NationStates Jolt Archive

Random, somewhat related video (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZVFHOPfqDU)

- Geographic Information (http://img165.imageshack.us/my.php?image=teemapit9.png) -

Tucker, Neo-Hampshire. June 7th, 2039, 19:55 hours

"Álvaro! See this, it's urgent!", a man shouted in a room where several electronic equipment, both new and old, were patterned among cups of coffee and pizza boxes in tables of white color. A large white door with a "restricted area" sign was visible just behind the geeky guy who was manning the computer. It was a Macintosh, differently from usual, and the operating system, a modified Unix, was busy displaying a map of the Iberian region where several red dots were flashing nearby a marker of the cities of Lisbon and of La Corunã. It was only a representation of something else they were well aware of.

Hundreds of kilometers above the surface, in low earth orbit directly above the South Pole, a surveillance satellite was keeping its sensors directed towards a single point: the Iberian Peninsula. Its high definition optical devices were to capture the exact moments a group of two flotillas was being deployed in the ports of Lisbon and La Coruña, with about fifty civilian ships in each harbor being lined, where what were apparently troops and armored vehicles were being loaded. Soon a signal was transmitted from the satellite back to Earth, towards the island of the Confederacy, captured both by direct video images, where a group of dedicated watchers were alerted through visual patterning algorithms of the event spotted by it, and further transmitted it in a more visible manner, with red dots indicating more clearly the positions of the vessels, and sets of statistics indicated the numbers and types of visually identified vessels. It was a stroke of luck that the satellite have managed to capture it, or probably not as most of them were continually watching the region for suspicious military activities.

The man named Álvaro came to his friend, and looked at the image displayed at the computer screen with a visible expression of disbelief:

"I will do a Hitler salute if this isn't a preparation for an amphibious assault! We must inform it immediately, to everyone! The People's Republic of Spain are going to dare to invade us! And with Lisbon in their hands, their fighters can reach us now!"

Frenetically typing into a keyboard, Álvaro immediately uploaded the surveillance data to the MilNet private nodes, he was still not believing at what he has just witnessing. The streams of war have truly come. It all began years ago, with Spain divided between anarchists and marxists, and eventually completely dominated by the latter, leading to the humiliating but honorable and planned retreat of Seville, which was the last city under the control of the Confederacy. The war has now finally on again after more than thirty years of an uneasy truce, broken by the occasional black operation nobody assumed responsibility for.

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Base Aérea de Nova Lisboa, Terrinha. June 9th, 2039, 6:55 hours

A dozen of maintenance personell prepared the runways and finished the last touches into some static surface to air missiles, rolling airframe missiles and anti-air defenses, while some army detachments of Librecielos and mobile S-500 Libre were being actively deployed close by, due to the importance of this location. The non-inhabited beacheads north of the somewhat hilly New Lisbon were likely to be one of the main incursion points of the amphibious assault spotted by the vigilant eyes of their satellites, and although no one was foolish enough to sacrifice the elastic protection of other beachheads prone to amphibious assaults, of cliffsides climbable by mountaineer divisions, or of the heavily defended floating cities, which were considered too much of a liability to be attacked due to their heavy fortifications, quantity of stored anti-shipping missiles and strong submarine presence.

A man, dressed in an obsidian-brown, featureless uniform, with no ranking marks, and only a black flag as symbol, with a quite retro kepis on his head covering most of his grey hair, watching the morning skies, as if attempting to futilely spot an incoming aircraft with his weary brown eyes, like a predator, awaiting patiently for its prey to arrive. He was too distracted to notice as someone came nearby and tapped his shoulder. Tensely, he turned around and spotted the freckled, red-haired woman blue eyes, as she spoke, shaking his hand, in a sort of strangely accented Portuguese with the typical Germanic tones:

"Comrade Manuel! Everything is ready now. We have five fighter squadrons, one airborne early warning and command and sixteen recon unmanned aircrafts ready for deployment in patrol missions. The East Coast Navy will send five anti-submarine warfare fleets and three, we have a single naval bombardment air wing as well, if necessary"

Looking at the woman, Manuel Camões da Silva simply frowned, apparently bothered by the fact she came all the way, bothered his distraction and almost scared him to death just to tell him the obvious.

"Ava! Have you forgot that this is not a conventional air base and that you would not have to ask me what to do, but take that by yourselves? Have you forgot that I have this portable computer in the palm of my hand, that you also have a computer, that all of them have quantum encryption support and that you wasted your time going all the way here only to tell me we are ready to blow some Stalinist butchers? Please, I know you came from a traditional air force before, but how many times do I have to tell you that I am not a general of this air base, that I am not the boss because there are no bosses here?"

"Sorry Comrade, after all these years I am still not used to the idea of doing things without waiting for orders first. You sure have a different take on this place of everything related to defense, or to taking down tyrants depending on the matter. I am really impressed it works fine after all. I am sure ninety-nine dot ninety-nine percent of the world military specialist would find the idea ridiculous and its execution mere propaganda.", she said, with no signs of prostrating or treating him like an authority, but instead like a close-by friend and comrade. Despite the summer, a cold wind was blowing against the heat of the sun, and it seemed that no matter what, everything would be done by this morning.

Taking only a quick a glimpse look at the Raven unmanned aerial vehicles being readied for patrol among others, Manuel did not take much attention on the aircrafts, but instead to the skies of the morning. There he stood, watching the motions of the clouds as seconds passed, and also looking for any hint of a possible storm, for no matter how advanced technologies have become, storms still are harmful to the efficiency of any aircraft. Some memories flashed through his mind, and somehow, it was a very personal thing to him, for the Republic of Soviet Spain have violated the sovereignty of a nation, his mother nation. He might have never agreed with the politics of the Portuguese government, but that was nonetheless a justification for him to tolerate a much worser government stomping over his ethnic origin.

´"I want to personally oversee and participate the liberation of Portugal"´, he dreamily thought, as he wondered about some of the old friends he knew in Lisbon and O Porto, hoping that they somehow have survived the iron fist of the police State of Spain and its sinister, brown-dressed armies marching through the streets, shooting dissidents on sight or worse. Manuel has been quite impatient since Portugal has fallen, and continually suggested a preemptive strike, being replied with always the same answer. That "The Stalinist scum of Stoklomolvi is guaranteeing the independence of the pigs, we must have a legitimate reason to liberate Spain first. And it seemed this reason has finally come. However, they have been recommended to just wait, give them the illusion they were not spotted else. A sort of plan was already being baked in the bandwidth-consuming MilNet heavily encrypted networks, from the grand strategy to the tactical and operational art details, and it was not expected for the plan to take too much time to be put into action.

So far, the reconaissance patrols have not spotted any significant squadron or mass force of aircrafts approaching, but that was expected to change in the incoming days. The Iberian War has begun.


(OOC: Yup, despite the German name, it's not about Nazis, but about Anarchists versus Stalinists. This is the post about the planned war RP between Soviet Spain and Third Spanish States. For now it's closed, but I'll inform the moment it is open for those who signed up further on. The sign-up thread for once the international brigades and support can enter is here (http://z4.invisionfree.com/NSDraftroom/index.php?showtopic=2982). I putted it on the Draftroom to hopefully encourage people to join it as well)

- Geographic Information (http://www.aboutromania.com/SpainMap.gif) -

Puerto Militar, Ferrol, La Coruña, Spain. July 2nd, 2039, 15:30 hours

The afternoon was in many ways depressive. An unhealthy smog covered the entirety of the city, and fog seemed to obscure the vision of all more than any manipulation of the Ministerio de la Verdad, which had nothing to do with truth despite its name. Everywhere, people walked, almost crawling, like zombies performing tasks given by their masters, with little demonstration, if any, of life or willpower. The gloomy, distinguishable red brick building that covered an entire block in the south of the city has replaced an older landmark of much more joyful nature. A building where all windows, when they existed, were tinted in pitch black, where whatever was done inside could never be heard by the outside. The Ministerio de la Ley it was called. Unlike in other places, all police in La República had the same duties otherwise delegated to specialized secret police forces, which was both disturbing or at best equal to the latter condition. Crime, against all possibilities, has a haven in Spain, for any crime that is of no interest to the government is rarely investigated by the police, except when such crimes begin to provoke a serious damage to the already highly inefficient economical process of a city under their iron fist.

The time its decadent naval base , with many rusted cranes and piers about to collapse, has been constantly occupied with continuous shipments of brownish, dull cargo trucks into a supply chain coming as far away as from Barcelona, was over, as such force was already heading towards the Confederacy for about five days. A few seagulls, perhaps the only beings enjoying the taste of freedom in such place, flew over the nearby coast, with many resting among the rust an rotten woods of the mooring posts. The shipyards which bustled with life before the advent of false communism were now nothing that decaying deserted buildings, with most of their machinery stripped off, and probably sold to foreign markets by some of the many, or perhaps all, corrupt "Communist" Party members, who were for now the only whose standards of life have continually improved, at the expense of either quasi or total slavery of the rest of the people to the Party. The quantity of forced labor needed to sustain the decadent planned economy of Spain was something beyond anything that happened before, with slaves being by the far the majority of the population.

The dull, sinister Ministerio de la Ley continued to stand firmly on its place, and was in contrast to a decadent harbor city, representing quite well what was the priority of the government: the government. Beneath its facade, a relatively harmless place stood in the ground and upper floors, being little more than the typical police department, albeit with a so unbearable level of bureaucracy that nobody even cared to attempt denouncing through it. That did not mean that completely unfounded accusations that led people to be unjustly tortured and killed did not exist, only that those accusations were commonly done in an streetwise manner, and it was very rare for the creator of the accusations to be identified, usually a party member seeking to go up in the hierarchy by toppling those above him with his snake tongue, or a normal proletarian hating someone enough to do something like that.

What actually made the Ministerio different from the usual police department was below. Passing through grey, featureless staircases, one would eventually reach the first underground floor, one of many basement levels, which were perhaps Dantesque in their nature, like some of the layers of Hell. It was a temporary detention area for common criminals, from where they would be later taken to forced labor camps, it was irrelevant the fact most of them had to steal to avoid starving due to the sheer incompetence and carelessness of their government. They were not usually mistreated, not too much at least, for they were to be somewhat healthy for them to be "productive for the proletariat".

The second basement floor was much sinister. All cells were little more than cubicles with no place to sit, toilet or illumination, except for a bunch of cuffs used to prevent suicide attempts, where local "traitors" were kept until their execution, although some simply died inside their own cells. Practice of torture, and of other, much more disturbing actions, were commonplace, and it was already considered a small piece of hell in Earth such was the conditions it "offered" to those unfortunate to be dumped there. Suffice to say, the corrupt and sadistic wardens of such place always had a quite active sexual life, while some are even taken as slaves to some major party members.

Further below, the greatest of all hells begins. It is a place dedicated exclusively for the detention of captured spies, unfortunate enough for their cyanide pills, or whatever means they had for quick suicide, to have failed. Featuring not only the horrors of the floor above, in its dank, moldy and dark cells, prisoners are kept into mobile surgical tables, where they are cuffed, and stretched to an almost bone-breaking point, while their eyes are permanently kept open by an horrible device, and water drops continually against them in a more twisted for of the supposed Chinese torture. Or sometimes, lemon juice or even some more acid liquids. Torture is a constant to extract information from such "capitalist scum", and mutilations are not an exception to the rule, for it is not only coincidence such condemned ones are strapped to surgical chairs, without the convenience of painkillers. Like with the floor above, there was an additional horror that specially female spies had to endure in such hell. It was the Room 101, the worst nightmare of everyone.

Time seemed to have disappeared, nothing else mattered, not life, not survival. Joy was now a myth, and equally were pleasure and freedom. Who should have been blamed was the only thing that could still come to her head between the unbearable pain of her muscles stretched to almost tearing apart and the lemon drops falling straight into her amber eyes, as two forceps pulled her pupils aside. Maria Nansen could hardly keep herself conscious, for it seemed that her own will was being slowly annihilated, and for an unknown eternity. It was futile to struggle, for there was no way, ever, to escape. She wished the cyanide pill has not fallen from her mouth at the moment she needed it most.

It was probably going to be soon, or later, the anxious fear of the next time a torturer would arrive to try gathering information was another constant, and perhaps the psychological terror was much worser than the actual, excruciating physical pain that has been inflicted for an unaccounted quantity of time. They would ask the fundamental question, and to give up would be to put the sovereignty and freedom of her people at a greater risk than ever. What mattered, what perhaps gave her a minor glint of joy among such torment, was the fact that Nansen's mission was done before she was captured, and its importance to the future of the Confederacy was perhaps unparalleled. It was of little importance whether they would remember her, or keep her existence a veiled secret, for she knew that her attitudes have helped to shape not only her land, but in a small way, the world. It was very difficult to keep such thought overshadowing the misery of her situation however, and only one thing allowed her to have relief, the eventual losses of consciousness that happened, bringing her back memories of how everything began. The mission was complete, and her sacrifice has been essential to Fall Schwarz. It would at least not be in vain. All she hoped is that they would simply kill her in the end, for she was quite aware they were not willing to waste certain talents with a bullet, preferring to put them into slavery.

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- Geographic Information (http://cache.eb.com/eb/image?id=6004&rendTypeId=4) -

Iberian plain, international waters. June 30th, 2039. 17:45 hours

The weather was clear, making of the navigation a task that should be easy, should be easy, for there were other inconveniences that the Armada had to live with. One of them being particularly the morale of everyone on board. Orders were orders, of course, despite on how strange such order was, and disobeying them akin to treason, and thus deserving of fates usually worser than death. Despite all propaganda and general mental conditioning, everyone in the Navy knew that it was the least preferred of all military branches, and severely underfunded. In fact one had never the need to know, for only empirical evidences would point it. Many helicopters were in severe need of maintenance and no longer flyworthy, three destroyers had serious accidents in their boilers and most sailors were significantly under-equipped, with little more than breads which seemed to be as rough as stones and a very evil-tasting water to feed themselves in most circumstances, and the condition of the crew quarters was precarious in many ways, for it was the least prioritized areas of most ships due to the severe rationing of maintenance equipment and supplies. And equally, all of them were quite aware that their enemy, the Confederacy, did not treat their Navy as useless or unnecessary, and theirs was infinitely superior, in both numbers, personell, tactics and technologies, to the skeleton navy that "gloriously" demonstrated the strength of the same policies that had crippled Russia in the previous century. They had no choice however other than obey, which did not mean they would accomplish their mission giving the best of each to the "people", for regardless of coercion, such fact was very dependent on their morale, which was quite down lately. It was complicated for the Comisarios de Armadaaboard, for they could easily simply shoot those demonstrating lack of enthusiasm, but on the other hand they also were not expecting to come back alive.

It has been only one day since they have departed from the region of La Coruña, in the port of Ferrol, and most of them walked wearily, with tired faces and a malnourished appearance due to their poor rations, originated from the lack of proper food rather than of food itself. It was a miracle perhaps that such vast fleet could maintain its proper organization. There were roughly eight screening vessels and eight capital ships, with twelve ahead and four behind, escorting their rear, a small number due to the presumed unlikeliness of an hostile strike force coming through such direction. Almirante General Badajoz observed the immensitude of the ocean from the bridge windows of the Negrín, the flagship of the assault force, which was also the only battlecruiser they had, an old Kirov class they acquired from one of their sympathizers. Close to it a group of five Slava Class cruisers sailed, and further ahead, in yet another example of their lack of support, rather than destroyers, the only still operational, six Álvaro de Bazán Class frigates served as the best they had of screening vessels. In the rear of the fleet two Slava class cruisers and their only two Oliver Hazard Perry Class frigates were positioned. The transport ships for the actual amphibious assault were little more than improvisations over some old cargo and container ships, for all the real amphibious assault ships previously belonging to Spain were now in the hands of the Confederacy.

The Almirante General was an old seafarer of grey hair, tough face and deep black eyes, one of the few that were so deep to their role that it mattered little what government he was suppose to be working for, as long as his ship was kept. Although such "ownership" has changed with time, as the aircraft carrier he was responsible for has simply become a floating junkyard due to no maintenance, he still hoped for the Navy, for its own sake rather than for anything else, and saw such operation as the opportunity to convince the current government that the Navy was the most important branch of the military, and despite all the shortages, he actually cared for his crew, like a paternal figure, disappointed many times for not being able to help them further, but nonetheless hopeful. Perhaps delusions of grandeur in the mind of a man heading into a suicidal mission, but nonetheless, Pablo Badajoz was a fair and honest man, a rarity in the current authorities of Spain, and perhaps, as exceptions to the rule tended to die faster than the devout followers of the rule, the last of a dying breed of honest leaders in the midst of a den of almost absolute corruption which was the Communist Party of Spain.

The fleet was stably heading towards the designated waypoints as instructed, and the static was everything he could listen in its radio, for apparently no new orders or changes to the previous orders were given. Looking at the horizon no further, but instead to the deck, he felt that something had to be done, for he was well aware of the mood of all the crew aboard, and could almost feel the melancholic and oppressive sensation of the situation ahead. Getting up from his seat, he asked for the navigator to assume the controls, as he took a couple of stairs down towards the deck, hoping to meet one of the sailors. As he stepped outside, it was not much time before a sailor, an young man on his twenties of black hair and brown eyes, with some healthily large cheeks, looked at him and asked, in an almost scripted manner, with a clear lack of enthusiasm:

"General admiral, what do you wish, comrade?"

The eyes of the old man did not move, as he simply replied to the sailor, without much delay, or pauses, probably hoping to improve his mood and lead by example, for if he wished for the morale of the crew to improve, he should better start by improving his own morale, spewing some of the usual rhetoric, but without truly believing in it, although the manner he mentioned other things was authentically enthusiastic.

"Comrade Ruiz, this is a greater time than you can imagine for us to prove our worth as fighters of the socialist cause! Call all other comrades to the deck and I shall explain how such time will not be a time of defeat and loss, but of glory for the Armada! The Invincible Armada".

If he said something like this in a place like the Confederacy's Armada Revolucionaria, the reaction would probably be a burst of laughters and a torrent of jokes about such declaration. However the imposition of respect he had in a totalitarian nation like Spain was not small, and thus his point was utterly respected by Ruiz, who immediately agreed to call all others for a quick meeting on the deck. Soon the large Kirov Class Battlecruiser christened as Negrín had its deck filled with the 750 crew members from across the entire ship, gathered to listen to what Badajoz had to speak like sheep. His voice echoed as he began his speech in an enthusiastic and assured tone:

"Comrades, I believe the first question that comes to your minds is why you have been called here. The answer is simple, let me be frank, for you have been creating your inner worlds, and stood away from the reality. Inner worlds of uncertainty and fear, provoked by the folly and superficial reading over the propaganda of the enemy. I am here to help you to leave your inner worlds, to see everything clearer! This time, our Armada has a chance unlike any other to prove our worth. The result of this mission will not only ensure the defeat of capitalism and our victory in the island, but also give us the respect we deserve, and make of the Armada, our Armada comrades! The greatest, most renowned, prestigious and successful branch of our socialist fighters, and our names engraved forever as the names of timeless heroes to the Cause. Therefore, we must not lose hope. They might have a larger Navy, but most of their vessels are probably moored, for they will definitively underestimate us, and also, they could never afford the costs of a massive deployment of ships. Thus, in the sea, the numbers will even for us. Forget about technology comrades! Those who succeed are not those with the best technology, but those who use their available technology in the best way! Their arrogance as capitalist scourge will be their grave, for we shall exploit their reliance and excessive trust on technology for ourselves comrades! We shall emerge victorious and the Capitalist Confederacy shall be liberated from its capitalist oppressors! Now let's move forward through these days of glory, with no thought but that of victory!"

After a wave of applauses, the mass of human beings slowly dispersed back to their positions, and the admiral again was mostly alone, except for the sailor he talked with directly before. Pablo Badajoz eventually returned to his post in the bridge, and again, while keeping attention on some of the instruments, waiting perhaps for a hopeful order to change plans to something more adequate, because he had disagreed with the plans given to them, his eyes continued to scan the farthest reaches of the visible horizon. Such routine has continued during the remaining day, and as night approached, the stars seemed to shine brighter than before, or perhaps it was a delusion that Pablo was having as a consequence of his optimistic speech. He knew that even if victorious, their operation would be at best a Pyrrhic victory, and that it was unlikely that such result would bring them much glory, but at the moment, such lies were necessary to increase their chances of survival in the already very slim chances of such operation against the might of Third Spanish States Navy.

Another fleet also was heading from other direction towards the same destination. It was composed by six Kara and two Slava Class cruisers and five Neutrashimy Class frigates, and with a clear deficiency of screening vessels due to the choice of the poor, but politically powerful strategists of the Party elite to risk a larger number of capital ships than the number of screening vessels capable of supporting all of them at best efficiency otherwise, and equally with another load of amphibious assault, improvised cargo and container ships, which was currently located at the Azores-Gibraltar ridge, they would meet in about half the way to the Confederacy.

As the first day has passed, no naval engagements have happened yet, but that was about to change sooner or later.

Ciudad Gaia, Bosque Bacconi. July 1st, 2039, 11:00 hours

The forest was everywhere across the large, but ecological city, which air was much more breathable than that of a polluted metropolis. A fresh breeze was noticeable, and the summer brought a quite pleasant weather to the place. It was a haven for all types of peaceniks around the Confederacy, known for a population which despised firearms and violence, and for its incredibly low crime rates compared to other cities. It was ironic that right in such place, preparations for an incoming war were being made, a war which was not conventional or visible. For among many other places, such one hid, beneath its ground, a deep facility of unknown purpose, existing for an unknown quantity of time.

The room was filled with all sorts of electronics, and a row of aligned seats held a number of eight anonymous individuals with black cloaks and masks to hide their faces, most of them carrying as well laptops with no signs of personal identification, reunited for something that seemed to be both important and veiled in secrecy. A large screen ahead of them demonstrated a satellite-based map of Earth, focused on the region of the Iberian peninsula, and also showing Third Spanish States islands. Several lines have been traced from Lisbon and La Coruña pointing towards different beachheads of Third Spanish States in an estimation of the most likely points of incursion, while the dots indicating Lisbon, O Porto, Madrid and Ferrol were marked with crosses, and several NATO symbols indicated the estimated quantity and type of expected threats. Although it was pretty certain regarding naval forces, infantry and land forces were less certain to acquire intelligence about, although a very close estimation was done thanks to undisclosed sources of such mysterious group. The room remained in such way for some time, with its bunker-like spartan construction giving it the appearance of an still image, until finally the silence was broken as a inhuman voice of a text-to-speech engine began to emotionlessly say:

"It seems that our war will this time happen through a public buffer of theirs. As you know, their Iberian cabal has planned the downfall of the Spanish government and the installation of a totalitarian State in Spain as a prototype for their ultimate goal, and they actively conspired to impede anarchism from spreading into Spain, while their more sinister goals have brought the death of sixty millions of innocents, only in Spain.

They will never tolerate the existence of something beyond their strings to puppet, and this is exactly what we have created. Our existence is a direct threat to their dream, and our elimination is their utmost priority as of now. As you see, they are actively seeking to bait us. There is no sense for such massed attack to be made other than for trying to convince us of preemptively bombing the airstrips of Lisbon and O Porto so they can have an excuse to destroy us. This will be much more than a war, for all must tread carefully, even after our victory, should we emerge victorious, and expect possible allies to be potential puppets in their hands. Also, this will be a major step into further reducing their sphere of influence, paving the way for newer operations. Estimations indicate that they will still take some time to improve further their supply chains before launching the first aerial assaults, while the amphibious assault is going to be delayed while they attempt to achieve air superiority in the Confederacy. We have until August, or at best September, to conclude this operation and thus preemptively destroy the runways they captured in Portugal, specially in Lisbon and O Porto, thus eliminating entirely their power projection capabilities, for they lack aircraft carriers, all while having a completely legitimate, well-founded casus belli for such action.

You have all discussed it, through proper channels, in one way or another, and thus the greatest dilemma is on how we will be severely outnumbered that even with heavy losses, they will still manage to reach through our own air fields for runway cratering, severely hampering our air defense capabilities, but if we strike them preemptively, we will give a casus belli for their allied totalitarian forces of Stoklomolvi as well, who they conveniently manipulated into their interests. Although the tactical details of such actions are irrelevant to us, we have found a solution to such dilemma. Our network has branched far enough through the iron curtain to have enough contacts and penetration for this operation that is being proposed.

One of our sympathizers have given the location of the war plan for the invasion of Third Spanish States, in the heart of the enemy's puppet: the city of Madrid, in the Base Militar Indalecio Prieto Tuero, it is safely kept beneath the quartermaster room, in a safe electronic vault, for which the access key is in an entirely different location, the port city of Ferrol, in a secret police agency. It was suggested to simple brute force the system, but time is of essence and thus capturing the code is necessary for the success of this operation. Our objective is to gather the irrefutable proof that the People Republic of Spain intend to invade us, giving us a completely legitimate casus belli. Yes, it would be much more convenient to forge such proof, but our Enemy would easily find it out because forgeries cannot perfectly imitate the original document, for in one thing they are excellent, for their document watermarks cannot just be copied.

A secondary goal for the mission in Ferrol, as we will have to infiltrate such heinous location, is to rescue political prisoners and have them as allies for our larger operations in Spain, and if existing, rescue any of our captured operatives still alive there. Use of lethal force is completely encouraged in such place against the enemy forces, for it is a breeding ground for all sorts of sociopaths beyond psychological regeneration.

We shall resort to already infiltrated operatives in Madrid to ensure the success of this mission, while we shall use a covert amphibious infiltration for the capture of the vital information piece in Ferrol and possible rescue of victims of the place. This will be a very high risk operation, but one which is our primary chance of ensuring almost certainty of aerial supremacy, while also allowing us to liberate Lisbon from their influence without any international reprisals for such action, and paving the way for a new Anarchist Iberian Federation.

Any volunteers to the operation in Ferrol, please raise from your seats. Minimum required capabilities are proper combat skills, individual stealth training and basic electronics knowledge. Currently we need of a proper interrogator, in case that the code in Ferrol is encrypted and it is necessary to gather such information from one of the enemies. The interrogator shall be provided with a "truth serum" to prevent the need of brutality, but will still require a good asset of conversational skills for success. Alenda occultum est, liber est homini"

Only three of the featureless masked individuals arose from their seats. Suddenly the voice came again asking: "Are you from the same cell?". To which it was replied positively with a nod of all of them. "Good, this will be very helpful to the operation", the anonymous computerized voice said, adding: "Please proceed to the exit of this covert war room, and proceed to the submarine pen for further instructions, as the trio discreetly moved away. One of the masked individuals began to applaud them as they left, accompanied by the others, as the voice added: "Do not see it as exceptional, for you all are exceptional. Most of you have sacrificed a normal life for this greater cause, have done many struggles during your stay in the Network. We all are equal, there are none better than others, only people more adept in certain areas than others."

In a featureless elevator, the trio of individuals have briefly removed their masks, revealing themselves as one man and two women. Daniele, Selene and Salomón were their names, and such was not the first time they were to take a ride in a submarine for a covert operation, although this time, it would be much riskier than before, and they did not have a notable experience in the field compared to some of the more notorious Anonymous, although they have finally taken enough operations to be given access to such high profile mission.
There was no certainty if their covert cell would be the only one in this operation, although it could be probable, as less people can hide easily than more, and more than one cell would be problematic for communication due to the need of not giving each other's identity to other cells members.

The large submarine, a Final Class ballistic missile submarine, was designed particularly for the mission profile of being as much undetectable as possible, and was not made for the task of destroying ships or other submarines, but for the commonly dread task of covertly transporting tactical missiles, nuclear or not, through hostile territorial waters, or of serving as a transport for the usual small scale Black Ops due to the purportedly presence of eighteen spartan bunks in its crew quarters more than the number of its crew.

"I am getting used to be either underground or underwater", Daniele said with a smile, breaking the silence as the elevator rapidly made its descent, looking at her now friends Salomón and Selene, where the latter briefly replied with a sardonic smile:

"As long as we are not in such places as corpses, we should be used to it, not that bodies have working minds to get used to stuff, mind you. Now, this time I believe it is going to be hard. Infiltrating into the seas of Banana republics which navies most modern vessels are from 1960s is one thing, infiltrating a threat which have a small Navy but enough patrol boats to cover the critical points of their coast, from which our destination is one of them, is another"

"Don't worry Selene, I trust entirely in the competence of our Sea Wolf into sneaking us through there, even though I have no idea on who he or she is. We will be deep enough in the thermocline to not be easily found. Of course we can't just become invisible, but the chances will be minimal.", Solomón replied, as the elevator was going down the last meters towards the floor of the underground submarine pen, one of perhaps countless purportedly built as part of the artificial island.

"What was the last time you fired a gun Solomón?", Daniele asked with a shrug in her face, already expecting the answer. "Ehm... two months ago I think, I am more of a medic than of a fighter, but if I knew nothing of medicine I wouldn't be able to save your life during that operation in South America, for example, and we can't just go to hospitals and expect to be unnoticed."

"I am a psychologist but I practice shooting everyday, so that is no excuse for staying two months without firing a shot, Solomón", Daniele quickly replied, to which the answer was "yes, but you love your pistol like if it was your husband, don't you?", as Solomón began to become annoyed by the arguing.

"Why, are you jealous? Would you like a husband as well?", Daniele asked mockingly, smiling rather than annoyed. "No, but I bet YOU would love to have a wife, from what I know of you Daniele, and I know you tend to flirt Selene"

"Bullshit, I am straight, I guess that you think everyone is homosexual like you", she replied

"Bullshit, I am straight, I guess that you think everyone is homosexual like you", he replied, and thus they repeated such annoying cycle thrice...

"STOP THIS NOW AND PUT YOUR MASKS!", Selene quickly shouted tired from their mock contest as the elevator finally stopped. With its open doors revealing the massive submarine pen where the large black figure was located. Walking through a platform, they moved towards it, taking the stairs to its hatch, and making their way to their private, tight quarter where a row of three bunks was located above a depot of ammunitions. They have seen many masked individuals on their way, and as they arrived in their sound-proofed quarters, they began to speak, safely behind the door of the corridor leading to the bridge, taking their time in a more or less friendly manner while the submarine took its way towards the northern coast of Spain, in a trip that would last some time.

The first real action of such war thus happened, as something that shall never be accounted in history books in the same manner that it really happened. For it was a secret precedent to a public war. For now, the sleeper operatives in Spain were still waiting for the code that would allow them to succeed in their part of the mission, and continued on their common activities as usually apparently loyal and not suspicious at all low and medium profile bureaucrats among the Party.

Iberian plain, international waters. July 5th, 2039. 15:30 hours

If there was one thing that was different about Badajoz, other than his sense of moral, this thing was the manner he understood the concept of loyalty. Since he joined the Navy to the point he climbed the hierarchical ladders of it, he always, in heart, pledged loyalty not to the government or to the king of Spain, but for the nation of Spain itself. Such characteristic also indirectly made of him very loyal to those he served, as long as those, according to his views, maintained their loyalty to Spain as a nation. So far, the Republic despite its totalitarian bent has not given his nation to foreign powers and reassured its sovereignty and independence in face of foreign pressures. However, overriding an order and strategy, that if he was free to speak, he would call it as utterly idiotic, was anything but treason, and his conscience was clear as he finally decided to refuse to go further with the order for a completely suicidal amphibious assault, ensuring thus the survival of his crew and that they would last enough to be much more important to the People's Republic of Spain than they would be sunk in a pathetically flawed operation, probably developed by an armchair bureaucrat-general of the Party only because of his ranking rather than competence. Sometimes such small facts bothered him, but the anarchists, as he was told, supposedly were destroying the Spanish cultural identity by making a mixed bag of all sorts of European and non-European cultures in the Confederacy, which was somewhat ironic considering the manner that the stalinist government has depredated many cultural aspects of Spain, something he never discovered because of being too occupied in the seas to keep attention on issues of the land, something the Party conveniently arranged to prevent him from questioning them.

His order was simple, for they had enough supriments for at least six months, which would be more than enough for Spain to attempt air superiority over Third Spanish States, without it any amphibious assault attempt would have null chances of succeeding, and thus, while keeping a constant watch of their positioning, the fleet turned their propulsors down and waited for the opportune moment to continue the operation. With his hands firmly gripping over the railings of the Kirov Class battlecruiser bow, Badajoz observed again the horizon, wondering for the challenges and many superior threats that they would face in the near future, while a part of his psyche was questioning the usefulness of all of this, for in the end, what would it be worthy for? It hammered into his thoughts, creating perhaps the seeds of dissent, which were still sown in the unfertile ground of his highly loyal persona.

Lately, the routine has been one not of continually participating of frenetic naval battles, with the senses tingled by the roaring flames of missiles, by the fires of the remaining naval guns and by the static and desperate radio transmissions in attempt to coordinate multiple deployed naval forces, instead, like in almost the entirety of the war, everything was about a both boring and tense wait for the right moment for the attack or for a potential preemptive offensive by the enemy in an attempt to prevent such attack. Suddenly a war that initially was between them and Third Spanish States, has become a battle where there primarily enemies were boredom, stress and particularly, the ever-annoying lice that tended to reproduce in the nether regions, probably originated from individuals who already had them before embarking. The stockpile of insect repellent, a luxury that was very limited, was over, and the ship showers were all among the list of things which maintenance was deemed "unnecessary for combat performance", even though the annoying pests that a proper bath could get rid of possibly would influence, even if almost insignificantly, in the performance of the military by taking away a part of their attention of more important matters. Equally, the latrines of the ship were also in a state that could not be properly described even with the most gross words, forcing all to simply use the sea as the location to dump anything when nature calls. And to add to the injury, all that they had to eat was bread and water due to the severe cutbacks of the government against the Armada.

While they were apparently managing to hold in the dramatic siege of such series of hygiene problems against their health and disposition, something has changed everything, as Cabo Primero Ruiz quickly ran towards the deck in the bow where Pablo Badajoz was pondering about everything, like he tended to do. Surprised by such desperate run towards him, Badajoz immediately noticed the look of despair in the face of the young sailor, as the same immediately announced him:

"Comrade Admiral Badajoz! We are under attack! Our radars have detected multiple hostile contacts approaching at 31 knots and have identified aircraft launches from a carrier and a potential missile launch which radar profile matches that of ten P-700 Granits or equally large missiles!"

Walking as fast as his age allowed to towards the bridge, escorted by Ruiz, Pablo quickly assumed control of the communications to integrate the fleet, while signalers were ready to use gestures, if necessary, to integrate the close by ships in the case that their electronic warfare packages do not hold against possible jamming. He knew quite well the suppression of their air defenses would be the first priority. Focusing on trying to identify the numbers of enemy vessels with the help of the bridge staff, he quickly got an almost certainty that they were five capital ships and ten screening vessels, besides a small part of a larger carrier air group that was heading towards them. Fortunately the amphibious transports were a hundred of nautical miles away from them, but unfortunately the rear escorts were too far to make a difference in the upcoming:

"We are currently in range for electronic attack. Prepare jammers to strike at all digital transmission frequencies, we shall resort to our analog systems. Winning the battle through the waves of signals will be crucial for us to win the battle through the waves of sea! Initiate launch sequence of air defense and anti-ballistic systems, and fire at my command. Activate all complementary transceivers as we need all we can get of radar warning. We must stop them at all costs Comrades! For the Republic!"

With an enthusiastic reply, he immediately issue orders to other vessels. The frigates were to head through fifteen nautical miles ahead for anti-submarine warfare operations, but to keep their helicopters in bay due to the expected air assault, while the smaller cruisers were ordered to keep a close integration with the Kirov, while also moving forward for all of their anti-shipping missiles to be in range of the enemy fleet and give it fire support later, also supporting its jamming attempt with their own electronic warfare packages. The rear escorts would retreat further back with the transports as fast as possible to stay out of the range of the enemy missiles and aircrafts operational range. However such battle would take a long time.

It was difficult to understand which was worse: the enemies or the impatience and anxiety provoked by the long time it took for the result of each operational procedure to become visible to the fleet. The jamming operation has been quite ingenious with their available resources due to the flexibility of their systems, focusing solely in what they expected to be the primary and only means of communication of the Confederacy regarding wavelength while keeping defenses only against jamming at analog channels, while hoping to also disrupt the trajectory of inertial guidance and datalink guidance missiles heading towards them. Badajoz ordered the capital ships to realign themselves into an interleaved formation optimal for maximizing the capability of electronic warfare as the enemy forces approached in their long way towards them. It was expected that their missiles would take at least an hour to impact against their fleet while their aircrafts would take roughly two hours. The first hour of the battle was characterized by the worry and struggle to keep discipline and perseverance in midst of an ocean of uncertainties. First, the radar cross signatures that spiked from aircrafts which were briefly detected during their launch, probably due to some sort of jet assisted take-off system, simply vanished, to add for them worries as they were definitively dealing with stealth aircrafts, and had no air group or airborne warning and control system to support them. Badajoz maintained his apparent calmness as he briefly said that such signals would appear again in their radar later as such aircrafts approached, and before they were in range to destroy them in a more advantageous manner than that of a missile launched from a ship, thus with a proper reaction time it would be possible to interdict them before they could destroy their vessel. Although he knew such thing was hardly truth, he had to do something to improve the morale of his comrades in such difficult moment as more tension continued due to their wait, for the missiles as well have vanished thanks to sea-skimming.

50 minutes after the battle began, to finally end the anxiety of the crew, six of the ten missiles fortunately reappeared in the radar display of the Kirov, as they were only twenty-five nautical miles away from the fleet, and their positioning obviously hinted that their primary target was the battlecruiser. All of them hoped that the other four were simply disrupted by the jamming rather than successfully sneaked through their warning systems, which was for their luck what happened. It seemed that Badajoz technical expertise, the support of the electronic warfare specialists among the crew and their experience have mostly compensated for their technological inferiority.

"Now!", shouted Pablo, accompanied by the twist of his arm towards the direction of the enemy forces at the bridge, as immediately fifteen missiles came out of cells, heading through the direction of the incoming threats, configured for a complex but efficient oblique intercept route. In two minutes the good news came, as apparently all incoming missiles were successfully intercepts, which was thanks to not only the defensive missiles, but specially to their relatively successful operation of electronic warfare. Then everything became disturbingly calm again, with nothing indicated by their warning radars other than the approaching strike vessel, to which strangely Badajoz has not yet ordered to be attacked, as they awaited for the next part of the still going on storm

Twenty minutes later, a heavy interference began to disrupt their analog and more unconventional wavelengths and signals, as six points in the radar quickly appeared and vanished again at about forty nautical miles, which due to the clear weather, have allowed them to be visually contacted. Apparently they were three flying wing aircrafts with a significant wingspan for their size, probably unmanned, escorted by three different electronic warfare modified fighters, which were clearly assaulting their frequencies as well, each were all at three thousand feet of altitude. With every second being precious, the Almirante General did not take much time to ponder on what to do rather than a couple of ten seconds, as suddenly his signs of weariness increased, and immediately ordered to the electronic warfare crew, seeing that while the radar signal of the bombers was faint, the signal of their escorts was not faint at all:

"Turn off all communications and proceed to gesture-based contact to close-by ships! Focus all our electronic wavelength defenses into our guidance and detection systems and all our attack capabilities into the overall frequency of look-down radars!". It was a risky bid, but as communications instantly went SNAFU, it was pointless to keep the systems active, and thus, focusing exclusively on guidance, air defense and warning radars could give them a better chance to at least counter the electronic attack sufficiently to intercept the threats. However that was only one part of what he was planning, but for the remainder of the minute he gave the first order, he had to hold his anxiety and fear and wait to see if the heavily focused electronic defense and attack would bring effect

"Launch eight home-on-jam able SAMs against the Cuervos! Prepare SAMs for taking on the bombers", he shouted again with a command tone of voice, as more vertical launch cells opened, with its missiles flying towards the incoming threats. Their special capability would at least force the electronic warfare fighters to temporary turn off their operation for enough time to down the bombers, for even with all their stealth capabilities, they were now close enough to be detected, while their oblique flying wings sacrificed an improved stealth capability that would make them take even closer distance to be detected.

As the missiles flew towards their targets, suddenly, as expected, the heavy interference stopped, and now it was not that important the the aircrafts would be successfully downed by the missiles, for the goal for which they were launched was accomplished, and the lack of interference allowed the fire control radars to properly lock against the incoming unmanned bombers, which were close enough to be identified as the Chapulín Sombreados. Wasting no time to miss such opportunity, Pablo immediately ordered, with his resounding voice echoing through the battlecruiser, in a manner that seemed similar to that of legendary captains of the age of sail:

"Fire!"

Immediately the signaler gestured close by ships to accompany the order, as a total of nine missiles flew from different ships in an integrated targeting capability, with four being from the battlecruiser and the other five being each from one of the accompanying cruisers, although a delay between their firings happened for communications would take a time for being reactivated, and the enemy CE-32 Cuervos, if not downed, could activate their jammers at any moment, making such longer wait than the delay of primitive ship-to-ship communications ineffective. Awaiting for the decisive seconds, Badajoz looked in awe as two of the bombers were successfully downed by incoming missiles. It seemed that such stealth technology was not as absolute and entirely capable of cheating guidance as some claimed it to be. However he also desperate as the other bomber approached the battlecruiser, strangely not having fired any anti-shipping missile, probably due to arrogance as they were enoughly egocentric to believe they could take them down with a conventional unguided bomb, or something similar, or perhaps their jamming against them have been so successful that their only assured way to take them down was with such primitive tools, then apparently the anti-radiation missiles were successfully averted by the enemy fighters, and their jammers were on again, blocking their capability of targeting the remaining bomber, as now their last hope was a last ditch attempt with minimum chances of success, as the Kashtan close-in weapons systems were aimed towards the aircrafts overall direction, and their bullets began to pierce the skies against the single remaining bomber, with a large noise of gunfire marking what the Admiral expected to be the last moments of his flagship.

The internal bays of the enemy bomber opening, as a somewhat strange sort of projectile fell from it and collided straight with the Kirov's deck, with the moment between both happenings being perhaps the most dramatic of the battle, as the crew impotently waited for their fate, while others simply prepared to jump or take the scarce lifeboats around the ship. To the surprise of all the impact brought only damage to the object launched by the aircraft, which was visibly nothing more than an structurally weak crate. As it broke, its content, a large quantity of important-looking papers, was revealed, and corporal Ruiz immediately gathered them, and as he quickly glimpsed through their content, he immediately gasped in shock, running towards the bridge where the admiral was still busy in an attempt to regain control over the electromagnetic battlefield.

"Comrade Admiral Badajoz! You must see this! It is urgent!", he said, quickly walking close to the admiral to show him the papers, to which, the admiral reaction as he skimmed through them seemed to be a combination of surprise and a clear disgust about their content.

"No! This cannot be true! It is a forgery! They would never sell our Spain to foreigners! Never!"

"I am afraid it is true. Those seals and watermarks seem too authentic to be forgeries, and these papers seem old enough to be original documents rather than copies. We never admit it, but we all know that there are certain weak spots in the Republic counter-intelligence capabilities. They have captured this from Spain, and for a reason they wanted to show you this."

"But? No! They are trying to convince us to defect to their side, we cannot let them destroy our culture!", Badajoz said, clearly confused about such new information.

"Comrade, with all respect but as far as I know our culture never had anything to do with Russia.", Ruiz explained to his superior, for the documents they were given through bombers were not propaganda at all, but actual plans to accept annexation of Spain into Stoklomolvi's domain in exchange of unconditional protection against Third Spanish States and of a position in their Communist Party. One of the aspects that the communist party never managed to erase from Spain's culture was its patriotism, and such document was irrefutable proof that the government of Spain has betrayed it. And thus, they have betrayed Pablo Badajoz authentically patriotic ideals of serving his nation. Such documents seemed like antidotes to decades of governmental propaganda and brainwashing, and perhaps administering them to all would be important first, as for some reason the storm of the battle has calmed again, and no hints of further launches were detected, despite the still active jamming: it was obvious that their primary objective was to convince his fleet to defect to their side, and perhaps also to test the skills of him and his fleet crew.

He replied: "Give me a minute to think about all of this, comrade", and pondered about how he has foolishly believed, and on how he have been betrayed by the Communist Party of Spain. His loyalty was with Spain, and not with fully corrupt and worthless traitors of his nation willing to sell it in exchange of privileges and power. For now, this was the way he saw everything in the Republic. It was not only totalitarian, but also fully corrupt, and degenerated. He has been too busy in the seas to ponder on what happened in the land, but now all was pretty clear. As more or less a minute went on, he finally replied to Ruiz, who patiently awaited his answer:

"And to think we were fooled and manipulated all these years by traitors of our Spain... Comrade, pass these documents for the entire crew to see, then return to me", he ordered to Ruiz, who quickly went on with the task. In the bridge, the curious crew were already aware of it and thus he went towards the other sections of the ship, informing gunners, quartermasters, sailors among many others about the truth. With their reactions being similar to those of dreamers awakening back to reality in shock. It took an entire hour for him to present it to the thousands aboard, as he finally came back to Badajoz and answered:

"Now all know, but the other ships"

"Give these documents to the helicopter pilot Francisco Pesos, and order him to land on other ships, including the transport ships, to spread the word!", he ordered.

The next six hours were not hours of battle, as strangely, or expectingly, the Confederacy made no offensive action other than keeping their jamming on, and they electronic warfare fighters have for long returned back to their carrier. These hours were instead hours of illumination, and perhaps of liberation of human minds through the crude and harsh truth about those they sacrificed much for, eating only bread and water for them, living with poor hygiene conditions and risking their own lives, who were nothing but traitorous scum, as now they saw. Even the commissars stood in silence instead of shouting accusations of sedition, for even they were commiting it, ironically. If the Almirante General ordered for them to raise the white flag, nobody would object now. It was already night as he did so, letting the flag of the Republic with its reaper sickle and hammer to the deck, ingloriously left abandoned and stepped on eventually as the crew moved, as an white flag replaced it in all the ships, which headed towards the Confederacy. As they were at about a hundred nautical miles from the Confederacy fleet, the heavy jamming stopped, allowing Pablo Badajoz to finally inform his decision, sealing the fate of eight divisions of the Republic: freedom.

"This is Almirante General Pablo Badajoz of the Negrín Fleet. We have discussed it through all of our current assets, and we all have unanimously agreed that we have been serving a traitor of Spain. We shall peacefully come to your presence, if you can guarantee us political asylum."

The static was broken again as the transmission from their former enemy came:

"This is Comrade Federico Sosa of the Negro battlegroup, we have understood our message. The Confederacy provides full poltical asylum and citizenship rights to all the refugees from the oppression and corruption of the Republic of Spain and we are willing to provide you with permanent residence. Please prepare your fleet to accompany us towards the harbor of Hampshire Haven, where preparations shall be done for the proper landing of all your assets. If you wish to, you can also integrate our own Armada Revolucionária, for we are truly impressed with the skills of your fleet crew and of yourself, although neither of you are in no manner obliged to do so. I hope you do not mind having your vessels transferred to our Navy where they shall be refitted to modern systems and pass through proper maintenance, while your transport vessels shall join our merchant marine."

"Not a problem, we hope you can put them to good use against those traitors of our people. We shall follow you as requested."

And thus, one of the largest amphibious landings of history happened in July 7th, 2039, beginning at about 16:00 hours, but the same happened with no resistance, for it was also the largest defection of troops in history, something achieved not through conventional means, but thanks to the sacrifices and efforts of nameless heroes of the Blackguards Intelligence Agency. And thus, the first battle of the Iberian War has ended as a major victory for Third Spanish States, which now had the likelihood of having eight divisions previously belonging to the enemy to add to their own ranks, and a small boost to their naval forces numbers and convoy capability. While now the People's Republic of Spain was almost without a Navy. However, such trick would difficultly work again, for Badajoz was an exception to the general rule regarding the military leaders of the República Popular Española.

Being directed to several vacant, simple but comfortable homes as temporary places for them, the Spanish defectors had a significant urge for a retribution to the years of brainwashing and manipulations, and the lack of recognition for their efforts, sacrifices and competence much above the average of the bureaucratic and otherwise serious inefficient military forces of Spain. Perhaps their residence in Third Spanish States would not be as permanent as initially thought.

- MISSION MAP (http://img401.imageshack.us/img401/2507/operationfallschwarzxo2.png) -

- DETAILED OBJECTIVE MAP (http://img145.imageshack.us/img145/3443/operationfallschwarz2kn0.png) -

Ría de Betanzos, Ferrol, Spain. July 5th, 2039, 20:40 hours

So far, the only enemy that they had to fight against was boredom, for staying into the cramped quarters of a submarine which beds were nothing but bunks laid over stored torpedoes was not something very interesting or adequate for those without self-discipline, and thus Selene, Salomón and Daniele simply kept all the time chatting, with the occasional go to the "bathroom", which although fully hygienic, was a bit unsettling to those not used to it, but as this has not been their first time inside a submarine, they were already expecting all that such a trip would involve. 600 meters deep into the sea was something that meant that any failure would lead to immediate death due to the external water pressure, but they had to risk it to ensure minimum chances of being detected. It has been some seemingly long time, enough to make the impatient think it was an eternity, but actually only four days plus some couples of hours, for the deeper a submarine got, the slower it went, but now a communiqué from the ever-present anonymous indicated that they were now positioned at Ría de Betanzos, right at the outer ring of the Bay of Ferrol, as going through the bay would be suicidal. Instead, the plan was to surface close to a mostly deserted area outside to the south of the bay with sufficient patches of woods for cover as the LZ for such operation.
Selene green eyes soon met the blue eyes of Daniele, as she finally spoke.

"I have both good and bad news for all, friends, as you already expect from the manner I expressed myself. The good news is that we finally arrived, and as 400 meters above there is land, a very poorly protected area ready to be infiltrated that will be our landing, I mean surfacing zone."

"At last and what about the bad news Selene? Did they discovered somehow we are going in?", Salomón replied, and at the same time asked her to inform more on the situation ahead.

"It seems like they conveniently refused to point in the copies of the first version of the plan they gave to us the exact number of all the nearby enemy patrols. We better not be caught, or twenty-five eight-man strong squads with their own light machineguns will be after us, not counting the other fifty squads that could arrive in less than fifteen minutes to our location. Also, as you already know, it will be a long walk to that place that was before, ironically, an hospital."

"Two hundred men? This makes us outnumbered by sixty-six to one!", Daniele immediately answered to the new information as she had the first opportunity to speak, and she seemed to be quite worried as she frowned and asked: "Why didn't they send one of their operatives already in La República, it would be much less risky than this!"

With a somewhat dark mood, Selene promptly replied to Daniele questioning.

"But did we not rose to volunteer for this? Anyway, I am afraid that this time we are in the same situation of the poor miss Nansen. For their infiltrated operatives are too precious to be risked, and we as agents with no active field duty are apparently more 'expendable' than them. But nevermind, I will ensure we will have a compensation for our risks here. To lessen it, it will actually be thirty-three to one, for an additional cell will give us support during this operation, and will take a close but slightly different route to the objective because the less people in the same place, the more difficult to spot them"

Shrugging, Daniele immediately asked to her friend about the matter, for the mention of Nansen seemed like a burden in the conscience of the group. Selene no longer would be joyful to treat such unlucky individual as a puppet, although nonetheless the same was one even without being aware of it.

"Selene, I know our secondary goal is to rescue any caught friend, now if one of them was Nansen, would you rescue her?"

"Provided we do not risk our own skins by doing so, surely I will, she can be a great aid for us to get back safely to the rendezvous point with the submarine after the mission. Speaking about it, I hope you didn't skip your scuba diving classes, now we should put our masks and get to the armory, unless there is something else to ask about

"Is there any intelligence on how many guards are inside the building?", Salomón immediately asked.

"Thirty or forty guards, and it will be impossible to sneak much farther, once inside, without getting our hands dirty. But that was also prepared for, and they gave us the location of the comms of that building, so we can sabotage it first to ensure nobody out of the building will be alerted. Don't worry, I still know how to handle such things, I was supposed to be the electronics specialists in our cell after all".

"Better five to one than thirty-three to one, for I am sure we are worthy at least five of them", Daniele replied, smiling in an attempt to improve the mood of the group.

"We are easily worthy thirty-three of them each, provided that we take out one at a time without alerting the others, but that is not our mission here. Now that you are ready, let's move to the armory", Selene replied back as they put their masks and headed out of that crew quarters, meeting other masking individuals through the corridors as they finally got into the armory.

It was a plain room with several beams holding firearms, suppressors, lightweight flak vests of the type used by them, for they preferred mobility over protection, disruptive pattern camouflage for the environment of urban and forest areas they were to get into, which also served as the diving suit to not put them at the risky need of changing clothes, diving gear, backpacks, canteens, ammunitions, electronics equipment and of course, night vision goggles and infrared sights.

"Lets make our luggages", Selene said as she grabbed some stuff from all those counters and beams, specially the electronics equipment, and apparently as much ammunition as she could carry for the RAA-39 amphibious assault rifle (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=13534269&postcount=15), based on a rough mental calculation on how much would be needed to face thirty-three men, but very little of steel darts, for it was very unlikely for frogmen or trained dolphins to be nearby their location. One could question whether twenty 6.5mm 20-round magazines would be useful, and although they were a bit bulky, Selene quickly replied:

"We won't waste our effort with body armors that only serves to make full metal jacket bullets more lethal, so I'm sure we can handle this, and in case the worst come, we will have enough for taking down thirty-three men each"

"Well, I hope we don't get into that, but I guess I will have to carry all this weight around too", Salomón replied as he got twenty magazines with him as well and another rifle, and some field medic equipment ,for he was the medic of the group, "Now, shouldn't we get a pistol too?"

"It would weigh too much then to carry both, this one is enough for close quarters combat, there is a reason why it is bullpup after all.", Selene replied while Daniele grabbed even more, twenty-five magazines and eight 50mm fragmentation grenades"

"Daniele, we are not going to take out an entire battalion!", Selene replied, smiling.

"But I am the main combatant here, and I will take them because I want", Daniele replied.

"Sure, but you won't complain if you get too tired keeping with our pace, all right?", Selene asked.

"I am more physically fit than you both", was her answer with yet another smile. By now they had already dressed up, and putted scuba masks that also served as gas masks to hide their identities as well, letting the armory open for the other cell to equip themselves as they headed to the section close to the hatch and awaited.

It was very easy to notice that the submarine was going up again. First, the audible noise as its chambers released stored water to increase its buoyancy and second the physical sensation as well. This was perhaps the riskier part, as the submarine would get only 50 meters below sea level, a depth safe enough for trained personell to surface from swimming. Soon, three other anonymous individuals, also wearing the same flag-less uniforms, appeared in the room. Eventually the sensation of going up stopped, as Selene gestured for her group to get ready.

The chamber began to fill with water as they prepared their rebreathers, a water that despite the thermal insulation of their suits, still was biting cold to the senses as it went up. Soon it filled all the room, and finally a green light signaled that the hatch was opening, revealing the darkness of an unlit ocean through which they began to swim through, ignoring the cold waters. It was a somewhat long way up, but eventually Selene, Daniele, Salomón and the other three individuals surfaced, noticing right ahead of them the landing zone, which was a deserted plain with some woods right ahead.

Without even looking for a place to hide the equipment that would no longer be used for the rest of the operation, which was instead stored in their backpacks, right as they putted their night vision goggles on, they immediately went through the woods, reaching through the forested area as their boots silently stepped on. The terrain they trekked through was somewhat hilly, and for some minutes they marched through almost an entire kilometer of trees and shrubs, with so far no sign of patrols anywhere, until finally stopping at the end of such patch of trees, and ahead, among some small mounds, there were only plains. Daniele immediately gestured, using their own codes, to let her observe the surroundings almost unprotected, as she looked through the night sight attached to her rifle. Pointing to southwest, she gestured that she spotted kilometers away a patrol, and that it seemed to be safe to cross through the next rough 500 meters of deforested plains through the next patch of trees of their route.

