Lyras
18-08-2007, 15:18
OOC: This has been discussed, and is not simply a complete disregard for the rules of RP etiquette. If you want in, sign-up is in the OOC thread for "A time for war?".
Londim was taking hits. That was rather blunt, and was certainly an unsophisticated way of looking at the situation, but it was nevertheless true.
The purely defensive war was a path to certain defeat. Military theorists had agreed on that point for millennia, and, in this regard, Lyran theories were no different.
Lyras, as a state, however, was very different. And, as an ally to the Three of Londim, could not in good conscience fight only with the forces that assisted in the direct defence of Londim itself.
Admittedly, most would consider Lyras' 74-Army-Group contribution, a total just shy of 40 million personnel, to be more than adequate. Indeed, for most states of equivalent population to the Protectorate, that number would consitute the entirety of the state's armed forces.
Not so Lyras. In fact, Lyras was not only considering increasing its presence in Londim, if the blockade could be lifted without undue difficulty, but was also considering taking the fight to the enemy more directly.
The so-called Londim Disarmament Coalition was a multi-national taskforce that was, together, attempting to forcibly prevent the perceived Londimian Imperialist threat from manifesting. In the process they had added weight to the xenophobia that was pervading all levels of that state, and forced Londim to not only militarise, but to do so at breakneck speed, without any recourse to the diplomacy that might have otherwise been successful.
Lyras could have told the LDC what the result would be. Lacking the overwhelming force required to mount a fully fledged invasion of Londim, the conflict would settle into a high-tech stalemate that would send casualties spiralling ever upward, to no appreciable gain, squandering financial power, destroying equipment and wasting lives.
If nothing else, Lyrans abhorred waste. Detested it for the abomination that it was.
Thus, Lyras would end this war. Decisive action, bringing massive force to bear on one coalition member at a time, rendering them completely incapable of supporting military forces overseas, then moving on. No one nation in the LDC could hope to match Lyran force of arms, and it was on this fact that Warmarshall Krell was counting. With any luck, a rapid and convincing victory would not only force the targetted state to withdraw, but the spectre of Lyran offensives against LDC homelands could well generate a cancellation of attempted direct invasion of Londim, as LDC memberstates recall their forces to guard against Lyran adventurism.
This first campaign would, perhaps, be the most crucial. Failure here would cast a (justified) pall of doubt over perceptions of Lyran strength, and that doubt, more than any new technology or extra division of combat soldiers, could spell doom for Londim, and undermine every advancement that the Protectorate had ever made.
For that reason, Warmashall Krell was leading Task Force Rho personally. The aging officer hadn't left Lyras itself for more than 20 years, but was still percieved by most within Lyras, and a good many outside it, as being the global benchmark for operational level military command.
The target was the Allied States of Faxanavia, arguably the weakest of the LDC states, and perhaps possessed of the least national cohesion. Estimates were mixed on the latter part of that statement, but the most important factor, to the Warmarhsall, was that it's population was substantially smaller than the Lyran Army currently in Londim. Intelligence reports placed their total military personnel at around 500,000, with a further million in the reserve forces. Those same intelligence reports indicated that Faxanavia had become aware of its relatively vulnerable status, and had just spent over a billion Faxanavian credits on Infantry and Artillery upgrades. They had not taken delivery yet, but any invasion would be far more costly if they were allowed to.
Reserve forces were only of use if the state had time to mobilise. Despite the conflicts that Faxanavia had entered into, they were, for all intents and purposes, a state that was at peace. That condition was about to change.
*******************
The nine transports hugged the ground, skirting the northern territorial waters of the Allied States. So far, the pilot thought, so good. Faxanavian border stations were not really designed as a defensive measure. They were designed as clear indicators of where their own waters were, and to let uninvited guests know that they were in someone else's territory. The radar stations were on active, broadcasting at 80% power, for all the world like security guards at night carrying torches. Their presence was not to find someone creeping around, but to let anyone who might creep around know that there were people about.
So the pilot steered clear of the radars. It was as simple as that. The sparsely populated territories of the Faxanavian east were a godsend for Lyras' purposes. That territory transformed the nigh on impossible task of sneaking medium transport aircraft into a developed country's into the substantially less difficult task of getting the vehicles of the Lyran Special Forces detachment that the planes were carrying out of the planes quickly when they touched down.
That detachment, tasked as it was, to destroy the functionality of one of Faxanavia's five major airfields was little more than a heavy platoon in numerical strength. They were, however, very high quality troops, and the equipment they carried was second to none. And they had enough supplies to last for a considerable length of time, unsupported. Not that any of them wanted to do that, nor expected that they would. Their mission would be the first blow Lyras landed upon its far smaller adversary.
The soldiers themselves, Echo Company, 5th (Special Forces) Battalion, were among the best Lyras had to offer. And they’d want to be. They were, quite possibly, going to end up in combat against the regular army of the Allied States of Faxanavia, and, while not quite as slick or well armed as some, nevertheless had notably greater firepower than could be carried by a single company. The ability of the unit to achieve its objective and withdraw was just as important as its ability to fight well, if not more so.
But fight, for the Protectorate, was what they were heading into Faxanavia to do.
The pilot turned to the loadmaster, and spoke into the headset he was wearing.
“Ok folks, we are feet dry. Turning west. 20 minutes to go. Harriman, get the sleeping beauties up.”
“Ok… 30 sleep-deprived commandos, coming right up”
***
Faxanavian Militia Corporal John Nilsen lowered his night vision binoculars and pointed towards the tree line on a distant ridge. “See, Sarge, I said there was something over there!”
First Sergeant Hal Sorenson lowered his own binoculars.
“At least two low-flying aircraft. Maybe more.” He looked down at the map and tried to estimate the position of the aircraft, then picked up his radio.
“Station Twenty-three this is Rider Six. Station Twenty-three, Rider Six. Over.”
“Rider Six, Twenty-three. Go ahead.”
“We have two, maybe more low-flying aircraft in sector 12, grid 5. Looks like they’re heading west. Over.”
“Same bunch of smugglers that have been flying this route from Remus every night for the past month? Over.”
“Could be. Medium transports. They must be doing well for themselves. Herky birds, maybe? Those things must be a dime a dozen these days. Over.”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it past them to be running out there. Smugglers. As long as they’re not bombing us, ignore it. Whether they’re Remans playing in the wilderness or whatever, it won’t much matter to command. So long as they're not Londimian fighter-bombers, anway. Get back to your patrol route and look for illegals coming across the border from Romulus. Twenty-three out.”
