NationStates Jolt Archive

[OOC: Want to get involved? Check out the OOC thread located here. (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=556910)]

Outside of the Paradisian Parliamentary building,
Paradise Island,
1400 Hours, Local Time

Sergeant Eric Rodrigo stepped out of the building and immediately lowered his eyes in response to the harsh sunlight of the afternoon. To the left and right of him were idling APC’s, as well as soldiers shifting around nervously; their anticipation was obvious due to the fact that they were gripping their weapons tightly. The day had started normally for the brigade, with reveille in the morning following with what the soldiers called “shitty chow”. What would stop the normal day in its tracks for these men were orders to escort the current president of the newly acquired and newly renamed Paradise Island to the lone airport. The journey from the parliamentary building to the airport was only a measly eight miles, but it was eight miles through the “hottest” neighborhoods. Everyone in the escort convoy was plainly aware of this, and an atmosphere of uncertainty and unease hung over every soldier’s head.

Sergeant Rodrigo noticed the soldier to his left, as well as everyone else on his side looking to the right. Surrounded by nine armed guards, the current president of Paradise Island put on a pair of dark sunglasses, looked around, and preceded to the specially armored APC waiting for him. When his APC was loaded, the back hatch was secured and the surrounding personnel began to load up into their own respective vehicles; Sergeant Rodrigo followed suit, heading to his own hummer. Rodrigo was the driver for the third vehicle in the convoy. Being in the driver’s seat of any vehicle was not the ideal spot to be, but Rodrigo was happy he wasn’t commandeering the first vehicle in the convoy. When Rodrigo opened the door to his hummer, the other four men he was traveling with were already waiting for him; Specialist Ryan Briggs, Private Daniel “D.J.” Grant, Private John Castellano, and Corporal Andrew “Drew” Johnson.

When Rodrigo sat down in the driver’s seat he was immediately greeted by a wall of insults and camaraderie.

“I didn’t know they let immigrants drive.”

“Yeah, it’s bad enough they let you motherfuckers join the military”

“Yeah? Well fuck you guys, I’ll crash this bitch and kill you all!”

Everyone in the vehicle had a good laugh, and it was a nice temporary break from the feeling of unease. However, the conversation took a more serious turn when one of the guys asked,

“You think we’re gonna hit resistance doing this shit?”

“I dunno D.J. I really don’t know, but hey, its eight miles, no big deal right?”

“Yeah, how many times have I heard brass say those lines…?”

“True. But, I have more bad news for you, your manning the gun.”

“Aww, fuck you man.”

Private Grant stood up and put his upper torso through the hole and grabbed the heavy machine gun with a sigh. Being a lone gunner atop a vehicle always meant you were the first target of any attack. Though this thought lingered in his mind, Grant kept praying for a smooth trip and kept that thought in mind more than anything else.

When the order to move out came down, Rodrigo put the vehicle in gear and watched the two hummers in front of him slowly accelerate forward. When it was his turn to start moving, he put his foot down on the vehicles accelerator and inched forward. Inching eventually turned into crawling, and crawling eventually turned into a moderate speed. Once the convoy had all started in motion and gained momentum, the overall speed was increased and soon everyone was barreling down the road. The first few miles of the trip were covered relatively fast and everyone was beginning to feel relieved. When the hummer in front of him started to slow down, Rodrigo did the same with his vehicle. From the driver’s seat, Rodrigo could see people starting to flood the streets, slowing down the pace of the convoy. Heading out at ten kilometers an hour did not bode well with the man, but seeing armed men on the sides of the road made him even more worried. Rodrigo’s heart leapt into his throat when the convoy came to a full stop. The streets were now packed with onlookers and observers; it was pure gridlock.

Rodrigo turned around and looked at his men; they too had a look of worry and concern on their faces. Even D.J. poked his body through the hole and asked what was going on. Rodrigo could only answer that “he didn’t know” and “keep your eyes moving”. This was only prompted by the response, “what are the rules of engagement here?”

Everyone in the vehicle felt it before they heard or saw it.
The explosion rocked the first hummer with the force of a hurricane. A huge fireball rose from the front left corner of the vehicle, sending debris, metal, and flame everywhere. A contrail could be seen from the roof of a nearby rooftop. Suddenly, and without warning, the situation outside went from calm to nightmarish in a matter of seconds. People on the streets ran screaming as the sound of gunfire erupted from all directions. Private D.J. Grant put his body back through the hole and opened up the fifty caliber machine gun. The brutish noise of heavy automatic fire filled the hummer with a ferocious intensity. Without hesitation, and with instinct, the men of the hummer opened their doors and began firing on targets. Small arms fire began to join the fray, and what was a relatively quiet day turned into an uproar of battle noises.

Once the rear echelons of the convoy realized why they were stopped, as well as what was going on, they too sprung into action. More fifty caliber machine guns were adding their lethal rounds to the battle, and soldiers poured out of their vehicles, guns blazing.

The situation around Rodrigo’s hummer was not a good one. The sounds of bullets hitting concrete and wood were exploding around him. Looking for targets to take out was not going well either as the unknown attackers were using hit and run tactics on he and his men. Rodrigo sighted in on an armed man firing on the hummer in front of him, let loose with a volley of bullets, and watched the man drop. His victory was short lived as he was forced downward when bullets began to zero in on his position. The noises of metal hitting metal were ringing above his head, and Rodrigo prayed that the door of his vehicle was truly bullet proof.

The gunfire from the rooftops intensified, and all around the convoy soldiers were forced to duck their heads down at risk of being shot. The barrage of fire from the fifty caliber guns was uncoordinated, and despite the grotesque number of rounds they were spewing, the enemy gunfire grew in volume. From their positions on the ground soldiers began blind firing and hurling grenades at clusters of “enemies” that they could discern. Weapon launched grenades were being fired off at hot spots as well, adding more debris and chaos to an already intense situation.

When the shock of being attacked had worn off, the men of the convoy were becoming more organized. Soldiers started popping smoke grenades for cover, and began returning fire. Instinct began to take over the men as they let loose their rounds into anything that might have been harboring their unknown attackers. Medics began to make progress to the injured, dying, and dead men of the first hummer. Under the cover of automatic fire and smoke, bodies of men were eventually being dragged back to the safety of their compatriots.
As enemy bodies began to litter the streets, everyone in the convoy was trying to account for their men and radios became active with officers giving orders to pull back to a safe zone. When the wounded and dead were finally accounted for, soldiers began loading up their vehicles. Sergeant Rodrigo and his men followed suit with everyone else and loaded up their hummer. Rodrigo threw the vehicle into reverse and began to stick his head slightly out of the window, looking intently into the side view mirror.

The fifty caliber machine gun was still pumping its rounds into enemy resistance, and nerves were still being rattled by bullets that were still assaulting his vehicle; the metallic “clink” “clink” “clink” resounding off the vehicles skin was a testament to this. As the vehicle began to pick up speed, driving in reverse became so much tougher for the man.

What happened next would only help ignite a worsening situation. From the side view mirror, Rodrigo saw the hummer behind him erupt into flames. The explosion had rocked its rear left tire, and Rodrigo watched in horror as it began to careen to the left, obviously out of control. The hummer behind him was now skidding perpendicular to the street and at the speed it was headed it eventually flipped and rolled onto its top. Rodrigo didn’t have much time to react, and as the events unfolded behind him he jammed on the brakes. As the vehicle began to slow down from its high speed, it too began to careen across the deserted streets. Rodrigo began to wrestle with the wheel, but it was useless. The hummer was now traveling perpendicularly like the one behind it.

After what felt like an eon, the vehicle abruptly jerked to a stop when it crashed into the overturned hummer behind it. When the crash occurred, Rodrigo was thrown against his seat violently. The two men in the rear seats immediately dropped their weapons when they too were forcefully slammed against the seats. When the dust had settled, everyone was OK, and D.J. was still lighting up enemy militia from atop the vehicle.

Rodrigo opened the door of his hummer and immediately began firing on targets that he could directly see; his rifle hit against his shoulder in recoil, and Rodrigo watched as he took down two militia men. It was another short lived victory as another explosion threw him down onto the ground. In front of him, the second hummer in the convoy, the one in front of his own, erupted into flames as an RPG slammed into its rear. Everything worsened as the flaming vehicle continued its path, which would lead it straight into the front right panel of Rodrigo’s hummer. The flaming hummer inevitably slammed into Rodrigo’s hummer and everyone who was still inside was again violently thrown back.

Rodrigo picked himself up out of the dirt, and looked around himself. Everything around him was taking place in slow motion; D.J. was still firing the fifty onto the advancing militia, Drew Johnson was kicking open his door which was currently pinned against the overturned hummer, John Castellano was picking himself off the ground like his leader, and Ryan Briggs was firing into the windows of an adjacent building while inching forward. Looking around everything was growing more frantic, and the sound of himself breathing only scared him more.

The first thing Rodrigo heard again was the sound of another RPG exploding against the rear right tire of his own hummer. The vehicle lifted off the ground for a brief moment, and the shockwave put him back on the floor. When he scrambled to his feet he saw D.J. swing the fifty to the rooftop of where the RPG originated from, and Castellano pick himself off the ground once again. Something didn’t feel right for the man, who looking around, found the source of unease. Directly across from Drew Johnson’s door lay a motionless, mangled body of what used to be a human being.

John Castellano saw his friend lying on the floor and immediately scrambled to his body. When he reached it, he saw immediately that his buddy was dead, with half his face missing. Instinctively Castellano swung his weapon over his shoulder and grabbed his dead friends arms, and begun to drag him to the other side of the vehicle. Meanwhile, Drew Johnson was trying to pry the doors of the overturned hummer open. When a bullet ricocheted off the overturned vehicle, Johnson whipped around and fired two bursts into three advancing men. When two of the three men dropped, blood spattered across their chest, Johnson continued to pry the doors open with more success than before.

Sergeant Rodrigo gathered his wits and while firing, he advanced to the hummer in front of him. While firing bursts of his KAR-44, he noticed the doors on the hummer in front of him open. Two men from the driver and passenger seats stumbled out, gained their bearings, and contributed their own rounds to the miniature battle that was unfolding. The soldier who opened the rear driver’s side door was pulling one of his comrades out of the hummer; the man who was being pulled out did not look good as blood was dripping down his arm, off of his hand, and onto the ground. The fifth man in the vehicle was assisting, and eventually crawled out the same side.

Johnson had pulled the door open on the other hummer and successfully pulled out two unconscious men. He then helped proceeded to pull out the other two men who were conscious, but disoriented. The two conscious men slung their buddies over their shoulders and kicked down the door of the closest building to them. Johnson double checked the hummer when the first four men were out of the vehicle and into safety, realizing that each vehicle had five men. When Johnson peered into the hummer he saw the lower half of what used to be a man. Lurching and dry-heaving at the sight, Johnson realized that they would not be able to pry the dead man from his current resting place; they would have to leave him there for later.

As Johnson was checking the hummer, Rodrigo, Castellano, and the men of the first vehicle were dropping back to the safety of the building that had been forcefully opened. Under the cover of D.J’s fifty caliber fire, Rodrigo first grabbed Johnson from the last hummer, who was still in an awe-struck state, and threw him in the direction of the other men. After registering that every man was accounted for, Rodrigo headed to get D.J. of the fifty caliber machine gun.

As Rodrigo was headed towards D.J., a bullet tore through the upper right area of his torso. Private Grant grabbed the area where he was shot before falling straight through the hole. Rodrigo heard the thud inside the hummer as he advanced towards his downed friend. Rodrigo loosed another volley of rounds at the still advancing enemies, before throwing a grenade. He swung around the rear of what used to be a vehicle he commandeered and opened the rear passenger side door. When he leaned inside he saw Private Grant murmuring and shaking and almost without hesitation he grabbed the man’s legs and began pulling him out. When he had D.J. halfway out of the vehicle, he threw him over his shoulder and began trotting towards the building the rest of his men entered.

Everything was going relatively well until another explosion threw him to his knees. Rodrigo stumbled onto one knee, before eventually getting back on his feet. When Rodrigo surveyed the scene around him, he noticed in horror that the doorway his comrades went through had collapsed due to the shockwave of the last explosions.

He was trapped.

Excerpt from “The Killian National Times”

Unrest Grows!
Written by: James Rice

Hailia - Civil unrest in the newly acquired Paradise Island hit an all-time high today, with massive protests that led to the arrest of two hundred men and women. Tensions in the newly acquired territory started about a month ago when the Killian Presidency maintained that it would not be granting full independence to the island, but rather giving it a commonwealth status. After the Killian Presidency maintained that Paradise Island would not be granted full independence, civil leaders began to organize protests, some of which have been violent, in an attempt to raise regional, and world awareness to the people’s plight.

The Killian Presidency’s decision not to grant full independence to the island came from this statement, which provides The White House’s reasoning behind the decision.

The Killian government will NOT be granting a full independent status to Paradise Island. After a long consultation amongst senior members of the cabinet, the Killian Oval Office has determined that Paradise Island is too great of a tactical asset to dismiss so suddenly from The Imperial Republic. In these uncertain and unsettling times, the strategically import Paradise Island gives protection to the Maccabean northern shores. As we shall now and forever stand by our allies in Fedala, we will not give up an asset that can provide adequate naval protection to our allies courtesy of The Imperial Republic.

It is unfortunate for me to say this, but we will maintain control of Paradise Island through whatever means we find necessary. I must note, however, that Paradise Island has its own government in which to rule the people. The Imperial Republic maintains no direct control over its citizens, lands, or resources. Everyone is treated fairly under the newly established government that has been implemented.”

Following that statement, civil leaders have been demanding an immediate freedom from the Killian Government. Though no violence has been promised, the Killian Government has begun to mobilize armed forces to the area in an effort to protect the current instituted government. As the situation grows deeper, no one can be sure of the upcoming weeks.


---


Two Weeks Previously,
Somewhere In the Market District of Paradise Island
1900 Hours, Local Time

Thomas Swartz stepped out of the black limousine and into the cool night air. The driver had opened his door, and proceeded to open the door of the very old looking building. Swartz thanked him after stepping into the building, and headed for the elevator. Inside the building Swartz was met by two armed guards who stepped inside of the elevator with him. One of the guards looked at Swartz and pressed the emergency stop button. Once the elevator stopped, Swartz immediately raised his hands outwards, perpendicular to his body. The guard began to pat him down, thoroughly checking for weapons, recording devices, or anything else that would compromise the events to come. When Swartz was assessed and deemed safe, the elevator continued upward.

Swartz stepped out of the elevator into a barren, yet large open room. A table and a few chairs were arranged for what looked like a meeting, but no one was present yet. Swartz sat down and lit a cigarette and waited for the man who had summoned him to this location. Swartz would not be waiting long as two more men emerged from the elevator. The leftmost man to come out of the elevator greeted Swartz with a warm hug.