And thus they went further on, with Daniele momentarily stopping to look again towards the direction of the hostile patrol to be sure they were not heading towards them. For now, they were simply patrolling close to the coast, and strangely, they seemed to be openly looking for someone rather than on an standard patrol routine. Perhaps there was something else, or perhaps they knew they were coming. The GPS indicated exactly the 48 remaining kilometers they would have to travel through on foot, and luckily, no incident happened as they finally got into another easy to hide location, this time a much longer patch of trees that would allow them to have little worries for an entire hour. After some long minutes, they finally found something to break the monotony of the all-green woods made even greener by their night visions: a small road crossing through, and a reason for worries. Daniele took again the sight and began to peek through both sides of the road, immediately gesturing for them to get down as she quickly hid beneath a tree among a cluster of shrubs with the rest of the fireteam nearby as well.

An ambush was tempting, but it would be too risky and could compromise the primary reason they were there for. Instead, they simply awaited in absolute silence as a convoy of multiple trucks with ammunitions passed through the road, probably heading towards a nearby air base to supply their planes against the Confederacy. As soon as their lights which before bathed the road and nearby trees vanished through the horizon, Daniele immediately checked again, and gave a positive as they finally crossed to the other side. This would not be the only road in their planned route, and a few meters after it, again they would have to pass through another area with very little cover, where the same routine repeated although this time no patrols have been spotted, as they safely crossed to yet more forested areas.

Fifteen kilometers of trekking since their first step into surface, and now they were into the next, more complicated phase of their way, for now they would no longer have the cover of trees, but would have to rely on the cover of urban areas, and avoid being caught by the local police as well. Disguising as civilians would be useless as curfew was established at such time, and thus it would be all a matter of not being seen or heard. As Daniele took a peek at the classical but decadent buildings ahead and at the railroad that they were to get through, she immediately gestured for the next step. Six individuals would be too complicated to hide, and thus they were split into their cells to head through different semi-planned paths towards the railroad. They had roughly a hour and half to catch with a train nearby, while their LPI radios were now being carried, for they would have to operate with a certain degree of synchrony. Daniele, Salomón and Selene head then, using the inner seaside of the bay as reference towards waypoint one, a point where there were a large enough quantity of crates and bags to hide at if necessary, taking advantage of terrain elevations to keep themselves hidden. 40 minutes of tension finally ended as they were right ahead of the tracks, where a few buildings were located and as expected, some empty crates were around as well. It was a sort of temporary station, which was fully deserted due to the curfew, although Daniele could spot from afar at least three patrols.

Promptly they hid the best they could and awaited for the time a train would arrive. It was a bit unsettling and yet another challenge to patience, as sometimes the temptation to speak to each other to break the ice was big, but they were fearing that doing so could reveal their position to a patrol passing through, and thus remained in silence all the time. Soon the ground began to shake slightly, for their unwilling transport was coming. They waited further, for the lights of the first cart to vanish so they could not be spotted.

Boarding a train while it was moving would be very risky, but fortunately, luck was on their side as the train stopped in such derelict station for some reason, and taking quickly the opportunity, they went inside one of its cargo wagons, and, finding empty crates, hid inside them to ensure nobody would notice them on the way. According to calculations, they would have to get out of the train at roughly seven minutes, and this time it was certainly not going to stop.

Waiting in silence and making long walks was the rule for most of the time that would be spent in such operation, and combat expectingly the exception. Daniele was apparently a bit tired, probably because of the excess of ammunitions she was carrying, although she took well those seven minutes to rest a bit from their long walk through the south side of the bay of Ferrol. Half of their travel has been conclude, and for now they were not caught. Five minutes later, through a low probability of intercept transmission, they would be informed that the other team also successfully boarded a train, and they were to rendezvous at waypoint 3, which was their primary objective. Such train would likely get through Outeiro as well, which was quite close, but past a point into the center of the city, an inspection of all trains would happen where hiding would be impossible. They would have to jump, and after more two minutes they got out of the crates, and opened the door of the cart, through which they could see the moving horizon of the plains and mounds and the urban landscape ahead. Fortunately such trains were not that fast, and at 40 kilometers per hour, it wasn't that unpleasant to jump from the cart, as all did simultaneously, falling softly on the grassland, from where they quickly moved to the most safe position close to the given waypoint, from where they would wait for the other team to arrive before proceeding.

It was not glorious like those spy fictions tried to describe. In fact, a proper description would be that of eighty percent boredom, fifteen percent fear and five percent action. Of course the public would not be interested into seeing the eighty percent in a theater, but the point remained. Fifteen minutes later the sign that the other team was ready came.

"Arriba", Daniele whispered through the communicator of her helmet (http://z4.invisionfree.com/NSDraftroom/index.php?showtopic=3104), as she gestured for them to continue ahead on the planned route, taking detours according to advantageous terrain features to hide. They would have to be very careful, for the harbor was infested with patrols, and the chances of one passing through their way was not small, even though their route was one of the least patrol-intense ones. Sometimes they even ran almost crouched, which was uncomfortable but necessary to ensure not being spotted, with their route accompanying the bottom of a highway, until they stopped close to a slope in the landscape where they crouched to watch the surroundings, as the city area was only a hundred of meters ahead, with its decaying buildings and houses and its streets visible, and streetlights limiting the capability of remaining hidden. It would be the most complicated section for sure, and as Daniele took a last check with her rifle sight, she whispered to her friends:

"This won't be easy, we must be very very careful, and watch around for patrols on every thirty steps we take, so keep your eyes wide open, I don't want to bite the pill so soon"

"All right, Daniele, lets go then, should we all crouch"

Although out of the field Isabel was a natural leader, whenever a field operation happened where all of them had to work together, Daniele seemed more fit for the job due to her more intense training in combat and infiltration compared to both, while she wasn't bad in relations with them and inspired trust due to her skills. Taking yet another look for precaution, she went in, followed by both, through one of the streets of Ferrol. From this place on, they took a zig-zag route through several of the less busy streets of the city, many times spotting patrols closing by and hiding in whatever was close by, including filthy trash bins and cans when necessary. But they fortunately managed to get past further kilometers, and were getting very close to their final goal, as now Autopista del Atlántico was right ahead, and they quickly crossed through it, following the smaller road through the planned route. Daniele yet again looked for patrols, this time spotting far ahead two patrols close to their target, the location where the access key for the plans of the enemy was stored. At the second road, they took a turn to the left, taking cover in nearby shrubs and buildings, and followed through until an waiting point very close to the block where the building was located.

3:52 hours, July 6th

One would no longer call such building as hospital, as its cold grey facade stood more like a prison of unknown nightmares inside, and the patrols passing through the pavement of the block were not very friendly. More minutes of wait happened as Daniele hid with the others awaiting for the other team, provided they had not failed, something that hopefully would not have happened. Ten minutes later a transmission came to her single non-obstructing earphone attached to her helmet, with an whisper of an unrecognizable voice:

"Our recon is finished, we have spotted a single patrol that will be necessary to eliminate to ensure our proper infiltration of the target. four of the members of it are in stationary positions, with two manning light machineguns, while the other four are patrolling around the block and might come to your sight at any moment, we will be awaiting for synchronizing our elimination of them, over"

"This is cell leader, understood, I shall inform when the right time comes, over", Daniele replied. Afterwards, she checked if the suppressor of her rifle was properly attached went to her friends and answered:

"I hope you had learned well and practice enough shooting, because there will be four targets for us to take down without letting any one of them alert the others, and for such role semi-automatic still is the best mode. Also, I will know the right time to shoot, so wait until I say the code, right?"

"Sure, regarding shooting, we know the specialist to consult", Salomón replied, "and I hope I won't have to use my specialist skills on any of you during this operation", he added.

Before preparing to shoot, taking advantage of the remaining seconds, Daniele opened her backpack to reveal why she was having some trouble with the weight, as she took away four silenced P70 pistols (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=13482421&postcount=4) and forty 10mm 12-round magazines from it, quickly replying to her friends:

"Once we get inside, the suppressors of our rifles will still not suppress enough noise to not call the attention of an entire floor, so I brought these instead, I hope you don't feel offended by this, but you really need to know more about firearms and less about working behind desks"

"Right, now stay down and quiet, they are coming!", Selene answered as she grabbed some magazines and one pistol and guarded them to keep her attention on her rifle.

More wait came, but this time rather than many minutes, it was an wait of
a few seconds as the first soldier was spotted turning around the corner of the block to their side, Daniele simply kept her aim on him with the night sight while the others aimed for the third and fourth of the patrolling row, and as they were in a very disadvantageous position, Daniele whispered:

"Banda"

Almost simultaneously, three rounds came from their weapons, and hit straight against the torsos of three of the patrolling soldiers, while the other one was still confused and trying to find where it came from when Daniele finished him with a shot, this time precisely against his head, and as it was safe to proceed, they crossed the street to the pavement of the quarter and checked to see if the three enemy soldiers that were not shot in the head were all dead, or if some of them were still alive.

On the other side, two bullets made a quick way of the machinegun operators, but the third one of the first salvo missed one of the soldiers. In despair, the pair of still standing hostiles began to sprint towards the inside of the building, something which if successful would mean the total failure of the operation. Fortunately in the next salvo both were silently taken down before they could alert the estimated thirty or forty inside the police HQ and former hospital.

Salomón was quick to notice that two of the soldiers were still moving with struggle, and quickly moved their weapons away from them to prevent problems, while he also decided to verify if they had a chance of coming out alive of such wounds. The first one, fortunately or unfortunately depending on the point of view, has suffered a shot against the liver, and as ironically, what could has saved his life before as an hospital was turned into something to destroy lives instead, and as the necessary equipment for field surgery would be too bulky for Salomón to carry, was condemned to a slow and painful death, as Salomón knelt to the still conscious man he was the responsible for shooting, and whispered to him in Spanish:

"I am sorry, but we had to do this just like you would have to, and you were shot in your liver and I can't save your life. I know you are suffering, but I can't shoot you again in the head with my pistol to grant you a swift and painless death if you consent with it by making a thumbs up"

Probably the last thought of that man before dying was of strangeness. After all, why would the "capitalist scum" be so merciful? His closing eyes could see a sense of mercy behind the mask that hid the face of Salomón, and perhaps, in a few seconds, he concluded that all that they said to him were lies. Noticing the manner the dying soldier looked at him, Salomón replied:

"Yes, they fooled you, they lied to you and used you. They are the true enemies of our Spain, traitors that would sell our nation to foreign powers in exchange of wealthy. They claim to stand for equality but they are all rich while our brothers suffer. I cannot let you die without first knowing the truth."

And thus the man made a thumbs up and smiled slightly, despite all, as Salomón ended his misery with a shot to the head, and sighed in a quite silent manner afterwards, but at least such man died being freed from the lies of the Party, and for at least a moment in his life, he knew truth.

"They are our brothers, they were very likely forced to be here, to risk their lives for the pigs and vagabond scum that rule Spain for now. We should not blame them, just like we should not be blamed for killing them, because there is unfortunately no other way to deal with this. Let's see this other one, and I don't see why let him die if he can stay alive", he whispered to Daniele, and went to check the wound of the other. This time, the bullet did not wound any vital organ and thus was not lethal, while the fact it was a full metal jacket hitting an unarmored man meant it went straight through him instead of fragmenting, causing much less damage to his tissue. Salomón quickly used some of his medicinal supplies to help the man and his anesthesia to stop a part of his pain, although he would not be able to get up so soon.

For the man it was strange, for it seemed that they were very different from the tales of capitalist monsters that would tear men apart to sell their organs, and that had no regard to humanity and socialism. In fact, seeds of dissent were already on such man

"What is the point Salo, tomorrow this man is going to be executed for failing on his duties or worse anyway! Actually, just shooting him with a bullet to the head would be more merciful than let him at the mercy of the Party dregs", Selene replied in a silent tone, shrugging.

"Who said we are going to leave him behind? This man, he was only forced to be a puppet to the real pigs, if we have the power in our hands to free a man from tyranny, we shouldn't abandon such chance.", Salomón immediately answered.

"What? No, we cannot carry him all the way to the rendezvous with the submarine, or we would surely get ourselves caught, plus, how do you think this man would be able to dive all the way down without any gear and with a bullet in his torso?", she said, refuting his argument.

"And who said we are going on foot? I spotted an official pickup truck in this block while I was contributing with recon, of the type that has all windows tinted and its trunk fully covered, I am sure it could house more than enough space for at least eight people, and thus we could also drop some potential sympathizers in safer deserted areas for them to for example, organize resistance and our own fifth column, and I am even more sure that if we used it instead of going on foot the likelihood of being caught would be infinitely smaller. Also, did you forgot that it will be impossible to dive the way down? Actually the sub will surface at the rendezvous, as it is a area which is much less patrolled, and thus quite safe for it to do that, although it wouldn't be a good landing zone, that is why we came from an other way."

"Oh, nice idea, and we would be able to reach it before the sunrise as well with a pickup truck, which would be much, much safer. But now, with this patrol gone, it will be as much as an hour for anything to happen, for it seems that there is no one watching the windows, and... I took care of the cameras with my expertise. Thus maybe now it is a good time for us to review the blueprints of the building before getting into the main part of this action", Selene answered in an almost silent voice as they purveyed the blueprints.

The building had five floors including its ground floor, a parking floor as the first basement level and further down three sinister basement levels that held people in horrible conditions. The plan was for Selene's group to clear the ground, destroy the comm room in the ground floor, clear parking and basement floors while the other cell would clear the four upper floors from all hostiles through lethal force. Selene's group would also be tasked to capture the head of such secret police headquarters to "interrogate" him using the same tools such dreg of mankind used to torture innocents. They were instructed to use a serum of truth, but they found it inadequate to punish a man that has been responsible for so much misery and suffering.

After checking each room for potential hiding places and tactical advantages, they went to the front gates and entered in the courtyard with the other three, readying all of their pistols. Then Selene and her friends made all the way back to a backdoor, while the other team was awaiting for the command so they could storm the building simultaneously. Daniele would eventually give the command in a whisper:

"Cabrón"

And thus both the back door and front door were stormed in such operation. They had to be quick about it, and as soon as the door opened, Daniele aimed to a scared bureaucrat and shot against his head. They had to not let any witness alive to tell their enemies what actually happened. Sooner some real opposition would come as five soldiers rushed through a corridor, having heard some small noise, and the three took cover and quickly took them down before the could make much noise to alert the entire building. Thirty five or twenty five now. Rushing, Daniele soon took several doors to the comm room, and gave cover together with Salomón while Selene began to use some of her gadgets on the devices. Soon they had no further signs of life, while some faint noise were heard on the floors above as the other team was apparently already busy there. With all communications gone, now it was time to get further down for Daniele, and followed by the others, she went downstairs to the parking floor, where a bunch of old cars were located. It was suspiciously, or maybe not, empty, and they treaded carefully and at full alert to the possibility of hidden enemies there, something difficult as Daniele took away a single G36 from one of the fallen soldiers and some magazines of the same gun, and it was becoming a real burden the amount of things she insisted on carrying. To their luck there was really nobody in such floor, and now they sneaked to the stairs down, with Daniele carefully leaning at the end of the staircase. It was the first detention area, and expectingly, more shots came from her pistol, on its second magazine already. As the are was cleared, they checked the crime lists. There was only one with registered "murder" as the majority were there accused of theft instead. Daniele whispered:

"Well, at least they dealt with one real scum, let me deal with this one"

"Sure, go right ahead"

The pathetic man begged for his life, to no avail, as Daniele put a bullet to the head of the murderer. The other prisoners, on the other hand, were instructed to stay in their cells for now, but that they would come back to release all of them. They had two more floors to clear.

No problems happened on the second basement either, although it was truly unsettling. There were some women that seemed to be very downtrodden, and all of the prisoners had clear marks of torture. In featureless voices, the three individuals tried to emphasize that the nightmare was over using Spanish. But that was only part of the mission. As no information was given on the location of the head of that building, such man could only be in the lowest floor, possibly interrogating someone personally.

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

"Maria Nansen... here you are after all. No more talk, just tell me all you know of the intelligence operations your capitalist pig friends have here, or you'll suffer so much you will wish to never have been born", a disgusting man in an official uniform said, although she could barely keep her focus, for having one's muscles extremely stretched and lemon juice falling to the eyes wasn't very pleasant. Despite her writhing, she said in a trembling voice:

"Never scumbag!"

It was like a flash, an horrible pain came to her as she could feel a cold blade burying deep into the flesh of her right foot. As she screamed, the man used a tool to hold one of her teeth, and said in a menacing tone:

"I could just mutilate your feet, but you are more useful as a whole. Now, your teeth are pretty white... and they would not make much of a difference for what we have planned for you, so, I will have the displeasure of removing every of them unless you tell me what you want"

Blood was coming from her feet dripping from the surgical table, and she could barely talk for a while. As the man knew it was pointless, he awaited for the moment he knew she would be able to speak again under such duress to see if his methods brought results.

"Never!", she shouted to him, but strangely he did not remove her teeth, but instead turned her body upside down and smiled.

"I have a better idea... maybe if I impale you, I will make you talk."

"No... that is just..."

"Necessary, capitalist pig.", he said as somehow she became silent...

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

"Débil"

Another massacre happened, with more of the soldiers and employees of such hell being annihilated, as Daniele, followed by her friends, decided to check the last floor. As it seemed to be mostly clear, they soon noticed all the sinister, but empty cells with surgical tables and several torture instruments in each, until they found one seemingly busy, where whoever was there, did not seem to have noticed what just happened.

"It is him, let me sneak, I will surrender him so we can make him talk", Daniele said as she sneaked through the rows until the cell. With the last step she took through the cold floor, the visage she would witness was so shocking that she almost gave in her presence, with she only observing for four seconds before finally getting herself to react.

At bulletpoint, the head of that horrible place was finally conquered, but next to him, what Daniele saw was now shared to her other friends. What such disgusting man has done was unjustifiable. They could see the misery of miss Nansen, naked with a wooden stake coming out from her mouth and all way backwards. That disgusting man has impaled her alive, and this served as a good justification to use all means necessary to make him talk.

"Salomón, can you help her?"

As he approached, trying to contain his shock, he said to her:

"This is going to hurt, but is for your own good."

A scene that is better not described besides the agonizing screams of Maria Nansen occurred, as after it, humiliated and beaten down, Salomón helped her to dress some clothes and tended to the inflicted wound in her foot.

"Miss Nansen, I... am sorry for all you had to endure"

"It is not your fault, mister anonymous", she replied weakly, trying to get a hold of herself.

"Is there anything I can do?", he asked.

"Could you tell me... your mission? Maybe I could help...", she said, looking at the disgusting man with her eyes mixing shame and hatred

"We need to find an access key, and this... human being... knows where it is."

Suddenly, Maria seemed like another person, and with an authoritative tone of voice, almost demanding, despite all that she has passed, said:

"Put this human turd in this table and leave me alone. I will be back once I have the information you need. For now, help the others on the upper floors"

Even while walking in shambles, Nansen seemed to be twisted, perhaps a consequence of what happened, but they complied, and now her former torturer was at her mercy. They refused to see what would happen further, and went to the other floors, finally releasing all the victims of oppression.

"Ehm, are you sure we can fit all these people in a pickup truck?"

"Don't worry, Selene, it is a really big truck"

"I am still shocked... I feel guilty for what happened to her. Poor Nansen, it is our fault after all. We should have never done that to her.", Selene replied

"There is no turning back and no point to put this. We should just let her have a share of the compensation you are talking about, and let her retire because enough is enough, provided we get out of here, of course", he said as they released the last prisoner, with Daniele explaining to them to go to the pickup truck trunk, take whatever was available as seat and wait.

In five minutes, trembling, Nansen came from downstairs with her hands soaked in blood and a small enclosed case in one of them, as she said:

"It was hidden in his own body...", she suddenly felt on the floor, clearly too weak due to all she had to endure, and probably went too far on giving back to that now dead man what he did to her. They were not interested on seeing how she managed to make him talk, and Daniele asked for them to help carrying her towards the truck as well. They took the last floor up to the parking floor, where the other three comrades were already waiting as they cleared the entire building. Igniting the car, Selene assumed the drive and as she tampered with the gates, they opened to let them out of the building as they went through the still dark streets. Some patrols spotted them, but simply did not react or made greetings from afar as if they were authority figures. Making their way far through the north, they eventually let all the released prisoners to a very little policed rural place with plenty of locations to hide, while both the wounded "enemy" soldier and Maria Nansen continue on their way. Finally, as the night was almost over, they came to a shore line where the submarine was waiting for them, and as Nansen woke up again, they swam together towards it, and after the hatch was opened, a very important mission was finally accomplished.

"Should we tell her the truth?"

"And make her suffer even more than she did already? I would rather not"

"She has served with such distinction... she really deserves retirement"

"Yes, sure, she risked her skin much more than us... and... I am not sure if I would manage to not tell anything after getting through what she suffered."

"Yes, she really got some fiber, but she is a bit scary"

"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, that is how she behaves, so don't be impressed"

And many other discussions were made on their safe way back to the Confederacy.

The stage was now almost set for the war to begin publicly. All that remained to be seen is whether the other operatives that would use such access key to retrieve the document that would give to the Confederacy a casus belli would succeed or not. It was strange how such sort of operations could be much more important to the outcome of a war that was still breeding than any conventional military campaign or operation, but such was the way the Confederacy was specialized at.

Palacio de la Moncloa, Madrid, Spain. 20th of July of 2039

The meeting room was again busy with many party members around as Cavallo looked around with the eyes of someone looking for a reason to kill people. His mood has become severely bad after he was informed on how eight divisions have defected after a fake amphibious assault order done through electronic deception, while the headquarters of the Ministerio de la Ley in Ferrol were witness of what could be described as a complete slaughter, for even unarmed personell was butchered there and the manner the head of the place was killed was something incredibly gruesome, something that at least served well as a propaganda tool against their enemies, although they had no solid evidence that the Confederacy was the actual responsible for such terror strike, even though all the hints pointed to them, as not much later another building was raided where a copy of their plan for invading the Confederacy in a long war was stolen, and if they had it, now it was only a matter of time before they would declare war and preemptively attack them.

"Comrades, we have traitors inside our glorious nation, traitors to the capitalist scum that have given away our most important secrets for them to exploit! Traitors that lied and cheated to eight divisions of our men and manipulated them to betray our nation! This cannot be tolerated anymore!", he shouted, punching a table in anger, and after sighing, he continued:

"They will not succeed because of that! We still have a million-strong infantry force to defend and forward to the last man the revolution, and three million and half of reserves ready to defend our homeland! They will never succeed! Never! I was informed by the head of logistics that in twelve days we will be completely ready for securing air superiority over the capitalist island. They might have stealth aircrafts and advanced technologies, but they will be futile in face of our numerical superiority as our aerial wave shall dominate the Confederacy airspace and prevail to prepare the road for our dozens of thousands of airplanes to transport our troops safe from the naval patrols, and then they shall fall to our force without any allied help!"

It seemed an almost fanatical certainty that the operation would work. It would be expensive, but any amphibious assault would be utterly suicidal, and thus their best bet would be to secure an airfield with their few paratrooper regiments to serve as a landing zone for the transport of troops through air. It would still be risky due to all the anti-air missiles of the hostile navy, but it would be less riskier than sending unescorted transport boats against an almost thousand-ship strong navy.All would begin at 2nd of August, which would be somewhat fitting, for it would be less than a month before the 100th anniversary of the Second World War. Perhaps it would not develop into the same scale of such event of the last century that was so linked with the fate of Spain during the preceding Spanish Civil War, but it would certainly have the same importance for both sides it had for the allies, axis and comintern and would definitively not be an fast-ending conflict or "four-days war", except in the case of mutually assured destruction, something neither were interested at as an outcome.

The invasion of Portugal has been the final precedent for the actual war, where it could be considered the equivalent of the non-violent annexation of Czechoslovakia in the war that happened roughly a century ago, although this time, rather than something analogous to the invasion Poland, the next operation of La República would be an entirely aerial theater of war which would be as intense and probably as long as the Battle of Britain. Their hope was that it would not, despite their technological inferiority, end like Sealion. Their enemies were now completely devoid of any friendly or even neutral presence in the Iberian peninsula, but they were sure they would not simply wait for them to arrive, not after they found a potential justification for a fair casus belli, and thus speed would be vital.

The supply chain was ordered to be as fast as they could to finish the process of readying almost a thousand of aircrafts for one of the largest, and likely bloodiest aerial strikes of history, and hopefully, they would be able to deploy them faster than the Confederacy could make any preemptive attack against their runways, for without them, they did not put much trust into their Yak-38 for achieving air superiority, as they would be the last resort, while it would be difficult for their bombers to reach the target.

The major problem of an invasion against Third Spanish States would be the supply lines, for their submarine forces were anything but small and could easily break off entirely any sea based supply chain, while even if they successfully broke all runways of their enemies, their fighters were designed to take-off from public roads, and aerial transports would be severely vulnerable as well, and extremely expensive. The plans for the next stage of the operation were not ready yet, as all these considerations meant that there would be many challenges to successfully take over such threat, but nonetheless, with enough planning, significant chances of surpassing such challenges could be reached.

And thus, the road to war was almost at its end. It was yet to be seen which side would make the first move.


(OOC Note: The post after this will be the last one before this thread becomes open for those who signed in(Lyras, ThePeoplesFreedom(not sure if you are still interested though) and possibly Stoklomolvi as well among others, so if you signed in in NSD or signed in ICly by guaranteeing Soviet Spain independence, now pay attention to this thread as this is going to start getting "hot" pretty soon

And yes, I putted the date very close to 100 years after the Invasion of Poland in WW2 on purpose)

Nye Oslo Flystasjon, 1st of August of 2039, 04:30 hours

It was not a training, for this time it was utterly necessary to be ready while the sun has not even set yet, but the mattress in one of the bunks was already emptied as Björn Hansen looked into the mirror of the common restrooms to brush his teeth. Ahead was an young Nordic man of dark blonde hair and black eyes with tiny weariness rims around his eyes from some recent lack of sleep, and eyes which resonated some sort of idealism and willful intent, and suddenly, close to him in lined sinks to his right, four others came, three man and an woman, who all seemed to have just woke up from a less than enough sleep, and furthermore more five came to the other side of the wall which lined with the sinks, or to the enclosed toilets. The first four to arrive where well known by him, as the mates of his air squadron, the 191th, but the others were new arrivals he simply acknowledged at for now. As he came through the crew quarters and finally wore his black fatigues, he headed to the outside, to make his way to the hangar, as soon the four of his squadron also were next to him. Marie Cholet was the youngest, at 30 years old, flying since 18. Someone who came from the close by Port Populi, with a short, black hair and deep amber eyes, and an stubborness that could be problematic if she ever was switched from the squadron she was used to. Juán Mendigabaz, from La Coruña was basically his left-hand and seemed to be like a shadow of him sometimes, a 33 years old pilot which was more than ever expecting much of his first real operation. Cicero Giral from Noveau Algiers was a very loyal and amicable friend, but easy to anger whenever the troublesome Javier Corazón with his 31 years old and irreverent sense of humor made comments about the faith of the Algerian that migrated from the Algerian Communes among a "small" community of 800 thousands to a region close to the quite new city of Noveau Algiers.

Outside, the air base was a vast field on the topside of a hill filled with buildings. Perhaps one of its most interesting features was the presence of an extensive network of underground facilities to protect against bombardment, while all glass windows were for a long time protected by several layers of sandbags, while a large runway came from roughly west to east to the northside of the barracks, with several facilities, and an equally large number of static emplacements of unmanned surface to air missile systems next to it. Further ahead through north, terrain became gradually more rugged as the way came eventually to the famous metropolis of Nueva Madrid, located next to the Durruti Lake into the top of the Riviera Hills, or arguably "mountain range", which position was proper for it to benefit from enough rainfall to maintain itself and feed the river Ferrer and its small waterfalls that crossed all the way down to the sea, being located to the east of Nye Oslo as a potential natural barrier which hopefully would never have to be taken advantage of. To the south one could easily see the way terrain was bent downwards until reaching the sea level at a beachhead surrounded by a few small hills and extended through west in the wide canal that separated both major islands of the Confederacy, where the Isla Este ended at the Berger Cape, another region of Norwegian colonization.

With not much time to contemplate the landscape, Hansen simply looked at Marie first, as he tended to talk to all of them briefly before any mission, even the training and simulation ones that were all they had so far. He would not break such personal ritual, or perhaps behaviorial vice, that he had, specially now that it was going to be a real war they were about to go at, against an enemy that only the die-hard veterans of infantry divisions have faced before. With an uniquely accented Spanish, which was, fittingly, the "universal language" in the Confederacy among people of different native languages, the man immediately referred to Marie:

"Yes Marie, I know you need your beauty sleep, and I know not only you but we all are a bit weary because of this and of all the preparations we had in the last two months, but I would not be so quick to take a nap, not with bombs falling over my house, if you get my catch"

Now, like a typical French trying to speak in a comprehensible but heavily accented Spanish, the woman immediately replied to the man who was the elected leader of the squadron:

"Yes, Björn, I know that if we do not do this, flying beasts of Stalin shall roar and destroy the homes of our families, friends and comrades, and this base itself will be nothing more than a collection of depressions which would be deep enough for a man to become forever lost in such holes."

"Indeed", he answered back, "and I they would eventually dare to attack the land of your ancestors as well, for they have no respect to freedom and sovereignty, as they have shown with their boots stomping Portugal. We cannot let France or our Confederacy to be the next on their fists of Stalin, but do not worry Mar, we will defeat them, and we will get back alive and kicking, for we are one-nine-one, and we win like no one", using the usual entendre with the meaning of the word "Stalin" that was getting more and more popular among personell of the forces.

"You know, sometimes I think we are like a big family, we have been living to together for so long, we care for each other. It is much better this way", she answered back to the overall mood of optimism that Hansen conveyed, when suddenly Javier threw an unexpected comment at a more natural Spanish phonetic, gazing at her bosom with horny eyes:

"Well, this family lacks children, I know this is not the time, but maybe once the war is over, we could settle this deficiency, for you know how kids can be lovable and make adults approach each other, you know, for love"

"Callate cabrón sin verguenza!", Marie immediately shouted, waving her hands, angered by the manner that Javier was again getting too far with his flirting at her, unaware that he was not being that serious, for she was too stubborn to realize the obvious. Hansen immediately looked at Javier with an unfriendly expression and said:

"Javier, take it easy, for this has been enough! I will not intervene if someone decides to takes your bad jokes close and personal, and if you continue with this harassment on Marie, I am sure that it won't take much longer before we vote to kick you out of this squadron, and maybe of the entire air force!"

The brown-haired man posed his calm brown eyes to Björn, and simply smiled: "You all need to grow some skin, good thing they don't know or they would be able distract you with insults in the middle of the battle"

Looking at Javier, Björn promptly answered to his claims as he seemed to not be very amused with such behavior: "This is no excuse for your attitude, Javier, you need to grow some maturity because sometimes you look like a 16 years old beetard!", forgetting immediately of all the weird sorts of families that existed around.

"Yes, I grew up in the Internets, that is how it goes when you are the result of a furfag wanting to have a son through cloning. It was more interesting to run away from home and get into the tubes than to see an obese faggot wearing a fursuit claiming to be your father opening up his own..."

"ENOUGH! If you are really an straight clone of an homo, that is none of our business to know! If you want to take this as your family, it is your choice, but you should respect your brothers and sisters here. So you better not treat Marie as if she was a cheap slut again, or you might be out of here soon, and don't come with your imagination regarding these cheap excuses for your lack of respect, because I would believe more in the nazis than in your tales about your parenthood"

Sighing, Javier simply said again about how people are taking it too seriously and nodded. Due to the time spent with him, Hansen did not have enough time to address the others, and instead began to head towards the hangar, where they would take another look into the mission ahead they helped to plan with a briefing.

As the group walked through the paved roads toward the hangar, the horizon seemed to remain static, and the sky as clear than ever, with fortunately no signs of any rain, for predictions also indicated an excellent week ahead, almost as if weather itself bended to give in for the incoming battle that would rage through air. The sun still did not set as they finally reached to the still mostly dark hangar, where lampposts were still turned on in the outside to allow personell to navigate through it. The technicians were already preparing dozens of aircrafts to take-off, among them their five CL-32A Buitres and more five CE-32 Cuervos, for a serious suppression of enemy air defenses would be necessary.

An improvised briefing "room" was set, with about a hundred of seats and each packing a "basic" breakfast. Five toasts with real butter rather than margarine, a cup of cofee and two glasses of apple juice for each, for it was expected to be a long and difficult mission. Cicero was particularly a lover of coffee, and took no ceremony to drink it as the first thing, despite it being quite hot. He did not even care to add sugar to the coffee, for he preferred it natural, but in the end the only one with enough hunger to eat all the five buttered toasts plus the ones that his pals could not handle was Javier, who was more known for feats like this than for his flight skills.

The briefing was naturally predictable, as all of them were already aware of how the mission was planned, as expected, an image (http://img410.imageshack.us/img410/7558/runwaycrateringir6.png) appeared in a small projector demonstrating an strategic overview of the objective of something ironically named as "Operation Stalingrad", as a man got up to explain it again, just to ensure nobody has forgotten it. It was a brown-haired midget who seemed to be very happy to be the one chosen for such simple task of briefing again the mission, and a somewhat comical figure in certain ways, as the uniform-wearing aquarium lifesaver, who was actually an retired tank pilot, began his flawless speech.

"We are all here today for one single reason. There are those who have taken away our peace, our calmness and our rest with an imminent threat of a massed air assault. And as you know, this is massed in all possible ways. For each of our air superiority fighters ready for deployment, they have five, and if we take into account all of their fighters capable of air-to-air combat, we will be outnumbered at almost ten to one, although it is doubtful they will be sufficiently stupid to launch all they have at once, but as we are not going to do such stupidity either, this is not going to be easy. Provided we allow them to take off unharmed, it is expectable they will attempt to destroy our primary runways and attempt to hit our primary industrial centers. Also, we are not sure if they have scruples to avoid using nuclear weapons or not in the old way, which make air supremacy even more important.

The objective of this operation is to cripple the last resort they have for power projection, by destroying all of their air bases in the regions of O Porto, Lisbon, La Coruña and Seville, before they can prepare their strategic bombers for take-off, and also destroy any aircraft landed in such bases, and all strategic bombers will be equipped with MOHABs and incendiary bombs to ensure enough destruction to make repairs tricky or long enough to allow for a counter offensive. As you all are going for the region of Seville, this is the tactical map with the specific targets in the region. Of course, they are not going to wait for the bombs to fall, and heavy resistance is expected. 191th shall take care of escorting duties for the primary bombing run against the air base of the city of Seville. These routes indicate the optimal way for avoiding detection, and these two waypoints will connect the SEAD group with the bombing and escort groups. I hope you know how to do low pass flights, for you will be flying at a subsonic speed and very low altitude for most of the the flight to avoid them from detecting the operation prematurely, for the amount of birds they could put into air would not be small. The success of this operation will be vital for the entire war effort. Any further questions? I know you already knew all of this, but it is better to remind just in case some of you forgot one or two details"

"Yes, I hope you don't mind if I ask you, but what exactly is your position here?", Javier abruptly asked to the midget, hoping for something that would be an amusing of an answer, despite the clear manner the others with him looked at him for the manner he asked it.

"This is irrelevant to this mission, but I will answer anyway: I am the quartermaster of this base and by extension, the logistics officer who ensures you all are kept well fed and supplied. Now, I think you all should get ready, and I hope you had enough time for the impromptu breakfast here, for there are only ten minutes left before our scheduled take off procedures.", the midget replied, not giving away anything that would amuse Javier, who simply did not said further questions with malicious intents, and followed his squadron mates towards location where their fighters were prepared for flight.

"This is it comrades, five minutes left. We got to sync the time we are right in their territory with the time the war shall be declared, at six o' clock, and ensure they won't know what hit'em before it is too late, I really hope you are ready for this mission", were the last words of Hansen before he climbed to the cockpit of one of the obsidian birds that were closing in to the runway for take-off. Although the take off would be on land, the landing would be on a nearby aircraft carrier to ensure maximum operational capability. To simply use an specialized naval aviation group was discussed, but the deployment of a fleet would bring delays, and time was not something available to spend when the enemy could initiate its strike at any moment.

While climbing the ladder, Javier mind was invaded by some old memories. A dark evening, with the cold rain dropping into his face, erasing distant flames of a Spain under turmoil, while from afar he could hear the marches, stomping on all that remained of hope, and taking a look down, several men in sinister brown uniforms climbing the ladder after him. In desperation, he risked himself taking daringly fast steps through the hanging ladder of the old apartment it was linked to. Shouts of "Cerdo capitalista!" could be heard to his injury, although the urgence of getting out took his attention out of the rants of the oppressors after him. They were closing in, almost reaching his legs as he desperatedly attempted to get to the end of the ladder, and as the last steps were taken, the closest one to him was about to grab his leg, as with a swing of his leg, he kicked the fingers of such individual, pressing them against the cold metal of the ladder, which in turn fell from the ladder, bringing the other one below him together down. It was close this time, but Javier did not wait to see them, and continue the last step to the outside close to an window among the brown and dull bricks of the derelict building, and with no trouble immediately broke it to get inside.

"Javier! Are you awake? We have more one minute to take off only!", a voice shouted as he finally got back from his past memories, still stiffly holding the ladder and close to embarking into the cockpit of the fighter. As he got inside, he immediately putted on the helmet, fastened the seat belts, began to operate the controls to prepare for take-off, looking at all the four displays and adjusting them for his own preference, preparing the engine and adjusting the flaps and vectored thrust control for it, through a set of buttons that controlled a fully computerized display. Touchscreen technologies were also available, but were for most situations more inconvenient than useful, while he was not sufficiently lazy to just command the airplane through voice. A man with earmuffs was signaling him from afar to indicate his turn to take off. The seat was incredibly comfortable, and he also adjusted it with the powerseat system to incline to roughly forty-five degrees, his favored position to pilot the fighter. With the joystick pulled completely down, he adjusted the controls as the engine began to soar, and a small hatch opened above the aircraft, revealing a fan not much different from that found in the F-35, although considerably smaller. The black bird of prey then began its take off routine, with the canards positioned and the fan pulling it up, as the screen to his left, which could be seen by his left eye without tilting his head, was an extra targeting channel currently inactive, that he intended to use to track the bombers he would escort, the one below his HuD was an indicator of mission updates and the one to his right was a dedicated screen for the rear warning system to indicate possible threats. The HuD itself only had some basic measurements of inclination, altitude and speed, asides from the standard issue target tracking indicators and several indicators demonstrating radar mode, flight mode, stall alert system status among others.

After sprinting for 80 meters the aircraft already began to slowly lift off from the ground, and in about 250 meters it was a few meters above, getting fully up at about 300 meters as Javier observed the still unlit skies and a timidly rising sun to the east from his cockpit. From the altitude they were flying, it was still possible to see the lights of the city below, but in a few minutes all signs of humanity would be replaced by an infinite darkness of the unlit waves of the Atlantic. The instruction was to keep EMCON 0 until firing the first shot or, if worse, taking the first shot of a missile, and thus Javier was simply being guided by the heavily encrypted IFF signal of the close by fighters as they made a multi-altitude loose deuce formation, where he was one of the two wings giving support to Björn aircraft from behind, with the other being Juán, and both at a hundred meters above from Hansen's fighter, at left and right respectively of his aircraft, while Marie's one was being escorted by Cicero from behind, and two kilometers behind them, in an even lower altitude to reduce drastically detection chances, three B-12 Luddite were flying, and finally a group of four CE-32 electronic warfare fighters were some dozens of kilometersfurther ahead of them, and would be intended to take down all identified radar emplacements and use their jammers to drastically disrupt both air defences and interceptors during the bombing run. Further behind 10 more fighters were spread out in 5-wing formations to sweep for anything that manages to get up after the literal cratering of the runways they were going to blow. Another similar taskforce was also going through another route to take down another target in Seville. The basic premises of the mission were simultaneous action and surprise, and if both were achieved, success could be taken for granted. Of course, when the only manner to ensure complete stealth of all aircrafts was a low pass flight, such could not be a certainty.

Tercera Estación de Radar de Sevilla, Spain, 1st of August of 2039, 05:51 hours

It was a dull duty, beyond all shadow of doubt, to watch day and night a small screen for a blimp or signal that could last for only fractions of a second but allow for the detection of incoming threats. Both low band and conventional radars were arrayed and linked through an extensive network in the hopes of detecting incoming hostiles of the capitalist puppets of the so called Confederacy of Third Spanish States before it was too late, and the job of Indalecio Cisneros was to simply stare at a small screen all the time, with a camera always keeping an eye on him to ensure a swift and brutal punishment in case he falls asleep during his shift or distracts himself with "counter-revolutionary" smuggled entertainment systems. Sometimes he questioned if a function like this actually was less worse than being executed by the Ministerio de la Ley, but a primal, intense fear of the horrible fates hidden beneath cold walls of the secret police, present in every citizen of Spain since that the Party came through power, prevented him from giving up on something that sometimes he wondered whether he was assigned for due to not being well likely by a notorious Party member. And thus a cold figure stood watching in his ever-present brown uniform. Every day was a long exercise into maintaining patience and controlling frustration, for the actual radar technicians considered such role too low for their "expertise", and being in the night shift did not help either. Nor would it help with his stress to return to the shanty town that was the "collectivized", or more exactly, ransacked by the government, neighborhood he lived at. Yet, like a patient man, he awaited, and for another night, nothing happened. At least it was almost the end of his shift in those dark corridors of the radar control station, only ten minutes left. He seemed alleviated that another twelve hours of such dullness were finally getting over, and anxiously counted the remaining seconds with his mind, methodically.

He never expected to have anything different to break such routine of inevitable boredom. Not until suddenly six dots briefly appeared at the screens of the radar interface, and vanished after two seconds. Quickly, in an almost instantaneous reaction, he pressed the alarm button. Stomping of boots could be heard as several officers ran towards him, and among them, one was highlighted with several medals, which in turn immediately asked:

"Comrade Cisneros, did you spotted incoming threats?"

"Yes, comrade Ruiz, the radars have detected six aircrafts, possibly bombers, heading towards us! We must inform the local defense forces immediately!"

"So do it comrade!", the officer shouted, as the man frenetically took a communicator to announce:

"This is the Third Radar Station of Seville! We have detected a bomber task force heading against our forces, I repeat! Incoming capitalist bombers! Deploy interceptors immediately!"

"Acknowledged TRSS! Deployments on the way to counter.. *bzzt* *heavy interference*"

"Jammers?", Cisneros immediately asked as the transmission became unintelligible, and immediately cut it off due to being no longer relevant.

"Our radars are being severely harmed! What shall we do comrade?"

"Disable low band radars and wait. The Growler shall protect us!"

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

Base Aérea de Sevilla, 05:53 hours

A nervous-looking man was in a control tower filled with old computers, where he seemed to walk around randomly, as if pondering on something, for a few seconds, until he touched the shoulder of one of the flight controllers and asked:

"How many fighters are ready for take-off?"

"Seventy, comrade"

"Could they all take-off in seven minutes?"

"I am afraid no more than thirty would be able to. Fortunately the first is already on its way"

"Is it our electronic warfare?"

"Yes comrade, it is. We shall defeat them."

"Do you have any idea on how much they will have?"

"I don't, but we will certainly outnumber them"

"Not by a large margin, as if our largest airfield can only allow twenty in seven minutes, I predict at best 90 of ours. Avoid the Yak-38 unless if necessary, I don't trust in them for air superiority."

Soon, multiple rows of fighters began to take off to meet the incoming threat. Five MiG-31s and twenty-five Su-27 Flankers would get to attempt taking down the bombers before it was too late. Little were they aware that such was only one of many operations being ran simultaneously. And some were already frustrated at the delay for some of the newer acquisitions to arrive, fearing that when things like the F-5M finally made their way, it would already be too late. A numerically superior against a technologically superior air force were now about to have their first clash.

Of the first two groups of four Flankers, two wing formations spreaded. The Growler did not suffice to defeat completely the intense jamming, specially for many of the ground based air defenses which were condemned to uselessness. However, it has been enough to clear the electronic attack from the fighters on the sky. With all the time that it would take for the deployment, the risk of not having enough time for deploying all ready aircrafts was not small.

Sunlight was finally coming in the horizon, and from afar, the landscape of Spain could already be seen as the squadrons were getting closer to Seville. So far no incident has happened, and Javier merrily continue to pilot his fighter towards the final destination, accompanying Hansen from behind, wondering on how it was about time for the retribution for all that they did to destroy Spain and its people. About time to overthrow their corrupt and totalitarian government. And it would all begin with them, or at least he thought so, unaware of what happened behind the scenes before. All of this calmness during the trip would be broken by a singular transmission, something which immediately broke their EMCON 0 procedures.

"Eye One, we were detected. Prepare for engagements. Ensure enough safety for Stalin One, Two and Three"

It was a short transmission to reduce the time it would be vulnerable to interception, while behind it, a heavy encryption also ran under an strange algorithm based on randomly patterned Internet memes and rumored to have been written in an exotic programming language known as LOLCODE (http://lolcode.com/). But none of these details were relevant other than for the fact they would make decryption teams either frustrated or laughing of the ridiculousness of the end result, both which were not very helpful for their role, and once they discovered, it would likely to be no longer relevant the message.

Javier smiled again as he reminded the assigned codenames for the bombers, for it seemed someone in the planning board had a very ironic sense of humor, but it was no longer as he kept full attention to the radar and switched the active mode on. It was probably blind luck that they were detected, and as by that time they were already close enough to target hostiles in Seville, the advantage would still be theirs as only the bombers would be easily detectable. One of the Cuervos remained with them to give support while the others scrambled to destroy as many radars of the region as they could, while continuing to disrupt electronic waves used by the enemy. Suddenly some heavy noise began to interfere with their radar as well, after a spot was briefly detected a hundred and ten of kilometers away. The bomber was safely behind the fighters, and after a few minutes blinded by a faint attempt of defeating their EW effort, all came to normal again, but this time, there were thirty-six threats detected. "Great, now we are outnumbered! Don't retreat! We must take them down soon or there will be even more! Don't waste too many missiles against the same target, or we will run out of missiles, each target for one!", Björn instructed. Javier was at an opportune position to take on their single EW aircraft to ensure it would not have any other chance of disrupting their systems again. Not being necessary to face a target being tracked to acquire a lock was a very convenient capability.

"Objecto EW, Radar", he said in Spanish, in a flawless but quick manner as the HuD immediately demonstrated an indicator of tracking the EW aircraft, and soon a sound indicated that the lock was acquired. Pressing a very accessible button of the joystick, but which was still held by a safety lock to avoid misfires, he confirmed again that the firing mode was on "cold-launch" as a small circular hatch opened facing behind the direction of the aircraft, from where a missile fell, maintaining the kinetic momentum of the fighter, and after getting 700 meters down from it, its engines finally turned on as it began to chance its direction and fly towards the threat. That was one of the fifteen missiles fired by the fighters in the first salvo, with slow intervals between them to reduce the chances of being tracked. They were getting closer and closer, and before they could even check if the missiles would hit, for the time was too short, a new salvo targeted more fifteen different threats. Only six remaining now, provided they could destroy the airfield before more could take off, and provided all the missiles would hit.

There was a huge price to pay for having the massive air force that La República had, for quantity reduced quality, and their average pilot was much less experienced and trained compared to a pilot of the Confederacy. It was no wonder that twenty-one aircrafts, including the electronic warfare one, went down by such not very expected attack, specially as they were being assaulted by some heavy electronic attacks that made anything superior to an infrared missile completely useless.

"Now we are even, just keep an eye on the distance to the bombers, they might lure us away from them", the transmission came as there were still fifteen to down, one versus one this time, and they were almost close enough for both infrared missiles of the enemies and their electro-optical missiles to work, and also in a range where jamming would not be enough to make a missile entirely useless. The good news were that they were getting pretty close to the airfield that would be completely annihilated by the infamous "Mother of All Bombs", intended to destroy enemy strategic and tactical bombers in even the most hardened hangars and severely damage the runway to the point that a quick fix would not allow it to be useful again in less than 24 hours. The bad news were that their long range missiles were all expended to take down twenty aircrafts and each of them had only two remaining missiles. The Cuervo pilot was worried that perhaps those missiles intended for only self-defense would be needed for supporting the other fighters, but as they already took out more than their own number, it was hopeful that there would not be any need of resorting to the weakest capability of aircrafts like the CL-32, where a Su-27 arguably could be able to outperform them: dogfighting.

Now it was pointless to use a cold launch as well, as at such range almost all the advantages of stealth were no longer relevant. Neither was the jamming, as before they could get into range, the answer came as several R-77s were launched against them before they could get close enough to fire their Python-5 missiles.

"Eye Four, we need support!"

"Launching decoy"

The single CE-32 relatively close to them launched a missile very similar to a MBDA Meteor towards the enemy forces, as it came past all the friendly aircrafts, Javier watched worried the missile warning radar and pulled down and right his aircraft to avoid retreating. 10 kilometers was the distance the missiles were from them, and approaching. Suddenly the single missile heading against the enemies split into several chaffs as it was as close as possible from the enemy missiles, and hopefully would mislead them.

One of the inherent disadvantages of a missile using an active homing radar is that its tracking system will never be as effective as the tracking system of a fighter when it borrows it to a passive homing missile, and it is not always that a cluster of chaffs manages to cheat eight of fifteen missiles. It was blind luck perhaps, but not enough as there were still seven heading towards them, and for the misfortune of Javier, it seemed one of them was going at him.

It was not like getting out of the ladder, this time, the situation seemed even closer to some real trouble, and maintaining formation in such condition would not be possible at all. He bravely maneuvered his aircraft, and began to take a very risky dive maneuver in an attempt to keep up with his allies, with adrenalin pumping on his veins like his heart beating faster and faster. The beeping noise was getting faster and the distance between him and the missile shorter. He could already see the buildings below, a few decadent edifices which seemed to gloom with an oppressive mood. The visage and the warnings of his HuD did not stop him from taking such risk. At 500 meters of altitude only, in a fraction of seconds, aware of the short distance of the missile to him and of him to hit the ground, with the press of another button he immediately released countermeasures and pulled the control up in a controlled manner, while turning on the lift fan of his fighter again, something which is usually done only during take-off and landing, but that only serve to decelerate the descent as he continued to loose altitude and was in a visible collision route with a building.

The missile exploded in the expendables, but that was no consolation as he was at only 300 meters now, he watched the building approaching, and an instant comparison with certain events involving other type of conflict could not be avoided as perhaps his last thought. For if something like this happened, it would be an excellent piece of propaganda for them to call them terrorists. Javier could not remember well the fractions of a second that put him between life and death, only that when it seemed it was about to collide, the propulsion finally manage to pull it up again and it flew safely above. The first thing he could think to do was to ask:

"This is Gaviota 3, any downers?"

"They got Marie and Ratón 2 down, but both ejected", Hansen replied with a clear disappointment.

"No! I..."

"No time for drama! Let's show them who is the ace here! There are only five left but I am out of missiles, Halcón is busy engaging incoming hostiles from southeast and we need your help and now! I can't say more I am getting into the furball in two!"

Being at such low altitude would be anything but advantageous in aerial combat, specially for an aircraft which was proved to have a much superior combat performance in high altitude flight like CL-32, but Javier was sure that if not for the help of the acceleration of gravity, it was unlikely he would manage to evade such missile. The radars frenetically blinked as three allied aircrafts still in a loose deuce formation were hunting two enemy ones with nothing more than their own guns in one side, and four while the bombers were almost in range. Attempted to suppress his feeling of guilty for what he said to Marie, he pulled back the joystick as the aircraft began to make a fast climb upwards.

At 18,000 meters of altitude, he was close and at an enough altitude to lock one of his two missiles on one of the two hostiles that Björn, Cicero and Juán were doing little more to than keeping busy with their aircrafts that were clearly not designed for such type of combat, although they still did manage to damage the enemy aircrafts to an extent, making of them easier preys, and now it would also be a chance to see if all those claims on being able to target two threats simultaneously in short range combat were more than buzzwords to raise sales. But as the missiles were fired, the two enemy aircrafts began to turn the tables as they were close to get to the rears of the CL-32s persecuting them. Of course, by doing so they only positioned between the fighter of Hansen they were behind and his two escorts. Almost instinctively Björn began to take a deep dive and hope for the best. If he used countermeasures they could actually disrupt the missiles heading towards their enemies. The noises of autocannons could be heard even from inside the cockpit as Juán and Cicero fired against the two fighters persecuting the CL-32 of Bjorn. Regarding pure acceleration, however, their fighters were superior to Su-27s, and turning down the engines in a risky maneuver, with an override enabled over what would otherwise be a Full Authority Digital Engine Control that he personally requested to be implemented, he took a risky maneuver, ignoring all the stalling alerts as the stall speed was getting very close due to a very deep turning. It was as slow as 320 kilometers per hour, with several pointers of his HuD flashing in alert, as he finally managed to get the Su-27 out of his tail, but truth be told, they were no longer persecuting him not mostly because of an excellent maneuver taking advantage of the superior acceleration to overcome maneuverability limitations despite the vectored thrust capabilities, inherent of such stealth aircrafts, but because that finally it was proven that guns were not completely useless in aircrafts, as his two escorts in such modified deuce severely damaged both, and in a few seconds those two aircrafts were finished.

By this time, it was exactly 6:00 hours, the time when an already completely obvious and evident war that was building up for months, and at a time a battle was already raging on for minutes, would finally be formalized into paperwork (http://forums3.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=559609), of the sort that was completely pointless for those risking their lives in battles, people like Marie, who was about to land through parachute in a completely hostile territory, with no one other than a man she barely knowns called Graham Tobin as an ally, provided that wind would not put them too afar from each other to meet in the expectingly heavy police streets of Seville.

But on the skies, a last effort was about to happen. The titanic MOABs, coupled with other smaller and "smarter" bombs to take out aircrafts in the open and less protected installations, were already falling as the four remaining of Gaviota squadron headed, from roughly the left flank and at an elevated altitude, towards where four others from the Ratón squadron were attempting to take down three Flankers which still had missiles with nothing besides their guns.

"I am glad for their incompetence and amateur pilots, the Stalin squadron is already making this air base look like a meteorites impact site. Ratón, we are coming to help you!", Björn replied.

"Any missiles left?", Javier asked.

"I am afraid that not, Ojo 4 also spent all the missiles against the enemy forces and his HARMs to take down the two radar towers of this base. We will have to do this like your ancestors did against Franco flying pigs! Who wants to escort all for safety, now we have two for each of them"

"I will Björn", Juán replied, and was followed by Cicero.

"Escort me then Javier, Ratón, split into two loose deuces for each of them and keep alert with your countermeasures, this time they are not going to get away with this! And be careful to avoid friendly fire!"

"Sure, we will"

Looking at the horizon and watchful of his displays, Javier kept a few kilometers away from Hansen as both headed to flank one of the aircrafts in the middle of a tough dogfight. As he approached from it, the enemy fighter pilot became undecided between trying to dodge him or the one at his tail, and tried to make a maneuver to the right and up simultaneously, losing drastically his momentum and with his speed slowing, an opportunity that could not be lost. Björn tried to keep his aim as he began to fire a burst towards the enemy aircraft. Hitting something moving at such speeds to the side was not easy, even when the HuD tried to help with a quite rough estimative of where to shoot to hit it, but Hansen preferred to use it as a reference rather than as a trustworthy crosshair for such, and as he instinctively felt it was time, he pressed the joystick as rounds began to tear through the air towards the hostile for less than a second, all in very little time to think. The aircraft took some hits but was still flying as Björn lost his opportunity to finish it and said as fast as he could "Go Javier!".

Quickly using all his maneuvers, Javier closed into the fleeing fighter, and pressed the trigger of the joystick. Several round flew as the rear of the enemy fighter began to tear apart. Now there were only two left. The advantage of both was not small and they took it to down one, but still, using a gun with a supersonic jet fighter was no easy deal, and now the two Su-27 finally broke off and caught the rear of two allied CL-32s. Both immediately began to turn to each other side, with one decelerating slightly while the other accelerated, forming a sort of weave as they turned ways, giving to those escorting them an excellent opportunity to shoot without risking friendly fire, while Ratón 3 also managed to get behind the Flanker trying to take out Ratón 5, for it seemed that such old tactic called Thach Weave worked again as he was flanking the enemy Su-27, and the man piloting the aircraft codenamed Ratón 3 took no delay to fire against it, while at almost the same time trying to avoid an enemy Su-27 behind him.

