NationStates Jolt Archive

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September 21st. 11:45 PM.
Hardliner Firebase Scorpion-III, Outside of St. Husky, Red Province, Holy Marsh
Eve of the Recollection of Spirit
He didn’t kno’ much about this here world. When da civil war started, he wa’ just’in dey fifth grade. As both sides drained themselves of ma’ power, they started using kids for da work behind dey lines, ya see. Michael found hi’self helping dem artillery boys, giving dem food an’ drinks and if someone found deyselves face down in dey own blood, maybe he’d help ’em load some shells. Not that he was much good- he was only ten, ya know, not very strong. But three years of back breakin’ work can harde’ da most soft boy. Da arty boys be making fun of ‘em for most of the time ‘e knew ‘em. He was pure white-bread country, a simple boy ah ‘eart, and dey arty boys were mostly city-folk from the east. Dey made fun of the way he spoke, da way he walked, even how he didn’t mi’ sleeping on the dirt. As his muscles grew from labor and he stu’ wit’ ‘em, they started to treat ‘em as one of day own. They shared da food with Michael, though that wasn’t sayin’ much. They even gave ‘em a nickname, mostly because of his black hair and blue eyes- “Marshy”. Affectionate fo’ sure, but als’ meaningful. They trusted Michael, they loved Michael, and he loved them back- wasn’t like he ha’ a choice, dey be the only people he knew outside of his small farming town. Come ta think of it, Michael couldn’t even recall da name of the town. Sometimes, he had troub’ remembering much of anything that happened before the war.
When he turned eleven- well, whatever came after eleven…he was never da smartest kid in class, dat was for sure, and even if he was he’d been knocked ‘round some- an o’cer threw an AVIR PDR at ‘em. “Son, the last guy who had this gun was gutted by a coward of a Progressive. Just remember to put ten rounds in his belly or he’ll do it to you.” The man said, and he was pro’lly right. Michael hated dem Progressives, though he wasn’t sure what the big ‘ol difference between the two was. Well, maybe he had an idea. But probably not- Michael sure’ didn’t know much.
But, ma’be he should have paid attention, ‘cause it was might unusual to arm eleven-year olds. The Progressives had launched what he called an offensive flanking maneuver that had caught he’ boys off-guard, and now they be ‘flanked’. That had been da first time Michael seen a ‘firefight’, and he had been terrified. Da bullets make so many sounds when they snap by ya head, and Michael ducked hen he hea’ ‘em. Other boys weren’t so lucky, they didn’t hear nothin’ before they be shot. It was only by da grace of the Holy Marsh that a friendly force had come by and acted very unfriendly towards dem Progressives.
After dat, he and the arty boys had been reassigned to a ‘firebase’ outside of a city. He didn’t know da name of the city, he never bothered looking at them maps, and the o’cer never told him anyway. It was’t impor-tant. What was, ya see, was that dey stayed there for the next two years they be in the same place as da day before. And, well, Michael lost all sense of time, ya know? Day and night became da only way he knw of da passage of time. Months, the name of the days- they became knowledge not worth, as the oldies might pu’ it, “Retaining.”
So, Michael didn’t know much about da world he lived in, but he knew how to carry a large shell for an artillery piece. He knew how to cra’ a joke to loosen the mood, and he certain’y knew how ta eat that tasty food they got once a week. The Sabbath, Michael remembers it being called. Wednesday- yeah, he remembered that. Wednesday was the Sabbath, and that meant no fightin’.
And he knew when the Sabbath was comin’, because they’d be workin’ extra hard to shell Progressive positions in the city. And as the night came, Michael could lo’ up in da sky and see the artillery shells erupt from da pieces down dey line and see trails from rockets, dozens of them, arching into the city, which was always a bright orange. So, as da night came once again and the shelling got really big out dere, Michael knew what dat meant.
At least he knew dat much. Dat meant dey’d be relaxin’ here in da firebase. We

11:50 PM
Dog-Blue District, St. Husky.

“Pop some smoke, damnit!”
“Covering fire, we need covering fire!”
“Fable company, you’ve got three Apaches closing in from the north.”
“Nakil neutralized. Moving on to other threats, Bronco two out.”
“Uhh, base, we need new coordinates. The bridge is no longer there, over.”
“Only a few more minutes! We can make it! Come o-“
“The Apaches have begun their attack, Fable has been hit. Moving to engage with stingers.”
Devin Molasky could only listen in to the fighting on the small radio he had near him. His militia platoon had been pulled from the fighting hours earlier after an airstrike had severely effected their ability to engage the enemy. Four of them had been killed- to be honest, Devin didn’t remember their names. He had led maybe two hundred different militia to their deaths ever since fighting broke out, so he didn’t see the point in knowing their names anymore. Another twelve had been wounded. They had been able to hitch a ride on a technical- Ironhearts weren’t available- and had come back to headquarters. Well, okay, not headquarters. More like a place where what militia forces in the area remained could congregate for a day or two before it was destroyed. In fact, it had already been used, many months ago. It had even been staffed by some regulars, who couldn’t help but be noticed by the Hardliners. It was too well defended, and that stuck out like a sore thumb. They had paid some young kid’s family then strapped some explosives on him, wounded him, then had him walk into the Progressive base. Being kind, the Progressives had rushed to help him. Before they could really examine the kid, the Hardliners had set the bomb off. Devin had seen what happened from across the open parking lot: There had been an explosion that gutted the building and sent even him down to the ground. When he got up, nothing but dust remained. And rubble. And body parts. Many, many body parts. Thirty-six soldiers had been killed, including one Major, and more than seventy were wounded. The regulars had vacated the area the next day and Devin hadn’t heard from them since.
And the lobby still smelled, at least to Devin, like burnt flesh. Pockmarked walls remained, one lost building support as well, and smeared blood. Just three days ago, one of the militia man swore he found a shattered testicle. Devin didn’t doubt it, but by now he wondered why anyone would care.
He’d save those questions for later. Right now, he was just happy to be in relative safety. This used to be a high-end apartment complex, with an exercise room, arcade room, chapel, lobby, and television room all on the first floor. The lobby was not used very often anymore- if there were snipers, one wouldn’t stand a chance. The chapel was still very busy, people were praying all the time. There was a door that led to the back and to another side street that led to the chapel from the outside, and it was certainly not unusual for civilians to enter and stay there for, at times, weeks. The Progressives tried to keep their presence on the down-low, for they were partially to blame for this eternal hell.
The arcade room was the unofficial meeting room. It was safe from most attacks and was still in fair shape. The arcade machines no longer worked- not having power can do that- but those with active imaginations(or the clinically insane, as if a difference existed) could “play”. The exercise room was where the wounded were kept. It was large, in fair condition, and had only one entrance. By now, however, it smelled and looked like hell. It had been used by... hundreds of wounded and dead civilians and soldiers. Blood trails and stains littered every device and the walls. Blankets and towels used to clean up were now of no use. Surgeries were being conducted on treadmills on a daily basis. People bled out on weight trainers. It never ended.
Then there was the television room. It no longer had lights, a television, or anything of use, but it did have a battery operated coffee maker, the militia’s pride and joy. It became the rec room because of that. And so there Devin was, ignoring everyone else as they talked about whatever young kids will talk about, staring at his radio which was propped up against the wall in the tableless room.
“Bronco two, this is Bronco five. Damage assessment?”
“Our treads have been knocked off, we’re dead in the water. Paulson is out of it, I think-“
“All forces in combat, disengage. It is now the Holiday. I repeat, disengage immediately.”

Everyone let out a sigh of relief. The Recollection of Spirit was a week long holiday, a respite from the fighting. In the first year of the war, this was the scene of massive engagements across the land as both sides moved to put themselves into position to take advantage of the situation as soon the battles were joined once more. Same thing happened in the second year. This year, however, neither side seemed to want to risk it. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers had died in the previous year’s offensive a week before the holiday. It was a great time for all. Both sides could reposition themselves, rearm, and come up with new strategies. Civilians could leave their homes, sewers, and shelters for once. A city could be a city, or at least try to be, if only for one week a year.
“Sir, are we going to go to the Special Mass at the Husky Church?” Said a voice that grated Devin greatly. Devin turns around.
It came from Rafael Oleander. He stood a good 5’6 and weighed maybe 120, but damn, that kid was a good shot. He had been pressed into service when he was 13 and hadn’t seemed to have grown since then, but he was a quick learner and an able soldier. Devin was sure that if the kid stuck to the military, when the Progressives won the war he would be an officer of great renown. But that damn voice might hold him back.
“Yeah, why not. I’m pretty sure a Sparky is comin’ by here, we can hitch a ride.” Devin said, standing up with the help of is TAR-21. He didn’t dislike the rifle, but he preferred his AVIR. But, when you transferred back to headquarters, you handed in your AVIR to give to the new fighters.
“We could probably see if they’ll bury our dead, too. Go and get any of our dead and meet me out front in a minute.” Devin said. Rafael nodded and whistled to get his people’s attention and gave them the order- within moments, they left to the exercise room to pick up any of the dead they could.
Devin walked outside. The street was silent, save the pitter patter of a dog who was running away from something. Or for something. Devin didn’t know, nor did he care. The sky was dark as sin, only illuminated by the orange glow of the fires that engulfed what remained of the city proper. St. Husky had been absolutely obliterated by the fighting. Every structure that stood above two stories had either been destroyed or severely damaged. Entire districts had literally been flattened. Most people that weren’t fighting had taken to either crowing the Unaligned Areas or the sewers. Neither was an attractive option. The sewers were rampant with disease, and many sections had been collapsed in on. Bodies were just as common a sight down there as someone who was alive. If you were in the Unaligned Areas, you would be preyed on by what remained of organized crime. But then again, that was better than living in shit.
The only structures of any character left standing here the churches, and Devin- while being a religious man- knew that meant that unless one side took control absolutely, the war would not end. You see, forty percent of all churches were aligned with the hardliners, thirty with the progressives, and thirty were Unaligned. Unaligned meant you served both sides equally. Either way, since attacks on Churches were beyond the pale, that means that often times forces would retreat into friendly churches and regroup to strike out. Many times, you would take over a neighborhood and move out, only for a surprise attack from a church to cut your supply line and turn the battle into hell for all involved. And this continued on and on, and those that attended faction churches were often times recruited into the armies. That supplied both sides with more and more soldiers. Both sides also buried their dead in the churches- well, used to. Most churches’ undercrofts, both of them, had already been packed full of the dead in such a way that it almost becomes a health issue for the church members. This meant increasing numbers of people were being buried in mass graves in city parks and, while not preferable, it was necessary. You could fit lots of people into a city park of you used mass graves. Of course, once the sides agreed to designate a park for mass burial, it wasn’t long before you would have to find a new one. There were so many dead bodies, just…so many. They were everywhere you looked and everywhere you didn’t. If you didn’t see a dead body, that was because it had recently been cleared and was just waiting to be filled with the corpses of idiots who cared enough to wonder about why there were no dead bodies.
“S-Sir! We…We’ve got’em!” Rafael said, grunting as he and the other non-injured members of the platoon pulled out three dead bodies. They hadn’t been able to recover the four who died in the airstrike, so that meant now the death toll was at seven.
As if on time, a HAT-1 Sparky turned the corner and started going down the street, followed by two Ironhearts and three technicals. It was impressive enough, at least for a hodgepodge of militia and Home Guard forces. Devin starts to wave down the tank, dimly lit by the distant glow of the raging fires. It stops eventually and the hatch opens up as Devin climbs up.
“You goin’ to the main church?” Devin asks. The man looks a bit peeved, but probably from being tired more so than being hailed down like a cab.
“Yeah, want a ride?” The man answered, none too happy yet obliged to at least offer.
“Hell yeah, better than walking.” Devin says, looking at the convoy. Including the fallen, they had fifteen bodies they needed to pack on. Five or so could fit on the HAT-1, but what about the rest?
“Wait a minute, don’t move. Rafael, see how much space is in the second Ironheart and in the techies.” Devin says, jogging over the Ironheart. It was pockmarked with bullet holes and parts of it looked as if it had been on fire, and aside from the driver no one else seemed to be using it. Plus, it reeked of death.
“Hey, my men need a ride or a place to put our fallen. Do you have-“ Devin started saying before being cut off.
“Yeah. I already have eight bodies in the back…they were the previous occupants. Earlier on today…they were cut down like pigs. Everyone died, so did the squad next to us. My guys never had a chance, I mean, no chance. The hatch came down and some Hardliner with an already pin-pulled grenade came out of a side street and tossed it into the boys. It didn’t even drop any before it went off- it just, it just went off. I mean, no chance. The other Ironheart I was with…it got taken out by a rocket, and it just…no chance. No chance.” The man blathered slowly, staring straight at Devin and never looking away nor blinking. Devin found the story uninteresting, he had heard it before. Of course, the smell was now explained, but as Devin looked around the front, some other things demanded explanation.
“Who is the dead guy?” Devin said, nodding towards the passenger’s seat. He looked bloated, and the smell was terrible. Devin couldn’t see much, but blood stains covered his side of the front and the window.
“He was…I don’t know. Just some guy. A few days ago during a firefight, a bullet caught his throat. The front here was the only place that wasn’t in immediate danger, so the medic- he’s also in the back, he doesn’t have a stomach anymore- tried to do what he could for the guy. He died right there, and I just forgot about him.” The man said blankly.
“Alright, we’ll add a few bodies to your load.” Devin said, walking away. He didn’t want to deal with this man anymore, he was clearly starting to go insane. That, and he smelled like he had shit himself. Rafael jogs up to Devin.
“They’ve got space for two in each technical and three in the second Ironheart.” Rafael said.
“Okay, good. Put the bodies into the back of this Ironheart- there are already a few- and then just take whatever position you can. I want to get to church, bury these bodies, and take a good rest.” Devin said. Rafael nodded and walked away. Him and the others started doing as they were told when Devin clambers onto the tank.
“You seen much combat today? The Hardliners get this far into the sector?” The tanker asked.
Devin scoffed. The Hardliners were far into every Progressive sector, and they were in every Hardliner sector. There was no real advantage.
“No, we got hit by an airstrike. You see much today?” Devin responded with.
“Yeah, we even snuck up on a Hardliner convoy. We made mincemeat out of it, along with some other Sparky’s. Yo, Jeff, how many vehicles were in that convoy?” The man looks down.
“Sixteen. Four IFVs, four MBTs, two MGSs, six trucks.” A voice bellows from the depths of the tank.
“Yeah, sixteen. It was cool.” The man says.
Devin had lost interest a while ago. He just wanted a yes or a no.

After a few minutes, the militia finish up their jobs and get onto or into the vehicles. The convoy starts down the road to the church. The road was very typical.
Bodies. Devin had thought it before, but he thought of it again. They were everywhere. You saw them hanging out of windows next to a BGR-15 emplacement. You saw them on both sidewalks and in the middle of the road. You saw them in every position possible, and without as many limbs sometimes as possible. You’d pass up burning tanks and IFVs, old civilian vehicles that were either burnt out hulks or full of bullet holes. Some sections of the street had collapsed. Others had been blown apart. Buildings had collapsed and blocked off the road due to rubble, other roads were blocked intentionally. You’d see the shapes of civilians out of the corner of your eye as they darted from one safe place to another. Maybe you’d see a crashed helicopter or an abandoned IFV. Street signs had been destroyed, so had the traffic lights. This was all very typical.
But, as you neared the Church Zone, you would see less and less. The fighting was never fierce around the churches, no side wanted to call in an artillery strike and end up killing some clergy. It was also the only area where civilians could meet and attempt to have a semblance of a normal life. Of course, with the church zone basically just being the city square(Mind you, a rather large city square.) it was hard to fit the 50,000 civilians who still lived in the city. But then again, many liked the attractive options of the sewer or the rubble that was the city.
As the tank approaches the square, Devin is pleased beyond all measure. Lights! Oh, Marsh, the lights. There were four bright search slights in the Zone, used as a marking point when peace was the watchword. At night, it helped people see.
And what a sight.
Thousands of small tents were pitched, make shift homes for the civilians who couldn’t fit in the churches or the one apartment building in the area. A long line of tables had been strung together to serve food on a daily basis. Devin didn’t know what they could possibly be eating, but what foreign aid did trickle in would be going to places like this. Then there were the Five Churches. The centerpiece of the square, every church here was unaligned. They were twenty stories high and as wide as something that was wide. Two were on either end of the street, and the final one, the main church of the town, was in the northern end of the square. Ornate glass, much of it shattered, used to reside in the openings. Regardless of the buildings, it was the people of the square that made it matter. Besides civilians, you had most of the clergy, who was left of the city and provincial councils, doctors, and other assorted high-brow types. And, of course, the Holy Warriors, five of which had blocked the road leading into the square.
“Stop, my brothers.” One of them yelled as he slowly walked towards the convoy. Most Holy Warriors, the vast majority even, were unaligned. They usually protected holy sites and unaligned churches, as well as the dozen or so major refugee camps. Before the war, they had operated as their own unit. They had tanks, IFVs, helicopters, and even their own planes. With no unaligned airfields, they had to abandon the planes. But they still used everything else, and blocking this road was two Ironhearts and about around five total Holy Warriors. They didn’t want to press their luck against these guys; five would be all they needed. So, the convoy came to a stop.
“We are just going to mass and are looking to see if the main church has room for bodies.” Devin yelled over the noise coming from the tank. The main church only opened for the Holidays to those who weren’t unaligned, so it was conceivable they may have room.
“You will have to bury your fallen in another location, my brother. All six undercrofts in the church are filled with those who have become closer to Him. None of the churches can fit any more bodies in this area.” The main said, a tone of sadness creeping in.
“I see. May we still pass in for mass?” Devin asked.
“No, all the masses are full.” The man replied.
Already? It couldn’t be past 12:30!
“Really? That was quick.”
“Ay, they filled up rather fast. Most of the civilians attend the first mass. This your first time coming to the main church this early? It’s always packed, same goes for the other churches in the area. You should get some sleep, then attend a later mass.” The main said, offering Devin some choices.
Devin sighed and thanked the man, then ordered the convoy to the edge of town. They’d bury their dead in the outskirts of the city.
It was still better than the sewer.

8:02 AM, September 22nd.
Refugee Camp Beta, Six miles out of St. Eversi. Strait of Shesharlie coastline.

Despite being the ripe old age of eighty-one, Holy Warrior General and Bishop Anthony Moore still took many of the day-to-day activities of the camp to heart. Aid trickled in, it needed to be given to the people. Progressive and Hardliner recruiters tried to sneak into camp. They needed to be killed. Civilians trying to get to the camps needed protection from forces that would seek to force conscript them. The camp needed to be maintained and run so disease and hunger did not take a serious toll. Considering what they had to work with, Moore believed he had done very well. They did not have any serious outbreaks of disease, though it wasn’t as good as living in a city that wasn’t being destroyed by war. A few people had starved to death, but with nearly 700,000 people, that was bound to happen. The majority got enough to get what they needed in terms of nutrition. All in all, he was proud of his job. Then again, he had always been proud.
he had joined the Holy Warriors as part of the Avenger program many years ago. He had been just thirteen, but he was far and away the brightest kid in school and so the strongest. He was also one of many kids to show an interest in becoming some sort of clergy. Knowing that this kid fit the bill, he had been invited to join the Holy Warriors. And, for sixty-eight years, he had loved his decision. He had combat experience in the Continental War, the Tri-County War, The Seventh and Eighth Crusades, and the Last two Wars of Extermination. He had fought in them all, all the while against Great Evil. He had also risen in the ranks of the Church, becoming a highly placed member and showing many whose faith was wavering the path of the righteous. It was a wonderful experience and he regretted none of it.
But the skills he had learned, as valuable as they are, were too lethal to be used against his fellow Believers. He had abstained from the war, and he had ordered most of the Holy Warriors to do the same. Instead, they had taken up the cause of defending the faith while the greedy ones destroyed the land. Holy Warriors were posted around every unaligned church, every ancient shrine, every relic. They also defended all six of the major refugee camps. Camp Alpha was in the Doros mountains, the internal mountain range down south that separated the land into arid and forest halves. It was also the largest one, with more than 1,900,000 refugees. It was also the largest in terms of territory: the Holy Warriors had cleared around a dozen towns and all roads connecting them and had held them for over two years and ten months. The civilians there were the only ones with many buildings to use. Camp Charlie was in the southwest, in the tail end of the mountains that separated Atrea and Holy Marsh, not far from the Trevancore border. It was a small one, maybe 160,000, but also the smallest in terms of land. Camp Delta was in that same mountain range, but much farther north. It was based around an ancient monastery fortress. 1,129,000 called it home. Camp Echo was in the north, somewhat close to the Oceania border. It had perhaps suffered the most during the war, as the trails leading to the camp were wide open and the camp was a long way from any sort of help. The Holy Warriors there were stretched thin in an attempt to clear all the paths for every civilian who left one of the many cities and towns in the area to get to the camp safely. 510,000 called it home. Camp Fox, the last one, was in the center of the nation. It was well-run, well defended, and all sides in the provinces it supported had long ago agreed to allow the civilians to get to the camp unmolested. Maybe that was because the leaders in the area who opposed it had died suddenly and without warning. Either way, 980,000 lived there. Of course, there likely were thousands of smaller camps that housed millions of people.
But, the camp outside of St. Eversi was special. Unknown to most people, diplomats from both sides were there. This was because the camp was also the most foreign-friendly area in the country. It wasn’t a great place to be, but it was here that meetings were held that helped Moore gauge what may happen in the future. The Hardliners had a small tent on one side of the camp, the Progressives on the other side. Whoever showed up from out of the country usually sent three or so representatives. One met with each faction, another would show up at the meeting between the factions and Moore. It allowed the international community to mask their intentions. Of course, it wasn’t so masked at the end of the first year.
The first year of the war had been marked by furious movements and large scale battles that resulted in heavy losses in manpower and equipment. While the fighting never changed in the cities, it had been a wild battle of movement out in the land. Such were the losses that many international observers labored under the false idea that neither side could continue fighting. They were wrong. Equipment wise, the nation had been buying en masse for decades. They couldn’t field all of them at any time, but they could replace losses easily enough. Both sides also had some parts of certain cities that still had working factories, meaning that, if only at a snails pace, both sides could replace any losses through production.
And in terms of manpower, the war had shifted. Regulars and the Home Guard moved much slower now and only involved themselves in city fighting if they had no choice. The strategy now was to allow the Militia to do the majority of the fighting, then once one side was weakened beyond repair, hit them hard. Problem was, that with the nation so fractured, if you attacked one place the area you vacated or left sapped of power would be attacked as well. There was no real gains because any gains were offset by immediate losses. It was maddening. The Hardliners and Progressives had each controlled roughly half the land at the start of the year each; they had ended the year with the same percentages, though what lands belonged to who was changed. It was insane.
Then you have the fact that, in many cases, the Militia had been fighting so long that if you armed them well enough, they could probably defeat a Regular force. If both sides agreed to a peace deal and then rebuilt, they would have an extremely experienced and battle hardened army. Even little kids had killed people by now, and war was a way of life now.
But, such was the Trick. Defeating the Vile Lard had been the greatest deed in the history of the religion, but the Vile Lard was a manipulator. He may have been defeated, but the Vile Lard’s parting gift to his eternal enemy was this madness that had spread and consumed the faithful.
So, Moore sat there and went over some papers. The meetings would start anew again. Either way, Moore’s heart was hopeful that those that followed Him would find justice and light at the end of the Red Tunnel.
“Have you heard from our friends at sea?” A voice beckoned as the owner entered the tent. Terry Aisium, one of Moore’s best officers. Around fifty years old, unlike Moore he had been in the last few wars. He knew the equipment they operated better than Moore did, so it was better that he be out there with the brothers.
“Not in the past few days. Their communiqué is due in about ten hours.” Moore responded. He was referring to the Marsh navy, who had fled to the Mushroom Islands. They had left with a some supplies and cash, but after three years, they were reduced to only one squadron active at a time. They hadn’t run into many problems- they had kept to the Islands, where they could ensure the loyalty of the relatively small population.. Only a few in the nation understood why, and many of those had been killed to keep it a secret.
Then again, keeping the location of the Arch-Bishop a secret was essential. Both sides wanted the man dead, both sides accusing him of being a traitor. The Progressives said the Arch-Bishop had spent ten years supporting the generals and military industrial complex that helped form the Hardliners. He was, in retrospect, responsible for it. The Hardliners believed that after the Vile Lard was “defeated”, he had attempted to weaken greatly the nation’s ability to pursue their enemies unto the ends of the earth. As the split depends and both sides made attempts on his life, Moore had decided that he needed to be kept safe. Just as the Hardliners and Progressives started engaging in open warfare, Moore’s men had taken the Arch-Bishop to Alanesia, where the fleet had been anchored, and soon Eschex had vanished. Not even Moore knew exactly where the Arch-Bishop was, only that he was with the Navy. This way, there was nothing that could be done to find the man if one of the two sides launched a mass attack and captured him. Hopefully, this would end soon.
It had to end soon.
Moore would engineer to end it soon. For months, he had been communicating with the nations of the world. He didn’t care who they supported. He personally preferred the Hardliners, but who was he to decide what the will of the Holy Marsh was? Once He decided who was in His favor and turned the war in their favor, then Moore would involve himself in the fighting. The Holy Warriors were primed to strike at many important areas and could, in a relatively short time, seriously damage one side’s warmaking prowess. Once the war turned in one side’s favor and it was obvious who He chose, many followers of the faction that stood against His Will would turn on their comrades. Their support base would vanish rather quickly. It could end rather quickly as long as the war turned to one’s side favor in such a way as to ensure defeat in the long term.

But in order for that to happen, he had to have the meeting.

*A white C-130 with the flag of the Hunnic Confederate States of Katonazag lands at Camp Beta. Three men in suits leave the side door of the aircraft, one of which looks to be guarded by the other two. They make their way across the camp to the meeting tent and go inside.*



Mátyás Széchenyi, HCSK Secretary of Foreign Affairs:

"Good afternoon, Bishop. In light of the humanitarian crisis which grows exponentially by the hour, the government of the Hunnic Confederate States of Katonazag is prepared to aid the people of Holy Marsh. We have three aeromedical hospitals and supporting civil engineering and security forces units that we can deploy to the region to set up aid operations. In addition to the hospital, the civil engineering units will renovate and upgrade the camp's airstrip and facilities, and add to the camps' ability to meet their long-term needs well into the future.

However, to ensure the security of the aid mission, we have some conditions that will need to be agreed upon.

1) The camps where we will be setting up will become neutral zones under protection of the HCSKAF Security Forces (military police). No armed personnel, ground vehicles, or aircraft other than HCSKAF Security Forces will be allowed to enter the camp or within a one mile radius thereof. Violations will be investigated, and if warranted, arrests made and the accused will be transported to the HCSK to stand trial at a war crimes tribunal. No interrogations will be conducted by anyone, and contact between non-medical personnel and patients of other faction is forbidden. Intentionally conducting combat or clandestine operations inside the neutral zone may result in combat or clandestine operations against the offending faction in addition to immediate combat response to the threat from HCSKAF Security Forces.

2) Medical personnel from any nation or faction are welcome to help in the camp as long as they are bound by an oath consistent with the mission. As such, all wounded, injured, and sick will be treated in accordance with the seriousness of their medical issues, with NO respect for nationality, faction, military/civilian status, rank/title, or any other discriminatory factor. Patients will be repatriated to their nation or faction, no questions asked. Patients requesting asylum in Katonazag may do so by petitioning the hospital commander, but no guarantee is made that if they are being accused of a war crime that they may not face the charges in a tribunal in the HCSK.

If you agree to the terms, then we can talk details."

The bishop looked at the man, and then pours himself a glass of water. He doesn't say anything, staring straight at the man. He takes a few drinks, not changing his position. Finally, he stands up and walks over to a file cabinet. Much was stored here- enough intelligence probably to turn the tide if used in service of either faction- but Moore focused on three folders. He throws them down on the table and then sits back down in the chair, in silence for a few more seconds.

"Your first condition," Moore started, his throat sore and croaking, "is not acceptable, if it would apply to my men. These are their people, and it is their duty to protect them as they have done for three years. My people are neutral, for now at least. They can be trusted. As for your second condition, I accept it. If we can come to an agreement on the first condition, then I have the three camps that could be used most readily by your men." Moore finished, finishing his water and staring at the man while motioning towards the folders.

Secretary Széchenyi paused for a moment, sliding the files towards himself.

"I think it would be an acceptable compromise for the Holy Warriors to remain armed inside the neutral zone so long as the faction remains neutral and their presence does not draw attacks. However, the moratorium against interrogations, against non-medical personnel contacting patients of other factions, and against combat and clandestine operations is completely necessary in order to maintain the neutrality and safety of the aid operation. Included in that is HCSK military forces - if our personnel violate, they face the exact same tribunals, and would also face harsher punishments if convicted for having dishonored their country in front of the world. Is this concession acceptable?"

The Bishop nods.
"Agreed. I have given you the files to three camps. Camp Echo is in the northwest of the nation, about 400 miles from Oceania. Your extra security troops could be used well there. There are many cities and towns in the area, and consequently many paths from them to the camp. Add this to the fact there is only a battalion of Holy Warriors, and it is a recipe for disaster. Both the Progressives and Hardliners have bases stretched across the area, so the Holy Warriors are stretched . In the actual camp, the lack of a hard presence has led to order through cabals. They know the Warriors' routines and how to evade them, and due to more pressing conflicts the Warriors cannot spend more resources on investigating this matter. Camp Delta is not that far away. They are in the mountain range that borders Atrea, in the middle of the range. There is nothing too unusual, despite the staffing issue that plagues the area. Too many fighters, not enough specialists in other areas. Camp Fox is right smack dab in the middle of the country- and it is extremely well run. The other three camps do not have airstrips for your use. Questions?"

Secretary Széchenyi quickly looks the files over again before neatly returning them to the folder.

"No, I have no other questions at this time. My office will be in touch with you if any issues or questions arise. The name of the aid operation is Operation Golden Clover, and will be commanded by the HCSKAF Deputy Surgeon General, General Rudolf Jóska. He will be meeting with you personally once ground security and operation headquarters have been established at Camp Fox. The first sorties will be leaving in about 48 hours. If you have any requests of our forces, General Jóska has the authority to grant you almost anything at our disposal. If his solutions do not appeal to you, please contact my office and they will patch you through to me directly. Have you anything further, or shall we adjourn our meeting?"

"This all seems to be in order. Your men will be granted equal access, so the camps will be open to you from the start. As for any requests for me- none, except to do what is needed when it is needed and with the proper amount of tact. I believe you will be successful. You may leave when it pleases you, Secretary." The Bishop says, standing up to give the man a handshake. It was good that they could at least get something done.

Camp Beta, Holy Marsh

"It's a God-forsaken place, Charles, they've been at this for years." Tibor Coleg had been born in Pizen, a small city located along the Kelvz River that formed the border between Holy Marsh and Oceanian Atrea. Coleg had been born in 1949, long before the outbreak of the civil war that would eventually see his homeland of Atrea torn apart. During the peak of the fighting, he had been tempted to flee his home in Pizen for other, more stable and more secure Atrean provinces or territories. But, he was the son of a poor factory worker and simply could not afford to flee. And so he had quietly accepted the change of indelible inks on the map of Atrea when Schachen and the other southeastern provinces joined the United Kingdom as a colony. With some luck, he would soon see the full transition of the colony into an equal partner in the United Kingdom.

But to do that, he would need to be back home. Not in a country so torn and divided and God-forsaken as Holy Marsh.

Charles Whiting, unlike Coleg, had been born in Victoria, the largest city in the United Kingdom. The son of a wealthy banker, he had attended Hillcrest University and graduated with a degree in political science. He had considered attending the University of Radnor for a masters in International Relations, but saw instead an enormous opportunity to put his degree to work by joining the Civil Service. Whiting signed up to work in the Foreign Office, and by 2005 had found himself employed as the envoy of His Majesty's Government to Holy Marsh. The lack of a formal government made it impossible to establish normal diplomatic relations. Otherwise, someone more senior than Whiting would be sweltering in the Novan heat.

"But any chance, Tibor, we may have to help them even sit down—we cannot afford to pass this up. Besides, how many more bloody refugees do we need crossing the Kelvz?" Whiting and Coleg were walking alongside each other on an obviously well-worn path in the camp.

"Where else do you expect them to cross, Charles? We have the whole country blockaded."

Whiting shrugged. With the disappearance of the Marsh Navy, the Royal Navy had found no resistance as it blockaded the whole country. It was an attempt to force the two sides to the table by cutting off all foreign sources of materiel necessary for the war effort. Officially. Unofficially, it made certain that discreet shipments of aid to the Progressives made it to the Progressives unchallenged. It also ensured that all the refugees streaming across the border did so across the river—not by improvised rafts moving northward along the coast.

"I cannot say," Whiting replied, waving his colleague to take the lead as they passed a family of refugees walking in the opposite direction along the same path. "But, what options do we have? You have seen the same reports. The same intelligence. They are nearing a breaking point."

Coleg shrugged. For some months, the RAF had been quietly flying reconnaissance flights across the northern border, attempting to ascertain the exact makeup of the Marsh forces deployed across the border. They also helped to generate estimates of the population of Camp Echo. Not that the reports were accurate, anywhere from one hundred thousand to one million. The fear in Georgetown—correction, Whiting thought, the concern in Alehessen as Georgetown itself really did not care—was that if the war continued for much longer, the population of Camp Echo might make a concerted effort to move the few kilometres north and cross the Oceanian-Marsh border.

And that was unacceptable.

Finally, the two men reached the complex where Moore was hosting the various diplomats. Without aides, merely the briefing folders tucked underneath their arms, the two entered and made their presence known to General Moore's aides.

Moore could tell when certain Oceanian diplomats were close. Well, not Oceanian per se. In reality, he could tell when someone who had insulted the country. All it took was one refugee, one, to hear it. Then that would pass just as quickly, if not quicker, than those that had said it. Moore would find out when the Holy Warrior on the other side of the "street" in front of the tent would lean down to hear it from one of the refugees. You could see it the soldier's eyes that it was bad.

And that always meant foreign diplomats, so Moore smiled just as the two men entered.
"Ah, Gentlemen. Welcome to Beta, though I certainly remember you Mr. Whiting from last year's meeting. The blocakde has gone well, yes?" Moore says as he reaches for a handshake with Mr. Whiting. He liked Charles, at least much more that Tibor. Moore had spent enough of his life dealing with people to know that Tibor hated, or at least strongly dislikes, the country that Moore so loved. Either way, he would have to pretend to like Tibor. Again.
"So, I assume that the RAF's job is going along well?" Moore says as he nears the men for the handshake with Charles. He wondered if they knew he knew, or if the RAF's mission was supposed to be secret.

Port Misilia, South Coast of Holy Marsh

The EAS Endurance was an aging ship. Classified as a Landing Platform Dock or LPD, she was of an older design that the Defence Directorate had determined a few years ago should be decomissioned. The most glaring fault of the design was the lack of a floodable welldeck for operating landing craft from. Instead the Endurance had a bow ramp door that was of little use except for roll-on/roll-off loading and unloading from a secure dockside. The Endurance, and others of her class, were considered by the Maritime Force as little more than glorified truck ferries. But she still had her uses.

In 2007, Endurance and others of her ilk had been key to the success of the lightning military campaign in Alfegos to put down a communist rebellion. Replenishing the fuel and ammunition hungry, and substantially sexier armoured task forces that had so quickly seized control of Milkavich. Sea Lift Command had considered that to be the last hurrah of an obsolete design, a fitting postscript to a long but unremarkable career. But now the Endurance was moored on the dockside at Misilia offloading humanitarian supplies loaded on hybrid-electric HEMTT trucks, and a security contingent of a reinforced mechanised battlegroup that would escort the whole relief convoy deeper inland to Camp Beta. The vehicles painted an incongrous white compared to the stained earth the tracks of the Talon+ infantry fighting vehicles churned up as they manouevred out of the port to take up perimiter positions.

It was all possible because the technocracts back in Concordia had considered that they could not sit idly by as a disaster unfolded in their own backyard. While Etoile Arcture shared no land borders with Holy Marsh, it did with Atrea, and successive adminstrations in Concordia had harboured deep suspicions of their larger neighbour to the south, and what part they had, or in the future might play, in the overall security picture in Nova. As a result the military had been authorised to reach out to the Holy Warriors to begin these relief runs under the auspices of Operation Divine Hope. After all, the Holy Warriors controlled the only operational port in the whole country.

All the more surprising was that Etoile Arcture had succeeded in maintaining its carefully constructed neutrality while at the same time it permanetly stationed a carrier battlegroup in the Straits of Shersharlie to blocade the Marshian coast. From the dockside at Misilia, the Holy Warriors may even have been able to catch glimpse of one of the blocade destroyers of Operation Divine Watch a few miles off the coast, before it dissapeared into the morning mist.

Camp Beta, Holy Marsh

Lieutenant General Maurice Berdot could trace his ancestory to France and North Africa, but neither of the tragic histories his paternal and maternal great grandparents could recite compared to the greater tragedy that engulfed Holy Marsh. His first awareness of the internecine and sectarian conflicts that punctuated Marshian history was reading old books of his father that described epic battles fought in ancient and far away land of Helgeflet. Berdot was sure those stories had been what had inspired him to join the military, for what boy of six didn’t dream of glory and gore? it had only been in later life had he realised Helgeflet had been the original name assigned by Etolian map makers to the nation of Holy Marsh.

The military was the only part of Etoilian public life where you didn’t need to be elected to high office, but Berdot had achieved his position through meritocratic advancemenet nonetheless. Considered a good organiser and negotiator he appeared a good fit as liason to the Holy Warriors for the duration of Divine Hope. He had arrived by MV-22 Opsrey flying direct from the command center EAS Buccaneer and intended to link up with the convoy from Misilia when it arrived at Camp Beta. A lot was riding on its success if more convoys were to deliver supplies to the other camps. Etoilian diplomats were already at advanced stages of negotiations with the Katonazag as well.

