Ibaneza
23-05-2007, 00:05
‘The May Coup was to become one of the defining moments of the Ibanezan People’s Republic, impacting significantly on the future development of the country under totalitarian rule. The reasons for the Army’s failure to place a new leader in the Presidency is a topic of some debate, but there is little doubt that it strengthened the resolve of General Secretary Somersby to solidify his position, and indeed allowed an excuse for tightening his grip across the country and truly establishing the Secret Police, the principles of NatCom and his own cult of personality as pillars of his rule.’
~ ‘Contradictions in Terms: A History of the Ibanezan People’s Republic’ by James P. Baker
+++
A cold dawn was rising over London, unusual for the time of year and consistent with a country that never seemed to do anything normally in either political of economic terms. A revolutionary socialist state for twenty years now, the former United Kingdom had begun to become accustomed to the new manner of doing things. Economics was monopolistic, bureaucratic and geared towards employing as many people as possible whilst strengthening the economy. The Economy was the State, and the State was the Party. Everything was linked, and in the Ibanezan People’s Republic, politics had taken on a somewhat brutal manner.
Alfred Peter Watkins awoke as he did every morning, and similarly wished several manners of death to his alarm clock. Climbing out of bed as quietly as possible to avoid waking his wife, spared her employment by an unfortunate case of the flu, the factory worker began his normal routine, heading to the bathroom to shower, shave and brush his teeth. The first two tasks completed, he wiped a fog from the bathroom glass and squeezed a length of fluoride onto his brush, absently turning and flicking on the television by means of the remote control. A rumble of traffic outside his house rattled the cabinet, making Alfred frown with annoyance.
The television clicked on, and a male voice could be heard from the speakers. Alfred glanced at the reflection in the glass, not recognising the voice of the morning news reporter, and then turned to look as the television as his curiosity grew. A man in military braid stood against a backdrop of the Ibanezan flag with a grave expression on his face, speaking in a brash tone.
“…and we must ensure,” the man declared, “that the Revolution is not swayed from its true course towards a communist society by the actions of a man bent on developing his own eternal dictatorship. I ask citizens to remain calm-”
“Gemma, come look at this!” Alfred called into the bedroom, meeting with only a muffled, albeit displeased response. He reached across to the remote lying by the bathroom sink and turned up the volume as the man, being explained via caption as General Arthur Tennington of the Ibanezan People’s Army, continued his speech.
“-but the matter ahead is crucial. General Secretary Somersby is a crook and scoundrel intent on stopping the social evolution of this country. We need leadership committed to taking us to the next level of our society. I cannot allow our People’s Republic to be corrupted.”
Alfred blinked, not noticing his wife standing in the bedroom doorway. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed. Turning, he fumbled with the catch on the bathroom window, and swung it open into the morning light before leaning out. In either direction along the four-lane road outside his house, the normal bustle of traffic had been completely replaced by the cold, silent hulk of Battle Tanks sitting at every intersection, ringed by a platoon of troops holding rifles loosely in their hands. Propaganda vans stood at each corner, echoing the message being broadcast on the television. Not a soul in anything but olive drab could be seen anywhere.
Alfred pulled the window closed, looking across at his quizzical wife. “This could get messy,” he said through gritted teeth.
+++
‘Contradictions in Terms’ continued;
‘One of the main points of contention for the Army’s coup attempt was the seeming lack of consensus with the rest of the Ibanezan People’s Military. Neither the Naval Chief of Staff nor the Sky Marshall of the Air Force seemed to have any prior knowledge of the attempt, or at the very least seemed to act in support at any time during the brief battle. Despite sporadic reports of increased activity in several of Ibaneza’s larger airbases, all aircraft remained on the ground, and no vessels departed harbour during the entire twenty-four hours…’
+++
Corporal Donald Macintyre checked his ammunition for the fifth time in as many minutes and nervously re-chambered the first round, gripping the AK-47 rifle tightly over the bumps of the road. Had his hands not been gloved, Macintyre would’ve worried for dropping the weapon onto the floor of the APC as it rattled along. ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ he wondered again, making it twice as many times as he had checked his ammo.
Captain Darnwell was somewhat unsure himself, but maintained a stoic expression underneath his battle gear. Awoken early that morning by the scramble bell, the entire Barracks had been given orders from General Tennington to secure Revolution Palace ahead of a larger operation to subdue the capital. The General Secretary, it had been claimed, had been declared mentally ill and chaos would ensue if the government was not secured. Darnwell was not sure he believed that, but orders from the top were just that, and no messages came to countermand. “Alright you bastards,” the Captain said, his voice rasping from years of cigarettes and coffee. “We will deploy along the Mall on the approach to Revolution Palace and secure the area ahead of other Army elements. I know there is some confusion, but our orders are crystal clear. No man was ever court-martialled for following his orders.” ‘In a sane country,’ the Captain added silently.
