NationStates Jolt Archive

Dear Aingeal

My mission’s end draws closer. Fascism has been a blight upon our land for half a century, polluting our rivers, burning our forests, and breeding weapons with an insatiable taste for death and destruction. For years we watched as our culture was trampled on, our land turned into the colony of a totalitarian regime. No longer.

These past years have been anything but easy, but I have suffered for a cause. Today I am a lowly civil servant, typing document after document from eight o’clock to five o’clock in the hallowed halls of Fugolwielle. Tomorrow, I will be a traitor, terrorist and spy, deserving only the gallows – at least, in the eyes of our oppressors, for they will no longer be my masters. All is in place for each and everyone's final path to liberation. And the laptop I type to you on now is a vital part of that plan.

I have had access to a bank of horrible secrets, stories of horrors and atrocities committed against our Slavic comrades in other holdings of Weccanfeld, secrets telling of plans for our beloved Rófhada, and of the locations of our abhorrent master’s nuclear stockpiles upon our island. It is with these that the powderkeg of revolution that is Rófhada will be sparked. I shall not tell you of my plan now, for there is little time. I leave tonight, and hopefully nobody shall notice I'm gone before it is too late. Folcþegen Heahtun will no longer continue his rule. In his place shall emerge the savoir of the Gaelic peoples in Rófhada.

I return to you soon.

Love

Gilroy

* * *

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“People of Rofhadan, I, Bertwald Thrydwulf Keinion, Feldheretoga of the Weccanfeldian Army and the New Acting Folcþegen of the Dominion of Rofhadan by decree of the First Minister of the Weccanfeldian Nation Jonathon Oswald Cromtun, am hereby forced by the recent instability in the Dominion caused by lies spread by terrorists, to declare Martial Law, a resolution that will take place immediately. With this decree, the Weccanfeldian Military shall enforce a set of emergency laws in Rofhadan. For one, a strict curfew of eight o’clock shall be enforced throughout the week, being extended at weekends by one hour. Those found out of their homes by this time without due reason will be detailed indefinitely by the Military pending trial.

Secondly, directly assisting organisations considered terrorist factions by the Military Administration and or the National Weccanfeldian Administration (NWA) shall be considered a Capital Offense of the Military Kind, and therefore will result in immediate execution via firing squad. Direct Assistance includes (but is not limited to) logistical support of, protection of, recruiting for, and supplying intelligence to terror movements. Suspected indirect assistants of terror movements will be detained indefinitely by the military pending trial. Indirect support can include obstruction of Weccanfeldian soldiers, failure to provide truthful information to Weccanfeldian soldiers and civil servants, unauthorised circulation of texts detrimental to the Rofhadan peace effort (including but not limited to certain military, pro-terror, scientific, and historical texts), use of any other media not permitted by the NWA and/or the Military Administration, trespassing on land deemed by the Military Administration to be restricted (at present, 50 yards from any rural military installation, as well as locally defined limitations) and failure to yield supplies and in exceptional cases manpower vital to the peace effort.

Thirdly, the organisations deemed illegal by the NWA are, at present, the Rofhadan Liberation Army (RLA) and all its fronts, the Provisional Republican Army of Rofhadan (PRAR), and the Green Militia of East Rofhadan (GMER). Other organisations are under review, however these are the big three terrorist conglomerates. Members of these militias are enemies not only of the NWA but of the Nations of Weccanfeld and Rofhadan, and belligerents who do not surrender will be shot on sight – this is a warning. The next Twenty-Four hours shall be an amnesty, so that those who wish to leave the militias shall not be pursued for their crimes. Those who wish to provide information to the Military shall receive a monetary reward of at least 2500W$, and if required protection, plus exemption from the outstanding penalties from any previous crime.

Remember, the Weccanfeldian Military is concerned only for the Safety of those people it is tasked with protecting. Remember our aim - we wish only to bring peace to the Dominion of Rofhadan.”

* * *

“Aw Shit. They’re here”

A view outside the window of the small flat showed two Lorries loaded with Fyrdmen, who were at present coming out of the large vehicles. The knowledge that there was likely two more on the other side of the building and a helicopter incoming did little to calm the young bomber Hogan Ó Baoghill.

‘How did they know? Do they know what I look like? How am I going to get out of here?’