“Secretary Széchenyi, General Moore,” Berdot greeted the men gathered as he entered the meeting tent, so appropiate for a conflict that held such medieval overtones. “Mr. Whiting,” he saved for last as he turned towards the representative of Oceanian Atrea, offering a hand and a smile that betrayed nothing but cordiality.

Berdot, from what the intelligence services told Moore, was a good man- and a capable one at that. Early on in the conflict when the international community believed that the war would end quickly, instead of sending capable men and women they had all sent, with few exceptions, sent lazy and incompetent half-wits who sat and drank wine with Moore instead of discussing solutions. As the war continued and the body count made the stench of the falling get to the conscious, and nose, of the region, they sent far better aide. Berdot was one such man- capable, smart, and completely aware of the situation. A fine man all said and done, and the type of man that was needed in such dark days.

"General Berdot, a pleasure to see you once more." The Bishop said, his old face wrinkled into a smile.

Nova.
Straits of Shersalie.

To say that Damirez missed the massive civil war taking place in Holy Marsh would be quite an error. DIS, PSS and other similar services notified the government about the situation ever since the fall of the Vile Lard, and more than one time voices raised the issue in the homeland, Internet campaigns depicting the bloody fighting appealing to the hearts of the masses. But for Damirez to involve itself in yet another conflict was not what the government wanted. Despite the strategic position of Holy Marsh and its proximity to the League nation of Wagdog, certain circumstances prevented Damirez from doing anything more than reconnaissance missions and at times, under cover operations on the front lines .

When the shooting started, the nation was still recovering from the Alfegan crisis and for Librescu, no matter how determined he was, an intervention in Holy Marsh, a state bordering the resurgent Atrean state was a political maneuver considered suicidal and quite improbable to achieve support in the senate for. As the fires of that crisis went down, another event reared its ugly head, making many valuable assets of the Delian League to be dispatched away from the region and many in High Command concerned about involvement. And just as the Barronian crisis came to a halt, the Vetakans simply collapsed, requiring that the already limited manpower available for the Damiran army to be stretched yet again, not exactly the best of circumstances for an intervention. Beyond that, the resurgence of the isolationist factions made every day a nightmare for Librescu. Although they were initially defeated at the begging of his mandate, now, after several crisis that Damirez had to face, they came back louder than ever, ”Nobody shot at us when we kept to ourselves!” became their leading slogan and many showed sympathy to them.

For the president, already near the end of his second and last term in power, this was not the legacy he wanted to leave behind. If the isolationist got back in power then all his work would be undone and worse yet, the lessons of the past forgotten. Too many forgot the Succession Wars and the ever growing threat of Atrea going along those lines of thought, but there was only so much he could do. For now, all that was left for him was to try and settle the Holy Marsh situation as a gift to his successor. For the first time in years, barring the troops abroad in various capacities, The Principality had the capacity, even though partially through the League Fleet, to intervene in Holy Marsh and he wasn't going to miss that chance.

It was that determination, that attitude of Librescu that had several DNS SAGs stationed in the Straits of Shersalie, expecting for more ships from the DLN to arrive. This was the first step in a yet unknown plan hatched by some of the brightest minds in the Principality in order to end the conflict as soon as possible and with no more than the obvious apparent to those watching. Despite support from the population following carefully prepared media campaigns regarding the Holy Marsh situation, Damirans would not approve of direct action and he knew it. Other, more subtle alternatives had to be found and this was the start for that. Another step was represented by a lone agent, apparently lost in Holy Marsh, taking advantage of the week long truce to contact the leaders of the progressives...

Alserta, Imperial Province, Holy Marsh
11:00 AM.

Nerves were still frayed; not twelve hours ago, they had been engaged in a battle north of Alserta. In the night, the deadly lights and trails that signaled Manticore fire lit the night. Sudden, violent explosions broke through the darkness, and quick flashes from the turrets of tanks added to the scene. Infantry forces were engaged in the small town west of the battle, and their supporting Ironhearts could be seen exploding and letting loose with their weapons in a violent and bloody quick and take. Helicopters unleashed their payload, but some were struck down, victims of the machines of war below. After eleven hours of battle, twenty-seven Hardliner tanks had been lost as opposed to thirty-one Progressive tanks. Many dozens more had been damaged in some way. The Progressives had also suffered eight-seven dead and more than two-hundred wounded, with Hardliner losses estimated at ninety and two-twenty. The small town, population 400 pre-war, was reduced to rubble and occupied by Progressive artillery as the deadline approached. When the deadline was crossed, two armored brigades and a supporting militia division were sent to occupy the area en masse.

It was a somewhat vital position in context of the larger battle of Alserta. The town was situated on a rocky outcropping that overlooked the desert around it. From this position, Manticores could lay down devastating fire on any armored threats. LY220s were then stationed around town, and then infantry. In order to take the town, which also was the end of one of the many roads to Alserta and one of the few that wasn’t completely destroyed, the Hardliners would have to launch a massive attack. And if they did that, the Progressive forces of Hisuk County could launch a lightning campaign to take the are, depriving the Hardliners north of Alserta of a base. This meant that in all likelihood, they wouldn’t try to take the town, But if they didn’t, then the Progressives had a position of strength very close to Hardliner positions. Decisions, decisions.

So it was a wise move to take the town, though Colonel Melissa Gason believed they should have gone further. They had a three to one advantage in infantry, two to one in armor, and five to one in artillery and rocket support. If they had launched the attack the day prior to the actual date of the attack, they could have had a major breakthrough. But she trusted General Corromos, and was sure he had his reasons.
“Colonel, we’re being waved down by someone.” Said Lt. Brisk, his voice crackling through the radio.
It wasn’t that uncommon. They were a large convoy- Twenty-eight HAT-1s, fifteen Nakils, sixty-nine variations of the Ironheart, and one-hundred and fifty covered trucks- and they had room. Already, one hundred civilians had hitched rides with the convoy instead of walking to Alserta for church services. What was uncommon was how the man acted.
Gason’s Ironheart Command variant was the one being waved down, despite two other Ironhearts offering to pick the man up. The truce was on, but who knew what the Hardliners were up to. The Command vehicle stopped, but three machine guns were trained on the man. The back of the vehicle opened up and three of Gason’s squad stepped out and one pulled his AVIR up and pointed it at the man as Gason stepped out, ordering him to stop movement. Gason stepped into the man’s line of sight and immediately knew who he was.
He was bald, well built, and looked intense. That was the exact description she was given for the DIS agent she was supposed to take to General Corromos.
“Let him in.”

Raven Network News
*Transcript*

Network HQ, St. Istvan, HCSK - 2200 HRS

Hi, I'm Dan Zelnyak, and this is a special news report. I'm broadcasting tonight from the roof of network headquarters, and as you can plainly see in the night sky behind me, there is a frenzy of air activity coming from St. Istvan AFB. Our military consultants say these are the HCSKAF's C-17 heavy lifter aircraft. Their destination is not confirmed, and there is much speculation about where they are headed in such a hurry. Most seem to be betting on the Holy Marsh Civil War, but according to public record there has been no declaration of war against any of the factions involved. Others speculate it is to deal with the virus outbreak in Vetaka, and a few have said that it could just be a really high-scale exercise. Whatever it is, everyone can agree - it is massive. We will be monitoring the situation, and will bring you more as soon as information becomes available.

For Raven Network News, I'm Dan Zelnyak.

Camp Fox Airfield, Holy Marsh - 1800 HRS

A gray C-17 with HCSKAF markings levels off as it approaches the runway. It's size compared to the runway puts one in mind of an obese man trying walk a tightrope, but the landing is graceful in spite of this. After coming to nearly a complete stop, it taxis off the runway and onto the tarmac. When the ramp begins to drop, a new noise is heard with the now idling jet engines - that of diesel engines. The side ramp is also lowered as two airmen wearing green nomex flight suits begin tending to the cargo ramp and the process of unloading. Moments later, another man comes down the ramp, but he's definitely not aircrew. He's got a uniform that is faintly tiger-striped in shades of tan and tan boots, and his insignia (and side-arm) are that of an officer.

Lieutenant Colonel Atilla Furman of the 64th HCSKAF Security Forces Squadron placed his helmet with the same camo pattern as the rest of his uniform on his head and looked around at the desert airfield. Having made sure there were no threats to him, the aircraft, or his men onboard, he stepped back into the aircraft and gave the hand signal for the vehicles to disembark. Two Strykers, a M113 configured for anti-aircraft/missile interdiction, and one configured for command, control and communications began rolling down the ramp. He picked up his rucksack and lifted it onto his shoulders as he stepped down the side ramp of the heavy lifter.

There was a man standing outside the flight line who also appeared to be an officer with his command vehicle, whom he believed to be General Alex Frank of the Holy Warriors. As he walked toward his superior ally, he could see the next C-17 coming out of the setting sun and beginning it's final approach. When he was a couple yards away, he brought up his salute and said in a smooth voice, "Good evening, General Frank. I'm Lt. Col. Atilla Furman, and I'll be commanding the 375th Security Forces Expeditionary Group." After his salute is returned, he continues, "Colonel Gyurcsány will be arriving in a few hours to take command of the aid operation here at Camp Fox, and General Jóska will be here within the next 48 hours to set up headquarters for Operation: Golden Clover. Is there anything we need to discuss before I begin the business of establishing the security for the mission?"

"Welcome to the Camp, Colonel Furman. All you need to know is that as long as you help the unfortunate victims of this mindless slaughter, you will be the brother of every Holy Warrior who mans this base. I assume your intelligence services have informed you of the religious services we attend to, and my intelligence has informed me of what you will do for this base. Beyond that, I need not tell you anything at this time." Frank said, staring at Furman gently as the third prayer went up into the night from the camp. Hundreds of thousands of refugees prayed in unison, and the second service of the day started. As a Holy Warrior, he could excuse himself from such things if the need was great. He could administer the Rights of the Soul at any time, and utter the Prayer of the Dead with as much conviction as the holiest of men. All he had to make sure was that by seven, he was in the Holy Warrior's own chapel, where he would lead the men into prayer. But that was at seven.
"Come brother, there is much work to be done and little time."

”Alserta, huh?” the DIS agent risked a question looking at the devastation surrounding him, ”Might as well sent me to Alestra,” he dared make a joke, even though his memories of the Alestran carnage were still fresh, having seen first hand the result of the hatred that the two camps had one for another in light of the brutal conflict that engulfed the small island. ”Wonder what the bras are going to say if Alestra turns into ruble like this,” despite the intense exchange, Alestra's nations had yet to bring devastation at a scale similar to that encountered in Holy Marsh, with perhaps the exception of Roser, the city sacrificed in the early hours of the conflict to stem the Colonial Alliance tide by the Stronghold's strategist. ”My next assignment better be on a beach with good waves, this is starting to get repetitive,” the agent complained as he kept walking next to the trail leading to Alserta.

”They're late,” he spoke to no one as the Progressive convoy could be spotted in the distance. ”Damn intel,” he looked at his watch and then back at the convoy, ”Made me wait half an hour,” he was sure to have a word or two with those that pieced together his mission briefing when he got back, ”Would have taken the scenic route otherwise.” The infiltration wasn't exactly a joy ride, and haste usually meant a rougher ride. He wasn't by all means an usual agent, his taste for extreme sports marking him amongst his colleagues, but even he had some second thoughts about getting tossed around attached to a missile.

Finally, as the convoy reached his position, he started waving to the command vehicle, despite receiving offers from others for a pick up. It was quite interesting how vulnerable they left themselves to enemy infiltration and surprise this way, but he wasn't here to comment on their habits and choices, he was here to do a job and once the command vehicle stopped briefly, he entered it, all business. ”Any room for some travelers of peace?” he really hated those catchy codes some decided to settle him with, ”Heard there was someone searching for it.” The answer was now with the colonel. He already managed to identify her from the files provided upon departure by DIS, but even if the code phrase was just a formality he knew better than to skip it, memories of several teammates dead because of an identity mix-up and negligence still vivid in his mind.

As the colonel assessed him, preparing her answer, he did the same. 'Some looks for the military' were his thoughts, his muscles relaxed, seemingly unconcerned with the uncertain situation he found himself in. It wasn't easy to work undercover and put your life at risk everyday, but for some, it came as a second nature, the thrill, the adrenaline pumping through their veins making their lives worth living. Such as the case here and the relaxed faced just hid the prowler under the surface, waiting to erupt if anything went wrong,

Cutting slowly across the sea, a group of container ships rocked gently as they passed over the waves caused by the strong westerly wind. They were fighting the storm as they moved towards joint Novan waters, and ultimately to Holy Marsh. The shudder of the engines running at near full speed caused a vibration across the entire ship, reaching up the arms of the man standing at the helm of the first ship. He was a K.X. Ha'mao, ranked in his organisation as a Level 2 Officer, but who still bore the title of Colonel when addressed by the men. On the hull in front of him, the ship number dominated the side, with the company name hidden discretely beneath: that of Palm Land Defence Systems. Behind him, a stack of crates loomed up, each crammed to breaking point with supplies and equipment. 24 hour surplus ration packs dominated a large green crate behind him, the entire crate enough to supply the force carried on the other two ships for two days in terms of food. Thirty similar crates were packed around it, along with crates of hexamethylenetetramine blocks for cooking stoves. Most of it was unnecessary: the boilers carried aboard the APCs and the butane cartridges carried by many of the infantry meant that it was only if the engagement dragged on. If the side could afford it.

Ahead in the distance, he could see an airship rushing towards them, riding the high-altitude air stream off towards one of the colonies, which the container ships had come from. Looking back at the seething sea, he could see a couple more container ships and an accompanying airship escort trailing by a good half hour. Their competitors in Helios, who also seemed to have been awarded a contract. In this case, they had been told just to have friendly rivalry: they were fighting for the same side of course, attempting to support each other in at least one way or another. Helios would take all the glory turning tracts of land into wasteland, whilst they would hold the smoking ruins.

He started pacing along the deck as waves started breaking over the sides. Nearby, one of the sentries carefully stepped back to allow a breaker to soak the side, tightening his hood as he moved back with his AF-07P assault rifle. The pirate threat in this water was solved easily by this. The possibility of an attack by another nation would be solved by the force behind them: at the sign of any disturbance, the foremost airship had missiles trained on the area that would easily take out anything from a cruiser downwards, and the sort of anti-air cover that would put an entire squadron to shame. And with Alfegan waters coming up, only a fool would dare launch an attack, submarine or not. Once they docked for a few final supplies on the mainland, it was a three day cruise for them until they reached their final destination. Just in time for the end of the Week of Whatever, some sort of lull in the fighting that would allow them to launch the attack.

Passing inside, he walked through the illuminated corridor and up a few flights of stairs, passing to the top level of the ship. Two guards flanked a small entrance way, which he passed through to enter the darkened bridge. Illuminated screens lit up the civilian Captain, who stood by the angled windows to watch out into the distance. From here, it was just possible to see a bright purple light bobbing about in the sea: the sign of the entryway to Alfegan waters. A small GPS screen showed imaginary lines around the navigation beacon: the many lanes that lead to different ports in Alfegos. A veritable highway, seeing as Alfegos controlled most shipping in from the western equatorial and northern regions, with various lanes passing around the border area or off to other nations of Nova. Route AFZ-2NZ91 was the one they were taking: the one into New Zevkhay. A military airship hung about the border area, flicking between lanes as it trailed sonar buoys in the water behind. Soon it would be disappearing off, to rise above the maelstrom of clouds just about to hit it.

"You ready yet?"
"Even with these four days, I doubt I'll be able to get my head in gear for a proper operation." The Captain was young, and obviously not looking forward to being in a grey position in hostile waters, temporary ceasefire or none.
"Don't you worry, Captain. I'm sure nobody would dare take a pop at us, with Helios behind us."
A laugh went up on the bridge.
"Seriously though: if the shit does hit the fan, we have more than enough in the way of defending ourselves. We have been guaranteed a safe passage by our clients through their waters, so we shall have a safe passage. If not, they will soon find they have little support, which is exactly what they are paying for. I doubt they want to lose their deposit."

Garden Fox Joint Aeromedical Base, HM - 1000 HRS
Headquarters, Operation: Golden Clover

General Jóska studied the battle management system interface across his multiple monitors while sipping a cup of black coffee that the consistency of motor oil. He made a mental note to requisition some better coffee. Each hospital was reporting Stage 1 nearly complete.

All three JABs were reporting that initial perimeters with basic checkpoints had been successfully established with the light barbwire. The barbwire could be easily crossed by someone intending to get in; physically stopping them wasn't it's purpose. It was there to "keep the honest people honest" as he liked to put it. He stopped mid-gulp when he noticed that Infinite Echo JAB's perimeter security was reporting a significantly higher rate of civilians crossing the barbwire to bypass the checkpoints. It had been cross-referenced by Security Forces Colonel Oreglak at Infinite Echo JAB to OSI reports concerning raids on civilian aid supply depots, and those same supplies being traced to some of the individuals caught passing through the barbwire. The supplies are being sold by cabals to the refugees in sort of a black market at userous prices, sometimes well in excess of 300% of their actual value. This information was again cross-referenced by Colonel Oreglak to investigative reports from the Holy Warriors (with corresponding images from HCSKAF SATCOM attached for reference), who were far too stretched to follow leads on any of the looting incidents, even though some had involved attacks with explosives. Finally, there was a dispatch attached to the report by Colonel Oreglak himself asking what his ROE was for the situation pursuant to the terms of the Operation and Holy Marsh law.

He cleared his now seared throat as he opened up a secure channel to Colonel Oreglak through the battle management system. After a couple seconds of syncing the unique one-time-use encryption sequence, a voice came over the system.

"Colonel Oreglak here. What can I do for you today, General Jóska?"

"Colonel, I have received your report, and I must admit that it is indeed a notable threat to the security of the mission. If they're willing to use violence to steal such things, I have no doubt that they would love to get their hands on the supplies we're bringing in, not to mention our military hardware and medical supplies.

Your Orders are as follows:
1) Turn over your reports on the matter to the Holy Warriors commander at the base. You may leave our gathered intelligence reports uncensored, with exception of sensitive codes and OSI investigator identities.
2) You are hereby authorized to detain any suspects of the incidents involving explosives or armed attacks on suspicion of war crimes, but may not interrogate them per terms of the Operation. However, you may bribe them for information within reason, but not to include release terms. Follow the Holy Warrior commander's guidance in their legal disposition.
3) Suspects who do not fall into the above category are not to be detained at this point unless their status changes or the Holy Warrior commander requests that they be detained. Any detained under this provision will also be subject to the legal disposition requested by the commander.
4) Should any such crimes be perpetrated against HCSK personnel or material, suspects may be detained. Deadly force is only authorized for self-defense, or to stop a crime in-progress if they do not desist after verbal warning to halt and informing them that they are under arrest.

Are we clear on the matter, Colonel?"

"Crystal. Thank you for your expeditious address of the matter, General."

"Good day then, Colonel. General Jóska, out."

General Jóska returned to reviewing the progress on the mission, and wondered how many other issues were going to inevitably crop up before the mission is completed. He wasn't about to take the situation for granted as being solved by Colonel Oreglak's efforts alone, not when he could do them one better. He began a top level communication back to War Department Secretary General Varazslo, requesting a battalion of the Army's civil engineers and a volunteer detachment of the Katonazag Military Exchange Service (KMES) for rapid deployment. He hoped his three-pronged solution would help ease the tension in the refugee camp over the availability of supplies.

ALSERTA AREA

"The path of peace is elusive, and that is why we will continue to search for it." Melissa said, getting somewhat annoyed that the agent felt that protocol had to be followed when her command vehicle was holding up a massive convoy.
"Now get in." She said, walking back into her Ironheart, along with her squad. To be honest, she could see in the man's eyes that he thought it odd that they would pick people up. It would seem dangerous- to people who knew squat about the Eve of Recollection. Even if enemy agents infiltrated into the convo, it dumped all civilians off at the church and then went back to base. There wasn't anything they could learn that they already didn't know.And they couldn't commit any act of violence- if violence was enacted upon one faction, it would be quite obvious who planned it. Such a religious error would invite the wrath of the Holy Warriors, civilians, even more righteous fury from the opposition, and widespread rebellion in their own ranks.
So, it was quite safe. All she wanted to do was take this man to the general.


KHASKA, GERARD PROVINCE(BORDERS OCEANIA), HOLY MARSH
GREY SNAKE SECTOR, HARDLINER COMMAND BUNKER.
"They'll arrive in time?"
"Yes, sir. They should arrive just as we planned."
Terias was pleased. His Alfegan mercenaries would seem like some sort of aid package- that was how they would get through the blockade. They would then slam right when the week ended into the soft underbelly of the Progressives. They should buy enough time for the main Hardliner assault to take a few sectors of the city. Sure, they would have little support by themselves and that would mean eventual destruction. But they were mercenaries; Terias wasn't paying for the to live, he paid them to save Hardliner lives and advance the cause.
"Good. Keep me updated- how are the armored divisions keeping up?"
And so the discussion continued, little heed paid to the Mercs.

CAMP BETA
The meeting had ground to a halt. No one said anything of value- pleasantries were exchanged as were funny stories about children that Moore didn't care about. He had left around seven and put his right hand man in charge- he had to lead the night service. An hour later, fourteen prayers later, and the hearts of the 200,000 in attendance lifted up later, he had returned.
"Ah, my friends. Any updates?"

CAMP ECHO, 11 MILES WEST
TRAIL EPSILLION
Brother Magnus had been on the trail for four days. The trail was flanked by redoubts, ditches, trenches, tank traps, and other defences that man could make with shovels and willpower. Strung out on the trails, on the defences, and in the vast expanses beyond, craters and burned out vehicles could be seen. Earlier on in the day, all sides involved in the fighting could be seen dragging their dead and wounded away. From the west of the trail, Progressives did it. The forces sent against the Holy Warrior's defenses were paltry and weak, and they continued to be slaughtered en masse. From the east, the Hardliners had started to realize the importance of the trail and sent better trained and equipped companies to take specific areas. The fighting had been brutal and would have driven off lesser men, but the Holy Warriors were of such strength that they laughed at the odds stacked against them. They had been raised to fight and believe in the Plan, and they would see His work and His will done until the End Times. The Hardliners and Progressives had commited such grave sins in His name that when they fought his Chosen, the Faithful channeled his fury and sorrow into righteous power that cowed and humbled the Lost. Woe be those who fight such men, for the only reward will be a bullet to the head and shrapnel to the gizzards. The carrion birds feasted on the flesh of the foolhardy and the Impure, and the smoking ruins of their vehicles wept black tears at displays of such faith. The innocents who had been caught in the shelling and crossfire, their spirits sided with the Holy Warriors and their deaths at the hands of the Impure sent the Warriors onto paths of holy vengeance as they would do the great heroes and martyrs of old.
Both factions had learned that a lifetime of faith and war could not be broken easily. However, even the Holiest of men bleed and die, and indeed the Holy Warriors of camp Echo were a dying breed of Saviors. The carrion birds would not feast on the flesh of the Holy Dead, for their radiance struck them down like He struck down The Traitor. The Holy Dead had to be buried, lest their brilliance of spirit blind their comrades. The Ironheart vehicles, despite the War Rites carved into them, were still machines of heathen design and would themselves weep black tears. The artillery and rocket strikes that claimed civilian lives would also brutally, and without honor, end the lives of the Holiest of men.
The Holy Warriors stil bled, and here in the trench lay one more dying man. Magnus knew his name- Brother Stanley Muskin. Born a scant twenty-two years ago at a Temple-Fortress in the mountains, his mother and father both Holy Warriors themselves, names unknown. Taken in as all children of such cases were, he had been trained his entire life to devote every waking moment to enforcing His will in war. Many children who were not truly faithful went mad. Some who were too weak would perish or be forced to become a priest. No, not Brother Muskin- he had survived and thrived. By the time he was thirteen, he had been paired off with another Warrior, a female, and between the ages of thirteen and eighteen they had three children together. The reasoning was simple- after the age of eighteen, there would be no time for procreation and the Holy Warriors always wanted more soldiers to enforce his will. He had particpated in the closing months of the Final Crusade, though it is unknown if he had seen combat with the Demon Followers. Then the Civil War followed- and he had served well, defending His flock from attack and delivering His judgment. However, soon before the Eve of Recollection, an artillery shell had landed close by and shrapnel had torn through his throat. A second artillery shell had landed and collapsed a section of the trench he was in on him. Healer Aliso could not move him, lest he die.

Instead, he and two others worked to stabilize and save Muskin there. It was a losing battle, but their skill had kept him alive for many uncounted hours. Day came and then night again. Civilians kept to the trail, hurrying to the camp. Progressives and Hardliners carried away their dead, dying, and wounded. Once in a while, a few Holy Warriors would come down the trail along with the Civilians. Generally however, it was Magnus and the healers keeping a dead man alive long enough to see the sun change positions. Attempts to move the dirt that entombed the man were futile- he was in a position where the more dirt you moved off of him, the more that fell on. A concerted effort from a dozen or so Holy Warriors could probably do it, but they were too stretched out along this twelve-mile long trail as well as the twenty-one others they defended. The closest machines that could move or change density of the dirt were helping the Foreigners repair the fences which, in Magnus' opinion, were useless-
"Brother Magnus, Muskin is dying and there is nothing more we can do. You must administer his rights." Aliso yelled from the trench, his voice hoarse. He hadn't even seen the camp for about eight weeks, his uniform much worse off- three years on, had not been cleaned except when it needed to in order to keep it safe to wear. He was maybe thirty-eight and a veteran of many wars and operations. He was faithful. He was a good medic. That was all Magnus cared about.
Magnus walked over to the trench and dropped down next to Muskin. He was pale and the dirt around his head was covered in blood. His eyes fluttered weakly, his brown eyes losing focus slowly. He was meeting his God now.
Time to read his Death Rites. Magnus took the Brother's hand and held it gently, his fifty-year old battle scarred hand a stark contrast to the one tht was pale and young.
"Brother Muskin, have you followed His word to the letter, His Will becoming your actions?"
Muskin's hand squeezed hard around Magnus'.
"Brother Muskin, have you passed His Judgment on the Unclean, and have you protected the innocents according His Wisdom?"
Again, a squeeze.
"Brother Muskin, have you set an example for the poor and lost, for the weak and feeble? Brother Muskin, has the life you led allowed you to die with Honor in His eyes?"
A squeeze.
"Brother Muskin, your soul will sit now at the right side of Him, and you will be his Chosen in the Last Day. Go now to your Eternal Watch and maintain the honor, dedication, faith, and skill you had in life, Brother."
And with that, Muskin died.

The reply was exactly the one he was expecting from the Progressive officer and it was enough to settle whatever suspicions there might have been left in his mind in regards to the woman and her intentions; She was clearly annoyed with his 'by the book' approach, but there was little he could do about that. He had learned his lessons well and between a few operations and an expert make up artists, individual looks were not all that hard to fake.

”Well then, I suppose we can get this baby moving?” he spoke again as he entered the vehicle, ”Wouldn't want to hold up the convoy or anything,” it was quite obviously a jab at the woman and her command, something his superiors always berated him about, but in all truth a method that always got results. Nothing better than to annoy a person to see what's hidden behind the surface and he was just getting started with this woman. ” 'sides, I guess the general's waiting for me,” he wondered how much she was going to take before finally cracking up and reacting to his taunts.

He knew he was going to get yelled again once news of his behavior got back hoe, but he also knew that there was little they could do about it and a few words weren't going to stop him from having his fun. It wasn't something he could indulge in ever so often and with what was at stake in this mission he knew better than to waste whatever valuable chances he got at having a laugh. It still baffled him the fact that these warriors were so easy to accept perfect strangers in their vehicles without a worry. He knew that attacking the other side in this period was suicide, but marking a specific vehicle or tracking them wasn't all that hard to do. There was no way of knowing what technology the Marshians still had available in this area, but he knew for certain that Damirez equipment would have made, following his infiltration and marking of the vehicle, tracking a relatively easy task giving an invaluable advantage to the opposing side after this week. But he wasn't here to judge and as such he refrained from commenting on this matter, others, more brainiac agents would be sure to remark the same issue and bring it to attention with the proper 'authorities'.

All he had to do was reach the general and present him the Damiran offer to end this blood bath.

Infinite Echo Joint Aeromedical Base, HM - 2300 HOURS
Infinite Echo Aeromedical Hospital, Operating Room Suite

Colonel Eger had been up for over 24 hours now, most of it in this OR suite. Ever since it came online, it had been non-stop gore coming in the door. According to Colonel Oreglak's morning situation report on the area, the fighting had been intensifying. Most of the casualties were soldiers, their faction indistinguishable due to their uniforms having been cut away long before they made it onto his table. But there were a fair amount of civilians too - women with children, elderly, and the very young, and all on the verge of starvation. Colonel Eger knew it was going to be bad here, but he hadn't expected this much so fast.

He had the nurse make the final sutures as he removed his gloves and bloody scrubs that covered his desert combat uniform. Captain Kornél, a young surgeon almost fresh from the military's medical school in St. Istvan, came in to replace him. Despite the captain's age and brash behavior that came with it, he was proving to pull more than his weight in the OR. Colonel Eger had full confidence in him in this environment, but had his doubts as to whether Captain Kornél would ever have much of a military career. But being a damn fine surgeon would do for now.

According to Colonel Oreglak's SITREP, both the Hardliner and Progressive artillery was causing most of the civilian casualties, which neither side went and helped because they were too busy fighting the Holy Warriors. The Holy Warriors, on the other hand, were how most of the civilian casualties were getting back to the hospital. Volunteer crews of medical personnel from the hospital were taking the hospital's six M113 ambulances on runs up the road to the west towards the crossroads where most of the civilian casualties were coming from. Still, there was only so much they could do due to the condition of the roads. From what they could tell, most of the civilian casualties were happening at the crossroads - as many as 1 in 10 that tried to cross would fall there, never to get up again. The Holy Warriors did what they could for the wounded, but they had two foes to focus on.

Something had to be done to reduce the number of refugees getting killed trying to get to food and aid. He was sure the HCSK government was not willing to engage in combat operations until all peaceful avenues had been exhausted. That meant only one real alternative - make it unnecessary for the refugees to cross the combat zone, and he had just the idea for it.

But it would have to wait until in the morning. Morning... now there's a thought he really didn't want to think about right now.


Infinite Echo Joint Aeromedical Base, HM - 0630 HOURS
West Road Observation Post

Colonel Eger, Colonel Oreglak, and local officers representing the Hardliners, Progressives, and Holy Warriors were gathered in the meeting tent. It had been the HCSK command tent at the beginning of the operation, and had been redeployed a couple hundred yards back from the West Road Observation Post and about the same distance back off the road. The tent was surrounded by HCSKAF Security Forces light armored vehicles - tank destroyers, air interdiction, anti-personnel, and even one of the ambulances.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Colonel Egar began. "The reason why we're gathered here this morning is to discuss the problem of civilian casualties in the area. I won't waste your time and I'll cut to the chase. Whether by incompetent artillery spotters, crews, or commanders, Progressive and Hardliner artillery is generating a heavy number of civilian wounded and killed.

Here are your options for fixing this problem. You can stop intentionally committing the war crime of willfully and negligently firing on civilians, or risk the HCSK beginning combat operations in cooperation with the Holy Warriors. Or, if continuing to fire at the road means so much to you, you can let us build a new refugee camp west of the crossroads, complete with new roads coming from the main roads, and a neutral zone extending to a one mile radius and the full length of the new roads. This would eliminate the need for the refugees to cross the combat zone, and you can all kill each other to your hearts' content.

What will it be, gentlemen?" he concluded, as he poured each officer present a glass of freshly purified water from the civil engineers.

ALSERTA
The city had once been a bustling industrial center. It was considered by many to be the second most important city in the nation. The factories had produced what seemed to be endless streams of vehicles, planes, bullets, and guns. It had also been the hub of the military command structure, at least outside of Marsh City.
So, the fighting had been terribly fierce, especially the first few weeks. After that, the only thing that mattered were the factories. Many had been destroyed, but many more were still functioning. Both sides dreamed of capturing every factory and having around 92% of all functioning factories in the nation under their control. It had been a nation of 13.8 million before the war, Marsh knows how many were dead. Beyond the factories and the relics- home to some Holy Warriors, one of whom had taken down three Progressive generals who kept on stationing their artillery too close to the relics and therewere were the target of counter batteries that threatened the relics- much of the rest of the city was a flaming ruin.

But Melissa didn't care. All she wanted to do was take the agent to the General, get a fresh set of clothes, and get a hot meal. The man also wanted to get her angry, she could tell by his voice tone. Arrogant and intelligent. That meant he knew what he was doing. Since she knew it was a ruse, she yawned and leaned back in the Ironheart as it started off down the road.

She had been in this vehicle for not too long. They had actually been given it, and it was likely that she would transfer out once they got back to a safe zone. It was common practice. Most command vehicles were kept safe due to their abilities that other Ironhearts didn't, but often times for an important assault they would be given one. They were somewhat rare because of how many had been destroyed in the first year. Both sides used the same vehicles and had the same skills and equipment. That meant they knew how to destroy each other and targetted the same types of vehicles. That meant command vehicles had been the target of many attacks that had left many officers dead and most command vehicles destroyed. Since then, it was rare to see a command vehicle. And, quite frankly, they were becoming less and less needed. The gear that could only be found in the command vehicles were being transferred over to Mandrakes and other versions of the Ironhearts, and to be frank, besides comfort there wasn't crap in this vehicle that she couldn't find in other places.

A nice nap was her goal, and she completed it. A while later, in the dead of the night, the convoy reached Alserta.

CAMP ECHO

Magnus had arrived back in the camp around 0230. The Ironheart Ambulance he rode back in was nearly out of fuel by the time it arrived back in the camp; it had been running up and down the road, picking up wounded Holy Warriors or those in the Roslian, or Church Command. That included poor old Magnus, who had been dragged from blessing two captured mortars for future use and put in the Ironheart with some other soldiers. Two of them had simple bullet wounds and were wide awake and somewhat jovial, all things considered- after all, it was the second day of the Recollection. A third man, however, was unconscious as two Healers worked on him. Blood was on the workstation and formed around his groin, seeping down to his feet and onto his stomach when the Ironheart lurched. The femoral and deep dorsal veins had likely been torn open. The Healers were good and the man would likely live, but it still caused quite a mess.

They made it back to the camp and drove through it towards the airstrip. Little could be heard, aided by the fact that most people were asleep. By the time they disembarked, it was 0230. The Healers had taken the severly wounded man out first and wheeled him to a nearby emergency hospital. Now that Magnus had thought of it, it was a miracle that the man was alive. Those veins were major and the last combat operation was twenty-six hours ago. One of the many mysteries amd miracles He provided amongst the horror.

The other two wounded men left and then Magnus started to leave. However, very quickly another man entered.
"Brother Chaplain, a message from Command." The man said. He was young, around 24. He also only had one ear. Beyond that, he was a nondescript Holy Warrior. He handed Magnus a small note and saluted him. Magnus gave him the Sign and he was off.

He looked at the note, sighed, and told the driver to take him to the HCSK command tent near the West Road Observation Post.

Infinite Echo Joint Aeromedical Base, HM - 0630 HOURS
"What will it be, gentlemen?"
Magnus took the water and closed his eyes. While closed, he heard the ruffle of clothes as the Hardliner official got up.
"You believe we wish to shell the damn road?" The hardliner official said. Magnus knew him before the war; Major Timothy Kaine. Good man. Good shot, too. Broad shoulders built oddly into a smaller frame, bald with brown eyes. Low, rasping voice that crackled with explosive energy even as he whispered. Interesting man.
"We don't want to shell the road. We don't want to kill civilians. If it was up to me, not a single Holy Warrior or a single civilian would get killed. However, the "Holy" "-the man did use air quotes-"Warriors fight so close to the roads that our shelling can't help but occasionally hit the road."

"And," began the fat, decorated Progressive official with red hair, "your other ideas has flaws as well. You could not build a new refugee camp, even if you had 50,000 workers, to house these many people away from a pre-established area. Even then, fact is that the road you plan to build around is the only road not controlled-"

"What they're saying, my friends, is that if you build a road that can actually handle that volume of traffic then that too will become a battleground. Both sides would want to move mass armored forces through that road. The only reason the other roads we guard aren't bloodbaths is because they provide a small number of refugees. Around 80% of refugees in here came through that road. You'd have to build enough roads to make up for that, and that would mean you would have to build roads that twist away from the lines of both sides. Remember, outside of the areas we defend from these two and this camp, every inch is hostile. And neither side will allow you to build "neutral" roads through the opposing camp's territory, as it would mean they wouldn't be able to attack rear echelon forces. Then, neutral roads won't work in their own land because it would deny them free movement. So, you can't build any reasonable road system that doesn't end with about sixty miles of refugees. That is the situation, am I right gentlemen?" Magnus said, extremely tired and wanting to get about three hours of sleep.

Kaine nodded.
"Listen, no one wants to kill civilians, but to be frank the lives of my men, the Holy Warriors, and everyone else here are forfeit when compared to the regional command's army that is fighting in the cities around here."

"Plus," again spoke the fat Progressive official, "don't threaten me again. I can't speak for that bastard, but if the Holy Warriors or you engage in offensive operations then I can promise you that a quarter of a million men plus full air, armor, and artillery support will be slammed down your throat faster than you can pray to whoever or whatever you pray to." He finished and stood up, leaving. The Hardliner official stayed and Magnus awaited the replies from Ager and Oreglak while he finished his water.

