozen times within the last half hour. Now he was dressed in his new crisp, parade, green uniform. His soldier's cap was tipped far down to hide his eyes, just encase they betrayed his dis-truths.

Commissar Mann stepped up to the oak podium, which was embalmed in the front with a green background and a soviet star in the middle, surrounded by pickaxes in the hands of a human, whose remaining body had been cut out of the picture. It was the new flag of the Socialist State of Fragmented Terre Nationale. Mann's shoulders leveled and he put his chin high in the air, giving him the ability to see but a small fraction of the thousand or so men and women of Le'mon who had arrived to partake in this grand event of Soviet propaganda.

Mann depended his voice as he deliberately spoke into the minuscule microphone that had been placed on the interior of his left collar. It portrayed his... 'farmer boy charm' which the crowd ate up with pleasure, and a hearty laugh. That was in fact with him, not at him. He saw this and smiled as he began his pre-scripted speech. "Dearest brothers and sisters!" He began his speech with a mighty dignity, that the crowd followed with their hoots of satisfaction. "I come before you, to ask of you, to sacrifice, for the betterment of this Socialist nation, and to your own health!"

The crowd's support began to die out with the word, 'sacrifice' "My words my hide my true intentions, we do not wish you to forfeit your lives into the military of our great nation." Their support grew once again, except this time silent, with more maturity than before. "We are beginning a population movement act, that will allow needed supplies, such as food, medical care and above all, your protection." The maturity broke and great yells of pleasure and advocation raised from the crowd. Little did they know, they would be losing their homes.

Socialist Revolutionary Commissar Chuck Perry

Few knew of what they were going to do, but they did not see what the liked. Lines of women, men and young children were on the streets besides Perry's platoon. Much was similar to the scenes around that of Le'mon. Except many of the 'sacrifices' had already been started. Perry's men were scared by the constant explosions, and stacks of fire that lite up the sky and the endless amount smoke that penetrated the peaceful blues skies that had just owned and flew freely threw out the atmosphere.

They arrived on time, Perry's men didn't know what to do, but he did. He soon ordered them to set demolitions of the small, singular house, that was range-style, and ordered them to set it on the main beams. They did as told, and repeated this cycle threw out the entire block, which contained much the same style of house, except one which was two stories high, but the basic principal of structural destruction was still firm and in place, as it proved no problem for Perry's men.

It was evening, and most of the city had been leveled by the Socialist forces, Perry's own single squad had wiped out some eight blocks. Only a few small ranches remained, and they were on the far out skirts of the city, and would prove no danger for the Socialist troops.

As Perry's men returned to 'the line' they saw at least a hundred men working on it, mostly civilians, that were piling sand bags around the line, some where even welding makeshift pieces of steel and iron and making 'hard points' where the soldier could take shelter from an incoming grenades. Furthermore, two bulldozers, at least in Perry's section, some twenty in all, where clearing the rubble from destroyed houses, and attempting to give to Socialist forces two hundred yards for firing range, though they would most likely accomplish little more than one hundred.

Perry's men had been called to refit at their barracks, the intersection of Dundonald Street and Gordon Street. On their way they saw crying children and parents, and several of Perry's squad stop to question as to why. They were lifted of guilt, as the main reason of their tears was due to the destruction of their houses, and not accidental deaths due to the demolitions used.

As they reached their barracks their squad CO briefed them on the use of flares, which would be used encase of a Nationalist ('The Service) assault. Seeing as their latest campaigns had been in the dead of night, where they had a distinct advantage. The flares were compatible with GP-30 that were attached to each squad's heavy rifleman. And ever troops of every squad was trained to use the GP-30, encase of the heavy rifleman's leave, or death.

Port Le'Mon, Intersection of Wrightson Road and French Street

Team Zulu had suffered through the day's heat in near complete stillness. now as the sun was setting they prepared to move.

Stone had assembled his team into three four-man fire teams with the sniper team positioned in the burnt out house they'd slept in all day. There'd been little activity around the factory, but Stone saw no evidence of the large garrison he'd feared. They were proably busy with whatever operation was making all the noise on the other side of town, now was the ideal time to strike.

One of Stone's men lifted a M75 LAW to his shoulder and took aim at a possible machine gun nest on the second floor. Once the position was sighted in, he pressed the trigger and the rocket was on it's way.

