NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC Thread (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=549271)

DAY ONE



“Vincent just didn't see it coming. The blast occurred at 1:03 on a slightly rainy Sunday afternoon. The cobblestone was well-worn from a morning's walk to church, and greeted the worshipers wearily as they left the cathedral. The crowd walked as one down the sloping Main Street, an assortment of gossiping mothers, playing children, and the ever-grumbling fathers who kept to themselves under their bowler hats. The distant hills hid behind a fog like shy newcomers, peeking down at the classical town that spilled into their lap. As the young adults gravitated towards the coffee shops, the children to the candy shops, and the mothers towards the knitting shops, it was a pleasant mix of voices and small-town sounds. And then amongst the many voices there was one very, very strong. C4 is naturally always louder than the rest.

The explosion tore like a delirious beast a gaping hole in what used to be a quite recognizable spot. The town college had disappeared, and in its place was a bloody mess of stone and wood, injured onlookers gasping for breath in between howls and screams. Vincent, who had only minutes before exited the building for lunch (he was too 'sophisticated' for Church), stood, books clutched against his chest, in complete shell-shock. Partial corpses were thrown about, like unassembled toys, unrecognizable in their damage. Screeching through the narrow streets came the unprepared doctor and his entourage of nurses, the worst cases being rushed to him by the only rescue authority - the townspeople.

Vincent found himself lifting stone that had hours before surrounded him as walls, and tossing it to the side. No questions came to him. There was no why - no how, or when - no who. Not yet. -Third-Person diary entry of Vincent Drasby. September 13th. In the foothills of the Western Mountain Range, town of Hewston. ”



“William de Troy ran as fast as he could through the tall grass, his sweating right palm clutching with dear life to an elegant Beretta revolver. The crack of rifles rang out behind him, sending their bullets at his back. He felt their heat over his shoulders and their wind in between his arms, but he wasn't going to surrender. He wasn't going to die. The crack down had been slightly more sophisticated than the town had anticipated, and the sight of tanks rolling down their tree-lined avenue struck down the high morale of the people.

Of course, aiding the Black Flag wasn't exactly legal. Somehow, the meager army of Cavanah, lacking both leadership and equipment, had fingered the location of the Brigade chapter that poor William belonged to. Run by a bunch of idealistic school boys with slightly twisted minds, the operation in the basement of 28 Jericho Lane had been discovered. But it wasn't before their little movement had infiltrated the town's council, watch, and budget. The weapon that William now kept his life with was paid for by his neighbor's taxes.

But that didn't matter now. The army jeeps mattered. The approaching fence at the field's border with the forest mattered. The soldiers mattered. And then William had a reason to be happy. Emerging from the woods' cedars came his loyal comrades, clutching their .22s and their home-made hand grenades. They fired past him, 13 strong, into the field. The cries of the soldiers rose with the crows on the crabapple tree. Not bothering to stop, de Troy cleared the rotting wooden fence and skidded to a halt with his men, wheeling around a firing into the field, the blam of his revolver echoing throughout the field.
On the outskirt fields of a prairie town called Gregory. Approximately 3:03 PM. ”

Aston, 1125

The squadron leader of Oscar Flight watched as the sillohettes of ships appeared on he horizon, and radioed back to the Majesty, "This Oscar Six-Fower, coming up on Objective Whiskey, over."

"Copy that, Oscar Flight. You have the green light to engage, out."

"Roger that, Delta Niner-Niner. Oscar Flight, prepare to engage." The pilot armed his Maverick Air-to-Ground Missiles. "Oscar Six-Fower, Fox Two." The missile screeched from beneath the wing, striking an NRA-controlled cruiser in the midship. A fireball erupted from the deck and the ship shuddered.

"Oscar Eight-Tree, Fox Two!"

"Oscar Fife-Niner, Fox Two!"

"Oscar Wun-Seven, Fox Three!"

The pilots called in their missiles launches and approximately a dozen ships went up in flame, with seven of them sinking.

"Oscar Six-Fower, Fox Three!" The squadron leader's last missile jet from the FA-12 Poltergeist and into the side of the crippled cruiser. The ship exploded with such magnitude it only could have come from the ammunition stores. It split in half and sank to the bottom. "That's some wake-up call. Delta Niner-Niner, this is Oscar Six-Fower. Oscar is at Bingo Kindle (Ammo) and is RTB, over."