The foreigners had their hearts in the right place, but Marsh Bless Them, Magnus believed they didn't know who they were dealing with.

The woman didn't take the bait. It made him a bit sad that he lost his entertainment for the week, but his respect for her went up a couple of notches. She was most likely exhausted and on a short fuse yet managed to hold herself calm in his presence, not exactly a performance many could pride on. For a brief moment he pondered on making some sexist comments and see if that got a rise out of her, but he decided otherwise, he was after all a 'guest' and no matter how rude he could afford to be, mama 'Agent' taught him good manners when he was a kid, even though he chose not to take them into consideration most of the time. He left her to rest, satisfying himself with an ever annoying smirk and starting to ponder the current situation.

The Holy Marsh situation, his briefing said, wasn't one that The Principality liked all that much, but time, lack of resources and political support meant that there was little the country could do. That is, until now. A certain shift in the political tide, mixed with the sudden availability of Delian League assets to back up Damiran complements meant that Librescu finally got the means to push through the senate a law regarding this intervention. Not exactly the most easy achieved result the president had in his long term in office, but one favorable enough for DIS agents to finally afford to start taking measures in Holy Marsh. That was why, his superiors placed a lot of accent on this, it was important for him to achieve success in his task. Now, finally in the country, he could understand just why.

When he first arrived in Holy Marsh, despite the briefings, his first impression was Alestra. He took part in DIS ops in that god forgotten island and contributed in halting the Colonial Alliance advance into Stronghold territory so he knew first hand what was happening there. But now, finally reaching a city, he knew things were worse, much worse here. The city was almost turned to ruble, demolished by the fighting, with only the sanctuary protected by the Holy Warriors remaining in one piece. Supposedly there were valuable religious relics in this city according to intel, but most of the city didn't benefit all that much out of it. The other thing of notice and perhaps more important for the civil war, were the factories. Both sides wanted them and it was easy to see why. With them secured it was quite likely that the tides could be finally shifted one way or another. There was a plan in the making regarding this, he knew it, he just didn't knew if he was going to be involved. Perhaps he should find out more about the raw materials the industry needs here? A couple of shipments could go a long shot after all.

As he finished his musings on the subject, the convoy reached its target and, with experience born out of years of annoying people, he couldn't help but throw one at the colonel before his meeting with the general, ”Are we there yet?”

Infinite Echo Joint Aeromedical Base, HM - 0635 HRS
West Road Observation Post

Colonel Eger responded coolly to the portly Progressive, "Against us alone, with what we currently have on the ground, yes, you could mount sufficient force to move us. But what would you do in the mean time while the Hardliners undoubtedly exploit the opportunity to cut off your supply line and rout you? Surely you understand this."

Turning back to the others, he continued. "I'm not saying this operation would be set up and ready over night. But we can build it to the point where it can begin initial-level operations within a week. Heck, we can have an operational improvised air strip that our C-130s can fly from within six hours from now. Concerned about other forces mutually exploiting the connector road? Fine. We'll make it too small for most military vehicles, and lace it with explosives at critical points for if either of you decide to. Compacity for civilians? Spreading the 2000 to 3000 civilians a day across three to four connector roads is far from impossible as long as they keep moving, and that's what MPs are for. Of course the military forces can cross them, they just can't use them.

If you are interested in seeing HCSK military forces coming to the aid of the other side during the war, then by all means, be the first to violate the roads. It's true that we only have defensive forces on the ground right now, but you'd be surprised how quickly we can get a quarter million troops and their material in theater, and I'm sure that with this quasi-even match you have going here, neither of you can afford that to happen in the long run. I ask you to look outside of your foxholes at the bigger picture here. We're not asking anything unreasonable; the terms are simple: leave the civilians alone. We'll help facilitate that, and all you need to do is simply cooperate.

We'll build it several miles to the West, getting the camp closer to where the refugees are coming from and further from the fighting. Not only that, but we will be airlifting supplies in from and refugees out to Infinite Echo JAB, ones with medical needs and their families getting priority. The camp is intended to be a temporary stop for them, not a permanent per bellum home.

So, back to the original question: what will it be? Let us save your refugees, your citizens who you are supposed to be protecting and not killing, or Katonazag tilts the scales in someone's direction because you either can't or won't stop willfully killing the innocent. An honorable soldier protects the innocent, not negligently lobbing artillery where they're known to be, all over a few feet of land you're not going to get anyways."



Infinite Echo Aeromedical Hospital - Operating Room Suite

Four hours, eight artery or vein transplants, and 12 units of blood later, Captain Kornél was closing the Holy Warrior who had come in with his femoral artery and several other major blood vessels nearly destroyed. The fact that he had survived long enough to get to the hospital was a miracle in and of itself, but his survival through the surgery was highly improbable, and that the operation worked was nothing short of an act of God. "Deus ex machina," he thought to himself. He had just done something that was literally impossible, something he knew that couldn't have been his skill alone no matter how much he wished he could honestly attribute to himself. No, there was something larger at work here, and he had to know what. He was very much non-religious despite his mother's best efforts, but this scientifically inexplicable occurrence had grabbed his attention like nothing else in his life ever had up to this point. Something or someone wanted this man to live.

After removing his OR attire, he slipped back into his desert combat uniform and made his way across the base to the chapel. Maybe his answer was in there...

IC:

It had been early morning when the fleet left port. It wasn’t the most powerful fleet which had ever put to sea, but even still it was a substantial flotilla.

Fleet Command was housed aboard a Victory class carrier, HMS King Robert III, flying a large aircraft complement of eighty air frames. It would double as one of the fleet’s prime long range force projection systems.

Right next to her, two battleships, one Trinity class and one Adamant class, would protect her, and give the fleet a powerful surface punch.

Rounding out all the surface force was three cruisers, nine destroyers, and fifteen frigates.

Keeping an eye on things underneath the surface were six submarines.

It was a powerful force, and it had been assembled with one thing in mind. Sailing with it in convoy formation were sixteen Marquess class brigade transport vessels, the transports in which 90,192 of Her Imperial Majesty’s soldiers were contained, and some cargo ships requisitioned from civilian firms.

It would take roughly three days for the fleet to arrive off the shores of Holy Marsh.

OOC:

My next post will contain a more detailed ORBAT for y'all to look at.

The portly fellow was silent for a second as he opened a small pouch. It contained powder. He poured it in his drink. The Chaplain knew what it was; a cheap, flavored powder that sweetened a drink greatly. They were rare on the frontlines now, but plentiful back in the rear echelons. After a few seconds, he smiled and started speaking.

“Ha, if you made an offensive move against one side you would have to move against the other. If not, they would take the chance to launch a full assault to take the road. Therefore, I wouldn’t have to worry about the Hardliners taking advantage because they already would have, and you will have lost valuable ground, men and supplies.
Initial level operations within a week? Impossible, even if you had ten times as many men as you have now. You don’t have the manpower to build anything of that sort if you move from this area, especially if you decide to move west, closer to combat. Then again, if you move east you’ll be closer to armored divisions, so your position is quite untenable. The roads that you propose would have to wind through our areas of control. If we can cross them and use them, then that will mean they will be open to attack by the other faction. If we can’t use them, then they obstruct our lines and we’d have to take them.
Lacing the roads with explosives at critical points won’t help you, in all honesty: all we would need would be infantry to take the roads and unless you’re going to make it so that the refugees have to worry about being destroyed by your own devices. So, your proposal is this: Build a camp closer to a combat zone, create roads where there are none now that will get in the way of two armies, and then use the insane threats that you have used to back them up. Fact is, the only reason your planes weren’t blown out of the sky on the way here was because the Holy Warriors told us that you were here to help the refugees. Otherwise, none of you would be alive now. If you were to try and get a quarter of a million men here, well then, that would require massed refueling and escorts. Where will you refuel? Over Atrea? I think not. Trevancore? They look like they may throw their lot in with the Hardliners, and considering that you’d have to fight both factions if you attacked one due to your position, you wouldn’t make it. Your escorts would be swatted down by our fighter planes. Our air defenses would take care of the rest. Not a single one of your men could hope to land here or anywhere close by. You would send a quarter of a million men to their deaths.
So, your threat rings hollow and your proposal is dangerous to all sides. We can not accept it. We would love to say that no more innocents will be harmed, but we can’t promise that. The Holy Warriors entrench themselves sometimes within ten yards of the roads and use that road for their vehicles to rush ammunition, weapons, men and wounded to and fro.
Oh, and let me say this before I leave: We could take the roads. We could use every available soldier under our commands and take the entire road in one day. The only thing that stops us from doing that is that the other side could take advantage and launch an attack when we are recovering from the fighting and wipe us out. So, consider it a blessing that you have two armies close by, because if not the road would be ours by now. Now good day.”
After this, the man got up and walked out of the tent.

Magnus sighed; it had been exactly as he predicted. These foreigners had their hearts in the right place, but seriously underestimated the strength of will of the two factions.
“Listen brothers, these men have been at war for three years. They both believe that He will show them favor someday and tilt the war in their favor. Neither wants to kill civilians. Neither even wants to fight. But both have wills of iron and the guts to match, except for the portly fellow who had a different gut all together. And, they are right: The only reason any of your men made it down is because they believe you will be neutral and work for the good of the refugees. They have the airpower to swat basically any force you could send out of the sky if they so desired. Don’t use threats and don’t belittle them as you did here, or they will eventually regard you as hostile. Now, tell me, what IS your plan for the camp now?”

CHAPEL FIFTEEN
Tents made a rather poor avenue for the discussion of Him, but you could only do what was possible and He realized this. The tents had been put together and then added with larger tents to provide room for around two-hundred people. Right now, that capacity meant nothing as around five-hundred souls pushed their way out. Another mass. Chaplain Cassium had been working nearly non-stop for around thirty-six hours. Thirty masses. Seven-hundred and ninety-three prayers. Mass after mass, prayer after prayer, hoper after hope, and still Cassium didn’t feel any less enthusiasm. Standing at the wooden altar surrounded by small concrete statues, his congregation was forced to sit on blankets, but to him, it was better than being in a Warring Church with golden pews.
Cassium took a drink of water as he took another deep breath, looking at his collection of twenty-nine scriptures next to his feet. He had selected hundreds of readings and interpretations, enough to last the whole week. It would help the people realize their role in His plan and the historical and religious context in which this war took place. Maybe it was false hope, but it was hope when one could see that He still loved them and had plans for them.
And he also knew his flock, so when someone new entered his field of view, he took note. It looked like one of the foreigners.

ALSERTA
Plane after plane.
Tank after tank.
Helicopter after helicopter.
IFV after IFV.
MLRS after MLRS.
Self-propelled howitzer after self-propelled howitzer.
Rifle after rifle.
Bullet after bullet.
Body after body.

These were the things that the factories of Alserta produced among others. Even now, the vast resources kept hidden by the military in case of another regional war like the Tri-Country War from 1955-1965 were still being used. Whenever one source was tapped, another was opened and the factories seemed to produce supplies and weapons without end.
The planes from these factories would see combat days after being made. The tanks would often roll out and either be assigned to a hot spot in a distant part of the nation or be firing within minutes. The helicopters would be armed and would fly towards where they were needed most, sometimes engaging in combat within moments of taking flight and sometimes not seeing combat for weeks. IFVs would roll out of the factories, have troops stuffed in, and sent out to battle. Artillery and rocket forces often expended all of their ammunition before they left the city, THEN were transported to their destination. Rifles were tossed into the hands of soldiers as soon as they were finished. Bullets hardly spent an hour of life out in the world before being spent.
But the largest and most numerous of all things produced at the factories were corpses. Bodies of both sides littered the hardest fought areas of the factories. Factories that were captured near the frontlines were the worst. Because neither side could be sure they could hold the factories, all that would happen would be that the workers would move the bodies out of the areas needed to be used for the factory to work. This might go on for a week or two before the bodies were piled too high and had to be burned. Worse than that, however, were the basements of the factories. They were used before the war for waste from the factories and were sealed to prevent smells from escaping. Now? Bodies and more bodies. If you were lucky, you would be burned. Most were not and you may find hundreds of bodies in there mixed in with refuse. When opened, the overwhelming stench has caused even those in hazmat suits to stand in shock. It was moist. It was dark. Some bodies had been there for three years. The situation was somewhat ironic; the people who died fought for a religion that valued life, yet in order to win the war to make the religion healthy again they had to be willing to throw their lives, and bodies, away to take factories that produced machines that ended lives en masse.
It was a sad state of affairs, and it repeated itself in every factory of Alserta. Mind you, Alserta was little more than a big factory. Over 62% of the area in the city limits was made up of war-related factories. 28% of the city was church or military related. The rest? Normal city buildings, stacked close together with rather poor living conditions. But it didn’t matter. Their job, the majority of them anyway, was to work the factories. And that they did and many of them still did, working for whoever controlled the factories. And in the end, Alserta was a factory and that is all that mattered.

General Corromos looked at more pictures and fact sheets. Thousands of militia were killed and tens of thousands wounded in the latest bout of fighting. Hundreds of regulars were casualties. Around the city, thousands of more casualties were caused by the rapid movement of forces trying to gain leverage around the city. In the areas under his responsibility that extended to the mountains to the south and the surrounding regions, this third year saw around twenty thousand of his boys dead. More than a hundred and fifteen thousand were wounded. Another eight thousand were captured. Around four thousand were still missing, likely dead in the basements of the factories. Hundreds of tanks, aircraft, artillery pieces, and other pieces of equipment were destroyed.
But it had all been worth it. Thousands upon thousands of rifles were produced. Equipment losses were replaced almost immediately and then some by the vast factories and their endless supplies. The factories of Alserta did not just fuel the Civil War; it was the Civil War.
A war that needed an end, a variable. And hopefully the DIS could be that X factor.
“Sir, the Colonel’s convoy has pulled up in front of the building.” Said the Lt., his receptionist of sorts. The building was the largest factory in Progressive controlled space. At full capacity and speed, it could produce ten tanks a day. Of course, that wasn’t from the start to the end. It took weeks to produce a tank in Alserta’s factories, but in the end ten tanks could come out a day. And that didn’t include the thousands upon thousands of bullets and hundreds of rifles. And you had many explosives being produced as well. It was one of ten mega factories, not to mind the dozens of normal factories under Progressive control. It was a rather suitable place for a command structure. It was hardened against air strikes and had an underground command bunker used for just this sort of situation.
“When the agent gets out, tell him to follow your men here immediately.” Corromos said, his deep, throttled voice rumbling out. The guards here were regulars, great fighters all and fierce in all ways. However, there were some militia: Corromos had organized crack militia divisions out of those who had seen a lot of combat and were decorated. You wouldn’t see them, however. They were always out of sight, hidden, ready to ambush. A company of them were stationed around the structure in their own, hidden areas. They were given leeway to do as they pleased when they pleased, so they acted out of sync with the regulars. Then again, Corromos was sure the regulars liked it. The militia could be batshit insane, but always effective.
Corromos poured two cups of water and prepared to meet his DIS friend.

”Are we there yet?” said the man.
Melissa yawned once. They had been riding a bit in silence. Boring but good. They had rolled into Alserta, the only sign being the crunch of rubble underneath their treads. As per her orders, three Ironhearts peeled away from the convoy and headed towards the command structure, and as soon as the DIS agent asked the question the convoy stopped.
After yawning, Melissa smiled as the ramp lowered.
“Yes, yes we are.”

Infinite Echo Joint Aeromedical Base, HM - 0640 HOURS
West Road Observation Post

Colonel Eger turned to Major Kaine and Magnus, "It's a pity that the pompous pile of primordial lard doubts and underestimates the HCSKs ability to make an airstrip where there previously was none. What's even more odd is that he understands the current balance of power, yet can't see past the tip of his nose to see how he could benefit from the situation, or how much throwing his figurative and literal weight around like that would open up avenues for you to take advantage of. Since he apparently doesn't care about the citizens he is supposed to be protecting, I take it that you care considerably more about yours, Major. We can set up a camp well behind Hardliner lines to take care of the refugees coming from the Hardliner side, and you stand to indirectly gain from improved logistic efficiency from not having refugees clogging your roads close to the lines. The refugees gain and you gain - how about that then, Major? That will at lest take care of about half of the refugees. I wonder how the refugees behind the Progressive lines will feel when they find out how much their children's lives mean to the Progressive commander? Traded for 'the powdered goods', indeed!"

Colonel Oreglak, who had remained quiet for the duration of the meeting, touched the ear piece in his ear. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but I have something that requires my immediate attention." Nodding to the two remaining guests, he walked out of the tent.

Eger continued again. "Magnus, what do you propose is the best solution for reducing the civilian casualties? Major Kaine, do you have any alternative solutions?"



20th Security Forces Expeditionary Group HQ - 0650 HOURS

"Colonel Oreglak, we picked up several of the black marketeers that you identified. They are being detained in the temporary holding cells, and they have not been interrogated, per your order." The young lieutenant looked very pleased with himself.

"Excellent," the colonel replied. "Now, we shall see how we can potentially benefit from this. But first, inform the Holy Warriors liaison officer that we have some of the ones accused of using violence in the commission of profiteering. Naturally, they get first dibbs - it is their country, after all."

"At once, sir." If only the lieutenant could see where the colonel was going with this... he'd probably have already been a captain by now.



Chapel Fifteen - 0650 HOURS

Captain Kornél was attempting to wade through the sea of pious humanity. There appeared to be a clergyman of some sort reading texts and praying. "If there's an answer here, he has to be the one who knows." He continued to press forward until he found a reasonably close spot where he could try to get a better understanding of what exactly was going on here. And so he could get his attention whenever it was he would finish.

The fun ride came too an end as the Ironheart parked in the yard of what he could recognize as one of the largest factories left standing in Alserta. His question, although meant to be a nagging and bothering one, got a positive reply, enough for him to stretch his arms and legs to get rid of the stiffness caused by the long trip before heading out outside. He only had time to do a small recap of what he had to offer on part of DIS before several Marshians turned about to escort him to the General.

”So, getting my own private guards?” he joked, but he could feel the unease in the soldiers accompanying him, it was to be expected after all, the long, grinding conflict leaving them all tired, jumpy and above all anxious. This week of respite was indeed something good, but even so he could feel dozens of eyes on his back, probably hidden troopers preparing for another battle rather than anything else. He wondered how paranoid this nation was before, when the Vile Lard was still around if the collapse of that enemy was enough to send them into a frenzy about the future. There were some things he'd never know or at best have to trust DIS files on the subject to gather any relevant information, but he just didn't have the patience or will to emerge himself in facts about a culture beyond what was already crammed in his head with this opportunity.

”So, think the big boss will be happy to see me?” he asked the soldiers as to pass times on what seemed to be a hike to get to the meeting spot before taking a quick look at his watch, ”And I'd suggest we get a move on, you're already making me late,” the data on the small display already made him frown, weather reports were looking bad for the carriers operating at sea so any operations they had planned depended on how many fingers were crossed for a sunny sky.

In all truths, Agent X, if we can call him so, had no intentions of being assigned on this mission, but after managing to lose a bet regarding the maximum scuba diving distance he could go to, he was the lucky one sent to the civil war from hell. Enough to make one resent his luck or in this case the low tolerance for extra pressure squeezing your brain when you're under forty meters of water. He should have known better and picked the para drop, now he had another score to settle with J and it was grating at his nerves more than missing that nice sunny vacation ever did. But an assignment was an assignment and being tasked to propose a crazy, suicidal and unbelievable risky plan to the leader of a faction in a civil war that was already three years in the making was just another day at the office for all he cared.

He just wanted to meet the General, propose him the plan, get him to agree and then just hope that he wasn't designated liaison for this affair, but knowing his luck, that had a very slim chance of not happening. Finally, reaching the room where the General waited for him the agent spoke those fateful words, ”Greetings, I'm from DIS and I heard you had a small problem with a Civil War, anything we can do about it?”

The video conferencing screen lit the otherwise darkened room with a blue hue, the exaggeratedly large face of the Monarch, Benard I was speaking to them in his usual solemn sounding tone and voice, Katie had always thought the man would be a magnet for women if he didn't always seem so depressed.

"So ladies and gentlemen of the board, you can see why the Parliament and I do not want to have a direct part in the current crisis in the Holy Marsh. In the long run it is currently viewed as a Marshian crisis and of no concern to us here in Goldaron. I do however, authorize the sale or trade of weapons to the Progressives; unlike the majority I do feel that we need to do something if only to reduce the suffering of its citizens, and the Progressives are more in line with our politics."

"Thank you your royal highness." That was Bill Gordan, the Chairman of the board. Ever since the companies had been merged and then nationalized by Benard he had served as CEO, Bill was the 7th chairman in the 5 years since then.

Not that Benard was some kind of demanding task master, but because the Monarch wanted to be able to in entrust the company to someone of moral fiber... tough to find that in the weapons industry. The screen went dark, and the room's lights immediately came on in response. Gordan turned to look at the rest of the board members who were arranged throughout the room, "So... suggestions? Options? What do we have that we could potentially sell to the Marshians that they might want."

Katie listened as several people made contributions, suggesting everything form the Argonaut line of hand guns to uniforms. She had no ideas herself at first but as proposal after proposal was offered she began to realize one thing, "The Holy Marsh has been in the grip of a very bloody conflict with itself. In an attempt to keep the conflict from pouring out all over the continent, Oceana has blockaded the whole nation and has strict control over what goes in and what leaves. We can't sell anything to these people."

Ryan Armstead spoke up when she was done, "Still, there has to be some way that we can benefit from this. Be it political favor when the war ends or something."

Before she knew what she was saying Katie was already blazing ahead, "What about the new robot? The Onager? Its still be tested and is about due for field trials. What if we made them actual field trials?"

Bill sat forward in his chair, "Are you saying we should try our Onagers out on the battlefields in the Holy Marsh?"

"Well... yes. If they are successful the publicity we will get by having them in a conflict with this kind of profile will get the attention of all of Nova, and maybe spread out to other regions as well. If they aren't as good as we hoped we just recall them and do more tests. Either way, it will give us all the knowledge we need about how the Onager performs in actual combat scenarios. I'm not suggesting we give them advanced prototypes, just the standard model."

Bill didn't hesitate, she could almost see the $ signs in his eyes, "Do it."

OOC: I messed up the last post- Kaine was supposed to be leaving, though from the post it sounds like the fat prog official did. I’d also like to apologize for my slow replies- too many hours of work + taking me by surprise=Bad. But it is loosening up a bit. Sorry for the short post.

CAMP ECHO

Kaine sighed as he stood up.
“It isn’t that your ideas are bad or that I wouldn’t want them to work- it is that the chances of it working are far too low. If you move or build a camp in our lines, it will open up your men to hostile action in the area of the camp and would obviously lead to many deaths for your people. It doesn’t matter what is best; it matters only what would work. That is what that bastard means. It isn’t that it we wouldn’t want to do it- it is that at this point, we can’t. Now, have a nice week gentlemen.” Kaine said as he left.

Magnus shifted in his seat as he finished the water. He was so tired and could feel the wounds from many battles starting to flare up.
“Brothers, the only thing that will change the Godless situation will be if something dramatic happens to change the strategic position of either force. That is, sadly, the situation. For now, the best thing you can do is to improve the lives of the poor people in this camp. We don’t have the manpower or resources to do it- but with your focus on the camp, you can do good by these souls.”

CHAPEL FIFTEEN
The foreigner moved along, struggling mightily against the weight of the mass. Cassium noted that the man was trying to get his attention, and he smiled. Maybe he should just ask the people to move- but then again, he looked concerned. Cassium stepped down and walked towards him, several of the flock parting. They were within talking distance as Cassium parted the human wave.
“Foreigner, what do you seek in His sight? Come, sit down- weariness is shown in your eyes.”

ALSERTA
”Greetings, I'm from DIS and I heard you had a small problem with a Civil War, anything we can do about it?”
The man sounded somewhat arrogant. That was good. Arrogance meant he would take chances- and that was what Corromos needed.
“There is much that can be done, foreigner. Sit down.” Corromos said, smiling. Reports were still coming in through an earpiece- bodies being discovered, streets were choked with burning vehicles that needed to be moved, and formations were being melded together. Forces were prepping themselves for future operations. That was just the tip of the iceberg- but for the most part, they were just status reports. One of them was about a report from the Acquisitions Department regarding an offer from Goldaron for their Onager. He would look into that after the meeting.
“So, I assume you know what you are here for?” Corromos said, offering him water as he opened a drawer. Many folders were there- information about almost every subject one could want to know about. If Corromos played his cards right, the Agent will be able to look at all of them.

Camp Echo Joint Aeromedical Base, HM - 0700 HOURS
West Road Observation Post

Colonel Eger clenched his fist. The Marshians were too caught up in killing each other to care about the innocent. They said one thing, but their actions dictated otherwise. He turned to Magnus and said, "I wasn't asking to build a camp in the lines or even anywhere near the lines! Can't they see anything but red?!? Perhaps you're right. The battlefield position must change. But that is not my area of expertise. However, I do have expertise in something that is troubling you, Magnus." He pulled out a prescription pad, and scribbled something down. "I can tell by the way you move and your posture that you have some old injuries troubling you. These pills don't have any side effects at the dosage and duration I'm prescribing, and will not impair you in any way. They will help take some of the edge off so you can rest easier now, and move easier later. I will have a Pharmacy Tech bring them by to you immediately."

With the fruitless meeting adjourned, there was little he could do but get back to the business he was proven to be good at: healing.



Chapel Fifteen - 0700 HOURS

The clergyman, whom he had heard others in the crowd refer to as a "chaplain", was coming down towards him. Captain Kornél hoped that he had not caused too much of a disturbance or some sort of religious faux pas.

The clergyman began to speak as he approached. "Foreigner, what do you seek in His sight? Come, sit down- weariness is shown in your eyes."

Kornél spoke hesitantly at first, "Chaplain, I seek answers to something that happened that I cannot explain. One of the Holy Warriors was brought in to my operating room with an injury that he not only shouldn't have survived, but should have not survived the ambulance to the hospital, or the astronomically improbable operation I had to perform on him in attempt to keep him alive. Something happened to this man to keep him alive - something supernatural, something I must find out! Please tell me what it was that saved this man's life!"



20th Security Forces Expeditionary Group, Holding Cell 5 - 0710 HOURS

The prisoner had been labeled by Colonel Oreglak as "of particular importance". He was apparently a high-ranking blackmarketeer being held on theft, privateering, and sabotage charges as an unlawful combatant. For the last two, he would have normally been summarily executed, but this aid mission changed the rules. In addition to the normal small arms being temporarily removed from people and placed in the armory as they entered the camp, he had been caught with military grade explosives hidden in his "hot" wares. The explosives plus the particular items he had linked him to one of the violent incidents of privateering reported by the Holy Warriors.

He was still shackled in a manner that severely restricted his movement when the Med Tech and Lab Tech from the hospital arrived to do the routine samples to check for infectious disease. Consequently, these were also used for DNA database afterwards. They drew their samples, asked him a few simple medical questions, and then gave him two injections of preventative vaccines. For the final test which would take three days to come back, they injected tuberculin tine test material just under his skin and placed a small band-aid over it to keep it from being rubbed by accident. If that were to happen, it would ruin the test. But they weren't too concerned about the disease in this one anyways - he had no fever, no coughing.

Then came an MP and an officer. But the captain was no MP - instead of a Security Forces badge, he had the emblem of a set of measuring scales. The captain began to speak as the MP positioned himself to the side. "I am Captain Ferkó Zsidó of the HCSKAF Judge Advocate's Office. I am assigned to be your defense lawyer, or advocate, until your disposition is known or until you have a lawyer more to your suiting. My first duty to you is to make sure you understand your rights in this situation. First, anything you tell me in counsel is inadmissible in court. Secondly, you have the right to not incriminate yourself in non-counsel situations. That being said, this is counsel, and the MP is only here for my protection. Anything he hears or does because of it is inadmissible. Care to tell me what you were doing bringing the explosives into camp?"



Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Goldaron

HCSK Foreign Secretary Mátyás Széchenyi waited patiently in his Goldaronian counterpart's secretary's anteroom, and double checked his paperwork. When he was called in, he stood up straight, put his game face on, and strode into the office. "Good morning, Minister. After learning of your esteemed Monarch Bernard I's offer of military aid to the military forces of the Progressives in Holy Marsh, and of the difficulty with blockade, I have come to see if your great nation would like to contribute instead to the aid mission, Operation: Golden Clover. It is a peaceful mission to ease the humanitarian crisis on the ground of millions of displaced refugees. We currently have three aeromedical expeditionary hospitals set up, and we can use any medical personnel (military, civilian, or volunteer), material, or funding your country would be willing to give in the name of peace to your fellow man in his hour of great need. And there is the potential for long-term gain as well - it would get the good-will of the nation of Goldaron into the minds and mouths of the people, who would then be potentially more apt to offer post-war reconstruction deals. Mr. Secretary, would Goldaron like to actively participate, or participate indirectly by sending material and funding?"

[B]Foreign Affairs Office, Goldaron

HCSK Foreign Secretary Mátyás Széchenyi waited patiently in his Goldaronian counterpart's secretary's anteroom, and double checked his paperwork. When he was called in, he stood up straight, put his game face on, and strode into the office. "Good morning, Mr. Secretary. After learning of your esteemed Monarch Bernard I's offer of military aid to the military forces of the Progressives in Holy Marsh, and of the difficulty with blockade, I have come to see if your great nation would like to contribute instead to the aid mission, Operation: Golden Clover. It is a peaceful mission to ease the humanitarian crisis on the ground of millions of displaced refugees. We currently have three aeromedical expeditionary hospitals set up, and we can use any medical personnel (military, civilian, or volunteer), material, or funding your country would be willing to give in the name of peace to your fellow man in his hour of great need. And there is the potential for long-term gain as well - it would get the good-will of the nation of Goldaron into the minds and mouths of the people, who would then be potentially more apt to offer post-war reconstruction deals. Mr. Secretary, would Goldaron like to actively participate, or participate indirectly by sending material and funding?"

Minister of Internal Affairs, Henry Tungstall listened intently to the Secretary's proposition and waited for the man to finish before he spoke. "Well Mr. Secretary; as much as your proposition has its merits I am not truly in any position to answer yes or no, I do hope you understand. What I can do however is draw up your proposal to send to the Monarch, and then the Parliament for them to decide on. I cannot however, be certain about what they will do with it."
The Minister shifted in his chair and poured water into a glass from a metal insulated pitcher, "Would you like some mister secretary?"

Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Goldaron

"Yes, please." Taking a sip, Széchenyi replied, "Of course, it would need to go through your nation's due political process. I hope they will also see the merits of aiding the refugees of the Marshian Civil War. In the mean time, if there is anything I can do for you, your Monarch, or Goldaron, please don't hesitate to call my office anytime day or night. If you have nothing to request of me at the moment, I'll be on my way to my next stop." He placed the now empty glass back onto the table from which it came.

"Yes Mister Secretary there is one thing you can do for me." Henry opened a drawer on his desk and sorted through some folders before pulling one out and offering it to them, "This is a proposal from STW incorporated's main office for me to forward to your nation's consulate. They wish to be able to send a single container ship with the 200 Onagers and personnel to train the Progressives in their use and maintenance... since you are here in person Mr. Secretary, I see no reason to ship it the long way, do you?"
He set the folder on his desk and took a sip of his own water, "I also feel obligated to inform you that while we will take your proposal seriously; I have my doubts as to whether or not we will be able to help. We have our own crisis to deal with here... with the Lanser outbreak in Veteka we have a few isolated reports of the same in some areas of our own nation, and there are other things going on, but I cannot tell you of them. Good luck on your proposal."

Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Goldaron

Foreign Secretary Széchenyi's eyes widened at the mention of the Lanser virus. "I trust you will have that under control, look at what it did to Veteka!

I am unfamiliar with the Onager, although my counterpart at the War Department probably knows something of it. If it is a weapon of war, I doubt it will be allowed to pass through the naval blockade. Furthermore, it would jeopardize the neutrality of our aid mission for the HCSK government to deliver such things to only one faction, not to mention breaking blockade in the process. And bringing it in on our airstrips in Holy Marsh is out of the question because they are neutral zones as well. If the Onager is not a weapon of war, then some sort of arrangements may be able to be arranged. If it is a weapon of war, you might want to pass the request to some of the mercenary companies in Alfegos - maybe they could help you, but I'm sure it would come with a hefty price tag.

That being said, from the practical perspective, would it not be more cost and time efficient to bring the Progressives to be trained to Goldaron? You wouldn't be risking your material to the blockade, Hardliner, or Holy Warrior forces until closer to fruition. Plus, training could be conducted in an environment where they don't have to worry about air and artillery strikes or ground offensives. It's what I would do, were I in your shoes.

Is there anything else, Minister Tungstall?"

Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Goldaron

The Minister shrugged, "As far as I know its unarmed. I haven't got to read the whole proposal but I have more copies. Lanser is currently under control and we are taking measures to ensure that everything stays contained. As for the training and shipping, I'm not involved in the affairs of the cooperation in question. Have a good evening Mr. Secretary."
Henry was being sincere when he said his parting words.

(Need info about the Onager?)

Palm Land Defence Systems Group

The ship had finally arrived. Ahead, the Captain could see the twinkling lights of the dockyards in the distance. He'd thought it strange it would be lit up, before remembering this was the week of peace: nobody would shoot. From his calculations, he knew there were a few days till hostilities resumed. In that time, he was expected to drop off his cargo as quickly as possible, the mercenary group moving on to their rear staging area before spreading out ready for assaults.

The ship soon made berth, lights behind him in the distance showing the Helios group were half an hour away. He walked to the Officer's cabin, rapping on the back of the door with his knuckles before stepping back.
"Good evening sir: we've arrived. I do believe there will be people wishing to meet you."
He spoke cautiously, knowing he should've alerted the man earlier. To his surprise, he did not receive the full verbal assault he had come used to. Instead, he was rewarded with a bergan thrown into his face, which he just caught, teetering before following the man out of the ship. Normally, he wouldn't take such behaviour from a man, but in this case... he decided to let the suggestion of wrongdoing hang in the air as he in turn passed the bergan on to an inferior crew hand.

The skeleton crew of the ship had already moved the steps over, allowing for crossing on to land. The Captain hang back, whilst the mercenary officer paced forwards with his assault rifle hanging loose in its sling. He had obviously taken the time to smarten himself up, the uniform he was wearing being perfectly creased and presented on the whole as a perfect image of the man. The Captain had brief thoughts of the officer's abusive behaviour being pure bloody-mindedness, before dismissing it as looked to see the officer's behaviour when greeting his client.

_____________________________________

Helios - Airship Command

Flotilla Commander Uy'lan looked down on the group of ships in harbour, and smiled as he watched figures scuttling about below. Behind him, a further group of ships carrying their own equipment and the like were waiting for their slot to make berth. Whilst he knew his second-in command would be sitting aboard one of the cramped ships below, he could enjoy the empty space of the sky from up here. The airship he was aboard was named the Thanatos, after one of the lesser known gods of the Greek Pantheon: that of the god of death.

That name was appropriate in reflecting the power hidden latent inside the peaceful exterior of the airship; the ship was of the Consul class series, the biggest of the company's military purchases, and had a total payload of three thousand tonnes of munitions in the form of an assortment of missiles: not only were there racks of guided AT missiles designed to obliterate anything with a heat signature on the ground, but clusters of artillery rockets for eradicating infantry; cruise missiles by the dozen; swarms of anti-air missiles for scaring off any enemy fighters; but most dangerous of all was the secret weapon the group had procured illegally, stowed away deep inside the missile gondola.

The commander flicked on the radio link he had been provided by his clients, and began hailing.
"This is Helios Group, requesting permission to berth."

First Impressions. The ever important first contact with those that actually mattered was what X treated with a lot of planning behind him as opposed to the flimsy treatment of what he usually dubbed as henchmen or troopers, useful in their own right, but usually better kept at an arms length. He knew better than to make friends just to lose them. In this case, general Carromos, an influential officer in the Progressive camp had the key he was searching for.

The man was energetic, a good commander if he knew one, but the signs were all there. The man was tired, most likely exhausted by the long conflict, anxiously waiting, hoping for a way out. If he were to arrive in any other manner than the one he did it was doubtful that he'd gain his trust, but a confident, cocky bastard was what the man needed, no, scratch that, what the country needed. And it worked. Truth be told he was in fact a cocky, arrogant bastard, but he knew to mask it when needed. Now to show the other man that he had the means and will to back his arrogance.

”Yes, I would presume so,” he answered the General's question watching the other man carefully as he searched his files, ”The guys back home made sure that I had a lot of files crammed down in my head regarding this situation. The way I see it Alserta's one of the keys needed to end this war,” a small pause as he took another look at his watch, ”And so far nobody's able to crack the door that leads to it.” Not exactly the most inspired of comparisons but he made his point, of that he was certain.

”Now, this is where I,” he referred to himself in his quality of DIS agent, ”Come in,” he didn't find it necessary to mention that DIS operated in Holy Marsh long before the current civil war, ”Where using a hammer doesn't work, perhaps a bit of finesse would wield better results... he knew that half of DIS would die of laughter at his words at this point, his Modus Operandi usually presented as a how NOT to do teaching text to new recruits whilst the other half would probably watch him in amazement at the fact that he actually said it, ”All you have to do is point me in the right direction and I assure you, it's going to be worth your time,” another look at his watch, ”By the way you wouldn't happen to have a laptop around here made in Damirez, would ya?”

One mile from Camp Beta, Holy Marsh

The aid convoy was now 24 hours out from Misilia and finally within sight of the large refugee camp nestled at the foot of St. Eversi. To avoid the Progressive and Hardliner battle lines, and the numerous minefields that dotted the area, it had been neccessary to take a tortuous route that saw the hundreds of vehicles snake through the Marshian countryside in a ten mile long convoy.

