NationStates Jolt Archive

[Forty Seven Kilometers West of Ourund, the Federated Kingdom of Velkya]

The rough and unkempt mountain roads of the western frontier vexed Johann’s patience considerably, his brow furrowed in discomfort as his armored personal carrier shook unpredictably along its path. Its aging eight by eight suspension system only marginally compensated for the deplorable conditions of the roads in this area, leaving the twelve soldiers housed inside to curse their luck at not receiving air cavalry support on this operation. Staring out of the small viewport into the frozen white abyss, Johann attempted to distinguish the peaks of distant mountain from their brethren in vain, the pure white haze obscuring all.

At least they’ve got that newfangled satellite technology up front, he mused to himself, slumping back onto the left bench of the troop compartment. His right hand held the fore grip of his rifle; it’s worn but rugged wood furniture a stark anachronism compared to the modern and expensive MILES module attached to its bore. When he pulled the trigger, the rifle produced little more than a loud bang, a kick, and light invisible to the naked eye, striking down his ‘target’ while leaving him alive and breathing. Johann was disdainful of these newfangled inventions, all so many cheap plastic and whirring gadgets to him. As much as he would deny it to his superiors, he was an old soldier, born and raised when satellites were a novelty argued about on the evening news, and when the military’s newest toy still ran on vacuum tubes. Kids today, with their music players and laptops, chatting away on cell phones while drinking cardboard mugged espressos, zooming through life quicker than the comic book superheroes of his youth, he was content to let them pass him by as they passed by museum exhibits, ideally wondering how people ever got around without broadband internet and blogs as they continued to push the edge of the envelope.

A old relic of the past, he dryly noted to himself, maybe they should put me in a museum. Thank God I can still fight, he added, subconsciously gripping his weapon. His head subtly swiveled to take in the other occupants of the armored personnel carrier, all kids barely eighteen and nineteen, probably in the service to pay for their educations, he concluded. They were products of their generation, with their gangly features and brand new toys, brandishing helmet mounted sites and polymer constructed rifles, clearly overdressed for what Johann considered a camping trip for reservists.

They sure aren't regular military, regular military wouldn’t have to deal with thirty year old vehicles, and well, old fossils like myself.

Johann’s gaze slide to his right arm, where the stripes of a staff sergeant were stitched to his grayed uniform, their simple design inadequately reflecting the complexity of his profession. These children were his subordinates and responsibility, to be molded into the quintessential weekend warriors by his experienced hand so that they may collect their salaries and government benefits and hopefully never have to visit the hellscape of the frontier ever again in their pampered lives.

The carrier ground to a halt, suddenly. It stalled for a moment, and a curse was heard to emanate from the front of the vehicle, indicating that such a stall was assuredly unintended and detrimental to the planned camping trip. A few groans resounded through the troop compartment, but were quickly silenced by Johann and his newly minted first element leader, Luxor. Luxor was a member of the regular army, and assigned as an observer to his squad by the reserve base commander. So far, Johann deduced, the man had little reason to be impressed with this motley collection of slackers, deadbeats, and college students. Within a few moments, the troops compartment doors slide open, the icy air slicing through the part-time soldiers like a blade. Under orders from their superiors, they filed out into formation outside, separating and lining up into three distinct fireteams. As Johann, Luxor, and the secondary element lead stepped out of the vehicle, the former smiled as the driver of the vehicles kicked the exhaust port in frustration, muttering a curse to the now distant base mechanics and their mothers before moving to radio back to base.

Johann returned his gaze to the eight sleepy privates and lance corporals, searching his mind for something for the nuggets to occupy themselves with while they cooled (no pun intended) their heels waiting for their situation to improve. Suddenly, an idea struck him.

“All ranks, dig in and assume defensive positions!”

With more than a bit of groveling, the element leads herded their men to nearby snow banks, the men breaking out shovels and ice picks, attempting to gash Jack Frost’s tough hide to fight an enemy that existed only on paper in their minds. Johann’s mind went elsewhere, staring westward at a small red ‘Caution ‘ signpost on a snow bank, a symbol unfitting for the immense danger that only he among these men properly grasped.

Suddenly, it caught his attention. A flash on a nearby rise, followed by a subtle ‘swoosh’. His instincts saved him as he rolled to the left, just as the armored vehicle was overtaken in a massive conflagration, the driver, who has previously been a living, breathing, and cursing human being, turned to so much bloody and burnt pulp. Johann lost conscious control of his body, becoming an automaton, tearing the glorified flashlight off of his rifle and slamming a fresh (and live) magazine into its feed before almost lustfully pulling the bolt back, listening to it satisfyingly snap back into position, charged and ready to annihilate.

