NationStates Jolt Archive

Joint Exercise: Mountain Eagle 08

January 5, 2008. 15.33 Hours
Western Foothills, No. 1 Battalion Encampment, 4th Mountain Infantry Brigade.

There he goes, thought the executive officer, the "XO." He watched the hawk - he didn't know what type, despite being an avid bird watcher - fall from the crisp blue sky and followed its brown shape down as it flashed towards the earth. Wings slapped at still air as talons raked forward, seized the hare, and the hawk beat its way back into the air, crossing the face of a low mountain as Major Vémundr Sigurðarson watched. Eat well, hunter.

"Major?"

So focused on the hawk's actions, Sigurðarson hadn't heard the crunch of fresh-fallen snow under Private Ivanov-Steiner's winter-lined combat boots. He turned towards the messenger, who as it was not a time of war and they were still inside the battalion's "footprint," drew himself to attention with a smooth and practiced movement and saluted crisply. Sigurðarson's left foot rose from the ground to knee height, slapped back down into the snow, and his right arm snapped up into an equally crisp salute. He held it for a moment, then lowered his arm and relaxed his posture.

"At ease, Private. News?"
"Yes, sir. The Podpolkovnik wants to see you."
"Did he say why?"

Pte. Ivanov-Steiner shook his head in the negative. "No sir." It was unusual, but not unheard of, for the Lieutenant Colonel to keep to himself around this time of day. Normally he told his aide why he was to summon the man he was sent after, but not on this brisk day where the mercury, so to speak, was showing ten degrees below zero.

"Very well, Private. Lead on."

Ivanov-Steiner, or more commonly to the commander of the headquarters section of which he was a part, "Steiner," fell into step beside the executive officer. Both men wore the long bladed double-edged knife beloved, in some form or another, by all Light Infantry units in the Russkyan Military. Sigurðarson also wore a pistol holster, the soft black leather being technically against dress regulations as it wasn't an issue piece of equipment, but he preferred the circa-1957 design with the covering flap and quick-release toggle that held it shut. He was also fond of the spare magazine pouch on the holster itself, a feature for some reason lacking on the semi-rigid olive drab green synthetic "tactical" holster he'd been issued with the new VP-23 handgun. Before long he was tapping the toes of his boots against the doorframe of the primary entrance to the headquarters building to dislodge snow from the sole. Pte. Ivanov-Steiner departed for the communications room and Mjr. Sigurðarson rapped smartly on the closed wooden door.

"Enter!"

His left hand turned the knob and pushed the door open firmly as left foot led the way over the threshold. Three paces in, his right foot took a half step, referred to as the "Check Step," then his left foot impacted the floorboards solidly. He saluted, staring at the framed half-scale of the Brigade's Colours behind the seated Lieutenant Colonel.

"Stand at ease, Vémundr. Have a seat."

The Major released his salute and turned to push the door shut. Two years of working with his Colonel had shown that whenever he was referred to by his given name, it was to be informal and relaxed, no matter the business discussed.

"The battalion stands ready?"
"Of course, Manfred. All are back from furlough, accounted for, and ready to begin operations."
"Good. The first of our guests will arrive at ten hundred hours tomorrow. You are to take a Wazik down to the airfield with three men and welcome the leading echelon. Make sure the transport battalion knows the route. I've been summoned to a staff meeting with the Brigadier, that'll end at twelve hundred."

Lieutenant Colonel Manfred Úlfrevich Ketilsson, son of a Norseman and a Russko-German mother, still had his family in Russkya. Many of his fellows, the Russko-Germans who had emmigrated in the eighteen hundreds, had since left Russkya, along with the Russko-Celts. The shift was so large that in the stark reality of it, the two Independant Corps had cased their colours and the few personnel who remained had shifted to other Regiments and units. Many of the Norse were unaffected, with strong family traditions of service in the Navy or the Mountain Infantry Brigades, as Sigurðarson was a prime example of. Most of the Germans, eager to retain some sembelance of their unit's histories, transferred into a predominantly Norse Brigade, the 4th. The few remaining Celts raised their physical and tactical standards to a point that they were readily adopted by 1 Commando, forming 1-8 Troops as part of B and C Companies.

That so few of these once large ethnicities remained spoke of a massive exodus. There was seemingly no reason for it, but the close knit nature of those communities could account as to why so many had left.

"Very good, sir."
"Find three men, tell the operations officer who they are, and get down to the airfield. I don't want to be playing the Movement Game until the start time of the exercise."
"Little bit outside my control but I'll expedite the process, sir."
"Good man. Dismissed."

--

Glossary of Terms:
- Podpolkovnik: Lieutenant Colonel.
- Wazik: Originally the UAZ series of four by four wheeled vehicles in service with the Russkyan Military "since time immortal," to be taken as "since the Red Army first fielded them and we bought some." Since partially replaced by the PAF-02 "Donkey" vehicle, which despite being far different from the UAZ, is often also referred to as a "Wazik."
- The Movement Game. Reference here (http://www.arrse.co.uk/wiki/The_movements_game). Suspended in times of war in favour of The Iron Hardass organizing troop movements, particularly overseas.
- The Iron Hardass: Generally a Company Sergeant Major, sometimes a non-CSM senior noncomissioned officer assigned to ensure smooth troop and equipment transport. Imbuded with the authority of the Gods and capable of intimidating anyone below General Staff level without verbalization of threats. Alternatively referred to as "Liason SNCO."

The large lumbering behemoth touched gently down at the Russkyan airfield, applying the brakes and extending the flaps to maximum to stop the slighty over three hundred thousand kilogram heavy T-31A Kondor transport aircraft. The Kondor was basically a domestically produced variant of the An-124-100 Ruslan, modernized and modified for Cottish needs to become the primary transport aircraft for the Royal Cottish Air Force. It retained all the key features of the An-124, including the ability to take off and land on uneven terrain and carrying a pretty large payload, plus some new things such as in-air refueling, fly-by-wire technology, more fuel-efficient engines that increased the payload, and a glass cockpit. All these features meant that the Kondor was well suited to serve as the mainstay transport aircraft for the Cottish military for many years to come, being able to carry out a wide variety of roles. One of these roles was the one this particular grey-painted Kondor with the Cottish flag discreetly painted on the tailfins and the words "ROYAL COTTISH AIR FORCE" painted in relatively small black capital letters along the main fuselage was doing: Ferry duty.

Sitting in the cavernous cargo hold of the Ruslan were an advance party from the Royal Cottish Army’s 3. Battalion, 481. Mountain Infantry Regiment, 232. Mountain Legion. The 481. Regiment was normally stationed in the Ceitja mountain range some three hundred kilometers north of the Cottish capital city of Eeobroht, but with the recent re-emergence of the Realm of Cotland in the international arena, it had been determined by the High Command that the Cottish Army wasn’t as prepared for combat as it ought to be. Not that the Cottish had any intentions of starting any conflicts, but the Cottish Military had a saying that was probably going to be ever more valid now than in the period of isolationism: Sic vis pacem, para bellum. If you want peace, prepare for war.

Therefore, the Defense Ministry had made an arrangement with the Russkyans for a joint military exercise, in the interest of friendship and fostering friendly relations between the Cottish and Russkyan nations, and it was as a result of that arrangement that the advance party, consisting of the 152 infantrymen of Company 1, one of the three rifle companies in the Battalion, and the 68 men of the Battalion’s HQ Element were stowed into the Kondor, which came to a stop at the spot in the tarmac that the Russkyan air traffic controller had assigned to the lumbering aircraft.

In the passenger compartment in the aft section of the upper deck of the Kondor where the HQ Element and the senior officers and NCOs of the rifle company had occupied the eighty-eight passenger seats, Lieutenant Colonel Olav Erikssøn gathered the last of his gear and tucked it into his webbing before grabbing the trusty DR-83M rifle and making his way down the steep ladder that connected the passenger compartment and the cavernous cargo hold where the infantrymen of Company 1 were gathering their own gear and preparing to finally disembark the Kondor. Some were still wearing the ear plugs the Air Force crew chiefs had given them when they boarded the aircraft almost sixteen hours ago. Most were tired from the long flight and the hard seats, but that stopped no one from coming to attention when the company’s First Sergeant bellowed out “Attention” over the noise from the four jet engines powering down when he detected Lieutenant Colonel Erikssøn making his way down the stairs.

Erikssøn looked at the elite infantrymen for a moment, thinking to himself once again that the lives of these men, many of them nineteen- and twenty-year olds serving their eighteen months of National Service in his unit, depended on him to make the right decisions. The responsibility and lives of five hundred and seventy-two men were resting on his shoulders.

After holding the well-disciplined men at attention for a few seconds as he corrected his gear, he finally said, “As you were.” In a calm, controlled voice, just like a Cottish officer should. The day-to-day shouting at the soldiers was best left with the non-commissioned officers, like the First Sergeant who nodded respectfully to Erikssøn before shouting out with a significantly larger decibel level for the men to carry on and to get their stuff together. Erikssøn on the other hand made his way over to the rear ramp of the aircraft, which was in the process of being lowered, allowing for fresh cold air to replace the old recycled air that the soldiers had been breathing for the past sixteen hours.