"Gotcha!", the man said as he witnessed the other Su-27 going down. Javier would have a new opportunity, and he did not lose it either, taking a glimpse of time to fire against the last one of the enemy aircrafts. Not exactly the last one, but by this time, the others would be just rubble in the middle of the craters of what was before an air base. Not much to celebrate though, as two would not be going back with them.

"Hansen, can we do nothing to help Marie?", Javier asked.

"We have no rescue equipment or proper aircrafts nor time: look at your radar and intel shared data now that our datalinks are fully operational: there are hundreds of aircrafts in airbases that are too far to allow them to reach the Confederacy, but they are heading to take us down right here! We will not be able to handle such sheer numbers. Maybe we can find her... she was trained for a situation like this, she will know how to handle herself."

"But..."

"There is no way Javier! Even if we could land, ironically, the only places where our aircrafts with enough crew space to carry her could land are exactly those we destroyed. I am really sorry, but now we must leave and we cannot help her"

"Let's head back them, I guess our fuel won't be enough for landing in a runway... I hope our carrier training will help here.", Javier said.

"This is Halcón 1, we have cleared incoming hostiles, the remainder of Ojo squadron is with us, mission accomplished"

The remainder of the flight back home was essentially without problems. There they would be properly debriefed of what happened in the other targeted regions, and see whether the operation was successful, mostly successful or mostly unsuccessful.

Landing on a carrier was always a bit problematic for those not used to it, and Javier could feel almost the same apprehension he felt when his fighter almost hit a building this time, but fortunately no incidents happened and all worked fine, of course, the strategic bombers easily came back. An Anarchism Class supercarrier was only 150 kilometers away from Lisbon, where Javier, Björn, Juán and Cicero landed, as they came to a vacant crew quarter with exactly four mattresses, Javier again sighed:

"Don't lie to me Hansen, I know the chance of Marie getting back alive is null"

"Not exactly, more like 15% I think, but still very low, so don't get your hopes up about her"

"I... I am sorry for what I said to her, I..."

"Don't let the past mistakes keep your mind busy, you did so many great things today that I would regret deeply if we ostracized you. We all did great things, every single one of us. After all, we did not came this far without effort."

"Sure... now, I think that this fleet accompanying this big one is already in preparation for an amphibious assault, is this correct?"

"If our mission was a success mostly, likely, time is of essence, and we don't know if those Stalinist pigs of Stoklomolvi will ignore the fact they were intending to do this first. I would say this is going be something like a blitzkrieg, but this time done by the exact opposite of fascists", Björn replied.

"Wait, I got this message in my laptop, check yours"

"Yes, I got it too"

"It is the debriefing"

"Well, it says that except for a single air field in La Coruña which damage suffered was not critical to block its capability of allowing take-off, all other runways were literally cratered and might take months to repair. We dealt heavy damage to several surface air defenses and landed aircrafts as well although I will have to check the listing more precisely. But we had some losses, mostly due to being outnumbered. Still, they had much greater losses."

"But I will miss Marie, it was a great personal loss to me", Javier said.

"Unfortunately, moments like this are part of our duty, Javier, and you know this. We must be strong enough to overcome them, and calm enough to not let them make us insane in battle. Seeing your friends die and waiting to the point of putting your patience to the limits are two of the most common things in an war, for we assumed a compromise of putting the lives of all our comrades ahead of ours when we took this responsibility. Of course, as you know, they never put the latter into the movies. Maybe she will return, but don't be hopeful so you won't be disappointed if she doesn't."

"All right Björn. Now I am really tired after all of this. I never expected that a real battle could be so different from these trainings and simulations."

"Neither I did.. my only experience in war was as in the ground, not in the air, before this. I am just more "veteran" because I've trained for a longer time, but practice is always different"

And thus they talked, and rested, to prepare for the next tribulations that would come.

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

It was all so fast, sometimes countermeasures fail epically, and it seemed that she had to face one of such times herself, and now, Marie was basically like a rat trying to escape from a hole completely filled with snakes, with nowhere visible to run away to.

An hostile ground, there was a certain fear, sometimes she preferred to simply wait inside the parachute cloth, so she could have time to bite the cyanide pill without making a mistake, while others a suicidal wish was strong, as she wondered about the horrible tortures and abuses that would be done if she was captured. But there was still a faint instinct of survival, challenging the rational logic that her chances of getting out of there alive were null, that urged her to get out of the cover of the parachute of the ejection seat. With her hands still shaking, she took away the cover and looked at the horizon. It was a simple street, and people still seemed to be sleeping by this time. Now, she feared that she would eventually feel a gun on her head or a knock of a baton, that there was a guard right behind her about to knock her down and put her in a condition where she would have no chance to commit suicide and have to endure unimaginable misery. Marie looked behind her as she tried to hold herself, and saw nothing either. It seemed that for some luck, no guard was at the block she landed at. Taking a P70 pistol from her pocket, she began to walk slowly towards one of the corners of the street, and leaning through the wall of a decrepit house, she watched to see if there were guards coming. Fortunately none were, as she continue to head through this other street at the crossing, through the left, and hoped no patrol would spot her. Quickly she pondered about stealing a boat. If she could get close enough to the allies, which she hoped to be already closing in against Spain, their meek patrol boats wouldn't dare to chase her.

But the chances of such patrol boats defeating the Confederacy Navy were the same chances she had of getting out of there. But no matter what, Marie would still try. What was important in her mind this time was not to succeed, but to show to the "damn commies" why their society was superior to theirs.

(OOC: This is it. From now on the space is open for participants who signed in here (http://z4.invisionfree.com/NSDraftroom/index.php?showtopic=2982) or who guaranteed Soviet Spain independence, if they really want to get into this. But first, if possible, I would rather that some sort of statement was posted in this thread (http://forums3.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=559609) before the actual action.

Also, on more numeric details, here, as OOC because ICly I don't like to put emphasis on things like this, but rather focus on the human element of war and to give personality to some of these "numbers":

ORBAT

TEE ------ Soviet Spain

120 fighters -------- 360 fighters
0 interceptors-------- 60 interceptors
24 bombers -------- 400 bombers
40 EW aircrafts ------ 4 EW aircrafts

RESULT: Third Spanish States Decisive Victory

LOSSES

TEE ------ Soviet Spain

13 pilots MIA ------- 70 pilots killed, 20 MIA

12 fighters ------- 240 fighters*
0 interceptors ------- 60 interceptors*
1 EW aircraft ------- 4 EW aircrafts
0 bombers ------- 320 bombers
------- 12 runways crippled
------- Portugal air defense network virtually obliterated

*Most were still on hangars when they were destroyed. Factors like severe logistics issues from stretching too far the massed numbers of aircrafts and poor maintenance can be attributed to the crippling losses as well.

N00B pilots + Massed brainless formations + FAIL economy + Poor maintenance = EPIC FAIL

Of course, they won't make the same mistake again. It's just that propaganda insists that 2+2=5 to the point incredibly idiotic things (http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/HollywoodTactics) are done because their leader who knows nothing about tactics thinks he "is always right")

Palacio de la Moncloa, Madrid, Spain. 5th of August of 2039, 14:30 hours

Four days have passed since another crippling defeat, a loss of such dimensions that the dream of stepping into the capitalist island became beyond their reach. The mood was worsening among the high members of the Party, and in times like this, being in a room with a starving lion was safer than being in a room where the almost psychotic glare of Carlos Cavallo scanned everything for a scapegoat. The man seemed to have emerged straight from the depths of hell, with an infernal voice which spewed hatred and frustration, spitting fire in the form of words that froze the hearts of all around with fear and despair:

"They have destroyed it!", he shouted, hurling a glass statue into the ground with his strong arm, a statue which almost shattered into sand when it collapsed into the floor, leaving several shards of glass spread out between the marble. Cavallo would not tolerate any excuses, as he would immediately continue, frowning at how all seemed to cower like rats into the corners of the room:

"And do you know why? Because of an incompetent and negligent traitor! Because of air general Francisco Rojas, and do not forget the name! It is our greatest enemy, and his negligence brought the death of more than half a thousand of our air crew, the destruction of an equal amount of our air force, the annihilation of our power projection capability and the obliteration of almost all our ground based air defense network in the littoral of Portugal! All because of him!", the man ranted and screamed in a manner that perhaps could be compared to the typical behavior of Hitler, shaking his fists around and breathing heavily.

"Rojas! He was incredibly incompetent in his tactics, for otherwise hundreds of our air superiority fighters could have reached the enemy into each of the areas they were attacking before it was too late and easily overwhelm them!"

"But someone complained about logistics, despite all the effort of our loyal comrades at the supply chain, and refused to perform continual patrol around the critical areas that they were obviously going to attack! I have personally overseen the purge of such negligent traitor for this! Thus, I hope none of you make the same mistake of negligence!", he roared through the room, like if trumpets announced the coming of a storm.

However, not all were bad news for La República, and even though such defeat has been great, it was not enough to truly cripple their air force. For there were still thousands of fighters ready to defend their land, and of course, millions of soldiers only in the active military, and Cavallo attempted to appease his own anger by reminding all, in a much calmer, serene tone of voice, while his expression anger seemed to be slowly fading:

"Now that you have listened to the lesson, I will recap the situation we are currently at. They have currently hampered any chance of ours to invade their home islands, but they have not hampered the capability of our air force to defend our land and Portugal as well from further air strikes, provided there is no incompetent to find excuses to let our airspace open for the hyenas," was the briefing he gave about what exactly was the condition of PRS.

"We should secure our homeland for now and care only about defense, and hope for foreign support to arrive. Our remaining frigates should only be used for opportunistic strikes, and spared to the maximum. Also, not only we must tighten our defenses against conventional threats, but against less conventional threats as well, like those raiders who assaulted the Ministerio de la Ley. How is the counter-intelligence effort going, comrade Truero?"

An average man in his forties, with the eyes of a vulture, addressed himself to Cavallo, saluting him and answering to the question posed to him:

"We have yet to capture further of their, or of possibly spies of other capitalist nations as well, but our intense operations have forced all of them to "sleep", which means it is extremely unlikely they will manage to gather any significant information that could be used against us.", said the man, interrupting his report with a smile which could be perhaps, sadistic:

"But do not worry comrade Cavallo: sooner or later they will be pressed to attempt gathering further information about us, and if they actively perform intelligence, we will get them. I am very glad with this, for there is no way for an spy who is not sleeping to not get caught"

Cavallo eyed the man suspiciously, probably questioning whether the man was just lying to save his skin, although if he was, he would eventually know, and take measures to punish such lie harshly. He simply nodded and gestured to the man that he was dismissed, and looked at the room with its scared crowd of Party bureau rats. Everything was set, and patrols would be much more numberful this time. They might have succeeded while being outnumbered by two to one, but it would be much less likely, when the probable ratio, now that the patrols swept across Lisbon, La Coruña and the Southwest of Spain, is of ten Soviet Spain fighters for each Confederacy one. An amphibious assault still seemed a distant threat, despite the naval superiority of their enemies and the fact they have blockaded them.

However, there was another matter as well. In four months, winter would come, and no matter if only the Pyrenees and northern areas would actually be affected by snow, it would still serve as a major deterrent for an invasion. Time was counting, and each second was a second in favor of La República.

Static defenses were dismissed altogether by Cavallo, as advised by his specialists. Instead, a heavy presence of mobile anti-shipping missile platforms and artillery would be positioned far away from the beachheads, and hopefully their aircrafts would be able to maintain air superiority. An elastic defense was being prepared, where several mobile defenses in Lisbon were being readied for, if necessary, a fast retreat to the heavily defended regions of O Porto, Evora and Guarda, which offered certain geographical barriers to attackers that the plains and small hills around Lisbon did not. It was only a part of a major defensive set up being prepared, for this would definitively not be a four-day war.

Bay of Biscay, Spanish territorial waters. 8th of August of 2039, 13:00 hours

The seas seemed very calm, with little perceptible waves at such distance from the coast line. I remember asking once which was the most important personal skill for the Navy, and was at first surprised when I heard the word patience coming from the mouth of such old man. I was too young to realize by then that war was not as glorious or intense as the movies pointed out delusively, and thought it was all about action. Today I am quite aware things are different, something that has been very important for my career, and indeed the old sailor was right, patience is everything that matters in this profession.

We have been patrolling the bay of Biscay for three days now, with my elected hand guiding the fleet through the flagship, the Orwell Cruiser-Carrier, which has just arrived from a somewhat dull event in Layarteb. Five battlecruisers, three anti-submarine and three guided missile destroyers are under my direct "command", if what I can do here can be described as such, while my information can define the route of a group of nuclear submarines as well. So far, nothing has happened, and we sort of expect this, because we don't believe they are stupid enough to use the remains of their "Navy", and if the rumors I have heard are right, we will be here for a long time, except for the occasional shift.

Seems like those boneheads finally got it how it would be stupid to invade and overthrow the damn commies right now, and have realized how this blockade of ours will eventually make their throats dried out of oil, and thus, we will have much less trouble to defeat the pigs. I just hope the reserves these commies have are not too extensive, or our main enemy will be boredom. Or that some damn meddler does not get into this to break off our blockade. But as of now, all that remains to do is waiting.

I hope the pilots won't get too bored, they tend to be the more adrenaline-seeking of this floating fortress, but I'll see what I can do to relive the tedium of my comrades. Old legends say women in ships bring bad luck, but I actually think this is not the case here. I can't just go there and say it is forbidden, but I will have to warn them to not focus most of their free time on it. Doesn't help with performance, and crap would rain over my head if someone in the crew got pregnant.

Patience is really the most important virtue here, I believe mine will be good enough for this, provided their reserves can't hold on for an entire year, because then I would probably throw myself over the sea of boredom. But as long as this diary isn't found in the wreckage of a sunk ship, it is better this way.

- Admiral Hernán Giraud, 40th Anti-slavery Blockade Task Force

Base Aérea de Bilbao, Spain. 11th of August of 2039, 08:00 hours

Something was strange about the fact that their enemies have not attacked, nor mobilized any amphibious assault ship after almost two weeks of their blockade. It was obvious though the reason, and Cavallo have already admitted it openly. Clearly, the goal of their enemies was to simply wait for them to run out of oil before attacking. The essence of their war effort was such fossil fuel, for without it their industry would halt, their aircrafts would become useless and infantry would lose all their mechanization. Something like this would be disastrous, and it was soon clear that a passive defense would be useless against such strategy. It would be necessary to break off such blockade, another evidence of how oil was essential for La República.

They would not simply put their heads down and wait: measures would be taken, and it was time to prepare for a new engagement through air, this time, with greater hopes of being successful. The new air general Batista looked again at a map where the position of the enemy fleets was estimated. There was one last try before resorting to foreign aid, and they could not waste it. A hundred and fifty of ships were involved in one of the greatest blockades ever attempted, and to defeat them would not be easy. Ten fleets continually patrolled all the shore from the South of Spain to its north, and supercarriers were strategically placed among these fleets, to the point that there would be at least fifty fighters for any possible attack against them. Planning an attack would not be easy, and he knew it. However, he could notice that the fleets were asymmetric, and there was one which seemed particularly vulnerable with its smaller size, the 40th fleet of their task force, at the limits between the coast of Spain and France. A target he has, after much thought, chosen to initiate the risky operation. Their goal was to bring heavy losses against the Confederacy Navy to the point that the blockade would be broken. Easier spoken than accomplished such goal was, for they would have to face electronic warfare, routinely patrols of airborne early warning aircrafts and better pilots and technologies than theirs. Batista simply reassured himself that with the quantity of forces that could be deployed against that fleet, success would be likely. For even with aircrafts at the limit of their range, the British lost a destroyer to Argentinian fighters, why could they not, with a much better infrastructure and much larger quantity of dedicated fighter-bombers, obliterate such blockade with no foreign aid?

Such thoughts came into the air general mind as he elaborated the plan, thinking, pondering and sometimes even asking for the opinions of other high ranked officers. It would take some time before such operation could take off from the paper, if it would ever happen at all, for if not, it would not be the first military operation against the Confederacy to be scrapped. It would not either be their only chance, but it would be preferable to not have to try again, for after a loss like that suffered in Seville, Lisbon, Oporto and La Coruña, specially for what happened with his predecessor, the least thing Batista wished was for it to not work in the first time.

Neocatalunia, Third Spanish States. 14th of August of 2039, 9:00 hours

A massed conurbation expanded from all-around through where the eyes could see, where three monumental landmarks contrasted with the grey, blue and yellow of twenty or more stores tall building and of occasional skyscrapers, which seemed to be meek compared to the structures. Three massive masterworks of engineering in the largest megalopolis of the Confederacy, and its unofficial capital, revitalized since the reestablishment of a free market.

The Cotarm, AEROCON and MilNet arcologies were major landmarks, being three of the twelve monolithic superstructures built across the Confederacy years ago in a desperate answer to a bustling population density. With a couple of kilometers of height, each houses a million of inhabitants, and countless of bustling commercial areas and clean industries as entirely self-sufficient and environmentally sustainable communities through the application of many advanced technologies.

Such arcologies were also deathtraps for any possible hostile aircraft seeking to topple the greatest symbols of the prosperity and hard work of the people. With each of their hundreds of floors, spaces and maintenance catwalks existed, where a reasonable quantity of air defenses were set in consideration of the importance of such buildings, and to their top, radar towers were erected, continually scanning the skies in several frequencies and bands, coupled with electronic warfare towers, intended to offer a small contribution against hostile strikes, as part of a nation-wide, ever-expanding air defense grid. Magrails came in and out of these massive buildings, bringing constant fluxes of passengers, and the arcologies seemed to literally never sleep, with houses and even skyscrapers located inside them.

In the three hundred seventy fifth floor of the MilNet arcology, a particular room inside a large building labeled as a hotel was being continually visited by many who arrived in waves to witness an important event. The room was a large meeting room, being twenty meters wide and twenty meters long, featured by what was perhaps one of the largest round tables ever, which covered most of the room, except for the fact that it had a large opening in its center, where the wooden floor could be seen bare, except for a microphone right into the middle of the room next to a set of art-deco windows, while to the roof, a set of eight displays around each other offered a view for everyone present of the individual who would talk at the center of the room, for cameras pointed to the center from the far side of the room. To each of the hundred of seats, a microphone and a notebook were arranged to allow it to effectively become a two-sided communication.

Cecily Lockhelm arrived through the entrance of the room, unescorted like always, and in a much more formal manner than she was used to. With a black suit over a red blouse and a black long skirt, she walked through the center of the room, and looked at the crowd around her. Most of which were men wearing old styled kepis and militia combat fatigues not unlike those seen more than a hundred of years ago in Spain. She could notice that many of the elected majors were there, while many others watched the event through videoconference. It was time for her to personally suggest and receive suggestion about the war, for this time she stood as a military advisor rather than as a head of State.

Strangely enough, the first word was not hers, and soon a male voice came with a question which seemed to be very important.

"Lockhelm, our intelligence reports indicate they have at least seven months of oil reserves without any rationing, which is very unlikely. I find it doubtful that to simply wait passively will work as an effective strategy. I suggest that we locate and destroy their oil reserves to fasten the process."

Cecily grabbed the microphone, taking it out of its pole, and looked at the crowd around her, thinking about the idea that was suggested right there, to express her point of view on the subject:

"Look, I think that it makes sense. I have seen enough of the world to know that the longer a war takes, more imperialists and stalinists will meddle into what is none of their business. To passively wait for their oil to run out is to accept a standstill to the liberation effort, and perhaps, such idea could easily backfire."

"I know that whoever had it was worried about reducing casualties of ours, but there is no way to treat this war like an isolated event, which is completely independent of the rest of the world, and for now we have the advantage of time and naval superiority, something that could end with a mere cry for help of our enemies to their de facto allies."

Cecily never agreed with such idea, considering it something that was flawed, and merely a result of someone being a coward looking to pamper the ground forces. Or of a selfish interest of self-preservation overriding the interest of preserving everyone's life and freedom. She had a memory about an event that could serve as an excellent manner to push a more aggressive strategy.

"I believe that you know this, but there are twelve of our brave comrades that had their fighters downed but that survived thanks to their ejection seats. They have fought to the end, sacrificed and risked our lives to ensure that today we are not hearing the engines of bombers flying over us. Now they are alone, in a fully hostile land, and I fear that most of them, if not all, were captured as prisoners of war, and taken to horrible places."

"These pilots, they have not willed to simply wait for smaller numbers of enemies to attack so they could defend "easily", nor they have cowered from the prospect of engaging a numerically superior enemy force. Their struggle paved the way for us to begin a military operation in the Iberian peninsula. We cannot let this opportunity go over thanks to new forces arriving, we cannot let the sacrifice of such brave people be in vain"

"Thus, I agree fully. We must use all our aerial capability to destroy to the last all depots of petroleum in La República, for time is not a luxury we can afford to waste by waiting passively. Once I have written that to wait passively while the threat grows is to be against peace. And now I standa again for the same argument!"

"We must at least liberate Portugal before winter comes!", she said, trying to get them to ponder about the war, and about the threat of foreign intervention. Her work was done.

Most have been convinced, and for the reason many aircrafts of the Navy were already deployed, the operation would not take much longer to commence. All that remained however, was the gathering of proper intelligence on the whereabouts of their oil reserves, for all they had were rough estimations and outdated information, for as a safety measure, their enemies used mobile stockpiles that could easily be relocated to the safest and most bomber-unfriendly areas of Spain, close to the Pyrenees where hid by mountains, little besides bunker-buster bombers could effectively destroy them.

However, the thousands-strong fighters of the enemy would not be helpful to such mission, nor would their intense counter-espionage operations. The situation now seemed very ironic, on how despite apparently being in an advantageous condition, many obstacles would have to be overcome by the MilNet, and the distant threat of Stoklomolvi could become a reality at any moment.

Another turning point was about to happen.

Ronald Ernest Paul Naval Station, Allanean Texas, August 14, 14:00 hours

The USS Lysander Spooner was out of its berthing dock already, moving at full speed to the East. On the deck were perched not the regular fighter craft of the Allanean Navy, but rather, Supermarine Storkes repainted in a peculiar shade of orange. No doubt the crew of the news helicopters would take notice of the difference – the Storke was long supposed to have left the service of the United States Navy. Which, incidentally, would hide the real issue – the fact the Spooner did not have its full aircraft complement aboard.

As a matter of fact, only 25 fighters were present on the Spooner. The place of the other craft was overtaken by various special operations units. Present aboard was the Fieldmarshal's Own Assault Battalion, PLU “Snowstorm”, and elements of the Navy Special Operations Unit.

Flanking the Spooner were the mighty Colonial Patrol Cruisers. Ordinarily, Soviet Spain would have a lot to fear merely from the guns and missile complements of these vessels, but today, it was the passengers aboard that should have truly instilled fear, for they were loaded with operatives from Team Dagger, the ACIA Anti-Terrorism Task Force, and even several private organizations – the CBSF Theta Team was 'hired' for this purpose. Even the Scientology Church of Allanea had decided to aid the Navy by sending in the secretive operatives known as Project Ocean.

Officially, of course, this was not taking place. Officially, Soviet Spain was under threat from a 'mere' carrier battlegroup (http://z12.invisionfree.com/Allanea/index.php?showtopic=4&view=findpost&p=1931767) of the United States Navy.

Officially, Admiral Jay Armarok was in command of the battlegroup. Unofficially, it was a completely different person – one who was formally a civilian.

That person was not aboard the Spooner quite yet. Rather, he was in an 800-meter deep bunker in the Appalachian mountains.

Doctor Reijiro Techno, Director of the Department for Research, Evolution, and development, was not even wearing his uniform yet. He was wearing a horrendous light-blue suit with a matching tie, and typing a letter to the MilNet Integrated Strategic Council.

Honorable Comrades!

As we begin Operation Flaming Noose, we would like to receive additional information about the Stalinist Enemy. First and foremost, we would like to know as much as possible about the size of extent of the Enemy's merchant fleet, and the extent of commercial fishing operated by Soviet Spanish interests.

We also would like to receive any additional information about local infrastructure that you might have, most specifically local communications infrastructure, and the activities of the Soviet Spanish coast guard equivalent.

Thank you for your cooperation.

Sincerely yours,
Reijiro Techno, Ph. D.
Director of the Department for Research, Evolution, and Development

Bay of Biscay, Spanish territorial waters. 15th of August of 2039, 05:00 hours

The blackness of the horizon was interrupted by a far away light coming from the east and by the primitive displays of the heads up display. The Frogfoot was at a low pass flight, and Ricardo adjusted the throttles to keep it synchronous with the other ones at a long arrow formation with more nine strike fighters. ten thousand meters above them, three dozens of Flankers were escorting their flight, for it was not going to be an easy operation, specially for they were one of the three task forces inbound. Failure could not be tolerated, and it was clear that overwhelming numbers were important, as was equally important to the mission the six Growlers staying behind to provide electronic warfare.

Ricardo observed the moment the Flankers began to accelerate, it was T-minus twenty minutes for them to enter in engagement range by then, as indicated by the given positions of the enemy fleet, a courtesy of a Beriev on patrol of the skies. Strangely, the radar built for surface search of his aircraft could not detect anything, something that would be replaced by the shattered silence of his radio:

"This is Escort combined squadrons leader, we have detected multiple incoming fighters to the northeast. Mantain your course, they are outnumbered and shall be dealt with, over"

Ricardo did as instructed, and hoped for the best. They have never won an air battle against the Confederacy, and he was skeptic at the moment as well, and with reason, for he knew their pilots were much better trained, and their aircrafts much more advanced. What he did not know would soon became clear. It was difficult to spot visually amidst the darkness, but some small explosions and flames began to enlighten the sky above him, and thus the uncertainty stroke him, while he struggled with his fears to keep flying towards the maw of the enemy. The weakest point of their naval blockade was right ahead, and if they could cripple it, an important tactical victory would be achieved.

Five minutes of tension struck him while he kept his handle over the Sukhoi. There was little way to have complete certainty about the result of the engagement, for despite occasional blips on his radar of about twelve hostile fighters, or eight, for he could not even confirm, and a missile could fly towards his aircraft at any moment. He kept one of his eyes focused almost entirely on the rear warning radar display, expecting for the worse. No threat ever came to him, and finally a reply came to unveil the result:

"Here is Escort Leader. We lost six of our fighters, but we did not destroy any of them, those capitalist cowards retreated after firing their missiles. We did not chase them to leave your flight group unprotected, over"

At least communications were five by five, and thus Ricardo acknowledged the report and continued in his way. However he knew that at such rate, they would not stand much longer, yet there was something about this mission in particular. Maybe it was the right time to show that he was not only there because his father was among the top of the Party. In fact, risking his life for the cause of Communism was anything but a sign of politician cowardice, and as the pilot of the Su-25TM leading the other fighter-bombers, he hoped that he could prove his worth to the Party and to Spain.

Time seemed to have been immersed with the calmness that precedes the storm, for after four minutes of further flight no further threat was detected. He knew that it was an illusion to be broken, and attentiously kept his attention to the flight instruments and to the dark horizon unveiled through navigation systems. Suddenly more hostiles came through, and this time his radar managed to spot them. He felt an urge to personally request of his team regarding the operation procedures:

"Strike taskforce One, this is Strike Leader. Maintain formation on my wing and stay alert, ten minutes to targeted fleet engagement"

"This is Strike Two. Acknowledged, Strike Leader, our pincer shall break this blockade for once", one of the pilots replied to him, while he observed more flames roaring through the horizon. Yet, a new hope came. Finally his radar spotted the other two task forces coming from southwest and from northeast, apparently after a long detour, to hopefully annihilate such enemy fleet. To pass under the radar for as long as possible was important for his squadron. However, something more worrisome was about to happen

"This is Escort Leader, they have retreated again but we are being overwhelmed by ship-launched SAMs, we cannot hold this formation for much longer, we are breaking off. Gain altitude, break off and prepare your self-defense!"

Ricardo acknowledged again the grim report, and finally ordered, as he turned one of the switches of his cockpit. Suddenly the faint radar became much more powerful, and several red dots spawned.

"This is Strike Leader, activate your Kopyo radars. Pull up, break off into five two formations and prepare to engage incoming hostiles. Strike Two, come with me"

Following his order, he attempted to address whatever has survived the storm of fire that could be spotted visually above. Dozens of missiles have probably impacted with the skies, taking down yet more of their fighters.

"This is Strike Leader to Escort Leader, We need to split off, each of us are going to target separate enemy destroyers, and their capitals later"

A positive answer has soothed him, but Ricardo was not happy to know that more twelve went down in their task force, and the situation of the other task forces was even worser, as fighters from a nearby fleet came to give support at almost the same moment they took off, due to the complete lack of the advantage of surprise.

The escort fighters were being continually pounded by the majority of the surface to air missiles, and from eighteen, they were now only ten. Yet there were only two minutes for Ricardo and his wing mate to approach one of the destroyers, and for some major luck, their countermeasures so far stopped the SAMs that headed towards them. Perhaps due to the fact that theirs were among the most advanced fighters of the Republic, except for the still surviving little quantity of F-35s coming from the southwest, despite the fact that all the Su-27s escorting them were promptly obliterated. It seemed that success was still possible, despite the heavy toll, and the other task force was still meeting no opposition other than SAMs.

Finally the HuD began to flash as a locking bleep came. Yet another bleep was also coming to his ears, the one of the missile warning radar. The situation was not very favorable. And there was less than a second between deciding to risking to lose his life or an excellent opportunity to bring the first naval loss to the enemy. A difficult choice, where time itself would not allow for the wisest option to be taken.

Ricardo waited for the lock and maintained his direction while his wingman broke off to evade. The bleeping of the missile warning was increasing its rate, like that of a bomb about to detonate, yet he ignored it, pressing a trigger instead, as two Kh-35s came off his aircraft and began to fly down, heading to an altitude very close to the sea. At almost a flash after the moment, he immediately released the countermeasures, and fortunately the three SAMs after him got tricked, although he had to act fast. The throttle was already at maximum, and being very close to the service ceiling, he awaited for the inevitable return of hostile fighters, while a pair of Su-27s escorted his aircraft and his wingman's. It would take eight minutes to verify whether the missiles hit or not. With only torpedoes, he wisely passed the duty of targeting the next destroyer for his mate, although it was still out of range, for their enemies were wise enough to avoid closely packing their vessels.

Eighteen dots flashed on his radar, very close, and soon an warning came on multiple missiles heading to him. Immediately, he began to dive his aircraft to gain momentum, hoping that the countermeasures would divert the attention of some of the threats. The warning became intenser and a flow of adrenaline came through him. His life was on stake, and to worsen all, this time they were outnumbered. The altitude was getting dangerously low, and he began to pull up the control stick, but at least he spotted as two of the fighters after him were downed, not that it would make much of a difference when there were likely more than ten missile on his back. Pressing again to launch countermeasures, he almost had a collapse when he felt the plane suffering turbulence due to the proximity of water, but luckily, it managed to regain thrust right at the time before impacting with the sea.

Then luck decided to abandon him, as he realized, after the alleviation of the first issue, that the warning was still flashing. Then it no longer flashed, nor the radar demonstrated the number of hostiles. Two missiles impacted straight against his aircraft, and he did not have even time to pull the ejection seat. The explosion tore the aircraft apart, as it blasted over the water, and flames, rubble and charred flesh were all that remained of it. His decision to refuse to break off has been lethal.

And equally lethal it was to the unfortunate technician in the lower deck of the Ferrer, an Andrés Nin Class destroyer. He could not even realize as the wall to his left spalled, bringing his immediate death, after one of the anti-shipping missiles managed to get past all defenses. The ship in question was crippled by the shockwave, but by blind luck, the damage was not enough to sink the same. Yet, it remained as a mere wreckage of no use, drifting amidst an yet developing battle.

Despite all the losses, they were getting closer, and if nothing was done, the losses of the Confederacy could be more economically crippling than the losses of the People's Republic of Spain in such engagement. Yet, far away from the conflict, thoughts were different.

Cavallo seemed particularly pessimistic about what some have finally convinced him that was a strategically useless operation. Even if they somehow manage to take that entire fleet of fourteen ships, the submarines would be beyond their reach, and could still ensure the blockade. Finally, they could also farther the formations beyond the radius of their aircrafts if needed, which would make other attempts useless. Perhaps the new leader of the air force could have the same fate of the previous one, although the result of the battle was still unknown.

Although they were aware of it since the take off moment thanks to an extensive reconaissance operation, nobody was truly expecting it to happen so soon. Nobody except for Admiral Giraud, used to uneven sleep hours, who stood next to a large war board in the center of the command and control deck of the Orwell. It was not a normal war board, but instead a completely electronic one where a simple wireframe at its display contained measurements and the distance of all objects important to the battle, with its farther corner showing instead a bigger picture of the war effort so far which was in turn updated in a much slower rate. Through it, he could immediately identify the incoming hostiles, still very far.

He would rather observe first the incoming threats in the radar before taking any decisions, for hopefully it would be possible to predict their routes against them. Finally, there was an uncertainty about which fleet would be targeted, although he expected his, for it was at the end of the blockade and also the smaller one, exactly to increase the chances of that happening, for the more fighters they threw away trying to break off the blockade, least difficult it would be to achieve air superiority later, and giving the illusion of a weak spot on purpose was better than actually having a weak spot.

Attentiously observing the almost hundred of dots in the radar moving towards what he assumed to be the fleet of his command, Giraud patiently gestured for an worried sailor to calm down, and remained at such passive stance for five minutes, when it was finally becoming clear what they intended to do. It was time to plan a counter offensive, yet he knew that being preemptive would mean disaster. The enemy forces had split in three, and likely, they were intending to draw their fighters out of range with one of those while the others would strike the fleet. He was quick to take measures to ensure that their plans would not succeed, and soon his headset was busy as he contacted the nearest fleet of the blockade to the west.

"This is Hernán Giraud of the 40th, we need your carrier air group support to intercept an incoming hostile air group from our southwest. I repeat, a strike force is heading towards our direction"

It would not take much for him to a response to come, but in the meanwhile, Giraud looked at one of his comrades and said:

"Trujillo, check if our pilots are ready to fly, and touch the alarm, I bet most of them are still sleeping but we need them all!"

"Of course, we must not fall", the man next to him answered, and immediately went through the decks, following the activation of the alert, an annoying noise that served to wake up everyone whenever necessary. Right after his departure, a new transmission arrived:

"This is Fernandez, we have launched all the Buitres and Cuervos of the Huxley to your aid, they are in intercept course against the enemy forces you mentioned and that we have also spotted. We cannot send more forces because we can never be certain that this is not a diversionary attack."

"Acknowledged, Comrade Fernandez, we also have another hostile force heading through our eastern flank, but we will handle it. Take down thirty Stalin sonnies for me", Giraud answered back, and turned off the comm to focus on the planning.

The fleet was a bit too disperse due to patrols, where the most threatened were two destroyers patrolling at about fifty kilometers to roughly the south of Orwell's position, which would be the first to be targeted. He knew what had to be done, and thus sat down next to a terminal, where he began to type a set of commands, looking at a pitch black screen with a green Unix-esque console. Checking everything, he saw the answers of complex softwares about the exact timing to launch an intercept course for a initial sweep at about T-minus twenty and another one at T-minus ten minutes of the enemy engagement range of their anti-shipping missiles, for there was seemingly nothing capable of carrying anything bigger than the Kh-35 among them, and the primary advantage on such sort of technology was that it was widely known, allowing calculations like such to be accurate. Taking note of the information he received by the software in question, now it was the time to prepare for the inevitable engagement.

He got up, and reminded that they had nineteen minutes to prepare for flight, according to those calculations. But first, he had to set up a proper formation for his fleet, one that would optimize their capability of launching surface to air missiles against the incoming threats from east, south and southwest. Looking at the war board, the theater display, he drew an invisible circle around a group of missile destroyers represented by three-dimensional wireframes reminiscent of NATO symbols with his finger, followed by a group of Haymarket Class Battlecruisers, he pointed his finger at a location to his east in the map, forty kilometers from the main force, for those two destroyers and three battlecruisers would be responsible for the more vulnerable position, with the destroyers set at a distance of forty-five kilometers ahead of the capital ships.

With similar gestures, he designated an waypoint for one of the remaining destroyers fifty kilometers to the southwest of the flagship, where likely would come least resistance, and the single destroyer and two battlecruisers to meet with the two destroyers on patrol to the south, which in turn were retreating, something which the software that gave the timing for the intended fighter sweeps also took into consideration.

Finally, he also received a communication from Trujillo, who seemed to be a bit uneasy about something from the manner he spoke:

"Comrade Giraud, most pilots are already preparing for battle and being briefed"

"Most? What about the ones who are not?" Giraud inquisitively posed.

"They were in the infirmary, and when a bunch of young men met a couple of handsome ladies, and both are single and bored to hell. They just had too much of it yesterday that even with the alarm they did not get up... and some of them forgot about getting clothes too.", was a very bothersome answer about the fact.

Giraud always commended the democratic and organic nature of the Revolutionary Navy, but in moments like these, he would rather have a more traditional Navy, for it seemed that some were too thick-headed to understand why such was not the time for engaging into physically intensive pleasures, regardless of how it seemed that nothing was going to happen. He would have to solve that later though, as multiple communications were coming to him, and keeping an entire fleet organized was not easy. And there was the issue of the enemies coming through east as well, or which at least, due to the manner they were distancing themselves, seemed to plan to circle through beyond their range and attack through that direction, regardless of how their combat radius would be close to its limit. Calculating an useful estimate of the time to intercept those without getting too far would require for him to wait for them to begin to head towards them from east, or from whatever direction they planned to attack from.

Distant ships were closing in, to allow their combined defenses to work in tandem, and after two sweeps of significant success, and as a new force was being readied to sweep again for the remaining enemy forces, Giraud finally found the time to fulfill his wish of personally talking to those who engaged into counter-productive activities during a day before the threat.

Getting through the decks, he finally entered into the infirmary where he witnessed the aftermath of what could be nothing besides a very libertine orgy between five man and five women, where the first were the missing pilots, responsible for controlling the only propfan driven fighters of the carrier air group, which could serve against naval bombers, allowing the air superiority ones to focus on hostile fighters.

He looked at the mess around, with bandages and other medical supplies cluttered in what seemed to be a the result of a very questionable use of such supplies. The five nurses were sleeping with the pilots in the beds of the room, and Giraud immediately noticed the lack of condoms, and feared that such irresponsibles got some of those young ladies pregnant, although now it would already be too late, and all he could do was to give them a proper awakening.

None of them were sleeping with each other as splashes of cold water began to wet their bodies, and after some rants, one of the first to wake up looked at Giraud with weary and half-closed eyes, asking:

"What the fuck is this?"

"While you were doing this, our enemies were prepared an attack, so you rather get up soon, or we all will be fucked because of yours. This is a warship, not a bordello, and you!" he shouted, staring at the ladies:

"You are here to tend the wounded, and not to behave like cheap sluts! I do not care about this rhetoric about liberty, because if you want "liberty", then get the hell out of here and leave the space open for those who are ready to make personal sacrifices for freedom!", Giraud ranted in a very nervous and angered manner, apparently disappointed by their behavior amidst a war, and they immediately got the message and stop complained, as the admiral simply turned around and awaited for them to get dressed up and ready to get with the next fighters heading to strike the enemy.

He sighed as all fighters took off again, and ironically, less than ten seconds later the five pilots arrived dressed up and readied, Giraud looked at them and said:

"I hope you can do to your enemies the same thing with the same efficiency that you did to those young ones, because we are having difficulties to target their Frogfeet because of their damn escorts, so you better get ready for the next sweep, they are getting almost close enough to attack our destroyers farthest to the south." and short interruption came, for him to remind again of the priorities before explaining the situation to the horny pilots.

"Also, I received confirmation that the first sweep of our supporters was an absolute success, but there are still ten F-35s coming from southwest, and getting dangerously close while the other fleet has to refuel their aircrafts. We are getting our early warning to spot them before it's too late, but we really need a force to cover the southwest"

"Wait, are you suggesting that we take down modern stealth jet fighters with outnumbering us by two to one with propfans?" Júlio Amansias asked, standing ahead with his brown eyes matching the amber ones of Hernán as he stood for the other pilots.

"Our SAMs will also go against them, and finally, you need to fix for what you did, because I am sure this is not going to end perfe... wait? Yes, I hear it. Damn!" and silence suddenly shrouded the conversation, with the tension heightening for eight seconds during which Giraud stared at Amansias, finally adding

"We lost two fighters and Ferrer was crippled! At least ten people died. You heard it folks: ten people died in something that could have been avoided if you were not too busy having sex when we needed most of your capabilities! So unless you wish to be put into ostracism and be kicked out of here not by me, but by everyone, I suggest you to take your Miajas and show that no matter if they have a few shiny toys, their incompetence won't be offset by them.", and before they could complain further, he added:

"I am in no way pushing you to a suicidal mission because you pissed me off with such immaturity of people who should not be in a location like this, you can handle this, because your missiles are superior to their old Soviet junk, and your aircrafts are infinitely more maneuverable than theirs, and if you gain enough altitude, it will matter little if their fighters are supersonic and yours aren't, specially because they are already armed with eight air-to-air Meteors and four Pythons, you know well that they also can track two threats simultaneously and an EW is going to support you, so get moving if you want to wash the stain that you just got in your reps. And of course, how to do it is up to you!"

Júlio sighed, and finally realized the impulsiveness and irrationality of his acts. He simply looked at the admiral with a certain glint of shame in his eyes, yet not overshadowing the hope, and was quick to come with an answer:

"Never in history a fifth generation jet fighter with stealth capabilities was downed by a prop fighter with no stealth capability, but as long as your unmanned vehicle operators keep it up to spot them, we will be the first to achieve that. In fact, it's a pity we have no spitfires, I would love to teach those noobs how skills make a difference."

Hernán nodded and smiled to the pilots, apparently achieving what he wanted to. Hopefully that tough battle would improve more than the combat skills of those pilots, provided that his trust they would succeed was not mistaken.

At the same moment, the escort fighters of the enemies heading through south were mostly downed, and there was a cost inbound for the successful destruction of a destroyer of the Confederacy, for it was obvious to those remaining aircrafts that any attempt to keep an lock against a ship would lead to their deaths, for a flurry of missiles from the fighters and from the four still intact ships was overwhelming their capability of defenses, and the electronic warfare officers stationed among the vessels were alleviated as the combination of the equipment of both vessels and of the Cuervos behind the fighters was defeating their attempt of jamming, something which if successful would bring disastrous consequences. Then the allied jammers began to operate, with interference cancellation allowing them to communicate despite it. If they did not succeed into defeating such electronic attack, the next stage of the battle would be much simpler.

Júlio felt confident as he began to pull down the control stick of his fighter and set the throttle at maximum velocity. Maybe an historical feat would happen, or maybe a major loss, but he was determined to achieve the first. It would be simply too pleasant to his ego to be one of the five who managed to defeat stealth jet fighters outnumbering them with prop driven aircrafts.

He began a slow climb to the service ceiling of his aircraft, twelve thousand meters above, where the five separated themselves in two squadrons, one in a loose deuce formation and the other one in an arrow formation, seeking for the enemy fighters with the help of the datalink feed.

Júlio continued to observe the dark horizon, now already giving clearer signs of a dawn, while not distracting himself with the scenery of the Pyrenees lit by the first rays of a rising sun. Minutes passed as they continued in their high speed flight, where it was clear that despite subsonic, they were capable of accelerating quite fast for their nature.

Suddenly the warning radar flashed, and ten dots appeared with the heads up display indicating they were a hundred and twenty kilometers to the northwest of their current direction and at an altitude of roughly eight thousand meters, and both distant formations quickly changed their direction to meet the enemy forces heads on. Franticly setting the lock on two leftmost targets, Júlio did not even instruct the others, as they already knew the procedure. Their enemies poor missiles were still out of range when the target locked indicator came, and he released the safety hatch from the stick button to fire the first two missiles, and following roughly a second pressed again, and in the next second, again, with such gesture being repeated by the others. It was important to ensure destroying such threats before they could climb beyond their reach, as they began to dive towards their enemies. SAMs were also heading through there, although it would take a time for them to reach, enough for a combat to unfold.

The dive was enough to allow them to breach the sound barrier because they were already at a maximum speed very close to it, as the already noisy propfans were augmented by a sonic boom. Although technically subsonic, they still were able to do such in the hands of skilled airmen, and thus were getting closer and closer while the missiles headed against the enemies in a minutes long maneuver. All of them simply dived to gain momentum instead of trying to climb beyond the limited ceiling of the Miajas, something which was great for Júlio, as it was exactly what he hoped they would do, as the petty amateurs such pampered sonnies of Party members were, likely of the most influent to have the honor of piloting the ten only F-35s in service of La República.

He hoped to teach them a lesson on why military rankings based on civil status were obsolete since almost half a millennium ago, and they began to rapidly dive against the F-35s going down in an attempt to dodge their missiles. During those minutes, their attention was fully concentrated on those threats, although they still kept some for the case of surprises.

When his Python-5 was indicating that he was at the engagement of the remaining target, Júlio could not resist laughing as he watched five of them hitting the water after a pathetically tragic low pass dive maneuver, and said in the radio, laughing:

"Well, it is a pity we did not have spitfires, lets finish with these amateur sonnies of Stalin!"

Yet such laughs were not enough for him to forget to press a button, launching yet more missiles against one of the five remaining aircrafts as it tried to regain altitude. At dogfight ranges, an F-35 and a Stuka were equally flying ducks, and again this was proved, as no matter how those newbies were aware of how to use countermeasures, they were already in the no escape zone of the Python missiles. They have chosen to avoid getting close enough to the no escape zone of their Meteors to take advantage of their superior range, but now it was a given. As he pulled back the stick to regain altitude, he finally had a chance to take some shoots against the fighter he chased, which was lucky enough to avoid the first python, although, when he launched another one at little more than four kilometers away from the hostile, in a few seconds the result came as it splintered into ashes.

Tension arose though, as Júlio perceived an hostile managing to get at his tail. Soon the missile warning came as it began to pour its arsenal against him, and with a calm resolve he timely released the countermeasures at the best possible time, as the missiles went down, while he was quickly outmaneuvering the enemy fighter at his slower speed, for low altitude flight at such speeds was what the Miaja was great for regarding its maneuverability.

At least it lasted long enough to be considered a combat rather than a slaughter, yet the last two F-35s began to fly and climb in the hopes of dodging multiple Python-5s and the short bursts of powerful 40mm autocannons, something which was not taken lightly by Júlio and his mates, who quickly finished with both, proving once again that no technology can fix sheer incompetence.

"Nobody is going to believe it!", one of his friends said.

"Let's head back, these ten fighters coupled with the mediocre training and inbound maintenance costs already make up more than the cost of what they managed to take down of our side"

As they landed, they were received with applauses by the air wing crew, for no matter how it were spoiled brats of ironically upper class commies that piloted those F-35s, it still required balls to face them with a propfan fighter. It has been a bit of luck as well that none of them went down, but even if one did, it would still be a feat, although it was not exclusively their merit, for the major electronic warfare support also should be credited for their success.

A debriefing arrived shortly as all landed back, and Júlio seemed optimistic about it. The four remaining Su-25s from the south retreated, while the invasion force from east took heavy casualties as they no longer had to split their fighters against separate threats, also being defeated shortly. A rough calculation demonstrated that economically the losses of the enemy forces were significantly greater, while another destroyer from the reserves was already on the way, while a salvage tug headed to take the carcass of the Ferrer, and rescue ships came to tend and gather the survivors.

Perhaps after such loss, a temporary gap in the air defenses of the Pyrenees would ensure, giving them the necessary opportunity to recon and locate enemy oil reserves. It was truly lucky that Aerospace Logistics did not deliver their fighters yet to their enemies, and with the blockade in effect, would likely not. The dominance of the Confederacy in air and sea remained unchallenged. Ground forces were yet to star, but plans to liberate the Balearic islands were inbound. Hopefully it would not be another Iwo Jima.

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

Neocatalunia, Third Spanish States. 14th of August of 2039, 9:00 hours

Cecily became intrigued with the Allanean support to their war effort. Something did not smell right about it, other than the fact they were staunch libertarian capitalists, only not extreme enough to advocate the complete replacement of the State by businesses, like the anarcho-capitalists did. She has read many histories about such strange nation. Some claimed they were inferior humans, likely national-socialist propaganda, others that they were unhealthily libertarian, and others that they were complete savages that used the skulls of Stalinists and other false communists as cups, although the idea seemed tempting in a disturbing manner.

Yet, she would not refuse aid, despite her questions about their motivations, for she reminded on how the British were more worried about quelling an anarchist revolution than about supporting Republican Spain against the Nationalists in the First Civil War, and there was definitively something cheesy about it. She only hoped to discover what before it was too late.

It was time to give an answer, and perhaps syphon them towards what could be convenient. The questions about the skeleton coast guard were the most interesting ones from her perspective, for there was only one reason to worry about them, and such reason was an infiltration by Spec Ops or something alike that would require sneaking troops through enemy territory. And thus she writ:

Encryption Level: High (2048 bits RPMA)

TO: Reijiro Techno, PhD
FROM: Cecily Lockhelm, Head of State (clockhelm@diplonet.tee)
SUBJECT: MilNet Uplink

First, I have opened a limited MilNet node for you to access which will allow you to integrate your operations by receiving updated information of our virtual command, while also allowing you to report directly your mission results. Its link and password will be sent into separate messages with critical encryption levels as a prevention. The enemy merchant fleet is virtually nonexistent, for they relied exclusively on foreign boats for international trade, and what they had we have managed to acquire intact after a successful meme warfare operation. Fishery is extremely limited, and currently restricted to very close littoral areas to the south coasts of Spain. On Coastal Guards, they have a quite formidable, albeit obsolete force useless for any serious naval engagement. Most are concentrated to the north coast, and we estimate about a patrol for each hundred kilometer of shoreline. Of course, certain areas are heavily patrolled, particularly those which are more filled with beachheads and easily accessible terrain, like Seville, Oporto, Lisbon, Huelva and Málaga, while provinces like Albacete and Bilbao are less defended due to rough terrain and difficultly climbable cliffs on their shore lines with very sparse beaches among them.

On local communications infrastructure, most is centered in the city of Madrid, with a few backups in the Pyrenees due to the geographical features of the region. Surface to air missiles are more frequent close to the coast and in the center of Spain. The area between those is very little protected regarding them, a weakness they had decided to risk, and that could be exploited in the future.

Further messages will bring more relevant information about the war effort. Currently we are seeking to destroy their oil reserves and achieve air supremacy to prepare for an amphibious landing. Thank you for your support.

It's not much rather than an advice that I can offer for now as thanks: the independent Enclave city, an architectural marvel beneath the waves, is a haven of Anarcho-capitalists in our land, which existence is permitted due to our commitment with freedom and the democratic right of choice, and perhaps you might be interested in investing there.

The Final Soviet, Beneath The Green Tower in The Village upon The Island in the Burha Talab, Portmeirion, Raipur, Chhattisgarhi Soviet State, Indian Soviet Commonwealth of Beddgelert (AKA Beth Gellert)

Through the considerable resources of Gadar! (Revolution), the principle organ of Indo Soviet newsmedia, Beddgelert's eleven billion citizens had watched the unfolding of The Spanish Dispute, as it was being called, with as much interest as could be mustered in a land struggling with several consecutive years of failed monsoons accredited to, "bourgeois industrial pollution" and the resultant economic hardships. These hardships had seen the Soviet economy slip to the rank of 179th fastest growing in the known multiverse, according to the World Assembly, which was a lowly station blasted through long before the rise of the current Fourth Commonwealth and which nobody had expected to revisit.

On the floor of the great chamber of South Asian democracy, sunk tens of metres below the surface of an island at the centre of a lake in Raipur, Soviet Consuls from as far away as Karachi, Galle, and Dhaka put forward the views of their constituents on the Anarcho-Stalinist conflict far to the west.

The, "Neither of them are Igovian! If it's a choice between hippies and state-capitalists let them choke one another!" chorus had been subdued after three lengthy sessions of the Final Soviet, and the Commonwealth had essentially decided that, yes, the Third Spanish States, to all intents and purposes, represented the good guys as very much opposed to a clear regressive element in so-called Soviet Spain.

Now the discussion was simply over how best to assist the Anarchists in their struggle with authoritarian Marxism.

Two camps were at each other's respective throats, often quite literally, as several brawls had erupted on the Soviet steps, and only broken for five o'clock tea.

Comrade Getafix Nagapurium was suggesting, obviously to much controversy, that Raipur present itself to Soviet Spain as an ally against disorderly timewasting anarchism and infiltrate the faux-Soviet state to such a degree that its warfighting effort may be compromised. He had a few supporters, all shouting slogans of approval and none contributing fresh ideas. Everyone else was prepared to vote on whether to send the Soviet Marines or raise a volunteer militia under the auspices of a Spanish Liberation Soviet, and, either way, on how many warriors might be delivered to aid the Third Spanish States.

Already thousands of excited comrades were sharpening ancestral sabers and short-swords and sending children out to collect plants for the creation -by long suffering wives- of warpaints.

In the Third Spanish States, comrade Graeme Igo, Grandfather of the Igovian Revolution, was keen to let the military authorities know that Beddgelert was preparing for decisive action against the Stalinists. "However the odds may appear, dear comrades" he, the greatest orator in a land of bards, famous for its peoples' gift-of-the-gab, has said in a digital recording sent to the authorities, such as they are, "please believe. Please know that the greater forces of right await in the wings. The true Soviet Power grows impatient with the subverters of Revolutionary energy in Spain, and its mighty bulk, shivering with expectant energies, is prepared to build for the Stalinists a glorious funeral pyre!"

Aboard the USS Lysander Spooner

"Experiment Four-Five, Series “Spectre” is on. “Inmate Five, you're clear for takeoff, repeat clear for take off.”

The carrier was taken over over by DREAD personnel. They were everywhere, annoying the Naval officer with their sky-blue clothing and light-orange equipment. Yet, one had to admit, there was a value to having them around aboard the Spooner. Namely, that they brought shiny toys.

One of these toys was the Supermarine Storke fighter-bomber [DREAD Designation “Viper”] now rising off the flight deck. Apparently, DREAD believed that the reliable Questarian design, with its high payload and range, would make a perfect universal fighter aircraft for the Allanean armed forces.

Piloting this particular Viper was Captain George Adamski. Any other armed force (outside the Spanish Confederacy, that is) would have long placed George under observation for his personal habits – his bright-green hair, his tattoos, and his penchant for quotes from ancient Wachowski brothers' movies.

Which was how he chose his callsign, by the way.

"Inmate Five is on the blink. Proceeding towards Experiment Four-Five target.”

Nobody could see Adamski's smile as the Viper began to climb away from the battlegroup. Next to him, he saw his squadron mates' aircraft rise into the sky.

"Austen Six, Experiment Twenty-four-nineteen, series “Viper” is on, proceed to your target. Husky, this applies to you as well.”

Adamski knew who the pilots were, of course. 'Austen Six' was Amalia Newton-John, a third-generation Praetonian immigrant and fanatical Janeite (as could be expected), and 'Husky' was Fedot Kosoy, who in many countries would be executed – he was a 'furry' who wore full-body animal suits and adult diapers when not wearing the light-blue DREAD uniform, and who painted his fursona – a baby black-and-white Siberian dog in diapers – on the side of his Storke's fuselage.

"Husky, this is Inmate Five. Prepare to break formation. Commence experiments. Over.”

The light-orange aircraft split up, each choosing a separate target – a Spanish coast guard cutter.

The vessels were tiny, no more than glorified speedboats. Thus, perhaps, it would be an act of overkill to do what Adamski was tasked with doing – which was to feed the location of his target into FireTux, and wait.

He did not see nor hear the Axis Novanian “Spectre” missile take off from one of the cruisers far in his rear.

It was too large for his aircraft to carry – almost fifteen tons of steel, titanium, fuel and explosives, traveling at sea skimming altitudes and carrying several hundred kilograms of explosives, precision-guided to conform with the coordinates given by FireTux.