Grabbing a gym bag and a submachine gun, the rebel burst out of his room and headed straight for the stairs. He got this far before the Weccanfeldians began to broadcast their message

“HOGAN OH BAG-HILL, WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED. YOU ARE ADVISED TO SURRENDER YOURSELF TO THE INCOMING TROOPS”

Climbing the seemingly endless staircase, Hogan could definitely hear the quick step of jackboots heading up the stairs, and the faint hum of a helicopter. He blocked them out, knowing how they would crush his sprit.

‘Not now. All I need to do is get to the roof, and through the hole, and down the terrace, and into the crowd, and away from the city. I will not get caught. I WILL not get caught’

Fools hope carried the man to the attic. The furious clap of boots clamored up the stairs. The hole was spotted.

‘Yes, yes, YES. Come on, through the hole down the terrace into the crowd. Through the hole, down the terrace, into the crowd. Thr…’

“AET!”

And through the hole were a dozen Fyrdmen, guns pointed directly at Hogan.

“Aw Shit. They’re here as well”

* * *

OOC Notes: AoS Hub Thread is here, OOC comments here please, (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=14032835#post14032835) though if possible refer them through MSN/AIM/Whatever

This is, for the most part, closed to anyone outside the Nova Region. By all means voice some pedestrian condemnations, but any involvement beyond that will have to be passed by me and my compatriots, so send any ideas VIA TG. Honestly, though, unless you have a really good reason to get involved, I won't be able to work you in, and states beyond GD/Antarch will be quite honestly pissing in the wind.

A PETITION TO THE FREE GOVERNMENTS OF KATONZAG, ROMANADEOS, KIRAV AND DARTIA

We, the Celtic people of Rofhada, are victims. Victims of an oppressive, backward, authoritarian, genocidical regime of tyrannical fascist monsters with no fathomable claim over our nation. We are aliens in our own country, with no rule over our lives what so ever. The Weccanfeldian tests nuclear, chemical and biological monstrosities in our back yard and stores them in our front one. We are banned from expressing our culture – no longer may those with loyalties to the old gods openly express them. Children are beaten in schools for speaking their mother tongue. We have no self determination. Recent events have taken a disturbing turn for the worse – a campaign of terror is being waged upon us. Can free nations look on as people right next to them live a life of horror and terror, with a clear conscience?

No. No civilised person would stand for this.

Thus, we call on the free states of south west Nova to aid us in our fight, not just for self-determination and freedom, but for survival. These are the only states we have any confidence in heeding our call – some, like Alfegos, may have no means of doing so, others, like Mephas, may have no interest in doing so due to their governments, and others, others like Damirez, will refuse to do so because Weccanfeld is their pawn, their ‘Business Interest’.

Be it monetary, logistically or even only verbal, these states have an obligation to recognised the plight of not only Rofhada but all the other peoples that Fugolwielle holds in thrall. To not do so would be of great shame to their governments.

* * *

Six knocks on the door. The unmistakable mark of Lofealdor Ceorl Ricbertsunu.

“Let him in”

Through the door came a decorated officer of the Weccanfeldian professional army – a Thingman, and a Lofealdor at that. He was a lieutenant of a sapper platoon – men who, while having the ability to fight as well as any other soldier of the Thingalith, also had the ability to build things. And tear them down just as well. It was exactly the kind of skill the Ealdormann needed.

‘But not the kind of man I need’ thought the Ealdormann ‘but he will have to do’

Standing to attention in front of his superior, Ceorl gave all due respect before asking in the harsh sound of a voicebox with an affinity for shouting “What is it you need, Sir?”

“Take a Seat” requested the superior, while taking a swig of a canteen. After Ricbertsunu was seated, he began “War is not a nice thing Ceorl. Sometimes, war gets nasty. You’ve not seen much war save from the pitiful resistance the locals give us. Which is why I am apprehensive to ask you to do this.” He stopped to rummage in a drawer, frantically looking for something.

“What, Sir?”

“This”

He dropped a large collection of papers onto the table, titled ‘Operation Aemtig’ – Operation Empty – stamped countless times with ‘Classifed’ and ‘Top Secret’.

The Ealdormann began to explain “You shall read this later. But basically, it is a very sensitive operation. You shall be supporting the WAG in this operation. You shall take control of the Clywedog Pumping Station during the early hours of tomorrow…” The Ealdormann paused, and looked as if he was suffering from great discomfort.

“Sir?”

“You…You’ve got to understand Ceorl. This is between you, your platoon, me, and the WAG. Basically, the WAG is going to put chemicals in the water supply to a hamlet called Celyn. You’re going to hold the Station till sundown, and then head to Celyn and aid the WAG in finishing off the settlement. By Midnight all but one house is to be taken down without a trace. Is that clear?”

