NationStates Jolt Archive

[OOC: This is supposed to be as my puppet, New Tipperary, but due to technical issues, im using this account]

Somewhere under the village of Mossside
It was an ordinary day in the Mossside Hill Coalmine, hundreds of men toiled beneath the surface of the Northern Range mountains to carve out huge amounts of coal to feed the ever hungry coking mills and synthetics plants of the rich south, except for the fact that it was the day of the week when the echo sounding people took over this particular shaft and took readings to determine how far the coal seem stretched in a northerly direction, with the readings improving each day, although the subtle readings of differing rock densities were often heavily affected by mining activities in other parts of this and other mines, and also by the slowly changing concentration of water in the rock, as it was pumped out and replenished by rain and seepage from riverbeds.

It just so happened that the conditions for the soundings were near perfect, and thus they gave relatively unambigious resutls that showed the seem stretched for a large distance yet, but they also showed a rather unusual reading that suggested that there was a subsurface cavity extending off the edge of the scan towards the Prestonian border.... a cavity that could only mean one thing.

"Oi, Greg, whats this?" yelled Steve over the low booming noise made by the machinery, his companion, a big swarthy man who had worked for the mine for 20 years and resented working for this poncy uni graduate, turned and looked at the screen, his expression changing from one of boredom to one of suprise, and then one of anger.

"Those Prestonoid Bastards have dug into our territory, thats what, there are no other mines in that direction, comeon, we have to tell the supervisor"
Steve gestured and started back towards the little subsurface wagon that had brought them several miles to the end of the shaft, leaving the expensive equipment running in the background, a confused looking Gregory followed him, little knowing that the news they were delivering would have so much of an effect on the future of the nation.

Two Days Later

The Prime Minister of New Tipperary was a very busy man, he had to administer one of the most compact and efficient governments in this part of Haven, he had to sort out the displays for tonights state dinner with the Questarian Ambassador, and now he had to once again restrain the ambitions of the three Coal Companies that de-facto controlled the heavy industrial and energy sectors of the Tipperite economy, and whos shares were a rather significant part of the backing of the countries currency, only the fact that each was too big for any of the others to take over, and that they hated each toher, prevented a slide towards a corporate-instigated communist dystopia.

The owner of the mine that had discovered the Prestonian violation of New Tipperite economic integrety was the Northern Antracite corporation, that owned the rights to the coal field in the north of the country that provided the Royal New TIpperite Navy, among others, with the majority of its high grade anthracite and other products, including Coke made from near-Antracitic coal, which provided its customers with unusually high grade fuel, only matched by the Petroleum Coke byproducts produced by the Chemical Industries.

The Chief executive of the company was the one who stepped through the double doors at the end of his office that his aide had opened moments before, "The Chief Executive Officer of the Northern Antracite Corporation"
The short portly man walked in, one hand carrying a silver attache case and the other clasping the bowler hat that went with his exquisitely pressed business suit, complete with waistecoat and pocket watch.

"As you are aware, Mr Prime Minister, the Prestonians have been mining our coal, now unless you wish this information to become public, which as you know would lead to the collapse of the Pound and probably that of the entire national economy, you will have to take steps to remedy this situation and ensure that the persons or corporations responsible be brought to justice", without even nodding to the Prime Minister he turned on his heel and walked out of the office, past the suprised aide that had just returned with a pot of fine Questarian Tea and some Rich Tea Biscuits.

The Prime Minister gestured the Aide to bring the Tea to the desk, who proceeded to do so and poured out a cup for the Prime Minister as the latter turned to toggle his intercom and call his typist and secretary, it was time to write a letter.

To Whoom it May Concern
Prestonian Government
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Office of the First Lord of the Treasury
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------15 Parliament Avenue
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Blueminster
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Dublin
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------C1 1AD

Dear Sir,
At approximately 1300 hours two days ago, a routine seismic analysis conducted in the Mossside Coal Mine discovered that a shaft had apparently been driven over the border between our respective nations by a mining concern on your side, if I may I would like to cite the 1904 territorial compromise that specifically awarded all mineral assets on our respective sides of the border to our respective parties, I would therefore like to bring this matter to your attention and request that you commence an investigation into this matter of our territorial integrity.

