NationStates Jolt Archive

[OOC Thread] (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=536969)

Prologue

Any change, even a change for the better, is always accompanied by drawbacks and discomforts.
-Arnold Bennett

It has been a full two years since the collapse of the Imperial dictatorship in Naasha, nearly two years since the desert province of Surdun gained semi-autonomy. During that time the people have learnt peace, prosperity and freedom; freedom of speech, movement, enterprise and religion. The Surdunni Assembly imposes a code of law upon the land, governs the people of Surdun and reports their concerns to the National Assembly in Naasha. Neighbourhoods that formerly resounded to the pounding of marching soldiers are now lucky to see a local police patrol, crime is low and the people reject anything they see as oppression.

With the nation prospering, Surdun has seen more than a fair share of immigrants too. Turks in particular, along with others from the Middle East, flocked to the province, bringing their own food, culture and practices to the country. They also brought Islam, the fiery Imam found many converts amongst the poorly-educated and previously faithless people of the land. The poor, particularly in the cities, were suddenly receiving hospitality and donations, Zakat, from the Muslim faithful, leading to more converts.

The arrival of mosques and religious communities was at first regarded as a blessing by the increasing liberal and tolerant officials, a mixture of cultures was supposed to be healthy for any modern nation. But the mixture of Surdunni and Muslim cultures has proved to be a rather volatile one.

August 19, 2009

Yuri Sandler grunted and wiped his brow in the heat, Viir was sweltering in the midday sun and anybody with sense was inside with the air conditioning on maximum. Not him, as a self-employed mechanic in one of the less wealthy neighbourhoods of Surdun's southernmost city he couldn't really afford to be picky about when he worked. At least the customer was nice enough, a muslim lady wearing one of those 'burka' things, black and covering her whole body, it must be sweltering under there.

He was turning back to the exposed engine of her Firestorm, one of those Allanean SUV's that were tricky to maintain but rugged enough to work well here, when she spoke for practically the first time.

"It's... too hot here..."

Yuri chuckled when he heard that, not realising how faint the woman's voice had become.

"Yeah, well, we're actually south of the deserts here m'aam. It doesn't get much worse than this though usually."

He worked on for another minute, before glancing back at his customer. She was lying in a heap on the ground, apparently having fainted in the heat. He swore and picked her up, intending to take her inside to cool down, he was almost at the door when a yell from across the street made him pause.

"What are you doing with her?!"

A young man jogged over from the other side of the street, his kaffiyeh bouncing as he ran.

"She fainted in the sun, I was taking her inside to wake her up. You know her?"

Yuri lowered the woman to the ground and was straightening up to explain himself further when the man's fist caught him in the jaw, propelling him backwards. A second blow knocked him to a slumped position on the doorstep and he raised his hands to protect his face.

"Never... lay... your... hands on... my... woman, infidel!"

The man panted, punctuating each breath with a kick to Yuri's ribs, he felt several snap under the onslaught. Then, as he lowered a hand to his broken ribs, a boot caught him in the face and the world went black.

***

The middle aged mechanic's son had seen the assailant trotting away, with the groggy woman in tow as he came to find his father. An ambulance was quickly on the scene, followed by the police who took his name, Richard Sandler, and his description of the man he'd seen running away. The constable tutted at the description and shook his head, there weren't any witnesses to the fight and Yuri hadn't seen much of his attacker, there wasn't much they could do.

Richard scowled and strode away angrily, he knew the man had attacked his father, and his friends would know who he was.

***

Sure enough, the assailant was identified as the son of the Imam of a local mosque. The police, his friends assured Richard, wouldn't get anywhere near the culprit.

"They don't mess with those bastard muslims," one of the more hotheaded of the group assured him. "If you want justice, then we'll have to do it ourselves."

And that was how Richard Sandler, son of a self-employed mechanic and currently top of his class in college, found himself making a petrol bomb. It was easy enough to siphon fuel from the cans that littered his fathers workshop and the oily rags that accompany any good mechanic made for perfect fuses. Soon he and his five friends each had a 'molotov cocktail' and a box of matches.

Once night fell they headed out, the bombs tucked under shirts or hidden in rucksacks. It took less than five minutes to reach the mosque and they met no-one along the way, which was good because even a friendly greeting would probably have made one of the six anxious youths give the game away.

The square, flat building was situated a little apart from the rest which would isolate the flames. It was also occupied, since the foyer doors were open and lights were visible inside. A quick scout around the building revealed one emergency exit and a row of windows, mostly adjar, that looked into the restrooms.

"Right, Sam and I will chuck ours into the foyer, the rest of you put them in through the windows. Don't hang about!"

Richard waited until the other four had dispersed before nodding to his friend. Together they lit the rags on their homemade bombs and tossed them through the front doors. The 'whoosh' of roaring flames reached their ears even as they ran back towards the alley they'd come in by.

***

They were joined a little later by the other four, all of whom were panting from having to take different routes. The wail of sirens was just audible in the distance. Richard glanced nervously down at his hands, checking that none of the petrol had stained them, only Greg, the hothead, seemed to be calm about what they'd done.

"Come on guys, it's justice! They beat up your dad Rich, so we burn down their mosque." He looked around the group and grinned. "I saw these three lob theirs in through the windows so I thought I'd find something else to burn. C'ept there wasn't anything other than that wooden fire escape."

The others stared at him for a second, Richard finally choking out: "Shit... you didn't?"

Greg nodded, "the old thing burned like a torch!" He noticed the expressions on the others faces and sighed. "You agreed you wanted justice didn't you?"

N1-News.na

Fifteen dead as arson strikes Mosque

The Surdunni city of Viir was shaken this morning by reports of an arson attack on a city mosque.

The mosque, in the residential district of Sakal has been catering to the muslim community of Viir for a year and a half now, Police officials told reporters at a press conference this morning. It was holding a late night prayers service when the attack occured around midnight.

Up to ten incendiary devices are believed to have been thrown into the building, mostly through the foyer and restroom windows. But the wooden fire escape structure at the rear of the building was also set ablaze, trapping thirty three worshippers inside as flames consumed the building. Witnesses told of how they were trapped inside the main room of the mosque for over half an hour as fire crews battled to gain entrance.

Fifteen people are believed to have died, including two children, while ten more are being treated for burns and smoke inhalation at the Viir University Hospital. A firefighter was also admitted after being struck by a falling beam as the entrance to the building collapsed. Also in hospital today is Yuri Sandler who was allegedly attacked yesterday by Hashim Ramiz, the son of Imam Ramiz who conducts services at the Sakal Mosque.

