NationStates Jolt Archive

Somehow, everything seemed to be clicking, President Radimir Zarabansky thought to himself as he perused through the situation brief on his desk. The removal of the squatters from Vladimir Shanty in Sevastopol went according to the plans, with little or no incident. The new pro-commerce act that he signed into law opened up the country’s borders to a tremendous flood of new capital, and his approval ratings were through the roof.

He looked over a map of Sevastopol, the city he hoped to make into the greatest business center in the region, maybe even the world. His icy blue eyes fell on the one thing standing in his way—in Crimea’s way—from becoming the power he wanted to be: the Port of Sevastopol. Seemingly innocuous to the unknowing eye, the path of the red dash and dotted line surrounding the port crossed out many of the goals that Radimir had for this city. With control of the entire port in the hands of the Russians, as it had been since the end of the Second World War, the city would never reach its full potential as a export center to all of the world. The time had come for the Crimeans to take back what should be theirs.

Radimir wrote a telegram for to the Russian Premier, in a cordial tone, but one that he felt adequately showed his weariness at the metallic taste left in his mouth by the Russian presence in his hometown.

Official Government Telegram

To: His Excellency, the Premier of Russia
From: His Excellency, President Radimir Makariyovitch Zarabansky of Crimea

Sir,

During our history, the fortunes of our respective nations have been borne from the demise of the other. When your state fell to the specter of Communism, my nation rose from the ashes. When my state lost children to famines, your younglings were fed. And finally, when my land came under the spell of fascism, yours came to free us, and take back our port with your other spoils of war. While that government did have every right to retain the port of Sevastopol—as it was agreed to in a treaty between the Allies, Crimea and the USSR—your current government does not hold this right. The Port was ceded to the United Soviet Socialist Republics, not to the Russian Federation. Due to this, the Port of Sevastopol is the rightful property of the Crimean Republic, and reality must respect the rules, should it not?

And so I ask you to please hand over the Port of Sevastopol in its entirety, and I demand that you withdrawal your military units from Crimean territory as soon as you can orderly do so. If you do not comply with these requests, Crimea will see your actions as hostile, and therefore, will have no choice but to respond accordingly.

If you wish to discuss this matter further, feel free to respond at any time.

Your Friend,

Radimir


Radimir sent the message off. He knew he may have sounded to aggressive, but he needed to, in order to get through those thick skulls that seemed so popular over in the Kremlin. He proceeded to put his armed forces on alert, in defensive posturing, just in case the Russians had any ideas about pulling a fast one on Crimea.

President Boris Yeltsin was quite angered over the sheer insanity of the request by the Crimean Government. They, a small break away Republic from the shattering Soviet Union, demanding Sevestopal? It was madness!


“Pavel,” he demanded on the telephone to his Chief of Staff, “I bring to bear all available military forces in the region. They’re threatening to take the port by force unless we give it to them. Well they can take it by God!”


“Mr. President,” Pavel stammered, “Most of our military is tied down in Chechnya at the moment! We cannot spare many men at this time.”


Yeltsin sighed knowingly. The Chechen War was wearing thin the once mighty Soviet Red Army, now the Federal Army of Russia. He began again, “What do we have in that region?”


“We have the 8th Guards Motor-Rifle Division there, the 66th Motor-Rifle Division, along with a few militia units from around that region. The Vozdushno Desantye Voyska have a base in the region so we might be able to deploy one Division of paratroops in the defense of the city. There’s also an airbase from which you’ll receive limited air support. I believe in the harbor is also our Black Sea Fleet which may be able to fend off the enemy shipping for a short while.”


“Good. We’ll need to make that happen. Contact the commander and have him fortify the city. Give every able bodied man a rifle and assemble him into the Militia for the Defense of the Holy Motherland.”


“Right away Mr. President.” With that, Pavel hung up the phone. He did not initially carry out the orders, rather he spent several moments staring at the black telephone set before him. He was about to carry out orders which would cause a new war for Russia, one which had the potential to kill many Russian as well as newly established Crimean people. Though the Federation had chosen not to pursue an invasion into the Crimean Republic, a move which shocked many political scientists and correspondents around the globe, but this attack may just spark the war which they all feared. He took a deep breath and picked up the telephone, dialing in the number of the Sevestopal Garrison commander, Colonel-General Mikhail Zitsev.