Regards,
Dr. Sir Edwin Wimple, MSc, PhD, KTE
First Lord of the Treasury
Prime Minister of the Kingdom of New Tipperary
Fifteenth Baron Vicklington

T.J. Holden Mining Corporation, Mine Shaft 31-C
Fullerton, Prestonia, 18km from New Tipperite Border
0900 Hours

It was early in the small industrial town of Fullerton, but already the streets bustled. Fullerton was a "company town" built and owned by Holden Mining Corporation, which had several such towns tucked into the Blackthorn Mountains which formed the border between New Tipperary and Prestonia. A few kilometers away, the Blackthorn River rushed through the mountains, providing the border between the two nations since 1904 when the border was established. There had never been much tension or discontent about the border among the general populace, but the vested interests of T.J. Holden had other ideas. They had resented the border agreement as they felt it awarded most of the coal-filled Blackthorns to the Tipperites, and thus weakened their business. In time, however, they had gotten over it, and with no word from Tipperary's government in over 70 years, the treaty was quietly rescinded in 2004, much to the delight of Big Coal in Prestonia.

It was under this assumption that Shaft 31-C had been drilled. A survey taken several years ago had shown a rather long vein in the area, one which extended past the old border of New Tipperary. Before 2004 the new shaft would've had to check itself up at the border, but with the nation of New Tipperary for all intents and purposes dead to the world, Holden Mining had decided to tap the vein for all it was worth. This, it would soon be discovered, would be a move which would have lasting effects on Presto-Tipperite relations for years to come...

10 Marlborough Road
Hudson
0700 Hours, Three Days Later

"So what's on the agenda today Gordon?," Prime Minister Stanley Freeman queried his aide as he rose from his desk chair and adjusted his tie. The Prime Minister had been a very busy man of late; colonization reports streaming in from Victoria detailing the cleanup of fallout there, updates on the so-called "Scramble for Hryvinia", that whole business with Muncheria and several domestic issues were eating up nearly all the Prime Minister's time. Still, he was in his element as few others could be, having grown into his role in the wake of the Clandonian South Haven Incident last year.

"The budget's up for approval, we've got some tax bill the Tories are trying to ram down Parliament's throat, a letter from the Wagdians, oh and something from the Tipperites," the aide replied, scanning his Blackberry.

"The Tipperites? My God, they haven't had any contact with Prestonia in years. Over seventy if my memory serves me. I wonder what they could possibly want?"

"Hell if I know Sir, let's open it and find out."

Freeman opened the ornate envelope and scanned the letter contained within, before slamming it down angrily.

"What's the problem, sir?," Gordon asked, hesitating. Stanley Freeman was an agreeable man, but pissing him off at 7 AM would not serve anyone's interests.

"Some mine of ours has broken their border and they're trying to throw extinct treaties at us over it. Want an investigation and whatnot. Well, I'll be damned if I'm letting them waltz back onto the international scene and start telling us where we can and cannot stick our mines. If they wanted to secure their interests the time to do it was back in '04 when the treaty came up for renewal. Gordon, please forward this to Mr. Markham's office and instruct him to attend to it. Tell him I want the draft on my desk by lunch."

"Aye sir, will do."

HM Ministry of Foreign Affairs
17 Marlborough Road
Hudson
Royal Commonwealth of Prestonia and Her Overseas Realms


http://i180.photobucket.com/albums/x267/Central_Prestonia/FamilyCrest.jpg
His Majesty's Ministry of Foreign Affairs

On behalf of His Majesty, the Government of the Royal Commonwealth of Prestonia wishes to convey it's sincerest greetings to the New Tipperite government, which has not maintained contact with our own for nearly three quarters of a century.

That said, we regret to inform you that the treaty you mentioned lapsed in 2004, at it's one hundred year anniversary, as agreed upon at it's signing. As such, the Royal Commonwealth has no intentions of ordering T.J. Holden Mining Corporation, nor any mines in the area, to cease and desist.

If you wish to discuss a new treaty, our Government will be more than happy to entertain your diplomatic mission, though for the time being the economic activities of our mines shall continue as their respective owners see fit.

God Save the King.