“So, Mr. Rourke, I assume you have something major planned?”

“Mr. Swartz, you will find out in due time my good friend.”

As more people began to filter into the room, the empty chairs grew fewer and fewer in number. Many men that Swartz had seen, and had never seen, were now seated beside him. Swartz cautiously looked around the room, recognizing a few faces of local leaders and a few local warlords. As Swartz set his eyes upon Harold Rodriguez, he immediately felt uneasy. Rodriguez was known to be a radical who had a penchant for executing things in a militant and violent manner. Swartz could only think that something terrible was about to happen if Rodriguez was going to be involved in these talks.

Donny Rourke stood up when the last man exited the elevator and took his seat. Rourke was an ex-military man who even after being dishonorably discharged still carried the same manner of professionalism and courtesy as other soldiers. Rourke was also a prominent figure amongst all the communities and local militias that had sprung up in the absence of power during the War of Golden Succession. Rourke took a quick look around the room before starting,

“Gentlemen, the time has come for action. Once again we are the subjects of a great oppressor. I say we do not sit down and take this injustice once again, I say we take back what is rightfully ours. With the help of our new allies, who wish to remain silent at this time, we will be armed and fully able to wage war against our new subjugators. I have called you all here tonight, because you all have some sort of power amongst our peoples. With enough support and manpower, we will surely overcome our newest and greatest adversary. With your support, here is my plan.

In approximately two weeks, the currently instituted sham of a leader we call a president, will be transported from the parliamentary building to the airport under armed guard. The government of HailandKill has yet to send a truly massive force to our borders yet, so taking out the men guarding the transportation of the president should not be as difficult as perceived. Once the president is killed, we will overtake the parliamentary building, round up all officials and an institute our own government. We will hold these officials as hostages until our freedom is granted.

I am ready to begin and undertake this campaign for as long as necessary. Are you gentlemen?"

Swartz stepped out of the dusty grey building nearly forty five minutes after the conference had begun. Looking around, he saw that night was in full swing, and almost all activity on the streets had come to a complete standstill. Swartz lit a cigarette and waited for his driver to come pick him up and take him back to his place. After noticing that his driver was late, Swartz flicked his cigarette and took another look around him. Apprehension had begun to creep up on the man, as he was beginning to realize that his driver was never this late. Another quick glance around the streets made his thoughts race. “Am I going to be killed for what I said?”, “Why is this happening?”, and “What the fuck did I do, the man asked for opinions!”

Swartz’s apprehension intensified when a black sedan pulled up to the curb where he was standing. When the window started to roll downwards, adrenaline was fully coursing through the man’s veins, but instead of seeing the barrel of a gun pointed at him, he saw Donny Rourke’s smile instead.

“Mr. Swartz, please get in. I hope you will excuse me, but I called your driver and asked if I could personally pick you up. You see, I wanted to personally talk to you outside of everyone, and this was the best opportunity I could get. Oh, and don’t look so nervous friend, I promise I’m not going to kill you.”

Swartz nodded at the man and stepped around the car, opening the rear driver’s side door and stepped in. When Swartz was seated relatively comfortably, Rourke spoke again,

“Thomas, I know you are a very intelligent man and therefore I take your opinions, thoughts, and concerns very seriously. When you raised an objection tonight, I knew I needed to find out more about why you raised the point you did. So, you feel the current plan that I proposed was flawed?”

“Well, it’s flawed in the sense that you think we can ambush both the convoy and the parliamentary building at the same time. You see, if we start the raid while he is being loaded, we run the risk of the Killian’s being able to call in reinforcements from the surrounding areas. BUT, if we strike the president while the convoy is a few miles deep into our territory, the chances of live capture rise tenfold. On top of that, we can strike and kill a decent amount of soldiers, and that means less men we have to worry about when we commence the raid on the parliamentary building.”

“Yes, I do agree with you in that respect, and I shall definitely review the current plan we have. Let me ask you one thing Thomas, do you feel that the raid on the parliamentary building is a good idea?”

“Yes and no. We have to know our limitations. If we cannot catch the garrison that is stationed there off-guard then we will not succeed. If we attack them there and we do not have surprise, we have nothing while they have everything; they have manpower, a defensive situation, and definitely enough arms and ammunition to defeat us in a battle of longevity.”

“These are the small things that I may have overlooked. I appreciate your honesty greatly. I must add that your ability to perceive small things is something, or more to the point, someone I need. Thomas, I must ask you to be my second in command; I would be honored for you to be one of my highest lieutenants.”

“Donny, I would be honored, but you haven’t selected Rodriguez already?”

“HA, him second in command? The man may have conviction and passion, but he is too brutal and impulsive.”

“Then why is he signed on for this? You asked me to speak honestly, and I honestly want to know why HE has any part of this?”

“Are you genuinely concerned over this man Thomas? Please, do not be alarmed, I have him on quite the short leash. To answer your question, however, he is in on this for a few reasons. He has passion, conviction in our cause, and control of the most factions here on the island. We need his brawn just as he needs our brains.”

As the black sedan began coming to a stop, Rourke looked over at Swartz and said his final words of the evening,

“As the days go by, be very cautious Thomas. Also, starting three days from now, arms and ammunition will be distributed amongst the loyalist men and women under our command. Again, be careful and wait for my next contact.” Rourke paused for a second before finishing with, “We will have our freedom. No matter what.”

Somewhere In the Market District,
Paradise Island,
1836 Hours, Local Time

Sergeant Rodrigo kicked down the door and saw two armed men standing idly, making conversation in a language he could not understand. Rodrigo looked at them, and they looked at him; none of the men had their guns drawn at each other yet, but Rodrigo knew if someone drew a weapon, they were all going to die in a Mexican standoff. As the seconds ticked by, no one knew what to do. Rodrigo cringed when the silence in the room was shattered by the sound of three gunshots. Rodrigo watched as the two men in front of him dropped to the floor, dead before their bodies made the loud “thud” on the dusty floor.

Rodrigo looked to his right and saw D.J. Grant, the man he had carried out of danger, with his arm outstretched, a pistol in his hand. When Rodrigo looked closely at the pistol, he realized it was his own. Rodrigo took his right hand and patted his holster and just as Rodrigo expected, the holster was empty. Rodrigo looked at D.J., smiled and then acknowledged that the man had just saved his life. D.J. just nodded at Rodrigo as if to say “you’re welcome, I owed you one.”

Rodrigo put Private grant down on what used to be a living-room couch. Panting heavily from running, and the situation that had just transpired in front of him, Rodrigo sat down next to his friend. Just as Rodrigo shifted his rifle off of his shoulder and into his lap, a militia man came running down the stairs. Rodrigo acted immediately and fired a two round burst into the man, sending him tumbling down the stair, dead.

When Rodrigo nerves settle once again, he reached into his first aid pouch located on his combat belt. Taking out gauze and a compress bandage, he began to help D.J. dress his dire wound. The combined effort of the two men was able to stem the bleeding from spurts, to a small trickle. The wound had been dressed for now, but time was still against the man. If Rodrigo was not able to get Grant to a proper medical facility, he was still going to die, despite their efforts.

Getting off the couch, Rodrigo realized D.J. had fallen unconscious again. With three dead bodies littering what was once a living room, Rodrigo knew that he and his friend needed to find a safer, less “hot” area to move to. Rodrigo looked at D.J. once more and folded the stock on his KAR-44, and shifted it to his left shoulder. After this, Rodrigo picked up his fallen friend and started a slow walk to the back door of the house they were in.

After cautiously opening the back door, Rodrigo shimmied as quickly as he could to a thicket of bushes, taking cover. The initial surveillance that Rodrigo made had indicated that the cluster of backyards he was currently in was devoid of activity. Getting slowly to his feet from his knees, his first observation was still correct.

Rodrigo hustled to another series of bushes and once again looked around. Darkness was slowly enveloping the island as night began to set in. Rodrigo knew that if he was caught in the dark, chances of him and his comrade being ambushed and killed would rise tenfold. Rodrigo kept his negative emotions and feelings in the back of his head as he hustled from cover to cover.

He needed to find safety.


---


The shockwave of the nearby explosion shook dust and dirt from the ceiling onto Corporal Drew Johnson. Johnson, without hesitation, wiped the grime and gook off of his helmet and shoulders before once again looking at the men around him. Johnson was thrust into the leadership position being as he had the highest rank amongst the men, and he was not pleased to have the lives of eight other men in his hands. On top of that, the victory of escape from the attack on the streets was not basked in long as two of the men carried to safety were to die of their wounds.

Death was a part of every battle and war, but Johnson could not help but feel guilt. To Johnson, these men should have died of old age with healthy and long lives beneath them; they should have died peacefully in the comforts of their homes. However, these two men died young, their lives cut off at the mid twenties, and in the basement of a rundown tenement complex. In the back of his head Johnson knew that one of the men pulled out of the vehicle was already dead, and the other was dead as soon as the bullet struck him in the underarm, but he was the leader now, and inevitably to him, these two casualties were his fault.

Johnson’s lingering thoughts were immediately cast aside by John Castellano’s hand falling on upon his shoulder. Johnson snapped back to the harsh reality in front of him and realized that he had to get these men back to safety so that they could and would live on past all that had just happened and what was about to happen.

The first decision that Johnson was about to make as leader would be the most painful for him. Johnson immediately cleared his throat and told the other men around him that they would have to leave the bodies of their fallen friends. Johnson then assured the men that he would remember this location so that their compatriots could be brought to a more peaceful final resting place after everything was over. None of the men openly objected because Johnson was right. As of right now these nine men had to cross nearly three and a half miles of a warzone to get back to the parliamentary building, and carrying two bodies would only cost them more lives.

As soon as Johnson swung his rifle to his hand off his shoulders, he grabbed the ammunition of the dead men. Johnson rationed off the clips before changing the magazine in his own weapon. Before Johnson began moving, he looked at the men before him. Two were already wounded, one had a concussion, and one did not even have a weapon. The trek back home was going to be long, hard, and hellish.

Johnson opened a door and was caught off guard by the light that streamed in. After his eyes adjusted to the light of the fading afternoon, Johnson realized the door led into a courtyard. Johnson had two options, either walk into a courtyard and risk being surrounded on all sides, or head back out into the already violent streets. Johnson chose the former option and took point into the courtyard. Johnson’s footsteps echoed against the surrounding walls as he walked forward, to what he perceived would be safer. Keeping alert, Johnson still saw nothing, or heard nothing outside of his men and the sound of footsteps. The eerie quiet and isolation was almost a dream-like trance.

Johnson’s trance was interrupted by the sound of three loud cracks. In front of him a man dropped to his knees, dead. There was no time to find out which one of his men broke the silence, as the sound of frantic voices and more footsteps resonated from in front of him. Eight militia men poured out from an alleyway and ended up right in front of Johnson and his men. The looks of surprise did not stay on their faces long as Johnson and his men reacted, firing rounds into their enemy. Most of the militia men that were immediately killed did not even change expression; their surprise at seeing Killian soldiers turned to the surprise of death. When the gunfire stopped for a moment, Johnson saw smoke coming from his barrel, and he realized he had fired without even realizing it. This war would be his baptism by fire.

Johnson inched forward with his team behind him and saw a man struggling to crawl away from the bodies around him. Like a dream, Johnson felt the rifle butt hit his shoulder in recoil, and he watched as he ended the man’s life for good. Stepping over the freshly dead man Johnson kept his eyes moving he and his men continued on.

Johnson kept moving forward, once again only hearing the sound of his footsteps slapping against the brick walls surrounding him. Johnson knew that he and his men needed to find a place to take cover, and refuge, for the night. As the men traversed the courtyard, everyone was alert for ambushes that might come out of the many alleyways. One of the survivors from the second hummer stopped the small column of men when he noticed a small two story building at the end of one of the alleyways. When Johnson strode over to the soldier and double checked the man’s observations Johnson noted that indeed the soldier was right. Johnson motioned to his men to stay where they were, and took a slow jog down the alleyway. Once reaching the end of the alleyway Johnson realized that the building was in another courtyard, and it was what he assumed to be some sort of administrative building for the entire complex.

If it was an administrative building, it had to be smack in the middle of the entire complex. Johnson knew that if he and his men were caught, hundreds of militia could come pouring from the tenements like ants out an anthill. However, the building looked sturdy, and Johnson and his men could make a solid defensive stand inside of it if they were attacked. As the pros and cons of the administrative building were being weighed in Johnson’s head, he noticed armed men walking near the building. Though it was most likely a small patrol assigned to a sector, Johnson’s decision making process became even more intense.

Johnson made up his mind in due time and ran back to his unit. When he returned to his men, and with all eyes on him, Johnson said,

“Well, he was right. There is a building down this alleyway; two stories, pretty solid looking. Basically it’s a place we can hole up for the night, or make our last stand against a large attack. Honestly boys, it’s not the most choice of locations. It’s surrounded by tenement buildings, and from what I saw, it’s patrolled. We can either take down the current patrol by that building and run the risk of being caught and attacked, or we can push forward through this complex into god knows what.”

With two wounded men, and a unit that had been walking around all day, the decision was made quite quickly. Within ten minutes of discovering the building, Johnson and his men were slowly and cautiously advancing down the alleyway, guns raised to their shoulders. When the small unit of men made it to the end of the alley, the men waited until the small patrol came back into sight.

The patrolmen were nonchalantly walking around the area when Johnson and his men saw spotted them. As Johnson made three hand signals, the men in his unit took a bead on the enemy patrol. As per Johnson’s orders, the first thing to be fired was a weapon mounted grenade. The grenade made a “whooshing” sound as it exited the barrel of the launcher, and flew off to the unsuspecting men. The grenade landed two feet from the patrol and instantly turned two of the militia men into a pink haze. When the grenade made contact with the ground, Johnson and his men opened fire. In the dusk of the late afternoon dozens of tracers were seen crashing into unsuspecting flesh. The militia men were caught off guard as scores of them began to fall to the ground, dead.

The firefight lasted less than five minutes. Johnson made sure all the militia men were still before leading his patrol into yet another courtyard. The silence of late afternoon descended upon his men and he once again as they cautiously crossed open ground. When Johnson and his men reached the house, two fire teams were formed. One team was going to enter the house from the front, while the other was going to enter through the back.

At 1937 hours, both doors went crashing open on their hinges. Johnson went in the front door, and after a short while he locked eyes with John Castellano. The building was clear of enemies, but safety was still not guaranteed. For the next two hours Johnson and his men had to convert an administration building into an Alamo.


---


MacDonald Military Installation,
Paradise Island,
2000 Hours, Local Time

Brigadier General Steven Johansson walked hastily into the tent erected for intelligence matters regarding Paradise Island. In recent weeks it was not often that he was directly summoned to matters involving the island, and the general had genuinely believed that everything was calming down. Today, apparently, the general’s opinions were wrong. As soon the general pushed the tent open everyone inside snapped immediately to the position of attention.

