NationStates Jolt Archive

Scolar, Antartika

Ambrose Kargile, a simple dock worker in the great port city of Scolar had lead a life which few would call fulfilling. He was born the son of a ship scrubber, those men whom risk their lives day in and day out to scrub ice and barnacles off of the hulls of ships. He never knew his mother, who died at child birth, and only had two simblings, a brother and a sister. Needless to say it was a rough life. They lived in one of the poorer workers quarters of the city, which meant the heating often went dead, leaving temperatures inside the building around 35 or 40 degrees.

His life had not improved much from there. He had not shown apptitude in academics, nor a desire to learn as a child, and was thus, not selected for private education, leavining him in the 55% majority whom would never go to school, but would learn a trade, or go straight to work. He had the misfortune of a drunkard for a father, who threw him on the docks when he hit the age of eight. And now, at twenty eight, he was still there, hauling crates and lifting boxes. The rest of his family had not done much better, his sister was a prostitute, his other brother had died a few years back in gang related warfare, his father too had died of some bronchial infection.

To make matters worse, his girlfriend had left him, leaving their child behind in their one bedroom apartment on his meager salary. He was working nine hour shifts six days a week, just enough to pay the day care, the rent, and to buy food for the week. It was not working for Ambrose, life in Kroando was not exactly what he had wanted it to be. It was not the fault of any individual, it was not any conspiracy to 'keep the working man down', it was simply how things were in Antartika. Much work. Little pay. Survival doubtful.

So it was of little surprise when Ambrose was one of the first signing up for the once in a life time chance to leave. Flyers had been posted up around the city, asking for, "Seven thousand people, looking for a new life. A warm climate. Guarantee of work. Five thousand Kroandon Credits to boot." He was the twelfth in line, and had waited for a day straight to get to that spot, those around him in equally shitty or worse off positions. Those signing up hardly knew where they were going, only that it was somewhere other than where they were. The 7,000 quota was hit in an hour and a half, with 4,000 men, 2,500 women and around 500 children embarking for a land known as Inioka.

Freetown, Inioka

As the massive transport ship came into port, Ambrose could only smile as he felt the warm summer sun come down upon his face, a feeling he had never before felt. The hundreds of other Kroandon emmigrants stood upon the guard rails of the massive ship, surveying the rather miniscule city they approached, well, at least compared to the cities of Antartika. Freetown had a population of over 780,000, soon to be increased to 787,000. The only difference was that Inioka had not seen whites in over eighty years, the former colonizers being driven out nearly a century ago. Why then were the Kroandons coming here? Why were they allowed to come here?

Well Inioka was in a state of civil war, with three sides fighting it. The Government was run by an oppressive, corrupt, unelected President Guogo, this Government is the one whom took in the Kroandons. They took the Kroandons, along with a Kroandon check for 175 Million Dollars from Junkers Inc. The other two sides of the war being comprised of the INC [Independent National Confederacy], who in reality were just a loose alliance of Warlords and bands of thieves. And the final player, the most dominant, the IPF, the Iniok Peoples Front, a growing power with socialist tendencies. Why one may ask, why would the Junkers Korporation send so many people to this place?

Ambrose and the other refugees were quickly set up in rather upscale apartments, in the nicer section of town. Employment was found quickly, as managers, white collar workers and foremen... He had more than enough money to buy his own car (rare in Kroando), a television, furniture, plenty of food, bottled water, and a nanny for his daughter. He worked six hours a day a dock foreman, directing others to do the work he had been doing a month before. The natives hated the Kroandons, but none would dare touch them, as President Guogo's soldiers would execute anyone thinking of it. His men were stationed throughout the Capital city... one of the few still under his control, and he was determined to keep control of it. Everything seemed as if it would work out alright for Ambrose and the Kroandons... a new life, pure in heart, corrupt in mind.

[This is open for character RP, and small national involvement. No 'I send 1,000,000 men to conquer FTW! NUKZ! YAA!' If you want to get involved on a national level, small contingents of troops, more preferably, Special Ops. and Mercenaries. First and foremost, I am looking for good RP here, this is NOT a landgrab, as indicated by the lack of a map. (Which will come soon) Anyways, this is Semi-Open.]

Freetown, Inioka

It did not take long for the Inioks and Kroandon immigrants to join the world in the stereotypical racial hatred that always seemed to spur up between whites and blacks. President Guogo's men could stop the civilians from stoning, beating and killing the Kroandons, but they could not stop the war of words. As Kroandons came into the country, took the best jobs, lived in the best houses, and took the best of everything, the people naturally began to dislike them. It only got worse, as Kroandon's took jobs which involved ordering the Inioks about... but this was only the tip of the ice berg.

Kroandons were naturally a hard working, hard nosed, cynical, proud people, whom despised slothfullness and laziness, and would interpret not working 100% as such. The Inioks were not so. They, especially the laborers, looked at work as something that should be bullshited and sat through. They did not understand the work ethic of the Kroandons, and they would not abide by it. This lead to a clash. As a Kroandon foremen would expect a pile of crates moved within an hour, the Inioks would see it as an all day job. And then the Kroandon foremen would take a piece of wood, and beat one of the Inioks until it was moved. He would yell at them, curse at them, and threaten to kill them. And then when the job was over, and the Kroandon foremen was driving home, the workers either taking a bus or walking, they retaliated. They would spit on their cars as they drove by. They would shout at them and curse them back. They would throw dead animals and rotten food, and occasionally even rocks. The two peoples quickly began to hate one another.

Loli Docks - Freetown

Ambrose had, roughly an hour ago, ordered his work group to unload a small boat of it's relatively light cargo of banannas, boxes of them. There were only thirty crates, a simple task in Ambrose's eyes for the time he had given them to complete it. Back in Scolar, he was the one moving the crates, and they were not filled with banannas. They were topped off which iron bars. With steel blocks. With scrap metal. And there were not thirty crates, there were two hundred. And there was no hour. There was twenty minutes. He was going to be a lax foreman... at least in his eyes.

As he returned from the warehouse, checking order forms and shipment schedules, he came back to see his six man crew not working, but sitting on the wooden pier, next to the boat. The crates, he could clearly see, had not been moved to the designated area. And there was but one crate out. And it was open, and the workers were eating the banannas. Rage came over Ambrose's face, as he picked up a small piece of wood from the ground, and stormed down the pier towards the men. One of the Inioks stood up, a rather large one, and folded his arms, throwing the bananna peel into the water. He had a large smile on his face, and began laughing as the Kroandon stormed over. "I do not think you know how things be workin' here in Iniok man!", laughed the large black as he continued chewing.

Without uttering a single word, Kargile swung the wooden club, and hit the Iniok square in the mouth, sending blood and teeth into the air. The man was knocked out clean as he fell into the water... as none of his comrades went in after him, he drowned roughly five minutes later. "GET TO FUCKIN' WORK YOU WORTHLESS KAFFERS!" And with that, the men began scurrying to move the crates as quickly as they could.

Freetown Sun - Apartment Complex

Ambrose wiped the sweat from his head and slowly put the key into the lock, jiggiling it for a second before openeing the green door and walking into the air conditioned apartment. Air conditioning was something Ambrose had never before expirienced... keeping cool was not very difficult in Antartika. As he strolled through the hallway, he smiled as he saw his daughter, being rocked to sleep by the Iniok nanny he had hired. The nanny was only sixteen herself, an orphan that had offered her services to Ambrose the day he arrived.

"Whats for dinner?", he asked as he plopped himself down onto the large couch, kicking his legs up and loosening his tie.

"Chicken and rice sir.", replied Jamia, the nanny in her thick Iniok accent. The girl walked out of the room and into the kitchen, bringing a platter of food out to the table in front of Ambrose.

"Thanks Jamia...", Kargile sat up straight, immidiately begining to eat the meal prepared for him. "Why can't the rest of your people work like this?", Amrbose mumbled between mouthfuls of food.

Not wanting to answer the bigoted question, Jamia simply responded, "I don' know sir.", and continued pouring Ambroses lemonade.

"You know Jamia... where I come from only the richest people in the country can afford chicken and rice like this... and the lemonade...", Ambrose took a big gulp, "Back in Kroando, it's made from chemicals.

Not familiar with the term, Jamia put down the pitcher and questioned him. "What is chemicals Mr. Ambrose?", again, in her usual accent.

"You know... chemicals...", Ambrose, still eating, pieces of rice and chicken falling out of his mouth as he responded. "They're the things... that... well, the little cell things but they're...", quickly getting frustrated, as Kroandons did, he gave up. "Ah never mind... you just keep making food like this, and you'll have a job as long as I live."

Clicking on the television, Ambrose watched the latest report, on the civil war. The news anchor was of course, a Kroandon, and he spoke with the same accent Ambrose had. He watched eagerly as lines and battle markers marked victory after victory, the IPF shattering both government and warlord forces throughout the 'diamond fields', taking control of the main source of revenue in the country. "So Jamia, how long has all this been goin' on?", he asked, still eating.

"Oh sir... theres always been da' fightin' in Inioka... not always these peoples, but always da' fightin'.", Jamia put away some food in the refrigerator before continuing. "When I was younga', President Guogo was General Guogo, and he killed President Mbiti and his men wit' his army. And there wasa' big fight for years. When it was ova', and all was nice, one of Guogo's Generals tried doin' what he done did, but Guogo cut off his head and put it on a big stick in da' middle of da' city. My grandmoda' says that we used to fight da' whites, but they left."

Ambrose nodded in solemn recognition of the marker of IPF forces moving closer to the city. "So... who do you think will win this thing Jamia?", he asked, as if the young girl had some deep insight into the world of military strategy.

"Hard to say sir... only ting' thats for certain is dat' whicheva side you pick, will be da' wrong one."

The man in the white shirt smiled.

He stood over another man. An ethnic Kroandon. The Kroandon was stone dead; his throat had been cut, like a pig's, and his blood was splattered about the room in rings. Furniture was overturned and objects were smashed. Some of the paint had been torn from the walls. A bloody struggle it had been, it seemed; it was, however, a struggle that had only existed in the man's fertile imagination. The man in the white shirt examined his gloved hands and examined his own injuries; there were none, but he knew already that it would not matter.

He strode to the door, picked up the key; and employing a useful trick he had once learned, he left the police with a Kroandon, throat cut, in an apartment locked from the inside and with its third-floor windows bolted shut. His black shirt was liberally stained in the Kroandon's blood; he dropped it in a bag, drove to a public washroom where he tried (ineffectually) to wash it out, then folded it and returned it to the bag. His eye fell on a list of addresses provided by his immediate superior; he picked one of them at random -- an Iniokan factory worker, probably out on the town tonight. The man in the white shirt was lucky this time; his quarry was not at home. He let himself into the worker's house, found his bedroom and pulled out another shirt from his dresser. Good, same size.

He dropped in the folded shirt stained with the Kroandon's blood. The Kroandon was the Iniokan's immediate superior; by all accounts a thoroughly disagreeable sort, and no great loss to humanity. But in a city run by Kroandons, his death at the apparent hands of his subordinate would definitely stir things up a bit. The man in the white shirt grinned, removed his gloves and stuffed them into a pocket, let himself out of the house, and drove home. And at home? He became just another Kroandon, as his true ethnicity was. The gloves were incinerated, the only evidence connecting him to the crime.

So far there were only ten or eleven like him in the city, but it was enough. They worked with only one purpose: to cause death, destruction, and chaos. Murder, to them, was an art; sabotage and theft the work of a moment; spreading fear their specialty. Even tonight two more would die -- another Kroandon, this one run over by a car with one blown headlight; and an Iniokan, a dock worker, enticed onto the docks by night to be found crushed by a heavy crate the next morning. These men and women, a loose alliance of death-dealers around the world, had but one allegiance, the name that brought them together. Karatsai.

FTN Special Report

"Today seven Kroandons lay dead and two critically injured as mob violence rises up against the new immigrant population of Freetown, with protestors and rioters rejoicing in glee as these 'unwelcomed guests' are shown whose land they are on.", the white, Kroandon news anchor spoke, reading from the teleprompter. "Authorities say these IPF sponsored terrorists are being dealt with, however it appears that the retaliatory strikes are little more than random acts of violence."

The screen switched to a clip, apperantly taken from a home video. The shaky camera view showed a military truck stopping, unloading Iniok soldiers bearing the governments markings, and storming the building. These men were easily distinguishable from IPF forces and INC soldiers, as they are the only ones to wear actual uniforms. The men stormed inside, bringing out over a dozen unarmed black males, lining them up against the wall. They then directed their M16's to the men, and unleashed a hail of lead into them, dropping the men to the ground, spraying blood on the walls. The soldiers then mounted up and drove off.

"The populous seems estatic, but will quickly hide this as government forces show themselves... all this at a time when IPF forces have reportedly come within five miles of the city. President Guogo was unavailable for comment on the situation, his office stating only that, 'Everything is under control, the IPF is crumbling, and the city is secure.' Rumor has it however, that Guogo has fled Inioka for the Banja Islands... in unrelated news, several more ships, filled with Kroandons have docked in Freetown, bumping the total white population to 49,000..."

Freetown - Seven Weeks After First Kroandon Arrival

Ambrose began walking down the steps of the apartment building when he was bumped into, and nearly knocked over by one of his old friends, Burnier Dargson, a police officer back in Kroando, now apparently head of an entire district. Dressed in his Iniok uniform, he caught both himself and Ambrose as they nearly fell down two flights. “Ah feck’! Sorry pal’, I’m in a bit of a-”, Burnier, apparently unaware of whom he had just knocked into, stopped himself as he turned to continue running. “Ambrose Kargile!?”, the Police Lieutenant shouted, not turning around until he had said the name. “What in bloody hell are you doing here?!”

Brushing himself off, Ambrose looked up to his old friend. “Nice to see you too Burnier… I see you got a promotion.”

“The fuck? Oh… right… well, fuck this isn’t any damn time to chit-chattin’, you need to get your ass on that freighter before it leaves. Hurry, follow me, we don’t have much time.”, Burnier, a large, mountain of a man, grabbed Ambrose by the arm and pulled, dragging him up the stairs as they moved up to the third floor. “You have anything in your apartment you can’t leave behind?”

Ambrose, still confused as to what was going on, tried to play catch up. “Leave?! What? Why! Whats going on! I’ve got to get to work!”

Burnier kicked in a door, seemingly in too much a rush to pull out his keys. He ran into the room, followed closely by Ambrose, who repeated his questioning. “Hey! Give me a damn answer! What is going on!?”

The Lieutenant pulled an SMG out of a closet, and subsequently started shoving clips into his pockets. “They came in over night… it’s already started in some parts…”, he rambled on, grabbing a pair of frag grenades out of a drawer, “There’s a shotgun in the closet over there… do me a favor and grab it… you didn’t answer me, do you need anything from your place?”

Kargile still had no idea what in the hell was going on, and shot back, “What? Who came in over night? Whats going already started? And yes, my daughter is at my place.”

“The damn rebels you thick grub… now grab that shotgun and lets, go, we haven’t got much time.”, and with that, they both rushed out of the room, up the stairs of the apartment complex, to Ambrose’s room. The door was already opened, apparently kicked in.

“Karen! Jamia!”, Ambrose shouted, running into the room, shot gun in hand. “Karen!”, he shouted again, in vein as he searched every room. The apartment had been ransacked… apparently in the last ten minutes. “They’re gone! What… whats going on…”

“They’re probably at the docks… now lets get out of -”, an explosion knocked both of the men off of their feet, sending them into the far wall. Some sort of explosive had detonated outside, blowing in the outer wall, covering the men in debris. A massive ringing was going off inside Ambrose’s head, he could hardly gather his thoughts before he witnessed Burnier squeezing of SMG rounds at a pair of black men attempting to enter the room. “RPG… c’mon you bastard, you can’t have forgotten everything from the reserves. Now lets go!”