Authorities are as yet refusing to speculate whether the arson bombing is a revenge attack, but tensions are running high throughout Viir as crowds are gathering outside each of the other four mosques in the city. Police are urging people to disperse as they say there is no further threat to other religious buildings.

For constant updates on this story, visit N1-News.na

August 20, 2009

How much more grievous are the consequences of anger than the causes of it.
-Marcus Aurelius

With the pictures of the burning mosque all over the news, as well as pictures of the wounded entering the burns unit at the local hospital, a backlash was inevitable. Martha Sandler peered through the net curtains of her single level house and scowled back at her son who was slumped on the sofa.

"I can still see two of them out there, Richard." He only grunted in response. "I just wish you'd tell me where you were last night, that's all..."

"I told you, it doesn't matter. And I was nowhere near there," he jerked his thumb at the tv screen, which was tuned to a 24 news channel, "despite what those nutjobs believe."

Martha frowned, 'those nutjobs' referred to the two newspaper reporters who had rung the doorbell and asked for a comment on the incident at the mosque. Both had been very reluctant to leave, even after the family Rottweiler had made an appearance.

As if on cue, the frantic barks of the dog rang out from the rear of the house, followed by a snarl and a loud exclamation.

"They're trying to get into the garden, I'm calling the police."

***

A couple of police parked across from the house did wonders for keeping away the reporters and would-be vigilantes and with hospital security keeping a close eye on the ward containing Yuri Sandler, the safety of the family could be assured. But the anger and desire for vengeance amongst some of the community could only be diverted, not contained.

***

The first major incident of civil disorder Surdun had witnessed in two years took place at the North District Park in Viir, where a large crowd had gathered outside a muslim youth centre. Four police officers had been assigned to watch the peaceful show of solidarity and stood about thirty feet away from the edge of the group, mostly chatting amongst themselves.

It was Police Sergeant Sandrill who first noticed the change in atmosphere, where the young people had been talking and joking amongst one another they now stood moodily. One or two nasty looks were thrown in his direction, as the apparent officer in charge, but most seemed focused on a man stood on the steps of the youth centre who was adressing the crowd angrily.

Tony Sandrill couldn't hear most of what was being said but a few words carried over the heads of the people in front, perhaps spoken with more emphasis.

"Police... harbouring murderers... ...arrested one of our brothers... only seeking justice."

The sergeant shook his head and caught the attention of Lance Constable Guilligan, the young lady had been assigned to his command only a month ago and seemed oblivious to the growing malice in the crowd.

"Maybe time to step back, lance constable."

She blushed at being caught day dreaming and nodded, turning to speak into her radio and relay the order to her colleagues. That was when the chunk of paving slab caught her squarely on the back of the head. The twenty-two year old recruit slumped to the concrete sidewalk face first, head tilted at an oblique angle.

Tony swore profusely and reached for his own radio, but the other officers had also seen the incident and were racing toward the crowd, nightsticks drawn, in order to apprehend the thrower. He turned to the lance constable and noted the odd angle she had fallen at, could be paralysis or brain damage, he thought, gently maneouvering the body onto its back. Her face had turned a nasty shade of grey and he couldn't see the usual rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Digging his fingers into her wrist, he searched for a pulse while turning to look for his colleagues.

One had managed to grab a suspect, a youth in his late teens, and was clinging to him with one hand while using his nightstick to beat the arms, legs and faces of the crowd who were struggling to protect the boy. As Tony watched, a burly man forced his way past the other officer and managed to grab the scruff off the suspect's shirt, threatening to drag the apprehending officer into the crowd with him. Sensing this, the constable was forced to let go and both men beat a hasty retreat back to their sergeant, who was still frantically searching for a pulse.

Sheathing his weapon, one officer drew his torch and lifted LC Guilligan's eyelid, shining the beam into her eye and inspecting the pupil. With a sigh he clicked off the beam and put his hand on Sandrill's shoulder, "she's dead, sarge. We need to get out of here."

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Official Statement

It is with sadness and regret that I announce the death of Police Lance Constable Guilligan, who was killed in the line of duty in an incident this morning. The next of kin of the deceased officer have been informed and I offer them the deepest of sympathies, as well as any support the government can provide.

The incident took place in the North District Park, Viir, Surdun at around 11 am and we are appealing for any witnesses to come forward. As a precautionary measure, the Prime Minister has ordered a curfew of the city into effect, starting at ten pm tonight. Additional units of Surdunni police are being brought in from across the nation to assist in enforcing curfew. We ask that people return to their homes at that time and refrain from congregating on the streets, where they will be dispersed.

Sincerely,
Gregor Radinar.
Home Secretary.

Federal Legislature, Trivalviapolis

"...and that concludes most of our domestic business," President William MacKenzie smiled as he spoke to the members of the cabinet. "Now let's move on to foreign matters and policy."

MacKenzie's first month back as President of Trivalvia had reminded him, in some ways, just how much he had missed the top job. Not that he was power hungry, but there was something satisfying with being able to shape his country's future. With rebuilding going smoothly, and even new projects such as the Vertical Farm Initiative taking shape, he felt like he was making a difference.

MacKenzie's foreign minister, a bespectacled man named David Norris, called up some files, which were displayed on the screens in front of each of the cabinet members. "Things have been relatively quiet in this part of the world. Our new embassy to Stevid is in place, Clandonia Prime never answered our telegram requesting a renewal in diplomatic relations..."

"Can't be helped, I suppose," MacKenzie observed. "But we'll at least keep the door open for them. Stranger things have been known to happen."

"Our initiative to rejoin the Nova Europa Alliance is going over well, locally, and both the Soviets and the Naashans are warm to our return. I'm still trying to gauge support among other nations in the alliance, however. And British Londonium's anti-dolphin campaign continues, against all common sense."

Norris paused. "There is one item of concern; some civil disturbances in Surdun. A mosque was burned down a couple of days ago, and yesterday there was a near-riot in Viir. Perhaps nothing, but it does bear watching."

MacKenzie nodded. "The Naashans were instrumental in our efforts to end the martial law here a few months back. At the very least, we can offer our support to those who've lost loved ones. I'll write up a statement personally."

"Very good, sir. I can send you all available background information we have on Surdun, if it will help."

"It can't hurt." Besides, there was the possibility this might become more than a civil disturbance, MacKenzie thought. He hoped not, but it never hurts to be prepared.

TBC News [tbc.tri]
President sends Message of Sympathy in Wake of Surdun Violence

This afternoon, President William MacKenzie sent a message of sympathy to the people of Naasha and Surdun in the wake of the recent civil disturbance [see related story: Police Officer Killed in Viir Civil Disturbance ]. "When cultures mix together the dangers can be as great as the rewards," MacKenzie said in his message. "We can only hope that the deaths in both the recent disturbance and in the preceding destruction of a mosque will be the last in this time of trouble."