“So, what has happened today that requires my immediate attention?”

As soon as the general posed the question to his subordinates, the expression on every man’s face went straight to sullen and downtrodden. For a few seconds the tent was silent as generally everyone looked down, unable to face the general. Colonel Ian Jackson was the first to step forward and address the general.

“Sir, there’s been an incident. The convoy escorting the president of Paradise Island has been attacked. Preliminary reports that have come in show that there have been at least four men KIA, roughly a dozen wounded, and another dozen MIA. Recent reports to come back have indicated that the rebel forces have been making attacks on the Parliamentary building also. However, we have some good news; the president was not killed in the attack on the convoy and is safely tucked away in the annals of the Parliamentary building.”

“Colonel, I appreciate your directness, however there is no good news in anything you just told me. The fact that these rebels have attempted an attack on MY men is a personal affront. Also, I am saddened to know that men were KIA over this shithole. You also said we have twelve men MIA? Do we have any information on their whereabouts?”

“Negative sir. We lost contact with the men when they were attacked while on the retreat.”

“Fucking cowards. Listen Colonel, our top priority is getting those twelve men out of whatever situation they are currently in, and back into safety. Personally, I don’t give a rat’s ass about the president of this island. As far as I am concerned we can put another one into power if he is killed, but we can’t replace twelve excellent soldiers as easily. Colonel, you are going to take a column of soldiers to the Parliamentary building and defend it until we can get more soldiers on the island.”

The general paused, as if to make his next words resonate with the utmost importance.

“Okay, here is what we are going to do. Get a division of paratroopers on standby. If things truly get out of hand, we are going to fly them in and pacify this island through force. Also, get a team of Special Forces over here immediately, they have a rescue mission to operate. Let any allies in the area know what is going on, and if they offer to help, let them.

Gentlemen, it’s time to clamp down. We are locking down this island; declare martial law. Let every soldier on this island know that any person that is not a Killian with a weapon is an automatic KOS. The same KOS rules apply to anyone that initiates hostile intent.

Its open warfare. Treat it as such.”

Paradise Island Erupts in Violence
Fedala International

- Lían Ter'híob

http://www.vegamediapress.es/noticias/images/stories/ETA.jpg
[A local Killian police officer being briefed by an unknown Killian Army officer, somewhere on Paradise Island.]

Paradise Island, previously known as Retreat Island, was relatively peaceful under Risbani rule, given that Risban had never fully attempted to take sovereignty away from the local government and had more or less accepted that it would have reward the island with almost full autonomy to avoid a colonial war in the Díenstad region. However, the demise of the Risbani government's influence in the region forced them to willfully give up the island to the Killian government. Rising cries of independence and, what locals called, tyrannicide played their part in persuading Risban to clean its hands of the upcoming political issues which would take place on the island. Perhaps Hailandkill's offer to take political control over the island after the War of Golden Succession played into the hands of Risban. Regardless, Hailandkill's politics of tightening the colonial grip over the island has not gone over well with local arms militians and gangs, which have technically been banned - these are led by former political figureheads. As a result, full scale warfare has erupted in different points of the island and has sent shockwaves throughout Díenstad. This is especially true in the Empire, which has just gotten out of a 'war of succession', including Weigar's and Sarcanza's attempt to gain independence from Fedala. The political consequences of another freedom movement around this portion of the region will not go over well, especially as the Empire attempts to show a façade of strength in the face of former enemies, including the Holy Empire [Stevid and Adaptes Astrates].

News of the violence having reached Fedala, foreign minister Jench Fersas offered a few words to the press this morning, conveying the general opinion of the Empire towards the rising violence:

''As an everstanding ally of Hailandkill, the government of Fedala stands against the nationalist insurgency on Paradise Island. As a country which has suffered a two year war over succession and independence, the government of Fedala stands against the nationalist insurgency on Paradise Island. Although this is not our war, and we have plenty of war to fight ourselves as we continue to liberate the territory of Theohuanacu, we offer our full hearted moral support to Hailandkill in their fight against terrorism and illegal insurgency. However, we will not be offering military assistance in the form of manpower or personnel. We have no need of integrating ourselves in the local politics and we have no need of loosing lives by fighting wars which are not our own. Furthermore, we trust in the Killian ability to handle the situation themselves, without the physical aid of Fedala.''

Currently, the Second Empire has around a quarter of a million men in Theohuanacu, fighting a growing insurgency in what is considered a 'nuclear wasteland full of rats and cockaroaches'. This is expected to increase to half a million soldiers by the beginning of next year, as more and more men are shipped to put down the insurgency. Rumors of violent practices, including genocide of the local population, have come back to the Empire's mainland and have been spread across the world - tarneshing the reputation of the Empire. It can perhaps be a factor in the decision not to send men to Paradise Island, including a potential Killian restraint on the Empire's ability to do so. It would make sense if the Killian government was uninterested in linking the violence in Theohuanacu with that in Paradise Island, while the use of Macabee troops could also further unsettle the local population. Currently, there has not been a discussion on the use of other Imperial assets, such as ships or aircraft, although it seems that the insurgency is centered around important population centers, where such weapon usage is avoided. However, the Empire has tightened security around major bases for the armed forces and has denied information on deployment status of certain units, including known special forces units, although unofficial leaks have provided evidence that most of these are on their way to Theohuanacu. It seems the government is holding true on its word that it will not deploy to Paradise Island.

http://www.themoscowtimes.com/photos/large/2003_07/2003_07_21/collins_2.jpg
[A released image of a local insurgent during the Risbani rule over the then-called Retreat Island]

The Killian military has not responded in full force yet, although some news of an ambush on an important 'government convoy' has been received over the past hours. Anonymous sources have filtered information that Killian special forces are operating in certain areas to clear the insurgency and to avoid future ambushes. Due to the rise in violence, a concerted effort to rid the island of the insurgency is not unexpected. This could develop over the coming days, and would most likely be very violent. The Killian government has not commented on its plans to reduce the violence on the island. However, the Killian Speaker of the House made sure to note that independence would not be given to the island and that the island's resistance would be reduced by 'any means necessary'. The extent of these words will be seen over the coming days, although the Killians have also tightened security around their own military bases. Many soldiers have not received planned off-base passes for short vacations and have instead been placed on alert. Whether there will be a full deployment, however, is not clear, at this point. Nevertheless, Paradise Island is not only important strantegically, as it covers the northern sea lanes to the Second Empire's mainland, but also politically - a successfull independence movement so close to the Second Empire could have rippling political consequences for the post-war established peace in the region, especially in newly acquired imperial territories, including two provinces in Northern Safehaven and the Guffingford province.

The situation is definately iffy and we will have to see over the coming days on how exactly it turns out. In these types of situations things could change over a period of few hours. We will continue to be on top of the violence on Paradise Island.

Drew Johnson opened his eyes and looked up into the most clear, azure blue sky he had ever seen in his life. Johnson was so entranced by the clarity, and abject beauty of the sky, that for a few minutes he did not even care about where he was. When Johnson took a deep breath, sat upright, and took a look at his surroundings, he saw the rolling plains and tall, wild grasses of the Elysian Fields. Drew Johnson took another deep breath, basking in the warm sunlight, and mild weather of the late summer weather. The Elysian Fields were the largest and southernmost plains of HailandKill, and were unsettled for the most part. Drew Johnson had felt so at home in the grassy knolls because ever since he was young, his father would take him to a secluded cabin during the Unification week.

Johnson was so happy and content in his surroundings that he did not care to question how he was there. When Johnson rolled over on his side, he was shocked and pleasantly surprised to see his high school sweetheart, girlfriend, and love of his life laying right next him. Johnson was convinced that it had to be Unification Day, because as his girlfriend smiled back at him, fireworks began to explode overhead. Johnson felt that nothing could touch this moment, and that he was invincible.

Everything was so perfect that Johnson rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. When Johnson opened his eyes, the sun was setting and casting its warm rays unto his girlfriend and him. The fireworks overhead intensified as the day began to fade into night. The dazzling array of fireworks, the cool evening air, and companionship lulled Drew Johnson into an elated trance. The fireworks overhead became almost melodic to the young man, and clutching his girlfriend’s hand, Johnson fell into a light sleep.

When Johnson awoke from his light nap, night had fully set in. The dazzling fireworks display was still occurring above him, and Johnson was confused as to why he was still seeing the flamboyant bursts of light overhead. Habit, and years of doing and witnessing the same event dictated to Johnson that what he was witnessing should not be happening. Despite Johnson’s innate confusion and unease, he could not take his eyes off of the continuing show in the sky. As Johnson focused on the ever on-going display above, the multi-colored arrangement of fireworks began turning into a single stream of red explosions. Johnson’s confusion intensified when he began to only see red fireworks exploding.

The consistent stream of red in the night sky bathed the Elysian Fields in an eerie red glow. Slightly panicking, Johnson reached to his left for the hand of his girlfriend. Johnson became mortified when he could not find his mates hand, and Johnson turned his body and began patting the matted grass where his girlfriend was; she was obviously not there anymore. In a state of confusion Johnson turned to his right to find his girlfriend, but instead all he saw were the Elysian Fields still coated in an eerie red light.

Johnson stood up in the fields and whirled around looking for any signs of life. Johnson’s search was fruitless as all the man was surrounded by where the waving grasses. Johnson’s confusion turned to apprehension as the realization of true isolation began to set in. To make matters worse, Johnson realized that while the red fireworks were still exploding overhead, they ceased to be making any more noise as they exploded. As Johnson’s heart rate turned from a slow pulse into a torrent, he realized that he could not even hear his own fast beating heart or feel the adrenaline that comes with it. As fully fledged fear kicked into the man, Johnson sat down once more to gather his thoughts and wits.

Taking a deep breath, Johnson tried to gain control of the spiraling situation. Johnson decided to look around once more and become comfortable again; after all he knew the fields like he knew his own hometown. When Johnson looked to his left, sitting peacefully next to him was Ryan Briggs; Briggs, fully dressed in The Killian Battle Dress Uniform, looked back at his friend. Johnson, upon seeing the recently deceased Briggs, tried to scream out in agony. No sound escaped through Johnson’s throat as the silence of the plains was maintained. Briggs peacefully smiled at Johnson at seeing the abject terror in his friend’s eyes.

Johnson quickly attempted to scramble to his feet. However, Johnson failed at getting up as his feet failed him and he fell down. Johnson, from his position on the ground, saw Briggs stand up and outstretch his hand to him as if to motion to come with him. Johnson’s second attempt to get up on his feet was more successful, and once steady on his legs, Johnson began running from his ex-comrade. It was not that Briggs was a scary individual, it was the fact that Briggs had appeared in front of Johnson in the same manner that he was sent into the afterlife.

Johnson began sprinting in a state of pure fear. He did not get far as his lungs soon felt like they were going to explode. Johnson painfully realized that he was not inhaling oxygen anymore, and wherever he was currently had no air to breathe. Johnson collapsed to the floor, gasping for air…

---

Somewhere In the Market District,
Paradise Island,
2356 Hours, Local Time

Thomas Swartz parked his vehicle outside a beige, one-story building. After quickly throwing the grey compact in park, Swartz hurriedly opened the car door and strode to the front door of the building. Ever since joining forces with Donny Rourke, Swartz was constantly on edge and in a solid state of paranoia; he never realized that openly supporting liberation would make him feel so nervous. Swartz’s nervousness came from the fact that openly supporting the Paridisian liberation movement made him a target for Killian soldiers, snipers, Special Forces, and any other type of military. However, Swartz tried to keep those thoughts in the back of his head, especially before talking to Rourke.

Swartz entered the drab building through the front door and instinctively raised his hands. Right on cue, two armed guards proceeded to pat him down to make sure he was not carrying anything that would threaten the movement. As Swartz entered the elevator he knew that if he was suspected of messing up the capture of the Paridisian president, then this would be his last conversation ever.

As Swartz exited the elevator, he could see Rourke brooding at the empty conference table. With Harold Rodriguez leading his own band of men in an attack against the parliamentary building, and leadership in other areas of the island falling apart Rourke’s unification efforts were faltering fast and the man had every right to be brooding by himself.

“Thomas, things are not looking so well eh?” Rourke said as he picked his head up

“No Rourke they are not. The Killians have tightened their grip on the northern shores of the island, the sectors closest to their own military bases. As you know the attack on the president has failed, and the only leverage we can now get for independence is live capture of as many diplomats as possible…”

“…Which will be hard with Rodriguez leading his own simple minded attack. I should have never trusted that man Thomas.”

“Rourke, he might succeed with the amount of followers he has. Plus we are only hours into the attack and the southern sectors of the island are still rife with followers taking the fight to the scattered Killian platoons.”

“Possibly. Though my intelligence has given me word that the Killian’s are going to mobilize from the north, most likely with a large column of armor, and destroy all of our resistance pockets. What they don’t know is that there will be land mines, and enough guerilla resistance to keep them at bay for three days tops. Thomas, those three days are our time period to unify our attacks and get what we want.”

“Then we must unfortunately divert our efforts to the parliamentary building seeing as how it is the only structure that is far south enough for us to hold out in.”

“So we have to gamble on Rodriguez.”

“Yes. Remember though Rourke, we have three days to get this done, like you said. We control the south right now, and if we can keep the Killian forces separated and under constant attack, they will not have enough men, ammunition, and morale to keep the fight going. I will divert my men to help with the assault on the parliamentary building. Let me handle Rodriguez, Rourke. It is time to step up our efforts, and now more than ever I desire freedom.”

“Thomas, my men, the best men, will be keeping the Killian’s from pushing to the south. I am going to put my faith into your hands.”

“Don’t worry. Besides, I have a few more bargaining chips for us.”

“Eh?”

“Killian soldiers are holed up in an apartment complex. I plan for live capture. It is time we fight with our means, not with our ideals.”

“Agreed. I will be in contact with you via radio. Get everything in motion.”

---


Dinkins Tenement Complex,
Paradise Island,
0249 Hours, Local time

…Oxygen filled Drew Johnson’s lungs as he shot upright, wide awake. Wherever Johnson was before he was not now as he quickly recognized the room that he had fallen asleep in. Something was different about the room though, and Johnson realized that an eerie red light, almost identical to the one in his dream-world, was covering the room and making the room irradiate the same color. Johnson realized the source of the red light was streaming in through the rooms sole window. When Johnson got up to his feet, he looked out the window and saw a flare piercing the black night.

Not long after Johnson instinctively grabbed his KAR-44, he heard the thrum of a light machine gun pounding and pumping round after round into the unseen enemy. A mere second after the light machine gun began to fire off its deadly rounds, Johnson could see the tracers of other KAR-44’s coming from the house windows and also flying into the blackness of the night. Johnson cocked his assault rifle and took a few potshots out the window before striding down the stairs onto the first floor of the building.