[Signed]

Rt. Hon. David Markham, MP
Minister of Foreign Affairs

"It seems they are not going to stop them, sir" was all the adjunctant could muster after the Prime Minister had handed him the letter, some might call it a galling insult, that had arrived from the Prestonian Office of Foreign affairs.
"They think we are bluffing, or that because they have a huge advantage in manpower and weaponry, that they can dictate terms to us over our OWN BLOODY SOIL! Get me the Chief Executive Officer of Northern Anthracite and the Chief of the War Office in here NOW!" he bellowed, the normally reserved man turning a strange shade of beetroot as he restrained himself, barely, from hurling the blameless underling from his office.

Three Hours Later, MossSide Coal Mine, Shaft 3-West
"You sure this is a good idea Greg?" the College Graduate said to his companion, again the swarthy man apparently only known as Greg, as they tightened the detcord around the last of a whole series of Thermite Detonator packs, packs that had been delivered by an olive-drab painted truck by a man in neatly pressed combat uniform, now they lay scattered along the side of the shaft, hard against crannies hacked into the coalface by hand.

"Wont we run the risk of setting half of the mountain range on fire?"
"Nah, the reason we didnt mine out this seam when we first opened the mine is that its isolated from all the others by rather thick layers of rock both above, below and to the sides, so if we light this seam up here, the only place for the flue gasses, and thus the fire, to go, is straight down the seam towards the shallower end.... right where the Prestoids are digging"

An evil grin overtook his face as he savoured the thought of the Prestoids being flushed from there mine like quail from long grass by a tide of toxic gasses that would work through the fractured material of the coalseem and escape in the only way possible, either through the few fractures at this, deep end of the sloping coal seem, or through the steadily more numerous and shallower fractures that stretched from here into Prestonia.... or through the largest of them all, the shaft that had been driven clear into this bed of rich, rich coal.

"Thats it everybody, last charge set, everybody out, you too Steve" he cried at large, earning a bit more respect for the college graduate as he helped a dirty faced miner climb up a break in the rock floor, one that would have been removed in a couple of days, if it hadnt been for military muscling on all this......

They all piled into the lift at the end of the shaft and climbed back up towards the sun, scarcely noticing the crew lowering the reinforced concrete block over the access to the deepest shaft in the mine, one that would soon be turned into a raging inferno..... the inferno that would trigger the opening shots of war.

"Three.... Two.... One.... Charges Lit"
"Temperature inside shaft is climbing, ventilation fans are going full at it"
"Right, leave the ventilation running at full for the next half hour, then get the work crew to dump a plug in the air shaft and get some more concrete dumped on top.

Mine Shaft 31-C
Fullerton
1000 Hours

"What the fuck is going on here? GAS ALERT, GAS ALERT, THIS IS NOT A DRILL! EVERYONE DON YOUR AERATORS AND EVACUATE!" Shift Foreman Larry O'Niell was an ex-military man and 20 year veteran of Holden Mines, and universally respected among those who knew him. He had always held the safety of his workers in the highest regard, and every man on the mountain knew that Larry would put their lives before his own. Now, with his handheld CO detector showing off-the-chart readings, he was ordering an evacuation, and his men were acting exactly as trained. After ensuring that the five man team at the face was moving along, he himself began running toward the elevator, which was located a few hundred yards up ahead. Reaching the elevator, Holden ordered several young miners to board it and sent it screaming earthward as he turned back to make sure everyone was out. A few minutes later, an explosion tore through the mine, incinerating anything in the shaft. Of the 30 miners on station that morning, ten never made it out alive, Larry O'Niell among them.

10 Marlborough Street
Hudson
1030 Hours
Prime Minister Freeman sat at his desk, reading his email and finalizing the draft of the bill he planned to introduce later that week while sipping a cup of Prestonia's finest Earl Grey tea. The day's Parliamentary session wasn't scheduled until three o-clock that afternoon, so Freeman hoped to get everything cleared out of the way early before an afternoon round of golf with his Chancellor of the Exchequer and Foreign Affairs Minister before they were due in Parliament. However, those plans were soon to be interrupted.

As Freeman finished his draft of the bill, his cell phone began to belt out the blues tune that identified the caller as Gordon Jacobs, his aide. Flipping it open, Freeman put the phone on speaker and continued typing.