***
The Hercules aircraft banked hard right, and pitched up, pressing its passengers into their seats as the aircraft came around hard. The plane flew north for 2 minutes, before coming around hard right again.
Inside the aircraft, a light changed from red to green.
"Green light, go go go" the loadmaster yelled, and before he'd finished the phrase, half of the 30 Lyran Special Forces personnel had already left the aircraft.
The next stage of the evolution was simple, although far more dangerous for the aircraft involved. The loadmaster released first one, then the other vehicle, and flicked the switch to give them a push towards the loading ramp.
The concept was that both vehicles would fall out the rear loading ramp, and, cushioned as they were by pallets, land on the ground with an almighty thud, and be ready to go when the SF troops got to them. The catch here was that most aircraft have great troubles surviving rolling cargo... particularly when there are two units of rolling cargo. This problem is compounded when flying at low level. Nevertheless, it was a time-honoured, if dangerous, Lyran SF insertion technique, and one that they were performing today.
As it happened, they performed it without undue incident. The tricky manouever expedited by the well timed nose down, as per the manual. Hard to execute, but so seamless when done correctly.
And the planes were off again. Heading east, and to a rendezvous with the KC-135 that would meet them off the Faxanavian east coast.
The commandos were down, and stashed their parachutes with alacrity. They were in hostile territory, and had no illusions as to the safety that secrecy granted them, this deep inside Faxanavia.
The column moved quickly over the territory to the south, 65kph over uneven ground ensuring the alertness of everyone aboard. Two of the vehicles probed for sign of hostile forces in the area ahead of the convoy, while the Shepherd AA platform scanned the airspace with its passive sensors at maximum resolution. Things were quiet as the proverbial tomb. Although, LTCOL Mathews pondered, comparing the current state of affairs to that present in a tomb would not be a positive thought to dwell on for any length of time, or to enunciate to the troops at all. But, like many in Lyras, he was delighted to be on this mission. People volunteered for the Special Forces for a number of reasons, but no one disliked being ordered to carry out a task as challenging as this one appeared to be. Lyrans were warriors, and for too long Lyras had languished behind its inviolate borders. The LDC was now fair game, but it’s very potent unified military strength had, thus far, prevented much by the way of retaliation.
The first offensive action would be struck here, upon the communications and control nodes that co-ordinated Faxanavia's military.
Mathews checked the safety on his AR44 (again, by force of habit) then reached for the radio handset that sat on the dash of the hummer. He looked at his watch, 0359:40.
*Close enough*
“Red Sky”
The response was quick in coming
“2, 55”
“3, 55”
“4, 55”
“5, 55”
“6, 55”
“Dawn’s coming.”
And that was that, the bi-hourly radio-check completed with requisite speed. Mathews was an infantryman by gene-stock, and he’d transferred because he liked the freedom that Special Forces allowed him, that and the quality of the men he served with was superb. Not that he would have expected otherwise. Lyras WAS its armed forces and they knew nothing else. War was their, quite literally, in their blood.
Far more so, by a long shot, than in the Allied States of Faxanavia. There, so Lyran Intelligence had informed them, were peaceable, pleasant, soft people, unused to the trials and privations of war. Unfortunately for Mathews, as numerically very significant soft people possessed of tanks that his companyfor obvious reasons, did not possess.
“Bloodhound to Alpha, shadows on the ridge, over”
The lead scout, callsign “Bloodhound” had spotted something ahead, and was uncertain of its identity, classification or disposition. That was not positive. At less than 10 miles from the insertion, well, it was unlikely to be friendly.
“Alpha to Bloodhound, sniff the wind, over”
“Bloodhound to Alpha, acknowledged, will advise, out”
“Alpha to pack, watch for wolves, out.”
Fifteen Lyran vehicles stopped gently and noiselessly, then turned their engines off, and manned their weapons systems, while the lead began to move towards the contact. Mathews would leave the next step to the lead vehicle.
The LSF company's senior sergeant, SGT Roarke, was in that lead vehicle. A man that knew his stuff, Roarke was also a combat veteran of the 12 years, 10 of them spent on the Fehnmari border. Very, very cautious by inclination, and unabashedly brazen when given the chance, he was, in many ways, the embodiment of the stereotypical LSF sergeant.
He and three others made up “Team Bloodhound”. They were the men, and one woman, who would metaphorically “sniff out” threats to the Alpha's pack. Bloodhound itself was one of the LSF’s new recon vehicles. Heavily muffled engines, radio scanners, EMF antennae, infra/thermal binoculars plugged in to the dashboard, and a MAD device held ahead of the lead lined bonnet on a boom, looking very much like the snout of the animal that helped give the vehicle, the second in its class, its name. The 14.7mm LY60 MG on top was helpful for removing the less troublesome of those things that the Bloodhound managed to locate.
And, this was the first time that the recon hummer had seen action. And it was just what the Bloodhound had been designed for.
Roarke had spotted two vehicles on the ridgeline ahead, silhouetted against the starlight as shapes when seen by Mk-1 eyeball, and clearly two B-vehicles in infra-red. Exactly what type of B-vehicle was not certain.
The Bloodhound crept forward, Roarke easing the vehicle forward while CPL Russ watched the target through the binoculars, keeping a running commentary.
“Definitely B-vehicles, no doubt at all. The one on the left looks a lot like a Ural… in fact, I’m almost… yeah, it’s a Ural. That makes it military, one way or other.”
“Yeah, sarge, and the one on the left looks mighty similar to one of those new M412s the Faxanavians have been acquiring lately, rigged for travel. In fact, I’m pretty sure it is a M412.”
Roarke nodded absently, pondering the course of actions available to him. He could engage, but he had no idea what was around those two vehicles, not at this distance. Plus he couldn’t be absolutely sure of destroying the M412 Mammoth Multiple-Launch Rocket System before it was ready to fire at him. And, to add insult to injury, that would not only blow Bloodhound into a hundred thousand itty-bitty pieces, but would mean that the vehicle could get off a radio signal reporting their presence. That would be, in effect, a death sentence. They’d have to talk to the boss.
“Alpha, this is Bloodhound, bird-dog report, over.”
“Bloodhound, this is Alpha, send, over.”