"Roger that, Oscar. Mike Flight is en route to Objective Cocktail. Delta out."

Aston, 1130

"Shoreline comin' into view. Get ready," said a pilot over the radio. Gunnery Sergeant Welsh of Chalk Four checked his rifle over. "Five minutes!" The Crew Chief shouted, holding up five fingers. "MacDonald, Morales, get your teams ready!" Welsh shouted. Clicks resounded throughout the chopper as the men cocked their rifles. "Remember, target is the naval yard initially, then we spread out and neutralize any AA defenses around the city, so we can secure an LZ for the choppers! Clear?!"

"Clear!"

"We've got ships with AAA up ahead! Everyone, brace!" The pilot yelled. Flak and SAMs immediately shot up from many of the ships. "Goldstein, I want air and naval support, NOW!"

"Roger that! Hotel Tree-Niner, this is Tango Four-Eight! We need immediate naval support at grid reference Mike Oscar Six, over!"

"Roger that, Tango Four-Eight. Cover your ears." In seconds, enormous 16-inch shells screamed overhead and a destroyer burst into flame. "Yeah!" some Marines yelled, slapping each other on the back.

"We've got Stingers and RPGs on the shore! Evasive action!" the pilot shouted into the radio. Two choppers were hit and spiraled out of control, crashing into several harborfront warehouses. "Miniguns, covering fire!" The crew chiefs manned the miniguns and saturated the immediate area with thousands of bullets. "Ropes, ropes, ropes!" Welsh ordered. PFC Hartman dropped his nylon rappel rope and slid down, followed by Welsh. Upon hitting the ground, Welsh immediate dashed for cover behind a concrete barrier. He looked up to the sky and saw another chopper take a hit to the tail rotor, spinning and then crashing not a hundred meters from Welsh's position. "Tango Four-Eight, this is Tango Four-Eight Actual. We are proceeding to the north towards a Blackhawk crash site. Hoof it Marines!"

OOC: Am I the only one participating?

OOC: Am I the only one participating?

OOC: You're the only one who found it, because apparently vauge hints work as well as hyperlinks nowadays...

Vachiu Pentsin looked out over the vale before him, where, sprawled out over the green floors of the mountain retreat, the Pudite Frumentarii mingled with the local rebel forces of the New Sovereign Militia. For the last few hours, Pentsin watched as thin lines of his own troops trickled out of the surrounding hills, bloodied by the journey, some with more casualties with others…

However, the force was still a viable unit, with a combined fighting strength of about eighty-nine hundred men. The killed men had been left behind, as well as those too wounded to move, although the latter was put to death before being abandoned, to maintain a level of secrecy not possible if one should be apprehended.

Standing beside Pentsin, as usual, was his second-in-command, Mikolai Varikhii. Beyond him, the leaders of the battered battalions were congregating around a large table, bearing the same maps and diagrams as the kings table at the small seaside camp.

Pentsin turned to his aide, “Varikhii, how many have come?”

“Sir, all battalions’ commanders are reporting, although not all elements are present at this time.”

“How long, do you suppose, before we are at full strength?”

“We can safely give it another night, but anything beyond that, and we should move on, to avoid being detected here.”

“Indeed, the King’s men know these hills well enough, tomorrow, we will move deeper into the mountains. Before we move however, there is something I’d like to do,”

“What’s that, sir?”

"Varikhii, what you see here is a force of excellent light infantry, and a much larger force of perfectly drilled soldiers. These are deadly men, our soldiers are well armed, and the others armed enough. This is a powerful force.”

“Yes, sir?” said Varikhii, questioningly,

“However, there is something we lack. We have air support from the coast, and we have supplies and ammunition, from the same source. Our morale is good, and our position is acceptable. What we lack - is striking power; power on the ground. Our infantry are fast, light, and mobile. They are well-equipped for this kind of open-land fighting. They are suited enough to this warfare, but when bogged down, as we will soon be, in Svolt, we cannot break their lines. Now, we can.”

“Sir? What secret have you?"

“Varikhii, tonight, eight helicopters will be touching down in this valley. They will be landing twice before the sun rises, and when it does, assembled will be sixteen of the most powerful examples of mechanized warfare in the modern age.”

“Tanks, sir?”

“Not just any tanks, Varikhii; sixteen Mekhev II main battle tanks; the pinnacle of armored technology today. These tanks will lead our assault on Svolt, where we can fly in more and better equipment.”