The ramp had barely locked into position before Lieutenant Colonel Erikssøn was walking down it, dressed like any other Cottish soldier in the field uniform with the Camoflague No.1 camouflage pattern (a Flecktarn-type camouflage pattern) with an insulating winter jacket over the uniform in the same camouflage pattern, black combat boots lined with fur that were optimal for the mountainous winter conditions they were expected to be used in, warm insulated gloves (also in camouflage), and the maroon beret that was the symbol that Lieutenant Colonel Erikssøn was a fully qualified Mountain Infantryman and a member of a Mountain Legion. In a tactical holster strapped to his right hip, a standard-issue TDX .40 sidearm rested. The rank of Lieutenant Colonel was revealed by a simple glance directly central in the man’s chest region, where a single rank insignia was located. The insignia consisted of two small stars positioned vertically, with one stripe on either side of the stars along the outer edge of the insignias. The other distinguishing features on the uniform were the Cottish flag sewn onto the right shoulder and the unit insignia, a Scandinavian Lynx, sewn onto the left shoulder.

Not far behind Lieutenant Colonel Erikssøn was two men dressed identically to Erikssøn, except for the insignias. One had an insignia that was almost identical, save for the fact that he had only one star in his insignia, revealing that he held the rank of Major. This was Major Thor Bjarnessønn, the thirty-five year old battalion XO. The second man was far older, bald and in his fifties, and he carried an insignia which consisted of three chevrons positioned downwards, with a horizontal bar directly above the chevrons, and with a crown on top of that again. The man was Sergeant Major Egil Olavssønn, the Battalion Sergeant Major and a veteran of thirty-five years and nine separate engagements which had left his face and indeed entire body riddled with scars. Sergeant Major Olavssøn had been shot, stabbed, blown up, beat up and burned over the course of his career, and he had survived it all. Needless to say, the Sergeant Major was not to be messed with.

Erikssøn on the other hand was a skinny man in his forties, with short-cut blonde hair and a neatly trimmed blonde beard that was shaved to resemble the style the King kept his beard – the King was a very popular leader and a role model for the Cottish people. Erikssøn’s icy-blue eyes were alert and observant, and currently focused on the four Russkyan soldiers that were approaching him.

Lieutenant Colonel Erikssønn stopped and snapped to attention, his right foot stomping heavily onto the ground as he crisply saluted the approaching Russkyan soldiers. Speaking in English (Erikssønn didn’t speak Russkyan and he knew from the intelligence briefing he and the entirety of the battalion had received prior to leaving Cotland that most if not all Russkyans spoke English), Erikssønn presented himself, speaking in moderately accented English.

“Good afternoon. I am Lieutenant Colonel Olav Erikssønn, commanding officer of the Third Battalion, Four Hundred Eighty-First Mountain Infantry Regiment of the Royal Cottish Army. Major Sigurðarson I presume?” Erikssønn asked, pronouncing the Major's name without difficulty.

While it may be a stretch to say that every Russkyan spoke English, every Russkyan spoke at least some, perhaps heavily accented and nigh-indecipherable English. A large part of the reason that the "One-Four" had been selected, aside from a high percentage of Norse and Germanic personnel, was that they all shared a fluent lingua franca - English - with their guests.

To return the honour, upon seeing the deportment of the Cottish command group, Major Sigurðarson issued a brief order at a moderate volume. The formation closed into a box, him taking the front left corner, and all four soldiers fell into step as if on their parade square. Two long paces from the command group, Sigurðarson took a check step and halted with precision. On the sound of that check step, the other Mountain Infanteers stepped short and began to halt as Sigurðarson was raising his left foot - and four bootsoles crashed down in unison.

Impromptu silent drill was something they'd been punishment drilled on for minor infractions during their time at NORDLAND training facility, and again at NOVZEM, and they'd mastered the trade, learning it inside and out so as to recognize slight shifts in the natural flow of parade ground drill and react appropriately. The ideal of every Russkyan soldier on parade was to drill like a Prussian, with crisp, clean movements that were a pleasure to watch and demonstrated to the world the discipline of the formation.

Major Sigurðarson, the ranking man, saluted, held it, and timed his arm to drop at the same time as Lieutenant Colonel Erikssønn.

"Good morning, Colonel. I am indeed Major Vémundr Sigurðarson, executive officer of the First Battalion of the Fourth Brigade of Mountain Infantry, recently including Three Kompanie of the Gebirgsjäger Regiment "Nordberg." Welcome to Russkya."

Identically dressed, save for differences in rank insignia and such accoutrements, as that was the purpose of uniforms and insignia, the Russkyans wore the distinctive, highly comfortable olive drab green Gorka uniform trousers, bloused into insulated high combat boots, again distinguishable from others with the "Mountaineering Sole, Mk. III." This was combined with the "Mountain Grey" 'commando sweater' taken as a symbol of the formation's elite status, which bore the non-subdued rank insignia on the slip-on fitting for the shoulderstraps of the cold weather gear. Gloves were again mountaineering issue, thick and well insulated with a textured palm and fingertip areas sewn securely into the first layer of black leather.

The berets were decidedly more subdued than their Cottish equivalents, a forest green sporting silver capbrass, a crossed axe and dagger with the axe head hanging to the left side. It had originally been an icepick, but the re-organization of the Forces had resulted in a change of capbrass as well. The capbrass was centered over the left eye and the remaining material of the beret pulled down to the top of the right ear.

Sigurðarson saw no reason to waste time on this tarmac, surrounded by airplane engines that were at any moment liable to burst into shrieking noise according to the directions of the air traffic control tower and ground control facility.

"Colonel, Major, Sergeant-Major, with your permission I will attach Corporals Grímsson and Sturluson as aides to facilitate the move to your new accomodations. Second Battalion is currently on operations and you can take over their quarters, only a kilometer from our positions. There is a truck transport battalion here with medium and heavy trucks to move your men and equipment. Waziks for yourself and your orderly if you wish to lead the column. We can be embarked and enroute to the base within thirty minutes of you completing unloading, two hour's drive from here."

He nodded acknowledgement to Major Bjarnessønn, though he did not know his name, and the same at BSM Olavssøn.

Erikssønn was a little impressed with the silent drill display the Russkyans presented to the Cottish soldiers, just like he figured the display was meant to achieve. So the Russkyans knew drill and discipline, just like the intelligence briefing back in Camp Ruge had said. That was a good thing, Erikssønn thought. Not like the undisciplined rabble that had attempted to pick a fight with Cotland over the past sixty years. This, he thought, would be a true learning experience, and he welcomed it.

Major Sigurðarson explained the current situation and proposed plan of action to the Cots. The plan was a sound one, and getting to the billets so his men could get some rest was a high priority for Lieutenant Colonel Erikssønn. He nodded.

“Agreed.” Erikssønn said before turning to Sergeant Major Olavssønn to speak a few quick orders. The Sergeant Major nodded briefly as he snapped to attention, saluted crisply and preformed an about-face before walking back into the Kondor, which had completely powered down its engines by now.

A few seconds later, a series of orders were barked out in Cottish inside the aircraft, and soldiers started pouring out, carrying with them their gear in their webbing and the large bergens on their backs, with rifles slung over the shoulders. Here and there a heavy weapon such as a MAG or a 60mm mortar was manhandled out. The men formed up into platoon-sized groups outside the aircraft, waiting for the trucks to be driven out and for further orders to be issued.

While his men started disembarking the aircraft and boarding the arriving trucks, the lieutenants and sergeants trying to figure who should go into what truck and such minor details, Erikssønn continued unabated.

“I’ve got one of my rifle companies with their equipment and my headquarters element with me in the plane. The rest of my battalion will be arriving tomorrow morning with the rest of our gear and additional supplies. I’ll need transportation for them as well. Two rifle companies and one weapons company.”

Then another Cottish officer, this time a Captain came over to the group of officers and saluted crisply to Erikssønn. When Erikssønn returned the salute, the Captain reported in Cottish, “The Company has disembarked the aircraft sir. Any news on where we’re going yet?”

This man was Captain Thomas Gramstad, commanding officer for Company 1. At twenty-five, he had just been promoted to Captain and command of a company last month, meaning that this would be the first large-scale exercise he would command his company in.

“Yes Captain. We’re going to the Fourth Mountain Brigade’s second battalion’s camp, about two hours drive from here. The Russkyans are letting us borrow their trucks so we can get there, as you can see over there. Make sure your men got all their crap off the plane, and that they put on their caps before they freeze their ears of.” Erikssønn said before turning back to face the Russkyan Major. He stopped though and looked back at Captain Gramstad, who had saluted and was on his way over to his platoon commanders to spread the orders further down the chain of command.

“Oh and Captain?” Erikssønn called out. Gramstad stopped and turned, looking at the Lieutenant Colonel with a half confused, half "please-don't-say-what-I-think-you're-going-to-say" look. “Make sure we don’t forget the mortars this time.”

Gramstad turned red but nodded that he had understood before he continued on his way. The Cottish soldiers were too disciplined not to laugh or grin too much of the mild reprimand.