Over three months earlier, Naasha had sent forces and ships to help break the martial law imposed by former President Tony Harrington. As a result, there is a growing bond of friendship felt by many Trivalvians toward Naasha, and several Trivalvian government officials and community leaders have followed the President's lead in expressing their sympathy.

Trivalvia's own small muslim community has absorbed the news without much response as yet...

Viir, Surdun

The apartment sweltered in the heat, suffocating. It appeared to be an invisible assailant that strangled you relentlessly. A sparce bedroom, living room, kichenette, and bathroom with a rist stained sink. A fan hummed in the backround as a solidary man sat at the table with the window and curtains pulled back, exposing a descent view of the city. The man was acustomed to extreme temperatures and horrid working conditions. Mostafa Ansari rarley took the time to look uo; thought, for he tinkered with the final pieces. Only a few more screws to tighten and set the timeer and he was finished. Sprawled out on the table were several newspapers with components, gears, tubes, and other tools scattered about. He wiped the sweat from his brow. Ansari worked feverishly, the spark was lite and all they had to do was ensure it reached the powder keg. He was in his early thirties with a trimmed beard and piercing hazel eyes, physically fit and nerves of steel. He relied on his nerves the most, his job demanded patience and nerves. The life of a bomb maker was a periless one, frought with danger from outside forces as well as the devices he produced as well. As he worked, a snub nosed .38 sat nest to him.

There was a clanking at the door, someone fumbling with the lock, perhpas trying to pick it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood tall as he gently and cautiously laid down the device and reached for the revolver, cocking the hammer back slowly and pausing, did he hear it? Then a knock at the door. Ansari stood up and moved slowly to the door and off to the side, peeping through the hole, a sigh of relief left his mouth as he opened the door, tucking the revolver in the back of his pants.
"Mostafa, are you almost ready?" asked the man, straight to the point. He walked past Ansari and set down a napsack which contained a digital camera and other assroted things.
"Almost, Gerard" Ansari replied. "Just a few more minutes and it will be ready...where are the others?"
"Out on their assignments" Gerard answered quickly and produced a disposable cell phone he purchased. He dialed a number and moved to the kitchen and opened the fridge.
"It's Gerard...yes, we're almost ready, another day and the operation will move forward into the final stage...I understand...uh-huh....certainly" and he hung up. Gerard closed the fridge and placed the cell phone down. He moved over to the lap top which sat next to a portable printer. He uploaded the images of a police station onto the hard drive and began to print out the images which covered every angle of the station. Excellent, soon we will enact the final stage.

New Potomac Oil Corporation offices, Viir, Surdun

Frank Elwood looked out from his window, across the bay of Viir. He thought he could still see smoke where the mosque had been burning. But it might just be his imagination and lack of sleep. Frank had received an emergency call at 4:00 in the morning by worried NewPo Oil suits who wanted assurances that there was no risk to the company's property in Viir. It had, so far, been a long day, and Frank was not in a good mood.

In his mid 30's, Frank still had the hard muscles that he had built up during his service in the New Potomac Marines. After 8 years in the Corps., Frank had resigned his commission and hired on with Pacifica Strategic Solutions, a security consulting firm (some might call PSS mercenaries, and Frank would be hard-pressed to disagree). What few people knew was that Frank had not severed his ties with New Potomac's military when he resigned from the Marines. In addition to his (quite substantial) PSS salary, Frank also drew a generous stipend from a company which was a front for the EIA (External Intelligence Agency), New Potomac's shadowy intelligence service.

PSS had the exclusive contract to provide security for NewPo Oil, and NewPo's various operations around the world served as a perfect cover for EIA agents. Viir had been a somewhat quiet posting up until now and Frank's job had mostly consisted of collecting reports on New Potomac's economic competitors in the region. But it looked like things were going to heat up.

"No, no, I understand" Frank was on the phone with one of NewPo's ever-changing Vice Presidents back in Pacifica, New Potomac's capital. "I'm as concerned as you are about the company's operations in the Gaskr oilfield. I know this is an important contract for us."

He quietly kneaded a stress ball. Dealing with South Pacific pirates had been easier than talking to anxious suits. At least you could just shoot pirate scum.

"I'll put together a team and head out there as soon as we finish reviewing the security arrangements for our headquarters here in Viir."

That seemed to mollify the nervous MBA, allowing Frank to get off the phone.

NwPo headquarters in Viir was in a converted warehouse building in the port section of the city. Frank had imposed the best security he could, without turning the building into an armed camp. Surrounded by a 15 foot concrete fence topped with razor wire, the building could easily be protected from anything short of an actual military assault. Just to be safe, Frank decided to hire extra guards for the facility. Though PSS brought its own security consultants from New Potomac to form the nucleus of its security force, it also hired local guards to beef up its manpower. Frank had an unspoken "No-Muslim," based on some painful past experience, and had only hired locals from Viir's non-Muslim community.

Content with the headquarters' security, Frank gathered half a dozen of his most reliable and experienced PSS operatives, including a couple of locals, and checked out two armored Chevy Tahoes (with personal weapons discretely loaded throughout) from the motor pool.

The group headed North to the Gaskr oil field, through a city that had gone from a peaceful seaside metropolis to what Frank's experience told him was rapidly turning into a flashpoint.

Rig 7, East Section, Gaskr Oilfield

Ashif Salazh wiped his brow, although the heat of the afternoon was gone, the air around the metal rigs still shimmered slightly with radiated heat. Motioning for the five men under his command to wait out of sight, he peeked over the sand dune they were lying behind and surveyed the oil rig.

His men had found it easy to penetrate the chainlink fence around the oil rigs, simply digging under it through the soft, sandy soil and squeezing through. After all, who wanted to protect rigs that badly? Surely anyone looking to make a big bang would attack the refinery situated nearby. But he and his men weren't particularly interested in explosions.

For too long New Potomac Oil's unspoken anti-muslim policies had denied them the right to good, honest work. These people supplied the country with it's fuel and power, made millions on selling the oil to the energy companies and refusing to share the profits with the true believer. Well, if they chose not to employ the true faithful then maybe they would pay a ransom for their own heathen workers.

Seeing no sign of a security presence outside the small office beside the rig, Salazh motioned for them to advance, sidearms and rifles at the ready.

South of Rig 7, East Section, Gaskr Oilfield

The ride up from Viir had, thankfully, passed without event. Frank had even had a chance to nap for a half hour or so.