The men rushed out of the building, shouting and screaming haunting them the entire way. Screams that could only have been of a woman being raped, of men being skinned, and children disemboweled. Horrible as it was, they continued running towards Dargson’s car, witnessing as they ran government soldiers combat what seemed to be unorganized ruffians with guns. Men with no uniforms, no clear organization, and no clear leadership. Wielding AK-47’s and machetes, they seemed to hold such a numerical advantage so as to overwhelm any opponent. Dargson’s vehicle was not left alone either, as two men, one hardly over the age of twelve, were smashing out the windows. Burnier gave off a loud whistle, raising his SMG to the two blacks, who turned to look at him. A squeeze of the trigger later, and they were both dead on the ground.

Loli Docks

A mad house. The only words which could describe the scene at the docks were those. Chaos, anarchy and hell also came close. Thousands of Kroandons were attempting to push their way onto the massive cargo ships, which were forcibly unloading civilians from Antartika. Merely forcing the car into the docking compound would be impossible, as IPF Rebels surrounded the area, firing mortars and rockets into the area, killing dozens of civilians with every shot. Kroandon and Government soldiers alike fought back, the Kroandons simply picking up weapons and defending themselves the best they knew how.

“Hold on buddy…”, Burnier mumbled as he pushed on the gas, running over a IPF Militiaman, hitting a small jump and thrusting the car into the side of an old utility shed. Ambrose was promptly knocked unconcious.

Freetown

Iniokan Peoples Front militia had infilitrated the city several nights before, placing cells throughout the city, cells which would intensify the fighting below, and spread havoc throughout. Over a thousand men and child soldiers were already firing at police cars, military trucks and civilians in general by the time that the main force of twelve thousand stormed the city in their pick up trucks and technicals, firing rockets and indirect fire mortars at random into the city. Arson, robbery, pillaging, rape... all was the target. They were not there to kill Kroandons, for this war had started long before they had ever arrived, but they would not spare them. And to the Kroandons, they were the targets, they were the victims. Events had been set in motion that would change the course of Kroandon history...

Freetown - The Bolosnia Hotel

"DOWN!", shouted a Kroandon in desert fatigues, seemingly a soldier of some sort, but clearly not in the Korvacht, due to the man's obvious differences in uniforms and armor. Additionally his weapon was not the C1 Assault Rifle, but seemingly some sort of German made SMG, clearly nothing the Kroandon Military would equip it's men with. However he was Kroandon, this much could be told not only from his thick accent, but by his simply physical features.

As his scream let out, a rocket propelled grenade flew through the blown out window the soldier was crouched next to, detonating against the far wall, sending a shower of rubble and debris into the air. "RETURN FIRE!", roared an unseen officer, whom by the voice, was also Kroandon. And across the building could be heard heavy and light machine gun fire, as well as various other weapons and explosives.

Ambrose was just now coming around, and was still not sure what exactly was goin on. All he knew was that he had a throbbing head ache (not being helped by the war being raged outside), and that the man next to him was missing his head. As he slowly began to get up, a man in fatigues grabbed him by the collar and threw him against a wall, one facing the street below. A moment later, a G36 Assault Rifle was thrown into his arms, along with a pair of clips. "We've got hostiles on the north and east building! Keep em' pinned down until our armor makes it up the road!", shouted the man as he tossed a pair of frag grenades out the window, corresponding explosions and screams indicating sucess.

Promptly switching from the role of confused civilian to that of determined soldier, Ambrose cocked the gun and took aim of the .50 cal on the back of the technical down the street. Four sickly looking Africans standing in the back of the red pick up, one firing unaimed shots into the side of the building, one feeding ammo, and two simply dancing and screaming. A few pulls of the trigger later, and the .50 cal was no longer rattling. "Who the hell are you people?!", shouted Ambrose as he placed a few more bullets in the side of the pick up, hoping to hit the gas line.

Another young man moved up from a crate deeper inside the building, raising his own G36 out of a hole in the wall, firing various shots at enemy positions across the street. "JSP at your service...", the scruffy Kroandon responded, licking his lips as he knocked off one Iniok after another... not really caring whose side they were on, if they were armed, or if they were even still alive.

"Junkers!?", shouted Ambrose, whom actually turned his head in confusion. A massive explosion echoing out seconds later due to a bullet hitting the gas tank of the technical. "What does the Junkers Korporation have a private army in Inioka for?" The Junkers Korporation was one of the largest companies in Kroando, responsible for the import of pretty much all raw and recycled goods. And suddenly it was clear. This was never about making new lives for impovershed Kroandons. This was about 'junking' a nation. Taking everything they had and selling it for profit in Kroando. The people they had moved over? Just an excuse to intervene... and a great source of management labor once the natives were subdued.

A mixture of rage, frustration and pure desire for revenge overwhelmed Ambrose, whom nearly turned the gun on the Junker's Security Personel right then and there. But he maintained his cool, and continued firing down on the rebel positions below. "What happened to President Guogo?! I thought he had the city secure!", shouted Kargile as a string of bullets thudded into the wall.

"That fat bastard is retired. Sitting on a beach in the Pacific somewheres. Thats all these damned Afrikan dictators do anyways... steal the country's money and run off to an island.", responded one of the non-uniformed men, probably another Kroandon whom had come over with the dream of a new life. The man was no more than two feet away from Ambrose when he leaned over and whispered into his ear. "You know whats going on here?"

The man stayed next to Ambrose, his eyes fixed on Kargile's. Should he have blinked, he too would have been killed, for the Kroandons had no idea who among them may have worked for Junkers. Ambrose simply nodded, which was met by a nod of confirmation from the man next to him. Both resumed their role in the fire fight, which raged on for hours on end, and had continued for over a day and a half before Ambrose came around.

By that time the Junkers Korporation had sent in their private army, 12,000 strong with armored support to take over the city. The Government Army had long since disbanded and been massacred by the IPA hordes, which numbered some 20,000 armed men and children, and over 60,000 rioters. There were were also some 12,000 armed Kroandon men throughout the city... all of whom were coordinating their next actions. They would not be the slaves of Junkers. They would have the lives they came to get. They would be the masters. Not the slaves.

And then it came. Of the fifteen men on the floor, nine were Kroandons from the immigration wave, six JSP. The nine, seemingly in unison, turned their guns on the Junkers men, and mowed them down in a hail of bullets. "Grab that Javelin, knock out that fucking tank!", shouted Ambrose, a former member of the Dolmot [equivelant to the national guard]. It was already being done, as the missile flew from the third story of the hotel down into the top turret armor of the Kraken MBT', blowing a hole in the weaker roof armor. It was followed by heavy rifle fire and grenades, blowing away dozens of unsuspecting JSP Mercs.

Freetown

All around the city the situation was the same. As IPF forces were subdued and driven out, the Kroandon Immigrants to Inioka turned on the Junkers men whom had come to 'rescue' them. The Kroandons were patriots, but these men were not their countrymen. Mostly Mercenaries, they were Korporate stooges, not soldiers. They were not friends, and they were not treated as such. Coordinated and forceful attacks destroyed over 60% of the JSP on the ground, with the vast majority surrendering, taking up the offer to fight for the Kroandon Immigrants for pay... instead of losing their lives. It did not take long for the JSP to completely withdraw from the nation, those left behind joining the Kroandon's.

However what came now was a very, very difficult question. What to do. The government of Inioka which had protected them up until now was gone. President Guogo was illigetimate, powerless and ten thousand miles away sipping on a pina colata. The IPF would kill every last one of them should they be given control of the country. The socialist bastards hating whites not only because they had oppressed them for so long, but due to the teachings they had been consumed with, condemning all of them as imperialists. Additionally the warlords could not be trusted, nor did they have the power to restore order. The only other chance at hope seemed to be with the Junkers Korporation, whom would likely kill everyone in the country due to the heavy loss of security personel faced.

No, the only option that was left, was that they rules themselves. With over 94,000 Kroandons in Freetown, they made up roughly 1/6 of the city. In all Inioka, they were out numbered 1 to 65. The first issue however, was establishing some sort of organization, governance, leadership. What was to be done?

Former Iniok Parliament Building

Riddled with bullet holes, dotted with gaping mortar wounds, still ablaze in some parts, the Iniok Parliament Building looked like the rest of the city... but was doing something far different. There were inside 400 of 'elected' Kroandons. These men were those whom had served in the Dolmot, had some sort of charisma about them, or simply knew what they were doing. And of them, one man had distinguished himself. A man determined to reunite his family and his people. A man determined to carve a new life out of this mess if he had to do it with a hunting knife. A man who hated the Inioks for their barbarism, Junkers for their corruption, and the world for abandoning them. His name was Ambrose Kargile. And he was now the Chancellor of Krodesia.

Freetown, Krodesia

"Up against the wall! Spread em' you feckin' kaffers!", shouted a pair of Krodesian soldiers, pointed their G36 Assault Rifles at a mob of nine or ten Iniokan civilians, whom had previously been sitting on a street corner, smoking a joint.

"Fuck you Krok pig!", responded one of the men, probably only seventeen or eighteen years old. A second later, his brains were on the wall behind him, as a shot was fired, and the teen dead.

"BITE THE GOD DAMN CURB!", roared the Krodesian yet again, this time however, the Inioks scrambled in fear. Each one of them literally biting the curb, placing his mouth around the edge and praying to god the men were just fucking with them. "We are members of the Krodesian Republican Guard, and you fuckin' kaffers better fuckin' learn to show some respect!", a moment later, the man curb stomped (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Curb_stomping) one of the men, dislocating his jaw and spilling blood into the street. "You bastards better get off the damn street... don't you know there's a curfew in order!? All blacks must be indoors by six, or have a damn travel permit... and I'm guessing you scum have no permits." A second man was curb stomped, this one losing his life as his neck was broke.

Pssshhhhhhttttt.... "We've got eight... seven suspected rebels on the corner of 9th and Salisbury... request transportation... and corpse disposal for two.", one of the Krodesians spoke into the radio on his shoulder, looking over the men below.

Across Freetown

Iron fisted order had been established across the city by Ambrose's Transitional Government, which had enacted multitudes of measures to gain order and security. The begining of Kroandon rule of Inioka sat in keeping the IPF out of the city, and subsequently destroying them altogehter. It started with rooting out the sympathizers and traitors in their midst. Ambrose, and more importantly, Darkhile, Ambrose's Minister of Intelligence, believed that over 20% of Freetown's black population was sympathetic, or directly supporting the IPF. This 20% had to be isolated, quarantined and eliminated as quickly as possible. Thus came the random arrests as displayed above, thus came the tapping of telephone lines. Thus came the hacking of email accounts. Thus came the interrogations, the beatings and the murders. Additionally random door to door searches were conducted... and black with a gun, whom was not in the Kroedesian Guard, was shot. [Roughly 200 blacks are in the Kroedsian Guard, former members of Guogo's Regime]

The Kroandons in Inioka were determined to root out all those whom would kill them, thus their motives could not be labeled as completely evil. Their actions, though dispicable, were commited out of fear. Scores of Inioks were thrown into trucks every day, driven just outside the city limits, and mowed down... after being forced to dig their own graves.

The next measure was one of compulsory work. Every man, woman and child capable of working, was to do so. This however was one of the few edicts which held little obvious racism. Everyone was to work, be it in repairing buildings, gathering supplies or in preparing defenses. Though few white males were involved in work, as all of them had been conscripted to the newly formed Krodesian Guard. The city was not to be left in rubble, as water mains were repaired, street lights put upright, and overturned cars flipped. Gangs of black workers (under the sight of armed white Krodesians) roamed the city, repairing or fixing anything they came across. Initially of course, many resisted... but they were shot. And then the rebelliousness died down.

The next measure was in the organization of the Krodesian Guard, whom served both as the defense and police force. Men with expirience in the Kroandon Army were given officer status, the common private in Kroando sitting with a rank of Captain in Krodesia. These men were usually just reserves in the Dolmot, as an actual ranking officer in the regular army could expect to be given a post as a Colonel or even a General. The men were more than adequatly armed however, as they eagerly gathered the weapons of fallen Junker's Mercenaries and dead IPF militiamen. Each of the 12,000 Krodesian Guardsmen was armed with a G36 Assault Rifle, and usually some sort of camo, or at least distinguishing clothing. There were additionally some 35,000 AK-47's and ammunition therein stored in a warehouse in the center of the city, under heavy guard from Ambrose's forces. Additionally there were over 60 military jeeps, 200 .50 cal machine guns, some 100 transport trucks, over 175 RPG's with roughly 300 rounds, and several thousands of grenades and mortar rounds (but very few mortars). There were also a number of high powered hunting rifles, being used by snipers and marksmen throughout the city.

As IPF forces regrouped outside the city, occupying the small town of Go'Loia to the north, Ambrose prepared his men for what he claimed would be, 'A defining battle.'

"We're now the ruling class? Innnteresting...."

"Makes things a hell of a lot easier if you ask me."

"Can't stand war, myself.... Nothing you do is ever noticed. I scattered the body parts of two men I killed over an IPF base, and nobody even gave them a second glance."

"War has its advantages, to be fair."

"Yes, but only when we control it."

"True enough. Anyway, what's up for today?"

"We're doing the Rockwell Dog."

"The Rockwell Dog?"

"Yeah, you watch."

That same day a poster was taped up on the side of a small convenience store. It depicted only a large sad-looking brown dog, such as might have been painted by Norman Rockwell; the background was watercolours. Nobody saw it being put up. Perhaps it was torn down immediately; perhaps it lasted hours or days; but within forty-eight hours the neighbourhood was rocked by an explosion and the convenience store had been reduced to a smoking heap of rubble, the Iniokan proprietor atomised. Almost simultaneously, another brown Rockwell dog made its appearance on the door of a bank across town. It too was torn down; and the bank too was destroyed within two days, killing half a dozen Kroandons and heaven knows how many Iniokan workers.

And so it went. The people of Freetown came to recognise the brown dog; when it appeared, the residents of the building went packing. Security detachments were dispatched to guard the buildings at all hours; dogs and bomb squads searched them cellar to ceiling for explosives to no avail; but invariably, within two, or three, or four days -- seemingly, whenever the security forces' guard was slackened slightly -- the building was blown to kingdom come.

Karatsai also had another occupation during the first weeks of the Kroandon takeover. They adopted the strategy of Agatha Christie's ABC Murderer, by committing murders in alphabetical order. First Agatha Aarons was slain in an alley with an anvil; then Benjamin Bowton met his end in a bathroom via a bodkin; then Charles Church choked on cyanide-laced cod; and so on and so forth. Almost no evidence was found linking anyone to the string of killings, and what evidence was found was contradictory and implicated a wide variety of individuals who were obviously incapable of having committed the act -- for instance, the fingerprints of Londinian consul Sir Alistair Davidson were found at three of the crime scenes, despite the fact that Sir Davidson had been dead for years. People had to admit that whoever was doing this, was good. (They ought to have been. They got plenty of practice.)

Karatsai was only slightly worried that, if things were left alone too long, government policies might become too restrictive to even the Kroandon ruling class and their hidden supplies of every imaginable weapon and explosive -- spread widely across the city -- would be confiscated or destroyed, and suppliers would be unable to introduce more of the weapons or explosives into the city. But even without advanced technology it is possible to spread terror. All that is required is the desire to do it and the common sense not to get caught. Nobody fears a dead man.

OOC: What is the religion there on the island?

Bump.

[@NB - The Iniokan peoples have various vodoo tribal pagan beliefs. The Kroandons are primarily Catholic.]

President Guogo's Mansion - Chancellor Ambrose Kargile's New Residence

Kargile sat in the old red leather arm chair of the former President, leaning over the old wooden desk, holding in his hands a picture of his daughter. Karen. In all likelihood she was dead. Hopefully she was dead. He prayed every night to God that that stupid Iniok girl had tripped and dropped the baby, snapping it's neck instantly. He prayed for the death of his child. For the alternatives were unimagineable.

He sat there, his eyes fixed upon the old, torn, worn photograph and thought to himself. However he was promptly interrupted by the opening of the door, and Hithron Darkhile walking in, a stack of papers in his hand. "Hello Ambrose... I trust you are not still looking at that old photograph.", spoke the man in his usual cold hearted voice, which intended no malice, yet contained every ounce of dispicibility in hell. "We've been tearing them down... watching the buildings... it seems that the only way to stop them is to blow the buildings ourselves."