Ceorl was speechless. All he could do was stare at his officer – a piercing, yet almost emotionless stare that disturbed the superior of the two.

In an almost pleading tone, the Ealdormann continued “You will not have to kill anyone. The WAG is taking care of that. All you have to do is knock down some houses – it can’t be that hard? In any case, you’re the only suitable group for miles around that can do this. You’re a soldier – a Thingman. These people are combatants, as much as any insurgent”

“O-okay Sir.” Replied a hesitant Lofealdor as he slowly took the collection of papers. “It is my duty, I suppose. It’s no worse than what I had to do while on penal supervision. The military needs it.”

“Your doing this not for the military Ceorl. Not even for Weccanfeld. You’re doing this for order. Order in this god forsaken…hellhole of a country. This is no longer a war of fighting and suppression. This is a war…a war of Minds…and Massacres. If this goes public, Weccanfeld will be forced to give these damned fools what they want. And then? God can blind me for all I care – if the international human rights whatever doesn’t.” his eyes looked into Anlaf’s “There can be no cock ups Lofealdor. It’s not just my arse on the line here. It’s yours and every one of your soldiers as well. God fæst þe, Lofealdor. You’ll need his help.”

OOC Notes: No valid evidence has emerged, only rumours, that Weccanfeld is doing dodgy things like mass murder. It's not racially inclined, rather a way to make people think twice about supporting the rebels.

Also, sorry for the long delay. But moving is a pain.

Northern Weccan Sea – 0230 HOURS
South of the island of Rófhada, Weccanfeld

Warrant Officer Iian Fallòn was pissed. He had been recalled from a cushy top secret “deployment” in the tropics to go investigate some backwater island just because their government was roughing them up a bit. And all because he was an Aeryannian, the closest related person they could find to the Rófhadans in the Katonazagi military.

He was also pretty sure it was because he had earned the Order of St. Istvan, the highest military honor in Katonazag. General Király had received the first one after it was created following the Revolt of 1917 for his key leadership in winning and securing the independence of Katonazag. Iian's was only the third to be awarded since. He had won his for his actions during the Kratkyian War when he and his RIO had been shot down over Kratky, but continued to press their attack on the enemy without their aircraft. During the incident, they successfully turned the enemy back, discovered hard evidence of genocide against ethnic Katonazagiz, and sabotaged the defenses of an enemy town. The approaching Imperial Alhauthan Army unit effortlessly mopped up the enemy thanks to their efforts, and they were both awarded the Alhauthan Empire's highest honor as well – the Order of the Golden Sword. His RIO, Staff Sergeant Mozes, was awarded the Katonazag Cross of Valor.

This time, Warrant Officer Fallòn was alone. On the water. In the dark. In the fog. In a dinghy. At least they gave him a motor, even though it was just a puny electric that barely pushed the small craft along at 5 mph. And the fog was as thick as any he had ever encountered. If he were in his SuperCobra, he would be totally reliant on his instruments and Sgt. Mozes, and not even in the air if it weren't necessary. He was having to rely on his instruments now, alright – a silk map and a compass. In the air, he had cannons and missiles for an armament, and now only had a Talon pistol made in Damirez and survival knife made in Mephras. And instead of his flight suit, he had to wear a set of old worn civilian clothes to fit in with the locals.

With visibility down to about 30 feet, the shore came up rather suddenly. Had he not been paying attention, he probably would have been thrown ashore when it ran aground. But the fog was most definitely a blessing, and allowed him more time to deflate the dinghy and hide it in some brush. Pulling out his map, he located the small town of Celyn and his current position, and began walking.

A couple hours later, he walked up on a scene that was quite bleak. The town was almost gone. Where there had once been buildings, there was now only concrete slabs – not even debris! He decided to take cover and wait for his Rófhadan contact.

Eighteen Hours Prior

‘Nothing like a bit of war to keep the meat on its toes’ thought the supervisor of the Afternoon shift at the Clywedog Pumping Station. Countless Gallons came through this place, ensuring that the local region was watered, giving the worried denizens one less thing to worry about and countless young men jobs that kept them out of the dangerous situations out there in the country.

Attention was sometimes lacking in these labourers, though – a great cause for concern considering that among the usual pressure dials and pumping condition monitors, there existed a large Geiger counter, intended to make sure if any local nuclear leaks didn’t affect the water supply. It had flared in the past, countless times under his reign, and it was his pet peeve that idiot workers should devote their attention to anything other to their job. Many men had lost their jobs for doing things they shouldn’t. Game Boys, Comics, even Pornography lay in the confiscated goods drawer of this minor tyrant. And not only was it a great way to keep the men on their feet – it also provided him with a second income on the black market.