On the first floor of the building the noise of battle was excruciatingly evident. Cement and mortar seemed to cover every inch of the carpeted floor as stray rounds struck the brick exterior of the building. Johnson took a crouching position near the light machine gun and peered into the blackness ahead only to find nothing. As the flare began to sink behind the buildings of the complex the firing into and out of the administration building slowed and nearly stopped. Johnson had thought that the first attack was repealed by the light machine gun.

Johnson’s thoughts, however, could not have been more wrong. Only a few minutes passed before the night burst into a glowing red afternoon; the result of two more flares being shot into the air. Johnson saw a massive column of guerilla fighters advancing under the red glow from the main entrance of the complex. Johnson tapped the light machine gunner twice and once again the weapon was firing white hot rounds into an ever growing and ever more present enemy. Because the administration building was flanked by buildings on three sides, an attack from the sides seemed less and less likely. Though an attack from these three areas was entirely possible, Johnson knew from his studies that he could position two men on each bottleneck and inflict more casualties than he would take. Though, if he positioned his men like such, he would be more open to an all out frontal assault. The decision, though was immediately made as John Castellano was heard yelling, “Enemy tangos at six, and nine o’clock."

Johnson’s lungs once again were gasping for air as he sprinted around his Alamo and began repositioning men. Two men were placed on the left side of the building covering the largest of the three side entrances, while one man with a weapon mounted grenade covered the rear. The right side was the smallest of the side entrances, and since it was quiet for the time being it would stay unprotected. With the three other men in their positions, Johnson sent the other men with grenade launchers to the top floor of the building to lay down fire from above. Once the frontal assault picked up their air bursting grenades would rain down explosive death, and hopefully the carnage would deter the untrained rabble.

When Johnson once again returned to the first floor front windows the rabble of people with weapons had increased. Though the amount of “freedom fighters” had increased, they crowd was not advancing very far through the open concrete walkways. Scores of bodies littered the concrete, staining it with their blood. Johnson watched with a cool indifference as dozens of men trying to advance fell to the floor, their bodies littered with bullet holes and lead.

Johnson’s indifference turned to worry as the “whooshing” sound of weapon mounted grenades could be heard emanating from the rear of the house; Johnson soon after heard the crack of an assault rifle firing its rounds. With the frontal assault stemmed for the time being, Johnson took a position out of a small rear window in the back of the building. Raising his rifle, the man let loose a few three round volleys into whatever, or whomever he was seeing. Once again the man was indifferent as he personally cut down two men trying to advance over the open ground.

John Castellano did not hear the “crack, crack, crack” noise his assault rifle made, but the man saw four bodies go down and that in itself was enough proof that he had hit his mark; Just as the rear side of the building was beginning to see more action, so was he. Castellano heard the pin fall out of the grenade as he threw it on a beeline towards a cluster of guerillas advancing on the side of the house. Castellano tapped the man he was stationed with, Damon Rodriguez, and pointed towards the roof. Rodriguez caught on fast, firing his rounds into what looked like a sloppy team of grenadiers. Despite the poor appearance and tactics of these guerilla grenadiers, explosions began rocking the upper floors of the house. Dust and grime covered Castellano as the presence of more men on the left side was becoming more and more obvious.

Johnson picked himself up of the floor and ignored the gaping hole in the wall only five feet away from him. The guerillas were changing their tactics and bombarding his Alamo with grenades and rocket propelled grenades. Johnson was initially caught off guard by the explosion, but regained his composure fast enough to kill the man while he was reloading. Though fast on his feet, Johnson went back down, and hard.

The battle for the building had kicked into full swing. The sound of KAR-44 assault rifles seemed to be the only noise anyone could hear in the house. The group of survivors was now fighting harder in a desperate bid to survive or be reinforced. Adrenaline began to hit every Killian in the house, and the sound of enemy lead rapping concrete, wood, and brick seemed to begin to just blend in with the other combat noises. The Killian soldiers began blessing the fact that the Killian army had always given them an abundance of grenades as small explosions started rocking the enemy militia.

The battle for the building took a step to the next level as the fire selectors on the Killian weapons went from three round burst, to fully automatic. Under the light of the flares all the men could see that the enemy presence had doubled. For brief moments of the battle the Killian survivors were exclusively using hand, and weapon launched grenades. The blood being spilled by the guerillas was disgusting as more and more body parts and bodies littered the concrete canyons. However, the combined ammunition of the men was eventually going to run low. At the rate things were going, everything was to get real ugly, real fast.

The Killian War Room,
Killia, The Imperial Republic,
0442 Local Time

Revello outstretched his arms and yawned as he sat down in his chair at “The Round Table”. Allen Johnson and the highest ranking military officials could see the upcoming displeasure on Revello’s face as The President went from groggy, to somewhat awake, to clearly not happy. Being the President of The Imperial Republic of HailandKill had its ups and downs, but to be awoken at four in the morning was in no way part of the job. But true to his nature, Revello’s insistence that he be part of everything that went on to dictate that he had to be awoken and somewhere in the back of Johnson’s mind he knew Revello knew this. Hiding the emotion he felt, Revello cleared his voice, and put on his “business as usual” face.

“Mister President, the situation in Paradise Island has taken a turn for the worst. As I am sure you have directly heard, or have seen in the news reports, full scale conflict has erupted in the southern sections of the island. What you might not know, however, is that throughout the night the military units stationed on the island have been re-taking control of, and pacifying the northern sectors of the island. The pockets of resistance on the island are mainly located in the southern districts, leaving us with roughly half the island left to get back under control. This in itself might serve as a problem. Early intelligence has shown us that Killian soldiers stationed out of the MacDonald instillation were undertaking normal patrol and occupation duties in the southern sections when the violence broke out. As of right now, our forces in the south are scattered in, and around the Parliamentary section of the island, which is also where most of the combat is taking place.”

“Mark,” Johnson started, “We expect the fiercest fight to be in the south. Early intelligence estimates nearly twenty percent of the soldiers stationed in that district to be dead, or missing. We need to regroup in the south fast, and hard.”

“Allen, does Brigadier General Johansson know the same as we do?”

“Yes, he does. Within the next twenty four hours he will be mobilizing a large force of men and armor to unify all of our forces to the south.”

“What is the outcome of the situation?”

“Hopefully it will be a good one. Most of the men stationed on the island are veterans, and all of our non-commissioned officers know of the rally points on the island. We have to put faith in our soldiers, and pray that they can unify in the south on their own until we can get a larger force to them.”

“Until then?”

“We have to wait. But you will have to address the people about the situation and put their hearts and minds at ease.”

“I don’t like the waiting game. General, activate two paratrooper divisions for immediate action in case things get worse. Also, gentlemen, please put your thumbs in the scanners.”

Suddenly the entire room fell silent. The only time that Revello would, or had, called for a fingerprint scan is to discuss the option of Special Forces, or the blackest and meanest collection of soldiers the republic had to offer. When all the men’s identification was checked, double checked, and triple checked by the room’s super-computers, a large holographic map of HailandKill and the Greater Dienstad region appeared on the table, projected from the ceiling above.

“Gentlemen, as you see, we have 2 seven man teams available for combat. These men are stationed in The Golden Throne and are operating in connection with Fedala’s own forces. Since we are the only six men who know of the existence of both ours, and Fedala’s special forces, we have to vote on our course of action involving these men. My plan is such: We send both teams and any teams our allies offer to coagulate our men in the south. Once the Parliamentary building is secured and safed, these teams will proceed to assassinate all local leaders and figureheads, creating anarchy of power which Johansson’s men will assume when they push to the south.”

“Mister President, how do you expect twenty men to take on the role of combing and fighting the rebels in the south?”

“Simple, since most of our missing men is already in groups. We have our SF collect as many groups as possible and assume command of said groups. With their training of advanced subterfuge and combat they should be able to take on most of the small pockets of resistance they will face. If we outfit them with enough radio’s they can act with and coordinate with the rest of the forces on the island. For the time being, they will be no different than the men stationed on the island.”

“So your saying giving our SF enough radios will enable to coordinate with the rest of the soldiers?”

“IF you’re doing YOUR job general, then our forces should be well equipped no?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So get on it then general. If the missing forces are clustered in platoon size, then one of those men should be equipped with a radio. Given that the garrison in the Parliamentary building definitely has a communications center, we should be able to let our SF coordinate rescue, retrieval, and regrouping. After our forces in the south are re-grouped, then we send the SF to do their thing. So, we can flesh out a plan based around my givens. Men, you all know that we have to vote on whether to use the SF or not. If you all feel my outline is solid enough, or not solid enough, cast your votes accordingly.”

---


The White House,
Killia, The Imperial Republic,
0730 Hours, Local Time

President Mark Revello once again was adjusting his suit. Public speaking was always a strong attribute of his, and appearance was a key importance to the man. Revello always made sure that on strong national issues that he addresses his constituency to show that he and his subordinates were running the country in a manner that the citizens saw fit. It was due to these reasons that once again Revello was making a public address about the situation in Paradise Island. Revello, after making sure his suit, hair, and other pieces were all neat and tidy, turned his attention to his short speech. Once again he reviewed the words of his own crafting, to make sure everything was perfect. He would not lie to the people, but he had to make sure that the truth was indeed there, but not too directly brash.

Once the speech was finalized, Revello’s thoughts began to drift. The night’s previous decision to let loose the fiercest soldiers was resting heavily on Revello’s mind. Though the six highest ranked men in all of The Imperial Republic came together to form a more defined plan, Revello would still be the one who initiated it, and any problems that might arise would have stemmed, and ultimately rest on him. However, Revello chalked up his negative thoughts to petty paranoia, and the man began to dreamily think of his future wife, who he would be wedding within the up and coming months.

With Revello’s head clear, and now full of positive thoughts, he strode to the limo which would take him to the Imperial Speaking Hall, the place where he and his subordinates had spoke to the press and people thousands of times. The ride was short and brief, and not soon after exiting the vehicle, Revello was putting his papers on the hallowed podium.

“Only ten minutes until show time” He thought.

---

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Imperial Republic, The Imperial House and Senate committee, and to our fine members of the press, I bid you a good evening. It is with a heavy heart that I come to address the unsettling situation of Paradise Island.

Paradise Island was transferred to our government after the War of Golden Succession. Though granted an autonomous commonwealth status, the peoples of Paradise Island believe us to be the enemy and have started attacking our soldiers stationed there with the appropriate intent. Throughout the last thirty six hours, guerilla and separatist forces have been, and are continuing, an attack against our soldiers and areas on interest on the island. I am here to let everyone in The Republic know that this will not stand.

As of right now, the situation is on the island is coming back under our control. Through the efforts of Brigadier General Johansson, the northern sectors of the island are being re-pacified and order is being restored. However, there is bad news. Due to the fanaticism in the south, re-occupying, and restoring order there will not come easy. Small scale mobilizations will come if we cannot gain full control by the end of the week. These mobilizations will not lead to an all out war, and I ask the people to let myself and my capable subordinates put their faith in us to get the situation under control.

I am personally assuring you the people, that the Paradisian acts of terrorism and barbarism will not stand and The Imperial Republic will not give up a place of strategic and economic value. Period. As of right now, The Republic will fight these peoples on our own, with the well-wishing of our long time allies. I promise the least amount of bloodshed possible, and may we always prosper and ever-last these petty threats and problems.

As an end note, any nation that stands against and takes action The Imperial Republic’s plans will have the wrath of this nation, and her allies, against them.

Thank you, and goodnight."

---

Excerpt from “The Killian National Times”

Tightening the Noose
Written by: Samuel Desmonde

Killia - In a strong speech from Killian President Mark Revello, our citizens and the peoples of the world were told that The Imperial Republic would not back down, or out of the situation regarding Paradise Island. In a not-so-surprising speech, President Revello made it overtly clear that the Imperial Republic would do all it could do to put down the civil unrest occurring in Paradise Island and keep the island under Imperial control.

http://img90.imageshack.us/img90/6587/61059851og0.jpg
Killian Soldiers Taking Back The Northern Paradisian Streets

As noted in a previous issue of The Killian National Times, Paradise Island has the capability to become an economic powerhouse for the mainland with its lush beaches, ritzy resorts, and up and coming industrial sectors. Paradise Island also holds a large military importance with its midpoint location between the southern shores of the Imperial Republic, and the northern shores of The Golden Throne. This midpoint location makes it ideal to defend the straits between the two countries as well as serve as a staging point for international Killian operations.

The public outcry following President Revello’s speech has been mixed with sides calling for all out occupation and full withdrawal. In recent days, the cry for occupation has long drowned out the call for withdrawal though. The effects of Revello’s speech have yet to be seen in the Regional, and International stages, though reprimand or support will most certainly come through in the next few days.

Revello’s calls for mobilization have yet to be fully seen on the island itself. Sources close to The Killian National Times say that full scale mobilizations may not be needed as forces located on the island have begun re-occupying areas involved in conflict.

As for outside aid, Revello has nor acknowledged or denied that outside aid may be used, though another source close to “The Times” believes that outside aid would be useless and unnecessary, though we will still have to see how the conflict plays out."

'Point A'
Killia, The Imperial Republic
0523

First Lieutenant Krell Rivers walked amongst the makeshift camp, chewing on his unlit cigar as was his common habit. He never could bring himself to actually light it, but the taste of it was soothing. As he passed along the camp two soldiers walked past him, bearing the insignia of the Killian Imperial Army. Krell just gave a slight nod, and they returned it. It'd never been within Killian ability to actually salute a Jagite officer, if they could help it. Beyond that Krell had never really demanded it, or even cared for that matter. He wasn't commanding Killians; now if his own men were to be so disrespectful, a full week of extra duty and a suspension of pay for two months would be the lightest punishment he would deliever. Long ago he'd come to the realization that discipline was needed, and had to be a harsh as possible to wipe the men into order.

As he continued his informal inspection of the camp, the camp his troops didn't even build, he nodded in approval to several Killian engineering decisions, and shook his head at only a few. He stopped in front of two flag poles which stood in the base. One was the 'Stars and Stripes' of the Imperial Republic, the flag was once an old relic of a long-forgotten imperial republic. Next to it and obviously two feet shorter was the Aquilla, black in a white background, the symbol of the United Republics. Four years ago, he would have been insulted to see his nation's banner so beneath that of an ally, but the Killians have proved invaluble during the Reformation that turned The Guard from the untrained, undisciplined, sub-militia organization it was into this -- a well-oiled military machine.

His concentration was broke by the feeling that someone was watching him, he snapped around and in a single fluid motion saluted. Captain James Millerson gave a casual salute in return, 'Lieutenant,' he said calmly. His attention broke to the two national flags fluttering in the wind.