The APC was just one of six in that column, rolling between two other columns of troop carriers that were flanked by T-72s of the IPM’s 1st Armoured Division. In total, 144 soldiers, 18 troop carriers and 6 Battle Tanks were converging on the Mall that ran towards the residence of the General Secretary. ‘At least,’ Corporal Macintyre thought wryly, ‘it should be over quick enough.’
+++
‘Contradictions in Terms’ continued;
‘The attempted traverse of the Mall in front of Revolution Palace was a disaster, with eighty-six confirmed dead on the Army’s side to a meagre six for the Secret Police. Despite the apparent hastiness of the coup attempt by General Tennington, the speed at which the IPCSS was able to deploy its troops in defensive positions all along the concourse suggests that spies had already been placed at high levels throughout the IPM, and the superior technology allowed to the Committee for State Security demonstrated its dual purpose as both an internal espionage and suppression force…’
+++
Lieutenant Brett Hutchins wiped sweat from his brow as he looked down the viewfinder and tried to ignore the explosions that echoed through the tank’s armour from the outside. “Target, eight hundred metres, zero-two-four!” he snapped.
“Target found, locked and loaded,” the response came automatically from below within the turret.
“Fire!” Hutchins shouted, ducking within the vehicle as the main gun exploded. An explosion a split second later told the Lieutenant that his HEAT round had found its mark for the second time in the side of the IPCSS T-80 that had been hiding behind the tree-line, and a shower of flame denoted its final destruction. Hutchins set his teeth grimly; the damn things were just not dying quick enough. “Bring us across to the other treeline!” he shouted, and the engine roared beneath him. Swinging himself onto the mounted machine gun, Hutchins sprayed blind fire across the Mall as his tank broke the treeline and made a run for the opposite side, hoping to deter the IPCSS anti-tank infantry hiding behind various parts of wreckage from attempting a shot.
The push on the Mall had stalled quickly. The Army’s forces had got to the foot of the concourse to come under immediate fire that destroyed one troop carrier before anyone could read. The entire stretch to Revolution Palace was embedded with troops from the IPCSS, the Ibanezan KGB equivalent, and machine-gun nests raked fire across the Army forces from the treelines as more advanced T-80 Battle Tanks began shelling their inferior Army cousins. A quick deployment of troops had helped regain the initiative momentarily, but the defences had begun to take its toll on the smaller Army force. All Hutchins could do now was wonder where the promised support from the rest of the Army would arrive as his T-72 dropped back in through the treeline and turned, attempting to regain a firing position between two trees. “Contact!” the Lieutenant snapped again. “Armoured Personnel Carrier bearing zero-one-one, nine hundred metres. Fire when ready!”
+++
‘Contradictions in Terms’ continued;
‘As the battle progressed into its second hour and the Army forces were forced to begin a retreat down the mile of concourse they had secured ahead of an IPCSS armoured push, there is some academic debate as to why further Army forces were not committed to the advance on Revolution Palace. From the little data that has become available, there is evidence to suggest that many mid-level Army commanders lost their nerve as the Battle of the Mall began turning against them, with several Regiment-sized units being recalled to their Barracks despite the continued declaration of Martial Law. Of more important debate is the demise of General Tennington, the circumstances around which are vague at best…’
+++
Captain Warren Tyler motioned his troops to stop outside the door, before ordering them with a single hand gesture to ‘stack up’ and prepare for entry into the room beyond. The bodies of several dead soldiers lay at his feet, killed by silenced CAR-16 weapons before they even had a chance to respond, repeating an example seen through four consecutive rooms to this point. The Military Command Headquarters had been lightly defended as troops began losing their nerve as the day progressed, and it had been easy for the WOLFHOUND Unit to secure entry through a ground floor window and despatch the shocked infantryman inside. Several rooms later, the Commando unit of the IPCSS had made its way to the Central Command Room, inside which General Tennington was directing what seemed increasingly to be a failed strategy.
“Damnit, why’re they deserting?” Tennington slammed his hand on the table, around which is other co-conspirators glanced at each other nervously. They were a mixture of high-level military officers and government officials, all of whom had been promised promotion and benefits under a Tennington regime. Now they were thinking fast between themselves for the easiest and least painful method out of this entire situation.