“Alpha stop. 0405 Delta 1. Bravo stop. 09878675. More to follow, over.”
“Copy. Send, over.”
“Charlie Stop. 1 dash nil. 2 dash 1. 3 dash nil. 4 dash 1, Mike Lima Romeo Sierra. End bird-dog.”
“Acknowledged, Bloodhound. Wait, out.”
Mathews now had to consider his options. Bloodhound had reported that the contacts were a single B vehicle and a multiple launch rocket system. The latter was probably self-propelled, due to the difficulty identifying it earlier on. The company could either avoid the two vehicles entirely, a difficult and time expensive proposition, or they could attempt to destroy them, or they could sit tight and wait for them to move. Neither the first nor last of the three options allowed the unit enough time to get in to position to hit the airfield within their given window. They’d have to neutralise them.
So, how was that to be achieved? The fastest method was probably the TOW missile launcher on the second of the three closest vehicles. Two missiles loaded, flight time about 8 seconds if Bloodhound provided laser designation, and the whole thing over in less than 20 seconds. Although, admittedly, it’d make a hell of a bang, and, when those rockets went up, an explosion that’d be seen for miles. But, Mathews thought, that can’t really be helped. With luck, they’d only need one missile, and make the entire incident seem like a malfunction of one of the Faxanavian’s own missiles… They’d be able to scarper before any investigating units arrived, particularly at night, and utilising the Bloodhound’s abilities to the full. Yes, that’d do it. Besides, they wouldn't have to worry about a long investigation, what with the invasion fleet primed to hit.
“Alpha to pack, big dog 4 dash 1 period 1, I say again, big dog 4 dash 1 period 1.”
“Huntsman, roger”
“Bloodhound, roger. Starting the music.”
Roarke gave his instructions quickly, and the crew of the Bloodhound had one of the four laser designators locked on the Faxanavian MLRS in seconds. The vehicle could hardly have been clearer to the Lyran's thermal and infra-vision detection equipment in broad daylight, still-warm engines contrasting against the cold sky.
“Music’s on.”
“Copy that. Huntsman’s pull.”
At the final fire authority, the TOW equipped vehicle that was callsign “Huntsman” fired the first of two wired guided missiles, the projectile travelling the several mile distance under manual guidance, the laser-designated targets clearly showing on the firing platform’s targeting display.
7.28 seconds after the first missile had cleared the launch tube, the Faxanavian multiple launch rocket system detonated in a rapidly expanding ball of crimson flame. All 16 rockets went up, their solid fuel propellant igniting upon contact with the explosive warhead that was the business end of the Lyran weapon. Seconds after the blast, Bloodhound came back on the net.
“Alpha, this is Bloodhound, scorch two, over.”
“Roger Bloodhound, proceed as planned. Out.”
The reconnaissance vehicle moved out, followed minutes later by the rest of the platoon. The Bolshkovite command complex was beckoning.
***
“Captain,” Corporal Miller said with a salute.
“Yes, Corporal?” Captain Hausman looked up from his desk and sketched a quick salute in return.
“Sir, Epsilon Three-two is overdue for radio-check.”
“By how long?” Hausman asked wearily. He was getting tired of jumpy reservists. Every little problem had them seeing the Londimians behind every tree. The coalition was battering their coast. They had more important things to worry about than endless smugglers and false alarms. There was nothing out here but trees…
“Forty-five minutes, sir. They also fail to answer our calls.”
“Hmm…” There were smugglers around, and the Remans could be vicious. “Dispatch Epsilon Two and Delta Three to recon the area and see if they can make contact with Three-Two.”
“Yes, sir.” Miller saluted and left tent heading for the comm tent.
***
"Alpha, this is Huntsman, red warning, over."
"Huntsman, this is Alpha, acknowledge, over."
The trailing vehicle reported daybreak. Right on time. The low, antennae-bedecked structure that was their objective was now clearly in sight in the valley below, chain link fence around it and several other buildings.
“Pack, this is Alpha. Start the hunt.”
The roar of vehicle engines all around him was all the acknowledgement he needed, as his company roared down the slope.
Four missile streaked past him towards the base, slaming into the delicate roof-mounted communications arrays, as the special forces team descended upon the Faxanavians like the hounds of hell.
***
Four drab green vehicles converged at the base of a short hill. On the crest of the hill stood the burned out wreck of a fifth Faxanavian army vehicle still hitched to the rubble of its M412. Inside one of the vehicles a young lieutenant picked up a radio.
“Epsilon Two to Eagle.”
“Epsilon Two, Eagle. Go,” a voice answered through the static.
“We have Epsilon Three-two. It is a complete loss. No survivors. Over.”
“Roger. Any indications of the cause? Over.”
“There’s heavy fire damage and what looks like cook-off damage. Over.”
“Roger. Take a closer look and advise. Eagle out.” Back at Eagle base, the signalman looked up from his console with a frown. CAPT Hausman looked back and shrugged.
“Let me know when they report back, Corporal.” Hausman walked away quietly.
Another misfire. Second one this month. The equipment should be top of the line. Must be human error. I keep telling HQ that these men need more training. We’re scrapping the bottom of the barrel with our reservists these days.
Captain Hausman had no idea that the headquarters he was referring to was, at that very second, under attack, and bereft of functioning communications equipment.
The Faxanavian military throughout Bolshkov was paralysed, and didn't know it.
***
The Lyran military had never been subjected to the oft-used civilian assertion that the military were all block-heads. The concept of military intelligence as an oxy-moron hadn’t made its way into the Lyran psyche. Nor could it. The entire population was the military, and vice-versa.
Like now, for example. The shortest point approach for the Lyran Task Force Rho air-assault elements straight from Lyras, using airbourne refuelling to get them there. Had they done that, they’d have arrived in Faxanavia by now. Or, more likely, they would have arrived before the special forces units brought down the crucial command and control nodes for the Faxanavian military, thus being engaged by alert air defences, thus forcing their escorts to engage, and causing casualties that would be very bad for PR within Faxanavia.
Hence, the enormous armada of aircraft that was carrying the Lyran 11th Army Group were heading east towards Faxanavia, flying over waters that, for the most part, remained uncontested. Their only escorts were a trio of LYEF-207 Merlin electronic warfare aircraft, designed to confuse the daylights out of any radar to track them. And the electronic defence was simple, and elegant. Given time, and distance, the ground-based radar would burn through the jamming. But the sheer number of dots –aircraft- that would remain on the screen would lead the radar operators to believe that they were still being jammed.