The entity on the hill had begun to pepper his position with small arms fire, evident by the powdery white puffs that began to erupt around him. He dropped down on one knee, robotically bringing the walnut stock to his cheek, sighting his target and firing the first of many shots that would be fired in defense of his and his units’ homeland.

(OOC: Comments are welcome, and *bump*.)

[Twenty Two Kilometers West of Ourund, the Federated Kingdom of Velkya]

The officer slammed his fist down on the table, his teeth bared in anger.

“How the hell did they leak through?!”

The four other soldiers, in full combat gear, a contrast to their angered superior’s formal officer’s uniform, assembled around the wooden table, a random assortment of charts, maps, and portable computers set down upon it. The second men in terms of seniority, a first lieutenant, slide his finger down the main theater map, focusing on a gently sloping ridgeline.

“Sir, we’ve got sporadic reports of engagements between border guards and unknown forces, and a total of four ranger stations have gone off the air in a ten kilometer corridor located on this ridge.”

The commanding officer calmed down with the flow of information, and responded.

“We’ve got reserve units training out there, don’t we?”

A dark look on a second lieutenant’s face answered his question before his lips could do the same.

“Sir, B Platoon was training with three ‘Grendel’ armored personnel carriers, with the third experiencing mechanical problems at about 1750 hours. We lost contact with the third at around 1800 , and lost contact with the others approximately a quarter of an hour later.”

“Have we been able to identify the attackers?”

“Not positively, sir, but with all respect, my money is on the Arrutians.”

The commander furrowed his brow, before beginning to give orders.

“I want A and C platoons loaded up and ready to respond to any threats, and alert the mayor of Ourund, he needs to get his people evacuated to Enfest, the 456th Logistical can provide him with the vehicles. Get on the horn and contact the Fortieth, tell them we need air cavalry support over here on the double, and get a message back to Oured with all relevant data on these engagements. Gentlemen, this is the moment we've all been training for. I wish you all the best of luck, and Godspeed.”

Skies over Velkya, 22km West of Ourund

Col. Matthew Westbrook sat in the cavernous fuselage of his C-130, shivering. "Why couldn't they have made these damn things with heating?," he muttered to himself bitterly. This was not what I signed up for, but then again you rarely get what you want in this Army it seems, he thought. He remembered the day a few months ago when his superior had come to him and offered him what he said was the deal of a lifetime. "I want you to command a division," the general had said, "A mountain division." Matthew's heart raced as he accepted the offer. Having been dropped from the SAS and put into a desk job for an unlucky incident involving a few too many drinks and a run-in with his commander, he was anxious to get back in the field by any means necessary. A chance at a divisional command meant a possible promotion to general within his 40th birthday, and more importantly a chance to get back to what he was born to do. So it was that the optimistic Colonel, then a Major, had accepted.

Now, one promotion, a birthday, and three months later, 36 year old Colonel Westbrook braced himself as his plane came in for a bumpy landing on what was little more than a snow-covered clearing. Grabbing his E19, which had been sitting a few feet away, he prepared to exit the plane. Stepping out into the brutal cold, he shivered a bit before acclimating. Having thanked his pilot, he stepped back as the bird lifted off. "Now, down to business," he said as he walked into the small building where several Velkyan Army officers had assembled. Stepping in, he instinctively saluted the general at the head of the table. "Colonel Matthew Westbrook, reporting in. I was sent here on liaison, to be attached to the 40th Armored Division. Anyone care to give me a sitrep? My superiors didn't bother to tell me what I was actually supposed to do here."

[Fortieth Armored Divisional Headquarters, Twenty Two Kilometers Southwest of Ourund]

The expansive and snowy parade grounds, only minutes before pristine and virgin land, had been destroyed in seconds. Literally countless quantities of men, vehicles, and equipment, all adorned in the hazy winter camouflage of the Velkyan Armen, stormed across the field, the previously freshly fallen powder turned to brownish slurry within a heartbeat. From the lines of barracks stormed forth endless companies of infantry, their rifles slung across the chests as they negotiated the mass of men and material that was flowing past them, their westerly course known only by the tower sentries and God himself.