The LCD screens of his HUD showed three blips – a red blip for the target, a green blip for his Viper, and a blue blip for the incoming missile. He circled the target cutter, even as the Stalinists cursed and tried to get at him with their heavy machineguns.

And then the blue blip met the red blip.

Had the missile even failed to detonate, a smack from a fifteen-ton lump of metal would have turned the speedboat into so much matchwood. As it was, the results were simply spectacular.

"Yeeeee-haw!” - shouted Adamski as his Viper passed low over the blossoming ball of fire and smoke that now rose where the cutter used to be.

"Inmate Five, experiment successful. Target suppressed, coming home to roost now.”

* * *

"Woof! Woof! Woof!” - Husky barked excitedly, almost like a real dog, as his Storke reached gun range. He couldn't see enemy with the naked eye, but he could already target them with the help of onboard RADAR – and, of course, Firetux 1.5, which showed him both targeting data and an augmented visual feed of the small boat.

“Thank god for KDE.” - Fedot said as he adjusted his course ever so slightly and pushed the Fire button.

The onboard 25mm cannon clattered madly for three seconds, pumping dozens of rounds into the 'blue dot'. By the time Fedot's aircraft passed low over the speedboat, there was no speedboat left – only a small, burning oil stain and a few floating bodies.

"Husky, experiment successful, target suppressed.”

* * *

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a small patrol boat cannot withstand the impact of two air-launched torpedoes designed to kill cruisers. Less universally acknowledged is the truth that when properly guided and targeted, said torpedoes cannot really miss the speedboat.

Amalia watched with barely-concealed delight as the two blue dots on her screen met the red dot. Seconds later, she rapidly overtook the sinking wreckage.

Even as 'Austen Six' radioed in the success of her own 'experiment', a completely different sort of motion took place. In those areas formerly patrolled by the late speedboats, multiple minisubs made their way towards the Spanish shore. In the brief window of opportunity provided by the DREAD pilots, they would soon begin to land Frogmen upon secluded and ill-accessible beaches.

Officially, of course, nothing happened.

And minutes later, aboard the cruiser Technical Virgin, a radio station would begin to work. A new voice broke into the airwaves of Soviet Spain, and it spoke in pure Spanish, too.

[consider the italic below to be Spanish]

Greetings, citizens of the Republic!

This is Radio Free Spain. Your government may have hidden this from you, but, just now, the Allanean Armed Forces have carried out a successful operation against the coast guard of the Stalinist Republic, destroying three of its ships.

As of now, Allanea is at war with the government of the so-called People's Republic. Our war is not bound to the cause of Allanean-style capitalism, as your propaganda will surely tell you. We will support any system that respects human rights – including, for instance, the system of Confederate voluntaryist anarchism.

We will however insist on enforcing the message of Comrade Lenin – The Land must belong to the Peasants, and the Factories to the Workers.

Your government tells you we support oppressive capitalism. In fact, it is your system that is the system of the most oppressive capitalism of all – where the State is the sole owner of capital.

We promise you – with the help of the Allanean liberator-soldier you can wrench the factories, the shops, the farms of your country from the monopolist “People's Republic” that oppresses you and own them yourself. Whether you choose to do it under Confederate market socialism, Allanean capitalism, or some other system, is up to you. The key thing, however, is that the Stalinists must die.

To this end, we hereby announce a system of cash rewards for all operatives of the People's Republic, dead or alive. Those who defect will be given refugee status, and a possible Allanean Freemanship – except, of course, President Cavallo, for whom surrender is not an option.

A billion-dollar reward will be handed to anybody who kills that man, combined with an Allanean Freemanship.

A hundred-million-dollar reward will be handed to any Army General who defects, or anybody who kills one, combined with a Freemanship, a fifty-million-dollar reward for every Colonel. Again, those awards come with an attached Freemanship.

We offer a ten-million-dollar reward for any Republic pilot who defects with his aircraft. This sum is sufficient, in Allanea, to live without working for the rest of your life.

Furthermore...

The list went on and on.

Soon enough, even if nobody defected, the Republic would have some serious trust issues.

Aeropuerto de Almería, Spain. 16th of August of 2039, 08:13 hours

Sometimes, when victory seems so close, all that comes is an even more disappointing defeat, and it was not yet the time to celebrate. Oil reserves were still quite vast, but eventually, they would deplete. The blockade remained mostly unscathed except for a single destroyer and a half-dozen of enemy fighters, and the Balearic islands were more vulnerable than ever, although maybe things could drastically change in land. But for now, they could either wait, or attack with their still vast reserves of aircrafts. But with no F-5Ms or more advanced technologies to support them, as the shipments were too late to arrive before the blockade became effective.

One last chance, there was only one for Ramírez Batista, with no single doubt. The irate scold of comrade Cavallo was the clear sign that his time was running out. He knew that the only reason for him to not have been immediately added to the countless lines of the lists of purges was only the partial, Pyrrhic success of the operation he has planned before, and the fact it has finally shown that they were not utterly defenseless, although the humiliating defeat of the best fighters they had to a bunch of propfan aircrafts was enough to put him at a very delicate situation, regardless of the fact that Cavallo demanded from him to let those inexperienced pilots to take off based on the political status of their parents rather than on their competence. But as Carlos never could be wrong, someone had to take the guilt for the failure.

If the mood of the president could not be bad enough, Ramírez openly heard as he shouted about a report of the Almería ELINT regarding a capitalist crone of the Confederacy broadcasting seditious messages of bourgeois lies to nowhere. It was irrelevant the fact nobody besides a few privileged ones too comfortable with the status quo to do anything would hear. It was simply personal and ideological. Yet, it was likely a single vessel, like the one they have managed to destroy.

To make a successful operation to destroy the transmitter of such seditious messages was his last chance. And he took his best, pondering on most possibilities to ensure that these Allaneans would reap what they sowed, and perhaps take down an Allanean Carrier as well, which would be more than enough to redeem him in the eyes of the Party. For every line he plotted, every inch of paper he drawn the operation plans over, he pondered about a possible reaction. He added contingency maneuvers for a handful of further possibilities should the needs of the basic plan not work as intended. And this time, thing were much better for him. There was no Party member to demand him to put his incompetent son into the squad as a vain manner of massaging his ego, nor any meddling of people who know nothing of military tactics and strategies. This time, there would be no excuse to failure.

The civilian airport was commonly busy as executive jets with Party members came in and out, but with the rationing on, even they were partly limited from certain luxuries which consumed the black gold. Yet, there were more than enough flights happening to allow anything to take-off without being really noticed unless somehow it was known it would happen, and as in the intelligence battlefield, the People's Republic of Spain remained dominant by forcing most of the enemies spies to hide, that was virtually impossible.

It was only one of other take off points. A dangerously low pass rendezvous would ensue, with multiple vectors guaranteed to increase their chances. Batista knew that their only strength was in numbers. It was extremely risky to deploy such massed force, but it was a very rare opportunity as well, for most of them have been prepared for a previous operation which failed to even begin due to a preemptive strike of their enemies.

Ramírez now could only wait. He sat down on a vacant chair of the command center of the Armilla Air Base, and looked at one of the technicians inquisitively, openly indicating he wished to be updated about the situation. The technician, a slim, bald man, handed him a headphone, although it would not solve his worries. EMCON 0 was a must, and thus they would only become aware the progress after the first engagement happened. Another time where the most hated enemy was the wait, a gruesome one for this mission would define more than a mere success or failure, in it, the question on whether Batista would live or be brutally executed was about to be answered.

It did not matter the long nights he stood thinking, unable to sleep, his effort was not considered, for success was everything at the moment. In an strategical point of view, taking off such vessel was useless, but there was more to it. It was a matter of morale, and although they hated Third Spanish States, it was not truly the archetype of the bourgeois, in fact, the higher members were quite aware it was far from being capitalist. Allanea on the other hand was a much more interesting adversary to pick upon, which could fit much better into anti-capitalist propaganda and due to its power, a victory would perhaps raise the hopes that victory was still possible, which could only be better should Mallorca stand, something that had yet to be decided, for currently no real motions of an amphibious assault were visible.

Operation Lenin would begin as landscapes which still were idyllic from afar began to receive the flashing passes of aircrafts in almost unsafe low altitude flight routes from almost every corner of Spanish operational runways that were close enough to intersect with the transmitter of the capitalist lies. Countless of novice pilots and a few hardened veterans like Anzio Hidalgo took their flight to prove that their nation was not a weakling, or perhaps for their own amusement of risk-loving and little fear of death.

Su-27 Flankers and Su-25TM Frogfeet would make their long way to intersect the Allanean fleet. That was everything they have told him. The bright skies of another friendly weather stood next to the glass of the cockpit, while there was a certain rush, a sense of urgency. Being one of the few brave survivors of the attack at the Bay of Biscay and having managed to take down a couple of Confederacy aircrafts, he was part of a very small elite with real combat experience who survived to accumulate such practice. Deservingly, he got promoted to Subteniente and was to lead an entire escort group.

The hills and plains of his homeland were soon giving way into the horizon below, caught by his peripheral view, to an approaching extent of the ocean. His radar was at less effective passive mode, to reduce drastically chances of detection, and he could not communicate with those close to him, although he knew they were following his lead. He watched the close, derelict farm houses, the rotting crops and decayed infrastructure, but all conveniently was at his peripheral vision, to allow him to pretend never seeing them. Only the monochrome blue of the ocean was his sight, tempered by the almost cloudless blue sky. The monotonous scenery would soon be changed by distant, insignificant specks of flames and ashes. Other things were important at the moment. The altimeter precisely measured the thousand feet altitude they currently were dangerously at, with the few waves of the ocean being even visible from the cockpit due to it. The other pilots were certainly worried, but his presence was enough to make them have more trust in themselves. This time nobody would fall by pure accident originated from lack of competence. This time, the hour before the decisive strike was decisive itself. Should they successfully manage to get far enough undetected, the plan would run as expected, and the "bourgeois mouth" of Allanea would fall under the shut up of anti-shipping missiles.

Otherwise, Batista did not forget of having a plan B, and beyond, this time. The dull travel was only made different by two things in Hidalgo's mind, his expectations and his hope to show that better training is not the only thing that makes a great pilot. The cockpit continued silent, with no signs of detected aircrafts other than those very close to him. Nor he could ascertain the location of the other hundred and ninety-nine aircrafts of the massive, and risky operation to ensure victory. It was better such way, for the more he remembered of the numbers, more he felt like something easily replaceable, and he could not let such thoughts downgrade his performance in moments when a blink could be the difference between life and death.

The number however, was far from excessive, considering what they were about to face, yet, none of them were over-stacked at a single trajectory. The goal was to attack from countless different directions, with separate squadrons of at most five escort fighters and five fighter-bombers, in the hopes of overwhelming enemy defenses. The last remaining electronic warfare fighters of the People's Republic also took the rear of the assault force, and this time, pilots properly instructed in electronic warfare replaced the incompetent newbies with political privileges, maybe because no major Party member would want for his children to die in the war, for like always, politicians only served to write the paperwork of war, rather than for executing and planning. For the proletariat.

(OOC: This is one of multiple operations happening in the same day. I'll focus on this for now because it involves Allanea's participation. The others are generalized at this thread (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=561886))

It was unfortunate that the Allaneans were not prepared for a strike of this type at all. The carrier battlegroup was equipped with only a limited contingent of Viper test aircraft in various modifications, and only four of them were equipped as AWACS. As such, the detection of the enemy aircraft came far, far too late – by that time they had already crossed the 100-kilometer mark.

Aboard the escort vessels protecting the fleet – four of the upgraded Mogami cruisers – shocked crews reacted in a storm of confusion, touching off dozens of anti-air missiles as soon as their targeting RADAR would allow them to have targets in sight.

There was no consideration as to overkill, or indeed basic sanity. They knew that they were between the Soviet aircraft and the carrier, and that at this range, they could not afford not to get it right the first time. Every single VLS cell was flushed. Every single long-range missile was fired. Almost 500 greyish-red streaks uncoiled from the upper decks of the Allanean cruisers, rising to meet the approaching Soviet aircraft, whose roar was already being heard in the distance.

As the enemy aircraft got closer, , the Allanean ships emptied the magazines of their lighter range Sea Dagger missiles. The very sky lit up red as the Allaneans fired the light missiles - hafl of them distributed at 3 missiles per surviving craft, and the other half - over 600 missiles - targeted at incoming AShMs.

Simultaneously, the anti-missile defenses kicked in, preparing 35mm autocannon to shoot down whatever remained, and Seashield decoy launchers - 14 per cruiser - kicked in, filling up the enemy RADAR screens with dozens of decoys.


Deep in the bowels of the USS Lysander Spooner, admiral Armarok giggled.

Dodge this.

North Mediterranean. 16th of August, 9:00 hours

Aboard of the CC Huxley, one of the dozens of the Libertarian Class Carriers involved in the blockade, a commander attentiously watched an electronic display pointing to the proximity of the Allanean fleet to her own through a set of 3D symbols. There was a certain lull in the long conversations that broke the boredom, and equally, nothing ever came of interesting from watching the screen. No suicidal attack to repel, no infiltration attempt of a top secret hidden stealth flotilla, just nothing. It was something expectable the boredom, and the crew had a similar frustration management issue to handle during all those long and uneventful days. Not unlike other fleets, such boredom was usually another way of many to spice certain urges, specially among the men.

She could not just oblige them to not do it, no matter how training occurred, how many speeches on self-sacrifice happened, or all the critical nature of the mission. But at least they were doing it after their shifts rather than during them. It was situation normal, although sometimes one would wonder whether it was actually a cruise line rather than a military vessel from the way half of the crew spent time with all sorts of entertainment, sometimes forgetting even to get their sleep.

The figure sitting on a comfortable chair next to the theater display yawned. Like some have told her, the life in Navy was a life of waiting. Waiting for the fleet to arrive, for the enemy to come, or sometimes for the war to end with no action during it. Then someone touched on her shoulders:

"Bored comrade Cecilia? Why not join the party too? Nothing is going to happen! I could show you some real fun, and if you would like to as well, the best pleasures of your life."

With a semi-violent thrust, she grappled the arm of whoever insinuated such absurd and quickly got up from her seat to face the individual. It was another one of the sailors out of his shift. Although elegant, he was simply too rude and jerk to deserve any consideration, and soon as her eyes stared deeply and flamingly at the brown ones of the man, Cecilia said in an aggressive tone of voice:

"Look at me... comrade. I would rather sink with this ship and drown than get laid with someone like you Roy, and if you continue being such an ass, I will personally oversee your expulsion from the crew, and make sure the entire community knows it and why!"

"Oh, a tough one. Perhaps I should refresh your memory on the fact the majority here is of men, and that a significant percentage of them have chosen this fleet and elected you for reasons other than what you claim to have on competence to direct this vessel," he said in an extremely jerky tone of voice, to which he never imagined a reaction of such caliber.

Sighing, Cecilia putted a palm over her face, and all of the sudden, the palm which was there shifted and quickly closed as a fist, moving straight through the man's face in a time the same could not react against. With the impact, the body of the man was throw a few inches ahead as he clumsily attempted to regain balance. Almost instantly the operators of the bridge turned around their seats and ignored their work to watch the conflict.

There was no taboo about punching females in his world, and he went with all he got against her. A muscular frame which could easily get rid of that slender woman, a self-assuredness that would certainly be improved by the remains of prejudice, justified by a couple of scientific facts, that the man had in his values regarding females. But he was too slow, and by the time his large fist lunged through air, she has already dodged and exploiting his weakness, a painful moment occurred as her boots met violently his groin.

He screamed like a little girl and afterwards, the audience began to laugh at him, fueling his anger about that woman, and other animal urges. He was going to give her a lesson she would never forget, with hatred and shame blinding his best judgment about the consequences of what he was going through at such moment.

It was difficult to track correctly how time passed. It was like something so quick that her memory did not manage to keep an exact track of it. Only the aching pain on her forehead served to fresh her memory about the pointless fight. One of the operators looked at her and said:

"Cecilia, are you all right? We had to sedate Bernal to prevent him from doing something really stupid and now we don't know what to do with him. I am afraid he will seek to get his revenge for this, but I am still glad you gave a lesson on that jerk. I think we'll have to relocate him to another fleet tomorrow, if he is not ostracized for being such a prick."


"Thank you Arlin. It seems there is much yet to change in our society," she said, taking his hand and got up with a small help of his own. It was perhaps another problematic example of things that a mere bunch of tests could not discover on the nature of a man. But everything that happened at those moments suddenly became meek as another of the crew in the bridge shouted:

"Massed formations attacking Allanean cruiser!"

Cecilia ran to the theater display. A 3d representation of several fighters at different but equally low altitudes coming from several directions was there. She did not hesitate and quickly passed a finger from the symbol of her own carrier to the location of the strike. Such massed force could be easily an eighth of the entire Ejército del Aire, and even though it was never the plan of the Allaneans to use such cruiser as a fighter bait, in the end the act of broadcasting messages inciting rebellion has not been completely futile. It was the opportune time to inflict another crippling loss to the enemy. Unfortunately there was no of their ships close enough to the Allaneans to use their own missiles, but that was what carrier air groups were for.

She sighed, reminding of how things were going in her own carrier. It was a problem that every elected captain in the blockade had to face, but hopefully the pilots would not be too busy getting laid to serve a greater goal than doing all the ladies of the crew. She could only wait and see. To the wait, she suddenly decide to talk further with the one who helped her about the previous predicament.

"I do not know, but this war is a bit pointless. Wars are tools of the State to oppress people and direct them out of the real inner enemy that is the government, after all. Maybe we are doing just that, letting something that threatens our own land uncared for."

"Not really. You should not take the works like dogmas Cecilia, because that action itself contradicts the essence of anarchism. The only objective of this war is to abolish the God-State of tyranny that rules over Iberia. If we win, anarchy shall have a major victory in the world." he argued, smiling to her.

"But could we not have simply promoted a revolution and shattered them from inside? It would have been much less degrading than this! We cannot force people to be free or it will not work. We can only help them to overthrow tyranny, not do it for them, unless we want vassal states after all." she added to her point, for it was certainly something logical for an upholder of anarchism to support a local revolution rather than actively use military force to destroy a State.

"Trust me, I am sure they have attempted that first, but after thirty decades of tyranny, people will likely lose hope and conform to their misery and oppression, while the new generations are born already indoctrinate to be slaves of the State. Socialism without freedom is indeed slavery and brutality, and both shape society into a servile and docile cattle for The Man to handle. Sometimes the only way to awaken them is through direct intervention." he said as a strong argument for everything, and the time that passed at the moment led the captain to remember what was the matter.

With no response yet, she began to fear she would have to pull the pilots' lazy asses out of another orgy with nurses, like certain reports about another fleet indicated that have already happened. It was difficult to hide details like this from public eyes, considering the Milnet and the few influences of Internet culture that they were not completely immune from. Sighing, she looked at a clock, and seeing the minutes that have passed said:

"It seems I will have to personally call the pilots."

She began to walk, taking a few steps to the outside ladders in her long way through the bulkheads and corridors to reach the crew berths where the pilots were located, hoping that she was wrong. Suddenly the wireless headset, which was still in her head after all, broke its silence with a message:

"This is Cuervo leader, we are ready to take-off. Sorry for the delay, but the time we arrived at the deck coincided with a standard scheduled AWACS take off time."

She almost fell from the railing with the shock. Hopefully the small delay would not be the difference between life and death for the Allaneans. Making her way back to the bridge, with her eyes fixed over the zoomed in theater display with the area where this small conflict was happening. Lines were traced from her carrier to several points she began to detail as she looked deeper into the enemy formations on-screen. Aware they were estimations, she had to make a fast decision in a time their allies were being mass assaulted. There seemed to be a certain gap in the air assault, and she quickly set the tactical definition system to issue waypoints and goals that would allow its exploitation like a maestro waving his hands to an orchestra.

The lines pointed a trajectory of the six squadrons of fighters of her own carrier, which air group was mostly focused on air superiority. Now all that remained to do was to wait patiently to remind them of the cons of low altitude flight and massed aerial assaults. And that was only one of three carrier air groups going there, like indicated by a the integrated networks, where she could see the lines tracing from carriers of two other aircraft carriers nearby.

Still, hers was the closest one, and as one by one, the fighters took off, a journey of a bunch of minutes would take. Minutes where Allanea would have to fend the strikers by themselves. She had to at least inform them of the incoming support, and thus she quickly shifted seat next to a console, and began to type a set of commands, until finally speaking. a five by five signal would come, for the enemy, if had any jammers, would likely concentrate the electronic assault on the frequencies of guided missiles rather than of their communications.

"This is elected captain Cecilia of the CC Huxley, 15th blockade fleet. We are sending six squadrons to support you against the Stalinist scourge which will arrive in about ten minutes or seven if supercruise works. Twelve more squadrons are also coming, but they will take a couple of more minutes to arrive, between fifteen and twenty. Requesting datalink with your radar systems by MilNet so we can better track their locations."

One of the Airborne Early Warning and Control aircrafts also were quickly going on the backside, a hundred and more of kilometers away of the fighters, to better identify the position of enemy forces. Although strategically unimportant for the People's Republic of Spain, crippling their forces engaged into such operation would be of great importance for Third Spanish States strategic goals. However, this was the first time they would engage such a number of enemy aircrafts at once. A new challenge would come for the pilots of the Confederacy.

Anzio Hidalgo witnessed from the flashing warning signs of his cockpit something that was already expected as he was already getting close enough to the firing range against the prioritized target his and nine other squadrons were focusing on. Batista has personally ensured that they would be explained about a partly desperate, partly accepted inefficiency tactic vulgarly known as missile spam. It would be very important, according to such briefing, to lure the missiles out of the bombers and to coordinate an electronic assault against the radar and GPS wavelengths to reduce the effectiveness of the same, something which would not be his responsibility in the mission. Instead, he had a somewhat grim objective to accomplish. One which he lied about to his wingmen.

Keeping the altitude, he adjusted the course of his Sukhoi to meet the incoming sea sabre missiles. There would be a very specific screen of time to take. To deploy the baits so the attack aircrafts they were responsible for escorting can be bailed out of the route of most or preferably all missiles specifically targeted at them. The highest possible survivability was as important as succeeding into drowning such ship named as the "mouth of the bourgeoisie". At their ranges, a twelve or twenty kilometers past the maximum range of their Kh-35 missiles, it was only logical that the five Su-25s they escorted have immediately locked and fired one Kh-35 from each, something Hidalgo intuitively knew as they were closing in the incoming missiles, and maneuver away from the cruiser to keep a reasonable distance where they would be able to engage it without being in range of its smaller missiles. Anzio slowed the speed of his fighter, something risky but necessary to avoid getting into the range of other of the enemy missiles, and the wingmen followed his action, keeping a loose formation. The warning flashed in beeps as missiles targeted against his own fighter were coming. He knew it from the beginning. The glorious mission of being.

Missile baits, that was the primary reason for the escort fighters in the given plan. A sacrifice given for the proletarian to free the world of international bourgeoisie. A suicidal flight towards an improbable chance of survival. A matter of fractions of seconds defining the success or failure as the warning beats were faster than his own heart. The target was almost invisible, likely its paint blending the insignificant dot in his line of view amidst the ocean. Fifty Kh-35s made their way, skimming towards the cruiser from different directions and small altitude differences among them.

The missiles approached his squadron. He prepared for the most important time of the mission. His wing was likely aware of their reason in the operation at hand. But there was a chance for at least most of them to return unscathed, or Batista would have made another plan. Hidalgo quickly turned to the communicator of his helmet to instruct, while he prepared to pull one of the buttons of his control stick, releasing its safety glass. One of the missiles was being tracked by his aircraft targeting system. They have conveniently managed to get a hold of some enough distance to have a chance to lure out the other incoming missiles.

"Spread out further and prepare to deploy countermeasures, when I say."

The bleeping sound became more and more intense. There was no time to even blink as he began to maneuver evasively, taking advantage of the altitude gain their aircrafts had. The infinite sea seen from the canard of the Su-27 was soon to become a graveyard. It was his brightest demonstration of skill, as he managed to almost synchronize the launch of chaffs and flares against both missiles coming towards other of their allies and against them with a command of voice which would be almost sequentially followed by a press of a button:

"Now!"

Like fireworks, multiple chaffs and flares flew out of the five fighters as the missiles approaches, some which would hopefully draw away the missiles heading to the attack fighters while others would hopefully trick the missiles heading towards them. Perhaps the sheer mass of countermeasures would be enough to disrupt their trajectories.

The scene repeated in many other corners, except for one... it seemed that a ten of pilots were truly inexperienced, and in their hesitation allowed for one of the squadrons heading towards another Allanean cruiser to be completely obliterated by a hail of missiles. The fate of other squadrons was still uncertain, but it seemed there was no fool plan of over-concentrating all of them against a single cruiser, although the other ones were still a hundred of kilometers away from the reach of the hundred and forty aircrafts intended to destroy them.

Time was of essence in such operation, for they knew the Confederacy would not ignore the opportunity of destroying such number of aircrafts. With storms of countermeasures lightening the skies and half hundred of missiles heading against the vessel which was responsible for broadcasting the subversive propaganda towards Spain, it was still uncertain the outcome of the battle.

Further behind, a trio of Growlers had an equally important goal as electromagnetic forces began to stutter against the very essence of the guidance systems of the storm of hostile missiles and of enemy communications, with the specific communication frequencies of their own forces being preserved through a fruitful investment of the former government in an Interference Cancellation system.

The effectiveness of such jamming effort would be an important complement to the near synchronous deployment of countermeasures by twenty-five fighters at ninety-five kilometers from the closest enemy cruiser, coupled by similar actions of those heading against the other cruisers.

At the Vladistov Kremlin, a large, red stronghold surrounded by a massive concrete square, the new Commissar, Nikolay Stuyonovich, held a meeting with every other important government commissar over the issue of Soviet Spain. Soviet Spain, the small, newly formed communist state that had asked for foreign recognition, had its independence guaranteed by the previous Stuyonovich regime, an action that was frowned upon by Nikolay. The room was quiet, even though there were some forty commissars sitting around a huge, round mahogany table.

Nikolay stood, and a podium rose out of his section of table to reveal a microphone and a small video camera that recorded his speech and movements. This in turn was projected to a plasma screen behind him, which exaggerated Nikolay's rather unimposing figure.

"As all of you know, my father made a very unwise move and guaranteed the independence of Soviet Spain, a fledgling state that sits precariously close to the much larger Three Spanish States."

"Third Spanish States, sir," remarked a commissar sitting furthest from him.

"Do not interject, comrade. It's impolite. As I was saying, guaranteeing the independence of Soviet Spain was a mistake. However, because Alexei did so, we must honour the commitment that he made for us. All of you have viewed the map of Soviet Spain, which is a small country far to our west, blockaded by the Third Spanish States. Now, the Soviets in Soviet Spain will soon run out of munitions and fuel if we do not ask quickly, and we run the risk of losing yet another communist country to the evil clutches of capitalism.

"Since we're in the east, we can send several flotillas of ships and aircraft and attempt to break the blockade. On the other hand, we can use our civilian aircraft based in the northern French areas to smuggle oil and needed supplies into Soviet Spain. Thoughts?"

The other commissars murmured to one another as the podium lowered and Nikolay sat down. Grigor Stuyonovich, the uncle of Nikolay, stood and rested his arms on the podium that rose in front of him.

"Alexei was a good man, securing the rights of communist states everywhere so that they would not be oppressed by the pitiful bourgeois. The pampered, capitalistic pig dogs in the Third Spanish States have gone too far, and they must be stopped before an innocent, utopian society is crushed under the oppressive boot of capitalism. And since the Third Spanish States are the aggressors, we can use this to our advantage by using their invasion as our casus belli. We can airdrop munitions, fuel, and supplies from France."

Iosif Stuyonovich, head of the Commissariat for State Security, otherwise known as the KGB, stood. He slammed the podium with his fist.

"Neither of you are going far enough. We must make the pre-emptive strike on the Third Spanish States using our nuclear arsenal. We will show the capitalist dogs that the communists are not to be messed with. We shall use sarin and salt their lands. We shall spray anthrax and drop HIV infected blood onto their cities. We shall rain nuclear fire and land radiation on their people. They shall indeed pay."

Grigor and Nikolay were both appalled. Nikolay pointed at Iosif and started yelling at him.

"What, are you insane? Do you want to draw all of us into a nuclear war? Do you want the earth to explode? Regardless of the fact that Stoklomolvi already is a wasteland, we will not take this action. We can only rain nuclear fire on small, annoying states that are hated by the world."

Grigor tapped his podium.

"Then it is settled, we will first smuggle in resources for use by Soviet Spain. If we send an ambassador, we could secure a protectorate agreement in which Stoklomolvi and Soviet Spain will declare war on those that declare war on either state. It would be very beneficial."

All applauded, and Nikolay adjourned the meeting. The commissars would go to bed in peace, knowing that yet another crisis was solved.

[OOC: I'm not too sure about what the name of the state above Spain is. Do you want me to call it France or something?]

Aboard the AA cruiser nearest to the enemy craft

“Goddamn it! We lost rudder control! Damage to compartment 45-B! Fire in compartment 85-C!”

“Fuck you and the horse you rode in in on, Giles! Don't just fucking stand there like a fucking communist! Get a fucking damage control on it! Mike! Get up there, I want them to start cycling missiles into the feeds, we have not a second to lose! Go, go, why are you standing there like a cock! Go!”

The enemy aircraft approached at a murderous speed, even as the Allanean ships cycled their missiles for one more strike. The cruiser was crippled, but it could still fight.

“Johnson! Where's Johnson? Fuck!”

“He's been injured when they hit us, Captain. I'm replacing him.”

“Shit. Fire full spread of long-range missiles. Request fire support from all ships to do the same. Hit their EW craft with three hundred Sea Sabres – something will fucking hit.”

“Three hundred...”

“Don't fucking argue with me. Use 200 Sea Sabres on the oncoming craft, then hit them with half the short-range missiles. We'll need the rest to shoot down more of these SobBloc rockets. “

Aboard the carrier

“This is Condition Black. All forces, we are now Condition Black. Scramble all aircraft. Repeat, scramble all aircraft.”

The Grand-Admiral put down his transmitter, and turned to the communications officer.

“Alert the Confederacy that there's a giant Soviet strike force hitting us. They need to know. Hell, they might help.”

Five minutes could be an insignificant amount of time in the middle of an usual routine, or the time one takes to cook noodles into water, or the wait for the Maglev monorail. In fact, five minutes were easy to forget, for few things could happen in such frame. Most five minutes of the lives of those from Third Spanish States were barely remembered.

Stopping a massed naval bombardment wasn't one of them. He wished that they were just more other five minutes of his life, no matter how reality conspired against such wish. Those were not more of the calm, uninteresting minutes of patience and learning he took to be qualified for what he was doing now, but five minutes have already passed since the alert. And they knew that at least one of the Allanean ships were already lost.

EMCON 0 was pointless, their enemies were no fools to not expect such reaction, and this time, having four extra missiles was more important than full stealth, but as a low probability of intercept datalink was doing all the work, with radar shut down, the chances of they knowing exactly from where and at which altitude his squadron was were limited. The sets of displays that complemented the essential HUD were basically divided between a large, exact display of altitudes of the enemy forces, and images of the horizon from the sides and rear of the aircraft. He kept his hand all the time holding the stick, aware of the necessity of achieving something.

For a strange reason, the CL-32 he piloted at the moment was never tested regarding a capability to supercruise. twenty-five kilometers above the sea, at nearing its limits, he observed the rendered altimeter in one of the displays pointing out. Air was scarce, and the turbofans were losing their efficiency. A risky but necessary maneuver to increase their chances. pulling the control stick down, he simply watched the three other dark green dots close to his aircraft symbol as they accompanied him. Maintaining a careful handling of the aircraft, the altimeter numbers began to become orange. At that moment, silent was interrupted as voice came to his helmet, speaking in Spanish:

"Tyler, this is Ruiz, are you sure we have to do this? To risk our lives for capitalists?"

Pondering about it, he knew something more than pure logic propelled him, but there was logic on such action. The Allaneans were their only allies as of now, and the more they took to get there, least chances they would have to inflict another crippling loss against the police State of Cavallo. In Tyler eyes, he was not piloting a fighter, he was wielding an instrument of freedom, a glorious tool used for a fruitful end, yet he simply did not reply to the worries, but somehow, they continued following him.

The numbers became red as they read twenty-seven dot five kilometers and then he quickly communicated, with his firm grip pulling the control stick down in a deliberate manner:

"Supercruise dive now!"

Already at full throttle, the squadron fighters began to rapidly gain velocity as they downed from the starts of the stratosphere back to their service ceiling. Turbulence shook their seats and their hands simply kept over the flight controls unhampered. There was a glint of something in their eyes. The speed indicator changed to a MACH number... it was zero dot ninety-five. Turbulence increased at such moment, and the barrier of sound was about to be broken without the help of an afterburner. There were still some long couple of kilometers to reach before they could be in range to engage the threat, and at that moment, their highest expectations bred. The CL-32 was claimed to be the best "light fighter" in existence, and equally an workhouse they had much trust to. But there was more to it. An egotic dream of being the first to achieve a supercruise, the anxious but extremely brief wait for a sonic boom. They have taken their risks and now expect a reward, but not as something that one could touch or see. It was questionable whether the fact they would be tactically outnumbered and have to face at least eighty air superiority fighters was forgotten due to blind pride, devotion or pure stupidness.

Behind them, fourteen squadrons of fighters and a single squadron of electronic warfare aircrafts headed towards them. At the distance, carrier-borne sentinels of early warning and control took their flights to patrol the coasts and preemptively identify focuses of further attacks with their able sensors. And the war was also about to have its first ground battle written in blood, kilometers away in the island of Mallorca, where what could be the first territory liberation, or defeat of the Confederacy Marinos was bound to happen, while to the north a critical mission had to hasten before the still distant but closing threat of Stoklomolvi could provide the filth of the Communist Party with their so vital black gold. This was only one of many events where time was of essence.

Therefore, such few seconds where a supersonic speed might be achieved and the following few seconds where its maintenance might be ensured would be decisive for the lives of many who manned the Allanean vessels, and a few seconds could be insignificant, but not this time.

Aboard the USS Lysander Spooner

“Goddamn it, it's getting worse! Glorious Endeavour reports sixteen KIA, forty wounded, damage to the radio station compartment. We have multiple fires aboard the Dalai Lama, their helipad is gone, ten dead. There's an AA cruiser without steering, too.”

“Can they keep up spamming their rockets, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Sir, as a matter of fact...”

“Well then fucking do it and don't ask any more question, you fuck!”

There were countless warning signs, with the sky of dawn enlightened by the flight of countless chaffs and flares beneath the view of his cockpit, fractions of second defining between his death and life. There was not a single hostile fighter yet, meaning that all he had to do was to lure as many missiles as possible away from the Su-25s as they did their job of wrecking havoc over their main target. All those thoughts came to him as he could visually see the trails of missiles heading towards his direction.

Anzio Hidalgo was never so close to death as now, with the missiles already at visual range and the adrenalin pumping into his veins as he held his grip over the stick, with the formation next to him keeping a distance, with the trails of countermeasures next to them. He did a single maneuver, pulling the handle to the left as he felt the banking of the fighter. Between the erratic signs of the warning radar, the trailing edges of countermeasures and the incoming missiles, a last or common breath through his oxygen mask came as the warning became intenser.

People would certainly die, and whether he would be among them or not was then decided in the next few seconds as the targeting systems of the missiles would either be lured or not away from him.

The missiles heading directly against his fighter instead followed the countermeasures in their fall like fishes jumping to a sinking hook, only this time rather than a line, a trailing light was what came after them. Some of them continue to misguidedly move towards the sea while others were simply detonated. More than three quarters of the simultaneously launched missiles were defeated, making a point on a technicality called common mode failure.

Alleviated, Hidalgo continued his maneuver and pulled the stick down as he could feel gravity pulling his body like if he was suspended on his side to a net. The fighter began to turn leftwards as he observed the horizon looping horizontally around him. He could notice from the radar as the last salvo of missiles was launched against the mouth of the bourgeois from the Su-25s and they performed a similar maneuver. The mission of their segment of the operation was complete, and now it was time to get off the range of the hostile ships and keep around for as long as their fuel allowed to support the other forces coming towards the other cruisers to destroy them, and at best, destroy the carrier of tyranny. More missiles were being launched, and he had to maintain firm reflexes to launch the countermeasures at the right place and right time. But the masses would make a sacrifice necessary. Heavy losses have happened, and he knew that a tenth of the surviving group that attack such cruiser was obliterated, while missiles were en mass towards the precious EA-18 Growlers, also retreating from range, but fortunately almost off the range of the enemy missiles.

That was what they need. An war hero to have his death honored and remembered as a sacrifice for the revolution, but which in truth was nothing but another but another pawn to sacrifice for the assurance that the powers that be would have a higher chance of success, puppets with their strings pulled by the Soviet machine. Anzio knew that, and he was quite aware of the decisions he pondered on taking as his fighter retreated together with his squadron to the goal of getting beyond the range of the Allanean crippled vessel.

"Should I sacrifice one of my comrades who trust and see a paragon of skill and comradeship mirrored in my eyes?" he thought, with a certain gasping press of his heart shaking him as he watched the rear warning radar pointing out the still distance masses of missiles. Those men trusted him with their lives, and now a difficult decision was to be done. But those who hesitated would only meet defeat and loss, and between one and dozens of lives, the choice was clear, but still, he felt he would have a burden should he sacrifice one of his wings. There was no option of sacrificing others less close to him, for his squadron was the only with the experience and skill to achieve the needed synchrony to defeat the incoming threats through an individual sacrifice. All of them have been great friends, men who made the harsh existence in Spain much more tolerable and which brought many joyful and happy moments during peacetime. Men he gossiped with, men who were very close to his brothers. And now he would have to choose one of them to a completely certain death.

"Who?" he further pondered as the time took second by second its depletion. A fast decision had to be done before it was too late. From a purely utilitarian view, it was one life for many, but there were greater shades of grey behind the decision. It was much more complicated than in simplistic views of good versus evil, it was choosing to let someone he was a friend of to die.

Burdensomely pulling the communicator on, Anzio Hidalgo ushered words in a voice which tone clearly indicated how harsh was for him to make such a decision, and predestinated death was given to one of them:

"Comrade Neruda, make your back and prepare to turn back and launch all your countermeasures sequentially by my command!"

Ushering a reluctant voice to his heart, Anzio noticed the glimpses of fear from the man who answered him back with a few seconds of silence, aware of his ultimate destination, the man replied back with a dreadful voice:

"Comrade Hidalgo, could you tell my daughter that I love her and that I shall always be with her? And could you ensure she will not be taken away from our land?"

Turning off the communicator, Anzio could not stand but to sigh as he heard. How war left orphaned children to become lost, and damned. The government had no ethical or moral issues into selling orphans to the international slave market. Alas, with the naval blockade at hand, such was not possible, but torturing, abusing and mentally annihilating an youngster still was, and with a heavy burden, he turned his voice over back and continued to watch as the missiles approached:

"I will comrade, I will never forget you, Neruda, you shall be a hero and your daughter shall never get anything unjust from what you have done!"

He knew that his promise was broken, that he served the revolution out of fear and will for seeking status rather than for belief, that they could easily take the daughter of a national hero as a slave. A buried seed lied with him, and perhaps with every member of the newly established professional air force who reached their position through merit rather than status, but perhaps such seed would never flourish.

One of the fighters broke off from the formation, while seventeen others continued their retreat together with the twenty Frogfeet. The continental Spain was already visible at the distance, and after reaching it, safety would be ensued. But their mission was not over yet, for they had to support other offensives their radars could barely keep up to date with.

The solitary sacrifice to the gods of Marxism flew towards the mouth of the monster, a visible cluster of missiles flying with a very limited space between them where time would be everything. Neruda was one of their best, and he knew that perhaps there was a minute chance of survival, although that would certainly put him at the mercy of their enemies. But he knew they would unlikely by inhuman to him, thus a last bet existed for his life as he maneuvered his Su-27 back to retreat direction and the rear warning radar indicated the few kilometers between him and the massive cluster of missiles. He prepared to release another small rain of countermeasures.

"Now", the radio announced as he immediately pressed on a button multiple times, leaving a sequential fall of chaffs and flares between him and the horde on his fighter tail, painting the skies. At the same time, one of his hands were set to launch the ejection and the pressure of the high gee dive he was performing stormed his senses. The bleeping continued to become faster as the display indicated the missiles getting past the kilometer limit, and he had less than a second as he immediately pulled the ejection button and bented his neck upwards.

A strong push seemed to nearly crush his bones as he was sent flying away from the doomed aircraft. He could barely pay attention to the sight of countless missiles impacting against both his aircraft and detonating or being diverted by the mass of countermeasures that left it. A massive shockwave led him to feel his feet nearly burning and soon the fall stabilized and the parachute activated as he began a slow descent into the middle of the cold sea. Whether he would survive or not was irrelevant, for he only hoped that the promises his comrade did would not be broken, and that he would be remembered for what he has done with no hesitation. Perhaps it would have been wiser to become a mass of charred flesh amidst rubbles of metal, and perhaps a worser death awaited him below, but he has done his choice, and he watched the distant red dots as he landed to the seas. Hopefully he would not die of starvation and dehydration without any rescue to help him. And he acknowledged the irony of how it was much more likely that the Confederacy would rescue him than the nation he served with his life.

In the turbulent skies, the remainder of the strike force continued their retreat. No longer needed, the Su-25s simply continued a safe travel towards Spain, but Anzio Hidalgo and his three remaining comrades, aware of the great sacrifice of their comrade to drastically reduce the number of missiles chasing them before, could not retreat cowardly. Instead, they, already out of the range of the enemy cruiser, took a turn to the right and headed to meet with the remaining fighters, expecting an eventual sweep of the Confederacy to occur. It would take them a couple of minutes as well, precious minutes, where arriving there faster than the Confederacy fighters could become vitally important. Regardless, the primary objective was already accomplished, and Batista would be forgiven unless the losses became disastrous.

As of know, Anzio received sketchy reports that only about fifteen of the hundred frogfeet in the whole operated were obliterated and that they would rendezvous with a number of seventy Su-27s, totaling eighty-seven fighters against whatever the Confederacy had to throw against them.

The next cruiser was already on range after a few minutes of flight and difficult evasive maneuvers and crucial deployments of countermeasures against the clusters of missiles. and immediately another hail of fifteen Kh-35s, with intervals of four seconds between each salvo of three missiles done, rather than a simultaneous launch, headed towards the next target of the operation.

The two other task forces intended to destroy the two other cruisers were still out of their ranges, and supported by the theater electronic warfare, had the advantage of still being out of range, a advantage quickly lost as they would have to couple with the near hundred of kilometers between them and the ability of their target to lock on them before they could finally target the same. If the statistical losses remained at the same rate, they would as well succeed. Three to five minutes were necessary for them to reach the range to target their objectives, a time which if gone to three, would give them an unequaled advantage, but should it take much longer, they would likely be too busy defending themselves from both the hails of missiles that would come and from the likely already arriving CL-32s.

The battle of Almeria was about to get into its most critical point, but what could not leave the mind of a veteran pilot like Anzio were his memories on the friend he just sent to a certain death. He managed to suppress such burden, still feeling a light guilt of putting the mission ahead of his feelings. He sometimes feared to become a heartless war machine, an extension of the fighter he piloted rather than an human being. Could war lead a man to truly become a machine?

Precious minutes have passed, and all attentions were held to only one point. The loss of the Allanean carrier would be crippling, and could even dissuade them from ever sending support to the Confederacy war effort. Erick Tyler continued to head with his squadron to face the overwhelming numbers of Flankers and Frogfeet, ahead of all other squadrons that converged from the nearby carrier air groups, preparing to defend the Allaneans against all odds, with a few of them taking an opposite direction to catch up the other vessels in need of assistance. The indicators in his displays were not very amicable, for they demonstrated with military symbols in a translucent grid that half of the Allanean screening vessels were already crippled by the sheer aerial wave, and with little more than a minute to their H-Hour, their only chance to secure the most important vessel of the Allanean expeditionaries, and perhaps to deliver a crippling blow against the fighters of Soviet Spain, his thoughts swirled into a controlled tension, for it would not be easy. The finale of the First, and hopefully last Battle of the Mediterranean, was about to be writ in the skies.

Hundreds of targets flashed into the screen, with the most distant of them suddenly becoming symbols with attached numbers, which were no less intimidating. There was only one way to avoid being overwhelmed, with a couple of hundreds of kilometers separating him from the carrier, and a further couple from the closest enemy fighters and close air support aircrafts. The situation at hand was critical, for a number of them managed to break through the two remaining and overwhelmed Mogami cruisers, as they could barely manage to keep themselves afloat amidst the massed strikes, by a combination of sequential firing of everything they got against specific enemy bombers, putting the simultaneous targeting capability of their fire control systems to the limit. It was truly thankful that the CL-32 traded off mobility for speed, for otherwise they would never be able catch up with the incoming mass before it was too late. Erick attempted to make the numbers from the display, for operational ignorance was weakness, no matter how grim it seemed the situation. A brief look confirmed as twenty-five fighters and twenty-five close air support aircrafts were heading towards the carrier, and many more were further away. But rather than letting fear overwhelm him, he smiled and thought on the implications of success rather than of failure, letting his ego have a small, anticipated trip.

We are worth at least ten of them.

Other facts were at their favor, with the primary being the fact they were a few kilometers above the service ceiling of the Flankers, ready to exploit their inferior capability regarding high altitude flight. However, all of that could be broken by sheer numbers, and only tactical brilliance could turn the tide in favor of the outnumbered in such situation. He knew what had to be done, and looking as the last minuted ended faster than he had hoped for, thanks for another accomplishment of his squadron. They have been the first to achieve supercruise, with the sonic booms being already distant memories in face of the battle ahead. It was a bit ironic that he was risking his life for capitalists, but it seemed that albeit misguided about the true nature of liberty, the Allaneans were still much closer than the majority to the ideal, despite their justifiable intolerance to Stalinists. All they probably needed was a cultural shift, something that only a failure of the free market could ensue. However, what truly pushed him was the chance to cripple a significant part of the Republic's air force, and now it was coming closer and closer.

The enemies were nearly into engagement to fire their anti-shipping missiles against the Allanean, and yet too distant to be intercepted. It was no matter that they were already at full throttle, for the circumstances have conspired to still make the technically inferior aircrafts to arrive first, and looking at the still above fifty percent fuel indicator in one of the displays, Tyler had to make a choice for his entire squadron. At such moment, where every second was precious, he knew that they would trust him, or otherwise they would never have chosen him to carry on as the spearhead of the reaction force. And thus, aware of the risks, he quickly decided, as the silence of their communications was broken:

"Godspeed comrades! Activate afterburners! Prepare to engage in parallel locking."

Pulling a trigger, he felt a stronger pressure over his back as the thrust of his fighter increased significantly, and it began to accelerate further beyond the speed of sound. It would take little more than twenty seconds to finally get into range, however, it was already too late. For these vital seconds, the fate of the Lysander Spooner would lie with its crew, commanding officer, and perhaps, with its small air group to which Tyler could not be sure about for his attention was focused on the enemies.

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

It have always been a shifty measure, and downright polemical, the decision to send support to the Confederacy of Third Spanish States, a civilization which was diametrically opposed to the United States of Allanea in every possible way regarding economics, except for the fact that they claimed their economy was a free market, albeit socialist. For many in the United States, the idea of Third Spanish States economy was as preposterous as a Bolshevik Nazi, and claimed to be merely rhetoric to disguise another command economy like any other.

None of this would matter if economics were ignored and politics compared. Although not as radical regarding libertarianism as the Confederacy, because it still maintained a government, Allanea quite close to it in the Libertarian axis, the primary reason for the support, after their hatred of all that is Bolshevik. However, nobody ever expected that a failed economy of a decadent soviet State would still support a resourceful and quickly adaptable military force, which learned for its mistakes as quick as they were done. At least their support never had to involve the defense of the Confederacy airspace, however, it already came at a high cost, with now two cruisers operationally crippled, and as feared by the Confederacy, the loss of the carrier would likely serve as a extremely strong argument for those who opposed the sent of support to the Third Spanish States in Allanea.

Admiral Armarok had difficult decisions to make. He knew that the Confederacy forces were coming, thanks to the shared battle datalinks, as the flotilla made its desperate retreat, spread out among kilometers, with some hundred of kilometers between the Lysander Spooner and the still standing cruisers being slowly crossed by the incoming aerial forces, from the now undefended left flank. From the bridge, he looked at the nervous crew, and knew that he could not think much on what had to be done.

His decision was as swift as the incoming, but still out-of-range threats, and looking at the runway, where the landed Storkes previously stood. Rushing them into battle before against such odds would be downrightly suicidal, but now it was the last chance. The lack success of the massed missile strikes to actually stop the storm meant that something else had to be done, and he could not rely purely on the few defense systems of the carrier, nor on the already occupied escorts trying to defend themselves, for just as they rushed towards the carrier, some of them simultaneously direct to both cruisers to distract them. And thus, the tactician took the communicator of the ship and announced, with his experience voice ordering for the last line of defense to be erected, seeing the radar as the small air group seemed to be at a perfect position in the southwest, that would allow for them to flank the incoming enemy fighters. It was a wise decision to order for them to be loaded up before the scramble, for now such decision has made a major difference between having them in an entirely useless flight.

"Inmate five, you are in a tactical position to secure our lives! Intercept incoming bombers heading towards our carrier! I repeat, head as fast as possible on the flanks of the incoming enemies aircrafts before they get into range to threaten the Spooner! And don't lock more than two missiles for each enemy aircraft! We must optimize our firepower efficiency to survive!"

"Acknowledged Admiral!" a voice came from the radio waves, with a clear sign of fear entrenched amidst psychological training, duty and courage, "heading towards the target. Ee tee ay two minutes." it concluded.

As soon as the confirmation came, with no time to waste, Armarok directed to one of the men in the bridge, a man operating a set of electronic equipments with frequency measurements and an interface next to him. They would use all that they got, and perhaps the battle for the electromagnetic waves could make the difference.

"Officer Tavisnki, focus all our electronic assaults over the Soviet active radar missiles frequency range! Keep our defenses into communications and our standard wavelengths! We cannot take down their Growlers for now, thus your task will be very important!"

"Yes, admiral. However I must warn you, that frequency-hopping isn't that difficult for those missiles, provided these damn commies have enough technical expertise to make the necessary modifications. Do you authorize my suggestion to gather ELINT from their missiles?" Tavinski then proposed, putting further details about how such unknown enemy could bypass electronic assaults. A decision on this was crucial, and had to be done soon.

It took less than three seconds for the admiral to finally accept the authority of the specialist over his field, and thus, he confirmed:

"Authorization granted, officer. You must gather your team, they are key to our victory."

Then he reminded how they have forgotten about having a pair of ARGP-40 missiles, which could likely intercept the active radars of the enemy anti-shipping warheads, and sighed, realizing his first operational mistake. Hopefully tactical superiority would offset such error, as the small air group of the Allaneans headed against the mass of fifty aircrafts, seeking to down the enemy bombers. Standing next to the driving wheel of the ship, the Admiral then kept his eyes to the images of radars and datalink inputs, expecting for the next move, which hopefully would not be to order all to run for their lives.

Captain George Adamski used the best potential of his rugged aircraft to arrive in time, already near the limits of its service ceiling. A key target amidst the mass of enemies was selected in his heads-up display, as he has just ordered for his mate Husky to cover him from five kilometers behind. No matter how the eccentric(or just insane) and Internet-hated behavior of him were questioned, such matters were of no consequence during a battle, unless if they made of him a better bait to lure their enemies into traps. Two other groups also separated for optimal targeting, leaded by Amalia. There were few seconds as both them and their enemies could lock into each other, with one difference however, that Adamski was quite aware of. While that at such ranges they were already in the no escape zone of their missiles, their enemies were basically a few kilometers closer to the maximum range of their missiles. Such opportunity had to be taken advantage of quickly, as soon a hailstorm of missiles from the enemy escort fighters would greet them. The locking signal was given, and releasing a safety hold, Adamski pressed his trigger. In a quick decision, right after the first G-43 came off, he immediately switched to another close by bomber, and prepared to fire yet another missile.

By such time, missiles were fired from the carrier, one for each enemy aircraft, and a couple of seconds later more would come. Armarok knew what common mode failure meant, and also what hope meant, for otherwise, he would be already grinding his teeth and biting his fingernails, specially as he received the news that another cruiser was crippled, which would free even more enemy aircrafts to march upon them.

The last standing cruiser did its best to secure the electromagnetic battlefield as it retreated away from the carrier, and has managed to perform admirably well against the wave of fifty bombers that massed into it. In accordance to the directive of optimizing firepower, missiles were being launched in smaller salvos for each five seconds as the enemy forces approached, and such sequential launch has worked far better than the former simultaneous launches, which although somewhat effective, were far from efficient considering the number of aircrafts downed so far. Although there was another reason for the change into operational procedures, for the stockpile of missiles was already below fifty percent, and thus, considering the overwhelming numbers every shot had to count. Heavily jammed, the enemy bombers were quickly reduced to thirty in a maelstrom of fire, and made an operational retreat from the cruiser together with their still mostly intact escorts, giving to its captain his first chance to take a breath since the battle begun. But he knew that more were coming. Or perhaps not, for his fears about them concentrating all their effort against the now virtually undefended carrier could be true.

(OOC: Allanea has agreed to let me assume OOC military control of his forces for the duration of this air-naval engagement.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rPsL2WVhFCc

They never expected to get that far beyond their primary objective, and the operation has been for now, a complete success, with the economical losses of the Allanean bourgeois navy far outweighing their own losses of relatively cheap close air support aircrafts. Anzio Hidalgo has commanded one of the most successful parts of the operation, and recapped his last, decisive minutes of battle. The massed missiles formations suddenly vanished, with a few sacrifices made to ensure that the strike team they escorted remained nearly intact. Suddenly joining the strike team to down the second cruiser, his part has been vital to secure a quick enough destruction of it, ensuing an open way to the most strategic of all those enemy naval units: the aircraft carrier of the Allaneans.

Even slowed down by the limitations of the aircrafts they escorted, they have managed to keep a steady pace, with joy coming into Hidalgo's thoughts as the other task force to the east confirmed the destruction of yet another cruiser. With such rapid mass assault, they now had one last thing to crown their operation as an utter success. However, the few, distance airborne aircrafts that have been called were now picking up the clear signs that their enemies were coming with fighters to stop their offensive. Every second was precious, and their numerical advantage would certainly ensure their victory no matter what, were it not for the clear orders of the plan to not take any major risks that might put their losses at a greater rate than that of their enemies. The downing of the carrier could have positive political consequences to the People's Republic, for the Allaneans were clearly not very resolute allies, for there were differences between the false petit-bourgeois socialism of the Confederacy and the blatant capitalist exploitation of the first. Nonetheless, the morale has raised already, and the remaining aircrafts were closer and closer to their final objective. Taking hold of his communicator and setting some commands, Hidalgo then spoke to his mates:

"Comrades! Our enemies approach, as does our finest hour. We must be quick to launch our last wave of revolutionary flames over the carrier of the bourgeoisie! Prepare your missiles, and after you launch them, retreat immediately. As for we escorts, we must protect the retreat of our comrades!"

"Acknowledged. All ready for locking and firing." one of the bomber pilots then informed. The time was running out, a precious, decisive time. Such was one of the most important variables in determining the final outcome of the First Battle of the Mediterranean. Even five seconds could make a difference in more possible ways than imaginable. Thus, the fifty aircrafts currently en route were at their fullest throttles, and seemingly the still undetected fighters of the Confederacy would not arrive first, or at least such was hoped.

As the minutes passes, what was hope slowly became a certainty, and Anzio Hidalgo prepared himself to fight to the bitter end, if necessary to secure an excelling victory. The target was already detected, and now it was a question of three minutes of glory to finally give the crippling blow against the capitalists. The heads-up display was already tracking the moving carrier. There have been alternate plans calling for a retreat after such a level of success, but they could not let logic interfere in their plans of becoming heroes of the Revolution. Or perhaps they simply hoped to die, so they would not have to return to the miserable land that was their home.