On his second day as a company commander, Captain Gramstad, who was renowned for his strict adherence to the book and lack of understanding for mistakes, had managed to misplace the two 60mm mortars his company was assigned during a field exercise involving his company. When he had ordered mortar fire on a target, the mortars had been nowhere to be found. This in itself was bad enough, but what was worse was that the Legion Commander, a Major General by the name of Ingvaldssønn had dropped by to observe just moments before and was in the command post when it was discovered that the mortars were missing. This didn’t go down well, and Gramstad received a bad yelling from the General who subsequently left, rather pissed with the misplacement of those two relatively expensive pieces of weaponry.

Of course, Gramstad became furious and vowed to make life miserable for the “fucking idiot who managed to lose my mortars!”
After a ferocious search effort both during and after the exercise had been concluded, the mortars were discovered packed away inside the armory, just where they were supposed to be. After a short inquiry, it was discovered that Gramstad himself had ordered the crates containing the mortars to be “put back where they came from” when the company was moving to the exercise area, believing the crates to contain unnecessary supplies.

Since then, the “Don’t forget the mortars” had stuck throughout the battalion, although no one below the rank of Major would speak it out loud so Gramstad (or any other officer or senior NCO) could hear it. Instead, it was a constant in-joke among the men in the foxholes and outposts and the source of many a laugh.

Erikssønn turned back to Major Sigurðarson.

“Sorry for the interruption Major. You were saying?”

Matches what the dossier had to say, thought Sigurðarson.

"That has been arranged, Colonel. This transport battalion, along with its sister unit, are available to lift your battalion. Once we quarter your company and headquarters, we'll set for a late lunch at fourteen hundred with supper to follow at twenty-two hundred. There are three field kitchens at the kaserne you're headed to, they can handle two full companies each - around three hundred men total, per.

If we can't fit the remainder of your battalion on the trucks we've got we can borrow some six by six Urals from the airfield here. You can ride with me or take your command staff in the two spare PAFs."

The loading operation was a smooth one. The truck drivers spoke reasonable English, and knew to keep two meters between trucks during the loading process, their vehicles remaining in a column formation so as to prevent confusion. Throughout the load, the drivers kept their eyes on their side mirrors, watching the headlights of the truck behind them. Beginning at the rear, once each truck was loaded completely and the Cottish NCO or officer riding in the vehicle gave the "good to go" signal - nearly identical in nearly every military in the world - to the driver, he'd flick his lights as a signal to the truck infront of him. Once the lead truck, a URAL-4320, flicked its lights, Major Sigurðarson clapped his gloved hands together once and looked over at the PAF-02 4x4s.

"Well Colonel, compliments to your men. That was a fast and efficient loading. We're good to go."

"Sounds good Major. If you don't mind, myself and Sergeant Major Olavssønn will drive with you." Erikssønn said. "Give me a moment to get my stuff, and I'll be right there."

A minute later, Erikssønn came to the truck where Sigurðarson waited, carrying with him among other things a fully loaded 130 litre bergen, a DR-83M rifle and a tactical vest and helmet. After putting his gear into the back seat of the truck, Erikssønn got into the passenger seat of the 4x4 and closed the door while BSM Olavssønn got in the back seat.

"I don't know about your unit, but every soldier in my battalion, save of course for the medics, is a combat soldier first. That goes for everyone from the lowliest private to the commanding officer." Erikssønn said, explaining why he lugged around the same amount of gear as the privates did. "Isn't that right Sergeant Major?"

"It is sir." The Sergeant Major said in a deep gruff voice. "Every single one of us is supposed to kill the enemy, not sit on our asses like the pansies in the mechanized infantry sir."

Turning the key in the ignition and listening to the engine turn over, the Russkyan officer smoothly drove the car into the 'slack' position on the lead vehicle, also a PAF-02, this one sporting a rollcage fitted with a rotating circular mount aft of the driver and front passenger's seats, a KRA-03P GPMG fitted on the pintle. The weapon was strictly unnessecary, but there was no sense in removing it only to reattach it later. Sigurðarson watched his Sergeant step up into the loadbed of that PAF and take his place behind the gun.

Holding his left arm up in the air, the NCO slowly pointed forward in an exaggerated motion. The lead vehicle accelerated to fifty kilometers per hour and held the speed, the trucks easily able to follow at that pace. More importantly, they wouldn't have to increase interval or decrease speed to take the heavier eight by eight trucks in the center of the column over the one "Class Four" bridge in the area they were required to pass over.

"Of course, Colonel. In a proper Infantry unit like ours, every man must be able to close with and destroy the enemy. That is our purpose, as Infantrymen. Lieutenant Colonel Ketilsson is at a staff meeting that should conclude shortly, or he would have welcomed you himself, I am certain."

A brief pause as the column passed by snowclearing equipment returning to the airfield.

"Sergeant Major, we often like to say that the Mechanized Infantry have soft feet and blistered asses."

The airfield was sited at the base of the foothills. The surfaced road led through the undulating, rocky terrain to the battalion encampments of the 4th Mountain Infantry Brigade, a rapidly flowing and cold river of fresh water coming from the mountains to empty out into the marshes to the North East. The foothills increased in altitude and ruggedness until they abutted the mountains, where it rose sharply. From this distance, the treeline was evident, rising halfway up the slopes. Behind these were even taller, more rugged features. The mountains behind those dropped in sheer, rock-faced cliffs to the coastline's rock beaches, strewn with tremendous boulders and "foothills" that resembles small mountains in their own right. The lowland areas, backed by plateaus as much as two hundred meters above sea level, were highly valued as the location of towns and port facilities for the Central Seas Fleet of the RVMF.

Snow covered much of the landscape in a frozen blanket, drifting up in the lee sides of hills to shine in the weak sunlight. Coniferous trees dotted the area in dense copses, few forests in the foothills, given the rocky soil. As the vehicles passed over the bridge, Sigurðarson broke from his conversation with Erikssønn and his Sergeant Major to mention that the bridge was likely to be the objective of a larger scale training exercise conducted within the bounds of Mountain Eagle 08.

"I take it your bergens have your winter camouflage, yes? You will need it here. January is not a pleasant time of year in this area."

The Cottish officers and soldiers all watched the surroundings as they drove towards the Russkyan base they were going to borrow, taking in the scenery and getting a feel for the area, climate and challenges that lay ahead.

In the PAF-02, Lieutenant Colonel Erikssønn turned his head to Major Sigurðarson.

“Yes, we’ve brought our winter camouflage kits. We have a saying in the Cottish Army. This is a rough translation, it sounds much better in its original Cottish, but here goes: ‘If you train hard, you’ll fight easy and probably live. If you train easy, you’ll fight hard and die quickly. Therefore, train very hard.’ I operate my battalion from this motto.” Erikssønn said with pride in his voice, knowing perfectly well that for the past two years that he had commanded the Third, the battalion had the best performance ratings in the whole of the 481. Mountain Infantry Regiment. That was why his battalion had been selected to represent Cotland in this exercise.

“If you don’t mind me asking Major, what kind of temperatures, weather and snow depths can we anticipate to be facing when we get into the field? I want my men to be as prepared as humanly possible.” Asked Lieutenant Colonel Erikssønn.

Most of the journey was done with now, only fifteen more kilometers before they reached the road network that linked the battalion bases, brigade headquarters and logistics facility, and some of the training ranges.

"Expend sweat, not blood. That's our concept - practically identical. As to the weather, I have not the first clue. It's different every year, because of the current patterns in the Central Sea. On the East side of the mountains though, where we are, we can expect snowbanks as much as a meter and a half high, once the winds kick in and drift it. Our snowclearing equipment will end up creating deep trenches along the roads, meaning movement security comes down to the guys on topcover because everyone else can only see snow.

Average depth in flat areas will only be fifteen to twenty centimeters. Not deep at all. The snow remains soft until a hard freeze overnight, usually. Temperatures average negative twenty to negative thirty during the day, and can drop as low as negative sixty overnight. Winds almost always come down out of the North, along the face of the mountains, and they can add negative thirty windchill to ambient temperatures. This area is a meteorologist's wet dream, all he has to do is say it'll be cold and he's right.

That wind will also scour many of the hillsides bare of snow along their north, west, and east faces, drifting the snow onto the south face and behind rocks and the like. The ground will be too frozen to dig into without the use of heavy engineering equipment and explosives - the latter we have, but its hard to get enough of them forwards, and the heavy engineering equipment can hardly move cross country here because of all the rocks. We were testing tanks earlier, and we couldn't get any of them cross country at any appreciable speed, except this one design, it didn't seem to care too much. I think they said it had Horstman suspension, or something along those lines."

Thre was a marked turn in the road, the indicator pole standing two and a half meters high. The Russkyan Army Major pointed it out as they passed it. Something had caught the attention of the NCO behind the GPMG on the front vehicle, drawing his gaze off to the right as they made a left hand turn.

"That pole is two and a half meters high. It is so high so that the engineers know where the turn is when they come by with the snowclearing kit. Pole on the left side with a blue top means the road makes a left. Pole on the right side with a green top means the road makes a right here. This general area is the only place you'll see these signs. The rest of Russkya gets heavy snow, but never as much as you get here.

So as you can see, cross country skis and snowshoes are mandatory. We have them, and probably more than you'll need, if your battalion equipment doesn't include them. As to the mountains themselves, the harsh weather works in our favour. The winds can get as high as a hundred and fifty kilometers an hour in the mountain ranges, it prevents snow from settling anywheres but on the lower elevations."