And there were hundreds of aircraft. The largest airborne insertion in history was in the making, dwarfing the cobra-base operation of 1991 by two orders of magnitude. More than a decade of rapid-response conceptualisation and was about to be put to the test. 11th Army Group was the embodiment of the Lyran rapid response philosophy.
The leading waves of aircraft were about 15 minutes ahead of the bulk of the division. There tasks were, for the pilots, the most challenging. They were going to touch-and-go, dropping their LY219s within a scant 2000m of their objectives. Attempted successfully in training, but never utilised in combat situations, and never so close to an urban area. It was a very tricky manoeuvre for the pilots, who would have to fight to maintain pitch as their cargo rolled out the back of their load ramps. Normally, rolling cargo was an event that aircraft did not survive. The Lyran Air Force and Army had embraced the concept in a revolutionary manner.
Precisely on schedule, the first transport opened its rear doors, and the first of the LY219 Ironhearts deployed its exit-chute. With a lurch that was almost breathtaking, the armoured vehicle was pulled out of the moving plane and into the air, ending its downward journey three seconds later with a thump that was audible for quite a distance. When clear of the plane, the exit chute was blasted away, and the crew of Ironheart began to bring their weapons systems online, 25mm cannons going active, and engines roaring into life.
The first LY219 touched down precisely on the middle of the main runway of Bolshkov international airport, before blasting its parachutes off, and accelerating towards the tower. As it roared down the runway, its brethren began to land on and around the tarmac, the vehicles fanning out towards the airfields perimeter, before dismounting the their infantry to secure the line. People in the vicinity of the airfield watched, stunned into inactivity, by the spectacle that was unfolding before them.
CPL Ronczka, section commander of the infantry inside the lead IFV readied his AR44 and grinned maniacally as the driver pushed the Ironheart past 120kph down the runway. Tasked to take and hold the tower, with a minimum of casualties, he was supremely confident of success. And the plan so far had gone like clockwork.
He looked to his left, and PTE Murphy O’Cain grinned back at him enthusiastically. Yep, his men were pumped. Maybe a bit too much. But, charging down the road at huge speeds, about to charge a building… well… the adrenaline was most definitely kicking in…
The driver forced the vehicle to a squealing halt just in front of the main control tower, and moments before the four other LY219s of the platoon pulled up. The vehicle commander hit the ramp release button and screamed out the go signal. They were off.
The scene was again breathtaking. Lines of mean streaming out of their vehicles and into the terminals, weapons at the shoulder, their light-urban camouflage eerily effective whenever one stopped to cover his section-mates. The soldiers quickly found that airfield security was intelligent enough to know that it was overpowered. Security guards were standing around with their hands on their heads, and having removed their pistol belts.
Within the first minute, 16 LY219s had touched down. By the end of the second minute, three full companies had landed on the grounds of the airport, and its immediate surrounds. The handful of Faxanavian airfield defence guard never bothered to fire a shot. From the touchdown of the first Ironheart, it was blindingly obvious that they would not be able to hold their positions.
In less than five minutes, in a manoeuvre very reminiscent of the Entebbe Raid, writ large, Bolshkov International was firmly under Lyran control.
20 minutes after that, the second wave of Task Force Rho was touching down, and their arrival, while less surprising than the airmobile assault by the 19th Cav, was nevertheless still a world first. The air traffic control officers attached to 19th Cav had their work well and truly cut out, as they desperately tried to land the monstrous tank transports that were carrying the 388th Armoured, then shuttle them off the runway, and get the tanks off and into position.
Hectic, chaotic, frantic and highly unsafe, but, ultimately, successful. Within an hour of the first 19th Cav units leaving their planes, the first LY4 MBTs of 388th Armoured were rolling through the streets.
The chances of the local Faxanavian forces taking the capture of the airfield well, were not good. And the chances of a Faxanavian counterattack were extremely high. But with 388th Armoured in position, the chances of the Lyran hold being dislodged plummeted. Preliminary reconnaissance hinted at a mechanised regiment, at the very least, in the area.
The commander of the 19th watched as the self-propelled howitzers of his unit rolled out and onto the tarmac, as another of the super-lift planes passed Vr and took to the air, headed back towards Lyras, again by the strung out easterly route. The tanks took priority. With hostile forces presumed to be so close, they had to get the line set up, and quickly. Lest an unexpectedly quick armoured response force Lyras to use more force than required. The hope was that the overwhelming show of force would intimidate the entire country into silence.
‘Pity that’ the Colonel thought. ‘I’d feel far, far safer if I had those 155s up…’ Then the man caught himself. 155s in a densely populated, built up area. He shuddered, as appreciation for the consequences of his almost-mistake sank in. Civilian casualties if he used his tube artillery, let alone his MLRS, in Courtland, would be absolutely horrific. It would very, very quickly make conquerors out of the liberators that the Lyrans professed to be. And thus was not viable as a tactical concept. Ignoring the ethical ramifications, atrocities like that would quickly turn the Faxanavian military, which Lyras hoped would for the most part stay in barracks, against the Lyrans, and would, in essence, force a war that did not need to be fought.
The concept was simple. Lyras was here to stop you all from making a fatal mistake. Recall your troops. End the war. No one needs to die. We're not your enemies, but your government would have you fight us. Keep your lives, and those of your children. Do not go to war with Lyras.
No. For the moment, those 155s would have to operate as assault guns and tank-destroyers. But there was still the hope that the Faxanavian army wouldn’t give battle at all. Fingers crossed.
As one of the first arriving gunship helicopters slowly cruised over his tank, the Colonel broke into a feral grin.
******************
The scene was repeated across all five of the Allied States of Faxanavia. Air-mobile mechanised forces secured air-corridors allowing for arrival of heavier equipment.
Thousands of TSF624 Shukusei Advanced Air Superiority Fighters blanketed Faxanavian Airspace.
LY4 Main Battle Tanks held major road intersections.
EH19 gunship helicopters prowled the rooftops.
The ports, seized as they were by Lyran marines, disgorged uncounted soldiers and thousands upon thousands of tons of equipment.
As the sun rose, climbing in the morning sky, 20 million Faxanavians awoke to find their country under lockdown. Radio stations were not transmitting. Vehicles with loadspeakers drove through the streets, encouraging people to stay in their homes.