There were two minutes only for the bombers to finally get in range to lock on the carrier, as they finally detected enemy aircrafts coming from their western flank, still out of range. Anzio pondered for a few seconds as he immediately ordered:

"Keep formation comrades! They are trying to lure us away from the strikers! Prepare to strike only once they arrive at our range."

Nobody questioned, and thus they did not abandon the close air support aircrafts they escorted, maintaining an unwavering discipline in face of the threat. Every half-dozen of second led to a further approach of the enemy fighters, likely Allanean from their visible signature. Tension heightened among all the pilots, wary of the risks involved.

A minute later, the brief interlude would end, as the first salvos of missiles would head against their bombers in critical ten seconds. The twenty-five fighters then turned to the direction of the incoming enemy, and Anzio targeted one of them, with their common information and orderliness ensuring they would not all target the same threat. Waves of missiles came from their aircrafts, as the incoming missiles approached, from both the enemies and from the more distant carrier defenses.

"Team four. Screen the bombers!", Anzio then ordered to the squadron which was closer to the Su-25s. The flankers again continued to face head on, preparing to launch further countermeasures in another risk, and nearly suicidal maneuver to lure threats away from the bombers.

The carrier missiles have not succeeded, however, more and more salvos were coming between intervals of few seconds, and finally the weak signals of the CL-32s came, just as they also launched their missiles against the mass of enemy aircrafts, targeting ten of them simultaneously and resourcefully switching target locks in their attempt to overwhelm them. It was then, still unsuccessful amidst the heat of battle, as the Storkes' missiles threatened his very life, that Anzio realized that it was the time for a retreat, and that they have failed in such objective, for the bombers lost organization, even though they were already at range, because of the damnable Allanean fighters, for otherwise they would have certainly succeeded into downing the carrier. And the Confederacy support came as the signal to retreat.

"This is comrade Anzio Hidalgo. All bombers Retreat!"

He again communicated, as the red messages and warnings indicated the missile locks against him. Taking a turn back, he refocused into the much greater threat of the Confederacy fighters, and franticly maneuvering his Su-27, he felt the time to launch the countermeasures, as flashing trails came from his aircrafts, luring the missiles away with success. They would have to keep their enemies busy for enough time for the majority bombers to retreat. With no instant threat, he finally acquired a lock into one of the CL-32s amids the ordered chaos of the battle. And with no wait he launched two of his missiles against it.

Another wave of missiles crossed the skies, and it was by then that he again perceived another loss. Ramirez, a brave man who never questioned anything, be it seditious or trivial, perhaps out of sheer loyalty and devotion to the cause. Rewarded like many others, with eternal rest in Davy Jones' locker, his aircraft becoming nothing but flaming ruins in collision route to the ocean.

The battle continued for many minutes, until the CL-32s, of which very few were downed, and even fewer with the certain deaths of their pilots, at last began to strangely fall back. With this, and the Storkes also seemingly less willing to continue the chase, Anzio finally retreated, after many grueling minutes between evading and shooting, accompanied by the others.

Checking all the superficial information he could gather, primarily by asking through radio, Anzio could only sigh as he became aware of how many aircrafts were lost. The damage provoked to the Allanean fleet was still greater economically than their losses, but deeply honest men like Neruda and Ramirez. Their victory was marginal at best, and Pyrrhic at worst.

However, the fate of the oil reserves and of Mallorca, also about to be decided in such fateful 16th of August, were to be turning the points into the war. Repelling an amphibious assault against the Baleares would buy to the People's Republic some precious months, while that the loss of their vital oil reserves would cripple their economy, likely provoke a very fast loss of air superiority and leave their armies poorly mobile and under-equipped.

Caballo would be only satisfied with the results of the operation, although that its psychological effect into the minds of the Spanish soldiers could not be underestimated. If only Mallorca could stand successfully against the bourgeois invasion, things would begin to really turn at their favor. For each day lost for the Confederacy, is one day less of deployment for the Revolution's potential allies.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6WaO6ZiTbO0&feature=related

- Operación Durruti (http://img156.imageshack.us/img156/332/mallorcabp1.png) -

Southwest Coast of Mallorca, 16th of August, 12:45 hours

It has been long travel. The bunk has been sufficient only, giving him the needed comfort to sleep well in preparation for the time just ahead. No longer he was at one of the crew quarters of the Menorca amphibious assault ship, but sat into a tight seat inside a vehicle, with his two comrades at the left, one of them with a small handheld device besides his scoped RBA battle rifle showing three green dots in a row in its display and the image from some camera, and a compact tracked vehicle ahead, armed with an AA-70 machinegun and with a visible sensor mast lowered, occupying the space that would otherwise be enough for more three men. The amphibious vehicle he was inside floated over the waves, and his friend with the handheld began to zoom out its map, showing a much larger quantity of green dots, which then became squad, fireteam and brigade symbols as he further zoomed out. Amphibious infantry fighting vehicles, armored personell carriers, ADATS, self-propelled mine sweepers, amphibious assault ships and even more small amphibious landing vessels marching for the conquest of Mallorca from its southwest, carrying rifles, machineguns, mortars, grenades, engineering vehicles, main battle tanks, a few heavy tanks and all supplies necessary to ensue the first victory of the Confederacy in a ground battle.

From the distance, five Malatesta Heavy Cruisers, which were nothing short of pocket battleships, were ready to send in fire support with their precise guns and missiles, while in the skies, CL-32s and CB-1 Miajas from a nearby carrier air group flew in synchrony with the ground forces, with HC-1 Quijote helicopters taking off from the amphibious assault ship just behind, preparing to land a blow against all the spotted enemies, as sets of unmanned aerial vehicles flew through the island major cities, risking as well incursions into the airspace of Palma They have already gathered significant information about the enemy disposition of forces, and all of them were aware of the fact there were no signs of static coastal defenses. for seemingly the enemies have chosen to hole into the hilly region to the north of Mallorca and inside the cities, which the Confederacy was reluctant to bomb. Nonetheless, there seemed to be a significant line of defenses in next to the road that came from the south, passing through the city of Campos and reaching La Palma.

The defenses were significantly dug in, with rows of sandbags, mobile surface to air missiles, tank traps, razor wire seemingly disposed to funnel enemies into a kill zone, and further hid in the remaining forests of the island, where such discovery has already costed five of the reconaissance unmanned aerial vehicles of the Confederacy, and forced them to resort into the sketchy reconaissance of their satellites for what lied beyond line from south to northwest.. Likely they were motorized, and ready to bend their line. Mine fields were the greatest concern for breaking such line with no clear weak points, and landing behind it would only prompt them to reposition their defenses, for all the soldiers of the Confederacy knew that the People's Republic of Spain also had a quite mobile, albeit outdated army.

Three marino divisions, with their small contingent of armors, were prepared to conquer the island, some among the best of the Revolutionary Army, against what seemed to be at least the double of divisions, for the People's Republic of Spain knew the strategic importance of the island for any amphibious assault against the mainland. Outnumbered by at least two to one, the Marinos would have to still secure their superiority through sheer tactical brilliance, which hopefully would be fruitful combined with the naval and air support.

The man inside the vehicle looked at his comrades, as the time of the battle approached. Although well trained, other than the veterans of the Second Civil War, most of them had never any real combat experience, and would already have to face odds that would be certainly overwhelming without the ever important air support. The mutually planned directives were clear: no establishment of defensive lines unless if utterly necessary, to advance as fast as possible without losing organization of the units, to "punch with a closed fist rather than with the fingers stretched" at any weak point, or potential for tactical encirclement and to, most important of all, seek the support of the local population and attempt to convince the enemy soldiers to surrender or defect before attacking, for if another attack by stratagem could succeed, the Confederacy would have at least more six divisions ready to fight for the freedom of Spain. What has to be seen is whether the plan would work in practice or not, for such was no a conventional operation for most of them, except for the focus into mobility rather than attrition.

The soldier double-checked the grenade launcher attached to his FA-65 rifle, and the fire mode switch, which was currently at full automatic, and made a few adjustments to the microphone attached to his helmet and to the single earphone at his left ear, from where updates about their situation would be heard instantly. Coincidentally a new transmission has arrived, as he heard, in Spanish:

"This is Júlio Santiago to all divisions in the operation. We have detected no human presence in the beachhead, except for tank traps and razor wire they left to attempt slowing us down. However, stay alert and don't go through the most obvious paths seemingly clear of obstacles, for those are likely to lead to traps. This lull is not going to last much longer."

Then, he again looked at his left, and addressed the soldier to his side as the amphibious IFV made its final steps to the beach. The man knew what they were about to face. As a Marino, assault was his expertise, and the time to be bold would come soon, for now, he could only reassure his comrades while he had time, for clearly they would have to deal with defenses in depth rather than with the now obsolete for anything besides slowing down coastal static defenses.

"Pedro Viejas, seems like our enemies are too scared to face us head on, even though they clearly outnumber us. And first I thought they had fighters in Mallorca. Guess they don't want to even try. We have already gave them a real lesson in the air I guess. But these Stalinists still gave a serious blow to the Allaneans. Not that I care that much, they are just capitalists after all. Better for one of them to go down than one of ours."

"Yes, Jaen, they are definitively not stupid, and know air superiority is a faulty proposition and that SAMs close to a beachhead could be easily taken down. I bet they have some tricks in their sleeves." Pedro answered him back, looking at him, as the captain noticed again his brown eyes and brown beard.

"We shall be careful, and come back alive. We will not sacrifice our lives in vain, and now it's not the time for it to happen. If we are fast, we will survive, for like the toughness of an elephant won't make it less prey to the lion than the weaker but faster stag, a bullet will still hurt if it hits, with or without armor." the captain answered, and then they felt a slight bump as finally the treads touched firm soil. They have reached the beachhead with no opposition yet, as seen from a small display in the crew cabin, however tank traps were ahead, and covered nearly all the horizon they could see a few more than a hundred of meters ahead, except for a single corridor of five hundred meters of mostly plains, which was too suspicious, and a too obvious of a trap. The scenery was only degraded by the presence of a few derelict homes nearby, probably of people who were forced to abandon them.

"If they think world war two barriers will stop us, they think really wrong." Jaen then said as he looked at the screen, and pressing to the left of his helmet, he thus communicated, deciding on the logical operational measure to be done:

"Fyre, call in some close-by engineer support to get rid of these obstacles, we must advance fast but cautiously, and bring some minesweepers"

"Sure, I am contacting them as of now, although these fuckers will certainly slow us down. They have layered as far as my sight can notice, and recon doesn't make things good either." the pilot replied.

"Wait a moment. Could your gunner give a shot in one of those traps?", Jaen then asked, as he pondered on a certain possibility about such barriers erected by a crumbling state like the Republic.

"Sure, I see what you are thinking. Hey, let's check if this is Gulag concrete or not!" the pilot answered back, and suddenly a noise came off of the launching of a missile as it took a brief flight towards its destination, leaving a small trail in the sky that would soon vanish. As it impacted with the barrier built by slave work, the same was immediately crumbed into small pieces, confirming the fortunate thought of Jaen, as he finally radioed a more specific group with his helmet:

"We need shore and air support to clean our way from cheapskate concrete, passing on coordinates."

The systems operator of the infantry fighting vehicle he was inside simply used his interface to give the coordinates as he heard the initiative of Jaen, even though Jaen was not the leader he elected or part of the crew. In the skies, helicopters hovered and flew to their proximity, followed by the formations of strangely familiar aircrafts, the Miajas, which looked from below seemed like fighters from the Second world war, with their large, slightly forward swept wings and frame, flying at little more than eight hundred meters of altitude, as they began to lob bombs into the mass of obstacles.

From the distance, naval guns began to fire continuously, lowering down their angle between each fire. as countless shells began to fly over, targeted at the middle of the barriers. With tracer, they seemed to risk on the skies, and like comets, they fell against the fragile static defenses, simultaneously making a loud storm of explosions. The bombardment continued for some minutes, with helicopter missiles, smart bombs from the close air supports as they made their runs, and even the recently arrived Oso self-propelled artillery participated into the obliteration of a poorly devised line of tank traps, until a gap of more than three kilometers was left, and the roaring sounds stopped, as mine-sweeping vehicles began to advanced further, in the first line of the assault, risking themselves to ensure the safety of the operation, stopping suddenly, with no mines yet found and removed, as the vehicles were to be resupplied, with the further arrivals of logistics personell, of the usually forgotten but quickly remembered porta-potties, and because they had to take a break for lunch. It was then that the hatch of the vehicle opened, and the unmanned drone was the first to go outside. Next, Jaen came with his comrades, for they could not just wait.

Hard work was equally essential. Putting their guns on their shoulders, they headed towards the human line that was carrying on the supplies beyond what the machines alone could do to fasten the re-supplying. Sacks, small crates and other objects were passed from hand to hand, increasing his hunger. However, self-discipline maintained his struggle to continue helping, and in a few minutes, it was finally over. Sitting on the beach with his comrades as they took some basic wrapped soy food from their backpacks, they began to have an humble meal among themselves, taking a small rest for what would be the inevitable battle. The drone was next to them, serving as a an improvised table rather than as an war machine. Looking at the horizon, he then reminded more about the strategic importance of the island. It was very similar to the Third Spanish States home islands in population density, packing a million of inhabitants. A million of people who would be freed of tyranny, who could help them with their fight for freedom. It was then that he again realized how important was their goal.

"Pedro, here the first of sixty millions shall be freed from tyranny. And perhaps one day we will remember as we managed to free more people than tyrants have managed to mass murder. As people will no longer be afraid of being true and speaking the truth, and as nobody will be afraid of starving."

"What if half of these millions are drafted to fight against us?" Pedro then questioned, about a fearsome possibility that could threaten their operation, and put them in a very difficult moral dilemma.

"Then we'll take all necessary measures to convince this half million to turn against their oppressors. Civilians aren't as actively brainwashed to obey blindly orders as are the military, and thus are much less difficult to have their minds freed from the Stalinist doublethink." Jaen justified, as they continued to take some bits of the soy food. He wanted a more real meal, however the cooks have not yet arrived with their supplies, and they could not wait for them. Thus he sipped the water from his canteen as the other member of the fireteam finally broke her silence, looking at him as he noticed again her face, her short black hair mostly covered by the helmet, her somewhat north African traces, thick eyebrows, large brown eyes, and also noticed briefly her quite athletic build, which detracted slightly from the traditional standards of feminineness.

"Comrade Jaen, the people might still be entrapped by the mental slavery of the enemy. What then? Should we kill five thousand civilian militias? That would serve as a perfect propaganda tool in the hands of our enemies."

He simply nodded, and looked at her, resolute about his tough stance on the matter, for there was no time for mercy in a war:

"This is still an war, Elis. All those who stand in the path of freedom as servants of the State and who refuse to see the light of truth either by ignorance or malice shall die. Better to take half million lives to liberate half a million than to abandon a million under tyranny." interrupting his discourse, as he looked around to check if they were not taking too much time, but considering most were still eating, that was not the fact, thus he continued.

"Nonetheless those lives would be doomed. We should not blame their losses into our guns, but into the dregs of the Communist Party who have stripped these people of will. They are our real enemies, and should we manage to bypass their pawns to strike straight against them, we should not lose such opportunity. Mallorca might be our chance to prove to the people of Spain that they can and shall succeed into taking down the corrupt Republic."

The woman looked at him again, and said, with a face of disagreement and fear of the means that might have to be used to ensure freedom.

"If there are twelve situations where we will have to kill half million of civilians to ensure the freedom of other civilians we'll match Adolf Hitler. Is that really glorious? What if we selectively take down the Party members? Without a command to force them at gunpoint I doubt they would be willing to fight for such despicable government."

Nodding and smiling, Jaen looked at Elis, realizing what she suggested in the worst case scenario for the operation, and confirmed:

"Indeed. Hopefully you are right about that, and with some propaganda, we could even make these half millions to gun down our enemies or support our effort. Should it come to that, we'll have to simultaneously take down their leaders by surprise with our snipers. That will certainly motivate either defection or surrender. Now if we could find some reluctant leaders as well, then it would be optimal, but I am afraid we shall not have such luck."

The woman simply nodded, for she was not of many words, and they finished their simple meal, packing up as Pedro took again the handheld device and made the robot follow him through the beach with its wrap-around tracks ensuing its successful mobility over such shifty terrain, as they finally came to the plains, where their vehicle was parked and waiting, and in a march, several soldiers headed to their transports as others stood behind to secure their supply lines and prepare for the settlement of a base of operations and logistical supply depot.

With the drone arriving at last, controlled by Pedro, as they took their seats, the infantry fighting vehicle began to move again, and dozens of kilometers away, thanks to the clear skies, small patches of forests could be seen, which would certainly become problem spots later. The mechanized offensive advanced fastly, keeping an steady sixty kilometers per hour, it would gain terrain fast, and eventually be in range to strike the defensive line along the Ma-19 road, and hopefully secure Llucmajor, which had a very important asset, in the form of an airport large enough for their close air support and fighters to operate from. The other two divisions, which also had to clear some poorly constructed tank traps from their way, would head towards Campos and Santanyil respectively, with the latter expecting a peaceful stop in the strategically uninteresting city of ses Saline.

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

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pAfhaEoL4hY

Among the decadent buildings and poorly maintained houses of ses Saline, a city completely abandoned by the government, the manner to arrive to the people was very important, and with their weapons lowered down, and refusing to damage the city infrastructure with their heaviest vehicles, the soldiers peacefully walked singing revolutionary songs, as black and red flags waved through the wind, and a small bloodless victory has been ensued, for they have convinced the enemy somehow to give up on the defending the city, leaving its infrastructure and people intact to be liberated, in a way close to what Sun Tzu has said regarding supreme excellence. Perhaps they could still convince their enemies to defect, but that would be a tricky matter.

One risky gesture was done by the soldiers, as in the abandoned prefecture of the city of ses Saline, a soldier, unopposed by the population nearby, began to lower the flag of Soviet Spain. Instead of putting the flag of the Confederacy, an universal symbol was raised over the mast. The symbol of socialist anarchism (http://treesong.org/album/dc/011803_Red_and_Black_Flag.JPG), flowing in the first city liberated from the Soviet Spain dominion without any battle other than the battle for the mind of the people. Suddenly, rather than hostility, the act was strangely answered with applauses from the curious population. Children, many of which seemed malnourished, dirty workers, and a disturbing lack of old people, a mass which welcomed the twenty thousand marines as liberators rather than as invaders. There were very few cars, most probably left by retreating communist Party members.

In such division, Júlio Santiago himself was. Hero of the Second Spanish Civil War, and purger of slavery. Among the soldiers and people, he stood into a podium, and prepared to make a speech, hoping to justify their existence as a internationalist force that stood for the freedom of the people of the world rather than for the interests of a single nation, and in his fluent Spanish, he began, as a mob began to spontaneously throw ropes around a statue of Carlos Cavallo nearby.

"People of ses Saline. Today is a turning point in the history of our nation! For years the true enemies have lied to you, about the nature of the Confederacy of Third Spanish States, and have taken away your voice, your lives and your dignity. These times are from now on over, and the time approaches as we must liberate the entirety of our land.

The Confederacy is not a puppet of foreign interests, unlike the People's Republic, who has sold themselves to the dogs of Stoklomolvi and will allow for them to annex our nation in exchange of their luxury and privilege! Not only they have betrayed we as a people, but also have betrayed we as a nation!

However, now it's the time for change, and the Republic lies as a rotting and decrepit monster, which only needs a definitive strike to at last fall down, and ensure that you, your children and future generations shall be forever free from tyranny. However, we alone cannot achieve such feat. The revolution must be done by the people, not by men in uniforms and gun alone. We are the people! Today we begin the liberation of Spain. Today we shall find true socialism in freedom. Today you shall begin to learn how to govern the nation by yourselves. Today you are free!" he proclaimed, increasingly enthusiastic, as the crowd cheered and the statue of Cavallo crumbled to the ground.

"However, our freedom is not free. For there are enemies of freedom. The Stalinist scourge, the fascist scum, the imperialistic capitalist pigs who loom around, and deceitfully pretend to support us. We must be watchful of all. We must not surrender. We must fight for our freedom and the freedom of children! We are not here to occupy this land, but to teach you how to fight. A tenth of our men will stay, and teach to all those willing the art of guerrilla warfare. Also, if you have sons sold into slavery, parents lost into the brutality of these monsters. If you see what I see as our future. If you are prepared to march onto the monster, join our march and well shall crush the tyranny of Cavallo for once and all. Libre España!"

And soon the cry came, the cry of the freedom, of the sole goal for which men risked their lives. Not wealth, oil or land. All they wanted was briefed by the uproar of the masses shouting in a chorus of an awakened revolutionary seed:

"Libre España!"

And now, a symbolic destruction had to be further done as the speech continued to inspire the masses for a revolution against the Republic, and looking at the prefecture building, Júlio then rallied the mob with his charisma:

"Comrades! Look at this! What is this? This is a symbol of power and oppression! Of the rotten separation between those who rule and who are ruled. It is no longer worth to exist. No symbols or tools of oppression must stand! Today we abolish the oppressive government of this city! Tomorrow we shall abolish the oppressive government of Spain!"

Amidst cries, using molotov cocktails, hammers and other improvised tools, soon the people begun to vandalize the governmental building, smashing its pillars, spitting at it, and out of control, soon it burned the same, as then all began to back off from the building. Júlio nodded to one of the marines with a GEM 2 missile launcher, as the same aimed against one of the foundations of the burning building, and a missile flew over it, allowing for the already seriously damaged prefecture to finally crumble into the ground with its ashes.

The scene was almost textbook. An anarchist flag waving, a mass of people mobilizing through direct action, and the very infrastructure of the former order burned to the ground. The People's War has begun, and Júlio knew that it would be quite possible for enough volunteers to come from the city to form at least a brigade, or at best an entire division with basic combat training in the next week and half, although hopefully the entire island would be conquered by then.

Soon he would have to leave however, and march further ahead, sitting inside a Mobile Command Center, from where he saw the many green dots over the always moving telemetric map of their position, as they blitzed towards their objective. Spearheaded by Sino 2A1 Main Battle Tanks, their combined arms force was soon to get into range to pinpoint the enemy air defenses and the line between them and the city of Santanyil. The first ground battles of the Iberian War were about to happen, however, the morale of the soldiers was higher than ever after their passage through the city and the encouragement of the people their liberated. It was the sort of morale that only the certainty of fighting for a greater cause rather than for petty interests would ensue. While the city has promised to bring a small logistical aid to their forces, and to defend themselves from any attempt of counter-attack by the People's Republic of Spain, which seemed very unlikely for now, for it would only end into a suicidal march as they would be bombed into oblivion by close air support. Several squadrons have landed into an airfield in the city of ses Saline, to increase their operational range, and air superiority sweeps were still conducted, just in case.

The Division between Júlio's and Jaen's was slower, maintaining a steady pace of forty-five kilometers per hour, specially due to it packing all the Cáscara 2A1 Heavy Assault Tanks, and an extra self-propelled artillery brigade, for it was intended to break through the enemy lines as the two other faster divisions would either perform diversionary attacks or tactical encirclement to perhaps then convince the surrender or defection of some of their enemies, should they not manage to do so without a battle. With the momentum still on their side, the first of many possible decisive moments of the Battle of Mallorca approached as three mechanized marine divisions marched.

Ma-19 Defensive Line, 14:30 hours

The terrain around, made upon grasslands and already recon'd by the bourgeois unmanned drones, of which a few were taken, has simply been a major factor into the probability of success of their plan. Mallorca was a critical territory to defend, and even though eventually their supplies would become scarce, the island had enough industries to sustain their at least their soldiers. It was basically the doorway to Spain, to which the brave Soviet warriors stood in defense. In ground forces, they believed to be averagely superior, for whereas their enemies wore nothing but Type I body armor, they had Type III armor for all soldiers, an expensive but important investment.

A long, non-contiguous line of foxholes and heavily fortified positions, with non-contiguous tank traps and razor wire walls around tactical positions, extended from the far south to the northwest, and further beyond, laid in a very uniform manner regarding its defensive capabilities, for they knew that their enemies would simply go through any weak point available, and thus, it was better to have an average overall defense than a Maginot line with the northern flank to be exploited. Far from static, most of the defensive emplacements were very fresh, unless if compared to further lines of defense behind, for a somewhat elastic defense could make a major difference. The infrastructure of the roads nearby was still mostly intact, but should the enemy be about to break through them, the orders were simple: to destroy as much of them as possible in their controlled retreat, for roads would sped the enemy offensive.

Although officially called a line, the very setup was much more of a hedgehog defense, with a few lines intentionally laid to confuse the enemy about the nature of the defensive measures, deep enough to keep attacking moving forces, and tough enough to put the decision between attacking them or moving fast, praying that the active protection systems would work, a very difficult one. It was very important to hide as much as possible from the enemy, for while they knew quite well what to expect from the Third Spanish States forces, they equally knew how to cover the hints to their plans.

General Vidal Torres was the man responsible for securing the island, with one hundred twenty thousand men at his command, and at least the double of such number in potential conscripts from the island, who would only be employed should the situation worsen. The self-propelled anti-air vehicles were everything they had, and in prediction to an event like this, the landscape of all the important positions of Mallorca was shaped by the presence of several antennas, static electronic warfare systems, albeit remotely operated, intended to difficult the operation of enemy bombers, and equally, a very strong matrix of radar coverage encompassed the entire island, allowing them to detect their enemies as soon as they arrived.

A big armored truck with some electronic equipment was leading a couple of other communications support vehicles what they had as a mobile command center, but nonetheless, the complex set of communication system, from the ubiquitous radios to a quite impressive amount of computers. Such command center was crewed by many technicians, ready to inform critical informations regarding the battle progress to each or all the platoon captains and squad leaders. Such vehicle was much father behind from the main, and behind many lines and rows of hedgehogs disguised as static trenches, amidst anti air vehicles, minefields and machinegun emplacements. There the general stood, awaiting for the incoming enemy force.

Inside the truck cargo container, an improvised control room was with a small number of specialists and a single, large and black seat of the general next to a military-grade computer attached to a radio communications set. In the computer, a map of the island was drawn, with quickly drawn symbols being added to the dynamic image according to the reconaissance data of some of the recon squads, it was a clever and cheap sort of informational awareness, exactly what they needed. Apparently their enemies were moving in an irregular pace, with the center, expected to be their spearhead, moving slower compared to the divisions expected to be at the north and south of their central strike force. The general knew what they were trying to do, and pondered on a risky maneuver to perhaps turn the tide of such conflict later on. The question of air superiority was tricky, for Cavallo has called off all fighters to the mainland days before the first Confederacy carrier arrived, apparently not very optimistic about his competence to hold off the enemy advance, or because eventually all would be lost in the island, and rebasing fighters which would have to go through the enemy dominated skies and seas could be very dangerous.

Suddenly a transmission would come, with some panic involved as, away from the first line of defenses, the General was finally informed that the battle has just begun:

"This is sergeant Javier of the twentieth eighth recon squad. We have spotted artillery strikes against our northernmost positions. I repeat. Our forces are under attack!"

"Like the plan predicted, carry on." the general calmly said.

"Yes, comrade, we shall keep you updated of the situation."

And as soon as his conversation with such sergeant finished, a new one would come:

"This is sergeant Dejaz from the eleventh recon squad. Our southernmost position in being bombarded by artillery strike. Requesting orders."

"Carry on with the plan comrade, this is happened exactly as predicted. We are going to succeed against their forces." he then spoke again, with no signs of fear.

"Acknowledged, I shall inform the captain."

And thus the connection cut down. Franticly poorer and poorer drawings of the enemy positions appeared in his computer screen, advancing through the map, being little more than scratches done in matter of seconds. However, soon drawing represent enemy airplanes also came, as he simply ignored all of them, trusting entirely in the successfulness of his audacious plan. He knew quite well the unexpected sleights of hand he could surprise the enemy with, and the time for them to be employed was coming as the battles of Llucmajor and Santanyí begun. The Confederacy would pay dearly for their arrogance.

“Regard your soldiers as your children, and they will follow you into the deepest valleys; look on them as your own beloved sons, and they will stand by you even unto death.”
Sun Tzu, The Art of War

30 kilometers west from the "Ma-19 Line", 14:29 hours

The mechanized assault continued to forward into the depths of Mallorca unopposed for a few hours. Jaen has simply stared at the emptiness of the drone inside the vehicle during all the time, except for the occasional conversation with his comrades about their lives and personal interests, as they waited anxiously for the battle to begin. The display which previously demonstrated the camera input from their vehicle was now switched by him to a tactical map filled with numbered green dots representing the overall position of their squads, platoons and fireteams, some of which seemed to be deliberatedly spreading a few miles from the brunt of their forces, intended to perform diversionary attacks. There was only a rough estimate of enemy positions indicated, aside from static defenses. The support personell surely knew how to update information in a matter of minutes, for such was a very recent data. Checking again his assault rifle, Jaen awaited for the decisive moment. The line seemed closer and closer, for the Battle of Llucmajor was likely about to happen.

First, a few green unmanned aircraft symbols began to move through the enemy lines, as a last try to resolve such conflict without the spill of blood. Unmanned aerial vehicles bearing the truth between their wings, a powerful weapon, capable of shattering whole armies, in the form of revolutionary messages. The bringers were expendable, and thus to ensure speed, they came in fast and could not wait for the air escorts to arrive.

Soon the symbols vanished, as missiles have successfully destroyed them, with the truth set on fire, like that of countless books, articles and newspapers burnt by the gone Third Reich, by the gone rule of Stalin and also by the actual rule of Cavallo. A lasting hope of a bloodless victory gone as new, unnecessary costs were brought by their categorical wish to attempt convincing their enemy soldiers to switch sides before marching to battle. Time could not be lost, for soldiers form the other side of the island were likely heading to their way. Suddenly the silent was interrupted, as aware of their fruitless attempt to win the war of propaganda, their primary strike force announced in Spanish:

"60th Artillery brigade to all of the 1st Marino division! We are in range and preparing to strike a barrage of fire on the enemy air defenses. Slow down your movement to forty kilometers per hour for now to avoid you to get off our coverage. We are coordinating a simultaneous strike with the 67th Artillery brigade and with the Malatestas in five seconds... two, one..."

Simultaneously, shells flew from the guns of many self-propelled artillery vehicles and of the still in range large naval guns of the Malatesta Heavy Cruisers next to the shore. Trails of tracer ammunition covered the skies, and the seas rippled from the firepower. Few seconds later, as the guns lowered their angle and artillery vehicles moved further ahead, another salvo was given in synchrony between the land and naval artillery. Such combined force would only extend as most of the enemy air defenses at such sector would fall.

Hearing the distant roars of the guns from inside the infantry fighting vehicle, the fireteam continued to move towards their destination, albeit at a slower pace to not lose the coverage of their artillery vehicles. The vehicles themselves began to increase the distances between each others, in a more loose formation to reduce the chances of enemy artillery hitting them, although it could be as well suppressed by the sheer momentum of their attack and mobile artillery. Jaen felt a minor shockwave, like if a comet itself was falling, and saw traces representing the trajectory of the projectiles in the tactical map, flying over their heads. In a matter of a dozen and further few minutes, such firepower would be further boosted as their Librecielos would be finally in range to launch their missiles as artillery.

The ground shook as in a work of network-centric warfare, both naval and ground based artillery shells rained against the enemy positions, in what could be considered a quite effective strike for the first real operation of most crews other than some of the naval ones. 135mm, 155mm and 205mm shells, of which the naval ones were rocket-propelled, and others mostly of the air-burst type, able to blow up in mid air to maximize anti-personell and structural damage, impacted against a five hundred meters long line of defense where their fire was concentrated, probably killing anyone foolish enough to not be behind cover, and provoking a nearly deafening noise with their impacts, even from tens of kilometers away, and such ode to death continued for many minutes, as Jaen felt tempted to put on his canalphones for now. However, he simply frowned and resisted the urge, for the noise was still not as horrible as it likely was to the enemy soldiers. Perhaps a barrage of propaganda to convince the pointless of their struggle could help a bit, and indeed, as a strange maneuver, after the many barrages of the first five minutes, complemented by the logistical vehicles carrying further shells behind the line and by resupply vehicles, a uncommon salvo of blank shells filled with copies of the document where Cavallo planned to accept the annexation of Spain into Stoklomolvi and with inhuman pictures of their death camps were shelled, in what could be perhaps more morale breaking than physical artillery bombardments: the literal bombardment of demoralizing facts.

Ten minutes later, the many brigades, battalions, platoons and squads of the division continued to advance without interruption. One of the many deployed drones flew over to verify the devastation after ten minutes of barrage, recording the imagery of black-scorched terrain, with sparse glimpses of charred and mutilated corpses, but many of the soldiers still keeping their positions. And most important of all, as confirmed by the fact such drone was not downed, such area, at best a kilometer wide, and likely any area up to a hundred kilometers away from it, could be safely crossed by aircrafts. A curious fact was three dozens of bodies were quite fresh, and seemed most intact except for what could only be a bullet to their heads. It was the morbid evidence that their propaganda bombardment has brought more casualties than the physical shells, and that without considering the likely effect on the morale of such soldiers, literally forced to fight at gunpoint.

Such gruesome image has arrived to a few among the support crew, but already has defined what made such scenery different from any simulation. They would have to tread through cadavers and filth, let their tanks shatter bones into the dirt of the ground, and witness the most gruesome accounts of death from both their enemies and their friends. Another detail that made things even more challenging was the visible patch of human feces that seemed to be disgustingly piled in the back side of one of their larger emplacements, with a part of it seemingly shaken off by an artillery shell, and likely to have landed somewhere else, or perhaps on an unfortunate of their soldiers, which would serve as a very strong argument to justify why some of their division transport vehicles were carrying porta-potties. For soldiers were not machines, and like any living beings, they had to answer to nature's call, and apparently their enemies cared less about sanitation. As many of the Confederacy soldiers have readed Homage to Catalonia, those who saw the image would immediately associate with Eric Arthur Blair's reports of his experience with the First Spanish Civil war.

After the data was recovered, nothing changed. The heavy artillery strikes continued to scorch the enemy line into oblivion, and some of its defenses already seriously crippled. Razor wire patches were now buried in consecutive small craters, many landmines have been detonated by the explosions, some emplacements amidst sandbags and other fast defenses have been operationally abandoned and some tank traps became ruined slabs of concrete. Strangely, no counter-artillery has come yet, and that worried many about it. For it could not be really that easy. There must be something else. For now, it did not matter, and things were at least sufficiently for the first air support to come. The ACA-1 was an expensive drone, designed engaging safely in air superiority conditions rather than in the ideal air supremacy, an oblique flying wing loaded with bombs which approached from west, as indicated in the tactical map displayed to Jaen and his comrades, still waiting for their time to get in action and give support to the allied armored brigade against infantry, for there were still about twenty kilometers to cross, even though the battle has already started thanks to the long range of their artillery systems.

For a soldier inside an infantry fighting vehicle, all that could be ascertained was that a battle was happening from its sounds, and what the tactical map allowed of information to be given. The minutes were tense and difficult to stand in such waiting, for the possibility of dying in their way existed, although enemy artillery has not happened thus far. The barrages continued as more and more ground was crossed, amidst small elevations, sparse trees and few mounds, their way was treaded, with mobile armored logistics vehicles just behind the front lines, ready to supply them.

Two tactical sectors of the enemy "line" were being attacked. A sector to the south mirrored the divisional operations to the north, while at the center, a slower force sought to eventually be the ender of a possible encirclement and induced mass defection of the enemy as the north and south strikes pushed their left and right flanks, should they manage to break through them.

Four minutes of further wait, and suddenly the skies was also lightened from the other side, as shells of the enemy took their maiden voyage from the clearings of a forest a dozen and half of kilometers ahead towards them, with red traces shifting regularly in the tactical display as their systems attempted to predict their trajectory. Soon between the irregular rows, some armored vehicles decelerated to give a wider space between them and those at their front, as interceptor projectiles began to flew from their active protection systems. Daringly, they refused to slow down in face of the incoming barrage of fire, only answering it as attempts to trace the enemy fire would soon determine a new point for their own artillery vehicles to target. Unfortunately such point was already beyond the maximum effective range of their naval guns, in some sort of coincidence that could only be the result of some careful tactical planning of such enemy positioning.

Nonetheless, ignoring the likely ranting of the hippies and tree-huggers, as they saw an uniform indication of a crosshair into a section of the estimated direction of such fires, several artillery companies shifted their focus from the enemy lines to the estimated position of the enemy artillery, as two rains of shells intermeshed in their trajectories towards different objectives. It was by them that perhaps one of the most finalizing touches to such strike could be done.

Hearing the hissing sound of the missiles being launched en mass from the multi-role troop transport even before the first shells would land at their proximity, Jaen finally smiled as thermobaric missiles took their flight together with artillery shells against the enemy. They would probably run for the underground at such rate, incapable of effectively defending themselves. Another strange thing however was the apparent lack of enemy armor, which has been so far very helpful to their advance.

His ears, like the ears of his fireteam comrades, vibrated as the first enemy shells landed into the ground just ahead of them, in their first experience with the toughness of battle. The pilot of their vehicle, probably more stressed than them, was franticly making turns, accelerating and decelerating as estimations of impact trajectory near to their position came in mass, nearly overloading the M135 pilot of information. The deafening thunder of artillery finally came as a final argument for them to temporarily put their canalphones on. Jaen looked at Pedro and Elis for a while, printing their faces in his memory as they would in some minutes get out of the relative safety of the vehicle to face the battle heads on, and attempt to break through the enemy lines. The formation became less and visible as the vehicles began to maneuver seemingly randomly out of the artillery strikes, and their self propelled artillery proceeded into using their agility to avoid their counter-battery fire, and would appear to be completely disorganized in their march, although that was also on purpose to deceive their enemies, for the "fist" of the blitz has not yet formed, giving their doubts about which point they would actually attempt to break through amidst a probable line of five kilometers, and such doubt could make a significant operational difference. Split formations moved, with completely asymmetric and partially unaligned lines and rows of vehicles optimized to reduce the changes of being hit. Some of the enemy successful were deflected by their active protection systems, although most simply were dodged or averted by their skillful pilots.

As the missiles finally reached the enemy positions ahead, rapid flames engulfed many of them, with those few without underground shelter becoming immediate graves. The first operational line of defenses was already abandoned by then, becoming nothing but a charred construct of flesh and rubble between craters of craters done by the shells. They have performed quite well, for seemingly all those trainings of defensive piloting were for a reason. Soldiers thanked for not being on foot, or otherwise the situation would be much grimmer. Some vehicles have actually been hit, but the impact was not against their weakened zones, delivering only a very strong, nearly bone-breaking shock wave to those inside them.

Statistically, the chance of they having no casualties in a battle of such intensity were infinitesimal, although they were prepared to die for freedom, even if such death was an inglorious hit of an artillery shell before getting in range to shoot against their enemies. A further minute passed as the first casualties happened. Thirteen was a number superstitious people were afraid of, and were exactly thirteen freedom fighters that would die as the first martyrs of such war to have lost their lives in a ground battle, joining the ranks of people like the fighter pilot Marie, presumed dead after her CL-32 was downed, who left two children in mourning, and of many other dozens who had sacrificed their lives in this and in the Second Civil War for the cause of liberty and anarchism. Statistically, the casualties of the Confederacy have been exceptionally low in the war so far, but for those who had such people as their closest friends and family, the scar such losses left could never really be healed. At such rate, eventually only a space elevator would be tall enough to serve as the planned Monument of the Martyrs of Freedom, a monolithic homage where would be engraved the names of all those who have sacrificed their lives for the cause of freedom in the history of man, and to also all those who have died nameless for such cause.

A Sucuri Heavy Infantry Fighting Vehicle has been destroyed together with thirteen human lives by a lucky artillery shell of the enemies, and thus the first casualties were brought. The vehicles behind quickly maneuvered out of the burning vehicles, aware that speed was the key for minimizing their losses, and the faster they finished the battle, the least people would die. However, a good sign came as the intensity of the artillery strikes was reducing, probably because their own artillery counter-battery fire against the forest was forcing the enemy, expectingly self-propelled ones to retreat. For now, all indicated that they had the tactical superiority, and as more enemies advanced from the other side of the island, without leaving the same unprotected, every second was precious and such apparent tactical superiority could not be wasted. They had to move and think fast, and find counters to every attempt of their enemies to halt their momentum.

The eternity of the artillery strikes and the tension of the awareness that any of them could die at any moment served to transform the next two minutes of this battle into an eternity for Jaen and his comrades. In a gesture of aid, each held their hands together, as the waited for the next fourteen minutes before engaging into combat. What moved them to not panic was not the order of an hierarchical figure, nor a formal duty to obey. It was their belief to be serving a greater cause the only reason why they continued to follow with the plans they also have gave small contributions to, rather than the order of a commander or the fear of the punishment for desertion, as there was none in the first place, for only people with fiber could join the war, as there was certainly not a shortage of manpower to justify less selective recruitment for now. They were not following orders, but the hopes of their hearts and convictions of their minds. Thus, the military organization of anarchists no longer became a contradiction in terms.

After such two long minutes, and seventeen minutes of battle, thirteen, the very number of men who have died so far, were still the estimated minutes to wait for them to reach the battle zone and finally make their final storm against the enemy forces and finish what their artilleries and bombers have started. It was by then that the incoming dozens of light bomber drones in the tactical display finally passed through them. Black figures in the sky, flying wings which although clearly visible by eyes, were not so easily visible for the radars of what they still had of air defenses, nor easily locked by their missiles, although at such ranges, all they would manage to do was to have the element surprise for an increased time.

The stealth drones flew over the cratered line for their first bombing run and began to get deeper into the enemy lines, still facing no opposition, and as some still mostly intact emplacements were detected, their internal bays opened, as the small diameter bombs were air dropped, and red dots signaled their guidance systems turning on to head towards running soldiers for underground cover, and taking further lives and defensive emplacements with their dive bombing runs. However, after a single minute wrecking havoc and forcing the enemies to cower, the ACA-1 drones had to return to their hundred of kilometers away air base as their limited carriage had to be re-supplied. As they were just turning their backs into the field, suddenly multiple contacts would be detected coming from the woods.

A legion of medium unmanned aerial vehicles of the enemy equipped with short range air-to-air missiles bent on annihilating the unmanned bombers, which were completely defenseless, except for being faster. Such was considered one of the greatest mistakes of their enemies, for they have finally revealed that they were simply hiding their game with the Confederacy forces. That would pose an important choice to make soon, but now, what mattered was the attempt to out-maneuver chasing unmanned aerial vehicles. Probably the ACA-1 could simply get far above their service ceiling, although the speed loss from going up would simply slow them down enough to become easy prey. There was only one thing to do, as they continued to move at maximum throttle back to the mechanized marines and their anti-air vehicles.

The nearest enemy drones soon managed to launch their missiles, however they foolishly were nearly at the limit of their effective ranges, make such first and last strike of them futile and easily dodged by the countermeasures of the ACA-1 as they began to retreat no longer armed for other rows of drones to carry on with their chase. Thankfully they have decided to send drones rather than helicopters for close air support to prevent risks like this, for otherwise things could become really nasty regarding casualties. More minutes were passing of nearly-continuous artillery barrages as the drones retreated. Far away, the less operationally flexible fighters were arriving from the distant carrier, to make another sweep, although if such drones indeed attempted to chase the bombers all the way, the Librecielos would likely finish them.

They just retreated as they finally realized the futility of the chase, and thus the bomber drones had a safe return to their mobile forward airbase set up by the logistics personell fifty kilometers behind the battlefield. There was only a minute left, and after standing the shock waves and roaring noise of weakening artillery barrages for nearly twenty minutes, Jaen was very glad to be getting out of such tin can at last. Already preparing to disembark, he removed the safety set of his rifle, while Pedro was preparing their ground drone to disembark first. The Sino 2A1 main battle tanks were already firing against the line two kilometers ahead, and companies have been split into a clear pattern, as their central column slowed down slightly. In their path, countless shell craters of missed shots. The scenery was became clearer as they were about to cross the last hundreds of meters to a combat position. There were two small mounds ahead, both serving as defensive positions which seemed to be still standing, even if in shambles, after half an hour of almost nonstop artillery fire against the entire region. Operational reinforcements were hurriedly setting up new machinegun emplacements as they arrived, and a few mortar shells accompanied the withering fire of enemy artillery, still sustaining, although significantly suppressed by counter-battery fire of less than a fifth of all artillery guns in range. Between the mounds a three hundred meter plain continued, eventually taking to a depression and to the Ma-19 road. A wider line began to be formed next to the enemy defenses, as autocannons and machineguns began to fire. Jaen heard the thunder of the gast autocannon of his vehicle as a clear sign it was the time.

Three kilometers behind them, some were already setting up their MOI-20 medium mortars from pieces transported separatedly by several vehicles, and soldiers were making fast dig-ins for their mortars to be fired from, carrying sandbags as they formed a battle position. It was by then that the hatch of the M135 opened, and soon the drone began to march to the outside with its wrap-around tracks, and as soon as it came out, a sensor mast was erected from it, and it turned around to face the defensive line of the enemy, already heavily suppressed as tanks and some of the vehicles continued to spearhead through three key points. Jaen began to walk through the metal floor of the vehicle, and breathed the fresh air... of death. The smell of burning was strong, and he has just stepped into a small crater of the very artillery they have fired as his first step into battle. Taking advantage of the data of the drone as bullets flew past the vehicle, blocked by its armor, they crouched and began to run towards the right as he said very loudly, to not be silenced by the fire:

"The plan is to make a small encirclement. They seem to be in a controlled retreat. Our part in the plan will be to snipe some of those nasty retractable ATGM emplacements in those mounds, sneaking through them. Hey comrade!" he then said, interrupted another warrior in his way to carry some ammunition, as the soldier asked:

"What is it?"

"Could you assume the control of this drone, we need a very specific fire support against that mound to the left, and we'll inform you once our priority changes." Jaen said.

"Of course, I know how to operate this. I will be waiting for you to inform me the right time for it. I'll also be contacting the mortar teams. I see what you want." he replied, as they began to run with their backs lowered through the cover of uneven rows of slowly advancing vehicles, which seemed to press the soldiers to move fast, for they would not be waited for. The grass seemed to become thicker as they advanced, which was a good thing. Suddenly their figures vanished in a meter and half tall patch of grass, which luckily extended to the base of the mound. Silently, they slowly moved through the grass, checking with caution the soil, for that region apparently was not hit very hard by their artillery. It was then that the man pressed his helmet and whispered:

"Drone zero seven three zero one. Follow slowly our IFF beacon through a patch of grass, we need close fire support."

"Acknowledged, I'm moving it now."

Then prone, the three soldiers awaited for their "machinegun operator", which would take two minutes to arrive. They had to be quick, for the mortars keeping the ATGM emplacements downed would slow down their advance. Another problem however was how stretched they became as they advanced deeper, something that could only be solved by taking as much of their time as possible to offset their numerical disadvantage. Jaen continued to run with his back inclined down, letting mud through his uniform, as both marines followed him in the same position, and the robot was behind to cover them, a position soon to change.

Being too fast had disadvantages, and their boldness again met the cynical and battle-hardened experience of their enemy as Elis suddenly blew up their cover by pure bad luck, and herself, as a charge came up, leaving splinters to which they barely had enough time to take cover against. With ears rocked by the noise, a strange, constant white noise made him disoriented for a few seconds, as he finally realized what happened. A small pool of blood was forming, as Elis agonized on the ground, with two stumps where her ankles were before, pleading for an ice bag and for morphine. Pedro did the best he could with his first aid skills, and quickly taking a medical kit from his backpack, tried to tend to the agonizing woman. Immediately, Jaen activated his helmet communicator to call:

"I have a comrade with immediate medical support! Code Zero-Five-Seven"

"Acknowledged. Tankbulance on the way."

A large, converted infantry fighting vehicle began to crush the grassland, firing its gun to suppress the enemies that attempted to stop it, and soon it stopped right next to their position, and three soldiers came from behind it with a gunny. A doctor among them checked quickly the point her leg was cutted at and sighed. Then, as Pedro tried to stop the bleeding, the doctor touched his shoulder and said:

"Let me handle it, your friend will survive. Comrades, sanitize and put her lost legs into icebags. There is still a chance for us to surgically re-implant them."

And thus the doctor applied morphine as she finally calmed down, and the other soldiers from the tankbulance crew grabbed her both legs in a morbid scenery, throwing an anti-septic liquid at them and putting them in plastic bags with ice, and as they brought both to the inside of the armored ambulance, a handy vehicle in a world where the Geneva conventions have the worth a fly, they quickly took her into the gunney and brought her to one of the beds inside, immediately looking for a spare bag of blood compatible with hers inside, for she has lost a significant quantity of blood and was still in a serious state of health, and fortunately there was an O- bag in their medical supplies. Fortunately they managed to stabilize her, even though they were quite aware that she might simply ask to be euthanized, once she realizes that the chances of her ever having her legs again are of five percent. For some, such sort of happening was worse than death.

The tankbulance headed back, to bring her to the campaign medical areas. And sighing, Jaen suddenly spotted a very suspicious patch of dirt amidst the grassland. Gesturing for Pedro, he mowed his gun towards the ground, and Pedro followed his aim, as both shot simultaneously, pushing back a disguised cloth which hid a spider hole, where a now dead soldier was, with a rocket propelled grenade launcher next to his body.

It was perhaps ironic, that someone had to lose her legs, probably forever, so that what for one was bad luck, forcing such to be called off from the war prematurely, for many was a blessing. If Elis never stepped in the mine, they would never have uncovered what was clearly a carefully laid ambush, and with no glory, or without firing a single shot, her sacrifice has saved countless lives from certain death in an ambush.

Even ironic was how, at the exact moment that Jaen opened again the communications of his network-centric helmet to shout "Ambush!", that in the flanks of a line of tanks and armored vehicles, the remaining soldiers, nearly an entire anti-tank platoon would come out of their spider holes with their anti-tank guns ready to fire, and attack the armors with no mercy.

forty-nine rockets against forty nine armored vehicles have come. With no time to react. all they could do was to hope for the active protection systems to succeed. Six Sino 2A1 and ten Modular Armored Cars among the assault had no such luck, and were crippled. Four of them lethally, becoming the metal graves of more twelve freedom fighters. However, the worse came from the flanks of the mounds, as six hidden jeeps, little more than technicals, began to move, hoping to simply survive at the basis of surprise.

It was a poorly executed ambush, to the point that perhaps it was not a real ambush at all, despite the losses it brought in armor. The cost of human lives however would be much greater for them, as with pinpoint accuracy, the soldiers would be massacred from their spider holes, incapable of defending themselves as massed suppressive fire came towards them as well.

Autocannons roared against the jeeps, which have sniped a single Confederacy soldier, lucky enough to have taken a shot to his arm, and tended by a medic, as finally they were forced to run away.

Soon it would be proved what was the point of this. With the burning tanks cremating their dead and crippled tanks evacuated by their crew as the occasional artillery shell continued to fall, their offensive has been halted, and soon Jaen would notice from afar a mirage of metallic beasts... the armored forces of their enemies which were just very close to positioning to the top of both short but wide mounds, taking advantage of the diversionary ambush to get into such advantageous position, as the marine division tanks at such sector retreated and prepared for the real battle.

Their enemies have made plans to answer to exactly what they have done. And in the south, nobody has spotted the ambush, which has downed thirty armors in the greatest single loss of the Confederacy so far, also accompanied by an armored counter-attack, both which coincidentally happened in the few minutes interval between air missions. The true hell of war thus has introduced itself to them as majors desperatedly set new directives from their mobile command centers in an attempt to offset such combination of ambushes with counter-offensives that have brought nearly a hundred of armor losses to the Confederacy, at a greater cost of human lives for the enemy.

And in the meanwhile, the Allanean Special Operatives spread out through Spain. They were divided into two group. One of the groups, divided into yet smaller, two-person teams, advanced towards Madrid, hidden in various ways – some posed as locals, others simply snuck towards the capital at night, hiding throughout the day. What the purpose of this group was remained unknown – so far.

The other group divided itself into five-person teams, five in number, and began their work against the Fascist oppressor.

* * *

It happened somewhere near Cadiz – the precise location was something Aaron Smolny could have pointed out on a map even decades later. He was the Team Leader, of course. Their mission was simple – at least so they thought.

They had taken a simple mine – five kilograms of high-explosive – and waited for the rail inspection team to pass through the area. Then, literally fifteen minutes later, Aaron raised two fingers. Two of his teammates rushed forward, and, working as fast as they could do safely, buried the mine under one of the rails.

Then, they returned to hiding and started waiting for a military train. When one came, they would wait until it would be so near that its brakes would be useless – and push on the remote trigger.

* * *

Somewhere very near a Spanish military base the Spanish rear, Felix Nizhinsky was lying in wait with his rifle – a scoped Mosin clone. His mission didn't require any better. He simply waited until a completely random Spanish staff car appeared, and fired once, aiming at the driver's chest cavity. The steel-cored projectile had quite enough penetration to breach the glass and get through to the driver – and Nizhinski didn't really care if the driver lived or died.

Before the car veered off the road, Nizhinsky already left his firing position. He knew that his friends were around the base, too, hunting the Stalinist troops and disappearing after each kill.

Soon, the Stalinist fascists would start hunting them.

That was precisely the plan.

* * *

Rapid Emergency Message from the Allanean Government

We see you commenced operations in Mallorca. Would you like us to send a ground force to your assistance? It will arrive once Lysander Spooner and its battlegroup are done rotating out of the area.

A few green symbols fading black into a screen, such nearly insignificant vision was all that Júlio Santiago could make of what was happening at such moment. It was a meek visage of the lives lost, something not as shocking or emotionally intense as seeing the armors burning, or smelling the scent of crisped flesh mixing with the disgusting scent of the lack of hygiene from the enemy trenches. Twelve main battle tanks and sixty armored cars were taken down, with thirty lives being further sacrificed as the ambush occurred. However, soon a transmission would arrive to him, straight from one of the marines:

"This is Jaen Rodriguez, the enemies are amassing an armored counter-offensive to the northern front line. I see forty... no, eighty main battle tanks heading on in a large line of about fifty to a hundred meters, most Leopard 2Es! Wait, it's an entirely combined arms force, we are trying to slow them down with artillery, but unless air support arrives really soon things will become really bad."

Júlio coldly regarded the situation. The armored brigade attached to the Marines was pretty stretched after they have advanced for so many dozens of kilometers, with only twenty tanks being in the front, and the rest split into separated platoons to secure the flanks left by their rapid advance together with some of Marines left behind for such task. From these twenty tanks in the front, ten were taken down by the ambush, leaving them with only ten operational tanks against eighty of the most modern tanks the enemy forces had. Ten Sino 2A1 tanks against seventy Leopard 2E and ten Leopard 2A4 which were approaching from the distance. Such were twelve percent of the entire contingent of armored units from the enemy and nearly a fourth of the only modern tanks they had. However, from behind, a mass of technicals and infantry units marched, thousands of men against the few hundreds split into squads, platoons and fireteams which secured the actual front. A decisive battle was then set, and Júlio was quick to reply, hiding one of his greatest fears.

For commanding guerrillas and low intensity operations against slavers, he has been one of the greatest military leaders the Confederacy ever had. However, he always commanded with his comrades side-to-side, and has always been a great tactician for the art of guerrilla warfare. Now however, he was giving suggestions to an entire front, in a distant and relatively safe position isolated from the real battle. It was a foreign experience for him, and no matter how he had relatively succeeded in simulations and exercises, it was becoming clearer than ever, that he was not a man to lead from behind. Unfortunately, nobody seemed to be ready to replace such burden of his. Remembering of the fading green dots, he reminded himself of how not being on the field tended to reduce the worth a leader would give to the preservation of the life of those he led, and yet, no matter how it tormented him to stay there while others fought, he had a responsibility to accomplish.