The vehicle column carrying the leading elements of Erikssønn's battalion passed by two of the engineer's snowclearance vehicles. The machines were built off the chassis of a T-80UD and featured a plow-blade on the front of the chassis, an auxilery power unit attached to a winch, and a roll of corduroy road reinforced with rebar steel rods every three quarters of a meter mounted on the aft on a "Fascine Arm" that could be deployed by dropping the arm and simply reversing in the direction one wished to lay road. The tracks seemed overly large, and were - the rubber pads installed on the track-blocks prevented damage from being done to the roads by the thirty-two ton vehicles.

"Those are some of the engineering vehicles enroute to a laager site at headquarters. There are four at each battalion base with their own crews. That giant rolled road on the rear gets used if there's a stretch of soft snow that needs to be roaded over for wheeled vehicles, as part of a road construction task. We can get blizzards that simply "white out" everything for as much as three days."

Erikssønn smiled at the description the Russkyan Major gave of the anticipated weather conditions. It most definitely sounded like home to him. Back in the mountain range that Camp Ruge, the regiment’s base, was placed in, the snow was present in the environment throughout the year, save for a short stretch in July and August, when the temperature managed to climb its way past positive ten degrees Celcius. Normally, the snow lay like an all-covering white carpet, some places in droves several meters thick, making it nearly impossible to cross without the use of snow-shoes or skis, both of which the Cottish had in plenty. The Mountain Infantry soldiers were issued brand new cross country-skis made of carbon-fiber, making them both light-weight and very durable, perfect for the Cottish Army’s requirements. Indeed, so important were the skis to the Mountain Infantry that their winter combat boots had slots in their soles that fitted with the New Nordic Norm (NNN) (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cross-country_skiing#New_Nordic_Norm) bindings on the skis, allowing the mountain infantrymen to quickly put the skis on or off. The skis and snow-shoes for the whole of the battalion would be arriving tomorrow along with the rest of the battalion, Erikssønn told the Major after explaining the conditions the Cottish soldiers were used to operate in.

As they approached their destination, Erikssønn started observing the surrounding area with an educated, critical eye. The Lieutenant Colonel was surveying the terrain, looking for good defensive positions and areas where an attack might come from – not that he expected any to come, but it had been drilled into the mindset of each and every single soldier who had gone through not only the grueling Mountain Warfare Course and earned their maroon beret but also anyone who had graduated from the War Academy in the capital city of Eeobroht that the key to survival was to always prepare for the worst and never to let ones guard down when on deployment. Erikssønn had been doing this for twenty years now, and the experienced officer’s mental activity was the doing of his subconscious, as he paid attention to what the Major had to say.

Since they were approaching the base which would be the Cottish base of operations for the duration of this deployment, the Cottish in the car started thinking about the more practical matters.

“About this base we're going to. Could I ask what kind of accommodations my men can expect? I mean, will there be dormitories, separate rooms, et cetera? What about base defenses? Also, about the field kitchens you mentioned. Are there cooks permanently assigned to the kitchens, or must we make arrangements for cooking our food ourselves? It’s not that it’s a problem, as we have plenty of people who know how to cook in the battalion, but when we shipped out, a decision on these minor details hadn’t been made.”

The lead vehicle of the transport battalion, the GPMG-armed PAF-02, signalled for a left turn for a solid minute. Sigurðarson's left hand dipped off the wheel and depressed a control lever by one notch, signaling the turn to the remainder of the column. The lead vehicle took the turn and the remainder of the column followed smoothly.

"That's good to hear, Colonel. It just gets bitterly cold, so cold that we don't get large amounts of snow. Further south along this range sounds a bit more like your homeland, but then the snow picks up into the mountains higher and climbing is barely possible.

Base defences are laid out with camouflaged, fixed positions making use of interlocking fields of fire, suitable for GPMG, HMG, and ATGM use. Camouflaged and maintained slit trenches are part of the defences, fields of fire being cleared of snow mostly by the wind, though engineering vehicles do sweep away the more, let's say obstinate, snowbanks. Berms can be constructed out of snow and allowed to freeze, thus creating a small-arms proof barrier.

Nearly all accomodations are semi-bunkered, that is to say that half of their total height is belowground. If you recieve fire in them, you simply drop prone to the floor and are protected from direct fire. Sandbag walls are generally built around their exposed uppers. The semi-bunkering also allows for greater warmth. It should be easy to find accomodation for up to about seven hundred and fifty personnel in the barracks rows, with the officer's and SNCO's housing being of the same construction but with individual rooms. There are three messes, the Other Ranks, NCO, and Officer's."

As the column approached the base, what Sigurðarson had described became perfectly clear. The neatly regimented layout of the permanent battalion encampment seemed undefended, thanks to the superlative Russkyan camouflaging efforts applied to the defensive perimeter.

"You can cook for yourselves or keep the cooks with the field kitchens. They're very good, even out in the field. If you have any special dietary concerns, let them know and they'll adjust the menu accordingly. Field rations are not quite as good, but seem to be the best in the entire region. Feed him well and he will fight well, they say."

There were two kilometers of approach road covered by three concealed heavy weapon posts nearer the base, giving the Cottish Colonel and Sergeant Major sufficient time to match what the Major had said to what they were seeing. As the column pulled inside the base, it turned full circle to line up, ready for departure, then stopped smoothly on plowed-clear concrete.

As the trucks came to a halt, the soldiers began disembarking the vehicles. The sergeants, corporals and privates waited for what was to come next while the officers gathered around Lieutenant Colonel Erikssønn in order to find out what to do next. The Lieutenant Colonel told the officers what he had been told about the base and accommodations to the officers before ordering them to get the men into formation. The men dropped off their bergens, weapons and gear along the side and started getting into the formation, arranged section by section, platoon by platoon, and so forth.

A few minutes later, the men were in formation, with Company 1 forming up in three neat rows and the HQ element forming up in two rows next to them so the two formations of camouflage-clad Cottish soldiers formed an L-shaped mass of men. With the men all in formation, the Battalion Sergeant Major bellowed out, “Atten-hut!” in Cottish, making all the men snap to attention. The sound of over two hundred feet stomping the ground as one was an impressive one, as was the discipline the men displayed. All men stood like pillars, their faces as if carved in stone, displaying absolutely no emotion or expression, save of course for military professionalism.

Erikssønn waited for about ten seconds before he spoke, speaking in a calm, normal voice.

“Good afternoon soldiers.”

As if in one voice, all the men called out in unison, “Good afternoon Lieutenant Colonel!” Their powerful voices loomed over the parade ground. Erikssønn remained stoic as he continued his speech, talking in Cottish.

“Welcome to Russkya! For the next few weeks, this base where we are now will serve as our primary base of operations. In a few moments, you’ll be assigned billets and be given a chance to rest after our long flight and drive. However, I have a few things I want you all to know before we do that.

“First, the billets are located behind you, and can house up to seven hundred and fifty men comfortably according to Major Sigurðarson. Each billet is large enough to accommodate somewhere around fifty men, which means that each platoon will get its own billet. The billets are dormitory style, so you’ll just have to get used to sharing billets with forty-nine others. Officers and NCO billets will be single-rooms like we’re used to. Remember though, that a Russkyan battalion normally calls this base home and that we’re only house guests, so don’t mess with any of the arrangements they have going here, and for the love of God, don’t break anything. If you do happen to break anything, it comes off your paycheck!

“Mess halls! There are three field kitchens, complete with cooks that will cook our food for us here in this base. Each can house up to two companies each, so there’s plenty of room. The cuisine will be primarily Russkyan specialties, so if you expected any of mommy’s homemade pancakes, you’re shit out of luck. Our hosts have planned a lunch for us in about an hour’s time, which gives you forty-five minutes to stow your gear and get yourself presentable.

“You’ll go through defense procedures and the training schedule with your platoon commanders after lunch today. Apart from that, I want you all to rest and relax for the remainder of the day. We’ve got a lot of things to do in the next couple of days, and I fully expect us to be back in the field within seventy-two hours. So, grab whatever rest you can. Tomorrow around this time, the rest of the battalion will be joining us here.

“And finally, before the cold numbs your ears, I want to remind you all that we are Cottish soldiers, and that you are representatives of the Realm and of the Cottish people. Therefore, I don’t want to hear about any drunken escapades, fighting, or any of that other bullshit. You’re better than that! You are the best of the best! That’s why High Command selected you to come here and not First or Second Battalions! Let’s all prove to High Command and to the Cottish people that we are worthy of this trust which has been shown to us. Do I make myself understood?”

Again, in a unison voice, the men replied, “Sir yes sir!”

“Good. God save the King!” Erikssønn called out, raising his voice for the first time.

“God save the King!” All the men replied, again in a unison voice.

“Dismissed!”

The men all snapped to attention again before beginning to break out from the formation and into groups around their platoon leader, who began directing them. Meanwhile, Erikssønn returned to Major Sigurðarson.

“My men have been informed of the accommodations and food times, and are on their way to find their billets before lunch.” Erikssønn said as an explanation to the short speech he had held for his men. “What do you have planned for us next Major?”