Pentsin turned back to look out over the valley, “First, though, we need that airport…”

(OOC: For now I'll just copy&paste and retcon that initial post, it'll take some time for them to be effectively deployed)

No official statements of support to the anarcho-syndicalists of the Black Flag Brigade were given by the Confederación, neither secret communications were given to the Black Flag Brigade. People died... but the ends justified the means in that nation and two hundreds were much less than all those who died from misery provoked by the corrupt government and State which only fate was to be smashed. However something seemed to stir up in Third Spanish States...

Hampshire Haven, Unknown location in the harbor district, 1:00 AM

"Recon mission in the way, shouldn't we worry on messing with other forces?"

"And letting the fascists take over this young commune which can be our ally in our cause? Anyway, not a conventional operation here pal"

"Not conventional? How exactly?"

"No flags, full use of stealth technology, no nationality identification, never surrender. Even if it fails nobody will ever know who hit them. Our brave Blackguards shall liberate Cavanah, and once safety is reached our future comrades shall receive our support against oppression. We have hid ourselves from the international battlefield for too much time"

"How much are we talking about?"

"First, to not go into there blindly we shall recon Cavanah with our spyplanes, but I suppose we shall, as anonymous benefactors, deploy ten companies and five Steel Striders at least, and if necessary, the first fleet and how many air units are needed to achieve air superiority. But it seems some people are sending overkill forces there already"

"How far will the recon take?"

"In 4 or 6 days we shall have an entire reconaissance of Cavanah."

"Good to know comrade, now are you afraid of how this might end?"

"Not bad for our Confederacy. Time will tell whether Cavanah shall have a terrible or glorious fate for its people."

"Yes, but what about larger powers?"

"China had billions of inhabitants while the United States had less than us in the ending of the 20th century. Did China invade the U.S. because they had more people?"

Several hundreds of kilometers behind an Oso Class Cruiser-Carrier which was loaded with as many recon unmanned aerial vehicles as it could carry, A small, flag-less fleet composed by four Zumwalt Class destroyers and eight Fridtjof Nansen Class frigates escorted a group of 12 Galicia Class amphibious docks and 4 LHD1 Juan Carlos I Carrier/Amphibious Assault Ships transporting several soldiers which only wore camouflaged, flag-less uniforms with no indications of rank, nationality or name. The vehicles also had the painting of nationality removed and the soldiers held control over their lives through cyanide pills every single one of those. There were about 1,860 soldiers among infantry, heavy infantry, fireteams and Blackguards BlackOps special forces. They would wait for the spyplanes to recon everything about that foreign, underdeveloped nation. Landscape, military bases, government buildings. Nothing would be ignored.

A group of 10 unmanned aerial vehicles (http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/6/6c/NEUROn-CG-concept-112005-dassault.jpg) was launched from International Waters to recon that foreign, unknown territory, while 10 others were being readied with a payload of bombs should the worse come, and the remaining space of the carrier was occupied by a small group of 2 F-35Bs, 4 F-22 Raptors and 6 CSAL-32 Buitres (http://z4.invisionfree.com/NSDraftroom/index.php?showtopic=1891&view=findpost&p=2813195)... the UAVs would be undetectable by known radars, and if a truly effective anti-stealth technology did exist against high-altitude reconaissance unmanned aerial vehicles, the chances that such nation had it were minimal.

Aston, 1140

Gunnery Sergeant Piper and Chalk One were in the unfortunate chopper. "SAM Incoming! BRACE!" shouted the pilot. The missile slammed into the tail rotor, eliminating the torque that prevented the helicopter from spinning into chaos. The chopper lingered for a few seconds as it spun wildly, but it suddenly stopped and crashed with a violent jolt.

Piper came back to his senses in a minute or two, hius vision blurred. Two of his men, Sergeant Cole and Corporal Simmons, were shooting at enemies outside his field of vision. Piper glanced to his left and saw the bodies of one of the crew chiefs and Private Petrov, both dead. Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed the front of his uniform and he was slapped over the face. He looked and saw a mouth moving, but no sound came out. He could hear his ears warping back to normal.

"-ap out of it, Sarge!" shouted Sergeant Greer, slapping him again.

"I'm fine, I'm fine! Just stop!"

"Sir, Petrov and Holfarth are dead, and Corporal Randleman is down!"