The landscape in Surdun was vastly different from what could be found in New Potomac. Not surprising, really, as this country was halfway around the world from Frank's South Pacific homeland.

Frank turned to Carl Jimenez, a former Army Special Ops trooper who, Frank suspected, was probably still on Army Intelligence's payroll.

"Let's wake up these chuckleheads at Rig 7. We might as well drop in and see if they've heard anything interesting."

Carl reached for the satphone and dialed the rig.

Gerard stepped into the bathroom and ran some water through a cloth and squeezing the excess water out and bringing it to his brow and arms, desperate to cool down. He examined the face looking back. The rough face, slight graying around the temple, dull and misleading grayish blue eyes. Who are you? He lived under the persona of Gerard for so long, he tended to forget who he really was, who he really worked for. A man whose past is sealed away in a government vault, records of all sorts stored carefully away for his protection and the government's. Little of it mattered, he lived for so long as Gerard that it didn't matter anymore. The line where his wedding ring once fit snuggly on the finger disappeared, a faded memory. All the things he gave up and often found himself questioning the motives and reasoning behind each operation.
"Gerard, it's set" Ansari interrupted the silence. Gerard nodded and turned.
"Good, get some rest" Gerard simply said and walked past Ansari. He picked up the cell phone and placed another call.
"It's Gerard...yes...it's too damn hot here...ha, seems to be the case" Gerard talked as he moved about the apartment. "When will the shipment be ready?...that works just fine, I'll notify the asset of the date and time...the money? Don't worry, he'll pay." and the conversation ended. Another shipment for Ashif Salazh would be ready tomorrow.

Official Diplomatic Communique

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To: Whoever it might concern, Naasha
From: Alexander Nevskij, Minister For Foreign Affairs, The World Soviet Party

We have been watching the recent events unfold in your nation with increasing worry, as we do not want Surdunni muslims to rebel or to threaten the great Naashan nation.

Thus, we would like to know if you require any help in crushing this rebellion.

Signed,
Alexander Nevskij, TWSP's Minister of Foreign Affairs.

Rig 7, East Section, Gaskr Oilfield

The logo of New Potomac Oil was emblazoned on the wall of the small building beside the rig. The place reeked of unimportance, a quick glance through a side window revealed a lone man in a shirt with no tie sitting at a desk in the corner. A small computer terminal seemed to focus his attention, probably for monitoring safety and employee attendance, although at the moment a small window was playing an old Naashan movie. The phone chirped, drawing the man out of his reverie, the way his scrabbled for it suggested that it didn't ring often. Still, the momentary distraction was enough for two of Ashif's men to inch open the door and step inside, levelling a pair of H&K .45 handguns at the back of his head.

Meanwhile, his other two comrades had slipped away to round up the workers on the rig itself. He heard a shout from around the corner, followed by the crack of a rifle. He assumed it was a warning shot and sure enough, after a moment, three pale faced NewPo Oil workers were herded around the corner. They were joined a second later by their boss from the administration hut, who looked positively sick with fear. Ashif glanced inside to see the phone dangling at the end of its cable from the edge of the desk, it hadn't been hung up.

Peering around, he caught sight of a column of dust to their south, moving toward them along the service road leading to the rig. Swearing colourfully, he shoved the nearest captive back the way the kidnappers had come, forcing them to hustle back toward the field's perimeter.

Foreign Affairs Ministry, Sandya

The short message from TWSP landed on the desk of Samuel Denhy, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, about three minutes after it's original transmission. These usually took their time to work up the ladders of bureaucracy but a message from one of Naasha's largest continental allies, especially one containing the phrase 'crushing this rebellion', seemed fairly hot, something to throw at the person above you before you got burnt.

He scanned the small printout closely and sighed, he preferred dealing with MacKenzie and other, 'softer' diplomats who didn't necessarily want to shoot anybody who got out of line. He was midway through thanking the Trivalvian President for his condolences but this took priority and so with a sigh, he opened another window and began to type.

***

Official Diplomatic Message

Thank you for your offer of support concerning the smattering of social disorder amongst a small minority in Surdun. I'm afraid you seem to have been misinformed about the severity of the situation at the present time, however.

While the death of a Surdunni police officer is a regrettable occurence, local authorities have assured me that they will be able to apprehend the culprit and are certain that the worst has indeed already passed for the city. Until this is seen to be otherwise, we will be extremely wary about infringing upon the right to protest extended to all citizens within the Naashan territories regardless of religion.

Sincerely,
Samuel Denhy.
Minister of Foreign Affairs,
Democratic State of Naasha.

***

Smiling to himself, he returned to his Trivalvian letter.

Mr President, thank you for your condolences over the tragic loss of LC Guilligan...

Official Diplomatic Message

Thank you for your offer of support concerning the smattering of social disorder amongst a small minority in Surdun. I'm afraid you seem to have been misinformed about the severity of the situation at the present time, however.

While the death of a Surdunni police officer is a regrettable occurence, local authorities have assured me that they will be able to apprehend the culprit and are certain that the worst has indeed already passed for the city. Until this is seen to be otherwise, we will be extremely wary about infringing upon the right to protest extended to all citizens within the Naashan territories regardless of religion.

Sincerely,
Samuel Denhy.
Minister of Foreign Affairs,
Democratic State of Naasha.


Official Soviet Response

Why, of course, we didnt mean it to sound like we are going to come in and shoot everyone. We just want you to know that you can count with us should this "issues" get bigger than they are now.

For the moment, we are willing to offer you a team of Spec. Ops. who would be willing to help train your police forces in dealing with terrorists.

Signed,
Alexander Nevskij, TWSP's Minister of Foreign Affairs.

South of Rig 7, East Section, Gaskr Oilfield

"Chief, something's wrong" Carl Jimenez said. He had his hand over the satphone's mouthpiece.

"What, the guys at the rig sleeping off a hangover" The other PSS operatives chuckled. NewPo Oil's workers were pretty typical of the oil worker breed- work hard, play hard.

"No- someone picked up, started to say something, then nothing. Then I think I heard somene talking in Naashian. And I'm pretty sure I heard a shot in the background. The line's still open, but no one is there."

As soon as Carl said the word "shot," the men in Frank's Tahoe checked their Beretta 9mm sidearms. Frank tightened the straps on his armor vest, and the guys sitting in the back seat passed kevlar helmets and M4 Carbines from the trunk to the ones in front. The driver was already on the walkie-talkie to the second Tahoe, filling them in on the situation.