Within seconds Stone's riflemen and Sniper team would open fire on any Socialist fighters in sight and the assault teams, armed with MP-5s and a couple 12 guage shotguns would use the rubble littering the street to storm the building.

The aviation support section lined the deck as the Chief Petty Officer peered through a pair of binoculars at the incoming EQ-20D as it flew in low towards the ship's stern helicopter landing pad, which now had the large "cobweb" landing net for Navy unmanned aerial vehicles. The drone came to an immediate halt as it was caught in the netting and tangled enough to prevent damage as the crew hoisted the small craft down and wheeled it into the aviation deck and prepared it for a launch later on, the other three drones sat inside the small hanger next to the SH-20B helicopter, their wings folded over their bodies and their wheels sitting on the deck. The sun coming up on the horizon made the small craft vulnerable to detection and exposed them to unnecessary risk, their job from the previous night was already finished.

Captain Ruiz sat with his back against the dirt wall of his sleeping and fighting hole, his G102 resting on his lap as he looked over the chart of his team's firing archs, provided by Staff Sergeant Manson's MG84 and Grissom's G106 marksman's rifle. Red Six was the next section down the line, Sergeant Green had disappeared, far ahead of the positions on overwatch with his bolt action rifle and manual detonators for the M18B1 Claymores set in the dirt. Anyone foolish enough to wander close would not live long enough to regret it.

Having reached their over-day rest point, all three TFs (Analogous to a Platoon) of the "Service" dug in and heavily camouflaged their positions. Thanks to the amount of training the soldiers had gone through together, it was a simple task to blend the best abilities of all three nations together in this one unit.

Dawn arrived to find "The Service" personnel dug into carefully concealed slit trenches and fighting holes with interlocking fields of fire. Both TF Green and TF Black had deployed their 82mm mortars, the PODNOS-R weapons built down into their mortar pits as experience and doctrine said they should be. Over the daylight hours, men alternated between keeping watch, resting, and whiling away the time until darkness again. They were outside the city, dug into the semi-rural landscape as plans were made. Muzzle slightly aloft as the weapon rested on its tripod, the "Stormwind" 9.3x64mm GPMG of Green Three had a machinegun range card sitting next to its stock, inside an olive drab notebook. It detailed its fire arc, how it interlocked with the other machineguns of TF Green and the neighbouring platoons, and target points, numbers, and ranges to various points within the gunner's field of view. The lacquered cases of the catridges reflected no sunlight.

Sorikorov low-crawled across an expanse of mostly open ground towards Major Brookes' position, assault rifle cradled in his arms as he moved. He intended to coordinate the dispatch of recce patrols towards the city to establish OPs, local patrols for security, and to better familiarize himself with the overall intelligence picture - the Aequatians after all, despite the rigorous training and familiarization all had undergone, still had the best coordination with RNS Boxer and its fairly advanced assets offshore.

Like the rest of their comrades the men and women of TF Black hunkered down in their positions and prepared to pass the day away. A vigilant eye was kept on the surrounding area and every so often one of the marksmen would scan the area with his PSO-1 optic equipped SVD-K along with the eyes of his other unit members.

It would be later that the whole platoon could hear the sounds of explosions in the distance, deep and almost like thunder as the socialist forces were destroying buildings in an effort to create defensive positions. However since this was unknown to them at the time, TF Black was left wondering what these series of explosions were the result of, not sounding like typical artillery fire to the veteran soldiers.

As Sorikorov made his low-crawl towards TF Green, Sasha Mullova, platoon leader for TF Black, did the same with her own assault rifle cradled in her arms, moving towards Red Six in order to decide what the next step of the operation would be.

The series of detonations coming from the city unnerved some of the younger Aequatian troopers, if only it was because they were dissimilar to the normal sounds of combat, although the field engineers within the Task Force Red teams recognized the sound of demolitions being exploded as pyres rose from the cityline underneath towers of smoke. Major Brookes looked over one of the images transmitted to him from the Boxer's observation drone along with satellite imagery provided by Space Command's uplink, one of the perks of the "purple" nature of Aequatian combat operations, as the other commanders arrived in his enlarged fighting hole, "Nice to see you again, even with our current situation," He said, handing the printed images to Sorikorov, who would pass them to Mullova afterwards, "Things are quite fucked at the moment and we need a plan, proper."