'Does it offend you?' he asked, not removing his gaze from the flags.

Krell looked back up at the flags and shrugged, 'Not really, sir. When the Imperial Republic agreed to help Jagada we were on the verge of total military decay.'

James nodded, 'I'm glad you think that way. I wasn't one of the training commanders sent, but I regularly visited on offical business. You Jagites have improved far beyond anything I first thought possible.'

Krell, to his disliking, felt pride swell in his chest. 'Thank you, sir. We try.'

James let out a chuckle, 'How are your men taking being under Killian command?'

The First Lieutenant gazed over at the several pockets of Jagites soldiers, mainly sqauds preparing together and then turned his attention back to the captain, 'Sir, the Jagites care not who commands them, so long as they have a chance to prove their worth.'

The captain turned his attention to Krell finally and smiled, 'I believe you will find a good chance of that.'

First Lieutenant Krell nodded. The Guardsmen were more than ready to prove themselves, the months and years of intense Killian training had finally paid off. These three companies of the 21st Brigade would be the beginning of a new era in Jagite Warfare. This campaign, while small by comparison to the looming rumors of another major war brewing across the seas, would be the blood baptism for them.

Krell caught the captain looking more into him than at him, 'You Jagites are something else.' He laughed as he walked away. To any untrained ear that would be considered an insult, followed closely by a quickly backhand across the face. Though to any man apart of these last years of training would take it as a complete compliment. When the Killians first got them, all 760, they found only ten worth a damn. Those were the elite 'Rear Guard', and then they had several defects the Killians viciously beat out of them. Krell shivered at the thought of the training the Elites went threw. Only rumors found their way to the regular Guardsmen, and then they were vague. Rumors of being left to die in the middle of a Killian mountain range on their first day, all the way to the Killians actively trying to kill them throughout the training program. Some questioned if the ten that were in the camp today were actually the original or if more had to be brought in. Either way, whatever the Killians did they turned those men into cold hearted bastards.

Well ... most of them anyway. No sooner had Krell made the thought than Staff Seargant Quarl Sinnons appeared from inside of one of the many buildings, around his next were chains of ammunition and in both hands he carried boxes of it. As he passed by Krell he easily lifted on box up and make a makeshift salute. 'Sir,' he said politely before going about his business. Elites were required to salute higher ranked officers in The Guard, but not required to stop while they did so. Quarl, however, probably would have stopped just to give Krell the honor. As leader of the ten man, including himself, squad of Elite Guard, he was perhaps the only one among them with any real personality -- even if it was dark as the void and scary as hell. He reminded Krell of a outlaw, the smartass kind. The kind he perferred. War was hell, might as well make it funny as hell too.

The Lieutenant turned on his heels and made his way towards a group of men. Once he got closer he regonized the squad as Staff Seargant Korgo Trales' command. As he passed by, the soldiers kept a 'sense' of him and his location, and to test them he allowed his discipline to slip just enough to come within five feet of them. They immediately snapped to attention and gave a crisp salute. As was per training, if an officer was to come within five feet of a man or any sqaud they were to show proper respect for him, unless otherwise instructed. Korgo was just as anal, if not more than him about discipline. He'd been in JAB 'Greece II' for years, as just another officer wasting his time and day on his men. He was on the verge of being discharged due to inactivity and consecuative AWOL charges when the Killians picked him personally. Out of a list of billions no one ever knew why Korgo got hand-picked, one of the few in the regular to recieve such an honor. Since they he'd rose to the call of positon and wipped his men into a brutal instrument of war.

Krell nodded to Korgo and to each man he passed, 'Damn fine examples of men you've made them Korgo ... if only you could conquer the women as well.'

The staff seargant and his men let out a noticeable laugh, with Korgo turning a shade of red. His luck with the ladies was, at best, horrible. Every time the Killians granted the Jagites leave in the small towns they were camped around, he always ended up coming back fuming and with a new black eye. A fine killing machine he was, but a ladies man he could never be. His boldness did him in everytime. Krell continued his inspections of the men in his 'Alpha' Company, and occasionally spoke with Lieutenants Anduli and Naeturc of companies 'Beta' and 'Omega'. The general feeling for the Jagites was one of almost unhealthy anticipation. They would force the enemy to his knees and then some. All in the name of the United and Imperial Republic. So help them God.

Point “A”
Mulgore Military Instillation,
Outside of Killia, The Imperial Republic

Captain James Millerson strode into the tent reserved for Killian officers after making a routine patrol and inspection in and around the camp. Millerson was surprisingly pleased and even proud of the progress that Jagite soldiers had made since he had taken command. After the long and grueling retraining, three Jagite brigades had been flown to The Imperial Republic to further and continue their training and battle tactics under some of the best Mechanized Infantry officers that The Republic had to offer. With the training that these men were now getting over their counterparts and the fact that they were going to be led and fine-tuned against the Paradisian Guerillas under Killian officers meant that when these men returned home they would be assuming some of the top leadership positions in the Jagite armed forces. Indeed the Jagite’s had deserved some credit though; when Millerson and his subordinates were given these men to re-train, he and his men were more than displeased with the ragtag assemblage of soldiers. The foreign soldier’s worth would be ultimately proven in combat to come, and the reckoning for the Paradisian’s was drawing ever nearer.

After closing the tent flap behind him, Millerson briskly walked to his desk quietly greeting and occasionally saluting his fellow officers, subordinates, and commanders. Millerson’s eyes were immediately drawn to a dark grey envelope when he got to his desk; Millerson stiffened, bristled, and then snatched the envelope from his desk. The envelope that Millerson was holding had all the normal markings of a military order, as well as all the legal warnings on it. Before Millerson could open the envelope he heard the familiar “Room attention!”, and immediately turned towards the front of the tent, and stood at attention. Coming into Millerson’s view was Lieutenant Colonel James “Jimmy” Wilson. Lt. Col. Wilson was the acting commander of the Mechanized Infantry Divisions currently training the Jagite Forces.

After Wilson had sent the room back to whatever tasks they were doing, Millerson noticed that the high ranking officer was coming directly towards him. Millerson once again assumed the position of attention when Wilson had gotten closer to himself.

“At ease captain”

“Thank you sir” was the standard and curt response Millerson offered.

When the Lt. Colonel made the gesture for Millerson to sit down, he hesitated for a second and then put himself in his arm chair. Wilson, following suit, sat down and took the envelope from Millerson’s desk and waved them while saying,

“I came here to talk to you captain, about these specific orders and what they entail. I don’t know if you had read these yet, and I hope not because I tried to get to you first. Captain, you will be commanding the spearheading force attacking into southeast of the guerilla forces; your forces will comprise one-thirds Killian, two-thirds Jagite. You will be attacking simultaneously with Captain Driscoll’s southern attacking forces. When you look at the map, you will see the two attacking forces will be headed in the direction of the two main roads in the southern direction. Once all forces have pushed through to the other side and cleared the roadways, a united offensive will take place into the heart of the congressional district. That’s a basic summary; more details will obviously be included. However, I wanted you to know that you were leading these men, and to make sure they are well briefed and executed. Also Captain, are you alright with taking this responsibility?”

“Yes sir, completely. I have enough faith in the men under my command.”

“Good. Since your forces are the first attacking forces, you’re shipping out tomorrow night. Since we are dealing with an urban environment your forces will get helicopter support, and light skinned vehicles only so round up all your infantry and get them prepped. Don’t get up and salute me or do all that other shit Captain when I leave; you have enough to worry about and just get cracking. Good luck Millerson.”

---

Captain Millerson stepped out with the evening sun on his back headed straight for the Jagite officer’s quarters. Millerson knew that he would find most of the men he needed to brief at this location as well the man who commanded their divisions. As Millerson continued his stride into the Jagite quarter he could see Jagite soldiers keeping the camp as clean and prepared as he had ever seen it and Millerson hoped that the men’s training and discipline being shown at the moment would translate well into a combat scenario. Though Millerson noted to himself that these men would die comfortably proving that they were indeed worth something.

As Millerson entered the officer’s quarters of the Jagite forces he was greeted by the standard “Room Attention”. Millerson did not tell the men to return to what they were doing and kept them standing erectly as he slowly, and casually walked around the quarters. Millerson, as he was walking, looked up and down at the men in his line of sight; Millerson was not looking at how clean or organized their uniforms were, but rather he was looking for signs of weakness in any of these commanders. The captain knew if one of these men broke down, the war machine, HIS war machine, would come to a halt. Even though Millerson had faith in the Jagite soldiers filling the lower ranks, he would and could not take any chances.

Millerson snapped out of his thought process and inspection and began to speak while he was pacing the room.

“Gentlemen, I have just been told by Lieutenant Colonel James Wilson himself that tomorrow night we will be shipping out with and AS the first attacking force landing on Paradise Island. Yes, that means that this entire brigade will be seeing combat. It is time to use all the experience you have gained, and it is truly a time to prove your mettle. Tonight there will be a private briefing for all officers at 2030. Is there a Lieutenant Rivers here?”

Millerson saw Rivers when the man emphatically raised a fist to signal that he was present.

“Lieutenant Rivers, any officer not present right now MUST be at the briefing tonight. Any officer not present will be relieved of his command. I will see you all later gentlemen.”

---

Millerson was quietly comparing the Jagites and the Killians as he entered the Killian quarter of the camp. Millerson noticed that in the Killian sectors there was much less of a hurry on everything; either his men had everything squared away already, or they were slacking off. Millerson’s doubts were immediately put to rest when he started hearing the grunts of groans of exercise and the gunshots of practice firing. Millerson was going to be a lot sterner with his own men but obviously competition with the Jagites seemed to be doing it for him.

Millerson’s examination of the soldier’s barracks only proved his point. Littered throughout barracks were men oiling and cleaning their KAR-44 assault rifles and soldiers reading an assortment of books from the camp’s libraries as well. Millerson felt like normally these men would be playing cards, smoking cigarettes, or generally being gregarious, but such was not the case. Millerson both agreed and disagreed with himself. Under normal circumstances his men would have DESERVED to play card, smoke cigarettes, and goof off with everything looking the way it did.

Irregardless of whatever thoughts Millerson was having, he was indeed very pleased with the Killians as much as the Jagites. Plus, with all the competition going on in and around the camp, the rebels would never even come close to having an idea about what was about to hit them. Millerson had a nice sized grin when he went into the Killian officer’s quarters.

---

Paradisian National Hall and Parliamentary Building
The Congressional District,
Paradise Island

Brick, mortar, and debris flew out everywhere as another section of the building’s front wall was obliterated by a guerilla RPG. A grayish, grimy, and course sand covered the Killian soldiers in the room after the explosion, but the instinct of survival the men had was more so prioritized than anything else, and the combat going on continued going on without hesitation. Killian soldiers were fighting back, or rather trying to fend off, the attacking forces with a stout resolve. Small arms fire cracked and popped all throughout the building coming down and into the rabble of guerillas below. Explosions were sporadically going off throughout the fight as hand grenades and forty-millimeter weapon mounted grenades made their way to the ground below.

Only a mere few hours earlier, what was once a symbol of peace and diplomacy was now the center of full-fledged combat. The Paradisian guerilla forces had finally decided to make their attack on the building, in what was no doubt an attempt to capture as many elected officials and Killians as possible. Guerilla forces could be seen from all aspects of the combat zone rushing headlong into the buildings outlying and surrounding structures and courtyards with a definite fervor. The continuing attack pressed on in despite of the growing amount of bodies, blood, and organs on the streets that had proven that the Killian soldiers could defeat the guerillas attack, but not their ideals.

The initial guerilla assault came as a surprise to the Killian platoons and divisions stationed in and around the Parliamentary building but the Paradisian strike came at an extraordinary immeasurable cost. With Killian soldiers occupying every level of the eight story building, a myriad of lead came down onto the attackers from what might have been the heavens. As the initial guerilla assault was occurring, loads of human bodies were dropping to the floor in what could only be described as a slaughter. Killian soldiers had a perfect view into the outlying areas, and the combination of designated marksman, grenades, and light machine guns was a terrible, yet effective, way to maximize casualties and cut losses. Killian soldiers were also able to use desks, chairs, cabinets, and any other office furniture as protective shields as they fired out of the windows.

The current, and second, assault was not going to Killian favor though. The Paradisian guerillas had learned from their initial beating and were now bringing mortars, RPGs, and their own grenades to the fight. Walls were exploding left and right of the soldiers occupying the building, throwing some men and debris alike hurtling. Most of the Killian soldiers were still firing their weapons out of the windows and into whatever they could see, despite the incoming explosives and increased volume of gunfire. Small arms fire once again rang out heavily inside and outside of the building.

The familiar sound of lead striking concrete and wood picked up in volume as the guerillas began to attempt to suppress the Killian soldiers. Rounds that were not strays did strike soldiers, sending them to the floor dead or wounded. The screams of the unfortunate also began to ring out when bullets pierced flak jackets, or turned a skull inside out. With the rebel forces growing in number, the Killian tactics began changing. Soldiers were no longer just firing out windows; they were firing out of a window and immediately changing position to another vantage point. Hand grenades were also loosed with utter disregard sending shrapnel and human pieces everywhere. The Killians were also bringing a multi-level fight to the guerillas setting up positions on the ground floor entrance area as well as the front lawn of the building. On the top of the building designated marksmen were drawing beads on the guerillas daring enough to fire from the roofs of surrounding buildings.

On the newly established positions behind the pylons of the parliamentary building, pairs of Killian soldiers were taking careful three-round bursts into the advancing guerilla forces. Being shot at from the ground confused the rebels initially, and was enough to keep enemy forces off of the front lawn; at least for now. Helping the soldiers playing cat and mouse on the ground floor was two machine gun nests mounted on the steps of the building that were pumping out enough rounds to send waves of the guerillas screaming and on their way to the floor; minus a few pints of blood. Atop the building the marksman version of the KAR-44 was being used to eradicate the RPG fire costing the Killians so much. The rebels and their accumulating casualties on the roofs was still not enough to stem the RPG fire coming in; in fact rebels were now firing back with their older yet still effective sniper rifles and Killian marksman were falling without the ability to keep tabs on the growing masses on the roofs.

The scenario at the Paradisian National Hall was not going any better than the one taking place at The Parliamentary building. The Paradisian National Hall was where the Prime minister and his cabinet lived and made decisions; essentially it was where most of the top leaders resided. Add the fact that The National Hall was only a few hundred yards behind the Parliamentary Building and one could easily believe that soldiers protecting the building were suffering and fending off their own attacks. Mortars were raining down on the National Hall, blowing entire sections of walls completely apart while guerillas were making there daring charges across the rear lawns.