"Okay, let's keep it tight. Everything could be okay, but we have to assume the worst." Frank was already running through the various scenarios through his head. The most realistic worst-case was saboteurs or anti-government guerrilas. Frank was confident that his team of New Potomac and Naasha veterans could handle a bunch of what were most likely amateurs. But if they were amateurs, that would make them unpredictable. And, assuming they hadn't shot them outright, they had the oil workers as hostages. Great. Or this could be a big wank, and the PSS operatives were about to scare the crap out of some hungover oil workers.

"Carl, tell the guys in the other Tahoe to flank around the rig- I want them to cover us." Carl was already on the horn before Frank had finished talking. Whatever his ties to some other shady New Potomac intelligence agency, the short, compact former Army trooper was a pro.

Frank turned to the driver "Take this heap off the road- that's the most likely place for a booby-trap. Don't get too close to the rig, but let's see if we can eyeball the situation better."

The ride got bumpy as the Tahoe simultaneously went off the service road, and the driver picked up speed to make the vehicle a less likely target.

The Tahoes were armored against small arms fire and might (emphasis on might) survive a light anti-vehicle weapon. Carl watched the other Tahoe flank around the rapidly nearing rig. Frank flicked the safety off of his carbine.

Looking out across the sunbaked landscape, Frank thought he could see a group of figures on foot, hustling away from the oil rig......

East Section, Gaskr Oilfield

Ashif Salazh looked backward and saw the leading vehicle turning towards them while the second swung around to flank the rig. Ahead of them lay the chainlink fence marking the edge of the oilfield, they could definately make that and take shelter in the dunes beyond while the security forces were forced to drive around the fence.

He shook his head, these armoured vehicles would most likely drive straight through the obstacle. He looked back again to see the pursuing vehicle bouncing over the rough ground, still a little way away but making ground on them fast. And then they were at the fence, forcing the captive workers through and into the sand dunes beyond. Calling to two of his men, he shoved one of the prisoners, the office guy, toward them and nodded meaningfully at the ridge of a large dune in front of them.

The group ran up the slope, scrabbling for traction in the not-quite-solid ground. Behind the mound was a tarpaulin covering their equipment, which was hastily removed to reveal four large vehicles that looked like motorized sledges, big enough to seat three, as well as an RPG-7 complete with an HE warhead. Pushing the other three hostages onto a sledge each, Ashif and his men sat behind them, pressing pistols into their backs and muttering directions. The three sleds raced off along the valley between the dune they had just climbed and the next, using its natural curve to take them back toward the city.

Meanwhile, the remaining two men quickly donned full headcloths and produced a gag for their prisoner. One led the quivering captive back up to the ridge of the dune, forcing him to kneel and aiming a rifle at the back of his head. The second man quickly removed a mobile phone from his pocket and stamped on it before hurling it away from their position, he'd have liked to do a more thorough job but there wasn't time. Hefting the soviet era grenade launcher, he moved up the slope and away from his partner, lying down in the sand and wrapping his beige cloak around him for concealment. Only then did he wriggle his way up to the top of the ridge and wait for the infidel to arrive.

Worst case scenario, of course. Frank shook his head. Always with the damn worst case scenario.

Frank could see one the terrorists holding a gun to the head of a captive oil worker. Where were the other workers? There were at least 4 men working at this rig. Unless they were dead already, but dead hostages were useless. So, three more oil workers out here somewhere, which meant more terrorists.....

"Everyone out but the driver" Frank ordered. "I don't want to be stuck in this heap." Frank, Carl and the Naashian operative scrambled out of the Tahoe.

"Tell the guys in the other Tahoe to dismount- we're going in on foot the rest of the way." He yelled back to the driver. "Use the Tahoes for cover!"

The three men ducked behind the Tahoe, which had slowed down to match their running speed. He could see two operatives getting out of the other Tahoe and doing the same.

"Get on the satphone to the refinery and tell them what's going on- we're going to need backup!" Frank knew there were at least a dozen or so guards at the refinery, mostly hired Naashians, but there were a couple of PSS operatives. "And tell them to call the Naashian authorities." The Naashians would probably respond quickly- the oil from this region was important to their economy and any threat to that would spook their government.

The men advanced. Just a little more, and Frank thought he would have a good shot at the terrorist at the top of the ridge.

Frank's finger tightened on the trigger of his carbine......

With a click, the RPG-7 was primed. It was a shame that they had abandoned the vehicle, but the sole warhead they possessed was of the High Explosive, anti-infantry variety anyway. Aiming it down toward the the advancing security forces, the cloaked Surdunni closed his eyes, muttered a prayer and pulled the trigger.

Hearing the whoosh of the rocket to his left, the other man kicked the captive into the dust, unwittingly saving his life, and began to fire his rifle into the advancing forces.

***

To be honest, they weren't equipped to deal with terrorists, mused Constable Hendrie as he gunned his patrol car toward the city limits. The three officers with him all had firearms and some idea how to use them, but they had no idea how to handle a hostage situation and things were going to have to get a lot worse before further backup would be spared from policing the mobs in the city centre.

Two large crowds had gathered, now seperated by a thin line of riot police and MP's from the local naval base. A loose congregation of pretty much everybody who ever met LC Guilligan who wasn't working for the law, and even some of those, had formed a kind of lynch mob, going after her killer or failing him, anybody else wearing a turban. A now rather larger crowd of muslims had barred their path and the police had been called, arriving just in time to intervene just before things got violent.

Sounding the siren at a dawdling motorist, Constable Hendrie took the last corner at speed and parked his car just beyond where the sandy earth met the concrete of the city. This was the suspected route of the kidnappers, although they could have gone anywhere.

Frank knew that "Whooshing!' sound. He'd heard it plenty of times in the past. It was a Soviet-era RPG, favored by terrorists the world over. It made a big bang and could be used by any illiterate jihadi with just a few days' training. Fortunately, the beast was notoriously inaccurate.

"Down!" Both Frank and Carl shouted at the same time, while flinging themselves to the ground. Battle-trained reflexes took over, and they dove into the sand and covered their heads as best they could.

The Naashian contractor was not so quick or lucky, though. The HE round landed a few feet in front of him and detonated. He did not even have time to scream before the explosion tore him to pieces.

Frank grunted as he felt a sharp sting in his calf. Looking down, he could see a long gash where a piece of shrapnel had torn the skin. A non-incapacitating flesh wound, it still hurt like hell.

Despite his ringing ears, Frank could hear rifle-fire coming from the sand dune. Looking up, he saw the terrorist on top of the dune shooting down at the remaining PSS operatives. He did not seem to be the best shot, however, and his rounds did not seem to be getting too close.

Glancing over, he could see the operatives form the other Tahoe firing at the terrorist, but they did not have the best angle for the shot.