"Yes, Gordon? I'm kind of busy at the moment, can this wait?," he said, trying to keep the sense of annoyance out of his voice.

"No Mr. Freeman I'm afraid it can't. His Majesty wants you at the Defense Ministry ASAP, the Tipperites have done something he feels warrants a response," Gordon replied.

"Right, I'll be there in a bit," Freeman replied, locking his computer and striding briskly toward the limousine which had just pulled up outside.

Ministry of Defense
Hudson
1100 Hours

"Mr. Prime Minister, thank you for coming. I'm afraid you'll want to sit down for this one." Defense Minister Stephen Howell spoke in his businesslike manner, trying to conceal any emotions he might have been feeling at the time. For the most part, it was working.

"Mr. Prime Minister, as you know we recently received a communique from the Tipperites regarding a mine of ours that they alleged breached their border. An hour ago we got word from the PR guys at Holden Mines that said their mine got blown up, probably from the Tipperites. We lost ten good men to their terrorism and needless to say a lot of people are screaming for blood. Your thoughts?"

Stanley Freeman took this all in before speaking. "This act of terrorism cannot be allowed to go unpunished. Whatever we have on the border should be mobilized for a punitive strike on New Tipperary, in my opinion. Your Majesty, what do you think?"

"I'm inclined to agree Stanley," the King said gravely. "The Tipperites must be punished for this. From my understanding, their economy is based around coal. A complete seizure of the Blackthorns will put them out of their primary resource and throw their economy into a recession, and this should be our goal. Gentlemen," the King continued, turning to the assembled High Command brass before him, "what do we have available for this?"

General David G. Oliver, the Chairman of High Command and of the Royal Army, spoke up. "We've got three airbases in the area with some B-22s and fighters, and six divisions of troops stationed in the area. Two mechanized, two light and two armored, for 150,000 total. We'll send the flyboys in to soften the area up, and let our ground troops mop up. Total operation time should be no more than three weeks tops."

"You have my blessing General. Make the Tipperites rue the day they provoked the Prestonians."

Skies Over Fullerton
18km from Tipperite Border
0100 Hours

"Alright gentlemen, we're coming up on the border. Engage blinders and activate radio silence until further notice. God Save the King." Major Jonathan Powell cut out his radio and began flipping on the electronic warfare measures on his Tornado ECR. He and his wing of EW aircraft (15 in all) were the blockers, the unsung heroes of the air war, who would blind enemy RADAR and SAMs, keeping the 20 F-15E Strike Eagles behind them well hidden behind a veritable wall of electric energy, which was no doubt giving hell to whatever was below them. Shepherding this contingent was a flight of five Sopwith Saracen fighters, who would make sure nothing interfered with the mission.

Minutes later, the flight was crossing the border into New Tipperary, bound for a barracks that satellites had picked out earlier in the day. With that obstacle destroyed, the tanks of the Royal Army would be free to roll into Tipperite territory. Powell, and everyone in this flight, knew their bombs had to be accurate, as the success of the operation and the lives of their comrades on the ground depended on this first strike. As the flight neared the valley which held the base, the Strike Eagles loosed their bombs, before banking hard right and bugging out. They would find the results of their offensive when dawn broke, but for now the important thing was getting home alive.

The first bombs had fallen, and the war was on.

Brigshead Army Barracks, 0400 hours, just after dawn
The Jamming had alerted the Early Warning Radar at the army barracks, but it had unfortunately prevented either of the two ADATs vehicles dug in on the perimeter from firing on the incoming aircraft, but it had tripped the air raid warning, which had saved the lives of dozens of servicemen and families as they had dived into the internal shelters of houses or into covered trenches that filled the open areas of the barracks. But the majority of the pair of battalions vehicles, including the majority of the organic artillery battery had been lost to thw submunitions that had covered nearly the entire area of the base, in addition three hundred serviceman and almost a thousand on-base civilians had been killed, including numerous women and children that made up the convalescents of career officers and other personel.

But the pictures of the burning vehicles and greaving adult personel was not where the newly and rapidly arrived TV Cameras and foreign press were, they were near the perimeter of the base, where a mix of servicemen, emergeancy services personel and children worked to pull the bodies and wounded of a CCF Camp from the ruins of the barrack block they were supposed to have been occupying for the week, many of the children assisting were cadets themselves, some from the camp, most from the local section who had been visiting the base command center at the time of the raid, and who had thus been protected from the carpet bombing.