Ambrose folded the picture and placed it inside the bible on his desk, picking up the flyer which had just been laid upon his desk. "What in the hell is this?", Ambrose questioned, holding up the poster of the brown dog. "The IPF?"

"We don't know... but my contact in KRIA will be arriving within a week... he should be able to bring us out of the dark.", responded Darkhile as he set down another stack of papers. "We doubt it's the IPF... far too good for that band of socialist inbred natives... we suspect it is either foriegn deployment or mercenaries... but Ambrose... this is the least of our worries. There are over 34,000 militiamen with 600 technicals in Go'Loia."

South East Freetown

It had been going on for over two weeks. The fucking Rockwell Dog. No leads. No witnesses. Until now.

Corporal Dornik Mocon, a marksman in the Krodesian Guard. His post was at the roof of Hotel Freetown, roughly seven stories above the remainder of the city. His job was largely just to keep the Inioks on the ground in fear, but today he would do something else. He watched as a dark figure approached a wall... and withdrew a poster. Psssshhhhhtttt... "Fox 7 this is Hawk 2... move to 12th and Rodchester ASAP... we have a possible terrorist... brown dog... psssshhhhtttt..."

And so a pair of guards bolted down the street, rushing towards the location, their G36 Assault Rifles in hand. Coming from another direction, a military jeep hung a hard left, speeding towards the location. Seemingly every last Krodesian Soldier was now converging on one spot... as this was the first chance to intercept one of these 'IPF Terrorists', it had to be taken and capitalized upon. Hundreds of armed men were now rushing from all about the city to this one point... letting this opportunity slip was simply not an option.

As the men on the ground began moving, Corporal Mocon steadied his rifle, his aim fixed upon this dark figure on the ground... should he... or she begin running, he would follow his every move, reporting his location... if he threatened to duck out of his line of site... a shot the knee.

[Shitty but I'm short on time.]

Freetown, Krodesia - 11:27 PM

"People of Krodesia! Brothers, Sisters, heed my call!", Ambrose Kargile, the Chancellor of the Republic shouted out, standing atop a massive wooden podium. The night sky illuminated by a thousand torches and spot lights, over nine thousand white Kroandons assembled in city square, brought together by a common cause, a common call by Kargile. Not an inch was left unfilled, as every last Kroandon who could fit in the square was present. Hundreds of Armed Krodesians stood about, their assault rifles in hand, snipers on the roofs surrounding the crowd. Jeeps mounted with .50 cal machine guns blocking off the entrances, over a dozen guards standing about Kargile himself.

"Who among us has not been scarred by the terrible hand of death?! Who among us has not felt the chilling touch of horror!?", Ambrose roared, the lights about the assembly illuminating his face. The microphones before him forced his voice to echo out for miles, even those whom cowered in their homes could hear his emotional words.

"Seven months ago we left our homes, our country, our lives in Kroando. Seven months ago we embarked on a great journey for a promises of a better life. For promises of wealth and greatness. For promises of Eden...", his voice rang true to the thoughts of every man, woman and child in the audiance, each mesmorized in solemn acceptance of the words. "We were told that we would live as kings... we were told our skills would be put to the greatest of goods... we were told by the Korporation that we would be welcomed as saviours..."

"WE WERE LIED TO!", roared Kargile, slamming his naked fists onto the wooden podium before him, splinters of wood flying into the air as his hands were cut by the fracturing oak. "When we stepped upon the shores of this... this Eden, we were cursed. We were spat upon. And we were slaughtered!", spit flying from the Dictator's mouth, the men and women in the audiance stood stunned, their eyes fixed upon him.

"But no more! We will not let the savages belittle us! We will not allow the pagans to terrorize our children! We will not live in fear, for we shall be the one's to instill it...", Ambrose continued, gripping the podium with his bloodied hands as he looked down to the photograph before him. The crumbled, wrinkled picture of his baby daughter... whom he continued to pray for... for her death...

"I lost my daughter when the IPF attacked the city... I pray that her death was quick every chance I get.", this sentence was uttered not in rage, nor even in anger, but in solemn acceptance of a truth. "Many of us lost sons... daughters... brothers and sisters. There are a great many who came over that are no longer with us. And for them we pray. For them we weep. For them we hope the after life will be kind.", Ambrose spoke slowly, a tone of sadness taking him over. His eye's glistened, but no tears emerged, yet they seemed imminent. The women and children in the crowd were by now fully weeping, the men, even the strongest of them feeling Kargile's sentiments.

"For the dead we will pray. For the living we will fight. People of Krodesia, we are from all sides besieged by enemies. The Communist Barbarians in Go'Loia prepare their hordes to take us by storm... to kill the men... rape the women... and enslave our children. The Korporate Pigs in Kroando plot only how to subdue us, to take what wealth we have scraped up for ourselves here, in our new homes and to add it to their own vast collections. The foriegn devils would only seek to persecute us even further, to condemn us as racists. As bigots. As fascists. But we know this to be false! We know that our struggle is one of survival, not tyranny. We know that dominance is the only way to exist, for should we let our enemies have the advantage... they would destroy us.", Ambrose slowed himself, preparing to enter the great finale.

"MY PEOPLE! Today, on the 29th of Oktober, we face a great point in our nation's history. Should we fail, death will come. All our hopes and dreams shall be smashed into nothingness. However should we suceed... our rewards will be limitless!", Ambrose roared, raising his hands into the air.

"Krodesians! Go now, go now to seek out your enemy and kill him! For Krodesia! For victory! For life neverending!"

What came then was a roar of patriotic fury unlike any the continent had ever seen. Fire works rang out, soldiers fired their guns into the air. Children, Women, Men alike screamed with all of the emotion of a million revolutions. And the soldiers mounted their transports.

Enroute to Go'Loia

Of the 12,000 Krodesian Men now moving through the night, roughly 2,000 of them were mounted in over 200 trucks and 100 jeeps. There were no tanks among the vehicles, but there were roughly twenty towed 75mm Guns, as well as dozens of AAA and heavy machine guns. The army moved in relative unison, with massive flood lights leading the way. Speakers echoing recording's of Ambrose's 'Freetown Address', or so it was being called, filled the air for miles, the natives in the area cowering in fear of this army, whom burned down any settlement they came across, butchering any civilians in their path.

Ambrose himself was with the army, walking on foot amongst the men, his G36 Assault rifle slung across his back. His walk was one of determination and anger, one that would not stop until he was satisfied. It was a walk shared by the rest of the army. They were heading to Go'Loia, roughly 6 miles to the north... and the IPF had long since heard of their advance. They had heard the demonstration in Freetown. They had heard the echoing of the loud speakers. They heard the army move. And so they responded.

40,000 Iniokan People's Front Militia grabbed their AK's, their machetes, and jumped in technicals. Most of them simply began jogging after the main force. The tactics of these people were primative and ill-coordinated... but their brutality every bit as savage as the Krodesians.

Battle of Go'Loia

The first shots were fired by forward IPF technicals, which had separated themselves from the main force due to eagerness and over-anticipation of battle. These old pick ups sped right into the front lines of the Krodesians, firing RPG's into the night sky, spraying .50 rounds into the air. Flares and tracer rounds were fired back, providing enough light for the Krodesian forces to pick out these trucks and usually knock them out with their G36's. Occassionally a RPG's would be fired back, but in most cases, the technicals destroyed themselves.

It continued with Ambrose ordering a line be set along a dried out river bed, and Anti-Personel mines be laid before this bed by engineers and sabatours. It would be roughly ten minutes before the majority of the army arrived, and ample time was available to set up the .50 cals and to properly position the Krodesian Forces. And when it started, it started with a bang. The few 75mm Guns available fired off rounds into the distance, making the Iniokan Advance a little less comfortable than they would have liked. Mortar rounds followed, fired from both sides, as were rockets and heavy machine guns.

The battle that ensued raged on into the morning, with thousands of blacks being massacred throughout the night. Over six thousand were killed, and additional 1,000 captured and executed. Less than nine hundred Krodesians died in the fight, as sporadic episodes of combat broke out for days to come as IPF forces continued to retreat in a broken and unorderly manner. Attempts at unifying were shattered by seemingly never ending Krodesian pursuit, which went on for miles upon miles after the initial fight.

The war however, had but just begun.

The figure turned suddenly as he smoothed the last corner into place. Motion. He was sure he had heard something. For a moment the panic welled up in him, but then he remembered what he had to do; he remembered Karatsai's purpose. Immediately after that he decided it was a false alarm. These things happened. He strolled down the alley like any other citizen of Freetown, towards a larger and better-illuminated street at the other end; from between the garbage cans he stepped out onto the sidewalk and immediately knew something was wrong.

From afar he heard the whine of a siren. Further along the street, down towards where it intersected a major avenue, a military jeep alighted and he heard the shouts of men and saw their searchlights sweeping past him. He picked up the pace, walking fast towards the next intersection along; the jeep accelerated behind him and he knew he had been seen. He looked around; aside of him, the street was empty apart from a sleeping homeless man. He attempted to duck into a doorway but none was convenient; he reached the next intersection and turned the corner, walking slapbang into the officer in charge of a troop of paramilitaries. As they both went down he was able to reach to the back of his neck before the men grabbed him.

For a moment he was uncertain as to whether they would shoot him outright or take him in for questioning; he was an ethnic Krodesian and in all official records was known as Nehemiah Lestrade -- no history of criminal activity or affiliation -- but that proved nothing. His death would be short now; either naturally through the potent toxins of his implant, or through a soldier's bullet. Only the traitors would survive an interrogation. And everyone knew what happened to traitors to Karatsai.

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

"They got Lestrade."

"That's good. He had the credo memorised better than any of us."

"Would he last that long?"

"PDT takes three hours to work. That should be plenty of time. That's provided he used it."

"I don't see why he wouldn't."

"He used to deal with those who hadn't, remember? In his care it could take them weeks to die."

Tag for later involvement.

Freetown - Some Dark, Damp, Bug Infested Room Twenty Meters Underground

When Lestrade woke, he came around to blackness. No light in the room, to glimmer of hope. Nothing. It had been less than twenty minutes since he had been slammed in the face with the butt of a rifle, thrown in the back of a jeep, and taken to one of the various prisons in the city. He was now naked, and the small implant on the back of his neck had been removed. It was taken off upon his arrival in the cell, most likely the toxins were already at work... but that was of little concern. They would do the most with the time they had.

Lestrade was brought to conciousness with a bucket of ice and water, dumped over his naked body in the darkness. "Hello Brown Dog... My name is Doctor Korronis. We will not know each other for very long, I predict the venom in your blood will kill you within a few hours... and I will not see you again until we are both burning for our sins. But until then... you will expirience more pain than all of the circles of hell combined." Lestrade would feel nothing other than the icy shiver of the water previously dumped upon him.

Suddenly light came into the room... the light of a blow torch. The blow torch was touched to the back of Lestrade's right elboe... and after a few seconds, his left elboe. "Brown Dog... what is your name? And who do you work for?" The erie voice of Korronis was not one of anger, nor one of desperation. It was one of pure sadism. Malice incarnate.

Small Village Outside Go'Loia

Thirty huts, inside of each lived three to five people. These people were hunters and gatherers. Small farmers. Fishermen. And children. They had seen members of Guogo's Army. They had seen the IPF come through and take their food. They had seen the horrors of a hundred wars and a thousand regimes. This small community had survived in one form or another for centuries. But they had never seen Krodesians.

The first they had seen of the Krodesians came in the form of three jeeps and six head lights. The lights bobbled up and down as the Land Rovers moved over the rough terrain, popping up one second, and down the next as they hit holes and small hills. The sounds of their engines came closer and closer... until finally the vehicles parked, and the doors opened. Four men stepped out of each vehicle, each man carrying a G36 Assault Rifle.

The villagers had left their huts to meet these intruders, two of them holding AK-47's, another a hunting rifle. It was dangerous in Inioka, to live unprotected was insanity. The sixty or so people stood before the Krodesians in stark defiance of any that would intrude, proud of both their heritage and their ancestory. Neither of which the Kroandons gave a shit about. "Drop your weapons! I said drop your weapons!", shouted one of the Krodesian Guard, leveling his weapon to the crowd.

One of the older tribesmen, aknowledging that resistance would mean death, instructed the few armed people to comply... and so they did. "Who the feck' is in charge around here?", questioned another Kroandon, taking a long drag from his cigerrette, his G36 pointed at the dirt, hanging by his side.

"We are all in charge here white man.", responded the older gentlemen who had spoken before.

The Krodesian smiled, his face illuminated by the embers at the end of this smoke. "That is the wrong answer kaffer.", responded the man in a simple tone, and promptly smacked the elder in the nose with the butt of his rifle. The man was dead before he hit the ground.

What happened next was a mixture of reaction on the part of the mans daughters, and overreaction on the parts of the Krodesians. Two women immidiately began screaming, sobbing, coming at the Officer who had just ended the life of the old man. One was caught by her husband, but the other hit the Krodesian, slapping in across the face, pounding her fists against his chest in anger, sorrow and rage.

Within two minutes, the entirety of the village was in flames. The people all dead, burning within it. The jeeps drove away, their lights bobbing in the distance...

The extremities are the first to go. Tingling is induced within fifteen minutes of ingestion; within thirty minutes the dermis of the extremities is numb. Within forty-five minutes all nervous tissue within the extremities is dead or dying; limbs, fingers, and toes may fall off in extreme cases. In the thorax, abdomen, and head, tingling is induced within twenty minutes of ingestion; the dermis is numb within forty minutes, and all nervous tissue is dead or dying within an hour and a half. The toxin is so designed that the muscles of the head, especially those of the tongue and jaw, remain stimulated longer than the muscles in the rest of the body; victims have been capable of speech for up to two hours and fifteen following ingestion. All functions apart from respiration and heartbeat are lost within two hours and thirty minutes; the victims are at this point in a semi-conscious state. Death follows within three hours of ingestion. It is believed that victims die peacefully and painlessly, even if missing extremities or other body parts.

Lestrade's limbs were already numb. The toxin was slow to act, but its first function was to deny all feeling to the outer layers of the body; he felt only the pumping of blood within his body, as though encased in a sheet of ice. Now and then he could look to one side or another, and see flashes of light as equipment went to work, savaging the body of one who was technically already dead. Lestrade was already immobilised. His nerves were the first to go; pain and body position were fleeing, so the first hot touch of the blowtorch quickly became a dull throbbing, then disapppeared completely, replaced with only numbness. When Lestrade spoke it was in a quiet monotone, with no hint of effort.

"I see you're going about this the old-fashioned way. I experience no pain," was the first thing he said. He attempted to smile. "My name is on my identification cards, within my garments. Nehemiah Lestrade. Kroandon by birth. Came to Freetown in the first wave, seven months ago."

He paused. There was a sudden searing pain as the good doctor began work upon a slower-to-react portion of Lestrade's body; the pain continued for a moment, and then slowly began to dissipate. When it had become bearable again Lestrade continued. "We are everywhere in Krodesia. Iniokans, Kroandons, foreigners. I see you recognise the Brown Dog -- it is one of our symbols. There are many more." He paused. "We are wherever there is death and destruction. There are no initiation rites, no midnight meetings. We have no jeeps and fighter planes."

For almost ten minutes, while the doctor continued his fruitless expiation of a lifetime of torture, Lestrade remained silent with only occasional suggestions and encouragements ("Now, the average person can scream for mercy in nothing flat if you tried the same thing with a chisel. Yeah, like that -- even I'm feeling it."). At length he resumed. "We go by many names. The most common is Karatsai." He paused. "There is no memberlist or formal organisation to Karatsai. You are only ever directly in contact with one or two people, at most. If you are deemed appropriate for membership, there is no induction ceremony -- you will merely be sent an assignment, and can choose to do it or not.

"We are artists. Our canvas is chaos, and our paint is Death itself. We live with it and it claims us. And because we accept Death, we are immortal. As long as there is humanity there will be Karatsai; as long as there is good there will be evil; as long as there is order there will be chaos. There is no way to stop us without destroying yourselves. To kill and destroy us, to hound us to the ends of the earth, is only to advance our cause -- for our cause is only destruction and fear. We will always endure. We shall live forever."