Miles away, the descendants of the paladins and knights of old prepared to mount their steeds, not hulking and sinewy warhorses, but the aluminum and titanium air cavalry mount, still every bit as deadly on the frozen wastes of Velkya as their progenitors were generations ago. These mounts, dispersed throughout the Fortieth’s mountain stronghold with their squadmates, were preparing for their imminent departure as the last of their fuel lines and loading carts were detached, kerosene based aviation fuel soaking the fresh snow as the ground crews moved to a safe distance. Canopies closed, avionics active, the first of their rotor masts begin to turn, quintuples of composite and alloy swords cutting through the frigid Velkyan morning. One by one, the air cavalry steeds of the 432nd Light Rotary Attack Squadron, their fuselages emblazoned with their trademark deltas, lifted into the sky, forming a staggered line as they snaked towards the horizon, leaving the rest of their division to make ready for immediate action.

[KF Strogulf, Seventy Two Kilometers South of Ourund]

Long rows of tactical fighter aircraft lined the tarmacs of Runway 2A, with legions of blue shirted maintenance crews diligently servicing the parked aircraft, whose dark gray 'gunship' camouflage schemes presenting a dark foreboding of events to come. In front of these eagles quickly scurried a small gray mouse, a general purpose LMPV of the Kunglig Flygvapen, accelerating rapidly as it zoomed across the taxiways to the next runway. Inside the vehicle, two uniformed individuals conversed on a less than official basis.

“Your first impression of Strogulf, Overste Westbrook?”

Colonel Westbrook surveyed his surroundings with keen interest; his SAS experience had taught him that one must always be situationally aware, even in friendly turf. Around him, a flurry of activity signified something of major importance happening. Jets screamed overhead, heading west toward the Arrutian border. Whatever's going on, it must be something big, he thought to himself. I wish the Army would bother to fucking tell me these things before it throws me into a frozen hell. At any rate, he would soon find out what it was he would be doing. From the look of things and the tension in the air, it seemed whatever he'd be doing would likely involve combat.

"Well, Strogulf is certainly big enough. This is the third place I've been scheduled to go since putting down in Velkya. I was supposed to land at a forward observation post on the border but got waved off--never did find out what that was about--then I got sent to a divisional outpost, and then here. But enough complaints, the important thing is I'm here I suppose. Now, down to business. My superiors told me at first that I was going to be doing field exercises in preparation for taking command of a mountain division. About the time I got over your territory they wired and said change of plans, I'd find out when I got on the ground. Well, here I am. Anything I should be doing right about now?" Matthew withdrew a thermos from his utility belt and took a long drink of the coffee he had gotten compliments of his ride to Velkya. It was still warm. Stirred to memory by the warm, refreshing beverage, he added one more piece he had left out of the earlier conversation. "By the way, there's something you may want to let the pilots know. When I got near the border a group of fighters jumped my bird. They were either Arrutian or Chukranian, couldn't tell which. All they did was fuck around, try to scare my pilot, but it was the type of planes that got me. These were Su-47s. Definately tell the flyboys to watch their asses up there. Believe me, I know what one of those fuckers can do."

Matthew broke off here, unable to continue. Three years ago, while taking part in the Tatom Civil War, he had lost a friend in the airforce to an Su-47. He never quite got over the loss, but resolved that as long as he lived he'd make sure one of those beasts never harmed a friendly pilot again. It was the least he could do.

[KF Strogulf, Seventy Two Kilometers South of Ourund]

The Velkyan officer's response was momentarily drowned out in an ear shattering roar as a pair of JAS-72 'Orn' tactical interceptor aircraft commenced their take off runs on the runway adjacent to the taxiway. Only two rapid gray blurs were visible as the aircraft lifted into the frozen cyan skies of the moderlanda, their bluish reheat plumes fully extended aft of their monstrous turbofans.

The sight always got the officer's adrenal glands pumping at full capacity, and the sight of the other two fighters of the flight readying for their own launches was both awe inspiring and comforting in the knowledge that the sheltering wings of these protectors stood between the western hordes and their homelands. He turned to his guest, his expression hardening somewhat.

"Compatriot Westbrook, it is the Arrutians who should be wary. They shall pay dearly for slaughtering the sons and daughters of Velkya."

Adeptly, the officer gently spun his steering wheel to the right, turning into a large armored hanger at the far end of the airfield. Inside was an aircraft most civilians would mistake for an airliner (indeed, it was based off of one) if it were not for the large radome mounted on the top of her fuselage. He killed the vehicle's engine, opening the door for the Prestonian officer. Two enlisted men quickly jogged to the stopped LMPV, smartly saluting the two officers before standing at attention.