For protection the HEMTTs and their trailers had been sandwiched in-between Wolverine APCs and LUMPS gun trucks for local security, while the Talon+ fighting vehicles cruised the flanks and probed ahead as an advanced guard. That the Etolians had conducted the movement in a travelling overwatch may have bemused the small group of Holy Warriors acompanying them to say the least. After all, the Etolians apparently factory fresh machines painted in anti-flash white and their crisp uniforms had given a first impression of being toy soldiers. At least compared to their own seasoned and rugged appearance, or the dented and pock-marked condition of their escorting Ironhearts. Yet these ‘toy soldiers’ were themselves battle-hardened veterans of the Alestran and Milkavich campaigns. Even if their machines lacked the battle honours and kill markings of their hosts to signify it.

Even so, for some of the mechinfantrymen, what they would find in Holy Marsh would put those other battles into the pale. Worst of all to see was the civilian suffering, all too apparent as soon as the convoy left Misilia and they begun to encounter the streams of humanity that could only now dare to use the roads under the ceasefire promised by the Recollection of Spirit. Following a short meeting with their Marshian hosts the major commanding the convoy had agreed to allow the civilians to hitch a ride as best they could with the convoy.

At first there seemed enough LUMPS ambulances and Wolverine APCs could accomodate them all, but this soon this became deficient and next the trucks and finally the top decks of APCs and IFVs had to be offered. Except, of course, for the flank and advanced guard. The medtechs in the ambulances and APCs soon found themselves performing care right their in their vehicles long before they even reached the camp.

Dockside, Port Khasa

Westbrook and Tyler had been in position for a week now. Over that time they had watched passively and patiently as the port, or at least a part of it, was reactivated. There had been a surplus of shattered buildings surrounding the area of interest to choose from, and their hide was perfectly camouflaged that even their ghillie suits would read as background brick and rubble to any questioning sensors.

Tyler played his target locator over the Alfegan freighter, noting details in his mind even as his solid state recorder stored the night vision video feed. The spotter said nothing as he saw a mercenary appear on deck with slung rifle and stride purposefully towards one of the pontoon ladders. Westbrook was equally silent as he scanned the deck and then the sky with the thermal sight that usually reside on the rail of his G403 rifle, picking up the murky shapes of the first airships gliding down from cruising height.

Neither man had to speak. Both had been fully briefed on what to expect to see tonight. They were present here only to observe and record and nothing more. Once the Alfegan mercenaries had concluded their business they would stealthily exfiltrate from the port to their rondevous, where no doubt they would be ordered to hand over the memory sticks with the night’s bounty to a waiting member of the Intelligence Directorate. Whether it was confirmation or evidence their government was seeking meant little to the sniper and his spotter as they continued to feed video to the solid state recorders.

ALSERTA COMMAND BUNKER
Corromos nodded and let out a long sigh.
“Yes, we do. And per our agreement with your organization, we have not tried to start it up. You may use it after this meeting. Let’s just get down to business. There is a hardened factory, much like this one, about ten miles from here as the crow flies. Unluckily for us, in this case the crow couldn’t get off the ground without being destroyed. The area between us and this factory is hellish. I don’t know how many tens of thousands of men and women have been counted casualties in this area. Or how many more civilians lay dead. What I can tell you is that the factory is not only the second most productive factory the Hardliners have in their control, but one of their most successful generals in the region is housed there. We want it destroyed.”
Corromos reaches down and brings up a folder, one that wasn’t among the others, then throws it on the desk as he stands up and walks behind the chair of the agent.
“The building can’t be brought down from the outside, and even if it could, the bunker complex underneath would survive anything short of an EPW. We have a few, but then again, both sides still have tactical and strategic nuclear weapons. Neither side uses them for the same reasons: Whoever wins has to run what remains, and no one wants a nuclear wasteland. That and the fact that we would all be dead. But that’s besides the point: Short of deploying an EPW, there is no way to destroy the factory and kill the general within. And if we did deploy the EPW that would cross a line I’d rather not. None of this takes into account that the airspace is hot as all hell. So, what to do?”
Corromos circles around back to his seat, but doesn’t sit. Instead, he leans closer to the agent.
“Infiltration is the answer. I need you to infiltrate the factory, destroy it, and destroy the bunker complex within. The supplies, the men, the production facilities- it all must be destroyed. We have several ideas, that folder will document them all.”

CAMP ECHO
SOMEWHERE

Joseph Kalinsko was never worried much about his soul. After all, in his normal life he had set prices low and aided his fellow man any way he could. The war was even between the faithful, so obviously right now He didn’t give two shits about them. So, if He didn’t care, why should Joseph? Why shouldn’t he make a profit for once in his life?
But he didn’t kid himself. He was only one man in a rather large organization. He’d make a profit, but not much. After all, you couldn’t charge too much for stolen goods during the Recollection. Increased Holy Warrior presence plus the new foreign group equaled a harder time.
But you never stopped selling.
“No, YOU listen. This isn’t your shitty, maggoty-ass Dinner Bread the Warriors hand out. This is SWEET Bread, Dessert Bread. Before you came here, you’d eat this once a week and on holidays. How long has it been since you had this?” Joseph said to the elderly man who was before him, trying to peddle a lower price on the bread. It was damned good- it had been a staple of Marsh religious diets for over two thousand years. It was filling and tasted rather good- and it wasn’t unhealthy in any way. And this man didn’t want to pay ten Marshes for it? Lunatic.
“But I only have three dollars…it’s all my family has.” The man said. His face was leathery and one could see scars around his neck- many of them looked decades old. He had been in wars before. Joseph wondered if the man regretted killing, watching friends die, and shedding his own blood for a religion that seemingly abandoned the faithful.
“I’m sure we can work something out.” Joseph said, scanning around. The man had brought what remained of his family. A son who was around thirty-five, with a missing right arm. He carried in his good arm a sickly looking boy around the age of four. The old man also had a daughter, around twenty-nine. She looked rather good.
Joseph eyed her up and struck a deal.

CHAPEL FIFTEEN

“He was a Holy Warrior? When one joins His Warriors, His Chosen, they tie themselves to the fate He prescribes. The man you saved has obviously not done what was needed, so he was spared. His decisions and fates rule over His Chosen- some will be cut down in order to show The Horror that we must combat, others will die in great and righteous combat, striking down His enemies. Whether He has decided that the man you saved is to be kept alive for a great purpose or to die in an inglorious fashion to further a minute cause is not for us for others to know until our appointed fate has approached us.”

West Road Observation Post“Ay, your offer is most generous, but you will find many tens of thousands of people who could use even the smallest of aid that would be wasted on me. Send everything and do everything you can to aid the innocents. Even one pill given to me would find a better use somewhere out in the camp.” Magnus said as he stood up. He was looking forward to his nice little bed- a blanket and his backpack out on the outskirts of the airstrip.

KHASKA, GERARD PROVINCE(BORDERS OCEANIA), HOLY MARSH
GREY SNAKE SECTOR, HARDLINER COMMAND BUNKER.“Permission granted, mercenaries. Welcome to Khaska.” Said the controller.
They were getting off at the docks and the airships, a rather rare sight, were coming down near Hardliner controlled areas big enough to house them. Terias was pleased; the more the mercenaries killed, the less the Hardliners had to kill. The more the mercenaries died, the less Hardliners died. Simple equation, and one that worked in Hardliner favor. Terias looked forward to meeting the Mercenary leader; time to talk about the operation.

MISSILIA CONVOY
The Holy Warriors were angered, at least some. They were escorting a convoy that had brought it’s own protection! The officers knew why. If the convoy was, for some reason, attacked, the foreigners would be overwhelmed. Some snickered at the foreigners and considered them toy soldiers. This was not in any way true, but the forces that would attack would be far more numerous, have vastly more firepower, and would themselves be warriors of a culture that prized them above all else. Having the Holy Warriors aid the convoy would make the factions think about it more. Not because they couldn’t destroy the convoy, but because engaging the Holy Warriors for no reason would cause incredible turmoil in their own ranks and would invite terrible wrath. Then again, if the Hardliners knew that Hunter-III was part of the convoy, they would probably destroy it all just to ensure they died.

Hunter-III, the very name was probably used to scare Hardliner officers before they went to bed at night. Stories of the team hunting down officers who had disobeyed religious laws for hundreds of miles in all directions flourished. Sad thing though was that many of them, if not most, were true. In all, more than seventy officers had been killed by Hunter-III and that didn’t count the security forces that protected them. The smallest operation had led to the death of three. The largest had left sixty Hardliner soldiers killed, only two of them officers. Hunter-III wasn’t even the most prolific Hunter team in the nation, not even in the top five. They all belonged in the Capital- the top team had a total of one-hundred and thirty officers killed. The fourth place team had seventy-three officer kills. But, no one had killed more officers of any one faction than Hunter-III, so it was probably an excellent thing that no one knew that they rode with the convoy. But Hunter-III also was a great boost to the psyche of the other Holy Warriors- after all, it must have looked good to see their kill tallies marked on the vehicles.

Many civilians joined the convoy, many seeking aid for their wounds, both physical and mental. Looking at the suffering, Hunter-III knew what they had done was right- those that would harm civilians deserved death.

Foul weather, storms and rough conditions, are a given at sea. When a fleet puts to sea an immense unknown is laid out before those aboard.

Even though Admiral Cedric Evans, IFSN understood this fact that didn’t mean he had to like it…and he didn’t. Halfway through the journey to Holy Marsh, his fleet was hit by an immense oceanic storm which scattered his forces every which way. Regrouping took the last ten days, terribly irritating. Now, however, the fleet was assembled and all ships were in good enough condition to continue. Sarzonia made some very good ships.

Having confirmed all of his ships were once again together, Evans put the fleet back onto its mission, heading towards Holy Marsh. He decided against sending any message out to his superiors, in Romandeos, or the Progressives in Holy Marsh, fearing the enemy might have some means of detecting the transmission and know he was coming.

He kept this silence, until his force had advanced so closely that it could not be concealed realistically anymore. Then, he prepared his mission to contact the Holy Warriors, and set links up between his forces and the Progressives forces.

Palm Land Defence Systems
The head of the group stepped down onto the quayside, looking down at a small note on the palm of his hand. The person he would be meeting in regards to the contract appeared to be named Terias, though he was not sure whether that was a title or surname. The small platoon aboard the ship moved to form a defensive line along the side of the ship, casually moving, assuming there was little danger. Around him, he could hear machinery coming to life, ready to move the supplies from the ship. To the front of the ship lay the first containers to be removed: those being the vehicles being used in this operation by Palm Land Defence Systems.

He took out his PDA, flicking to the map he had installed of the area, a favour pulled in from the Alfegan government: a mix of mesolite photography and standard plotting graced the screen, all taken three days ago and given to him whilst in New Zevkhay. The 128GB SDHC card he'd been given with the photos on had surprised him, it being a rare free gift from his native government, but he knew would nevertheless have some form of tracking device in. Not that he cared as such, since the Alfegan government had a neutral stance to the conflict, as it often did now in civil wars. To make sure, he made a note to himself to find some form of mesh packet for the card whilst he wasn't using it.

On the screen, he used a small stylus to circle the two areas he'd thought possible to use as forward staging areas: one was some form of playing field area, whilst the other was what appeared to be an abandoned quarry, far on the city outskirts. He'd ask when he had the chance, but for now contented himself with finding his client.

_________________

Helios - Airship Command
The craft slowly lost altitude as it descended towards the ground across the water, crew now alert as they moved towards empty patches of water offshore they planned to use for the time being as a staging area. Underneath, a group of ugly-looking aircraft-boat hybrids had formed up, acting as a defensive cordon for the group from attack whilst they lay a few metres above the sea in preparation for their assault.

Within half an hour, a cluster of dark grey-blue airship gasbags floated above an area of sea a few kilometres in dimensions, a couple hundred metres offshore. From the group, which now was invisible with lighting extinguished, a single light aboard the bow of a small launch moved towards the shore, holding aboard the Flotilla Commander and a group of guards, destined to the shore with the same mission as the PLDS leader: to receive their orders and confirm their payment.

Infinite Echo Joint Aeromedical Base, HM - 0710 HOURS
Chapel Fifteen

Captain Kornél mulled it over for a second and said, "So, let me get this straight. You attribute this impossible happening to the sheer will of this 'Holy Marsh' you worship? Just like that? How do you know it's not something entirely different, some other diety, entity, non-entity, or what-have-you? I'm a surgeon; there's a mechanisim behind everything, and this was without a doubt something supernatural. I've seen the evidence, now I just need to know that I'm looking at the right source. How are you certain of all this?



20th Security Forces Expeditionary Group, Holding Cell Block - 0720 HOURS

As Staff Sergeant Racz watched the two junior enlisted Security Forces approach the door to the cell block with a new prisoner, he raised his finger to his lips. "Keep it down, Captain Zsidó is in Five." Pointing the same finger at the accused, he asked, "Who's this chump?"

The Airman 1st Class nonchalantly shrugged as they continued forward. "I dunno, Sarge. Just some rapist. I'll make sure we don't disturb 'the Ferk'. Not like he's going to be able to help that guy anyways."

"Yeah, he actually thinks he's going to change something, bless him. He just doesn't get it that the 'new way' doesn't get the job done like the 'old way'," Racz said as he patted his almost-new M1/MX, configured for the .416 Magnum and sporting a SMG barrel. If they were going to stick him indoors gurading the cell block, he at least wanted something with a heavy hit. Damn the Colonel for giving him this crap-job - it was his "promotion gift" to him. "What's the prisoner's name?" he asked, taking the paperwork from the other Airman. "Joseph Kalinsko, accused of rape. Alright, take him in and put him in Eight."

"Yes, sir," they replied in unison. And they did exactly that as Sgt. Racz called the Med Tech and Lab Tech back. It was times like this when he wondered why he didn't try to retrain to medical. At the same time, he also wondered what was so important about the prisoner in Five, other than his explosives...

OOC: Was trying to wait for someone.
KHASKA PORT
The Ironheart command vehicle rumbled towards the port. Terias was surrounded by some close friends- after all, when you snap necks, slit throats, order men into combat, and engage in hundreds of skirmishes with some people, you should become rather close with them. Diane was the oldest of the squad- fifty-three years of age, veteran of two crusades and three other major wars. Just a private in the ninth crusade of the late seventies, she had been awarded with the Silent Rosarius award for saving a squadron of rifleman from what could only be described as a flame tank- a lame idea then used only by the lunatics of the Vile Lard Armed Forces. After the Crusade, she retired from the Army and joined the Home Guard. The War of the Schasanian Collective in 1990 saw her and her Home Guard army not only stop a well-trained regular force, but launch a devastating counter-attack. Then the Eversi War saw her not see much combat but much occupation duty. She was mobilized for the Shanestan Conflict but didn’t see any action then she saw enough for a lifetime as a Colonel in the War of Righteousness. As the Civil War started, she was a member of the 3rd Gerard Mobile Field Army. Terias didn’t know what exactly happened, but when he found her in Khaska she was not where an aged officer should be- instead, she was helping clear a section of sewer for allied forces to move through. Since Terias had found her, she had proven to be a reliable rock of intelligence and experience.
Her hair was extremely short and graying, and her eyes were brown and dulled. Small scars covered what was supposed to be her left ear, though now just a bandaged mess.
“Mercenaries.” She sneered, her small lips curling up as she spat the word out. “You’ve resorted to hiring mercenaries.”

“Quiet yourself.” Barked a gruff voice from down the way. It belonged to Jim Caul, by far and away the least religious and moralistic man of the bunch. Late twenties and not as experienced, unlike the others of the group he had been in nearly every major operation in the theater. He was odd to say the least- usually quiet and reserved, but when he spoke it was never soft or thought out. Before the war, he had been a member of assault recon element four in the 13th Rangers and had fought in the Eversi War and the War of Righteousness. He had been decorated for bravery under fire and incredible combat efficiency. Terias didn’t know where Jim had planned on going, but he had distinguished himself in combat- not really because anyone could confirm it, but because two squads of Progressives who had tried flanking during a skirmish had never left they building they entered. When scouts entered, they found Jim looking quite bored. Since then, Jim had moved to and from the command structure, not really following or listening to orders but rather doing what he wished when he wished it. He had great skill for sure. But no one, Terias included, liked him very much. That was probably because he was an atheist sonofabitch. When others would pray, he would stare. He also thought little of the Sabbath and of the Eve of Recollection. Several times, he had broken the Sabbath in the first few hours of the day, claiming ignorance. Terias had made sure to keep him away from the front in the last few hours of the war before this peace treaty. Otherwise, he would probably use that time to snipe a few exposed heads. Jim was an ass, but even asses have their uses.
“We can use them. And if we can use them properly, we can kill more. We kill more, we win.” Jim said, leaning towards Diane.

“Maybe. Maybe not. If not, we’ll be in a hole soon enough financially.” A voice so soft spoke. Charles Muttenberg was Terias’ S-8, but he had grown into that role basically because there was no one else. He was supposed to be an S-2 but then was an S-4, but in the course of the war he had done all three at the same time. Before the Civil War, he had been a member of the 145th Armored Brigade. His service record wasn’t flashy nor was it studded with ribbons and medals, but he had done his job at every step of the way. Like Terias, he had been a member of the 65th Airborne Assault Division. Just like his previous career in the non-civil war situations, he had done his job well and-

Terias was boring himself. They didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. The mercenaries didn’t matter. These weren’t the brightest members of his staff, nor the best fighters. He wasn’t even the best commander within a four mile area. Regardless, as they pulled up at the port to meet the mercenaries, the convoy starting to die down. The ramp lowered and Terias readied himself to meet the Mercenary leader


KHASKA DOCKS
SECTOR ORANGE FOUR
FORMER HOTEL
The scope went over the Hardliner general as he disembarked to meet the mercenaries that the sniper team had seen dock in this area of the port. Frederick knew they should have destroyed it weeks ago when they had the chance- hopefully, the information they were relaying would aid command in countering this development.
They had known for some time that the Hardliners were willing to pay to get help, but Frederick had always assumed they would bribe some third world country to send their sons and daughters to die here. Instead, he had gotten his hands on some elite mercenaries. Certainly more troubling than random third worlders, but in somewhat few numbers. The only real issue would be making sure command knew what their equipment consisted of and how many they could estimate to be there.
Luckily, Sniper Thirty had been in good position. This area “belonged” to the Hardliners, but then again, so did a third of the port belong to the Progressives. Either way, sneaking in special forces and recon teams had never been an issue and before the Eve of Recollection several teams had been deployed around hardliner areas. He was sure the Hardliners did the same, but regardless, three sniper teams watched the mercenaries unload. Amongst the rubble and ruin of the former high class port complex, they had ample cover and the experience to know how to stay hidden. So as Frederick looked on at the meeting, he softly told Emily what he saw. She then used morse code on her radio to inform the command structure of the Mercenary layout.
And so they waited, covered and silent, absorbing information from down below. Information was pouring in from all over Khaska about airships landing in the Grosar Stadium Complex, and beyind that, the world didn’t matter.


CAMP ECHO
CHAPEL FIFTEEN
“My friend, the Holy Warriors pledge themselves and their souls to the Holy Marsh. They seek out all of His enemies. So, it would not behoove any other deity- if there are any others- to keep a wounded Holy Warrior alive. Also, in the fourteenth scripture, page ninety, verse eight, line four: ‘Hark! Those that give of themselves to me utterly shall be bond by My plan unto their end. They shall hunt My foes down and bring them to justice most deserved, and may their lives and deeds be sung on all corners by My people. I shall give them the armor of pure faith, My pure love, and I shall arm them with the fires of retribution, My pure Justice, for wrongs done unto Me and My people. And let their fates be woven by Me, their lives dictated by Me, their twilight decided by Me, and their Grand Righteousness used by Me to further the Plan for all. And above all, let them shine as beacons of purity- ‘ Well really, I could go on. But basically, He laid down the Life Path of the Holy Warriors.”

20th SECURITY FORCES EXPEDIRIONARY GROUP HOLDING CELL 5
Alick Hurzter breathed calmly and deeply. His blonde hair was rather long for a man of his age, forty-three, but considering the conditions of the camp it wasn’t unusual. His hazel eyes, dulled by years of war both recent and past, looked up at the captain that strutted in. His right leg had been mangled decades ago in a battle and now metal constructs kept the bone in place. It hurt.
“Captain Zsidó,” Alick began, his baritone voice forcing the words out as through very tiny bellows, “You may need to check up once more on several local laws to aid in my defense. Article Sixteen of Backarodia Militia Readiness Constitution allows for the transport of limited explosive devices as long as they are used by a recognized military force. The Holy Warriors have not revoked our rights as citizens of the Backarodian Province- as such, when the Second, Fifth, Sixth, Eighth, Tenth, Fifteenth, Twenty-third, Thirtieth, Thirty-third, Thirty-Eighth, Forty-fifth, and Sixty-first Backarodian Militia Armies were called into action, I, among thousands of others in this camp, were officially designated as Active Duty militia. However, as you know, we came here instead because we do not agree with either side. As such, I am within my legal rights as a Corporal of the 33rd Backarodian Militia Army, IV Corp, 16th Corsikin Mechanized Division, 2nd Armored Brigade, 87th Armored Regiment, 18th Artillery Battalion, Tiger Company, 4th platoon, 2nd squad to transport supplies to the militia in this camp in case we are attacked by either side.” Alick finished, his eyes meeting his defense lawyer as his chest heaved once more. He was tired.


HOLDING CELL 8
Joseph was pissed. The sex with that attractive woman had been good- very, very good. The deal finished, he had given the food to the family and moved on to new customers. Not twenty minutes later however, some foreign security officials had come over and almost literally dragged him away. Noting with great disgust that the officials were armed and, sadly, was not, he eventually just went with it.
Taken to a cell, he waited impatiently as the different foreigners with various jobs did their best to not look disgusted at the charge leveled against him.
It wasn’t rape. There had been a deal- hell, if anything she was little more than a fucking whore. He did nothing wrong- well, when it came to her. But then again, how could he explain his story without telling them why the deal was made?
Trouble.

HOLDING CELL BLOCK
Friar David had no pity for the Impure, those that would commit crimes against the Faithful. He and the other Inquisitors relished their job, getting the ones who still had souls to confess and repent and finding those that needed to be hung for their defilement of all things holy and right. He wore a one-piece black robe, and currently had both hands inside of it, clutching several important papers. But that was of little importance counted next to his face.
To become an Inquisitor, your faithfulness had to be proven in blood and scars. David had proven his faithfulness many times over. His left eye was no longer there, the skin around the socket had been doubled over, grafted, and sewn together on an old battlefield to close the socket. It looked terrifyingly terrifying, and could easily terrify someone who was not easily terrified by terrifying things! His vocal cords had been cut out in close combat- now, a mechanical larynx was placed in there. Because it was an older, quick operation, skin was not over it. It was very, very odd and produced a terrible visage. David himself had been ashamed of this and therefore his robe extended up to his jaw when he was walking around. Once he was interrogating someone, he could reveal it. It always proved effective. Beyond that, he was bald and had scars all over his body. How many battles? Marsh knows. He had lost count of the bullet wounds, the knife wounds, the radiation burns from Shanestan, shrapnel, regular burns- he had suffered them all and it had led him here, Echo of the Holy Warriors.
Of course, he was very happy and smiled as he entered the building. He turned to the first foreigner he found and spoke.
“Where is Captain Zsidó and his…Client?” David said, his words coming out in that distinct mechanical drawl common with these devices.





CAMP BETA COMMUNICATIONS COMPLEX
As the meeting between Moore and the international reps stalled and died, there were other areas of importance that became involved. One of them was the Communications Complex, staffed by around three hundred people twenty four-seven at all times. Now, a message from the nation of Romandeos, asking for a meeting with a Holy Warrior rep who could get them into contact with the Progressives, arrived. The response was quick:
“We are not going to act as a mediator between parties who chose to go to war against a common foe. As is Holy Warrior policy however, we can tell you of Progressive command structures within your operational radius.
New Hope Progressive Command is closest, within range of your forces immediately.
Missilia is a few hours out of your range.
Quasar is further out of range, to the south.

Good day.”

Infinite Echo Joint Aeromedical Base, HM - 0730 HOURS
Chapel Fifteen

Captain Kornél, for the first time in his life, found a religious speaker making logical sense. "I need to go think about this for a while. Thank you, Chaplain." With that, he turned and made his way back through the crowd, a different man than when he had come in.



20th Security Forces Expeditionary Group, Holding Cell 5

After a lengthy discussion with Mr. Hurzter over what had transpired, Captain Zsidó concluded, "I think you might have a shot if we do two things. First, you plead ignorance due to being out of the area when the base was handed over, and second, that it's circumstantial that you happened to have both explosives and the wares tied to an attack with the same type of explosives. Even this is a long shot, considering the batch numbers match the invoices provided by the Holy Warriors. And that's prettymuch your only hope for getting acquitted. I think with what they have, you are much more likely to be found guilty, and it is my advice to you that we try to plead it down and incriminate someone else in the actual utilization of the explosives, and plead guilty by ignorance of violating the neutral zone. And what I highly recommend against is admitting that you were coming in to use the explosives here - that would be tantamount to suicide. But you're the accused, so deciding which game plan to use is ultimately in your hands."

Out in the cell block, Staff Sergeant Racz responded to the man who looked like death-warmed-over, "You must be the one who will be deciding what to do with him by the local law and custom here. Right this way, sir." Sgt. Racz led the wight of a man down to cell five, and knocked on the door. The Senior Airman in with the Captain opened the door. "Captain Zsidó has to go - clergy is here."

Captain Zsidó said goodbye to his client as the Senior Airman covered his exit. Captain Zsidó flinched at the sight of the Inquisitor, then apologized profusely as he left, rather embarrassed. The silence in the cell block was like doom itself had walked in...

”Then if you don't mind...” the agent signaled towards the laptop with a sense of urgency, ”There's something you should see before we get onto further planning for this assignment.” He looked at his watch again and, at a precise moment pressed a button, a small, transparent disk emerging, ”You see, this takes quite a bit of timing,” without looking at the other man he quickly entered a series of passwords in the laptop, keeping his finger on the touch pad for a few seconds, ”The R&D geeks are pretty touchy when it comes to security, especially for their gadgets,” with that he entered the miniature disk in a previously hidden slot, ”For example this,” he switched the screen so Comoros could see what he was working at, ”Would have been useless if the proper timing wasn't used.”

On the screen a massive map of Holy Marsh appeared, hundreds, if not thousands of aerial recon photos represented by small glyphs on it. The compendium was assembled by intelligence officers for the past few months and it had a lot of detailed images about Holy Marsh's current situation, both from UAVs and Spy Satellites, a few even from ground level, obviously from infiltrated agents. But after the initial view, for one such as the officer in the room it would be clear that only the hardliners were depicted in the data base, proof of careful editing as to not include information that the Progressives wouldn't want to see. ”This,” the DIS agent started, ”Is just a small gift our service wanted to make. We'll also provide live feeds if the situation requires it, but I suspect you were already informed regarding our limitations there,” in truth DIS had to be careful in handling the situation , Librescu unwilling, or unable to fully back the ops 100%, ”But we hope it will be enough.”

”Now back to matters at hand,” he didn't apologize for the interruption, ”This is going to be a tough nut to crack,” the man finally took the folder offered by Corromos, ”If what I remember's right, this is hailed by tacticians back home as one of the worst possible outcomes for static warfare. The 'Meat Grinder of Alserta',” he skimmed the papers in the folder, ”Do you happen to have someone amongst your subordinates that's familiar with the location?” a couple of ideas made their way into his head after reading various tidbits of information.

ALSERTA
Corromos considered he offer seriously. They had much in the way of intelligence as is, due to spies in almost every level of Hardliner command. Same went the other way, so it was null all around that way. Marsh satellites sat impotent in orbit at the time, their uplinks destroyed or being fought over. So, the Damirez offer was good. But Corromos would have time to say yes to that.
“Well, I’m sure I could find unknown hundreds of militia members who used to work there or lived close by.” Corromos said, sitting down as he mentally leafed through the militia divisions.
“Yes, the 51st Factory Division…they could be of help. Yes, yes, they’d be familiar with that factory. I also gave you a few reports from Hardliner turncoats, so that should help flesh out the current situation in the facility. Any more questions?” Corromos said. The 51st had been on the frontlines nearly the whole war and had suffered extreme casualties. By now, the 51st was barely more than a single battalion with leftover companies. By the time the week was done, they would be up to three-quarters strength.

Security Forces Expeditionary Group, Holding Cell 5
Friar David entered the cell, ignoring the Captain who seemed somewhat unnerved by his appearance. He was used to it. Those who knew not the scars one must have endured to get to this position, in their ignorance, were shocked by his appearance. It did not anger or sadden David- they would learn in time to fear what he was capable of, not what he looked like. But as the cell doors closed, he looked at the one he was to…speak to.

Alick looked at the man who entered, and knew immediately who it was. His blood ran cold as ice water. He had heard of them before, and he debated whether or not the stories of them devouring a man’s soul were true. This one looked like he could. He took a deep breath and sighed.

David paced over, his limp growing noticeable. His robe washed and flowed behind him, so he got to the chair and sat slowly. The man across from him sighed, and David stared directly into his eyes.
“Are you tired?” David said, that mechanical drawl slowly coming out. The man across from him seemed hesitant to respond as he fixed onto the eye socket and the voice.
“Y-Yes, I am. Ho-How are you?” Alick said, trying to keep his cool.
“Blessed by His hand for another day of life in service. Blessed by Him to see what is wrong and right. Blessed by Him to hand out His judgments in His name. I am fine, mind, body, and soul. I am fine because I do not undermine His authority. I am fine because I do not lie. Tell me, Alick, have you given any thought to the Kingdom of Morash?” David said, leaning towards Alick, the top of his robe slowly coming down, revealing his mechanical speaking device slowly.
“W-well, yes, I-“ Alick began.
“NO, no you have not, because someone who has given even a second of thought to His kingdom would not be a part of an organization that murders His chosen warriors. You would not be a smuggling explosives. You would not be using His nation’s laws to your perverse desires.” David roared, the mechanical larynx nearly breaking under the strain.
“I have done nothing wron-“ Alick began once again in his defense, but was stopped when David pulled out a thin piece of parchment. It was kept by the Holy Warriors for special rites.
Included among these rites was the Rite of Excommunication.
Alick looked at it and saw his name signed onto it, and started to feel extremely, extremely scared.
“N-No, I didn’t do anything!”
The Friar just stared at him.
“Take it off, destroy it, I-I’m innocent!”
The Friar just stared at him.
“Please, for the love of Marsh, I-“
“Do not ask for His love. He has given it to you all the years of your life, and you tossed it aside when you murdered His chosen. Admit your wrongs to your “legal defendant”, all of them, and maybe I can help you back down the path. Until then, your path is as dark as the night, and your fate is as crimson as your blood. Until then, Alick Hurzter, age forty-three, mother dead and father missing, father of two, your soul is damned.” David said as he stood up and turned towards the cell door and left, leaving a sobbing man in his wake, the rite of excommunication on the table.
“He will be more agreeable now.” Friar David said to the foreigners as he left the building.

(ooc: sorry mate...)


Palm Land Defence Systems - Command Party
The man stood still for a moment, taking in the surroundings as the convoy arrived, before taking a few steps down from the ramp. Behind him, a pair of soldiers watching guard over the ship joined behind him, the rest of their platoon looking out from the side of the ship. Already, the troop transports were coming to life, the raucous sound of a few thousand men readying themselves filling the air. Within a few seconds, it died down, the men forming organised companies and marching to the dockside in formation in marching order, as the heavy cranes above began moving to unload the vehicles and containers.

He paced down the unloading ramp, the metal juddering with each step down the slanted surface over the dark, cold water, finally placing both feet solidly on firm ground. As a pallet of four Gecko FAVs flew over the heads of the men, ripped apart by the logistics teams on the ground and quickly collected by the appropriate groups, the man glanced up to see the cover they were getting: a small aeropatrolcraft was slowly cruising over, scanning the surrounding landscape for any hostile threats and alerting any heat sources and suspicious objects to its crew. So far, nothing that had aroused suspicion above a yellow alert: pairs of heat spots around the capital were being considered as being sniper teams, but with the order given strictly not to engage during this period, all they could do was watch, the only light present on the ground of burning ruins or remaining streetlamps lighting up the underside. If the snipers were present, they would know better than to attack: even the most powerful of anti-material rifles had no hope of damaging the craft, and to confirm their position would be suicide.

The news was relayed to the commander standing on the dockside, a short message flashing up on his PDA before he put it away to greet the man.
"Good evening... General Terias? It is nice to finally meet you in the flesh, as it were. My comrade in Helios Security Services should be arriving soon, so we can finally talk business.
First though, I would like to warn you that our conversation may not be as secure as we would like it to be at the moment. If we could resume conversation within your command vehicle, once the others arrive, we will be able to see where we can lend our services to."

*Will edit with post in relation to Alfegos. And no, it wasn't you I was waiting for.:P*

Infinite Echo Joint Aeromedical Base, HM - 0745 HOURS
20th Security Forces Expeditionary Group, Holding Cell Block

Staff Sergeant Racz stared in bemusement at the demigod that was half-man, half-machine, as he limped out the door and out into the street. He came back to reality when one of his Airmen broke the spell.

"Sir, whatever that was left the cell door open!" A1C Megzavar exclaimed with great alarm as he chambered a round in his M1/MX SMG while charging down the cell block. Sgt. Racz did likewise. The sensation of the bolt slamming forward and chambering that heavy magnum cartridge brought back fond memories of when he'd been on the airbase defense side of Security Forces. He had to stop short because A1C Megzavar screeched to a halt in front of him, lowered his weapon, and gawked. Sgt. Racz almost bowled the Airman over with his momentum, and quickly noticed what the junior troop had.

Prisoner Alick Hurzter was not even trying to escape and was a weeping mess on the floor of his cell. There was a small piece of paper on the table, which Sgt. Racz was willing to bet had something to do with it. Staring, he leaned over to A1C Megzavar and said, "Better go get the Ferk."

"Right, sir." A1C Megzavar left in a hurry as Sgt. Racz looked the prisoner over. Hurzter didn't seem to be injured, but it was as if his soul had been crushed.

Captain Zsidó came running. "Mr. Hurzter! Are you hurt? What happened?" Sgt. Racz stood there, half expecting the shell of a man to rise up and try and kill Cpt. Zsidó, the other half expecting him to shrivel up and die right there on the floor.

”No, no more questions from me,” the DIS agent answered as he kept looking at the files handed to him. ”I suppose I don't have a lot of time to get ready for this gig?” he was quick on his feet, but to be able to mount an operation that would be able to exploit the opening left by this week of armistice would certainly be quite a daunting task, especially given the fact that he had no intention of completing the mission the way Corromost intended for it to be completed.

”Now, correct me if I'm wrong,” he lifted his eyes from the papers a tell tale smile appearing on his features, ”But this factory and the general in it would be a whole lot ore valuable in your hands? The way I see it all that information and production capacity should help you win this war faster, no?” It was crazy, it was insane, it wasn't something DIS would recommend or suggest to its field agents, but it was something akin to a signature for this Agent. ”How about making them change hands?” the expected answer would most likely be a refusal, as what he had in mind was certainly close to suicidal, but there was no intention in changing his mind. He had a plan now.

”The 'geeks' tell me that there's a certain level of decency,” at these words the operative couldn't help but think at the meat grinders he heard about, ”In this war, so certain weapons, including gas aren't used,” it would have been nice, putting to bed so many enemy troopers in that large factory using just using a bit of gas, but it wasn't an option. ”But I hope nobody has anything against laxatives?” Oh yes, there's nothing like a thousand men rushing over to the same toilet, the man remembered a previous gambit of this nature, ”It's just a matter of bypassing the filters and precautions taken to prevent harmful substances to enter their system. Not such a hard task if you have the right set of chemistry wackos.”

Other ideas were swimming in his head, such as the fact that he'd need some back up in order to neutralize all the soldiers, and questions as to how to infiltrate a whole battalion worth of troops. Using sewage pipes crossed his mind, but he had no idea if there was a vulnerability such as that in the factory the subject not touched back home in his debriefing. ”Besides, if this doesn't work, I can always use the back up plan and blow 'em up,” he concluded after presenting his somewhat sketchy plan to the Marshian commander. Like the old Trojan Horse he was to pave the way for progressive troops to enter and occupy the factory, but for the operation to work a lot of good men and women had to put their lives at risk.

Garden Fox Joint Aeromedical Base, Holy Marsh
HQ, Operation: Golden Clover

Lieutenant Colonel Zsiga Mecsér sat behind his endless stack of paperwork. Not that this was any different than any other point in his career, but the venue had changed. He had volunteered for the assignment to Exchange Officer for Operation: Golden Clover in order to get more points toward retiring. Now in the twilight of his career, he was thinking about starting up his own company when he got the remaining points he needed upon completion of this tour. After a lifetime in HCSKAF logistics, if anyone had the experience in materials management, it was him.

He noted a request from Colonel Eger over at Infinite Echo JAB, which was for a product he did not recognize. Fortunately, Colonel Eger didn't either and had offered an explanation based on information from their host Holy Warriors. The ground seed of a particular type of flower only found in Holy Marsh and Trevancore is apparently the key ingredient in a religious bread that is in "critically" short supply. He claimed that people have been found whoring themselves out for it, and if we could increase the availability then prices would drop and so would the related... incidents. Also, pre-war, the price had been fairly reasonable once one figured in the usual usery for it being a religious product, roughly $6 (USD) for a pound of the unprocessed product. Now, finding a pound of it together in one place in any form was out of the question, and even the small amounts available were sometimes overcharged for as much as 600%.