The entire plan wasn't exactly done by him. It was more of a collaborative operation planning done in the last two weeks, where all the strategic and tactical minds of their forces gave in their ideas, and made them concrete and specific to the way they envisioned the one-day conquest of the island. The only contribution of Santiago was with the plans of recruiting militias from the local population, and with the details of how to implement it. A smaller part of a bigger, ambitious project to liberate the entire Spain in the next three months. Or perhaps such haste and ambition were the results of their awareness that of the looming threat from the East. Should Stoklomolvi reinforcements arrive, the tide of the war could literally turn against them. There were other worries, however, occupying the mind of the rarely entitled major.

Something was going completely wrong with the manner things were being organized, Júlio thought as he remembered how a truly loyal organization to the ideals of anarchism should operate, and noticed how he was being the exact opposite of a true freedom fighter. Enclosed, safe asking for people to die for a cause, just like every coward and politician of human history. Sitting on his chair, he looked at a technician to his side and asked:

"Comrade, isn't this vehicle supposed to be a self-propelled artillery and anti-air system rather than only a command center? Then tell me, why is it here, like the desk of a corrupt and pathetic crone only asking for others to risk their lives?"

Looking at Santiago, the man would be quick to reply a very reason, which seemed to imply to a greater worry, that perhaps their revolutionary flames and purity were fading to convenience:

"Maybe because nobody questioned this. But yes, if you really believe it will be better, then let us catch on with them, provided everyone agrees here, of course. As for literally getting into the first line of attack, remember this is not a tank, but if you really want to do it, nothing will stop you comrade."

"Then I'll ask what the crew thinks, comrade Viejas. I hope that the revolutionary spirit has not withered inside this place." Júlio Santiago replied, pondering on whether it would be acceptable or not. It was pretty strange how he was at the mercy of consensus even in such conditions, and perhaps it would force him to make all his way to another vehicle in the back of the front. And interacting with the computer ahead of him, and taking a headset, he then eloquently argued:

"Comrades, please listen to me, for today is a very important day for the world, for our people and for the human race. As we lie in waiting as a superfluous command of men too free and resourceful to be commanded, as we hope for a victory without firing a single shot..."

And before he could finish, a reply came, interrupting him:

"Cut the rhetoric Santiago! We were just waiting for a consensus to get out of this dull position. Moving to point seven-zero-cabron for artillery support. We will arrive in three hours, so all we can do is to mop up or persuade whoever is still alive to surrender until the night comes."

Smiling, Santiago looked at a spare RBA battle rifle inside the armored vehicle command center, and then realized that perhaps the old days would return. The times of fighting side to side with his comrades, long gone, perhaps could be brought back. And he wondered that perhaps such demonstration of courage could work into the goal of attacking by the stratagem. For now however, he was too far to make a difference, however, there was time yet for the Miajas to arrive. It was in moments like this that their unconventional speed and power for a close air support would be considered more than sufficient to offset the price to have one of the fastest aircrafts of its class.

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

Jaen was still in the sections of the meters tall grasslands not blown up by the mine as he observed the distant armors treading through the scorched battlefield from beyond the two small mounds at such part of the greater whole. With only Pedro to his side, and the unmanned drone, he had to quickly think about how to do something that would contribute for the battle at large. The infamous patch of ground were Elis has met her fate as a cripple was still there, scorched, and behind him, the allies slowly formed into series of large, engulfing Vs, spearheaded by small contingents of armors and coupled with the Sucuris. They were preparing to defend, and mortars were also ready, with their crews attentiously looking at the tactical displays of their maps, fire control systems uplinked with the recon drones which scoured the land. Each second lost was one more second for the enemy forces to the other side of the island to arrive.

The emplacements of the enemy in the small mound ahead were still entirely intact, and would serve as a major obstacle to their advancement, forcing them to encircle it by the side, and even then, it was clearly done as a hedgehog defense, and by the time their strategic bombers would arrive with bunker busters, many hours would be wasted. It was necessary to break it, and soon. The clock of victory was ticking, and looking at Pedro, he pointed to the objective at hand, still being suppressed, and ordered for him to follow him. Looking at the place where the mine detonated, he attempted to perform the risky task of guessing a pattern, as he observed the overall shape of the terrain, and concluded how the least likely placed to be crossed would be the safest.

There was a rough ascent, the sort of thing that only a man and something with wrap-around tracks could ever think on crossing, however, sneaking towards it, they did not step on any mine, as clearly, being the tactically disadvantageous point of terrain, it was much less expected to be climbed than the much leaner, and likely heavily boobytrapped left of the mound. Artillery barrages continued to fire and bullets to cross the skies above towards the enemy emplacements as the enemy counter-offensive approached and he wondered if the drone would be able to get past such slope. Making a gesture to its camera, which the controller immediately understood.

The drone began to move with its wrap-around tracks, not unlike those of the Great War tanks, managed to slowly climb the slope. As it made its way up, Jaen climbed behind it, and his fireteam comrade below. It would be a dangerous crossing and race against the time, for there was no cover in the mound, and should the enemies cross the valley, they would spot them and immediately kill them. However, taking down such emplacement with a perfect line of sight with the other one, and tricking it by cancelling the suppressive fire, Pedro, trained as a sharpshooter, could easily take down the enemies operating the other twin anti-tank guided missile nest with his battle rifle. They would have to match up the command to cancel suppressive fire over it with the exact moment they would acquire a line of sight or at least enough range to blow the emplacement with a grenade, although the latter would make the idea of using such defense against their enemies impractical.

"Comrade, when I say Cabrón, stop the suppressive fire over the right anti-tank emplacement, so I can get rid of it myself." Jaen whispered through the voice-over of his helmet, as they continued to climb as fast as they could the mound, behind the small drone which was basically using all it had of torque to cross such tough obstacle. Bullets were flying less than six meters above their heads, as they continued to climb it, and with tension arising, they noticed as the tank guns of their few tanks aimed up and began to fire, while missiles flew from the infantry fighting vehicles: the enemy was approaching, and their time was running short.

A phenomenal effort of hope and persistence took them to the last meters before the top of the mound, with every step seeming not fast enough for success, the loud roaring of tank guns, and soon of mortars together with artillery, continued to thunder their ears, and eventually, as Jaen looked to the side and saw the distant gun of a tank from afar, despair struck. Perhaps now it was already too late, so ironic for they were so close, yet so far.

Fortunately it was not, as the drone finally managed to overcome its slow climb and hasten, and he immediately announced silently, hoping to have matched the exact moment, and that the reflexes of the operator of the drone would suffice:

"Cabrón!"

Suddenly, as they climbed as armors advanced to their left and below, the bullets stopped flying overhead, and suddenly a mechanical noise announced the raising of the emplacement previously hid underground. The mechanical noise became a cacophonia as the sounds of a machinegun silenced it, together with quick and agonizing screams, and with their heavy breathing as they at last took their final step, just in time to get in cover as bullets flew towards their overall direction.

Ahead, the retractable nest stood, cleansed, with the bodies of five dead soldiers, pierced by many bullets, were. With no thought, Jaen immediately helped his comrade to dispose of them, looking with pity at their lifeless eyes, for he knew that such men could have been his friends, his soldiers to fight side-to-side, that such men were his brothers, his people. But as an irony of fate, they were now forced to kill their own people for the cause of freedom. Such was the nature of war, amplified by the stench of the human sewage left in the open further behind the emplacement.

In the emplacement, where the stink of sweat was strong as ever, they looked at the two Kornet missile launchers ready for fire, and looking at Pedro, he instructed him as his comrade pointed his rifle, and its scope, towards the direction of the other anti-tank hedgehog. Their success would ensue that they would not have to wait for the air support to arrive, and more. The enemy has so far not given any sign to have attempted air superiority. Perhaps they could be hiding their game, or perhaps Mallorca wasn't considered so important, no matter how absurd it seemed to spare a tenth of all their tanks, but no air superiority fighter to the island.

Pedro looked through the scope, ready to fire his 7.62mm battle rifle, in semi-automatic mode, against the threats ahead, once they showed themselves.

"This is Jaen, call off suppressive fire over left anti-tank emplacement. And once I say Joto, get ready to sneak some men over it."

And soon the stream of fire and occasional explosions against it faded, as, just like predicted, the emplacement was popped open, and with precise shots, Pedro took down further five men manning such position. Thus, as the enemies seemed to be concentrating into such region, in the hopes of drawing the Confederacy marines to a trap, as tanks switched fire, missiles flew and destruction came further, their weapons would turn against them.

With no hesitation, the line of forces right after the valley between the mounds, with no more than three tanks quickly retreated as the bulk of the enemy tanks, light armors and infantry fighting vehicles advanced. However, soon it would be proved why a less mobile army is much more vulnerable. To the other sides of the mounds, two large focal points were made, and the seven remaining tanks charged into the soft underbelly of the enemy offensive, together with many infantry fighting vehicles.

Jaen soon took the control over one of the ATGMs, while his buddy took the other, and they awaited for the right moment to attack. The destroyed vehicles formed a nearly finished wall in the valley, still bypassed by their enemies. If they could score exact kills over two tanks at the exact moment they were crossing the wall of destroyed tanks, they would be able to operationally break off the offensive. six rows of tanks converged into two rows, and as the battle continued on, with the tides slowly turning, Jaen saw the opportunity, as gesturing to his buddy, he gestured to his buddy, and asked:

"Do you have a flag, Pedro?"

"Yes, but why does it matter?" the man then asked curious. It was time to exact revenge for what they did to their friend, but before it, Jaen gestured for Pedro to hand him the flag. A black flag, folded over into his backpack, with nothing to sustain it over. As soon as Jaen saw it he then turned back to the tanks still amassing into the large valley, and quickly pointed to the farthest one about to cross the wall of rubble. Aiming for the nearest one to them himself, he attempted to calculate the exact time to fire.

Seconds made the very difference, and in a hissing, loud sound, missiles flew from the emplacement towards both, guided by two red dots which soon would appear amidst the chaos of battle. Franticly adjusting his aim, Jaen finally would realize how such small action could make a difference at such point of the front. Two Leopard 2E went down, and like they have timed, turned the valley between both mounds into a funnel, a kill zone where twenty enemy tanks would have their fate met, it was by then that Jaen would risk himself, and with an improvised pole, tied the black flag and set it over the mound as a sign the time was ripe for attack again, and as a sign that victory was near. To the weary soldiers with their first experience in a real battle, to see such a flag waving in the heart of the enemy territory served as a strange, rallying cry that immediately arose their morale and perseverance to not halt.

Loading more missiles, they continued to take potshots as at least there, their success was becoming clearer than ever, thanks to the small effort of Jaen, coupled with the effort of many other brave fireteams to skillfully disable enemy positions, one by one, based on their training as an elite force specialized on attack rather than defense. Soon their offensive continued to advance again, in contrast to a central of their front retreating and still firing, albeit at a slower pace, with the fast attack groups having no care about the hopeless enemies left behind, tracks smashing through flesh and mud and the artillery barrages silencing the soon gone enemy artillery hid into now ravaged forests, as ten tanks emerged victorious, and soon their ambitions would become true. An entire brigade was encircled in the area behind the mounds and between the guns of their, and now, rather than finishing them off, perhaps no better moment could exist to convince their defection or surrender before reinforcements could arrive. Old essays would come into the minds of those who planned the offensive as a new tactical objective would arise for the division advancing through the north.

In the practical art of war, the best thing of all is to take the enemy's country whole and intact; to shatter and destroy it is not so good. So, too, it is better to recapture an army entire than to destroy it, to capture a regiment, a detachment or a company entire than to destroy them.

Major Riggs, the man who was among those who managed to pin such thousands in battle, looked around, feeling the tolerable pain of an scorch on his cheek, and prepared to attempt to negotiate their immediate surrender, into what would perhaps crown the first hours of their battle. Using a loud speaker, he then announced, in a flawless Spanish:

"As you see, now two choices lie for you, brothers. Yes, brothers, for different from the lies espoused by those who seek to destroy our nation, we are of the same Spanish blood, of the same culture of the same history and past. Why do you fight us? May I ask, for I see no reason for you to sacrifice your lives in such way. To serve for a government which has sold friends and relatives of your families into slavery, who have killed sixty million of our people! Why should you now fight to death for such monstrous den of cowards and swines who refuse to even step into the battlefield?

Traitors who are ready to sell our glorious people and nation to any bidder, who are ready to sell our Spain to Stoklomolvi in exchange of their privileges! Will you truly fight to death for such scum? For such traitors, murderers and tyrants of our people? Look around, see the proof. It spokes louder than any voice. What we ask is not for your surrender, what we ask is for you to allow us to set you free.

We shall take you to wherever you want, perhaps to ses Saline, to take away all your doubts. I just ask for you to stand down your weapons, and walk away from the battlefield, to continue your lives, be in the already free city of ses Saline, or in our truly socialist Confederacy, where you shall be free to live at. We do not blame you for the people you have killed, only those who have ordered for you to kill. Come now, and be free! Come now and find the truth! Come now and find life!"

Silence suddenly was everything in reply to the offer, as seconds passed and their patience began to wear thin, for they could not waste much time there. It was ironic, but if they did not decide soon, they would have to kill them to not put the entire operation in jeopardy. Suddenly the silence shattered as dozens of shots were heard, and the sound of countless of objects dropping followed. By the thousands, soldiers moved with their arms raised, leaving behind the dead bodies of their Commissars and leaders, and as soon as they were at sight, Riggs announced, in a friendly tone:

"You do not have to raise your arms, just, now you are free to go. I believe you need some time to regain the lives the scum of the communist party took away from you. Boats will be waiting for you to the coast, and the Confederacy doors are open. I am very happy to see you have seen the light of truth and as of now, you are free men. One day we shall see all your friends, brothers and families freed from such insidious and rotten enemy of our people. One day Spain shall be a truly free and socialist nation!"

And the weary men quickly lowered their hands again. It was a strange sight. Those who they were fighting against, now were friends, those who shot at them, they now helped, and tended to, those who killed some of them, they now brought to life and freedom. It was perhaps one of the noblest visages one could see a the battlefield, as it was realized who was the true enemy, and the former pawns, now defected, continued their way through the south, in a march towards their freedom, the same freedom they ironically were forced to fight against before. There was no other stronger proof that they were not there to conquer, but to free.

Jaen eventually returned with his friend to the same vehicle they came from, moping up for the continued march of the offensive, Nearly an hour of battle has passed, and despite the enemy insistence, they would still advance. Sitting into the vehicle simple seat, and spotting the vacant space between him and Pedro, he sighed, remembering of her. The enemy has suffered heavy losses, and now, two flanks around their defenses in Campos were for now broken, hedgehog defense or not, it was perhaps the clear sign that those three thousands men were only the beginning.

Unfortunately to the south, although the counter-offensive was driven off, no encirclement was achieved, and although they inflicted significant losses to their enemies, some of them have still retreated, and were to be chased away by the about to come Miaja fighter-bombers, with CL-32s escorting them. It was always disappointing to have to kill men who could be freed in other circumstances, but nonetheless, both were successes, and part of another division, armed with the largest amount of firepower of all of them, would soon be in range for the battle of Campos. For now, the Battles of Llucmajor and Santanyí were won. However, further surprises could await them ahead, and the advances proceeded in the most cautious manner that could be achieved without hindering their regained momentum. The enemy motorized division guarding Campos would not be able to out-maneuver them, and thus, eventually their odds would be much better than now, provided they succeed in such ambitious tactic to compensate for their inferior numbers in the island.

(OOC Note: I'll address Allanea's Ops once I finish to address the strategic battle of Mallorca to avoid mixing up.)

General Vidal looked at the drawn map of the island, as the symbols slowly shifted of position. A battle that have taken hours was nothing but statistics and symbols shown at his sight. The symbols of the enemy forces continued to advance through three primary directions through the east, and with their trust emboldened as the false, barely manned lines of defense were promptly broken, they simply marched straight into the trap, their armors being very important targets to take down. Perhaps the fools, in their rush, would not pay attention to the dummies stuffed with animal entrails that were positioned into most of the "line", giving them the false impression they have brought heavy losses as artillery and bombs fell over them through the passing of many minutes. It was as much of an exercise of waiting as it was of planning ahead. The spiderholes would certainly surprise them, which in their ignorance and lack of real combat experience would likely lead them to assume that the Army of the People's Republic is like the false depictions of bourgeois movies about the former Soviet Union's Red Army.

Nearly an hour of intense combat and artillery barrages has passed, storming the ears of many soldiers from both sides, knocking over some to nearly bone-breaking concussion in the metal graves of their enemies, and leading to the inevitable end of some lives, a shattering experience that for most in such battle has been novel, and which has led to the necessary of withdrawing one of their self-propelled artillery brigades to safety, as seemingly what their enemy lacked in manpower, they had in mechanization. It was then that the general saw the symbols passing through the ambush line, and hoping for the better, he crossed his fingers and awaited for the result. If successfully halted, a counter-attack, even with little hopes of ever achieving air superiority, could be conducted through clever tactics he had devised, which if successful would buy them part of the necessary time for the crucial Stoklomolvi's support to arrive and for the reinforcements to come from the west.

Now the cards seemed to have been played right, and hopefully their offensive would be halted. Soon, amidst the cacophony of calls that many ensigns were busy replying to inside the main vehicle of their mobile HQ, amidst the lowering of hastily written numbers next to the now halting symbols that indicated how many of their enemies were gone and amidst the constant tension that seemed to come through the old general as he realized his responsibility for the future of Spain, a call finally came to him through his computer, as a familiar sergeant reported:

"This is sergeant Javier of the twentieth eighth recon squad. The enemy has halted the advance in the entire line! I repeat! The enemy has halted the advance!"

"Acknowledged comrade. Carry on with your duties." the General replied as the immediately closed the communication and quickly typed something over the computer, in a sort of highly streamlined message console. It was time for the first part of their plan to happen, for that moment was the exact gap between each run of their air units through the field. From now on, depending on how it would fare, two different branches could be executed later. Strategic insight was something that they were not lacking of in ground warfare.

Revolución Dos...

Thus, an overwhelming armored assault began, as tanks advanced through an irregular line extending from Llucmajor to Santanyíl to catch up with the two divisions of the enemy clearly seeking to outflank them. The accuracy of the reported symbols was lowering as the battle became intenser, and soon it was noticed that now their enemies were retreating, falling back. He knew what that meant, and realizing that advancing too fast could mean their doom, he then immediately attempted to call everyone to issue his order. However, only static and garble came as he attempted to contact the forces in the front, while the symbols seemed suspiciously static at his computer screen, and looking at one of the technicians, fearing for what such possibility could bring, he asked:

"What is happening here comrade? Our communications are failing. We need to alert them to the trickery of the false retreat from the bourgeois cowards!"

"They have launched jammers, we must destroy those aircrafts if we need a chance to reestablish communications." the technician answered, as the General sighed, and looking at the technician, completely oblivious to the fact they had no interceptor for such task, he then replied back, pondering at the same moment he spoke:

"Damnation! This is what we get from relying too much into a field our enemy masters. The more we rely on technology, the more easily it slips off our control. This if for all the comrades who questioned my proposal of having trained pidgeons as an emergency communication, now contact the animal handling corps, we need to prepare for electronic warfare-free communications as soon possible! Keep trying to reestablish the communications, I must leave."

"Acknowledged comrade, we will do our best to break their jamming." the technician he addressed answered. Vidal then walked through the exit of the command and control truck, observing the outside. The truck was amidst a deserted street in the city of Campos, with sandbags and roadblocks visible as far as the eyes could see further ahead, an infantry fighting vehicle and an old AMX tank escorting the command center five blocks ahead, and at least five edifices, which were the ones straight at his vision. The city seemed a much more potent fortress than any hedgehog or trap they have set up, with its large buildings making excellent covers for prolonged battles, and the unwillingness of their enemies to set the cities they claimed as their own into ruble, it was perhaps there, amidst the brutal streetfighting that an entire division would provide against any invaders with the support of local conscripts, that the tide of the battle would be turned. At the block just behind him, a large square lied with the statue of Carlos Cavallo amidst the green of its grass and the colors of its still tended gardens, an honor to the founder of the People's Republic of Spain and current chairman of the Communist Party, standing as a symbol of their power. As long as it stood there, Campos would be free from the capitalist scourge.

The general looked at a soldier, who was cockling his G36 rifle, bored although very discipline in his guard duty, who immediately saluted him as the general ordered:

"Comrade, move as fast as you can to meet the animal handling corps and inform them that we need their support immediately!"

"Yes, comrade!" he said as he began to move at a fast pace through the city.

With communications temporarily cut down to the front, their enemy would have an advantage that they would not waste, and the general was already expecting to hear bad news about the armored counter-attack which would likely be lured into a killzone. Their aircrafts were likely wrecking havoc over their limited armored support and on the soldiers that advanced together, leading to a significant loss. Sighing, Vidal realized that coping with the losses was everything he could do now. Any counter-offensive was risky, but just waiting would not secure a victory. Among the street, the pavements which had a few crackles through each rough grass came, the buildings and houses barricaded in preparation of a future hellish battlefield in the concrete jungle, only one thing held everything together, their trust to their leader, that no matter how questionable were their actual means, their ends were noble, and that was the only thing that avoided the massive sedition that the Party expected, a belief that they sought to actually create a utopia, that the individual had a duty to the collective, and that sacrifices had to be done.

Although many blocks have been barred due to the war, through the city people still worked, toiled in their daily tasks, lived, talked and did all that they could. Many times it seemed like they were not individuals, but part of a greater whole, uniform, equal and ready for their duties. Militias were being formed by the Commissars in the city, traps were being built, and everything was being readied to, for a change, have their enemies as the takers of the heaviest losses. Looking at the city, the burden the worries of the general brought seemed to be more bearable, for perhaps such city was the before last fortress for Mallorca. If it fell, then their last hope would be to defend the hills and cities to the north, and their capital city Palma, which with millions of comrades, could be the very downfall of the invaders, should they not already meet their doom in the streets of Campos.

It has been a fateful day this 16th of August. The first heavy naval loss of their enemies has happened, reports of an attempt of them to find and destroy their oil reserves through air were coming and now, at the very gateway of Spain, his forces were being pounded, in the hopes that their enemy would underestimate them. He was at the mercy of pidgeon mail, or of a lucky break against the enemy electronic assault, and could do nothing but wait, which was what he did, observing the streets, the propaganda papers swept by the wind, the sandbags over windows, the weapon caches ready to be transferred, and imagining how difficult it would be for their enemies to conquer it. Entire platoons could be positioned at every building, beyond the range of tanks. Civilians could serve as spies, and thus, victory seemed likely. However, with reinforcements, victory would be certain.

Minutes have passed as a bird flew through the skies above the street, and landing next to the general, he observed a paper tied to its leg, and took it with him. Immediately, he came back to the vehicle, saluting the technicians which still struggled to beat the enemy jamming, and typed a quick message, ordering for it to be printed. The paper then, was swapped from his hands to the bag of the pidgeon, as the bird flew back. The message had no doubts about the situation:

The two enemy flanks have disrupted the counterattack and continue to advance in their pincer movement to encircle the city. The 7th brigade has been encircled by the enemy division to the north, and betrayed the revolution. Heavy losses have been reported and very few armors managed to retreat. The enemy will outmaneuver all our forces retreating to Llucmajor, Campos and Santanyíl at this rate. They are recklessly fast in their advance, no matter how many losses they have taken. Because their very armored personell carriers and legions of armored cars are armed with anti-tank and anti-air missiles, we cannot keep up with their artillery capability, and there is little that a static defense could do in an open field.

The message the General has written was very clear. There was only one way to halt their advance for enough time for their forces to reorganize and regroup, and thus, their ancient backup communications would be instructed to send a message to the forces stationed next to the city of Palma. The enemy has taken risks in their northern flank, and a diversionary attack against it would buy enough time. The only problem was how to make such attack last long enough, without air superiority and at the range of their naval artillery, to make a difference, no matter the sacrifices that must be done.

- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wfp5gaSS5Jg -

"Pay attention comrades!" a man said in a loud tone of voice, echoing through the entirety of the environment he was into, the inside of an armored truck, where an entire platoon was being transported. Men conscripted against their will, to defend a cause to which any loyalty could easily vanish in the brink of defeat, where perhaps, to command such men was the greatest of all challenges, for the enemy's offer was extremely tempting. There was no doubt that the Confederacy of Third Spanish States most powerful weapon was their expertise in the art of propaganda, and of convincing their soldiers with poorest morale to defect. Drastic, draconian measures were being planned to reduce the impact of their power of sedition over their army, before their ambitious plan of taking over intact entire divisions without fighting in force of arms could succeed. A perfect opportunity for taking advantage of the fact the enemy still underestimated them was about to come.

And that was exactly where such men, afraid of what lied ahead, but still mostly heading from a certain belief, even if delusional, that they were serving the right cause.They were heading for their destiny, to meet with the very flank of the enemy offensive, to distract it for enough time for the controlled retreat to succeed, for the cities of Mallorca to become hells of concrete for their advancing enemies to conquer. If they failed, the likelihood of the entire island falling would dramatically increase, and thus, it was likely an one-way trip, with no chance for retreat, for they would not be able to hide once the storm has broken, or to cower, until the controlled retreat was successful. If truly competent, many of them would survive, if mediocre, nearly all of them would have to die to accomplish the mission, but if failed, their deaths would be in vain.

To the eyes of a soldier, the comrades ahead were everything to be seen, awaiting for the battle, and what lied through the road was an uncertain that generated an inevitable worry. To the ears of a soldier, the sounds of tires and tracks could easily be differentiated, as even if lacking, such offensive would still be a combined arms operation. To the nose of a soldier however, no glory or fear could be withhold, only the less glorious, rancid smell that tended to attract the extremely annoying louse inside their pants, for they were not simple machines of war. As for the senses, even the numbest of men would be able to feel the rough ride they were getting through, and the wooden benches were far from comfortable, something amplified by the length of the trip so far, of ten short but still long minutes. Rafael Viejas had one primary focus at such moment however, which was not to double check his gear, or to speak, but to simply listen to what else the man had to say, their captain:

"We are going to attack the bourgeois invaders at their weakened zone. In their arrogance, they simply are marching as fast as they can, stretching their line through our large island in the hopes of securing what their egos, fed by their greed and capitalist bigotry, have called as the 'One-day Battle'. This shall be their graveyard, for their northern and and southern flanks are barely defended, and if we break through them, their advance shall be immediately halted, and forced between fighting against encirclement and against our brave comrades inside the cities, they will have no choice but to retreat or surrender! For this to succeed, we must advance only, and not retreat unless the time comes for a retreat. Today the People's Republic of Spain shall prove the might of the revolution! Today the Confederacy invaders shall fall!"

There was mainly one problem with both bold advances. The enemy was known for their number of recon drones, and if their advance was spotted, everything could be lost, or then, they would have to advance to the last man to be able to buy enough time. To this, only one way, desperate perhaps, existed. Some of the best snipers of the People's Republic Army were selected to support the mission, and as all typical drones were low altitude, soon the skies began to be scouted by both self-propelled anti-aircraft guns and sharpshooters to snipe anything that could spot their exact location and give it to artillery crew. Of course, this did not remove the risk of a satellite spotting their advance from the skies, a risk they had to take, but as such devices had their limitations, a risk of controllable level.

Placed upon them was the fate of Spain, and their leader had yet more to say, for it was likely a fight to death, with no retreat until the retreat of remaining defenses at the east was completed. Yet it was not the stereotypical human wave assault against machineguns like in that discredited cliché from certain war movies about the Soviet Union in the second world war. For each soldier there was a spare rifle, and not the opposite, they were all equipped with latest generation equipment, including the solid G36 assault rifle and native Type III body armor designed using the Interceptor technology as an inspiration, more than able of stopping the shots from the enemy rifles, provided they weren't set in burst fire. Each of them had more than enough ammunition for the mission at hand, and the assault would be sperheaded by what they had of armors, rather than by a suicidal charge of poorly equipped soldiers against machinegun posts. Of course, without air superiority, no matter how well executed it was, the risk of most of them dying was not small.

"Comrades! Once you are ordered to leave this truck, do not blink an eye, do not wait one second, and take cover as fast as you can. We must provide fire support to the main assault of tanks, armors and mechanized infantry and take down any capitalist pig with anti-tank weaponry! Do not miss anything, for one mistake might lead to failure! Once ordered, move on to other points of cover as we advance, and only retreat when I, or, if my life must be sacrificed for the sake of proletariat, private Viejas here, order for you to retreat! We must delay the enemy at all costs!" their captain insisted, as the rough and bumpy ride continued. "Privates Juarez and Marquis! Move to your posts as designated marksman, and if you spot anything funny in the skies, shoot it and report it immediately to me!"

"Acknowledge Comrade!" they said as they headed to two platforms that allowed them to see the entirety of the skies, and double-checked their AWP Scout sniper rifles, observing at the skies, watchful for the probable coming of the greatest weapon of their enemies: information. There were tales of farmers who supposedly took down V1 rockets with their shotguns during World War Two, but those were just legends. From the altitude of the drones they expected to see, it was more logical, specially when combined with machineguns and anti-aircraft guns from Tunguska vehicles, which they have so far hidden to let their enemies underestimate them, prepared to cleanse the skies. There were still long twenty minutes for the force to arrive.

Elsewhere, next to the shores of Mallorca, a small flotilla of speedboats transported a few platoons as well, intended to support the primary assault force through the deserted and poorly defended northernmost shore they enemies had never landed into. And, painted in a very effective camouflage, lacking any radar or significant profile, they were very likely to get past unnoticed the distant pocket battleships and vessels of the enemy. It was a cheap trick of "stealthiness", but nonetheless effective, and so far undected, they continued through the littoral, to reach their destiny, to advance as a first diversionary attack, forcing the enemy to ignore the location of the real diversionary attack, as a diversion for another diversion to increase the likelihood of success of the entire operation.

For those in the ground however, sooner or later the battle would begin. The speedboats would however arrive ten minutes earlier, to draw enemy forces to their position, and perhaps allow for a few to be encircled on the beaches. There was a second problem however: thermobaric and incendiary rockets used in the artilleries of their enemies, which could wipe entire platoons during an advance, to which the only solution was to be cautious, but at the same time decisive in taking them down with their armor and with their effective anti-tank weaponry, coupled with the crucial element of surprise.

The beachhead began to be filled with soldiers and ordnance, with no visible opposition. They have managed to get past the eyes of the enemy, and now prepared for their important attack. Every second, the enemy forces stretched further, and now it was a good time to slow them down and force them to run back to attack them. Crouched, scouts were moving away from the beaches and into the meadows ahead to locate the enemy disposition of forces, to return after many minutes of risk to their lives, announcing that there were only three tanks and five Librecielos ahead, asides from five hundred soldiers to cover ten kilometers of land which could be easily be subdued and forced to retreat.

The first part of the operation thus begun, as mortars were prepared, and soldiers began to cautiously position themselves to surprise the enemy. Crawling through tall grasses, into a line that extended through one kilometer. The battle was about to begin, as ordered by one single voice, in silence:

"Open fire!"

And thus, announced by the thunder of mortars and light artillery, bringing a wave of unexpected destruction to some who they expected to be the least skilled of their enemies, the assault into the weakened rear of the enemy's northern flank began. An attack of which the future of the island depended upon. An attack which the Confederacy of Third Spanish States was not expecting, for they still were foolish to believe the People's Republic of Spain would fight a mostly defensive war and take no risks.

There was no major, only several leaders of platoons that have reached, together with their comrades in battle, a consensus regarding the defense of the northern flank of their division. It seemed a small force at first glance, supposedly easy to be routed back, and yet, in the fronts far ahead, a fraction of their forces have managed to pull back their enemies, to encircle an entire brigade and repel an ambush and a counter-attack. They were after all, Marinos, or just marines, and even if it was impossible to replace their relatively small losses so far until the battle was gone, each of them was worth at least five of the enemy soldiers, and willing to give his life not out of fear of being shot by an infamous Commissar, but from his utmost belief over the fact his cause was the right one.

Nonetheless, the attack has proved once again that no matter how technology they had, even then, a network-centric warfare had its shortcomings, and one of them was to trust more into what computers and machines told than on the limited, but more effective competence of having a larger number of dedicated patrol squads. As the close sound of artillery was heard, a man named Antonio de la Vega shouted to the communicator of his helmet while he ran:

"Everyone get down! All vehicles, move! Move!"

A controlled chaos came, as soldiers began to run away from the vehicles nearby, where likely the gross of artillery fire would be concentrated, some throwing behind decks of cards, cans of soda and magazines of questionable content. Others coming out with their pants down from the inside of the porta-potties which have been part of the deployment since the start, and most important of all, as the vehicles began to accelerate out of their vulnerable positions, marked by their computers as areas to avoid, the same systems which have served to ensure such barrage of fire would not destroy anything were now triangulating the trajectory of the flying shells, as active protection systems prepared to serve as one last line of defense against them.

Antonio simply went into one of the quickly built bunkers they have made over the meadows, mostly held together by sandbags, and looked at the many hollowed, but empty areas, from where they could take on the invaders once they came through, and at the traps that such cheap static defenses were prepared with, for they had no intention to hold them for much time, for they would retreat if necessary, as they knew their enemies lacked the mobility to effectively encircle them, and that no cheap bunker was worth the lives of men to be defended. Their goal was not to die for land, but for freedom, and fittingly, the conquest of the minds and hearts of the people was more important than the defense of territory, for without people afraid of them, the People's Republic of Spain would be nothing.

It was perhaps interesting... how the beach still had children toys spread around from past times. And it was an excellent opportunity as well to test a new weapon, an expensive but nonetheless effective device. Antonio knew that the trick would not work twice, unless nobody managed to retreat to tell it, or whatever remained of such invaders swapped sides in the conflict. Amidst shovels, old trucks and plastic buckets, lied a very peculiar educational toy, something nobody would ever care to pay attention to, as after all, who would ever suspect from a mere Rubik's Cube abandoned in the middle of a pile of children toys from days when such beaches and meadows were happier?

Soon the loud, nearly deafening sound of the artillery shells rocked through Antonio's ears, while his small bunker began to become loaded with soldiers, who carrying ZM300 Man-portable autocannons, prepared to take the best positions until they were no longer useful. The bunker had basically twelve spaces for emplacements, which would allow for a very powerful barrage of fire to be given, specially when air-burst rounds were used. While the vehicles would attempt to track the enemy artillery's position for counter-battery fire, with the advantage they would be able to maneuver away. A handful of men prepared to stop the hundreds on their track, and they would only call in reinforcements if utterly necessary. Any air support they requested would be one less for their offensive, and any soldier and tank forced to return for their defense would equally be an important contribution lost, and perhaps that was the exact reason for such suicidal offensive, to divert efforts from their main goal, to delay them.

The defensive line stood as a part of dug in positions stretching between two uneven lines of a hundred meters of extension each, intended to halt the most likely counter-attack attempt to come, for their enemies came as the risks were assumed, and not daring enough to risk their limited supply of armors, they would be manageable, even though they could still manage to get through. Antonio observed as his comrades, most men but with a few women among them, hurriedly prepared positions for the defense, some of them carrying ammunitions, others carrying cleaning oil and tripods, to defend the chokepoint for as much time as it would be a good choice to hold their ground. Their enemies were quick to crouch behind cover, however, as they realized what was at stake. Their advance would be slow, and cunning, rather than rapid and suicidal. There was only one problem however, for such line wouldn't be able to continue firing if artillery was used effectively, and at every interval of seconds, the loud storm of artillery seemed to come closer and closer. Loud sounds of machinegun fire began to throw sand off the beaches. A cacophonic song of war echoed through everywhere, and somehow, every second was precious, and every man important.

Antonio could not just wait and give tactical advices, which in other military forces were known as orders, to his comrades. The artillery barrages were getting closer, and the two Librecielos, with their Air Defense Anti-Tank Systems, were having difficulties to identify the location of enemy artillery from their constant maneuvering to avoid incoming fire. Hundreds of Bolshevist soldiers were prone, hidden into thick grasslands, awaiting for artillery to silence their man portable autocannons and their suppressive fire halting their advance, or likely attempting to sneak through cover, thoughts that were continually interrupted, as a strange white noise was coming from his ears, but to avoid losing awareness, Antonio refused to put the canalphones. It was for him a first experience with a real battle. And one he had to perform well, for the future of Spain was at their hands.

The very ground trembled stronger, as the impacts of artillery were coming closer, threatening their lives, but yet they remained, with explosive bursts of fire halting their enemies, as air-burst ammunitions dusted the sand, creating screens of smoke, and scorched the grasses, with their tracers coming through the horizon. The portrait of a battle, where much was at stake, and soon enemy casualties came, forcing them to avoid trying to flank their defenses, as the unwary ended into what would be assumed as a minefield, but which was something completely different. Antonio had to act decisively, and thus, he had to know how the small group of armors supporting them was doing. A Sino 2A1 Main Battle Tank and Two Librecielos were all they got, together with his single platoon of Marines that covered that specific area, with half focused on the defense, and half ready to move and cover their retreat, or to be the first to advances. He was a platoon leader, elected by his comrades with such responsibility, and now he had to prove they were not wrong in having chosen him. Lowering the microphone of his helmet, he then spoke:

"Comrade Alberto from mixed armor squad! We need a counter-artillery barrage now or we'll have to retreat to another position! I will give you one minute!"

"Alberto here! We have located the gross of their artillery and mortars. We have managed to wipe out many of the mortars positions, but their artillery is at the coast! I repeat: they have rigged some damn artillery guns in speedboats!"

Another artillery barrage then interrupted their conversation, even closer, as Antonio began to wonder how much time they still had to bail out from that doomed emplacement. Time was not a luxury to be wasted, for the lives of fifteen soldiers were at stake.

"What? Are you joking me? Can't the Navy wipe them out?" Antonio immediately replied, as he realized the sort of improvisation their enemies have pulled, one that would certainly not work for much time, as if they retreated enough in their elastic defense, they would be out of range of such foolish sort of "technical". Foolish, poorly accurate due to the influence of waves, but still better, for it they were simply laid over the ground, they would have already managed to take them down with their anti-tank missiles, which could do the job as counter-artillery as well.

"Those damn things are tough to be tracked, only a bomber would effectively take them down, but... they are so close that I am sure an anti-materiel rifle could do the service, provided we advance enough to reach their range."

"Alberto! We are thirty men only here! We can't take such risk. If we fail they could cut right through our supply lines! Unless... you give us cover and transport us to an appropriate sniping area, and then, we might be willing to advance against a force that could be twenty times larger than ours, and that multiplied by two because half of us must stay here to suppress these Stalinists. And don't forget to request blank shells with propaganda next time too!"

"It's too dangerous, there is too much artillery fire close to your position."

"Yes, this is war, it's dangerous period! We have legs, not tracks or wheels! We can't run faster than an artillery shell, but you can! So Alberto, send in both Librecielos now to rendezvous with twelve of our man, and time this damn artillery if you need to, it's not like they are firing continually those old rusts!"

"All right! I am sending both vehicles to your position, but you better run like hell to their insides because we are not going to wait you to get inside like sitting ducks for the artillery. And get your AMR ready. At least this is going to be faster than asking for air support to come. Although I've already asked for it, so these damn pigs are dead anyway."

Antonio then closed the communicator, and looking at the soldiers, who continued to fire, but who smartly used indirect means of vision like attached cameras to their guns to avoid getting shot, were restless in their resolve to finish with this as fast as possible. Their ammunition was limited, and after a while the stocks of the quickly built bunker would run out, as support ran around bringing more and more cases of magazines.

"Keep holding them comrades! And use your scopes well. Don't give them a chance to aim a missile launcher against us at all costs! This is going to end soon!"

Five hundred meters was the distance between them and their enemies now. At first, it was a seven hundred, but slowly, they were advancing, cautiously to avoid their deaths, supported by improvised forms of seaborne artillery. Many of their mortars were already gone, with only their most light ones still persevering, as they went frenetically from different positions, carried by desperate soldiers who realized their impending death.

A soldier immediately came with a pair of cases where the two parts of the rifle were, an Antonio prepared to leave the relative safety of the emplacement, together with more eleven combatants who were to make an offensive maneuver to secure a single spot. Taking a small handheld from his pocket, Antonio observed the marked waypoint of the best spot for taking down the artillery boats. It was a one try action, for if they missed, the boats would simply retreat beyond range, and continue their assault. And perhaps, fifteen men and women could die if they failed with such endeavor.

Breathing momentarily, Antonio prepared to time his run for the infantry fighting vehicle, from the exit of the bunker, a ramp that led straight to the top of the meadow, a vulnerable position that would require suppressive fire to be properly defended. There would be few seconds for him to reach the safety of the vehicle, and even fewer seconds for the vehicle to run away from another barrage of enemy artillery before it was too late. Artillery shells fell as close as thirty meters from his current position, and his ears were being continually assaulted by their thundering noises, one of four exits, five others were next to him, ready to embark. The flashes of tracer ammunition, of artillery shells, the noises of the portable autocannons and explosions were everything that prevailed over his senses as he awaited. At the distance, two vehicles, featured by their twin cannons in the middle of eight tubes of missile launchers, their silhouettes becoming clearing as they approached, climbing the soft elevation of the meadow, were in a cadency of stops and goes, following the timing of the artillery explosions as they slowly advanced.

Antonio observed his comrades, and then listened to another comm through the earphone of his helmet, one that reached all soldiers that prepared to embark:

"Listen up comrades! Once I say go, you got five seconds to get inside the vehicle. Get ready to run towards your transports, we are not going to wait and die!"

"You go first!" Antonio said to the other five ones, as the soldiers prepared for their run. Crouched because of the constant barrages of artillery, they observed the slow arrival of both vehicles, which quickly turned a half circle and were now moving on reverse-speed through the last fifty meters towards them, as fast as they could. An artillery shell exploded less than four meters behind the Librecielo, but it was unharmed, and now few seconds remained.

"Go! Go! Go!" the message came through the radio, announcing the time was now. The soldiers quickly got up and began to run as fast as they could, with Antonio right behind them. Two of them were carrying the parts of the RAM-37. The hatch of the Librecielo opened, nearly falling over the feet of the closest soldier due to their hurry, and Antonio began to run, taking a glimpse of the scorched shrubs and grasses around. The soldiers were getting inside the vehicle as fast as they could, taking them seats and sometimes simply having to impact with its edge to lose their momentum. The few seconds were depleting, and a tension filled the heart of Antonio as he, distracted, looked to the sky, seeing as the trace of another shell was about to come from the distance.

He ran for the objective, with only one second remaining, and only one meter between him and the inside of the vehicle. Then suddenly, everything became dizzier, as a lightening strike came. A loud explosion suddenly seceded as he could only hear the muffled whispers of the battle, and disorientated, struggled to get inside the vehicle, realizing that an artillery shell nearly fell over him. Muffled shouts asking for him to move came through, until he tried to balance himself inside the vehicle, and helped by his comrades, was put down. He has risked himself dearly for his comrades, although they had little time for thanks as a strong kick came from the maximum acceleration of the vehicle, which headed out of there as fast as it could.

Another loud explosion was heard then, as another shell fell very close to the vehicle, trembling the very ground, and they realized how they just did it right on time to avoid a disaster. Still dizzy, Antonio de la Vega observed the metallic frame of the vehicle, and sat upon a comfortable foamed bench to rest a bit, for their goal would not be easy. While their six-man group would take responsibility for the boats, the other vehicle, would send two fireteams to take shots of opportunity against the enemies there. Supported by the Librecielo, and by the only tank they had, which has managed to avoid a straight shot of artillery against its roof so far, as firing from boats wasn't a very accurate thing to target anything smaller than a bunker.

- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7FldObZIndU -

The sounds of tracks touching the ground were becoming louder as Antonio's ears were recovering from something that could have deafened him, and with his hands holding a RBA battle rifle, he was ready to secure the position with his comrades against hundreds that would likely attempt to stop them. Suddenly the sounds of the missiles launching could be heard as well, coupled with the sonata of the gast autocannon, a very close noise of war, as the vehicle they were in fired against infantry foolish enough to attempt taking it down, bringing a wake of death to a minority who sought to risk acts of heroism for their unworthy cause. The noises of the portable autocannons however, were getting more and more distant, but the travel would not take much time, only a matter of a minute and half for the position to be reached. Antonio hoped he was exaggerating when he claimed the defenses wouldn't last more than a minute without counter-artillery, for now much was at stake. Suddenly, a new sound came, a voice shouting:

"Fire against the AT now Gonzales!" and the sound of the autocannons, loud and strong, resumed again, just in time to avoid what could have been a disaster. Their enemies were advancing more than they expected, and have done a few traps along the way.

"Everything is under control, and we are driving them back, for they are seriously lacking in anti-armor capabilities. Once this is over I'll buy you a beer for this Gonzales, you are the best gunner I ever worked with! And just twenty seconds now, we are almost there!" came the announcement to their earphones. The autocannon rarely stopped firing, likely always busy with some fool trying to stop them. The pace of their advance was nearly insane, but that was how they operated when the circumstances were of calculated and acceptable risks, for mobility could put aside numerical advantages, and allow for numerically superior armies to be slowly gnat by focal points, key advances and the push for surrender that being surrounded and without resources would bring

"Get ready to depart! We don't got one of those ACTs so be careful and take cover as fast as you can!" Antonio instructed, reminding them that, to allow for the vehicle to fit with six soldiers, no tactical combat drone was loaded inside, even because most of those were being sent to the front lines. Ten seconds only remaining, amidst the trembling of the vehicle, the previous near hits of artillery and the utmost tension, such ten seconds seemed like an eternity, the always present need for the virtue of patience in an war, as adrenalin pumped at full strength in their hearts.

The hatch then opened, and Antonio was resolute to leave first. A few bullets were flying close to the IFV, and according to the map they were seeing in an electronic display, the other two fireteams were just unloading two hundred meters west of them for a rapid hit and run assault, supported by the fires of autocannons, and of canister shot and machinegun rounds of the Sino 2A1 main battle tank, with each fireteam going to suppress the closest enemies in their wake as they would advance, to cut the enemy line of attackers in half, and quickly set boobytraps amidst them, using again the weird but effective Rubikampfer Wurfelgranaten for such task, for they could not realistically hold their ground, and would have to take advantage from the brief momentum of their unexpected attack. Moving crouched, Antonio observed everything behind the IFV, and instructed three soldiers:

"Adriane, cover our southwest flank! Rafael, cover our south! Javier, you cover our southeast because you are better with your left hand! And stay alert, if you spot too many, you can call directly Gonzales to give you fire support, and if there are hundreds, ask for the thermobaric rockets then! Douglas, cover me and Ruiz while we prepare the AMR! Stay alert people, we are need to defend this small position of advantage quick, and we must try to avoid letting them spot us as much as possible, or their artillery guns could start to go against our position!"

Their position was a small mound, covered by two trees, which northwest was featured by the beach and sea, which was about three hundred meters ahead, from where even to the naked eye, the distant dots could be seen, from where shells flew towards their destinations. A bunch of rocks restricted access to the place and served as good points for cover, a place which barely had space for the vehicle to park in a small dried bog, which served to hide its profile, specially combined with its camouflage netting, while not hindering its capability to give support fire to them. Slowly, Antonio took one of the cases with a part of the AMR while Ruiz took the other, and they began to mount it, preparing it for the objective ahead.

Suddenly a lowered female voice announced through their communicators:

"Here is Adriane, I have spotted four patrols coming close, but they haven't spotted us yet. We better not waste too much time taking those boats down or they might see us, and then we will have another barrage of artillery to deal with."

"All right, keep an eye on them, and if they spot us, shoot them. Gonzales, you brought some spare suppressors, right?"

"Yeah, let our sys op handle them."

And suddenly another freedom fighter came out of the vehicle, crouched, and began to distribute suppressors among the soldiers. It has been a small error to have forgotten to equip them first, but as their first war, they still were green on a way no matter how many simulated exercises they had, and it was difficult to keep track of so many things when artillery shells rocked so close. Now they would have a chance to take a few of them down without alerting the rest. Adriane continued to watch the patrol, ready to shoot at them if necessary, while suddenly another near whisper came to all of them as a man observed something with the scope of his battle rifle:

"Here is Douglas. Holy... there are hundreds of them crawling through those beaches in specific camouflage for it, dispersed enough to prevent a massacre if a few of them are spotted. We better finish this soon or they could just surround us, even if not on purpose. Seems most of them lack anti-tank weaponry though, but I've counted twenty Khornets so far."

"Douglas, we are almost there, and they are crawling, not running." Antonio replied back in another near whisper, while he concentrated himself to finish mounting the RAM-37. It was a handy toll of trade, a quite heavy one as well, with enough punch to even pierce the sides of some IFVs. It would certainly do its job against such type of "naval artillery", if it could be called this way.

As a final touch, a netting was placed around the rifle, and then Antonio assumed control of it and asked for Ruiz to cover the northeast. Driving his scope, he prepared to take his first shot, when suddenly a medium intensity shot was heard, followed by a whispered warning from the only woman among them:

"They have spotted us! Hurry up!"

The rifle was zeroed and ready to go, but he had to aim well his shots, but still had to not waste much time. Observing the trail of artillery, he guided his scope to their place, and slowly adjusted its zoom to optimal placement. Antonio wasn't skilled with assault, but he was a good sharpshooter. And thus, he saw the boat, and aimed straight at its submerged area, hoping it would be enough to destabilized it.

A loud shot echoed through the beach, enough to call the attention of the enemies, as the large boat began its slow sinking, augmented by the weight of the artillery piece, which nearly placed at the limited of its maximum displacement, a risk they took, and they would pay for right now. With no wait, Antonio began to aim for the next, as he expected they would soon begin their retreat. He kept his aim over it for the next four seconds, to ensure a hit. Suddenly the shots of his anti-materiel rifle were no longer the loudest of the battle, as missiles began to fly from the IFV and its autocannons gave bursts of fire to keep the enemy at bay, coupled with the shots of five RBAs from his comrades, covering all sides, with the priority of trying to avoid being surrounded. Two artillery boats down, and six to go. But instead of retreating, suddenly the boats turned back, and began to fire at a new target: them.

The ground began to shake, with pebbles dropping and a few particles of dust raising, as Antonio realized how important was for him to be fast, and risked no longer full accuracy, aiming against the next boat, which coincidentally was the last one to fire, trying to reach them. Crouched, he could feel the bullets flying close, as heavy fire began. Their enemies got their RPKs ready and were pouring everything against them, as Antonio shouted to emphasize again:

"Don't let them get close enough for grenades! And focus on their anti-tank crews!"

The fifth boat was thus downed, while explosions continued to storm the place, but Antonio had to trust in the competence of his friends, for he could not stop now, where every fraction of second could be the difference between their deaths and their survival. Instead, he observed as the boats stopped fired... and suddenly a deafening noise came, as the ground shook like never before, and his senses became dizzy again, with sounds muffling from another near miss, as he could hear a familiar noise of many falling leaves and crackling woods, and suddenly a bump of an human body somewhere, followed by a loud crash of a tree against the soil.

"Get down! Incoming missile!" Diego then shouted as they fell back to the bog, and suddenly the noise of a missile in its flight became fastly closer. In a few seconds, its destiny defined. It was another close one, as the active protection system of their armor saved the day, for otherwise, even though they would likely survive, having to return on foot would be a massive danger. And soon, recovering from the shock, they shot down the ATGM crew before they could load another one. Antonio then saw as the boats were still retreating, and began to shoot against them. The scope pointed into another one, and with only one second for aiming, he already shot, and before checking if it did hit or not, he moved to the other one. It was a major challenge to concentrate amidst such heavy, deafening fire of machineguns, coupled with the dusted that attempted to asphyxiate him, and with the heavy senses of fear to be held at bay, when sometimes he could listen to the bullets coming a less than two meters above his head. Their position had little more than twenty square meters, and every second, the threat of an encirclement was getting nearer.

"Antonio! Thanks for stopping it, I thought we were going to die!" came as a pleasant answer from his comrades manning the autocannons to the south. But he did not like to leave his work unfinished, and thus, lied his last chance. The boat was soon to leave the effective range of the anti-materiel rifle, and such was the last bullet of the second magazine he loaded there. The enemies were however, resolute, and although some of them have died from their positions of fire and maneuver, they were faring quite well, compared to the "Soviet Human Wave Assault" stereotype, and they were much more cautious than them, while probably attempting to distract them with some pawns, to let them miss as the most stealthy of theirs sneaked all-around. Yet Antonio could only trust his skills, and his friends, as he prepared for the last, decisive shot that would deprive their enemy from the primary mean they had to conduct a proper offensive without a heavily death toll.

The boat, distant, was all that he could see at such moment. And sectioned by a crosshair, his last target, moving, which would require a certain range-finding skill, was about to meet its fate, be it to get out as a whole, or be destroyed. And thus, Antonio pressed the trigger, aiming slightly ahead of the boat's position, as another strong recoil as felt, and he observed. It would require a few seconds, as he paid attention, but suddenly the boat stopped, and began to sink. The mission was successful, but now, they had still to get out of there.

"Antonio! We can't just suppress them continually, we'll run out of ammo if we do!" Adriane explained, as she finally did her first assured kill, shooting the head of an unwary soldier at single-fire mode, with her scope as an aid. It was the first individual she was certain to have killed, a man who was only forced to fight, to die... it was a pity that they had no ways to show them the truth, but if they managed to encircle them, perhaps they could convince them to free themselves from a duty to tyrants and traitors of the Spanish people, for such was the opus magnum of the Revolutionary Army's strategy. For a brief moment, Adriane thought about the orphan child she might have left, about the tears of a woman, about the suffering that such war was inflicting, but the flying of bullets around wasn't very conductive to long-lasting emotional pondering, and soon she resumed her full attention to the environment ahead.

"Adriane and Rafael, suppress them while we move inside, then bail out! We must rush back to encircle the ones you blocked through traps and keep them down with naval artillery! And crush them into our tracks if necessary! Assault team! What's your status? We need you to cover our retreat before we are encircled!"

"This is assault team, we have managed to break down their lines in the shore! We are currently ready for anything! Coming in!"

And thus All the fours crouched back to the inside of the vehicle as Adriane and Rafael burst with their rifles, to keep the enemies at bay, and the autocannons continued to focus on the enemies ahead. Suddenly, the last soldiers began to walk backwards, giving intervals to shoot, as they finally made their way to the inside of the vehicle, which hatch closed, preparing for departure.

Its engines soon went at their power, as it turned another half circle, continuing to fire against infantry. Suddenly it began to advance against a line of enemy soldiers that lied ahead. To their west, the tank and the other Librecielo mopped up everything in their way on their moves. The insides were shaken, as the sounds of bullets and the cries could be heard. Suddenly a sound of smashed flesh and bones came, as an unfortunate soul refused to open way for its advance, as the tracks of the vehicle became loaded with the blood of their enemy, in one of the most visible demonstrations of how war was brutal, no matter the cause it was fought for.

"Gonzales, ATs!" came the communication again, as the sounds of the autocannons were mixed with the incoming sound of further missiles, and a rough turn began to be performed by the vehicle, nearly through Antonio off balance. The tactical map was very clear, although no enemy positions were given to avoid major tactical disasters from depending on seeing red dots to be sure there were enemies. It was time to wear down their pursuers, and to advance against the hundred encircled into the beaches. Suddenly further noises came from afar, as heavy cruisers gunned against the beach, with their shells opening holes and dusting its sand, as soldiers of the enemy ran for cover, realizing they had nowhere to run. It was the time to force their surrender. An excellent opportunity amidst so many risks and threats they have already overcome.

An opportunity broken however, as the truth about the nature of such attack came, and further to the north, another platoon announced in their worries:

"This is platoon leader Herrera! A mechanized brigade is advancing against our position! I repeat! We have armors against us! Requesting reinforcement immediately!"

Ten minutes have passed since the battle has begun, ten minutes of fire, of shelling and destruction which were however enough to give a serious blow to their enemies, and now, even with inferior numbers, they would be able to round up such infantry, but everything has changed. Antonio knew his platoon was the closest one to the platoon of Herrera, and that Herrera was in an even more delicate situation, for although he had a small squad with operators of Durruti 2 anti-tank and anti-air missiles, they lacked any immediate armored support, and now had to face an overwhelming counter attack. A tough decision was to be made, for he either had to risk letting such soldiers to advance and threaten their supply lines with hit-and-run attacks, or risk to let the much more dangerous force further to the north to advance and threaten their supply lines.

He had to take a decision as fast as possible, and to face the consequences.