"SitRep!"

"We're gettin' swarmed by the Indigs, but we're holding. One of the chalks are on their way."

"Alright, hold the position until they arrive, then we move on our objective."

ooc: the city in question here is Aston
ic:
Some 20 kilometres from the Cavanahian coastline, the imperial fleet was preparing for the invasion. Marshal Hinka sat comfortably behind his mahogany desk in his flagship, smoking a cigar and enjoying a glass of wine. One of his aides knocked on the door and came in. "Marshal, the enemy have set up defensive positions here, here and here." he said and pointed the spots on the map. "Botulin. Lots of it. While you're at it, fire a few tomahawks into this city here." Hinka replied.

A few minutes later, dozens of missiles were launched from various ships. Most of them hitting their targets, the initial attack against the communists was a success

The next day after the botulin attacks, a force of 5,000 men landed ashore. More imperial troops would be sent forward to cleanse the war-torn country of the plague of communism.

Andrew watched the SAM hit the tail-rotor of the chopper flying ahead. What he assumed was a loud boom followed (all of the noise of war blended together along the conflicted port), before it spiraled into the streets. His Lt. Comrade began shouting, the hoarse and rough voice filled with eagerness. Squad Engels and Squad Marx were to enter the buildings surrounding the chopper. Squad Maroon and Squad Steed were to pincer the survivors, the former to the north of the crash while the latter was to the south.

Comrade Andrew Vaughn, as his last name was, rushed with his squad into the small apartment complex to the west of the burning wreckage, knocking down the shrapnel-damaged door and charging in. Vaughn was armed to the teeth, two revolvers resting heftily on his chest and Kalashnikov ammo (with a couple o' grenades) around his waist. In his hands was a AK-47, attached to it a grenade launcher. He ran up the narrow stairs with two other men, manning a window on the third and top floor. He then opened fire on the crash survivors, who were either coming to or taking cover.

(That was your downed copter, Durium)

http://i76.photobucket.com/albums/j15/fableboy/diploheader1.png














To: Country of Cavanah
RE: Peacekeepers

The United Socialist States of Soviet Aissur will be deploying the First Peacekeeper Division to the country of Cavanah to help the civilians and refugees. The Peacekeepers will not fire unless in self-defense. They will set up Medical Bases at key postitions around the country. We must insist the killing of Civilians must stop.

Aston, 1148

Piper stood up and immediately saw Corporal Simmons cut down, badly wounded in a hail of fire from the building behind him. "Aw, shit!" Piper ducked back down and crawled through the charred remains of the Blackhawk fuselage. Sergeant Greer took up a position next to the tail rotor and fired in controled semi-auto shots at the building, killing two tangos. "Sergeant, get your ass over here!" Greer yelled to Cole, who began dragging Simmons to the more covered position behind the fuselage. In the cockpit, one of pilots was dead, but the other fired on some advancing militants with an MP5K SMG, stored in the seats for emergencies. The remaining Marines had taken cover inside and around the wreckage.

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

Meanwhile, Sergeant Welsh and Chalk Four advanced down the street, most of the men clearing buildings along the road and the rest advancing by leapfrog up the middle. At last Welsh saw the rubble-strewn street and collapsed building next to the chopper. "Sergeant Perez, take Alpha Team and clear that building!" Welsh shouted, pointing to the building Chalk One was firing at. "Jameson, take Bravo and set up a position in the ruins over there! Charlie, one me! Let's take up positions in the intersection there! Hoo-rah!"

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

"Delta Niner-Niner this is Quebec Six. Request permission to engage, over." The thirty AH-94 Mohawk Heavy Attack Gunships flew across the last stretch of ocean into the bay. "Roger that Quebec Six. Six Actual authorizes engagement. Civilian casualties are not an issue, say again, NOT an issue. Over."

"Roger that, Delta Niner-Niner. Quebec Flight preparing to engage." The pilot looked out to his left and saw a squadron of FA-12 Poltergeists streak across the sky in front of them.

"Quebec Six, this Oscar Six-Fower. We'll clear the road for ya."

"Roger that Oscar. Let's do this! Hoo-rah!"

"I hear ya. Oscar Six-Fower, FOX TWO!"

"Oscar Tree-Seven, Fox Two!"

"Eight-Niner here, FOX THREE!"