Frank, and Carl, who was also rising and seemed relatively unscathed, did have a good angle. Each rising to one knee, they both lifted their M4's at almost the same time, took careful aim, and opened fire on the terrorist standing on top of the sand dune. The man was perfectly outlined against the clear blue sky above.

The rifle-carrier fell without hitting a single opponent, two bullets taking him simultaneously in the chest and thigh. Dropping the spent RPG, the second man opened fire on the enemy with his pistol, although the range was far too great and he was unlikely to hit anyone.

The stand off continued for a couple of minutes as he had remained in fairly decent cover, but his fire ceased rather quickly, suggesting he had either been hit or run out of ammo.

[OOC: Sorry for rather crap post. Full post and update to arrive this evening.]

August 21, 2009

A mob is the scum that rises upmost when the nation boils.
-John Dryden

Following the first ever deployment of riot police in Surdun, the seething anger of the crowds upon the streets had simmered away to a quiet rumbling of discontent during the night. But with first rays of new morning light came the first of yet more problems for Viir, and for Surdun as a whole.

Following the widely publicised use of water cannons to disperse the mobs of yesterday, a ragtag collection of street preachers and more radical Imams began to pronounce the state as the true enemy of the faith. Surdunni authorities, they claimed, had shown favour to the unbelieving masses while further oppressing the faithful.

In most cities, these voices were quickly shouted down, or else quietly moved along by the police. But in the city of Svelt, and in the towns across the southern reaches of the country, the preachers soon gathered crowds of listeners, who refused to allow the police access to their impromptu leaders.

Of course, in Viir, the rage against the authorities had been assuaged a little by the good soaking the faithful had received the previous evening. So a new target was found for the mob's hatred, New Potomac Oil. Following the kidnapping of three of the corporation's workers by militants led by the infamous Ashif Salazh, a crowd had gathered around the NewPo Oil facility in the city, hammering on the iron roller gates and shouting their disapproval.

They carried colourful banners and placards, with messages such as "End the exploitation of the faithful!" and "Out with the infidel!". So far, the crowds had been prepared to listen to whichever of their number had plucked up the courage to speak to the mob and bay their approval at whatever he had to say, but it was only a matter of time before the more inventive of the crowd thought up ways to get into the complex.

In Naasha, the situation has been brought to the attention of Prime Minister Darren Renner, who, busy with handling the Maldorians crisis, has delegated responsibility to the Surdunni provincial government. Alexus Daron, the Surdunni first minister, has authorised the deployment of local regiments to regain control of Viir's streets, these are expected to begin operations in the early evening, in the hopes of enforcing a successful curfew on the city.

Frank Elwood looked down from the NewPo helicopter he and Carl Jimenez had comandeered at the oil refinery after the debacle at Oil Rig 7. After the RPG attack, Frank had impressed upon the pilot just how important it was to stay low. The chopper buzzed Viir's rooftops and occasionaly snagged clotheslines.

As the chopper touched down, Frank could see that Viir's unwashed rabble had surrounded NewPo headquarters. Nervous PSS operatives and Naashian contractors fingered the safeties on their rifles, while guard dogs snarled at the crowd.

Walking into the building with a slight limp, Frank shouted for his assistant, an attractive Nasshian woman who seemed to know everyone who was anyone in the province.

"Get the governor on the phone- tell that political hack that this mob is going to get ugly, and soon. And if the government can't guaranty our safety, we're shutting down operations and there'll be no more oil flowing out of this city."

Frank reached into his pocket and removed a smashed cell phone, which Carl had placed in a plastic ziploc bag.

"Oh, and tell him we recovered one of the terrorists' cell phones, but I'm not in a mood to play delivery boy. If his government wants a lead to Ashif Salazh, they're going to need to send troops here to come get it."

Frank wrote down a message on a slip of paper and called for one of the Naashian-speaking operatives.

"Go transmit this over the building's loudspeakers." The man scurried off.

Frank turned to Carl. "Make sure everyone has plenty of ammo, and everyone is wearing their body armor. This is going to be a long night."

Shortly afterwards, the loudspeakers outside of the building came to life, and Frank's message, in Naashian, was transmitted to the crowd.

"Attention people of Viir. Disperse and return to your homes. The governor has declared a curfew. This facility is private property. New Potomac Oil Corporation assures the free flow of oil to all of Naasha. Any disruption here will mean blackouts for you and your families."

"The guards at this facility are authorized to fire upon any trespassers. This will be your only warning. Do not attempt to enter this facility."

With that, the NewPo guards hunkered behind thick concrete and brick walls, and Frank wondered whether the governor would impose order first, or the crowd would force his hand.

The message was met with a hail of taunts and thrown objects, although pieces of masonry were harder to come by in this section of town, so there was less danger to the buildings occupants.

As dusk approached and the crowd ebbed and flowed like a sea of human bodies, the first signs of military order began to arrive in the form of the clattering of helicopter blades. A UH-60 Blackhawk, escorted by a pair of AH-64 Apache helicopters, flew in low over the rooftops, tracing the path used by the NewPo craft. The transport slowed and descended to land in the courtyard while the two escorts buzzed over the top of the crowd, wary enough to keep moving.

Six soldiers spilled out of the craft, followed by a well spoken Surdunni officer who saluted Frank and introduced himself as Sergeant Yuman. He gestured to his soldiers, who began pulling canisters of tear gas from the bowels of the helicopter, as well as gas masks for themselves and the NewPo men.

"These are in case things get ugly," Yuman explained, "there's a loyalist gang about two blocks away. If they pick a fight with this lot then we're going to need more than rubber bullets to sort them out."

He paused and then sighed, "I can't guarantee the total safety of the building at the moment, things have gotten hairy all over the city and we don't have enough men to cover everywhere. I can evacuate anyone who wishes to leave, and this squad will stay behind to secure the perimiter. I also have orders to retrieve a mobile phone?"

Despite the high tension situation Frank found himself in, he relaxed a little bit when he met Sergeant Yuman. This man was clearly a professional, and he exuded the quiet competence that Frank associated with that breed of military man.

"Welcome to our little corner of Viir. The scenery's not great, but at least the locals are hostile."

"I appreciate your offer to evacuate our people. It's mostly guards at this point, but there are maybe half a dozen or so non-combatants you can take with you. The rest of us are staying. I'm pretty confident we can hold off this crowd if they try anything stupid- we've got tear gas, attack dogs, plenty of rubber bullets, plus the conventional stuff, and a couple of sonic crowd-control devices. I think we'll be okay."

Frank gestured to the motor boat docked at the small pier behind the building.