As Lestrade spoke his voice became fainter and fainter until it died altogether. From that point on only his eyes moved and blinked. Then they too glazed over and closed. Brain activity would continue for twenty minutes; his heart would beat for twenty-five; but for all practical purposes, he was dead.

It was hard to have morals in the mercenary business. Morals conflicted with your ability to perform your job, which in turn made it nearly impossible to make a decent living. After all, it wasn't often that just causes hired your kind of people, most powerful governments already had armies and special operations groups to handle those sorts of things.

There were rare occasions, however, but this wasn't one of them. The deposed dictator, President Guogo, had been browsing the internet in his excessive leisure time when he'd noticed the world news section of AOL describing the new government in his nation. One that didn't include him, and that had pissed him off to a degree. No matter, he had money, more than either side in the current Kroandoan-IPF conflict, and money meant he could bankroll his own forces.

Then again, tanks were hard to smuggle into a warring nation, and that amount of troops would be expensive. The idea came to him in the shower: His people hated the racist Kroandoans, and the thuggish IPF forces. Perhaps they would rise up on his behalf, should he send proper forces into his country. The only question now was where to find such individuals.

Guogo spent the next three days browsing and exchanging emails with various private firms, to include Triple Canopy and Blackwater, all of which were unwilling to commit troops to such a lost cause. After all hope seemed lost, however, until he came on the Association of International Mercenaries, which had become somewhat obscure when AOL Instant Messenger came about and stole the acronym title from them despite a lengthy court battle.

The site was merely a hub, putting him in contact with numerous individual mercenaries who would consider his offer and either refuse it or take it on a personal level. There were a few that deemed his goals unreachable, but there were a few who needed the money. Still others just wanted a good fight. Figuring quality was better than quantity in this case, they were going to train natives to fight anyway, he enlisted two of the site's most highly reguarded, at least that would take the job anyway. That would remain to be seen, however. All he could do was wire emails to both men and wait.

The first, a beastly-looking Kentuckian named Dekker Bray, was listed as a former Marine, Navy SEAL, and one of the few cross-branch trainees to have earned an Army Ranger tab. The listings detailed his many combat deployments, both in the private sector and with the American military, which came to a respectable list. Bray listed himself as a close-combat specialist, with a martial arts resume about as long as his deployment records. Krav Maga, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Muay Thai, Hapkido, MCMAK, Tae Kwon Do, Karate, the list went on and on. Judging by his beefy frame from the file photo, this guy knew what he was doing. For an additional fee, the guy would even bring his own equipment. Considering the selection he'd made, Guogo went to cross-reference to see if he could provide similar gear at a lower cost.

Bray's assortment included a Kimber Gold Combat II M1911A1, hard-chromed with a myraid of customizations to the already-custom pistol; a new Israeli TAR-21 assault rifle mounted with M203 grenade launcher; a MercWorx Equitorian combat knife with chili-pepper handle; and an assortment of grenades both thrown and fired. Body armor was listed as the new and highly effective 'Dragon Skin' vest. After pricing each weapon individually as well as factoring in shipping and associated ammunition, Guogo finally decided he'd just pay the man. After he returned the email, that was...

The second guy was just as promising. Marcus Slade was a recently-retired Green Beret, an expert in guerilla warfare and training indigenous personnel. Slade's service record was mostly through national service, he wasn't the seasoned private sector operator Bray was, which was why he'd even decided to go with two mercenaries in the first place. Again, Slade had a shopping list for him to cross-reference, but he scrapped the idea. If Bray's list was cheaper Slade's was going to be, too.

The list included a Smith and Wesson 686 stainless steel .357 magnum 7-shot revolver; a Heckler and Koch 416 variant of the M4 carbine; a Gerber Guardian knife; and oddly a selection of plastic explosives. Again, considering the explosives, it would have been easier to just pay the man and let him bring his own stuff.

The annoying voice of his mail alert system nearly gave him a heart attack, but brought good news along with the surprise. Bray had agreed, provided he got half of the money in advance and transportation was provided as per AIM policy. Slade's agreement was identical and came roughly an hour later.

Guogo spent the next two days arranging shipments of arms and getting the two men plus their equipment into his stolen nation...

Freetown - Loli Docks

"Move your ass kaffers... we ain't got all day ya know.", shouted the Krodesian Guard, wiping his forhead with his before reapplying his beige military cap. The man's G36 glimmered in the son, recently polished clearly, but most definitely worn. The man holding it was known as Dornos Okinglod, formerly a worker in a munitions factory. For the better part of his life back in Kroando he had placed a bolt into the handle of a gun, an AK-47. Though never used by the Kroandon Military, it was by far the most popular export of the country in terms of mass. Now he was a Captain, after being trained for less than two weeks, and serving less than two months.

"God damn bastards are so feckin' lazy... back in Scolar they'd have skinned us if we worked this damn slow...", grumbled the Captain to one of his subordinates, whom replied with a nod. The two men looked over the docks as one crate after another was unloaded from the massive cargo ship, being hauled from the decks of the African freighter to the wooden peirs of Freetown. "I don't see how there are so many damned people starving here with all this grain...", grumbled Okinglod as he took a drag of his cigerrette.

Just then a loud crash sounded out, as a massive crate fell from fifty feet onto the wooden peir, suprisingly not smashing through the wooden planks. The crate itself however, shattered, sending splinters of wood and grain into the blue waters... but that was not the problem. There was something in that crate labeled 'GRAIN', and it was not edible. There were guns. AK-47's in a rack, thrown onto the deck. The workers froze, dozens of them, not knowing whether to keep working or pick up the weapons and fight. The quick reaction on the behalf of the Guard made the answer simple.

Bang. A single gun shot dropped the nearest Iniok into the water, a bullet lodged in his sternum. "And anyone else that ever thinks of shooting me or one of my men will get the same... ya hear?", roared the Captain, placing his 9mm Sidearm in his holster. "Get Colonel Korritz on the radio... tell him we have a problem."

Within an hour, over fifty Krodesian Guardsmen had quarantined the area, and were undertaking the process of cracking open every crate aboard the boat. Most held grain, and those were sent to their designated warehouses. But others... others held more than grain. Guns. Ammunition. Grenades. Rocket launchers. Weapons and munitions that should not have been on the boat. Over 2,000 AK-47's, hundreds of thousands of rounds in ammunition, over a thousand grenades and countless other weapons. And these were clearly not any hand-me-down shit wrags from other sympathetic movements. These were not the 1960 pre-pre-pre-used models out of Kabadidilokistan... these were fresh. Right off the assembly line. Fixed sights. Fitted grips. Metal stock. Not the best weapons in the world, but they were by far out of the reach of the IPF... or so the Krodesians had previously thought.

Chancellor Kargile's Private Study

"General Vortz, what is the status of the Jar Lima Offensive?", questioned Ambrose, looking down over his reading glasses at the Non-Uniformed General standing at the window of the room, gazing out over the city. The Chancellor himself leaning over a stack of papers regarding the latest 'Brown Dog' bombings.

"Well we're making progress... we've got the majority of the tribes running en masse to the north, most of em' take off after a few mortar rounds... or so I'm told...", replied the middle aged man, a former Captain in KroKore before he broke his knee during the Occupation of West Scotzdom and was discharged with a pension. Bored with his life as a semi-employed civilian, pushing papers as a simple inventory checker in Scolar, he signed up, and next thing he knew, was one of the highest ranking men in the Krodesian Military. "What we need however, is armor. Our men can't move from point A to point B without running into an ambush, and we're losing men we can't afford to. Our numbers are not very high as it is... and from what Mr. Gomitz says... immigration is declining? We need to protect the boys we have... and by protection I mean APC's and IFV's. Not Land Rovers... and air support! My God I we just-", the graying General, only 47 years of age rambled on, eventually cut off by Ambrose.

"We are trying General... we are not a particularly wealthy nation... so please... if you would... improvise?", responded Ambrose as he calmed Vortz. The General have a brief nod and went back to gazing at the city... mesmerized by the vast amount of work being performed. He redirected his attention to the worm-like man sitting across from him, his hair parted and gelled, his round glasses reflecting the bright Iniokan sun. "Hithron... where are we on these bombings?"

Darkhile put down the paper had had been reading and looked at Ambrose. "I am going to be completely honest...", the man started, his cold face contrasting with the overheated room. "We are in alot more trouble than we had previously thought. It is not the IPF. These aren't terrorists... well, they are... but they aren't African. They are called Karatsai... they live to kill. But do not worry... we have a lead."

North Freetown - Hotel Morgod - Adjacent from Small Coffee Shop

"How damn long do we have to wait? We know where their supplies are, why don't we just go in and grab em'?", grumbled the Krodesian marksman as he peered out of the hotel window, looking down at the small coffee shop across the street. A week prior, the Guard had recieved an annonymous tip that a weapons cache had been spotted in the basement after a waitress accidentally stumbled upon a box filled with C4... a box which was supposed to contain coffee beans. The black girl, hating the terror being spread as much as any white did, reported the notice, and was rewarded with two thousand dollars for doing so. And now there was the issue of waiting and watching. Repeat customers. Strange orders. Lingo. Whatever. And they even had a man on the inside.

A young black, no more than 22, a man whom hated Guogo, the IPF, the Krodesians... the world. But was being paid through blackmail. His daughter abducted by the Guard, he had two options, comply with what the Krodesians told him to do, or lose his daughter. And so he did. He went to work as normal, but now he made notes of unusual customers. He noted that certain customers always dealt with certain waiters. And he marked them all. Photographs were soon taken of these people by recon units, and they were followed other locations were mapped out. Their contacts watched.

Until day 21. The grab, or grabs would be made. And this time there would be no time for a quick suicide. Abduction in it's finest form would be completed. The three people they were watching were code named 'Sparrow', 'Ribbon' and 'Goldie', the first being a younger male whom frequently came in, speaking only with Goldie, the owner and part time server. Ribbon being a worker whom was always seen loading and driving. Of course everyone else in the place would also be taken and interrogated, tortured even... but these three were marked.

"Sparrow in sight... Red Team Go.", the radio crackled in Moriv's ear, whom was standing across the street from 'Sparrow'. Nodding, he began to walk. Behind Sparrow, at a quick pace... but not too quickly so as to be noticed. He approached... approached, and when Sparrow had reached the door, bang. A tazer to the back. A moment later, he was tackled to the floor by another man, and then came the screeching of a van, from which three men emerged to flexi-cuff 'Sparrow' and throw him in the back.

Inside the shop was also alive, as Goldie, the blonde haired owner had to be taken. No more than a second after Sparrow was tazered, Goldie was being hit over the back of the head by a seemingly ordinary Krodesian with the butt of a 9mm gun, and promptly pinned and cuffed.

Ribbon, the black loader/driver was in the alley smoking a joint on his break, and was cornered moments after the initial operation commenced. Weapons were drawn, and four Guardsmen in casual clothing took aim, ready to take out his knees and arms should he make a move for any 'death patches'.

North East Inioka - Contested Territory

Psssssssshhhhhhhhtttttttt..... "Come in - Norum Malthus is under att- reque- assista-... IPF ... over 100 in- grena- trucks... we need-", the radio crackled in the black land rover, a sleeping Krodesian Guardsman picking it up frantically, attempting to respond to the distress signal call, simultaniously shouting to wake up the rest of his detachment. "GET UP! Norum Malthus is under attack! Up you lazy bastards!", the Guardsman was Sergeant Avern Hulnocht, a rugged middle aged man with expirience as a Police Officer in Kroando. The other men in the area, roughly 20 in all were half asleep, some fully knocked out. Others were smoking, eating around a camp fire, playing cards or reading. After all, they had been either fighting, running or fighting for the last three days straight... a break seemed to be in order. But it was not to be. In twenty seconds, they were all rushing to gather their weapons and jump into the vehicles.

Within a minute the twenty men were inside four three Camo-Painted Military Jeeps and a White Land Rover. The vehicles sped down the jungle road, moving at over 50mph over the moist soil towards Norum Malthus, a small mining town of roughly 300 people, most of which were literal slaves, a few Krodesian Settlers, and around 20 guards. It was one of the smaller diamond mines in the area, but a diamond mine nevertheless, one which brought in millions every month.

Then came the screeching of a rocket, and right before it, the lighting flare of an RPG firing. The explosion flipped the lead jeep, killing the driver instantly, sending the other three vehicles to a halt. AK-47's were not far behind, as shots began landing against the armored doors of the jeeps, cracking into wind shields and thudding into the dirt. "AMBUSH!", cried a soldier as the men bailed out of their vehicles, responding with their own weapons, firing in directions more so than at targets. Grenades came next, from both sides, blowing another jeep, and two Iniokan Militiamen out of their fox hole. Another rocket buzzed overhead, detonating against a tree near the land rover. "Take it out! Take that damned thing out!", shouted the Sergeant as he fired off a few shots from his G36 into two Inioks rushing up the hill below, pulling the pin of a grenade with his mouth before hurling it over the Land Rover and onto the hill filled with the ambushers.

Explosions and machine guns rattled back and forth, before eventually, the Iniok Militiamen began retreating uphill... from where the battle ended. The Krodesian Guardsmen simply stood below, playing with them... target practice. And moments later, they were back in the vehicles, speeding down the road, a burning jeep laying there, four dead men along the path.

The knew they had reached the city when they could see the smoke. Sergeant Hulnocht approached by leaning out of the shot out window of the jeep with his G36, shooting down several Inioks along the road, some armed, some not. The jeep behind was nailed with an RPG, the men inside facing a firey death as the Land Rover swerved to avoid the reckage. RPK tracer round flashed before Hulnocht's eyes, whom turned to the driver to instruct him to turn, but quickly found he had caught a bullet to the skull. Before anyone could react, the jeep was flipping, and landed in the side of an old wooden shack. The Sergeant crawled out through the window of his wrecked jeep, followed by one of the remaining two living men, the other man however was unconcious.

Kicking his way through the wooden door, he came out behind a fox hole filled with IPF Militiamen, whom were squaring off with a Krodesian machine gun crew across a small stream. A pull of the trigger later, and Hulnocht was looking at three dead IPF Militiamen. Bullets whizzed overhead as the loud rap music of a technical filled the air, five Iniok's piled into the back of the old pick up. Quickly returning fire, the Sergeant caught a pullet to the thigh, and another to the shoulder before dropping his weapon and falling into the muddy, water filled fox hole, next to the dead IPF militiamen. Grabbing one of the dirt covered, beaten up AK's, he crawled to the top of the hole, and continued firing until he heard the distinct 'click' of death.

To his right lay the Guardsman that had followed him out of the jeep, coughing up blood as the wound to his chest slowly took his life. To his left sat the smoldering ruins of what was once a Krodesian Machine Gun nest. Behind him ran advancing IPF Forces, and infront set a technical blasting his position. Lobbing the last grenade he had in it's direction, Hulnocht withdrew his 9mm side arm and stood firing at the exploding vehicle. His smile of sucess was taken away by the paid of a a machete coming down in his right should, cutting into the bone.

A scream of agony was let out, followed by a punch to the Iniok's face, knocking the worker to the ground. The Sergeant followed him down, grabbing the thin, sickly thin Iniok around the neck, and squeezing, forcing his face into the muddy water. The life of the man fought vibrantly, but Hulnocht had his weight upon the mans chest, his fingers around his neck, and the mans head under the water. Within a few seconds, the struggle stopped... just in time for an explosion behind him to knock him out cold...

From the rear of the IPF lines came something odd. The usual disorganized rabble the security forces were used to seeing were being steadily overtaken by a much more organized force, moving in small units supported by vehicles, and armed with better weapons. Guogo's shipments had arrived, along with the two advisors, and the results were clear.

Outnumbering the cut-off forces behind the advancing lines, the disciplined rebels effectively slaughtered them with controlled fire from their new Heckler and Koch G3A3 rifles. More accurate at greater ranges than the AK variants issued to less-educated troops, they outdistanced the smaller-caliber G36 weapons and began to drive the marauding forces back towards the front line, caught between government firepower and some unknown force that looked like they did but was cutting them down like wheat.