62 Cadets had been confirmed killed and almost all of the remaining (known to have survived) 30 had been badly wounded, with all four camp officers unaccounted for, there would be many screaming and crying parents baying for blood when they discovered what had happpened to their poor defenceless children who had just come to enjoy themselves on a quiet near-frontier army station for the week.
Only three of the cadets were still standing, busily tending to the wounded of both the cadet contingent and personel who had been working nearby, or by helping dig through the ruins of the barrack block to try and locate missing colleagues, and then helping to drag either a living person, or all too often, an even younger looking dead child who looked like a sorely badly treated ragdoll.

Yet more pictures were taken by the press of a dazed looking cadet, wearing dirty combat fatigues, blue corporal stripes and with his dusty blue beret still on his head, an RNTAF Cadet (rare on an Army station), trying to polish his boots one handed using a cleaning kit he had discovered in the ruins while using his other hand to press a bloody dressing into his side.

Within half an hour the speaker of the house had summoned the Prime Minister to speak before Parliament, and when he did, he pledged to avenge the deaths of 300 Servicemen and almost a hundred children, saying that he will not stop until the Prestonians rue the day they attacked the small nation that made up the eastern border of that most populous of states.

The war was most certainly on, with militia and territorials mobilising across the country, a flying column left the bombed out base, composed of all the brigades surviving vehicles, moving out to meet up with militia detachments scattered from here to the border, which would hopefully allow ti to reach nearer its established strength by the time it had to engage the enemy.

Meanwhile the nearest fighter base, over a hundred miles distant from teh border, four Woodsman air superiority fighters maintained constant viligence in the skies over the station at all times, ready to engage any more attempts at sneak air raids to disable the base before additional units could be transferred in, many of which were already moving north, either on trains and trucks or by air, as RNTAF units enlisted the civil airlines in the country to ship more equipment north.

RPAF Milton
58km from Presto-Tipperite Border
1100 Hours, Day 1 of War

"Good afternoon General Waldrop, lovely weather we're having eh?" General Henry Morgan, Royal Prestonian Air Force, was in good spirits in the wake of last night's vastly successful raid into Tipperite territory, a raid which had knocked out (according to intel) the major source of resistance in the area. Now, the 41 year old General and ex-B22 pilot had called his counterpart in the Army to discuss the pending ground operations, a meeting whose timing did not exactly sit well with Waldrop.

"Don't bullshit me Henry, you didn't call me all this way to discuss the weather. What do you want?" Major-General Jason Waldrop, CINC II Corps, 3rd Army, resented being called from his HQ to chat with some glorified test pilot and bomber jock, whose command, he suspected, had more to do with charisma over his superiors than actual command ability. Still, Waldrop had to admit that Morgan's raid against the Tipperite base had been damned good.

"Well, since you insist, I, and General Oliver for that matter, want to know why in the hell you haven't started your leg of the operation yet. You were due to be breaking through the border three hours ago," Morgan said, walking toward his office with Waldrop following. Reaching the office, Waldrop closed the door before responding.

"I haven't given my troops the go yet because frankly General I don't believe the area has been properly secured. You've knocked out the base, which I will concede is commendable, but what of the airbase our sat-scan turned up? I'd rather go in under air superiority so I don't have to worry about my troops being strafed by whatever the Tippies have," Waldrop replied.

"Well Jason, I'm not sure if you're familiar with the concept but in war you have to engage the enemy. You have to take risks, and you have to accept that some of your men will die. It seems, from my angle, that you're being overcautious. Are you honestly that afraid of some militiamen with whatever the fuck the Juumanistrans have given them?"

"My fears or lack thereof have nothing to do with this! I refuse to send my troops into a meatgrinder because Henry unlike you I hold their lives as actually being worth something!," Waldrop replied, now showing his anger.

"Alright, alright," Morgan replied, trying to calm his colleague down. "If I take care of their airbase, will you send your troops in?"

"Of course. Fax me the time you plan to do it and I'll disseminate it among my subordinates."