Sigurðarson, like many Russkyans, was a fierce proponent of multilingualism and could speak his mother tongue, English, "Norse," and both Russian and Ukrainian, as the latter two languages were quite similar to Russkyan. He found himself understanding small phrases and single words of Cottish - or at least thought he did. He wasn't foolhardy enough to try it incase what he thought to be "Hello" turned out to be "Your mother is my whore." He'd visit the Brigade Library and find a reference book on the Cottish language when he went off duty.

He stood at attention behind and to the left of the Cottish Colonel as the man made his speech. When the formation broke up, he relaxed his posture and returned his attention to Lieutenant Colonel Erikssønn.

"Excellent. Lunch is likely to be beef soup with thick slices of a dense white bread that's called "Beloika," or pumpernickel, since I know they were baking some loaves of that earlier. Once that's done with and you've got your kit stowed, we'll take a route march to a rifle range and let your men blat away for a few hours before it gets dark. I know after a long flight I'm ready to stab the flightcrew, don't know about them.

Nothing else is planned, so in the twilight hour your fellows can get familiar with the base, eat supper, and rest up. When the rest of your battalion arrives tomorrow there'll be a officer's briefing at Brigade, we'll let them rest up, then run some patrol exercises with the company that's here now so they don't get bored. Sound pleasant?"

--

Lieutenant Colonel Ketilsson buckled on his duty belt, featuring the olive drab tactical holster that his Executive Officer eschewed in favour of the one he'd fought with on the Northern Border. Into this he slid the heavy AVP-37 "Byertik" selective-fire combat handgun he favoured over the semiautomatic VP-23 that was the issue sidearm. Four spare magazines went into two double-magazine pouches on his left side, and he loosened the holster's straps so the weapon hung more comfortably lower on his leg for a quick draw.

Of course, it wasn't that Ketilsson was intending to have to execute a quick draw. It was that such things were de rigeur for any Russkyan soldier on duty, and many off duty. The principle to which they all adhered was readiness for action, even this far to the North-West of the Me'ei Army, who was the only credible force capable of rolling across the Southern Border on short notice. The Sorachoakai, mostly semi-nomadic raiders, had been all but destroyed three years previously. Manfred Ketilsson elected to drive the PAF-02 himself, bringing a signalman carrying one of the medium range manpack radios with him should his subordinates need to contact him immediately.

”Excellent,” Lieutenant Colonel Erikssønn replied, smiling. “If you wouldn’t mind awfully, could I persuade you into giving me a quick tour of this facility?”

*******

Private Vegard Torssønn was tired. There was no denying that. Therefore, entering the warm billet his platoon had been assigned was a true blessing. Now, there was just one more thing that needed to be done before he could relax a little.

“This one is mine.” Another one of the privates in his section said, dropping his bergen on a cot next to one of the stoves in the billet. The rush was on to secure the best possible cot for one self, and minor scuffles occurred over the various cots.

Vegard got himself a cot two cots down from the closest stove, far enough away from the door to ensure that he would be one of the last to feel the chill from the door opening. Satisfied with the sleeping place he had gotten himself, he dropped the heavy bergen on the floor and unslung his DR-83M assault rifle, placing it up against the wall before sitting down on the cot. It was rather comfortable, he thought as he took off his patrol hat, thick gloves and winter jacket.

When he had gotten the warmth back in his body, he bent down and started undoing his bergen, taking out the small compressed bundle that was the sleeping bag. The sleeping bag was standard issue, and that was proven to keep the occupant warm in temperatures down to -35°C. More than enough for the men to survive even the worst of conditions in the field.

Vegard released the straps that had compressed the sleeping bag to its small size and took it out from the cover, rolling it out and placing it on top of the cot. Satisfied with the newly made bed, Vegard lay down on it and thought of the excitement that he and the rest of the men were feeling about this upcoming exercise in a foreign land, about the experiences he was to have, and of his girlfriend back home in Cotland, oblivious to the scuttlebutt and conversations that was flowing around the billet.

Ketilsson found his Cottish counterpart in the command and communications building, a thick-walled concrete structure set half into the ground as the barracks were. The Major was introducing the visiting Colonel to the staff who ran the communications rooms, headed by a Warrant Officer (Class II) who couldn't be more than twenty-five and whose sleeve bore Master Signalman's insignia.

"Podpolkovnik Erikssønn, I'd like you to meet Lieutenant Colonel Ketilsson, of the First Battalion, Fourth Mountain Infantry Brigade."

Ketilsson extended his right hand, smiling warmly.

"Welcome, Colonel. I trust that my exec has settled you in comfortably and there were no problems with the move?"

--

The Cottish Colonel and BSM had been briefed earlier by Major Sigurðarson in the PAF-02, but the bitter cold was really something that had to be experienced for themselves. Soon the Cottish soldiers would be issued sleeping bag liners that allowed those within to survive an extra -20°C ontop of the bag's existing rating, and the total of -55°C rating, provided they bivouacked in a mostly sheltered area, would allow them to survive some of the exceptionally cold nights in the Western Foothills. Though infrequent, these nights often managed to kill even local wildlife.

Although, as a positive, there was little humidity on this side of the mountains and for that reason the cold was slightly more tolerable than it otherwise would have been.

As the chronometer ticked closer to the specified lunch hour, the cooks pulled steel cooking sheets from the oven, each carrying ten loaves of freshly baked bread to accompany the massive pots of soup. The deep ceramic bowls and mugs were brought out, coffee and tea prepared, a samovar set out, and crates of other beverages such as bottled water, a pallet of Aequatian soda, and cardboard cartons of milk and fruit juices.

”Indeed he has Colonel,” Erikssønn said, shaking his Russkyan counterpart’s hand. “My men have settled in, and if I’m not too much mistaken, they’re about ready to get lunch. Will you do me the honor of joining me and my men for lunch Colonel?”

*******

The men calmly made their way to the mess hall, found themselves bowls and cups, and lined up to get the food, using the time they spent in line to observe their surroundings and chat with their comrades, mostly about the new sights and sounds. One soldier remarked that this was the first mess hall he had entered where he didn’t have to salute the portrait of the King (it was normal in Cottish military facilities to have a portrait of the King at the entrance to the mess halls, whereupon the soldiers saluted the portrait as a reminder of who they were serving whenever they passed the portrait).

After receiving the food and drink, often giving the cooks a polite nod or “Thank you“ in Cottish – the Cottish soldiers were raised from young to be polite, something which in training exercises had led to some bizarre incidents, such as a section gunning down an OPFOR unit without remorse only to say “Sorry about that” when searching the ‘bodies’ for intelligence – the men found themselves seats and started eating. The food was very good, and many of the men, big strong fellows as they were, returned to the food line for seconds.

After eating, the men all gathered up their bowls, cups and utensils and placed them where they were supposed to be placed before leaving the mess hall, returning to the billets one by one or in small groups, still chatting. Morale was definitely high.

An hour’s time after the lunch had been concluded, the sergeants made their way into every billet and ordered the men to suit up and to gather their weapons and tactical gear for a little excursion. It was now that the Cottish soldiers truly started looking like the crack troops that they were as they started showing up in the parade ground a few minutes later, dressed in their camouflage uniforms with olive-colored bullet-proof Mk.75 Tactical Vest and webbing with ammunition and other combat gear readily available, and with the Mk.56 helmets on their heads over the rolled-up black balaclavas the men wore.

The men had for the most part DR-83M assault rifles with 4x ACOG or red-dot scopes attached, some with add-on LGFM 40mm underbarrel grenade launchers fixed on their weapons, and some with completely different weapons such as the DMG-83 light machine gun or a heavy Spiculum recoilless rifle. What stood out with the Cottish soldiers as they formed up in the formation they had been in before though was the frightening-looking battleaxe hanging from their webbing, something Lt Colonel Ketilsson and Major Sigurðarson were sure to take note of.

Lieutenant Colonel Erikssønn waited for all the men to get into the formation before he nodded to Sergeant Major Olavssønn, who called out “ATTEN-HUT!” in a deep, loud and gruff Cottish bark, whereupon the Cottish soldiers snapped to attention like earlier, except for one thing. They held their weapons in their right hand, pointed down and to the left but most definitely at the ready. It was what the Cottish called a “combat attention”.

“Lieutenant Colonel, Company 1 and Third Battalion HQ Element has been placed into formation, all hands present and accounted for, ready for your orders sir!” Sergeant Major Olavssønn reported in the same deep gruff voice after having preformed an about-face and saluting Erikssønn, who had returned the salute.

“Thank you Sergeant Major.” Erikssønn said before switching to English, so that the hosts could understand as well. “Good afternoon soldiers. I hope you enjoyed the food, because it’s time to work those calories off. I’d like to introduce to you Lieutenant Colonel Ketilsson of the Russkyan Army’s First Battalion, Fourth Mountain Infantry Brigade. Lieutenant Colonel Ketilsson will be commanding the Russkyan unit that is going to train with us, and he’ll be filling you in on what is to happen now. Colonel?”

Erikssønn stepped aside to let the Russkyan Lieutenant Colonel address the troops.

Ketilsson, as with all officers and NCOs, could make himself heard. The difference was in how he made himself heard, breathing deep and simply speaking loudly in a conversational tone. Those in the rearmost ranks could easily hear him without there being any need to shout - "speaking from the gut" was referred to as "projecting," in officer's literature.