The advisors were right there with them. Neither man content to sit back and give orders, both led small sections of their best native soldiers. The first squad, headed by an extremely muscular man with a rag tied around his head, paused behind a destroyed machine-gun nest...

"Alright fellas, just like we practiced. Fan out and check for survivors, both ours and the enemy..."

Cradling the TAR-21, looking like a toy against his intimidating silhouette, his own ice-blue eyes scanned the area for signs of life. Standing roughly six-foot-two, Dekker Bray wasn't a short man. Weighing roughly two-forty, he wasn't a small one either. The former SEAL apparently enjoyed body-building as a hobby. His oddest feature however, was the fact that he was a white guy leading several black soldiers, apparently odd in this country...

"Sir! We found one!"

The large merc was quickly over to where two of his boys had located an enemy survivor. One man held the G3's muzzle close to the unconcious man's head, waiting for an excuse to end his life. The other was carefully rifling through his pockets, looking for useful information...

"Get him back to the rear, I want Sergeant... 'Hulnocht' patched up and ready for transport back to base..."

The two natives rapidly complied with his request. Bray remained, scratching the thin strip of hair that ran down the middle of his chin with his left hand, the right holding the TAR-21 easily. He was actually enjoying himself for the first time in a long time. More of his people surged past, taking up a defensive line along the aforementioned ridge, now staring down at the government forces but holding their fire until fired on first...

"Slade? Bray here, we've got a POW going back with us. Advise..."

Marcus Slade was the expert on this sort of thing, Bray was mostly along to help him with weapons training and running operations. He was the more combat-expeirenced between them...

"Roger that, Dekker. We're done on my end, IPF has broken and run down into the government forces. Advise withdraw..."

Slade's group was already loading what little useable weapons they could find into a few pick-ups, chucking in Kroandoan bodies with the guns. The uniforms would be useful, and the corpses would be handy bargaining chips later in the campaign. Use of the civilian populace to undermine the war effort was a paramount requirement. When mommy back home found out little Johnny Kroando had died fighting someone else's war and his body had been taken by the rebels, the populace wasn't going to be happy.

He didn't enjoy using such dastardly tactics, but this was a war. Geneva Convention laws didn't apply apparently either. He'd seen quite a few unarmed natives lying around with the white government soldiers and the armed natives. The again, there were quite a few unarmed corpses lying around other unarmed corpses, meaning they'd been killed out of blood-lust or cold blood, either way he wasn't happy.

Bray had mentioned a prisoner, and he'd be sure to relay his feelings to the man...

"Dekker, man, I've got a lot of dead civvies here..."

"I know, man, I know... They play their game, we play ours. We're heading back your way, ETA five mikes..."

"Affirmative, I'll keep the engine going..."

Bray turned at the sound of something moving behind him, next to a burned out jeep. It was a live Kroandoan government soldier, struggling to sit up. The man's eyes went wide when they met Dekker's, his hands grouping for a weapon, a rock, anything...

"Stop moving, fella, we're trying to do this as cleanly as possible..."

He wasn't sure if the guy didn't speak english or if he was deaf from the explosion, and he really didn't care. The guy was still moving and that wasn't a good thing. A Marine Corps issue-desert boot colliding with his temple put a stop to all the wriggling. Bray calmly loaded a flare into the M203 on his weapon and fired it into the air, the signal for his forces to withdraw. Lowering the rifle, he grabbed the second unconcious government trooper by his sweat-stained collar and began to drag him behind him. Two prisoners were better than none, and this guy was a private by the look of things. He wouldn't know as much, but being a private he was a young guy, and his mother still played a role in his life to some degree. There was going to be Hell to pay when she found out her little boy had fallen into the hands of the 'savages'...

"Slade, it's me again... Got one more dinner guest..."

"Wilco, we'll put an extra plate out..."

After the short walk back to the vehicles, Bray tossed the man in behind the other prisoner before mounting up himself, sitting with the captives in the back of the pick-up. Their force was highly mobile, intended to strike hard and fast then fade back across the landscape. Both men had been searched for weapons thoroughly, then had their hands flex-cuffed to their ankles to eliminate any sort of flexability advantage they might have.

It was a long ride back to base, and Dekker was still feeling the afterglow of the adrenaline, making napping a little harder than he liked. Slade, however, wasn't thinking of sleep. He was in the cab of the vehicle, chatting with his hand-selected native commander as they drove back to the remote village they were using as an outpost. Bray smacked the window dividing the bed from the cab, prompting Slade to open it, sticking his dirty-blone haired head outside.

Slade wasn't exactly a small guy either, but he wasn't Dekker's beefy size. His hair seemed uniform in length, to include his beard, and he had a ring in his left earlobe...

"What? I'm doing a debrief here..."

Bray waved a tac-gloved hand dismissively...

"Bah, save that shit for when we get back to base. What are we going to do with those corpses you collected? I hope the honorable shit..."

Slade nodded. They had brought the expensive black body-bags along for that exact reason...

"Now what about these two assholes? The little guy caught a boot to the head, and we found the older guy with a machete-chop in his shoulder, but I think the medics stitched it up pretty tight..."

Slade had been wondering the same thing...

"Maybe we use them for information? I know we can interrogate them, but they might come in handy for leverage later on..."

"I like the way you think, man..."

Bray was almost impressed, twisting his head around a tad to try to look at Slade...

"I didn't know Jarheads knew how to do that, guess you learn something new every day..."

"Ha Ha Ha... Really god-damned funny asshole..."

Slade closed the window chuckling to himself, resuming his conversation with his native associate while Bray got comfortable...

Freetown - Loli Docks

"Yes... yes... here they are... here they are...", shouted Ambrose as he watched the crain lift the first of many 120mm Towed Field Guns from the deck of the massive frieghter, lowering it unto the concrete platform below. "This gentlemen, is why we are losing men in this war... we didn't have these...", Ambrose smiled in glee as one after another were unloaded, all older pieces of the old Kroandon Auxiliary Kore. Pieces which were stored on the now abandoned island of Hexon. Pieces which were sold by General Horn to the Krodesians for a sum of money, less than 12 Million in all.

"So... Chancellor, I trust word of this transaction will never leave Krodesia? General Horn would be most upset if his superiors were to hear of it... and if were to be upset... well... we all know what happened in Hexon, eh?", spoke Colonel Murtz, one of General Horn's trusted subordinates. This deal was funding one of the Generals, 'Private Wars', and the equipment was technically not his. Kroando had no intrest in Krodesia, and did not even officially recognize the state. Called by the Lord Protector, 'A rabble of our ignorant masses thrown into a racist debacle', Krodesia, Inioka... was not even a thought.

"Tell the General that as long as these guns work... the Grand Marshall will never even know that they're missing...", Ambrose could only smile as one gun after another was towed away, each by either a jeep or Land Rover.

As the KroKore Officer walked away, checking his notebook for various facts and figures, another, darker figure approached. "You know Chancellor, the IPF is finished in Jar Lima.", spoke the black haired Kroandon, clearly not of the Krodesian variant.

Ambrose looked around, unsure of who this man was. Never had he seen him, he was not a guard, not one of his advisors... how he had made it this close to him was a disturbing suprise. But Ambrose played along... if the man had intended to kill him, he probably would have done so. "Oh really? And who then is it killing my brothers out in the jungle?"

The Kroandon grinned, his slicked back jet black hair reflecting the blazing sun, his dark black glasses nearly matching the pith of color. "Guogo. Well... Guogo's mercenaries... whom seem to be attempting to round up some popular support... they've been smuggling arms in for weeks.", the man replied, a stack of papers in his hand. "Don't believe me? Here, take a look."

Ambrose looked over the first report. A black and white photo of a massive man carrying a TAR-21, standing watch over a regiment of black soldiers, seemingly undergoing basic training. The caption read, 'DEKKER BRAY - SUBJ. MERK. 00259B - TKN. 2007' The Chancellor flipped to the next page, which showed another well built man, though nothing compared to the size of the previous man. 'MARKUS SLADE - SUBJ. MERK. 098638 - TKN. 2007'. The man was seemingly conversing with an unknown Iniok in the photo. The next photo was an aerial shot of the Jar Lima Bush, with marked coordinates, and close in satellite shots. Locations of encampments, marked with red squares... labeled and marked. Ambrose looked to the top right hand corner of the page. The letters told it all. KRIA. He looked back a page. KRIA. Back another. KRIA. All of them. Kroandon Reconnaissance and Intelligence Associsation.

Ambrose turned quickly to the man, speaking before he had him in sight. But he was gone. The Chancellor looked all around... no where to be seen was the Kroandon Operative. All that remained of him were the photographs and documents... marking Krodesia's newest enemies... and thier locations...

Jar Lima - Outside the Bush

"Commander Vortz! All units in place... artillery is set up... we just await your order.", shouted the young officer as he stood to attention, saluting the older General.

"Have all units hold until the order is given... I want to stir those skinnies up before we send our boots in.", replied the General in reference to the land operations. His force of roughly 600 men had moved over sixty five miles over four hours that night, all of them mechanized. They moved across the rolling hills south of the jungle, taking cover under darkness, hoping to gain the element of suprise with their attack. Bringing with them fourty five 120mm Field Guns would add quite the dimension to the attack. 500 Krodesian Guardsmen armed with G36's and a few with AK-47's, and many with flares and flare guns. "Commence fire."

The midnight sky was black, as clouds covered the moons light... thus the flashes of the guns were stunning. In a unanimous volley, the fourty five guns ripped open, firing high-explosive shells into the jungle, upon the confirmed locations of the Merc's and their Guerilla's. Six kilometers into the jungle, the guns were deployed just outside it [along with around fifty men Guard+Crew], 450 of the Guard taking up positions roughly two kilometers into the bush, putting them four clicks away.

Boom. Boom. Boom. That was all that they needed to hear. The Krodesians began running forward under, having long since adjusted to the night. They ran and ran, often time's losing their direction... but they could always regain it simply by running towards the distant explosions. The two Mercenaries may have been able to train the Inioks how to use guns... even basic unit combat tactics perhaps. But training was one thing. And the shock and awe of artillery fire power was another. To catch these rebels in their sleep, with explosions raining down all around them... it was a grand opportunity. When they reached the Iniok camp, the artillery fire would redirect, taking coordinates from the men on the ground. And the 450 men would have an opporunity to take vengence for the lives that had been lost... and their was much vengence to be had.

The sucesses that they had previously taken in smaller battles and skirmishes would not be seen here, primarily due to the fact that the longer ranges of their weapons would not be of much use when they could only see fourty meters away in the first place.

Boom... Boom... Boom...

His first time out in the unknown would always be the hardest, his friends always said. Well, they would be right. Here Michael King was, alone with five thousand other people, mostly Korandans, on some rickety old boat going for God-knows-where. In this Inioka, however, your degree meant nothing. That one BA in Political Science from South Cecilia Community College, the MA in Conflict Resolution from NLU, the D.H.L in Activism and Social Change, that all meant nothing out in the real world, where every one of your actions has a repercussion. Unfortunately, the thirty eight year old doctor that hated his title walked off the boat with his passport in hand, wanting to change the world but keeping that naïve hope that nothing will go wrong. The young African-Brittonian put his small suitcase down and smoothed out the wrinkles of his black suit (he had the Mahmoud Ahmadinejad look, a suit jacket but no tie, even though he did not care for the man) and walked up to customs, hoping for the best.

Both mercs were in the process of questioning their two hostages when the first of the artillery rounds struck...

"Looks like they got smart, Slade... Time to relocate..."

Bray snatched his new TAR-21 from its resting place against the wall, leaving Slade to prepare their guests for transport. They had, of course, prepared for such an attack. Both men were veterans of the Middle East conflicts, and therefore used to the use of artillery.

Adjusting to the overhead glow of employed flares, Dekker quickly went about rounding up as many of the natives as possible, organizing them into a defensive shield in front of the makeshift motor-pool as the pick-ups were prepared for their retreat. They weren't designed to be a toe-to-toe fighting force, instead running quick hit-and-run operations, but when the artillery came into play, especially on the scale these guys were using it, it was time to shift tactics.

They'd need more sophistocated weaponry, G3's and AK's weren't going to cut it anymore. Running a list through his head as he directed the few troops he'd been able to find into the vehicles, giving them directions to scatter and meet at the aforementioned rally point some twenty miles south before starting off to locate Marcus and the prisoners. By this time the government troops had already entered the base, and there were quite a few of them.

Dropping into a running crouch, Dekker brought the Trijicon Reflex optic to bear, dropping a red dot on the first man's face, followed with a pair of steel-core 5.56x45mm rounds before gliding the dot to the next man as he brought the G36 in his hand up, attempting to get a dot of his own on Dekker. The mercenary struck first, however, putting another pair of rounds center-mass. He was moving quicker now, shooting and moving like he'd done for years. A round slammed into his vest, but the thing stopped it cold. Another double-tap directed into the upper chest of the attacker negated any sort of armor he might have been wearing, as most vests didn't extend that high.

The first fire-team dealt with, he kicked in the door to the interrogation shack to find Slade waiting for him on the other side, firing off a burst as he cleared the door to kill the soldier behind him, coming in with weapon held at the high ready. Marcus jumped into the cab while Dekker took the bed with the prisoners, after which Slade stood on the gas pedal and sent the old Toyota tearing through the back door and out into the night. A dozen or so soldiers appeared in the hole they'd left, firing accurately at the truck until Dekker unloaded a 40mm HellHound grenade into their midst. The explosion nearly leveled the building as it took out the back wall, allowing Dekker a moment to shove a fresh round into the lanucher and swap out his half-empty magazine for a full one...

"Up ahead, enemy troops at twelve o'clock!"

"Noted..."

The narrow road through the jungle was blocked by a government Land Rover and four soldiers. Another 40 mike-mike removed the problem, allowing Slade to navigate around the burning heap and speed off into the darkness...

"You have any estimates on our losses?"

"Nah, nothing serious. All the team leaders knew their assigned rally-points. At least half of them got away, not counting any that got ambushed on the way out..."

Dekker wasn't happy about this. He had been hoping for a more peaceful solution, but you had to fight fire with fire. He'd be putting a list in an email to Guogo, asking for some 80mm mortars, LAW rockets, and some decent precision rifles, most likely Dragonov SVD's or Remington 700's...

"You get out with your laptop?"

"Yeah, had it in the truck..."

"Good. Lemme see it when we stop..."

They had lost the battle, that was for sure, but the war wasn't over quite yet...

The Jungles of Jar Lima - Abandoned Pro-Guogo Camp

Colonel Kristofer Kon Hedgor, the field command of the assault. A dishonorably discharged member of the Kroandon Armed Forces... dismissed due to 'Undue persecution of a civilian population'. Now this was something that was very, very rare in KroKore. Known throughout the world for it's lax rules governing military conduct, excessive force was common. Civilians were often times murdered and oppressed whenever the Kore made its way into an occupation zone. So to be discharged for such actions meant one thing. You were really fucked up. Colonel Kristofer Kon Hedgor came from a long line of military men, and was expected by many to progress to a rather high rank… however after ordering that an entire village be massacred due to the theft of his stereo… he was ‘let go’. Seeking a new life… Krodesia called to him.

“Colonel, rebel forces are being routed to the north, we are in pursuit, but we believe the mercenaries escaped.", reported one of the various Krodesian soldiers overwhelming the camp, throwing torches to the huts, bayoneting the wounded rebels, searching for valuables and supplies as they mopped up whatever was left behind.

Colonel Hedgor grinned as he watched the camp burn, as he listened to the screams of the blacks being tortured in the area. To Kon Hedgor, war was music. The artillery was the procussion. The small arms the trumpets. Failure inexcusable. "Have the ambush parties reported?"

"Yes sir... most of them report inflicting heavy casualties upon the fleeing skinnies... but a few were... broken through sir... there are no reports of dead enemy whites.", continued the man, nervous, as he did not know what type of response his report would illict.

The Colonel stared blankly at the flames before him as a burst was fired off no more than a few feet from his head, the battle still in it's ending stages. "Well that is not good Private... that is not good at all. Find me some prisoners... lets find out where our friends are going." Hedgor finally turned his head to the Private, whomed dove to the ground as an artillery shell detonated only twenty meters behind him... the Colonel looking at the soldier as if he were insane for avoiding the blast. "Get to work son... we haven't won this thing yet."