Lt. Col. Mecsér began flipping through a book about Trevancore. After finding what he was looking for, he began typing an official letter to the Warlord-in-Chief's Office requesting to buy the processed seed product from whatever government connected suppliers he would allow, for the purpose of selling it at-cost to the Marshans. (It is against Katonazagi law to sell any religiously required products for profit. However, it doesn't prohibit one from buying it from someone who is.)

Hopefully he could get access to the market.

Holy Marsh - 1025 HOURS
West Road, 22 miles west of JAB Infinite Echo

Staff Sergeant Vörös's heart was pumping from the adrenaline. He and his M113 ambulance crew were making volunteer runs into the combat zone picking up wounded Holy Warriors along the West Road. The hotly contested five-way intersection was still producing casualties despite the purported cease-fire, and they would go until they found a casualty that was critical and beyond the ability of their healers to stabilize.

This run, they made it all the way to the rear of the Holy Warrior front line, which was stalled at the intersection along with that of the Progressives and Hardliners. The Battalion Aid Station had several dead and many wounded, and the M113 could only hold four litter patients.

Sgt. Vörös had made the tough choice of which patients he felt were the worst off but could still make it to the aeromedical hospital, when disaster struck. If he had only been inside the vehicle when the artillery shell stuck Battalion Aid.

Blood, guts, limbs, brains, screams - everywhere.

When Sgt. Vörös came to, he tried to stand back up but promptly fell over. This confused him greatly for a moment, but upon inspection of his leg, it was missing. After a few seconds of mortified horror, he pulled the tourniquet from his pouch and tied it off.

His crew had dismounted and was helping the wounded as best they could, but there were so many, so badly wounded. Senior Airman Szalma was trying to stop the bleeding on the Battalion Aid surgeon's subclavian artery when he noticed his sergeant as one of the casualties. Faced with the dilemma of saving an officer and surgeon or his sergeant, he did what he thought his sergeant would want him to do and finished clamping off the surgeon's artery. But as soon as he was finished, he rushed up to Sgt. Vörös.

Sgt. Vörös was already in shock when he got there. SrA Szalma did what he could for him, but Sgt. Vörös was too far gone. He and SrA Fényes loaded him onto the M113, but the litter slots needed to be used for the living, so he was placed in the floor of the vehicle. SrA Szalma was now the ranking Airman, and told the driver to move out. Once underway, SrA Szalma turned his attention back to Sgt. Vörös as he drew his final breaths.

Sgt. Vörös didn't make it back to base, and died with his M113 crew around him.

St. Istvan, HCSK
Raven News Network, broadcast transcript

"News from the front in the ongoing civil war in Holy Marsh tonight, the first HCSK casualty. Staff Sergeant Derék Vörös was killed in action during a volunteer ambulance run into the battle zone. He and his crew were making a pickup from the Holy Warriors' aid station near the hotly contested five-forked intersection of what is known as the "West Road". West Road extends westward from Infinte Echo Joint Aeromedical Base.

An artillery shell struck the aid station at 1026, killing several Holy Warriors, and ultimately SSgt. Vörös. It is unknown at this time which faction the artillery shell came from, but HCSKAF investigators are looking into it to find out the responsible party. It is also unknown at this time if war crimes charges will be filed, as the investigation has not yet determined any intention or negligence involved.

SSgt. Vörös will be laid to rest in his home town of Kisberki, North Katonazag, with full military honors. He has posthumously been awarded the Order of St. Istvan for actions above and beyond the call of duty, the Order of the Purple Heart, and Humanitarian Action Medal. He is survived by his mother Mónika, wife Alida, and infant daughter Jolánka. He is preceded by his father, Bertók Vörös.

Senior Airman Izsák Szalma tried to save him, but was unsuccessful. However, he managed to save the life of a Holy Warriors battalion aid surgeon, who is at this time in stable condition and expected to make a full recovery. His actions have earned him the HCSK Air Force Cross, the first and highest medal awarded to a living medic in HCSK history.

For Raven Network News, I am Dan Zelnyak."

*I am back, finally. I will make a time wasting post tonight that brings us up to the en of the ceasefire.*

Over that week...
The situation in the refugee camps was still desperate. In retaliation for the artillery strike that killed a Kat security officer as well as leading to the injury of Brother-Surgeon Cazire, the Holy Warriors of Echo launched an air strike against Hardliner and Progressive artillery. The attack came as a surprise, and the extreme casualties suffered led to a lessened amount of strikes on positions.

However, Holy Warrior infiltrators informed the Command of planned strikes by both sides. on a stretch of road about sixteen miles out. They were both in Battalion-level strength. Meanwhile, as usual, probing attacks would be sent down the line. The Holy Warriors could win the battle, but losses would weaken them ovr the long run. As the week came to a close, the STT members in the camp formed up for a strike. At the same time, under the guise of an food airlift, another platoon of STT soldiers were flown in from position Juliet.

A meeting was convended in the afternoon with all forces in the camp to inform them of the plan.

The Cartel saw record profits during the peace week. As the supplies dwindled, runners came in from the cities with materials much wanted by the denizens of the camp. Security, while improving, could not catch but the barest fraction of them.

In Alserta, the opposing forces redeployed for another year of mass assaults on opposing factories. Still, munitions and vehicles rolled off of the embattled assembly lines, forming immediately into formations ready for battle. The DIS agent found his home during this time of movement, given a Hardliner uniform and pulled into a militia unit with the same uniforms. They had a job to do, and secrecy was their byword. Only the DIS agent knew the plan, and he was given the tools needed for the job. Of course, he wasn't given laxatives.

The Mercenaries were informed of their plans en route to their new positions: They were to head the newest assaults on the residential sector. Payment was certainly handsome. The airships were given free reign to do as they pleased. Meanwhile, the Progressives planned and plotted. The airships made their home at the stadium, and this was seen as poor placement by the Hardliners. The Airships themselves would not be the target- instead, their supplies would be the target. Using a tunnel network, the subways, as well as the urban hellhole that was the city, they were able to amass a full infantry division- but this one was without vehicles of any kind. Without doubt, the battalion on street level would be seen by UAVs, but the rest would blend into the fires or the subways/tunnels. The battle plan was to infiltrate the perimeter on the street and launch an attack. The chances of this attack being crushed was somewhat high, but instead the main assault was to come from under the stadium itself. The Hardliners would be far more concerned about the open flats near the stadium than the tunnel network which, according to their own intelligence, was destroyed.
Of course, the Progressives had one advantage, and that was their own intelligence. Multiple tunnels still led to the stadium.
The plan against the Mercs, as well as the Hardliners, was the destruction of leadership. Informants in Hardliner camps started feeding information about movements and plans.

The Onager was arriving just as the week ended.
Missilia's convoy entered the city finally, and the aid that came with it was immense. So was the suffering seen by the "new kids". The week came to an end just as their mission was winding up...

Roman's elite forces made a covert entry into the port and met up with General Jose Casabana. He led a division of Militia and a Regiment of Regulars. Their plan was to take the Import Complex, which dominated the area and was heavily fortified. However, the real plan was for the Roman soldiers to use the battle as a cover and infiltrate into the rear areas of Hardliner control where they could kill or capture the Hardliner command in the port. This was key, as the Colonel in charge of the Hardliners was very young- and very, very intelligent.

Combined Mercenary Forces
'Operation Halo'

Above the shakily-slumbering city, the five airships of the mercenary group slowly cruised in the winds, engines silent as they surveyed the scene of devastation that they were soon to add to. Of the five airships, only three were designed to carry out the majority of the attacking, the other two acting as floating sensor hubs and close ground support for the others. In the centre of the group, two thousand metres above the ground, the largest of the airships hummed as its onboard computers were fed the missile plans for a primary bombardment. The darkened gondola of the craft was lit only by the consoles of the operators within, invisible from the ground and difficult to see in the gathering clouds. Within it, the Operation Designate Head, ranked a Taskforce Commander, sat listening to a secure radio feed from the command station within the stadium that they were using as a base.

As the final briefing finished, the man turned to his crew, all sitting attentive and ready for their orders. A small digital clock sat, displaying the time that they were waiting for. 23:59:00. He looked at the two missile controllers, nodding to them as they began arming the weapons systems. A bank of lights that had originally been red turned to amber, as their computer screens illuminated with a combined sensory feed of the IR, NIR, RADAR and Visual cameras mounted on the two small Aeropatrolcraft, combining their sensory feeds with that of the airship itself. Upon the screen, the computer had ringed suspect items, as well as the GPS co-ordinates of all the targets that were detailed for bombardment. The clock slowly counted away, seemingly slowing as it moved towards its goal.

00-00. The end of the ceasefire, and the return to hell that the area was expecting. The Taskforce Commander opened up the radio channels to his airships, speaking briefly and calmly.
"It's that time. Let's do what we do best."


At the stadium, the armoured contingent of the Helios Security Services sat on guard, keeping an eye on the supplies stockpiled there for both mercenary groups. The other mercenaries were already moving across the Hardliner-held wasteland around the stadium, a death-trap for anything trying to cross outside of the ceasefire. An elite two-thousand men force, fully mechanised and ready for the planned assault to retake the city in the wake of the oncoming devastation. As the synchronised clocks hit midnight, the time the ceasefire technically ended, the attack began with a terrible beauty.

From the Consul-class Aerocruiser that lead the mercenary airship group, what seemed to be an explosion of flame lit up the sky and surrounding clouds, as the preliminary bombardment began. From the two-thousand tonne missile payload that the airship was loaded with, near a hundred cluster missiles shot out from their containers within the missile gondola, launching charges dropping down on the city as the main missiles ignited. The missiles were Alfegan, designated 'Longbow', a powerful tool in clearing both plains and settlements. Each 500kg missile arched downwards towards their allotted targets at high speed, following their GPS co-ordinates and programming to the letter. At specified heights, each missile split open, the rocket motor continuing downwards followed by a hail of grenade-sized bomblets. Over the Progressive-held side of the city, what seemed like a hail of fire began, munitions crashing into buildings and rubble alike, the majority exploding in sequence with deafening roars and clouds of dust that were illuminated by the secondary barrage from the two medium-sized Aerofrigates. Whilst the two craft were only armed lightly, their combined twenty 'Crossbow IV' anti-tank missiles soon found a home amongst the enemy-held area's tanks, as missiles sporadically flew from the Aerocruiser to greet the aroused enemy forces.

As the Aerocruiser got about its work of clearing the ground targets, its autocannon occasionally firing up as it demolished buildings, the two Aerofrigates moved above it as they prepared their more specialised anti-air systems. Each of the Aerofrigates was armed with a plethora of LRSAMs, designed to intercept an enemy at ranges before they could unleash an attack. With their weapons readied, they began scanning the skies for any threats they had awoken.

Amongst the smoking ruins, the mercenary ground forces began to quickly attack, armoured vehicles smashing through rubble to disgorge their infantry into the rubble, the occasional 'hotspot' receiving one of the very few Xha'noa assault tanks. These vehicles were designed specifically for attack a city, with armour thick enough to withstand most anti-tank weapons, even upon the vehicles roof. The main cannon it held was mounted in a high-traverse turret, enabling it to blast the upper stories of buildings away alongside a hail of heavy machinegun fire. Further behind, the main armoured body of the force began pelting rounds into the city, exchanging fire with other armoured vehicles as they carried out their attack.

Back at the stadium, the commander of the Helios Security Service Mercenaries looked out of the window of the ekranoplan he was using as his command station to watch the unfolding attack. The craft sat amongst the five others, four of them loaded up with the most vital supplies to a level they could take off from the stadium without too much hassle, all poised ready for an emergency takeoff. Massive plumes of fire rose from where the occasional incendiary missile had been fired at, using the rubble as fuel for seeding localised infernos. In the sky above, illuminating rounds slowly dropped, fired by the mobile artillery in the stadium to bath the city and wastelands around the stadium in an eerie red glow. A wry smile crossed the Flotilla Commander's face, before he turned back to the battlepan. If things were to go the way he had planed, the payment he had received meant he would most definitely be retiring early.

The tunnels under the stadium started becoming very active around 2200. Around 2330, some had filtered in. The tunnels led to six openings hidden in bathrooms and maintenance rooms. The lights in the stadium as well as plumbing obviously no longer worked, assuring they'd be kept safe from any soldiers needing to take a break. Squads started filtering in. By 2345, three-hundred men had infiltrated. They had kept to the plan and slowly moved out, avoiding contact when possible. Of course, so few guards were spotted along their routes that this was insanely easy.They probably had coverage of the stadium from sky and towards the outlying areas via watchtowers on the top, but none of this would help them spot the ones coming from underneath.

As it struck 2359, the battalion on the ground moved to assault the stadium as the distraction. Timing was critical- if they moved too late, at 0000, the Hardliners would have them dialed in. It struck 0000, and the Merc force moved out. Luckily, the attack was in the opposite direction, which made all the tactical sense in the world. LY219s and HAT-1s raced towards the stadium. The Hardliners and Mercs were prepared to meet this threat, though adjustments would be made to compensate for the early start. Any way, however, the relatively open ground meant that they would be destroyed over a period of a few hours if the plan failed.

Weapons fire raced from the Battalion, ill aimed but still doing the job of likely causing a few casualties and getting the full attention of the stadium forces. Inside of the stadium, the Progressives still waited to strike as more and more men filtered in. Mercenary and hardliner forces rushed to the point of attack, and by 0015, several corridors and hallways were filled with more and more Progressives in the open. Several vehicles of the Battalion were now in flames and the attack stalled as the Battalion took positions to engage the stadium. More attention was drawn. More Progressives entered. By 0020, the tunnels directly under the stadium wre filled with a regiment and a battalion found itself in the stadium itself. Six companies had secured their areas. Each are had the tunnel sector, a corridor leading to it, and some rooms in the sector. They started advancing to the designated attack point- two of the companies were tasked with hitting the staging grounds, the field of the stadium. Two more were to clear the interior of the actual stadium structure. The last two were tasked with attacking the mercs and Hardliners providing hell for the Battalion in the open. By 0030, they were in position.

A whistle was heard, and the marksman took their shots to kick the fun off, and they were soon joined by heavy automatic fire and missile fire.
********************************

"Hold on..." The woman whispered.
It was hard to hear her over the rumble of buildings collapsing and the forces moving above them, but Joseph had adapted to the fury of war. It was easier in the sewer, at least.
They had arrived eight hours before and shooed a few hundred civilians away, into Prog territory. The sixteen militia then set up along. A few dozen more had set them up with the ammunition they would need for the ambush of the Merc-Hardliner force- long, thick strips of Murkada Calakan- A Militia name for an explsove device made from old plastique, small artillery cells, and C4 modified to be fired by a special radio signal. It could destroy most tanks from the top, sides, and weaker tanks in the front. However, the best and most effective way to use them was underneath. They had tried it small scale a few times, and it worked: Wait for a vehicle to come over the manhole, open the manhole, apply explosive, and close the manhole. Then it would detonate, just about always destroying the target and many others in the area. The only time that didn't happen was when too little explosive had been used. This time, that would need be an issue. All they needed to know was what vehicle was coming up.
And in order to know that, two things came in handy. They had all become well aquanted with the sounds of vehicles used by both sides in the Holy Marsh. An LY219 took only one 'two feet by eight inches' strip to destroy all the time. A MBT took more, but not anything insane like eight. A HAT-1 took two to destroy all the time. A Nakil1A3HA took three. These new assault tanks used by the Mercs...well, they weren't secrets. One of the many Progressive spies in Hardliner ranks was able to attain just twelve hours before they came to the ambush zone the schematics, or at least a rough outline of them, of the equipment used by the Alfegos dogs. It was decided four strips would be best- three could probably do it, but they wanted to be sure. With these two things known, the forces in the sewer were able to know how much explsove to apply to every passing vehicle.

The first part of the attack had been allowed to pass. In the back parts of the Progressive lines, the airships were doing much harm to forces that had not done what they should have and gone under. However, most would go into the tunnels, and those Progressives in the city had long been without much. They had a fair number of tanks and IFVs, but little else. They had to rely on these tunnels. So now, they would allow the first spear point of the merc attack to go. They would instead launch attacks like these and smaller, squad based ambushes behind their lines. This would stall the overall attack. Coupled with crippling the airships' ability to do much damage because of a lack of supplies, and the Progressives would be able to do loads of damage and hold out almost indefinitely in the tunnels. The second part of the attack, the ones they would be destroying here, was the target of a mass ambush.

"Hold on..." Rebecca says.
Like the others, she was a veteran of this long war. She had been seventeen when the war started, same as Jeremy. Caste four student, good all around, but uglier than a victim of a horrible frying pan accident. She also had proven to be an expert at insurgent tactics, and the unquestioned leader of the squad. She was near the manhole, unarmored and wearing a tactical vest and nothing more. Same with all them, as a matter of fact. They all could only use one hand to grab the ladder and extra weight like weapons, ammunition, and armor only hurt them.
"Okay....now, Merc assault tank."
Joseph took the longest stick they had, thre four piece, and hoisted it up. Ezekiel and Matthias strained to get it to Rebecca without indendenting it- it was very malleable, but Rebecca would need to plant it exactly as she needed. Rebecca opened the manhole under the tank. The noise was deafening, ear shattering, but Rebecca and Ezekiel worked the device under the tank, laying it against the bottom. Then she closed the manhole as quietly as she could. That was vehicle four in the target zone. The three other manholes had hit the first three, and vehicles eight, twelve, and sixteen were the remaining targets of the squad.

By the time the last target was "painted", four minutes had rolled by. They had maybe another twenty seconds before teh shit hit the fan. All four squads went down to the sewer floor, grabbed their weapons and armor, and sprinted off. It wasn't their job to be involved in the infantry part of the battle.

However, tunnel networks leading into nearby buildings meant that two companies of light infantry had gathered near the ambush site, but still in the networks so unseen from surveillance. As the attack neared, several platoons started moving into position.

There was one final part of the ambush. During the war, many HAT-1s had been destroyed in the city in ways that still left their turrets operable. About a year ago, a project had started to mate working SACHERI computer systems with these turrets. Then the turrets were shortened and placed on damaged hulls. These would be pushed around the city and used in ambushes- no life signs and the tank looked completely destroyed. The autolader would still work, and thanks to this, they were perfect for ambushes. Some new shells were even being used- FRAG-12 shells for the AA-12 had their grenades removed and then put into a 120MM casing. It was stuffed full of them. That made one hell of a grapeshot, and the tanks involved in this had at least one of those. However, the first shot was a 120MM shell as their first targets were going to be IFVs and tanks. The shortened barrels would lessen power and accuracy, but the targets were so close that it didn't matter. The autocannons worked as well.
Of course, if this tactic was found to be too common, it would be useless. It had only been used a few times, and always when a mass ambush had isolated the targets and ensured total victory. And in order to destroy the tanks, they would need to attack from the top. This might prove difficult as several tanks had the tops covered with rubble, and the infantry ambushes had strong points centered around the tanks.
Six of these tanks were lined near the ambush zone. The SACHERI system tracked the targets past the sixteen with the IEDs attached. When six viable targets were found by SACHERI, the turrets turned and fired. Five of the six were IFVs of various Merc-Hardliner designation.

Moments later, the IEDs went off and the first few soldiers in firing position did their job. The ambish had begun.

*************************************
The blinking lights on his HUD were all that Captain Johansen Ramsus could see. Thirty planes were part of the alpha strike- 25 TF-71HMVs(TF-71s without the crazy AI, but with SACHERI) guarding 5 others who had a special job. They had taken off from Tolsi FAB earlier in the night- after which the Forward Air Base was abandoned. They were organized in five flights of six aircraft, five 'guards' and one...specialist...into a squadron. The job was simple, but difficult:
Destroy an airship.

In the short time that the Mercs had arrived, the Progressives had contacted the Alfegan government. They had no love of the mercenaries, and they soon had the history and weaknesses of the airship type they were to target first. It was codenamed, "Behizzile", the name of an ancient beast of legend that was said to have killed an entire small town. It was truly a destroyer of worls, but tonight, Behizzile would be put to rest one last time.

They would come from above, where the airship was weakest. Ground based weapons would distract the airship and score a few hits, but the 25 'guardian' aircraft would close quickly and engage at a short distance from the airship.. The distance was to be such that the missiles would be fired clean- no tracking of any sort. In a normal scenario, this would be incredibly stupid. However, the pilots knew that the airships would render most tracking missiles of any sort useless. So they would rease close enough so even the trailing off that would happen would still likely end with a hit on the insanely large target. They would then continue down, as turning that quickly to go up or to the sides would be impossible, and fly beneath the airship. They would then exfiltrate. Hidden amongst the guardians were the specialists.

They had no missiles, expensive communications equipment, or anything else that wouldn't be needed for a one way flight. Each one of them had a modified internal bay- suicide aircraft had been used before, so the know-how was there- so they could fit four smaller sized FABs in there. They were primed to go off three seconds after the cockpit sensors went offline. The system was complex and the only reason that SACHERI remained. It was hoped that by doing this, the Fuel Air Bombs would detonate inside the Airship itself after the TF-71 punched a hole in it. There were five of these suicide planes.

The aircraft in front of the Captain started turning down. The cloud cover was a sign from Holy Marsh Himself that their mission was blessed. What a way to die, a martyr! The glory to be found in such an existence and death was assured. His name was already taken down in some book somewhere that kept track of it. Of course, not eight months ago he still wished to see his family of six that had escaped and resided in the Mushroom Islands. Then he had been diagnosed with Carter's Disease, a brain affliction that would see him dead within the year. Just getting this far had been a miracle, and now his destiny lay bare. As they broke cloud cover within sight of the target, his heart leapt.
It was almost time.
They came closer. Closer. The airship was now being fired at by ground based missiles, and looked like it had been for a few minutes.
Closer. Within range that they could arm the missiles, or at least the twenty-five guardians. A few seconds more and they would fire-
"Alfegan War Dogs, heed my words! The Righteous have come to strike your infernal Hell Craft down into the bowels of the Lard's tit! Make peace with your Gods, heathens, and prepare to die! FOR THE HOLY MARSH!" Lt. Razen bellowed over the radio, his well-defined Chaplain's voice surely awaking his foes to the depth of the problem.
"DEATH TO THE VILE LARD!" Responded the Guardians.
-Historian's Note: The traditional battle cry of the nation did not change as the people of the country still believe the Vile Lard is responsible for all evil, and this inclusdes those who would war for profit-
That transmission, the first one for hours, ended with the missiles being launched while the sucide craft kept with the normal ones. They would get close enough and just keep on target as the other craft broke off.

***************
Meanwhile, the airship's attack on the open parts of the city was brutal. The newest militia and regular army forces were allowed to stay up there- little did they know they were just targets for the airships. Many would die- some might escape into the tunnels and sewers, but they did not factor into the plans of Lord-Commander Alphonz Castodas. He had 65,000 battle hardened, street wise, and highly-motivated militia, plus 30,000 regulars. He had control and mapping of the vast ancient and upgraded tunnel networks of the city. He had informants all along Hardliner command. The airships were a terrifying prospects, but between one of them being planned on being taken out tonight and their base being destroyed, they would prove to beincredible support but not the decisive factor of the battle. The Hardliners may have had 320,000 plus 40,000 plus the mercs, but Castodas knew he could not be defeated. Maybe not win, but he could deny this city to the Unholy for years, if need be.

But then again, war is war.

Inside the stadium, the guards patrolled the exterior galleries, listening as the artillery cannons within and outside the stadium began firing. A constant thud, as the cannons hurled rounds into the distance, the occasional missile whistling from a launcher to hit in the city in the distance. All seemed to be relatively calm.
Outside the command ekranoplan, a pair of guards quickly patrolled around the fat, bloated craft, calmly letting their AF-67 assault rifles rest in the crux of their arms. Another set of guards sat smoking, watching one of the artillery guns in the near distance fire, raising a cloud of dust.

Inside the ekranoplan, the two commanders sat watching a display, showing a transcript of a message they had received, concerning the armoured advance. So far, all seemed to be going well. The commander of the Palm company froze as he listened, feeling something was not quite right. Hushing everyone, he moved over to the window of the craft, and looked out. Scanning the stadium, he tried to see what had alerted him. Whilst the guards seemed not to have noticed, he was sure he had seen something. It was confirmed as he saw a flicker of movement.
"Get the pilot up here and start up the engines. Something's not right."

Then, abruptly, the silence was blown apart. Outside the ekranoplan, one of the guards collapsed backwards, a spray of blood hitting the cockpit of the ekranoplan and cracking a pane of glass as the bullet blew the man's head off. A return burst of fire came from the surviving guards as fire began raining down from around the stadium, reciprocated with fire in kind. A section of the stadium was blown out as an artillery gun was fired, blowing attackers away in a jet of smoke and flame. As the dust settled, the six ekranoplans on the stadium floor started up, massive engines producing enough din to drown out even the sound of explosions as men exchanged bullets and missiles. A burst machinegun fire impacted into the armoured sides of the command ekranoplan as the main engines angled downwards, a jet of thrust blowing dust up from the ground around and lifting the vehicle off the ground. A strange group of what seemed like hovercraft lifted up from the ground, before the engines were hit to full power. A blast of hot air sent one of the thousands of supply crates cached in the stadium flying away as the command ekranoplan took enough, aerofoils configured for true flight instead of the surface effect flight the craft was designed for. Inside, as men jumped into seats or braced themselves on the floor, a gun started up as the ekranoplan roof gunner let rip, a series of small explosions coming from the stand area he strafed. The craft was soon lumbering into the air, followed by successive craft.

On the ground of the stadium, as the fight intensified, the final ekranoplan suddenly found itself in the middle of a missile exchange between an MBT and a missile team. Between a rock and a hard place, the ekranoplan found itself to be the perfect home for a heatseeking missile, that quickly buried itself in the craft's engines. Losing control, the ekranoplan careened across the ground, before hitting a section of the stadium stands. As a few tonnes of fuel and a few hundred canisters of airship gas ignited, a shockwave propagated, enough to blast most of the stadium side away and leave a pool of burning fuel for the guards to fight in.

Inside the stadium building itself, the men who had happily been firing outwards into the no man's land found themselves being attacked inside. Room after room was breeched by the attacking force, at sometimes greeted with a hail of machinegun fire that left a heap of attacker bodies in the corridor outside, and at other times with nothing, smoking remains left after a carefully applied grenade had been thrown in. Shouts and thuds echoed throughout the building, a sense of complete confusion building as section and platoon commanders fought just to stay alive without co-ordination as the high command escaped to the safe waters outside the city.
________

Just below the cloud cover, the L-class Aerofrigate acting alone in its campaign of mass violence against the city below slowly drifted in the winds, engines completely cold to deter any anti-air missile in the city below that happened to be using infra-red guidance systems. But the other missile guidance types were certainly making themselves known alright, in the form of the occasional volley from the city below. The craft shuddered as the three autocannons let loose the occasional burst, purple tracer rocketing through the sky to be met with a burst of flame as the missiles were hit by the 23mm rounds, blowing them to pieces in mid flight.

Inside the airship itself, the two weapons systems controllers sat intently as they watched the ground below. Using an IR camera channel, the sites of the missile launches were brightly obvious, quickly demanding retribution. With one site, a rain of phosphorous bomblets descended from a 'Screaming Oblivion' missile. The device was not named by someone known for modesty, though the name was quite appropriate for such a device. In addition to a rain of fire across an area the size of a small city block, the missile held a siren in its exhaust, acting as a psychological weapon to deter the attackers with a piercing scream. Below on the camera, one of the operators watched as the image nearly whited out, the target area rippling with a sudden sheet of flame. Nearby, a building in which motion had been seen was suddenly converted to a cloud of dust as a swarm of conventional explosives ripped the structure into pieces. As the operator scrolled back to an overview, the areas of the city targeted that were still standing showed up with hundreds of markers from the anti-friendly fire beacons on the ground assault, as they stormed through the town. So far, it seemed to be going well.

That was shattered as the airship Observer started calling from his position.
"I've got some sort of signatures inbound. Ten, maybe twelve signatures, I can't be sure. Some sort of stealth fighter. Hang on, I'll set the jammers up and see if I can get some focus on them."
The blips on the screen disappeared as a bank of switches were flicked, invisible signals criss-crossing the sky.
"Nope, I can't see any aircraft. Looks like that was a false alarm."
The relief in the gondola was only temporary - seconds later, a message crackled over the radio. The voice on the end sounded fanatic, and struck such a chord with all inside the gondola that they were frozen for a moment. Then they were hit.

There was a yell as the airship started shaking, followed by a loud siren. The Captain of the airship ran into the gondola from where he had been on the toilet, almost falling over as the floor tilted. At the pilot's position, the female pilot was wrestling with the controls, reaching above her head to change gas flow as an illuminated schematic of the airship turned a bright red across the top of the craft.
"We're losing buoyancy rapidly - something just blew most of the top cells. Everyone brace yourselves!"
The airship starting tipping forwards as it tried to retain to neutral buoyancy. As the ballast gas cells were purged and flooded with helium from reserve tanks, a pair of engineers inside the gondola rushed out towards the airship access ladder, parachutes tightly strapped to their backs. Just as the airship started to regain some semblance of buoyancy, the radio channel began crackling loudly.
"AC to AF 1! We have visual on your damage. You've been hit all across the top by something, and I can honestly say it looks awful from here. Turn around right now and get out of there! Wait... holy shit!"

From an external view, a jet of flame seemed to have shot out of the side of the aircraft, as if the airship were filled with hydrogen instead of inert helium. This was the tiny sign of one of the suicide aircraft hitting the airship. Like a dagger plunged into a wounded warrior, the craft shot with little resistance through the flesh of the airship, bursting cell after cell as it plunged inwards. Around and in the heart of the airships, the bursts started. The airship was constructed in a way that the fuel gas was stored in a central group of cells, surrounded on all sides by a thick wall of helium gas cells. If anything were to get to the centre and use the fuel against the airship, it would require a great force that would get it through the envelope. As it was though, the bombs within the aircraft weren't the factor that caused the most damage. As the successive bombs detonated, spraying their fuel through the mess of an interior they had created, they found an atmosphere of helium to detonate in, mere puffs of flame forming in a few pockets as the majority detonated, the planes smashing to pieces as they hit the supporting wire and structural network within. However though, in the pause between the first impact and the latter, a flood of air had permeated, mixing with both the helium rapidly escaping from the mess within the airship and the methane fuel that the airship held as its lifeblood in the core. Together, these formed a highly explosive mix for the final plane to shoot into.

Before the fuel bomb had a change to detonate, the engine of the aircraft passing into the hellish interior managed to ignite the mix. Within a millisecond, the fireball had reached out from the engine, blasting the aircraft to oblivion and spreading in a sheet of fire across the fuel core. A massive shockwave propagated through the tens of thousands of cubic metres of fuel and air, producing a blast that was enough to blow holes in the side of the airship. Massive jets of flame lit up the sky as the airship was wracked by smaller blasts, the flame igniting the exterior envelope and spreading rapidly. A second massive blast from the engine gondola at the rear blew massive hunks of ceramic shrapnel from the armour as the reserve fuel tanks ruptured, a blast large enough to throw part of the airship's tail into the sky, glowing as it ignited and fell down towards the earth, a slab of CFRP a few tens of metres across. In the control gondola of the airship, the crew were thrown off their feet as the airship lurched to one side, followed by a ear-splitting screech as the structural girders were bent, cables snapping as the structure gave. At the rear half of the airship, an entire section sheared off, coated with flame as the skin began burning, tens of metres of airship still hanging from the sky as the front of the airship began plunging downwards. Pieces of skin and girder fell alongside the main section of the airship as it started angling downwards, gaining speed as hundreds of tonnes of metal and fabric gained momentum.

It took a minute in total for the airship to reach the ground, the crew only just able to bail out before the gondola sheared off the structure. Down below, the city was lit up as the ugly beast slammed into the ground, the fire finally reaching the missile gondola. Just before the airship hit the ground, a massive explosion lit up the sky, fiery pieces of missile and munitions arching through the sky as a hole was ripped into the remains of the hulk. The flaming remains slammed into the ground, flattening a large area of the city and scattering flaming munitions around it. Behind, the tail section of the airship slammed into the ground, shaking the city as it collapsed and scattered across the ground. All around, a massive cloud of dust was raised into the sky, picked out by the flaming remains.

"AC to command - AF1 is down. I repeat, AF1 is down. No confirmed survivors as of yet. Command, do you respond?"

___

The streets were lit up with flashes of bright light from weaponry and the dull red glow of the flares as the armoured advance took place. At the forefront, one of the few Xha'noa tanks smashed a swath through the city as it roared along a road covered in rubble, craters scattered across from the airship missiles from above. The vehicle itself was lower than the average battle tank, with a plough on the front allowing it to slam through buildings with only superficial damage, sweeping mere rubble to either side. Behind it, a second Xha'noa tank continued through the rubble, clearing a free strip for the main body of the attack tendril to enter – three companies, two mechanised and one of armour. The slowly crawled forward as they cleared buildings, the infantry behind disembarking to the blast of weapons and grenades as they fought from room-to-room, rushing through buildings before diving back down to street level and into their vehicles.

With the sector behind the vehicles deemed as clear, the vehicles soon regrouped before passing in a spaced convoy line down the main street, tanks stopping at each junction to provide cover as the rest of the force moved on. At the lead, the Xha'noa tanks still moved forwards, silent in firepower but deafening in the noise they made as they cleared rubble. It was quite unexpected when the ambush came, enough to cause that pause that all ambushers crave - the frozen rabbit state so to speak. With the first blast, vehicles down the convoy began exploding at intervals, the occasional IFV erupting in a cloud of flame whilst tanks shuddered, staying still as the occupants were slain by the blast from below, leaving the carcass almost intact. However, with the Xha'noa tanks and the first ten vehicles of the convoy within range, none of the explosives had detonated. Their safety was guaranteed by the powerful broadcasting beacons built into the two assault tanks, jamming any nearby radio signals to the point that a radio bomb was completely neutered. However, the leading vehicles weren't so lucky as the ambush started. A shower of rounds from inside ruins caused disembarking and disembarked infantry to hit the ground and wriggle desperately to safety, before letting loose controlled bursts into visible enemy units.

The lead Xha'noa tank sat almost undamaged as it was hit by a tank round, the projectile not even making it past the ERA bricks layers around the turret. A second hit on the other assault tank confirmed the lack of damage the rounds could cause, leaving an ugly scar where it had hit, the explosive not powerful enough to cut through the thick side armour. In retaliation, the main 160mm cannons of the lead tank let rip, a powerful projectile turning one of the ambushing tanks and the building around it into a cloud of dust and smoke. Meanwhile, machinegun fire whipped from the vehicle into the surrounding ruins, as the surviving mercenary forces began a brutal breakthrough attack, heavy firepower and the occasional grenade masking the movement of a section at a time further into the ambushers, an assortment of bayonets fixed on rifles as they attacked.
_____________

In Milkavich, it was late evening as the Milkavich Construction Head of Alfegos Aeronautics looked down from his office from late night paperwork to the scene below. He was sat on the edge of an Airshipyard owned by the company, one of the largest airship manufacturers in the world in addition to many other items. In the midst of multiple storage buildings, workshops and sub-factories, a massive open patch of concrete sat covered by a large mobile roof of plastic film. Underneath the shelter, suspended from four enormous cranes mounted on nearby buildings, a tangle of girders was being assembled, the small night shift working shown by the occasional fountains of sparks from a welding team. Bright spotlights sat focused on pieces of aluminium and plastic many hundreds of metres long, slowly forming a shape as small cranes raised segments high into the air. Due to it being a military order, he had been getting used to regular visits to check the site and the construction, the plans he had received as well being restricted data and highly looked over for any potential flaw that had been introduced.

It was a design of what was to become the AAS Acheron that the man was checking over when he received a phone call.
"Hello. Is this the head of the Milkavich Division of Alfegos Aeronautics?"
"Yes, it is. And this is?"
"Sky Fleet Commander Bridgeman, of the Alfegos Aerofleet. I was calling to make a change to the order that you have for the AAS Acheron."
"Yes? What is it?"
"Firstly, the electronic warfare and computational systems that you are to receive will be changed to different models."
He sighed as he noted down the change, before continuing.
"Is that all?"
"Nope, I'm afraid. From thsi point on, the conversation is now rated as SECRET. If you could change to an encrypted phone please."
There was a pause as he walked across the room to a small cupboard, opening it to reveal a bulky telephone and internet terminal.
"Right. I also need to place a new order immediately for four Pale Rider missiles and two appropriate launchers. These will need to be completed and delivered to the normal quay for a RED order within twenty four hours."
"I'm sorry, but shouldn't you be going through sales for this?"
"I don't have time, plus this can't appear on the books until you get the say so from me or my superiors. I'm sure you have some surplus?"
"We do. I will add this to your account, but you'll have to do some explaining when they start questioning the figures."
"I understand. Ship them out as soon as you can. Thankyou very much. I will see you sometime soon."
"Indeed. Goodbye."

The phone was placed down with annoyance, as the man dialled in another number, getting things in motion. The military never seemed to have grasped that the secret way of carrying out orders always meant for a great deal more paperwork.

Something was wrong- all of the IEDs don't go off.
"What happened?" Whispered Rebecca.
They were now a bit away, in good company, and armed, from the manhole on the street. The squads had fallen back to the manholes where they would then emerge from the sewers and add their firepower to the assault. But something had gone wrong.
"It seems like they have jammers, ma'am." One of the technicians said, his voice higher than hers.
"Marshdamnit! Jeremy, detonate one of them manually!" She ordered, cocking her weapon.
"Yes, Ma'am!" Jerem hollered back, taking off his combat vest and everything besides the body armor. He took one fragmentation grenade and left the others behind- it would be all he needed and all he had time for. He had been chosen to die, and he would, but not before completing the mission. The grenade he chose was made just for detonation of IEDs and small radius damage- mostly nails, as real frag grenades were not to be wasted. The fuse would take a few seconds more.
He took off his boots and shoes, and laid them down. Several of the militia started saying silent prayers as he ran up the closest ladder, opened the manhole, and was in an alleyway. Rubble covered his emergence from the street, concrete and steel mixed together. Marsh knows, there were probably bodies that had decomposed in there. He shook his head and crawled over the rubble on his waist, and peered at the street.