****


“Move you bastards!” The Senior Lieutenant called out to the conscript soldiers setting sand bag barricades across the street. Coiled barbed wire lay across the front of the road, directly in front of the position they were establishing. A BMP-2 Infantry Fighting Vehicle sat silent, its crew inside the steel beast waiting for the storm to begin. Dozens of infantrymen scurried about, ensuring their positions were set, their weapons were ready, and their minds were right for what was about to come. All were conscripts, coming from various backgrounds across the Russian Federation and all kinds of life styles. Some were farmers, children of factory workers, university students, the variations were exponential. They carried the standard Automatic Kalashnikov model 74, one of the most famous, cheapest, most reliable weapons ever produced. The skies above them were grey, as always, and there was a stiff cold breeze typical of middle fall. Against the beach, waves slapped against the shore harshly, the seas were rough and foreboding. Still yet, a battalion of the Motor Rifles had established a beach head there to defend against enemy sea-borne invasion. Concrete “Dragon’s Teeth” barriers were arrayed along the water as well as interspersed anti-tank and anti-personnel mines.


Artillery batteries were set in the center of the city near the Divisional Head Quarters. The city’s defense would be coordinated from the city mayor’s building, a large marble structure with several stories and a look of the old Czarist regime. Out front, fifteen 155mm howitzers were situated alongside several MLRS launchers and 81mm Mortars. ZSU Shilka anti-aircraft tanks were spread throughout the city in pairs, creating a ring of defense against enemy air forces. Troops established themselves inside of buildings and in the various bunkers and sand bag fortifications they built. Militiamen were settled within buildings as well, but had a degree more of autonomy than the regulars, as they were under the direction of the Divisional HQ, but had their own central authority. They would wage a guerrilla style engagement of hitting and running against the Crimean Forces which foolishly attempted to engage them.


The Colonel-General was confident in their ability to fight the enemy and win, but prolonged siege would be hard. Many men would die in the coming days, but the question was what would the ultimate end be? He could win initially but would they simply wear him down until he could no longer function? Only time would tell.


***


Back in the Kremlin, President Yeltsin created a simple response to the Crimean Government. Hoped to be taken very seriously and would not be made a mockery of by two small break away states.


http://www.embrusscambodia.mid.ru/maket_files/symb-gerb.gif


We will not cede this city nor its port to the likes of you. It is sovereign Russian territory and shall always remain as such. You left the Federation and shall live to regret having done so, but at the moment we do not have in our designs to reclaim you. This city, however, has chosen to remain a part of our Federation and we shall fight to maintain it. If you wish to have it, you shall have to fight the might of the Russian Federal Army to claim it.

OOC:

Any chance I could get involved?

OOC:

Any chance I could get involved?

OOC: I don't have a problem with it. Its a historical RP in Crimean Republic's history, kind of to set the stage for his entry into RPing. If you want to get involved though I suggest it be as either Chechnya (Chechen Republic of Ichkeria Нохчийн Республика Нохчийчоь (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chechen_Republic_of_Ichkeria))

That'd be the easiest way to get involved. If you have something else in mind please tell me. Oh but you're the last person who can though, because we wanna keep it small.

OOC:

If I was Chechnya, what would I probably do?

What if he acted as his own country in whatever capacity he wanted, and I take Chechnya? I want kind of an intro RP...not necessarily for my country, but since mine will be similar to Chechnya it'd help me hone my RPing skills....

The forty thousand men of the 1st Army swarmed around the base like a colony of busy bees. Everyone knew what was about to happen: war, and in the air, you could here a mix of excitement as well as apprehension. Two younger looking soldiers, probably Russian, walked together, carrying one massive jug of gasoline—green and marked with the words Tartaric Republic—between them. By the way they spoke, it was clear they were in the middle of an intensive debate of high importance.

“Oh, come on man, if we come back as heroes, we will get laid by fifty Russians, twenty-five Tartars, and at least five Ukrainian girls. We would be gods of the sack before you know it my man!” Pavel said to his fellow carrier, Gregori.

Gregori shook his head at this assumption, “Please, give me a break, most Russian girls will hate us for killing their countrymen, the Tartars won’t give us the time of day, unless we magically transform into Tartars, though I contend that the Ukrainian number will be much higher, citing commonly known facts about Ukrainian girls.”

The smile dropped off Pavel’s face and onto the ground beneath the two, “So are you trying to say that Ukrainian girls will have a light pole if they must, I take umbrage towards that remark, my mother was a Ukrainian after all.”

“Exactly my point my friend. Now lets get this over to the depot.”

Ali and Michael looked at the two Russians as they walked past.

“Great, the guys we’re supposed to be fighting are going to be lining up right next to us in this one, what ever happened to the days when the Ruskies and U-kers were banned combat?” Michael said to his fellow Tartar.

“It’s because of all of this new civil rights bullshit that the Ruskies are pushing, and for some reason, the Duma is letting it pass like its nothing. Do they remember the Rimneyv years?” Ali replied.

Michael shook his head and with a tone of disgust said, “Clearly no one does, hell, our colonel is a fricking refugee, he wasn’t even born here!”