Thirty Two Hours Later - Krodesian Camp

General Vortz approached the entrance of a large, sealed off tent, surrounded by several armed soldiers, a grim look of importance upon his face. "Colonel Hedgor! I need to speak with you if you could find a moment..." The tent was filled with screams. Horrible, terrible, painful screams of agony which rang out throughout the entire camp. Screams which could be heard miles away... screams which turn the blood cold.

After a minute or two, the screaming subsided, and Hedgor exited the tent, a pair of bloody plyers in his hand, wearing a blood covered white aspirin. "General Vortz... how may I be of service?"

The older man looked at the Colonel with distain, these savage tactics were even below him... however he was not one to argue with results. Hedgor had uncovered countless IPF weapons caches over the last few months, rooted out insurgents, foiled bomb plots, amongst countless other deeds. "We need a location... where are these bastards heading?"

The Colonel sniffed, wiping sweat from his face before pulling out a blood stained map from his pocket and unfolding it. "There.", responded the Colonel, marking a seemingly random patch of jungle with his bloody finger. Based on these reports, further attacks and raids would be launched, as was the way of Krodesia...

Rebel Camp - Sergeant Hulnocht's Holding Quarters

The rugged Sergeant came around yet again... it seemed to be a game now. Wake up, knocked out. Wake up, knocked out. A rather tiring game he was quickly becoming accustomed to. As he looked around, he knew he was not at home. His prayers for rescue had not been answered. The IPF had grabbed him... and that was not good. The wounds in his leg and arm were bandaged, the bullet holes seemingly not infected... however the machete slice taken out of his shoulder was to worry about, even though it seemed to have been treated rather thuroughly.

"Any of you damn skinnies want to let me know what the hells going on?!"

Freetown, Krodesia

"All civilians are required to remain indoors. We currently operating under martial law. There is a state of emergency inside the city limits, insurgency and rebel activity is peaking. If you see any suspicious activity, simply dial 890, and report the situation...", the loud speakers blasted out, the four stereo-system quality loud speakers hooked up to the back of the white pick up truck, an armed Krodesian Guardsman standing in the back, shouting into the microphone. The truck moved down the street at roughly five to ten miles an hour, allowing the six or seven soldiers walking on foot to completely surround it. In the distance explosions could be heard, gun fire rattled off... but it all seemed so distant.

"All civilians are required to remain indoors. Failure to comply may result in death. The city is in a state of emerge-", the loudspeakers were cut off by the explosion of two IED's, one placed on either side of the vehicle. The first a car bomb, blew two of the Krodesian Guardsmen to hell as fire, glass and red hot shrapenal toar through their bodies. The second slightly behind knocking two more men to their asses. The man with the microphone was also knocked out of the truck, the speakers echoing the explosion before being blown out.

"AMBUSH!", shouted one of the soldiers, which was immidiately followed by the rattling of AK-47's. Three windows swung open, three masked black IPF insurgents firing from their previously concealed positions. Fire was quickly returned by the Krodesians, whom had only just begun suring up their position when a rustly old toyota came into the intersection preceding their position. "Fuck...", was the only word Sergeant Olgrin could mutter before the rocket fired from the RPG slammed into the front of the truck, blowing him and another pair of men to hell.

The Krodesian patrolmen ran for cover as ill-placed AK rounds thudded into the ground around them, two men kicking in a nearby door and taking cover in the apartment, promptly firing bursts from the door and window at the elevated positions of their enemy. Another Guard took cover behind a vehicle on the street, trying his best to avoid the bullets at the windows above him were shot out, and the tires deflated due to the bullets that riddled the automobile. Four other men lay dead on the ground, two of them still burning as their living comrades fought on... the eigth man lay wounded, screaming in pain as he clutched his knee, which had been struck by a piece of shrapenal.

"Feck! The radio is on the Sergeant...", the two men inside the building cursed as they realized the desperation of their situation. The two sat down, for the first time facing the inhabitants of the apartment. There stood a large black holding a machete, behind him three girls and their mother. "Drop it you fucker! I said drop it!", roared one of the men, the Iniok ignorant to the English being spoken.

A moment later, the machete hit the ground, followed by the loud crash of the man's body, blood leaking from his chest. A string of bullets followed the incident, coupled with screaming and crying on behalf of the women. "Shit... alright, I'll cover you, move on my mark...", shouted the soldier as the two men turned back to the insurgents, firing a few rounds at their location. "Ready... on your mark... ahhhgg!", the soldiers orders were drowned out by his cry of pain, caused by a machete to the back of his neck... a machete held by a teenage girl. The mother still crying, did her best to hold back the other two... but it was of no use. The third girl's anger was so strong, she had broke his neck, sending blood into the air.

"You fuckin' whore!", roared his comrade, as he placed a round in her stomach, turning back to the other two girls and the mother... all of whom were taken down in the next two bursts. Teeth clenched he stood upright, looking over the bodies of the women. He breathed heavily as the smoke left the barrel of the G36, the six bodies in the room all freshly deceased. The Krodesian had only a moment to look around before he was hit in the back of the head by the butt of an AK-47, knocked out cold... his life would end in the next few hours as IPF Militiamen toar his body limb from limb and spread them across the city, tied to signs that read, 'The white man is done in Inioka', and 'Kill the white'.

A well organized revolt had been organized throughout the city, with dozens of roadside bombs and IEDs detonating, killing scores of Guardsmen. Ambushes and raids were launched upon government vehicles moving around inside the city, fires were started simply so that rockets could be fired at fire trucks... arson... looting... chaos... all being spread by the IPF throughout Freetown.

However the Krodesians responded in force. The upper-class, white areas of the city were of course, sealed off rather quickly, with blockades and barricades cutting roads, allowing in only whites with proper identification... and even then, only after thurough searches. Machine gun nests and sniper positions made sure that any random black attempting to seek refuge in the 'Safe-Zone', was shot dead. Very little madness went on in the more developed sector. However the rest of the story was a different matter. Wholesale executions were carried out in broad daylight in the streets, with blood splatter staining the walls, and bodies littering the side walks.

Ambrose looked out over the burning city in disgust... order had to be obtained... one way or another.

Kargile City - Immigrant Processing

"Michael King... Brittonia?", the white Krodesian Guard grumbled, looking from the passport to the man, then back at the passport. "You guys a bunch of commies up there ain't ya... I think you should come with us." The Brittonian was escorted to a holding room, and promptly spoken to. "What is the purpose of your visit?"

[Sorry, took awhile, short and rushed. Best I could do with my current time constraints.]

They'd stopped deep in the jungle, hidden from air patrols, spy satellites, just about everything besides a dedicated ground assault. Even then, however, the dense jungle prevented anything but light vehicles and troops from making any sort of real progress.

Dekker had given his list of supplies to Slade, who was busily arranging the shipments on the lap-top...

"You got a handle on that, dude? I'm going to go check on our prisoners, see if they've woken up yet..."

The base was fairly small, and the walk to the prisoners' tent was fairly short...

"Oh good, you're up... Have a nice rest, asshole?"

The sergeant was effectively flex-cuffed tightly to a metal chair, making escape without assistance highly improbable. The gathered natives just stared at him with mixed looks of amusment and hatred...

"We're going to have us a little chat, alrighty? We can do this the easy way, or we can do it my way. Since I'm in a good mood right now, I'm leaving the choice up to you..."

The mercenary pulled another chair up closer to Hulnocht, sitting in it backwards, intense blue eyes glaring into the sergeant's own. He'd learned a few ways of making people tell him what he wanted, but they typically didn't last too long afterwards. This guy would need to be treated somewhat gently to maximise his effectiveness...

Of-Capo Detovich Mensovi Kregonovich smiled at the IPF commander. Having grown up in the Totalitarian State, he had been taught that all men were equal, regardless of race, sex, ethnicity, age, or anything else. Of course, he had come too realise that there are only two things in the TSRT that (unofficialy) didnt make everybody equal: power and money.

He was in no position too get power, a small boy growing up in the city of Crig had no chance in that. However, money was a another story. He had been caught committing petty thievery and sent too the Gulag. The majority of the Gulags were in Red Tides Southern Provinces. However, even though the southern procinces were officially under the control of the Red Tide Government, the mountainous region was under the de-facto control of the Red Tide Mafia, the exceptions being the Government Gulags, mining facilities, and rail transportation lines.

People who escaped the Gulag were usually hounded by the Intellegince-Commissarat for two days before the searches were given up, with exceptions being high ranking 'enemies of the state'. Kregonovich escaped the Gulag and survived the two day searches for him, it was then that he fell into the Red Tide Mafia.

The Red Tide Mafia routinely recruited from Gulag escapees. Most of the Of-Capo's, the RTM's equivalent of officers, were actually sons and/or daughters of wealthy Red Tide buisness people or people who had proven particularly adept at some sort of criminal enterprise. It was, of course, the latter category that Kregonovich fell into.

Now he had been shipped off too this small, impoverished African country too sell weapons too the IPF... in exchange for the biggest resource the country had: diamonds.

He spoke the local language okay, his accent was heavy, and his white skin made him stand out, but he knew everything would be good. If he was killed, the Red Tide Mafia would offer their services too the Government, that much was made clear too the IPF. And even though the IPF had no liking for white men, and especially not capitalist white men, they were so strapped for arms that they had no choice but too accept.

He had been flown in too a pre-determined spot in Inioka by a bushplane, operated out of a neighboring country which already had a RTM network.

"Our arms shipments will have too be light weapons at first. Mortars, small arms, handheld guided missiles, those kind of things." He said politely, "Due too the lack of your access too port shipping, we cannot bring in anything heavy, such as artillery, armor, and such. The small arms and mortars you probably already know how too use. Their only slightly more advanced then what you already use, Ak-74s instead of -47s, RPG-29s instead of -7s, and so-on."

"We are willing too offer you, for a one time charge, paid in diamonds-of course-free training in the more advanced things. Such as our anti-tank and surface-air guided missiles. These are mostly old Soviet models, AT-3s and SA-7s, but they will do. Also, we can sell you remote controlled cars."

Seeing the puzzlement on the IPF's face, Kregonovich explained, "You strap time or trigger bombs on them and drive them into groups of soldiers. Their cheap too. Everything can be paid in diamonds. We can air transport everything. If, and only if, you can seize a port, we might be able too exchange some more... powerful weapons with you. What do you say?"

Kargile City - Immigrant Processing

"Michael King... Brittonia?", the white Krodesian Guard grumbled, looking from the passport to the man, then back at the passport. "You guys a bunch of commies up there ain't ya... I think you should come with us." The Brittonian was escorted to a holding room, and promptly spoken to. "What is the purpose of your visit?"

[Sorry, took awhile, short and rushed. Best I could do with my current time constraints.]

Michael King was calm about this, he knew that immigration would be a pain to get through, he did laugh at the guard's retorical question abou Brittonian Commnism. like he had ever gone there himself. Calmly, just thinking that this would just be another interview, he said,
"Buisness, I am a social worker by trade."

Immigration Processing

Sergeant Mulskon narrowed his eyes at the Brittonian's response. Things were heating up in Krodesia, insurgent attacks sky rocketing, ambushes, murders and executions at an all time high. With new rebel factions sprouting up every few days, it was impossible to keep track of the political situation. And now a man from a socialist country claiming to be there on business... things didn't quite match up. "Please specify Mr. King... what kind of business are you here on? As you must know, our country is in a terribly difficult situation, and we must take all precautions before allowing foreigners in. Do you have a contact here in Krodesia?"

Somewhere in North West Krodesia - IPF Diamond Mine

Commander Huno scratched his head with his rough, scarred hand, a bloodied bandage wrapped around his palm. The Commander did not trust this white foreigner... he had many strikes against him already. First, he was white. Second, he was a capitalist. Third, he was a white capitalist. Huno clenched his machete tightly, grinding his teeth as he looked at the man he had been taught to hate. His better half told him to cut the mans throat right then and there, but that he knew, would lead to the deaths of thousands of his comrades.

Sitting on the porch of an old rickety wooden shack, he picked up the cigar which had been sitting in the old tin ash tray, taking a long puff. The powerful Iniokan raised up the machete, and swung it down into the wooden planks below, lodging it into the ground. He then looked back up to the Red Tidean. "How much weaponry are we talking? How many guns a month do you say you can bring in?", the Commander questioned, his thick African accent torturing his words. "We need ammunition too... do not forget this... the white devils have much of it, but we... we do not."

Deep in the Jungles of Jar Lima - Rebel Camp

Hulnocht had been in this sort of situation many times before. Back in Kroando, he was a member of the Police Auxiliary, a more... violent department of the massive Kroandon Legal Sector. The Police Auxiliary were trained as a mixture between soldiers and lawyers, not so much police officers. They were the ones whom did the law work when the criminals were too good to get caught. When the police had suspicion, had evidence, had locations, ideas and cases… but no warrants. The police auxiliary went in, shot up the place, and that was that. Torture, interrogation, coercion… the Police Auxiliary was known for it’s methods… and Hulnocht was an expert at his craft. But even he had second thoughts about going at it with this Merc. “You realize I’m a Sergeant right? What in the hell do you think they tell me?”, Hulnocht furrowed his brow, chuckling, “You want to ask a question or should I just start from birth?”

Kregonovich had dealt with dangerous elements before, mostly narco-warlords who paid for their weapons in cocaine and opium/heroin. They tended too try to scare the Capo's with veiled threats and, on a number of occassions, outright acts of semi-violence. This act of venting ones frustration got both his eyebrows raised a thread in questioning, but nothing more.

"The amount of weapons we can supply will come in as long as we can get them here and you can pay for them." He replied, "Ammunition is not a problem, we can supply that easily, heck, we might even give you a buy two, get one free offer."

"Cost, well the most expensive weapon is going too be the SA-7, with 12,000 USD per weapon, I wouldnt suggest buying too many of these unless the Krodesians start operating helicopters. After that, its the AT-3, at 1,700 USD per weapon, you dont have any tanks, but I am thinking you would want too use them against Krodesian Jeeps. Next on the list is the RPG-29, about 900 USD, they have better less range, but better penetration... perhaps you want too purchase not alot of these. Finally, the Ak-74 and its other derivatives... these will cost 400-700 USD, from regular rifle too RPK light machine gun."

As for how many we can get here monthly? Well, we can easily operate our smaller cargo airplanes out of neighboring states. Now, lets see... our organisation fields about 20,000 total aircraft capable of operating here..."

He began too do the math, before he had become a Of-Capo, he had too learn math from an oldr Of-Capo. It only took a couple of seconds. 20,000 aircraft, about half of which was probably already in use or scheduled for a different cargo flight. Another thousand or two just down for routine maitanence. So that left up too 8,000 or 9,000 aircraft... Now, he had too consider future operations sucking up more planes.

"We can operate up too 1,300 aircraft. Their cargo capability will vary, but most will be in the 1,500-3,000 kilogram area, with the biggest probably carrying 5,000 kilograms. In other words, our least capable, and most numerous, planes can carry 5,700 Ak-74s per plane. Assuming we have one plane arrive per day on a thirty day month, that would be... 171,000 guns per month. Of course, there will be days we wont be able too deliver. Remember, the heavier the object"

"Are there any more questions? If not, we can discuss the issue of payment and then I can call my superiors." Kregonovich said, sounding diplomatic and buisness like at the same time."

Immigration Processing

Sergeant Mulskon narrowed his eyes at the Brittonian's response. Things were heating up in Krodesia, insurgent attacks sky rocketing, ambushes, murders and executions at an all time high. With new rebel factions sprouting up every few days, it was impossible to keep track of the political situation. And now a man from a socialist country claiming to be there on business... things didn't quite match up. "Please specify Mr. King... what kind of business are you here on? As you must know, our country is in a terribly difficult situation, and we must take all precautions before allowing foreigners in. Do you have a contact here in Krodesia?"