"Today, until sunset, the elements of Three Battalion present will conduct a small arms shoot on Range F, moving to and from the range via route march. Your Colonel and myself will show you the route. There are two components to the range, a conventional rifle range with ten lanes per section, sections ranging from twenty-five to five hundred meters. The second component is a tactical shoot, with room for a section at a time. One section is a hundred meters long, targets along the front and sides of the range, set to activate via motion sensor at ground level, targets will pop up and around obstacles.

"The second section is two hundred and fifty meters long, resetting targets to the front, generally used to practice live fire advance to contact. Again, room for a section at a time. Carry a full battle load of ammunition, weapon cleaning kit, and a full canteen. Unit leaders, there will be no surprises on the move phase of this exercise, as we are carrying live ammunition. All personnel: There will be time to trade off on some of the Russkyan weapons at the range and get some trigger time on those, if you're interested. No antitank targets at Range F, so if your leaders feel like lightening your load, stow those munitions in the armoury here before we depart.

"You have fifteen minutes for admin, muster here at fourteen thirty hours in march order. Are there any questions?"

Erikssønn listened to the briefing the Russkyan Colonel gave, and answered for his unit.

“No Colonel, no questions at present.” He said before turning to his men. “You heard the Colonel. Leave the Coronas, Spiculums and mortars here at the base. AT and mortar personnel, bring along your rifles instead. Platoon commanders, ensure that your men are equipped as directed. Dismissed!”

The men snapped to attention again, and immediately the sergeants started barking. The anti-tank section, recoilless rifle sections and mortar sections separated from the group and went to stash their weapons while the Battalion Logistics Officer (S4), a Captain tagged six privates to follow him into the armory. A few minutes later, the privates returned, carrying heavy plastic crates out into the parade ground under the careful supervision of the S4.

While the privates returned to the armory to fetch more crates, the S4 opened the crates, which revealed pre-loaded magazines for the DR-83M rifles, and began distributing the ammo. Each crate was filled with a hundred pre-loaded magazines, and each soldier was issued twelve magazines, making for a total of 360 6.7x53mm rounds per man. The exception was the automatic riflemen, who were issued six two hundred-round 6.7x53mm ammo boxes for their DMG-83s, the GPMG teams, who were issued ten two-hundred 7.62x51mm round belts per team, and the men armed with TDX .40 pistols, who were issued four sixteen-round clips of 10x23mm DDI ammo. In addition, hand grenades were distributed to the men. All in all, the Cottish soldiers were very well armed. It was here that the requirement for the Mountain Infantry soldiers to be above 180 centimeters tall and be able to bench-press at least one and a half times their own bodyweight came into play.

It took ten minutes, but eventually, all Cottish soldiers had been issued live ammunition and were ready to move out. They were just waiting for the orders to move out and for Ketilsson to lead the way.

While Major Sigurðarson watched the efficient "bombing up" of the Cottish Mountain Infanteers, Lt.Col Ketilsson was relieving his signalman of the medium range radio and plugging his single earphone headset into the appropriate socket. He tested the set, sending a brief situation report back to the headquarters building and recieving their acknowledgement, before slinging the set over his shoulders and adjusting the straps, bouncing on the balls of his feet to settle the rugged radio's weight more comfortably.

Sigurðarson was to return to base to handle the bits of day to day administration that wasn't yet complete and arrange the training activities for tomorrow. The signalman, his commander carrying his radio, retrieved two AKS-74M assault rifles from the rear of the PAF-02 and associated combat webbing. This lighter chest rig wasn't intended as a "stand alone" piece of equipment and had four cells, each carrying two magazines, for a total of eight thirty-round 5.45x39mm magazines of ammunition. It also featured three grenade pouches on each side and small snap-closing fasteners along the underside that allowed it to clip onto the standard webbing belt. Ketilsson and his signalman - Magnus Karlovich Linderer-Kamov - fit grenades into the six available pouches for them and adjusted the fit of the equipment. As Ketilsson hadn't realized the chest-rigs were in the back of the "wazik," he had to lay the radio on the ground before donning his battlegear.

Conventionally, the Russkyan Mountain Infantry would wear something closer to a CIRAS vest for ballistic protection, over which went an assault vest featuring three utility pouches at the rear, six double magazine pouches, four grenade pouches total, and attachment points for a individual Personal Role Radio radio pouch, bayonet frog and scabbard, fighting knife, VOG-25 grenade pouches, canteens, and other such equipment as the soldier found fit. A well publicized photograph, referred to as the "One Man Fireteam," showed a Guardsman on the Southern Border wearing this kit plus the chest rig (referred to as "Eger") that Ketilsson and Linderer-Kamov wore, in addition to his AK-74M fitted with PSOP optic and GP-30 underbarrel grenade launcher. The AKS-74M that the Mountain Infantry, amongst other units, carried was identical to the Russkyan-manufactured AK-74M in all regards except it was fitted with the AKS-74's folding stock. There was no particular reason for this, as the AK-74M featured a folding full stock, but it was found during trials that for some reason Russkyan soldiers preferred a folding, skeletonized stock to a folding full stock.

Perhaps one reason was that it gave easy storage for an additional Individual Aid Kit, or IAK, as Ketilsson's weapon demonstrated with the small waterproofed canvas pouch taped in place between the arms of his rifle's stock.
As to his signalman's strange name, this was a side effect of the Russko-German, Norse, and Slavic heritage of the man. His given name reflected his mother's wishes, while as they'd lived in a primarily Slavic area he'd acquired the moniker "Karlovich," his father's name being Karl. Linderer-Kamov was a convention from a few decades ago, as the man hailed from a Germanic family instead of a Norse family. The Norse families in Russkya had fiercely protected their cultural heritage as much as possible, while the Russko-Celts and Russko-Germans had been slightly more willing to assimilate. Despite the conflict that this might suggest, all ethnicities had, in the off-the-record words of one Oxford professor: "Gotten along smashingly well throughout recorded history."

The process of re-equipping complete, Ketilsson turned to his Cottish counterpart and grinned, rifle hanging by his side in his left hand.

"Well, Colonel, however you say "Follow us" in Cottish, now's the time. It's not far to the range, and we'll be walking on a road cleared of snow."

Lieutenant Colonel Erikssønn nodded in agreement as he turned to the men and said simply, “Move out.”

The two hundred plus men followed the two Colonels as they led the way to the firing range, marching in a loose formation. The Cottish soldiers, being mountain infantry were very used to long marches, and there were no complains or bickering about the march. As it was a route march and one which they had been promised there would be no surprises in, the Cottish allowed their men to chat quietly with each other as they marched.

Before long, the men arrived at the firing range. It looked like any other firing range to the Cottish soldiers, who were formed up into platoon formations, standing easy while waiting for further orders. Since the Cottish were guests, the honors of deciding who went where first would be given to the Russkyans.

"Well Colonel, I don't know what your advance to contact drills look like - bounding overwatch, in other words - but I'm sure your boys can do it safely. I'd recommend taking a platoon, having them cycle one squad at a time through the two-hundred-fifty meter "advance to contact" range, do the same with another platoon on this hundred meter "Hogan's Alley," and that should free up enough room on the stationary target, known distance range. Goes out to about half a klick, safe for all weapons, even AMRs, if you had 'em here."

The Russkyan officer unslung his Kalashnikov and indicated the "Hogan's Alley" with the motion-sensor tripped targets. A wooden door whose latch had been shot off long ago creaked in a light breeze, unseen grenade fragments peppering the interior walls.

"If you'd like, we can get some trigger time in there with your command group and then watch your boys show us up later. Have one man per platoon act as RSO, range safety officer, and that'll meet all requirements."

”Excellent,” Lieutenant Colonel Erikssønn said before nodding to his officers, who had heard the short briefing Lieutenant Colonel Ketilsson had given. The officers in turn saluted crisply before the orders were relayed to the platoon commanders, who relayed them to their section leaders, who relayed them to their sections. The men started dispersing along the firing range, preparing their weapons while the designated RSOs, mostly section and platoon commanders, checked the ranges first to get their bearings.

Rifle Platoon 2, Company 1 was the first platoon to open fire. Standing on the ready line at the static range, the thirty-two men from the four rifle sections stood ready to kill the “enemy”. Their weapons were at the ready, protective goggles and earplugs were on, and the men were only waiting for the order from the RSO, a gruff First Sergeant.

“On the order ild,” He barked out loud enough for the men to hear him, “You will fire a total of three thirty-round magazine down range from your current positions. One magazine will be fired from the standing position, one from the kneeling position, and one from the prone position. The targets are static at various distances up to two hundred and fifty meters. We will be keeping score, and the soldier with the best hit ratio will win a price! After having emptied each magazine, you will cease fire until ordered to reload and assume another position. Do you understand the orders?”

“Yes sergeant!” The thirty-two men shouted out loudly, readying their rifles – the men were all armed with either DR-83M or DR-83ML rifles, as the DMG-83s were being used in another part of the range, as per Cottish firing range practice.

Behind the men at the firing line, the eight men from the platoon who weren’t participating in this particular shooting match observed along with Erikssønn, Ketilsson and some other men from the Battalion HQ.

“Make ready…! Aim…! Ild!”¹

The relative silence was shattered when thirty-two rifles started unleashing dangerous 6.7x53mm Imperial 135-grain blended metal projectiles down range against the targets as the men all started opening fire, most of them with their weapons set to the single-shot firing mode.