Several more communist-controlled ships went up in fantastic fireballs. "Quebec Six, this is Oscar Six-Fower. You have a clear road into the target zone, out."

"Thanks a ton, Oscar. Out."

Vorob'inye, a frigate of the Krendian Red Army Naval Force, cut through the steely waves off the coast of Cavanah. As its crew went about their daily business of keeping the ship clean and in working order, the captain had to decide where to get fuel from, the ship was an older Krendian design, and as such lacked the nuclear engines outfitted to larger and newer ships. Although still a competent force in her own right, Vorob'inye had to stop for fuel, unlike her contemporary counterparts. And so, the captain and the rest of the officers were inspecting a map of the area, looking for a good place to refuel.

The area happened to lack a good site for a military ship to refuel, apart from a small port in the nation of Cavanah. It was deemed that this would be the best option, and a course was set for there. As the ship drew close to the port, they communications officer attempted to hail the coast guard and port authority, but received no reply, only static. The Captain found this surprising, and indeed worrying, and so he issued a command to put all men on combat stations and to slow down. Men rushed about to their stations as the engines powered down from their usual throb to a dull hum.

And so, Vorob'inye crept beyond the harbour wall into the tranquil waters of the port in Aston with men manning all the guns, and a platoon of marines at the ready. As they entered, they were astonished to find that the Cavanah flag that had appeared in their information regarding the nation was not flying, but instead flew a red flag emblazoned with a gold hammer and sickle. Confusion set in amongst the men, and the spoke to each other in hushed voices about what this could mean. The whole dockyard was quiet except for the noise of Vorob'inye.

As she came up to the quay-side, a few sailors jumped across onto the dock itself and, under the watchful eyes of the marines, tied Vorob'inye up. The gang-way was lowered, and the Captain, accompanied by a squad of marines, walked onto the quay-side. It was a queer situation, and the marines, unsure of what was going to happen next, held their rifles tightly. The sailors that had tied the ship up stood to attention and saluted whilst the Captain looked around, the silent dock, unsure of what to do next.

As he scanned the surrounding area for signs of life, he heard sporadic gunfire in the distance, although it was getting louder by the second. Suddenly, it burst out onto the quay-side as several men wielding battered rifles retreated out of a street, chased on their way by a swarm of lead hornets. One of the men turned to look around and spotted the Krendian ship and the crew, most of which were now on deck in order to see what was going on. Shouting something incomprehensible over the sound of gunfire at the distance the captain was from him, he started running over to where the captain was standing. The Marines looked about slightly baffled, not quite sure of whether they were to shoot this man or not. He was not, after all, a readily obvious enemy, but he was, after all, running at them with a rifle.

The captain noticed that some of the Marines had raised their weapons, and were thinking of taking aim at this man. “Hold your fire!” He barked at them, and they all lowered their weapons, although they kept a good hold on them, just in case they were needed.

As the man who had been running at them got nearer, he stopped and shouted something, equally incomprehensible as the last time he had shouted, although this time it was more of a result of the language he was speaking in.

“What do you suppose he’s saying?” asked one of the marines.

“How would I know?” snapped the captain back at him.

“Sounds like English…” offered another of the marines, hoping that being helpful would not incur the captain’s wrath. He would be thoroughly disappointed however.

“I know that!” The marine’s head dropped a couple of centimetres, and he threw back his shoulders as if to throw off the rebuttal. “Now,” the captain continued, “do any of you lot speak English?”

There was a murmur of dissent, with a few ‘No, Sir’s thrown in for good measure.

“Well, looks like we’ll have to see if our friend here speaks something we can understand.” stated the captain, mostly to himself. Then, after taking a deep breath, shouted back to the rifle-wielding man. “Do you speak Russian?” then, changing languages, continued, “Do you speak German?”

The man shouted back in German, “Yes, I speak a bit of German.”

“Good,” the captain shouted in reply, continuing in German, “come over here then.”

The man looked over his shoulder at the group of men that he had left. The unknown enemy was still out of sight, and it appeared that the men were managing to hold them off now. A couple of men were at the corners of the buildings at the end of the street, and were leaning round to fire off the occasional burst, and the others had taken some barrels and crates that had been lying around and made a make-shift barricade out of them. Seeing that his comrades-in-arms were doing well and did not need his help at this time, he turned back to the captain and the marines and walked over, covering the distance in a few strides.

“Now,” said the captain in an altogether more civilised tone, “Can you tell me what is going on here?”