"Recce patrols should establish OPs and see what that racket's about. Local patrol activity around here as well, and when nightfall comes again we should try a prisoner raid to get more intel. The only way this imagery could be better is if there were some nubiles sunbathing in their yards, your satellites are excellent." Sorikorov handed the printouts to Mullova and slipped his weapon into a slightly more comfortable spot before assuming a cross-legged position on the floor of the fighting hole.

"We can start infiltrating the recce units during the daylight hours but I'd like to wait until closer to dusk. Improve our positions here as well then, and then just spend a day or two working on gathering intel. Your thoughts, Brookes, Mullova?"

Cadet Jeremy Scott

Cadet Jeremy usually slept threw the day, in his hide out, the church he had used as a sniper position just a day before. But an immense shacking woke his deep slumber. He began to walk up the ladder leading to the large bronze bell of the church, the bell's gleam would effectively hide his position in the day, especially with the golden-coloured sheet metal he had found earlier the day, probable some insulator from a house that was passed its prime.

What Cadet Jeremy saw, what 'the Sniper' saw, shook him. He looked into the expanse of the city. It was as if a nuclear munition had been detonated over head, and the damage was slowly destroying the city from the inside out. Due to all the high leveled buildings he could see the center of the city, 'the Line.' He was perplexed as to why that singular section of the city remained as the rest of Le'mon fell like dominoes.

Then Jeremy looked down, two blocks down from the church, a group of some fifteen men ran back and hid behind some ruins, as if they had seen him. But the true reason of their actions would hit him soon, as the block they had just entered blew up in the sky, not one building stood from the block. As if it was normal they exited their hiding spots and began down the street, the block that was just a few dozen meters away from his church.

The sniper looked down the scope of his Remington 700 and zoomed in on the squad commissar, who was obviously keeping order between the men, most of which looked as if they had regrets about their business this day. Jeremy pumped a round into his Remington 700's chamber, one of the eighteen bullets he had remaining. And slowly followed the Commissar's head, waiting for him to halt.

The Commissar did so, speaking to one of his men for several seconds, enough time for the Sniper to rest his cross hairs between his temple, blowing his brains out. This upheaval of command lead the whole squad to run for cover, affording the Sniper precious seconds to exit the church, which he did, and began his run towards the south end of the city, the rural end.

The Sniper ran for about an hour when he finally saw a rag tag group of men with guns, the Fascist Rebels, walking, in order, towards the South end of the city. He ran towards them, and met at their side, asking if they were the Fascists, and they answered yes. He then went on to tell them that he was 'the Fascist Sniper', and they welcomed him into their ranks.

The Sniper went on the question why they were heading South and they replied because they heard reports of Nationalist forces {{'The Service'}} had moved into the South. And the Sniper quickly followed their steps and talked among them, waiting to come in contact with any Nationalist forces.

Major Brookes listened to Sorikorov's suggestions and had already been considering the same moves, "Might be best to take our scouts and snipers to man the posts, watching the enemy movements and seeing where we can launch the raids, since we can't get all of our intel from the Navy drones, although I would much prefer to move during magic hour in the evening."

Task Force Red's operations officer, Captain Dom Stuart, looked over his small compact laptop computer as he displayed the last images of the Griffencrest basecamp, "What are to do with this little campfire, Navy doesn't want to compromise its position offshore by striking it with its gun or its Cat."

"Isn't there a bridge nearby? I know we're near a river - infact, I think that target Stuart pointed out is also on or near the river. We may want to consider dropping that bridge as well." Sorikorov paused, weighing options.

"Perhaps the best thing to do would be to have Red and Black move down to eliminate that encampment. Green can conduct reconnaissance, prisoner raid, and harassment operations during the dawn, twilight, and nighttime hours, holing up during the day."

In a fighting hole serving as a casualty clearing station, the one man wounded in the hasty ambush by a grenade fragment last night had his wound re-checked and rebandaged. Shallow wound that had the potential to bleed a lot if he exerted himself too hard, but that was it. Luck was again with "The Service."