The Allied States had fallen.
Londim was taking hits. That was rather blunt, and was certainly an unsophisticated way of looking at the situation, but it was nevertheless true.
The purely defensive war was a path to certain defeat. Military theorists had agreed on that point for millennia, and, in this regard, Lyran theories were no different.
Lyras, as a state, however, was very different. And, as an ally to the Three of Londim, could not in good conscience fight only with the forces that assisted in the direct defence of Londim itself.
Admittedly, most would consider Lyras' 74-Army-Group contribution, a total just shy of 40 million personnel, to be more than adequate. Indeed, for most states of equivalent population to the Protectorate, that number would consitute the entirety of the state's armed forces.
Not so Lyras. In fact, Lyras was not only considering increasing its presence in Londim, if the blockade could be lifted without undue difficulty, but was also considering taking the fight to the enemy more directly.
The so-called Londim Disarmament Coalition was a multi-national taskforce that was, together, attempting to forcibly prevent the perceived Londimian Imperialist threat from manifesting. In the process they had added weight to the xenophobia that was pervading all levels of that state, and forced Londim to not only militarise, but to do so at breakneck speed, without any recourse to the diplomacy that might have otherwise been successful.
Lyras could have told the LDC what the result would be. Lacking the overwhelming force required to mount a fully fledged invasion of Londim, the conflict would settle into a high-tech stalemate that would send casualties spiralling ever upward, to no appreciable gain, squandering financial power, destroying equipment and wasting lives.
If nothing else, Lyrans abhorred waste. Detested it for the abomination that it was.
Thus, Lyras would end this war. Decisive action, bringing massive force to bear on one coalition member at a time, rendering them completely incapable of supporting military forces overseas, then moving on. No one nation in the LDC could hope to match Lyran force of arms, and it was on this fact that Warmarshall Krell was counting. With any luck, a rapid and convincing victory would not only force the targetted state to withdraw, but the spectre of Lyran offensives against LDC homelands could well generate a cancellation of attempted direct invasion of Londim, as LDC memberstates recall their forces to guard against Lyran adventurism.
This first campaign would, perhaps, be the most crucial. Failure here would cast a (justified) pall of doubt over perceptions of Lyran strength, and that doubt, more than any new technology or extra division of combat soldiers, could spell doom for Londim, and undermine every advancement that the Protectorate had ever made.
For that reason, Warmashall Krell was leading Task Force Rho personally. The aging officer hadn't left Lyras itself for more than 20 years, but was still percieved by most within Lyras, and a good many outside it, as being the global benchmark for operational level military command.
The target was the Allied States of Faxanavia, arguably the weakest of the LDC states, and perhaps possessed of the least national cohesion. Estimates were mixed on the latter part of that statement, but the most important factor, to the Warmarhsall, was that it's population was substantially smaller than the Lyran Army currently in Londim. Intelligence reports placed their total military personnel at around 500,000, with a further million in the reserve forces. Those same intelligence reports indicated that Faxanavia had become aware of its relatively vulnerable status, and had just spent over a billion Faxanavian credits on Infantry and Artillery upgrades. They had not taken delivery yet, but any invasion would be far more costly if they were allowed to.
Reserve forces were only of use if the state had time to mobilise. Despite the conflicts that Faxanavia had entered into, they were, for all intents and purposes, a state that was at peace. That condition was about to change.
*******************
The nine transports hugged the ground, skirting the northern territorial waters of the Allied States. So far, the pilot thought, so good. Faxanavian border stations were not really designed as a defensive measure. They were designed as clear indicators of where their own waters were, and to let uninvited guests know that they were in someone else's territory. The radar stations were on active, broadcasting at 80% power, for all the world like security guards at night carrying torches. Their presence was not to find someone creeping around, but to let anyone who might creep around know that there were people about.
So the pilot steered clear of the radars. It was as simple as that. The sparsely populated territories of the Faxanavian east were a godsend for Lyras' purposes. That territory transformed the nigh on impossible task of sneaking medium transport aircraft into a developed country's into the substantially less difficult task of getting the vehicles of the Lyran Special Forces detachment that the planes were carrying out of the planes quickly when they touched down.
That detachment, tasked as it was, to destroy the functionality of one of Faxanavia's five major airfields was little more than a heavy platoon in numerical strength. They were, however, very high quality troops, and the equipment they carried was second to none. And they had enough supplies to last for a considerable length of time, unsupported. Not that any of them wanted to do that, nor expected that they would. Their mission would be the first blow Lyras landed upon its far smaller adversary.
The soldiers themselves, Echo Company, 5th (Special Forces) Battalion, were among the best Lyras had to offer. And they’d want to be. They were, quite possibly, going to end up in combat against the regular army of the Allied States of Faxanavia, and, while not quite as slick or well armed as some, nevertheless had notably greater firepower than could be carried by a single company. The ability of the unit to achieve its objective and withdraw was just as important as its ability to fight well, if not more so.
But fight, for the Protectorate, was what they were heading into Faxanavia to do.
The pilot turned to the loadmaster, and spoke into the headset he was wearing.
“Ok folks, we are feet dry. Turning west. 20 minutes to go. Harriman, get the sleeping beauties up.”
“Ok… 30 sleep-deprived commandos, coming right up”
***
Faxanavian Militia Corporal John Nilsen lowered his night vision binoculars and pointed towards the tree line on a distant ridge. “See, Sarge, I said there was something over there!”
First Sergeant Hal Sorenson lowered his own binoculars.
“At least two low-flying aircraft. Maybe more.” He looked down at the map and tried to estimate the position of the aircraft, then picked up his radio.
“Station Twenty-three this is Rider Six. Station Twenty-three, Rider Six. Over.”
“Rider Six, Twenty-three. Go ahead.”
“We have two, maybe more low-flying aircraft in sector 12, grid 5. Looks like they’re heading west. Over.”
“Same bunch of smugglers that have been flying this route from Remus every night for the past month? Over.”
“Could be. Medium transports. They must be doing well for themselves. Herky birds, maybe? Those things must be a dime a dozen these days. Over.”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it past them to be running out there. Smugglers. As long as they’re not bombing us, ignore it. Whether they’re Remans playing in the wilderness or whatever, it won’t much matter to command. So long as they're not Londimian fighter-bombers, anway. Get back to your patrol route and look for illegals coming across the border from Romulus. Twenty-three out.”