But it was no radiation spike or slacking workers that the supervisor had to fear.

It came to half four, the dying minutes of the shift. And bursting through the monitor station door were eight heavily armed men clad in black overalls, and one more in the unmistakable Weccanfeldian military greatcoat.

“Can I help you?” inquired the supervisor in as diplomatic a tone as he could muster.

The soldiers replied with several rounds of .323. Within five seconds all the workers were dead. Within 60 pistols were planted on them. And within 90, as blood flowed freely from the corpses of the workers, Lofealdor Ricbertsunu and Eored Ackermann were working.

“Did you really need to kill them all?” asked the single Thingman Lofealdor of the group.

“Did they really need to live?” countered Ackermann, as he pulled a grisly corpse which had been hit through the left side of the head from a console.

“Ack, why’d the bastard have to die on the console? There’s brains and skull all over it”

Grimacing as he went, the WAG operative wiped the detritus from the dials of the console, and examining them took his radio to ask a couple of questions. He then handed it to Ceorl, the Lofealdor, saying:

“All’s set. Lofealdor, give the order”

The order was given. Red lights and alarms sounded from the consoles, as toxic chemicals were added to the designated water supplies for the hamlet of Celyn.

As the sky began to lighten, the fates of dozens were sealed. And the Eored, with as clear a conscience as could be, remarked “And now we wait. Cup of Tea?”

* * *

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“There is a new pandemic in this world – a disease, a pestilence that comes from man himself, from the deepest, maddest aspirations of his heart. It spreads among the minds of student and elder alike – through the church, through the media, through the markets and pubs and schools and workplaces of the common man. It has brought entire states to their knees – Yugoslavia, Czechoslovakia, perhaps even the once mighty Soviet Union. Balkanisation is a force that threatens not just the petty states of the Old World, but a sinister force that threatens ours – it comes to corrupt, to sow seeds of chaos and schism after schism. It is the fetal stage of anarchy. It is something I, as First Minister of Weccanfeld, a state born from the Unionist and Nationalist ideals of the 19th century and the first half of the 20th, will strive to fight at every opportunity.

Rofhadan was placed under Weccanfeldian protection by my predecessor and father of the Nation-State, Wilfrid Folcland. It will remain under Weccanfeldian protection, in hope that one day, these people will be sane enough to consider confederacy, the only realistic option for such a small nation to shine in this world. People have claimed to be the representatives of Rofhadan, claimed the responsibility to ask others for assistance in their fight for ‘self-determination’ – a back door for anarchy, the enemy of the not only the states, but the billions of people from our own Nova to Greater Dienstad, Haven, Gholgoth and beyond. Thus, in my genuine power and authority over the Anglo-Saxon, Celtic, Slavic, Malay and Nordic peoples under protection of the Weccanfeldian State, I call on the constituent states of Nova and indeed the world to take no heed of whatever lies and begging the communist, anarchist and insane rebels that plague Rofhadan. My constables and prefects work diligently to bring stability to this troubled place – leave them to their work. “

* * *

The Present

Dowd Kenyon was beginning to think that just walking would have been a better option. His father's ancient 4x4 would not be able to take much more of the exceedingly rocky ride that the frosty Rofhada terrain was giving him. An extra hour of lambing duty and perhaps some free sheep from some Weccie Farmer were hardly consolation.

Seemingly in agreement, two confused sheep scrambling over each over the back seat each uttered a loud baa simultaneously. The young shepherd hoped that this operative from Katonzag did not mind some extra passengers. Or their smell.

The fog had cleared somewhat, but it was still thick enough that the man attributed the lack of buildings to it. He drove on, clearly into the field of vision of the agent, not entirely sure if he knew he was in the right place.

Celyn, Rófhada – 0610 HOURS

Warrant Officer Fallòn watched as an early model SUV rolled up. It looked to him like it was about to give up the machine spirit. Not right on time, but close enough. The driver fit the description, but one thing wasn't right: the kid didn't seem at all shocked or affected by the environment. But that could be due to any number of things – he had sheep in the back seat, for Chrissake! It didn't matter what the nation, country folk are definitely a breed apart.

He checked his weapon, scanned the place one more time, and decided to move. Approaching low from the vehicle's blind spot, he crept up on the driver. Popping up right beside the young driver, he said, “Dia dhuit ar maidin. Is mise Warrant Officer Iian Fallòn, HCSK Sochaide.”