Most of the soldiers guarding the National Hall were fighting on the lawns surrounding it since the small two-story building did not offer many vantage points or any strategic firing points. Soldiers were using the shrubs and vegetation as cover as they fired into the advancing mob of guerillas. Since vegetation does not provide efficient cover from small arms fire, scores of Killian soldiers were getting wounded or killed. Groups of soldiers as small as three men were valiantly fighting off the enemy as best as they could, despite the blatant number disadvantage. Retreating and moving in and out of the vegetation while firing was the only saving grace that the Killian soldiers had; they were creating enough confusion to be able to pick off a few guerillas every time. However, once the Killian’s were pressed back into the National Building itself, the battle was going to drastically turn for the worse.

MacDonald Military Installation,
Paradise Island,
0830 Hours, Local Time

Captain Millerson casually watched the scene unfolding in front of him; hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers were debarking the planes in their full battle dress uniforms and then forming up with their divisions on the tarmac. Soldiers from The Imperial Republic and The United Republics stood together in formation waiting patiently for their orders to take back Paradise Island. After watching the last of the soldiers exit their planes, Millerson started looking for his division. As Millerson was walking through the careful and neat ranks of men, his pride swelled; all the men on the tarmac, both Killian and Jagite, would undoubtedly perform well in the coming campaign.

When Millerson approached his division, all the men were quietly and patiently waiting for his arrival. When he stepped within three feet of the division, the non-commissioned officers and officers alike took their positions in the formation and yelled out for attention amongst all the men. Millerson let the men stand at attention once again as he re-inspected them. His careful and meticulous manner aided him as he corrected very small and minor mistakes in the men. He was essentially correcting the assemblage of men on their uniforms, and ripping off and throwing away the items on the men that were standard issue, but would serve no purpose in the upcoming battle. Once finished viewing his men, Millerson took a position in the front of the division and spoke fiercely,

“Gentlemen, today you will be enjoying your last hot showers, hot shaves, hot food, and sleep on mattresses; I say enjoy it because everyone has earned it, and it may be the last time you enjoy such luxuries. Also, read, and re-read the battle plans you all were issued on the plane-ride over here. That plan contains all the major objectives, attack routes, and rally points in the southern sector. All that information is extremely useful should you get lost, get wounded, get captured, or any other unfortunate event that takes place during war.

Men, at 0230 hours you will be awake and formed up and ready to fight in the designated area. There will of course be more prep work when you form up, so be prepared. Sunrise tomorrow is 0637, YOU do the math. I will see you all then gentlemen, DISMISSED!”

En Route to MacDonald Military Installation
The Sea of HailandKill,

Lieutenant Rivers looked down at the map of southern Paradise Island. A primarily urban area it seemed, with patches of forests and less dense towns. Though for the most part, armor would be useless if not a liability. The density would also eliminate any hope of artillery dealing the winning blow before his men even entered battle. Rivers was no coward; he wanted the Jagites to prove to the Killians that their training and hardships were not in vain. Though the seven hundred and fifty odd numbers of Jagites partaking in this operation were to return to Jagada with the intentions of taking command of the United Republic’s best units, they would be the crack infantry. Rivers himself was rumored to be up for promotion to full captain. He wanted to limit his losses here as much as possible. Next to him sat his second-in-command, Haimat Valindr, who consequently was the third-in-command of the company should both Millerson and Rivers fall in battle. However the chance of that happening was slim and it never seemed to bother Haimat.

He was a short yet very stocky man in his early thirties with a reddish beard and hair that barley, and had always just barley, been within military length limits. Haimat had often said that when he was captain of his own company, everyone would have mullets. Rivers remembered that his response was something like, ‘fuck no’. Nevertheless, Haimat was a man of great potential and even greater endurance. He had been in the top ten of all Jagites in the endurance course, actually knocking out one of the Elite Guardsmen and breaking their long standing monopoly on it. Even though it was only tenth place it was better than anyone else in the Guard. Millerson had even once, in a brief conversation about Haimat, said, ‘He’s one tough son of a whore’. A poke at Haimat’s rather … unorthodox mother. Though only fools every mention it around him.

It was in fact Haimat’s voice that broke Rivers train of thought, ‘Urban terrain. Dammit I hate that shit. Always having to look over your shoulder and between your legs to make sure some cowardly fucker isn’t waiting to pop you.’

‘What are you complaining about?’ jeered Rivers, ‘You’re so short they’ll probably mistake you for a child.’

Haimat’s eyes oozed contempt, ‘Maybe’ he snorted. Rivers have a audible laugh and shoved Haimat a bit, which eased the tension in the stocky dwarf. ‘You’re right though, we’ll be in one hell of a war-zone. I suspect we’ll loose more than we hoped.’

‘Fifty plus,’ said the Second Lieutenant dryly. Loosing more than that would put Rivers in a less than happy mood, even if victory was achieved with optimal gains and glory.

‘Afraid so,’ replied Rivers, ‘Lets just hope we kill as many of those bastards as we can to make up for it.’

The remainder of the flight was rather uneventful was Haimat continued to suggest to Rivers different assault routes the Killians may be contemplating. Most of which seemed logical to Rivers, a few were out of the ballpark in terms of complexity and he disregarded them. The Killians were known for simply getting the job done with maximum gains and minimum losses incurred. Complexity he never believed was their strong point. Nevertheless he argued the pros and cons of every route with Haimat until both men agreed that regardless of which route was chosen it would the 21st Brigade which led it, and would no doubt suffer the most. During the last hour of the flight, Haimat got distracted with another officer, his rival Kabag Thir, and soon the two were quietly arguing who did better in training, Haimat bringing up instantly his trump card the endurance course with Kabag quickly reminding him of his perfect scores in tactical planning. Meanwhile Rivers couldn’t sleep, even though he knew he’d need it when he came before Captain Millerson later tonight, he quietly stared out of the window of the transport plane at the waters below. Deep inside he could feel something brewing, like a hurricane in the distance quietly, yet ominously swirling towards his men and him. The plane’s landing gear screeched on the ground as it made contact with the asphalt-concrete landing pad. Rivers knew what would come next, as did Haimat and Kabag – both had stopped their bickering and stared quietly forward.

When the plane finished its landing, the rear ramp sighed open as the hydraulic piston did their job and allowed fresh air to swim into the belly of the plane. Rivers and his men immediately stood up and turned on their heels, they were seated in marching position. They marched out of the plane in perfect order with the First Lieutenant leading the pack. From the other planes the rest of the 21st Brigade disembarked and within a matter of five minutes, actually a few second longer than their last record, the Jagites were assembled and ready as Captain Millerson stood before them, solid as a titanium statue.

As always when the Captain spoke he spoke with the authority of not just a mere man, but of a soldier:

“Gentlemen, today you will be enjoying your last hot showers, hot shaves, hot food, and sleep on mattresses; I say enjoy it because everyone has earned it, and it may be the last time you enjoy such luxuries. Also, read, and re-read the battle plans you all were issued on the plane-ride over here. That plan contains all the major objectives, attack routes, and rally points in the southern sector. All that information is extremely useful should you get lost, get wounded, get captured, or any other unfortunate event that takes place during war.

Men, at 0230 hours you will be awake and formed up and ready to fight in the designated area. There will of course be more prep work when you form up, so be prepared. Sunrise tomorrow is 0637, YOU do the math. I will see you all then gentlemen, DISMISSED!”

As the troops began their seemingly chaotic, yet perfectly organized dismissal towards their section of MacDonald Military Installation, First Lieutenant Rivers made a B-line towards the company third-in-command Second Lieutenant Valindr. As he approached Haimat, he noticed he was speaking with his Staff Sergeants. Due to his rank, they would be required to salute him immediately if he came within five feet of them. Rivers always enjoyed testing his most trusted subordinate and did so by coming within five and a half feet – the Second Lieutenant paused for was many would believe was only to take a breath, but Rivers knew it was to do a quick check on River’s distance. He gave Haimat a whole five minutes before he suddenly took one step forward and immediately all three subordinate officers were saluting him.

‘First Lieutenant Rivers,’ said Haimat with the professionalism he lacked on the plane, ‘How may I be of service to you sir?’

Rivers returned the salute, something unheard of in Jagite military formalities, a higher officer was not required and even discouraged from saluting his subordinates. The reason was unknown and many believed it merely to engrave the idea of chain-of-command into the minds of the soldiers, and force them to read rank more properly – something that the Guard had a chronic lack of before the Military Reformation. Rivers did it only on rare occasions to simply throw off his men, to keep the sense of uncertainty about him.

He finally replied, ‘Yes, Second Lieutenant, I would have a word with you now.’

The Staff Sergeants however did not immediately walk off until Haimat turned to them and dismissed them properly. The chain-of-command was strictly enforced in the new Guard.

‘Second Lieutenant, I want all officers from platoon level and up to meet me at my tent in one hour’s time. We all have a meeting with Captain Millerson, but I want a more … personal grouping prior to that.’

Haimat gave a crisp salute, ‘Yes sir!’ He quickly hurried off in perfect military discipline, neither running nor jogging nor breaking his strict walking, yet getting to his destination faster than a normal man doing the same exercise. First Lieutenant Rivers, however, paid no attention to Haimat and made his way back to his tent. He had much to prepare for.

Tent of First Lieutenant Krell Rivers
One hour later,

The last officer to walk threw the tent flaps, Lieutenant Dethe Henatur, a platoon commander from First Lieutenant Anduli’s Omega Company. Even though he had arrived with a group of five other officers, he was the last man to arrive at the meeting. First Lieutenant Anduli, known for his rather overly strict attitude, immediately forced Dethe to do a hundred push-ups before he would allow the meeting to take place. Luckily Dethe was used to the strict punishments and managed to produce all push-ups in a little over ten minutes, keeping Rivers from becoming annoyed with his equally ranked counterpart. While Anduli and Naeturc were equal rank with him, the Killians, primarily Captain Millerson had announced in some form or another support for Rivers as overall Jagite commander, second only to the Killian officers commanding the companies and the battalion in general. Alpha, Omega, and Beta Companies, combined only made up the tactical element known as ‘B Battalion’ in the 21st Brigade.

Rivers got the nod from Anduli to continue with the meeting and he did so quickly, Captain Millerson at 2030 hours. As of now it was only 1833 hours, ample time but still Rivers never liked to cut anything too close if it could be avoided.

‘Officers,’ he said crisply, ‘At 0230, we will be awoken to go and prove ourselves to our Killian trainers who, upon our arrival in the Imperial Republic, regarded us as a second-class militia, much less a capable fighting force. Since then we have shown them that Jagites can improve, and at 0300 we will have shown them that Jagites can fight as their equals.’

His statement got him a round of nods and slight grunts, gross expressions were kept to a minimum – at least in Rivers command. The Jagites were trying to mimic the Killians in one aspect, the ability to remain absolutely calm in the face of overwhelming odds. Something it seemed that each Killians inherently had, or at least was perfectly drilled into becoming. The First Lieutenant quietly pointed to the map on the metal table in front of him. The Killians probably has basic holographic, three dimensional maps to work off of, but the Jagites had preferred to keep such needless technology to a limit and instead relied on maps.

Rivers placed his finger in the middle of a generally white spot on the map – clearly colored designed to be urbanized terrain. ‘Officers that is our objective; to relieve the Killians held up in the National Hall and Parliamentary Building. The Killians expect that they will be the ones to save them. I expect different results, if we can manage.’

Rivers turned his attention to Staff Sergeant Quarl Sinnons, leader of the Elite Guard Squad, 'Staff Sergeant. I expect you can give one of the companies the necessary conditions to achieve this secondary objective.’ Rivers made sure to emphasize secondary, the Jagites were disciplined now and would not disobey a direct command – from either a Jagite or a Killian. If the Killians were that hell-bent on rescuing their own, then Rivers would eagerly allow them. Though he doubted the Killians cared who, simply that they were rescued. At least, he gambled on it.

‘First Lieutenant,’ chimed Quarl, ‘Our primary objectives come first, as has always been the policy of the Elites, however, if we can make the opening we would be more than happy. No promises.’

Coming from an Elite Guardsmen, that was as close to a ‘yes’ as Rivers was going to get. The Elites were damn-near their own personal army and in the upcoming campaign they were given to role of an independent force with several primary objectives and even more secondary objectives they were required to complete. The Killians and Jagites both knew it was best to simply let them conduct themselves on their own without any interference, unless deemed necessary by High Command.
For the next hour, Rivers went over, again and again, the possible opponents arrayed against them. The Paradisian rebels were expected to be battle hardened from fighting the Killians, plus they have the fervor of a people fighting for their own right of self-determination. The fact that the United Republics, a highly libertarian government, was even allowing their soldiers to participate in the suppression of a peoples seeking freedom was damn near shocking. Though, while the Jagites were libertarians, they were also nationalists. Jagada First and Only. Damn the rest of Humanity. Something that Rivers was sure even HailandKill would learn one day. Finally has 2000 neared, Rivers ended the meeting with some final tactical tips and suggestions to certain platoons and even to the First Lieutenants of Omega and Beta. Instead of releasing his officers and thus running the rest of some showing up late to the meeting with Captain Millerson, Rivers simply let his officer’s lounge for a few minutes and straighten their suits.

He led them out of the tent at 2020 and at 2030; the entire Jagite Office Corps was assembled outside of Captain Millerson’s tent. Ready for duty.

Killian-Jagite Attack Force Staging Area,
South of MacDonald Military Instillation, Paradise Island,
0530 Hours, Local Time

The early morning air was thick as soldiers were finishing the tasks set upon them. The entire staging area was a thicket of activity as soldiers checked their ammunition supplies, finished loading up light-skinned vehicles, and began to make the final checks and preparations for the initial assault. Both Killians and Jagites were working together to make sure that there would be no mistakes and that the combined war machines would work without any excuse or fail. Quite soon after they had started, most of the combat preparations were finished and both Killian and Jagite began forming up together as one equal, battle-ready force. Given the history of the two nations, it was astonishing to see both Killian and Jagite soldiers checking each others gear, armor, and anything else that needed to be adjusted pre-combat. Dozens and dozens of soldiers, Killian and Jagite alike, were huddling together as one, cheering, and anticipating the coming fight.

A brotherhood through combat was about to be forged.

Captain Millerson watched the men under his command finish gearing, and preparing for the upcoming fight. His chest swelled with pride for his men when they began getting into a rigid formation as he approached. As Millerson stepped into range, all the men snapped quickly and rigidly to attention. Millerson kept his men at attention as he walked down the neatly filed ranks of soldiers. As Millerson was taking off an unnecessary item off a Jagite he noticed, and caught the first glimpse of the sun breaking the horizon. Quickly the other soldiers noticed it as well, and a whole new wave of anticipation ran through the men. Most of the men did not have time to worry about their thoughts and anticipations because the deafening roar of fighters from the mainland filled their ears and heads. The low, load, rumble of fighters swooping down was unmistakable; neither were the loud explosions that followed in their wake. Indeed the whole urban areas were being targeted as multi-role aircraft kept swooping in and delivering their payloads; which were wreaking havoc, destruction, and death on those below. The fiery orange aftermath of the bomb explosions could be seen quite visibly against the light blue hue of daybreak. The sun crossing the horizon to the backdrop of terrible explosions had everyone entranced.