OOC: You rp very well

"I can understand. I am a social worker by trade, I know that is not much of a buisness, but for all intents and purposes, I am here on buisness. I know that this place is. . pretty bad.", King said, he wanted to compare the place to Iraq but that was not the location to do something like that, "I am here to help mostly to try to make the situation better. I have no Kordesian contacts, I am working on a project backed by the New Brittonian university, Epsom City University. I can provide you with the basic info, but specific figures are in my baggage, I am sorry for that."

Dekker wasn't put off by the attempts at ignorance. The guy was right, he was a sergeant and that meant he didn't know much. Dekker, however, knew nothing at all, and any new information would be helpful...

"We'll start slow, give you time to rethink your current strategy of trying to bullshit me... Who is your commander is chief?"

Slade was already prepping that shipping list of more effective weapons on his laptop, giving Dekker free reign to do as he pleased in terms of interrogation...

"Might I remind you, sergeant, that you've got two eyes, two ears, two nostrils, two balls, and I've got an extremely sharp knife..."

Reaching to his left shoulder Dekker withdrew the Equitorian from its sheath, a thirteen-inch weapon with eight and a half inches of cold steel shaped somewhat like the ancient Roman gladius. The ease with which he hefted the fighting blade spoke something of his comfort with it, and subsequently his skill...

Somewhere in North West Krodesia - IPF Diamond Mine

"171,000 guns? The fuck? Who do you think we are chief?", Commander Huno shouted in awe. The prospect was wonderful... 171,000 guns would go a long way in arming the IPF, which probably hosted over 400,000 non-armed 'soldiers'. When the word 'soldier' was used, what was meant was child. Elderly man. Woman. AIDS infested teen. These soldiers could not hold up on a battle field... but the philosophy was simple. A bullet from a 4 year old is just as efficient as a bullet from a 40 year old.

It wasn't that Huno did not want the guns, it was simply that they were by far the poorest faction in this war, and did not have enough money to buy even a fraction of that amount. They only controlled approximatly 30% of the countries diamond fields, of which only a few mines operated in. And even these were subject to government raids and artillery strikes, which were becoming ever so common. Extracting ten Million in diamonds per month was becoming a difficulty.
There was always the option of fucking these white men over. Telling them to bring the weapons, then shooting them and taking them. But this was risky, and Huno did not want the Krodesians to have any more weaponry than they did already. "We can only afford to buy 9 or 10 thousand guns per month... and of course we would have to pay in rough diamonds, going on the standard black market rates. We would like more in the way of explosives... mines, grenades, IEDs. We are not a rich people Mr. Kregonovich, and of course we will only pay for what makes it into the country."

Immigration Processing

[Thank you. You are pretty good yourself.]

Mulskon looked from the Brittonian to one of his men, his eyes never relinquishing their distrust in the man. He whispered something into the guard's ear, and the man promptly opened the door and left. He was gone for several minutes, but when he returned, he carried a couple bags, and dropped them on the table between King and the Sergeant.

"It'd be best if you started with your plan and all Mr. King. And papers validating what you tell me... those would be nice as well.", Mulskon sat down in the metal chair adjacent to King's seat, folding his armed and leaning back, his two 9mm hund guns revealed by his posture.

Deep in the Jungles of Jar Lima - Rebel Camp

Was the man kidding? Hulnocht chuckled at the first question. Any of the skinnies outside knew the answer to that. For christ's sakes it was carved into the chest's of captured rebels. It was branded on the children of insurgents. It was tatoo'd onto the arms of slaves and prisoners. "Ambrose Kargile... Chancellor Kargile is the Commander in Chief... and boss, I hate to dissapoint... but I've only got one nut."

Immigration Processing

[Thank you. You are pretty good yourself.]

Mulskon looked from the Brittonian to one of his men, his eyes never relinquishing their distrust in the man. He whispered something into the guard's ear, and the man promptly opened the door and left. He was gone for several minutes, but when he returned, he carried a couple bags, and dropped them on the table between King and the Sergeant.

"It'd be best if you started with your plan and all Mr. King. And papers validating what you tell me... those would be nice as well.", Mulskon sat down in the metal chair adjacent to King's seat, folding his armed and leaning back, his two 9mm hund guns revealed by his posture.



OOC; Really?

Kiing was unsure if the man was coming on to him, nevertheless, he said,
"I need to get them out of my bags."

He unzipped his bags and through spare clothes and books on Ghandi and Martin Luther King was a manila folder, he pulled it out and set it down.

"This has everything.", King said as he pulled out a page, "What we will do is try to find non-violent soutions to this conflict. My personal job is to come in and hear about all sides of the conflicet. We will have several more people coming in a couple of weeks, they will keep on doing what I plan to be doing, that is to make connections. What we will try to do then is have an open forum where people can express their greivances in a non-violent way, and try to make solutions."

Immigration Processing

Mulskon looked at the books in disgust. He could not read the words, but he did know the pictures. Civil disobidience. Passive Revolution. Social Progress. He knew the meanings of these words, if not the words themselves. The Sergeant looked back up to the Brittonian in disgust. The Krodesian Government was trying to combat active rebel insurgency, it was fighting for it's very existance and legitimacy. This was not an oppression of ideology, it was one of necessity.

"Mr. King...", Mulskon began, standing up, motioning for two guards to have him detained. "Krodesia is not currently prepared for any sort of social change...", the Sergeant paused as explosions could be heard in the distance. "We are at war... this is no time for any peaceful change. Come back in fifty years... and tell your friends we won't be so kind next time." The Brittonian was taken to the same ship he arrived on, and told to go home. Krodesia's doors were not open to all. Many were finding this out.

Dekker chuckled back. This guy was good, he'd give him that...

"You've also got two lungs, one heart, and one piece of flesh I doubt you'd be too keen on losing..."

He was playing along, however. This Ambrose individual apparently led from the front, from what previous field reports stated. His orders went directly to the men on the ground, leaving little room for misinterpretation...

"Have you ever been ordered to kill civilians? I'm assuming the Geneva Conventions don't apply here, otherwise my friend here wouldn't have come out to play..."

Dekker brought the tip of the blade in a slow motion across his own scalp, scratching an itch that had suddenly appeared. His tone had become somewhat more serious now. He didn't like killing innocents, and despised those who did...

"And let's get something else straight here. This isn't my war, I have no other interests here other than the financial one that brought me here in the first place. You help me, I help you. I can be a decent guy or a totally evil motherfucker. It's your call..."

Nothing was personal here. The sergeant could continue the hardass routine if he wished, but it would get him nothing but blood in the end. Dekker wondered if he'd used the word 'here' enough to screw with the guy's head, he'd really need to vary his vocabulary in the future...

OOC: When will it be 50 years?

[@NB. It will never be 50 years... that was a sarcastic way of saying, 'Get the fuck out'.]

Deep in the Jungles of Jar Lima - Rebel Camp

Hulnocht took a deep breath, sweat running through the indented scar that covered his face. He had recieved the deforming wound years earlier while attempting to arrest a mugger whom had retreated into one of the old ghetto's... the Sergeant was jumped and mugged, his face slashed, his stomach stabbed. But apperantly that would not be the worst episode in his life should things continue as they were...

"Ordered to kill civilians? No, I've burned villages... but usually we let the skinnies pack up and walk away... herd them to the north... you know, to their reservations.", Hulnocht replied, thinking over the numerous villages he and his unit had raised over the last few months. "I've heard stories of massacres... but then again, I've heard stories of fire breathing dragons too."

The Sergeant was in no mood to have any apendages removed from his body, nor to get any new scars. He doubted any information he had would cause any real damage to the Krodesian Forces in the area, and was rather willing to cooperate. However just by looking into the Merc's eyes, he could tell he was not please. "Listen, I'm answering your questions, so before you put any sharp objects near my eyes..."

[@NB. It will never be 50 years... that was a sarcastic way of saying, 'Get the fuck out'.]



OOC: Did you personally not want me to come beacuse that would have been a pretty good RP if I did

[@NB. No, it has nothing to do with you, my response was just the realistic response from my government. They're running an oppressive, minority controlled government, fighting numerous insurgencies and rebellions... the last thing they want is a foriegn socialist preaching non-violent resistance in the country. If you can find another way in, please, join. It's just that if I let you in... it'd be rather unrealistic.]

[@NB. No, it has nothing to do with you, my response was just the realistic response from my government. They're running an oppressive, minority controlled government, fighting numerous insurgencies and rebellions... the last thing they want is a foriegn socialist preaching non-violent resistance in the country. If you can find another way in, please, join. It's just that if I let you in... it'd be rather unrealistic.]

OOC: I was like "It would have been an excellent RP if I went in there", i dunno then, I could send in the New Brittonian Red Crystal, I guess. Remember that New Brittonia is a neutral non-belligerent so all we really can do is to send aid.

Dekker lowered the knife...

"Yeah, and unlike your dragons, I've seen civilians lying dead everywhere I've been in this fucked up country, most with small-caliber gunshot wounds from 5.56x45mm NATO standard or similar ammo. Judging by the numbers of Heckler and Koch G36 model rifles we recovered from previous raids and the fact that the IPF uses mostly AK-style hardware, I'd say your boys are either shitty shots or they don't know what a 'non-combatant' is..."

Here he took a breath, letting the info he was spewing sink in...

"You might argue that it's that damn 5.45mm shit the AK-74 fires, and that might be true, but there are far more G36's in our little stash-stack than AK74's... Now, onto my next question..."

The knife came back up again, this time pointed directly at Hulnocht...

"We're trying to reach as peaceful a solution as possible here, and any information might save the lives of your boys back with the government forces. I'd like to know what exactly you assholes are planning, or at least as much as you can tell me based on your rank..."

Dekker had been a Gunnery Sergeant in the Marine Corps back in the 'States, and he had recieved about as much information as his commanders did in terms of operational deployments...

"And no bullshit this time. Straight fucking answers..."

Deep in the Jungles of Jar Lima - Rebel Camp

"Well maybe thats because you've been raiding more Krodesian Camps then IPF ones?", replied Hulnocht to Dekker's accusation of murdering civilians, in relation to the amount of G36's in their possession.

Hulnocht was going to keep with his plan of giving information... albeit not the most detailed or specific information. "We're trying to clear the jungle... Jar Lima has about 500,000 inhabitants... we want them to migrate across the border, into Mfasaland. We raid their villages, burn them down, tell them to go north.", Hulnocht explained the very general plan that any could surmise based off of actual actions. "We've been doing hit-and-runs with our jeeps and land rovers... and from what I heard a couple nights ago, we've got our artillery now...", Hulnocht chuckled at the notion of the latest Krodesian raid. "We're broken up into scores of different raiding parties... we get our orders and destinations... and bang."

Imi-Surat - Last Major City Controlled by IPF

"Hey 'No Fear'!, get yo' skinny ass over here, ey' boy!", shouted Captain Bogabi to the young IPF soldier, nicknamed No Fear for the way he had stood his ground against numerous Krodesian Assaults in the Battle of Warthog Hill. The young AK-47 toting teen jumped up from his poker game and ran over, grabbing a handful of cash as he did so.

"Yesa boss! What I can do for you?!", responded the non-uniformed soldier, standing to attention, hand to forhead. The Captain laughed at the boy's posture, standing up and physically straightening the boy up.

"There you go No Fear... you see, bein' a good soldier is more than standin' and shootin'. Ya gots' to be respectable like. Ya gots' to looks and acts like a soldier boy.", Captain Bogabi instructed as he returned to his seat on the wooden bench, his fellow friends and captains looking at the boy, whom looked overall, the exact same as before Bogabi's makeover. "You all know why them call him no fear?", Bogabi asked to the other few men at the table.

Bogabi looked around to shaking heads and 'No'. "Well you see, back on Warthog hill, No Fear here was under my command. And he was a good fighter from the start. He would never stop shootin', and never hide. He would just shoot and fight. And then came the white's with their trucks and cars, and artillery, blowin' up da' very hill itself... and they were chargin' with ten thousand men right on up da' hill, and what did I see? I seen all my otha men runnin' for der' lives. I seen them runnin' away. These full grown 'patriots' runnin' away from da fight', but No Fear here. I seen him still shootin' and fightin' and -", a moment later, in the middle of the story, No Fear bolted down the street. Running as quickly as he could from the table... running with dozens of other men.

"What in the-?", questioned Bogabi, as he looked behind him. And in the air sat a Mi-24 Attack Helicopter... it's autocannon blaring, firing 30mm Rounds into the side of a building, a building which was being used to house militiamen. Clearly the Krodesians had recieved some inside information. The 30mm Rounds were promptly followed by rockets and missiles, which blew out whole slabs of concrete from the building. Flames quickly began spewing out of the holes and open windows as flaming bodies jumped to the ground below.

Before long the entire assault was underway, with seven Mi-24 Assault Choppers tearing through the city, simply blowing the living hell out of their assigned targets, and whatever other options presented themselves. Straffing civilians and militiamen alike, IPF technicals and civilian cars both being blown to pieces as the Mi-24's made their rounds. The aerial fleet of some 23 Mi-24's had begun arriving, compliment with temporary crews while the Krodesians were being trained. East Afrika, the white dominated Apartheid country to the north, had long been surrounded by hostile Black Socialist Governments, and was in no mood to see yet another arise. Krodesia was sold 23 of the helicopters, which were now being put to great use in not only crushing IPF strength, but in 'herding' the natives to the north.

Before long the artillery began falling, shells landing seemingly randomly around the city, seeking to stir up chaos throughout the city. IPF Militiamen attempted on occassion to fight the Mi-24's with their AK's and primative heavier machine guns... but to little avail. A few Mi-24's took light damage, but none were reported shot down at the end of the day. There were 6,000 Krodesians positioned outside the city... the battle for Imi-Surat had begun.

The next question was simple...

"Where do you guys come from? I can tell you're not a native..."

This might actually allow him to get a UN sanction in here, or some other means of getting the conflict resolved quickly and cleanly...

"We are Kroandon Immigrants... most of us anyways.", replied Hulnocht, responding with a deep breath of air. "Over population and no work... we simply packed up and left." And that was the truth. Kroando had no funding in the country, no obvious intrests. The Krodesians held no love for their former masters, and Kroando had none for it's children. Any attempt to conect Kroando to Krodesia would be... hard pressed for evidence.

He had to believe this one, there was no trace of untruth in the man's eyes...

"That might explain the lack of effective funding. You guys just now got artillery, sounded like 155 mike-mikes or something similar. You lack armored support and any sort of aerial back-up either..."

The mercenary turned the findings over in his head a few times, looking for a connection. He'd need to either get hold of this Ambrose fellow and force a peaceful solution, or somehow negotiate with him. The third option, and one he wasn't all that keen on, was to simply kill every last foreigner in the nation, and that would take more men and ammunition than he currently had, or it would take a smaller and more mobile force an ungodly amount of time to accomplish. This wasn't going to be a quick fix in either case...

"All right, one more question and then I leave you alone for a bit: Why are you driving native populations off of their lands?"

Rebel Camp

There was no pretty answer to this question, Hulnocht was going to give the straight story, the one he, and every other Krodesian believed. Well, there was an official story, but that was just some bullshit concocted by Ambrose to put a 'nice face' on things. "We arrived for the most part... two years ago. Back when the fat sap Guogo was running things. The country was already in civil war, the IPF and Guogo's men butchering the entire place just to gain a few diamond fields. Anyways, even though we were poor in Kroando, we showed up here, with our 'Good-Bye Checks' from Kroando, and we were suddenly the richest people around. We took ourselves the top jobs, the nice apartments, ya know... we were basically an upper class.", Hulnocht continued, telling the story of the events leading up to the creation of Krodesia. "Well, it didn't take long for Guogo and his men to collapse. Freetown, where most of us lived, was occupied, and being torn apart. We Kroandons were bein' massacred, shot dead in the streets. Before we even know whats going on, there are Mercenaries in the streets, killin' the IPF Militiamen... these Mercenaries work for the fuckers that told us we were movin' to paradise... go figure right? This is a friggin' paradise."