“We,” he started, gesturing at the other men, who had expanded their barricade with some sort of stall which had, in happier times, sold some sort of smoked fish as a sort of snack for the sailors coming through here, and would have made most of their money when the sailors were all returning from the pubs to their ships and required a light snack before having a deep sleep (which would invariably be followed by a bad hang-over), “are the Red Victory Front. We fight for the end of bourgeois oppression of our people. We fight for the emancipation of the proletariat from their slavery.”

The Captain gave the revolutionary a funny look. It did, he supposed, explain to some extent what was going on. It seemed to the Captain that this man used any excuse to declare his cause loudly. “Well that’s all well in good, several decades ago we fought a similar war in our own nation, and we achieved a great victory for our people. I assume that this conflict you fight now would be considered to be a civil war. Are those government troops you are fighting?”

“No, they are the thugs of the De Luca family. They are the greatest of the bourgeois crime families in existence in our nation.”

“It had been our intent to refuel here, but this information is of great interest to us. Normally, we do not take part in such conflicts, however, we are in the right place at the right time, it would seem. Let us offer our friendship and assistance: we will help your noble cause.”

The revolutionary was taken aback that aid would be offered so nonchalantly, but after a moment’s hesitation, he accepted with profuse thanks.

“Your men will now be under the instruction of the lieutenant here.” the captain motioned to one of the marines that was obviously, from his body language and ran insignia, the most senior officer of the marines.

The revolutionary had expected to have the control of the revolution taken out of his hands, but these were trained men, and they could teach the Red Victory Front’s militia much about fighting. It would give them an edge over the other factions, and would make them a force to be reckoned with against other nations’ militaries that would intervene in the conflict. So, once again, he gave his assent to this.

“Excellent. Lieutenant, you will go prepare the rest of your men,” the lieutenant gave the captain a salute, before jogging back to the ship, “the rest of you will go aid in this combat here.” the rest of the men gave the captain a barrage of salutes, before running off, clutching their guns at the ready, to where the communist militiamen were engaged in combat with the De Luca family’s thugs.

The thugs were firing from doorways twenty to thirty metres down the streets, peeking round corners and firing off bursts from their sub-machine-guns before leaning back round the corner just before a hail of bullets passed through where they had been just moments before. Seeing this situation, and the bad fire-control of the militiamen, the marines knew that they had a lot of work teaching these men how to successfully engage in combat. Fortunately for the militiamen, the De Luca thugs were not used to combat either, and were more used to the standard “drive-by” techniques employed by organised crime groups.

A series of orders were barked out by the colonel, who was the ranking officer (even though he was a non-commissioned officer) due to the absence of the lieutenant. The locations from where the thugs were shooting from were shouted out as they were spotted, and were shouted out when they were marked. The next time a man showed himself in that location, he was met by a bullet to the forehead. Eventually the last of the De Luca thugs were taken out by the Krendian marines, with no injuries sustained.

OOC: I’ll do some more stuff in response to Durium later.

272 Nuremberg Way (3 Floor Apartment Bldg.)

Vaughn gazed down tensely as an inevitable organization of the helicopter’s survivors took place. His comrades were reloading, their ammo beginning to show strain. Within seconds however, the AK-47s began to rattle off once again, picking off one or two of the soldiers, who had begun entering some of the buildings opposite Andrew’s perch.

He bit his lip before raising the barrel to the windowsill and unloading several bursts, forcing two soldiers away from a doorway and into cover. In return came several harsh, well-aimed shots that nearly decapitated him, but instead smashed the remaining glass in the window. Vaughn, shaken and terrified, had dove away from the window. When he raised his head, he spotted Billy Hill, a school friend, rushing towards him from the stairs with an RPG on his shoulder. “The other position is hot, can’t get a shot off” Comrade Hill said simply. As he approached the window, however, he gave a weird jerk. Blood began pouring from his mouth. And then he fell, revealing behind him two soldiers that must’ve entered from the street while Vaughn was ducking. But this time Andrew was ready. He sprayed them with his AK47 and splattering the wall behind them with red.

As he reached forward to grab the RPG – to finish Billy’s unfinished – he was thrown against the opposite wall, a bullet ripping through his heart. Again shots had been fired into the window, and Vaughn found himself less lucky.