Smoke was billowing from the market district when the sun had crossed over the horizon. The thick black plumes had allowed everyone to see the extensive damage that had been caused, and the sunrise was obscured by thick blackness. Helicopters began diving into the Market District lighting up buildings ands streets alike. The helicopters tracer rounds flared brightly in the morning skies illustrating the death headed to the ground below. Several wing mounted missiles were fired into points of resistance adding more debris to the ground, and more smoke to the air above.

Millerson looked at his watch and it read 0632. The low, powerful, thrum of IFV’s were echoing down the staging area as a surge of mechanical might barreled towards the enemy. The very, very first waves of soldiers into the fight would be in the IFV’s; most of these soldiers were Jagites, with Killian officers interspersed between them. When the sound of light tanks rolling down the plains was heard, Millerson and indeed all the commanding officers prepared their units for marching. When the light armor took the lead, Millerson ordered his men off.

All the men’s worth were about to be tested.

---

Northwestern Market District,
Paradise Island,
0704 Hours, Local Time

Thomas Swartz picked himself off of the hardwood floor and shook the gook and grime off of him. When Swartz picked up Rourke from his place on the floor, he stumbled to the window to an unfortunate scene. Brick, mortar, and steel lay on the streets below. Several buildings on the block were billowing smoke, as well as spraying water and gas into the surrounding areas. It was obvious the Killian air strike was only a taste of the impending might about to come down on him and his men. It was also obvious the Killian forces meant business as Swartz observed the chaos and carnage around him. Swartz, from his perch above could also see the fast moving Killian infantry fighting vehicles roaring down the streets, unaffected by the litter in their paths.

Swartz hurriedly, and panicked, turned to Rourke, who quickly tossed him a submachine gun. Rourke cocked his own submachine gun amidst the slow popping start of small arms combat. Neither Rourke nor Swartz knew how much time they had lost unconscious on the floor when the Killian ordinance exploded in the floors above them. Rourke motioned for Swartz to follow him, and Swartz was down what was left intact of the staircase. When Swartz walked through the battered door frame of the entrance, he stumbled over a beam and fell into the cluttered and debris filled street. Picking himself up once again, the man heard the slow start of combat evolving into a tumultuous array of sound effects. From what sounded only blocks away, a yelling and screaming of soldiers, gunfire, grenade explosions, and improvised explosive detonations could be heard quite clearly. Both Swartz and Rourke knew that the Killian attack force would be upon them in mere minutes…

…Swartz, as if in a dream, watched as Rourke pulled him in his direction once again; everything had happened, and was happening, as fast as the sound of accelerating IFV’s echoing throughout Swartz’s ears. Swartz fell awkwardly down for a third time, and looked around into scene taking place before him; the combat innocent man saw the survivors of the aerial pounding taking positions and blindly firing from behind crude pieces of what was once fine engineering; His guerilla forces were trying their best to prepare and regroup for the battles ahead. An Killian IFV came into view, and with it came the sound of steel hitting pavement; which meant only one thing. Before Swartz could fully process what was about to happen, the building behind him exploded into a thousand pieces as a helicopter flew in and out of sight….

…Swartz was panting now; cowering behind what was a front stoop, the clicking and clanging of stray rounds resonating above him. Small arms fire exploded with a sudden intensity; the loud exchange of gunfire slapping off cement, wood, and steel was emanating loudly against the quiet streets. The purr of precision killing filled the air as the turrets of IFV’s opened fire haplessly into what Swartz noted to himself as “Rourke’s men”. The scene unfolding around him was occurring in slow motion as Swartz saw his forces get mercilessly cut down by the Killian soldiers advancing on his position. From his cover, the man could clearly see the fatigues of a professional army, and the muzzle flashes that came with them.

Swartz watched as Rourke tug him off his feet, and yet again determinedly pulling him to safety. As Swartz was being dragged, he saw the last of the fighters on the block get struck by lead; Killian soldiers were now viciously advancing while pouring rounds on anything that moved. Swartz’s heartbeat accelerated when a round struck him right below the knee, and into the shin.

---

The screams of the dying were just barely drowning out the yelling of a well trained army. The attack force made up solely of only Killian’s were pounding into the rebel forces like a hot knife through butter. Killian soldiers were still exiting their IFV’s into the worsening fight without notice to their surroundings; the soldiers only immediately drew and fired into any targets they could put into their crosshairs. The assaulting IFV’s were doing their job as planned, suppressing and eliminating clusters of guerilla soldiers as their precious cargoes were unloading. Killian soldiers, once in the fray of combat, were pouring their assault rifle rounds into the direction of the unseen enemy as they exited their steel safety and into the cover of destroyed buildings. The addition of more soldiers from incoming IFV’s only encouraged advancement farther into enemy territory along with more sight confirmed kills being witnessed. Scores of Killian soldiers kept up their fierce fighting from obstacle to obstacle, advancing, and still precisely firing, over the cement encrusted streets.

More IFV’s were dropping soldiers off throughout the streets of the Market District, adding more chaos to the developing battle. Killian men swarmed the Paradisian city blocks like jackals to carrion. Dispensing grenades, weapon mounted grenades, and automatic fire, Killian’s moved effortlessly from block to block. All throughout the outskirts of the district, Killian’s were clearing only houses that had attackers residing in them, only expediting the advancement process. Concrete fences and ruined steel beams provided the perfect leap-frog attack style the Killian officers were ordering their men to perform. Killian soldiers were staying low and only firing when the opportunity was given. The duck-and-cover tactics were taking their toll on the omni-present and almost certainly visible guerilla enemy. Killian soldiers were unaware, or at least showed no remorse when they struck and killed the guerillas firing from windows and their own cover. It was a fact, though, that most of rebel cover points were being obliterated as Killian’s carelessly threw grenades as needed.

As the battle was starting to enter later stages, non-commissioned officers were now doing most of the leading in the battle, taking their squads from obstacle to obstacle, and building to building alike. The tight knit platoon style fighting was more orchestrated than the rebels individual to individual fighting styles. Training was kicking in full force as Platoon Sergeants were ordering fragmentation grenades, and forty-millimeter weapon launched grenades into building windows and doors. Squad style combat took over completely as Staff Sergeants and Lance Corporals were orchestrating combat teams to clear out the now ruined houses. The Killian squads that were mercilessly clearing houses had found most of the opposition killed from the floors below, but with the discovery of a guerilla fighter still plausible, the men used their training to overwhelm and kill any enemy they found. The Killian forces were successfully clearing houses and sprawling out into the area. Grenades were no longer anti-personnel weapons, but demolition tools, as soldiers blew entire chunks of wall away to continue moving forward. The vantage points of the cleared buildings only added to the death in the ranks of sparse guerilla forces.

As Killian soldiers were nearing the geographical end of the stage one attack, suddenly the walls and streets exploded in a fierce uproar. The ease of land-grabbing was all of a sudden over with as the rebel forces regrouped and became denser as the attackers neared their nucleus. Now it was time for the rebels to show a fiercer fight than earlier. Dozens of Killian soldiers met their fates when ingenuously improvised explosive devices brought down walls, and shot lethal shrapnel into the area. The sudden chaos had stopped the Killian advance, and now soldier and guerilla alike were paying for every inch of land they took, or took back. Radio chatter amongst the Killian forces increased ten-fold as squads were being pinned down left and right. Radios were also being used to summon the IFV’s back into battle, since the soldiers had advanced farther than them. Pinned down squads of men, both Killian and guerilla, were now trying to out-flank and outwit each other with catastrophic results. Soldiers met point blank with rebels as gunfire cut each group down. The battle had changed from a vertical one, to a horizontal one as Killian platoon leaders vied to continuously out maneuver their enemies.

The fight became even more intense when the sound of high-revving engines was heard once again. Killian IFV’s were now advancing amidst the sudden combat, spraying and hosing rebel positions with their lethal rounds. The guerillas caught in the open were being killed in absorbent figures, but their numbers and density were giving them the ability to escape open warfare and flank their metal attackers. With that in mind, despite the re-addition of IFV’s into the newly tougher fight, the rebel forces were using their numbers and knowledge of the area to use RPGs and mortar attacks to cause a wave of burnt and twisted hulls that were formerly expensive pieces of equipment.

With the increase of explosions, both Killian and guerilla, both forces began scattering throughout the battlefield. House to house combat had erupted in which both Killians’ were ambushing guerillas, and guerillas were ambushing Killian’s. Killian soldiers were fighting from their crude cover, and guerillas were doing their hardest to ambush these positions. With inter-dispersed groups of soldiers fighting inter-dispersed groups of Guerillas, Killian land gain had stopped; both forces were locked in a stalemate. The entire area had turned into a mismatched battle with no sides being visibly determined; the only thing that could be said was that Killian’s were pouring in one way, and guerillas in another way.

---

Swartz fired a three round burst into a soldiers chest as he sprinted through the lower floor of what used to be a building. The Killian forces had advanced faster than both he and Rourke anticipated and now both men were barely staying ahead of the battle lines. Rourke, Swartz, and the squad of men with them moved into the flank of a Killian squad ambushing and inflicting massive casualties. A price was paid however, when the explosions of grenades inflicted its own casualties and return fire claimed the lives of three men. Both Killian and guerilla were dying left, right, front, and rear of Swartz; the man was easily disoriented in the combat.

The more trained guerilla fighters were re-grouping easier than Swartz was, and often the man found himself following rather than leading. Swartz followed and fought with each passing group he could find. Killian training was proving quite the obstacle for Swartz and his men as more and more Killian squad and platoon leaders were rallying their men in whatever shelter they could fight from. The re-formed groups of Killian’s seemed to be everywhere as Swartz fired haphazardly into any body he could identify as an enemy. The guerilla men around Swartz were not fighting with intelligence, but with an idealistic passion for what they believed in. Guerillas fighting with their zeal were inflicting extensive damage on the re-forming battle lines. Zeal would not win the fight, and Swartz knew this as he tried to re-group his men. Now perched in the second story of what remained of a house, he could see soldiers keeping low and trying to find cover. Guerillas were doing the same, but their vantage points in the higher floors were slaughtering the advancing forces.

Killian soldiers were no longer on the destroyed streets as they scattered like ants into whatever building they could find; now the sides were even more muddled. Friendly mortar rounds fell into the area at an even higher rate now, killing whatever person was left in the desolate streets.

Flanking and outflanking once again became a priority for all the soldiers in the combat, and Swartz knew that this would buy him sometime to rally his men at a central defense point; the communications center. The communications center would give Swartz the ability to get his men to the most heavily fortified and pre-prepared buildings the city had to offer. Swartz knew he needed to find the communications center and re-group his men or a slaughter would ensue.

---

Killian-Jagite Attack Force,
Southeastern Market District,
0709 Hours, Local Time

The sound of military issued boots crunching on loose debris slapped loudly against the concrete canyons; the sounds of morning silence were only interrupted by the slowly advancing coalition force. As per training, the advancing soldiers were interspersed at intervals of roughly three meters, keeping an eye out for any enemy activity. The soldiers’ keen observations of the areas around them were fruitless as the unseen enemy had yet to show any signs of activity. Though every man could hear the sounds of small arms fire and explosions off in the distance, the effects of war were yet to be felt amongst the brigade of soldiers. Killian lieutenants looked at their Jagite soldiers without an explanation; but until combat broke out they would have to push forward in the manner they were now.

The now empty first waves of IFV’s were inching forward down the center of the streets as it became obvious that the drop zone had been secured. The high idling pitch of machinery reverberated off of the streets, buildings, and inside the soldier’s heads. Killian leaders halted their soldiers as the IFV’s took the lead on the streets. The quick sound of rounds being sprayed into buildings occurred every few meters as the IFV commanders were being more than cautious. However, their transgressions were unanswered as the streets remained quiet…

The unnamed Paradisian fighter leaned up against the wall with all his might. From his position on the third floor of an intact building, the man saw fatigued soldiers and IFV’s slowly making their way down the streets. The man was waiting for the signal to begin firing into the unknown attackers, whom he hated on principle. The fighter cocked his rifle and said a prayer to his god; suddenly it seemed the city itself was exploding as explosives went off all throughout the street. The fighter broke the window he was leaning next to and began to fire into any oppressor he could see. His small arms fire was the only the start, with other men beginning to leave their cover and ambush the soldiers below. Quickly, and forcefully, assault rifle rounds rained on the attackers below.

The Paradisian fighters were expecting attacks from the two main roads on the outskirts of the Market District, and the men waiting for their chance to ambush were well prepared. Both Swartz and Rourke had guessed the two attacking forces would encircle them and then simultaneously push into the heart of the district. The two leaders were only half right, which explained why the first attack into the heart of the district had caught everyone off guard and had pushed in so far. However, the second attack had headed right into a well prepared cluster of hardened fighters.


The IFV’s that had taken the lead in front of the coalition soldiers brutally burst into flames as high caliber mortars came down from the sky like angels of death. Death and shrapnel poured from the surrounding walls as explosive devices were triggered. The first waves of Killians and Jagites were annihilated as the world seemed to collapse around them. The small arms fire coming from the roofs and windows all around only made matters worse as scores of men were hit with rounds and killed or wounded. The streets were running red with blood as the ambush tactic had paid off; many lives were being, and were going to continue to be, claimed for death.

The situation on the streets could only be described as a calamity. With the first wave of attackers massacred, pockets of Killians and Jagites were fighting for their lives. The survivors of the ambush were paying no attention to the death of their comrades as they began to slowly gather and fight back. The small arms fire zeroing in on their positions gave them the exact coordinates to the now brazen enemy. With the locations of their enemy now quite visible, soldiers began putting their six millimeter rounds into the soft, unarmored flesh of the guerilla forces before clamoring to any safety they could find.

From the safety of cover, the Killian-Jagite survivors were spending no time wasting grenades on the windows of buildings. Glass was not the only thing plummeting to the earth as successfully thrown grenades threw bodies and body parts to the ground below. The small arms fire from the surviving members was becoming more and more grouped as both Killian officers, and Jagite squad leaders coordinated their men. Irregardless of rank, every man was working together to establish some semblance of combat safety through dishing out massive amounts of punishment in the form of lead.