“Sir, the Mall is going badly for us,” one Colonel explained, looking at the map. “We had no idea IPCSS would react this fast-”
“Of course they did, you idiot!” Tennington snarled beneath his hooked, Kitchener-esque moustache. “That’s what they’re paid for! We should’ve had more troops committed in the first place!” The General slumped sullenly in his chair. “What about the Air Force or the Navy?” he asked in a distressed tone.
Outside the door, Tyler was observing the actions inside via a small ‘Snake Cam’ device that was quietly pushed under the doorway. He counted the men inside, the infantry standing around the walls of the room as a guard, and silently indicated to his troops the formation to take. He then removed the camera and stood.
“They’re both distancing themselves from you, General,” a different officer, this one a Lieutenant-General, shrugged in resigned desperation. “We didn’t inform them of this in the first place, and now that it’s going badly they’re running like hell to make sure every asset they have isn’t budging a damn inch.”
The General swore, looking down at the map in anger. His dreams, aspirations of statesmanship, all were going to nothing. The General Secretary would win, he thought sullenly, and this heinous ‘Socialist Capitalist’ system would develop the biggest Stalinist Dictatorship since the big man himself, and he’d swing quietly from a noose after a show trial.
Little did the General realise that he would not be granted even that. At a single gesture, the doors to the room were kicked in, and a pair of ‘Flashbang’ grenades rolled into the room. They exploded, sending a shattering crack throughout the room and stunning everyone inside with their high-frequency noise, before WOLFHOUND went into action. The General had barely time to clasp his hands to his ears before Captain Tyler placed three bullets into the back of his head in burst-fire as other soldiers flanked either side and began raking the room with automatic weapons. The roar of bullets filled the air and intermingled with the screams of the damned, blood splattering against the walls and along the map table as the co-conspirators and their guards fell like paper dolls ahead of the Special Forces advance.
Tyler lowered his weapon, looking around the room from within a protective visor. He took a breath. “Double-tap each,” he ordered. His soldiers began moving from each body, placing a further two bullets into each head to ensure they were gone, as Tyler reached for his radio and clicked the transmitter switch. “This is Trojan to Athens,” he said in a cold, unemotional voice. “Troy has been burned, mission accomplished.”
(OOC: Open to comments, general notice by other states. More to come depicting the aftermath of the failed attempt, and the subsequent changes that my leader will be making to solidify his position as Dictator of the People's Republic.)
~ ‘Contradictions in Terms: A History of the Ibanezan People’s Republic’ by James P. Baker
+++
A cold dawn was rising over London, unusual for the time of year and consistent with a country that never seemed to do anything normally in either political of economic terms. A revolutionary socialist state for twenty years now, the former United Kingdom had begun to become accustomed to the new manner of doing things. Economics was monopolistic, bureaucratic and geared towards employing as many people as possible whilst strengthening the economy. The Economy was the State, and the State was the Party. Everything was linked, and in the Ibanezan People’s Republic, politics had taken on a somewhat brutal manner.
Alfred Peter Watkins awoke as he did every morning, and similarly wished several manners of death to his alarm clock. Climbing out of bed as quietly as possible to avoid waking his wife, spared her employment by an unfortunate case of the flu, the factory worker began his normal routine, heading to the bathroom to shower, shave and brush his teeth. The first two tasks completed, he wiped a fog from the bathroom glass and squeezed a length of fluoride onto his brush, absently turning and flicking on the television by means of the remote control. A rumble of traffic outside his house rattled the cabinet, making Alfred frown with annoyance.
The television clicked on, and a male voice could be heard from the speakers. Alfred glanced at the reflection in the glass, not recognising the voice of the morning news reporter, and then turned to look as the television as his curiosity grew. A man in military braid stood against a backdrop of the Ibanezan flag with a grave expression on his face, speaking in a brash tone.
“…and we must ensure,” the man declared, “that the Revolution is not swayed from its true course towards a communist society by the actions of a man bent on developing his own eternal dictatorship. I ask citizens to remain calm-”
“Gemma, come look at this!” Alfred called into the bedroom, meeting with only a muffled, albeit displeased response. He reached across to the remote lying by the bathroom sink and turned up the volume as the man, being explained via caption as General Arthur Tennington of the Ibanezan People’s Army, continued his speech.
“-but the matter ahead is crucial. General Secretary Somersby is a crook and scoundrel intent on stopping the social evolution of this country. We need leadership committed to taking us to the next level of our society. I cannot allow our People’s Republic to be corrupted.”