One of the assault tanks was oh so close, and so were four mercenaries, each one looking and firing in a different direction. He could get the grenade under the tank, but he would be shot and killed soon after. Well, such was the life of a militia member. He crawled back down and started praying- he would need all the help he could get. The buildings on either side were filled with the sounds of fighting, and he finished his prayers as a window blew out next to him and showered him with glass shards.
Jeremy leapt over the rubble and used the momentum to run down the opposite side, gaining speed as he went. As he jumped up, he pulled the pin on the grenade. For a second, he was safe. He ran some more. One of the mercnaries sees him. Jeremy sees the angle he wants and throws the grenade as the mercenary turns and fires from the left. The bullet hits Jeremy in the achilles heel and sends him sprawling to the ground. An IFV nearby unloads, and while a few mercenaries are hit, the majority of the squad gets to the tank for cover. The grenade flies under the tank as Jeremy's face cracks on the surface. The pain is incredible as two more bullets from richotets impact on his back. Jeremy yelps in pain as the battle quiets down. He turns to the left and sees the mercenary dog who had shot him, who has a prideful look on his face.
"Marshite worm, your allies are quiting this fight and retreating into the buildings. Cowards." The man said quickly, his voice panting as he recovered from the battle.
All Jeremy could do was smile, and he hoped that was the last thing the dog saw before the IED went off.

The other areas of the ambush besides the area around the assault tanks had gone well. Five of the six HAT-1s hat targetted IFVs- four were hit, one shell had changed course due to firing through a wall and hit an assault tank, and another shell had hit an assault tank. Three of the IFVs had exploded outright, taking all mercs or Hardliners with them. One other had been more or less destroyed, but somehow managed to move. The ramp failed to lower. Hardliner and Mercenary return fire was not an issue- the protection system stopped multiple shells and missiles, and the few hits were on the hulls which did nothing. Meanwhile, top attack munitions were foiled by the masses of rubble, doing little more than send more debris flying into the battle zone. The autocannons of the HAT-1s started targetting IFVs, but then stopped as the second round of munitions were fired, finding more IFVs and MBTs, several Mercenary Warhounds among the targets. Progressives rained deadly accurate rifle fire from the windows down onto the street as machine guns tore into any substantial gatherings. MK-47s finlly got into position and added their fire. Several Hardliner assaults on Progressive HAT-1s were repulsed by autocannons, grenades, rifles, shotguns, and machine guns. The mercenaries likely hadn't expected this but an hour into the war. Anti-Tank missiles rained down from the rooftops, at least two fired at a vehicle at any time. This was because protection systems had issues dealing with two targets at once. Mortar fire from a dozen mortar teams hidden away a few blocks away started raining down near the area between the assault tanks and the Hardliners, shattering several groups of Mercs/Hardliners trying to reinforce one or the other.
However, with the help of the radio jammers and the assault tanks, the front surviving part of the convoy was having some success fighting off the ambush. They had attacked into the ambush, and forced the Progressive machine gunners, missile users, and generally annoying assholes on the upper floors back into the building. This allowed them to enter the buildings. The Proogressives would set up an ambush on a corner or a room, and usually combined the two. Several suicide troopers played dead amongst a smile pile of corpses, and the bomb was activated by someone else. However, the plan was to lure the mercenaries further and further into the building until the counter attack signal was given. Still though, with the radio jammers online, several squads wre faced by the charging Mercenaries. One of them was part of 156th Khaskan Infantry Division, 33rd Regiment, 17th Battalion, Corsican Company. Captain Krenzel McCasin didn't have time to think of this as he and Mercenary Officer grappled. His squad had become stuck in the first hallway as the Mercenaries charged in aided by heavy supporting fire. One of his men had been gutted, and two more fell by the fire of the vehicles. The rest, including the Captain, were forced to the ground. Krenzel was on his back as a Mercenary bayonet attempted to find his chest. He unsheathed his combat knife and viciously attackes the rifle and pins it to the ground next to him. He then unsheathes his second knife and stabs the mercenary in the back of the knee, then falls back, cutting the tendon. The mercenary falls backward and he lets go of his rifle, and then he is on his back as Krenzel jumps on top of him and slits his throat. Krenzel stands up and observes the battle around him- a dozen Mercenaries with around four Progressives- and had little time to prepare as a second mercenary got him in teh chest and pinned him against the wall off the ground with the bayonet. The Dragon Skin V2 body armor held against the initial strike, but the insanely strong Alfegan dog wiggles the bayonet around. It was only a matter of moments before Krenzel was skewered- he couldn't think of a way out. With his left arm, he threw the combat knife at another Mercenary who was finishing off a Progressive. It hit the man in the neck, and he crashed into the broken window pane as the dying Progressive lurched up and stabbed him at the base of the neck before two more Mercenaries stuck him in the back.

Then the IEDs went off.

The grenade blew up, the nails impacting on the IED and setting it off. A massive thud was heard as the tank lurched to a stop, but no one would notice this as the loss of one of the radio jammers led a momentary lapse in the strength of the radio jammers. This allowed the other IEDs to explode.

The mercenaries who had been fighting in the buildings immediately lost much of their support, but this was but into context immediately as the sound of whistles was heard down the line.
The signal was given.

In the basements and floors of several buildings, Progressives had been filing into the buildings as the Mercenaries made progress in one area and in the other a slaughter was under way. They used staircases in the back to fill up the floors with men, but with the assault tanks out there, they could not work properly. So they had retreated and allowed the enemy to over extend themselves, possibly being overconfident in the firewpoer of the surviving vehicles of the convoy. As the IEDs went off and set this firepower into ashes, whistles were blown and across the ambush site, hundreds of Progressives moved into position. Floors that were lost to the Progressives due to the fire of the surviving convoy were filled up with marksman, machine gunners, and automatic grenaiders. They could fire not only at the street, but across the street at the foes in buildings. Meanwhile, forces on the ground level tossed dozens and dozens of grenades into the hallways with the Mercenaries, thenn moved to flank and overwhelm. Multiple rooms that were previous thought cleared started to fill up with Progressives and, when ready, they burst into the hallways to open up new fronts. The mercenaries now found themselves surrounded on all sides.


The counter attack was different near where the mercs and hardliners had met with intense failure before. Instead of having to push foes out of the buildings, the Progressives could now flood the street with manpower and engage survivors in intense close quarters combat. The LY219 IFV that had been damaged before and failed to open the ramp now did, but as the occupants tried to stagger out, a single Progressive with a flamethrower lit them up. Several Progressives penetrated the lines of various tanks and IFVs and started attaching satchel charges, throwing grenades into the innards of the vehicles, or planting beacons on them for accurate mortar strikes. As a Mercenary IFV opened up after surviving, barely, a missile strike, and MK-47 zeroed in on the opening and let loose. Machine guns tore into whoever was in the open. Several areas were overrun by the ambushers, who started executing all survivors. The HAT-1s let loose with their canister shots, one in particular detonating in such a way that the mini grenades tore through a wide radius. Hardliner and Merc forces were caught in the open no matter where they were, overwhelmed, and outgunned.

But Major Phillistine Corina would do one last thing before the bullets in his back did him in. He crawls over the dead bodies of his squad outside of an IFV and reaches for the radio. He finds it working, finally- before, the radios had not been able to send out messages- and sends out one message before his life fades:

"A...mbush...C-Convo..."


**************************

The stadium ambush had gone well. The battalion in the front, the fire taken off of them, had charged towards the stadium. They now were able to lay extremely accurate and powerful fire into their former tormentors. The majority of the targetted areas of the stadium had been overrun, and in a few areas, platoons had started the main task of placing charges on stockpiles, planting beacons for strikes when they run out of charges, and carrying away at least one of every munition and piece of equipment they find.

The only place where they wanted to get to but couldn't was a room, a modified board room, that had one of their spies and some intelligence information they wanted. It was held by about fifty Hardliners and Mercenaries, and the bodies of seven Progressives lay at the now closed door. Major Timothy Frind didn't like that, so he had spent ten minutes planning to take the room. Four platoons in all, each one undersized to twenty-five men, were placed in position. One near the west wall, another near the east wall. The one door was on the north, and the large window was to the south. Across the stadium, three snipers and an MK-47 team started firing into the room, the sounds of explosions not unnerving the men on the outside. Three charges were placed on each side- enough to blow open the door and two holes in the north, and one massive hole on the east and west walls.

Barry was an average Hardliner, except he wasn't because he was a spy. That made him unlike the rest and therefore not average, but alas, that would not save him. The MK-47 grenades started to take their toll on the men in the room, several Mercs and Hardliners killed or wounded every few seconds. The sounds of footsteps could be heard all around. Barry concluded that he would probably not have time to identify himself before being blown to pieces, she he decided to go out with a bang.
He goes under a desk and reaches for his satchel of five grenades. He runs a wire through them all and pulls the wire, pulling off all five pins. He jumps up, AVIR on teh table, and tosses the satchel towards the group of Mercs a few feet away from him. They don't see him at first, but as he picks up his AVIR and fires, they turn to return it in a confused state. He hits a few of them as the grenades tumble around the group in question, but he in turn is shredded by about ten rounds. He was able to hit the leader of the Mercenaries in this sector in the shoulder but knew that wouldn't be enough- but the grenades probably would be.

Frind nods, and the charges go off as the satchel of grenades goes off. The MK-47 continues firing into the room for a few more seconds as two dozen grenades are tossed into the room of various configurations, followed by twelve more. The grenades were a mixture of flash and frag, As they all went off and Frind starts the storming of the room, he could only hope someone would survive to take as prisoner.

In other areas of teh stadium, Hardliners and Mercs were contained but not defeated. They were left unable to regroup or attack and were held in check by Progressive forces, but the goal was not to take the stadium but to destroy the ammunition inside. As that was accomplished or set into motion, unneeded forces started withdrawing. Holding forces or forces still completing their job were soon the only ones left.

Miles away, a Progressive firebase picka up the beacons. Manticores and howitzers prepared to fire in about ten minutes.

********************
One of the airship missiles hits a building that has activity. Little did that Airship know that the target in question was full of civilians. A Progressive soldier comes up from the tunnels and examines the scene, then takes a video of the building in question. Hours later, said video would find itself out of the city.

*********************

"Another ambush, sir."
"Damnit, I thought that attack was going well."
"Sir, it appears that the ambush has been going on for a few minutes."
"What? Why couldn't they tell us sooner?"
"Radio jammers in the area. Probably Progressive."
"My ass, Progressive. Terias, it is those damn Mercenaries and their jammers on their assault tanks. Our communication system is very much like the Progressives, so the jammers probably ours in as well."
Terias was not pleased with the information he was receiving. He ordered a Hardliner armored brigade to the area, relayed the information to the Mercenary assault ahead of the ambush, and set-up a meeting with Mercenary leaders.
**********************
Other actions in Khaska:
Hardliner assaults follow the same pattern: They smash into Progressisve areas, then are cut off by a mass ambush and hit from all sides. They call in reinforcements and take the area as the Progressives melt into the tunnels. The Hardliners attack the tunnel network and are torn to pieces, only to discover the networks are cut off from one another by IEDs.

The Hardliners win the first large-scale air battle, eleven Progressives versus seventeen Hardliners.
***********************

Castodas was pleased to hear that the asquisition of certain anti-airship weaponry was going well. Beyond that, his first few series of ambushes had gone well, and he was happy to say that the first few hours of the resumed fighting made him a very happy man.

Garden Fox Joint Aeromedical Base, Holy Marsh - 0000 HOURS

General Rudolf Jóska watched the gore unfold from the satellites. All Hell broke loose on all fronts.

The only sense of normalcy came from Canyon Delta JAB, which was reporting situation normal, no encroachments on the perimeter of the no-combat zone.

Garden Fox JAB and Infinite Echo JAB were another story. Wounded were pouring in, and the gore was incredible. Both bases were reporting minor encroachments on their no-combat zones, which were dealt with promptly by snipers, light armor, and air interdiction. This meant paperwork. The HCSKAF Security Forces had caused casualties, and he'd most certainly have to answer for them. Even though at face value they were rightful per the treaty with the Holy Warriors, the bureaucrats would have their say, for sure.

Antlion Pass, Western Holy Marsh, near the Atrean border.
0021, Day 1 of Renewed Hostilities

“Targets in range, Lord-Commander.”
Jacosia Marsupi wondered if the poor Hardliner force would ever know what hit them.
He was the commander of the first tank squadron to field the “new” Progressive MBT, the HAT-1A1 Sparky Widowmaker. Most of the design was done pre-war, but lessons learned were being applied. One of these was that most of the pre-war ideas required time and capital, the two things they didn’t have. So many of the developments envisioned weren’t being used just yet, just the new cannon, firing style, and missile were used. The armor, protection system, electronics suite, engine, and other weapons systems would have to wait.
But, in all honesty, it didn’t matter that the rest of the HAT-2 design wasn’t being used. Jacosia believed that the only thing that mattered was the Hunter-Killer missile.

A variation of the Hellion, the Hunter-Killer only houses four-eight submunitions as compared to the normal Hellion, less fuel, and little in the form of AI and computing. However, don’t mistake this for just another missile- just one volley of Hunter-Killers fired from the Widowmaker can result in the destruction of many time their numbers. Even if they survive the first volley, the unique ammunition and cartridge will ensure that by the time the tanks are engaged in cannon fire, most enemy forces will be reduced.

Each tank carries five Hunter-Killers. These are placed in a “magazine” that are attached to the cannon. The magazine, from a top-down view with the turret facing north, goes to the left about one missile width then down into the commander’s hatch. If you stand in front of the tank, you see that the magazine has one missile already ready to be fired, another stacked on top ready to be cycled in after the first, and then the aforementioned movement.

With the missile’s superior range to any other tank-fired missile system currently in use, the Widowmakers under the command of Jacosia were primed to fire up to three hundred submunitions at the column of fifty Hardliner tanks on the other side of the pass in five seconds.

So yes, outnumbered five to one, Jacosia could only feel sorry for the Hardliners as he gave the command.
“Fire.”

The ten 1A1s fired the first missiles, then the second, third, fourth, and finally fifth. Each missile split into six submunitions for a total of three hundred warheads, six per enemy tank. Flares, chaff, and other forms of distraction stopped some. SAVIOUR stopped two thirds of the rest. However, sixty-one submunitions still found their home on thirty-eight separate tanks. Thirty of them were destroyed outright, including the CO’s and XO’s tanks. The other eight were seriously damaged. The surviving twelve tanks pulled back.

******
Three hours later, in Alserta, a factory manager received the go ahead to start producing the 1A1s for mass use. The design team from Gorderia started to press on to other facets of the design they thought feasible at this time.
***********
CAMP ECHO, HOLY WARRIOR COMMAND TENT SECTOR GAMMA
2258, Before Ceasefire ends
They would know him as Michael and Michael alone. Few people knew his true name, and counted amongst them would not be the Foreigners. Still though, as operations chief of the STT teams in the area, he had been commanded by the leaders of the camp to brief the Foreigners on the mission. He entered the room that contained the, a tent and nothing more, and didn’t take time to recognize them or field questions or greetings before informing them of the plan:
“Brothers, the encroachment on our camp has thus far been able to be contained as the roads have rarely been the target of the enemy offensives. However, we have reason to believe that this will not be the case in the following week. Both sides, who are aware of the plans devised by their foes, will launch division sized mechanized attacks almost on the same spot. As ego-driven as all defenders of holy sites may be, reality says that the attacks will be the undoing of all our plans. Thus, two STT teams have been assembled for dual assassination missions that are being carried out at this time aimed at the command and control structure of the heretical factions. We will kill their leaders, castrate their supply networks, and send a clear message to those who will assume command that we will not hesitate to slaughter them all unless they call off such insanity. Now, you need to know this for reasons beyond my own personal reckoning, as this shall not have the slightest impact on any of your operations. However, rest assured, if this operation does fail and the operations our foes plan are set into motion, we will all die. I suppose that is reason enough.”
And with that, Michael left the room. He had more than enough on his plate that night. Joseph stepped into the tent to answer questions.

Around the two assault tanks, a swath of destruction lay clear, in which men able to disembark the IFVs had taken as their cover against the surrounding enemy forces. Every now and again, another building or pile of rubble burst out in a fountain of debris, as the few infantry heavy weapons in operation made a stand against the surrounding forces. In a near ring around the tanks, heaps of bodies lay riddled with bullets, blood seeping from all around into the dust and shattered masonry. Small fires burnt from where incendiary grenades had detonated, charred corpses nearby slowly consumed by the relentless white flames. All around, the only light on the area was from the occasional flare launched into the sky, a flickering red light providing illumination enough for the mercenary survivors to see the hell they were fighting. As shots hurtled above from all around, the four men sheltering by one of the tanks were experienced to a true hell on earth as they let loose round after round into any movement they saw, trying to stay out of sight of the snipers in the ruins. Their section commander already lay dead, a single shot through his head leaving his skull held to together by a defeated helmet.

The second in command reloaded his rifle as he looked out to one of the few surviving buildings, the occasional flash coming from inside as the hardliners engaged the enemy. From where he was, he could see the faintest amount of movement. Quickly putting his eye to the scope atop his AF-67 assault rifle, he just about picked out the figure of a man moving. His decision as to whether the man was friend or foe was made for him when the man made a run for it, down the ring of rubble by one of the ruins. It took just a light squeeze on the trigger to allow a burst of rounds to shudder from his rifle, impacting around and on the feet of the man. As the figure collapsed, he dived to the ground and quickly crawled over to where the man lay. He didn't notice the crude grenade roll from the man's grasp as he moved over, rifle aimed at the man's head. With deadly efficiency, he began going through the man's pockets, searching for anything of value. Finding them devoid of anything, realisation dawned upon him.
"IED! Take cover!"
Before he had a chance to react, the explosive went off. The blast, whilst softened by the Xha'noa tank, was enough to rock the eighty-tonne behemoth. The machine gunner ceased firing, the tank silenced as the explosion tore into the engine, immobilising the vehicle and shutting down its power systems. All secondary systems in the tank dropped out of action to save power, including the radio jamming beacon. As power wound down, so did the signal.

A series of massive explosions rocked the convoy, much larger than before and with more deadly effect. At the lead, where the one active Xha'noa tank began opening fire with fury, the supporting vehicles shuddered to a halt as the crew were shredded by the blasts from underneath, or were destroyed outright in a blast of ammunition, armour and burning fuel. It was in this chaos that the surviving sections at the head of the convoy were met with a tide of men and women, almost pouring onto them from all sides. Outer fire positions emptied magazines and exhausted ammunition belts, before charging into the charging mass with a mix of bayonets and other close combat weapons, to soon be overwhelmed from the attack. Bodies mounted up around surviving tanks, before they too were soon overwhelmed by enemy infantry, petrol poured into air intakes and set alight, the escaping crews butchered by the hordes pouring into the area.

At the head of the convoy, the immobilised Xha'noa tank was soon abandoned by its crew, taking cover in the shade of the surviving assault tank, a pair of surviving IFVs loaded with the scrawny bunch of the infantrymen and surviving vehicle crews. With assault flooding from all sides, and the rear of the convoy completely overrun, the Xha'noa tank commander could only think of one option for their escape. Consulting a map inside, he soon plotted a route to the docklands, where he knew the territory was held by hardliners. Taking the radio, he switched across channels as he made a final decision.
'This is X-ray Fiver, calling Alpha Charlie. Request Message.'
'X-ray Fiver, go ahead.'
'Requesting fire for destruction of the passage from our GPS beacon to hardliner-controlled docklands. We are pinned down, and have no other escape.'
'Request accepted. Fire inbound in thirty seconds.'
'Acknowledged. Over and out.'

The thirty seconds seemed to last an hour, as the group fought off the massive attack. Whilst the occasional IFV on the exterior of the surviving group succumbed to anti-tank fire, the head of the convoy with the surviving Xha'noa tank was much clearer. The 7.62mm rooftop gun was now manned by a tentative solider, adding to the hail of fire from the guns below as rounds ricocheted from the metal gun shield over his head. As a sudden increase in gunfire on the rear flank signalled an escalation in the enemy's attack though, the airship began firing. Tiny flashes of light were just visible through the clouds of dust and smoke above the city as the airship started firing, soon followed by the results.
A block down from the crossroads where the convoy was sheltering, the missile attack began. The first missile fired was a 'Sledgehammer' cruise missile, gliding down from the airship to impact in the centre of the block of assorted structures and ruins. With two tonnes of high explosive in its warhead, the blast was enough to rip the surrounding buildings to pieces, a loud thud that rained debris upon the convoy and surrounding area. Mere seconds later, the Longbow missiles started falling in the area, scattering bomblets to clear both streets and ruins. Before the dust had a chance to settle, the Xha'noa tank was off, roof gunner ducking down as the vehicle built up speed, before slamming into the surrounding piles of debris and bodies. It quickly ploughed through the debris, allowing the rest of the vehicles to quickly follow. Behind, the missiles began falling once again.

____________________________

The command ekranoplan group touched down by the docklands, engines roaring wildly as they came in nearly vertically. Aboard, the commanders sat watching as the stadium was engulfed by the attack, jets of flame punching out from the structure as artillery fire took out supplies and building alike. The two were not happy men, both looking forlornly at the attacks being quashed across the theatre. From it, the crucial error in their planning was revealed - the enemy had some way of infiltrating the entire city, staying out of the way of any surface attacks. And the lack of co-operation with the Hardliner forces had been another nail in the coffin of the operation. The attack had seen a large proportion of the mercenary force either destroyed, captured or immobilised, especially the mass ambush that was now turning into a desperate breakthrough.

The craft floated in the deep dark of the morning, waiting for their chance to regroup. As orders were sent for the mercenary attacks to consolidate and break through to the hardliner-held dockland areas, further orders were being sent via satellite back to Alfegos itself.

___________________________

It was very late evening at Airstrip 27, a privately owned airfield near the outskirts of the city of Milkavich. Milkavich itself was an enormous city, occasionally referred to erroneously as the 'City of One Hundred Million Souls', albeit with good reason. The conurbation officially stretched nearly a hundred kilometres from north to south, and cut fifty kilometres into the interior, though satellite towns now meant that urban landscape covered a third of the province it was in. The city however was hardly recognisable in many districts as the powerhouse of Alfegos, dirt roads and open sewers in districts where the torn local government had yet to focus attention to, the majority of its efforts spent in counter-terrorism and policing of the troubled city.

The airstrip itself was located in one of these 'underdeveloped' districts, the main road being a mixture of gravel, compacted earth and rubble. Around the open grass area, a heavy chain-link fence separated the luscious green lawns of the airstrip from the deprived industrial units of the area, light shining off windows that the company running the airfield could afford to wash every month. The airfield was special however in being an ex-military airfield, the perfect site for the few government-authorised mercenary agencies that had aircraft. Fortified hangers held a mix of aircraft, ranging from Alfegan-produced Fegofighters to much more exotic designs, some designed and built by the companies that operated them.
In the case of Helios Security Systems, the limit of six attack aircraft for the entire company was very annoying, to the point that the few fighter aircraft the company had bought had to be the best. Whilst the three Fegofighters 'with tweaks' fitted this category, the other three aircraft that were taxiing towards the main runway took this to an entirely different league. Whilst originally based on the Fegofighter, the orders made to convert them meant they were nothing like the other three. All three, whilst not as stealthy as the original fegofighters, boasted a design able to take them to near Mach 3, past the original operating specifications. They also held wing pylons modified to allow for the most modern of anti-air munitions, sensory units that were claimed to surpass most military sensors, and were painted a tasteful shade of dark grey. The fighter pilots themselves had also taken the liberty of painting their own little designs on them, to the point that the entire upper surface of the lead aircraft was taken up with a picture of the pilot's girlfriend, in animé form. The three aircraft had been given the title 'Helio-F1', a design that the Alfegan Air Force had at times shown an interest in.

The aircraft soon had permission to take off from the airfield. With a roar, the lead aircraft took off, rapidly accelerating down the runway and cutting up into the air. At a steep angle, it cut up into the sky, followed by the other five aircraft. Within a few minutes, the aircraft were cruising at a neck-breaking 1500km/h, external fuel tanks pumping in the fuel needed by the aircraft to reach Holy Marsh, and deliver their mixed anti-surface and anti-air payloads as a retaliation against the Progressive forces, and as a show of strength that the mercenary forces still had. They planned to strike at a local time of 0230 hours - still under the cover of deep darkness, the world of chaos.

Infinite Echo Joint Aeromedical Base, HM - 2300 HOURS
Holy Warrior Command Tent, Sector Gamma

Colonel Eger was taken aback by the bold preemptive strike planned by the Holy Warriors, but understood why they were being conducted. He spoke up and asked, "What is the plan in the event your mission should fail?"

Joseph looked at the Colonel. He nodded to the aides on either side of the tent, who closed the flaps and started handing out folders.
“We have the following contingency plans.”

*******
The badlands had little that could stop the movement of three LY219s as they approached Hardliner command some four dozen miles away from the camp. They bore the markings of a Hardliner Regiment in the area and had passed all radio checks. Of course, when you have such information, deception is incredibly simple. And the Holy Warriors knew how to make deception incredibly simple.

Inside each IFV, five STT members lay in silence. Dressed as Hardliner soldiers, they knew their mission: Infiltrate the building where they knew the Hardliner command and control was. Kill everyone, lay down a edict, and leave. The second group would silently take the communications array and prevent the building from getting help. Squad three would patrol the perimeter and if anyone were to come to the aid of those inside, they would soon meet their ends.

At the Progressive camp, the same scenario was unfolding. Almost at the same time, both groups moved into the camps, both sides fooled by the subterfuge.
*******
“…And that is it, gentlemen. All five plans.” Joseph said, sighing.

The first plan had been very direct- an all out attack on the spearheads. This would provoke open warfare and a direct siege on the camps, but may buy them enough time to get help. The second plan had involved releasing their reserves of gas. If it worked properly, the Progressives and Hardliners would be blunted. If it failed, many civilians would die. The third attack had been a combination of the first two ideas, an attack while gas was released. It had many obvious risks. The final plan was perhaps the most blood thirsty- resist the strike, but after that pull back to protect the camp itself. The fifth was to deny everything and blame the two sides, though that was not expected to stop the attacks, more like make them rethink who was spying on them.

Of course, Joseph was not worried. The plan had to work- STT was on it.

Infinite Echo Joint Aeromedical Base, HM - 2345 HOURS
Holy Warrior Command Tent, Sector Gamma

Colonel Eger looked over the documents one more time. The plan seemed solid. Of course, he would let General Joska know of the increased risk of attack on Infinite Echo JAB, but at the same time he sincerely hoped it didn't come to that. "Very well, then, Joseph. The best of luck to your men. Please apprise us of the situation if we may be facing attack so that I can plan accordingly. I thank you for the courtesy."

The Progressive Commander sighed for the first time that night.
The ambush had gone pretty damned well. The entire back end of the column had been massacred and the Progressives had suffered very light casualties. The middle part of the convoy had been battered and skewered, but there were still those left alive. The front part of the convoy had suffered heavily, but thanks to that damnable assault tank, they had not been crushed.
But that was all okay. The attack on the surface was just part one of the plan. The second part had relied on Hardliner and Mercenary forces sending reinforcements and pursuing the Progressives into the tunnels, where the real slaughter would begin. However, with the pussy Mercenaries calling in their little Airships, the ambush had to be called off a few minutes early.
Progressive forces started retreating deeper into the sturdy buildings, getting into their tietary tunnels and eventually back into the network. They kept as much fire as possible on the convoy as they left, focusing on the middle portion where the foes weren’t huddled around those specialized tanks. A few prisoners, both hardliner and Mercenary, were taken, with an emphasis on officers. As they retreated, the last few men in each tunnel set off the timers for the charges in the building around the room with the tunnel. In a minute, they would blow. The original plan had been to collapse the building when a few hundred Mercenaries and Hardliners entered the tunnel network, where they would be trapped and eviscerated before help could arrive. With the airships tearing up the world topside, they couldn’t waste too much time. The Progressives couldn’t afford to lose too many men. So, sadly, the charges would be used to collapse the buildings and buy the Progressives time to escape.
Back on the surface however, the HAT-1s were burning through the rest of their ammunition. Half had been destroyed by the airships, but the rest still had autocannon rounds. They all targeted one vehicle at a time, always an IFV, trying to finish off anyone huddling inside. Several more vehicles in the convoy, some moving and some not, fell to the fire as another HAT-1 was destroyed, this time by massed anti-armor fire. Another was destroyed by an Airship strike, which also unfortunately killed a squad of Hardliners close by. The last HAT-1 looked around for targets for the remaining ten rounds of ammunition it had. To the left and right, however, both hardliners and Mercenaries had flanked the tank. Two squads at least in each building close by. The force prepared to open fire when a Hardliner ran on top of the tank, getting the bright idea of capturing the private Sacheri network and using it to hack the Progressive AI directives. With the others destroyed, this tank was the only one possible. He opened the hatch-

When the tanks were chosen for the job, it was considered likely that they may have to be left behind. There wasn’t much they could get besides the Directives, but if they got those, the possibilities for fooling the progressive armored forces were too high. Provisions were made- twelve sticks of mixed explosives, two barrels of oil, and a prayer’s worth, to be exact.

-And died instantly as he triggered the trap. The explosives went off, large enough by itself to cause serious harm to the forces around it, but they turned the turret itself into shrapnel that sliced through several floors of buildings on either side. Then the oil barrels detonated, adding to the twelve sticks. Within moments, the landscape around the tank was hellish as the shrapnel tore into a great many, the explosion took out building supports, and the oil barrels adding their own blast and fire to the situation.


Krenzel could hear this, but couldn’t see. He was the only one left alive in the hallway, mercenary or Progressive, but he somewhat envied the dead. The bayonet had reached his chest though it hadn’t penetrated far, and another explosion had torn his ankle to shreds. A later shockwave had broken his knee on his other leg, and he now lay on a Mercenary body, weaponless, staring out the door. The fire lessened and he could make out the sound of the Mercenary assault tank not far off. He couldn’t move and no weapon was within reach.
Oh well, I can always escape. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been a POW.

****************************
The stadium attackers withdrew. Resistance in designated areas had ended, and they needed to get out. Prisoners had been taken, ammunition had been taken, and everything else they needed to do- that is, plant charges on ammunition, plant beacons on ammunition, plant charges on key supports, and plant beacons on various parts of the stadium. The prisoners in question were officers or those who had given themselves up willingly, lest they face death.

As the final few squads of Progressives and their prisoners fled into the tunnels, the Manticores and various artillery pieces started firing. The charges went off as well, and within minutes the stadium was destroyed
******************************
The Holy Warriors outside of Khaska were displeased with the video they saw. They thought very little of the Alfegans before this, and the tape did little to help. However, Cardinal-General Mastow Bikan said, “This is a war and these are weapons of great destruction. Civilians will die- and as regrettable as this is, we must pray not only for the souls of those civilians but for the Alfegans who knew not what they fired at.)

Still though, he wrote a sternly worded letter to the Mercenaries, warning them that the situation in the city was such that their use of indiscriminate force would result in action against the, Specifically, he warned that Airships, while effective, must remember that there are many civilians in Khaska.

The letter, three pages of length, was finished by around six AM. The letter was normal Holy Warrior-Someone Other Than the Church or Holy Warrior affair; it was a plain white letter with his signature, well known in these parts. It was sent to the Church District under the flag of the Khaska Holy Warriors, where it was transported by a Holy Warrior Nakil1A3HA to the docks.

Infinite Echo JAB, HM - 2330 HOURS
Infinite Echo Aeromedical Hospital

Captain Kornél had been in the OR for almost 24 hours now. So had every other surgeon. There were more medical personnel than just HCSK Medical Corps and the Holy Warriors' Healers. Along with the HCSK had come volunteers from the Krommindy Royal Navy, the Empire of Alhauth, and the Free Lands of Aeryann. Progressive and Hardliner medics and surgeons could be found working alongside those of the Holy Warriors. And the gore had been non-stop, and still showed no signs of abating. Captain Kornél found himself having to take more "breaks", drinking more coffee, and think harder about what he was doing.

After he finished the case he had been working on, he had the nurse close for him, and went for another cup after cleaning himself up a bit. Colonel Eger was already there, and by the look of it, he had it just as bad.

"Captain Kornél, how'd that bowel resection go? He sure did have a lot of shrapnel in that belly." Colonel Eger paused and took a mighty, scorching gulp while he waited for his answer.

"I think he's going to make it, if he can beat the infection he's probably going to get." Captain Kornél took a sip of the bitter liquid and added, "He had a lot of dirt in there too, probably kicked up by artillery. Also lost a lot of blood before he hot here. I'm surprised he didn't Code on me."

Colonel Eger looked back toward the OR. "They're not getting them to us fast enough, we're losing too many of them that could have made it if they just could have got here faster. But they don't want us going to pick them up with our aircraft or ambulances, and I've already canceled the pass to do volunteer runs. It's too dangerous out there, and we need all the medics we can get here. I guess we'll just be stuck with this until the fronts move further away from here." He finished his coffee and went back to the OR.

Captain Kornél sat down for a minute. And promptly but unintentionally nodded off. He began dreaming almost right away about something he had accidentally overheard the Hardliners talking about. Some sort of automated ground vehicle that was taking supplies around. The conversation he had just been in also played in his head. And then he suddenly realized that he was asleep. With a jump, he downed his mug and rushed out of the room, but not to the OR.

He had an important call to place to the St. Istvan Medical University...

As the results of the re-engagement of hostilities in Holy Marsh started creeping back into Alfegos, the government watched with trepidation as files started passing around the internet sites it monitored for both the latest news and signs of communist terrorist movements in the nations. As the phones began ringing in the Ministry of Information, a cellphone vibrated in a man's pocket as he sat waiting beside an enormous airship.

Airstrip 4 in Milkavich was devoted to the majority of airship traffic in the city that came from outside the nation of Alfegos, ferrying goods to and from the massive city in masses that made even the payloads of cargo ships look small. On one of the city reservoirs, used as a mooring ground for the largest of these airships, a 'Beluga' airship was sitting as barges underneath hauled crate after crate into the interior of the airship, crew standing back as fully-laden crates rolled down the floor into place. Whilst most airships were of a sane size, below the one kilometre mark, the Beluga was one of the few that strove to break that record. At 1.2 kilometres long, the craft was truly a sight to behold, as it cast a shadow over most of the city. The majority of the craft sat above the tops of surrounding buildings, floating in the air as the cargo gondola on its underside was loaded. That itself was the size of an office block, able to hold thousands of crates. On its outside, four engines sat being fuelled, each one a modified turbine taken from a cruiser, and each able to generate enough power to speed the beast up to 100km/h, faster than any cargo ship.
The airship itself was one of the twelve in existence, and orders from various companies and agencies meant that it held goods bound for at least eight countries. The final load being placed aboard the airship though was bound for Holy Marsh - an aid package of eighty shipping crates of food, medical supplies and blankets bound for the refugee camps on the outskirts of Khaska.

However, due to the severity of the situation in Holy Marsh, a pair of aircraft were being sent in advance to ensure security in the area, and make sure that both sides knew that it was an aid shipment, protected by the government of Alfegos. For the Progressive side however, a team of six 'aid workers' were being sent to meet up with their leaders, and to represent the Alfegan Government in secret negotiations. They were also there to inform them which aid shipment crate was to be 'impounded' by their Holy Warriors, for use in the betterment of the conflict. The phonecall that their head, a Major Lo'rai of the Alfegan Aeromarine 'Golden Wing' received, was a message stating that they were to have guests to escort, and that there was a change in their goals.

---

At 0545 hours, the Major was still unhappy as their aircraft, a Sunbeam Tactical Bomber modified for transport purposes, touched down on the dirt airstrip in the refugee camp outside of Khaska. Behind him, the second aircraft touched down, skidding to a halt as it braked, before slowly rolling off to the side where the camp operators had started sprinting out to greet them. The massive engines wound down rapidly to near silence as the small access door at the rear of the aircraft was lowered, allowing the onboard passengers to run out to nearby cover, all wearing full body armour. The pilots similarly dived out from their cockpits, running to the cover of a nearby building carrying the flight documents.

Once they were sure they were out of the line of any sniper fire, the men dropped off their kit, turning to view the people they were meant to greet - the Progressive force who ran the refugee camp. Of the group of thirty-two aid workers, only twenty four fitted the category, as the progressive commanders had been informed. As these were dismissed, taken to another room for their official welcome to the refugee camp, the group began to introduce themselves, and their purpose.

As the government support moved to the Progressive side, a request put forward in senate for direct military action against the Hardliners had been met by a request for evidence by most of the house. As a result, the six commandos were there to collect evidence of Hardliner atrocities, as well as giving expert advice to a group of people set aside for 'Operation Skysweep' on how they were to use the goods hidden in the main aid drop, as well as training for a very special package they were to receive as support from the Alfegan government. Along with them however were two tag-ons at the last minute, who were there to further the data collection - a team from the Alfegos News Network. A cameraman and journalist were the only two in the ragged team, responsible for carrying a powerful camera, satellite uplink and miniature recording studio alongside their personal survival kit. The items were held in two large black metal boxes, wrapped in thick masking tape as a tamper seal.

The cameraman for now had a small hand-held camera, which he was using to record the meeting and first interview with the progressive leaders, turning it off during the conversation about the missiles in the aid shipment.