The Igovian Fleet

The Indian Soviet fleet had not been making particularly good time, and had just spent several hours at reduced speed owing to uncertainty over the possibility of an impending change of orders. A Soviair flight, BG910, had been hijacked by a group calling itself the Indian Red Army, and it now seemed to have diverted to a tiny East Balkan nation, the People's Socialist Republic of Bulgislavia, making the Spain task force the closest Igovian assets in the region. After wasting several hours in the Eastern Mediterranean, the expeditionary force pushed back up to maximum cruise speed, and here in exposed to anyone aware of the fact the dearly protected secret troubles that were anchored deep in the enormous Soviet war machine.

The fleet was making just fourteen knots, tied to its slowest hulls. For all the rhetorical aggrandising of the Igovian way's global significance, the Commonwealth Guard -claiming to be history's largest fighting organisation- was very much geared towards operation in a theatre defined by the fringes of the Indian Ocean. The Rapier Class mine-countermeasures vessels traveling with the so-called Commonwealth Expeditionary Force Spain, though fitted with satellite navigation aides, digitised communications, and constructed of shockproof non-magnetic materials, couldn't break 15 knots flat out. The sleek, highly automated Hyaenidae Class expeditionary transports, despite displacing some 47,000 tonnes, could make 27.5 knots, but were tied with everybody else to the 21.5 knot Verix Class combat stores ships and 19.5 knot Restoration Class submarine tenders (which might have been left to their own devices but that the whole fleet would eventually have to wait for the MCMs in any case).

Then there were the Nibiru Class light carrier assault ships that carried the bulk of the inbound Soviet Marines. Ordered during the soft-hearted Second Commonwealth of the 1990s and built on hulls designed to civilian shipping standards, they'd served well when they weren't being shot. but had a propensity to catch fire when this actually happened. Gujarat Class corvettes were good little ships, but meant to operate in India's littoral waters, not on intercontinental expeditions, and both India's frigates and its destroyers were built on the same hull and displaced less than 4,300 tonnes a piece. It was only grudgingly that the Soviet Commune had approved funding for the Chainmail Class multi-role missile cruiser run and finally given the Commonwealth a 13,000 tonne surface combatant, but even this was done with no real experience in the field. The Commonwealth Class trimaran fleet carrier was all well and good, but amongst the oldest trimaran type in world service, and like the newer but less complicated Defiance Class single-hull carrier it could support less than seventy aircraft, relatively little by current world standards.

Still, for all their well-hidden shortcomings, the Igovians had some pedigree. Fleet commander Rear-Admiral Viknrix had served in Madagascar long before being elected to his current lofty position, skirmishing with the western imperialists who briefly occupied part of the island, and expedition leader General Indomartus had been a Colonel during the Zhyolatskan civil war, where he lead just 2,000 Soviet Marines up against an entire 15,000-strong Front of the Cynapsian Red Army.

Under him, Major Visterix and Captain Bracharius also served in Zhyolatska, the latter leading a charge consisting of seventy Soviet Marines, two hundred local militiamen, and ten light vehicles against a Cynapsian force of a thousand men and thirty battle tanks, getting himself shot twice in the process.

It won't be much longer before the 'CEFS' infringes upon the theatre of conflict...

Commonwealth Expeditionary Force Spain

Commanders and heroes
Rear-Admiral comrade Viknrix
Comrade General Indomartus
Marine General comrade Dejotarus of Ancyra Newydd
Comrade Colonel Prasutagus
Comrade Major Morgan ap Visterix
Comrade Captain Bracharius, Hero of the Revolution Abroad

Utopia Class battleships
CS Anarchism (Flag) 'In Victory, Liberty!'
71,490t full, 280m, 29kt+, 1,492 hands flag, 3 helicopters, 12x16" guns

Commonwealth Class trimaran fleet aircraft carriers
CS Karnataka
CS Harbhajan
90,000t war, 307m, 32kt, 2,700 hands + 600 Marines, 60 aircraft

Defiance Class fleet aircraft carriers
CS Petropavlovsk
82,500t war, 307m, 31kt, 2,624 hands + 600 Marines, 65 aircraft

Nibiru Class light aircraft carrier assault ships
CS Redoubtable
CS Concorde
CS Belinus
CS Kolokol
CS Nibiru
17,920t, 185m, 21kt, 457 hands + 450 Marines, 20 aircraft, 4 vehicles

Anunkai Class guided-missile fleet submarines
CS Benito Juárez
CS Anhrugarog (Merciless)
7,957t, 102m, 24kt submerged, 127 hands, 6x517mm TT

Ortiagon Class air-independent-propulsion attack submarines
CS Obry (Beneath)
CS Onion
2,310t submerged, 70m, 21kt submerged, 32 hands, 4x517mm 2x670mm TT 8xVLS

Chainmail Class multi-role guided-missile cruisers
CS Ood
CS Antonio Gramsci
12,920t war, 178m, 33kt+, 342 hands, 1 helicopter, 64xVLS

Bodkin Class general warfare frigates
CS El-Ouali
CS Sylvia Pankhurst
CS Dic Penderyn
4,270t, 137m, 29kt, 174 hands, 1 helicopter

Gauntlet Class fleet defence frigates (destroyers)
CS Daffodil
CS Coelacanth
CS Nallapambu
CS Gibbon
CS Gaur
4,241t, 137m, 29kt+, 175 hands, 1 helicopter

Gujarat Class multi-role corvettes
CS Igovia
CS Mile End
CS Salvador
1,800t, 100m, 34kt, 110 hands, helicopter pad

Hyaenidae Class landing pad dock ships
CS Hyena
CS Aardwolf
47,000t, 299m, 27.5kt, 59 hands, highly automated, 500 vehicles, helicopter capable

Palaemon Class heavy support ships
CS Coubert
49,500t, 236m, 26kt, 187 hands, 4xCIWS, 2xhelicopters

Verix Class combat stores ships
3 hulls
15,100t, 179m, 21.5kt, 110 hands, 2x30mm 2x17mm

Brompton Class support tankers
4 hulls
12,085t, 142m, 25kt, 74 hands, 2x30mm

Benefactor Class ammunition ships
5 hulls
18,000t, 165m, 24kt, 136 hands, 3x30mm, helicopter deck

Restoratian Class submarine tenders
2 hulls
21,200t, 171m, 19.5kt, 1,015 hands, 2xCIWS

Ysbyty Class hospital ships
CHS Proudhon
CHS Faithful Hound
62,090t, 303m, 19kt, 1,215 hands incl. 115 civilian, helicopter airlift capacity

Rapier Class mine countermeasures vessels
4 hulls
1,000t, 54.5m, 15kt, 42 hands, 1x17mm

- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TfpZ-H0Wk68 -

There were many announcements that a battle was about to come after many hours of lull and waiting. Waiting perhaps, was the most common fact in the duty of a soldier. Patience was as much important of a virtue as a good aim, and as the courage and readiness to self-sacrifice, if necessary, for brashness was many times synonymous of failure, and yet, the enemy seemed all hasty and brash in their offensive, forgetting of the essential virtue, letting their pride guide them to the belief on an impossible goal: to conquer a large island like Mallorca in only one day. Iwo Jima, a much smaller island, took months to be conquered, how could it be different in such a place, where their offenders were this time, outnumbered due to their arrogant pride that they could achieve the feat of winning an offensive, even with inferior numbers. And yet, half of the defenses were still in the east of the island, away from the front, but heading towards it. Or actually, stagnant. The total lack of air superiority was a major deterrent to shipping troops and resources during daylight, and in main roads, and for now, they were not desperate to the point of risking it. General Vidal Torres knew that eventually Mallorca would fall, but he was confident that their forces would be able to inflict heavy losses against the enemy, and perhaps convince them that the cost of lives would not be worth the island, and that they would stand no chance against the mainland.

However, the strategic big picture was barely thought about by Rafael Viejas, as he had to focus on other worries. The battle was announced by the loud exploding noises and machineguns of not so distant tanks firing, while he still sat upon the truck with his comrades. Their leader has given a speech before, but this time, doing so was much more challenging due to the interference of the orchestra of death everywhere. Nonetheless, it was a common to give an inspiring speech to those who prepared to battle, specially when such was against so uneven odds as it would be.

"Comrades! These will be the most important minutes of your service to the people, and of your very lives. Today the enemy has lost hundreds of tanks and lives, as we have proved the superiority of our cause! The Spanish workers, the Party and our very future lie in your hands!" was suddenly interrupted as a loud explosion came, and Rafael braced himself as he realized the strong pressure of gravity and of the explosion pushing the truck while his rifle was thrown away, falling into the grass behind. It was a matter of seconds, difficult to understand. Only the vision of despair and men falling upon the other end of the truck sides, and the sound of its tires desperatedly attempting to regain balance as it tumbled to the left, displacing some grass of the ground and making a very sizeable noise. He felt a serious ache over his back, like if someone just kicked it very strongly, and witnessed as four men fell over other soldiers, and some screamed and shouted in despair. Some of them managed to slowly regain their standing as they prepared to leave, and others took the rifles back that have fallen on the side of the truck. Their leader, known as Sanjuro, as much of a Commissar as of a Captain, seemed completely oblivious to the incident, and with a calm but exacerbated voice, ordered as he prepared to leave the vehicle himself:

"Move behind one of our armors, for the enemy artillery will not wait! Take any fallen guns! Forward comrades!!"

Rafael struggled against his body as he ran for it. It was a sort of slightly uneven grassland, with a small angled slope perpendicular to the direction their assault was heading towards, that served as a small barrier for running, with a few bumps and elevations, and the distant seas could be seen from afar, as the sun stood in its place, shining the battlefield like an onlooker to its carnage. There was Leopard 2E slowly advancing, firing and maneuvering in face of enemy presence, at about half block to his northwest, and he, following the others, crouched and made a run for it, ignoring the sounds of fire, the ever approaching artillery, the stench of the soldiers, and the annoying louse under his pants. He was one of twenty thousand soldiers ready to fight to the bitter end, and indeed, he still was an human being, with many fears and worries that could not be completely waned by propaganda efforts. His teeth gritted and nearly looked to be about to shatter as suddenly an artillery shell exploded very close to the squad he belonged to, so close that his hearing became muffled and his senses weakened. A strong headache came, as a blank noise disturbed him like a fly inside his ears. Yet he continued to, as a survival instinct, run towards the tank. It took him a couple of seconds to realize one of their designated marksmen, Juarez, or the upper part of his body, a quick glimpse as his need to get behind cover was greater than that of witnessing the miserable last seconds of life of such man.

He managed to get through it, but had no second to rest from his run. His ears were finally getting back from the noise, as he realized how close death came to him. It could have been him this time, it was only a matter of probabilities and luck that allowed him to not be the one who died. Sanjuro shouted to them, the only way to make his voice prevalent over the gunfire, as they were just behind the tank, keeping up with its relatively slow speed:

"Comrades! We must kill all of their anti-tank before they hit one of ours! We have very little tanks to spare, so if necessary, I will want you to jump in the line of fire of a missile! Do you understand?"

"Yes!" Viejas shouted as he noticed the synchrony of his voice with the voice of all others, forming a small chorus as they double-checked their rifles and grenade launchers. Their captain had a radio, for short range communications were not affected as seriously as long range ones by the significant amount of electronic warfare operations of the enemy. Walking through the sloped grassland, the sides of a small hill, they advanced, still not challenged by any sort of direct fire, but only by indirect fire of artillery. There were likely a couple of kilometers from the current enemy position, but the element of surprise was still with them, multiple irregular lines in a spread out offensive, methodic and taking advantage of something that would be as important as their strategic numeric superiority: the fact that for now, they outnumbered their enemy tactically as well. Some have fallen to artillery shells or air defense anti-tank missiles, but the whole was still organized and cohesive. The enemy seemed to be waiting for something, and their unwillingness to counter-attack meant that their only card was air support.

Thus timing was of essence, if they wasted too much into the offensive the close air support of the enemy could annihilate them, but if they managed to take over the enemy emplacements, they would be able to hide safely from the aircrafts, and as a plus, pose a serious trouble to any logistical shipments of their offensive. Such was exactly the most desirable outcome. But to achieve each, a combination of a bit of luck with giving out of their best was needed. One distraction, one mistake, one minute wasted unnecessarily would be enough to increase tenfold the mortality rate of the assault. Large unit and small unit tactics were combined, like the smaller and larger gears of a clockwork, like the maw and pincers of a scorpion, to overcome the enemy with agility, and force their offensive to a halt.

"Follow me comrades! We must be fast for the enemy airplanes will arrive!" shouted Sanjuro, all of a sudden as he began to move quickly to a direction which was roughly southeast, observing the few advancing tanks, the armors, self-propelled artillery, anti-air vehicles and soldiers of their own, of which a few were taking detour from the frontal line. They were dispersed, but still close enough to concentrate their fire. The line was barely two kilometers long, a hammer of which sides anvils would emerge. The tanks were still quite slow, for something had to be done to ensure their safety, and after it, a major breakthrough could be achieved. Running slightly crouched, Viejas accompanied his leader with no fear as they descended the slight slope towards the side of the hill, where a patch of tall grasses, a perfect cover, stood. Feeling the nearly allergenic touch of grass everywhere, he continued to follow with the remainder of the squadron. One single look to the sky was enough to notice a small flying object, one of the many eyes of their enemies, who likely were gauging the extent of their counterstrike, counting all they could of their light armors, tanks and soldiers, before taking more bold actions to stop it. A sense of urgency came to Rafael immediately, and their leader, who also spotted it, fastened the pace.

However, the grassland patch suddenly ended, and standing at its edge, Rafael observed the much barer lands ahead, a small downing that suddenly turned up again to a another roughly plain area, two hundred meters ahead, featured by the number of rocks in the place. It seemed like a perfect hideout for an ambush, specially for an anti-tank ambush, like the ones they have once performed with mild success. Seeing it, he suddenly noticed that now the sounds of machinegun fire were also coming, indicating that the first direct confrontations began. Sanjuro then instructed about a very important point:

"Everyone! We must hasten our advance, but to do so, we must first ensure that at least most anti-tank crews of the enemy are wiped out. This region likely have a large amount of them, so pay attention and try to spot any hid soldier or hint of enemy presence around. Marquis, prepare your G3, for soon it will be necessary."

Viejas tried hard to focus his vision, to attempt finding a speck, a single dot of a soldier who was too confident of his hiding skills amidst the rocks, the elevations and grasslands ahead. Yet it seemed an impossible task, like if their enemies were actually waiting, patiently, to let them fall into their trap, and yet they had not time even to mourn for their fallen comrade. There was more to the squad, and personal relationships did exist. There was a certain reason, perhaps a pet peeve, that led Sanjuro to dislike Viejas, despite his competence. Most high risk, dangerous or plain boring or unpleasant tasks were given to him, to the point that in secrecy, some claimed that Rafael's role was that of the "designated sucker", to do all the handiwork of the squad. Or perhaps it was, ironically, the only reward given for his dedication, if it could be called a reward at all.

Rafael was not surprised at all when he heard who Sanjuro, already realizing that to wait would not work, wanted to do the high risk task in that situation. There was only someone, and of course, this person was him. The captain, pointing to one of the distant rocks ahead, a perfect cover, looked at him and ordered:

"Viejas! I need you to run towards that cover so our enemies will show themselves. We cannot waste any second. Marquis will cover you while you run. Now prepare yourself and wait for my command."

And thus, he took his rifle, and checking it again, prepared his legs in a position not too different from that of an athlete preparing to run through a two hundred meters track. It was not a competition, but instead the preparation for a run that would determine whether he would live or not. Any mistake could mean death, and there was not much time to appreciate the contrasting beauty of the scenery. He simply focused his vision on the distant objective to reach, his waypoint, ready to make his run for it.

"Go! Go!"

Rafael simply came to the limits, running as fast as he could, ignoring everything else in his running spree. His muscles were straining due to the heavy effort, and the burden of his backpack became heavier. Stepping heavily into the immediately displaced grass, he did not pay attention to anything, focusing all his mind into the singular act of sprinting. The partly uneven terrain was no concern, and a few seconds after the safety of the grassland was gone, he could barely notice as artillery shells pounded nearby due to his concentration, as part of the suppressive fire effort. He ran nevertheless, aware of his vulnerable condition, and panting, he saw as there were only twenty meters towards the cover of stone. It was then that he heard the sound of gunfire nearby, but could not waste time trying to locate its source. Suddenly he could swear that a bullet came very close as he could heard it, yet fortunately he was very close to cover. With no time to waste, Rafael simply threw himself towards the back side of the stone with a leap, and almost immediately he noticed as particles of stone were unleashed by the fire of a machinegun, and as tracers quickly flew overhead. It was just in time, and the suppressive fire continued to come, nearly deafening, making any attempt to take a peak out of the cover suicidal.

But then it stopped, although close sounds of gunfire continued and cautiously, he raised himself to observe the surroundings. He could have simply used the radio, but EMCON was important, and considering the amount of ELINT their enemies had access to, unless some serious encryption was used, the content of their messages could be uncovered, and if it would not be, sending them would immediately give away with nearly total exactitude their position, something which wasn't desirable. Looking around, he observed as machinegun fire from his squad was directed towards a certain position, which he memorized and kept his attention to. in the thick and tall grasses, the rest of his squad, except for the machine gunner, began to move. Rafael noticed that his captain and two others were heading straight to the enemy position, taking care to avoid getting hit by friendly fire. He immediately gestured towards him, indicating that he wanted Viejas to cover them as well. He realized that he would have to fire once the machine gunner stopped to reload his gun. And thus observed as some of his squad moved towards his position to cover him against possible threats, while others advanced with the captain through the elevation. observing clearly now, he could notice, from the taller elevation where he was, that there were sandbags hidden behind a slit, but he could not spot the enemies, likely keeping their heads down. It was, if it could be called one, a sort of fast-building trench, expendable but useful. And perhaps their opening ticket to clean their anti-tank weaponry. Two soldiers next to him began to slowly move towards the many rocks, scouting for possible hideouts. Suddenly he heard gunfires behind him, and quickly looked back, alleviated as apparently the first of many AT soldiers was taken down. Then the machinegun stopped, as he began to fire. There was less than ten meters between the handful of assaulters led by Sanjuro and the enemy position. Such was only a fraction of the much larger battle, and in a few situations, soldiers have literally advanced into the line of fire of a missile to sacrifice themselves for saving the armors of the People's Republic and their crew. Lines and lives advancing, dying beyond the concerns of the operational sector, of Rafael Viejas and most of his squad. He carefully shot bursts at the enemy, position, from a vector which would not cross with the heading of the captain. Suddenly however, he noticed as a small, oval object flew from the emplacement.

Not a grenade!

And indeed, they have managed to throw a grenade at the most opportune time towards the captain and the two soldiers accompanying him. At such brief moment, a scene of the survival instinct overriding anything else came. The soldiers simply leaped and threw themselves towards the enemy emplacement for cover. And soon further shots could be heard. Aware of how far shrapnels could fly, Viejas was quick to duck behind cover and wait. The explosion came as fragments flew everywhere in a radius of dozens of meters, when the coast became clear again, Viejas rose back to his firing position and observed as there seemed to be a melee fight in the trenches. The soldiers were facing each other in the most bestial manner, like beasts fighting for survival, they punched, rolled over the dirt of the trench, and yet their distant silhouettes and proximity made it very dangerous to attempt shooting down the enemy soldiers without hitting a friendly instead. Sighing, Rafael could only hope it would be over soon. Further shots could be heard as well from behind, by both him and the soldier who covered his back, while the machine gunner was moving towards the trench Rafael simply felt alleviated when he saw that the enemies have at last been subdued, and Sanjuro waved and gestured for him to maintain his position for five minutes, and then, from what he could get, should he not return, he was to head towards the trench and clean it by his own. They would began the clearing, the wiping off all anti-tank crews of the enemy so that their tanks could advance. The enemy soldiers could have been potential assets to capture, but as soon as they realized their fate, they would simply die. It was part of their strange modus operandi to never surrender, and to never take prisoners, and kill all those who refused to betray the People's Republic.

Cyanide pills? These capitalist pigs are insane.

For a few minutes, he could contemplate the ongoings of the battle. Until he finally heard it. A distant sound, at first, like that of a far away whirlwind or turbine. It was the signal that the worst was just coming. They have been lucky with naval artillery, suffering very few losses from it, but soon things would get really critical in the battlefield. With no air support, the potential for losses would be major if they did not manage to conquer the enemy defenses soon. And coupled with this distant sound, the unmistakable flapping of helices. Close air support airplanes and helicopters meant that they would have a serious issue in nearly open fields, regardless of the many anti-air vehicles at their disposal. It was then that a new sound came as well. A radio transmission broke off the EMCON ruling, for it was pointless now to keep the secrecy that allowed them, and a bunch of other squads to seriously crippled much of the enemy anti-tank capabilities in that specific area of the front:

"This is Sanjuro! My team have cleaned the entire west wing of their emplacements, but we have ignored a much larger southern wing and are too far away to do it in time. I assign you as leader of the Gagarin fireteam, with Dario and Hugo at your command! Godspeed, for the enemy aircrafts are coming!"

"Yes, I will!" Rafael replied back as he gestured to both soldiers who were giving him cover before. They began to quickly advance, crouched, towards the depression where they would not be easily spotted by any possible enemy. Their tanks could not wait, and likely were already moving at their full speed, something probably not mentioned as a precaution. He soon climbed down the hole and got past the sandbags, observing the five dead enemy soldiers. One of them was a woman, and he wondered what sort of people sent their ladies to fight and die, but yet, he pondered about whether such unnamed soldier had children, or a family. It was the very nature of war that people would die, its ninth symphony.

He simply continued to advance cautiously, but steadily with the two soldiers giving him cover, until the turn towards south was spotted in such not-so-static minded trenches. So far no resistance was met, although that could change soon. He took a mirror from his backpack, a strange thing to have, for there was not time for vanity when there were bombers heading in. For something that took half dozen of hours, it was surely well made. Parts of it were covered, and some even hid by camouflage and foliage. Their design was more reminiscent of hideouts and emplacements used by Vietcongs than traditional trenches of regular armies, perhaps a good evidence of their origins as a capitalist guerrilla, and also, maybe just because of their recent construction, they seemed quite hygienic, although some of their soldiers were amused by finding a couple of porta-potties installed into the trenches, at least they would not have to take it into the open, as long as someone was there to do the dirty task of cleaning them sometimes. But there was more to it, and suddenly, he used the mirror to see what lied in the lower tip of the "T" junction without turning left.

It was empty, and there were no further bodies. He then cautiously walked towards it. There was a sinuous curve that made it impossible to use the mirror trick again, he had to react faster than any enemy that could be ahead. Or at least one of his comrades had to. Thus he crossed the curved part of the way ahead, and found only more nothingness. There were just the occasional crates and left-overs, and strangely, the place seemed mostly devoid of supplies, like if it have been evacuated much before they conquered it. Rubbing two neurons together was enough for Viejas to realize he forfeited his life, and that they have just fallen into the enemy web. Immediately, he realized the fact. The bombers would force many of them to hide into such trenches, and yet, there was more to it. He knew that to conquer such trenches was exactly what their enemies wanted. The radio would then announce the words quickly:

"We must leave these trenches! It's a trap!"

"What? Are you insane private Viejas? If we leave we are all going to die! Look around, our anti-air vehicles will be toast before they down even one of those! And this place hasn't exploded. But... yes! It is a trap comrade! But somehow whatever timed bomb is here, it is not yet schedule to blow. I can't believe these pigs built an entire network of trenches to waste as a deathtrap! Try to find anything out of place around! We must be quick. And don't tell anyone other than those who already know. We don't need panic as an enemy!"

"Yes comrade!" Viejas replied back as he sighed. The airplanes were the anvil, and the very trench was the weapon designed to defeat them rather than to defend against them. He desperatedly tried to find anything, as the three soldiers, three of the only four aware of their real plight, scoured through the trenches in search

"Rafael, I found something that seems really out of place. I don't want to touch it though, it could be dangerous. These pigs are insane." Hugo said then, as curious, Rafael asked him:

"What is it?"

"Well, you won't believe this if you didn't see it, but look, it is a Rubik's Cube."

A new radio transmission then came:

"What the hell. This is Dario, I found a rugged computer in a wooden table replaying nonstop a scene from a movie or something I never saw before where a sort of fish man inside a sort of spaceship keeps saying 'It's a trap!'"

Seemed like their enemies had a strange sense of humor. Most military forces of the world were serious enough to avoid throwing an old Internet meme in the middle of an war operation to mock their doomed enemies, but their enemies were neither conventional, and sometimes did not seem to be even serious at all, like if they considered war a game rather than a serious business.

The Rubik's Cube however was the most interesting thing. It seemed to be placed in a very difficult to spot position on purpose, like if it was a bomb waiting to be detonated rather than a children's toy. Realizing it, Rafael then took his radio to call again the captain, to ask him for people who actually were training on how to handle and defuse explosives. He was no fool to risk doing it himself, and if these devices were somehow linked, detonating one could trigger a deadly chain reaction. It was unbelievable, but an entire division was entrapped after hours of combat. Or perhaps not, for it was difficult to gather the status of the entire division.

"This is private Viejas to captain Sanjuro. I need a defusal team to investigate a suspicious and unusual artifact."

No answer came, only static. He could hear many howling sounds of jet engines, be them propfans or turbofans, as likely aircrafts were doing their sorties around. Likely they have sent a significant amount of electronic warfare aircrafts, powerful enough to disrupt even short range communications, but suddenly, he heard something coming from his radio, and like all others, in Spanish:

"My name is Julio Santiago, and I believe that you are aware of who I am. The 'capitalist pig', the 'invader', the 'traitor' and 'childkiller' that came to this sovereign territory to take it over for the 'fifth column of the bourgeoisie' called Confederacy. Yes, I know that is what they have told you. They certainly know how to make a bad image of those who disagree with their views, don't you agree? Or did you see again that friend of yours that once, only once, made even one nearly innocent questioning about even the most minnow problem in the administration of the Communist Party of Spain?"

It was very obvious to Rafael what it was all about. They did not want to kill them, they wanted to lure them into sedition, to convince them to betray the People's Republic, to switch sides with the bourgeois. Frustrated, he shouted into his radio:

"No way in Hell I am going to betray Spain for your imperialist invasion, capitalist pigs! Die!"

Apparently, they were well aware of the answers given, and suddenly a certain slow paced speech about how some of their friends likely were killed by the government changed to a grimmer tone, less loaded with the revelation-like style of speech that was being ushered before:

"Did you just say Spain? At last... finally one of our supposed enemies decided to speak for himself. I guess that you must all be afraid of speaking, considering what your government does to people who are a bit more talkative than usual. Anyway, what is your name, soldier?"

With a certain fanatical anger, Rafael shouted:

"My name is none of your business capitalist!"

"Oh... afraid of being executed for speaking with the enemy? Don't worry... I can assure all of you that the likelihood of you rejoining the glorious Army the people of Spain starve and are enslaved to sustain is essentially zero percent, so now, at this moment, the very hated enemy, the very one who is the invader and capitalist pig looking to exploit and oppress you grants you a right that you never had before. The freedom of speech. Freedom, something as important as keeping up with the legacy of our Spain. As important as respecting its sovereignty. For the sovereignty of Spain as a nation is more important than the perpetuation of any government in it... but seems like your Communist Party disagrees. As for how this disagreement is, perhaps you are well aware that in emplacements like this, sometimes the 'enemy' retreats so hastily that he forgets some documents of importance behind... or many of them... perhaps they contain vital information for your efforts?"

Rafael sighed and refused to further answer this enemy. Yet a sense of curiousity overwhelmed him, and suddenly he looked at Dario and Hugo and ordered:

"Check the tables for anything important."

"But comrade..."

"No buts! We are dead anyway, so do it!"

And thus they verified their surroundings. Tables, counters, closets. Everything was opened and verified in those surprisingly clean trenches. Essentially, if there was truly something the enemy forgot, and that somehow they wanted them to discover, it would be found. Perhaps it was a mistake, but information was a very important tool. Just, sometimes hiding it was essential for the maintenance of a certain status quo.

"I found something!" Hugo shouted as he looked at his finding, and suddenly, seeing as he took a paper from a counter, Rafael noticed as Hugo became paralyzed by the shock of what he found, as he said:

"It... it cannot be true!"

"What is it? Speak!"

"Rafael... this is an official document of the Communist Party, top secret. It is a message sent to Stoklomolvi where Cavallo... it can't be real... it can't!"

Yet it was real. The copy was perfect, with every detail, the unique ID number, the anti-forgery procedures. It was considered impossible to fraud a document such as this, and the signature was perfectly matching. Rafael was wrong from considering that trench as the hammer that would strike them down, as he discovered which was the greatest weapon of their "enemy", which no longer seemed so hostile. Their greatest weapon was the truth. It mattered little how many propaganda was spewing when such terrible evidence was presented, a radical breaking of every paradigm they have been conditioned to accept. Their government betrayed their nation, selling it in exchange of not being dethroned. It was unconceivable, but now everything seemed clear. The words were even more radical:

"Why fight for a government which sells your very brothers, sisters and relatives into slavery, which forces you to obey without question, which is ruthless enough to sell our very Spanish land to foreigners and commit high treason against our very people? This is the true face of the People's Republic of Spain, of a monster called Carlos Cavallo who has murdered more than sixty million of our people. The true enemy of Spain is the traitorous, corrupt and murderous Communist Party, which has brought misery to our lands for thirty years. But now... these very men women you have killed, these very soldiers you hated and despised. Now they risk their lives, so that your children and grandchildren, so that your families and friends, so that all of us, the people of Spain, can live with freedom, dignity and true socialism! The Confederacy is an enemy of the bourgeois exploiter as much as it is of the corrupt exploiters of the Communist Parties of the world. All they spoke are only lies told to deceive and force you to fight and die in vain! For your friends and relatives who were killed or enslaved, we present you an opportunity, an opportunity to stand against the traitors of our people. We offer you the opportunity to join our effort to end the misery the Communist Party brought to Spain for once and all. And yet, we will not oblige you. You may simply ask for refuge, if you no longer feel willing to fight after all that happened, and every one of you shall be granted full citizenship into the Confederacy of Third Spanish States, to join its truly socialist society, to finally discover the freedom you have been stolen of. We just ask you to stop fighting against us, not to surrender, for we do not believe in prisons."

It was simply too much for a single day, and Rafael was unsure on what to do now. With all that he has seen, he lost any sense of duty to the People's Republic, but he felt that, no matter how it infuriated him to discover he was being used, it would be plain wrong for him to fight against them again. Suddenly however, he heard gunfire, but it quickly stopped. Likely, the few hard-liner loyalists were dispatched by a majority of soldiers who saw the truth. It was then that Rafael understood why they never resorted to massive forces, and thought:

With a weapon like this, they wouldn't even need an army to win the war. If only they had a perfect mean to disseminate it. I hope they are not fooling us either... but if staying here means death, there are not many options but to trust that what they claimed is more than propaganda.

What was to be a diversionary attack would soon become a signal of how that it would not be a powerful bomber, an extremely advanced tank, any sort of superior technologies, better trained soldiers or tactical excellence that were leading those he considered enemies once to be winning so far. It was the flowers of spring defeating the cannon of tyranny. The flourish of things that Spain has been devoid of for ages. And yet blood was shed... soldiers who fought together killed those who accused them of treason, and nearly a quarter of the division died in the shootouts between loyalits and defectors that succeeded the revelation of the "enemy". Nonetheless, if the word was excellence, like Sun Tzu once said, supreme excellence consists into capturing an entire army or regiment, and an entire nation infrastructure intact, rather than to destroy it. It depended of factors beyond the grasp of generals... it depended of subjective causes first, and of strategic excellence second. It has been an ideological war, and unlike in the first one, where the atrocities of the Stalinists amidst Republican Spain against the clergy and others justified the loyalty of nationalist soldiers, there was no reason for the bond to be broken once the betrayal of Spain by its current government was revealed. One further thought came to Rafael:

Could the Communist Party be a house of cards and Cavallo its only foundation?

At least now, he would finally find peace. The war experience was brief, but it certainly put his life to risk, and in the end, for nothing. It was unfortunate to hear, no matter how he seemed to dislike him, that Sanjuro was killed for refusing to defect from the Army. Perhaps ironic how that the transition happened by the transformation of a tyranny by the minority to a literal tyranny by majority, for a few bloody minutes.

The only weapon that the People's Republic still had was terror. And perhaps, once they realized that another defection just happened, such weapon could be deployed at its fullest extent. For they had no limits to the means necessary to preserve their rule. He then wondered about the daughter he would leave at the mercy of a lunatic like Cavallo, but soon realized that, no matter what would happen... he had to do the right thin. They would not simply stand idle to such trend of defections, and seeing that mere propaganda wasn't being enough, would resort to other means.

A cacophony of voices and text now swirled through the large screens as multiple engagements occurred through different sections of the ever widening front, as Julio Santiago struggled to make a sense out of so many events. The geographic wireframe map of the island shifted colors between red and black, as the antagonists advanced and retreated, and aircraft symbols quickly came through the strategic map, sweeping through many areas as their distant, cold representation came to his eyes. He was entrusted with the challenge of deciding for them, one he would have declined in other situations, but in a battlefield, there was no time to ask the opinions of others, or to organize voting sessions before making decisions. Observing cautiously the updated events, he grimly realized how their hastiness could have meant their doom, if they did not have uncontested air supremacy over the island, and predicted the hoes of the ever approaching time for urban warfare, where indiscriminate use of air support wouldn't be as viable, both for ethical and propaganda reasons, as it was for now, and where the fearful possibility of their enemies using children and innocents as human shields and hiding in hospitals and schools could become a reality. And yet, other worries had to be addressed, and soon.

Burdened, Santiago observed as a small red tide advanced against the northern flank of their forces, close to the coast, for the enemy has decided to, and somehow, managed to break through their lines despite their losses and heavy desertions, approaching every second the vulnerable rear supply dumps with some of their best armors and anti-air vehicles, which reduced the effectiveness of most Confederacy aircrafts that were optimal in the role of destroying them. If they manage to destroy it and butcher the logistical personell, the entire operation would become a disaster, and months of preparation would be lost. The MilNet could not raise taxes to repair failure, and thus, the pressure was much greater. Time was essential, and even if their enemies failed to destroy the operation, they would buy time for the retreating forces through east, and for the advancing forces from the west, which somehow managed to avoid being spotted so far, and thus annihilated by air power. Other than it, the only advantage at their hands was mobility, and to allow the six still operational enemy divisions to regroup would increase the difficulty of such operation tenfold, no matter how two divisions had severe losses in both casualties and desertions.

Only a rough ten percent of the three divisions were actually positioned in the still advancing main front-lines, while the rest kept a comprehensive defensive line to ensure that supply convoys from the beach to the interior of the island would arrive safely, and many were occupied setting front-line supplies and the most time-efficient logistical preparations and defensive structures they could. Aware of such fact, and aware of how sending a fast response team to stop the slowly dying attackers would slow down their advance, the major's best choice was to intensify air strikes against such attackers until they were either persuaded to defect or dead. The enemies probably intended to achieve a diversionary strike, and have ended with a mild success that led them to forfeit an entire division for the chance of ruining the Confederacy operation. Or those who did not defect or die from such division, more exactly. To refuse to bend to their move would imply their failure, as they were for a change, too trustful of their capability of withstand air strikes.

Nonetheless, while it certainly would delay severely their advance, the dozens of thousands from a division wouldn't be killed that easy, and Santiago would rather that they would not die. Perhaps the concept of attacking by Stratagem was being taken too far, for he feared, as he sat down next to a handful of technicians, that eventually their enemies would react brutally to such tide of desertions they have achieved through the force of truth rather than through the force of guns. His thoughts then formed, as fast as he could to avoid losing precious time at such urgent moment, realizing how consequences would occur from the decisions of his comrades and of himself, and such could be negative consequences.

What if our actions only fuel more savagery and brutality from our true enemies? Is it worth to risk the life of innocents over a handful of tactical victories? Is truly the right thing to never negotiate with terrorists?

He thought while staring at the aseptic inclined display, surveying the symbols advancing through the map. The Miajas were quite effective close air support aircrafts, but for when taking key targets in heavily defended areas was necessary, the CL-32A Buitre and an accompanying CE-32 Cuervo would do a better job of cleaning and jamming the excessive mass of anti-air defenses, to clear the way for the naturally less stealthy heavy hitters. Thus he moved a control stick, panning the map to a more adequate set up, pressed a trigger when the crosshair over the map pointed at the center of the enemy overall position, taken from all recon data downloaded from the other vehicles datalinks, both aerial and terrestrial, manned and unmanned, and typed some ID codes into a console, before communicating to the closest carriers:

"This is Julio Santiago. We cannot stop our advance now and lose our momentum and tactical superiority, we have to diminish the AA capabilities of this counter-offensive now. Commence a rogue slash sortie now."

And thus he listened to the acknowledgment from the aircraft carriers he contacted. A rogue slash sortie was a combined mission designed to hinder advancing enemy forces without air or naval support, and without ground forces engaging such enemies directly. Where the Buitre would conduct the first surgical strikes with its limited payload, the Miajas would seek to neutralize all remaining anti-air vehicles, artillery and armor, respectively, supported by Quijote heavy assault helicopters to then suppress the advance of foot soldiers and force them into hiding for as long as possible, to either, if necessary, deploy Luddite heavy bombers from the home islands to wipe them out with ground-penetrating charges, or ideally, persuade them to defect. Essentially, it was a tactic conceived to, when necessary, allow air forces to supplement the need of ground troops, at least temporarily, giving greater tactical flexibility for situations like the one currently unfolding. However, it was a risky maneuver, and Santiago was quite aware of it. Not as risky as the moves their enemies were doing, but still something that could bring tragic consequences, and he sometimes wondered if it was the right choice, an answer which would take many further minutes to be given. If yes, it would not be the first decisive victory achieved through air for the Confederacy. But if not, the primary objective of the war, the liberation of Iberia, would require a much greater amount of blood, sacrifice and time. Time which the distant enemies of the Confederacy could use as an ally. The stakes were taken.

And the chance their enemies could be hiding their air force for a moment like this wasn't insignificant. As was the chance atrocities could be done because of this, or that their tactical flexibility would be hindered by the presence of human shields and by the fact bombing schools and hospitals may become the only ways to secure higher chances of victory. Julio would rather not see it again. After all that came, he would rather avoid another humanitarian catastrophe, and another tough decision of grayer shades over black and white that could cost his very reputation, and countless innocent lives.

One day later, in Mainland Spain

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/b/b5/Anschlusstears.jpg/140px-Anschlusstears.jpg

Madrid, a city lost to the dark, gloom smog formed by the dread ashes of gas chambers and unbreathable smoke of industries of war building their tools day and night, by the hands of unwilling men and women. Madrid, a city lost to the eternal marches of the People's Army, where facing no choice, people watched and saluted the instruments of their suffering, at the realization of their bleak hopelessness of ever changing such reality, many hiding their dissidence, trading their freedom for the mere survival as basic instincts overruled ideals. And yet, beneath the facades, thousands wept for the loss of their cities, of their freedom, of their nation... of their selves. The only smiles that could ever be seen across the city were of scheming young Party members forming back room deals with other crooks while planning each demise, and those of utterly innocent children, whose fates the government predestined them for, sometimes were worse than death.

Madrid, a city lost, where parks which once served for mothers to have moments of joy with their children, for people to meet their best friends to relax and celebrate, now were twisted into hideous sculptures of sandbags, trenches and razor wire, and in some cases, the former symbols of natural life amidst the grey of cities became guarantees of death, spots where minefields were carefully set, both to avoid invaders from getting in, and residents from moving out. Madrid, a city lost, where no man could dwell beyond the set routes, locations and destinations by the government, like if they were not humans, but cogs of a rusted, corrupted gearwork which did grind their souls at every day, watched by the omniscient eyes of a terrorist State, every time, everywhere, like if they were hostages rather than citizens. And as any hostage, their fates were not as clear as those of freed victims.

Madrid, a city... or perhaps a ghetto, where, over many streets, over the ever-vigilant eyes of surveillance cameras, inside the cover of the drab brown, decayed bricks of one of many apartment blocks, a woman prepared for the routine, her expression cold and grey like that of people who lost part of their spirits, captured by the six cameras of the Party positioned inside her house, while the television, constantly turned on, showered government propagandas, highlighting the glory of the Soviets, the inferiority of the bourgeois consorts of Third Spanish States, and glorifying their great leader, Carlos Cavallo. Massive LCD screens were positioned strategically across the streets, where the ever vigilant State watched and spoke to its cattle. However, like many, such woman knew that everything was a lie, that the fact her shoes were nearly rotting away, that she had nothing to cook during the last weekend and that she nearly died of cold with her son during last winter due to the lack of gas for the apartment had nothing to do with a "bourgeois conspiracy"... and yet, such knowledge only served to augment her suffering, as she equally knew there was nothing that could be done to change the reality... nothing but pray for the victory of their "enemy", and to hope they were not lying about their intentions.

"Julio, your breakfast is going to get cold!" the woman said, with a particularly weighed down voice, like if a burden she carried continually influenced on her tone.

"I am coming mommy!" the innocent then replied. Four old wooden chairs were lined to an equally wooden table in the cramped kitchen, and soon as the woman served the dish, a reflex of their conditions as a cheaply made toast with nothing as cover, and two glasses of a sugar-less lemon juice, mother and son sat side by side, leaving two vacant chairs to their sides.

"Mommy?" he asked, his voice recorded by one of many bugs the government had nearly everywhere,"when is daddy coming back?"

"Julio, my son," the woman then replied, carefully stopping, like if pondering on what to say next without risking to have her son orphaned, "your father is still fighting against the bad men, but he will come back, and everyone will be proud of him," she said with a visible lack of belief in her very words.

"What about my sister?" the boy then innocently asked, "is she still on interchange?"

"Yes, she is still on interchange and studying in Stoklomolvi, Julio" the woman then replied, as a burst of emotions began to challenge her fear.

"Why are you crying mom? Did something bad happen to Isabella?" the son asked, as he noticed her reaction as she mentioned his sister.

"No son," she said, gulping down and holding her tears, shattered and torn for the memories... of how they came in, how they forcefully grabbed her daughter, putting a sack over her head and beating her because of what she said... and then, she never saw her daughter again. She would be making eighteen years old now, and such event happened four years ago, during which the scars it has left never mended. If not for her son, Elisa would be willing to face a clean execution, for life seemed meaningless, and yet the realization that her son could face an horrible fate, and even fall down into slavery, should she give up, made her move on.

As they ate their poor breakfast, suddenly the sounds of knives cutting bread, and hands grabbing every breadcrumb like beggars would be interrupted by the immediate slam of their apartment door, and their conversation replaced by an unspeakable terror as gas grenades began to roll over the old linoleum floor of its kitchen. Their despair at such moment could be considered infernal, specially of Elisa, as she feared for her son, a fear so greater than the pain of the prodding, and soon she could hear his screams, as she began to cry, and in turn be further prodded.

The Hell, its horrors told in many religious lores, could not compare to the plight of a woman who stood defenseless at the misery of her son, fearing for his fate first, as they were dragged into a black Van, and an endless, agonizing trip allowed for her to feel the aches of her bruised body together with her despair at what awaited.

Feeling her body once again dragged, as they prodded her once again as a reminder, her fear increased, sweat covering her body, tears nearly drowning her inside the sack, and her heart beating faster while the closure of such horrors seemed to come. An horrible pain came to her as her bare knees were dragged over the rough floor of what could only be a street, small pebbles sometimes digging deep into her flesh as she wallowed in agony.

On her bloodied, bruised knees, they finally stopped dragging her, although a greater despair came. The voice of her son shouting for her help, demonstrating pain was coming ever close, until it seemed close enough to be very few meters ahead, and ruined, Elis was allowed to have the strong sunlight over her face, temporarily blinding her as the image began to form.

It was one of the areas which once were parks. Razor wire stretched at every corner, and minefield warning signs were prevalent. However, a new complement seemed to have made such sculpture even more hideous: hundreds, if not thousands of wooden stakes seemed to have been laid across the "park", in preparation for what could only be a mass execution.

"Mommy, please! Help! I didn't do nothing wrong!" Julio shouted, his infantile voice augmenting a scenery of the worst mankind could bring, as Elis looked above and despaired... Her son was being lifted with a pulley high above one of the stakes, and immediately she despaired, shouting as tears flowed from her eyes, attempting to escape from the hold of the three soldiers holding her in place:

"Nooo! Not him! He is only a children! What are you doing? This is insanity! Stop please!"

Then another prod formed yet another bruise over her body, as a soldier moved right ahead of her, blocking her view. The man seemed to evoke even greater feel, his eyes evoking the ways of men who lost part of their humanity in past wars, cold and calculating, demonstrating neither fear or compassion as he looked towards what could only be his superior, and then, as if approved, he came extremely close to her, while the other soldiers began to hold her tighter.

Her eyes scanned his pocket when he moved his hand to it, taking a leather poach from inside. Strained, her muscles bulged as she struggled against those who held her in place, and stared as the soldier slowly moved, as if to build her despair. He then opened the pouch, and from it too a sharp scissor. With another, even stronger prod, Elisa screamed, and before she could perceive, another soldier forcefully sticked her tongue out, nearly bleeding it from the pressure he made with his tool, while the other promptly scissored her tongue, as she began to scream, unable to endure the physical pain.

Still shocked, feeling the warm blood spouting from her mouth, she watched in powerlessness, the screams, the cries for help, her eyes nearly entirely red of tears, as her only still alive son was set over the stake, and slowly impaled over it, with every second of the horrific atrocity becoming an eternity of agony for her, as she realized the suffering they have subjected her son to, and worst, he was still alive, condemned to an horrible death.

Eventually, ropes began to weave across her body, as she no longer could feel the touch of the ground. A slow downfall, and the pain, as her entrails were carefully pierced to avoid enough damage to kill her outright... and then an agonizing death was set as her fate, a hellish eternity in her last moments, an eternity made greater by the knowledge her son had the same fate, right at her eyes. She never imagined, ever, that their government would be that inhuman... Cavallo was a true monster.

A true monster, perhaps far beyond the monstrosity of past tyrants like Hitler and Stalin, for every direct family member of every soldier who deserted the Army of the People's Republic of Spain would be placed to the same horrendous fate, as a message of terror against those who dared to listen to the propaganda of the Confederacy and to betray the State by deserting or even switching sides. More than three hundred thousand of innocent women, men, children and elder would be victims of one of the most brutal and inhuman atrocities ever committed in the history of warfare: a mass impalement which would make the mass crucification of slaves done by the Romans or the atrocities of the man who gave the birth to the Dracula myth meek in comparison. The August Massacre thus would be written and recorded by future historians not as another statistic, but as one of the darkest days in the history of Spain.

Or perhaps, as the catalyst for a much greater event...

16th of August, 13:50 hours, onboard the CCN-4 Catalonia

"It is time for this battle to end," a hand waved over an immense electronic display inside the bridge, through which black aircraft, helicopter, tank and infantry symbols continued to make their advance while red symbols continued to retreat at a slower pace, sometimes being erased from the display as their retreat was cut off. Next to the Tactical Theater Display of the cruiser-carrier, he observed as other red symbols slowly advanced behind the front lines, threatening to cut off the formations of black symbols in two.

"But comrade," another hand pointed at the black aircraft symbols, and at the absolute lack of red aircraft symbols over the display, "what sort of men are we to let the Army fight and die now, sending in cheap and light unmanned bombers, while most our pilots slack?"

"We take necessary precautions," he waved again at the red symbols, "they are hiding their game, bidding their time, trying to lure us into their trap. And besides, we could gather more allies from giving them chances to surrender"

"Or perhaps, Miguel," the other man waved across, "perhaps we are doing exactly what they intended for us to do. To cower, to let our initiative and momentum fade. I suggest we conduct the rogue slash, and proceed to wipe their forces out. Being humanitarian doesn't win wars."

"Correct, and it seems they have run out of tricks. Perhaps risking this will bring less losses than risking urban warfare," the man then said, observing the shifting front lines over the display. As expected, they were still pushing ahead quickly, and yet one of the enemies divisions, which heavy anti-air defenses banded with, advanced against their left flank. Leaving such diversionary attack not addressed couldn't be acceptable.

13:52, Onboard the LHAN-3 Barcelona

The sound of several nearby rotor blades flapping intensified, the skies were clear ahead, and from afar, the continent could be seen, the destination. Digitally displayed measures, from altimeter, inclination, fuel to gravity meters, remaining missiles and ammunition, information on mission objectives and a miniaturized satellite image of the region southwest of Mallorca where several black dots were visible, and a overall separation of the friendly and enemy controlled territories shown through nearly faded black and red shades over the map, appeared across a set of four screens. Suddenly a slight vibration came into being, as the pilot lifted his control stick up, and it began to ascent through the skies.

With a spread-out, reversed V formation of HA-1 Quijote Gunships, he watched the way ahead from the glass of his cockpit, looking at the altimeter briefly as it signaled sixty feet of the extremely low pass flight they were conducting, and as the satellite map showed his squadron was still away from the dangers that could lie through the course of this operation.

"Warcrow One to Barcelona, requesting Intel update." he simply spoke, switching no trigger or button, for he knew that without air supremacy, the mission would be tricky. Concentrated, the pilot could not distract himself measuring how much it would take for him to be answered, but instead sharpening his mental acuity and reflexes with the quick in-flight exercises he has learned.

"This is Barcelona to Warcrow Squadron," the answer didn't take too long to come, as the map screen on his heads-down display changed, with several red dots and a couple of red stars appearing on a geographical location twenty-eight kilometers roughly on their east by south, as he stepped on the right pedal, and the chopper began to yaw towards the exact location of the enemy diversionary attack, "all known enemy positions have been updated through your datalink. Most of their air defenses have been destroyed, but be careful: we have spotted multiple soldiers with MANPADS, and although our fighters have softened them a bit, they aren't as easy to kill as self-propelled anti-air units."

Sighing, he again replied, hoping that it would make enough sense to be understood:

"Warcrow One, zoom in hostile positions on my left."

The previously vacant heads left display then suddenly flashed with life, as the old, usually square-shaped NATO symbols, indicated the type of every identified enemy platoon on the map, a nearly overwhelming information load if not for the way the least relevant were slightly faded while the most were highlighted, and some were highlighted as platoons from a spread out anti-air brigade, mostly relegated to infantry with Stinger missiles, but still a very significant threat for any heavy-hitter specialized at close air support.

"Warcrow One to Stuka One," the pilot continued doing his part to coordinate the operation, "we need your psychological support, let us see how well they can point a Stinger with their ears bleeding." obviously referring to the hearing unsafe, stupendous noise that the propfans of the CB-1 Miajas made.

"Stuka One to Warcrow Squadron," your speed parameters were downloaded into our systems for simultaneous arrival at battle zone. We shall ensure they won't be able to aim any missile. Wait a second," the other pilot then said, "check your systems, all targets other squadrons have already designated have appeared on mine. Better to not focus too much on a single threat while others might aim against us."

Looking at the heads-down display, he saw as many of the NATO symbols of of enemy platoons were circled, with arrows and acronyms of squadron callsigns displayed at each of the circles, most encompassing more than one platoon. Including his own, as it seemed some of his squadron members decided to take the initiative. Theirs would be a cluster of entrenched infantry into an intact set of partially underground fortifications a mound had. It was no wonder that far behind them, two Eurocopter EC 725 Cougars were moving with two platoons of Marines from the same three divisions that were already advancing, for they would be far more effective at eliminating or forcing the defection of whoever fled inside the underground bunker, or to at least, setting a minefield all around it to pin them down until Mallorca is freed.

Time began to blur for him, as he watched through the map, across the sea, twenty-five allied attack helicopters at full cruise speed, twenty-one Miajas and ten EC 725 Cougars, tasked to wipe out a division which was still with most of its manpower alive, divisions spread through five choppers, three planes and two air transports squadrons. T-minus three minutes, and finally he observed the beach, some of its sand shaken by the distant, intermeshing blades he could sometimes see above from the cockpit. Some sand began to cover the front screen, and thus he pressed a button, activating the wiper and dousing some water to improve his awareness to optimal again.

"Warcrow One to Warcrow Squadron, our enemies are only ten kilometers away, get ready to lock on armored targets."

Using the stick, he began to toggle between the already tracked targets as their platoon symbols were highlighted. A single mobile SAM, probably hid into the bunker to avoid being destroyed by the previous suppression of enemy air defenses sortie, was his greatest worry, and strangely it hasn't fired yet, probably awaiting for them to reach the no escape zone of its missiles.

Nine kilometers only, while flying adjacent to a local road and to many grasslands, a warning sign flashed on his heads up display. With his left hand, he immediately flipped a switch to his left, as a new tracker appeared at heads up display. reticles began to swirl, until finally setting around the incoming missile. A countdown appeared right into the bottom of the HUD, fifteen seconds only. His heart raced faster, as he knew that this could mean the end. His squadron began to break formation, as the eight missiles from the SAM were heading towards them. A drop of sweat began to flow through his forehead, until getting caught by his helmet, and thus five seconds remained as he pressed the left pedal and carefully dived, realizing that there wasn't much space to maneuver down due to their low pass flight.

Four seconds, the distance between the nose of the helicopter, the ground, and the missile shortened, while a finger was ready to press a button. Three seconds, and he shifted immediately yaw control to the right while rolling slightly to the left, starting a vertically inclined nonlinear strafe with his helicopter. It came very close, close enough that one meter separated his chopper from the ground during the daring evasive maneuver, and with the counter at nearly exact one second, he pressed the trigger, as the helicopter became partially hidden over a mass of chaffs and flares. He could even listen to the sound of the missile engine flying over the helicopter, as the warning sign faded, and alleviated, he tried to regain focus over the mission. Elevating the chopper, he pressed a throttle as a camera image on the heads-down display began to be zoomed in, until displaying clearly as soldiers reloaded the mobile SAM.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sfzWd1cPYAk

For their misfortune, eight kilometers was enough for an extended Trigat anti-tank missile, and it would take less time for them to get a further kilometer and regroup than for the missiles to be reloaded. Meanwhile, a loud engine noise was going in a crescendo, nearly vibrating everything around, but he could not let it distract him from his goal, and soon a targeting reticle was set against the mobile same, and releasing the safety, he pressed the trigger, firing a single missile, and not waiting for it to hit its target. Instead he switched targets again, as the optical targeting system recognized the visual signatures of them, and no longer they depended exclusively of the datalink. The loud engine noise intensified, and thus he looked to his right, and saw as three Miajas went past his squadron, all of them with shark teeth nose-art, as it seemed Stuka Squadron was quite fond of retro military aesthetic, despite far out-speeding the helicopters

Dozens of Stinger missiles began to fly against the Miajas at first, and another shower of countermeasures came in answer, as they could see. Suddenly explosions began to rock his ears while he still approached engagement range against infantry, and the tracer of heavy autocannon fire began to brighten the skies, while stand-off bombs slowly broke their will to fight. It still wasn't simple, and he could see the frames of the CB-1s as they went up and down, rolling and conducting multiple evasive maneuvers, to the limits of their airframe and human endurance. The sight of the battle was becoming clearer as they approached. Soldiers ran screaming towards the bunker deepest underground, covering their ears in despair as the Miajas strafed back and forth, echoing a booming sound scales of magnitude more terrifying than the Trumpets of Jericho of the Nazi fighter they have ironically named their squadron after.

Soon they would be close enough to start.

Looking at an aiming reticle as it lowered to the bottom of his HUD, the pilot pointed it towards a zoomed in trench, he pressed three triggers at once, as APKWS rockets, air burst grenade-like rounds from a 30mm chaingun and countless rounds from a MA-65 minigun began to raze the ground, filling the air with gravel and dust, and provoking a vibration over the cockpit. The combination of firepower was deadly suppressive, and he soon stopped moving forward, as he found it safe enough to strafe left and right, to slowly eliminate all that haven't hid into the bunker.