"Right, have your troops ready to go. God Save the King," Morgan said, saluting. Waldrop returned the salute before exiting the office and walking briskly out to the waiting Humvee to take him back to his base.

5km from Presto-Tipperite Border
0100 Hours, Day 2

"Alright guys, same drill as last night. Radio silence commences at the border. God Save the King, out." Maj. Johnathan Powell and his flight of Tornadoes was back, this time bringing the full wing of 20 aircraft. General Morgan had hatched a scheme earlier that day, to placate some leg commander's paranoia about the Tipperite air force. Morgan had reasoned that based on the nature of the last attack involving the jammers, the Tipperites would expect something similar if they popped up again, and would send up a welcoming party. Thus, the trap had been laid: this time around the Tornadoes hid not Strike Eagles but ten deadly Sopwith Saracens, each armed with two Highball heatseeking missiles and two Rockstar AAMRAAMs. The target, for all intents and purposes, was the Tipperite airbase in the area, about 100km in, although Powell suspected that they'd have company long before then. The whole plan was a longshot; if the Tipperites didn't bite, the entire raid was for naught. If they sent everything in the area at the flight, the Prestonians ran the risk of being overwhelemed. In any case, the Tornadoes were making huge electronic nuisances of themselves, and heatseekers could still knock them out, opening a hole in the wall of electricity and revealing Prestonia's cards to the enemy. Everything hinged on the Tipperite response, a response Powell and the others in the flight all hoped to God would play into their hands.

OOC: Go ahead and post a response to my air attack but there's also a ground thing going on at around the same time that I split from this. I'll give you that over the weekend.

The base air defence radar detected the contacts at a range of 65km, that was, it detected a hash of jamming that indicated that the planes that had covered the raid destroyed the barracks, Tornado ECRs, were back, and had probably brought some more "friends" with them, but the jamming signatures showed over 20 screening aircraft, which either indicated a massive raid or a smaller raid that they wanted to hide at any cost....
"Scramble the alert fighters, use the transponder program we installed last year"

Within minutes all 8 alert fighters were rolling, the 4 fighters from the Base CAP continuing to orbit, maintaining the bases top cover.

Base SAM site
The ECRs were tossing out kilowatts of electronic energy, preventing the base's search or targetting radars from acquiring any proper contacts amongst the always challenging clutter of the mountains, however they had other options.

The base had six ready missiles, and the SAM battery commander immediately ordered that two be set for Home-On-Jam and launched towards the enemy, semi static launchers training and sending off two flares that shone brightly in the pre-dawn dark.

If the enemy detected the missiles and switched off the jamming, the bases radars were hot and they would revert to command guidance, if they turned them back on again, they would simply switch back to Home on Jam, again and again.

Alert Force
The Eight Fighters of the Alert Force climbed towards the enemy, who would probably have engaged them with AMRAAMs or the like already, if it wasnt for the fact that the transponders they carried identified them as a cross training squadron of the RSDAF and not as RNTAF fighters at all.
They closed head on for the raid, climbing to the intercept altitude as they came.

Meanwhile, dozens of flights or squadrons approached the airfield, many of them attack aircraft, but several flights, about three squadrons worth, were more Woodsman fighter aircraft, and they were vectored onto the raid, even though they were equipped with no weapons other than 30mm cannon and a pair of short ranged missiles....
Every RNTAF and RNTN/RNTMC aircraft in the air was using the appropriate Juuman transponder codes, which would probably screw with the rules of Engagement being used by the Prestonoids.

Radio Free Izistan.


"...and now for the news in brief!

The Imperator has authorized an emergency shipment of ammunition and war stock to the small Havenic nation of New Tipperary. The Battleford dockyards are reported to be in constant motion as dock workers struggle to load Tipperite merchant marine ships with crates of bullets, and rations.


Unconfirmed reports of movements at Izistani army bases in Athabasca province seem to back up rumors of the activation of the 11th 'Manchurian Rifles' Mechanized Division. The "Manchu Rifles', a Manchu ethnic unit, are noted for what some claim to be excessive brutality during the 27th Bandit Supression Operation last year, a claim put forward by some of the more vocal republican Havenic citizens. General Šurgaci was called to a internal inquest, but no charges were laid.