Colonel Joseph Muhudin looked down from his hillside tent at his troops, as they prepared to move out of the camp, towards the Russian forces based in Sevastopol, and though to himself, is the city going to be worth it. Not only had the majority of the 1st never seen combat before, but they were going to line up next to the Oblast-level Brigades: bands of weekend soldiers many of whom just recently learned how to load and fire the standard issue AK-74 rifles that they now flaunted about with false bravado.

He spied a group of five guys, joking around, about war, perhaps women, and thought, by month’s end, probably only three of those young boys will remain complete, with all their limbs—or their lives.

Joseph remembered his first experience with war.


“Shoot! Shoot! Shoot boy!” The man screamed at the young boy holding a Mauser bolt-action rifle in his severely undersized hands. Against the wall fifteen meters away, a hooded man cowered with his hands behind his head. From within the hood, Joseph could here the faint sound of a prayer, the same prayer that his father said before he went to sleep at night, every night, in the direction of Mecca. Who was this man, and why must he be killed? It wasn’t fair, why must Joseph be the one?

OOC: Just trying to create the setting, get something down on the net, more to come, this is in effect a teaser.

The exchange of howitzer fire awoke the camps of both the belligerents, as it had for the past two weeks. It had been two weeks since the conflict had began, and still not a single battle—not even a skirmish had occurred between the two sides. The howitzer fire had not left the Crimean side without its own losses, in fact, it had losses an entire tent-full of men just this morning to a well-aimed Russian shell, leaving seven mothers short a child.

Children, that is all these boys were. Joseph thought as he reflected upon his battle plans, What a tragedy it will be to lead these boys into battle, what makes me any better than the SKM leaders?

Muqtada handed the young boy a beer and a marijuana joint, and rumpled his hair. On Muqtada’s face, Joseph, his new name was al-Scimitar, saw an evil grin form, the grin of a murderer.

Men ran about in final preparations for the assault on Sevastopol, fueling up their tanks, T-72’s and T-90’s, loading their AK-74’s and polishing their RPG’s. The soldiers loaded into their UAZ-469, ZIL-131 Troop carriers and BTR-70 and 80 armored personnel carriers. The army was on the warpath, the only question was how long it would take the Russians to notice.

Ali looked at Michael. “Don’t you ever wonder, are we the Crimean Army, or the Russian Army, with all of this Ruskie gear around, I am not so sure.”

But Michael did not hear, for Ali’s voice was droned out by the sound of some AH-64’s flying above them on their way to soften up the frontlines.

At the Central Air Base, 75 MiG-21 pilots made their final preparations in anticipation of their attacks on the Russian naval and ground defenses. They were to accompany twenty-four Su-25 fighter-bombers, each equipped with enough payload to significantly damage, if not destroy a large ship, and to defeat the force that is the Black Sea fleet, they would need all of it. But for now, they waited, for the first stage of the massive assault to begin, the preliminary attacks by the army forces.

If this was a war, it would soon be a shooting war.

bump, waiting for Wanderjar

bumpsickle

"Move you bastards!" The Senior Sergeant shrieked as the Russian conscript soldiers sprinted out of the barracks into their respective trench. Loud whistling shrieks hurled in from over head, crashing into the ground with tremendous explosions which sent gravel and earth high into the air, and shook the very foundations which they stood upon. Grasping his AK-74M rifle, the Sergeant hurriedly entered in a concrete bunker where his platoon leader, Lieutenant Kiesel, was standing with his radio-telephone operator.

"Lieutenant," He gasped wide eyed, "What in the blue fuck is going on?"

"What do you think Sergeant?" The Officer hissed, keeping his focus on the map he was reviewing. "The fucking Crimeans are launching their offensive. I need you to keep the platoon together and focused on the north. They should be assaulting from this direction," he pointed outside the bunker slit where another soldier was aiming his PKM machine gun. "Once this artillery lets up, they'll be moving against the entire Division. We're here," he pointed to the outskirts of the northern portion of the city. "This is, obviously, the 82nd Motor-Rifle Regiment, 66th Motor-Rifle Division. 723rd Regiment is adjacent to us on our west, and to our east is the 155th Tank Regiment. Inside the city the 8th Motor Rifle and the Militia's are set up to defend. Now, we're the fucking northern most battalion, so our jobs critical. They'll be coming, likely, along this road or," he said, pointing over a slight burm, "From across that berm. If they do either, we blow them to hell and gone. You got that?" The sergeant nodded. The battalion, some six hundred soldiers, were assembled in a long trench line which linked with the rest of the regiment holding the roadway leading into Sevastopal. The other regiments assembled themselves around the 82nd Motor-Rifle, and curved themselves in an echelon right pattern to protect the city's flanks as well.

"I'll get to it lieutenant," he said as another volley of shellfire crashed in, sprinkling dust from the bunker's ceiling. "We'll give them hell."

"I know." With that, the Lieutenant returned to his radio, monitoring comms traffic.