Alfred blinked, not noticing his wife standing in the bedroom doorway. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed. Turning, he fumbled with the catch on the bathroom window, and swung it open into the morning light before leaning out. In either direction along the four-lane road outside his house, the normal bustle of traffic had been completely replaced by the cold, silent hulk of Battle Tanks sitting at every intersection, ringed by a platoon of troops holding rifles loosely in their hands. Propaganda vans stood at each corner, echoing the message being broadcast on the television. Not a soul in anything but olive drab could be seen anywhere.
Alfred pulled the window closed, looking across at his quizzical wife. “This could get messy,” he said through gritted teeth.
+++
‘Contradictions in Terms’ continued;
‘One of the main points of contention for the Army’s coup attempt was the seeming lack of consensus with the rest of the Ibanezan People’s Military. Neither the Naval Chief of Staff nor the Sky Marshall of the Air Force seemed to have any prior knowledge of the attempt, or at the very least seemed to act in support at any time during the brief battle. Despite sporadic reports of increased activity in several of Ibaneza’s larger airbases, all aircraft remained on the ground, and no vessels departed harbour during the entire twenty-four hours…’
+++
Corporal Donald Macintyre checked his ammunition for the fifth time in as many minutes and nervously re-chambered the first round, gripping the AK-47 rifle tightly over the bumps of the road. Had his hands not been gloved, Macintyre would’ve worried for dropping the weapon onto the floor of the APC as it rattled along. ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ he wondered again, making it twice as many times as he had checked his ammo.
Captain Darnwell was somewhat unsure himself, but maintained a stoic expression underneath his battle gear. Awoken early that morning by the scramble bell, the entire Barracks had been given orders from General Tennington to secure Revolution Palace ahead of a larger operation to subdue the capital. The General Secretary, it had been claimed, had been declared mentally ill and chaos would ensue if the government was not secured. Darnwell was not sure he believed that, but orders from the top were just that, and no messages came to countermand. “Alright you bastards,” the Captain said, his voice rasping from years of cigarettes and coffee. “We will deploy along the Mall on the approach to Revolution Palace and secure the area ahead of other Army elements. I know there is some confusion, but our orders are crystal clear. No man was ever court-martialled for following his orders.” ‘In a sane country,’ the Captain added silently.
The APC was just one of six in that column, rolling between two other columns of troop carriers that were flanked by T-72s of the IPM’s 1st Armoured Division. In total, 144 soldiers, 18 troop carriers and 6 Battle Tanks were converging on the Mall that ran towards the residence of the General Secretary. ‘At least,’ Corporal Macintyre thought wryly, ‘it should be over quick enough.’
+++
‘Contradictions in Terms’ continued;
‘The attempted traverse of the Mall in front of Revolution Palace was a disaster, with eighty-six confirmed dead on the Army’s side to a meagre six for the Secret Police. Despite the apparent hastiness of the coup attempt by General Tennington, the speed at which the IPCSS was able to deploy its troops in defensive positions all along the concourse suggests that spies had already been placed at high levels throughout the IPM, and the superior technology allowed to the Committee for State Security demonstrated its dual purpose as both an internal espionage and suppression force…’
+++
Lieutenant Brett Hutchins wiped sweat from his brow as he looked down the viewfinder and tried to ignore the explosions that echoed through the tank’s armour from the outside. “Target, eight hundred metres, zero-two-four!” he snapped.
“Target found, locked and loaded,” the response came automatically from below within the turret.
“Fire!” Hutchins shouted, ducking within the vehicle as the main gun exploded. An explosion a split second later told the Lieutenant that his HEAT round had found its mark for the second time in the side of the IPCSS T-80 that had been hiding behind the tree-line, and a shower of flame denoted its final destruction. Hutchins set his teeth grimly; the damn things were just not dying quick enough. “Bring us across to the other treeline!” he shouted, and the engine roared beneath him. Swinging himself onto the mounted machine gun, Hutchins sprayed blind fire across the Mall as his tank broke the treeline and made a run for the opposite side, hoping to deter the IPCSS anti-tank infantry hiding behind various parts of wreckage from attempting a shot.