***
The Hercules aircraft banked hard right, and pitched up, pressing its passengers into their seats as the aircraft came around hard. The plane flew north for 2 minutes, before coming around hard right again.
Inside the aircraft, a light changed from red to green.
"Green light, go go go" the loadmaster yelled, and before he'd finished the phrase, half of the 30 Lyran Special Forces personnel had already left the aircraft.
The next stage of the evolution was simple, although far more dangerous for the aircraft involved. The loadmaster released first one, then the other vehicle, and flicked the switch to give them a push towards the loading ramp.
The concept was that both vehicles would fall out the rear loading ramp, and, cushioned as they were by pallets, land on the ground with an almighty thud, and be ready to go when the SF troops got to them. The catch here was that most aircraft have great troubles surviving rolling cargo... particularly when there are two units of rolling cargo. This problem is compounded when flying at low level. Nevertheless, it was a time-honoured, if dangerous, Lyran SF insertion technique, and one that they were performing today.
As it happened, they performed it without undue incident. The tricky manouever expedited by the well timed nose down, as per the manual. Hard to execute, but so seamless when done correctly.
And the planes were off again. Heading east, and to a rendezvous with the KC-135 that would meet them off the Faxanavian east coast.
The commandos were down, and stashed their parachutes with alacrity. They were in hostile territory, and had no illusions as to the safety that secrecy granted them, this deep inside Faxanavia.
The column moved quickly over the territory to the south, 65kph over uneven ground ensuring the alertness of everyone aboard. Two of the vehicles probed for sign of hostile forces in the area ahead of the convoy, while the Shepherd AA platform scanned the airspace with its passive sensors at maximum resolution. Things were quiet as the proverbial tomb. Although, LTCOL Mathews pondered, comparing the current state of affairs to that present in a tomb would not be a positive thought to dwell on for any length of time, or to enunciate to the troops at all. But, like many in Lyras, he was delighted to be on this mission. People volunteered for the Special Forces for a number of reasons, but no one disliked being ordered to carry out a task as challenging as this one appeared to be. Lyrans were warriors, and for too long Lyras had languished behind its inviolate borders. The LDC was now fair game, but it’s very potent unified military strength had, thus far, prevented much by the way of retaliation.
The first offensive action would be struck here, upon the communications and control nodes that co-ordinated Faxanavia's military.
Mathews checked the safety on his AR44 (again, by force of habit) then reached for the radio handset that sat on the dash of the hummer. He looked at his watch, 0359:40.
*Close enough*
“Red Sky”
The response was quick in coming
“2, 55”
“3, 55”
“4, 55”
“5, 55”
“6, 55”
“Dawn’s coming.”
And that was that, the bi-hourly radio-check completed with requisite speed. Mathews was an infantryman by gene-stock, and he’d transferred because he liked the freedom that Special Forces allowed him, that and the quality of the men he served with was superb. Not that he would have expected otherwise. Lyras WAS its armed forces and they knew nothing else. War was their, quite literally, in their blood.
Far more so, by a long shot, than in the Allied States of Faxanavia. There, so Lyran Intelligence had informed them, were peaceable, pleasant, soft people, unused to the trials and privations of war. Unfortunately for Mathews, as numerically very significant soft people possessed of tanks that his companyfor obvious reasons, did not possess.
“Bloodhound to Alpha, shadows on the ridge, over”
The lead scout, callsign “Bloodhound” had spotted something ahead, and was uncertain of its identity, classification or disposition. That was not positive. At less than 10 miles from the insertion, well, it was unlikely to be friendly.
“Alpha to Bloodhound, sniff the wind, over”
“Bloodhound to Alpha, acknowledged, will advise, out”
“Alpha to pack, watch for wolves, out.”
Fifteen Lyran vehicles stopped gently and noiselessly, then turned their engines off, and manned their weapons systems, while the lead began to move towards the contact. Mathews would leave the next step to the lead vehicle.
The LSF company's senior sergeant, SGT Roarke, was in that lead vehicle. A man that knew his stuff, Roarke was also a combat veteran of the 12 years, 10 of them spent on the Fehnmari border. Very, very cautious by inclination, and unabashedly brazen when given the chance, he was, in many ways, the embodiment of the stereotypical LSF sergeant.
He and three others made up “Team Bloodhound”. They were the men, and one woman, who would metaphorically “sniff out” threats to the Alpha's pack. Bloodhound itself was one of the LSF’s new recon vehicles. Heavily muffled engines, radio scanners, EMF antennae, infra/thermal binoculars plugged in to the dashboard, and a MAD device held ahead of the lead lined bonnet on a boom, looking very much like the snout of the animal that helped give the vehicle, the second in its class, its name. The 14.7mm LY60 MG on top was helpful for removing the less troublesome of those things that the Bloodhound managed to locate.
And, this was the first time that the recon hummer had seen action. And it was just what the Bloodhound had been designed for.
Roarke had spotted two vehicles on the ridgeline ahead, silhouetted against the starlight as shapes when seen by Mk-1 eyeball, and clearly two B-vehicles in infra-red. Exactly what type of B-vehicle was not certain.
The Bloodhound crept forward, Roarke easing the vehicle forward while CPL Russ watched the target through the binoculars, keeping a running commentary.
“Definitely B-vehicles, no doubt at all. The one on the left looks a lot like a Ural… in fact, I’m almost… yeah, it’s a Ural. That makes it military, one way or other.”
“Yeah, sarge, and the one on the left looks mighty similar to one of those new M412s the Faxanavians have been acquiring lately, rigged for travel. In fact, I’m pretty sure it is a M412.”
Roarke nodded absently, pondering the course of actions available to him. He could engage, but he had no idea what was around those two vehicles, not at this distance. Plus he couldn’t be absolutely sure of destroying the M412 Mammoth Multiple-Launch Rocket System before it was ready to fire at him. And, to add insult to injury, that would not only blow Bloodhound into a hundred thousand itty-bitty pieces, but would mean that the vehicle could get off a radio signal reporting their presence. That would be, in effect, a death sentence. They’d have to talk to the boss.
“Alpha, this is Bloodhound, bird-dog report, over.”
“Bloodhound, this is Alpha, send, over.”
“Alpha stop. 0405 Delta 1. Bravo stop. 09878675. More to follow, over.”