________________________________________________________________


The evacuation to 'Sector Hotel' was frantic, main battle tanks fighting their way through the sheer hell of the destroyed city in the wake of the Xha'noa assault tank, as it ploughed to the safe zone. A mere two city blocks away now, the crew were desperate to arrive, at one point ploughing through a building in its mad effort to reach the area which mercenary forces were now flying to. In their wake, to prevent following on the surface, the occasional incendiary munition detonated, scattering roads with drifts of white-hot phosphorous. Whilst the front of the convoy were preoccupied in their breakthrough, the rear still found itself in fierce combat with the Progressives trying to pick off straggelers or firing all their remaining ammunition into the convoy.

Near the back of the convoy, a pair of main battle tanks were acting as the lead building-sweeping team, clearing buildings to allow a small group of four IFVs through with tatters of crewmen. One of the IFVs had been turned into a field ambulance, supplies tied on the outside to provide as much space inside for the injured. A pair of medics inside frantically tried to keep the nine injured soldiers crammed like sardines on the benches alive, the walking wounded hanging onto roof bars as the most serious injuries were dealt with. The floor of the vehicle was slippery with blood, sweat and oil, every bump the vehicle hitting exaggerated. On the ramp controls, a single fit soldier stood crammed against the door, looking out of a small peephole as he checked for wounded.

There was a sudden blast up ahead, enough to shake the entire vehicle. Those standing collapsed in agony, the screams of the wounded inside mingling with a strange silence outside. The vehicle shuddered to a halt with profuse swearing from the driver, giving the gunner an opportunity to open up on the surrounding buildings. The rear ramp of the vehicle fell open, the single soldier sprinting out ducked into the ruins to search for survivors of the blast. The sight that greeting him was one that would crack an normal man living in normal humour and not an adrenaline high.

Bodies lay strewn around the centre, sheet of flame dancing amongst torn pieces of metal. The heat was intense, enough to make the soldier wince back as he rushed into the ruined buildings, yelling and hoping for a response. Person after person lay still as death, faces and chests shattered by shrapnel. Just as the man was about to give up hope, hearing the convoy start up again, he saw a single body in amongst the remains of a mercenary squad, sheltered behind a piece of fallen building. Without even paying attention to the man's uniform, he ducked down and checked the man's neck and spine. Assuming they weren't broken, he grabbed the man and tossed him over his back, doubling over under the effort. He then ran back over to where the medical IFV was waiting, collapsing exhausted inside as the ramp was closed. The body of the progressive was soon the attention of one of the medics, who quickly assessed the man's state, jotting it down on a bloody paper pad.
"Bayonet wound to the chest, with fragment of the bayonet blade still intact. Extreme trauma to left ankle, shrapnel of some sort in his right knee and lower leg. Blood pressure is decreased, so not a priority for blood. Special case."

The man's uniform was quickly removed and replaced with the medic's battle smock, hiding him from any angry mercenaries within the vehicle. The soldier sat watching the man as he drifted in and out of consciousness, the vehicle rattling towards safety.

---

At the makeshift field hospital in 'Sector Hotel', the ambulance ramp dropped to allow the casualties into the structure, eight shipping crates all radiating from a pair of central hospital trucks. Inside, mercenary army doctors were busy operating on the most severe of casualties, soldiers acting as porters to rush in those in most peril. As person after person was rushed through in an attempt to save their lives, the shipping crates became filled with the injured, makeshift wards categorising people into groups of severity. Crate one was being used as the one for those most at risk, gunshot wounds to the head and chest meaning they were living off the machines run by a central generator. Further round, Crate 3 was being used for injuries similar to the captured progressive, hauled out into the operating theatre by two doctors.

Inside the operating theatre, two tables sat surrounding by doctors and nurses, as they operated on one person after another. Every now and again, disinfectant was sloshed onto the floor, clearing away flood and grime from the supposedly sterile environment, as the sheer deluge of patients was dealt with. The medic attending left his notes pinned to the man's chest, to be observed by the doctors as they stripped the man of clothing. The bandage around where the bayonet was stuck was removed, as the doctors assessed the damage to the person with a portable X-ray device, running the film underneath the plastic table as the x-ray generator hummed above. Whilst the film was developing, they gave the man a shot of morphine, tying the empty capsule around his neck and writing a time on his forehead of the dose. Once the X-ray was developed, they quickly began operating on the evidence they had. They knew the man had had a very lucky escape - the blade was sat just above the chest cavity, jammed between two ribs. Whilst the bleeding had been profuse, if the bayonet had gone any deeper it would have collapsed a lung, making the situation all the worse. His legs were riddled with pieces of shrapnel, the most obvious of which were removed by the doctors once the bayonet had been dealt with.

A blood test and suturing later, the man lay in the third crate, right at the far end, amongst others in varying states of sleep and unconsciousness. A nurse patrolled inside, checking all were in a stable condition, whilst a pair of soldiers sat over the Progressive, watching him intently as blood diffused from a suspending sac to mix with saline solution and enter his bloodstream. They knew he was likely to survive. And when he was in a fit state, there were people who wanted a word with him...

"You sure this was a good idea sergeant?"
The voice whispered into Sergeant Han'so's ear as he sat tending to a wound on his leg, a deep scrape where he had fallen over in the rubble. Opposite to him, his second-in-command sat counting out rounds, bombing up empty magazines. The section of eight men was now only a five man section, the other three left behind on the surface. They sat underneath a small flight of stairs in a cellar, the trapdoor above blocked by the collapsed building. Down at the base, a few bodies lay strewn, all Progressive soldiers who had been caught in a grenade blast. They had been ruthlessly searched, and all items of any value taken from them. The best of their assault rifles now lay in the hands of one of the section's riflemen, whose own assault rifle was secreted at the bottom of his bag stripped down.

The sergeant finished tying a bandage around his leg, before summoning his section in.
"As you all know, these bastards have the upper hand, cos they can disappear as soon as we shoot at them. And we're sitting right in the middle of what makes it possible - the city's wonderful tunnel network."
He took out a compass, turning a small bevelled scale on it.
"As you know, Sector Hotel is only a few blocks south of us. If we decide to try get back to our home camp, I think we should give these bastards a little bit of a surprise on our way back. How many grenades do we have?"
Seven grenades were rolled into the centre of the floor, before they were picked up.
"Right then - I think that should give us a bit of help. Remember, keep eyes out at every junction, and clear every room that we find on our way. Try to not stick in any straight areas, so we don't get mown down. If we get split up, head to the surface and try getting back that way. If we get contacted... fight them until you run out of rounds. Alright?"
"Yes sergeant."
"Great. Now, lets see what's going on out in the tunnels."

The scout opened the door from the cellar slightly, peering out. Fully opening the door, he signalled for all clear, before he was followed by the sergeant. The section spread out as they moved along the tunnels, following the sergeant as he glanced occasionally at his compass, turning at junctions to follow his line of navigation, all the time coiled up and ready in case they were contacted by the enemy.

The initial shock had worn off too late for the Hardliners.
As Captain Alexander Flowers, Chaplain Third Class, led his squad into the meeting room of their target, he could only feel sorrow for the Hardliners they had dispatched from this Earth. The guards outside hadn’t noticed the Ghurka knives under their uniforms. They also hadn’t noticed the silencer attachments hidden in their pants. As they were allowed entrance into the complex, they ducked off into darkened corners and attached silencers to their AVIRs.
After that, they waited for confirmation. A few Hardliners walked by, but the STT members assumed guard positions and looked like any other. They waited until they heard from their allies in the communications tower, and then they began.

Alexander was a man of average height and husky build, who had killed many people before and was prepared to do so again. But more than that, Alexander had been on the frontlines long enough to know the importance of his mission. Failure was an ill fate, one he would strive to avoid.

The hallway was rather simple. The double doors were oak and the floors gray, emotionless tile recently mopped and reflecting the fluorescent lights from above. It was about fifteen feet long where it branched off to the left and right, and there was one door on the right side of the hallway that led into a room. The men knew not what lay within, and except for one of them, they would not know. Each main raised his silenced AVIR and advanced down the hall. They reached the end- Alexander turned to the left, Mikhail turned to the right, Thompson turned back towards the hallway, and Le Chavre took the final position. The final man, Sarkozi, trailed the team and then stopped in the intersection. His job was to hold their escape route.

The team advanced, each member staying in his position and covering his area. Alexander would silence any opposition in the front of the team as they advanced towards the Stairwell. Mikhail covered the rear of the team, though if he ended up engaging in heavy combat that was a bad sign. Thompson and Le Chavre would clear the rooms that Hardliners appeared out of and forced Alexander and Mikhail to clear.

The first floor passed by quickly. Three times Hardliners appeared out of various rooms or were encountered. Alexander killed them all, and then Thompson and le Chavre entered those rooms and silenced the Hardliners within. It was not a fair fight- they looked like Hardliners and it took a second for their foes to react. By then, it was too late- headshot, headshot, two in the chest and one in the head, ghurka knife use and now no head. It was a wholly one sided affair, and it was hard to believe that these Hardliners were not only veterans of a prolonged Civil War, but often had had combat experience before and were products of a warrior society that produced extremely well trained armies. But then again, they probably hadn’t thought of being killed in their own base by those who looked the same. Such lax security measures and thoughts would not have been tolerated at the start- it was brought on by experiences during the war. And such was their biggest disadvantage.

They advanced up the stairwell, leapfrogging and then reforming the formation at the top. The second floor was different only because by now the enemy thought something was unusual- the radios in the area no longer functioned. The team could hear loud speech and some running. They had reacted only slightly quicker than they had expected, and as Mikhail was left behind to make sure their escape route on this level was secure, he licked his lips as he knew this would mean he had free reign to kill everyone.

Beyond that, the rest of the team was able to jog to the stairwell, only stopping to clear one room that presented itself. They started heading up the stairwell-

“Brothers , this is TacOps. Eight men are heading your way on the floor above. Keep to your wits.”
***************
HOLY WARRIOR COMMAND CENTER- TACTICAL OPERATIONS ROOM
Camp Echo
2239
“Confirmed, Tac Ops.”

‘Michael’ watched as the team advanced. Le Chavre had a small, centimeter sized camera installed on his chin. The wires went underneath his skin to his ear, where they left and were hooked up to his helmet which was able to broadcast the image live. A UAV of Hardliner designation, owned and operated by the Holy Warriors however, pierced through the building using a combination of sonar, infrared, and more classified technology. He could see the movement on all floors and was able to relay the information to his team but, honestly, the mission was easy enough.

The hardest part had been gathering the intelligence needed and fooling both sides. The Holy Warriors had infiltrated both bases before, using single agents. In fact, it was quite common. This way, they had been able to gauge the defenses of the bases, the security measures in place, and gather intelligence. Over the years, security had grown worse as the measures in place sometimes slowed down important messages that couldn’t be sent via radio. And as no one had attacked either camp, security grew even worse. Personnel were needed elsewhere. The resources were needed elsewhere. And generally, the younger soldiers and militia handled security as the better troops were needed to fight the battles.

So they knew they could infiltrate the bases. Now they needed the equipment. All sides operated the LY219, so that was the natural choice. The Hardliners had too few Stormdrakes in the area, so using those models would be ineffective. The APC model was almost exclusively used near the cities in the west. Light IFVs were an option, but if something went down, more firepower may be needed. Ambulances and IFVs were the only options, and Ambulances would likely fall under more investigation as the models were rarer and would be heading to the front, while IFVs were common enough they could go any which way.

Of course, pre-war, that would hardly matter. The Hardliners would have seen where the IFVs were coming from and the entire plan would have failed. Without the use of satellites however, recon was handled by UAVs, specialized aircraft, and those ilk. While this meant they did indeed have impressive capabilities in terms of recon, it also meant that if you knew when the flight times and patterns and if you knew what to do, you could fool them.

The final part was getting radio codes to be used by the IFVs. This, along with the patterns for the UAVs, needed the human touch. To get the patterns, they had tracked ten to fifteen individuals per side that they could capture for the information. At the time, it wasn’t thought that it would be used for the reason it would be, but when one man was tracked moving to the crossroads they didn’t think about it. He was wounded during what amounted to a kidnapping, but they got the information they needed. To get the codes, all they had to was capture one of the survivors of a battle near the lines who drove an IFV. Not very hard to do, all things considered. The hard part came afterward, as both men were stripped down and their uniforms given to corpses near the front. Believing there to be no danger as both were men were listed as KIA, the Holy Warriors knew they could tap into the surveillance and radio networks of both sides(as this process was repeated for both sides) for a short while before SACHERI detected outside interference and closed it down.

For a while, this information was not used. Mostly, the chance to use it had not presented itself. So when it came time to formulate the plan, ‘Michael’ was pleased to know he had the deck stacked in his favor. They hacked the surveillance network to get the positions and passings of the craft. They found the perfect use for the codes and soon the plan was in motion.

First off, each strike force would use three LY219 IFVs, each IFV with five men inside dressed in their respective uniforms. They would use a lapse in coverage to enter the transit fields of the opposing armies and close in with formations that got close to the camp. They would then peel off and enter the camps. There, ten men would head to the communication towers where they would silently eliminate the opposition and shut down the networks. Five men would hold the top areas and use their vantage points to snipe when requested by the final team in the headquarters complex. The second squad of five would attempt to get the opposing sides to not enter the top areas of the communication towers through any means necessary that didn’t alert the foes to the intentions of the group. During this interdiction of the base’s communication, the final team would sweep through the headquarters complex and kill the opposing headquarter elements. They would deliver the edicts for the new commanders. After this was accomplished, the first two IFVs would head to the communication tower and pick up the two teams while the third exited the compound and entered their IFVs. The three would then exit the base. It was expected that it would take the enemy no less than a minute once they left the communications tower to realize what happened, so timing was critical:
They had to exit at 2349 and meet up with the same formation they had snuck in on. The attack against the road was expected at 0600- but when word finally got out about the death of the opposing generals, it was likely to be cancelled. The STT teams would not be arriving back at base until 0400, and until then they would be using various radio codes and maneuvers to show themselves as who they claimed to be. They would slip out of coverage once more at 0330 at the area where they had done it before, and boom, they were safe.

It was an insanely easy mission, and as Michael watched the group attacking the Hardliner structure form up the stairs and fire two stinger grenades into the hallway, he knew it was almost worthless for him to stay in the small room assigned for STT operations. Ordained with religious insignias, one wall devoted to TVs, and four computers, it was a surprise that this 11X8 room wasn’t mistaken for a storage closet for unused equipment. It was messy and there was easy access to it- all you had to do was open the door. But that was the beauty of it- it wasn’t special and looked unimportant to the extreme. It was what was behind the TVs, under the floors, and the people inside that made it worthy of discussion. Information flowed into it at a faster rate than practically any other place on earth, and this was interpreted by one of two classes of Holy Warrior inside. First off, the tactical officers such as ‘Michael’ whose job it was to analyze information as it was received and issue new orders if needed. They would also be in command of all support operations. There were up to three in the room at any time- and assuredly, they would have been better than ‘Michael’. He was still an active-duty Field Agent of the IIF, and not accustomed to leading men. But it had been his work that had uncovered the attack plans, and as the rest of the officers were either involved in the attack(STT had taken quite a blow during the war) or off doing things deemed more important- Magnus was off preparing for the new round of combat and the Officer-Chaplain Cassium was leading the final mass. Besides, it was easy. They wouldn’t need much.

The other group of people were the four tech-savants. They were Holy Warriors as much as the rest, but they likely never saw a dead body up close before. Judging their physical abilities to be substandard yet their knowledge of computers above average, they had been placed into programs that were dedicated to producing the best computer specialists possible. It was all they did was analyze raw data, hack systems, and manipulate them. That is all they ever did or would ever do, and they were effective. They fooled the UAVs by splicing in old images and generally made their job so much easier-

The STT operatives fired on the Stinged Hardliners, and in a matter of moments all eight were dead. They advanced down the hallway.

“Brothers, the meeting room is directly in front of you.”
***********************************

“Noted, TacOps.”

Thompson was left behind at the stairwell as Alexander and Le Chavre got to the meeting room double doors. They could hear slightly panicked voices inside- one of the identified as Lord-Commander Musak Hunanine.

“TacOps,” Le Chavre whispered, “target is in the room. Sniper team have shots on everyone but the target, yes?”
Michael relayed the question to the snipers.
“Yes, they do. They have their sights on the two guards on either side. The room has a rectangular, long table. There are only two guards, six others. Lord-Commander Hunanine, Major Disery Kaine, and Lt. Colonel Basik Yuraso are the three we know by name. The windows are open. Kaine and two other Majors are on the left, Yuraso and another colonel are on the right. Hunanine is directly in front of you. They will take the shot in three, two, one, breach!”

The doors flew open as the two guards were hit by the silenced sniper fire. Alexander turned to the left, where Kaine looked more confused than anything as a bullet bore through his skull. A Major started reaching his pistol but was cut down by atrio of shots to the neck and head. The final man on the left had his back turned as he reached for his AVIR that was leaning against the wall, but never saw again as a bullet blew the front of his face all over his weapon and wall. Alexander turned to see the two colonels dead and the Lord-Commander on the floor with a bullet wound to the neck, his weapon on the table and not touched.
“TacOps, room cleared. Placing edict now.” Alexander said.
He grabbed the piece of paper from his belt and unfurled it. It was laminated, but easily taken out. It was mostly made to be splatter proof. The top was where you hung it up- first with the small sticky film it came with, but it was made for the Ghurka knife really. Alexander unsheathed the special one given for the mission. It would be unthinkable to waste a Warrior’s fighting knife, one of his prized possessions, on an edict. You only got one of those. However, these ones were fine to waste: They were not assigned to Warriors but were used by them for disposable jobs, such as this. He handed the paper to Le Chavre, who stuck it to the eastern wall. The two then heaved the dying Hunanine up against the wall, the edict behind his head. Le Chavre held him there with all his strength as Alexander spoke.
“You have been found guilty of crimes against the Holy Marsh Himself. The only way to absolve you of your sins is by death, for only in death shall your humility return. May He grant you peace in the afterlife and have mercy on your sins most grave, and may we one day bask in His light once more as brothers.” Alexander spoke softly, the words of Friar David’s sentencing that had happened before they left on the mission flowing through him.
And with that, he stuck the ghurka knife through the man’s mouth where it exited out the back of the head with such force that it seemed to be like a bullet wound with the amount of splatter that fell on the edict. The knife went into place as it etched itself into the wall. Alexander stepped back. The knife held the man in place and kept the edict attached the wall. Not a bad job.
“TacOps, mission complete. Exfiltration commence.”

**********************************************
Infinite Echo Joint Aeromedical Base, HM – 0100 hours
Holding Cell Block

It had been a week. A long week for Alick. He had told his attorney everything. Now today was the final meeting with him before a trial. He was just so…happy to get it all of his chest. Friar David was even set to give him the Rite of Salvation later. But he shook his head as his attorney walked in.

**********************************************
KHASKA DOCKS
MERCENARY MEDICAL SECTION
0700

Krenzel woke up, a sharp pain waiting for him. Sound was the first sense that came back as the echoed voices inside the crate got back to him. He could tell this wasn’t a Progressive hospital as he could smell the ocean. He could feel that he was most certainly not on one of the beds from the old hospital. He could taste a decidedly acidic taste- his own caked blood. And then he could see the IVs he was hooked up to and the crate he was in.

Not bad. Captured by the mercenaries.
But judging by the amount of cries he heard, he knew it was a fair trade. How badly had they suffered?
But Krenzel got the feeling as he moved his right arm some that he wouldn’t be allowed the time to ask such questions.
*********************************************
TWO MILES WEST OF KHASKA, AIRSTRIP CENTURY
KHASKAN FORTRESS #13
0710

Emily Crowd was not a high-ranking Progressive leader. But she was a damn fine talker and since the really good officers were needed in other areas, she was dispatched to meet the ‘aid’ package being sent by the Alfegan government. She knew that there were supposed to be special operations there of some sort, but they didn’t know who. What did come as a shock to her were two things: The news crew that approached her, and a Holy Warrior heavy airlifting helicopter that came out from the west and seemed to land somewhere close by.

But she could only focus on one thing at a time as the news crew approached.
***********************************************
TUNNEL SECTOR BETA-4, BROWN LEVEL 1
0050

The mercenaries who had entered the tunnels could hardly make a claim to have been stealthy. The grenade explosion had been heard, and as the Progressives assigned to defend the sector lost contact with the squad at the tunnel base, they prepared.

The tunnels themselves were works of great engineering. Reinforced to withstand multiple direct impacts, they had been built to keep the entire city of Khaska safe. Part of this was deception. There were hidden rooms- what amounted to fancy one way mirrors where those inside the room could see out but not the other way around littered the hallways. Meanwhile, the suffocating heat and humidity of the hallways served three purposes: It not only made heavily armored and armed foes incredibly uncomfortable and fatigued them quickly, but between that and the design of the hallways rendered both detection by infrared basically impossible. The final kicker was that over time, the enemy would become wildly disoriented between the heat and the design of the tunnels.

The mercenaries walked past one of the hidden rooms. The officer inside licked his chops as his men got into position. He pressed a button and the one-way window slide down rapidly. He had twelve men there, ten fighters and two suicide bombers. Each mercenary had two men aiming at him, and each bomber leapt at an angle when the window open that let them cut off either escape route.
“Get down, now!”

Each room was by itself connected via tunnels. Some of these tunnels lead to small cubby sized rooms where one man would place himself. These were usually at different altitudes of the hallway. The small door could be opened and closed effortlessly, and this allowed him to throw grenades out or aim his weapon in a certain direction. As the mercenaries were confronted by the men in the first room, two of these small doors opened- one above eye level, the other below- from the top left of the room that had revealed itself-

- And from the lower left side of the room that reveals itself a moment later, this time with the Progressives close enough so that the Captain in charge of this platoon has his AA-12 at the back of the head of one of mercenaries. The man in the cubby room near the first door has a flamethrower, the other an AVIR.
“Get down on the ground, NOW!” The captain says, emphasizing his point with the business end of his AA-12.
**************************************************
DOCKS
0900
Two letters had arrived. One from the Holy Warriors via their normal route.
The other was done unconventionally.

One of the Mercenary prisoners from the stadium had died of his wounds. Not wanting to waste his chance to greet the Mercenaries, Castodas wrote a letter and had it taped to the dead man’s skull. He was then taken back up to the surface, where he was discretely placed in the stadium’s rubble and was picked up by the Hardliners who had responded oh so late. It was addressed to the Commander of the Mercenary contigent:

“Hello and greetings!

I welcome you to Khaska, the city of 800,000 dead and counting. I do hope the opening hours of this combat have found you in good spirits, or, better yet, deceased. If not, you will find yourself dead soon enough, not that you should consider this a fate to be avoided- you will be granted peace in death, a luxury you will never have here on Earth. But I do say this- your little assault tanks and those flying airships are tough. No matter. You have only so many of those and even now some are destroyed. What wonderful toys for us to scavenge, salvage, and one day use against you!

I do hope we meet face to face one of these days. It would be a smashing good time- I would love to see the face of the man or woman that fights for money! I imagine, does such a creature even have eyes? Well, that is a very silly thing to ask. Of course they do- this corpse has eyes, and he fought for money. And, well, we saw what happened to him. I always wondered about the moral fiber of the Hardliners, and by hiring war-scum such as yourself, I can now tell the civilians in truthfulness what I always suspected: They are not followers of the Holy Marsh. Not that you would care- you fight for greed.

But oh my, how time is running short. I would like to chit-chat with you and tell you how you will never sleep one night here in peace, how none of you will get out alive, and how He has deemed it necessary to show no quarter whilst in open combat with you, but you must be too busy counting your dead and your Aureus’. I wonder, which matters more to you?

With No Respect But Much Love,
General Castodas”

Mercenary Forward Command
Dockland Sector Hotel
0330

The ekranoplan sat with a ramp leading to the roof hatch, where a small radio base station had been erected to co-ordinate the airstrikes coming in. As the situation of the conflict had dawned upon the commander of Helios, he had been busy in chat with the crew of the six planes, deciding where he could best deliver the aircraft loads. The aircraft had been ordered to slow to a subsonic cruise at highest fuel efficiency, delaying their arrival by an hour, whilst they were allocated to the best available target. The only remaining option was for them to try take out the tunnel networks around the mercenary-held command centre, and reduce the extent of any enemy surprise attack.
Each of the three Fegofighters was equipped with a single 500kg anti-structure bomb, designed to demolish a building via an explosion underneath the building itself, rocking it to the foundations with as much damage as could be achieved on structures around, with a limit on damage to any civilians in the area. Due to the hardened warheads of the bombs, they could also be used against tunnels, both armoured and unarmoured.

The mercenary camp looked up as the Fegofighters dived in for their attack run on the periphery of the camp, the supersonic booms loud enough to deafen those nearby as the aircraft cut tens of metres above ground level at transonic velocities. Their first run was on the buildings surrounding the mercenary command area, anything with a heat signature sembling an enemy vehicle hit with a burst from their nose-mounted 23mm autocannons.

The craft quickly rose upwards, circling as they moved up to meet the three 'Helios F1' fighters rocketing across the sky in search of enemy aircraft, laden with air-to-air missiles. It was from here that the three fighters released their loads, the bombs already travelling at supersonic velocities as they plunged downwards. Targeting computers made the bombs drift slightly as they homed in on an invisible GPS target, plotted where tunnels was suspected. Seconds after being deployed, the bombs hit the ground with enough force to cause damage to buildings nearby itself. Once they had cut a couple of metres below the ground, the main charges detonated, shockwaves enough to rip the surface buildings and roads to pieces, a radius of cracks around a massive central crater. These were obscured by huge plumes of dust and smoke thrown up in the blasts, leaving time for small platoon-sized forces to scout the craters, and check for the remains of tunnels underneath.

The Fegofighters quickly turned back to return to Alfegos, leaving the HeliosF1s to circle for a few minutes to cover their escape.

-----

0910 hours

The head of the Helios mercenary forces sat atop his ekranoplan on a folding chair, a laptop screen displaying a map of the city and mercenary force losses. The massacre that had seen in the preceding hours meant that he was also consulting the company's operating manual as he checked over the status of the force. They were to assume they were to fight 'to the death', in that the entire force was eliminated, or forced to withdraw by the company. With an unconfirmed death toll, he was relying on his deputy head, the Head of the Palm Land Defence Systems, to tally up those missing and dead. With the confusion as to what to do next, he was further rewarded by news of a captured prisoner.

He left his sub-ordinate officers to review a draft battleplan for the next couple hours, a small retinue escorting him to the field hospital. In his hand, he clutched a blood-stained letter tightly as he moved towards an area protected from view by steel wire cages loaded up with gravel and rubble acting as improvised armour. Passing past the guards at one of the entrances, he was hurried by staff inside to the shipping crate where the man was being held. He had been carried on his stretcher away from the rest of the people for his interrogation, to one of the crates being used as a supply cache. Around him, the occasional yell or groan of agony echoed, cut out as the crate door was closed and some lighting started. At the centre of the dim glow, the prisoner lay on his stretcher, a small folding chair next to him holding the commander. Outside the crate, his guards stood to attention, leaving them alone in privacy.

"Under international law, prisoner, I am entitled to ask you your proper name, rank, identification number and date of birth. After this, you will have two options. You can firstly co-operate with us and give us answers to some questions that I have. If you do that, you will be treated with the best of care, and sent to Alfegos until the end of the war here to recover in a hospital there. However, if you just wish me to give you the four details necessary, you will be held in a tent here until sufficiently recovered, and then given such pleasant tasks as digging mass graves for all the bodies we find.
The choice of course is all yours. No pressure."

---

0920 hours

Outside the Mercenary-held area, in the middle of a shattered crossroads, a single body lay prominently in plain view to all who approached. A stake had been driven into the ground, to which the body lay tied by its hands. It was a progressive body, stripped of all items except its clothing and boots, and mutilated by the bullet wounds to its head. Upon the stake sat a metal capsule held in place by a thick metal cable, deep scratches on the side forming letters identifying it as a letter to the Progressive High Commander. Inside, a small roll of paper held the note to the man himself.

"Dear Sir,

I am glad to see that it is possible for the both of us to correspond in a civil manner, however differing our views for one another, whilst we both send our fellow men to their deaths.

I do wish to question your own moral integrity though, whilst listening to the ever-repeated criticism of an army fighting for payment. Is not a man who fights for a cause, however he is persuaded to do so, a moral man? Is a truly moral superior, such as you claim to be, able to support that claim when he hears the cries of his opposition as they charge to the fight - not that of cries for money, but of that for a cause they are fighting for. Whilst they are paid for doing so, you could say the same of any professional military force in the world. Just because a force is not backed by some agency does not mean that it is immoral.

I would secondly like to question your own morality, in terms of how you go about waging your wars. Can you rest knowing that you have recruited vulnerable people who you can't even bother to give the best training available to prolong their lives, leading them to commit suicide in the name of some belief? Reports I have from my clients are that you pick on the most vulnerable civilian refugees, recruiting entire battalion of suicide bombers - a meat shield as it were for the betterment of your cause.

But enough with the moral criticisms - I doubt you would ever waiver from your line of battle. I have met many religious men in my time, all similarly stubborn in their belief of moral superiority. The majority of them fought 'suicidal' last stands. But as I am sure you are aware, there are always two sides to a last stand - the meat and the metal. From what I have been able to glean of your personality, you are an intelligent man, one much more gifted than the many I have met before. Whilst I have my suspicions of which side you'll be on at the end of this conflict, the empty victory of this morning are nothing to draw conclusions on.

I wish that I had the chance to work alongside you - perhaps a different time, in a different life. I am not a man motivated by money, as you assume - I am motivated by fighting for a righteous cause. In my time, I have fought on what I would see as the right sight of a conflict, helping those few prevail against the greater evil. Whilst the money is what comes with fighting in the organisation I am in, I would gladly join my nation's army if I were able to, with their limits on age intake making this one of my own options.

Alas, I fight for the greater good. If we were to meet up sometime, in a situation in which neither of us were at risk from each other, I would gladly sit down in conversation with you. I'm sure that it would be an even-sided war of wits. However, with that unlikely, I fear the only time we will meet is at one of these infamous last stands, where I will be the metal.

Whilst I would wish to reciprocate your lack of respect for me or my cause, decency and an appreciation for your character would mean that it would be feeble to lie. So
Yours with respect, and great faith in its delivery,

Flotilla Commander Ui'lo Ya'na


__________________________

The reporter, Mar'i Ca'do sat with the person sent to meet them at the airstrip, whilst the cameraman assembled the large shoulder camera for their first interview.
"As I'm sure you're aware, the Alfegan Government want to take part in this conflict, on the side of the Progressives. However, the motion made for war in senate was met by a request for evidence of Hardliner atrocities and Progressive attempts to counteract them. Therefore, we've been sent as an independent news crew, part of the Alfegos News Network, to both cover the war from a first-hand perspective, and to gather evidence for the government.
I'll be sending this report as a duel-part confirmation to the government that I'm safe and well, and because it'll be broadcast on the breakfast news. It's 0510 in Alfegos at the moment, so if we record this it will be shown at the time pretty much everyone tunes in to the news. It's your opportunity to give your message to the voting public of Alfegos, and the rest of the world.

We have enough room for as many takes as you want, so we'll start recording with a couple of questions. I've written down the questions I want to ask you, so rehearse some answers first before we go over it proper."

She handed to her a small piece of card, with a short script on.


Reporter - Hello. I stand here bringing you a world-exclusive report on the civil war-turned-civilian disaster in Holy Marsh, at the start of recommencement of hostilities in this war-torn country. I am currently at a small airstrip outside of Khaska, one of the largest cities in the nation, and worst hit by this crisis, from where I will be bringing you reports on the true situation on the ground here.

With me, I have the privilege of talking to Miss Emily Crowd, an officer in the Progressive Faction. Firstly, can I ask you briefly summarise the conflict in the country?

You answer

From that, can I ask you what your side believe in?

You answer

What have your side been doing for the civilians caught up in this conflict?

You answer

Finally, if I may ask, why did you recommence hostilities rather than try come to a permanent ceasefire agreement with the Hardliners, or even prolong talks in the ceasefire?

You answer

Thankyou very much for your time, ma'am. This is Mar'i Ca'do, reporting from the war-torn city of Khaska, Holy Marsh.

"Just before we record ready, I'd like to remind you not to swear, due to the time we're broadcasting. If you speak in whatever dialect you want, the boffins back home in Alfegos will provide Fegosian subtitles, so no need to discomfort yourself with a forced accent. Finally, you'll be watched by about a hundred million people back home. So no sweat."
She paused, nodding as the cameraman hoisted the camera onto his shoulder and gave her a thumbs up.
"Alright, we're ready to record."

________________________

In the tunnels, the sergeant froze as he heard the shouts of the section who had ambushed him. The entire surviving section seemed, as he glanced around, to be either at gun point or at knife point. A tricky situation. He peered down at his grenades, then thought better of it noticing a couple suicide bombers and a flamethrower.
"Drop your guns slowly lads. Looks like we've really got ourselves in a mess this time. Once you've done that, listen to everything they say."

He quietly noted the knife concealed inside his trousers, as he turned to see what the progressives were going to do to them, whilst slowly placing his assault rifle down on the floor.

Emily started to speak, a trace of her Mushanian Marshite accent slipping in as Alfegan words rolled out.
“I studied languages at the University of Djisu before the war, so no need to have my words misinterpreted, eh?” Emily spoke in Alfegan as the cameraman signaled they were ready to begin.

The reporter started up, the sun rising in front of her and the Progressive officer. Trails of airplanes and the sound of gunfire could be heard and occasionally a larger explosion was heard. But generally, it was pretty quiet. The Holy Warriors seemed to be talking to some of the aid workers. That was a concern for Emily, but the reporter finished asking her first question and turned to Emily, who had to lean down a little to speak into the mic.

“The only way to describe this war would be by telling you the story of a little boy who is blinded now, a little girl who was raped, a father without a family, a mother without her husband, a family of eight who starved to death, a family of five who burned to death. Marshless, Lardful, and without end, we have fought and seen much horror. Too much of it has fallen on the heads of the civilians due to reckless Hardliner actions and their obsession with war.” Emily said, her eyes locked onto the reporter’s.

A few seconds passed as more Holy Warriors got out of the helicopter, and the reporter asked the second question.

“We believe that our nation has served its purpose in terms of war- we have defeated the Vile Lard’s great support nation after twenty one hundred years of combat. As such, our job should now be to find and destroy evil with faith and love, not faith and the sword, which should be used in defense but not in offense. We believe in peace, and a new way forward. The Hardliners believe that we must still actively seek out supporters of the Vile Lard- and that is, those who are evil- and destroy them, regardless of who they are or what the international community thinks. They believe in ceaseless war.” Emily responded, her voice thick with conviction.

The next question came as Emily looked into the camera.

“An example would be what happened during the Eve of Recollection. We spent money on food and aid shipments to be given to the hundreds of thousands of civilians under our care and attempted to repair sections of the tunnel system that had collapsed or were in danger of collapsing. The Hardliners, meanwhile, bought mercenaries from your country who have thus far used their airships to bombard civilian buildings and we have reason to believe that they now intend to destroy the tunnel networks.” Emily spoke, tilting her head with disdain towards the general direction of the Hardliners. Almost on time, a massive explosion was heard and everyone looked into the city as a skyscraper collapsed.

The next question came very quickly.

“Our beliefs when it comes as to what we should do with our nation, religion, and military are too radically different for there to be peace as long as one side is willing to fight. They will not accept anything less than a nation devoted to war and the destruction of nations. We will accept no less than peace with our fellow man, though we will defend ourselves. These ideals are too separate to coincide, as the actions of a Hardliner controlled government would impact the nation to the point that not even five Progressive-controlled governments. We can not, for the sake of our people and the people of Nova as a whole, let them have any control over the government. Dear Marsh, they would control the Cracked Satellite System! Dozens of satellites hurtling towards Earth armed with dozens of nuclear missiles each that will either separate to blanket an area or detonate on impact- imagine the Hardliners with that power. It would mean the end of the Holy Marsh as the international community would have to put a stop to them, and…a Hardliner controlled Marsh is a dead country. I can not, and will not, let billions die.”

*******************
“Good, good. Hands behind your backs, mercenaries.” The captain growled as he stepped back a little, weapon still pointed at the mercenary he had surprised. In either room, two men with plastic handcuffs started approaching the mercenaries.

“Okay gentlemen, here is how it will go down: You will be handcuffed and searched. After then, you will be escorted to your nice, cozy, POW camp.”
********************
DOCKS
0911

He had seen these tactics before. They didn’t really phase him much- maybe the Alfegans forgot where they were, but the thought of mass graves had lost the horror a long time ago. Then again, Krenzel liked toying with his captors. It had been fun last time.

“Krenzel McCasin, Captain in the 156th Khaskan Infantry Division, 18-00928-4331, 3-3-1978. As for the questions- sure, why not? I’m sure everything I know will be very useful to your cause. Like why it is so easy to kill your men, why none of you will survive, and why we find your equipment fun to play with. So yes, ask away.”

***********************

The letter had found its way to Castodas later that night. He liked it- nice to see that his attempts at angering the Mercenary leader had failed. That meant he was not prone to anger and, most importantly, was a decent human being.
Castodas’ responses was sent in a slightly better package: A mercenary who had been captured but who no longer had eyesight was escorted by civilians to the Hardliner lines. As before, the message was addressed to the Mercenary commander:

“Dear Ui’lo Ya’na,

I see that you didn’t fall for the trap. Good man. Now we can just talk, unlike how I treat that moron Terias.