The Cottish nation wasn’t one which was excessively armed like most nation-states in the world. In fact, civilian ownership of firearms was very restricted and almost unheard of outside of the hunting communities. This was a long-standing policy in the Realm, dating back from the eleventh century when it had been ordered that no man but the King’s Men should have the privilege to bear arms, a policy which had been carried over into modern times. That meant that firearms were generally only to be found in the hands of the National Police Force, the Armed Forces and the Internal Troops. This in turn meant that Cottish conscripts weren’t well accustomed with firearms, something which was changed through intensive lessons throughout the thirteen-week Military Basic Training Course, starting in week four and lasting all the way through week thirteen, and even after that in the various units the conscripts were assigned to. The result was that the men were trained to be take the time to aim, not to waste ammunition, and to make every shot count, and most importantly of all, never to rely on the 'spray-and-pray' method so commonly used in the movies.

This was especially true for the mountain infantry, who had to haul every single round of ammunition themselves. In the interest of not running out of ammo, the mountain infantrymen were trained intensively in marksmanship, training which was now speaking for itself as the platoon played with their firearms in the firing range.

After the first magazine had been fired and the RSO had called out “Ild opphører!”², the observers could see that most of the Cottish infantrymen had hit the target itself with at least twenty-five of the thirty round magazine, and of that at least fifteen rounds had hit the kill-zones.

Lieutenant Colonel Erikssønn turned to his Russkyan counterpart with a grin.

“So what do you think of my boys so far Colonel?”

__________________
¹: “Fire!”
²: “Cease fire!”

OOC: Sorry for not having posted sooner. University started back up and I've been a little busy lately (started learning Arabic plus I lost my cellphone somewhere and had to get a new one). I'll try to get posting more regularly from now on.

"Well Colonel," Ketilsson began, "I think they shoot about as well as my lads. This target here, third in from the left, he's not happy."

The Russkyan commander was now indicating a target that had a fist-sized hole shot through its center of mass by one of the Cottish Infanteers. "Linderer-Kamov!"
"Sir!"
"Show the Colonel how we play. Go through the alley here and kill everything. Three magazines."
"Yes, sir!"

Ketilsson's signalman worked in earplugs and flicked the safety off his Kalashnikov. When the range was activated, a motion sensor picked up the section standing on the start line, waited a random number of seconds before initiating the target string. In this case, eight seconds later, the first target popped up in a windowframe and was promptly put back down with two 5.45mm holes in its upper torso, just below the neck.

Linderer-Kamov stepped forward off the start line now, muzzle up and tracking across his front as he turned his head. His right foot tripped another sensor, and another target engaged, popping up to his left within two meters. Spinning sharply, he pulled the trigger twice and put two holes through the target's center. It remained standing, and the Signaller stepped in and smashed it across the plywood head with the stock of his rifle. The target went down.

Advancing, three targets appeared simultaneously to his front and right. Muzzle swinging smoothly from left to right, the first two were put down with a double tap each and the third recieved four rounds. Moving towards a concrete partition, four more targets appeared and were subsequently engaged. They fell back, the last requiring the Signalman to expend the remainder of his magazine to put it down. He shot quickly and calmly, as trained at NORDLAND, spreading his rounds through the center of mass to cause more visceral damage. This coding of targets was intentional, simulating an enemy pumped up on adrenaline, possibly narcotics, and possibly wearing some form of ballistic protection.

Crouching behind the partition, Linderer-Kamov switched out his magazines, dumping the empty down the front of his shirt under the jacket he wore: the shirt was tucked in and would allow him to recover and reload the magazine later. Racking back the charging handle, he peered around - not over, around - the concrete partition and fired a spread of five rounds to neutralize two targets appearing sequentially in a doorway. He ducked back behind the partition and started when a blue light flooded the range, indicating that the shoot was complete. Standing, he safed his rifle and refastened the grenade pouch he'd been in the process of opening when the range had decided "enough was enough."

The randomized sequence could be set to follow various parameters, the general idea being to vary the range's behaviour so as to hone the instinctive shooting ability of every soldier. As with all other Infantry units, but especially Light Infantry formations such as the Airborne, VDV, Naval Infantry, and Mountain Infantry - who formed the "elite" Infantry formations of the Russkyan Army - accuracy was a critical factor. It was not sufficient to hit the target. The target had to be hit in the torso, neck, or head.

Ketilsson turned back to Erikssønn. "That's the kind of shooting your boys have the edge on, with that big fuck off Doomani bullet. If they can do things like Linderer-Kamov just did, combined with their ability to kill the enemy at range as they just showed, you've got some skilled shooters under your command."

Erikssønn peaked an eyebrow, a distinguishing feature with the Cottish lieutenant colonel, when he saw how the Russkyan killed the pop-up targets with great skill and dedication. The Russkyans were absolutely as well trained as the intelligence briefing before departure had indicated.

“I must admit Colonel,” Erikssønn said with a smile, “My boys aren’t that well trained in urban-style combat like this alley provides, save for the mandatory training in Basic. The Fifty-Seventh Infantry Regiment ‘His Majesty the King’s Guards’ are the experts in urban combat in the Cottish Army. Not the Four Eighty-First Mountain. However, we are always keen to learn new skills!” Erikssønn declared with a sense of pride in his voice.


“As for the big bullet we use, then yes, we prefer a larger calibre to take down our enemies. A mere fifteen years ago, the Armed Forces decided that the 5.56 millimeter round we used was insufficient in the modern battlefield to take down an enemy, so it was decided that a change in calibre was required. That’s why we adopted the Doomani bullet. It’s heavier, bigger, and has far more killing power than the old 5.56. If we have to kill someone, we prefer to kill with the first round, as the target you pointed out earlier shows. After all, we’re not barbarians who just wounds the enemy and leaves him in the field to die. No Colonel, when the Cottish Army decides to go to war, we do it properly.” Erikssønn said in a serious tone, his icy-blue eyes going cold. It was clear that he spoke from experience – Erikssønn had been a platoon and company commander during the border skirmishes with the nomads that inhabited the area west of Cotland proper, and he had both seen his share of and dealt out plenty of death over the past fifteen years.

Easing his voice a little, he pointed to the AKS-74M Ketilsson carried.

“I see that you use the old 5.45 millimeter round. If you don’t mind me asking Colonel, isn’t that round rather ineffective now a days, especially against body armor that our enemies often wear?”

The Podpolkovnik nodded knowingly. "The concern for us is that we'll come across mountain villages, or towns in the foothills, and they're inside our area of operations - therefore we must be able to fight effectively inside them. The reflex shooting is also good for morale. Pop-up targets like these on an assault range that goes out to a kilometer is more realistic for our Mountaineers. That range is a few kilometers from here though. Perhaps when there's time we'll cycle platoons through it to get some experience in that kind of shooting."

While Erikssønn detailed the Cottish approach to war, oddly similar to the efficiently minded Russkyan approach, Ketilsson was anticipating his next question and was unloading his rifle, easing two rounds from the magazine. He held them up in his left hand, casings concealed in his palm, bullets visible over the top edge of his index finger.

"I agree. Sometimes, Five-forty-five just doesn't cut it. We compensate by issuing different ammunition types, and stagger-loading our magazines. This is a semi-jacketed exposed steel core armour piercing bullet, and this is a steel-core jacketed soft nose. We also have jacketed soft nose, jacketed hollowpoint, full metal jacket, steel core FMJ, so on so forth. The round does a lot of visceral damage, has a very flat trajectory out to five hundred meters, but not a lot of stopping power. It will kill you, it just may not put you on your ass."

Reloading his magazine and slotting it back into his rifle, he reshouldered the weapon.

"We also have the older, 7.62x39mm AKM rifles, some of the AK-100 series as well, firing the heavier ammunition. And our small arms industry is well developed and always trying to create a new intermediate cartridge and, or, assault rifle. Almost all of the 5.45 millimeter ammunition we have that isn't armour piercing will yaw violently once it penetrates, then fragment. The result is a J-shaped wound channel that is absolutely massive and looks like someone ran the target's insides through a blender."

This last sentence caused the Russkyan Colonel's eyes to seemingly glance off into the distance as Erikssønn's had earlier. Ketilsson was a veteran of battles on the Northern Border against Sorachoakai raiders attempting to infiltrate through the mountain range. He grinned.

"For a few years we tried a 9.3 millimeter round. It worked brilliantly, but the velocities stayed too low for general service. Simply superb for close in fighting though, none better. It was a lot like the nine by thirty-nine ammunition the Russians have in things like their VSS rifles or some versions of that Groza bullpup, just not subsonic."

Erikssønn studied the different 5.45mm rounds with a skilled eye, silently pondering the effects they would have on his men. The Cottish infantry were equipped with personal body armor that had guaranteed Level III, limited Level IV ballistic protection, which could stop several rounds of that caliber. The best way to take down a Cottish soldier wearing that kind of protection would be to go for a headshot (to kill him) or his limbs (to wound him), which seemed to be the general idea behind the Russkyan training. It was something Erikssønn had to take into consideration during the upcoming exercise.

Erikssønn unloaded a single round from the magazine on his DR-83M while replying, holding the significantly larger blended-metal 6.7x53mm Imperial round up to compare with the 5.45x39mm rounds Ketilsson was holding. There was a significant difference in size there.