"We've also got a way out if things really go tits up here. Assuming these clowns can't walk on water."

Frank handed over the ziploc bag with the broken cell phone and looked Sargeant Yuman in the eye.

"I hope your tech guys can get something off this phone. I want in on any operation you guys put together to get the hostages back. They're NewPo employees, and these terrorists motherfrackers killled one of my men at Rig 7. I want a piece of them."

"Good luck with the city, Sargeant. It looks like you're going to need it."

The tanned officer nodded and took the bag, waiting while the pilot helped the NewPo passengers into the helicopter, five had elected to come with them in all. Yuman consulted with the corporal left in charge of the six man squad left behind and then clambered into the helicopter, rolling the door shut behind him.

The pilot engaged the throttle and the machine began to rise into the sky, turning slightly to allow the passengers to wave at the NewPo employees who had stayed behind. Sergeant Yuman grinned and gestured to the naval facility visible in the distance, "let's get out of here!"

That was when the rocket struck, another RPG-7 fired from a rooftop that had somehow evaded the vigilance of the escorts. The grenade nearly missed the tail, striking just in front of the rear rotor and spinning the helicopter nearly ninety degrees before the pilot regained control momentarily.

An alarm could be heard as the co-pilot quickly checked off the instruments. "Coolant leak, loss of hydraulic pressure in the aft section, fuel leak. We might make it down okay!" The words had no sooner left his mouth when the rear rotor, loosened by the explosive impact, tore itself loose from the frame, causing the craft to lurch once more and the tail to drop as the pilot fought for control.

The street was rushing up to meet them now, on the far side of the crowd from the NewPo building. Yuman heard a passenger scream and the pilot cry "brace for impact!" before the world went dark.

Spurred on by the unknown rocketeer, the crowd surged toward the NewPo perimiter with a roar of triumph.

Frank watched with horror as the helicopter impacted beyond the crowd. There didn't seem to be an explosion. The chopper had gone down hard, but there still might be survivors....

"Carl, get on the horn to the Naashian military- tell them they need to get over here ASAP."

He clicked on his walkie-talkie on the band reserved for the NewPo and PSS guards.

"Listen up y'all- our people are out there, along with those Naashian military boys. I'll be damned if I'm going to let this crowd get them. This scum wants to play rough? Let's show them what rough really is. You're authorized to hit them with everything you've got."

A couple of seconds later, the NewPo guards began firing tear gas cannisters into the crowd, and followed up with rubber bullets. On the rooftop of the NewPo headquarters, PSS guards removed the tarps from two LRAD devices, and unleashed them on the crowd.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Long_range_acoustic_device

Inside the HQ, Frank, Carl and four more NewPo guards loaded up into three armored Tahoes. Unlike the other NewPo guards, they were all armed with rifles loaded with real ammunition, as well as flashbang grenades.

Based on past experience, Frank knew that a rabble like this was going to melt pretty quickly when confronted with tear gas, rubber bullets and the LRAD's. He just needed a big enough gap to get out there and get those people out of the chopper.

And didn't the Sargeant say something about a loyalist gang out there? What were they going to do in all this, he wondered.

Private Jenkins, the squad marksman had been watching the Blackhawk as it took off and had seen the general flightpath of the rocket as it arched toward its target. Now the young lady who wasn't 'quite good enough to be assigned as a sniper' peered down her scope at the building she thought the grenade had come from.

Sure enough, a flash of movement at a stairwell window caught her eye, she just caught a glimpse of a robed figure racing down the stairs. Instinct and training took over, she dropped the crosshairs to the next window down and waited. A few seconds and then the man entered her sights again, she dropped the crosshairs even lower, aimed for the kneecap and fired.

"Private! Cease fire!"

The corporal who had been left in charge of the squad swung round toward her from where he had been overseeing the preparations to open the gate for the Tahoes.

"What the hell are you playing at?!"

She checked through her scope again to see the figure struggling to crawl toward the stairs, his hands cupped around his shattered leg.

"One hostile wounded in the building across the street, sir." She grinned in triumph, "it's the guy who took down the chopper."

Her superior's expression changed almost at once, to one of grim satisfaction.

"Excellent work, we'll need to bring him in immediately before he goes to ground, or dies."

He turned back to the four soldiers who had just rolled the gates open and gestured them over, the crowd were cowed by the NewPo security boys at the moment, no chance of enough of them getting up the courage to rush the gate.

"Alright guys! Masks on, we're heading across the street to retrieve our shooter. Everybody loaded with rubber? Good, we'll need to clear a path, not kill people. Jenkins, cover us from here with live rounds. Hustle!"

***

Sergeant Yuman gently regained consciousness, or something resembling it anyway. His first thought was that the landing hadn't been as bad as it could have been, then he tried to move. Wincing at the pain that flared through almost every part of his body, he slumped back to the broken deck of the chopper and cautiously looked around.

The cockpit was a mess, the crumpled metal and even more crumpled bodies of the crew suggested they had come down nose low, if not nose first. He could hear sobbing further back in the compartment, and a sort of shuffling coming from somewhere behind that, so some of the others had made it too.

He could hear shouts, and some kind of shrieking noise, although that might just have been his head. Running footsteps coming closer, and then a face blocked out the light from the window above the mounted gun. It was dark, and wearing a turban, they weren't out of the woods yet it seemed. The door rattled as the person outside tried to open it, jammed in the crash, Yuman realised with relief.

Engines in the distance, and the face was gone momentarily, replaced a moment later by a crueler one. A sadistic grin, followed by some words which he couldn't follow, he was still too groggy. The youth, for the face couldn't have belonged to an older man, tried to scrabble through the window, but it was too narrow and he couldn't get his waist inside. He scrambled ineffectually for a moment, his hands beating against Yuman's legs, although unable to strike with any force. Then they paused at his ankle, found something and drew it out, his service knife.

With a wicked grin the teen drew the weapon back and slid out of the window, drawing his arm back to throw the blade. A second later the butt of a rifle caught him on the back of the head and he slumped out of the sergeant's field of view, to be replaced by Frank, the NewPo guy.

***

Corporal Denaan raced up the last of the stairs and quickly surveyed the hallway the squad found themselves in. A pool of drying blood marked where Jenkins' bullet had found the radical's leg and an obvious trail on the carpet lead to the nearest apartment door to the stairs. He waved private Smith onto one side of the door and took position on the other side, signalling for lance-corporal Fenn, his second in command, to kick it in.