“Copy. Send, over.”
“Charlie Stop. 1 dash nil. 2 dash 1. 3 dash nil. 4 dash 1, Mike Lima Romeo Sierra. End bird-dog.”
“Acknowledged, Bloodhound. Wait, out.”
Mathews now had to consider his options. Bloodhound had reported that the contacts were a single B vehicle and a multiple launch rocket system. The latter was probably self-propelled, due to the difficulty identifying it earlier on. The company could either avoid the two vehicles entirely, a difficult and time expensive proposition, or they could attempt to destroy them, or they could sit tight and wait for them to move. Neither the first nor last of the three options allowed the unit enough time to get in to position to hit the airfield within their given window. They’d have to neutralise them.
So, how was that to be achieved? The fastest method was probably the TOW missile launcher on the second of the three closest vehicles. Two missiles loaded, flight time about 8 seconds if Bloodhound provided laser designation, and the whole thing over in less than 20 seconds. Although, admittedly, it’d make a hell of a bang, and, when those rockets went up, an explosion that’d be seen for miles. But, Mathews thought, that can’t really be helped. With luck, they’d only need one missile, and make the entire incident seem like a malfunction of one of the Faxanavian’s own missiles… They’d be able to scarper before any investigating units arrived, particularly at night, and utilising the Bloodhound’s abilities to the full. Yes, that’d do it. Besides, they wouldn't have to worry about a long investigation, what with the invasion fleet primed to hit.
“Alpha to pack, big dog 4 dash 1 period 1, I say again, big dog 4 dash 1 period 1.”
“Huntsman, roger”
“Bloodhound, roger. Starting the music.”
Roarke gave his instructions quickly, and the crew of the Bloodhound had one of the four laser designators locked on the Faxanavian MLRS in seconds. The vehicle could hardly have been clearer to the Lyran's thermal and infra-vision detection equipment in broad daylight, still-warm engines contrasting against the cold sky.
“Music’s on.”
“Copy that. Huntsman’s pull.”
At the final fire authority, the TOW equipped vehicle that was callsign “Huntsman” fired the first of two wired guided missiles, the projectile travelling the several mile distance under manual guidance, the laser-designated targets clearly showing on the firing platform’s targeting display.
7.28 seconds after the first missile had cleared the launch tube, the Faxanavian multiple launch rocket system detonated in a rapidly expanding ball of crimson flame. All 16 rockets went up, their solid fuel propellant igniting upon contact with the explosive warhead that was the business end of the Lyran weapon. Seconds after the blast, Bloodhound came back on the net.
“Alpha, this is Bloodhound, scorch two, over.”
“Roger Bloodhound, proceed as planned. Out.”
The reconnaissance vehicle moved out, followed minutes later by the rest of the platoon. The Bolshkovite command complex was beckoning.
***
“Captain,” Corporal Miller said with a salute.
“Yes, Corporal?” Captain Hausman looked up from his desk and sketched a quick salute in return.
“Sir, Epsilon Three-two is overdue for radio-check.”
“By how long?” Hausman asked wearily. He was getting tired of jumpy reservists. Every little problem had them seeing the Londimians behind every tree. The coalition was battering their coast. They had more important things to worry about than endless smugglers and false alarms. There was nothing out here but trees…
“Forty-five minutes, sir. They also fail to answer our calls.”
“Hmm…” There were smugglers around, and the Remans could be vicious. “Dispatch Epsilon Two and Delta Three to recon the area and see if they can make contact with Three-Two.”
“Yes, sir.” Miller saluted and left tent heading for the comm tent.
***
"Alpha, this is Huntsman, red warning, over."
"Huntsman, this is Alpha, acknowledge, over."
The trailing vehicle reported daybreak. Right on time. The low, antennae-bedecked structure that was their objective was now clearly in sight in the valley below, chain link fence around it and several other buildings.
“Pack, this is Alpha. Start the hunt.”
The roar of vehicle engines all around him was all the acknowledgement he needed, as his company roared down the slope.
Four missile streaked past him towards the base, slaming into the delicate roof-mounted communications arrays, as the special forces team descended upon the Faxanavians like the hounds of hell.
***
Four drab green vehicles converged at the base of a short hill. On the crest of the hill stood the burned out wreck of a fifth Faxanavian army vehicle still hitched to the rubble of its M412. Inside one of the vehicles a young lieutenant picked up a radio.
“Epsilon Two to Eagle.”
“Epsilon Two, Eagle. Go,” a voice answered through the static.
“We have Epsilon Three-two. It is a complete loss. No survivors. Over.”
“Roger. Any indications of the cause? Over.”
“There’s heavy fire damage and what looks like cook-off damage. Over.”
“Roger. Take a closer look and advise. Eagle out.” Back at Eagle base, the signalman looked up from his console with a frown. CAPT Hausman looked back and shrugged.
“Let me know when they report back, Corporal.” Hausman walked away quietly.
Another misfire. Second one this month. The equipment should be top of the line. Must be human error. I keep telling HQ that these men need more training. We’re scrapping the bottom of the barrel with our reservists these days.
Captain Hausman had no idea that the headquarters he was referring to was, at that very second, under attack, and bereft of functioning communications equipment.
The Faxanavian military throughout Bolshkov was paralysed, and didn't know it.
***
The Lyran military had never been subjected to the oft-used civilian assertion that the military were all block-heads. The concept of military intelligence as an oxy-moron hadn’t made its way into the Lyran psyche. Nor could it. The entire population was the military, and vice-versa.
Like now, for example. The shortest point approach for the Lyran Task Force Rho air-assault elements straight from Lyras, using airbourne refuelling to get them there. Had they done that, they’d have arrived in Faxanavia by now. Or, more likely, they would have arrived before the special forces units brought down the crucial command and control nodes for the Faxanavian military, thus being engaged by alert air defences, thus forcing their escorts to engage, and causing casualties that would be very bad for PR within Faxanavia.
Hence, the enormous armada of aircraft that was carrying the Lyran 11th Army Group were heading east towards Faxanavia, flying over waters that, for the most part, remained uncontested. Their only escorts were a trio of LYEF-207 Merlin electronic warfare aircraft, designed to confuse the daylights out of any radar to track them. And the electronic defence was simple, and elegant. Given time, and distance, the ground-based radar would burn through the jamming. But the sheer number of dots –aircraft- that would remain on the screen would lead the radar operators to believe that they were still being jammed.