In other news, pirates are reported to have made off with more then 120 million dollars in lunar cannabis..."

Skies Over New Tipperary

"This is Snowstorm 7, I've got a missile closing fast! I need to break formation!" Lieutenant Michael Powers dropped out of formation and began twisting and turning through the mountains, throwing every trick and decoy he had at the missile that was now closing on him rapidly. Above him, his wingmates had closed the gap in the formation, and were faced with a conundrum: if they deactivated their jamming, they would open themselves to conventional SAMs. If not, they would be constantly harassed by Home-On-Jam missiles. It was starting to appear, Powers thought, as though the Tipperites were somewhat more prepared for this conflict than General Morgan had thought.

Powers' thoughts quickly came back to earth, however, with the incessant alarm buzzing in his ear and informing him that his plane was seconds from death. Resigning himself to the inevitable, Powers ejected seconds before the missile tore through his plane, leaving the multimillion dollar aircraft a flaming pile of debris. Powers, however, was somewhat luckier. He had survived the ejection, and by stroke of luck landed in a secluded part of the forest far removed from Tipperite outposts. With any luck, he might make it back across the border.

Meanwhile, the Saracens' flight leader was having problems of his own. There were several aircraft on his RADAR, as expected, but they were not Tipperites. Instead, the IFF was showing scores of Juuman transponder signals, something few, if any, expected. Strictly speaking, Prestonian RoE classified the Relatively Sane Dominion as a neutral nation, and hence firing on their aircraft was off-limits unless fired upon. Faced with the prospect of not being able to engage his enemy, the flight leader decided he would cover his ass with a stand-down message. If the Juumans fired, all bets were off. If they stood down, the Saracens would do what they had come for and go home. Either way, it would mean less red tape to deal with back on solid ground.

"This is Blue Leader, repeat, this is Blue Leader," the flight lead said, speaking loudly and clearly into a general frequency the Juuman aircraft were likely able to pick up. "This is a message for the Relatively Sane Dominion Air Force aircraft in the area from General Morgan. We have no quarrel, repeat, no quarrel, with the Relatively Sane Dominion or her Air Force, and request that all Juumanistran aircraft in the area stand down and allow our mission to proceed. Be advised, we are under orders to fire on any aircraft which does not comply with our order, and attempts to obstruct our mission. Therefore, we strongly suggest that all Juumanistran aircraft proceed to exit this grid posthaste. Cheers, over."

That done, Blue Leader switched back to his encrypted frequency and ordered weapons hot for all aircraft under his command. It was unlikely that the Juumans would cooperate, and thus the Prestonians had to be ready.

Alert Force Engagement Area

"Hey y'all, you seem to be havin' a daggum compass problem. Best be gettin' your gauges looked at, I reckon." was the response to the Prestonoid scum's demand that appeared over the airwaves, spoken by the pilot of the lead fighter in the formation of Alert Force Woodsman, using the stereotypically Juumanistran accent espoused by the last officer of the RSDAF he had met, three months ago at a GUNFIGHTER Graduation Dinner.

The Tornadoes and other aircraft were now visible with the naked eye, appearing as a formation of specks rushing towards them, the IRST system installed under the chin of the aircraft picking out the aircraft and feeding that data to the Juumanistran designed fire control computer that had been installed in this latest mark of the venerable Armstrong manufactured airframe.
Target rings appeared around four of the nearest Tornadoes, but he squelched the signals for the two furthest away, they would be engaged by other fighters, they needed to conserve missiles for the bomb...
The fighter control computer painted several more contacts on the screen, using data composited from the other seven fighters in the force, showing eight... nine... ten airframes registering not as ECRs.... but as Sopwith Saracens... Air Superiority fighters.