The push on the Mall had stalled quickly. The Army’s forces had got to the foot of the concourse to come under immediate fire that destroyed one troop carrier before anyone could read. The entire stretch to Revolution Palace was embedded with troops from the IPCSS, the Ibanezan KGB equivalent, and machine-gun nests raked fire across the Army forces from the treelines as more advanced T-80 Battle Tanks began shelling their inferior Army cousins. A quick deployment of troops had helped regain the initiative momentarily, but the defences had begun to take its toll on the smaller Army force. All Hutchins could do now was wonder where the promised support from the rest of the Army would arrive as his T-72 dropped back in through the treeline and turned, attempting to regain a firing position between two trees. “Contact!” the Lieutenant snapped again. “Armoured Personnel Carrier bearing zero-one-one, nine hundred metres. Fire when ready!”
+++
‘Contradictions in Terms’ continued;
‘As the battle progressed into its second hour and the Army forces were forced to begin a retreat down the mile of concourse they had secured ahead of an IPCSS armoured push, there is some academic debate as to why further Army forces were not committed to the advance on Revolution Palace. From the little data that has become available, there is evidence to suggest that many mid-level Army commanders lost their nerve as the Battle of the Mall began turning against them, with several Regiment-sized units being recalled to their Barracks despite the continued declaration of Martial Law. Of more important debate is the demise of General Tennington, the circumstances around which are vague at best…’
+++
Captain Warren Tyler motioned his troops to stop outside the door, before ordering them with a single hand gesture to ‘stack up’ and prepare for entry into the room beyond. The bodies of several dead soldiers lay at his feet, killed by silenced CAR-16 weapons before they even had a chance to respond, repeating an example seen through four consecutive rooms to this point. The Military Command Headquarters had been lightly defended as troops began losing their nerve as the day progressed, and it had been easy for the WOLFHOUND Unit to secure entry through a ground floor window and despatch the shocked infantryman inside. Several rooms later, the Commando unit of the IPCSS had made its way to the Central Command Room, inside which General Tennington was directing what seemed increasingly to be a failed strategy.
“Damnit, why’re they deserting?” Tennington slammed his hand on the table, around which is other co-conspirators glanced at each other nervously. They were a mixture of high-level military officers and government officials, all of whom had been promised promotion and benefits under a Tennington regime. Now they were thinking fast between themselves for the easiest and least painful method out of this entire situation.
“Sir, the Mall is going badly for us,” one Colonel explained, looking at the map. “We had no idea IPCSS would react this fast-”
“Of course they did, you idiot!” Tennington snarled beneath his hooked, Kitchener-esque moustache. “That’s what they’re paid for! We should’ve had more troops committed in the first place!” The General slumped sullenly in his chair. “What about the Air Force or the Navy?” he asked in a distressed tone.
Outside the door, Tyler was observing the actions inside via a small ‘Snake Cam’ device that was quietly pushed under the doorway. He counted the men inside, the infantry standing around the walls of the room as a guard, and silently indicated to his troops the formation to take. He then removed the camera and stood.
“They’re both distancing themselves from you, General,” a different officer, this one a Lieutenant-General, shrugged in resigned desperation. “We didn’t inform them of this in the first place, and now that it’s going badly they’re running like hell to make sure every asset they have isn’t budging a damn inch.”
The General swore, looking down at the map in anger. His dreams, aspirations of statesmanship, all were going to nothing. The General Secretary would win, he thought sullenly, and this heinous ‘Socialist Capitalist’ system would develop the biggest Stalinist Dictatorship since the big man himself, and he’d swing quietly from a noose after a show trial.
Little did the General realise that he would not be granted even that. At a single gesture, the doors to the room were kicked in, and a pair of ‘Flashbang’ grenades rolled into the room. They exploded, sending a shattering crack throughout the room and stunning everyone inside with their high-frequency noise, before WOLFHOUND went into action. The General had barely time to clasp his hands to his ears before Captain Tyler placed three bullets into the back of his head in burst-fire as other soldiers flanked either side and began raking the room with automatic weapons. The roar of bullets filled the air and intermingled with the screams of the damned, blood splattering against the walls and along the map table as the co-conspirators and their guards fell like paper dolls ahead of the Special Forces advance.
Tyler lowered his weapon, looking around the room from within a protective visor. He took a breath. “Double-tap each,” he ordered. His soldiers began moving from each body, placing a further two bullets into each head to ensure they were gone, as Tyler reached for his radio and clicked the transmitter switch. “This is Trojan to Athens,” he said in a cold, unemotional voice. “Troy has been burned, mission accomplished.”
(OOC: Open to comments, general notice by other states. More to come depicting the aftermath of the failed attempt, and the subsequent changes that my leader will be making to solidify his position as Dictator of the People's Republic.)