Captain Millerson was huddle against a brick wall, watching the battle in front of him. He signaled the men behind him to take the building across the street and clear it out. The Jagite soldiers spent no time thinking about the order as the door exploded into splinters of wood courtesy of a weapon mounted grenade. The Jagite squad then ran into the building opposite of Millerson’s position, firing upwards as they traversed the street. Millerson watched the men enter the building and saw the outline of a guerilla in his death throes via the illumination of muzzle flashes. Millerson then looked at the squad that had taken the previous ones place, and he sent them into the building in front of him. The same scenario occurred with Jagites firing into the enemy, and paying no attention to the losses that they were incurring.

The same scenario was occurring throughout the fight as the highest ranking soldiers were leading their men into the safety, or death, of outlying buildings. Killian helicopters swooped in low, thanks to successful radio communication, and began to blast whatever guerilla pockets they could find. Tactics training was paying off as both Killian and Jagite led squads began to clear the houses and buildings on the main road. Coupled with a fresh wave of IFV’s, the coalition force was starting to make headway. Thirty millimeter rounds tore into flesh and brick alike as the zipper-like sound of chain gun fire filled the streets, and ears all around. Chaos was everywhere as bodies began littering the streets.

Quite soon, it seemed as if buildings were fighting buildings with the numerous gun fight exchanges taking place between the rebels and the coalition forces. Both forces, Killian-Jagite and Guerilla, were equally trying to flank each other but superior training was proving more effective than belief in a cause as the coalition forces beat back the enemy. Explosions became more numerous in the battle as buildings were shattered apart by grenades or improvised explosives. The insanity on the streets was almost over as house to house combat took precedent.

As fast as the tide had turned, it was turning again. Rebel forces were now flooding down the main roads catching Killian and Jagite off guard, and taking the fight to a new level of personal. Combined with mortar attacks that kept steadily turning buildings into tombs, the guerillas were adapting much faster than anyone could have anticipated.

Killian-Jagite Attack Force,
Southeastern Market District,
0802 Hours, Local Time

Squad Orodu had taken hell since the moment they stepped out of their burning, rocket-propelled grenade struck IFV. They a man inside of the burning metal casket and two more when they came out disorganized. With only seven men, Staff Sergeant Orodu, whom the squad received its name from, was huddled up inside one of the surrounding buildings, his troops lying fire across the street to the enemies. He had seen one squad enter the building, he believed it was Sergeant Mollat’s but he wasn’t sure. Either which way, either they were dead or captured by the enemy. The situation had gone all wrong, they advanced with caution into what seemed like an empty part of the city, and when communications reached them about the Killian assault from the northeast meeting resistance, they assumed they’d been left out of the fighting. That the enemy made a critical error in force deployment, five minutes later they were proven otherwise. The exact deployment of forces was unknown on an exact level, but Orodu predicted that the two tall, red-brown brick buildings which rose five stories high, just like his own were in fact controlled by Jagites, the squads he was unsure of. An explosion rocked the ground around him as another rebel RPG hit the middle of the street. Their aim was terrible, and their organization lacked any real trained structure.

‘Fucking urbanites,’ he screamed, from which he men all roared their approval, all four of them. He’d sent two men to check the upper four stories of the building to ensure they were alone, and to his surprise – they were. Quickly one of the riflemen were brought back down and now Orodu had the squad sniper, an excellent shot by any standards, up there with specific orders to give the enemy hell. One shot per person was all he was allotted, if he couldn’t hit them the first time and they hadn’t noticed him then he needed to move on; more a superstition thing among Jagite snipers than anything. On the first story, Orodu along with two riflemen and the squad’s machine-gunner unleashed the furry of thousand-years of hate upon the enemy across the street, while the last riflemen held the primary back door. He kept the door open, it has swung to the left, and he used it as his shield to thwart enemies who may try to sneak in from behind. Already he’d cheered about three kills, including what appeared to be an enemy sniper who got a little lost. The situation, while favorable to the Jagites who had come to Paradise Island not for an easy victory but for a true bloodbath, a test of their mettle, was daunting. The rebels were advancing in every increasing numbers and the Killian commanders, primarily Captain Millerson, was no where to be found. Again, it was something expected, especially during an ambush. This was essentially no different than his training back at Camp Orion in the Imperial Republic where the night before war-games the Killians kidnapped the overall Jagite ‘assumed’ commander, Krell Rivers, and they were left to fight and ultimately be crushed by a vastly superior force. They had, however, given the Killians something to remember when it ultimately came down to two squads, everyone else was theoretically dead.

Staff Sergeant Orodu looked across the street, the damned urbanites were trying their hardest. He could respect that, he could even respect the losses they gave them, and hell, he could even respect the ideals they fought for. Liberty, Peace, Self-Determination. Something that Jagada also fought for; however, they were rebels to Jagada’s ally, the Imperial Republic, and would be dealt with as such. Suddenly Orodu’s COM unit kicked to life as threw the static he heard the voice of First Lieutenant Krell Rivers.

‘Squads Kortug, Shetuli, and Orodu … those buildings across the street from you look very nice. I’d like to make an initial headquarters in one of them. First one to liberate it for our captain gets the honor of me using it,’ his voice boomed. Orodu couldn’t tell weather or not the gunfire he heard was coming from Krell’s end of the COM or his own, probably both he assumed. Either which way Krell was a damn fine leader and every Jagite in any three of the companies would have given their lives for him. Orodu, at the prospect of pleasing his commander, looked at the building across from him. It was constructed of simple white-washed concrete with a cube-like design to it, similar to other Risbanian standard construction designs he’d read up on, on the ride from MacDonald Military Installation. The wording for whatever the building might have been was gone, replaced by a gaping hole the side of three men. Just looking at that made his stomach turn; there may be more dead Jagites than Squad Mollat. For a moment he hesitated, and then snapped back into reality instantly as he realized what he was doing.

‘These are fucking urbanites! Not Guardsmen!,' he bellowed, to which all of his men cheered. He turned the squad’s machine-gunner and sent him quickly up-stairs. He would have withdrawn the private guarding the back-door but over the last five minutes he’d become embroiled in an all out fight against two rebels trying to advance down the alleyway. Fuck it, he thought. He looked around and saw the three men with him. He grinned, perfect odds. He ordered them to pull out one of their three smoke grenades, each did so without hesitation. Normally they would only have two smoke grenades, but giving the situation, many squads had opted to replace one of their three fragmentation grenades with an extra smoke. All three of them tossed theirs out of the window. Orodu sent his more to the right so that the advancing Killians would not be able to see them either. Immediately he heard the continuous chattering of the machine-gun upstairs as he did his best to pin down the rebels. Orodu gave the signal as the smoke developed into a nice, fine, thick cloud of smoke. The four men ran out into what could only be hell. Bullets whizzed by their heads and Orodu grunted in pain as one took a chunk of his ear off. Nevertheless they made it across the street, and quickly juke to their left going around the building. Orodu had expected enemy resistance in the alleyways and he was right, as they turned the corner they were forced to open fire on three rebels sitting in-between their white-washed objective and what could only be described at a gas-station. They didn’t even have time to react before they crumbled to the ground in unnatural ways. He didn’t even have to give the next command; his men had been so hard-drilled that they knew what they needed to do. As they reached the metal door, a side entrance to the building, they realized that several, almost a grotesque number of oversized holes had pierced threw, and blood stains were everywhere. Orodu’s men looked at him and he nodded, they were still going in, just with a little more flash than any modest Guardsmen wanted. The three men with him took up firing points, one on each side of the door, and one aiming down the alleyway incase the rebels realized the situation and sent help. The trooper on the side of the door with the knob placed his hand on it and looked at Orodu – who took out a fragmentation grenade, pulled the pin and counted. ...Three...four…five – he nodded and the troops swung the door open. Immediately gunfire from the .50 caliber machine-gun inside of the building unleashed hell upon the air on the other side. Orodu only had time to toss the grenade and quickly pulled his arm back, not even sure he’d thrown it far enough in. The ground shook a second or two later and the chattering inside ceased. There was no command, not even visual giving to his troopers. They both entered relatively close together with Orodu in-between them. They used short-controlled burst on the remaining dazed rebels inside. There were quite a few of them, but due to the oppressive machine-gun fire coming from across the street and the well enough placed fragmentation grenade, they had no real chance. It was a tactical success, though as Orodu looked around the cramped build, its purpose became clear – it was a refitted bank of sorts. He’d never have guessed from its outside appearance do to its rather small size and lack of an ATM. Nevertheless it was a bank. A spot in his mind wondered as to weather the owners had received amble time to empty their merchandise. The thought was partly dissolved by self-discipline, and the other by what he found behind the cashier’s counter. The bodies of six Jagites, and one Killian, he could tell the difference by the flag patches on their arms. One of them he recognized as Staff Sergeant Mollat, the two of them had been good buddies during ‘Hell’, the Jagite word for their Killian-based training program. The bodies had been stripped of all weapons, and even boots. His soldiers quickly found all the missing gear on the bodies of the deceased rebels.

Orodu growled, 'Fucking urbanites.'

Newly appointed First Sergeant Aroth stood up from behind the rubble he and his broken squad was hiding behind, to deliver a package of love. A three-round burst from his, at short-ranged horribly devastating, JR-5 Assault Rifle, into the two rebels who were charging his position. It was suicidal for them to try it, and they probably realized that about half way threw their advance when out of their original number of ten, eight of them dropped to well-placed attacks. As he dropped to his face bullets and one of the ever present rocket-propelled grenades smashed into the ground no more than ten yards from his position. He looked around at the buildings surrounding him; he sorely wished he’d been just two streets over at First Lieutenant Krell and Captain Millerson’s positions, where tall buildings allowed for them to actually be used for serious defense. Instead the building around his squad was short, spread out, and mostly either on fire or being occupied by people less than friendly to him. The street he was down, the sign long since ripped off, was called Breaker Drive – he thought the name was created for one thing – to piss him off this day. As if the man who made it knew all along that one day, he and his squad would sit here in the middle of the street with bullets and grenades going off around them. Even though it wasn’t true, he felt that somewhere on this island that man or woman who made it was laughing their ass off. He quickly risked a look over the pile of building debris in front of him. From down the street more and more rebels seemed to be pouring down. How many of them could there be, he thought.

He was forced to quickly put his head back down as unfriendly fire demanded it. He and the five remaining men in his squad replied with several short bursts before letting up – they all knew it was futile to fire since the enemy was doing the same damned thing they were. One of the privates in his squad, hefting a JRHW-22 machine-gun, opened fire on three rebels who broke from cover just one second too long, he took them all down with a howl of pleasure. The private, a man named Werthul, wasn’t actually the teams designed machine-gun. That brave soldier went down during the effort by First Lieutenant Anduli’s Omega Company to stabilize the line, and it had worked – but at the cost of Aroth’s former commanding officer, Staff Sergeant Durmaeld, along with the squad’s machine-gunner and even their damned sniper. The three most important elements of a squad gone and Aroth wasn’t nearly experienced enough, having only had to take command of the squad once during training. Since after Durmaeld, came the machine-gunner, and to no one’s surprise the sniper. With all three dead, the ‘meat’ of the squad had lost its head, its eyes, and its muscle – well sort of. The JRHW-22 had been salvaged off the headless body of their fallen comrade, but the snipers scope, along with his right eye and about an inch of the back of his skull was gone – leaving that piece of equipment unusable. Anduli had already been informed about the loss of Durmaeld, and he immediately promoted Aroth to the necessary rank to command the squad, it was of course approved by the Killian Captain Richards. Anduli had probably been one of the most level headed of the three Lieutenants when the ambush came. Once the companies IFVs were lost, the men took up firing positions along the sidewalks of the road and quickly cleared out of the buildings surrounding them with little loss of life. In fact, the Paradisian rebels were beginning to be pushed back. It appeared Anduli and Richards held a special place for urban warfare in their hearts. Omega Company had actually stripped soldiers of a lot of equipment prior to the actual deployment. Giving them only the necessities: ammunition, water, and medical supplies, many of them had actually forgone their fragmentation grenades to make more room for ammo. This had actually allowed Omega Company a surprising amount of flexibility which could only be matched by the lightest armed of the rebels.

First Lieutenant Anduli looked around cautiously. Captain Richards and he were up not too far from the fighting, but enough to effectively command the troops in front of them. Since the ambush, Anduli had shown incredible skill in trying to rally his men threw the usage of communications. Richards was actually impressed with him, since Anduli had, prior to this engagement, been seen more as a hardass than anything else. The First Lieutenant could only smirk inwardly. In front of him lay a scene of carnage that only an hour ago seemed like hell on earth. The IFVs’ provided by the Killians were smoking ruins, only one wasn’t in flames but it was still knocked out of action. During those first five minutes Anduli knew the fait of the entire battle hung, if the Jagites proved their Killian trainers right during the Hell and ran like cowards than they would return home in shame and a new batch would have been selected. To Anduli’s relief and surprise the Jagites left the IFVs with little or not regard for themselves and drove the fight right to the rebels. Losses for Omega were rather high as a result, but unlike Krell and Naeturc he had reformed his battle line and even now the rebels were being pushed back gradually. That was of coarse until reports began to flood in that rebel units were pouring in front down the main streets.

‘Like an ocean of filth,’ was how First Sergeant Turcaur described it. His squad was relatively intact and was the foremost of all Omega’s squads. Anduli began to calculate his options as a second wave of IFVs arrived on the scene and were immediately sent forward. The most rearward of squads, whose primary focus was immediate reinforcement were told to move in with the IFVs to provide effective cover from rebel infantry. Anduli waited on the COM channels, switching threw them, listening to the battle as it unfolded in his mind’s eye. The suddenly surge of rebel forces had already threatened the weakened right flank as squads were being forced to stop their slow, bloody advances and hunker down to at the very least hold the enemy. Anduli looked back down the street they had come from, he hadn’t wanted to use them so quickly but it was either now or never.

He turned to Captain Richards, ‘Sir, perhaps its time to unleash hell?’

The veteran Killian captain looked at him, his dark complexion pondering the option for a moment; he didn’t say a word but merely switched COM channels, ‘Squads Vangor and Gllur. You have clearance to unleash hell.’

It took merely a second for the COM channels to erupt in frenzy, as each squad in Omega Company requested support from squads Vangor and Gllur. They were soon answered as the sudden roar and the whooshing sound of mortar rounds filled the hearts of the right-flank with hope. The rebels advancing down the street were caught completely off guard as 60mm explosive rounds tore threw the lightly armored rebel infantry. The bombardment lasted for nearly three minutes and in that span of time enemy resistance was reduced by a considerable amount. When the guns went silent they were immediately replaced on both the COM channels and in the air in general, with the sounds of small arms fire and commands being shouted by officers. Squads Vangor and Gllur would in effect disappear from the map as they relocated to avoid a ‘bead’ being drawn on them. Anduli doubted the rebels had heavy equipment like mortars, but there was no need for laziness. The troops of Omega Company soon found more support in the form of the second wave of IFVs and immediately began a counter attack which would, with any luck, throw the shell shocked rebels back.