"Overste Westbrook, if you would please follow them, we need to get you into proper flight gear."

"Yes, the Arrutians seem to have grown overconfident lately. Speaking unofficially I'd like to inform you that Velkya has Prestonia's full support. We are committed to stopping the Red menace within our region, whatever the cost." Westbrook broke off here, as he remembered that his nation was strong friends with Wagdog, technically a Communist state. No sense in upstaging one ally to a potential one, he thought to himself as his vehicle pulled into the cavernous hanger. "So, it appears I'll be riding AWACS today eh?," he commented as he saw the large converted airliner. "I've been up before, but usually my job involved jumping out of planes. I'm ex-SAS you see. Interesting story about how I ended up here, but I don't think you'd be interested in the lamentations of an old warhorse." As he stepped out of the jeep, he instinctively saluted the two enlisted men, and followed their lead into what he assumed would be a locker room of some discription. He had assumed he would be on the ground, directing units, possibly fighting side-by-side with the Velkyans, but he would take what he could get for the time being. The day was not yet half done and already there had been many surprises. He had a feeling before all was said and done there would be more.

OOC: yeah crappy post but it's all I can squeeze in in 15mins.

[KF Strogulf, Seventy Two Kilometers South of Ourund]

Moments later, the Velkyan officer reappeared, also dressed in the steel colored uniform of the Flygvapen. He enthusiastically greeted his Prestonian ally again, his former outburst of severe loathing for Velkya's western neighbor absent from his weathered visage.

"I see you've acquainted yourself with our mount for this operation. In case you are not familiar with Velkyan aircraft recognition charts, an excusable offense, if you will allow me a bit of leeway," he said, grinning widely at his Army counterpart, "this aircraft is a EB-202 'Sande' airborne C4I platform, converted from the new Zunter Aerospace 600 series airliner."

He ran his hand along the aircraft's outer skin. She had only recently been given her characteristic 'cookies and cream' Western Velkyan color scheme (with white and varying darker shades of gray), and still smelled rather pungently of her weather resistant paint.

"It is a shame that this angel shall go up into combat on her first flight."

COMMENT:

Well done, guys. This is one of the better force-on-force RP's I've seen on the post-Jolt NationStates...

[Forty Seven Kilometers West of Ourund, the Federated Kingdom of Velkya]

"Skit, skit!"

The mortar round slammed into the tundra, erupting into a shower of black earth and steaming vapor, the concussion causing Menig Svensson to tighten his sweaty, terrified grip on the helmet on his cranium. To his left, his former element lead was drowning in a pool of his own blood, his sternum shattered by a heavy machine gun round. He was already gone, leaving Svensson as the sole remaining member of Fyrtrupp Bravo who was still among the living.

Rounds shrieked as they smacked and ricocheted off the charred carcass of the Grendel armored personnel carrier, causing red hot sparks to fly in all directions. A gander at his surroundings and past the burned out hulk could tell him two things. Primarily, it was more than likely he had urinated himself, and secondly, and oddly, less pressingly, that he was totally defenseless. Svensson's rifle lay two meters to the left, had been destroyed from a direct hit by a marksman's rifle, as shattered and useless as the vehicle he crouched against for dear life.

The nameless enemy that had cut down nearly all his comrades was pressing his obvious advantage against the decimated reservists, and soon the poor private could hear the distinctive crack of rifles intermingling with the endless aural torment of general purpose machine guns, a sign that soon the invisible reapers that had smashed into his compatriots would be coming to finish the job. Hardly anyone was left to contest this sad reality, and the occasional frenzied screams or bursts of assault rifle fire were the exceptions that proved the rule.

He was going to die. Mikael Jenovec Svensson, aged nineteen, student of Enfest Engineering College, was going to die. It was nothing like the novels he had cherished and enjoyed as an adolescent, there was no glory or honor in this 'noble sacrifice'. This was no 'grand adventure' as the recruiting posters claimed. All that foolhardy nonsense bled from Mikael's psyche as the blood of his comrades had from their broken and defeated bodies, his shattered innocence staining the virgin snow as clearly and brightly as the crimson pigment of death.

And he was next.

Even now, he heard foreign tongues screaming orders over the din of the engagement, their owners locations growing precariously close to Mikael's own. He couldn't tell if the newfound wetness on his visage were tears or sweat, and, for the first time in his life, it didn't matter. His emotions, his fears, his hopes, everything, had melded and concentrated into a thick soup of resignation. He closed his eyes and pressed his hands against his abused ears, and, true to the cliche, his life began to flash before him, a blur of memories streaming through the river of his damaged psyche.