And there were hundreds of aircraft. The largest airborne insertion in history was in the making, dwarfing the cobra-base operation of 1991 by two orders of magnitude. More than a decade of rapid-response conceptualisation and was about to be put to the test. 11th Army Group was the embodiment of the Lyran rapid response philosophy.
The leading waves of aircraft were about 15 minutes ahead of the bulk of the division. There tasks were, for the pilots, the most challenging. They were going to touch-and-go, dropping their LY219s within a scant 2000m of their objectives. Attempted successfully in training, but never utilised in combat situations, and never so close to an urban area. It was a very tricky manoeuvre for the pilots, who would have to fight to maintain pitch as their cargo rolled out the back of their load ramps. Normally, rolling cargo was an event that aircraft did not survive. The Lyran Air Force and Army had embraced the concept in a revolutionary manner.
Precisely on schedule, the first transport opened its rear doors, and the first of the LY219 Ironhearts deployed its exit-chute. With a lurch that was almost breathtaking, the armoured vehicle was pulled out of the moving plane and into the air, ending its downward journey three seconds later with a thump that was audible for quite a distance. When clear of the plane, the exit chute was blasted away, and the crew of Ironheart began to bring their weapons systems online, 25mm cannons going active, and engines roaring into life.
The first LY219 touched down precisely on the middle of the main runway of Bolshkov international airport, before blasting its parachutes off, and accelerating towards the tower. As it roared down the runway, its brethren began to land on and around the tarmac, the vehicles fanning out towards the airfields perimeter, before dismounting the their infantry to secure the line. People in the vicinity of the airfield watched, stunned into inactivity, by the spectacle that was unfolding before them.
CPL Ronczka, section commander of the infantry inside the lead IFV readied his AR44 and grinned maniacally as the driver pushed the Ironheart past 120kph down the runway. Tasked to take and hold the tower, with a minimum of casualties, he was supremely confident of success. And the plan so far had gone like clockwork.
He looked to his left, and PTE Murphy O’Cain grinned back at him enthusiastically. Yep, his men were pumped. Maybe a bit too much. But, charging down the road at huge speeds, about to charge a building… well… the adrenaline was most definitely kicking in…
The driver forced the vehicle to a squealing halt just in front of the main control tower, and moments before the four other LY219s of the platoon pulled up. The vehicle commander hit the ramp release button and screamed out the go signal. They were off.
The scene was again breathtaking. Lines of mean streaming out of their vehicles and into the terminals, weapons at the shoulder, their light-urban camouflage eerily effective whenever one stopped to cover his section-mates. The soldiers quickly found that airfield security was intelligent enough to know that it was overpowered. Security guards were standing around with their hands on their heads, and having removed their pistol belts.
Within the first minute, 16 LY219s had touched down. By the end of the second minute, three full companies had landed on the grounds of the airport, and its immediate surrounds. The handful of Faxanavian airfield defence guard never bothered to fire a shot. From the touchdown of the first Ironheart, it was blindingly obvious that they would not be able to hold their positions.
In less than five minutes, in a manoeuvre very reminiscent of the Entebbe Raid, writ large, Bolshkov International was firmly under Lyran control.
20 minutes after that, the second wave of Task Force Rho was touching down, and their arrival, while less surprising than the airmobile assault by the 19th Cav, was nevertheless still a world first. The air traffic control officers attached to 19th Cav had their work well and truly cut out, as they desperately tried to land the monstrous tank transports that were carrying the 388th Armoured, then shuttle them off the runway, and get the tanks off and into position.
Hectic, chaotic, frantic and highly unsafe, but, ultimately, successful. Within an hour of the first 19th Cav units leaving their planes, the first LY4 MBTs of 388th Armoured were rolling through the streets.
The chances of the local Faxanavian forces taking the capture of the airfield well, were not good. And the chances of a Faxanavian counterattack were extremely high. But with 388th Armoured in position, the chances of the Lyran hold being dislodged plummeted. Preliminary reconnaissance hinted at a mechanised regiment, at the very least, in the area.
The commander of the 19th watched as the self-propelled howitzers of his unit rolled out and onto the tarmac, as another of the super-lift planes passed Vr and took to the air, headed back towards Lyras, again by the strung out easterly route. The tanks took priority. With hostile forces presumed to be so close, they had to get the line set up, and quickly. Lest an unexpectedly quick armoured response force Lyras to use more force than required. The hope was that the overwhelming show of force would intimidate the entire country into silence.
‘Pity that’ the Colonel thought. ‘I’d feel far, far safer if I had those 155s up…’ Then the man caught himself. 155s in a densely populated, built up area. He shuddered, as appreciation for the consequences of his almost-mistake sank in. Civilian casualties if he used his tube artillery, let alone his MLRS, in Courtland, would be absolutely horrific. It would very, very quickly make conquerors out of the liberators that the Lyrans professed to be. And thus was not viable as a tactical concept. Ignoring the ethical ramifications, atrocities like that would quickly turn the Faxanavian military, which Lyras hoped would for the most part stay in barracks, against the Lyrans, and would, in essence, force a war that did not need to be fought.
The concept was simple. Lyras was here to stop you all from making a fatal mistake. Recall your troops. End the war. No one needs to die. We're not your enemies, but your government would have you fight us. Keep your lives, and those of your children. Do not go to war with Lyras.
No. For the moment, those 155s would have to operate as assault guns and tank-destroyers. But there was still the hope that the Faxanavian army wouldn’t give battle at all. Fingers crossed.
As one of the first arriving gunship helicopters slowly cruised over his tank, the Colonel broke into a feral grin.
******************
The scene was repeated across all five of the Allied States of Faxanavia. Air-mobile mechanised forces secured air-corridors allowing for arrival of heavier equipment.
Thousands of TSF624 Shukusei Advanced Air Superiority Fighters blanketed Faxanavian Airspace.
LY4 Main Battle Tanks held major road intersections.
EH19 gunship helicopters prowled the rooftops.
The ports, seized as they were by Lyran marines, disgorged uncounted soldiers and thousands upon thousands of tons of equipment.
As the sun rose, climbing in the morning sky, 20 million Faxanavians awoke to find their country under lockdown. Radio stations were not transmitting. Vehicles with loadspeakers drove through the streets, encouraging people to stay in their homes.
The Allied States had fallen.