273 Nuremberg Way (5 Story Apartment Bldg.)

Lt. Comrade Mincer shouted wildly into the phone. “Our Squads are outnumbered and outgunned. We need at least two Bradleys on the crash sight NOW!” His jacket bloodied, his eyes red with dust, and his voice hoarse, he slammed the radio onto the splintered bedside table before snatching his grenade-launcher and angrily blasting a riflemen below into oblivion. He turned to his remaining men (3 had been picked off by surprisingly good marksmen below). “I want all squads to the roofs. We’re going to have two Bradleys rolling in within the minute. Harley, monitor the radio for progress. If they don’t come in three minutes, I want you to check in.”

On that note, the remaining squads of the ramshackle platoon took to the highest of perches, unloading some of their final clips onto the forces below, their rain of fire complete with grenade bursts. Along with the five immediate casualties of the enemy, two running civilians dropped onto the blood-soaked road, dead before they hit the ground.

(Bradleys should be arriving soon. They’re coming from the north and the south in a pincer movement. Please include them in your post. The goal is to scatter your forces, although you can deal with them anyway you want)

"Let's et this thing going." Said the Officer. He had command of the Peacekeeper base. A Mi-26 Helicopter dropped off medical supplies. They were preparing to enter the nearby town to look for wounded civies. They were loading the trucks.

The trucks began driving towards the city. If they were fired on they were fire back in self-defense. They were on the onskirts of town when they heard gunshots from the city. They knew a battle was going on. They were trained for war mostly. They entered the town.

Aston, 1208

"Tango Four-Eight Actual, this is Tango Four Bravo! We've cleared this building, over!"

"Tango Four Alpha here. Overwatch is up in the ruins, over."

"Roger that, Tango Four-Eight. I send Gold (Casualty) Rep, over."

"Perez calling in. I've got two dead and one wounded."

"We've got one wounded, over."

"Roger that. We've got two dead as well. Continue to maintain the base of fire on the enemy! Out." Welsh and his team advanced into the intersection and took cover behind the random pieces of rubble.

"Is that you, Welsh? Damn it's great to see you!"

"Smoky? Are you in there?"

"Roger that, Welsh. We've got five dead, three wounded."

"Roger that, Chalk One. We'll provide cover fire for you. Get out of the chopper!"

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

Piper looked up and suddenly saw PFC Harville fall in a spurt of blood, clutching his neck. Harville squirmed and twitched for a few moments, then went limp. "Shit," Piper muttered. "Chalk One, Chalk One! We're moving out of the chopper, NOW! Grab the pilot and let's GO!" Sergeant Greer slung the pilot's arm over his shoulder and painfully lifted him out of the seat.

"Chalk Four, we're moving now. Could use some cover, over."

"Roger that, Chalk One," Welsh switched channels. "Tango Four-Eight all units, cover them as they make a dash for the building. Perez, get a door open! Ready, FIRE!" At that moment, every gun in the chalk opened fire on any enemy positions in sight or earshot, effectively pinning all the rebels beind cover. Welsh watched as Piper, followed by Greer with the pilot and Sergeant Cole with Randleman, sprinted across the short distance from the chopper to the building secured by Perez.

When all the Marines were safe, Welsh ordered, "Cease fire! Cease fire!" The weapons quickly fell silent. Only a few traumatized rebels remained and they were cut down as they stood up, dazed, attempting to walk out of the apartments. "I think we got 'em. Sector is-" Welsh heard the rumbling of vehicles approaching. "They got the tanks in already? That's un-" An explosion shook the apartments to Welsh's right. "Awwww, shit! Everyone bunker down! TAKE COVER!" The rebel Bradleys rolled into view just as Welsh bolted the building's door shut as best he could.

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

"Delta Niner-Niner, this is Tango Four-Eight! We are in need of assistance at the crash site, over!"

"Tango Four-Eight, which crash site? Over."

"Grid reference November Tree Kilo! Goddamnit we got armor and our AT men are dead!"

"Stay calm, Tango Four-Eight gunship support is already on the way and should reach you shortly, callsign Quebec Six, out."

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

"Quebec Six, this is Delta Niner-Niner, over."

"This is Quebec Six."

"Quebec Six, we have troops pinned down by hostile armored units at Grid Reference November Tree Kilo. Can you engage? Over."

"Roger that, Delta Niner-Niner." The pilot switched channels. "Quebec Wun-Fower, Quebec Tree-Tree, this is Quebec Six. On my tail, over."