A man who fights for a cause is only as just as the cause is and his reasoning behind joining the fight. In either case, joining the Hardliners for money is not valid. On one hand, you join those who believe that mass violence is the way forward, who care not for the future of the religion as much as the past. You join those who have executed civilians and prisoners alike. You join a cause that is not just in any way. But I can almost excuse them, as they have fought the Vile Lard long enough to have been corrupted. You, on the other hand, have chosen the path of war and profit. You may justify why you do this- that you believe it is for the greater good- but if the cause you choose to fight for is not just and their beliefs go against the greater good, then what really motivated you? I am not saying you are bad or ignorant, but that you are human. As a human, you were motivated not by the cause but by the profit. If you aren’t motivated by the profit, then renounce any further payments from the Hardliners- I know you and your men have already been paid enough to satisfy the Alfegan army’s salary for three months plus bonuses. If it is the cause that motivated you, then leave the Hardliners, for your beliefs are too far apart to be on the same level if what you are telling me is true.

As for how I conduct the war, you will find your sources and beliefs ill-informed. I don’t ask those under the age of eighteen to join my fight, and indeed, the only time I actively recruit is to shore up the number of fighters I need. Beyond that, why do I have so many suicide bombers? Because they volunteer, and this is directly related to what the Hardliners have done. Ask them about the mass executions they carried out. Ask them about their own suicide bomber programs, and how they differed from mine. Ask Terias why it is that civilians flee from the Hardliners in this city to settle with us, and why so many are willing to die to support us. Ask him, commander, about small boys and girls who used to live in the docks. Ask him, Ui’lo, and then ask yourself how this fits into the greater good.

I am stubborn. I know this. But I know why I am stubborn, what I fight for, what my goals are, who I fight for, and what I believe in. Can you say the same? I know what fate has prescribed for me, and it is not the path of defeat. That is the path that Terias and his flock will follow. The question you must ask yourself is whether that is the path you will follow as well.

With Respect,

Castodas”

*****************
DOCK TUNNELS
The tunnels collapsed in several areas, taking some surprised Progressives with them. But for the most part, the small amount of Progressives were able to retreat to several of the hidden rooms and their connected tunnels, where they were able to contact the levels below them. After a few minutes of shuffling the wounded and sealing off areas, they were ordered to stand their ground and observe the forces that entered the tunnel. The surveillance mission was open ended, they were told- they could be there for two hours or two years.
So they sat back, prepared defensive positions, and watched.

Infinite Echo JAB, HM - 0100 HOURS
20th Security Forces Expeditionary Group, Holding Cell 5

Captain Zsidó sat down across from Alek. To him, Alek appeared quite relieved at his fortune, and considerably more comfortable without being in handcuffs. "Good evening, Alek. Doing a bit better, I take it? Now, according to the agreement you reached with the Inquisitor, you were going to turn over to us information concerning these 'cartels' that are causing unnecessary deterioration to the lives of people in the camp." Taking out a recorder, he stated the day's date and time, his own name, and Alek's. "Don't worry, this is for our purposes only - we won't give you away to anyone as our source. You may begin whenever you're ready, and with whatever information you prefer."



Infinite Echo Aeromedical Hospital - 0100 HOURS

As Captain Kornél finally lay down to get some rest, however short it would ultimately be, he found himself unusually contented with his situation. After telling his idea for a new automated ground vehicle ambulance to his old professor, he still wondered where the idea had come from. And he couldn't help but wonder if it was from the Holy Marsh.

Inside the shipping crate, Ui'lo frowned slightly as he made his decision as to what he would do with the prisoner. The prisoner's first words had shown him to be the sort who would require persuasion. Whilst he was firmly against torture, and against the use of obedience drugs, he knew that psychological tactics were exactly the sort that he would use against the man. With that in mind, he stood up.
"Well, Mr Krenzel, it appears that you have an attitude problem. I used to serve in the armed forces of my country, in an infantry unit posted in Milkavich helping the police there. We used to have an attitude test to those who we arrested, which determined what happened to them. With most people who knew us, they would pass the attitude test, and we'd take them to their district police station, where the police would treat them according to their crime, with us watching to make sure they were treated fairly. However, there were the few nutballs, terrorists and arrogant subjects, similar to you, who spat in our faces. I was offering you a meal ticket out of here, and a fair choice. I wouldn't have even minded if you said no, and we left it at that. So, you failed the attitude test. And do you know what happened to those who failed the attitude tests?"
He paused, a faint grin crossing his face.
"We handed them in to the ISS agents at the central police station. None of them were seen again by us. I never saw what the ISS did to those people, but I have my suspicions. Just like my second-in-command. I've never had any proof of certain aspects of his nature, just rumour. But he always corrects the attitude problems of anyone he's called upon. I'll let you have a word with him."

He walked out of the crate, slamming the crate door behind him. The light flickered out inside the crate, leaving the entire crate in darkness. The occasional sound of screaming from the field hospital crept into the crate, the rest muffled by the supplies and the crate walls. But, if any observer had listened, they would've heard two men breathing in the dark - the pained breaths of the prisoner, and a much more sinister, calm breath from deeper within the crate.
The silence was broken by a loud click as hiss, a small flame igniting in the darkness to reveal a solitary man. The flame reached up to meet a cigarette in the man's mouth, the light revealed the jagged landscape of the man's scarred face, along with the shining blade of a machete on the floor. The light went out, leaving a hellish glow in mid air, glowing in time with the man's breaths.
"Well well well, Mr Krenzel. It appears you have an attitude problem. Before we begin, we shall start with a brief introduction. I am the head of the Palm Land Defence Systems Fighting Arm, which is located currently in this theatre. I am also a man without much of a name. You see, I live by many aliases, due to the nature of my person in the eyes of certain governments. By joining an extra-governmental organisation, such as this mercenary organisation, I am quite happy in committing deeds that only company rules prohibit me against. Well worth it, to be honest, since the company still doesn't have a true identity for me, and doesn't quite honestly care. If they did though, they'd be in for a shock.

For the purposes of this dialogue, I will let you in on a little secret. One of my aliases is Ji'al. A pretty common Alfegan name, especially before the 2nd Civil War. Afterwards however, it did have certain connotations with it. If you had anything sembling an education, one of the things you would've covered is the Modern history of Alfegos. A fascinating subject, especially since my name is all over parts of it. Ji'al the Arsonist, wanted for eight hundred and nineteen counts of murder, though my counting puts it nearer to a thousand. Wanted by most of Nova for terrorism and crimes against humanity. It's amazing what firebombing the schools in Il'vi did for my name. During my last little pyromanical excursion there, one of my little pet devices went off a bit too early. Whilst the pain was excruciating, the People's Revolutionary Army did their little bit in fixing it. I got a new face out of the bargain, and as a result it makes it that more difficult to find me. They never did find any DNA samples, and neither did they find any fingerprints.

Some people suspect me for doing something sometime in the past, yes. You see though, I would like to share a little some else with you. I found what I did at first necessary - I highlighted our cause to the rest of the world. After that though, up until I set myself on fire, I found it fun. The sight of flames dancing over human flesh is truly spectacular, a sight I think you should try and see sometime. The dancing lights... oh they are so pretty. And the variety of colours as well - I'm sure that any artist would find the scene a delight.

With that on your mind, I'd like to put down my rules. Ui'lo can go to hell with his rules - they make everything so boring. You answer me five questions - not too much of a stretch. If you tell me the truth, which will quite quickly be ascertained, I'll tell Ui'lo you've cleaned up your act and been a nice boy. You'll probably still get that private hospital in Alfegos, and Alfegan citizenship if you're extremely good. If however you lie to me, even the tiniest white lie..." A small manic laugh punctuated his words "... I'll tie you to a lamp post and use you as a target. And if you still have your attitude problem, I'll throw you whilst you're still alive into the mass grave, and let them bury you. Ui'lo won't stop me either, because you'll have suddenly died due to your injury, possibly from overexerting yourself in telling me lies.

So then, shall we begin? I'll start with an easy one - where are your command posts, including your high command? I'll accept GPS co-ordinates and vague directions."

OOC:

Bad news, all. My computer's gone and crashed, hard drive failure. I have limited access to a library's computers but not really enough to RP effectively. I have ordered the replacement machine already and it should be in my house in just a few more days now.

Until then, I'll be seeing you.

OOC: Sorry for the delay. I had one part written, then I had an idea so I had to write down the entire history of Marsh-Lard Wars and take from that what I needed.

IC:

“The Cartel has more resources than you have been led to believe. They not only hire civilians and runners to go into the cities and get what goods they can for sale here, but they have agents inside several Marsh-based aid organizations as well as within the churches in the cities. In exchange for safe transport out of the city- the Cartel is able to pay off small sections of the Hardliner and Progressive forces in the city to disengage during certain hours- of civilians in the Church-owned areas, the Church hands over quantities of specialized goods. They know not what the Cartel does with the goods.

After the goods have been acquired, they are brought back to one of…eight depots, if I remember correctly. Each depot is headed up by a Regional Manager, and each Manager controls all operations in his sector. The region I worked in is Region Four. We mark up the goods and sell them. Of course, these people are poor and often times can’t pay. This leads to many forms of payment- whether it be ‘favors’ or indentured service. Most runners are now serving the Cartel to pay off debts. This gives the Cartel a small income. However, the truth about their profit is far darker.

They work with both the Progressives and Hardliners in underground networks. The deals- I don’t know much. Contrary to your belief, I am not that high up in the chain of command. I am two steps below our Regional Manager, who I shall discuss in a minute. What I do know of our dealings with them is from previous agreements in other sectors: We would sell them the foodstuffs that not even they could get from the city, we would spy for them in exchange for money, and we would use that money to purchase weapons. As you can see, this is a vicious cycle: We get money from the civilians and the warring factions, our wares from the runners and the Churches, and the means to defend ourselves come from the very reasons we deal with the warring factions. All the while, part of the profit goes to clearing a path out of cities for civilians. This is not down for noble reasons; many of these people become indentured servants due to the debt they owe while many more end up paying for our wares.

Of course, having too many runners or active personnel would endanger us. We keep only a certain number active. The rest act as spies, and in a camp built like this, they are invaluable. Within moments of my capture, I’d bet you a Mushanian Diasin that my manager found out. The Cartel knows every patrol route taken and watch almost every security professional in the camp. Over the years, the spy base has become almost overwhelming- for every Cartel member, there are likely five spies. For ever runner, there are likely three spies. If a runner is killed, we can just use a spy and not lose a step. This leads to the Cartel being able to sidestep most thrusts aimed at taking it out as nearly every time a Holy Warrior or, more recently, HC Security Professional as you lot are known, moves you are seen and reported almost immediately via a series of well-established signals. The reason I was caught was because the spy link that led from your team to my location was broken due to several spies being in mass at the time. If I had known however, the most I could have done was run as I do not warrant armed guard.

The Regional Manager does, however. He will be protected by a squad of well-armed and, as almost all Marshites are, well-equipped men. Their motivation and morale may be their downfall. Each Manager has a squad, and the Operator- the leader- of the Cartel apparently has a platoon. This is different than the Cartel’s Militia force, which is made up of civilians who want to form a defensive network in case the Holy Warriors collapse, indentured servants, and those who are scared into it. The MF is relatively weak as they take time to muster and lack coordination, as well as things such as body armor and heavy weapons. They could harm your personnel, but not your vehicles to a large degree. This is different with the Manager Squads- they are very well-equipped. I’d estimate a total of 400-450 grand total armed Cartel Militia, 91 Regional/Elite Troops. You could defeat them all, but the civilian toll would be huge. They rely on that to keep the Holy Warriors at bay.

Beyond that, let me give you what I do know on how you can find out more. Every Wednesday, local militia members gather immediately after mass at weapon depots hidden underground for a few minutes to receive their orders for the week in case of an open battle. The meeting lasts only a few minutes, and the timing is crucial; during the time during or immediately after mass, the spy ring is at its weakest. You may be able to initiate an operation that can remain covert long enough to get close enough to get to the meeting in progress. I know only the codename of the militia operator at the building; “Sparky Light”. The building itself is located…here. Beyond that, all other information relating to my contacts is useless now as it would be unless you had used it nearly immediately after I had been caught.”

Alick spoke at length, detailing the workings of the Cartel for the benefit of all.

*********************************
Meanwhile, the attacks that had been ordered never materialized. The STT teams returned and dispersed back to their original positions as new leaders took over in the area. Representatives were sent to Camp Echo, and a meeting was set for the late evening. Meanwhile, tank battles were fought to the east with no real result besides death, and the cities to the east fared just as ill as thousands began the road to their doom.
*********************************
CAMP DELTA
FORTRESS-MONASTERY MOI’KAN KAI’SIN
October 1st, 0500

Moi’kan had been the scene of much bloodshed in its history. The monastery was erected in 212 BS as a temple for worship not only of the Holy Marsh, but the Vile Lard and the Great Broflovski as well. The first open conflict had been when during a mass religious ceremony for the Great Broflovski was attacked by swarms of Lardian militia during their religions open conflict. Few escaped the massacre, but the victory was short lived as an elite cohort of Broflovski heavy infantry was dispatched and annihilated the Lardian militia. Their position became untenable as the Broflovski nation was being destroyed town by town by the Vile Lard. The survivors fled south to the Holy Marsh, and the cohort handed over the monastery to the Marshite Army. In 199 BS, a standoff ensued between the Vile Lard, who claimed the right to the monastery by previous conquest, and the Holy Marsh claimed it by right of the Holy Marsh Himself. A siege took place- but by now, the defenders had had time to start turning the monastery into a fortress and had sent word for help. The largest organized army of Marshites up to this point, 30,000 plus Broflovski(Great Ally), Stotch(The Naïve One), Testaburger(The Loved One), and McCormick(The Dead One) detachments, was sent up north to relieve the fort while the Vile Lard responded in kind. This short war- The Hitlion War(199 BS-197 BS)- was the first time the two sides had engaged in open, declared warfare, and it resulted in the Marshites retaining the Monastery and colonizing the areas around it. Between this time and start of the Long War (100 BS- 2005 AS/0 AV), the monastery was the focus of all serious defensive construction efforts. Tunnels were built, tietary fortresses were established, etc. Between the start of the Long War and 700 AS, the Monastery was the centerpiece of a grand defensive network of tunnels and fortresses that protected the small towns in the area. Multiple Lardian attacks were crushed, and even an Atrean thrust was torn apart. Indeed, in the early days of the war the Monastery stood as a beacon of hope for the Marshites and it was known as the “Western Khaska”.

From 700 to 1400 AS however, the situation detoriated rapidly. Fourteen battles were fought, each one larger than the next, as the Lardians swarmed the Hitlions. The Monastery itself was not breached, but the towns it defended fell to pieces one by one, and the numbers of the defenders dwindled. The passes to the south were tightened and the Siege of 1376 was a close run affair where the defenders exerted themselves almost to the point of defeat. By 1410, the founding of Shanestan, only the Monastery itself and the area surrounding it belonged to the Holy Marsh.

Shanestan was a country formed not only of Lard Cultists who were somewhat cultured, but of various Novan nationalities and peoples who felt disenfranchised. The country, which had existed previously as a small border state between the Vile Lard and Holy Marsh and played with both sides in exchange for safety and money, lay astride the southern supply route. Their first act of independence was to take these routes and launch a lightning campaign south that took the Holy Marsh by surprise and cut a path into Pushanian Marsh. Allied with the Vile Lard, the two armies flooded Pushanian Marsh and flanked the capital. This led to the Wars of True Extermination- 1410-1490. The Monastery was now isolated completely and all seemed lost in 1411 when a Lardian-Shanestani force of 480,000 descended on the area. Atrea, however, came to the aid of the Holy Marsh and her armies joined together in battle with the Holy Marsh in the Hitlions. A series of close run and epic sieges, battles, and campaign ensued which saw multitudes die and the Hitlions run red. By 1420, the Vile Lard and the Shanestani were forced to retreat from the area. However, in 1425, another massive force prepared to invade the area as the rest of the Holy Marsh dealt with being completely overwhelmed. This time, not even Atrea seemed able to come to the aid of the defenders.

The Holy Warriors knew they would be destroyed if an open battle took place, outnumbered at this time about 40-1 and with the supply situation completely untenable. A church-sanctioned assassination mission was carried out with the two finest assassins they had to offer- both of whom had the hardest jobs ever assigned to a Marshite assassin. The Emperor of Shanestan was to be killed, as was the Dark Deacon of the Vile Lard. The audacity of these plans was matched only by the skill of the assassins sent. As the armies got closer, the assassins reached their objectives. Their deeds live through in epic songs and have a special place in Marshite history- though they would both die, the Emperor and the Dark Deacon lay dead as well. The invasion of 1425, which would have meant the capture of the Monastery and likely of Pushanian Marsh, never materialized and the Holy Warriors of the Monastery became legends that would inspire the embattled denizens of the south.

With the war in the south exhausting Lardian and Shanestani armies, the Monastery had a respite from the almost ceaseless war that was its history. Atrean aid trickled in through a corridor that had been established, the Monastery-Fortress walls and outlying structures were rebuilt, and through Atrea. Allied Marshite forces entered the area. The numbers were few, but by 1490, they were stronger than they had been in centuries. As the war in the south turned and the Marshites surrounded the Lardian and Shanestani armies in the jungles and mountains, the Vile Lard launched a battle intended to form a truce upon which the 600,000+ Lardians stuck in Pushanian Marsh could escape.

It was a mistake. Stronger than before and with more defenses and tunnels than ever before, the Marshites ripped the poorly led and trained Lardian army to shreds. Combined with the absolute massacres that same year- The Sixth Battle of Muq’sala(100,000+ Allied casualties), The Shanestani Campaign(80,000+ Shanestani Deaths), The Fifth Battle of the Pushanian West(110,000+ casualties), and The Final Battle of Holy Marsh City(220,000+ Allied casualties)- it led to the complete and total end to the war. The Monastery re-established control over the area, and the Shanestani Campaign linked it with the rest of the nation.

From 1490-2000, it was the site of six more battles. None of them were close, nor decisive in their respective conflicts. What is of note is that after the Vile Lard was defeated, it was named as Operations Capital of “Operation: Pesticide”, the cleansing of Lard Cultists from the Hitlions.

The Civil War got in the way of that. Now, Lard Cultists were able to slip into the vast tunnel and tietary fortress network and inflict their bloody vengeance on anyone they wished; international aid workers, Progressives, Hardliners, Holy Warriors, and civilians were all targets and those who escaped imprisonment also claimed the corpses inside their Temples were a testament to the fact they weren’t picking favorites.

That was annoying…but their attempts to destroy the Monastery were more so. The firing was muted usually as the vast complex and tunnel network made it hard to travel for too long. However, it would be hard to miss an arched pathway with a squad of Holy Warriors blowing up high in the sky in the monastery.
And as the debris fell into the camp, the Holy Warriors knew questions would be asked.

*************************************************
KHASKA- UNKNOWN LOCATION

The initial uneasiness which Krenzel had felt with the breathing faded as the man spoke. He could only guess his history was supposed to either frighten Krenzel or make his threats real. Instead, it made his words meaningless.
“Sure, I’ll answer your questions truthfully…this time, fiend.” Krenzel spoke, a smile etched on his face. He was going to tell the man the truth.
“And the truth is- I don’t know where any command posts are. I’ve never been below the second tier of tunnels. As for your threats, I think I’d like to see your knife play. Someone who devotes his life to murder and fear better be able to back it up.”

Whilst infuriated by the prisoner’s persisted attitude somewhat, the tiny voice of control and reason in the interrogator’s head was enough to stop him acting rashly. He had more questions to ask.
“It is a shame that you don’t want to tell me where the command posts are, though you just told me that they were deep below the ground. But, yes, that most certainly interests me.

On that note, you can help me further with my next question – that is, give me a description of the tunnel network that your lot are so fond of. Levels, special areas, power stations… anything and everything you know. Whilst you think of your answer, I’ll give you your third question – what’s your rough approximation of your forces in the city? And, are there any potentials for a re-enforcement operation?”

By now, the cigarette was almost finished, putrid fumes hovering in the surrounding air. With nothing to do with his hands now, he took out his combat knife and sharpening rod, caressing the blade with a quiet scraping sound as he sharpened it further, taking particular care around the lethal point. Whilst not weighted to be a throwing knife, it was just possible to be used by an expert in the matter as such a weapon, especially when weighted in a particular way with strapped-on metal rods. The occasional spark fell down to the crate floor as he continued, an evil light in the dark.


“Thankyou for that, ma’am. I’ll have it transmitted now so that it goes on the morning broadcast of the ANN news. I don’t think we’ll need a retake on that – you appear to be a natural at this!”
The reporter smiled as the cameraman started uploading the video he had taken, plugged into a small, rugged laptop. Next to him, a collapsible satellite dish sat on top of his bag, beaming away to a distant communications unit beyond the cloudy surrounds.

Behind her, the activity at the camp climaxed as the transport airship was finally sighted. A massive craft using the wind to slow itself down, it had been decelerating since it had passed over central Atrea, following the Pan Atrean Airshipping route. Making this brief diversion, the airship was now travelling at tens of kilometres an hour, engines in full reverse thrust as it came over the airstrip. As long, if not longer than the airstrip, the airship was a sight to bring deep emotions into the human heart as it blocked out the faint sun from the area, casting a deep shadow. Descending slowly and in a controlled manner, the airship was brought to a halt as the mooring brakes were applied – namely, some of the fourty airship crewmen on the sides of the vessel began firing steel anchor cables into the ground, ropes as thick as a man’s arm trailing vicious harpoons as they were fired from small cannons. Other ground friction brakes dragged against the ground, digging up sections of dirt either side of the runway as the craft came to a halt, before dropping down to unload. Crewmen flocked the rearward area as the unload ramp was dropped, revealing the cavernous interior of the cargo gondola. Inside, crate upon crate sat neatly stacked, the ones closest to the door quickly reached by the crewmen as they began moving them off towards trucks waiting to receive them. Inside each crate, aid supplies sat crowded, crammed into them.

To the side, where one of the special forces men stood with the Progressive officers, a pair of binoculars was handed to the Progressive officer liasing with them, with the special forces team commander reading out a number from a notebook.
“It’s that crate I think over there – the one they’ve moved to the side to be loaded onto a lorry. You might want to grab it soon, and move it away from the rest of them. It’d be quite a surprise finding that whilst handing out blankets and food!”

Canyon Delta JAB, HM - 0500 HOURS
94th Aeromedical Expeditionary Hospital, Commander's quarters

The explosion shook Colonel Román Orbán awake. He sat up with a jerk and ran up the hall to the nearest window. The black smoke and brown dust rising from the monastery signaled disaster. Fortunately, he was a man well-prepared for such things, as his unit was the premiere HCSKAF Reserve unit for disaster response.

He ran back up the hallway to his office and got on the phone with the Holy Warriors hosting him. "Colonel Orbán here, what's going on up there? Do you need some ambulances and medics en route?"




Infinite Echo JAB, HM - 0900 HOURS
20th Security Forces Expeditionary Group, HQ

In his office, Colonel Oreglak of the HCSKAF Security Forces sat with Command Surgeon Colonel Eger through what seemed like an endless briefing. The coffee just wasn't getting the job done for either of them today. Captain Zsidó, three HCSKAF OSI agents, and one of their Holy Warrior counterparts were tag-teaming them with information brought to light by the information "volunteered" by the prisoner in Cell 5. Just when Colonel Oreglak though it would never end, it abruptly did so.

"Any questions, sirs?" asked Captain Zsidó. "It would appear that we have uncovered something fairly significant here."

Colonel Eger spoke first, saying, "While there is the potential for much worse, what is going on now is not really as bad as I had suspected. What we need to do for now is watch and wait. We need to have our eyes on their eyes, so to speak. That, and keep an eye on what products they're moving. I want Colonel Oreglak to analyze the reports on this daily so we can monitor their resources, and forward all product requests to Lieutenant Colonel Mecsér over at Garden Fox.

The 'Cartel' is profiteering, adding more hardships to the already catastrophic humanitarian crisis on our hands here. We'll put the pressure on them with good ol' fashion capitalism - we'll have more of the products available for an uninflated price. This will help curb their usery of the refugees. Naturally, we'll have to put limits on how much can be purchased per household, but that shouldn't be that big of an issue."

"Now what about if the 'Cartel' starts to escalate this into a turf battle?" asked Colonel Oreglak. "What will the rules of engagement be on that?"

Colonel Eger replied, "Your original ROE for this operation hasn't changed at all in regards to that. But if they want a fight, we'll do what the government in St. Istvan did to organized crime back in the '80s - cave it in from the inside and then mop up the outside when it all falls apart."

Colonel Oreglak nodded in agreement. "Watch and wait it is, then."

KHASKA PORTS
Krenzel couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Was this man honestly so stupid so as to not get information available to the Hardliners? They knew about the design of the tunnel network- everyone in Khaska did. It was just such a maze that one couldn’t really navigate it without aid.
Krenzel chuckled.
“I can’t tell you much about the tunnel systems in terms of anything you would understand- I know as much as your allies do. You may not yet get it, but I am of little use to you in terms of that. I was stationed near the top and spent as much time in combat as moving around. I made sure to put a bullet in the head of a friend who knew more before that explosion tore me up- I was sure he was dead before, but no sense in taking chances. As for the amount of men- ohh, well, ten thousand to half a million is my estimate. I have no clue. I would command my company and follow my orders. They don’t tell us much, so if captured we aren’t a serious loss. Now when do we get to the knife play?”

**************************
WEST OF KHASKA.
“Why thank you, and good luck. I must be going now, but I heard you may want to be imbedded or otherwise get the sights and sounds of this godforsaken war. I have some unaligned militia who volunteered to escort you around.” Emily said, the windo flicking her hair to and fro.


Meanwhile, the Progressive Officer listened intently to the Special Forces officer. He relayed the message to, of all people, the Holy Warrior detachment. The Holy Warriors technically were neutral and operated the site, but the Alfegan airship debacle had pissed them off some. They would handle this part of it with glee.

***************************
CAMP DELTA
“No, assistance is not required.” The Holy Warrior said quickly and somewhat ngrily before hanging up.
The attack had been the largest one, and four of the five Holy Warriors were dead. Several squads of Cultists had attempted to infiltrate via the tunnels, but the Holy Warriors had quickly cut them down. In total, eighteen Cultists dead and twenty-four were wounded, three of them captured and soon to be executed. Four Holy Warriors were dead and three were wounded. Civilian wise, estimates put the number of total casualties at thirty. It would blow over soon enough.

Three miles away, six men emerge from a tunnel wearing civilian outfits. Underneath however, the bodies bare the markings of those loyal to the Vile Lard. After a quick discussion in their barbaric native tongue, the group heads towards the camp.
****************************
20th Security Forces Expeditionary Group, HQ

“Brothers, while this lot of information is a major boon for all our efforts, let us not attempt to underestimate the severity of the situation. The Cartel will fight back and fight back hard; expect deaths. At the same time, it is extremely troubling that they have contacts in the Progressive and Hardliner camps. Such a situation is a powder keg and must be dealt with handily and, more importantly, with the utmost caution. You will also find that since you are foreign to these people, misinformation and distrust shall flow freely with little way of stopping it for a few months. I don’t disbelieve that the plan will work; I just wish for us to be cautious in how effective these tactics alone will be. We can only find out more once we know the position of Hardliner and Progressive commands in the area. And I can’t help but shake the feeling that before this war is over the hot hand of death shall lay itself upon someone in this room, Marsh bless him,” The Holy Warrior who sat in with the Foreigners, Corporal Melissa Taverns, spoke.

Infinite Echo JAB, HM - 1000 HOURS
20th Security Forces Expeditionary Group, HQ

"Well, Corporal Taverns, we'll see what the future holds, then" said Colonel Eger. "It's never right to not do the right thing just because somebody is threatening to do the wrong thing if you do. That would show cowardice and a lack of integrity. No, we will continue forward as planned, and the 'Cartel' will react how they will. Colonel Oreglak, have your Security Forces tighten the search standards, increase frequency of the perimeter patrols, and begin doing a different random security measure every day to keep the 'Cartel' off-balance."

"Yes, sir" replied his SF counterpart.

Colonel Eger looked at the rest of the people in the room. "Has anyone anything else to add?" Colonel Oreglak and Captain Zsidó shook their heads indicating that they did not. "Well, if there's nothing further, then you're all dismissed."



Canyon Delta JAB, HM - 1200 HOURS
94th Aeromedical Expeditionary Hospital, Commander's Office

Colonel Orbán had his office set up for the lunch meeting with his Holy Warrior hosts from Camp Delta. There were several assorted foods from the local area and a couple from the HCSK. If there was one thing that he enjoyed, it was trying new foods - hence his slightly larger waistline than most HCSK military men. But he could still pass his PT test, and passing was all that mattered in that respect.

Opening the door to his office, he looked out into the small command/support office to see if his guests had arrived yet. Master Sergeant Éles, the NCOIC of the CSS, looked at him from across the room and shrugged, saying without a word everything Colonel Orbán needed to know.

20th Security Forces Expeditionary Group, HQ

Do they realize I’m not telling them to not do it, just prepare for the consequences? Taverns thought to himself.
No matter. If a Holy Warrior died, they would accept that and destroy the party responsible. Their lives were for Him anyway, and He would dictate when death would capture them. When some of the foreigners die, well, Taverns just hoped that they wouldn’t be too shocked.
“No, I believe that is all.” Taverns said, standing up and adjusting his torn uniform before walking out.

*************
CAMP ECHO AIRFIELD

The two transport helicopters coming from different areas and holding even more differing viewpoints touched down in the designated areas. Each was greeted by two Nakils and three Ironhearts, plus a full platoon of Holy Warriors ready to escort them to the meeting. After some stern security lectures, the two opposing Generals from the Progressive and Hardliner commands were spirited away to the meeting with HW and Foreigner command, their security details left near the landing zones under heavy guard.

*************
Canyon Delta JAB, HM - 1210 HOURS
94th Aeromedical Expeditionary Hospital, Commander's Office

The cloth over Sgt. Razei’s left eye was wrapped tightly, giving him some discomfort. It had been three months since shrapnel had torn the eye to pieces during a Cultist ambush, and he still was not used to it. It had ended his career as a sniper, much to his dismay, for he had been a damn fine one- he had made sure to exact his revenge on that Cultist formation. But alas, the life of a one-eyed sniper was not as exciting as the stories would say- he was now relegated to being a liason between command and the Foreigners, a position he did not relish. It was mostly because of the Monastery. The Bishop was vehemently opposed to allowing the Foreigners into the area under any condition. And indeed, the vast majority of the time they were not truly needed there- the low number of casualties incurred during the ceaseless battles there were easily handled by the Holy Warriors, and they believed that the Foreigners should stick to the civilians. However, a small contingent- including Razei- believed that since the Foreigners came to help, they should be allowed into every area even if they weren’t needed.

And that is why as he entered the building he carried a uniform, Holy Warrior Scripture, Ghurka combat knife, and everything else important to a Holy Warrior. Before the foreigners could speak, he threw these things on the ground.
“Get dressed. You’re going to the Monastery.”

Canyon Delta JAB, HM - 1210 HOURS
94th Aeromedical Expeditionary Hospital, Commander's Office

Colonel Orbán was taken aback by first the appearance, then the manner, and finally the request of the liaison. After thinking about if for a moment, he nodded and had Sgt. Razei follow him to another part of the hospital. Colonel Orbán came back out, dressed as best he could with what he was given, and proceeded to follow his guide into what he felt like could end his career if anyone ever found out. But then again, "you only live once..."



Camp Echo, HM - 1230 HOURS
Administrative Sector Dog 3, Command Structure

Colonel Eger and Colonel Oreglak arrived at the Command Structure for their next meeting of the day, as requested. But this meeting promised to be the most interesting one by far. Somewhat to their chagrin, they were the last ones to arrive. Nodding to their counterparts from the other factions, they took their seats.

CAMP DELTA, 1212 HOURS
"Now listen, your cover is that you are a Holy Warrior Private-Follower from Eversi under my guard. Your name is Gaskalian Makainin, and you are a close quarters specialist. You are not to speak unless spoken to, lest your cover break. Any questions?" Razei said as the two walked briskly towards the Monastery, the marvelous structure rising up like most surely a human would look to an ant.

Camp Echo - 1230 HOURS
Administrative Sector Dog 3, Command Structure

The Hardliner general was Mary-Sanin Caras. An entirely unattractive woman of fity-nine, her advancement pre-war had been held back at her own request as she believed herself incapable of leading a division. Now she found herself in command of five. Her hair was extremely short and her face bore the scars of a dozen plus campaigns. Her uniform was the only thing tidy about her otherwise mangy appearance, and luckily it hid the other scars she had incurred in her life.

Progressive General Michael Hointer was very different. Younger and more energetic, he had risen from the lower ranks by performing extremely well on the field of battle. Such was his prowess that eight years ago he was asked to join the Holy Warriors as part of the Avenger program. He had declined, believing himself destined for greatness and a high command position. He came in wearing a Femasin uniform, non-standard for a soldier but still built to quality that was high. His personal file would indicate other things that while accepted and respected in marshite culture, would be thought weird by others. he was short, well built, and had long, black hair.

The Holy Warrior representative needed no introduction. He was Friar David, and he was there to answer why the previous commanders had been sentences to death.

Camp Delta, HM - 1215 HOURS

After briefly confirming that he had his story straight, the incognito Colonel Orbán followed Sgt. Razei into a zone forbidden for foreign eyes to behold.



Camp Echo, HM - 1230 HOURS
Administrative Sector Dog 3, Command Structure

"Good to see you again, Friar David" said Colonel Oreglak. Their previous encounter had been short, but professional. But Friar David had gained his respect when he saw the report of the interrogation on the prisoner in Cell 5. A man who could extract information like that was due much respect, or fear, as the case may be with some.

The man was slightly angered, yet still had a vestige of self-control about him. He hadn't thought over what would have happened if the man didn't know anything relevant. Was he asking the wrong questions? He came to a conclusion that the man was evidently non-plussed about his threats. Time to make him suffer.

"I wouldn't give you the pleasure of a rapid death. No, I think I know exactly what we can do. You are not use to us any more, and your attitude has meant that you qualify for the second choice I gave you. Enjoy your death."

He took out a small roll of masking tape, cutting it open before sticking it over the person's mouth.
"There there. No need to have you making any noise."
He handcuffed the ma's hands and legs, before using the tape to bind him to his stretcher. He then threw a blanket over him, hiding the body.
"We don't want any struggling, do we?"

---

A few minutes later, the covered stretcher lay by the edge of a pit, cut by hand into the ground. Inside already, bodies had been piled, wrapped in blankets and covered in quicklime. A couple soldiers stood by the side, waiting as a man quickly filled out a form. All were fully clad in CBRN warfare kit, gas masks fixed.
"Death from injuries. It's a shame really. I think the doctor said that the wound nicked an artery - it was just a matter of time until it burst. Well, let's get it done with."
The two soldiers picked up the stretcher, before throwing it into the dark pit. One of the soldiers dug a shovel into the barrel of quicklime, before tossing it over the body.

Once the officer had gone, he walked over to the two soldiers, still waiting. Taking out a small wad of notes, he counted out the money, before passing it to the two.
"If you say anything about this, you'll be joining him. Alright?"
He watched the two soldiers rush away, seemingly in fear, watching the man below the blanket slowly writhe. Thank god nobody else had seen him move. Spitting in disgust, he began digging into the heap of spoil by the side, pouring earth and rubble on top of the bodies.

___________________________________

The SF team stood by the side of the crate that had been singled out, shooing off anyone nearby from touching it. In the distance, from one of the Holy Warrior detachment buildings, Major Lo'rai caught a glimpse of one of the Holy Warriors. He waited a few moments, before taking off his rucksack and sitting down.
"It'll be good if the Holy Warrior lot hurry up over here. They may be the best of the warriors in this hell-hole, but I'm not sure about them being the most punctual. It'd be nice if we could have a good chat with them, and give them some chance of getting a hit with these."
He paused, before yelling over to the Progressive Officer he had talked with.
"Hey you! Could you tell the Holy Warriors to bring a couple trucks along with them?"

____________________________________

The news team smiled at the officer they had been talking with, before continuing.
"It'd be nice if we could meet up with them as soon as possible - we've been asked to try and have a live interview for the 6pm news, and get the footage as quickly as we can."
The cameraman finished the transmission, before reading a series of messages.
"Yep - they've looked through the footage, and it's just what they needed. No retakes at all. Thankyou very much there, the face of the Progressive movement!"

_____________________________________

The Mercenary Leader sat reading the latest letter he had received as part of the correspondence with the Progressive leader. Whilst he was sure this was not the most usual of circumstances, he believed it was good at least to try and be civil.
"Dear Castodas
I received your letter last night, and took a while reading through it. You have such views of my motives, as a profiteer rather than one fighting for a greater good, that I wish to correct with posthaste, should my views have been miswritten in my first letter.

As I am sure you know, I work for a company. I am not the head of the company, but a mere sub-ordinate. You, as a leader, have the option of choosing the ultimate fate of your people, you who need not answer to a higher authority. On the other hand, I have no choice in the battle that I am sent to fight in - like all soldiers, I believe that the cause that we are fighting for must be just for us to be sent to fight for it. All people, as I said before, will find their cause just, human nature being to see only to the end of one's nose.

If I had control over my fate, I would petition for my forces removal. But, alas, there are problems with that. The first is the company itself would discharge me. If that were to occur, then I would be no more a soldier, even if it is a mere mercenary in your eyes, but a common killer, who would be accountable for every death under my command since I joined the company. A threat that prevents all deserters. The second is of the hardliners. If you had a mercenary force fighting for your side, what would your reaction be if they pulled out, not completing the agreed contract? You would treat them as ordinary criminals, and butcher them.

What I am trying to say is that I made my choice when I signed onto the mercenary organisation. After that, I had no say in where I was sent, only that I was to command to the best of my ability.

Thus, I must depart now. I hope that this letter reaches you in the best of time.
Yours in faith,
Ui’lo Ya’na