He made sure he was on an encrypted channel and spoke the rest of the flight "Spend two missiles only, engage the Tornadoes and drive off or destroy, then blow through and engage the enemy air superiority fighters, theyve tried to Bolo us!"
He then activated the fire control computer and switched two of his four imaging infrared missiles to LIVE, the Juumanistran designed and New Tipperite manufactured missiles communicating with the fire control computer through the datalinks embedded into the aircrafts hardpoints.
THey were being told where there short flight would begin..... they already knew where it would end.
"Three... two..... Drop your transponders and FIRE!"
The fighters transponders reverted as one to the original signatures, no longer purporting to be aboard aircraft of the RSDAF, they proudly transmitted the fact that the Woodsman were fighters from 418 Sqn, RNTAF.
An instant later, the missiles discharged, two of them from each of the 8 fighters, sending a package towards 16 of the 19 remaining Tornadoes.
The Woodsman dropped countermeasures and broke by pairs as they split up and moved to engaged the Sopwith Saracens, ignoring the remaining three Tornadoes, as the base SAM site emptied all 4 of its remaining ready missiles into the fight, with the Same targetting settup as last time, sending the missiles into the fight and crews running to start a rather abreviated reloading procedure
Fighter Base

While the missile site on the hill directly above the runway emptied huge quantities of smoke and flame into the air in its fight to repulse the Prestonoid invader, attack aircraft and transports poured into the base, performing minimum interval landings to get the aircraft on the ground and either unloaded or dispersed before the surviving invaders could attack it.
Meanwhile the last four fighters of 418 Squadron remained in orbit of the base and every other RNTAF fighter in the sky maintained its purported identity while they vectored in on the invaders.

Skies Over New Tipperary

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK! False flagging bastards!" Blue Leader, aka Major James Conway, threw his plane into a steep banking turn and began to race to friendly skies, the rest of Blue Flight and the remnants of Snowstorm Flight, the ECRs, following close behind. The mission had been trashed, there was no question, a failing of policy and intel more than of skill and ability. SAMs and Home-On-Jammers were streaking through the night sky after the Prestonians, some being thrown off by decoys but the majority connecting with their targets. By the time the "Juumans" had broken off the attack, 12 ECRs and 5 Saracens had been shot down, the fates of the pilots unknown. Their loss would be avenged one way or another. General Morgan would see to that...

A76 Highway
18km from Tipperite Border
0400 Hours, Day 2

"Hey sarn't, lemme get a pinch of that shit." Lance Corporal Roger Everts had never cared for chewing tobacco, at least not until now. Everts had grown up outside Englewood in one of the rougher parts of the metro area, but had somehow managed to stay somewhat clean. He drank socially, swore occasionally, and didn't smoke or do any hard drugs, but now with the war on he needed something to cool his nerves, and this was the closest thing he had to any sedatives. Everts was the driver of a Nakil 1A3 main battle tank, part of an armored brigade of the 17th Infantry Division. The 17th, a mechanized division, was leading the way in the ground war in New Tipperary, codenamed Operation Mountain Storm, and Everts' Nakil was near the front of the spearhead and would be one of the first to cross the Blackthorn River Bridge, assuming of course it was still there. Thus, the 20 year old had ample reason to be concerned.

"Hey sarn't, are we gonna have to swim this bitch across the Blackthorn?," he shouted to the tank's gunner, seated safely within the armored confines of the turret. The Nakil technically could ford water, but all the same it was difficult to do so and Everts didn't feel like being cannon fodder for whatever the Tipperites had on the other side.

"Don't know Corporal, officially the Tippies haven't blown the bridge yet but Brigade might make us swim to avoid losing shit if they blow 'er up as we cross. Waldrop is calling in some arty to soften up whatever's on the other side of the bridge and there's supposed to be some close air support along for the ride, but hell if I know the whole story," the sergeant replied. Suddenly, Everts' headset crackled to life with the voice of the tank's commander, Lieutenant Chris Jenkins. "Everts, hold position, Brigade is gonna call down some fire on the opposite side of the riverbank to clear out whatever the Tippies have on the other side." Everts checked his map: five klicks from the Tipperite border.

A few klicks behind, the Brigade's artillery, consisting of some 75 M777 howitzers, was readying itself for its part of the mission: blowing the east bank of the Blackthorn to kingdom come. At exactly 0415, the artillery opened fire. They would fire for 15 minutes, putting 2,250 of their rounds downrange in total, assisted by generously-guarded A-10 Warthog ground attack aircraft and Apache attack helicopters. This scene would be repeated at two other locations across a 100km front, the total invasion involving just over 270,000 troops, the whole of II Corps. Tonight was going to be hell for the Tipperite Army.