"Roger that, Quebec Six. What?"

"We've got hostile armor pinning down friendlies at Grid Reference November Tree Kilo, over."

"Roger that, Quebec Six, over."

"Quebec Flight, all units prepare to engage. Say again, prepare to engage, out." The lead gunship and his wingmen swooped over crumbling buildings, watching firefights unfold below. "Tango Four-Eight, this is Quebec Six, over."

"This is Tango Four-Eight. Shit, it's good to see you, mate! We've lost two more guys and this building's startin' to give way, over!"

"Stay calm, Tango Four-Eight. We have targets in sight and are engaging." The targeting computer began to beep slowly, then faster, then flatly. "Target locked. Quebec Six...FOX TWO!"

A missile streaked from beneath the wing and exploded a Bradley in a spectacular fireball. "Queb Tree-Tree, FOX TWO!" The other Bradley was destroyed by the other gunship. "Tango Four-Eight, this is Quebec Six. Targets are scrap metal and we're outta here. Out."

"Thank god for you, mate! I owe you and your wingmen a drank when we get home. Tango Four-Eight, out."

This seemed like a good idea, but it seems both of you are roleplaying the other's casulties. See ya.

Aston, 1230


"Delta Niner-Niner, this is Tango Four-Eight, over."

"Go ahead, Four-Eight."

"The birds took care of the Bradleys, but we are extremely understrength to take our objectives, over."

"Tango Four-Eight, SitRep, over."

"Chalk One has seven dead, three wounded. Chalk Four has five dead, three wounded. Over."

"Roger that, Tango Four-Eight." General Redmond turned to Colonel Freeman. "Colonel, the op may not go as planned. Most chalks are at 50% strength and several cannot take their objectives."

"What do you want me to do, sir?"

"Send in a few more chalks to finish the job. By now the major SAM sites are down, and the navy is mostly in disarray. The only danger to the choppers are handheld SAMs and RPGs."

"Alright. I'll send in a flight of three-thousand men from the reserves."

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

Aston, 1235

Gunnery Sergeant Morris of Chalk Thirty-Two sat with his legs dangling over the side of the Blackhawk that flew across the bay. "Gunny, shoreline comin' into view. Three minutes." The pilot said over his headset.

"Chalk Thirty-Two, three minutes out! Load, lock, and get ready to rumble!" The sixteen men of the chalk loved Morris. He was a very large, well-built man with a deep voice that pulsed with authority and charisma. He didn't know it, but he was being considered by the higher-ups for Master Sergeant.

"Whiskey Flight, this is Whiskey Fife-Fower. Break off to your objectives."

"Roger that." Morris's chopper and two other Blackhawks broke off from the main formation to the west, toward the area the had been the responsibility of Chalks One and Four until they were immobilized. "Elvis, I've got RPGs all over," said a Crew Chief on the radio. The sky suddenly filled with smoke trails.

"Not to worry, they are heat-seeking or radar-guided, so there's only a small chance they'll hit-" The pilot was suddenly cut off as a flanking chopper exploded and screeched violently. An RPG had torn through the underbelly of the Blackhawk, throwing out and/or killing most of the men in the passenger compartments. The RPG had also shot through the roof, shattering the main rotor. The Blackhawk helplessly fell to the ground and rolled, throwing about half a dozen wounded men out of the compartment until it screeched to a halt against a building. "Jesus Christ!"

Suddenly, the Marines heard a shrill beeping noise. "SAM warning. Everyone hold on." The remaining wingman chopper popped its flares with Morris's Blackhawk, causing the missile on its tail to target the decoys and explode harmlessly. "Damn it! What's goin' on!" the pilot yelled. "Everyone, brace for impact!" The Stinger slammed into the tail rotor, which caused the Blackhawk to shudder violently. Then the helicopter began to spin.

"Everyone, HANG ON!" Morris yelled, grabbing the side of the doorway. Two men could not find a handhold fast enough and were swept out of the chopper. "This is Whiskey Niner-Seven, goin' in HARD! BRACE!" The Blackhawk slammed into the ground of an open courtyard and slid across until it rested against a crumbling fountain.

OOC: The focus is now on the two newly-downed choppers. This should be pretty quick.

ooc: I think this guy isn't going to take part in this thread anymore + I'd like to get a reaction to my attack. Can't be that difficult.