The man was met with the cracks of a pistol firing repeatedly and collapsed backwards, having taken one of the shots in the head. Denaan emptied his rifle round the corner and flung himself inside, grappling with the wounded man who had been struck by the rubber bullets and was just coming to. He tried to raise the pistol to his own temple, but was stopped by the full weight of Denaan, sending the weapon sliding across the room.

The rest of the squad quickly cleared the apartment while their leader secured the wounded foe in plasticuffs. Satisfied with the shouts of "clear!", Andrew Denaan peered outside, where the mob had withdrawn, clearly put off by the harsh NewPo tactics. They had gained one insurgent, but at the cost of one soldier and probably most of the helicopter's occupants, this guy better be worth some serious intel.

"Get everyone into the Tahoes now! We're getting the hell out of here before these yobbers get their stones back!" Yobbers? where the hell had he picked up that particular bit of slang, Frank wondered? Never mind- he saw a couple of ski masked insurgents advancing down the street, shooting from the hip at the Tahoes.

"Morons." Frank muttered as he raised his carbine to his shoulder and dropped one of them with a shot through the chest. The other guy dove into a doorway before Frank could draw a bead.

It was always like this at the beginning of an insurgency- lots of yahoos with more balls than brains, running down the street without cover, spraying from the hip at full auto. It ended up being a pretty brutal Darwinian process, with the dumb ones weeded out as cannon fodder, and the smarter lads rising to positions of leadership. The dude lying in the middle of the street with Frank's bullet in his aorta fell into the former category.

The last of the wounded from the chopper, as well as the dead, were loaded into the Tahoes. Only the drivers were left in the vehicles, Frank and the other remaining operatives hustled on foot behind them, firing an occasional round as they went to dicourage pursuit. Carl threw a flashbang into an alley, and Frank could here curses and screams from people caught in the explosion.

They reached the gate at the same time as some of the Naashian troopers (including the really pretty one, Jennings? No, Jenkins), who appeared to be dragging a wounded robed figure.

"Is that our shooter?" From the looks on the Naashian troopers' faces, he could tell that it was.

The gate shut behind them. The situation seemed to be under control, for now.

In the water behind the building, Frank could see a couple of Viir harbor patrol boats speeding towards the NewPo pier. Hopefully they could take the wounded out of here to get some medical help. They could get basic first aid at the headquarters, but anything more serious would require evacuating them out of here.

Frank took Corporal Denaan aside.

"Let me ask you a question Corporal. I assume you're going to have to take this prisoner back for interrogation. And I assume the Naasha follows all of the same rules as New Potomac when it comes to interrogating prisoners."

Frank glanced around.

"But is seems like the situation here is pretty chaotic. Until you get relieved, don't you think it would make sense for me and Carl here to take this gentlemen and treat his wounded leg in our headquarters? Of course, we'd be happy to relay to you anything he said. And of course we would return him to you when you were ready to go."

The Corporal glanced uneasily to where Sergeant Yuman was being unloaded from the lead Tahoe. He wouldn't like it, of course, but then he was seriously wounded and they had the bastard who did it right here. He shook his head and was about to decline when he caught sight of Lance-Corporal Fenn's body being lifted aboard one of the boats, another casualty of the insurgency.

"Fine," he managed to snarl, "I want him back in one piece though."

***

The robed insurgent glared up at Frank and Carl who stood on either side of him, "Geneva convention!" he proclaimed loudly. "You can't touch me!"

Both men nodded and Frank turned away to retrieve a medical kit from the table, Carl knelt beside him and gently rolled up the leg of his pants to expose his shattered leg. All of a sudden, Frank swung back round, booting him in the leg and causing him to howl in pain.

Carl grabbed him by the front of his shirt and leaned into his face. "You aren't an enemy combatant, bastard. Besides, there aren't any soldiers here to keep an eye on you now."

The man flinched and feebly tried to spit in Carl's face. "I won't tell you anything!"

Frank stamped down hard on his shin, feeling the bone crack, scattering yet more bone fragments within his leg. Carl shoved him back into the wall. "This isn't a game, where are the oil workers?"

The interrogation continued for a couple of minutes, but the man was fairly easy to break in his weakened state. "Fine! I tell you! Salazh is the leader, he has them in the desert, taking them north!"

Carl didn't let up for a second. "What's in the north? The rest of the country is still under the government's control."

The insurgent's eyes went wild for a second, rolling in his head at the pain emanating from his leg. "The Rising Crescent! Allahu Ackbar, God is Great! The people of this country will join his fold, for we are his shepards!"

Carl let go of his shoulders, letting the man slump against the wall. His eyes drifted out of focus and his hands shook uncontrollably.

"And you, you are the wolves..."

His head slumped to his chest, unconscious from exhaustion and loss of blood.

N1-News.na

Disorder grows in Viir and southern Surdun.

http://english.aljazeera.net/mritems/images/2007/5/22/1_220197_1_3.jpg
Surdunni troops patrol the city of Viir, following an insurgent attack.

Violence between Islamic factions and local gangs continues to spiral out of control in the south of Surdun, despite the deployment of local troops to quell the disorder.

Local Surdunni regiments have failed to restore order to the city of Viir, despite assurances to the contrary. Authorities have confirmed 'at least four seperate cases of severe disorder' in the city, including an incident at the headquarters of New Potomac Oil, where an army UH-60 Blackhawk transporting NewPo Oil workers was shot down.

The attack, which is believed to have been carried out by an as yet unidentified radical Islamic faction, used an RPG-7 rocket, which struck the helicopter on the tail and caused the deaths of two Surdunni pilots and two NewPo employees, a soldier and other civilians were also hurt in the subsequent crash.

Minister for Surdun, Alexus Daron condemned the attack as "heinous and unnecessary" but stressed that Surdun had enough troops on the ground to contain the situation. But our local correspondent found that local police and soldiers on the ground were not so optimistic.

One unnamed officer observed that "we're hard pressed to deal with the upsurge in anti-muslim and anti-government violence from local gangs, but these Islamic groups are another issue entirely." He continued to add that the groups in question were armed and had attacked the police on several occasions, leading to police units being instructed to call for military assistance in facing them.

A senior officer in the Surdunni forces has also expressed the opinion that troops on the ground are in danger of being overrun. "This city is too large, the soldiers too few and inexperienced, we are at serious risk of being pushed out of Viir in the face of a concentrated offensive."

Violence has flared across the nation in the wake of the events at Viir, particularly in Svelt, where the government is also considering deploying military peacekeepers.

As yet, Prime Minister Renner has not commented on the situation, leaving a void of information from the top sources of the government. Whether Naasha will appeal to traditional Nova Europan allies for help restoring peace in Surdun remains to be seen, but assistance for the people of Surdun needs to come from somewhere, and soon.