Northern Weccan Sea – 0630 HOURS
HMS Calibogue

Commander Mathew Pearce was keeping his usual vigilant eye in his ship's bridge. Although they were in international waters, they were only a few hundred yards from waters claimed by the government of Weccanfeld. The mission the HMS Calibogue was assigned was in support of a covert operation, so naturally an overt international incident would complicate things.

That's why the hair on his neck stood on end when the sonar technician called out, “Sir! Sub-surface contact at five-point-two miles, heading... two-six-three... They're following us, sir!”

“Can you make out the nation of origin?” asked Commander Pearce.

Manipulating some touch-screen controls, STG3 Avery said, “One moment, sir. It's... not ours, that's for sure... not Damiran, Mephran, or EA... Romandosean! Navarre-class, I'm certain of it!”

Commander Pearce rolled his eyes. “Smoke if you got 'em...” he muttered under his breath. The bridge crew snickered at the reference to the 80 years of awkward peace between their new confederates and the nation whose sub was following them. “Go ahead and place the ship on alert. We might as well use this as an exercise even if they don't do anything.”

General Quarters alarms sounded, and men ran to their battle stations. The weapons control stations were manned, one of the ships V-22 Ospreys took to the air, and one remained on the pad ready to go. Missile tubes opened, and hatches were closed.

The signalman at the radio had been with Commander Pearce since he was a Lieutenant, and was there by the Commander's request. And it was a good thing for SM1 Byrnes – he would have still been unrated if it weren't for Commander Pearce. SM1 Byrnes was as un-Navy as they come, half the time showing up in a tropical pattern shirt over his uniform in the bridge. But his operation was flawless, and he was a tremendous morale booster with the men on the vessel. He could make anything funny, probably even a funeral if he wanted to. And that's the reason why Commander Pearce wanted him on board despite the discipline issues, because it made controlling the rest of the men a cakewalk. Commander Pearce could set the tone with SM1 Byrnes, and he was loyal and so could bring anyone in-line. SM1 Byrnes was looking at him, already knowing what he was going to ask.

“Byrnes, hail the Romandeoseans,” the Commander ordered.

“Aye aye, sir.” Opening the channel, SM1 Byrnes hailed, “Navarre-class Submarine, heading two-six-three, identify.” And then ripped a fart into the microphone. Commander Pearce grimaced and held his nose in anticipation.

Northern Weccan Sea – 0630 HOURS
HMS Lexington

“Sonar, Conn – I beg your pardon?”

“Conn, Sonar – I think you heard me, Skipper. They asked us to identify, and then I heard loud noise through the headset, almost like…something blew up.”

Command Reginald ‘Reggie’ Gill lowered the handset and blinked in confusion. This had lasted only a moment when realization struck. Gill put the handset up, grinned and looked in amusement at his XO, Lieutenant-Commander April Lutz-Cisneros.

“Huns,” she exclaimed, shaking her head with a half-smile.

“Eighty years of…something,” Gill replied. “Almost makes you wish for a war, doesn’t it Ms. First?”

“Sometimes, Boss,” was the reply, in between stifled chuckles.

Gill shook his head. They had been trailing the Katonazagi for hours at long range, but he had taken the decision to close in two hours ago. He wanted to see how close he could get in before they saw him. Now he knew. 5.2 miles wasn’t as close as he’d hoped for, but he knew it was still decent. Even so, he’d drill the crew first chance.

“Bring us up to periscope depth!” he ordered. As the vessel climbed to the surface he was holding back a laugh at this situation. The borderline between Katonazag and Romandeos had existed for around eighty years, when both nations had stopped expanding. Since that line between them was not at first formally established the joke soon arose that the armies had just stopped on the mountain slopes for a smoke break, and decided to stay put. Jokes like that die hard, and so even when a formal line was finally drawn, this one persisted, in its present form known as the Eighty Year-long Smoke Break. It could be annoying, but a long-lived joke sure as Hell beat a war, if anybody asked Gill’s opinion.

“Periscope depth achieved, Captain!”

“Up periscope,” Gill ordered. Once that was done, he began scanning around, and located his ‘prey’ within just a few seconds.

“Yep,” he said. “She’s a Hun, alright. I’d recognize that foul stench anywhere.”

His comment was perhaps rude, but it was spoken in a jovial fashion.

“Fire up the Gertrude!” he ordered, referring to the undersea ‘telephone’ submarines used in order to communicate between each other, and with surface ships also.