Mullova remained quiet at first as her two colleagues spoke and she looked through the images handed her only moments earlier. There was little she could think of to add initially; so far they seemed to have things covered. In truth the Kilrany didn’t really know the overall goal of the operation yet, more of less tagging along with their Russkyan comrades because of their trust in them.

Without a clear overall goal known to her, her thoughts turned towards the immediate threats, the explosions they had been hearing, and these Mercenaries, she wasn’t familiar with this, ‘Griffincrest Corporation’ that the Aequatian had mentioned, as far as she knew her government had never had any dealings with them before.

“It’s a moment like this that makes me wish we could count on a couple Poseidens being offshore, nothing says ‘screw you’ quite like a barrage of twelve-hundred kilo high explosive shells. That aside though, what’s so special about these Griffincrest mercs? On another note, do we have any idea if they, or anyone else in the area has any kind of ballistic tracking radar that might make it dangerous to use our light mortars?”

The junior operations officer nodded as he took back his computer and scrolled through the image and presented it to the command officers, "There's a bridge to the North about eight klicks or so, Beetham highway crosses the river there," Stuart said as he turned to Brookes, "It won't do us any harm to take it out, if anyone's placed sentries there, they'll be exposed and easy targets, plus it will hamper any other forces that use vehicles and need to move towards the city. I'm thinking it can be done."

The major paused to think a moment before speaking, "All right, but I'd much rather have a full SALUTE* performed of the surrounding area before we make any moves against the bridge or Griffencrest camp," He said as he turned to the Kilrany Mullova, "We're not sure of what anyone has, but if we ask the Squiddies nicely, they can run their E.W. Shade over the area and scan the radar frequency bands to figure that out. As for the mercenaries to the South, they don't pose a particularly greater threat than anyone else on the ground, but with our Republic a memberstate of G.A.S.N., it is our duty to limit the power projection of the Griffencrest Corporation around the world along with the vendetta Aequatian servicemembers carry for those dogs after the World Soviet Party campaign."

*(OOC: "SALUTE" is a recce term meaning: Size, Activity, Location, Unit, Time and Equipment)

Sorikorov shifted restlessly at thought of what had happened in TWSP. "Nasty business that was, Brookes. We could SALUTE the area while simultaneously running the ops I mentioned prior. Gives the recce units slightly more cover since there'll probably be a bit of noise on, the Socialists don't strike me as the most disciplined opposition we've dealt with."

He continued a moment later.
"I'm not particularly comfortable carrying out your policies but as I am effectively under Aequatian command for Operation Subtle Wind, it's my job. So let's get it done and done right, I'm sure at some point in the future one of the Aequatian and, or, Kilrany platoons of this unit will be implementing my homeland's foreign policy in some zone. Let me take another look at those overheads, they've got a position that's particularly vulnerable to indirect fire."

"Yeah, we tend to hold grudges for generations, so we're not letting them go for that," Brookes said, remembering all of the new RNBC procedures, equipment and injections introduced shortly after the incidents, "All right, that sounds good, I'm thinking you'll be more than a handful enough for their numbers, disrupting them means we disrupt the city, which we'll need to raid for supplies at some point, especially food."

Stuart interrupted shortly after the major finished, "This isn't particularly a matter of national rhetoric or ideologies, the Griffencrest camp is on the river and can keep overwatch on it," He explained as he set the computer down on his rucksack, "We need that river for resupply from the Boxer, otherwise we need to head into town, and without vehicles of our own, makes that a risky operation for us."

An arm waved from the next fighting hole as a young man scrambled over and dropped down into the hole, a radio in his hand and G101 rifle slung over his back, "Good news, major, the Navy said they'll be ready to have their recce Shade up and are going to be running it from the camp up the river to our position and send us the images, just to see what's in the way, but they want to know if there's anything else we need spotted," He said handing the radio's handset to Brookes.

The major keyed the handset and spoke, "Rocky Oscar, this is Red Six Six, request images of T.R.P. Bravo Three Two Zero, over."

"Affirmative on that, Six Six, Rocky Oscar out," Came the reply as the major handed the handset back to his RTO and the sergeant climbed out and returned to his fighting hole.

"Well, lieutenant," Brookes turned to Sorikorov, "We'll have an image ready for your bridge in thirty minutes."