"Having that many different rounds must be a strain on your logistics train Colonel. We prefer to standardize as much as possible in order to keep the complexities with the logistics train as small as possible. That's why we prefer the bigger bullet for our rifles. Easier to penetrate body-armor and kill the enemy with the first round."

"Not particularly, no. Crates of them don't differ in weight hugely, and the standard cartridge is a Doomani-inspired Armour Piercing Fragmenting Jacket, best of both the armour penetrating and visceral damage worlds. I have more than one ammunition type because we got a few crates of specialist rounds earlier. Personally, I wish they'd never retired the SVT-53. It was ideal for Mountain Infantry use."

Ketilsson was referring to a modernization of the SVT-40 battle rifle, firing the powerful 7.62x54R ammunition. The weapon featured a twenty round magazine and for all intents and purposes was the Russkyan Army's short lived answer to the FN FAL.

"We got rid of it to appease the Soviets, though. The M43 cartridge they introduced was a good one, especially coupled with SKS, our take on the SKS, and the AK and AKM. This little 5.45 doesn't have quite the hitting power. But it kills effectively. The SJ-ESC armour piercing round will go through level three plate at two-fifty meters. The downside is that once it does that, it doesn't do much inside you. And if you're not wearing armour, well, that's why we don't issue it as standard. Just right on through.

"As to our logistics though, we managed to have four major calibres of ammunition for the Border War with the Me'i down south and had no supply issues whatsoever. I'm not too worried about it. As I said earlier though, I'd like a larger round. They're usually pretty good about listening to what we want and need - a modernized SVT-53 would be stunning."

Erikssønn chuckled as he listened to Ketilsson's dream weapon.

"The SVT was a pretty nice weapon," He said before explaining. "We encountered quite a few of them in the hands of the nomad raiders we skirmished with on the western border back when I was a platoon leader. They had the courage of lions, and the accuracy of drunkards. But the SVT was a nice weapon."

Ketilsson laughed as the Cottish soldiers blew more holes in the targets on the fixed distance range.

"It's a good thing they couldn't shoot well. The SVT wouldn't have let them down. For us, my enemy was brave so long as they thought they outnumbered you. We're good at staying concealed, they almost always thought they had superior numbers. You can do a lot to an overconfident enemy, even on the offensive. Back when I was a company commander on the Border, before the invasion that settled them down a bit."

"True," Erikssønn chuckled as his men - another platoon this time, as the men rotated the stations - continued to destroy plywood targets. "But there's nothing more effective in removing that overconfidence than a rain of mortar shells while our em gee's cut them down." Erikssønn said, explaining a well-liked Cottish ambush tactic. Several mortars concentrated on a certain area the enemy had to pass through - a road, a path, a valley - coupled with at least two MGs deployed so they created an effective killzone along with infantry on the flanks to add to the killing fire and to prevent the MGs getting flanked.

"That, or a pair of marksmen picking them off one by one. That one works well too." Erikssønn smirked.

"I once saw a pair of our snipers operating. They killed twenty seven raiders from eight hundred meters. They were crawling around, trying to find cover, and they didn't have a chance. I still don't know where those two were shooting from - for all I know there was more than two. Invisible."
He shook his head, remembering the one Sorachoakai he'd seen running through his binoculars, swinging his leg up onto a horse as he took a bullet between the shoulderblades and slumped over the far side of the frightened animal.

"This one time, we had to cover about two kilometers. So we spread the company out and had the machineguns set up on the three major trails with their sustained fire kit, firing at the trails from over a kilometer and a half away. Coordinated it with some mortar fire, like you describe. That kind of indirect on exposed troops in the open," Ketilsson grinned, "is rather efficient."

With the shoot complete, both nationalities having expended copious amounts of ammunition in displays of marksmanship ranging from reflex shooting at close range to cutting targets in half at range with rapid repetition fire, the Mountaineers left Range F and returned in good order to the base. Settling down for the night, they were undisturbed by the arctic wind that howled between the barracks buildings and drifted some snow from one bank to another.

The remainder of the Cottish battalion arrived slightly ahead of schedule, being recieved in a manner nearly identical to the leading echelon, with the exception that their commander was there to greet them as well. The transport battalion lifted the entire formation in one go, complete with heavy weapons, and in short order they were ensconced in the facility and a defensive fireplan, sentry cycle, and training rotation roster was put into place.

It was 14.35 hours when Ketilsson invited his counterpart into his office. Laying across the desk was an SVT-53 rifle, unloaded magazine sitting upright beside the buttplate. He offered Erikssønn coffee, tea, and "kye," the potent hot chocolate brew that always tasted faintly of amaretto liquor, taking the opportunity to rest his ceramic mug on the desktop.
Under the Brigade's crest, it read: FIRST BATTALION, FOURTH BRIGADE. SORACHOAK 2005-2006, FLRJ 2006-2007.

Lieutenant Colonel Erikssønn arrived shortly after having received the invitation from Lieutenant Colonel Ketilsson, and accepted the offer of coffee – the brew was something most Cots couldn’t live without, much the same way tea was something many Britons favored. As he waited for the Russkyan soldier serving the drinks to arrive with the coffee, Erikssønn sat back in the chair offered and looked at Ketilsson.

“I see you remember our conversation on the firing range yesterday Colonel,” Erikssønn said with a smile, hinting to the SVT-53 sitting on the desk.

The SVT was a good weapon, and one which the Realm had considered procuring back in the day before the Armaments Board had decided on the old M1 Garand rifle back in 1939. The Garand had served with distinction before it was replaced as the standard issue rifle by the G3 battle rifle in 1964, which in turn had been replaced by the FAMAS in 1983, which didn't quite cut it for the Cots. This had led to the FAMAS being prematurely replaced by the current DR-83 in the early 1990s. The DR-83 had fixed the shortcomings of the FAMAS and was expected to continue to serve as the standard issue weapon for the Royal Cottish Military well into the 21st Century.

It was only a short delay before Ketilsson's adjutant brought in the beverages. The tray was from the Regimental Silver, burnished to a high sheen as part of the "Weekly Administration" routine of the headquarters unit. On its cloth-covered center sat an insulated coffeepot, a large ceramic mug, and an insulated teapot with a black band around its spout. The adjutant poured, tilting his head politely to both his Colonel and the visiting Cottish officer, leaving the tray on Ketilsson's desk with its small pots of sugar and cream.

Picking the rifle up just forward of its magazine well and handing it towards the Cottish officer, Ketilsson nodded in response to Erikssønn.

"This one is mine. There are hundreds of crates of these rifles, twelve per crate, in the Corps armoury. I would love to have them re-issued and use those, but unless something changes it won't happen. Your DR-83s are very impressive weapons."

With the bolt group locked back, it was evident that the SVT-53 retained the bolt hold-open of the SVT-40. It was however designed to use a slightly curved twenty round magazine, had a gas cut off valve to enable the use of rifle grenades, and the stock was generally seen equipped with a rubber recoil pad. The rifle's small serrated knob safety was relocated inside the trigger guard and served as a selector switch. Furthest back towards the trigger was the safe position, set in the middle was semiautomatic, and furthest forward was full automatic.

Taking a few minutes to discuss the pros and cons of various rifles they'd used throughout their careers, the two commanders drained their mugs and Ketilsson replenished them. They settled into the business at hand.

"There are three major sub-operations put on as part of Exercise Mountain Eagle 08. The first is the defense of critical terrain from a mechanized aggressor, the second is assaulting a prepared defensive position. This third sub-exercise would involve the reconnaissance forces of both units and is a demolitions raid, target being a bridge. They'll recieve some instruction from 1CDO on the correct use of explosives. There may be other exercises laid on afterwards.

"At the moment I'm told preparations are being made for a joint combat patrol, platoon strength. I'm sure our company commanders are capable of sorting that out without our interference. How has your battalion been settling in?"

Erikssønn took a sip of the coffee before he answered Ketilssons question.

“They are adapting to the new situation well, as I’ve come to expect from them over my time as battalion commander. However, I don’t plan for them to get cozy in the warm billets. I want to get them into the field as quickly as possible so they don’t get bored. Three weeks without a refreshing night or ten spent out in the wild is almost enough for them to grow soft, wouldn’t you say?”

Lt.Col. Erikssønn took another sip of the coffee.

“Excellent coffee you’ve got here Colonel. My complements to the brewer.”

"Well, it is your battalion. Your headquarters should have the appropriate maps by now, you can take them out into the mountains if you feel things are getting too soft. We generally launch forty-eight hour duration patrols throughout the week, cycling between platoons, in order to keep physical toughness up to the standards the mountains demand."

Lifting the lid from the coffeepot and taking a sniff, Ketilsson nodded.

"O'Hallahan's Light Infanteer blend. O'Hallahan was a Master Warrant Officer with the Russko-Celtic Corps, in the Highland Regiment. Reportedly got shot seven times defending what used to be a coffeeshop during the Sorachoak campaign. Seems to be a favourite with everyone, he's doing quite well for himself now, retired at the beginning of this year."

--

Lieutenant Franck, formerly of the Russko-German Corps, made his way to the barracks housing the Cottish platoon scheduled to take part in the joint combat patrol exercise over the next 72 hours.