Five minutes later, they burned, they were, like ragdolls, turned into dismembered pieces, bowels igniting, men split in half, as he saw sometimes their despair, and sighed. The rogue slash was going well, specially as it has succeeded without losses and now all that truly mattered was to mop up survivors with the Marines that were coming behind. However, he couldn't help but think that perhaps, none of there were heroes, only makers of desperate wives and orphaned children, cold-blooded killers who used ideology to overcome ethics, and extremely effective ones at that. Perhaps they could have been convinced to defect, but sometimes, like a certain captain of a ship would say, it is important to remember that humanitarianism does not win wars.

That some among the Marine fireteams were armed with napalm grenades should say enough. Such operation has made it clear, that without air superiority, the Soviets would be sooner or later doomed. Considering that their air-to-air combat capable fighters still far outnumbered the ones of the Revolutionary Air Force, and that the same could be multiplied by ten when involving an attack without air superiority, such realization was not truly freshening. Mallorca was only an island, and the gross of Spanish armies had yet to be defeated. Besides, four divisions were getting ever close from retreating to the cities, and thus, after returning to the close logistical forward base established, five kilometers south, the pilot began to make his way towards the front lines, as their and the Miaja squadrons would be given a new mission: to pin down three enemy divisions before they could reach the safety of the cities of Campos, Llucmajor and Santanyí. Otherwise, it would be unlikely that Mallorca could be liberated in only one day.

Meanwhile, certain fortifications had to be cleared, in the old tunnel fighting way. Perhaps it could serve as a preparation, should fighting in the cities become necessary.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BWAhVbayGv4

There was no time to wait. With all anti-air defenses of the enemy besides infantry-launched ones destroyed, and all alive soldiers forced into hiding inside a bunker built next to one of the nearby mounds into the field. Corpses were ungloriously kept undisturbed, as remains of the dead were ignored by the advancing forces. Beneath groups of transport helicopters at multiple entryways, Milicianos hovered as they were cautiously lowered to defensive positions all-around the bunkers entrances, intended to shoot at the enemy soldiers fleeing for their lives during the remainder of the operation. All except for one of each bunker.

From ropes, two fireteams of Marines descended from a single EC 725s as the others remained on their way, part of a large air cavalry bridgade heading towards the cities of Llucmajor, Les Salines and Campos. The mission of those who headed down was far "simpler", as with their FA-65 rifles, they prepared to storm the bunker, and clean it. However, such was only one of many bunkers through which thousands survivors of the defeated division have hidden, and thus the challenge wouldn't be simple.

Simpler was an understatement, however, as they were eight men against at least a hundred of men, a small force sent to one of many lower priorities tasks than to secure the cities before the blunt of the enemy forces could get inside at them, encircling them together with their advancing terrestrial forces. Not considering the fact such men would have no armored support to defend the city perimeter against retreating enemy tanks and artillery, and against enemy soldiers, including those without uniforms, hiding in the city. No bombings would be made, due to both ethical and propaganda reasons, and thus they would have to achieve victory through the hardest possible manner: fighting in tunnels, inside houses, the hell of urban warfare could not be averted if they were to achieve victory in such day.

Tiago Aragón held his rifle slung over his shoulder, as he sat inside a Cougar, hearing its constant rotor and blades sounds as he prepared for his mission: to liberate the small town of Llucmajor. Even a small town like it, with its plenty of old three and two-store buildings to provide cover, would still offer a major challenge to be secured, and the pressing matter of an entire enemy division heading towards it would make the situation even more complicated, no matter the constant bombing runs against their positions devoid of anti-air vehicles that were wearing it down.

He was breathing calmly despite what he knew to expect, as the helicopter began to turn to the right, he was informed that they were already aware of enemy positions to take the safest air routes towards the city, while ahead of them Quijote attack helicopters advanced to clean possible ground threats, and further ahead, a escort of CL-32s flew at a far higher altitude, a mere precaution at the moment, as there was no sign their enemies had any fighter aircrafts in the island.

"Comrade Tiago," another man then spoke in Spanish with a worried tone of voice, as he cocked his rifle, "have you thought about the possibility of these pigs using innocents as human shields? I wouldn't like to kill an innocent in the crossfire, but it seems the situation may become very difficult for us, because if we wait too much, their armors will arrive close to the city, and perhaps they might have armors behind, hiding into the city as well."

"Dozens of millions of lives, Miguel, dozens of millions of lives depend upon our courage to face difficult situations," Tiago gestured exacerbatedly, "their freedom lie in theirs and ours hands, if we don't give the example of courage, if we are not prepared to, if necessary, die for the cause of freedom and anarchism, how can expect them to be?"

The Marines, like all special forces of the Confederacy, were a heavily politicized branch of their military, men and women taught that the cause of true liberty was above their very lives, comfort and happiness, that the good of everyone was above any egotistical whims they could have, and thus they were among the most collectivist inside the Confederacy, people who lived in a quasi-communal organization, conditioned and educated to care not about their personal wealth and well-being, but about the well-being and freedom of everyone. In many ways, however, they were far happier than those who set their lives for the pursuit of wealth, even though ironically, their lifespan was usually smaller, as perhaps life wasn't made for joy, but for suffering, and in some cases, death was the only form of liberation.

"But, I don't want to taint my hands with the blood of women and children, I don't want to be forced to threaten their lives." Miguel replied during their travel, which was yet to take many minutes.

"There is a reason why we had anti-terrorist training," Tiago cockled his rifle as well, "our enemies are by extension an army of terrorists, with a few desensitized slaves of the State virtually conditioned to be perfect murderers of innocents, able to kill children without any remorse or feeling of regret. Because that is the terrible truth: that the government can transform human beings into monsters, killing machines for their lust for wealth and power. And for such men, raised in conditioning facilities, only in death they shall meet freedom."

Miguel sighed then, as he reflected upon such words, and knew that such was the truth. Where the Confederacy children were from their very birth, conditioned to be free, like human beings were naturally inclined to, the victims of the People's Republic of Spain, the starving ones, were sometimes ripped from their mothers, and raised by the government to become loyal servants. There were rumors of an elite force of their enemies, which like in the dystopian predictions of works like 1984 and Brave New World, were created in an artificial manner, like breeds of animals set to have features of utility for the government, and conditioned to servitude.

"How have they allowed for this to happen? I have only found similar reports about legends beyond our very world, I do not want to imagine how they would end if we allowed for them to remain."

"In collapse and further suffering once their decadence hits the bottom," he then answered, "because such societal model cannot survive, and thus, if we did nothing, the death toll could be measured by the hundreds of millions, and unmeasurable suffering would wail through Portugal and Spain. But we are not cowards who write fancy words condemning what they are unwilling to make personal sacrifices and take risks to really fight against. It is very easy for a fat ass politician to write fancy words and rhetoric while soldiers die in vain."

"Like Lockhelm," Miguel shrugged, "who did nothing to really help us. Who spoke for this attack to happen, because she would not participate of it, because she would not hear bullets glancing near her, yes?"

"I would not judge Cecily that harshly, Miguel," Tiago then looked for a while at the clear skies, admiring the way they gave the sensation of freedom, a freedom they would soon bring, "she once was a combatant, but she recognized that what she liked to do was not what she truly was gifted to do, and thus gave it away to become a shadow, a powerless figure for the Confederacy, with no prestige, no reason to feel proud of as everything she ever done was nothing but the will of the people rather than her own will. To be a head of State in the Confederacy is an humbling position."

"I see, so are you saying she did chose unhappiness following a carreer she hated for the sake of the people?"

"Yes," he then spoke with a far more serious tone, "Cecily Lockhelm wanted to join us, but she saw that she would be far more helpful to the people there. It is not anyone who would take a job she is sure that she hates just to help others. Now, on our mission, I think we are almost there. Just more four minutes."

And thus the first urban battles of the war of Spain were about to happen.

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

10 hours later, somewhere else far beyond the battlefield

In a hospital in Tucker, eyes stared at the clear lights, at the white ceiling, trying to forget, to forget a sacrifice arguably greater than death. But there was no way to do it, no way to run away from the truth, the images were still vivid, the deafening white noise of the explosion, the pain and the violent thrust of her body, the bone of her left arm that broke, and she could not avert raising her head to look at the bandaged stumps of what once were her thighs.

But they said there was a chance they could re-implant her legs, they made batteries of exams into her, always being inconclusive in their explanations for now, but after such many hours, her memory still repeated the scenes, the firefight, and her forceful but honorable discharge from active duty for the Marines was still very close, and perhaps it would be a permanent one. She knew that soon they would inform her whether it would be possible or not to reimplant them, whether she would be condemned to live for the rest of her life as a handicapped victim of anti-personell mines or not.

The double doors of the warden opened as a doctor began to approach her, her eyes attentiously keeping at his direction, as he came to her, she immediately asked a question, the most troubling question that was coming to her mind:

"Doctor Murra, do you have information about my friends who continued to fight?"

The doctor immediately smiled as he answered:

"Elis, very few people in your situation would first worry about their friends than about themselves, and it is good to see there are still good people around. These were the good news: yes, I have been informed all the members of your fireteam are alive and well."

Although she had a brief moment of happiness, she soon realized what he meant by saying they were the good news. It was not necessary at all for her to ask the other question, for she said the answer herself:

"I will be trapped in a wheelchair and shitty leg prothestics for the rest of my life."

"I am sorry Elis, but it is impossible to reimplant your legs... you have done much for the Confederacy, and I am sure they will give you what you deserve. In fact, it is a pity a woman like you to be given no choice."

"But doctor," she then replied, trying to hold her emotions, "you said yourself the truth, there is no hope, and all known prostethics are completely limited, don't give me false hopes!"

The doctor then smiled to her, but first he looked behind, as if seeing whether someone else was listening to their conversation or not:

"Elis, yes, that is truth, all known prostethics are extremely limited and unable to truly equate to natural human limb performance... but what if there were not only prostethics," his voice then lowered to a whisper, "but also, how should I say, cybernetic limbs, offering superior performance to human limbs, which are still under research and development?"

Skeptical, she said to him in a lowered voice:

"I see, so you wish to inscribe me in a program that doesn't even exists? You are joking right? 'Cybernetic'", she scoffed, thinking it was some sort of sick joke, "augmentations, are only in the works of cyberpunk writers, and even if they were possible, they would never be practical or economical to be used in a reasonable scale so that anyone would bother investing in them."

"Yes," he whispered, "you are right on how they will never be economical to become widespread for non-peaceful purposes, but with the way stem cell implants research stagnated, they may be for now the only hope for many who are in the same state than yours."

"Aha!" she then said in a surprisingly low voice, "why would this hush be needed if this was a project for nearly entirely civilian purposes?"

"All right, it is not only for civilian purposes," the doctor replied, "we are, besides seeking to give a hope for the handicap, that might not concretize, to also have a very... very small and select force, of half a dozen at most, and perhaps you might be interested in getting off here, you have been invited because your genetic profile is compatible. But I will be honest to you Elis: these implants aren't really safe, and... if you volunteer to test them, there is a death risk involved, or they might not work at all because not everyone have the necessary endurance and tolerance to foreign bodies to maintain implants directly integrated with their brain. If you agree, you should know that I cannot give you certainty it is going to work, and... let me warn you: we are not butchers and monsters, but even with all the anaesthesia, it is going to be a painful operation, because we will have to remove these stumps of your legs as well to attempt implanting them into you. So I hope you are well aware of this..."

"I..."

And thus he interrupted her with another whisper:

"And if you don't agree, remember: we never had this conversation. But take your time to think about it, I know it is a difficult choice."

She then nodded, and thinking about it, she wondered whether to let the fear of what they could do with her, should she accept, overcome her urge to be able to walk once again, for she could still even feel her legs even if they weren't there, and the prospect of remaining at such state was perhaps more frightening than to join a shady experiment voluntarily. Pondering on the price of each decision, she leaned at each during a few minutes, until she finally spoke:

"I agree, doctor... I'd rather risk dying than not trying."

"Very well Elis Navarre, very well, if that is your decision, tomorrow you shall be relocated. I wish you good luck and success with it."

"How many successful surgeries have you already done?" she then asked.

He simply left the room without answering, as she realized that she has simply chosen a fancier way of euthanasia over accepting to live as a handicap. Or perhaps, perhaps there was a small chance it could work. Better to not get her hopes up though, and as the doctor vanished, she tried to calm down, to think about the good things of her past life.

But deep inside, she still wanted to cry, to realize her helplessness as she verbally agreed to become nothing but a test subject for what would be another suicidal money sink into what probably were trains of failed over failed attempts to merge flesh and machine.

But in some ways, it was better for such technologies to be arguably feasible but impractical because of factors like high mortality and failure rate and costs than for them to be both. For otherwise, the horrors nations like the People's Republic of Spain could commit with such technologies would perhaps bring the world to a new dark age of human minds enslaved by government machines, a dangerous path to a Brave New World.

Of course, if somehow she survived it, she would be an exception to the rule, and perhaps the last attempt with such researches of questionable utility, for despite all advances with brain-computer interfaces, the human body was still gifted with a strong immunological system that made such tecnophile delusions of building a "cyborg" impractical, for the human immune system did not evolve to accept the blending of flesh with machine, but to logically reject it.

East Glacia, Unknown
Unimportant
August 15th, 2039
24.4 Celsius

Roman deClark the Third stood in the room, which was ornately designed to reflect the status of its most common visitors, the Royal family and its highest consultants. It was positioned deep underground, thus the light was generated by twelve wall-strapped bulbs with beautiful blue and gold shades, which were once closed-flamed lamps but after a fire was started by a broken lamp during his father’s ran, Prince Roman deClark the Second, it was decided that such a design wasn’t necessary in a confined room due to safety issues. The single entrance, a two-paneled door, was exquisitely molded and panted to look like a mahogany door, which it imitated imperviously, was actually a three-inch thick steel plate that was mechanically opened. The flooring was a brown-stained marble and the large round table was also of wooden structure, along with the metal gold and blue painted seats that they used. In table was four meters long, with a space cut from the middle, which was filled by a circular television screen that connected the men to the rest of their Principality. The ventilation room had once been connected to the room, but was completely seal off except for air ducts for safety reasons. This room contained a mass of plants and mechanics that funneled the CO2 produced into the plant chamber and the fresh oxygen into the room. This all made the structure nearly impenetrable, adding to that the deep secrecy that was authorized to it, and only two guards which watch the pre-entrance which was told to them to be a lead to the helicopter pad, which by a secondary way it was.

Roman rubbed his chin as he read the Spanish MilNet news of the most recent atrocity committed by the Soviet Spain, the ideological opponent of the former, the men around him did the same. “Well it seems the Anarchists have a stable advance, but with atrocities like this occurring with every victory the pace of this must be increased.” The faces of the men surrounding his portrayed their similar dislike of the civilian executions, something that was carried out towards them in the civil war, obliterating their populace. “Now, from the reports we’ve gathered Anarchists also seem to be forcing mass desertions, something that prompted the last heinous act. The Anarchists are winning, but it is my belief that we must speed this up. I understand they are not our people, I understand that we can not save the world, but we must do something. Ask yourselves, how many times did you wonder why no other nation intervened in our internal strife? Ask yourself how that intervention could have saved so many lives. Now we have the power to make sure that this doesn’t happen again, at least to them.”

General of the Army Charles leMenn was the first to reply, his broad chest draped in the characteristic East Glacine military parade garb of navy blue shirt and pants, which golden shoes and beret cap, topped of in excellence with several exorbitant pieces of cloth connecting to symmetrical section of his uniform on the opposite side of their origin. And the final cachet being a mass of metal find home on both his cap and left breast. “Your highness,” It displaced no additional respect to the Prince, but it was tradition, and lacking such an addendum could lead to a charge of treason, theoretically. “I understand your place, I too wish that some nation could have intervened to end the war, but they didn’t, and look at us now.” He extended his arm all across the room, showing the extravagance and high placement of the cabinet, “We survived, learned lessons, and became stronger.” -- He paused for the real reason for his obstruction to the Prince’s position. “We have a constant enemy on our border, their name is unnecessary, for we all know of them, and to send any amount of forces that would make a difference to the Spanish theatre would give the enemy the most opportune moment to strike in decades. It is something we simply, on the most basic levels, can not afford for our Principality, my liege.” Equivalent in necessity to the antecedent.

Minister of Civil Affairs, John Kennington another veteran of the civil war, however his role in the conflict was the safe evacuation of the surviving royal citizens to the south western region of the nation and reconstruction of over a hundred thirty-two cities and villages. His attire was much simpler then most in the room, being a black suit with eloquent white lines intermediately placed across, matched with a white shirt and blue tie tucked under the suit and a very business-like haircut to match. “Well, there’s on option,” He paused for dramatic effect, he was a bit of a drama queen, but it was a single characteristic flaw that didn’t often get in the way of his overall excellent résumé. He also had didn‘t have the General’s previous necessity as he was referring to group in the room, not directly to the Prince. “We could organize a few volunteer brigades. It would allow us to send a group to help aid against the enemy, and to also to keep our current stance against your Western counterparts,” Pausing again, but this time was for his thought process to catch up to his words. It was easily distinguishable from his more dramatic action where he scans the room with his eyes, alternatively his face was drifting up and to the right as his eyes seemed slightly more glazed. “Any objection, General, or my liege?”

Roman looked at the General with an intriguing look, and was replied to by him with a slow shake of his head. The General was not one to aid words unnecessarily, although he was quite talkative and funny in a more private, and social, gathering. The Prince looked up once again straight at the television screen, his eyes also drifting though not nearly as noticeably as the Minister of Civil Affair’s. “But Minister, we both know that we have no rights for the citizen’s the hold guns. So we’d have to fully equip these volunteer brigades and send them with our own ships, encase they were to be attacked by pirates or the Soviet Spaniards.” He looked again at the General, expecting to see some kind of opposition now that there was some ground based on cost. However the General understood that the amount of monetary aid and ships they would have to send would not be a serious hindrance on their ability to face the West Glacine military, nor would it even reveal to be a correct time to response for anything that was bought or in the process of being built that was larger then a patrol boat was unceremoniously destroyed by several missiles of the East Glacine Naval Corps, thus even without a brown, green or blue-water navy the chance of an enemy preemptive attack was as small as it was constantly in the region.

“Your highness, this is true, but we could give them a privilege, similar to that of a driving license. Of course, their privilege to weaponry will be arrested as soon as they return. Last thing we need is a few thousand idle citizens with rifles,” Minister Kennington laughed as did the whole room, it was an old joke on West Glacia’s given right to bear arms and the desultory way that their schools were attacked by crazed teens with access to firearms, coupled with similar events with discontented workers that took their fury out on bosses and co-workers. “But on a more serious note, if we send under sixteen thousand men our work force will not be hampered and the amount of rifles and other apparatus of war along with ammunition will also not dent our pockets too much.” He looked over to Minister of Internal Resources Jennifer Forborne, a beautiful mother of two at the age of forty-seven, she still had the body to woo even the most conservative male, which also led to several rumors flying about the government that she had used ‘out of mainstream’ channels to reach her position. However these were completely false as any competent teen with internet access and a rather long attention span could find that she was rather good at her job, however most men, and yes even women, would rather take the shorter route of believing gossip. “We still have quite a few Leopard Is and G36A2s, correct ma’am?” Ending his part of the conversation didn’t need any additions as his final word was with Minister Forborne and not the Prince.

Minister Forborne removed her right arm, which was previously placed underneath her rather conservatively sized breasts, to a newer position on the desk. She cleared her throat a bit, being a smoker from the age of fourteen to thirty-two had wreaked havoc on her lungs that would probably not be repaired until she was in her mid-fifties. “We have approximately,” Her eyes stayed glued to the Minister of Civil Affairs, however her mind was off recalling the statistics of their military inventory, a feat that had been her strongest asset to reach her current position in the government. “Six hundred thirty Sumerian Leopard 2M10, and eight hundred sixty-two thousand four hundred fifty-one G36A2s. Along with three hundred twenty-six Puma IFVs and fifty thousand JDAM systems.” The men in the room were taken back by her memory, although she did notice this she gave no visual show of pride. She had lived with her memory as it forced her to remember every bad, and yes also the good, boyfriend, friend and the most horrible memories of the civil war. The scars of life that were amplified by her memory made her humble about her ability, another asset that was liked by her co-workers.

“Alright, that settles it.” The Prince’s face was solid as he finally gotten what he had wanted. It wasn’t in a childish way however, he had appeased both his own ethics and didn’t risk the his land to be overrun by their belligerent neighbors to the north east. “Good, good. Make sure the ones that get picked have at least gone threw reserve training. And make sure that they know the atrocity those Soviet bastards did, I want them to understand completely what their fighting for. Any objections?” Everyone in the room had been satisfied, even the General seemed to have a small smirk on his face. “Alright. I guess it’s time to go.” With that last comment all the people in the room stood up and left. As they all reached the room which had three doors, one to the secret room, one to the above-ground building and the last to the helicopter pad they all took the last, taking their helicopters to their positions.

East Glacia, Makerville
16:21 Military / Local Time
August 17th, 2039
4.2 Celsius

Crag Klaus had just finished his reserve duty, serving most of his time in the garrison defending Kingstown, once being transferred to an active duty frontline unit which was acted several days later. He had received a grazing in his left leg and served with distinction after being the only survivor in his fire team after an assault on his forward post, holding long enough for the rest of his platoon to push back the enemy skirmishers. Now Crag was walking the streets of his home town, heading towards the local pub for a drink with his friend. He glanced at the ground, noticing a blue and yellow poster fluttering on the ground, this immediately identified it as a royal creed or state news of at least moderate importance. He chased it about two meters down the street before stomping on it with his shoe, leaving a foot print on the back of the paper. He leaned down, picked it up and then read it. Soviet oppression in Spanish… need men to stop the atrocities… only requirement: previously been trained in the reserves. Klaus carried the flier with him to the pub.

As Klaus walked in, he saw his friends already on their second round jugging their Donmouth ale beer, one of the roughest distasteful beers sold in the country. He walked to them, all of them rejoicing which was multiplied by their slight drunkenness, and offered him a beer immediately. He placed the poster on the ground, and looked at his friends. “We’ve got to volunteer.” Immediately their joy departed from them as they had all been in the reserve, everyone of them had served at least one cycle in the frontlines, and they didn’t like war. “Look at this!” He yelled, as he pointed to the longest section of the poster: the atrocities of the Soviets. Their faces visibly changed as they read the details, it was horrifying reminiscent of the civil war books that they read about their own country, none of them old enough to have first hand experience with the war.

Brandon Bruce rose from the table, he was the largest of six men weighing an easy hundred eleven kilograms and over two meters standing, the began to move towards the bartender, noticeably taking his drink. He went over to the man at the counter and handed him the amount that was due for the rounds of beers they had taken. Klaus was the first to ask him the question that was on the men’s minds. “What the fuck are you doing, Bruce?”

Bruce looked back over to him, and with his signature low tone that accompanied his large body said, “You jus goin’ tu sit der and let dus Suviet suns a bitches du dat shit?” And with that the men quickly rallied to their feet and followed him, it wasn’t Bruce or Klaus’ spirit or charisma that had roused them, for they truly lacked such qualities, it was their ethics, they didn’t want any nation to have to go threw what their’s did, and even though they weren’t on the front lines most of the time or even for an extended period of time they all understood the strife that had come about because of the internal dispute. The men quickly exited the pub, Klaus holding the flyer directing them towards the recruitment post.

After about ten minutes of a rather brisk pace they finally reached the recruitment station, and surrounding it was easily over a hundred men, some randomly screaming ‘let me go!’, ‘I know I haven’t gotten reserve duty yet, but shit man!’, ‘Nigga, il giv ya an unce tu let me gu!’ and that last particular one had the six men intrigued, manly because they would dive at that kind of deal to let the man join be in one of the volunteer brigades. It was kind of heart-warming to see so many Glacines wanting to help their fellow man, or maybe it was something else, the thrill of war they were after. No, that couldn’t be it, for their hole existence was dumped in it such conflict… or could it be?

It was a solid five hours that they’d be standing outside and the light from the sun had left them, as did its warmth and their relative light clothing was starting to have biting consequences. However they were next in line to get inside, and the interior only allowed about ten people at a time so it was a going to be comfortable, warm and still spacious in their. Many of the younger men had been turned down, it was easy to tell as they left in droves with a hail of curses as both the government’s policy and the men who were upholding inside.

Finally the men got inside the recruitment station, and to maximize their luck the three front-most people were a group of three teenagers who would undoubtedly be turned down due to their age. After several minutes of cursing their prediction had come to fruition, and there was now a single man in front of them, and elderly looking gentlemen who had to have served in the reserves, and he was quickly accepted after a brief identification check and was ordered to report to the police station for additional instructions. “Alright, so you guys are in a group or individual?” The question was a reasonable one as they had been standing a line, but were rather close together so, especially with his recent experiences with other groups and singular personnel, the men did not make any sarcastic comment as they usually would.

“Group, of six. We all served, we all saw some sort of combat on the front,” he stated with a bit of pride, which was replied to by a slight giggle from the man, who was probably a professional soldier who saw combat at least once a week. This was probably a token job given to him for serving distinctively in the field, hell every soldier wanted some down time after fighting the Wanks, the new term evolved from the old derogatory for them, ‘Wens’ and a term for crazy people ‘Quacks’, and it was combination that found a place in most of the people’s hearts. “Alright, well we all want to be in the same unit.”

The man had a rather blasé tone about him, it was infuriating to the group, especially for Bruce as his temper towards disrespect was the shortest of the group, no doubt amplified by his self-confidence regarding his body size, even though everyone in the group knew that Pablo Alvarez was the best fighter in group, although he was of athletic build at a meter point seven and not to large in muscle area, though he had a lot of explosive energy, and a temper to match. “That’s not up to me, boys.” He took this tone because he was older than any of them, or at least he looked it much like a thirty-seven year old. “Well, whatever.” He started writing up slips. “Too lazy to fill this shit out myself. Put your names in print, print god damn don’t fucking write your signature, cuz I won’t give you another one.” He said this obviously because he had to deal with some thick headed men in his time at the recruitment post. “Alright, now when you fill that out, head towards the police station.”

East Glacia, Port Royal
13:13 Military / Local Time
August 21st, 2039
19.8 Celsius

Admiralstadt George Claudius was the commanding officer of the 2nd Overseas Marching Group that had been slatted for use in Operation Nathaniel to transport the volunteer brigades to combat in the Anarcho-Commune Spanish War and also offer heavy support to reduce the ‘civilian’ casualties, however the term civilian referred more to the members of the volunteer brigades than that of the Spanish homeland. The Admiral walked briskly across his ship, the GNC Glacier an over twenty year old Hafenstadt-Class CV that had been the flagship of the fleet since before he reached the rank of Captain. Now he was tasked with coordinating his own small fleet alongside an exponentially larger ‘civilian’ fleet that was made up of over two hundred fifty ships of various class and size that had been donated from eclectic origins. That civilian fleet would be the dominant force in transporting the eight thousand volunteers to the shores of the Spanish homeland.

A young Ensign ran up to the Admiral, his speed revealing the importance of his message as he quickly recited what was told of him, “Admiral, all civilians are onboar-” he paused for a moment to take in a large breath of air, it would be no small wonder if the young man had been smoking since the age of ten, and would explain his shortness of breath, although the Naval Corps. Doctrine citied this as an ‘admissible adversity due to the brusque distance inherent in inter-craft travel’ a very incoherent way of saying, ‘because a ship isn’t as big as the ground, you don’t need good lungs to make it from one side to another’, however Claudius had petitioned against this false tenet and also held several demonstration aboard his own craft proving his point, however the reply was always the same, ‘No reason to mess with the boys, George!’ it was an irritating redundancy. “Sorry sir. The civilians have boarded all their ships, our fleet and theirs is fueled and stocked, we’re awaiting your order, Sir.” He saluted his commander, the gesture of respect was returned and he ran off to report to whoever was necessary, evidently even before he made it to the end of the corridor he had to stop for a good coughing and to catch his breath.

Claudius sat down in his command chair and opened up the communications channel for the both fleets, a completely unencrypted channel. “This is Admiralstadt George Claudius, the commander of this military fleet is what my men know my position as, and to the civilians we are accompanying I am the man in charge of the flock of guardian angels that surround you. You may only refer to me, either group, as Admiral or Admiralstadt, any who does not do so within my earshot will be thrown overboard.” This was the first sign of his self-depiction as an illustrious Admiral, though his relatively minor role in the Naval Corps. was a revealing contradiction to this. “Now that my main concern has been dealt with,” a failed attempt at a joke, he neither recognized its failure nor halted to realize either, “Prepare to make head-way, we’ll be arriving in Spanish territory in less then two weeks, until then myself and my men will make sure that all of you brave men are safe.

Claudius shook his head from his day dream about spending time in bed with his wife and several of her friends, thanks to several years of training he was able to do so without any rise of erection or portrayal that he was having a dream of that kind. They had departed six days ago, and the current situation was a simulacrum of heaven; food control was incredibly lax and even so they still had only consumed a quarter of their supplies, they made a stop at Canary Island, a small colony of some far-off nation and were welcomed efficaciously by the town whores as their business was booming, the men, Claudius who notably had partaken largely in this, bought small trinkets such as cocaine and heroine which were exponentially more abundant on this colonial island than in their home country, many of them celebrating with organizing their lines in the shape of the small island and then offer a salute to it, it was called the Canary Sweet. There were several overdose cases, none of which resulted in a fatality, but due to the Admirals own sympathies in such substances they were never reported officially.

Now Claudius’ mind was content as he thought about the luscious stockpile of cocaine that he had stored in his room, a full kilogram of the droppings of heaven’s clouds. Glacine society and schooling had taught him that moderation was key, and his left lobe agreed with this, moderation would keep him from becoming an addict, though he was one by conservative principle, also aloud him to maintain his supply for an extended period of time, and the most important it would allow his ‘glorious military mind’ to keep from being overcome by the drug, and thus operate his admiralship with ‘continued excellence’. He smiled contentedly, oh so contentedly that he had drawn noticeable attention, and as thus his smile quickly resembled a vigorous frown, which forced the curious men to aim their eyes at their work space, despite the lack of actual work. Several stood up and left to go somewhere else, most likely to get on deck to breath some fresh air and smoke a cigarette.

International Waters
21:13 Military Time
August 29st, 2039
22.3 Celsius

Civilian Commandant Richard Fillmore sat in his ‘headquarters’ that was nothing more than an average dormitory that was outfitted to only fit three people compared to eight along with a small bar and a table, currently he was alone, his other executive commandants were off mingling with the fellow officers in a large sections of the ship, or perhaps on deck is was of no concern to him as he pondered about the Anarcho-Commune Spanish War, he had joined on a wind of destiny, or more realistically as an escape to his work-wrecked life that had destroyed his marriage and his child-less life, the only object to maintain his life being marijuana, and more recently a foray into cocaine, which while it did destroy his depression it only did so for an hour at the most, opposing it marijuana was effective in making him forget his issues and for a much larger period of time, adding to that it was legal in his country and his choice was overly easy, though he was ecstatic about his chance to try cocaine in a place where he could not be prosecuted to over ten years in a work camp.

Fillmore pulled out a full-colored blue cigarette of the Mainard’s Select the filter half a gold trim around it and a lighter shade of blue, the tobacco was of a higher concentration of nicotine, twelve point five percent to be exact, it was also hand-made, as was the rule for both marijuana and tobacco contained products that were self-proclaimed ‘elite’ , and as thus was filled with much less disturbing substances, which lead to a much more clean smoke, including this the particular type of cigarette he was smoking had been slightly laced with marijuana, with was more to induce a slight form of euphoria, however at ten USD a pack it was not a cheap brand, especially when compared to the three it cost for a normal brand. As the smoke allegorically caused him to connect several thoughts together, though incoherently at first he soon formulated his thoughts. He had a total of eighty-seven men under his control, seven of which he had already conversed with, and in all honesty he found them repugnant, within no more than ten minutes he was forced to come up with an excuse to evade their presence, without showing how utterly disgusted he was, he did so with a lack ability, and looking back on the lie, which was ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but I have some orderly things to attend to.’ He groaned audibly in repentance, oh how his men must hate him, talk about him at this very moment, he paused to take another prolonged pull of his cigarette. This forced a kind of epiphany in him; the men didn’t give a shit! He laughed, his current situation reminiscent of an insane man, but that didn’t matter, he was off to fight, something he didn’t regret, the battles would be hard, maybe he would die, but at this moment he gave no care, even knowing the possibility of his death.

Then it hit Richard, the true competency of his mortality, no matter how good a soldier, how high his eminence, he could be killed by any moment by a man so similar to him that it would be possible for his wife to make love to that man… that enemy… while thinking it was him. It displeased him so completely that his body began to physically ache, no wonder helped by the fact that strong emotions effected men physically moreover then woman, but soon this disgust, this irrefutable need to destroy something passed, as he realized he and his wife were no longer together, no, now it was darkness that enveloped him, but somehow he preferred it, over the thought of his wife and another man, what an abhorrence. At that moment, he decided that he would survive the war, and he would see his wife again, and he would do anything he could to get her back, but at the exact same moment he also made a last, more dangerous pact to himself, that if he were to find her with another man, that all of them, his wife, that man, and his children were a blot on history, and he would do his soldiering duty to erase it, and himself with it, not being man enough to keep his wife. That would keep him alive, no matter how adverse the conditions, he would survive this war.

But as all the cognitive thoughts died down, as the pain dropped out of his body, it was replaced by an unending weariness, not that of emotional strife, not it was physical entity, and entity determined to retire him to sleep. Yes, this was his secret pleasure, the weariness that the marijuana brought upon a man. He slowly moved towards the bed, every step worn down with the attrition of time, taking it all away, all the pain, sacrifice, death, yes the death of millions of beings that sacrificed themselves for his existence and which he requited nothing, yes his thoughts were to that of the humble, mostly obscure skin cells, indeed the billions of cells that formed his body and the identical ones of his peers and his compatriots all round the world. This was his last thoughts as his body hit the bed, his eyes eclipsed, and off his weed-influenced dreams began, all the while he was slowly creeping towards the battles to come.

Battle of Llucmajor

The small town's sight was right ahead through the helicopter's window, with its old buildings now becoming clearer to the sight, as they were about to touch down into the rooftop of a three-store apartment, to initiate their risky enveloping operation behind the enemy lines. Aragón's rifle was pointed over the open doors to the right, as he looked through its scope to survey possible ambush spots into the approaching outskirts of the town, aware that in ten minutes at best, hundreds of retreating enemy soldiers, dozens of artillery vehicles and tanks would converge into their position. An AA-70 machinegun was mounted next to the rear ramp of the chopper to provide cover, for the many Quijote gunships escorting them would not be enough, for they could come from any house, from any window, from even a manhole.

The streets were becoming closer, but no resistance of their enemies has yet been found, they seemed dead, deserted like if a permanent curfew has been going far longer than their brief presence in the island. There were no children playing by the streets, no elders or young couples walking by, no signs of civilian activity anywhere. Many of the classical-like windows of the weathered, ancient buildings, have been boarded with at least six wooden planks, and in the entrance of every street, tank traps, sandbags and machinegun emplacements have been placed, strangely empty, which was something far too stupid for any minimally competent leader to allow.

"Miguel, isn't this strange?" asked Tiago, without moving his sight off the permanent vigilance, "why would they completely abandon their defensive positions and risk letting them be used against themselves?"

The weathered cobblestone and asphalt streets still showed no signs of movement, as at such moment the helicopter began to decelerate for its landing, and thus every marine prepared for disembarking, while Miguel answered in the limited time he had before getting on the rooftop:

"This certainly is suspicious. We better not give much leeway for ambushes, for perhaps they are already here, but hidden and waiting for the best opportunity to strike at us," Miguel scratched his chin and considered the implications of such strange facts, "to strike while we are busy fending the retreating enemy forces!"

"Everybody move!" the rear ramp of the Cougar opened with a loud clamp, and Aragón immediately moved to the outside, stepping over the terrace of the building, followed by his fireteam, and by all others inside the helicopter. As soon as they disembarked, the helicopter began to move away, heading back to its landing zone, and seemingly no attempt to take it down happened. Looking behind, he saw as the other teams began to take positions over the rooftop, and two carried two parts of a ZM300 to assemble an emplacement. Their primary objective was still to pin the retreating forces rather than to completely secure the town, but how to achieve such objective was up to every fireteam to decide at the heat of the moment. Two men carried man-portable ADATS launchers, and from afar it could be seen more helicopters landing on rooftops with further platoons of marines across the town outer perimeters, preparing themselves to face enemies from likely both sides. The Quijotes remained to give them air support, two for each street where the marines were taking control of, and maintained random, unpredictable patrol routes, nearly touching the roofs but at high speed, to reduce the window of opportunity for the enemies to target them. Two of the heavy gunships over the horizon however, seemingly began to move towards the core of the town, even without any "order" for them to do so, because they were far too much independent sometimes.

There was an staircase leading down to the building, covered by one meter tall stone railings like those that surrounded the terrace to avoid accidents, and Tiago immediately nodded to the three other men following him as he looked at one of the supply crates that were offloaded with them, and seeing its label, he opened it: inside the crate, divided in two segments, there were some suppressed SF-27 submachineguns in one segment and 9x19mm caseless magazines in the other, he took one of them with him, and six magazines, putting his rifle on the shoulder, as he could bear the weight of carrying both, and then he stepped aside as Miguel came to equip himself with another more appropriate gun for indoors fighting. Another member of their fireteam took a compact shotgun, slightly larger than a submachinegun, from another supply crate set over the rooftop, which had a large suppressor seemingly melded into it, and then came with them.

They had to check the building first, to take down any enemy soldier, to whom the advantage stood, and to perhaps disarm possible boobytraps inside, and at worst, tripwires could exist, there was no way to be sure that all was clear while fighting inside a town. To their side a marine stood with a caseless RFA sniper rifle lowered, and immediately asked:

"We better have at least this building safe, you know that we are doing this together." four of the soldiers cautiously climbed down the building with a rope while the marine explained to them, while four others approached slightly above each of four of the windows of the second floor, with flashbangs hanging from their belts, and covered by four designated marksmen who stood at every corner of the terrace, covering three hundred sixty degrees around them. The building would be stormed from three ways to ensure maximum efficiency, shouldn't something be hiding inside, as for now there was no signs of civilian presence, perhaps the town population has been evacuated, perhaps as they feared that their enemies would one by one, arm their people to fight against them, as already was happening. But if they did that, there would be no reason to avoid using precision bombing against them, provided it did not cause too much damage on civilian buildings, and their enemies knew pretty well that maintaining civilians would inhibit the Confederacy, for unlike their masters, the Confederacy had morals to uphold in such conflict.

"Comrades, you have seen the overall plan," affirmed the same marine, "we must coordinate our actions, but at the same time avoid predictability. Those of us tasked to secure the city have twenty flexible waypoints to cover in the operational level, and five primary waypoints that once completed, will mean most of the city becomes secure. As for those of us tasked to defend this city, we must position ourselves and trap this city with our own tools. And all scouts, you must observe cautiously the route of retreating enemies, as that route will give in the paths that are cleared of minefields for our main forces to proceed through. We have ten minutes at best before the enemy arrives."

"You heard him Miguel, Júlio and Paco, now follow me," Four marines risked their lives in a vulnerable position as they stood suspended by ropes next to windows from the second floor, flashbangs ready in their hands, and below, a man armed an explosive over one of the building walls, while his team gave him cover and stood in the other corner of the building, from where the road and the countryside could be seen.

The very marine who armed the explosive retreated immediately and got down, as he approached the microphone from his helmet, looking at his digital watch before speaking. Meanwhile Aragón checked whether the door ahead was locked, and for anything suspicious in it that could be a trap. The door was locked, as thus he instructed for one of his comrades to approach and aim his suppressed shotgun at its lock. Meanwhile another helicopter flew in a high speed over their heads, coming from south to north at the western perimeter they were currently at.



"Arriba! Go Go!" the announcement through his earphone was nearly silenced by the sound of an explosion, as immediately a somewhat silent sound of a shot came, splintering wood from the door, when Tiago immediately kicked the door, throwing it over the floor with a heavy thud sound as he nearly instantly checked for what lied ahead, to fire if necessary, but there was no enemy, nobody, and thus he immediately leaned to the left hearing soon the noises of four flashbangs below. The corridor was bifurcated at both ahead and left directions, and thus Miguel began to move quickly ahead with Júlio, while he turned to the left side of such corridor with his submachinegun ready, finding immediately three doors to cramped apartments of those who once inhabited there.

He gestured for Paco, the soldier armed with the shotgun, to cover him as he crouched before handling the door next, verifying it for possible hints something was off place as he was trained. As he conclude it was free, he immediately, with his senses at their fullest, opened the door quickly and aimed ahead, seeing nothing again but a nightstand and an old bed with a dusty matress over it, as he then leaned to the left to check if anyone was hiding, and saw nobody. The place has been completely deserted, and some of the drawers of an opened closet were still open, as if someone packed up in a hurry. There was no bathroom or additional room, and thus he went to the next door, repeating the procedures while trying to hold his tension.

Nothing either, but another sign of a hurried departure which was particularly depressing, specially for the downed portrait over one of the nightstands. Curious, Tiago moved towards it, as he tried to think about how much the people who lived in this town suffered already. Lifting it up, he saw the photograph of an young children, while Paco's eyes also turned to it. The boy was barely three years old from the looks of the photograph, smiling with authentic happiness, innocent to the horrors of the world around him, or perhaps more hopeful than his parents, hopeful for men who would be ready to give their lives for such children, and the image gave a warm comfort to Aragón, a strong motivation to stand at the difficult times ahead. Looking at it, Tiago raised the portrait with his hand, and nodding to Paco, he putted it inside his backpack. It was a truly refreshing sight of hope, a better reason than anything to not give up.

But there was a mission to accomplish, and thus he immediately moved with caution to the next door in the corridor, the last one. No shots could have been heard yet, meaning no enemy has been located so far, and that their efforts have been somewhat unneeded, but without certainty, it was better to do this than to risk dozens of their lives in a reckless entry inside the building.

With one last advance, he checked for another apartment room, another empty one without any presence, but with more signs of a hurried departure.

"All clear!" the message echoed multiple times through the earphone, with the IDs of all fireteams clearing the building, indicating there was no enemy. Immediately boots began to be heard coming from upstairs as snipers and soldiers began to take defensive positions from the building east side, as it faced directly the countryside from where, sooner or later, the enemy forces at retreat would come.

"Attention, this is a message to all comrades inside Llucmajor we have received confirmation of no enemy resistance or civilian population found so far, and as thirty buildings have already been checked, this don't make any sense statistically. There is something else going on, I am sure of it. Our enemies would not leave entire defensive emplacements unmanned and an entire town undefended for us to use against them. I suggest we conduct a full scale, house-to-house investigation over this town."

The message echoed through the ears of every soldier, as one of them took the initiative to announce how strange the circumstances were. None of them, all across the western limits of the urban perimeter, have encountered any civilian or sign of life. Something truly was not right about the situation.

"Everybody!" Aragón explained, "I suggest we keep only the minimum necessary of men to defend the outer perimeter while we search off this town for whatever reason it has been completely deserted. There must be a place where the support personell for all those divisions is hiding, perhaps we could find a clue if we reach it."

"Our enemies are hiding like mice," Miguel looked at Aragón, "they seems unwilling to fight for the moment, and have sacrificed a major tactical advantage, we better head off now through the streets."

"Requesting Banda team's support," Tiago communicated while he went down the building they were taking to hold their ground, theirs Pavlov's House where sixteen men would remain to shoot against the retreating enemies, where soon helicopters would bring sandbags and further equipment.

"Seven minutes! We got about seven minutes before an entire division arrives against us!" The street and apartments were being converted into defensive positions as fast as they could, while already existing, vacant emplacements were being manned. Aragón began to walk through one of the sides of the tight streets of the town, heading cautiosly towards its center. The fact windows were heavily boarded was a blessing, for none of them offered the necessary sight for snipers to pick them, and if any window was not that boarded, it would immediately give them away.

In the fireteam to the other side of the deserted street lied the only man nearby armed to take down an armored vehicle, for theirs was currently a light recon unit, walking as they saw the old buildings, as they checked for every corner, every crevice, every door where the enemy could be hiding, advancing block by block, aiming at doors, while behind them other teams were doing the task of checking one by one every building in their perimeter.

"Four minutes!" a general transmission announced, their time was running out, and soon they would have to rely on a handful of men and helicopters to take down whatever the air and naval bombardments haven't eliminated from the forced march of retreat towards the town, and they would not be small numbers, while the number of anti-air units would make things very complicated for the helicopters to support those who landed.

Strangely, after six blocks, Tiago saw no opposition of any form, no ambush, no attack, the place seemed to have been completely deserted. Small bars unscathed by the "revolution" due to their irrelevance to the interests of the Party, small apartments and groceries were being checked for anything, and the search became ever frustrating as it brought no results, bringing anxiety and fear of what could eventually come. All windows were boarded, there was no sign of enemy presence, and this was so bizarre and unbelievable that it could not be true.

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/dd/Llucmajor_at_rushhour.jpg/800px-Llucmajor_at_rushhour.jpg

A few seconds later another block was crossed, and they were now next to another typically deserted street crossing, where the hanging placard of a forgotten bar stood ironically with the name of an old brand. Also, to the left street crossing it, there was a large closed garage of a car shop that was long abandoned and languished, with its metal door rusted and dirty like the streets.

"There is no damn thing here! What game are these Bolsheviks playing with us?" Miguel frustratingly shouted, forgetting the operational procedures to avoid calling unneeded attention. Aragón immediately gestured for him to remain quiet, followed with a nod. Suddenly the sounds of gunfire were heard, as Aragón pointed to the direction he presumed them to be coming from: below him, and immediately went for the nearest cover he could find leaning in one of the corners of a building next to the bar with Miguel while the others leaned to the opposite corner.

Cover Fire (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECJS4fHkaQo)

"Clink!" the noise repeated multiple times as an object hit over the ground somewhere to the left while Paco and Júlio threw themselves over the ground for cover, and instinctively Tiago got down as well. The noises of a very powerful engine being started began to echo from the same overall direction, interrupted by the detonation of the grenade, which disturbed his ears for seconds. The fireteam behind them took defensive positions immediately, while the sound of treads began to echo as well, prompting Aragón to run towards the apartment's door, as Paco again shot against its lock, not even thinking about checking it, and with kick, they entered inside to hide from the coming enemy.

Gesturing for them to take positions over the windows of the first floor while covering the staircase and to remove their boards as fast as possible, he climbed the stairs to the first floor of the building, and moved to one of its front windows and began to attempt yanking one of the boards out with the help of Miguel. The vehicle was moving through the streets by now, and the sounds of men walking in a fast pace could be heard. The last board was to be removed as Paco threw a fragmentation grenade downstairs and took cover. As the last board was removed, a loud shot came, and in confusion, Tiago looked as Miguel fell over the floor, thumping over it, and immediately checked for where the shot hit.

"I am fine," Miguel winced, "this shit doesn't stop bullets... but it still saved my life." yet for safety, Aragón turned him on his back, while Miguel gritted his teeth and tried to withstand the pain, to check where it came out. Fortunately it had a diagonal trajectory, and unfortunately Aragón was not a medic to be sure whether the bullet really did not hit a vital organ or important artery, and simply he took quickly a first aid kit from his backpack and began to bandage his now undressed torso, while Paco and Júlio laid suppressive fire downstairs, for the enemies were already trying to storm through the building.

"This is Tiago Aragón from Arriba Team, we have been ambushed by a hidden enemy force in coordinates Arrego Trabajo Besta Cubo Pobre. Requesting immediate air support!" there was a clear despair, a realization they were no longer in an advantageous situation, that they have fallen into a trap.

"Drag me to the staircase..." Miguel asked, his voice nearly silenced by the shots as his body slowly recovered from the gross of the impact, "I still can shoot a gun... I can still."

"Remain alive comrade," Tiago dragged his friend to one of the safest points of the room, as he laid him down next to a nightstand and to the right of the bed inside, removing the cloth covering half of his face to allow him to breath easily, which was an influence of the black blocs into their way of dressing, being used even over gas masks in situations where they were necessary. Meanwhile, Paco gestured to him that he had only four magazines, and having already switched back to his assault rifle as his shotgun was emptied, they would soon lose their ability to defend themselves. Júlio switched his submachinegun to single-fire mode to conserve ammunition, and tried his best to keep the enemies at bay and unable to toss a grenade against them. Aragón threw two magazines to Paco, as he grabbed them and continued to take shots.

Something had to be done, but perhaps they have found their secret, and that was why they were attacking with such strength, sending their mans charging against their position to die sometimes. There were five corpses of enemy soldiers already cluttered in the downstairs corridor to the staircase, and their lifeless complexion and the stressful combat was driving slowly, in small steps, what such men had of sanity.

"This is Banda team... there are nearly half a hundred who are pouring from that garage and from the bar and one BMP-T infantry fighting vehicle, we lost two of our men... I and Luis are pinned here! How is your situation?"

"Banda team, we have one wounded and our ammunition is running out!" between shooting the encrypted transmission came as he whispered to avoid letting their enemies know. They were six men against at least fifty soldiers and one armored vehicle.

"Wait... banda team over! Do you have a few spare WP missiles?" in desperate situations, whether weapons were humane or nothing became less relevant, for it was a matter of success or failure, and their enemies had to learn the price of stacking so many soldiers against so few. The helicopter was coming, but at such rate they would be already dead once the air support arrived

"We have only one besides two ADATS... we lost our missile loader and we couldn't carry all of them to here! I understand... I will help Luis to fire it against them," holes were pouring from the concrete while bullets pierced them, and crouched, Aragón now moved closely to the window above him as he explained in a near whisper through the embedded communicator in his combat helmet "wait! I will bring them a distraction", he took a grenade and pulled its pin, throwing it below. Screams immediately came as it exploded and immediately he putted himself into the fire as he rose to the windows height and aimed his submachinegun below, where multiple enemy soldiers hid beneath a BMP-T, and the mangled corpses of a few and dying few could be seen, he did not wait as he pressed the trigger of his gun and began to shot against them, despite the shots fired back at him, but soon he crouched again, as he saw the turret of the vehicle heading towards him.

"Get down!" he began to crawl beneath the large, sturdy bed in the bedroom, his ears deafened and his teeth nearly broken as he felt the pressure of a massive collapse, as he looked behind to see the concrete from ceiling falling just behind his retreat, as a large explosion from a missile sprayed splinters through most of the room, and a white powder.

Coughing, he crawled back to the left side of the bed, and looked at the damage, the floor somehow did not collapse as well under the weight of part of the ceiling, and as the dust vanished, a second explosion would be heard, this time on the outside. Disturbing screams then began to echo, screams of burning men whose suffering could not be quenched by water, only by death. The deed has been done, but not all of them have fallen to the white phosphorous missile. Another explosion shook him, as another missile was fired against their position, and heavy autocannon fire was coming from the torn apart walls which once were the location of a window.

"I am pinned... here and we are going to be killed! Banda team... we need you to take down that damn vehicle." he could see already crackles forming over the floor, and look at another section of the top floor which fell over the left, crushing half of the bed and nearly crushing one of his arms together. He could only hope for the courage of the others... his life was now at their hands.

Another explosion, and he finally felt an immense alleviation as the massive tracer lights of autocannon bullets stopped coming. He crawled again away from the bed, and cautiously leaned through the still intact wall towards the large hole opened over his side. Finding five soldiers covering themselves over the wreckage, he moved his gun with both arms holding it against them and shot a burst, immediately leaning back, just in time as less than a second after, their bullets flew next to him. He quickly loaded another magazine, and leaned towards them again, aiming at their heads uncovered by the destroyed BMP-T, and leaning back before he could check whether he killed one of them or not. All their grenades have already been used, and he checked that there were only two more magazines for his submachinegun, and were it not loaded with caseless ammunition, there would be hundreds of spent cases all around. He had to be precise, and thus he swapped to single fire, and repeated his dangerous move to fire against them, keeping the ghost ring sight of his submachinegun perfectly at the first head or image resembling a head he could spot, as he shot and leaned back once more.

"Tiago!" Paco shouted with clear stress in his voice, coughing due to the many particles released by multiple explosions, before he continued "we are going down to help you... cover us, as he began to descend the stairs with his FA-65 in hands, covered by Júlio's submachinegun.

"Stirner group! We are taking heavy losses! There are six Leopard 2A6 and ten BMP-Ts at our position and infantry coming from inside the town, requesting support of any force inside the town... if you..." the desperate voice suddenly stopped due to static, bringing fear to every men who heard such distress call, for it was beginning already, the retreating enemies were now going against them, and there would be no mercy... no stop. Trying to contain his emotions, once again, he leaned towards the hole in the wall and quick aimed at another enemy helmet, shooting twice. He had to keep them focused at him while Paco and Júlio would move to take them down.

The sound of a falling helicopter echoed through the streets as well, as the few surviving anti-air vehicles arrived to worsen the situation, the battle continued on many places, where men trained from their late teens were facing a force made mostly by barely green draftees in larger numbers than theirs. However, they allowed for them to take their own defenses, had they not, their chances of success would have been slim. For while well trained, most ground forces of the Confederacy have never faced a real war before, and thus were not completely free from making tactical mistakes due to their lack of real combat experience.

"Tiago, give us covering fire once I announce waypoint Cabrón!" explained Paco as Aragón prepared to fire once again, switching back to full automatic mode in hopes that it would be fruitful. Thus he raised his senses even further to react as fast as he could once the instruction was given.

"Cabrón! Go Go!" nearly instantly Tiago leaned quickly towards the hole and acquired immediate visual contact to all enemies still behind the destroyed IFV, shooting multiple bursts against them, even after they crouched down. Down below, Júlio also stood to give covering fire from another angle to Paco as he moved through the other side of the street, cautiously avoiding as much as possible of exposure to the open door of its bar. Meanwhile, both survivors from Banda team also advanced in synchrony, as Paco communicated with them as well about such small operational move, one of many which could give them advantage against the large units of the enemy. Despite the risks of neglecting anti-infantry, all anti-air enemy forces were being prioritized and destroyed, even when destroyed them would the lives of one or two brave freedom fighters, for were their air defenses not obliterated by both their effort and the support of the CL-32s far above with what they, as air superiority fighters, could do, the operation and the lives of hundreds would be doomed.

"All clear!" Tiago felt a massive burden leaving, as he looked at his wounded friend in the ruined bedroom and crouching next to him, he then said:

"Miguel, I'll have to leave you for a while, but a medical team is already on the way to help you."

"Go, like I said," due to the environment, he suddenly coughed, "don't worry about me, I am not dying."

And thus he went downstairs, still leaning his gun at every corner due to instinct and trying to avoid focusing his stare for too long at the now dozens of corpses of the soldiers they have killed, having even difficulty to avoid stepping over such piles of bodies of those who tried to perform suicidal charges against them. There was a certain horror he tried to contain about the scenery, and as he looked to the outside, the burned and mangled corpses, of which one stood with both eyes blown out, and one was split in half, forming a macabre scenery he preferred to avoid.

"They are not innocent civilians" he repeated inside his head to avoid thinking too much about the visages, but he couldn't control the growing anxiety. The four men, two of the other team and two of his, were waiting next to the bar's door.

"I suggest we split in two groups to clear the garage and whatever may be inside this bar." Paco suggested as he pointed to the obvious signs such soldiers came from the bar. With a nod, Aragón simply gestured for his team members to follow him, while the other team would check the garage.

The bar was deserted and dead, its cheery and busy nights no longer visible, its counters devoid of even drinking water, let alone any joy or delusion of joy. In fact, it would fit perfectly as part of a scenery for a ghost town, except for one lively part: a trapdoor, now opened, leading to a set of hidden wooden stairs which led to a basement of sorts. Treading carefully through them, Tiago saw a door also opened, leading to a large, unkempt room filled with military supplies and bedrolls. It was their hideout... and there was one thing that called more attemption than anything: a thick, far large metal crate labeled Confidential. As he approached it, he looked at Paco and Júlio, as all of the three held its front hatch.

"One... two... three."

The large crate was opened by their combined effort, and its confidential content revealed why the place has been deserted. The unmistakable nuclear symbol was painted over the device, with a timer placed in its front. The timer marked one minute and thirty seconds remaining. One minute and thirty seconds between the life and death of dozens of thousands.