The RQ-20B drone was wheeled out onto the helicopter deck by the aviation section as the booster was mounted on its fuselage. It was mounted to its launcher and the booster's motor fired, sending the drone into the air as its small prop took over and powered it to its altitude as it turned in towards the river's mouth from the bay.

60 kilometres outside Terre Nationale Territorial Waters

The large aircraft banked as it came into its orbit position, the white gloss/light-gray paint of the new Air Force E-14B Capricorn surveillance and SIG/ELINT collection aircraft gleaned in the midday sunlight as it came to a steady heading and started its duties in the support of Operation Subtle Wind. Although it had been deployed to support the combat operation, its cover was that of an Aequatian Republic Air Force Weather Survey and Research aircraft with no military applications whatsoever. Captain Rufus "Crow" Gothenburg sat at his management station, his duty was to supervise the technicians operating the SIG/ELINT collection suites and the analysts who determined the value of the collected data and watched as the other stations ran their diagnostics and checked in with the manager before starting the operations of listening into the radio communications throughout the area of operations in and around Port Le'Mon.

TF Green, well established in their carefully concealed defensive positions deployed Green Three on a duration reconnaissance operation. Breaking into their three four-man 'bricks' the commandos moved cautiously through the ruins to establish observation posts outside the mostly cleared fire-zone established by Socialist bulldozers.
These positions, located in the rubble, were surprisingly defensible for what they were and sited to provide mutual supporting fires - their goal was to monitor sections of the Socialist parapet given that the urban terrain would always restrict field of view were one not to compromise their fieldcraft.

Communicating between one another with a combination of hand signals and short burst encrypted transmissions between personal role radios, the men of Green Three settled in to wait, utilizing the usual two-on two-off shifts; though these shifted one man at a time so that someone who'd been watching the observed area for a length of time was always on duty. This was referred to as the "Never two pairs of new eyes" rule and proved effective everywheres.

All three observation posts were sited and well established by the end of the twilight hours. As night came, they brought out passive night vision capable binoculars. Nothing special to report - just getting used to the routines of the Socialists on this part of the barricade near Independance Square North.

Socialist Revolutionary Commissar Chuck Perry

Commissar Perry didn't see many men die, in fact he only so some eight or nine, and they had passed a while ago. He had seen dead men recently, fourteen of them. Blow apart, dead, gone. He didn't want to be like them, he didn't want to die. His belief was still firm, his understanding was still firm, but his natural human will to survive was kicking in, he didn't want to die. His silent demonstration of his will to survive did not gain him any supporters, everyone had just thought he was going threw battle fatigue, which he was, but he didn't know it, he just wanted to live.

As the thoughts rushed threw Perry's mind his orders finally came in, he was given patrol duty. They were to lay a few gallons of the orange nylon, which the grunts called Border Paint, in their little move. It was to be in broad daylight, but they were to penetrate past the firing zone, and onto the Wall of Death. True they would be given support by the raised 'NCO Hills', but that was it. Two kords and a probably unskilled shooter would cover them, posing more risk than protection. Their lives would be in the hands of some unskilled machine gunner and a newly position NCO who most-likely had no combat experience.

Perry knew that it would take mere seconds to move his troops back to the safety of the fire zone, but the Nationalist forces could have already captured or killed some, which was the worst of Perry's job, he had to kill all those about to be captured, sensitive information, no matter how small the grunts contained, could not be lost. He would hate doing it, but he would. To save his own skin and he knew it.

Perry's five other men had been geared up lightly, each with a Kalashnikov and three magazines, an attached team of two men would roll down the coating of 'Border Paint'. They moved out, jumping over the sandbag line, having to slow down to move the paint and paint rollers which would be necessary for the job's completion. Soon the men began working on the line, already four meters out from the fire zone and on the Wall of Death. They waited for something, they didn't know if it would come tonight, but it would come, some night, today, tomorrow, even right now.

With one smooth, slow motion, he tapped his partner in the OP, and with the same hand indicated his left. Turning to his left and shouldering his rifle, he knew that his partner was gently tugging on the string run back to the resting position. Raising their heads from their cover, looking around rather than over their concealment, they saw an approaching party of Socialists.