Hulnocht caught his breath and slowly resumed, "Anyways, we didn't take very kindly to bein' butchered... nor to those bastard Mercenaries who worked for the Korporation that funded our trip out of Kroando. So we picked up the guns, and fought back. The IPF ran. The Mercs. were overwhelmed. Ambrose Kargile picked up a gun and spoke to us... and told us that this was our home. And by God that crazy bastard was right. This is our new home, and we will all fight till the last man to preserve it. We've no place to go... no reason to go. We are just where we belong, and we'll fight to keep it that way."

Dekker could follow where the man was coming from...

"Alright, I can live with that. I can't, however, stand by and watch you assholes kick some native people out of their own country. Any solutions there besides gunning them down and burning their homes? Sound a little too Hun-like to you?"

He wasn't too happy with the whole take-over thing, but that couldn't be undone. The Kroandoans were now the most stable force in the region, and were using this position to bully their way to a totally immigrant state. Neither side had made very good decisions, but the issue was that they were about on par with each other in terms of brutality...

Rebel Camp

"Hun?", Hulnocht, being one of the masses to not recieve any formal education, was unsure what a Hun was, but he got the idea. "I can't ever see us livin' in the same cities with those animals. The first day we got here they were yellin' and spittin' at us. The second day they were threatening us. The third they were killing us. I have no problem kicking them off their land if it means that my children can live there."

Some Two Hundred Meters Outside the Rebel Camp

"Vekor four... close in three clicks south...", Sergeant Alkorn Gechson whispered into his radio, contacting the other Elite Guard which were closing in on the Rebel camp, after days of searching and tracking. "I've got two guards at my ten... requesting Data 7 take out officer... will dispose of subordinate manually..." The Special Ops.esque Guardsman whispered, calling for one of his support units to take out the officer of the two guards should they be spotted. After surverying their routines for several days, he knew the length, location and size of the patrols.

As did the rest of his men... roughly nine of them in all. Their mission? To track the rebels until the Mi-24's came in from Freetown, and the support units reached their forward location.

Dekker could understand that, but there was an explanation...

"You ever think that they spit at you because you were invading their lands and taking their jobs? Screw it, I'm going to leave you be for a bit. One of those 'animals' as you call them will be in here in a moment to take a look at that machete wound and bring you some chow. I'd suggest you be nice to him, he's lost a wife to your guys..."

The mercenary rose from the chair, sheathing the knife and walking out the door. He'd learned a lot from talking to the Kroandoan, stuff that might make resolving this war that much easier. If you knew how your enemy thought, you could predict his movements. Knowing what he knew now, he had a bad feeling about something.

Contemplating what that feeling was, he could feel something watching him as he crossed the camp towards where Marcus was still coordinating shipments of heavy weapons and ammunition...

"You think they're on to us? We've been here undisturbed for an awful long time..."

Slade rotated around in his swivel chair, pointing at a series of crates the natives were unloading from a truck...

"We're ready this time. I managed to get us some Stinger missiles and a few Javelins from a buddy of mine down at Aberdine back in the 'States. I've also got a few RGB-6's on the way, and a pair of 80mm mortars. Why do you ask?"

Dekker broke eye contact for a moment to look out into the jungle, past the rickety barricade they had assembled to give them some cover...

"I get the feeling we're being watched. I'm going to take a group out into the jungles and look around a bit. Get us some motion sensors on order, too..."

Slade didn't have a chance to respond, Dekker was already off to gather up a few of their better fighters to go with him out into the jungle. The guy had some strange hunches, but they were rarely wrong, probably why he'd survived as long as he did...

Roughly 90 Meters Outside the Rebel Camp

"Vekor Six... Check your ten.", whispered Sergeant Gechson into his head piece as he clicked off the safety of his G36 Battle Rifle, slightly moving his body to further it's concealment behind a large fern. His total body camo, perfectly adapted clothing and cover should have been enough to completely coneal him from the enemy, but apperantly something was going on. One of the Merc's were up to something. "Vekor Six... possible situation R... check your ten.", the Sergeant whispered again, steadying his body as his knees sunk into the moist jungle mud. Affirmative... target sited... awaiting orders...

Three men were now watching Dekker and his unit as they began moving into the jungle... suspicious of what exactly was going on. Could it have been they had been spotted? Immpossible... the Krodesians simply sat and watched... determined to lay silent and wait for their reinforcements from the South. But something here was just not right...

Corporal Vurtz, a Sniper in the Guard Elite, lay two hundred meters away from the Rebel Camp, steadying his Heckler & Koch PSG-1 Rifle on the fallen tree before him. He was well camoflagued, but rebel patrols usually didn't come that far out, so he was rather lax. That was until Dekker and his men began walking directly at his position. A white? The Corporal thought to himself. What in the fuck is a white doing fighting for the IPF? The Coporal steadied his aim, focusing the cross hairs right on Dekkers chest, having no intention of firing, but wanting to keep the man in his site. He watched and watched... until something happened that would change the course of the battle in the Jar Lima Jungle.

A large insect had landed upon the Corporal's neck, and decided to bite a chunk of flesh out of it. The Corporal fired. His round was not entirely inaccruate, his aim was still at Dekker, but the round may have been slightly off it's mark. Before he could even mutter the word 'Fuck', and slap the insect on his neck, he heard the chatter of G36's blaring out.

Sergeant Gechson, not waiting a second, squeezed the trigger of his G36, sending a hail of lead into the group of Rebels surrounding the Mercenary, immidiately jumping behind a tree as he watched the enemy react. Located only fourty meters from where the enemy was now moving, he knew he was in trouble if he didn't get moving quick. On the opposite side of the unit, Private Gulnok lay hidden in a sunken stream, and only now fired a grenade from his G36 at the advancing patrol... immidiately breaking into a run as he did so.

Across the rebel camp, shots were fired out, as the eight Elite's responded in turn, firing at whatever Rebels were in sight before fleeing back into the jungle. Pssshhhhhttttt.... "Command come in! Request immidiate assistance. We have been detected... combat in progress... reroute reinforcements immidiately...", shouted Lieutenant Harker as he fired his G6 towards the Rebel Barricade. Seven miles away, twelve units of men began running towards their location...

Inside the Holding Tent

Hulnocht gritted his teeth as the shard of glass in his hand cut deep into his flesh, tearing his skin apart much as it did the flexicuffs that bound his wrists. He sawed away at the plastic, pausing only slightly as the black rebel walked in, a angered look upon his face. "I here you lost your bloody wife... was she back in Freetown?", Hulnocht spoke to the man as he walked in, a blood stained smile upon his face.

"Shut up.", replied the man in a heavily accented tone.

"No... you don't look like a city boy to me...", Hulnocht continued, attempting to irritate the soldier. "You don't have the look of a street kaffer... nah... you're from the plains... thats for sure."

"Shut Up!", shouted the well disciplined man, attempting to ignore the racist comments of the Krodesian.

"I've killed my share of women in the plains... what area you from?", Hulnocht threw the final jab, breaking the mans will. The Iniokan drew back his fist to punch Hulnocht, but within a split second, the Sergeant had pulled his wrists apart, breaking the thin plastic string holding the flexicuffs together, and he lunged towards the African man. In the distance gun shots could be heard... a sound that only made him smile as he plunged the thumb-sized shard of glass into the soldiers neck, pushing it deep into his throat as blood gushed forth onto his dirtied, worn hands.

Hulnocht gritted his teeth as he felt the machete wound and two bullet holes in his body writhe in pain, but paused for no more than a second as he grabbed the mans 9mm Pistol and his machete. Moving quickly, he made his way to the tent entrance, and peered outside, watching as the rebels scurried about, running towards the gun fire... quickly lifting the flap, he cocked the gun, and slowly moved towards a pile of crates, making sure to stay out of site...

The round caught Dekker squarely in the shoulder, the vest taking the round but leaving the impact for his massive frame to deal with, and none too well. 7.62x51mm's were powerful rounds at a distance, and from such a short range it took the large mercenary off his feet.

That saved his life, however, as the men behind him were almost immediately cut down by automatic fire. The impact seemed to have been mostly absorbed by his left pectoral muscle, a good thing he was built like he was. Rolling over on his stomach, he checked quickly to make sure the round hadn't penetrated, and it hadn't. The Dragonskin was really cool stuff. As he tried to radio in to his counterpart, a grenade went off five feet from his position, throwing him further into the bush with bits of white-hot metal lodged in his left arm, leg, and the back of his neck. It hurt horribly, but there was nothing he could do but return fire. He did so, firing back a White Phosporus grenade of his own before crawling back towards the encamptment. His newest idea was to get their forces into the cities, and fight the war from there where hitting and fading would be easier.

Slade slammed the laptop closed, throwing it into a go-bag before throwing the bag on his shoulders and breaking into a run. Dekker wasn't answering his comm, which meant he was dead or it was broken, and either way that wasn't good. They had another retrograde point set up, this time deep in the capitol city, but that was going to take time to get to. The other mercenary streaked past a stack of crates next to the prison tent, before rushing inside. The guard was dead, and so was the other prisoner, killed by a stray round. The other guy, however was gone. Slade lowered his 416 carbine, wondering what the Hell had just happened before stepping back outside near that stack of crates that had felt so wrong before...

Rebel Camp Battle

"Vekor one, keep an eye on your three...", the comm link buzzed constantly, with the Elite Guardsmen chatting back and forth to their comrades as they battled the advancing rebel forces. "Those ain't AK's chaps... we're fighting someone else here... feck! Vekor One, keep an eye on three!" Semi-Automatic Fire blared back and forth as the Guardsmen attempted to hold off the numerically superior enemy.

Boom. Sergeant Gechson cursed under his breath as he watched the Private, no more than fourty meters away, fly through the air as white hot shards of shrapenal lodged themselves into his back. The phosphorous grenade, landing only meters behind him, had sent pieces of the grenade into the back of the man's legs, his lower back, and his ass. The screams could be heard for miles as the men squirmed on the ground, attempting to tear the skin from his flesh, so that he could dig out the metal... Gechson, currently ducking under rifle fire, simply muttered the word he had so many times in the last twenty minutes... 'Fuck'.

Gechson jumped from his ditch, running, zig zagging his way through the trees and bushes, across the stream and to the side of the red faced private, whom had nearly bit his own tongue off in pain. "Hold it boy! Easy!", he roared, pinning the private with his knee, pressing down on the square of his back. From here Gechson could see the still purning shards of phosphorous as they burned... an inch deep in his skin. His ass had four pieces in it alone... his left thigh another piece... his lower back another, and his right calf a final shard. "This is gonna hurt private... bite this... and squeeze something other than your trigger."

Gechson then flicked out his switch blade, and began carving the private like pumpkin. Chunks of flesh were removed in order to get the burning metal pieces out of the soldier's body, one piece after another, one by one, digging them out, tossing them unto the dirt. Thud. Gechson looked up, and was watching looking into the blue sky above... how he had got there was not entirely clear, but he knew he was having trouble breathing, as if there were a massive weight upon his chest... and he knew he was on his back, with his face half submerged in a small stream. His vision slowly returned to him as he lifted himself with his arms, and he then looked down, down to see a gaping hole in his chest, spewing out blood. Several black soldiers then rushed into the clearing, firing at the men in the stream...

When Gechson next knew what was happening, he was looking down the barrel of his 9mm Handgun, and pulling the trigger, putting down the first of the rebels. The next site was of the private firing his G36 into the rushing soldiers, and then his site went out, for good as a bullet hit him in the side of the head.

However the comparatively light amount of fire promptly escalated... with over fifty G36's and G3's joining the fray. The reinforcements from the south had arrived, with fifty Guardsmen moving into supporting positions, joining the now advancing Elite's as they moved to rescue their wounded, and push back the rebel advance. Soon after their arrival came the sound of artillery, 88mm mortars dropping fragmentation rounds on the rebel camp, coupled with the sound of light machine guns and non-stop rifle fire... it was an intimidating addition.

One only multiplied by the sound of a helicopter in the distance. A single Mi-24, from Freetown had arrived to the far northern jungles of Jar Lima, marked with the mission of destroying this new rebel threat. Psssshhhhhtttt... "Vekor leader, Burva leader... come in... mark rebel locations... rak four...", the Gunship Captain ordered the men on the ground, and soon after a massive plume of red smoke began to rise inside the rebel camp... a red smoke round having been fired from a mortar a half click away. The camp was now marked for destruction...

Firing from hundreds of meters away, the chopper would most likely have been out of site of any enemy forces on the ground, and thus, not at risk... as if the rebels could take it down on any account. A series of rockets and Air-to-Surface missiles rained down upon the camp as the battle on the ground raged on... the chopper then was nearly directly over the camp, spraying the ground with it's twin autocannon, blasting the surface with it's DU tipped shells. As it made it's second pass over the camp, blasting the ground yet again with rocket and autocannon fire, the captain could only smile. [Feel free to shoot it down]

Inside the Rebel Camp

Hulnocht took a deep breath as he hugged the back of a stack of crates, hiding from a group of rebel soldiers that had just rushed by. As he stood back up, ever so slowly, he saw the back of a white man's head... the Sergeant raised his weapon directing it at the back of the Mercenary's head, and as he was about to squeeze... an explosion rocked the entire area, as rocket threw both he, and everyone around him, to the ground. The 88mm Mortar had landed only nine feet away... luck was what had him alive. As he slowly sat up, coughing up black soot, he looked around through the clearing dust... he saw the Merc. He saw his machete. Clutching the machete with his bloodied, broken hand, he leaped up and ran at the man, swinging down as he came near...

Slade snatched the wrist holding the machete as it came down at him, shoving the barrel of his revolver into the man's neck as he swept his legs out from under him, his expensive rifle thrown a few feet away...

"There you are..."

The man seemed oddly calm for having almost had his head removed. The stainless steel was cold against the former prisoner's jugular. Slade didn't flinch either as the whooshing sound of one of those Stinger missiles went off about ten feet from his position, targeting the chopper as it passed overhead. The rebels had become smarter since their last engagement, fixing up mortar tubes in the backs of pick-ups and using the new vehicles to both escape and provide cover fire as they loaded up as many people as possible, dropping similar-sized rounds as they retreated. Others were hastily dropping anti-personnel mines and rigging up daisy-chained claymores as nasty surprises for the incoming troops.

Dekker was crawling as fast as possible back towards the camp, bleeding slightly from the sharpnel wounds he'd recieved. Luckily he was a powerful individual, and able to haul is large self a good distance, especially when fueled by adrenaline. Reaching within ten feet of the gate, he stood up and broke into a run. His timing was bad, however, and two more rounds caught him in the back. He took the impacts, but barely stayed on his feet, staggering far enough to fall behind something solid enough to stop the lead coming in his direction...

Engagement

"Forward!", was the call as a Krodesian Sergeant squeezed the trigger of his weapon, rushing forward into the camp as the blacks once again began falling back, further and further into the jungle. The Krodesian assault was short lived... the Sergeant tripped a daisy cutter as he neared the rebel barricade, not only cutting he and those around him down, but forcing the entire force to a halt. The Guardsmen took cover, their advance being short lived as the orders came across quite rapidly. 'Hold' The quick response of the rebels had prevented any effective pursuit, leaving the Guards to simply fire from their current locations, and watch as the rebels escaped yet again.

In the air the Mi-24 was making it's third pass over the base, targeting the trucks on the ground as they swarmed away, firing dozens of rockets and explosives into the camp. The ever firing gatling gun only adding to the devestation. But then came the Stinger. Not expecting anything of this calibre, for the IPF they had previously encountered were never in possession of anything over an old 20mm AA gun, the chopper was taken by surprise, hit and downed. The tail was knocked out, forcing a make shift landing into the clearing that was the rebel base. As the helicopter blades slowly stopped spinning, Captain Argod removed his helmet and withdrew his side arm...

Inside the Camp

"You ain't takin' me alive.", grumbled the Sergeant as he looked into Slade's eyes, his hard worn face showing the signs of complete determination and resistance, every ounce of life in his body fighting against Slade and his men. He was not a conquorer. He was not a warrior. He was police officer, whose family had been butchered while he was out protecting others. He was now defending his home, and all those that lived there. To the world he may have been a monster. But that is the last thing he saw himself as. Bullets whizzed by the two men, thudding into the ground around them as the Guard attempted to break the Rebel line...