“Katonazagi warship,” he said, once he had the microphone. “This is the HMS Lexington bearing on two-six-three. Who might you be?"

OOC:

Rekax. There's a joke coming.

Northern Weccan Sea – 0640 HOURS
HMS Calibogue

“Are they ignorant, or are they trying to be insulting?” Commander Pearce asked nobody in particular. “I mean, really? Just because we're giving naval support to their mission, they assume we are them?” With a look and gesture of disgust, he turned back to SM1 Byrnes and said, “In the name of the Czarina, answer the ignoramuses.”

“You got it, Skipper.” Opening the channel, SM1 Byrnes took on a more serious tone. “HMS Lexington, this is the HMS Calibouge of Her Majesty Czarina Deeane I of Krommindy's Royal Navy. Please declare your intentions.”

Over a different channel, another voice was heard in the bridge. “Calibouge, this is Postal. Periscope sighted, proceeding to holding pattern at angels two, awaiting further orders.” Lt. Commander Sam “Postal” Presley's callsign was derived from his job during his break in service. He had taken a couple years off from the Royal Navy to care for his terminally ill wife, and served as the postmaster for a small town in the eastern part of the main island during the time. Now that she was gone, there was nothing left for him in life but the sea and sky, and serving the Czarina from the pilot's seat of his V-22.

Commander Pearce nodded to SM1 Byrnes who opened the other channel and said “Roger that, Postal. Keep us apprised of any changes.” As Commander Pearce began to open his mouth, the signalman took the initiative and transmitted, “Houdini, this is Calibouge. Keep the engines warm just incase we have to cash in our chips early.”

“Roger that, Calibouge.” affirmed Lieutenant Harry “Houdini” Garret. He had survived a mechanical failure during training that should have killed him. The blast threw his ejection seat in an unknown direction before the chute could open and about 20 minutes later, he had walked out of the woods miraculously unharmed.

Having been cut off by his frequently insubordinate subordinate, Commander Pearce said, “Speaking of which, has Mr. Fallòn pinged us yet? Probably hasn't had enough time to find anything yet...”

Dowd was startled slightly by the apperence of the agent, but it didn't show too much - instead, he replied back in the same language Fallon had used.

"You'll be the fellow I was sent for then? Get in. Mind the passengers, had to pick up some extra cargo from a local Weccie shepherd on the way. That's it."

Celyn, Rófhada

Looking at the sheep, Warrant Officer Fallòn shooed them aside to make space for himself and climbed aboard. "What happened to the town? Where are all the buildings? Only the foundations are left on most of them!"

"Well, it's pretty foggy, probably invisible with this fog."

Edging the x4 closer for a closer look, he noted with horror that the buildings had indeed been demolished. Many justifications ran through his head - the correct one once or twice - but eventually, he came up with:

"Bastard Weccies. I've seen them do things similar to this before. Kick the farmers off their land and replace them with Weccanfeldians, they do. Looks like they've moved up to hamlets. Still, seems a bit excessive to knock down the houses. Probably going to replace them with fancy houses like the ones back home, mind you. All for 'Integration'. Pah."

Celyn, Rófhada

"If the haven't done it before, then this is something new. There's always a reason for everything - lets go have a look." Warrant Officer Fallòn hopped back out, closing the door behind him. Which was much to the sheeps' dismay, and they attempted to verbalize it.

Looking around, he noticed the ground, and the lack of tracks from heavy machinery that would have been needed to remove large amounts of debris. Upon further inspection, there were a couple places that they had missed. Definite evidence of cover-up. Warrant Officer Fallòn drew his camera and took some pictures. Taking note of one of the structures still standing, he decided to go inspect, but was interrupted by something on the ground that caught his eye. A shell casing was pressed into the soil. He called up his new guide and said, "I take it this is not yours?"

OOC: brief update?

Celyn, Rófhada

After taking a couple of photos of the shell casing, Warrant Officer Fallòn used his knife to extract it from the soil it had been pushed into. The head was stamped "7.92x33mmK", the round chambered by Weccanfeld's primary infantry weapon. The fact that it was found in an area of covered heavy earthmover tracks meant that it had been fired before the cover-up, and therefore, possible proof of foul play. The question was, did the people who were living here have access to the StG-45s they were fired from?