He opened his eyes, and Thor's hammer smashed into his forehead. The rest was a rubicund haze, all senses combined into one, giving him a strange and yet complete awareness. A figure stood above him, hooded and black, leveling his weapon at Svensson's exposed torso.

Did he just smile?

His internal question was quickly answered with his assailant being quite literally smashed against the wreckage of the armored vehicle. Mikael turned his head on its side, his entire body shivering and convulsing from the cold, or so he thought. A pair of black shapes flowed through the air, the deep vibrations of their passage echoing off the craggy peaks of the western frontier. They breathed vengeful fire, turning the once triumphant cries of the hunters to the terrified screams of the hunted.

He smiled to himself one last time, allowing himself to fade into the obsidian darkness.

[KF Strogulf, Seventy Two Kilometers South of Ourund]

Moments later, the Velkyan officer reappeared, also dressed in the steel colored uniform of the Flygvapen. He enthusiastically greeted his Prestonian ally again, his former outburst of severe loathing for Velkya's western neighbor absent from his weathered visage.

"I see you've acquainted yourself with our mount for this operation. In case you are not familiar with Velkyan aircraft recognition charts, an excusable offense, if you will allow me a bit of leeway," he said, grinning widely at his Army counterpart, "this aircraft is a EB-202 'Sande' airborne C4I platform, converted from the new Zunter Aerospace 600 series airliner."

He ran his hand along the aircraft's outer skin. She had only recently been given her characteristic 'cookies and cream' Western Velkyan color scheme (with white and varying darker shades of gray), and still smelled rather pungently of her weather resistant paint.

"It is a shame that this angel shall go up into combat on her first flight."
OOC: I'll assume your last post was unrelated to my character.

"Well, like I said I've never ridden AWACS before but I suppose there's a first time for everything." Westbrook was quite comfortable in his flight suit, though a bit disappointed in the lack of space for his assault rifle. Instead he had an E21 holstered at his side, the standard handgun of the Prestonian Defense Forces. "You know, I almost made the Prestonian Air Defense Force. Passed the test and everything. Then when I went to training I contracted chickenpox somehow and got bumped. When I went back a year later they wouldn't let me in since they saw that I was washed out before. I ended up joining the Army instead, and here I am now. It'll be nice to go up in something again, even if I'm not flying this time." Stepping into the cavernous plane, Westbrook found his seat and sat down. "So, what'll I be doing today?," he addressed the pilot. Well, she's no Shuka but she'll do for a flying fix I suppose, he thought as he felt the plane lurch and taxi out of the hangar.

[KF Strogulf, Seventy Two Kilometers South of Ourund]

"I am actually an Army liaison officer, Kapten Lars Jassik. Sorry we didn't have time for formal introductions, Overste, but, such a resource is finite and fleeting."

Lars took a moment to seat himself next to the Prestonian officer, strapping himself into the aircraft. He peered out of the view port for a fleeting second, watching yet another pair of steely blurs scream down the tarmac opposite their own. He began speaking in a somewhat hushed tones as to not disturb the several dozen occupants of the aircraft, even as she rose into the morning air.

"Our task is to coordinate allied military efforts in the area, whether they be on land or in the skies, as well as act as an electronics intelligence platform in case the enemy isn't careful with his broadcasts and transmissions."

The officer motioned down the hushed corridor of the former airliner. Banks of computer monitors and consoles lined the sterile aisles, displaying a vast myriad of combat information from meteorological forecasts to friendly force deployments, with each workstation manned by an officer or enlistee of the Flygvapen. Speaking in hushed tones into their headsets, these men nonchalantly processed and analyzed immense volumes of data, their vital task seeming little more than a casual hobby to the outsider.

"My task is to advise the commander of the combat information deck (CID) on the limitations and capabilities of our ground forces, as well as serve as second in command in case of our commander's incapacitation." Morbidly, he continued, "Of course, in most situations where one would be enter such a state in a combat aircraft, it is highly probable the rest of the aircrew wouldn't fare much better."