The four men flicked safeties off their rifles and took aim, very quietly identifying targets to one another. One man slid a finger inside the trigger guard of the BS-1 "Tishina" UBGL fitted underneath his Black Rook rifle - the grenade launcher was fired via a subsonic and silent cartridge of Russian design, resulting in a near-nil firing signature. The grenade was aimed for the closest-together group of enemy troops, and the rifleman beside him (likewise armed with the suppressed and SP5 cartridge firing Black Rook rifle) took aim at the man who seemed to be in command. He aimed for center mass.

Druiker then depressed the transmit key to his radio headset, talking directly to Lieutenant Sorikorov. Sorikorov then spoke to nearby 82mm PODNOS-R mortar crews, who turned their weapons onto the predefined azimuth, adjusted elevation, and "hung one" round, ready to fire. Having called out the "Stonk and Conk" for the three nearest positions fitted with what seemed to be an NCO or JNCO and a pair of machineguns, sometimes HMGs such as the KORD weapon, the mortar's fire would do three things. Firstly, neutralize the enemy positions with three rounds targetted on each.
From a range of just under two and a half kilometers, the 82mm mortar bombs would arrive as if from nowheres, explode and spray shrapnel across the area as well as the lethal blast effect, and as it was daylight no worries were had about the muzzle flash being seen from such distance, especially given that the mortars were dug into mortar pits and concealed from observation.

Secondly, the mortars would then track five rounds between each "NCO Hill" to eliminate any troops standing-to. And thirdly, the mortars would then switch elevation and drop a screen of dark grey smoke across the position habitated by the ready to fire team of commandos, who would execute a bounding withdrawl with the eight men in the other two observation posts.

With this in mind, Druiker requested the fire mission from the mortar crews, who dropped the bombs down the barrel and ducked away as the weapon thumped down onto its baseplate, then hefted another and fed it directly into the muzzle once more. Firing so fast the weapon might as well have been semiautomatic, soon all of the HE rounds were enroute to their target. Druiker heard Sorikorov alerting the other two OP teams to begin the withdrawl, and bellowed "Contact Left!" to the men with him in the OP nearest the Socialists.

Just as the first rounds shattered in their detonation on the "NCO Hills," Druiker's team opened a rapid semiautomatic fire into the Socialist group, the grenadier quickly reloaded his weapon, and two riflemen primed and threw a pair of grenades each - the same powerful fragmentation grenades used earlier in the snap-ambush of the Socialist patrol by the fuel depot. Finally, two claymore-like antipersonnel devices were detonated, spraying the Socialist area with shrapnel. Hurling himself over a low mound of rubble, Druiker sprinted twenty five meters with his battlepair partner, dropped to one knee, fired until he felt a slap on his shoulder, executed a quick combat reload, dropping the magazine inside his tucked-in undershirt to be retrieved later, slapping the charging handle of his rifle to release the bolt forward, and then heard the unsuppressed firing of Slepkinov's MBRS rifle once more.

Thick grey smoke seperated them from the Socialists, and the commandos of Green Three withdrew via four man subunits in their strange dance of bounding overwatch towards the remainder of TF Green's position. And that, thought Druiker, will be the last time I recommend establishing an OP on that damned rubble break. Feet pounding over concrete, then grass, the commandos made it back to the safe position, dropping into slit trenches and fighting holes, catching their breath and clapping one another on the shoulder. Druiker sat up in the foxhole he'd thrown himself into, and stretching his back free of the kink it had picked up in the OP earlier, low-crawled towards Sorikorov's hole to make his report in detail.

Corner of Wrightson Road and French Street

Zulu Team's assault elements reached the factory's wall without incident and quickly moved to breach the doors.

One of the teams demo specialists rigged the heavy steel doors with a small brick of C4 and then backed away.

"Fire in the hole!"

With that the door was blown from it's hinge. Within seconds two more SBS operators threw M23F frag grenades in through the opening. As soon as the blasts subsided, the assault team rushed in, searching for targets.

Within seconds the ground fllor was quickyl swept and chorus of "Clears" went up from the commandos. Stone surveyed the run down plant. It appeared as though Socialists troops had once garrisoned here, but not now.

Stone thumbed his radio and began issuing orders. "Reform as Rally Point X-Ray, we need to clear this area before somebody comes to investigate the sounds."

He turned to his demo man as the team moved to the Rally Point.

"Leave a few Claymores stashed about for any guests who might drop in."