Approaching one of the few buildings still standing, he decided to look in the windows first. Nobody home. The door was locked, so he took a moment to look around before kicking the door in. The place looked like it had been evacuated in a hurry. No bullet holes or shell casings here. A few items had been carelessly left behind, but nothing of importance. Going into the bathroom, he looked around and almost walked back out again when something occurred to him as being not right. The tub had a gray ring around it, and so did the toilet, and so did the sink. He checked the kitchen sink, and it had it too. He took a bio-hazard bag from his pocket and scraped some of the gray film into the bag using his knife. After cleaning the knife off on a piece of discarded curtain, he returned outside.

"Hey kid, I wouldn't drink the water if I were you - I think something's wrong with it."

Celyn, Rófhada

Warrant Officer Fallòn had wondered why the kid hadn't answered, and he didn't have to wait long for his answer as to why. He heard the engine start as he was walking towards the door. And he made it just in time to see him peel out, sending dirt and gravel flying. He noticed a couple pairs of headlights faintly beginning to burn through the fog, joined by the sound of heavy engines approaching.

Fallòn's mind began racing. "The lights. The fog. The door. The tracks. The engines. The dirt. The tracks... The broom." He had noticed a broom behind the door on his way out. He reached back inside and grabbed it. Walking backwards towards the brush, he swept side-to-side over his path to try and cover his tracks. When he reached the brush, he discarded the broom, took cover, and drew his pistol because the trucks stopped right where the boy's 4x4 had been.

A few men got out of the vehicles, but it was tough to tell how many because of the fog - maybe six or eight. They looked at the tracks left by the 4x4 and jumped back in, headed out on the same path as the boy. It looked like he had the bad luck as they may have spotted his tail lights. But it got them off of WO Fallòn's trail. If it was true what the Rófhadans were saying, things might not end well for the boy if they catch him. But such is war.

Pulling out his silk map, he saw that there was some sort of industrial station not too far away. Judging by it's proximity to the water, it was probably a hydroelectric plant or a water purification site. After checking his gear again, he was on his way.

Northern Weccan Sea – 2320 HOURS
HMS Calibogue

“Calibouge, this is Wyrvyn. Requesting permission to land, over."

Startled, SM1 Byrnes almost inhaled the sandwich he had been grazing on. While he was attempting to clear his airway, OS2 Harmon, the radar operator chimed in, "No aerial contacts, Skipper..."

Commander Pearce waved him off. "This is classified, Harmon. That goes for all of you. This didn't happen, won't go into the log, and if asked about it, I and everyone else in this room and on this ship will deny that it ever happened. Understood?"

The bridge crew responded in unison with an "Aye, aye, sir!" They had been involved with highly classified things before, but this was the first time they had encountered a stealth aircraft trying to land on their helipad. OS2 Harmon was still wondering what it was that was trying to land, and furthermore where it would be stowed with space already tight for the ship's two V-22 Ospreys.

"This is Calibouge, you're clear to land at your convenience. Turning you over to the air controller now." With a flick of a switch, it forwarded the secured channel to the air controller's tower, just up the metal stairs from the bridge. A strange noise began, almost like a high wind, and then an engine noise finally began to come through. But it was nothing compared to the noise that the Ospreys made; no, much quieter. The air controller had been told to keep the pad's lights off, which was also strange. A shadowy aircraft hovered down upon it and set down, it's engine powering down with a whine after rolling over to the elevator.

From his station, OS2 Harmon could barely see without making it obvious that he was looking, but what he saw was like nothing he'd seen before. From the light coming from inside the hangar, he barely made out the outline of an unusually shaped light helicopter.

*Bump.*

Celyn, Rófhada - 1845 HOURS
Clywedog Pumping Station

It had taken Warrant Officer Fallòn most of the day just to travel a few miles. The fog had burned off about half way to his destination, and he had to lie in cover frequently and take very roundabout routes to avoid detection. After careful surveillance of the pumping and purification station, he decided that it definitely warranted inspection considering the substance he found at the house.

There had been no activity at the plant while he had been watching, which was not surprising considering the town it serviced was gone. But Fallòn wasn't about to start taking chances. He approached from the west, out of the setting sun incase of sentries or snipers. As he came up on the door, the stench of old death greeted him like a familiar but unwelcome guest. The source was obvious - rotting corpses in coveralls, covered in maggots and flies, and half-eaten by vermin. The stench was so overpowering that Fallòn had to step back outside.

After allowing his olfactory senses to recover for a minute, he took out his silk map and folded it over his face, and went back inside. He took pictures of everything, including the same gray reside near the top of the water, of which he took another sample.