"Well, let's get to work shall we?," Westbrook said eagerly, pulling on a headset. "One of the few things I was told to do was gather intel on the weapons, organization and capability of the Arrutian military. Intel's drawing a blank, and they naturally don't like it." As they climbed, Westbrook saw two apparently friendly fighters flash by his plane, racing east. "You mentioned acting as a coordination platform earlier. What, exactly, is the sitrep? Either my nation's news crews are stupid or your government does a good coverup job, because PBG News hasn't said a peep on their website about this." Recalling Lars' last comment, Westbrook became apprehensive. "This thing does run at a high altitude right? And if we're shot, I assume there are ejection seats or parachutes?" I've been shot out of the sky before, but at least then I had a parachute, Westbrook thought to himself as the plane lifted off.

[LBKS Statlig Three, Cruising Altitude Over Western Velkyan Frontier]

"Unfortunately for us, kamrat, we go down with the ship. Thankfully, we've got little friends to watch over us." Jassik then gestured to a liquid crystal display with his free hand, the other gripping the side of a nearby seat.

"This unit is displaying the return data from our on-board air search RADAR array. She's a newer U/RL-44 active electronically scanned array, quite advanced from what, our, how would I phrase this, gearheads", he smirked at the English phrase, "inform us. She's integrated with an IFF antenna, so even army grunts such as ourselves shouldn't find any difficulty in determining who is who." As he explained the functions of this display, a pair blue RADAR blips with altitude and airspeed flags formed alongside the center of the display.

His index finger traced them as they steadied their flight vectors alongside the port wing of the airborne behemoth. Smiling, Jassik stood straight and waved out of a corresponding window. Outside, the pair of blue dots manifested as a element of 'Orn' tactical interceptors. The pilots cheerfully waved back.

"As you can seen, kamrat, we've got friends in high places."

As Phaedon:

Dalerian

"You don't say?" Prime Minister Elise Ebner peered at the assembled military officers, their uniforms dark and crisp in the lights of her office. She smelled coffee somewhere close by, the strong and acidic smell tempting her to go in search of some. She ignored the urge and tried to focus on the matter at hand. The Arrutian Socialist Republics looked to be mobilizing some kind of force against the Velkyan border. The Incorporated Kingdom's spies weren't the best, nor the most organized, but it wasn't difficult to read the mobilization orders for a nation like the ASR. Depending, like most of the great Socialist nations, upon massed formations of men and machine, any mobilization order for the ASR required both early notice and vast repurposing of transport capacity towards armour and supplies.

The officers didn't deem Ebner's idle musings worthy of a response, and simply stood in a rough semicircle around her desk. She waved idly at the various seats in the office, remembering a bit late that as commander in chief of the military, they were obliged to stand in her presence unless she bade them otherwise. "Sit, gentlemen. You're making me tired." They sat. "Now, if you'd be so kind as to refresh my memory regarding what this means to Phaedon?" The officer on the right, a commander in the Royal Phaedonaen Navy, produced a file and organized the papers within before speaking in a high, uncomfortable voice.

"Yes, well, ma'am." He paused, thought, and started again. "Velkya and Questers are, you see, the major buffer states for the ASR. So is Northford, of course, but it's Velkya and the Empire that are, as you might say, the big boys on the block. Right." He flipped a page and gathered his thoughts. "You'll note that the ASR has a fantastically large army, but it is not as well equipped as the Imperial Army or the Velkyan Army, so we have something of a stalemate. As to why the ASR has chosen to break that stalemate, we can't honestly say. But if," and here the officer paused and grew more confident. "If the Velkyans fail to hold the ASR, we can safely say that the entire continent could fall to socialism." Ebner blinked.

"Really, commander? The continent is home to several powerful nations besides the Questarians and Velkya, what makes you think that these two are vital?"

"Well, Madam Prime Minister," the commander replied. "Phaedon depends almost entirely upon the Questarian Empire for security beyond our immediate borders. It is not so different for the other nations. Though powerful, they mostly depend upon Velkya and Questers-- and to a lesser extent, the Kampferians-- to keep the ASR and Chukraine contained. They haven't built fortifications or infrastructure for war along those lines, so they haven't a hope if six million ASR soldiers show up, as it were, at their doorstep."

"And added to that," another officer interjected. He was a major in the Royal Army, a dapper looking fellow who wore the grey-green RPA field dress well. "Added to that, if Velkya is under attack we can be sure that the Questarians are facing either a static defence along their border with the ASR, or are about to be exposed to a similar assault. This could get bloody, and even the Imperial Army might not be enough. I'd recommend extreme caution over the next few weeks as we watch things develop." Ebner nodded. This could get violent quickly, and she didn't really relish the thought.