Commander Gibson stood in the Boxer's CIC when the new standing orders arrived from NAV-FLTCOM, "Withdraw special operations personnel and inflict damage to local infrastructure to limit enemy capabilities," With that order, Gibson smiled as he contacted the Task Force Red's commanding officer and informed him of the new orders, but not before putting the ship's crew to battlestations.

Once Red Six's RTO had informed Major Brookes of the orders from Gibson, the officer smiled as he sent one of the nearby operators as a runner to retrieve Lieutenant Sorikorov. Within minutes the officer was crouched down inside the command fighting hole, opposite Brookes and Captain Stuart, "Lieutenant, we have some new rules to the game now, we're bugging out, but not before we inflict some pain on this city," Said Brookes as Stuart took over the explanation.

"Lieutenant, we've decided to knock out that bridge with your element and the Sea-Dab boats, Red and Black will act as a diversion away from the bridge in attacking the Socialist lines in the city along with eliminating the important points with time-on-target barrages from the Boxer's 155mm deck gun," Said the operations officer as he provided the Russkyan officer with a printout of the latest images of the bridge and its immediate area via the last Navy drone flyby.

Lieutenant Sorikorov studied the photographs carefully, afterwards tallying figures on the notepad resting on his right thigh.

"We will be quick about it then, to minimize your exposure time. I will need essentially all of the PETN, C4, and TNT. It will be loud, but only take an hour. They will not be able to use the bridge or the bridging site without substantial rubble clearing and reconstruction efforts."

His right hand stopped, pencil tip a centimeter from the paper. "When do we commence operations, timing-wise, as Green will be well seperated from the other two taskforces. I suggest we continue with our trend of night operations."

The S-3 nodded, "Of course, the night hours provide us with the necessary advantage required to complete this operation without significant casualties, especially for Red and Black elements," Said Stuart, "Collect what you need from the other field engineers in Red and the demolitions from Black and start for the bridge ASAP, we'll be informing Boxer of our plans and we'll prepare for a tactical withdraw towards the river for exfil out, the SH-20B is on-hand for immediate CASEVAC if needed, understood?"

"Understood. I'm moving now - we'll let you know when our positions are empty for the obvious reasons. Can't have you thinking your flanks are covered when we're a dozen klicks away getting ready to pop that highway bridge."

Sorikorov and the two Aequatians completed the remainder of the SMESCS briefing before the Russkyan slithered up and out of the fighting hole. Gathering his platoon-sized force together, he gave the signal to Brookes and Mullova. Arranging themselves in a column of march they headed out through the scrub and trees towards the highway bridge. Encrypted burst transmissions between TF Green HQ's radioman and the RNS Boxer coordinated the efforts of two SDIABs and the Salamander RHIBs to bring sufficient explosives upriver to the cache point secured by Green Three. Green One deployed to secure the bridge itself, with Green Two waiting as a small tactical reserve with the headquarters element.

Brookes ordered the three sections to move to within spotting distance of the city as his RTO transmitted via text to the Boxer's gunnery officer while overhead the RQ-20B Shade drone looked down on the city, its pilot using the FLIR-T mount to spot not only important targets within the city, but also the Socialist positions, the latter was passed on to the command elements of both TF Red and Black as they were to start the raid on the positions. The three assault sections of TF Red would each split into their two teams and attack the positions with small arms, launched grenades and rockets along with those of TF Black, while the command elements coordinated the fire support from both the Boxer's 155mm gun and the Kilrany 82mm mortars.

Sentries at the bridge were eliminated with precision subsonic fire from VSS Vintorez weapons and "Black Rook" rifles. One was eliminated by a Commando who burst from the shadow behind him, seized him by the ankles, hauling back sharply which propelled his face into the ground, belting him in the groin with the reinforced toe-cap of his combat boot, and kneeling on his back, drove his commando dagger into the base of the brain-stem before the targeted man had time to scream.

Demolition operations would commence once TFs Red and Black notified Green of diversionary measures. SDIAB and Salamander craft already made their first run upriver with the required explosives and equipment, with Green Two operating as a mule service to bring the explosives to a cache. Green Three stood sentry, with Green One split into two wider-ranging picquet elements along the highway. Strangely happy, Lieutenant Sorikorov's closed-mouth smile was invisible in the darkness.