All of a sudden, the small transponder he was supposed to use to signal for extraction began vibrating. This confused Fallòn a bit, considering that he hadn't been told that it worked the other direction too. It also must mean something was wrong or had changed with the mission. Even though he felt like he could uncover much more given more time, one thing he was good at is following orders, especially when the orders were specific. Nothing to do but watch and wait.

Fallòn had been expecting a KRN V-22, Sea Stallion, or Super Huey, so he was surprised once again when he saw a light attack helicopter of a type he didn't recognize rise from behind a nearby hill. Instinctively he took cover back into the slaughterhouse. But what scared him the most is that he hadn't heard it. In fact, he could still barely hear it. It was nowhere near as loud as it should have been, and sounded like a big electric fan. It was now dark, but this was of no comfort to him, as anything that advanced would be able to see just fine.

Was it friend or foe? If it was the latter, whoever was coming to pick him up was likely to meet their doom in flames, or worse. Fortunately, it turned out to be the former. A spotlight began flashing the safe code. With a sigh of relief, he went out to meet the strange aircraft, which set down when Fallòn revealed himself. The canopy slid back to reveal a pilot in an all gray flight suit, not either of the cammo patterns used by HCSK flight crews or the sage green color of KRN/KRMC ones. The helmet's visor was down, and Fallòn couldn't see his face, but he was motioning for him to approach the aircraft and get in. He wasn't about to argue, it was time to get out of here before somebody noticed.

He jumped into the RIO seat, buckled his harness, and put on his helmet as the canopy closed with a hiss and a pop. Then he looked at the RIOs controls and noted how advanced they were, even compared to the latest HCSK Super Cobras. The communications system came to life, and a male voice said, "Welcome aboard, Fallon. Before you ask me anything, this aircraft is highly classified. Don't ask me about it, and don't ask me about myself. My callsign is Wyrvyn, and that's all you need to know. Your mission has been cut short by order from General Miklós, and that's all I was told to tell you."

With that, the rotors sped up, and the helicopter nimbly jumped into the air. It kept low, wheeled to the southwest, and accelerated toward the ocean through the last glow of sunset.

St. Istvan, HCSK - 0900 HOURS
President's Office at the Főváros

Major General Zrínyi Miklós handed copies of the intelligence investigation into the situation in Rófhada to President Sabo and Secretary of Foreign Affairs Széchenyi. "As you can see, there is most certainly evidence of foul play - anyone with a brain in their head can see that. The official statement by the government of Weccanfield is that the rebels did it, and that the town was evacuated and bulldozed because of the contamination. The substance our operative recovered was a heavy metal compound containing mercury, among other toxic chemicals. However, it doesn't explain the expended Weccan military cartridge he found, the attempt to cover up the the use of heavy equipment to level the town, or what was found at the pump station. The rebels don't seem to have the equipment or the means to conceal the equipment to do all this.

The situation at the pump station was another highly suspicious situation in and of itself. The angles and positioning of the bodies suggest that someone came in the door and mowed the place, and a few more shots had to be fired to mop up the survivors. This is also inconsistent with the weapons found on the engineers, it does not appear that they returned fire. Surely if so armed, they would have gotten at least a few shots off in the direction of the attackers, but there was no evidence to support that. Additionally, the control panels were definitely used after the massacre, and several partial footprints indicate that an undetermined number of people walked out of the situation."

Secretary Széchenyi looked at him and asked, "And what of the survivors of the town? Where did they go? And no offense, General Miklós, but I don't see anything definitively tying the Weccan government to these events. I agree, there is definitely foul play involved, and the Weccan government's official story doesn't quite add up, but we just don't have enough to justify military intervention right now."

"I agree with Secetary Széchenyi," said President Sabo. "But this situation does warrant further investigation. Just because we don't have enough on them right now doesn't mean it's not there. It was unfortunate that the operative had to be extracted early. I agree with the operative's assessment that if he had more time maybe he could have uncovered more. I want us to take a step back and form a more long-term mission to find out what the real answers are to these questions. When we know more, then we can accurately and justly decide on the right course of action. I trust you will take care of the details and apprise me when ready?"

"Yes, Mr. President. I'll begin work on it immediately," replied General Miklós.

President Sabo continued, "And Secretary Széchenyi, I want you to have a contingency plan ready for rapid response incase something particularly heinous should come to light. If you have no further questions, you two are dismissed."

The general shot to attention, saluted, turned, and left the President's office with the Secretary of Foreign Affairs. As soon as the door had closed, President Sabo shook his head. “The evil that men do...”